I will do as you command.’

The Father of Killers laid a hand on his shoulder, saying again, ‘I know you will, my son.’ His words were calm once more, his ire forgotten. ‘I understand your concern; we have entered into an accord and it should be honoured, for without honour we are nothing. But there are greater things to consider, Forest. Things you are not yet able to understand.’

Forest trusted his Father, trusted his words, and he could only think those ‘things’ were something to do with the message and the battered leather wallet that had been delivered all those days ago by the foreign herald. Since then, his Father, usually so composed, had behaved strangely, his mood erratic, at times almost anxious and Forest had become concerned. On occasion he had spied the Father staring inside that wallet, his lips moving silently, though Forest had never had the courage to ask what lay inside.

Some things he simply could not question.

‘I do not need to understand, Father. I will do your bidding.’ Yet Forest wondered if it was the bidding of his Father or of the warlord Amon Tugha, to whom his Father seemed beholden.

‘That pleases me, my son. I know I ask much of you. River was your brother, and it is only natural you would retain some feeling for him.’

‘I bear no loyalty to that traitor.’

The Father of Killers smiled. ‘His betrayal burns inside you as it does in me. But fear not. You will have your vengeance. And I will have mine.’ With that he pressed the iron nails to his lips, as though they brought him some kind of comfort.

Forest’s brow furrowed. ‘You will, Father?’

‘Yes. River’s beloved queen still lives. But before your brother dies you will tell him that the pact we made was a traitor’s bargain, and worthless. And by the time you reach him, I will have torn out his lover’s heart and laid it at Amon Tugha’s feet.’

‘Then I will leave immediately,’ Forest said.

As he walked from the cavern he could sense the Father’s eyes on him, and felt the weight of this mission on his heart.

River had betrayed them, had murdered Mountain and turned his back on their Father. But was it right to break a pact – even a so-called traitor’s bargain?

Whatever the rights or wrongs of it, Forest knew he had no choice.

River would soon be dead. And so would his queen.

ONE

Waylian had never known cold like it. It crept through his cloak and his jerkin, into his very bones. The chill giving way to shivers giving way to numbness.

Of course there had been tough winters in Ankavern. The little hamlet of Groffham had been cut off for almost a month one year, but a judicious use of their stores had meant they could weather the isolation with nothing worse than a few grumbling bellies. Waylian had been small then, barely seven summers old, and hadn’t appreciated the danger. All he had wanted to do was play in the drifts and throw snowballs at trees to loosen the icicles hanging from their branches. He’d been wrapped up against the elements, and when his fingers had started to go numb there had been a hearth to warm himself in front of and hot broth to stoke a fire in his belly.

Well, there’s no hot broth now, is there! There’s not much of bloody anything up here other than the prospect of a cold and lonely death!

The wind howled, whipping the snow into his face; it blew his cloak about him, making it flap like an unkindness of angry ravens. Occasionally its fierceness threatened to sweep him off the mountain path and send him spinning to his death far below. He wanted to cry, to weep in sorrow at his lot, but the tears would have only frozen on his cheeks. If he could remember the way back down the Kriega Mountains to Silverwall he would have taken it, but he was hopelessly lost. Every path looked the same up here and it wasn’t like he could even see with the thick snow flurries blinding him at every turn. Of course there was a map – there was always a bloody map – but right now it was about as much use as a paper axe.

Waylian tried to find shelter, huddling behind a rock, but the wind still screamed in his ears, still whipped through his clothes.