“Not one for unearned adoration,” I replied, nodding toward a group of homesteaders who were enthusiastically reenacting what they perceived as my heroic stand against the enforcers.

  “Unearned?” She sounded scandalized. “What part is unearned?”

  “The part where I’m described as some mythic hero rather than someone who made a tactical decision based on available information.” I sipped the local spirit, its burn pleasant against the lingering cold in my bones. “The homesteaders fought bravely. They deserve more credit than these stories allow.”

  Kelda studied me with that penetrating gaze that seemed to see beyond surface explanations. “I like you best as a hero. We need heroes right now, Dane. We need to believe that standing against the Tyrant isn’t automatically a death sentence.”

  Her perception was accurate, of course, so I didn’t argue further. And when her hands came up to dig into my cold weather gear, I didn’t object.

  As the celebration continued, I noticed one man who wasn’t participating. The gaunt and grim Cassius, who had shared his concerns about me earlier, held court with several like-minded rebels. Their conversation wasn’t audible from my position, but the frequent glances in my direction made their topic clear enough.

  “Don’t mind him,” Kelda said, following my gaze. “Cassius lost his entire family in a failed resistance attempt two years ago. He believes caution is the only way to survive.”

  “Caution isn’t a bad idea,” I acknowledged. “The Tyrant’s response to all this will likely be severe.”

  “Then we’ll face it together,” she replied with conviction. “For the first time, we have weapons, information, momentum—and a hero to follow into battle.”

  The feast gradually transitioned into smaller, more informal gatherings as the evening progressed. Someone produced a stringed instrument resembling a guitar, its music providing backdrop for conversations that grew increasingly animated as Jarl’s fermented berry spirits flowed freely. They’d mastered the art of freezing alcohol several times over, removing the water that way and making a very potent brew.

  “The walkers are key,” I explained to Svensson and several others gathered around a crude map of Northaven. “They provide mobility advantages in this terrain that foot soldiers can’t match. Capturing more should be a priority.”

  “Easier said than done,” a rebel commander named Thorne said, weighing in. “The machines bond with their riders. They resist new users.”

  “Not if the rider is gentle at first,” I countered. “We’ve seen they’ll readily accept new operators if the original user is incapacitated.”

  The tactical discussion continued in this vein, practical considerations replacing the earlier celebration atmosphere. When conversation finally exhausted itself, the gathering began to disperse. Quarters had been arranged for the homesteaders throughout the cave complex, families staying together where possible.

  I was shown to a small side chamber equipped with a simple sleeping platform and storage space carved into the rock wall. The accommodations were spartan but functional—significantly more comfortable than my snow shelter on the mountainside had been.

  After confirming the chamber offered at least nominal privacy, I conducted a thorough physical assessment. Fighting and marching through forests had left their marks—bruised ribs, a deep cut along my forearm that had gone unnoticed during the adrenaline of combat, along with various minor contusions.

  I was applying antiseptic from a small medkit to the forearm wound when a soft knock sounded at the chamber’s entrance. The rough cloth that served as a door parted, revealing Kelda’s busty form silhouetted against the corridor’s dim lighting.

  “I brought fresh bandages,” she explained, holding up a small bundle. “Our medic mentioned you’d declined her treatment.”

  “It’s nothing serious.”

  Her smile was stern. “Let me see anyway.”

  She entered without waiting for permission, setting the bandages on a small side table and examining my self-administered first aid with critical eyes.

  Kelda’s fingers were gentle but assured as she cleaned and properly dressed the wound. The cavernous chamber was cool, but her proximity radiated a warmth that had nothing to do with ambient temperature.

  “You’ve done this before,” I observed as she secured the bandage with neat precision.

  “Frontier life teaches basic medical skills,” she replied. “I’ve had plenty of practice patching up Lars after his various misadventures.”

  When she finished with the forearm, her attention shifted to the bruising visible along my ribcage. “These need compression,” she stated, producing a long strip of fabric from her supplies. “Arms up.”

  I complied, allowing her to wrap the bandage around my torso with the same professional competence she’d shown with the arm wound. Her fingers were cool against my skin, their touch clinical but somehow intimate in the chamber’s privacy.

  “So, Drengr…” she said with a hint of amusement as she worked. “Are you getting used to your new name?”

  “Could be worse,” I acknowledged.

  “Much worse.” She secured the wrapping with a small metal clip. “Some wanted to call you the Axe Warrior.”

  “That’s definitely worse.”

  When her task was complete, Kelda stepped back to assess her handiwork. She ran her hands over as much of me as she could find an excuse to touch.

  “You should rest,” she suggested, though she made no move to leave. “Tomorrow will bring violence, scouting, maybe a raid…”

  “You should rest too,” I countered. “Your leg needs time to heal properly.”

  She nodded, but remained where she was, violet eyes reflecting the chamber’s minimal lighting.

  “I keep thinking about that frost-fang,” she said suddenly. “How you killed it without hesitation, how you stepped between me and danger without knowing anything about me.”

  “That was pure instinct.”

  “And then you did it again. Stepped between me and danger, I mean. At my father’s compound, when the enforcers came.”

  I shrugged. “Different circumstances.”

  “But with the same result.” She moved closer, personal space dissolving with deliberate intent. “You keep saving me, Drengr. And… you keep bedding me. This makes a girl wonder…”

  “What does it make her wonder?”

  “If you feel the same thing I do. There’s been a pull between us that’s been there since you first appeared on that mountain road.”

  Her honesty deserved honesty in return. “I feel that, too.”

  The admission changed something between us, a barrier dissolving that had nothing to do with physical proximity. Kelda reached up, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw with tentative exploration that gradually grew more confident.

  “I was engaged once,” she said, the non-sequitur delivered in a tone suggesting the information was important context rather than deflection. “To a boy from a neighboring homestead. The enforcers took him during a raid last year. He never returned from processing.”

  “No wonder you hate them.”

  “I promised myself I wouldn’t risk that kind of loss again.” Her hand came to rest against my cheek. Her touch felt warm in the cool chamber air. “Then you appeared, killing frost-fangs and challenging enforcers, and suddenly all my careful promises seemed less important than what I was feeling.”

  Her kisses began suddenly. There was no more hesitancy. Her lips met mine with decisive intent, the contact igniting everything that had been building since our brief connection on the mountain. My arms encircled her waist, drawing her closer as the kissing deepened.

  She pulled back slightly, her entrancing eyes searching mine in the dim light. Whatever question she silently asked apparently received a satisfactory answer, because she kissed me again with renewed purpose, her body pressing against mine with unmistakable invitation.

  “I don’t want you to leave us—to leave me. I know you think about doing it often. I want you to fight for Jarl.”

  “I’m not going anywhere—for now.”

  She pouted for a moment, not completely satisfied with my answer.

  Then, her fingers found the clasps of my shirt, unfastening them with deliberate slowness that had nothing to do with hesitation and everything to do with savoring the moment. I mirrored her actions, helping her shed the layers of practical clothing that Jarl’s climate demanded.

  The sleeping platform was narrow but adequate, and—as it turns out—my outer coat spread over the floor proved suitable too. Kelda’s body revealed itself, and her skin was as pale as any I’d seen. Her muscles were toned from a life of labor.

  She pressed full breasts into me, and I embraced her slender waist.

  Kelda matched my intensity with her own, all pretense abandoned in the privacy of the stone chamber. Her responses were unfiltered, genuine—frontier directness extending to intimacy without self-consciousness or artifice.

  Time lost meaning as we moved together, the world beyond our immediate connection temporarily forgotten. The cold of Jarl’s perpetual winter had no place here, banished by the heat generated between us.

  Afterward, Kelda dozed against my shoulder. I wanted nothing more than to protect her. I contemplated how effective her recruitment technique truly was.

  Chapter 19

  There was a sudden commotion in the corridor outside our chamber. Voices raised in argument, footsteps approaching with deliberate heaviness. Kelda stirred beside me, instantly alert with the situational awareness frontier life had instilled.

  “Someone’s coming,” she whispered, already reaching for her scattered clothing.

  With the intimate atmosphere of our earlier moments gone, I positioned myself between Kelda and the entrance. My axe was within easy reach, should I need it.

  The rough cloth serving as a door was thrust aside without ceremony, revealing Lars standing in the corridor. His expression shifted rapidly from urgency to surprise to something darker as he processed the scene before him.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said to Kelda, his tone carrying an edge. “Should have guessed you’d be here.”

  “What’s happened?” Kelda asked, ignoring the implied accusation.

  “Scouts spotted a massive enforcer deployment moving from Northaven. At least thirty walkers—with cannons and shit.” Lars’ gaze shifted between us. I could tell the delivery of critical information was warring with personal disapproval. “Svensson’s called a strategy meeting. He asked for both of you specifically—I’m not sure why.”

  “We’ll be right there,” I replied calmly.

  Lars hesitated, clearly wanting to say more. “Kelda, Father’s looking for you, too.”

  “Tell him I’m coming,” she said crossly. “I just need a minute.”

  “To put your clothes back on, huh?”

  Lars lingered, his attention now aimed specifically at me rather than his sister. Something in his expression had hardened—the camaraderie we’d developed during the canyon fight and subsequent journey had been replaced.

  “Lars,” Kelda said sharply. “Get out of here. We’ll be right behind you.”

  With evident reluctance, her brother departed, the cloth door falling back into place with a sound that hinted at tearing fabric. In the silence that followed, Kelda sighed with frustration.

  “This is going to be awkward,” she observed, fastening the final clasps on her cold-weather jacket. “Lars has always been protective, but lately it’s gotten worse. Ever since our mother died, and the enforcer raids increased, he’s appointed himself as my personal guardian.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll straighten him out—if he needs straightening.”

  “Don’t hurt him, Dane.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I lied.

  She finished dressing and moved toward the entrance, then paused. “Lars had feelings for Myla, my former fiancé’s sister. When the enforcers took Jesper for processing, Myla blamed all of us—said if we’d been more compliant, shown proper respect for the Tyrant’s authority, everyone would still be alive.”

  The context clarified Lars’ reaction somewhat. His sister becoming involved with another potential resistance figure represented more than mere protectiveness—it triggered memories of previous loss, grief and guilt.

  All of that was just too damned bad.

  “We should go,” I said, recognizing we’d have to fix some things later. “If the enforcer response is as significant as Lars described, decisions need to be made quickly.”

  Kelda nodded, though her expression suggested our interrupted conversation remained unfinished in her mind.

  “This doesn’t change anything between us,” she assured me. “Whatever Lars thinks, whatever complications arise—what’s happening here is real. We keep sharing our beds. That’s not going to stop because of his feelings.”

  “Agreed,” I replied simply.

  Her smile returned briefly. We exited the chamber together.

  The corridor outside was busier than anticipated, the news of increased enforcer activity having spread throughout the camp. The rebels were preparing their defenses.

  Lars waited at the junction where our passage met the main corridor. He fell into step beside us, his attention aimed primarily at his sister.

  “Father wasn’t pleased,” he said without preamble. “I filled him in immediately.”

  “I don’t answer to Father about my personal choices,” Kelda replied. “Nor to you, little brother.”

  Lars’ jawline tightened. “He has concerns. We all do. After what happened with Jesper—”

  “This isn’t about Jesper, dammit,” she interrupted. “It’s about now, about decisions I’m making with my own life.”

  Their conversation continued in this vein, but I tuned them both out as we approached the main gathering area.

  The so-called rebel command center was busy. The rebel leaders clustered around the central table where maps and what appeared to be surveillance reports were spread. Some were computerized, and some weren’t.

  Tormund stood among them, his massive frame easily identifiable even from across the chamber. Beside him, Svensson directed his motley crew.

  Our entrance drew immediate attention. Tormund’s expression registered complex emotions upon seeing his daughter at my side, but more urgent concerns quickly superseded paternal ones.

  “Good, you’re here,” he called, beckoning us toward the table. “We need your tactical assessment, Drengr.”

  As we joined the gathering, Lars positioned himself pointedly between Kelda and me. The movement was subtle but unmistakable in its intent. She noticed the maneuver, her violet eyes narrowing slightly, but chose not to address it directly given the more pressing matters at hand.

  “Thirty-plus enforcers on walkers are on the march,” Svensson summarized, tapping a plastic map where figures crawled, indicating enemy movement. “They’ve mounted heavy weapons on some of the machines. They left Northaven heading east, obviously tracking our evacuation route.”

  “Timeline?” I asked, studying the marked positions.

  “They’ll reach our previous camp location by nightfall. If they maintain pursuit along our trail, they could approach this position within, say, two days.”

  The assembled leaders exchanged concerned glances. The secondary camp, while better fortified than the previous location, wasn’t designed to repel a concentrated enforcer assault of the magnitude described.

  “Could they really track us here?” Tormund asked. “We covered our trail as best we could.”

  One of the rebel scout leaders answered. “The Tyrant’s ship has drones and electric eyes in the sky. The walkers have enhanced tracking capabilities—atmospheric sensors, ground-penetration imaging. Technology we can’t match with sticks and furs.”

  “Then we evacuate again!” Cassius interjected from across the table. I hadn’t even noticed the sour scarecrow of a man until now. “We’ll scatter to hiding spots, then regroup when the enforcers tire of the search.”

  “Scatter? Then we lose whatever momentum we’ve gained,” Tormund countered. “More men have been joining us every day. The canyon victory will mean nothing if our first response is to run like hens.”

  The debate quickly escalated, faction lines forming based on who was the biggest coward. Cassius advocated for preservation of forces through dispersal. Several homesteaders, emboldened by their recent success, suggested we set up another ambush on favorable terrain. Others proposed splitting our group—evacuating non-combatants while a fighting force remained to delay pursuit.

  Throughout the increasingly heated discussion, I remained silent, my attention not on the arguers but on the map itself. My eyes tracked between marked positions. When I finally spoke, my raised voice cut through the debate with authority.

  “There’s another option,” I stated, drawing all eyes toward me. “We don’t retreat, and we don’t stand and fight. We hit them first.”

  There were some derisive snorts which I ignored. I pointed to a marked location approximately midway between our position and the approaching enforcer patrol. “What’s this? A mining camp?”

  Kelda answered me. “Yes. It’s the Halverson family mine. It was abandoned last year after a dispute with the Tyrant’s administration.”

  That’s what it had looked like to me—a mine. One of the few industrialized areas on this part of Jarl. “What about their equipment? What remains?”

  “Pretty much everything.”

  “Drilling machines, mining bots…?”

  “No,” she laughed. “Picks and shovels and mining carts. Cast offs the Tyrant didn’t keep aboard his ship.”

  “How did the mine expand so much then?” I said, tapping a finger on the mapped complex.

  “Demolition charges,” Lars answered. “They used explosives.”

  “Ah… for expanding the tunnel system?”

  “Yes.”

  Ideas popped into everyone’s head right about then.