Page 5

It’s still dark when Scythe shakes me awake. Kicks, actually, the tip of his boot nudging my sore shoulder blade. Sleeping on a bed of rocks leaves something to be desired.

“Get up,” he says lowly. “It’s time to move.”

I curse him under my breath as I scramble to my feet. It is freezing inside the cave. He’s already doused the fire I fell asleep curled beside, my enemy’s cloak spread beneath me. I’d shivered for what felt like hours before I finally tumbled over the edge of consciousness. Through some small miracle, my fever did not return in the night.

Scythe bends to retrieve his cloak, shaking off the gravel in one rough jerk. Without another word, he stalks from the cave, leaving me alone in the dark. I limp after him, trembling with cold as I step into the predawn morning. Snowflakes drift down, blanketing the world like a thin coat of sugar on an apple tart. They catch in my eyelashes, cling to my hair, stick to the thin fabric of my gown sleeves.

The horse is already saddled, waiting patiently beneath the boughs of a squat tree. At Scythe’s whistle, he trots closer. I tense when the commander turns for me.

“Don’t even think about it,” I hiss, backpedaling out of his reach.

He freezes, brows raised.

“I am not a saddlebag to be lashed to your horse, nor a sack of barley to be tossed about without care.”

“True,” he mutters. “Barley would make for far more tolerable company.”

I glare at him. “If you wish for me to go along with you without putting up a fight, you will start treating me with respect.”

“Is that so?”

My cheeks flush with anger. “You can start by telling me where you are taking me. I think I have a right to know what fate awaits me at the end of this ride.”

He closes the space between us in one step, looming over me. It takes all my strength not to cower.

“My respect is something earned—not given away to sheltered little girls consumed by delusional naiveties about our world and those who inhabit it.”

“ Sheltered? ” I scoff. “You base your assessment on what? My age? My appearance? The handful of words we have exchanged over these past few days of silent flight?”

“I base it on the fact that you believe you are in any position to negotiate with me.”

I would negotiate with the God of Death himself if it meant getting out of the underworld unscathed, but I doubt I’ll garner any favors by openly comparing him to evil incarnate. I suck in a calming breath. “I merely wish to ride—upright, without shackles or rope. I will not run. I give you my word.”

“Your word?”

I nod.

His expression is flat, but I see a flicker of curiosity in the depths of his eyes. There are snowflakes on his eyelashes. “And what, exactly, is the word of a halfling worth?” he asks, his voice dangerously soft.

“More than the word of a murderer, to be sure.”

His flinch is almost imperceptible, but I’m near enough to see it. His eyes glint like dark flame as he leans in. The breath in my lungs seizes at his proximity.

“It seems you are mistaken about something. You exist by my leave alone. Your heart continues to beat because I have seen fit to make it so. That means you have no say in where we are heading, or the manner in which I choose to take you there. It also means you are entitled to nothing—not information, not kindness, certainly not a nursemaid to soothe a fever you brought upon yourself through sheer stubbornness.”

My mouth gapes. “You make it sound as if I asked for sickness!”

“You might as well have! Out here, in the wild, one careless mistake can mean a death sentence. An injury left to fester will kill you quicker than any enemies who stalk these hills.”

“Shocking as you may find it, I did not get sick merely to annoy you. I assure you, the ride would have been much more pleasant if I were feeling well.”

“I’m not overly invested in what you find pleasant.”

“Yes, you’ve made that quite clear.” I grit my teeth. “I suppose this means riding upright is not open to discussion.”

“Are you willfully obtuse or simply slow minded?” His pause is rife with tightly leashed fury. “Or perhaps you mean to provoke me with your obstinance?”

I purse my lips sweetly. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”

“Do not push me, little girl. And do not ever forget who holds the power between us.” His eyes narrow on mine. “Perhaps I should put your shackles back on. You seemed so very fond of the iron.”

My stomach somersaults.

“Or perhaps I’ll fashion another noose and tow you behind my horse as I ride. You’ve seen how fast he can run. Surely you won’t have a difficult time keeping up?”

My face goes pale as he speaks. He notices, judging by the cruel smile that twists his lips.

“What? No more objections?” He steps back, out of my space, and I resume breathing. “Good. Get on the godsforsaken horse. Face down, like a proper sack of grain.”

I do.

We make camp thrice more on our journey, each time in musky caves or shallow outcroppings of stone, taking momentary shelter from the elements by the warmth of a low fire. On each occasion, Scythe disappears for a short span, returning with a rabbit or some other prey lying limp in his large, bloodied hands. I eat without comment, knowing I need to build up my strength despite how much I hate taking aid from my enemy.

He is a strange travel-fellow. He does not say much of anything to me, besides the occasional gruff order. But he does not harm me. In fact, despite his claims to the contrary, he seems rather invested in my well-being.

When the fever finally clears from my head, I begin to take sharper notice of his actions. The cloak he spreads over me as we ride, to shield me from the worst of the snow. The pair of thick wool socks left beside my head as I sleep—a poor substitute for shoes, but better than nothing at all. The jar of healing salve, shoved wordlessly into my hands. The way he watches me across the light of the campfire as I apply it to my wounds and rewrap my wrists with strips from my shift, a strange gravity in his eyes.

I never see him rest. He remains constantly on guard for unseen enemies, monitoring our surroundings with a vigilance that makes me uneasy. I think often of the marching soldiers with their red-and-black sigils. Are they the ones hunting us? Or is it Scythe’s own men—comrades of those he slaughtered—who track us through the ever-deepening snowdrifts?

He gives no answers.

There is also the matter of the helmet. I have still never seen him remove it. I sometimes catch myself curious about what color hair is tucked beneath, or whether the absence of metal might soften his angular features in the slightest…but those thoughts are quickly banished to the back of my mind. What does it matter whether my captor is fair headed or raven-haired? Such superfluous details will not change my circumstance.

I steal sleep when I can. Despite my earlier show of bravado, I am still exhausted beyond measure. I learn to rest even on horseback, lulled into a jerking sort of slumber by the metronomic patter of the stallion’s hooves. But my dreams are full of dark visions—clashing swords and dripping blood and dark clouds rolling across a land of ice; carrion birds circling the smoke-streaked skies over a swallowing sea of sand. Past and future horrors swirl through my mind in the most violent of tempests.

For three days, we ride through the hills. Ever upward, ever northward, our altitude rising as the temperature plummets. Craggy hills morph into precipitous peaks, spearing into the dark sky. The air grows colder with each passing hour, the snow on the trees thick enough to strain the branches of the low-slung pines native to this mountainous region.

Face down on the rump of the horse, I watch the ground pass, a constant blur of white, and shiver so hard my bones rattle. To stave off the cold, I fill my mind with warm memories. Reading by the hearth, a thick blanket draped across my lap. Whiskers, the stray cat Eli rescued from the bramble, snoozing in a sunbeam. A cup of cider clasped in the circle of my hand. Tomas, the baker’s apprentice, sneaking me honey cakes on lush summer nights. Strong arms wrapped around my shoulders, reminding me I am safe.

The indignity of my riding position chafes at my pride, but there is little I can do about it. Protesting got me nowhere. I try to focus on the positives. My shackles have been removed. With the help of the salve, my wrists are beginning to heal—more rapidly than I’d thought possible. My fever remains at bay, at least momentarily. My stomach is full, my thirst sated. And my time with my captor is almost over.

It has to be.

My knowledge of Anwyvn’s geography is admittedly lacking, but I know eventually we will hit the Cimmerian Mountains. And no one travels beyond there. Not if they ever plan on returning. There is but one pass that leads through the jagged, snowy peaks. The Avian Strait—a narrow gauntlet, wide enough for only a few men marching side by side. Over the past two centuries, countless armies have fallen there, picked off by northern arrows or buried in unexpected avalanches, their corpses never to be recovered. Folks say the earth beneath the deep snow is stained red—the aftermath of many vain attempts to conquer the Northlands.

Not much is known with certainty about the kingdoms beyond the mountains. If the legends are to be believed, they’re icy, inhospitable places where disfigured monsters roamed freely in the age of maegic. Since the Cull, the only confirmed monster who still calls the north home is a man. A king. For even the most common of peasants has heard talk of King Soren of Ll?r, whose barbarity rivals that of the southern warlords.

It is his kingdom that sits on the other side of the Avian Strait—one he defends mercilessly from the Midlanders. It is his face that young children conjure up in their most horrific nightmares. Wives pray their husbands will never face him in combat. Hardened soldiers speak of his battle tactics in fear-strangled voices.

I have no desire to learn firsthand if their terror is warranted. I assure myself even Scythe is not reckless enough to view Ll?r as a viable hideout from the enemies on our heels. Yet the farther northward we travel, the less confident my assurances become…and the tighter the knot in the pit of my stomach twists.

When we stop again, the skies are dark. I cannot tell the hour. The world is dim in the shadow of the mountains even at midday. The promise of impending snow presses down on us, infusing each breath with damp heaviness.

The stallion slows in a thin copse of pine trees that cling to a jutting cliff side. Craning my neck, I see it is a precipitous drop. Bottomless, to my eyes. The depths of the ravine are entrenched in inky shadow. Across that deep abyss, the Cimmerians loom, their frosted peaks blocking out the sun.

Scythe puts two fingers into his mouth and lets out a whistle that reminds me of a hawk’s shrill caw. I flinch as the sound reverberates off the stone canyon, echoing far out of range.

We wait.

The world falls quiet once the echoes fade, only the stallion’s occasional shuffles from hoof to hoof and the muffled plops of snow falling from overladen tree boughs to break the silence. I do not know what we are waiting for until, a few moments later, an answering caw carries back to us on the wind—hawkish and unmistakable.

Someone is on the other side of the gulch. Someone who has been awaiting Scythe’s signal.

A signal…for what? From whom?

I don’t have time to wonder long. No sooner has he heard the caw than Scythe spurs the horse back into motion, riding along the rim of the ravine with renewed energy. Face down as I am, it is difficult to make out much of anything, but my heart fails when I see how near we are to the edge. One false step, and we’ll plummet to our deaths.

There is no path, so far as I can tell. Thankfully, the horse seems to know the way. After a short ride, we stop again. This time, Scythe dismounts and undoes my bindings. Before he has a chance to shove me to the ground, as has become our ghastly custom whenever I move too slowly for his liking, I slide backward and find my feet of my own accord. I have to grasp the stirrup to keep my legs from buckling, but at least I’m standing. My soul smarts with defiance as I turn to Scythe.

He’s not even looking at me. His focus is on the gulch.

“We’ll cross here,” he says. “Slow. Single file. You’ll lead the horse. I’ll take the rear.”

My eyes widen as I step forward and get my first glimpse at his intentions. Across the wide gap of rock and shadow, a rickety bridge has been rigged up. The thick ropes suspending it from either side of the ravine look frayed with age. Its wood slats are spaced far too sparsely for my liking—some appear to be missing altogether. It swings in the breeze, creaking perilously.

“You cannot be serious,” I breathe, horrified.

“I’m not known for my sense of humor.”

“There’s no chance that will hold our weight!”

“It will. It must.” Scythe’s voice is low. “It’s the only way across—unless you plan to sprout wings and fly.”

“I don’t plan to cross at all! I’d rather fall to my death than head into those godsforsaken mountains.”

“That can be arranged.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare at him. “We both know you need me alive.”

His eyes cut to mine. “Do I?”

“If you didn’t, I’d be dead ten times over already.”

A grunt is all I get in response.

I glance at the mountains. Even with my head tipped all the way back, I cannot make out the summit through the dense cloud cover. “Whatever enemies pursue us, surely they cannot be more terrifying than the monsters that await us there.”

Scythe’s dark scoff makes me jolt. “You know little of monsters, girl.” He pauses. A halting note—could it be trepidation?—threads into his tone. “Still, we cannot stay here. The men chasing us are not far behind. We’ve a half day’s lead on them, at best. If they catch up…let’s just say you will be begging for an ice giant.”

“Ice giant? Did you say ice giant ?”

“Come.” His hand clamps down on my arm, and he begins to tow me toward the bridge. Terror springs to life within my breast. I dig in my heels, not above begging for a stay of execution.

“Wait! Wait,” I plead, trying uselessly to pry his fingers off my arm. “If we truly must go north, there has to be another route we can take!”

“None we would survive.”

Eyes wide, I look across the approaching void to the mountains looming on the other side. Up close, they are even more foreboding. “You mean the Avian Strait, don’t you?”

Scythe glances sharply at me but does not contradict my suspicions. “What does a Midlands peasant girl know of the strait?”

“Only that those who attempt to pass through it are equally likely to catch an arrow in the chest or find themselves buried beneath an avalanche.” My features contort into a scowl. “Though I should think an icy grave better than death at the hands of that barbarian the Northlings call king.”

There is a measured pause. “You’ve heard of Soren, then.”

“That surprises you? His bloodthirsty exploits are whispered about in every corner of this land, from the sand caravans of Carvage to the white shores of Seahaven. Anwyvn’s warring kings possess little common ground, but on this one front, they seem in complete accordance: King Soren is a scourge in need of execution.”

When Scythe says nothing in return, I glance over at him. His eyes seem to glitter in the darkness, full of thoughts I cannot decipher. His face is set in what, on any other man, might be annoyance.

I clear my throat and change topics. “I was told the Avian Strait was the only way through the mountains.” I look to the rope bridge. “Apparently, my tutor was mistaken.”

“There are other ways. Older ways. Not many know of them anymore.”

“But you do.” My mind is spinning. “How? How can a soldier—even one of your rank—from a Midland campaign know of such things? Unless…”

Unless he is not of the Midlands at all.

He does not answer me. But I have learned to read him during our time together. The stiffness of his mouth confirms what I have suspected for days. Whoever he is—whoever he has been pretending to be—he is no middling soldier from the woods, no average fighter from the plains. No paper king calls him subject.

He is of the Northlands.

Of that I am now certain.

I open my mouth to question him again, but he is done talking. He tugs me along until we reach the start of the bridge, where two mammoth stone pillars stand like sentinels, tethering the ropes—each thicker than the span of my waist—in place. We come to a stop between them.

My stomach plummets to my feet as I look across the swaying path before me. It is wide enough for only one to cross at a time. Up close, it appears even more unsound, sagging deeply at the centermost point, stretching on seemingly forever before it reaches the other side. The entire apparatus moans like a dying man each time a gust of wind whips through the ravine.

“Go on, then.”

I glare up at Scythe. What I can see of his expression beneath the helmet is uncompromising. “I think I’d rather take my chances in the Avian Strait.”

“It isn’t up to you.” He jerks his chin. “ Go. ”

“I…” I swallow harshly. “I am not a fan of heights.”

“Of course you aren’t. Gods, I should’ve left you to those men in the woods, for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”

“Why didn’t you, then?” I snap back. “I don’t recall asking you to save me.”

His grip tightens painfully on my arm. I must make some subdued sound of distress, because he releases me instantly with a grunt of exasperation. His chest expands as he pulls in a steadying breath. “Surely, such a headstrong child cannot be…”

My brows rise as he trails off. I open my mouth to ask what he means, but Scythe takes a stride, using his not-inconsiderable frame to herd me forward. When I fail to step onto the bridge willingly, he shoves at the small of my back. I whimper as my sock hits the first slat. The splintered wood lets out a fresh creak under my weight, and I freeze as fear commandeers my heart.

“ Go ,” Scythe hisses from behind me.

But I cannot move. I am paralyzed, staring down through the gap between the first two slats into the pitch-black abyss below. There seems no end to the darkness.

It will be a bleak fall.

He pushes me again, and I grab the rope railings to keep from tripping.

“You will be the death of me,” he mutters.

My retort is overshadowed by a metallic clang. My head whips around in time to see an arrow bounce off the stone pillar scant inches to our left, then clatter to the ground. Its feathered fletching is black and red.

Scythe’s eyes meet mine for a frozen moment. His nostrils flare. His words, when they come, are razor-sharp, cutting into me with their intensity.

“ They’re here. ”