The next day, when the sun was up as high and as bright as it would get, (a shimmering, light gray sphere just above the horizon) the troop roused from sleep and sought breakfast. There were no lines, no markers or signs to mark the boundaries of Svalbard, it was just so ingrained in the bears after generations of traveling them, they needed none. Traveling by pure instinct, Modomnoc walked a few lengths in front of his friends, sniffing the cold air and inspecting any unusual objects, footprints and signals to see who or what might have crossed the boundary. Every so often, Soren drifted up to him, they exchanged a few brief comments, and he faded back to the troop to tell Forgeron what Modomnoc had said. Soren and Modomnoc had similar jobs; Modomnoc kept ahead of the troop while Soren was a kind of "satellite" scout. He circled around the whole troop while they walked. This gave him plenty of time to think and seethe over his father, something he preferred.

"Momma, momma! Will we make it to the fire mines today?" Helleri asked as she jogged to keep up with Kasatka's loping pace. "No dear, I've told you that the fire mines are at least a month's journey from where we are." she answered with an apologetic smile. With a disappointed sigh, Helleri slowed and drifted back to Dohai. Forgeron chuckled, his laughter deep and kind, like a mountain laughing. "She is very eager to join the fray." "Yes, but...I dislike the thought of my youngest and only daughter getting injured." Kasatka replied.

"Well, our youngest and only daughter would give anyone that crossed her a run for their money, and our eldest and only son is doing just fine." He butted her shoulder gently with is helmeted muzzle. "Hey, cut it out you two! All your mushy stuff is giving me a stomach ache!" Rolvaag called up to his parents. Forgeron turned and glared at him through the narrow slits of his helmet. "You shouldn't be looking up here anyway, you should be scanning for danger!" The young male stuck his tongue out, it's pinkness barely showing from under his pointed helmet.

Nineveh and Rue kept their distance from the others, talking quietly amongst themselves or scanning the immediate area for an arctic fox to frighten some information out of. If the Guard needed spies, the pair would have certainly been the first to volunteer. Their long-standing effort to prove themselves worth the titles conferred upon them by pure chance, they took every opportunity to gain whatever knowledge possible. Arctic foxes were a good and prevalent source of this information. After years of living off of the kills of the bears, they picked up a limited understanding of the language they spoke. The sneaky beasts had eyes everywhere, and were easily intimidated. None were to be had out in the expanse of tundra they were currently crossing, however, and the twins settled into a rhythmic, lumbering pace.

So it went for miles, passing in silence and seemingly endless walking. Only the cubs tired, and everyone stopped for a few moments rest in a wide, flat clearing that was a perpetually frozen lake. There were no seals or walruses to be caught in a lake, so the bears went without lunch and continued on once the sun dipped slightly below the horizon, darkening the tundra and allowing a few stars to show through. Pyree began walking with her gaze turned upwards, examining each pin-prick of light with endless fascination, and watching each snowflake make it's minute mark upon the world.

This may be the why it was she who first noticed the strange object soaring across the sky. She stopped walking and narrowed her eyes, casting her senses out, listening, sniffing, even tasting the air. The sound of whispering fabric reached her ears and she shouted out "Witches!" just as the knocking rain of arrows began to fall.

Forgeron bellowed and leapt on top of the unprotected cubs, several arrows clattering off of his armor. While Solange hurried forward to bear the cubs off to somewhere safer, (carrying Helleri by the scruff of the neck to prevent her from running back to fight) Forgeron roared for the fire-hurler to be set up. Modomnoc hurried back toward the troop once he heard the shouts and commands. It seemed there was a whole flock of witches; elegant, ragged black shapes flitting here and there across the moon and stars, clad only in strips of black silk. Some clans were friends of the bears, but this one was a bitter enemy. Some long forgotten something had forged a rivalry as strong as bear-iron between them.

A jet of steam issued from the fire-hurler as Rolvaag and Pyree started the machine and began heaving great flaming shovelfulls of fire into the bowl on the arm. In order to be accurate in their firing, the witches would swoop down and fire in the lowest point of their dive, before shooting back up into the safety of the sky. This was when the bears had the advantage, and would pull the lever on the hurler and send the gouts of flame into clumps of them, watching the flames grow like some curious orange flower, to land in the snow and fizzle away. As the rain of arrows intensified, the bears huddled under their armor, waiting for some foolish witch to slip and inch too low, only to be dragged down by their powerful claws.

Up in the air, the highest ranking witch pulled out nine arrows, each tipped with something other than the usual gray goose-feathers, brightly colored feathers, each with a symbol on it. Nocking one into her bow, she waited patiently for the perfect opening.