The masked witches

And though she tried until she had exhausted her ability to cha

Or maybe the guardian of the mound was so formidable that even an accomplished cleric, fully initiated in the mysteries of her faith, was no match for it.

Whatever the problem was, it left Vandar with no recourse but to lay aside his javelin, broadsword, and dirk, and climb back up the slope when Sel ne appeared, just as he d said he would. By then, a catarrh had set in to augment the misery of his headache and cramping guts, and as he sang his song of appeasement, of praise and apology, he had to pause repeatedly to cough. Behind him, his friends were hacking and snuffling, too.

He could see nothing above him but gray, gleaming snow, trodden up to the point where he and his brothers had hiked before and unmarked beyond. He supposed that was better than if the insects had come buzzing forth again. Maybe their absence meant his hoarse, phlegmy song was actually doing some good.

Even when he clambered to the crest of the mound, the snowfall masked anything that might have warned a traveler that it was more than just a patch of high ground. After singing his song to the end one last time, Vandar shrugged off his leather backpack, opened it, and brought out a straw-wrapped bottle of firewine and a little loaf of oat bread. He looked for someplace to set them up out of the snow and opted for the fork in the trunk of a black alder.

It s good, murmured a cold, dry voice behind him, that you at least know how to behave when someone forces you to do so.

Somehow Vandar managed to refrain from jumping and so revealing just how badly the voice had startled him. He took a breath, then turned around.

The entity before him was somewhat easier to make out than the flickering shapes he d glimpsed when the insects were attacking, but not a great deal more so. It seemed composed of glimmer and shadow smudged together like a spoiled charcoal sketch. Vandar discerned long, slanted eyes under a high, broad forehead, something that might be embossed leather covering the apparition s lanky torso, and the implication of a knife hilt on its hip. But he had no idea whether the creature was a spirit of nature, a living fey protecting the resting place of its ancestors, or a ghost standing watching over its own remains. He only sensed that it was old and unca

He bowed low. I apologize for our rudeness before, he said. My friends and I couldn t tell we were walking where we shouldn t have been.

Why, I wonder, the being answered, did the highest powers make mortals as they did, without eyes, wits, or memories, either? How can it be anything but mercy to send you into the dark whenever the opportunity presents itself?

Vandar swallowed. I can only tell you, my lord, he replied, that our lives have value to us. Even we berserkers, who give up all thought of our own safety when we charge into battle, hope that our very recklessness will overwhelm our foes and bring us through alive.

And where are you charging to now, in the middle of winter, across country most mortals have sense enough to avoid?

The Fortress of the Half-Demon, Vandar said. He waited for a response, but none came. Do you know it?

Not by that name, the apparition said. Perhaps by some older, truer name your kind has forgotten. But I know you, berserker. I know your mind. Those who garrison the stronghold have raided your squalid little settlement, and, full of wrath, you race to retaliate. Or else you are the marauders, thinking yourselves the cleverest folk who ever drew breath because you will fall on your foes in winter, when they won t expect it. Either way, it s all the same. Just ants snipping one another to pieces when their swarms come into contact. The murky figure turned away.

Vandar hesitated. Though the guardian s scorn rankled, a prudent man would leave it unanswered rather than risk a

Wait, he said.

The apparition pivoted and said, Do you think it s your place to give orders, to me, here, under Sel ne s mournful eye?

No, Vandar said, and I apologize again if it sounded that way. But you truly don t understand. My friends and I aren t chasing bandits, ice trolls, or any of the foes our fathers and grandfathers fought before us. There s something new happening in Rashemen.

The guardian chuckled. The sound of its mirth was clipped and hollow, like the notes a drummer played by striking wooden blocks.

Rest assured, little ant, it only seems new to you, it said.

Please, listen before you judge, Vandar replied.

Before this, whatever human rulers came and went, in the truest sense, the fey and the spirits of the forests and hills controlled Rashemen. But if the folk in the Fortress of the Half-Demon have their way, the undead will set themselves above all the living, mortal and immortal alike. It belatedly occurred to Vandar that if the entity before him was a ghost, that might not sound so bad to it. And not even our own dead, at least not at the top. Dead things from some faraway place that no one has ever heard of!

The apparition s eyes narrowed. Explain, it said.

Vandar did his best and hoped the story made an impression. Since he could barely make out the guardian s blurry features, it was difficult to judge.

All he knew was that when he had finished, and the phantom spoke again, its tone was as disdainful as before: And you, blind man, trespasser, profaner, you are the champion who will defeat this threat? it said.

Not alone. Vandar said before he had to stop to cough. My lodge is marching with me, and the Stag King do you know him? He is coming to join forces with us. The Iron Lord and the Wychlaran will help, too, if we ask.

But you haven t, the guardian said, because you want the griffons for yourselves. To make your little lodge more prestigious than any other. Perhaps even to make its chieftain the Iron Lord when the throne becomes vacant again.

Vandar felt a twinge of discomfort different from the uneasiness that came from simply being in the phantom s presence. For the first time, and to his own surprise, he wondered if his ambitions were somehow tainted and unworthy.

But how could they be, when they were simply what every proper Rashemi man wanted? What older warriors taught him to want, especially if he hailed from a family of no particular prosperity or distinction? He tried to scowl the crazy feeling away.

My lord, I don t deny that I hope that, by serving the realm, I can also do well for my lodge and for myself, Vandar said. That s how mortal men think. If the stories I ve heard all my life are true, it s how fey and spirits think, too. But it isn t just ambition or greed that draws me to the griffons. From the moment Yhelbruna called them down from the sky, I felt co

To his surprise, the sentinel chuckled again, and the sound was arguably less cold and dismissive than before. If I saw everything that s hidden, it said, I wouldn t need you to tell me about revenants coming here from a distant land, would I? I will say this: It speaks well of you that you answered honestly. And it might indeed be unfortunate if the dead claimed dominion over Rashemen.

Well, yes, plainly, replied Vandar.