Adrenaline pumping in his veins, Duncan reached up and with a renewed strength slammed his ice pick into the mountain face, then his feet, stepping up, climbing again. The men all around him did the same, and soon the air was, once again, filled with the sound of ice chipping, and of men climbing.

With each pick, one step at a time, his army ascended the mountain face.

Duncan pulled himself up with one last heave as he reached the top, then collapsed onto the floor of snow, beyond exhausted, breathing hard, hardly believing he had made it. Every muscle in his body burned.

Duncan rolled to the side and released the injured soldier on his back, freeing himself of the weight. The young soldier groaned beside him, and looked at him with a look of gratitude beyond any Duncan had ever seen.

“You saved my life at the risk of your own,” the man said, his voice weak, “when you had every reason not to.”

Duncan felt a wave of relief as he saw his men ascend all around him, all gratefully collapsing on the mountain top, and he slowly rose to his hands and knees, gasping for air, feeling all the bat wounds, his arms still shaking. Sensing a presence, Duncan looked up to see before him a broad, muscular hand reaching down for him.

Duncan let himself be pulled up, and as he stood, he was amazed by what he saw. Standing there before him were the proud warriors of Kos, men adorned with furs, with long beards sprinkled with white, thick eyebrows, broad shoulders and faces of earnest men who had lived hard lives. The broad plateau atop the mountain stretched as far as he could see, and he stared back at these men admiringly, men who did not bother to wipe away the ever-present snow accumulating on their faces, beards, eyelashes, men with wild, long hair, filled with snow. They wore all-white armor beneath their furs, clearly prepared for battle at all times, even in their home. These were the men he remembered.

The warriors of Kos.

A warrior stepped forward, a man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, shoulders twice as broad as any man, and who wielded a great war hammer as if it were a child’s stick. Duncan remembered him fondly from years ago, recalling a battle they had fought in together, side by side, until the sun had set and all their enemies were dead. Bramthos. Duncan was surprised to see him still alive—he could have sworn he had seen him get killed in a battle years later.

“Last I saw you you had a sword in your gut,” Duncan said, surprised to find his friend alive. “I should have known.”

Bramthos beamed, turning side to side, proudly displaying the scar across his nose.

“Lovely thing about battle,” Bramthos replied. “Your foe never knows if you’re going to live long enough to kill him back.”