He broke for lunch by a clear, fork-shaped stream. His hand was already reaching in the mare's saddlebag for his next meal of hardtack and dry sausages when the horse began to walk.

"Hey!"

The animal's butt moved up and down.

"Stop!"

No avail. If he wished to eat, he had no choice but to follow her to the riverbank.

She halted abruptly by the low, wide shrubberies and lowered her head. After flicking her tail into Fox's face, she munched on the pointy, glove-like leaves.

"You're a stupid horse," Fox grumbled.

A short neigh.

The shrub carried small, pinkish fruits. He crouched down to pick one and rolled the berry between his thumb and index finger. Doe's summer pies used to have these. He popped one into his mouth. Sour yet sweet; a welcome relief after the monotonous rations of the last few days.

He took a second, a third, then a handful. And then some more. God of Greed be damned, while the horse ate the shrub until only a skeleton remained, he too feasted on the berries.

When his stomach was full, he filled his waterskin, drank half, then filled it again. He sat down on a tuft of summer green grass and waited for the sun to dry the last dampness from his hair and cloak. He was on Greenlander soil now; magic was out of bounds.

The blue patches of sky broadened, driving away the grey. Warmth spread from under his hood throughout his body, filling his veins with a drowsy sensation. He had forgotten just how snug summer was on this side of the mountains.

The God of Sloth pulled at his eyelids. Just a quick nap to re—

Footsteps. He jerked upwards. Eight pairs of them crushing the earth at different intervals, far away now, but sounder louder with each step. Deep voices accompanied the clinking of iron.

The horse had stopped chewing. Head was raised to the mountain wall from where the noise originated. A patrol.

He was out in the open, with no cave to hide nor a boulder behind which he and his companion could disappear. He could dive into the shrubs or climb the oak tree hanging over the bend in the stream. But the horse...

Abandoning the creature would alarm the patrol even more. Only a puddingbrain underestimated a Greenlander's scrutiny and suspicion.

Fox shifted his sword on his belt, then darted a look into the river and lowered his hood. He breathed hot air until the last strands of red had turned black. His cheeks were dirty. His face scratched. Perfect. 

All ready for the lad in distress act.

"Help!" he shouted. He raised his arms and waved.

The footsteps halted. Sunlight reflected from a helmet peeping between the mountain's jagged teeth. Mumbles echoed through the valley.

"Help! I need help!" Fox yelled.

The horse snorted as two helmets cast a shadow over the first. Shortly after, they disappeared.

A group of eight iron-clad soldiers popped up from behind the wall of boulders. They padded down slowly, unrhythmically and lumbering, especially the two smaller soldiers who couldn't be older than eleven or twelve. Each member of the patrol carried a sword, and the older ones a Blaster too.

"Who are you? What're you doing here?" the man in the front barked. The two sycamore leaves on his left pauldron shimmered; he was a Serjeant.

Two questions. As the patrol approached him, Fox decided to answer the easiest one. His voice filled with a hopeless panic that came naturally. "I don't know where I am. My wares—there was a rift. I barely saved my horse. Goddess of Kindness—my father will kill me. He'll feed me to the pigs like a Muttonhead."

"Wares—what wares?" The Serjeant latched onto the part of the lie Fox had practised with Hawk.

"Wood," Fox said. "Spring storms uprooted several trees. They were too damaged to be used for furniture. My father told me to sell them on the other side."

"The borders are closed. We're at war with Silvermark," scoffed another man. He was also a Serjeant.

"I know. But my father didn't want to listen." Fox faked a sob. "Sometimes, I think he wants to get rid of me. He nearly had. Maybe that's why he sent me away."

The tone of the first Serjeant shifted to a friendlier one. "Where're you from?"

"Doe Hill." Fox sniffed. He rubbed his hand through his face.

One of the young soldiers gulped. "That's fifty miles from here," he whispered to the man standing next to him.

"I've been on the road for days," Fox blurted out. This had been practised too—a blend of lies and truths. "I can't tell how long I've wandered through these mountains."

The Serjeant glanced at the horse, then back at him. He sheathed his weapon before stretching out his hand. "You're roughly four miles from Renfort. We can escort you back to our base, get you and your stead back on the road after a good meal."

"Goddess of Kindness, bless you." Fox accepted the man's hand. "The name's Harry, short for Harald."

"Serjeant Jefferson," the man said. He proceeded to introduce his comrades.

Fox paid hardly any attention to him. He nodded politely, sunk deep into thought. Being close to the temporary fort of Renfort was good. Sundale was still roughly two hundred miles away, but at least he hadn't ended up near Leaventower. That place crawled with officers and an army of thousands, as though the Silvermarkers would have so much pudding in their brain that they'd invade The Greenlands through the front door.

The patrol took him up the same way they had come down to him, Fox held tightly to the horse's rope, using the creature as a natural barrier between him and the Serjeant. One of the younger lads flanked Fox on his left. A hint of his green uniform showed between the breastplate and the neckpiece. 

"How's life in Doe Hill?" Jefferson asked after a while.

"Not the same since Laneby perished," Fox repeated the answer he had learnt by heart. Apparently, it was what the people of Doe Hill said these days to any stranger asking.

"So why stay? You have a sword—join us at Renfort," the lad remarked. He was staring eagerly at Fox's hilt. His signature fox had been replaced by an ordinary combination of brass and leather.

Fox shrugged. "My mother wanted me to take this. I'm not a good swordsman, wouldn't be of much use."

"The times you had to be an excellent swordsman are over, Master Harry," the lad blabbed.

"Jude!" The second Serjeant reprimanded him. The man was panting loudly as he struggled up the slope. Fox darted a look over his shoulder; four of his comrades slugged behind him. So this was the mighty Greenlander army; they looked pathetic.

"It's true! I failed my warrior initiation twice, and then my Lord sent me up north. He—"

Jefferson shouted, "Hold your tongue, Muttonhead!"

"I mean no trouble. I have much respect for the work you do," Fox said. And for bringing me to Renfort.

"The lad's right about one thing. Extra hands are always welcome at the base. The work is repetitive, but it pays well. You'd be free from your father."

Fox gave a shrug, then allowed for the silence to settle as they turned down a steep incline, abandoning the man-broadened gravel path and exchanging it for something sculpted by spring's travelling ice and the mountain's pulsating heart.

The patrol had fallen into two groups. Jefferson with the two young soldiers, and the second Serjeant with four more comrades. At least thirty yards between them.

"I thought about heading to the capital." He made it sound like he had just come up with the idea. His hand touched his bulging pouch. "I have gold to spend in the taverns along the way. When that runs out, I'll work for whoever wants to feed me and my horse."

"'T is the season to do so—you'll find plenty of work on the fields," Jefferson said.

"Yeah," agreed the lad slumping behind the Serjeant. "Normally I would be planting kale and beets, but now I'm here."

"You might as well enjoy life, Harry," added Jefferson. "I give it a couple more moons, then every son of The Greenlands capable of carrying a sword or a Blaster will be summoned to protect His Majesty and Lord Sebastian."

"They'd better summon some daughters too," Fox joked.

The men guffawed.

Beyond the corner appeared a light in the distance, small yet bright. Narrowing his eyes, Fox took in the outline of Renfort's tower. Mirror-like iron shields had been attached to the walls as a defence against a magical attack.

Fox failed to suppress a grin. They would all prove worthless as he slipped right passed their watchful eyes.

"Mind your step," Jefferson warned.

The mare neighed as it stepped over a narrow yet surprisingly deep cleft that had split the road into two. Fox was still staring at his boots when he heard a boyish gasp coming from his left.

Two wide eyes, more black than brown, stared at him from under the helmet. A shaky finger was pointing at him. "Y-Y-Your ha-hair. It's... it's... getting red."

Upon hearing the unsheathing of swords, Fox released the horse's rope and slapped the creature's side. In the dusty chaos of her gallop, he drew his sword and conjured a flame in his hand. He hadn't planned on using magic this soon, but this was an emergency—a matter of life and death.

"Magician!" Jefferson spat.

Instead of his sword, he held the Blaster at Fox. His fingers were on the trigger. 

One shot, and he would be done for.

But the Serjeant didn't fire. The two lads stood there, waiting. As if they believed he was but an ordinary magician trying his luck crossing the Horseshoe Mountains; someone they could easily take captive and execute at a base like Renfort. He wasn't ordinary. He was Fox.

The second Blaster clicked. "One wrong move and you're breathing your final breath, Magician."

Fox eyed the men on the other side of the crevice. Quite the spot for a performance—the Gods must all be watching. He shrank the flame.

"Lower your weapon! Then hands on your head. Kneel."

He dropped his sword, the hilt strategically on the tip of his boot, then crouched down.

The thrill sent sparks of magic to his fingertips.

As chains rattled, he leapt up. A combination of precise footwork and sweeping of air catapulted his sword back into his hand. Endless moons of practising repetitive movements paid off.

Behind him, a single blast preceded the whistling. His magic was useless against the iron, but the blade cleaved the incoming wave, changing the bullet's course. A fraction of a heartbeat later, his feet touched the ground. 

The fox pendant burnt as he slammed his fist into the dirt. 

Blue flames shot up from the depths of the gorge as it widened with piercing, cracking snaps. Two blades clashed with his own. 

The two lads.

A single glance taught him Jefferson had fallen, his Blaster by his side. He didn't move—one man down. The young soldiers were at his mercy, separated from their comrades.

"You killed him," hissed Jude. The God of Wrath burnt in his eyes, though it could also have been the reflection of the raging fire.

"The bullet did," Fox said. He focused on the green fabric sticking between the lad's plate and forget. 

Blocking the other soldier's sweep, he envisioned a chain of blazing fire around Jude's neck. 

There came a thud, then a groan. Screaming!

Fox couldn't look back; too busy chopping and slicing at his opponent, who was driving him towards the scorching crevice. He turned just as the lad aimed for his belt, his answer a fraction too late.

His pouch took the hit. The coins rattled down.

While Jude was crying, the soldier's attacks came like a whirlwind of cuts and sweeps. Fox was forced to defend. Left. Left. Right. Left. Down. Right. He too had once fought with a pattern like him, but he knew better now.

He broke the lad's pattern with a quick flick of his sword, disarming him with fluid, magicless grace. The soldier's eyes filled with desperation as he took the knee. He could have been planting crops, but now he was inches from death.

"Why do you come here?" He yelled. "There's nothing for you here!"

"Everything's here," Fox said as he removed the wailing lad's helmet. He added in a whisper, "I'll make it quick. You'll be free from pain soon—this is my gift to you."

"I don—"

Air constricted around the lad's head as Fox cast him into the gorge. He would choke before the flames would get to him. An act from the Goddess of Kindness at Wrath's feast.

Jude was still squirming like a fish on a hook. Jefferson laid motionless, the smouldering in his helmet revealing where the single blast of the Serjeant's weapon had found its victim.

Fox drove his sword into Jude, ending his suffering. He swept both bodies into the crevice. 

With the lad's blood still dripping from the blade, he took Jefferson's Blaster. 

The iron of the five remaining men glistened through the flames. No, three were huddled together, their swords drawn out. One was standing alone. Four lumps of iron—where was the fifth one?

He aimed the Blaster at the man standing alone. 

Suddenly, a roaring noise appeared from above.

A metal beast plunged down.

Fox stretched his hand and pulled the Blaster's trigger.

Along with the drawback of the blast, the weight of the lifeless lump yanked him down. His head knocked hard against the ground. 

When the beast didn't stir, he allowed himself a few moments to breathe. Liquid trickled onto his clothes. He crawled out from underneath the unmoveable ballast.

Blood, but not his blood.

What was left of the patrol had spread out. Four down. Four more to go. Flames between them. No more Blasters in the game. 

He panted, pondering his next move.

A second and third man were clambering onto the rocks, trying to succeed where their comrade at failed. 

Much higher, a good seventy feet above them, dangled a boulder over the edge. If nature had its way, it would sit there for a season, a year, a century, or for the rest of time itself. But he had magic. He was going to be the first magician to become King of The Greenlands, and nobody would stop him!

He clenched his fist.

Instantly, the earth crumbled beneath the rock. While the fire in the gorge crackled, the stone popped free, snapping through bushes and roots, catching speed. 

The two men must have never known what hit him when the boulder fell down from the sky. The Serjeant leapt towards the flames, taking a chance to get to him without burning. 

Just as the rolling piece of massive rock smacked down the third soldier, the man appeared in front of Fox. "I'll get you, vermin. You'll pay for this!"

The man was limping. The iron extinguished a blue flame around his ankle. Magic wouldn't kill him, but the consequences of magic would. A small chink in the armour where the iron didn't protect the skin was all he needed.

Seemingly raising his sword distracted the man. 

Fox stomped his foot.

A patch of earth jumped up. The Serjeant lost his balance and fell into the gorge, yelling, his arms like wings fluttering. His blade long claimed by gravity.

Fox waited for the screaming to stop, then he lowered the flames and closed the earth, five bodies buried beneath and three crushed in the cliff. 

Exhausted and drained of all magical energy, he stumbled towards the mare. He hurt everywhere.

The horse approached him and lowered her back, helping him into the saddle. As he plopped down, his arms clamped around her neck, she began to trot, not needing the reins to steer her down the mountain. She knew the way.

"Good horse," Fox muttered.

In a few hours, the Lieutenant of Renfort would start worrying that one of his patrols hadn't returned. By tomorrow, he would give his men the orders to start looking for them. It would take days or weeks to find them; if they ever found them at all.

By that time, he would have long killed the King and taken his place. Nobody would care about eight bodies at the foot of the Horseshoe Mountains.

Least of all him.