Vandar averted his eyes, and in so doing, turned them toward the lake. The Storm of Vengeance was sitting on the shore.

Grief and guilt gave way to rage, and had he known how, he would have turned his steed toward the skyship. Because he didn’t know how to steer the giant hawk, he could only wait as his bird, Jhesrhi’s, and Jet, who was carrying Cera, swooped down to light in the snow in front of Witches’ Hall.

As soon as their riders dismounted, the two huge raptors dissolved into wind, moaning and flinging up snow for a moment, and then they were gone. Vandar started westward.

“Stop!” Cera said. “I saw the ship too, but you can’t just run off by yourself.”

“She’s right,” rasped Jet. Frequent applications of Cera’s healing sunlight had strengthened him and improved his appearance, although black feathers and fur had yet to cover over every patch of ugly scarring. “I’ve got a score of my own to settle, and if things were different, I’d come along and help you. But we have a plan in motion. A plan to rescue your miserable excuse for a homeland.”

Vandar hesitated and felt the red sword at this side urging him on to battle and revenge. And as he’d learned to his cost, when he felt the fey weapon goading him toward one course of action, that in itself was reason enough to at least consider doing the opposite.

“All right,” he growled. “I’ll wait.” He marched up to the hathrans’ house and pounded on the door.

A coltish novice in a simple cloth half mask answered, goggled at Vandar and those clustered behind him, and, when Vandar made his wishes known, scurried off to fetch Yhelbruna.

“You realize,” said Jet, “by now, the great hathran could be possessed or a vampire’s thrall herself.”

“If she is,” Cera said, “I’ll know.”

“So will I,” said Vandar. Yhelbruna had allowed him to meet the real woman hidden behind the leather mask and cold, mysterious demeanor only once, after they’d encountered the undead hag and goblins in the High Country, but it had left him with a vivid sense of who she truly was.

Vivid enough that he sensed the happiness the sight of him inspired when his companions almost certainly did not. “You’re alive,” she said.

“So is Captain Fezim,” said Jhesrhi, a new and hastily carved ash staff in her hand. She’d enchanted it as she did her clothing to keep it from charring in her grip. “Whatever Mario Bez may have told you.”

“We found out Bez is a liar,” Yhelbruna said. “Still, when you failed to return from this alleged battle at the Fortress of the Half-Demon, we had no choice but to assume the worst.”

“Aoth is looking through my eyes and listening through my ears right now,” said Jet. “He’ll speak through me too when he needs to. Take a walk with us, hathran. We need to talk where spies can’t overhear, and we’re short on time.”

“As you wish,” the witch replied. She turned and stepped out of the doorway for a moment, and when she reappeared, she wore a green hooded cloak and carried a staff of her own in her hand.

As they all wandered toward a little stand of trees to the west of the hall, Jhesrhi began to relate all that she and her comrades had discovered. Apparently, life as a sellsword had taught her to report clearly and succinctly, for it took her only a little time to lay out the facts as best they understood them.

“So you see,” she concluded, “at this point, we don’t know who among the hathrans and the Iron Lord’s warriors has been compromised and who hasn’t. But if Yhelbruna and Cera work together, the two of you should be able to identify at least some folk who are still trustworthy and free others from the undead’s influence. The troops you muster will rendezvous with the Old Ones south of the Urlingwood, and then we’ll all assault the wood together.”

Yhelbruna shook her head. “No. That won’t work.”

Vandar took a breath. “As you heard, the Old Ones understand they’re breaking their vows, and we all know men are barred from the forest. But-”

“Rose and scythe!” Yhelbruna snapped. “Do hathrans truly seem like such mad tyrants that you imagine I care about any of that when the soul of the land itself is in jeopardy? The wizard’s proposal won’t work because this Eminence of Araunt is a move ahead of us. Again. A few of their creatures revealed themselves on the southern shore of the River Rasha, and Mangan Uruk rushed forth to chase them with every witch and berserker he could find. I imagine we can still collect a smattering of reinforcements between here and Urling, but not in the numbers you were hoping for.”

Everyone was glumly silent for a moment. Then Cera said, “All right, but let’s think this through. The undead’s plan is based on stealth and trickery for good reason. We destroyed much of their strength at the Fortress of the Half-Demon, and Pevkalondra threw away more when she detached the Raumvirans from the rest of the creatures’ army and led them to defeat. Lod sought to bring reinforcements, but Sarshethrian’s ambush killed at least half of those. Maybe we aren’t at as much of a disadvantage as we think.”

Yhelbruna stopped and pondered, meanwhile idly poking holes in the snow at her feet with the lead tip on the butt of her staff.

“That all makes sense on its own terms,” she said eventually, “and now that I understand what’s been weakening my witchcraft, true hathrans can take countermeasures. But the enemy’s witchcraft is gaining strength, and with the Urlingwood falling into shadow, I guarantee you dark fey are assembling to support their old allies and ensure their ascendancy in the new Rashemen.”

Cera scowled. “I didn’t endure Sarshethrian’s foulness and vampires sucking my blood just to hear our cause is hopeless.”

“Aoth says it isn’t,” said Jet. “He wants to know, how did Yhelbruna come to realize Mario Bez is a liar, and why is the Storm of Vengeance still in Immilmar?”

Vandar’s jaw muscles clenched.

Even without the aid of a saddle and tack-Jet’s accouterments had burned away when the orb of fire blasted him-Aoth felt good hurtling along on griffon-back once more, with a cold wind in his face, a blue sky and wispy cirrus clouds above, and the tangled branches of a forest below. His pleasure would have been even keener if he hadn’t felt the ache in the griffon’s wings. Jet had pushed himself hard to fly to the Running Rocks, collect his master, and carry him to the Ashenwood, leaving Orgurth to shepherd the Old Ones the rest of the way north.

I’m fine! snarled Jet across their psychic link. Clearly, the bond had enabled him to perceive Aoth’s concern in the same way Aoth had registered his pain. Exercise is what I need to recover the last little bit of my strength. I only wish I was exerting myself for a sensible reason.

Do you want to win or not? Aoth replied.

Jet gave a disgusted rasp. It was a noise he made when he recognized his rider was right but was unwilling to admit it straight out. If you think I’m unhappy, wait until you see Vandar.

Vandar disagrees with one of my ideas? How surprising.

Jet laughed a screeching laugh, and they flew onward.

The trees grew thickly in the Ashenwood, and Aoth assumed those he sought knew something about how to hide. But fortunately, the ashes and aspens had shed their leaves, and he had his fire-kissed eyes and Jet’s sharp senses to foil attempts at concealment. He was confident they’d find their quarry if they simply kept looking, and toward twilight, he spotted a man with black side whiskers and grubby red and yellow clothing trying to dig and chop roots from the frozen earth while a skinny, shivering fellow dressed in the same colors stood watch with a crossbow cradled in his hands.

Unfortunately, the sentry was looking around at ground level, but not higher. Perched in the branches above him and his comrade, three rusty brown ettercaps, their forms an angular mix of human and spider, were drawing glistening white strands from their spinnerets. When they had enough webbing, they’d drop it to snare their prey.