Snow lay glittering before Xenro where he kneeled in the deserted back of the bakery house, deep handprints dug into them.

His own.

Dried leaves and broken twigs littered the ground in brown blotches, aftermath of a failed attempt to summon a portalway.

This was not the first time, and Xenro was sure this would not be the last, either.

Draedona's realm was closed shut with the Chains. Of Edis, he could only summon a flickering little rent in the air which vanished after showing him the bleak, snow laden plains, but no sign of the God of Winter himself. Xenro had managed to establish contact with neither.

He rose and leaned back against the wooden beam supporting the small shed. The sky was yet to lighten, the last frosty stars still glistening up above. Behind him, the bakery bustled with life, those at the ground floor beginning the day's work early, and the mercenaries at the loft above moving along the hallways, all ready to march.

The nip in the air had turned into savage bites at daybreak. The shiver that shook him told him a grim truth, for the cold winds that Edis brought did not usually bother Xenro. If the cold was able to get to him, it had to be because Edis was losing control of his power, or Xenro was weakening in his.

A long journey and two perilous missions lay ahead-to locate the burial grounds and rescue the Midaelian commander.

He clenched his fists, impatience clawing at his insides, powerlessness compelling him to cry out loud. Hold on a little more.

The Apocalypse does not have to come, if the Vasaeni perish early.

What was but the walk of a few leagues compared to the centuries of imprisonment?

If the Apocalypse came, he would fight it.

He would walk with his folk again, sword unsheathed and the reins of his frothing steed in his hands. No one could stop him from entering the fray this time, not Father, nor all the Gods combined.

A window to the loft opened, directly above him. "Oy!" called Bjorn, "whatever you are brooding over there, you can do it on the way. Let's get going. Captain will punt our arses straight to Drisia if we're late."

Xenro faced him with a chuckle. "Now that would be a convenient mode of travelling."

He strode in through the back door. There from a wash-basin he splashed some ice cold water on his face, trying to ease off his intrusive thoughts. Above it hung a tarnished mirror. His hair was tied back, thick fur cloak snug around his broad shoulders, sword on his back secured within a scabbard fastened to his baldric. Light stubble lined his jaws. The captain's insignia was still pinned to his cloak. He ran his finger upon it, tracing the shape of the sword.

The party gathered before the palace, the captain doing a head count before setting off. Sergeant Klo Wolturs, chosen squad leader for this mission, ordered the soldiers into wagons and did a final check of the supplies. Crowder and Foxward, assigned squad healers, loaded the medical equipment into a chest.

The huge box from Kinallen was about to be hauled up the steps to the palace. None yet knew what was in it, except Princess Lysandra, who stood not far, watching them. Hilda stood beside her. The bard was not accompanying them in this mission.

"Could've used some music," grumbled Farren as she bade her goodbye. "The journey's long."

"Someone must stay behind for Her Highness's protection," said Hilda, looking very noble.

Lysandra snorted. "In what way are you to provide me protection? Hit 'em on the head with your lute?"

"If all goes well, I need not resort to such desperate measures, milady."

"Prepared well I hope?" said Farren as she came up to greet him. She'd donned her armour and spiked helm, but no weapon.

"As ready as I'll ever be," said Xenro calmly, preferring not to sully this beginning by voicing his concerns yet. "You are not armed?"

She drew her cloak about herself and sighed, breath steaming into the air. "Lost my axe far back in the woods of Kinallen. There're extras in the backs of the wagons--I know, but the one I had was a dear."

"And you'll get your dear back." A tall shadow fell over them. Sergeant Wolturs had come up from behind, hands folded behind her back. "Come."

Curious, they followed her to where stood the cart with the mysterious big box. Up close, it was about ten paces in length and four in width. Thick metal chains and a heavy padlock secured the lid.

But the sergeant made no move to open it, as they'd hoped. Instead, Klo reached into the back of the cart and brought out a huge, two-handed battle axe--and handed it to Farren.

She ran her hand fondly along the blade of shimmering steel and the spear-like top, sharpened upon whetstones recently, its handle wrapped in shiny new leather.

"By. The. Gods." She gaped. "You found it? But how? The woods are huge!"

"That they are." Klo gave a half smile. "We still found Alastair, didn't we? And the good thing about axes is that they don't have troublesome little legs to walk around. Usually."

"And you sharpened it too!" said Farren, pressing her fingers rather dangerously upon the edge of the blade, so much that Xenro actually had to step forward to swat her hand away. "Gods, how will I ever repay you?" she asked.

"Oh, that you will in due time," said Klo with a mysterious smile. "In this mission, I'll make you all work hard."

"Is the exact details of this mission as secret as the content of this box, Sergeant?" asked Xenro.

She gave him a nod, then noted his insignia still left on his cloak. "All in good time, captain."

They watched the cart go up the steps to the palace gate, wheels sliding across a wooden ramp, and vanish from sight within the palace. More soldiers from Brittlerock had come to lend a hand, as the princess preferred to involve the Royal Guard little.

When they came upon the city gates, Byton slept, a slumbering giant beneath a blanket of fog. The townsfolk turned in their beds, some lavish and some a bare pile of hay, stirred in sleep, in pleasant dreams or nightmares, all but unaware of the fifty odd soldiers and mercenaries marching away, so that the walls surrounding them could remain standing.

Quiet lay the streets, deserted lay the market square, the trampled flowers and smouldering embers only reminders of the festivities of the previous night. Come the eve the lights would glow again, and songs would be sung, but they would be a long way away by then. Soft silence lingered like dewdrops on a grass blade.

A dark haired woman clad in worn clothes watched them with mild interest from where she sat on the steps before the guard-house, her braided hair tossed over one shoulder. The company passed by the commoner, hardly taking any notice.

Leaving the city behind him, Xenro walked out of the gates, and turned his back on Byton. A white maned dun horse awaited him where the mercenaries were gathered. The gentle beast snorted as he patted down its soft mane and led it by the reins.

Here they said their last goodbyes. A few soldiers from Brittlerock, and a recruit named Helmer tailed them up to the stone bridge over Lockefell river, Linder in their lead on his black stallion.

His face was sober as Farren turned to him. He looked as though he wanted to say a lot, but his eyes travelled over the train of wagons and the mounted soldiers who had already started to cross the bridge and he stopped himself with a nod. The mercenaries passed by soon, and winds carried the words to Xenro as the soldiers spoke.

"Safe travels," was all Linder said, his voice even. "And good luck."

Farren caught up with the rest even as she waved, a grin forced across her face. "Thanks, we'll need it!" Then added, "Oy, Helm! Be good, and don't let him drink too much coffee, will you?"

"As you command!"

"Why must you torment me so?" came Linder's voice from all across the bridge and the soldiers laughed.

Xenro was about to mount when gravel crunched beneath a pair of boots. A gloved hand fell on his shoulder.

The soldier's dark, intelligent eyes gleamed like smouldering coals beneath his black hood. A swirling shadow circled overhead. Xenro looked up to see a raven soaring above, vigilant eyes on the party ahead, heeding its master without commands needing to be uttered. Draedona had chosen well.

"Draedona wishes you luck," said Linder with a smile, when the rest were well out of earshot.

He felt as though he'd just been hit with a brick.

Xenro tried his best to play the clueless lad, one only here to fulfil his late father's wish. "A rather ominous thing to say before a journey, sir."

Linder's smile did not waver, but he shook his head. "It is not proper for you to address me that way. I am...but a mere mortal who comes bearing a message from the Goddess." Then he looked quizzically up and down at him. "Or are you not the God I seek? Of whom Death is an old friend?"

Xenro sighed and turned to properly face the young man, knowing how futile it was to hide from one who had been chosen. She had chosen mortals in the centuries before, and many such had fought beside Xenro as an unspoken rule.

Soldiers passed by, blissfully unaware of the conversation that transpired, dismissing this as mere courtesy. Linder looked at him with only polite curiosity, rather too calm and even for a mortal meeting a God on the roadside, be the world filled with magic and the unknown.

"Draedona...speaks to you?" Xenro asked him.

A crease formed between his brows. "In a sense, yes," said Linder. "Not in clear words, but expressions. I...sense her perturbation, lately."

She would be more than a little perturbed, if the sorcerous chains were still holding her down. "How is she? Is she doing any better?" he asked, not bothering to mask the worry that entered his voice. Too many failed attempts had driven him impatient. So what if another mortal knew of him?

Linder shook his head. "The Chains grow ever stronger," he said. "Her distressed thoughts are a whirlwind. Yet there is this recurring one, about a young Drisian soldier who came to her realm years ago. But other than that, it's all a shifting haze."

"The lad's name has stuck with me ever since," she rasped. "...Pertheran."

Her words came striking like well-aimed arrows. They had nearly slipped from his mind, what with involvement with the company and the conflicts and adventures that followed. He took the soldier's hands and gave them a firm shake. "I thank you dearly for your guidance. I shall keep this in mind and try to track him down."

Linder nodded. The dazed look lingered still in his eyes as he mounted his horse. "The ancient texts were right. When the lands are in chaos, they enter the fray." His eyes flicked to Farren who was now far out of earshot. "She told me of you once, but I did not believe her then, not knowing it was you who brought me back from Draedona's doorstep. Now I see how wrong I've been. You must be the patron of healing."

In the rising wind, stray strands of golden hair escaped the knot and whipped across his face as he turned to Linder a final time. "There is no such thing, my friend."

Linder gave him a questioning look.

"Over the eras," Xenro told him, "there have been many a healing spell written and performed. And each of them, the soothing power they hold, come from within you all. Your own compassion and brotherhood, given shape by the sorcery that exists in you. All I ever did was give it a push, which is nothing compared to what you all have achieved over hundreds of thousands of years. Healing needs no patron God. To even think of myself in that position would be an act of sheer arrogance."

"Who are you then, truly?" Linder asked with a quaint smile, collecting the reins of his steed.

The question might startle many, but to Xenro, the answer came easy.

He smiled as the first rays of the sun glowed amber over the blue forests in the east horizon, and a wind ran free through the rolling plains that lay ahead. Soft grass rippled. Thousands of years of life, but sunrises never ceased to amaze him.

"I was a mortal, once. Now, a humble wanderer. Long are my travels, lasting whole eras."

"So be it." Linder looked up too, a serene look about his face, and lowered his hood. The raven, having done a thorough scouting of the plains ahead, flew down to perch on his outstretched arm.

"May the roads fare you well, wanderer."

✦✧✦✧

The air grew colder and the terrain rockier the farther they travelled northward. Valston, the city of vampires, was a couple hundred leagues north of Byton, beyond the Flowerlea forest. A twenty-days march.

They left behind plains where the grass had dried to a shade of umber, snow laying here and there in sparkling white patches, and came over a slope as the sun rose higher overhead. Yet not much warmth reached them through the ashen rays. The tallest spires of Byton city became silver lines in the distance, until they climbed over a small hill, and the capital could be seen no more.

Farming settlements along the north road fell scarce and far between as they went, the land here rock-studded and barren save for the occasional scatters of green, from the onslaught of the cold winds from the mountains far away. Lichen grew on weatherbeaten rocks serving as signposts, the tattered blue standards fastened to them rippling.

Old memories rose in the God's mind, the dust in their folds falling away as he climbed up a slope and saw the lands beyond open clear unto his vision. This was not a road unknown to him.

Xenro rode quietly, the rustling grass and sweeping plains bringing him peace. Farren was to his right, on level with the captain. The sergeant was far ahead in the lead some two hundred paces away, her sword unsheathed and eyes on the road.

Soft snores came from Rendarr, who had climbed into one of the wagons on the rather weak excuse of 'watching over the supplies' and now sat cocooned in his cloak, head lowered and hood raised. As he trotted alongside astride his horse, Corporal Gray stretched out his arm and swung it over the edge of the wagon near where his head lay, so a bump on the road wouldn't bring Rendarr to a nasty awakening.

Xenro had heard the two had come to a begrudging truce after that tavern brawl, when Eliora, after healing them up, had given both of their ears savage twists.

No trouble befell them as the company of soldiers and mercenaries stopped for a meal at a wayside inn in a hamlet northwest of Byton by noon. Supplies they had enough, but home cooked meals would be hard to get by when they set forth further north, where in the wastes that lay between the edge of the last village and the Flowerlea forest, there were not even a farmhouse for leagues. Then all they'd have to sustain themselves upon were dried meat, pottage and hardtack.

The march did not stop when the sky turned rosy and purple clouds hovered in the horizon. Here the winds blew strong, raising ripples on the surface of small lakes and tearing the clouds apart into pillowy fragments to drift along high above.

At sundown, the torches flared to life, the company yet moving in a steady pace in the dim light. Silver fog descended to hover thick over the darkening lands. The firelight could only go so far. Days rolled on.

✦✧✦✧

The first days of the journey thus far was peaceful rather than sombre. The reason was, however, simple.

They were yet within Midaelia's borders.

Only upon reaching Valston would they start climbing their way up the Drakhall mountains, skirt the Drisian border posts and descend onto the Northern Autumnwind plains.

The first question of concern was raised by Farren, when they camped for the night once the Flowerlea forest was in sight beyond the wastes. Tents were pitched, a small fire lit in the midst. Rendarr and Gray helped to distribute the packages of hardtack once they got in a queue, mercenaries and soldiers alike. Supper was like the land itself, cold and hard. A pot of tea was put above the fire next.

"You...did teach us a few things about sorcery, Captain," said Farren, staring into the fire, pewter mug clutched in hand.

"That I did," said Captain Walric, who used a stick to stoke the fire.

"We learnt wards. Collective and individual ones. We learnt masking to hide our powers. And not to mention 'to hold our horses'." She listed them off with her fingers.

"I wish you also learnt to get to the point, dear," said the captain, sipping her tea loudly.

Farren faced the captain and looked hard at her. "Death Rings, Captain. I once had a bad experience with magic of that sort. How do we disable one? You never taught us that."

Captain's expression darkened. "That's because you can't. The best you can do is stay the hell outta it. Once you're in, you're in. There's no going back. The ring gets smaller, and destroys everyone within."

"Why?" Farren was bewildered. "There must be some way!"

"The only way," said Captain Walric, "you are ever getting out of a Death Ring is to kill your opponent. The one who cast it upon you. Or die, yourself. But I'm sure that's hardly the solution you're looking for."

Farren's face fell.

Captain Walric shook her head, getting a generous refill of that pungent tea. Soldiers gathered around, covered up to their noses with their cloaks, weary from the day's march. Some retired early to the tents.

"You are not the first one to wonder about that, lass. In my youth, I had tried to figure out the Death Ring as well. An ancient practice among the wizardfolk of this land, to this day a mystery. But I seeked the old tomes. Not those ones in the academy, for who would let a mere caravan guard in that place meant for scholars?" A roguish smile tugged at her lips. "But I know a certain someone who'll grant your wishes, if you can loot a few chests and collect a few debts in her stead. Special errands, if you will."

Farren's eyes glittered. "The Countess. Sly old fox doesn't spare an empty bottle of ale without payment."

"Be that as it may, she keeps her word. Mountains of books in that warehouse of hers! Banned and out of print, but a rare gem each," she said, "and to think, the keepers of Silver Knife don't turn a page."

"But you did," said Farren, mirroring her grin.

"Oh yes. Never been more glad that I learned my letters. And I did untie some knots."

"The size of a Death Ring," she said, "can vary, depending upon the power of the caster. Can be ten paces wide, can swallow entire towns. But the greater they are, the faster they shrink. Shrink back and destroy everything in its way. But this trivial knowledge would do you no good. In battle, the best thing you can do is to make sure your opponent never gets a chance to cast it in the first place."

"I did it once, when Dion had tried to trap Karles," said Farren. "And I almost got hanged for it. But is there no way to break out if I get inside?

"The barrier cast upon you by a Death Ring is similar to a wall that can only be breached by a great sorcerous force. Thunderbolt ain't enough. Nor raging flames. But only one thing, for which there is no equivalent."

"And what might that be?"

"A human soul." The fire danced in the captain's eyes. "Your opponent's, in this case. Thus, you must kill them, whatever it takes, and let their departed soul do the wall-breaking for you."

Farren slid her dagger out of its sheath, holding the translucent blade before her eyes. The sapphire ring still glistened on her finger. "...I see."

"All this talk about Death Rings, all this planning and strategizing is useless, my dear." The captain got to her feet, joints cracking. "Take me, for example. I may have read all about it, learned the inner workings and all that scholarly shite. But in the end, when fate tossed me into one, the most sensible thing to do was not to waste time doing any tricks, but drive my sword headlong into that bastard. That fight near well ruined me, if not for Ellie, of course. But I did learn one thing in the end."

The captain drew her cloak about herself, shivering as a wind lashed at the fire. "Either you must die, or your opponent. Else the Death Ring swallows you both.”

✦✧✦✧

The next dawn came cold and blue, and they set off early while the wastes still lay in the shadows. Rock-studded plains rolled on east and west as far as eyes could see, dun brown, shrivelled grass murmuring in the wind.

"Bury me with my axe if I die on the way up." Farren groaned as she fell to the ground on her bottom, tossing her pack on the grass as they stopped for a breather before entering the Flowerlea forest in the mountains. "And tie my cloak to it. It'll look great when the winds flutter it. Eh?"

No one volunteered, of course. Xenro sighed.

She looked back at him, grumbling, as though it was his fault that the mountains were so harsh and unforgiving. "I just renounced my deal, you know. Shouldn't the universe reward me or something for my selfless act? But no! I gotta climb mountains now."

"Maybe the real reward was the friendships we made along the way?" Xenro offered.

She lay flat on the ground, the snow a soft blanket around her. "That's the worst kind of reward. I wanted a flying horse."

Xenro came up, his huge shadow hovering over Farren. "Ah, but I do not control the universe. That is my Da's job."

"He sucks at it." Farren looked skyward.

Xenro grinned. "Then take it up with him, mortal. I am merely a poor workhand in his factory who got fired."

He leaned on his knees, the exhaustion getting to him as well. Then he looked up to the pearly clouds, rolling and shifting atop the mountains in the pale sky of dawn. Behind them, the company got ready once again to march. Soldiers got to their feet, stowing away their water-skins.

Hoisting his knapsack higher onto his back, he braced himself. "Let us resume, warrior. Long way to go."

Farren pulled her hood down on her face. "That title...does it come with extra privileges?"

"No. Naught but a title of honour." He did not like where this was going.

"What if I can pay you a price, somehow? Do War Gods grant wishes? Because I could do with a pair of wings right now."

The God narrowed his eyes down at her. "I do not strike bargains, unlike some."

"Too bad then. For I'm ready to sell my soul at this point. These legs ain't walking no more." She curled into a ball, turned to her side and shivered. "Also, could you move, O Divine Lord? You are in my sun. Let me die in warmth, at the very least."

Xenro had half a mind to tie her to the end of a stick like a bindle and haul her up the mountain that way. But that was not needed, because whatever it was-- universe, fate, destiny, it intervened. Farren's chestnut mare who'd been nosing at the shrivelled grass trotted up, uninvited, and proceeded to chew on the furry rim of her hood. Her ears twitched in joy, snowflakes caught in her mane.

Farren opened her eyes and raised her head, slowly, in a grand show of dramatical annoyance that surely deserved but lacked an audience in these uninhabited plains, save for her own squad mates who were already used to her antics, and perhaps the disguised God who took joy in observing odd humans.

"Damn you, horsey. Even in death I know no peace." She got up.

✦✧✦✧

The dirt road climbed up high into the Flowerlea forest that rose in steps along the mountain. The terrain sloped gradually higher as the march went on. A snowstorm had passed in the night, and its aftermath lay in shimmering piles that crunched underboot.

Somewhere unseen, high up there, nestled against the Drakhall range sat Valston city. The ground underneath was withered grass no more, but hard cold rock dangerously disguised with soft snow. Muttered prayers to Edis rose like a rumbling song in rhythm with the footsteps of the soldiers as they climbed.

Some dismounted and led their horses by the reins as the road grew narrower, to their left a sheer drop. All around them, the cold forest sang with its creaking branches and whispering leaves. Wind howled and picked up pace.

Here throughout the day they passed trade caravans and common vampirefolk, but even those were few and far between.

At the very rear of the train, Farren looked into the distance, hood raised to shield her eye from the glittering frost. "Edis bless us! Why must the vampirefolk live in such desolation?"

Xenro plunged his staff, improvised from a withered tree branch, into the ground and dragged himself ahead in careful steps. "The north was not always these barren wastes and frozen woods you see today," he said.

"You ever been through these parts?"

"I have lost count." In the bright light, his eyes shone frost blue.

"I have walked these lands long before Migdros made the Drakhall mountains and Edis painted the forests silver," he said. "Long before even the vampirefolk, tormented by the Drisian vampire hunters, seeked refuge here and came to call it their home. This was a vast plain, cold but not unforgiving. In spring, flowers would blossom to fill it with yellows, reds and blues. At night I ...we sat and watched the stars."

Farren nodded, studying his face. "What will become of Dresius, I wonder? Now that I have released the hold?"

Xenro heaved a great sigh, watching his breath rise in a plume of silver. "His soul will remain in Draedona's realm amidst the chaos, I think. Until the Chains are destroyed, the passing of the dead into the Celestial Realm is at a standstill."

Farren pondered over his words. Xenro watched her for a long moment before swinging his gaze back to the path.

How freeing it was to look at one and see them for who they truly were! Even though the cold gnawed on their bones and the trail was treacherous, peace prevailed, even if for the time being. Dangers loomed ahead, like the mountain itself, yet the God was glad to simply wander the ancient lands with a mortal in whom he'd found companionship-- a simple pleasure, but one which destiny seemed hellbent to snatch from him era after era.

"But once the Chains are gone, you should be able to find Dresius again in the Celestial Realm, right?" said Farren.

Xenro smiled sadly. "I wish it were so simple. I would have no fear of letting go, if that were the case. But the Realm of the Dead is enormous, Farren, perhaps larger than entire continents, and souls of the dead come and go, countless waves in a vast sea. The chaos would only be fiercer, because the Chains have halted the flow for so long. I would know he is somewhere in there, but I would never reach him."

Farren placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Never is a strong word in a world where bond of souls withstand even centuries and last beyond the death of mortal flesh. Be it through a mortal vessel, he came to you in the end, didn't he? Perhaps it was for the best that I'm dumb enough to make horrible deals. Eh?"

Xenro nodded grimly, before breaking into a laugh. "I am glad that I did not kill you back when we first met."

"I knew you wouldn't do it. People usually want to keep me around. I'm too charming to kill off. Irresistible, if you will."

He coughed. "Irresponsible, you mean."

Farren jabbed her gloved finger at him, opening her mouth to retort-- only to get interrupted by the cry of the squad leader.

"Step lively, lads!" called Klo from the vanguard, one arm raised. "The city's in sight! Rest up, grab a warm drink, and get ready to march again come dawn."

Truly enough, propped against the shoulder of the mountain, dark against the red dusk and surrounded by the frosty wreath of the Flowerlea forest, stood Valston.

The city that never slept at night.