The sound itself should not surprise me—I’ve heard it before, back at the bridge. Yet, in the chaotic aftermath of the attack, I somehow forgot to ask him about it. I’ve also failed to inquire who, exactly, sent the answering whistle that echoed at us from the other side of the canyon.
Not that he’ll tell me.
This time, when it comes, the returning signal sounds much closer. Whoever awaits us is not far away. I can’t help wondering where they were earlier, when we were under enemy fire. With a cluck of his tongue, my captor spurs Onyx to a canter. I’m thankful my hands already grip the pommel; it is all I can do to hold on as we race along in a thunder of hooves, snow kicking up in a cloud.
Our pounding pace does not break until we reach the other side of the valley. There, the unending tract of white earth cracks open astride a formation of fallen rock from some long-agoavalanche. As we near, I see a gap of shadow amid the boulders. The mouth of a cave—one tall enough that we do not even need to dismount as Onyx carries us under the stony canopy. I hold my breath as we pass beneath icicles long as my legs, their spear-like points spelling instant death should they break free at the wrong moment.
My eyes strain to acclimate to the sudden shift from blinding white to pitch black as earth encompasses us from all sides. The space is dim but cavernous. Shadows loom large on every side. Onyx’s slowing hoofbeats clatter far out of earshot, deep underground. I am so grateful to be shielded from the wind, I do not notice the figure stepping forward to greet us until a voice shatters the darkness.
“Oi!”
I start violently at the sound, nearly losing my seat in the process. Scythe steadies me instantly with a steely grip on my side. His touch does not linger a second longer than strictly necessary.
“About time you showed up,” the same wry voice calls, stepping forward as Onyx draws to a halt. “Been waiting all day. My bollocks are nearly frozen off.”
“Brothel bells across the land will ring, rejoicing at the news,” Scythe fires back without missing a beat.
The man laughs—a boisterous sound that fills the cavern, rebounding off the walls in a chorus. My eyes, slowly adjusting to the dark, widen in surprise. Until this moment, I had not known my captor capable of humor. I sit frozen, stunned at the revelation, as he swings down from the saddle. The men clasp arms with a familiarity that speaks of long acquaintance.
“What are you doing here, Jac? Last time I saw you, you were drunk off your ass in a Coldcross tavern, freshly released from your last campaign. Claimed to anyone who’d listen you weredone with soldiering and planned to marry a wench named Beatrice.”
“I’d say I remember that conversation, but that would be a lie based on the amount of pints I consumed that night.” The stranger pauses. “Turns out, Beatrice wasn’t half as handsome in the sober light of day. Signed up for another stint as soon as the ale was out of my system. I figured another tour was better than waiting around for you to return home with proper marching orders, twiddling my thumbs. Though if I’d known Yale was going to stick me with the Cimmerian Division, I might’ve stayed with Beatrice, monobrow and all. Would’ve been preferable to ten months patrolling mountain passes and driving off bloody frost-fiends, praying my manhood doesn’t turn to ice.”
“Might be for the best, given the state of your love life.”
“There’s that sense of empathy I’ve missed so much.” Jac snorts. “Anyway, thanks to my glorious new position, I happened to be nearby when one of my scouts heard your signal at the pass. Figured it might be you.”
“Figured right.”
“You weren’t due back for two months. Run into trouble?”
Scythe grunts. “You could say that.”
“I see you brought some excess baggage back with you.”
Both men turn to look at me. Even in the dim light, I can make out identical expressions of solemn contemplation.
“She the one, then?”
Another grunt from Scythe.
“Must be, if you were willing to leave ahead of schedule. Not like you to deviate from a plan.”
“No other choice,” Scythe admits lowly. “Extracting her was…complicated.”
Jac looses a low oath. “Is your cover blown, then?”
“Assuming the Eastwood generals have heard one of their commanders took out an entire company of men, I’d say so.”
“You never were one for subtlety.” Jac elbows Scythe, jostling his wound. His only indication of pain is a sharp breath, but it does not go unnoticed. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“Bloody bandage says otherwise.”
“It’s nothing. Arrow caught me in the shoulder. Half-healed already.”
“Courtesy of Eld’s troops?” Jac asks. His question is met with a long beat of silence. In it, he seems to read unspoken answers, for his voice adopts a shade of stunned disbelief. “Not Efnysien’s men?”