They walked past a group of White-Wings gathered around a fire – the paddock guards, part of Lorina’s hundred. Some of them were singing; one invited them over, but Riv walked on.

‘Hold,’ a voice rang out before them; two figures stepped out of the darkness, spears in their fists. Two White-Wings standing guard duty. One of them was Vald. He looked tense, his eyes constantly scanning the gloom and shifting shadows within the forest.

‘Don’t stray so close to the trees,’ the other one said, an older warrior from Garidas’ hundred.

‘They’re all right,’ Vald said.

‘Aye. Of course they are, they’re going to be White-Wings. Won’t stop them being eaten by one of Forn’s hungry mouths, though, or snatched by a Kadoshim, or whatever it was did that to those in the town.’ He looked pointedly at Riv and Jost. ‘Back to the meadow, eh?’

‘As you asked so nicely,’ Riv said, and they started back, soon reaching the road guards. They were still in their cups, songs louder and more slurred.

‘Aren’t they the two fledglings that failed their warrior trial?’ a slurring voice said.

‘Ignore them,’ Jost whispered.

‘Run back to your sister’s apron strings,’ one of them said, pointing at Riv, then he fell over, laughing.

Riv scowled at the warriors, a mixture of young and old. The one who’d fallen over climbed back to his feet, only a few years older than her. Jost was pulling on her arm and she gave a frustrated sigh, stamping down the ever-present rage that had begun to burn again. She turned away with Jost and began to walk away.

‘Fly along, little fledglings,’ another guard said, making a flapping motion. ‘Get back to Big Sister before it’s too late.’ The one who had fallen over laughed so hard it sounded like he was crying.

Riv twisted on her heel and marched towards them, the rage descending like a red mist again.

‘What?’ Jost said. ‘Riv, what’re you doing? Riv, no, come back, Riv. Riv, please.’ He hurried after her, snatched at her arm but she pulled it away.

‘So, which one of you arse-wipes wants to go first?’ Riv asked, glaring at them all.

‘Eh?’

‘Just ignore her,’ Jost said, pulling at Riv’s arm.

‘Listen to your friend,’ one of the other guards, a sharp-nosed man, less in his cups than the others.

‘Aye, listen to that bag of string and run along,’ said another, a woman, a scar running from eye to jaw. ‘No doubt you’ll be a White-Wing soon enough – your sister will make sure of that, even though you don’t deserve it.’ She looked Jost up and down. ‘What is he, anyway? Your guard-stick?’

‘Bag of string? Guard-stick?’ Jost said.

‘You first, then,’ Riv said and leaped at the woman.