The rickety chair creaked under Mother Safi’s immense backside, burst to kindling, and dumped her to the floor. Making bubbly retching noises, one flailing hand raised against another attack, Mother Safi failed to notice that the edge of her roughspun robe had fallen upon the coals on the hearth. The coarse fabric smoked, then flashed ablaze, as if she had been doused in oil. In seconds, the witch became a shrieking pyre. Seconds more, and the back wall of the hovel was burning with her.
Wina thrust the amulet down her bodice, its cool touch against her skin filling her with a sense of purpose and excitement. Ravenhold would be saved! As she spun to leave, a furious racket erupted in a corner where the room’s shadows gathered thickest. Howls and screams raved within that swirling darkness, as if a pair of frost leopards were tearing at each other.
Wina crashed against the plank door, ripping it half off its hinges. Her bone-white palfrey waited at the porch rail. She yanked the reins free, and bounded into the saddle. A prod from her heels jumped the mare into a gallop. They raced across a meadow, then down off the mountain following a twisting, rocky trail that would lead her to Ravenhold.
As the moonlit Tanglewood embraced horse and rider, the thatched roof of Mother Safi’s hovel fell in with a whoosh of sparks and leaping flames. Wina thought she heard an enraged scream, but told herself it was only the rush of wind in her ears.
Chapter 1
Something was hunting them, using the chill mists to steal closer. Be it man or beast, Rathe did not know, but he felt its nearness in his gut, same as he felt the cold damp of the Gyntor Mountains on his cheeks. In more hospitable realms, summer reigned. Here, patches of winter snow yet lingered.
Oblivious that Rathe had reined in, Loro rode on, grumbling under his deep hood, the hooves of his mount scraping and knocking over the trail’s rocky surface. His complaining faded into the distance, and quiet fell over the forest.
Rathe drew back his hood, peered around, listening for any furtive sound. High mountain evergreens grew thick as dog hair right up to the trail, sometimes leaning over it. Sluggish white fog eddied through gray-black tree trunks, concealing anything beyond twenty paces. The fog had been a constant companion since he and Loro had escaped into the mountains, one short step ahead of men who would earn their gold whether he and Loro were brought back intact, or headless.
Despite the rising sense of danger, nothing worrisome showed itself. Rathe’s fingers danced over his sword hilt, a restless drumming. He preferred using a bow to keep threats at bay, but the relentless wet had already fouled one bowstring. Ruining another served no end. He searched the mountainside above the trail, found a stubby spine of rock littered with boulders. From there, he might be able to see more.
Breath steaming, Rathe dismounted, tied his horse to a clump of scraggly brush. The sturdy gray gelding gave him a curious look. Rathe patted its neck, then started upslope, leaving the horse to graze on what little it could find.
The lightest touch against drooping branches sent cold water raining down over Rathe’s head and shoulders, wetting the few parts of him that remained dry. The climb warmed stiff muscles, if not much else. The cold of the Gyntors had a way of sinking deep into your bones, stealing heat and hope. Rathe ignored discomforts, as he scrambled over root and rock, using tree trunks to pull himself up when the way grew too steep.
He went still at the base of the outcrop. Other than Loro, now rounding a bend farther up the path, he saw nothing. The flutter deep in his belly persisted. After spending a fortnight running from men who wanted to steal his life for reward, he had to assume danger waited at every turn.
Unseen ravens croaked far overhead, calls muted. Only at night did they depart. Doubtless the birds were waiting for some grave ill to befall him or Loro. He had watched ravens and crows and vultures at work on scores of battlefields, first plucking out the eyes of the dead, before moving on to other tender bits. He did not begrudge such creatures their appetites. Neither did he care to fill their gullets with bits of himself.
Careful to remain behind cover, Rathe climbed up and around the outcrop, then crept through the boulders until he could look down on the trail. He glanced at his horse, almost lost within the screen of misted trees. The gray munched contentedly, sharing none of Rathe’s concerns.
Preparing to turn back, Rathe froze when a dark figure glided swiftly and silently across the trail. He could almost believe he had imagined it, but the mist swirled where the shape had slipped across the path. A spidery prickle crawled up his spine. Shadows disturbed fearful hearts, not mist.
Rathe drew his sword, the whisper of steel clearing leather loud in the dead still. He stole back down the hillside, coming out on the trail a few paces from where he had seen the figure. The gray stamped restively, snorted a blast of steam, went back to grazing. Curtains of fog meandered down the mountainside and into the forest. Nothing else moved.
The longer Rathe studied the surroundings, the more he began to doubt he had seen anything. What seemed the shapes of kneeling men became rocks, as the fog continued its slow march. A horse’s legs became four crooked birches at the last twist in the path.
“Would you test your blade against mine, Scorpion?” The question seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
Despite the sudden hammering of his heart, Rathe’s voice remained steady. “Show yourself, and I’ll oblige you.”
“Are you fearless, or foolish?” The unseen man’s thin voice was confident and cultured, smooth as oil.
Rathe spun, sure the speaker waited at his back. Mist churned, moisture dripped, but no enemy showed himself. “I am curious,” he admitted, eyes marking every hazed outline. “If you know the name Scorpion, you’re either an admirer, or seeking the bounty for my head. Which is it?”
“It is said you are a courageous man, unequaled with sword or bow. This must be so, for you to have so long held the honor,
Champion of Cerrikoth
.” He laughed, voice dripping incredulity. “Of course, lesser men oft sling garlands of praise round the necks of false heroes. I would see for myself if you are so great a warrior, or if you are but a fanciful illusion conjured by lesser men.”
A stiff grin turned Rathe’s lips, as he turned to face the speaker. “Envy is a heavy burden, friend. Let me take that wearisome yoke from you.”
“So eager for your heart to beat its last?” the man asked, now behind Rathe.
Rathe whirled.
How can a man move so quickly and quietly?
The only answer was that he did not face a man. Old stories held that the Gyntors were mountains steeped in blood and pain and dread, a gathering place of haunts and undying evil.
When Rathe spoke this time, a faint tremor of unease tinged his words. “I am not one to enjoy witless games. Whether you seek gold or fame, show yourself, and be done with this farce.”
A low rustling turned Rathe again. A shimmering smear of darkness flitted near, at one with the mist, yet apart from it. His sword flashed to meet a slashing blade forged of night. His parry hissed through empty air. The looming shadow swarmed around him. As he twisted, a gentle tug sliced his jerkin. An inch deeper, and he would have found himself tripping through his own guts. Where the shadow had been, a milky whirl of fog took its place.
He turned full circle, seeking, finding nothing. Despite the cold, his palm began to sweat against the sword hilt. Laughter and another ripping tug, this one across his back, spun him once more. All was still, his assailant invisible.
“Fear, Scorpion—”
A cut to Rathe’s shoulder whipped him round.
“—hones a man—”
Another strike brought a line of fire behind his knee.
“—to his sharpest.”
Rathe looped around, blindly hacking frosted air, hitting nothing, a bellow of rage burning his throat. Panting, he pressed his spine to a slab of rock leaning over the trail.
“You are but a blunted edge.” The man’s voice saturated the fog, making it impossible to pinpoint him. “Trust that I will refine you,
friend
.” Disdainful laughter … faded … and was gone.
For a long time, Rathe moved only his eyes, fear an iron spike ruthlessly digging through his skull. His rival did not show himself again.
With a seething oath, Rathe scabbarded his sword. Shaking fingers then parted a handful of slices in the dark wool of his cloak, the leather of his jerkin. Only the cut at the back of his knee, a mere scratch, had drawn blood. Any of the attacks could have left him severely wounded. Or dead. He had faced his own demise before and often, but never had an opponent toyed with him, made him look inept.
“I do not fear you, or any man!” he called. He received no response, and wondered, for a second time, if the enemy was a man at all. He saw no reason to wait around and find out.
Soon after mounting and cantering along the trail, Rathe slowed the gray beside Loro. Still protesting everything under the sun, the man gave no indication that he had noticed Rathe’s absence.
For now, Rathe kept his lips sealed about what he had seen and fought. No point adding to Loro’s grievances. After they crossed the mountains would be soon enough. But first there was the matter of escaping the Gyntor’s rugged peaks and plunging valleys, a possibility that seemed to grow more distant the farther they rode.
Chapter 2
The Blue Piper Inn was no fit place for a lady of station, but then, Lady Nesaea had never claimed noble birth. As the mistress of the Maidens of the Lyre, the title provided her an air of mystery. And, even at a flophouse like the Blue Piper, the term
Lady
ensured better payment for her and the Maidens.
After finishing a humorous telling of
Princess in the Mire
, she retired from the makeshift stage, nothing more than a pair of long trestle tables jammed together and shoved against the back wall of the smoky common room. Lifting the hem of her modest linen dress to negotiate the stepstool revealed her ankles, earning cheerful catcalls from the men, and smoldering glares from the whores. Nesaea smiled at all, used to both reactions.
Krysala took her place, a nubile blonde whose voice could bring joy or sorrow to the hardest warrior’s heart. Not waiting for the cheers to subside, she strummed the dulcimer on her lap, and began a jaunty rendition of
A Pilgrim and the Toad
. Claps and foot stomping arose at once.
Smiling to herself, Nesaea wended through the throng. Before she reached the bar, a lanky man with stringy hair and a drunken sheen in his eye stopped her.
“Never heard tha’ tale told so well.” He leaned forward, gusting ale fumes into Nesaea’s face. “Mayhap you can tell it again, jus’ to me.” To make his point clearer, his gaze flickered to the stairs leading up to the inn’s second floor, where there were rooms for rent.
“You mistake me,” Nesaea said pleasantly.
He held up a hand, grimy fingers clutching a silver penny. “M’ coin no good enough for you?”
Nesaea’s smile remained, but her violet eyes went cold. Some mistook her troupe for traveling courtesans, or, rather, hoped they were. She found the assumption intolerable, but usually accepted it with grace. Tonight, in this rundown sty, and coming from this scoundrel, she did not feel so generous. “Keep your coin, and go find a willing sow to rut with.”
Grumbling curses, the man made to tuck the penny back in his pocket. He missed. It bounced on the floor and rolled out of sight, amid thumping feet. The sot might seek it come dawn, but would likely believe he had drank it away.
Nesaea tried to skirt past the fool, but he abruptly caught hold of one of her breasts, holding her in place with a painful squeeze. He leered through brown teeth, leaned close. “Be a good lil’ slut, an’ come to my room, or I’ll know the reason why.”
“Here’s your reason why.” Nesaea jabbed the point of her belt knife against the man’s crotch. His yellowed eyes went wide, but he squeezed harder. Nesaea ignored the pain and pressed the blade deeper, its razor-edged steel parting the man’s filthy leather trousers.
“Unhand me,” she said evenly, “or I’ll clip your precious fruits, and stuff them down your throat until you gag.”
He cut her loose. To make sure he understood the unsteady ground he stood upon, she poked the blade hard against his loins. With a squawk, the drunkard backpedaled, tripped and fell on his backside, scrambled up, and fled. Those who noticed his wild flight bellowed laughter.
Just a pretty girl in a sea of rowdy carousing, Nesaea calmly tucked away her knife. She made for her original destination, passing two men arm-wrestling over a fat coin purse. Shouts and waving tankards urged them on. Nesaea stepped nimbly to avoid flying gobbets of foamy ale, slapped away pawing hands, and held her breath against rank clouds of pipe smoke mingling with the stink of the unwashed.
Most of her troupe sat around a table near the front doors, each waiting their turn at providing the night’s entertainment. Clean and well-dressed, they stood out as unassuming flowers in a field of weeds, each selected for beauty as much as for skill in dancing, music, and storytelling. Flowers they might appear, charming to a fault, but they were each of them deadly, trained in the bloody arts of war by Nesaea and the older Maidens. A realm might exist that favorably treated the meek and vulnerable, but Nesaea had yet to find it. Until she did, she demanded that her girls knew how to defend themselves.