Let’s spin contrary to the hands of time, going back two days before the skirmish with the fake wyverns.

  Rather than swinging steel, the fighter who would come across the mad fauna rode his way to the North.

  From his mount, he descried how the green of the vegetation along with the gray of the trailed paths dissipated to give space to the paleness of the snow and ice, how the thud of his horse’s stomps had mutated into faint creaks of unguis hitting crisp dirt.

  But the North was not all wilderness surrounded by greenless vegetation and pale soil. Even the vast wintry lands confer people with assets — valuable supplies that make the gold pass through the hands of all kinds of investors.

  And what the fighter beheld in front of him was testimony to that fact.

  The fifteen-foot-tall stockaded walls with towers, every one of which held the indistinguishable iris-colored flag bearing the image of a feline inside a heraldic shield, told the rider that he had arrived at Gr?t?h — the largest settlement of the Frostscape and, albeit not officially, the capital of the aforementioned land.

  The fortified city was home to over two thousand citizens and an inn for hundreds of other visitors: merchants, adventurers, and even the occasional intellectual who considered that the Frostscape was worth studying.

  Within the bounds of the capital, it was common to see hunters carrying the meat and pelts of beats slain by their own hands, adventurers either bragging to their equals and locals about the monsters they defeated — or at least about the scars they obtained while trying to do so — or engaging in a quarrel, and woodmen and fishermen dragging carts loaded with the fruit of their works. However, as the man walked through the southern gates, he saw none of that.

  The cloaked man was not oblivious to the recent events. As he had traversed to Gr?t?h, he had heard the rumors of travelers and the gossip of vendors, occasionally observing the anxiety of some armed men who ‘moved’ south from the city.

  Whilst moving through the inside of Gr?t?h, the traveler was able to confirm the truthfulness of the hearsay — the catastrophe lay bare before his eyes.

  The avenues and buildings were covered — engulfed — by whopping chunks of ice. Many structures failed to bear the weight of the solidified air and collapsed in the spot, wrecked beyond recognition.

  Guards trotted back and forth, trying to clear the layout from their glacial prison using picks and torches with variable levels of success that ranged from disappointing to negligible.

  Groups of people stood before the icy boulders and the wreckages crushed beneath, some frozen with awe, another more opportunistic bunch rummaging in the debris in hopes of finding something valuable. But the most affected group was those hunched with sorrow, grieving the loss of their home and their beloved ones.

  They could not even retrieve the bodies of their lost ones; rather, they were forced to see the last expression of the deceased, encapsulated in steel-hard ice, until the authorities managed to break through the humongous chunks.

  Such a harrowing sight would induce chills in most people, but the outsider stood impassive, eliciting nothing more than a frown before looking away.

  So that’s a dragon’s work… He mused, urging his mount to trot a bit faster.

  It was not as if the cloaked man was numb to death; he merely grew accustomed to such unsightly scenes. The prospect of destruction certainly looked disheartening, but his eyes had seen views just as awful.

  Eventually, the man stopped by a plaza filled with soldiers and what he believed were volunteers aiding the victims. It was a gathering post of sorts, a location where more destruction could be observed. Without doubt, this was the region that had reeled more intensely.

  Not even the granite wall, the very same bulwark said to repel the forces of the Undead Overlords over four centuries ago, got out of harm’s way as a row of icicles stuck out across the stone as if they were urchinlike worms. Barring the tops of two towers, the wall stood strong — the settlements could at least be proud of that.

  “Are you all using matches to melt the ice? We have been working all day cleaning the debris, yet our advances have been nothing short of pitiful!” Nearby shouts cut off the adventurer’s observation.

  “Common flames are ineffective against the ice, Governor Georg,” responded the guard, seemingly unfazed by the other man’s outrage. “Likewise, the material is as tough as iron. Picks and hammers are virtually useless.”

  Georg, a bearded man with a fancy mustache and semi-blanched hair combed into a ponytail, wearing a gray vest and justacorps, wiped his face with his hand before yelling again: “What with the Verrgrár Path’s mages who Imants has sent message to? Shouldn’t they be here by now?! We need their blazing spells! Explosive ones if necessary!”

  “A message has been sent at night by the scholar Mohan, Sir. Given the appearance of the dragon and how its presence rendered wildlife out of control, it is possible that the scholars are taking safe measures and are waiting for the beasts of the tundra to collect themselves before moving to Gr?t?h.”

  “But they are wizards?! Can’t they just teleport in here?! Didn’t they seclude themselves in the dale to uncover the secrets of magic while unperturbed? Surely it should not take them no more than wiggling their fingers and chanting nonsense to cover the distance in the blink of an eye, right?” The Governor loudly retorted, but the guard merely shook his head.

  “I’m afraid to say the thoughts of the mages escape our reports, Sir,” the guard stated, his expression downcast.

  “Damn it…” After clicking his tongue and taking a few seconds to calm himself, the Governor talked back to the soldier. “What about the losses so far?”

  “We have estimated fifty-four casualties, both civilians and militia, either by the cold breath or the collateral damage. However, there exists the probability that more bodies remain imprisoned inside frozen buildings. Furthermore, over one hundred individuals suffered some trauma, and up to this hour, there have been over eighty reports of missing citizens. As for the structural damage—” While the guard was voicing the report, the adventurer dismounted his horse and tied the animal to a pole in the vicinity, approaching the duo in short order. Identifying the middle-aged man as an authority, he guessed the man could give him valuable information about the land.

  The nearness of the curious visitor did not pass unnoticed by the Governor, who acknowledged the new presence with a glance before quickly focusing on the soldier once more. When the guard finished his report, the Governor sighed, rubbed his brows, and spoke: “I see… Keep with the ice-shattering process, soldier. We need the paths and layout cleared. Use a battering ram if necessary, but nothing of explosives. I trust wizards’ control over their own spells, but gunpowder is a novelty for most of us.” He commanded, dismissing the soldier immediately after finishing, turning around without more ado. He then moved to a stone bench and plopped down on it, rubbing his hair shortly afterward as stress cramped his nerves.

  The cloaked man seized the Governor’s loneliness and neared him.

  “You are late, bounty hunter,” the Governor uttered without taking his sight off the floor, causing the man with the hood to halt. “The rest of the volunteers departed early today.”

  “Sorry for the interruption. It must not be easy to deal with a reeling city.” He heard the Governor groan. “I’m familiar with the aftereffects of war, but this level of destruction is something I’ve never seen before.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” a scoff sounded. “Blessed are those who could live without witnessing a natural disaster made flesh. Damned dragon… it isn’t enough to torment the merchants, now it has to pull out a tragedy in the very capital again… and during my administration, no less.”

  The Governor glanced in the man’s direction for the first time since he sat down and observed the man he was holding a conversation with. The young man had no more than thirty years on his back and was wearing a curious hide as a cloak. He noticed a longcoat underneath the cloak, which likewise layered over a leather vest.

  Curiously, his woven clothes had not been sewn by hand. The stitches across his trousers and boots looked too solid. Work of modern machinery, no doubt.

  Although the hood cast a veil of black over his face, Georg could notice some bangs of hair with the color of coal as well as the faint shine of clinker eyes. The young man possessed a slightly tanned complexion and was one or two inches below the six-foot mark. Something wrapped in fabrics hung on his back; a weapon, perhaps?

  “How long ago has it been?” The black-haired man asked, disrupting the Governor from his scrutiny.

  “How long since I lay in bed in peace? Going by the shadow below my eyes, I’d say a darn year,” Georg jeered, more to ease himself than to get a smile out of the boy, which failed, so he continued. “... Last dusk. It took us by surprise, difficult to believe given the humongous size of that thing.”

  The warrior moved closer and sat on the same bench as the Governor, finally taking the hood from his head. The eyebags under the youth’s eyes caught the Governor’s interest. “I may contribute my respective grain of sand, but I would need more information, if that is not a bother,” The cloaked man requested.

  “Full-blown bounty hunter as I thought,” Georg tittered. “I guess travelers were already gossiping about the reward outside these walls,” he then discarded his apprehensive posture, adopting one a bit more professional as he used both hands to support his chin. “This is not the first time the wyrm has unleashed an onslaught on Gr?t?h. Not counting ancestral times, this is the fourth unprovoked attack in the last six years. Nor is this the only settlement that was punished by the calamity, as other towns and hamlets have been assaulted, decimated, and exterminated as well. The aggression of the beast has grown as the years passed by, and after the last day’s tragedy, I decided to adopt a more direct approach to the matter at hand… so I offered a tantalizing reward.”

  Georg took a momentary glance at the ice-covered walls. “One day, the beast just decided to strike the settlements of the Frostscape… no taunt, no defensive maneuver, not even a tantrum, it just chose to torment, hurt, and kill us with no discernible ulterior motive.”

  “You said I was late, that the ‘volunteers’ had already departed. These volunteers, I presume, offered themselves to slay the wyrm.”

  “Correct,” the city’s ruler nodded, staring back at the young one, “most of them greedy for gold or fame, with the famous M?rk H?ssen being in the lead. He, along with his party of Imants, Sullivan, and Ulrich, took the initiative. The remaining volunteers, five others if my memory does not fail me, must have taken courage knowing that and chose to join them.”

  In the middle of the talk, a guard approached riding a horse, addressing the Governor as soon as he dismounted. “Sir Georg, traders from the mines solicit his presence in the city hall. They are concerned about the vulnerability their convoys find themselves to wolves and raptors’ attacks.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “In a moment, I’m doing business here.” At those words, the guard nodded and spun around, but when he was about to leave, the Governor stopped him. “But don’t go back now. You showing up there would be interpreted as me disregarding their complaints.” The soldier’s shoulders winced at the yell, but he compressed quickly and stayed at his chief’s side.

  Georg rose to his feet and once again addressed the sat man. “So, Mister…” he trailed off, realizing the young one had not mentioned his name once.

  “Blakesley. Marek Blakesley, Sir,” the fighter finally announced his name.

  “Well, young Blakesley. I get you are interested in getting rid of the draconian menace,” the word ‘draconian’ made the newly arrived soldier flinch, “but as I said, you are a little late: the rest of the adventurers and bounty hunters left the city, and I do not encourage people to go deep into the wild Frostscape in solitude.”

  “This is no issue to me, I can fend for myself,” Marek blankly stated, extracting a brown arch from the city’s ruler.

  “Surely you cannot think that you could journey through the wild tundra and slay a dragon on your own,” Georg sneered at the adventurer, starting to consider the boy to be full of himself.

  “I feel confident. Besides, to join a numerous group would make us an easy-to-catch feast to wild beasts,” the outsider added.

  “And you think that being alone will be any different?” Georg retorted. “Boy, the gold and diamonds are not as valuable as your life, and you have no emotional attachment to this place; it goes the distance. Why risk it?”

  There was a minor beat before Marek responded. “TIt is not so much for the gold or the diamonds. This is something I need to do. I traveled a long way to this frozen earth and met the tumult of war in the past. I do not fear the wilderness of the Arctic.”

  “This is no mere Arctic, boy, as even in war, you can take refuge on one side, however doomed it might end. This is the Frostscape, and everyone alone that is not part of the savage tundra is fated to perish,” the Governor of Gr?t?h declared.

  The ruler and the outsider kept an eye on each other for some seconds; meanwhile, the adjacent soldier relegated himself to just staring left and right between the two, not having much of an idea of what they were discussing.

  Regardless, Georg analyzed once more the young sitting on the bench — he could not see what this Marek guy was hiding beneath his odd-looking cloak, nor discerned what hung attached to his backside — but in the middle of his scrutiny, he did not see the man as crazy. His tired stare was intense with shackled determination, as if he had no other choice but to get into danger to fulfill his goal.

  Alas, perhaps this guy had something to back up his claims.

  “Uh, Sir… the traders—” the guard began to say before being interrupted by the very Governor.

  “Ye, ye, I did listen, don’t have to repeat yourself. I’m a busy man amid a wrecking disaster. I’m sure the traders will understand why I cannot tend to them as fast as they wish,” Georg reproached as he waved his hand at the soldier. “If you want to be useful, go bring back my horse. It’s standing next to that building,” he commanded while pointing at a building on the other side of the plaza.

  “U-understood, Sir,” a little taken aback, the guard heeded the order and moved to the indicated location.

  After sighing, Georg addressed Marek yet again. “The dragon’s lair is known to be located at the Icing Boundary, where the snowy tundra meets the colossal glacier that covers the end of the World. Passing the icy labyrinth, a mountain called Everwintry Blackpeak looms. You’ll recognize it when you see it.” Marek nodded at the Governor’s instructions. “How much does it take to get there? I’m afraid I do not know since no one has ventured to the Icing Boundary and made its way back to give us an exact number, but we estimate it to be over a tenday at man’s pace.”

  “And how long at horse’s trot?”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Georg snorted. “No horse could traverse past the thick snow. If you take one with you, be ready to sacrifice and take its meat. Better nourish yourself and not those that lurk behind the pines.”

  The black-haired man grimaced at that fact. Were anyone to stand on top of the walls, the Icing Boundary would loom observable, so it was disheartening to discover that he could not cover the distance in three or four days. Not like he expected any more — in the end, the Frostscape would not have its merciless notoriety if people could cover the tundra in a mere couple of days.

  “I advise you to trade your horse for something more practical,” the Governor said, and a few seconds later, he turned in the way where the soldier walked, his hands pulling the reins of a horse.

  “Your horse, Governor Georg.”

  “Ye, ye,” Georg replied unenthusiastically.

  The city’s ruler mounted the animal, then commanded the horse to turn to Marek. “I recommend you not explore the Frostscape on your own, Mr. Blakesley. Notwithstanding, I have no right to stop you. You may do as you please. Just take into account that you would be dealing with not only wild animals but an entire ecosystem trying to freeze and devour you.” The middle-aged man climbed onto the mount and sat. “As you could notice, I’m a busy man, so you’ll need someone else to tell you about the hazards and how to avoid them. I suggest you inquire about that with hunters and old veteran adventurers. It will take some time, but being this late, I doubt you’ll leave within the next hours.”

  This time, Georg manipulated the reins to instruct the horse to move left, forward to what Marek presumed was the city hall. Right before Georg proposed to pull the reins, a faint cry echoed in the distance, beyond the plaza and the city walls. Those were the howls of wolves.

  “Ah, almost forgot it,” the mustached man said, turning his head back to the young adventurer, “animals tend to… lose their minds every time the dragon makes a show. In normal circumstances, they won’t attack travelers as long as you stay on the trail, but now, shaken by the dragon’s aura, they no longer have common sense or self-preservation. Be wary of them.”

  “Thanks for the advice. I’ll be careful with the animals,” Marek nodded in thankfulness.

  “And Mr. Blakesley... welcome to the Frostscape.” Without saying more, Georg turned to the streets and galloped, the soldier following behind with his own horse.

  Only when Blakesley was left behind back in the plaza did Georg realize something curious: he never told the young man about the exact reward, nor did he notice the boy being eager to inquire about the prize in gold or titles.

  Guess you aren’t doing it because of the gold, Mister Blakesley, the Governor of Gr?t?h mused, but he did not linger on the outsider for too long; he had unresolved issues with pressing traders.

  ————————————————————————————————————————————————

  Marek spent the last few hours gathering information about what lay north of the city.

  The traveler made his inquest about the arctic tundra before moving to the Frostscape, but taking into account the word of the locals was always beneficial — even mere fishers held more knowledge about the region than a scholar with a tome.

  Regardless, the fighter managed to expand his knowledge about the dangers that the wild land had in store. In the south, between the Gr?t?h and the other civilized towns and hamlets, the predominant dangers were wolves and raptors’ packs, as well as the occasional snowy leopard and bear. Marek feared no beast, but since the wyrm had induced a state of savagery in them, warriness should stay active.

  Another factor that he needed to worry about was the greys, better known as orcs in the South. Animalistic yet civilized, orcs were human in many ways, even sharing their ancestors with them, but they were barbarous, dimwitted, and considerably stronger than the fair humans. They fancied the East, where the diamond and coal mines lured them as a siren would lure a sailor — few tribes even insisted on raiding the settlements of Glen Guffa, incessantly trying to seize control over the mineral wealth buried under the rock. It was unusual to find these brutes in this part of the Frostscape.

  But what concerned Blakesley the most were the monsters of the snowscape — the wargs, the trolls, and the manticores. East and South Frostscape were mostly ‘dominated’ by the wargs, more bulky wolves with three eyes, gifted with the ability to breathe chilling wind. Meanwhile, to the North, extending up to the base of the Icing Boundary, the manticores ruled; two-headed freaks, spawn of a primal evil long forgotten by most. Lastly, but not least, the corpulent ogres known as trolls possessed a healing factor that grazed immortality. Although the latter group lacked an ‘area of influence’ given their animalistic brains and lack of social hierarchy, the trolls tended to inhabit caves and dense woods.

  Trolls appeared easy to avoid, but the wargs and manticores posed a true menace to his journey. These two species were confirmed to be sharpwitted, capable of speaking human languages and concocting clever tactics.

  One part of him wished to have joined the ‘volunteers,’ to have someone to cover his back and vice versa, in the same old-fashioned way as in the past, during his years as a sellsword. He quickly shook those thoughts out of his mind, knowing the consequences of integrating a party with greedy people. Besides, with so many people around him, he could not unleash his maximum potential.

  As the warrior finished strolling through the city, preparing for his upcoming journey, an inn made itself present, and Marek entered. During the hours he had been taking measures for the travel, he sold his horse just as Georg advised — Marek was not emotionally attached to the beast and did not even bother to name him beyond the occasional ‘boy’ he yelled to issue a command. With the coins obtained by trading his horse, he brought an adventurer kit — or, to be more exact, he improved the one he was already carrying on his back. No point in buying one bow and arrows: archery was not his forte, and he had his enchanted ax and daggers for hunting; within his nimble hands, such throwing weapons were as effective as speeding bolts.

  Once inside the inn, Marek advanced across the parlor to the reception, where he solicited a room from the clerk, a big-boned and bald northerner. Without sharing many words — and there was not much to discuss besides the last events that, needless to say, no one wanted to recall in a while — the man in reception gave the outsider the key to his room upstairs.

  Since he had eaten outside, Marek abstained from ordering food, skipping to the part where he secluded himself in the room for the rest of the night. Once within the confines of privacy, the fighter unhung his cloaks and hung them on a wooden stand before moving next to a desk. He untied the satchel from his belt, opening the pouch to confirm that what hid inside was intact — some flasks.

  There were four cylindrical flasks, all ornamented with a metallic ring at the opening and with their respective glass tap; none was taller than three inches.

  Those flasks were not conventional glass bottles. The engraved ring, enchanted with magic, preserved whatever was contained inside, preventing rot and decay. Likewise, the crystal was resilient, almost stone-hard, even if the body was not magical. It had cost more than one gold coin to obtain those containers from an alchemist, but the cost was negligible — what he planned to store inside was quintessential to cure his condition.

  Marek unconsciously covered his mouth with his free hand. More than once, a cough tried to escape his innards during his conversation with the Governor — an urge he had suppressed lest the ruler would have taken him as sickened and avoid giving him information about the incident.

  Not entirely false, as he was indeed sickened, and not with a conventional illness at that.

  His grip hardened around the flask, remembering why he had decided to do this journey. His eyes remained closed tightly for a few blinks before putting the bottle back into the satchel, placing the bag on the desk.

  Next, he unfastened the ax’s sheath from his belt and unholstered the blade. He gave the weapon a brief look. The exotic ax shone as gray gold, engraved with runes that only occultists could decipher — elven language, that said the mage Marek consulted with when the enchanted weapon had been appraised. Based on the sigils written across the unusual steel, the expert also read the weapon’s name — Iousterard.

  “I hope that you don’t let me hang in the middle of a fight…” the man mumbled as he put the blade inside its sheath and placed it over the wood.

  Finally, he took the longsword from his belt, but unlike the silvery ax, its scabbard was not removed; only the crossguard lay exposed, a piece of black metal shaped to mimic the skull of a deer. It was no secret to him that the sword bore a curse — he had suffered its afflictions on more than one occasion. No one had been able to tell the exact origin of this blade, or even the nature behind its curse, let alone its name.

  No one but Marek.

  The name had come to him, in a dream or a nightmare, or perhaps during a battle, when he had been afflicted by its bane. He could not pinpoint the occasion, but he knew the name — it called itself Dalavut.

  After the tragedy, Marek had discarded the weapon, burying it under layers of dirt for no one to find it. But after his condition had emerged into light, he had no choice but to recover the longsword, its beneficial effects too tempting to reject during this stage of crisis.

  After regarding the weapon with a dash of scorn, the fighter laid the accursed item along with the rest of his equipment, taking off the object on his back and leaning it against the wall. After retrieving the other four dirks from his belt and boots, taking one with him to the bed as one needs to be wary of thieves or assassins, he undressed to only his undershirt and trousers and plopped down on the bed, making the wood creak with his weight.

  But before lying down on his side, howls echoed beyond the window. An orchestra of the gloaming night that Marek had heard during his time in Gr?t?h, even witnessing how the authorities tended the numerous victims of wolf attacks.

  He expected the beasts to recover their normal behavior for the morning and spare him the trouble of dealing with their fluffy and feathery arses.

  Once his pondering reached its conclusion, the black-haired man lay on the bed, unbothered by the numerous howls. Had he been nearer the walls and paid more attention to the cries, he would have noticed two different tones of howls.

  A rattling one, almost a roar, and another with a song-like tone, reminiscent of a bird.