The wind whipping across the high pass north of Frostholme carried the bite of coming winter. Eirik Stormcrow stood on a rocky ledge, the walls of Lord Varn's broke fortress visible a mile behind him.

  Isolde would be there now, making her big entrance as the spice trader 'Mistress Vance'. The first act of the salt wagon show was happening.

  Leif Fenrir and Olaf had found him here.

  "Commander?" Leif looked around the empty ledge. "Why aren't you with my mother? The wagon is supposed to be rolling into Frostholme's lower market now. She's the center of the whole show! She needs you!"

  Olaf stamped his feet for warmth. "Yes, Commander. Mistress Vance needs her 'hired captain' looking scary nearby, doesn't she? Makes the bait look shinier."

  He wasn't used to Eirik missing a key piece of a job, especially one he'd planned.

  Eirik turned from the view. He waved for them to join him near a group of rocks that offered some shelter from the wind.

  "Sit. We need to talk."

  The two lieutenants swallowed hard as they unwillingly obeyed.

  "Alright," Eirik began. "The caravan. Suppose it works perfectly. Mistress Vance's salt caravan rolls out of Frostholme, looking like the juiciest prize ever seen north of the Snowcaps. The Skarls swarm in, overpower our small guard… and take the salt. Just as we planned. What happens next?"

  Leif blinked. "Next? Commander, if they take the salt, then… then our part in the bait is done. We… we run."

  "Run? Could we? Picture it. You're part of the small guard escorting Mistress Vance's priceless, vital salt shipment. A hundred Skarl horse archers come screaming out of the hills. What do you do?"

  Leif's first confidence began to weaken at the edges. But Olaf broke into his thought.

  "Fight! We hold the wagons! Give the merchant lady time to–"

  "And die," Eirik replied. "We'd become arrow-filled bodies before most can blink."

  "So..." Leif tried to follow Eirik's logic. "So… we don't stand. The moment they appear, we flee."

  "Yes," Eirik nodded. "We abandon the wealthy southern fool and her precious salt for our own rear ends. Now, the details. How do we run?"

  "On horses!" Olaf shouted. "Fastest as silvers could buy!"

  "Fastest compared to what, Olaf?"

  Olaf opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.

  "The Skarl ponies," Leif whispered.

  "The Skarl ponies, yes." Eirik confirmed. "The Skarls are mounted on horses bred for this terrain. Fastest in the North isn't worth a dime compared to that."

  "Frost Giants' balls..." Olaf's boldness disappeared.

  "Exactly," Eirik said. "So. Where does that leave us?"

  Leif's mind raced. They couldn't fight nor effectively run. What else could they do?

  "So…" Leif's voice was hollow. "The plan fails before it even starts? We lure them out only to be slaughtered ourselves? We gain nothing but dead men and lost salt?"

  "Not necessarily. There is a way."

  Eirik crouched down in front of them, bringing his strong gaze level with theirs. Olaf looked up, listening carefully.

  "It requires," Eirik said, "accepting a different kind of risk. It requires understanding that the only way the small guard survives… is if they don't run when the Skarls attack."

  Leif stared. "Don't run? Commander, you just said–"

  "I said fighting is suicide," Eirik broke in. "Running is also suicide. So we do neither."

  Olaf looked utterly confused. "Neither? What in the frozen hells does that leave? Sit down and sing 'em a song?"

  “We abandon it," Eirik stated.

  “Abandon it?!”

  "Yes," Eirik confirmed. “Pre-emptive desertion. A shameful display of utter cowardice. The lowest form of mercenary scum abandoning their wealthy, helpless employer."

  "So… the Skarls ride up expecting a fight… and find nothing but wagons? Salt ripe for the taking?"

  "Exactly," Eirik nodded. "We were too scared to even be there when they arrived. What does that tell the Skarls?"

  Leif finished the thought.

  "It tells them the guards were useless. Worse than useless. Not even worth chasing through the hills."

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  "Ha! Clever! Make 'em think we're such pathetic worms they ain't even worth squashing! They get cocky, grab the salt, ride off… and we get to watch 'em die slow later! I like it!"

  Leif's concern remained.

  "But timing, Commander. How do we know when to abandon the convoy? How do we disappear so quickly, without letting them think we just dumped barrels of salt on their doorsteps freely? They'd get suspicious.”

  That was a brilliant question, and one Eirik was less sure of. He stood up.

  "The way I see it," Eirik said, "Is that we must provide them with proof. Proof that we ran because we saw them coming."

  "You mean… make contact? With their scouts? Before the attack?"

  "Exactly. We need a small scouting unit. Their job is to get seen seeing the Skarl scouts. To make a noisy retreat back to the convoy. They trigger the signal for the main small guard to flee like scared rabbits before the ambush fully springs. It's the key component in all of this. And I'll lead it."

  Silence slammed down at his two lieutenants.

  "You?!" Leif exploded. "Commander, have you lost your mind? You can't!"

  "Why the frozen hells?" Olaf roared. "You're the damn commander! The heart of this band! If you get caught–"

  "If I get caught, Olaf," Eirik broke in, "it will be because I judged the risk necessary and did it myself. I don't mind sending men to die, but I do mind that they'd die failing and ruining our entire plan."

  Olaf's protest died in his throat.

  "Exactly," Eirik pressed. "This unit needs someone with the eyes to spot hidden riders at distance, the quick reactions to react faster than arrows, and the sheer nerve not to freeze when death comes charging. Who fits that better?"

  "But the risk! Commander, if you're captured… if they know you…"

  "Know me? How? Think, Leif. Who in Frostholme has seen Eirik Stormcrow?"

  Leif blinked. He mentally thought back to their arrival, the tense talks with Lord Varn's servant.

  "You sent Yorick and me," Leif breathed. "You stayed outside. Always hooded. Avoiding the lords and their courts." Understanding sparked. "Not even our own men have seen you openly within the hold! Just quick comings and goings in camp or the tavern."

  "Exactly," Eirik confirmed. "To Frostholme and any Skarl spies watching it, I am an unknown. Just another mercenary in Mistress Vance's employ."

  Olaf, still reeling, spotted another flaw. "But our own men! In the small guard! If they see you with the scout unit… and if any are taken…"

  "They won't see me. Because I won't be with them.”

  "Where…?"

  "The scout unit operates separate from the main convoy," Eirik explained, his voice low and strong. "We shadow the route. Only descend when we spot the Skarl scouts. We make contact, panic, flee back towards the wagons to 'warn' them. That's the signal.”

  Leif felt a chill sprang inside him. So he wants to do this… by himself? With some sort of new recruits?

  "I will never set foot near that small guard force before or during the operation. Now," Eirik said. "Leif Fenrir."

  Leif snapped to attention at suddenly being addressed by his full name.

  "Commander?"

  Eirik reached into his storage ring. Frost mist shimmered as a wolf-head pommel gleamed dully in the grey light. The Fenrir Heirloom Longsword.

  He held it out, handle-first, towards Leif.

  Leif went blank.

  "Whatever happens when the wagons roll," Eirik stated, "whatever happens to me, to the scout unit, to your mother… your task remains."

  He thrust the sword towards Leif.

  "You will escape back to Frostholme. You will gather every able-bodied man Lord Varn can spare, every Talon, every hired sword we have left. And one day after the Skarls take that salt… you will lead an assault on the Skarls in Fort Abercrombie."

  Leif Fenrir stared at the sword. The symbol of his family line, pride, and everything he'd felt stripped from him by the bastard now offering it back. His hand trembled as he reached out.

  It felt alien, and terrifyingly heavy.

  "Commander…This plan is yours. I can't just–"

  "You will," Eirik repeated. "This isn't about ego or family right, Leif. This is about winning. The assault must happen. The Skarls must be crushed before they recover, before they realize what killed them. That window is critical. One day. Do you understand?"

  Olaf's low growl broke the silence.

  "Commander, ye can't be serious! Handing him the blade? Making him lead the assault?" He jabbed a thick finger towards Leif. "He's green! Sending him against Skarls is still sending a pup to fight wolves!"

  Leif flinched internally.

  Olaf's right. What does he know of leading men in a real assault? Men would die because of him. Just like Brynn could’ve died in the mines because of his failure.

  Another voice cut through the panic. Eirik's voice.

  "The blade is Fenrir steel, Olaf," Eirik stated. "It carries recognition. Lord Varn's men will follow Fenrir blue and silver into that ruin faster than they'd follow a bastard's banner… or a hired sword's scowl. They need rightful authority. Leif provides it."

  "Olaf's right. What if I call the charge too late? Or too early? What if the Skarls aren't as weakened? What if–"

  "Then you fail," Eirik stated simply. "And we die."

  He leaned in slightly.

  "But if you do nothing? The result is the same. Worse, perhaps. Because then you never even tried to claw your way out of the pit your family dug itself into. So. What's it going to be, Leif Fenrir? Are you just a spoiled noble heir who loses heirlooms and duels? Or are you the man who'll take this sword and earn it back?"

  Leif felt the truth of it settle on his shoulders. This wasn't about his skill nor his qualification anymore. It was about his blood, his name – the very things that defined him.

  "And me?" Olaf demanded. "While the pup plays lordling?"

  "Leif carries the banner. You break the door. You ensure no Skarl walks out of that ruin alive, poisoned or not. Understood?"

  Olaf stared back at Eirik. His weathered face worked through a series of emotions Eirik rarely saw there.

  "No. Just… no."

  Olaf jabbed a thick finger towards Leif. "You're handing him a whole damn assault command? Fine. Someone's gotta wave the fancy banner."

  His gaze swung back to Eirik. "But you? Skipping off to play rabbit for Skarl arrows? By yourself? With some green lads? That's your grand plan? Crazy!"

  Leif bristled. "I can–"

  "Shut it, pup," Olaf cut him off without even looking. "Commander. You're handing out responsibilities like cheap beer. You wanna be the hero leading the scouting party to damnation? Fine. Heroes need helpers." He took a step closer. "I'm coming with you."

  Oh. Eirik processed this. Olaf wasn’t questioning the overall strategy; he was demanding a share of the most dangerous task.

  "I lead the scout unit, Olaf." Eirik stated flatly. "Your talents lie elsewhere. With the assault."

  "My talents," Olaf growled, "lie in keeping fools alive! Especially fools who think they can see arrows before they’re shot! You need eyes? I got ‘em. You need someone to shove you out of the way when death comes whistlin’? That’s me!”

  He leaned in.

  "You think those Skarl scouts are gonna play nice? One lucky arrow, Commander. One. And this whole clever poison plot dies with you in the snow. And then what?"

  Eirik studied Olaf. The big man’s logic was crude but sound. The scout mission was the critical vulnerability.

  "You want heroism?" Olaf pressed. "Too damn bad, Commander. You ain’t hogging it all this time. That suicide scout mission? That’s my kind of party. You’re not goin’ without me."

  Stubborn bastard.

  "Alright, Olaf. You ride with the scout unit.”

  "Damn right."