They moved with a disciplined pace. Dimitry took point, his shotgun leveled and ready; Hans followed, spear gripped firmly in his one good hand; Cohen brought up the rear, burdened by the heavy sacks. They walked in a silence born of exhaustion. Dimitry glanced back at Hans periodically, amazed—the veteran’s broken arm seemed to be a mere afterthought as he swept the landscape with a predatory, calculated gaze.
By midday, Dimitry’s legs were leaden, and his back felt as if it were stitched with fire. The forest to their right finally receded, replaced by the banks of the Vuta River. A stone bridge spanned the current, its central arch collapsed and bridged by a makeshift lattice of logs. On the far bank, near a dilapidated shack, two figures watched their approach with visible apprehension.
“Garrison soldiers,” Hans muttered. “They won't dare block a Baron.”
As they drew closer, the guards' anxiety became palpable. Their equipment was a sorry sight: rusted breastplates over tattered gambesons. One clutched a boar spear; the other was frantically cranking a crossbow, the winch’s screech echoing across the water. When they were five meters from the bank, the guard barked, “Halt! Not another step!” His voice cracked—he was barely more than a boy.
“Call your superior, whelp!” Hans roared. “Baron Cohen Prast approaches with his retinue! Open your eyes!”
The senior guard emerged from the shack and immediately cuffed the boy’s ear. “Lower that bolt, you idiot! That’s Baron Cohen!” The guards retreated, bowing clumsily. The sergeant gave Cohen a respectful nod and gestured toward their fire. “Forgive my fools, Your Grace. Their nerves are frayed.”
Seeing Hans, the sergeant smirked. “Still creaking, you old dog?”
“And a long life to you too, Bertold,” Hans replied. Old acquaintances. While Dimitry surveyed their pathetic fortifications, Bertold’s face darkened. He drew Hans and the Baron aside.
“Things are bad,” the sergeant whispered. “A day ago, one of Reinhard’s men stumbled out of the woods. Wounded, half-mad with fear. Said his unit was butchered by the dead. Five monsters that steel couldn't bite. He died of pure terror an hour later. My boys are jumping at their own shadows now. If seasoned mercenaries were carved up like that, what chance do we have with boar spears?”
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Dimitry thought of the fifth beast back at the outpost. A cold shiver traced his spine. The mercenary in the mud was only the beginning. Hans spat into the water, looking Bertold in the eye.
“Your man wasn't lying. There were five of them. They hit us before dawn, thought they had us for sure. They broke my arm, but that was the end of their luck. Master Dimitry brought out that thing of his—and that was that. A crack like the sky splitting, and there was nothing left of the undead but scraps in the bushes. He wiped them out. Tell your boys to relax; those things won't be bothering anyone else.”
Bertold turned slowly toward Dimitry. The suspicion in his eyes was replaced by a heavy, soldierly reverence. He instinctively straightened his posture before a man who had single-handedly dismantled a necromantic nightmare. Cohen remained silent, staring off into the distance, the memories of the night fight still depriving him of words.
“In that case,” the sergeant nodded to Dimitry, “join us at the fire. We’re lucky you chose this road.”
The shack was warm, filled with the functional clutter of a barracks. They dropped their packs and collapsed onto the benches. Dimitry, wincing, pulled a syringe and administered a shot of Diclofenac. The guards watched from a distance, shifting uncomfortably—to them, it looked like a dangerous, clinical sorcery.
“Here, Hans, take this,” Dimitry handed the old man an Analgin pill. “It’ll take the edge off the arm.”
Hans swallowed the “magic stone” without a word. Cohen watched them, feeling like an outsider in this circle of grim soldiering and inexplicable science. As a thick stew began to bubble on the stove, the night’s horrors briefly retreated before human hunger.
“How is the situation out there, Sergeant?” Hans asked between mouthfuls. “We get nothing but crows and silence at the castle.”
“Normal, mostly,” Bertold sighed, wiping his mustache. “The Governor is feasting, and the merchants are at each other's throats over contraband. Word is, that dealer Hoof finally squeezed the Swamp Walkers. Stripped them of the rights to their last two warehouses at the port. The ‘Gardeners’ have already issued the eviction notice. The Walkers have nowhere to go but the streets.”
Hans grunted. “Who picks a fight with the Walkers? They're a tough lot.”
“Maybe,” Bertold muttered. “But times are changing. When every buyer in Northcross is in Hoof's pocket, you don't have many options. He’s hiked prices so high the Walkers are operating at a loss. Those who bend the knee to Hoof get supplied for free. But the ones who won't... well, there’s plenty of resentment brewing.”
Dimitry listened, silently analyzing. This was a classic market takeover—an aggressive acquisition—and independent players were being suffocated. The Diclofenac finally hit; the dull, exhausting ache in his back receded into a numb calm. It was time to move.
Suddenly, the door crashed open. The young guard practically fell inside, his face ashen with terror. “Commander! Out there! In the sky! It’s massive!”
They bolted for the exit. Dimitry grabbed his shotgun, thumbing the safety off in a practiced motion. The daylight stung his eyes. He squinted toward the north.
Hovering over the forest, majestic and terrifying, was... a dirigible?
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