Brom Innson shivered. Even here, within the thick, stone walls of Skyice Keep, the cold was piercing. No matter how many layers he wrapped around himself, it seemed to stab deep into flesh, driving shards of unspeakable chill right into his bones.

“By the gods, I hate this place,” he muttered to himself.

At least, he intended to keep it to himself.

“Stop whining, old man,” the fiery lass in front of him scowled, her green eyes stabbing him just as fiercely as the weather. “Some of us have been here more than a few days, and we manage to put up with it just fine.”

Not wanting to be impolite, Brom dipped his head to show his apology and wrapped his hands a little tighter around his steaming mug of tea. Even for the grizzled, gold ranked scout, there was something about Skyice that seemed to break right through his defences. Normally, he was fine in the cold. He’d spent many a freezing night on watch, up a tree or knee deep in muck, and he’d survived.

It was magick, of course. The answer was always magick. Some people were more susceptible to it than others. Warmbloods, the local Slayers called them, those people who just couldn’t seem to endure the relentless cold of the mountain.

“I don’t mean any disrespect. It’s just a little unnerving to feel this way after being a scout for so long. I’ve endured terrible conditions beyond more than one rift. It’s… odd… to be so vulnerable here.”

Green eyes assessed him carefully as the lass turned his words over a few times before she found no fault with them.

“That’s all well,” she said, taking a long sip of her tea.

Even someone like her, well adapted to the local conditions, was rugged up, a thick, fur-lined outer layer over the top of her armour underneath. Judging from the sound she made as she moved, there was a full mail shirt under her coat, which seemed excessive to be wearing inside the keep.

Little details. But put enough little details together, and they told a story. Every scout learned that early on, or they didn’t survive long. After leaving Cragwhistle, having spoken to the Steelarm lad, he’d continued his journey south to make contact with the Slayers stationed here, at Skyice.

It was the furthest Keep from the capital in the entire province. High up the unnaturally formed mountain known as ‘the Spear’, it was also one of the largest Keeps in the province, a full garrison of Slayers stationed here at all times.

Since he’d arrived, things had been… slow. The Slayers had been secretive, unwilling to talk much, despite the letters of introduction he’d brought from Rurin and Timothy back at Woodsedge.

One didn’t need to be a gold ranked Slayer to see that something had happened in the Keep. The signs of tension were clear to see in the faces and posture of every one he’d seen, and that hadn’t been many people. They were keeping him isolated, tucked away in a small corridor with a couple of empty rooms, making sure he didn’t see anything they didn’t want him to.

To make sure he wasn’t sneaking off anywhere, he had company almost constantly. Thanks to his heightened senses, he knew they were keeping watch even at night. This level of caution told him just about everything he needed to know, but it was all for nothing if they didn’t trust him.

“Sera, have you had any word when I might be able to speak to the leadership of the Keep?” he asked.

He carefully didn’t say ‘Magister’ when talking about the person in charge. Both he and the fiery woman in front of him knew they weren’t running the show any more, but the Slayers of Skyice Keep were being exceptionally cautious.

Sera put her rough, earthenware cup down, eyeing him over the low table that sat between them. All the furniture in Skyice was simple, almost crude. Stone for the most part, since a lot of wood couldn’t stand up to the cold, and everything was covered in fur. Fur rugs, fur throws, fur lining on the chairs, fur bedding and fur clothing. Remarkable stuff, too, the local rift was the only source. Slayers could make a good living off of selling furs alone. Made killing the kin more difficult, which meant more dangerous, since killing the beasts without damaging the rich, dark fur was quite the challenge.

“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” she demurred.

He’d heard the same thing several times before.

“I’ve come from Woodsedge, where we’ve overthrown the Magisters and entered a state of open rebellion. If there’s a movement here to do the same…”

He maintained the polite fiction that it hadn’t already happened.

“... then you need to join hands with us as quickly as possible.”

He remained patient as he laid out the obvious yet again. Scouts were nothing but patient. Sitting in a tree for two days waiting for a kin to twitch a leg was nothing to him.

Sera opened her mouth, doubtless to give him the same sort of reply he’d heard half a dozen times already, but she was cut off before she could even start. The heavy door banged open to reveal a heavy-set, fur-coated man with a shock of a beard and thunder-grey eyes.

Brom stood up slowly, his hands folded over each other, showing no sign of aggression. He’d heard the newcomer approaching, of course. His earlier words had been for this man’s benefit more than Sera’s, and judging by the flash of annoyance that flickered across her expression, she knew it too.

“Brom Innson, wasn’t it?” the new arrival rumbled, though he didn’t step forward and extend a hand. “I’m Darrious Hammerhand, but most folks call me Darry. Silver ranked Slayer.”

Brom cocked his head to one side.

“Silver? I don’t think so,” he said quietly.

One could interpret his words in such a way that he was suggesting Darry was bronze, but everyone in the room knew that wasn’t the case.

“Gold knows gold,” he followed, with a short wink.

There was silence in the room for a beat, then Darry burst out with a guffaw.

“Aye, you aren’t wrong. Gold knows gold. Just something else we’re figuring out along the way.”

The burly man grinned widely, revealing a few missing teeth before he finally approached and offered Brom a proper welcome.

“So your father was an innkeeper? Unlikely for you to wind up in the slaying business,” he noted as the two shook hands.

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“My grandfather,” Brom corrected. “My da was a field medic. I grew up bouncing from keep to keep. I think I was bound to be a Slayer.”

“Aye, I can see that,” Darry said as he clapped a hand onto Brom’s shoulder.

“Well, come along, then. We’ve finally decided what we’re going to do with you.”

That doesn’t half sound ominous.

Even if he felt disquieted, Brom didn’t allow it to show on his face. He simply smiled politely and allowed himself to be led by the other man, noting that Sera fell in easily behind him.

Even for a Gold ranked scout, breaking out wouldn’t be an option. Not that he intended to. As an illegal gold, he was a dead man already. He would see the rebellion through to the end, no matter what.

For his part, Darry kept up a steady stream of light chatter as they moved through the narrow, icy corridors of the keep.

“How are you handling the cold?”

“Poorly. It seems I’m a little warmblooded for the Spear.”

“Shame. I’ve been here for years, and I swear there’s no rhyme or reason to it. I’ve seen some hardened killers from up north come here and just start shivering in their boots. They say it’s like getting stabbed in the gut.”

“It doesn’t feel that way to you?”

“It does, aye, but perhaps I’m just crazy enough not to care all that much. You’d have to be mad to stay in a place like this, after all,” he chuckled, the laugh rumbling low in his chest.

“This is the spot,” Darry announced, bringing them to a halt.

Brom paused, confused. There was nothing here, only a long stretch of corridor, with a tall window beside them. It was for this window that they had come here, apparently, since his guide grabbed hold of the frosted metal handles with his bare hands and began to pull it open.

Ah.

Getting tossed out a window from atop the tallest mountain of the Empire wasn’t how Brom had imagined he’d go, but it was better than whatever the Magisters would do once they got ahold of him.

Resigned to his fate, he squared up to the window as Darry pulled it open, blasting all three of them in the face with shockingly frozen air.

“Don’t look so grim, you aren’t going out there. Just want you to lean out and have a little look.”

Brom cocked a brow at the man, who only grinned his gap-toothed grin back at him. With nothing to lose, he leaned out over the parapet and looked down.

To say the drop was precipitous would be an understatement. This part of the keep must have sat right on the edge of the Spear, and Brom felt he must have been staring down into the Abyss. Dark clouds rolled beneath him like an ocean whipped into a storm. The wind was so cold and sharp it felt like razors against his skin.

But that wasn’t what they wanted to show him.

Hanging from twenty feet of rope secured onto the ledge were five bodies, each wearing the distinctive robes of the Magisters.

“There was some discussion about how much we could trust you. People are jumpy, which I think is understandable. But the Priest said you’re alright, and we decided there ain't much point rebelling if we aren’t going to take a few chances with it.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” Brom said wryly, pulling his head back in. “I’d also appreciate it if you could close that window, quickly.”

He shivered.

Darry rumbled his deep laugh again as he obliged, pushing it shut and snapping the steel locking mechanism into place.

“I’m glad you decided to work together. If we don’t support each other, then we will surely die in vain.”

The bulky hammerman stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“I don’t disagree, but there are many voices, with many opinions. We hate the Magisters, which is about the only thing we can agree on. How to fight back? Do we defend, hole ourselves here in the keep and die heroically, or attack, take the battle to the nobles? Trying to get a castle full of people who kill kin for a living to agree on anything is difficult.”

“What about the Priests? The clergy of The Three? Have they offered to organise and help?”

Sera grumbled behind him, but Brom kept his eyes on Darry, who considered his words.

“I will take you to meet the Priest,” he said finally, and held up a hand to forestall the protest that had begun to burst out of Sera. “I know what you want to say, sister. The others didn’t agree to this, but until they are willing to show their faces, what can they say?”

So there were at least a few more Gold ranked Slayers in the keep, but they were hesitant, to the point of refusing to be seen by outsiders, lest they be identified. A wise precaution, perhaps, but it wouldn’t do anything to save them from the Magisters. They were branded, and that was the end of it.

Without another word, Darry turned on his heel and began to set a brisk pace, which Brom kept up with easily, the two men gliding around corners with long, easy strides. A privilege of their advanced Status. Sera kept up with some effort, which she fought to conceal.

Again, the corridors were curiously empty, and even to his superhuman hearing, too quiet. Just how far had they gone to ensure secrecy while Brom was walking the halls? A ban on speaking? They knew he was a scout, so it wasn’t that surprising, but even so. Even now, after exposing their own rebellion, there remained a level of hesitance that was most surprising.

Through the narrow, twisting passages they went, each colder than the last, until Darry turned toward another, thickset door, no different than any of the dozens they had passed.

“In here,” the hammerman said gruffly.

“You aren’t… coming in?”

“Nah. I don’t much like the faith. Makes me uneasy.”

“Yet the gods have their eyes on you, Hammerhand,” a thin voice rattled from behind the door. A moment later, it swung open to reveal a surprisingly young man, though just as reedy as his voice had suggested. He glared at Darry, then snorted with wry humour before turning to Brom.

“Ah. I’m so glad to see they didn’t throw you out the window. Brom Innson, wasn’t it? I’m a Priest of The Three, as you expect. Of the Crone, to be specific.”

“So you’re…”

“Older than I look? Oh, yes.”

Figured. Brom wasn’t fully comfortable with The Three himself, but not to the extent he avoided them. One of the most uncomfortable features of the clergy were the various ‘blessings’ they received, including extended life.

Without showing his mixed feelings, Brom stepped into the Priest’s room and sat at his host's invitation.

“I apologise for your rough welcome here. The Slayers of Skyice aren’t as timid as you might be thinking, they just can’t agree on anything. Half of them want to rush down into the plains and start killing every Marshall they see, curse be damned, the other half want to hole up here and train brandless Slayers. Until they settle on a course of action, they’re determined not to leak any word of the rebellion, hence the secrecy.”

Put that way, the excessive caution made some sense. Even so, they were moving too slow, and Brom said so.

“I don’t disagree. Oh, but I haven’t introduced myself. Ender is my name, Father Ender, if you want to be technical.”

“Ender?” Brom raised a brow. “Isn’t that somewhat, ominous.”

The Priest shrugged.

“My father had a strange sense of humour. Now, before we continue our discussion, I wanted to ask you something.”

Brom shrugged.

“Ask away.”

“Fantastic. I believe you said you travelled down from Woodsedge? You did? Wonderful. Am I correct in understanding that you ran across a Tyron Steelarm in your travels?”

Brom was so surprised, he twitched. How could this man know that?

“I did,” he replied, slowly. “How is that relevant?”

“It’s very relevant,” Ender smiled. “Not the man, so much, but his name, matters a great deal. The Slayers here are struggling to find unity. They need a banner, a rallying cry. We don’t even need the person, but his name is enough. There is a great deal of power in a name like that.”

Brom frowned, troubled.

“You want to use Tyron Steelarm as some sort of figurehead?”

“Of course. We need something to bring the Slayers together. Can you think of anything better than the child of Magnin and Beory?”

He didn’t like it one bit, but Brom couldn’t disagree with the logic. When it came to the respect of Slayers in the Western Province, there was no name better than Steelarm.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said heavily.