Corban climbed a dozen steps on the wall, then stopped and looked about at them all, hundreds of faces staring back at him. A mixture of fear, of pride, of determination. Brave men and women, all touched, scarred in some way by Asroth and his servants.

I am dreaming. How has life come to this?

He took a deep breath.

‘We have been hunted, hounded, our kin slain, our friends murdered. We have travelled hundreds of leagues, fled the dark tide that is sweeping this land. But no more. Today we stand. Today we fight. Now that’s a tale our kin will be proud to tell.’

The courtyard rang with cheering. It slowly faded to an echo.

‘Win or lose, live or die, I am proud to stand beside you.’

A great roar rose up from the courtyard then, feet stamping, spears banging on shields, swords on bucklers. As it died a new sound rang out. Horns blasted from the walls above.

They are here.

Corban felt a jolt of fear, his guts turning to water for a few heartbeats. He ground his jaw, refusing to let it rule him.

He drew his sword and held it high over his head. ‘Truth and courage!’ he yelled, punching the sky, then turned and strode up the steps to Drassil’s wall. The courtyard rang with the echo of a thousand voices yelling the same battle-cry as they all went to find their places.

‘That’s a lot of men,’ Dath commented in Corban’s ear.

It is.

Thousands of warriors were pouring out of the trees to the north-west of the fortress, spilling into the open space like blood from a wound, gathering into a thick pool, edging forwards.

From this distance Corban could make out little detail, just a mass of iron and leather, red cloaks and fur. Most of the warband were on foot, and the disconcerting thing was that they just kept on appearing, more and more of them emerging from the shadows of Forn. Eventually riders appeared, a banner held aloft, a lightning bolt with a pale serpent wrapped around it.

I like my banner better, thought Corban, looking up to see the bright star on a black field snapping from the gate tower above him.

Slowly the warband moved southwards, skirting the edge of the land cleared over the last few moons, until they were massed about a thousand paces from Drassil’s only gates. Then they began to edge closer, a semi-organized line stretching the width of the western wall, ten men deep at least. Corban began to make out details, the most troubling of which was the number of long timber ladders he spied being carried amongst their ranks.

‘Two and a half thousand swords,’ Gar whispered behind him.

Five hundred paces out and horn blasts rang from the cluster of riders, the warband rippling to a halt, a silence settling heavy upon them all.