‘Is it just me, or is there a lot of waiting in war?’ Dath muttered.

‘Aye, you’re right,’ Farrell replied. ‘Usually followed by a lot of dying.’

Dath took a deep breath.

‘That’s comforting.’

‘Here to help,’ Farrell muttered.

Hearing Dath and Farrell’s bickering actually helped to calm Corban’s nerves, something familiar in this most unfamiliar of circumstances.

The other battles seemed to just happen – Dun Carreg, Murias, Gramm’s hold. This waiting and watching is worse.

Four riders separated from the others, riding at a steady pace towards the gates of Drassil, one clearly the leader, his horsehair plume tugged by the wind – must be Jael, the self-appointed King of Isiltir – another held Isiltir’s banner, the third appearing to be a shieldman, obviously a warrior, sitting his saddle with an easy grace and clothed similarly to the other two, in red cloak, black cuirass and iron helm, sword at his hip, spear in one hand. The fourth appeared elderly, hunched over his saddle and wrapped in a voluminous cloak, the hood pulled up.

A loremaster, perhaps, come to tell me that I have no legal claim to be fighting against the King of Isiltir.

They rode steadily closer.

At least it looks as if the waiting’s over.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

ULFILAS

Ulfilas rode one side of Jael, his first-sword Fram upon the other, their cloaked and hunched companion close behind them. As they drew nearer Ulfilas looked up at the walls of Drassil, the great tree towering behind them, its branches unfurling like some giant organic shield that touched the clouds.

The gates were huge, constructs of weathered oak and iron, as tall as a house from Mikil, and looked as thick as a wall. On the wall above, warriors stood in silent rows, peering down on them. Here and there Ulfilas saw the huge proportions of a giant.

Never thought I’d wish for the company of Ildaer and his Jotun. Where is he, the traitorous coward? Over a dozen messengers had been sent north into the Desolation in search of Ildaer and his giants. Not a sight or sound had been heard of them since the disaster at Gramm’s hold, and eventually Jael had tired of sending messengers.

On one of the gate towers a banner rippled; as Ulfilas drew nearer he was able to make out a rayed white star upon a black field.

In the crook of his arm Ulfilas held the banner of Isiltir, the wind trying to rip it from his grip.

White star against the storm and serpent.

They were three or four hundred paces from the gates now, still closer to their warband than to the walls of Drassil, but nevertheless Ulfilas was starting to feel a little intimidated by the sheer scale of them.

Are our ladders even tall enough?

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Ulfilas asked Jael, who sat straight and confident in his saddle.