BUT IT WAS done. And Ulrem was exhausted. He felt at last that fierce power recede, and in its absence, a slender fear rose up in him, a cold sliver in his belly. He sensed that he might have been lost, submerged in all that power, had he given in. The Lion-Lord paced like a beast in the shadows of his mind, furious at the denial. Never before had Ulrem come so close to the brink.

“I told you… I am not Imaahis.” The savage’s shoulders slumped, and weariness nearly overtook him. Ulrem slid off Iormon’s heaving chest and picked up Vasara’s fallen sword. The legion watched in muted silence.

“So you say,” sneered the skull-faced king. He sounded sullen, thoughtful. “But I can see him shining in your eyes, even now.”

Ulrem rounded on him. “You cheated, didn’t you?”

Aerthil King laughed, and it was the playful sound of a boy caught out. He raised a hand and turned his skeletal face to watch a slim serpent of fire curl up his fleshless fingers. He stared at it for a moment, and then held the finger out. The tongue of flame leaped from the bone of his finger and twisted, growing into a shimmering steed. The animal lowered its head to Ulrem in greeting.

“Do you know the price Iormon paid to join my hunt, brother?” Ulrem watched the defeated giant climb to his feet slowly. He bowed low at the waist. The young barbarian returned the gesture. Aerthil watched, and said, “He asked me to collect the souls of all the giants Red Akale slew.

Every last one. Iormon carries them now, and all their strength is in him. That is what you fought—yet a dozen of his sons could not best Imaahis’ fury! Strong is the blood of the Conquering Lion!”

“Strong is the blood!” the legion echoed, raising their weapons in salute. At hearing that name, fierce pride leaped up in Ulrem’s breast.

“Come, brother! You have won the bargain, once again. I expected no less. Join me at the vanguard!”

The chill of winter’s night seemed to fall from the king of the hunt as he waited for the young barbarian’s answer. Ulrem curled his fist about the ring, taking in its warmth. It gave him no balm for his weariness, though. The echoes within it had faded to their watchful distance. Sensing their retreat, a new thought sprang to his mind.

“Hold. I offer you another wager, Aerthil King.” A ripple of surprise and amusement ran through the ranks of the wild hunt. The naked skull tilted slightly.

“A second wager?” he said. “Even now, after countless years, you surprise me brother.”

Ulrem frowned. “You said you could collect souls?” The king folded his hands over the pommel of his saddle and waited. “I would have you collect one, and give him a place of honor in your hunt, should he take it. The Brukoni, Vasara. I felled him here. This is his sword.”

“Indeed,” said Aerthil. “You must think highly of him. And what is the offered price?”

The young man fingered the warden’s blade. He felt those golden eyes now. Awake and weighing his words.

“What would you ask of me?”

“For a single soul?” Aerthil touched a gauntleted finger to the jutting teeth. The gathered warriors waited on their king. Even the night seemed to stretch as the king considered. The silence was maddening. Ulrem ground his teeth, wondering if he was a fool.

Finally, Aerthil said, “I would ride with you, at the hour of your death. I would be your honor guard, Lion-Lord, Imaahis. Grant me this, and the Brukoni will ride again.”

“Done,” Ulrem snapped. For the briefest moment, he felt a tightening of the air as the pact settled upon him. And then it was done.

“And the bow, my brother?” asked Aerthil.

“Keep it. For now.” Ulrem shouldered Vasara’s sword. His sword, now, and a fine thing it was. He looked up to the sky. The witch-fires were fading, sliding westward even as dawn began to limn the sky. Yet there was a new light among them, a face whose eyes he would never forget. Vasara’s pale ghost inclined his head to Ulrem as the warden took his place among the front ranks. He touched a finger to the brim of his snarling helmet.

“It is done!” Aerthil King threw his flame-wreathed head back and laughed. The riders whooped, dancing their mounts with eagerness.

Feeling like a husk, and all his strength faded to cold ash, Ulrem managed to climb up onto the steed beside Aerthil King. And yet, sitting there at the head of that vast, ghostly host, Ulrem felt right. As if for the first time, he had found his proper place. But was that just another of the skeletal king’s illusions? He eyed Aerthil, but the king gave away nothing.

Ulrem would not soon miss these western lands and their foolish wars and treachery, he decided. And the world held surprises yet.

“Whither shall we ride, Imaahis?”

“We ride for Imidia. I seek a brother.”