Jormand awoke with a sharp pain between his eyes that persisted well into the day, despite his best efforts. It felt like a cold spike was being driven stubbornly into his skull, pounding anew with each step he took. He couldn’t ignore it, it commanded his attention, but he had no other choice but to continue on making a trail for the others. His mood was sour and his body was sore from the previous day’s exertion, all together not what he would have wanted to start the day. But this would hopefully be the final leg of their journey back to Derranhall, so he pushed through the pain and willed himself onward in spite of it.

The others followed behind him in better spirits than he and he kept to himself so as to not sully their good humor. Lana, Gisela, and Lyra spoke amongst themselves in low tones but occasionally a laugh would escape from their little cluster. Knowing that they at least were not miserable lightened Jormand’s mood a little bit. Only Allur stayed quiet, as always, following behind Lyra with his eyes downcast.

The monks had sent them on their way quickly after the sun rose. Lana and Gisela had already been awake, but the rest, including Jormand, had been rudely shaken awake with the sandy grains of sleep still filling their eyes. Just one more pinprick of annoyance to add to the rest.

One monk, the same one that had let them in, was kind enough to give warning that there were bandits in the area but he said it as if they should already know. As if they might have been bandits themselves. A small kindness, but Jormand was thankful. With many of the region’s landsmen called to Derranhall, very few remained to keep the roads safe. Not that they were particularly safe this far north in the best of times. Imperial patrols never ranged this far, not even in summer.

Jormand shifted his pack to relieve one shoulder from the heavy burden. His hammer thumped heavily against his leg. He could have moved faster without all the extra weight and part of him wanted to set the pack down and sprint the rest of the way back home. Every hour he spent walking back was an hour more the Vilde had to prepare.

But there were miles yet to travel and running would only make him more tired. Still, it was with no small amount of frustration that Jormand continued to set a reasonable pace for the others.

They tramped across the monastery vineyard and its miles of frozen grape vines bedecked in little icicles like strange transparent fruit. The vineyard was a poorly maintained charade. The supposed purpose of the monastery. It did produce and sell wine of course, but this soil was not good for grapes. Everybody, clerics and laymen alike knew that. No, the real purpose of those fortified walls was the annual pilgrimage that countless people would take in spring. The coffers of the monastery would be bursting after that and the people would have pitiful chips of stone in return.

Under his shirt and coat, Jormand could feel his father’s soulstone cold against his skin, reminding him that the practice was nothing new. Those monastery walls had held that aspect of tradition hostage from generations now. Very few still alive had ever seen a soulstone any bigger than a thumbnail, not even Jormand. He only had the stories, passed from his mother to him, although she had never seen them either.

But of course Jormand had other problems to solve now, just like those who had come before him. So the monastery still stood atop its hill, surrounded by its transparent camouflage, growing plump on the coin it drained from everyone around. One day he would come back to raze it to the ground. He told himself it would be soon, but that did nothing to alleviate the kernel of anger than burned in his stomach.

The grapevines did not give way to the road until the lonely monastery was almost invisible in the distance behind them. The reaches of its grounds were marked by a waist high wall of river stones that made a mockery of the uncountable thousands who had died trying to breach the boundary. They were long gone now of course, as well as any real need to protect this place. Nobody would be foolish enough to mount an assault now. Even if they managed to breach the walls, it would only be a matter of time before the Monarch retaliated.

The road itself was indistinguishable from the plain it carved through with a layer of undisturbed snow to cover it, the only way that Jormand could tell they had found it was the feeling of paving stones beneath his boots. They would give way to packed earth soon of course. The ministry would only pay to pave the road within sight of its claim, after that the road would be marked by low cairns erected by travellers over the years. Those cairns would lead them back to Derranhall. Then he would have his chance to complete his hunt.

Until then, Jormand walked with a silent purpose, pushing the pace until they stopped for a humble midday meal of dried meat and mushrooms. Jormand sat with the others while they ate, but remained quiet. They did not seem to mind.

Lana, Gisela, and Lyra flitted from topic to topic, spending hardly a few moments on each. It was a good sign. They were happy to be on the road back to Derranhall and that meant they would walk faster.

They complained of aching feet and sore backs among other travelers' laments, but the groaning and easing of sore muscles only lasted as long as any other subject. They did not include Jormand in their conversation, but they were happy enough for him to just sit there, nursing his headache and gnawing on a bit of salted pork. That was until Lana turned on him with a question.

“Why did you even need to go hunting anyway?” She asked. She was always so full of curiosity, it amazed him, and made him eager to give her the answers she wanted.

“I need a new weapon.” He replied. “Vilde is a formidable opponent and I cannot let her have the advantage.”

Lana still looked confused after that, but Gisela stepped in to clarify.

“A soulforged weapon is like a soulstone.” She pointed to the antler that hung off Jormand’s pack. “That will be consumed in the process and infuse it with the beast’s strength.”

Jormand nodded. He pointed to the skull that sat atop Lana’s pack. “You have enough for more than just a weapon though, and with the armor you won from Vilde’s man, you could have a full harness made.”

She raised a confused eyebrow at him at the mention. “But I don’t need armor. I wouldn’t even know what to do with it.”

“You’d wear it.” Gisela said with a chuckle. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it. That’s good iron and once it's reforged, it’ll fit like a second skin.” Her dark eyes glinted at the thought of it. Iron like that was more than just sound protection, it showed that the wearer was something important. No common landsmen could afford such equipment. Many nobles would choose bronze too, rather than wasting their wealth on iron.

“There’ll be plenty more to win once we find Vilde.” Jormand shot back at Gisela. If either of the women needed the extra protection, it was Lana. She had never been in a pitched battle before, much less one on the unsure footing of a ship’s deck. “You can teach Lana how to move in it while we hunt her down.”

Gisela sighed, but she did not seem too put out. What Jormand said was true, Vilde’s crew was more than well equipped. Blood-forged men and women to the very last warrior. There was not one who did not carry an iron weapon and many wore armor besides. The spoils would be substantial.

It was not the loot that set Jormand’s heart pounding though. It could not have been further from his mind. His heels itched for the chase. His flaming heart hungered for the trap to be sprung. When he brought Vilde back to Derranhall in shackles, he would be greeted as a hero. He would show everyone, Ketrim, his mother, the vassals, all of them, that he was the one to follow. His plans for life had been changed, but he embraced this new path with the fervor of a zealot at the sacrament. And Vilde would pay for her insults. Martim had brought Jormand with him to Maerin for a reason. He would prove why he had been chosen.

They were back on the road with plenty of daylight to spare and in better spirits than before. Jormand’s headache subsided for a time, but the road was long and it returned before long. Still, with renewed purpose and a belly full of food, the trek was far more palatable.

The road wound through meadows and forests, past farmland and wild spaces, all covered with a fluffy layer of snow. The quantity of footprints, hoofprints, and wheel ruts increased steadily as they travelled, although they scarcely saw anyone the entire time. Anyone who travelled now did so quickly and anyone else stayed home. But there were a few traders and wayfarers, enough that when Jormand and his party passed by a group of three rough looking men sitting on the roadside sharing a pipe, it did not seem all too strange.

They did not seem to even notice that people passed by at all, but not long after, Jormand heard footsteps behind them, cushioned by snow and cloth-wrapped soles. His suspicions were confirmed when they rounded a turn to find the road blocked with an old cart turned sideways between the forest walls on either side. In front of the cart stood another rough looking person.

She cradled a bronze-tipped spear in the crook of her arm and carried an unpainted wooden shield with a dented bronze boss. Her face was partially obscured by an old bronze helmet, but not enough to hide the tidy collection of scars that made a cross stitch of her skin.

The footsteps from behind ceased as Jormand came to a halt, his hand already creeping towards his hammer’s haft.

The bandit lazily strutted forward from her cart, using her spear as a walking stick.

“Good morrow,” She said in a slurred accent even though it was well past midday and the sun had already started its descent. “Now there’s no need to make this complicated, but if you want to cross this here bit of road, you’ll have to pay the toll.” She made a wide sweep with her spear, gesturing to the cart but also letting the sunlight glint off the metal. It was freshly sharpened and would easily pierce even Jormand’s heavy coat.

Behind him, Jormand could hear the sounds of his compatriots shuffling about, no doubt reaching for weapons of their own. But they were outmatched. Not a single one of them wore any armor and although Jormand was confident enough with his hammer, he did not think Lyra would be able to do much with her knife, much less Allur who did not carry a weapon at all.

“We don’t have any coin.” Jormand called back to the bandit. “We’re just hunters on our way back home.”

“Hunters, you say? I don’t see any meat or skins. Just what is it you were hunting?” She seemed entirely at ease, and for good reason. She had no reason to suspect that any of them would pose any sort of threat. She probably saw Jormand’s hammer as a simple tool too. Well, maybe he could use that to his advantage.

“Search us if you must, we have no coin.” He growled back. His heart was starting to beat quickly, preparing for a fight like it always did, but his mind was racing too, something strange to him. He worried more for the safety of his companions than his own and looking behind him, he saw them arrayed in a small circle with him at one point and little Allur in the center, hardly seeming to even see. Lana and Lyra held their knives and Gisela her bow. They must have been a pitiful sight.

The three ruffians they had passed before carried improvised weapons and wore mostly padded garments in the way of armor, but they were no less dangerous for it. One held a studded cudgel, another a hayfork, and the third what looked like a straightened sickle. He held a small wooden shield as well, making the sickle look something like a sword. Against two knives and a bow, they would have the advantage and that was without their leader.

The leader sauntered towards Jormand. Her steps were carefully placed though. She knew to be careful and that was dangerous. Jormand would have a split second to fell her and turn before his friends were slaughtered, but he had done this before.

He steeled himself as she approached.

“Alright,” She said and gestured to his belt pouch. “Empty the purse and anything else you’ve got.”

Jormand made a show of reaching for the pouch with his left hand while his right sought his hammer. The bandit was focused on her prize, licking her lips greedily, and did not see the hammer as it flew free from its loop on his belt. The utilitarian spiked wedge buried itself deep in her eye socket before she even had a chance to raise her shield.

She fell to the road with a gurgle and Jormand spun just in time to see chaos break out.

All three of the bandits stampeded forward and clashed with his companions. Gisela loosed an arrow and Jormand heard the sound of weapons on flesh. He did not see who was hit. At that moment, his stomach clenched like a boulder had been dropped on him and drove him to his knees. Acid burned his throat and tongue with each heave.

By the time he shakily stood and wiped the vomit from his chin, the damage was already done. One bandit, the one with the hayfork, lay dead with Gisela’s arrow in his chest, but the other two still stood and warily watched the group from a few paces away.

Gisela’s bow hung in two pieces which she brandished like knives and Lyra lay on the snow, blood starting to leech into the white around her.

Jormand didn’t spend a moment thinking. The sight of Lyra’s injury had him feeling queasy again, but he couldn’t pay it mind.

He launched himself towards the offending bandits, hammer already swinging. His first blow was blocked by the man with the improvised sword and shield. His strike sent splinters flying, but it caused no wound.

He was forced to step back and block a strike from the cudgel-bearer with the haft. Then the scythe-sword was hurtling towards him. For a moment, panic set in. Jormand was at the disadvantage with regards to equipment, but the sword swing was sloppy. These were just farmers holding weapons. He could defeat farmers.

With a small surge of confidence, he deflected the scythe-sword and planted his hammer firmly on the man’s chest. Bone shattered and the bandit screamed as he fell back. Jormand spun to face the cudgel-bearer in time to deflect another swing, but he had to step back to make distance. The sudden move was too much for his stomach to handle.

He scrambled to regain his balance but his back foot landed on a patch of ice and he fell, windmilling his arms to keep balance. He was left open to the cudgel which came hurtling in to make contact with his chest.

A splitting pain sprouted from his sternum and bones cracked. He fell to the ground hard and his vision flashed white but not before he saw an unmistakable bronze blade sprout from the brigand’s throat.

***

A grin spread across Jormand’s lips as he fell to the earth, before his eyes drifted closed.

Lana pushed the bulk of the dying man aside with some effort so that he would not fall on Jormand, then rushed to his side.

He was still breathing, miraculously, but a tiny spot of red was starting to form on the fur that sprouted from the center of his coat. She hastily undid the buttons only to find more blood inside. The cudgel had been blunt and certainly had not pierced the coat and that meant something had broken the skin from within. Her heart was beating in her throat before she even managed to cut his shirt open.

She used the scraps of what was left of the shirt to gently wipe off his chest. Beneath it, his skin was writhing like it was filled with live snakes. She nearly jumped back. The white of bone poked through the skin in one spot, but before her very eyes, it vanished beneath and the hole mended itself in an instant.

She could not believe her eyes. Left behind was clean, unblemished skin. Not even old scars marred Jormand’s chest. In fact, as she cupped his face, she saw the little scars around his nose disappear too.

She did not know what to do. Jormand coughed once, and his eyes fluttered open. He looked groggy still, but alert enough that she shouldn’t be concerned but…

What had she just seen?! It was impossible!

Jormand began to shiver and looked down at his chest, confused. Lana did up the buttons of his coat as quickly as she could. She did not have time to explain it now and it was not as if she understood what had happened in the first place. Lyra was injured too, and judging from Gisela’s frantic instructions to Allur, she was not healing.

Lana stumbled over to the others where Gisela and Allur were futilely trying to hoist Lyra onto the cart that had been used to block the roadway. It was a decrepit thing made of old, rotting wood, but it was all they had.

Lana rushed to help and with some effort, they managed to get Lyra laying on the cart. Her heels hung off the end, but it would have to do. Blood seeped from under an improvised bandage on her leg. It looked to be a strip of the shirt worn by the bandit leader.

The wound cut deep on her lower thigh, deep enough that blood still pooled even with the bandage.

“Get me a stick.” Gisela shouted to Allur once Lyra was loaded onto the cart. The boy just looked up at her so Lana picked up the spear from the ground and slammed the haft down over her knee. The old, weak wood snapped with only a little pain. She placed the smaller section into Gisela’s waiting hand.

A few moments later, Gisela had fashioned a rudimentary tourniquet around Lyra’s leg and already it was starting to discolor. The fabric bit deep into Lyra’s skin, but the stream of blood from her wound became little more than a trickle. Gisela covered it with a blanket pulled from her pack before loading that onto the cart as well.

Jormand already stood between the staves at the front of the wagon. In front of him, the snow was discolored and he was furiously wiping bile from his chin. His entire body shook with shivers that Lana wagered were not only from the cold. His reaction to killing was worsening.

“She’ll lose the leg if we don’t hurry. Even if we do…” Gisela shuddered and ran up to take a spot beside Jormand, holding one of the staves.

The two of them began to jog, pulling Lyra behind them. Lana followed and waved to Allur.

“Come on, we need to go.”

The boy did not seem to hear her, but he followed eventually when they began to draw further away. He was surprisingly quick and kept pace with the rest of them easily enough.

Their pace slowed as the sun descended further and Jormand and Gisela began to tire. By the time Derranhall was in sight, it was nearly evening and they had been on the road for hours. Gisela loosened Lyra’s tourniquet a few times before retightening it. Every time she did, she muttered about lost time and winced at the blood that dripped from the blood-wet bandage over the wound.

It was with dragging feet that they finally passed through the gates to Derranhall. Jormand shouted at the guards to help carry Gisela, but even his shout sounded tired. A pair of guards ran for a stretcher and returned stripped of their armor to take the burden of the wounded woman from Jormand and Gisela.

The hike up the mountain to Derranhall itself from the town seemed strangely short. The steps were only more added upon a long day of walking. The pain in Lana’s feet did not fade, but neither did it grow. Each step fled from her mind only moments after she took it. She kept pace with the guards who held Lyra on her stretcher, keeping within just a few steps. It wasn’t as if there was anything she could do but she didn’t want to abandon her.

Jormand and Gisela forged ahead quickly. Neither were comfortable around the wounded, as bizarre as it seemed. They could inflict worse than what Lyra had sustained, but they could not stand to look at it, Jormand most of all.

Allur trailed along after the stretcher, following Lyra as he always did. His face was slack, lips drooping into a small frown. No different than usual. He hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the monastery that morning.

Lana wanted to say something to reassure the boy, but nothing came to mind.

The guards carried the stretcher off somewhere into the bowels of Derranhall as soon as they entered and the boy followed along. Lana was tempted to follow as well, but her aching feet carried her towards her chambers deeper within the hall.

Gisela and Jormand went their own ways without a parting word too. Lana hardly even noticed. She dragged herself towards the door of the rooms she had begun to call home since staying in Derranhall. The heavy wooden door was welcoming and within there was a fire crackling in the hearth in anticipation of her arrival. Steig’s work certainly. The man hardly spoke, but he listened well and knew what preparations to make for her.

Lana did not linger in the sitting room though, the bedchamber called to her. There she finally threw herself onto the bed after tossing her pack against one wall.

Everything was as she had left it, only slightly tidier somehow. The corners of the blankets were folded perfectly square on the bed, the chairs were arranged just so by the small table. Enough to make it feel purposeful but still lived in. Still comfortable.

There were clothes laid out on one of the chairs. Simple garments, by a courtier’s standards. A stout woolen dress and soft, silk shift. She couldn’t bring herself to budge from the bed before her eyelids fluttered closed on their own accord. The bed was so soft and the heat of the fire permeated even the bedchamber, making it pleasantly warm. Her thoughts were hazy at best, and fleeting. Sleep was not long in coming.