One winter Brunhilde’s family found a wild dog in the outbuilding where they stored wood. She had given birth to pups, which were dying in the shivering cold. No matter how her father had tried to calm the bitch, she snarled and snapped and resisted all attempts to help her. The way Hope fought the bandits reminded Brunhilde of that beast; wild and angry and scared. But the bandits were no kind strangers, and Hope’s vicious strikes protected her well. Still, it sent a winter-chill down Brunhilde’s spine to see the princess’s unconstrained rage.

The bandits tried to rush Hope, but her magic and fury kept them at bay. One grabbed at her ankles. She slammed her fist down and a serrated arc of light cut into his arm and the stone floor. Steel-like scars could not protect from the bone-shattering blow, and the man cried in agony.

The leader shouted out commands and the remaining men circled her. Where Hope struck with her light-daggers, sparks erupted from the bandits protected skin, but her blows had such force that they were still driven back.

Brunhilde grabbed the end of a great table and swung it in a great arc. The men she caught were knocked clean off their feet and across the floor. Some were stunned completely, others pulled themselves up to return to the fray.

The mage grasped Hope’s sword and tried to unsheathe it, but it was stubborn and quiet in its scabbard. He dropped it to the floor and muttered incantations over it. Veins stood out on his face and his eyes rolled back into his head with the arcane effort.

“Hope, keep your back to me, I’ll protect you,” Brunhilde shouted out, but Hope ignored her.

A few bandits turned their attention to Brunhilde, but before they could attack, they were struck down by arcs of magic from Hope. The power that she had drunk from the Sun was now being unleashed. The mess hall was illuminated like a noon day, as arcs of light whipped from Hope’s hands. Men were driven back by furious lashes and the harsh glare. Smoke geysered from the welts in the floor where her magic struck stone. Brunhilde choked on the hot air and stone-smoke whirling out from Hope. She could see nothing but the princess, doused in light.

The last man fell. Hope’s magic faded to an aura of gold around her head. The mage was still chanting over her sword. His face was flushed and sweating, his hands curled into claws as he desperately tried to awaken the blade. There was no sign of the general, who must have fled in the chaos.

“Now. You!” Hope pointed at the wizard.

He took a dagger from his belt and sliced his finger-tip, dripping his blood onto the hilt of the sword. A biting scent of cool mist wafted up. He smiled gloatingly at Hope, held the blade up and then made to draw it. Now instead of resisting his grasp the sword was eager to be drawn. The first hint of the blade slipped into sight, and he screamed. In a second the life drained from his face, and his body withered like an ancient wine-skin. The dark blade plucked his life-force in an instant and he toppled to the floor, with the barely drawn sword lying across his chest.

Hope lunged for the sword. She drew it fully to reveal the darkness of the Blade that Burns Night or Day. Though her magic still poured from her, the hunger of the blade dimmed it. The room fell into the same silence of an eclipse, the fabric of reality stilling itself at the sudden terror of a Sun gone dark.

“This is mine,” Hope said. Her face was flushed but already the hunger of the sword was paling her complexion.

Brunhilde had seen this hunger before, but the more powerful Hope was, it seemed the blade would become even hungrier. The barbarian felt the pull of it across the great hall, pinches of pain in her legs and arms as it nibbled at her soul.

“We have your sword, let’s take back Alexander’s things,” Brunhilde said. She approached Hope slowly, braving the biting cold and unpredictable rage.

“No. No, I have business with that coward who thinks he can steal from me,” Hope said.

“Black moon take your pettiness. What do you gain from cutting them down?”

“Revenge. They shouldn’t be allowed to come near me, let alone dream of taking something that’s mine,” Hope screamed. She lashed her sword through the table and it splintered and crumbled. Tea spilt over the unfeeling stone.

“Sheathe yourself. You’ll cut yourself to pieces on your own rage.”

“I’m not a coward like you, scurrying away from battle. I care about my reputation!” Hope strode after the departed leader.

“And little else. Go play vengeful god with the ants.” Brunhilde spat on the floor.

She was alone in the desolated mess hall. The acrid smell of seared stone and flesh over-powered everything else. Draughts of air, hot and cold, whirled around. She shouldered as many goods from Alexander’s wagon as she could. She made her way out past the men and treasure strewn amongst each other. She jogged back to the courtyard, hearing the sounds of alarm from the centre of the citadel. Hope was no doubt cutting through anything that dared to stand in her way.

In the courtyard Brunhilde found a covered wagon in good repair. She dropped what she had into it, along with nearby sacks of spice and precious looking trinkets. She patted the fat pile; Alexander should be rewarded with extra wealth from this ordeal.

A thunderous crack came from the citadel, and the ground shuddered. A carpet of stone dust wafted from the inner keep, like a foul cough from a rotting beast. Brunhilde grabbed the wagon and heaved it towards the gate. Her arms and back flexed as she pulled, exulting in the challenge. She had rarely fought anything strong enough to challenge her, but here she was sweating under a horse’s burden. She was no coward though. She had a promise to keep to Alexander, but she couldn’t leave Hope alone in her madness. She let the wagon come to a halt and then ran back into the keep.

Cool air and frosted walls showed the way, as well as dead men, cut in two or worse. Columns, statues and tapestries showed deep gashes where Hope had scored them with her sword, for no reason other than she could. Sunlight shone down through a collapsed wall. Brunhilde clambered over the fallen stone to find Hope, in the throne room.

Faded tapestries hung from the ceiling, depicting proud beasts with eagle faces, lion bodies and long fox feet. This room was filled with plunder, along with a small army of bandits between Hope and the ersatz general on the throne.

One of the columns of the hall was shattered in pieces, surrounded by parts of the ceiling. Hope was slicing at the stone of the keep, punishing it for harbouring her foes.

She sauntered forward. She waved the dark blade casually. “You think you can steal power like this from me? As if your pretend wizard could wield its power.” She took in a gasping breath, from her exertion and also the suffocating cold of the sword’s aura.

“Hope,” Brunhilde called out, but with no expectation of a response. Hope was too deep in her role of a wronged royal.

The bandit army threw itself towards Hope and she responded with her vengeance. The sword struck and flesh and ironspite scars alike split under it. It was hardly a battle, more of a death dance from men that had learned not to care for their own safety. Their cursed invulnerability made it inevitable that they would throw themselves at the sword and be cut by it.

“Mother of snow,” Brunhilde said. Her breath frosted in the air.

These men were the oldest and most scarred of them all. They had spent years trapped in their unfeeling bodies. She saw a glint of the same joy that the tea-drunk bandits had in them, but this was not to feel pleasure. This was a dark excitement at feeling fear and pain. The cursed blade was a whirlpool drawing them into their deaths and they flung themselves into it. Like moon-mad berserkers she had seen. Despite herself she felt for them.

“Mother of snow, remember their pain, if nothing else,” she prayed. Her legs weakened. She knew that one day she would fall in battle, if she was lucky, but not like this. Die for glory, die for love. They died for nothing.

The carnage was done and now only three stood in the throne room. Hope straightened into a formal pose and strutted through the chaos she had wrought.

“Now the matter of your punishment. If I was in my Court, I would lock you in a mind scriber and erase your identity. But all I have here are my wits and my vicious blade.”

The general shouted something back in his ancient, unknowable language. Unlike his men he seemed loathe to quit his existence. He grasped a heavy chain of gold from the piles of riches and threw it towards her. Hope snapped into a defensive pose, her sword poised in the air to strike it down, but it clattered to the floor between them. An offering. He took fistfuls of pearls and jewels and flung them onto the floor. His arms spread wide to indicate the entire room. His message was clear; take everything you want, but my life.

Hope laughed at his stupidity. She sheathed her sword slowly. It resisted. She felt its hunger, but the pain of wielding it like this was addictive. She had to summon her rage to force it into its scabbard. She sauntered to the gold chain and picked it up. It was a curious thing, heavy and thick enough to sit on the neck of a giant. He relaxed as she picked it up and iron spite weighed it in her hands.

“I’m going to wrap this around your neck and squeeze your idiot life from you,” she said. She tensed it and continued stalking towards him.

The general turned and fled behind the throne.

“No more escapes!” she shouted. She drew the chain back then flung it in a flat arc, letting it carry her magic. It flew like a golden disc, slicing through the throne and the far wall. The walls shuddered and moaned. She had struck once too many times, the far wall collapsed burying the throne and the general and the riches around them. The ceiling sagged and terrifying sounds of stone shearing sounded from around them.

“Let’s go,” Brunhilde said.

“I want to see his body,” Hope cried.

A column tilted to one side. Brunhilde lifted Hope off her feet and jogged out of the throne room, like she had carried the bags of jewels. The thunderous sound of the throne room falling in on itself chased them. Hope struggled but she was exhausted and no match for the barbarian’s strength even when fully rested. She cursed in her own language as Brunhilde clambered over rubble and hauled her into the courtyard. Brunhilde dumped her into the wagon, on top of uncomfortable sacks.

“This is no way to treat a Princess!” she cried.

“Please go back if you wish.”

The ground was rumbling as the entire inner keep fell in on itself. The shaking of the earth was dislodging stone from the outer walls. Stone dust billowed up and around them.

“Get us out of here!” Hope cried.

“An excellent idea, gold-hair. How lucky to have your wits around,” Brunhilde muttered. She stamped her feet into the ground and pulled the wagon through the outer gate and along to the riverside. They could hear nothing but the sound of the citadel dying.

At a safe distance, Brunhilde brought them to a stop. Stone dust coated them both. Hope exited the wagon and stared at the ruins. Part of the inner keep had fallen outwards, cracking open an outer wall and strewing stone across the plateau. The river still flowed impossibly upwards into the ruined mass.

“He’s buried in there. Is that revenge enough?” Brunhilde said.

“Perhaps,” Hope said. Her eyes still glinted with purpose and she looked ready to run back in.

“Let’s find horses to pull this and make after Alexander,” Brunhilde said. The horses, terrified by the fall of the keep, had galloped away, but still alongside the lushness of the river.

“Why?”

“To give them back their wealth, and some more for their trouble.”

Hope poked her head into the wagon and rummaged through its cargo. She realised he had been sitting on fine gold and silver plates and goblets, with more buried beneath them.

“We have something to show then,” Hope said. She slipped a ring with a fat emerald set in it onto her finger.

“This is for Alexander,” Brunhilde said. But she sensed this was an argument they would have to settle. She set her back into pulling the wagon after the spooked horses, as Hope leapt into the wagon and rummaged through their pickings, muttering to herself.