Some are pointing toward the Alps, ready to impale anything that’s not paying attention as it charges into the feast of Ocruth. Some are pointing the other way, protecting Fryst from our own spill of ruthless mutts.
The latter are spotless—untarnished by the dried smears of black blood that paint some of the former.
A shiver crawls up my spine.
Hours pass of trudging through powdered eddies, blowing big puffs of white onto my stiffening fingers and wishing I’d dressed warmer, before I spot the first marker: a large, pronged tooth stabbed into a gnarled tree rising from the snow like a haggard limb.
I guide Ale through the otherwise invisible trail, counting down from thirty-five before a round stone much taller than me comes into view. Next to it sits a windowless, wooden stable, its roof heavy with snow.
I leap off Ale and lure him into the musty building despite his backward pull, trying not to think about the ingrained stench of death that haunts its innards. About the fact that it’s utterly void of life. I wrestle his reins around the worn post inside, dodging his prancing hooves.
“You’ll be fine,” I mutter, side-eyeing the blood splattered walls. “So long as yousettle down.”
I stuff a slab of hay in the half-barrel used as a feeder, then dip a few strands into my lantern’s flame, using them to spark the others hanging about the space.
Ale pulls back, eyes rolling, and I brush a hand down his trembling withers in a failed attempt to soothe him. Can’t blame the poor fuck, but he’s not doing himself any favors. With all the snorting and squealing, he might as well be tolling a dinner bell loud enough to spill across The Stretch.
Sighing, I close the door on my way out, entombing him in its warm glow, hoping he’ll calm and bed down for some much-needed rest.
Trudging through knee-deep snow, I edge around the rock some believe was placed by the hands of giants. It’s so round and smooth and out of place amongst the otherwise level stretch of land only littered with the odd tree barely clinging to life.
I feel around its surface until I find the groove that runs down the side like a split seam. I kneel, checking over my shoulder every few seconds as I dig through a foot of snow by lantern light.
The tips of my fingers are numb, despite my thick gloves, by the time they scrape against the trapdoor embedded in the ground. I lug it open, peering into the throat of darkness. I give another quick scan of my bleak surroundings, then edge down onto the ladder in the hole, lantern in hand.
The rungs creak in protest with every booted step.
I leap onto the packed earth, the smell of beer and freshly fired meat smacking me in the back of the throat and making the muscles under my tongue tingle.
Or perhaps that’s—
Pausing, I draw deep, looking up the ladder I descended. Studying each rung.
I sniff again, untangling the butter-spice residue of Zali’s scent.
With a low growl, I charge down the tunnel until I reach another ladder, which I descend, then follow the narrowing corridor, its walls stabilized with inlaid bones. A crossbar supports the ceiling every few steps, but I still shiver at the thought of being buried alive.
The way finally opens to a large, smoky room with a pitched roof reinforced with pale wood beams, the space packed full of hollering, howling, yodeling men with filthy faces, chapped lips, and beards almost thick enough to hide them. Reeking of ale and wobbling on their feet, none of them seem to notice my presence.
Setting my lantern by the door, I swallow the smear of jealousy at their mindless states and study the throng.
The men are clothed in leather and fur in various shades of gray, boasting twine necklaces threaded with large Vruk teeth—mostly one or two, signifying a couple of years’ service. Only a handful of men flaunt more than that. Hardly surprising.
These men are paid in Ocruth and Rouste coin to maintain the traps that litter The Stretch and buffer the spill of Vruk back and forth across the Alps—a responsibility High Master Vadon doesn’t appear to be holding up onhisside anymore.
It takes a certain savagery to survive here, doing what they do. Living the precarious life of aMoal.
You come, make your coin, and try to get the fuck out before the Alps chomp down on you.
I scan the crowd again …
She’s not here.
A haunch of hog spins over a nest of hot coals in the center of the room.
My stomach rumbles.
Walking forward, I remove my gloves and pause by the blistered feast, prying off a shard of crackle with my still-numb fingers, scanning the display of bestial skulls lining two entire walls. I pocket my gloves, still crunching through the well-seasoned treat and reveling in my first hot bite in days, when the sound of merriment lulls.
