The rising volume of their simmering rage was enough to move the more cautious of the moredhel chieftains to note the closest escape route should frustration build to bloodshed. Too many old rivals had been forced together at this council, and for too long for the truce to last more than minutes.

Arkan of the Ardanien surveyed his surroundings, then nodded once towards a side street that he knew led straight to an old farm gate several blocks away. Arkan was the model of a moredhel chieftain, with strong, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His dark brown hair was cut short at the front to ensure that his vision was never impaired, and left long to flow past his pointed ears, down to his shoulders. His dark eyes were set in an almost expressionless mask. Arkan’s reputation was impressive: he had shepherded his troubled clan through more than thirty perilous years. Despite having many rivals and sworn enemies, the Clan of the Ice Bears had grown under his leadership.

His companion returned his nod and glanced around to assess where trouble would most likely originate. Morgeth, Arkan’s self-appointed bodyguard, let his hand stray to the hilt of his sword. ‘Those damn southerners,’ he said at last to his chieftain.

Arkan could only agree. Their cousins from beyond the Teeth of the World were an agitated bunch, forced to dwell as their guests in ancient homelands where they had sought refuge during the Tsurani invasion. ‘Well, they’ve been here for a century; they’re starting to get restless.’

‘Who’s keeping them here? They can go home any damn time they want.’

‘Some have tried.’ The Chieftain of the Ardanien spoke quietly, with the thoughtful candour that those who knew him had come to expect. ‘It’s a difficult trek past those damn Kingdom defences at the Inclindel Gap.’ He paused. ‘On through Hadati country, skirting the dwarves and Elvandar.’ He glanced around as the volume of voices rose again. ‘I’d not attempt it with less than the entire clan-’