The bald man appeared again, stepping into Drem’s view, this time with a spear in his fists, the tip levelled at Olin’s chest. Drem heard the sound of steel scraping free of sheaths, the other three pulling blades. Something changed in Olin’s eyes and he shifted his feet, drew the short axe at his belt with his right hand, a knife with his left.

Maybe the bald man saw the same change in Olin’s eyes that Drem saw, because he hesitated a moment; only the sound of the wind, the groaning of men with broken bones, the scraping of dirt as Drem managed to drag himself to one knee.

Then voices were shouting, footsteps drumming, and Drem saw Calder the smith appear, a huge man, bare-armed and bare-chested apart from a thick leather apron, a hammer in his hand. Hildith and her two burly guards were with him. Asger and other traders from the market appeared from the other direction, coming to stand behind Olin.

The bald man stood there a moment, then he was shrugging, stepped back and lowered his spear. He helped one of his comrades stand, the others still on their feet doing the same, moving away, carrying those who couldn’t do it themselves.

‘Do they need throwing into Kergard’s gaol?’ Calder asked Olin, a scowl on his face.

‘No.’ Olin shook his head, slipped his knife and axe back into their homes at his belt and hurried over to Drem.

‘Slowly,’ Olin said as he knelt beside him, face all twisted with worry. He helped him stand, checking limbs for broken bones, holding a finger before Drem’s eyes, ordering him to track them. Asking him questions, like what moon it was.

‘What about kind and polite words fixing a disagreement?’ Drem wheezed at Olin, his mouth thick with the copper tang of blood, his split nose throbbing, pulsing with his heartbeat.

‘There’s a time for that,’ Olin said. ‘But sometimes, son, the only answer is blood and steel.’

CHAPTER TWELVE: SIG

CHAPTER TWELVE

SIG

Sig unwound the bandage from Hammer’s paw, the bear rumbling dolefully.

‘That’s what you get for standing on a Kadoshim,’ Sig said.

The stab wounds were healing, no pus or scent of rot, for which Sig was relieved. Gently she washed them out, then reached for a fresh poultice of honey, yarrow and comfrey, packing it tight into the many red punctures and finally binding it back up with a fresh bandage of clean linen. She stood and patted the huge bear’s neck. Hammer’s muzzle sniffed Sig’s face, a blast of air sending her blonde braid flapping.

‘You’re doing fine, my faithful friend,’ Sig murmured. ‘We’re not leaving for a few days yet, not until you’re ready for it, so just rest easy, and eat.’

Hammer licked Sig’s cheek, leaving a trail of saliva.