Of Mortal Dreams: Chapter II

Vara

Ashes. Ashes everywhere.

It was Vara’s first thought every morning. Ashes under her fingernails, on her dress, in her hair, her mouth, even her lungs. She opened her eyes, fixing her gaze on the low, stone ceiling of the room where she’d slept all her life. Through the cracks in the heavy shutters on her left, she could see that it was still dark outside, but that the sky was the fleeting, deep blue that came just before dawn. Her breath rose into the cold. Her chamber fire had gone out again.

She rose, swiveling her legs off the bed and pressing her feet to the cold floor. In two short strides she was at the window, a simple, square empty space, where the builders of the keep hadn’t put any stone. She pushed the shutters outwards and leaned on the rough sill, looking out over the keep from the most protected position, the tower. It was also the oldest part of the keep, the first thing to have been built on the enormous riverrock that made the land and people of Tor famous and difficult to defeat.

The sun was rising earlier and earlier. There were already signs of life in the great yard, where the vegetable garden lay, its neat rows just now beginning to sprout and turn different shades of green and yellow, some crimson for the cabbage, purple for the roottops. On the other side of the yard, the garden-hands, boys and girls whose well-off parents wanted them to live in the keep, were stumbling about, shoving each other playfully and already doing almost no actual work. That would change once the garden master arose. Both the fowl pen and garden abutted a crude, rock wall, which had a single gate in it. Its purpose was twofold—to keep the birds from running off when the keep gate was open for visitors, and to provide another line of defense in the case of an attack.

The wall around the garden and fowl pen had been built many years after the main tower had been constructed and, some years after that, a second wall. It was not quite a circle within a circle, but close. The old and new wall met about where the fowl pen and garden lay, making for a moon-shaped gateyard. There was a crude barracks at the far end of that where warriors and archers slept, in fewer numbers at the moment, but by about a hundred in times of war. If one ran at full pace from the tower, past the inner wall and to the front gate, one would be completely winded by the end. That made Torfell by far the largest keep in the Fen.

Torfell also boasted one of the only caths in the north. It was a long, stone structure built around a tree, where their ancestors had worshiped gods whose names were long-forgotten. The cath had no manmade roof, but was sheltered entirely by the tree itself and old, gnarled vines as wide as her thigh at the root. Every year at harvest, the faithful came from far and wide to remember those who had come before and to offer prayers. Of course, most came for the accompanying revelry in the village. Harvest had also once been a time to celebrate the peace between north and south, but even that was no more. No one south of the river flats would come this year, and maybe never again. The war had truly ruined everything.

Careful. Those were dangerous thoughts. Vara turned away from the window and, with practiced effort, away from her memories. Sharp footsteps struck in the hall outside her door. The castle was waking up, and so should she be. There was work to be done.

Bypassing the cold hearth and crossing the small room in a few steps, Vara pushed a weighty curtain aside, revealing a row of heavily woven dresses, all a trusty, dark grey. She yanked her nightshift over her head, dropped it on a nearby wooden stool, and pulled on a pair of thin underclothes. They were the finest thing she owned and had been procured from the village on the other side of the mountains—a gift from someone she pushed from her thoughts, even as she slipped the delicate pieces over her legs and arms.

The dress followed—shorter than what would be considered proper for most women, with intentional slits down both thighs, and at the backs of her legs as well. Ties ran down each side of the bodice, where extra cloth allowed for shifts in size and weight, especially around the bust. Of course, Vara had little to boast in that area and preferred them as tight as possible. Another set of the same ties started halfway up the middle of her chest. She folded the extra cloth behind the edges and tied each small tie, until the neck of the dress was shut just under her chin. She drew on a pair of heavy, close-fitting pantaloons made of wool. By a simple drawstring, she tightened them about her waist, under the dress, then flicked the dress back over them. Now, her legs were covered. The wool was rough, but it didn’t itch. Nothing could be worse than goathair.

She sat on the wooden stool and proceeded to address her feet. Stockings and knee high, soft necked boots, with leather ties to keep them up, followed. She tied them behind each knee, then folded the top edge of the boot itself over the tie, to keep those in place. Vara stood and stretched a bit, testing the ties, making sure they wouldn’t become uncomfortable. Few things were more annoying than being halfway through some errand, or exercise, and having to retie anything. And her companions for the day would be less than forgiving for such a simple error.

Before donning her leather jerkin, Vara took advantage of her mobility to put her hair in order. It was long, dark and unruly. If Haenor were here, she wouldn’t leave the room before a maze of sophisticated, warrior-worthy braids decorated her head. But Haenor wasn’t here, and Vara couldn’t count on her to always be there. If she had her way, Vara would have chopped it to the shoulder at the start of spring, but it would have made Haenor furious and would have given people one more reason to stare. Today, she braided it into a four strand braid that brushed between her shoulder blades. The method shortened it, made it easier to move and not get caught on something. Or by someone. 

Someone screamed. She stiffened and dashed to the window. But it was just the garden-hands in the yard, laughing at the flightless fowls. Still, her heart was pounding. Her palms tingled. She shook herself and closed the shutters too loudly. Stupid.

The war is over.

Hands, had it almost been a year? It had. She’d just had her twenty-first winter, and it had all happened the spring before that. It didn’t feel like that much time had passed. The war had settled in the very heart of Tor, heavy as a stone.

Don’t. Vara pushed those thoughts away as well and surmised darkly that, soon, there would be nothing she could think about. She would have to attend to every waking moment with endless vigor, if she were to avoid memories of a troubled past.

With a sigh, she slipped into her supple, over-long jerkin, closing the vest over her front, and hooking the front pieces together with leather ties. Like the dress, it too had slits, to allow for running, but the slits had wisely been placed at intervals opposite to those of the dress, for any stray arrows. This was her heaviest piece of clothing, weighing as much as her light shortsword, which she now slung and belted around her waist.

She had packed her hunting bag the night before and swung it over one shoulder, securing the single strap across her body tightly. It held rations for a couple days, a light woven blanket, bandages, and her favorite longknife—among other small things.

Far from being a burden, the array settled onto Vara’s shoulders with a comforting weight. In anything less, she felt utterly naked. Exposed. She tapped her chest, the strikes barely registering to the skin beneath, protected by layers of material. Her shortsword swung at her side, ready. She took a full breath, to the bottom of her lungs, the first of the morning. It was going to be a long day.

In her haste to put on her boots, she’d sat on her nightshift and flattened it rather pathetically to the wooden stool. She balled up the fraying sleep dress and threw it onto her crumpled bed, which she ought to make. Unlatching the chamber door, she stepped into the shadowed corridor and headed down the hall to the spiral stairs. She passed a maid and one of Yorian’s guests as she went.

The maid recognized her and scurried past with lowered eyes. En route to the latrine, the guest nodded and said something forgettable about the day ahead. Vara nodded back, pleasantly. By the time he left Tor, he would know better than to talk to her. Then he would treat her as coolly as everyone else did. It was only a matter of time.

Outside, the air felt less cloistering but she knew she wouldn’t feel free to breathe, that her shoulders wouldn’t drop and her neck wouldn’t loosen, until she was beyond the walls, beyond the village, in the forest. As safe as Torfell was from an outside attack, it was the attack within that frightened her—the attack of memories and failures that could not be forgiven. Vara pushed through the garden gate, ignoring the curious, childish stares of the garden-hands. They meant nothing by it and she didn’t blame them.

“Fey,” someone cursed, loudly, as she approached the barracks. “Not you.”

A man outfitted for several days of travel and hunting—not unlike herself—leaned on the far corner of the barracks. He had a head of short, copper curls and, as usual, was smoking the large pipe that he’d carved himself. Also familiar was the expression of contempt shrouded in pale smoke. He was thick and sure-footed, a true man of the mountains. The youngest son of a middling stone mason from a small village, he had clawed his way to become one of the seven warriors tasked with personally protecting Yorian, leading his hunters on days such as this and being his hand in battle.

“Leith,” she said, ignoring his displeasure at her presence.

“It’s beyond me why Osper allows this,” he sneered. “You put us all at risk.”

Vara rubbed her arms against the cold, not bothering to answer the jibe. If it had been earlier in the spring, she might have worn a full coat, but by midday it would be warm, especially with what they were up to. Dangerous as it was, she wanted to get going.

Wolf hunting.

The enormous beasts had started coming up and over the northeastern rim a couple years back, in ones and twos. But the easy meat of the bloody war had drawn them like flies, and now they liked it in the valley. A pack had made its home a two day’s jaunt north of them and was terrorizing the shepherds and hog keepers of Umber. Apparently, they’d torn through an entire herd of sheep, meaning less milk this summer and no lambs the next. As the largest and best-manned keep in the northern Fen, it was Tor’s duty to deal with it. Leith muttered something about her being a fool.

“Why are you here—to prove something?” He demanded, spitting at the ground but a little too close for comfort. “You can’t heal anymore and you’re a middling fighter at best. No hunt will change that.”

She didn’t look at him. “Good thing I’m a tracker.”

“And you’re not even the best at that,” he muttered. “I am.”

Her neck felt hot. Her temper reared. If she was a man, she would have punched him square in the face. But she wasn’t a man. She said nothing. They both knew that if Yorian hadn’t advocated for it and if Osper hadn’t conceded, she wouldn’t be here.

“When I’m head of the Seven, there will be no more of this,” he concluded. “I don’t care what Yorian says.”

Vara held back a grimace, feigning indifference. He probably would be head of the Seven. Osper was not old by any means, but he wouldn’t wait for that to happen before he began preparing his replacement. He would choose his successor and gradually take a lesser position. Oblen, his father, had done the same for Osper, many years back. It was just the way things worked. Right now, Osper was choosing between Leith and Edyen. They had both distinguished themselves, in the war against the southern Fen and in smaller border skirmishes, but also in peace time.

“I’ll have to visit the cath more,” she murmured. “And pray that never happens.”

He scoffed. “I doubt the Hands will listen to you.”

Damn it all, but he was quick. The door to the barracks opened and Osper walked out. He was a plain man, with a shaven head, a hawkish nose, and a lank, unremarkable figure. He was far from handsome, especially next to the ruddy verve of Leith. But seeing him fight was a thing of awe and he was respected by every man Vara knew. Yorian’s father had found him during the First War and brought him back to the north. He was edging towards forty winters, but Vara had often thought that she might consider marrying him. But she wouldn’t be his first choice.

“I see you two are getting along, as ever,” he mused, not looking at either of them as he pulled on a pair of fingerless gloves. “Vara, bring a bow.”

She was disappointed. “I'd rather the sword.”

“You're better with the bow,” he said quickly, stepping past her. “Get one.”

Leith glowered. Other members of the Seven—Dalyn, Jash, Tryler—filed out of the barracks as well and joined Leith. They all had spears and swords. One carried a net. They gave her cursory glances, sharing irritated looks. Leith was not the only one to dislike her presence, he was just willing to say it.

Unhappy, but not wanting to cause a scene that would end with her being forced to concede, Vara turned to enter the barracks’ weapons room. She ran headlong into Edyen and it threw her back a bit. He caught her by the shoulders and moved her to the side, so he could pass. He winked a blue eye, his floppy gold-brown hair giving him an ever-playful look. As much as Vara liked him, his lightheartedness didn’t lend itself to the kind of leadership people found so comforting in Osper. But how she wanted him to be head of the Seven. She needed him to be.

Please, Hands above, she prayed silently, entering the weapons room. Let Edyen be head of the Seven.

She found her favorite bow, swept up a full quiver, and strode back out as quickly as she could. Outside, the men had left the keepyard and were already trekking down the steep switchbacks that led up to Torfell’s gate. She caught up and fell in line. At the front, Osper looked over his shoulder but only cursorily. He didn’t really want her here either. Edyen, at least, gave her a smile and walked with her at the back.

At the base of the steep incline lay a narrow bridge that spanned the deadly river rapids—Torfell’s primary line of defense. A team of experienced hunters and common fighters had gathered and met them on the village side. As Osper and his team passed, they took up the rear, falling in just behind Vara and Edyen. She squirmed inside under their silent glares.

She couldn’t remember the last time she felt comfortable around people. She almost couldn’t remember who she’d been before the war. Happier, maybe.

“What’s wrong with you,” Edyen hissed quietly. “You’re tight as a bowstring.”

Vara took a breath. “Sorry.”

He glanced down at her. “Still wearing your sword?”

“Osper said bring the bow, not leave the sword.” She glanced over at him. He grunted and saluted some villagers. “Why aren’t you at the front? You have the rank.”

He sniffed, shrugging. “Why are you on this hunt?”

I need you to be head of the Seven, she wanted to say. Please make an effort.

But, of course, she didn’t. Neither ventured an answer to the other’s question.

It wasn’t long before the party passed through the bulk of the village and held right along the main road, heading north. The valley rose up before them, the northern mountains looming larger than usual, and dark clouds gathered in the east. As the road sloped upwards, and the roar of the river faded, the party came to an abrupt halt. Edyen stretched his neck to see what was happening. Vara didn’t bother. Amongst other women, she was tall. Amongst these men, she was not.

“Vara!” It was Osper, calling from the front.

Me?

“That’s you,” Edyen quipped. “Go.”

She jogged forward. She felt the distrusting gazes, the contempt hot on the back of her head, but she kept her back straight. But, with the way Leith looked at her when she came into view, she wasn’t sure which was worse. Osper’s keen gaze fell on her sword then flicked to her bow. He said nothing but didn’t look pleased as he beckoned them forward, separating them from the rest of the group.

“You two will run by the Feachway and take lay of the land,” Osper said, gesturing at the narrow path that afforded a better view of the valley. It curved up and around the western face, then rejoined the main road about a day and a half north of them. “Lord Selwiv sent across his ideas, but I want an assessment of my own.”

Leith knelt to retie one boot. “Vara can stay back. She’s not needed.”

“She needs to improve her tracking,” Osper replied.

“That’s true for everything she does.”

There was a moment of silence, long enough that it meant something. When Leith unfolded and saw Osper’s face, he nodded. Vara swallowed.

“Both of you seem to think my orders are requests,” Osper said, his voice sharp with authority. His eyes flashed a warning. “They are not.”

Leith twitched irritably. His silence was the best Osper could hope for. As much as Leith respected Osper, he wasn’t afraid to disagree with him on some things. And he did—especially when it came to Vara herself. But commands were commands, and Osper had been clear.

“Learn from him, Vara,” Osper ordered. Then, with cautious regard: “And watch yourself. This is dangerous work.”

For the first time, she felt almost guilty for insisting on this. Osper was truly concerned, a rare state for him. But Yorian had bent so many rules to give her a place among these men. She couldn’t turn back now. She set her shoulders.

“I know.”

Before she’d finished speaking, Leith took off at a surprising pace, practically diving into the western forest. Vara was an excellent runner, in good physical condition and had earned her mountain-breath, but Leith was angry at having to bring her and determined to make her feel it. The Feachway was less traveled, with some frightfully narrow stretches that had nothing but sheer face on both sides. The rest of it was rough and unbroken, and they had to scramble over fallen trees more than once. Before long, her insides and throat were burning. Every once in a while, Leith would stop to survey the lower valley. But it wasn’t long before Vara didn’t care what he saw.

She had thought today would be difficult, but it far exceeded her expectations. By the time the sun began to set—thank the Hands that made the mountains—she was nearly faint with exhaustion and her legs were going numb. In the gathering dark, she couldn’t keep her eyes on him and her eyes on the ground, so she chose the ground, leaping from one of his steps to the next. His strides were longer, so she had to take three for his two. She turned it into a kind of game, a way to distract herself from the pain. She was so focused that she ran into him the next time he stopped.

“Wake up, will you?” He let out an irritated breath. “We’ll sleep here and pick up at first light.”

Vara nodded, trying to pretend that she wasn’t utterly spent, and found a stone on one side of the tiny clearing Leith had chosen. They had reached one of the broader sections of the Feachway, where trees at least shielded them from the fall below. He built a low fire and they ate some of their rations by its light, in silence. It didn’t sate her. Even if she hadn’t just run all day and even if a veritable feast lay before her, it would do her no good. Everything tasted like ashes, now.

“So you do eat,” he muttered.

Vara looked up. Leith had pulled out his pipe. He tapped it against his knee.

“I’d have thought you didn’t need to anymore.”

Hands above, he won’t stop talking. She tucked the rest of her dried meat away and unrolled her blanket. She would get no peace. Sleep was the only answer.

“Why not just mop up a tree or two? It’s easier,” he went on. She smelled his pipe-leaf on the air. “Or better yet, why not me? I bet you’d like that.”

No one knew better than Vara how easy that would be. He smiled and Vara realized she’d been staring at him. She went back to bedding down, her mouth tight, her jaw clenched.

“That look—right there—is why I'll be keeping my knife ready,” he said, tapping his hilt. “You’ll not make ash of me.”

Hands, she had begun to hate him.

“You’re first watch,” she said, wrapping herself in her blanket and leaning back against the rock. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Because you won’t shut up.”

He didn’t answer.

Vara was awoken by the cold, to half frozen feet and ankles. Several hours had passed, based on the look of the stars. The fire had gone out and the moon had risen. Her breath rose, white and wispy. She blinked.

“Leith?”

A distant, keening howl rose over the trees. Her heart sputtered and began to race. Something moved in the shadows, from the corner of her eye, and her bowels nearly turned to water. But it was just Leith, with his back to her and his eyes on the valley below.

“They’re closer than I would have thought,” he admitted. “Towards the river.”

Neither Vara nor Leith slept the rest of the night, their eyes and ears peeled for any sign that they were in immediate danger. By the time the sky over the eastern mountains began to lighten, Vara was just happy to move. The first thing she did was to belt her longknife around her waist. The wind was unpredictable, but flurried east to west enough that Leith kept to their original course. When they passed a small mountain spring, he stopped and dug into the muddy earth. Vara stared, confused, as he began to smear mud on his clothes, skin, even in his hair.

“It will dull our scent, if the wind shifts,” he explained, shaking his head. “Have to wonder if you’ve ever really tracked.”

She had. Just not anything that could track her back.

Vara followed suit and eagerly added to her layer of mud whenever she came across soggy ground. They went at a slower pace compared to the day before, checking the valley below, and especially the bare hills or open fields. They never saw a wolf, but heard howls more than once and in different directions. As the Feachway veered east to rejoin the main road, frustration began to set in. They had still found no consistent wolf-sign. She knew this wasn’t normal when Leith began to mutter to himself.

Whenever he stopped, Vara would turn and look back the way they had come. There was never anything there, but she began to feel watched. It was after high-noon, when she turned forward again and found Leith kneeling in the middle of the path, crouched over a set of fresh tracks.

Vara came around and knelt across from him. They looked like the marks of a wolf, but something about them was wrong. She brushed her fingers along the indentations of one print and a twinge of warning shuddered through her. She’d been in enough peril over the last few years to know better than to ignore it. Without a word, she pulled her bow out and strung it quietly. Leith still hadn’t spoken. She glanced up to find him glaring warily at the tracks.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything. If the wolf was running, the nail bits would be deeper—see? Wolves pull at the earth at speed,” Leith muttered, sniffing and looking around. He wiped his face on the back of his sleeved arm and stood. “But the tracks are too far apart for a walking gait.”

Leith ventured nothing else and slowly followed the prints forward, past her. He was right. The tracks were deep, too, like a great weight had been on them, yet not large enough to belong to a fenwolf. And the prints themselves should have been uneven, based on the changes in terrain. But they were all perfect indentations. Strangest of all, the tracks followed the path itself. No fenwolf needed to do that. Vara lashed her quiver of arrows to her hip.

The sound of Leith’s sword unsheathing startled her. She whirled to face the way he’d gone. Brush snapped nearby. They’d reached a part of the Feachway that widened into a flattish clearing, and Leith’s gaze was fixed on the forest beyond it. Before she could ask what he was doing, several figures emerged from the trees. Vara recognized the twisted vines embroidered into their vests and breathed a sigh of relief. They were from Umber. Leith sheathed his blade again and spread his hands. It was an unusual gesture for him.

“Selwiv. We didn’t realize you’d be joining us on our hunt.”

Vara was surprised by the tense formality in his voice. She looked over the men from Umber again and realized that they were fitted for war, not hunting. Her relief turned to confusion then discomfort as more of them emerged from the forest. There were nine in total.

A middle-aged man stepped forward. Miurmod Selwiv would have been no worse than plain, but he had spent so long scowling at the world around him that he had become ugly. The outer tips of his eyebrows were permanently up, angling like two diving hawks. His eyes glittered angrily in deep, darkened sockets. The corners of his mouth were downturned, to such a degree that he looked to have pockets of skin on either side, under the frown. It reminded Vara of the mudflows and rockslides that deposited at the feet of mountains. The man chewed something blackish very slowly, still not answering.

“It’s our land, after all,” he finally replied. Then, sharper: “Though I see we’re not even important enough for Yorian to send his best.”

Vara blinked. She’d always heard Selwiv was a hard, unpleasant man, but hadn’t expected outright disrespect. Leith cocked his head.

“Lord Yorian values Umber equally among the northern keeps. We rejoin the party the day after tomorrow.”

That was a lie. Osper and the rest were closer than that. Leith would only lie if he was concerned about Selwiv’s intentions. Vara’s chest tightened.

“Your lord,” Selwiv corrected, sharp. “Not mine.”

His words sent a flush of fury over Vara’s face. Leith, hotheaded as he was, didn’t attempt to dispel either the confusion or tension. There was, of course, no confusion at all. The random howls, the strange tracks—it all made sense. This was a trap. The men of Umber had been hoping to catch a different quarry, but had watched Vara and Leith long enough to realize that they would have to settle. Selwiv’s gaze swiveled towards Vara and his eyes narrowed. A strange series of expressions passed over his dreadful face—curiosity, disbelief, fury, hatred, then cold calculation. She stifled a shiver and widened her stance to hide her shaking.

“Is that the so-called healer?”

Leith looked down at Vara, unperturbed to the untrained eye. But his hand had moved to his sword hilt. He scoffed lightly.

“Haenor? She’s no healer. She’s a tracker. Trainee—not even very good.”

Hands of the maker. He had lied again. They were in trouble.

A slow, cruel smile lifted Selwiv’s upper lip into a sneer and the group of men quickly flanked them, fanning into a practiced formation. At once, Vara felt the cloistering discomfort that came from being outnumbered and having enemies at your back. Her brief time in the war came rushing back, rippling from her toes to her head then back again.

Speed and accuracy and cleverness, Osper had always told her. They’re your best hope.

She angled herself so she could see the men at her back. They stopped edging closer. The ones with swords were larger types, so they would move more slowly, if only a little. One spearman looked a little wide-eyed. He was large but young, probably no more than fourteen, with a face similar to that of Selwiv. The men on either side of him stood just in front of him, shielding him without realizing it. He’d been placed at the back of the group. He was important. A young relation, she reasoned. She would go for him as soon as she saw an opening.

The spearmen wouldn’t throw their weapons at first, as it was always better to have one in hand than in the hands of an enemy, should you miss. But they would be among the first she needed to dispose of, as their weapons had a greater reach. The men with knives were smaller, faster, and the greatest secondary threat. The swordsmen would come in third. It’s how she would try to do it, anyways. She had to make a choice and hope it was a good one, because she had three clean shots, at best, before the enemy was too close for the arrows to gather the necessary speed to kill them. She had thirteen arrows in the quiver. She was very glad she’d strung her bow.

Nine.

But Selwiv’s left hand is wrapped and his fingers are purple. Infected.

Eight.

Four swords, three spears, a few long knives, no bowmen.

Good.

“Tell me,” Leith said to Selwiv, stepping so he and Vara were back to back. He drew his sword decisively. “Who were you hoping would fall into your trap?”

“Osper, of course,” the man grunted. “But we’ll settle for his healer. I hear she’s favored, too.”

Leith didn’t move. “I don’t like her any more than you do—”

“Then hand her over.”

“—but she’s under Lord Yorian’s protection and I serve him. She is going back to Tor.”

Vara glanced at the traitorous man. Selwiv’s his upper lip quivered with the force of his scowl. He drew his crude blade and pointed it at her.

“I’ll send it back in pieces.”

Fighting was a strange thing. The moments before always felt like an eternity, and the moments during like a lifetime crammed into a breath—perhaps because entire lifetimes were ended in mere breaths. Vara heard Osper’s voice in her head.

“Breathe. If you don’t breathe, you can’t think. When you can think, don’t think too far ahead. Just this breath. Then the next. And the next.”

Vara breathed deep, quelling her nerves at the imminent chaos. Most of the eyes were on the greater apparent threat, Leith. That would give her a chance to move but she would have to take every opportunity. And quickly.

“All men die,” Leith murmured at her back. It was the chant of the Seven. “We choose the time. We choose the place.”

He moved first and she followed, freeing her bow and an arrow from her quiver at the same time. Of the three crucial shots she needed to make, she missed the first. But those on either side flinched, and their hesitation gave her enough time to hit a spearman in the eye on the second attempt. His head snapped back.

Breathe.

On instinct, Vara swiveled and aimed for the young spearman. A swordsman dove in front. Her arrow hit him squarely in his fighting shoulder. He went down, screaming.

Breathe.

One knife wielder had moved faster than she’d expected. He filled her vision. She ducked. His knife sang overhead. Now level with his groin, Vara swung up into his crotch with the butt of her bow, pushing with all the force in her legs. He crumpled. She smashed his face with the heel of her foot, unsheathed her knife and buried it in his chest to the hilt. He wouldn’t rise.

Breathe.

Leith roared. She felt a spray of warmth on the backs of her arms and turned, fearing the worst. One of Selwiv’s swordsmen was on his knees, gripping his own, half-severed neck. Leith’s sword flashed in the sunlight. Beyond him, the line had broken. There was an opening. No one would be able to catch her. Vara was light of foot and suited to peak running. She could flee, gain some distance then shoot from the trees. But that was four on Leith. He might not last that long. She hesitated.

That hesitation was her second and greatest mistake. Something slammed into her back with a crunching crack, knocking the wind out of her and sending her to the ground. Her knife and bow flew out of her hands. She lay there, gasping, her vision swirling. Someone kicked her over. She reached for her sword but it was gone. Selwiv’s hideous face rose above her, her blade held in his unbandaged fist. His eyes were lit by a dark fire.

Someone gripped her braid—stupid long hair—and jerked her head to the side so hard that something popped at the back of her neck. Stabbing pain flooded her awareness. A hand pried at her face. A putrid stench choked her. Fingers were in her mouth, trying to grip her tongue. Selwiv’s bad hand.

“Your lying tongue,” he snarled, his spittle hitting her face. “In exchange for my daughter’s life.”

Now, she didn’t hesitate. Vara bit down as hard and as fast as she could, until the back of her jaw popped and her vision was split by stars. Rot filled her mouth. Selwiv bellowed and drew back, half-skinning his own festered finger. Her sword dug into the earth, nicking her shoulder instead of plunging into her neck. She grabbed the wrist of his sword hand and pulled it towards her, so he couldn’t lift it to stab her again.

The moment her hands touched him, a frightful thing happened.

She’d begun to call it the Hunger, an unbearable, endless hunger that had haunted her since the war. The swirling, bottomless darkness that ever lay in wait at the back of her mind, that she’d managed to smother for many months, now awoke with a vengeance. Unseen, it rippled down her arms and found Selwiv through the palms of her hands. Like a leech, it began to consume him. Intoxicating strength surged through her.

“Hands above,” someone whispered. “Save us.”

The plea jarred her awake. Selwiv’s eyes had rolled back into his head. He had paled to a ghastly grey. His mouth gaped silently, as if still frozen in shock. On either side, his own men were afraid to help him. Revulsion filled her.

Ashes. Ashes everywhere. Not again.

Vara managed to pull one hand away from his wrist. A knife was on his hip. She freed it and slipped it between his ribs, twisting it to the side to open the wound. Slippery, pulsing heat spilled out around the hilt and down her arm. He fell forward, dead before his weight began to crush her. She knew he was dead, because the Hunger slid back into the recesses of her mind. Resentful.

“Grandfather, no!” The young spearman and his remaining guardian lunged forward. “Witch! I’ll kill you!”

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t—Vara screamed from the depths of her soul. It was useless, of course. No one would stop for a scream. But she was still alive when her breath ran out. She looked around frantically, shocked that she wasn’t dead. Everyone had stopped, the men peering this way and that with wide, frightened eyes and shared terror. A single, solitary note still pierced the chaos. At first, she thought it was an echo of her own screech. Then she realized that it was a howl.

Another howl rose, short and aggressive, from the opposite direction and far too close for comfort. Someone cursed and the fear in the voice was unmistakable. It seemed the men of Umber had gotten their wish. Selwiv’s grandson and his keeper stopped, facing towards the forest, their hands shaking around their spears. Others tried to cover their wounds. But it was all too late. Trained by the war, the sounds and scent of battle had drawn them.

A ghostly flash of pale grey bounded into the clearing, long and muscular, its only defining characteristic the knife-like teeth, gleaming in an open maw. That fenwolf chose the man to Leith’s right, flattened him to the earth and tore into him, unbothered by the flailing sword. Enormous blurs of grey and mottled brown burst out of the trees, attacking the group of men with vicious snarls and nightmarish ferocity. Blood spray, torn flesh and sickening wails rose into the air. A horn blew but was cut short. The fear began to stop up her body. Vara shook where she lay.

“Move. I don’t care how. Move.” Osper’s voice echoed in her head. “Move.”

She slithered out from under Selwiv, her sword still pinned under him. She grabbed her bloody knife from the churned earth, and scrambled into the nearest bushes. But Leith—she turned to see an Umber man’s arm in one of the wolves’ mouths. There was a gruesome snap and a blood-curdling shriek as the bone broke. A hand grabbed her by the collar, yanked her backwards and swung her to her feet. She let out a strangled cry, only for Leith to clap a hand over her mouth and stop her from stabbing him. He gave her a furious look then released her and began to run, off trail and downhill. She followed.

Vara more or less tumbled down the slope. Pain beat through her like a drum, pulsing through her teeth and head. Fear alone propelled her. She slapped branches and clumps of swinging vinemoss out of her way as she went, her ringing ears tuned to the terror at her back, her eyes fixed on what she could see of Leith up ahead. The forest and undergrowth disappeared for one disorienting moment as she crossed the main road. Then, just as quickly, she was pushing her way through the forest again.

Behind her, the screams of the men fell silent. The howls took up again then grew louder. They were coming.

Vara’s throat scratched, her back burned and her insides roiled. Her mouth still tasted of Selwiv’s rotten finger. She felt faint and the damned forest floorrefused to stay level—or was that just her? The air grew thick and damp and a low beat rumbled through the earth. Her footsteps turned slick, not to be trusted. The groan became a roar. She shoved through the last layer of undergrowth and stopped, swaying over the river gorge.

She looked over. Leith was holding his side. His head and shoulder were bleeding, but he would live. Just long enough to be eaten, it seemed.

A buffeting updraft blew their hair back as they looked down, past the ragged edge of the drop off. Mist hid the bottom. If there were rocks, jumping would kill them. Even if there were no rocks, it might be far enough for water to feel like stone, which would also kill them. Vara couldn’t remember the maps well enough to know for sure. The howls grew louder. Staying would most certainly kill them.

“We have to jump,” she shouted.

“I know,” Leith bit back. Then, shaking his head: “I’m not much of a swimmer.”

“Me neither.”

It was a strange moment for her to get the distinct impression that she’d been here before. Not in this place exactly, but at this moment of decision, with something terrible behind and something just as bad up ahead. She blinked, unsure whether it was a memory, yet searching it for an answer as to what she’d chosen. The incoming pack yowled eagerly. Whatever she’d done before, this time she jumped.

Vara’s last sense of control was soft moss, squelching under her toes. She fell into the pale, crashing unknown without a sound. White-capped furrows of black water appeared, sooner than she had anticipated. She shielded her face, just before her body slammed into the surface. There was no time to scream.

Darkness folded over her. Cold gripped her like a vice and stole her breath. The current pulled her every way, except to the surface. Flotsam pummeled her body. The light began to fade. The roar began to quiet. A slow undercurrent sucked her down, beneath the rush, into blessed silence.

Vara. Not Osper’s voice. You have to breathe.

She hadn’t breathed. She had to breathe. She searched for the bottom with her numbing legs, pushed off and breached just before she had nothing left. She gasped, choking on water and frigid air. She was alive—for now.

But the river was beginning to smooth out and grow slick. Vara wracked her addled mind, trying to gauge where she was. The only answer was the worst one. She had to be by The Lord’s Cloak, a series of merciless cascades that had been swollen by the spring melts. For all her good fortune today, that was certainly where it would end.

She pulled herself onto a half-rotted log bobbing beside her and hung onto it with all the strength she had left. Ahead, a stunted tree leaned over the river, with a tangle of exposed roots at its base. She kicked her legs and paddled with one arm, until she thought she might be able to reach it. So cold she almost couldn’t think, she let herself get caught by the roots, lodged every limb she could between them, and watched as the log she’d been riding was taken away on the swift current. A column of mist rose up ahead.

“Thank the Hands,” she rasped.

A voice lilted over the rush of the river. Leith’s. Craning her neck, she could just see him. He was closing fast and on the wrong side. There was little time for him to change course. But he was trying to.

Vara locked her legs and ankles around one thick root, hooked one elbow around another and dared to free her other hand, extending it towards the center of the river. Leith had gotten within reach. He bypassed her hand, took hold of her wrist, and swept past her, yanking her arm behind her with his full weight. Something stretched then twisted then snapped in her shoulder. A new pain bloomed. She gasped, unable to speak. Overwhelmed and just trying to hold onto consciousness. So far, she was winning.

“What are you doing? Climb up!”

Leith was crouched on the sliver of a ledge above her. He could reach down. But he was probably afraid to touch her again. A reasonable fear.

“I can’t,” she slurred. Her free arm hung limp in the water. “I can’t.”

Using the collar of her leather jerkin once again, he dragged her onto dry ground. That hurt, too. They lay there until their breathing calmed. Leith sat up first. Except for a few bruises and scratches, he was fine. Vara, on the other hand, had no intention of moving until she was forced to do so.

“Can you walk?”

No. Her heart labored in her chest. If she were to guess, something in her back was broken or crushed, and part of her inner shoulder was completely torn. And those were just the wounds she knew about. Only once the cold of the river dissipated would she feel them all.

“We can go,” she said, grimacing as she sat up. She cradled her bad arm. “We need to warn the others—about Umber and the wolves.”

Leith stood and helped her to her feet, careful not to touch her skin. “We're not covering three days of forest with no weapons or food.”

Weapons—she still had her longknife, at least. But he was right. They were on the eastern bank and the main road that led straight to Tor was on the western bank.

“What then?”

“We’ll stop in Laregan. It’s not far.”

Laregan. His hometown. “It’s in the opposite direction of the nearest bridge.”

“Yes, but we don’t want to cross the river that soon, given the fenwolves are this far south,” he retorted. “We'll stop in Laregan, find horses, and take the road on this side as far as we can. Then we cross back over.”

The road on this side made for a winding, narrow journey. “But that’s—it’ll add a day. Maybe more.”

He sighed, shaking his head once. “I don’t see a better way.”

There wasn’t one. Vara’s teeth began to clench. With every passing moment, the pain in her shoulder grew worse and would soon be uncontrollable. Her body was going into shock.

The gorge had widened and was almost level with the river itself now, so they were just a few feet down from the forest above. On any other day, Vara could have climbed it on her own, but by the time Leith helped her to the top, she'd broken into a sweat. Her thoughts swirled feverishly. He caught her by her vest. She’d swayed too close to the edge.

“Hands above, you’re half dead,” Leith muttered. “I’m not going back to Tor without you in hand, girl.”

He led her to a young tree and put her hand to the trunk. He stepped away sharply, whether from concern for his own safety or from disgust she wasn’t sure. She sensed the depth of life under the thin bark. If she wasn’t actually on the verge of collapse, she would go on without it. But she was on the verge of collapse. So she pressed her hand to the tree.

The Hunger was less enthusiastic about consuming a tree than it had been about Selwiv, but it made do. The bark became cold as ice while her hand and arm warmed with a rush of life, flooding her with relief. The leaves farthest from the trunk died first then fell around her, brushing her face and landing in her hair. The twigs then the branches groaned and cracked, and the next time the wind blew, they dropped to the forest floor almost without a sound. Even the trunk surrendered and crumbled under her fingers. In mere moments, the tree was gone. In its place, was a pile of ashes. The rush of the river swelled for a moment. Somewhere, a bird called. A mourning sound.

The Hunger folded back into the recesses of her mind again.

“You look better,” Leith said, arms crossed. “Was it enough?”

She nodded. Her shoulder was moving normally again, the pain in her neck had lessened, and her flesh wounds had faded to pale scars. But there were ashes under her fingernails, ashes in her hair, ashes in her lungs. Ashes everywhere. Her eyes smarted.

Just like the first time.

Vara wiped her hands on her sides. Leith didn’t look at her as he walked past and pushed into the eastern woods. He kept a respectful distance.

“Let’s go then.”