Brunhilde was chasing and calming the abandoned horses as Hope watched. Despite their wretched unwashed state, the steeds were well-fed and strong. They cantered around nervously, confused without their masters, as their neighs echoed through the canyon. Brunhilde had to soothe them with her words until she could get close enough to grab their reins and lead them to Alexander and his family. Even when calmed they jostled each other and neighed.

“Take two of these, we’ll ride on one together,” Brunhilde said.

Yusuf and Miray took the reins of two horses, wrinkling their noses at the stench.

“They need a wash, poor things,” Alexander said.

“They do, but no time for that. If we go now, we could catch them,” Brunhilde called to Hope.

Hope stared at her blankly. She stroked her face, probing the bruise on her cheek. It had an addictive pain to it.

“Where is your thirst for revenge?” Brunhilde said. She held her hand out to Hope.

Hope muttered something under her breath. Without her sword she looked ashen pale and lost. Her cloak hung limp around her body. Her fingers twitched in arcane patterns, a reflex from her studies. “I should have cut them down,” she whispered.

“Even your magic can’t cut them? They have scars stronger than steel.” Brunhilde knelt by one of the bandits to study him again. The wound that her axe had made was grey but felt no different from her own scars. His normal skin was desert-tanned, only the obvious wounds across him were slate-grey. The more they fought and bled, the more they sealed themselves up with impenetrable scars.

Miray came to stand behind her as her father and brother wrangled the horses.

“Why did you break your axe?” she said.

“Such is my fate. I bargained for a great future, and in exchange can never strike down a foe with a blade I’ve used to kill. If I ever do, then I’ll be struck down as well. Better to break any little murderer I use, than tempt fate.”

“Who did you bargain with?”

“The sky, the earth. Everything.” Brunhilde through her long arms wide to display the entirety of the world. “The weavers of fate that bind us to our words.”

Miray was enraptured with Brunhilde’s speech and appearance. As the huge barbarian crouched over the fallen bandit, Miray’s eyes roamed across the scars on her hands and the long one across her chin and neck. Brunhilde ran her fingers over the back of the bandit. He twitched and Miray jumped backwards.

“It’s just the blood cooling,” Brunhilde said. She rolled the man over and rummaged through his clothing. He wore no jewellery or fancy belts, just dirty and worn clothes. “Grim,” she said to herself.

“How can you fight without weapons?” Miray said.

“I trained with my cousins, and any of my uncles that returned home. My uncle Ulf learned from the chain-fighters in the east, how they learn to avoid blows and slip under the guard of the enemy. Once he was trapped in a sandstorm, and had to wrestle a horde of djinn, even as he was blinded by the sand. And now I’ll win back your wagons, and you’ll have a story to tell about Brunhilde the Red Sparrow, who fought the steel-scar bandits.” Brunhilde stood up slowly. To Miray she looked like a towering jinni, a force of nature.

“Ironspite,” Yusuf called out. “They have the curse of ironspite, not steel-scar.” He called out a poem.

“A king too greedy in his glory

Wished for troops that scorned the blade.

But skin that spites the iron,

Spites the wind and rain.

Soldiers too safe in their scars

Lusted after pleasures that scorned their flesh.

For hands that spite the iron,

Smote the king in twain.”

“It’s the curse of ironspite. What name does it matter though? They live in their citadel, trapped by their curse. Fighting for the sake of fighting,” Alexander said. He scowled with disgust.

“Why did they take your caravan, then?” Brunhilde said.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Will you be safe if we leave you? It may be better to keep heading south. After we take back your caravan, we can find you.”

“We can fight,” Yusuf said. He pulled his shortsword a little from its sheath. It was well-kept but unworn by any use.

“Only in self-defence,” Alexander said. He pulled his robe around him, trying to hide his own shortsword. “I knew they were immune to my blade, so I didn’t draw it.” He stared at the horses, avoiding Brunhilde’s gaze.

“Not everyone is called to the glory of battle. Merchanting is a respectable skill. My Aunt Inga traded a giant an ear of corn for his own eye, that’s a story to tell. Any story to spite the moon will keep you alive forever. I’ll tell the tale of Alexander who travelled through danger to start anew. And even the most skilled fighter can be ambushed,” Brunhilde said, with a nod towards Hope.

“My thanks,” Alexander said. He stood straighter.

Miray and Yusuf looked a little disappointed.

“Could you teach me a little?” Miray said. She moved a little closer to Brunhilde. She was almost as tall as her father, with dark hair in a ponytail that fell to the middle of her back. Her scabbard was tied perfectly to her belt, at the right angle for her to draw cleanly. By comparison, Yusuf’s scabbard was a little loose and awkward. Brunhilde reached out and tested the binding of her sword and scabbard. They were perfectly tight enough to stay secure but with enough looseness to move freely.

“After we rescue your livelihood. Fix your brother’s scabbard,” Brunhilde said.

“I told you!” Miray crowed another victory in a long-lived argument. She rushed over to her little brother.

“It looks more dangerous this way,” Yusuf said. He sighed and gave in to Miray’s adjustment of his belt and scabbard.

“Princess. Let’s go gold-hair. We have some crow-meat to dispatch,” Brunhilde said. She took one of the horses from Alexander, and led it towards Hope.

“She’s a princess?” Yusuf whispered.

“I am Princess. Far above those common thugs. Why did they take my sword? Those filthy animals can’t even understand a fraction of the power it holds,” Hope cried suddenly.

“There she is. Are you ready for vengeance?” Brunhilde said.

“Vengeance? I’ll strip the skin from every last one. They think they can resist my magic; I’ll bring the heavens down upon them.” Hope said. Her face flushed like dark thunderclouds.

“The royal vengeance-seeker is back. Come, your majesty.” Brunhilde hefted herself up into the saddle.

Hope gagged at the smell of the horse, but her anger propelled her onto the saddle behind Brunhilde. She plunged her face into Brunhilde’s furs. Even the musky smell of the barbarian was preferable to the stench of the horse.

“Go south, we’ll catch up to your wagons and bring them to you,” Brunhilde said. She urged her horse around to gallop after the bandits.

It was easy to see where they had gone. Further down there was a snaking road carved into the canyon walls, with a broken wall along the edge. An ancient trade or guard route, it led up the eastern side of the canyon. They saw the bandits still ascending. Brunhilde hardly had to guide the horse, it knew its way back home, it galloped up the road

Brunhilde had to slow its charge as she saw discarded supplies and trade goods. The bandits had rummaged through the wagons already, dumping clothes and parcels along the road. Perhaps to slow down their pursuers, perhaps just the malicious disrespect that thieves have for other’s belongings. Even at a slower pace it was easier for a horse to catch up to the slower wagons.

The second wagon stopped. Bandits fussed with the horses. Brunhilde smelt danger ahead. With the horses free, the bandits turned the wagon and leaned their weight against its side. It lurched up, then fell back. With another push the wagon tumbled on its side, and the slope of the road did the rest. Cargo burst through the canvas sides of the vehicle, and the road ahead was strewn with obstructions.

Brunhilde slowed her horse to a canter as they approached the fallen wagon. She dismounted and forced the fallen vehicle aside, clearing a space for them to ride. In the time for them to clear the obstacle their prey had reached the top of the road and disappeared from sight.

“Bastards,” she said. She leapt back on the horse and urged it on.

When they reached the top of the road, though there was no sight of the bandits, it was clear where they had gone. A citadel stood ahead of them. The brown stone edifice was tall and rounded like a great helmet placed on the plateau. A waterfall spouted from its northern wall, and a river flowed north, like a great long tongue. Black-glass windows around it looked like eyes.

The road led down besides the river. In contrast to the parched canyon the banks of the river were lush with life. A breeze wafted the scent of trees and their fruit to them. Apricots, oranges, figs, cherries and more hung from trees.

“Stop here,” Hope said. “I need more light.”

“We have to chase down those hounds,” Brunhilde said.

“We know where they are. Do you want me to crush them with my full power or not?”

Brunhilde slowed their horse and they both dismounted.

Hope stripped quickly and dropped her robes on the banks of the river. The grass felt soft and untouched under her naked feet. She launched out into the water, and swam into the slow-moving centre. She swam not only in the water but also the light from the sun trapped in the ribbon of water. The ritual rooms of her palace were filled with prisms of light to capture the sun’s power. Without that, a body of water was the next best thing.

She closed her eyes and twisted in the water. The slow pressure of water pushed against her hands as she moved, and the fast pinprick pressure of light tingled across her skin. She relaxed and let water and light renew her.

Brunhilde watched Hope until she was sure there were no large predators in the river. Then she Brunhilde pulled an apricot and bit into it. It was as juicy and delicious as it looked.

“This is beautiful,” she said. Juice dribbled down her chin. She pulled another down and fed it to the horse. “Why steal when you can eat like gods?”

She took the horse a little downriver from Hope and then stopped. The citadel was south, but the river was also flowing south. She took an apple and tossed it into the river. It bobbed south, towards the citadel. Brunhilde squinted at the waterfall. Was it flowing upwards into the citadel? It looked like it was, but perhaps that was just desert illusion. Where else could the river be flowing? Was the imposing building swallowing the waters of the land, guzzling in precious water? Well, they would see when they got there.

She coaxed the horse into the waters. At first it resisted, but she took it knee-deep and gently splashed handfuls of water across its side. It shivered, but allowed her to wash it.

“You’ve never felt this river, have you? How can they live near such bounty, and choose to act dirty animals?” Brunhilde asked herself.

She could only work so much of the matting and grease from its mane, but it looked much better as she cleaned it. Its nervous whinnies ceased, and it nudged its head against her.

“You need a name if we’re going to fight together. We met in battle, and now we bond as friends in a river.” She stroked its neck and cheeks. Under the dirt, the horse was pale brown with white hair like pale straw. “Stormfound. Met in battle, cleansed in water. Stormfound, then. Welcome.” She nuzzled her face against the horse’s.

“I’m ready,” Hope said. She was standing dressed on the bank. Her tattoos pulsed, shining even through her gown. A colourful haze like a rainbow could be faintly seen around her. Her face had no hint of sorrow, now it held only bloody determination for vengeance.