‘Time to learn some real swordcraft,’ Olin said, setting his feet and raising his own wooden sword two-handed over his head. ‘This is called stooping falcon. It is the first form of the sword dance. A good position for strike and defence. Now, set your feet like mine.’

The sound of hooves, a rumble like distant thunder. Drem’s da paused, holding up a hand, head turning, and Drem lowered his practice sword, sweat dripping from his nose. He felt as if every muscle in his body was burning, or weeping. Or begging for mercy. Or all three.

His da strode towards their cabin, held a hand out and Drem threw him his practice sword, then followed. They reached the wooden porch, Olin leaned the swords against a wall and was resting a hand upon the short axe at his belt when riders appeared, cantering on their path and into the courtyard. Ten or twelve men, Ulf the tanner and Calder the smith at their head.

Is this about the fight?

Then Drem saw Fritha amongst them. She was dressed like the rest of them, furs and skins, fur-trimmed boots and woollen breeches. She nodded a greeting to him.

Olin just waited for them to speak.

‘Did you see that fire, up in the Bonefells?’ Ulf said.

‘I did,’ Olin replied.

‘We’re going to have a closer look,’ Calder said. ‘Thought you might want to come along.’

Drem shared a look with his da.

‘Good of you to ask,’ Olin said. ‘We’ve missed the Bonefells.’

‘Ha, what did I tell you?’ Ulf barked a laugh, slapping Calder across his slab of a shoulder. ‘Go saddle a horse, then – we’ve a lot of ground to travel and not a lot of day to do it in. Don’t fancy spending a night out in them hills.’

Mountains, Drem corrected silently, his new strategy to keep his da happy, though he agreed with the principle wholeheartedly. He ran to saddle their horses.

This is not the best way to recover from a beating, Drem concluded to himself. No matter how he shifted in his saddle, there was always an outcry from various parts of his body. Right now the pain was coming from his thighs, which pulsed their throbbing discomfort with every step his horse made.

His da was up ahead, riding with Ulf and Calder, picking a sloping path through rock and pine. The rest of their group, a mix of townsmen and trappers, rode in a loose column. Some spoke in murmured conversation, but Drem kept silent. He was comfortable with his da, but around other people he mostly felt awkward. Never knew what to say, or what he was supposed to say.

Harness jangled behind and Fritha rode up beside him. A couple of knives at her belt. Her jaw still boasted a bruise, mottled and purple as a berry-stain.