That's right, everyone. You are getting 2 chapters within a week of each other. And this one being the longest of them all, no less.

Read. Enjoy. Review. And feel free to shudder.

Chapter 14: Eyes As Glass

The Southern Northuldra Camp

She had asked to be alone.

The entrance of the tent had been tied shut, the light extinguished, and the sign laid in front of her tent opening—the twin sticks crossed together. Nobody would be with her. Nobody would approach until she left the tent of her own accord. It was the privilege accorded to her as elder, and as shaman.

Her hands trembled, her breath felt like smoke in her lips and mouth, tainted by bitterness and gall. The shock had torn through her dreams like a demon screech, rousing her from a restless sleep, and only in the wan light of the morning did her senses return to clarity from the haze of petrifying horror.

Something has blinded the spirits.

And she recognized it; the stain of the brand of magic, as distinct and foul as the scent of fox urine at a campsite. Like blood trailing in stolid dark water, drawing a million foul things from the depths.

She knew.

She had unpacked the dark materials from the deepest part of her cache. Had dug up with cold and clumsy fingers the things she swore would stay buried under the soil, beside her bed-space.

She knew it. She knew what terrible magic had blanketed the forest—if only for hours—and had left its stain. Choking the sight of Ahtohallan, turning their most sacred nexus and the spiritual center of the realm—blind.

She knew the chant, if only because she had heard it before. Whispered by the emaciated, dying prisoners that laid before her, hands bound behind their backs. The intruders, the encroachers, the trespassers that rightly deserved to die, by the right of the land.

Yet the words had always lingered in her mind, like the whine of flies.

Tengri biz menen.

Before her, she drew the sign in the soil, her fingernail scraping the grains of wet sand. The stones stood upright, planted in the earth, their sigils turned outwards. She held her wrist steady with her free hand, completing the strokes of that terrible—forbidden—sign.

Elsa, I'm so sorry.

I never told you everything.

Carefully, she held the slender clay container with both hands, its narrow spout aimed at the ground like a spear. The libation poured into the grooves dug by her finger, filling out the sign with the profane mixture—the sacrifice, the appeasement.

Moon-blood of a young woman. Spittle of a goat. Milk of a reindeer that has thrice miscarried. Dust from a sheet upon which adultery has been committed.

The sign filled up with the sickening substance, like a wound in the ground. The curse, the spell—it had been set, like an open mouth, like a trap. Awaiting its prey.

She poured forth the final offerings.

Light, and yet heavy with what they represented, the smooth ivory pebbles dropped forward from her hand. Worn away by the endless grinding of the currents, sun-scorched and hollowed out.

Bones.

She had hid them well. Elsa had held the grotesque things in her hands, and yet had not comprehended their significance—or their purpose.

Would that she would never have to perform this spell again. Would that the knowledge would be allowed to sink into nothingness, displaced by thoughts of green pastures and warm air, of the smiles of youth on hopeful faces!

Not for her. Not for the shaman.

She clasped her hands together, as she concentrated in preparation. She would know, once the dark god received her tribute. For with his mark would come the night fevers, and the hacking coughs, and the blood-stained sputum, and the cramping terrible pains, and her stool running like liquid. Such was the sign—such was the price.

"Suhhtu…Gaskaidja…Ahčagastit…" The words tumbled forth. At first in the Northuldra tongue, and then switching to the dark tongue of that old race of trolls and giants.

Waiting, always waiting. Children of the darkness, north beyond north. Living under the surface of things, in cracks, in hollows. Hidden from sight by power that predated Ahtohallan itself, preserved for times such as these.

Yelana opened her mouth, and spoke the name.

"Ruohtta."

The Dark Forest

Two Miles from the Blue Talon Encampment

Every fiber of his muscles was tensed in preparation, as he surveyed the thickness of the foliage with the keen eyes of a hunter. Bow at the ready, an arrow pinched dexterously between the middle and ring fingers of his free hand, a projectile ready at a moment's notice.

His voice was low, his words curt. "Can you stand?"

Honeymaren choked back a sob, her cheeks marred by two lines of pallor amidst the layer of filth; moist tracks carved out by the rolling droplets of her tears. "Yeah—yeah I can."

"Stand." Chagan was not one for wasted words. His eyes continued to jump from tree to tree like squirrels, from dark shadowy hollow to the cover of a bush, tensing in preparation of the threat he could feel.

In truth, Chagan knew that turning to look at the pathetic frame of the Northuldra may just evoke the urge to loose the next arrow right into her gut.

Northuldra bitch.

The past ten minutes had not been comfortable. Restringing his bow and making the excruciating jog through the treacherous forest, while a fractured rib continued to flap against his lung and paint a joyful purplish bruise on his chest—by the time Chagan had managed to track down the Northuldra woman's howls, he was drenched in sweat. Every footfall and swing of his arm brought a muttered curse, every fresh stab of pain brought a silent oath to visit all manner of indignity on that shepherdess once he finally got a hold of her.

I will break all twelve of your ribs, I promise you—

Over his shoulder, like a hunting falcon, a phantom voice had whispered with the bemused and mildly annoyed tone of an unyielding taskmaster. He could hear Elder Qorchi speaking as if the old nomad was right next to him, keeping pace with every excruciating step.

What, now, Chagan? Are you angry? And what is the object of your anger?

He had doubled his pace, the pain in his side fading to a constant smolder. All the while, the voice of his elder and mentor continued to speak in that low and unwavering baritone, tinged with the chastisement of a man who had known Chagan since he had been a boy.

Do you blame the goat for escaping its pen when you forget to lock the gate? Or the raven for stealing bread that you left uncovered? Do you get angry at the arrow for not hitting the mark on its own accord after leaving your bow?

She is a prisoner, Chagan. It is in her nature to seek freedom. She escaped because she took her chance, and she had her chance because you gave it to her. You were careless. Too confident in your strength, too complacent in your security. Now that pain in your side will be as effective as a whip-scar.

Resentment had bubbled with each hissing breath from between clenched teeth. Still the calm voice scorned and admonished, with the same tone that had scourged Chagan's pride on the training grounds of the Blue Talon camps, in the years past.

She is your responsibility, Chagan. Handle it.

Catch her and fix your mistake.

In the now, Chagan watched as the Northuldra began to rise slowly. Her dirt-stained breasts heaved with each deep shuddering inhalation as her cheeks flushed with the heat-glow that came after terrible exertion. Her chestnut-brown eyes, tear-streaked and glistening, stared back.

He grunted. "Watch the trees, shepherdess." Just the sight of her—Tengri above, his blood could boil! She jerked her head swiftly, suddenly finding the shadows of the woods a desperately interesting sight.

She was an inconvenience and a pain in the side—in this case quite literally—a liability and impedance for a nomad who had to move swiftly in enemy territory. Her death would have been more than justified, not only to execute a fleeing prisoner but to stay the penalty of death that would have fallen on Chagan's head.

And yet despite all of that—

In the span of a single breath, he had made his decision. By a matter of inches, barely the breadth of a hand, and yet all the difference in the world. His aim had guided the arrow straight and true, and now instead of killing the Northuldra—he had saved her.

And why?

With the firm discipline of a Blue Talon rider, Chagan swept aside his errant thoughts as if they were so many cobwebs. The decision was made, the arrow loosed, and the life taken—and another life saved. He would grapple with the how and why when he had the luxury to do so. Until then—

Chagan's ears perked and his lips went dry. The wrongness of it all had hit him quickly and his body had responded even before the realization registered in his conscious mind. Beside him, he could see the Northuldra suddenly stiffen, the same expression of alarm coming over her features.

The steppe warrior nocked the arrow to his bow. Fingers curled slowly around the drawstring, as he steadied the shaft against the groove in the polished wood.

The forest, any forest, teems with life. Large life, the deer and wolves and bears, and the little life, the leaping squirrels and flitting birds and swarming gnats and flies. Always, the sounds of life would fill the air, buzzing and chirping and squeaking—but the one thing that forest should never be is quiet.

The air was completely and utterly silent.

And both the tribesman and the shepherdess drew involuntarily closer as they recognized the alarm call of the forest louder than any scream, the collective lull that dragged on and on. Like a breath held in the lungs until it finally burst, unbidden, from pale starved lips, with the fury of a predator striking from darkness. A bear, a wolf, or—

The hair on his neck stood erect. His ears strained, his eyes scarcely daring to blink, the muscles in his bow-arm tensing and gathering energy as his skin turned cool with the chill of adrenaline.

"Northuldra—" Chagan began to murmur.

And then from the farthest edge of the light filtering through the canopy, a shape burst from the bushes.

Sight and sound and smell assailed his senses in that fraction of a second. But it was not the sight of wide eyes and yellowish stained teeth filed to points that struck his mind first. Nor was it the belly-churning odour that roiled with a mix of decaying freshly-consumed flesh and human excrement. It wasn't the sound, that terrible bone-quaking howl that attacked his ears.

No, the very first thought that struck Chagan's mind was range.

Forty five feet.

The fresh shock of pain in Chagan's side was the first signal that he had already acted without thinking, the brutality and relentlessness of Qorchi's training regimen bearing fruit. Like a viper coiling inwards upon itself building up momentum to strike, his bow arm had drawn the arrow.

Point-blank, without deliberate aim with the hunting sights, only the familiarity of posture and form—

Every hunter and marksman knew the importance of estimating distance. At a glance, barely a second, and then with mental calculations under the hottest of stressors—the known size of an object, its relative distance to a visual marker, wind movement, elevation—the disparate elements came together in a burst of instinct and intuition, and then the arrow was loosed.

Chagan was a middling marksman at best. He could name more of his fellow nomads who were better shots than were worse ones—but that contest was by the metrics of a horse archer, with the challenge of a moving mount, the unpredictability of the target's relative motion, and the divided attention required to steer a horse.

But here, now, his feet were planted on solid ground. His stance was solid, his target moving in a straight line towards him, driven forward by mindless feral hunger. Against a steppe warrior who had once practiced on horseback, against fist-sized apples and plums—

Dead.

He loosed the arrow.

The scream rang through the clearing.

A heart-shot. Rupturing the walls of that indispensable muscular pump, disgorging life's blood with the pressure of a geyser against the ribs and chest, draining the blood from the brain and lungs in the span of seconds. That once-man, that demonic creature, it was dead before it hit the ground.

Chagan was already moving, stepping backwards with his back against the tree as the next arrow found its way to the bow.

More shapes now, from the undergrowth. Low shapes, creeping shapes.

Human shapes.

He shot again. His eyes followed the path of the arrow long enough to see that it struck the centre of another shape, but he didn't look for long. Couldn't, because the danger was already upon him.

One of the wild things had managed to circle around. Perhaps driven by some presence of mind or feral intelligence, perhaps only by luck. But the slavering, spitting, drooling creature with ashen hair, sickly jaundiced eyes and long nails was now nearly upon him.

Clutched in thin but immensely strong fingers, was what looked like a club. Foot-and-a-half and wielded with deadly purpose.

Transition.

Chagan's fingers released their grip on the recurve bow just as the bowstring caught neatly against his wrist, sliding down the length of his forearm as he lifted his hand in a single smooth motion. Suspended on the bowstring, the bow slipped deftly from his wrist to the back of his shoulder in a quick motion that took less than a second—his hands were now free.

The beastly once-human paused only for a moment, to adjust its grip on the dirt-caked club as it readied for the killing blow. Yellow eyes open wide in madness, it shrieked from a maw ringed with teeth filed to points, as it charged forward.

Chagan threw up his left arm, his bare torso arcing backwards as if in recoil. Sensing hesitation and shock, the beast plunged onward with the club raised, snarling as it threw the full weight of its body into one brutal swing of its club to smash bone and flesh.

Then as it came close to its prey—too close—the creature's wild eyes spotted the glint of polished metal from beneath the shield of its prey's left arm.

Too close, moving too fast, too late—the once-man realized that what had looked like a desperate reflex of a fearful prey was only a feint.

Chagan's eyes were colder than steel.

Even in leisure, the time of the steppe warrior was occupied by sport designed to prepare the body and mind for the battlefield. After the forced marches and weapon drills and maneuvers on horseback, the brash and impetuous steppe youths would engage each other in feats of bravado and strength—namely khalkha bökh, the traditional sport of wrestling. Bare except for either loincloths or trousers, they would attempt to push one or the other to the ground, the fight conceded once chest, knee or elbow touched the soil.

Chagan had been forced to the mud more times than he could count, had been pummeled into defeat by larger and stronger opponents not at all prone to restraint. But the endless impromptu matches—encouraged, he suspected, by Qorchi as a form of 'unofficial' training—had bred a sense of balance and coordination. Knowledge of the body, and of the weight and feel of movement. Knowledge that, in the midst of battle, could mean life for the warrior—and death to the enemy.

With the instinct of a wrestler, Chagan pivoted his body, his hips directing his center of gravity smoothly as his feet planted themselves in the earth. Slipping sideways as the creature charged with its club raised, too late to change direction, too late to redirect its blow.

Too late, to avoid the long-knife clutched in Chagan's right hand.

The blade slashed, across the long fingers clutched around the filthy club. As blood splashed across the monster's grey tunic, a howl filled Chagan's ears. Like diseased bloated leeches, the severed fingers fell from its maimed hand as the club clattered to the ground.

The knife spun deftly as Chagan reversed his grip, plunging his hand in a wide arc towards the creature's face. All thoughts of hunger, of predation, had vanished like mist in the sunrise. Now it was nothing more than a simple animal reacting out of instinct and self-preservation, and it threw both arms up in desperation. Prey and hunter had reversed their roles—and Chagan embraced the change with unwavering ruthlessness.

No wasted movement, nothing but simple economy. Arresting the blade in the middle of its arc, the tribesman plunged the curved tip of the long-knife downwards, into that spot between its legs. Before the screech of agony had left the creature's toothy maw, Chagan had already sliced downwards, through muscle, nerve, and the wide artery of the groin. Emasculating, crippling, then killing—sequentially, in a single ripping motion across a distance of centimeters.

The blade slipped out easily. As a torrent of warm arterial blood erupted from the wound, the creature collapsed backwards, its trousers drenched and stained black.

The bow slid back into Chagan's hand as he surveyed the three bodies that now lay on the forest floor. The furthest two were dead. The third one, shivering and gibbering on the ground with skin mottled and ashen, would join them in minutes.

The air was quiet again. The smell of death was rising, pungent—there was nothing poetic about it, simply the fact that men tended to defecate when they died.

He knew they had to move. He had been lucky. No self-respecting Tengrist tempted the luck of the Eternal Sky more than once, unless he needed to.

"Pick that up." He growled at the shepherdess, jabbing at the club that now lay in the dirt. "Make yourself useful."

She was staring at the club, the blush draining from her cheeks, her hands trembling.

"Is that—that is—oh—"

The shepherdess clapped a hand over her lips.

"That is human."

Chagan's eyes darted to the club, blackened and twisted. What had looked at first like the stripped limb of a tree now revealed more peculiar features. A shaft that narrowed at the middle and swelled to a promontory at one end, from which protruded a smooth ball-shaped knob. Blackened with soot and then hardened over a flame, it was still unmistakably the shape of—

A human thigh bone.

"Well, Northuldra," Chagan murmured, "I think we've finally solved the mystery of how your people survived in the Mist."

The air churned with blackness; the forest, with evil. Like a toxic gas, odorless, colorless, yet crippling the heart with dark thoughts and squeezing the vessels beneath the skin. Chagan could smell it, hear it, feel it.

The woods were teeming with them.

"Move." He gripped the shepherdess' wrist. "Now."

Arendelle

"And what exactly are you going to do about that, Kai?" A hiss exploded from between pursed lips, like the whistle of a crossbow quarrel.

The steward sighed. It was Magnusson's signature style to begin every conversation as if it was already the middle of a heated argument.

"We," Kai allowed a fraction of a second to hang around that first word, "will take in the Northuldra, just like we have agreed to do. Queen Anna's intentions were made abundantly clear."

"That's eighteen hundred more." Magnusson threw up his arms, his sleeves almost straining at the seams—his was the physique of a line infantryman, not a statesman. "They must just be pouring out of the forest by now. Are we to be swamped by Northuldra month after month? Will it be our people that have to take to build huts in the trees?"

Kai quelled the bitterness on his tongue. Old prejudices died hard, or refused to die at all. Magnusson was old guard—he had bled alongside King Agnarr in shield wall after shield wall, had re-established the royal guard after it had been decimated, had planted forts and outposts on the borders of their kingdoms. A man of the frontier, who thrived with the enemy in his sights. He always felt more comfortable in mail, not velvet, and the slipperiness and changing landscapes of governance throttled him.

Five hundred years of tradition, superstition and rumour had dictated that the Northuldra were the enemy—mothers still slipped twigs of elm under the mats of their doors to deter the 'forest people' from stealing their newborns. That Magnusson tolerated their presence at all was a miracle in itself—Kai knew better than to push his luck.

"You know full well that land is available. And this isn't some sort of wave—the Plum Birch tribe have been forced to move due to the loss of their herds to rinderpest. There is land—" his finger trailed the map spread over the desk "—just here, at the Vestfold municipal. Our new low-cost housing project will put a roof over these new arrivals."

"Fantastic. I don't suppose you've forgotten that we've promised the Cheimonas traders their own quarter five months ago?" Magnusson's upper lip curled. "A fine thing it would do for trade relations, right there, for one of our oldest partners to see prize land go to housing unbathed forest-dwellers in furs."

"I'm more than aware of how we stand with Nikephoros." Kai kept his voice level. It was an old dance—let Magnusson rage and rage, stay steady and calm, and then steer the conversation back to more tepid waters. "Fret not, I have sent assurances to him as well as his representative here in Arendelle. We have ample room to construct a new quarter at Akershus. It would be good business for our masons."

"A pox on the masons," growled Magnusson. "I want to know what kind of message this sends to the citizenry. You know what it takes to be a part of this kingdom. The oath to pledge, the song to memorise, forms to fill, addresses and family names to document, it's enough to make one vomit. Then, here come these savages—"

"Magnusson." Kai's voice was ice.

"—here they come out of the woods, and they get the right to settle where they please, farm and hunt where they want! Do you think enough of them read and write, that they can fill up a census form? And how do you propose to exact taxation from a people group with no concept of currency?"

Kai exhaled, pinching his nose bridge. He could, of course, marshal up counter-arguments. Like the fact that the Northuldra once occupied the whole land of Arendelle from the fjord to the far coast, and hence had the right of settlement anyways. Or that given the historical wrong incurred by the people of Arendelle, the Northuldra would, by conventional law—even dating back to the age of Vikingr—be not only exempt from taxation but owed reparations.

Kai also knew that he would be wasting his breath and energy. Magnusson was a warrior, and when a warrior's blood is up, his ears fill with the sound of his own heartbeat. Talking was useless, but Kai was a Snoob bureaucrat, and he was not used to spending time—even idle seconds—uselessly.

Instead, he marched briskly to the neat rows of carefully catalogued letters, missives, and documents. Each filed according to date and place of origin, marked with tabs that overlapped like the fins of a great marine creature, draped over the mahogany table.

"Here's something interesting." His fingers brushed over the colored tabs with the ease and precision of a maestro—a master of letters, of documents, of the life's blood of bureaucracy. "A letter sent a few days ago, addressed from your office."

The general's back straightened, and Kai could see the knuckles of his scarred hands turn white as he gripped the armrests. "You have been monitoring my mail?"

"I have been monitoring official correspondence, Magnusson. Letters bearing our letterhead and our seal." Kai retrieved the document he had been looking for. "Rest assured, in any other—private—matters, you have my discretion."

In truth, Magnusson's recent whirlwind affair with the countess of Soren was something Kai was aware of, as was their steamy and often—graphic—exchange of letters. The letters lingered at Kai's desk only long enough for his brief perusal. So long as nothing was divulged that would put Arendelle at risk, Kai was only too happy to let the torrid letters carry on their merry way to ignite the dear woman's nighttime dreams.

Kai watched Magnusson's shoulders sag slightly, as he relaxed his posture; still, the general eyed him with a smoldering glare.

"I have the authority, Magnusson. Do not forget." Kai's voice was level, calm, poised. "This letter was addressed to Gallowglass Trading and Solutions, in reply to a message they sent to your desk three days prior."

The steward unfolded the letter, but it was more a force of habit than anything else. Kai's eidetic memory had put him consistently at the top of his class at Snoob. He never needed to read a letter more than once.

"They made an offer of certain services to Arendelle, in the interests of, and I quote, 'security and mercantile affairs.' In other words, mercenaries." Kai paused to watch Magnusson's expression. The general's glare hadn't wavered. "You were enthusiastic in pledging up-front payments in engaging said services. With Arendellian funds."

Magnusson's lip curled upwards. "That's within my jurisdiction. I have the authority to manage our military budget as I see fit. You know as well as I do that our position is extremely precarious now, with a change in monarch and about five thousand new arrivals to Arendelle. We need swords, and we need the men to wield them. And I'm not talking about Lieutenant Mattias."

"General Mattias," Kai corrected.

"Lieutenant." Magnusson hissed. "Our queen can hang all the medals and decorations she wants on his neck. You know as well as I do that putting him in charge of soldiers is lunacy."

The general rose from his seat with a surprising quickness, given his age. "Here's what I have at my disposal, now. Five hundred elite infantry, three hundred crossbowmen. Maybe about two dozen horsemen, if you count those who can ride and fight at the same time. If it comes down to it, we can raise maybe two thousand or so as levies from the cantons and municipals—something that hasn't been done since King Haakon, by the way. Are you still counting? That's it. That's all we have."

Magnusson thrust his finger down on the map. "Any one of our neighbours can field standing armies of at least five thousand. The Hejaz faction of the Barbary pirates—ten thousand. So yes, Kai, damn well we need mercenaries."

The steward folded the letter neatly along its crease, his eyes never leaving Magnusson's face. "You're wrong on one account," Kai rebutted. "You do indeed have full control over our military budget. But contracts with independent private military companies come under trade and mercantile spending. In other words, Magnusson, your expenditures can only come to pass if I approve of them."

"You're pulling this on me, now?" Magnusson drew closer. "I don't hear one argument against bolstering what's left of our threadbare military. Any band of peasants with pikes could probably overtake one of our cantons right this instant." He straightened one of his sleeves, his eyes dark. "If this is political grandstanding to feed your ego, we've got a problem."

"I've got no problem with that. In fact, I do agree with you. It's not the first time we've used mercenaries to supplement our kingdom's defenses. And watch your tone." Kai held up a hand, his tone mollifying. "What I do have a problem with, is the company itself. This entity, Gallowglass."

"What's there to look into? It's a trading company that also loans out mercenaries. Those are a dime a dozen." Magnusson sniffed, scratching the bristles of his goatee. "I didn't jump into this without looking. Gallowglass has been operating out of Osterholdt for the past five years and from all accounts, nothing remarkable. Relatively new, a decent track record, and definitely no involvement in any of the atrocities ravaging the continent, with all the rampaging rogue war bands roaming the countryside."

Kai nodded. He had received a similar letter a few days prior, one to which he had offered a cautious reply. Promising nothing, except the potential for future correspondence.

Yet his subtle and sensitive sense of unease had been alerted. Gallowglass had sent more than one letter—to Kai, one emphasizing the potential for trade and recuperating financial losses; to Magnusson, one promising the availability of swords-for-hire.

"You're right on that account." Kai decided to throw Magnusson a bone. "They've got a clean record thus far. And that's the problem."

His fingers found another document, pulling it from his rack.

"Here's the only summary I could find of their trading records from May of last summer. Have a look." The slightly-yellowed document pivoted smoothly between his fingers, swinging over to Magnusson. The general opened it with a scowl.

"I don't see the problem here. I may not be a damned bureaucrat, but even I can see that positive numbers mean profit." He flipped the page. "And there is a lot of profit."

"And that's the thing. Profit is good. Trading companies usually take a loss, sometimes several. Occasionally, they break even. If things go well, they turn a profit with one or two endeavors that help them stay afloat and continue working."

Kai tapped the top of the page in Magnusson's hands. "But what kind of trading company can turn a consistent profit on every single possible avenue in the middle of an ongoing continent-wide conflict?"

"One that's good?" Magnusson scowled.

"One that's too good." Kai pulled the document from his hands.

"Here's another thing. Their mercenaries." Kai pushed another sheet into Magnusson's hands. He chose a relatively simple one to understand—he was fast approaching the limit of the general's patience. "Tell me what you see."

Fortunately, Magnusson was still playing along. "It's a mercenary's dossier. Some bloke by the name of Huguemont. Twenty-eight years old, former Corona infantryman, now employed by Gallowglass, lives just outside Osterholdt." He flipped the sheet over. "And that's it. What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"Exactly," Kai enthused. "Where is his record of enlistment? What is his service record? When was he discharged? What is his serial number? His salary record? It's gone. An empty hole. As far as the paper trail is concerned, Mr Huguemont, twenty-eight years old, materialized out of thin air into the employ of Gallowglass Trading and Solutions."

"There's always a paper trail. Always." Kai began pacing as he repeated an aphorism drilled into him at Snoob. "This isn't the first mercenary company to sponge the records of its employees. You know as well as I do that these sell-sword bands tend to soak up the drunkards and dishonorably discharged bumpkins that dribble out at the tail end of every army. Any merc captain worth his salt knows how to fudge the records and put a fresh layer of polish over a turd."

"Records can be forged. They can lie dormant, they can be hidden behind false leads. But the one thing that they shouldn't be is erased." Kai ran a hand through his hair. "It's been like this, for every mercenary whose files I could secure. I pride myself on being meticulous. I've never before found records to be completely blank—until now."

"You're right, Magnusson. They're good." He drew closer. "They're too good, and I have not brought the kingdom this far without being cautious."

"You're paranoid, is what you are. Wasting time." The general flicked the document onto the desk, like a crumpled ball of litter. "It's war. Records go missing. It happens. You're going to let Arendelle's defenses continue to go naked, all because of a hunch?"

"The council—"

"—the council's opinion is irrelevant. You can override any decision they make. You know this." Magnusson stepped closer.

"I will bring this before the queen. She—"

"She is what, Kai?" Magnusson deflated his cheeks. "Out having another picnic? Prancing down at the dock? When was the last time she actually participated in a council meeting? When did we last actually need her input on matters of governance?"

"Magnusson." Kai's brows narrowed. "I will not tolerate seditious—"

"Oh be quiet Kai!" The general thundered. "I let you listen to the sound of your own voice for three minutes, now you listen to mine." He paused to inhale; when he spoke again, his voice had dropped. "You know very well whose hands hold the reins of Arendelle. You know to whom the powers behind the throne of Arendelle answer to. He did this for a reason, so many years ago. King Agnarr was thinking of this day, thinking of his daughters. That's why the council—those fools sitting around that table—still think that your job is to serve biscuits and remind the queen of appointments. That's why they think all I do is look pretty for parades. And that's why they think the Bishop does nothing but give sermons."

Magnusson strode around the large desk; it was an impedance, a sight that irritated him. "Remember what he told us, so many years ago? 'There is the semblance of power, and then there is power itself.' To hold power and then not use it, is to surrender it to others. The council, they are figureheads, stuffed shirts. You are not."

He was now standing in front of Kai; only an arm's length separated them. The scarred general, the steadfast steward.

"That's the reminder." Magnusson pointed at Kai's right hand, clutching at his handkerchief. The simple, nondescript ring adorning his little finger. "You have the authority. And you seem to have forgotten it in recent times, Tower."

Kai raised his hand, closed in a fist. "And you forget your own place, Warder."

For a long time, both men stood. Looking each other in the eyes. In the silence, the chirping of songbirds outside the window sounded discordant and unwelcome.

Kai broke the staring contest first.

"I will consider it, Magnusson. Consider. I make no promises." Kai adjusted the plain metal ring on his finger. "If we are to bring in foreign troops onto our soil, we will also need to speak to the Northuldra. They are the natives and they have the right of settlement. Don't forget that Elsa lives with them now."

"I haven't." Magnusson stepped back. "I'm happy she's where she is, now. Having a daughter of King Agnarr in a position of leadership among the Northuldra would be an asset, eventually. Even without considering what she can do."

Kai turned his eyes on the general again. "We have been through this. She is not—"

"Save it, Kai. I know which battles to fight, and which ones to concede." Magnusson held up a hand. "You've made your position clear."

"It's not my position. It's that of the Queen."

Magnusson made a noise halfway between a rasp and a cough. "In any case, I believe that—"

He turned his head. Kai mirrored the motion, similarly distracted. The noise had been gathering out in the corridor for some time, but now it had grown too loud to ignore.

Footfalls, insistent and hurried. Military boots thudding onto the carpeted floor, tremors vibrating through the wooden panels underneath.

The door was flung open, the ornate metallic knob slamming into the wall like a hammer. Four pairs of eyes landed upon the guard now leaning against the doorway, breathing heavily.

"Sirs—my apologies for the intrusion—this is urgent." The young man gripped his knee, panting heavily.

"What about?" The general's tone was venomous, but Kai sensed restraint under his voice. His fury had a reputation of its own—nobody troubled him in the middle of a private meeting unless it was extremely important.

"Down in the infirmary, sir." The soldier took a single shuddering breath, straightening his posture. "A Northuldra—badly injured. He arrived—just outside our gates—It's bad, sir. He has news, and he needs to—to give it to you."

"Northuldra?" Magnusson stiffened. Kai, meanwhile, had already swept up the errant documents and filed them neatly in their place; the consummate bureaucrat.

"Yes. A member of one of the northernmost tribes, led by one called Olle. Sir—you better hurry, sirs. He—the doctor says he is unlikely to survive till sunset."

"What is he saying?" Kai asked, buttoning his coat.

"He says—sirs, he says that the Northuldra are under attack. And—Arendelle is next."

Kai and Magnusson spared only the briefest of moments in sharing a glance. The old general's hand had flown to his side; the vestiges of muscle memory summoning it to the hilt of a phantom sword no longer there.

Then, with the speed of men half their age, they raced towards the infirmary.

The Forest

Honeymaren's feet chafed. The mud between her toes was beginning to darken with the blood seeping from the cuts and abrasions over her skin.

He turned in her direction, scanning the perimeter, and a blush suddenly overcame her. For one stupid second, she crossed her hands over her breasts. Then—forcefully, she put her arms down, and struggled to keep pace with him.

What are you thinking, Maren?

Her pace quickened; the years of herding reindeer and darting into the river to hand-catch breeding salmon had honed her stamina. And yet, her pace was beginning to lag behind that of the tall warrior. Pushing herself just that little bit more, lengthening her strides just a few inches further—and she could feel the strain, biting away at her sides.

Fifteen minutes ago—an eternity ago—she had gambled. Gambled, that the rock she had driven into the side of a wounded, exhausted, feverish tribesman would slow him down. Would cripple him, would give her a chance of escape. And now, she watched as his long strides cut through the undergrowth like twin scythes, his movement precise and deft. Staring at the plumes of the deadly arrows in his quiver, bouncing against his bare back—each one a promise of death and incapacitation, a promise that so far he had delivered without fail.

The nausea boiled in her throat, the bitterness stung the back of her tongue. The gaze of that fiendish hag, teeth bared and eyes bulging in madness and hunger. And then—the horror that had pushed her mind to the brink of stability—more, more demons emerging from the woods. Demons that wore the cloak of flesh of one of her own, of Northuldra—

Strands of thought were drawing together, knitting themselves into a tapestry of horrors that displayed themselves against the backdrop of a disbelieving, reeling mind.

There were always tales—some of the tribes—separated in the Mist—

The old bedtime terrors. The children of Ruohtta, those given over to the spirits of madness and hunger, who crossed the threshold and feasted upon the forbidden flesh—barred forever, from the hearth-fire, from the circle of lights; bound to the will of the dead god.

And you will know them by their eyes, for they shall be as glass—

Every second of that scene had imprinted itself upon her mind, like the marks of hot brands. She could smell the decomposition between the teeth of the once-men, could hear the rattle of breath in their throats. She could feel the shiver of the air, almost as if the forest was rejecting the horror, as if the spirits could not bear to be in the same space as the abominations. And then, the terrifying fight—

No. No, she corrected herself, her heart hammering, her lips dry. Fight implied an even contest of strength. It was—the warrior had slaughtered three of the monsters within the span of a single minute. It had been over before Honeymaren had remembered to blink.

Sheer efficiency, the economy of movement. Nothing had passed from between his lips except the faintest sound of exhalation. And his eyes—his eyes—Honeymaren shivered. Devoid of light, like the eyes of a falcon diving onto a hapless rabbit; the transparent sheen sliding over the corneas like a visor. As if he could already see it in his mind, could see his enemies—no, his prey—dead, even before the fight had begun. As if all that was needed, was to match deed to thought.

I should be dead.

It was unnerving. The warrior's pursuit had taken nearly no time at all. Even with the time she had bought with unstringing his bow, and hampering him with an injury, he had caught up with her easily. In the time when she had been pinned down by that—thing—he had taken the time to make his choice. A choice made with a single shot from his bow that put an end to that half-human, and saved her life.

But why?

It gnawed at her, even as she dashed through the dizzying lattice of light and dark cast by the leaves overhead. The fact that the warrior had her completely at his mercy, and had not only spared her life but saved her—it hung over her, a pall of dread.

Because if he was keeping her alive—what for?

Honeymaren's foot slipped; she grabbed a nearby branch just in time. The warrior's figure was a shadow moving ahead, just in front. Glimpses, of a scarred back, of the tip of the recurve bow.

The most obvious reason was also the most chilling one. Bait.

One arrow to her leg—and Honeymaren had not the slightest doubt that he could make that shot—and she would be nothing but a quivering, limping thing hobbling along the forest floor. Like a hunk of raw bloodied meat tossed into a wolf's den, nothing but a diversion—while he slipped away to escape.

He could be saving her for such a moment. The way a hunter would save an arrow in his quiver, or a knife in his belt. Nothing more than a tool, to be used when the time was right, and not a moment sooner.

The thought clutched her brain like the talons of a hawk, gripping her with icy cold fingers. The feeling—overwhelming and merciless—of being prey, of being nothing more than helpless meat running on legs.

She fought the urge to laugh, at her urge to cover her own naked breasts. Her modesty was a distant thought, a stupid notion, because she was well and truly naked in every sense of the word. The idea that the warrior, the hunter, the killing machine, could be impeded in any way by something like clothing was side-splittingly hilarious. Oh, oh, of course. Side-splitting. A timely reminder that she had broken his rib and given him even more reason to kill her.

She had continued running, her legs propelling her onwards, and she hadn't noticed the imposing shadow that had risen in front of her until she had almost crashed into the tribesman's bare chest.

Her eyes caught it all in that instant. His entire body straight and taut like a slingshot, the perfect line formed by his broad and defined shoulders and traced along the contour of his arms, down to the straight line of the arrow nocked at his bow.

Eyes of the wolf, pinned upon her.

Honeymaren's heart stopped. It had been the same look she had seen, an eternity ago, when he had faced her on that bloody field outside Olle's camp. Knife in hand, locked in the dance of death. The look of pure, utter, murderous intent.

Death, looking me in the eye.

"Down, shepherdess."

Her hair ruffled, the movement of wind slipping past her cheek like a kiss, her head jerking to the side far too late. The arrow hissed past her face, her ears stinging with the high-pitched whine of its path through the air.

Behind, she heard the rasp of breath arrested in a throat.

Honeymaren whirled around, her head suddenly light. The creature lay still on the ground, claw-like fingers splayed out in front of it, the arrow embedded in its throat. The soil darkened and bubbled as arterial blood poured and pooled underneath the skeletal body.

The thing—it had been feet away, mere seconds from pouncing, and all this while, silently stalking her, she hadn't even heard it approach.

She felt like throwing up.

Abruptly, she felt a weight being thrust into her hands. Her fingers had closed around the shape before she recognized the leather-bound wooden frame of the warrior's quiver, and the deadly arrows within.

He stared at her with cold eyes, two arrows clutched in the free fingers of his bow hand.

"Hold my spare arrows. If you can't keep your eyes open, at least be useful.

He moved on.

Again. Again. She was dead to rights, and he had every opportunity to leave her to be devoured. Saving himself an arrow, raising his chances of escape. And yet, he had shot—again—and saved her life—again.

Don't look a gift-reindeer in the mouth.

Her best, and only, hope of survival, lay in making sure that she was more useful to him alive rather than dead.

Honeymaren followed him, legs threatening to cramp up, sweat rolling in beads down the lines of her toned abdomen. The quiver slung over her shoulder, and a prayer on her lips.

Chagan was moving on pure instinct. Weaving his way through the trees, his hunter's training taking over, his keen eyes picking out forgotten trails overtaken by undergrowth. Charting a safe path through the forest, through the nightmare.

His heart was thundering, as if Daichi Tengri was beating it like a war drum. His limbs felt light, and yet—cold, at their extremities, as if his blood had been drained and pooled closer to his organs, like rations in wartime. His skin crept with the chill of the forest air, heavy and biting—why hadn't he grabbed his shirt?

He had seen the look in the shepherdess' almond eyes, had seen the flare of her nostrils and the pallor of her cheeks. Fear. But more than that—the vestiges of another expression. Desperation, and the faintest whisper of hope. She was clinging to him like a stranded goat, or a stray kitten, desperate for the promise of survival.

I have no idea what I'm doing.

He had seen the look of terror in her eyes, when she flinched from his touch. When his shaking hands had just taken the lives of the three cannibals. Something akin to a terrified awe, the gaze of a frightened lamb at a seasoned killer.

The Northuldra had no way of knowing that until the sunrise of that day—

I've never killed before.

He still couldn't believe it. The instinct had taken over his brain like a battle-spirit sent from the Red Sky, moving his limbs and his fingers before his mind had fully caught up. The bow had been drawn, the knife swung. Perfect, unerring. A murmur of thanks rose briefly from his heart, at the torturous and unrelenting training imposed by Qorchi—to take a youth, to break and tear him down, to smash and grind him into the ground like powder, and then finally to build him back into a warrior. A Blue Talon Rider.

But when the moment came—when the infinity of a single second loomed ahead of Chagan like a chasm—he had killed. Killed, killed, killed; four times had he moved, four lives had he taken. And all of Erlik's demons could not match the overpowering terror that had gripped his heart when it was over—

Of how easy it had been.

The tension of the string. The feel of his shoulder pulling back, the tension across his back, the sharp stinging ache in his wounded side. And then, release. It was as if a blinder had closed over his eyes, like over a warhorse—no, rather, a helmet—and once more he was at the range, Qorchi's barked commands in his ear, the war drums sounding all around him. The target ahead, the bow in his hand. And only once the act was done did the mist lift and his eyes no longer looked upon a circular straw target in the distance—but the glassy and unseeing eyes of a once-human, slumped upon the ground.

Move. Move, Chagan. Qorchi's phantom voice sounded in his ears.

You do not have the time. Later, much later, if you survive—you can allow the man to breathe, to sink into his thoughts, to wrestle with his conscience. But this is no place for the man. Hide the man, Chagan—

And let the wolf run.

"This way. The river." His words were short, his breaths shallow. The Northuldra followed, her loose hair bouncing against her shoulder, her braids come undone.

His ears were tuned, as sharp as a blade. The forest was getting louder now, much louder. Like a wave of sound, and with each passing second he could plot the trajectory of that wave, rolling forward—he could almost see those painted teeth and skeletal bodies, crawling from the forest—

The river. They're moving towards the river—

No. No they're not.

They're moving towards the camp.

Chagan's heart surged, his blood rising in temperature. They were close now, closer to the river. He could smell the moisture in the air and the scent of the forest, gathered upstream in eddies and mixed like a potpourri, poured downstream into so many tributaries.

He hastened. Moving forward.

They were almost there.

Warn Qorchi. Warn the others. We need to reach—

And then what his eyes had mistaken for rows of trees by the riverside, finally came into focus. And Chagan felt his lungs fill suddenly with lead.

They stood, like phantoms. Clad in tattered cloth, their skeletal limbs wielding weapons of wood and bone. Their hair long and braided into whips. Reindeer antlers bound to their heads by cords, their eyes glazed and glassy.

An army.

And beyond the opposite bank, he saw more of their number. Creeping, running, shambling—towards the far side. Towards the Blue Talon camp.

He crouched down into the cover of the shrubbery and fallen trees, only to find that the shepherdess had already done the same. Arm pressed against his chest, he could feel the beating of his heart reach a fever pitch.

They haven't seen us.

Behind, the sounds drew closer.

Trapped.

The moment hung in the air, like an arrow in flight. The sight of yellowed teeth filed to points, the smell of detritus and rotting meat. The sound of footfalls.

He grabbed the bare shoulder of the shepherdess. She recoiled only slightly, before turning to face him. Her eyes were moist, her lips quivered, and the colour receded even further from her cheeks.

"Northuldra," he said, his voice harsh. "Run for the camp, and run now. Warn them. Do not try to escape any other way—your only hope of survival is there. With them, their numbers, their weapons."

What is one life, compared to the horde?

"But they will—" she stuttered, looking into his own eyes. Chagan could see the reflection of his own face in their sheen.

"I will hold them off. Give you time." The arrow came up, nocking into the groove of his compound bow. "And after that, Tengri will welcome me into his pastures."

My flesh will be defiled. But what is flesh, but a weak covering? Whether eaten by men, or wolves, or worms—

Only the soul matters, in the end.

He watched her legs curl in tension, her calves tightening. Her naked body glistened with sweat and mud, the moisture running down the loose tufts of hair over her face, the rosy redness of her lips. The way the vermillion fold overlapped across one another as she focused ahead.

Then—

"I'll come back for you." She was looking at him. "I promise. I'm bringing help."

A slender hand, tanned and coarse from labour, found his shoulder. "I swear."

Chagan felt as if he had once again been struck between the eyes with a club. He looked again, into the bright eyes of the young woman. The enemy, the member of that race which had tormented his own tribe for so many years. The hated scourge that communed with devil-spirits and brought plague and destruction. The eyes of a woman whose people had eaten of fruit fertilised by the corpses of the steppe tribes.

His side burned, at the wound she had inflicted with her club and then exacerbated with a blow from a river rock. His eyes lingered over the bandage around her forearm, soaked and fraying, the dark patch showing the ugly wound only recently sutured by Abaqa—his knife, into her flesh.

Fate makes strange bedfellows.

And strange companions.

He found his voice again, nocking the arrow to his bow—it had slipped out when his fingers had loosened in surprise.

The wolf reasserted itself.

"Don't waste your time," he growled. "I'm already dead, and it'll be for nothing if you don't warn the camp."

He gripped her arm—her good arm—and pushed her forward. Yet the clench of his fingers was looser, softer, than even he expected.

"Go. Go now. I'll buy you time."

She looked back at him, brown eyes set in slender frames, looking over her bare shoulder with her hair cascading over her naked spine.

"Chagan—"

"Go." He looked down his bow, and she understood.

Mother, care for Berke and Batu. Remember me, when the days grow cold; remember that I was brave.

Khan Tengri, receive your son.

Mother Nachigai, protect your people.

And Erlik-Khan, lord of demons and the underworld. Send your warriors now, and let the son of your enemy terrify his foes one last time.

He watched as she moved forward, breaking into a run. No more thoughts of stealth or subterfuge; she could no more trick or evade the swarm than she could a hurricane. She was fast, leaping over fallen branches like an antelope, driven by desperation.

Ahead, he saw the closest few figures in the crowd turn their heads. Turn their glassy gazes, and bare their teeth.

His arms moved again, the bow curving in tension. The plume of the arrow drew closer, the shaft held between his fingers. The feathers touched his lips—the anchor, the point on face or neck upon which the archer fixed his reference.

Like a prayer, the word left his lips.

"Uukhai."