Byrne selected a curved sword with a two-handed grip, the wooden likeness of the blade that she usually wore slung across her back. All who came to Dun Seren were trained in a multitude of martial disciplines: sword, spear, axe, hammer, bow; shield-work, knife-fighting, axe-throwing; the shield wall. Various swords – short-swords, longswords, curved swords, single grip, one-and-a-half hand, double grip. Blade-work on foot and mounted. Horsemanship, tracking and hunting. Everything imaginable, and all had to master each discipline. Most had a preference, though, a weapon or combination of weapons that they gravitated towards, a style of fighting, and they were free to choose it, once they’d mastered all of the disciplines and proved it in their warrior trial and Long Night. Sig preferred her longsword, loved the simplicity and elegance of it. Byrne had always been drawn to the curved blade of the Jehar, warriors from the east that had dedicated themselves fanatically to Corban. Gar, the man in whose honour Corban had built the weapons school, had been such a warrior.

‘Anyone?’ Byrne said as she walked into an open space. Sig grinned and took a step, remembering a thousand hours they had sparred together through the years, but before she could stand in front of Byrne another figure jumped before the High Captain of the Order.

Cullen, his wooden sword resting across one shoulder.

He’s a glutton for punishment, Sig thought, stepping back and leaning against a weapons rack, folding her arms.

Byrne dipped her head, raised her sword, not taking her eyes off Cullen, and that was a good job, for he darted in, sword a blur, stabbing straight at Byrne’s heart. The crack of wood, Cullen’s blade was slapped away and he was spinning, a horizontal chop at Byrne’s waist was again blocked, almost casually, as Byrne shifted her feet, not wasting her energy on a counterstrike as Cullen was already out of range, dancing away and back in again, a combination of blows this time, chops, stabs and lunges, all met by Byrne’s blade, a discordant rhythm cracking out the timing of their battle as Byrne became the calm centre of Cullen’s storm.

Sore back, my arse, Sig thought.

‘Is his tactic to wear her out?’ a voice said beside Sig. Keld was there, silent as only a master huntsman could be. His dark mood had lifted a little in the last few weeks, Dun Seren a tonic to him as it was to Sig.

Sig shrugged. ‘If it is, he should be the one standing still, not dancing around Byrne like he’s had a barrel of mead on Midwinter’s Eve.’

‘I was thinking the very same thing,’ Keld said. ‘Mind you, he’s wearing me out just watching him. Maybe that’s his thinking.’

Sig snorted.