‘We shall fight the Kadoshim together, as we always have,’ Nara said. ‘And you must feel no guilt in returning to Dun Seren now. From the reports thus far it is nothing Elgin and my warband cannot handle. Night raids, buildings torched, travellers attacked on my roads.’ Nara gave a wave of her hand. ‘We will bring them to heel. The greatest crime is that you are leaving without telling me your tales of my great-grandparents, something I was deeply looking forward to.’

‘When I return,’ Sig said, dipping her head at Nara’s graciousness. Nara’s kin flashed into her mind: Edana, Queen of Ardan and Conall, King of Domhain. They had been a good match, Edana’s solid sense and quiet bravery tempering Conall’s fiery temper and spontaneity. One other lost friend flickered through her mind, dark-haired, serious faced. A giant. A stab of pain. Ah, my Gunil. How is it I miss you as much now as I did the day you fell? With a shudder she pulled her thoughts back to the present.

‘By your leave, I shall make for Dun Seren today,’ Sig said.

A light rain was falling as Sig pulled herself into Hammer’s saddle. The bear gave a low grunt; Sig felt the strength and energy in her, eager to be off and out of the fortress after close to a moon of convalescence in a stable block. Her injured paw seemed fine, scars marking where the Kadoshim’s knife had pierced her.

She has her own sgeul, Sig thought, glancing at the fresh tattoos of thorns upon her own arm, marking the lives she’d taken since storming the Kadoshim’s lair. The sgeul was the giant’s ancient tradition, a tattooed band of thorns to mark every soul they had sent across the bridge of swords.

If I keep on going like this I will need a new arm, soon.

Cullen and Keld led their mounts over to Sig, both of them climbing into their saddles a little clumsily. Keld’s left hand was still bandaged around the stumps of his missing fingers, though the wounds were healing as well as could be hoped. There was a new look in Keld’s eye since they had found him strapped to the torturer’s cross, a barely contained anger, and Sig did not think it was over the loss of his fingers, although that had hit him hard. He was a huntsman, skilled with bow, spear, axe and knife. Sig had known him since he had been a bairn, watched him grow through his training at Dun Seren, always deadliest with two weapons in his hands, preferably axe and knife.

He will have to relearn. He is as strong as an ancient oak. It is losing his hound that has hit him hardest.