The Throne of Ice & Ash (The Runewar Saga #1) (PREVIEW)

Prologue: An Omen in the Fog

Murth Goldbritches was staring into the snow-speckled mist when he caught sight of the omen.

To another man, it might have seemed an illusion. A blizzard could fool any eye, and there were no worse storms than those found in the heart of the Teeth. But Murth was no new leaf. A scout of the mountains for nearly two decades, his eyes were still as sharp as any others, and he had seen more than his fair share of the winter's tricks.

"What are you trying to tell me now, you fickle sprites?" he muttered under his breath.

The omen shimmered in reds and blues, barely visible through the snow and fog, the streams of light intertwining and twisting like cavorting youths on a festival day. While enchanting to behold, something about it spoke of violence and fury. If this was a dance, it was a killing dance — another thing with which a scout of the Teeth was all too familiar.

Murth firmed his jaw. Bonewomen might set stock in signs from the wilds, but it did not change a scout's duty.

"Omens be damned, by Jün's mane," he murmured as he turned away from the cliff.

"Seen enough?" Nifil the Suckler grinned as Murth hunched behind the boulder where his companion had taken shelter.

"I see more in a blizzard than you would on a clear day," Murth retorted.

"Ever the charmer! No wonder your wife is so taken with you."

Murth grunted in reply. As much as he adored his wife, she was the last person he wanted to think of. Think of her too much, and he might lose the courage to do what must be done.

He stretched his legs, trying to ease his aching joints. "Best be going. Hoarfrost doesn't take kindly to delays."

"That I know," Nifil agreed, standing more easily than Murth. The lad had barely twenty winters to him and all the optimism of a summer child. Only a boy would think to suckle on an icicle for water and thus earn his Name.

It'll serve him well, Murth thought, that attitude. As long as it doesn't get him killed.

Strapping on their skis, they made quick time down the slope. With minimal visibility, it might have been a harrowing journey, but Murth had often made the trip up to this overlook. Clearer days afforded a view for leagues around, and he had been hoping the weather might scatter enough to take a look and ensure no foes advanced into Skyardi territory under the storm's cover. But it had been a vain wish from the start. Even if the snows had abated, the damnable mist that covered the valley over the past week would have remained. The foul taste of the fog, reminiscent of spoiled eggs, lingered on his tongue no matter how many times he spat.

As they arrived at the start of the valley descent, Murth stopped and stared down at the snow piled before their skis. Nifil came up beside him.

"What is it, old man?"

"If I'm the old one, how is it you don't see those tracks?"

There were dozens of sets going to and from the path into the vale. No paw prints, these. Any scout worth his skis could see the impressions were the shape of men's boots. Murth's right eyelid flickered, as it always did when he grew nervous. Is it sign enough? he asked himself. Would Hoarfrost say we did our duty to report on this alone?

But he knew the answer. A scout did not return with an incomplete report. At least, not both of a pair.

He sucked in a deep breath. "Return to Hoarfrost. Report back what we've seen."

Nifil stared at him. "What? Aren't you coming with?"

"You know our code. If there's danger, the second reports the initial signs."