Chapter Sixty-Six: Evil in the Shadows

Vidar felt Zhan Guang tremble; before even entering Alvador, the broken demon-slaying sword was already warning him that a formidable enemy lay ahead.

But... that melted riverbed...

He looked toward the Prague River, his suspicions growing more certain: after his morning conversation with the dwarf, he had already formed theories about how the Icelanders melted the frozen sea and the glaciers. Now, with Zhan Guang reacting near the riverbed, his thoughts solidified further.

Of course, this had nothing to do with the purpose of his journey. If he could avoid it, he would rather not provoke the lurking evil—he had no desire to test his suspicions, which could very well send him straight back to the wasteland.

Best to stay clear of areas with running water, especially wherever the warships were moored.

As Vidar surveyed his surroundings, Lucas began signaling with his hands. The main gate was a dead end; the main road teemed with Icelanders and undead hounds stood guard.

Lucas gestured to the left—on their right was the Prague River, but to the left stood three windmill mills. He pointed at them, apparently intending to skirt behind the mills and use the gaps when the Icelanders were busy unloading cargo from the warships to sneak past bit by bit.

But Vidar grabbed his shoulder and pointed above the mills. It was hard to notice in the darkness, but if one looked closely, every door and window was tightly shut, though faint threads of firelight seeped out through the cracks.

Someone was inside, close to the window.

Vidar saw a figure approach the window. Suddenly, the wooden shutter swung open, and an Icelander stuck his head out, vomiting an unknown liquid that spattered against the mill’s stone wall and onto the snow below. The man seemed to have drunk himself sick; laughter erupted from within, mocking his lack of tolerance.

There were four or five people inside the room, seemingly playing some kind of board game, sitting face to face, each holding wooden cards, occasionally playing and drawing one.

The Icelanders had occupied Alvador for five or six days, set up their war camp, and halted their advance. Most night watches were left to the necromancer, giving them leisure to drink and gamble.

Alcohol was essential for them; in many nations, it was considered strategic supplies, shipped alongside bread to the front lines. For the Icelanders, who hailed from frigid lands and were tall by nature, wine was a daily necessity.

Once the work of clearing Alvador was done, they gathered to drink and gamble. Perhaps victory had come too easily—there was not a trace of tension among them. The presence of the necromancer gave them great confidence.

A mysterious and powerful necromancer, terrifying as an enemy, was a great relief as an ally. With the bodies of the Tania people supplied to him, they need not fear being dragged into a dark dungeon for horrific experiments.

Lucas watched this scene, clenching his fists.

He remembered that the mill had belonged to Aunt Susan. During the harvest moon, people would line up before the mill, sacks of rye slung over their shoulders. When he had been too poor to afford a tavern, Susan’s family had taken him in—he had slept for half a month on the cluttered second floor, repaying them with odd jobs and chores.

Now, no familiar faces remained.

The mill had been seized by invaders; strangers laughed and drank in someone else’s home, vomiting in the very place where he had once slept, where he had once felt warmth.

A nameless rage rose in him—an urge to storm the second floor, stabbing the drunken Icelanders one by one and tossing their bodies out the window.

But he knew too well his own weakness and helplessness; behind him and Vidar were the lives of hundreds of compatriots.

If he were alone, dying in battle would not matter. But if he died here in a fit of rage, the last glimmer of hope would die with him.

He could only lament his own lack of caution.

If they’d gone ahead as planned, the drunken man at the mill might have spotted two furtive figures creeping through the snow.

The Ashen Potion concealed their scent, not their bodies. If someone looked directly at them, they would still be seen.

Though the drunkard might not have seen clearly, Lucas had no intention of testing his eyesight.

He paid extra attention to every blade of grass, every whiff of wind and snow, waiting for the Icelander to finish vomiting. When the man finally closed the window against the cold, Lucas glanced back at Vidar. Vidar nodded, and the two continued moving along the edge.

Using the mill for cover, they slipped past the arch bridge where warships were moored.

“This way, Sir Vidar—there’s a small path here,” Lucas whispered.

Fortunately, Alvador had no city walls, offering many possible routes besides the main road—some known only to locals. The guards only collected tolls on the main road; if you had friends in Alvador, you could always find a way to avoid them.

When Lucas first arrived in Alvador, he was a penniless country boy. To save money, he did any kind of work, and for every time he bypassed the guards, he saved five copper coins. He never missed an opportunity.

He had become so familiar with the city’s streets that he could dodge the guards with his eyes closed. After his first month in Alvador, he never paid the passage tax again. He’d calculated: he left town about ten times a month, saving ten copper each trip, a whole silver coin each month—over three years, he’d saved at least thirty silver coins.

To him, that was a fortune.

To avoid the guards under any circumstance, he had memorized every street in Alvador, always able to find the quickest route. Today, he led Vidar along a little-used path to the back of the town, climbing a low hill and weaving between derelict houses and fences.

The place had once been a distillery. Seventeen years ago it was still thriving, with hired hands brewing, and the air always rich with the scent of malt and fruit wine.

The distillery’s fences were low and unfortified, easy to scale for anyone agile. As long as one avoided the guarded storerooms, it was a simple matter to pass through the distillery to reach the town’s streets.

But it seemed the owner had abandoned the place long ago; the wooden fences were rotting and split, stone walls cracked by withered vines, dust everywhere, empty barrels toppled and missing planks.

Lucas felt a pang of sorrow. Everything was changed; time had worn away all he’d known, and the Icelanders and necromancer had erased every familiar face.

The once-bustling streets would never again ring with the calls he remembered, nor would armored adventurers drink heartily at the roadside. All that remained were the ghastly undead hounds.

He hadn’t expected to find undead hounds even here in the distillery.

Damn it, the creature seemed to have heard them!

As they passed a dead apple tree, a branch snapped underfoot.

The beast slowly turned its head, and Lucas heard its raspy growl—a sound that chilled the very heart, as if cold air was forced through the creature’s torn throat.

The low, guttural noise tightened his chest.

Lucas gripped his weapon, and pulled out the antidote Old York had given him.

He had no desire to fight so soon after entering Alvador.

But it seemed they were about to be discovered.

Before he could drink the potion, white mist seeped from Vidar’s iron helm, gathering in the darkness to form a small shadow.

Vidar pressed Lucas’s hand, signaling him to stay still, hold his breath, and remain calm.