“I did,” whispered Rikke. The light from the great new windows she’d had built, with their fine view of the ocean, stabbed at her eyes. The sounds of Uffrith beyond hammered at her ears. Flashes of what she’d seen the night before lurked at the edges of her sight. Seen as if they were already done. She closed her eyes, the one that saw nothing and the one that saw too much, and wiped the greasy sheen from her forehead.

Her father’s hall was busy. Folk from every corner of the North, come to pay their respects.

“People,” she said, but her voice died in her throat and became a croak. “People!” And they stopped their chatter and looked around, shifting eagerly towards her. “In the night, I had a vision!”

There was a hushed murmur at that. An awestruck murmur, like she spoke with the voice of Euz.

Shivers frowned at her, his metal eye twinkling. “What did you see?”

Rikke hardly knew how to start. Her heart was thumping at the splintered memories of it. She opened her mouth to speak—

Then the doors to the hall shuddered open and the Nail stomped in out of the brightness, with a new cut down his cheek which rather suited him and a great smile on his face which suited him even better. “Ollensand surrendered!”

“You beat ’em?” asked Hardbread.

“Didn’t have to,” said the Nail, slapping him on the shoulder with one big hand and near knocking him down. “They opened their gates to us. And we were gentle with ’em, don’t worry! All we took was their promise to kneel and pay their tithes to Black Rikke.” He gave a shrug. “Well, that and one other thing freely given…” And he waved towards the door, and a set of Carls came in, each rolling a great cask ahead of him. “A dozen barrels of their best ale so we could toast the new North!”

And they hefted one of the barrels onto the table while folk whooped and cheered and one of ’em banged the peg out with his axe and sent a jet of frothy beer spurting, a couple of folk dancing in the foam till Hardbread had a tap knocked into the spouting hole and started handing out cups.

“Not only that!” growled Flatstone, following the Nail into the hall with grinning men at his back, “but we sent the last o’ those savages back across the Crinna, crying for his mummy. Reckon it’ll be a good few years ’fore those bones-and-hides bastards dare to stick a toe on our side o’ the river.”

More cheers, and more ale, and more good news. “The North’s ours!” roared the Nail. “Well, yours.” And he grinned at Rikke, then it seemed as if he might be blushing, and he scratched his sandy beard, and looked down at the floor. No one much noticed, though, all too busy slapping each other on the back, and marvelling at how everything had come out right.