Black blood was still steaming in the snow
when the fighting stopped.
It had lasted only a few minutes. Just a
few, after Ren and Aedion’s arrows found
their targets and Lysandra had leaped from
her perch to shred three others. And rip the
muscles from the calves of the sixth and sole
surviving member of the company.
The demon moaned as Aedion stalked
toward him, the snow at the man’s feet now
jet-black, his legs in ribbons. Like scraps of a
banner in the wind.
Lysandra sat near his head, her maw
stained ebony and her green eyes fixed on the
man’s pale face. Needle-sharp claws gleamed
from her massive paws.
Behind them, Ren checked the others for
signs of life. His sword rose and fell,
decapitating them before the frigid air could
render them too stiff to hack through.
“Traitorous filth,
” the demon seethed at
Aedion, narrow face curdling with hate. The
reek of him stuffed itself up Aedion’s nostrils,
coating his senses like oil.
Aedion drew the knife at his side—the
long, wicked dagger Rowan Whitethorn had
gifted him—and smiled grimly. “This can go
quickly, if you’re smart.”
The Valg soldier spat on Aedion’s snow-
crusted boots.
Allsbrook Castle had stood with the Staghorns
at its back and Oakwald at its feet for over
five hundred years.
Pacing before the roaring fire ablaze in one of its many oversized hearths, Aedion could
count the marks of every brutal winter upon
the gray stones. Could feel the weight of the
castle’s storied history on those stones, too—
the years of valor and service, when these
halls had been full of singing and warriors,
and the long years of sorrow that followed.
Ren had claimed a worn, tufted armchair
set to one side of the fire, his forearms braced
on his thighs as he stared into the flame.
They’d arrived late last night, and even
Aedion had been too drained from the trek
through snowbound Oakwald to take the grand
tour. And after what they’d done this
afternoon, he doubted he’d muster the energy
to do so now.
The once-great hall was hushed and dim
beyond their fire, and above them, faded
tapestries and crests from the Allsbrook
family’s banner men swayed in the draft creeping through the high windows that lined
one side of the chamber. An assortment of
birds nested in the rafters, hunkered down
against the lethal cold beyond the keep’s
ancient walls.
And amongst them, a green-eyed falcon
listened to every word.
“If Erawan’s searching for a way into
Terrasen,
” Ren said at last,
“the mountains
would be foolish.” He frowned toward the
discarded trays of food they’d devoured
minutes ago. Hearty mutton stew and roasted
root vegetables. Most of it bland, but it had
been hot. “The land does not forgive easily
out here. He’d lose countless troops to the
elements alone.”
“Erawan does nothing without reason,
”
Aedion countered. “The easiest route to
Terrasen would be up through the farmlands,
on the northern roads. It’s where anyone would expect him to march. Either there, or to
launch his forces from the coast.”
“Or both—by land and sea.”
Aedion nodded. Erawan had spread his net
wide in his desire to stomp out what
resistance had arisen on this continent. Gone
was the guise of Adarlan’s empire: from
Eyllwe to Adarlan’s northern border, from the
shores of the Great Ocean to the towering wall
of mountains that cleaved their continent in
two, the Valg king’s shadow grew every day.
Aedion doubted that Erawan would stop
before he clamped black collars around all
their necks.
And if Erawan attained the two other
Wyrdkeys, if he could open the Wyrdgate at
will and unleash hordes of Valg from his own
realm, perhaps even enslave armies from
other worlds and wield them for conquest …
There would be no chance of stopping him. In this world, or any other.
All hope of preventing that horrible fate
now lay with Dorian Havilliard and Manon
Blackbeak. Where they’d gone these months,
what had befallen them, Aedion hadn’t heard
a whisper. Which he supposed was a good
sign. Their survival lay in secrecy.
Aedion said,
“So for Erawan to waste a
scouting party to find small mountain passes
seems unwise.” He scratched at his stubble-
coated cheek. They’d left before dawn
yesterday, and he’d opted for sleep over a
shave. “It doesn’t make sense, strategically.
The witches can fly, so sending scouts to learn
the pitfalls of the terrain is of little use. But if
the information is for terrestrial armies …
Squeezing forces through small passes like
that would take months, not to mention risk
the weather.”
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