“They must’ve found Piggy!” his whisper to Teya came out in a half growl. He pointed to the prisoners huddled behind the great wolf, “Get them out of here! I’ll try and hold these bastards off as long as I can!”

Teya ushered the group to the south as he had instructed her. Garran turned to face the direction of the oncoming horde and nocked an arrow while taking cover behind a stack of crates nearby. He could just make out about half a dozen figures running towards him in the heavy snow with more likely on their way.

Garran glanced up as a looming figure stepped up beside him. The minotaur stood next to him, watching the approaching battalion of orcs. The bull-like creature had commandeered the sword from Saena and held it out, flipping it back and forth in his palm. The normal size of the forged steel seemed almost dwarfed in his beefy hands.

The creature towered over Garran and had two massive, pointed horns extending upward from his enormous head. It had dark brown fur and eyes so dark, they seemed black in the grey, ebbing light of dusk. The minotaur also had a rip in one of its nostrils where Garran assumed a ring had once adorned the creature’s nose.

“Bjorak. Bjorak Kinehoof is my name,” the minotaur said in a deep, gravelly voice.

“Garran Darkfrost,” the wolfkin replied, feeling a bit awkward.

The creature nodded his colossal head once, and widened his stance. Bjorak was quite imposing with bulging muscles on his upper body, despite the starvation and malnutrition he’d obviously experienced while imprisoned here. His shoulders were broad and his hairy chest was bare.

A few seconds stretched on seemingly for hours as the two defenders of the escaped prisoners stood their ground awaiting the onslaught. Garran pulled the bowstring taut and waited until his enemies got closer. He knew his archery skills could not compare with his missing friend, so he stayed his bow, waiting until his targets were bigger in his sights.

Bjorak scraped a cloven hoof in the snow and gravel and said, “Bjorak will remember your name, Garran, if you remember Bjorak’s.”

Garran nodded once, then took a deep breath as the orcs closed the gap. Just as he was about to loose the first arrow, the minotaur bellowed a deep, rumbling roar, lowered his horned head, and charged the oncoming horde. A few of the orcs dove out of the way in an effort to avoid either being trampled or gored through with the deadly horns.

Garran watched as two of the orcs were not so lucky. One of the attackers was speared directly in the chest, while the other one was sent flying by the full impact of a head-on collision with a furry stone wall.

Garran had to give it to Bjorak. He was brave and a damn good fighter; quite agile, despite his size. The minotaur was already engaging with two of the other orcs before the impaled one hit the ground. The minotaur swung up, blocking two axe blows at once and feigned to the left in an instant. The absolute aura of intimidation he exuded on the battlefield was almost tangible. The orcs felt it too; staying back out of his long reach, darting in and out vying for opportunity.

Seeing the orcs momentarily taken by surprise, the Steward let his first arrow fly. With a thunk, the arrow lodged itself in the left shoulder blade of an attacker who was poised to strike. The orc let out a yowl and retreated several steps. The minotaur, sensing one less target for the time being, turned and focused on the three remaining enemies; all of which were looking for an opening.

Garran let another arrow fly, but it whizzed past his target’s head and disappeared into the snowstorm. He cursed to himself as he reached back into the quiver. Damn it! Only one arrow left!

His defending comrade in arms was still giving the remaining three orcs a run for their money. Garran nocked his last arrow as he watched the ongoing melee. The minotaur jabbed forward, narrowly missing the midsection of one of the savages. Then the great bull figure twisted to the side with surprising speed, dodging a second attacker’s blow.

Garran breathed in deeply to steady his aim, and time itself seemed to slow. On the exhale, he let the arrow fly. It found its mark in the left eye socket of the third orc, but not before the savage’s axe opened a gash on the minotaur’s right side. Bjorak howled in pain-filled fury, and swung out in a blind rage towards the remaining orcs.

“Go, Garran Darkfrost! Remember ‘Bjorak Kinehoof’!”

The Steward glanced up the hill, past the minotaur. The warhorn was still sounding and there was still a great deal of shouting as the camp was awakening. He could make out more figures running down the hill towards them. They would be outnumbered again, quickly.

He stood for an instant, teetering on decision. Did he do as this stranger suggested and leave him to his fate? He was out of projectiles, so his only option for aid would be to move up into the melee. He glanced down briefly at his friend’s bow, still in his hand and made his decision.

I’ve come so far. I am still coming for you, brokta. Hold on.

Decisively, he dropped the bow and quiver into the snow, with a sigh. It was of no use with no more arrows. Readying his shield and mace, the Steward dashed into the fray, blocking one blow meant for Bjorak, then swinging his own weapon in answer to the attack.

Inspired by the unexpected aid, the tiring minotaur swung with renewed vigor, and the unlikely allies made swift work of their two remaining foes. With several more on the way, Garran picked up an axe from a fallen orc and handed it to the minotaur.

“We need to move. Can you make it to the mines?” he asked.

The large creature nodded, but Garran could see he was bleeding profusely from a jagged gash along his right rib cage. This seems familiar, Garran shuddered. Nope. Not going to leave him out here to this fate.

Garran pushed his shoulder up into the pit of Bjorak’s right arm and tried to help the minotaur walk. With a grunt of exertion from the heft of the large creature, Garran lifted with all his might as the big fighter leaned down onto him for support. Bjorak was holding his side to keep pressure on his gushing wound. The two of them limped their way at a snail’s pace as the orcs closed in.

They were nearly equidistant between the horde and the mine entrance, but the orcs were approaching fast. Garran spun on his heel to face his enemies, stepping in front of his injured companion. He could now see the faces of those that approached them. This group was a mixture of gnolls and orcs; furry and scaly faces alike, burning with rage.

Not knowing what else to do, the wolfkin grabbed for his necklace, and prayed to Aegis for guidance. Then, instinctively, he raised his head to the cold, biting wind and howled. The lupine-like bay was sonorous, and carried through the camp. Any who were unaware of their position up to this point would surely be able to pinpoint them now.

As he held the mournful tone steady, the temperature around them plummeted rapidly. The atmosphere began to swirl and crackle as if the air itself started to freeze. This crackling seemed to flicker in tandem to lightning flashing somewhere off in the distance with an answering boom of thunder. Beneath his feet, a wave of freezing energy crept outward like tendrils of fog and reached toward the attacking horde.

The energy had a blue hue that wafted the snowflakes in its wake as it moved. It quickly encompassed the fallen orcs, and instantly encased them in a thick sheet of ice as if they had been frozen in a glacier for eons. The pursuing party ground to a halt, trying to avoid this magical howl, but their momentum was too great and they slid directly into the coils of fog.

The blue tendrils of fog slowed them, then crept up each of their bodies and froze them in place, encasing them in ice as it with their fallen comrades. Though Garran was not sure why, he picked up one of the axes lying on the ground next to him and hurled it as hard as he could towards one of frozen gnolls in the center of the advancing line.

The creature within the sheet of ice stared forward with unblinking eyes, frozen and unable to move or react. The axe thunked heavily into the ice casing around the gnoll. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Garran looked on with wide eyes as the ice began to crepitate outward from the axe point.

There was a moment of silence before a loud crack rang out as the sheet of ice containing the gnoll shattered into a thousand pieces. Thick shards of ice were sent flying, causing an explosive cascading effect with each of the other frozen attackers; each of them shattering in the same way.

Garran threw himself and Bjorak to the ground to avoid being impaled with the knife-sized ice cycles. After a moment, the wolfkin looked up. The gnolls and orcs were gone. What was left was a mound of ice crystals and frozen body parts littering the surrounding snow. Knowing his actions had only bought them a few moments, he jumped up and hoisted a groaning Bjorak back to his feet and they made for the mine entrance.

By the time Garran and Bjorak made it to the others waiting for them, their eyes had fully adjusted somewhat to the dim light of the claustrophobic tunnels. Now deep within the dug-out shafts, the sounds from the camp were dulled considerably. He could imagine dozens of orcs running around and discovering that all of the prisoners were now on the loose. It would not be long before they followed the footprints in the snow--and likely the trail of minotaur blood--directly to the mine entrance.

“Are you sure this tunnel leads out of the camp?” Garran asked no one in particular.

“Aye. It’s why they keep it locked,” came Saena’s reply as she unlocked the tunnel gate with the key.

“Ok,” he motioned to the group, “Teya, take them, and head out to the end of the tunnel. The greenskins may be expecting us to go this way, but hopefully we can get out ahead of them. I’ll guard the rear. Do not stop, no matter what you hear.”

Without another word, Garran held out his hand to Saena who placed the heavy key into his palm. Solemnly he looked back towards the way they had come. He could still hear muffled shouting from the camp, and it did sound as if it were much closer.

With one last glance at Teya, he nodded past her, towards the way out, “Go. I will not be far behind,” he said as he stepped into the runoff tunnel and closed the gate behind him.

As he heard the prisoners retreating behind him, he slipped his hands between the rusty bars and stuck the key into the mechanism, locking it. He then yanked downward with all his might and heard a metallic tink as the key broke off in its home. Discarding the end of the key far out of reach from anyone on the other side of the gate, he turned to go, and bumped into a furry wall.

“You’re injured. You must go,” he said, taking a step back from Bjorak’s hairy chest.

“Bjorak stays with Garran Darkfrost,” he replied, simply.

Garran nodded his approval and was surprised at just how appreciative he was of the gesture. To think a few days ago, I was sitting in my hut wondering what I was going to do for the day. Was it a few days ago? Or was it a month? He thought to himself.

The two of them made their way through the tunnel, keeping an ear to the gate for sounds of pursuers. It didn’t take long before they heard a cacophony of shouting and loud clanging on the metal gate. A blacksmith’s hammer?

“We have less time than I thought. We need to hurry,” Garran said, picking up the pace.

He was no longer shouldering Bjorak as before, but the minotaur was still struggling to keep pace. His wound was still seeping dark red blood, and his lips were pale and dry. Garran was worried he would pass out. Carrying the creature would be out of the question, but dragging him would considerably slow his pace. He stepped to the side and let Bjorak go before him hoping to push him quicker, as well as protect his rear.

A loud metal clang rang out through the tunnel, making the two of them pause momentarily. Garran’s heart sank to his knees as he realized it was the sound of the gate crashing down to the tunnel floor. This was immediately followed by shouting and the sounds of rapid footsteps headed in their direction.

Garran and Bjorak took off towards the exit as quickly as they could; the latter limping heavily. The two escapees felt their way through the darkness of the tunnel’s twists and turns with the ever-encroaching sounds of their pursuers on their tails.

In their haste, however, Garran realized they had taken a wrong turn. They quickly found themselves in a narrow shaft with haphazardly dug-out alcoves lining the shaft that were being used for storage. They dove behind a stack of barrels as a trailing pack of orcs ran by them in a blur.

Once the danger had passed, the wolfkin and minotaur doubled back to a previous intersection. This time, Garran paused briefly to sniff the stale, stagnant air. His exceptional nose picked up a faint scent he recognized coming from the path to his left.

“This way,” he muttered, and they headed towards the smell of pine trees, and the smell of freedom.

Garran and Bjorak burst from the tunnel into the frigid mountain air amidst a small crop of pines. Not far from the tunnel entrance lay a narrow pathway leading between the trees and down the mountain side. They could just make out the forms of the group carefully negotiating the snowy trail down the hill ahead of them.

The blizzard was in full force now, but had not yet covered the tracks of the prisoners that had exited the tunnel before them. The prints would be easy to follow, but with their enemies on their trail, there was no time to cover them.

Surveying the scene before him, Garran let out a sigh, “This is more treacherous than I thought,” he said aloud. “These guys will never outrun, outmaneuver, or outfight an entire camp of orcs and gnolls. I’ve led these people to their deaths.”

“Hmmph,” Bjorak made a contemplative noise. “Bjorak is thankful for Garran’s actions. But Garran Darkfrost is wrong in thinking people and Bjorak have moved for Garran. Bjorak acts of his own volition. If Bjorak dies, he dies avenging his brother and for Bjorak’s own motives. If people die, people die avenging loved ones and escaping this fate. Garran has not killed Bjorak. Garran has freed Bjorak.” And without another word, they headed towards the group.

As they approached, roughly two dozen sets of terrified eyes were trained on him while he searched the crowd for the pair of mismatched ones. He found them near the front of the pack. Teya’s face was a mixture of fear, determination and relief as she padded towards him.

“Steward, there is a path down, but these people are weak and cold. Traversing this will be slow, and there will likely be patrols on the path, especially now. We will likely--”

“I know. You’ve done well. Let’s get down the mountain,” he cut her off gently, aware their conversation was not private.

Looking around, he found the other face he was looking for, “Saena? Is there anything you can do for Bjorak’s wound while we move? We don’t have time for stitches, but something to stem the bleeding, maybe?”

The woman nodded and hurried over to the injured minotaur as Garran directed a few of the stronger looking members of their pack to form a perimeter around the weaker prisoners. Garran felt something tug at his jerkin and looked down. Celest was standing beside him with a tear-stricken face. She looked miserable and half-frozen.

“Mr. Garran! You’re alright! I … I dinna ken if you would--” whatever else she said was cut off as she launched herself into his arms and buried her face in his fur.

“I’m alright, child,” he said, stroking the back of her head and nodding to the group to get moving.

The girl was as cold as a glacier, and with humans having so little fur to cover their bodies, Garran was unsure how she was not already frostbitten. He knelt down, keeping her in his arms. Reaching behind him into his pack, he pulled out his maka’s blanket and covered the girl with it. He then hoisted Celestyna up into his arms and began following after the group on the arduous trek down the mountain. All the while, keeping a nervous eye behind them for any sign of movement.

And he didn’t have to wait long. They had only been walking for a quarter hour when Celestyna, who had laid her head on the wolfkin’s shoulder as he carried her, raised her head with a gasp, and pointed behind them.

At least twenty figures with a mixture of gnolls and orcs ran down the hill towards them with weapons drawn. Garran swallowed the fear bubbling in his chest and placed Celestyna on the ground. He then spun on his heel to face the enemy and readied his weapons.

“Celest, get to your mother! All of you! Go! Get down the hill!”

The prisoners took off down the hill shrieking in fear as the horde barreled towards them. Unsurprisingly, Bjorak stepped up beside Garran and prepared for battle. Twenty against two. This will at least be over quickly. I am sorry I failed you, Sius.

Garran and Bjorak once again stood together, awaiting the onslaught. But just as the horde grew near, the earth trembled around them, sending everyone sprawling into the snow. A massive wall of ice erupted from the ground completely surrounding the attacking orcs. There was a series of confused grunts on the opposite side of the wall. The wolfkin, too, looked around momentarily disoriented.

“Wall’s not gonna hold forever. Y’all need ta get up and run fer’ it,” a familiar voice echoed from behind them.

Standing behind a tree about fifty feet away was the shaggy, white, caprine figure of Barnabas. He held both of his hands out towards the massive ice wall, concentrating on keeping it erect; his face contorted from the exertion.

Garran leapt to his feet and snatched Bjorak unceremoniously off the ground and sprinted towards the group. He had no idea how the ibexian wizard had gotten there. Much less, how he had just conjured the wall, but now was not the time to ask. Looking ahead in the distance, Garran spotted a faint light flickering like a lantern in the storm-filled darkness. The Guiding Light!

“Head to the light!” he shouted to the group ahead of him.

From the corner of his eye, a flash of movement caught his attention to the right. His heart filled with rage as he recognized the thick, armored shapes of Scaly Mack and his two cronies running towards the group ahead of him. Directly in their path, was the tiny petite form of Celest running towards her mother. Between the blanket covering her and the thick snow piled deep on the unused path, she struggled to stay on her feet.

Garran tore off towards the girl in a blind rage, leaving Bjorak in his wake. He shouted at her to get down, and watched as either Frick or Frack--he couldn’t tell--steadied their aim to throw an axe at the girl. Garran kicked off harder into the snow, propelling himself forward.

Just as the axe left the orc’s hand, Garren dove for Celestyna, shielding her from the impending axe blade. As he landed with a thud into the snow between the projectile and the girl, he braced for the blade to impact. However, a flash of black and white fur darted past hism and out of his line of sight just as the axe struck. There was a dull thud as the weapon met flesh and a pained lupine howl echoed throughout the surrounding snowbanks. Following the trajectory of the furry blur, he shouted a series of indistinguishable phrases as his eyes landed on the form of a large wolf lying limply on the ground; a dark pool of red staining the stark white snow.

“Noooooo!” he shouted and launched himself at the incoming orcs, in a rage-filled frenzy he had never felt before.