The frostbitten wind whipped over the Lake of Ever Ice, lashing a small cluster of buffeting tents. The lake spread from horizon to horizon: still, frozen, seeming to have neither banks nor shorelines, simply stretching out endlessly. From east to west, and north to south, one’s gaze found only mile after mile of icy, frigid landscape glittering beneath the harsh white sun.

In the distance, tiny frost-sheathed fairies beat blue crystal wings, fluttering through high winds, laughing and teasing each other in voices crackling like layers of shifting ice.

Their eyes flitted about, watching the odd encampment now settled on the lake’s frozen surface, built beside a crossroads marked by four spires carved with symbols so old, even most fae did not remember them.

The encampment sheltered mortals who flew a strange symbol on their tent posts and banners, one these fae had never seen before: a white mortal hand emblazoned across every tent and every waving banner at the camp’s borders.

Yet, the tiny fae—no matter how curious they might be—would not approach this place. Though the campfires were cheery and called to them, and the scent of roasting meat was enticing, one within the camp struck fear in them much colder than the ice below.

Beyond the tents and whipping banners, the Stalker relaxed, gnawing a piece of red meat and gazing out across the barren landscape. The meat was still warm, fresh and raw, its juices stained his beard as he licked his lips.

“Ah, another beautiful, cold day,” he said. “Shame my hounds can't share in my cheer.”

Behind him, the camp’s atmosphere was as grim as fires were warm, and the ice was cold. Holy men and women crouched by altars to their god, praying with hands clasped and cloaks thrashing in the wind; apologies were being whispered with desperate pleas for guidance.

The Stalker looked at the grey cloud covered sky, wondering if old Uldar would bless them with a sign. If the ancient deity was feeling generous, though, he didn't show it.

Behind the short fae, came the sound of footfalls trying to approach quietly, but any hope of silence was ruined by ice shards crunching underfoot.

“How do you like the lovely layer of frost?” The Stalker asked, stomping his feet. “The Lake of Ever Ice never thaws, you know. The surface never cracks, and—let me tell you—if you leave the road and wander off, you'll never find the lake’s end. No land, nothing at all.” He looked back at the sky. “Yet the wind always blows bits of ice over its surface, that’s the only thing that gives you any traction. Otherwise, we'd be slipping and sliding around like a piece of bacon, in a hot, fatty pan.”

He laughed. "The ice blowing in the wind stings the face, doesn't it? But it’s only those pieces of ice that lets us walk in this place…and if I'm truthful, we should still be slipping and sliding around. Kind of makes you wonder if the lake wantsus to be walking on it, hmm? Blessings have a strange way of not looking like blessings sometimes, don’t they?”

The Stalker turned.

Gabrian stood behind him with Izas.

“I take it you want to talk about that little battle?” the fae asked.

“We have failed,” Izas said grimly. “And this was our greatest chance to destroy our enemy. He will be better prepared next time.”

“Every attack now will be more difficult than the last,” Gabrian echoed. “The Fool has a way of slipping out of his bonds. Uldar marked him with a holy purpose, yet he has escaped his divine destiny. Now, we have declared he must pay with his life, acting on Uldar’s will, and yet he has escaped thrice now. Once at Uldar’s Rise, the second time at Rockmoot and now, here, in this northern Empire, so far away from home.”

“Aye, that last one was a bit strange,” the Stalker said in easy tones. “I thought your little trick with your holy dirt would stop him from teleporting around; I mean, that's why I went through all that trouble digging up your old home, isn't it?”

Gabrian looked at Izas, the Third Apostle let out a long breath.

“The interdiction was not perfect,” he said grimly. “The circle of soil and my sanctification gave the area a taste of our god’s power, but this land is not Thameland, nor is it Uldar’s divine realm. His interdiction was naturally weaker in this place, I'm simply thankful it worked at all.”

“I curse my own incompetence,” Gabrian said. “I am the Chosen of Uldar, and one who has mastered the skill of life enforcement. I have trained with magic, divinity, and swordsmanship until few could be my match in all the world. In my time of service—when I was far less experienced—I slew the Ravener and hordes of its monsters. Yet—even with the Fool of Thameland, this Alex Roth, caught off guard and at my mercy—I was unable to finish him.”

“Maybe you were having an off day, everyone has an off day now and then,” the Stalker chuckled.

“That is no acceptable excuse for failing in our holy purpose,” the First Apostle said.

“The fault is mine,” Izas said. “Perhaps I called the retreat too early or was not strong enough to properly perform the sanctification. Even with the interdiction being weaker than it would be at home, he slipped from our grasp too quickly.”

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“Oh, don't beat yourselves up! We’ll get him next time, I'm sure!” The Stalker’s eyes stared off, as though looking at something far away. “Aaaah, already, I can sense his name, it seems our quarry’s returning to the Empire.”

“Then, there goes all hope that he did the decent thing and died from his wounds,” Gabrian sighed.

“Oh, there was never any hope of that.” The fae shook his head. “Trust me, I have his name; if he were to die, I would know. Besides, it's not your fault that he's still alive, it's mine. And I'm surprised you haven't put the blame squarely on my shoulders yet.”

Gabrian and Izas glanced at each other.

“It is not your place to help us eliminate him,” the First Apostle said, eyes searching the sky. “Uldar deemed that we take on this task, and he sent you to guide us to our enemy. But to demand that you fight our battles for us would be to disregard our holy duty; it is our task to eliminate this threat, not yours. I am merely thankful that you guided us to the Fool, and that Uldar sent you to us.”

“Not that we would deny your assistance if you offered it," Izas said quickly.

Once again, the Stalker laughed. “I knew there was a reason I liked you! The problem with you mortals is that you're too quick to call on things old and powerful to do things for you.” He began counting on his fingers. “Fae, deities, demons, devils, engeli…there are more that I could name, but I'd have to use my other hand and I'm feeling lazy right now.”

He chuckled. The pair of holy men did not.

The Stalker shrugged, spreading his hands. “You mortals sit there praying and summoning, then begging. You beg the old powers to kill this person, or fix that crop, or resurrect this son or daughter, or whatever. Especially you holy folk; if I had a piece of gold for each time a priest begged for their lives instead of saving themselves when facing the fang, axe or sword, well—by Lord Aenflynn—I'd be richer than every last one of your rulers.”

His eyes lit up. “You two are different though, aren't you? You do things on your own, when you need to; you get in the guts of your kills. Ah, yes, mortals with spine! That's why I chose you to help me with this little hunt…it’s my choices you should be blaming for this failure.”

“What do you mean?” Gabrian squinted down at the fae.

The Stalker snapped his fingers, and a pipe carved of golden wood appeared in his hand. He stuck it between his lips, sucking back; embers ignited in the bowl, despite him not lighting them. The fae puffed a cloud of red smoke; a fragrance like roasting chestnuts sweetened the frigid air.

“I take great care when I choose my hounds, it makes no sense to hunt with those that can't hunt for themselves,” he suddenly grew serious. “But I take greater care in choosing my quarry; just as a dragonslayer wouldn't waste time going on a great hunt for a hare, I wouldn't chase prey that couldn't offer me a challenge.”

He rubbed his hands together like a greedy fly. “My prey has to put up a good fight, and get me winded when I’m chasing them. Who wants boring prey? So that was your problem, it was the prey I chose who made that battle so tricky. I tell you, though, for a while there, I thought I’d chosen badly!”

The Stalker wagged his finger, puffing on his pipe. “When that boy went down so easy—his guts and blood spilling out like a stuck pig—I thought I’d picked the wrong quarry for sure, one with no fight in ‘im at all!”

He chuckled. “Then next thing ya know, he’s back up and fighting and running for his life. He even managed to save that lovely lady of his! Well, maybe. Her wounds were just as bad as his were, even worse I’d have to say…but I have no way of telling if she's still among the living or not.”

The fae ran his fingers through his beard. “Could we not send a hound or two down to that city of wizards? Be good to look in on our quarry’s people, see if there’s anything we could use to flush him out.”

“Out of the question,” Gabrian’s tone was firm. “We are here to do Uldar’s will, not start wars that could devastate his holy land. Already our divine purpose hangs on a precipice; any interference now—even delicate interference—could see us fail. A war with an entire city of wizards is no delicate matter.”

“Perhaps we should not be so hasty, holy leader,” Izas said suddenly. “With the right mercenaries hired, we could gain a presence in Generasi without drawing their eyes to our land.”

The First Apostle paused, his brow furrowing in thought. “Perhaps…but only if the hour grows desperate. For now, we should focus on strategies that ensure the Fool dies when we next have him in our grip.”

“Well, if that’s how things must be, I think I’ll be taking part the next time we find him,” the Stalker said. “Now that I know he's a challenge, I can't resist getting in on the festivities myself.”

“Thank you for your assistance most wholeheartedly. May Uldar’s light shine upon your steps.” Izas bowed his head.

“Oh, bah! No need to be so dramatic, I’m just having a little fun…and speaking of fun…” He tapped the side of his nose. “I heard some interesting details when I was tucked away inside the giants’ cottage. Some very, veeeery interesting details.”

“Such as?” Gabrian asked.

“Seems our quarry was up to a bit of mischief. Appears he was stealing from someone there in the Empire.”

“A thief.” Izas snorted. “Of course the Fool is a thief.”

“Ah, but his moral and criminal proclivities aren't what interest me, my hounds. What interests me is what he stole, and who he stole it from.” He rubbed his hands together, clenching the golden pipe between his teeth. “And who he stole it with. Seems he didn't trust someone he went thieving with, or at least that’s what he told the giants.”

“Oh?” Gabrian looked at him with interest. “You mean to say that he's created more enemies for himself.”

“Aye, and that his allies might not be so…allied with him, shall we say?” He licked his lips. “In either case, his enemies, those who might hold a knife ready for his back…they might become our friends.”

“More of your ‘hounds’, then?” Izas asked, a slight note of distaste in his voice. A very slight note.

“You catch on quick, and that's another reason why I like you two so much—oop!”

“What's wrong?” Gabrian asked.

“He’s baaaaaaack,” the Stalker grinned, fangs flashing in the cold light. “He’s too far for us to get to him quickly…but he's back where we can get our hands on him. And now, the hunt begins again!”

He laughed in pure delight. “En garde, my quarry, en garde!”

----------------------------------------

Alex and the two giants materialised in a frozen tundra in the northern reaches of the Empire. The wind was biting, the land desolate, and the sky grey, and grim.

Yet, despite the bleakness around him, he was home. This place would be home for a while, and only the Traveller knew how long that might be. Though, likely even she didn’t know.

Alex exhaled, blowing twin puffs of steam in the frigid air. “Alright, you zealous bastards. En garde!”

He looked at Birger and Bjorgrund. “Come on, friends, we've got a sanctum to find.”