Christofer stopped in front of the forge. Blackened stone and brick rising chest-high, the firebox sunk into the center like a shallow iron bowl, maybe a meter across. Behind it, a chimney climbed through the roof, brick-lined and blackened with decades of use. The hood above was sheet iron, angled to catch smoke and funnel it up.

  A metal chute angled down into the firebox with a hinged gate at the top. He lifted the gate. It moved stiffly, frozen rust protesting. Inside, the chute was empty but stained black. He could see where it fed into the firebox from the side, just above the grate. A continuous feed. You could theoretically dump charcoal in from the hopper while the fire burned, keeping it going for hours without interrupting the work.

  ‘That’s a good sign.’

  He let the gate drop and moved to the right side. The bellows. Two large leather bags mounted on a wooden frame, each one the size of a sheep. They hung from an iron pivot bar overhead, connected by wooden arms to dark wooden foot pedals on the floor. Black as tar. They probably did use tar for them. He pressed a pedal with his boot. A whistle of sound.

  ‘That’s another good sign.’

  He walked to the wyvern with a hint more optimism and cut strips of fat from around the organs with the sickle claw. Thick, yellowish tissue that felt waxy and cold. He paused and looked at it. The claws of the frostbitten hind-foot were starting to deteriorate. He carried it along with the fat back to the forge and laid it in the center of the firebox, directly over the tuyere opening. Christofer stumbled back to the workbench, grabbed the wooden stool and smashed it into the stone floor. He gathered the splintered wood pieces and stuffed it into the firebox, not bothering to pry loose the rounded parts and just pushed it right in there.

  ‘There’s the firewood. Now we need only… Hm.’

  It would leave an air pocket. He glanced to the wyvern, following the body to its tail. He stomped up to it. Feeling like he had to do so to make himself stay awake. He grabbed the wyvern’s tail and dragged the heavy length across the stone. The spined ridge scraped against the floor until the hooked blade hovered above the suspended right hind-leg. He lifted it once and slammed it down. A meaty thwack echoed through the room.

  The barbed edge bit deep into the now half-torn ankle of the remaining hind leg. The joint split wider, scales parting as the blade sheared through the last stubborn tissue. The foot sagged crookedly, attached by little more than a ribbon of sinew. A slow trickle of blood ran down the scales and dripped into the snow. Christofer blinked.

  “Why the hell didn’t I do that before?”

  He shifted his grip on the tail, then paused. Something slick dragged across the wyvern hide of his gloves. He held his hands up. A clear, glassy liquid clung between the scales of the tail blade and smeared across his fingers. Christofer’s stomach tightened. Then he exhaled.

  “Right. The paralytic… God damn I’m tired.”

  He set the tail carefully back where it had rested and plunged both gloved hands into the snow, grinding the wyvern-hide against the ice and snow until the clear film smeared away. He paused, moved to another drift, plunged the gloves into it as well to be doubly sure. Only then did he fumble for the mug and shove it beneath the slow drip of blood. Rotating the mug as he pressed it down in the snow. He left the mug there, allowing the blood to drip.

  He blew out a breath and stomped over to the charcoal, the latch screeching as he grabbed handfuls of charcoal and added it to the hopper. He dusted off the charcoal against his pants, but rather than minimizing the black dust, he just smeared his pants darker. He hurriedly stumbled back for the mug. Grabbed it and headed to the firebox.

  ‘I hope the forge will be able to hold this.’

  He pulled the liquid from the mug. Droplets twirled into the air as it formed a thin blood rune inside the air pocket in the firebox.

  “Abra… uh… Shit. Fire?”

  Clear signs happened immediately. Christofer’s eyes widened in realization. He slammed the metal latch and threw his full bodyweight against it, bracing for impact. He pressed the metal shut with his gloves to maximize the energy transfer. The failed rune sucked inward, energy compressing predictably into a single violent point.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  ‘This is going to hurt.’

  * * *

  Doc had the array spread across the snow, components laid out like surgery. His fingers worked despite the cold, reconnecting wires to the portable battery pack he'd scavenged from the tank's auxiliary systems. Vodko stood watch, rifle across his knees, scanning the tree line through the falling snow. This marked the third stop trying to locate the signal. The storm, the mountain, something was throwing off his readings.

  The ground trembled beneath Doc's knees. His hands stopped mid-wire. A distant boom rolled across the valley, muffled by snow and distance but unmistakable. Deep percussion that hit the chest before settling into the ears. Doc's head snapped up. Vodko was already scanning, rifle moving. Then the ground trembled. Not wind. Not imagination. The snow beneath Doc's knees vibrated. He looked down at the array. The components rattled against each other, a faint metallic chatter. The tremor ran through the snow, through his knees, up into his chest.

  "Scheisse." He grabbed the nearest component. "Avalanche."

  Muffled by snow and distance but unmistakable. A deep percussion that hit the chest. Doc shoved components into the pack, not bothering with organization. Just get it in. Get it portable. Get moving. Vodko was already on his feet, rifle up, eyes scanning. Doc turned, following the sound. Southwest. Maybe. Hard to tell with the storm warping everything. He squinted into the white, looking for… There. A flicker of darker smoke against the gray sky. Not storm cloud. Smoke. Rising.

  "There," Doc pointed. "Southwest. Maybe... four kilometers? Five? A nasty climb though."

  The smoke column thickened as they moved, it climbed slowly, black tail of smoke twisting in the wind. Too dark for wood fire. Vodko lowered the rifle slightly. A lower frequency rumble that built gradually, like distant thunder that forgot to stop. The two increased their pace of running. Vodko's head snapped toward the slope above them. The rumble grew. Snow hissed in the distance, a sound like radio static distortions amplified through the mountain.

  "Receiver?"

  "Has to be." Doc's breath steamed. "Signal came from that direction. Did they spot us?"

  The slope above them shifted. Not the whole face. Just a section. Already unstable. The boom was just the final push with the assaulting storm pushing it further.

  "Close enough. We need to-"

  A crack appeared in the snowpack, branching, widening. The rumble was everywhere now, in the ground, in the air, in his teeth. Vodko grabbed the back of Doc's coat and hauled him upright. Doc clutched the half-packed array to his chest and ran.

  "Move. Now."

  His boots sank with each step, snow grabbing at his ankles. Behind them, the crack widened. Snow sloughed off in sheets, picking up speed. The rumble became a roar. They angled downslope, away from the collapsing face, toward the tree line. Doc's lungs burned. The array banged against his ribs with each step. He didn't look back. Vodko ran, breaking trail, rifle slung, moving with the efficiency of a man who'd run from worse. The roar peaked. Doc risked a glance over his shoulder. The avalanche poured down the slope like white water, churning, consuming everything. Trees disappeared into it. Rocks tumbled in the flow. It carved a path twenty meters wide, thirty, widening as it fell. Doc's boot caught. He went down hard. The pack flew open. Components scattered across snow. Battery pack, there. First piece, Second, Third. Where's the fourth? The crack widened above them.

  "Now!"

  Vodko's hand found it wedged against a root and shoved it at Doc without a word. He clutched the components to his chest as they ran, breathing hard.

  "That was the receiver," Doc said between breaths. "Had to be…"

  Vodko pulled him toward him, pulling him to keep running. Doc looked at the scattered array components in his arms. Vodko glanced at the avalanche still building power as he ran, then at the smoke, then toward’s the location he had been leading them toward.

  "We need to-" Doc adjusted his glasses.

  "Da. Shelter." Vodko slung the rifle and pointed at the mouth of a cave. “Maybe bear.”

  Doc didn’t have time to ponder theoreticals. They ducked inside the cave. The main flow thundered past, close enough to feel the displaced air, to taste the ice dust it threw up. It blanketed the space like city smog. Sheets of snow fell and sealed the entrance. The avalanche was passing. Still roaring, but moving away now, following the slope down into the valley below. The ground still shook. Doc lit a lighter, blazing light into the darkness. His glasses fogged completely. He pulled them off, wiped them on his sleeve and put them on.

  "How long?" Vodko asked.

  Doc crouched down looking at the military-grade equipment. Built for worse than a tumble in snow. He started sorting components, checking for damage. One connector was cracked. He could work around it. Vodko lit the light attached to his rifle, the cave stretched deep.

  "To reassemble? Twenty minutes. Maybe less,” Doc adjusted the glasses on his nose, more as a nervous tic than a need. “The storm affecting the signal is a bigger problem."

  * * *

  Christofer snapped awake and heard the comforting crackle in the forge. Ears ringing. Pain. He laughed with exhaustion, coughing as he lay half-folded over the anvil. Warmth.

  “I have made fire!” his voice boomed like a caveman until he paused to cough, his head spinning from the aftermath. “God damn, that explosion.”