The first pre-dawn light found Viktor weary, heartsick and saddle-sore. It also drew his attention to commotion some way south, at the forest’s eaves. The south wind bore angry voices, though it stripped them of words. Ignoring the creak in his bones, Viktor turned his horse about.

Three men and a woman stood around a crude pyre assembled from wind-fallen timber. Two men had the third restrained. The former wore wayfarer’s tabards. The latter, blackened chainmail and scorched leathers. His face was raw and burnt, his beard and hair singed.

As Viktor slowed his horse to a standstill beside a trio of restless steeds, the woman – also garbed as a wayfarer – clambered uncertainly onto the pyre. Boughs and branches clattered away from her boots. The entire construction teetered alarmingly.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“She deserves burial,” said a wayfarer. “Not a burning. This one has other ideas.”

“Let her alone!” bellowed the captive. “She must go to the forge before dawn!”

He struggled vainly. Boots slipped on the uneven ground. Arms still pinioned, he fell to his knees with a keening wail.

But the guttural voice had told Viktor all that the man’s dishevelled appearance had not. “Armund? Armund af Garna?”

“Lord Akadra?” Armund turned his ravaged face. Sightless eyes stared up. “Call this pack of rakkyg off me! They won’t let me tend to my sister.”

Viktor took in the huddled bundle atop the ramshackle pyre. More questions answered. Another slain ally, if one he’d but briefly known. It didn’t escape his memory that the twins had served as Calenne’s guard.

“Let him go,” he said.

“He means to burn her,” the wayfarer protested. “It’s a sin.”

“Do I strike you as one who needs a lecture on the nature of sin, lad?”

The wayfarers shared a worried glance and let Armund fall.

“Go,” growled Viktor. “Be about your business.”

The men withdrew to their horses. After a moment’s hesitation, the woman clambered down from her perch and followed. Hoof-beats rang out.

“I heard you were dead,” said Viktor.

“Damn near was,” growled Armund. “The witch took my eyes. Her handmaidens nearly had the rest. Lucky, if you want to call it that.”

Viktor leaned forward in his saddle. “And Calenne?”

“I don’t know. Astor strike me for a cinder, but I don’t.” He hung his head. The scorched remnant of his beard brushed against blackened chain. “I hope she found a good death. Skinny thing, but she’d fire.”

“She lives.” Viktor heard more hope than certainty in his own voice. He turned his horse about to ride away. “I’m sorry for your loss.”