A yelp of pain exploded from the shadows behind the trees as the blade found flesh.

In the echo of its flight, the elf was a blur of movement. She vaulted over a fallen branch without slowing. Spun around the trunk of one tree, dislodging ice, and hissed as she filled her fists with A Flaw in the Glass and Fulci's Last Joke.

“Wait!” a voice shouted. A big voice. Heavy and booming, but echoing with pain. “Stop! I don't want to fight.”

“Get out here, then,” the elf said through her teeth. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“You've fucking killed me!”

“At best, I tickled your shoulder. At worst, I put a hole in it. And, ten seconds from now I'll be using your skull for a beer mug if you don't get the fuck out here right now!”

“You’ve got beer?”

She ignored Chukshene’s soft query as a figure lumbered tentatively out of the shadows, looming over her like a massive gorilla. Chukshene sucked air as he caught sight of the ork, and even Nysta felt a thrill of fear.

He was bigger than any ork she'd ever seen. Each arm looked thicker than her torso and with one swipe he could break one of the horses in half.

The muscle rippling over his body made him look heavily armored. As though nothing could hurt him. His face couldn't have gotten uglier if he fell on it, and with the heavy jaw and swollen brow he looked like the meanest creature in the whole of the Deadlands.

The jutting dagger embedded in his bicep looked no more life-threatening than a splinter, but he inched forward with the look of someone about to fall over and die. The thin trickle of blood dribbled down his arms and dusted the snow with red.

The elf shook her head, amazed that such a creature could look so brutal, yet so cowardly at the same time.

“What'd you do that for?” he moaned. “I didn't fucking do anything!”

“Anyone else hidden back there?” The elf lifted her enchanted blade, keeping the point aimed at his eye.

He sniffed. “I look like someone who likes company?”

“Then what were you doing?”

“Waiting for you to go the fuck past! What else? Why'd you stick me? Grim's fucking eyes, this hurts. Is it poisoned? Have you poisoned me, elf? It feels poisoned. I can feel it burning!”

She kept his wounded gaze for a moment, before deciding he was probably a lot more harmless than he looked. “Let me see,” she stepped forward, suddenly bold.

Slid her blades back into their sheaths and reached up. Had to stand on her toes to reach. Grabbed the jutting handle and jerked it free.

A quick spray of warm blood arced across the ground with a dull splatter.

“What the fuck?” the ork howled, dancing back in pain. He looked like he couldn't decide whether to run at her, or away. But seemed to prefer backing away. “Fuck! Why'd you do that for?”

She ran the knife through the snow to clean it before sliding it into its sheath. Shrugging, she moved back to her horse. “I wanted it back.”

“Poor fucker,” Chukshene sighed. “You going to apologise to him?”

“What for?”

“You just put a knife in his arm.”

“So? He shouldn't have been skulking around the fucking path, should he?”

Climbing onto the horse, she ignored its nervous whinny and urged it forward. Stamping the snow, the horse trotted forward, eager to be away from the fresh scene of violence.

The ork tore a strip of cloth from his shirt, muttering as he wrapped his wound. He looked up as they slowly moved past. “Hey!” he called. “You heading to Spikewrist?”

“Yeah,” Chukshene had to twist around to face him. “Is it far from here? Please tell me we’ll get there for lunch time. I’m starved.”

“Well,” he tugged at the ragged mop of reddish hair. “Kinda. But I wouldn't go there if I were you. Not if you paid me a thousand gold pieces. Place is haunted.”

The elf wheeled her horse. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” the ork scowled at her and gently patted his wound. “I ain't so sure I wanna tell you shit.”

“I'm sure I wanna pin your other fucking arm, though,” she countered.

“Alright, alright,” he lifted his good arm in defense. “No need to be so fucking hostile. Shit, Long-ear. Even for someone out here, you rile easy.”

The spellslinger shot her a disgusted look and held his hand out in a peaceful gesture to the morose-looking ork. “Let's start again, shall we? I'm Chukshene, and this foul-tempered excuse for an elf is Nysta. She's having a hard week. Her husband was murdered and she's chasing his killers. It made her a bit tetchy. I’m sure you understand. Also, she doesn't look to be much of a morning person.”

“Killed her mate, huh? Well. Guess that'd piss most people off,” the ork said as he squatted in the snow. Crossed his massive arms over his knees. Though he spoke to the mage, he kept his gaze cautiously trained on the nonchalant elf. “Name's Rockjaw. Folks at Spikewrist named me that. Had a name before, but I don't want it no more.”

“What was it?”

“You ain't from the Deadlands, are you, spellchucker?” The ork grunted, scratching his scalp.

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“No. Here by accident. Well. Maybe not by accident. It's hard to explain.”

“Sure. That’s the same for all of us. And ain’t no one uses their real name in these parts. Only folks out here are smugglers, thieves and fugitives. Fugitives from the law. Or from life? It don't matter. Criminals, all. Lowest of the low. This is why they call it the Deadlands. We're all dead. That right, ain't it, elf? Just don't got the sense to lie down. Look around, spellchucker. This place is just a big fucking graveyard.”

“It's not that bad.”

“Ain't that bad?” the ork barked a bitter laugh. “You blind as well as fucked in the head? Grim and Rule warred for a thousand years. The ground ain't sand, spellchucker. It's the ashes of the dead. Too many soldiers fought here. Too many died. Always it's the soldiers who die. Couldn't bury them all, so they burned their bodies to keep the ground flat enough to keep fighting on. That's officer thinking, right there. But if you look closely, you can sometimes see teeth. And worse. Don't believe me? Look to the trees, spellchucker. Look to the trees and weep if you got feelings.”

Chukshene cast his gaze around, but slowly began to suspect the ork was mad. He glanced at the elf, expecting to see a grin on her face, but her glittering violet eyes were locked on Rockjaw.

“I don't get it,” the spellslinger said. “I'm missing something, aren't I?”

The ork slapped a meaty hand against a tree close at hand. The twisted branches shuddered and snow powdered down. “Look closer!”

And Chukshene saw it.

Hanging from the high branches, a skeleton covered in rot. Dusted lightly in snow, it blended perfectly with the blistered branches. It was like seeing a puzzle's solution for the first time. His eyes widened.

There were bodies everywhere, caught in the trees. Their limbs, broken or hanging loose. Scraps of clothing and rusted armor clung to their bones.

The scars of a once beautiful forest were a grotesque testament to death.

“Oh, fuck,” he gagged.

“They're everywhere,” the ork sighed. The sadness in his voice was heavy, and the elf wondered if he'd been a soldier himself. “Welcome to the Deadlands. The biggest graveyard in the world. This forest stretches for days to the west. The soldiers were dusted, spellchucker. By magefire. But the important ones. Emperors, kings, dukes and all their fucking merry men. Too good for dusting, weren't they? Good enough for soldiers to be dusted. They're just fucking commoners. Forgotten folks. Nothing. But ain't right to dust an officer, right? But there weren't the space nor the time to build tombs. So they dangled them from trees to keep watch on the armies. The smell must have been awful. Nothing new there. Officers all smell bad. All the shit they speak.”

“You said Spikewrist ain't safe,” the elf interrupted. “Why?”

“When were you there last?”

She shrugged. “Five, six months. Place is a shithole.”

“Won't argue that. But it's worse now. At least when it was a shithole, it was a town. With people in it,” he shivered, though probably not from the cold. “Things live in it now. Evil things. Don't get me wrong, the people there weren't always the friendliest. But whatever's in there now is evil.”

Chukshene tore his gaze away from the trees. “Bandits?”

“We're all bandits around here,” the ork said with a grim smile. “But it weren't bandits, no. I was lucky to get out alive.”

“What happened?” the elf asked, rubbing at the scar on her cheek. She lifted one leg and crossed it over the horse's back to lean laconically toward the ork.

“Front gates were open. Should've noticed that. Didn't,” he shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Hollered for the guard. He didn't come. Got close enough to see the windows, though. They were black. So black, I thought they'd come alive, you know? Gave me the fucking creeps so bad. I was gonna leave. Right then. But then I saw him. This feller was standing on the porch. Didn't notice him before. He was looking right at me, though. And, I swear to you, Long ear, that man was a demon straight from the deepest chasms of the Shadowed Halls.”

“What'd he do?” Chukshene licked his dry lips.

“Nothing.”

The spellslinger sat back in surprise. Threw Nysta a glance before frowning at the ork. “Nothing? That's it? No flames spitting from his mouth? No fireballs from his fists? Just stood there? And you ran from that?”

The ork spat a thin stream of spit into the snow. Looked up at the mage and shook his head. “Ain't no right way I can explain it, spellchucker. But that weren't it. Wish it were. I was all froze up at the gates and then they started coming out of the houses. Slowly. So slow it was like watching the fog roll in. But it weren't fog. Were creatures. Creatures who looked like people, but they ain't. Coming out of the houses like the dead from their graves. Worse than the local Draugs. I tell you, you can get used to Draugs. So long as they don't get close. But this. Never. This was the fucking worst. Their eyes were empty pits. I turned then. And I ran like Rule and a horde of clerics was on my ass. Kept running until I heard you. Then I hid. You could've been one of them, for all I knew.”

His eyes grew more haunted as he spoke, and the elf felt a small pang of regret at drilling his arm. She looked away, her eyes skimming the trees.

“You see a bunch of fellers?” she asked slowly. “Probably nine of them. Elfs. On horseback. Bastard at the front has red hair.”

The ork shook his head. “Nope. Ain't seen shit since.”

“And you kept the trail out from Spikewrist?”

The ork clicked his tongue and gave his head another shake. “Came through Hadrian Falls. Was the quickest route out of town. Only got back onto the trail an hour ago.”

“Obliged,” the elf said, running her fingers through her hair. Then added, reluctantly; “Sorry about the arm.”

He shrugged. “It'll heal.”

She accepted the graciousness of the ork with a nod of her head and kicked her heels into the horse to send it forward down the path without another word.

Chukshene scratched his head and followed.

“Hey!” the ork called. “You're not still going there? Didn't you listen to me, you fools? It ain't fucking safe!”

Ignoring the ork's shouts, the elf rolled her shoulders.

Chukshene looked back nervously, but kept pace with the elf. He brought his horse up close beside her.

The ork watched, an incredulous look on his face, then threw his hands into the air in resignation. Spat in their direction and stomped off into the trees, muttering to himself.

The spellslinger studied her determined expression. “Can't talk you out of this, can I?”

“Don't reckon so,” she said. “Trail forks soon. One heads east toward Locktooth on the coast. Ain't much, but a few traders use it. You can get a ride with one to Lostlight. Ain't hard to get to the Wall from there. Up to you where you go after that. I don't give a shit.”

“Thanks,” he said, picking at his grimoire. “But I'll stick with you.”

“Any reason, spellslinger?”

“Just that. I'm a, uh, mage. If there's something going on in this town like Rockjaw said, then I want to see it. I didn't become what I am because I had nothing to do. I had this disease called curiosity. Can't help it,” he sounded tired all of a sudden. “I'm just not sure I'll be much help to you.”

“You'll be fine,” she said, unsure why she was saying it. “Just be ready to melt heads.”

“That's the bit that worries me. Closest I ever got to melting anyone's head was yesterday when I nearly took yours off. And that was an accident. I'm not a good mage, Nysta. You could say my skills lie in other areas.” He licked his lips, obviously reluctant to say more. “But I'll do my best with what I know.”

“Best you study while there's still light, then,” she looked up at the dark clouds boiling overhead. It would be getting colder soon, she thought. If it was possible for the air to be more merciless. Even the frozen flakes of snow shivered as they started to fall. “I reckon it's gonna be an exciting night out.”

He pulled his blanket close and blew into his hands. The steam puffed out through his fingers and he winced. “Doesn't sound like my idea of a party, though.”

With a grunt of agreement, the elf slid a small stone from her belt and began sliding it along the cold edge of Entrance Exam. Over the next few hours she planned to do the same to all her blades. Her mind cleared as she started to work, though her eyes still skipped actively over the ash-coloured ground.

The sound of the sharpening stone along the razor edge made the spellslinger shudder. “You have to do that?”

“Relax, Chukshene,” she said. “Tonight, the town's gonna be painted red. Best we have our tools ready so we're the ones brushing them all aside.”

“I get the picture,” he said drily.

“That's enough,” the elf drawled. “Don't draw it out.”