The impact was terrible. Atgard lost his breath when he fell on his back, plunging deep into a snowdrift. He almost choked, swallowing the prickly snow on the slope, while he and the wounded goblin clung desperately to each other, trying to climb out. Then both of them went over the edge at the same time, and with them Norton, who failed to keep his footing at the edge of the ledge.

  Then came the fall, a terrible blow, and darkness that blotted out the starry sky above his head.

  He lay still, slowly regaining his senses. His lungs, painfully struggling to expand, let out groans. Then Atgard spat—and drew in a full breath, moving his frozen hands to pull himself free from the clinging snow. His vision gradually focused, and he heard shouting, gunshots, and saw a cloud of black creatures rising toward the stars.

  His right leg was firmly stuck in the snow and refused to obey—he realized this as he tried to get up. It had been hurting for a long time, aching before storms, making him groan in his sleep and recall old wounds… but now it was different.

  Now he had to run, pain or no pain.

  He freed his boot, rolled to the side, and crawled toward the shadow of the rocks overhanging him, reaching a crust of hard-packed snow that didn’t break under his weight. Norton was already on his feet, leaning back against the stone with his eyes closed. Around them rose bare, sheer, ice-glazed walls over ten feet high, and between them a narrow path of the gorge ran from south to northwest, strewn with ice hummocks. The sky was perfectly clear, a full moon shone brightly over their trail, and the stars seemed to glimmer and shimmer with cold light.

  "Norton! You all right?"

  "Seems so, though that landing can’t be called soft," the young man muttered, lifting himself. "Everything’s swimming before my eyes, and my head’s spinning… Atgard, that goblin—is he dead?"

  Atgard turned. The mercenary lay still, his head twisted unnaturally to the side. The fingers clutching his musket had gone limp. The firearm was loaded, and a full cartridge belt hung at the goblin’s waist. Atgard managed to remove it and strap it on himself. Norton, trembling, got to his feet and came closer to the corpse, taking its crooked saber.

  "We need to get out of here." He helped Atgard up, and together they made their first shaky step along the gorge floor, their legs buckling beneath them.

  "There should be a way to the ice desert to the west," the warrior muttered. "We won’t find a way to climb up from here…"

  "Who’s up there?"

  "I think Vaimarites," Atgard replied wearily. "And with them… most likely Rodrigo Antan and Kairu. I’m sure they tried to get us out… unless the goblins killed them. Yes, the harpies will have plenty of prey tonight."

  "Who… who are the harpies?" Norton asked, shivering. Their warm clothes had been left above, and over Vaimar reigned a fierce winter frost.

  "Predators here. Foul creatures. They have powerful wings and snatch their prey into the sky, kill it midair, tear out the meat, and drop the remains. We have to be careful. They’re cunning; they’ve seen we’re here, and they’ll try to find us—lone wanderers are their favorite prey."

  And indeed, black shapes, their leathery wings beating, swept over the gorge, crying loudly.

  The fugitives moved on. Sliding along in the blue shadow of the high cliffs, they left the battlefield. They didn’t know that up above, the battle had long been over, and Rodrigo Antan was already searching the mountains for Demetra. The gorge walls formed a narrow corridor that occasionally curved slightly, changing direction. Norton, stronger and less injured, now pulled along the limping Atgard, who leaned heavily on his bad leg.

  Then came the flapping of wings from behind, and they pressed themselves against the icy flat wall, hiding behind rocky outcrops. Several dozen black shadows swept past them and quickly vanished upward, turning into small, distant, harmless dots.

  Then they were spotted.

  "Faster!" Atgard rasped, letting go of Norton’s shoulder and walking on his own, gritting his teeth and forcing his bad leg to keep pace.

  The shadows circled above, and suddenly one of them gave a triumphant cry, folded its wings, and dove like a stone. Norton leapt to the side, and Atgard snapped up his musket and fired. The first harpy sprawled in the snow. But it was too late: the rest were already gathering above, preparing to hunt.

  By Atgard’s reckoning, the exit to the plateau was about a mile away. Under other circumstances, they could have covered the distance in no more than twenty minutes, but now it would take them a good hour to limp along the gorge. And they had not a minute to spare.

  He raised his firearm again, calmly took aim, and a bullet tore into another ambitious harpy’s chest. These creatures feared fire, smoke, and deadly lead. After the third dropped like a stone among the ice hummocks, the rest no longer dared attack so boldly. But they clearly had no intention of letting their prey escape.

  Atgard and Norton pressed on, keeping their eyes on the greedy predators, gripping their weapons with fear-slick hands.

  Ahead lay a tangle of ice blocks and rocks. The gorge walls narrowed, and above them hung huge, sharp boulders, held precariously by fragile ice formations.

  "This way," Atgard muttered, scrambling up the heap. Norton followed. The harpies wheeled directly above them, screaming shrilly… Here, the fugitives were exposed to all the winds, their dark coats standing out starkly against the winter blue glittering in the bright moonlight, but the edge of the gorge was already near. To the west, almost at the horizon, the cliffs narrowed, and a thin trail led upward.

  The cartridge belt hung at Atgard’s waist, still with plenty of smooth lead balls inside. Taking one, he absentmindedly rolled it between his fingers, staring up at the sky. The cries rang in his ears, and everything seemed unreal, slipping into the background…

  "Atgard," Norton whispered, touching his elbow. "Atgard… We have to go…"

  "Yes." The Kald shook his head, shaking off the trance. "Yes. I agree. Listen, friend… These creatures won’t leave us alone. I’ll distract them a bit—you go ahead, I’ll give you a head start, then follow right after."

  "Are you out of your mind?" Norton’s voice rang with steel; at that moment, he reminded Atgard devilishly of his elder brother… "I’m not leaving you here alone! We go together—don’t be stupid."

  "You’re a fool, Norton," the Kald said almost affectionately. "We’ve got two options: either we both make it out, or we both die. I’m offering the first one… but understand—you must survive no matter what, get to Kairu—you’re needed there. Me… I’m second priority."

  Norton gripped his hand.

  "Atgard…"

  "Do you doubt my skills?" Atgard asked mockingly. "And my experience? Wait for me at the exit. I’ll follow right after, just so we don’t draw trouble. Now go!"

  He shouted it almost angrily. Another flash flared, and another harpy, shrieking shrilly, dropped into the snow. The rest settled on rock ledges or the ground, folding their wings, but not daring to come closer. Now the men could see them clearly in the moonlight. Covered in blue or gray skin, they were grotesque caricatures of naked women, with blazing red eyes, long dark hair, long claws on their hands, grasping fingers, and large webbed wings on their backs. They made no articulate sounds, only screeched and howled, baring yellow fangs.

  "Well!" Atgard roared—and Norton clapped him on the shoulder and dashed away.

  The harpies soared into the air, chasing the young man, but Atgard raised his musket, and the first of them dropped as if it had struck an invisible barrier. He fired again, and again, and again, and each bullet found its mark… His hands were freezing, his fingers going numb, and his leg ached more than ever. Completely worn out, Atgard thought. I’ve lost my edge…

  The next harpy that lunged at him he struck with the butt of his gun, snapping its spine in a single blow. The creatures no longer pursued Norton. Their attention was fixed entirely on the lone marksman.

  It seemed as if there were only more of them with each passing moment, though the gorge was already littered with sprawled, bloodied corpses. One still managed to reach Atgard before he could reload and fire, its sharp claws ripped through his jacket and grazed his face. A thin stream of hot blood ran down, and it seemed to give him strength. He roared in fury, snapping up the gun once more. Another beast, flying higher than the rest, gave a final cry and plummeted.

  Atgard could no longer see Norton. The shining moonlit path along the gorge floor lay empty. He glanced around, reached into the cartridge belt—and realized he was out of bullets.

  Atgard laughed with a hoarse, cracked sound.

  He hurled the musket aside and began to move away slowly, already hearing behind him the fresh cries and the beating of approaching wings. He already knew he wouldn’t make it. These creatures saw that the Kald was unarmed, he had become nothing more than easy prey, and there were more of them, many more. The caves in the cliffs above the goblin camp now stood empty, and every huntress dwelling in this part of Vaimar had chosen the same target, one lonely man.

  But he knew he had done everything in his power. He could be proud of himself. He had given Norton the chance to escape… and Demetra and Anzerrat were free.

  "Come on, then, you bastards," he said hoarsely and wearily, turning toward them.

  They seemed to understand.

  Wings beat all around him, piercing cries stabbed into his mind. He fought back, but weakly. The claws were already in him, like daggers, piercing his heart, blood spurting from the wounds, life dimming like the stub of a candle—and Atgard died.

  ***

  "It’s time to leave," said Rodrigo.

  The four of them stood before the rockfall, gazing at the faint shimmering band of dawn in the distance and the pinkish-violet patch of sky to the east. Atgard’s body lay before them, and if not for the torn wounds covering it, one might have thought the knight had simply lain down here to rest after a hard battle. Anzerrat wept openly: he had known this man nearly all his life. Atgard had been not just a teacher and mentor, but a friend. Norton said nothing; inside, he felt hollow and desolate. He had grown used to death, and only a dull pang touched his heart when he saw the man who, just an hour ago, had been alive and speaking with him, now lying dead in the icy wastes of harsh Vaimar.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "Thank you for everything," Anzerrat said in a choked voice. "If not for you… we might all be dead already."

  "What will you do now, Captain Anzerrat?" Demetra asked quietly.

  "I will go in search of the refugees from Asternia. My family should be among them if they managed to leave the city. If not, I have no choice but to return to Aktida to find them… And you?"

  "We’ll go with the Fighters’ Guild to Vairad, and from there to the Temple of Tornir," Rodrigo said.

  "No," Demetra objected.

  The bodyguard looked at her in astonishment. The girl was trembling from the cold, the bloodied marks from the ropes still visible on her wrists chafed raw by frost. Yet her face burned with a determination none of them had ever seen in her before.

  "I beg your pardon, my lady?.."

  "We’re going north," Demetra said firmly. "We’ll find Kairu Kenai’s squad and rejoin them. Norton needs to be with his brother. And we can be of use to them."

  "My lady, that’s an incredibly dangerous choice," Rodrigo said grimly. "We don’t know where to find them, or even if they’re still alive. Yes, they were heading north toward the ruins of Ardrai, but going there on our own is suicide. I’m against it. I believe you need rest and safety, and the Temple of Tornir is the best place for that."

  "I’ve made my decision, Rodrigo, and you won’t change my mind," Demetra replied quietly. "And Norton agrees with me—don’t you, Norton? You need your brother. And he needs you."

  "If he needs me, why didn’t he come with Rodrigo to save us?" Norton shouted, turning to her. His voice shook, heavy with endless grief. "Maybe then Atgard would still be alive!"

  Rodrigo shook his head darkly.

  "They believed the danger you faced was far less than the danger they were in themselves. And they hoped that once you were rescued by the fighters from Vairad, we would all go together somewhere safe. My lady, Demetra, I think Lord Lainter"—Rodrigo put particular emphasis on the name—"wanted to protect you, but instead you’re heading straight into the fire. Between us and them lies the ice desert, and it’s a long and dangerous road…"

  "They need us," Demetra repeated. "I’m certain of it… I can feel it. I feel that if we don’t go, something terrible will happen."

  Her eyes shone, and there was so much conviction in her voice that Rodrigo only shook his head and said nothing more.

  Rodrigo’s and Demetra’s packs were ready, but there was still one last thing to do. The gorge lay empty; the men of Vairad were tending to the wounded and dead above. In the gray light of dawn, shivering in the terrible cold, the travelers laid some of their fuel atop the rockfall, built a small mound, placed Atgard’s body upon it, and set it alight. There was no wind, and the fire caught quickly, the flames leaping toward the sky, devouring the corpse of the Warrior Guild captain, who had earned the title of count and had hoped to grow old in a quiet estate in southern Aktida—but instead had perished thousands of miles from home. Smoke coiled upward, curling into strange shapes in the frozen air.

  The soldiers of Vairad’s Fighters’ Guild, Rodrigo, and the three rescued prisoners stood silently watching the flames dance and fade, and when only ash remained atop the rockfall, they moved toward the exit from the gorge and there parted ways, heading off in different directions.

  The rescue party turned south, returning to the town at the foot of the Olmaer Mountains.

  Anzerrat, Rodrigo Antan, Demetra, and Norton headed north, toward the boundless expanse of the ice desert.

  ***

  People were loading tents, water flasks, sacks of supplies, fuel, and medicines onto the sleds. Telorand Elrith had given them a break, and now the weary pilgrims sat, some on the sleds, some on the snow, lighting pipes and talking. The centaurs moved off to the side, among the trees; the light of white torches cast glimmers on their stone-like faces.

  Ioran was there. He often preferred the company of the former governor to that of the centaurs, and now they were talking for the last time before parting ways.

  In the battles for Mainor and Boreain, many inhabitants of the Enchanted Forest had perished, but King Levkir, who had also had to lead his people out of conquered Aktida, burned with the desire to take revenge on Saelin and return the land of the centaurs. He knew that at the border of Regerlim the army would split, and a large detachment would head south to join the rebels. In the Olmaer Mountains, an army of unprecedented size was gathering, and all across Laugdeil there were thousands of volunteers eager to take part in the decisive battle for Aktida.

  "We will come too," Telorand nodded, gazing thoughtfully at the flickering flame of the campfire. The snow covering his clothes melted, and the fire’s life-giving warmth touched his skin. "I will consider it an honor to take part in this war and fall in battle… There are a few of us, but one day we will come to the Fortress."

  "And I won’t go there right away," Ioran sighed. "I want to reach Regerlim before it’s all over, because I feel that afterward I’ll never get anywhere again. And I still have friends and family in the forest."

  "You’re lucky," Telorand said grimly. "I no longer have anyone left to say goodbye to—or anyone I’d want to. Perhaps that’s why I feel I must fight? So there’s at least some meaning to life?"

  The people rose and got ready to move. The fires were extinguished, the women and children seated on the sleds, the men lit their torches, and the procession slowly moved off northward. In farewell, Telorand clasped Ioran’s hand firmly and said, "Goodbye," though he did not expect to meet the centaur again. Soon the sleds vanished into the mist of the long winter night, and only the torch flames shimmered for a long time, fading into the depths of the icy desert.

  Ioran watched them go, then turned to follow the centaurs. They walked slowly and solemnly, as when on a pilgrimage to the Dragon Forge, their backs to the rising sun and the brief winter day. They walked without tiring, hooves measuring the snow in steady rhythm, and met the sunset still on that same march, the sun setting straight ahead, showing the way.

  Twilight gathered again, but no stars lit up the dark blue sky. The heavens stirred, flaring with bursts of green and crimson fire; then, like lace curtains veiled in the haze of celestial light, the lights began to drift, colliding and stretching, until soon the entire vast sky glittered with cold colors. They swayed as if stirred by an idle breeze through the windows of some enormous, majestic heavenly palace, and among them, like in a vague mirage, visions and images could be seen, holding a hundred associations for anyone who looked. The centaurs stood still, heads bowed before this radiance of a castle beyond the clouds, which had broken into the frosty, clear night, each silently praying to the gods that the vision might linger as long as possible.

  Ioran gazed up at the heavens in wonder, forgetting himself, but then, lowering his eyes, he saw something else. A trio of dark figures stood nearby, also seemingly awestruck by the Northern Lights. Ioran stepped forward, walking leisurely toward them, and soon they noticed him too: two men, a teenage boy, and a girl wrapped in a fur coat, all carrying huge backpacks.

  "Greetings, pilgrims!" said Ioran. "We are from the Enchanted Forest, in the north of Aktida, and we are heading north to Regerlim. We mean you no harm."

  "You see, Rodrigo!" said Demetra, her face lighting up with joy. "It’s a sign! Please, please, let us go with you!"

  Rodrigo took a deep breath. But his face relaxed. Traveling north with a band of centaurs would be much safer than going as a group of four.

  "I’m not sure you’ll keep our pace," the centaur shook his head. "We walk faster than humans… But we just parted ways with a large group of human refugees from Asternia heading to Vairad. You could join them."

  "From Asternia!" Anzerrat exclaimed excitedly. "That’s exactly what I need! Where did they go?"

  "South," the centaur waved.

  "Rodrigo, do as you wish, but here I part with you," the Nocturn said firmly. "My wife and children may be there. I understand your wish to reunite with Kenai’s band, but I cannot share it."

  "Of course, Anzerrat," Demetra replied for her bodyguard. "We can’t judge you. Hurry, and I hope you find your family."

  "Thank you for everything," Anzerrat nodded. "And thank you as well, good sir… forgive me, how should I address you?"

  "My name is Ioran," the centaur replied.

  "I know who you are!" Norton exclaimed, breaking in. "Kairu told us about meeting you last winter in the Enchanted Forest!"

  "Kairu? You know Kairu Kenai?" Ioran was astonished. "Remarkable! Governor of Asternia, Lord Telorand, also knew him…"

  "Of course I know him—he’s my brother! And we are heading north now to find him!"

  "That changes things," Ioran said quietly, thinking. "I think we can help you. If there are only three of you… you’ll ride. Centaurs dislike it, but for Kairu Kenai’s brother and his friends, we can make an exception."

  "In that case, here our paths part," said Anzerrat. "I don’t know if we’ll ever meet again… But I am a fighter by trade, which means there’s a good chance that once my family is safe, I’ll join the army and take part in the liberation of Aktida. So… perhaps we’ll meet on the battlefield!"

  He embraced Demetra, Rodrigo, and Norton in turn, then turned and ran off, almost leaping, to catch up with the southbound stream of refugees.

  Ioran arranged with his friends to take the three humans into their group. Demetra mounted his mighty back, while two other centaurs agreed to carry Rodrigo and Norton. The band moved forward in solemn procession across the icy desert. The Northern Lights flared once more, casting reflections on the glittering snow, then faded, leaving a black sky studded with stars. A white moon lit the path through the shining blue plain.

  ***

  That winter had been especially harsh for the Wolf Clan.

  Ever since the eruption of the volcano thirty years ago flooded the great city of Ardrai, the druids’ ties with the humans of northern Regerlim had steadily worsened. People were abandoning the north, profits from brothels and gambling houses were falling, and smuggling remained the only source of income. But with the war in Aktida, supplies of food and resources from the south had slowed. The druids had money to buy anything, but even bold smugglers rarely ventured north lately in search of good deals, and even more rarely did they bring goods with them. Grumbling had long been brewing in the small Wolf Clan: all the gold earned from trading weapons and forbidden herbs could not be exchanged for food. The only thing still feeding the druids was hunting, but in the nearby groves it was already hard to find enough game to make up for the shortage of grain and meat once bought from humans. The animals had gone south for the winter or retreated into deep dens and caves, and life in the outpost had become a brutal struggle for survival for what remained of the clan.

  But there were other, far more serious concerns. Cold and hunger could be endured by strictly rationing supplies. But against the warriors of an enemy clan preparing to attack Aok’s domain, something much greater was needed—at least enough fighters and good weapons. Aok had neither.

  It was to be expected that peaceful life in the old place would not last long. And so it proved.

  "Who’s that?" the shaman asked quietly, as he and the chieftain approached the farthest watch posts, where sentries kept an eye on the approaches to the outpost. From there, they could see movement far off among the trees. In the darkness, golden helmets gleamed, and lynx heads dangled from the strangers’ belts…

  "Our old acquaintances…" Aok muttered, peering into the dark forest thickets. "The Clan of Bor. Their scouts, I see. They’ve tracked us down… made it here… They’re still far off, but clearly moving our way."

  "What shall we do?" The shaman turned pale.

  "What do you think…? There’s no doubt they’ll find our hideout. Too close now not to notice. We could kill the scouts, but that would be an even clearer sign to them than if we started firing ballistae into the sky and shouting ‘Happy New Year!’…"

  "You suggest retreating?"

  "At the very least, we need to gather our things and prepare for an emergency evacuation." Aok bit his lip, frowning. "But if we leave Jeneria, only one path remains to us."

  "North," the shaman nodded in understanding.

  "North. Near the ruins of Ardrai, there’s another outpost, well fortified. We can hold there if they manage to track us again. Maybe… we’ll get a reprieve until spring."

  "Let’s wait," the shaman said uncertainly. "Maybe Vaimos will take pity, and their scouts will pass us by…"

  But Vaimos did not take pity. The druids lingered until it became clear the outpost’s location was compromised, and Bor’s Clan huge army was approaching Jeneria. Aok had his own ways of gathering information. The whole of Regerlim was his ally, birds and beasts ready to serve him at any moment. And the forest itself whispered to him that the enemy clan was already nearby, preparing for a surprise assault.

  So the druids left. Into the welcoming Forest, onto the far northern trail. They took only the bare essentials, leaving behind hastily scattered belongings and half-finished dwellings in Jeneria.

  They knew little of their enemies’ intentions. They did not know that the Lynx Clan’s new allies were creatures who hunted humans, the same humans who, only a week earlier, had left the outpost to seek the sanctuary of Vaimos. They did not know that goblins were on the trail, scarcely lagging behind their prey and ready to follow them even to the ends of the earth. They did not know that they too would, once more, after thirty years, take part in the conflict of men and play their role in it, a little later. But such thoughts never even crossed the druids’ minds.

  On the night of January third, Aok, driving his people hard, left Regerlim in the northeast. They crossed the hilly field that separated the mountains from the forest, and along the road winding among black, hardened flows of lava, climbed to the ancient, desiccated ruins. Their ascent was shielded by a terrible blizzard raging that night over the ridge.

  And at that very same time, on the other side of the Fire-Breathing Mountain, Kairu Kenai left his friends trapped behind and descended the stone steps of the shrine into the swirling snowy haze.