Man-packbrother had been scared but now he was not. He would

help them. And they would help him. Alone, he was surely vulnerable. He was alone no longer. Thraun licked the man's hand, then sniffed the sky again, hoping for comprehension.

Hirad knelt in front of Thraun, feeling the roughness of the wolfs tongue on his hand and watching as he pushed his snout into the air. The barbarian ran a hand across Thraun's head and looked briefly to the other wolves. All four sat alert, staring at him, animal confusion written across comically expressive faces.

'You can feel it, can't you?' he said and pointed skywards.

It was fascinating and it was an immense relief that the shape-changer was still alive, though the term didn't necessarily apply to Thraun any more. But, Hirad reasoned, if he were truly a pure wolf, his behaviour would have been very different.

Hirad supposed The Raven had been followed all the way from Thornewood. And the only possible reason Thraun would have done that was because he remembered them somehow. After almost six years, he should have been wild, with almost no vestiges of his human life to trouble him, but that was plainly not the case.

'There's something still going on in there, isn't there, Thraun?'

Thraun growled gently in his throat and locked eyes with Hirad at the sound of his name. The barbarian saw recognition there, and something he was sure wasn't lupine. It was a calmness, an assurance of purpose. And knowledge. Hirad understood wolves to be animals of instinct but Thraun knew things. That meant he had to retain memory.

Hirad leant towards him. Thraun didn't flinch.

'Remember.'

The wolf pawed at the ground and shook his head, actually backing up a pace.

'You can understand me, can't you?' said Hirad. 'But can I reach you to bring you back? And do you want to come back?' He remembered the spark in Thraun's eyes the times before when he'd assumed his wolven form. That wasn't in evidence now, so many years later, but he still had intelligence, there was no doubt about that.

Hirad pushed himself to his feet and looked around at his horse. The animal was still badly scared but would have some sense by now

that its life wasn't immediately threatened. Walking back to his camp, Hirad untied and rolled the leather, strapped on his sword and scooped up his saddle. Placing it on his horse's back, he felt the animal calm further and the stallion even managed to nuzzle his back as he bent to tie the girth strap. Attaching bit and bridle, Hirad planted a kiss on the top of its nose.

'Good boy. Now then.' He put his head close to its left ear and stroked its cheek gently, his voice carefully soothing, in the tone he knew would work. 'Remember you're the one that shares a home with dragons. These are just a few wolves. You aren't going to let me down, are you?'

The horse snorted softly and nickered, trying to turn its head to him, to look at him through a big dark eye.

'I knew you wouldn't. Come on then,' he said.

Never leaving his position close to its cheek, his free hand now caressing the front of its face, he led the still reluctant horse gently towards the wolves, speaking to Thraun as he came. 'We need to get to the others. To The Raven.' He pointed the way he wanted to go but Thraun growled and immediately the pack stood in his way. He stopped, grip tightening on the bridle, his horse digging in its back hooves.

He frowned and shook his head. All five wolves were looking at him, almost pleading. It wasn't a threat, it was a warning.

'What is it?' he spread his arms wide, bridle hand slipping down the reins. As if in answer, Thraun trotted past him towards the risen sun and in the direction of Arlen. He paused and looked back at Hirad, the growl in his throat sounding like an order.

'Come on, Thraun, the camp's that way.' Hirad pointed away into the forest. Thraun barked once and changed direction, the rest of the pack hesitating momentarily before following.

Hirad hauled himself into the saddle and goaded his unwilling horse after the wolves. He leaned forward and stroked the stallion's face, whispering words of encouragement into his ears.

He had only half expected The Raven to be at their campsite but was still disappointed to find it empty. But as he rode in, it was clear something was badly wrong. The fire hadn't been doused and cleared. A small pile of dry branches still sat near it. Surely they

should have been taken for the next blaze. He dismounted and looked around.

There were no signs of any struggle but The Raven had left in a big hurry, the mud churned by hoofprints as if horses had been galloped out. Hirad squatted down, his frown deepening. He dragged gloved fingers through the mud and looked over at Thraun. The wolf was standing with the pack, watching him.

'What happened here, Thraun?' he asked.

He walked along the route the horses had taken out of the small clearing. Then he saw it. The churning wasn't down to galloping. It was because more than three horses had been in the camp when The Raven had left. Many more. Hirad could see the widening column of prints as it drove away, back to the edge of the woodland.

They had been taken, surely. Ignoring the growls of Thraun, he remounted and rode along the trail carved into the sodden ground. Wherever they had gone, he would follow them and free them. He couldn't leave them as prisoners. They were Raven.

And so was he.

After the heavy seas of the past seven days, the River Arl was placid by comparison. Coming across the estuary on the rising tide, the Ocean Elm sliced calmly through the water, all sails full on a run with the wind blowing dead north, funnelling along the tree-lined shores. Further north, the trees would give way to rolling hills westwards, and spectacular escarpments eastwards, before open lowlands came to dominate the miles until the Arl opened into the beauty of Lake Arlen.

Ringed from its southernmost point to its north-western arc by trees that climbed part way up stark, snow-capped mountains, it seemed idyllic to anyone sailing towards it, bettered only by the body of water at Triverne. The port town of Arlen occupied the west bank, its deepwater berths home to ocean going vessels, its fishing fleet sheltered in a shallow harbour, and its offshore anchorages served by craft fitted with rope-and-pulley assemblies.

Incoming sailors could see the whole town sweeping up a low rise, culminating in the castle whose white scrubbed stone shone in the morning light, flags from its four turrets snapping in the prevailing breeze. Today, though, the white would be muted. None in Balaia had seen the sun consistently for what seemed like an age, with lowering, rain-bearing cloud washing almost ceaselessly across the sky. The land had cooled dramatically and many species of bird had flown prematurely south, insects had died early or never hatched at all and farming communities were counting the cost of poor crops this harvest and the certainty of hunger next year.

Erienne stood near the prow of the Elm, her mind still a fog from the mana attack, her stamina yet to recover fully and her feelings mixed as they had been ever since she left Lyanna behind on Heren-deneth.

At least she felt she was doing something to try and maintain the safety of her daughter; and she felt an undeniable thrill at the thought of seeing Denser very soon. But ever-increasing had been her longing to hold Lyanna again, to sit in the orchard watching her beautiful child play, or to read her a story from her favourite book. She had found tears on her cheeks every morning, sleep having breached her defences. And, for the last three days, with her mana abilities damaged, she had known another emotion. Fear.