Corban led them through the streets of Drassil, not straight to the gates, but eastward, through a less-inhabited part of the fortress, finally stopping in a courtyard where the ground was ruptured by thick roots.

‘Storm,’ Corban called out as a silence fell in the square. His voice echoed back from the stone walls all about, and before it had faded Storm leaped out from the hole beneath the tree root and padded up to Corban, nuzzling his chest with her scarred muzzle. He buried his face in the fur of her neck.

More shapes emerged from the darkness of the hole: six cubs, running and bouncing to their mother’s legs, standing in the shadow beneath her bulk. They were close to three moons old now, more balls of fur with teeth than anything else.

‘Storm, I need you with me today. So I’ll leave some friends to guard your cubs.’ Corban looked at Haelan. ‘Think you can do that for me?’

‘Aye,’ Haelan beamed, scooping one of the cubs up in his arms.

‘I thought so, as I’ve seen you visiting these cubs every day and luring them out with scraps of food. Thought they might be happiest with you.’

Haelan’s smile grew, if that was possible. ‘Think I might need some help, though,’ he added as he tried to scoop another cub up and missed.

‘Wulf’s bairns will help you,’ Corban said, then turned to leave.

‘Not you, Tahir,’ Haelan said. ‘I give you permission to go and fight today, not stand around in here watching me.’

Tahir smiled and ruffled Haelan’s hair.

‘Storm, with me,’ Corban said and strode from the courtyard. Storm hesitated a moment, looking between Corban and her cubs, then padded after Corban.

‘And, Tahir,’ Haelan called out after them, ‘bring me Jael’s head.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Tahir muttered behind Corban.

The rest of the warband were waiting for Corban before Drassil’s great gates, the converted bear pens edging the courtyard. Although the plan was to remain inside the walls, horses were saddled and harnessed, prepared for any eventuality. Corban heard Shield whinny when he entered the courtyard, calling out to him.

A great host stood before the gates, every last man and woman who could wield a sword, and standing in front of them was Meical. Today he looked like one of the Ben-Elim from the tales of the Scourging, tall and commanding in a coat of gleaming mail, his dark hair tied back in a severe knot. He half-bowed to Corban as he led his followers to the gate.

‘The Bright Star,’ Meical called out, his voice ringing from the stone walls, drowned by a great roar from the warband.