‘Dun Seren. It’s an order. Hammer can take you all. She’s your only chance.’

Shouts and yells from acolytes and Ferals as they gathered, the beat of wings, a spear hissing down at them, Cullen chopping it from the sky.

Sig dragged herself to the timber post, began pulling herself up.

She did not look at her friends, but felt hands helping her regain her feet. It was Drem. ‘Unbuckle my sword-belt,’ she said to him, and he did without question. She threaded it around the post and wrapped it around her waist, cinched it tight.

‘Buckle me up,’ she asked, and Cullen did.

‘Sword.’

Keld put it in her hand.

‘Now get out of here,’ she said to them, patted Cullen’s cheek and brushed fingertips across Keld’s face. He looked as if he planned on disobeying her last order.

‘They need you,’ she said, a whisper. ‘I’m trusting in you, my friend.’

Tears filled Keld’s eyes and he swatted them away. A twist of his lips as he nodded. Sig squeezed Drem’s hand, then she turned to face the oncoming enemy, her body all but filling the remaining gap.

The rustle of wings, and Rab alighted upon Sig’s shoulder.

‘Poor Sig,’ Rab said. The crow ran a bloodstained beak through Sig’s hair.

‘Brave Rab,’ Sig said. ‘Guide them home. Make sure Byrne hears of this.’

Rab croaked mournfully.

The scuff of boots climbing Hammer.

‘Sig,’ Keld called down to her from the bear’s back, and she looked back at them, her vision swimming.

‘We shall never forget,’ he said, clenching a fist over his heart.

‘We shall never forget,’ Cullen and Drem repeated.

‘My brothers,’ Sig said, a smile twitching her lips.

‘Hammer,’ she called, loud as she could, even her jaw feeling heavy. ‘Take my friends home.’

The great bear lifted her head and roared at the night sky, and then she was turning and shambling into the darkness, breaking into a run. Rab launched into the air, quickly disappearing.

‘The trees, where Kadoshim can’t follow,’ Sig whispered, then turned to face her enemy.

A shape loomed out of the smoke and flame, a shaven-haired acolyte, sword stabbing for her heart. Somehow Sig managed to swing her blade, up, smashing the sword away and opening the acolyte’s face from jaw to ear. He fell away gurgling.

Two more, one Sig let the weight of her blade smash into his skull, dropping him without a sound. The second one stabbed Sig in the stomach, Sig headbutting her, nose exploding.

Her fingers were tingling, sword so heavy, and Sig slumped against the belt strapping her to the post. Her head lolled.

Figures gathered before her: acolytes, Fritha, a Feral, growling as it stalked the shadows. Gulla was there, a bandage wrapped around one eye, stained red.

Sig smiled to see his wound, felt saliva drool from her mouth.