Way to the South, Dragon Heart Series Book 18

H adjar regained consciousness. The winter sun was shining brightly outside the window. Unlike the summer sun, it didn’t burn, assaulting people with its heat, but rather blinded them as its rays were reflected off the many ice crystals that covered the earth like a dense blanket. Hadjar tried to get out of bed, which was a simple thing made from several logs and covered with animal skins and mats. After a while, he succeeded. Waves of biting, aching pain spread throughout his body, and the reawakened storm of energy in his energy body made him dizzy for a moment. The events of the past few days flashed through Hadjar’s mind while he was holding on to the wall with one hand and his head with the other, all the while trying to get to the upper room. He soon realized a lot of things. For example, he now knew that using the Thunderbird’s Core right in the midst of a duel hadn’t been his brightest idea. Well, he had been able to complete the ‘White Lightning Step’ Technique, but he’d done so hastily and in a haphazard manner, and had inflicted a significant amount of damage on his cultivation foundation. “What the-” He accidentally touched something flat and wooden with his hand. The dizziness gradually faded away, and he was able to orient himself in the center of a spacious room. There was a stand atop the chest of drawers, which was one of the few pieces of furniture in the room. It was wooden, long, and handmade. There was an axe resting on it. A very strange axe. It had a long handle that was inscribed with runes and braided with straps. But that wasn’t what surprised Hadjar. The pommel attracted his gaze since he was an experienced warrior. It was made of steel the color of yesterday’s snow — grayish white. There was a strange pattern of intertwining lines on it that formed the silhouette of a cherry tree. The short, wavy blade could serve equally well when ‘processing’ both wood and people. Hadjar ran his hand over the cuts on the logs and looked at the walls of the house. There was no doubt — the house had been built with this axe. “URGHHH…” Hadjar turned at the groan. At the opposite end of the room, Arteus was lying on another bed. He winced, twitched, and muttered something. His face was covered in heavy drops of stinking, yellowish sweat. The door opened with a creak and a man entered the room. What was his name? He thought it was Badur. He was holding a wooden bowl full of crushed ice and snow in his hands. Pushing Hadjar aside with his shoulder, he sat down on a stool next to Arteus and, after soaking a cloth in the cold, melted water, began to wipe the mage’s body down. “This is necessary. He’s found a way out of the maze of his forefathers’ memories and might come back home, finding himself in the process. However, he still needs help with his recovery.” The man spoke calmly as he did his work. Now, in the light of day, Hadjar could get a better look at his and Arteus’ savior. He was an ordinary man, just a little above average height and broad enough in the shoulders to deal with heavy logs. He didn’t look like a simple warrior, but he wasn’t a simple craftsman, either. He was dressed in leather and fur clothes, tied together with straps and belted with steel plaques on a rope. His boots were footwraps made from fur. His gnarled fingers and calluses hinted at the fact that Badur worked hard. Due to the stories he’d heard in his childhood, Hadjar had always imagined the inhabitants of the true North quite differently: giants holding the edge of the whole world on their shoulders, equal in power to even the oldest Spirits and demons alike. But he was a simple man with slightly sad, gray eyes, which looked as if a deep, unbearable longing had settled in them permanently, devouring Badur from the inside, like a bark beetle would devour even the strongest wooden house. “Lathea-” “The golden-haired girl?” Badur interrupted him without turning around and kept helping Arteus. “Maybe you don’t remember this, but I already told you that she will be fine. At least until the next full moon. Then Fedenrir’s dogs will most likely get drunk on the call and devour her. But not before then.” Hadjar looked out the window. Mountain peaks had torn through the heavy, low sky like black claws. The sky was as dark as the mountains themselves and as imperturbable as the snow-covered forest, stretching out as far as he could see. “The dogs live in caves,” Badur answered the unasked question. “They honor the memory of the Wolf of Darkness’ punishment for his crimes against the world’s balance. It’s warm in those caves. The golden-haired girl won’t freeze. She won’t die, either… If she doesn’t do anything stupid.” Hadjar looked at the Blue Blade standing near his bed. He could’ve grabbed it at any moment, but he didn’t feel the need to do so. Moreover, he didn’t know what to expect from his potential opponent. Considering the fact that Badur was an initial-stage Heaven Emperor and possessed the light of the Therna, he could’ve gotten rid of them at any point in the past few days, but instead, he’d spent a long time ensuring they both recovered. “Why are you helping us?” Hadjar asked. The Northerner’s hand trembled and a few drops of water spilled onto Arteus’ nose. He sneezed and groaned in pain. The wizard’s entire body was covered in bandages, through which liquids of unpleasant colors with a potent stench were seeping out. It was amazing that after all the things the cultist had done to him, the young man had somehow survived. Only sheer fortitude and an incredible strength of will could’ve helped him keep his soul away from Death’s clutches. However, Hadjar wasn’t ready to acknowledge such qualities in any wizard. “Only a southerner could ask such a question,” Badur muttered. Hadjar stood there for a while in silence, then, with an effort of will, he summoned his Call’s armor. The blue robes covered his shoulders and hid his bandages and wounds. Once he secured his scabbard, he started to leave the Northerner’s house, but was stopped by a single phrase: “Your armor will be useless in this region,” Badur said quietly. “What do you mean?” Badur just shrugged his shoulders. “You already know what I mean, Southerner. You can wear the regalia of the Queen of Darkness and Cold’s court as long as you like, but when her servants come for your soul, they won’t protect you. The Queen would never betray her court. You’ll either die to the dogs’ claws and fangs, or the cold will ruin you.” Hadjar didn’t ask how the Northerner knew all this. He took out a fur coat made from the skins of northern animals from his spatial ring. He fastened it across his chest and headed to the door. Swaying, he grabbed the wall for support, but still pressed on. Lathea was waiting for him and- “The mage will be dead by dawn.” Hadjar slowly turned to Badur, who continued to wash the young man’s face and hands. “Why do you think that would bother me?” “Southerners...” The man drawled with a sigh. “When I found you, your Spirit was already moving on. Only his magic kept you here. Anyone else would’ve ensured their own survival first, if anyone could’ve even survived with such grievous wounds. But not him... This mage is the reason you’re still alive.” Hadjar sighed and looked at the high mountain peaks again. Life truly was cyclical: he had already sought a cure for certain death amongst the snowy mountains once before. And now he would have to do so again. “What do I need to do?”