True Heart

– "We be of one blood, ye and I." –

[Rudyard Kipling: The Jungle Book]

Voldír lets out a loud whoop of joy. His eyes are closed, and with opened mouth he gulps down the fresh air rushing against his broad face. His braid and elongated ears stream wildly in the wind as they race down the mountain ridge. He grips the beast's mane with both hands, clamping his thighs tight against its flanks. Leaning forward, he presses himself close to the creature's back — almost becoming one with it — to reduce wind resistance. He feels the raw power and wild spirit pulsing within the beast's body, driving it into a frenzied gallop. That intoxicating thrill — an ancient test of mettle — surges through his veins.

Upon reaching the wide plain, the animal slows, then settles into a leisurely walk. Its rider straightens up, gazing in wonder at the green landscape with wide eyes. Both are panting from the exertion and the sheer joy of the moment; then, the creature shakes its massive body and turns its head back, squinting to signal that the ride is over for the day.

They stand side by side at the edge of the precipice. Voldír's hand rests on the creature's thick fur as they gaze at the crimson sunset. "The wind is rising," he says, and the creature rumbles in agreement. It presses its huge head against its massive rider, who smiles and rubs its pointed ears.

They are immense and powerful. Voldír stands two meters tall; his legs are like sturdy pillars, and his arms and shoulders are a mass of knotted muscle. His thick, long black hair — characteristic of his species — runs the entire length of his spine. His face is like granite: angular and etched with deep, rugged lines. His elongated ears hang loosely beside his face. From beneath shaggy brows, his pitch-black eyes survey the landscape with his characteristic serenity. He wears a tattered moss-green shirt, brown trousers, and high-topped boots.

The creature is standing on four enormous paws beside him reaches nearly to his chest, yet its magnificent, powerful body is longer than Voldír is tall. Its fur plays in various shades of green, allowing it to blend into the shadowy trees of the mountain forests. Streaks of brown mingle with the green, while the roots of the fur are as black as the depths of mountain caves. Its head is round, its ears are pointed and upright, and its yellow eyes are framed by dark lashes. A brown mane covers his entire head, shoulders, and chest, extending down his back to the base of his shoulder blades. His long whiskers quiver, sensing shifts in the air. His tail, as long as his body, coils like a snake; a single blow from it could finish off the one standing beside him, yet the thought never even crosses his mind. He loves this tall, cheerful biped who one day stepped out of nowhere to save his life.

Eldur — whose name means "fire" in his species's tongue — had broken through the ice of the forest lake during the recent cold spell. He sensed a storm and snow surging from behind the mountains faster than he had anticipated. Eager to reach home, he decided to cut across the lake — skipping the long way around — trusting in an ice sheet that would not weaken for many dawns yet. But the storm overtook him, crashing down upon the forest while hurling snow and stones.

Eldur ran as fast as he could. His muscular body cut through the air in great bounds, yet fortune had no time to heed his fate, and a large stone slammed into the lake beside him, cracking the ice beneath his feet. He heard the ominous, screeching sound and knew he would not reach the shore. Just one more leap — that was all he needed to escape — but there was no time left to spring. The hole in the ice widened rapidly around him; in the blink of an eye, he sank into the freezing water up to his withers. He clung to the sharp edge with long claws — his paws bleeding from the strain — as he struggled to heave himself out of the water with his hind legs. The storm raged with full fury, raining stones and ice upon his head amidst the wind's mad howling in the air. He felt his strength fading, his body growing cold and heavy. Then, barely three meters away on the shore, a massive two-legged creature emerged — the likes of which he had never seen before.

The tall figure turned about in confusion, jerking its head this way and that in the blizzard, shielding its face with its hands against the barrage of stones. Eldur let out a desperate howl to draw its attention. The stranger froze, astonishment washing over its face upon seeing the massive creature, yet Eldur continued to whimper piteously for help.

He felt the ice floe he was clinging to slipping out from beneath his paws. He thrashed desperately with his hind legs — which he could barely feel anymore in the freezing water — his breathing reduced to shallow gasps; his eyelids were slowly drooping shut when he felt a massive hand seize him and hold him fast. The stranger lay flat on the ice and hauled Eldur up by the fur on his neck, gripping a thick clump of coat in its fist. With its other broad palm, it grabbed his paw, helping his sharp claws find purchase on the ice. Together, they scrambled onto the shore, where they burrowed into the snow to wait out the storm. There they huddled, trembling — the two-legged creature and the four-legged one — neither having ever seen the likes of the other before.

*****

Voldír had no idea how he had ended up in the world of the green creatures. One moment he was a hunted one on the vast plains of Hasun; the next, he was struggling to stay on his feet in the heart of a blizzard, staring at the struggle of a huge green creature. Rescuing the creature from the freezing lake was the best decision of his life — though, in truth, it hadn't been a conscious choice so much as an instinctive act of aid to a being in distress. It did not take long for him to realize that the creature was intelligent in its own way. The ferocious predator, the proud master of the mountains turned toward his rescuer with boundless loyalty. He took Voldír to his home and, amidst much growling, persuaded his clan to accept the towering, two-legged stranger.

Since then, three warm seasons and two cold ones had passed, during which time their friendship forged an unbreakable bond between them. Together, they roamed the mountain forests and the riverbanks of the plains. They hunted and fished in the lake side by side. They braved the winds and the avalanches. They did not understand each other's spoken words, yet over time, they learned to interpret one another's signals, tones, and gestures. They needed nothing more. Their friendship transcended space and time, indifferent to their differences.

Kindred spirits. Voldír had never known such a thing until he encountered this miracle whose very existence he had scarcely been able to believe in. He has no companions or friends in his homeland. There is no family, no clan, no helping hand — only warriors. The peoples of Hasun are warriors who wage eternal battles against anyone they can reach through the portals their sorcerers open to distant worlds, plundering the treasures of those who dwell there.

Like all his peers, Voldír was taken to the warriors' barracks while still a child; so he has spent his entire life fighting, fleeing, hunting, and tracking. He had seen eight bud-burstings when he first killed, and from that moment on, he was counted a warrior. He was a skilled warrior and a fine hunter; no one tracked game or foe better than he. No one ran faster, and no one was stronger.

By his fifteenth bud-bursting, he commanded his own squad. A group of young, powerful warriors who had survived so long because they were the most vigilant, the most exceptional, and the most determined. They would kill anyone without hesitation to avoid being killed themselves. They cut down the enemy, whether or not they put up a fight. They even dispatched their own kind if they fled in cowardice or carelessly endangered the squad during battle. Of course, alliances of convenience did arise at times, teams banding together in hopes of a bigger haul or simply to survive, but these were so unpredictably fleeting that they dared not even sleep near one another without fear. That was simply their nature; they couldn't help it. It was how they had been raised and conditioned.

But Voldír was different from most of his people. He took no pleasure in fighting, pillaging, or the intoxication of slaughter. He did not sing or dance at the post-battle feasts. He did not boast or brawl drunkenly by the campfire. He was silent and ate in solitude. His squad looked askance at his eccentricities, though they dared not speak a word against him; they all knew his strength and courage, having seen him countless times in the thick of battle, dealing unstoppable blows with his sword.

Yet, members of other squads whispered behind their backs with increasingly. They laughed, pointed fingers, and mocked their leader, an insult that stung his men to the quick. Voldír watched as his warriors fought another squad to defend their honor, soaking the muddy earth beneath their feet with blood. Once, he even stepped forward to face a rival leader who had reviled him in the hearing of his own men.

At night, he slept apart from the camp — often tethering himself high in the trees or sheltering in easily defended rocky crevices — for in time, he no longer trusted even his own subordinates not to slit his throat in his sleep to make way for a new leader. This way, at least, they could not see how his nights were ensnared by savage nightmares filled with the screams and terrified gazes of the dead. He did not realize that guilt was tormenting him; the elders of his people never spoke of such things. He kept amulets against the demons of the night, but to no avail.

Twenty-seven budbreaks had passed since his birth; eight worlds had been plundered by his people, and millions of souls slaughtered or driven into bondage. The ranks of his squad had changed countless times as the fallen were replaced. He had grown weary of it all. Sometimes he wished someone would simply defeat him. An enemy, his own warriors, or another commander; it doesn't mattered, just wanted the end to come that this monstrosity isn't his life.

They spent the freezing season at home, resting and forging weapons, waiting in readiness for the sorcerers to discover another world to overrun. Voldír's lonely, weary soul conceived an outlandish idea, he himself could not fathom what had come over him. The thought gave him no peace; it gripped his mind as firmly as a hilt grips a sword. He would put an end to it all, at any cost.

He chose a moonless, fog-shrouded night for his plan, intending to scale the barracks wall unseen and creep silently through the twisting alleys all the way to the Hall of Sorcerers. Seizing the moment of the guard change, he entered the great hall via the roof; there their three sorcerers were examining various worlds to determine which might be worth visiting.

As they opened and closed doorways one after another, Voldír wondered at the sheer number of lands and lives which breathing softly in their sleep, sitting down to a meal, or bathing a child, all utterly unaware of what lay in store. They might not even believe what awaited them; it was only a matter of time. He saw icy landscapes, deserts, golden meadows, then lush greenery and mining regions rich in ore. A great city with towers reaching the sky, a flying wagon, a dragon, and azure waters. He did not know how long he had stared in awe, but eventually, he tore his gaze away from the spectacle; creeping along behind the colonnade that encircled the hall, he slit the throats of the guards at the door, then cautiously stepped up behind one of the sorcerers.

No eye could follow his swift movement as he cleaved the old man's body in two with his sword while hurling his dagger at another to fell him with piercing his heart. Yet the third, young and agile, undaunted by the fierce warrior, attempted to open a rift to unleash upon Voldír. A skilled fighter himself, he drew his sword with his right hand while tracing magical runes in the air with his left.

He opened a volcanic crater, an ocean, and the dark void in quick succession, but Voldír evaded them all, closing the distance until their blades finally clashed. They fought with grim determination for a long time, both bleeding from multiple wounds. The sorcerer was fighting for his life; Voldír... he was too, though in a different way. He didn't care if he failed to see the morning; he simply wanted this life to end. Whether that end meant death or a peaceful, quiet existence mattered little, he only wanted the fighting to cease.

Deep down, he knew he could not survive his deed. The sorcerer or his warriors would finish him; such betrayal could not go unpunished. If only he could defeat him, if only he could alter the fate of his people and the other worlds, then he would welcome death with peace. Behind him, he heard the sound of rushing footsteps and shouting that the guards had been slain.

He pursued the sorcerer around the hall, slashing and stabbing him repeatedly with his sword, but the sorcerer healed himself with magic, grinning gloatingly as he opened another door with his left hand. Sweat ran into Voldír's eyes; he stumbled over a dead guard and nearly fell. The first warrior to catch up slashed at him from behind, he barely managed to dodge and the sorcerer seized that split-second opportunity to hurl him through the newly opened doorway.

Suddenly, Voldír did not know where he was, but then he saw the banners at the corners of the barracks. He was home, on the plain of Hasun, standing alone amidst the endless grass. He heard the alarm sound first from the direction of the Hall of Sorcerers, then drawing closer and closer until the call of the horn reached the barracks and the guards began frantically ringing the bell in the courtyard.

He had no doubt: a manhunt was being launched against him; perhaps his own warriors would be the ones to kill him, seeking glory. Their leader had become a traitor; if they did not wish to share his fate, they had to be the first to hunt him down. As he ran, his feverish mind questioned him: "Why do you run? Where are you fleeing to? You cannot escape your destiny. There is nowhere for you to go; no one will take you in." Exhausted, he stopped to wait for his pursuers.

He wanted to die with his head held high, not like a coward, whimpering in fear. That would not be worthy of a warrior. That would not be worthy of him. He drew himself up proudly, thrust his chin forward, and took a few steps toward the barracks, but suddenly the dewy grass vanished from beneath his feet; instead, he was treading on snow, the icy wind nearly knocked him off his feet, and a hail of ice and stone rained down upon his head.

*****

Voldír is spending his fourth warm season in the world of the green creatures. A happiness any he had ever known has settled in his heart; his soul is at peace, and the night demons rarely call to him. The clan has taken him in. They have become his family and friends, sharing both the hardships and the gifts of life. Here, death exists only to the extent essential for life.

Although the green creatures are the apex predators of this world, they never greedily take more than is necessary. The wild is their home and their lifeblood; they slumber in caves or amidst the foliage, roaming the mountain forests by day. Voldír was permitted to set up a small cave for himself, and others marveled at his wood-carved furniture and his lush garden, where a multitude of flowers and edible plants flourished. The warrior never knew who might be waiting for him in the evening, for clan members moved freely between one another's homes. He would return to find two or three of them lounging by his table or bed, resting their massive heads on their paws or grooming one another with dark blue tongues. They would share the day's catch, purring and blinking contentedly, before either returning to their own homes or sleeping right there as they pleased. Voldír adored them. He felt that his life had finally found fulfillment, that after a long journey, he had truly come home.

His best friend, Eldur—the clan leader's son—visited him most often; indeed, apart from the mating season, they were inseparable. During the warm season, they roamed almost their entire realm—the endless grassy meadows, streams, and forests—bordered to the north by mountains so high their peaks vanished into the clouds, to the west and south by salty blue waters, and to the east by a treacherous marsh that cut them off from the territories of other clans. They spent much of their time at the forest lake where they had first met. They loved watching the fish leaping and the meadow in bloom. They would bask in the sun and doze off to the sound of birdsong.

Eldur watched with awe as Voldír swam and caught fish, either with his bare hands or a hook, and he would always, without fail, grow anxious whenever his friend stayed submerged in the depths for too long. Voldír often played tricks on him, watching from beneath the surface as Eldur paced the shore in agitation, snorting and huffing but never daring to enter the water. Neither of them knew how to swim, and the others looked on with horrified disapproval at Voldír's love for the water. He built a raft out of logs, yet even Eldur had to summon his courage for days before they finally paddled across the lake. He summoned his father—the clan leader—and all the elders to prove his courage, thereby securing his place in his father's footsteps. He stood firm on the raft until they reached the far bank, even though the day before, he had trembled just lying flat upon it. He lifted his head, tensed his muscles, and let out a loud, thunderous roar into the forest silence. The clan bowed before him as one.

Yet, for all his happiness, Voldír felt a constant, nagging knot in his stomach. He could not forget how he had arrived there. He hoped the gateway had opened for him by chance, though deep down, he did not truly believe it. He had failed to kill the young sorcerer, and knowing the laws of his people, he understood that the hunt could end only with his own death.

*****

Isméne sank back dejectedly onto the freshly laid bed of boughs. Three cycles of budding leaves and frost had passed since she had used immense effort to send Voldír across to another world, one she had never managed to find again. She had devoted all her time and strength to opening gateways to ever-new worlds, yet she remained unable to conjure that specific one a second time. She could not even be certain whether time passed there as it did in Hasun. It was possible Voldír was no longer alive; that he had grown old and died in solitude, his bones lying unburied or already turned to dust. Then again, he might have taken a wife and fathered sons, living happily in a peaceful world without a thought for his past life. Voldír had often sought her out when camped at the barracks; he was always kind and gentle with Isméne, who accepted no payment from him. The warrior spoke little, indeed, almost not at all, and a cloud of sorrow forever shadowed his gaze, yet at times a radiant smile would break through, softening his rock-hard features.

The courtesan, who deserved a better fate, liked him, perhaps even loved him. She was glad that destiny had brought them together, for he suited her purposes perfectly. Isméne hated the sorcerers who had ruined her life and driven Hasun's people into senseless slaughter so that they themselves could live in boundless opulence. Voldír, whom she had prompted to act, had killed two of the old men, but the third, the young one, was still alive; thus, the lives of Isméne and Hasun's people remained unchanged.

His name was Maledikt, and he was Isméne's younger brother. He had caused sorrow from the very moment of his birth, killing their mother as she labored to bring him into the world. He had been a breech birth, and the battlefield medic hastily summoned to assist knew little of midwifery. The old sorcerers soon sensed the presence of magic within him and took him in so that he, like his sister, could master the arcane arts. They were told constantly that they were special and precious. So rare as to be invaluable, for only one such child appeared for every thousand births. For centuries, the magic-wielding elders had found no successor worthy of their legacy; yet now, within the span of two years, two children had been born in whom the power of magic pulsed strongly, albeit still unrefined.

Maledikt was an apt pupil. He enjoyed the learning and the trials, but he loved the power he gained through magic even more. He became a worthy successor to the ancient sorcerers; only upon their deaths could he fully absorb the magical power drawn from the soil of Hasun.

No one knew the origin of this knowledge, nor who had first sensed and harnessed it. It was so long ago that people believed sorcerers had always existed, and that one had always had to fight for them. Scarcely anyone questioned the legitimacy of their power or the nature of their lives.

Isméne and Voldír were among the few who did, and thus they became outcasts and fugitives. The warrior constantly glanced over his shoulder, no longer trusting even his own squad, men who, he knew well, frowned upon his solitary, disillusioned nature. Isméne, meanwhile, had been banished to the barracks after repeatedly challenging the justification for wars against other peoples. Though most of her magical power had been stripped away and she was condemned to a life of utter humiliation, she managed to conceal a small remnant in the recesses of her mind, hidden from the other three. She dared not use it, lest they discover her secret and kill her, though she did not understand why they hadn't done so already. Perhaps they thought she might prove useful one day, and if not, her life could be extinguished at any time; or perhaps there was enough goodness left in Maledikt to spare her blood.

Upon meeting Voldír, she quickly realized how she could put an end to both her own suffering and that of her people. The leader was so deeply despondent that she did not even need to resort to magic; she used only soothing words and soft whispers to transform his bitterness into hope, and eventually, into a plan. They came tantalizingly close, close enough to believe they could overturn age-old customs, but ultimately failed. That accursed Maledikt escaped; worse still, he sensed the very spell his sister had cast to save Voldír. Since then, Isméne has been constantly on the run, searching for the gateway to the warrior she herself had driven into exile. Time is running out, for Maledikt is hunting the warrior too; a manhunt of this kind can only end in bloodshed.

She heaves a deep sigh, crawls out of her leafy shelter, and drinks from the cool spring water flowing near her temporary home. The forests of Hasun are even more beautiful than its grassy plains, and, most importantly, the warriors live days' worth of travel away. She masks her magical aura so her brother cannot track her down, yet she still moves camp every few days. As a trained warrior, she knows that survival belongs only to those who stay constantly on the move and cover their tracks.

*****

Maledikt opens the gateways one by one with ferocious rage. He searches frantically for his sister and the warrior who nearly took his life. Yet he is sacrosanct and inviolable. Untouchable. Precious and peerless. Irreplaceable.

He dispatches his troops to distant worlds to hunt down his enemies. He shows no mercy to the worlds he uncovers, either; if he cannot finish off the traitors, he destroys others instead. Searching for Isméne is easy; standing in the open doorways, he attempts to sense her magical presence, though so far without success. Finding Voldír is a far more difficult task; possessing no magical power, the warrior leaves a much fainter aura, forcing Maledikt to seek out the lingering traces of Hasun energy clinging to him.

There is no excuse for such betrayal, how could there be? An attack against the sorcerers was unprecedented in the history of Hasun. Rage and humiliation mingled in his self-aggrandizing mind. The desire for revenge seethed in his veins like oil sizzling in a pan over the fire. Without sparing even his own troops, he rampaged and pillaged innocent worlds, opening them one after another, day and night. He feared running out of time. He knew that time did not pass at the same rate everywhere. What amounted to three budding seasons for him might mean centuries elsewhere, and vice versa. Through his magical power, he could sense that Isméne was still alive, and she is very, very close, but there was no trace of the warrior.

He tossed and turned, sleepless, barely eating; hatred and a fruitless search were consuming his massive, gaunt frame; his eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, shadowed by dark hollows. He knew he could not give up. He had to hang Voldír's head and flayed carcass in the town square for all his people to see, to show that doom had overtaken the traitor, that the deed had been avenged, and that his own glory remained undiminished. And then he, Maledikt, the singular and mightiest sorcerer ever to walk the lands of Hasun, would subjugate the entire cosmos. No longer would he have to share the world's power with the other two whom Voldír had treacherously slain; every magical emanation of Hasun would belong to him alone. The awareness of his power intoxicated him. He felt himself the equal of the gods.

*****

Ismene started awake, bathed in sweat. Her braid had come undone, her clothes were disarrayed, and she had thrashed apart her bed of boughs while struggling to break free from Maledict's mental shackles. She felt an immense sense of relief upon realizing it had all been a dream. Or had it? She cautiously scanned Hasun with her mind. She had managed to salvage only a shred of power from the sorcerers, and even that required significant energy to keep her magical aura concealed from her sibling. She struggled to detect the gateways her younger brother opened, yet now, a sensation distinct from the others seemed to emerge faintly from the fabric of magic. Summoning every ounce of her strength, she reached out toward it, desperate not to lose the hope she had awaited for so long. And then, yes, she felt it. It was there, so strong and unmistakable; the magical weave seemed to coalesce into an image, revealing a wondrous world where "he" stood.

She did not hesitate for a moment; she gathered her weapons and the meager gear she had managed to bring from the barracks during her escape, then sprinted through the forest toward the wastes of Hasun, intent on slipping into the heart of enemy territory to pass through the gateway Maledict had opened.

Along the way, she gathered mushrooms and berries, drank from streams, and even ate fish raw, caught with her bare hands. She barely slept, devouring the distance separating her from Voldír with a slow, steady jog. When she was a day's journey from the wasteland, she slowed to a cautious stalk; she knew that sentries lay in wait here, hidden in the tree canopies and beneath the undergrowth. This intense concentration exhausted her even more than the days of running. Sentries were always drawn from the most vigilant warriors, so he had to outwit the very best of them to reach the gateway standing at the edge of the vast wasteland.

She could feel that this heightened alertness was rapidly draining her remaining strength. She dared not use magic this close to Maledikt; she relied solely on the skills of a warrior. She crouched, watched, listened, and sniffed the air, then crept and crawled forward, only to repeat the entire process a few bushes later. She had to reach the gateway by nightfall to slip through and warn the peoples living there; otherwise, as her strength waned, her vigilance would falter. Sooner or later, she would be discovered, and then Maledikt would kill her and destroy yet another world in a fit of senseless rage. She could not let that happen. She was their only chance for survival.

With incredible effort, she managed to reach the edge of the forest, where she waited amidst the dense foliage for the camp to quiet down. Sheltered by the trees, she crept all the way to the gate, which was larger than any she had ever seen; as many as four war chariots or ten warriors could have passed through it side by side. Perhaps that was why the sorcerer had not noticed her until then; keeping the gate open consumed all her strength, for he dared not close it even for the night, there was a good chance he would never have been able to open it again.

Ismene slipped into a nearby tent that stood empty; the vanguard had already crossed the pass to scout the other world. The main force waited impatiently on the Plain of Hasun, eager to march into battle once the scouts returned with their reports. Ismene knew that at moments like this, tensions ran so high that soldiers would turn on one another, paying no heed to anything else. She arrived just in time to slip between the two groups to the other side. Fortunately, the abandoned tent held all manner of gear she might need. The breastplate was a bit loose on her, but the swords and daggers suited her perfectly; she even found a pair of knee-high boots in good condition, they fit well enough once she had wrapped her legs in some barely used gaiters. She filled her flask from the rainwater barrel standing in the center of the tent, checked her fire-starting kit, and packed plenty of leftover food from the table into her satchel. Thus equipped, she set out toward a new life, one she hoped would be better than the one she was leaving behind.

She lingered a moment in the tent's shadow, while listening intently for a rustling noise; then, crouching low to avoid the light of the campfires, she crept ever closer, moving from tent to tent, towards redeeming freedom. Fortune seemed not to sleep this night, keeping a watchful eye on Isméne's steps, so she soon reached the passage, where she saw only two guards dozing drowsily. They were at ease, expecting no attack, after all, the vanguard was already on the other side, and the sounds of battle would have carried from afar. They did not even wake when the sorceress, with a decisive movement, slit their throats one after the other.

Freedom! Isméne longed to burst into song, but she forced herself to stay quiet, lest her overflowing happiness cause her vigilance to waver. After surveying the terrain beyond the gate carefully observing the marshy landscape, she cautiously set off, following the trail of the vanguard. She hoped to move faster alone than the troops, whose primary mission was reconnaissance rather than combat. She knew they would be advancing slowly, observing everything; she, however, had felt Voldír's presence growing ever stronger since crossing the border. It was as if an invisible thread connected her to him, spanning space and time, to lead her to the warrior.

*****

Voldír was fast asleep; his arm hung off the bed, his hand resting on the head of Eldur, who was muttering in his sleep with twitching whiskers. The warrior smiled, his features softening, but suddenly a cloud passed over his brow; his smile twisted into a grimace, and his eyelids began to flutter before slowly opening heavy with sleep to gaze in wonder at the dawn sky. Years of training since childhood had left their mark; even after so much time spent in peace, his consciously honed senses and sharpened instincts did not fail him. He barely heard the cautious footsteps, yet he knew someone was moving outside. Someone who was not one of them. Someone who was moving through this unfamiliar environment like a warrior on a scouting mission. Cautious, alert, determined, and ready for anything. Moving exactly like a Hasun warrior. By the time he sprang up silently and reached for his weapon, Eldur was already blinking alertly from his bed of leaves spread upon the floor. Voldír signaled for caution, using the gesture that warned of danger and an intruder. Eldur nodded in understanding, squinting as he tucked his muscular legs beneath him, waiting poised to leap at his friend's side.

Voldír began to sniff the air, turning his ears toward the source of the sound. He felt a flicker of surprise; the braid running down his spine tingled at the roots. He thought of something from home, or rather someone from a past that seemed so distant as if it belonged to another life. He could hardly believe she was here. How had she arrived? Why had she come? Was she after the bounty? Eldur glanced at him, nudging him with his head to snap him out of his reverie, but Voldír gestured uncertainly, perhaps a friend.

He thought back to the time spent with Isméne. Nothing but beautiful memories, ones that hadn't faded during his time here. Unusual kindness, gentleness, and calm from a warrior, were the feelings that came to mind. The aroma of food, the restful sleep. He didn't know why, but he trusted her. He rose silently and pressed himself against the cave entrance, then slipped out into the early dawn light, sensing his friend close on his heels.

They moved noiselessly through the dense trees, pausing now and then to listen and scent the air. Eldur was guided by instinct; Voldír, by magic or perhaps a power even greater, something he had never felt before. At the edge of a small clearing, he crouched behind a rotting tree, pulling his maned companion down with him. He listened to the cautious approach of footsteps and the sound of bated breath; he caught the scent of a sweating body and knew for certain that whoever was stepping out from the trees was a friend, indeed, something more.

*****

Isméne paused, shielded by the last tree. She knew, she could sense that the warrior was there, just a few paces ahead on the far side of the clearing, yet she perceived someone or something else as well. Not an animal, nor one of her own people, but rather something that belonged to this world. She concentrated as intensely as she dared, held back by her fear of Maledikt; once convinced that only the two of them were over there, she spoke the warrior's name, but nothing happened. With a pounding heart, she called out again and stepped into the light to prove her intentions were pure, but then she sensed something behind her, something her senses could not identify, even with the aid of magic. She froze still, barely breathing, listening only to the growl that sounded at shoulder height. She had been so focused on Voldír that she had forgotten the other; her senses had failed her, and now it might cost her her life.

A tree opposite her stirred, and she saw Voldír step into the open, gesturing with his hand at waist level. Isméne did not recognize the signal, so she knew instantly it was not meant for her. The growl near her shoulder softened, then subsided into a huff; silky fur brushed against her neck as someone sniffed vigorously, then stepped back but remained right behind her. Voldír gestured again, this time signaling the sorceress to follow him silently.

They wound their way through the trees along a circuitous path, ensuring Isméne would not discover the most direct route to the caves. Voldír led the way, while the sorceress stole glances at the mysterious companion trailing a few paces behind her. She had never seen a more majestic or powerful being. She found him beautiful, yet sensed his wild nature and predatory instincts; so despite the glint of intelligence in his eyes, she dared not lower her guard.

The sun had risen by the time they reached their destination. The entire clan had gathered to gawk at the stranger, who looked and smelled like their friend, yet was different, unknown. They seated Isméne in the center of the circle, leaving her no chance of escape, then stepped forward one by one to sniff her; indeed some even licked her hands or face while murmuring quietly among themselves. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the warrior standing in the circle too, making it clear he was one of them. She noticed that after examining her, the creatures all looked to Voldír, who pressed his interlaced palms together before his chest and then placed them over his heart, offering the same gesture to each of them. He was the last to step forward; placing his hand first over his own heart and then over Ismene's, he said, "My friend." The clan murmured in approval.

*****

Voldír moved cautiously along the dark corridor; he could see well enough in the gloom, and Isméne had taught him the sequence of turns needed to reach the secret entrance to the Hall of Sorcerers, hidden deep within the labyrinthine network of passages beneath the building. These tunnels branched out in several directions, extending all the way to the edge of the grassy plains of Hasun, where the dense forests began. Only the sorcerers themselves and the commander of their personal bodyguard knew of its existence, yet even the commander had not been told the specific route.

Voldír knew he was nearing his destination: one more left turn, then right at the three-way fork, another right, and finally, at the last fork, he had to ascend thirty-three steps to reach the final turn that concealed the entrance. He expected to encounter only two guards standing watch on the inner side of the gate. There was no password because the gate was never opened for anyone else and the sorcerers possessed their own keys; one such key was currently tucked away in the warrior's pocket.

He pressed his ear against the door but heard no sound from within; there was no telling what the guards might be doing. He tried to prepare for every eventuality, they might be sitting or standing, either right by the threshold or a few paces away. Once he entered, there would be no turning back. He had to be fast, incredibly fast to prevent them from sounding the alarm. He grasped his sword in his right hand, held his long dagger between his teeth, stowed the short throwing daggers in the pockets of his jacket and boots, took a deep breath then exhaling slowly and opened the lock with his left hand.

He dispatched them so quickly and easily that he was surprised himself until he saw their faces and badges. They were mere greenhorns; he almost felt sorry for them. They had been sitting on the ground playing dice; one of them was smiling, having just won, when Voldír's sword struck his neck. His eyes widened in astonishment as he slumped back onto the damp stones, the smile still on his face. The other was more skilled; he snatched up the sword lying beside him and parried the first blow, then the second, but he was far less experienced and weaker than his battle-hardened opponent, as he delivered a third sword strike, he simultaneously slashed lightning-fast from the left with his long dagger, severing the guard's knee ligaments, before ruthlessly beheading the man as he collapsed to his knees. He was not even panting. He stood calmly and listened, but not a sound broke the silence. He took the guards' weapons and set off with purpose along the path he had learned from Isméne, heading toward the halls of Maledikt.

*****

Maledikt was utterly exhausted. Opening the massive gateway and maintaining its stability day and night was draining his strength. Until now, three of them had always secured the portals by supporting one another, allowing them to rest and gather their strength; but now he was alone, and he was unsure if he would find his sister and the warrior in time who had ambushed them and slain his fellow sorcerers. He had neither slept nor eaten for days, sustaining himself solely through magic. He drew upon all the power of Hasun and waited patiently. With his mind, he scanned the forest-clad mountain landscape revealed by the gateway.

He knew Isméne had crossed over, for her once-powerful aura had suddenly become barely perceptible to him. He would have raged had he the strength, but he could not risk anything distracting him from the gateway which, after so many attempts, he had managed to open quite by accident. His troops were encamped on the plane of Hasun, and scouts had already been sent across to determine what manner of people they would be fighting on the other side. He had also dispatched a small, covert detachment, personally charging its commander with tracking down his enemies. He wanted them both alive, he had issued the strictest orders to that effect. He would take pleasure in torturing them before killing them.

He knew of their liaison through his spies; a traitorous warrior and a courtesan; quite the pair, he mused. A sorceress stripped of her power and an outsider commander, scorned even by his own men. His sister and the assassin. Soon, they would be kneeling before him in chains, begging for their lives or for the mercy of death for Maledikt who had a vivid imagination when it came to torture.

He planned to kill Voldír first, so that Isméne might watch from her dungeon window as his corpse was strung up in the main square. Love. He had never understood why the gods had created it. His element was battle: patient waiting, stalking the prey, followed by savage combat, ruthless destruction, the seizure of spoils, and the slaughter or enslavement of the vanquished. Yes, that was him, Maledikt, the one and only, the most glorious and powerful of the sorcerers of Hasun.

He slowly turned his head to better hear the approaching din of battle filtering into his chamber from the corridor. Voldír! He should have known. Isméne had made it through and found the warrior, who had now come to kill him. A malicious grin spread across his face as his palm settled upon the hilt of his sword. He himself would slay this fearless, formidable Hasun one, who, alongside her traitorous sister, had challenged his authority and his claim to the treasures of distant worlds.

He braced himself for the confrontation; he split his mind so he could wield magic against the warrior charging at him while simultaneously keeping the portal open. The air around him grew dense, turning into an almost impenetrable wall as he drew ever more magic to himself. Electrical discharges crackled in the room, their buzzing growing steadily louder. He mentally reviewed the locations of all his concealed weapons and the routes of the secret passages; then, standing behind the massive wooden table with his sword at the ready, he awaited his attacker, who burst through the door at that very moment.

*****

Drenched in blood and sweat, Voldír fought his way past the bodyguards to reach Maledikt's chamber, located on the uppermost level of the Hall of Sorcerers. He had sustained several cuts; though none were critical, they were beginning to hinder his fighting. He knew the sorcerer would employ magic against him, placing him at a severe disadvantage. Isméne had hastily taught him how to draw a veil over his mind to conceal his intentions from her brother.

He did not hesitate; he burst through the door, knowing the sorcerer was already waiting for him. For an endless moment, they locked eyes, then lunged forward simultaneously. Their swords clashed as they traded rapid blows, each seeking a weakness in the other's defense. Voldír was wounded, while Maledikt wielded magic, striking the warrior again and again.

First, the sorcerer drained his energy until Voldír felt as though he were suffocating and could barely stay on his feet; yet, even with buckling knees, he parried the blows. Then, the sorcerer shrouded himself in mist to conceal his movements from his opponent. He struck from within a snow-white veil, dancing with lightning speed in the glow of the hearth.

Voldír could barely keep up, struggling with varying success to parry the rapid sword strokes; he found himself unable to apply Isméne's teachings. He was fighting for his very life against his opponent's superior strength. He sustained multiple cuts as he retreated, eventually backing into a wall, where another blow of tremendous force brought him crashing to his knees. "Isméne, help me", he cried out silently, opening all the power of his mind toward the other world that he had arrived into his own to save.

He saw Maledikt raise his sword for the final strike; he looked up, staring into that cold, merciless gaze and the grin twisted into a bloodthirsty snarl, and then, in a moment of utter desperation, he sensed the faint fabric of magic in his mind, cast toward him from afar. His left hand moved instinctively, thrusting forward to drive the long dagger hilt-deep into his opponent's heart. He could still hear the rushing footsteps of the guards as his body, bleeding from multiple wounds, slumped back onto the cold stone. His final thought was a prayer to the gods, hoping they might accept his sacrifice in exchange for the many souls that were taken.

*****

Isméne slumped weakly to the ground, blood trickling from her nose. She felt Eldur breathing anxiously into her ear, his shoulder supporting her weakened body. The entire clan stood around them. The proud lords of the mountain forests had all come to fight the enemy threatening their home and to protect this stranger one from another world who had traveled so far to warn them of the danger.

At the edge of the marsh marking their territory gaped the gateway to a realm teeming with fierce warriors; through it, a portion of the enemy army had already set foot upon their land. The battle was swift and brutal. Eldur's people left not a single survivor from Maledikt's vanguard, yet Isméne knew that thousands, hundreds of thousands waited on the other side of the gate, ready to cross at the wizard's command and destroy everything in this peaceful, wondrously beautiful world. Their only hope was Voldír, who set out without a moment's hesitation to accomplish an impossible feat: to slay Maledikt and seal the gateway forever, preventing the murderous horde from ravaging the home he had stumbled upon, a place where his soul had found peace among these noble beings.

Now that they had all seen the gateway vanish with their own eyes, they knew that not only was the sorcerer dead, but their brave-hearted friend had also given his life for their people's freedom. Isméne sensed the dying warrior's cry for help and poured all her magical power into redirecting her will, so that together they might defeat her evil brother whose death caused the Hasun Gate to close. Voldír was trapped there forever; and if he did not succumb to his wounds, the guards would have finished him off by now, meanwhile Isméne lost her remaining magical abilities, for she possessed them only within her own world.

*****

They stand side by side at the edge of the precipice. Massive and strong. Isméne's hand rests upon the thick fur as they gaze at the crimson sunset. Eldur presses his massive head against his friend, who embraces him, burying her face in his magnificent mane to hide her tears. Their victory had come at a heavy price; half the clan lay upon the moss-green earth of the marsh, abandoned to decay and the greed of scavengers. They had saved their own people and the other clans dwelling beyond the mountains and across the swamp, yet they could find no joy and held no feast of celebration. Their grief was too profound to ever be forgotten. The warrior who had extinguished so many lives in so many battles had redeemed their people's fate through his own death. His name would live forever in their legends; could he know this, how proud he would be. Could he see the two of them standing there in the last rays of the setting sun, his smile would soften the rugged, stone-like lines of his features. Isméne can almost sense his presence an imprint burned into her soul when their minds had once been joined. It is as if he were standing beside her, resting his midnight-black eyes upon them, nodding with a smile.