“By goodness, we are in a tight spot!” whispered Wulver, and not only in a metaphorical manner. He and Rembrandt were squeezed together in a crevice he had found in the last flickering flame of his exhausted torch. The cave was uneven and without a hint of natural light, and Wulver who could see much in the night of a new moon was helplessly blind inside there; and with the fire dying out, he took a decision to hide than risk stumbling, falling, and hitting his head, or stepping on Rembrandt’s tail of which he had come pretty close to doing so.

Both of them listened to the increasing din of running footsteps behind them. While the thralls were beings of eldritch magic, their speed was no match for Wulver’s who even in the throes of complete fatigue had left them quite far behind and were only now catching up to the pair.

Wulver breathed as slowly and noiselessly as he could. His heart was a drum in his chest. Sweat matted his fur, and his throat was parched. His stomach growled when he thought of the fish he left back at the cave’s entrance. He cursed himself for not having picked up his effects at the first sign of danger. The footsteps came closer as they passed under the two and away. Wulver lay still as a stone and even Rembrandt was so still against him that he felt more like cloth than creature. He relaxed cautiously as the noise faded away. As excitement ended, exhaustion settled in. Suddenly, the small uncomfortable crevice started to feel quite comfortable to Wulver, and when he heard a soft snore from his furry friend curled atop his chest, a sort of spell came over him, and he immediately fell asleep.

Wulver pulled in his line. It came back empty. The waves sloshed against his dingy, but there was no sound of froth or splash. He was surrounded on all sides and above by an impenetrable fog, and he could not see a glimmer of his island in any direction. He threw his line again and waited, and it came back empty again. He threw his line again and waited. And he kept doing so each time it came back empty. When he was about to throw his line again for the umpteenth time, he saw the shadow of a distant figure approaching him, getting bigger and bigger. It looked like a man with a strange-looking head. The waters grew calm, and the dingy stilled as if it was on land. When the figure stopped moving, it was still imperceptible for it never came into his vision, but stayed a looming shadow in the fog.

“My dear Wulver,” the figure said and it was unquestionably a man’s voice. “What are you doing?”

“Fishing,” Wulver replied.

“But you have not caught any.”

“Oh,” he said as if finally realizing his boat was empty. “I have been trying so hard.”

“Yes, but you should not be fishing.”

“But… I want to fish.”

“No, my dear Wulver, you think you want to fish.”

Wulver blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“You are forgetting something, Wulver,” the man said and threw something at him.

He caught the object. It was his axe. Memories came flooding back. The mysterious fog, the unnatural winter, the Dullahan, the journey, Rembrandt, all of it flashed before his eyes. He looked around. “Where in the world am I?” he cried aloud. “What’s with all this fog around me? My goodness, I should be up on the mountain, not fishing down here!”

“Calm down, Wulver,” the man said soothingly.

Wulver looked at the man, finally acknowledging him fully. “Who are you? I feel like I know you.”

“I know you too, my dear Wulver,” the man said in a voice full of mirth. “But now is not the time. Look!” He pointed Wulver to look behind him. Wulver turned and saw the fog had started to part before him. A stream of warm sunlight landed upon him and a rustic breeze filled the icy chambers of the fog ring. He could see his island far away in the distance, still in the icy clutches of the Grey Man.

“Go,” the man said. “Save your island for you are its guardian. And do not be anxious about me. We will meet again.”

Wulver nodded and started paddling towards the shore. The last thing he remembered was that the man’s head did not look strange, but it looked like his own. He started to feel a sharp pain in his chest, and then he woke up.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Something slimy yet irritating was brushing against his chest. It was Rembrandt’s tongue. He had been licking the gash one of the thralls of the Grey King had left on him. Wulver felt quite foolish for forgetting about the wound. His sweater was soaked with his blood, but as he gently touched the injury, it was not bleeding anymore. The spittle had closed the wound.

“I suppose I owe you my thanks, Rembrandt,” Wulver said and petted him. Rembrandt moved to lick his face. “Nope! Nope! I don’t want my cheeks peeled by that gravelly tongue of yours. Well, I can’t hear them anymore. I think we can go now. Come now, and I said stop.”

The two dropped down from the crevice. Wulver thought for a moment. They could go back and find the entrance and with it his back where his supplies are (only his axe and his finishing rod were on his person), but there was a chance the thralls were there to ambush them. Even if they could escape with the fur upon their backs, there was still the snowy hellscape waiting for them outside. The other choice was to go into the caves and find an entrance on the other end. However, there was no light to guide him, and some of them might still be in there looking for him. Neither decision looked tantalizing. While he weighed his choices, Rembrandt pulled at his trousers. He gave him an inquiring look, to which the fox flapped his ears. Wulver got the idea and listened carefully. He heard the faintest sound of running water. It could be an underground brook, or even… Wulver’s stomach grumbled. He had not chewed a fishbone in hours ever since his dinner was rudely interrupted in the night. You win, gut. Onwards and inwards we go.

The cave was more uneven than he had expected. Sometimes he was going downwards, sometimes upwards. A few times the ceiling came low enough to have him nearly on his hands and knees, other times he could not even touch the walls with his arms fully stretched. At least, the sound of water was growing louder and louder, until the cave reverberated with it. He finally reached a narrow opening that he could only sidestep through, and when he came out on the other side, he could hear the stream loud and clear. And he could see a little better now.

Though he could not see a source, the room was not pitch dark. He could make out the terrain just barely enough. He deduced there were small gaps and holes in the room from where soft light filtered through. This made him hopeful again. Am exit could be close now.

There was a small waterfall far ahead on the opposite wall judging from the spray of white on it. on the left. He took tentative steps forward until his toes hit a body of water. He bent down and thrust his hand inside it. The water was still between his fingers.

Ah, just as I suspected. It's an underground lake. Wulver heard a familiar splash some distance away from him. He grinned. And where there is a lake, there is fish!

Rembrandt nudged against him. He petted the fox. "We are going to have a proper meal, friend. Just you wait and let me work my magic."

Luckily, Wulver had filled his pockets with bait. He pulled out his fishing rod, set the hook with bait, and cast the line. The fish bit almost immediately. He pulled to shore a sizable trout and tore it into two halves, one for him and the other for Rembrandt. He had nothing against eating raw fish (he was too famished to care right now), but he always felt cooked fish tasted best. He caught a couple more fish, and they had a good time eating them. As he was chewing his umpteenth fish, he began to think about the lake and the cave. It was pretty sure the fish of the lake arrived there through a river up above ground. And though he had not searched the entirety of it, it was almost a certainty that an exit stream led downwards and joined the main river where he usually fished. So, there must also be an entrance stream from where the fish of the upper rivers of the mountain found their way inside the cave. He hoped to find one which he and Rembrandt would be able to traverse.

He was musing on his next move when a sudden noise behind him nearly made his soul leave his body. I frightened him so terribly that he jumped into the icy pool to escape whatever was lurking behind him. He shivered and spluttered into the water, but he was able to pull out his axe and faced the shore, gasping and coughing into the darkness. "Come in then, you fiend," he barked. "Face me face first!"

He then heard a bellow, a very familiar sounding one. Then he sniffed the air. The odour was unmistakable. Then, he saw the round shape. It was the greedy bear!

"You!" Wulver said and coughed. A bit of water had gone into his windpipe. He quickly got out of the water, shaking head to toe. "How did you get in here?"

The bear snorted.

"Is this where you go to sleep during the winters?" Wulver asked as he wrenched the water out of his clothes and his fur. "Fascinating. Do you fish here as well as outside?"

The bear snorted.

Wulver nodded. "Oh, I see," he said. He didn't. He couldn't understand bears. "Do you know a way to get out of here?"

This time the bear gave a soft purr. Wulver took this as a good sign and told the bear to lead the way. But the bear went into the pool.

"You can fish later," Wulver said. "Show us the way out first."

The bear woofed.

"Don't say it is through the water."

The bear purred.

"But I just… oh fine then!” Wulver said with a sigh. He turned to the fox. “Seems we are going for a swim, buddy."

The fox climbed atop his head instead

Wulver gritted his teeth. "One of us is." He entered the lake and swam after the retreating bear. "Cold! Cold!" he gasped.