Olekir wasn't about to waste time idly while creating new dolls. The dolls he had already created were organized into a semblance of a unit capable of coordinated action. He selected one doll and, using Elikor's knowledge, endowed it with a primitive semblance of will and a special runic construct. Unlike the ordinary ones, he preserved within it additional tactical decision-making options, allowing it to respond more globally. Beneath it, he placed ten less advanced dolls, each containing a fragment of his soul. They, in turn, commanded ten ordinary dolls.
Olekir sent them south, and it turned out to be more difficult than he expected: the dolls wandered uncontrollably for an unbearably long time, so long that Yaroslava managed to create several thousand more dolls as if nothing had happened. In desperation, Olekir sent several more units in different directions, hoping that at least one would reach the edge of the wasteland. And fate was on his side. Suddenly, while he was meditating surrounded by girls, his consciousness was flooded with a message.
— So they have arrived.
He spoke barely audibly, stroking Yaroslava's hair and focusing on what the doll saw. It was almost the same forest that fought against the wasteland: frozen and cracked trees lay intertwined with weary branches and roots under its feet. Among them, one could still spot living mighty giants that stabbed their peaks into the sky. For a while, he simply stood and admired the beauty of this place. Once, he couldn't afford that, being in too much of a hurry, but not now.
He just looked melancholically at the forest spread out before him, as if absorbing every sound, every breath of wind that rustled through the frozen branches. Perhaps he could have stood there for an eternity, observing the endless struggle of the forest against the wasteland, feeling time flow slowly and the world around him change. But suddenly, the silence was broken by a pack, led by a naviach, that emerged from the depths of the forest. Without any hesitation or thought, it charged forward.
— Hm, newly created. So he has already filled the gap. A pity. Have I really been in the wasteland for so long? I had hoped to take advantage of the overseer's absence.
Coldly and without emotion, a chorus of voices spoke, echoing from the depths of the wasteland. This single fact made the pack of naviachs freeze in place, as if time had momentarily stopped. But their pause was short—without any hesitation, they charged forward, filled with fury and despair. His army, like a single organism, silently and synchronously took up their positions, ready to meet the enemy. A wall of shields firmly halted the pack's momentum, like an unyielding rock, and a forest of spears, like lightning, pierced the air, taking the lives of the wolves one by one.
The naviach laughed like a madman, as if playing with his own death, when several spears pierced his body, but this did not stop his momentum. As if spurred on, he crashed into the formation, and it parted, surrounding him. Synchronously, his army circled around the naviach, as if toying with him, increasing his wounds yet not diminishing his fervor. But suddenly, the wind changed. A howl came from the forest, and other naviachs began to emerge from behind the trees.
The dolls' reaction was instantaneous: without any delay, they retreated and deployed into a battle formation. This did not frighten the naviachs at all, but rather inflamed their battle lust. They charged without thought, their assault breaking through the wall of shields and throwing several dolls beyond the formation.
The naviachs circled around isolated dolls, savoring every moment of their helplessness. They greedily tried to tear them apart, leaving no chance for recovery or escape. But no matter how hard they tried to pierce the armor or bite off pieces of the bodies, it was futile—the dolls remained monolithic. Instead, the naviachs themselves began to suffer from the cold that pierced their bones, that very sensation they had tried so hard to forget. But more experienced ones came to their aid, endowed personally by the blood of the Northern Lord for their loyalty and cruelty. It was they who finally managed to tear a doll apart, but even then, it was only at the joint.
— What an interesting toy.
— Indeed. Very interesting.
They growled, trying in vain to crush the doll's parts; their voices were cold and sinister. But even through the doll, Olekir could sense their deep fear—that fear they tried to hide behind bravado, behind aggressive, chaotic fighting, but which manifested in the caution that subconsciously began to appear in their behavior. This was perfectly visible in their attitude toward the dolls' weapons when the battle madness gradually subsided. This fear was like a shadow slowly enveloping them, revealing the vulnerability they so diligently concealed beneath a mask of cruelty.
Quite quickly, the situation reached a stalemate. The dolls, having lost almost half their number in battle, learned to adapt to the naviachs' brutal tactics. They no longer allowed their ranks to be split: every attempt at a breakthrough could be the last for the attacker. The naviachs, wounded and exhausted, circled around like predators toying with their prey, feeling a sweet delight in the dolls' helplessness. Although they had not yet lost a single warrior, fear and fatigue began to weigh on them, and they refrained from reckless attacks, carefully choosing the moment for their next move.
But suddenly, a tremor occurred: the wind howled like a madman, carrying a blizzard from the depths of the forest, and behind it came beasts. Brutal and insane, they threw themselves onto the spears. There were so many of them that the blood flowing from their bodies formed a small lake, in the midst of which stood bloodied dolls. Their cold caused the blood on them to freeze, worsening their sensations. Olekir was no longer just watching: he had possessed the commander's body to personally observe the arrival.
From the forest emerged he—not walking, but gliding, like a mist condensed into a semblance. His body was a bony shadow, entwined with a cold shroud that pulsed like a living heart. Bones protruded through the fog like broken branches of a dead tree, and from the empty skull where a face should have been, a single eye glowed—icy, without a pupil, without warmth, without pity. The breath that escaped its gaping maw instantly froze in the air, leaving behind thin ice needles that fell to the ground like shards of broken glass.
The naviachs did not approach closely. They did not dare. They crawled before him, pressing low to the ground like dogs awaiting the strike of a whip. Their bony bodies trembled, the fog from their eye sockets billowed thicker, and every movement was slow, submissive, as if they feared even breathing in his presence. Some lowered their heads so low that their bony growths touched the snow, leaving deep furrows. Others crawled on their bellies, leaving a trail of frost behind, as if the ground beneath them died from their very touch.
— So you decided to show yourself personally? Filthy dog.
— Who speaks to me... Lord of the North! Who dared to invade... my domain!
Each word was like a cataclysm in itself: the treetops trembled, a blizzard rose from the ground as if alive, threatening to sweep away anyone who dared step here without permission. The snow swirled into a vortex, the trees bent as if struck by an invisible hand. The fog thickened, became heavy, as if the cold itself decided to choke the uninvited guests. The naviachs crawling around shuddered more violently, pressing even lower, as if afraid even to breathe and offend their master. But Olekir did not shudder. He stood motionless, as did every doll beside him—silent, perfectly still, without a single tremble. If the dolls could express emotions, one could easily read mockery on their expressionless faces.
— You forgot to add 'lesser'. After all, you are nothing more than a dog in the service of the Lord of the Earth, placed to watch over his precious beasts, but even that you have failed. Do you still nurture the hope that you will manage to restore the lineage of his beloved tigers... and he will forgive you?
The forest fell silent. Even the wind, which had just been roaring, seemed to listen. The naviachs shuddered again—this time not from fear of their master, but from something new, something they did not understand: from the voice that spoke to their lord as if to an equal, or perhaps even a subordinate. The fog swirled more violently. From the depths of the forest came a low growl—not anger, but something deeper, resembling the grinding of bone on bone. The eye in the skull flared brighter, the icy gleam became sharper, like a blade.
The naviachs, as if caught up in this wave, rose, not daring to argue with their master. They threw themselves into battle with frantic desperation—bones cracked, fog billowed thicker, and growls turned into roars that tore through the air. But Olekir was not concerned. His dolls, cold and precise, repelled wave after wave, using the enemies' momentum to retreat further and further—closer to the wasteland. Blood flowed in rivers across the snow, but immediately froze from the cold touch of the northern wind, turning into red ice.
And then, as if crossing an invisible boundary, the beasts suddenly stopped attacking. The naviachs could only growl chaotically, not daring to step further. The dolls calmly turned around and, in a marching formation, walked away—steadily, without haste, as if it were not a retreat but a procession. Behind their backs, the roaring did not cease—a few beasts tried to give chase but did not even manage to touch them; they turned into icy corpses, frozen in cold silence, like statues.
— I will not forget this.
— That is what I wanted.
Olekir spoke quietly as his dolls began to construct a sort of fort. The blocks were formed from snow and were more to conceal them than to protect. The Lord of the North tried to hinder them, throwing stones and broken trees, but it had no effect: on the contrary, the dolls thanked him each time, using these gifts to strengthen the fortress. The beasts could only growl chaotically and bare their teeth at them, not daring to cross the boundary, just like their master, whose anger burned so fiercely that the snow melted nearby, but his fear of the wasteland was many times stronger.
To relax a little and distract from the tension, the Lord of the North tried to brutally crush the bodies of the dolls left behind, but it turned out to be much harder than he expected. In his long life, he had defeated many a mighty enemy or fool who dared to challenge him, but this battle was different. He did not feel that he had defeated or driven away the enemy: rather, he had played into his hands, and this irritated him even more. A quiet growl made all the naviachs crawl on the ground before they swiftly disappeared into the depths of the forest.