The snow melted from the tops of the linden trees first, and dripped onto the frozen mountain below so much it sounded like a constant rain. Howlen felt his body return to life. His heart began to pump, his blood warmed and his thoughts returned to him. It would not be long until he could move again.

After fleeing the island of Vencia, he had determined to find Hagsbane's cave and live the rest of his life as the old woman had; waiting for the next victim to take the knife. But winter had set in with all its unforgiving harshness and rendered him frozen, kept alive only by the Hagsbane's curse. He did not find the cave.

A blue finger moved ever so slightly. Then another. His toes, buried in layers of hide and fur returned to him. Then his feet. He rotated them and felt the muscles in his legs ache. Soon, all of his body was his again. Not his. Hagsbane's.

He had felt no passage of time and only barely remembered sitting down and hoping the ice would freeze him solid and break the curse of eternal life. He rolled to his hands and knees and cried, though he could not form the tears. He scooped the icy snow in his mouth and desperately swallowed.

He needed food. He chewed a frozen leaf of a linden tree. It twisted and balled up in his mouth and he forced himself to swallow it.

Howlen crawled, disoriented, through the snow, slightly perceiving the decline of the ground. Off the mountain. I have to get off.

The decline flattened, then became a steep incline. No. He tried to change direction, but could go no further. He fell to his back. The wetness of the ground soaked through him. The sun and blue sky above felt almost comforting. But not enough. He closed his eyes. The knife slipped from his hand.

He woke at night, it was warmer. Hagsbane was on his chest. His fingers were wrapped around it, with a strength unfamiliar to him. Howlen's eyes opened, though he wished they hadn't. The snow was gone.

Every part of him ached as he forced himself to sit. He was dry. Everything was. Without thinking he plunged the knife into his stomach, forgetting all the times he had tried in the past. He let out a terrible scream, though his voice failed him and hardly a sound came out.

He withdrew the blade and felt his insides shift and grow back together. Every moment brought a new, unbearable wave of pain. But he had to bear it. That was his curse. He could not escape it.

The pain of hunger and thirst washed through him as he stood. He stumbled through the mountainous forest, his way lit only by the moon shining through breaks in the trees. Howlen tripped on a rock or an exposed root, he did not see. Hagsbane sunk into his left shoulder and his right hand landed in a large ant hill.

The tiny red dots engulfed his fingers. Howlen sat, pulled up his sleeve and forced his hand deeper into the ant hill. With an animalistic indifference he withdrew it and licked the ants off his hands, thinking only of the small sustenance they might provide. He felt them crawl and bite his mouth and throat as he swallowed. The sensation turned his stomach, but he continued to feast.

He stood, withdrew the knife from his shoulder, and walked slowly, praying this way would take him off the mountain. He resolved then, not to suffer through the isolation of the mountain, but to hide among the people below.

A small lake shimmered to his right. He ran to it, fell, then stood and ran again. His reflection on the surface of the water was ghastly and harsh. He slid the blade over his face, removing the hair on his cheeks and cutting his skin several times in the process. His dark brown hair hung loose to his shoulders. He twisted it and tied it on top of his head, then sunk his face in the cool water.

The dirt and blood washed from his skin and somehow made him feel his humanity. He thought of his wife. Then his son and those who took him. No, I will not simply hide among the people.

He gripped the knife and dunked his head in the water again. Howlen emerged, washed this time of his humanity and though he felt more dirty than before, he smiled. His mouth remained unmoved but his heart and mind lifted at his new found direction.

The walk down the mountain was easy. The ache of hunger gnawed at Howlen with each step but it didn't matter anymore. He knew the pain would not affect him. The goal, the singular purpose, was unaffected.

He found the sea and walked south. He passed the estate with all the horses without so much as a glance. It did him no good to dwell on that place. When he reached that beach, Howlen looked to the hill across the inlet. His purpose burned within him, hotter than ever. He smiled and thought of Elisor's dead body. His mouth obeyed eagerly.

Howlen turned from the beach and went to the great walled city of Joan. His heavy winter coat, worn and ragged from his months in the mountain, gave him an unacceptable look so he discarded it as he walked. The morning had come and was warm enough and the coat meant nothing to him. His shirt underneath was sliced and bloody. The scars on his neck and face had stopped bleeding, but they left ugly pink ridges. He considered picking up the coat, but decided against it.

Joan's gates were open. Large white banners with red crosses that touched all four sides hung from the white stone walls. A man in a tall white hat and a robe that looked like the banner stood just inside the gate. He bowed to everyone who passed, repeating, "Blessings of Aiden guide you."

Aiden? The emperor? Surely not, he's a mad man. And blessings?

Howlen must not have hid his scowl well. The robed man pointed to him and shouted, "You, sir! Do not continue on your path of violence. It will lead only to your demise!"

The words startled Howlen, though when he looked down at his shirt and thought of his scars, he knew the man had no magic. He walked from the man into the city. The scents of filth and waste intertwined with the more pleasant smells of bread and jasmine. And honey? I haven't had that in years.

Howlen went to the vendor's cart, he looked at the jars as the woman finished with another customer. She was short and round with long, unkempt yellow-brown hair. As she turned to Howlen, he saw the bruises on her eye and cheek and swollen lip.

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"Wow, Mister. You've really been through it!"

The words meant nothing, and Howlen knew it, but he felt some impulse to snap at the woman, nonetheless. The jars of honey and sliced honeycombs strewn across the woman's cart called to him. He said nothing, and must have been staring too hard.

"Hey, you're in a rough spot, look, I usually save these for the lil'uns, but go ahead and take one. It's on me." She held out a small stick of honeycomb and Howlen eagerly took it.

He bit into the soft, chewy treat and found it almost too sweet. "You've been through it, really." Howlen waved the honeycomb at the vendor's wounds. She made a face and Howlen realized he had said the wrong thing. "Sorry." He wasn't sure if the word came out or not. The vendor rolled her eyes and turned to another customer with a huff.

Howlen choked down the honeycomb. Its sticky contents clung to his mouth. He needed a drink and passed a stone building with no door. The noise of singing and cheer bellowed from inside. He went in, and remembered again that he had no money. Perhaps water is free.

Two rows of long wooden tables stretched on either side of the door all the way down the length of the room and nearly to the far wall where a small bar was between them. Howlen went to the bar without a plan.

A fat man with a dirty gray shirt and the tops of his hair missing was on the other side of the bar, free of customers. The singer, a strapping young man, stood on the right of the room by a hearthfire.

Howlen leaned into the barkeep "Do you have water?"

"The only water here is from the sea. Wine is four pieces. Got vinegar too. It's two pieces but the cup is bigger. I can give you vinegar in the wine cup for one, if you ain't got enough."

"I've, uhm. I got nothing." The barkeep shrugged at Howlen and stepped away. He did not fully leave, but went far enough to show he was done with the conversation.

"Say, mister, what do you do?" A third man at the bar asked Howlen. He was well to do, Howlen presumed by the man's robes and the cup of wine he swirled. He was not old, but had the weight of a man who had seen a lot, though Howlen did not trust that conclusion. Howlen wondered what type of weight others might be seeing in him.

"I'm a farmer. Raise sheep."

"No! I've been a farmer. Grew up one. Man that raises sheep doesn't look like that." He slid his glass to Howlen. "Have a sip."

Howlen drank the deep purple wine in a hurry. It was sour and clung to his dry mouth in a most unpleasant way. He thanked the man with a silent nod and slid the cup back.

"What happened to you?" The man pointed to Howlen's clothes. "I'm Lucius, by the way."

"Howlen. I was on the, uhm, mountains over the winter."

"Aiden's blood! You spent all winter up there? Alone?"

Howlen nodded. His face must have seemed puzzled.

"What you ain't heard of the Children of Aiden? Well, makes sense. Did you leave before the damn fight with the Old God?"

Howlen shook his head and Lucius went on to explain it. The barkeep and a few patrons joined him, excitedly throwing in their comments. Howlen barely listened, but what he did hear was completely wrong.

"The thing was huge, like the size of the walls and breathed fire too!"

"The Legion of Aiden were alone on the beach, fighting the millions of dead soldiers!"

"There was a Giant Urzoth man fighting too!"

"I heard he killed the Old God with a cursed Knife!"

"No one has seen him since!"

"The Urzoth Giant didn't kill the Old God, a Druid did!"

"I'm hungry." Howlen said, plainly.

Lucius had been in the middle of another wild description and stopped mid sentence. "Yes, ok. Yeah, let's head out! I'll get you some fruit and bread. Berries grew nice over the winter. I'm guessing you aren't picky?"

Lucius led Howlen through the city. He felt the eyes of every man, woman and child they passed picking him apart. Howlen did not meet their gaze. They came to a small stone building in a curved line of identical structures. The door was opened for them by a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen and the two went in.

Howlen ate slowly, seated in a wooden chair, while Lucius reclined on a sofa. Hagsbane was tucked in the waist of his heavy hide pants and covered with his tattered shirt.

Lucius went on more about the emperor and something called the Children of Aiden and the Legion of Aiden for some time before Howlen's wits returned to him and he was able to listen and understand.

"We are in a new era, Howlen. The people are no longer subjects of the Novissime, we aren't subjects of anyone. A man's lot is now decided by his actions."

Howlen nodded stupidly.

"A man like you, a man who can survive out there, is the type of man I need." Lucius stood and began to pace. "I spoke with some men from Vencia, traders, sailors, real men. They say those Druids are growing in number, everyone is joining. The rumor is, they've learned of more artifacts of the Old Gods. Like the knife that killed the one on the beach."

Howlen's hand moved to Hagsbane, hidden beneath his shirt.

"Well, I've got a man up there, one of my sons. He sends me letters. Says they are ready to move. Says they are heading into the Ferrus Mountains. Looking for something called The Eye of Vision."

Vissum. Howlen knew better than to correct the man. "I'm weak. I can't make it up there any longer. I can't help."

"Ok. Sure, I get it. I see you. Don't worry. Finish the bread and be on your way then. Son! Get this man a drink. And some new clothes. Some of yours! You two are about the same height."

Howlen accepted the canvas wine flask and the clothes then went to another room to change. He thought of the man's son and the fate that boy would meet on any dealings with the Druids. He smiled.

The food had already cleared his head a little. He thanked Lucius and left. Howlen went to the docks and traded the wine for passage north to Vencia.

Aboard the ship, Howlen stood at the bough and waited keenly for the shores of that cursed island to break through the late morning fog.

He stood alone, and though he had not made his intention known to anyone, he could not shake the feeling of ominous eyes of suspicion. Dark storm clouds gathered quickly to his right and he knew whose eyes he felt.

"That storm really came on quick. That's spring time on the Dead Sea, though." a fellow passenger came to Howlen and said.

Howlen did not take his eyes off the storm. "Dead Sea? You mean the Caspian?"

"Caspian? Where have you been? It ain't been the Caspian since the Battle of the Old God. Augustine made it that way."

Howlen gave no answer. He watched the storm grow and felt the sea, whatever its name, churn and rock the ship violently. A strike of lightning hit the mast. Wind tore the sails. The crew and passengers ran to their posts, then to other places, as if the mere appearance of effort was enough. Howlen remained still. He gripped Hagsbane.

The ship rocked forward, then back, then forward again. A mighty, unnatural wave crashed over the ship's side and tipped it. Howlen held the knife close as he sank to the depths. The ship became only a dark silhouette against the blue surface of the water. Around him was darkness. The silhouette grew larger as the ship sank and he wondered which Druid had sent the storm.