It was time. The clouds above were at their darkest, pregnant and heavy with snow, fat flakes drizzling down in sheets. They'd given Libro new garments for the mission, thick heavy wool dyed the color of innocence, his armor painted over with plaster.

The wind tugged at a stray lock of hair as he stared out towards the castle, its squat, heavy bulk looming before him as one great shadow along the beach head, chunks of slushy ice washing up and breaking apart on the shore.

Libro gripped his fists tight. It was time. Elba was in there, and he would get her out. There was no thought for failure, no time for second guessing. He was her husband, her Captain, and the father of her child.

His son. The thought alone made his throat tighten. His own flesh and blood was in that castle, not just Elba. He had two lives depending on him for rescue. The thought alone made his legs wobble, before a hand caught him by the arm to steady him.

"You all right, Captain?" Moss asked. There were heavy bags under his eyes, no doubt from the heavy marching and little sleep they'd done the past couple of days.

Libro could only guess how bad he looked by comparison. "I'm all right. No turning back now."

"Aye, true."

"Everyone ready?"

"Ready," Cent muttered close by. He slipped out of the shadows, boots barely crunching in the snow.

"Good." Libro said. He stared up at the castle a final time, calculated the route, weighed the risks, and came to a swift conclusion.

"Let's go."

They slipped quietly down the hillside, using their coats to hide in the heavy banked snow. Libro took spear point, Moss and Cent trailing him closely on either side, slithering down to their bellies as they reached the bottom and crawling at a dead man's pace.

Inch by desperate inch, the walls of Kel Dracon grew closer, taller, more defined. Libro could make out tiny figures walking along the tops of the parapet, nearly invisible in the forever night save for the tiny, glowing tethers of magick hanging above their heads.

Libro's belly was an ice block by the time he reached the walls. He pressed against the bare rock, ducking down so only his neck and shoulders were visible, the cape appearing more like a drifting snowbank should anyone look down. He shuffled to the side, recalling where the exit hole in the mason's map was located.

Five, six, seven, and eight. Libro stopped in his tracks. Something was wrong. The map said it would be here, but instead of flat stone, a sheet of thick, black ice stared back at him, shimmering like stars in the night sky.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Libro looked back, saw Moss staring at him, one eyebrow raised. He signed over to him in fingercant, thick fingers moving sluggishly in the bitter chill.

"Problem?"

"Thick ice covering the hole." Libro signed back. "No way it's coming off easily."

"Alternatives?"

Libro stared around, but the map had been very specific. One hole. One entrance. One exit. Scaling the walls would prove impossible as well. Security was tight, even for a place like Kel Dracon. They didn't have their tools either, and free climbing was out of the question. What to do, he pondered. What to do?

A crack of lightning nearly jolted Libro out his armor as it pierced the night sky out of nowhere, thunder booming over them with the wrath of Nido herself. Light and sound shook heaven and earth together in one tumultuous clap, filling the air with a terrible noise.

And in an instant, Libro had his answer. "We'll use the storm." He pulled his sword free, aiming at the thinnest part of the ice. "That should hide any sounds we make."

Moss and Cent grunted their approval as they stared up, waiting for the next thunder clap. Libro focused on the wall before him. His men would be his eyes and ears, all he needed to do was wait for the mark.

Moss lifted his finger a half second after the second lightning bolt came crashing down.

Libro swung, the heavy ping from his sword masked under all the noise. A great crack split across the surface, settling in like spider silk.

He tensed back, bringing the sword to bare, waiting, waiting, for just the right moment.

A second finger came up.

The blade smashed against the stony frost, a large chunk of it breaking off and tumbling away. He slid in close, wedging his sword in the crack, leveraging it against his body.

A third finger rose.

With a grunt of pain, Libro pistoned the blade back, ripping the entire sheet free and sending it crumbling down. He stepped back, scanning the parapet for signs of Chosen, but there was no call for alarm, no ringing of bells.

All was clear.

Libro stood before the mason's exit. He could tell the rough shape of it by the different colored mortar they'd used to seal it back up. While not entirely obvious, any mason, or those with a discerning eye, could easily spot the differences.

Libro held up his hand. "Chisel," he signed.

Cent slapped the tool into his outstretched palm, its edge a razor sharp pick, freshly sharpened not but a few hours ago.

He poked and prodded at the mortar, and to his surprise found it crumbling away at the slightest touch. Whether through luck or trickery, he was able to easily remove enough to pull the first brick out, with the assistance of Moss and Cent, of course.

By the time they were finished, a neat little hole had been made for them to slip into.

'I'll take point again," Libro signed.

"Right behind you," Cent said.

Moss merely nodded.

The air was stale and dry within, smelling of vellum and dust and old tapestries. Libro wrinkled his nose, the scent familiar and yet not. Like he was back in the library, or the Deadways.

Cent clapped him on the shoulder, taking his hand and signing into his palm. "Light?"

"Yes."

There was the shuffling of cloth as the man reached into his pack, the gentle click of flint and steel striking. Light bloomed harshly in the tight, little space, spitting stars in Libro's eyes.

He rubbed at them, turned away, then felt the breath leave his body.

Bodies. Hundred of them, and decades old by the looks of it. They sat huddled against each other along the walls, hunched over in dirty packs or curled up along the floor. Their flesh had long since dried up and blown away over the endless years, leaving their skeletons behind, still dressed in tattered workman's attire.

"These must be our masons?" Libro signed.

"What makes you say that?" Cent asked.

"They're the only ones who would know about this place. My guess is that the Right Hand wanted to keep it that way."

"Bastard sealed them inside."

"Looks like it." Libro swallowed. It was a terrible fate, how they all died. Trapped in the dark, slowly wasting away, hoping for the thirst to take them before starvation did, always wondering in the back of their minds if someone would rescue them. Each day a few more would away in their sleep, until the toughest soul out of all of them was finally snuffed out.

"Come on," Libro signed. "Keep moving."

They trudged along at a despairingly slow pace, careful not to disturb any of the remains, each movement calculated, each step a plan unto its own. Libro had guessed correctly the stones would be tightly packed on either side, the light from their torch unable to give away their location.

A gamble maybe, but his time as Captain had proven such actions necessary. Every move he made had the potential of being everyone's last, so he had to make them count, and pray the plan stuck for as long as it did. It was the least his men deserved.

One of the corpses started twitching. Libro froze in his tracks, wondering if he'd imagined it, only for another to start moving as well.

Moss hissed under his breath, sliding his sword out with the gentlest of scrapes.

Libro put a fist up, ordering him to halt. A glow was starting to congeal around them, a sickly green light coming from the dead men's eye sockets. They twitched, stirred, as if awakening from a great sleep, neck bones grinding as they turned to look at him

Something flickered above one of the dead men's heads, the tiniest string of silver. Libro reached out, felt the tug of his marks catching hold, ripping out the line of magick.

The dead man dropped instantly, bones rattling as the glow went out of its eyes.

The string kept going much to Libro's surprise, arm muscles squirming as he continued to pull, the line weaving through several other corpses, each of them snapping off them like ripped thread.

One by one, the eerie green light faded away. Libro stood there, breath steaming out of him, an uncomfortable warmth surging up his body. As if on instinct he diverted the magick into him, a gentle pressure growing in his chest.

Cent stepped up beside him, numb fingers working to speak. "What the seven hells was that?"

"An alarm, I'd wager. The Right Hand probably expected some form of treachery like this to occur. Turning the bodies into booby traps seemed his best solution."

"Thank Nido we have that little trick of yours." Cent stared down at Libro's arm, a thin glow radiating around it. "Still not sure how you figured that one out, though."

"Learning by doing," Libro signed. "Let's go."

*

Moss worked his knife into the mortar, cutting a small hole to peep through. "Kitchen. No one's around though," he motioned with one hand. "Proceed?"

Libro nodded.

It was tender work opening up the other side, but Cent and Moss made it all look like child's play as they stacked the bricks in neat little rows, the only signs of their disturbance being a few chips of plaster, some dust on the floor, and the man-sized hole in the wall.

Libro scanned the room. They were in the kitchen on the ground floor by the looks of it, a few doors leading in and out on either side. The coals had long since gone out in the nearby hearth, pots and pans already scraped clean and put away neatly.

Food had been served and the cooks were long gone. Another strike of luck, Libro wagered. How long though, before that luck eventually ran dry?

"Find me some stairs," Libro signed. Moss and Cent crept about the room, peeking between the cracks in the door frames, gently nudging them aside to stare out.

Cent was the first to raise his hand, waving the rest of them over. Beyond, a small hallway sat conjoined to a craggy looking staircase leading up.

The door beyond it led outside, wind snatching at Libro's hood as he ducked down low, hiding amidst the stones of the parapet. The snow whipped and snapped around them like hungry ghosts, the walls seemingly bare of any wandering patrols, no doubt seeking shelter from the thundering snowstorm. Even starved of life, men like the Chosen still yearned for the safety and comfort that four walls and a roof provided.

Libro waved them on, creeping along at a killer's pace, Moss and Cent trailing after him. The parapet bowed to the left as they paced along, before the main gatehouse fizzled out from the gloom, tiny lights flickering within.

Libro held up a hand, moving towards it on his own. He peeked into the keyhole, and cursed under his breath. How he hated being right sometimes.

Inside, five Chosen sat sprawled out around a table, weapons sitting loosely in their belts or propped up along the walls. The mechanism controlling the gates loomed beside them, an assortment of heavy chains dangling over the main wheelhouse, suspending two heavy weights keeping the gate shut.

He stepped back, weighed his options, and found the entire situation well truly fecked. No amount of threatening, bribing, or convincing would persuade those five men from leaving their little gatehouse peacefully.

That left only one option.

Libro looked over at Moss and Cent, a modest supply of snow caked across their shoulders.

"How many?" Moss signed.

"Five."

"Change of plans?"

"No. Nothing's changed." Libro patted the pommel of his sword. "Kill them all and get the gate open."

***