Sinovan shrieked like a barn owl, ‘We need to run! Zovhara, let’s go!’ 

Dashing to the back of his drift-wagon, he began shoving it with his bony shoulder, hoping that the knoll’s north-side descent towards Aeroz would hasten the wagon’s speed. Zov’ha did not budge; her eyes were fixed on the bikes. ‘Stand your ground,’ she said, almost imploringly. She watched closely as the mounted raiders came to a stop a few metres away. 

Two Calcars, armed with homespun rifles, alighted from the bike closest to them. Woolly outfits, probably stolen from farmers, protected their body from the chill; only their bony spikes stuck out from between the layers of cloth. 

One of them was a young man, whose body appeared extenuated by labour and poverty. He hobbled strenuously towards them with a sinister grin. His calloused, leathery dark-red skin sported a variety of spines and bone protrusions. His long dark hair was flattened against his spiky head. 

The other was a woman of similar age and appearance, but appeared healthier than her male counterpart, and walked in long strides behind him. Ginger hair cut short, she adorned the front of her head with a thin scarf. Her countenance was sharp, and she looked quite dashing despite her skeletal deformities.

The occupant of the second bike was tall and plump and was covered from head to toe with thick long white fur. Only his face was bare. A pure Poban, Zov’ha recollected — humans that had excessive body fur and were so tall that some were even referred to as giants. The Poban wore a yellow vest and loose trousers and struggled to tread uphill. 

The last of them alighted from her bike that she had parked farther downhill. She was a woman of middling age, whose limbs had been replaced with bionic fabrications — a Mechanov, humans who devised machines to help them cope with missing body parts. Her thin grey hair that was flattened against her skull was tied into a tiny bun at the back. She wore a bright-red corset and matching boots; both latex. Her décolletage revealed small bone protrusions and a deformed clavicle betraying her part-Calcar heredity. Leaning against her bike, she produced a metal smoke-pipe, lit it, and took a long drag before puffing out smoke.  

The two Calcars charged at the travellers, gun barrels pointed directly at them, ‘Shove ya brains in the dirt! Get down, now!’ 

Quivering like a cornered animal, Sinovan obeyed. Kneeling down and raising his hands, he let out a whimper. But Zov’ha did not comply and glared at them as they approached. Efiros, too, stood between the raiders and Sinovan, snarling at them. 

‘Ay you,’ barked the snivelling Calcar man, pointing his gun up at Zov’ha who was much taller than him. ‘Ya deaf, bitch? I said get ya goddamn brains in the dirt, ‘fore I ‘splode em ta bits!’ 

‘Now, now, Astrin, be polite,’ said the ginger-haired woman, pointing her gun at Efiros. ‘She thinks she can put up a fight, does she? So cute!’ Seeing that the bear was only a cub, she lowered her weapon and started circling Zov’ha, who watched her with a straight face. 

‘Tall as a Poban, but blessed with supple human skin and… my, my! Look at those beautiful locks of pale hair!’ When she saw that Zov’ha was not amused, she called out to the Mechanov, who was now puffing out clouds of smoke, ‘Ma Sacsha! Looks like we can make use of this one! Overlords’ll be thrilled! Imma neutralise her. Take her to the bosses.’ 

The Mechanov shrugged and replied, ‘You gonna bring her in on ya own?’ 

The blue-haired Calcar smirked, ‘No, ma, Toni oughta do it.’  Her eyes shifted to the white-furred Poban who was still waddling towards the travellers, panting as he climbed uphill, ‘Yo, lardo! Hurry up, will ya? Pop some muscle on this one and make her see what she’s up against.’ 

Whatever little hope Sinovan had felt witnessing Zov’ha’s bravado melted away when he saw Toni approach. The Poban was almost nine-feet tall, towering over even Zov’ha, like the trunk of an enormous birch. His head was regular-sized, which made him look comically disproportionate.  

Standing uncomfortably close to Zov’ha, he let out a short derisive laugh. She almost retched with the stink from his breath and beast-like odour, but refrained from stirring. ‘This one’s squishy! Astrin’s boom gun’ll knock her out clean. Why’d I need to dirty my fur, Mirg?’

The Calcar woman rolled her eyes vehemently, ‘We want her alive, poofy!’ 

Toni motioned to grab Zov’ha by the waist with the intention of simply picking her up and carrying her away like a sack of potatoes, but she was having none of it. She whacked his bristled arm away eliciting a grumpy growl. ‘Move it!’ he bellowed, but Zov’ha only stared back, undeterred by his pugnacious behaviour.

‘Look, Toni,’ Astrin, who was silently enjoying the entertainment, smiled toyingly and pointed at the lance Zov’ha was holding. ‘She got yer poker.’

‘That’s mine!’ he growled, grabbing the shaft of the lance and pulling it towards himself, ‘Give it back!’ 

‘Back off,’ Zov’ha said plainly, gripping the lance tightly. The Poban was incredibly strong and she felt a painful jerk on her shoulder as he tugged at the spear. 

The struggle between the two of them triggered an astonishing display of theatrics. As an automatic reaction, Zov’ha’s right leg left the ground, and her limb-wraps-bound foot found a perfect opening, smashing the Poban between his legs so forcefully that a single clapping sound echoed in the knolls. 

Toni recoiled, eyes wide open as his awestruck brain processed the magnitude of the blow and comprehended the extent of the pain he would be in within the next few seconds. With his hands between his legs, the Poban crashed head first into the frost-sprinkled soil, spasmodically spitting and gasping.  

While Astrin wrestled against an all out guffaw, Mirg shook her head and sighed. She turned towards Sacsha. ‘Ma?’ 

Minutes passed and no one moved, except the enormous Poban who was wriggling on the ground like an earthworm that had just been stepped on by a flat-bottomed wooden sandal. 

Sacsha finally set aside her pipe and walked up to the stand-off — her bionic embellishments clicking and hissing as she strode towards them. 

‘Smoke her,’ she commanded dryly. ‘Smoke ‘em all. Take everythin’ they possess. I want their wagon, their clothes, and any bionic body parts they have. Don’t leave anyone alive!’ 

Astrin let out a cackle and pulled the trigger without warning. Zov’ha instinctively raised her right hand to cover her face, closing her eyes and lowering her head, spontaneously bracing for the impact. 

Up until this moment she had not felt even an ounce of fear, but when she heard the blast of the gun, a chill ran through her spine, and she felt an acute longing for life… to survive…. 

There was a boy, or a man, but just a shadow. All she could make out were his eyes — icy-blue and fierce, like a wolf in the snow. The vision disappeared as soon as it had come — replaced by something else. Runes or letters in some language she did not know. There were symbols and voices… whispers. They were commanding her. She was compelled to follow. Her body was reacting on its own. Feeling a sharp pain radiating from her raised forearm, she winced.  

When she opened her eyes, there were ice shards everywhere. Blood besmirched the frost-covered ground, dark red and bright orange… not hers. Astrin’s body lay lifeless, a little distance away from her, dismembered and bloody. 

Something strange had happened in the few seconds between now and the alleged gunshot. The Poban, too, had stopped his writhing and appeared bereft of life, his tenantless body blackened where it had been hit, hissing and billowing smoke as if it had been burnt. 

Bruises reddened Mirg's face, who was in a state of abject terror; staring at her fallen companions in dismay. ‘What happened?!’ Mirg shrieked. ‘Did ya miss?’ She admonished the corpse of the Calcar man as if he was still alive. ‘Ya cripplin’ shitbird!’ 

Sascha had a concerned look on her face, and she leered at Zov’ha. ‘Try again,’ she barked, ordering Mirg to shoot.

This time Zov’ha decided to keep her eyes peeled. Lifting her arm again she braced herself. The shot was fired. Time slowed. A flash of blue eyes. Then the block of runes. Crisp as hardened ice, cold as a waft mountain wind, she felt something exude from the pores of her skin. Again, she was compelled to respond to… do something. 

As the bullet left the gun’s barrel, the skin on her hand turned black and stretched outwards, like thick paint diffusing in a clear solvent. Simultaneously, the frost that had collected on the ground around her rose coalescing with what seemed like her very being, creating a protective barrier between herself and the projectile. 

There was an exquisite pattern of frost fractals in front of her, growing wider and protecting Zov’ha and everyone behind her. The wall absorbed the damage, and the bullet ricocheted off it, exploding into bits. The frost bubble then burst, hurling the two assailants backwards. Her skin bubbled back into place. It all happened so fast that no one, except Zov’ha, had the time to process it. 

‘What are ya, witch?!’ came Mirg’s shrill wail as the cold dust settled. ‘Ya killed the others!’ Zov’ha took a few steps ahead. Sacsha was sitting on the ground, still in shock, but Mirg was on her feet again. Her shouting continued, ‘An’ for what? For a buncha rubbish you farm-asses carry with ya!’

She charged at Zov’ha, intending to strike her with her bare hands. Zov’ha instinctively swung her right hand to punch the charging Calcar in the face, but instead of a fist Mirg received the sharp end of an icy blade that materialised out of Zov’ha’s elbow and forearms, slashing her from cheek to cheek. Mirg fell to the ground, clutching her face and howling. Ice shards clung to the gash and bore deeper, leaving white ash where the skin and skull had disintegrated. Mirg was gone too.  

Sacsha’s face turned white. She guardedly rose, hands in front of her as if in surrender. Her compatriots had been murdered in cold blood, shockingly unexplained phenomena had occurred and confounded her, but none of that horror compared to what she saw in Zov’ha’s eyes — dispassion. There was neither anger nor guilt. She just stood there glaring unemotionally at Sacsha. 

There was nothing more to say or do. Sacsha scurried to her bike, looking back every now and then, and sped off. 

Zov’ha continued standing still, staring at the consequences of her actions. Sinovan hobbled to her side, still shaking. ‘Should… should I ask?’ 

The hoarfrost protected her… frost blades materialised out of nowhere… frost blades so cold that they burned… turning things to ash — Frost Ash. This all seemed too familiar. A boy with blue eyes. 

She expected herself to despair, to feel shaky, maybe even weep… but nothing stirred her heart.