At length, Badlands stirred, clearing his throat. ‘Can’t you play any happy songs on that old kantele, bard?’ he complained. ‘There’s that one about the innkeeper’s wife and the dwarf …’

Fisher lovingly ran a hand across the face of the oddly angled box. ‘A magnificent instrument. My compliments to your ancestor.’ He set it aside. ‘Not tonight. Tomorrow night, perhaps.’

Meaning, Kyle translated, most likely never.

‘That’s enough anyway,’ Stalker announced from where he lay near the hearth. ‘Get some sleep. You’ll need it for tomorrow.’

Kyle agreed most earnestly with that. He found a clear spot within reach of the hearth’s warmth and tossed down a sheep’s hide to lie upon. Badlands grumbled nearby about how unreasonable it was that they didn’t get thoroughly soused this, their last night on earth. Kyle tucked his arm under his head and stared up at the soot-darkened log rafters far above. The question nagged him how he could calmly lie here in this hall while an army marched upon it. The answer was obvious and easy: because his friends defended it. And if Greymane were here, he’d do just the same.

That settled, he curled up and tried to get some sleep.

*

He awoke to a frosty unseasonable cold. His breath steamed in the hall’s still air. Hoar frost covered the sheepskin where it lay across his face. He straightened, groaning and shivering. Stalker was up feeding the fire, blowing and stirring the embers. ‘It’s damned cold,’ Kyle complained.

The Iceblood offered a savage grin. ‘Is it now? Must be our cousins preparing a reception committee for our invaders. Perhaps the Sayers, or the Heels.’ He poured a steaming cup of tea and offered it. Kyle took the stoneware cup, wrapped himself in the sheepskin, and shuffled to the entrance.

Thick turgid fogs obscured the valley and the distant woods. They coursed and twined like rivers of frozen breath. All the wood gleamed with ice crystals. The surrounding fields of tall grasses stood stiff and frozen, as white as sword-blades. In the outhouse, Kyle eased his bladder as quickly as he could then shuffled back inside.

Fisher was up, and Kyle asked, ‘What is this weather?’

The bard nodded. ‘Omtose Phellack awoken. We are far north. It clings here still.’

Yet the man did not seem pleased about it; in fact, he appeared deeply troubled. Enough so for Kyle to press: ‘Shouldn’t you … that is, we … welcome this?’

Fisher looked to the south and shook his head. ‘These invaders – people from distant lands – none of them should trouble Omtose. Only – well …’ The man regarded Kyle in silence for a time, as if studying him. Then he laughed and cuffed him on the shoulder. ‘Pay no attention to an old worrier. We have more than enough to handle this day, yes?’ He drew on thick leather gloves backed with interlocking iron rings, raised them admiringly. ‘Look at these. Another gift of Stalker’s ancestors. Have a look around – need a spear?’