‘I think we’d better,’ Drem agreed.

Drem heard something, away to his left, coming from the scrubland that fringed the wood as it rolled down from the Bonefells.

‘You hear that, too?’ his da asked him.

A nod, and together they were pulling on reins and riding away from the track, towards the scrub and woodland.

They followed the footprints in the snow, heard a voice calling out, the same word, again and again.

Drem ducked his head under branches heavy with snow, the voice louder now. He recognized it.

‘It’s Fritha,’ he said and urged his horse on. Then he saw her, flitting between the dark trunks of trees, still calling out.

‘Surl!’ Drem heard her cry.

Her hound.

She saw them, stood and waited.

‘It’s Surl, he’s gone,’ she said and pointed at paw tracks in the snow, heading deeper into the woods. She wasn’t dressed for the cold, just wearing breeches and boots, a wool shirt and cloak.

Not enough to stop the blood from freezing out here. And no weapon.

‘Up with Drem,’ Olin said to Fritha and clicked his horse on, Drem taking Fritha’s hand and pulling her up into the saddle behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist.

‘How long has the hound been gone?’ Drem asked her as he followed his da into the thickening trees.

‘Dawn,’ Fritha said and he felt her shrug. ‘A while. I let him out and he just ran. I followed.’

‘Should’ve brought a spear, and put on some snow-clothes,’ Drem said over his shoulder.

‘It happened so quickly, I didn’t think . . .’ Fritha said into the back of his head.

‘Not thinking is what gets you killed in the Wild,’ Drem muttered, the words drilled into him by his da. There was a pleasure in saying those words, and not being on the receiving end of them.

Fritha said nothing in response.

‘There,’ Olin said from ahead and Drem spurred his mount on, weaving through the wide-spaced trees, pulling alongside his da, and he saw a dark shape about thirty or forty paces ahead. Fritha’s hound, Surl. It was slumped against an ash tree.

Something’s not right. Drem frowned. The hound’s dun coat appeared much darker, the snow around it serving to intensify the difference in colour: white, unbroken snow almost glowing, the hound dark as night.

Olin reined in his horse, Drem did the same, both of the animals shying and dancing away as the two men slipped from their saddles. Fritha followed and Drem held a hand up, warning her to stay back. Fritha scowled and ignored him.

Closer, Olin and Drem instinctively fanned out, Drem’s hand resting on the hilt of his knife, his da slipping a short axe from his belt. Drem saw a splattering across the snow, droplets of blood about the hound, a string of rubies. He scanned the trees around them, widespread, the snow crisp and unbroken.