"Hello, Mother.
I’m writing to you from... Well, I suppose it’s silly to start a letter this way. But that’s how I’ll start it anyway.
I’m writing from Mart Borskov’s wagon. He’s a good man, even if he drinks a lot and talks even more. When it rains, he lets wait out the storm under his roof.
When you used to tell stories about the plains and steppes, Mother, I always compared them to Grandfather’s tales. How could the land possibly be flat from horizon to horizon, with only the sky for company? But now, as storm clouds rise in thick, rolling waves above and the thunder echoes like shots from an old hunting rifle, I can see that you were right.
Here, deep in the steppe, I felt dizzy at first. Imagine it — there’s nothing there to catch your eye for hundreds of kiloters, and the occasional hill serves as a guidepost for travelers and...
Well, you already know this, obviously. Just as you know the local winds that carry the scent of grasses and fields. And how your chest swells with each intake of breath, and the fragrance of boundless freedom can intoxicate your mind.
Though, perhaps that’s Mart’s wine talking.
No, Mother, I’m not actually drinking. I know you wouldn’t approve.
We’ve been on the road for eleven days now. Everything’s fine, don’t worry.
I rember you warning Erti and about the dangers of the prairies and steppes, but we haven’t encountered any bandits or magical beasts. Mart often says that the forr are afraid of the Cloaks and the marshals, and that the latter likely fear Cassara. She’s a vampire. And though she always says her heart is dead, sotis I’m convinced that I’ve t few people whose hearts beat more vibrantly.
Cassara always tries to help the settlers, and sotis, she even plays with their children. They’re not afraid of her at all.
And you won’t believe it, but Mart’s been telling all kinds of interesting things. He told about how there shouldn’t be prairies and steppes here at all, but rather, a desert, like in the Holy Emirates of Al’Zafir. He claims it’s all because the Ley Lines on our continent run too close to the surface, changing what Mart calls the "magnetic fields." I don’t know what magnetic fields are, but apparently, because of these changes, North and South are all mixed up for us. Winter should be in the sumr here in the southern hemisphere, and sumr in the winter. Like on the eastern continent. And in the tropolis, there should be jungles, just like in Kargaam and Lan’Duo’Ha.
Can you imagine? Winter in sumr, and sumr in winter!
Mart sotis says he’s been to rivers in these countries where the trees are so tightly packed together that you can barely squeeze a hand between them!
Incredible, right?
He says it’s all because of the Ley Lines and how they influence the climate and...
Sorry, I’m repeating myself. I got carried away.
I’m fine. I sleep, eat, sotis ride out in patrols with the Cloaks, but we find nothing except the endless expanses of the steppe.
Yonatan — that’s the head of the Cloaks — is glad about that. So am I.
And the sky here, Mother, is beautiful. It’s not as familiar as at ho, but still beautiful. Maybe that’s what the sea looks like?
I now understand why you sotis missed these lands...
I miss you.
I love you.
Your son,
Ardi.
P.S. You’ll probably get this letter along with all the others, but... I don’t know how else to say it... may there be many.
P.P.S. How are you? Did you make it to Delpas? How’s ho? How’s Erti’s health? Is everything alright?
P.P.P.S. I hope I can..."
"Damn it," Mart clicked his teeth as he climbed down from the driver’s seat and into the wagon. "It’s pouring down like the sky itself is falling."
Ardi folded the unfinished letter and tucked it into his travel bag. He pulled aside the canvas flap and looked up at the sky. The clouds above clashed like mighty black and blue waves, rolling over each other. A fierce storm slashed at the earth, the lightning sounding like whip cracks and pinning the grass flat with the booming crash of thunder.
The raindrops weren’t just drumming steadily against their ager roof; they seed to want to pierce it straight through.
Mart shook off his leather raincoat, his hands trembling as he pulled yet another bottle from his bottomless suitcase. He yanked the cork out with his teeth and took several loud swigs.
"I won’t even offer you any this ti," he waved Ardi off.
Judging by the stillness underfoot, the caravan had stopped for a break. Not surprising, considering the fact that the rain had turned into a downpour in the last half hour. It could wash out even the most solid ground, and in places like this, you could not only get stuck, but — may the Sleeping Spirits help them — break a spring, or worse yet, a wheel.
"I don’t rember Matabar being as strict with alcohol as the orcs," Mart said, shaking the bottle as he sat down on the chests.
"Mother," Ardi answered the unspoken question with a single word.
"She’s very religious?"
"Not exactly," the young man shrugged. "But she believes in the Face of Light and tries not to break the commandnts when possible."
"The Face of Light and his commandnts," Mart snorted. "He’s spawned so many denominations that you can’t keep track of them. So allow alcohol, so don’t. So permit polygamy, others sa-sex relations. And so... build churches on the bones of unbelievers."
"And who are those people...?"
"The Enario Theocracy," Mart grimaced, digging through his chest before pulling out two maps. One of them showed the nations, similar to the one that had hung on the wall in Ardi’s school, though with slightly outdated borders. The other was a ss of climate zones, forests, rivers, glaciers, and swamps — this was the map Mart would use whenever he was trying to explain the connection between nature and Ley Lines to Ardi. "Look here."
Mart, pulling off his wet gloves with his teeth, traced his finger along the paper.
"South of the Ralsk Mountains, below the flow of the Eva River. That’s where the Enario Theocracy is," Ardi looked at the tiny sliver of land that, on the school map, had usually been shaded over. "It’s a nasty little place no one in the Empire likes to talk about."
He had a point. Ardan did recall seeing only a few short paragraphs about this place in his history book.
"But why-"
"Because we got our teeth kicked in, back in the day," Mart laughed. "Sure, the Castilians and the Selkado helped, but that doesn’t change the fact that we got demolished. Those fanatics held their defenses for a month against what was then still a young, not-so-established Empire. And then, well, the Incident of Lady Talia put an end to all expansion in that direction."
"What incident?"
Mart took a swig of wine, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and rolled his eyes toward the heavens.
"Oh, that rural education of yours... They reford the curriculum, added new subjects to match the city’s standards, but I bet your teachers still covered three topics each?"
"Two," Ardi corrected.
"Two," Mart snorted again. "Ever heard of Sergeant ndеra?"
"Only that, thanks to him and his unit, Gales managed to steal the special fla from the Fae, which helped them win the war."
"Well, if we gloss over a few details, that’s pretty much how it happened," Mart nodded. "Anyway, Gales grabbed a bunch of land and beca an Empire, but at that ti, it hadn’t fully established itself or consolidated its power in the provinces. One such province was, you guessed it, the border with Enario."
"But why-"
"I’m not a historian, at least not in the common sense, Ardi. Nor a politician. How should I know why the Empire needed that forsaken scrap of land?"
Ardan glanced at the map again. He couldn’t see any critical importance in Enario’s location, either. But, as Mart had rightfully pointed out, they weren’t historians or politicians.
"For a couple of years, the Empire was just settling in, and then they decided to send ndеra with his unit, and Lady Talia, to Enario. The idea was to restore relations," Mart chuckled and tapped the map with his fingers. "The result: Lady Talia disappeared without a trace, ndеra was killed by his own n, and instead of restoring relations... see that gray zone in the north, right next to the mountains, and that other one to the south?"
Ardi squinted at the map. Indeed, if you looked closely, you could spot two gray splotches.
"Those are the Dead Lands."
"The Dead Lands?"
"Fucking Angels, kid!" Mart exploded. "What do our taxes pay for? For you to go to school and not learn a damn thing?"
Ardan frowned. His schoolteachers may not have had university degrees, but they’d taken their jobs seriously.
"Don’t look at like that," Mart waved dismissively. "The Dead Lands is a general term. So call them the Cursed Lands, the Forsaken Lands, the Wastelands, or whatever. Look, there’s another one on the Dancing Peninsula, on our border with Olikzasia."
Ardi followed Mart’s finger and spotted a third splotch.
"There are quite a few scattered around the world. But the Imperial maps only show ours. If you ask why... I... I don’t know what I’ll do, but don’t ask!"
Ardi nodded. He was well aware of his tendency to bombard people with endless questions for which answers were rarely found.
But if he couldn’t talk about that, then Ardi would ask another question:
"And they’re called Dead Lands because...?"
"The na doesn’t say enough? They’re dead, as in… dead! And when I say ’dead,’ it’s not a figure of speech. God made a real fucking pile of shit there. And in that shit, the nastiest creatures you can imagine lurk. Compared to them, the magical beings created by the Firstborn for their war against Gales seem like cuddly, fluffy bunnies."
Ardan rembered the mountain troll he’d fought as a child. It hadn’t seed like a bunny to him, let alone cuddly and fluffy.
"And all of it because of ndera’s unit. They ssed up sothing with the Ley Lines, or whatever. Since then, these sores pop up around the world from ti to ti. Sotis, they can be healed. Sotis, they can’t," Mart rolled up the map and stuffed it back into its tube. "They tend to have demons, dark mages, and not the kind you’d find in Makingia, but real scum. And all sorts of mutants, too. There’s no end to it. Go ask Yonatan about it."
"What does-"
"Haven’t you figured it out yet?" Mart interrupted him again. "The leader of the Cloaks is probably the most standard mutant I’ve ever seen. And I’d understand it if he were a descendant of those bastards Gales once spawned. You have no idea, kid, what Star Magic can do when not bound by state regulations against inhumane experints," Mart’s last two words were delivered in a mockingly official tone. "But Yonatan isn’t a mutant’s offspring... No, he’s sothing new. And those super-soldier experints were supposed to have been closed long ago and..."
Mart cut himself off, glancing from his bottle back to Ardi, and suddenly frowned.
"Forget everything I just said," he muttered, covering himself with a blanket. "And forget we even talked about it... Damn wine... It’ll be the death of ..."
There was a knock on the side of the wagon.
Mart jumped, clutching his bottle, and pressed himself against the chests.
Ardan moved closer to the makeshift "entrance" and, untying the curtains, pulled the edge aside. A spray of cold mist hit his face, and a sharp wind whipped through his nostrils.
"Get ready, boy," Yonatan barked. "There’s work to be done."
As Ardi pulled on his coat and hat, securing the belt with his revolvers, the head of the Cloaks kept his gaze locked on Mart, who was doing his best to pretend he didn’t exist.
"And try to keep your mouth shut, mage," Yonatan added briefly as Ardi jumped to the ground, letting the rain pour over his face.
Given the loud hiccup that ca from Mart in response, he’d taken that comnt to be a threat aid at him. And who could bla him, considering Yonatan’s keen hearing and the fact that he’d probably phrased it that way on purpose...
Wading through ankle-deep mud on the rain-soaked road, they reached a group of people, among whom Ardi spotted Ertas Govlov. Alongside him, huddling under less-than-great leather raincoats, stood several other n from the ranks of the settlers. They all looked sturdy, with weathered faces (as much as could be judged under the downpour) and hands that were far from delicate.
Most of the Cloaks and marshals were also present.
"Twenty-two people," Yonatan sumd up, patting his horse’s neck. The beast shook its head in discomfort — the rain was pouring in under its saddle. "You’re sure about what your boy saw, Ertas?"
The head of the settlers nodded.
"By the river," he pointed into the darkness of the night. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a thunderclap, revealing the area. Govlov was pointing straight toward their intended route. "A Wanderer. Seems injured."
Ardan, almost like he was imitating Mart, let out a loud hiccup at that. Wanderers were one of those stories parents in the villages and hamlets of the Foothill Province used to scare children so they wouldn’t wander too far into the steppe.
They were echoes of the war between the kingdoms of Ectassus and Gales. And even though over half a millennium had passed since then, the remnants of those events still haunted much of the western continent.
Especially those remnants like the Wanderers. Their real na had been lost to history, and they’d earned their current title because of their massive size and the fact that their footsteps could be heard even kiloters away across the steppe.
"Damn storm," muttered one of the Cloaks. Ardi didn’t know him well enough to rember his na. "That’s probably why we didn’t hear it."
And as if to confirm that he was right, another bolt of lightning flashed, followed by thunder that hamred their ears.
Yes... It was hard not to hear a twelve-ter-tall beast covered in thick muscles and skin that had once served as armor. Of course, that had been the case back when people had used bows, crossbows and spears instead of revolvers and rifles. But, as Ardan had learned well among the mountain trails and northern marshes, misfortune rarely ca alone.
And if such a cruel storm had overtaken them, it was no surprise that a Wanderer had hidden in its shadow as well.
"Is it a big one?" Marshal Kal’dron asked.
Standing next to him, Marshal Elliny, small and almost invisible compared to the grim-faced n around her, radiated a piercing, calm confidence. It was a sharp contrast to so of the others who had gathered with them.
"My son said it’s about eight ters," Ertas replied. "But in this downpour... And the beast is lying in the river, so it could be more."
So people cursed, while others whispered prayers to the Eternal Angels.
"Nearly a fully-grown specin," Yonatan shook his head. "Even if it’s injured — and that raises the question of who or what hurt it — it’s still better if we avoid it."
"We’re nearly out of water," Ertas reminded him.
"You’re standing in the rain, damn it," spat Katerina, an unusually skilled sharpshooter, as Ardi had co to learn. "We’ll gather plenty. Enough to make it to Presny."
"Katerina, rember our deal?" Yonatan’s eyes flashed.
"I wasn’t joking."
"Then let’s adjust the terms — just stay quiet."
"We’ll gather the water," Andrew agreed, tipping his hat and letting the pooled rainwater spill onto the ground. "But leaving that thing behind us... For those of you who aren’t locals, let remind you of this fact: a Wanderer’s sense of sll is keener than any hunting dog’s, and its hunger is constant. If we don’t just bypass the river but detour deep into the steppe, we’ll be able to avoid it. Otherwise…"
"How long will that take?" Ertas asked, visibly tense.
The marshal began counting on his fingers.
"Eight days, maybe ten. That’s to make sure we don’t cross paths with the monster again," he answered. "But, Mr. Govlov, once we’re deep in the steppe, there’s no guarantee that we won’t encounter another Wanderer, bandits, or other beasts. Smaller beasts, perhaps, but just as unpleasant."
The settlers’ faces sank. No one wanted to face a Wanderer, a creature they’d most likely feared since childhood. At the very least, they had spoken about it in spine-chilling stories before going on any journey into the southern lands.
But veering off their current route so drastically, especially without any guarantees of avoiding other dangers, wasn’t exactly a great alternative. Even the presence of the Cloaks and a vampire — though Ardi doubted most of the settlers even understood who or what Cassara really was — wasn’t a foolproof guarantee of safe passage. While their re presence would ward off petty thieves and smaller creatures, larger gangs or more fearso beasts, on the other hand...
"The rain," Tevona suddenly whispered. "That’s why the Wanderer is resting in the river. If not for the rain, it would’ve slled us long ago and attacked."
"Tevona, you’re doing it agai-"
"Wait, Kal’dron," Yonatan interrupted, turning toward the girl. "Go on, Marshal Elliny."
She nodded at him and turned her gaze toward the river where Ertas had pointed.
"The wind is in our faces, and the downpour, the storm... I believe Mr. Govlov’s son wasn’t mistaken, and the creature is seriously injured. Otherwise, it would have followed him back here, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now."
More curses echoed, and soone gripped their weapon tighter. The thought that a young lookout could’ve led trouble directly to their camp seemingly hadn’t occurred to anyone until now.
Ardi, for his part, saw no reason to weigh in with his own thoughts. Not because Yonatan had threatened him earlier, but because everything had been clear from the start...
"If we strike first, we have a good chance of taking it down. The fangs, claws, blood, and hide of a Wanderer are worth a fortune. I think the settlers — and we ourselves — could-"
"Are you out of your mind, girl?" Marshal Kal’dron snapped, his mustache quivering like an angry insect’s antennae. "Fangs, claws... Attack a Wanderer! Have you lost your damn mind? That’s..."
"I like it," Yonatan grinned and clapped Tevona on the shoulder. "Kid, if you ever get tired of wearing a marshal’s stripes, drop a note. We always welco people with guts."
With that said, he cast a theatrical, disapproving glance at the crowd around him.
"Here’s the plan, settlers!" Yonatan’s voice bood, effortlessly drowning out the rolling thunder. "My squad doesn’t have ti for detours, so we’re not changing the route. If you want to go around the river, be my guest, but you’ll do so without us. And if you believe four marshals can protect you from all the steppe’s creatures," the Cloak smirked and spat on the ground, "then may the Face of Light be with you."
The crowd started muttering, discussing, arguing, and cursing. Ardi could feel the air thickening with the scent of fear, despite the heavy rain and storm. And he couldn’t bla the northern settlers for their hesitation.
It took real courage to cross the Alcade Mountains directly rather than waste months detouring around them. But a Wanderer...
Ardi wiped the rain from his face, the wind whipping sharp droplets across his skin.
"We’ll go with you, Cloak," Ertas stepped forward. "But if-"
"If what?" Yonatan cut in, his gaze sweeping over the group. "I have no idea if everyone will survive or if soone will die. But I’ll say this: if you use your heads, do what I tell you, and don’t piss your pants, you’ll have a decent chance of making it. And afterwards, you can tell your grandchildren how you took down a giant beast in the steppe."
The settlers murmured amongst themselves, hurriedly untying the horses from their posts. Ardi, anwhile, pulled out his revolver and loaded the sixth round. As the cowboys on the farm had taught him, when working, it was always best to keep the chamber directly under the hamr empty. After all, there were plenty of stories about people shooting themselves in the leg or losing toes.
A flash of lightning illuminated the scene, and in the reflection of a nearby puddle, Ardan caught a glimpse of Yonatan.
"Kid," the Cloak said, his voice heavy.
"What?"
"Where the hell is your damn staff?"
Ardi clicked the revolver’s cylinder into place and glanced back toward Mart’s wagon. His grimoire and staff, protected from the rain, were hidden inside.
"What kind of mage, in the na of the Face of Light, goes around without their staff?"
"I-"
"Enough with the excuses," Yonatan cut him off sharply. "Though, considering how you fought Gleb, maybe it’s for the best that you don’t have it," he mounted his horse, and for the first ti, Ardi noticed that not only was a rifle strapped to his saddle, but also a saber. "Stay with the group. If I see you wander off, I’ll shoot you. Got it?"
Now Ardi understood why Yonatan had brought their "valuable cargo" along on this particular hunt. Not because he needed Ardi’s help or expertise, but because he wanted him under close supervision.
"I didn’t hear you!" Yonatan barked.
"I got it," Ardi nodded calmly, mounting his horse. He ran his hand along the mane of his mare, calming the anxious animal.
"Cassara," the Cloak called out.
The vampire and her horse, almost gliding through the darkness, materialized beside Ardi.
She and Yonatan exchanged looks, and without another word, the Cloak spurred his horse, charging into the rain. The rest of the riders followed shortly after, with Ardi and Cassara bringing up the rear as they rode into the storm.
The black sky seethed with rage, the thunder rumbling like the tolling of angry cathedral bells, and the rain, relentless and cold, poured down in thick sheets, drenching the prairie in a silvery deluge. Among all this chaos, the silhouettes of two dozen riders were re pinpricks racing through the darkness.
Horses, their eyes wide and nostrils flaring, galloped forward, their hooves sinking into the muddy earth and flinging around thick sprays of mud with every step. The riders’ faces, despite the rain, the biting wind, and the monster waiting for them by the river, were determined. But beneath that mask was fear, lurking in every heartbeat and every jab of their spurs.
The air around them thickened as the stifling weight of fear grew so tangible it felt like a familiar, sticky hand was ready to reach out and grab them. Each bolt of lightning, each clap of thunder, seed to feed that fear, casting fleeting, sharp shadows of the people racing into the unknown not by choice, but by necessity.
Their coats, heavy with moisture, flapped and danced in the wind, like the wings of birds lost in the storm.
The wind lashed their faces like a ravenous wolf, and the rain soaked into every crevice, whether it was a collar, pocket, or boot.
Ardan gritted his teeth — unnecessary words at such a ti could cost a rider their tongue. Occasionally, he patted his mare’s neck and squinted up at the sky.
Finally, they crested another hill and halted in a small hollow near the riverbank. What had appeared at first glance to be a small island nestled in a wide bend of the river was, in reality, a living creature.
The beast’s chest rose and fell, its noisy breaths reminiscent of the whispers of a sumr forest disturbed by particularly fierce winds.
The Wanderer lay on its side, facing the opposite bank, its back to the riders. The wind blowing in their faces, the rain, and the incessant thunder provided such perfect cover that the beast, renowned for its sense of sll, hearing, and sight, hadn’t noticed them at all.
Or perhaps the reason they had been able to get so close was its large wound. They could glimpse it every ti the river’s waves receded, revealing a part of the Wanderer’s right side, the side on which it lay.
Green blood trickled into the river, causing it to shimr in the flashes of lightning.
Whoever had given it that jagged wound had co close, but had ultimately failed to disembowel the monster.
Yonatan raised his hand and flicked his wrist a few tis to signal them. The riders imdiately recognized the gesture and rode closer to him.
"The plan is simple," he said quietly, and those closest repeated his words to those farther back. No one dared to speak at full volu, even though they were still a hundred ters from the river. "We’ll split into three groups of seven. Katerina, take the high ground at three o’clock."
"Got it, commander," she nodded, removing the cover from the scope of her rifle. "Can I use-"
"No more than two," Yonatan preempted her.
Katerina nodded, reined in her horse, and began climbing the slope in what seed to be a random direction. But recalling Yonatan’s instructions, Ardi envisioned them at the center of a clock, realizing that Katerina was moving toward the direction where the clock would read "three."
It took less than a minute for everyone to divide into groups. Ardi found himself in a group with Cassara, Tevona, and four settlers.
"Only move along the riverbank, and only against the current," Yonatan continued once the teams had ford. "Aim for the knees and don’t worry about hitting the mark. Fire, pull back from the bank, reload, and go again."
So of them stole uneasy glances at the sleeping beast. Even from this distance, it looked so enormous that their minds refused to believe it was real, struggling to chalk it up to tricks of shadow and light.
"Our goal is to bring the beast down," Yonatan twirled his revolvers and grinned. "And then Cassara will finish the job. Right?"
The vampire, instead of replying, tipped her hat. The settlers, still not quite understanding who or what the blonde beauty truly was, exchanged puzzled looks between her and the monster.
If he hadn’t known the truth about Cassara, Ardi would’ve also been surprised to hear that plan.
"Well, ladies and gentlen," Yonatan steered his horse around, facing the river. "Shall we dance?"
Without further delay, the Cloak spurred his horse forward. His group followed, the second squad headed out after a few seconds, and finally, with that sa calculated pause, the rearguard that included Ardi moved into action.
His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that it felt like it would burst through his ribs and run off on its own. His stomach was twisted into a tight knot, and a nauseating lump rose in his throat. His hands began to tremble, and his legs squeezed his mare’s sides too tightly, causing the anxious creature to absorb his unease as well.
Rain lashed his hat, lightning flashed, thunder roared, and Ardi charged toward the beast. Just like the mountain troll, the Wanderer had stepped out of ancient stories and was now looming before them in all its terrifying glory.
Feeling as though he might pass out at any mont, Ardi grabbed hold of the gift from Atta’nha that was hidden under his clothes. The small wooden totem — a figurine in the shape of an old oak — dug into his fingers, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his hand. He wrapped himself in that pain as if it were a warm blanket, shielding himself from the cold claws of fear.
Breathing beca a little easier, and his vision cleared. At that mont, Yonatan, leading the charge, raised his revolvers and fired toward the beast’s legs. The bullets cut through the air, striking the creature’s flesh, and chaos erupted.
The Wanderer stirred, as if confused by what had just happened. But then, following Yonatan’s lead, the other riders opened fire. Bullets rained down on the beast, and what had once seed like an island suddenly ca to life.
The creature roared, and despite enduring a hail of bullets and being surrounded by clouds of gunpowder, it began to rise. Its broad, green, blood-soaked wound glistened in the flashes of lightning. The monster stood nearly eight ters tall, casting a vast shadow over the landscape.
At first glance, the beast resembled a bear: it had a massive, muscular fra supported by thick, powerful limbs, and its body was covered in thick fur, which shimred in shades of dark brown and black.
But everything else about it — its long torso, all that tangled, matted fur, those fangs, and that elongated snout — resembled sothing more akin to a canine.
The Wanderer roared again, pushing off with its front legs and assuming a hunched posture, standing on its hind legs but bending so low it almost touched the ground with its massive arms.
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