by Chris Cornetto
in Issue 158, March 2025
The icy clearing was utterly changed. When Tura had scouted it two days ago, the work camp had barely pitched its tents. The first pilings of the palisade had not yet risen, and the stumps had still been trees. The snow had been pristine white, not yet a slurry of mud and blood and slush. There had been no reek of corpses, no stubborn crows that screeched when disturbed from their feasting.
All around her, the last of her father’s men scoured the battlefield. Tools, food, warm clothing – they needed it all. A few survivors begged for mercy, soldiers and laborers both, but were quickly dispatched. Constantly retreating, with no food to waste on captives, a sharp knife was the only mercy the Slave Legion could give.
Her father, the infamous Altan Nuzri, placed a hand on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to see this. No girl your age should see this.”
Tura shrugged, schooling her face to indifference despite the jitters in her stomach. “I shouldn’t have had to see a lot of things.” In three years of constant battles, she’d never grown used to the carnage. She was still a child in more ways than she cared to admit, a scared little girl who spooked at ghosts and missed her mother.
A light but steady snowfall dusted the corpses, blooming into crimson blotches where wounds still bled. Tura shivered, and her father pulled his cloak around her. “The cold here,” he said, “it seeps into your bones. Makes you miss Ekoron, doesn’t it?”
She did miss Ekoron. Altan’s near-bloodless capture of the city, his men disguised in the armor of a legion sent to crush them, had been his greatest triumph. It was for that ruse they’d been dubbed the Slave Legion, a name they wore as a badge of honor.
Back in Ekoron, there had been warmth and shelter and plenty to eat. She missed those things, true, but what she missed most was the hope. For an entire year they’d lived as freemen, without the imperial boot on their neck. It was a picture of how life should be, and it was slipping away with every mile they retreated into the god-cursed mountains.
“At least we won,” her father said.
Tura watched the ragged refugees shamble amongst the fallen. Leathery old Varda, head and arm bandaged, trading her shoes for a pair almost as worn. One-eyed Fulvio hunching over a corpse’s food purse, cramming his mouth with dry biscuit as if he might never eat again. The boy Odron, barely twelve years old, stone-faced and hollow-eyed as he slit one throat, then the next. They were all at the breaking point, already dead but too stubborn to lay down. “We can’t afford another victory like this one,” she replied.
And yet, one by one, backs straightened and heads rose as Altan approached. A nod here, a clap on the shoulder there, and he transformed run-down peasants and broken slaves back into soldiers, as he did time and again. That was his magic.
“Just a minute,” he said to Tura, and climbed a stump to gather everyone’s attention. Silence spread like a wave as every man, woman, and child turned to face him. Even the crows fell silent.
Altan gestured toward the teetering pilings of the unfinished palisade. “My friends, look there. What do you see?”
Heads turned. Murmurs of speculation ran through the crowd. One man joked about flaccid imperial cocks; another punched his shoulder.
“I’ll tell you what you see,” Altan said. “You see the Almadish Empire, staggering beneath its own weight, ready to topple. The empire is built on the bones of our ancestors, mortared with the blood of our kin. We plow the fields to put food on their tables. We quarry the stone to build their cities. We mine the iron to forge their swords. We are the empire’s foundation, and without us, it cannot stand.”
Heads nodded. Jaws clenched with determination.
“Though we stand alone, the eyes of all Almadyn are upon us. For each of us here, a thousand slaves watch, and while we live, they hope.” Altan’s voice rose to a shout, transfixing the crowd. “Look around you. Who still lives?”
From the corpse-strewn clearing, hundreds of voices cried as one. “We do!”
“And as long as we live, what will we do?”
“We fight!” came the old refrain, fresh with new fervor.
Altan gave a proud nod, as if father to them all. “Tonight, we feast on the legion’s food, we pour their wine in honor of our fallen. We warm ourselves in the legion’s cloaks, and we rest in their tents. And when next they try to press us back with new walls and new forts, we’ll thank them for this bounty with their very own swords!”
As cheers erupted across the clearing and from the forest beyond, Tura caught a glimpse of the Slave Legion as it had been – an army of twenty thousand blazing hearts ready to shake the empire to its core. But they weren’t that, not anymore. Back then, she’d dreamed of marching in glory to Nycaeum, the provincial capital, to rescue her mother; now, the only goal was survival. So many were lost holding Ekoron, and many more when General Aricus drove them out. Those who could melt back into society had done so with her father’s blessing, to wait until the tide turned, or to nurse the rebellion in their hearts if it never did. By the time Aricus had built his fortifications, hemming them in the wilderness, away from food and support, only two thousand remained.
That had been months ago. Starvation, illness, and exposure had taken their toll more than the endless skirmishes. At a quick estimate – Tura excelled at estimates – today’s raid left about five hundred and twenty, depending on how many died of their wounds. All her father’s words of rebellion, of driving back the legion, they weren’t just lies. They were the already-cold ashes of lies.
As the crowd broke up to resume scavenging, Altan hopped down from the stump. Tura greeted him with a glare.
“Didn’t like the speech, I take it?” He arched an eyebrow.
“It’s cruel what you do to them.”
Altan sighed and rubbed his eyes, streaking mud across his sun-browned cheek. In the sunken shadows of his face she saw the weariness he hid from his men. “Make your case.”
Tura loved that about him – that he valued what she had to say, even when he was in no mood to hear it. Her love, however, did not blunt her tongue. “You know we don’t have the men to hold Aricus back. Next time, it’ll be our turn to feed the crows.”
Her father gave a helpless shrug. “What would you have us do, keep retreating? Our backs are to the mountains.”
Tura shook her head. The Fathain Mountains were a forlorn place, the rumored haunt of a fallen god. “We can’t do that either. Past the forest there’s no food, no wood, no shelter. Already the men whisper of wraiths howling around camp at night.” It was the last that troubled her worst.
“So what are you saying?”
Tura didn’t mean to snap at her father, but her worry overflowed, spilling out in harsh words. “I’m saying it’s over, that we’re all going to die. And it’s cruel of you to fill everyone with false hope.”
Altan Nuzri knelt in the snow before his daughter, pressing her hands between his. “Tura, listen to me. There is no such thing as false hope. No, don’t interrupt – it’s my turn to speak.”
Tura caught the half-formed objection before it escaped her lips.
“There is no such thing as false hope,” he repeated, squeezing her hands. “There are only hope and despair, with nothing between. So maybe you’re right. Maybe I can’t give our men victory. But, so long as it’s in my power, I will give them the courage to face what comes.”
Tura opened her mouth to argue, but no words came. They finished their tour of the ransacked camp in silence.
Snow fell heavier on the march back to camp. The sun, no more than a silver glow in the clouds, drifted lower in the sky. Between the wounded men and plunder-heavy bundles, the going was slow.
As leatherleaf bogs gave way to stands of fir, Tura scanned for sign of the enemy. On her father’s orders, and her own suggestion, three squads had set off in different directions, creating a network of false tracks crisscrossing the forest. It wouldn’t stop a determined patrol from finding their base, but it might delay pursuit.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Tura heard the sudden clop of hooves on stone, approaching fast from the trail ahead. Her heart raced. How could imperial scouts have found them so quickly, let alone outflanked them?
No orders were needed. As one, the weary fighters drew their weapons and scattered into the brush, crouching among the brooding firs. With trembling hands, Tura nocked an arrow to her bow.
Her father caught her wrist and pushed it down, aiming her bow at the ground. “Wait,” he hissed. A puff of vapor drifted from his lips, the only motion in the stillness of the forest.
A moment later, an unmistakable form careened around the bend – the centaur Hamaeus, with a cloaked horseman close on his heels. Seeing her friend pursued, Tura tried to jerk free of her father’s grasp.
“Wait,” he growled a second time, holding her arm fast.
“But Ham–”
“…isn’t watching behind him.”
Immediately, Tura grasped the implication – the rider wasn’t a threat. But who was he? The rebels had eaten the last of their mounts weeks ago.
Altan stepped from cover, and Ham reared, skidding to a stop. The rider reined hard behind him, barely avoiding a collision. The woods along the path bristled with drawn arrows.
“Whoah, don’t shoot!” the centaur cried. His hempen vest hung open, revealing a bloody bandage around his ribs.
Tura dropped her bow and ran to hug the centaur. Ham was the fiercest warrior she knew, but, with no talent for stealth, he’d had to sit out the raid. Though he’d bristled at being left to guard the camp, he wouldn’t have abandoned his post without cause. “Why are you here?” she gasped. “Why are you hurt?”
Ham reached down and scooped her into a one-armed hug. “Idril and I came to find you. There’s been trouble. We’ve had to abandon the camp.”
Tura leaned past him to better see the rider. Dark-skinned Idril, of desert blood like her father, drew back her hood with a three-fingered hand. “While you were gone, a patrol slipped past our scouts. They rode straight into camp before they realized they’d found us.”
Frost crunched as Tura’s father caught up to her. He rubbed his weary eyes. “Did any of them get away?”
Hamaeus shook his head. “We got them all, though not without a few scrapes ourselves.” He patted his ribs, grimacing at the touch. “But it’s worse than you think. This wasn’t a random patrol – it was part of a sweep. Our scouts reported at least three more in the area.”
“So when this one turns up missing, Aricus will know where to look for us. Damn.”
Tura was confused. For months, General Aricus had been content to avoid engagement, fortifying after every modest advance. His strategy had been working, slowly bleeding them out… so why change it now? “I don’t get it. What’s made him so impatient?”
“I see two possibilities,” her father said. “Either he knows how weak we are, and is moving in for the kill, or he’s under pressure from the emperor to end the campaign quickly.”
Raised in the house of a provincial governor, Tura understood politics. The War of Two Regents had crippled the reign of Honorius II even before he ascended the throne, and his fractious nobles ruled the provinces like private kingdoms. When Fathia province rose in rebellion, the emperor sent Aricus and the Home Legion to restore order.
It was a risky move. While victory would give Honorius II leverage over the nobles, he’d stripped the capital region – where slaves outnumbered citizens two-to-one – of its defenses.
Hamaeus rubbed his jaw. “If the emperor needs Aricus back in the capital…”
Altan picked up the centaur’s line of thought. “Exactly. If we can hold out just a little longer, there’s a chance the general will be forced to withdraw.”
Tura crossed her arms, frustrated at both of them for ignoring the reality of their situation. “We don’t have longer. Aricus has us cornered, with nowhere left to hide.”
Hamaeus placed a hand on Tura’s shoulder. “Not entirely. In fact, that’s why I’m here – to guide you to the new camp.” He grinned with forced confidence.
Tura’s heart sank. There was only one direction to flee. “Ham, tell me we aren’t going there.”
Hamaeus gave a helpless shrug. “I’ve already sent the wounded on ahead.”
Tura whirled on her father. “We can’t!”
Altan stared at the ice-capped peaks, his jaw clenched. “I’m afraid Ham’s right. If we stay, we’re dead. The mountains are our best chance.”
Tura threw her hands in the air, suppressing an urge to scream. “Chance for what? Death by frost and starvation? And that’s if we’re lucky!” The whistling wind became to her a sudden howling of wraiths.
“Tura.”
Despite the warning in his voice, the words kept coming. “I’m not deaf, you know! I hear the stories! They say there’s a god out there! And that anyone who–”
Altan silenced her with a glare. Ham’s fingers dug into her arm hard enough to hurt. All around her, worry rippled through the crowd, carried on drifting whispers.
“Tura,” her father said calmly. “I’ve heard the stories, too. A wind god, gone mad inside his cage of stone? Wraiths who snatch souls to feed their master? Do you really believe these fairy stories?”
Though his voice held no chastisement, Tura flushed with shame. “No,” she whispered to her feet. Yes, said her pounding heart.
Her father lifted her chin until she looked at him. “The Age of Gods ended centuries ago. Who knows if they were even real, or just stories themselves?”
Tura held her breath to slow her throbbing pulse.
“So, can you be brave for me?”
Tura nodded with more certainty than she felt.
“Good. When the men see your courage, it makes them brave, too. Now, no more talk of this wind god.”
With embarrassment, Tura saw the crowd gathered around her. Calm had returned, and she realized her father’s words hadn’t been merely for her. She wasn’t the only one frightened of wraiths.
Father was right, she told herself. The temples back in Almadyn housed no gods, no miracles – only fat priests grown rich off the foolish. Maybe the gods weren’t real?
But if they weren’t, asked the stubborn voice of fear, why is he careful not to speak the wind god’s name?
It was a thought Tura had no wish to explore. “Do you think Aricus will follow us into the mountains?” she asked instead.
“I can’t say,” her father admitted. “I’m sure his men are plagued by the same superstitions, but they may fear him worse.”
“If Aricus does come,” Ham added, “we’ll sell our lives dearly. Once you’re settled at the new camp, I’ll scout for defensive positions.”
“You mean we’ll scout,” Tura said, offering the centaur a half-hearted grin.
Altan frowned, but left the argument for later. “Idril!” he called. “Are you fit to ride ahead?”
The desert woman snorted. She raised her maimed hand in salute, turned her horse, and trotted up the hillside.
As the column resumed its march, a lump rose in Tura’s throat. Pinned between the emperor’s legions and a mad god’s wraiths, she couldn’t decide what frightened her more.
The storm continued through the night and into the lead-gray morning. Sullen clouds perched overhead, blanketing the hills with feathery snowflakes.
From the mouth of an ancient copper mine, Tura watched the flakes twirl in the breeze. The snow would slow Aricus down, but it was a worse problem for the rebels. Some had frozen in the night. Others outright disappeared, buried somewhere in the trackless fields of white. Talk of wraiths rattled Tura’s nerves until she heard their whispers in every gust of wind.
The new camp ran the length of a narrow canyon, on the bank of a glacier-melt river that tumbled from the peaks. The mines that pocked the cliff walls, abandoned before Almadyn had even been an empire, provided a headquarters and several infirmaries. As the only site with fresh water, concealment, and shelter from the biting winds, it was the best camp available.
Of course, if Aricus caught them there, the canyon would also be a deathtrap. The entrance was the only way out; the waterfall at the far end, while stunning, offered no means of escape.
In the dark before dawn, with nothing to do but brood, Tura’s thoughts drifted their usual course. Each day she found it harder to picture her mother’s beautiful face – the face that had sparked the rebellion. The old governor, gods rest him, wasn’t even cold in his grave when his son Florian seized both the province and Tura’s mother. He took her out of vengeance, out of envy for the slave his father held in too-high esteem.
Tura had learned from the other slaves where to cut a man to make it hurt – a lesson she longed to teach Florian, if she ever escaped this frozen, wraith-haunted hell.
Tura was good at a great many things, but waiting wasn’t one of them. As soon as the sun crested the ridge, she wolfed down some barley gruel and hard cheese, courtesy of the dead imperials, and set out to find Hamaeus. Predictably, she found him at the picket line, tending to the half-dozen captured horses. Though centaurs and horses were in no way kin, Ham had a fondness for the beasts, and had taken it hard when the rebels slaughtered theirs.
“Hey, I brought you some cheese.”
Ham looked up from inspecting a mare’s hooves. He wrinkled his nose, but accepted the food graciously. “Thanks,” he said, tucking it into a pouch. “I’ll eat it later.” Though rigid in his principles, wearing no fur despite the cold and eating no meat, cheese had been his one concession. The fats, she’d explained to him, were essential for survival.
Still, that didn’t make him like it.
Tura rubbed the mare’s nose to distract it while Ham worked. “So, if the horses are rested, I was thinking we should–”
“No,” Ham said flatly.
“But I–”
Ham stood and crossed his brawny arms. “You’re not coming with me to scout ambush sites. Don’t even pretend your father’s given you permission.”
Tura wasn’t going to insult the centaur by lying to him. “Maybe not, but he didn’t forbid me, either.”
“That’s because you didn’t ask him.”
She shrugged and gave him her coyest smile. “I decided it easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”
Ham closed his eyes and sighed. “Why you? We have other scouts.”
“Not enough. We’ve been working them day and night. The few not sick or injured are exhausted.”
“Tura, we’re all exhausted.”
“I’m not,” she insisted. It wasn’t quite a lie. Besides, as tired as she was, she wouldn’t get any rest at camp, climbing the walls with anxiety. “And we’ve got six horses. Can you find six scouts in better shape than me?”
Ham rubbed his mutton-chop cheeks, looking uneasy. “The commander won’t approve.” He glanced around the camp, as if afraid her father might overhear.
Tura sensed his crumbling resolve; she was wearing him down. Despite the dire situation, she let slip a grin. “It’ll be fine. I’m lighter than any imperial scout, so I won’t weigh a horse down in the snow. And I’m good at riding and shooting.”
“Good at riding, fair at shooting,” Ham corrected. “Especially from a saddle.”
He was being unfair, but it was pointless to object. Before joining the rebellion, Hamaeus had served in the empire’s elite cavalry, and no human skill with bow or lance could meet his standards. “So? You’ll be with me. You could take down a half-dozen scouts.” The words weren’t idle flattery; she’d heard from the wounded how, when the last camp was attacked, Ham had fought off the patrol near-singlehandedly.
Hamaeus pranced in place, a nervous habit. “I still don’t like this. If anything happens to you, what would become of your father? It would break him to lose you.”
Though his words brought a flush of guilt, Tura couldn’t sit around camp, flinching at each gust of wind. “Ham, do you really think I’m safe here, waiting for the legion to come?” Or worse, she thought with a shiver. “At least let me be useful.”
Ham’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Look, I take no responsibility for this plan. You left without my permission, and I followed. Understood?”
Tura wrapped her arms around the centaur’s waist. “You’re the best, Ham.”
“I don’t feel it. But, come on, let’s get you saddled.”
Between the crisp, cold air and the lively horse beneath her, Tura’s spirits rose. Doing something, no matter how futile, was balm for her anxiety.
She named her horse Naneh, one of the few words she knew from the desert tongue. It meant “mint,” and the sturdy little mare had an appetite for the plant. With its keen nose, it rooted out patch after patch from beneath the piling snow.
Despite the worsening weather, Tura let her horse eat as it pleased. The gods knew there was precious little feed for it at camp, and it needed its strength. Still, with the sun past its peak and the drifts growing deeper, the slow pace made her uneasy.
From between snowy firs and pale-leafed ghost birches, Tura caught a comforting glimpse of Hamaeus, who followed a track parallel to her own. He waved an all-clear and plodded onward, disappearing back into the curtain of swirling white.
In the hours since morning, they had made their way across empty ice-plains to a forested glen. Full of caves and craggy rocks, there were ample hiding places for skirmishers, but nowhere fit to engage an entire legion. The valley narrowed to the south, however, and Tura held out hope for some kind of chokepoint. “Come on, Naneh,” she said, flicking the reins. “A little farther, and then we’ll head back.” She was already pushing her luck, and if she didn’t turn back soon, she risked night overtaking her in the ice fields – and, with it, the killing-cold winds. She didn’t like her odds of reaching the canyon after dark.
Instead of obliging, the horse jerked upright, its nostrils flared.
Something rustled in the brush ahead, sending a jolt of fear down Tura’s spine. With no time to string her bow, she reached for her dagger.
It was halfway out of its sheath when the skunk bear lumbered into the path. Naneh snorted and shied, but Tura tugged the reins, exhaling a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The skunk bear glowered in beady-eyed annoyance and continued on its way. Idly, Tura wondered what brought the animal out in daylight, and what, perhaps, had disturbed it.
As if in answer, a flash of color whizzed past, followed by a thunk. Clumps of snow dropped from a branch onto Tura’s head. Just above her, a goose-feathered arrow quivered in the wood.
“Go, go, go!” she shouted, driving her heels over and over into Naneh’s flanks. The mare, infected by her panic, bolted.
Tura hunched low, clinging to the horse’s neck as it careened through the brush. She strained her ears for the twang of a bowstring, certain another shot was coming. The archer had been no hunter, the shot no accident. Goose-feather arrows were imperial issue.
Branches reached from both sides of the narrow trail. Tura jerked the reins to swerve, but the frightened mare ignored her. She flattened herself to Naneh’s back and shielded her face, taking blow after stinging blow to her arms.
Abruptly the forest opened to a frozen stream. From the woods behind her came the sound of large creatures pushing through the foliage. A horse whinnied.
Of course there’d be more scouts. Of course they were mounted. She risked a glance over her shoulder to gauge their distance…
…and saw the archer in the middle of the trail, bow drawn and taking aim.
Desperately she yanked Naneh’s reins hard to the side, but instead of turning, the horse reared and bucked, nearly throwing her. Hanging off-balance, clutching the saddle horns for dear life, she caught a glimpse of the man who was going kill her.
Not yet, she thought. Not like this.
Just then, two things happened at once. As the scout let his arrow fly, a furious centaur burst lance-first from the brush. His two-handed thrust punched through the soldier’s chest, pinning him to a tree.
And the arrow, meant for Tura, bit deep into Naneh’s haunch. The mare screamed and charged into the cover of the trees.
“Ham!” Tura cried, dodging branches with little success as they sped past in a blur. One smacked her cheek, stunning her and drawing blood. From behind came curses and the clash of weapons. “Ham!” she called again. Without thinking, she turned to look for him, but the centaur and his foes were lost from sight.
Tura turned back a moment too late. A ghost birch, bent beneath the weight of snow, arched across the path. It caught her in the chest, knocking the wind from her lungs and the snow from its branches. It uncoiled like a catapult, flinging her from the saddle.
For a brief moment, Tura floated weightless through the air. With a flash of pain and stars came darkness.
Tura woke in a bed of snow to a silent forest and splitting headache. She shook off her fur cap and probed her scalp to find an angry welt – swollen and tender, but no worse than that. If not for the thick hat, she’d have cracked her skull.
For three years, Tura had lived with the specter of death always by her side. She liked to believe she was strong, that she would face her end bravely when it came, but this close brush made a lie of her courage. She fought the urge to weep as she staggered to her feet.
The sun was low now, a wan glow in the snow-heavy clouds. She had barely an hour of daylight left, nowhere near enough time to make it back to camp. She’d never survive the ice fields after dark, especially traveling alone. Where was Ham? Why had he abandoned her? She refused to consider that he might be dead, and yet…
“No,” she said aloud to steady herself. “Be smart about this. Don’t jump to conclusions; look for clues.”
It was only a few strides back to the game path she and Naneh had followed. The snow came heavy now, already beginning to hide the tracks and crimson stains. The wind whistled through the trees, raising rippling gooseflesh across Tura’s skin. She clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering.
Tura pushed aside her discomfort and focused on the tracks. From the patterns in the snow, the scene recreated itself in her head. Splashes of pink flecked the trail, along wide-spaced prints that told of a wild gallop. Five sets of hooves followed it at speed, one unshod in centaur fashion. Her heart lifted, just a little.
Ham was alive. He’d set off after her, and the scouts after him, but they’d followed her riderless horse by mistake. So, if she followed the tracks, who would she find?
She gave Ham even odds against four horsemen, at least in a fair fight, but maybe not if he were distracted, rushing to save her. And his lance had been embedded, soldier and all, in the craggy bark of a fir tree; he had nothing left but his short sword.
As far as weapons went, Tura was no better off. She checked her dagger and found it still in its sheath, along with a bruise on her hip beneath it. Her bow, on the other hand, had ridden off with her horse. So had her food and fire kit.
Before trudging onward, Tura backtracked to where she’d been ambushed. As she’d expected, she found the soldier still pinned to the tree, a look of shock on his pale, snow-dusted face. His eyes were frozen.
Ham hadn’t come back for his spear, but neither had the scouts retrieved their dead. Had either survived? But a howl of icy wind reminded Tura that now was no time for questions. She picked up the dead man’s bow, but promptly tossed it aside – it was cracked and useless, trampled by hooves. Still, she wasn’t about to leave without a weapon, and Ham would want his lance back.
She rubbed warmth back into her hands as best she could, then gripped the weapon’s ironwood haft. She yanked on it, but it didn’t budge. She rocked it back and forth a little, tried pushing off the tree with her foot, but it remained stubbornly stuck. In exasperation, she flopped like a fish across the haft, throwing her entire weight on it.
With a resounding crack, the lance snapped just below the head, sending her and the corpse sprawling into the snow. Tura kicked herself free of the body, choking back a scream. Still trembling, she looked with dismay at the result of her effort.
At least she’d have a sturdy walking stick.
But the detour hadn’t been a total waste. After twisting loose the lance haft, Tura helped herself to the dead soldier’s food pouch and his blood-stained cloak. She also pulled his gloves over her own for an extra layer against the biting cold.
By the time she was done, the forest was nearly dark, and she couldn’t find the sun in the sky. The storm was growing worse, and night had come sooner than she’d guessed. She needed shelter, fast. She followed the horsemen’s trail.
The snow was knee-deep in places, and she tried to keep to the hoof prints to avoid sinking in. Ice caked her boots and pants until every step was an effort. Even through the double layer of gloves her fingertips stung. Her face burned with cold.
Somewhere in the distance, yet too close for comfort, the howl of a timber wolf pierced the heavy silence.
Near-blind in the falling dark, Tura kept her head low against the storm, probing with the spear haft to keep from walking into obstacles. Time and again her jagged nerves got the better of her, until she jumped at every rustle of a branch, swung her staff at every shadow. The wind rose to a fierce gale that swept her onward whether she would or not, as fast as her leaden feet could stumble.
A sudden, ferocious gust drove Tura to her knees. The lashing wind dragged tears from her eyes and froze them to her cheeks. She wiped them off and looked around, sure she’d find herself surrounded by angry wraiths.
High above, the moon peeked through a jagged tear in the sky. With rising terror, Tura saw that she’d left not only the track, but the entire forest. It ended behind her in an impossibly abrupt wall, as if the trees didn’t dare set root beyond an invisible boundary.
And ahead of her, between towering pinnacles of granite, the valley ended in a narrow defile. Cold stars peeked from between them, beckoning her on.
Tura couldn’t fathom how there was no storm above the strange ravine, but it was her best and only hope. She was at the end of her strength, with frostbite setting in. Never mind that the clouds swirled weirdly around a hole in the sky ahead, twisting and writhing as if caught in the breath of a god – she could fret over that mystery once she’d found shelter.
Though the snow grew thinner as she entered the chasm, the wind followed Tura, pushing her along with an urgency that matched her own. Soon there was barely any snow cover, and she found her feet astride the paving stones of an ancient road. If she hadn’t been too cold to think, she was sure the implications would unnerve her.
After a few minutes of following the road, the defile widened into a box canyon. The path threaded its way through series of cyclopean arches; freezing though she was, she didn’t dare shelter in their unsettling shadows. Straight as an arrow, the road carried her to the only structure in sight – a towering cairn, topped by a jagged monolith that punctured the sky like the flint knife of a giant.
And from a shadowed tunnel beneath the cairn came the eerie flicker of firelight.
Despite her fear, Tura shuffled toward the entrance, the wind howling at her back. As she ducked beneath the lintel and descended crude steps to the smoky chamber within, she found her eyes dazzled by the light of a brazier. When her vision cleared, her heart nearly stopped.
On the other side of the room, across the flame from her, sat a withered mummy shrouded in a cloak of feathers. It regarded her through the empty sockets of a bird-skull headdress.
And when the mummy shambled to its feet, Tura screamed.
“So,” came a voice from the skull, the gravel rasp of an ancient crone. “You’ve arrived.”
Tura barely checked her urge to flee. “You… You knew I was coming?”
Even if no mummy, the old woman was terrifying. The skin of her shriveled hands was cured leather, her yellow nails jagged talons. Braided into her pale, wispy hair were strange fetishes made from the feathers and bones of small animals. And the skull she wore, ivory with age… What bird ever grew to the size of a horse?
“The wind told me of your approach. Come, warm yourself at the fire.”
Tura approached the brazier as cautiously as if it were a serpent. Lumps of animal fat sizzled among the coals, filling the chamber with a thick, acrid smoke that swirled weirdly in an erratic breeze. Despite herself, the scent made her stomach growl.
“Dry, eat, and rest,” the woman croaked. “Then we speak.” She sat on the floor, disappearing into her cloak as she folded her legs beneath her.
Tura peeled off her frozen gloves and rifled with numb hands through the soldier’s food purse, finding hardtack, cheese, and a dry sausage. She tore a chunk of meat with her teeth and gnawed it like a beast, hunched protectively over her food. Her dry throat made it hard to swallow.
All through the meal, Tura never took her eyes off the crone. Though the woman sat impossibly still, her presence made the room claustrophobic. When Tura’s hunger was sated enough for her to recall her manners, she held out a chunk of cheese; to her relief, the woman made no move to take it. Tura shrugged and ate it herself.
Once the food was gone, Tura wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She crept toward the brazier and thrust her hands so close that the flames almost licked them, basking in the exquisite pain of sensation returning to her fingers. “So,” she said to the coals, not daring to look at the skeletal hag for fear she’d lose her nerve. “You had something to say to me.”
In her peripheral vision, she saw the bird skull rise to face her. “Indeed,” came the voice from its hollow maw. “It seems the god has taken an interest in you, child.”
“What god?” Tura blurted, though she already guessed the answer. With rising terror, she realized the wind that whirled and gusted through the chamber was full of voices, whispering their eagerness and rage. They were wraiths, the servants of…
“That is correct,” the crone said, as if privy to her thoughts. Her rasping voice held an edge of amusement. “The Lord of Air has brought you here.”
Fathos, Lord of Air. God of the mountain peaks, of ice and desolation. The Mad God, whose howls were the boreal wind. Mortals didn’t call him by name, for fear of drawing his attention.
And Tura had walked straight into his temple.
“No,” she blurted, clinging to rationality. The wind was just wind, the woman just a crazy old hermit. “I saw your light. I came in to escape the storm.”
“You think it chance you found this sanctum? That no hand guided you? Even from his prison, the god has a long reach.”
Tura balled her fists, using anger to push back her rising fear. It couldn’t be true. “You expect me to believe a god brought me here? That a god even cares what happens to me?”
The crone – no, the priestess, Tura corrected herself – only laughed at her outburst. “Of course not, foolish child. He cares for nothing and no one; he is above such sentiments. But he knows who hounds you, and he is not above wrath.”
Tura reeled at the turn in conversation. “What are you saying?”
From the depths of her mask, the priestess’s eyes glinted with a strange light. “That our lord would help you against the slavers, if you but call him.”
Could she truly enlist a god to their cause? And if so, at what cost? The Mad God was feared for good reason. “Why does he hate the Almadish?”
The crone leapt abruptly to her feet, and Tura noticed something she’d missed before – an iron shackle around the woman’s skinny leg. The priestess stretched out her shriveled arms, and the wind began to stir. “They reek of bondage, of yokes and cages.” Her voice rose, a menacing rumble of thunder on the horizon. “The Lord of Air does not abide chains!”
Tura cowered from the twisting, writhing wraiths that danced through the room, answering the call of their priestess. She placed her hands on her head, as if she could shield herself from the living wind. “But what does he want with me?” she shouted over the gale.
“Your heart calls to him, beating in sync with his own. He shares your rage, and would vent it on your foes!”
A tempest filled the room now, whipping loose Tura’s cloak and sending her gloves skittering across the floor. She leaned into the breeze, struggling to keep her feet. The storm brought tears to her eyes, blurring her vision. “What must I do?” she cried.
Impossibly, a thin, leathery hand reached from behind Tura. A yellowed talon raked her cheek and came away red. “Bring them here,” the priestess hissed in her ear, “to his place of fastness. When you stain his altar with your blood, paint it with death, he will heed your call.”
The hungry wind churned in a manic frenzy. Your blood, it echoed. Death. The brazier flared then snuffed out, plunging the chamber into darkness. Tura sprawled on the floor, clutching the ancient stone for purchase.
She had no idea how long the wind blew, nor how long she lay there, but when the light of dawn crept in to wake her, the priestess was gone.
Tura cracked the ice with her stick and lapped greedily at the trickle beneath. It was luck alone that had led her back to the stream. Despite the crisp blue skies, no trace remained of her tracks from the night before. Snow had piled deep overnight, and the wind had scoured it smooth.
Before leaving the canyon, Tura had climbed to the top of the giant cairn. Beneath the jagged monolith squatted a rude slab of granite, the altar the priestess had spoken of. Now, as she wandered the trackless forest, she couldn’t shake its image from her head. She pictured the altar, flecked brown with the stains of a thousand victims. With crushing certainty, Tura knew she’d be its next.
I’m going to die either way, she told herself. Now, at least, I have the means to make my death useful. Isn’t that what I wanted?
Yesterday, she’d thought so. But she’d been wrong, so wrong.
She wanted her house in Ekoron, with Father’s cluttered library, the little garden out back, and her warm, safe bed. She wanted to rescue the mother whose face she struggled to recall, but the touch of whose arms she’d never forget. She wanted to raise horses, and maybe one day a family. She wanted all the little comforts that had made her life good, and she wanted to live to enjoy them.
For all she’d pretended to face death bravely, a part of her never accepted she’d really have to die. She had deeper reserves of hope than she’d admitted to even herself, trusting somehow that her father would deliver yet another miracle.
But this time, it wasn’t up to him. It was her turn to save him. This was Tura’s miracle to deliver, at the cost of her life.
A nearby rustle jerked Tura from her thoughts. Still crouched low to the stream, she clutched her staff and glanced about, cursing herself for getting caught in the open. She held her breath and slowly edged toward the trees.
A branch shifted. Tura lunged and struck.
A boy toppled backward, wide-eyed and clutching his chest. As she raised her staff for another blow, he threw up a hand for mercy.
“Tura?” he sputtered, struggling for breath.
Recognition struck her. “Odron?” she gasped. “Odron! What are you doing here?” She knelt and helped him to his feet.
“Looking for you, dummy. Some thanks I get.” The boy rubbed his tender ribs, but grinned despite his words.
Tura’s head spun with questions. “But we’re so far from camp. How’d you know where to find me?”
“Oh, thank you Odron,” he said, mimicking her voice. “You’re so very brave to rescue me, Odron.”
Tura couldn’t help but laugh. She cupped the boy’s cheeks and kissed his forehead. “Yes, you’re very brave. At least tell me, have you found Hamaeus?” She recalled him surrounded by riders, fighting for his life while trying vainly to save hers. “We got separated, and–”
“Found him?” the blushing boy cut in. “He found us. That madman rode straight through the night, despite–”
Tura’s heart filled to bursting. Though the boy was nearly her equal for height, she lifted him and whirled him in a hug. Ham had escaped the soldiers, had survived the ice fields’ gaping chasms and deadly cold. He was alive. “Where is he? Is he near?”
Odron’s fluster gave way to a frown. “If you’d let me talk…” He smoothed his shirt, not looking her in the eye. “Ham fought off two patrols, all by himself, but they cut him up pretty good. He’s in a bad way.” The corner of his mouth quirked into a halfhearted smile. “But hey, you know Ham. Tough as old leather. The commander had to threaten chains to keep him from coming to find you.”
Tura hadn’t even realized she was crying until a tear dripped from her chin. Time and again, the centaur had risked his life to save her, and she knew he’d give it willingly. When the time came for her to return the favor, she could only hope she’d be as brave as him. “And where is my father?”
Behind her, someone cleared his throat.
Tura whirled to see scouts and bandaged soldiers step from the trees. The camp had turned out in force to find her, heedless of the danger. She found herself shamed by their concern for her.
And in the center of them, tears streaking down his dirty cheeks, was her father. She ran into his waiting arms.
Tura expected him to scold her, to be furious that she’d put everyone in harm’s way, but he held her without saying a word. She hid her face in his shoulder to hide her sobs. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled into his coat. “I’m so sorry. Can we go back to camp now?”
Her father sighed. “We can’t. The general’s patrols are out in force, and, with all the tracks we’ve left, he’ll soon find us. I’ve sent orders to rally here. This is our last stand.”
“The forest will break up their formation,” Odron chimed in. “We can pull them in with skirmishers, then hit them in the back.” He was smart, for a kid. A few more years, and he’d have been officer material.
Altan gripped the boy’s shoulder and gave him a sad smile. “We’ll kill as many as we can. I promise.” Gone was the talk of victory.
It chilled Tura’s heart to hear this man, her shining beacon of hope, so heavy with defeat. He had sacrificed everything, his army’s last and only chance, to come find her – merely so he could die at her side. It was more than she could bear.
Tura knew what she had to do. For her father, for Ham, for everyone she loved.
“Father, please don’t give up. I found somewhere we can hold them off.”
The scout on the cliff waved the signal flag three times. Three thousand men, all that remained of the legion’s fighting strength, was closing in on the canyon. Aricus was gambling everything on the coming battle.
Altan Nuzri, arm around his only daughter, closed his eyes. “It’s time, Tura.”
Tura nodded. As she’d struggled to come to terms with her death, her thoughts kept circling back to a single regret. “I need you to promise me something.”
“If I can.”
“If… either of us survive this, we go rescue mother.”
“Dear, I don’t think–”
They’d put it off for so long, waiting for the right time, but today, the last day of her life, she knew better. There were no right times and wrong times. Just time, and less of it than one might wish. “I need you to promise.”
Altan gave a slow nod. “Very well. You’re right. If fate grants us another sunrise, I swear we’ll go save your mother.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Don’t thank me. This promise binds you, too.”
Tura reached up and kissed his cheek, a last farewell to the man who’d raised her, a man she loved more than life itself. She turned away before he could see her tears, slung her bow over her shoulder, and began the long climb up the cairn. “I can do this,” she whispered to herself. “I can save him, save them all.”
Atop the mound, the remaining archers were already in position, their arrows precious few. None stood near the jagged monolith nor the thirsty altar, keeping as wide a distance as the plateau allowed.
Tura pulled her hood low against the howling wind. The air was thick with dancing flurries, but despite the poor visibility, she could already see the first lines of imperial soldiers as they flowed down the narrow canyon like a river of steel. They approached the defenders brashly, confident in their ability to crush a few hundred ragged survivors.
What they didn’t count on was the snow.
The canyon walls were near-unscalable, but for the desperate, anything was possible. The few men and women with enough skill and strength left to make the climb had spent hours piling ice and rubble on hides along the cliff edge. At the first clash of battle, they sent it tumbling down in clouds of white, burying the enemy’s front ranks in a mound of snow, stone, and carnage that choked the mouth of the ravine. Those cut off from help were quickly dispatched; those behind were forced to climb the dead and dying to reach the fray.
Facing only a trickle at a time, the defenders continued to hold, kindling a spark of hope in Tura’s breast. Maybe they could win. Maybe her father’s genius was enough that she didn’t need to die.
But no sooner had the thought come than the veil of snow parted, revealing a sight that froze Tura’s blood cold. To the rear of the canyon, man after man rappelled down the cliff face. They were surrounded, their defenses breached.
“Father!” Tura shouted, but the wind swallowed her cry. She grabbed the nearest archer – Vinkah, a girl her own age – and shook her. She pointed to the soldiers pouring into the canyon. “Go down to my father!” she shouted over the angry gale. “Tell him they’re behind us!”
Vinkah’s eyes went wide. She dropped her bow and ran, scrabbling down the cairn so recklessly it was a miracle she didn’t break her neck. The snow swirled thicker until the girl was no more than the ghost of a shadow. She vanished into the white.
When Tura turned back to the mound, she found the others nervously milling about. “What do we do?” asked a man fidgeting with his weapon.
“We can’t see a damned thing,” complained another.
I don’t know! she nearly screamed. But it wasn’t true. She did know. She pictured her father by her side, spoke the words he would say. “We hold position. Form ranks at the rear of the cairn, and shoot anything that moves!”
Tura stepped to the edge, and the frightened archers shuffled beside her, fingers twitching on their bowstrings. She swallowed her fear, willing herself calm for the sake of her men. As she worked the ache from her frozen hands, staring into the silent white, she wondered if this was how her father felt before a battle. She guessed he did.
A minute passed, then another, with nothing to see. When at last the silhouettes took shape, the enemy was halfway up the slope.
“Now!” Tura cried, and bowstrings twanged in unison. Arrows sped down the hill, answered by screams and curses from below. Another volley, another round of cries, closer now. But there were too many to stop, too many to even slow. Panicked by the rising tide of death, the archers fired at will.
“Father!” Tura called again, though she knew he’d never hear her, never come in time to save her.
The storm howled with sudden fury, obscuring her view. The woman beside Tura dropped her bow and drew a hatchet. The enemy crested the ridge. One archer fell, then another, cut down with a scream and a spray of red. The line crumbled, helpless against the relentless horde.
Tura retreated atop the altar stone and drew her knife. Her father had failed. There was only one option left, one way to save him – if he even yet lived. With trembling hands, she raised the blade to her heart.
“Push,” she whispered through cold-numbed lips. “Push, and end it.” But her hand didn’t move.
The last archer stumbled to the ground, a corpse before he hit. The circle of imperial legionaries closed around her like a noose, more cautious of the monolith than the terrified girl beneath it.
“Push, dammit!” she hissed through gritted teeth. Tears of anguish streaked her face, freezing to her cheeks. The tip of the blade cut through her coat, pricked her flesh, but her disloyal hand pressed it no further.
A soldier picked up Tura’s bow from where she hadn’t even realized she’d dropped it. He nocked one of her arrows, took aim…
…and paused to look behind him.
From the edge of the cairn came the impossible sound of hooves, scrabbling furiously against loose stone.
And, before the man could react, a rampaging demon burst from the veil of snow.
Altan Nuzri lept from the centaur’s back, cutting right as Hamaeus wheeled left. In two sharp thrusts, two legionaries were down; a third was trampled, a fourth crushed by the centaur’s massive hammer.
Tura froze, torn between relief and terror. Her father had come to save her, but he was already injured and so outnumbered. And Ham was no better. Mighty as he was, one arm hung limp at his side, and his chest and flanks bled from a dozen fresh wounds. No sooner had they spent their advantage of surprise than the crowd pressed back in, harrying them from three sides.
“Tura!” her father cried, gasping for breath after a furious exchange. “Tura, run!”
As if released from a spell, a sudden calm washed over Tura. There was nowhere to run, but it no longer mattered. The sight of her father gave her the strength she needed, the strength to do what must be done. She sank to her knees atop the altar, clenching her dagger with white-knuckled hands.
“Tura, no!”
Too late, she saw the blade scything toward her, hungry for the blood she’d been too slow to shed. It slammed into her with impossible force, knocking her to the ground.
The legionary slumped beside her, blood gurgling from his throat.
It took her a moment to realize it wasn’t the sword that had struck her, but her father. He leaned against the altar, propped up by one bloody palm, the legionary’s blade buried deep in his side.
Then he collapsed across the stone.
“Father!” Tura cried. She leapt atop the altar and pried the sword from his hand. Attackers pressed from all sides. Standing astride her injured father, she drove them back with furious swings.
But the sword was heavy, and her frozen muscles ached. Each swing came slower than the last. Nearby, she saw Ham swarmed by soldiers, his strength drained by countless cuts. Fresh enemies swelled the plateau.
A hand, slick with blood, closed on Tura’s knee. She looked down to see her father, one arm reaching for her, the other trying and failing to stem the blood that spilled from his wounded side. His lips moved without words, but, through a grimace of pain, his eyes begged the forgiveness he lacked the strength to ask.
The world shrank to her and him. Ignoring the danger all around her, Tura crouched to grasp his outstretched hand. He smiled, and the light fled from his eyes.
“No!” she wailed.
As if summoned by her cry, a crack of thunder shook the canyon, rattling Tura down to her bones. A vortex rose from the altar, rising and spreading into a sky-rending maelstrom. The wind no longer howled, but roared.
Roared with the wrath of a god unleashed.
Wraiths, as insane as their master, whirled around Tura, shrieking and gibbering in manic glee. A fierce gust knocked her from the altar, and she struck the ground hard. Gasping for breath, blind from the snow, she huddled against the stone for shelter, but found none. The cold sliced through her thick furs like a knife, leeching the warmth from her very bones. She hugged herself into a ball and lay there, aching too much to move, until even time seemed to freeze over.
Then, as quickly as it came, the storm withdrew.
The wind ebbed until all was still and silent. Tura rubbed frost from her eyes to find a sky of clearest blue. Beneath it stretched a field of frozen corpses, filling the canyon from wall to wall.
And draped across the altar was the body of her father, his frost-white skin flecked with crimson ice.
Tura seethed with sudden fury. “Liar!” she hissed through chattering teeth. “Witch!” she cursed, louder now. She kicked the monolith hard, and gasped at the jolt of pain. “We had a pact! The price was my blood!”
An eddy of wind gusted past her face, like the touch of an icy fingernail raked across her cheek. As it blew along her ear, she heard the mere breath of a whisper.
Is he not your blood?
Shame struck Tura like a wave. She staggered to her knees, buried her face in her hands. The tears came unchecked, slipping through her fingers like everything she’d loved.
Something gripped her shoulder, but she was too dazed to react. A strong arm reached around her, smearing her already-stained clothes a deeper red as it raised her to her feet. Finally, Tura looked up.
He was pale, slashed, and scarred. Blackened with frostbite. Barely able to stand.
But Hamaeus was alive.
She threw her arms around him, and he held her until her racking sobs stilled.
“Let’s go,” the centaur said, gently guiding her down the slope. His breathing was ragged. “I don’t know what in the hells happened, but it’s over now. We need to get out of the wind, go check on the survivors.”
“Survivors?” Tura asked, too numb to comprehend.
Ham frowned. “Just a few. When the commander got your warning, he sent the young and injured into the cave.”
“They’re alive?”
The centaur sniffed the air. “Someone is, at least. I smell smoke.”
They descended the hill in silence, leaning on each other for strength. When they reached the bottom, Tura paused, unready to enter the cave. She had no idea how to face the survivors, how to tell them her father, their commander, was dead. That the rebellion was over.
“Ham… What do we do now?”
Hamaeus turned her to face him, his strong hand on her shoulders. His ears and nose were black; he’d lose them both. “Look around you,” he said.
The dead were everywhere, friend and foe alike. Bodies littered the ground like wind-scattered leaves. The road through the canyon was choked with corpses, piled deep around a golden Almadish falcon, the Home Legion standard.
Yet, from inside the cave came smoke, a flicker of light. Voices she knew.
“Who still lives?” Ham asked.
They were her father’s words, and Tura’s tongue knew the answer. “We do,” she whispered.
“And while we live?”
She reached across her chest to squeeze the centaur’s hand. She understood. Her father wasn’t dead, not truly, so long as she carried him within her. So long as she continued his work.
“We fight,” Tura said. “And we never lose hope.”
Ham nodded his approval. “That’s right, commander. Now, let’s go get warm.”
She followed the centaur into the cave, digesting his words. The Slave Legion was in tatters, but it lived. She lived. And, already, the seeds of a plan sprouted in her mind.
No one knew the Home Legion had been defeated. There were slaves by the thousand, working the mines and grainlands below, waiting for a spark, waiting to rise up. She would arm them with legion swords, disguise them in legion armor, as her father once did. She would lead them to Nycaeum.
Tura had a promise to keep. Her mother was waiting.
©March 2025, Chris Cornetto
Chris Cornetto’s stories have been published in magazines such as Metaphorosis, Wyldblood, and DreamForge, and have been named recommended reads by Tor.com and Tangent Online. His short story, “Shadow and Full Dark,” was a Baen Fantasy Adventure Award finalist, and his novella, The Door in the Mountain, is available through Of Metal & Magic Press.
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