Olin shifted, his mouth moving. A trickle of blood dribbled over his lips, a whisper of air.

‘Sword,’ he said.

He wants to hold his sword in his hand. He thinks he’s going to die, going to cross the bridge of swords.

Drem looked about frantically for the black sword, could not see it anywhere, though the ground was churned and covered in bits of tree and bushes. He couldn’t bear to leave his da’s side to search more thoroughly, so Drem drew his own blade and put the hilt in his hand, closing his fingers about it. Olin’s gaze flickered down to it, then pushed the blade away.

‘Starstone,’ Olin wheezed.

‘I can’t see it, Da,’ Drem said, lifting his da’s hand and kissing it, felt his da’s fingers twitch and he put them to his cheek, as his da had done to him so many, many times before.

‘My . . . boy,’ Olin whispered, a bubbling rattle. ‘I was . . . wrong.’ Olin jerked then, his other arm rising, palm upon Drem’s chest, fingers clenching, gripping onto the bear claw about Drem’s neck. One long, slow exhalation that seemed as if it would never end, his eyes fixed onto Drem’s with a burning gaze and then Olin was still, the light in his eyes fading, glazing over.

‘No, Da, no,’ Drem breathed, his vision blurring with tears as Olin’s fingers slipped from the claw about his neck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: SIG

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SIG

Sig crested a low rise in the land and, with a word and a touch of her heels, reined Hammer in. Somewhere behind she heard Keld shout a command, the drum of hooves as their loose column drew close. But Sig only had eyes for the view on the horizon before her.

Dun Seren.

It was highsun, a pale sun suspended like a marker in the sky above the fortress of grey stone. It was standing upon a gentle hill, a keep and tower silhouetted on the horizon. Around it dark walls circled the hill, the hint of myriad buildings contained within. Another wall had been raised closer and wider still, upon the flatter meadows that surrounded Dun Seren’s hill. Sig had been there when the decision to build it had been made. The Order had grown beyond its founder’s wildest expectations, the twin arts of weapons-craft and healing drawing so many to their halls. Corban, the creator of the Order, had been grey-haired then, and he had smiled to see how the seed of his dream had flourished into something far greater than he had ever imagined.