Late Spring, year 566 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The feast and trade proceedings ran smoothly, and before he knew it, Kharg found himself on a sturdy mare with a shaggy mane bound for the south. He had already said his goodbyes before the caravan arrived, but on the last night, he still spent time in Hrafun’s tent for some final guidance on his path.

  Kharg let his mount fall behind as they left, loath to leave the village. The icy breath of the northern winds swirled around him and bit at his skin with a fierce chill. He glanced back at the camp of the Tribe of the Wolf. The fur-tents stood out against the muted browns and greens of the thawing land, and a wave of longing washed over him. He had spent months among these people, learning their ways, their stories and their bond with the land. Each ceremony and song around the flickering fire had become part of him, woven into the fabric of his being. And a heaviness took root in his heart now as the sounds of laughter and the smell of roasted meat faded behind him. He sighed one last time before urging his mount forward, catching up to Halfur.

  Halfur, the sturdy caravan master, was at the head of the caravan and glanced up as Kharg approached. They had first met on the long journey north the previous year, when Halfur had taken time to share his knowledge of the roads and the northern lands. Over those eight weeks, the man’s gruff patience and dry humor had left Kharg with a measure of respect for him.

  “Ready for the journey south, lad?” Halfur’s voice was warm and reassuring, pulling Kharg momentarily from his thoughts.

  “Ready,” he replied, though the word felt as weighty as the furs piled high on the packhorses. The leather of the saddle was already beginning to rub against the insides of his thighs, a dull irritation that threatened to sour what should have been a promising day.

  Kharg closed his eyes for a moment and focused on the teachings of his shamanic mentor. The spirits of the wild were with him, he felt their presence flowing through him like a gentle stream. He grasped the elk-horn plaque, drew on the energy around him, and whispered an incantation, feeling the warmth of the magic unfurling within him. The discomfort quickly disappeared, replaced by a newfound ease. The simple healing spell had worked. What a gift it was, this knowledge, a lifeline that now tied his two worlds together, the serene tundra and the bustling trade cities to the south. Healing magic was probably the greatest boon he could ever have received. Never again would he suffer from chafing boots or the other ailments that had pained him before.

  To his astonishment, he realized he had not needed to draw on his lifeblood for the spell. Then Hrafun’s words returned to him, a shaman with a familiar would find the strain lessened, their energies intertwined. The effect was much like tapping into the ambient power, and now, with both working in harmony, the synergy was undeniable.

  Drawing on the bond, Kharg felt a subtle shift within himself—his thoughts clearer, his movements just a fraction smoother. There was a new ease in the way magic flowed through him, as if the very air responded to him with less resistance. He could feel Fafne’s presence in his mind, steady and reassuring, like a silent guardian bolstering his strength. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but his mind felt sharper, his body more resilient.

  For now, it was a quiet change, something to be explored in time.

  As they set forth, led by Halfur and flanked by the ten guards and their cargo of furs, the rhythmic patter of hooves served to ground Kharg in the moment. He glanced at the shaggy horses trudging easily across the snow, their breath misting in the cold air. His own mount, a sturdy northern mare with a thick winter coat, tossed its head and flicked an ear back toward him. Kharg had ridden before, but this was different. The beast moved beneath him with an ease that belied its strength, yet there was still a wariness in its posture, a lingering tension in the set of its muscles. It was not fear, it was watchfulness.

  Kharg’s fingers closed around the short, thick Rod of Mastery in the pouch at his side, feeling the faint thrum of power within it. Drawing a slow breath, he reached inward and let his mind extend toward the animal. The magic he called upon was an amalgamation of Animalism and Spiritism, threads of two disciplines woven together into a single act of will. He whispered a soft incantation, barely more than a breath upon the wind, sending forth a soothing presence, not as a command but as an invitation. It was a gesture of understanding, of reaching across the divide between man and beast.

  The mare’s ears flicked forward. Its breath slowed, the stiffness in its shoulders easing as it accepted the magic’s touch.

  Encouraged, Kharg wove a deeper spell of kinship, threading his intent with the warmth of his spirit. He let it flow into the horse, not dominance, not force, but acknowledgment and recognition.

  The response was immediate.

  A pulse of awareness surged through him, like a whisper at the edge of hearing. He blinked, startled. The sensation was not quite speech, not like the telepathic clarity he shared with Fafne, but it was something else entirely, a merging of instinct and thought. A feeling of curious acceptance.

  A name surfaced in his mind, carried on the tether of magic. “Stonehoof.”

  Kharg nearly jerked the reins in surprise, but the horse huffed in amusement, its large body shifting beneath him with a slow, steady gait.

  You hear me now, little two-legs?

  The voice was not words exactly, but an impression, a thought layered with meaning, conveyed through the spell’s connection. Kharg released a quiet breath of wonder, his fingers tightening on the reins.

  “I hear you,” he murmured.

  Stonehoof snorted, flicking her tail. Good. I do not like fumbling hands and thoughtless riders. You are... acceptable.

  Kharg chuckled, sensing the mare’s quiet pride, the sturdy confidence of an animal who had endured years of travel and hardship.

  “Then let’s ride well together, my friend.”

  Another soft snort, a slight shift in Stonehoof’s step, a wordless agreement. The connection lingered, not constant, but present. A newfound harmony between man and beast. Riding had never felt so effortless. As the caravan pressed on, Kharg felt a strange exhilaration settle within him. The magic of the land, of the spirits, and now of the beasts themselves—it was becoming part of him. No longer just a skill or a teaching, but something woven into his very being. The bond with Stonehoof deepened with every step, but unease still stirred among the other horses in the caravan. Some were experienced, steady travelers, but others remained skittish, their ears flicking at distant sounds, their movements tense as they trudged through the frozen expanse.

  Kharg knew the journey would be far smoother if the animals moved as one, aligned in purpose. He had seen how the warriors of the Tribe of the Wolf formed an instinctive unity with their sled-dogs, obeying not just reins but unspoken intent. If he could do the same here…

  Taking a slow breath, he reached outward, extending his shamanic will toward all the horses at once. The task was far greater than forging a link with a single mount. A dozen minds, a dozen spirits, each one separate, yet bound by the rhythm of the journey. This would require more. His hand rested briefly on the steel dagger at his belt, its amber pommel catching the light, a tool he had long relied on rather than a weapon. He had seen Hrafun do this before, though never on this scale. His heart beat faster. There was no power without offering.

  He pulled back the sleeve of his coat, baring his left forearm to the cold air. Drawing the blade swiftly across the skin, he felt the sharp sting as a thin crimson line appeared, droplets of blood welling forth. The moment the first drop touched the frozen earth, the connection snapped into place. The horses stirred. Some snorted, others flicked their ears, their breath coming in deep, measured huffs. Kharg felt their presence pressing against his mind, not as words but as emotions, sensations, trust.

  He exhaled sharply, his vision dimming for a moment as the spell took hold, the pull of life-force draining his energy like water slipping through his fingers. The pain in his arm dulled as the magic flooded outward, seeking, linking, aligning. And then, harmony. The caravan’s horses moved as one, their steps falling into rhythm, their tension fading into quiet understanding. No longer separate creatures, they now traveled with shared purpose, their fears muted, their instincts attuned to the road ahead.

  Kharg slumped slightly in the saddle, gripping the reins tighter as he steadied himself.

  A sharp voice cut through the cold air. “What in the abyss was that?” Halfur had reined in his mount, turning sharply toward him. The caravan guards, too, were watching, their expressions a mix of wariness and awe.

  Kharg saw that they stared at his arm. The cut was deep, blood still trickling from it. He had nearly forgotten.

  One of the younger guards, his knuckles white around the reins, muttered, “I’ve seen mages do strange things, but I’ve never seen one bleed themselves for it.”

  Another added, “That’s not magic, it’s something else.”

  Kharg sighed, shaking off the lingering dizziness. He had expected this reaction.

  “It’s magic,” he said, his voice steady but tired. “Just not the kind you’re used to.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lifting his uninjured hand, he drew on the lingering threads of shamanic healing. The energy was still there, a residual charge left from the connection with the animals. He guided it inward, weaving it through the wound, commanding the body to mend. Before their eyes, the torn flesh began to knit together.

  A few of the guards cursed under their breath. One made a warding gesture, as if warding himself from dark sorcery.

  Halfur’s stare lingered on the closing wound, his expression unreadable. His sharp eyes flicked between Kharg’s arm and the now calm and cooperative caravan horses. He was no stranger to magic, but this was new. And new things were dangerous. “So this is the magic of the north, then?”

  Kharg met his gaze, sensing the unspoken thoughts behind the words. This was no fireball or conjured wind. This was something older. Something primal.

  “It is,” he said simply.

  One of the younger guards muttered, shifting uneasily in the saddle. “What kind of man bleeds himself for power?”

  The question hung in the cold air, unanswered.

  Finally, Halfur let out a slow breath. “And here I thought you’d already shown me all the tricks up your sleeve.”

  Kharg offered a small, tired smile. “Not quite.”

  There was still skepticism in Halfur’s eyes, but the fear was gone. More than that, there was a hint of understanding, perhaps even reluctant respect.

  The caravan pressed onward. The horses moved with perfect ease, their riders unconsciously relaxing as the journey became smoother than any before. Yet Kharg felt the weight of the moment settle on him. He had crossed another threshold, not just with the spirits, but with his companions. And some lines, once crossed, could never be uncrossed. Kharg managed a smile but his heart ached for the tribe he was leaving behind. The elders he had come to respect, the children who had pulled at his sleeves, eager to learn about the outside world. He would carry their spirits with him, and even as the path ahead promised adventure, the warmth of new friendships lingered in his mind with a bittersweet edge.

  The afternoon passed without further incident. The caravan moved smoothly under the alignment of the horses, and Kharg found himself adjusting to the rhythm of the journey faster than ever before. No tension in the reins, no stubborn hooves resisting the path, just an unspoken understanding between man and beast. The sky slowly turned from pale blue to a golden hue, the long northern shadows stretching across the landscape as the sun began its descent. The first sign of nightfall came not with darkness, but with the familiar, unwelcome hum.

  Mosquitoes.

  Kharg had barely noticed them before, but now, with his senses more attuned to the world, the buzzing prickled at his awareness before they even reached him. He glanced around, the horses flicked their tails, the guards swatted at their arms, and muttered curses filled the air as the tiny bloodsuckers descended upon the caravan. A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips. The warding-pole at the tribe kept the insects away. There, it had been woven into the village itself, keeping the air clear of such pests and even softening the worst of the biting cold. He had simply grown used to the protection without realizing it. But here, there was no warding-pole. Though he had learned a spell to ward off animals, mammals and birds, snakes and reptiles—and of course, insects. The ward had to be adjusted for each type.

  Closing his eyes, he called upon the ancient shamanic pacts with the insects and felt the ward forming like the ripples in a pond. It wasn’t strong, not like the totem back in the village, but it was there, hovering just beyond his skin, responding to him as naturally as breathing. With a small effort of will, he extended it outward. The result was instant. The mosquitoes that had been hovering too close for comfort suddenly veered away, repelled as if hitting an invisible barrier. They didn’t die, nor did they scatter in panic, they simply found somewhere else to go.

  Kharg chuckled softly, watching as others in the caravan continued to slap at their necks and arms while he remained untouched. The ward he had woven was personal and could not be cast on anyone else, which made sharing its benefits impossible. Still, it was a quiet comfort, a small victory over the countless pests that had plagued his travels. The fleas from unkempt inns, the ants and beetles that had crawled into his bedroll, and all the countless pests that had tormented him on the road would now be only a bad memory. He drew a deep breath and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, his gaze settling on the darkening horizon. It was a small thing compared to all he had learned, yet in that quiet moment it felt meaningful. For the first time since he had left Hrafun, he truly felt the weight of his transformation. He had stepped into a world of spirits and primal forces, and now the world responded to him in turn. Kharg smiled to himself as he dismounted that evening, rolling his shoulders before heading toward the campfire. He could get used to this.

  The evening stretched on, bathed in the soft glow of the lingering northern sun. Though the horizon blazed with gold and crimson, the light refused to die completely, hanging on as though reluctant to surrender to the night. The caravan moved with an ease born of experience, setting up camp on a flat patch of dry ground near a cluster of stunted pines. Men unfastened saddle straps and unrolled their bedrolls while others prepared food, the scent of roasting meat soon drifting through the cool air.

  Kharg loosened the buckles of his saddle, feeling the shift in his mount’s stance as the pressure lifted from its back. Stonehoof released a slow breath, shifting its weight onto one rear leg in a relaxed stance. He ran a hand down the horse’s strong neck and patted it. “You carried me well today, friend,” he murmured, reaching into his saddlebag for a brush.

  Stonehoof flicked her ears, then lowered her head slightly as if in approval.

  The bond they shared, though not the deep link of a familiar, was stronger than any Kharg had ever had with a horse before. His shamanic touch had connected them in ways beyond simple rider and mount. Stonehoof understood him now, trusted him completely—and in turn, he could feel the horse’s mood, its fatigue, its quiet satisfaction at a hard day's ride well done. As he worked the brush through the thick, coarse mane, Kharg could sense every knot, every patch of dirt clinging to the hair, as though the horse’s own discomfort resonated in him. He let his magic flow gently through his fingertips, calming and soothing the beast, encouraging muscle relaxation and banishing the last remnants of stiffness.

  Stonehoof sighed deeply, shifting slightly to lean into Kharg’s care.

  “Never seen a man work a horse like that,” Halfur’s voice broke through the quiet.

  Kharg glanced over his shoulder. The caravan master stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression carrying the faintest hint of admiration. “It’s just patience,” Kharg said, running a hand along the powerful shoulder.

  Halfur grunted. “Patience, sure. But that horse looks about ready to follow you into the Abyss if you asked it to.”

  Kharg chuckled, patting Stonehoof’s neck as he stepped back. The horse gave him a slow blink, eyes filled with quiet understanding. Maybe Halfur wasn’t wrong.

  By the time camp was fully set, the last vestiges of daylight finally yielded to darkness. The sky stretched above them in an endless sea of stars, undisturbed by the glow of cities or lanterns, the moon hanging low and bright. Kharg stood near the fire, hands outstretched toward its warmth, but his eyes were fixed on the far edges of camp.

  He could see. Perfectly.

  It wasn’t just the glint of firelight catching on nearby objects, it was something more. The shifting silhouettes of the men moving among the bedrolls, the vague outlines of the horses where they had been tied down for the night, the jagged ridges of the distant hills… All of it was clear to him, as though the darkness had no power over his sight.

  His breath caught. He turned his head, scanning the shadowy landscape, his vision adjusting effortlessly to the absence of light. This was no trick of the mind. It was real.

  A sudden warmth on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. Fafne nestled close against his neck, his tiny scaled body curling comfortably into place. The little dragon let out a soft chitter, his mind brushing against Kharg’s own with a pulse of reassurance. The bond between them was growing, deepening in ways he had yet to fully comprehend. He felt Fafne’s quiet amusement, the shared awareness between them, the wordless confirmation that the faerie dragon had known all along.

  Kharg chuckled, lifting a hand to gently scratch beneath Fafne’s jaw. The little dragon practically melted into his touch, making a contented rumbling sound, not quite a purr but something close.

  “You’ve been keeping this from me, haven’t you?” Kharg whispered.

  Fafne tilted his head, feigning innocence, but the flicker of mischief in his bright eyes gave him away.

  Kharg grinned and shook his head. He wasn’t alone anymore, not truly. No matter how far south they traveled, no matter what waited for him upon his return… this bond was his to keep. As the night deepened and the caravan settled in, Kharg sat near the fire, feeling the weight of his journey behind him and the uncertainty of the road ahead. But for now, the stars above, the fire’s warmth, and the quiet presence of his soul-bonded companion were enough.

  In the days that followed, the rhythm of travel settled into something steady and pleasant. The pace was easy, the weather kind, and the silence that had once lingered over the group gave way to talk and laughter. Two of the guards brought out flutes in the evenings, worn but well-kept, and it soon became clear they had more than a passing acquaintance with them. Their melodies were bright and quick, southern tunes full of skips and flourishes that lifted the spirits of the camp. Kharg found himself humming along, surprised to realize he recognized several of them. The songs reminded him of the taverns of Sitch Nar and of warm nights in courtyards filled with wine and chatter. He’d never had any talent for song and dance himself, but after a year among the northmen, he’d grown to appreciate it. Though he still had the good sense not to try singing aloud, he found humming quietly easy enough.

  The plains treated them kindly. Though the packhorses labored under the weight of fur bundles stacked high across their backs, there was no shortage of grazing. The tundra’s brief summer had painted the land in soft greens and bursts of low-growing yellow flowers, and though the warmth was welcome, it came with its price. The spring rains had been heavy, and pools of stagnant water lingered in the hollows between the low hills, a perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes. The biting swarms were a curse by day and worse by dusk. Yet somehow, Kharg barely noticed them. While others swatted and cursed, he remained untouched. Fafne curled around his shoulders like a lazy scarf, eyes gleaming with mischief.

  His new connection with the horses had made everything easier. He no longer felt the strain of long hours in the saddle, nor the chafing and soreness that had once plagued him. With shamanic magic now woven into his daily rituals, even small discomforts were banished before they could take hold. The air around him shimmered subtly, warding off pests and sun alike. Saddling Stonehoof had become a quiet joy. He hummed softly as he brushed down Stonehoof, the mare flicking her tail lazily, ears half-forward in quiet contentment. The horse moved with him as though they shared a single thought.

  When Kharg looked up, two of the guards paused their talk, watching him. One, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, nudged the other. “Noticed how he doesn’t even need reins? And his horse… I’ve never seen a horse follow a man like that.”

  The other guard scratched at his neck, fresh welts visible along his jawline. “And the damned bugs. I’ve been bitten raw for days on end, and not one of those bloodsuckers has gone near him, not once.”

  The first guard let out a quiet laugh. “Almost like the world just steps aside for him.”

  His companion leaned in, lowering his voice. “I was with last year’s caravan. Saw him cut clean through a branch thicker than my wrist with one of those air-blades. Just raised a hand and sliced it in two.” He shook his head. “And he says he’s not strong in magic.”

  The first guard only shook his head, eyes wide with disbelief.

  They both looked back toward Kharg, watching as he brushed down Stonehoof. The mare leaned into the touch, pressing her head toward him with the trust of a well-trained hound, eyes half-lidded with contentment, moving with every subtle shift of Kharg’s hand as though the two shared a single mind. Morning passed clear and cold, and soon the caravan was on the move again.