Eirik stepped out, his boots sinking immediately into snow that came up to his shins.

  It was cold, brutally so.

  "Breathe through your nose," Olaf's voice was muffled. "Or your lungs will freeze."

  The Duke’s elite guard formed a perimeter with minimal wasted motion. They were conditioned to ignore the cold, but even Eirik saw the stiffness of their postures.

  Eirik turned to Velthan. The Archmage was standing at the base of the ramp, his robes fluttering.

  "With respect," Eirik said, "we have a vessel that can fly faster than any horse. We could be at the Sunless City by tomorrow. Why land in the middle of nowhere?

  Velthan looked at him, then at the horizon.

  "Because, Lord Stormcrow, we are no longer in the North," the Archmage said softly. "We are in the Skarl Badlands. The rules here are different."

  He pointed a gloved finger at the transport, and the enormous thing vanished without a trace in an instant.

  "This vessel ran on mana crystals. If we fly it deeper into their territory, every Skarl shaman within a hundred miles will sense us. They would summon a storm that would ground us, and then we would be buried under ten thousand Skarl horsemen."

  Eirik looked at the horizon again.

  "So, what?" Eirik asked. "We walk?"

  "On foot?" Velthan shook his head. "It would take us days if we don't die from the cold. No, we do not walk."

  "Then how?"

  "We ride," Lord Caelum said. He adjusted his pristine white cloak, looking faintly disgusted that his boots were touching the same snow as the common soldiers.

  He fixed Eirik with a sneer.

  "I must say, Stormcrow, for a self-proclaimed Lord Commander of the North, your knowledge of these lands seems remarkably limited."

  Eirik looked at him.

  Caelum was trembling. Not from the cold—his cultivation should be high enough to ward that off—but from something else. He was trying to provoke Eirik, perhaps to distract himself from whatever was happening inside his own body.

  The more he barks, Eirik thought, the weaker he shows himself to be.

  He offered a polite smile. "I haven’t had much time for tours in the badlands, Lord Caelum."

  "Hmph." Caelum turned away, clearly unsatisfied that he hadn't gotten a rise out of him.

  Velthan took over the conversation. "The Skarls are nomads, Lord Stormcrow. They follow the herds. They move in vast, circular migration patterns, grazing their hardy shaggy mounts on the lichen hidden beneath the snow."

  He pointed toward a ridge of snow-dunes to the northeast.

  "They graze in a clockwise pattern. If the wind is from the north-west, they stay low in the valleys. If the wind is from the south-east, they move to the high ridges to avoid the drifts. They leave tracks, but the wind covers them within hours."

  Velthan’s eyes glinted.

  "But they cannot hide the disturbance in the leylines. I can sense the echo of a large gathering... perhaps three hours that way. A temporary grazing camp. We will requisition their mounts."

  "Requisition," Olaf grunted. "A fancy word for theft."

  "Survival is rarely polite, Lieutenant Olaf," Velthan said. "Ser Konrad, organize the men. We move out in ten minutes."

  The soldiers began to double-check their gear.

  "Archmage," Eirik said. "I need a moment. Nature calls."

  Velthan waved a hand. "Don't wander too far. The snow hides more than just Skarls."

  Eirik trudged out toward a cluster of jagged ice-rocks about fifty yards away.

  As he stood there, he pressed his left hand to his chest, fingers digging into the ice shard necklace.

  "Leif," he whispered.

  The connection was fainter this time. The static was heavy, like trying to shout through a blizzard.

  "...Commander?" Leif’s voice was faint, crackling. "...Is that you? You're..."

  "I'm north of you, Leif," Eirik sub-vocalized, keeping his eyes on the transport to ensure no one was approaching. "Way north. We crossed the Icefang Pass by air."

  "North of the Pass?" Leif’s shock was palpable. " By Air? Commander, you're in the Badlands? That's... that's impossible."

  "Listen to me. I don't have much time." Eirik watched Konrad shouting orders. "I need you to mobilize those three hundred Talons. Do it quietly."

  "I've already started the recruitment drive," Leif said, his voice steadying. "I'm using the training exercises as cover. But Commander, moving three hundred men? That's the entire garrison. People will notice."

  "Break them up," Eirik commanded. "Small groups. Don't send them as an army. Send them as merchants, as pilgrims, as hunters. Have them filter north using the old trade routes. Tell them to camp during the day and move only at night."

  "And where are they going?"

  "I'll send coordinates when I have a fixed location. But Leif... listen closely. Do not let them bunch up. I want you to arrange as small scouting parties—maybe a dozen men each—to trail my group loosely. They stay half a day behind me. Once I am near the Sunless City, then they’ll converge."

  "That's risky, Commander. If they get spotted—"

  "They won't. The Archmage is focused on the mission. He won't be looking for a handful of peasants on the horizon." Eirik shook himself off and buttoned up. "What about Sister Mara?"

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  "I sent the fastest rider we have," Leif said. "But Commander, the Everwinter Peaks are deep. Even on a fresh horse, it will take a week to reach her. Maybe more."

  A week.

  That was too long. If things went wrong in the Sunless City, Eirik would be dead before she arrived.

  "Commander..." Leif’s voice interrupted his thoughts. "I've lived in the North my whole life. Nobody goes this far north."

  Eirik looked at the flat, white emptiness. He knew exactly what Leif meant.

  "I know, Leif," Eirik said softly. "Keep the men moving."

  Eirik pulled his hand away from the necklace.

  He took a breath through the nose and turned back toward the transport.

  The expedition was forming up. A hundred elite guards in polished plate, followed by Eirik’s nine Talons in their mismatched but high-quality gear.

  Eirik fell into step beside Olaf.

  The sun had vanished, swallowed whole by the horizon, and with it went what little mercy the frozen wastes possessed.

  Night fell, and the temperature plummeted even further.

  Breathe through your nose, Olaf had said. It was good advice. Breathing through his mouth felt like swallowing broken glass.

  Up ahead, the guards halted. The signal rippled back—a raised fist.

  Eirik pushed through the line of wind-bowed soldiers, moving toward the front where the Archmage and Lord Caelum stood.

  "We stop?" Eirik's voice was snatched away by the gale. He leaned into Velthan’s ear. "Why do we stop?"

  Archmage Velthan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world like he was taking a leisurely stroll in a garden.

  "They are near," Velthan said calmly.

  "Who?" Eirik squinted into the whiteout. "The Skarls? I can’t see a damn thing."

  "Then perhaps you should open your eyes," Lord Caelum sneered. He stood a few paces away, his pristine white cloak whipping violently around him. "The wind clears every few seconds. If you weren't so busy struggling to put one foot in front of the other, you might sense the disturbance."

  Eirik looked again, straining his eyes against the dark. All he saw was the endless, undulating white.

  "They are herding," Velthan said. "A large pack of shaggy-horses. Their movement disturbs the snow, and the animals generate heat. To a mage, they are torches in the dark."

  He turned to the men.

  "Ser Konrad. Have your men drop to a knee. Concealment. We do not wish to alert the herders yet."

  The elite guards moved with practiced discipline, sinking into the snowdrifts and vanishing beneath their white cloaks. Eirik’s Talons followed suit, disappearing into the white.

  "They will have scouts," Velthan continued. "Nomads always do. When they hear us, they will send men to gauge the threat."

  "Hear us?" Eirik asked. "We haven't made a sound."

  "Not yet," Velthan smiled.

  The Archmage raised one hand, and a sound tore through the night.

  It was a howl. But not the lonely cry of a single wolf. This was the throaty, collective growl of a pack on the hunt.

  Grrr-howl-howl.

  The hair on the back of Eirik’s neck stood up.

  "The Skarls know wolves follow their herds," Velthan explained. "If they believe a pack has moved in, they will send scouts to count the numbers."

  He gestured toward the ridge ahead.

  "Lord Caelum."

  Caelum instantly dissolved into mist and reappeared twenty yards ahead, crouching low behind a jagged outcropping of ice.

  They waited.

  The minutes stretched. The cold gnawed at Eirik’s exposed face, finding every gap in his furs. His toes were beginning to lose feeling.

  Then, shapes emerged from the gloom.

  Three Skarl scouts. They were short, stocky figures wrapped in thick furs, riding squat, hairy ponies. They moved slowly, stopping frequently to peer into the dark.

  They passed within ten feet of Caelum’s hiding spot.

  Eirik held his breath.

  A flash of pale blue light—so fast it looked like a single stroke of lightning.

  The first scout’s head left his shoulders before he could register the intrusion. The second died as Caelum’s blade pierced his chest, exiting his back. The third tried to scream, to raise a horn to his lips, but Caelum was already there. A hand of ice clamped over the Skarl’s mouth, and a brutal punch to the throat crushed the man's windpipe.

  Silence returned to the ridge.

  Damn him for how good he was.

  Three bodies slid into the snow. Three ponies reared in panic, whinnying.

  Caelum ignored the blood pooling at his boots. He grabbed the reins of the surviving ponies, and walked back toward the Archmage, leading the beasts.

  "Excellent," Velthan said. He stroked the neck of one pony, which immediately calmed. "These will do nicely."

  He looked at Eirik.

  "Lord Stormcrow. You are with us."

  Eirik stepped forward as Caelum tossed him a set of reins. The pony snorted, a cloud of steam rising from its nostrils.

  "What about the others?" Eirik asked, swinging into the saddle. The animal was broad and muscular, built for endurance, not speed.

  "Ser Konrad will bring the main force on foot," Velthan said, mounting his own steed. "We require speed for the initial strike."

  Caelum vaulted onto his pony without using the stirrups.

  They rode.

  The ponies navigated the hidden dunes and patches of ice with a gait that was surprisingly smooth.

  They crested a final rise, and suddenly, the camp was below them.

  Eirik pulled his pony to a halt, staring.

  Even through the swirling snow, the camp was vast. Dozens of circular yurts made of hides and bone were scattered across the valley floor. Smoke rose from the ventilation holes, instantly torn apart by the wind. In the center, a bonfire roared.

  There were at least a hundred of them. Men, women, children. The sounds of life drifted up—laughter, the barking of dogs, the lowing of the herd.

  Velthan looked at Caelum. "Lord Caelum. If you please."

  Caelum kicked his pony into a gallop.

  The silence of the night broke instantly.

  A sentry near the perimeter spotted them. He shouted a guttural warning in the Skarl tongue, raising his spear.

  Caelum vanished from the saddle.

  He reappeared directly in front of the sentry, moving at full velocity. The sentry’s shout cut off in a spray of crimson.

  Then they were in the camp.

  Skarls poured out of the yurts, grabbing weapons, screaming in confusion. The bonfire illuminated the scene in strobe-light flashes.

  Caelum was a dervish.

  He teleported continuously. One moment he was by the fire, cutting down a warrior wielding an axe; the next, he was twenty feet away, slaughtering a group of archers before they could nock their bows.

  Eirik charged in behind him.

  A Skarl warrior roared and swung a heavy club at Eirik’s head. Eirik ducked under the swing and drove Grave Drinker upward. The void-touched iron bit into the man’s armpit, sliding through mail and flesh as if they were wet paper. Eirik twisted the blade, leveraging his weight, and ripped it free.

  Blood washed over his gauntlets.

  A surge of energy rushed through him—must be the [Soul Siphon] enchantment kicking in. He felt the fatigue of the march vanished, replaced by a sharp clarity.

  Gods, he’d missed this.

  The ice magic was powerful, yes. But this was primal.

  Another Skarl charged, a man holding two curved knives. Eirik met his guard, the impact jarring his arm. He parried the left knife, countered with a pommel strike to his enemy's temple that dropped him, and finished him with a thrust to the throat.

  He spun, looking for the next threat.

  And he saw Caelum.

  He appeared beside an elderly man who was trying to herd children toward a yurt. Caelum didn't even slow down. He simply cut the man down, a casual backhand swipe that opened the old man’s chest.

  He then moved to the children.

  Eirik’s breath caught.

  Caelum kicked a boy into the snow and impaled him before the child could scream. He grabbed a girl by the hair and—

  "Admiring the view?" a voice sneered.

  Caelum was suddenly next to him. His white shirt was soaked in red, his face splattered with droplets.

  A young Skarl, barely old enough to hold a spear, charged at Caelum, tears freezing on his face.

  Caelum sighed.

  He raised a hand. A spike of ice erupted from the ground, skewering the boy through the stomach. Caelum watched him writhe for a second, then kicked him off the spike into the snow.

  "Leave none," Velthan’s voice echoed. "We cannot leave witnesses."

  "I know my orders," Caelum snapped. He turned back to the fleeing crowd. "Run, little rats. Run!"

  He teleported into the thick of them.

  The screams reached a crescendo. The Skarls had no answer for teleportation and magic. They died in their tents, they died in the snow, they died clutching their children.

  The horses of the camp screamed and bolted, trampling tents and bodies alike. A group broke free, galloping toward the northern edge of the valley.

  Velthan raised his staff, and they calmed instantly.

  The moon shone down on the valley, turning the snow into silver and the blood into black ink.

  The camp was silent now. There was no movement, save for the settling steam from the corpses and the twitching of dying horses.

  Eirik stood amidst the slaughter.

  The [Soul Siphon] had kept him warm, but he felt cold inside.

  At the southern end of the valley, the rest of the expedition arrived.

  Ser Konrad and the hundred elite guards marched into the camp. They looked at the scene under the pale moonlight.

  "Secure the herd," Velthan said. "And gather the supplies. We ride at first light."