Chapter Three: A Deadly Impasse

The phalanx of the Black Iron Dwarf army lay concealed within the endless darkness, silently watching the brilliantly illuminated castle ten miles ahead. When the swarm of Bat Riders swept overhead, surging toward the fortress, a surge of excitement flickered in the eyes of the dwarven host, poised and waiting.

At the center stood Firewine Ironhammer, commander of the Black Iron Dwarves, surrounded by four figures in black robes. He, too, was cloaked in a spacious, pitch-black mantle, but unlike the others—whose chests bore the triangular emblem of the Knights—his breast was embroidered with a black hammer and red flame. Though neither tall nor short, his stature was broad and imposing.

One black-robed figure gazed skyward, eyes fixed on the vanishing swarm of bats, watching from afar the spectacle that resembled moths drawn to a flame. Removing his hood, he said, “The Black Iron clan’s forces must continue their march, pushing to the mountain pass on the Loa Road—at least within two miles of Blackstone Fortress—only then can you coordinate with my Bat Riders. I do not wish for our attack to begin while the main host lags behind, crawling slowly in the rear.”

Another figure, tall and burly, wore red gloves and bore the insignia of the Highland Giants on his arm. In a hoarse voice, he replied, “Lowly race, unclean beings—just do your part. The other end of Loa Road is land sanctified by the gods’ prayers. You cannot enter. Complete this raid, return to the Western Reaches, and you can at last build your Bat Kingdom in the endless icy mountains. For now, withdraw—let your men await the signal.”

A scholarly man’s voice sounded—the leftmost of the black-robed figures, a tall and slender silhouette. He extended an unusually pallid hand, the fingers long and sharp, a small raven embroidered in gold thread at his cuff. Adjusting his spectacles, he squinted and smiled. “If my information is correct, our enemy will be a duke commanding the Radiant Empire’s forces. Should we capture him, he would make a fine bargaining chip.”

“Who?”

A cold, youthful voice sneered, “Surely you’ve all heard that illustrious name—his ancestors once pronounced the highest judgment upon our clan.” This slender, black-robed figure bore a strange magical sigil upon his shoulder.

The Bat Lord seemed about to inquire further, but Firewine Ironhammer waved him off. As the proud leader of the mightiest dwarven clan within the forbidden Icepeak Mountains, he could not bear the incessant chatter—nor did he wish to hear again the name of the pioneer’s descendant who had once driven them into exile.

He gazed silently at the brilliant lights of Blackstone Fortress, refusing to order the advance—waiting, it seemed, for some signal, some opportune moment. At last, a faint red glow appeared in the sky beyond the fortress.

He stepped forward. At that instant, with a forceful sweep of his hand, the deep blare of horns sounded behind him, echoing through the Loa Road gorge.

An arrow streaked through the air, its arc gleaming in the darkness—thus began the assault of the allied tribes of the Icepeak Mountains upon the last remaining land of Cyprus.

Damn!

Within the Stevenson family’s manor—

Carlos sat quietly at the head of the table, smiling elegantly as he watched the four seated below him—now restored to human appearance after washing, wolfing down their food with ravenous haste. “An interesting tale. So you say that after gathering the herbs, the beasts in the valley charged out of the mountains in a frenzy, forcing you to hide in a secret cave, thus delaying your return, making escape impossible before the snows closed off the mountains?”

Anderson glanced at Carlos and said slowly, “Thousands upon thousands of beasts—far greater than any beast tide I’ve ever witnessed.”

“So, you saw them leave the mountains with your own eyes?” Solly, knife and fork in hand, replied, “We believe so. The beasts moved in great herds toward the foothills. It seems clear they left the Rodney Mountains—what other explanation could there be?”

Carlos remarked coolly, “Yet, in truth, no bounty hunter returning from Rodney detected anything amiss. Nearly two months have passed since the snows began, and on the western side of the mountains, no trace of a beast tide has been found. Where did they go?”

“Maybe they circled the ridge and went south,” Conrad, seated at the far end of the table, suggested.

The room fell silent as all present pondered.

What lay to the north? Another mountain range—more precipitous, bisecting Cyprus east to west. But there were no towns to the north, save for Blackstone Fortress, which guarded the Loa Road.

No, it couldn’t be over the ridge—Rodney’s southern border was the sea, home to the Empire’s most formidable navy. Carlos sprang to his feet, exclaiming loudly.

“Grant! Send the Night Watchers north at once—let them search for any sign of a beast tide, then return immediately.”

Carlos looked stricken. During winter, the beasts could cross the near-desolate eastern Cyprus, their scent and tracks masked by blizzards, cutting straight north by the quickest path. Their goal was northward—a flawless, astonishing plan.

Someone was controlling this army of beasts in the Rodney Mountains.

Carlos shuddered, murmuring, “They’re heading north—north…”

Yes, if north, there was only one possibility: the Loa Road beneath the watch of Blackstone Fortress.

Trembling, Carlos roared, “We go to Blackstone Castle! Summon the trainee knight-guards and all remaining Night Watchers. We depart at once—north to Blackstone!”

Anderson, grasping the gravity of the situation, nonetheless shook his head. “But it’s a blizzard outside. We’ll move slowly. By the time we arrive—”

Conrad, sensing the shift in atmosphere, hesitated. “What exactly has happened?”

“Is that so?” Carlos went pale, his dark eyes shifting to Grant, who hurried into the room.

Grant approached Carlos and whispered, “Young master, your teacher, Dubuyi, has stopped the Night Watchers from leaving.”

“Why is the old man here?” Carlos asked in surprise.

Grant had no answer.

At that moment, an old man, stooped and frail, entered through the main door. He glanced at Carlos, slowly removed his snow-spattered cloak, and offered only a polite nod to those at the long table. “Young ones, gather your things—we’re heading south.”

Carlos stared at his teacher Dubuyi for a long time, searching the gaunt face for any clue. After a moment, as if his heart had been pierced and consumed by fire, his lips bloodless and trembling, he whispered, “Teacher… what’s going on?”

Dubuyi looked fondly at his gifted student and smiled faintly. The small, wizened old man, face deeply lined, seemed hunched beneath the weight of a century’s burdens.

He regarded Carlos with calm resolve. “Carlos, I come at your father’s behest. If there is no word of battle at the front before the Winter’s End festival, you are to leave Cyprus immediately and take shelter at Swordmaster’s Port.”

“Swordmaster’s Port…” Carlos mouthed the name, then looked up. “Teacher, what has happened? You know, don’t you? I beg you—tell me! Why would my father do this?”

A shadow of sorrow flickered across Dubuyi’s ancient face. He sighed helplessly. “Two hundred thousand imperial troops perished in West Cyprus—how can a mere two thousand mercenaries at Blackstone Fortress withstand the Black Iron army? This war was lost from the start! And now—they are beset on all sides.”