Silent tears flowed down the woman’s cheeks. Her hands shook as she prepared the meal that would feed the killers of her husband and leave her children to starve in the heart of the cold winter.

  A door slammed open, and Tarir-del stepped out and stretched his arms with a sigh. One of the others followed him, stumbling to the wall of another house and urinating.

  Tarir-del made his way unsteadily to the woman, smoothing his lank hair with one hand. “More food. More of your ale, more, more, more, or we will burn your children,” he declared, to the bawling laughter of the urinating Faelen officer.

  Tarir-del was close to the woman now, his eyes hungry for more than the contents of the blackened cook pot. “Your husband is dead.” His hand touched her bare neck, and she shuddered.

  “My Lord,” Price croaked, his mouth dry.

  Tarir-del squinted to where Price hung from his wrists and laughed, then swaggered over, lighting one of his foul Faelen cigars. He prodded Price in the chest where he had branded him, and Price swayed backwards, the toes of his boots scraping on the floor.

  “Drone-del should not leave you to hang here all night. I do not want you to die.” Tarir-del said, a wash of the rank spirits coming from his mouth. “I told you I wouldn’t kill you because of Bimil-pal, but that’s not completely true.” His voice became dangerously quiet. “Myam-tal does not know, and Bimil-pal does not know, but one of my officers knew who you were, Captain Price.” He drew his sword and paused, resting the tip against Price's chest. “Those toad skinned Orc animals are still looking for you, but I won’t give you to them. I will keep you, and when this war is over, I will bring you out as a curiosity to amuse my friends.”

  “I didn't know the Faelen sullied themselves with commoner's widows, you're more like us than you think,” Price mumbled.

  Tarir-del struck him with an open fist that rattled Price’s head and made him flop like a fish on a line. Then the Faelen captain strode back inside without sparing the woman a glance.

  “Thank you,” came a voice. The woman was close, timid in the darkness. “They have my children. If I free you, will you help me?” she said, taking a hesitant step toward him.

  Price could hear the stamp and snort of the Faelen horses nearby. The opportunity had come. “I’ll help you; come back later, when they are asleep.”

  The night turned, and the damn cold of the hills seeped into his skin, but it wasn’t true cold. In the mountains, it was called the sleeping cold because, in the end, there was no pain, just the sweet, numb embrace of death, cradling you into the next world like a swaddled babe.

  Tarir-del and the three other Faelen he had brought with him stumbled out of the building, and one of them threw a bottle that sailed through the air and smashed a few feet from Price.

  Tarir-del looked around and seemingly gave up his hunt for a companion, staggering into a sad hut, its previous occupant lying dead nearby.

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  Silence fell once more, and after a time the woman scurried out like a mouse in the dark, the blade of a knife flashing.

  “No, don’t cut them, untie them,” Price hissed.

  The woman dropped the knife and attacked the ropes, pulling at them with shaking fingers, and Price fell to the ground with a thump. His shoulders burned as if someone had put a hot iron to them.

  “My children are in a house at the back of the village, near the track to the pass.”

  “Where is the other Faelen, the big one?” Price asked.

  “I don’t know, he walks around,” she said, her voice trembling.

  Price hurried into the shadow of a house. The knife in his hand was crude, but sharp enough for what he needed to do.

  He stole into the shadows, moving at a crouch. Drone-del was moving slowly through the village, carrying a heavy crossbow in his huge hands. Price slid from the shadows like a sigh in the night and cracked the knife handle against Drone-del's head and the big Faelen dropped to the floor in a heap. The silence was left unbroken.

  In the stable, Yroh, the horse of Tarir-del, stamped the floor, and Price stroked his neck to soothe him. He was truly a magnificent beast, a horse of legend from the Echo, the likes of which are rarely seen in the mortal world.

  Price cut the horse's throat with a practiced slash, stepping neatly out of the way of the gout of blood. Then he set to work, taking care not to get a single drop of blood on himself.

  “Where are my children?” the woman gibbered when he hurried back.

  Price ignored her, the slab of meat on the end of his knife hissing as he laid it on the metal grill that hung above the cooking fire.

  “Tie me back up, then take your children and the horses and leave.”

  “Tie?…” she faltered. “They are drunk, sleeping! Cut their throats before they wake.”

  Price slapped her with an open hand. There really was no honor in this part of the world. “Tie me back up, take their horses and go, or I’ll put you and your children on the fire,” he growled.

  ***

  Tarir-del emerged in the weak morning light and made his way to the dying fire, picking out cold cuts of meat and popping them in his mouth before moving on. Price couldn’t hide the smile as the shriek of horror split the morning, echoing around the empty village.

  The Faelen captain stormed toward Price and swung his sword, severing the rope and sending Price crashing to the ground.

  Tarir-del’s hands were slick with blood that covered his hands and the cuffs of his uniform, and he hauled Price to his feet. “Where did the villagers go? Where are they?”

  Price didn’t have to fake his stupor; he’d been hanging by his wrists all night and there wasn’t a drop of blood left in his arms. Tarir-del grabbed Price's chin to hold up his head, then dropped him with a noise of disgust.

  The other Faelen officers emerged from the various buildings where they had slept, blinking in the daylight. “They butchered Yroh. Search everywhere; I want them found; I want their heads!” Tarir-del screamed.

  Tarir-del searched Price, pulling at his hands and feet, looking for blood. He grabbed him by the hair, searching his face as if he could read the truth.

  “I can smell…” Price said, slowly.

  Tarir-del shook him roughly. “Smell? What are you talking about, you fool? What do you smell?”

  Price sniffed. “Horse meat,” he said.

  Tarir-del dropped him and turned to the fire, approaching it slowly. Then he recoiled, staggered back, and vomited noisily on the floor.