‘I know, it’s part of what will make him great. If he lives long enough, that is.’

‘Got to love him for it, though I often want to strangle him for it, too.’

Sig noticed a man approach Byrne. It was Odras, a fine healer, and warrior besides. He was the chief quartermaster of the keep, with a talent for keeping supplies flowing and the barns and grain stores full. He spoke in Byrne’s ear, and she turned, beckoning Sig over to her.

‘A visitor to see us,’ Byrne said with a frown.

‘Who?’

‘A merchant from the north, Odras says. And they have asked to see you. I think I’ll come along, though. I’m curious as to who would visit the ill-tempered Sig!’

They left the weapons-field together, leaving a few hundred warriors-in-training behind them. As they stepped from the field onto a wide street, Sig paused beside a great slab of rock that rose from the ground, taller and wider than she was. The Stone of Heroes, it was called, a host of names carved into it. Sig ran her fingertips over some of them.

Gar and Brina were the first names, carved large at the top of the stone, and beneath them many hundreds more. Sig whispered some of them to the sky.

‘Dath, Akar, Kulla, Farrell, Veradis, Corban, Coralen,’ she breathed. As she said their names their faces formed in her mind’s eye, so many, many more, the names of those who had given their lives to the Order, whether they’d fallen in battle or to time and age, if they had served the Order, their names were honoured.

Her eyes came to rest upon one last name, her fingertips tracing the rune-work carved into the stone.

‘Gunil,’ she whispered, just the sound of his name bringing back so many emotions, a gossamer web spiralling through her veins, about her heart.

Sig shook her head.

A hand touching her – Byrne, a small comfort.

‘We will never forget,’ Byrne murmured beside her, then turned and walked away.

No, Gunil, I will never forget you. With a sigh Sig followed after Byrne.

The merchant was waiting in a chamber of the keep, sitting at a table with a platter of food and a cup of wine poured for him. A barrel-chested man with thick-muscled arms, more hair on them than there was on his head. He stood as Byrne and Sig entered the room, a mouth full of crumbling cheese, his eyes widening as they took in Sig’s size and musculature, hovering on the sword hilt that jutted over her shoulder.

‘When he said warrior, what he meant was monstrous killing machine,’ the man muttered.

Sig frowned. Is he touched in the head?