The sun was touching the tips of the mountains on the western side of the valley when the magi stepped out of the shadows of the trees. A mostly dried-out riverbed cut through the thick forest allowing for an unobstructed view in both directions. One hand stroking his long white beard, the old man considered his surroundings. Come spring, the stony riverbed would transform into a powerful stream, carrying meltwater to the ocean. Now in late summer, it was reduced to a mere creek, barely reaching a grown man’s ankles even at the deepest places.

“Up river?” the magi asked, not bothering to turn around.

“Yes, master Mel’Chor,” Livadios said, rushing to join the magi’s site. “We follow the river until we reach the path to the logger’s village. Maybe two days?” He nervously glanced up at the ominous figure next to him.

Although they were roughly the same height, the magi seemed to tower over him. As always, his face was unreadable. In truth, Livadios rued the day his father had ordered him to guide master Mel’Chor over the mountains. But there had been no way to refuse.

With the sun already touching the raised horizon of the mountaintops, it was a good time to make a camp for the night. Livadios pointed to a spot close to the river. “We could camp here for the night. There are enough dried twigs to make a fire.”

The magi looked up, his gaze sweeping across the mountain range until it fell on one particularly tall mountain that seemed to push into the valley, giving it the shape of a half-moon. The local tribe said the towering figure was the seat of Grumpy Old Horto, the god that claimed the Half Moon Valley as his domain.

“We have another hour of sunlight,” master Mel’Chor said, firmly planting his staff into the stony ground of the riverbed.

Carefully hiding his reluctance, Livadios followed the magi. They crossed the shallow water and started to walk upriver. Livadios really had to increase his pace to keep up with the determined old man. While his stony expression never changed, he seemed to become more and more invigorated the closer he got to his destination. He walked with a straight back, carrying himself with the natural dignity Livadios only knew from the nobles and high priests of his city. Having crossed the mountains with him he knew that the boney hands and leathery skin hid strength and endurance most men in their prime could never hope to match.

Of course, that’s not what makes him so intimidating, Livadios thought, glancing over at the man’s staff that was covered with intricately carved symbols, each one representing a different god.

He looked away quickly. Nothing good came of involving yourself in the business of gods and magi.

After an hour of rigorous walking, the sun had mostly disappeared behind the mountains. Content with their progress, the magi decided to make camp. They would spend the night on the riverbank. After dark, animals would be drawn to the river to water, but the beasts of the forest were no threat to them. A fire and, likely, the magi’s presence would keep them away.

After choosing a suitable spot, Livadios busied himself with the preparation of a simple night camp. Having done it more times than he could remember, it didn’t take him long at all. The magi’s decision to stop so low in the valley paid off. Warmth still hung in the air even as the sun went down, and darkness crept up on them. He put down their blankets and built a small fire to brew some tea.

While his hands went through the work with the routine of years of repetition, he let his mind drift. They had made good progress today and he looked forward to the morrow. Once they reached the logger’s village, he hoped to finally be released.

He glanced up. The magi sat on his blanket, drawing on his beautifully decorated clay pipe. His eyes were closed and Livadios had the impression that he was focused on something far away.

He had wanted to ask about the purpose of his journey many times but, so far, he had not found the courage. Originally, his father had only tasked him with guiding master Mel’Chor through the mountains. Livadios had hoped to return after they reached the Half Moon Valley, but the magi had not released him.

Livadios was eager to return. Born in a city, he had never liked spending his nights outside in the wilderness. But you did not say no to a magi’s request. Especially not to one as famous as master Mel’Chor. And the gold he had given Livadios’ father would help greatly in finding Livadios a wife.

A light shiver ran down his spine. Is it getting cooler, he wondered?

Distracted by his thoughts it took him a moment to notice the change. The temperature was chilling rapidly. With astonishment, he saw his breath form little wisps of mist in front of his face.

“Master…”

“Quite.” The magi spoke with a tone that allowed no disobedience. His eyes stared into the distance, searching between the trees.

Still on his knees from working the fire, Livadios did not dare to make any sudden movements. His nervous fingers fumbled for the hilt of the copper knife on his belt.

“There.” Master Mel’Chor sat perfectly still and relaxed. Only his eyes, fixated on something in the distance, revealed any tension.

Livadios followed his gaze. And there it was. Flickers of light, almost imperceptibly hard to see through the trees, started to appear upriver where the riverbed turned and disappeared from view. Something was coming downstream.

For a moment Livadios stopped breathing. Should I run?

The decision was suddenly taken from him. The magi dropped his pipe and stood, picking up his staff in one fluid motion. A kick pushed the rest of the twigs Livadnios had gathered into the fire. Flames greedily consumed the additional fuel, and the fire grew, repelling the encroaching darkness.

In the distance, tendrils of mist were sneaking around the bend filling the space between the tree lines on both sides of the riverbed.

Fear and panic rising within him, Livadnios scrambled to his feet. One hand was on the knife’s hilt, too afraid that drawing the blade would bring the attention of whatever was coming downriver on him. The other grasped the amulet hanging around his neck. “Great god Balkar, please protect your follower from plague, drought, and evil.”

Did Piro’s god have any influence this far away from the city and the sea? He could only hope. As he prayed, more and more tendrils appeared around the bend, rushing towards them like a milky, grey wave. Lights started to cut through the threatening fog. Gradually at first, then growing stronger. They seemed to float over each side of the riverbed in regular intervals.

“Master, what is this?” Livadios looked back and forth between the approaching mass and the magi.

Master Mel’Chor ignored him. Continuing to stare ahead he showed no fear, only grim concentration. “The child must be close if something tries to stop me here,” he murmured.

The first tendrils passed by, enveloping them in grey. The other shore disappeared from sight. A moment later Livadios couldn’t even see the tree line on their side anymore. Any noise previously echoing from the darkened forest has ceased.

The magi took a step forward. “I am Mel’Chor, the sage,” he shouted. “Mel’Chor of the Circle of Nemki. Who wants to challenge me?”

Only cold silence answered. More lights appeared. Always in pairs, one on each side of the riverbed.

Master Mel’Chor raised his staff. One of the carvings lit up, its thin lines glowing like embers in a fire. A thin trail of smoke started to rise into the air.

Another light appeared right above them, turning the mist around them from grey to white. The moment it lit up, the magi’s staff whipped around, the glowing symbol painting a shining line into the air. A sound like the angry hiss of a cat broke through the silence.

The two men stood there, frozen in place, the magi’s staff pointing at the light above them. Nothing happened. White light continued to shine down on them. Only the glow of the carving had expired.

Barely daring to breathe, Livadios slowly turned his head to master Mel’Chor, hoping to see any indication that the magi was in control of the situation.

The old man’s expression was impossible to read. “It just dissipated.”

Livadios swallowed. “…what?”

Master Mel’Chor kept his eyes on the white light. “A curse like that doesn’t just disappear…” He fell silent, his head snapping around.

“Something is coming.”

Livadios wanted to ask exactly what was coming when he heard a noise in the distance. It was a noise he had never heard before. Had somebody asked him to describe it, he would have lacked the words to do so.

“Livadios!”

“…yes!” the younger man said, taking a moment to realize that he had been addressed.

“Take my bag,” Master Mel’Chor said, his free hand fishing for a cord around his neck. “There is a leather pouch with two clay tables inside. Can you read Saggabian script?”

“No,” Livadios said, hastily searching for the bag while trying not to fall over his own feet.

“No matter.” The magi retrieved an amulet from below his collar so it hung freely in front of his chest. “Take the pouch and flee. Away from the river. Make your way to the logger’s village.”

Livadios had found the bag on the mist-covered ground and was rifling through it when the meaning of the words dawned on him. He stopped. “Alone?”

The strange noise had moved closer.

“If the prophecies are right, I will catch up to you soon,” master Mel’Chor said, sounding grim. “If not…”, he sighed, “find the child and bring it out of the valley. Go somewhere safe. Protect it until one of my brethren finds you.”

“What child?” Livadios asked, panicking. “What…”

“Listen!” the magi interrupted him sharply. “There is no time. There will be a child that is different. Special. Fate will guide you should I not make it. Now go!”

Livadios’ hands found the pouch and he pressed it to his chest. “We can run!”

Master Mel’Chor looked over his shoulder meeting his companion’s eyes. “I have fought men, demons, and gods. There is very little in this world that I must fear. I learned that evil monsters need to be challenged. But not in deep dark woods.” As he spoke those last words, the corner of his mouth twitched.

He turned around and walked down the riverbank, his staff hitting the ground with every step. Every time it met the ground another carving lit up.

Livadios stared after the old man as he was swallowed by the mist until only an amber glow shone through the grey. He swallowed.

The noise was very close now. Whatever was coming could not be further away than the bend in the river.

Willing himself out of his state of shock, Livadios came to his feet. He picked up his own bag and slung it over his shoulder. For a moment he considered rolling up his blanket but decided against it. Glancing one last time over his shoulder he ran towards the tree line.

After just three steps, he crashed into something hard and unyielding. Pain exploding on his forehead he fell backward onto the ground. Blinking away the colorful spots in his vision, Livadios tried to make out what he had collided with. A long, grey pole stood in front of him, reaching up into the white mist around the light above him.

A tree, he thought, confused? No, there hadn’t been one before.

Then he realized that he had dropped the pouch. Panicked, he started to search the mist-covered ground on his hands and knees. He wanted desperately to get away, but he could not leave it behind. The master had entrusted it to him.

And then the most horrible sound he had ever heard made him freeze in place. For six long heartbeats the silent night was interrupted by a crescendo of sounds somewhere between the high-pitched cries of a woman and the wailing of tortured animals.

Feeling the blood draining from his face, Livadios looked up. Ahead, the glow of the magi’s staff winked out, barely leaving the man’s outline visible in the thick grey.

The night fell silent again except for the strange sound still coming closer. Livadios didn’t dare to move. He just stared ahead into the thick fog, trying to be as quiet and still as he could.

White light broke through the mist, so bright that Livadios had to turn away from whatever was coming down the riverbed. His eyes half closed he heard the sound passing by.

“Ugh!”

He looked up, terror filling him as he heard something solid smashing into something else followed by a muffled scream.

More noises of stone crashing against stone rang through the grey. Then a howling that sounded unlike any animal Livadios had ever heard ripped through the night. At the same moment, two bright red lights like the eyes of a demon from the tales glared through the mist.

Something in the young man broke. Any thought of the leather pouch and the magi’s instructions were forgotten. He fled. First on all fours then when he reached the tree line he struggled to his feet and ran. Giving no thought to the direction he was heading in, he knew only one thing for certain. He must get away.