‘What should we do?’ asked Yolk.

‘Nothing whatsoever, trooper. Unless specifically and precisely instructed otherwise, a good soldier always does nothing.’ In a narrow triangle between black branches, the sky was starting to show the faintest sickly tinge of light. Tunny winced, and closed his eyes. ‘The thing folks at home never realise about war is just how bloody boring it is.’

And like that he was asleep again.

Calder’s dream was the same one as always.

Skarling’s Hall in Carleon, dim with shadows, sound of the river outside the tall windows. Years ago, when his father was King of the Northmen. He was watching his younger self, sitting in Skarling’s Chair and smirking. Smirking down at Forley the Weakest, all bound up, Bad-Enough standing over him with his axe out.

Calder knew it for a dream, but he felt the same freezing dread as ever. He was trying to shout, but his mouth was all stopped up. He was trying to move, but he was bound as tight as Forley. Bound by what he’d done, and what he hadn’t.

‘What shall we do?’ asked Bad-Enough.

And Calder said, ‘Kill him.’

He woke with a jolt as the axe came down, floundering with his blankets. The room was fizzing black. There was none of that warm wash of relief you get when you wake from a nightmare. It had happened. Calder swung from his bed, rubbing at his sweaty temples. He’d given up on being a good man long ago, hadn’t he?

Then why did he still dream like one?

‘Peace?’ Calder looked up with a start, heart jumping at his ribs. There was a great shape in the chair in the corner. A blacker shape than the darkness. ‘It was talk of peace got you banished in the first place.’

Calder breathed out. ‘And a good morning to you, brother.’ Scale was wearing his armour, but that was no surprise. Calder was starting to think he slept in it.

‘I thought you were the clever one? At this rate you’ll clever yourself right back into the mud, and me along with you, and so much for our father’s legacy then. Peace? On a day of victory?’

‘Did you see their faces, though? Plenty even at that meet are ready to stop fighting, day of victory or not. There’ll be harder days coming, and when they come more and more will see it our way—’

‘Your way,’ snapped Scale, ‘I’ve a battle to fight. A man doesn’t get to be reckoned a hero by talking.’

Calder could hardly keep the contempt out of his voice. ‘Maybe what the North needs is fewer heroes and more thinkers. More builders. Maybe our father’s remembered for his battles, but his legacy is the roads he laid, the fields he cleared, the towns, and the forges, and the docks, and the—’

‘He built the roads to march his armies on. He cleared the fields to feed them. The towns bred soldiers, the forges made swords, the docks brought in weapons.’