The forest pressed in tight along the valley road, its bare limbs reaching overhead like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Snow clung to the branches in heavy clumps. The cold settled into Jorik's bones long before midday, despite the thick bearskin stretched over his shoulders.
They rode in a loose column, the trail too narrow for a proper line. The old road was barely more than a rut of churned mud and ice, with tree roots breaking through the frozen ground like crooked fingers. Jorik counted every mile in the stiffness of his knees and the ache in his back.
"Not a sound," muttered Halric behind him, his voice carrying in the still air. "Not even crows."
"They're waiting for us to freeze," one of the Black Harp men joked. His name was Dregan, a wiry, hollow-eyed killer who smiled too easily when talk turned to blood.
The sky hung low, the light flat and gray. The forest smelled of frost, wet bark, and old decay. It was the kind of place where men vanished and were never spoken of again.
Jorik kept his gaze sharp, his axe handle slick with cold in his glove. He'd fought long enough to trust his gut, and his gut told him they weren't alone.
As they rounded a bend, the trees opened slightly, revealing a stone marker half-buried in snow. It was weathered and worn, moss clinging to its face, but the old letters could still be made out.
Woldmere's Road.
Dregan spat into the snow. "There it is. Place isn't a ghost after all."
Halric rode closer, peering at the stone. "Old tongue. That's king's script, from before the split."
Jorik grunted. He wasn't a man for tales of lost kings and fallen banners, but there was weight in stone like that. It marked the border of men's ambition once, when lines on maps meant more than raiding grounds and winter holds.
"Another mile, maybe two," he said.
They pressed on.
The road widened where the valley began to narrow, the trees thinning on either side. Frost rimmed the rocks, and a half-frozen stream wound along the path. The stockade came into view without warning, a jagged ring of timbers half-collapsed and crusted with ice.
It was worse than Jorik expected.
Only a handful of the wall posts still stood upright. Most had sagged or splintered under the weight of years and snow. The gate hung open, one side leaning drunkenly against a drift. Smoke rose from within, thin and pale.
"Someone's here," Dregan said, pulling his axe from its loop.
Jorik raised a hand. "Keep steady. Could be hill folk, could be worse. No blades unless I give word."
They rode to the gate, the snow crunching loud in the stillness.
Inside, two figures crouched by a small fire pit. One was an old man, face lined like split bark, wrapped in a filthy cloak. The other was a girl, no more than ten, bundled in rags, eyes wide as a wolf's.
Jorik dismounted, leaving the others to cover him.
"You hold this ground?" he called.
The old man looked up, slow and sunken-eyed. "I hold what I can," he rasped.
Jorik approached, axe at his side. "Name?"
The old man shook his head. "Names don't matter. Not anymore."
Halric came up beside him. "He's no lord."
"I can see that," Jorik said flatly.
The old man pointed a crooked finger toward a half-collapsed building. "Three more inside. Sick. Been here since harvest."
Dregan sneered. "And who do you owe your tithe to, old crow?"
The man's gaze didn't waver. "No one. Not in years."
Jorik looked around. The place wasn't worth the blood it would take to claim it. Half a dozen hungry souls in a ruin no better than a cow pen. But Garran had sent them for ground, not coin.
"Mark the place," Jorik said. "They owe Thornholt now. They stay, or they leave, but no one else takes it. Not unless they answer to us."
Halric nodded. "Leave a mark."
Dregan grinned, taking a torch from his saddlebag. He scrawled a crude mark on one standing post with soot and ash. Not much of a banner, but it would serve.
Jorik tossed a half-wheel of hard bread to the girl. She caught it with quick hands.
"Tell the next warband comes through," he said. "This place belongs to Garran of Thornholt."
The old man only nodded.
As the riders turned back for the long road home, Jorik cast one last glance at the broken stockade. Another inch of land held. Another place for the dead to settle.
It would do.