“I wanted to see something of the world.”

Porto laughed. “And you succeeded! This is certainly something.”

“Something dreadful.” The youth suppressed a shudder. “Honestly, it’s an old story, Porto—too foolish to tell. It was a girl.”

“Ah. Her stomach grew large and you began to feel the urge to travel.”

“No!” But the young man seemed almost pleased by the idea. “No, not like that. She chose another man. Didn’t want to be wed to a baker’s son. Didn’t want her pretty hands to turn red and sore kneading bread all day, I suppose. I couldn’t . . . I didn’t want to see her. Her family lived just across from us. So I followed Lord Halawe to Erkynland—to the fighting at the Hayholt.”

“Where Lord Halawe was eaten by dirt-goblins, if I remember correctly.”

Endri winced. “I didn’t see it, but I heard about it.” He made the sign of the Holy Tree. “God rest him. He was a good man.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“And God preserve us all.” Endri made the Tree again.

Porto made the Tree as well. “So all this is just to avoid seeing a girl who threw you over?”

“I didn’t think I would end up here, that’s certain.” A moment later he brightened. “But you, Porto? Do you have a girl back home?”

Porto nodded. “My wife, Sida, may the Aedon bless her and keep her. And our little son who was but a babe in arms. The Lord only knows when I’ll see either of them again.”

“You’ll see them again.” When his mood shifted, Endri could be as cheerful and confident as a child. It reminded Porto of his younger brother Andoro, dead ten years or more, and gave him a pang in his chest. “We will come out of this,” the youth said, as though Porto had been the worried one. “You’ll see.”

His attempt at distraction successful, Porto smiled. “I’m sure you’re right.” But he knew that the deep silent woods and the gray sky would drag the young man back into worry again before too long. “Heá, do you know any songs?” he asked.

Endri laughed. “The Gallant Men of Harborside, of course. I know all the words, even the part about laying the Dogfish low.”

“And me stuck in the saddle in front of you, unable to escape.” Porto rolled his eyes. “Go ahead, then, you ungrateful wretch. Make me regret all my kindness.”

Endri’s singing had ended hours earlier, and conversation had ended not long afterward. As they rode deep between brooding hills, the cold grew and silence settled like a fog over the ancient road.

They first saw the ruins of the castle from the base of the pass, a dark tumble of oblong shapes nestling close to the snow-flecked summit. As they drew nearer, hour by struggling hour, and as the walls of the pass rose higher and higher on either side, plunging them into mist and deep shadow, Porto began to feel he was being dragged helplessly toward the ancient fortress, as if it were some great mill whose stones would grind him to powder.

“I don’t understand,” said Endri suddenly, his voice startling Porto out of the long quiet. He made the sign of the Tree for perhaps the dozenth time in the last hour. “Sweet Elysia, why did we have to come to this dreadful place? Look at that! Why would Duke Isgrimnur bring us here? He said we were going to a border fort.”

“Stop your sniveling, Southerner,” called a young Rimmersman riding near them. “You shame us all.” The rider was thick as an ox, with a bristling reddish beard that covered much of his broad face; on his shield was painted a red eagle, which told Porto this must be Floki, Thane Brindur’s son.

“That is a border fort,” Floki said. “It just happens to be one of the enemy’s, that’s all.”

“Very clever,” said Porto. “But my friend’s right. We didn’t join for this. We came for a post on the Rimmersgard border.”

“Six coppers and food every month,” said Endri.

“One silver, four coppers for me,” Porto said. “Because I have my own horse.”

“But I never said I’d fight the Norns!”

Porto could feel Endri shivering against his back, and knew it was from more than the cold.

“I want to go back,” Endri said.

“You didn’t think you’d fight the Norns?” brayed Floki, his laugh loud and harsh. “What did you think you’d be doing in a border fort at the edge of the Nornfells?”

“I didn’t know we’d go so far,” said Endri. “—that we’d . . . that they would . . .” He trailed off into silence.

“Don’t let this one discourage you—we’ll get back home again,” Porto told his young friend, but he was not as confident as he tried to sound. “I’ll take you with me, Endri. You’ll like the Rocks. My wife’s father is a dyer, a wealthy man. He’ll give you a place, you’ll see.”

“He certainly won’t give that one a place as a soldier,” said the Rimmersman. “Not the way he moans.”

“Shut your mouth, Northman,” said Porto. “I’m beginning to hate the sound of your voice.”

Brindur’s son brought his horse closer, and for a moment Porto was afraid he’d have to fight him, but the Northman seemed to have noticed Porto’s unusual height. “You’ll feel differently about me when the White Foxes are at you, you southern milksop.” The bearded youth put his heels to his horse’s ribs and raced ahead of them. “Then you’ll be crying out for me, not your little catamite here,” he called back over his shoulder. “‘Floki, come save me from the Vit Refar!’ That’s what you’ll say.”

“I pray that I lose my voice before my tongue ever shames me.” It was an old Perdruinese saying which Porto had uttered many times, but he had never meant it more.

“He’s right, though,” said Endri. “I am no soldier. I’m frightened.”

“I fought beside the great Sir Camaris himself when he led Josua Lackhand’s army in Nabban. I was afraid then, I’m afraid now. There is no shame in that.”

“I don’t care about shame, Porto. In all truth, I just want to go home.”

Isgrimnur’s men reached Skuggi Pass and made camp on the slopes beneath the ruined castle, beside the army Vigri had brought from Elvritshalla. The meetings of men who had not seen each other for many long months gave the gathering an air of festival, despite the cold and the flurrying white flakes.

Although the addition of the jarl’s soldiers had more than doubled their numbers, Duke Isgrimnur still did not feel entirely at ease. Again and again his gaze was drawn to the broken walls at the top of the pass and the eyes he knew were watching there. He had more experience with the White Foxes than any of his men. Even a small troop of Norns could create chaos in opposing armies, and they were harder to kill than angry bees.

He looked over to Vigri’s large campfire, where short, stocky Vigri sat surrounded by his thanes, all drinking and laughing. Vigri saw Isgrimnur and waved for him to join them. The duke raised his hand to say, soon. He was not quite ready to take his leisure.

Best to follow the hunt while the trail is new, as my father always said. He turned his attention back to the Sitha-woman Ayaminu, who sat across from him. She was carving a walking stick out of a long ash tree branch and seemed as composed and heedless of the falling snow as a statue.

“Why is it still so bloody cold here in late Yuven-month?” he growled. “I thought the Storm King was gone for good.”

Ayaminu did not look up. “Ineluki sang up many great storms. They will not go away again so quickly simply because his influence is ended. Besides, it is always cold here.”

Isgrimnur brought his hands close to the fire again. “We have a large troop of the Norns that attacked Erkynland trapped in these ruins,” he said more quietly. “If you sent your people a message, Ayaminu, would they come? Would they help us to finish this once and for all?”

She returned a look that he could not interpret. It was always difficult with the Sithi, whose emotions and even ages were largely a mystery to mortals. He knew Ayaminu was venerable among her kind, perhaps even ancient, but to look at her she seemed scarcely different than one of the younger Sithi women like Jiriki’s sister Aditu. Perhaps her skin was thinner, her movements less robust—there were times when she almost seemed fragile, like a woman once considered a beauty but recently recovered from a long illness. Her golden eyes, though, were as bright as his wife Gutrun’s angriest stare, fierce as a hunting hawk’s.