The stranger in a green cloak continued his creaking laughter, forcing the crewman to come closer, blade at ready.

“I don’t know anyone who speaks like that. Either show yourself and tell what are you doing in our camp, or die by my hand right where you are. There will be no third warning.”

“Oh, but you can not kill me,” the stranger laughed again, “You tried and it did not work. The irritating thing is that I could not kill you either. So I decided that I will simply introduce you to another troublesome man. Perhaps one of you will die in the process, making me a little happier.”

Ymdaton did as he promised. He swung his axe at the figure without saying any more words. As his blade touched the man, his cape flew off and engulfed Crewslayer. He instantly stepped back, understanding the trick. He tried to throw the cape away, but his attempts were futile.

As he thrashed against the folds, it seemed to become bigger and bigger, its width stretching into infinity. Ymdaton only became more entangled in it. The fabric obscured the light. Underneath it was breathtakingly dark. Not as a moonless cloudy night could be, not as you see the world with your eyes closed, not as it is in the bowels of the ship with trap doors closed.

It was perfectly dark, as if the light itself did not exist there. Ymdaton kicked at it desperately and heard the familiar voice somewhere close.

“Soon you will meet he who was first to bathe in the red.”

By some miraculous effort he finally managed to throw the cape away. It did not touch the ground, instead, it fell apart into hundreds of tree leaves. Ymdaton frantically turned his head to all sides, but there were no signs of the intruder. Before him was a rotten tree trunk vaguely resembling a shape of a sitting man.

After that his watch resumed its usual course. Ymdaton spent the rest of it striding through the camp, seeking any disturbance perhaps even at the edge of his senses, but there was none. At the dusk the party packed their belongings, saddled bathmats and proceeded with their journey. Crewslayer was hesitant to tell about his weird encounter, for all other crewmen looked calm and in good moods, especially other watchmen.

They would have thought that he fell asleep on his duty, exhausted by days of paranoia and saw a dream which he confused for reality. Perhaps it was truth, he hoped it was.

That was supposed to be the last day of travel before they reach Volnitza. Stars shone bright and told that they were on the right way to the west. A new kind of noise joined the usual sound palette of a moving caravan. It was to distant and monotonous at first, so Ymdaton did not hear it truly, only noticed subconsciously. Later during the night it became more obvious. A rhythmical rolling sound, that was well known to any seaman. A noise of moving water.

When Crewslayer understood its nature, he became cheerful. Those were certainly waves of the great lake. Which meant that Qyris was also not far away. A hundred things which he could do there passed through his mind: he would bathe in the sea, no matter how cold it is, he would make a sacrifice in a grand shrine built of stone, he would go into a tavern, or to the docks, or to the market and listen to people talking news from Hundred Islands.

His head was full to the brim with various plans when the expedition finally stepped out of the woods. There was rolling water before his eyes, indeed. But not as great as he expected it to be. Slightly more than an arrowflight away he could see the treeline beginning again. Between these distant trees and them were two opposite shores of sand. The sand shared its colour with the river. The dirty red colour of old blood.

Ymdaton let out a stream of curses. He spewed the names of Umrah’s vile children in conjunction with descriptions of various actions that are too shameful to be done in public. His rant continued for perhaps too long, but no one tried to calm him down.

“We got tricked by this thrice accursed forest yet again,” he finally managed to say something of a substance,”This is the river of blood, which means that we are deep in the eastern woods.”

“But we were following the stars. How is it even possible?” Abimnupal looked shaken.

“This all do not matter now,” told Crewslayer, “It is dawn soon. We camp today and continue our journey to the west tomorrow. We saw once that the spirits of this place can not overcome the stars. So we will continue moving forward. With enough resolve we can get out of there, it is just a question of time,” his speech was met with agreement.

They camped right on the road. There was no point hiding from potential travellers that far in the east. There was a bridge over the river, which connected road on both sides. It was built out of stone to the great surprise of kinani warriors. Upon closer inspection, Ymdaton understood that it was the same stone that he saw in the walls of ancient tavern in Velmytop.

That fact raised many unpleasant questions which Crewslayer did not want to think of. At the next dusk men readied the caravan. Ymdaton inspected the stars and saw that the way west was across the river.

“Before we start,” said Abimnupal loudly, so everyone could hear, “It was my watch today. Just after the noon a lone warrior in drevlyani armour came from the other side. He walked half the way down the bridge and stopped there in the middle. You can see him from here still.”

Ymdaton looked into the twilight and, indeed, there was a silhouette standing on the bridge. Crewslayer furrowed his brows.

“This land brings nasty surprises, trust me,” said he in a grim voice, “Whatever stands there is most likely a man only in the appearance. We cross the bridge and if it tries to hinder us, we slay it. Be prepared.”

The expedition moved forth, men guiding their steeds by reins, ready for violence. Some carried torches to light the path, for the night was moonless. When they were ten paces away from the mysterious warrior, glimpses of fire illuminated him somewhat.

He was incredibly tall and massive, almost five cubits of height. On his back was strapped a shield as huge as a door, at his belt was sheathed a sword so long, that it could have served as a two hander for a normal man. His helmet was open, putting on display a wrinkled face with furry brows and rich long white beard, which reached almost to his belly. Ymdaton made another step towards him and prepared to speak, yet the stranger uttered his words first.

“So that you may know,” told he in a low powerful voice, “The border of my realm lies upon this bridge. I do not know what led you here,” he pointed his hand eastwards, “but the one who wishes to cross it must pay a fee.”

“Who are you, how is your realm called, and what is the fee?” asked Ymdaton, trying to sound peaceful.

“I am Svyatogor, the protector of Vostochin. As for the fee,” he glanced over Crewslayer's shoulder, “I see that your steeds struggle under the weight of their burden. That is gold in these sack, isn’t it? Well, leave it in its entirety and that will suffice.”

“You do understand that is unacceptable,” laughed Ymdaton, while his tone was bereft of fun, “I’ll tell you what is going to happen. We will cross this bridge. You can still move aside. I understand that somewhere in the forest there are your warriors hiding. Don’t be foolish, even if you signal them now, they won’t arrive in time, we will kill you faster. And then their turn will come. Let us pass or die.”

“There are no more warriors,” said Svyatogor, while unsheathing his sword, ”Only I.”

Crewmen raised their weapons and moved forward to get the foe. Ymdaton stopped them with a gesture.

“No, he might actually attempt something, the bridge is narrow enough,” said he, “Puncture him with arrows.”

Kinani warriors took their weapons out, aimed and shot. Ymdaton expected the targeted warrior to run away into the darkness, or cover himself with a shield, or try and close distance with archers suicidally. Svyatogor did none of these things.

In fact, he barely moved at all, not making a single step. He shifted his body subtly here and there. Crewslayer saw with widening eyes as arrows flew past the enemy at the hair’s breadth or hit the solid parts of his armor. All that protection was achieved by slightest changes of posture.

Soon archers reached their quivers to fetch next projectiles. During this brief pause, the enemy finally took out his shield. It was adorned with an emblem of a solitary mountain which seemed red in the torchlight. But obviously it was only reflecting the glares, its true color being something whitish. Or silver. A shiver of understanding passed through Ymdaton’s body. He braced himself upon seeing the image.

“Have you had your fill?” asked Svyatogor and charged.