Below, Leif and Isolde were mounted near the rear of the fleeing group.

  He saw it a split second before it happened.

  A fleeing guard's horse veered, crashing into Isolde's mount. The startled horse reared with a scream. Isolde, taken by surprise, lost her grip. She tumbled sideways into the deep snow with a cry.

  "MOTHER!”

  Leif wrenched his horse around, leaping from the saddle before it stopped. He crashed to his knees beside her, grabbing her arm to haul her up.

  Damn it. Eirik's calm fractured. They just became prime targets.

  High on the ridge, dark figures moved.

  Three Skarl scouts peeled away from their vantage point. They vanished into a steep gully that fed towards the trail bend where Leif struggled with Isolde.

  Flanking maneuver. They'll cut them off from the main retreat.

  Eirik calculated distances. The main Talon group – Olaf, Helga, the veterans, and the bulk of the fleeing guards – were disappearing around a curve.

  Too far to help.

  Leif was trying to get Isolde back onto her panicked horse, which was dancing away. The three Skarl scouts burst from the gully mouth onto the trail ahead of them, blocking their retreat which was only fifty yards away.

  The scouts whooped, cries cutting through the air. Bows appeared in their hands. Not aiming yet.

  They were herding them.

  Two spread out. The third scout urged his pony forward. He barked a command.

  Leif shoved Isolde behind him, drawing his sword. The Fenrir blade flashed in the sunlight.

  "Stay back!" Leif yelled. Isolde staggered behind him. All their pretense gone.

  The lead Skarl scout chuckled. He pointed at Leif's sword, then at Isolde, barking more commands. His companions nocked arrows, drawing half-tension.

  Surrender, or get shot.

  Eirik forced himself to slow his pony. He needs to capitalize this fleeing moment.

  Two men reined in their panting mounts nearby.

  "Frost!" Seventy-Three gasped. "Skarls! Got the fancy ones!" Seventy-Two hissed, turning his horse. "Forget 'em! Ride!"

  "STOP!" Eirik ripped the bow from his back. "Cover 'em! Shoot the bastards!"

  Seventy-Two stared at him like he was insane.

  "Shoot?! Against three? With this?" He waved his spear. "Are you cracked, scarecrow? We run!"

  "Run where?" Eirik snarled. He fumbled an arrow from his quiver, nocking it. "They see us! They'll hunt us down! Help the nobles! Maybe they pay extra!"

  Seventy-Two hesitated, his eyes darting between the trapped nobles and escape.

  "Damn it! Fine! Shoot!" He dismounted, grabbing his own bow. Seventy-Three followed suit.

  Eirik raised his bow. But he wasn’t planning on shooting arrows.

  He aimed past the scouts, at a patch of snow-covered stone beneath the pony's hooves.

  NOW.

  [MANA EXPENDED: 5]

  [MANA: 45/50]

  [ABILITY: FROST CONJURATION ACTIVATED]

  Eirik poured his Frost Mana into the snow-covered stone around it. The magic exploded outward from where the arrow struck—into a slick layer of ice across the packed snow.

  The lead scout, grinning, urged his pony forward to close the distance on Leif.

  WHUMP-SLIDE!

  The pony's leg shot out sideways as if kicked. It gave a scream, crashing onto its side in a tangle of flailing legs. The lead scout roared in surprise, thrown into the snow.

  "HAH! Got one!" Seventy-Two yelled. He loosed his own arrow. It flew high over the heads of the other scouts. Seventy-Three's shot plopped into the snow ten yards short.

  The two other scouts stared in shock at their fallen leader. Leif seized the moment. He grabbed Isolde's arm.

  "Run! To the rocks!" He pointed towards a cluster of boulders twenty yards off the trail.

  The two mounted scouts recovered, angry now. They turned their bows from Leif towards the unexpected attackers. Two arrows hissed through the air.

  One whistled past Eirik's head. The other slammed into Seventy-Three's chest with a thump. The recruit gasped, then toppled backwards into the snow.

  Dead.

  Seventy-Two screamed. He dropped his bow, scrambled back onto his pony, and kicked it into a gallop back down the trail.

  Eirik ducked behind his pony. He’s alone again.

  The scouts were distracted by Seventy-Two's flight and Leif dragging Isolde towards the rocks. The downed scout leader was struggling to his feet, cursing, his pony still thrashing.

  [MANA EXPENDED: 5]

  [MANA: 40/50]

  [ABILITY: FROST CONJURATION ACTIVATED]

  He aimed low. A jagged ridge of solid ice erupted right in front of the pursuing scouts.

  The scouts' ponies slammed into the barrier. One pony shied, throwing its rider. The other managed to leap over, but stumbled upon landing.

  Eirik didn't wait. He vaulted back onto his pony, kicking it towards Leif and Isolde, who were at the boulders.

  "TO THE ROCKS! MOVE!"

  Leif threw Isolde behind the boulder, then whirled, sword ready. Eirik skidded his pony to a halt behind the rocks, jumping down beside them.

  Isolde stared at him.

  The thrown scout was rising. The one who stumbled was freeing his pony. The leader was back on his feet, furious, drawing his saber.

  They abandoned their bows. Close quarters now. They started advancing towards the rocks, spreading out.

  Three Skarls. Trained warriors. Against two nobles and a "scarecrow."

  Eirik grabbed Leif's arm, pulling him lower behind the rock.

  "Stay down! Arrows!"

  Leif flinched, ducking.

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  "We can't fight them here! They'll flank us!"

  He peered around the rock. The scouts were thirty yards away, closing, sabers gleaming. He focused on the snow in front of their boots.

  [MANA EXPENDED: 5]

  [MANA: 35/50]

  [ABILITY: FROST SHAPER ACTIVATED]

  He targeted the packed snow crust under the leading scout's boot.

  The leading scout stepped down. His boot plunged through the snow crust. He stumbled, off-balance.

  "NOW! HIM!" Eirik yelled at Leif.

  Leif lunged from behind the rock. He didn't hesitate.

  He drove the Fenrir blade forward in a thrust. It punched through the leather chest plate of the stumbling scout. The man grunted then collapsed.

  One down.

  The other two scouts roared, charging. Leif yanked his blade free, stumbling back behind the rock. Isolde pressed against the stone, a sob escaping her.

  Eirik's mind raced. He needed to end this.

  [MANA EXPENDED: 5]

  [MANA: 30/50]

  He targeted the thin layer of meltwater above the frozen ground beneath the snowpack.

  Both scouts charged the last few yards. Their boots hit the patch Eirik had targeted.

  WHOOSH-SLURP!

  Their feet shot out from under them as if on oil. Both men went down hard, flat on their backs in the snow, their sabers flying. They gasped, stunned.

  "LEIF! NOW!"

  Leif saw the opening. He plunged his sword into the chest of the nearest prone scout before the man could rise. The scout jerked and went still. Leif whirled towards the last one, raising his blade.

  The last scout scrambled backwards. He raised his hands and screamed before Leif drilled the sword down his throat.

  Blood pounded in Eirik's ears after the Skarl scouts' choking gasps faded.

  "Mother!" Leif spun. "Are you hurt?”

  Isolde shook her head, even though her composure was shattered.

  "We need to move!" Eirik hissed. He was already scanning the high ridges. "They heard that. The main force will be coming. Now.”

  He was interrupted by Leif, who was looking around frantically.

  "The horses... where—?”

  Damn.

  Their small victory suddenly tasted like ashes.

  "The horses!" Leif whirled, scanning the trampled ground near the rocks. "Where are our damned horses?”

  Panic surged. His pony, Seventy-Six’s brown gelding, Seventy-Three’s mount with its dead rider, Seventy-Two’s fleeing horse – all gone.

  Only the thrashing, wounded pony of the fallen Skarl scout remained nearby, leg twisted, eyes rolling white with terror and pain.

  Panic flared on everyone's face.

  On foot, deep in Skarl territory, with the thunder of a war band imminent?

  Death was a certainty.

  Hoofbeats.

  Hard, fast, approaching from the direction of Frostholme.

  Leif raised the Fenrir steel, bracing.

  Olaf and Helga burst around the trail bend, sharing one warhorse.

  "You mad fools!" Olaf roared as Isolde let out a relieving sigh. "Thought you were dead meat! Where are the others?”

  His eyes darted to the three Skarl corpses, then to the wide-eyed recruits who hadn't made it.

  "Where's your damn mount?!”

  "Bolted!" Leif yelled. "The lady fell, the Skarls jumped us… our horse bolted while we dealt with them…”

  "Where's yours?" Eirik demanded, eyeing Helga behind Olaf. "Why are you doubled up?"

  "Bastards put an arrow through Helga's mount neck half a mile back. Had to leave her."

  "Frost take it!" Leif shook his head.

  Eirik's gaze flicked to the distant ridge where the first scout signal had been seen.

  “No time to waste!" Eirik strode towards Helga. "Mount! Leif, take your mother! RIDE FOR FROSTHOLME! DON'T LOOK BACK! Helga!”

  The brutal math played on their minds. They had one horse for five people. One horse could carry two people at most – three in desperation, but not far or fast enough to outrun Skarl pursuit.

  Olaf's weathered face became grim.

  “Aight. The lady and the boy. That's it. Rest of us stay.”

  "No!" Leif started forward. "I won't leave—“

  "GO!" Eirik bellowed. "That's an order, damn you! Get your mother to safety! That's your ONLY JOB!"

  Isolde scrambled towards Olaf’s warhorse. He hauled her up roughly in front of him with a grunt.

  Leif hesitated. "But you—"

  "DO IT!" Eirik bellowed. The distant rumble was growing. "Main force is coming! Feel that?! GO!"

  Helga shoved the reins into Leif shaking hands.

  “Lieutenent! NOW!"

  Isolde met Eirik's eyes for a heartbeat. Leif vaulted up behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist.

  "RIDE!” The three on foot screamed it in unison.

  Leif kicked his heels hard. The horses surged forward, tearing down the trail towards Frostholme.

  They didn't look back.

  Silence descended again. The ground tremor was unmistakable now. A low, rhythmic drumming that promised annihilation.

  "Plan?" Olaf spat.

  "We play dead." Eirik knelt beside the nearest scout corpse. "Smear their blood. Head wounds. Make it messy."

  Olaf cursed but saw the necessity as he scooped gore from a gaping stomach wound. The stench was overpowering.

  Eirik plunged his hands into still-warm blood, coating his jerkin, face, hair. He smeared it over Olaf's weathered features and Helga's stern jaw. They dragged the bodies into a gruesome tangle near the boulders.

  Then, they collapsed into the gory pile, limbs entwined with the dead Skarls.

  Eirik positioned himself face-down, an arm flung over a dead scout's back. The cold bit through his jerkin instantly.

  "Shut your eyes," Eirik hissed. "Remember. Dead as stone."

  He squeezed his eyes shut. His own heartbeat grew frantic as the deafening vibration through the earth increased.

  Thump. Thump. Thump-thump-thump.

  Hooves. Dozens of them.

  "Gorrash! Hurz vak! Thrakka!"

  The lead riders reached the bend.

  The ground shook violently beneath Eirik's cheek. Heavy hooves slammed down mere feet away, spraying icy mud onto his neck.

  More riders poured in. He heard the wet crunch of hooves on frozen flesh as riders maneuvered over the scattered bodies. A low, satisfied growl came from above, followed by a spatter of liquid hitting snow.

  Piss. Disdain for the slain.

  Horses stamped and circled. Riders dismounted with heavy thuds. The guttural language washed over them.

  "Yar? Vok thrak?"

  "Na dras! Hurz vak torg!”

  A boot nudged one of the scout corpses near Eirik's head.

  "Khel… vak?

  Anger crackled in the response: "Vok na dras! Thrak vak!”

  A sharp kick landed on the dead scout's ribs, jolting the body against Eirik's arm. He held his arm limp.

  The Skarls moved among the bodies with chilling efficiency. Metal scraped – looting.

  A rough hand grabbed Eirik's shoulder, rolling him partially onto his back. He kept his limbs utterly slack, head lolling.

  A grunt. "Drak."

  He was dumped back face-down into the freezing muck.

  Just as the scavenging seemed to wind down, a new sound cut through the low murmurs. A rhythmic, bone-chilling rattle.

  Slow footsteps approached through the carnage. Unlike the heavy boots of warriors, these steps were lighter, almost ethereal.

  Silence fell over the Skarl warriors. The rattle grew louder. It sounded like dried bones clicking together.

  The footsteps stopped nearby as Eirik felt a wave of cold wash over him.

  "Thul drak... na dras... vak ul."

  A collective intake of breath from the warriors.

  "Thul drak!" the voice repeated, rattle intensifying. "Na dras! Trul zhog vak!"

  A staff thumped beside his head. The cold intensified. He felt a probing tendril skitter over his mind.

  "Vak! Vak! Vak!” The voice hissed as the rattle reached a furious crescendo. A bony finger jabbed Eirik hard between the shoulder blades. "Thrak vak gorrash!"

  Rough hands seized him, hauling him violently upright. His eyes flew open.

  He was met with a scene from a nightmare.

  Skarl warriors surrounded him – dozens of them, faces hard planes beneath fur-trimmed helms, eyes like chips of flint. Beyond them, the slope swarmed with more warriors and shaggy mountain ponies.

  Helga and Olaf were similarly dragged to their feet. Olaf tried to wrench free, but a spear-butt slammed into his ribs. Helga remained terrifyingly still.

  The shaman stood before them. He was draped in ragged furs crusted with feathers. His face was sunken with a pair of milky eyes, lips drawn back from yellowed teeth.

  "Thul drak," he rasped. "Khel vak ul... khel vak zhog gash!"

  The shaman leaned closer to Eirik. Those milky eyes seemed to see nothing and everything.

  A bony hand shot out, gripping Eirik's chin, forcing his blood-smeared face upwards.

  "Vak... thul vak Skarl," the shaman whispered. "Vak... ul... gorr? Khel vak... gash zhog!"

  He released Eirik's chin with a shove and turned to bark orders.

  "Hur vak gorrash! Torg! Na dras!" He pointed towards the ruined fort. "Zug thak! Gash thrak!"

  Warriors grabbed them, binding their wrists brutally tight with rawhide thongs. Hoods made of stinking, greasy leather were yanked over their heads.

  It was darkness again.