Staring at it now, a kaleidoscope of memories flashed through Sig’s mind, more than a hundred years’ worth of remembrance condensed into a handful of heartbeats, of weapons training, pain, sweat, broken bones, battle and loss. But far greater than that were the memories of song and laughter, a bond of friendship forged with men and giants that she had never believed possible. A host of names and faces hovered in her mind’s eye: Corban, Gunil, Varan, Coralen, Veradis, Cywen, Dath, Kulla, Farrell, Storm, so many, many more.

And so many of them gone, now. But their memory lives on.

We shall never forget.

‘We shall never forget,’ Keld murmured beside her, and she looked down at him to see him staring at Dun Seren’s walls with a faraway look in his eyes.

‘Come on,’ Cullen cried out, all excitement and passion. ‘What are we waiting for? Let’s go home!’

Home.

‘Home,’ squawked Rab as he alighted on Cullen’s shoulder, the young warrior wincing as crow talons flexed.

And in good time. Still a ten-night to go before Midwinter’s Day.

She glanced behind her, saw expressions of wonder and awe spread upon the faces of the young recruits from Ardain, and then Sig was spurring Hammer on, the bear roaring as it ran lumbering down the rise, Keld, Cullen and their recruits from Ardain cantering behind, Fen the wolven-hound a grey blur ahead of them.

The scrape of Hammer’s claws and the clatter of hooves echoed as they passed through the arched gate of Dun Seren’s inner wall and into the courtyard before the grey keep. Above the gatehouse a banner of a bright star upon a black field snapped and rippled in the cold wind that was blowing hard from the north. Sig tasted a hint of snow upon it. Warriors lined the walls, horns ringing out and voices cheering Sig’s return, sword-brothers and sisters, a smattering of giants as well, and Sig smiled to see them, raising her hand in greeting. Cullen grinned and waved as if he was a returning hero, though Keld was more contained beside him, still raw with the loss of his wolven-hound, Hella.

A statue loomed before them, dominating the centre of the courtyard, twice the height of Sig upon her bear’s back. Two figures carved from dark stone, pale veins running through it. One a man, handsome and serious, broad-chested and thick-armed, his hair tied into a thick warrior braid that coiled across one shoulder. He was dressed as a warrior, wearing a shirt of mail and leather surcoat, breeches and boots, a round shield slung across his back. A torc sat about his neck, snarling wolven heads at either end, with an arm ring spiralling about one bicep, two more wolven heads at beginning and end. One hand held a naked sword, the tip resting upon the ground, its pommel another wolven head, this one raised with jaws open, howling.