The sun had fallen behind the mountains when Garren and Farnor reached Gryss’s cottage, and the few clouds drifting overhead were slowly turning pink. The cottage was not unlike its occupant, having a thick but rather scruffy thatch lowering over two sparklingly bright, polished windows and a hunched and slightly skewed appearance due to its original builder having been both wall-eyed and too fond of his ale.

An iron ring hung from a chain by the door. It was attached to a small bell. Garren took hold of it but did not pull it immediately.

‘He brought this back from his travels, you know,’ he said. ‘Heaven knows how many people have tugged on it through the years, but it’s not shown a scrap of wear. I’d give something for a plough made of the same.’

Farnor, familiar with this oft-repeated parental wish, gave the ring a casual glance for politeness’ sake. Gryss had many relics of his wandering days and, over the years, Farnor had been made tediously familiar with all of them.

Then, on an impulse, he took the ring from his fa-ther and looked at it more closely. As if for the first time, he saw the finely etched rows of tiny figures that decorated it. They were warriors, some on horseback with lances and some on foot carrying long spears. They were amazingly detailed and lifelike and, as Farnor moved the ring to examine it further, it seemed to him that they were alive with movement. For a moment he felt he was inside the scene. It was a lull in a terrible battle. A waiting for a final, brutal onslaught from an enemy who…

‘It’s a lucky charm.’

Gryss’s familiar, authoritative voice made Farnor jump. The old man had opened the door silently and was standing watching Farnor’s scrutiny of the ring. Startled, Farnor let it fall. The chain rattled as the ring bounced then swung to and fro, and the bell rang slightly. Thus summoned, an old, sleepy-eyed dog emerged from behind Gryss’s legs, gave a desultory bark into the evening and then turned back into the cottage.