Much stays the same, and yet much has changed, since that day at Drassil. Heart and courage, iron and blood is as old as the hills, but we are ever finding new ways to kill our foe. The worry is that they are just as diligent at finding new ways to kill us.

Sig turned, looking closer to home, and saw a knot of people staring at her: the two score new recruits from Ardain. Mouths were open, expressions a blend of shock and awe.

They’d been at Dun Seren almost a ten-night now, but this was the first morning that Sig had resumed her duties as sword master of the fortress. The captains of each discipline rotated, so that some would train the warriors at the fortress, while others would lead missions and campaigns out into the Banished Lands against the Kadoshim. It had worked well enough for the past hundred years, keeping all warriors sharp in both training and experience, whether captain, veteran or newcomer.

‘Help . . . me,’ a thin, reedy voice wheezed.

It was Cullen, still flat on his back from where Sig had spun him through the air and winded him.

‘You did ask to join in,’ Sig said as she stood over him.

‘Thought Tain and Fachen were enough to take the sting out of you,’ he gasped. He tried to sit up, grunted with pain. ‘I was wrong.’

He tried to sit again, winced again.

‘I think you’ve broken my back.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sig, ‘stop making such a fuss.’ She grabbed hold of his leather jerkin and hoisted him unceremoniously to his feet. He whimpered.

‘Bruised a little, maybe,’ Sig conceded.

‘Bruised a lot, more like.’ Cullen rubbed his back, then hoisted his wooden practice sword and brandished it at her.

‘Again?’ He grinned at her.

Sig shook her head, hiding a smile.

He has a death-wish.

A murmur behind them, and Sig saw heads turning amongst the new recruits as Byrne approached, dressed in her training leathers, dull and scuffed, sweat-stained from years of use.

‘A fine display,’ Byrne said to Sig. ‘Glad to see half a year on the road hasn’t dulled your skills.’

Fighting Kadoshim tends to keep you sharp.

They were standing on the part of the field where individual sparring took place, with all manner of weapons. Byrne approached a weapons rack and sifted through the wooden replicas on offer. They were dull edged, of course, but every weapon had been hollowed out and filled with iron, making it heavy. Heavier than the weapons they were fashioned to represent, usually, unless it was a giant’s war-hammer or battle-axe, but Sig thought that was a good thing, forging strength in muscle and tendon and sinew, so that when a warrior came to use the sharp steel version, it felt light and responsive in their hands.