He walked away.

The forest was dark now, ruptured by sporadic bursts of lightning. Idiot woman, to fight so hard for life, only to throw it away for a dying man. Still, what point freedom if you cannot decide what you will die for? Deep down he felt a stirring of respect for her. Walk on, man. You are free. Free to leave Tenebral, free to hunt down Jael, free to finally seek your vengeance. He blinked rain from his eyes.

Damn her. He stopped. With a snarl he turned and strode back the way he had come. Soon he was back amongst the dead warriors. He passed through the glade like a ghost, not knowing or caring if Fidele was aware of him retracing their steps along the forest trail.

Voices sounded ahead, and then he saw the flutter of torchlight. He stepped away from the path and nimbly climbed a tree, its branches hanging thick and low. He drew one of his knives, the heaviest one with a wide blade and a round iron pommel, the handle carved from bone.

Then he waited.

Men emerged from the gloom. He counted four, six, seven.

Too many.

A few held torches, including the first, an older warrior with the familiar iron rings bound into his beard. He paused as he passed the tree Maquin was in, crouching to study the ground. His torch hissed as rain dripped upon it.

‘They came this way,’ the old warrior said.

‘We should make camp, continue in the morning. We could miss them in the dark,’ another said, a younger man gripping a spear. He was standing at the back of their column, his eyes nervously scanning the darkness of the forest.

‘We could, but I doubt we’ll lose them,’ the older man said. ‘They’ve stuck to this trail so far, and leaving it would be slow going.’ He waved his torch at the thick undergrowth. ‘And my guess is they won’t be stopping, not for a while. They’ll want to put as much space between us and them as they can.’

‘Don’t know about you, but I don’t like the idea of bumping into Old Wolf in the dark.’

Other warriors muttered agreement.

‘There’s seven of us, damn you,’ the older warrior growled.

‘Aye. Still, I’ve seen what he can do . . .’

Maquin gave a feral grin. They didn’t know the half of it.

‘Lykos won’t thank us for letting them escape. Who are you more scared of?’

‘I’m not scared of anyone,’ the young warrior snapped. ‘Just being realistic.’

‘We’ll go on a little further . . .’

The old warrior stood and moved on, treading slowly, carefully, his eyes scanning the ground. The seven men filed off, the last one hesitating, glancing behind him. The others were further ahead now, on the edge of sight.

Maquin snapped a twig and leaf, the sound masked by the rainfall, then stretched his arm out, holding his knife by its pommel, blade hanging down. He let the twig and leaf flutter down, landing upon the path immediately in front of the last warrior, who stared at the leaf, then looked up.