“I should’ve done it a week ago,” he thought as he saw pity in Bala’s eyes. “It may be already too late.”

“Let’s go,” he said in a wheezy whisper. “We have a long way ahead of us.”

They followed the main road at first but left it after an hour. Their pace was slow but Kosta already breathed heavily and could not go any faster no matter how much he wanted to. Moving forward in a steady, non-stopping pace was the best he could do now, and he did. Hours passed but they had not stopped to rest even once. Had not exchanged a single word either.

Finally, they reached the Firaskian forest, a dark, ominous mass of ancient cedars.

Despite being so close to the city, the forest seemed wild and untouched by people. There were plenty of cedar cones scattered under the trees; every glade was full of berries. Obviously, no one picked local nature's candy – that alone should have made Bala suspicious but it didn’t. He enjoyed the forest too much for his own good. He picked herbs, nuts, and berries along the way, stuffed the herbs into his pockets, gorged on the forest gifts himself and fed them to Kosta.

For the first time in weeks, Kosta didn’t refuse food, knowing that he needed all his strength to meet what he was going to meet.

But strength was what he had not. Four hours after entering the forest, Kosta had to stop to rest and catch his breath. He resumed his journey shortly, as stubborn and methodical as ever in his efforts, but his next “sprint” lasted barely three hours. Then and only then, it dawned on his careless companion that they would not be able to return to the city before dark.

“Kosta,” he said in a terrified, hushed voice, “we have to go back, now!”

Young Ollardian, sprawled on the ground, opened his eyes, bloodshot and watering because of his endless cough, then made an effort to get up and leaned against the nearest cedar tree for support. His wheezy breath was painful to hear.

“Of course…” he whispered. “We will go… it doesn’t matter where to now… Please, sit with me… I have to tell you…”

But he didn’t have the chance… A terrified, wailing cry interrupted him mid-phrase. It must have belonged to a young child scared out of their wits.

“Stay here,” pleaded Bala, torn between his helpless friend and the helpless little stranger. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Don’t…” wheezed Kosta, trying to grab his sleeve, but Bala was too quick for him.

“Late once again,” he thought bitterly. And then he got up and tried to run after his friend.

Two seconds into the run, Kosta started to cough again. His lungs could not take it anymore. His heart was close to its limit as well; it pounded so fast in a desperate attempt to keep up with the sick body’s demands that Kosta felt close to blacking out. His vision dimmed, blurred, overcast with dancing green specks. He had to slow his pace to stay conscious but didn’t dare to stop, knowing that any delay could cost Bala everything.

“Breathe… breathe… breathe…” the boy chanted in his thoughts.

Bala was running through the forest in the direction he had heard the child’s cry from. The undergrowth was thick there; that made Bala’s long sword a real burden that slowed him a great deal. Luckily, the child, a little boy, jumped out of the bushes right in front of Bala.

Marascaran went down on one knee and tried to calm down the kid and learn what had happened to him. The boy looked about five years old: he seemed younger than Jarmin. He was scrawny, dirty, and dressed in filthy rags; his arms and cheeks were red with scratches that running through the undergrowth had left him. The boy’s little face was a mask of utter terror; it made all the horrors of the No Man’s Land that Bala had heard of from his teammates flash before his mind’s eye in a split second.