The Last Fortress

Fools, unknowingly defending the gates of hell we perish

OUR BLOOD SHED IN VAIN FLOWS AS A RIVER OF BITTERNESS

Neither a bard's song will remain after us, nor the memory of valiant brothers

Only stones drenched in blood will know the truth.

A thin stream of blood ran down his slashed face and mingled with the sweat covering it. He breathed with difficulty, trying to draw in the freezing winter air that stabbed into his lungs with a hundred tiny needles. The longsword in his hand was coated in dark blood, dripping straight onto the ripped-open corpse lying at his feet. He was still struggling to keep his balance, but with stubborn effort he turned and looked at the walls behind him. He shouted as loudly as he could.

– Scout! Scout!

At that moment, a man of similar build and dress appeared above. He wore leather armour, his steel pauldrons engraved with three flying falcons, and a brown-green cloak fell from them over his shoulders. His features showed that he was somewhat older than the young man below, and to an untrained eye they might even have passed for brothers.

– Stop shouting and get back in here! I'm glad he's the one lying there and not you, but if you keep yelling like that, I'll have to kick your arse. – He smiled sincerely, waved a hand, and stepped back behind the wall.

Jorn sighed and ran towards the fortress's arched entrance. He burst into the small courtyard, then raced up the narrow stairs to the wall. He was utterly exhausted and in a hurry; it was no wonder that he suddenly slipped on the slick steps leading to the wall surrounding the three towers. Hiding his pain, he sprang to his feet so quickly that if his friend had not caught him, he might have fallen straight off the wall.

– Jorn, damn it, are you trying to kill yourself?

– No, Savar, there's no need for me to risk my own life... That one down there will take care of me.

– Damn right! And if your man really is a scout and not some common highwayman who wandered into an empty fortress, then he's certainly not alone. His partner is lurking around here somewhere!

– Yes, I know what you're going to say. Manrani scouts always travel in pairs. – He rolled his eyes wearily as he leaned against the wall, letting the leg he had struck against the edge of the step when he fell rest for a moment. – I know, I know – he waved away the older man's words – we absolutely have to find and kill the other one too, so he can't tell his people there are only two of us here... The last thing we need is for him to bring an entire unit down on us...

For a moment, even he was surprised. Only a few months earlier, the idea that anyone would waste an entire unit on this place would have seemed absurd, for the fortress had been more prison than post. They had not been locked in a cell, no guard stood at the gate, and from the walls they could see unhindered all the way to the endless horizon, yet they were cut off from everything that had once meant life to them. The king had transferred them because he believed Jorn and Savar had betrayed him. Though it was not true, they had been exiled to this distant, forgotten corner of the realm, far from the court, their families, and their former lives. No one had said how long they were to remain; perhaps that was the cruellest part of the punishment. Beyond the walls lay the endless world, yet both of them knew they could easily spend the rest of their lives here without anyone beyond their horizon caring whether they were even still alive.

They could simply have left. But then they would become fugitives and truly commit the very act for which they had been innocently exiled: betrayal. So they had no choice but to obey the king's order. For Savar, who had once held rank and responsibility, made decisions affecting the fate of multitudes, and married into the aristocracy, this was especially difficult to bear. The days ground away between the empty walls as if reflecting his own insignificance back at him, every crawling minute hammering home that perhaps his former sense of self-worth had been nothing more than an illusion. Jorn, by contrast, clung obsessively to the belief that one day he would have a chance to prove to the king that he had been wrong about them.

Then, from one day to the next, the Manrani war gave meaning to their presence there. The fighting reached the borderlands, and the road running past the fortress, barely used until then, became one of the supply routes for the royal troops fighting on the frontier. Food, weapons, and fresh soldiers could travel along it towards the front. The fortress had to be defended so that the Manrani could not cut the troops on the border off from the interior of the realm. Jorn and Savar's orders were simple: hold the fortress and secure the road until they were relieved. If the enemy learned that only two men remained behind the walls, even a small force could seize the place and endanger the royal forces fighting on the frontier. For Jorn, the war finally offered a chance to prove himself; for Savar, their prison had become a real military post again for the first time in a long while. Neither of them could therefore allow the second scout to leave alive.

– Excellent! Then stop talking and start looking! We can be sure he didn't escape on horseback, because there isn't a single mount in sight for miles. – Savar's gaze swept the white, flat plain through the embrasure.

– Ha! Then they must have crawled here last night! – Jorn said, rubbing his wounded face.

– Of course, since you were on watch! – Savar shot back accusingly as he looked down from the wall. Around the three-towered fortress, open plain stretched all the way to the horizon. He would easily have spotted a fleeing figure or tracks left in the snow. He turned towards Jorn, who had visibly darkened. – I'm not blaming you. Since the front reached this far, we've barely slept... and who would have thought our first visitors would be Manrani scouts. – He walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. Looking him straight in the eye, he said emphatically: – We cannot let him live under any circumstances! Listen, let's do this: you circle the towers and search the courtyard, while I go out in front of the fortress and then check the stables to see whether he's sneaked up to our horses. Though I know our mounts would sooner carry pigs than a Manrani scout, I'll bet you a barrel of beer that's exactly where he's hiding.

– You're on! And whoever catches him first gets two nights off night watch! – Jorn added.

– Fine. – Savar shrugged. – Just don't complain when you can't keep your eyes open. – With that, he crossed his arms behind his back, seized the ornate hilts protruding from the scabbards hanging there, and with a single pull drew two beautiful swords whose steel flashed in the light of the sun sinking towards the west.

– Get moving, Jorn, and don't get yourself killed! – he called, gently shoving his companion down the stairs.

– Don't worry, I handled one; I can handle the other too! – the younger man shot back, gripping the bloody sword in both hands. When Savar reached the courtyard behind him, Jorn called back once more: – Watch yourself. Mine was surprisingly good!

The only answer he heard was another contemptuous remark:

– Against you!

He smiled to himself; it was exactly this kind of banter that made him like Savar, along with the fact that he had known him since childhood. Then he remembered that, like an idiot, he had also wagered on night watch, swore viciously under his breath, and set off at a run to find the prize of a few hours of blissful sleep.

The raven-black mount crossed the white infinity. Throwing up a white cloud of powdery snow behind it, it raced at a mad gallop. On its back rode a man dressed in magnificent steel armour. The richly decorated armour bore the marks of a recent battle; numerous dents, cracks, and stains of dried blood testified to the extraordinary brutality of the clash. The rider's long dark-brown hair, freed from the helmet he had thrown away several miles earlier, streamed behind him like a banner in the wind; otherwise it would have blended almost invisibly into the black cloak covering his broad shoulders, adorned with the great golden emblem of a snarling lion. The rider's tense face expressed both merciless fury and deep concern. No one, however, would have seen fear there. He was not fleeing pursuers; he was racing time itself, driving his horse to its limits and determined to win at any cost. Jorn and Savar had been his friends since childhood, and he knew exactly which godforsaken fortress the king had exiled them to. The news he carried could not wait; he had to warn them in person before it was too late.

Savar cautiously stepped through the gate and scanned the horizon. The darkness covering everything was slowly thickening; the sun, which only recently had been visible above the horizon, was now no more than a fiery glow. Keeping his blades ready, he slowly approached the scout's body. Numerous cuts marked the pale corpse. When he saw the fatal wound, driven precisely through the narrow gap between two armour plates just below the left breast, he smiled appreciatively. He would have to congratulate Jorn, he thought, but then his attention was caught by a faintly gleaming object hanging around the dead man's neck. He knelt, drove one of his swords into the ground beside the body, and seized the pendant with his right hand. It was a triangular-cut crystal set in steel. He immediately realised that its dark scarlet colour, clearly visible despite the falling night, did not come from the blood covering the corpse. In the centre of the ruby was engraved the emblem of a two-headed dragon with spread wings. Savar flinched. He knew the sign of the Bloody Dragons. So Jorn had not killed a Manrani scout... But what was one of the elite bodyguards protecting the infamous generals of the Manrani army doing here? And had others come with him? With a quick movement he tried to tear off the chain, but it proved so strong that the corpse's head merely jerked up and struck the frozen ground again. The dull knock merged with the whistle of a sword suddenly descending. Savar, still on one knee, slashed behind him with the sword in his hand as fast as lightning. He did not turn; he could only hope he had managed to parry the blow. A second later, the ring of colliding blades split the air, and a quiet grunt escaped the surprised opponent who had been certain of an easy victory. Hearing it, Savar sprang up and turned left in mid-air. He struck backhanded, trying to seize the opportunity, but his blow missed. Even so, it saved his life, for his blade once again met the edge of a Manrani sword poised to strike.

The enemy's long, broad blade slid off Savar's weapon and painfully wounded his forearm, while the tremendous force of the blow hurled him backwards. As he fell, he extended his right hand and rolled over his shoulder, avoiding the strike of another opponent whose sword, missing Savar as he rolled away, bit deep into the frozen corpse. Ignoring his wounded forearm, Savar rolled over his shoulders several times, then pushed himself up from the ground and sprang to his feet, tossing the sword from his left hand into his right as he rose. He glanced at the dark figures rushing towards him. He could not make out their faces clearly, but he saw that they were dressed exactly like the man whose body he had just examined.

– Stop, you treacherous dogs! – he shouted, a cloud of vapour bursting from his mouth. He sincerely doubted anyone would stop at such a command, so, tightening his grip on his sword hilt, he immediately added: – Who are you, creeping in here like treacherous snakes?!

To his surprise, the runners stopped, and at a distance of two sword-lengths lowered the heavy swords they had been gripping in both hands towards the ground.

– You know very well who we are! – one of them said.

– And that should be enough to make you throw down your weapon and surrender, good knight! – said the other, flinging the last words at Savar's feet like an insult. – If you want to keep your life, that is – he added mockingly.

– So this is how the Bloody Dragons fight? Two against one, from behind? You've turned into cowardly hyenas, and you still expect me to surrender, scum?! – Savar roared at the top of his lungs, pretending that his hearing had also been damaged in the fight and hoping to draw Jorn's attention. The men before him had spoken the truth: he knew who they were, and that made it equally obvious that he needed help. What he did not know was that Jorn did too.

Jorn dodged another vertical slash while knocking his opponent's sword towards the floor, which proved a fatal mistake. Using the force of the blow, the attacker twisted his sword slightly, allowing it to slide beneath Jorn's blade and sink into the young man's left thigh. Jorn screamed. Because he remained on his feet, at first it was impossible to tell whether he cried out from surprise, pain, or rage – but when his attacker leapt back and the withdrawn sword widened Jorn's wound, his savage roar made the answer clear. Few warriors could have withstood his fury. He struck his opponent twice with powerful blows and, heedless of the blood pouring from him, pressed forward with grim determination.

He had found his opponent stepping out of an underground passage whose existence he had known nothing about. A broad crack in the tower's stone floor proved to conceal a hidden stairway leading beneath the fortress. Jorn had no time to wonder how the Manrani warrior had known of it. The man who had appeared so unexpectedly seemed even to sense Jorn stepping on his shadow in the twilight: he spun around, and his blade flashed from its sheath, scraping along the tower wall and throwing sparks into the half-darkness.

Jorn dodged another vertical slash and tried to drive his opponent down through the open stairway while also attempting to attract Savar's attention, whom he had last seen by the gate. The next blow, however, was so powerful that he nearly fell. He braced one hand against the stone wall and kicked at his opponent with lightning speed, but because he had to put his weight on his bleeding leg, he nearly fainted. Fortunately, the wall held him up, and while his staggering opponent tried to regain his balance, Jorn shoved him so hard that he fell backwards into the darkness below.

– SAVAR! I found him!

The wind howling through the falling night carried his voice far away.

The rider's face was covered in hot sweat despite the frost hardening in the rapidly spreading darkness. He could feel his horse nearing the end of its strength, so with a single movement he released the strap securing his expensive shield to the animal's side and hurled it away one-handed as though it weighed no more than a feather. The shield spun rapidly before striking a snowdrift; in the moonlight flooding the white wasteland, it gleamed from afar like a black-and-gold sign. Freed of the weight, the mount gathered its last strength and increased its pace. Its rider, urging the horse's effort, began throwing off pieces of his heavy armour one after another until nothing remained but leather trousers, a shirt, and thin boots. Riding like this in the bitter cold meant certain death, but he did not care; all that mattered was whether his horse could gallop even faster. He flattened himself against its mane so his body would offer as little resistance as possible to the freezing air. Anyone wandering the snow-covered plain would have taken him for a barbarian raging in battle-madness rather than the noble knight so faithfully reflected by the armour he had cast away.

Savar advanced towards the two men without a word. They lunged at him together. Savar knocked aside the first blow, then stepped away from the second. One attacker slid onwards across the icy snow with his own momentum, lost his balance, and dropped to one knee. Savar immediately seized the moment: he pulled the sword he had earlier driven into the ground, reversed it in his hand, and struck down at the kneeling man. The blade hit him, but the hurried blow was too weak to disable him.

There was no time for more. The other man was already standing over him, sword raised above his head to strike. Savar tried to spring to his feet, but slipped and fell onto his right elbow. All he could do was throw his left arm in front of himself and blunt the blow with his sword. The blade slid off his weapon, crashed into his steel pauldron, and dented it deeply.

The first attacker was still lying on the ground. For a few moments Savar had only one opponent to deal with. Before the man could pull back his weapon, Savar slashed his arm with the sword in his left hand. From his position on the ground, the movement was weak and awkward, but the blade still cut through the armour and bit deep into the man's arm. The opponent screamed. Savar did not try to free the blade. With his left hand he forced the sword down with all his weight, pinning the man in place for a moment, while he swung the other weapon in his right. The blade struck the attacker in the side of the head. His scream merged with the sound of cracking steel and crushing bone, then he fell lifeless beside Savar, his blood staining the snow crimson.

Savar cast a single glance at the dead man, then turned towards the place where he had left the first attacker, only to find it empty. In the darkness, he could barely make out even the nearby outline of the fortress. For a moment he thought he heard Jorn's voice somewhere in the distance, but he could not tell whether his friend had truly called him or whether he had only heard the whistling of the winter wind. Slowly and silently he turned in a circle, but the night seemed impenetrable. At last he decided to return to the fortress and cautiously set off towards the gate.

Then, directly in front of him, a blade flashed out of nowhere. He parried the frontal blow with lightning speed, but in the same instant a sharp pain tore into his back and he fell into the snow. Even lying there, he kept his sword clenched in his fist. He tried to turn, but the darkness blurred before his eyes.

Jorn stood astride the opening. Time seemed to stop. He stared into its depths and would have found it difficult to say whether the darkness yawning below or the darkness of the courtyard was more impenetrable. As though merely to torment him, the enemy did not appear, though Jorn knew he had not killed him. If he could only be sure the man would stay hidden down there for another two minutes, he could reach the bow concealed in a barrel a few steps away in one corner of the wall. Savar had advised him to hide weapons throughout the fortress, and now Jorn thought of his friend's foresight with peculiar gratitude; but at the same time he worried that if he moved out of cover just as the man came up from below, he could easily be cut down.

– Where are you? Come out! – he shouted, unable to bear the tension any longer, then yelled towards the gate as well: – Savar! Saaaavaaar! – but the darkness swallowed his voice. The silent waiting became unbearable. The enemy with whom he had fought so fiercely only moments before had vanished, and standing motionless, Jorn was tormented by both the wound in his thigh and the cold. Cursing the enemy in a hundred different ways, he wondered whether the man might have broken his neck in the fall, but he had no desire whatsoever to check. – When is Savar coming back? – he muttered. – It doesn't take this long to deal with one scout... At last he started towards the barrel. He turned his back on the opening for only a few moments, but below, that was enough: the man climbed the stairs without a sound and vanished into the darkness of the courtyard.

The touch of the freezing snow brought Savar back to consciousness. The treacherous blow had not killed him. The steel plate hidden beneath his cloak had absorbed the force of the blade, and the icy snow had brought him round almost instantly. The Bloody Dragon who had just stabbed him in the back had vanished into the darkness, but he had not gone for good. Savar rolled onto his back and parried the descending blade just in time. He still could not see his opponent; in the darkness only the sword flashed again and again, now from the right, now from the left, sometimes from behind. Some of the blows were real, while at other times Savar's blade passed without resistance through a mist-like image. With great difficulty he got to his feet. He quickly understood what the other man was doing. Using magic, he mixed false strikes among the real ones, forcing Savar to parry each with all his strength. If he met a real sword, he saved his life; if he struck mist, he merely wasted his strength, but either way he had no opportunity to attack. Savar defended himself with both swords, but he could feel he would not last long. Pain tore through his left arm with every parry, the wound in his back burned viciously, and nausea swept over him. The Bloody Dragon was playing with him; it was clear he had no intention of killing him quickly.

Savar began counting the blows. From the right – real. From the left – mist. From behind – real. The next, he thought, should be mist again. The blade fell from the left, Savar parried, and metal rang against metal. Damn it! There was no pattern. His opponent kept changing the sequence of real and false attacks. But Savar noticed one thing: a real strike and an illusion never came at the same time. Savar stopped watching the darkness and looked instead at the snow around his feet. To his left, the layer of ice beneath the powder suddenly cracked, and a blade of mist passed harmlessly through his body. His invisible opponent was therefore occupied with the illusion. That was enough for Savar. He spun and struck towards the sound with both blades. The first sword found armour, the second flesh. The Bloody Dragon screamed and dropped to his knees. Savar gave him no time for another spell. One more blow finished him. No more blades flashed in the darkness.

The enemy appeared suddenly in the entrance. With a mad cry he hurled himself at Jorn, attacking with such swift, powerful blows that Jorn was soon forced backwards. The space from which he had expected an advantage proved fatal. On the stairs he had been able to attack from above, but here they stood on level ground, and it was obvious to Jorn that his opponent was the better fighter. Sooner or later he would make a mistake, he knew, and his first mistake would also be his last. He did not want to die. Not now and not like this. Gathering all his strength, he struck his opponent's sword. The blow knocked the other man back for a single instant, and Jorn muttered the spell he had never before managed to use properly. Those few words were an old family inheritance. He had tried them several times before, but usually either the sword failed to catch fire or his sleeve did.

This time it worked. Golden flame raced along the blade, lighting the night. In its glow, Jorn saw clearly for the first time his opponent's dented armour and wounds. He had done more damage in their earlier clash than he had realised.

The knight stopped.

– Fool! You'll die howling like a dog by my hand anyway!

– I'm neither a fool nor a dog! But you will learn the heat of my sword!

His opponent feinted a blow, then suddenly ran towards the hidden stairway they had just discovered. Jorn went after him. At the opening, the man turned and struck, but Jorn parried. His fiery blade scattered sparks and glowing droplets across the knight's face. The man staggered back, and in the light of the flames Jorn saw fear in his eyes for the first time.

– You'll die anyway... – the man muttered, then lost his balance and fell into the darkness below.

Jorn staggered to the edge of the opening but did not follow. He had already made the mistake of losing sight of the man once, but with a bleeding thigh and trembling hands it would have been even greater madness to pursue him into the dark. If the man was still alive, sooner or later he would have to come out.

He leaned against the wall, and all his pain returned at once: his thigh and the other wounds he had barely noticed until then. The makeshift bandage around his leg was soaked through with blood. He tore the sleeve from his coat and bound the wound tightly with the string from the bow he had finally taken from the barrel. He had no idea pain could lend him such strength, but he had no time to dwell on it, because then he heard the clash of swords.

– Savaaaar! – he shouted, running towards the gate, but he could see nothing in the darkness.

Savar, panting, rested on one knee against a sword driven into the ground. When he raised his eyes, he saw a figure burst through the fortress gate and run straight towards him. At first he thought it was Jorn, but in the pale moonlight he quickly realised it was an enemy. With tremendous effort he hauled himself upright and slashed clumsily at him. The figure dodged with ease but did not stop to fight, and Savar realised the man had no weapon; he was fleeing. Savar was too exhausted to give chase, so he merely pulled the short dagger from behind his belt and threw it after him. The blade missed its target and buried itself in the snow instead of the fleeing shadow. Savar staggered, the world blurring around him. He turned towards the fortress and, gathering what strength remained, shouted:

– Jorn, kill him! None of them can get out of here alive!

– With what? – Jorn shouted back, then glanced at the fleeing figure and recognised the man he had fought inside. So he had made it out from underground after all. – I used my bowstring to tie off my leg!

– Then find another one, throw a stone at him, I don't care! He cannot stay alive!

– How the hell did you let him escape? He ran right past you! – Jorn shot back, but said no more, because Savar collapsed.

Jorn gritted his teeth and ran back into the courtyard to find another bow. He knew they had hidden several, but he could not remember whether the nearest one was in the iron chest, among the tack, or in a bale of straw. He was lucky and found it on the first try. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up the stairs and, bracing his elbow against the wall, tried to pick out the fleeing, shrinking figure in the moonlight. He drew the bow, though his fingers were already completely numb and the ice-cold string cut into his skin. He narrowed his eyes, drew a breath, and held it. He aimed well above the fleeing figure and several metres to the left, allowing for the distance and the crosswind. Anyone who did not know what he was doing might have thought he meant to miss deliberately. Time slowed; the silence was broken only by the twang of the bowstring and the soft hiss of the arrow.

The arrow cut through the night in a long arc. At the last moment, the fleeing man seemed to hear the approaching hiss and half-turned as he ran, but it was too late. The arrow struck his chest at a joint in the breastplate. The man took a few more uncertain steps, then pitched forward onto his face, and the steadily thickening snowfall soon covered his lifeless body.

Jorn lowered the bow and sighed deeply. He had done it. His exhaustion returned with twice the force; this hellish night had to end soon. From the wall, he saw Savar sit up and examine his wounds.

– Did you see my shot? – he called down with childlike enthusiasm.

– More luck than skill! – Savar replied sourly as he hauled himself to his feet.

– Luck? Where have you seen any luck around here, my friend? That was a perfect shot. – At the same time, he knew that if he had not found the second bow in time, they would not be having this conversation now. There was no need to share that with Savar.

Meanwhile, Savar trudged over to one of the dead men and lifted his ruby pendant with the tip of his sword.

– All right, have it your way – he conceded. – But now we have a much more serious problem.

– What do you mean? We killed the scouts. No one's going to come here, you said so...

– The problem is, these weren't ordinary scouts. Four Bloody Dragons paid us a visit. – On the tip of his sword, he raised the pendant high, the pale moonlight glinting ominously across it.

Somewhere in the distance, the low howl of a wolf cut through the silence of the night.

– What? You mean I killed two of those mighty knights who make up the elite bodyguard of the Manrani generals? Ha! – Jorn rejoiced, drawing himself up proudly as far as the throbbing wound in his thigh allowed.

– Calm down! – Savar shouted at him. – I took care of two while you were playing around with that last one.

– I knew you were about to say something like that! – Jorn shouted irritably, with such force that he nearly toppled over the wall.

– The truth always hurts! – Savar chuckled.

– I don't want to point fingers at someone who missed a dagger throw from ten paces!

– I was exhausted. Besides, I wanted to give you a chance to practise with the bow.

– Kind of you. Otherwise I'd only have been bored up here... – Exhausted, he muttered to himself. – As if I'd been resting... Come inside, let's barricade the gate and light a fire. My arse is about to freeze off... And my lungs will tear themselves apart if I have to keep shouting at you in this cold...

– I'm coming! – Savar nodded. – I'll just check the last one, then we'll close the gate.

He started towards the man pierced by the arrow.

For a moment, the body seemed to move. Perhaps he said something too, but Savar did not understand. Suddenly an inexplicable sense of dread seized him, and before he could shake it off, clouds covered the moon and Savar stopped. A moment later he could no longer see his own hand; the darkness lay over him like the lid of a coffin.

The dying man no longer felt anything: neither the arrow buried in his chest, nor the warmth of his blood draining away, nor the cold snow beneath his face. Yet his lips moved, the words following one another barely audibly until at last he spoke the final syllable of the spell. A spasm ran through his body, his fingers clawed at the snow, then went limp.

For the space of a heartbeat, the plain remained silent. Then, somewhere far away, a wolf answered the spell.

Soon another voice joined it, then more, drawing ever closer. They were not approaching the fortress by chance. The dying Bloody Dragon's final spell had set a pack of demons in the shape of wolves upon the two friends.

– SAVAR! Are you there? Come back! Something's wrong! – Jorn roared.

– You're telling me? – Savar muttered, and broke into a run towards the fortress.

He had taken only a few steps when a growl rose from the darkness directly behind him. He turned, but too late. A furry body slammed into him, hot breath striking his face. Savar staggered and instinctively struck with his sword. The attacking animal fell aside with a whine, but in the darkness more paws were already pounding across the frozen snow.

– Wolves! – he shouted to Jorn.

Savar stood with his feet wide apart, trying to make out the animals prowling around him in the darkness. The first already lay dead in the snow, but he knew the others would not come one at a time.

– Cursed night! – Jorn muttered, feeling his way towards the bow he had dropped. Only then did he notice that his sword was still glowing faintly in the snow. The weak light was just enough for him to find the bow and quiver. He snatched them up and braced his elbow against the wall, but below he could see only darkness. Teeth snapped, blades rang, but Savar had vanished into the night.

– Where are you, Jorn? I could use some help! – Savar shouted.

Growling surrounded him from every direction. His blades found flesh again and again, but every time one animal fell, another leapt into its place. Savar tried to retreat in the direction where he believed the fortress lay, but the pack drew an ever tighter ring around him.

– I can't see past my own nose! – Jorn roared.

– You think I can?! Drag your arse down here, they've surrounded me!

Two dark bodies leapt at Savar at once. He struck with both swords; one wolf fell whining into the snow, while his blade knocked the other aside. He was already turning as another animal hurled itself at his knees.

Jorn snatched up the sword lying in the snow. The moment he gripped it, the blade's faint glow suddenly flared and golden flame ran along it. He was about to start down the stairs when he stopped. He looked down at the weapon, then at the blackness in which Savar was fighting.

With a great swing, he hurled the sword over the wall.

The fiery blade spun through the night, scattering flames around it, then plunged hissing into the snow a few paces from Savar. The darkness immediately retreated around it.

Jorn's breath caught.

Only now, in the flickering light, did he see how many animals had gathered below. Black and grey bodies moved behind one another, merging with the darkness, while enormous, trembling shadows danced across the snow around them. Savar was almost lost among them.

Jorn drew the bow and fired.

The first arrow struck the side of an animal leaping at Savar. He was already reaching for the next. The second wolf tumbled a few steps from Savar, then a third fell. From above, Jorn could finally see the attackers clearly, and each accurate shot gave Savar a breath of space.

– To the gate! – Jorn shouted.

Savar did not need to be told twice. Barely twenty paces separated him from the entrance. With two quick slashes he opened a path before himself, then headed towards the gap Jorn had cleared. He did not get far; the pack immediately closed behind him. One animal threw itself at his leg, another leapt at him from the side. Savar staggered but stayed upright and slashed backwards with his sword. Jorn kept firing wildly, but he could no longer thin them out fast enough.

Three wolves hurled themselves at Savar almost at once, their weight dragging him forward. He dropped to one knee, swept one animal from himself with a sword, but the next crashed into his shoulder and Savar fell into the snow.

– Savaaar! – Jorn roared.

He fired another arrow into the bodies churning around him, then looked down at the stairs. Too far. By the time he limped down on his bleeding leg, Savar would be torn apart. He threw down the bow, drew his dagger, and climbed onto the edge of the wall.

It occurred to him that perhaps this was not the best idea of his life only after he had already jumped. The icy air lashed across him, then he struck something softer than he had expected. The body of a wolf prowling at the foot of the wall absorbed part of his fall. The animal gave a grunt beneath him, and Jorn rolled aside in the snow. Pain tore through his thigh so violently that the world went dark before his eyes for a moment.

He had no time to lie there. He pushed himself to one knee and charged the animals surrounding Savar with his dagger. He stabbed right and left, roaring at the top of his lungs, partly in rage and partly so that Savar would not accidentally cut him in half in the swirling half-darkness. With great difficulty he reached him.

They stood back to back. Jorn spotted his burning sword buried in the snow a few paces away and bent for it. His fingers had almost reached the hilt when enormous jaws closed around his wrist. He screamed, drove the dagger in his other hand into the animal's neck, then tore his injured hand from its teeth.

He reached for the sword again, and his fingers had already closed around the hilt when Savar shouted:

– Don't move it! I can't see them!

Jorn understood: if he pulled the blade from the snow, the light would move with it, and among the leaping, overlapping shadows it would become impossible to distinguish the attacking animals. So he left the sword in the snow.

The next wolf knocked him down from the side. Jorn fell onto his back and tried to keep the teeth away with his dagger.

Meanwhile, Savar felt something bite into his leg. He struck backwards, but another animal was already on his arm. He seized it by the throat and tried with all his strength to keep it away from his face while blindly slashing beside himself with the sword in his other hand. Then another body slammed into his back. Savar lost his balance and fell into the snow. His sword slipped from his hand. By the time he turned, an enormous wolf stood over him, its forelegs braced against his chest. Savar gripped the animal's neck with both hands, but could barely keep it away. Saliva dripping from its teeth fell onto his face. He could scarcely hear Jorn shouting. The wolf growled hoarsely, pressing its full weight onto him, then suddenly drew back its head to lunge at Savar's throat.

At that instant, a tremendous crack sounded. The wolf's body jerked and toppled off Savar. Beneath its motionless body, a pool of blood stained the snow. Gasping for air, Savar pushed himself upright. In the light of the blazing sword he saw a broad-shouldered figure hacking a path through the wolves towards Jorn with a two-handed weapon. For a moment he could only stare as though seeing a vision.

– Dharn! – The name burst from him like a cry of joy.

Meanwhile, Dharn reached Jorn, struck down the animal lunging at him with a single blow, then offered his free hand and hauled his friend to his feet. Jorn snatched up the burning sword from the snow and threw his arms around his rescuer's neck.

– Dharn, you mad gift from all the gods! You couldn't have shown up at a better time! I thought I was going to die here!

A faint smile appeared on Dharn's face. Exhaustion showed on him too; most of his armour was gone, his clothes were soaked, the frost had turned his skin blue, but undisguised relief filled his eyes as he looked over his two friends.

– And I was afraid I'd get here too late. I have to warn you.

– About what?

Dharn was about to answer, but a wolf leapt at him. He turned and swept it aside with a single precise slash of his two-handed sword.

– After we survive this.

– Agreed! – Savar shouted.

The three men stood back to back. Dharn fought very differently from his companions. He wasted no strength on unnecessary movement; he waited for an animal to attack, then brought it down with a single precise blow. In the light of Jorn's burning sword, they could now see where the next assault was coming from, while Savar's two blades closed every gap through which an animal might have broken.

The pack charged them again and again, but the three men held against the assault as a determined team, and slowly the attacks began to thin. At last one wolf stopped a few paces away. It did not leap, merely watched them, then stepped back once, then again. The others followed.

Jorn, Savar, and Dharn stood motionless, still holding their weapons before them. None of them believed it was over until the last dark body had melted into the darkness.

At last the three of them remained in the snow, and for a moment the same peace filled them as filled the winter night that until then had raged with bloody battle.

Savar was the first to move. By the light of Jorn's burning sword, he began searching for the sword he had thrown away earlier, then together they searched the bodies of the Bloody Dragons. Whatever could still be used – cloak, boots, weapon – they piled onto one of their torn cloaks so they could drag it into the fortress; they also hauled the wolf carcasses closer to the wall, for their meat and pelts might still prove useful. They valued anything that might keep them alive over the coming days.

Dawn was breaking by the time they sat beside the fire to tend their wounds and finally hear what news had driven Dharn to gallop there, even at the risk of freezing to death.

Dharn stared into the fire for a while. Now that they had finally sat down, the life-or-death news was difficult to put into words.

– They broke through the centre of the line at Varel – he said at last. – Some of the western forces retreated; others scattered. The Manrani crossed the river. The king is either dead or captured.

Across from him, Savar was trying to bandage one forearm with the other hand and finally caught the end of the cloth between his teeth in frustration. Dharn moved closer, took it from him, and silently tied it for him.

Jorn frowned. – Is that why you galloped all the way here? – he asked.

Dharn pretended Savar's wound demanded all his attention, then said only: – No.

The others fixed their eyes on his face. He knew they would not move until he spoke.

– I learned something before I left... Something strange is happening in this region. Something dark, and it has something to do with this fortress.

Jorn looked at Savar. – I was hoping for a little more than that.

Dharn's face tightened. – I don't know all the details myself, but one thing is certain: someone knew this place was significant long before the front moved this way.

– What could there possibly be in this filthy hole worth investigating? Three towers, a stone wall, a crumbling stable... – Savar fell silent for a moment, and it was no longer the exiled soldier speaking but the old commander. – I understand why we had to hold it because of the road; supplies for the troops left on the border came this way. But if the Manrani have already crossed the river, then they've bypassed the fortress. This route is no longer important.

– What did you learn? – Jorn cut in. – Just tell us!

Dharn was silent for a moment. – That this fortress isn't important because of the war.

Savar's expression changed. – Is that why you rode your horse nearly to death?

Dharn's gaze hardened. – There's some secret hidden here. Not politics, not war, but something greater, some dark force... and its attention is fixed on the fortress. I wanted to warn you so you could get away before it reached you. And I was afraid...

– ...that if you urged us to run, we'd be proving the very betrayal we never committed? – Jorn asked.

Dharn's voice became surprisingly gentle as he turned to the young man. – That by the time I got here, it would already be too late... And I was right. Think about it. If the Manrani had simply wanted to take the fortress, they would have sent soldiers. But four Bloody Dragons came here. Four elite warriors who should have been beside their generals while the Manrani army had already bypassed this fortress. What were they doing here?

Savar did not look up. He stared into the fire as though speaking directly to the flames. – There has to be something here we don't know about... The Bloody Dragons had no strategic reason to come here. And those wolves...

– I noticed that too – Dharn said. – Those beasts weren't real wolves. A natural pack wouldn't have behaved like that... and they were enormous!

Savar hesitated for a moment. – The one Jorn shot... before he died, it sounded as though he muttered something. I don't know. Maybe he was only choking. I couldn't understand a word, but something strange passed through me...

Dharn's gaze settled on him. – And then the wolves appeared?

Savar nodded. An uneasy silence settled over them.

Jorn finally broke it. – Then you were right. This place really is important... Bloody Dragons, supernatural wolves... What more do we need?

– To believe there's something here we don't know about? Nothing – Savar said. – To know what it is? Quite a lot.

Jorn held his hands over the fire. – Does it matter? We were ordered to hold the fortress.

– Until we're relieved – Savar added.

– We haven't been relieved – Jorn continued. – There's nothing to discuss.

Dharn let out a deep sigh. – And here I thought I'd ridden myself half to death to save your miserable little lives.

– You did – Jorn said. – You saved us.

– Much good it does me.

Jorn said nothing to that, while Savar merely moved his fingers beneath the bandage Dharn had tied too tightly.

– Jorn is right about one thing – he said at last. – No one has rescinded our orders.

Dharn stared at him in disbelief. – The front has bypassed the fortress.

– I understand. I was a soldier before Jorn learned how to eat with a spoon. We aren't going to be heroes. The road has lost its importance, and if you're right, the war will go on without us from now on.

Jorn looked up at him. – So?

Savar twisted his mouth. – So we're exactly where we were before. In exile.

– Until we're relieved – Jorn said.

– Until we're relieved – Savar repeated. – Except that if the front really collapsed at Varel, I'd be curious to know whether anyone is left who remembers they're supposed to relieve us someday. – He raised his eyes from the blackened logs and looked at Jorn. – Do you remember how we languished here before the Manrani war began? We counted arrows we hadn't fired, polished our swords for nothing, and waited for one meaningless day to turn into the next.

– We were following orders – Jorn nodded.

– No. – Savar's gaze hardened. – We were serving a punishment in exile, innocent.

Jorn narrowed his eyes. – Yes, but by securing the army's supply line, at least there was a reason for us to be here. One of the elite members of the Manrani bodyguard went down to my perfect arrow shot... And Dharn just said the fortress is even more important than that...

– No. – Savar shook his head and spoke slowly and quietly, as though trying to explain something to a stubborn child. – Dharn said some dark secret is hidden around this fortress... We don't know exactly what's here, or who wants that something or why... What is certain is that we no longer need to protect our armies' supplies, and we can't protect them...

– That doesn't mean we've been relieved.

– That's true.

– Then we can't leave.

Savar twisted his mouth; it might have been taken for a smile if his eyes had not remained sad. – Do you know why I've stayed here until now?

Jorn did not answer.

– At first because it was an order. Then because I didn't want to become exactly what I'd been falsely accused of being: a traitor. Then the war came, and people depended on us. There was a reason to climb the wall, keep watch, fight.

Dharn watched in silence.

– But now there are no supplies for us to protect, and no army on the border that will starve if we aren't sitting here. If Dharn is right, the king is either dead or captured. Even if he's alive, he has more important things to worry about than whether we're still alive or whether we died with dignity serving the punishment imposed on us for something we never did.

Jorn stood up. – So you're leaving. – It was a statement, not a question, so Savar did not answer at once. He merely rose slowly to his feet.

Every movement hurt, but when he straightened, for a moment he looked again like the man who had once commanded an entire army. – Jorn, the king was wrong. I knew that yesterday, I know it today, you know it, and if he's still alive, perhaps one day he'll know it himself. Either way, I won't be any more guilty or any more innocent if I sit on this stone wall for another ten years.

Jorn stared into the fire. – And whatever is here? You don't care about that anymore?

The tired smile vanished from Savar's face. – Of course I do. But if the dark force Dharn is talking about really wants something from this place, two wounded men aren't going to stop it.

Dharn raised an eyebrow. – Three.

Savar glanced at him. – Three wounded men won't stop it either.

– So you just walk away? – Jorn asked.

Savar did not answer for a while. – We don't know what's here. We don't know who wants it or why. Dharn knows only that some dark force is behind it, and we've seen for ourselves that some of what happened last night certainly wasn't dictated by the natural order... We don't even know whether we're supposed to protect the fortress, or whether it's us and the world that need protecting from whatever is here... But I do know this – Savar continued – I can barely stand. You're not in much better shape, and Dharn nearly rode himself and his horse to death getting here. If that thing he was so afraid of appears now, we have no chance of defending ourselves and we'll all die... I don't run from enemies. I never have. But I need to stay alive at least long enough to be able to lift my sword again... and today I'd have trouble lifting a spoon.

– You're a soldier.

Savar looked at him for a moment. – Yes, I am. A good soldier. But that doesn't make every fight my fight... All my life, other people have told me which wall to defend, whom to kill, when to march... Then they sent me here to die for a crime I didn't even commit. If I leave this place, the first thing I do will not be to meddle in the secrets of unknown dark forces.

A faint smile appeared at the corner of Dharn's mouth. – Looks like the Bloody Dragons didn't beat all the sense out of your head.

Savar glanced at him. – For now, I wouldn't give them another chance.

– Then let's go – Dharn said. – The sooner we're gone from here, the happier I'll be.

Jorn did not move. Savar looked at him. – You heard him.

– I heard him. You two go.

For a moment Savar only stared at him, as though unsure he had heard correctly. – Get your arse up and move.

– You're not my commander. My orders say I stay until I'm relieved.

Savar wearily closed his eyes. – We just went through this.

– No. We went through why you're leaving.

– Fine. Then now we'll discuss why you're not staying here... "I still haven't been relieved," Savar mimicked Jorn's voice. – I know. I heard you.

– Then I don't need to explain.

– You don't. What you need to understand is that you have nothing to prove. We all know you're innocent. Dharn risked his life to get you out of here in time... The king, you heard him, may have been dead for hours, or captured, or on the run. He has more important things to worry about than us... And wasting your one life here won't make you any more innocent. – Jorn's face tightened, but Savar continued. – You can't do this to us, stubbornly staying here. Who exactly are you trying to prove it to?

– Myself.

– All right – Savar said at last. – Then yourself. For how long? How long do you have to stay here before you believe you're not a traitor? Until tomorrow? Spring? Another ten years? Until someone comes here and tells you you're officially an honourable man now?

– Until I'm relieved.

Savar closed his eyes for a moment.

– For God's sake, Jorn...

– We were given orders.

– I was given the same orders! – For the first time Savar raised his voice. – I was accused of the same thing. I was sent here just like you. I lost everything too. Don't talk to me as if I don't understand why you're clinging to this! – Jorn was silent, and Savar leaned closer. – I understand. That's exactly why I'm trying to hammer it into that stubborn head of yours that staying alive won't make you a traitor. You're innocent. You always were. You don't have to die here to make it true.

Jorn stared into the fire. Savar waited.

– I'm staying – Jorn said.

Savar leaned back and stared at him for several long seconds. – You really are the most stubborn man in the world.

– Learned it from you.

– Couldn't you have learned something useful from me?

A faint smile appeared at the corner of Jorn's mouth, but Savar did not smile back.

None of them went anywhere that day, and they did not speak to one another either. Blood seeped through the bandage on Savar's arm, Jorn's thigh throbbed at the slightest movement, and Dharn tended his horse. By the time Jorn got up the next day, Dharn had already saddled two horses, while Savar, fumbling with his wounded arm, was fastening on his sword.

– I was hoping you wouldn't wake up so I could throw you over a saddle – Savar said, turning towards him.

– If you find anyone who's still giving orders – Jorn replied – tell him to relieve me.

Savar hauled himself onto one of the horses, stared ahead for a few moments, then swore, climbed back down, seized Jorn by both shoulders, and briefly pressed his forehead to his.

Dharn said nothing. Savar climbed back onto the horse, and they set off. With his palm pressed against his thigh, Jorn climbed the narrow stairs and watched them from the wall until they became tiny specks and disappeared into the horizon.

With Savar and Dharn gone, the fortress became unbearably quiet from one moment to the next. Jorn got up at dawn the next day just as he always had. He changed the dressing on his wound, ate a few bites of the meat left from the day before, which Dharn had cooked. He limped across the courtyard, checked the gate and the stable, then sat down and sharpened his sword.

The remaining meat was soon gone. The next day he skinned one of the wolf carcasses and cut a piece from its thigh for supper. By instinct he divided the roasted meat between two plates, then simply stared at the second portion, unsure himself whether he was angry or sad.

The following day he cobbled together a drag and had one of the horses pull him on it. His thigh hurt too badly even to consider mounting, but he remembered where medicinal herbs grew from before and hoped he could dig a few out from beneath the snow to put under his bandage.

He always found something with which to fill his time. He practised swordplay, exercised his leg, reinforced one of the gate hinges, chopped wood, carried water, sorted the equipment, counted the arrows, inspected the walls; when food ran out, he set traps, and later, as his leg improved, rode out. However slowly the days dragged, it never even occurred to him that he should be anywhere else.

There was simply no one there for him to talk to. No one to complain to about the cold, no one to annoy, and no one to tell him that the meat he had cooked resembled a lump of coal more than food. His days were not entirely empty because he tried to fill them with things to do, but it became harder and harder not to notice that however often he performed those tasks, weekly or even daily, nothing in the fortress changed because of them.

One afternoon, while sweeping the courtyard as though competing for the title of Royal Sweeper of the Realm, he thoroughly worked his way around the foot of one tower and his gaze caught on the opening where the Bloody Dragon had been lurking. He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down. He had not been near this wall since their fight. Now he simply stood there, staring into the dark. Until then he had not even known there was anything beneath the fortress, and who knew what might be down there: a cellar, a passage, or a tunnel... For a moment he thought of fetching a torch and going down to see what was there, but suddenly he shivered. He heard no sound from below, no damp cold breathed upwards, yet he remembered Savar's face by the fire when he had said he was not certain whether the dying Bloody Dragon had spoken at all, but that he had felt something wrong, and then the wolves had suddenly appeared... Jorn lowered the cover over the opening and pushed one of the heavy chests on top of it, the one in which, on Savar's advice, he had previously hidden one of his bows and some arrows. When he had finished, he stood looking at the chest for a few moments, unable to say what he was supposed to be protecting himself from, or whether, if Dharn had been right, he could protect himself from anything at all.

Meanwhile, winter passed. The snow vanished from the courtyard, then grass turned green at the foot of the walls, and Jorn himself no longer kept track of how many days he had been alone. He got up, kept watch, hunted, maintained the fortress, because no one had come to relieve him, so that was his duty.

One morning, when Jorn woke, he spotted an unfamiliar horse in the courtyard. Its owner was drawing water from the well and started when he saw him.

– I didn't know anyone was here... What are you doing here?

– I live here – Jorn said.

That was all. The man watered his horse, then carried his belongings into the stable. It was clear Jorn was not going to draw a sword on him. That evening Jorn gestured for him to come closer to the fire, and for the first time in a long while he did not eat alone. The stranger talked a great deal, and Jorn was happy to listen. Privately, he was grateful the man did not ask how he came to be living there, because what he had explained to Savar with such passion seemed less clear to him lately, though he was still reluctant to admit that even to himself, let alone to someone with whom he had shared only one supper.

The man saddled his horse at dawn the next morning, waved once, and rode away. Jorn knew perfectly well he would never see him again. He washed his face at the well, polished his sword, and checked the stable, just as before.

The days went on in the same way after that. Every morning Jorn strapped on his sword and walked the same rounds. Then one day he realised he had not cleaned the blade the day before. The next day he forgot to check the gate. On the third, he caught himself unable to remember the last time he had swept around the foot of the tower. Without his noticing, the apparent reasons with which he had convinced himself he had a duty there disappeared one by one.

When he finally left, he did not even know where he was going. He wanted to keep moving until he found something worth stopping for. He gathered what the horses could carry, mounted one, and led the other by the reins. After a few steps he looked back and only then noticed that the gate was not locked.

He did not dismount. He left it open.

Several years passed before Jorn ran into Savar again. He had not been looking for him. He had drifted aimlessly from one place to another, taking whatever work he could find so that he would have something to eat and his horse would have enough strength to keep going: he carried sacks, patched roofs, chopped wood... the only thing he never did was become an old soldier for hire. By then the Manrani war was over anyway, and the king, if he was even still alive, was so far removed from Jorn's daily life that he was not worth wasting a thought on. One spring, Jorn was riding down the main street of a northern village when he saw a sign hanging above an inn.

THE THREE FOOLS

Beneath it were three horribly disproportionate swords.

Jorn stopped his horse and stared at the sign for a long time. Then he dismounted, tied up the animal, and went inside.

It was warm within. The smells of roasted meat, smoke, and beer mingled in the air. At the bar, a large man was arguing with someone over a barrel, and it took Jorn several seconds to realise what was strange about him. Savar had put on weight.

– If you put that much water in it again, I'll bathe you in it – Savar told the man on the other side of the barrel. Then he looked up and the words died in his throat. For several seconds they simply stared at one another.

– You look terrible – Savar said at last. Then he walked over and punched him. Jorn crashed into the bar, knocking over two cups, then stared at him while rubbing his jaw.

– We looked for you for years, you stubborn bastard – Savar said.

Loud laughter came from the kitchen, and Dharn appeared in the doorway. Grey strands threaded his beard, and when he braced himself against the doorframe, Jorn noticed that two fingers were missing from one hand. – I told you he'd do that.

Savar grinned at him, stepped closer, and Jorn embraced him. Dharn wrapped his arms around both of them, and they only broke apart because the inn's cook came out of the kitchen carrying a plate in one hand and a mug in the other. She stopped when she saw the three men.

– Hello, Jorn.

Warmth spread through Jorn. – You told her about me!

– A great deal – the woman said kindly. – It's obvious you're the biggest fool of the three. – She put down what she was carrying and gestured for Jorn to sit. A minute later she set down two more mugs. It was obvious the other two were done working for the day.

As the drink disappeared, the stories none of them would have told while sober slowly began to emerge. Savar recalled Jorn's flaming sword, while Dharn stubbornly insisted that at least one of the wolves had been the size of a small horse.

– There really was something very wrong with those things – Jorn said at last.

Savar's smile vanished. – Yes.

For a while they were silent.

– Sometimes I think about that stairway – Jorn said. – The Bloody Dragon came out of there. We lived in that fortress for years and didn't even know it was there.

Dharn put down his cup. – Did you ever go down?

– No.

– Wise decision – Savar said.

Jorn smiled, then swirled the wine in his cup. – Maybe there wasn't anything down there at all. An old cellar. Or a tunnel.

– Maybe – Savar said.

Jorn looked up at him. For a moment neither of them spoke, then they shivered almost at the same time.

Dharn looked from one to the other. – I'm glad we opened this inn so far away. And I'm glad Jorn finally dragged his arse here.

– He's staying, too – Savar said. – That's an order.

– For how long? – Jorn hiccupped.

– Until someone relieves you.

They clinked their cups together, and neither Jorn's leaving nor the dark secret was ever discussed again.

In the end, none of them became a hero. They won no battle, saved no country, and no one ever learned whether that bloody night within the fortress walls had mattered at all. Savar and Dharn left, while Jorn guarded a place no one needed for a while longer before he too abandoned it. If you like, they ran away. The war ended without them, the world rearranged itself without them, and within a few years there were hardly any people left who even knew they had ever been there.

The realm they had known disappeared, and the fortress remained somewhere far behind them. None of them could change that anymore.

Life, however, indifferent and stubborn, continued beyond it.

And in the end, that was the one thing none of them had ever been trained to do: carry on.