I took no offense. It had to be the height of idiocy to wander Jarl’s wilds while wet and cold. At least they hadn’t yet imputed anything criminal about me yet. I opted to add a little flattery.

  “Um—thank you,” I said. “That’s good advice, sir... I really do need your help, though.”

  “What skills you offering?” the older of the two asked getting all serious once more. “We don’t take deadweight here.”

  “Security, hunting, mechanical repairs,” I replied. “I can earn my keep.”

  More whispered discussions followed. At last, the older man grumbled. “Approach slowly. Hands where we can see them.”

  I complied, walking with deliberate steps toward the gate. I kept my hands held at shoulder height to demonstrate I posed no immediate threat. As I drew closer, I could see the men more clearly—both weathered by Jarl’s harsh conditions, dressed in practical, hand-made clothing rather than colony-issue gear.

  The gate opened just wide enough to allow passage. “Weapons?” the older man demanded.

  I indicated the axe at my belt. “This. And a knife.”

  “That axe…” the younger man said suddenly, pointing. “Let me see it.”

  I slowly removed the ironwood axe from my belt, holding it flat across my palms for inspection. The younger man stepped forward, examining it without touching.

  “This is Erik Halverson’s,” he stated, looking up with renewed suspicion. “How’d you get that?”

  “Took it from him after he and his brothers tried to rob me on the north road.”

  The men exchanged glances. “You expect us to believe you took on all four Halverson boys and lived?” the older one asked incredulously.

  “I don’t expect anything,” I replied evenly. “Just telling you what happened.”

  Kelda stepped into the light, joining the conversation. Her violet eyes widened with recognition.

  “It’s you,” she said, surprise evident in her tone. “The frost-fang killer.”

  The men swiveled their heads, confusion replacing suspicion. “You know this tramp, Kelda?” the older one asked. “What got into your fool head?”

  “We met on the mountain road,” she explained. “He saved me from a frost-fang. Killed it single-handed with that axe.”

  The younger man scoffed. “No one kills a frost-fang alone. Especially not with just an axe.”

  “I saw it myself,” Kelda insisted. “The beast had me cornered, but he left it dead—standing over it.” She turned to me then. “I thought you were heading to Northaven.”

  “I was… It didn’t work out.”

  Understanding dawned in her eyes. “The enforcers? They’re after you?”

  I nodded.

  The older man cursed quietly. “Enforcers mean trouble for everyone. We don’t need that shit here.”

  “I can move on in the morning,” I offered. “I just need to dry out, rest, maybe get some supplies.”

  “Do I look like a fool who takes on strays?” he demanded angrily.

  Kelda placed a hand on the older man’s arm. “Father, we can’t send him back out there. Not tonight. The temperature’s dropping below survivable levels.”

  The man—her father, evidently—sighed heavily.

  “One night,” he grunted, as if he were a man making a great concession. “One frigging night—that’s it! And you’ll stay in the storage shed, not in the house. At first light, you move on.”

  “Thank you,” I said simply.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he replied grimly. “If enforcers track you here, we don’t know a damned thing about you. You’re hiding out in the barn, screwing sheep or something. Understood? We never even knew you were here.”

  I nodded. Whatever sanctuary they offered came with clear limitations—self-preservation trumped hospitality in Jarl’s harsh reality.

  At last, the old bastard softened a bit. “I’m Tormund,” he said, introducing himself reluctantly. “This is my son, Lars. You’ve apparently already met my daughter, Kelda.”

  Lars continued to eye the axe with suspicion. “The Halversons don’t forget insults,” he warned. “They’re kin to half the northern settlements. This bum is trouble all the way around. We should let him freeze.”

  “I already said what the deal was!” his father roared, lifting a big, balled fist. The younger man, retreated a step.

  “Half the settlements are Halverson relatives?” I asked. “Including yours?”

  “Cousins, twice removed,” Tormund admitted. “Not close, but blood nonetheless.”

  This complicated matters. Family connections on frontier worlds often outweighed other considerations—survival required networks of mutual support and obligation. By taking the axe, I’d potentially made enemies beyond the immediate Halverson brothers.

  Kelda seemed to read my thoughts. “The Halversons raided our storage last winter,” she reminded her father. “Took half our seed grain. Cousin or not, Erik’s word means nothing.”

  Tormund nodded reluctantly. “True enough.” He gestured toward a small outbuilding near the main house. “All right—off with you. Sleep in the storage shed—and no molesting my sheep. It’s not heated in there, but the walls will keep out the wind. There’s straw for bedding—take it or leave it.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Kelda handed me a small parcel wrapped in oilskin. “Bread and dried meat. Not much, but it’ll keep you going.” Kelda stepped toward the shed. “I’ll show him the way, Father.”

  Lars snorted and snickered, but he didn’t say anything rude. Then he returned to what appeared to be guard duty at the gate, his rifle resting casually across his arms.

  Tormund glowered after us, but he didn’t object, either. I followed Kelda across the snowy yard.

  They’re worried about enforcers,” Kelda explained as we trudged. “We’ve had trouble before when harboring people from Northaven.”

  The storage shed turned out to be a sturdy structure built against the compound’s rear wall. It contained agricultural tools, preserved foods, and various supplies necessary for frontier survival. A small space had been cleared among the storage crates, straw piled to form a makeshift sleeping area.

  “It’s not much,” Kelda apologized, lighting a small oil lamp that cast soft illumination throughout the space.

  “It’s perfect,” I assured her. I began to shuck off my gloves and boots that were literally frozen stiff. “Better than freezing in the forest.”

  She studied me with those remarkable violet eyes. “Why did you go to Northaven after I warned you? And what happened to make you leave in such a hurry?”

  I considered which lie to tell her—the truth was unforgivable.

  “I was looking for someone,” I explained. “I had… certain information to deliver. But things went sideways.”

  Her strange eyes narrowed. “Let me guess, the enforcers realized you killed their patrol on the mountain road?”

  I shrugged. “There was a misunderstanding.”

  Kelda nodded slowly. “Murder is difficult, even on Jarl. The survivors always report back eventually. The Tyrant doesn’t tolerate such challenges to his authority.”

  That word again—the Tyrant. Even here, away from Northaven, fear of the colony ship’s master permeated conversation.

  “Your family lives outside Northaven’s control?” I asked.

  “As much as anyone can,” she replied. “We provide agricultural products to the settlement—they need us enough to allow some independence. But we still pay tribute and follow the broader edicts.”

  “Like not discussing the ship?”

  Kelda glanced nervously upward—the same instinctive reaction I’d observed in Northaven. “Some habits are hard to break, even when you know he can’t hear you.”

  “Can’t he?” I pressed gently.

  She hesitated. “The monitoring doesn’t reach this far. Not reliably. But people disappear who ask too many questions, even in the outer settlements.”

  I unpacked the food she had provided—a dense, dark bread and strips of dried meat that looked like preserved game. Simple fare but welcome after a day of strenuous activity and exposure to the unforgiving wet and cold.

  “Thank you for this help,” I said, gesturing to indicate the shelter, food, and her intervention. “I’m not sure I would have lasted the night out there.”

  Kelda settled onto a crate opposite my makeshift bed. “Why did you really come to Jarl? And don’t give me that bullshit about being a colonist or a trader.”

  “What makes you doubt me?”

  “Your fighting skills. The way you move. The way you assess everything and everyone.” She leaned forward. “You’re not running from Northaven—you’ve come here with purpose.”

  She wasn’t a dumb one. That realization made me wince. Smart women were far more dangerous to a man like me.

  “Would you believe I’m here to help?” I asked.

  “Help who? With what?”

  “The colony. With its Tyrant problem.”

  Kelda’s laugh burst out of her. The sound held little humor—it was more of a hysterical giggle. “You? One man against the Tyrant? Against his enforcers, his technology, his ship?” She shook her head. “You’re either brave, foolish—or a liar.”

  “I’ve been called all three… That ship is supposed to belong to the whole colony.”

  She studied me, weighing something in her mind. Finally, she said, “There are others who think as you do. People who question the Tyrant’s authority, who remember what colony life should be.”

  “The rebels you mentioned when we first met?”

  Kelda nodded. “They maintain a camp in the eastern foothills. They’ve been gathering strength, resources.”

  “But…?”

  “But the Tyrant knows about them. He uses them, I think, to identify dissidents.” She sighed. “Any real challenge would have to come from within the ship itself.”

  The continued orbital presence of the ship represented the physical manifestation of the Tyrant’s power—keeping technology, resources, and authority literally above the colonists rather than distributed among them.

  Kelda moved to the door. Light and flecks of snow sifted through the cracks. “I’ll be right back—I’m going to get you some dry blankets, so you’ll be more comfortable,” she said, slipping out into the freezing night.

  Suddenly, overwhelming fatigue hit me, and the straw bed was looking better. It had been a hell of a day. I was looking forward already to reassessing things afresh in the morning.

  She was back within minutes with a pair of lovely, thick, woolen blankets. “Rest now,” Kelda said, from the doorway. “Tomorrow will be challenging enough. Father will expect you gone by mid-morning.”

  “Will enforcers search this far from Northaven?”

  “Eventually. They’re thorough when someone challenges their authority.” She paused at the door. “Be careful with that axe. The Halversons have long memories and short tempers.”

  We were close for a moment at the door. She lingered—and I began to get ideas. Those violet eyes, that fair skin… I wanted to reach for her, but I wasn’t sure how she would react.

  As if sensing my thoughts, she turned away and hustled into the snow. I let her go, watching after her until the light of her lantern vanished into the main house.

  After she left, I arranged the straw into a more suitable nest, rolled up in the blankets and settled in for the night—opting to sleep in my soggy layers to dry them out with the warmth of my body. I felt like my ribs were bruised but not broken. The shed, while unheated, provided effective shelter from Jarl’s biting wind. The food, even simple as it was, restored my energy depleted by the day’s exertions.

  Outside, Jarl’s twin moons cast their silver-blue light across the frozen landscape. In the distance, barely visible through the wavery glass of the shed’s single small window, the lights of Northaven glowed against the darkness. And somewhere above, beyond the clouds, orbited the colony ship—the key to both the Tyrant’s power and, potentially, his vulnerability.

  Chapter 13

  I couldn’t sleep for shit. My body craved rest while my mind remained alert to potential threats. The storage shed creaked and settled as night deepened, its wooden frame contracting in Jarl’s merciless cold. Even though I now had a couple of blankets and appropriate clothing, I was more than a little damp and far from what I’d call comfortable. Through the gaps between the wall slats, the twin moons cast overlapping shadows that shifted across the floor with their celestial movement, like a kaleidoscope in silver-blue light.

  Sometime after I’d managed to drift off to sleep, a sound registered—the subtle crunch of snow under careful footsteps. My eyes opened to darkness, the oil lamp Kelda had left me had guttered out, leaving behind no trace of light or heat.

  The footsteps multiplied, approaching from multiple directions with the measured pace of people trying to move quietly but not entirely succeeding.

  Rolling silently from the straw bedding, I retrieved the ironwood axe and positioned myself beside the door. The enforcer’s sidearm was already in my hand, though I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it. These people had offered shelter, however reluctantly. Killing them would be poor repayment, regardless of their current intentions.

  The door burst open with sudden violence, admitting a rush of frigid air and multiple shadowed figures. I sidestepped the first attacker, using the man’s momentum to send him sprawling into wooden crates. The second received the butt of the sidearm across his temple, dropping him to his knees with a grunt of pain.

  But there were more—at least six bodies crowding into the small space, too many to fight effectively in the confined quarters. Someone swung what felt like a wooden club that caught me across the shoulders. Another tackled me at the knees. The axe was wrenched from my grip as I went down beneath the press of bodies.

  “Hold him!” someone commanded—not Tormund, but similar in the frontier accent.

  My attempt to bring the sidearm to bear was thwarted by multiple hands grasping my arm, forcing it back until pain lanced through my shoulder and elbow. A knee pressed into my back, driving the air from my lungs in a painful rush.

  “We got the Tyrant’s man!” someone crowed triumphantly.

  “Careful,” another warned. “These thugs are dangerous.”

  A heavy blow struck the back of my head, not enough to knock me unconscious but sufficient to disorient. I wasn’t too happy about that, but I was clearly outmatched. My best bet now would be to go along with things and look for an opportunity to present itself.

  With my vision swimming, I felt my arms wrenched behind my back, rough cord biting into my wrists. More bindings secured my ankles. Professional military restraint techniques these were not—just the brutal efficiency of frontier justice.

  “Get him outside,” the first man ordered. “Everyone should see what happens to the Tyrant’s spies.”

  Strong hands hoisted me upright, then half-dragged, half-carried me through the door into the moonlit compound. My head cleared enough to take stock of the situation—by flickering torch light, I could see that approximately twelve men had participated in the ambush, none of them Tormund or Lars from what I could tell. These were other villagers or nearby homesteaders, gathered for what they clearly believed was necessary security.

  The temperature had dropped further. My breath crystallized instantly in the night air. My captors seemed unaffected, their faces flushed with exertion and righteous anger rather than the cold.

  “Where’s Tormund?” I managed to ask, tasting blood from a split lip.

  “Confined to his house,” one of the men replied. “His judgment’s in question since his wife died. Too trusting!”

  They dragged me to the center of the compound where an unusual structure waited—a large box fashioned from flexible tree branches and woven together in a tight pattern, resembling oversized wicker. It had probably been cured by kiln-drying to boot. The design was crude but effective, creating a sturdy prison that required no metal parts or complex construction. Frontier ingenuity at its finest.

  The cage door swung open on leather hinges. Unceremoniously, I was thrown inside, landing hard on the frozen ground. The door closed with a wooden clack, secured by what appeared to be a simple wooden pin mechanism. I was, of course, left with my hands bound behind my back, so I couldn’t really explore for any of my prison’s weaknesses.

  “There,” announced a heavyset man with a gray-streaked beard. “Let him enjoy Jarl’s hospitality until morning. Then we’ll decide what to do with the Tyrant’s lackey.”

  “I’m not working for the Tyrant,” I stated through clenched teeth, struggling to sit upright with my hands still bound. “Quite the opposite.”

  This earned a chorus of derisive laughter.

  “Of course,” the bearded man replied, sarcasm heavy in his tone. “You’re just an innocent traveler who happened to escape Northaven with enforcers in pursuit.” He spat on the ground near the cage. “We’ve heard better lies from the Halverson boys.”

  The gathered men all grunted affirmations. One stepped forward—a lanky individual with a distinctive facial scar. “Found this in his jacket,” he announced, holding up the enforcer’s sidearm. “Enforcer issue! Not easy to come by.”

  This revelation drew angry muttering from the crowd. The evidence certainly didn’t support my claim of opposition to the Tyrant.

  “I took a trophy from enforcers I fought,” I explained. “Just like I took the axe from the Halverson brothers. You guys aren’t too bright, are you?”

  “Convenient explanation, spy,” the bearded man scoffed. “Middle of winter, new arrival with enforcer gear, no documentation, fighting skills...” He turned to address the gathered crowd. “The Tyrant’s getting smarter with his infiltrators. This one’s designed to look like a dissident, to gain our trust!”

  No amount of explanation was going to sway them, I realized. The paranoia that permeated Northaven clearly extended to these outlying communities. In their experience, strangers represented threats rather than opportunities. Fear of the Tyrant’s reach had created a closed society where outsiders faced automatic suspicion.