“Should be milice here,” she said. She moved carefully, and Colling-ford spanned his crossbow. It wasn’t a war bow, which he had across his back, but a light arbalest; the sort of thing a fine lady might use to shoot birds. Collingford liked it because he could carry it cocked and ready.

Swynford wished she had one. The darkness was wrong and the snow only made it worse. She moved carefully, her feet freezing in the icy water, the fires flickering like a vision of hell through the snow.

She saw a shadow of movement, and she froze and put a shaft on her bowstring, the horn nock gripping the waxed string. “Halt!” she called.

“Halt!” the shadow spat back.

There was a noise; a sound of steel scraping on rock.

“Advance and be recognized!” shouted Swynford.

The figure emerged from the snow like a conjuror’s trick: a tall man in good armour.

Swynford knew him immediately: Gareth Montjoy, the Count of the Borders. She sank to one knee.

He stepped forward, and there was a heavy dagger in his fist, and his face was utterly blank, and one eye was gone. He moved swiftly, but Collingford was faster, and he put his light shaft in the earl’s other eye. Then he stepped forward, his heavy forester’s cutlass in his hand, and in one fear-fueled swing, he beheaded the stumbling, blind thing and saw the worm emerge from dead earl’s neck.

Swynford was running on training alone; she drew the short mallet from her belt, the one she used for pounding stakes, and smashed the count’s neck repeatedly until the worm was worm paste.

Then she whimpered a little.

Then she hugged Collingford. “Thanks,” she said.

“Think nothing of it,” he said. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” she agreed, and took the dead count’s beautiful arming sword. She started to walk away, trembling in every limb, but even in the grip of terror, she was a veteran; she went back to the messy corpse and took the belt and scabbard, too.

Collingford was already sounding the alarm on his horn.

Dawn was almost in the sky, to the emperor, a thousand feet in the icy air. He could see the first flush of colour away to the east, but there was an hour or more before it would reach the ground. The Odine were contained—the surprise had failed, if it had even been an attempt, and not the kick of a corpse—and his preparations were made.

It was all done.

Tomorrow? Ariosto asked.

Today, brother, Gabriel replied.

Whatever, Ariosto said. I will achieve my full growth today.

I thought you were bigger, Gabriel said.

Ariosto laughed.

They landed by the gate, and Jon Gang took Ariosto with Hamwise, and there were half a dozen fat Alban sheep waiting with fully justified terror, bleating their last.

Do you ever consider that in the universe of sheep, you are the ultimate villain? Gabriel asked.

No, Ariosto said. Should I?