‘Why are you here?’ Drem asked, worried for Fritha, thinking it was too dangerous, the weather threatening winter, the Wild looming close.

‘This is my home, now. Where I come from, we help look after one another. Saw Ulf and Calder, thought an extra spear is never a bad thing.’

‘Fair enough,’ Drem said.

‘I wanted to say thank you,’ she said to him, ‘for what you did.’

He shrugged, felt heat flush his neck, though he couldn’t understand why.

‘Anyone would have done the same,’ he said.

‘I don’t think they would have,’ Fritha said. She reached out a hand and squeezed his arm. Something about it felt agreeable, though he had to fight the urge to pull away. A smile twitched across Fritha’s lips. Drem saw that it made her wince.

‘Try a compress of comfrey and witch-hazel for that,’ he said, nodding at her bruise.

‘Has it helped you?’

‘Aye.’ He thought about it. ‘A little. Not as much as I’d have liked.’

Fritha laughed at that, making her wince again.

‘What do you think that fire is?’ she asked.

‘Don’t know,’ Drem answered. ‘But we’ll find out. And it had better be soon.’ He looked up, the pale glow of daylight shining in fractured beams through the canopy of pine needles above.

‘What’s wrong?’ Fritha asked.

‘It’s almost highsun,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If we don’t find whatever it is we’re searching for soon, we’ll be looking at staying a night out under the stars.’

‘So?’ Fritha said. ‘We’ve furs and blankets. Enough bodies here to keep warm if it gets that cold.’ She paused, looked at him a long moment. He felt his neck flush red again, though he still wasn’t sure why. He saw that shadow of a smile ghost Fritha’s lips.

So speaks a southerner, he thought. No one who’s tasted a winter in the north would say such a thing.

Something brushed against his face, cold. He blinked, saw a snowflake drift lazily down to the ground, others following, like silent feathers.

‘The Bonefells are not the place you want to be sleeping come Crow’s Moon,’ Drem said.

‘Why? Winter is harsh this far north, I imagine. But it’s not upon us yet.’ She looked at the snowflakes floating about her and shrugged. ‘A little snow. It’s not a blizzard, and we’re only half a day’s journey from our holds.’

Not a blizzard yet, he corrected, knowing how quickly winter’s caress could turn into a fist.