“Real battle is never so simple,” Guyime told her. “And I…” he struck without pause, the wooden blade coming within a hair’s breadth of her throat before she batted it aside, “…have been restraining myself, thus far.”

  Seeing her mouth form a hard line and her body tense, Guyime adopted a defensive stance, awaiting her charge which would surely have been swiftly delivered if Seeker hadn’t abruptly leapt to her feet.

  “Arm yourselves!” the beast charmer snapped, hefting her bow and nocking an arrow to the string. Lissah crouched at her side, teeth bared in a snarling hiss as Seeker sank into a crouch, eyes unblinking as she scanned the misted gloom. The sky wasn’t yet full dark but the lingering fog and gathering dusk made it impossible to make out anything beyond a dozen feet in each direction.

  “Bears?” Guyime asked. Tossing his stave aside, he drew the Nameless Blade and moved to stand with his back to the fire, gesturing for the others to do the same.

  “The scent is…unusual,” Seeker replied. “But, yes. Bears.” She paused and he saw a frown of self-reproach pass across her brow. “I should have sensed them before they got so close.”

  “Mountain bears are renowned for their cunning,” Guyime said by way of mollification before glancing at Lorweth. “Master Druid.” Guyime flicked a hand at the surrounding fog. “If you would be so kind.”

  Although Guyime knew Lorweth to be a man of many flaws, cowardly panic was not amongst them and the Mareth set himself to the task without demur. Raising his arms, he stepped away from the fire. The gale he crafted was weak by his standards, but deliberately so, intended only to dispel the mist. It thinned and receded in the face of the druid’s winds, revealing gentle slopes to either side of their camp, the crests of which were lined with a long procession of bulky silhouettes. Guyime counted at least forty to one side and close on fifty to the other.

  “Ah, bugger,” Lorweth breathed. “Seems your tale was right, your worship, this is an army.”

  “It’s the swords,” Seeker said, nodding to Guyime’s glowing blade. “This breed has magic in their blood and bones, and they don’t like the stink of demons.”

  Charming, Lakorath drawled. Can’t say I’m fond of their stench either. Oh well, let’s be about it, my liege. It’s been decades since I tasted bear flesh.

  “Can you…?” Guyime asked Seeker, ignoring the demon’s bloodlust.

  The crease in Seeker’s brow deepened as she stared hard at the shadowed figures above. “They sense me,” she said, shaking her head, “hear me as other creatures do. But also they reject me. For the bond to work, it must be accepted willingly. I can do no more than birth fear in their hearts, which I suspect will only rouse their anger to a greater pitch.”

  “Lightning may work better,” Guyime suggested, turning to Lexius.

  “Don’t!” Seeker warned as the scholar prepared to raise the Kraken’s Tooth. “Use of magic will only enrage them.”

  “They sound fairly peeved as it is,” Lorweth observed as a chorus of growls began to echo down the slopes. The rumbling tumult built steadily, forming a single ominous note of sufficient power and depth to add a tremble to the stone beneath Guyime’s feet. He saw how the bears had begun to shift and bob, no doubt girding themselves for a charge.

  Bear flesh for supper it is! Lakorath chimed in with hungry anticipation. Mayhap when you’re done this particular genus will be extinct. Another entry in the ledger of your notable achievements, my liege.

  Seeing a bear hurl itself down the slope, followed by a dozen more, Guyime gritted his teeth and took a firmer grip on the sword’s handle. “Stay together,” he told the others. “Lorweth, when they’re close enough, raise a gale to hold them off. Lexius, burn as many as you can. Ultria, have a care for Seeker’s person, if you would…”

  As he spoke he turned towards Orsena, voice fading at the sight of her running from his side. Craven bitch, Lakorath sniffed. Still, at least I won’t have to listen to any more artistic babble.

  The demon’s judgement, however, proved mistaken for Orsena quickly came to a halt at the base of the Stone Bear’s statue. The Conjurer’s Blade blazed a blinding shade of blue as she raised it, Guyime shielding his eyes from the glare that grew yet brighter when Orsena slashed at the Stone Bear’s feet. The statue swayed and tilted at her initial blow, Guyime expecting it to topple onto the Ultria as she continued to wield the Conjurer’s Blade. Orsena began to circle the Stone Bear, her sword moving with such swiftness its glow created a cage of light, one that soon merged into a unified ball of glowing blue energy.

  A thunderclap of displaced air sent Guyime and the others reeling, a wall of grit and frost expanding out from the Stone Bear to leave them blinking. When Guyime’s sight cleared, he found himself no longer regarding a statue.

  Orsena backed away as her new creation took its first steps, tottering forward to sink to its forelegs, mighty head shaking in confusion. At first Guyime thought it much the same as the statues the doomed shade of Temesia Alvenisci had brought to life in her last desperate attempts to destroy the Exultia caste of Atheria. However, as the bear huffed and shuffled forward, he saw that its pelt was fur rather than stone. Also its eyes possessed a definite sense of awareness as it scanned its surroundings, narrowing in suspicion at the small humans clustered nearby, then widening in recognition at the bears dotting the surrounding slopes.

  They had all come to a sudden halt, their charge abandoned, each one crouched in what Guyime felt to be a subservient huddle. The chorus of growls had faded and the bears kept their snouts lowered and eyes averted. This cowed attitude abruptly became panicked distress when the newly animated statue raised itself up onto its hind legs and let out a roar.

  The sound, a harsh, grating wall of fury, pealed out to echo amongst the mountains with the force of a storm, sending the bears into instant flight. By the time the roar ended they had vanished from the slopes.

  The Stone Bear grunted as it dropped onto all fours, shared a short but, Guyime felt, meaningful glance with Orsena, then loped away. It scattered stone and dust in its wake before cresting the southerly slope and disappearing from view.

  “She’s not sure how long he’ll live,” Orsena said. She briefly twirled the Conjurer’s Blade before slipping it into her scabbard. “Perhaps only a century or two. Now,” she briskly clapped her hands together and returned to the campfire, “I believe porridge is on the menu.”

  Chapter Two

  Iron Shield Pass

  When Guyime had last traversed Iron Shield pass his face had been hidden beneath an unkempt beard and a ragged hood lest the soldiers stationed there recognise the man they had called king only weeks before. It had been a heavily garrisoned and well-maintained fortress then, the twin towers flanking the narrow cut through the mountains scrubbed clean and crowned by huge banners bearing the sigil of House Mathille. Eyeing the grey, soot-streaked walls now, Guyime doubted they had felt the touch of a scrubbing brush for the better part of a decade. Also, the sole banner was a small thing of white and blue, its sigil impossible to make out from this distance. As they drew nearer he counted only a dozen sentries on the towers and the same number on the barrier wall below, pole-axes tilted to the signature angle of bored or slovenly soldiery.

  A disgraceful display, my liege, Lakorath agreed, sensing Guyime’s disapproval. Force one in ten to choose lots to face the noose and flog the rest. Always used to work a treat for discipline, as I recall.

  The impression of disorder was further enhanced by the contingent that greeted them at the fortress gate. It stood open as was the norm during daylight, allowing for the passage of traveller and merchant which were sparse at this time of year but not unknown. However, any resemblance to the stern and scrupulous soldiers Guyime had once set to guard this portal was singularly absent from the gang of unshaven, ill-kempt villains who glowered at the approaching party.

  “State your business,” the sergeant stated in gruff annoyance, he and his men moving to bar their path. One look at this man’s sallow, stubbled features and weary gaze was enough for Guyime to conclude he had achieved his rank by dint of size alone. There was also a hollow cast to his eyes and those of his soldiers, the kind Guyime was accustomed to seeing on the faces of those who have recently survived arduous battle. But what battle could arise here?

  “Trade, good captain,” Lorweth told the sergeant. The druid had a gift for engaging with even the most truculent souls, usually via a combination of flattery and judicious lies. Consequently, and fearing his own temper, Guyime was content to leave the inevitable negotiation in Lorweth’s hands.

  “Trade my arse,” the sergeant responded, sunken eyes tracking from Lorweth to his companions. “Gang of cutthroats come north for the wars, more like.” He paused to spit, though Guyime felt there to be an air of routine to his apparent anger. “May the Ravager’s black soul claim the lot of you.”

  It appears we have a worthy candidate for impalement, Lakorath said, voice imbued with a certain happy nostalgia. I always did like the way they squirmed when the pike skewered them from arsehole to gizzard. You remember that one fellow who was still begging as the spearpoint came out of his mouth…

  “Just honest travellers come north in search of goods to purchase, captain,” Lorweth assured the sergeant, giving a meaningful pat to his purse. It was filled with silver drawn from Orsena’s family vaults, one of several they carried for such occasions. “Nor will we shirk our payment of all necessary tolls.”

  The sergeant’s scowl shifted to a brief frown of calculation. Although patently a dullard, Guyime had noted before how men such as this were remarkably swift when it came to gauging the correct amount for a bribe.

  “What coinage do you bear?” he grunted at Lorweth.

  “Atherian talents.” Lorweth extracted one of the coins from the purse. It flickered as the druid tossed it into the sergeant’s open palm, a perfectly round and clearly embossed circle of silver which contrasted with crudely minted local coinage. The gleam in the sergeant’s eye matched that of the coin, though Guyime could tell his greed wasn’t yet satiated.

  “One won’t suffice,” he said. “Since you’re bearing weapons, the law demands three. Can’t just let you southland villains wander through this gate without proper recompense for all the havoc you’ll wreak.”

  Grasping dolt, Lakorath sneered. Perhaps you should flay him as you impale him, my liege…

  Guyime’s regal pride was a mostly dormant thing, but he felt a pricking to it at the sergeant’s naked avarice. Still, he was long practised in resisting Lakorath’s ugly urgings. Orsena, judging by the way her hand tensed on the hilt of the Conjurer’s Blade, was having considerably more difficulty combating her own demonic companion.

  “She doesn’t like rudeness,” she murmured when Guyime placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Neither do I, in point of fact.”

  Deciding it was time to conclude this matter, Guyime took a step forward, to the alarm of the sergeant and his men. “Careful,” the sergeant warned as the pole-axes descended to point their blades at Guyime’s chest.

  “Four silver talents,” he said, extracting his own purse from the goat-skin jerkin he wore. “Three for passage, one for information.”

  For men such as this greed would always carry more weight than caution. Accordingly, the sergeant nudged his guards to lower their weapons, eyes flicking to Guyime but mostly captured by the sight of the three additional talents he extracted from his purse. “What,” a small tongue, discoloured by ale and pipe smoke, emerged to lick the sergeant’s lips, “information?”

  “I believe a girl passed through here not long ago,” Guyime said, nodding at Seeker. “A girl who looked much like her.”

  Seeker had been wearing a woollen scarf over her nose and mouth to ward against the chill, and removed it now to reveal her face in full. Guyime expected either blank ignorance or more bargaining from the sergeant, an irritating exchange that inevitably saw him handing over another talent or two. Any more than that and he might find himself succumbing to Lakorath’s tempting suggestions. So it was a stark surprise when the sergeant’s face abruptly took on far paler shade as his eyes slid over Seeker’s features. More surprising still was the way in which he and his guards, now also considerably less flush of pallor, shifted from their path.

  “One silver,” the sergeant muttered, consigning Lorweth’s tossed coin to his pocket. He and the other soldiers retreated to press themselves against the walls of the gatehouse, heads lowered in a manner that put Guyime in mind of the humbled bears back in the mountains. “Which you’ve paid.” The sergeant jerked his head at the open cart-rutted track leading into the gloomy narrows of the pass. “Now piss off.”

  Seeker exchanged a short but weighty glance with Guyime before approaching the sergeant, standing close and staring hard into his downcast features. “You will look at me,” she told him in her laboured but clear north-tongue.

  It took a prolonged interval of fidgeted coughing before the sergeant consented to meet her gaze, a task performed with the air of a man seeing no option but to risk all by reaching into a snake pit. “Please,” he pleaded in a whisper. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t do what?” Seeker enquired. She moved closer still, putting her face within an inch of the quailing soldier. “Do what she did? She had my face, did she not? Only younger?”

  The sergeant’s lips were set in a quivering but firmly closed line, though he did consent to nod.

  “Did she carry a weapon, a dagger?” Seeker asked, drawing another nod and, Guyime saw, a burgeoning of tears in the man’s eyes.

  “Please,” he pleaded again. “I can’t…”

  “What happened when she came here?” Seeker cut in, her face now so close to his that it seemed they were about to share a kiss. “What did she do to you?”

  “She…” the discoloured tongue darted forth once more, twisting as it made passage over dry, trembling lips. “She just seemed a girl at first. We asked for our due but she had no coin, so…the lads said she could pay another way.”

  “And she didn’t like that,” Seeker said. “Did she?”

  A wide-eyed, frantic shake of his head, the sergeant’s next words emerging in a sob, “She drew that dagger, but not to fight. Instead, the blade glowed red, so bright it blinded us…and it made us dream. All of us, all at once. We all fell asleep and…those dreams.”

  The soldier to the sergeant’s left began to weep then, hugging himself as he slid slowly down the wall. The others were only marginally less distressed, all shivering in mingled terror and misery.

  “When we woke she was gone,” the sergeant said. “’Cept not all of us woke. A few couldn’t be roused no matter what we tried. It was like they were trapped in sleep, trapped in those dreams.” His hand were twisting together now, fingers tracing over each other as if trying to wash them clean. “There was nothing else to be done. A mercy, it was.”

  He fell silent, staring at Seeker in mingled terror and expectation, a man unable to escape a returned nightmare. Guyime saw a small pulse of shame pass across the beast charmer’s brow before she stepped back from the man, turning and striding into the pass without another word.

  “This outpost is a disgrace,” Guyime informed the still-unmoving sergeant as the others followed Seeker through the gate. “Either do the duty you’ve been given or take yourselves off somewhere.”

  The sergeant stared at him, apparently too terrorised to speak. Then, as Guyime turned away, he blurted out, “And the dreams? They come back, y’see? Every night.”

  “Drink more,” Guyime advised, tossing another silver talent over his shoulder. “Or give yourself the mercy you gave your men.”

  "What has it made of her?” Seeker’s voice was soft, the bowl of stew sitting untouched on the table before her. Around them, the sounds and sights of a surprisingly cheerful inn created an intrusive contrast to Seeker’s mood. The place lay only a few miles north of Iron Shield pass, a substantial three-storey building situated alongside a crossroads busy with caravans. Guyime noted that most of the laden carts were proceeding either north or west, with few heading south and none heading east. Always, a crossroads proved a reliable gauge of where trouble could be found in any realm.

  “Ekiri’s grandfather used to say her soul had been woven by the Four Spirits from a thread of pure kindness,” Seeker went on, gaze distant and brow troubled. “So sweet was she I worried the world would prove too a harsh a place for her. Now she crafts nightmares to torment men to madness and murder.”

  “Clearly the Crystal Dagger is powerful,” Guyime said. “But we learned that in Atheria.”

  “The thing within it has claimed her.” Seeker’s eyes rose to meet his, steady and demanding. “Hasn’t it?”

  “We don’t know that, not with certainty. I have carried this thing on my back for longer than I care to remember, and it has never mastered me. The same may be true of her.”

  “Then what is she doing? What is her goal?”

  “More questions we can’t answer until we find her.” Guyime reached out to touch a hand to the guard on Seeker’s wrist, the leather rough and worn for she had loosed many arrows in her life. “And find her we will. As I swore to you we would.”

  “You did.” The demand in her eyes dimmed a little, but not completely. “As you swore to bring the Seven Swords together. We do not know all we need to, that is true. But we do know that you can only claim your prize through her. Ekiri is the key.” Seeker angled her head, tone lowering to voice a sincerely spoken promise. “Know this, Pilgrim: I will abide no harm to my daughter. You can have your swords, I don’t care. But should the choice come between your purpose and securing her life, it will be no choice.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a time, in understanding if not concordance, until the others returned to the table. Lorweth’s fists clutched flagons of ale whilst Lexius brought more helpings of stew. Orsena had spent a time delighting the few children in the inn by allowing them to pet Lissah. Besides Seeker, the Ultria was the only other member of their party whose touch the caracal would willingly tolerate and the sight of so exotic a beast in the arms of so comely a woman inevitably served to garner interest, and loosen tongues.