Chapter 58 (Part I): Frostbound Secrets
The frozen forest exhaled its bitterness through every gust of wind, its icy breath clawing at Bennett's exposed cheeks. He knelt beside the腐尸怪's carcass, gloved hands steady as he decanted viscous black venom into a glass vial.
Dadaniel watched, equal parts fascination and revulsion twisting his weathered face. "You collect this filth?"
"All poisons hold antidotes," Bennett replied, sealing the vial. "Even beauty blooms from rot." He tucked it into his belt, the glass warm against his hip—a perverse comfort in this desolate white hellscape.
Improvisations
Their departure unfolded with grim pragmatism. Bennett's stolen snow dogs strained against harnesses improvised from tent ropes, pulling the wounded men southward. The remaining Dragon dung powder clung to their cloaks like chartreuse moss, its acrid tang cutting through blood-scented air.
"Why not keep it all?" Dadaniel eyed the dwindling green granules.
Bennett secured the last knot. "Survival favors those who share." And dead men make poor allies, he left unsaid.
Skiing Through Shadows
By dawn, the forest's cruelty sharpened. Knee-deep snow swallowed each step until Bennett unsheathed his dagger.
"Observe." Blade met sled wood in precise strokes. Minutes later, crudeSnowboard emerged—warped planks strapped to boots with frozen leather.
Dadaniel's laughter cracked like glacier ice. "Child's toys?"
"Child's wisdom." Bennett pushed off, gliding across powder crust. "The North remembers no titles, only clever feet."
They moved as ghosts then, their Snowboard hissing through drifts. Dadaniel's initial skepticism melted into grudging awe as miles unraveled beneath them.
Confessions in White
"Your family," Dadaniel ventured during a lull. "They must swell with pride—a mage son before manhood."
Bennett's gloves tightened on his staff. A mother who sold herbs. A father swallowed by debt. "Magic cares little for bloodlines."
"Yet it demands gold." The archer's gaze held no malice, merely the blunt arithmetic of class. "Tutors. Tomes. Components—"
"—stolen from corpse-wagons," Bennett interrupted. "Bartered for in plague districts." He halted abruptly, snow spraying his thighs. "You mistake apprenticeship for privilege."
Silence pooled between them, deeper than the snowdrifts.
The Weight of Lies
Dadaniel pressed on as twilight bruised the sky. "That merchant we hired—the coward—he claimed mages dine on gilded plates while commoners starve."
"And you believed him?" Bennett's Snowboard carved a serpentine path.
"Until today." Dadaniel nodded at the salvaged Magic crystal glowing in Bennett's pack. "You fight like a man who's known hunger."
Chapter 58 (Part II): Frostfire Gambit
The dying sun bled crimson across the snowfields as Bennett and Dadaniel approached the sheltered hollow. Shadows stretched like skeletal fingers between the pines, their brittle branches clattering warnings in the wind.
"Halt!"
The challenge came sharp as an ice shard. Two figures dropped from frosted boughs, their white fur cloaks rendering them near-invisible until they moved. Behind them, a dozen armed shapes materialized—axes glinting dully, bowstrings taut with suspicion.
Dadaniel's hand flew to his sword hilt. Bennett merely smiled, counting the archers' positions. Three left flank, two right. Amateurs.
"Easy, friends," called a barrel-chested man shouldering through the ranks. His wolf-pelt pauldrons marked him as leader. "Two lone wolves in Icefang's belly? Either brave or brainless."
Bennett stepped forward, boots crunching deliberately. "We seek shelter, not strife. Surely the mighty Snow Wolf Pack spares corner space for fellow hunters?"
Laughter erupted—cruel, dismissive. The leader spat a glob of chewing resin. "Shelter? Boy, you'll be wolf shit by midnight. Scram before—"
Snap-hiss.
Flames bloomed in Bennett's palm, their amber light carving demonic shadows across his face. The laughter died mid-guffaw.
"Magic!" someone rasped.
"Respect," Bennett purred, the fireball swirling lazily. "Demands reciprocity."
The leader's throat bobbed. Dadaniel leaned close, voice tight. "Snow Wolf mercenaries. Reputation for leaving no witnesses."
"Precisely why we stay," Bennett murmured back. "Predators respect bigger teeth."
Wolf Among Wolves
The confrontation froze like glacial runoff until thunderous footsteps shattered the tension. A mountain of a man emerged, his bare arms ridged with muscle that defied the cold. Icicles clung to his russet beard like crystalline jewelry.
"Enough!" The newcomer's voice rolled like avalanche thunder. "You shame our banner, Varg."
The chastised leader shriveled. "Ch-Chief Byrnrich, I—"
"Silence." The giant's gaze locked onto Bennett. "A mage in traveling leathers? Either desperate... or dangerous."
Bennett extinguished his flame with a clenched fist. "Harry Dresden, itinerant alchemist. My companion—"
"Knows your worth," Dadaniel interjected smoothly. "As do we all now."
Negotiations Over Venison
Byrnrich's tent reeked of blood-mead and ambition. Bennett sipped rancid goat milk wine without flinching.
"Your quarry?" the chieftain probed, dagger carving frozen venison.
"Golden-Eyed Serpent." Bennett watched recognition flash across mercenary faces. "Yours?"
"Winter Drake nesting grounds." Byrnrich's grin revealed wolfish teeth. "Coincidence favors allies, no?"
Dadaniel stiffened. Bennett kicked his shin beneath the table.
"Coincidence," the young mage agreed, "and mutual profit." He produced the Rotting Corpse Monster venom vial. "Ten drops renders dragonhide pliable as linen. Imagine stripping an entire nest..."
Greed ignited in Byrnrich's eyes. "What price?"
"Shared maps. Shared prey." Bennett leaned forward. "And first pick of any... unusual herbs we encounter."
Whispers in the Watchfire
Later, as mercenaries snored in their wolfskin bedrolls, Dadaniel hissed: "Madness! They'll slit our throats at first trophy!"
Bennett stirred the Warning circle's central fire. "These wolves track the drake migration path—straight through serpent territories. Let them blaze our trail."
"And the old mage?"
"Watching." Bennett tossed pine needles into flames. "Testing. This is our exam, Dadaniel. Survival proves worth teaching."
The archer stared into embers. "You play with forces beyond—"
"All life's a gamble," Bennett interrupted softly. "Even for pawns who think themselves players."
Chapter 59 (Part I): Embers of Distrust
The Snow Wolf mercenary camp sprawled like a scar across the snow-draped hollow, its defenses carved into the terrain with predatory precision. Two steep ridges flanked the depression like fangs, funneling potential threats toward a narrow choke point guarded by watchfires. Bennett noted the strategic brilliance—and the unspoken message. These wolves know how to bite.
Wolves' Den
Byrnrich's entrance with two outsiders drew stares sharper than unsheathed blades. A hundred hardened faces tracked Bennett's every step—scarred rangers sharpening axes, archers restringing bows with frostbitten fingers. Their gear told stories of plundered battlefields: wolf-pelt cloaks stitched from fallen foes, daggers forged from melted-down noble house sigils.
"Fresh meat!" A hulk wielding a spiked mace bellowed. "What's next, Chief? Recruiting babes from cradleboards?"
Laughter erupted, raw and jagged. Byrnrich's glare silenced it. "Mind your tongues, maggots! This child could burn your balls off with a snap!"
Tent Politics
The chieftain's hospitality proved as calculated as his camp layout. He offered his own tent—a test masked as honor. Bennett declined with courtly grace, opting instead for a patch of frozen earth near the central fires.
"Wise," Dadaniel muttered as they hammered tent stakes. "Sleep in a wolf's den, wake in its belly."
Mercy arrived in the form of moth-eaten wool blankets. The merc who delivered them spat near Bennett's boot.
"Charming," Bennett remarked, brushing snow from the insult.
"Standard initiation." Dadaniel eyed a nearby group sharpening skinning knives. "Survive tonight, they'll maybe piss beside you tomorrow."
Feast of Scars
Dusk brought macabre feasting. Mercenaries hauled out carcasses Bennett recognized from bestiaries—twisted things with too many eyes or not enough. A frostwolf's severed head glared emptily as its flesh hit the stewpot.
"Souvenir?" A merc tossed Bennett a clawed paw. "Makes a nice backscratcher."
Bennett pocketed it with a magpie's smile. "My teacher collects... curiosities."
Byrnrich watched the exchange over a flask of something that reeked of burnt hair. "Toasted snow scorpion venom," he explained, offering the bottle. "Warms the guts better than any fire."
Liquid Courage
The first sip hit Bennett like a dragon's sneeze. Fire raced down his throat, searing sinuses and blurring vision. He collapsed coughing, frantically shoveling snow into his mouth as mercs roared approval.
"Twitchy little thing, ain't he?" A crossbowwoman grinned, missing three front teeth.
Dadaniel fared better. The archer's gulp ended in a full-body shudder and a reverent whisper: "Gods' tears, that's life in a bottle."
Meat and Metaphors
Stew proved equally brutal—chewy frostwolf haunch floating in grease, its gamey stink barely masked by pine needles. Bennett forced it down, recalling starvation nights in plague-stricken alleys. Better acid meat than empty bellies.
Byrnrich leaned close, stew steaming his beard. "Your eyes keep measuring my haul, mage."
"Admiring efficiency." Bennett nodded at the stacked pelts. "Twenty kills in five days? Impressive for..." He trailed off tactfully.
"For common thugs?" The chieftain's smile didn't reach his eyes. "We've our methods. Lost eight men perfecting them."
Night's Calculus
Later, as mercs snored in drunken heaps, Bennett sorted his pilfered treasures by firelight—frostwolf claw, charred scorpion stinger, a sliver of corrupted magic crystal.
"This is madness," Dadaniel hissed. "That venom could've stopped your heart!"
"But didn't." Bennett cataloged each item with alchemist precision. "Every sip they watched me choke built credibility. Now they think me reckless. Harmless."
The archer stared into the dying fire. "You play roles deeper than I can fathom."
"Roles?" Bennett tucked the deadly collection away. "This isn't theater, my friend. It's survival arithmetic—subtract their suspicion, multiply our odds."
Chapter 59 (Part II): Cartographer's Gambit
The stew's greasy aftertaste lingered on Bennett's tongue, a stark contrast to the crisp pine-scented air. He leaned back against a frost-rimed log, savoring the warmth of Byrnrich's venom-laced liquor. Let the old ghost nibble his crusty bread in the shadows, he thought smugly. Tonight, I feast.
Liquid Resolve
The second sip of the mercenary brew still burned like dragon's breath, but Bennett schooled his features into practiced nonchalance. Fire spread through his veins, thawing toes gone numb from two days trudging through knee-deep snow.
"Magic keeps you warm, eh?" Byrnrich observed, sharp eyes tracking Bennett's controlled exhale.
"Liquor helps." Bennett tapped the flask with a smirk. "Though I'd trade ten barrels for a proper bath."
The chieftain's laughter boomed across the firepit. "Bathe here, lad, and your stones'll freeze before they drip!"
Serpent's Shadow
Dadaniel's interruption cut through the forced camaraderie. "The Golden-Eyed Serpent—how deep must we go?"
Byrnrich's mirth evaporated. He traced a scar across his collarbone—a pale crescent that spoke of claws and close calls. "Twenty winters past, I saw a sorcerer bind one near the Singing Falls. Lost three fingers to its venom spray." He flexed a mangled hand. "And that was still outer wilds."
Bennett's gaze sharpened. "Define 'outer.'"
The mercenary chief unrolled a hide parchment yellowed with age and bloodstains. "See this?" His calloused finger stabbed at a smudged ink blotch. "Our camp sits here—barely a flea's leap from civilization." He dragged his nail northward across dense forest symbols. "To reach serpent grounds? You'd need to march weeks through lands where trees grow teeth and shadows hunt."
Map of Bones
The map unfolded like a grimoire of forbidden geography. Bennett's pulse quickened at the coded symbols—claw marks denoting wyvern nests, crimson droplets marking ambush sites, a crude skull where Byrnrich's brother had vanished.
"Your scribbles lack artistry," Bennett remarked lightly, tracing a route past something labeled Echoing Maw.
"Aye," Byrnrich growled. "But every stain's a life paid for this knowledge. That brown smear? My lieutenant's guts after a frost troll ripped him open."
Dadaniel palmed his dagger under the table. Bennett merely smiled. "Charming provenance. What's your price?"
Bargain with Wolves
The fire crackled as Byrnrich leaned forward, his shadow swallowing Bennett's. "Join our caravan to the Great Circle Lake. My men guard your back; you melt paths through snowdrifts with your magic." He tapped the map's edge where the parchment frayed into emptiness. "Beyond lies madness—but the lake's rim holds riches enough. Icebloom herbs for your potions. Frozen drake eggs for my trade caravans."
"Generous," Bennett drawled. "Yet I hear unspoken terms."
The chieftain's grin revealed a gold-capped molar. "Should we encounter... resistance... you'll lend your fire. No heroic last stands. No noble sacrifices."
"Practical terms." Bennett extended his hand. "But know this—betrayal burns both ways."
Their handshake lasted three heartbeats too long—a silent contest of pressure that left Bennett's knuckles whitened.
Midnight Calculations
Later, as mercenaries snored in their tents, Dadaniel hissed: "This map's a death warrant! The 'Great Circle Lake'? That's where the Ice Wraiths devoured the Silver Spear Company!"
Bennett studied the parchment by witchlight. "Precisely why we need it. Look here—" He traced faint charcoal lines beneath the ink. "Original survey marks. Byrnrich didn't draw this—he stole it from someone who knew true cartography."
The archer blinked. "Then why play along?"
"Because," Bennett folded the map with reverent precision, "whoever drew this left a trail even a fool could follow. A trail leading straight to our serpent."