The hour mark approached.

  Eirik gathered his Talons and led them back toward the central plaza. The sun—what little of it—had sunk below the western walls.

  There were two men kneeling before the stone.

  They wore the Duke's colors, now stripped of their armor. One was young, perhaps twenty winters or less. The other was older, a veteran who worked the supply wagons during the march.

  Neither looked like men who had willingly accepted their fate.

  "Where is your third?" The Archmage stood beside the altar. Behind him, Lord Caelum and a dozen elite guards formed a loose perimeter.

  "He required time to prepare himself," Eirik said carefully.

  "Time we do not have, Lord Stormcrow."

  "Archmage!" A shout from the far end of the plaza.

  Eirik turned.

  Ser Konrad emerged from between two ruined buildings, dragging something behind him.

  No. Someone.

  Kael.

  The assassin was fighting every step. His wrists were bound behind his back, and Konrad had him by the collar, hauling him across the cobblestones like a sack of grain. Kael's feet scraped and kicked, leaving furrows in the frost.

  "Took me longer than expected to track him down," Konrad announced. "The little rat knows how to hide."

  Kael twisted in the knight's grip.

  "I don't accept!" The words tore from his throat. "I don't—this isn't—you can't do this! I'm not willing! I DO NOT ACCEPT!"

  Velthan's expression was one of mild disappointment, as if a student had failed to grasp a simple lesson.

  "The gods speak through the words of fate," the Archmage said calmly. "And yours has been decided."

  "NO!" Kael thrashed harder. "But I never agreed! I never said I was willing! Your own words, Archmage—the offering must consent! I DO NOT CONSENT!"

  Velthan's voice remained gentle. "Face your fate peacefully, and you will have blessing in the life to come. This is your lot. Simply accept it."

  "I won't—I can't—"

  Konrad produced a strip of cloth and forced it between Kael's teeth, muffling his protests to strangled sounds. The assassin's eyes bulged as he was dragged toward the altar.

  Willing victim.

  What a convenient fiction.

  The two soldiers kneeling before the altar hadn't volunteered. They'd been selected—probably chosen for some combination of low status and lack of powerful connections.

  And now Kael, who had explicitly, vocally, desperately refused his fate, was being bound and gagged and dragged to the sacrificial stone.

  The offering must, on some level, consent to their fate.

  Horseshit.

  Velthan had invented that requirement on the spot, hadn't he? A theological argument crafted specifically to counter Eirik's suggestion of ranking by cultivation realm. The Archmage hadn't wanted to risk his elite warriors, so he'd conjured a spiritual justification that conveniently protected them.

  And now that the lots were drawn, that justification had evaporated like morning frost.

  "Lord Stormcrow."

  Velthan's voice cut through his thoughts.

  Eirik forced his expression into neutrality. "What do you need from us?"

  "As I explained earlier—a blood sample from every participant." The Archmage gestured toward a bronze basin that had been placed beside the altar. "Your men will contribute their blood here."

  Eirik nodded slowly.

  He turned to face his Talons, who had gathered in a loose cluster near the edge of the plaza. Their eyes were fixed on the three bound figures kneeling before the altar.

  "You heard the Archmage," Eirik said quietly. "Small cuts."

  Olaf grunted. "Aye, Commander."

  The big man drew his knife and made a quick slice across his palm. Blood welled immediately—thick and dark. He walked to the bronze basin and held his hand over it, letting the crimson drops fall with soft plinking sounds.

  The others followed.

  Jory managed a shallow cut on his forearm. Silas produced a small blade and opened a wound on his wrist. One by one, the Talons contributed their blood to the basin.

  Eirik waited.

  He watched the Archmage's soldiers performing the same ritual on the other side of the plaza. Velthan planted his staff in the ground as he began murmuring preliminary incantations.

  He needed a distraction.

  No—he needed something better than a distraction.

  He needed a moment when his blood was expected to enter the basin, but when the Archmage's attention was genuinely elsewhere. Not just turned away, but occupied.

  Eirik's eyes fell on Brenn.

  The veteran was still slumped against his pillar, playing his role as the dying man with admirable dedication.

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  "Brenn," Eirik said quietly. "Can you move?"

  A barely perceptible nod.

  "Good. In a moment, I'm going to need you to cause a disturbance. A spasm. Something that makes people think you're finally dying."

  Brenn's eyes opened just enough to meet Eirik's gaze.

  "Commander, I have a request."

  "What is it?"

  "Let me take Kael's place."

  It wasn't the acknowledge ment Eirik expected.

  "I was already dead, Commander. Two days ago, on that frozen march. If not for whatever miracle you worked on my hand, I'd be a corpse right now."

  "You're healing. Given a few more days—"

  "A few more days for what?" Brenn's lips twisted. "To spend my remaining years as a cripple, begging for scraps at the garrison gate?"

  "You could—"

  "I could at least have some say about my own life."

  Eirik's jaw tightened. "Fate has decided."

  "Fate." Brenn let out a breath. "You wanted me to be a surprise weapon, didn't you? Hide my recovery, let everyone think I'm dying, then spring me on the enemy when they least expect it."

  Eirik said nothing.

  "Kael is a better weapon than I ever was." Brenn's voice dropped lower. "That man—if you keep him alive, he'll slay a hundred. A thousand. More men than I could ever hope to take with me."

  "Brenn—"

  "Let me face my already decided fate, Commander. I'm asking you."

  Eirik stared at the man before him.

  This wasn't what he'd planned, but looking into Brenn's eyes, Eirik saw something.

  Peace.

  "If I agree to this," Eirik said slowly, "you understand what you're asking? There's no taking it back."

  "I understand."

  "And Kael—he'll know."

  "Good." Brenn's grip tightened. "Let him carry it. That's immortality, Commander. Not statues or songs. Being remembered by the living."

  Eirik closed his eyes.

  "Alright," he said.

  "I know what to do." Brenn's good hand released his wrist.

  Eirik rose.

  "Thank you, Brenn."

  The veteran's eyes had already closed again, returning to his performance of the dying man.

  "Don't thank me, Commander. Just win."

  Eirik turned back to the basin.

  Most of his Talons had already contributed their blood. The bronze vessel was half-full now. A few of the Duke's soldiers were still filing past, adding their own contributions.

  Eirik drew his knife.

  He made a shallow cut across his left palm—genuine, bleeding, verifiable. Blood welled up, dark and warm.

  He walked toward the basin.

  Three steps. Four.

  He extended his hand over the bronze rim—

  "HRRRGHHH!"

  The sound that erupted from Brenn was horrifying. A wet, rattling gasp that sounded like a man drowning in his own lungs. The veteran's body seized, his back arching off the pillar, his limbs thrashing in spasmodic jerks.

  Every head in the plaza turned.

  Including Velthan's.

  The Archmage's eyes snapped open, his concentration broken. "What's happening?"

  "The dying one!" Ser Konrad was already moving. "He's—"

  "Leave him!" Caelum's voice was sharp with irritation. "He's been dying for days. Let him finish."

  For three heartbeats—maybe four—every eye in the plaza was fixed on Brenn's convulsing form.

  Eirik's left hand hung over the basin.

  His right hand, hidden against his body, had already retrieved the vial of pig blood from his storage ring. His thumb popped the cork. A single fluid motion tilted the contents into the basin.

  The pig blood mingled with the human blood already present.

  Eirik withdrew his hand, squeezing his fist to let a few more drops of the smeared blood fall—enough to be visible, enough to be remembered. His actual blood never touched the basin.

  He stepped back.

  By the time attention returned to the blood collection, Eirik was standing with the other Talons, pressing a cloth against his palm.

  Brenn's convulsions subsided. The veteran slumped back against his pillar, his breathing ragged but stable.

  "Pathetic," Caelum muttered.

  Eirik kept his face neutral.

  After a long moment, Velthan turned back to the altar.

  "The blood is collected. We may proceed."

  The Archmage raised his staff.

  The three sacrifices knelt before the altar in a row.

  The first—the weeping young soldier—had stopped crying. The second soldier stared straight ahead. And Kael.

  The assassin had stopped struggling. The gag still muffled his mouth, but his terror had faded, replaced by something that looked almost like peace.

  The incantations, Eirik realized. They're doing something to their minds.

  Velthan approached the altar with the bronze basin. The blood inside had changed—it no longer looked like simple crimson liquid.

  "We offer this blood freely given," Velthan intoned. "The blood of the faithful."

  He poured the contents of the basin onto the altar's surface.

  There was no splash. The blood simply vanished into the black stone. The pool behind the altar began to stir.

  "Bring forward the first offering."

  Two of Konrad's soldiers lifted the young man to his feet and guided him toward the altar. He went without resistance, his steps steady, his face serene.

  Velthan produced a knife. Bone, perhaps, or ivory. Something not that different from what Eirik saw from his previous encounters with the Skarl shaman.

  "Do you accept your fate?" the Archmage asked formally.

  The young man's lips moved. "I accept."

  The words were hollow.

  Velthan's knife moved.

  It was quick. A single stroke across the throat, precise and deep.

  Blood fountained.

  The young man didn't scream. His body crumpled onto the altar, and the blood—so much blood—began to flow across the obsidian surface.

  And vanished.

  Just like the blood from the basin, it was absorbed. Drunk. Consumed by the hungry stone.

  Behind the altar, the pool's surface began to darken.

  "Bring forward the second offering."

  The older soldier was lifted to his feet. Unlike the first, there was awareness in his eyes. But he went anyway.

  "Do you accept your fate?"

  A trembling breath.

  "I... accept."

  The knife moved again.

  More absorption. The pool behind the altar was definitely changing now—its surface had gone from the pale reflection of sky to something darker.

  "Bring forward the final offering."

  Kael was lifted to his feet.

  The gag was removed.

  The assassin stood before the altar, his wrists still bound, his white shift stained with the blood of the two who had gone before. As Velthan raised the knife, Kael's lips parted.

  "I—"

  "STOP."

  The voice came from behind them.

  Everyone turned.

  Brenn was on his feet.

  The veteran who had been playing dead for two days, the man whose hand had been black with infection, the soldier everyone had written off as a corpse waiting to happen—he was standing.

  Swaying, yes. Pale, yes. But standing.

  "What?" Caelum voice was incredulous. "How are you—"

  Brenn ignored him.

  He walked forward.

  His steps were unsteady but determined. Each footfall seemed to cost him something, but he kept moving.

  He stopped at the altar.

  "The dying man," Velthan said slowly. "I thought you were—"

  Brenn ignored him, too.

  He looked at Kael.

  The assassin stared back, confusion breaking through the enforced calm.

  "Move," Brenn said.

  "What?"

  Brenn's good hand shot out and shoved Kael aside. The assassin stumbled, caught off-balance, and fell to the stone floor.

  "BRENN!" Velthan's voice cracked across the plaza. "What are you—"

  Brenn turned to face him.

  And smiled.

  His hand moved to his belt.

  "Brenn, don't—"

  "This isn't your sacrifice to make, old bastard. It's mine."

  He drew the dagger.

  It happened in a single motion—smooth, practiced, final. The blade plunged into his own chest, angled upward, finding the heart with the precision of a man who had thought about this moment for a very long time.

  Brenn's eyes went wide. Then they went peaceful.

  He fell forward onto the altar.

  And the blood began to flow.

  Brenn's blood vanished into the obsidian, absorbed with the same hungry efficiency as the others.

  "Well." The Archmage's voice was almost disappointed. "I suppose that will have to do."

  The pool behind the altar began to fill.

  Blood rose from impossible depth, welling up through the still surface. It climbed the walls of the basin, inch by inch, foot by foot.

  "The offering is accepted," Velthan breathed. "The door is opening."

  The blood kept rising.

  The three bodies on the altar had produced perhaps a few gallons between them. But the pool was enormous—at least thirty feet across, with steps leading down into depths that Eirik couldn't estimate. Yet the blood rose and rose and rose.

  It shouldn't be possible.

  It filled the pool as the crimson surface climbed higher with each passing moment. The blood was thick and dark, almost black in the dying light, and it filled till the steps vanished.

  "The General's legacy," Velthan whispered. "A thousand years of accumulated sacrifice. Every death in this city, building toward this moment."

  The blood lapped at the edges of the basin, threatening to overflow.

  And then—

  It stopped.