Torches lit up the road where rough-looking sentries stood guard. Their cold eyes barely spared me a glance before watching the forest in case the group was being followed. Once we entered the camp, most of the men fanned out and dispersed.

No commands were issued, which only made it more unnerving. The warrior kept going, followed by the horse I was on and the other watchdog riding behind us. It was definitely clear who was in charge and which two were stuck on babysitting duty.

The warrior dismounted beside a huge pavilion. "Keep an eye on her until we get things sorted out."

"Yes, sir."

He guided his horse between the tents, eventually coming to a stop by a small one. I subtly eyed up the twenty or so tents between me and the edge of the camp.

The man dismounted and told me. "Get down."

I slid off the horse as another man took the reins, leading it away. My other follower also relinquished his horse, both of which were tethered to a post nearby. He kept the miniature crossbow, which was still loaded.

The primary watchdog, the one who'd ridden behind me, jerked his chin at a small tent. "Latrine is in there. Use it."

From the tales I'd heard, hostage takers rarely let their captives have a bathroom break unsupervised, so this was the last thing I expected.

When I hesitated, he gave me a light push in that direction. "Use the latrine. Else you'll need to use it soon, and I don't need you trying to come up with escape plans between now and then."

That made more sense. I still wasn't entirely sure if I was stumbling into a second trap, and I warily entered the small tent, promptly covering my nose. I wasn't sure which man had used this pit last, but judging by the stench, he probably needed medical attention.

Still, it was a latrine trench, and I wasn't sure when my two watchdogs might let me have another unsupervised break. I quickly made use of the pit and didn't even contemplate lingering. Not with the smell in here. Perhaps there'd been a reason they chose to send me into this one.

The two men were waiting semi-patiently outside, and the one I'd ridden with waved me over. There really weren't many options in the middle of a war camp teeming with soldiers, so I cautiously approached. Once I was closer, he turned and began walking away. I glanced at the second man, who jerked his chin at him. I followed the first man while the other one trailed behind.

We only went a few tents over before he opened a tent flap. "Get in. I don't need that werewolf skulking around and staring at us or you trying to spot a way to escape."

This man seemed rather fond of logic, and I didn't feel like being tossed inside, so I ducked through the tent flap. It was plainly furnished with just a handful of seat cushions. I picked one in the far corner as the two men also came in, sitting on either side of the tent flap and placing a lantern between them.

I regarded them, but even though their eyes often flickered over to me, they seemed disinterested in my presence now that I had no easy way to escape. The man I'd ridden with – the same one who'd done all the talking – watched me absently, frequently turning his head if someone walked by the tent, tracking their movements. The other one pulled out a belt knife and began sharpening it.

Time passed slowly, and my unease soon took on a bored undertone. I'd never sat and done absolutely nothing before. Even if my hands were idle, my mind was always at work, but there were no ideas to work with. I was missing vital information that prevented me from coming up with any plans.

These men weren't in charge, and there was no point in trying to sway their opinions, but they might provide some information. They did have the notorious griffin symbols on their shirt sleeves, and I'd never heard a good story about such people, so I'd have to go about this very carefully...

"Are questions allowed?" I ventured tentatively. "Because I'm really confused about what's going on and why people have been chasing us through the mountains."

"You can ask, but we might not have the answers," my watcher replied idly, apparently willing to humor a conversation. "Why do you think yer here?"

I furrowed my eyebrows as I realized how strange it would look to anyone else. "I ran from a group of fighters in Dryden, and we just kept trying to avoid people from that point on. I'd hired the werewolf as an escort just minutes before leaving. He was trying to avoid being conscripted, and I'd already paid taxes to various groups."

"You hired a werewolf?"

It didn't escape my notice that he'd turned into the one asking the questions. Nor did I miss how his phrasing occasionally deviated slightly. His words had a slight villager's accent, but I had grown up in a trader family who liked pulling accents out of hats, and I could tell his had been learned, not something from his childhood days. This man may pretend to be a simple fighter to get me to lower my guard, but he was clearly anything but that.

"There were no other options. Every other guide had been conscripted, and I had to cross the mountains to get back home."

"Where do you call home?" The question came lazily, as if he was entertaining the discussion to keep boredom at bay. Subtle hints in his body language betrayed that illusion.

"Cedarpoint Port."

"That's quite some distance."

Very few people north of these mountains had even heard of that port, let alone insinuated they knew how far away it was.

I shrugged. "The sea storms came early, and the ships wouldn't sail. I wanted to go home."

"Well, you likely aren't going to see home again."

His ominous words had me watching him warily. Part of me wasn't sure it was wise to ask more questions, but he clearly knew something I didn't. Something big.

"Can I ask why you say that? I don't think I've done anything wrong, other than running from some fighters..."

"Because yer going to be meetin' the Warlord, and after all the people he had to call in, ye'll be paying a heavy price."

That was the absolute last person I wanted to meet.

"I don't think I need to bother a Warlord. I'm sure he's busy with other things."

"He had t' cancel a lot of plans to come out here searchin' for you."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Wait- A warlord came out here? Into these mountains? For a traveler who ran from a couple of fighters?"

This was the most absurd thing I'd ever heard – a warlord abandoning their fight for power to chase a couple of fugitives through a remote forest – but every fiber of my trader experience was convinced he was telling the truth. And if Warlord Ivar had come into the mountains to join a hunt for Shane and me... My skin prickled as feathers of ice trailed down my back.

"Of course, he came. What do you expect when you killed his son?"

My jaw dropped. "Wha- Killed his son? Me? How? I was busy convincing an old mule to outrun warhorses."

His eyes focused intently on me. "How did you get that old thing to outrun the horses?"

"I was halfway to the forest before they noticed us and gave chase," I replied, still dazed and trying to process this latest revelation.

No wonder more and more soldiers had appeared and were determined to hunt us down. We had royally pissed off one of the most infamous Warlords in recent history by accidentally killing his son.

Judging from the no-effort-spared manhunt and Ivar himself abandoning all his fights to join this hunt, the Warlord was furious. This man wasn't the sort of person who'd only go after the person responsible – his revenge would target anyone who might have even had a hand in his son's death.

I was in serious trouble.

"How did you kill him?"

I stared at him blankly, trying to fathom how he thought I could have killed a trained fighter. My interrogator apparently had no problem following my thoughts and probably remembered my lack of fighting skills.

"It was the werewolf, wasn't it?"

My mind felt dazed and slow, and I let it show on my expression and haze my voice. "He said he spooked the horses. But there were over a dozen knights. How could he have killed one with the others present?" I shook my head as if trying to assemble the facts in a way that made sense. "But he had no weapons, and if he bit someone, they would have turned..." I trailed off, staring at the ground in front of me, using my stunned dismay of Ivar's presence to provide emotional cover for the current topic.

These men had no way of knowing Shane was cursed and not a regular werewolf. The other man frowned at his knife, possibly finding issues with whatever story the son's companions had told them. Or doubting my story. Possibly both.

Not that it would matter once I was dragged in front of Ivar. That guy's reputation preceded him, and he was one extreme story away from gaining the title "The Insane Warlord". Unfortunately, there was a good chance I'd become that tale.

He'd brought hundreds of men into the mountains searching for us. Something was going to happen.