To my left, the scarred warrior has two soldiers pinned, one under each arm. He’s holding them face down in the snow, firmbut not crushing. They've stopped fighting. They can feel the size of what’s holding them and they've done the math.
The smoke is thinning on the eastern side where the wind catches it. I can see the shapes of the fight through the haze. The Jötunn are methodical. They work in pairs the way I showed them, one engaging from the front while the other strips the weapon from behind. The soldiers aren't trained for this. They're trained to fight creatures that charge and roar and attack head-on. They aren't trained for eight-foot opponents who move quietly through smoke and take their swords without a sound.
I find Stennard on his knees in the middle of the clearing.
His sword is in the snow beside him. The smoke has stolen his coordination. His eyes are streaming and his breathing is ragged and he’s reaching for the weapon and can't find it.
I pick it up.
He looks up at me through the haze.
“I could have brought the mountain down on you.” I hold the sword loosely. Not pointed at him. Just holding it. “I have enough material to collapse that ridge. I did the math. I know exactly where the charge goes and exactly what it would do.”
He stares at me.
“I chose not to.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm not a weapon anymore.”
I drop the sword. It falls in the snow between us.
The smoke is thinning. The wind pulling the haze apart, opening lines of sight across the clearing. Soldiers on the ground, disarmed, pinned. The Jötunn standing over them. No blood in the snow. No bodies. Fifty men alive and defeated.
I look at Stennard on his knees.
“Go home. Tell them I'm done. Tell them I know which officers lied about the evacuations. And tell them if anyone comes again, I won't use smoke.”
He nods. Once.
The soldiers leave. They limp down the path in a straggling line that bears no resemblance to the formation they arrived in. Weapons stripped. Pride stripped.
Alive.
I stand in the clearing and watch them go. The snow is churned and trampled. The Jötunn are picking up the discarded weapons, examining them with the mild curiosity of people who have never needed swords.
Thyran reaches me. His arms go around me. The heat of him floods through my coat, through my clothes, into the cold places where the adrenaline is draining out of me and leaving nothing behind.
“It’s done,” I say.
He holds me. The warmth fills me up.
Eira finds me after. The Jötunn are packing up, some heading back to the hold, others lingering. She walks up to me.
“You told me about the dam last night. You didn't tell the clan.”
“No.”
“You could have. In Haldrek’s hall. It might have swung them faster.”
“Or it might have swung them the other way.”
She considers this. “You waited until after they'd committed. Then you told me.”
“I told you because you told me about Vortek. That was a trade, not a tactic.”
Something crosses her face. Not quite a smile. Recognition.
