“No.” Wise Bear lifted his staff to point at the swirling lights in the sky. “Nothing truly ends. There stories live forever.”

He looked over his shoulder as Iron Claw gave a low growl, rising to sniff the air.

“Many come.” The shaman sighed, getting to his feet. “War party. Keep hands empty.”

The spear-hawks came first, seven of the great birds descending from the clouds to circle them, occasionally swooping low enough to make Vaelin duck. He had heard enough stories from Dahrena to appreciate the birds’ deadly power but was still surprised by their size, judging each to have a wingspan of at least seven feet, their beaks as long as spear-points and, he noticed, steel barbs glittering on their talons.

“One shaman controls all these?” he asked Wise Bear.

“If strong enough. They see and he sees.” The shaman’s gaze settled on the eastern horizon, a disconcerting note of foreboding colouring his tone. “Few strong enough to bind so many.”

The black dots appeared on the horizon moments later, at first only a dozen or so but soon growing in number until Vaelin counted over fifty. The dots resolved into loping figures as they came closer, moving with effortless speed and grace over the ice. On nearing, their tight group split apart and formed a near-perfect circle with Wise Bear and Vaelin at the centre. They sat regarding them both with placid indifference, all uniformly white of fur and larger than any wolf Vaelin had seen, save one.

More dots soon appeared on the horizon, moving with less grace but almost equal speed. The sight was so unfamiliar Vaelin was initially unsure what he was seeing, teams of wolves all tethered in a line dragging something behind. As they came closer he realised the wolves were towing sleds, each carrying three men, all armed with spears and flat bows similar to those carried by the Seordah. The wolves towing the sleds were smaller in stature than those surrounding them, and markedly less placid, snarling and nipping at each other as the sleds came to a halt. Vaelin quickly counted heads as the men on the sleds dismounted; over a hundred, less than their own company, but this was their ice and they had wolves and hawks.

The sled-borne warriors spread out to form a second circle outside that fashioned by the wolves, two figures striding forward to approach Vaelin and Wise Bear. One was of similar proportions to the other ice people Vaelin had met, little over five feet tall and stocky of build. But the second figure stood at least as tall as Vaelin, broad at the shoulder but with a rangy, athletic look.

“You know them?” Vaelin asked Wise Bear.

The shaman shook his head, his expression now more tense even than when they had confronted No Eyes. “Trade with Wolf People sometimes,” he said. “Not live with them.”

The two figures halted a short distance away, reaching up to pull away the fur that covered their faces. The shorter of the two was revealed as a woman of middling years with the high cheekbones and broad features common to the ice people. She regarded Wise Bear with an expression of obvious recognition, even respect, though her bearing was no less tense. Vaelin noted she carried a bone of her own, shorter than Wise Bear’s but similarly adorned with etchings. The tall figure at her side removed his fur mask to uncover the face of a young man a few years shy of Vaelin’s age, the features holding no vestige of any ice-folk heritage. Vaelin’s unease deepened as he took note of the man’s colouring: pale skin, eyes and hair dark to the point of blackness, like many Volarians he had seen.

The woman said something in her own language, addressing Wise Bear who replied with a nod and a few words of his own. “Shaman greets shaman,” he explained. “It is . . . custom.”

The woman’s gaze turned to Vaelin, her eyes tracking him from head to foot before she nodded at the young man. He greeted Vaelin with a cautious smile, conveying a sense of youthful discomfort at an important gathering. “My mother asks your name,” he said in Realm Tongue, the vowels clipped and heavily accented but still easily understood.

“Your mother?” Vaelin’s gaze switched between the two of them as he raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” the young man replied. “Many Wings, shamaness to the Wolf People of the Tree Isles. I am her son, named Long Knife by consent of the people.”

“Really?” Vaelin stared at him and let the silence string out, noting how the young man held his arms loose at his sides. He wore no weapon but Vaelin was certain he had at least one knife under his furs and knew well how to use it. He also noted a sudden alertness in the surrounding wolves, their heads rising as if in answer to an unheard call.

“Your . . . mother is not the only shaman here,” Vaelin said. “She commands the hawks and you the wolves.”

The young man gritted his teeth and forced a smile. “Yes. And we ask your name.”

“I’ll hear yours first, Volarian. Your true name. I’ve been obliged to kill far too many of your countrymen to give trust so easily.”

The wolves rose from their haunches as one, a snarl sounding from every throat as the young man bridled, stating in implacable tones, “I am not Volarian.”

Many Wings spoke again, a terse few words but evidently enough to make the young man suppress his anger, the wolves relaxing once more as he took a calming breath. “My birth name is Astorek Anvir,” he said. “And I ask your name.”

“Vaelin Al Sorna, Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches by the Queen’s Word.”

Many Wings waved her bone at him, uttering a guttural exclamation, her face suddenly drawn in irritation. “Mother says you have another name,” Astorek Anvir related.

“I am called Avenshura by the Eorhil,” Vaelin said. “And Beral Shak Ur by the Seordah.”

“We do not know these words,” Astorek said. “Explain their meaning.”

“Avenshura is the bright star that appears in the morning sky. Beral Shak Ur is the Shadow of the Raven.”

Astorek and Many Wings exchanged a glance, faces suddenly grave. They said nothing but from the way Wise Bear straightened Vaelin divined they were communicating by other means.

“Gather your people,” Astorek said after a moment. “You will follow us.”

“To what purpose?” Vaelin asked.

“Follow and find out.” The Volarian turned and started back to his sled, the wolves rising as one to fall in on either side as their master cast a final word over his shoulder, “Or stay here and perish when the Long Night falls.”

• • •

The island stretched away on either side for several miles, liberally covered with trees, a steep-sided mountain of snow-speckled granite rising from its centre. “Wolf Home,” Wise Bear called it in rough translation of its unpronounceable true name. “I not see this for many year.”

The journey had taken four days hard trekking across the ice, which became noticeably thinner the farther south they travelled. It was unnerving to see through it when the sun rose high, light playing on the bubbles visible beneath a barrier no more than a few feet thick. “It melts in summer,” Astorek explained. “And the islands become isolated, reachable only by boat. Though we have plenty of those.”

He had been an affable guide so far, unwilling to take offence at the instinctive suspicion of the Sentar or the open hostility of the Realm folk. “Offering trust to such as him does not seem wise, my lord,” Orven advised, his dark expression a mirror of his soldiers as he regarded the Volarian. Like all the men from the Realm he had been forced to abandon a daily grooming regimen and was now of somewhat wild appearance, the unkempt beard and long hair rendering him nearly unrecognisable. “We know to our cost how well they use their spies.”

“He’s no spy,” Kiral said, the only one in their company besides Wise Bear to display no enmity towards the young shaman. “My song tells of no deceit.”

“These people trust him,” Vaelin pointed out as Orven plainly found scant reassurance in the huntress’s words. “And Wise Bear trusts them. Besides, we have little choice.”

A large gathering of Wolf People waited on a spit of land on the island’s west-facing coast, several hundred men, women and children staring in open curiosity at the newcomers. Clustered among them were several wolf packs each numbering ten or more with a single shaman at their centre, whilst a great flock of spear-hawks circled above. Many Wings raised her bone-staff to order a halt as a man came forward to greet them, a little taller than her with a broader build than most ice people. From the closeness of the embrace he shared with Many Wings and Astorek, Vaelin deduced he was witnessing a family reunion.

“My father bids you welcome,” Astorek related. “He leads here. In your tongue his name means Whale Killer.”

“I thank him for his hospitality,” Vaelin replied, noting that, in contrast to Many Wings, the shaman was required to translate his words aloud to the Wolf People chieftain.

Whale Killer favoured Vaelin with much the same scrutiny shown by his wife, though with a more friendly countenance. “He says it is strange when an old tale takes form,” Astorek translated.

Vaelin began to ask for clarification but Whale Killer had already moved on, approaching Wise Bear with arms wide. They embraced, exchanging greetings in the tongue of the ice people from which, despite all the weeks hearing it, Vaelin still failed to discern any meaning.