Worms crawled through his flesh, while the cold, damp earth covered him completely.

  Before his limbs could contract again, his heart beat once more. Fear coursed through his veins, mingling with the ruby, feverish blood that once again warmed his body.

  “Mother…?”

  The word came out as a gurgle, muffled by the dirt filling his mouth. He tried again — and only managed to swallow more putrid mud. In a blind reflex, he brought his hands to his face, but his arms barely responded, pinned down by the weight of the earth above.

  He persisted. His limbs gave way, dragging themselves across the damp layer in a painful movement, crumbling small clods of soil. With effort, he raised his torso a few inches — a cold breeze touched his chest. His fingers swept through the darkness around him, searching for space.

  He tried to dig through his memories as well. A name, an image, something. Then a flash came: agonising, sudden, too vivid to be mere imagination.

  Sunflowers, he recognised.

  Then came the scent of warm earth, then grass and pollen. Yellow stretched out in every direction, something simple and serene — until the smell changed.

  Blood has an iron that catches in the throat.

  He tasted the metallic flavour as he cut a path through battle. Horses fell around him; screams rang out — his and others'. He wielded a long sword with a yellowish gleam, the hilt warm and vibrating, as though it were an extension of his own arm. The pleasure of piercing armour and flesh, as if enemy steel were butter, frightened him.

  Then the sky split open like a wound. It wasn't rain — it was fury, the world paying back in kind. A bolt of lightning cut through the air so close that the heat arrived before the sound. He ran — or thought he ran — while armour and hooves surrounded him, until everything crushed him into the ground.

  When he raised his eyes, a tree burned before him, great and twisted.

  And then — the fear.

  The panic wrenched him from the visions. He kept digging blindly, with even greater desperation, his heart hammering against his ribs. His nails broke; blood mixed with the cold mud as he advanced inch by inch, ignoring the fire in his lungs.

  Until his fingers touched something different.

  Hard. Cold. Smooth.

  Something snaked through the darkness to his hand. He seized it like a floating log at sea. Though slick with blood, his fingers closed around it firmly. Using it for leverage, he pulled his body upward. The saturated soil gave way, breaking apart under the pressure, crumbling and sliding down his body.

  He sat up, gasping, spitting dark red mud. A light drizzle was falling — cold, almost gentle against his face, but not enough to cleanse it. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply; the air purified his lungs.

  The night enveloped him, dense, but the world took shape as his consciousness returned.

  The first thing he identified was a tree. It rose majestically beneath the clouded sky. The trunk and branches gleamed a dull red, as though something burned beneath the bark, emitting no heat. Roots coiled in every direction; some lay exposed in the mud, others — like the one he still held — appeared long dead: rotten, charred, crumbling to ash between his fingers.

  He examined his hands slowly, as though they were not his own. Beneath the mud, the nails were clean — not merely intact, but smooth, with no sign of the effort just made. He closed his fingers into a fist, bracing for pain.

  It did not come.

  I… was I dead? he thought.

  He ran his hands over his chest, his legs, his face. Nothing. Not a wound, not a scratch — as though the earth had spat him out intact.

  The question went unanswered. Dead? How, if he was here, if he could hear his own breathing, feel the cold on his skin? He had few certainties — but this one, at least, held: he was alive.

  He looked around. Nothing familiar. Nothing his. Who was he?

  The vision returned — the field, the sword, the blood.

  A soldier? he ventured, with more doubt than conviction.

  But he wore no armour. He had no sword. Nothing to confirm the memory. Only the recollection — and memory can deceive.

  Before he could consider other possibilities, a howl cut through the night — long, distant, and wild.

  The sound made his blood run cold. Then the word wolves rose in his mind, accompanied by a sharp pain at his temple. The silhouette of the beast took shape in his imagination — and his entire body seemed to shrink inward.

  He got to his feet on impulse. He looked around for something that might offer safety — but there was only a shallow pit, mud, and ash. On instinct, he tried to run. His legs betrayed him; his body was still learning to function. On the first step, he stumbled and fell. He rose again, more slowly. One step. Then another. Gradually, he managed to move away from that place, lurching through the darkness.

  His clothes — if they could still be called that — were nothing but sodden rags, indistinguishable from the mud beneath the diffuse moonlight. No trace of colour remained; only the thick brown of the mire.

  He walked for a long while. The forest was dense and waterlogged, and the outlines of gnarled trees appeared and disappeared as the moonlight found them. Hunger pressed at his stomach — old and persistent. At one point, he heard frogs. He did not judge himself for the saliva that filled his mouth. However, in the darkness they were invisible, and the only taste he experienced was that of ash and dirt.

  When he finally left the forest, he reached a dirt road. His eyes followed the empty path — and then he spotted something.

  On the other side, a great cliff stretched parallel to the road. The stone was white, almost luminous, as though it had a light of its own. Wide steps climbed to the summit — but far too distant to reach. At its base, a few leafless, twisted trees. And in one of them, a figure hung, swaying gently in the night breeze.

  As he drew closer, he made out a body. It was a man — or what remained of one. He wore rags that had once been fine: the remnants of an embroidered doublet, quality leather boots now stained with dried blood. But there was no head. Where it should have been, only a ragged stump, the flesh pale and desiccated. His hands were bound to his feet with rope, and his arms hung loose, like those of an abandoned scarecrow.

  The sight turned his stomach — even the hunger passed. Crows feasted on the corpse. Then the memory struck him again: the weight of the sword in his hand, the steel yielding easily, the warm blood spraying across his face.

  Could that have been me? he thought, as the horror grew.

  Another sound interrupted his thoughts. Not howls this time — voices. Men's voices. They approached from the right side of the road, like a point of light swelling in the darkness.

  Help me, he nearly called out, but his eyes fell upon the hanging body. The crows circled it, making it sway slowly. The words died in his throat. Then he looked to the forest he had come from — nothing beyond darkness and silhouettes.

  Steel claws can be as cruel as those of bone. He did not know whether the men would bring him relief or ruin. He did not wait to find out.

  He threw himself behind one of the smaller rocks at the base of the cliff. The impact was cushioned by the wet earth. He made himself as small as possible — just one more shadow among shadows.

  From there, he watched the silhouettes in the light of the approaching torches: two large, sturdy horses, each ridden by a knight. They came at a short, measured canter.

  "The captain will dismiss me when we find the garrison." One of the men spat on the ground and turned his face. "At least that… after having to cross this swamp these animals call a principality."

  "I wouldn't count on it, Rurik." The other shot back, eyes fixed on the road. His voice was as dry as stone. "The war may have ended, but there are rebellions everywhere and too few soldiers to contain them. Not to mention the highwaymen attacking the roads."

  The war? he thought. Could I have taken part in this war they mentioned? The men could easily be his comrades; they might recognise him, offer him shelter, even food. But if they are soldiers from the other side…

  "To hell with that, Hood!" Rurik's indignation sent the crows launching from the tree where the corpse hung; the sound reverberated sharply through the night. "Even bloody Bert was sent to Alvanight, and all he did was cut down some peasant in battle. Meanwhile, I get sent to investigate this swamp, with decrepit inns and even more decrepit whores?"

  As one who chooses his words with care, the man let the silence stretch for a moment before responding.

  "The last inn wasn't that bad. We have horses and wine in the skin. It could be worse — they could have sent us on foot."

  He let out a quick, humourless laugh.

  "Besides, a city with brothels and fresh vermin is no match for what we might find here."

  Rurik was about to reply, but his companion cut him off, jerking the reins sharply. With a dry crack of hooves, the horse stopped abruptly. Surprised, Rurik did the same a few paces ahead, drawing closer to the rock where Ragamuffin was hiding. He froze as the riders approached. How did they notice me? he thought, bewildered.

  The trembling torchlight sliced through the darkness, illuminating the path. As a precaution, he held his breath and gripped a sharp splinter of rock in his hand.

  In that moment, one could see how tall they were. Both wore chain mail beneath flame-coloured doublets that fell to the waist. Each carried a long sword hanging at the hip, the tanned leather scabbards adorned with details in crimson and brown. On their chests, an embroidered image shone: a burning tree — brown leaves, trunk a dull and vivid red, like embers smouldering beneath ash.

  Rurik wore a helmet formed by overlapping metal plates like leaves, composing a hard and intricate shell. The other rider wore only a brown hood with red-trimmed edges, pulled down over part of his face to guard against the night breeze.

  "By the ashes of the First King," he murmured, dismounting with surprising grace. Despite the chain mail, his feet touched the ground without a sound. "Look here, Rurik. It seems we are not the first to pass through this place."

  He exhaled softly, relieved. He did not let go of the rock, however.

  The hooded man handed the reins to Rurik. Still mounted, Rurik held them in one hand and, with the other, kept the torch raised. Then the man walked toward the tree.

  By the trembling torchlight, the state of the hanging corpse was revealed in detail.

  "The Black Claw," he stated, in a lower tone but audible enough to be understood, after drawing close to examine the body thoroughly. "This must be their work."

  "What in the hells is the Black Cat?" Rurik frowned beneath his helmet, watching the man from his position.

  The hooded man did not respond immediately. He continued examining the corpse for a few moments more, as though studying an artist's signature.

  "Do you recall the Brotherhood of the Red Hill?" he began, his voice controlled. "The deserters who stole from the royal convoys."

  "I've heard of them. One morning the king went without his cheese and eggs and ordered a few beheadings." Rurik replied, releasing a rough laugh. "But I didn't know they were deserters."

  A king… Pain hammered at his head — the memory surfaced and dissolved in the same instant. In that yellow field, would you have fought for or against this king?

  "They were, yes. But the solution was not as simple as the people claim." The man did not follow Rurik's tone, and the smile disappeared from his face.

  "Before the matter was resolved, four regiments were decimated. At the start of the battle of the hill, they were merely peasants. Yet, at some point after deserting…" he hesitated, "the few survivors began to claim that the bandits had military training. There were even mentions of knights among them, men who instructed them — some of them nobles, according to the rumours."

  "I presume the fifth regiment had better luck. After all, they were all killed," said Rurik, as he watched his companion examine every part of the hanging body with curious attention.

  "The outcome had nothing to do with luck. They could have withstood a hundred more assaults. They inhabited deep caves with branching tunnels like mole warrens. In places like that, swords are as useless as bows in a forest. And they knew it. The king's attackers were stabbed with daggers through the gaps in their armour, and the dark caves swallowed them one by one, with no way of knowing where the blows were coming from."

  "And how did they end up with their heads on a stake?" Rurik seemed to be running out of patience.

  "The king summoned Lord Stefanus." The hooded man concluded, pressing one finger against the pale flesh of the severed neck.

  "The Vampire of Owlmount?" Surprise in his voice did not disguise the weight the name carried.

  The man nodded and stepped back from the body, returning to where his horse stood.

  "Besides Stefanus, other men came," he continued, and Rurik groaned in disapproval as the narrative unfolded. "They were not ordinary soldiers, still less knights of the king. They were quiet and obscure. Only the red gleam of their eyes stood out — and few dared to meet their gaze. They are called the Black Claw."

  Rurik looked at the pale flesh where the man's head had once been, and his own face turned equally pale.

  "Some say that when they enter the order, they surrender their tongues so they may listen better. That they file their teeth with flaming daggers and kill with their bites. They say they capture anyone, anywhere, and only return when the heads of their prey hang around their horse."

  He paused, allowing the weight of the words to settle.

  "I was present when they marched back through the city toward the King's Fortress. There were more brothers from the hill than the horses appeared capable of carrying. After that, even the city rats partook of the royal cheese."

  Ragamuffin shifted his gaze from the riders to his own arms. A battle, like in the vision. I could have been there. For a moment, he almost believed it.

  But no.

  He was not a brother of the hill. In the morbid dream, there had been no hill at all.

  "They should have sent those Black Paws here. By now, the missing garrison would already have been found, and I'd be close to my hearth, warming my hands with my wife."

  "Black Claw," the hooded man corrected, in the tone of one correcting a child. "The name is Black Claw. And I believe they were sent, yes. Before, I merely suspected. Now I am convinced: it is them we are following. They are the garrison that disappeared."

  As he spoke, he turned back toward the great tree at the roadside, giving his back to his partner — and to the rock where Ragamuffin was hiding. He tied the reins to a low branch and left the torch fixed to the saddle.

  Still mounted, Rurik watched him, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle.

  "But if we're after them… what in the hells were they after?"

  "That is where the reward lies. Better than any port city you so desperately want to be posted to." He had already walked some paces away, searching for another tree at the roadside. "If the Vampire sent them to the Bloody Fens, it's because they were seeking something very precious — and he wanted it with urgency."

  "And doesn't he consider that someone might steal this so-valuable object?" Rurik insinuated, with a touch of malice.

  "He must." The man moved toward another trunk further along. The clinking of chain mail was heard as he lowered his breeches. "He must be why he sent them to fetch something… and us to fetch them, without having the courtesy to tell us."

  The howls returned to echo through the night. But this time there were many, and they seemed closer.

  "Where are you going? We should leave now." Rurik looked around, trying to conceal the tension he felt.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The hooded man let out a loud laugh, sending his stream of piss flying wide.

  "Don't be a coward, Rurik. In this region, wolves avoid the roads. With the crops destroyed and burned, the people would rather face fangs and claws than starve — the wolves are made of flesh too."

  "Speak, Rurik. The commander didn't confide anything else to you, did he?" the hooded man asked, in a tone almost too casual for the question. The sound of urine hitting the wet earth mingled with the light rain.

  Rurik brought his hand instinctively to his chest, as if trying to hold something hidden there, shielding it from an invisible threat.

  "Only a name. One of the members of the garrison, as he told me. The name is—"

  "Arthus of Fozfeliz," the hooded man completed, before his companion could finish. "Yes… his name is in the first part of the parchment. The writing in ancient glyphs, however, makes no sense."

  Rurik's eyes went wide with shock. He frantically searched his clothing until he pulled out a rolled piece of paper from within, tied with a brown cord and sealed with red wax. On the seal was the image of a tree.

  When Rurik produced the parchment, his companion was already approaching. Even from behind the rock, Ragamuffin caught a brief gleam in the man's eyes as they flickered over the parchment, before he turned back to Rurik.

  "How the devil did you know about the parchment?" he exclaimed, furious.

  As he spoke, he stretched out his arm and, in a seemingly casual gesture, placed the roll in the horse's saddlebag. Sly enough to deceive his companion — but not the eyes watching from the rock.

  "Just as with the Black Claw, I only had a suspicion… that it was actually a parchment was pure luck. I noticed you always touched your chest. I thought it was gold, to be honest. But you ate and drank like any other soldier throughout the whole journey."

  Rurik shot the man a withering look, as though he had realised he had walked into a trap.

  "Do not worry about that. I did not take it, nor did I read it." He gave a brief, veiled smile.

  "You… you would be executed if you had!" Rurik attempted to appear more authoritative than he truly was before the man.

  "Ah, then we would both go to the gallows," he replied, resuming his measured pace. "After all, you would have permitted it. I don't believe they much care for the excuses of drunken or inattentive soldiers."

  Rurik swallowed hard; his eyes bulged. In a reflex, his hand went to his chest in search of comfort. He had forgotten it was no longer there.

  "The day before the detachment departed," Rurik said, "I arrived early at the commander's tent. As he was sealing the letter, I managed to glimpse, at the last moment, some strange symbols." Rurik cast the man a suspicious look while tightening his fist on the hilt of his sword. "It was also luck to know about the symbols… Hood?"

  The man stopped in his tracks, as though struck. Before drawing near enough to Rurik, he took one deep, deliberate sniff of the air. His nostrils flared.

  "Do you smell that? Something's rotten…"

  "Perhaps it's the stench of your lies, Hood," Rurik nodded toward the tree with the decapitated head. "Or, less likely, the damned corpse in front of you."

  "No…" He shook his head, his nose still searching the air like a hound. "It's not coming from that one. It's coming from that direction. From behind that rock. Look there."

  "You're mad if you think I'm going to peer around that mud-covered rock. Don't try to change the subject. How did you know about the glyphs?" He struggled to keep his voice steady, while his fist gripped the leather of the sword hilt with force.

  "Look. Now. I'll tend to the horses and your rear. There may be another bandit in hiding."

  The expression he wore made it impossible to refuse him. A moment later, the sound of steel leaving a scabbard cut the air — clean, brief, and all the more threatening for it.

  Ragamuffin peered around for a brief moment before pressing himself back again. Damn, he muttered. He considered the idea of surrendering — perhaps they'll spare my life — but quickly concluded that he had heard more than he should have. He did not know whether they would allow him to leave.

  Rurik hesitated for an instant, then dismounted, handing the horse to the hooded man so that his sword hand would be free. Having drawn the steel from its scabbard, he made for the rock that served as Ragamuffin's shield against the majestic white cliff. Each step crushed mud and gravel underfoot.

  Swords. They have swords. And I have only a rock, he reflected, anguished. He tried to recall some prayer, but none came to him. He was possibly not devout before.

  The only possible escape lay back the way he had come; but Rurik was already walking that path. Scaling the cliff demanded more than simply throwing himself at it. He recalled the deserters from the story and found he understood them.

  While he was still planning his escape, Rurik appeared beside him, no more than five hand-spans away. With one hand, the knight raised the torch to head height, and the light surrounded them both, casting their shadows on the rock. It was the first time he had felt the warmth of fire on his skin.

  He could see the man's features clearly — and the man could see his. Rurik's eyes were blue, clear as a sunlit sea, and they gleamed when they met his. His nose, hirsute and aquiline, seemed to have witnessed more brawls than could be counted. His lips formed a thin line, almost hidden beneath a light, chestnut-brown beard.

  Rurik was alarmed to find him, and the knight even opened his mouth to denounce him. But from it came nothing but blood and steel. A sword blade ran him through from behind — entering at the throat and exiting at the mouth — and nearly struck Ragamuffin in the process. Before the torch fell from the man's hand and rolled across the road, the edge flashed orange in the firelight.

  As the blade withdrew, Rurik's eyes flew open — terrified and bewildered. A thick, agonised sound tried to emerge, but never became a voice. He was immediately yanked backwards, pulled away from the rock in a single jerk. Ragamuffin heard the clatter of chain mail striking the mud.

  The blood that had sprayed from the knight was still warm on his face — and that sensation brought the visions rushing back. For a few moments he pressed his back against the rock, listening to Rurik struggle to breathe. Somewhere, a horse whinnied and stamped its hooves, the sound fading slowly into the forest. At last, he gathered his courage and peered through the gap between the white rock — now red.

  The hooded man and Rurik's horse had vanished. Beneath the cold breeze sweeping down the road, only one remained, tethered to the tree, the flaming torch swinging beside it.

  He decided that was the ideal moment to escape. With a lurch, he sprang from behind the rock and fell to his knees in the mud, beside Rurik and his torch, which still gave off a faint light.

  Rurik, dying, pressed both hands to his own throat in the futile attempt to stem the blood. A dark pool was already forming in the mud around his knees.

  Ragamuffin, helpless, watched for a few moments, trying to make sense of who could have done this. The men had died without a word, without defending themselves, even though they were armed with swords.

  A last tear ran down Rurik's pale face.

  At least they had names, he thought, with sadness. Someone will raise a headstone when they bury him. And even without a body to inter, they will weep for the hooded one.

  He looked at his own hands. Still covered in mud, with white pebbles embedded in the skin — remnants of the stone he had seized as an improvised weapon and shield. He wondered whether he had not judged the men too quickly, whether he could not have done something to help them. If only he had had the courage to ask…

  But they were dead, and nothing could change that.

  He remained silent for a moment, watching Rurik.

  They had swords… they had swords and they died.

  The whinny of the horse tied to the tree reminded him that he was still alive. But that could change if he didn't act immediately, he concluded. Whoever or whatever had done that might still be lurking.

  He approached the horse and ran his hand along the animal's head, feeling the coarse coat beneath his fingers. The horse tried to bite him, but he withdrew his hand in time.

  "Easy… easy…" he murmured. Though the animal had kicked out two or three times before, he was surprised when it finally yielded to his touch.

  Perhaps I was a knight, not a soldier.

  The thought offered brief comfort — until the sound of hooves pounding behind him returned to his mind, accompanied by a sharp pain in his head.

  He did not want to waste more time. He was about to untie the complicated knot that held the animal when the hooded man emerged from the trees, leading Rurik's horse by the bridle.

  In one of his hands, the bloodied sword hung loose.

  "Thieves lose their hands and are hanged with them tied to their own feet," he proclaimed. "If you are fond of yours, my dear fellow, I would advise you to keep them away from my horse." He advanced a few paces, each movement measured and silent.

  When he caught sight of the knight, his legs trembled and his heart quickened.

  "I thought… I thought you were dead. I wasn't going to… I didn't want to…"

  As he tried to invent a justification, he stepped back in short, careful paces, pulling away from the tree and retreating toward the road. He did not take his eyes off the man — nor off the red sword he carried.

  The hooded man released the bridle. The animal shook its head, hesitated for a moment, and remained still, as though it sensed the same threat as Ragamuffin.

  He then reached for the torch fixed to the other horse's saddle and pulled it free, drawing something from the saddlebag at the same time. The flame lit him, and the blood on the blade gleamed orange.

  Then he began to advance, straight toward Ragamuffin — and toward Rurik's body behind him.

  "You killed him… why?" The question escaped before he had even realised. Perhaps Ragamuffin simply wanted answers, even if they were none of his business.

  The knight raised the torch and drew back the hood. As the flame passed before his face, the light revealed, for a moment, a subdued smile that had been hidden in the shadows.

  A full beard, though not long, covered most of his face, giving him a rectangular appearance. His nose, though smaller than Rurik's, was crooked, the nostrils forming two irregular circles. His eyes were half-shut beneath two thick black brows that matched his dark hair, which fell back like a cascade.

  "You've got it all wrong, dear… what was your name again?"

  I'd like to know that myself, he thought bitterly, though he judged it more prudent not to say so. Before speaking, he studied carefully the man's torch and the mud clinging to his leather boot.

  "No one ever told me… but some call me the Golden Worm."

  The name came almost naturally, almost fitting. I only crawled, saw corpses, and hid under the earth.

  "The Golden Worm, then." He smiled again. "They have no claws, yet they still consume men's flesh." He completed, pressing toward him as though they were old friends: "I have the honour of being Sir Arthus… Sir Arthus of Fozfeliz."

  A lie. Golden Worm knew, but the knight could not know that he knew.

  "Sir Arthus," he replied, making an effort not to betray his nerves, casting a quick glance at the body on the ground. "I had no intention of accusing you, nor of stealing the horse. I had never seen one before."

  The fresh corpse had frightened him so thoroughly that he had forgotten the earlier one, until he heard the tree groaning at his back in the wind.

  "I was hunting frogs when I saw something swaying in the tree. Then I heard voices, was startled, and fled. When I returned, there was another body… and your sword… I thought…"

  He knew he should have been content with half-truths and refrained from making further insinuations, but something prompted him that it would be dishonest to leave that point out.

  I did not see him kill. It could have happened another way. Perhaps he is lying about his name to protect himself — if I were in his position, I would do the same, he tried to convince himself.

  "The men who killed Rurik — that was his name — have fled." He pointed the sword toward his companion's body, and Golden Worm startled, stepping back a pace, despite trying to conceal it.

  "I could do nothing but watch my friend die. It was very quick. It was dark, but when they headed into the forest, I followed on horseback. But they had already gone too far."

  The hooded man seemed to be waiting for a response from Golden Worm, as if seeking approval of his version of events. He watched him in silence, with insistent attention. He noticed when Golden Worm stepped back further and when his eyes turned to the sword lying near Rurik.

  After sheathing his sword, Arthus drew a piece of bread from within his garments. The slice gleamed as though it had been spread with butter and spices, and a breeze carried that scent to him. It smelled good — as good as he could remember. And he remembered so little.

  "You said you were hunting frogs, didn't you?" Arthus spoke, stretching out the piece of food and swaying it gently. "It's so late in the night… dawn is already announcing itself. Come, let us share some breakfast."

  He felt the pooling of saliva in his dry throat. It might even quench his thirst, which competed with his hunger — and he could no longer tell which was greater.

  For a moment, he forgot where he was and imagined himself biting into the bread. He would not have censured himself even if, in the process, one of the man's fingers went missing.

  But the vision of the soft, fat bread in his hands dissolved when the gleam of a blade cut the air in an upward stroke, like a bolt of lightning.

  A sharp stabbing pain at his temple made him stagger — the blow had nearly caught him full on, but he had managed to partially dodge it. He lost his balance and fell near Rurik's body.

  Then the pain spread like fire: a diagonal gash, from the belly to the right shoulder, open and bleeding. The blood poured out, gleaming under the torchlight.

  When the second blow came, he managed to grab the mud-slicked sword from the ground and, with his left arm, parried it. The clash of steel on steel rang loud, and however firmly he tried to hold on, the blade slipped from his fingers and fell again.

  He felt a deep pain from the impact, the kind he never remembered having felt. But other memories surfaced, flashing like lightning through his mind.

  He glimpsed a tree, distant — great, imposing. In an instant, its leaves appeared, beautiful and brown. Then a bolt of lightning fell, twisting everything into grotesque shapes.

  His sword was within reach, gleaming like the sun. But then the rain began to fall, and the light of the blade flickered on and off, as though vision and reality were alternating.

  He tried to reach it by crawling, but a kick sent it beyond his grasp.

  "Go back to the earth… Golden Worm."

  The man stood before him, steady and implacable, sword raised above his head, poised for the killing thrust.

  But another sound swept through the night, slicing the air. It was familiar to Golden Worm. It did not come from his dreams, but from the swampy forest. Earlier, that same sound had pulled him from his reverie — and now it woke him again.

  "Wolves," he murmured.

  He dragged himself toward the sword. Along the way, he bumped into Rurik, making him roll. The smell of blood rose in the air — Rurik's, and his own, running all down his arm.

  He seized the sword with his good hand and, with effort, raised it above his torso. The pain coursed through his body, and the arm refused to go beyond what was needed to swing the blade. He would not be able to use both hands.

  Looking back at the road, he saw the knight leaning against the tree, beside his horse. While keeping the wolves at bay, he was trying to undo the knot tethering the animal.

  There were four beasts.

  Two circled the knight. A third was devouring the white stump of the corpse hanging in the tree. With each bite, as it leapt, it tore away a strip of flesh — and it was as though the man had never had any blood at all.

  The fourth, however, had fixed its eyes on Golden Worm.

  They gleamed yellow, like the sunflowers of his visions, and fangs dripped saliva as it growled. It was enormous. As large as he had imagined.

  Steel claws can be as cruel as those of bone, he remembered. He remained fully aware of how ineffective his own steel claws truly were.

  The wolf lunged toward him, as fast as he could swing the sword — weakly, unsteadily. He wanted to close his eyes, but did not.

  Soldiers do not close their eyes in combat — not unless they mean to close them for good.

  Another voice whispered in his thoughts, and for a moment the pain in his head was almost forgotten, as Rurik's horse came charging in his direction. The animal did not hesitate: it trampled the wolf, which fled yelping, vanishing into the forest.

  He could never say, afterwards, how he had managed to climb onto the animal. If it had been standing still with both his arms sound, it would have been challenge enough. But when he came to himself, he was already at full gallop, far from that place — slumped over the saddle, fingers dug into the wet coat.

  The last memory he had of the dark road was the fine rain, still falling, light and almost sweet against his face. And also the man's shouting as he fled — curses and profanities, by all he could make out. In that moment, he remembered the root: the same wet texture, the same way of holding on to avoid falling — only now the ground was running beneath him.

  After some time, impossible to measure, he felt his body burning. He struggled to open his eyes, as though he had never used them before. It was light; on the horizon, everything was orange, red, and yellow.

  Sunflower…

  But it was not the flower he saw; it was what had given him his name. The sun blazed on his skin, heavy and relentless, while the cold now seemed a distant old friend — distant enough that he almost wished it back.

  The heat did not come only from outside. It ran beneath his skin too, thick, drawing sweat from his brow and neck.

  He tried to move, but the pain rebuked him. First in the arm, sharp, as though a blade were still embedded there. Then in the belly — worse, deeper.

  His breath failed him for a moment. It had not been another dream; he was still cut open.

  He fell back into sleep to the sound of hooves beating on the ground.

  When consciousness returned, he found himself somewhere different. He noticed a bitter liquid trickling from the corners of his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but a hand stopped him. He felt that it was soft, though wrinkled. Its smell was bitter, sour, and faintly smoky. And he noticed the liquid was green.

  "Drink it all, son — you must drink it all." But the voice was not bitter; to him, it sounded like a warm embrace.

  "Mother…" he murmured, after letting the drink slide down his throat.

  Someone laughed — a laugh equally warm.

  "I am not, son. Though I'll admit it's rather similar to mine."

  Was he delirious again? Was he in another dream that begins well, but then brings only pain and suffering?

  He went back to the worms, to the taste of cold and putrid mud in his mouth, to the smouldering tree — and finally to the howls. Yet before the howls, there had been sunflowers. There had been warm earth and pollen. Yellow everywhere.

  The road. The decapitated man hanging by his feet. The knights approaching. A burning tree embroidered on cloth. A hood and a helmet. A long sword with a yellowish gleam, running through a throat — and for a moment it was butter, it was pleasure, it was fear. The sound of death. The warmth of blood. Horses falling. Torches and hooves.

  Then the sky darkened. A bolt of lightning. The heat before the sound. When he raised his eyes, the wolves again — and their claws.

  Steel claws…

  This time he spoke aloud.

  "Steel claws? There are no wolves of that kind here, son. You had best sleep."

  With effort, he tried to raise himself. He was lying down. But when he tried to prop himself on one elbow, he collapsed again onto the bed of straw. The pain roused him for a moment, and he managed to see clearly a fireplace, with the fire crackling softly. Herbs and dried leaves were strung all along the dark wooden walls. And jars — green, blue, pink, lilac, yellow — arranged in rows on the shelves.

  "Sun—" he tried to say, his eyes struggling to stay open. Then, at last, he saw the old, wrinkled woman who watched him with compassion. She had long, white, unkempt hair, and her face resembled aged wax, flecked with black and brown spots, like flies trapped in dark honey.

  "No, no… don't strain yourself, son. Whatever you have to say will have its time."

  When he was about to fall back against the bed, she held him, and he caught the sour smell particular to old age.

  "Sun… Sunflowers. I saw sunflowers. They were so beautiful."

  "Yes, they were beautiful," she replied, in a voice sweet enough to calm even wolves. "But they no longer exist here, son. Once, I saw one — already dried, but beautiful still. It was long ago, when I was still a girl. It came from my mother, and before that, from my mother's mother. But that was long, long ago. More than a hundred years. Before the wars, before the swamps, before the rains."

  A hundred years… The words echoed inside him. His eyes began to close — slow, involuntary. The words were heavy, caught in his throat, without the strength to come out.

  He said nothing. He only dreamed — and the dreams were peaceful.