Here and there an ancient stone would poke through the snow, carved in a language none of them recognised. They were very old. None of the Horde had ever considered cutting into a mound to see what treasures might lie within. Partly this was because they had a word for people who used shovels, and that word was ‘slave’. But mainly it was because, despite their calling, they had a keen moral Code, even if it wasn't the sort adopted by nearly everyone else, and this Code led them to have a word for anyone who disturbed a burial mound. That word was ‘die!’.

The Horde, each member a veteran of a thousand hopeless charges, nevertheless advanced cautiously towards Cohen, who was sitting cross-legged in the snow. His sword was thrust deep into a drift. He had a distant, worrying expression.

‘Coming to have some dinner, old friend?’ said Caleb.

‘It's walrus,’ said Boy Willie. ‘Again.’

Cohen grunted.

‘I havfen't finiffed,’ he said, indistinctly.

‘Finished what, old friend?’

‘Rememb'rin',’ said Cohen.

‘Remembering who?’

‘The hero who waff buried here, all right?’

‘Who was he?’

‘Dunno.’

‘What were his people?’

‘Fearch me,’ said Cohen.

‘Did he do any mighty deeds?’

‘Couldn't fay.’

‘Then why–?’

‘Fomeone 'f got to remember the poor bugger!’

‘You don't know anything about him!’

‘I can ftill remember him!’

The rest of the Horde exchanged glances. This was going to be a difficult adventure. It was a good job that it was to be the last.

‘You ought to come and have a word with that bard we captured,’ said Caleb. ‘He's getting on my nerves. He don't seem to understand what he's about.’

‘He'f juft got to write the faga afterwardf,’ said Cohen flatly and damply. A thought appeared to strike him. He started to pat various parts of his clothing, which, given the amount of clothing, didn't take long.