You have to be hard to sit in Skarling’s Chair. Have to be. Whether you want to be or not.

“Thinking o’ jumping?” asked Isern.

“It’s where the Bloody-Nine fell. Or so I hear.”

“So what’s the lesson? Folk who scramble to power up a hill of corpses will always take the long drop down?”

Rikke peered down that long drop, then took a cautious step away from the window. “Not sure I like that lesson.”

Isern grinned, tongue wedged into the hole in her teeth. “If you only listen to lessons you like you’ll learn nothing. Nice fur you got there.”

“Ain’t it?” And Rikke rubbed her hand against it, fine and white and so very soft, stitched onto that red cloth Savine dan Brock gave her, to make a cloak fit for a queen of legend. “A gift from the people of Carleon.”

“Warming to you, are they?”

“I’ve always been very lovable.”

“Specially with a few hundred armed men at your command.”

“I find the better armed they are the more lovable I get. Reckon the townsfolk are grateful I haven’t burned the city yet. Seems mercy can work after all.”

“No doubt it has its season,” said Isern. “And no doubt folk have a yen for it, after Stour’s dark moods and mean spirit. But don’t get cocky, girl. Gratitude is like spring blooms, fine-smelling but short-lived. I’d keep a torch burning, d’you see, somewhere it brings to mind cities aflame. Make sure they stay grateful.”

“Maybe they’ll get you a fur, too.”

“I’ve no use for one.” Isern gave a haughty sniff and whipped a shred of her ragged shawl over one shoulder. “Perfection cannot be improved upon.”

One of the great doors clattered open and Corleth burst in, got the haft of the axe at her belt tangled with her knees and near fell over, took a couple more slapping steps then stood, hands on her thighs, panting for breath.

“Interesting.” Isern pointed a tattooed finger at her. “This woman is usually quite calm in her manner.”

Corleth waved towards the door. “They’re coming!”

“Who’s coming?” asked Isern.

“All of ’em.”

Rikke could hear the commotion now. A crowd of gabbling voices, happy and angry at once. The warrior’s favourite mood. She shoved her hood back and scrubbed some life into her flattened hair with her fingernails, heart suddenly pounding. “They’ve got him?”

Corleth nodded. “They’ve got him.”

Someone sent the other door shuddering open with a kick and a pack of warriors tramped into Skarling’s Hall, laughing and jostling and glowing with triumph. Shivers led the way, with a bottle of spirits that’d seen some action, and Jonas Clover, with a shifty lad and a blank-faced woman at his back. The Nail and some big bearded bastard were dragging a filthy, half-naked prisoner by his arms, head hanging and legs trailing limp behind him.

“By the dead,” muttered Rikke. The last time she’d seen the King of the Northmen outside of her dreams of vengeance had been at her father’s funeral, sleek as a snake and every bit as vicious. “Time has not been kind to him.”