Meanwhile, in Fenan, Kaj woke up late that same morning, feeling like his head was about to burst. He looked out a window and saw that it had stopped snowing. The sun timidly peeked out from behind the clouds, its bright rays blinding him for a second. He washed his face, and as he dried off, he found himself staring at his old trunk, which he hadn’t opened since he’d gotten back to Fenan. He needed to do it if he wanted to follow Clarice, as everything he needed was in there. He threw the towel on the bed, bent down in front of the trunk, and slowly opened its lid. As soon as he saw its contents, his heart skipped a beat. They were mementoes of times past—and they were all he’d managed to recover from his prior home. The first thing he picked up was his old diary. His hands trembled, and he struggled to hold back tears. He remembered every single word. He opened it, and saw that period of his life flash before his eyes. A few pages in, he found the portrait. She was so beautiful. He’d drawn her while she was reading. She’d loved to read, he thought. He felt lost; the pain tore through his heart as he relived that terrible scene. Blood everywhere, as she lay pale on the ground. He found himself sitting on the floor with his diary in hand, and his shirt wet with tears. He wiped his eyes and pulled a bag out of the trunk. Inside it, there were still a few coins he’d kept for remembrance’s sake, and a white scroll. His father taught him all the secrets a good blacksmith should know, like how to fight and how to forge swords. Kaj used to assist him in everything, and on the day of the assault on Lochbis, he had been bargaining for ore elsewhere. The last object in the trunk was his sword, which he had forged himself. It was his pride. Kaj grabbed the hilt and pulled it out of its sheath—it was perfectly oiled, clean, and shiny. He saw his reflection on the blade, and, locking eyes with himself, he realized that he wasn’t the man he once was. He got up and started getting dressed. He picked up his old leather armor, leg protectors, bracelets, tunic, gloves, and boots. He was amazed that everything still fit him perfectly. He tucked the sheath into his belt, and with another belt, he secured the sword in place. Then he slung the bag over his shoulder and took everything that could prove useful before finally fastening his cloak. In that moment, he felt invigorated.
The blanket of snow had rendered the village silent and deserted. Kaj arrived at the sanctuary and knocked on its door. He heard approaching footsteps, and sure enough, the door opened. It was Clarice.
With a nod, she let him in. “You’ll have to buy me a drink, Oloice,” she said, satisfied.
“I’ll be damned! I hate to admit it, but you were right,” said Oloice, to his chagrin.
“I’m always right!” she replied.
“I have to apologize to both of you. I wasn’t at my finest,” said Kaj.
“Then have your a nice mug of beer and let’s put all of the misunderstandings to rest,” proposed Oloice, as he approached to pat Kaj on the arm.
“Thank you, Oloice, but not now…” said Kaj, to a stupefied Oloice.
“You must be joking,” he replied.
“I already drank too much last night. Offer it to Clarice,” he suggested.
“Ha! If I indulged in drink every time Oloice offered, I’d be a wreck!”
“Why do you think I travel with an elf? More alcohol for me!” quipped the dwarf contentedly. “You’re such party poopers, the both of you!”
Clarice smiled, shaking her head. Then she turned serious: “We’re leaving tomorrow. I think you should go tell Cilna. She cares about you a great deal.”
Kaj nodded. “She’s like a sister to me. I owe her an explanation. I’ll pay her a visit tomorrow.”
Night descended upon the village, and with it, silence. Kaj was lying on his cot. The gloomy and rhythmic hooting of an owl marked the passage of time, and the man imagined that it was Vesid (or “Ebarul,” as the elves called her), the evanescent goddess of foresight and wisdom. Humans invoked Vesid in order to find their way again, and if the goddess deemed them worthy, she would light the way with her lantern.
Clarice was looking out the window, toward the west. The conversation she’d had with Oloice a few days back came to mind. The dwarf had expressed his doubts about Kaj, but instead of sowing doubt in her, he’d just convinced her that she’d done well to keep searching. She was the one who found the medallion and the glimmer it emitted; now that it was around Kaj’s neck, it had to mean he was a descendant of Aidan III’s lineage, just like in the manuscripts at Nidath she’d read. She was worried about the journey ahead—there was a lot of snow, and they would certainly have to make frequent stops in order to avoid freezing.
“Can I bother you?” said Kaj, giving her a start.
“It’s no bother,” said the elf, motioning for the man to come closer.
“Can’t sleep?”
“No. My mind’s racing,” she admitted.
“What are you thinking about?”
“A lot and nothing at the same time. Though I think you deserve to know something about me…” The elf stopped for a moment, waiting for his response.
“Do tell. I’m listening.”
“As I’ve told you, I come from the Red Rises, and my family used to produce and sell fermented juice. Until, one night, Djazrem slavers came to the region and looted the village. In all the turmoil, I lost sight of my parents, and so they captured me to sell me along with the other children…”
She stopped, alarmed by the odd noises coming from outside. She promptly hushed Kaj, who’d been about to comment on her story.
Kaj’s eyes asked her what was going on.
“Don’t you hear?” she said under her breath.
Kaj strained his ears, and suddenly, he heard quick and heavy footsteps on the wooden bridge. They leaned out the window, and saw the dancing flames of a number of torches. One look was all it took to have them gripping their own arms.
“Oloice! Wake up!” shouted Clarice, hitting the dwarf so hard she almost pushed him off the bed.
“What’s going on!?” he exclaimed, shocked.
“They’re attacking the village! Orcs!” Kaj yelled, at the door.
Oloice took up his axe and dashed out of the sanctuary. “Why here?”
The elf shook her head. “No idea!”
Both followed Oloice into the fray and traded blows with the orcs. There were around twenty in all; only rarely were orcs seen in such numbers beyond the Slumbering Peaks. Some were short, and some were tall, but all were brawny, with large swords, hefty spiked clubs and two-headed axes in hand. Their characteristic greenish skin was leathery, and they proudly sported ritual scars and war paints on their wrinkled snouts. Their clothes were smelly and dirty, made from parts of armor sewn together, combined with fur, wool, and chain mail. They wore trophies such as teeth, ears or fingers around their necks. The stench was unbearable.
The enemy had entered some houses, using torches to set fires. The furnishings of those homes burned, and the flames flared up, affecting the support beams of the rooves. The stones they were composed of split due to the contrast between the heat of the blaze and the icy air exterior. Kaj looked around and saw the tavern burning. The contents of the barrels of beer and mead fed the conflagration, and the bottles of booze burst. On the other hand, the thatched rooves were resisting the flames thanks to the melting snow dampening the beams.
The battle raged on. The orcs were formidable adversaries; some had bypassed the defenses and set fire to the other side of Fenan as well. The village’s inhabitants gathered in droves at the grand square, the monstrous beasts chasing them down and disemboweling anyone they could reach. The group of soldiers who’d left Fenan in previous days had tailed the monsters here. Arriving, they squared off against some of the orcs.
Meanwhile, Kaj helped some take shelter from both the orcs and the fires. The thick shroud of smoke had him coughing and his eyes burning. He took on some of the orcs, then glanced at Oloice, who was swinging his axe with fervor. He also saw Clarice a little further on; she had just made short work of a big and heavy one. While he was distracted, an orc rushed him, and Kaj managed by some miracle to fend off its sword, avoiding a lethal blow. He took advantage of the orc’s sluggishness to injure it on the leg and back. The enemy gave Kaj a scratch on the arm, and the man groaned in sudden pain, though he managed to pierce its throat clean through in retaliation.
Cilna ran to see him, weeping. “Kaj, they’re dead!” she cried out, devastated by the loss of her parents. “Help me! Please!”
Kaj’s heart turned heavy, but she couldn’t be with him, so he accompanied her to some others. “Stay with them, Cilna.”
He then went to the bridge and, together with Clarice and the militiamen, killed the last remaining orcs.
“Get the survivors out of here!” ordered the Commander of the group, after the clash ended.
“Thank the gods you’ve arrived!” exclaimed the elf.
“We should’ve predicted they’d come here,” admitted the militiaman bitterly.
The village lay in ruins; few were the houses that had not been affected by the flames, and the safest structure was the sanctuary. Some militiamen moved the seriously injured to the building, while the others were assembled to be taken to a camp for survivors that was under development in the Heathermoor. Oloice and Kaj made sure that the orcs were all dead and that no one was trapped under wreckage. Cilna refused to leave Kaj, and screamed his name. She tried to make her way over to the man. One of the warriors held her back, but she managed to free herself from his grip and run off. After just a few steps, a house collapsed in front of her, frightening her; the road was now blocked by a burning beam. The young woman screamed at Kaj, who spotted her and ran to meet her.
“Go with them, Cilna; they’ll take you to safety,” he urged.
“But I want to go with you, Kaj!” she protested, crying.
The man shook his head. “You can’t. My journey will be a dangerous one,” he said. “You’ll be kept safe, and I’ll come back as soon as I can, I promise you.”
Clarice was behind him. “Don’t make promises,” she said harshly, holding out her things.
A militiaman grabbed Cilna, lifting her up and bringing her back with the group. Kaj felt distressed by what had happened, and shocked by that unexpected battle. Oloice joined him and Clarice, and handed his things to the elf. The two gripped each other’s wrists in greeting. Clarice raised her hand to her heart and bowed, while Oloice thumped his chest. Kaj thus gleaned how deep their friendship was.
Clarice and Kaj set off on their march. Dawn would break shortly, and the long and intricate paths through the thick of the Shadetrail were the only way forward.
*
Much further south, amidst the Shrouded Hills, tulvaren troops led by Zund arrived after two weeks of travel. Fording the Black River, they entered the territory of the Twin Liegedoms. The Shrouded Hills were part of Kelast County, administered by Jarl Hurley, the trusted bishop of King Osman IV, who had entrusted him with the task of protecting the Savorfruit Hillocks when the next invasion occurred. Hurley was an excellent leader, and had managed to defend the Kelast’s Bastion much longer than expected.
Behind the County, the Twin Liegedoms, headed by the nobles Pugh and Alston, had surrendered to the invaders after witnessing the defeat of Jarl Hurley at the hands of King Athal, pledging to deliver two thirds of their annual fruit harvest to the tulvars.
That day, a messenger from the outpost on the Black River was riding fast toward the High Liegedom. He left the horse at the entrance of the city and ran toward Pugh’s Palace. Exhausted, he collapsed in front of the nobleman’s desk, who (with some difficulty) rose from his armchair and stood before the messenger. His prominent belly, big arms and his impressive rump allowed him to inspire a not inconsiderable amount of awe, to say nothing of his face, marked as it was by his supreme passion for wine, sweets, and meats. Thick black eyebrows topped his beady brown eyes, and his outsize nose was pockmarked and glossy. Pugh wore clothes almost as old as he was, and he was well over sixty years old. The red woolen garment that reached his knees was discolored and stained. His belly’s girth was further highlighted by a creased brown leather belt. The light-colored linen under-tunic poked out from the sleeves of his garment, and their ends had been mended several times over. His high leather boots were also shabby and discolored. His head was always covered by a white cap and a blue woolen beret. The only thing that made him recognizable as the Lord of the city was his thick and heavy gold necklace, attached to an equally heavy, emerald-studded medallion with the emblem of the Pughs.
“Why the haste?” asked Pugh, sipping from his chalice.
“General Zund is currently traveling down the road to your palace,” he gasped.
Pugh’s eyes widened, his wine going down the wrong pipe. “Why didn’t you say that right away!?” he shouted, spitting up his drink. “I should have you thrown into the dungeons, and leave you at the mercy of the beast!” By now he had turned purple.
The man, prostrate at his feet, was about to be seized by the tunic by the nobleman’s fat hand when the blare of the rampart horn echoed through the city. Pugh stiffened, and treaded with heavy steps toward the window. Zund was at the gates; he had no time to spare for the messenger. And so he left him alone in the library as coldly as he’d welcomed him, frantically exiting the building to receive his guest.
“Pugh…” said Zund, disgust written all over his face.
“Great General Zund,” began a panting Pugh adoringly. “What an immense honor! What can I do for you, as your humble servant?”
Zund’s red eyes leered at him. He loathed the deal his father had struck, and despised that useless stooge human even more. “The King was disappointed in the quality of the tribute last month: withered, sour-tasting fruit.”
Pugh paled, and searched for the right words. “Grand General… we… I… have looked for the best fruits…” The tulvar’s silence seemed endless to the man; he felt his eyes on him, and did not dare to raise his head.
“I ought to punish you, but unfortunately I’m here for another reason,” said Zund.
The man gulped loudly, unable to say a solitary word. He guided the General towards his palace, where he himself served bloody meats and fermented keb-brew, made from the juice of kebs, pineapple-like fruits from Alceas that were so pungent that keb-brew was drinkable only by tulvars.
After the banquet, the nobleman really began to shake in his boots. It was never a good sign when Zund appeared. The man remained silent while the tulvar sipped the brew from his metal chalice.
“For some animals, you’d make for a great meal, with all the fat on you,” said Zund.
“Definitely, my General,” said Pugh, cowed.
Zund took the last sip and then, as if seized by a moment of madness, he rose quickly, for Pugh to find himself with the blade of a tulvaren sword pressed against his throat. The nobleman shivered, squinted his eyes, and held them shut until he felt the cold metal on his skin.
“Are you feeding the beast regularly?” asked the tulvar.
“Of course…” Pugh answered, trembling as he opened his eyes.
“Good.” The tulvar sat on the Lord’s throne. “That good-for-nothing Alston is later than usual. You had better make sure he’s coming,” he concluded with contempt.
“At once, General!” exclaimed Pugh, flustered and shaken.
In the meantime, Alston of the Low Liegedom had entered the city, and was preparing to appear at the palace. Pugh came out, and soon they were standing in each other’s company. Short in stature, and dressed in his usual blue velvet clothes, Alston wore a ring-shaped hat, from which a flap of blue cloth descended down one side. Over his chest, he wore a large brooch with his family emblem. His curly, blonde hair covered his ears, framing his long, gaunt face. His hook nose and small mouth did nothing for his looks. The inhabitants of the Low Liegedom often joked that his mother must have laid with a goblin.
“Well you took your sweet time!” snapped Pugh.
The nobleman looked at him, and with his usual monotone he said: “So where’s General Zund?”
Pugh started pushing his peer along. “You’d best present yourself to him immediately!”
Bored and listless, Alston entered the palace. “Grand General Zund! I can assure you that we didn’t expect you here in the Twin Liegedoms…” he said, inspiring terror in all the humans present.
Zund walked up to Alston. “Your idiocy is unmatched!” he shouted angrily. He took the aristocrat by the clothes and forced him to the ground, pressing his face with his foot against the muddy boot tracks mixed with dung and piss. “You shall pay for your insolence by crawling to my throne.”
Alston crawled across the room, coming to Zund’s feet with his clothes soiled. Terrified and trembling, he was sweating profusely, and as soon as the General leaned over him, he burst into tears like a child, his stammering, incomprehensible gibberish punctuated by moans.
“Now beg!” shouted the tulvar.
“Mercy! Have mercy!” whined Alston. “I’ll do anything, Supreme General… for you, and for our only King!”
“Get up, scum!” Zund nodded to one of his soldiers, who recalled about twenty tulvars into the palace, and they settled along the walls of the hall; at that point it was clear that they would not leave soon. The door opened, and in stepped Auril, Zund’s younger sister. On the orders of the General, Alston was chained and gagged by the soldiers while Pugh took the brunt of Auril’s magic. The priestess, with a quick swish of her hand, raised the man from the ground as he moaned fearfully. Auril’s invisible power wrapped around Pugh’s throat, and his feeble flesh was devoid of the strength with which to resist.
Zund approached the man, and motioned for his sister to ease her grip; Pugh’s toes barely touched the floor. “Tell me where the crypt is located,” ordered the tulvar.
“What crypt!?” choked Pugh. He yelped when he felt a sharp pain in the abdomen, as if a dagger had pierced him. Auril clenched her other hand into a fist, and he felt his guts squeeze.
“That’s enough,” Zund told his sister. “The ancient crypt, you useless chowhound! Tell me where it is!”
The man did not reply. The torture continued and Zund asked him the same question over and over.
At her brother’s behest, the Priestess threw him against a wall, prompting the man to shriek anew. She crept into Pugh’s head in search of his deepest fears, and when she found what she was looking for, she smirked. The man saw the being he feared appear before his eyes. He began scampering every which way across the hall, gripped by a profound terror. He wanted to escape, but Auril’s grip forced him to the wall, and when the being approached him, he screeched.
“Leave him,” Zund ordered his sister.
She obeyed, and Pugh started running with the animal chasing him, eventually curling up in a corner and covering his eyes, waiting for the horrid beast to disappear.
“That’s enough! Make that hen disappear!” cried the man, worn out and whimpering. “I don’t know of any accursed crypt! There have never been crypts here!”
Auril dispelled the hen, and the man remained curled up in the corner.
Zund came up to him and whispered, “I’m choosing to believe you for now…”
Alston began fidgeting, making it clear that he wanted to speak; the tulvars took his gag off. “There are no crypts here, only orchards and poor peasant villages!” stressed the nobleman, trying to convince him as best he could.
“How can we be so sure?” asked Auril.
“They’ll talk,” said her brother.
Zund ordered his soldiers to retrieve two cages in town, to be hung from the ceiling with the two men locked inside. Having seized the palace, he deployed troops in the two cities of the Twin Liegedoms. Finding traces of the ancient artifact would take longer than expected.
The dungeons of the Palace of the High Liegedom were dead silent. Auril had made her way down into these dark corridors. She brandished no torch or brazier; only the virk crystal at her neck illuminated her path. The beast being kept in one of those rooms was a jorfang—a woman who lived in the woods, and who transformed into a wolf, appearing during times of hardship. Legends painted the she-beasts as protectors, defending any children, injured people, and the otherwise troubled who had found themselves in the woods by taking them to safe havens, pouncing on any who would do them harm. Being the personifications of the wolf of the goddess Sesta, jorfangs were considered a boon, but whenever they were torn from their mission, they became unable to turn back into women, and the beasts were beset by an uncontrollable bloodlust. With her magic, the priestess was one of the few able to control a jorfang. Having reached the beginning of the corridor that housed its prison at the other end, she could already hear its heavy breathing. She heard it groan when, now at the heavy wood-and-iron door, the light emanating from the crystal aroused the beast from its torpor. A swift lunge, and the creature was at the door; Auril felt its warm and smelly breath through the small grate. The priestess opened the door without hesitation and entered. Auril’s red eyes shining, the beast sensed her power, and stepped back, quietening down and growling lightly.
“I see it hasn’t been long since you’ve fed,” said Auril, satisfied. She knew that the more prey the jorfang received, the more ferocious and voracious it became. The stench of what remained of its meal was unbearable, the dried blood staining the beast’s fangs and mouth as well as its claws. The Priestess heard the door to the dungeons open, and saw the jorfang was getting worked up at the sight of the approaching torches and the odor of the guards. Auril left the cell and closed the heavy door behind her. The two men, terrified, hid a little girl. The priestess approached her, studying her. The little human, about seven years old, was undernourished, with blonde shoulder-length hair, blue eyes, and a pale pink complexion. She wore peasant clothes and hailed from a family of drifters.
“There’s nothing fearsome about you,” she said in disgust.
The girl did not answer, instead going toward the cell. She opened the door, and the jorfang remained crouched in a corner, its yellow eyes observing the little girl without ever losing sight of the slightest move on the part of the guards, who dragged the remains of its meal out. The little girl’s eyes wandered aimlessly in the dark in which she was always wrapped; she was blind from birth, and had been chosen for this dubious honor for that very reason.
Two floors above, Zund was organizing three patrols to comb through the territory of the Twin Liegedoms and find the crypt. After a spot of torture, Pugh and Alston had let spill a local legend that spoke of an ancient elven sanctuary dating back to before the Great Exodus, when elves dominated the entirety of Elantion. The two men, hanging inside the cages suspended from the large ceiling beam, lay motionless, moaning occasionally due to the wounds that had gotten infected after a few days.
The patrols were already out of town, headed for the orchards. Upon their arrival at the place they had been pointed toward, they found a large, doubtlessly millennium-old apple tree. The village that was situated a little further on was deserted; everyone had barricaded themselves inside their houses, but when the Captain of the battalion threatened to set the entire village on fire if they did not leave posthaste, doors swung reluctantly open, and the tulvaren soldiers fettered the inhabitants, forcing them to dig.
In the meantime, a tulvaren messenger arrived at the Palace of the High Liegedom with an order from the King, calling Auril and the General to Eyjanborg.
“At long last!” exclaimed the priestess, happy to be able to leave the city. “Have you chosen their punishment?”
“Release them,” ordered Zund.
The soldiers let the cages down, and when the cages touched the ground, the soldiers dragged the two dying nobles out of them.
“Sort them out quickly; I can’t stand to stay here any longer,” urged Auril impatiently. “Or you can leave them to me,” she said, hinting at a spell to attack the two of them.
“No, Sister!” he admonished her. “Bring the beast!”
The little girl led the jorfang to the palace hall, where the two men awaited their end. Zund, seated on Pugh’s throne, motioned for the girl to be taken away, and for the beast to be allowed to go wild. “I’d like to savor the throes of their agony,” he said, his tone harsh and base.
The jorfang stood upright, in all its grandeur: slightly taller than Zund, massive, and muscular. Its arms, shoulders, head and back were covered in black, bristly hair, and its long hands sported sharp claws. Its greyish skin had many scars; in Zund’s eyes, it was at once monstrous and magnificent.
With a leap, it set upon Pugh, crouching to sniff at him; the man felt its breath and the bristly hairs on its face, and saw the yellowed fangs that dripped their slobber on him. The she-beast’s hands pressed him, its claws piercing clothes and flesh alike. The nobleman screamed in pain, his gaze terrified, and his endurance pushed to its limit. His eyes rolled upwards, and he lost consciousness. The jorfang bit him on the head, its jaws cracking the man’s skull. Blood spurted everywhere. Driven by bestial instinct, it reared up and vigorously shook the body of the liege who was now a tattered rag doll. Zund watched with satisfaction, sipping his keb-brew. Alston, not far from the lake of blood, tried to move, to run away. The beast pounced on him, and he flailed, crying and moaning, every part of his body aching from the torture. It jumped on his back, and the bones of his spine and neck were summarily broken. Alston was dead. The jorfang sniffed it, tearing at his back with one paw and turning over the corpse. It opened his belly and tried to partake, but found the man’s entrails unappetizing. Satiated, it squatted down in a corner of the room, sniffed the floor, and lay down.
Zund was satisfied, and rose from the throne.
“What ought we to do with the beast?” asked a tulvar.
The General glanced at the servants of the Palace, who had been forced to silently observe from the open gallery. He signaled, and the soldiers made the servants come down and stand before the General. Zund observed them all in turn, analyzing them. He brushed against them with his slender hand, lingering on a well-built young man. Though Zund’s gaze was chilling, the human stared right back, an act of audacity that surprised him. “He will remain here. Chain the others and send them to excavate,” he commanded, his eyes still on the human. “Enjoy the comforts of the Palace, and survive if you can.”
“You’ll be defeated one day! Mark my words!” the man shouted defiantly.
“We shall see,” said Zund, leaving the Palace. “Block all of the exits.”
V
Clarice and Kaj proceeded swiftly through the thick of the Shadetrail Forest toward Nidath. Five days had passed since Fenan, and when they arrived near a crossing, Clarice motioned for him to stoop down. After a moment, he could make out some chittering in the distance. Kaj leaned out of the bushes a little, and saw a gang of about ten goblins dragging a dead and partially eaten horse with ropes. The noisy and scatterbrained nature of goblins made them easy to identify, especially for those who, like Clarice, had traveled extensively. The barefoot, olive-skinned things were small and skeletal, with long arms and large hands. Their elongated heads were sprinkled with a few bristly hairs, and their hirsuteness varied. Their prominent eyes were large and yellow, their noses wide and flattened, and their mouths wide with thin lips that hid sharp teeth, perfect for biting and tearing. They wore only light shirts, often full of holes, and trousers in leather or wool, frayed and dirty. They did not suffer from the cold, having always lived in harsh climates. Armed with daggers, they were very fast and sneaky. They could jump on the shoulders of an unfortunate soul and start biting until their prey breathed its last.
“Come here, Kaj!” she scolded him softly. “We don’t need them spotting us. We’ll take them by surprise.”
He squinted, thinking. “It can be done…”
“At my nod, we attack. Wait here.”
The Vagabond waited for the last goblin to pass their hiding place, strung her bow, and killed two in rapid succession. The creatures, alarmed, threw themselves at Kaj, who had emerged from the bushes in the meantime. He stabbed the first one that stood before him, and narrowly dodged another’s blade, lunging to the side and wounding that goblin, which collapsed. The elf struck them with arrows as Kaj engaged them. By the end, only one was left, and it was in the throes of death; Clarice strode toward it with an arrow in her hand, and stuck said arrow in its throat. With a pained grimace, the goblin was killed outright.
Cold and deadly, Kaj thought.
“Nice work,” nodded the elf.
“I haven’t held this sword in such a long time! I had forgotten how well-balanced it is,” he exclaimed, slicing the air with it some. Kaj’s eyes glimmered with a young boy’s enthusiasm.
“That’s good to hear. You’ll be forced to use it often,” said the nalnir.
“Yes, though I’ll have to practice. I’m a bit rusty…”
They began to collect whatever might come in handy, and they found themselves staring at the dead horse with a certain craving. One shared glance, and they knew what needed to be done.
Late that night, the fire was still burning merrily before their eyes. The bits of horse had made for the perfect dinner; the meat cooked over the fire had become tender and juicy, and they ate it all up in in next to no time. Kaj, leaning against a rock and wrapped in a bear’s fur, was enjoying the heat of the fire; Clarice was lying down a little further on, covered by her cloak and sleeping soundly. Kaj felt snowflakes on his face.
“Clarice.”
“What is it?” she asked, immediately alert.
“Sorry to wake you up, but we have a problem.”
She looked up, and understood. “Snow. Just what we needed. I was hoping it at least wouldn’t snow tonight. We’d better get moving.”
“I can hear lalks in the distance,” Kaj said, concerned.
“I hear them, too…” she said, sharing his worry.
They gathered their belongings, donned their furs, and continued down the path, each wielding a torch. Traversing the forest was going to prove much more difficult than expected.
The light snowfall soon took a turn for the stormy. The freezing winds, and the snowflakes, which had become little pellets of ice, made the path slippery and their footing uncertain. More and more, they could feel the cold creeping through the leather of the boots. The hours before the dawn seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Eventually, they were forced to leave the path to seek shelter. Not far away, they found a rocky ledge that formed a kind of roof. With some not-too-damp brushwood that they found in the clefts of the rocks, they created a beautiful fire, somewhat brightening the otherwise sad dawn that awaited them. The sky was gloomy, the clouds low and full. In the distance, they could still hear the chilling howls of the lalks that were stalking them relentlessly.
“You haven’t slept a single wink,” said the elf. “We have a few hours; try to rest. I’ll stand guard.” Clarice’s tone revealed her concern. She placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, and motioned for him to lie down. Kaj thanked her, and as soon as he lay down, he felt all his muscles relax. The heat of the fire and the fur were invigorating, and before he knew it, he was asleep.
He woke up to a gloomy morning, but at least the forest was less scary. The snow was abating, and when he got up, he saw that Clarice was not there. He stirred, turning around to look for her. She came out from behind a tree.
She stood in front of him, staring. “Take it.” She tossed him some bread and cheese from the bag, and then started stoking the fire.
Kaj looked at her. “Thank you.”
It was too wet out, and Clarice’s efforts to light the fire were in vain.
“Ugh! Damn snow!” she exclaimed, chucking a piece of wood into the distance. “Let’s get going. We should take advantage of the distance between us and the lalks. The closer we get to Nidath, the safer we ought to be.” She looked around, carefully inspecting their forest environs.
The snows turned heavier and heavier as the storms raged. The trees looked like skeletons, their bare branches unable to beat back the snow’s invasion of the forest floor. On the contrary, the pines and firs bore branches full of snow, which, by falling, threatened to bury Clarice and Kaj a couple of times. The air was cold, and felt like a hundred blades nicking their faces. The bitter chill exhausted them to the bone. Kaj turned his gaze to Clarice from time to time, and noticed that she kept bringing a hand to the thigh which had been injured by the lalks, pressing and rubbing it.
A few days passed. The winds were domineering, icy, and incredibly strong, penetrating even the smallest crevices of their clothes. They skirted along a rock face in the hopes of finding a cave or other ledge that could help them get through the night. “It looks like we’re not going to have as much luck this time,” said Kaj, utterly worn out and breathing heavily.
“But I remember there being a cave around here.” Clarice examined the rock. “Maybe we’re there already. Aha! Here it is!”
Kaj heaved a sigh of relief, happy to finally escape the elements. They gathered as much wood as possible, hoping to be able to light a fire.
“Hurry up,” said the elf. “There are lalks…”
“Where?” Kaj asked worriedly.
“Hidden among the trees. We’re talking at least a dozen.” Clarice was not okay. Her hands were trembling. Her last misadventure with lalks was fresh in her mind. As she tried to light the fire, she looked around non-stop, nervous and frightened. It was the first time Kaj had seen her this way.
“Let me do it.” The man enclosed the nalnir’s hands in his, trying to calm her down. He looked her in the eyes. They were deep, magnetic. For a moment, he stayed like that, enchanted. “We’ll face them if have to. We’ll make it.”
The elf withdrew her hands, leaving the flint in Kaj’s. The man gave a sharp blow with the dagger, and the spark set the tinder on fire. Clarice stood brandishing a torch, lighting two fires at the threshold of the cave to create a safe perimeter. In front of the second fire, a lalk’s eyes shone. They were terribly close, much more than usual.
Clarice put down her torch and walked slowly away, without turning her back on it. “Looks like the fire isn’t scaring them this time…”
“That’s just great,” said Kaj, worried. “Do you have a real plan?”
Clarice’s response was not what he was expecting. “Not really, but they’ll soon get tired of waiting… we ought to wait for them to make the first move.”
Several hours passed. The Vagabond’s prediction hadn’t been very accurate, and the wait was unnerving. Kaj was crouched by the fire. He wanted to keep the movements of those beasts under control; they were in position all around, watching. The man saw the sheen of their fur under the moonlight, and heard their wound-up nervous panting. Suddenly, they both heard a noise from very close by. Kaj saw one of the lalks advancing, and Clarice quickly took up the bow.
“Scare it with the torch!” she screamed.
“It doesn’t seem to work!” he retorted.
“Move that damned torch!” the elf repeated again, this time with more conviction.
Kaj waved the torch vigorously, but the beast did not retreat. In fact, it had now crossed over into their perimeter. Clarice walked over to Kaj and set the arrowhead on fire. Other lalks approached from the center—they were surrounded. Suddenly, they heard a threatening growl; the others stopped as a huge one appeared in the center.
“Oh, fantastic,” Kaj exclaimed sarcastically. He thought for a moment, and came up with an idea. He lowered himself, grabbed another burning stick and, without taking his eyes off the lalks, threw it toward one of the beasts. The animal avoided it and fled, frightened. They were all baring their teeth. Kaj and Clarice had started to back away, as the lalks got closer and closer. Clarice aimed her bow and shot an arrow, which pierced a neck. The animal staggered for a second, before collapsing. At that point, the largest of the lalks backed away, leaving the battlefield to the others, who were determined to tear them apart.
“Well, now what?” asked Kaj, frightened.
“Now we entrap them,” said Clarice confidently.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Something stupid…”
Clarice took up the bow and killed two beasts, while Kaj wounded the lalk that pounced on him, forcing it to flee. With incredible aim, Clarice dropped the bow to the ground and threw a dagger at the last lalk. The animal avoided the blow, so she stunned it with a punch on the muzzle and then slit its throat.
“Well done!” said Kaj.
Clarice did not reply; she closely examined the forest. “We can rest tonight; we’ll use their bodies as a warning.”
Dawn came, and it was time to set off. Clarice was still sleeping, so Kaj walked over to her and woke her up. That morning, the clouds had given way to blue skies, and the snow glimmered in the light of the new day as it filtered through the branches of the pine trees. The winds had subsided, and there seemed to be nothing nearby that could pose a danger and spoil the day’s beauty. They passed a clearing, almost slipping on several sheets of ice in the process, and reached a small stream that disappeared underneath the rocks, only to reappear much further down in the plains. The shore was dangerously slippery with all the snow that covered it, but strangely, the water was not frozen.
Kaj saw Clarice approach the water. If she fell into it, she could catch something. “Clarice! You could slip!” he exclaimed, too forcefully.
“Dammit, are you mad!?” The elf glared at him. She bent down to fill the bottle, then threw it to the man with a defiant look. “How caring of you, Kaj. Up until a few days ago, I was the one who had to babysit you…” she said self-importantly.
“Babysit me?” he asked incredulously.
She stared at him intently for a moment. “You bet!”
Kaj returned her gaze without replying. Eventually, he tossed his backpack at her to provoke her, but Clarice elegantly ignored his provocation and resumed her march.
For a good hour, they continued apace along the stream, until they reached the point where it sank under the rocks. The path was impassable in places; the cliffs and the ups and downs forced them to take detour after detour. The time needed to reach Nidath was getting longer. They had to take advantage of the good weather and cover as much distance as they could.
They walked all night. The moonlight accompanied them faithfully, but by the crack of dawn, the clouds had returned, low and gloomy, a portent of fresh new storms. Clarice looked up at the sky. The tops of the tallest trees were swaying in the winds, which were once again strong and freezing. Suddenly, they heard something from behind. Clarice stopped, stretching out an arm to stop Kaj and gesturing for him to keep silent. The man knew what was following them; he sensed the same stench: lalks.
“They’re tailing us,” Clarice said softly.
The man did not lose heart. “Seeing how they screwed us over the other day, I’d say it’s better to attack first, so we can take them by surprise.”
“That’s just what I was thinking. Let’s let them get close.” The elf rose slowly, peering into the forest. Suddenly, the pack leader came forward, and two other lalks flanked it. Clarice had her bow in hand, and Kaj drew his sword. Two arrows were enough to kill the two lalks at the sides. But the largest remained. The beast avoided Clarice’s arrow, thereby yielding its side, and Kaj quickly lunged, managing to score a hit. The lalk turned quickly, growling and baring its teeth. Then Clarice laid down the bow and drew her daggers, before leaping forward for the strike. The animal knocked the elf down, and she lost her blades. The beast was close, and she managed to injure it in on one leg with the dagger that she had fastened to her leg, hidden by her tunic. The animal whined and bled profusely as it fled back into the forest.
Clarice was sitting on the ground. Kaj held out a hand to help her up.
“You were great back there,” he said.
She gave Kaj a satisfied look, accepted his hand, and got to her feet. “I know,” replied the elf.
The man shook his head in amusement, feeling the traces of blood left by the animal. “It’s losing a lot of blood. We should give chase and finish the job.”
“Agreed,” she nodded.
Trying not to make noise, they followed the lalk’s trail of blood into the undergrowth, weapons in hand to avoid surprises. Little by little, the size of the pools of blood was increasing, and the footprints were getting irregular—the animal was slowing down. They found it a little further on in a huge pool of blood, completely resigned to its fate. Clarice approached, and the beast did not attempt to attack. It only emitted a short growl. The elf took out the dagger, and when she was about to stab it in the heart, she saw that the animal had a collar. She moved its hair and discovered the stone attached to its hide. Kaj came closer to get a better look. The two exchanged a surprised look, and then the elf cut the collar. Suddenly, the animal stirred, frightening them both. It raised its head, looking at Clarice and breathing heavily, then expired.
They both stood there, speechless. Clarice looked at the collar: the stone, which until recently had been shining, was now dull and opaque.
“What do you think?” asked the man.
“Do you want to know what I think, Kaj?” the elf put forward a hypothesis: “The collar was controlling it, but when it looked at me before it died, it seemed to be nothing more than a normal wolf…”
Kaj chewed over her words. “If it’s the collar that makes it a ‘lalk,’ as you elves call it, that means it’s the work of necromancers.”
