‘Drink before a battle if you must,’ his grandfather, the Lord of the Hills, had told him when he was young, ‘although not too much if you hope to live. Never drink before a raid.’ His grandfather had forgotten more about raiding than most men would ever know.

They were not on a raid this morning, but they were surely hunting marauders who were and that needed the same cold head and colder heart. Ferox had led plundering expeditions and chased raiders more times than he could remember, and he knew that this was true, just as he knew that today his spirit and power were weak. So was the ability to reason, drummed into him by his teachers all those years ago. His mind was not clear, which meant that he would likely make mistakes, and perhaps he would lead them into an ambush and he would die. At least that would be a release.

He could almost feel his grandfather’s scorn, and tried to break free from his black and hopeless mood.

Vindex had taken some precautions without waiting for him. Two of the Brigantian scouts rode ahead of them, two more hovered in the rear, and the rest, including the two Roman troopers, came a couple of horse’s lengths behind him. They kept their distance and it was hard to blame them. Now and again Victor hummed a tune Ferox did not know. The rest of them were silent, watching him and waiting to see what happened. He sensed their doubt of his judgement and once again could not blame them. They rode for an hour, dismounted and led their horses for the next hour before remounting and pressing on at a gentle trot. They might have to go a long way and could not afford to wear out their mounts. At least the thick-limbed ponies favoured by the Brigantes were strong beasts, for they had already spent two days searching the country.