Wulver named the fox Rembrandt. He didn’t know why he didn’t before (he was still a bit sour about all the past stolen fish), but he had corrected it. For the fellow now had become a sort of companion to him. He didn’t go away even when dawn broke down through the leaves. Even after breakfast, Rembrandt stayed.

“You want to accompany me?” Wulver asked.

Rembrandt licked his paw.

“Is it because you cannot find food?”

He cocked his head.

Wulver said. “Alright, I am not going to play a guessing game. It seems you are eager enough, whatever your motives happen to be. But be warned, the journey ahead is perilous, and my destination downright deadly. Do you still want to come?”

The fox suddenly answered with a yip.

“Okay, I will take it as a yes. Come along, Rembrandt! We got a mountain to climb.”

So the two went. Wulver followed a straight path upwards, only straying when a tree or stream or rock structure stood in his path. Meanwhile, Rembrandt was much more nimble. He darted here and there, to and fro, Looking into crannies of stones, smelling the bark of trees, chasing after things that Wulver could faintly hear but didn’t bother to look.

“You are going to get tired,” Wulver warned. “I am not carrying you when that happens. I can barely carry myself.”

Rembrandt didn’t listen or he might have pretended not to. Foxes were quite crafty creatures and knew more than people gave them credit for, and they most times wanted to have it that way.

A sudden gust blew down, shaking the snow off the branches, and sending a shiver through Wulver’s bones. Even Rembrandt coiled his tail around himself. Wulver stood motionless as the gust descended away, but soon another similar gust followed suit. It didn’t take him long to know it was no normal wind. It must be the doing of the undead king. Was he conjuring the winds to make it harder for him to reach him? Did he know that the foul beings he had sent the other night had failed to stop him? Or was it just another one of his machinations in his plan for the island? Wulver shook his head. Whatever it may be, he needs to be stopped.

He looped another layer of his scarf around his head and neck and went on against the barrage of the ominous winds. He thought he could hear a voice, hollow and gibberish as they passed by his ear. It must have been some sort of sorcery. However, they did not hinder him. It was hours later when Wulver realized that it had become even colder when he found himself pinching his furred hands under his armpits. The snow had gotten thicker and now his feet were starting to sink up to his knees. Rembrandt could no longer find a footing for himself and was pitiably reduced to digging through the snow with its paws. He feared the fox could go on doing that much longer, so he picked him up and placed it inside the warmth of his scarf. Rembrandt gladly snuggled around his neck. But even then, Wulver’s teeth had begun to clatter and though strong he was, sooner or later, he would reach his limit.

It was evening when Wulver stopped. Leaning against a tree, he sighed deeply. All around him was a white landscape. Except for the snow-spotted brown bark of the trees, he could see no other color. The green of the leaves was buried, and the blue sky was smudged grey. Though he dug through the snow and did find that the ground was getting rocky. The winds howled with phantom a voice, and the snow fell as large as acorns. He was near exhaustion. He had been hiking non-stop all day, fearing that if he did stop, he would not resume his march. Night was drawing near. He needed to find a place to light a fire, but he could not see any shelter anywhere.

“This snow is going to become my grave and the wind my elegy,” he said. “Why did it have to happen to me?”

He was about to sit down when Rembrandt shot his head up. Wulver looked at him in wonder. Rembrandt had both of his ears alert like tipped arrowheads. The fox was looking back down somewhere on the left. Wulver could see nothing but snow.

“Do you want to go back?” Wulver asked in an understanding voice. “You will not make the journey back without me, friend. And I cannot go back not without finishing my task.”

But Rembrandt leaped down from his perch on Wulver’s shoulders and half-dug and half-leaped towards what he had seen. Wulver ran after him. “Rembrandt, you idiot! You cannot make it back. It’s too dangerous.”

Suddenly, Wulver’s foot slipped, and now he started to roll after him. When he finally came to a halt, the world was spinning instead of him. “Oh, when I get my hand on that fox,” he swore as he slowly got up, but whatever else he had wanted to say vanished from his mind, for he saw not only Rembrandt but also the reason why he had sprinted off. Fireflies.

Wulver was left speechless at the sight. There was a cloud of fireflies hovering around the inquisitive fox; their lights dimming and returning to a bright yellow tint. In this weather! Wulver wondered. This is not possible. Yet…

Wulver approached the bunch slowly and carefully so as to not frighten the bugs. As he approached, the fireflies moved away, albeit not out of fear. Rembrandt yipped at him and shook his tail from left to right. Wulver looked at the fireflies and then at the fox.

“You want us to follow the fireflies?” asked Wulver.

The fox spun around and yipped again.

“But they are going downwards…” Wulver muttered, and another icy gust battered his back. “Oh, blast it all, let’s follow the glowbugs!”

And so they did. Wulver felt none too good about it though. While he possessed not a single shred of enthusiasm for climbing the mountain or meeting an undead nightmarish being on top of it, he still needed to do it. His, the island’s, and its inhabitants survival depended upon it. But, the strange fireflies seemed to have another thing in mind entirely.

After some minutes of following, they happened upon a small ridge. The fireflies floated down and Rembrandt jumped, quite recklessly in Wulver’s opinion, after them. He, himself, would climb down slowly or so he thought. For as he was descending the wall, his right leg sought for a foothold and found none but air, and the surprise caused him to fall down like a flat pancake.

Luckily, the thick layer of snow had broken his fall, and Wulver climbed out of it, possibly the most annoyed he had ever been in his life. Though his frustration gave way when he couldn’t find a hold. The ridge was really the opening of a cave. He jumped for joy. Finally, there was a breakthrough. They could stay inside it for the night and even light a fire to warm themselves. He turned around to thank the fireflies, but they had vanished. He looked towards Rembrandt, but the fox cocked his head right back at him. “Thank you, fireflies!” he shouted into the snowy night and went in.

The first thing Wulver did was light a charitable fire. As the flames rose up, he noticed the cave was quite spacious; and while devoid of wind, it was airy in its own right. He went out and cut some wood and brought them inside. He had to peal off the frozen bark and burn the dry fibre inside. After he felt blood return back to his fingers, toes, and face; he set up a few fish on sticks and began roasting. Meanwhile, Rembrandt was peering into the back of the cave which was black as the night outside.

“Don’t be running off anymore,” Wulver said, turning the sticks. “I am not following you. I have had a tiresome day, fighting the cold, carrying you, falling not once, but twice! I am not budging from here whatever you–”

Wulver’s ears pricked up. Was it his imagination? He swore he heard something like snow shifting, even through the noisy snowfall outside. He became very still; his left hand turning the fish and his right hand coiling around his axe beside him.

He slowly turned to the opening of the cave and breathed sharply. A dense fog had sneaked upon him and settled upon the entrance like a wall, obscuring his view. He rose up, axe in hand, fish abandoned on the fire. They ran in.

One after another they came in and went straight for Wulver. Wulver fought savagely. He swung, and kicked, and punched, and clawed, and tore, and pierced. The cave provided him with an advantage. The entrance funneled the thralls, making it impossible for them to blindside Wulver from the sides or ambush him from the back. “To hell with you fog devils!” Wulver cried out as he threw one of them into another. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the shadow of Rembrandt pouncing upon another, teeth bared.

But soon, Wulver noticed that the waves of enemies were not decreasing at all, but kept coming in torrents; also that he was getting exhausted beyond belief. He couldn’t keep it up much longer and when one of them was able to nick him across the chest with a crude but sharp piece of rock, he knew he had to fall back. He swung his axe in a wide arc, clearing the area and making those in the behind jump back to avoid being hit. He quickly picked up a burning wooden stick and called out to Rembrandt. The fox immediately understood him, and both of them dashed deeper into the cave. For a moment, Wulver thought he would meet a wall and that would be the end of them, but the cave opened further and beyond; and they ran while the thralls chased after them, their feet’s clamour echoing into the chambers of the cave.