There came another wave of fog, and once again, Duncan found himself immersed. Again, he could not see before him, and this time, the fog did not blow away.

“Stay close and listen for the gravel,” Seavig said. “That is how you know you are still on shore. Soon enough you will hear the river. Until then, do not stray from the path.”

“And those beasts you speak of?” Duncan called out, on edge as they walked through the cloud of white. “If you should come?”

Duncan heard the sound of Seavig’s sword being drawn.

“They will come,” he replied. “Just close your eyes, and let your sword do the killing.”

*

Duncan rode his horse at a walk in the fog, his men beside him, their horses brushing up against each other, the only way to navigate in the whiteout. He clutched his sword, on edge. Behind him his men sounded the horn, again and again, its lonely sound echoing through the hills, off the lake, his men following his command so that they would not lose track of each other. Yet every time a horn sounded he tensed, fearing it might provoke the creatures that lived in the fog and bracing himself for an attack. The sound was also hard to track, and if it weren’t for the gravel beneath them, they might all be lost by now. Seavig had been right.

Duncan found himself getting disoriented even so, losing himself in thought, losing all sense of reality as he rode deeper into the white. It was surreal; he could see how fog could drive a man mad.

Seavig’s low heavy voice rumbled, breaking the silence, and Duncan welcomed it.

“Do you remember Bloody Hill, old friend?” he asked, his voice heavy with nostalgia. “We were young. Budding warriors, with no wives and no children—just ourselves and our swords and the whole world before us to prove ourselves. That was the battle that made us men.”

“I remember it well,” Duncan replied, feeling as if it were yesterday.

“They outmanned us two to one,” Seavig continued, “and a fog came in, much like today. We were separated from our men, just the two of us.”

Duncan nodded.

“We stumbled into a trap,” Duncan added.

“A hornet’s nest,” Seavig said. “Do you remember what you said to me on that day?”

Duncan remembered, all too well.

“You said: this is the gift I’ve been waiting for,” Seavig continued. “I never understood what that meant until years later. It was a gift. It was the gift of being surrounded; the gift of being outnumbered; the gift of having no one else to rely on but ourselves. How many men get that gift?”

Duncan nodded, his heart welling with the memory of that day.

“A very rare gift indeed,” Duncan said.