Artem finished his patrol. All six protective glyphs were in place, forming a protective circle around the small camp. Before sitting by the fire, the man checked again if both horses were securely tethered.
The animals, standing side by side with lowered heads, occasionally grazed on the grass. Their calmness reassured the mercenary. Perhaps they would indeed reach the city safely. It was the last night on the trail. Tomorrow, they should find refuge behind the walls of Tanargor, where they would deliver the cart to the local Travelers' Guild, give a report, collect their payment, and, over a strong drink, forget about the whole unlucky expedition. Or they would go their separate ways.
That was the plan. Artem cast a fleeting glance towards the dark shape on the plain, spat over his shoulder, and sat down by the fire.
“Everything alright?” Morlay, sitting opposite him, looked from under his hood.
“It's fine,” replied the mercenary.
“Are you sure?”
Artem grimaced.
“Go and see for yourself,” he muttered, adding a log to the slowly dying fire.
He could understand a young man setting out on the trail for the first time, and after all they had been through, he could be frightened. But Morlay was the type who acted tough from the beginning, picking on everyone and struggling to follow the Guide's instructions. Artem knew such greenhorns well. Usually, beneath a facade of cynical confidence, they hid fear and self-doubt.
The expedition didn't go as planned from the very beginning. First, in Blescia, the agreed-upon group of mercenaries backed out, opting for a better-paid contract with another caravan. The replacements, armed men, turned out to be ordinary frauds and, three days after leaving the city, simply vanished with the advance payment. Then, during the mountain crossing, they discovered that a snow avalanche had completely blocked the pass, and Guide Brogar decided to take an alternative, longer route. It was there that the wolves attacked. Three out of the six travelers did not survive the encounter. Among the fallen was Brogar.
Artem, Morlay, and Vereena were left alone in unfamiliar mountains, full of creatures even worse than wolves. Their only hope was Brogar's still functional cart.
In Brogar's belongings, Artem found a notebook with dozens of maps tucked between the pages. Following the clues in it, he led the wagon and the two surviving companions further north, towards Tanargor, their expedition's destination. Morlay still behaved annoyingly, but at least he listened to the orders of the older and more experienced man. Vereena, a reserved magician, almost never spoke to them, limiting her interactions with the rest to the bare minimum. Most of the time, she stayed in the wagon, sleeping or reading books from Brogar's small library.
The night air became cooler. The flames of the fire gradually dimmed, pressed to the ground by gusts of wind. The tethered horses became restless, snorting and stamping their hooves on the grass.
Artem raised his head and pulled down his hood, listening.
“What's going on?” Morlay, on the other side of the fire, suddenly woke up from a nap.
“I don't know,” murmured the mercenary. Something had unsettled the animals. He stood up and decided to once again circle the camp. In such a place, there was never too much caution.
Everything seemed to be in order at first glance. Nevertheless, Artem paused for a longer moment near one of the glowing glyphs. He scanned the dark steppe toward the nearby burial mound. He stretched, straightening his limbs, then looked around once more, wanting to make sure everything was okay. He was about to turn around when he noticed that the sigil lying in the grass was darkening and flickering, as if losing its power.
Instinctively, the man stepped back. He was not knowledgeable about magic, not a wizard, but even he understood the basic principle of how sigils worked. Something or someone was pressing against the protective barrier around the camp, draining power from the magical stone.
He heard a loud, unsettling rustle somewhere in the darkness, beyond the circle of light from the fire. It could be some wild animal, or...
Turquoise flashes in the dark dispelled his doubts. The grass around them moved as bony figures began to unearth themselves.
“Damn,” Artem hissed and rushed towards the fire. “Morlay! Watch the horses! Vereena! Get out of the wagon!”
Something was happening in the darkness around them. The mercenary grabbed his sword, leaning against the wagon wheel, and pulled it from its sheath. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the sigil on the wagon was fading just like the small glyphs in the grass.
“What's happening?” heard Morlay's thin, panicked voice. “You said it was fine!”
“Because it was.” Artem pointed at the agitated, tethered horses. “Calm them down, because if they run off into the night, it's over for us.”
He tried to keep a cool head to show the young man that he had the situation under control. In reality, he had no idea what was happening. Around the camp, more and more flickering points were visible. Animated skeletons tried to approach the wagon. They stumbled and fell, only to clumsily rise again and extend their bony claws. They were getting closer as the protective light of the sigil weakened. It was only after a moment that Artem noticed that the turquoise lights were not the eyes of the undead but glyphs carved on their foreheads. The undead, clad in remnants of deteriorating armor, grew in numbers.
Vereena jumped out of the wagon. She hissed, stepping on a stone with her bare foot.
“What's happening?” Morlay repeated his question, but with a calm and emotionless voice.
“I don't know.” the mercenary gestured with his arm towards the surrounding monstrosities.“I have no idea where they came from. Probably because of that burial mound…”
“Maybe...” the woman looked around and abruptly inhaled through her nose. Then she looked at the dimming sigil hanging on the wagon. The magical seal carved into the stone plate was fading with each passing moment.
One of the skeletons, stumbling over a clump of grass, leaped forward, crossing the line of glyphs. Artem blocked its path and smashed it into pieces with two strong blows.
Another animated corpse broke through the barrier, followed by his company. The protective magic of the sigil must have been depleting.
“Veeeer!” shouted the mercenary. “Think of something, girl! I can't defeat them all alone!”
The frightened neighing of horses echoed in the night. The camp was surrounded by the increasing clatter of bones. The animated corpses were becoming more numerous. Vereena jumped onto the driver's seat and grabbed the fading sigil in her hands. She shouted some words that Artem couldn't understand, let alone remember. A dull thud, like an invisible wave, hit the man, knocking him to the ground.
When he came to, he heard his two companions arguing.
“What did you do, damn it?” Morlay yelled in his unpleasant, panicked falsetto. “You used up all the magic of the protective barrier! Now the monsters will kill us!”
“Do you see any monsters here?” Vereena was calm, but her words carried irritation.
“Not now, but what if more of them will come later?”
“They won't,” the sorceress reached for Artem's cloak lying on the ground and draped it over her shoulders. “Our sigil's magic woke up the undead and attracted them. No magic, no undead. Simple. And don't yell at me, I don't like it.”
Indeed, the sea of turquoise lights that had surrounded the camp just moments ago disappeared. But the sigil on the wagon and the six glyphs in the grass went out as well. In the circle of light cast by the flames of the fire, only the remains of the long-dead warriors who fell in a battle long ago were visible.
Artem stood up and approached the wagon.
“Stop arguing,” he picked up the scabbard from the ground and slid the sword into it. “Let's get back on the road. Morlay, harness the horses. Ver, pack your books. It'll be dawn soon, and if we hurry, we'll be in Tanargor by evening.”
He began to extinguish the fire with his boot. Then he looked again at the steppe. Over the horizon, the first light of a new day was slowly awakening.