Chapter 59

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  Francis made the journey north with a clarity of purpose he hadn't felt in weeks. He knew where the bridge was. He knew the patrol timing. He knew how to cross.

  Now he needed to find out what waited on the other side.

  Glitvall and Greythorn listened as Francis updated them on his scouting, his rough sketch now marked with new details: the crevasse running east to west, the hidden ice bridge, the four-minute patrol window.

  "A natural bridge," Glitvall said, studying the markings. "Hidden from the structure's sight lines. That's good fortune."

  "Or deliberate neglect," Greythorn countered. "They know the bridge exists. Perhaps they want someone to use it."

  Francis had considered that possibility. "Maybe. But the patrol suggests they're at least trying to guard it. If it were a trap, why bother with the mounted beast?"

  "To make it look guarded," the shaman replied. "To make crossing feel like victory instead of walking into jaws."

  "Either way, I need to cross it," Francis said. "I can't learn what's in that structure by staring at it from two miles away. And the eastern and western approaches are worse. Ramhorn Vessers control the cliffs to the east. Walruskin and dense formations to the west. The bridge is the best option I've found."

  Glitvall leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "What do you expect to find on the other side?"

  "More defenses. Probably denser than what I've faced so far. The outer rings are meant to detect and delay. Whatever guards the structure itself will be meant to destroy." Francis met the warchief's eyes. "I'll likely die. Multiple times. But each death will teach me something new about what I'm facing."

  "And each death where you kill an Elite..." Greythorn began.

  "I'll make sure the observer learns nothing from it," Francis finished. The words came easier now than they had the first time. That bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

  ***

  The Wolverkin died to four Blade Tempests. He felt if things improved a bit more with the skill and he could get stronger, three might be a possibility in a few dozen deaths or more.

  Francis twisted away from its final strike, survived, and pushed straight north toward the crevasse. He moved quickly, using the terrain he'd memorized from previous loops, avoiding Lynxkin patrols and skirting Ursaloth positions with practiced efficiency.

  The crevasse appeared ahead of him, that massive tear in the ice stretching east to west as far as he could see. Wind howled up from its depths, carrying a cold that cut through even his enhanced resistance.

  Francis followed the edge toward the bridge, staying low, keeping the ice formations between himself and any potential observers. When he reached the hidden span, he pressed himself against the frozen wall and waited.

  The patrol came. The massive white-furred beast with its fur-wrapped rider passed the far end of the bridge, paused to scent the air, then continued on its route. Francis counted the seconds as it disappeared behind an ice formation.

  Four minutes. That was his window.

  Francis moved.

  The bridge was solid beneath his feet, the massive ice slab holding his weight without so much as a creak. He crossed quickly but carefully, aware that a single slip would send him tumbling into the crevasse's depths. Twenty feet of open span, exposed to anyone who might be watching, his heart pounding in his chest despite all the deaths he'd already experienced.

  He reached the far side and pressed himself into the shadow of an ice formation, breathing hard.

  He was across. For the first time, he stood on the structure's side of the crevasse.

  The terrain here was different. Smoother, more deliberate, as if someone had shaped the ice rather than letting nature take its course. Pathways wound between formations that looked almost like walls, creating corridors and chokepoints that would funnel any attacker into killing zones.

  This isn't natural. Someone built this.

  Francis moved deeper, following one of the corridors toward the structure. He could see it more clearly now, maybe half a mile away. The dark stone walls rose perhaps forty feet high, angular and imposing against the grey sky. The gate he'd spotted from the other side of the crevasse was visible from here, a massive iron-banded door set into the wall, flanked by what looked like guard posts.

  Movement on the walls. Figures patrolling the ramparts, too distant to identify clearly, but present. Watching.

  Francis kept to the shadows, using the ice corridors for cover as he worked his way closer. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the wind and the crunch of snow beneath his boots. No Lynxkin prowled these paths. No Ursaloths held defensive positions.

  That should have been reassuring. Instead, it made his Battle Sense prickle with warning.

  The outer rings had plenty of defenders. Why is this area so empty?

  He got his answer a moment later.

  The voice came from somewhere ahead, echoing off the ice walls in a way that made it impossible to pinpoint.

  "Help! Please, someone help me!"

  Francis froze. The voice was human, female, desperate with pain and fear. Every instinct told him to rush toward it, to help whoever was calling out.

  Every instinct except the one that remembered Glitvall's warning.

  They mimic voices. Human voices. We've lost men who followed calls for help, only to find three Reavers waiting in ambush.

  Francis drew his sword slowly, making as little noise as possible. He pressed his back against the ice wall and scanned the corridor ahead, looking for any sign of movement.

  "Please! I'm hurt! I can't move!" The voice came again, closer this time, or maybe just bouncing differently off the walls.

  There. A flicker of black against the white ice, maybe thirty yards ahead where the corridor curved. Then another flicker, higher up, perched on top of one of the ice walls. And a third, on the opposite side.

  Three of them. Just like Glitvall had said.

  Frost Reavers or also known as Ravenkin. Black feathers that seemed to absorb the pale light, humanoid bodies with wings folded against their backs, and eyes like chips of obsidian that reflected nothing. Each one carried a curved dagger in one hand and had a bow slung across its back.

  They hadn't seen him yet. They were watching the corridor ahead, waiting for their prey to come running toward the fake cries for help.

  Francis had a choice. He could try to slip past them, find another route to the structure. Or he could fight, test their capabilities, and learn their patterns for future loops.

  He chose to fight.

  [ Quick Attack ]

  Francis burst from cover, closing the distance to the nearest Reaver before any of them could react. His sword found the creature's chest, punching through feathers and flesh with a wet crunch. The Reaver shrieked, a sound nothing like the human voice it had been mimicking, and crumpled to the ground.

  The other two reacted instantly. Bows came up, arrows nocked and drawn in a motion so fast it seemed rehearsed. Francis dove sideways as two shafts hissed through the space where he'd been standing, the arrows shattering against the ice wall behind him.

  The Reavers didn't stay at range. They dropped from their perches and closed on Francis from two directions, curved daggers gleaming in their hands. Their movements were coordinated and practiced, each covering the other's blind spots as they attacked.

  Francis parried the first dagger strike and ducked under the second, his sword coming around in a wide arc that forced both Reavers to leap backward. They were fast, faster than the Lynxkin, and they fought with an intelligence that the pack hunters lacked.

  One of them began casting. Francis felt the temperature drop as frost magic gathered around the Reaver's free hand, ice crystals forming in the air.

  The spell struck but Francis shrugged off a good portion of the cold, feeling his Magic Resist ability negating it. Even better was the casting Reaver shrieking as its own magic dealt pain to it, Francis’s Magic Feedback slowing it down. The distraction was all Francis needed.

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  [ Blade Tempest ]

  Six strikes moved faster than his opponent could seem to comprehend or defend against. The stunned Reaver took four of them, its body jerking with each impact, black feathers flying as Francis's sword carved through its defenses. The remaining Reaver tried to use the opening to strike at Francis's back, but his Battle Sense screamed a warning, and he spun, catching the curved dagger on his blade and driving his shoulder into the creature's chest.

  The Reaver stumbled backward, wings flaring for balance, and Francis was on it before it could recover. A Power Strike took its head from its shoulders.

  The three Reavers were dead faster than he had imagined it could happen. Francis stood among the bodies, breathing hard, his sword dripping with dark blood that looked almost purple in the pale light.

  [ Battle Sense Increased - 28 ]

  [ Magic Feedback Increased - 23 ]

  He was alive. And the bodies around him were a problem.

  Francis looked toward the structure, then back at the dead Reavers. These weren't Elites, just standard defenders, but the wounds he'd inflicted still told a story. Blade Tempest's distinctive pattern of six rapid strikes. The clean decapitation of a Power Strike.

  He could leave them. Regular beastkin deaths might not warrant the same scrutiny as Elite kills. Or he could be thorough, make sure the observer learned nothing, regardless of what it chose to examine.

  Francis decided to push forward. He needed to see more of the inner defenses, get closer to the structure. He could always die later if necessary.

  ***

  The corridors led him closer to the structure, winding between ice formations that grew taller and more deliberate as he advanced. Twice more he encountered Frost Reavers, and twice more he killed them, learning their patterns and adapting to their tactics.

  They always fought in threes. Always used the voice mimicry to lure prey into ambush positions. There was always at least one caster among them who would hang back and provide magical support while the other two engaged in melee.

  By the time Francis reached the edge of the ice corridors, he'd killed nine of them, and his armor was marked with a dozen new gouges from their curved daggers. None of the wounds they had inflicted were serious, but they added up, and his regeneration was working to keep him functional.

  The structure loomed ahead, maybe two hundred yards away across an open expanse of flat ice. No cover. No corridors to hide in. Just a killing field between him and the gate.

  Francis studied the approach, noting the guard posts flanking the gate, the figures moving on the ramparts, and the way the ice had been smoothed to remove any possible cover. Anyone crossing that open ground would be exposed to arrows, magic, and whatever else the defenders chose to throw at them.

  He couldn't cross that. Not alone. Not without preparation.

  But he could observe. Learn. Prepare for future attempts.

  Francis found a position where he could watch the gate without being seen, pressing himself into a crevice between two ice formations. From here, he could see the guards more clearly.

  They weren't Reavers. These were larger, bulkier, covered in pale grey fur that blended with the ice and snow. They stood upright on two legs, but their proportions were wrong, arms too long, shoulders too broad, heads that were more wolf than human. Each one carried a massive weapon, axes, and hammers that looked like they could crush armor with a single blow.

  Some kind of wolfkin variant? No, too big. Too... deliberate.

  Francis counted eight of them visible on the walls and flanking the gate. There could be more inside, more waiting in reserve, the way the Elites had been positioned in the outer rings.

  Movement at the gate drew his attention. The massive iron-banded doors were swinging open, pushed by guards on either side. Something was coming out.

  Francis pressed deeper into his hiding spot and watched.

  The creature that emerged from the structure was unlike anything he'd seen in the north. It walked on two legs like the gate guards, but it was taller, broader, and wrapped in dark robes that covered most of its body. What flesh was visible was pale blue, almost the color of glacier ice, and its eyes glowed with a cold white light that was visible even from two hundred yards away.

  It wasn't a beastkin. It was something else entirely.

  The robed figure raised one hand, and Francis felt the temperature drop even from his distant position. Magic gathered around its fingers, visible threads of power that pulsed with cold light. It gestured toward the ice corridors, toward the area where Francis had killed the Reavers, and the magic surged outward in a wave that made the air itself crystallize.

  Francis's Magic Resistance skill pushed back against the wave of cold, but he felt it testing him, probing his defenses. The robed figure paused, its glowing eyes sweeping across the ice field, searching.

  It seemed to know something was wrong. The Reavers were dead, and whatever detection magic it had just cast had found something alive that shouldn't be there.

  Francis held perfectly still, barely breathing, praying that his hiding spot was deep enough to conceal him from those glowing eyes.

  The figure's gaze swept past his position, paused, then moved on. It made a gesture, and six of the gate guards moved out onto the ice field, spreading into a search pattern.

  They’re looking for me. What kind of creature is this that has that kind of power?

  Francis had maybe two minutes before they reached the ice corridors, maybe three before they found the Reaver bodies and started a systematic search. He could try to slip past them, work his way back to the bridge. Or he could fight, test these new enemies, learn what they could do.

  Six of them. And that robed figure watching from the gate, ready to add its magic to the fight if needed.

  The numbers were bad. The terrain was worse. And Francis was already wounded from the Reaver fights, his stamina not yet fully recovered. Even his life core was low.

  Time to die.

  Francis drew his sword and stepped out of his hiding spot.

  The gate guards saw him immediately. Six massive heads turned in his direction, six sets of eyes locked onto his position, and six weapons came up in unison.

  They didn't charge blindly. They spread out, forming a semicircle that would cut off his retreat, moving with the coordinated precision of trained soldiers rather than pack hunters.

  Intelligent and disciplined. This is going to hurt.

  Francis didn't wait for them to complete their encirclement. He charged the nearest guard, closing the distance before the formation could solidify.

  [ Quick Attack ]

  His sword found the gap between the guard's arm and torso, slicing deep into flesh. The creature snarled, a sound like grinding ice, and swung its massive hammer in a blow that would have crushed Francis's skull if it had connected. He ducked under the swing and drove his blade deeper, twisting, searching for something vital.

  The guard's free hand caught Francis by the shoulder and hurled him backward with terrifying strength. He hit the ice hard, rolling, coming up just in time to dodge an axe swing from a second guard that had closed the distance while he was engaged with the first.

  [ Power Strike ]

  Francis put everything into the blow, his sword carving through the second guard's knee in a spray of blood and bone. The creature collapsed with a howl, but the others were already on him, weapons swinging from every direction.

  A hammer caught him in the ribs, cracking armor and bone alike. An axe opened a gash across his back that made his regeneration surge. A clawed hand raked across his face, barely missing his eyes.

  Warrior's Resolve roared inside him, converting pain into power, but there was too much damage coming too fast. Francis fought with everything he had, his sword finding flesh again and again, but for every wound he inflicted, he took three in return.

  [ Blade Tempest ]

  [ Power Strike ]

  Six strikes lashed out, stronger than usual, and the drain on his remaining stamina was more than Francis had anticipated. One guard fell, its throat torn open. Another staggered back with wounds across its chest and arms. But the remaining four pressed their attack, and Francis felt his strength failing.

  Cold erupted around him as the robed figure at the gate joined the fight. Ice formed on his armor, his skin, his sword. His movements slowed, his muscles screaming against the magical cold that was trying to freeze him solid.

  His Magic Resistance skill pushed back, but the robed figure was powerful, far more powerful than the Frost Serpentkin or the Reaver casters. The cold seeped through his defenses, numbing his limbs and slowing his reactions.

  A hammer blow caught him square in the chest and sent him flying. Francis hit the ice and couldn't get up, his body too damaged, too frozen, too spent.

  The remaining guards closed in, weapons raised for the killing blow.

  Francis looked past them, toward the structure, toward the robed figure that was already turning back toward the gate. He'd learned what he needed to learn. The inner defenses, the gate guards, the caster who commanded them. All of it was stored in his memory, safe from the death that was about to claim him.

  Axes and hammers fell, and the world went black.

  ***

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  Francis lay in bed for a moment, processing everything he'd learned. The bridge crossing and the ice corridors. The Frost Reavers and their voice mimicry. The gate guards with their coordinated tactics. Bout out of all that, Francis remembered the robed figure with magic powerful enough to overwhelm his resistance.

  A lot of information and a lot of new threats to account for.

  But also progress. He'd made it further than ever before, seen the structure up close, and identified the enemies that guarded it. Each death brought him closer to understanding what he was facing.

  Francis sat up and looked across the room at Michael as he was getting dressed. His brother was unaware of the war being fought in timelines that would never exist for him.

  I'm getting closer. I'll find whatever is in that structure, and I'll kill it. And then you'll live.

  Francis dressed and headed north, already planning his next attempt. The same route, but faster. Kill the Wolverkin, cross the bridge, clear the Reavers. Get to the killing field outside the gate and figure out how to cross it without being overwhelmed.

  The robed figure was the key. That much was clear. It had detected him with magic, coordinated the guards' response, and its power had been the decisive factor in the fight. If Francis could find a way to deal with it, the gate guards would be manageable.

  If.

  Francis smiled grimly as he walked. He'd died thousands of times to reach this point. He'd killed himself twice now to deny the observer information. What was one more death, or a hundred more, if it meant finding a way through?

  The structure waited. The observer waited.

  And Francis Lancaster was coming for them both.