Deniel’s stomach churned with a cold tension that hadn’t let up since that chance encounter in the woods. Up ahead, the tower loomed through the snow that whipped around in a ceaseless flurry. The wind didn’t quite howl, but it moaned mournfully as if lamenting the souls of the Stanmarkian patrol the rebels had consigned to the Dark. They had taken the time to quicky and competently strip the three men of anything and everything useful, then proceeded to march Deniel at a brisk pace through the forest – towards the tower the patrol had set out from, he realized belatedly after the silhouette appeared in the distance.

Bertrand stared at the dark shape visible through the murk with a palpable hunger, his eyes caressing the stonework as if he could bore through it with will alone. “This used to be one of ours; a watchpost and garrison. The cowards manning it let the devils have it intact, curse them. It’s…uncomfortable, it being here.”

Deniel didn’t dare to bring himself to nod. He instead looked at the fortification, trying to see it through Bertrand’s eyes, or through the eyes of one of the serjeants who had passed through Akenhof on years before.

The tower wasn’t massive. Deniel had heard itinerant storytellers speak of lofty, topless towers soaring over magical palaces. Instead, this was a squat, ugly thing. The bottom was a masonry rectangle with crenelations along the edges, solid and unmoving. From one corner reared the tower itself, three further stories of stone and brickwork topped with wooden enclosed platform and spiked shingled roof. Down the length, arrow slits showed black on black, glinting occasionally as someone inside shifted and a light source peeked out.

Not massive – but built in a way that radiated a stolid competence nonetheless. The door was thick, iron studded hardwood. The hinges were on the inside, but by the looks of the banding they would be ugly, massive things sunk deep into the wall. Battering down the door would be a time-consuming endeavor, even without men in the upper floors dropping rocks.

Up and down on either side of the tower, the valley ran. Downstream, towards Akenhof, towards home, the lights distant but visible. Upstream, the view stretched towards the other settlements, towards the quarries and mines. On the banks ran the old trade road, lined in places with worn river stones and meandering away beyond all sight and knowledge – to other towns, and eventually one supposed to the crown of Waccewald itself. On the slopes, the hillsides were clear-cut except for the irrepressible brambles until they reached the forest undergrowth from which the rebel band now peered.

Deniel had never paid much mind to the tower before; any business with the local knight had been conducted at the manor, not the fortified outpost. But now, in the company of what were in all practical terms bandits, he couldn’t help but see it from their eyes. The finger of a mailed fist, extending towards the sky. A warning, and a threat.

“No wonder you want it gone.” He murmured, his eyes taking in the length of the valley. “You can’t cross the open flat by day – and even by night, you can’t move much without being seen.” There was no reply, but the yearning look was still there on Bertrand’s face – yearning and bloodlust.

“There can’t be more than a dozen of the bastards in there – fifteen at most.” The archer still hadn’t introduced himself. He had the same look in his eyes as his leader, though. A wolfish hunger, held on a short leash. The band had nearly double that number – Deniel had seen twenty-nine in their rapid march through the dark – but the stone walls were a dreadful equalizer. The gap-toothed grin of the crenellations studding the top seemed to mock them. Look upon me, it declared. What can you do, with mortal hand? Who can dare touch me? For all that the Stanmarkers had laid the country low, the rearing walls remained as strong as the day they’d been lain and doubly defiant.

Bertrand spat in disgust. “Fifteen. But fifteen men on that rampart with bow and javelin would butcher fifty of us.” The flare of disgusted anger swept off his face as soon as it had come, the mercurial mood change washing it away and back into that disconcertingly easy grin that never reached his eyes. “Thankfully, we have a key now.” He looked down at where Deniel crouched.

“M-me?” This can’t be real. “What can I do?”

“You don’t have to do anything but squeal.” Suddenly there was a knife in the archer’s hand. “You’re the alderman’s boy. If we threaten to bleed you like a pig, the pigs in there will open the gates of their own accord.”

“That’s your plan?” Deniel didn’t know whether to be outraged or laugh in hysterical disbelief. His voice rose in pitch until a warning glance and imperious motion with the knife cut it off. He lowered it back to normal tones, continuing in a frantic whisper.

“I’m a nobody, and son of a nobody; my village isn’t important enough for anyone to care, and these men are new to the land. They’ll tell you to gut me and laugh as you do!”

“Then the people will see that their new masters do not care for them, do not give good lordship, and will be ready to support the return of their old masters.” Bertrand’s voice was flat. “I need that tower gone, and for that I either need more men, or them to surrender their gate. If they open up, good. If not, your death will buy the cause more recruits.” That grin flashed again in the murk, a demonic glint of white teeth and eyes. “Maybe even your father will stop prevaricating, if the Easterners butcher his own son.” He gestured, and two of his band roughly grabbed Deniel’s arms and hoisted him upright. He struggled against their grip, frantic, as one pulled out a rag and tried to ram it into his mouth.

“Wait.” They ignored him, yanking brutally until his shoulders screamed with the strain. Deniel jerked aside, just barely dislodging the rag while his captor hissed vile curses under his breath. “Wait!” Bertrand was already turning aside to his lieutenant with the bow. Deniel closed his eyes, desperation warring inside him. I don’t want to die here. Alone. I’ve not done anything. I’ve not achieved anything. I was at the monastery not five hours ago.

This will not be where I die.

The decision was still not easy, for all that he made it in the blink of an eye as necessity ruled.

“I can give you the tower!”

Bertrand turned, skeptical, but he whistled for the two rebels holding Deniel to stop. “What did you say, alderman’s boy?”

Deniel gasped for breath, acutely aware of the filthy rag hovering in the corner of his vision, of the blades surely bared at his back. “I can give you the tower. Let me go, and they’ll open the gate for you.”

The archer snorted from behind Bertrand’s back. “Bert, he’s just trying to save his own skin. Gag the idiot and let’s be on with it, we’re wasting time.” His eyes peered past the shining menace of the knife, still drawn and idly spinning between his long fingers.

Bertrand made a placating gesture. “Not so hasty, Valeth.” He stepped towards his hapless captive, eyes hot with distrust. “We lose nothing by letting him run his mouth a moment longer. And if he can deliver, well, then I’m listening.” You had best not me wasting my time, those eyes seemed to say, or you’ll find there’s worse things than just knives in the dark.

Deniel heaved a sigh. I’m committed, Gods damn my fickle luck. “Firewood.”

The cold eyes spearing him narrowed. “What?”

“That’s why they stopped me. Before the Waccewaldian garrison was cleared out, they didn’t have time to lay by supplies for winter. The men in that tower are freezing. Their patrol wanted me to cut wood for them.” Deniel looked over to where the tower still stood silent. “Cut a few bundles, let me do the talking, and they’ll open the door to welcome you with open arms.”

The demon peering through the young man’s eyes smiled again, gleeful and mocking, welcoming Deniel to hell. Deniel met that grin and returned it. The expression felt skull-like on his own face.

He had just committed himself – and condemned fifteen men to death.