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dragged away. ‘They are laughing at us,’ she said, her voice as bitter as ashes. ‘They have the Heart-Stone and yet still they attack.’
    Barlow shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable at being brought into Tamlyn’s confidence in this way. ‘What does the Prophet say?’ she asked, her voice sounding too young to her own ears. ‘Does she not have any advice?’
    Tamlyn Nox sheathed her sword. ‘The Prophet advises,’ she agreed. ‘And I have listened. There is help on the way, and with any luck it will be the ruin of the Narhl. Their king will grovel at my feet, eventually.’ Tamlyn smiled, a cold tensing of flesh. ‘And we will have the Heart-Stone back.’
    With that she left, mounting her war-werken and moving off down the Bone Road, following her prisoner. Barlow watched her go with a mixture of feelings; relief that she had been here when the Narhl attacked, and deep unease at her words. No one saw the Prophet but Nox, and there were those who whispered that it was all a fabrication, an extension of her growing madness. Such whispers were dangerous, of course.
    ‘What do you think of that, then?’ said Yun. Now that they were out of danger some colour had returned to his sallow cheeks. ‘The Prophet knows how to get the Heart-Stone back, it seems.’
    ‘She better had,’ snapped Barlow, glancing back down into the pit where her workers were tending to the dead and injured. ‘Or all this will be a bloody waste of time.’

5
    Wydrin crouched low over the warm neck of her sturdy pony, trusting it to follow the others without her guidance. As they travelled out of the riverlands and on towards the mountains, the world grew colder, and now it was snowing, a soft, silent fall that covered her hood and crusted her gloves.
    ‘I didn’t bring enough mead,’ she muttered, watching as her breath turned into puffs of white vapour. ‘Although I doubt there is enough mead in the world for this arse-hole end of Ede.’
    ‘Look, there it is,’ called Sebastian. ‘That must be the southernmost wall.’
    Reluctantly, Wydrin looked up into the snow. The foot of the mountain rose before them like an ominous storm cloud, and rising from its centre was a great wound filled with lights and stone and smoke – the city of Skaldshollow. In front of it was a huge stone wall, at least two hundred feet tall and carved from huge pieces of grey rock. There were fires along the top, spaced out like sentinels, although she could see no men. And that wasn’t all she couldn’t see.
    ‘If that’s the wall, where’s the bloody gate?’ There was no portcullis, no obvious entrance. ‘I don’t think my pony is up to climbing that.’
    ‘I can fly over on Gwiddion,’ suggested Frith, from the back of his own pony. His griffin, in its bird form, was perched on the top of his saddlebag. ‘Although I’m not sure he could take all three of us.’
    Sebastian frowned. ‘It must be further along. We shall have to follow it around.’
    There was a rumble and the snow in front of the gate suddenly rose up, revealing a shifting, mountainous mass of moving rock. Wydrin cried out, automatically unsheathing Glassheart, while Frith held up his bandaged hands, the soft yellow glow of the Edenier forming instantly between his palms.
    ‘By the Graces, what is that?’ Wydrin’s pony took a few hurried steps backwards and she patted it behind its ears in an attempt to reassure it. The stone creature shook itself fully out of the snow it had been hiding in and turned towards them, its great blocky head and snout almost bear-shaped. Its eyes glowed green, and it was covered all over in intricate carved patterns, dark against the paler stone, almost like tattoos. There was another rumble and the snow next to the creature fell away, revealing its twin. In front of her, Sebastian unsheathed his broadsword.
    ‘They are unlikely to respond to ice spells, no doubt being monsters native to this land, so I shall use my flames . . .’ Frith