She trailed off, the implication clear. She’d sought me out as her only potential ally in a world suddenly turned hostile.

  “You need to hide me,” she said, violet eyes pleading in the dimming light. “Just until I can reach the eastern rebels. They’ll take me in. They owe my father from before.”

  I moved to the shelter entrance, gazing down at the valley where enforcer walkers were now loading the last of their captives onto sleds. Torches had been lit around the compound, their flickering light revealing the systematic destruction of what had clearly been a thriving homestead.

  Anger built as I watched—not the hot, reactive anger of immediate threat, but the cold, focused anger born of witnessing injustice. These people weren’t collateral damage in my mission—they were its purpose. Every homesteader loaded onto those sleds represented exactly what I’d been sent to Jarl to fix.

  Standard procedure would dictate protecting my cover, avoiding further engagement, and making contact with Agent Dahl before attempting any action against the Tyrant. Standard procedure would mean hiding with Kelda, waiting for the enforcement sweep to pass, and continuing eastward toward the rebel camp.

  But standard procedure hadn’t accounted for watching innocents pay the price for offering me shelter. It hadn’t factored in the bruises on Kelda’s face or countless other crimes against these homesteaders. No wonder they’d been such dicks to me, suspecting I was working with these brutes.

  “I can’t hide you,” I told Kelda, turning back from the entrance.

  Her face fell, defeat replacing hope in her expression.

  “I can’t hide you,” I repeated, retrieving the ironwood axe, “because I’m not hiding anymore.”

  Understanding dawned slowly in her violet eyes. “You’re going down there? Against all of them? That’s suicide!”

  “Maybe,” I acknowledged, checking the axe’s blade with my thumb. The edge was still sharp enough. “They’re expecting a fugitive running scared, not someone coming straight at them.”

  “You can’t beat twelve enforcers with just an axe.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “But I don’t need to beat all of them. Just enough to free the captives.”

  Kelda struggled to her feet despite her injury. “Then I’m coming with you.”

  I shook my head. “You’re hurt. You’d slow me down and give them an additional target.” I pressed the remains of her food package back into her hands. “Stay here. If I don’t return by morning, continue east as you planned.”

  “And if you do return?”

  “Then we’ll have transport, weapons, and a better chance of reaching those rebels together.”

  Seeing my mind was made up, she took unexpected action—she opened her coat, and then her layered clothing beneath. Soon, her breasts were bare.

  “What…?” I asked.

  “I can see the light of a blood-rage in your eyes. I’m hoping to tempt you to stay—to improve your odds. You have to stay here until midnight, at least.”

  After blinking a few times, I had to acknowledge my insane attack would indeed be best done in the darkest hours. I approached her, and I made love to her on that pile of sticks and frozen ice. It wasn’t the most civilized act of passion I’d ever experienced, but it was real and heartfelt for both of us.

  I even fell asleep with her for a few precious hours. When I awakened and began to stir, she clung to me, and she dug her nails in.

  “I have to go out and relieve myself,” I lied to her.

  “Don’t leave me! They’ll kill you!”

  Kelda waited, breathing softly after this appeal. Pulling gently away from her grasp, I crawled out of the shelter. My God, it was cold out.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “Many have tried and failed to kill me in the past.” I secured the axe to my belt. “Rest. Let that leg heal. Either I’ll be back, or you’ll need your strength for the journey east.”

  Outside, I could make out moving torches—both electric and traditional. The enforcers had completed their work, walkers forming a convoy with captives secured to the transport sleds. Fires illuminated their departure from the devastated homesteads.

  Damn. I’d hoped they’d all bed down at the homestead—possibly ravaging women, drinking themselves into a stupor, and snoring before my attack. Unfortunately, they appeared to be more disciplined than that.

  I’d already charted their likely route back to Northaven during the day—a valley path that narrowed between rocky outcroppings about two miles ahead. That was the spot. Tailor-made for an ambush, if I could reach it before they passed through.

  After one last glance toward the shelter, where Kelda watched me with violet eyes that were brimming with tears, I began my descent. The axe thumped rhythmically against my thigh as I moved, its weight a small comfort.

  Twelve against one. Those were poor odds by any calculation. But calculations didn’t account for my cold determination.

  The Tyrant had made an effective demonstration of his power today. Now it was time for a response in kind.

  Chapter 15

  I reached the narrow valley passage ahead of the enforcer convoy, the steep descent from my shelter having provided a more direct route than the winding path the walkers followed. My lungs burned with each frozen breath, but adrenaline and training drove me forward.

  The passage itself offered natural advantages for an ambush—high rock walls on either side created a bottleneck approximately thirty yards long and just wide enough for two walkers to travel abreast. Snow had drifted against the western face, forming a natural ramp that would allow access to an elevated position.

  Working quickly in the deepening darkness, I climbed to a ledge about fifteen feet above the path. From here, I could survey the approaching convoy, now visible as a line of torches moving steadily through the valley. The enforcer walkers maintained disciplined formation—two machines at the front, two at the rear, the others flanking the prisoner sleds in the center.

  My plan, such as it was, was simple: I’d create confusion, separate enforcers from their mounts, and free enough captives to even the odds. The axe would serve for the initial attack, but I’d need to acquire better weapons quickly to have any hope of success.

  As the convoy approached, I could make out individual figures. The two lead enforcers rode ahead of the rest. Behind them came the sleds—four in total, each carrying six to eight bound captives. Among them, I spotted Tormund’s massive frame and what looked like Lars’ younger silhouette.

  My timing would need to be perfect. Too early, and I’d face the full squad alone. Too late, and they’d pass through the bottleneck into more open terrain where their superior mobility would nullify any advantage.

  The lead walker entered the passage, its rider scanning the rock faces with professional caution. A handheld spotlight swept across the walls, the beam briefly illuminating my position before moving on. I pressed myself against the stone, grateful for the dark clothing that helped me blend with the shadowed rock.

  When the first sled reached the narrowest point of the passage, I made my move. Pushing off from the ledge, I launched myself directly at the lead enforcer. The axe head swung in a whistling arc, connecting with the man’s upper body just as he registered the attack and began to turn. The impact knocked him sideways off his mount, his surprised shout cut short as we both crashed onto the packed snow.

  I rolled clear of the impact, coming up with the axe still gripped firmly. The enforcer wasn’t so fortunate—his head had landed apart from his body. The sound of chopped-through bones had been audible even amid the sudden activity.

  His walker, suddenly riderless, skittered forward a few paces before stopping, its programming uncertain without direct commands.

  “These yokels are ambushing us!” someone shouted from further back in the convoy. “Defensive formation!”

  The second lead enforcer was already dismounting, fumbling for his sidearm under bulky clothes. I closed the distance before he could aim properly, launching into a slide across the icy ground that took his legs out from under him. His shot went wild, the distinctive crack of the railgun echoing off the rock walls. The projectile struck a boulder and there was a small explosion of orange sparks.

  Wild action erupted throughout the convoy. The walkers nearest the sleds became agitated, their behavioral algorithms struggling to process the sudden disorder. Captives strained against their bonds, shouting encouragement as I grappled with the fallen enforcer.

  My opponent was skilled, managing to land a solid fist to my ribs despite his disadvantaged position. Pain flared, bright and immediate, but I pushed through it, driving the blunt end of the axe handle into his open, roaring mouth. As his teeth broke around the handle, and he folded. Wrenching the railgun from his grip, I shot him with it, point-blank.

  Two enforcers from the rear guard were now advancing on foot, their walkers left to stand near the prisoners. Both carried long-barreled rifles. Their professional stances suggested actual combat training rather than mere intimidation skills.

  “Hand over your weapons!” one of the approaching enforcers commanded. “Surrender now and the Tyrant may yet show you mercy!”

  In response, I shot him between the eyes. My aim was excellent, even if I do say so myself.

  The other enforcer had been lifting his rifle to aim, but he seemed startled by the sudden explosive nature of his partner’s skull. He shrunk back behind a big rock, seeking cover.

  I fired again, not wanting to allow him both a better position and a better weapon at once. I shot at a chunk of rock that overhung his hiding place. It exploded with the powerful impact, sending a shower of violently driven shards of stone in every direction.

  Railgun weapons were more dangerous than simple guns firing bullets. The projectiles traveled with such speed and force they could crack stone. The man shrieked, hit by shrapnel—but he wasn’t out of the fight yet.

  In addition to injuring him, I’d damaged the knee joint of the nearest walker. The machine buckled, its balance systems struggling to compensate.

  The first sled was just yards behind the reeling walker. Among the captives, I recognized Tormund straining against his bonds, his eyes wide with disbelief at the one-man assault on the convoy. Beside him, Lars had managed to partly free one hand, working at the knots binding another homesteader.

  “Stay down!” I shouted to the prisoners as I fired again, this time hitting an enforcer who had emerged from behind the sled. The shot caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around with the impact.

  Movement caught my peripheral vision—the man I’d hit with shrapnel had recovered from my earlier attack. He now charged me with a shock baton crackling with blue energy—had I somehow damaged his rifle? I must have done so.

  I ducked under his swing, the weapon passing close enough that I felt its electrical field raising the hair on my head.

  We grappled briefly, with him gripping my wrist, so I couldn’t bring my gun into line. He was bleeding from the face, but he was tough and strong.

  I drove a knee into his bulging gut. He grunted, but he didn’t go down. In fact, he managed to wrench the pistol out of my hands.

  As he staggered back with his trophy, I brought my axe into play again. A vicious backhand swing thunked the blade home. The edge bit deep into his side, blood spraying across the snow in a steaming arc. He collapsed with a gargling sound, and the gun fell from nerveless fingers.

  “Drengr!” someone shouted from the sleds. “This mountain man is a drengr!”

  I took cover, breathing hard in white plumes. I managed to gather up the fallen pistol in one hand and my axe in the other.

  The remaining enforcers had begun to retreat. Apparently, they hadn’t enjoyed the carnage they’d witnessed.

  “This won’t end well for you, berserker!” called an enforcer who appeared to be in command. “We outnumber you still. Drop your weapons now, or we’ll shoot your kin!”

  In answer, I fired the railgun at the nearest sled’s restraint mechanisms. The shot severed the main binding rope, immediately freeing several captives. Among them, Tormund wasted no time, his massive frame lunging toward the nearest enforcer even with his hands still partially bound.

  The momentary distraction was all I needed. I broke cover, zigzagging between walkers while firing the railgun to keep the enforcers’ heads down. Reaching the sled, I slashed at remaining restraints with the axe, freeing more homesteaders.

  “Grab the weapons on the enforcers!” I shouted to the now-freed prisoners. “Anyone who can fight, grab something and help!”

  Several of them were gunned down, but the homesteaders responded with surprising swiftness. Their desperation trumped any fear. They snatched up anything usable—shock batons from fallen enforcers, tools from the sleds, even rocks from the ground. Lars had already appropriated a railgun, handling it with unexpected familiarity as he provided covering fire.

  The battle shifted dramatically as the element of surprise compounded with newly armed homesteaders. The enforcers, trained to intimidate civilians rather than engage in actual combat, found themselves suddenly facing significant resistance from multiple directions.

  A gray-bearded man I recognized from my captivity at Tormund’s compound swung a length of chain like a flail, the improvised weapon catching an enforcer’s arm and pulling him from his walker. The machine skittered sideways, colliding with another and creating further confusion.

  Tormund himself had become a force of nature. Unarmed but unburdened by any need for finesse, he simply tackled an enforcer, taking him off his mount to maul him like a bear. The two of them crashed to the ground where the homesteader’s superior size quickly settled the outcome. The man rose with a captured rifle, blood streaming from his nose but a fierce grin splitting his beard.

  “To me!” I called, positioning myself at the front of the freed prisoners. “Form a line! Control the walkers!”

  The homesteaders rallied to the command, their initial chaos resolving into something resembling organized resistance. Those with captured firearms provided covering fire while others worked to free the remaining prisoners from other sleds.

  An enforcer rushed our position, firing wildly with his sidearm. The shots went high as Lars dropped him with a well-placed shot to the gut. The man fell screaming, his weapon skidding across the ice to be snatched up by another rebel.

  “The walkers!” I shouted, pointing to the riderless machines that continued to mill about, their programming insufficient for independent action in combat situations. “Capture them! They’ll recognize new riders!”

  Several men moved toward the machines, approaching cautiously. One of the walkers backed away, threatened by the unfamiliar humans. Another allowed a tentative touch to its control yoke before accepting a new rider—a young homesteader who whooped with triumph as the machine responded to his commands.

  The tide had turned definitively. Of the original twelve enforcers, most were dead or seriously wounded. The rest turned and fled into the snow, ice, and darkness.

  Tormund turned to face the prisoners. Blood crusted in his beard, and one eye was swelling shut.

  “Brothers! Sisters!” he called, his deep voice echoing off the canyon walls. “Today marks the beginning! No more will we bow to the Tyrant’s whims! No more will our families be taken for processing!”

  The response was immediate—a cheer that shook snow from tree branches. These weren’t just freed captives anymore. They were legitimate rebels, united by shared struggle and unexpected victory.

  Tormund turned to me, his expression a blend of gratitude and newfound respect. “You came back,” he said simply. “After how you were treated. I told them…”

  “That wasn’t personal,” I replied. “Your people were protecting themselves. I respect that.”

  “And now, you’ve saved those same bastards who abused you.” He extended a massive hand. “We misjudged you, mountain man.”

  I clasped his forearm in the traditional frontier gesture. “My real name is Tanner,” I said, abandoning the Malcolm cover. It seemed pointless now, given what had transpired. “Dane Tanner.”

  He nodded, staring into my bloody face.

  “Well done, Dane Tanner,” Tormund replied. He gestured to the armed homesteaders that surrounded us. “It appears now that we’re rebels, whether we want to be or not. What happens next?”

  I surveyed our impromptu force—approximately thirty men and women, some armed with enforcer weapons and with six functional walkers.

  “Next,” I said, “we make sure the Tyrant knows this wasn’t just a jailbreak. This was a declaration.”

  Lars approached—his youthful face changed by the night’s events now bore some of the stern maturity of his father. “The eastern rebels must hear of what happened here today,” he said. “We should join forces. With what we’ve captured here, they’ll welcome us.”

  Tormund nodded slowly. “Perhaps it’s time. We’ve talked of resistance for years. Tonight, we’ve finally acted.”

  As the rebels organized their newly acquired bounty of weapons and equipment, I moved among them to offer tactical advice and show them how to handle the unfamiliar firearms. Many had never held anything more advanced than a hunting rifle, yet they tackled the new weapons with the practical adaptability that frontier life demanded.

  One gray-bearded homesteader who’d participated in my capture the day before approached, his earlier hostility replaced by gruff acknowledgment.

  “Seems I owe you an apology,” he said. “We thought you were the Tyrant’s dog—but it turns out you’re something else entirely.”

  “Apology accepted,” I replied. “What’s your name?”

  “Olaf,” he said. “I’ve been Tormund’s neighbor for many years. Never thought I’d see the day we’d stand against enforcers and win.”

  “The days of not taking a stand are over,” I told him, helping secure a railgun to his improvised holster. “From here on out, everyone stands together or falls separately.”