Dread twilight, dread sorrow,
The kestrel’s cry its own fear did borrow,
And the frightened wind across the surface blew.
— Moriadne, Priestess of the Star Goddess
A death-poem written during the siege of Crystalion

The Hwarnij fled toward Arka with all the strength they could muster. Behind them rose the thundering tread of their pursuers. There must have been dozens. To the trampling was added a battle roar.

“I will reach Arka and send help!” Hagias called out, without even losing his breath. Of his limp, there was suddenly no trace. Whitehead surged forward, and no matter how the others strained, they could not keep pace with him. In an instant, he vanished around a bend in the road.

The company cast aside their rolled blankets, the remains of their supplies, and anything else they could spare. The pursuers might be delayed by gathering the items, and besides, one always runs better without a burden.

“This way! Follow me!” shouted Alphia, who, along with Khóruin, was at the head of the fugitives. The huntress dove aside onto a narrow trail leading through the woods, where not even two people could walk side by side. The others followed her.

Alphia knew the surroundings of Arka well, and finding the most suitable shortcut was not difficult for her. Soon they heard angry shouts behind them—for the enemy, their numbers had turned from an advantage into a significant disadvantage on the narrow path. The battle cry fell silent, the thudding of feet weakened, muffled by distance.

The Hwarnij burst from the forest back onto the road like long-legged colts. From the bridge, a group of archers in black armor—Hagias’s personal guard—ran toward them. Chardan led them.

“Cover us with fire!” he commanded. The moment the first savage appeared on the road, he fell into the dust with a pierced throat. Those who followed fared no better.

Hagias’s black-clad warriors surrounded the company, and together they retreated toward Arka.

Scarcely had the entire group reached the middle of the bridge when other Hwarnij began to dismantle the bridge from the shore. Arka was preparing for a siege.

On the island, Hagias already awaited them, still in the garb of the Wanderer with two swords at his waist, but now with the golden crown upon his head.

“Come to the temple as soon as possible. I have summoned an assembly!” he said curtly and headed up the street toward the center of Arka. The members of the company stood for a moment, gasping for breath.

“My Lord, where are Riva and Saimún?” Alphia cried out after the departing king.

“Saimún is out in the forest, in the Druvid sanctuary. And Riva is also out—the mages took him for initiation. Both were meant to return in about three days,” Whitehead replied calmly over his shoulder. Taihun and Khóruin uttered several curses on behalf of everyone present.

“Little sister, I will go home to drop off my things and get a horse. We’ll meet in the temple,” Taihun said, placing a hand on Vathila’s shoulder. Time was running out.

“That you still have the strength to rush somewhere… Fine. Tell our parents we are all alright, if you still catch them at home,” the healer replied, worry peering from her eyes.

Vathila clutched Khóruin’s arm convulsively.

“What is it? What happened?” the warrior asked when he saw the horror in his wife’s eyes.

“Don’t you see it…?” the blonde gasped.

“See what?” Khóruin looked around the temple, but saw nothing unusual—except for the unapproachable and important-looking Vismian and his group of henchmen.

“The people, Khóruin…! Many people here in the temple have a wolf’s head!” the girl whispered. Her husband cursed. It immediately occurred to him what the healer was perceiving. How is it possible…? Here, at the Aderan…? Damn it…! After all, on the journey, we had the chance to find out that the Aderan does not harm them!

“How many people, Vathila? Vismian too?” he asked as calmly as possible. With a soothing embrace and touches, he tried to quiet his wife.

“A good third. But the Master Mage is not among them,” Vathila whispered.

Further conversation was made impossible by Whitehead, who descended to the Aderan itself. At his left stood Plantain, at his right Ghar Varkias. Everyone fell silent.

“Arka now faces a great threat,” Hagias spoke, “perhaps the greatest since its founding. It is necessary to swiftly perform the purification rituals—we already have both the sulfur and the seawater. From without, however, another enemy prepares to attack us, unorganized but numerous. We must hold the island and, if necessary, break through to help the Druvid settlements around the forest sanctuaries! I therefore declare a state of emergency! There is no time to let every decision be voted on by the Council of Elders—by the time we all agreed, we would long be dead!”

“You want to exploit what is happening to seize all power for yourself?! We all know that a state of emergency gives you absolute rule!” Vismian declared, stepping forward, followed by several supporters. “Arka is indeed threatened from without,” the Kvanari mage continued, “but it is threatened much more from within!” He abruptly grabbed the clothing of his nearest henchman and slit the man’s throat with a dagger. The body collapsed to the ground, twitching several times. Instantly, it grew fur and deformed into a repulsive, half-wolf, half-human corpse. It was one of those who, in Vathila’s eyes, had a wolf’s head while alive.

“If there is something in the human body that harms the rest of the body, we endure its being burned and cut away, so that a limb should perish rather than the whole body. So let everything that is ruinous be cut and burned from the body of the community, so that the whole may be healthy!” Hagias recited the ancient formula by which the king takes full power in times of need and dissolves the council and assembly. He spoke in a calm, powerful voice, his eyes piercing Vismian.

“But the sickness is you yourself, Hagias!” the mage cried. “You allowed the monsters to come here. You yourself are a monstrosity—just like those two who support you! You are not from Arka! You are not Hwarnij! You are not human, and I will show everyone!”

He reached out his hand; a row of Aderan runes shone brightly. The air shimmered.

Hagias frowned and took a step back. At that moment, in the place where the King, Plantain, and Ghar Varkias stood, three entirely different figures appeared. Slender, with beautiful features and pale skin. It was as if their faces were touched by frost—a frost from the abyss of Time—and the immense sadness and cold of thousands of years. They had delicate ears, long white hair falling down their backs, and eyes darker than wells. They were not Hwarnij… They were not human…

In an instant, the shimmering of the air passed, and the image stabilized on the forms everyone knew well. And Hagias’s raptor-like face was twisted with anger.

At that moment, one’s own words could no longer be heard in the temple. The Hwarnij screamed over one another and reached for their weapons.

Hagias’s hand went to his hip—to the second of his two swords… He abruptly tore the weapon from its scabbard. No one saw the blade. The King raised his hand with the magnificently decorated hilt high above his head. High in the sky, something flashed, and then the lightning struck. A massive, blinding, thundering, storm-lightning passed through Hagias’s hands and, with a deafening crack, struck the place where Vismian stood. In a fraction of time, a bright radiance flooded the entire space, far surpassing even the light of the Aderan, and at the same moment, thunder rolled through the temple. Everyone had the impression it was their death. Their hearts stopped, their chests thudded with the blow, their eyes went blind, and their ears went deaf.

The thunder, unlike the light, did not leave the temple, but rumbled in its interior, held by perfect acoustics, for several long moments more. After a while of absolute blindness following the dazzle, people began to look around. In the place where Vismian had stood before, there was nothing. Hagias’s enemy had been burned to dust in a fraction of a second, as Arkian funeral customs dictated.

His followers slowly recovered. No one had suspected what immense power the King of Arka wielded. Nevertheless, they did not want to give up. The preparations for their rebellion were already far beyond the point of return. They had enough among them who knew how to give orders and lead into battle. Fire spells hissed as they were cast. Several men on Hagias’s side burst into flames like living torches. Their painful cries tore at the ears; the smell of burned flesh drifted through the temple. Before Whitehead, however, all runes shattered like water against stone.

From the galleries, bowstrings twanged. Both sides had brought archers.

Ivain hurled a dagger at one of the enemy mages. He missed him and hit a man standing right beside the wizard—it was a member of the Melittar family. The bard waved his hand. Shouldn’t have been on the stupid side. His bad luck.

“Stop this! There are enough dead outside!” Alphia tried to shout over the howling of the crowd. Her call broke into a painful groan as an arrow hit her in the shoulder. Vathila quickly supported her and pulled her back behind the men.

The temple suddenly darkened. It darkened as never before. The flames of the Great Aderan sank. The dying daylight was finishing an unequal struggle with the onset of night. Discord is a greater enemy to the Great Flame than the Lunar Hall.

“To my house!” Hagias shouted, his voice drowning out the din of battle. He, Plantain, Ghar the Elder, and their people burst from the temple toward the south. Vismian’s followers fled through the northern exit. The focus of the clash shifted.

“This is none of my business. Let them settle this among themselves,” Taihun said, stopping almost mid-stride. From the temple passage, he saw down to the shore of the lake. A fierce battle was being fought at the two bridges. The warrior turned and ran out. He leaped onto his horse and galloped toward the battlefield.

Khóruin turned to Vathila: “I must go…” “Go, and return to me alive. And if not… we shall meet,” Vathila said. Her voice trembled. She briefly embraced her husband, her cheeks flooded with red, traces of suppressed weeping. “I wanted your child,” she whispered sadly. Khóruin stroked her face soothingly. Then he turned away and left. He left as men leave for battle. He did not look back… he preferred not to.

He had long suspected that something was brewing in Arka, but he never thought it would be a discord between the Hwarnij themselves. He knew Hagias was taking unpopular steps and knew it might not pay off. He didn’t understand how the King could be so hard in some things and yet so yielding that he allowed the arrival of foreigners among the Hwarnij. But Khóruin was convinced that Vismian and his followers would never have dared aggression against the rightful king if someone else were not behind it. Someone had driven a wedge between the Hwarnij and exploited their minor mutual disagreements. It is only up to us if there is still more cohesion in us than strife.

Khóruin ran through the city.

A dark shape flickered through the air. The warrior reflexively dodged. When he landed on the ground again, he already had the gold-decorated sword in his hand.

A wolf with glowing red eyes grinned strangely and turned for another attack. Khóruin did not wait and slashed. The beast dodged skillfully. It leaped. The warrior slashed at it and stepped back. He missed again.

The monster moved flexibly on crouched paws, low to the ground, fast as mercury. One could certainly whip someone with the spine of this beast, Khóruin thought and clenched his teeth. He himself slightly crouched, lowered his center of gravity, and shifted his weight.

Man and wolf circled each other. The creature finally attacked. That was what Khóruin had been waiting for. He threw himself aside, rolled over his shoulder, and slashed. A horrific howling followed. The magic sword had severed the wolf’s hind paws.

The warrior did not hesitate. He sprang to his feet and beheaded the creature. The dead body thrashed. Soon it contracted and changed into the body of a man dressed in the white robe of the Aderan priests. Khóruin picked up the severed human head. It was one of the fire-bearers who had come from Lerna…

The warrior cast away the ghastly trophy and ran on. He saw that the defenders at the shore had set one of the bridges on fire, preventing the savages from further progress. On the lake, however, roughly bound rafts were already being launched… Houses blocked further view. A narrow alley… empty… Khóruin stopped abruptly. Too empty an alley. Too quiet and abandoned. Unease and a sense of threat seized the warrior. Something was in the shadows. Khóruin turned and ran another way.

Ghar Karian stood at the Aderan and sang. Alphia, now with her shoulder treated, huddled to her brother and sang as well. Ivain sat carelessly on one of the steps, and his beautiful voice could also be heard. Two priests entered. They stood at the Aderan and joined the song. But it was a sad song… Sad and longing, full of despair and hope and immense tenacity.

Vathila was treating the wounded of both sides, without distinction. She was grateful that, like everyone—except Taihun—she hadn’t managed to drop off her things from the journey, the herbs and bandages. Most of the wounded, as soon as they could move, immediately crawled home. Only two lightly wounded Hwarnij joined the singing.

Suddenly a scream cut through the melody. The healer turned sharply; Alphia immediately had a weapon in her hand. A second one followed soon after. Both sounded from the entrance where two of the injured had left.

“Ghar… We’re going to look out there,” Alphia said and headed up the steps toward the passage. Vathila followed them; the others continued singing.

Outside, darkness reigned. The blacksmith’s apprentice stopped. He took a subtle metal amulet from his neck and spun it in the air above his head. The talisman lit up with a bright light. The strongman hung it back around his neck like a magic lantern. The passage and the massive wooden staircase behind it were instantly flooded with light.

No one was to be seen. Below the stairs lay a grove of sacred trees, in which stood menhirs and stelae of various sizes. The surroundings of the temple were completely dark. The previously inviting inhabited houses located in close proximity to the Great Aderan now seemed desolate and menacing.

Ghar began to descend the stairs, Alphia behind him. Vathila remained standing in the entrance, her sling and a stone ready in her hand. On one of the last five steps were bloodstains. Fresh blood and traces of bodies that someone had dragged aside.

The strongman stopped. He felt immediate danger. Death. With his eyes, he could not penetrate the shadows of the thick bushes; anything could be hiding at the sides beneath the staircase. He stepped back. The huntress did as well. Cautiously, never for a moment taking their eyes off the shadows outside, they returned up to Vathila.

Ghar reached into his bag and pulled out an arrow whose tip was shaped in the form of a simplified flame. He handed it to Alphia. “I have an injured shoulder. I cannot draw the bow,” the girl shook her head. The strongman nodded and took her bow from her. He drew it with ease. The light-arrow flew to the sky and blazed. In the fiery glow, eight wolves could be seen, crouching in the bushes and in the shadow of the staircase.

“Ivain!” Alphia called. At the sound of her voice, the wolves drew closer. Ivain ran to the passage. Ghar handed him the bow and four specially forged arrows. Vathila skillfully took three of them; her younger brother drew the bow and fired. One of the wolves shrieked insanely and burst into flames. The others roared with human voices and threw themselves at the staircase and up it.

“Help!” Vathila cried over her shoulder into the temple and handed Ivain another arrow. The bard shot. He missed. One side of the wooden staircase ignited from the hit. The wolves avoided the fire and rushed on. The singer and the healer stepped back.

Askra straightened and reached out her hands before her. Magical power began to gather around her. One of the two warriors who were singing down at the Aderan seized a sword and ran to help those standing in the gateway. “I’ll bring reinforcements!” the second called and dashed out through the opposite exit. Above the growling of the attacking beasts, the defenders still heard his mortal shriek. At that moment, the wolves threw themselves at Ghar, Alphia, and their helper.

Vathila let out a strange high cry. From the dark sky, her kestrel immediately descended and settled on its mistress’s arm. “Fly after Khóruin… After Khóruin…” the healer said and gently touched the feathers on the bird of prey’s chest. The kestrel flapped its wings and, strengthened by the movement of the girl’s arm, soared above the temple.

Three wolves lunged at Alphia. The first flew through the air and was impaled directly on the magic blade the huntress raised before her. The second bit the girl’s ankle. The redhead smoothly stabbed down, and the weapon passed cleanly through the monster’s skull. At that moment, the third animal sank its teeth into the girl’s injured shoulder. Bones cracked. The huntress swung her sword at the beast, which she had to hold in her left hand, but hit only the wolf’s back. She shrieked in pain as the monster tried to pull her to the ground.

The wolf suddenly shrieked insanely—something between a human cry and a wolf’s howl. It let go of Alphia. Vathila, who had stabbed the animal with her long dagger into the kidneys, dodged the jaws and paws blindly thumping around in agony. Alphia turned and drove her sword deep into the monster’s body. Soon the huntress fell to the ground, her hands clenched in pain, her eyes widened by the shock that seized her injured body.

By the bridge blazed a sacred fire, a descendant of the Aderan, kindled by Khóruin. Taihun marshaled the weak hundred Hwarnij he had at his disposal. Fast runners were sent to the second bridge, where Kira and her people were holding out bravely, and up into the city for reinforcements. The third and last of the Arkian bridges had been successfully dismantled in time.

Khóruin was helping his wife’s brother with the preparation of the defense—this time he left the command to him. It was primarily about the bridge. And Khóruin believed that regarding anything built by human hands, Taihun could exploit the possibilities and discern the weak points of the structure to the highest possible degree.

On the opposite shore, enemy warriors were gathering. There could have been up to two thousand of them. Suddenly Khóruin sharply raised his head. Above him, with an insane cry, circled Vathila’s kestrel. Its calling at that moment was terrifyingly similar to a tortured human voice. The warrior turned pale. By the gods…! Vathila! The temple! “Taihun! Quickly! Give me all the men you can spare! Something terrible has happened at the temple!” he shouted. “To the Darkness! I can’t spare even you!” Taihun cursed. But he too recognized his sister’s kestrel—he could not mistake that bird for any other. Soon he had transferred twenty soldiers to Khóruin. They, along with their new commander, ran back into Arka.

Khóruin managed to gather ten more battle-ready men as he hurried through the streets of the Inner City. Nevertheless, some sixth sense told him it was terribly few… Darkness reigned around the temple. Only occasionally did distant flashes resembling fire flicker through it. Khóruin instinctively stopped; the soldiers followed suit. He had a bad feeling… The same feeling he had from that empty alley he avoided on the way to the lake… “Be careful! They will surely attack us here!” he warned aloud. The warriors closed together and raised their weapons.

Pairs of red eyes lit up in the darkness. There could have been up to fifty. “You!” Khóruin pointed to one of the soldiers. “Go back to Taihun! Tell him what’s happening and what it looks like here. We need reinforcements. Take care on the way!” The man nodded and hurried away. “Where is Whitehead anyway?” one of the warriors asked at that moment. “Who knows? In any case, he isn’t here, and we must manage without him,” Khóruin replied coldly. “But he should be defending the temple. It’s his concern…” “Now it’s our concern. Forward!” Khóruin commanded and charged into the shadows. The soldiers did not hesitate for a second and with a shout threw themselves against the waiting monsters.

Howling and roaring, the cries of the dying, the sounds of shattering bones and tearing flesh rang through the darkness. Khóruin brandished Plantain’s magic sword, slicing wolves in two, beheading them, and lopping off paws. It seemed to him as if the weapon were singing contentedly and sating itself on blood. The edges of the world narrowed to the attacking beasts, his fellow warriors at his sides, and the temple… somewhere ahead.

The wolves fought in coordination, dodging and attacking insidiously. Khóruin felt no fatigue, only an immense concentrated strength flowing through his body and driving him. Somewhere there, on the other side, was Vathila and the others… so desperately weak, so desperately under-armed…

The soldier at Khóruin’s left shrieked as one of the wolves bit his leg and pulled him to the ground. Khóruin, with the help of another man further to the left, only with luck closed the gap in the formation, preventing the monsters from bursting among the Hwarnij, scattering them, and tearing them apart like sheep. We must go back. Or we all die here, Khóruin realized with a cold reason that in the decisive moment overcame all other motives. “Back! Back! Stay together! Retreat!” he bellowed at his men. Without reinforcements, they would never reach the temple alive…

One of the wolves lunged for Ghar’s face. A second attacked his legs. But the young smith used a strong oak staff as a weapon. He easily parried both attacks simultaneously with a swing of the staff. One of the wolves did not retreat far enough. The strongman struck it with one end of his weapon. He hit the ribs. Bones cracked, the wolf howled and retreated. The second lunged at Ghar. The redhead covered and stepped back. Another beast attacked from the side. Ghar hit it mid-flight and with terrifying force swept it away. The monster remained lying dead with a broken spine and shattered bones. The remaining wolf was more cautious. It growled and lunged from the ground. The blacksmith’s apprentice stepped back; the wolf retreated as well. Ghar in a flash shifted his grip and struck with the staff, using over two-thirds of its length. The monster, hit in the head, shrieked and fled.

A bowstring twanged, and Ivain’s arrow found one of the two fleeing wolves. The animal immediately burst into flames. The last wolf, stubbornly clamped onto the arm of the third defender, finally released its jaws and fell to the ground, its body sliced by the Hwarnij’s sword, just like the creature that had preceded it by a moment—in attack and in death.

“Ghar! Do something about that fire, or we’ll soon be roasted here!” came Askra’s melodic, clear voice. Her outstretched arms, narrowed eyes above the veil, and the sweat running down her temples eloquently proved that it was her Aderan Rune of Cold that had so far prevented the fire from spreading up the stairs in full force. Nevertheless, it had already begun to catch one of the decorative pillars of the gateway.

The steps of the temple were indeed stone, but the staircase, walls, and galleries that partially roofed the temple were of wood, in some places clad in gold. The fire that erupted from Ghar’s arrow was incredibly alive and ravenous. Even with the Aderan rune, Askra had trouble facing it. Vathila, who was trying to treat Alphia, raised her head in fear when she realized the impending danger.

The blacksmith’s apprentice looked around, his usual thoughtful expression in his eyes, which however revealed nothing about whether anything was happening in the strongman’s head at all. The redhead reached his sister in a few steps. The girl still convulsively held the gold and emerald-decorated short sword. Ghar twisted it from her hand without apparent effort. Soon, with two smooth slashes, he severed that part of the pillar already being licked by tongues of fire. With his giant strength and the magic sword, he began to quickly destroy the staircase so the flames would not spread to the temple’s walls and galleries. And from the Aderan, the quiet, calm, two-part singing of the priests still resonated.

A hundred of Kira’s archers arrived from the second bridge to help the Hwarnij. From the city, individuals and small groups of the determined were trickling in. Taihun moodily scanned the future battlefield. He was very well aware of the fight that was draining most of the Hwarnij forces—it was up in Arka that weapons clashed and runes flew between the followers of Hagias and Vismian. “Bring twenty boats here to the shore!” Taihun commanded. He had one last desperate plan. Or a probable death in battle.

Part III.

“We must somehow make the other temple staircases inaccessible. They are too wide, and the wolves can then rush here and attack in great numbers at once,” Vathila mused. She was still bending over Alphia, whom she had treated and put to sleep. “I can cover one set of stairs with frost,” Askra offered. “Good. Ghar can destroy the second with the sword,” the healer smiled and solicitously covered the red-haired huntress with her cloak. “I can watch the third with the bow, so those beasts don’t fall upon our backs,” Ivain spoke up and took Alphia’s quiver. Vathila nodded, straightened up, prepared her sling, and followed the blacksmith’s apprentice to cover his back.

The wooden stairs, massive as they were, could not resist the strikes of Plantain’s magic sword wielded by Ghar’s arm. Part of the staircase collapsed downward. The blacksmith’s apprentice leaned over the edge and looked after the falling pieces of wood. On the pillars, some of which supported the stairs from below and others ran along the sides upward and bore the roof over the staircase, there was something strange. From behind their far side, pairs of red lights always shone. Ghar watched them deliberately for a while. He had never met a wolf that could climb trees, let alone pillars, but given that behind the lights he saw dark, undeniably wolfish silhouettes, it could be assumed that they were the glowing eyes of wolves clinging with their claws to the pillars and preparing to climb up. He counted five beasts hanging rigidly.

“They are here,” Ghar announced to Vathila and stepped back a bit from the edge. At the moment he spoke and began to straighten up, the wolves moved. With lightning speed, they pulled themselves up, as if climbing were an entirely natural movement for them. The blacksmith’s apprentice raised the sword and leaned back over. The beasts froze. Ghar knew the children’s game well, where one does not look and babbles a rhyme while all the others try to run to him—but they can only move as long as the one reciting does not look, which lasts only as long as he finishes the rhyme. Then he may turn and everyone freezes. It was a nice game. He just didn’t really want to play it with wolf-beasts.

“Askra!” Vathila called over her shoulder. The sorceress was already running across the temple. Strands of coppery-brown hair had come loose from her hair and were fluttering around her face. The veil hid her maliciously pleased expression—when anyone tried to run up the frosted stairs, they would meet a none too dignified end to their endeavor. Ghar leaped back from the edge and began to destroy the next part of the staircase. The wolves were at the top within a few heartbeats. The first, the young smith sliced smoothly; the second, Vathila hit with a stone from her sling in the head, sending it with a smashed skull to the hard ground beneath the stairs.

The third beast was cleverer—it climbed the far side of the pillar almost up under the roof. No one noticed the wolf until it lunged from there with a long jump at the healer. Vathila managed to draw her dagger at the last moment. The blade, however, slid harmlessly over the wolf’s skin. The beast knocked the girl to the ground, clawing and biting her, trying to reach her throat. Askra reached the arched passage just as two more beasts were scrambling onto the staircase. The girl took a deep breath. Wind! Windstorm! In her mind, the Aderan Rune of Wind flared, strengthened by proximity to the source of its power. A sharp air-strike threw both intrusive monsters back down, where they broke their bones from the intensity of the fall.

The howling of more wolves could be heard below. The smith and the sorceress retreated. He cut the stairs behind him; she covered him with wind-strikes. They heard Vathila’s painful cry but could not even turn. Ivain heard his sister too. He filtered several Darin curses through his teeth. Soon he drew his bow and shot Ghar’s fire-arrow into the middle of the staircase he was to guard. Cheerful, hungry flames shot up. Now the wolves would not rush inside too eagerly. Ivain ran across the temple.

Vathila crouched, trying to protect her neck and head. She and the wolf rolled at the top of the staircase in a single ball. But the girl did not stop blindly stabbing the beast with her dagger. Ghar turned sharply. Two pillars remained… But he could not not defend Vathila. The blacksmith’s apprentice grabbed for the wolf. He did not dare use the weapon, so as not to hurt Khóruin’s wife. The animal snapped at him and sank its fangs into his arm. Ghar ignored the pain that shot up to his shoulder. He jerked and with his titanic strength tore the wolf from its injured victim. Soon he struck the beast’s head against the edge of the entry arch. A cracking sound followed. The wolf’s jaws finally released.

The air around Askra writhed and wailed like a whole pack of monsters. The sorceress with an incorporeal whip struck down the beasts climbing the last pillars; Aderan magic was doing its work. Ivain quickly picked up his sister from the ground and carried her into the interior of the temple. “Everyone inside!” Askra called. Ghar leaped through the arched entrance; the sorceress followed him with a well-timed half-step back. In the next moment, Hiranya’s apprentice cried out mightily and pointed to the last remnant of the stairs. A thud and the crackling of wood shattered by immense force followed. The whole entry, connected to the staircase, shook and creaked ominously. The last staircase-pillars plummeted down along with the corpses of wolves that the force of the gale had crushed.

“Ivain…” Vathila groaned into the sudden silence, disturbed only by the crackling of flames at one of the remaining staircases, “in my bag I have potions… the bluish, translucent one… bring it to me, quickly!” The healer’s face was contorted with pain; blood flowed from the wounds the wolf had inflicted. The bard laid the blonde down gently and ran to find the requested medicine among her things. Ghar meanwhile, sword in hand, threw himself to the burning stairs, where the fire again threatened to jump to the temple walls.

Taihun scanned the group of chosen men one last time. Time was running out precariously. Soldiers, archers, and four fire-bearers in black-and-gold armor were boarding the boats at Taihun’s command. Young Melittar also hopped in quickly. In a corner of his mind, he remembered his sister. He didn’t know if he would ever see Vathila again. Soon he chased that thought away. The boats approached the shore.

The thudding and crackling of falling trees reached them from the forest. The savages did not dare fell trunks for rafts directly by the lake. However, they were so sure of their superiority that they had stationed only two men on guard. Those two for a long time only idly watched the negligible group of Hwarnij approaching across the lake. The watchers did not doubt the perfection of their covers and the harmlessness of the weak fifty opponents. Both fell with an arrow in the chest before they could raise an alarm.

Taihun gave orders, and his men unloaded the cargo onto the shore—oil. The soldiers immediately ran in predetermined directions, and wood, leaves, and ground were soon soaked with oil… “Back! Back!” Taihun commanded. He himself took a torch from one of the fire-bearers, its flame a descendant of the Aderan… and he hurled it among the dry autumn leaves and fragile, parched, dead wood. The flames roared and shot high. They flew greedily through the forest. The Hwarnij fled on the boats back. Across the surface, the terrified roar of the enemy reached them, suddenly lost in the labyrinth of glowing tongues of fire. Terrified savages in the confusion tried to save themselves, trampling over one another. And their numbers and lack of discipline were to become their doom. The forest burned. And in it, two and a half thousand enemies. The sky turned red, as if dawn were breaking in the west…

Vathila winced slightly. She felt a wave of pain from the western shore. And in the northern part of Arka, a flare of emotions. And another. And countless others. To the healer’s consciousness, those inaudible shrieks of horror reached perfectly clearly. She writhed again in a desire to plug her ears. She wished to hear nothing, to add no more foreign fear and pain to her own. Like in Lerna… Just like back then in Lerna… The northern part of the city… That’s where Vismian’s followers went!

Suddenly a terrifying flash lit up Arka, and thunder struck in the same moment. Soon after, another lightning and thunder followed. The Hwarnij felt as if the thundering had crushed their ears, twisted their guts, and shaken their whole bodies. Askra and Ghar exchanged looks. “Hagias,” the sorceress said hollowly. Just in case Ghar Karian hadn’t understood it himself.