She then glanced up at the chamber’s ceiling where her great working hung like a canopy of knots, twined with the Greenie’s hair. It obscured the painting of Westrion. The strands and knots crawled with restless energy. All the elements were in place, and once Cole returned with the slaves, the trap would be set.

“Soon,” she told the unquiet ones beyond the seal. “Soon.”

THE BERSERKER

Zachary spun round and drove the sword through his opponent’s midsection. The soldier’s mouth fell open as if to scream, but only blood gushed out. Zachary tilted the sword, and the man slid off it and crumpled to the ground. He wiped the blade clean on the man’s tunic, then paused, panting hard, but alert, his senses heightened. Sounds of clashes came to him through the woods, the clang of metal, shouts and cries, the crack of branches. He glanced skyward and through the spaces between the limbs of evergreens he saw that clouds encroached on the stars. He wiped chill sweat from his brow.

The fighting around him waned as his companions subdued the enemy, but there was the sound of more clashes deeper in the forest, so he and his group ran again, leaping logs, thrashing through deadfall, and weaving between tree trunks. Now and again they came across bodies, either that of their foe wearing buckskin, or of their own. They found traps that had been tripped—nets hanging limp from trees, bear traps that clasped stout limbs, and pits with their camouflage of branches removed. They ran past watch fires guarded by only the dead.

Zachary’s Weapons stayed right with him. Rennard ranged farther out, and Fiori disappeared in and out of the shadows. Other members of the River Unit blended into the night wood and were all but silent. He wondered how Enver fared when he stumbled across a Second Empire corpse with a white Eletian arrow in one eye.

They came upon another knot of fighting. The Weapons cleared the path ahead with swift and deadly strikes, but not to be left out, Zachary rammed his buckler into the face of one foe and engaged another with his sword. The warriors of Second Empire had not the prowess with a blade that a swordmaster possessed, but some were better than others. This one was not. Zachary did not play at showing his superior skill, but killed expediently and moved on to the next.

Swordplay in the thick of the forest was not always easy. The sword or his arm got caught up in grasping branches. Maintaining solid footing proved a challenge on the uneven terrain, and tree roots were apt to trip one at a crucial moment. The darkness sent some thrusts askew, lending a dangerous unpredictability to bouts. He rounded on an assailant creeping up on him and bashed the pommel of his sword into the man’s gut.

When they quashed this knot of the enemy, they paused again to catch their breath, the air thick with the foul stench of blood and rent bowels, and the cold cutting edge of winter. The eaves of the forest groaned in an unruly prelude to a storm.

“Weather moving in,” Donal muttered.

“How far to the keep?” Zachary asked.

“I have lost track,” Fiori said. “Lieutenant?”

Rennard was about to answer when a wild gust of wind bent and whipped the trees around and almost knocked Zachary off his feet. Pine cones and branches pelted them. The wind grasped his breath, and he felt the air being drawn from his lungs. The wind hungered, sought sustenance. Undergrowth shriveled right before his eyes and birds fell dead from their perches in the trees. The wind died as suddenly as it had surged, and pine needles drifted softly down on them.

“What in the name of the gods?” Rennard said.

“That was no natural wind,” Zachary said.

“You’re right,” Fiori replied. “Not natural. I wonder what Grandmother is up to. She was devising some major spell during my time at the keep. She called it her ‘great working.’”

“I remember. The Aeon Iire, the seal. She must have found it.”

The others had heard of this aspect of Grandmother’s pursuits during their strategy meetings, so they were not surprised, but they looked disturbed.

“There can’t really be a portal to the hells, can there?” Rennard asked.

“It is in our lore,” Fiori replied. “If it is real, one can see how it would be of interest to Grandmother. As for her use of magic, it is known.”

“Yes, we will proceed with this in mind,” Zachary said, “though I don’t know what we can do to counter the magic. It could all be a big trap, and not just for Westrion’s avatar.”

“It’s all very strange,” Rennard muttered.

Zachary understood. Though he had become accustomed to the concept of magic actively affecting his world, he had also been exposed to it more than most, and not just around his Green Riders. The average Sacoridian was less likely to have encountered magic even as it became more present in the world. As for an avatar of the death god? Even he had a hard time swallowing that bit.

“With respect, sire,” Donal said, “I think we should return you to—”

“We will do no such thing,” he interrupted. “Captain Treman needs all the swords he can muster. Now, we had better move on before the rear guard runs into us.”

Donal looked ready to protest, but Zachary strode off. The others hurried so they would not be left behind.

• • •

“What’s that?” Fiori asked. He gestured toward a flickering light some distance off to their side.

“Let us see,” Zachary replied.

Donal put his hand up to stop him. “Let us investigate first.”