His ebon skin had paled in places, which would have shamed another warrior, but not one who was as skilled as Leandran with spear and claw.

‘They won’t be far behind,’ Leandran said. He had a habit of stating the obvious.

Regulus glanced back at his warriors. Their flight had taken days and most were carrying wounds. For now they were keeping pace but soon they would slow down. Their pursuers would not.

‘Then we will have to fight them, Leandran,’ Regulus replied, with barely concealed relish in his voice.

Leandran nodded, but Regulus could sense his apprehension. Never a coward, the old warrior was not eager to be killed in the mountains so far from home. For his part, neither was Regulus; but if that was what the gods decreed, then that was how he would meet his fate.

Regulus silently cursed Faro for leading them to this, and cursed the Kel’tana tribesmen who had aided him. Faro had been one of the Gor’tana’s most honoured warriors, and the most trusted. By tribal custom Regulus was heir to the chieftaincy, but his father made no secret that if Faro proved himself worthy he would be the one to take on the mantle when the time was right. Faro, however, had been impatient and had made a secret pact with the warriors of the Kel’tana tribe. A pact made in blood.

The Gor and the Kel had been deadly rivals from before the Slave Uprisings, and Faro did not have to try hard to persuade the Kel that a coup was in their best interests.

They had come on a moonless night. By stealth, Faro and the Kel’tana slaughtered many Gor’tana and stole the clan from Regulus’ father. Shamelessly they had pulled the old chief’s teeth and his claws to bury them in the dirt and ensure he would never become a warrior in the next life.

Regulus had been on the hunt with his party of warriors when the ambush had taken place. When word reached him that his father had been murdered, Regulus knew what would follow. Faro would extend his hand to be bonded in blood and demand the fealty of Regulus and his warparty. Then, when he was off guard, Regulus would share his father’s fate. Faro would never risk leaving Regulus alive to exact his vengeance. But neither could Regulus attack Faro while he had authority over the Gor’tana and the aid of the Kel’tana. There had been no choice but to flee. And – inevitably – Faro’s hunters had come after him.

They had tracked his warparty quickly – so quickly that Regulus and his warriors were taken by surprise. Most of them had been killed in the battle that followed though all fought well and a few had managed to escape. Now, far from home and still hounded by a relentless enemy, they were becoming exhausted. Faro’s allies would not stop until Regulus and any loyal to him were dead.

Regulus paused at the top of a promontory, surveying the few of his warriors that remained. Perhaps they should stop here and make a stand. But then they would all die, and he would never have a chance at vengeance. And it would almost certainly be a slaughter, not a glorious battle. Would his warriors want to stand and fight? Would they rather a slim chance at a heroic death here, or carry on running in ignominy? The Gor’tana were his tribe, his warriors to command. They would follow him unto death. Being scythed down here was not the glorious end he was determined to give them.

‘The gate’s not far,’ said Leandran, breathing heavily. ‘If we can make it there, perhaps they’ll stop following.’

‘Perhaps,’ he replied.