Chapter Thirty-Four: Pursuit

With a deerskin pack on his back, Wade began his trek across the icy plains.

The rising and setting of the sun allowed him to keep his bearings. He headed south—going north would lead to the Ice Sea, to the west lay mountains, and to the east, forests. None of those directions offered any sign of a road, so south it was, in pursuit of the villagers’ trail.

To keep pace with them as much as possible, Wade would send Mia soaring into the sky after every stretch, letting her survey the land from above.

Time slipped by swiftly; evening approached. The clouds were painted crimson by the setting sun, and distant mountains stretched endlessly along the horizon. Wade stood still, waiting for Mia to descend. The little one floated down from the clouds, light as a feather.

She pointed in a direction—something was there. Not people, but perhaps something connected to them.

Following Mia’s guidance, Wade pressed on. Before the sun had fully set, he found—well—a heap of dung. It seemed to be from cattle or sheep. Wade poked it with a stick and saw undigested dry grass.

Nearby, he found natural snow moss and a small grove. Venturing into the trees, Wade discovered a clearing where charcoal from a campfire remained.

A large group had spent the night here. On the ground lay gnawed sheep bones—they’d slaughtered a few sheep to fill their bellies. Most likely, these were the migrating villagers; it seemed Wade had chosen the right direction.

On the mossy ground, he saw ruts left by wagon wheels.

That night, he kept moving, following the direction of the tracks. He felt no urge to rest and pushed on without pause. Night and day were much the same to him—he was well accustomed to darkness.

There were precious few monsters on this snowy wasteland; he traveled unimpeded. Creatures like goblins and trolls couldn’t adapt to the cold. The more common monsters here were winter wolves and ice bears—but even those were only relatively common. As apex predators, winter wolves and ice bears each claimed their territories and rarely strayed from them.

Thus, traveling the snowfields wasn’t as dangerous as one might think. However, should you come across a frost giant or a white dragon, you could only count yourself unlucky. Only professionals—seasoned teams of them—could hope to deal with such threats; an ordinary person’s chances of surviving an encounter with a frost giant or white dragon were not quite zero, but perilously close.

Wade considered himself fortunate. After two days, aside from birds overhead and the occasional distant deer, he encountered nothing else.

At midnight of the second day, he found another used campsite. Among the villagers were the old, the weak, women, and children—they traveled slowly to accommodate those with less strength. Wade’s two days of walking likely equated to four or five of theirs. At this rate, he would soon catch up.

Indeed, on the third morning, Mia found the migrating villagers.

Wade set down his deerskin pack and climbed to the top of a black pine. From the open snowfields, he spotted tiny black dots in the distance—the villagers, herding their sheep, several ox-carts laden with wooden crates in tow.

By following them, he no longer had to worry about losing his way; the locals would certainly know the road. Wade trailed behind, keeping a safe distance and avoiding contact. These Tania folk, wounded and wary, would not yet have let down their guard.

After all, Vikings had ravaged their village. Now, if a strangely dressed, mute outsider sought to join their ranks, suspicion was inevitable. It was better to follow quietly; all Wade needed was their guidance.

He kept three or four kilometers behind. The villagers moved slowly, so his own pace had to match theirs. In this way, Wade shadowed them for a full day.

At noon on the second day of following, something unexpected occurred.

Resting on a hillside, Wade rose to his feet as a group of silver shadows sped across the frozen plain, leaving tracks in the snow. Winter wolves were approaching the villagers’ convoy.

Were these hunting winter wolves? But there seemed too few of them, only five or six. Wade remembered from the Adventurer’s Handbook he’d once picked up that a winter wolf pack would have at least ten members. Then again, the handbook’s contents weren’t always accurate—best to rely on reality.

Regardless, these winter wolves had clearly marked the villagers as prey. Herding so many sheep in a group was bound to draw attention; it was no wonder the wolves had set their sights on them.

Winter wolves were supernatural beasts, truly capable of unleashing blasts of frost. They hunted in packs and wielded lethal cold to slay their victims. While they were not as dangerous as frost giants or white dragons, for ordinary people, they were a deadly menace.

Wade shouldered his pack, drew his bow, and headed down the slope. If the villagers could handle the wolves, all the better; if not, he had no qualms about loosing an arrow or two to help.

He figured he was getting close to the nearest town now. However remote, no village should require ten days or a fortnight’s walk just to reach the next market town. That village had all the essentials—iron hoes, pitchforks, patterned cloth crafts, and pottery—all things Wade had seen in their homes. It was not some druid enclave hidden deep in the mountains; they traded with the outside world, so the town couldn’t be far.

If he aided them with a few arrows here and found his bearings, he should be able to make his own way to town.

Come to think of it, he didn’t have a single coin to his name. The villagers, needless to say, would have taken their money with them—no one forgets their purse, and with time to pack, they certainly wouldn’t have left it behind. As for the pirates, every one of them was sharp; the communal sleds held only shared food and armor, never anyone’s personal funds.

How could one travel without money? Perhaps this was an opportunity to earn a little reward from the villagers. After all, he had saved their village—asking for a small payment was not unreasonable.

An adventurer who helps for no reward arouses suspicion, but one who accepts payment is another matter entirely.

So be it.

Wade nodded, and Mia slipped into his helmet. The little ghost turned into mist, seeping through the seams of the iron helm, and re-formed inside. She obediently perched on Wade’s shoulder, arms around his neck, silent as always.

Thus, a raggedly equipped “wandering knight,” a bulging deerskin pack on his back, walked along the ox-cart ruts.

Wade and the winter wolves drew nearer.

As he reached the point on the plain where he could see the villagers, one winter wolf had already knocked a sheep flying. The beast tore open the sheep’s throat and, as if starved, began savagely devouring it.

The villagers were startled; sheep and people alike erupted into chaos, and for a moment, the scene was pure confusion.