Page 61 of The War of Four Winters

"You'll do what you do best," I finished for him.

We moved forward, adjusting our posture and gait to appear more casual, less military. Niro pulled his hood lower, shrouding his features. Even in the dim light, his elven heritage would be obvious to anyone looking closely, but travelers exhausted from fighting through a snowstorm might miss the telltale signs.

As we rounded a bend in the trail, the source of the voices came into view. Two men stood in a small clearing, one holding the reins of a heavily laden mule. They had erected a crude lean-to against the snow, and a small fire sputtered beneath it, sending thin tendrils of smoke into the gray morning light. Their backs were to us, attention focused on adjusting the animal's burden.

"Hail, camp!" I called, keeping my tone carefully neutral.

Both men spun, hands dropping to weapons before relaxing at the sight of what appeared to be fellow humans. The older of the two, a weathered man with a graying beard and snow crusting his eyebrows, offered a gap-toothed smile.

"Well met, travelers," he called back. "Didn't expect company in these parts, especially not with this cursed weather."

"Nor did we," I replied, approaching with caution, my boots crunching through the fresh snow. "What brings you so far from the main roads?"

The younger man, barely more than a boy with snow caught in his thin beard, shifted nervously, but the older one just chuckled. "Could ask the same of you. These are dangerous times to be wandering."

"We're heading south," I said, offering what had become a common story among displaced humans. "Escaped our master during the chaos when the northern villages burned. Heard Ruith's rebels are taking in humans, giving food and shelter to those who join them. Storm caught us before we could reach the southern road."

"South, eh?" The older man studied us with new interest. "Those rebel handouts are just stories, boy. You'll find nothing but more elvish masters down there. You'd be better served heading west, toward Homeshore. That's where the real opportunities are these days. For free men."

Niro tensed. Something about the man's tone had changed, an eagerness that hadn't been there before.

"What kind of opportunities?" I asked, moving closer to the fire.

"Profitable ones. The new king in Homeshore, he pays well for certain... services." He gestured toward his mule. "A silver piece for each knife-ear head. No questions about where they came from or how you got them."

The sacks tied to the mule's flanks suddenly took on horrific meaning. I could see shapes within them now, rounded forms that could only be one thing.

"You're collecting bounties," I said, keeping my voice steady through sheer will. "On elven heads."

"Quick on the uptake, aren't you?" The man grinned, interpreting my words as approval. "Name's Brecht. This here's my nephew Tam. Been working our way through these forests for a fortnight now. Good hunting, if you know where to look."

Niro's presence beside me was like a coiled spring, but his control was absolute. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face as this human casually discussed murdering his kind.

"May I see?" I asked, gesturing to the sacks.

Brecht nodded eagerly. "Got sixteen fresh ones. Well, mostly fresh." He untied one of the sacks, reaching inside without hesitation. "This one's a real prize. Some kind of officer, judging by the fancy hair ornaments."

He pulled out a severed head by its long silver hair, holding it up like a trophy. The face was male, youngish by elven standards, with the high cheekbones and refined features typical of the northern clans. The skin had already begun to gray, but the expression of terror remained frozen in death. Delicate silver beads still clung to the blood-matted braids, ice crystals forming where melting snow had refrozen.

"You know these bastards believe their souls live in their heads?" Brecht continued, oblivious. "What a crock of sheep shit. That's why we don't bury them, though. Keeps their spirits trapped, unable to reincarnate or some such nonsense. Psychological warfare, he calls it." He gave the head a little shake. "Wouldn't know about all that, but silver spends the same whether you believe in elvish souls or not. Far better pay than whatever scraps the rebel king might throw your way."

"Sixteen heads," I said carefully. "That's quite a haul. You hunt them alone?"

"Not as hard as you'd think," Brecht replied, casually returning the head to its sack. "Elves everywhere. Course, it's easier when you're hunting merchants and womenfolk and not soldiers, eh?" His laughter sounded like a hiss.

"And King Michail pays for this?" I asked, needing to hear the confirmation.

"Aye, silver piece per head, no matter the age or rank," Brecht confirmed.

Beside me, Niro made a sound so soft only I could hear it, a breath drawn through clenched teeth. I placed a subtle hand on his arm, a request for patience. Not yet.

"Seems like good business," I observed. "Any room for partners? Beats begging for rebel charity."

Brecht studied me with new consideration. "Depends. You handy with that blade? Knife-ears die easy enough, but sometimes they've got friends."

"I manage," I said. "Served in the palace guard back home, before all this."

His eyes widened with interest. "Palace guard! Well now, that's different. King's always looking for trained men." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Tell you what. Help us deliver this batch to Homeshore, and I'll introduce you personally. Good bounties are just the start. He's building something there, something big. Needs men with proper training. A man who knows how to use a sword can rise high. No more bowing to knife-ears or hoping for handouts from pretender kings."

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