It had been a shock to all of them when Craf had fluttered into their meeting. Camlin had felt a rush of excitement, thinking that the bird’s arrival must precede that of its companions – Corban, Dath and the others – but the bird had quickly disabused him of that notion. It had been good to hear news of them, though. That they were still alive, most of them, at least.

The other things it had squawked at them all – Camlin still did not know what to make of all that.

Going to Drassil. A fortress of faery tales, and talking about prophecies and bright stars and the Seven Treasures. I remember Gar saying things like that about Corban, as we fled across Cambren. But now he’s leading a warband several hundred strong, Benothi giants amongst them. Can that really be true?

‘I don’t know,’ Camlin said to Vonn.

He lay flat in the grass, wriggling to find a gap in the bushes to peer through. Snow was falling now, soft and steady. It was getting darker, the snow adding a faint glow to everything.

Have to end this, soon. Too dark to hunt, and my bowstring’s going t’get wet.

‘It makes me think,’ Vonn said quietly beside him. ‘My da used to say strange things, about a God-War. Never came out and said it straight, of course, that’s not his way. But he would allude to things, choices, sides, using your head, not your heart.’ He tapped fingers to his temple and his chest as he did it.

He can see Evnis saying it to him now.

‘It’s like he knew it was coming . . .’

‘Maybe he did,’ Camlin muttered darkly. Maybe he did. Maybe there’s a reason we’re on opposite sides.

A movement drew his eye, down by the stream. He squinted, seeing movement through the falling snow.

‘Best concentrating on staying alive through this,’ Camlin whispered, pointing. ‘Plenty of time later to think about God-Wars. The trick right now is to keep breathing.’

He pushed himself to one knee and reached for his bow.

Two men broke from a cluster of trees, moving stealthily, flitting from one clump of cover to the next. Sound was muted, the snow beginning to settle on anything that wasn’t water.

Camlin frowned. They’re more cautious.

He reached for an arrow, nocked and drew, deciding not to wait for these men to reach the diversion.

‘Vonn, be ready to move quick,’ he whispered, voice strained with the tension of holding his drawn bow. His arrow-tip tracked both men below him, only thirty or forty paces away now, settling upon the first, feeling his vision close in upon the man’s chest.

‘I’d lower that bow, right slow if you want to keep breathing,’ a voice hissed behind him.

It can’t be . . .