His sister Isern did not smile fondly. But then she never did. One of her many failings. “When the horn next blows,” she said, while picking her nose.

“Sure we haven’t missed it?”

“Caul Shivers knows what to do with a horn.” And she barked out a cackle. “Believe me. Learned it in Styria, he said.”

Scenn thought that must be a joke, but he didn’t really get it. Which, he had to confess, was one of his many failings. “There’s good work being done and I itch for my part in it.” He held up the hammer and spun it about in his fist, smiling upon the many scars on its heavy head. “Our father’s hammer is hungry.”

“It’s a bloody hammer,” said Isern, flicking the results of her nose-picking away among the leaf-rot. “It feels no hunger.”

“Well, his axe is hungry, then,” said Scofen, holding up the axe, no less battle-weathered.

“Likewise the axe. Might as well say his spear’s sleepy.” And Isern gave it a shake. “Load o’ nonsense. They’re wood and metal and have no feelings.”

“But I want to get at these painted bastards!” snarled Scofen, rubbing impatiently at the tattoos on his face. To start on his failings would’ve kept the lot of them busy all day.

“You’ll get your chance,” said Isern.

And there was the horn, throbbing through the roots o’ the trees and giving Scenn a tickle in his toes.

“There it is!” called Scofen. “It’s time!”

Scenn grinned wide at his sister. “Da would’ve fucking loved this!”

“Like I care what that bastard loved.” She leaped atop a rock, holding high their father’s spear, her skirts bound right up and the knotty sinews bulging from her bare legs. “Let’s give these Crinna sheepfuckers a fucking they’ll not forget!”

With those rousing words still ringing, she sprang away and off they tumbled after, bursting from the trees and down the slope towards the grey city, the good wind rushing about them and their war-songs echoing around the valley.

“For the moon!” someone wailed.

“For the hills!” someone else.

“For Crummock-i-Phail!” roared Scenn.

At his back were any of the hillfolk who’d fancied a battle—which, o’ course, was pretty much the full tally, scoured from every cranny in the mountains. They’d been offered a chance to fight, which they loved, and to fight Black Calder, who they hated almost as much as they’d hated Bethod, and also Rikke had offered two rich valleys to those who fought, and though some might think the hillmen lived simple lives, in truth they were as greedy as anyone, if not a little more so.

The Crinna bastards were spread out ahead in a spiked and painted line. Horrible savages, they were, all pierced and puckered and covered in bloody bones. They’d seen what had happened to their friends. Had time to shift away from the city, wheel to face the Nail and his boys as they poured down from the west. But they had no idea Crummock-i-Phail’s children were coming on ’em from the north, and the ones at the near end spun about white-eyed, scattered wailing and head-clutching as the hillmen crashed into ’em.