Shadow's master

underneath the brush and touched him, crawled up his arms. Their icy caresses drew deep shivers from his muscles. Their hunger infected him, making him want to join the violence and feel the power of death in his hands.

Blood on my knives, dripping in the snow.

Caim shunted the longing away as he gathered his legs under him. The fighting was over. The cat-men were gathering the loose horses and picking through the remains. Corpses made bloody heaps in the trampled snow. Caim was trying to decide what he wanted to do when something crunched behind him. He spun around, both knives drawn, to see Dray crouched a dozen paces away with Aemon and Malig following him. Before Caim could motion for the clansmen to get back, torchlight washed over them, and a hoarse voice bellowed. Caim almost bit off the tip of his tongue. The axe-man rode up, his horse snorting steam in the cold night air. Caim considered the distance between him to the Northman. If he could drop this one fast enough, they might still make a clean escape.

Thoughts of a quick kill-and-dash ended when more hoofbeats and crackling ice sounded from behind. Caim didn't have to look to know that more barbarians had ridden up, cutting off their escape.

“What do we do, Caim?” Dray asked. He and the others had drawn their weapons and stood with their backs together.

Caim calculated the outcome if he attacked. He could escape, he had no doubt, but the others would be run down and slaughtered. With a sigh, he slid his knives back into their sheaths and held up his hands. “Put up your weapons,” he said.

“The hell I will!” Malig shouted.

Caim shrugged. “Then you'll die.”

More Northmen arrived. Their voices shot back and forth in the bitter cold air. He didn't know what they said, but he assumed the worst. Then a deep voice spoke in Nimean.

“You are not of the Tribes.”

Caim located the axe-man. It was difficult to make out much of his features under the heavy helm, except for a pitch-black beard and a long puckered scar down the left side of his face. He wore a chainmail hauberk that came down to his knees, rusted in a few places, and over it a cloak of white fur that reminded Caim of the mantles worn by the clan chiefs in Eregoth.

“No, we're not,” Caim replied.

The speaker nudged his steed to approach to within a couple steps. “Who are you?”

Caim said his name, and those of his crew. Behind him, he heard someone muttering. Probably Malig. He's going to get us killed if he isn't careful. One look at the Northmen had been enough to tell Caim that they were the worst kind of deadly. They enjoyed the slaughter. In fact, they reminded him of Soloroth's Northmen.

“We saw the light of the fires,” Caim said. “And came to see what it was.”

The speaker laughed, but his men remained silent. “I am Wulfgrim, son of Grimhild, chief of what is left of the Snow Lions. Our camp is not far. You will come and share our fire.”

There was no question in his invitation, and Caim hadn't expected any. They had two choices: go with them, or try to fight their way out. And not being able to rely on the shadows made that a losing proposition. “We have horses nearby.”

Wulfgrim signaled, and his men prepared to depart.

Caim kept his face neutral as he turned and led the way back to the rocks. Aemon and the others looked to him, but he didn't have anything to tell them. They'd have to play this one as it came.

The walk seemed shorter on the way back. The Northmen rode around them, gibbering in their harsh tongue. Laughing. When they arrived at the spot, their horses were there, huddled together, but Egil was gone.

“Where's-?” Dray started to say, until Caim caught his eye and made a small headshake. “Where's my waterskin?” he finished. “I'm damned parched.”

As they mounted up under the watchful gazes and headed out, Caim peered across the wastes. Egil was well and truly gone.

Caim blew into his cupped hands, but his fingertips felt only the barest warmth. Wulfgrim, the Northman leader, had said their camp was nearby, but they had been riding for more than a candlemark. At least they were heading north, mostly. A little west, too, but he had bigger concerns at the moment. Like staying alive.

“I told you to stay away,” Kit said even before she appeared before him. Worry was etched in her eternally youthful features.

Caim hunched over his hands. With the Eregoths and the Northmen riding all around him, there wasn't much he could say. At this point, does it really matter if they think I'm insane? Probably not, but he wasn't ready to go down that route, as much as it might tickle Kit.

“I don't like these ones.” Kit straddled his horse's neck, which made the animal lift its head and snort. “They aren't like Egil. They're…different.”

“Like Soloroth's wildmen,” Caim whispered, so quiet he could hardly hear his own words. But Kit caught them.

“Exactly. So how are you planning to get out of this?”

He wished he knew.

Kit leaned in close. “You don't have a plan, do you? Caim, these men aren't fooling around. And their leader, that Wulfgrim, is deep-down ugly.”

He knew by her tone that Kit didn't mean physically repulsive. “I'm always careful.”

She shook her head. “Not careful enough by half. If you were, we'd be lying on a warm beach right now instead of trudging through this miserable ice-hell.”

He couldn't argue, but he knew in his gut that he'd still have come here, somehow. The pulling in his soul had begun so long ago, he couldn't remember a time when he hadn't felt it. Caim started to say something when the Northmen all whooped aloud, and the entire party advanced at a snow-churning canter. Small points of light appeared ahead, campfires shining between low, ice-covered tors. Tall men with spears waited for them. They shouted something, and Wulfgrim replied with a lusty yell. The riders cheered.

The camp consisted of thirty-some round tents of stitched hide scattered around half a dozen fire pits. A trampled area between two long hills served as the pasture. The Northmen hobbled their steeds to spikes and unloaded them, leaving the animals to stand in the cold. The supplies were opened, and their contents passed around. Kettles and pans appeared, and food was cooking in short order. As Caim dismounted, a young Northman with a scraggly yellow beard came to take their horses. Malig started to growl something until Dray slapped him on the shoulder.

“Southlanders!” Wulfgrim waved them over as he sat by a fire. “You are my guests!”

Caim looked to the others and nodded, and they made their way over to the leader. There was no place to sit except in the snow. Caim eased down onto his cloak. Wulfgrim took off his helm and laid it beside him. The lion head crowning the headpiece was gigantic; the beast must have been as big as a pony. The chieftain rummaged a tarnished silver cup out of a sack and poured into it some milky drink from a huge skin bladder. After a healthy dose, he passed it to Dray, who sniffed it and then took a swig.

“You.” Wulfgrim pointed at Caim. The long scar down his cheek glowed angry red in the firelight. More scars marked his powerful arms. “Why are you here? Southlanders do not come to the wastes. Maybe trade down by the mountains, but not so far north.”

Caim waited to take his turn with the drink before he spoke, and almost choked on the thick, clotted stuff that filled his mouth.

“Buffalo milk,” Wulfgrim said as Caim struggled to swallow it. “Mixed with mare's blood.”

Caim passed it on to Aemon. Despite its nasty taste, the liquor heated his insides and made his hands tingle. “We've sold our swords all across the Southlands, as you call them. We came north to find better sport.”

Wulfgrim refilled his cup. “More sport? Ulfric, come hear these southerners who speak of war as if it's a game.”

A big Northman glanced over from another fire, blood wetting his beard as he chewed on a half-cooked hunk of meat. “Tal hundr skyrf na vurd.”

Wulfgrim laughed. “He says you look like a pack of hairless dogs.”