He blew into his hands, rubbing them together. The relief from the sniping wind raging over the marshes didn't last long, yet it was all he could bargain for as rain began to seep through the holes of his mostly disintegrated cloak. Pathetically small wisps of smoke plumed from the fire he had attempted to build; the twigs were more sizzling than providing any heat.

The borderlands. The horse waste. The realm of the old Lords of Aves. The southern tip of Silvermark. The region had as many names as it had history, but none truly captured the desolate hopelessness of the place. 

Dead Marshes—that was what they should have called the land, with its stiff, straw-like weeds and boney, leafless bushes. Nothing else grew here. Not a tree in sight for a dozen miles, not even a sapling to offer minimal shelter. He didn't need much, just a place to hide from the rain, the wind, and that damned smell of half-decayed carcasses wafting up from the peat bogs.

At least he still had Bear. The mountain dog, with his fluffy (albeit wet) fur, laid curled around him atop hole-riddled blankets he had borrowed from an abandoned cottage three hundred miles more north. Sitting on dank pieces of cloth beat having to lie down in the tall, prickly straw, but dear God of Sloth, how he missed a bed, or just a dry plank to rest his back on.

Stop complaining—he said to himself, his teeth clattering. This was nothing. He had lived through worse, far worse.

The winters back in Bigtown had been truly relentless: endless moons of darkness, snowstorms that lasted days and buried houses and the castle alike in layers of snow. When the air finally cleared, the temperatures were so low that the hair in his nose froze from the moment he stepped outside.

It was still summer; his skin was cold to the touch, but he was not freezing.

But Bigtown Castle had also had fireplaces, reindeer-wool blankets, furs, and cups of warm buttermilk. Nose hair thawed. Wet socks dried. And bland yet rich food fueled the inner workings of his bodily machine. While the Winter Bear roared outside, the folk of Ice created little caves of abundance in their homes. As King River's ward and Kennelmaster, he had never known a day of true discomfort.

Nick scratched Bear behind the ears, listening to the snorts of his companion slipping in and out of sleep after another night of travelling on overgrown paths—if they had ever been paths at all. His body craved sleep too, but someone had to stay awake—they were too much out in the open.

He yawned. The journey was starting to take a toll on him and Bear. Still, he would do it again; he was doing what was right; no longer hiding from his duties, but running towards them. He wasn't sure yet how he would help, but he wouldn't simply stand by and hear tales of old friends being slaughtered by Silvermarker greed.

He couldn't help more anxious thoughts from slipping into his mind, as they fed on misery, on a groaning stomach and raindrops running down his back, soaking him further. His bones ached. Food was scarce. Normally, he wasn't the praying kind—the Gods never listened, anyway—but how he wished he could summon the Goddess of Kindness, and beg Her to get him out of this place. He would trade a thousand Ician winters if it meant never having to spend another night in the gloomy shadows of the borderlands.

In the distance, from across the sea, not far from where the Horseshoe Mountains rose above the red horizon, rumbled an unnatural thunder and flashed explosive lightning.

Bear's ears pricked up and, the mountain dog turned towards him, mumbling a faint howl, as the morning sky coloured blue and white.

Nick spoke through the lump forming in his throat. "Hush, sleep. It's far away."

"Yo-yo," Bear mumbled in disagreement. 

"It is—we're many miles from the coast. You're safe... well, as safe as we can be in Silvermark." Nick ran his hand along Bear's back where he found pellets of partially melted ice rain. He picked them out, not because the hail would bother Bear, but because it gave him something to do. A thousand leagues more north, people would start arguing whether this was the last snow of the old winter or the first snow of the new one. Back in Bigtown, he would have joined in this discussion, but what did it matter? 

"Soon, we'll be in the south where it's summer—actual summer," Nick said. The more he imagined the land of his childhood, the more real it seemed. "And soft cushions, sugar-sweet juice, and so many snacks you can never eat them all."

Bear whined like a petulant child. "Yo, Yick. Yo."

"I must—I have to keep faith that The Greenlands is still..." He scratched his itchy forehead, oily and flakey. "...that it's still The Greenlands."

Nick peered at the growing red hue, his sight too poor to distinguish fire magic from a regular sunrise. 

Who was he kidding? Of course, the home of his ancestors wasn't the same place he had left all those years ago. He didn't need his eyes to know that every mile he travelled was another mile closer to the war. The rain that was drenching him was too cold to belong to a summer storm. That thunder was the sound of cannonballs shattering wood and sinking ships, and the explosive lightning belonged to Silvermarker magicians fighting back. White, blue, and red streaks in the sky. The colours of war.

He would soon have to make a choice, a choice he had put off since the night he had left Phoenix to die and had sent Burn and the remaining pups back to Bigtown: how to cross the border?

For the longest time, he had thought about going the long way round, to slip from Havby in Silvermark to Porthby in The Greenlands—counting on the low tide or a forgotten rowing boat. It would be safer than submitting to the fickle but ruthless rage of the Horseshoe Mountains. But as the war raged at sea, the peaks seemed the more peaceful option, even when he knew the risks. Getting caught between two armies or getting lost on the rooftop of the world—which was the less painful death?

"You favour the mountains, don't you, Bear?" Nick said, gesticulating at the blurry crags. His companion replied with audible sniffing. "Maybe I should honour your name, rely on you being able to guide me to the other side..."

His hand slid off Bear as the dog rose to his paws, sniffing even louder. Then, his tail whacked Nick in the face.

"Hey, careful," Nick said. "Where are you going?"

"Ro-ph."

"Food? There's nothing to hunt here."

"Roph Yick."

"You don't need to get more for me—I've had enough." 

Bear ambled along, ignoring Nick.

He didn't know why he had felt the urge to lie; his companion knew dinner had comprised of tasteless, mostly raw, mushrooms they had found at the edge of a marsh a good ten miles more north. In the last two days, they had encountered few animals, except for swarms of flies and those warty toads that Bear had tried eating but had retched back up soon after. The days of eating skinny squirrels and bony rat meat seemed like a feast in comparison. He didn't care what he had to do to pay—once they had crossed the border, he would go to the nearest inn and request four thick slices of bread with butter and fat-filled sausages, and a large jug of milk. He would let Bear roam in the forest and catch whatever game he could find.

"Don't stray too far!" Nick shouted, his voice scratchy. 

He had trouble focusing on the black-and-white dog, his image a dark smudge among the straw-coloured landscape. His boy was facing northwest. What was he doing?

Nick laid his hand on his sword, a nervous tic he couldn't and wouldn't get rid of. Not when he didn't have friends or allies around. He kicked out the fire—it was worthless anyway, and not worth the exposure.

"Bear?"

"Ro-row. Yip-yip," Bear barked. Human. People.

He froze, and with an increased panic, his other senses kicked in: the ground was rumbling. Hundreds of pairs of feet marching in a military cadence. Through the wind, he caught fragments of human voices and whiffs of oat, barley, and dried meat. 

He closed his bad eye and squinted at the blurry blotches. Four squares—no, actually, rectangles—of soldiers clad in silver followed by a snake-like string of wagons, heavily loaded, plodded through the swampy underground, heading towards them.

Silvermarker reinforcements from Moondale, two or three hundred strong.

"Bear, get back here, now!"

A quick glimpse told him his furry friend was hurrying back to him. He grabbed the wet blankets, fumbled them together, then tied them into a make-shift bag and swung it over his shoulder. Damned his continuous devotion to the God of Sloth—had he done what King Thomas had asked of him, attend the School of The Four Other Senses, he would have caught the Silver Army much sooner. His time in Ice had been wasted, and today was the day he would pay the ultimate price for being a lazy son of Sloth.

"Ro-rom. Yip-yip," Bear repeated as he stopped right in front of him.

"Bad people, good Bear—we need to go," he said, breathing heavily. He threw his leg over his dog and wrapped his arms around Bear's neck.

Weeks of pondering, and now he made a decision in less than a heartbeat. "The mountains, as fast as you can."

He didn't need to say that twice. How his companion had the strength and the speed, Nick could only guess. The mountain dog hadn't had a decent meal or a good nap in ages, but he bolted like a hunted animal, sprinting and leaping over creeks with full force. He didn't twitch as his back paw touched the icky water, nor did he get distracted by the war blazing in the southwest. Poison-green gas escaped from rotten bogs, but Bear carried on. He would run until his master told him to stop.

Nick looked over his shoulder, to the silver shimmering in the morning light. How far or close they were was hard to tell, but at least he was moving faster than they were. At least, the boulders and cragged paths of the mountains would provide shelter. 

He narrowed his eyes. But how many miles to go, and which path to take, then? The closest, in the east, or would it be better to head west where the passage through the mountain was shortest, where he knew he would end up close to Leaventower—if the tower was still in Greenlander hands? Could he take the chances? What would he do if he found out the camp belonged to the Silvermarkers?

Out of nowhere came a loud and sharp noise, a blaster shot from behind. Had he eaten like he had all his life, he would have shat his pants.

Bear, still not startled, kept running.

Then followed a second shot, and shortly after, Nick swore he heard arrows sizzling through the air. He hoped he was wrong, that they weren't really after him, but if they were, he wasn't going to make it easy. He enjoyed life too much for his corpse and Bear's to remain forever, never fully decaying, in the bloody Dead Marshes.

"Weave," he ordered Bear.

Instantly, his dog took a sharp turn and ran around a bog in a wide circle before taking the next turn.

"Good Bear," Nick said. "Remember the Ician tale of the Wanderer boy caught in a war between two tribes? He was shot because the bowman predicted his gait. They won't catch us if they don't know where we're going. Weave again."

Bear moved east, jumped over mud pretending to be a froggy pond, then slid west, leaping over the same slush of grime and dirty water.

Nick counted to seven, then ordered Bear to turn. Next time he counted to ten, and the time after that to three.

The shooting stopped, and so did the flying of arrows. By the mercy of the Gods, let this be the end of the Silver Army showing an interest in him. Who cared about a single man in tatters and his shabby, giant dog, fleeing to the south? He was insignificant.

"Weave."

Bear narrowly avoided the sudden rising of the earth, then went east as a curtain of mud blocked their path.

No, he should stop thinking he was a nobody, for his safety and Bear's; they were chasing him. This was their reality now. They were in danger and under attack. Sooner or later, this was bound to happen; Since neither he, the pups, nor Phoenix had arrived in Moondale, King Storm and the heads of the Silver Army must know the mission had failed. There had been enough ambassadors from Silvermarker villages in Bigtown for them to know what he and Bear looked like. Especially Bear—there weren't many mountain dogs south of the Great Big Wide.

"Weave."

A sloppy turn led to a big splash into swampy water. Not twice, but three times, Bear attempted to clamber back on shore before he succeeded, as though a blockage of water and air prevented him from doing so.

As if magic would ever stop Bear, Nick scoffed. Silvermarkers with pudding in their brain. For a country where folk gave their children animal names, they knew very little about the creatures of this world. Mountain dogs had an inherent aptitude for magic; it was why they bonded only to one human and learnt to communicate. Most dogs could withstand a magical attack just as easily as iron. It was a fact Nick wouldn't dare to share once he had found a way out of the borderlands, but it would help him, right here and now.

"Good boy, you're a real bear. The only and only Winter Bear. My Bear."

Baring his teeth and roaring, Bear trudged through the slit, then found a patch of dry land and renewed strength. West-east-west, back east, running straight ahead before running again more east.

Gradually, the attacks lessened in strength. A powerful, man-made gust of wind chilled Nick but didn't hinder Bear. The ground cracked, and a hole appeared just as Bear weaved around it. The second hole was so small, the dog barely had to leap.

Take that, Silvermarker scum! They would never be a match against the might of a mountain dog!

Bear was still running towards the sunrise.

"Favouring east there, do we?" Nick jested. "You think you'll find a lovely lady there?"

The silly joke kept him from giving in to his fears. One wrong move, and they would be knocking on the gates of the Heavenly Halls.

"Ro-row. Wree," Bear said. Green human. A Greenlander? 

"Are you sure?"

"Arf."

The rising sun reflected against the snowy mountain tops, hindering his already impaired vision. A light flickered, and a heartbeat later, the ground was shaking, rumbling. Boom! Boom! Boom!

Bear stopped in his tracks as rocks crashed and tumbled down. A mist of dust and debris swept over the land.

Standing still was dangerous, but Nick couldn't help but stare at the scenery. Through the fog, he caught a faint flash of light. The ritual was repeated once more. What were they doing? Widening a path? Creating a tunnel between the two countries? Would they attack him?

He couldn't run towards the noise, could he? Just when he was about to steer Bear to the west, a horn resounded.

It was a sound Nick hadn't heard in many years. It didn't carry the same tune to which he had woken up as a Cadet in Sundale, but it carried the same vibrant motives. Bear hadn't been wrong. The noises in the mountains did come from the Greenlander army!

Through the mist glimmered gilded shields of the army standing at the base of the mountain. Nick could already picture the sycamore tree on the sturdy iron plates, the shape of the leaves on the edges—he had cleaned it enough in his younger years.

But the arrival of the Greenlanders didn't bring him any solace. He had ended up exactly where he had never wanted to be, caught between two armies.

"Go, run!" he shouted at Bear as he frantically thought of a plan.

Bear, never doubting his master, darted into the dust cloud as Nick checked his pockets. His once white handkerchief was stained with old blood and other muck, and too small for the Greenlander soldiers to see. The bundle of wet rags could easily be mistaken for a poorly made slingshot. He would have to rely on his voice and the thought that someone heading the legion knew who the young, half-blind man and his mountain dog were. Even if they believed him a wretched Muttonhead seeking riches in The Greenlands—anything as long as they didn't fire.

Nick raised his hands. "I'm a Greenlander," he shouted. "White flag—don't shoot. I'm one of you."

The shields still shimmered, and so did the iron tips of a row of bowmen; they could be equipped with blasters too—he couldn't tell the difference. The soldiers didn't move, their stance as if ready to attack.

"Please, I'm a Greenlander! Let me through!"

Someone shouted something back, but Nick couldn't catch what he said. There was still no gap in the wall of soldiers, but he did hear the groaning roll of heavy wheels; cannons, but couldn't see where the iron machines had been placed.

"Hail King Thomas," Nick yelled. "Hail to The Greenlands."

Heavy steps. Armour clanked. Weapons pinned upwards instead of towards him.

A two-man hole appeared, enough for Bear to run through. As soon as they passed, the men shifted back into formation. 

The legion stood fourteen men thick, all filled with nervous energy.

Nick steered Bear towards the shape of an older, bearded gentleman who faintly reminded him of Captain Jonathan, except taller. He caught something golden on his collar—three sycamore leaves.

"I'm a Greenlander," Nick said, his breath heavy as Bear slowed down. "Nick, son of Frederic of Laneby, ward to King Thomas and King River, promised to Princess Alana." He wished the news of him breaking off his engagement to Lana hadn't reached this legion.

"You say so many names and titles, boy. But all I see and smell is a scoundrel who doesn't talk like a Greenlander," the man said in annoyance.

Nick opened his mouth, but he had no idea what to say. Had the years in Ice really influenced his accent that much? What else could he say to prove he was who he claimed to be?

"I speak the truth," Nick argued.

"If you're really a Greenlander, why are you here, on this side of the mountains?"

"My companion and I came all the way from Ice."

"From Ice," the man scoffed, clearly not believing him.

"Please, Lieutenant, I'm not the enemy," Nick said, resorting to a begging tone. "They are coming, though—the Silvermarkers. They were shooting at me. They know who I am—you must too. The little lad from Laneby, Prince Sebastian's friend... the one who got blinded at Whitepeak. Look at my eyes—why would I lie?"

"Lieutenant, the tunnel has collapsed—we're ready," a second voice appeared from higher up the mountain.

"Very well, thank you, Serjeant," the man replied. "Take this lad. Shackle him, make it iron—just to be sure."

"Yes, Sir."

"Lieutenant, please!" Nick argued. "I mean no trouble. I just wish to cross the mountains."

"That's what they all say."

"If you didn't trust me, why did you let me live?" Nick asked, and Bear grunted too.

"Because you brought the Silver Army where we wanted them to be." The man's grin was audible. He bellowed, "Cannons, are we ready?"

"Aye, Lieutenant."

"Bowmen, draw your weapons...and hold...hold...!"

The dust settled, revealing the enemy appearing on the horizon.

Chains rattled.

Gods in the Seven Hells—he should have never left Bigtown.