‘I wasn’t talking about the snow,’ Drem said. ‘I was talking about what the snow drives south. Those things that travel out of the north to escape the worst of it. We saw a giant bear, a little west of here; must have come south for a reason. Storms and blizzards are coming.’ As if to prove his point, a snowflake landed on his nose. It felt good as it melted, a momentary easing of the pulsing throb where his nose had been broken.

‘A bear.’ Fritha shrugged.

‘And other things. Wolven packs,’ Drem said, shivering at the memory of last winter. ‘And bats.’

‘Bats?’

‘Aye.’

‘I’ve heard tales,’ Fritha said, a seed of doubt creeping into her voice.

‘These are as big as a shield and will suck the blood right out of a person, like they’re a skin of mead.’ Drem said.

‘Thought they were just tall tales,’ Fritha muttered.

‘No. I’ve seen what they can do.’

For the first time Fritha didn’t look so confident. She eyed the trees suspiciously.

‘Best be home before nightfall, then,’ she said.

‘That’d be best,’ Drem agreed. ‘I don’t think they’ve come this far south, yet. But I’d rather not put it to the test.’

‘Aye.’

They spilt out of the woodland onto an open strip of land, a few hundred paces ahead the slope levelled off. The snow was starting to fall more heavily, the wind swirling it in sweeping eddies. Drem glimpsed his da at the head of the column, saw him ride over the slope onto level ground, Ulf and Calder with him, saw them rein their mounts in and stop, still as the boulders gouged into the land about them.

Drem joined them, their party spread into a loose line along a ridged plateau. The burned-out remains of a huge bonfire lay before them, black and charred, the wind snatching flakes of ash and mixing them with the snow, a dance of black and white. A thin line of smoke still curled from the fire’s cooling heart, the lingering glow of a dying ember at its root.

Drem’s eyes didn’t linger on the bonfire. A body lay spread across a boulder only a dozen paces from the fire. His belly had been slashed open, a ragged mess of torn flesh, his guts pooled around his boots like blue-coiled rope.

Olin was at the man’s side, Ulf and Calder a few heartbeats behind him. Drem dismounted and went to help, though there wasn’t much he could do. As he drew closer he saw the dead man was old, wisps of white hair frozen to the granite boulder, his face twisted in a grimace of terror and agony. Olin was on one knee beside him, lifting the tatters of his torn clothing to look at the shredded ruin of his abdomen.

‘It’s Old Bodil,’ Calder said, hanging his head.