Ulfilas ignored the sense of foreboding growing in his belly, grunted at Jael and kicked his horse forwards, warriors on foot behind him lurching after him. Horns were blaring. The score of riders that Jael had set upon Corban were dead or dying, that wolven the size of a horse ripping half of them to pieces and still running amok just a few hundred paces ahead.

And the first man that beast tore apart was Fram, Jael’s first-sword; after Sumur, that is. So that’s his two finest warriors down before the battle is even joined. Not the most inspirational of starts.

Ulfilas was rapidly losing heart for this conflict, but a voice in his head was shouting at him that to turn and run would be the end of him. And that’s true enough, I don’t doubt. If we are broken here any that survive the battle will then have to survive the long march through Forn. Don’t fancy that much, so we’d better get on and win this battle.

The men of Isiltir were responding to the horn blasts and Jael’s screams urging them on, sweeping forward and curling in upon the lesser numbers that had swarmed out from the open gates of Drassil.

That at least is a stroke of good fortune. At least they are coming out here to fight so we don’t have to try and climb those walls. Our numbers may still win the day.

Ulfilas felt a warrior’s respect for Corban, even if he was his enemy. That running mount had been a thing of beauty, undertaken with sharp iron bearing down upon him, mere heartbeats separating him between life and death. It was as if the running mount had been distilled into that one moment, learned and practised by every warrior in every realm throughout their youth for that exact purpose.

Warriors on foot swept past him, running into the battle, the score of Jehar the same as Sumur, which gave Ulfilas a flare of hope – all of a sudden I’m wishing Nathair had forced a hundred of them upon us, like he did on Gundul and Lothar.

He saw the Jehar slam into a knot of enemy warriors only fifty paces ahead of him, a mixture of giants and men who looked remarkably similar to the Jehar that were with him, except that they wore surcoats with the white star blazing upon their chests.

Ulfilas had a sudden memory of the warriors at Gramm’s hold who had cut him and his riders down so easily. Instinctively he pulled on his reins, but the press of men behind him was too great and he was forced on.

I am no coward, but I am no fool either, and I have no death-wish upon me.