Nemira stood on a narrow platform hewn from the cliff. The fissure between two slopes gaped before her as a chasm—thirty metres wide and two hundred and twenty long, perhaps more. Wind roamed between the stone walls, whistled, tore at her hair, forced her to squint.

  On the opposite slope, directly above the precipice, showed a target—a circle of straw with a charcoal-drawn centre. Small, distant. An ordinary eye would have struggled to discern it.

  The troll woman raised her bow. The wood settled into her palm familiarly, comfortably—in two months her hands had learnt every curve, every protrusion. Her fingers found the string automatically, without thought.

  Inhale. Breath held. Draw.

  The arrow settled on the string, the point aimed at the target. The world narrowed to a single point—the black centre on the straw circle. Wind, stones, precipice—all vanished. Only the target remained.

  Her fingers unclenched. The string snapped free with a crack, the arrow soared upward. It flew in an arc, cleaved the air with a drawn-out whistle. The chasm swallowed it for a moment—a tiny speck against the grey sky.

  Strike. The arrow buried itself in the straw slightly left of centre. The shaft trembled, went still.

  Nemira didn't look at the result. Her hands were already reaching for the next arrow, retrieving it from the quiver automatically. Draw again, aim again. Breathing even, calm. Her heart beat slowly, steadily.

  The second arrow flew. The third. The fourth.

  Each found the target. One struck the very centre, punched through the charcoal, split in half from the force of impact. Two others stuck nearby, forming a tight cluster. The fifth went slightly right—her compensation for the wind's gust had been excessive.

  Sixth. Seventh.

  The final arrow buried itself in the centre, beside the first successful one. The shaft swayed, went still.

  Livien lowered her bow. She exhaled slowly, relaxed her shoulders. Her hands didn't tremble—muscles had grown accustomed to the strain, had strengthened over months of training. Her fingers prickled from the string, but tolerably. Calluses had hardened, stopped hurting.

  "Not bad."

  Banarka's voice sounded from somewhere to the left. The orc woman sat on a boulder, observing the shooting with a relaxed air. Arms crossed on her chest, legs dangling. Ash-grey skin gleamed with sweat—she'd already shot her own portion earlier.

  "Seven out of seven on target. Three in the centre. At such a distance, and in this wind—I'm impressed."

  She leapt from the boulder, approached closer. She stood beside the troll woman, looked at the target across the fissure. She squinted, assessing the grouping.

  "Remember how you started two months ago?"

  Nemira smirked. Of course she remembered. The first shots had flown wide by a good half-metre. Her hands had trembled from strain, her shoulders had gone numb after a dozen arrows. The string had whipped her arm, left bruises. Her fingers had covered with blisters, bled.

  "Lost half my arrows. They flew into the chasm."

  "Right."

  Banarka chuckled, satisfied. She clapped the troll woman on the shoulder—casually, in a friendly manner.

  "But now you shoot like an orc woman! A ten-year-old orc woman. Almost. You've still got growing to do, naturally, but the foundation's there. Good foundation."

  She walked to the platform's edge, looked down. The chasm gaped below as a stone maw, the bottom lost in shadow. Wind howled between the slopes, drove dust and small pebbles.

  "Listen, Nemira."

  The orc woman turned round. Her face grew serious, fangs disappeared behind her lips. Her eyes darkened, became harder.

  "I think you're ready."

  "Ready?"

  "For a real hunt."

  Banarka stepped back, stopped opposite her. Her hands settled on her hips, shoulders squared.

  "Not for grun'jaks they catch right by the village. And not for small fry like rabbits. For serious game. Dangerous game. The kind that gives good spoils but can take you down too if you let your guard slip."

  Livien straightened. Her heart quickened, blood pounded in her temples. Adrenaline stabbed beneath her ribs—sharp, familiar.

  "What game?"

  The orc woman grinned. Her fangs flashed white against ash-grey skin.

  "You'll see. Tomorrow at dawn we'll gather, go deep into the jungle. There..." The orc woman was clearly searching for the right word. Finally deciding on something, she continued. "Larger beasts live there. And cleverer ones. You'll have to work for it."

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  She turned, strode towards the path leading downward.

  "Rest today. Save your strength. You'll need it tomorrow."

  Nemira remained standing on the platform. She stared at the target across the fissure—at the arrows protruding from the straw, at the black centre, shot clean through.

  Dawn painted the extinct volcano's summit copper. Light broke through the clouds in thin rays, fell on thatched roofs, transformed dewdrops on leaves into scattered sparks. The village still slept—smoke didn't rise from chimneys, paths stood empty.

  Nemira stood at Taviri'Naa's edge, adjusting the straps on her mail. Her fingers tightened the buckles habitually, without thought. Her sword hung at her waist, the quiver of arrows weighed on her shoulder. The bow lay in her hand, the wood cool and smooth.

  Footsteps. The orc woman emerged from round the corner of a hut—broad-shouldered, massive. Ash-grey skin gleamed in the morning light. On her back rested an enormous bow, nearly as tall as the troll woman. The quiver, stuffed with arrows as thick as its owner's finger, swayed in time with her steps.

  "Ready?"

  Nemira nodded. Banarka grinned, fangs flashing.

  "Then let's go. It's a long journey."

  They left the village's limits, passed the final buildings. The path plunged downward, into the jungle. The volcano's slope dropped steeply, stones protruding from the earth in sharp ridges. Tree roots wove above the road, forming a tunnel of greenery.

  Banarka walked first. Her broad feet found purchase on the slippery stones confidently, without hesitation. The orc woman moved quickly despite her size—muscles rolled beneath her skin smoothly, economically.

  Livien followed. The descent came easier to her—nature itself had seen to that—but Banarka compensated for this with vast experience. Despite her innate abilities, Nemira had to balance on every stone, grip roots when the slope grew particularly steep.

  The jungle closed overhead. The light of dawn died between the branches, transformed into a greenish twilight. Humidity rose from the earth, settled on skin in a sticky film. It smelt of rotting leaves, wet bark, something sweet and cloying.

  Birds cried in the heights above. Insects droned monotonously, somewhere very close. Foliage rustled with every gust of wind, dewdrops tore free, shattered on their shoulders.

  The slope grew gradually gentler. The path wound between trees, led ever deeper into the thickets. Sunlight broke through in scattered patches, trembled on the ground in golden flickers.

  Banarka stopped at a fork. One path led right, along the slope. The other—straight ahead, into the very heart of the jungle. The orc woman chose the second without hesitation.

  They walked in silence. Twenty minutes, perhaps more. The trees around grew thicker, older. Trunks soared upward like giants, bark covering with moss and lichen. Roots spread across the ground, thick as the body of a grown troll.

  "Listen, Nemira."

  Banarka's voice sounded quietly but distinctly. The orc woman didn't turn round, continued walking forward.

  "The place we're going..." She fell silent for a second, choosing her words. "It's not a good place. Cursed."

  The troll woman grew alert. Her hand reached for her sword hilt instinctively.

  "Cursed?"

  "Yes."

  Banarka stepped over a fallen tree, glanced over her shoulder.

  "There used to be a village there. A large one. Stood by a pond, plenty of water, plenty of fish. The inhabitants lived well, traded with other settlements. A thousand sentient beings, perhaps more."

  She stopped, braced her hand against a trunk. Her face darkened, fangs disappeared behind her lips.

  "Then they all died. In a single day. Every last one."

  Nemira froze. A chill ran down her spine.

  "All?"

  "All."

  The orc woman nodded. Her gaze became harder, heavier.

  "An agonising death. They screamed, thrashed in convulsions. Blood ran from their eyes, their ears. Their skin covered with sores, flesh rotted whilst they still lived. No one survived. Not even the children."

  She pushed away from the trunk, walked on. Her voice sounded level, but weight could be heard in it.

  "This was before Taviri'Naa was founded. The elders' fathers told them how they found the village empty. Mutilated corpses lay everywhere. Those who entered the village were gripped by wild, primordial terror. They couldn't resist it and left the village." Here the orc woman smiled sadly and continued. "More precisely, they fled from it and simply left the dead to rot."

  Nemira followed, listening in silence. Her fingers clenched on the bow, knuckles whitening.

  "And then the corpses rose. Every last one. Became undead. And now they roam there, by the pond. Guard the dead village."

  Banarka stopped again, turned round completely. Her eyes bored into the troll woman seriously, without a shadow of mirth.

  "Only one thing saves us—they can't go far. They're bound to the village like a chain. Five hundred metres from the edge, no more. They won't go further."

  She exhaled heavily.

  "Otherwise... I dread to imagine what these jungles would become. Undead roaming the jungle freely..."

  The orc woman turned, strode on.

  "That's where we're going. To the cursed land's boundary."

  "We're hunting zombies?"

  Banarka looked at Nemira strangely.

  "Approach the walking dead without a blood caster? Are you in your right mind, friend?"

  "Then why are you telling me all this?" Livien didn't understand.

  "So we'll hunt the beasts that don't fear death's emanations and live near the village, and so you won't accidentally wander into it if you decide to run from the sigkhun."

  "The sig... what?"

  "Sigkhun," Banarka repeated without turning round. "A creature that feeds on death. Not dead itself, but not quite alive either."

  The orc woman parted fern fronds, let the troll woman pass ahead. The jungle grew denser. Trees stood closer together, trunks covered with a thick layer of moss. The air stagnated, smelt of rot and something acrid.

  "Imagine a wolf. The size of a bull. Its fur black, but not quite—as though soaked in ink. It gleams with an oily sheen, reflects greenish when light strikes it."

  Banarka stepped over a root, stopped. She ran her palm across the tree's bark, demonstrating.

  "Its muzzle is elongated, like a jackal's. Its jaws break grun'jak bones like you'd snap a twig. It has no eyes—only sockets from which oozes black slime. It runs down its muzzle, drips onto the earth. The grass beneath withers, blackens."

  Livien imagined the picture. Cold crept down her spine. Her fingers gripped the bow tighter.

  "Six paws instead of four. The front ones longer than the hind, claws like knives. One blow—it'll rip open your belly from ribs to groin. It moves fast, soundlessly. You only hear its breathing—raspy, gurgling. As though it's choking on its own blood."

  The orc woman moved on. Her voice sounded level, businesslike—a huntress explaining the nature of prey.

  "The sigkhun doesn't attack head-on. Too clever for that. It circles round, bides its time. Studies you. Finds a weakness—physical or mental. Then strikes where you don't expect it."

  She stopped by a fallen trunk, crouched. She retrieved a knife from her belt, scratched lines on the bark.

  "The main danger isn't the claws or fangs. The sigkhun radiates fear. Real, primordial terror. It comes close—your legs buckle, your hands shake. Your will evaporates. You want only one thing—to run. Anywhere, as long as it's away."

  The knife scratched lines—a circle, a figure inside it.

  "Many do just that. Run. Turn their backs. And then the creature catches up. Leaps on their back, buries its fangs in their neck. Death comes quickly, but painfully."

  Banarka straightened, hid her knife. She looked at the troll woman seriously.