Chapter Forty-Eight: The Banner of the Raven

On the seventh day, the sun rose. Wade brushed the snow and a few fallen pine needles from his body and stood up.

This was his seventh day on the icefield. He still didn’t know how much longer his incarnation would last, but for now, he felt no sign that he was about to awaken; whatever time limit might exist had not yet arrived.

He slung his deerskin pack onto his back as the villagers, who’d spent a freezing night outdoors, began to stir one after another.

Their breath hung white in the air with every exhale; almost all of them were shivering from the cold, rubbing their hands together for warmth.

After a brief rest, some food, and a chance to shake off their grogginess, the group set off once more.

Wade still led the way, and everyone moved forward in silence.

The weather was much improved compared to the previous days. The clouds had dispersed; the sun was out, and it was a fine, clear day.

They slowed their pace. By now, the group had been marching almost nonstop for twelve days. Even the strongest men felt their legs growing numb and weak, and for the rest, there was little need to speak of their exhaustion.

The day after climbing the mountain, the fatigue in their limbs was at its fiercest.

Some people lifted their feet as if their boots were filled with heavy lead balls, needing to lean on their walking sticks just to keep moving.

Fortunately, the further south they traveled, the flatter the land became.

They marched another day without encountering any difficult slopes. Any inclines were downward, sparing them the breathless effort of climbing. Yesterday, they had crossed the undulating mountains; now the region before them was open plain.

They were almost there.

Lukas began to recognize some familiar terrain. In his younger, less experienced years, he often came to the Brookwood Forest to carry out tasks.

Usually these were gathering assignments. Sometimes he helped other adventurer teams by carrying supplies or preparing their game.

He was quite familiar with Brookwood Forest.

In fact, when he first arrived in Alvado, it was his skills that kept him alive.

He used the skinning techniques he’d learned in his village to help other adventurers process their kills—whether ice wolves or something else.

He made many friends, experienced both joy and sorrow. In his most desperate times, he’d been swindled out of every coin he owned and almost sold into slavery.

After nearly three years in Alvado, through constant practice and learning, he mastered several basic combat techniques and became a self-taught professional.

He’d never had a true mentor in the trade. Or rather, any professional who befriended him over the years became his teacher in one way or another.

Alvado, to Lukas, was a place brimming with memories.

It was where his adventurer’s life began. Since then, he’d never stayed three years in the same town again.

In a sense, it was his second hometown.

Back then, as he walked the streets, many people recognized him and called out his nickname.

The adventurers had dubbed him “Greyclaw”—nimble-handed, yet always mingling with dust and fur.

Friends called him Lukas; clients who only sought his work used his surname Porter, or simply “Greyclaw.”

But seventeen years had passed. Alvado’s people had changed again and again. When Lukas returned last year and lodged at the Oak Tavern, he discovered Uncle John had already passed away.

Most of his old acquaintances had left Alvado. No one called him “Greyclaw” anymore. That youth who’d hawked his services in the market and the adventurers’ guild had already been forgotten by the small town.

Lukas recalled fragments of the past as he stood at the crossroads, orienting himself.

“This way,” Lukas said. “Cross the ravine ahead, and we should see the road. From the valley’s end, you’ll be able to spot the Bragg River and the houses of Alvado!”

He pointed ahead. Alvado was close now.

It was hard to believe—they’d crossed Brookwood Forest in less than two days.

They entered the natural ravine, and Wade stopped in his tracks. He had seen firelight within the gorge—there were people there.

So close to Alvado, it was hardly surprising to encounter others.

Indeed, as they entered the valley, three burly figures clad in full armor and helmets—faces concealed—appeared before them.

“Are those Alvado’s guards?” Uncle Bardel asked in a low voice.

Lukas didn’t reply. He simply frowned.

Full plate armor looked much the same everywhere, but the equipment on these men seemed far too new and fine. Lukas remembered Alvado’s guards—their armor was older, marked with scratches and wear.

Only the viscount’s personal guards, those who served the magistrate, would have such pristine armor and helms.

Had the viscount sensed the necromancer’s movements in advance and sent his personal guards to investigate?

Lukas looked to Wade, seeking the wandering knight’s counsel almost instinctively.

But Wade showed no particular reaction. He didn’t recognize these armored figures. He only sensed that they were living men. Besides the three knights in full armor before them, there were eight more further in.

It seemed an eleven-man squad was operating in the ravine.

As for parleying with them, that was not Wade’s strength—he was a skeleton, unable to speak, much less a native of Tania.

So Wade gave no special response. Lukas glanced at him, considered the situation, and stepped forward to greet the “guards.”

“Sirs!” Lukas called, “Sirs, we’ve come through the northern Clavey Pass with urgent news for the viscount!”

“The viscount?” The man’s tone was puzzled, a deep, rough voice muffled by his helmet. “Which viscount do you mean?”

“Of course, Viscount Colton Quentin,” Lukas replied, perplexed. Alvado was under Quentin’s direct rule—why would the guards ask such a question?

“Colton Quentin?” The three “guards” exchanged glances.

One, startled, asked, “Are you Tanian? By the War God, you didn’t cross the forest, did you?”

By the War God?

Lukas’s brow furrowed deeply. He gripped his spear, signaling those behind to fall back.

“What’s wrong, Viel? Why are you dawdling? Bring the captured ice bear and that gnome back already!”

A shout came from the far side of the valley.

“The weather’s so fine today—if we don’t finish our task, I’ll have no excuse. Watch out, or the necromancer will make zombies of us too.”

Another man approached.

Lukas froze, catching sight of the banner behind the newcomer.

The flag of Tania was a white icefield lily, symbolizing resilience—the will to bloom even in winter.

But this banner bore no lily.

It was a raven flag—a deep crimson field upon which a black raven spread its wings.

Legend held that the raven was companion to Tiw, the god of war, representing battle, wisdom, and omen.

This was not the Tanian flag, nor that of pirates. It was the military standard of the King of the Ice Isles, from across the Frozen Sea!

At last, Lukas understood the nagging sense of wrongness—these were not Alvado’s guards, nor the viscount’s men.

They were soldiers.

They were the Ice King’s elite troops!

“Run!” Lukas shouted, overtaken by a fierce sense of danger.

Veins bulged on his forehead as he drew power into himself and unleashed his combat skill toward the front.