The beasts began to circle around Kalen, but aside from the occasional rush, they didn’t attack right away. The knight noticed the macabre smiles on their feminine faces, filled with sharp, pointed teeth. Their arms were the wings that kept them aloft, but their massive legs bore three powerful black claws.

  “By the grace of Leiorus… I’ll end you all,” he said as he swung his sacred sword through the air.

  There was a moment of tension when time itself seemed to halt, until suddenly, without warning, they let out frenzied screams and hurled themselves at him. The knight dodged the first two, tracing half-circles with his blade and cutting them clean in half, showering himself with the beasts’ guts and blood. A third managed to reach him and slash his back, but it was her final act in life, for her head was severed from her shoulders by a swift strike.

  The harpies attacked with dizzying ferocity, while the knight moved in circular patterns to cover every angle, also trying to guard his back against a tree or a rock. Any that came too close fell dead or gravely wounded. Another harpy seized on a brief mistake and slashed the back of his leg, forcing him to one knee for a moment. Three more saw their chance and launched themselves at him. Kalen was forced to roll across the ground to evade them, and as he rose, he swung Eldora, cleaving the head from a harpy that appeared before him.

  “By Leiorus… there are too many,” he said, leaning against a rock and trying to catch his breath. “Thanks, Anthos. Thanks for leaving me this part… I’ll have words with that guide once this is over…”

  Around Kalen lay the corpses of countless harpies, yet he suddenly felt claws sink into his shoulders and, almost instantly, they yanked him upward. Two monsters, taking advantage of his moment of rest, had caught him by surprise and began lifting him into the air.

  “Put me down, you wretches!” he shouted, kicking his legs and trying to reach Eldora, which had fallen from his hands to the ground.

  They carried him high above the trees, which stretched on for miles and miles. Now the dawn sky glowed pink with scattered clouds, silhouetting the swarm of harpies encircling him. Far in the east, he could also make out the Miderlaf Mountains. Suspended high above the forest canopy, he was easy prey for the monsters flying circles around him.

  He looked down, gauging the distance of the fall and the thickest treetops that might cushion the impact. Just as two harpies prepared to strike, he drew his dagger and slashed the legs of the beasts holding him, forcing them to release him.

  He plummeted from the tremendous height in seconds and, at the right moment, grabbed a tree branch. It bent under his weight before snapping. He tried to grasp more branches, but each one broke. At last, he hit the ground, breath knocked out of him—but alive, thanks to the branches that had slowed his fall.

  He stood, retrieved Eldora, and wiped the blood from his nose. Looking up, he saw at least a dozen more harpies diving toward him.

  “Well, here we go again…” He gripped Eldora with both hands, bracing for the monsters’ charge.

  But suddenly, the creatures froze midair. They glanced at one another, as if waking from a trance—confused, disoriented. Some turned their eyes back to Kalen, baring their teeth, especially at the sight of their companions’ mangled corpses. Yet after a few moments, they wheeled around and flew off, beating their wings eastward, toward the Miderlaf Mountains.

  “What the hell…?” He turned his head toward the inner stone circle. He spotted Anthos sitting against a tree and Ertai raising his dagger menacingly, as if about to finish him off. But as he focused his gaze, he noticed the slender blade of the guide’s rapier piercing the dark druid’s throat, almost imperceptibly.

  Just as Ertai was about to strike with all his fury, Anthos, in a treacherous maneuver, lifted his sword almost imperceptibly and drove the blade through the dark druid’s neck, piercing him from side to side. The Silent Death. The rapier bore that name for a reason.

  “I’m not honorable like Kalen, you piece of shit,” he said, withdrawing the blade almost as swiftly as he had thrust it in. “And that’s the real reason I chose to fight you. To face filth, you need to have crawled through filth yourself, understand, Ertai? When I said you underestimated me, I wasn’t talking about my skill in combat. I meant my ability to play dirty.”

  The dark druid’s eyes went wide as he spat a mist of blood. He dropped his dagger and clutched at his throat with both hands, stumbling backward before collapsing to his knees seconds later. Anthos stepped closer for one last look, but suddenly Ertai raised his head, his eyes pitch-black and trailing wisps of spectral smoke.

  “I’ll see you on the other side…” he said with a grin, revealing a row of crimson-stained teeth and those abyssal eyes spewing ghostly tendrils of smoldering shadow.

  “Shit!” Anthos cried as several of those phantom shapes shot into his eyes.

  Then Ertai’s head split in two, a blade cleaving down from the crown almost to his chin. Behind him stood Kalen ‘Fal, wielding Eldora with both hands, inhaling and exhaling deeply—no doubt to quiet the fire raging in his heart.

  “You alright?” he asked, pulling his sword free from Ertai’s ruined skull.

  “Yes… I think so.” Anthos shook his head, pressing his temples against the pounding headache left by whatever spell the druid had tried to curse him with as a parting gift. “Thanks, Kalen. I don’t know what that bastard was about to do to me.”

  “And we’re not going to find out,” the knight replied, giving him a pat on the back before moving toward the baby, who was now wailing at the top of his lungs.

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  Anthos steadied himself and glanced at the knight. Kalen was drenched in blood from head to toe, his back, arms, and legs carved with cuts. A wound on his scalp painted much of his golden hair crimson. Yet he stood tall—or at least managed to.

  Anthos looked down at Ertai’s lifeless body, brain matter spilled across the ground, his eyes unnaturally displaced by the destruction of his skull. His hand still twitched beside the silver dagger, an odd blade inscribed with runes in a language Anthos could not decipher. The air reeked of blood, and the cawing of crows heralded the imminent feast.

  He turned toward the darkness of the trees and, for a fleeting moment, thought he saw a pair of red eyes staring back at him, unblinking. The vision faded after only a few seconds.

  “You sure you’re alright?” asked Kalen as he walked past, carrying Drako in his arms.

  “I’ve been better,” Anthos said with a faint smile. “Is Drako safe?”

  “Untouched, thanks to Leiorus. I think I could use a rest for my legs.” He found a rock and sat against it, breathing steadily to cool the fire in his lungs. The aches in his body foretold the pain soon to come.

  “Let’s head to that tavern in Rivero. I’m dying for a mug of beer,” the guide said at last.

  “And I, for a fine wine.”

  Hours later, they finally emerged from the Forest of Storms. They had rested several meters from where the battle had taken place. The stench of death and blood still clung to the place, now swarming with crows feasting on the lifeless bodies of the harpies—and, of course, Ertai.

  Anthos carried Drako in his arms, wrapped in the blanket the dark druid had used to cover him and left upon the stone, just before they had caught up to him. Noon came beneath a yellowish sky, heavy with thick gray clouds that promised weather that, as usual, would only worsen.

  The village of Rivero wasn’t far, truth be told, but the wounds, the blows, and the exhaustion were taking their toll. Every hour, they had to stop, regain their strength, and drink some water. As agreed with Begryn, she would take the ailing Galfrido to rest and seek medicine in that village, the nearest to where they were now.

  Anthos remembered that the dark druid had planned to go to Epsilia and separate from the group there. Well then, Rivero was much closer, and there they would be able to treat the warrior and save his life.

  “What did Ertai tell you?” Kalen asked, after drinking from his waterskin, leaning against the trunk of a small leafless tree. “I heard you spoke before you fought…”

  “The dark druid believed we were leading Drako toward a tragic end. He was certain Faradax would strike with all his fury. But he was just as certain that, if that happened, the mages of Trabarioth would take the boy’s life before allowing him to be captured.”

  Kalen shook his head. “Volrath would never do such a thing.”

  “How do you know? It’s the easy way out. Kill the child and wait another hundred years for the next birth.” He drank another swallow from the waterskin. “Practically speaking, it’s one of the most viable options.”

  “Watch your words, Anthos.”

  “Do you think it’s an option I would take? After everything we’ve been through? Please, Kalen, you’re smarter than that. I wasn’t talking about me. But you can’t deny there’s a certain logic in Ertai’s reasoning. The bastard spoke the truth in the end.”

  “That didn’t stop me from splitting his skull open like an orange… Now the crows are eating him, as the treacherous dog he was.”

  “Do you really trust Volrath?” Anthos looked the knight in the eyes. “Do you really put your hands in the fire for him? Because when the moment comes, we might find ourselves alone in the struggle, knight. Even against our own allies.”

  “That will not happen.”

  “And the rest of the nobles, what will they say?”

  Kalen sighed with some annoyance, took the child, and stood up with a clear limp. Part of his companion’s reasoning coincided with Begryn’s thoughts about human courts and the way they operated. She often said there was greater danger among nobles and courtiers than on the battlefield, where you could easily identify the enemy. The knight, for his part, tried to seek the best in people. He was sure Volrath would never betray them, but… what about the others?

  He nodded to Anthos, and they began walking again. The ground was mostly covered in snow, but it allowed them to advance without major problems. From time to time, they had to climb a steep hill or dodge a stream. They spent the night in a small hollow, surrounded by stones and some trees that offered them shelter.

  That night, Anthos had disturbing dreams. A gray, ashen place, with a black, empty sky and violet clouds drifting in erratic patterns. A vast cemetery stretched as far as the eye could see, and in the far distance, silhouetted against the horizon, a colossal castle on a hill, like a hand rising from the earth itself, stretching its fingers into the sky to form the towers of the black fortress.

  He woke with a start when Kalen roused him the next morning, offering him a hot tea. Both of them felt even more sore than the day before. Kalen had to rely on an improvised cane to stand and even to walk, while Anthos carried the child. The weather gave them no respite. Now the sun was hidden behind a thick layer of silver clouds, weeping in the form of a faint drizzle that could turn into a storm at any moment. The light breeze was no comfort either, striking their faces with a thousand icy needles and freezing their already damp, blistered feet.

  The next night was no better. The cold seeped into their bones, and it seemed that only little Drako emanated a tremendous heat, almost immune to the frozen landscape. Even so, they kept him near the fire, in Kalen’s arms, while Anthos cooked a soup with the last herbs he had left. That gray morning found the three of them huddled together under a single blanket, trying to keep warm. Kalen once again leaned on the cane to walk, while the guide carried the baby.

  By that day’s dusk, in the distance, they began to see the flames rising into the sky, where the village of Rivero stood.

  “By Leiorus, it was about time,” exclaimed Kalen with a smile on his face, wiping the snot now running from his nose down to his cracked, dry lips.

  “Let’s go get that beer.” Anthos smiled, feeling the stiffness in the muscles of his face, his beard covered in ice. They advanced at a slow pace, but were more encouraged now that they could see the final stretch ahead. Kalen looked up at the sky again and noticed something strange in the smoke rising above. It was much darker than usual and far too dense, given the distance. He swallowed hard but said nothing. He tried to push aside his worst thoughts, but his fears became reality when they climbed a hill and saw, in the distance, the village of Rivero.

  It had been razed and was still burning. Hundreds of men, women, children, and elderly lay impaled around the outskirts, like macabre sentinels of the merciless slaughter that had taken place not long ago. The trail of a massive army vanished toward the north, also marked by countless corpses. Kalen could not hold back a frozen tear for all the dead, while Anthos collapsed to the ground, staring at the grotesque scene with terrible unease—an unease that went beyond what lay before his eyes, for the image that flickered in his mind was one he knew all too well, one he had witnessed with the Blood Claw: the destruction of a village and the ruthless extermination of its people.

  “And now what do we do?” he asked Kalen, without taking his eyes from the sight, silently wishing that Begryn and Galfrido had not arrived at their destination in time… for that could mean the worst.