Gather ravens, son and sire,
Slumber in your nest of fire,
Rest yourselves in crimson gore,
Lulled into the task of war.

A fennid is both poet and warrior in equal measure, and he is swiftly drawn from one art to the other at a moment's notice. My fingers wrap just as comfortably round harp-string as round sword-hilt. When one of the sentries at our tent darts off, in the direction of the warcry of furious hounds, I rise. Leaving the cruit behind, I pass my arm through the tent flap and quickly seize the sword of the remaining guard. It's halfway out of the scabbard when he takes notice and pulls me from the tent by my arm. I'm thrown to the ground, but at least I've relieved him of his weapon. Before he can come at me with his spear, Valeria is upon him, wrapping a belt lace around his throat with deadly constriction. I expect no less from the Morna. The Roman twitches and lashes at his neck, bathed in red moonglow.

What surprises me is the emergence of Verica, who snatches the spear from the centurion's hands and bores its barbed iron head through his bowels. The intensity in her death-dealing is savage and personal. There is a volatile history between the Romans and Picts angrier than any Irish clan feud, to which Verica's trembling rancor is a testament. The centurion folds over the spear shaft, revealing the bloody skewer issuing from his back. Valeria and I look to one another with astonishment on our faces, but I do not marvel for too long. It wasn't that long ago that I witnessed Verica's might, that luminous spirit that won my heart and soul back in Inver Colpa. Tonight I see a demonstration of that forceful will, the lashing out of the cornered lioness, the revenge of a Pictish queen.

I douse the lantern and look to the wall. Rolling the corpse over onto its back, with a kick of her boot, Valeria takes hold of the spear shaft and pulls it vigorously from its lodging place. Verica doesn't waste any time stripping the body of all it carries.