They ran.

  Eirik's legs ached for relief. All around him, a hundred pairs of soldiers' boots beat out a rhythm on the cobblestones.

  The swarm followed.

  It kept pace just beyond the flickering edge of Velthan’s barrier. The creatures had stopped their direct attack, but Eirik felt his mind slippery and strange.

  "Keep moving!" Konrad's voice was hoarse from shouting. "Don't slow down!"

  At the lead, Velthan waved his staff aloft. Beside the Archmage, Lord Caelum jogged with sweat dripping from his brow despite the bitter cold.

  "How much farther?" someone gasped.

  "The north gate!" Velthan called back. "Three hundred yards! Don't—"

  The world changed.

  One minute Eirik was racing through the icy streets of Frostwatch. The next, he found himself in a body of dead men.

  Bodies. Everywhere, bodies.

  He knew them all.

  There was Ser Konrad, his body impaled on a spike of black ice. There was Velthan, the great Archmage, reduced to little more than a desiccated husk. There were the best of the guards, scattered across the battlefield like broken toys.

  And there—

  Lord Caelum was lying in a puddle of frozen blood. His chest was ripped open as if something had come out of his body.

  Eirik’s breathing caught as he saw his own men.

  Olaf's huge body was twisted against a destroyed wall. Kael was nearby, curled into a ball. His hands were dug into the ground like he had been attempting to excavate his way out to somewhere—anywhere—else.

  And Brennan—

  In the spot where he should have been, only the darkness on the snow and the solitary bone remained.

  This is what awaits you. The voice was coming from everywhere.

  The corpse-field stretched to the horizon. Bodies upon bodies upon bodies.

  "LORD STORMCROW!"

  Eirik gasped and lurched forward. The field of corpses disappeared. He stood back in Frostwatch.

  The entire column had come to a standstill.

  The soldiers stood frozen in place. Some were crying. Others were screaming—some with their mouths agape, but their cries were silent. Others had their hands clapped to their temples as if they were trying to hold their skulls from exploding.

  "FORWARD!" the Archmage roared. "YOU MUST MOVE FORWARD!"

  No one moved.

  The swarm moved in closer.

  "Father?"

  The voice came from Eirik's left.

  He turned.

  A young woman stood at the edge of the barrier. She was beautiful—dark hair, pale skin, in a simple dress of white linen.

  "Father, it's me." Her tone was soft. "Don't you recognize me?"

  One of the elite guards moved towards her. "Mira?"

  "I’ve been waiting for you, Father. Won’t you come to me?"

  The sergeant took another step.

  Konrad's blade was already moving.

  Steel flashed. The sergeant's head came off in a spout of red. His body went crashing forward, right through the woman-thing, which broke apart in tendrils of darkness and laughter.

  "ANYONE WHO TURNS DIES!" Konrad roared. "THAT IS THE LAW! FORWARD OR DEATH!"

  But the harm was done.

  All around the column, the spirits had found their targets.

  "Elena? Elena, is that—"

  Another head rolled.

  "Commander, I can see my boys! They're right there, they're—"

  A third.

  Konrad moved through this paralyzed column, cutting down any who turned. His sword did not falter.

  The swarm saw this as weakness.

  They pressed forward, probing the barrier furiously. Beings slid into openings that hadn’t been there mere seconds ago. Soldiers screamed as the face creatures attached to them, feeding, devouring, leaving only empty shells.

  "OLAF!"

  Eirik turned at Kael's shout.

  Somehow, in the midst of all this, Olaf had managed to become separated from the rest of the party. He was in a small area of clear land about twenty feet away from the edge of the barrier, Brennan still slumped over his shoulders.

  And surrounding him, the spirits were gathered.

  They were kids. Dozens of kids. They stretched their little arms toward Olaf.

  "Ye killed us," they whispered in chorus. "Ye burned our homes. Ye slaughtered our families. Now ye pay."

  Olaf’s axe shook in his hands.

  "Stay back, ye little sods!" His voice cracked. "I didn't!"

  "Ye did." The children drew nearer. "Ye followed the small-framed monster into our camp. Ye saw him slaughter our mothers and fathers. And ye did nothing."

  "I couldn't—there was nothing I could—"

  Olaf lowered his axe by one inch.

  No.

  Eirik's mind raced.

  They fed on guilt. They found the flaws in a man's soul and prodded them until they were wide open. Olaf was a strong man. But Olaf had witnessed the carnage at the Skarl camp. He had seen kids die and done nothing about it.

  And the spirits were using it like a knife.

  Eirik couldn't get to Olaf physically—twenty feet might as well have been twenty miles for the horde of creatures standing between him and his target. He certainly couldn't resort to ice magic, and these creatures would simply slide right past any barrier he tried to put up. He couldn't—

  The guilt is real. The children, however, are not.

  "OLAF!" Eirik bellowed. "LISTEN TO THEM, YOU IDIOT!"

  Olaf turned his head a little.

  "The Skarl children at the camp—they speak in Skarltongue we don't even understand! These things speak the common language and in the same accent as you, you frost-addled idiot! THEY'RE NOT EVEN THE RIGHT CHILDREN!"

  The spirits wavered. It was only a moment of confusion, but it was enough.

  Olaf's eyes cleared.

  He swung.

  The axe sliced through the closest child-spirit, and the creature let out a shriek as Olaf's power rent it asunder. The rest dispersed.

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  "MOVE, YOU OAF!" Eirik shouted. "GET BACK TO THE LINE!"

  Olaf charged through the opening, Brennan bouncing on his shoulders, his axe slashing a path through the throngs of creatures.

  He was almost to the barrier when the spirits turned their attention to Eirik.

  So.

  The voice was different now.

  You think yourself clever, don't you, little lord?

  The world changed.

  Eirik was no longer in Frostwatch. He was in the courtyard of Fort Abercrombie, the one he built and bled for, the one he called home.

  It was on fire.

  The ice walls he had built so carefully were melting, great sheets of frozen crystal sliding down to reveal the fires beneath. The statue of the Frost Mother had fallen, her calm face lying in pieces among the flagstones. Bodies filled the courtyard—his soldiers, his people, the pilgrims who had come seeking salvation.

  "Commander!"

  Eirik spun.

  Leif stood before him. Blood flowed from a cut in his chest.

  "You left us, and they came. There was no one to stop them."

  Eirik swallowed hard. This was just too realistic for him to be able to distance himself right away.

  "You abandoned us, Eirik." Isolde, with only half a face left, appeared beside Leif.

  They pressed closer. Leif. Isolde. Yorick. All deformed. Behind them, more faces—every life that ever relied on his leadership.

  All dead.

  Eirik felt his will weakening.

  It wasn't real. He knew it. But the fear. .. the fear was all too real. He had left them. He had walked into the Duke's snare knowing it was a snare, and he had left his people behind.

  What if Leif’s men had not gotten there in time? What if the Duke had sent another contingent when the garrison was weakened? What if—

  He forced his mind to go blank.

  SNAP.

  A sharp, stinging pain erupted on Eirik’s cheek.

  The vision flickered.

  SNAP. Another, on his other cheek.

  Eirik’s eyes flew open.

  Kael stood in front of him.

  "Breathe," he raised a small vial under Eirik’s nose.

  Eirik’s eyes instantly watered as he coughed violently.

  "Is that... pepper?"

  "Concentrated capsicum extract," Kael said, shoving the vial back into his belt. "Strong enough to wake a dragon."

  Eirik rubbed his stinging eyes. The visions were fading.

  He looked around.

  Konrad’s blade had taken at least a dozen. Bodies remained where they had fallen, their blood steam rising in the chill air. Other men stood frozen, trapped in their own personal hells, as the spirits swirled about them.

  The Archmage's staff trembled in his hand.

  "This isn't working," Eirik muttered.

  "No," Kael agreed. "It isn't."

  Eirik's mind raced.

  We can't trust our eyes. We can't trust our ears. We can't even trust our instincts.

  So what could they trust?

  Eirik looked at the soldier nearest to him—a young man with wide, terrified eyes. The soldier was staring at something Eirik couldn't see.

  The insight struck like lightning.

  "EVERYONE CLOSE YOUR EYES!"

  The shout tore from Eirik's throat before he fully understood what he was doing.

  Heads turned. Even in their terror, the soldiers responded to command.

  "CLOSE YOUR EYES AND COVER YOUR EARS! NOW!"

  "Lord Stormcrow, what are you—" Konrad began.

  "DO IT!" Eirik grabbed the nearest soldier and physically pressed the man's hands over his ears. "THEY CAN'T HURT YOU IF YOU CAN'T SEE OR HEAR THEM!"

  The order echoed through the ranks.

  Some obeyed immediately. Others hesitated, their eyes still locked on visions that Eirik couldn't see.

  Olaf solved that problem.

  The flat of his axe cracked across the temple of a soldier who had begun to drift toward the swarm's edge. The man crumpled, unconscious but safe.

  "EYES CLOSED!" Olaf bellowed. "DO IT NOW OR I'LL CLOSE THEM PERMANENTLY!"

  Within seconds, a hundred soldiers stood blind and deaf in the middle of a haunted city.

  The spirits swirled.

  "Lord Stormcrow." The Archmage kept his eyes open. "Your insight is correct, but we cannot navigate blind. The spirits will simply wait until we stumble into a dead end or off a precipice."

  Eirik's mind raced.

  The problem was that their entire means of coordinating—sight, sound, communication—had been weaponized against them.

  He forced himself to analyze.

  What had assaulted him were his own fears and guilt. Not everyone would react the same way when they were presented with Fort Abercrombie burning. And that meant—

  "The spirits can't coordinate!" Eirik shouted. "They're pulling from individual minds! They can't create a shared illusion!"

  "What does that matter?" Konrad growled. "We're still blind!"

  "It matters because they can corrupt what you perceive, but they can't corrupt what you feel!"

  Eirik grabbed the nearest soldier's arm.

  "When I squeeze your arm—do you feel it?"

  The soldier, eyes still closed, nodded frantically.

  "Did you see me do it? Did you hear me announce it?"

  "N-no, my lord. I just felt—"

  "Exactly."

  Eirik's mind was racing now.

  "The spirits attack through distance senses—sight and sound. But they can't intercept touch. They can't make you feel a hand that isn't there, or block you from feeling one that is."

  Velthan's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

  "We create a chain. Everyone grabs the belt or shoulder of the person in front of them. You close your eyes, and you follow by feel alone."

  "But someone must guide us," Velthan said.

  "You. Only you." Eirik pointed at the Archmage. "You're the strongest here."

  "The spirits will concentrate their assault on me."

  "Can you hold?"

  A pause. Then, slowly, Velthan nodded. "For a time."

  "Then we move fast."

  But even as he said it, Eirik knew it wasn't enough. The spirits wouldn't simply give up. They would find new ways to assault the closed minds of a hundred men.

  Eyes closed would protect against the visions. But they needed protection from the voices too. His first instinct was to have the men cover their ears, but they needed both hands for the chain.

  What else could they exploit?

  The column was quiet now. A hundred men holding their breath, trying not to hear, not to see, not to think.

  And that was the problem.

  Silence.

  In silence, guilt festered.

  Eirik thought of the battles he'd commanded. The way they'd gotten through the worst wasn't through silence.

  "Konrad," Eirik said suddenly. "Do your men know marching cadences?"

  The old knight looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. "What?"

  "Marching songs. Call-and-response. The kind you use on long campaigns to keep the men's spirits up."

  "Of course they do. Every soldier knows—"

  "Start one. Now."

  Understanding flickered in Konrad's eyes.

  "You want us to... sing?"

  "I want us to create a sound that belongs to us." Eirik's voice was fierce. "The spirits hijack familiar voices—your mother, your child, your dead lover. But they can't hijack a hundred voices singing together in real time. If you hear a voice that's not part of the chorus, you know it's false."

  Kael let out a low whistle.

  "It's more than that." Eirik was pacing now. "Every voice you hear should be singing the same words at the same time. Any deviation is automatically identified as an attack."

  He turned to the assembled soldiers.

  "I want everyone—everyone—singing. Full voice. If your throat goes raw, you keep singing."

  Velthan was staring at him.

  Eirik ignored him and turned to address the soldiers.

  "LISTEN TO ME! In thirty seconds, we're going to move. Here's how it works!"

  He pointed to Velthan.

  "The Archmage leads. Ser Konrad, you take position directly behind him. Everyone else forms a single chain—grab the belt or shoulder of the man in front of you. DO NOT LET GO."

  He made eye contact with as many soldiers as he could.

  "Eyes closed. When Konrad starts the cadence, you SING."

  He paused.

  "The only real things in this place are the man in front of you, the man behind you, and the song we sing together. Everything else is a lie. Understood?"

  A ragged chorus of acknowledgment.

  "LOUDER!"

  "AYE, COMMANDER!"—not only from the Talons but the Duke’s own elite guards.

  Eirik looked at Konrad. "Begin."

  The old knight cleared his throat. Then, in a surprisingly strong baritone, he began:

  "WHEN THE FROST COMES DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN HIGH—"

  Thunderous voices answered:

  "—WE MARCH ALONG, WE NEVER DIE!"

  "WHEN THE WIND CUTS SHARP AND THE BLOOD RUNS COLD—"

  "—WE MARCH ALONG, LIKE SOLDIERS BOLD!"

  The sound completely lacking in musical merit, but it was deafening.

  The combined voices of a hundred soldiers echoed off the frozen walls of Frostwatch, filling the streets with a wall of sound.

  The column began to move.

  Eirik took his position near the rear. Olaf was ahead of him, still carrying Brennan, his massive hand locked onto the belt of the soldier in front of him.

  "LEFT! RIGHT! LEFT! RIGHT!" Konrad bellowed between verses.

  The column moved. Step, step, step. Eyes closed, voices raised, hands gripping tight.

  They threw images at the soldiers—dead children, burning villages, rotting corpses of loved ones. They threw voices into the chaos—pleas, screams, desperate calls for help.

  "SING!" Eirik roared into the everyone's ear while keeping his eyes closed. "SING OR DIE!"

  "—WE MARCH ALONG, WE NEVER DIE!"

  He fell back into step.

  They pushed deeper into the city.

  The spirits were growing frantic now. They pulled images from the darkest corners of every mind, but the chain held.

  The song continued.

  "THROUGH BLOOD AND BONE AND FROZEN STONE—"

  "—WE'LL FIND OUR WAY, WE'LL FIND OUR HOME!"

  Eirik felt the spirits' attention turn toward him.

  They were clever, he realized. They had identified him as the architect of this defense. If they could break him, the chain might collapse.

  Images began to flicker at the edges of his closed eyes.

  This time, images from his previous life start to appear. His little sister dying, mumbling his real name that he hadn't heard for a long, long time—

  He sang louder.

  "WHEN THE FROST COMES DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN HIGH—"

  You're using them, the spirits whispered still. The soldiers, the Talons, even your precious Isolde. They're all pieces on your board. And you'll sacrifice every one of them when the time comes.

  Won't you?

  Olaf's hand slammed into his shoulder.

  "SING, YE BASTARD!"

  The impact jarred Eirik back to reality. His voice found the cadence again:

  "—WE MARCH ALONG, WE NEVER DIE!"

  The spirits recoiled.

  And then—

  Light.

  Real light. Not the sickly green of the cursed sky or the golden glow of Velthan's barrier. This was the pale, honest gray of approaching dawn.

  "THE GATE!" Velthan's voice rang out. "I CAN SEE THE NORTH GATE!"

  A surge of energy passed through the column. Men who had been stumbling found new strength. The song swelled to a roar:

  "WE'LL FIND OUR WAY, WE'LL FIND OUR HOME!"

  They burst through the northern gate of Frostwatch.

  The instant they crossed the threshold, the pressure vanished.

  Eirik's eyes flew open.

  They stood on a vast plain of pristine white snow, stretching endlessly toward a northern horizon dominated by a single, impossible structure.

  The Sunless City.

  Towers of black stone reaching toward a sky that seemed to recoil from them. Even from this distance, perhaps miles away, Eirik could feel its majesty.

  They had made it through Frostwatch.

  The song died as men collapsed to their knees, gasping, weeping, some vomiting into the snow. The tension that had held them together for those endless minutes finally released.

  Eirik leaned against a broken pillar, his chest heaving.

  "Well." Velthan's voice was hoarse. "That was unexpected."

  Lord Caelum stumbled toward them, his face pale and shining with sweat. His left eye was twitching violently now—not the occasional spasm from before, but a sustained tremor that pulled at the corner of his mouth.

  He reached for his waterskin and drank deeply.

  Too deeply.

  Eirik watched as the Duke's son consumed what must have been half the container in a single desperate pull. When Caelum lowered the skin, his hands were shaking.

  Then he turned away without another word.