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There was no need for a warning to stay together. Ekhaas knew that they all understood it implicitly. The wall of mist drew closer and closer as they climbed the valley’s far slope—then all at once, they were inside it, as if the Mournland had reached out to claim them.

Moons and stars were completely cut off. By rights, she shouldn’t have been able to see any better than a human in the dark, but somehow she could. A dim radiance seemed to permeate the mists, as if they caught the moonlight, rendered it thick and opaque, and smeared it through the air. She could see no more than two paces in front of her. Chetiin was a shadow and Dagii, walking beyond him, a ghost. Ekhaas felt no shame in reaching ahead to put one hand on Chetiin’s shoulder and reaching back so that Keraal could grasp the other.

The mists were slightly cool, but not cold. If she stopped moving and the heat of her body warmed the air around her, she probably wouldn’t feel anything at all. Sounds were at once magnified and muffled as if she held a great glass vessel around her head. Her footfalls on the ground—which was dry in spite of the mists—were as quiet as if she walked on green grass, yet her breathing was loud in her ears. She swallowed and heard it like a big stone dropped from a height into a still pond.

It was impossible to tell if they were moving. The mists were constant, the rise of the land—or maybe its fall—so gradual that it could have been level. She understood what Chetiin had meant when he said the mists could be disorienting. It would be easy to wander in circles. Easy too to simply stop and stand still …

“Ekhaas.” Keraal’s voice. A push from behind her. Startled, she stumbled. Her hand left Chetiin’s shoulder. Instantly, the goblin’s small hand seized hers in a hard, rough grip.

“Keep walking,” he said.

“I thought I was walking.”

“It’s the mists.” He sounded tired.

There was a muffled sob from ahead. “Dagii?” Ekhaas called.

“It’s nothing.” His voice was thick.

“Nothing?” Keraal now. Ekhaas looked over her shoulder. His face was drawn and wracked with guilt. “My clan is dead. I led them to their destruction. You know my grief, Dagii. Tell me yours.”

“No, I can’t. I … can’t.” Dagii struggled. “I—”

“Fight it,” Chetiin murmured like a distant echo. “You must fight it.”

Ekhaas ground her teeth together and dragged up a song from inside her. There was magic in it, but not the focused magic of a spell. Rather it was a simple magic, just as it was a simple song, the kind of tune heard in every dar drinking hall—or the drinking halls of any other race for that matter. Into it she poured all of the bawdy joy that she could, singing it as loud as she dared.

“Ahhh, when I was a baby, my mother gave me suck.

She changed my clothes and wiped my nose and tied my hair for luck.

But now that I’m a warrior, I hold other things more dear.

I love my sword, I love my song, but most I love my beer!”

She heard Keraal snort in amusement. She squeezed his hand and Chetiin’s. “Sing!” she said, and launched into the chorus.

“Beer! I love my beer! Beer I love! I love my beer! Be-eer-eer-beer!”

Slowly and dirge-like at first, the men joined in, but their song gained strength until even Dagii sang “Be-eer-eer-beer” with an offkey lustiness. By the time she launched into the second verse, their joined hands were swinging back and forth in time to the song.

“When I was a child, my father gave me sticks.

He told me they were spears and blades and taught me many tricks.

But now that I’m a warrior, I keep my weapons near.

I have my sword, I have my shield, I also have my beer!

Beer! I have my beer—”

In no story that Ekhaas had ever told or even heard had the heroes crept up on their enemy while simultaneously singing a drinking song. In fact, she was fairly confident that no duur’kala had ever heard of such a thing. There was no dignity to it. There was precious little stealth. If there had been elves lurking in the mist—though she couldn’t imagine that they would linger here—they probably would have dismissed the whole spectacle