DAY 3-Near Attack
"You do have a chance to be with us, Crugur."
Her words were gentle—a soft call coming from a bullock cart. By the gods, her voice was kind. The tip of every finger urged me to leave this… this graveyard forest.
"Refuse fear, pilgrim…." she called. "….is calling you!"
But every time she spoke, I felt myself sinking deeper, as if the soil were swallowing me whole. One foot was affixed, stuck fast as though held by the dead. My urge to go was neglected by my own, deeper fear.
Her voice came again, more desperate. "Last chance!"
I looked at her, trapped in a dilemma of belief. She could see the terror in my eyes and was trying to ease it, to calm me. I moved slightly. My fingertips trembled, reaching toward her hand to grab—
And then… something grabbed me.
A cold hand, from behind, from beneath the soil. It seized my right foot.
The touch was sharp, and a shockwave of pure, cold terror shot through me. I felt myself falling—not onto the soil, but into a black, Zogra river.
The cart moved ahead.
But it moved without me.
…That was the third day in that gruesome graveyard forest.
DAY 1- MARCH TO DESTINATION
(present time)
"Have some food, mate."
Zegen's voice. I was back in the present—the first night—in the grey cave.
"We have a long way to go," he said. "It'll take two days at least."
He gave me food and a blanket. The blanket was made from sheepskin but smelled of blood. Not mine. It was the thick, iron scent of that strange man, Idslase—the one Zegen had killed in the tunnel.
The cave was carved from stone. Outside, a great waterfall roared, a white curtain of water so cold it stung the air. The cave itself was a perfect shape—fantastic, dangerous, divine. Whenever one wished to enter, it called to him—but if he walked straight in, he would step right into the deadly flow. A perfect, gods-blessed hiding place.
We had to wait for the ceasefire, which Zegen said would come around midnight.
I sat down to eat. Eggs and raw meat. Fruits, too. Both smelled foul, as if they had been brought weeks ago. My stomach turned. I was no animal eater, not one for raw food, but I knew—to live, I had to eat.
The slaves were eating as well, seated across from me. There were seven of them, each of different shades and mixed origins.
The cave's upper walls were uneven, as though hand-carved. In one corner, I saw stacks of books and strange devices—maybe a hundred books in all. I had no idea why he had them, or who else had once lived there.
Night fell. The war sounds outside grew faint. Zegen pulled the bullock cart out, piece by piece, from its hiding place and reassembled it. It took hours. He was cautious.
Then he gave a silent signal, and we began moving—like cats. Noiseless. He used his stick not to strike the bulls, but to steer them, guiding their path. The bulls were enormous, far larger than ordinary ones. He had told me earlier that he'd left his stick,a rod at the site of the man he'd accidentally killed—and had these new one at hideout.
We followed Zegen's map. It showed the longest route possible—a winding path to avoid the Solian bunkers and the Pasrelian army guards. It had many turns and slopes.
We managed to pass three bunkers that night—twice as many as Zegen had planned. But each time we stopped, we had to hide again, find another slanted hollow, and dismantle the cart piece by piece.
"There are two bunkers left," Zegen whispered on the second day, his breath hot. "The last one's Solian, so there's less worry. But the next one… that's the last Pasrel bunker."
"The plan," he said, eyes glinting in the dark, "is to run. As fast as the bulls can take us. Pasreliean camp is kilometer to the Solian bunker. The Pasrelian army will see us—they'll chase. The risk, the great bloody risk, is whether the Solians believe us. Whether they won't kill us on sight. That's the verge, the chance—and that's the plan."
The second night came. Zegen rebuilt the cart. I didn't help. How could I, in such a state of fear?
Time passed. We rode through the darkness—and then came to a hollow land.
Dead in the night, by the gods, I could see them. The dead bodies. The blood. Their fallen pride, soaked in the soil.
Yes. This was the lake Zegen Graths had spoken of—Graveyard Lake. From here, the true battle zone began.
Gore bred like crops. A skull. Two. No—hundreds. Thousands. The land was a white carpet of death. I couldn't look at it. The horror, the virus of death, was dragging my soul down. I felt like I was falling into them, trapped in a nightmare.
Zegen rose to his feet. He stopped the bulls and bowed his head.
I couldn't bear to look. So many skulls.
My fingertips, trembling, touched my head. Then I pressed harder, digging my nails into my scalp—just to make sure it was still flesh, just to ensure my head wouldn't fall off and join them.
"No! No! Don't fall off! Don't fall!" I screamed, my voice tearing through the air. "I'm grabbing it! I'm grabbing it!"
That was the first time I spoke in front of Graths.
"So. You do speak."
He turned slightly, calm as ever—but his voice terrified me. I howled, animal-like, and bit my tongue hard until blood filled my mouth, hot and coppery. I locked my feet around the bulls' harnesses, desperate to hold onto something real. The bulls—blast them—endured it like it was nothing.
In an instant, Zegen was on me. He tore my hands from my head, his grip of iron. Then his touch softened. He placed his calloused palm gently on my head—like cotton—and spoke lowly.
"Your head is not like theirs. That… that's for the dead. You're alive. Check your heart."
He pressed his hand to my chest. I could hear it—thump-thump, thump-thump.
After some time, I calmed down—at least outwardly.
Zegen said, "You saw why I bowed? Or maybe you missed it, eh?"
Of course I saw it, but I was too terrified to understand.
Then he said, "These heads… they served their minds, their bodies, their lineage. A lineage of blood. Some were afraid to fall like this—traumatized, just like you. But some… some were brave enough to face it. To feel it. To die for what they believed in."
He gazed at the field of bone. "But in the end, I can't tell them apart—the brave and the afraid. They all look the same now. How… beautiful. The beauty of this world. Of the universe. Of whatever force governs it. I bowed to that."
The words didn't inspire me. How could they? It was just death.
But he continued, as if reading my thoughts. "Maybe I had another reason. Maybe gratitude—to honor their chivalry. They ended here, naked in a field of skulls. But… no. I reject that. The first reason was true."
I listened. I didn't know why—but I listened.
We started moving again, away from that graveyard lake. The wheels began to crush the skulls beneath them. Crack. Crunch. The cart strained to move through the bones and mud.
"Uh! Weight's high, man!" Zegen chuckled. "Looks like you added to it, eh?"
Then his long stick struck hard across the bulls' backs. Too hard.
At the center of the lake, in the softest part, both bulls lost their footing and sank deep into the graveyard soil. The ground gave way. The jolt broke the cart's attachment.
Crack!
The sound was final. Freed from the weight, the bulls bolted ahead, panicked.
In seconds, Zegen grabbed the rope, spun it, and flung it toward the nearest bull. He shouted back, his voice sharp and commanding:
"Look to the seven slaves!"
The rope looped around the bull's head, letting Zegen leap onto its back. Then he threw the rope again, catching the second bull ahead and jumping from one to the other.
In that exchange, the first bull ran too far ahead, vanishing from sight. He had lost one.
But Zegen could ride bulls. He rode the second hard, chased it to the other side of the lake, and tied it fast to a tree. He had saved one.
Then he started running back toward the lake—toward us.
And only then, as he ran, did he see what his choice had done.
It had left me and the seven slaves to fall into the graveyard—tipped over and helpless—with the cart shattered beside us.