Biting cold knifed through where the canvas hung open. The air was sharp and clear, as was expected at this early hour of a winter morning. Christofer swung his legs over the edge and dropped down. His joints protested, shoulder stiff, ribs tight. A hiss of warmth, a hiss of pain. He wasn't sure where one stopped and the other began, but nothing outright failed him. That alone felt like a small mercy. The gecko lingered on his shoulder, its wide eyes tracking movement above the walls and along the battlements. Snow whispered a crunch underfoot, thin and dry, disturbed only by the wind, boot prints and wagon ruts from the night before.

  “Deeper footprints in the snow. They’ve armored up. Patrols have changed, six o’clock, two o’clock, nine o’clock” its voice rippled out. “Routes shortened. Torches tripled. Only a quarter of the men actually face inward.”

  ‘That’s not a good sign,’ Christofer thought back in reply, scratching his chin with his hand, absentmindedly tugging at his beard in a thinking motion.

  Christofer’s eyes moved over the area as they crossed the bailey. A knot of soldiers stood near the inner gate, speaking in low tones. Others watched from the battlements, silhouettes broken by crenellations. They passed the smithy. Its forge was cold, an anvil sitting idle beneath a rime of frost. Tools lay where they’d been dropped, half-cleaned.

  “No soot in the air. No warmth. Abandoned in a hurry.” the gecko’s voice rippled out again.

  Christofer agreed. Efficiency had taken over, like adrenaline, the fortress felt like a held breath, like a machine that whirred into action, its residents sleeping in shifts. Windows were dark. Smoke curled lazily from only a handful of chimneys.

  The captain was already mounted. His breath came out in controlled plumes as he surveyed the men assembling. He sat on his horse near the well, a helm tucked under one arm, speaking in low tones to a pair of unfamiliar men. Not Varang. Their armor was cleaner, thicker, more expensive-looking. Their cloaks bore no insignia Christofer recognized, although he didn’t recognize many. They were shrouded in plain gray wool, travel-worn but cared for. When the captain noticed Christofer approaching, he stopped mid-sentence.

  “You look like shit,” he said without preamble.

  “I feel like shit. Good morning to you too.”

  “No fever?”

  The green pulse beneath Christofer’s skin answered, slow and involuntary, like something breathing in its sleep. He rubbed the cloth covering his arm as if to calm it down, although he wasn’t quite sure if it did anything. Christofer looked at it. Grimaced. He shrugged.

  “Hallucinations?”

  “Only the usual.”

  The captain grunted. One of the strangers glanced between them, brow furrowing.

  “This him?” the man asked.

  The captain's jaw tightened, just barely. A tell Christofer had learned to read over the past days. It meant complications.

  "Yes," the captain said. "This is the Norseman-"

  “Christofer.” he replied with a casual gesture. “Uh, hello.”

  The stranger's eyes tracked down from Christofer's face to his shoulder, lingering where the gambeson pulled taut over bandages. His companion shifted weight, hand drifting toward a sword hilt before catching himself. Not a threat. A reflex.

  "He's glowing," the first man said flatly.

  "He does that."

  “I do.”

  A pause. The stranger exchanged a glance with his companion. Something passed between them, unspoken. The second man gave a single nod.

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  "The contract stands," the first stranger said, turning back to the captain. "But we're adding hazard pay."

  "We already agreed on—"

  "That was before I knew he was fucking luminescent." The man's voice didn't rise, but it hardened. "The briefing said 'magic-touched.' It didn't mention he'd announce himself to every damn thing in the pass that hunts by light."

  Christofer felt the gecko shift on his shoulder, its tongue flicking out once before retreating.

  "Three silver more," the captain said. "That's all the lord authorized."

  "Five."

  "Four, and you get first pick of any salvage."

  The stranger considered this, breath misting in the cold.

  "Done. But if he sets us on fire, I'm billing the corpse."

  Christofer pulled his cloak tighter around himself. His body still radiated heat, but the cold gnawed anyway, slipping into places pain had loosened. He rolled his shoulder once. It complained, then settled.

  “What’s happening right now?”

  “You’ve been promoted from captive to bait.”

  “Bait? For what? I don’t want to be bait.”

  “Well, tough shit, I suppose.” The captain gestured to the others. “Ready the men.”

  Christofer was just about to reply when he felt a sharp gaze looking at him. He turned in the direction of what his instincts told him the gaze was coming from.

  * * *

  The Baroness stood at the arched window and watched the bailey churn back into motion. She sipped from a cup of mulled wine, untouched since dawn.

  “So that’s him,” she said softly.

  Beside her, an older man in layered robes shifted his weight.

  “If the reports are accurate.”

  “They usually are,” she replied. “When they frighten people this much.”

  She pulled the curtain closed, the red fabric blocking her view of the bailey, and turned around. A woman with a white wolven headdress, black hair and deep blue eyes kneeled on the floor. She looked up at the Baroness briefly, then lowered her gaze.

  “You called for me?”

  “That mercenary captain…” the Baroness said, “He seems to be lowborn, but something about him and his escort worries me… and I also have yet to determine who that giant is.”

  She pulled her mantle closer around her and looked at the kneeling woman on the floor.

  “He is a mystery… I want you to tail them,” the Baroness continued, “...and I permit extreme measures should the circumstances demand. Should you fail, you do not know me.”

  The baroness threw a coin pouch on the floor in front of the other woman.

  "As you will, my lady." the kneeling woman quickly pocketed the coin pouch.

  The baroness pulled the curtain and glanced back outside as soon as the woman left the room. Snow fell in sheets, only for the upper layers to be scoured away by the wind, to fall again and again, until it lay so thick, there would be no sight of bare ground until spring.

  * * *

  The captain pulled on the reins, the horse turned so he could face his gathered men while still staying mounted. A few murmurs rippled through the ranks.

  “Listen up," the captain yelled, billowing white smoke from his mouth. "As you all remember, our time to re-negotiate our punishment duty guarding that godforsaken place is coming up. Our ticket to freedom glows and occasionally detonates things, but enough about this madman. The Baroness has invoked right of emergency contract. I wouldn’t care if she wasn’t so rich and so powerful. She paid extra, that lady. But I digress.”

  “The assignment: In summary, people are vanishing,” the captain continued. “Not deserters. Not bandits. Locals. Vanish after dark. Blood trails that just end. No tracks. Nothing. Over there are the hired tracker and his brother, our guides, no names, just business."

  "There’s apparently a secret path via Giant’s Hand. Fastest route to Cerulean Keep. They know the pass. We don't. Just the intel alone is worth the job. Apparently it’s a tight squeeze. We leave the carriage here. But the norseman can barely walk, so we’ve covered that.”

  The captain gestured. The men parted aside, letting Halvar move past them from the stables. He led a horse, a rangy gray mare with suspicious eyes and frost crusting her mane.

  "This one’s for you," Halvar said, nodding at the mare. "Name's Gristle. She bites."

  Christofer looked at the horse with a complicated expression. The horse looked back with what could only be described as preemptive contempt. He cautiously reached for the saddle, a bit confused on what to do, his fingers brushing the leather, and the mare's ears flattened. Gristle snorted, a wet sound that steamed in the cold.

  “We move light. A half platoon. The veterans. Leave the wounded. We find out what’s happening or confirm it’s not our problem. Then we leave. The Order is days behind us at best. Hours at worst. Felman, Calder, you're rear guard. Ike, you're with me and the Norseman.”