The captain and his band of horsemen led the charge. Behind them, a pair of draft horses strained against their harnesses, traces pulling taut as they hauled the wagon into the cave. Its wheels creaked against the slick stone as the last remnants of sunlight bled out behind them. The walls were uneven and dark, with the scent of cold wet limestone, mineralized water gathered at the tips of long, spear-like stalactites and dropped into pools with rhythmic plinks. The sound rebounded through the passages like the ticking of an ancient clock. Shadows swam wildly along the walls, distorted by the irregular faces of stone and the presence of stalagmites that jutted like jagged teeth from the floor.

  A group of shuddering spearmen walked behind the wagon. Halvar, the burly mercenary with the patched beard and shattered shoulder guard, trudged beside his limping horse, supporting the horse with his hands, between clenched teeth, voice hoarse from exhaustion. The cavern swallowed their procession whole.

  Every step and trundle echoed like a warning. Large flat-bodied and twitching brown insects skittered across the path ahead, vanishing into cracks beneath the stone ledges as if repelled by the warmth and occasional eerie green light bleeding in threatening pulses from Christofer’s body. The shredded canopy above him hung in wet ribbons, fluttering faintly with each motion. Damp air settled on his skin like mist, condensing on the still-healing flesh beneath his shirt. He radiated warmth like a furnace sealed in scar tissue and cloth. They moved slowly, haltingly, up a subtle incline. The wheels slipped at intervals, catching briefly against jagged outcroppings or sinking into muck left behind by previous floods.

  The spearmen began climbing into the wagon. A boyish-looking veteran with a black eye and broken fingers said nothing as he slumped beside Christofer. Teeth chattering as he crawled in with a hiss and curled into himself. They spilled into the wagon like dirty laundry, folding in around Christofer’s unconscious heat. Their armor clinked faintly as they shifted. Steam fogged the air as he breathed, with his scars casting the eerie gray light in pulses, as Christofer shifted in his sleep. One man clutched a cloth-wrapped hand close to his chest. The wagon creaked under the new weight. The wounded, the shivering, and the damp pressed together in silence, huddled around a man who might set them aflame with a twitch.

  An animal rumble reverberated beneath the floor of the cave, a deep wet snarl like the snapping of jaws. The freezing man lay still as it came again. It echoed from the direction of the wetlands. Ike whispered something to the Captain, who raised a torch toward the ceiling and stared into the pitch.

  “Keep moving,” he ordered, and they lurched forward.

  Light shone through at dawn on the third day. The mouth of the cave yawned open before them like a ruined gate, frost lining the upper ledges.

  “Damn, that’s cold.” Ike commented as he got outside.

  Snow was falling down with the wind into layers of snow, like a white blanket over the land. The winter’s lacerating winds had stripped the last leaves from the trees and were groaning under the weight of the snow. The boots of the men walking next to the carriage crunched through the powdered snow while the horses stamped their frozen hooves and shook their chilly bodies to warm up. Many of the men’s teeth were chattering, their noses sniveling and they were rubbing their hands together in a desperate attempt to get warm.

  The tired horses’ wheezy, wind-filled lungs were belching out steam as they walked slowly down the snow covered road, past densely packed, snow covered trees to a stone fortress hidden behind them. The captain got down from his horse, walked up and banged on the sturdy wooden gates with his fist.

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  “Let me in,” the captain said

  “Why?” A questioning voice echoed from within.

  “So I can save you.”

  “From what?”

  “From what I'm going to do to you if you don't let me in,” the captain yelled and banged on the gates again with his fist, “My men are freezing to death out here. Open up!”

  A woman clad in three flowing layers of white animal pelts coats carefully lifted up the layers of pelt like a skirt and carefully walked over the icy stone tiles of the battlements, past two guards that were talking. The icy wind whipped through the gaps in between the large stone merlons along the edge of the battlements.

  “...All I’m saying is that the dragon’s fire breath was just not hot enough to melt the castle’s support beams-” a man whispered to another guard.

  “Eh, I don’t-” the guard bit his tongue and instantly stopped talking and saluted the woman.

  The other soldier also saluted her when he realized why the other guard had stopped talking. The woman glanced down through a gap in the machicolated walls.

  “Who’s making all that ruckus so early in the morning? S-soldiers?” the woman said, “So soon?”

  The battlements scarcely illuminated who was below due to the dim light of smoking lanterns and guttering torches around her. However, she could recognize that they were soldiers.

  “Yes, Baroness! They don’t appear to be enemies but they aren’t wearing the lord’s livery either…”

  The woman narrowed her eyes. A faint shimmer pulsed at the rear of the procession — not torchlight. Something softer. Greener. Like moonlight caught in a bottle.

  “Do you see that?” she murmured.

  The guards beside her leaned closer to the gap in the battlements, but said nothing.

  “It’s coming from the wagon.”

  “A trick of the torches, maybe,” one offered.

  “No,” she said. “That light... it breathes… Warlock?”

  “Warlock.”

  A pause. Then louder, clipped and clear.

  “I am the mistress of this fortress, in charge of this garrison. State your purpose!”

  The captain could feel their eyes on him now and the cold began to creep beneath his skin as his concentration wavered. Christofer stuck his head back out of the carriage.

  “Mistress?”

  “The female form of Master?” Ike asked, somewhat confused.

  “Ah.” Christofer gave him a thumbs up and leaned back in the carriage. Ike frowned.

  The captain cursed the cold to whatever god he thought would listen as he drew in breath. Down below, outside the gate, the captain rubbed his hands together for heat and blew on them. He glanced up on the iron portcullis as he awaited the opening of the gate.

  “We are here by the order of his excellence, the northern highlord, for a scheduled stop on our journey to escort a particular individual to the Cerulean Keep,” the captain roared back, “We are the Varang Cavalry, a band of mercenaries led by yours truly.”

  “Mercenaries? Varang Cavalry?” one of the guards asked, ”What is the meaning of this? Why were we not informed?”

  “No telling, something must have happened higher up the chain of command,” the baroness replied, “I’m surprised the high lord’s coffers were full enough to hire mercenaries.”

  “So, what do we do, Baroness?” the guard asked while the woman pondered for a moment.

  “Let them in,” she said calmly and gestured towards four guards.