Zoromon looked up at the sound of the stable door opening. Machli, the Clan Mother, came in and called her stallion’s name. “Daichen! Hello boy.” She went up to his stall and patted his head. Daichen’s coat was all white, and he was, in Zoromon’s mind, the worst-behaved horse in the stable. He liked no one but Machli and seemed to get a thrill out of bullying the other horses.

“I haven’t fed him yet this morning,” said Zoromon.

Machli turned around. “Zoromon? Azvalath? What are you two doing in the tack room? And why is Azvalath…?”

“Passed out?” Zoromon finished. “We were…attacked last night. It’s all right, though. He’s a bit scratched up is all.”

Machli picked up Azvalath’s hand and squinted at it. His pallor stood out painfully against her dark-toned skin. “Did he put his hand on hot coals?”

Zoromon shook his head.

Machli gave Azvalath’s burned hand a shake. “Wake up.”

He opened his eyes and jerked his hand away from Machli. “Don’t touch me.”

As if to spite him, she put her hand on his shoulder. “Were they Ferash Therall? Your attackers?”

“What does it matter to you?” Azvalath asked. “The Ferash Therall are after us. They won’t hurt anyone else in the clan unless they stand in the way.”

Machli sighed. “Remind me what you’ve done to earn such treatment?”

“We exist,” said Zoromon. “We exist against their god’s will. And for that alone, they would’ve killed us.”

“Well,” said Machli. “I would rather you two stayed alive, at least under my watch. You’re invaluable as fighters and as people. With that being said, this is your own fault for going out after dark. Against your own wisdom, I might add.”

Azvalath sat up. “You don’t understand. I…I sensed someone else out there. Someone like us. A Razaghal.” He looked at Zoromon. “A little god’s blood.”

Zoromon shook his head. “Fever talking.”

“I’m serious,” said Azvalath. “We really aren’t alone. Like I said yesterday, there are others like us. And we’ve got to keep them away from those monsters at night.” He pulled himself to his feet. “Zoromon, I think that’s who saved us last night.”

“The wolf?” Zoromon raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said we couldn’t help.”

Machli scowled. “I don’t know what you two are talking about, but if it involves a wolf, I say you’re quite bloody enough already.” She got up and dusted herself off. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got my horse to attend to.”

She got on the ladder and climbed up into the hayloft. Zoromon stood up and looked at the wounds on Azvalath’s back. His heavy wool coat was soaked through with blood, but it didn’t look fresh. “Looks like they’re starting to heal,” he said.

“If only,” said Azvalath. “Ferash Therall’s blades are toxic. The worst may be yet to come. Thankfully, it’s not my first ordeal.” He looked at Zoromon and tried to smile. “River?”

“Sure. Let’s go.” He opened the door and stepped outside. Azvalath put his arm around Zoromon’s shoulders to steady himself. “Feeling all right?” Zoromon asked.

“Just tired,” said Azvalath.

Machli yelled at them as they walked away. “Shut the door behind you, fools!”

Zoromon detached himself from Azvalath and ran over to shut it. Azvalath smirked. “You know better, you wild thing.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zoromon stuck his tongue out. “La-la-la.”

That put a smile on Azvalath’s face. “You know, we’re thousands of years old and look at least thirty-something, both of us. Yet you still have the manners of a child.” He grinned wider. “Maybe I do too.”

Before Zoromon could say anything, Azvalath pushed him over. He landed on his back in the snow, scrambled to his feet, and laughed until his stomach hurt. “That was mean, Azvalath.”

“But it was funny.” Azvalath winked at him and kept going. Zoromon dusted himself off and followed. For the rest of the way down to the river, he could not wipe the smile off his face.

When they arrived, Zoromon noticed immediately that something was off. There was a huge hole in the ice, and a putrid odor wafted off the once-pristine river. Azvalath fell to his knees and retched. Zoromon gagged and stumbled to the water’s edge. The fetid stench grew more overwhelming with every breath he took. Across the water on the opposite bank, he saw something he could not explain. “Azvalath? What are those things?”

There were three of them, it appeared. One was smaller than the other two, but even the small one made a horse look tiny. They were all black, except for the bright white blotches on each side of their rounded heads and their bright white undersides. Whatever they were, they were very beautiful and very dead. They lay rotting on the bank, putrefying the air with decay.

Azvalath looked across the river. “What in the world?” He shook his head a few times. “Those are grampuses. Killer whales. We’re hundreds of miles from the ocean. How did this happen?”

Zoromon looked at Azvalath. “Why are you asking me?”

“Think about it, Zoromon.” He sank to his knees again and drew swirls in the snow with his fingers. “There’s something going very wrong with the world. More than before. Everything is a little askew.”

Zoromon put his hand on Azvalath’s forehead. His skin seemed to be burning hot and freezing cold at the same time. Zoromon swallowed hard. Had the worst begun already?

“I…I don’t know what’s come over me, Zoromon. But I can see, the world is burning. It’s burning to ash so white and cold it snows. All the quiet little children wait to attack. And the Iron God…he’s everywhere…and nowhere.” Azvalath’s eyes widened. “I need help.”

Zoromon grabbed him. “Azvalath, what’s going on? Tell me right now so I can help you. What’s happening?”

Azvalath looked profoundly confused for a moment. Then, slowly, he raised his hand to point over Zoromon’s shoulder.

Zoromon turned around and saw the spectral fox from the night before. It stared across the river at something on the opposite bank. Zoromon squinted. Sure enough, he saw something move ever so slightly in the snow. It shot a quick glance at Zoromon before leaping toward the river. But instead of falling through the water, it landed as if the surface were solid ground. Ice formed beneath its paws. It shook its head a little, as if beckoning him to follow it.

Not knowing what else to do in that moment, Zoromon followed the fox across the water, treading gingerly on the trail of ice that formed behind it. Every few seconds, he glanced back at Azvalath, but his partner never moved.

Once they were on the opposite bank, the phantom ran over to something lying in the snow. Zoromon blinked in surprise. It was the wolf that had saved them the night before. Only now, it did not seem so fierce. Its back was torn up and bloody like Azvalath’s.

Zoromon looked at the phantom fox. “What are you?”

To his shock, it answered in a voice soft but clear. “I am the Wanderer.”

Before Zoromon could ask anything else, it faded from his vision. He looked down at the fallen wolf, that across the river at Azvalath. Someone was walking toward Azvalath. His heart skipped a beat. Zoromon ran down to the water’s edge and yelled across the river. “Who’s there?”

The other person stopped, then turned slowly to look at Zoromon. It appeared to be a woman, but Zoromon could distinguish nothing else from that distance. Without saying anything, she kept walking in Azvalath’s direction.

Zoromon shouted again. “Hey!” But she didn’t stop. “Wanderer?” he demanded. “What’s going on?”

It reappeared for a second. “Wolf. Help.” it said, then faded again.

Without even thinking, Zoromon picked the wolf up and nearly collapsed under its weight. It whimpered, but did not move. With a grunt of pain, Zoromon stumbled down to the water’s edge and onto the ice. It cracked a little beneath his feet. He screamed and then ran. Perhaps by some divine intervention, he made it to the other side without falling through the ice.

He fell onto the bank and dropped the wolf, who yelped in surprise. The strange woman put her hand on Azvalath’s back, as if to feel the wounds. Zoromon watched his partner stiffen and shudder. He grabbed the woman’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

She turned around slowly and glowered at him with eyes that did not look human. The whites of her eyes were blue, and her pupils were clouded gray. Zoromon gulped.

Azvalath spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “Who are you?”

The woman looked confused. She fumbled with the sleeves of her cloak, which looked to be too big for her.

“Do we know you?” Zoromon asked.

She pointed at herself, then at Azvalath, then nodded.

Odd, Zoromon thought. He had never seen her before, and it was unlikely he would forget anyone with eyes like hers. “Do you speak?” he asked.

She shook her head no. Then she crouched beside the wolf and lifted it out of the snow with minimal effort. Zoromon gawked. She, such a diminutive-looking stranger, made it look like the wolf weighed nothing at all. She looked at Zoromon, then at Azvalath.

Zoromon grabbed his companion’s arm and lifted him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

The woman trotted ahead with the wolf in her arms. Azvalath looked at Zoromon. “I don’t know her,” he said. “At least, I don’t think I do. But she seems to know me. Zoromon, what’s happening?”

“I know you’re confused,” said Zoromon. “So am I.”

Zoromon brought Azvalath back to their hut and made him lie down. A little clarity seemed to have returned to his partner’s mind, but he did not want to risk anything. “I don’t know about you,” said Zoromon, “but I’m getting hungry. I think I’ll make us some khenkash.”

Azvalath paused from wrapping his burned fingers. “Khenkash is for horses.”

“Horses and people,” said Zoromon. “Unless you would rather cook today.”

“With one hand roasted already?” Azvalath shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then khenkash it is,” said Zoromon. “I’ll toss some extra berries in yours.”

Azvalath laughed. “Thanks.”

Zoromon rummaged through their food stash. He checked each sack to make sure the contents had not spoiled. The grain was still good, as were the various root vegetables and berries they had foraged and then dried. Relieved, he grabbed the ingredients and went outside to start a fire.

He grabbed the pot off the fire pit and filled it with what looked to be clean snow, then fetched a few logs of firewood from the stack behind their hut. As he worked on starting the fire, Zoromon heard someone else approach. He looked over his shoulder. “Oh, it’s you again.”

The same woman they had met at the river came toward the front of the hut. A few paces behind her was the wolf, on its feet again. Its steps were slow and tentative, as if it were a newborn pup walking for the first time. It sniffed around the entrance, then nosed its way through the flap. The woman smiled and then ran off.

“Wait!” Zoromon called. But she kept going. He peeked into the hut and watched as the wolf sniffed at his partner.

“Well, hello there,” said Azvalath. “Thank you for your help last night, fella.”

“Hold on,” said Zoromon. “How did he recover so fast?”

Azvalath sat up. “What do you mean?”

“Earlier today, that wolf couldn’t walk and had gashes in its back. Now they’re scabbed up and he’s walking around again?” Zoromon shook his head. “I don’t think that’s normal after getting attacked by Ferash Therall.”

“Sure, it’s not,” said Azvalath. “But who are we to complain? I feel like that woman is a Razaghal too. Maybe it’s a power she has. Like you have with the horses.” He smirked a little. “Now go outside.”

Zoromon locked eyes with Azvalath. “Now make a sheep sound.” As he stepped outside, he heard Azvalath imitate a sheep. Zoromon laughed. “I know something most people don’t. Your power works both ways. Why do you still try?”

“Maybe because I like seeing what ridiculous things you make me do,” said Azvalath. “That wasn’t terribly creative, though.”

“No, but it was funny.” Zoromon threw another log on the fire. “And I don’t think the wolf’s rapid recovery ought to be overlooked.”

Azvalath called from the hut. “What?”

Zoromon rolled his eyes. “Nothing!” When the snow melted and started to boil, he added the grain and roots. To fill the silence, he sang a little song to himself. “Mother Mare, Mother Mare, with dark mane-hair and face so fair! Best you ride along with care, ‘cause scratch her once, you’ll find a bear…”

When it was done, he took the pot off the fire, filled two bowls, and tossed some dried berries on top of them. He went inside with the food, still singing. “Mother Mare, o heartless Mother Mare! Fall down one more time and she’ll be off to who-knows-where!”

Azvalath chuckled. “Is that song about Machli?”

“I suppose it is if you want it to be.” Zoromon handed a bowl to Azvalath. “Now let’s eat. Then, I’m going to find that woman. I feel like there’s a whole lot she’s not telling us.”