Everyone in the Great Chamber knew what the turning back of the food carts meant.

Hunger for the first few days. Then, if the carts didn’t return, slow starvation for every single person in the Strong-hold.

A ripple of fear ran from one side of the enormous room to the other. But the nobles of Neuhalt did not like fear. They preferred rage. And blame.

The first shout of ‘Treachery!’ was quickly followed by another. And another. All eyes turned towards the prisoners, and the grafs began to beat their fists against their chests in a hollow rhythm that sent a shiver from Duckling’s toes to her eyebrows. The grafines stamped their feet in the rushes, and shouted, ‘Kill them! Run them through! Cut off their heads!’

The only ones not shouting, apart from the prisoners, were Brun and Grafine von Eisen. They were as wooden-faced as ever, as if nothing could touch them.

But just when Duckling was sure that the thumping and the shouting would soon turn to violence, Brun raised his hand.

The crowd hushed.

‘Let the prisoners speak,’ cried Brun. ‘Let them defend themselves.’

He said it in such a way that it was clear he wasn’t going to believe a word they said. The nobles sniggered, and snapped their fingers to summon their dogs.

Grandpa and Krieg glanced at each other, as if they were trying to decide what would work best – Lord Rump’s charm or the arms-mistress’s straightforwardness.

But before they could decide, Otte spoke up. ‘Brun,’ he said. ‘We are not responsible for the stopping of the food carts.’

Duckling wasn’t so sure about that. Someone hadn’t wanted them to reach the castle. Maybe that same someone was trying to flush them out again …

‘Neither are we treacherous,’ continued Otte. ‘We are trying to save people, not harm them. Sooli is here to help. She is Saaf, yes, what everyone calls Saffy. But we had it all wrong about her people—’

He shouldn’t have mentioned the Saffies. The growl grew louder again. Grafine von Eisen’s scar reddened.

‘You must listen to us,’ cried Otte, over the rising noise. ‘If you love Neuhalt, you must listen. Our country is in the worst possible danger, but it has nothing to do with the Saaf. It is the Harshman!’

No one took the slightest bit of notice. And so, in desperation, Otte dragged himself upright and shouted, ‘You must listen to me! I am the true Heir! I am the real Margrave!’

His voice cut through the rumbling and growling so clearly and so shockingly that everyone fell silent. But then Duckling heard a snort of horrified laughter, and someone said, ‘Has the boy gone mad?’

Someone else said, ‘He speaks treason. He has just earned himself a trip to the chopping block, along with his mother, Krieg.’

Someone else again said, ‘But really, he thinks he could be Margrave? A one-legged boy? A boy who could never be a warrior? Ruling us?’

The rest of it was drowned out by laughter. The grafs roared. The grafines cackled and hugged their sides. The dogs howled.

Otte’s face was white. His mice poked their heads out of his sleeve, then dived back in. He shouted something, but it was lost in the great gales of hilarity that shook the chamber.

Once again, the only ones who did not join in were Brun and the Grafine. They sat as still as the throne itself, until silence fell.

Then Brun stood up. He was only ten years old, but he stood like a warrior, as different from Otte as a wolf from a pet dog. ‘Does anyone here doubt that I am the true Margrave?’ he demanded.

Otte was so pale that Duckling thought he might collapse on the spot. But he raised his hand. Brun stared at him, his face unreadable.

‘Anyone else?’ Brun’s eyes turned towards Krieg.

Otte looked hopeful, but the arms-mistress shook her head. ‘My son is deluded, Your Grace. That is one of the reasons I brought him back. He has strange fantasies and does not know who he is. I beg you not to punish him for it; it is a sickness, not treason.’

Otte stared at her in horror. ‘Arms-mistress, how could you—’

‘Lord Rump?’ interrupted Brun. ‘Do you have any doubts?’

‘Not a one, Your Grace.’ Grandpa made a bow that would have delighted an emperor. ‘As Krieg says, the lad is ill. But that illness does not make him wrong about the Harshman. We are all of us in more danger than you can imagine—’

Brun cut him off with a yawn. ‘Danger of being bored, perhaps.’

The grafs and grafines sniggered again. Brun nodded to the soldiers. ‘Take them to the dungeons under the Bear Tower.’

‘No!’ cried Otte.

‘Keep a close guard on them,’ continued Brun. ‘No one is to visit them but myself. You understand? No one at all.’

Grafine von Eisen rose to her feet. ‘If I may make a suggestion, Your Grace. I have heard that one of the children has a Saffy device, a weapon disguised as a tooth.’

Now it was Pummel’s turn to grow pale. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not the raashk. It’s not – I don’t – you can’t—’

‘Search him,’ snapped Brun.

Two of the soldiers held Pummel’s arms while a third rummaged through his pockets. He found the leather pouch and held it up, saying, ‘Is this what you mean, Grafine Regent?’

‘No,’ cried Pummel again. ‘You don’t understand—’

‘I will take custody of it,’ said the Grafine. ‘Now do as the Margrave ordered. Take them to the dungeons.’

Normally, the Harshman’s hawk could fly for hours without resting. But that was when it carried nothing but its own weight. With its master clutching its legs, it was forced to land more often – and the Harshman was forced to be patient.

He was no good at patience, not unless it was part of some military strategy. If he knew there was a nice massacre ahead of him, with banners and trumpets and lots of blood, he could wait as well as the next warlord. But the death of a few children hardly counted as a massacre. Even if one of them was the Heir.

So, while the hawk recovered its strength, the Harshman strode back and forth across a field, muttering plans for future wars. First he would kill every Saffy in the country. That would get Neuhalt’s soldiers back into practice – they had known peace for too long, and grown too soft. But with him leading them, they would become heroic again.

In fact, everyone would become heroic. Were there schools in Neuhalt? He was not sure. But if there were, he would add slaughter and mayhem to the lessons, for all the children including the youngest. He would raise a new generation of soldiers, with bright red coats to hide the blood. (The babies would probably need red napkins.)

He turned in his pacing and looked back across the field. It had been green when he arrived; now it was blighted with frost.

The Harshman smiled. Then he strode back to where his hawk was resting, and kicked it until it rose in the air once more.

‘Carry … Me … To … The … Strong-hold,’ he growled. ‘Carry … Me … To … Bloodshed … And … Glory.’