Chapter 28
It was an hour before dawn, and Theron found himself staring toward the Temple on the mountain. It loomed above the valley, a monument of old black and white stone awaiting his arrival. The air was still, heavy with anticipation, and blessedly quiet, save for the crackle of fire here and there and the occasional clatter of metal kitchenware from the mess tents.
He looked over the valley with watchful eyes, eyes that followed the line of torchlights that snaked through the crags in careless bright trails. A large Sylphar force had moved during the night. At least half of them had broken camp and were now a straggling procession winding southeast, a line of broken orange. It was not a retreat. No, it was a gamble, a tactic designed to intercept Lord General Jarkeb’s reinforcements before they could enter the valley in full and hit the Sylphar army from the east. Whoever commanded that column to move to intercept Jarkeb knew exactly what they were doing.
He stood on a low rise at the edge of the camp, boots sunk in half-frozen mud, cloak pulled tight against the wind that slipped down from the peaks like a thief. The cold had teeth tonight, sharp and unrelenting, finding every gap in his armor and every seam in his coat. He did not shiver from the lack of warmth. He had forgotten how, or perhaps it was more that he had simply decided that the cold was a small thing compared to what waited ahead.
Behind him, the human camp awoke in stages. First it was only the shuffle of boots or the soft metallic rasp of a man testing his blade against his thumb. Then it was everywhere. Men got to their feet and relieved themselves into the mud, rubbed their hands together, slapped their arms and faces to coax the color back to the skin. It was a chilly morning, but the smell of fat cooking over breakfast fires cut through it, and the pleasant smells made it more bearable. By the time the sky bruised to muddy gray, Lietenant Colonel Roberic’s battalion was fully awake and murmuring. Around them, the rituals of pre-battle preparation unfolded in silence. Men checked the fit of their breastplates, used rags to polish rings of mail, and scraped old blood and grime from the hafts of spears with the tip of a thumbnail. Every movement carried the inevitability of what the day would bring.
Theron’s hands had other plans. They refused to be still, twitching from the buckles at his wrists to the ties of his scabbard, then to the cords on his pack, and finally to the medallion hidden beneath his shirt collar. He hated the fidgeting, hated the way it made him feel less like a man and more like a servant to his anxieties. He never used to be like this. So, he clenched his fists tight and held them at his sides, then let them relax, only to find them dancing again. Still, his face gave nothing away. He had long ago learned to wear serenity like a mask, one of the few things from his younger days he had not come to hate.
He let his mind tally the numbers. The humans were outnumbered, even with half the Sylphar forces running off to become Lord General Jarkeb’s problem. The orders given to Jarkeb from the Luminarch Council were blunt, brutal, and final. They were to take the Temple, hold the Temple, and kill anything that dared stand in the way. There would be no reinforcements, no cavalry from the south, no last-minute miracle. If they failed, the South would be bled dry for a generation. This would be a slaughter unless Theron could take the Stillight before the worst of it happened. And even if he did that, there was no guarantee the Sylphar would flee.
Theron tasted bile, then spat it into the ash. From the edge of the camp, he watched a line of scouts return. Their leader, a deadly man with dark hair and the name of Aeren, saluted Theron by walking by and slamming his fist against his chest. It was a nonsensical old gesture from long ago that meant that one was alive, rather than dead. He liked Aeren, liked the way he said very little. He wondered how long he would last, and decided it was better not to guess.
A moment later, a shadow broke free from camp. Rook. He moved with the careless swagger of someone who had never been hit hard enough to learn humility. His cloak was too short, his boots patched and poorly waterproofed, his hair matted with the filth of travel. He grinned, though, as always, as if every sunrise was a private joke between himself and the universe.
“Careful, Scarecrow,” Rook said as he drew near. “If you keep staring at the enemy, you’re gonna catch whatever disease gives their skin those shifting colors.”
Theron grinned but said nothing. It was easier to let Rook talk himself out.
“Word is half the blue-skins marched out last night,” Rook said, leaning in and planting himself beside Theron, then stomping his feet to warm his bones. “Not that it matters. You know what that means, right?”
Theron shrugged, not turning from the view. “We’ll die with twice as much room to stretch our arms?”
Rook snorted. “Always the optimist. No, what it means is that our chances of dying horribly have decreased from absolute certainty to merely probable certainty. Progress, if you ask me.” He squinted in the direction of the Temple, then muttered to himself. “But if you ask me, I think they’re scared.”
“They’re not scared,” Theron said. “They’re committed. And risking everything.” He shifted in his boots, letting his eyes roam to the narrow gap in the mountains, where the first light of dawn was setting the stone on fire with bloody color. “Someone knows what they’re doing.”
Rook followed his gaze, and for a second his face went slack with something that bordered on admiration. “You ever wonder who’s up there commanding them? I wanna know if there’s a certain Sylphar on that ridge right now, looking at us like we’re lookin’ at them. Calculating odds, planning their moves, and thinking, ‘Well, it’s better than the last time, I suppose.’”
Theron almost smiled. “It’s always better than the last time. Until it isn’t. And to answer your question, the Sylphar answer to what they call ‘High Commanders’ or ‘Primar’ in their language. Usually there are between three and five of them.”
A horn blew somewhere near the center of the camp, low and deliberate. Mess call. Rook sighed in a way that suggested entirely too much drama and clapped Theron on the shoulder.
“Come on, Theron. Might as well eat a warm meal before the dying starts. I’ll race ya.”
Theron let him go first, then followed a moment later at a slower pace, his boots finding the edge of the camp where the mud was less churned with boots. As he walked, he caught snippets of conversation from some of the fresh soldiers around him.
“They really do bleed violet. Always thought that was a joke.”
“Burns like hell if it gets in your eyes. Matrik couldn’t see for a day.”
“Tastes like metal, if it hits your tongue. Not so different from ours.”
He passed them by without stopping, without answering. They would all likely be dead, or most of them, by the next morning. It was easier not to know their names.
In the mess line, he watched Rook jockey for a place up front, then lose it to two bigger men who boxed him out and laughed at the effort. The man ladling the breakfast stew was hefty and wore an apron stained beyond all recognition. When he reached Theron, he paused, looked at his face, and said, “Extra for you today. Heard ya was goin’ up to the Temple a sneaky way to save us all or somethin’. Take care of yerself.”
Theron nodded his thanks, took the bowl, and found a place on the side of a barrel serving as a crude table. He forced down a spoonful of meat and turnips, barely tasting it. Across the way, he saw the senior officers gathering at the command tent, papers and maps held in blue-inked hands. They would call for him soon.
He ate the rest in silence, not speaking to the jostle and banter around him, just letting the heat settle in his belly. As he finished, he reached under his tunic and found his medallion, the old thing dangling from its frayed leather strap. He pressed the cold metal to his lips, then tucked it away before anyone could see.
When he rose, the sun had just crested the line of the mountains, its rays striking the stone of the Temple on the mountain with such intensity it looked like a wound, bleeding and alive. The last time he had seen it, he had been a different person, and hadn’t believed change was possible, at least anytime soon.
Rook drifted over with a mouthful of bread. He wiped crumbs off his sleeve, then jerked his chin at the command tent.
“They’re waiting for us, ya know. Roberic’s inside. Looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.”
Theron grunted, and the two of them together made their way to the tent, boots splashing in half-frozen mud. Caulin caught up with them right as they entered. “Let’s do this,” he said as he clapped Theron on the back.
The inside of the tent was warm, with the air being thick with the heat of lamp oil and sweat, and it was choking compared to the crisp, honest cold outside. All the officers gathered in the tent, and it was crowded, some of them still sporting bandages from the last battle at Redan. Roberic was at the head of a battered plank table, the map laid out in front of him, stones and sticks marking units and topography. His eyes had deep lines at the corners that gave the impression of a man who had lived several lives in half as many years.
Roberic did not waste time. “Here’s what we know,” he said, rapping the table with his knuckles for silence. “The Sylphar have divided their forces. Half of them went southeast to intercept Lord General Jarkeb. The other half, as you can see, is holed up in front of us, digging in. We have three days, maybe four, before Jarkeb either breaks through or gets bled dry.”
He paused, let it hang in the air, then pointed to Theron. “Scarecrow. You know this ground better than any other man in this room. What is your counsel?”
Theron stepped forward and lowered his eyes to the map. The valley was a tangle of old roads, ancient ruins, and old and new barricades. He traced a finger. “They’ll hold at this outcrop on the west, it’s a natural bottleneck. If you try to push up the main trail, you’ll lose half our men before we reach this hilltop. But there’s a way around, through the old quarry.” He tapped the map, looking up to see if Roberic was following. “It’s narrow, maybe two men wide, but it will lead to their outer fortifications. If you move at night, keep quiet, you can get a small force inside the perimeter and start doing serious damage.”
Roberic nodded, slow and deliberate. “Risk level?”
Theron looked at him. “High. If you’re discovered, you’re dead. But if you’re successful, the Sylphar death toll will be high, and you may even be able to burn some fortifications.”
A ripple of assent made its way down the length of the table. The officers glanced at Roberic, who remained silent for a moment before turning back to the group.
“We make our move at dusk,” he said. “Major Jaraod and his men will strike there.” Jaroad nodded. “The rest of us will hold the valley until you’re through. I expect the Sylphar forces to come at us hard this morning, so I’ll be coordinating our defenses. We hold them here for the day, thinking they’ve got us pinned. Jaraod, tonight you will hit them hard, and hit them fast, then run like hell back to us. That should hopefully give me the distraction I need to punch through. It’s as good a plan as we will get.”
“Sir,” Krallic, another captain with broken teeth, said. “When are we sending Caulin, Scarecrow, and the rest of the lot up to the temple?”
“Within the hour,” Roberic replied. “Caulin and Theron will lead a small strike force and attempt to take the Stillight behind the Sylphar’s backs. Our Gods-blessed here is confident that the Sylphar will only have a few troops stationed up at the Temple itself, and the rest will be with us here in the valley. All our hopes,” he looked pointedly at Theron, “reside in this theory.”
Theron nodded, heart hammering. Caulin stood next to him, looking as confident as ever.
“Men,” Roberic said, looking seriously at all of them. “We are heavily outnumbered. Hitting them where and when they least expect us to is the only way we survive this. We must dwindle their numbers while we wait for Jarkeb to arrive. If we do enough damage, and if Scarecrow here can take the Stillight for humanity… the Endless War as we know it will be over. At least for a little while.”
He folded the map, then added, “And may the gods help us all.”
The officers drifted away, some mumbling, some already sending orders to runners outside the tent. Theron remained, studying the table.
He felt a hand on his arm, light but insistent. Rook, again.
“You sure about this, Theron? If we’re successful, you’re a hero. If we’re not, you’re dead, and people curse your name for generations. Either way, you don’t get to be the man you were before.”
Theron thought of Wyrnhollow, of the dozens of other places he had temporarily called home throughout his long life, of the years he had spent pretending not to be more than he was. Of the false man he’d been before. He looked at Rook, saw the worry behind the small smile, and said, “I was never that man to begin with.”
Rook grinned, as if expecting that answer. “Good. Then let’s go see if we can die better than we lived.”
By the time Theron reached the edge of the encampment, the camp was fully awake and mobilizing. A squad was awaiting him, all of them volunteers for the job, all of them knowing what that meant.
Rook was already holding court, perched on a log with a battered deck of cards and a skin of something that looked like wine but smelled like boiled feet. Beside him, Caulin stood, his hands busy with the endless cataloguing of his weaponry. He drew each knife from its sheath, tested the edge, then slid it home with a slow, meditative grace. His bow rested across his back, the string freshly waxed, and a dozen arrows stood fletch-up in the dirt at his side. Unlike the others, Caulin wasn’t talking. He didn’t even look at the men, but they gave him a wide berth all the same.
Theron had spent the night before walking the camp with Caulin and Rook, moving from fire to fire under the cover of darkness. They knew these men and women from the long, grueling march north to Redan Pass, had watched them fight and bleed and keep marching when others fell behind. The three of them had spoken quietly to each one, no speeches, no promises of glory, just a simple question: Will you come with us tomorrow? Up the back way to the Temple. To take the Stillight or die trying.
They started with Mavik, sitting alone sharpening his axe by a dying fire. Caulin crouched beside him, voice low. “We need someone who can break a line if things go wrong inside.” Mavik had only grunted, spat into the flames, and nodded. Rook had clapped him on the back hard enough to make the big man wince. Theron had said nothing, but his eyes had lingered on Mavik’s steady hands. Good for holding a door, he remembered thinking. Or clearing a room when the time came.
Next they found Devan and Rull sharing a skin of something foul near the picket line. Rook did some of the talking there, joking about the city guards while Caulin outlined the climb. The two bruisers listened, faces unreadable, then Rull drummed his fingers on his hammer haft and said, “We’re in.” Devan had just nodded, already checking the edge of his weapon. Theron watched the way they moved together, always aware of each other’s space. He nodded to himself. Men like that did not need to be told where they belonged in a fight.
Rian was the easiest of the lot. They found him near Devan and Rull, practicing shots at a battered stump by moonlight. Arrow after arrow thudded into the wood, each one clustering tighter than the last in the center ring he had scratched into the bark with a knife. Even in the dim light, his form was clean and steady, the bowstring snapping back with a soft twang that carried across the quiet camp. Theron had watched him on the march more than once, seen him drop running Sylphar soldiers at Redan at distances that made the other archers mutter in envy.
Caulin approached first, voice low so as not to startle him. “That eye of yours saved us twice at the Pass. Clean shots both times.”
Rian lowered the bow, cheeks flushing dark in the moonlight, but he stood a little straighter all the same. When Theron stepped forward and asked if he was willing to put that deadly aim to work inside the Temple itself, where every arrow would need to count in close quarters, the answer came without hesitation. “Yes, sir.”
Theron saw the hunger in the young man’s eyes, the burning need to prove he belonged among veterans almost twice his age. He filed it away. The boy would need watching, yes, to keep that fire from burning him out too soon. But his arrows would count when space was tight and lives hung on a single, perfect shot. Rian was the best bowman in the battalion, and Theron intended to make sure he lived long enough to use him.
Haver they found cheating at cards, as usual. Rook laughed and joined the game long enough to lose on purpose. When the others drifted away, Caulin laid out the plan. Haver’s eyes lit up at the mention of locks and side entrances. “Count me in,” he had said. He was the quartermaster’s least favorite thief, whose nimble fingers could untie any knot and pick any lock. He wore a bandolier of glass vials across his chest, each filled with a different concoction. Poisons, acids, oils to add flavor to his food. Theron studied the retired thief’s quick hands and quicker mind and was pleased with what he saw.
The siblings, Ors and Hentil, sat with Nath near the healers’ tents. Caulin spoke to Nath first, man to man, while Rook kept the siblings entertained with a crude story from his previous life. When Theron stepped forward and asked if they would come, Ors met his gaze without blinking. Hentil just smiled, slow and dangerous. Nath answered for all three. “We go where the killing is thickest.” Theron nodded. He had seen them fight. They could hold a corridor when others broke. Neither Ors nor Hentil spoke much, but they watched the others with flat, predatory eyes. Theron knew their kind. These were people who were paid to kill and took pleasure in doing it. Hentil was one of the few women in the battalion. Each one of them had earned her place through grit and violence, and each was known to be deadly. The men gave them space and never tried anything untoward. Not out of politeness, but because they knew better.
Nathanial, called Nath by most, had become a kind of guiding star for the siblings, helping steer their choices toward something better. They had first met in a coastal city far to the west called Montave, where Ors and Hentil had been hired for a mercenary job. Nath had also been involved, though none of them ever spoke about it. Since then, the three had been inseparable.
The last three were strangers to Caulin, but he read their measure easily enough. Jamayre, nicknamed “Jarmo”, was a quiet giant, with hands that could snap a man’s neck without effort. His companion, Hirek, was small and jumpy, but his eyes never missed a thing. The last member, called only Hylie, was a healer. She wore her hair close-cropped and her sleeves rolled back, both arms a meshwork of old scars. She kept to the fringes, but the others treated her with the respect due to someone who could stitch you up, or poison you, or knife you in the dark, depending on the day.
Jarmo and Hirek were together, as always, the giant cleaning his massive blade while the smaller man sharpened arrows. Rook handled the approach, joking about needing someone big enough to block a doorway. Jarmo laughed, a sound like grinding stones, and agreed. Hirek just nodded, eyes never leaving Theron’s face. Theron marked the way Hirek watched everything. Good for rear guard.
Hylie was rolling bandages by lantern light. Caulin spoke softly, explaining the climb, the risk, the need for someone who could keep men alive long enough to finish the job. She listened without expression, then tied off the bandages and stood. “I’ll come,” she said. She would keep them fighting. And if they took the Temple, she would keep them alive long enough to hold it, and more importantly for what came even after that.
By the time they returned to their own fire, the squad had been chosen. No one had refused.
Theron studied the men and women now, gathered and waiting in the gray morning light. Yes. They would work. More than that, they would serve beyond the assault itself. If they took the Stillight, these were the ones he would trust for what came after. He met Caulin’s eyes across the group, then Rook’s. They both nodded, the same understanding passing between them.
These were the right people for what came next.
Caulin gave each a nod, completing his weapons check. “I hope you packed light,” he said, voice low. “We’ll be moving fast, and we may not come back the same way.”
Haver managed a grin. “I never planned on coming back at all. We know what we signed up for.” He nodded towards Theron.
Rook raised his hand. “Here’s to coming back ugly, if at all.” He poured some wine into his mouth, then grimaced and spat it on the ground. “Even the cheap stuff tastes like regret, these days.”
Some of the men laughed, while Hylie stared at him with disgust.
“There is no question that there will be Sylphar at the Temple. There will be sneaking, fighting, and killing.” Theron said, preparing them once more for what they would be doing.
Jarmo, who had been watching Theron the whole time, finally spoke. “I swear, one of them hissed at me mid-charge down at the Pass. Like a cat.”
Haver snorted. “Next time, hiss back. Maybe they’ll roll over and let you rub their belly.”
Jarmo laughed sharply and a little too loud. It broke the tension. Even Caulin’s lips twitched, just for a second.
Theron left them to it. He checked the draw of his sword, the straps on his pack, and the fit of his boots. Everything was in its place, but he checked again. He flexed his fingers, feeling the tremble in them, then forced them still. These were good men and women. He had gotten to know some of them well over the last months on the march up north, and most of them, he noted, hadn’t been too concerned or frightened off when his power was revealed. He had bled with them, and that was enough.
He stood for a while, watching them. The way they moved, the way they looked at one another when they thought no one was watching. They were ready. Or as ready as anyone could be.
A sound at his back. He turned to see Roberic and Jaroad approaching, the former with his coat buttoned tight and the latter with a long scar visible above his left eyebrow. Jaroad had been a city man once, Theron recalled, and brought a city man’s cynicism to the war. He looked the squad over, sizing up every member as though evaluating goods on a market stall.
Roberic wasted no time. “This is a good squad,” he said, voice pitched for the men but eyes on Theron. “You know the plan. I won’t repeat it unless you’re too dumb to remember.” He paused, but no one spoke.
He looked at them all, one by one. “What you do up there may well decide the next hundred years for the Dominion. The Temple has stood for centuries, and for decades it’s been in the hands of our enemies. Take it, and the Stillight is ours.” His words hung in the air like a spell. “Some of you may not survive. If you do, it won’t be because you are braver or stronger. It’ll be because the soldiers next to you didn’t give up and watched your back.” He let that linger. “Any man or woman who does not want to go, now is the time to step away.”
Nobody moved.
Roberic looked at the soldiers one last time. “You have ten minutes to say your farewells. After that, you move. No hesitation.” He fixed his gaze on Theron, and for a moment there was something almost fatherly in the look. “You’ll make it. I believe that.”
Theron held the man’s eyes, then said, “We’ll get it done.”
Jaroad clapped Caulin on the shoulder, then turned and stalked off toward the command tent. Roberic lingered a moment, then followed.
The squad broke into clusters, some speaking in low voices, others just sitting in silence, and the rest filtering out among the camp to say farewell to friends. Theron watched Haver and Rook bicker together, the latter trying to cheat at a quick game of knucklebones and the former catching him every time. He watched Caulin take out his sword and wipe it down with meticulous care, lips moving as if in prayer.
He found himself thinking of Talla. Not her face exactly, but the memory of her friendship. He wondered whether she was alive. He wondered if she’d mourn him, or just curse him for leaving. Maybe both.
The sky over the Temple turned a deep blue. It reminded him of happier mornings back in Wyrnhollow. Shrugging off nostalgic thoughts, he moved among the soldiers, saying little, offering a touch here or a nod there, letting them know he saw them.
Hylie caught him at the edge of his sleeve. “You think all of us will be enough?” She asked, her voice soft but edged.
“We’ll have to be,” he said.
She nodded, satisfied. “Good answer.”
“Hylie,” Theron said, giving her a knowing look. “Thank you for coming.”
She peered at him suspiciously, then nodded and stepped away.
When the time came, Caulin called the soldiers to gather. They assembled single file, weapons shouldered and packs cinched tight. Rook moved up beside Theron, a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes.
“You ready for this?” Rook asked.
“No,” Theron said, and meant it. Rook had no idea of what was coming.
Rook laughed, then cuffed his shoulder. “That’s more like it.”
As they left the rest of the battalion behind, the sound of the camp faded until there was nothing but the crunch of footsteps and the wind above the valley. Theron walked at the end of the line, having given Caulin instructions on where to go for now. He counted the men ahead, feeling the weight of their hope and dread in every step.
At the first bend in the trail, Caulin glanced back, eyes pale in the gathering dark. He gave Theron a nod, the barest tilt of the head, then pressed forward. Theron and the rest of the squad followed, boots biting into the dirt, every muscle thrumming, knowing that there was no going back.
Above them, the Temple waited, silent and patient as a grave.
They reached the hidden trail as evening crept in. No enemy scouts had crossed their path, though the distant clash of steel and shouts had carried on the wind, proof the Sylphar were pressing their attack on the human lines. The world had shifted from stark white and blue to a deepening silhouette against the fading light, shadows swallowing the snow-covered ridges until everything felt edged in black. They moved single file up the mountain now, as ordered, with Theron and Caulin at the point, and the rest spaced at irregular intervals, always careful to keep within each other’s sight. Rook walked behind Caulin, eyes low, his breath leaking out in quick bursts.
“No talking unless absolutely necessary. If you need to talk, whisper.” Caulin said. “We are silent from here on until the fighting begins.”
The mountain did not give itself up easily. Every foot of gain was paid for with sweat and pain. Mavik, the axeman, took a fall early on, skinning his palms on the dirt and nearly falling over a drop. He cursed in a low monotone and checked his supplies, then got back up and climbed without a word. Ors slipped three times before the first thousand yards and bled from both hands, but never called out. Haver, more agile than the others, used his thief’s grip to scale the narrower faces and then doubled back to help Hirek, who was already limping from a slight slip earlier on.
Above them, the Temple was massive, and it crowned the mountain like a monument devoted to the heavens. Closer now, it looked less like an ancient building and more a thing that had been carved out of the rock by the world’s slow, malignant patience. The walls were buttressed by slabs of quartz that caught and scattered the weakening sunlight, and the upper ramparts were wreathed in fog and smoke.
Theron walked at the front, watching for trouble, but his mind wandered even further ahead. The path was very close to what he remembered. Every large boulder, every cruel patch of exposed shale. All the trees and fallen logs were different now, though, of course.
A screech of a falcon cut the silence, and then Caulin signaled the rest to halt. Up ahead, the trail disappeared beneath a rockslide. The only way forward was to crawl along a ledge off to the side that was so narrow it looked painted onto the face of the stone. Caulin looked at Theron, and then moved across first, planting each step with exaggerated care. Ors and Hentil followed, less nimble but more stubborn.
When it was Rook’s turn, he hesitated, looking back at Theron. “Are you sure this is the way?” he whispered.
Theron only nodded.
Rook shook his head, muttered something obscene, then edged onto the ledge. His hands clung to the rock, the tips of his boots finding the smallest holds. At the midpoint, he glanced down and blanched, but kept going. Caulin watched with an intensity that bordered on hunger, his eyes flicking between Rook and Theron, then back to the ledge.
Hylie made the crossing next, her burn-scarred arms bare to the cold. She showed no fear, only the flat resolve of someone who had accepted her fate, one way or another. Hirek made it with Haver’s help, and then Rian, who paused halfway across and stared at the valley below.
The night was full now, and the fighting below had begun once more.
Far beneath them, the lines of torches were as thin as drawn wire, moving in irregular patterns. The sound of the Sylphar horns came first. Then the clash of steel on steel. It seemed Jaroad’s night skirmishes had hit, and now the Sylphar were attacking the major force in retaliation.
Rian whistled low. “So many,” he said quietly.
Theron moved up beside him, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t look down,” he whispered. “It’s not for us anymore. Roberic knows what he’s doing.”
Rian nodded, and they finished the crossing together.
They all made it across the small ledge, and on the other side the ground rose in a series of switchbacks, each one narrower than the last. The air was thinner here, and the men began to breathe in ragged gasps. Caulin led the pace, but even he started to stumble by the third switchback, his steps uneven, his hands trembling when he gripped the stone.
They climbed, and climbed, the muscles in their legs turning to lead, their faces coated in a sheen of sweat that froze to their skin. The wind howled through the gaps, sometimes so hard it nearly took them off their feet. But they pressed on, hour after hour, their world shrinking to the point of a boot, the edge of a breath.
Halfway up, Mavik collapsed. He cursed silently, then tried to stand but couldn’t. Jarmo doubled back and hauled him upright with one arm, then set the axeman’s pack on his own back and marched on without comment.
After another hour, Devan began to slow, breathing heavily. Rull stayed beside him, supporting his weight, muttering encouragement that sounded more like threats.
Near the top, the path narrowed again, this time to a crawl. The stone was slick with frost and studded with the bones of small animals that had died there, their ribs picked clean by the wind and time. Haver went first, moving like a shadow, his body pressed so close to the rock it looked like he was nearly invisible. The others followed, scraping their bellies against the stone, packs dragging behind.
They reached a shelf just wide enough for them to crouch together and looked up.
The Temple was so close they could smell the Sylphar incense drifting from the inner walls. On the parapets, Sylphar sentries moved with unhurried confidence, spears slung across their backs, faces pale in the weak light.
Theron looked at the members of the squad, counting them, making sure none had been lost. Devan was still there, barely, and Mavik looked ready to collapse again. Even so, they were alive.
He motioned for silence, then proceeded up the last fifty yards to get behind the wall that surrounded the Temple, the rest following silently behind, and gestured to a narrow gap between two buttresses. It was an old entrance, not on any map, but a relic from before the wars. If they made it through, they’d be inside the perimeter and on the Temple grounds. The gap was barely wide enough for a man, but they squeezed through one by one, and crouched in the dark, listening.
Down the mountain, the sound of the battle had rolled over them. War horns, the scream of wounded men, and all the other sounds of battle. But here inside the wall, it was quiet.
Caulin leaned in, whispering, “What now?”
Theron listened for a moment, then said, “There’s a side door a few hundred yards that way near the back of the temple that leads inside. Let’s move.”
They crept forward on silent feet. The world narrowed to the space between heartbeats, each breath agonizingly loud in the perfect stillness. But just as they reached the door, four Sylphar on patrol rounded the corner. For a heartbeat, everyone froze. Then the Sylphar screamed and rushed, a war cry on the silent mountaintop.