“Then help me.” A most un-Thrakkian note of pleading crept into Armund’s voice. “I don’t need eyes to know that dawn’s coming. If I don’t set Anliss free before then, the Raven’ll have her. My sister died well. She deserves the forge, not the wandering of the mists.”

Viktor stifled a scowl. Never a dedicated adherent to the Lumestran creed, he still found . . . something . . . intolerable at the prospect of burning the dead. Let Thrakkians believe what they wished about freeing the soul to feast in Skanandra – fire was the very bleakest fate. At least where Tressian law reigned.

Between the wayfarer’s attempts to climb and the flaws born of Armund’s sightless construction, Anliss’ pyre stood on the verge of collapse. Once the flame took it, the body would as likely tumble away as burn. A strong, sighted man could have fixed it in a span of minutes. Armund remained the former, but the latter? Viktor was astounded he’d accomplished as much as he had.

The urge to keep searching for Calenne had a tinge of madness to it now. It was almost desperation. But even through the weariness, Viktor knew it a false spur. He’d promised Josiri to return at dawn. That time was all but spent. And for all he knew, Calenne had already reached camp, delayed by happenstance. Or she was dead. Had been for hours. Were that true, what right did he have to solace if he denied Armund the same? The leader had a duty, and so did the man.

He swung from his saddle. “Very well. Tell me what you need.”

The fires caught as the first pre-dawn light touched the distant mountains. It gripped the bone-dry timber as tight as a miser’s fist about coin and roared at the brightening skies. Hollow booms rippled across the skies. Distant thunder grew near. Or perhaps, Viktor mused, it wasn’t thunder at all, but the strike of hammer on anvil, chiming to guide the dead to their reward.

Thus passed Anliss af Garna to the Halls of Skanandra – her axe upon her breast, and her eyes as open to the journey as her brother’s were not.

Viktor watched from what he deemed a respectful distance. It wasn’t how he’d hoped the night to end, but a life of soldiering had taught him that you took what victories you found. Calenne’s fate remained hidden, but he’d spared a comrade’s spirit the listless roaming of Otherworld’s mists. That counted for something.

And tomorrow the search could begin again. The battle for the Southshires was done. It was over. He was free to do as he wished, and Lumestra help anyone who stood in his way.

Armund rose heavily from his knees as the fires slackened. “I need your eyes again, my lord.”

Viktor drew nearer. His flesh prickled in the heat of the flames. “What can I do?”