Forward. Through thickets, past dangerous open clearings, across ravines veiled in fog, through glades and windfalls, in search of trails that could lead north along safe routes, bypassing the outposts of the Lynx Clan. Over Regerlim, the gloom thickened, clouds covered the whole sky, and the rain fell in a solid wall, washing away the ground and turning it into a liquid mess of mud, pine needles, and fallen leaves. But this worked to Aok’s advantage. During such a downpour, they could not be tracked by scent, the water erased boot prints, and the druids would not notice chance travelers, even if they passed within a dozen feet of a lookout post. Aok navigated the terrain, his instincts helped him keep confidently northward without a single star in the sky, and Petros trusted him. Saelin hobbled along, leaning on Petros’s shoulder. Vergilius, limping badly on his injured leg, was supported by the druid.

  They walked for a very long time without the slightest rest. They knew that any stop for the night in this place could be their last. The day came to an end, yet the rain did not stop. It seemed that everything that could get soaked had soaked through—their bags of rations, cloaks, clothes, and undergarments—but they stubbornly wiped the streams running down their faces and hair and pressed on. The forest grew denser, the trails narrower and more winding. Shapes melted away in the heavy twilight until everything around them blended into a monotonous dark mass. Aok slowed down, afraid of losing his bearings. By the time night fully covered Regerlim, they had been walking for no less than three or four hours. They could have gone further, but at some point, Saelin could not endure it. He stumbled and slipped limply off Petros’s shoulder, collapsing to the ground.

  "I can’t…" he almost sobbed. Petros quickly lifted him and gasped: his friend’s face was as pale as a sheet of paper. "I won’t… Petros, I won’t move another step. I’m done, to hell with it all! Better I die here, let those man-eaters roast me alive—I can’t go any farther!"

  Petros glanced at Aok.

  "We’ll stop," Aok shrugged. "Spend the night. Fill your flasks while you can, better save the food—we’ll eat tomorrow. If we live till morning."

  The rain stopped only by dawn. Petros and Aok took turns keeping watch, while Saelin and Vergilius slept wrapped in their sacks. Saelin moaned and twitched in his sleep, his hands trembled, veins bulged, and it was clear the werewolf’s poison had already begun its irreversible work on his body.

  They rose with the first rays of the sun, which appeared far beyond the black treetops of the pines. They breakfasted quickly on hardtack and strips of dried meat. Saelin ate nothing. He vomited twice and had weakened so much that Petros had to half-carry him in his arms.

  But the forest was quiet and strangely empty. At first, Aok froze at every rustle, Petros flinched and prepared to grab his weapon, bracing for the worst—for hordes of enraged savages leaping from behind the trees… None of that happened, and by the end of the day, they were weary from the tension, accustomed to the feeling of danger breathing down their necks. They walked on, indifferent to everything.

  The second night passed just like the first. Petros was collapsing with fatigue, but dutifully relieved Aok every two hours. He no longer listened to the silent trunks of ancient pines or noticed the faint whisper of branches in the wind. What troubled him far more were his own thoughts about who might have been behind all this. He suspected everyone, even those who now slept peacefully just a few steps away.

  And he was especially intrigued by the golden brooch he had taken from Saelin and now carried in the pocket of his cloak.

  It was around noon when they stumbled upon crates and sacks lying in the middle of the path.

  "Ballast," muttered Petros. "Axel dropped ballast…"

  In one of the crates, they found muskets and cartridges, and they armed themselves, feeling a little more confident. After another hour’s march through the forest, a clearing loomed ahead. Petros ignored it and instinctively veered to one side, planning to skirt the dangerous spot. But Aok stopped him:

  "Look there…"

  He saw. And at first, he could not believe his eyes. But the charred, broken bulk lying in the clearing beneath fallen trees could be nothing other than the wreckage of their aerostat, and the huge, torn yellowish canvas tangled in the pine crowns could only be its balloon.

  "Damn me…" muttered Petros and staggered. He scanned the clearing, saw arrows stuck into the surrounding trees, corpses of druids, clear signs of battle. "We need to go there," he said firmly. "What if they… also… lie there…"

  "And if someone is watching the clearing?"

  "There’s no one here." Petros glanced around again. "They would have cleared the bodies. For some reason, they left in a hurry… If they had had more time, they would have taken the arrows and buried their comrades."

  "You’re right," Aok agreed after a pause. "Then there’s a chance your friends are alive, if they escaped and the Clan warriors chased them. Let’s see what’s left of the aerostat…"

  Stepping over druid corpses, they circled the charred remains of the gondola, came across rifles with spent magazines, found bags of rations, as well as chests with equipment and personal belongings, still intact. Only one thing was missing: Petros’s chest.

  "Those sons of whores," muttered Petros after searching every corner and making sure the chest hadn’t fallen somewhere nearby. Cold sweat broke out on him. "They knew!" he shouted into the empty air, furious. Aok shrank back and hissed in alarm. "They knew, damn it! Who betrayed me? Konrad? Axel? That bastard Nubel?"

  "Enough shouting!" Aok scolded him in a hushed voice. "I’ll help you get out alive if you keep quiet. I’ll lead you out of the forest. Just tell me, where to?"

  "North, damn it. To Ardrai. I won’t turn back. Not now…" Petros thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the key and the brooch. His eyes burned with madness. "Now I have everything," he said. "Almost. I’ll have it all when I find those bastards."

  "And Saelin?" asked Aok. "It’s no less than three weeks’ journey to Ardrai from here, Petros. He won’t survive such a long march…"

  Petros slapped his forehead.

  "Ashley’s satchel," he said. "It has alchemical equipment, elixirs, and ingredients. We’ll try to make an antidote."

  The satchel lay on its side in a corner, but its inside was lined with soft fabric so that even heavy blows would not damage fragile flasks and beakers. Petros broke the ordinary lock with a found battle-axe, pushed the lid back, kneeling and peering inside. Aok helped him. There was no special elixir inside, but Aok, who knew potions well, selected several vials and pouches with herbs.

  Not far from the airship, he lit a fire, set a kettle over it, heating the water, stirring, carefully tossing in herbs and powders, muttering incantations. Then he poured in decoctions from Ashley’s vials. About an hour passed before the mixture was ready. Aok filled a beaker and brought it to Saelin’s face, who lay sprawled weakly on the grass.

  "It’ll be nasty," the druid warned. "But you must drink it. All of it. And then I’ll give you another dose every few hours."

  Saelin only rasped something incoherent in reply, opened his mouth, and Aok poured the contents of the beaker down his throat. For a moment, he was silent, staring blankly ahead, then his eyes suddenly closed, and he slowly toppled onto his side. Petros leaped forward, rushing to him, but he suddenly convulsed violently, trembling all over, his eyes shut tight, groaning dully into the wet grass…

  "Easy!" Aok stopped Petros with his hand. "This is normal, it has to be this way if the poison’s been spreading in the body for several days already. I’ve seen people who had to be tied to trees after this, and in their agony they tore the trunks up by the roots… It’s fine. We’ll wait."

  "When will he wake up?" Petros, somewhat calmed, caught his breath, watching Saelin still twitching, teeth clenched, making only a horrible guttural sound.

  "Not soon," Aok muttered. "You’ll have to carry him. I mixed a sedative into the elixir so his body wouldn’t resist the reaction."

  "And what will be the result? The poison neutralized?"

  "Not exactly." Aok fell silent, sighed heavily.

  "Well?" Petros pressed him.

  "Irreversible changes have already taken place. In his appearance, there will be something… lupine. But he will be able to control the process of turning into an animal and back, to keep his reason. The transformation will no longer depend on lunar phases. In short, he will become like an ordinary polymorph mage."

  "So he’ll be able to turn into a wolf whenever he wishes?"

  "Exactly."

  Petros said nothing, waved his hand. They had done all they could.

  ***

  It seemed this journey would never end. The fear was gone, leaving only one desire—to not die of exhaustion before reaching somewhere, anywhere. Aok said he knew the way to Ardrai and was leading them along the right path, and so every morning Petros awoke hoping to see the forest edge and towers with banners in the distance, and with the same hope, he fell asleep each night on the damp ground, wrapping himself in his bedroll against the chill.

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  Saelin regained consciousness after about two weeks, or so; Petros had lost count of the days, knowing only that June had already begun. It happened one evening at camp. The scholar suddenly rasped, coughed, and stirred slowly, blinking swollen eyelids. During the time Aok had been dosing him with healing elixirs, his face had changed beyond recognition. It became pale, with bright blue threads of veins, skin dry and wrinkled, his front teeth lengthened and deformed into wolfish fangs, his lips thin and bloodless, and in his opened eyes, fine red filaments of burst vessels showed. He opened his mouth, choked, wheezed, flailing feebly with arms practically atrophied from immobility.

  "Easy." Aok hurried to him, propping him up. "Don’t struggle. Can you hear me? What’s your name?"

  "Eh… Eh… Erik Saelin!" the scholar managed to croak in one breath, his head thrown back, staring helplessly at the sky.

  "Excellent," the druid nodded. "Memory is intact. Do you remember what happened to you?"

  "Vaguely," Saelin muttered. "Tomb… Sarcophagus… Werewolves…"

  "Bravo. The human body works miracles. Such regenerative ability is enviable."

  "Damn it… Water… Why can’t I move? Where are we? Petros! Explain… something…"

  "Somewhere in the northern part of Regerlim," Petros said, holding a flask to his lips. "We’re heading north. To Ardrai."

  "We… You… Have you found out?.. Where… next? Where do we go?"

  "I know everything," Petros whispered, bending to his ear. "I’ll tell you as soon as you’re stronger. I can only promise one thing: we’re moving in the right direction. Now the main goal is to reach Ardrai."

  "And my… my son?! Hector?"

  Petros looked at him. Saelin managed to turn his head slightly, leaning forward, his gaze burning into his friend. Truly, such endurance was inhuman, Petros thought, though there had to be an explanation.

  "Petros," Saelin said quietly, barely restraining the fury bursting out of him, "where is my son?!!"

  ***

  "I’m worried about that too," Axel said darkly, prodding the brushwood of the fire with a stick, on which the meat of a wild boar he had killed was roasting. "Where they dragged Hector off to. And why the hell did they suddenly retreat from this part of the forest, so that for two weeks we haven’t run into a single druid, even though we’ve been keeping strictly to the northern course." He raised his eyes and looked across at Nubel, who sat opposite. "Well, Mr. Genius? Any sound ideas on that?"

  "I don’t know," Nubel muttered. "Everything went completely differently than I had planned."

  "Oh? Then tell us, how exactly did you plan it?" Axel demanded mockingly. "What was the perfect plan, and what went wrong?"

  "We were supposed to fly to Ardrai. The druids were supposed to come to our camp. But not for Hector—for Petros. And not the Lynx Clan, but the Owl Clan."

  "You’re joking?" Konrad asked incredulously. "You mean to say Hector wasn’t taken on your tip-off?"

  Nubel shook his head. In his eyes was the same confusion as in everyone else’s.

  "By Aktos, I swear, it wasn’t part of the plan—or if it was, I knew nothing of it," he said hoarsely.

  "Wonderful," Ashley said. "Because otherwise it would mean that us being stuck in the middle of this forest, lost, in the land of druid man-eaters—that’s also part of the plan. And in that case, honestly, I’d make you find us a way out—let that be part of the plan too… You know what? I think that’s a good idea regardless. It’s thanks to you we ended up here, so you’ll be the one to lead us out."

  "I have no idea where to go," Nubel muttered. "And we’re all in the same danger. Let’s be honest with ourselves: right now our chances of getting out of here are very slim…"

  Suddenly, Axel jumped up, raising his sword, his face twisted. Nubel fell silent and turned in horror. All four of them stared at a figure that until now had blended with the forest, only becoming visible as it stepped right up to the fire. It was a druid. In his hands was a drawn bow.

  We’re finished, Ashley thought. Axel shielded her with his body. Konrad and Nubel also sprang up, Konrad snatching a burning brand from the fire.

  "You—Petros’s people?" the druid asked calmly, halting.

  "Yes," Axel answered for them all, nervously. He was still bracing for a fight, but the druid slowly lowered his bow.

  "Put away your weapons," he said. "I am here to guide you through the forest to a human settlement. The nearest village is Buttlecreek. From there, you can use human transport to leave Regerlim."

  "How… how did you find us?" Axel lowered his sword. His head was spinning.

  The druid looked grim and aloof.

  "Gather your things. We’re leaving," he said. "I’ll take you to Buttlecreek. I am hired by Petros."

  ***

  "Calm down," Petros said coldly and firmly.

  Saelin slowly straightened, unclenched his fists, and stepped back. He had regained his strength in barely five days, thanks to constant exercise, and Petros marveled at where this man found such inner power that allowed him to work miracles. What drove him? What made him fight weakness and move forward toward their goal, even if vague and uncertain? Petros did not know.

  "For five days now we’ve been trudging north like idiots!" Saelin shouted. "I see no work, no planning, no discussion of what we’ll do when we reach the city! I see no one even thinking about how we’ll find my son! And if you, Petros, say that word ‘surely’ one more time—‘surely they’re waiting for us in Buttlecreek!’—then I swear I won’t hold myself back, I’ll smash your smug face in, understood?!"

  Petros said nothing. Vergilius, frightened, backed away, silent. Aok also kept silent, his face showing clear unease. Both felt that it was best not to interfere between the two right now.

  "We’ve been betrayed, Petros!" Saelin said with venom. "Betrayed, do you understand?! And it was done by one of ours. Haven’t you wondered why? Haven’t you thought about why they abandoned us and flew off, why later the aerostat crashed, where they headed afterwards? Why have we never found the body of the traitor? I’m sure they’re all in on it. That slick Nielder of yours, that mumbling Nubel, that secretive Axel—all of them! And my son is left among traitors! Anything could happen to him. Maybe they’ve already killed him as a useless witness and buried him in the forest, or maybe they’ve told him you, and I have long been dead!"

  "Calm down," Petros repeated. "Listen. First of all, if we didn’t find any bodies near the airship, that means Hector is in no danger. Erik, I swear to you, he’s alive, safe, unharmed! Do you hear me? I swear it!"

  "Your oaths are worth little," Saelin muttered. "You know, Petros, I find myself trusting you less and less. When we set out on this expedition, we thought we were certain of everything! By now, we should have reached our destination, returned to Ardrai, and with pride and honor received congratulations from the Mages’ Guild! And now you’ve got nothing left! They even stole the Vaimarakirian from us!"

  "But now we have a clear goal!" Petros snapped. "Saelin, our shrine—it’s right here before us, we have the key to it, and we know where it is! We’ll reach Ardrai, tell no one, stock up on tools and provisions—and set out into the mountains! We’ll reach the shrine, we’ll go through it to the very end—to Scarlet’s tomb itself! We have the key and the brooch, that’s enough to claim the Star! And then everything will be in our hands! And after that—we’ll find them, Saelin. We’ll find your son and the traitors. And they’ll regret ever trying to rob us and leave us behind."

  "The Star?" Vergilius repeated slowly. Both Petros and Saelin turned toward him at once. "The Star? Surely you mean the Star of Vaimar, gentlemen scholars? Better known in mythology and chronicles as Octarus?"

  "You let it slip," Saelin said indifferently, turning back to Petros. "But I don’t care anymore. Let’s tell them everything. We’re all in the same mess."

  "Yes, the time is ripe," Vergilius said slowly. "It seems my suspicions are being confirmed. Well then, my friends, tell me—what was the true cause of all our wanderings and troubles? For the sake of what am I dying in this damned forest?"

  Petros smirked.

  "The time machine, Vergilius," he said.

  ***

  Of the dozens of hunting and fishing villages scattered between the North-Vaimar mountain ridge and the gloomy edge of Regerlim, the village of Buttlecreek lay the farthest south. Trade routes ended there—it was the final stop for peddlers and smugglers who dared not travel farther into the dark forest, instead turning back toward Ardrai. The locals made their living the same way people did in other villages shadowed by great cities: there were a few apiaries, small grain fields, a smithy, and a rather large inn, usually full of travelers. A few dozen households sent their people daily to work in Ardrai, and beyond that, this Aktos-forsaken place had nothing.

  Ashley, Axel, Konrad, and Nubel emerged from the forest at the edge of the village. Ashley glanced back one last time, but the druid who had led them there had already vanished into the trees. During the journey, he had explained almost nothing. All they managed to get out of him was that "Petros hired him to help," and that he had received the order even before the aerostat had crashed. None of the four travelers understood a thing.

  Exhausted beyond measure, they made their way to the village’s only inn, and that evening it seemed a miracle: after weeks of wandering, they were sitting by a hearth, wrapped in dry blankets, eating the innkeeper’s stew and washing it down with hot herbal brew. Ashley felt utterly drained. At that moment, she wanted only one thing: to sleep in a soft bed, and the next day to flee as fast as she could. Away from that dreadful forest where every shadow sought to kill you. South. Back to her homeland, Aktida. To Roger. Just to hold him once more. Just to let him know she was alive.

  She no longer believed Petros or Hector would ever make it out of Regerlim.

  "What will we do?" she asked quietly, once she had eaten her fill and felt warmth and drowsiness spreading through her. "Shall we go to Ardrai?"

  "Better—to Steiling, and from there south," Axel said, and Ashley’s heart leaped with joy. "Konrad, I ask you—go with Ashley. Return to Vairad and wait there for news."

  "And you?"

  "I’ll stay here. I’ll try to contact the druids. If Petros really knew beforehand that we’d need his help… Who knows, maybe he foresaw all of this? Maybe Aok will lead him, Vergilius, and Saelin here too? Maybe it’s all part of his grand plan? Honestly, I no longer understand anything, but I want to. Or at least to make sure they’re dead."

  "You’ll do this, Axel?" Ashley asked. "Please, find out whatever you can… I wish I could help. But I feel that…" She had wanted to say I can’t go on anymore, but choked on the words, falling silent. Axel took her hand, smiled warmly.

  "I’ll manage, Ashley. I promise. I’ll be calmer knowing you and Konrad are safe. So don’t worry about me—just leave quickly. I’ll contact you as soon as something becomes clear."

  "And you, Nubel?" Konrad asked coldly, nudging the scholar with his elbow. "What will you do?"

  "I’m going to Ardrai," Nubel replied stubbornly.

  "To meet your master?" Axel asked mockingly.

  "He’s not my master!" the scholar snapped. "He’s my friend—and he understands me far better than any of you! You know what? To hell with you all!" With that, Nubel leaped to his feet, swept them with a furious glare, and stormed out of the inn’s hall, slamming the door. No one even stirred to follow him.

  "Let him go," Axel waved dismissively. "He won’t get far. Once we’re back in Aktida, we’ll write a full report of everything he did. He’ll be imprisoned anyway for sabotaging the expedition."

  ***

  On a rainy evening, when Petros opened the door of the tavern under the signboard The Squirrel’s Tail, he saw more or less exactly what he expected. And what he expected was a dark room with smoke-stained walls and ceiling, poor lighting, dozens of damp, roughly nailed-together tables crowded with the local working folk, a bar counter in the corner, and a bay alcove for card players screened off from the main hall by a curtain. And, at one of the tables not far from the entrance, a man sat watching hungrily every newcomer who stepped inside.

  At the sight of Petros, he leaped up. Took a step forward. Saelin, entering right after Petros, froze—first joy flashed across his face, then amazement and fear. The scholar swept his eyes around the room, searching for familiar faces. He found none.

  "Where—" he began, but Petros pressed a finger to his lips.

  "Not here."

  They hurriedly stepped back outside. At the sight of the new arrival, Vergilius gasped. Petros slammed the tavern door shut, grabbed their recent ally by the hand, dragged him around the corner, pinned him to the wall, and hissed:

  "Well, Nubel! What happened? Care to tell us what the hell went on—why we ended up stranded without the aerostat, forced to haul ourselves north through Regerlim for over three weeks? Care to explain why you’re here alone, and where the others are? Well, Nubel?"