Dmitry dropped his backpack with relief directly onto the carpet of needles under an old spruce. His back responded with a sharp spasm that momentarily darkened his eyes. Urgent measures were needed. Hans clearly didn't share his companions' relief. While Coen tried to catch his breath and Dmitry fought a wave of pain, the old man did not lower his spear. He turned his head, sniffing the heavy air of the spruce forest.

  "I don't like it here, my lord," Hans grunted hollowly. "This is an ill place. The forest's breath is unkind; it reeks of rot out of season. Under these boughs, the shadows are blacker than soot even at midday. It is unseemly to linger here."

  He jabbed the spear shaft toward the north, where a hint of a clearing barely glimmered between the trunks.

  "We need to push on a little more. If we strain ourselves, we’ll make it out of this thicket before dark. Beyond the forest, the terrain opens up, and the ruins of the outpost are within reach. It's much safer to spend the night within walls than under a spruce where every rustle is like a death sentence."

  Coen looked at Dmitry, assessing the condition of the "mage" who was frozen, clutching his back. The Baron understood that Hans was right—the old soldier sensed danger in his gut.

  "Hans is right, Master Dmitri," Coen agreed reluctantly. "Here we are like sitting ducks. Let's go another couple of miles. Can you make it?"

  Dmitry clenched his teeth. Through the veil of pain, he understood: if he didn't reach open ground now, he might simply not be able to stand after a long rest. He needed movement so his muscles wouldn't seize up completely. Dmitry realized that without chemistry, this push would be his last. Pain bit into his spine with white-hot pincers.

  "Wait a minute..." he croaked, stopping his companions.

  Under the puzzled gazes of the Baron and Hans, Dmitry hauled off his backpack. His movements were stiff. He retrieved a hermetic case from a pocket. In the "mage's" hands glinted glass and steel—a reusable syringe. With a practiced motion, Dmitry drew transparent liquid from an ampoule.

  "Master Dmitri, what is that?" Fear and curiosity mixed in Coen's voice. "Are you wounded?"

  Dmitry didn't answer. He hiked up the hem of his jacket and, with a swift motion, drove the needle into his thigh. Hans crossed himself, and the Baron instinctively recoiled. The sight of a man voluntarily stabbing himself with metal caused them superstitious horror.

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  "An elixir..." Dmitry exhaled, stowing the syringe. "It helps hold the back."

  The medicine couldn't act instantly. Diclofenac needed time to dull the inflammation around the titanium plate. Grimacing in pain, Dmitry shouldered the backpack again. His face was pale, and perspiration broke out on his forehead.

  "Let's go," he threw out, nodding to Hans. "While I can still move my legs."

  Now the road became an endurance test. Dmitry walked, looking only at his feet and concentrating on his breathing. The forest seemed hostile, the shadows under the spruces lengthened, and the smell of rot became more distinct. Every root echoed in his back with a dull blow, but he stubbornly shifted his feet, feeling the numbness from the injection slowly beginning to spread inside. The monotony of the path turned into torture. The forest became an endless conveyor of black trunks and rotting foliage. Feet mechanically churned the mud: step, squelch, inhale, flash of pain, exhale. Dmitry stopped looking around. In his world, only the Baron's back and the tips of his own boots, covered in a layer of sludge, remained. Angry thoughts swirled in his head. He cursed his caution, because of which he hadn't taken the Ark. He cursed the backpack, the Baron's vanity, and this damn Northcross.

  *'Idiot,'* he growled to himself. *'Why the hell didn't I take the motorcycle? To hell with the stir! I’d be drinking tea in Northcross now, not feeding the worms with my sweat.'*

  Nothing pleased him: Hans's raspy breathing, Coen's wet cloak, even his own cloak creating a greenhouse effect inside. Irritation at this unkempt world choked him. The forest ended suddenly, as if the wall of trees had been cut down with an axe. The travelers emerged onto open space, and Dmitry raised his head. It turned out the day had finally faded. The gray shroud of clouds had darkened and merged with the horizon, stripping the world of color. Thick twilight set in. The air grew colder, and in this gloom, a couple of kilometers ahead, the ruins of the outpost rose like a dark, uneven tooth. Dmitry cursed under his breath, nearly plowing the rut with his nose. The numbness from fatigue was so strong that he had forgotten simple things. He had walked half an hour by touch, although the solution was at hand.

  "Idiot..." he groaned. "My brains have completely leaked out."

  The Baron and Hans froze in the impenetrable darkness. Dmitry rummaged in the backpack's top flap and pulled out a headlamp. Pulling it over his hood, he clicked the button. A powerful beam of cold light pierced the darkness, hitting the wet rut. Coen turned abruptly, shielding himself with a hand, and Hans fearfully leveled his spear.

  "Holy Sisters!" the Baron exhaled. "Master Dmitri, is there a star stuck in your head?"

  Dmitry adjusted the brightness, directing the beam under his feet. Walking became easier. Now he saw every root and puddle. Anger at himself subsided, replaced by the triumph of technology over this darkness.

  "It's just light," he grunted. "Let's go already. The outpost won't find itself."

  Now he went first, cutting through the darkness with a bright cone. The companions followed behind, trying to stay close to the saving beam that danced on the stones, indicating the way to the ruins. Dmitry walked more confidently; the medicine had finally taken effect and dulled the pain. He stepped out first, lighting the way with the lamp. Suddenly, the beam caught something alien ahead that alerted him. Dmitry jerked his head, and a corpse appeared in the circle of light.

  Hans grew alert, gripping his spear. Dmitry switched the headlamp to maximum brightness and scanned the area. It was quiet. No one.

  Ensuring there was no danger, they approached. The corpse lay face down in the mud. The arms were broken and twisted at unnatural angles; the throat was torn to shreds. Hans carefully examined the body.

  "It's one of Reinhard's men," the old man said. "He's been lying here for two days. It's strange..."

  Hans looked around in puzzlement.