Chapter 3 The Mountain Forest

The village blacksmith’s forge was a sweltering pit of roaring flames and stinging sparks, the kind of heat that made your skin feel like it was blistering even from ten feet away. Kaelen stood near the anvil with his thick arms folded across his chest, watching the smith pound a brutal edge onto a set of heavy iron shackles.

“I need these lined with this,” Kaelen said, tossing a fat, dark glass vial onto the scarred workbench. The purple liquid inside rolled thick and slow, like oil mixed with something worse. It was Witchbane. Squeezed from a shady charm-seller down the road. It was a mix of Onyx Nightshade and liquid lead, meant to seep into the skin and kill any trace of black magic it touched.

The blacksmith, a broad man whose face was permanently stained with soot, picked up the vial and gave a skeptical grunt. “Lacing your steel with witchbane now, Hound? And the cuffs too? That’s a heavy tab you’re running up. My iron isn’t cheap, and that charm-weaver doesn’t hand out her brews for free.”

“You’ll get your silver, smith,” Kaelen answered flatly. “Every coin, plus interest. When I come back from the south with that heap of gold, I’ll buy your whole damn forge if I feel like it. Just put it on my tab for now.”

The smith paused, hammer hovering. He looked Kaelen over, his battle-scarred frame, the cold certainty in his eyes, and let out a low chuckle. “Dozens of men have gone into the Boreas Wilds after that witch. Mercenaries, rangers, the lot of them. None came back. What makes you think you’re any different?”

Kaelen stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the glow of the anvil. A crooked smirk pulled at the scar on his lip. “Because they were sheep chasing a wolf. I’m the best hunter in Eldervale. If it breathes, I can track and hunt it. And I will.”

The blacksmith held his gaze a moment longer, then shook his head with a rumble of laughter. “Aye, I suppose you are, Hound. May the old gods watch over you. Your steel alone won’t be enough if even half the stories told about the witch are true.”

An hour later Kaelen had everything ready. He’d coated his double-bitted axe, sword, daggers, and throwing blades with the harsh smelling potion. His sturdy wagon was packed with dried meat, liquor, wool blankets, and grain for the horse. He hitched his dark mare, climbed up, and drove out of the village toward the snow-covered mountain passes that led west.

The wind blizzards that was up the mountain cut like knives. It found every gap in your clothes and turned your blood sluggish. Kaelen sat hunched on the driver’s seat, fur cloak pulled tight, guiding the mare along the narrow, treacherous ledges.

They were deep into the frozen heights, far from any village or road, when a small sound cut through the howling gale.

“Achoo!”

Kaelen’s hands tightened on the reins. The noise had come from the big storage crates at the back of the wagon. The ones loaded with cargo and extra supplies.

Swearing under his breath, he yanked the horse to a stop. He swung down, dagger already in hand, and stormed to the rear. He flung open the lid of the largest crate expecting to see a thief.

There, wedged between sacks of grain, was Peter—curled up, blue-faced, teeth chattering like loose dice. The boy looked up and tried for a sheepish grin.

“M-Master Hound,” he stammered. “Fancy… fancy meeting you here. Nice carriage you’ve got. Mind if I… ride along?”

Kaelen’s face went dark with rage. He reached in, grabbed Peter by the collar of his vest, and hauled him out like a sack of potatoes. He tossed the boy into the snow.

“You arrogant little shit,” Kaelen snarled, voice rising over the wind. “I told you I work alone! You sneak onto my wagon? Steal my supplies?”

“I didn’t steal anything!” Peter protested, pushing himself up on his knees. “I just wanted to help! I can track, I know things– please don’t leave me here!”

“You’re dead weight, boy. And I don’t carry dead weight.” Kaelen turned his back, climbed back onto the seat, snapped the reins, and drove off. He didn’t look back.

The mountain swallowed the sound of the wagon wheels. Kaelen kept his eyes forward, jaw tight. In his line of work, soft feelings got you killed. The kid had made his choice.

But half a mile later, a long, chilling howl rolled through the canyon. Then another. And another.

Mountain wolves.

Kaelen cursed sharply and glanced back down the trail. That scrawny boy didn’t even have a decent blade. The pack would rip him apart before nightfall.

“Damn it all,” he growled.

He hauled the mare around and drove hard back up the icy slope.

When he crested the rise, the scene was exactly what he’d feared. Peter was stumbling through the deep snow, a huge white wolf closing fast behind him. The beast’s open jaws dripped will saliva, yellow eyes fixed on the boy’s back. Peter tripped, went down hard, and rolled over just in time to see the wolf launch into the air, claws out, aiming for his throat.

Thwack.

Kaelen’s bearded axe spun through the air and buried itself in the wolf’s neck with a wet crunch. The creature’s leap turned into a lifeless tumble, crashing into the snow inches from Peter.

Peter sat there gasping, eyes wide. Kaelen walked over, yanked the axe free, wiped the blood on the wolf’s fur, and slid it back into his belt. He didn’t offer a hand.

“Well?” he barked over his shoulder as he headed for the wagon. “You coming, or do you want to wait for the rest of the pack to come find you for a feast?”

Peter scrambled up, shaking snow from his clothes, and ran after him. “I’m coming! I’m coming, Master Hound!”

They traveled together through the freezing night and the long, gray day that followed, until the steep icy slopes finally began to ease. By the next dusk they reached the edge of the Boreas Wilds—the last outpost before the land dropped away into the wild, enchanted forests of the west.