The Golden Pig was packed. Since word got out that a new batch of ale managed to come through the bandit infested woods, everyone seemed hell bent for a good swig of the stuff. No wonder. Hell was just the word for this whole kingdom.

  ”Look at that fat excuse of a man,” Dismas said.

  ”It’s not like most of the dregg in this place ever even lifted their own body off the ground. What’s your point?” said Yalmar.

  Before Dismas could answer, an even heftier man bumped into Yalmar, spilling ale all over his shoulder.

  ”Oh, for heavens sake! Watch yourself, you rolling fool!” said Yalmar.

  ”Oh, piss ya’self!” the lardy man said, unaware his mug was only half full, as he wobbled to his table. His friends laughed at him.

  ”That, right there, is my bloody point.” Dismas added a mocking smile, glint in his eye. ”These sacks of meat contribute nothing to our kingdom. Think of how many fine knights that could have been with us. It’s harsh out there. Yet somehow, they find the time to make absolutely nothing of themselves. Now, why is that?”

  ”They’re depressed. They don’t know how to hunt, so they rely on commerse. They find easy jobs, because only people without ambition seek those jobs.” Yalmar felt the cold ale inside his linen. He frowned at it. ”I have to do something about this.” The chair fell as he left it.

  ”You there! No ruckus inside!” roared the bartender.

  ”Oh, please,” muttered Yalmar.

  Dismas started to laugh.

  ”Don’t! I don’t want to hear another thing of your bloody points!” said Yalmar, angry and amused at the same time.

  Dismas’s laughing grew higher at that.

  One had to find joy at the smallest of things. Icevein Kingdom was not the most monster infested land in Vantirium, but the cold and constant winter was a monster all by itself. It was the main thing driving these people to being drunk. They were poor and poorly clothed.

  *

  Outside, there was not a soul. Only the howling wind, and it spoke truthfully and honestly of the land.

  ”Quite sobering,” said Dismas. He took a deep breath of the frosty air.

  Yalmar only looked at him, evidently not pleased to walk home with a wet, alestinking, shoulder.

  ”Light yourself a fire, Yalmar.” Dismas opened the stable door and turned back. ”Same time again in seven weeks?”

  ”I don’t know. My old lady wants us to move south. I don’t know how, but what she says… it tends to come true.”

  Dismas closed the door, as quick as it was opened. ”You’re telling me this now!? I thought you liked it here.” He frowned.

  ”I do. Heaven knows I do. But life is not easy here, for our little girls. And they want a dog. Apparently there’s short haired dogs, and even naked looking ones, in The Southlands. They’ve been reading about ’em.”

  ”By the Hells, you already decided. I don’t know what to tell you… Farewell?”

  ”Dismas, I-”

  ”This has become my only tradition, did you know that?”

  Yalmar all but opened his mouth, before Dismas continued, frowning away.

  ”The one day – the only day! In seven shitty weeks,” he said, returning a disappointed look.

  Yalmar was visibly upset. He was one of those priceless friends that did his best to please everyone.

  ”You are good to me, Dismas, but I have a family that needs me… That’s as clear as I can break it to you,” he said.

  Dismas flipped his attitude, as he caught himself spiraling down the rabbit hole of bad thoughts. He sighed. ”Sorry, I… Sorry.” He paused, trying not to say more of the wrong things, but his mouth hung upen, weighing alternatives. ”I’m happy for your family,” he said, finally – forcing a smile. Yalmar saw through it and could not help but to laugh.

  Dismas joined in, awkwardly.

  ”Hey, nothing is final yet. But if she gets her way, I guess this is farewell.”

  ”Guess so,” Dismas paused, but opened his eyes wide. ”But! Let’s not go soft now.” He smiled, this time for real.

  ”Let’s not,” said Yalmar, smiling back.

  They reminissed about their brief meetups inside The Golden Pig. It was years of memories, one day in seven weeks – streak unbroken.

  They bumped elbows. Stood too long in the freezing winds. And, just like that, Dismas was left feeling empty. He did not feel happy for Yalmar’s family. What good did that do to him? Bad thoughts… Screw it.

  *

  Dismas had duty at Gate 1. It was cold, curse it, as always. 26 guards, counting himself and his lookout partner.

  When he sat at his high lookout, he heard someone… a man, interrupting his thoughts.

  ”What!?” he said, irritated. ”I mean… what?”

  ”Someone is comin’, Dismas! Get yer golem arse off the stool!”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  ”So? Sometimes an explorer or two-”

  ”He’s got a bow ’n’ axe! And he’s huge!”

  Dismas scrambled to his feet.

  ”What, like a demon, this far north?”

  ”A huge man! Look, see right ’ere!” Einar pointed to a bald, red bearded man, with steady steps – and a big wolflike dog.

  ”Yeah, alright, keep it professional, Einar,” he said, picking up his bow and quiver. ”I see someone alright.”

  Einar scaled the ledge on their level, all giddy to see more than nothing, which would have been the usual amount of things seen.

  ”What did I just say, Einar? You can’t be twitching at every-”

  ”Dismas! ’Tis Gorv! Mr. Wilmar is ’ere, ’n’ his dog too!”

  This made no sense. Einar had Dismas’s full attention. Or rather, Gorv did. ”By the fates.” A speechless Dismas didn’t know what to expect.

  Einar turned and grabbed the wrist of Dismas. ”’Tis been better part of a year since he got demoted from our guard. ’N’ now he’s back again, after killin’ the guards, just last week.”

  ”They do say it’s him… I don’t know. We better talk to him, but don’t let him in.”

  ”No, I am sure ’es innocent, Dismas. I kno’ him well enough fer it,” Einar said, smiling. ”Used teh spar wit’ him before we got accepted.”

  They climbed down two levels of narrow stairs, stopping above the gate, as the wind howled, bringing a swift storm with it.

  Dismas got there first, peered down, vision blurred by cold mist and snowfall. ”Where was Gorv? Einar, can you see him?”

  He expected Einar, two steps behind.

  A rattling hit the ground.

  Einar’s quiver. It slid, hit Dismas’s boot. A harder noise followed, as Einar’s body slumped like a sack.

  Dismas fell over backwards, as the body careened into his calves.

  ”Einar!” He lifted, twisted his head. An arrow, stared into Dismas’s soul, from the broken eyesocket. In a primal instict of fear, he threw the body back on the slippery surface.

  Many questions of ”Why?” ran in panic through his mind. The only thing to be sure of was that; Einar was as dead as the dwarves who carved this gate.

  Dismas stayed low. No good reason to peek through the parapet then. The vision was the same, yet Gorv still nailed the perfect shot.

  ”Since when did Gorv Wilmar shoot bloody arrows?” he whispered, under heaving breaths.

  The snowy wind whipped his face, as he got to his hands and knees to collect his weapon and quiver. He picked the arrows he could find. Then a bunch from the fallen king’s guard. Einar needed none of them.

  What now? Was Gorv still down there, waiting? Of course he was. The question, rather, was how to escape. There was nothing at hand. Nothing to see – Nothing he could see. Gorv’s vision must have been affected, since the winds increased. Dismas saw the faint light of the torch, attached to the inside of the wall of Gate 1. There, in the flickering light, he saw the pile of snow.

  Flat on his stomach, he rolled off the parapet. With an ”Ahuggh!” ice cold powder flooded his skin. Down his neck. Filled his boots. One even flew off. He got it back with a wisp of his hand. Gotta stay quiet somehow.

  Bang!

  At the gate. What was that? Was Gorv trying to ram the gate? … No that could not be done by a mere man.

  Dismas was shivering profoundly. He’d rather let what snow got into his clothes be, not sacrificing opening his coat, to also let the cold air in. It would be torture, in such typical Braxius blizzard fasion.

  He peeked around the corner. No more banging on the bars. But there was something else. What was it? He had to reach with his whole body, squirm around the corner of the mountain base gateway, to even see the bars.

  He fell, in full view of the opening. The sight horrified him. Quickly though, he crawled back to where he was.

  The wind changed, came toward him, smell of fresh blood and death a compelling argument to grasp his bow tight. He brushed the snow off and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Braxius cornered him, yet he felt the need to turn 360 degrees, setting his aim – ultimately on nothing.

  Where the hell was Gorv? Could he not at least say what he wanted? It was too quiet, the voice of the wind – the only constant sound.

  Dismas started to freeze to the bones, desperate to get out of harms way. Gorv was known by all in the king’s guard. And he was no joke. Dismas was responsible for teaching the way of the arrow, when Gorv had been accepted as recruit. He had refused. Saw it as a weakness to use a ranged weapon. Which was, of course, crazy talk.

  A howling was heard. It increased in volume, more and more. It held its sound for an unnaturally long time. The uncanny sound made Dismas close his eyes for a moment, wishing himself away. But he had to hold on to the feeling of desperation, think of a way to escape.

  He drew two arrows, ran across the gate’s path, and shot them through the bars. As they went through, he heard a sound of metal hitting metal.

  ”Did he deflect that?” No time to dwell on what was happening.

  ”Dismas, old friend. Let’s talk,” said a voice.

  It was certainly not the voice of Gorv, but given the strangeness of the situation, he accepted it as a possibilty. In that case, could he be haunted in some way? Judging by the sound of what would have to be his dog, it too was affected in a terribly cursed manner.

  ”Talk about what, you murderer?” he whispered.

  ”Your death. How would you like it served? You seem cold,” he said, shrieking between words.

  He felt an unease at that, that uneven voice. It did not fit the description of anyone, or anything, that he ever came across. How Gorv, or whatever it was, heard him – that was a dark, dark mystery.

  In an instant descision Dismas yanked a handfull of ice, and threw it across the gate’s path. Then he ran. He heard the ice being hit in the air, hailing to the ground.

  His legs hurt. One was not meant to dash up the fell of Braxius like that — only The Stormrider himself had that kind of strength and stamina — but what choice did he have? He rounded the corner, and leaned against his knees, heaving, spitting. He continued up, fast walking pace. It quickly turned to a jogg. He got dizzy, looking over his shoulder more often than his eyes blinked.

  With the strangest timing, he heard the fluttering of wings.

  Kraaaw!

  Dismas felt a missing piece enter his heart again. ”Nevermore!” he said, higher than intended, forcing himself to look around, in all directions again. There was nothing else, nothing visible anyway.

  His raven krawed again, and repeated its name. ”Nevermore!”

  ”How I missed you, friend. Especially since loosing my other friends,” he said with raised eyebrows and a sadness in his voice. ”Come now, Nevermore, we have to reach Gate-”

  He hesitated, and stopped.

  Kraaw!

  As if dispelled from a cursed magic, Dismas knew something had been messing with his head at Gate 1. For why else did he not see, nor hear, any of the other 24 guards? The defensive position was not huge, yet he was somehow convinced that the storm made him snowblind to all of his companions. They were not even a fragment in the back of his mind.

  ”That’s crazy,” he muttered. ”Nevermore, I think someone, or something is messing with me.”

  ”Dis-mas. Dismas. Kraaa! Dismas,” Nevermore said with a low rasp.

  Halfway to Gate 2, he felt safe again.

  ”Heeey! Dismas!” The shouting came from behind.

  Startled, Dismas turned, pulled an arrow and drew hard at the string – hands trembling from the cold, and the fear he thought came for him again. Relieved to see it was a fellow guard, Dismas began to un-tense his fingers. But still, he shivered and had no feeling left. The numb fingers could no longer hold it. And his eyes watched, as the arrow flew. It seemed to soar in slow motion. It got a good, long look at the man’s face, before sending his body slipping as his hands swung to his neck. His helm would have saved him, as the back of the head hit the ground hard, were it not for the projectile – resting, halfway through his throat.

  Dismas knew it was too late for the guard. Rend, they called him, an artist with his knives, much like himself. They used to practice the knife game and throwing techniques, years ago. But no more. He’d made sure of that.

  ”Oh, my good God!” The voice came from further down, as Rend had.

  The raven, Nevermore, flew after Dismas, who ran further up the fell mountain path. The gurgling of Rend subsided, gone with the roaring wind. A feint wailing was heard far behind them.

  ”What have I done, Nevermore?”

  Kraaaaw! ”What have I done?!” his bird repeated.

  He had to run again. Had to try. Try or die.