He sat with his back to the dead tree, drank some of his wine, ate some of the cold lamb, threw strips of fat to the two hounds and just enjoyed the feeling of being relatively safe, for a few moments.

What now, I wonder? Probably back into the marshes with this new warband, have another crack at Edana, but maybe with giants on our side this time.

He opened his kit bag, pulled out his coat of chainmail. He’d chosen not to wear it – stupid, maybe, as he’d been going into battle, but the thought of wearing a mail shirt while in a boat, travelling across rivers and lakes. No, the thought of drowning held a special terror for him.

Then he took out the box, turning it in his hands. He tried the lock again, but it would not shift. He shook it, something solid rattling around inside, took out his knife and wiggled it in the lock.

It would not open. He pressed harder and harder, in the end his knife slipping and cutting the palm of his hand. A flash of anger and he threw the knife, then stood with the box in both hands.

Can’t carry this stupid lump of wood around with me wherever I go.

He raised it over his head and smashed it down upon the tree root, as hard as old bones.

There was a loud crack and the lid flew open.

Pleased with himself, he sat back down again, the hounds coming over to be nosey, and he looked inside.

A cup sat in the box, not particularly fancy, dark. He lifted it up to the light and was surprised by how heavy it was.

It’s made out of some kind of metal. He twirled it in his hand, saw it was mostly black and smooth, here and there a paler vein running through the metal. Around its rim old runes curled in a scrawling script.

Well, I’ve carried a cup five hundred leagues across the Banished Lands. He laughed to himself and hefted it to throw it in the river, then paused. Looking at it, he suddenly felt thirsty.

Might as well have a drink from it first, let it earn its keep.

He poured some of his wine into the cup, swirled it around a little, then drank it down. He’d intended to only take a sip, but then he was smacking his lips and the cup was empty.

Maybe it’s a magic cup, he thought, one that makes everything taste nicer. P’raps I won’t throw it in the river.

He could feel the wine in his belly, a warm glow. As he thought about it the sensation grew, felt as if it was spreading through his veins, warm and wonderful, like tendrils of gold.

He groaned in pleasure.