Chapter 17

The Reidlyn Alps rise before me like wicked waves, crusted with pockets of permafrost that glaze bits of them in an eerie shine. The peaks are hidden by dollops of white clouds that stand out against the bruised evening sky.

I turn my lantern’s dial, inhaling the smell of scorched flint as it flares to life, holding it before me, scanning the imposing shadow of the Alps.

Heart in my throat, I nudge Ale into the swallow of darkness, snow crunching underfoot, the lantern casting us in a protective, flaming aura. The temperature drops so fast my lungs cease for a beat—like leaping into an icy lake.

No wonder the sprites refuse to come out here anymore. The ones that risk it probably freeze up and drop dead the moment they flutter past this very line.

It’s rare for even regular folk to step into the shadow of the Alps these days—the temperature too extreme, the risk of crossing a Vruk increasing by the year. A lot of the villages nearby have been decimated by them. Even the cashmere goat herders that dominated this terrain for centuries have been forced to shift their dwindling flocks to warmer, safer pastures.

Ale’s ivory coat is stark against the black, matching the naked trees that reach from the ground like bleached claws. Ears straining, I listen for anything other than the sluggish crush of every hooved footfall and the hollow wails of the wind.

Ale pauses, tossing his head, flared nostrils steaming as he snorts his protest before attempting to prance backward.

“Come on, boy. Stop drawing attention to yourself.” I nudge his sides, and he bucks, almost tossing me off the saddle. Tightening my legs and my one-handed hold on the reins, I growl, steadying the horse and nudging him deeper into the chill, past lines and lines of huge, sharpened rib bones staked in the snow.

Some are pointing toward the Alps, ready to impale anything that’s not paying attention as it charges into the feast of Ocruth. Some are pointing the other way, protecting Fryst from our own spill of ruthless mutts.

The latter are spotless—untarnished by the dried smears of black blood that paint some of the former.

A shiver crawls up my spine.

Hours pass of trudging through powdered eddies, blowing big puffs of white onto my stiffening fingers and wishing I’d dressed warmer, before I spot the first marker: a large, pronged tooth stabbed into a gnarled tree rising from the snow like a haggard limb.

I guide Ale through the otherwise invisible trail, counting down from thirty-five before a round stone much taller than me comes into view. Next to it sits a windowless, wooden stable, its roof heavy with snow.

I leap off Ale and lure him into the musty building despite his backward pull, trying not to think about the ingrained stench of death that haunts its innards. About the fact that it’s utterly void of life. I wrestle his reins around the worn post inside, dodging his prancing hooves.

“You’ll be fine,” I mutter, side-eyeing the blood splattered walls. “So long as you settle down.”

I stuff a slab of hay in the half-barrel used as a feeder, then dip a few strands into my lantern’s flame, using them to spark the others hanging about the space.

Ale pulls back, eyes rolling, and I brush a hand down his trembling withers in a failed attempt to soothe him. Can’t blame the poor fuck, but he’s not doing himself any favors. With all the snorting and squealing, he might as well be tolling a dinner bell loud enough to spill across The Stretch.

Sighing, I close the door on my way out, entombing him in its warm glow, hoping he’ll calm and bed down for some much-needed rest.

Trudging through knee-deep snow, I edge around the rock some believe was placed by the hands of giants. It’s so round and smooth and out of place amongst the otherwise level stretch of land only littered with the odd tree barely clinging to life.

I feel around its surface until I find the groove that runs down the side like a split seam. I kneel, checking over my shoulder every few seconds as I dig through a foot of snow by lantern light.

The tips of my fingers are numb, despite my thick gloves, by the time they scrape against the trapdoor embedded in the ground. I lug it open, peering into the throat of darkness. I give another quick scan of my bleak surroundings, then edge down onto the ladder in the hole, lantern in hand.

The rungs creak in protest with every booted step.

I leap onto the packed earth, the smell of beer and freshly fired meat smacking me in the back of the throat and making the muscles under my tongue tingle.

Or perhaps that’s—

Pausing, I draw deep, looking up the ladder I descended. Studying each rung.

I sniff again, untangling the butter-spice residue of Zali’s scent.

With a low growl, I charge down the tunnel until I reach another ladder, which I descend, then follow the narrowing corridor, its walls stabilized with inlaid bones. A crossbar supports the ceiling every few steps, but I still shiver at the thought of being buried alive.

The way finally opens to a large, smoky room with a pitched roof reinforced with pale wood beams, the space packed full of hollering, howling, yodeling men with filthy faces, chapped lips, and beards almost thick enough to hide them. Reeking of ale and wobbling on their feet, none of them seem to notice my presence.

Setting my lantern by the door, I swallow the smear of jealousy at their mindless states and study the throng.

The men are clothed in leather and fur in various shades of gray, boasting twine necklaces threaded with large Vruk teeth—mostly one or two, signifying a couple of years’ service. Only a handful of men flaunt more than that. Hardly surprising.

These men are paid in Ocruth and Rouste coin to maintain the traps that litter The Stretch and buffer the spill of Vruk back and forth across the Alps—a responsibility High Master Vadon doesn’t appear to be holding up on his side anymore.

It takes a certain savagery to survive here, doing what they do. Living the precarious life of a Moal.

You come, make your coin, and try to get the fuck out before the Alps chomp down on you.

I scan the crowd again …

She’s not here.

A haunch of hog spins over a nest of hot coals in the center of the room.

My stomach rumbles.

Walking forward, I remove my gloves and pause by the blistered feast, prying off a shard of crackle with my still-numb fingers, scanning the display of bestial skulls lining two entire walls. I pocket my gloves, still crunching through the well-seasoned treat and reveling in my first hot bite in days, when the sound of merriment lulls.

The messy crowd’s attention bores into me.

There’s the wisp of loosening blades, too soft to be heard by the average ears. If I were to scope the crowd now, they’d all be wielding weapons black and curved at the tips.

Talons.

“And who the fuck are you?”

I wipe my hands on my cloak, warming them by the flames as I look up through the wet, stringy hair hanging over my eyes. “I’m looking for a woman. Likely dressed in Rouste garb.”

“The ‘igh Mistress?”

The question comes from a stocky, weathered brute standing on the opposite side of the spit—red hair wild, hand lost beneath a thick, gray pelt broadening his shoulders.

I note the dark pall of his eyes. The vast collection of Vruk teeth hanging around his neck.

Hoarth.

I’ve heard of him—a Moal legend. No female or children to send coin home to. From what I hear, he does this shit forfun.

“That who ya lookin’ for?” Bushy brows bunched, he grates out, “That’s the only female in this shit ‘ole.”

Something inside me settles, releasing the line of tension that’s been strung across my shoulders since I left the camp days ago.

“That’s the one.” I reach for a mug on a table beside the spit, collecting sharp stares as I turn the barrel tap and help myself to a pour of frothy ale. “Where is she?”

I hear the sound of Hoarthresheathing his weapon, and turn to see him looking down his nose at me. “Out there.”

My movements still, mug halfway to quelling this deep, rooted thirst I’ve been cradling for days. “On the fucking Stretch?”

Hoarth gives a terse nod. “Tried telling ‘er the first night she came, we don’t stay out fixing the traps after sundown. She told me to mind me own business or else she’d lob off me cock with that pretty blade of ‘ers.”

I clear my throat, throw my drink back in three deep gulps that extinguish fucking nothing, then thud the empty mug on the ale-stained table. “Where is she? Exactly?”

“Skewers,” a man behind me bellows, and I look over my shoulder, marking his bleak, ruddy eyes and the scar slashed from ear to mouth.

Upper lip peeling back, I whip my head around. “The main thoroughfare?”

Hoarth shrugs. “She had that look in ‘er eye, lad.” He toasts the air with a hollowed-out Vruk tooth large enough to be used as a mug. “Bloodlust.”

I spin on my heel, heading back the way I came, snatching my lantern off the ground.

“Oi!”

Snagged to a halt, I turn in time to catch an airborne vial before it pegs me in the face.

I tip it from side to side, watching the thin, black brine slosh around.

Liquid bane.

I catch Hoarth’s eye.

“Just in case,” he says with a wink.

“Thanks,” I mutter, then continue on my way—that tension restringing across my shoulders, but so much fucking worse.

Skewersafter dark …

She should know better.