"Circling east. Maybe six, seven mounted. Armed and angry." I point toward the narrow pass that knives through the razor-ice fields. "They'll try to intercept us there if we take the main route."
"Or we could stay." Brakka's suggestion carries weight. The clan's defensive position is strong, built to withstand siege and storm alike. But I shake my head.
"Blackmoor won't attack the camp directly. Too many witnesses, too much risk of clan retaliation. He'll wait for us to move, then strike when we're exposed." My gaze finds Cyra, taking in her determination and fear in equal measure. "He wants her isolated, defenseless. Easier to claim he's rescuing a kidnapped noble than explaining why he attacked a peaceful settlement."
The strategy's sound from his perspective. Nobles excel at crafting narratives that justify their actions, especially when those narratives paint them as heroes. A daring rescue plays better than unprovoked aggression.
But he's forgotten something crucial about the Ice-Blood Clan. We don't follow scripts written by soft-handed aristocrats.
"Gather five riders," I tell Brakka. "Fast horses, light weapons. We're going hunting."
Understanding flickers in his eyes. "The narrow pass?"
"Perfect terrain for an ambush. Single file approach, limited escape routes, plenty of loose rock for surprises." I turn to Cyra, seeing the question before she voices it. "You're coming with us."
"Vorrak, no. I'll slow you down, put everyone at risk?—"
"You'll be safer with us than here." The truth tastes bitter but necessary. "Blackmoor's desperate enough to try anything. Better to control the engagement than wait for him to choose the time and place."
She nods slowly, accepting the logic even as fear tightens her features. The morning sun catches the silver of her locket where it rests against her throat, reminder of the life she's abandoned for this frozen uncertainty.
Within minutes, we're mounted and moving. The clan's horses are bred for endurance over speed, sturdy beasts with thick coats and steady temperaments. They navigate the ice fields with sure-footed confidence, hooves finding purchase on surfaces that would send southern mounts sprawling.
Cyra handles her borrowed mount well, adjusting quickly to the different balance and gait. Her noble upbringing included riding lessons, but this terrain demands instincts that can't be taught in civilized paddocks. She learns fast, though, following my lead as we pick our way across frozen streams and wind-carved ridges.
The razor-ice fields stretch before us like a crystalline maze. Ancient glacial movement carved these formations, leaving behind a landscape of knife-edge beauty and lethal terrain. Crevasses yawn between towering spires of blue-white ice, their depths lost in shadow. The wind moans through natural archways, creating harmonics that speak of winter's endless patience.
I know this ground like my own heartbeat. Every path, every shortcut, every death trap disguised as safe passage. Theknowledge flows through my blood, inherited from generations of clan hunters who mapped these fields with their bones.
Blackmoor doesn't have that advantage. His southern horses struggle on the ice, their iron shoes slipping where our mounts find stability. His riders bunch together for warmth and courage, abandoning the tactical spacing that might save their lives.
Amateur mistakes that will cost them dearly.
We climb toward the narrow pass, a knife-cut between two massive ice formations that offers the only practical route through this section of the fields. The path forces single-file travel for nearly half a mile, with sheer drops on both sides and loose rock overhead. Perfect killing ground for those who know how to use it.
"There." Cyra's voice carries barely above the wind, but her pointing finger confirms what my nose already detected. Horses and men, sweat and steel and the particular scent of southern leather. They're positioned above the pass, waiting in the shadows of an ice overhang.
Clever. They'll let us enter the narrows, then trigger a rockfall to trap us. Classic ambush tactics, well-executed for amateurs. But they've made one crucial error. They assume we don't know they're there.
"Brakka." My second moves closer, leaning in to catch my whispered instructions. "Take the others around the back slope. Give me ten minutes, then create noise. Lots of it."
His grin reveals broken teeth and battle scars. "With pleasure."
They peel away, disappearing into the maze of ice and shadow with the silence of predators born. I watch them go, then turn to Cyra.
"Stay close. When I move, you move. When I stop, you stop. No questions, no hesitation."
She nods, jaw set with determination that makes my chest tight with pride and fear. This isn't her world, these aren't her skills, but she's ready to trust me completely. The faith in her eyes humbles me.
We approach the pass openly, playing the role of unwary travelers. My axe hangs loose at my side, apparently casual but positioned for instant deployment. Cyra maintains the posture of a nervous refugee, which isn't entirely acting.
The narrow ledge forces our horses into single file. Ice walls rise on both sides, carved smooth by wind and time into surfaces that gleam like mirrors. Our hoofbeats echo strangely in the confined space, multiplied and distorted until it sounds like an army moving through the pass.
Perfect acoustics for masking an approach.
I catch the scent before I see the movement, of Blackmoor himself, positioned on a ledge twenty feet above our heads. He's abandoned the safety of the rear guard, driven by pride and fury to take personal action. The desperation makes him dangerous but also predictable.
He strikes without warning, launching himself from the ledge with a sword raised high. The blade catches sunlight as it descends toward Cyra's exposed back, a silver arc of aristocratic rage seeking noble blood.
