That tramp-tramp vibrated through the earth. The thunderous drumbeat of an army on the move.

It was a line from many a tale, but Moria herself had never heard the sound. The empire had been at peace ever since the desert hordes were vanquished in the war that had sent Gavril’s father here.

But now, listening to the drumbeat of footfalls, the line came to mind, as did an image from another tale. The army of the night. A thousand shadow stalkers raised by a hundred sorcerers, long before the Age of Fire. The dead rose, and they moved across the land like a plague, killing army after army, the warriors falling, only to rise again. An unstoppable force.

But it had been stopped. By the warriors of the North on their snow dragons. They’d ridden over the battlefields and blasted ice on the shadow stalkers, freezing them so the armies of the living could shatter their corpses with a single blow, giving the shadow-stalker spirits no place to hide.

It was a story often singled out as proof that bards’ tales were foolish nonsense. People would laughingly debate which part of the story was the most ludicrous: shadow stalkers, snow dragons, or clever Northerners. All three were equally mythical beasts.

As the footfalls drew closer, Moria calculated the distance to the stream. Could they outrun them on more open ground? In legend, shadow stalkers were relentless, moving with speed, yet never running, as if their broken bodies couldn’t quite manage that. But they had a second form, too—the fog, their spirit form.

She moved her lips to Gavril’s ear. “Would you fight shadow stalkers? If they’re in manifested form?”

“Of course.” He looked offended and a little bewildered, as if there was no question.

“Good. If they come this way and there are fewer than it sounds, we’ll fight.”

He frowned. “You think those are shadow stalkers?”

“Don’t you?”

He turned his gaze forward again. “It sounds like boots. But the search party is dead.”

Or it was . . . and is risen again.

As the footfalls grew louder, the drumming lost its rhythm and became scattered boot clomps, as if distance had made it sound synchronous. Fewer feet than she’d thought, too. Perhaps a half dozen men.

“It was near the fresh stream,” a voice said. “I heard a girl talking, then a shriek.”

She began to rise. Gavril’s hand on her back slammed her down.

“It isn’t shadow stalkers,” she whispered. “They don’t speak—”

“Shhh!”

“It must be guards, from the village. They’re searching—”

“Shhh!” His lips came to her ear, warm breath filling it, his voice harsh with anger. “Be still and be quiet, Keeper. For once.”

Another voice, from the forest. “Do we even know this is the way to the fresh stream? Liam has already led us astray once.”