Prologue

The Trapper kept his arms under his cloak, and his hands resting on his knives now he swept into the nondescript shack. Straw, once gone stale and soggy, had a renewed icy crunch owing to the bitter winter.

He’d never understand why a former Jarl of Weskin had wasted so much blood and gold on conquering Southwestern Tymir. But then he wasn’t a Jarl. He didn’t own any land, let alone a region. And all he’d ever wanted was to serve Laykia the Huntress.

The door rattled to a close behind the Trapper. The cramped shed ahead smelled of piss and mildew. A bulky man, head and beard shaven, hunched over a small stool.

Brolli the Black they called the brother of Gudmund. While the goblins had named him, with awe and fear, Black Heart. He was a foul omen to all living things in Tymir.

“Trapper.”

“Brolli.”

The bigger man sniffed, his smirk baring teeth that gleamed slightly in the gloom.

“What’s this about?” the Trapper angrily demanded. He was a fair fighter, but he knew that Brolli had never lost a duel in his life. He’d heard grim stories of his many victories. But even so the Trapper would put up a fight. “I ain’t shutting up about the Moonbear.”

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“The Moonbear?” Brolli chuckled. “Gudmund wants you to deliver something. Well… to bury it,” he decided, hefting a small iron box in the mud. “Take it to a place where no one will ever find it. And then never speak a word of it again.”

The Trapper scowled. “Why would I do that?”

“‘Cause then Gudmund will give you the men you need to hunt down the Moonbear.”

“Hm.” The Trapper bent down, clutching up the iron box, which was locked and had a modest weight. He heard a faint scratching, raised it to his ear, and then shook it up and down. The weight shifted within of its own accord. “What’s inside of here…?”

“That’s not for you to worry about.”

“I ain’t helping you and your brother with some foul ritual,” the Trapper snarled, kissing his pendant of the Huntress. “Burying living things in iron boxes.”

“It’s not an animal, if that’s your concern. And as dead as a man can be.”

“Haunted…?”

Brolli simply shrugged, rising from the stool. He brushed dust from his dark trousers. Standing at his full height, he towered over the Trapper. When he offered his hand, the Trapper flinched. “So do we have a deal…?”

The Trapper hesitated. He thought this seemed like work for a Godi. And he was sure that Brolli was hiding something. Metal shuddered to the right, and he realized that there were other iron boxes, varied in size, all stacked atop one another. “What about them?”

Brolli sniffed. “‘Many hands make light work,’” he answered. “You’ve got yours,” he added with a mocking smile. “Unless you don’t want to kill the Moonbear, after all?”

The Trapper shook his hand, calloused and grimy, which felt fit for a foul killer. He would do whatever it took to slay Braguk Moonbear. His girls deserved their vengeance.