Before the Sturmish could even think about jumping to their lord’s defence, the Wyld Wolves poured forth out of the night, swarming towards them out of the fog. The freakish lycanthropes bounded, springing, taking the knights from their whinnying horses. Some of the monsters leapt on to Henrik’s corpse, tearing into the slain Werelord with ghoulish enthusiasm while the Werelion watched.

‘Betrayers!’ roared a transformed Duke Bergan as two Sturmlanders tried to drag him away. ‘Brenn curse you all!’ He retreated into the fog, surrounded by the terrible Wyld Wolves as they scattered his party.

‘No!’ shouted the Beast of Bast as he knelt in the snow, claws in his guts, his words lost on the transformed Wyldermen. ‘There’s no honour in this, Lucas! Call off your Wolfmen!’

The Lion looked down at Onyx and snarled. ‘You forget yourself again, uncle; it’s King Lucas.’ He crouched beside the injured Werepanther as the butchery continued behind him. ‘And I’ll do what I please.’

B5 P4 C4