Session 10

The Brave Hearts returned to their quarters on the ground floor of the northeastern tower, the lone Blacksword trailing them like a shadow. Frost clung to the man’s helm and shoulders; his breath plumed white as he took post outside their door.

They were about to step inside, Miquitzil already rising from his bedroll to greet them, when Felwar gave a sharp cough and flicked his chin at Thelonius. Raine caught the look, remembered his bargain with Avarice, and straightened.

“Blacksword,” he said, steady. “I am Raine. On my authority, cast this one from the Caer.” He jabbed a thumb at Thelonius. “He is banished.”

The guard hesitated, eyes flicking from Raine to Thel and back again. At last, he dipped his head. “At once, m’lord.” He took Thel by the arm and marched him out into the courtyard. Their boots squelched through half‑frozen mud, and snowflakes settled on Thel’s cloak until he vanished between the towers.

Moments later the guard returned, face unreadable, and settled back to his post, wrapped in heavy furs against the cold. Inside, the others filed into the chamber, the thick stone walls muting the wind to a distant moan.

Inside, tension prickled.

Miquitzil frowned. “What was that about?”

Raine rubbed at the back of his neck. “I made a promise to Avarice, the tiefling we were instructed to talk to. She wanted Thel banished.”

Felwar leaned in quickly, smoothing the jagged edge. “It was a way to defuse a delicate situation. That was some quick thinking, Raine.”

Miquitzil folded his arms. “He’s going to freeze out there.”

“He’ll sneak back in as a spider,” Raine said, scratching at his beard. “At least… I hope so.”

Miquitzil remained unconvinced, worry etched in his face. His gaze lifted to the rafters where Thelonius’s owl perched, rigid and silent in the shadows.

“Owly! Is Thel alright? Can you see us?”

The bird shifted, talons scraping wood as it hopped from foot to foot, then spun in a full circle. Its head bobbed once, twice, deliberate.

“That’s a clear yes,” Miquitzil breathed, relief softening his voice. He let out a long sigh, his shoulders loosening. “He’s fine.”

Raine folded his arms, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “I knew he would be.”

Miquitzil turned on him sharply, voice tight. “So, what’s going on? Are you one of them now?”

Felwar cut in before Raine could answer, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. “Excellent question. I’ve been wondering the same thing.” He lowered his voice so the guard outside wouldn’t catch it. “Raine, what the hell is happening? Why do these Black Swords treat you like you’re—” he snapped his fingers, searching “—like you’re someone they already know. Someone they respect.”

Miquitzil pressed harder, jaw set. “What’s your connection to this place?” His shoulders were rigid, like he’d already chosen which way he’d move if Raine gave the wrong answer.

For a heartbeat Raine’s thoughts flickered to the pendant at his chest, his father’s, his last remaining tie to his family. Could it be bound to this? He shoved the thought aside. He didn’t want to think about it, or about them. Not now. Not ever. Some wounds never closed.

Hands raised, palms open, he spoke. “I don’t know. I wish I did. But no, I’m not with them. You can see what they are: dangerous, twisted. Whatever this is, we play along or we don’t walk out. I’m playing their game, that’s all, and I’d urge you to do the same, at least until we’re back on the road. We’ve got to see Garret safely home, and we still need to deliver the letter to the Speaker in Bryn Shander.”

Miquitzil held his stare for a long beat, then let out a breath. His posture eased, the tension bleeding from his frame. “Good. For a moment I thought…” He shook his head, scowling. “We need to leave as soon as we can. This place feels wrong.”

Felwar’s gaze drifted to the table, where Astrix’s spellbook lay open. “What have you been doing, Miq?”

“Making choices,” Miq said, keeping his voice low. “I want to add one of these spells to my collection, just need to decide which one. Trouble is, I don’t have the components: the inks, the incense, the needles, the curing dust. And even if they had such things here, I don’t have the coin to pay for them, and I wouldn’t trust their stock if I did.”

Raine leaned over, curiosity flickering across his face. “How much do you need? I can loan you some, at least until we reach Bryn Shander.”

Miquitzil shook his head sharply, almost flinching from the offer. “No. That’s not my way. I don’t carry debts, not to you, not to anyone.”

His gaze lingered on Raine a beat too long, hard as the tundra. “You walk too close with these Levistus folk, no matter what you say. Until that mystery is solved… I keep my life simple. If I must leave, I will leave clean. Gone. Owing nothing.”

Raine swallowed it down, covering the sting with a shrug. “Suit yourself. Let me know if you change your mind.” He tipped out a sack of coins onto the table. “In the meantime, as party treasurer, I may as well divvy this up.” He began sorting the silver and gold into four small piles.

“How much would it cost, anyway?” Felwar asked, curious.

“At least fifty gold. More, depending on the spell I choose.”

Felwar let out a low whistle. “Steep.”

---

Outside, Thelonius had already slipped into spider‑shape. What struck him at once was the cold, raw, merciless, with no furs to blunt its bite. In this fragile body every gust rattled his slender limbs, stiffening them as though the wind itself meant to freeze him solid. The stone was slick with rime, treacherously smooth beneath his claws, and he had to scrabble again and again just to keep his hold.

Fuck, he muttered inwardly. Better keep moving.

He slipped over the wall, skittering past the lone guard who kept watch above the front gates, and pressed into the second level of the leftmost tower. A narrow chamber opened before him: a soldier leaned on his spear, eyes scanning the dark.

Thel crept lower, down to the base, and froze.

Brince sat at a rough‑hewn table with the smith, a guttering lantern between them and cards scattered across the wood.

“I attack,” Brince muttered.

“You can’t. Summoning sickness,” the smith shot back, irritation in his tone. Not the first reminder. Not the last.

“Fuck this game. Too many rules.” Brince threw his hand down, shoving the cards into a messy heap.

The smith chuckled, gathering them up. “Another win for me, then.” He squared the deck. “So, what games did you lot play as kids, back in Dougan’s Hole?”

Brince reset the dice in front of him until they totalled twenty, his expression clouding as memory stirred.

“Our games were more physical,” he said. “Pa called it Pākehā. Said he used to play it when he was a boy. Most folks just called it Red Rover. My brother and I used to play with kids from town. Got violent quick. We weren’t allowed after a while.”

A faint smile tugged at his mouth, though it didn’t last.

“One thing we liked even more than hurting each other was hurting the other kids.” He gave a genuine laugh at the memory.

Above, clinging to the stone, Thel’s spider‑form stayed still. The memory brushed him too — not happy, not sad. Just sharp.

Brince pushed the last few cards forward. “So, we were banned, and that suited us fine.”

The memory washed over Thelonius unbidden, and the sudden rush of feeling caught him off guard.

He clung to the stone for a long moment, legs trembling more from the cold than the thought. Then he turned and scuttled back upward.

At the top he crossed the narrow corridor above the castellan’s gatehouse, stone yawning open beneath the murder holes. Beyond lay the armoury: racks of spears, hooks with longbows and quivers, the air smelling of oil and iron.

From there he slipped into the second level of the right‑hand tower. Another watchman stood here, shoulders hunched under layers of winter cloth, eyes fixed on the black snowfields and the town crouched down the hill.

Down again, to the bottom: Astrix lay asleep at her desk, book slid from her fingers, candle guttering low.

Thel scuttled out into the open courtyard. The ground was broken with half‑frozen puddles, deep boot prints, and sled tracks that yawned like trenches before him. Each obstacle forced him to veer, climb, or double back, turning a short crossing into a slow, freezing crawl. The frigid air gnawed at him in this fragile body; he had to get inside, and fast.

He pushed on toward a squat building that pressed against the castle proper.

Sliding under the door, he found himself in the kennels. Six sled dogs shifted and whined in the straw, chains rattling as they caught his scent. A boy of eight worked nearby, fussing with tack and rope, bundled in a patchwork of pelts against the cold.

Thel didn’t need to see the steam of the dogs’ breath to know how bitter it must be for the child. The sight pulled him back to his own chores in the family shed, hands raw from work and cold alike.

He shook the memory off. Leaving the boy and the unease behind, he scuttled for the keep.

Up a wall, across the roof of the great hall, he entered the kitchen. Two boars turned slowly on a spit. Mere and an older woman worked at a bench, hands busy with vegetables piled high.

The smell of the roast hit him like nothing he’d known before. His spider hunger was not the ache of an empty belly, but a raw pull in his limbs, an urge in his mouthparts to bite, to drink. The rich scent of fat and meat confused it, twisting the need into something new and unbearable.

Another wall, another door. He slipped through to the servants’ quarters, where Hu sat in low conversation with an older woman.

Panic pressed now, the magic was waning. Time’s running out. If I had Owly this would be easier. No time for that now.

He scrambled back across the courtyard, through the mire, climbing the right tower once more. His leg hairs were wet and heavy, and the cold had soaked into him to the core. He couldn’t last much longer.

On its second floor he found the armoury again. The spell ebbed, and Thel straightened into his own body.

He stamped his feet, forcing blood into stiff limbs. The memory of the roasting boars clawed at him, fat crackling in his mind until he could almost taste it. Then came the grim realisation — his pack, with what little food he had, was still with the others. He cursed under his breath.

I’m going to starve to death or freeze to death.

He knelt at the chest, shoving food from his mind — though against his better judgement, a flicker of hope whispered through him: spiced sausage, a bottle of red wine, even a crust of bread.

Instead, only straw.

He dug deeper, claws scraping until glass glinted beneath. Six vials of alchemist’s fire, liquid red and angry in the dim light. He gathered them quickly, heart still racing from the climb and the memories that clung to him.

---

A bell chimed through the stone, low and heavy. Dinner.

Miquitzil, Raine, and Felwar were escorted from their tower to the hall, the Blacksword leading them without a word. They found space together at a long bench.

Around them the guard company gathered. Some came straight from their posts; armour still crusted with snow. Others were due on duty but filled their bellies first. And some never appeared at all, scattered through the castle, keeping watch on the walls, or asleep where they’d dropped.

Hu was already on the bench beside Felwar, his eyes downcast, fingers tapping at the wood. It was clear he had something to say, but the words sat heavy in his throat. Felwar leaned toward him, breaking the silence with an easy tone.

“So, Hu, how are you enjoying life here?”

The dinner bell’s final toll still hung in the air when the doors to the kitchen swung open. All heads turned.

Servants hurried in with two massive platters, each bearing a whole boar roasted to crackling perfection. The smell of smoke and fat filled the chamber, and the hungry murmur of the guards rose into cheers. Knives flashed as the carcasses were set upon trestles. The servants carved, stacking thick slices of meat onto wooden trenchers before passing them down the benches.

A moment later others followed from the kitchen, heaving heavy trays brimming with roast vegetables, beets, carrots, parsnips, their edges blackened and sweet. Turnips and greens were ladled on alongside, the scent of herbs and charred root mingling with the rich smell of pork.

Two Blackswords followed with a cask, walking steady down the line and filling tankards with a dark, bitter ale. Foam sloshed over the rims as they moved, the smell sharp and yeasty.

Felwar, Raine, and Miquitzil were no different from the rest; the sight and smell dragged their hunger to the surface, reminding them how long it had been since they’d eaten properly. They dug in with the same rough eagerness as the soldiers around them.

Raine tore into a slab of meat, grease running down his chin. Talking around a mouthful, he smirked. “Thel is really missing out.”

Miquitzil caught the sleeve of a servant girl as she passed with a tray. “You got any eyeballs back there?” he asked flatly.

Her eyes went wide. She bobbed a clumsy bow, not sure she’d heard him right, and hurried toward the kitchens.

Miquitzil called after her, voice carrying over the benches. “Testes? Penis?”

She didn’t look back.

Miquitzil shrugged and tore into a rib.

At last Hu spoke, his voice low but steady, words thickened by the food in his mouth. “My place isn’t in Bremen anymore. It’s here, with the Black Swords. I’ve found a new family, a new purpose. Levistus gave me another chance when I should’ve frozen to death on the tundra. I won’t throw that gift away just to sit by my mother’s hearth like a frightened child.”

His eyes shifted to Felwar. “How d’you know my mum? She wasn’t one to go spilling her worries to strangers. You from the Dale, or from the south?”

Felwar set down his knife and picked up a bone, turning it in his hand. “Stayed at the tavern. There was a murder — an ice‑sword, and we somehow got tangled up in the aftermath. The four of us ended up in her place, your place, and she looked after us. I could see she was overworked, carrying more than her share. So, I asked. People tend to open up to me.”

He bit down and ripped meat from the bone with his perfect teeth.

Hu snorted, half bitter, half amused. “Figures. She still thinks I’m meant to be back there, hauling stew and scrubbing tankards till my hands crack. I’m not. Not ever again. I got given a second chance, and I won’t waste it fetching drinks for drunks. Here, I’m learning. Getting stronger every day. Strong enough to protect Ten‑Towns when the time comes. Levistus wants the best for us. You’d do well to listen when he calls.”

His expression softened a fraction. “But listen. I appreciate you coming all this way. You risked your necks for me, and that counts. So let me give you something in return.”

Felwar kept chewing, grease shining on his square chin. He lifted his brows, meeting Hu’s eye, a wordless nudge for the boy to go on.

Hu leaned closer, voice dropping. “Heard it from an old whale‑oil hauler — one of those grizzled loners who trade with the Ice Hunters.” He jabbed a fork in Miquitzil’s direction. “Came into the tavern once, drunk and maudlin. You know the type. Swore he’d seen her — the Dark Duchess. Past the seabird cliffs, the ones where thousands of birds nest, stinking and screaming all summer. You know it?”

Felwar shook his head, a grunt slipping out around his mouthful. “No.”

“Not hard to find. North of there a few miles, then four or five hundred yards west, off the shore, trapped fast in the ice. Masts sticking up like black spears. Crew frozen stiff, coin and rum still in their fists.”

Felwar blinked, catching up. “The Dark Duchess… it’s a ship.”

“That’s what I’m tellin’ ya.” Hu picked at the food on his plate but didn’t eat. “Me and Jethrod, we were gonna go. Empty her belly, come back rich men. But then Jethrod got hurt, dove into a hot spring he’d gone into a hundred times before, only some prick had left a barrow wheeled in there. Broke his neck. And I wasn’t game to do it myself.”

Hu’s hand tightened on the bench. “That was before… before Levistus saved me.”

He looked back at Raine, gaze steady. “So maybe it’s yours now. You find her, take what you can carry. Just… spare a generous cut for me Ma. And any rum you haul for her place. She’ll need it to keep the bar wet.”

Felwar nodded slowly, lifting his tankard. He took a long draft of the bitter ale, eyes fixed on Hu over the rim. At last, he set it down, wiping the foam from his lip. “What can you tell me about this Duchess?”

Hu shook his head, then gave the slightest nod. “Not much, truth be told. Only what the old man said. She was a pirate ship — ran her trade up and down the Sword Coast, out of Luskan. Don’t know more than that. Didn’t need more. Pirate ship, locked in the ice, belly full of treasure. Waiting.”

Raine’s gaze sharpened. “That’s mighty kind of you, Hu. Tell me — you told anyone else about this?”

Hu shook his head. “Not a soul.”

Miquitzil nudged Raine and Felwar, tipping his chin toward the far end of the hall. Kadroth had entered with Kortha at his shoulder, the Black Swords parting to let them pass. Hu slid aside at once, leaving space across from the Brave Hearts.

Kadroth lowered himself onto the bench with an easy smile. “The meal to your liking?”

Felwar gave a polite nod. Raine kept chewing, offering nothing.

Miquitzil, mouth full, muttered, “Plate’s missing the good bits — eyeballs, fat, the chewy parts.”

For most, the feast was near perfect.

Kadroth’s eyes flicked to him, and he gave an apologetic smile. “Next time, perhaps.” Then his focus shifted to Raine. “So. You’ve seen the Caer. You’ve spoken with Hethyl, with Avarice. Have we done enough to persuade you to stay?”

Raine swallowed, dabbing his chin with the back of his hand. “I have commitments. I’ll be leaving at first light.” He gave a crooked half‑smile. “Well… what passes for morning here.”

Kadroth’s brows lifted. “Commitments?”

Raine only shrugged.

“What commitments could outweigh this?” Kadroth pressed. “Whatever chore draws you away pales beside what is at stake. These others can go and do your errands. They are of no concern. You belong here — to help prepare these men, to take your place where Levistus’s gaze has already fallen.”

“I must go,” Raine said. “I have decided.”

Kadroth’s smile held, though the steel beneath it showed. “In all my years, never has one chosen by Levistus turned from such an offer. Do you understand? You have the attention of a ruler of hell, a powerful ally — one any wise man would think carefully before refusing.”

Raine set his tankard down, meeting Kadroth’s stare. His words came slow, uneasy, but they held.

“I mean no rudeness. Not to you, not to Levistus. I am a private man, and I have a private matter to see to. Fate brought me here once. It will bring me back again, when the time is right. And when I return, I’ll do what must be done.”

The double meaning was not lost on Kadroth. His eyes narrowed; he was no naive man.

He leaned back, his voice still smooth, but louder now, carrying across the benches. “Fate indeed… but know this: men do not often catch Levistus’s eye. It is a rare thing, and rarer still for it to linger. You speak of leaving but think what you abandon. The duergar are stirring below, the Frostmaiden’s curse above, and between them Ten‑Towns withers. The Speakers squabble like children while people starve. Ten‑Towns needs someone willing to stand. Someone marked.”

He leaned forward, his hand resting lightly on the table. “Here is your chance, Raine. With the power already laid at your feet, you could lead these men, forge them into the shield that holds when all else breaks. You could be the hand that spares thousands from fire and hunger.”

The hall was silent. Knives hovered, ale sloshed but untasted. Miquitzil shifted in his seat, uneasy. Felwar’s hand curled against the bench, knuckles white, eyes already mapping the exits.

Kadroth spread his fingers on the table, deliberate, every eye on him. “Stay, and that future is yours to seize. Walk away, and it may never come again.”

Raine let the words settle. He lifted his tankard, took a slow measured sip, and set it back down.

“I hear you,” he said quietly. “But fate will bring me back here when I am needed — as it brought me here now.”

Kadroth’s jaw worked, but he mastered his expression. His final words came soft, almost courteous.

“Then tonight, think long and hard. I trust you will see reason in the morning.”

The silence in the hall remained, brittle as ice.

---

“I’m leaving. And I mean now. Tonight.”

Miquitzil was already stuffing his pack, wedging stolen chunks of roast boar into pouches and tins.

Felwar gave a grim nod. “Hard to argue with that.” He looked at Raine. “I don’t want to be here in the morning when you tell Kadroth ‘no’ again. He hides it well, but I saw it. He was pissed. Might be telling Levistus that you are not his dutiful servant, even now.”

Raine’s jaw tightened. “I’m with you. I don’t want to stay the night either. Let’s go.”

They gathered their gear in haste. Miquitzil tilted his head back toward the rafters, calling softly to the owl. “We’re leaving. Now. Tell your master.”
The familiar only blinked. Miquitzil shrugged and slung his sack.

Together, Miquitzil, Felwar, and Garret slipped from the tower. Raine, last to leave, held the door long enough for the owl to dart out — a white blur vanishing into the night.

Outside, the Blacksword on watch stiffened. “What’s this, then?”

“We have to go,” Raine said evenly. “The sooner we go, the sooner I can return.”

The guard frowned, uncertain, but did not challenge him. He turned and strode toward the keep, pace quickening into a run.

Garret was already at the sleds, barking orders as he fought with the harnesses. The dogs, well rested, strained and jostled, yelping to be loosed across the snow. The Brave Hearts matched their impatience, fumbling with ropes and traces under Garret’s sharp gestures — “That buckle! No, the other strap! Hold him steady!”

Boy leapt in excitement, nearly bowling Raine into the icy mud as he wrestled with a buckle.

“Sit. Stay. Whatever,” Raine grumbled, shoving the big dog aside.

Boy barked once and bounded off toward another of the team.

The inner gates groaned open. The first portcullis clanked upward, chains rattling in the cold. The second had only begun to rise when a voice split the courtyard.

“What’s this?”

Kadroth’s voice boomed, echoing off the stone. He strode forward flanked by Kortha and four Blackswords, two still buckling their armour in haste.

Raine drew a steady breath and stepped forward. “I gave your words due consideration, Kadroth. You are right — Caer‑Dineval matters, what you are building here matters. The sooner I leave to finish my commitments, the sooner I can return and explore my place here. I will go now, see my duty through, and come back when the time is right.”

Kadroth halted before them, breath quick but masked beneath composure. His silence alone carried weight, and soon every one of the companions was facing him. Only Garret kept working, leather straps creaking as he tied down the last packs.

High above, a winter owl clung to the ramparts. On its leg, a spider crouched, silent and watchful.

Kadroth inclined his head slightly, voice pitched low but carrying across the courtyard. “I see. You’ve chosen against my counsel. Then hear this: a caution for your safety, for ours, and for all the Dale. Do not be hasty in carrying tales to the other towns. Tales that we are some lurking menace, or that Caer‑Dineval itself has become a danger. What good would it do? If the Speakers rouse their folk to march against us, they strip strength from their own walls, leaving their people vulnerable where it matters most. And to what end? To spill blood here, while the true peril — the duergar — gather their strength beneath the ice?”

He let the weight of his words settle before continuing. “You are travellers across these lands. Surely you know Ten‑Towns cannot afford such extravagance in lives.” His hand brushed at his waistcoat, fussing away an invisible wrinkle.

“Now, if, as Trovus requested, a Speaker’s summit is called and Avarice remains unmoved, then Raine, you will speak in our stead. Or you, Felwar, our silver‑tongued envoy. Say only what we have agreed, nothing more. Do not overreach. Do not promise what you yourselves cannot deliver. And if they press, remind them of this: Caer‑Dineval will do what is right for its people, and for the Ten‑Towns.”

Boots crunched across the snow. From the base of the nearest tower, a figure emerged, broad‑shouldered, hair wind‑tossed, eyes locked on Felwar.

Brince.

He closed the distance with heavy steps, gaze sweeping over the Brave Hearts before fixing hard on Felwar. His voice was low, but it carried. “You’re leaving. Where’s my brother?”

Felwar’s attention snapped from Kadroth to the Blacksword. His shoulders tightened. “He… had a disagreement with Avarice.”

Brince’s jaw set. “He’s dead, then?”

Felwar shook his head quickly. “No. Banished.” He caught the flicker of shock on Brince’s face and added, “I’m sure he’s fine.”

Before more could be said, Kadroth’s voice cut back in, pulling Felwar’s focus away.

His gaze shifted, fixing on Felwar and Miquitzil. “And you would do well to remember this: a favoured of Levistus walks with you. Common folk, unwise in such matters, would be fearful if they heard such things.”

He straightened, his voice carrying like iron across the courtyard. “Go, then. But heed my words. Let Caer‑Dineval heal itself, and prepare for what comes, in privacy. Do not endanger the good being done here, for the sake of all Ten‑Towns.”

The gates stood open now, chains rattling as the last portcullis rose. The dogs yelped and strained in their harnesses, Garret braced at the reins, ready.

Raine gave a curt nod. “It’s been… interesting. Until we meet again.”

Felwar added smoothly, “Please pass our regards to Speaker Siever. We hope to meet him next time.”

From the shadow of the keep’s doors, Mere watched. Torchlight caught her face, pale and drawn, her expression a mask of sorrow as the Brave Hearts’ sled slipped through the gates and into the waiting night.

The Brave Hearts chewed up the miles, lanterns swinging from the corners of the rented sled and casting long beams across the snow‑choked road. Garret held the reins with confidence. Where Raine or the others might have slowed, Garret never faltered. He knew this road. Within minutes, Caer‑Dineval was only a shadow, swallowed by the dark.

Two hours later, Felwar’s eyes narrowed. His eldritch sight pierced the gloom where mortal eyes failed. Shapes ahead, two wagons stalled on the road. One lay tipped on its side, half‑buried in snow where the ox had fallen in its traces. The other still stood, its beast frozen upright, hide locked in place by leather, ice, and death. Around them the snow was churned and trampled, the only scars in a field otherwise white and pristine.

“Garret. Stop.”

The sled shuddered to a halt, lanterns swaying, their glow pushing only a narrow bubble into the black. Thin flakes drifted in the frigid dark, settling over the road. The world was silent but for the rasp of dogs’ breath and the faint jingle of harness. The team strained against their traces, sides heaving, tongues lolling, still desperate to run. Steam curled from their muzzles as the Brave Hearts stepped down, boots crunching in the frozen crust.

Garret leaned forward, voice low. “What is it? What can you see?”

Felwar raised a hand, pointing ahead, then glanced to Thelonius — who needed no further instruction. The druid’s eyes clouded as Owly launched into the night, wheeling through the falling snow to sweep low over the wagons.

Through Owly’s sight Thelonius saw what the others could not: a man, bare‑chested in the killing cold, coat knotted at his waist. Tattoos writhed across his skin, strange black symbols without meaning. He strained at the lid of an iron‑bound chest, every ragged breath steaming in the night.

“There’s someone in that second wagon,” Thelonius whispered. “Fucker hasn’t got a shirt on.”

Raine’s eyes narrowed. “Undead?”

Thelonius shook his head, still locked into Owly’s sight. “No… he’s breathing. Trying to pry open a chest.”

Felwar crept a few paces ahead, boots careful on the frozen crust. He glanced back over his shoulder, voice low. “Bodies. I see three… maybe more.”

“Four dead,” Thelonius said quietly, still owl‑eyed. “Human males.”

Raine grunted. “Then this one probably has answers.” Steel rasped free as he drew his sword. The hiss filled the silence.

They fanned out — Felwar and Raine angling left, Miquitzil and Thelonius moving right. Boots crunched in the crusted snow.

Movement. The bare‑chested man’s head rose suddenly, pale skin etched with frostbite. A Reghed tribesman, human, unmistakably so, though far from his northern hunting grounds. Black tattoos wormed across his flesh, and in his hands a massive flail, its head carved from jagged chardalyn.

With a sudden jerk he smashed it down against the chest. The impact rang out as a grinding crack, stone on iron, carrying through the still night like a broken bell.

Felwar found his voice. “Hello there?” he called, forcing the words deep and steady, projecting strength though his legs felt weak.

Raine advanced, blade high, but held his ground, unwilling to close while the man loomed from the wagon bed with the high ground. Felwar slid further sideways, circling to flank. To the right, Miquitzil and Thelonius pressed in more cautiously, their boots grinding in the crust as they kept distance.

Their eyes had adjusted to the dark now. The man’s eyes rolled white. His jaw clacked open and shut like a starving beast. Frostbite had eaten his cheeks, blackened his fingers into claws, hollowed his nose into a pit. Then he howled, a torrent of words in no tongue known to Ten‑Towns. Madness given voice, raving to something vast and unseen, a power only he could hear.

Raine edged closer, sword ready, torn between striking first or holding. “Okay, then. It’s going to be like that, is it?”

Felwar had no such debate. He lifted a hand and loosed. A tiny seed of golden light spiralled from his palm, glowing faintly as it cut through the snow. It struck the tribesman’s chest and burst in a concussive flash of force and brilliance.

The berserker’s head snapped toward Felwar, eyes rolling white. His jaw clacked like a beast scenting prey — and with a sudden howl he vaulted from the wagon. Snow erupted under his bare feet as he hit the ground running, the chardalyn flail sweeping in a wide, black arc. Raine stood nearest, blade ready, but the madman never even glanced his way; his gaze locked solely on the warlock.

Thelonius had been ready, stars flickered across his hands, but his spell burst wide, scattering against the wagon’s edge. Sparks hissed in the snow.

Felwar thrust out his palm again; another seed of summer light slammed into the berserker’s chest. The man shrieked, not slowed, not turned aside, and kept charging.

“Arghh!” Raine roared, moving to intercept. Too late.

The tribesman crashed into Felwar, flail already arcing down. The chardalyn head smashed into his ribs with a sickening crack, swung back, struck again. Each blow thundered through bone and sinew, lifting Felwar from his feet and slamming him into the snow. Breath fled his lungs; blood steamed as it hit the frozen air.

Desperate, Felwar conjured his blade and slashed. The strike cut shallow, but radiant energy flared along the wound, lighting the frost‑ravaged face in stark relief. Hot blood hissed as it spattered the snow.

Felwar blanched, cheeks eaten by frostbite, fingers blackened to claws. “What the hell are you?” he gasped.

The berserker only howled and swung, gathering momentum.

Miquitzil raised his hand, voice low. A blade of shadow formed, black and crackling with frostlight. He marked the foe and hurled. It struck true, radiant power burst through the wound. The berserker staggered but his gaze never left Felwar.

The madman bellowed, that alien tongue spilling again. The flail came down, smashing into Felwar’s shoulder. The force drove him to one knee, vision swimming, stars bursting at the edge of sight.

He twisted aside as the next sweep hissed past, narrowly dodging the killing blow, but the third caught his thigh in a brutal glancing strike. Pain lanced through him and he screamed, the sound tearing the night.

Thelonius called down starry motes, but the berserker ducked low; the magic scattered harmlessly across the churned road.

Raine rushed in, blade flashing. Steel bit deep into the tribesman’s side, blood spraying hot across the snow. He hardly flinched. Wild eyes never left Felwar. With a guttural roar he pressed forward, flail spinning high, jagged chardalyn poised to crash down upon the warlock.

Felwar’s breath came ragged, each gasp a stab of fire. Blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic. With trembling strength, he raised his blade for one last strike. It cut deep; radiant energy seared the wound.

The tribesman staggered, slowed for a heartbeat, then raised the flail again, black stone catching the faint lantern light as it came down for the kill.

The flail rose.

In a shimmer of silver, Felwar vanished. Mist swallowed him whole, yanking him out of reach. He reappeared yards away, hunched and bleeding, but alive.

The berserker howled in frustration, twisting to follow, then focused on Raine. That hesitation was all the others needed.

Miquitzil’s blade of shadow sang through the air, slamming into the tribesman’s chest. The radiant burst drove him back.

Raine followed, sword cutting in a perfect arc. Steel tore through skull and throat. A geyser of steam erupted from the wound, curling into the snowy sky before fading into the falling flakes.

The tattoos along the man’s body dimmed and stilled. His flail slipped from blackened fingers. He crumpled into the churned snow between the wagons.

Silence returned, broken only by the ragged panting of the dogs and the hiss of snow settling on the corpse.

Felwar stumbled back to the sled and slumped into the furs to gather his breath. Blood still flecked his lips as he filled Garret in on what had happened.

The others moved to the wagons. Snow crunched under their boots as they read the scene. From the prints, Raine and Thelonius pieced together a story: larger tracks, heavy, deliberate, had done the killing. Which way they’d gone was lost to drift. Later, smaller prints showed scavengers picking through the wreck. And finally, the berserker’s own circles, pacing and pacing around the wagons.

Thelonius called Felwar over to the chest, even as Raine muttered one of the bodies might still have the key. Felwar shrugged. “I don’t mind. Practice keeps my eye in.” Minutes later the lock gave way. Inside, wrapped in stiff burlap, lay bolts of dyed fabric, colours dulled by frost but still valuable, a tidy sum to the right buyer. At the bottom lay a cracked silver hand mirror, its tarnished surface catching a shard of lantern light.

“Maybe twenty‑five gold,” Raine said, flat.

While Raine and Felwar bent over the chest, Thelonius and Miquitzil turned to the fallen tribesman. Thelonius, most versed in flesh and bone, crouched low and set to work with practised hands. He pried open blackened fingers, pushed aside lank, frost‑stiff hair, lifted patches of ruined skin with the tip of his knife. His stomach turned. This body had endured the cold far beyond what any man should; another would have been dead days earlier. Beneath the pallid flesh the veins ran dark and ropey, branching like cracks through ice. Across the arms and shoulders raw lesions marred the skin, angry welts where the chardalyn flail had rested. Not ordinary frostbite. Something deeper had threaded itself through the tissue, a corruption that had reshaped him from within.

Beside him, Miquitzil crouched over the weapon half‑buried in snow. The flail gleamed faintly though no lantern‑light touched it. A shimmer clung to the stone, perceptible only to arcane sight. Miq whispered a word and felt the air recoil, as from a wound. No mere weapon. Magic oozed from it, slick and malignant, stinking of the Abyss. The lesions, the madness, the inhuman endurance, all of it tied to this same poisoned source.

When their findings were shared, Raine stepped forward. Without a word he seized the flail, holding it at arm’s length as though it might bite. Jaw set, eyes hard, he walked forty paces into the dark, boots loud in the hush, then heaved the thing with all his strength. The chardalyn arced away and vanished into the snow, swallowed by the night without a sound.

They stood over the dead in silence. In the end, it felt wrong to leave them. Thelonius produced two flasks of alchemist’s fire; soon the corpses were burning. Flames licked high, casting long shadows and illuminating the junction, one road east toward Easthaven, another west to Bryn Shander, and the frozen track back to Caer‑Dineval.

They watched in silence for a time, the fire’s crackle loud in the still night. One by one they turned to Garret and the waiting sled.

As the dogs leaned into the traces and the lanterns swung back into the dark, Felwar glanced over his shoulder. His eyes lingered on the two massive oxen, stiff and black against the firelit snow.

“At least the predators will eat well tonight,” he murmured.