The army was dreadful to listen to. If the noise had been halted for even a second, Alaric would have been entirely grateful. The shrieking calamity of nearly ten thousand wights marching across a sea of yellow grass underneath a gloomy sky set Alaric and the small group of elves on edge. Situated behind a row of bushes that had been eaten alive by moths and bugs, the six elves plus Alaric watched and waited. The hill they waited upon overlooked the largy grassy plains that stretched far towards the south—meeting the never-ending forests of Marehalla—which served as an iconic marker for travelers who wished to make for the Hafforn Sea (although there never were travelers in these days, only wights).

The marching of the wights was not rhythmic nor coordinated, so the sound of their chain mail and their war gear clattered in unison to their fits of anger that meshed together in a horrific anthem. It was the anthem of the wights—and soon they filled those plains like a sea of spiders spilling out from the sack of its mother.

“Giants? I did not know such large beasts existed,” said Alaric.

The elves ignored him. Such an ignorant comment enlightened how little empathy he could truly feel for the elves, for they were not his people, and this was not his land. Alaric pondered as much, before convincing himself they had not understood what he said.

Giants ranging from eight to ten feet loitered along the back end of the army, bearing wooden siege weapons of all kinds along their backs. Eight Giant wights heaved at a siege engine the size of a castle tower, creaking the wood of the siege engine all the while. Odd creatures with shaggy white coats and four-legged paws roared as they went, straining against their collars that were being yanked by their masters.

The front lines of the wights passed by upon horse, appearing far less instinctual than those mindless wights who charged forward behind them. Two headless horsemen spurred horses black as soot at the very front, with a row of eight wights in half-helms upon spotted mares of black and white followed close behind. Alaric had not seen any one leader amongst the army, and so he wondered if Golomoth was indeed somewhere down there amongst it. It was quite a sight, leaving Alaric watching on in isolation as he checked either side to find that the elves had long departed from their vantage point, returning to the trail overhead as they mounted their horses and made way for the north and out of sight of the dreadful howling army.

Alaric could not have said whether it was merely a cloudy day or if night had approached. The days blended together during their journey in which there was no time to waste. Arokas knew the way since they had left the forests of Marehalla and so his mare led the way along a narrow pass along the hill that rose steadily into a mountain ridge. Grasses rose high along the sides of the path, brushing along the sides of their legs as they rode.

Elfwin muttered complaints to the three elves who followed behind but the ignored the youthful elf, whose disgruntled manner regarding his sore bottom was not met with a sort of reciprocation. There bottoms were all sore, and Elfwin’s complaining had only increased the spacing of Galiria and Arokas’ horse to his own. Alaric’s horse was a few feet in front of Elfwin’s since Alaric did not understood whatever utterances that came from his mouth. Perhaps if he had, he would be closer ahead near Galiria. Eventually he did pull away, finding Elfwin’s whiny tone to set his teeth to grinding.

“Are we close?” asked Alaric.

“Don’t know,” said Galiria.

“Are you upset?” said Alaric.

“No,” said Galiria.

“I know you are.”

“Why talk now? Golomoth is nearer every step,” said Galiria. She spoke into the wind so her last words did not reach Alaric.

“What does he want, Golomoth? I don’t understand it,” said Alaric.

“You are not elf. Never understand,” said Galiria. Alaric missed the warm smile and sensitive eyes that she wore on her face that night at Termath Kvith. She was a stranger compared to the Galiria he’d encountered that day.

“I didn’t mean to make that comment the other day…you know, about the wights and your brother. Truly, Galiria, I am sorry.”

Galiria rode on silently, increasing her horse’s pace to a canter. Alaric followed.

“What’s the plan?” called Alaric, desperate to be heard over the chaffing wind. Water from the previous days’ hailstorm had iced over and so their horses whinnied nervously as they descended the mountainous terrain.

“Osknia,” said Galiria.

“I mean, before Osknia. We don’t even know how to get there. We’re just…setting sail from the sea?”

Arokas was far ahead still and so he could not hear them as they spoke. Galiria had slowed the pace of her horse in order to remain firmly behind Arokas.

“Sneak by Golomoth. If he sees us, we fight,” said Galiria.

“That simple, eh?”

“Simple? Man think all is simple. Nothing is simple. Never,” Galiria said, drawing her hood over head as flurries began floating down from the sky. Clapping thunder echoed from somewhere far off, hardly audible.

“To be clear, you say we are to go to Jakkara, which is the northern most coast of Corpsia, and from there we find our way out to sea, assuming Golomoth is not within our sights by then?” asked Alaric.

“We see. Jakkara is home to Golomoth. Not easy to travel because wights. Riders.”

“Riders? What riders?” asked Alaric.

“Dark riders,” said Galiria, and Alaric knew she meant the Headless Horsemen whom he had only seen from afar with their hollow armor and their spiked helms.

“I sure hope we shan’t have to encounter them. If Arokas knows the way maybe he’ll keep us clear of their company,” said Alaric, tensing as his horse slid down a steep gully but maintained its footing. The blanket of flurries left a crisp coating of thin ice atop all of the wildlife that played out around them. The small host had nearly moved beyond the foothills and mountain ranges of Stenroth so now they rode to the Kothra—a once thriving land of green where the hills flourished, and the trees grew thick and tall in large spacing of each other. Its kingdom was littered with abandoned farmsteads and ravaged towns where all supplies and harvests had been obliterated or stolen away by foraging wights.

They passed through such a town now, and the sight of half eaten corpses tore away at their stomachs. Elfwin dismounted from his horse to tend to his dizziness and the light-headedness that plagued him. He threw up near five times before mounting again, and soon they were on their way again. It was time enough for rest and for nutrients, but they had not liked the feeling of that town and so they travelled a while before settling upon an area that sat well hidden from view of the main road by an outcropping of rocks that rose high along three sides, keeping the winds off of them as they slept. There was plenty of room to sprawl, but the three elves who followed as guards spaced themselves out along the rocks to watch for harm before it had time to beset themselves upon them—which would be a worrisome sign since any approaching being was likely a wight, or perhaps a ravenous creature of the night. None of which had been spotted yet, but as they crept closer to Jakkara their blinders had dropped and sound itself would stir a fretful glance.

Galiria was standing on her own beyond the groove of rocks where the rest of the group slept. She had her cloak wrapped tightly around her figure amidst harsh winds that bit through her and chilled her to the bone. Yet, she could not sleep, and the cold did not seem to bad—not now. An arm clutched her arm and she gave a sharp gasp, startled. Arokas smiled and rubbed her arm with his hand. She acted as though she did not notice. The stars were covered by clouds even as Galiria pretended to glance at the night sky.

“There are no stars tonight,” said Arokas.

“Why don’t you sleep,” said Galiria, stating the known rather than asking.

“Same as you,” said Arokas. “I think you should try to rest. It is good for you, and for the baby.”

Galiria twisted away from his tender fingers that were still bristling along her arm. “Get away, your treacherous monster. I did not ask for this baby,” shouted Galiria. Arokas shot a nervous glance towards the sleeping elves but Galiria ignored his concerns. “No, don’t touch me.” She yanked away from him.

“The child will need a father. You know that,” said Arokas.

“You don’t know what my child needs,” said Galiria.

“You liked it,” said Arokas, grinning and petting her arm once again. Galiria let it happen this time, exhausted of the games he played.

“I never like it. I don’t like anything about you, and I have never been surer of anything in my life,” she said, tears brimming along the rims of her eyelids.

“I am sorry, Galiria. You know why I do what I do. It is for our race. I had to try, and you never let me. I had no other choice,” said Arokas. The wind swept his hair across his neck and over his mouth. He ignored the hair that filled his mouth. “These days will be long forgotten when it is you and I who raise up the next generation of elves, and it will be talked about until the ends of days…you know, how the last elves of Corpsia travelled to ends of the great sea until they found new land. The rest is history.” Arokas lowered a hand to Galiria’s belly, and she did not stop him as he caressed it. “I care for you, Galiria, and I care for our baby—boy or girl.”

Galiria sniffled again before placing her own hand over Arokas’ hand. She nodded solemnly as snot and tears ran down her face. They were dried quickly by the tugging wind.

“Alaric is a good person. You mustn’t be so hard on him,” she whispered.

Arokas was moved by her sincerity and the touch of her hand, so he obliged. “If that is what you wish. So long as you and I are together, and he does not interfere with…” he signaled with his other hand to group them together in a swirling motion. “With this,” he continued, “you and me. It matters not where Golomoth lurks and hides, I think he is a coward.”

“And you are not,” said Galiria. She turned her face towards his, looking to his eyes for strength. She found it there, deep inside those trusting eyes where a warrior hid, a strength unparalleled amongst any elf she had ever known.

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“Of course,” came his words, softly. He leaned his head towards hers, resting his forehead on her own and their noses touched. Galiria pulled away, frowning.

“How can you be so sure we are headed the right way? And how do you know Golomoth does not lead us into a trap?” asked Galiria.

“I cannot know anything for certain. But you can be certain that by my side, you will always be safe,” said Arokas.

“And I can take care of myself. That much, I too, am certain of,” said Galiria.

“Of course,” said Arokas, lowering his head so that their lips were so close he could almost taste them yet. And then her thin lips moved their way between his own, and they held each other for a long while—for it was possibly their last night—and the darkness had stripped them of their joy until just then. And, for a moment, Galiria felt as though all was okay and that one day, she would have both of her feet under the soil of the land of Osknia, and Arokas would be at her side and her baby in her arms. She did not sleep that night, but as she returned to the encirclement of rocks, she lay inside the confines of Arokas’ strong arms. His body kept her warm, and for the first time, she felt a little kick…and then another.

The baby was alive and well, and that was enough to bring a soft smile to her thin lips in the black of the night, whilst Arokas hot breath tickled her neck with every exhale and the sound of snoring elves filled the air.

Instead of the sound of chirping birds and purring horses, the group were greeted with the faraway wails of hungry wights and it was enough to get the group to their feet. Their horses had sensed it as well, neighing anxiously and moving a trot that was faster than the reins had asked of them. Arokas had to flick his reins harshly to calm his horse and slow it to a walk, as they were soon approaching the arctic tundras of the north.

It was not the sort of terrain that greeted them kindly, but instead it had a deceptiveness about it. Certain patches of ground felt firm beneath them. Other spots were ponds overlaid with ice and a thin dusting of snow so that every step had a new feel to it. The tundra carried onward for over twenty miles, but after they passed those badlands then they would arrive in Jakkara. And from there, the sea beckoned, and great caves and cliffs of black rock were all that stood between them and freedom from Corpsia’s cold grip.

Arokas’ horse came into stead with Alaric, who had been uncharacteristically solemn faced and puffy-eyed this morning. Arokas was quite the opposite from the previous night’s comforts. The elven warriors lagged farthest behind, having to keep pace with Elfwin so that he would not be taken by wights or the wind, whichever came first.

“Do you think of Nhed?” asked Arokas.

Alaric was taken by surprise, dreary eyed and pale faced. “It is cold.”

“What?” said Arokas.

“It is cold. The wind is getting the better of me,” said Alaric.

“Ah, yes. I ask…do you think of Nhed?”

“Oh. Yeah, erm, yes, I suppose I do,” said Alaric. His horse stepped on an icy patch and a crack was heard underfoot. The two ignored it and urged their mares on.

“Good elf. Wise. Kind,” said Arokas.

“I only knew him a short while. But an honorable elf, indeed,” said Alaric. He pulled his fur skin up over his face. A light dusting of snow tickled his face when he pulled his cowl over his head harder to try and block out the wind. “What of him? Do you miss him?”

“Yes,” said Arokas, “He made me. Father to me,” he said in his thicken elvish voice.

“Where could he have gone? He just…disappeared,” said Alaric.

“Nhed have many homes. Came to us after wights destroy his home.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Ten year. Maybe.”

Alaric wondered about Nhed’s past. The elf was indeed as wise as his years, but he spoke the One Tongue like no other elf he had encountered. He welcomed Alaric without question, despite the other elves taking their time to warm to him. He shrugged the thought, steering his horse clear of a patch of ice that appeared thin underneath the dusting of white powder.

“I think, Nhed, goes home,” said Arokas. He glanced to Alaric and found challenge there. “Don’t believe?”

“No, it is quite the opposite. I just don’t know why he’d flee at such a time. Brymeria was his home, and it was under attack. He said nothing to anyone, that’s all.”

Arokas had nothing more to say on the matter, allowing a long period of quiet to pass over them. Eventually he spoke. “What you do? When you go with Galiria.”

“What did we do? Well, it wasn’t what you might think. She taught me how to use a sword, and I taught her to speak the One Tongue. It was a trade,” said Alaric.

“A trade,” repeated Arokas. “I speak better tongue than she. I don’t have lessons,” said Arokas, grumbling.

“Yes, well, she hardly spoke a word and now she can at least talk. Besides, it was because you pit me up against Elfwin that she wanted to help me in the first place.”

Arokas glanced behind them at a struggling Elfwin, whose horse was none too happy about the ice that glazed the terrain underfoot.

“I am happy. For you,” said Arokas. “Galiria is good fighter—one of the best. You learn much from her?”

“Much and more,” said Alaric. He looked around for something to distract them but as far as the eye could see was more icebound land for mile and miles.

“The sword,” said Arokas, pausing. “Where you get?”

“I found it when I was at sea as a captive. It was just floating in the water,” replied Alaric, trying his best to seem disinterested in its powers.

“Mighty sword. It is said that the best warrior is meant for sword,” Arokas shot a dark glance towards Alaric, who was still looking straight ahead as he stared.

“In that case, it seems only proper that I was given help from Galiria. She taught me her ways,” said Alaric.

Arokas broke into a deep-bellied laugh, spittle dropping from his mouth and into his beard. Galiria heard it from up ahead and she glanced back to see what the laughter was about.

“Galiria is no warrior. She is lover.” Arokas spat and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Nhed has told of sword before. Says it is the sword of Golomoth.”

“I have heard the same. I intend to keep it.”

“Good,” said Arokas, “good.”

It was just then that Alaric’s horse lurched forward and thrashed harshly against Alaric’s reins, knocking him from the saddle and sending him skidding across the ice. His arms skinned against concealed jutted ice and his stomach was cut from a sharp rock that rose out from below the tundra. His horse was stomping around and whining so loud that Arokas had withdrew his coiled rope and whipped the horse across its side to try and calm it. It did not work, and instead the horse galloped away to the east, far from them and no one tried to chase it—for it would have been a lost cause.

The saddle, his sack, and his weapons had fallen from the horse in its anxiety. Alaric stumbled towards Arokas and Elfwin, who had now caught up, to try and see what had caused the panic. “What?” he asked, watching the faces of the elves as peered down into the ice.

He soon realized what had brought upon a look of concern. Arokas had rubbed away the dusting of snow to reveal a bloodied elf below the surface of the ice. He floated along with blood frozen around his mouth and his eyes strewn wide open in a look of pure terror.

“Dead,” said Arokas.

Elfwin rattled out musings in high elvish and his three elvish warriors patted him on the shoulder to calm him. He lashed out at time, sick of their overbearing presence.

“How long has that elf been here? Do we know?” asked Alaric.

“Stupid question. Cannot know,” said Arokas. “Keep moving. Must get off ice.”

Alaric mounted with Galiria who had ridden back to them to find out what had happened. The two sauntered off, with Arokas following close behind and the three elven followers working hard to get Elfwin back upon his mount.

“I don’t like the looks of that,” muttered Alaric into Galiria’s ear.

“Bad.”

“Indeed. I reckon my horse could smell it, otherwise I don’t know how he’d have seen it.” said Alaric.

“Maybe,” replied Galiria.

The weather worsened and the gap between Galiria and Alaric’s horse from Arokas’ widened. Elfwin was having trouble with his horse now and so Arokas had lagged behind to make sure he was still following. Large rocks had begun to sprout from below the ice, and the dusting of snow had disappeared from the ice’s surface. Jakkara was near.

Galiria suddenly spurred her horse around at the sound of ice cracking like ripped cloth. The cracks spread as quick as lightening in the sky, reaching beyond Galiria’s horse and far into the distance. Elfwin’s horse had panicked, stomping its hooves into the ice. The cracks continued to spread, and then suddenly, the three elves who followed behind Elfwin were dumped below the surface of the ice and plunged into a paralyzingly cold sea of death. Elfwin’s horse threw him from the saddle and danced around in a circle, causing more cracks to spread along the ice.

“Go!” shouted Arokas, waving Galiria and Alaric away. He flung himself down from his horse, who obeyed him and waited calmly despite the faltering ice. Elfwin had begun to slide towards the open hole in the ice where the three elves were drowning. Their hands disappeared from above the water’s surface before Arokas was anywhere near them. He slid along his belly just in time to catch Elfwin’s hand. His legs were already submerged, and the weight of his lower body was tipping his block of ice towards downward towards the water. Arokas heaved on the other end of the ice that was sticking straight up now, but he had misjudged its strength. The chunk of ice snapped. Elfwin’s half slid straight down into the widening gap of surging icy water. Arokas half flung down hard onto the sheet of icy tundra.

Dozens of cracks all around him detached and begun to drift into different directions. Elfwin cried out but his cries became muffled as water filled his mouth. He had his hands gripping the side of a sheet of ice, but his grip was slipping loose. Arokas leapt across two floating chunks of ice and slid along his stomach to where Elfwin grasped for a lifeline. He hoisted Elfwin up and out of the water, sputtering and shaking uncontrollably. Galiria and Alaric could only watch from afar, their horse’s weight would soon be too much for the ice. They forced to keep moving as the cracks spread and the strength of the ice diminished. Arokas flung Elfwin horizontally across his horse and yanked at the reins. His horse leaped and bounded across channels of icy tundra until they reached safe haven where Galiria and Alaric cantered along. The ice was thin now here and below was solid ground instead of water.

“Must get him warm,” said Arokas.

Galiria and Alaric took to removing as many layers as could be afforded, slipping Elfwin out of his wet clothes and into the dry furs. Alaric found that his lips were chattering now without his furs. Elfwin’s lips were a dark blue and his face was covered in ice. His body convulsed wildly and so Arokas disrobed until he only in his war leather which left his chest partly bare and his arms naked.

“He must live. For the baby,” Arokas said, pointing to Galiria’s stomach. They were soon at a loss for words, for the cold winds ripped through their souls and left their brains thoughtless except for the will to survive and press on.

After many miles they reached a long stretch of badlands that seemed to be nothing but black rock. Rocks, large and small, composed the ground underfoot and massive boulders the size of Termath Kvith’s watch towers glowered in oddly spaced patterns. There was a faint path for them to follow where rocks have been vaguely crushed from the pattering of boots and hooves—and they knew they were on the war trail of Golomoth’s wights—for no other elf had ever lived in the lands of Jakkara if they had a choice.

A silence was among the four travelers now. It was the sort of silence that accompanies a nervous mind, keeping whatever thoughts the travelers may have had from making it from mind to lips. They were only two horses now, Galiria and Alaric on one, and Arokas and Elfwin on the other. Arokas’ horse led the way now, for he felt that he should be the one to encounter trouble first if it should so happen to greet them.

The cold had taken its toll on Alaric. He felt his mind slipping into tiredness. He could not help his head from leaning against Galiria, who sat in front of him upon their horse. His hands went to her waist—and it was all he could do not to fall from the saddle. He was weak, and they had not eaten for near a day. He imagines what Elfwin must be experiencing, and then wondered if he was even still alive.

They had stopped a few miles back to huddle inside the cove of a great rock. Alaric had hatched the idea to withdraw his sword and let it become consumed in flame, for hope that it would provide warmth. His steel was stuck in its scabbard from the cold, however, and then once he had finally heaved it free, the flame would not come.

As they journeyed closer to the heart of Jakkara, the small grainy pebbles of sharp rock slowly diminished into a smoother, polished black rock that covered the entire ground in place of grass or dirt. The boulders and rocks morphed into tall cliffs and caves, and soon they found themselves passing through a narrow alleyway between two structures of jet rock as black as coal. To either side the walls seemed to press in on them, but up above the gray skies could be seen with not a cloud in sight.

When they were within a mile of the narrow passes’ final stretch, a figure could be seen as small as a dot blocking the way out. Then it was two dots. Then three. Alaric glanced behind them, and sure enough, three small dots turned to three figures emerging in boiled leather and pasty white skin—scythes and pikes in hand. They were surrounded from both ends, and their horses did not have room enough even to turn around. Arokas called a halt, withdrawing steel from his scabbard. Alaric loosened his own sword, as did Galiria. Elfwin did not move, laying across the horse’s back as Arokas dismounted to face the three wights from behind them, who were closer than the three in front of them.

A black hawk cawed overhead. It stooped low into the natural alleyway and then swooped upward to rest upon the edge of the clifftop overhead. From either cliff fifty feet overhead came the sound of stirrups clinking and chain mail ringing. Two Headless Horsemen in fully plated armor and hollow, spiky helms reined their horses to a stop at the cliff’s edge. Arokas cursed his breath. Galiria patted her hose calmingly who was neighing anxiously. Alaric dismounted, facing the oncoming wights from the front while Arokas eyed down the three wights who came snarling and shrieking wildly from their rear.

Arokas grit his teeth and spat a curse at the aimless wights, their sunken eyes gleaming emptily from their sockets. The hawk overhead cawed again.

Golomoth was near.