Hope opened bleary eyes. She was tired of sleeping on the ground, and another day trudging across the earth filled her with dread. She saw that Brunhilde was already awake, standing tall and staring south along the road. Hope grumbled and closed her eyes again. She pulled her cloak around her and tried to doze off.

“Wake up, we have to move,” Brunhilde said.

“No,” Hope said, burying her head further under her cloak. Sunlight shining through the many-coloured cloth made it seem like she was sleeping in a cave of stained glass.

“There is something happening,” Brunhilde.

“Good. Something happening is always important,” Hope mumbled. She was slipping back into sleep. Half-awake, she could almost imagine that she was lying on the roof of her palace, in a place only she knew about. Far away from her mother and any other noble that had been one of her secret places to relax at home. Safe amongst the crystal spires of the palace.

“Princess. There is a caravan passing.”

“Yes. Good,” Hope said. Then she was asleep. Until Brunhilde grabbed her and shook her back into unpleasant awareness. Before Hope erupted with anger, Brunhilde spoke.

“Quickly, there are bandits abroad.” Brunhilde grabbed Hope from the floor and lifted her up. Hope hung there limply, but she could see what Brunhilde was looking at now.

They had camped high up on the valley wall, Brunhilde was an expert at finding safe shelter to make camp. Below, two wagons were heading south along the road, they must have just passed them as Hope slept.

“They don’t look like bandits,” Hope said.

“Ahead of them,” Brunhilde said.

Further south there were indeed riders on horses, galloping towards the caravan with weapons drawn.

“They’ll make a good distraction, we should sneak by whilst they plunder,” Hope said.

“We should help the caravan.”

“You help them, I need to wake properly.”

Brunhilde dropped the princess and she crumpled gracefully to the floor and curled up under her cloak.

“Still a spoiled princess,” Brunhilde called out as she raced down the hillside. She loosed her hand-axe from her belt and readied it to throw.

On the road, the bandits reached the wagons and circled with their horses. The driver of the lead wagon, a man, had pulled his to a halt, and was shouting instructions to the second. The two other drivers were much younger, one still a boy and the other a young woman. They were struggling to control their horses. The animals whinnied and bucked at the sound of the bandits shouts and circling horses.

Brunhilde threw her hand-axe at the nearest bandit. It plunged into his back and he toppled from his mount with a scream.

Another bandit charged towards her. She stood her ground until the last moment, when she jumped aside and slammed her arm against the horse’s neck. It tumbled with shock, pinning its rider’s leg to the ground.

“Yield,” she shouted to the fallen rider.

He cursed and spat at her, as he tried to free himself from his saddle. She landed a blow on his head that stunned or killed him, either way he was out of the fray. That left only four more to fight.

“Come fight me,” she shouted.

Two more rode towards her as the other two closed in on the drivers.

Her two bandits circled their horses around her, splitting her attention. Rather than immediately closing in, they played with her, moving around slowly. Their faces were smeared with dirt. She smelt the sour sting of unwashed clothes and bodies. The manes of their horses were thick and tangled. Only their weapons were clean and in good condition.

One of the bandits dropped from his horse and threw his weapon into the dirt before Brunhilde.

“You have some honour,” she said. She took up the sword and gestured for him to approach.

He charged at her, not like a warrior, but like a young bull with no care for safety. She slashed across his chest, but the spark of metal against metal erupted from the blow. She was thrown backwards by his momentum and pummelled with his fists. She threw him off easily and the two looked at each other with surprise; she at his immunity to the swordblow, he at her strength.

He took the sword that she had dropped and threw it at her again. She saw his sword offering was not honour but playful malice. His jerkin was slashed open, but no wound lay across his skin. She edged towards the sword in mock fear, playing his game but also taking time to study him. She saw that it wasn’t entirely dirt that gave him his ashen grey colouring. Scars across his hands and his chest were steely grey. There was no chainmail protecting him, it was his skin that had resisted and even repelled the blow.

She took up the sword and held it out, threatening him. He did not flinch. His arms were wide, he seemed eager for the blow. She thrust the point into him, ramming her other hand down on the pommel. The blade stopped against his stomach as if it were rock. He leaned against the sword, and sneered.

Brunhilde stepped back and pulled away. With the sword gone he tumbled forward. She reversed the sword and dragged it against his neck, where normal skin showed. Blood spurted from the wound. He clutched at it and staggered, knees buckled and he fell to the floor.

The rider still on his horse looked ready to charge or dismount, but a whistle from his companions drew his attention. They were sitting atop the wagons. They shouted a command in a language she had never heard and her remaining foe wheeled his horse away. The bandits retreated with their haul, ignoring the traders and Brunhilde, arrogant in their invincibility.

“Father Ice strangle your stories!” she cursed at them.

She knelt by her duelist. He was dead, but where there should have been a wound across his neck, there was thickening blood, and slate grey skin. His wound had formed into the same steely skin as his other scars, but too late to save him.

She checked the two other fallen riders. Dead, both of them, and scarred like the other. But less scars. Her axe had caught one of them across his back where the skin had no scars at all. Save for the wound which was now steely hard around the axe head. She pulled the axe out with difficulty, and then snapped the haft.

“Thank you,” the boy said.

She realised that the traders were still alive, the bandits had thrown them aside like children, wanting only the wagons. The boy was barely out of childhood, with the skinny and wiry body of a hard worker. He helped his father to stand up.

“My thanks,” the man said. He stood up and bowed. His robes were covered in dust and dishevelled from the fight, and his face was dull and grim from his loss. But despite this he still held himself formally as he greeted her. His eyes were clear light blue and held her gaze firmly.

Brunhilde warmed to him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop those table-hounds taking your caravan.”

“It’s my fault. We shouldn’t have tried the journey,” he said.

“Papa, they never raid. We couldn’t know,” the boy said.

“Ah, this is Yusuf, my son. And my daughter Miray. And I am Alexander,” he said. He put his arms on his children’s shoulders. All three looked shaken, but took strength from each other.

“Brunhilde. I can return your caravan, we have horses to chase them.” She gestured to the three abandoned horses that were cantering about.

“Please no. You can’t defeat them,” Alexander said.

“But she did, papa. She killed three of them,” Yusuf said.

“Hush. There are maybe hundreds of them in their citadel. And stronger ones.”

“With claws, and teeth like steel,” Miray said.

“I’m sorry, this is all my fault, truly. I thought we could take our lives south, make a new home on the coast. Those bastards live in their citadel and hardly come out. It was tempting fate to pass so close to them. I thought they might be just a story. But now they have our lives, everything we own, in their dirty hands.” Tears formed in his eyes.

Yusuf buried his head in his father’s side to hide his tears. Miray squeezed Alexander’s hand on her shoulder to comfort him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, we’re all unlucky,” Miray said.

Brunhilde felt the air flush through her nostrils suddenly. This family could meet any challenge with strength. More than ever she missed the warm fires of her longhouse, the long nights spent sharing tales of great deeds from the past with her mother and father, fat greasy boar meat burnt perfectly over the fire. She wished she were part of their embrace. She held back her own tears.

“I’ll go after them. Are they demons?” she asked.

“No, they’re human,” Miray said.

“I’ve fought demons and humans, and stone that lives. Bandits are nothing to me,” Brunhilde said.

“Really?” Miray said. She perked up.

“I have tales of wrestling creatures larger than a bear and fighting an army deep in the dark underground.” She stopped herself. “But no time for that. Let me gather my companion and take back your lives.”

“Please, we have enough to carry on. I saved some of our supplies.” Alexander showed that he had cut loose some saddlebags and sacks from his wagon. “We can at least make it to Sissine. I was hoping we could start our lives comfortably, but if we have to start again…”

“That won’t happen. Hope!” she shouted out for the Princess.

Hope appeared from their hidden camping spot. She trudged slowly down the hillside, pebbles rattled down from her boots. Her cloak was pulled tight around her and her shoulders drooped.

“What’s wrong?” Brunhilde said.

They saw a bruise across her cheek. Her usual bubbling impatience and anger was masked by sorrow.

“They took my sword,” she said.

Brunhilde saw it was true. Hope’s Sword that Burns Night or Day, the blade of terrible power, was gone.