‘It’s been empty for a little over six moons,’ Olin said, ‘and like as not it is cold and damp inside and needs a hearth-fire lit. It’s our home, though, built by our own hands. Didn’t have neighbours when we left, but looks like we’ve more than a few now.’

The woman looked at their packhorses, the skins and furs tied in big bundles.

‘Calder the smith said that trappers built that place, Grandfather,’ she said to the old man. ‘He said they’d be back for winter, as well.’

‘He did?’

‘He did,’ she said.

‘Huh, then why didn’t you say so?’ he snapped at Drem and his da.

‘We just did,’ said Drem.

The old man lowered his spear-point, a little begrudgingly, Drem thought.

‘Your name is Olin, is it not?’ the woman said.

Olin frowned at that, but eventually nodded into the growing silence. ‘Aye, it is.’

‘Well met and welcome home,’ the girl said. ‘I’m Fritha, and my grandfather is Hask.’

‘Well met,’ Olin said. ‘And this is my son, Drem.’

‘It’ll be good to have some neighbours out here,’ Fritha said, ‘so close to the forest and mountains.’

Drem looked where she was pointing, at woodland just behind his own hold, and hills beyond.

‘They’re not mountains,’ Drem corrected, not liking it when things were said wrong. His da gave him a flat stare.

‘Well, whatever they are, we’re happy to meet you,’ Fritha said. ‘Isn’t that right, Grandad?’

‘What? Yes, I suppose we are,’ Hask muttered. ‘Can never be too careful,’ he added with a shake of his spear.

‘True enough,’ Olin said.

The hound was still growling and barring the way. Olin looked pointedly at it.

‘We’ve been sleeping on root and rock for six moons; it would be nice to light a fire and see our beds.’

‘Of course,’ Fritha said.

‘Surl, enough,’ Hask snapped and the hound slunk over to his heel with one last snapping growl and then it was silent.

Olin bade them farewell and led Drem and the line of ponies on.

‘You can be very diplomatic when you put your mind to it,’ Drem said to his da as they drew near the gates to their hold.

‘Don’t have to use a sharp edge to deal with every situation,’ Olin replied. ‘More often than not a kind or polite word will fix a disagreement.’ He looked a long moment at Drem. ‘And you don’t have to correct every inaccuracy you hear in a conversation.’

‘I just don’t like it when people get things wrong.’ It was more than that – a compulsion far beyond habit or annoyance. Drem felt that he had to do it, a pressure would grow within him until he voiced his corrections. He knew his da didn’t like him doing it, had often spoken to him about it.