“At dawn, we’ll signal the other homesteads,” the bearded man continued. “Then, we decide together what to do with him.”

  The throng nodded in agreement, their collective decision apparently made. Several approached the cage, offering extra commentary along with expectoration—the universal frontier expression of contempt.

  “Tyrant’s dog,” one spat.

  Another leaned close to the woven branches. “My brother disappeared after enforcers took him in for questioning. Was that your doing, spy?”

  “The ship was supposed to become our homes,” a third added thickly, sounding emotional. “Instead, it hovers above, taking our resources, our children—our hope!”

  One by one, they vented their grievances—not just against me, but against the system I supposedly represented. Their anger was justified, even if its target was misidentified. The Tyrant had created a society of fear and scarcity where suspicion represented prudence rather than paranoia.

  Eventually, the crowd dispersed, returning to their homes or whatever nearby dwellings they’d come from. Two remained as guards, positioning themselves on either side of the compound gate with rifles resting across their laps. They settled in for their watch, stamping the icy ground to keep the blood flowing and occasionally warming themselves with sips from a shared flask.

  The wicker cage provided minimal protection from the elements. Wind whistled through the woven branches, carrying ice crystals that stung exposed skin. The ground beneath had been cleared of snow but remained frozen solid, leaching body heat through my clothing.

  I tested my restraints carefully. The cord binding my wrists had been tied with enthusiasm rather than expertise. Given time and freedom from observation, I could work it loose. The cage itself presented a greater challenge—the flexible wood branches were surprisingly strong, resistant to breaking without tools.

  The twin moons continued their arc across Jarl’s night sky, casting moving shadows through the cage’s woven structure. The temperature continued to drop, each breath becoming more painful as the air crystallized in my lungs. Even with proper cold-weather clothing, extended exposure in these conditions would become dangerous within hours.

  Time passed with glacial slowness. The guards maintained their position, occasionally standing to stamp circulation back into cold-numbed feet before resuming their vigil. My fingers had lost sensation, making the work of loosening my bonds increasingly difficult.

  A soft sound from the direction of Tormund’s house caught my attention—the careful opening of a door, the hushed footfall of someone trying to move undetected. The guards remained fixated on the compound entrance, their attention directed outward rather than toward the residential buildings.

  A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness beside the main house, moving with careful deliberation toward the cage. Kelda’s form gradually manifested in the moonlight, her movements cautious but purposeful. She carried something clutched against her chest—a bundle of some sort.

  She approached from the side furthest from the guards, kneeling in the shadow of the cage.

  “They’re fools,” she whispered, her breath forming a crystalline cloud between us. “Thinking you work for the Tyrant.”

  “Your faith is appreciated,” I replied quietly. “Though apparently not shared by your neighbors.”

  “They’re afraid. Fear makes people stupid.” She glanced toward the guards, confirming that they remained unaware of her presence. “Father tried to stop them, but they outnumbered us. Father’s been locked in since they arrived.”

  “Where’s Lars?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  Ah. Now, I had the picture clearly in my mind. Lars hadn’t liked me much from the start. He’d probably gone off to the village and alerted these rogues to my arrival.

  Maybe, Kelda knew this. She at least suspected it. She seemed troubled.

  “None of this is your responsibility,” I assured her. “You warned me about the Halversons. I should have expected an unpleasant welcome.”

  Kelda’s violet eyes reflected moonlight as she studied the cage’s fastening mechanism. “I can release you, but you’ll have to move quickly. The guards change every four hours.”

  “Why help me? Your reputation will be ruined.”

  Her hands worked at the wooden pin securing the cage door. “Because you saved me from a frost-fang—and because I believe you when you say you oppose the Tyrant.” The pin slid free with a soft scraping sound. “And because anyone who can take an axe from Erik Halverson deserves better than freezing to death in a cage.”

  The door swung open just wide enough for me to squeeze through. Kelda produced a knife from her bundle, quickly sawing through the cords binding my wrists and ankles. Blood rushed painfully back into constricted extremities, pins and needles following the numbing cold.

  “Your things,” she whispered, unfolding the bundle to reveal the ironwood axe and my other possessions. The enforcer’s sidearm was notably absent. “I couldn’t get the gun. Gregor keeps it with him.”

  “The axe will do.” I secured it to my belt, grateful for its familiar weight.

  Kelda pointed toward the rear of the compound. “There’s a gap in the wall behind the root cellar. It’s how Lars sneaks out to meet his girlfriend in the next homestead.” She pressed something else into my hand—a small package wrapped in oilskin. “Dried food. Enough for two days if you’re careful.”

  The sound of the guards talking drifted across the compound as they exchanged some comment, followed by rough laughter. They remained unaware of the jailbreak occurring behind them.

  “You should go,” I told Kelda. “Being caught helping me won’t end well.”

  She hesitated, those remarkable eyes searching my face in the moonlight. “Promise me something.”

  “If I can.”

  “Promise you won’t bring trouble back on my family. Whatever your purpose here on Jarl, leave us out of it.”

  It was a reasonable request, given the circumstances. “Girl, I’ll gladly take any number of beatings before I tattle on you.”

  Even though I’d plainly avoided mentioning her family, Kelda nodded, apparently satisfied.

  “Head east from here,” she advised. “The rebel camp I mentioned before—it’s three days’ journey on foot. Follow the ridge line above the trees. You’ll see their fires at night.”

  “Thank you,” I said, meaning it. This was the second time she’d tried to direct me toward potential allies.

  “Just don’t get yourself killed,” she replied. “You still owe me for saving you twice.”

  Before I could respond, Kelda placed her hands on either side of my face and pulled me into a kiss—brief but heartfelt, her lips surprisingly warm against the cold night air. Then she stepped back, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  “For luck,” she explained. “You’ll need it.”

  With that, she turned and melted back into the shadows, returning to the main house as silently as she’d emerged.

  I waited until she was safely inside before making my move, staying low and using the buildings for cover as I made my way toward the root cellar she’d indicated. The guards remained at their post, attention fixed on staying warm and potential threats from outside rather than prisoner escapes from within.

  The gap in the wall turned out to be exactly as described—a section where the stone foundation had crumbled, creating a narrow passage just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Beyond lay the dark expanse of Jarl’s wilderness—endless snow fields, scattered forest, and the distant promise of mountain ridges.

  I slipped through the gap and into the night, the bitter cold immediately asserting its presence. The food package Kelda had provided went into an inside pocket where body heat would prevent it from freezing solid. The axe I kept in hand, useful as both weapon and potential firewood gatherer.

  Looking back at the homestead one last time, I caught a glimpse of movement at an upstairs window—a small hand pressing briefly against the glass in a gesture of farewell. Then the hand withdrew, and I was alone in the vastness of Jarl’s frozen landscape.

  The bright moons provided sufficient illumination to navigate, their light reflecting off the snow to create a landscape of silver and shadow. East lay the rebel camp, according to Kelda—three days’ journey for someone familiar with the terrain, likely longer for an outsider contending with Jarl’s environmental hazards.

  But reaching the rebels would have to wait. My primary objective remained unchanged—locate psionic agent Dahl, assess the situation with the Tyrant, formulate a plan to free the colony from his control. The enforcer pursuit from Northaven had complicated matters, but hadn’t altered the fundamental goals.

  I moved away from the homestead with measured strides, conserving energy while putting distance between myself and potential pursuit. The night deepened around me, stars emerging in Jarl’s clear atmosphere, watching my progress across the frozen wilderness.

  The cold was a living presence, seeking entry through any gap in clothing, any exposed skin. My breath formed a cloud that crystallized and fell as tiny ice particles. Each frigid inhalation burned.

  As I crested a small rise, I paused to survey the landscape. In the far distance, barely visible on the horizon, the lights of Northaven created a small island of humanity in the vast emptiness. Above, partially obscured by high clouds, the colony ship reflected starlight from its metallic hull—an omnipresent symbol of the Tyrant’s authority.

  That ship represented both the problem and potential solution. The Tyrant’s decision to maintain an orbital position constituted a fundamental deviation—one that kept technology, resources, and power literally above the colonists rather than among them.

  Fortunately, it was a theft that could be reversed.

  Somewhere on Jarl, Ingrid Dahl was tracking the same anomaly, gathering intelligence on the Tyrant’s operations. Finding her would be my next objective, after ensuring I’d escaped pursuit from both Northaven’s enforcers and the homesteaders who’d imprisoned me.

  I continued eastward through the night, the ironwood axe cold and heavy in my hand. Kelda’s parting kiss was still warm on my lips despite the freezing air.

  Chapter 14

  After a seemingly eternal night, dawn finally broke over Jarl’s frozen landscape. A scarlet glow spread across the eastern horizon as the twin suns began their daily ascent. I’d spent the night moving, putting distance between myself and both the homestead and Northaven. The constant motion had kept hypothermia at bay, but exhaustion had exacted its own toll.

  From my vantage point atop a rocky promontory, I could see a patchwork of settlements spread across the valley below. Northaven dominated the center, its walls and buildings forming a crude geometric pattern against the surrounding wilderness. Smaller homesteads dotted the periphery, isolated outposts of humanity in Jarl’s inhospitable terrain.

  Among them, just visible at this distance, was Tormund’s homestead where I’d spent part of the previous night as both guest and prisoner. The compound appeared peaceful from this height, giving no indication of any pursuit after my midnight escape.

  Shelter became my immediate priority. The exertion of nighttime travel had kept me warm enough, but a few hours of real rest were needed. That would require protection from Jarl’s merciless elements.

  The rocky outcropping where I stood offered some potential—a slight overhang formed a natural windbreak, and loose stones could be arranged to improve the sheltering effect.

  Working methodically, I gathered rocks to construct a rudimentary wall that faced the prevailing wind. The axe proved useful for clearing snow and chopping branches from nearby trees to create a crude framework. Within an hour, I’d fashioned what wilderness survival experts call a ‘quinzhee’—a shelter formed by piling snow, allowing it to partially set, then hollowing out the interior.

  The structure wasn’t pretty, but it would trap body heat and block wind—the two essential requirements for surviving without fire. And fire, unfortunately, wasn’t an option. The smoke would be visible for miles, drawing attention from both enforcers and potentially hostile homesteaders.

  Inside the cramped shelter, I arranged pine boughs as insulation between my body and the frozen ground. The final touch was a small vent hole at the top to prevent carbon dioxide buildup—a silent killer more dangerous than the cold itself.

  With shelter established, I allowed myself a small portion of the food Kelda had provided. The dried meat was tough but flavorful. It had clearly come from a game animal rather than domesticated livestock. The bread had frozen solid, requiring me to let it sit in my mouth until it softened. A handful of snow provided hydration, though melting frost in my mouth consumed precious body heat.

  From the shelter’s entrance, I continued to observe the valley below. Movement caught my attention—mechanical walkers emerging from Northaven’s main gate. Not a routine patrol, based on the formation and numbers. At least twelve enforcers moved with purpose, heading in the direction of the outlying homesteads.

  Through my limited viewport, I tracked their progress. The walkers moved with that distinctive mechanical gait, navigating the snow-covered terrain with unsettling efficiency. Their riders sat tall in their saddles, weapons clearly visible even at this distance.

  The enforcers’ destination became clear as they approached Tormund’s homestead. The formation split, surrounding the compound with practiced precision. Even from my elevated position, I could sense the aggression in their posture, the intent in their deployment.

  This wasn’t an information-gathering mission or routine inspection. This was a raid.

  The scene unfolded with brutal results. Enforcers dismounted, weapons ready. The compound gate—the same one I’d been brought through as a prisoner—was forced open. Resistance appeared minimal, as the homesteaders were farmers, not soldiers.

  I couldn’t make out individuals, couldn’t distinguish Tormund or Lars or the bearded man who’d led my capture. But I could see the pattern of subjugation—residents forced into the central area, searches conducted, possessions confiscated.

  My jaw tightened as I watched. This wasn’t about finding me. This was a punitive action—collective punishment for a community suspected of harboring a fugitive. My escape had provided the perfect pretext for the Tyrant to remind the outlying settlements of his authority.

  Hours passed as the enforcers methodically ransacked the homestead. Occasionally, small groups of walkers departed, only to return later with additional captives—presumably from neighboring farms. They weren’t targeting just Tormund’s family but the entire network of independent homesteaders in the area.

  As afternoon faded toward Jarl’s abbreviated winter dusk, activity in the compound changed nature. Residents were separated into groups. Some were loaded onto cargo sleds attached to walkers. Others remained in the central area, formed into lines under armed guard.

  Property destruction began next—systematic and deliberate. Outbuildings were demolished, storage facilities emptied, livestock herded away.

  Movement on the slope below my position drew my attention away from the distant scene. A solitary figure struggled upward through the snow, occasionally glancing backward as if fearing pursuit. The approaching dusk made identification difficult, but something in the figure’s movements struck a familiar chord.

  Minutes passed as the climber made slow progress up the steep terrain. Eventually, recognition dawned—the blue-streaked hair now partly covered by a hood, the distinctive movement pattern I’d observed that first night on the mountain road.

  It was Kelda.

  She appeared to be following my tracks, though snow had partially filled them since morning. Her progress was hampered by both the difficult terrain and what looked like an injury—she favored her right leg, occasionally pausing to rest.

  I debated remaining hidden. Anyone following me represented potential complications. But Kelda had aided my escape twice now, likely at significant personal cost. And her current struggle suggested desperation rather than pursuit.

  Knowing what I had to do, I emerged from the shelter and moved toward her. Her head snapped up at my approach, fear momentarily flashing across her features before recognition set in.

  “Malcolm?” she gasped, using the name I’d given her. Relief and exhaustion filled her voice.

  Up close, I could see her condition was worse than I’d thought. A bruise darkened her left cheekbone. Blood had dried on her split lip. Her cold-weather clothing was torn in places, suggesting rough handling rather than difficult travel.

  “They came at dawn,” she explained, words tumbling out between labored breaths. “Enforcers. They said we harbored a fugitive. Said we’d be made an example.”

  “I saw,” I replied, helping her toward my shelter. “From up there.”

  “They took Father. Took Lars.” Her voice cracked. “Anyone who resisted—they were just shot. Right there in front of everyone.” Tears froze on her cheeks as she spoke. “Gregor tried to fight back. He used your enforcer weapon. They cut him down, then executed every man who’d stood guard over your cage.”

  The cruelty matched the Tyrant’s reputation, but hearing the direct consequences of my presence made my lips curl away from my teeth. These people had suffered for offering me shelter, however reluctantly.

  “They’re taking everyone back to Northaven,” Kelda continued. I half carried her weight to my shitty little shelter. “For processing. No one comes back from processing.”

  Inside the small snow structure, I helped her onto the pine boughs. “How did you escape?”

  “When they started separating people, I slipped away. One of the storage tunnels under the barn has an exit beyond the wall.” She winced as she settled, the leg injury clearly paining her. “I looked for your tracks leading up this way. I thought… maybe...”