FSE

Furry search engine

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Its groans were those of a giant, one whose bones echoed crackedly during dormancy.

It bore countless maws, each opening leading to unforeseen depths.

It, too, crawled like the slowest of mollusks, the patience on its slither matching that of time itself, a movement so slow that by all means was imperceptible to human eyes.

A titan of turquoise crystal and white rock, whose folds conceived a labyrinth underground, scattering endlessly into a web of veins that absorbed whatever entity into evanescence.

The glacial zone at the foot of the Icing Boundary might not be a living entity, but that did not stop the fauna from treating it as such. Harmless on its own, to avoid the gargantuan labyrinth was a trivial task that only reckless manticores and wargs ignored, and critters sought shelter within its frigid walls only when the weather gave them no respite; that was it, without going deep into the innards.

A bird cry drove the nocturnal wind, ringing across one of the glacier’s many mouths. It was a bunting, a tiny songbird that exhibited fuscous and dirty white feathers. The blazing sphere had set, and it was time for the bird to soar back home.

Notwithstanding, the wind was picking up speed, and refilling his vigor was quintessential if the bird wanted to return to its nest. Consuming nourishment became an imperative task.

Thus, the bunting landed on one chunk of ice’s crevice, next to a chasm, and quickly carried out a search for food. Even the great glacier was a victim of wormy parasites, and birds like buntings had no qualms in getting rid of these minuscule pests.

The bird chirped and flitted around, thin fingers scratching through the ice, getting closer to the hole nearby, wide enough to swallow a wolf.

It was careless, as if hopping around its nest, and why would it be otherwise? Barren of vegetation, the glacier held no ruminants and rodents inside its many paths, and without them, predators had no reason to lurk hidden. No claws, not fangs — only worms.

And one showed up next to the hole’s border.

The bunting hopped ahead, eyes fixed on the slithery larva, which could not hope to cover five feet within the next hour, or dream of jumping into the hole for escape.

Such everyday scenery of nature was not worth documenting in tomes; within instants, the bird held the worm, the latter undulating helplessly between the hunter’s bill. The wind then buzzed, and a shadow blurred closer, stretching high, and just as fast as it rose, it bent and thrust down.

The poor bunting could only emit a muffled twit when a bony claw crushed it against the ice, no longer breathing, not even spasming.

The attacker then emerged from the chasm like a spectral weed, his golden irises, which once illuminated the icy depths, now rising to join the land lit by the cluster of lights that filled the arctic sky.

Brid.

The entity’s upper body now stood out of the hole, the wind’s invisible fingers making his long hair waver like a piece of panne.

Thy blood-kisseth chalice that had erewhile held by my hand— _His sole hand rose, moving past his visage and up, until it went suspended over the jawless head. His ring-like eyes flickered with disgust at the sight of the bloodied bird within his grasp. _—foistheth with the filthish carcase of a brid.

Clsch.

The grip over the bird strengthened, and the hollow bones and delicate organs squelched under the pressure. Blood leaked through the gaps of the entity’s hand, and a thin thread of liquid stretched down until it drained into the mouth’s opening.

Shards of bones and feather particles poured along the red liquid, but the monster reacted in the slightest toward these undesired elements. As grotesque as the natural concoction was, he could not be demanding.

And so the blood kept flowing for the next seconds, enough liquid to fill a teacup. Only when the carcass had been squeezed dry did Madakai lower his hand, loosening his grip and letting the wind clean the few solid leftovers stuck on his palm.

Consuming blood had been a bootless errand ever since his shameful defeat. His right hand would not grow anew, and neither would his jaw. Far from his peak, the ability to pass his gift to the living had gone dormant, and thus, raising a new army of ghouls was out of his immediate possibilities. Not like reanimating the dead would be possible without _raw matter _available — no human roamed this far, and he already confirmed that raising beasts was unreliable.

The punishment deigned by Seolvor remained embedded deep into his being, preventing him from growing healthier and suited for battle. More than drinking blood to renew his strengths, he fed upon it so his body no longer decayed.

He stood knee-deep in the wreckage of his millennial-long lifespan.

No strength. No army. From predator to scavenger.

The only element that could get him out of that misery hole was within the hands of an enemy he could not defeat—

Free me. Freedom from thy gaol. Freedom from thy living.

—An obvious detail that often escaped the wits of the very element Madakai needed to retrieve.

The sword’s urgency had been growing in intensity to the extent that the lieutenant began to consider it a hissy fit.

Free me. Free me. Haste thee.

A fit that Madakai had learned to ignore from time to time. That night was no exception.

The vampire was too busy plotting his next move to ease down the exigency.

Madakai cared not whether the sellsword lived, and pragmatism was more treasured than desire for personal vendetta — his only task was to retrieve the Gift of Nedere and continue the legacy of his long-forgotten kind. Therefore, he did not need to kill the man, not when abundant Death harbingers were roaming the arctic lands.

Awaiting a tragic end for Marek Blakesley was not unfeasible. The Frostscape was the tomb of many, and the odds of surviving were minuscule, even less when one willingly sought a dragon.

So why not just wait for the inevitable end orchestrated by nature itself? The answer became evident after the results of his last battle: Sigrid, the oddity native of this dangerous place. The chimera’s wardship broke through probability, and now Marek had reached a point where no single man — or an entire party of men — had gotten to.

With what Madakai had gathered with Dalavut’s whispers, he was certain the duo would reach the Icing Boundary.

Then, why not wait for the dragon to crush them both? The answer was blatant to whoever knew the might of a wyrm — were the sellsword to lose his battle, the dragon would see behind the sword’s otherworldly nature, so foreign to the well of life, and _shatter _it tiny.

That prominent was the Seed of the World, that even ancient devices were vulnerable to their claws.

Hence, Madakai might have eternity to recover the longsword, but Dalavut did not.

Either the sellsword succeeded, resulting in Dalavut's condemnation to isolation or a worse fate, or the dragon itself smashed the spade into nonexistence.

A noise stirred Madakai out of his machination, and it had not been Dalavut. Howls, a chorus of them, echoed across the many halls of ice.

…

Not everything was lost.

Tensions between manticores and wargs had increased by the late. Incursions of packs into the glaciers had been spotted by Madakai, and from time to time, the wind carried the discordance of beastly skirmishes.

Manticores had the initiative, running bolder as the blazing sphere and moon danced aloft, he had deciphered, but whatever the reason, it was something Madakai cared in the least.

What the vampire cared about was the presence of hostile forces standing between Marek and his goal. The perfect set of pawns needed to take the sword.

Madakai moved his hand in front of him, the palm smeared with the blood of a bird, and caught sight of a blackish worm wriggling on the surface.

He loathed the lice, more than ever since they had been harassing him underground every _single _day since his awakening. Nonetheless, the vampire had to recognize their survival tactics had crowned them as the sole survivor of the glacial labyrinth, feeding upon those that had lost their way home.

Such a scavenger’s pragmatism could come in handy, at least for the time being. The manticores and wargs would aid Madakai in his goal, whereas he would stay away, out of danger’s reach.

First thing first, the monsters lacked the motivation to carry out bolder raids, or so Madakai reckoned. The boat must be rocked, and blood _must _be shed.

Seed thy strom, stand cleare.

Madakai wiped his hand in the air and got rid of the wormy intruder, which lost itself on the field of ice and hoarfrost. Then, he slunk out of the crevice, his form blending with the shadows cast by the towering masses until he was no longer under the Spellfire’s watchful sight.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Marek gazed up to the spot where Sigrid had last been seen.

From Marek’s standpoint, the tall icy walls created an opening overhead that resembled a tear in the sky, a canvas that the blizzard used to weave sinuous patterns with the tides of snowflakes. The howling winds, too, transported the yowls of a plethora of monsters, each outcry resonating with bloodlust and hatred.

The intensity of the cries had been biting his heels for the last couple of hours. His and Sigrid’s. Naturally, Sigrid had grown alarmed, a sentiment that soared when she picked up the first hints of feeble footsteps echoing through the frigid corridors. She had ultimately decided to carry out an aerial scouting and left Marek’s side, but not without giving Marek a peck on his lips first.

The now-cooled feeling on his mouth reminded Marek of how cruel the Frostscape was. One day, love and passion; the next one, battle for survival.

They had sunk asleep early the previous night and awakened before daylight settled; thus, they had plenty of time to make several arrangements prior to continuing the journey, such as washing off their _carnal _leftovers and fixing the rifle. Between preparation and moving down to the glacier, daytime had bled out, and now there were about two hours of sunlight available.

In hindsight, it had been no clever move to bathe along with Sigrid and then move on to repair the device — her soaked silhouette, sparking like an opal sculpture, too much like the echoes of a pleasant dream, had distracted him almost as much as his previous predicament had. That, and the way the moonshine of her eyes had bathed him in his awakening after a night of passion.

A mouth corner timidly bent up into a grin, and a soft snort found its way outside, a laugh quickly drowned out by the turbulent wind and the cacophony of howls.

His grin shrank flat. How cruel, indeed…

Some minutes passed during which uncertainty prevailed before the ice ticked from above; then, a pair of silvery eyes peered down from the wall’s edge.

“Ohoo. What a relief. You’re still here.” Her voice could hardly be heard, yet Marek managed to understand her.

“Without you in the lead, where am I supposed to go?” Marek forced his voice to be strong, but not loud enough to pierce further beyond and risk detection. “What did you find?”

“Troubles.” Marek grimaced at her declaration. “Spotted half a dozen manticores padding on several cleaning. More may be moving through caves. There are also wargs, but they are farther away. It’s a hunt, not for food but for conflict.”

“Do they know we are here?”

“They might have picked up hints of me, but I’m certain I’m not the reason behind their invasion. If we don’t keep going, we may end up trapped in a large-scale skirmish between wargs and manticores.”

“Shit…” Marek cursed under his breath, and his hand moved on top of Iousterard’s handle. “Can you lift me afly?”

“It’s risky with this blizzard. I myself have to cling to the ice so as not to get blown away. I’ll do it if the situation warrants it, but now…” She trailed off, no use in finishing the sentence when its meaning was clear as glass.

Marek pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulder bowing as stress brewed inside. He was one misstep away from experiencing what had happened with the wargs over a tenday ago.

“You keep moving,” Sigrid barked. “I’ll distract them and then come back to tell you where to move.”

“Sounds dangerous,” he argued back. “Manticores hate you. If they found you—”

“—They’ll do nothing. Even with this weather, I’m out of their clutches, and unlike wargs, they have no cold breath. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Marek had his reservations, but he locked them in his mind. The sound of claws scratching ice resounded nearby.

“... Fine,” Marek conceded with a reluctant nod. “Please, take care.”

“And you don’t get lost. Just follow the cave in front, and it should lead you to the nearest open chasm.” Marek could not distinguish the expressions Sigrid wore, whether she sent forth a reassuring smile or not.

Sigrid then turned back, and her face disappeared behind the glacier’s border. The man stayed silent for the next seconds before letting out a sigh and moving off, ax and sword out of their sheaths and glowing in his hands.

_May the Gods hasten this day off… _He thought while entering one of the glacier’s mouths.

The next hour felt like a day’s worth of stress as Marek pivoted across ice and danger with the aid of a flying chimera, boots teetering between utter disorientation and wild monsters. Outside and inside were like summer and fall, and whenever Marek entered a cavern, the buzz of the wind was quickly replaced by the crackles of a titan of coldness.

Marek drove past a few caves, some as tight as a city squeezeway, and others as vast as a manor corridor, meeting Sigrid as soon as he stepped out into a clearing, the monstress wasting no time in telling him the next path to take. The Icing Boundary loomed closer than ever, the shadow almost washing him over, and had Marek ride a horse and a clear path afore, he would cover the distance in about one hour.

For the dozenth time that day, Marek grunted as his body contended with a narrow pass for movement. He won the battle, and his body popped free, stepping afresh into another clearing; this one showcased several layers of ice upon others, making it look like an open building with several stories, each one exhibiting at least one entrance to the glacier depths.

As Marek advanced to the center of the hollow, his gaze went high, looking for the she-chimera. The scrutiny extended for over three minutes, and no signs of Sigrid appeared.

Where are you, Sig?

Something gleamed in the corner of his eye, and Marek lowered his gaze to the floor. Whatever glinted was not snow; its color was more vivid.

Scarlet, a trace of red coming out of one hole and leading to a corner.

Brown eyes narrowed, and Marek approached the bloody vestige with tentative steps, his grip on both weapons hardening as they prepared to spring into action.

The trace ended where the shadow began, dim darkness obscuring a scene of brutality. A closer look revealed a lupine head, one of two, its snout stiff with frozen blood. The other head, feline in appearance, showed no better conditions.

Two heads, each of a different species. A manticore, and a young one going by its size.

Marek squatted and analysed the corpse. Its wounds were clean, precise, even, swiftly carved across both neck and in the middle of them. The cub had undergone assassination, a victim of the twins named silence and lethality, Marek concluded. No beast, warg or manticore, could have executed such an accurate attack, not without making a bloody mess.

Whatever killed the manticore knew where to sink its blade and how to twist it.

The sound of pebbles bouncing off the ice reached Marek’s ears, whereupon he reacted by straightening and spinning around.

“Sig?”

His eyes latched onto the wall’s upper edge. There was nothing — his hearing senses pointed elsewhere; specifically, the noise stemmed from a few feet below the top.

The earscratching sound of a knife running along hard ice hissed out of a hole too much like a cobra. The heavy stomps shook the frost off the walls, like drums announcing the advent of a gladiator.

Three frost-jade dots shone through the darkness until their bearers revealed themselves to the outside. A wolfish mane covered the base of the heads’ necks, and the bulk they were attached to matched that of a polar bear — in fact, it was half _that _of a polar bear, whereas the near part belonged to that of a stout reindeer.

At last: an arctic manticore in flesh and bone, a distant cousin of the hide he was clad in, close enough for him to discern its vicious features. It was snarling, unsurprisingly.

Marek tensed, ax and longsword heaving at the level of his chest while his sharp stare shifted between wolf- and cathead. His steady glare would not hold for long as more stamps drew his senses.

From another cave, one level below where the first monster had appeared, another manticore emerged. A feline roared, and Marek spotted yet another contender, this time on the ground level, not far from where he had come out. Enmity dripped out of every beast’s maw, each manticore so bristled that their fur looked like a garden of saws.

So much unhindered hatred, enough to keep the brave sleepless, enough to poison a barn’s well. It almost felt personal, as if Marek had been responsible for one tragedy that had befell them. But why?

Askance, Marek saw the trail of blood passing under him and ending in a dead cub. Indeed, it took no prodigy to join the dots and puzzle out the reason behind their overflowing hostility.

Marek mouthed something, voice muted; unintelligible for beasts, anyone versed in human language could figure out the swearing that his lips gestured.

The ice crackled, and a ripple found its way below Marek’s boots. The manticore from the highest height had just dropped to the ground and was now crawling closer.

Marek’s mind geared into full alert. A manticore was worth two wargs as far as physical might was involved, and there were three of them. There was a chance he could win if he used Dalavut, but if the bane got the best of him, focus would not be among his features, something inconvenient when entire packs lurked behind every wall of ice.

Another ripple; another manticore had landed on his level.

Marek’s eyes dashed to an opening on the ice, one wide enough to fit him inside, but tight enough not to let the monster squeeze in. It might lead to unknown depths, but it was the glacier’s bowels or dual maws. It was then that his knees began to build impulse, his posture shrinking as he prepared to bolt like a bodkin.

“Well, isn’t that— a lost manthing.” Two voices, each with its unique inflection, interrupted Marek from carrying out his escape. The problem was not the voice and the hatred it seeped with, but who produced it. The speaker was walking along the ice, one layer above his way to freedom.

There were four manticores now.

“This one is new. Not seen before—” The cat spoke, its voice scratchy but firm. “—Was it cut off from the human pack, perhaps? Abandoned by his own?” The wolf added, tone like a stone wheel on rustic rock.

It jumped off the heights, producing a greater quake than the first manticore had done despite coming from a lower level. Its size was massive, a full fourth helftier than the present manticores; it practically blocked the hole’s entrance.

That one definitely was worth three wargs.

“Not abandoned. Just blessed,” Marek let out, not letting himself be overwhelmed by uneasiness.

The twoheaded chimera elicited a dual-toned snigger, laced with many emotions, none of which were amusement. “Blessed— Yes— Manthing thinks himself to be blessed— Only because he managed to kill the youngest of us.” A growl intensified with every sentence. “Blessed, I don’t think so— A _lucky _scavenger, that’s more like it.”

“I didn’t kill this youngling.” Deep inside, Marek knew that defending against their accusations was a waste of time. Whether he has claimed the life of a cub changed nothing — a morsel was a morsel.

“The scavenger might be skilled with his tools— But not with his tongue.” The manticore stopped ten yards away from Marek, the other three creatures positioned at several points beside what Marek assumed was their leader.

“The cubs of many— Tore from our packs— Dragged here and killed— By _your _steel.”

Marek’s eyes narrowed as he found numerous flaws behind that logic. “You think I killed your children and dragged them here all by myself?”

“An enigma, indeed— How can a puny human mock our senses and murder our cubs under our noses?— Some wargs pad like mist, but the wounds carved by their fang differ— This youngling fell against a small blade, death found it swift, and its body stayed in one piece— It mirrors the scar on our bodies, out of late under the siege of meddlesome manthings and their sharp metal.”

It would have been a lie to admit the manticore’s detective wits had not compelled him to arch a brow, and now that Marek stood close to the pack of manticores, he could pinpoint several unusual details across their bodies and fur.

Clean slices across muscles.

Scorched fur.

One or two arrow stubs protruding from a couple of beasts.

The pack leader himself had a lightning pattern spreading from wolfish forehead up to voluminous back.

What was more, the three eyes belonging to two manticores looked darkened, as if their irises were replaced by ink. Marek recognized those symptoms as those of a blinding spell.

Seolvor strikes me dazed. Mørk Hæssen and his party have managed to get this far.

Marek’s thoughts were put on pause as a raptor-like tail whipped against the floor. “You think us witless, manthing?!— For many days, we have been dealing with maddening human invaders!— You even wear the skin of a brethren!— Those acts of transgression shall not be overlooked!”

Didn’t these coin-flip beasts devour each other?

“Transgression?” Marek echoed, his sight momentarily shifting up high before lowering on their leader once more. “You are the ones who carry out acts of transgression after moving far South.”

“In its rampage, Hissing Wing provides— And whenever human lairs crumble, a herd of humans lie, scattered like a flock of wingless birds.” A grin, an evil and genuine one, sprouted across the cat’s snout. “How can we deny such a feast?— How can we deny such an opportunity to expand beyond?”

“So it’s that. Taking advantage of the dragon’s havoc to expand your domains. Feasting upon the leftovers of tragedy.” The four manticores responded with nothing but a series of growls and snarls. “You call me out for killing your cub out of survival, but you revel in the death of our youths. _Fucking _hypocrite is what you are.”

The smirk on the monster vanished. “As expected— Humans cannot conceive the way we manticores perceive the world truly is— How the strong reign over the weaker— How the Devourer entrusted his spawns to fulfill his will.”

Fucking hypocrisy.

Howls rode the winds, and eight pairs of ears perked up. “The enemy incurs closer— But we think justice can be delivered without haste,” Marek watched as the nose of the leader twitched. “Curious. Manthing exudes a scent not picked in a long time. One unpleasant—” The wolfhead scoffed after the cat said his mind. “Matters not, his corpse shall tell us more. Time pads fast— Make his death painful. Make him pay for the death of our youths, for wearing the hide of our fallen brethren.”

Upon giving the command, the three manticores padded closer and tightened the bow that had Marek enclosed against the rampart of ice.

Marek’s fingers waved along Iousterard’s handle, shifting between the monster at the far right and the leader, the latter obstructing the path between him and escape. The blizzard buzzed loudly, and the glacier groaned unperturbed, yet Marek managed to pick up the faint sound of something hard boring into ice. It was not long before he caught a glance of something feathery creeping down into the clearing.

The ice thumped, and the nearest manticore leaped upon Marek, but it failed to cover the gap between them. A winged chimera swooping from above had interrupted its attack.

Splinters of glacier were propelled into the air as Sigrid dove right into the manticore’s spine, her honed talons digging deep into fibrous muscle. Blood particles joined frost in aerial dance, and the hole stirred with the sound of agony characteristic of a cat and a dog.

The she-chimera’s advent had captured the senses of the other three monsters, all of which kicked focus from man to the new threat and snapped with a rouse of bawls. Then, they snapped with fangs and claws, leaving the man unchecked.

Marek would make sure to split the focus his lover was receiving.

His arm sprang, and his ax spun to the leader, but mayhem served as a shield to many, especially to the beasts. One manticore unwillingly intercepted the ax and had one of its heads nonlethally carved with a shallow rift; Iousterard dashed past and found its intended target, but the leader only had its shoulder and back muscle hacked, avoiding a lethal injury by inches.

Two wounded but fit-for-combat manticores rather than one dead pack leader had been the outcome of his strike. At least Sigrid did not have to deal with four manticores on her own — two enemies bored their greenish eyes into him, anxious for retaliation.

Here goes Frostscape’s favorite joke.

The first manticore he had hurt veered in his way, eager to return the favor for the new battle marks. Bigger and a tad clunkier than wargs, Marek should not have issues circumventing their onslaughts; tough as the arctic freaks were, they would eventually succumb to the bites of his weapon.

Nonetheless, as soon as Dalavut carved deep into the first attacker’s paw, one mischance layered upon the previous one.

The edge hissed, and blood was sipped in. Veins across his arms bulged as blood ran from his fingers up his temples. Suddenly, escaping seemed like a dumb decision — a _coward _decision — and the choreography of battle sounded like a tantalizing prospect inside his head.

Dalavut’s bane rushed to him like the remembrance of a childhood beating.

It was too soon for this. Marek was unharmed, no part of his body sought healing, not after three nights of restoring his energies. Why the sudden urge for blood? Why the eagerness to taste the adrenaline of battle?

Fangs thrust in his way, but clunked unfruitfully upon being deflected by an ebony-red blade. His wrist turned, and the manticore’s mouth size underwent an augmentation. More blood for the blood-drink sword; less sobriety for the human fighter.

Marek struggled to sideglance at Sigrid. Her surprise attack had been on point, and she fared excellently against two manticores, taloned fingers deep into muscles and beak hooked into hard hide; one manticore, the first in tasting her savagery, was beginning to show signs of weariness.

The pack leader joined his vassal, forcibly pushing the latter aside so he had space to snap with jaws and paws. Marek backstepped, clenching his teeth while fighting the impulse to lunge recklessly.

Ill-timed. Marek could not proceed with his swings lest he be possessed by the bane, risking becoming Sigrid’s additional enemy. Iousterard needed to teleport into his grip or else—

The wind aloft boomed, cacophony finding its way into the cleaning. The ice, too, screeching from their innards. More packs were getting nearby.

“Into that cave! _Now! _” Sigrid shrieked, one wing stretching toward one hole.

“What—!” A dull sound rang when his blade parried a set of claws.

“They are coming by the dozens! You _go! _”

His mind spun as he processed Sigrid’s orders, holding his growing bloodlust just so to weave questions that required immediate answers. Nonetheless, the ice screeched and clunked with the claws and hooves of a cavalry of chimeras, and underice holes blew yowls like war horns.

He had no choice but to trust Sigrid and follow her guidance.

Marek bit down his craving for bloodshed and disagreement and pirouetted through the monsters like a bullfighter against two bulls would, hoping off swipes’ trajectory and kicking his way out of open mouths. Marek slipped out without sustaining injuries, and without hesitation, he darted toward the hole.

Beasts roared in refusal, with no intention of letting the human escape their resentful clutches. Nevertheless, Sigrid gave them something more to worry about when she leaped on top of the pack leader, buying Marek time so he could distance himself further and hide inside the tunnels of turquoise.

A few yards deep inside the cavern, the scenario underwent a sudden shift of atmosphere.

His cloak fluttered in his wake. His eyes dared not see behind. Boots echoed like hammers hitting steel. Iousterard reappeared in his hand, but Marek did not notice until later. Focus was imperative: a wrong decision would lead him either to a dead end or a beastly ambush or something worse.

The cries resumed, bouncing off each wall until they expanded across the underground passage. Sigrid had given him less than two minutes of advantage. In some way, it was a relief: the more time they would have stayed outside, the more problems Sigrid could have had.

The ice thumped with pawsteps and hoofsteps. Lights leaking through ceiling cracks revealed the shadow of one or two pursuers.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Were they all looking for him specifically or Sigrid? Or perhaps they were locating wargs? How many of them knew about the human fighter and Howling Talon’s presence?

The wall at Marek’s side burst into shards, and two heads frantically snapped in Marek’s direction. They were a couple of feet short of reaching their prey, yet the surprise caused Marek to misstep and trip ahead, nearly crashing headfirst.

“Seolvor’s honed bolt!”

The crack where the manticore had burst was too narrow to let its hulk pass, but not for long — before bolting further, Marek glanced at how the rift shattered wider with the jolts, a shadow of a bear arm visible in the utmost corner of his sight.

“Wizards must blast this place to ashes,” he managed to slur between pants.

Marek kept running for who knows how long, the howl of the weather and cries of beasts leaking in through cracks in the ceilings. He discerned his girlfriend’s shrills among the roars, ever defiant and harmonic. She had a strife of her own, one she could easily avoid if it were not for the oblivious man flailing without course.

Eventually, Marek strode past a corner — a wall with a narrow squeezeway, practically a rat’s path.

“Crap. Not now.”

Barks forced Marek to see over his shoulder. Animal shadows, barely visible because of the limited light sources, spread on the walls, enlarging by the second.

It could not be helped. Wedge the belly, wiggle in — Marek blew air, sheathed both weapons, and squeezed through the rift, right in time for the manticore’s arrival.

Tiny splinters flew to his mouth and eyes, debris from the collision of a monster and a wall, the former too _fat _to force itself in the crack, the latter too solid to be torn broader. Its ursine claws penetrated, momentarily hooking themselves on Marek’s cloak, but the hold was too feeble to last more than an eyeblink — their prey now was out of their reach.

During the whole scene, Marek was clenching his teeth until they ached, bearing the hazy breath of the manticore reminiscent of a butcher shop. Only when he wiggled free out of the rift did his body untense, especially his belly. The manticores were no longer at the opposite end of the squeezeway, but their pursuit was far from over; right now, the pack must be sniffing for a shortcut.

“... Curses.” Marek spun and scrutinized the surroundings, which until that point had been filtered by his senses. A lattice of sizable rooms, more suitable to hold battle in, but certainly not playing to his advantage with dozens chasing his shadow.

Sigrid’s screeches echoed dimly across the chamber, and Marek tried to call for her. “Sig! Sigrid! Where are you?!”

For the next tense seconds, only pawsteps and icy snores bounced off the walls toward him, but then. “Marc!” It was as intense as the moan of an elderly woman. “Marc! Get outside!”

“ _Where?! _”

Her response was delayed by an animalistic racket, from both inside and outside, some even coming from her. “ _North! _” As if that was clear. Where was North supposed to be? “Follow the light!”

Marek could not confirm much beyond that Sigrid was out, waiting for him. Once outside, what was next? Soar up along with him in arms? Pride be damned, and suddenly the blizzard did not feel as threatening. They would manage to get somewhere safe.

First thing first. _Light. Spot light. A crack, crevice, wormhole, anything. _Marek sprinted across the chamber, rounding pilasters and stalagmites as he tried to spot an outlet. Only light sources came from the ceiling, but they were too high for him to reach.

Come on. Come on!

The search evolved into desperate levels, the barks vibrating through the walls and stalactites with greater crescendo; Marek could practically feel the yowl-shaken wind poking his calves. When Marek was considering unsheathing both weapons and partaking in battle, Seolvor’s chain of salvation rattled like a breeze through a pathway; further inspection, and it glinted with dusk radiance.

Tens of yards away, a rugged steep lay, leading outside. It was like finding an oasis amid a desert.

Marek missed no beat to swerve toward that path, and right away, a distant, ursine figure manifested behind him.

It was one last race before surfacing, whatever the aftermath turned out to be. Marek had the distance advantage, but he could not outrun someone equipped with bear forelegs and reindeer hindlegs.

As the gap shrank, the floor angled upward, and Marek plucked out two dirks, one for each hand, and used them to climb, metal deep into the ice to gain support and impulse, all while the manticore closed the distance. Only seven yards separated them.

Ice scratched his knees, scraped his elbows, and clutched at his clothes as rodent claws. The more he advanced, the more vertical the climb became, forcing Marek to press his body onto the surface. Coldness stung like ants through his clothes.

After a nerve-cracking toil that must not have lasted more than one minute, Marek’s eyes caught sight of the sunrays once more. Hope sparked anew. Then, he saw the shadow of a lupine head without a feline one by its side. Optimism peaked.

Sigrid awaited him, like a radiant elemental, ready to take him into safety.

However, as his head peered further into freedom, the sight that unfolded before his eyes drained his expectancy along with the blood in his features. The head belonged not to his lover but to a warg.

A three-eyed, lips-twitching, slate-colored warg.

“A— _gah! _” Marek had no chance to react toward the unexpected newcomer, unable to meet the wolf-thing’s gaze for more than an instant. Something tugged his cloak, and the knot around his neck tightened.

The manticore, the pack leader going by the size, finally caught up with him and clenched his gnashers around Marek’s cape. His poor pawhold saved the fighter from being dragged down the slant, where more manticores waited impatiently to the point one of them was catching up with its leader.

Marek struggled, the level of his effort inversely proportional to his access to oxygen. He tried to undo the knot, but doing so required both hands, and those were busy impeding his descent.

Metal thunked, and the pressure constricted across this chest. The manticore had bitten Marek’s rifle; slipping out of his cloak might not be enough to escape his predicament.

Marek’s thoughts wheeled with heightened alarm, thinking about what course of action he must carry out after falling rather than what to do to avoid rolling down. A whistle drew Marek’s eyes back to the warg, and he observed how cold whirled and spiraled inside the warg’s snout.

He was not only going to tumble down into a hungry pack, but also he would be under the effects of freezing.

Whatever countermeasure Marek had planned was frustrated by a shake of two animal heads, and his two dirks slid half an inch out of the ice. The warrior concluded the best way to mitigate his fall was to spare himself the struggle and give in. He would be hauled behind, roll and stabilize, and, lastly, prepare a stance as fast as he could.

When he was about to relax a tad, the gale unleashed. Marek did not notice how the warg shifted angle, nor how the blast surged past his side. Hoarfrost spread by his right shoulder and cheek, but the damage was minimal and the pain a mere nuisance. The man felt how the knot was forced untied and heard the fabrics on his back tearing. He could breathe out and in, his neck no longer supporting the weight of a cart of stones.

The manticore was blasted down the precipice, a layer of ice across his bulk and monstrous garment between his jaws, colliding and dragging his underling along with him. He cursed in a monstrous language Marek could not understand, yet the intelligible words had felt like a dagger on his back.

Marek knew nothing about what had transpired, but as soon as he regained control, he completed the climb and bolted upright, two dirks in each hand, ready to fend off attackers. There was light a few feet across, but the first thing he saw was the warg before him, the warp across its lips sending forth a message that conflicted with its current inaction.

“Wh— _Why? _” The sentence came automatically between rasps.

“... Howling Talon’s mate,” the monster growled. _What?! How in the— _“Your death would bring calamity to all wargs.” More canine shadows expanded along the ground, and Marek noticed the arrival of two more wargs. All were snarling, but their furs were not as bristled, their stance giving away no hostile action would appear.

“Consider it a deed for giving us our mother back.” Marek’s eyes bounced back to the first warg, his features those of a wizard apprentice seeing street ‘magic’. Mother? What is he talking about—

The depths roared, and Marek and only wargs dashed their focus to the manticores below, who had resumed their pursuit.

“Stay away from wargs’ affair. This is our war,” he growled, but not to Marek. “Most of us forget easily, and no act of mercy shall repeat.” The warg veered toward the slant, mouth glowing with cold energy and emitting a high-pitched ring. The other two wargs followed, sprinting past Marek’s sides and stopping beside the first warg. Without delay, they began blasting the manticores with freezing pulses.

Marek struggled with the impulse to turn to them and ask further questions. Nevertheless, the shriek of a chimera restored his focus, and he rushed outside, hurling the entire experience into a corner of his mind.

The sight of the plateau washed all over him, a short and open U _- _valley-like region with ice spikes standing tall by the sides, with a glacier dome looming tall between him and the Icing Boundary. Closer to the top of the glacier, the winds blow unhindered, and without his cloak of maticore hide, Marek felt the merciless coldness in all its glory. He fought the impulse to rub his arms and sides.

“Sigrid! Sigrid!” He called for Sigrid, expecting the monstress’ senses to discern his voice among the loud blizzard and the many yowls. Blessed be the Gods, not only did Sigrid hear him, but she also spotted him within a minute after his first outcry.

“ _Marc! _” Marek halted and saw high. As expected, her fur and feathers blended with the snow-filled sky and sheltered her from human eyes, but Marek knew she was up there, spiraling down as if the very sky was weaving circles with Sigrid as its needle.

His smile curled up into a smile.

“Watch out— _Shreee! _” Then its smile flattened. The way Sigrid had shrieked told him she was experiencing landing troubles. A growing screech, followed by a boom on the snow, confirmed his suspicions. Sigrid had just crashed onto the glacier several feet from where he stood.

“Sig!” He raced to her aid and knelt in front as soon as he discerned her body plastered on the snow. Blood marred her niveous fur. “Are you hurt? Can you stand up?”

She moaned in response, heaving herself up while rubbing her head with her taloned hand. “Hooo~ Ouch-ouchy. Stoopid blizzard…”

“You are bloody. Did they hurt you badly?” He used his arm to help Sigrid sit.

“No, no.” She shook her daze off. “Most belong to manticores.” It was a relief for Marek to hear that, and despite the crash landing, Sigrid looked fine.

“Come on,” he rose to his feet and put both dirks in their sheaths. Soon after, he lent both arms to Sigrid so she had support to straighten. No sooner had both stood upright than more howls reverberated. From where Marek had escaped, a trio of wargs barked and fled, stepping back as the manticores emerged from the underice labyrinth.

Covered in an ice sheet, the pack leader latched his eyes on both human and chimera, the cat and wolf lips peeled up to display rows of fangs seeping with hatred. Then, he and his pack burst forward, more worried about Howling Talon than about the wargs.

“Damn it. This brute is as persistent as Gruhulla.” Marek observed, hands on top of both magical weapons’ pommels.

“There are a lot of them, and I can’t take you with me with this weather!”

They could not hold a battle for the remainder of the day. They could not vanish into the sky. If fed with chimeric blood, Dalavut could eventually force Marek to point his weapon at Sigrid.

The answer was plain to see.

“Take me and run. To the great glacier ahead!”

“... _Got it! _” Sigrid had no intention to argue about his plan. She took Marek on her back and crawled on four legs; then, she sprinted like greased lightning.

Marek could not outrun the manticores in open space, or closed space for that matter. Sigrid was faster and had more energy left. At that, it no longer felt unmanly for him, nor did it hurt his pride.

“Are we going to sprint all day? I’d rather not experience again what happened with Gruhulla,” she commented, her sight focused ahead the whole time.

“The glaciers have cracks on their ceiling. We’ll seek one and dove through; the manticores won’t follow.” Marek hoped Sigrid would not argue back lest his confidence flicker. She did not, so they — Sigrid, actually — continued galloping to the colossal dome, occasionally glimpsing at more manticores and wargs entering the valley from both sides.

A large-scale skirmish was about to take place, and none of them had desires of partaking as spectators.

In due course, man and owl-wolfess hit the foot of the dome. There was nothing at ground level, not even a rat’s path.

“Look up for a crack,” he hopped off Sigrid’s back and drew his ax. “I’ll hold them back. Quick!”

The manticores, now four in number, rushed fast, two hundred yards and approaching.

“Found anything?!” Silvery glow lapped his cheek.

“Not yet!” Sigrid stretched high against the wall, moon-like eyes scanning every cornet and protrusion.

One hundred yards. Marek rose Iousterard over his head and hurled the blade. Distance gave the beasts time to react, and one of them avoided a deathly strike, a shallow slice across its ribs being all Iousterard had achieved.

“There! Wait, no. That one’s too small.”

Fifty yards. Another manticore joined the cavalry, whereas in the background, manticores collided with freezing beams. Enchanted ax teleported back, and another attack followed. Blade was encrusted on top of the pack leader’s back, adding another bad experience with humans to his flesh. He did not slow down.

“Sig—” Thirty yards. Iousterard had not returned. “—Let’s climb.” Fifteen yards. “There’s no way these brutes—”

“Found it!”

The next seconds transpired like the breath of a hurricane. Sigrid grabbed Marek with the same difficulty a father would hold his kid, and with a quick flap of her wings, both travelers were propelled high into the turbulent air.

The pack leader snapped his dual mouth, but only managed to bite hollowness and frost, savoring nothing but frustration.

Marek felt as if swimming upstream in a frozen lake, ice particles crashing onto his retinas and flowing in his noseholes.

He said nothing — barely let out a squeak — during the entire aerial trip, but the way he clung to his lover and partner told Sigrid he was distressed, so she opted to voice encouragement.

“Worry not, Marc! I conquered the blizzard, remember?”

That was before or after crashing into the glacier?!

The flight experience was dragging a bit too long for Marek’s unpleasantness, even though the entire ordeal lasted no more than one minute. When flying high enough, Sigrid carouseled once so she could align with the crack, which was barely wide enough to let two in, at least in a comfortable way.

Naturally, Sigrid did not care. Ten feet from entering through the crevice, Sigrid tightened her wings to her body and forced her way in, flawlessly avoiding the icy teeth around the entrance.

Once inside, Sigrid had half a second to stretch her wings and slow flight; otherwise, her momentum would be abruptly stopped by an ice column.

“Hold tight!” What do you think I’ve been doing the whole time?!

She slowed, but did not stop. Careful not to crush Marek between her and the pillar, Sigrid slid along the crystal. Then, immediately hopped off onto another, then another; each leap reduced her speed and placed her closer to the floor. The glacier turned out to be hollow enough to enable a controlled landing.

During the next twinkling, Marek had his body shaken with every leap, and his ears endured the screech produced by talons running across glass. When quietness settled over, when the wind lapped at him no more, Marek dared to part his lids open.

“... Is it over?”

“Yes.” Sigrid hummed.

He timidly pushed back from Sigrid, but never took his arms off her. He scrutinized the surroundings, expecting a manticore to bite at them.

“Are we safe?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?” She peeped, giving the faintest hint of amusement. “Well… If you may?”

Giggles. “I’m not the one hugging you, doommy.”

Marek looked down and noticed his arms coiled around Sigrid’s waist and converged on her back. “Oh, right. I hope I didn’t harm you with my embrace.”

“You hug like a bear cub. You cannot harm me.”

“Just wanted to make sure.”

Marek detached from Sigrid, distancing himself with clumsy steps, as if he had not touched the floor in a season. Sigrid prepared to rush and stop him from following, but by the time he was three feet from Sigrid, dazedness had been defeated off him.

“Well… that was a whole new experience.”

“It lasted only a few breezes.”

“It felt more than a few _breezes. _It was a gust, a tornado, a hurricane even.”

“Not liking flying, I see…” She sounded a bit disappointed.

“No— I mean, not _now. _It was not the best moment to test my affinity with the sky,” he cocked his head. “What? Have something involving flight in the store for me?”

Sigrid moved both hands behind her back, and her sight trailed off. “Maybe. But if you dislike flying…”

“No, no, no. I’m willing to fly with you, but in less… dire situations. Alright?”

Sigrid returned the gaze; after a pause, she offered a feeble smile. “Alright. When all this is over, I’ll show you the wonders of soaring the winds.”

“I know you will,” he beamed back. “And I’m looking forward to it.” Marek stretched his hand and rubbed Sigrid’s cheek, to which she reacted by leaning her head into his hand.

The fond moment dragged out short: roars of several tones leaked through the cracks of the glacier, drawing Marek’s gaze to the dome wall, imagining the war taking place beyond the many rifts.

“These monsters…” he retrieved his hand. “They are getting profit from what the dragon saws.”

“What do you mean?”

“The wyrm scatters the humans around, and the manticores seize the opportunity to feast and expand their territory. I’m afraid that if they aren’t stopped soon, the situation might worsen.”

Worry weighed on Sigrid. “What can we do?”

“Nothing,” he said as he turned around. “We cannot stand against all of them, and we don’t have the luxury to travel back. Our only chance is killing the dragon. That way their incursions will lessen, at least until Grætøh can prepare countermeasures.”

“I see.” Sigrid lapsed into meditation, ears leaning low as she digested the gravity of Marek’s words and how his goal of killing Hissing Wing morphed into something beyond the need of one man.

“Hm? Marc, your cloak?” During her contemplation, Sigrid noticed how Marek’s garments had changed; they no longer displayed trims of fur or scale patterns.

“Eh? Oh, that. A double-dunce tore it from me. Nearly tore something else,” the memory of the event burned fresh, and Marek’s hand moved up to rub his neck.

“Oh no. How will you protect yourself from the cold?” Her talons bunched together in front of her chest.

“Well… it was useless against the wyrm either way. As for conventional coldness, I can always count on Gebaten’s coziest blanket.”

Steely eyes flashed wide, a smile following suit thereafter. “You doommy~. Saying such silly things after nearly dying.”

“Gotta fill the daily script by trivializing danger. I thought you liked that about me.”

“A bit, yes.” Sigrid edged closer and landed a peck on Marek’s lips. “But this might be a little early. This is no shelter—” More savage dissonance echoed in the cavern. “—and we aren’t safe.”

Marek agreed with a nod, but a shadow of a grin remained etched in his face. “Let’s move on with cautiousness. Some monsters might have found their way inside.”

As the two broke off their breather, the urge to tell Sigrid what had happened inside the labyrinth grew, but he decided to hold the impulse until the region was confirmed secure.

_Howling Talon’s mate. _The warg’s voice echoed in his head.

Fantastic. No Wargbane, Swift Hand or the likes, or something as preposterous as Cappy Manthing. They know me more for being Howling Talons’ romantic partner than for my deeds.

Human and owl-wolfess deepened into the next layer of glacial maze, the latter oblivious of the hint of sulkiness the Marek’s boots elicited with every footstep.