Crimson light washed over the courtyard.

  Pilgrims screamed. Talons staggered back, shields raised against a threat they couldn’t strike.

  I am an idiot.

  Eirik thought to himself. He’d walked them straight to the precipice. The enemy hadn’t just hidden; it had steered him. His urgency was its weapon.

  [Settlement Progress: Tutorial Quest #7]

  [Time Remaining: 0 days, 19 hours]

  [Goals:]

  [- Habitable Structures - 58.5% Complete]

  [- Income Source - 54.3%]

  The Income Source percentage plummeted again as pilgrims pressed back against the gates, some fainting, others retching.

  He saw it in Leif’s wide eyes, in the tight grip Olaf had on his axe haft. They expected their commander work his magic again like countless times before. They expected him to act, find out whoever was behind this, and dealt with it.

  Except this time, the enemy wasn’t even here.

  Krenna’s blood, Ulgor and Grond’s life-force, the ritual taint woven into the prisoners… it was all a down payment. Killing the rest of the prisoners here, now, would be ringing the dinner bell.

  Spilling more blood on this specific ground, beneath this specific, corrupted monument, would open the door to something horrible. He couldn’t fight it; he had to deny it.

  Patience.

  The word felt a bit strange after such a prolonged period of action. But it was the only weapon he had left. He had to shift the burden of urgency from his own shoulder to whoever was baiting him. And in doing so...

  He'd make it reveal itself.

  The crimson light pulsed a third time.

  The kneeling prisoners moaned. Krenna, slumped on the snow, stump still weakly spurting dark blood onto the crimson-stained ground, managed a choked, gurgling laugh through the gag.

  Eirik stepped forward, deliberately placing himself between the pulsating statue and the terrified crowd.

  He didn’t roar.

  Hundreds of wide, fear-glazed eyes locked onto him.

  "Commander!" Olaf roared. "What do we—"

  "Nothing."

  The single word cut through the chaos.

  Eirik stood perfectly still, watching the statue with an expression of almost bored contemplation. The crimson light pulsed again, stronger this time. More cracks spread through the ice. The blood flowing from the statue's eyes had become a torrent.

  "NOTHING?" Leif grabbed Eirik's arm. "Commander, it's—"

  "Breaking apart?" Eirik finished calmly. He gently removed Leif's hand. "Yes. I can see that."

  Krenna thrashed against her bonds, her severed wrist still pumping blood toward the statue despite Olaf's attempts to staunch it. Her eyes bulged with fury above the gag.

  "Should we... should we stop the bleeding?" A Talon sergeant asked, gesturing at Krenna's wound.

  Eirik tilted his head, considering. "Why?"

  "She's... she's dying, Commander."

  "Eventually, yes." Eirik crouched down to examine the blood trail. It continued to arc impossibly through the air, defying all natural law. "Fascinating, really. The amount of blood she's losing should have killed her already. Yet here she is, still conscious, still fighting. Whatever's keeping her alive wants this to continue."

  Another pulse. The statue groaned.

  "COMMANDER!" A voice from the crowd. "The Mother's statue! Save it!"

  Eirik stood slowly, brushing snow from his knees. He turned to face the gathering crowd of pilgrims and citizens.

  "Save it?" He asked mildly. "From what?"

  "From... from whatever evil magic this is!"

  "Ah." Eirik nodded thoughtfully. "And how would you suggest I do that? Shall I wrestle with forces I don't understand? Throw myself against power that's been building for who knows how long?" He shook his head. "No. I think not."

  The crowd stared in shock. This wasn't the Commander who'd torn his shirt and sworn vengeance mere hours ago.

  "But... but the statue..." A pilgrim woman clutched her torn cloth token.

  "Is ice," Eirik said simply. "Ice I shaped. If it falls, I'll shape another. And another after that, if needed." He gestured dismissively. "The Frost Mother doesn't live in frozen water. She lives in our hearts, our actions, our community. Or so I've been told."

  Krenna made a strangled sound of rage behind her gag.

  "Commander," Leif whispered urgently. "The people need—"

  "The people," Eirik said loudly enough for all to hear, "need to understand something. Our enemy wants us to panic. Wants us to act rashly. Every hasty decision I've made today has been exactly what they desired."

  He began to pace slowly.

  "I shut the gates—wrong move. I touched the statue—it bled worse. I nearly executed prisoners right here—which would have fed whatever ritual this is."

  He stopped pacing and looked directly at the crowd.

  "So I've decided to stop playing their game. Let the statue crack. Let it bleed. Let it fall if it must. We'll clean up the mess when it's over."

  "You're just going to let it happen?" A merchant near the front asked, incredulous.

  "Yes." Eirik smiled slightly. "You see, our enemy—whoever they are—has a problem. They've invested enormous effort into this moment. This ritual, this corruption, this theatrical display. They need it to complete. They need something from us. Fear, perhaps. Blood, certainly. Panic, absolutely."

  He gestured at Krenna, who was visibly weakening now, her struggles growing feebler.

  "Look at her desperation. She wanted to die quickly, violently, along with the other prisoners. When I refused, she provoked that guard into wounding her. Now she bleeds out slowly, feeding the ritual drop by drop instead of in one grand sacrifice."

  The statue pulsed again, but weaker this time. The cracks had spread across the entire surface, but the structure held.

  "It's not enough," Eirik observed clinically. "One old woman's blood, even magically enhanced, isn't sufficient for whatever they're trying to accomplish. They need more. They need us to provide it."

  He turned to his lieutenants.

  "Olaf, have the Talons pull back. Form a perimeter at... let's say fifty paces from the statue. No one approaches, but no one needs to stand close either."

  "But Commander—"

  "Fifty paces, Lieutenant."

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Olaf grumbled but began barking orders. The Talons retreated in good order, herding confused pilgrims with them.

  "Leif, post watches on all the prisoner children. Don't hurt them, don't frighten them more than necessary. Just... observe. Note anything unusual."

  "The children?" Leif frowned. "You think—"

  "I think our enemy has been ten steps ahead all day," Eirik said. "Time to start eliminating possibilities." He raised his voice again. "Someone bring me a chair. And perhaps some tea. This might take a while."

  The crowd exchanged bewildered glances. A chair? Tea?

  "NOW!" Eirik snapped, then immediately returned to his calm demeanor. "Please."

  Within minutes, a wooden chair had been brought from the keep. A nervous servant appeared with a steaming pot of pine needle tea. Eirik settled into the chair, positioned to give him a clear view of both the deteriorating statue and the dying Krenna.

  He sipped his tea.

  The statue pulsed. Weaker still.

  Krenna's blood flow had slowed to a trickle. Her eyes, previously burning with fanatic fervor, now showed something else.

  "Wondering why your dark god isn't answering?" Eirik asked conversationally. "Why the grand climax isn't coming? It's starving, isn't it?"

  Krenna's eyes bulged.

  "Could use honey," Eirik mused aloud, taking another sip. "Yorick, make a note. We should establish trade relations for proper sweeteners. This northern pine needle brew is medicinal at best."

  Yorick, who had rushed up from the caverns clutching his ledger, stared at his commander in disbelief. "You want me to... to note down honey suppliers? Now?"

  "When else?" Eirik asked reasonably. "We're waiting."

  "Waiting for what?" Olaf's voice cracked with frustration. The big warrior stood ten paces away, his frost-touched eyes darting between his relaxed commander and the corrupted statue. "That thing could explode! Could summon demons! Could—"

  "Could do many things," Eirik interrupted calmly. "But hasn't. Curious, isn't it?"

  Another pulse rippled through the statue, weaker than before but still enough to send several pilgrims stumbling backward. The blood flowing from its eyes had thickened into a sluggish ooze.

  "Commander," Leif stepped forward. "The pilgrims won't hold much longer. We need to—"

  "We need more tea," Eirik said, holding up his empty cup. "This pot's gone cold."

  Leif's jaw dropped. "Tea?"

  "Mmm. Though perhaps something stronger? What's our mead situation, Yorick?"

  The Master of Coin fumbled with his ledger, numerical overlays dancing in his vision. "We... we have seventeen barrels in storage, but Commander, surely this isn't the time—"

  "Bring one up," Eirik ordered. "And cups for everyone. If we're going to watch a show, might as well be comfortable."

  "A SHOW?" Olaf roared. "Commander, with all due respect, have ye lost yer frozen mind?"

  Eirik tilted his head, considering.

  "Possibly. But think about it, Olaf. Our enemy went to enormous trouble to set this stage. The bleeding statue, the corrupted ice, the dying witch over there. For what?"

  He stood from his chair, stretching.

  "Every rushed decision I've made today has been exactly what they wanted. So now?" He smiled. "Now we drink mead if Yorick ever stops gaping and fetches it."

  The statue shuddered.

  Several chunks of ice fell from the Frost Mother's outstretched hands, shattering on the blood-soaked ground below.

  Pilgrims screamed. Some fell to their knees in prayer, others pushed against the Talon cordon, trying to flee.

  Eirik sat back down and examined his empty cup with disappointment.

  "Still no mead?"

  "COMMANDER!" A Talon messenger sprinted into view, his face chalk-white. "The prisoners! The children! They're... they're..."

  "Speaking in tongues? Eyes rolling back? Perhaps floating slightly?" Eirik suggested mildly.

  The messenger skidded to a halt, mouth agape. "How did you—yes! All of it! They're chanting in unison, something about the Sky Father's feast!"

  "Interesting." Eirik turned to Leif. "See? Patience bears fruit. Now we know the children are conduits. Have the guards maintain distance but keep watching. Don't interfere unless they actually start harming themselves."

  "Don't interfere?" Leif's voice pitched higher. "Commander, they could be summoning something!"

  "Undoubtedly." Eirik agreed. "The question is what, and more importantly, who's pulling their strings."

  The statue cracked again, louder this time. A fissure ran from the Frost Mother's crown down to her chest. More blood seeped through, darker now, almost black.

  Krenna's laughter turned to thrashing.

  She clawed at her throat, trying to tear it open, but the manacles restricted her.

  Thunder rumbled overhead.

  Everyone looked up. The morning sky, previously clear, had darkened.

  "Well," Eirik said. "That's new."

  "THAT'S NEW?" Leif grabbed Eirik's shoulder. "Commander, we need to evacuate! Get everyone underground!"

  "Do we?" Eirik gently removed Leif's hand. "Think about it. If our enemy could simply strike us down with lightning, why all this theater? Why the blood ritual? Why the corrupted statue?"

  Yorick finally returned, struggling with a barrel of mead and looking like he might faint. "Commander, perhaps we should—"

  The clouds above swirled faster as Krenna clawed her remaining hand at the air.

  She went rigid, then still.

  A new sound cut through the chaos—children singing.

  The voices rose in perfect unison from somewhere deep within the fortress—which shouldn't be physically possible. The words weren't in their guttural tongue but common tongue, clearly intended for the party above.

  The effect on the crowd was instantaneous.

  "Demon!" A mother near the front of the Talon cordon collapsed to her knees, tearing at her hair. "That's the voice of demons!"

  "It's him!" A merchant pointed a shaking finger at Eirik. "He brought this curse! He built that abomination!"

  The singing intensified. Several pilgrims clutched their heads, moaning. Others began pushing harder against the Talon line.

  Eirik remained seated.

  The Talon cordon buckled as hundreds of terrified pilgrims surged in different directions—some trying to flee through the gates, others pressing toward the bleeding statue as if proximity to the corrupted ice might somehow save them.

  [- Income Source - 41.2%]

  The notification flickered in Eirik's vision. Nearly sixty percent loss. At this rate, he'd fail the tutorial quest before sunset.

  "Commander!" Leif's voice cracked with desperation. "They're rioting! We need to—"

  "Bring me that mead," Eirik said calmly.

  "MEAD?" Olaf bellowed. "The whole bloody fortress is turnin' against us and ye want a drink?"

  "Several drinks, actually." Eirik stood from his chair. "Yorick, where's that barrel?"

  The Master of Coin stood frozen.

  "Commander, the economics—the pilgrim fees—we're hemorrhaging—"

  "Yes, catastrophic losses," Eirik agreed mildly. "The barrel?"

  "It's... it's right there!" Yorick pointed at the barrel he'd abandoned when the children started singing.

  Eirik walked over to it. He picked up a cup and held it under the tap as he opened the barrel.

  The mead flowed golden.

  The children's song shifted. Even from here, Eirik could hear the words clearly:

  "Sky Father drinks the offered blood,

  Ice Mother drowns in crimson flood,

  The vessel breaks, the vessel bleeds,

  The hungry maw on terror feeds."

  A clever rhyme. Too clever for children who'd been raised on Skarl battle chants and crude victory songs. Someone had taught them this.

  More importantly, someone was conducting them. Right now.

  Because they'd shifted their song the moment the crowd's panic peaked, perfectly timed to amplify the terror. This wasn't a pre-programmed ritual—it was a performance, with an audience of one.

  Him.

  "Talons!" Eirik called out, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Stop chasing the pilgrims. Let them run if they wish."

  "But Commander—"

  "Are we jailers or protectors?" Eirik asked. "If they want to flee, that's their choice."

  He refilled his cup, then grabbed several more from the ground, filling those too.

  "Olaf, Leif, Yorick. Drinks."

  His lieutenants stared at him as if he'd grown a second head.

  "That's an order."

  Reluctantly, they took the offered cups. Olaf downed his in one massive gulp. Leif sipped cautiously. Yorick held his like it might explode.

  "To Abercrombie," Eirik raised his cup.

  Thunder cracked overhead. The children's song grew louder, more insistent. The crowd's panic reached a fever pitch.

  "Don't you see it?" Eirik asked his bewildered lieutenants.

  "See what?" Leif's hand tightened on his cup. "Commander, people are fleeing. The statue is collapsing. Children are possessed. What is there to see?"

  "The timing," Eirik said. "Every escalation happens precisely when I'm expected to act. The blood started flowing when? Right after Mara left. The children started singing when? The exact moment Krenna died, when her sacrifice should have triggered something but didn't."

  He gestured at the chaos.

  "Even if that's true," Yorick squeaked, "the pilgrims don't know it! They're terrified! The income—"

  Eirik climbed onto his chair, elevating himself above the crowd.

  "PEOPLE OF ABERCROMBIE!"

  Heads turned despite their terror.

  "YOU HEAR THE CHILDREN SING! YOU SEE THE STATUE BLEED! YOU FEEL THE STORM GATHERING!"

  More faces turned toward him. The fleeing stopped, if only to see what their possibly-mad commander would say.

  "LISTEN!"

  That got everyone's attention. Even the children's song wavered for a moment.

  "Our enemy reveals themselves!" Eirik continued. "Not through strength, but through desperation! They make children sing because they have no warriors! They make statues bleed because they cannot make us bleed! They bring storms because they cannot bring armies!"

  He raised his cup high.

  "So I drink! I celebrate! Because for the first time since this began, I see our enemy's weakness!"

  "Weakness?" Someone in the crowd shouted. "The Mother herself weeps blood!"

  "Ice weeps blood," Eirik corrected. "Ice I shaped. Ice that can be reshaped. Do you think the true Frost Mother lives in frozen water? That she's so fragile that a bit of blood can defile her?"

  He shook his head.

  "If that's all it takes, then she's not worth worshipping!"

  The children's song shifted again, becoming discordant, angry. The conductor—wherever they were—didn't like this response.

  Thunder boomed directly overhead. Lightning flashed, illuminating the courtyard in stark relief.

  And Eirik raised his cup higher.

  "Strike me down!" He shouted at the sky. "If you have the power, strike now! Prove you're more than a voice hiding behind children and corpses!"

  The crowd held its breath.

  Lightning flashed again, but no bolt fell.

  "You see?" Eirik's voice dropped to normal levels. "A scare show for children."

  He climbed down from the chair and walked toward the dying Krenna. She lay still now, her blood no longer flowing, her one remaining eye glazed with death.

  Eirik's gaze sweeping across the assembled crowd.

  The blood ritual starting after Mara left—someone had to know she was gone.

  The children knowing a song they couldn't have learned in captivity—someone had to teach them.

  The perfect timing of every escalation—someone had to be watching, closely, intimately.

  Someone who'd been present for every discussion. Someone who'd been trusted enough to move freely. Someone who'd been overlooked because they seemed harmless, broken, defeated.

  His eyes went wide.

  The realization was so obvious in retrospect that he almost laughed at his own blindness. The perfect spy. The one person everyone dismissed because they couldn't possibly be a threat.

  Eirik turned back to the crowd. The calm, amused commander vanished. In his place stood the leader they knew—the one who'd torn his shirt and sworn vengeance, who'd faced down Skarls and the Order alike.

  Fire blazed in his eyes.

  "The Frost Mother," he said, "just handed me the enemy."