Morning in the Dead Forest brought no relief. The mist had settled on the branches, condensing into heavy drops that fell to the ground with dull thuds.
My body ached. Every joint and muscle screamed in protest against yesterday's exertion.
I sat up, leaning my back against a wagon wheel, and slowly began to work out the fingers of my left hand. A hum still lingered in my head.
A short, muffled choke broke the silence.
I instantly rolled onto one knee, my hand instinctively finding the hilt of my sword.
It was Klop. The kid was standing at the edge of the camp, right where we had left the bound Berg yesterday.
The alchemists were already leaping up, frantically grabbing their weapons. Mortis reached Klop first. I stood up and walked over slowly.
The mercenary lay in the exact same position I had left him in. His skin had taken on a dirty gray pallor. His face was contorted into a mask of such terror that it was painful to look at.
His eyes and mouth were wide open, and a thick, hardened substance resembling black obsidian oozed from them.
Klop backed away, pressing his hands to his face.
"He... He... He..."
"Calm down, Klop," Mortis said. He dropped to one knee, poking the tip of a long dagger into the black sludge oozing from the dead man's mouth. The substance broke off with a sharp ring. "It seems the spirit drained his life force. Broke his soul, withered his mana, and cursed his spark of life. What you see are the remnants of his essence, turned into poison. If we hadn't bound him, he would have torn us all apart before his body completely burned out from the inside."
One of the mercenaries, Berg's companion, stepped forward. Mortis held out his hand.
"Back! Don't you dare touch him. The curse is still active. One drop of this black rot on your skin, and you'll rot alive."
The alchemists acted quickly. Two apprentices brought over heavy jars of incendiary mixture. They doused Berg's body from a safe distance, making sure not a single drop got onto the wagons.
The fire erupted instantly. An unnaturally bright, green alchemical flame. It consumed both the flesh and the cursed black rot.
I stood aside, watching what had been a human being just yesterday turn to ash.
"Pack up," Mortis commanded without looking back at the pyre. "It's dangerous to linger here."
We made our way out of the Dead Forest seven hours later.
The twisted black trunks thinned out, letting in the first rays of sunlight. And then the forest ended, hitting a hard, straight line.
The Golden Plains stretched out before us.
It was pure expanse. An ocean of tall, sun-scorched grass that swayed in the wind, creating the illusion of living waves. The sky overhead was vast and blue.
The caravan picked up the pace. Catching the scent of fresh air and real grass, the oxen moved more briskly. The alchemists finally tore off their masks, gulping down the wind.
I threw back my hood, exposing my face to the sun.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Klop sat down next to me on the edge of the wagon. He looked completely exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes.
"Too open," I replied. "In the forest, it's easier to hide. Out here, we're completely exposed."
"Mortis says that every power comes with a price. Alchemists pay with their health. Mages with their sanity. What do you pay with?"
"Why do you ask?" I asked.
"Oh, sorry if it sounded stupid, it's just... I got curious about what someone like you pays for their power."
After a moment of thought, I said:
"Nausea, splitting headaches, numbness in my limbs."
"Really? I never even noticed. From the outside, you look so strong and..."
"It's such a long way to Dornheim. I should think about what to do first when I arrive. Introduce myself, gain their trust, and become a shield for them. Right, it's all easy in my head, but in reality... probably not," I thought to myself.
"Iron, are you listening to me?" Klop asked.
"Yeah, sure, where did you stop?"
We moved north. The alchemists drove the oxen, checked their flasks, and whispered among themselves.
Around noon, one of the wagons—the one loaded with the heaviest crates of reagents—began to lag behind. The wheels sank deep into the soft topsoil hidden beneath the thick grass.
"Stop!" the driver shouted. "We're stuck!"
Mortis rode up on his horse, frowning.
"Keep moving. We can't stand out in the open."
The guards jumped down and tried to dig their shoulders into the wagon, but the oxen only bellowed, straining against the yoke. The ground beneath the wheels was deceptively hollow—the heavy cargo had collapsed someone's old burrow.
I sighed and hopped down from my wagon. My body pleaded for rest, but I forced my legs to carry me toward the stranded cart.
"Step back," I threw out to the mercenaries.
"Listen, master, muscle won't help here," one of them grumbled, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We need to dig. Or unload."
I ignored him and walked straight to the rear axle. I narrowed my eyes, calculating the exact point.
Angle of inclination: 12 degrees. Ground resistance: high. Axle friction: standard. Solution: a brief inertial impulse synchronized with the oxen's pull.
I pressed my hand against the axle beam. A short, vicious spike of pain pierced my head.
I activated the Skill. Minimum power.
For a fraction of a second, the world became crystal clear. I timed it perfectly. The moment the oxen surged forward again, I changed the mass of the wagon to a negative value relative to its vector of motion.
Click.
The heavy wagon popped out of the crater, coasting a couple of feet forward on inertia. The oxen, unprepared for the sudden disappearance of resistance, stumbled, pulling the caravan along.
"Let's go," I said, straightening up.
My head hummed. For a moment, the world went dark. My heart skipped a beat, then immediately started pounding in a frantic rhythm.
I tasted copper. I must have bitten my tongue.
"Stop staring," I rasped to the frozen mercenaries. "Keep moving."
We traveled until sunset. The sun slowly sank below the horizon, painting the Golden Plains in a bloody crimson hue. The wind picked up, bringing cold air and the scent of dry dust.
I sat on my wagon, trying to suppress the metallic tremor shaking my right hand.
The advance scout, riding ahead on horseback, thrust his fist into the air. A sudden halt.
"Smoke!" he barked, pointing east. "And dust! Heading right for us!"
I lunged to my feet in a single second, forcing the fatigue into a distant, dark corner.
A thick cloud of dust was rapidly growing on the horizon.
Riders. A lot of them. The fading light caught the gleam of spearheads and bared sabers.
"Steppe Vultures," Mortis spat. He fished a pair of glass flasks filled with some murky sludge out of his saddlebags. "They've picked up our trail."
"Can we outrun them?" I asked, standing at full height on the wagon and drawing my blade from its sheath.
"On oxen? Against steppe horses?" Mortis let out a bitter chuckle. "No. We take our stand here. Form a defensive circle! Move!"
The drivers shouted at the beasts, furiously wheeling the heavy wagons to build an impromptu fortress. The mercenaries cocked their crossbows. The alchemists lit portable braziers for their mixtures.
I stood on the edge of the last wagon, watching the cavalry charge toward us.
Thirty riders.
"Klop. Get under the wagon and keep your head down," I barked at the kid.
"What about you?"
"I'm going to conduct a little experiment," I said, white-knuckling the hilt of my sword.
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