“I’m Jan,” the other said quickly, his voice similar. “He’s Bres.”
Morgan and the soldiers around the stewpot had been watching quietly, but now the man who’d winked at Morgan placed the ladle in the stew, shaking his head. “Nobody named that in our outfit,” he said.
“It could be a simple mix-up,” said Olvir. He didn’t reach for his sword, but he became aware exactly how quickly he could draw it. “The storm confuses things. Which regiment are you from, gentlemen?”
The one who’d given names sucked a wet breath through his teeth. “Criwath.”
“There’s a lot of Criwath,” said Vivian. “I think you’d better take those hoods off. A peek at your faces could clear up a fair amount.”
Olvir couldn’t be certain what gave the “men” away. Insight didn’t bother listing its reasons. His sword was out when they changed.
It only took a second. Their features crumbled like the snow outside. Red muscle glistened beneath, apparently bare of skin. Jaws and arms stretched too long, claws shot through leather gloves, and mouths gaped to reveal three rows of black barbed teeth. These were the twistedmen, Thyran’s creatures, emerging from disguises that they’d never worn before.
Ignoring everyone else in the tent, they both rushed toward Olvir.
Chapter 4
One of the twistedmen batted a soldier out of the way as the man was trying to scramble to his feet, an almost casual blow from the outsized arm sending him flying into the tent’s canvas wall. Olvir glimpsed red and smelled blood. He couldn’t tell any more, because the monster was on him then.
He slashed out, equaling the thing’s speed. It was too close—the blow was awkward and half-strength—but it opened a line down the right side of the twistedman, enough to give most such things pause.
This one didn’t care. Like the wild boars in the Criwath forest, it simply snarled and charged forward, slashing down with its talons to seek purchase in Olvir’s guts. He blocked one blow with his sword, stumbled sideways to dodge the other, and banged his side against the burning brazier. Immediately he corrected his course—setting the tent on fire would only make the situation worse—and retreated over a bedroll that wanted to tangle his feet, as if the tent and its contents had themselves sided with Thyran’s forces.
Olvir dodged around the tent’s central pole. That brought his shield within reach, so he scooped it up to meet the next strike. He used the force to pivot and twist, stepping around the debris on the floor. As the creature advanced, he swung the blade up through its rib cage.
The thing shrieked. Blood poured from its mouth, but the black sockets of its eyes flamed.
It leapt, driving Olvir’s sword deeper into its chest as it threw its whole dying weight against his shield. He staggered back, trying to shove it away. Its breath on his face was blizzard-cold and reeking.
“Soul…” it gurgled. The maw gaped again. The long neck twisted.
Olvir jerked his head to the side just in time. Barbed teeth grazed the skin over his jugular and snapped together on empty air. The twistedman sank its claws into his shield, seeking better purchase.
Silver Wind, take my spirit, Olvir called out silently, struggling to get his sword arm free of the weight,for I have always tried to serve you.
The monster lunged.
A set of gloved fingers grabbed its skinless skull, then yanked backward. A dagger sank deep into the spot where that skull met the neck beneath.
The twistedman’s jaws shut on air. They stayed closed.
“That,” Vivien said as the dead creature slid down Olvir’s shield to become a vile heap on the ground, “was profoundly unexpected.”
* * *
Vivian stripped off her gloves. At least one of them was probably ruined. Both stank. So did her coat, but there were more layers between that and her skin.
Her mood had been worse, but those times had been few and far between.
For their sakes, you must be a wall,Ulamir reminded her.Show no cracks.
It was good advice. Already she saw fear in the faces around the tent—not yet panic but the potential for it. One soldier was kneeling by his friend, pressing a cloth to the man’s wounds. The other knight was picking themselves up from where the second twistedman had thrown them with its dying blow. Katrine was cleaning her sword. Although her hands were steady, Vivian recognized the lines near her mouth.
They’d both fought more enemies, and more deadly ones. They all had, by that point in the war. None had taken them so much by surprise, though, or sought a lone target with the single-minded, suicidal focus Vivian had recently seen.
She commanded at least one person there. The only one who might match her for rank was Olvir, who’d just nearly had his throat ripped out.
“Good work, everyone,” Vivian said, deliberately dropping her voice down further into her chest. It was more reassuring that way, she’d found. “All alive? Should I go and fetch a Mourner?”
