The citadel loomed over the river. Whatever glory it had once had was hidden under the scars of desert winds and cracks across the stone. It was a stubborn and faded shell that could crumble tomorrow or sit in ruins for eons more. Around the base a defensive wall stood, tall enough for archers to see for miles. It had no sign of ever being breached, just the same etching of sandy winds and fallen chunks from disrepair.

The river was still alive, though. It plunged towards the base of the citadel and rose smoothly up into the air in a reverse waterfall, which disappeared into a wide opening halfway up the side. The sight was bewildering. Instead of foamy rapids at the base the water simply turned smoothly away from the earth like molten glass under a craftsman’s hand.

Two large gates stood on either side of the river, leading into the citadel. Only one still had wooden doors, and they were left wide open.

Brunhilde slowed Stormfound. There was no sight of any bandits keeping watch.

“They think themselves invincible,” she said. Still, she scanned the arrow-slits for any sign of movement. Nothing. Only the gurgle of the reverse waterfall disappearing into the citadel.

“Lazy cowards,” Hope said.

Stormfound trotted towards the gate. Brunhilde let it led them into the courtyard. Its hooves clattered on stone paving with designs scuffed by age and disrepair. Walkways for archers and a guardhouse were empty. The only signs of habitation were discarded goods from pillages, strewn across the courtyard. Silk cloth, woven rugs, carved wooden charms and even the glint of jewellery amongst them all. If a storm had raged through a kingdom, tearing through the homes of peasant and noble and dropping their belongings over this courtyard it couldn’t have produced a more cluttered and expansive collection of items.

Brunhilde dropped from the horse and shifted a pile of loot with her boots. Much of it seemed worthless, but the sight of jewellery intrigued her. A small cask amongst the piles had been cracked open, and riches spilled from it. It looked genuine to her. She picked up a fine silver necklace and some thick gold rings with fat gems set into them. The bandits had cracked open the chest, rifled through it and then left it here. She held the rings up to show Hope.

“I want my sword, not baubles,” Hope called down.

“We could make Alexander rich with this. Never mind his wagon,” Brunhilde replied. “They’ve left crumbs out here that would make a King look poor.”

“I want my sword,” Hope snapped.

“I heard you princess,” Brunhilde said. She pocketed the riches and fished up a few more coins and glittering trinkets from the pile.

“You stupid brute!” Hope cried.

Brunhilde span round to rage at the insult, but she saw Stormfound was cantering towards an archway, ignoring Hope’s fumbled commands on its reins. And her insults.

The horse disappeared through an archway. Hope slid from the saddle as it stopped. They were in a foul-smelling stable, the other horses were tied up with reins and saddle still attached.

Brunhilde recoiled at the stench of the stables, but put her fur-covered sleeve across her face and went in. Hope ran out past her, ashen faced and retching. The horses were eating fruit from the river. It sat in piles, ripe and firm alongside mushy and old. More bounty that had been brought into the citadel and left in dirty piles. She untied the horses, and removed their saddles. They whinnied at her touch but let her work. When they were untied, they still huddled together in the poorly lit stable.

Brunhilde put her hand to Stormfound’s neck and led the horse out into the courtyard. Understanding passed between them. Brunhilde guided another horse out into the courtyard, and another. The other started to come out as well, making nervous noises and shaking their heads. Brunhilde pushed Stormfound towards the exit and the mare cantered out, the other horses followed her lead.

“What are you doing?” Hope said. She was still gagging from the smell of the unwashed beasts.

“Let them play by the water,” Brunhilde said.

Hope stared at the Barbarian, who had a peaceful smile on her face. Brunhilde watched the horses trot out towards the fresh banks of the river.

“Why do you care?”

“Why do you not?”

“I have greater things on my mind.” Hope strode through the main gates of the inner walls.

The flagstones were stained brown from casks of ale that had been split and left by the gateway. More loot lay sprawled everywhere. The main gate of the keep had immense carvings over the arch, of trees heavy with apples. A man and a woman made a pillar on each side, both reaching up to pluck fruit from the intricate bows.

Hope cocked her head. The first sign of the bandits, the sound of fighting. Cries and the sound of sword upon sword. Brunhilde heard it too. She came to Hope’s side, with a heavy mace in her hand, something salvaged from the bandits’ leavings.

“Are you ready to fight them?”

“I’m always ready.” Hope snapped.

“There is no shame in being ambushed. Uncle Ulf once slept in a spider’s cave. He awoke tightly bound in a cocoon and had to bite his way out.”

They made their way into the keep, searching for the sound. It came from the nearby barracks. There was a training arena, with a viewing gallery above. Half a dozen men lounged around watching a fight.

The two adventurers crept up the stairs to the deserted viewing balcony. Brunhilde padded to the balcony edge and peered down. Two men were duelling with swords. The younger was taller and long-limbed, with dark lank hair that stuck to his forehead. He thrust his sword out, controlling the space between him and his opponent.

The older was shorter, stout and much more scarred than the younger. A long scar spread across his cheeks and nose like warpaint. Through his tattered clothes they could see scar upon scar all over his body arms and legs. He threw himself into the path of the blade, confident in his invulnerability. Sparks flew whenever the sword skittered across his ironspite scars. Deep laughs rumbled from him as he circled the boy. He hardly bothered to bring his sword up to take his own blows.

The scene looked to Brunhilde like a crane scratching at an iron teapot.

Hope settled down beside her and scanned the weapon racks of the room. They were filled with ordinary looking swords and spears.

“It’s not here,” she hissed. “Let’s go.”

“Wait. See how they fight.”

“Like idiots. Without surprise, I’ll carve them up.” Sparks of light crackled around her finger tips as she squeezed the stone ledge.

“Easy gold-hair. We can’t fight an army of these men.”

A cry sounded from below. The shorter man had barged into the younger, who was now lying on the floor. He clutched at his stomach, and blood oozed between his fingers. He was panting heavily and his face was contorted in pain and fear. The fat man pulled the protecting arm away. He wiped his hand over the boy’s stomach, revealing the scar that had formed already. There was no more blood, and no more pain. The young lad stroked his stomach with shaking fingers, still surprised by his curse or gift. The older pulled him up and led him from the arena.

“Could you take a sword to the belly if it meant strength like steel?” Brunhilde mused. “These older bandits must know where they are weak, and how to protect themselves. We’ve only fought the youngsters, who can still bleed well if we cut them deep enough. And the youngsters still don’t trust their power, so they will fight like normal.”

Hope slid her back to the floor and stared at the ceiling. She muttered curses and plans of vengeance under her breath. Tiny tendrils of smoke drifted from the stone where her angry fingers scored at it. If she had access to her royal armoury, she could summon a blast of sunfire artillery down to obliterate this entire structure. She would have to make do with a more personal style of vengeance.

They made their way further into the keep. In its prime it would have been luxurious. The stone walls were covered in carvings, guardian beasts with sharp claws loomed over doorways and scenes of the riverbank weaved along corridor walls. Rooms were filled with discarded loot, and vandalised walls. Some had small fountains, no doubt fed by the curious rising waterfall outside. They were ill-kept, filled with pond scum and even the splash of frogs.

The bandits they saw were the same as the others, scarred and confidently unguarded. Most sat amongst piles of treasure, staring blankly at the walls. Some polished their swords, others fought. But it was all in a dull repetitive way, as if there was nothing in the world but loot and plunder and crushing boredom in between a raid. It was a simple matter for the two to sneak into the heart of the citadel.

They came to a great mess hall with dozens of bandits. At the doorway they took in the scene. This room was different from the others. The great tables were pushed aside and the men sat on the floor, focused on the far end, where two figures stood by a table with a fat teapot sitting on it.

One was a bandit, so scarred he could have been made from steel. He was wearing fanciful scale armour that looked more ceremonial than useful. He stared out over the seated men. Unlike them his armour was clean and well-kept, and his face was clean shaven. He stood with arrogant poise like a general overseeing an army. He had a sword on one side of his belt and mace on the other.

The other man had no scars at all, and was dressed in tight robes. He had dark tattoos across his face. Instruments hung from his belt, a brass wand, a looking glass and other arcane things. He was rummaging through a pile of loot placed before him. He sniffed at spices and rolled fabric between his fingers, searching for something and not finding it.

The bandits that had raided Alexander’s caravan were standing before the two, waiting for a response.

Hope dug her fingers into Brunhilde’s arm.

“They’re the ones that surprised me,” she hissed. She pointed at two of the bandits waiting.

The searching mage found something of interest; Hope’s sword, lying amongst the ruin of Alexander’s livelihood. As he tried to pick it up his hand recoiled at the feel of power. He forced himself to grab the scabbard and lift the blade up. His eyes shone with fear and wonder. He barked something to the armoured leader, and clutched the sword to his chest.

The leader grabbed a flat wide cup and poured a dark and bitter-looking tea. He gave it to one of the waiting bandits, who sipped then gulped down the brew. The other men were similarly rewarded.

“They rob for tea?” Brunhilde whispered.

“I’ll drown them in it,” Hope said. She lunged around the doorpost, but Brunhilde grabbed her with a strong arm. She squirmed but couldn’t escape the Barbarian’s mountain-strong arms.

“Let me distract the rabble, once that’s done you take on the mage and get your sword. Then we flee. No acts of petty vengeance.”

Before Hope could respond the duo saw the effects of the tea.

The first to drink it shuddered and shook his shoulders. A bright smile came onto his face. He dipped his thumb into the last dregs of tea, and the scalding heat made it recoil. He laughed with joy. He fell to the floor of the hall and pushed his cheek against the stone.

Another man had a scrap of leather that he drew across his arm. He stroked it one way and then the other across his scars. Yet another breathed in the scent of an apricot, then took a small bite from it. He tore the skin with his teeth and sucked the flesh from the fruit. Juice dribbled down his chin and he wiped it away with a delicate finger.

The bandit leader and mage watched with disinterest as the tea-drinkers scrabbled for sensation. The sitting bandits leaned forward and eyed their companions with envy. Some of them stroked the stone floor, trying to imagine the sensations they were watching. The lucky tea-drinkers were enraptured with the tiniest things, but only for a few minutes. Then their faces fell back into blank acceptance, and they dropped what they held. For a while they had been freed of the curse and open to the sensation of the world.

One of the lunged for the tea, but the leader pushed him back. He lifted the pot and threatened to pour it away on the cold floor, and the other men dragged away their unruly compatriot.

The mage held Hope’s sword above his head and shouted out to the men in that ancient language that neither Hope nor Brunhilde had heard. The details were mysterious but the message was clear. Find more treasures of power and feel the world again.

Brunhilda placed Hope down and whispered in her ear. “When I distract them, make your move.”

She padded round the edge of the room, behind one of the tables and tested its weight. She could hurl it into the crowd and give Hope the perfect distraction.

But the Princess was already striding through the seated bandits. Her rainbow cloak fluttered behind her and golden light cascaded from her shoulders like morning mist. She pointed at the shocked mage.

“I’ll cut you in two and take back my sword now, you dirt-sniffing commoner.”