Drem’s eyes fixed upon the sheepskin bundle that was tied to Olin’s saddle, little more than a shadow in dawn’s first light.

We’ll finish it at home. A handle of ash, bound with leather. Those had been the only words Olin had said as they’d stood and stared at the result of their labour. A long blade, tapered to a fine point, a heavy crosspiece and fuller like a black vein running down the blade’s centre.

Kergard’s gates were closed when they reached them; Olin frowned at that.

‘Calder is supposed to be here,’ Olin said, searching the shadows for the big smith, but he was not there. Drem jumped from his horse and hefted the bar across the gates. It was heavier than he’d thought, judging by the way Calder had lifted it last night. The gates opened with a creak, Olin hovering a few more heartbeats, waiting for Calder.

Drem looked at his da enquiringly.

‘He’s supposed to be here,’ Olin muttered again.

He sounds worried.

Olin scanned the streets that converged on the gates. They were silent and still, only melting shadows for company. ‘Don’t like leaving the gates open and unguarded,’ Olin said.

‘Guards should be along soon enough,’ Drem said.

‘Aye,’ Olin agreed.

And if we’re still here, Da’ll have to explain what he’s doing.

That thought seemed to have run through Olin’s mind, too.

‘Can’t wait any longer,’ Olin said and with a shrug from Drem they were riding through and breaking into a trot as a world of white opened up before them.

Drem looked at Fritha’s hold as they passed it, and he was pleased to see that there was no hound still tied to the rope and ring in the yard. A sound echoed in the distance, from the woodland to the north. Dim and muted. Drem strained to hear it. A crashing, perhaps a roar. He and Olin shared a look.

Wolven bringing down their prey. Something big, anyway.

As they began the long stretch of track to their hold Drem noticed tracks in the snow, following the path they were on, then veering off, towards woodland framed in the distance by the Bonefells. Olin saw them too, reining in his mount.

One man, one hound. Maybe a woman – small feet for a man.

A jolt of worry.

Fritha?

Drem looked up at the sky, heavy with more snow, a strong wind gusting down from the north, bringing with it the taste of ice. Drem looked to his da. At any other time there would have been no question, no hesitation, but Drem knew his da wanted to get the sword home. It was written all across his face.

Drem just waited, knowing what the outcome would be, but letting his da go through the process of it.

‘Best go see who those tracks belong to,’ Olin said.