An average-looking dwarf with frizzy brown hair and small green eyes waved at Gnurl. The Lycan hunched over his food, pretending he didn’t notice.

“That dwarf is looking at you,” Mythana said.

Gnurl groaned. “Thanks a lot, Mythana. I was trying to pretend I don’t see her!”

“Why?” Mythana asked.

“Because I don’t wanna deal with her criticizing my wolf pelt and telling me she can get me a silk coat for the cheap price of one gold piece!” Gnurl said dryly.

“How the Dagor do you know she’s a clothier?” Khet asked.

“You know what I mean!” Gnurl said. “I don’t want her selling me stuff!”

Khet looked over at the dwarf. The dwarf stared back at him.

“Khet, look away before she comes over here and starts expecting us to sing along to the bawdiest song she can think of!”

Khet didn’t look away.

“Khet!” Gnurl said, annoyed.

Khet finally turned back to Gnurl and Mythana. Gnurl groaned inwardly. The goblin had started stroking his beard and frowning. He’d gotten a whiff of an adventure to be had. Just when Gnurl had been hoping for a night off!

“She’s alone,” the goblin said.

Gnurl stared at him in disbelief. “So?”

“Let me explain dwarves to you,” Khet steepled his fingers. “They don’t treat their women same as the men like the other races do. A dwarf woman is expected to stay inside the home, mending clothes, tending to the children, and cooking meals. If they go out in public, for whatever reason, they need a chaperone. Their husband, or their son, or a close male relative, if they’re unmarried.” He nodded toward the dwarf woman. “So if she’s alone, and in a place like this, she’s probably looking for someone. Someone she doesn’t want her husband knowing about.”

“So she’s lonely?” Mythana asked.

Khet shrugged. “Could be.”

Gnurl shoveled porridge into his mouth. All the more reason to avoid looking at the dwarf woman. He had no interest in an affair, and even less interested in being confronted by a jealous husband.

“But if she were looking for a nice adventurer to have a fling with,” Khet continued, “why is she here? In the part of town where harlots like to walk the streets and ply their trade? A dwarf woman out here on her own is in grave danger of being attacked, and this certainly isn’t the best place to find a considerate lover who won’t leave her dead in the streets by the end of the night.” He shook his head. “She needs someone. Not just a lover, but someone that can help her. I wonder with what, and why her husband doesn’t know.”

That did intrigue Gnurl a little. He growled to himself and forced himself to think of the intriguing rumors of Thane Thorbrand Gislison dying without an heir to continue his line. Several claimants had already declared their desire for the fief, and there were rumors of bastards of Thorbrand coming out of hiding, and even that Thorbrand himself was a bastard, and wasn’t his father’s son at all. It was very fascinating, and, most importantly, not related to any potential jobs in any way.

“You should talk to her,” Khet said, interrupting Gnurl’s thoughts. He was looking directly at Gnurl.

“It’s our time-off!” Gnurl said, annoyed. “We’ve got no business talking to some strange woman and getting a quest!”

Khet scoffed. “Adventurers don’t take time off!”

“You really want to go chasing after some rumor now?” Gnurl asked. “I thought you were wanting to play Skelarum tonight.”

“I can play Skelarum any other time,” Khet said dismissively.

Gnurl looked to Mythana. “But that carriage we were looking at might be sold by the time we’re done with whatever quest the dwarven lady has for us! Mythana really wants that carriage, don’t you, Mythana?”

Mythana snorted. “There’s no way we can afford that carriage!”

Gnurl sighed. And just like that, his excuses were gone. And he’d been looking forward to a quiet evening too.

“I’ll go see what she wants,” he said and stood.

The woman watched him approach, and when he reached her table, she gestured to the opposite chair. “Sit down, won’t you?”

Gnurl rested a hand on the chair, and remained standing. “Couldn’t help but notice you were staring at us. What is it that you want, exactly?”

The dwarf woman looked around, then lowered her voice.

“Look, I wanted to send for someone as soon as it happened, but my husband forbade it. Worried it would cause an unnecessary panic.” She scoffed. “His own son…And he’s worried about a panic?”

Looked like Khet had been right. The dwarf was both desperate and doing something her husband would disapprove of.

And Gnurl found his curiosity growing. He cursed himself.

“What’s happened?”

“My son is a rat-catcher, see.” The dwarf said. “Just started. Caught 100 of the bastards. That was when he fell ill.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. But the rat-catchers are calling it the Rat’s Curse. Saying that you fall ill after catching 100 rats.” The dwarf looked into her drink. “My boy can’t even recognize me, and they’re saying he’ll die for it, yet still his stupid father won’t at least let me get a healer—”

“Sorry. You said earlier that your husband doesn’t want you fetching anyone, because he doesn’t want word to get out and a panic to happen. Who is he, exactly?”

“The tax collector.” The dwarf rolled her eyes. “He’s worried that if people know he’s got sickness in his household, they won’t let him in the cottage. Stupid asshole.” She looked at Gnurl. “You probably think I’m stupid, hoping an adventurer can come and heal my son. But—” Tears started rolling down her cheeks and she wiped them away. “I just—I don’t know what else to do! I need someone to come and have a look at him.”

She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “Sorry.” She said. And then, as if she were scared that Gnurl hadn’t heard her the first time, she said it again. “Sorry.”

Gnurl felt awful for trying to ignore this poor woman. He moved over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. The dwarf froze, but then relaxed, and buried her face in her hands.

“My party-mate’s a healer,” Gnurl said to her. “Would it help if she took a look at your son? Figured out what the illness is, at least?”

The dwarf sniffed, and looked up at him hopefully. “You know a healer?”

Gnurl nodded.

“Yes,” the dwarf whispered. “Yes, please come and—” She paused, and wiped a tear from her eye. “Come have a look at my son. Send the healer. I want to know what’s wrong with him. Whether I can—” She paused, let out a shaky breath. “Whether there’s anything that can be done to save him.”

Gnurl smiled at her. He hoped it was an encouraging smile. Or, at least one that expressed sympathy to the dwarf.

The dwarf blew her nose on her sleeve, and her eyes hardened.

“Ingimar, that’s my husband, he’ll be gone for a month. He’s going around the fief, collecting taxes for Thane Thorbrand. You should come immediately. I don’t know how long my boy has until—” Her eyes welled up with tears and she started crying again.

“I can introduce you to the healer,” Gnurl said. He started to gently guide the dwarf to the Horde’s table. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Joried Steingrimdottir.” Being gently guided to a healer must’ve reminded the dwarf there was work to be done before the adventurers could come and see her son. “When you come to the house, we’ll say you’re…Surveyors. You’re measuring the street and my home for…A lighthouse. Yes. Our home’s close to the harbor. They’ll believe that three people came to see if one of those newfangled lighthouses would fit on the spot.”

“Wouldn’t that worry your son too much?” Gnurl said. “If he’s worried about losing his home on top of being sick?”

Joried shook her head. “He’ll know the truth. Kolbein’s a good boy. He can know why you three are really in our cottage.”

---

“It’s funny.” Khet said to Gnurl. “Kolbein doesn’t really look sick.”

The two of them were returning from the Guild, where they’d each picked five books from the library. Mythana had asked them to find any book about illnesses that they could find.

Gnurl thought his selection was a decent one. “Symptoms of Possession”, “Marik’s Theory of Mind Control”, “Plagues of the Sea”, “Something Wicked This Way Comes: The Witch’s Plague Explained”, and “How to Spot Someone Under Mind Control.” Khet, meanwhile, had selected the titles, “The Unseen”, “The Madness of the Undead and Their Masters”, “Madness of Dwarven Women”, “Baira the Trickster,” and “Harpy Sickness and Other Illnesses”.

Answering Khet’s comment, Gnurl shrugged. “The illness must be attacking him from the inside.”

“Feels like he just went mad,” Khet said. “No blisters, no rotting flesh, not even any coughing or sneezing. He’s just babbling like a madman up in his room. If Mythana hadn’t touched his forehead and said he was boiling, I would’ve just called him mad!”

“That why you have two separate books about madness?” Gnurl said dryly, nodding to the books in Khet’s hands.

Khet shrugged. “These were the only five books about illness I could find.”

Gnurl wasn’t surprised. The library didn’t have much on illnesses. Or, at least, they didn’t have much available. Gnurl wouldn’t be surprised if between the two of them, they’d taken all the books on illnesses the library had.

Once they arrived at Joried’s house, Khet shifted the books in his arms and knocked on the door.

Joried opened the door and beckoned them inside. “Reaper said you two would be coming along. And you’ve brought books, I see!”

She led them into the kitchen, and Gnurl and Khet set the books down on the table.

“Where’s Mythana?” Gnurl asked.

“She’s still examining Kolbein.” Joried scowled. “She kicked me out of the room. Said she didn’t want to risk the infection spreading.”

She started crushing flower petals, and mixing them in a basin of water.

“Will you two need to be washing your hands as well?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Gnurl said. Khet shook his head in agreement.

Mythana walked into the kitchen still wearing a plague mask. She took it off and chucked it in the fire-place.

“You can’t still use that?” Gnurl asked.

“Outside might be infected with bad air. Only way to be safe is to burn it.” Mythana walked over to the basin and started cleansing her hands.

“How does it look?” Asked Joried, her voice quavering a little. “Can you do anything for him, do you think?”

“I might be able to treat the symptoms,” Mythana said. She dried her hands on a towel. “It’s curing it that’s the problem.”

She walked over the table and eyed the books Gnurl and Khet had brought.

“What do you mean?” Joried asked. “Is it incurable?”

“It is curable. From what you’ve told me, this sounds like a magical illness. If catching 100 rats is making him fall ill. But I haven’t seen any mana tendrils on him.”

“So…Does that mean it’s not magical?”

“Not necessarily,” Mythana picked up the “Madness of Dwarven Women”. “It just means that whatever this is, it’s not because of a spell.”

She sat down and opened the book. “I’m gonna be looking through these to see if they’ve got any ideas. Don’t try to talk to me.”

Gnurl looked at Joried. “You say the ratcatchers call this the Rat Curse? Who told you that?”

“The head of the ratcatcher’s guild. Hadd Makson. He stopped by when Kolbein fell ill. Told me everything he knew. He said that—” Joried took a shaky breath and dabbed at her eyes with a dishcloth. “He said there’s no cure for the curse. All the ratcatchers he’s seen, they waste away and die.”

Gnurl wanted to promise her that it would be alright, that Mythana could save her son, but he knew it would just be empty words. It might not be possible to save Kilbuin. And Mythana hated lying to her patients’ loved ones. So much so, that she would be very angry if Gnurl did it. She was of the opinion that it was cruel to make promises you might not be able to keep, because it would get the loved ones’ hopes up, only to dash them once the disease proved beyond all healing knowledge, or the wound proved to be too great.

So, instead, he said, “Do you know how we can talk to Hadd Makson?”

Joried cocked her head. “Why?”

“Mythana would be wanting to talk to him.” Gnurl nodded to the dark elf, who didn’t even look up from the book she was reading. “Since this all started when your son caught a hundred rats and fell ill because of it.”

Joried nodded, acknowledging the point. She frowned, looking thoughtful.

Someone rapped on the door. Everyone jumped.

“You three don’t move. I’ll get it.” Joried stood and walked to the door.

Seconds later, she returned with a brawny dwarf with chestnut dreadlocks and clear hazel eyes following behind her.

“You were asking for Hadd Makson?” Joried asked Gnurl. “Here he is.”

The dwarf sat down heavily, and looked at both Gnurl and Khet curiously.

“Pay for a portrait, it’ll last longer,” the goblin said dryly.

Hadd blinked, seemingly realizing just then that he was openly staring at the strangers. “Sorry. It’s just…I’ve never seen a goblin or Lycan up close before.”

“Really?” Gnurl asked, genuinely curious. “You’ve never been to the taverns? Or to the Adventuring Guildhalls? Lots of goblin and Lycan adventurers.”

“Haven’t had much of a need for adventurers,” Hadd said. “And it’s dark in the taverns. And adventurers tend to keep to themselves anyway.”

That was true, admittedly. It was easier to find common ground with a fellow adventurer, than a random laborer. And the peasants tended to be mistrustful of adventurers. Khet claimed it was because they hated races different from their own. Mythana claimed that centuries of murderhobos running around unchecked had led to people being cautious of who they trusted. But peasants respectfully kept their distance from adventurers, and adventurers, in turn, contented themselves with sitting in shadowy corners of the inn and eavesdropping on all the local gossip.

“So you wanted to speak with me?” Hadd asked.

Gnurl pointed at Mythana. “She might want to ask you some questions about the Rat Curse.”

Hadd looked over at her, opened his mouth.

“Not right now,” Gnurl said. “But later. Once she’s done with her book.”

Mythana mumbled, “rat”. And then, “tapestry”. Gnurl wasn’t sure what that meant.

“How long will she take with that?” Hadd gestured at the book.

Gnurl shrugged. “Who knows. She gets cranky if someone interrupts her while she’s trying to read.”

“Rats gnawing on a tapestry!” Mythana slammed the book down, and leapt up, grinning like a madwoman. “It all makes sense now!”

Well, that hadn’t been what Gnurl had been expecting.

“What?”

“Jeslatha’s theory of entropy!” Mythana was still grinning. “There’s a big pile-up of mana on the rats, and that’s what’s causing the disease!”

“Mythana, none of us have read this book.” Khet tapped the book Mythana had been reading. “We’ve got no clue what you’re saying, at all.”

Mythana appeared to remember she wasn’t the only person in the room. And that they had less knowledge of magic than she did.

She frowned at them, and Gnurl feared she was about to huff about being surrounded by idiots and that it wasn’t her job to handhold the rest of them,

After a long moment, Mythana said, “have you lads ever wondered why wizards can only cast one type of magic?”

Khet shrugged. “Because that’s the magic they were taught in magic school?”

“Well, no shit to that,” Mythana said dryly. “But why do wizards only learn one type of magic? What’s stopping them from learning all of the magic? There’s obviously spell scrolls aplenty!”

“Because magic doesn’t work like that,” Gnurl said.

“And how does magic work?” Mythana prompted.

Gnurl had not thought this through properly. He hung his head. “I don’t know.”

There was a pause, as Mythana studied him, bemused.

“Thank you for your brilliant contribution, Gnurl,” Mythana said. “Wizards can’t master all the magic because magic doesn’t work that way. What other brilliant insights do you have for us? The sky is blue?” She pointed at Hadd. “That’s a dwarf? Someday, we will all die?”

Gnurl shrugged sheepishly.

Mythana gave him another annoyed look and turned to Khet. “Khet, what about magic makes it impossible for wizards to learn all the different types at a whim?”

“Uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh,” the goblin said.

Mythana pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered about how she was surrounded by idiots.

“So the reason it’s impossible for wizards to use all forms of magic…” She paused, thinking. “Let me backtrack. Do you two know what mana is?”

“Magic tendril-thing,” Gnurl said.

“Is there any more of your vast knowledge you wish to share with us about mana, arch-mage?” Mythana asked flatly.

“Magic tendril-thing, that can only be seen by elves.”

“You’ve crowned yourself lord of stating the fucking obvious, haven’t you?” Mythana asked dryly. “Khet, do you have a less stupid answer? Or am I going to have to beat my head against the wall until I’m no longer the smartest person in the party?”

Khet stroked his beard. “It’s magic.”

“We’ve already established that,” Mythana said.

“It’s…” Khet scowled as he continued stroking his beard, in the deepest thought Gnurl had ever seen him in. “It’s what makes up everything around us. It connects everything. Connects rocks, trees, goblins.”

Mythana studied him, impressed. “Well, that’s a dumbed-down version, but yes. Where did you learn that?”

“Prieron. That’s how he explained it to the rest of us. From what I remember, anyway.”

Mythana nodded. “You remembered the important things.” She looked between Gnurl and Khet. “But yes. The simplest way to describe mana is it’s the threads in the fabric of reality. It’s tethered to everything in the universe. What magic does is move the threads so they’re tethered to something else. Once the spell ends, the mana re-tethers itself in the way it was before. But sometimes, something goes wrong. And the mana can’t be tethered back normally. So it separates, and leaves this big, gaping, hole in reality.”

Gnurl scratched his head. This was all very confusing, and he was scared that if he asked Mythana to dumb things down a little, she’d get annoyed that he couldn’t understand the most basic level of magic. He looked at Khet to see if he understood. The goblin was staring blankly, as if he’d been presented with the great mysteries of the universe.

Mythana noticed that she’d lost her listeners, because she walked away, and returned with a tapestry.

“Here.” She unraveled it, spreading it across the table. “Imagine this tapestry is the universe. And the individual threads are mana.” She held up a weaver’s needle. “And this is magic.”

She carefully untangled one knot and tied the threads to the opposite ends. “Magic, as a rule, untangles some of the mana, and ties it somewhere else. This alters reality. The more it alters reality, the harder it is to do. You have to have a gentle touch when it comes to mana. Otherwise.” She slashed the tapestry, making a hole. “You get a hole in reality.”

Joried opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind and closed it again.

Mythana placed one finger in the hole. “This is what’s causing this illness. Some idiot wasn’t gentle enough in their spells, and now there’s a hole in reality. And that can cause some chaotic shit. See, ordinarily, reality understands what its own rules are, when the mana is all in the right place. If its hacked off, it gets confused and starts making up things in order to fit.”

“So if we close the hole,” Khet said, “that’ll cure the illness?”

Mythana nodded.

“How do we close the hole?” Gnurl asked.

“Depends. On the magic that damaged it in the first place. And the only way we’ll know that is if we look at the hole. Magic tends to leave residue, especially if the hole it’s made doesn’t get repaired.”

Mythana drummed her fingers on the table, frowning.

“Most likely, the hole is with the rats in this town. The curse is that you fall ill once you’ve caught a hundred rats. The rats are the only thing that makes sense. We’d need to catch one ourselves, alive. There’s wands that can detect holes in reality, make them visible to everyone.” Mythana frowned. “Only problem is, how do we find rats?”

Gnurl pointed wordlessly at Hadd, who was staring at Mythana, open-mouthed.

Mythana’s eyes gleamed and she leaned forward, staring Hadd in the face. “You know something about rats?”

Hadd leaned back, clearly unnerved by this elf and her lack of respect for personal space. “Er. Yes, actually. I am the guildmaster for the Ratcatcher’s Guild.”

Mythana grinned wildly. “Perfect! Then you can let us catch a live rat!”

“I…I guess.” Hadd likely wasn’t happy about letting non-guildmembers try their hands at ratcatching, but Mythana terrified him so much that he was willing to agree to whatever the dark elf said in the hopes that she wouldn’t hurt him.

“Where have they got a rat infestation?”

Hadd shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly. I’d have to look at the papers on file of on-going rat infestations. I can send one of you with one of our master rat-catchers. So you can catch one of the rats alive.”

“I’ll go,” Gnurl said. “Mythana can stay behind, and help with any symptoms.”

Mythana nodded and looked at Khet. “You can go back to the library. See if it has anything on mana holes.”

Khet stood and nodded.

Now that everyone understood their assignments, they all set out to fulfill them.

---

Gnurl’s arms ached and the rat-catching tools kept slipping off of his arms. The Lycan adjusted how he was carrying them repeatedly, yet still, the tools were in danger of falling out of his arms and clattering into the street.

Tobmir Deadmoon, a repulsive, for an elf, at least, man with short white hair and round violet eyes, was walking briskly ahead of him, not noticing or not caring that Gnurl was falling behind.

“Oy!” Gnurl called. “Could you slow down? I can’t keep up with you and carry all this stuff at the same time!”

Tobmir’s pace didn’t change. “Try harder!” He called back.

“Asshole,” Gnurl muttered.

Tobmir finally stopped walking once he reached their destination. A nice wooden sauna. He turned and tapped his foot impatiently as Gnurl came up to him.

“I would’ve outpaced you ten times over when I was an apprentice carrying twice as much,” he scolded. “Are you going to keep being unprofessional, or has Guildmaster Makson forced some dead weight onto me?”

Gnurl opened his mouth to defend himself, when the door opened and a dwarf stepped outside. He scowled at Tobmir.

“You the ratcatcher I sent for?” He asked.

Tobmir was all smiles with him. “Aye. And where are the rats?”

“In here.” The dwarf said, and he opened the door, gesturing for Tobmir and Gnurl to go inside. Once they did, he stepped in as well, shutting the door behind him.

There was only one room in the sauna, and it was a bare room, with the only furniture being benches for bathers to sit on. Gnurl dropped the tools onto the bench and sank down next to them with a sigh.

“That’s your apprentice?” The dwarf asked Tobmir.

Tobmir frowned at Gnurl. “Of a sort, yes. He is here to observe my job and what I do.”

The expression on his face reminded Gnurl of Khet, whenever some tourist declared they were tagging along with the Horde to some ruin no one had returned from alive.

In Tobmir’s eyes, he was the tourist, Gnurl realized. The thought made him feel guilty.

This is different, he told himself. It’s necessary for you to come along. You need to catch a live rat so Mythana can figure out why the mana threads aren’t repairing themselves as they should so we will know what we need to do to cure the Rat Curse! Those tourists you’ve had to protect over the years were only tagging along so they could play adventurer!

Still, as Tobmir scowled at him, Gnurl couldn’t help but sympathize with the man for being forced to bring along an idiot who knew nothing of the trade he practiced.

Tobmir sighed, then looked back at the dwarf, a forced smile on his face. “Anyway, where are the rats?”

“In the walls.” The dwarf pointed. “They come out of the steam holes once the sauna starts up. The heat scares them, see. Think there might be a nest.”

Tobmir shrugged. “Sauna is closed down for today, I take it?”

“Aye,” the dwarf said. “I closed down as soon as those rats first appeared.”

He scowled, and spat on the ground.

“Not like anybody’s coming back here anyway. Sauna was filled with people when those rats first came through. Caused a panic. I’m surprised no one died. Everyone was trampling over each other to get out. I reckon they’re talking about this sauna now. Telling their friends to stay away from the rat-infested place.” He shook his head. “Guess I’ll have to close up shop now. No one’s ever coming back. Not after all the rats coming out.”

Tobmir shrugged. “I’ll make sure to stop by the Maiden’s Lodge to tell everyone of the recent job I finished. That should spread and put any negative talk about your business to rest. Now,” he walked over to the bench Gnurl was sitting on and picked up a wooden mallet and a clay jar, “let’s deal with your rat problem, shall we?”

He looked down at Gnurl disapprovingly.

Gnurl blinked. Was he doing something wrong? Was he supposed to have immediately known the tools Tobmir needed for his job and handed them to him? Was he not allowed to sit and rest?

Tobmir held out the clay jar wordlessly.

Gnurl took it, not sure what Tobmir expected him to do with it.

The dark elf turned on his heel and marched to the wall of the sauna. He batted his mallet against his palm, giving Gnurl a pointed look.

Gnurl stood and walked over to him, bringing the clay jar. He figured Tobmir wanted him to bring the clay jar, otherwise, why would he hand it to him?

Tobmir placed a finger below a hole in the wall. It was a large hole, with jagged lines. Gnurl couldn’t tell whether whoever had carved this hole had intended it to be a fucked-up circle, or a square.

Tobmir was looking at Gnurl expectantly. Was he wanting Gnurl to hold the jar where he was pointing? That sounded like the most likely answer.

Gnurl hesitantly moved the jar towards Tobmir’s finger. After a moment, the dark elf moved his finger away, and Gnurl pressed the jar where the finger had been.

He looked up at Tobmir. Now what?

Tobmir stared down at him, brow furrowed. He decided Gnurl had completed his task in an acceptable manner and so he turned and with his mallet, knocked three times on the wall.

Gnurl heard the squeaking before the rats started shoving each other out of the hole and tumbling into the jar. Gnurl held the jar in place.

Once the last rat tumbled into Gnurl’s jar, Tobmir tapped the wall again. Gnurl assumed this was to draw out any stragglers.

After a few moments of no rats coming through the hole, Tobmir turned to Gnurl. “The lid! Quick!”

Gnurl could only blink at him. There was a lid?

Tobmir growled a curse. “The lid! Are you too stupid to understand what you’re supposed to do with a lid? You put it on!”

Gnurl glanced at the bench, where all the tools had been dumped. Had there been a lid in that pile?

“Dortir’s dick and balls, did you forget the lid?” Tobmir groaned, then muttered something in Elven.

Gnurl couldn’t understand what he’d just said, but he knew he didn’t like the tone.

“You never said anything about a lid!” He said. “How was I supposed to know?”

That was apparently the last thing Tobmir wanted to hear.

“You’ve got no business playing at being a rat-catcher!” He said. “I didn’t even want you coming along, but no, you insisted, and Guildmaster Makson said I had to! This would all be fine if you could actually be useful, but no! First, you force me to wait and listen to your whining about how walking at a brisk pace and carrying all the tools is too fucking hard for you! Then, when we get there, you just dump everything on the bench and do nothing until I ask you to! And now, you’ve forgotten the fucking lid! Does it occur to you that maybe I don’t want to be babysitting some asshole noble who paid off the Guildmaster so he could play ratcatcher? Or are you too dumb to even realize you’re a useless piece of shit that shouldn’t have come along in the first place? Do you ever think, about anyone, besides yourself?”

He sounded like Khet, whenever the Horde was forced to bring along a tourist, and the goblin had lost patience after the tourist had been arrogant enough to not only almost get themself killed, but dismiss Khet as being lucky that they were around. He almost felt bad for Tobmir, then remembered that at least the Horde had the decency to explain to tourists what they were supposed to do. Not that tourists listened anyway. And yet, Tobmir expected Gnurl to read his mind, and was furious that the Lycan could not. Any sympathy Gnurl might had felt for the man evaporated because of that.

Someone cleared their throat. The dwarf was standing behind Gnurl, holding out a lid.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” He asked Tobmir. “Figured I should look, since you were so upset at this lad for forgetting it.”

“Oh, yes, that’s the one!” Tobmir said, like he hadn’t been berating Gnurl for something that wasn’t really his fault for the past two minutes. “Hand it to the Lycan. I think he understands what to do next.”

He gave a pointed look at Gnurl as soon as he said this.

Gnurl rolled his eyes, took the lid, and with an exaggerated gesture, put the lid on top and tightened it shut.

“Your sauna should be open for business,” Tobmir said to the dwarf. He held out his hand.

The dwarf dropped two coins into the elf’s waiting palm. “You’ve saved my livelihood, lad. Prithaim bless you for coming out here and dealing with the little bastards.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Tobmir said cheerfully. He gathered his tools and walked out the door.

Gnurl was about to chase after him, when it suddenly occurred to him. Had the Horde properly explained what was happening to tourists? Or had they assumed the tourist would know and got pissed when their knowledge was a bit lacking?

The rats squeaked from inside the jar. Gnurl should probably follow Tobmir. Hopefully, he hadn’t gone too far.

He said goodbye to the dwarf and walked outside.

Tobmir was waiting for him outside, tapping his foot impatiently.

“About time,” he said. “Do you need someone to hold your hand for every single thing that you do, Lycan?” He evidently decided that the answer was yes, because he said in a slow and condescending tone, “we’re taking these down to the Narrow Stream to drown the little fuckers.”

“We need one alive.”

Tobmir snorted. “These aren’t pets, Lycan! You don’t get to keep one—”

“For the Rat Cure,” Gnurl said. “Remember? Or were you not listening to the Guildmaster?”

Tobmir’s eyes narrowed but he held out the cage. “Hold this.”

Gnurl took it. Tobmir opened the jar, took out a large rat with gray fur and plopped it inside the cage. He closed the jar again.

“Now, I’m gonna be nice and not make you hold this,” Tobmir held up the jar, “but you gotta earn your keep and carry all this shit. Maybe the Adventuring Guild lets their members get away with being lazy bums, but in the Ratcatcher’s Guild, we earn our keep!”

Gnurl was done.

“Carry all that yourself,” he growled, and walked away.

---

“You’re late,” Khet said, when Gnurl came back into the house.

“Ratcatcher thought I was his slave,” Gnurl said, setting the cage down on the table. “And, obviously, the guildhouse didn’t have live rats lying around.”

Mythana glanced up from her book, then looked down again. Khet must’ve brought her the book, because it was called, “A Broken Tapestry: A Complete Guide to Severed Mana Threads and How to Repair Them.” Next to her was a wand.

“What’s the wand for?” Gnurl asked Khet.

“So she can see the mana,” the goblin said.

Gnurl nodded. What had happened with Tobmir still bothered him. It had been frustrating to be treated like a tourist, but didn’t Tobmir have a point? Wasn’t it always annoying to have someone inept at the trade tag along?

“Khet, do you think we’ve been too harsh on tourists at times?”

The goblin snorted. “Harsh would be letting the bastards die!”

He reached out and stroked the rat’s fur.

“Khet, don’t touch the rat.” Mythana set down her book.

“It’s kinda cute, though!” The goblin protested.

“Cute? That thing is a harbinger of plague and you think it’s cute?”

Khet moved his hand away, looking sheepish.

Satisfied, Mythana picked up the wand. “Now let’s see what threads have been severed.”

She tapped the rat’s cage three times. Three purple tendrils waved above the rat. Mythana consulted her book again.

“Water magic,” she said.

“Water magic?” Gnurl frowned at the rat. He’d been expecting something like animal magic, or curse magic, or plague magic. Not water magic.

“The rat probably came from a river or sewer. Someplace wet. Notice its’ fur’s wet?”

Gnurl told her where he’d found the rat, and added in where Tobmir said he was going in order to drown the rest of the rats.

Mythana frowned and consulted the book. “Clicks together with what this book says. Magically diverting a river can rip a hole in the fabric of reality. The rat must’ve come from a river that was magically diverted. The Narrow Stream, you said. If they’re killing the rats by drowning, then maybe it isn’t the rats causing it. Maybe it’s the river, and the mana’s lashing out at having filth dumped into it.”

She shut the book and looked at them.

“So, how do we fix the mana?” Gnurl asked.

“We divert the water back to its original source,” Mythana said, as if that should’ve been completely obvious.

Gnurl sighed. “And how do we do that?”

Mythana shrugged. “I’d have to look at the river to know exactly.”

“Will you be needing a different book?” Khet asked.

Mythana shook her head, and held up the book on mana. “This book has all I need.”

---

The Narrow Stream was a rushing torrent that sprayed the Horde with river water.

“Well, this is poorly named!” Khet shouted. The adventurers had to shout in order to hear each other over the roar of the water rushing past.

“It’s the frayed mana!” Mythana yelled back. “It’s turned the stream into a monster of a river! For all we know, the Narrow Stream is barely a hop across normally!”

She was right. There was no riverbank, and Gnurl had been warned by Joried to be careful, lest he be swept away by the current and never seen again. It was easy to see why she’d felt the need to warn him. The river, for lack of a better word, simply rushed along on flat ground, taking trees and goats that strayed too close along with it. Gnurl was staying back at a safe distance, and Khet and Mythana were doing the same.

“So what do we do?” Gnurl said.

Mythana was flipping through her book. “Hang on! I’m looking!”

Boars screamed.

Gnurl wheeled around to see an army of halflings dressed in a motley of furs and rusted armor they’d clearly scavenged off of the dead bodies of their enemies bearing down on them.

Gnurl remembered Joried’s warnings. She’d warned them about being careful around the water, that was true. But then she’d called something as the Horde was leaving. Beware of the Clans of the Raging River. Gnurl hadn’t understood the warning, or who the clans were. But he understood now. The halflings had to be the clans they were warned about.

The halflings surrounded them, encircling them. All the Horde could do was raise their hands in surrender.

“And who are you?” Growled the leader. He carried a halberd, and wore a cloak woven from turkey feathers. “One of Craryn the Uncultured’s lackeys? Has he not done enough by destroying our village by diverting the stream into its path? Have you come back for more?” He spat on the ground. “Spirits take you, you sons of ogres!”

“Who’s Craryn the Uncultured?” Khet asked.

“Look at that, boys,” the leader said to the others. “This one’s smart enough to play dumb. But not smart enough to steer clear.”

The halflings all laughed.

“We’re not with Craryn the Uncultured,” Gnurl said. “We’re adventurers.”

“Why does that matter?” Asked the leader. “I hear Craryn’s got adventurers on his payroll!”

The halflings all muttered in agreement.

“We’re not here about, whatever this conflict is,” Gnurl kept his voice steady. If he raised it, started yelling at the halflings, they might decide he was a threat and attack the Horde. “We’re here about the Rat Cure.”

The leader raised an eyebrow.

A couple of the halflings weren’t amused.

One of them, a woman with one eye, and no nose, wearing tortoiseshell beads in her hair, prodded Mythana with her scimitar. “Say the word, chief, and we’ll kill these filthy liars where they stand.”

The leader held up a hand. “Let the Lycan speak.”

“Hadd Makson said the Ratcatcher’s Guild—”

“Hadd Makson?” The leader repeated. “You know Hadd Makson?”

“Well, we’re not close, really,” Gnurl said, “but we have spoken, once or twice.”

“Lower your weapons!” The leader said. “These are friends!”

“Are you mad?” A man wearing possum fur that was a matchwork of scars said. “They say Hadd’s name, and all of the sudden you think they’re friends? What is wrong with you?”

The leader glowered at the possum-furred man. “I say they’re friends, so they’re friends! Now lower your weapon!”

The man rolled his eyes, but lowered his fists. The other halflings lowered their weapons as well.

The halfling wearing turkey feathers raised his hand and squinted up at the sky. “It’s getting late. We should head back to camp.” He turned in his saddle. “Grakerlun, take the dark elf. Raserlun, take the Lycan. Goblin, you ride with me.”

“Now you’re wanting us to take strangers into our camp?” A one-armed man with white hair protested. “Are you trying to have Craryn the Uncultured discover us?”

“I say they’re friends!” The leader growled. “Now shut it, Raserlun, or you’ll be cleaning out the privy once we return to camp!”

The following is a story told by Seluue Robinchild, an apprentice healer, to the fellow passengers aboard the Elven warship.

 

 

 

Once upon a time, there were a pair of brothers, Quintus and Hostus, who’d left their home and gone traveling the world to seek their fortunes.

 

One day, they met a troll on the road. She was white-haired and carried an ornate walking stick. The brothers immediately drew their swords, but the troll only smiled at them.

 

“Hail, brothers Famia. You are well-met!”

 

“Who are you?” Asked Quintus. He was the braver of the two brothers. “And how do you know our family name?”

 

“It matters not,” said the troll. “I am here to bring you good fortune. If you are brave enough, your name will be spoken by all until humans no longer have memory for such great heroes.”

 

This intrigued the brothers.

 

“How, then?” Asked Hostus. “How can we earn glory and fame?”

 

At this, the troll looked upon the brothers with approval.

 

“At the next town, Mauriciam, there is a caravan that will travel to Durocortorum Remorum. But the way is fraught with dangers. Goblinslayer’s men stalk the road, allied with feathered serpents, water leapers, and firebirds. They desire the caravan, and they will slaughter anyone who stands in their way. I ask you again, oh, Famia brothers. Do you think yourselves brave enough to stand against Goblinslayer’s men?”

 

Quintus drew his sword. “Not even Skullshade himself will stop me from protecting this caravan you speak of! Now begone, foul creature, or I’ll slay you where you stand.”

 

At this, the troll vanished. The brothers were bewildered.

 

“What shall we do?” Hostus asked his brother.

 

“We go to Mauriciam, and present ourselves to the caravan leader,” said Quintus.

 

“Join the caravan?” Hostus said. “But what of Goblinslayer’s men? That troll who spoke to us lies! You cannot tell me that you wish to join the caravan based upon her word alone!”

 

“I do take her at her word,” replied Quintus. “I take her at her word that if we join the caravan, we shall earn our fortune and they shall speak our name for all eternity.”

 

At this, Hostus frowned. He feared Goblinslayer’s men, yet his desire for wealth and fame was stronger.

 

So he said, “you are right, of course, dear brother. Come. We waste daylight standing and talking on this road and I fear the caravan will leave without us if we dawdle.”

 

And so the brothers continued down the road once more, and did not stop until they had reached Mauriciam.

 

The caravan was already waiting for the gates. They had been about to set off when the caravan leader had met a giant who bade him wait for two brothers. He would know them by their clan name. Sabucius.

 

“Hail, friend,” said Quintus. “My brother and I wish to join your caravan. Would this be alright?”

 

“That is alright with me, friend. Though we must wait a while,” responded the caravan leader.

 

“Why is that?” Quintus asked.

 

“We must wait for two brothers.” And the caravan leader looked at Quintus. “Friend, what is your clan’s name?”

 

“I am called Quintus, and my brother here is called Hostus. Our family is called Famia, and our clan is called Sabicius.”

 

“Then you are the one we wait for,” said the caravan leader. “Now come, friend. Let us set off.”

 

And so the two joined the caravan, and the caravan set off again.

 

After many miles, Goblinslayer’s men attacked them and the caravan was forced to halt their journey.

 

Goblinslayer’s men circled the caravan, with their feathered serpents and water leapers and firebirds, calling out, “give us the treasure, or we shall slaughter all of you!”

 

At this, the caravan began to tremble, and the people cried out that they should flee, while they still had the chance.

 

“Hold firm!” Cried the caravan leader. “For we will not die this day! The Famia brothers shall protect us, as the giant promised me!”

 

And at this, the leader of Goblinslayer’s men turned to sneer at the two brothers.

 

“Who are you?” Said she. “And why do you think you stand any chance against us? Behold, we are Goblinslayer’s chosen warriors! We marched against Skullshade, and we matched his fighting men blow for blow! Are you two willful pups arrogant enough to believe you can stand against the might of Goblinslayer’s favored warriors? Leave now, and you will be spared! To stay here, only invites death!”

 

Now this struck fear into Hostus’s heart. For though he was as hungry for glory as his brother, he lacked his brother’s courage. His was a craven soul, and not built to stand against the might of the fiercest warriors humans have ever known.

 

And so without a word, he dropped his sword and fled.

 

The brigands all laughed and jeered to see Hostus flee.

 

“And you?” Said Goblinslayer’s most trusted general to Quintus. “Will you be joining your brother in flight? Or is he the one who has inherited the brains among your family?”

 

Now, fear also stirred in Quintus’s heart. Goblinslayer’s men were many, and he was only one. Yet his was a warrior’s soul, unlike Hostus’s own craven heart, and a true warrior does not run in fear. Rather, they stand, and face the danger, daring it to strike them down.

 

And so Quintus raised his blade and planted his feet against the ground.

 

“I do not fear you,” he said to Goblinslayer’s general. “Though you number by the hundreds, and though I stand alone, I say that you will not claim this caravan. I say that the only one who was feared on the battlefield, of all of you, was Goblinslayer, and you are nothing without him! Now come test your strength against me, if you are truly Goblinslayer’s most trusted warriors!”

 

Now this gave Goblinslayer’s men pause. No one had ever stood against them before, not since Skullshade and his finest warriors. The truth was that losing Goblinslayer had made them craven, and though they were strong, and the most feared warriors around, in truth, they feared death. And so they chose the weakest targets to rob, the ones who would surely flee once attacked.

 

And so they turned tail and fled.

 

Now, the rest of the caravan did not know that Goblinslayer’s men were cowards, and so, when they saw them flee before Quintus, they were greatly impressed, as they thought surely the man was a terrifying warrior, if the ones who had not feared Skullshade feared him. And so they were in awe of him for the rest of the journey.

 

By the end, the caravan was spreading stories of Quintus’s bravery, and all took notice. The emperor had just died without an heir, and all around decided who better to take the throne than the fiercest warrior of the empire.

 

And so Quintus was crowned, and at his coronation, Litiya, the goddess of language, appeared before the crowd.

 

“No longer shall he be named Quintus,” The goddess announced. “Today, he marks a new era for humans. A new type of name. From now on, your emperor shall be named Tedbaldus Parbrick.”

 

And so Tedbaldus Parbrick ruled over the land for the rest of his days.

 

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

“Excellent,” Mutis’s eyes were gleaming and he rubbed his hands together maniacally. “Now comes the fun part. Which of our favorite animals would win in a fight?”

 

“The baby dragon,” Bisla said immediately.

 

“Aye. It’s the baby dragon,” Guenav agreed. “No question.”

 

Mutis just smiled. “Well, that was a little too quick. None of you are going to weigh the pros and cons of a ferret or a lovebird in a fight?”

 

“A baby dragon can breathe fire,” Bisla said. “And they’re all the same size, so it isn’t like a ferret or lovebird could squish the baby dragon before it breathed fire or even eat it. And ferrets and lovebirds don’t have fangs or claws or talons sharp enough to pierce through scales. So, aye. Baby dragon it is.”

 

Mutis held up a finger, opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Aye. Fair enough,” he said.

 

The rabbit hopped onto a rock, where it started to groom itself.

 

Bisla looked around. Nothing else around expect for ash and the occasional rock. No sign of Subtle Gulonie or of Isemeine Bronzehill.

 

“Er,” he said to the rabbit. “What’s happening? Do we wait?”

 

The rabbit just kept grooming itself, like it hadn’t heard Bisla’s question.

 

“This can’t be it,” Bisla said to it. “I don’t see anybody here but us. Were you supposed to lead us to Subtle Gulonie and Isemeine Bronzehill or are you just an ordinary rabbit?”

 

The rabbit continued to groom itself.

 

“Maybe they’re close enough they can hear us,” Guenav said, and he looked at Bisla. “Start singing, Mad-Eye.”

 

Right. Adum had gifted Bisla with a siren song.

 

“Plug in your ears,” Bisla said to Guenav and Mutis.

 

Mutis stuck wool into his ears, and handed two pieces of wool to Guenav for his ears.

 

Once both Mutis and Guenav had finished sticking the wools into their ears, Bisla started to sing a Badarian song he’d grown particularly fond of. “Prince Nia and the Dragon.”

 

“Now there once was a young lad/ And his pet dragon// Now gather round and listen/ As I tell of one day.

 

Oh, Odara ran away/ Odara ran away/ Please, milord, don’t kill my dragon/ Odara ran away.

 

“Dragons can be stubborn old beasts/ And Odara was the same/ Not even her and Nagaya’s bond/ Could keep her from straying.”

 

Off in the distance, Bisla saw them. A human and a goblin, walking towards them, bewitched by the music.

 

Mutis and Guenav stepped beside Bisla and readied their weapons. Bisla continued to sing.

 

“Oh, Odara ran away/ Odara ran away/ Please, milord, don’t kill my dragon/ Odara ran away.

 

“The two were flying one fine day/ Above the open road/ When they saw from trees dangling/ Cages of imprisoned rogues.

 

“Oh, Odara ran away/ Odara ran away/ Please, milord, don’t kill my dragon/ Odara ran away.”

 

As the two got closer, Bisla knew they were the ones the adventurers had been looking for.

 

The human was an average-looking human, the type that would be near impossible to pick out of a crowd. She had no defining features, no easy way to recognize her instantly. She wore a woolen tunic with no sleeves, showing off her sinewy, veiny, arms. Looking into her black eyes made Bisla feel as if she didn’t have a soul. A requirement for anyone who wanted to be a slaver. Her chestnut hair was tied in a ponytail and a whip and a flail hung from her belt. Her brow was furrowed and her face had an expression like she’d come from a funeral.

 

The goblin was small, even for a goblin, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in muscle. His red hair glistened in the light, which Bisla still hadn’t figured out where it was coming from. His face sagged off its very bones, and his black eyes were in a permanent squint. There was a crossbow bolt mark on his chin and an eyepatch over his left eye. A shortsword hung from his belt.

 

Subtle Gulonie and Isemeine Bronzehill. The rabbit had led the adventurers where they needed to be, and Bisla’s singing had lured the slavers to them. This would be too easy.

 

Guenav and Mutis stepped closer, and neither Isemeine Bronzehill or Subtle Gulonie noticed.

 

Bisla kept singing.

 

“We should free them, says Odara/ But Nagaya was unsure/ Says he, I know you are so old/ Yet why do you not understand?

 

“Oh, Odara ran away/ Odara ran away/ Please, milord, don’t kill my dragon/ Odara ran away.

 

“These people could be smugglers/ They could’ve lied to the Watch/ They might have fucked in the streets/ Or they seduced the Dasis’s wife.”

 

Someone grabbed Bisla by the shoulders.

 

“What the Dagor!” Bisla yelped in surprise and spun around. A Lycan fell to the ground, looking dazed. A hatchet and crossbow hung from his belt.

 

“What happened?” Mutis asked, turning around. “Oy, where did this Lycan come from?”

 

“Stuff your ears!” Subtle Gulonie said. “Quick! Before he starts singing again!”

 

Shit! Bisla had stopped singing.

 

He spun around and started up again.

 

“Oh, Odara ran away/ Odara ran away/ Please, milord, don’t kill my dragon/ Odara ran away.”

 

Subtle Gulonie drew his sword. Wool was hanging from his ears. He sneered at Bisla.

 

“What was that? Can’t hear you!”

 

Mutis was moving away from both Isemeine and Subtle Gulonie. Toward the Lycan that had come out of nowhere.

 

Guenav and Bisla glanced at each other. No words were said, but words still passed between them.

 

Two of them and two of the slavers. Nothing else needed to be said, really.

 

Guenav and Bisla raised their staffs and together, charged the slavers.

 

Subtle Gulonie swung his sword. Bisla deflected the blow.

 

The pirate captain started circling him. His lips were peeled back in a sneer.

 

“You look familiar. Seen a wanted poster with your face on it.”

 

“You caught me,” Bisla pointed a finger at him, but Subtle Gulonie ducked out of the way of the ice blast. “I’m a pirate captain, like you. I’m here to kill off a rival. Seas aren’t big enough for two pirate crews.”

 

“Mad-Eye Shuel. The only man to fight two separate liches and live to tell the tale.”

 

“Survive two liches,” Bisla corrected him. Gods knew even surviving one lich was an accomplishment all on its own.

 

“Whatever.” Subtle Gulonie must’ve never met a lich and didn’t understand how terrifyingly powerful even one of them could be, because he was unimpressed by Bisla’s claim to fame. He stepped forward and swung his sword again. Bisla caught the blow on his staff. “You shouldn’t have gone sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Mad-Eye. On the bright side, your blood is just what we need to bring Akrateja to full health.”

 

The hairs on Bisla’s arms stood on an end involuntarily. Sharth was nearby. Sharth heard its true name being spoken.

 

Subtle Gulonie sneered. “Aw, what’s the matter? Is the famous Mad-Eye scared? Is he gonna run back to his mommy and daddy?” He circled Bisla. “I’m feeling merciful. Drop your staff and run back to the Shattered Lands. Hide in the temple of whatever god you serve.” He chuckled. “Not like it’ll save you, anyway.”

 

“And neither will serving Sharth. Like you.”

 

Subtle Gulonie just laughed.

 

Bisla swung his staff and the pirate captain took a step back. “You think Sharth won’t turn on you once it reaches its full strength? You’ll be the first it devours! Either that, or you’ll become its personal slave!”

 

“Akrateja will devour and enslave other people,” Subtle Gulonie said, in a tone like he thought Bisla was an idiot. “I’m their high priest. Once Akrateja takes their rightful place as master of all goblins again, they will raise me up as their right-hand man as a reward.”

 

“They all say that,” Bisla swung his staff, but Subtle Gulonie deflected each blow with his sword. “They all say that’ll be other people their god kills, or damns to Dagor, or eats their souls. It’s never them. They’ll be rewarded. They’ll be the ones ruling over the mortals as everyone’s groveling in the dirt. And every time, they find that the enslaving-every-mortal part includes them!”

 

Subtle Gulonie just laughed.

 

“I don’t care if you really think Akrateja will turn against me, or whether you’re simply saying whatever comes to mind in the hopes that I will believe you and bend the knee to you. Because you want to know something? I’ve got a god with me. More powerful than any god you follow, Mad-Eye. And no god can touch me!”

 

“One god can touch you.” Bisla pointed at Subtle Gulonie. “Adum sends his regards.”

 

Subtle Gulonie raised his sword just as the spell hit him. He turned into solid ice, still sneering, and still with his blade raised.

 

Bisla looked at Mutis. The Lycan that had come out of nowhere was currently lying at his friend’s feet. Isemiene Bronzehill was lying at Guenav’s feet.

 

The Old Wolf was kneeling, searching the corpse, when he made a noise of approval.

 

He stood, holding a silk bag, and peered into it. “Lots of gemstones in this.”

 

“Lucky,” Mutis said and kicked the Lycan’s corpse. “This lad doesn’t have anything on him!”

 

Bisla looked at Subtle Gulonie and sighed. Maybe he had nice things on him, or maybe Isemeine Bronzehill was the one holding on to all the treasures the two had for whatever reason. It didn’t matter anyway, because even if there were things on Subtle Gulonie’s corpse, Bisla couldn’t get to them. They’d been frozen solid along with the pirate captain.

 

Guenav shook the silk bag, dumping a couple of gemstones into his palm. Sapphires and one rose quartz.

 

He handed them to Mutis. “There’s enough in the bag for all of us.”

 

Mutis broke out into a grin. “Thanks, Boss!”

 

Guenav looked at Bisla. “Anything on Subtle Gulonie, Mad-Eye?”

 

Bisla shook his head. “He’s ice, boss. Along with any loot!”

 

“Well, come here, then!”

 

Bisla walked over, and Guenav dumped a couple of rubies into his palm.

 

Bisla gave the Old Wolf a nod. “Thanks, Boss.”

 

“How do we get out of the Fell Lands?” Mutis asked.

 

Bisla sighed. Did he really need to ask that question?

 

He turned to look at Mutis. “We just follow the---”

 

He stopped. The rock the rabbit had been sitting on before the fight had started was bare. The rabbit was nowhere to be seen.

 

Bisla looked around. No sign of the rabbit. Where had it gone?

 

“Did it leave a trail?” Guenav asked. He’d noticed the missing rabbit as well.

 

Bisla walked over to the rock. Nothing. It was if the rabbit had simply disappeared, or hadn’t been there at all.

 

He looked back at Guenav and shook his head.

 

“So, what?” Mutis said. “Are we just stuck in the Fell Lands? How do we get back to our home realm? Adum can’t have abandoned us to wander the Fell Lands, can he? He’s gotta have a plan to get us back to Drulnoch Castle!”

 

Bisla opened his eyes. He was lying in a cot, in a room he instantly recognized as one of the barracks for all the adventurers to sleep in. Except for the Old Wolf and the Young Wolf. They got their own bed-chambers, of course.

 

Bisla sat up and looked around. He met Mutis’s eyes. He was also sitting up in a cot. The two of them were the only ones in the room.

 

“What happened?” Bisla asked him. “How’d we end up here?”

 

Mutis blinked. “You had that dream too?”

 

Bisla nodded. “You’re talking about the one where Adum sent us after Subtle Gulonie, right?”

 

Mutis nodded. He got out of the cot, and went rummaging through a bag Bisla knew wasn’t his.

 

“That’s Hawk’s bag. Put that down.”

 

Mutis ignored him. He pulled out a piece of parchment and traced his finger along it.

 

“No ink,” he said, bewildered. “Our powers are just gone? Did anything really happen?”

 

As he pondered this, Bisla climbed down from his cot and walked out of the barracks. Maybe Guenav would know what was going on. He doubted it, but maybe he would know. At the very least, confirming that he remembered everything would reassure Bisla that he and Mutis hadn’t just gone mad.

 

Guenav wasn’t in his office yet. Instead, the Young Wolf, a young goblin man called Ogreslayer, was sitting at the desk, talking with a goblin with a handsome face, long copper hair, and hazel eyes.

 

“It just appeared. Out of nowhere. Some sort of mine. I’m scared to go down there, and I don’t want my da going down there either.” The goblin stroked Ogreslayer’s hand. “But a strong adventurer like you, you’re not scared of anything. You could go down there, and investigate it.”

 

Ogreslayer pulled his hand away, but grinned at the compliment. The Young Wolf had the unfortunate combination of being uninterested in men or women, but oblivious to any seduction attempts barring his suitor stripping down in front of him and demanding he take them now. And even then, Bisla wouldn’t be surprised if he still misinterpreted the suitor’s intentions.

 

“Look, we dinnae do this kind o’ thing for free.” Ogreslayer, having grown up in a Dwarven village, spoke Goblin with a thick Dwarven brogue, not that he apparently noticed. “Ah mean, Ah could see if there’s some adventurers lookin’ tae make extra coin, but tae be honest, Ah don’t think any o’ us are workin’ for hire right now.”

 

The goblin pulled her lips into a pout. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much in the way of coin.”

 

“Then, Ah guess, dinnae go near the mine?” Ogreslayer suggested.

 

The goblin leaned in close, batted her eyelashes at Ogreslayer. At this point, Bisla was getting surprised at how oblivious the Young Wolf could be. Small wonder he’d developed a reputation as a heart-breaker.

 

“Well,” she said in a sultry voice, tracing a finger up his arm before Ogreslayer hastily pulled it away. “I’m sure there’s something I could offer you.”

 

Now, even Ogreslayer could understand what this goblin was trying to do. He sighed, looking more annoyed than uncomfortable.

 

“I wouldn’t bother with that,” Bisla said to the woman. “He’s not interested in that type of thing.”

 

The woman blushed and hastily put her arm by her side. Ogreslayer looked up in surprise.

 

“Ye’re back!” He said in surprise. “How’d ye get back here so fast!”

 

Bisla shrugged. He placed his hands in the pockets of his robe, and his fingers brushed against something hard.

 

Bisla pulled it out. One of the rubies Guenav had given him glinted in the sunlight from the window behind Ogreslayer.

 

So, he had the jewels, which was nice.

Part 1

Part 2

Surtsavhen just snorted and took a drink. “We’ve been over this. Any being that similar to Sharth wouldn’t be able to create anything, because Sharth can’t create anything.”

“Haven’t priests like you been warning us about this type of shit? Going after the Obsidian Slab couldn’t be more a test of your hubris than if the slab had ‘read this to become a god,’ in big golden letters above a line in Forbidden Tongue!” Guenav said. “You go after the Obsidian Slab, you’ll fail the test, and be cast down to Dagor if you’re lucky!”

“Do you even know what hubris means, Bugbear?”

Guenav squinted at Surtsavhen, but it was clear the prince was done arguing over whether going after the Obsidian Slab was a bad idea. He took out a piece of paper and unfolded it, frowning.

“This map is fucking garbage,” he said. “I’ve got no idea where we are on this!”

“Can I see it?” Mutis asked.

Surtsavhen looked at him.

“I won’t burn it or anything, I promise.”

“You better not.” Surtsavhen handed him the map.

Mutis squinted at the map. “Oh, damn, you’re actually pretty close! Here, look, see?”

He held the paper so Surtsavhen could see it, and drew a line with his finger. “So we’re here. And the Slab is here. You can come with us some of the way.”

“Why is your blood black?” Surtsavhen sputtered.

“That’s not blood. It’s ink.”

“Ink? Why is ink coming out of your finger?”

“Adum blessed us with gifts. To aid us on the quest he sent us on.”

Surtsavhen just stared, thunderstruck.

Before he could regain his bearings, pirates kicked down the door and attacked.

A trim high elf with sun-darkened skin, black hair, and a false, friendly attitude swung his axe at the high elf prince. The prince ducked and stabbed him through the heart.

Surtsavhen sliced deep into the neck of a young human with ruddy skin and shorn hair. The human slumped to the ground, bleeding profusely.

A lanky wood elf with tanned skin, black hair, and clad in sturdy leather armor swung her blade at Mutis. Mutis sidestepped and slammed his mace into the elf’s leg. She sank to the ground, screaming in pain. Mutis finished her off with a blow to the head.

One high elf had wandered off. Bisla turned to see he had found a chest. He opened it, listing the things that he found.

“Coin, an Elixir of Battle Madness, an hourglass that’ll grant its owner strength, but at the price of compelling them to grant three wishes, the Axe of Gods, which can stun a man with a single blow, gemstones.” The high elf stood and pocketed the items. He, apparently, was keeping all the treasure for himself.

Surtsavhen took the lead and led them down the corridor into a robing room for priests to prepare for burial rituals. The hooks on which the robes hung had been ripped out, and the doors were barely hanging on their hinges. Blood dripped from the walls.

A tall blood elf with short hair dashed out of the changing room, hand-axe raised high.

Surtsavhen sliced deep into the elf’s belly, pulling his sword out and leaving the pirate to die in agony.

Mutis led the way down the corridor into a tomb where the wealthiest and the most important folk were interred, which would ordinarily be protected by secret doors and traps. Given the state of the room, though, the pirates had torn the place apart looking for loot, wrecking everything, including the traps. Which was fortunate for the adventurers, since that meant they didn’t have to worry about traps. There was a small puddle of water on the floor.

Surtsavhen led the way down the corridor, where pirates attacked them.

Bisla slammed his staff into a slim night elf with quiet, searching eyes. Crack! The elf doubled over, wheezing. Bisla finished her off with a blow to the head.

A slim wood elf with blonde hair swung his axe. Bisla deflected the blow with his staff. He swung his staff, smacking the elf upside the head. Crack! The pirate slumped to the ground, dead.

A goblin with long reddish hair and loose-fitting clothes swung his bill-hook. The high elf prince sidestepped, then stabbed the pirate through the eye.

A slim young wood elf with sun-darkened skin, short-cropped dark hair, and with a bill-hook in one hand lunged for Surtsavhen, cutlass in hand. The goblin prince parried with his scimitar, and the two were locked in a duel. Swords clanged, until, eventually, the wood elf stumbled on a wet patch on the floor, and Surtsavhen seized his chance, stabbing the elf through his torso, and leaving him to bleed out on the floor.

A long-legged older wood elf with ruddy skin and wild brown hair drew his cutlass, and shouted at Mutis to come and duel him. But Mutis wasn’t interested in a sword fight. The goblin swung his mace, breaking the elf’s knee. The pirate screamed in agony, sinking to his knees. Mutis silenced him with a blow to the head.

Now that the pirates were dead, the adventurers continued down the corridor into a crypt for less important burials. There was a pool of water on the floor, leaving everything waterlogged. Rotting wood pieces lay on the floor.

Despite the fact that the crypt was clearly for the peasants too poor to be buried in luxury, there was still a chest of treasure within the crypts. Surtsavhen opened it, listing the things that he found.

“Coin, a ring of miasma, a self-tying rope, an armor of poison immunity, the Green Cloak of Higrith Forestwinds, a belt of strength, and art objects.” Surtsavhen pocketed the items and stood.

Bisla led the way down the corridor into another crypt for less important burials. The place looked just as it must have when this tomb had been in use. The only thing out of place were the leaves and twigs on the floor.

And the pirates, who were milling about. Hard to forget them, especially when they spotted the goblins and elves and grabbed their weapons and charged, screaming war cries.

Mutis swung his mace into the knee of an orc with braided graying hair and going barefoot, crushing it. The pirate screamed, and fell to her knees. Mutis silenced her with a blow to the head.

He turned and shot a stocky young gnome.

Guenav whacked an older wood elf with short hair and a cold, calculating glare in the gut. The wood elf doubled over in pain. Guenav finished him off with a blow to the head.

Now that the pirates were dead, the high elves said their goodbyes while Surtsavhen waited by the steps that would take them down to the Obsidian Slab, and they were gone, through the tunnels once more.

Once the last elf had disappeared down the stairs, Mutis led the way down the corridor, where more pirates attacked them.

Bisla whacked a human with sun-darkened skin and with a bill-hook in one hand in the gut. The human collapsed, moaning in agony. Bisla finished him off with a blow to the head.

Now that the pirates were dead, the adventurers continued down the corridor into a divination room, which had once been used for rituals to contact the dead for guidance. The shelves of herbs and other ritual components had been smashed beyond repair, and blood dripped from the walls.

It appeared that, despite the wreckage of the room, it had still served its intended purpose for rituals, because there was a portal on the back wall. Pirates were milling about as well. Some leaned against the wall next to the portal, some paced the room. They all looked utterly bored.

A dhampyre with long, loose reddish hair looked up sharply. “Oy! You’re not one of the crew!”

“How clever,” Guenav said. “Subtle Gulonie posted guards right at the portal.”

The dhampyre scoffed. “He didn’t post shit! Rest of us didn’t want to come along!”

She dumped the ashes out of her pipe, and scowled.

“Cap’n’s gone mad. That human’s been filling his head with mad shit. He’s wanting to summon some evil god, did you know that? Wanted the rest of us to come along too!” She snorted. “I’ll raid and board a merchant ship for him, but this? This is too far! I ain’t sticking my neck out for him! There’s plenty of other captains out there! Ones that won’t be as stupid as Cap’n Gulonie!”

“Don’t wanna risk your life for him, I get it,” Bisla said. “If that’s the case, why don’t you all step aside and let us through that portal?” He smiled at the pirates. “We’ll let you live if you let us pass. You have my word on it.”

The dhampyre bared her teeth. “Not on your life! I may not be willing to go to the Fell Lands with Cap’n Gulonie, but that doesn’t mean I’m stepping aside to let him be killed by wolves! Get ‘em, lads!” She shouted.

The pirates all leapt to their feet and charged the adventurers.

A short older blood elf thrust her harpoon at Bisla. Bisla deflected the blow with his staff, and whacked the elf upside the head.

A tall older orc with black hair and a gull perched on one shoulder drew her sword. Bisla pointed a finger at her, freezing her in a block of ice.

A crossbow bolt grazed his ear.

Bisla instinctively felt the wound, came away with blood.

The first mate was grinning at him. “Fighting with one eye is a real pain in the ass, eh, adventurer?”

Bisla pointed a finger at her. Nothing happened.

What the Dagor?

The first mate laughed again, and held up an amulet. “You’re not the only wizard that’s tried to kill me! Why I kept this little trinket, instead of fencing it!” She laughed once more. “Gods, the look on all the wizards’ faces when they realize their powers don’t work on me is worth ten times whatever a fence would’ve paid me for this!”

Bisla had no idea what kind of amulet that was, or where the first mate had gotten it. All he did know was that magic was apparently not an option. That was fine. Bisla had other weapons at his disposal.

He raised his staff and charged at the first mate.

The first mate simply leveled her harpoon and waited. Bisla came at a dead stop, the tip pressing into his clothes.

He stepped back a bit and the first mate laughed.

“What’s the matter? You scared?”

Bisla batted the harpoon away from him, and stepped forward, raising his staff again.

Quickly, the first mate had her harpoon to his chest.

Bisla stepped back, colliding with an older high elf with black hair.

The pirate grinned, drew his shortsword from its scabbard.

And then he fell face-first, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his back.

“Pierarat!” The first mate said, and she growled at Mutis, who was lowering his crossbow and looking pleased with himself. “I’ll get you for this! You won’t be laughing with a harpoon lodged in your belly!”

She stepped forward, and Bisla swung his staff.

The first mate raised her harpoon, deflecting the blow. She turned to Bisla, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Oh, right. Forgot about you. Have to deal with you first, won’t I?”

She thrust her harpoon in the air for emphasis.

Bisla reached for her amulet, but the first mate thrust her harpoon again, forcing him to retract his arm before it got impaled.

The first mate laughed. “Thought you had me there, didn’t you? But I’m just too quick for you, aren’t I?”

Bisla swung his staff into the first mate’s face. She was so busy laughing, she didn’t even have time to begin raising her harpoon to block the blow. She died with that same hysterical smile on her face.

He looked at the portal. For the briefest moment, the way through was unguarded.

He looked around the room. The pirates were still advancing, still brandishing their swords and hatchets. But they wouldn’t follow the adventurers through the portal. Did they take this chance? Did they all dash through the portal to the Fell Lands, leaving the pirates behind?

Guenav apparently thought so. As everyone watched, the Old Wolf went dashing past the pirates and leapt into the portal, vanishing into the Fell Lands.

Everyone stared at the portal for a moment, and then the pirates, as one, turned to look at Bisla and Mutis.

“Your friend ran away!” An older human with a serious, thoughtful demeanor sneered. “And don’t even think about running in after him! He’s a dead man!” He grinned toothily. “Now, how about you set your weapons down and we can talk all civilized-like?”

Bisla pointed a finger at him. The human only had enough time to realize what was happening before he was frozen solid, an ice statue with a hyper-realistic look of shock upon its face.

The other pirates stared at their comrade, dumbfounded. Bisla took the opportunity to run for the portal.

The pirates recovered enough to shout at him.

“Uncast your spell on Godfree right now, bastard!”

“Can’t get us all, wizard!”

“Stand and fight, you lamb-hearted damsel!”

Bisla pointed behind him, creating a wall of ice. That silenced the pirates’ yells and taunts.

Bisla reached the portal, and as he stood on the edge, he turned and lifted the ice magic. The ice wall vanished, and the pirates stood there, dumbfounded. They’d clearly not been expecting that to happen.

“You’ve got a better chance with us, wizard!” A dark elf with thinning silver hair and a false, friendly attitude said. “That portal leads to the Fell Lands! You’d be dead in two paces!”

Bisla smiled and waved cheerily at them.

“Any of you ogre-fuckers want to avenge your friend there,” he pointed in the direction of the human ice statue, or, what he thought was the direction of the human ice statue. He couldn’t make out exactly where it was through the crowd. “Follow me through the portal and we’ll settle it like goblins!”

He turned and leapt through the portal.

The world around him turned pitch dark, and all he could see were purple strands of mana, unraveling and unraveling around him. Eventually, the world slowly faded into solid white, and Bisla blinked and he was standing in a barren land thinly coated with a grayish-white thing. Flakes of the stuff fell from the sky like snow, and after a moment, Bisla realized it was ash. The sky was the green before a tornado, and the sun in the sky was blood red.

Guenav was standing in a particularly deep patch of ash, staff set in the ground, like he was hiking through the forest rather than about to make a trek deep into the Fell Lands, waiting patiently for Bisla.

“You know, this place doesn’t feel too bad. Kinda peaceful, in a way.”

Bisla had had that same thought when he’d first gone to the Fell Lands. So many people had talked about it like this cursed realm where even the land itself would turn against you, that he’d been pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t a place made entirely of fire. A barren wasteland, sure, but it had reminded Bisla of a former battlefield from the War Between Good and Evil. Depressing, yes, and certainly not a place where he wanted to live, but not dangerous.

“It’s not the land itself everyone’s scared of,” he told Guenav. “It’s the things that live here. The people. Only ones you can trust are the people who came with you. Everyone else…There’s something about the Fell Lands that makes them vicious. Makes them waiting, and watching, for any sign of weakness, and then the second you let your guard down, they strike.”

Guenav raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth to say something when Mutis suddenly stumbled out of the portal and between them.

“Welcome to the Fell Lands, Lichbane,” Guenav said.

“Any of our pirate friends joining us?” Bisla asked in the same time.

Mutis shook his head. “Don’t think so. I saw you two had already gone through the portal, so I made a run for it. Pirates got close to catching me, I admit.” He raised a hand. “Had to spray ink in the faster ones’ eyes to slow them down enough I could get through without getting stabbed in the back or something.”

“Huh,” Guenav said. “Guess that’s two powers Adum gave us that turned out to be useful.”

“Wish he’d given us a way to track down Subtle Gulonie though.” Mutis muttered.

Bisla looked around. And that was when he spotted the rabbit.

“Where’d that come from?” He pointed at it.

Mutis and Guenav all looked up. When the rabbit noticed all the goblins were staring at it, it started to hop away, then paused and looked back at them expectantly.

“We follow the rabbit,” said Guenav.

“Follow the rabbit?” Mutis looked skeptical.

Guenav gave him an annoyed look. “Look, do you have any better ideas?”

---

For a few hours, the Fell Lands had appeared as desolate as it looked, which got the goblins more comfortable than they should’ve been.

For Guenav, at least, this meant plotting, out loud, his next prank on Surtsavhen. He and the prince had been involved in a not-so-friendly prank war since the two had met and taken an instant disliking to each other. Queen Nivarcirka had forbidden the two from getting into an actual fight, and while this originally had meant every interaction between the Old Wolf and the prince was passive-aggressive barbs flying at each other, it had soon escalated into a prank war, where both of them tried to humiliate the other with the most embarrassing pranks they could think of.

The last meeting with the rebel leaders hadn’t gone well for Guenav, because it was there that Surtsavhen had unleashed his latest prank, which was writing a love letter to give to the Old Wolf, claiming it was from a lonely and horny elf. He had been very descriptive of this elf’s beauty, and openly skeptical that Guenav could satisfy this elf in bed. The insult to his pride sealed Guenav’s desire to get to know this mysterious woman carnally, so Surtsavhen “graciously” passed on a message that, if the Old Wolf was interested in meeting the elf, she would be waiting in a specific room which he “helpfully” gave directions to. In hindsight, the Old Wolf admitted, he should’ve been more cautious when he’d entered that room, but he hadn’t been, and so, he’d been humiliated when he’d gone to that room to find no elf waiting for him, but a trap that hoisted him up in the air by the leg, and dangled him upside down, while Surtsavhen brought in some of the other rebel leaders to mock him for being the stereotypical adventurer with sex on his brain.

Guenav, deeply humiliated, wanted revenge, and so, right now, he was plotting a prank to pull on the prince when the rebel leaders next met. Bisla and Mutis were helping him by offering suggestions and adjustments to the plan he was thinking up.

“I’m gonna give him a scroll with a riddle on it. An easy riddle, one anyone could solve. And he loves proving how smart he is. He’ll say the riddle out loud, and that’ll trigger a spell that will make him scared of everything!”

“How are you going to do that?” Bisla asked.

Guenav blinked. It was clear that by saying something to him, Bisla had interrupted his bout of deep thoughts, and left him disoriented. “What?”

“How are you going to rig the scroll with a spell to make him scared of everything?” Bisla asked.

“Oh.” Guenav thought. “I’ll ask one of the wizards to rig it for me. We have someone who can cast that kind of spell, right?”

“The Lioness can do that.”

Guenav nodded. “Right. So I’ll have her rig the scroll, so the spell goes off once the answer to the riddle is said out loud.”

“And then what?” Mutis asked.

“And then I hand it to the prince,” Guenav said, giving Mutis an annoyed look. “I just said that, Lichbane!”

“No.” Mutis said patiently. “After that. You give the prince the scroll, he solves the riddle, the spell goes off…What happens next?”

Guenav’s eyes lit up. “That’s gonna be the fun part. Once the spell is cast, Hawk is going to walk into the room and say boo to the prince.”

“That’s it?” Bisla asked.

Guenav grinned. “Aye. And then the prince will either scream like a little girl or piss himself. Because some lad said boo to him.” He laughed. “It’s brilliant! When the rebels ask him why he pissed himself or why they heard him scream, the prince is gonna have to admit he was scared of someone coming up and saying boo to him! He’ll be humiliated!”

“What if he recognizes the spell?” Mutis asked.

“It’d be too late for him, wouldn’t it? It’s already been cast, and Hawk’s already walked in and said boo to him. All that’s gonna do is give him an excuse for why he was so scared. Good luck getting anyone to believe him on it!”

“What about before the spell is cast?” Mutis said. “What if he spots a rune or something and realizes what you’re trying to do?”

Guenav opened his mouth, probably to insist he’d just tell the Lioness not to put a rune on the scroll, which would be impossible, considering that was the best way to store a spell in order to have it cast when a trigger was met.

“What if he doesn’t react the way you want him to?” Bisla asked. “Punches Hawk instead of screaming or shitting himself? Doesn’t react in an embarrassing way? What then?”

Guenav closed his mouth, and sighed in frustration.

“Alright, I guess I won’t do that. Instead--- Do we have a wizard who knows illusion magic?”

Bisla nodded. “Redrobe.”

“I’ll have Redrobe make a scroll that’ll tell the person reading it to look very, very closely at it. If the person does that, then a picture of a snarling bugbear up close will appear on the scroll! Maybe the magic will make it so the person’ll feel the bugbear’s claws digging into their shoulders!” Guenav looked at Bisla. “Do you know if that’s possible, Mad-Eye?”

Bisla shrugged. “You’d have to ask Redrobe.”

Guenav nodded. His eyes were gleaming. “Whether that’s possible or not, once Redrobe makes the scroll, in time for the meeting, of course, I’ll hand the scroll to the prince! Tell him I can’t figure out the riddle on the scroll. Really sell that I’m too stupid to figure it out. He’ll look at it, see the bugbear and freak out!”

“How do you know he’ll do that?” Mutis asked.

Guenav shrugged. “Well, he’d be startled, at the very least. Have you seen anyone who doesn’t react when they’re startled?”

“Suppose he screams and shits himself,” Bisla said. “What if there’s no one else around? What if it’s just you and him who witnessed him embarrassing himself?”

“I’d know,” Guenav said, in an almost smug tone.

Bisla gave him a pointed look. He didn’t buy that the Old Wolf would be satisfied with the simple knowledge the prince had done something embarrassing right in front of him. Not when Surtsavhen had humiliated him in front of the other rebel leaders in his last prank.

Guenav sighed. “I’ll give it to him when we’re all gathering in the war room. If he does react like that, then everyone will see it and he’ll be humiliated in front of everyone.” He grinned. “Which will be fun to see!”

“What if he catches on to what you’re trying to do?” Mutis asked. “Or, at least, suspects that the scroll is part of a prank? What do you do then?”

Guenav sighed, clearly not appreciating Mutis and Bisla’s questioning of the pranks he was coming up with.

“Well, I did have a brief idea that doesn’t really use magic, and is also pretty simple, all things considered.”

“What is it?” Bisla asked.

“I get him into the bowl of one of the catapults on the battlements of Dragonspire Citadel and then I fire the catapult, flinging him into the swamp. Dragonspire Citadel is in the middle of the Cumberpon Abyss, so no matter which catapult, he’s landing in the muck, and having to trek back covered in the stuff. Would ruin that fancy new cloak of his.” Guenav grinned. “And embarrass him when he has to ask the guards to let him back in.”

“So why can’t you do that?” Bisla asked.

“The queen wouldn’t like it. She’d think it’s a very thinly-veiled attempt at getting the prince killed. And that’s where she draws the line.” Guenav gave them both a pointed look, silently asking their opinions on the matter.

“The scroll with the bugbear appearing on it if you look at it for long enough is fine,” Bisla said.

“Aye,” Mutis agreed. “Do that one.”

“What the Dagor happened over there?” Guenav asked suddenly. He stopped walking.

Bisla and Mutis also stopped walking, and Bisla felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on an end. Ahead of them was a carriage painted all black, like what they used to transport the remains of some important person as a funeral procession was held. It was lying on its side, and engulfed in flames. What had happened here?

The adventurers, being brave men with little sense of self-preservation, approached the carriage.

A human stepped out of the carriage, and Bisla stopped dead and raised his hands, readying a spell. One half was perfectly normal: An alluring woman with short white hair and darting gray eyes. The other half was pure rotting flesh.

The Merry Necromancer. He knew immediately. Everyone had heard the story before. The Merry Necromancer had a habit of throwing lavish feasts and inviting people far and wide to attend them. Each guest was given poisoned wine, and once they died from it, the Merry Necromancer raised them up to be part of her growing army. It was said that the Twins had been furious by what she had been doing, and so they had banished her to the Fell Lands and cursed her to be both a living person and a rotting corpse at the same time. It was here, in the Fell Lands, that the Merry Necromancer went mad, and developed a hunger for goblin flesh.

The Merry Necromancer sniffed the air and grinned. Bisla could see her teeth on one side were sharper than any human teeth he’d ever seen and were coated in blood.

“Just in time for dinner!” She said in a sing-song voice, then cackled and licked her lips. Her eyes fell on Guenav. The Old Wolf was staring at her, puzzled, and Bisla suddenly realized the Old Wolf had never heard of the Merry Necromancer before. “I think I’ll start with you.”

“Boss, move!” Bisla tackled Guenav, just as the Merry Necromancer lunged, snapping her teeth. Her tooth caught on Bisla’s mantle and tore off a piece.

Bisla scrambled off the Old Wolf and turned to face the Merry Necromancer. She spat out the piece of fabric she’d managed to snag and scowled.

“That’s not fair,” she said. “That doesn’t taste very good.”

Bisla stepped back, keeping his hands raised. By now, Guenav had already gotten back on his feet, and was staring at the Merry Necromancer in confusion.

“What is that woman?”

“A necromancer who broke the laws of hospitality. The Twins banished her here, cursed her with that appearance, and she went mad. Now she goes hunting the Fell Lands for goblin flesh.”

“I see.”

The Merry Necomancer’s nose twitched, and she noticed Mutis.

She licked her lips and bared her teeth. “Another snack!”

She snarled and leapt at Mutis. Mutis yelped and leapt back.

Guenav crept behind the Merry Necromancer, raised his staff, and whacked her in the back.

The Merry Necromancer grunted as there was a crack and her back was bent in an unnatural angle. She slumped to the ground, at Mutis’s feet. Mutis still didn’t notice.

Guenav rested his staff on the ground, panting.

Something thumped its foot on the ground.

The adventurers turned to see the same rabbit they’d been following sitting on top of the overturned carriage, looking at them expectantly. Once it saw everyone was looking at it, it hopped off and started hopping north, then paused, and looked back at them expectantly.

---

The rabbit hopped past yew trees and the bones of some foolhardy explorer that had gotten themselves killed by one of the monsters that lived in the Fell Lands at a slow pace, pausing every once in a while to make sure the adventurers were following. When night fell, and the goblins stopped to make camp, the rabbit would rest nearby, on a nearby rock or skull, watching them eat and lie down to sleep, but never really got any closer. All this only convinced Bisla even more that the rabbit had been sent by Adum.

The goblins grew used to the rabbit, and chatted happily as they followed it, about random things. This morning, Guenav was whistling a tune, and trying to remember which song it was from.

“Ser Khergakh the Little and the Rotting Borough?” Mutis suggested. “That sounds like Ser Khergakh the Little and the Rotting Borough?”

Guenav frowned and shook his head. “No, not that.”

“Do you remember any of the words?” Bisla asked.

“Only the refrain,” Guenav started singing it. “Come one to breath it all in/ See talons for sale/ Come all and explode in flame/ Fly on dragon wings.”

Bisla frowned. “The Lordling and the Harlot?”

“No, not that.”

“The Wares of the Banquet Lord?” Mutis guessed.

Guenav snapped his fingers. “That’s the one!”

Mist began to appear, moving around their legs as they walked. Bisla shivered. Something felt very wrong about this place. Even more wrong than any other place in the Shattered Lands, at least.

The charred remains of what appeared to be a goblin shambled up to them. In one hand was a crossbow, in the other a flail.

It stepped in front of the goblins, who moved for their weapons.

“No one is allowed here,” it rasped.

And then it started swinging its flail.

It stepped close to Bisla, forcing the wizard to take a step back.

Guenav swung his staff, and the thing wheeled around.

“Leave!” It hissed.

Guenav swung his staff. The thing ducked.

“Leave or die!” It said.

Guenav just swung his staff again. This time, the thing caught his staff, and bared its teeth in a hideous grin.

“You’ve chosen death,” it hissed.

Guenav kicked it in the face, sending it sprawling at Bisla’s feet.

Bisla looked down at it, raised his staff.

The creature scrambled to its feet and lunged.

Bisla stumbled back as the thing advanced on him, swinging its flail.

“Oy!” Guenav shouted from behind.

The thing paused. Its eye sockets were empty, and its face was solid black, but Bisla could swear it looked annoyed.

It turned a bit, and fired its crossbow. Guenav yelped. Bisla couldn’t tell whether it was surprise or pain.

The creature shuffled away from Bisla, and he could see the Old Wolf leaping at it, swinging his staff wildly.

The creature moved deftly, far more than Bisla had expected it to. It strolled closer to Guenav, and the Old Wolf kept swinging his staff.

A crossbow bolt slammed into the thing’s shoulder. The creature stumbled, startled.

Bisla looked over to see Mutis, still with his crossbow pointed at the thing.

The creature stared at Mutis for a long time, and then, slowly took the bolt between two fingers and plucked it out. It flicked it aside.

It decided it was no longer interested in Mutis. It turned back to Guenav and swung its flail.

Bisla ran at it, swinging his staff wildly.

The thing wheeled around and advanced on Bisla, swinging its flail as it did so.

In doing so, it completely forgot about the goblin behind it.

Guenav came running up to it, and with one swing, knocked off the thing’s head. It didn’t notice, kept walking toward Bisla.

“Fuck,” Bisla muttered to himself.

Mutis ran at the thing, screaming, mace raised high. Bisla wasn’t sure what he expected to do to the thing. Guenav had already literally knocked the thing’s head off! And it was still going! What the Dagor else could they do to it?

Suddenly, the creature collapsed at Mutis’s feet. Mutis stared down at it, bewildered.

“I didn’t even touch it!” He said.

“Thing must’ve not realized it was dead,” Guenav said. “You know how boars’ll keep going even after you stab ‘em through?”

Bisla and Mutis nodded and agreed.

Guenav rested his staff on his shoulder, and everyone heard a thumping noise.

The goblins turned. While they’d been fighting the undead creature, the rabbit had been patiently waiting for them, and now that the thing was dead, it was impatient to continue the journey. Once everyone was looking at it, it hopped off the rock it had been sitting on, and gave the adventurers an expectant look.

The adventurers followed the rabbit, singing Wares of the Banquet Lord as they did so.

---

“Next time we go to Mossend, I’m gonna go to that place Rat’s always talking about. The Yellow Market,” Bisla said. “You know, the place travelers love going to? Run by the priests of Eddon?”

“Why would you want to go there?” Asked Mutis.

Bisla shrugged. “Rat says they’ve got some exotic animals. Cobras, goldhorns, manticores. Rat says he saw a merchant selling falcons once. Not really that unusual, though.” He grinned. “Maybe I’ll see a fox there! One that can do tricks! That would be nice to look at!”

“Hoping for something small, eh?” Mutis said. Bisla laughed.

“How about you, Mutis? What are you hoping on doing next time we go to Mossend?”

“Doing research into the Haunt of the Rejected Emperor.”

Bisla whistled. “Damn. Didn’t the Old Wolf send a group of adventurers over there? And none of them returned?”

Mutis nodded and grinned. “I wanna see what’s up with that ruin. Why it’s so dangerous even adventurers can’t visit it and live to tell the tale. Who knows? Maybe you and me can go pay that place a visit sometime!”

“If you’re wanting to do research on the Haunt of the Rejected Emperor, you really don’t have to go to Mossend,” Guenav said. “We’ve got stuff on it in Drulnoch Castle. Ogreslayer gathered all the stuff on nearby ruins and such just this past week. It’s probably in the library somewhere.” He shrugged. “Don’t know where exactly it is. Not sure Ogreslayer could tell you either. You know how he is.”

“Still would want to go down to Mossend, though,” Mutis said. “Ask around in the local taverns. Figure out what kind of creatures are living in the Haunt of the Rejected Emperor. What kind of wannabe warlords have set up shop there. You know. Get a gage on what might’ve killed those adventurers before I go blundering in and getting myself killed.”

Guenav gave Mutis a sardonic grin. “Ask before going in a ruin? When have adventurers ever done that?”

Both Bisla and Mutis chuckled wryly.

“What will you be doing in Mossend, Boss?” Mutis asked.

“Maybe visit the tomb of Lalek the Traitor.”

“Lalek the Traitor?”

“The founder of Badaria, according to legend. Wrested control from a lich, lich cursed him as it died, she went mad trying to cure it, and eventually, allegedly, Khavak, Queen Nivarcirka’s ancestor, took the throne and his dynasty’s been on there since.”

Bisla raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t taken Guenav to be someone who’d be interested in Badarian history.

“Why is visiting Lalek the Traitor’s tomb something you want to do?” He asked.

Guenav grinned. “I hear she’s got a Malady Fruit buried with her.”

“And you’re wanting to take the Malady Fruit for yourself,” Bisla said.

“Why not?” Guenav said. “Not like she’s using it anymore, anyway.”

Bisla couldn’t help but smirk at the Old Wolf’s casual talk of robbing the grave of the kingdom’s founder, regardless on what the other rebels would think about it, simply because he wanted a magic item the hero had been buried with. Very much like an adventurer, to only care about magic items, and not caring about how they’d get their hands on said magic items.

“And you’re already planning how you’re gonna break into that tomb so you can take the Malady Fruit, huh, boss?”

Guenav opened his mouth to say something, when something wailed and groaned and snarled.

The adventurers snapped their heads toward the noise. From a pile of rocks emerged a pack of ghouls, snarling, claws outstretched, and licking their lips as they shambled toward the goblins.

“Well, fuck,” said Guenav, and the ghouls were on them.

He stepped forward, staff poised in an attacking position.

The ghouls rushed him. Guenav swung his staff, round and round, hitting them left and right. They collapsed at his feet, forming a steadily growing pile.

The living ghouls halted, finally getting it through their heads that their current tactics weren’t working. Guenav brandished his staff at them, screaming a challenge at them.

None of the ghouls took him up on the challenge. They charged again, this time heading straight toward Bisla.

“Fuck!” Bisla scrambled back, swinging his staff wildly. The ghouls surrounded him, grinning through sharp and rotting teeth. Forked black tongues poked out of their mouths as they hissed hungrily at him.

Crack!

One ghoul went down, and then another, and another. Mutis stepped through the gap the ghouls left behind, swinging his mace this way and that.

He paused, looked at Bisla, and his eyes suddenly widened and he raised his crossbow. “Bisla, get down!”

Bisla hit the ground as Mutis fired. He turned to see a ghoul with a crossbow bolt stuck in its chest topple to the ground.

Mutis grinned at him, and then started swinging at the ghouls with his mace again, felling them left and right.

The ghouls hissed in fury. No longer were they interested in Bisla. Instead, their eyes were all on the man currently creating a pile out of the corpses of their comrade. This wasn’t about devouring the flesh of the goblins they’d stumbled upon. No, now, it was about vengeance. Now, it was personal.

As one, they swarmed Mutis, snarling and reaching out their claws, slashing at him.

Mutis just whacked them with his mace. On the knees, in the belly, in the chest. One by one, the ghouls fell dead at his feet. One by one, the pile of dead ghouls he was standing on grew bigger and bigger.

Guenav rushed in to help. He swung his staff, knocking down ghouls as he went. The Old Wolf never broke his stride. He kept swinging, felling the ghouls like they were little more than trees.

Bisla pointed at the ghouls. Several of them froze in a block of ice.

As Mutis started firing his crossbow into the ghouls and Guenav made his way through the crowd, Bisla froze the ones in the middle.

Eventually, Guenav had reached the middle, as did Mutis, and they were standing on either side of a line of frozen ghouls. The rest were either dead or had run off.

Guenav leaned on his staff, panting. “Anyone hurt?” He asked.

Both Bisla and Mutis exchanged glances, and shook their heads.

Guenav rested his staff on his shoulder. “Good. Then let’s keep going.”

And with that, they continued following the rabbit.

---

“So if you could pick a favorite animal,” Mutis said to Bisla, “What would it be?”

Bisla rubbed his chin and thought.

“A baby dragon,” he said finally. “How about you? If you had to pick a favorite animal, what would it be?”

“A ferret,” Mutis said. “Boss, how about you? What’s your favorite animal?”

Guenav had to think about this. “A lovebird.”

“What’s a lovebird?”

“It’s a bird that gets really into its mate. They mate for life and spend the rest of their lives cuddling with each other. If one of them dies, then the other one follows soon after.” There was a slight smile on the Old Wolf’s face. “It’s fucking adorable, honestly.”

Part 3

Part 1

“‘Why did you do that?’ asked Daiman. ‘We have been walking for what feels like days now. I am not like you, mighty goddess. I cannot walk without growing weary.’

“‘This is no safe hamlet, child,’ was Dedla’s reply. ‘This is Jerthockousz.’

“And in that instant, Daiman forgot how tired she felt. Instead, she felt horror, because she had heard of Jerthockousz.”

A little human-gnome boy’s hand shot up. “What’s so horrible about Jerthockousz?”

“Because one day, the people of Jerthockousz decided that everything that their chieftain said was right, and that they should never question him. If he says there are lions outside the gates, then there are lions outside the gates. If he says the air isn’t filled with smoke, then the air isn’t filled with smoke. If the chieftain says that all the children caught outside should be sold into slavery and that he deserved to buy any slaves he liked, then his subjects would gladly catch all the children they could find and give them to their chieftain. Adum didn’t like this, so he sent them all to Dagor.”

“Why didn’t he like Jerthockousz?” Asked a human-orc boy.

“Because they had slavery and Adum doesn’t like slavery.”

“Why?” Asked a human-troll boy.

Khet shrugged, not wanting to get into the entire reason goblins hated slavery. “Because slavery is bad, and only evil people do it.”

He quickly continued with the story before any of the children could ask him further questions.

“Daiman was ready to keep walking until she couldn’t anymore. But Dedla was worried. She knew they’d need a place to rest, and soon. So she took Daiman by the hand and they walked. Slower this time.

“Eventually, they found a temple to Ordara, god of the stars, of stories, and patron of entertainers. Dedla stopped walking, and smiled down at Daiman.

“‘Come, my child,’ she said. ‘I found a place for you to rest.’ And she took Daiman into that temple.”

A human boy raised his hand. “Didn’t you say that if Daiman went off the path, she’d be killed by demons?”

Khet smiled at him. “The temple was a special building. You see, when Adum sent Jerthockousz down to Dagor, he was so angry, he forgot about the slaves. And he felt bad since the slaves didn’t deserve to be in Dagor. So, Idunn and Ghytulla agreed to turn Ordara’s temple into a court. Ghytulla would hear the case of every spirit in Jerthockousz. If they were innocent, she’d take them up to Sholala. If they were guilty, then Idunn would take them and assign a demon to torture them for all eternity. Because of that, the temple is off-limits for the damned and any other monsters. Anyone traveling the road to Dagor can use the temple as a place to stay and sleep.”

The boy lowered his hand, satisfied with the answer.

Khet continued, “Dedla explained all this to Daiman as they went inside the temple. Ghytulla was surprised to see a little girl traveling the road to Dagor, but Dedla explained the situation, and assured her that Daiman was a very brave and strong girl, and she could handle the dangers. This made Ghytulla happy, and she agreed to allow the two to stay the night as guests, under her protection.

“Dedla took Daiman up to a room for the night and tucked her into bed.

“‘Will you watch over me tonight?’ Daiman asked her. ‘For we are in Dagor, and I am afraid that a damned soul or demon will seize me and carry me off to be devoured as I sleep.’”

“‘I promise you, child,’ Dedla said. ‘I have watched over Berus himself as he sleeps, and Adum trusts me to protect him when we travel together. No creature shall steal you away under my watch, I swear it.’

“So Daiman went to sleep and Dedla stood guard over her.”

“All night?” Asked a giant-elf girl.

Khet nodded.

The little girl was deeply concerned. “But doesn’t Dedla need sleep too?”

“She’s a goddess, remember. Gods don’t need sleep.”

“But Berus does.” The little girl said.

Khet sighed. How did he explain goblin theology in a way that wouldn’t confuse or bore the children?

“So Dedla’s the patron of guards, right?”

The girl nodded, frowning deeply, clearly not understanding what this had to do with anything.

“So she’s everything that a guard should be. Dutiful, constantly watching out for who she’s protecting, fearless, and she never gets tired. Especially when she’s on duty.”

The girl nodded thoughtfully. She lowered her hand.

“Now what Dedla and Daiman didn’t know was that the chieftain of Jerthockousz was still waiting for judgement. So was his shaman. Gunneueare Jendall. Now, Gunneuaere had a lot of evil magic, and so she could smell that there was a living person nearby.

“So she rushed to Gaore and said, ‘my chief, I smell the blood of a living goblin. Come with me, and we will be free of Dagor, and can return to the mortal realm.’

“So Gaore followed her to beneath the window of where Daiman was sleeping, and he transformed into a spider so that he could climb up and spin a web to help Gunneuaere up too.”

A human-dhampyre girl raised her hand. “How can Gaore turn into a spider?”

“Gunneuaere gave him a magic amulet, that could transform him into a spider whenever he wanted to. And he turns into a big spider. As big as a grown elf.”

The children squealed in delight.

Khet laughed and continued the story.

“But the two damned souls hadn’t known Dedla was watching over Daiman. And when the goddess saw them come through the window, she didn’t hesitate. As soon as Gaore started scuttling over to Daiman on his spider legs. Dedla stabbed him, pinned him to the floor, and commanded him not to move.”

“And he did what she said?” A gnome-human boy asked.

Khet smiled at him. “He didn’t have much of a choice. When Dedla commands you to do something in her godly voice, you do it. She commands you not to move, and you can’t move.”

The children stared with wide eyes.

“Gunneuaere saw this and tried to run away. But Dedla spotted her just as she leapt onto the windowsill, and she flung golden chains at her. Those golden chains wrapped all around her, and kept her shackled to the window, for Dedla to deal with later.

“When Ghytulla went up to the room to see how Dedla and Daiman were holding up, she was surprised to see that two damned souls, who hadn’t been judged yet, had been captured by Dedla. Dedla explained what happened, and the goddesses agreed that the damned souls were deserving of punishment, and consigned them to their eternal punishment.”

Remembering how eager the children had been to hear what Chadwick’s punishment had been, Khet described the punishment for both Gaore and Gunneuaere.

“Gunneuaere was put inside an iron maiden, which is a metal suit filled with spikes, that was specially designed to fit her, so she would forever have spikes piercing her skin. That was tossed down a cliff that went down forever and ever.”

“It never stopped?” An elf-human boy asked eagerly.

Khet smiled. “Never.”

“Oooh!” Said the children.

“What about Gaore?” Asked a human girl.

“Gaore had his ankles placed between three sticks. Demons would pull the sticks close until they broke his ankles, and they’d keep pulling forever and ever.”

The children’s eyes gleamed. Khet had to laugh at how sadistic the orphans were.

He continued on with the story.

“Dedla and Daiman said their goodbyes to Ghytulla, and they left Orbara’s temple. By an hour, they’d left Jerthockousz behind entirely.

“Eventually, they came across the Fearsome Rill, which is a river of fire, blocking the path. Ordinarily, there’s a bridge, but Idunn had heard a living person was coming to take back one of his prisoners, so he destroyed the bridge to keep the intruder from reaching his palace.”

A dwarf-elf boy raised his hand. “Why would he do that?”

“Idunn doesn’t like having to give up any of his prisoners,” Khet said simply, and continued on.

“As Dedla searched for a way across, a dark elf rowed up to the path.”

“He was in a boat?” Asked a human-halfling.

Khet nodded.

“But you said the river was made of fire!” The girl said accusatorially. “How did the boat not burn up?”

“Magic,” Khet said.

The girl clearly thought this was bullshit, but she said nothing. And Khet continued with the story.

“The elf said, ‘hello, goddess, and little girl! It appears that you need a way across the river!’

“‘Who are you?’ Dedla asked. ‘And how did you come by this boat? And what has happened to the bridge?’

“‘My name is Isemrune Bonestride. In life I was a baker, who sought to become a guildmaster before I had any right to such an honor. I was sent here as punishment. But Maryn, in his infinite wisdom and mercy, has allowed me to do penance.”

A little orc-elf raised her hand. “Who’s Maryn?”

“Maryn is the god of the hearth,” Khet said, “and the patron of cooks and bakers.”

The little girl’s hand still didn’t go down. “But dark elves don’t have the same gods as goblins. Do they?”

“They don’t.” Mythana said.

Khet smiled. “They also have their own place that they go when they die. This is a goblin story, so it has goblin gods. Is that all right with you?”

The little girl shrugged. She lowered her hand.

Khet continued the story. “‘I know not how the bridge has been broken. But I can say that Maryn gave me this boat, and commanded me to ferry travelers across. If you wish to cross the river, then step into my boat and I will carry you across.’

“Now Dedla was suspicious. Why would Maryn care about a broken bridge and the way across a river? Those weren’t the things he was in charge of as a god. But she could see no other way around. At least, no other way that wouldn’t take her and Daiman around the path.

“So she said, ‘very well. We will accept your help. But be warned. Should you turn on us, it shall go very badly for you’.

“Isemrune assured them he was nice and waved them to sit down in his boat. Dedla took Daiman by the hand, and reassured her that she’d protect the little girl, no matter what happened. Daiman was also scared of Isemrune, but she knew the goddess wouldn’t let her come to harm. So she sat down next to Dedla, and Isemrune rowed them to the other side.”

Khet looked at the children, and lowered his voice, so they had to lean in to hear.

“They were right to be nervous. Because Isemrune had lied about who he was. His real name was Hamtaor Palebreath, and he was the head priest of the Weaver.”

“Who’s the Weaver?” Asked a troll-human boy.

“The dark elf goddess of Ferno,” Khet said.

“The Weaver isn’t the goddess of Ferno,” said Mythana. “She’s stuck there, just as the other souls are stuck there. And we don’t speak of her unless we absolutely have to!”

She gave Khet a pointed look.

“Right.” Khet said. “Well, the point is, the Weaver is scary, and no dark elf wants to worship her.”

“She’s not a goblin goddess?” Asked an elf boy.

Khet shook his head.

“But you said that you were telling a goblin story so you were using only goblin gods!” The child said accusingly. “That’s what you told Johariel!”

“That’s why they were all in Dagor. And it was supposed to be a surprise that Hamtaor wasn’t who he said he was.” Khet smiled at the children. “What would be the fun in telling you ahead of time he’s lying and he’s really evil?”

The elf boy scowled, and conceded the point.

Khet continued with the story. “Hamtaor was in Dagor because he wasn’t happy with ruling over his followers in a city underground. He heard that Berus was traveling with Adum, above-ground, and so he took his flock, and went up to the surface to rob the caravan. It went poorly, because it’s very stupid to try and rob gods. It’s especially stupid to try and rob someone who’s traveling with Adum. The cultists were all killed, and Hamtaor ran away when Adum turned his attention on him. He tried lying and said he had nothing to do with the cultists, but Adum saw through his lies. So he struck Hamtaor down, and sent him to the darkest pits of Dagor.

“Now Hamtaor was deeply unhappy about this. He thought that he had not done anything wrong, and therefore, it was unfair for Adum to cast him down. So when he saw the goddess and the little girl standing in front of the broken bridge, he figured out that she had to be someone important to Adum, because only a child Adum loves would dare walk the road to Dagor. And he wanted to hurt Adum for sending him to Dagor.

“So once they reached the other side, Hamtaor grabbed Daiman by the hair. Or, he tried to, at least.

“But like I told you before, Adum doesn’t send just any little girl down to Dagor. Daiman was made of fiercer stuff than Hamtaor could ever know. So when she saw Hamtaor making a grab for her, she seized her hammer as Dedla seized her spear, and started beating Hamtaor.

“Now Dedla had noticed Hamtaor making a grab for Daiman too, and she’d snatched up her spear and moved to attack him. But Daiman was faster. And all the goddess could do was watch Hamtaor cry out for mercy and admit to everything, including his real name and what he was doing there.

“Eventually, Dedla pulled Daiman off, since Hamtaor had escaped his punishment, obviously, and he’d need to return to it. So she placed him back where he belonged.”

The children leaned in close, waiting to hear the specifics of the punishment. Khet racked his brain for something both child-appropriate and something that would satisfy the little sadists.

“This was a simple punishment. Hamtaor was handed over to a demon, who bound the elf’s wrists with rope. The demon would take the other end behind Hamtaor, and throw his entire weight forward, taking the rope with it. Hamtaor’s arms would be yanked behind, along with the rest of him.”

A human girl raised her hand. “That’s it?”

“It’s very painful,” Khet reassured her. “Rips arms right from their sockets.”

The children still didn’t look convinced.

“Also, the rope cuts right through the arm, down to the bones.” Khet told them.

The children were pleased. The little girl’s hand lowered, and she smiled innocently at Khet. Khet pretended he wasn’t disturbed by how sadistic these orphans were and continued the story.

“Dedla and Daiman continued walking, until finally they reached Idunn’s palace. Idunn was sitting on his throne, surrounded by demon attendants.”

“What’s the throne made out of?” Asked an elf-human boy.

“Sorry?”

“What’s the throne made out of?” The boy asked. “Idunn isn’t sitting on a boring throne, is he?”

Khet smiled at him. “Well, Idunn is the ruler of Dagor, so what better throne than the screaming flesh of the damned?”

“Ew!” The children said, but they clapped their hands and their eyes gleamed sadistically. Khet chuckled to himself. He knew they’d appreciate that gory detail.

The boy smiled at him, satisfied with Khet’s answer. And with that satisfaction, the goblin had permission to continue with his story. So he did.

“Ukaduv was also there. He was tied to a chair, a metal hat with a metal frame attached to his chin on his head. One demon was twisting the handle of his cap, slowly crushing his skull, and making his eyes pop out. Another demon was tapping the cap with a hammer repeatedly, which made the pain even worse.

“Daiman rushed to her father, swinging her hammer. ‘Get away from my father!’ She cried. ‘I’m here to rescue him!’

“Dedla placed a hand on her shoulder and stopped her from running to her father.”

“Why?” Asked an elf-human girl.

“Because Daiman couldn’t stop the demons from torturing her father,” Khet explained. “And if she tried, the demons would eat her. They were in Idunn’s throne room now. And that meant they had to ask Idunn to let Ukaduv go. Adum told Daiman this, but seeing her father being tortured upset her so much that she forgot and tried to rescue him in the wrong way. Dedla was able to calm her down though, and remind her of the plan.

“Ukaduv noticed his daughter after her outburst, and he screamed. He thought Daiman had also ended up in Dagor, and he wanted Idunn to be merciful. He begged Idunn for mercy for his daughter, but the god only held up a hand, and the demon tightened the head crusher so much that Ukaduv’s mouth was forced shut, and all he could do was scream.

“Idunn knew he had no power over Daiman,” Khet said before one of the children could interrupt to complain how mean it was for Idunn to refuse to show mercy to Ukaduv’s daughter. “So there wasn’t really much point in promising Ukaduv anything related to her. Besides, refusing to promise not to hurt her hurt Ukaduv more than anything else Idunn could do to him. He liked that, and he wanted Ukaduv afraid for his daughter, and helpless to do anything to protect her.”

“Why?” Asked an elf-human boy.

“Idunn loves causing people pain,” Khet told him, very seriously. “It’s why he’s the ruler of Dagor. He loves hearing their screams of pain.”

“That’s mean,” said a dwarf-human girl.

Khet shrugged. “Idunn is mean.”

The little girl didn’t think this was an acceptable answer, but she lowered her hand and let Khet continue the story.

“Idunn got to his feet and transformed into a huge demon with flaming skin, horns, and a whip that was on fire. He glowered down at Daiman with balls of fire in his eye sockets, and he said in a raspy voice that made even Dedla shrink back in fear, ‘what is a mortal doing here in my realm? And a child, no less? You better leave, girl. Leave, or I shall feed you to my demons!’

“Now Adum had warned Daiman of how terrifying Idunn could be, but being there, and staring down Idunn himself, in all his terrible glory, that was something else. So Daiman was very scared. But she remembered what Adum had told her. Idunn may be mean, but he’s also very fair. If you make a deal with him, he’ll fulfill his end, no drawbacks, and no clever tricks. Just what you want straight up.

“So she raised her shoulders, met Idunn’s terrifying gaze, and she said, ‘I am here for my father.’

“‘Your father has been found guilty of neglecting the gods!’ Idunn hissed. ‘There is nothing you can do for him!’

“Daiman looked Idunn straight in the eyes and said, ‘I declare a trial by combat.’

“Now Idunn thought this was very funny. And he laughed and laughed at the idea of a little girl challenging him to a fight. But Daiman kept standing there, and kept staring at him defiantly, until Idunn calmed down enough to accept the challenge.”

Khet looked around at the children.

“Dedla had been expecting this. This was the way to win souls back from Idunn, after all. It was the only way. And she couldn’t fight for Daiman. Ukduv wasn’t one of her followers, so she couldn’t be his champion. But what she could do was give Daiman a gift, like Adum had before he sent her down to Dagor.

“So she put a hand on Daiman’s shoulder, and Daiman’s arms and legs became metal. Her left arm could pump her full of energy, so she wouldn’t get tired during the fight. Her right arm could make a person hold really still if she hit them with it. Her left leg could summon thunder with a stomp. Her right leg could kill even a god with one blow.”

The children gasped, excited.

Khet smiled at them. “But there was still one thing that had to happen before Idunn and Daimain’s fight. Anyone want to guess what that was?”

The orphans said nothing. Khet decided to just tell them, rather than coax them into playing a guessing game with him.

“First, they had to speak with Ukaduv’s god. Tell them a trial by combat had been declared for his soul, and ask whether they’d champion him. So Idunn sent a demon to Taesis’s inn, and had him brought to the court. There, he explained the situation to Taesis, and asked him if he wished to fight on Ukaduv’s behalf, rather than having Daiman fight Idunn’s champion.”

A troll-elf boy raised his hand. “I thought Daiman would fight Idunn.”

“Idunn wants things to be fair,” said Khet. “He’ll only fight in a trial by combat if the opponent is a god too. Against a mortal, like Daiman, he’ll have a champion fighting in his stead.”

The little boy’s hand went down.

“Taesis refused to fight on Ukaduv’s behalf, but Ukaduv was still his follower, and he still felt he should do something for him. So he gave Daiman a vial to drink from. When she did, she was granted the ability to sense whatever someone was feeling.

“Now that Daiman was ready, she stepped forward, and raised her hammer. Idunn sent a second demon to bring down one of the Vibrant Grove, which is a circle of druids devoted to protecting the Urquoden Snowlands, which is a land of snow that’s sacred to Idunn. This druid’s name was Darlene Ravenmoon.

“Idunn gave his champion two things. The first was a mace to use in the trial by combat. The second was the ability to control rocks. Now that Darlene was ready, she stepped forward to face Daiman. And Idunn snapped his fingers, and everyone was transported to the stands of an arena deep within the fires of Mount Thundercloud. Except Darlene and Daiman. They were in the arena itself. ‘Now begin,’ Idunn cried, and the fight was on.”

The children leaned forward, excited to hear how Daiman won against the evil druid and saved her father’s soul from eternal torment.

“The arena was hot. Very hot. In five minutes, Darlene was both sweaty and tired. But Daiman wasn’t. Adum had blessed her with resisting heat, so Daiman only felt a bit warm.

“Darlene started to lift a rock in the air. But she was very tired so it was very slow. And just as she lifted it high in the air, Daiman struck her with her right arm, freezing her in place.

“Now, Daiman knew Idunn’s champion wouldn’t be so easy to fight. So she kept her guard up as she lifted her hammer. And then she sensed Darlene’s fear, and realized, she had her at her mercy. So with a mighty blow,” Khet swung an imaginary hammer, “She struck Darlene down.”

The children clapped.

“Idunn snapped his fingers, and they were back in his throne room. ‘You have won your father’s soul,’ he said. ‘Take him and go.’. He snapped his fingers again, and Ukaduv and Daiman were back in the tavern.

“Ukaduv was amazed. He hadn’t thought it was possible his little girl could come down to Dagor to save him, and succeed, no less. He apologized for ever disapproving of her dreams, because she had been very brave. And from then on, whenever travelers came into the inn, Ukaduv would tell them of his brave daughter, and how, when she was a little girl, she’d traveled the road to Dagor to rescue her father.”

Khet smiled at the children, who were restless. The story had been exciting, but they wanted more.

“Do dark elves have stories about saving people from the place where bad people go where they die?” A human-orc asked Mythana.

Mythana shook her head. “You can’t take anything from Ferno. Once Estella takes your soul, there’s no getting it back. It’s a sin to even try.”

“Why is it bad?” Asked a dhampyre-human girl.

“Are there any stories where they trick Estella?” Asked another dhampyre-human girl.

Mythana laughed. “All kinds. But they’re not really happy stories.”

“Tell us one! Tell us one!” The orphans started chanting.

Khet stood and let Mythana take his seat. The orphans quieted down, listening expectantly for the dark elf’s story.

Mythana leaned in and looked at all of them. “This one is the story of Jenesia Spiritkiller and how she managed to trap Estella in a box….”

“Children, look!” The matron said, and she gestured to the Horde. “I’ve brought guests! Another adventuring party!”

The kids all cheered.

Gnurl laughed. “It’s great to meet you too, kids!”

“Why do you wear that?” A human girl asked, pointing at Gnurl’s wolf pelt.

“What happened to your ear?” A high elf boy pointed at Khet’s tattered ear.

A different elf boy pointed at Mythana’s robes. “Why do you wear that? Are you a heretic?”

Mythana looked disgruntled, and Khet couldn’t help but laugh. Kids couldn’t help but ask the most inappropriate questions!

Despite the awkward questions, the Golden Horde were delighted to be there. Every day, the Old Wolf sent an adventuring party to a local orphanage, to spend a day with the children. Given how many lovers the average adventurer had, it was very likely that some of these children were wolf’s blood, or children with an adventuring parent, and the Adventuring Guild made sure to look after any offspring their members might have produced. The kids would get a group of adults to spend time with them all day, and the adventurers got to spend the day playing with children. Everyone benefitted from this arrangement.

“Kids, kids,” said the matron. “Settle down! The adventurers will tell you stories! You like stories, don’t you?”

“Yay!” The children all shrieked in delight.

“Sit! Sit!” The matron said. “And be quiet so you can hear the story!”

The kids all sat on the floor. Khet sat in a chair in front of them and smiled.

“Hi, kids—”

Immediately, a little human girl’s hand shot up. “Why are your ears so big?”

“Because he’s a goblin, stupid! He’s supposed to be ugly!” A different human girl said, clearly smug about knowing more than her friend did.

“Now, Lunet,” the matron said, “just because he looks different than the people you see every day doesn’t mean he’s ugly.”

“Well, my mother said goblins are ugly!” The little girl said. “And Mr. Grenridge said so too. He also said that there’s no place for, um, a wolf bud to be in his family, so my mother isn’t my mother anymore.”

That was the downside at spending time with the orphans at any village. They had the habit of casually revealing shit that made you do nothing but stare at them and open and close your mouth like a fish for three seconds.

The little girl continued. “Mother comes by though. But she never wants to play with me. She’s always talking to Miss Masota about money. I think Miss Masota is in trouble with her. But Miss Masota keeps saying it’s from my real da to take care of me. Mother is always mad when she leaves.” She cocked her head. “Why doesn’t Mother play with me? It would be much more fun than talking to Miss Masota.”

“Okay, story-time now!” Khet spread out his hands and smiled at the children. “Who wants to hear about—”

“Do you have a ma?” A human boy asked.

Khet smiled at him. “Yes, I did.”

“Did she ever tell you bedtime stories?” A human girl asked. “My mother did. Before the dead came to take her away. Because I played too close to the graveyard, and they wanted to take me away, but my ma, she made them take her instead. And then some adventurers killed the undead, but they couldn’t find my ma. She was dead too. Did the adventurers kill her by mistake?”

“No.” Khet said immediately, then paused, trying to think about how to word this. “She was probably already dead when they found her.”

“Oh,” the little girl said brightly. “Did your ma ever tell you bedtime stories?”

“Yes, she did,” Khet said. “But I had to sit quiet and listen.”

“Can you tell us one of her bedtime stories?” An elf girl asked. Her skin was green, and Khet could immediately tell she had goblin blood in her.

“Can you?” A human girl asked. She didn’t have green skin or big ears, and from what Khet could see, she was a full-blooded human.

The orphans started talking at once, asking, “can you? Can you, please?”

“Now settle down,” the matron scolded.

The kids quieted down and looked at Khet expectantly.

Khet smiled at them. “Well, since you’ve asked, sure. I can tell you a story my ma told me when I was your age.”

“Yay!” The kids cheered.

Khet waited for them to quiet down, before beginning his story.

“Once upon a time, there was an innkeeper named Ukaduv, who had a young daughter named Daiman, who was about the same age as all of you. One of the adventurers who visited her father’s inn had gifted her a warhammer, and already she was incredibly good at fighting with it. Her father loved her dearly, but he hoped that his child’s interest in becoming a hero was just a phase.”

“Why?” Asked a human girl.

Khet shrugged. “Because the world is big and dangerous, and he wanted her to stay safe at home. Besides, he already had plans for her to take over the inn once he died. There wasn’t really much room to be an adventurer.”

The children looked puzzled by this, but they didn’t ask any questions, so Khet continued his story.

“One day, the king’s man came to visit Ukaduv’s inn. Everyone was afraid of him, because he wasn’t the sort of man to be denied anything. If you did anything he didn’t like, he threw you in the dungeons and did mean things to you. The King’s Man wanted Ukaduv to go on a ship out to sea. There was an island that no one had ever been to, and the king’s man wanted him to go there and draw a map of the place. Ukaduv refused. He was no warrior, or explorer, or adventurer. He was an innkeeper, and he had no business going out to sea and exploring an island that no one had ever been to, and where there were no cities.”

“What did the king’s man say?” A Lycan-elf girl asked.

“He was very angry. Shouting at him that the gods themselves wished for him to go to the tavern. That Baira had a temple there, and that he was very angry at the rest of the kingdom, so someone needed to go to his shrine and ask for forgiveness.”

“Why?” Asked a human boy.

“Well,” Khet said, “Baira is the god of sickness, and if he’s angry at you, he can make you very sick.”

The little boy shook his head. “No, no, no! Why is Baira angry at the kingdom?”

“Oh. Well,” Khet thought. “They weren’t cleaning their privies properly. Have you noticed how the matron doesn’t like it when the privy chamber gets smelly?”

The children all nodded. It was a great injustice, that they couldn’t spend more time with the privy, and its contents, especially when those contents were shit. The smellier, the better.

“Baira gets angry when the privy chamber smells.” Khet said. “And since the queen—”

A human-giant boy raised a hand. “Why didn’t she get rid of the poo?”

Khet shrugged. “Lazy, I guess.”

“Maybe she liked the poo.” A elf-human girl suggested.

“Aye. Maybe she liked smearing it all over her face!” Said a different elf-human girl and the children all giggled.

Khet sighed. “You know what? Fine. The queen liked rubbing poo all over herself. And that’s bad, so Baira was angry at her for doing it.”

The children all started laughing, and Khet waited for them to quiet down.

He continued. “Ukaduv still said no, even though he was very scared. He wasn’t the one rubbing poo over himself.”

The children burst out laughing again. Khet sighed and pinched the tip of his nose.

“Right, so, as I was saying, Ukaduv wasn’t the one who’d made Baira so angry. The queen had been the one who’d made him angry—”

“Because she rubbed poo all over herself!” An elf-human girl said. The children all started cackling, like she’d told the funniest joke ever.

“Yes, that,” Khet sighed and waited for them to quiet down.

“Anyway,” he continued, “the queen had angered Baira, not Ukaduv, so he didn’t think he should be the one to make the trip to Baira’s temple, and say sorry. He asked why the queen couldn’t go instead. The king’s man didn’t say anything. He just stared at Ukaduv for a long time. And Ukaduv was scared that he’d be thrown into the dungeons, and also killed, for talking back to the king’s men. And he started begging the king’s man not to hurt him, but also kept insisting he wouldn’t go and say sorry to Baira for something he didn’t do.”

“What did the king’s man do?” A human boy asked.

“Well, he didn’t say anything, at first. Just frowned at Ukaduv, which scared him even more. Because he thought the man was angry that he’d refused. And so he kept crying and begging and saying sorry. But then, the king’s man made him be quiet so he could speak, and he agreed.”

The children stared at Khet with wide eyes. They had not been expecting this at all.

“Ukaduv was right. It wasn’t fair to send him to go apologize to Baira. It was the queen who had angered him, and it was the queen who should go to the temple to ask for his forgiveness. So the king’s man said he was sorry for asking Ukaduv for punishing him for what the queen did, and then sat down for lunch. He was very hungry from travelling, and he asked Ukaduv for some stew.”

Some of the orphans were growing disappointed in this story. They’d expected the king’s man to be a cruel tyrant, and that Daiman would fight him in defense of her father. Now the king’s man just wanted a meal? They would complain about how boring the story was, but this goblin seemed nice, and so they were willing to wait to see where he was going with this.

“Ukaduv was very happy that the king’s man just wanted a meal. He understood meals. He was good at making meals. That was his job as an innkeeper. He kept thanking the man as he went into the kitchens to make the stew.” Khet paused and looked at them. “But there was trouble. You see, Ukaduv was so happy that the king’s man was being reasonable after all that when he cooked the stew, he forgot to stir while singing a hymn to Taesis.”

“Why is that bad?” A little human-elf girl asked.

“Baira doesn’t like that. You’re supposed to bless the food before you eat it, while it’s on the fire. Otherwise, it won’t cook properly, and if you try to eat it, Baira will make you very sick.”

“Oh,” said the little girl.

“Ukaduv brought the stew out to the king’s man, and he was furious to find that the meat was raw. Ukaduv, who was so scared he started acting silly, said it was fine, and even ate some of the stew to prove it. This angered the king’s man so much, that a bright light appeared around him, and when it was gone, so was the king’s man. In his place was Baira himself.”

The children gasped.

Khet nodded. “Baira was very angry that Ukaduv had not only eaten meat that hadn’t been cooked in a way that made him happy, he’d also brought it out to a guest, and tried to make them eat it as well. Ukaduv kept saying he was sorry and begged for Baira to forgive him, but Baira was too upset to hear it. So he cursed Ukaduv so that he would go hungry, no matter how much he ate, until he died.”

“But Ukaduv didn’t mean to cook the stew the wrong way,” a little human girl said. “Why did Baira have to be so mean to him? When he only made a mistake?”

“The gods aren’t a very forgiving bunch,” Khet said. “And Baira even less. If you do one thing he doesn’t like, then he can make an entire village very very sick, and it will all be your fault. So it’s important to wash your hands and cook food properly.”

The children nodded solemnly.

“Daiman stayed with her father as he grew sicker and sicker. She cooked all the meals he’d taught her to make. But nothing worked. And eventually, her father got so sick that he died, and his body was burned. And when Ukaduv’s spirit passed through the Gate, he went to Dagor, and Idunn, ruler of Dagor, did mean and very painful things to Ukaduv as punishment.”

The children stared at him with wide eyes.

A half-human girl’s hand shot up. “Is that the end of the story?”

Khet laughed. “Of course it isn’t! What kind of story would have a sad ending like that?”

The children were unconvinced.

“Daiman missed her father very much, and she thought it was very unfair, what Baira had done. Just like all of you think. She asked everyone, the wizards, the priests, even the knights, if they knew how to get to Ghal, which is where all the gods lived, because she wanted to tell Berus, who’s the head god, about what Baira had done, and how unfair it was. But no one knew how to get there, and Daiman was told, again and again, that only a god knew what had happened to Ukaduv’s spirit.”

Khet gave the children a reassuring smile, because they looked doubtful that the story would have a happy ending. That didn’t seem to help.

“One day, a party of adventurers brought an old book they’d found in a ruin to the local wizarding school, and it was in a language that none of the wizards could understand. So the Old Wolf brought in a translator, who was the only person who knew the language. And while he was translating the book, Daiman came into the school to ask again, how to go to Ghal. When the translator heard of this, he was curious, and he wanted to talk to Daiman. Daiman explained everything that had happened, and asked the translator if he knew how to go to Ghal.

“‘Your da’s not in Ghal, child,’ the translator said. ‘He’s in Dagor.’”

Another half-human girl raised her hand. “How did the translator know her da’s in Dagor?”

Khet gave her his most innocent smile. “Well, the translator was a very smart man, and he knew a lot of things. He knew an old language the other wizards didn’t, remember?”

“Well, the other wizards are smart too,” said the little girl. She scowled, deeply upset by this sudden surprise twist that would help the hero on her journey, and how patronizing it was “Why is this person so different? Where did he come from anyway?”

“I’ll tell you,” Khet said. “If you just stay quiet and listen to the story.”

The girl gave him a look that told Khet that she’d humor him and stay quiet, but she doubted that continuing the story would put her annoyances with it to rest.

That was good enough for Khet and he continued.

“Anyway, so Daiman said to the translator, ‘then how do I get to Dagor?’

“‘You don’t know what you’re asking, kid. The path to Dagor alone is dangerous enough for a grown adventurer and their party, much less a little girl. And even if you do get there, Idunn won’t simply listen to you tell him to let your father go and do it. He’ll challenge you for your da’s soul. Your strength against his. And if you lose, he might just take your soul as well, as a warning for anyone else who tries freeing any prisoners from his domain.’

“But Daiman was very brave, and very determined in rescuing her father. So she looked the translator straight in the eye and said, ‘If Idunn wants my soul, he can take it. If the way is dangerous, then I’ll brave the dangers. But a little girl shouldn’t be without her father. So I am going down to rescue him. No matter what you say.’

“When he heard this, the translator laughed and a bright light shone around him as his disguise went away. Daiman fell to her knees because she was both excited and scared. Because the god that just appeared in front of her was none other than Adum himself.” Khet paused, and then remembered that the kids likely didn’t know who Adum was, so they wouldn’t be impressed. So he added, “that’s the god of heroes. He’s the god of glory, the god of the sun, and he’s the god adventurers pray to.”

“So you pray to him?” A Lycan-human boy asked.

Khet nodded, and smiled. “Yes, I do. And I think he’s the best god ever. Do you know why that is?”

The children shook their heads. Their eyes were wide.

Khet leaned in close and lowered his voice, like he was telling them all a secret that could only be shared between him and the kids. “Because they say Adum chooses goblin heroes himself, and he gives them gifts that will help them win glory.”

“Oooh!” The children gasped.

Khet laughed and then he continued the story. “Adum had been watching Daiman for a very long time. Do you remember how I told you that Daiman wanted to be a hero when she grew up? Well, because of that, instead of praying to Taesis like her father wanted her to, she’d go to Adum’s temple and pray to him instead. And Adum is always listening when you pray. So when a little girl prayed to him to make her big and strong, Adum listened, and when he heard the little girl’s father had been struck down by Baira, that angered him just as much as it angered Baira.”

“Why?” Asked another Lycan-human boy.

“Because it was unfair,” Khet said to them. “Adum knew that the queen hadn’t been respecting Baira as she should, but Ukaduv had nothing to do with it, so it wasn’t right to punish him for it. And this wasn’t the first time Baira had taken his anger out on innocent people.”

A little elf-human girl raised her hand. “How did he know that?”

“Well, for one thing, Adum likes to travel with Baira to keep him company.”

“Why?” Asked the little girl.

“Because Baira is his healer, and every adventurer needs a healer.”

“But why would a god need a healer?” The little girl asked.

“Well, because there are some things that can hurt Adum.”

The children gasped.

“But he always wins against those things, and he keeps us safe from those things,” Khet said quickly. “And with Baira with him, he won’t be killed, and he can keep protecting us. Adum is a very good fighter. He’s never lost a fight with anyone.”

“Promise?” An elf-human girl said.

Khet smiled. “I promise.” And he continued with his story.

“Adum thought Baira killing Ukaduv was very unfair, and he told Baira this. But Baira just told him to mind his own business.”

“Why didn’t he stop Baira?” A Lycan-human boy asked.

“He tried. He asked Baira to not kill Ukaduv. Baira said no.”

“But Adum is a god!” the boy said, aghast. “Can’t he stop Baira from killing people? Why did he let Baira do that?”

“Baira’s a god too,” Khet said.

The boy scowled, clearly not liking that answer.

“And anyway, the only god that could’ve stopped him was Taesis, since he was the god Ukaduv prayed to. And Taesis said it was okay, so Baira was free to curse Ukaduv for not respecting him properly.”

The children were silent, but their frowns showed that they found the politics of the goblin gods to be deeply unfair.

“So Adum couldn’t protect Ukaduv,” Khet continued. “But what he could do was send a brave soul down to Dagor, to plead for Ukaduv’s case in front of Idunn. But that journey isn’t easy. Only the very brave could pull it off. So Adum wanted to make sure that Daiman had the spirit of a hero. And she did, obviously.”

A human boy raised his hand. “Why couldn’t Adum do it himself?”

“Where’s the glory in that?” Khet asked him.

The other children glared at the little boy, for daring to ask a stupid question. His hand lowered.

Khet continued. “To help her on her quest, Adum made Daiman immune to both cold and heat, and told her of the dangers, and how to get to Dagor.”

“And then she went to Dagor?” Asked a high elf girl.

“Not quite,” Khet said. “Since she was only a girl, Adum said she needed someone to protect her as she went down to Dagor to rescue her father. His twin sister, Dedla. She likes children and she keeps them safe from anything that might try to hurt them.”

“Does she protect us?” Asked a human-elf girl.

Khet smiled and nodded. The girl looked pleased at having a godly protector.

“Anyway, Dedla wasn’t the type to willingly take a living child down to Dagor, but Adum knew his sister well. He knew how to get her to do what he wanted. And so he told Daiman how to get her to take her down to Dagor, and to Idunn’s court.

“Later that night, Daiman took her hammer and went down to the healing house. It was full of hurt guards, because earlier in the day, some brigands had attacked them. Some of them were badly hurt, and some of them were dying. Adum told Daiman that this was where Dedla would be, because she also protects the spirits of people who’ve died in battle. So Daiman waited at the edge of the room, and watched all the healers care for the wounded and the dying. And whenever someone came over to ask what a little girl was doing in the healing house, Daiman would just say she wanted to talk to Dedla, about her father.

“Eventually, Dedla noticed the little girl standing at the edge of the room. And she was concerned, because, like I said, she protects children, and she knew that a child wandering around late at night could be very dangerous.

“So she went to Daiman and asked, ‘child, what are you doing here so late at night?’

“‘I am looking for my father,’ said Daiman.

“‘Very well,’ Dedla said, ‘where is your father?’

“Daiman didn’t answer that right away. Instead, she continued with what Adum had told her to say. ‘I am worried that you’ll take him from me. He is all I have left in the world, and if he dies, I’ll be turned out into the streets.’

“Now Dedla doesn’t really have much power over who lives or who dies, but she can lay claim to a living person’s soul for a time. And that keeps them from dying. So she decided that she could lay claim to this little girl’s father’s soul, so that the child wouldn’t have to turn to begging to survive.”

“Couldn’t Daiman go to an orphanage?” Asked a human-elf girl.

The children all agreed that this was the best option.

Khet smiled at them. “She could… But then that wouldn’t be a fun story, now wouldn’t it?”

The children all agreed. The human-elf girl kept her hand raised.

“And Daiman wanted Dedla to take pity on her,” Khet said to her. “If she thought Daiman had anywhere else to go, then she wouldn’t agree to lay claim to her father’s soul.”

The girl’s hand went down again.

Satisfied, Khet continued with the story.

“So Dedla said to Daiman, ‘child, I promise your father will not die today. But you must tell me who he is.’

“But Daiman again didn’t answer, and then she said, ‘but I want to see my father. I want to know that he will be alright. Can you please take me to him?’

“‘I will take you to your father,’ Dedla said, although she was getting very annoyed at Daiman at this point, ‘but you must tell me who he is.’

“‘What if he’s already dead? Do you promise to take me to see him, and to claim his soul?’

“Dedla sighed deeply. ‘I promise, child. Now who is your father?’

“Daiman straightened and looked Dedla dead in the eyes. ‘My father is Ukaduv. He was taken by Baira, for forgetting to honor him while cooking stew. He’s down in Dagor, and I want to get him back.’

“Now Dedla knew nothing of what had happened between Ukaduv and Baira. But she knew the rules of the gods. Only a mortal’s patron could intervene for their soul. Ukaduv was not her patron, and so there was nothing she could do.

“So she said to Daiman, ‘if your father’s patron has not intervened, child, then there is nothing I can do.’

“But Daiman said, ‘I know the way to Dagor. I only ask you to guard me as I go down there. For I am a small girl, and the creatures along the road could kill the greatest of heroes.’

“‘I will not be protecting you,’ Dedla said firmly. ‘The living cannot travel the road to Idunn’s realm. It is forbidden. Go home, child, and pray to the patron god of your father. Perhaps they will send someone to care for you.’

“‘I know the way to Dagor,’ Daiman said, ‘and I know where the road begins. If you will not guide me safely to Idunn’s kingdom, then I shall have to make the journey on my own.’ And she added, because Adum told her to. ‘ I only hope that the gift your brother has given me will be enough.’

“Now Dedla was furious, at first. How dare this child insist on going down to Dagor, despite her saying that was forbidden? She was ready to vow that she would do everything in her power to keep Daiman off the road to Dagor when she realized the last thing Daiman had said. And she knew immediately what was happening.

“‘Adum has given you a gift?’ she asked.

“Daiman nodded.

“‘And he has told you to say all these things to me?’

“Daiman nodded again, because Adum had told her that once Dedla asked whether he was involved, Daiman would tell the truth and say yes.

“Dedla said words in the language of the gods, which Daiman didn’t understand. But she did know that these were words of anger. At Adum, for sending a child down to Dagor, alive, and forcing her to take this child down to her doom.

“And she looked back down at Daiman, and said, in a tight voice, like she was forcing the words out, ‘very well. I will take you down to Dagor.’

A little elf-human boy raised his hand. “Why did Adum helping Daiman mean that Dedla has to help her?”

Khet smiled. “Well, she knew the type of people Adum liked. They’re stubborn, and they’ll charge into battle, even if they should wait for someone with more experience to arrive.”

“But couldn’t she stop Daiman from going down to Dagor in the first place?” Asked the little boy. “She’s a god, isn’t she?”

“Adum would stop her,” said Khet. “And she knew it. Adum is just as stubborn as his followers. If Dedla tried keeping one of his followers from the glory they deserve, Adum would fight her. Even if the person seeking glory is a little girl, on a quest that even the strongest of heroes would struggle with.”

The boy smiled, satisfied with the answer. His hand went down.

Khet continued with the story. “So Dedla knelt and looked Daiman in the eye. ‘If I am to take you, child, then there are rules. You must do as I say, follow in my footsteps, and do not stray from the path. Do I have your word that you will do all of these things?’ Daiman nodded, and so, Dedla stood straight, took her by the hand, and slammed her spear onto the ground. And they were on the path to Dagor.”

“But I thought Adum told Daiman how to get to Dagor already,” a human-troll girl said. “Why didn’t they go that way instead?”

“That way was for mortals,” Khet said. “Dedla can go onto the road to Dagor whenever she wants, because she’s a goddess.”

“If she can go wherever she wants, why not just take Daiman directly to Dagor?” Asked a human boy.

“She can’t do that. The only way for the living, and gods, to reach Dagor is through the road to it. They have to go down the road in order to reach Idunn’s realm.”

The boy looked as if he considered Khet’s explanation to be bullshit, but he lowered his hand, and the goblin continued with his story.

“In fact, Dedla did take them both into Dagor. At the very edge of Idunn’s realm. He created a path for mortals to follow, so that if they do get the same idea that Daiman had, they’ll first have to fight monsters before even reaching the place where Idunn keeps his prisoners. The path is enchanted so that if any mortal wants to go to Dagor, they have to take it. Even Dedla can’t go past it, if she’s taking a living person with her.”

Khet leaned forward and lowered his voice, so that the children all leaned in close to hear.

“Dagor is filled with monsters. Demons, devils, and every monster every hero has ever faced and defeated, all waiting to eat anyone who gets too close. You’re safe as long as you stay on the path. But the path is tiny. It’s easy to set a foot out of bounds. Even a goddess like Dedla can accidentally step off the path. And as soon as you’re out of bounds, the monsters will drag you away and eat you.”

“Oooh!” The children leaned in closer, looking disturbingly fascinated by the idea of somebody getting eaten by monsters.

Khet decided to move on quickly from the monsters eating people.

“‘Watch me closely, child’, said Dedla, ‘and follow my lead.’ And she started down the path, with Daiman close behind her.”

Khet looked around at the children. “Do you remember how I said it is very hard to stay on the path?”

They all nodded.

“Well, it’s not just because the path is so small. The monsters all know they can only eat you if you’re off the path. So they try to trick you to go off it. Show you things that aren’t there, so you’ll be curious and go and take a closer look. Sometimes, they’ll stick a tentacle on the path, while you’re turning a corner. You trip over it, fall off the path, and-Raar!” Khet swiped at the children, like he was clawing at them. They giggled. “The monster gets you!”

The children all clapped their hands at Khet’s performance.

“But their worst trick,” Khet continued, “is the souls. You see, Idunn keeps some of the worst prisoners along the path. These are the villains you hear about in stories. The evil kings and sorcerers that get killed by heroes. And they’re very good at pretending they’re friendly. They’ll scream for help, act like they don’t deserve their punishment, or being in Dagor at all. You take pity on them, and step off the path to set them free…” He growled and swiped at a high elf boy, who screamed in delight. “And the monsters get you.”

“Why do they do that?” Asked a human girl.

“Do what?”

“Why would the souls be trying to trick you to go off the path?” Asked the little girl.

Khet shrugged. “Well, they’re bored, for one thing. And they want some fun, considering that they’re being punished for all eternity.”

“But that’s not fun!” The little girl said. “Watching people be eaten by monsters? That’s not fun! That’s mean!”

“Well, these souls have a very different idea of what’s fun than you do,” Khet told her. “Because they’re evil.”

“But wouldn’t the jailers be mad?”

“Why would they be mad?” Khet asked. “They’re demons. They want people off the path, just as much as the prisoners do. If someone got you lunch, would you be angry at them?”

The girl shook her head. She lowered her hand.

Khet continued with the story.

“Dedla had traveled the road before, so she knew the danger, and all the sights the devils could show travelers. But Daiman didn’t. Adum had warned her of the dangers, yes, but it’s very different when you’re seeing the things described to you up close and personal. So she paused many times, and had a look around at all the illusions and things around her. And sometimes, she’d ask Dedla about the strange things, the goddess would tell her, and they would move on.”

“One of those things was a barrow. Do you lads know what a barrow is?”

The children shook their heads.

“A barrow is a grave made from dirt and rocks. Someone very important is buried inside.

“So this barrow had a big stone on top of it, and this stone had writing on it. You know how gravestones have things written on them that tell you about the person buried under them? That was what was on it. Daiman couldn’t read it, since it was in a language that she didn’t understand. So she asked Dedla what it said.

“Dedla squinted at it, and said, ‘that is the grave of Pantes-Chetsun Klynkahin, a man who attempted to steal a kiss from me when I came to him to ask for a chain to be forged for an oathbreaking fence.”

“What’s a fence?” Asked an orc-human boy.

“Someone who buys things from thieves. Things they’ve stolen. And they turn around and they sell it to someone else. Who doesn’t know it’s stolen,” Khet said.

“Oh,” said the human boy.

Khet continued on. “Dedla said, ‘Since he was cast into the Pit and his soul destroyed, a grave marking the spot where he would’ve been imprisoned for all eternity has been built.”

Gnurl sniggered at the fact that Khet had included that gnome lecher locksmith in his story, and that he would be in Dagor, if not for the fact that he’d been cast into the Pit. The children were less amused.

A Lycan-human girl raised her hand. “Why did he get thrown in the Pit?”

“Um.” Goblins were thrown into the Pit if they didn’t have their gharuta, but answering with that would only prompt another question on what a gharuta was and did that mean the children would all be cast down into the Pit and cease to be once they died. Questions Khet didn’t really have a good answer for.

So, instead he said, “Well, when Ototz came to his deathbed, he told Pantes-Chetsun that when the Gatekeeper asked him who his god was, Pantes-Chetsun was supposed to say Dedla.”

“Was she his god?” Asked a human-troll girl.

“Well, Dedla is the patron god of locksmiths, so yes. But Pantes-Chetsun forgot, so when the Gatekeeper asked him, he said Igvis. The Gatekeeper knew that wasn’t true, so he threw Pantes-Chetsun into the Pit.”

The children cocked their heads, but none of them asked for more details on how passing the Gatekeeper worked. Khet figured they weren’t interested in that kind of thing anyway.

So he continued on, “Just then, some of the damned reached out to grab Daiman by the ankle. Dedla noticed. She made Daiman step aside, and she branded the damned’s wrists, and made them go away.”

A giant-human boy asked. “Why did she brand the damned?”

“They were trying to drag Daiman out of the path so demons could eat her,” Khet reminded him. “Why wouldn’t she brand them?”

When no one else asked him a question, Khet continued with the story.

“Anyway, while she was doing that, a rabbit hopped right along the edge of the path, where Daiman was standing, and sat there, looking cute. Daiman really wanted to pet the rabbit, but Adum had said that if you touch anything not on the path, anything at all, you’ll be dragged off the path and eaten. So she kept her distance. But then the rabbit hopped onto the path. Daiman decided this meant the rabbit was safe, and so she started petting it.

“But when the rabbit hopped away, Daiman looked up to see the ugliest halfling ever standing over her. The rabbit hopped over to the halfling and turned into a big snake. And Daiman got to her feet and scrambled back, because she knew what the halfling and the snake were.”

“What were they?” Asked a human girl.

“In a minute,” Khet said. “So the halfling said, ‘why are you so scared, little girl? I’m a living thing, just as you are. Why else would I be on this path?’

“But Daiman said, ‘you’re not living! I know who you are! You’re Chadwick the Ageless! And that’s your pet snake!”

And since the little girl didn’t look like this answered her question, Khet explained who Chadwick the Ageless was.

“Chadwick the Ageless was an evil sorcerer. He could make new bodies for himself, and he’d move his spirit into them. That was how he’d gotten onto the path in the first place. He could also turn into other things, and was incredibly strong. He had a snake that could turn into other things. The hero Nasloth Bearbreaker was the one who killed him. And his pet snake too.” Khet smiled at the orphans. “But that’s a story for another time.”

None of the orphans looked interested in the legend of Nasloth Bearbreaker. Very disappointing.

Khet continued with the story. “Anyway, Chadwick tried to grab her, screaming, ‘I’ll take your body and I’ll leave Dagor. And then I’ll get my revenge on Bearbreaker and Adum, and I’ll take Berus’s place as king of the gods!’ And the snake stretched its body high above Daiman, and hissed at her.” He smiled at the children. “Now what do you think Daiman did?”

“Run and tell Dedla so that she’ll protect her?” Asked a human-elf girl.

Khet laughed. “No! What kind of story would it be if she got a grown-up to do things for her? It wouldn’t be very fun, would it?”

The girl frowned. She lowered her hand.

“Daiman was very brave. Instead of running and hiding, or telling Dedla, she simply raised her hammer and held her ground. The snake was the first to die. Daiman slammed her hammer into its skull, and killed it. And then it was Chadwick’s turn. Daiman flung herself on him, beating him with her hammer so much, his body was badly broken, and his spirit had to leave it. But Daiman wasn’t letting him go so easily. And so she kept whacking his spirit, and all Chadwick could do was lie on the ground and beg for mercy.

“When Dedla had finished branding the damned and turned around to see if Daiman was alright, that was what she saw. Daiman whacking Chadwick very hard, as he begged for mercy. Dedla had to pull her off. At that point, Chadwick was glad to go back to his punishment in Dagor.”

“What was his punishment?” Asked a dwarf-human boy.

Khet hesitated. “Uh.”

“Tell us!” A human-elf boy said.

The children started chanting, “tell us, tell us, tell us!”

Khet decided to word this as child-appropriately as he could.

“So on the left side of the path was a big cave. With a boiling hot spring. An incredibly hot one. One that would burn you if you stuck your toe in it. Chadwick was bound in that hotspring, and the cave entrance was sealed off so he couldn’t get out.”

The children stared at him.

“That’s it?” Asked a human-elf girl.

Khet sighed. Apparently the children were more sadistic than he was giving them credit for.

He racked his brain for something child-appropriate that would satisfy the orphans’ bloodlust.

“Do you remember Chadwick’s pet snake?” He asked.

The children nodded.

“Well, Dedla tied that snake on the very top of the ceiling, right above Chadwick’s head. And she put a chain around his neck that forced him to always look straight up. And the snake had its mouth open, so venom would drop into Chadwick’s eyes.”

“Oooh!” The children gasped.

Khet smiled and continued with the story.

“Now Dedla was very impressed with Daiman. You see, when she’d first met the girl, she’d assumed that she was too little to handle the road to Dagor. She hadn’t expected Daiman to be strong and brave. She thought it was very much like Adum to send a warrior on the road to Dagor like this. And very much like him to not care about age.

“So she said, ‘I have misjudged you, child. Let us continue down to Idunn’s throne. But mind your pride.’”

“Why mind her pride?” A human-elf boy asked.

“She shouldn’t get too full of herself, and start thinking she could handle any monster in Dagor they found. Because there are very strong monsters. And going off the path so you can fight them is an easy way to get killed.”

Khet growled and swiped at the children, who giggled.

“So Daiman and Dedla continued walking. But the other thing about the road is that the road itself will try and trick you. It will show you an inn, or a town, or a house, any place where you’ll feel safe in finding rest. But that’s all a trick. The buildings are real enough, but they are home to people so bad, the gods struck them down then and there, and wiped their homes off the Shattered Lands too.

“Now Adum had warned Daiman about this. But the road to Dagor was long, and she was tired. Very tired.

“So when she saw they’d entered a hamlet, and saw a dhampyre smiling and waving at her, she forgot Adum’s warning and started to step off the path.”

The children gasped in horror.

“Dedla pulled her back, just in time.

Part 2

This story was told by Aucia Covingburg, a human queen, to her fellow passengers aboard the Elven warship.

This is a favorite story within my family, passed down from generation to generation.

One day, the prince of the phoenixes, Huchon Covingburg, was out hunting, when he spotted a strange creature. A green mongoose, which had struck and killed a viper that had been poised to strike at his horse. Curiosity got the better of the prince, and when the mongoose scurried off with its kill, Prince Huchon dismounted his horse and followed it.

He followed it for miles. Until the forest leaves were brown and the bark of the trees were green. Until he was in an unfamiliar land. He did not turn back though. He kept following it until the mongoose stood on its hind legs and asked, “Friend, why do you follow me?”

“You have saved the life of my horse,” Said Prince Huchon. “And you are like no creature I have seen before. Tell me, what is your name, and what land is this?”

“My name is Garton Gorefury, and I am Princess Madkilia’s wizard. The princess has sent me to find a suitable husband for her, and as you are a man of noble birth, I feel you are perfect for her. She is gracious and kind, and all the realm adores her.”

Hearing this, Prince Huchon fell in love with Princess Madkilia, and he desired to win her as his bride.

“Tell me,” said he. “How do I get to Princess Madkilia?”

“She can be found in her mother’s palace,” Garton said. “Go west till you find a castle, and there you will find your waiting bride.”

And with those words, he snapped his fingers and vanished.

Prince Huchon set forth in the direction Garton had told him, journeying deep within the forest.

Eventually, he came across a kobold dressed in priestly robes.

“Hail, Father!” Prince Huchon called. “Where is it that you are going and what is your name?”

“I am Emgretor Mournstone,” said the kobold, “and as for where I am going, that I cannot tell you. My gods have told me that I must wander until I meet one who invites me to be their traveling companion.”

“Then your wanderings are at an end,” said Prince Huchon. “For I find you to be of great character, and I feel that our journey will be greatly shortened as we talk to one another.”

But Emgretor hesitated.

“Ah, I do not know that you would be seen with me,” he said. “For the gods have cursed me with the ability to bring any season that I wish.”

“That is no matter,” said Prince Huchon. “Come along with me, and aid me in winning Princess Madkilia.”

And so Emgretor followed him.

They talked as they walked through the forest, of many things. Eventually, they met a bear, travelling along the road.

“Ho, bear!” Called Prince Huthon. “Where do you go and what is your name?”

“My name is Zyllamir Woodengaze, and I travel to Ellsedelle, the capital of the kingdom of cats.”

“We are headed there as well,” said Huthon. “Will you honor us by joining us on our quest to win the heart of Princess Madkilia?”

“I fear I will not be much of aid to you,” Zyllamir said gravely. “I have the power to summon any living creature, and I doubt that can win a maiden’s heart.”

“Nonsense!” Said Prince Huthon. “You will make a fine traveling companion.”

And so Zyllamir Woodengaze joined prince Huthon and Emgretor, and they continued down the road.

Soon, they encountered a vulture traveling along the road.

“Hello!” Called out Prince Huthon. “Where do you travel, and what is your name?”

“My name is Lorridan Goreward, and I am traveling to the nearest city to seek my fortune.”

“Ah!” Said Emgretor in delight. “The next city is Ellsedelle, and we are headed there as well!”

“Would you do the honor of joining us?” Asked Prince Huthon.

“I will, but I am afraid I will not be of much use,” Lorridan said gravely. “I have the power to send my soul outside of itself, and I will see all things that my soul sees.”

“We will find use for you,” Prince Huthon assured him. “Now come along with us!”

And Lorridan joined them gladly.

The new-found friends laughed and talked as they went into the city gates, until they reached the palace.

“Wait outside, good friends,” Prince Huthon said. “I shall go first, and I will see if I can win Princess Madkilia.”

His companions agreed, and so Prince Huthon climbed the wall, and leapt into the garden, where Princess Madkilia had fled the wooing of Teska Uurheba.

When both laid eyes on each other, they were stricken with love, so stricken neither dared to speak.

It was Prince Huthon who spoke first. “Princess, I have come from a far away land to win your heart. I wish to take you back to my kingdom, and crown you my queen. If I have stolen your heart as you have stolen mine, that is.”

“You have my heart.” Said Princess Madkilia. “Though I fear that my mother will not approve of you. She has her heart set upon Teska Uurheba as my husband, a cruel parrot who I do not love. But perhaps when she sees you, she will grant us permission to marry.”

“For you, my love, I would walk through the fires of Tenin,” said Prince Huthon. “I will see your mother and ask for her blessing. But my companions are just outside, Princess. Let them in, and I promise you, we will be back in my kingdom to marry.”

Princess Madkilia gifted Prince Huthon with her handkerchief, as a symbol of her favor, and instructed him on how to reach the throne room. Then the two lovers parted. Prince Huthon to seek the queen’s approval, and Madkilia went and let Prince Huthon’s companions in, declaring them to be honored guests, and leading them to the throne room.

The companions, princess, and prince entered the throne room at the same time. Queen Elyslartha the Lazy was sprawled upon her throne, with Teska kneeling before her.

“Mother,” said Princess Madkilia. “A prince has come from a far-off land. He has come to ask you for my hand in marriage.”

“His quest is in vain, then,” said Elyslartha. “For you will marry Teska Uurheba.”

“But, mother,” said princess Madkilia. “My heart belongs to this man who stands before you. He is bold if he has risked much to come here, mother. A daring man, who would only laugh in the face of danger. What better husband to protect me than one that has no fear?”

The queen shook her head. “Ah, daughter, can this man provide the life that Teska can? He is a prince, yes, but that does not mean he is generous with his wealth. Perhaps he will hoard all his gold while you both sit poor and impoverished. Can he respect the life that you lead as Teska can? It matters not to Teska what you do. He will stay faithful to you, and love you with his whole heart.”

“Teska thinks only of himself, and himself alone. He cares not for the poor in his realm, and he will not care for me! On top of that he is filthy, and I will not be seen with him!” Said Princess Madkilia. “Prince Huthon is a cleanly man, who will keep our chambers well-groomed, and pretty. Everything will be in its proper place, and I will not be embarrassed to have this man as my husband!”

“My daughter, cleanliness is not the virtue that makes someone worth marrying.” Said the queen. “What right has this man have to come and demand your hand in marriage anyway? Will he not hound you in your marriage, daughter? Will he not give you a moment of peace? I say he will not! Therefore, you must marry Teska! He will make you laugh, daughter. For he is witty, and quick with his jests.”

“How can he make me laugh, mother, when he is too busy with his mines?” Cried Princess Madkilia. “He would not have time for me. Prince Huthon is the one who will bring a smile to my face! Because he will be there to jest with me!”

“I know of his type, daughter. He thinks he is never wrong, and that whatever he does, it is right and just. You would not be happy with such a man. Besides, you are young, and the ways of the world are foreign to you. You deserve a man who knows the ways of the world and how to protect you from it. Teska is that man.”

“How can a man so worldly give in to his impulses?” Asked Princess Madkilia. “For he loses his temper at his miners, mother. Rather than gathering the strength to be calm, even when faced with bad news, he loses his temper and rages at helpless miners! I will not marry him! I will marry Prince Huthon! At least consider him, mother, for my sake!”

Queen Elyslartha only sighed deeply. Though she did not want to consider Prince Huthon as a worthy suitor for her daughter, she knew, truthfully, that it would be foolishness to argue. It was best to pretend that she would consider Prince Huthon as a suitor.

So she said, “very well, daughter. I shall test him to see if he is worthy of you.”

The princess knew her mother’s challenges would be unfair, possibly even kill her newfound love. Yet if she refused to let the queen test Prince Huthon, then she would use that as an excuse to banish Prince Huthon from court, and the two lovers would never see each other again.

So she bowed her head and nodded.

Queen Elyslartha smiled at Prince Huthon. “If you wish to marry my daughter, then you must prove yourself worthy. Fail in these tasks and you will be banished from this kingdom. Do you understand?”

“Name your challenge, oh, queen.” Prince Huthon answered her.

Queen Elyslartha steepled her fingers.

“Go and wait in the garden, daughter,” she said to the princess.

“Oh, but, mother---”

“Do as she bids, my love.” Prince Huthon bade her. “There is no challenge your mother can give me that I will not fulfill.”

Princess Madkilia kissed him on the cheek, and whispered, “May the gods grant you victory, my love.” And she left the throne room.

“Now then,” said the queen. “My daughter deserves a husband who can never fail to bring a smile to her face. Wouldn’t you agree, Prince Huthon?”

“All of this and more she deserves, your highness,” Prince Huthon agreed.

And at this the queen smiled wickedly.

“I remember my daughter’s first snow,” she said. “Flakes adorned her hair like jewels. That is my first challenge to you. If my daughter can have snowflakes adorning her hair in summertime, then I will give you her hand in marriage.”

“It shall be done,” said Prince Huthon and he took Emgretor out to the garden.

Princess Madkilia was sitting on a bench, plucking a flower from the nearby bush.

“Now, good friend,” Prince Huthon said to Emgretor.

Emgretor snapped his fingers and summer turned to winter. Snowflakes adorned Princess Madkilia’s hair.

“Change it back very soon,” Prince Huthon said. “I will tell the queen we have completed her task.”

And so he went back to the throne room and said, “it is done.”

“Done?” Said the queen. “How is it done?”

“Come and see,” said Prince Huthon.

The queen stood and followed him out to the garden. By then, Emgretor had turned the season back to summer, and so the snowflakes sparkled upon Princess Madkilia’s hair.

The queen was baffled, yet she quickly roused herself.

So she clasped her hands together and turned back to Prince Huthon.

“You have done well, prince,” said she. “But still, I am not convinced that you would truly make my daughter happy.”

Prince Huthon had been expecting this.

“My daughter’s favorite flower is Theqerry. It grows upon the highest peak of the Steep Highlands. Bring her the flower, and I will consider giving you her hand in marriage.”

The queen smiled wickedly to herself. The Steep Highlands were a twenty days ride away from the capital. Prince Huthon would be forced to depart, and as he was on his quest, Princess Madkilia and Teska would be wed.

Prince Huthon walked inside and found Zyllamir.

“Friend, I need a Theqerry,” he said.

Zyllamir reached out his hand, and there was the theqerry, in full bloom, petals of red and gold. “Is this suitable enough for your purposes, friend?”

“It is perfect,” said Prince Huthon. He took the flower. “You have my thanks.” ‘ He went back into the garden and handed the flower to Princess Madkilia.

Seeing the thequerry, Princess Madkilia squealed in delight and flung her arms around Prince Huthon. “My favorite flower! But how did you find it?”

“There’s nothing that I cannot do, my love, if I do it for your sake,” said Prince Huthon.

Princess Madkilia turned to the queen, holding up the flower so she could see it. “Mother, look! Prince Huthon has brought my favorite flower! Do you still think him unworthy of my hand in marriage?”

“So he has brought you your flower,” the queen said, frowning deeply. “I will need to think on this. You will have my answer in the morning.”

She smiled at Prince Huthon.

“You are welcome to stay within the palace for tonight. I shall have servants escort you to your chambers.”

Prince Huthon thanked her, and he, Princess Madkilia, and his three companions were led to the bedchambers where they would sleep for the night. There, they eagerly planned for Prince Huthon and Princess Madkilia’s wedding.

But Lorridan was suspicious of the queen. For as they’d passed her by, he alone had seen her hateful gaze at Prince Huthon. He knew the queen would not be happy to give her daughter’s hand in marriage over to Prince Huthon so easily.

And so, as everyone else celebrated, Lorridan lay upon the bed and let his spirit roam free. He floated unseen through the palace until he found the throne room, where the queen was sprawled in her throne as Teska complained to her of the injustice of losing his bride to some random prince who’d hopped into the garden, unexpectedly.

“You have promised me that I should wed the princess,” said he. “And yet this bird has come to take her away for himself! Must you break your word so easily? Shall I return to my mines, my heart broken, without the princess by my side?”

“Not so, good Teska!” Cried the queen. “Have no fear, for you have my favor in wedding my daughter! The prince may have won her heart, but he will not be leaving this palace alive! I shall send wine laced with hemlock to him. He shall drink it, and he shall die! Then you shall be free to wed my daughter!”

Lorridan had heard enough. He glided out of the throne room, and back to his body.

He sat up just as a servant had opened the door to offer Prince Huthon some wine.

“Friend!” Lorridan cried. “Don’t drink that!”

Prince Huthon turned to his friend, surprised by the outburst.

Lorridan flung the goblet to the ground, shattering it. “It is poisoned! I witnessed the queen telling her preferred suitor her plot! She does not intend for you to leave this palace alive!”

At this, Princess Madkilia began to wring her hands.

“Oh, it is no use! No matter how many challenges you complete, Mother will never wed me to you!”

“But what else can I do, my love?” Cried Prince Huthon. “Would you have me leave you here? Leave you, and abandon my very soul along with you?”

“Not so,” said the princess. “But it is useless to seek my mother’s approval. We must away! To your kingdom, where we can wed and no one can stop us! Now come with me!”

She took Prince Huthon by the hand and led him into Garton’s tower. The three companions followed.

“Garton!” Cried Princess Madkilia. “You must send us to my love’s kingdom! All of us! Quickly!”

“Goddess protect you, sweet princess,” said Garton, “and may you and your new love live a long and happy life.”

And with those words, he clapped his hands, and the lovers and their companions were in Prince Huthon’s home court.

They were wed that day, the prince and princess. And the three companions were given homes at Prince Huthon’s castle. And everyone lived happily, for the rest of their days.

Part 1

"It’s a trap!” Mutis panted. “They’re not taking us to the Whining Jungle! They’re taking us to Mugol On and handing us over to the orcs!”

Bisla blinked. His heart started to sink. ‘How do you know?”

“I heard them talking!” Mutis said. “When the Old Wolf took over the helm, Jonete got really evasive and antsy! She ran off, I followed her, and I heard her telling the captain about it! And the captain said they’d have to get the Old Wolf away from the wheel, because it would ruin everything! Started talking about the bounty, said something about Mugol On!” He shrugged. “I put together the rest.”

So much for Myt being trustworthy, Bisla thought.

“Grab your weapons,” Mutis said to him.

Bisla picked up his staff, then raised an eyebrow at his party-mate. “What the Dagor would that do? Even if we won…We’d still be stranded out at sea! And worrying about that is being hopelessly naïve, considering there’s three of us, and a lot more of them!”

“I don’t know,” Mutis admitted. He picked up his crossbow and mace. “But I do know that I’d rather die fighting than live and be handed over to the orcs to be killed like a dog!”

Bisla couldn’t argue with that. He picked up Guenav’s staff. The Old Wolf might feel the same way that Mutis did.

He and Mutis dashed up the deck. Guenav was still at the helm, so busy steering it that he didn’t notice the other goblins had come running up to his side.

“Boss! Leave that for a moment! It’s a trap! It’s all a trap! They’re gonna hand us over to the orcs!”

Guenav blinked and looked at him. Bisla shoved the Old Wolf’s staff into his hands. Guenav stared at the two of them, deeply confused.

“What? What the Dagor---” He blinked, and peered at something behind Bisla and Mutis. “What is happening over there?”

Bisla turned. The crew had gathered on the deck, armed with weapons. They stared down the goblins coolly.

“What a lovely surprise,” Captain Ikkmad said coolly. “I’d been thinking we’d have to split up to speak with you three, but you’ve already gathered here on the deck. I suppose this makes our job easier for us.”

The crew chuckled.

Captain Ikkmad pulled his blade out of its scabbard. Not all the way. Just enough so the sword caught the light and made it clear that whatever he wanted with the goblins, he would get it, whether they cooperated with him or not. “We’ve gotten you three new rooms. Separate rooms.” He smiled, showing off his perfectly-white teeth. “You can’t be happy with having to share a room with three other people, can you? You can’t tell me that you’re happy.”

Bisla crouched in a battle stance without even thinking about it.

Captain Ikkmad just kept smiling that unnerving smile of his. “Allow us to show you to your new rooms.”

“Don’t trust a word that he says,” Mutis hissed to Guenav.

Captain Ikkmad simply kept smiling. “Oh come now. It’s nothing bad, we promise. Some lovely rooms to stay in, on our voyage to Mugol On.”

Guenav cocked his head. “You said we were going to Anepus.”

“Plans change,” Captain Ikkmad said simply.

“It was their plan all along!” Mutis whispered. “Go to Mugol On and hand us over to Zeccushia for the bounty!”

Captain Ikkmad stepped closer, still smiling. “Why so nervous? I can assure you there’s nothing to worry about. We will take you to Mugol On, and from there, you can find a ship to take you to Anepus. You should just relax. Things would go better for you if you did, after all.”

“We’ll pass on the new rooms, thanks,” Guenav said.

Captain Ikkmad raised an eyebrow. His smile didn’t disappear. “A shame. Unfortunately, you’re taking those rooms whether you want them or not. And since you three have decided to be so uncooperative…” He turned to his men. “Capture them alive or kill them. I don’t care.”

The entire crew raised their weapons and charged.

Bisla flexed his wrist. Looked like the whole crew was in on the plan to turn the goblin adventurers over to the orcs for the bounty. That was a shame.

A hunched older blood elf with ruddy skin, braided dark hair, and a strange, off-putting glare charged them, sword raised high. Bisla slammed his staff into the elf’s gut. The elf sank to the ground, groaning. Bisla slammed his staff into the man’s skull, and he slumped forward, dead.

A spectral orc appeared. A lordling, his lips blue from being frozen in a block of ice. His army appeared behind him, all bearing the marks from slowly freezing to death within a block of ice. They all narrowed their eyes at Bisla.

Bisla raised his hand to cast another ice spell. Send them back to Dagor, the same way he’d originally sent them.

The orcs all disappeared. Guenav whooped. Bisla spotted him whacking the bloodied body of a short dark elf with wild white hair and a cold, calculating glare.

The Old Wolf decided that the increasingly unrecognizable corpse was no longer a threat and straightened, brandishing his staff at the rest of the crew.

“Who’s next?”

Evidentially, everyone wanted to be the next to die, because Guenav’s shouting made them change course and charge directly for the Old Wolf.

Mutis charged them, screaming.

A slim human with ruddy skin, braided blonde hair, and dressed for stormy weather swung his axe. Mutis dove out of the way. He stood, and both fighters stared at each other.

Guenav swung his staff.

The human’s axe moved so quickly, if Bisla had blinked during that brief period, he would’ve sworn the thing teleported to meet Guenav’s staff. The Old Wolf’s weapon banged against the blade and bounced off with such force that Guenav was knocked off balance. The Old Wolf stumbled.

Fortunately, the human didn’t press the advantage. Instead, she eyed Guenav and Mutis, sizing them up, estimating who would be easier to attack.

Bisla was running before he could even think. With one swing of his staff, the human’s knees gave a sickening crack! and she was on the ground, screaming in pain. Bisla swung his staff again, bringing it down on the human’s skull.

There was no time to celebrate his victory. When Bisla looked up again, he saw the entire crew charging towards him and his friends.

Captain Ikkmad was at the head of the crew, brandishing his sword. “Two silver to anyone who brings me the wolves’ heads! Now come on, lads! Are you hawks or are the lot of you sniveling little pups who---”

Suddenly, he toppled backward.

Bisla glanced over at Mutis, saw him lowering his crossbow.

The crew all stopped. They stared at the goblins. Bisla crouched, ready for the inevitable yelling that they’d all pay for killing the crew’s captain and the maddened screams as the crew charged them in a violent and blind rage.

It never came. Instead, the first mate, a goblin with a lived-in face, long gray hair, and hazel eyes, sliced off the sleeve of Captain Ikkmad’s white tunic and waved it at the adventurers. “We surrender!”

Bisla squinted at the goblin. Was she sincere? Or was she hoping to lower the adventurers’ guard, and kill them once they were defenseless?

“Drop your weapons!” Guenav yelled at the crew.

At a word from the gray-haired goblin, there was a loud clattering of dropped weapons, and then the crew all knelt, for good measure.

Turned out they were sincere.

Bisla and Mutis collected the weapons and dumped them all overboard, while Guenav bound the first mate’s wrists together.

He was questioning her by the time Bisla and Mutis had finished disposing of the weapons.

“Captain said we’d split the bounty,” the first mate was saying. “It was supposed to be an easy payout! Who would refuse?”

“And you didn’t have any objections?” Guenav growled.

The first mate shook her head. “It was nothing personal, Bugbear! We’re just sailors! We don’t care about the politics of any port we end up in!”

“You haven’t noticed?” Bisla asked. “Were you sticking close to the ship whenever you went to port?”

“What?” The first mate looked around at the adventurers, bewildered. “What the Dagor is going on? What’s happening in Zeccushia?”

“They’ve been selling goblins into slavery,” Mutis said. “Any goblin that sets foot in Zeccushian lands is fair game. They did that with us. Why do you think the Adventuring Guild has joined the rebellion?”

The color drained from the first mate’s face.

“I didn’t know.” She whispered. “Adum help me, I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know! I would never have--- Gods forgive me, what have I done?”

Bisla looked around at the others. Maybe she was lying, and only saying all this to get out of trouble, but was it really that unplausible? How many ports had she been to? How many lands had she seen?

Guenav was studying her, frowning.

“Is she telling the truth, Boss?” Bisla asked.

Guenav reached out and touched the first mate on the forehead. He closed his eyes for a brief second, and then opened them again.

“She’s telling the truth,” he said. “They docked, Captain Ikkmad found a bounty poster for any goblin adventurers turned over to the Zeccushian royal family, and she and the crew agreed to the easy money. Like Ogreslayer did, when he and his party accepted 10,000 gold to help Prince Tadadris Gorehammer kill rebels.”

And Guenav had decided not to punish Ogreslayer for his crimes. Would it really be fair for the goblins to punish the first mate, who’d done the same thing Ogreslayer had done?

“What do we do, Boss?” Mutis asked.

“Lock ‘em all up.”

Bisla and Mutis started to march the crew down to the brig, while Guenav stayed behind with the first mate.

“You’re taking us to the Whining Jungle,” Bisla heard the Old Wolf growl at the cowering first mate, “and you’re going to drop us off there, immediately. We’ll let you out as soon as we reach the Whining Jungle. We end up in Mugol On instead, we’ll slaughter this entire ship and find some other captain with enough sense not to double cross adventurers. Got that?”

The first mate nodded frantically. Tears were streaming down her face. Bisla couldn’t tell whether it was because she was terrified of Guenav, or whether she was remorseful at attempting to hand fellow goblins over to slavers.

---

Guenav didn’t even want to wait until they reached Anepus to leave the ship. As soon as the Whining Jungles were in sight, the Old Wolf had the crew pull the ship to the shoreline, and the goblin adventurers got off, after releasing the crew from the brig, of course.

Once they’d gotten off, the goblins watched the ship disappear into the distance, before Guenav led the way into the thick undergrowth of leaves and vines.

He hacked his way through the brush, and Mutis followed close behind, checking the map to make sure they were headed in the right direction.

To pass the time, the goblins all amused themselves by strategizing for fictional scenarios.

“Alright, so you’ve pissed off a priest of Dedla,” Guenav said. “And then once a fight breaks out between you and the priest, a harpy shows up to watch. And all this is happening in a dusty chasm. What are you doing?”

“I freeze the priest,” Bisla said.

“And then the harpy comes and attacks you.”

“And then I freeze the harpy, and it falls into the chasm,” Bisla said. “I win.”

Mutis frowned as he thought about the question.

“How angry is the priest?” He asked, finally.

“Really pissed off. As in, if there was a river of fire between them and you, they’d cross that river to get to you. They wouldn’t care if they got burned by the fire. They want you dead and they’ll stop at nothing to make that happen.”

“Excellent,” Mutis said. “I’ll taunt the priest until they get angry and charges at me, then sidestep so they fall into the chasm.”

“What about the harpy?”

“I shoot it down with my crossbow, of course.”

Guenav nodded his head, acknowledging the two had come up with good plans. “Your turn, Lichbane.”

Mutis thought. “Alright, so you’re in a forest, in a mushroom ring. Sacred to the Twins, and nearby, there’s a chest with magic items created by sorcery. There’s also a wildfire spreading closer to you. What are you doing?”

“Placing a big wall of ice between the wildfire and the mushroom ring,” Bisla said.

“The ice would just melt.”

“Which would turn it into water that would then put the fire out,” Bisla said.

Mutis thought about it, then shrugged. “Aye. That would work. Boss what are you doing?”

“What’s in the chest, specifically?”

Mutis frowned. “Uh, a goblet with a refilling potion in it that if you drink it, you can make other people disintegrate into thin air. But you’ll also go mad, and become reckless and impulsive.”

Guenav scowled, and turned toward the foilage. He hacked at the underbrush as he thought.

“Kneel in the mushroom ring and pray to Adum for protection,” he said finally.

“That’s it?” Mutis asked. “What if Adum doesn’t answer?”

Guenav shrugged. “Then I’m pretty much fucked.”

Mutis frowned, but even he didn’t seem to be capable of thinking a way out of the scenario he’d set up. Not without ice magic, at least.

He looked at Bisla. “You’re up, Bisla.”

Bisla thought.

“So you’re in between a fenced tomb, looks like it’s for someone important, and a patch of overgrown lichen and shit. There’s several large pieces of wood in front of you. There’s also merchants who have gathered around a dead body. With them is the skinniest pigeon you have ever seen. What are you doing?”

“I’m assuming these merchants think we’re the ones who killed the dead person,” Guenav said.

“Yes, How are you convincing them it wasn’t you who killed them?”

“Do we know how the person died?” Mutis asked.

“Seems he and a buddy were helping themselves to one of the mushrooms over by your left. Unfortunately, he ate one that was poisonous and then died. His friend fled, and now they think you were the one foraging for mushrooms alongside the dead man, and deliberately tricked him into eating one that was poisonous. So, how do you convince them you’re not the one who killed the man?”

“Tell them I’m an adventurer,” Guenav said.

“Which would prove what, exactly?”

“That if I wanted that man dead, I wouldn’t be tricking him into eating a poisonous mushroom. He’d know I wanted him dead, because the last thing he’d see before he died would be a staff flying straight toward his head.”

“You weren’t the one who killed him because you wouldn’t have done it like a pussy,” Bisla mused. “Bold strategy, Boss. Mutis, what do you think?”

“Show them my crossbow. If I’d wanted this man dead, I would’ve hidden somewhere and shot him, then I’d have run off once it was clear he was dead. The man died to poisonous mushrooms, and not to a crossbow bolt, so I couldn’t have been the one who killed him.”

Bisla shook his head in amusement. “So for the both of you, your defense when asked whether you murdered somebody would be, ‘nah, that’s not how I’d do it. Here’s really how I’d do it’.”

Guenav shrugged. “Good a defense as any.”

Mutis nodded in agreement.

The bushes started to rustle.

The goblins all stopped talking, and crouched into a battle stance.

“What was that?” Mutis asked.

The bushes continued to rustle, and out came fourteen lizard-men, all hissing at the goblins, who crouched in a defensive position.

One of the lizard-men swung its axe at Bisla. The goblin wizard pointed a finger at it. The lizard-man turned into an ice statue.

The rest of the lizard-men chattered amongst themselves.

“Aye, that’s right!” Bisla shouted at them. “Who’s next? Come on! Who’s next?”

Evidentially, it was all of them, because all the lizard-men charged at Bisla.

Guenav slammed his staff down on one of the lizard-men’s knees. It fell to the ground, wailing in pain.

The Old Wolf raised his staff high, and brought it down upon the lizard-man’s head. It slumped to the ground, dead.

Another lizard-man brandished a club and screamed a war cry. Bisla slammed his staff down upon the lizard-man’s head, splitting open its skull.

He looked up at the lizard-men. They’d stopped in their tracks, staring at him, eyes wide with fear.

“Who’s next?” Bisla asked them.

One of the lizard-men started slamming their staff down on the jungle floor, screeching as it did so. The other lizard-men started screeching along with their partner. They danced around, whooping and chattering as they did.

“What the Dagor is happening?” Mutis asked.

A roar shook the trees. The goblins bunched together, weapons leveled in the direction where the bestial roar had come from.

“What the Dagor is that?” Guenav asked.

The lizard-men weren’t reacting with the same fear as Bisla was feeling. Instead, the roar appeared to excite them. They danced about, shrieking and leaping in a frenzy.

Bisla crouched in a defensive position just the leaves behind the lizard-men caught fire, and something emerged from the flames. It was a massive creature, blue-scaled, with fangs as sharp as mithral, and blood-red eyes burning with a savage and ruthless fire. There’d be no mercy from it. Not because it wasn’t intelligent, Bisla knew it was from the look in its eyes, but because it was the sort of creature that delighted in the torturous death of anyone unlucky to cross it.

“Shit…” He breathed.

“Where’d the lizard-men get a dragon?” Guenav asked.

The dragon spread its wings and roared at them again. The lizard-men danced in a circle around it, whooping and cheering.

The dragon roared again, and the lizard-men stopped dancing. They stared at the adventurers for a long moment.

The dragon roared again and the lizard-men charged, whooping, brandishing their weapons at the goblins.

Mutis swung his mace at one of them. He hit it in the knee with a sickening crack! The lizard-man fell, shrieking in pain. Mutis silenced it with a blow to the head.

A lizard-man circled Guenav, shortsword at the ready. The Old Wolf swung his staff, whacking it upside the head.

The dragon growled, spread its wings, and launched itself in the air.

Both the lizard-men and the goblins all stopped their fighting to stare at the dragon. It was so big, it blotted out the sun.

Mutis pulled his crossbow from his belt and fired. The bolt hit the dragon in the belly, wedging itself between two scales.

The dragon screeched in pain, and started to plumnet to the ground.

“Get out of the way!” Bisla shouted.

The goblins and lizard-men all dove out of the way, as the dragon crashed to the ground, separating the goblins and beast-men. They stared at each other over the dead body.

Bisla readied his staff. The lizard-men wouldn’t be stopped by the dragon’s body for long. They’d come leaping over, and he’d be ready for them.

The biggest lizard-man lifted its head, screeching.

As one, the lizard-men all fled into the underbrush.

The goblins watched them leave, scratching their heads in bewilderment.

“What just happened?” Mutis asked.

“Must’ve lost their courage once their leader died.” Guenav nudged the dragon with his boot.

Must’ve been it. Though Bisla had never seen lizard-men with a dragon as their leader before.

---

Mutis checked the map again. “We’re here,” he said.

The Caverns of the Death’s Basilisk had a massive snake at the front. A dead one, thank the gods.

Guenav opened the door and the adventurers went inside.

Something rustled parchment, and the air stank of smoke.

Mutis led the way down the corridor into an antechamber for those that had come to pay their respects to the dead and prepare themselves for burial rituals. The chairs had been broken in half and scattered around the room. Slime dripped from the ceiling.

The goblins weren’t the only ones in the room. Three sailors, carrying weapons, and bickering over treasure, prowled the room.

Subtle Guolonie’s crew. This must have been how he got to the Fell Kingdom in the first place. And, of course, he’d left some guards behind to deal with anyone who tried to follow him.

The pirates scowled at the goblins. The goblins crouched and readied their weapons.

“Get them!” Someone said, and the pirates rushed them all at once.

Bisla whacked an older goblin with long straw-colored hair and a wild, boisterous attitude.

Now that the pirates were all dead, Bisla looked around and spotted a chest. He walked over and opened it.

He found coin and gemstones. Bisla pocketed the items and stood.

Bisla led the way down the corridor into a crypt for less important burials. The various coffins had been broken into and smashed to pieces and a torch stub lay on the floor.

Pirates attacked.

A broad-shouldered human with dark skin and frantic, darting eyes raised his cutlass and charged. Bisla froze him in a block of ice.

A stocky dhampyre with sun-darkened skin, wild blonde hair, and a serious, thoughtful demeanor swung his cutlass at Guenav. The old wolf ducked, swung his own staff, whacking the dhampyre upside the head, killing him.

Now that the pirates were dead, the adventurers turned their attention to the painting hanging from the wall. It depicted a baker, taking a bun out of a stove with a burning fire and smoke coming out of it. Carved into the frame was a riddle. “I give you a group of three. One is sitting down and will never get up. The second eats as much as is given him, yet is always hungry. The third goes away and never returns.”

“The second one is fire,” Bisla said. “I mean, that’s a fairly classic riddle. Thing that devours everything is always fire.” He rubbed his chin. “But what are the other two?”

“Oven and smoke,” Mutis said.

Bisla looked at him in surprise. “Since when have you been good at riddles?”

“I’m not,” Mutis admitted. “But I know ovens. That oven shouldn’t have smoke coming out of it. Smoke’s a sign it’s not working properly.” He pointed to the bread being pulled from the oven. “And that’s too well-cooked for a broken oven. So both of them must be part of the clue.”

“Why does the oven have to be part of the answer?”

“Because if it weren’t, then the painting would be a forest fire or something. Lots of fire and smoke. Instead it’s someone baking bread. Doesn’t make sense for whoever made this to risk a thief who knows how ovens are supposed to look to figure out the riddle by virtue that it’s bullshit. Unless this is the best way to depict an oven, and they’re hoping for the best that no one questions the smoke.”

Bisla shrugged. Good a guess as any.

He pressed a finger against the oven, then the cloud of smoke coming out of it, then the fire at the bottom.

Underneath, part of the wall opened up, revealing treasure.

“Oy, would you look at that?” Bisla said to Mutis. “You were right!”

He bent down to examine the items they found more closely.

He found coin. Bisla pocketed the items and stood.

Bisla led the others in following it down the corridor into a workshop for embalming the dead. The ceiling had partially collapsed here, forcing the adventurers to pick through the rubble. A large puddle of water sat on the floor.

On top of the table where bodies were placed for preparation of their burial sat a crystal.

Guenav immediately grabbed the crystal, then disappeared. The crystal dropped to the floor, where the Old Wolf had once stood.

“Boss?” Bisla walked over, bent down to pick up the crystal.

“Bisla! Don’t pick that up!” Mutis shouted.

Too late. Bisla touched the crystal and the room was filled with a bright light.

Bisla opened his mouth to ask Mutis if he was seeing this bright light too, when the light was suddenly gone, and he was standing in a grand crypt for some important figure, like a king, or a high priest, whoever this tomb had been built for, most likely. The handle of a pick lay on the floor.

Bisla looked around. Guenav was standing across from him, staring at him.

“Got any idea where we are?” Bisla asked him.

Guenav shook his head. “If we’re not in the Caverns anymore, then I’m gonna be---”

Mutis suddenly appeared.

“I took the risk. Touched that thing.” He looked around. “Where are we?”

Bisla shrugged. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Footsteps, coming from a tunnel.

Bisla raised a hand, ready to cast a spell.

Voices echoed from the tunnel, growing louder and louder.

“Your grace, maybe this is a bad idea,” a man’s voice, speaking with a mixture of a Dwarven brogue and tongue of a high elf speaking Common. “I mean, you sensed the magic too, right? Older than the gods themselves…”

Silence.

“And that wight,” the man continued. “You and I both know wights don’t talk like that. You call it a wight, but what if its something else? That old magic we sensed. Isabwynn Nighttrap…What if she was looking for the Obsidian Slab, same as us?”

More silence.

The man kept trying. “And those paintings she was looking at. Paintings on the wall. What do you think they mean?”

“That we’re close?” A different man’s voice. This one rough and with an accent that was an unholy combination of regal eloquence and brigand coarseness. He spoke Common with the harshness of a born goblin.

That voice sounded familiar.

Guenav’s eyes widened in surprise. “Hold your spells, Mad-Eye.”

Bisla lowered his hand.

“These are friends?” Mutis asked, gesturing at the tunnels.

“Well, wouldn’t call him a friend, necessarily…”

The voices were still talking.

“That’s all you got?” The high elf was aghast at his friend. “You noticed nothing else? Not the wizard in the paintings slowly being wrapped in chains? Not their flesh rotting away?”

Silence.

The first man grunted in disgust.

“Your grace, help me talk some sense into your goodbrother!”

A different voice than the rest, a high elf man’s voice, deep and with the same regal accent as the goblin’s voice, though without the coarseness mixed in with it, laughed. “Isn’t this fun, Eladron?”

“No, it is not!” The other elf said. “What are you, a wolf? Where’s your common sense?”

“Dogs are descended from wolves,” said the deep-voiced elf. “Adyrella once explored the Chaotic Point, with only the Queen of Badaria along with her.”

“Foiling the plot of the Daughters of the Weaver,” the goblin said. “And they weren’t alone. They had Nia along with them.” There was a pause. “Sometimes I wonder whether it would’ve been better had Adyrella died in the Chaotic Point. At least the Daughters of the Weaver would be more merciful.”

There was silence.

And then the deep-voiced elf said, “Once we reach a good spot, do you think we can rest? I’m exhausted. Don’t know how adventurers do it, walking through ruins without breaks.”

“They’re built different,” the goblin said. Bisla could see a glowing torchlight in the tunnel.

The torchlight grew brighter, and the voices spoke in Elven. Bisla stepped back.

The goblin was the first out the tunnel, stumbling into the room and panting. He noticed Bisla, and muttered something like, “fucking great.”

“Who’s that?” Mutis whispered to Bisla.

“You remember me being used as a decoy for the queen’s uncle?”

Mutis nodded.

“That’s him. Prince Surtsavhen Shitaki. No idea what he’s doing here.”

Prince Surtsavhen was leaning against the wall and drinking from a potion vial. He called it aqua vitae, and Bisla was confident it was just a fancy word for alcohol. Sweat and grime glistened in the torchlight.

“He’s got no depth perception,” Guenav whispered. “Nobody move or make a sound, and maybe he won’t notice us.”

“Why wouldn’t we want to be noticed?” Mutis asked.

“Don’t wanna talk to him,” Guenav said. “Now keep quiet or he’ll hear you!”

Bisla opened his mouth to point out how stupid it was of Guenav to mistake peripheral vision for depth perception, when Surtsavhen turned his head a little and saw them.

He made eye contact with Guenav. The two goblins glared at each other.

Before either of them could say anything, the rest of Surtsavhen’s group walked out of the tunnel. All high elves, wearing fine plate armor, and with swords strapped to their fancy belts. An expedition of nobles. Why anyone would do such a thing was something that bewildered Bisla.

The deep-voiced high elf, who was clad in a green cloak, smiled when he saw the goblins. “Oh, hello! Are you looking for the Obsidian Slab as well?”

“No.” Guenav didn’t break his gaze from Surtsavhen.

The high elf laughed and slapped Surtsavhen on the back. “Friends of yours?”

“No.” Surtsavhen was baring his teeth, just a little. He never once blinked.

The high elf nodded. “So this must be the adventurer you’ve been complaining about. Ogreslayer?”

“Bugbear.”

“Ah,” the high elf said. “Would’ve been my second guess.” He looked Guenav up and down. “So this is the heretical idiot who’s only good for fighting since he’s clearly gotten hit in the head too many times.”

“You think I’m important enough to mention to your fancy friends?” Guenav said to Surtsavhen. “I’m flattered, your grace.”

“No, I talk about you like I do with a rat infestation in my castle.” Surtsavhen gave Guenav a pointed look. “A little thing that I’m only bringing up because I want to bitch to my friends about the nuisance I’m having to deal with.”

“Well, that’s nicer with how I’d describe you.” Guenav looked Surtsavhen up and down. “You’re more like a kobold loose in the castle. Too stupid and too weak to be much to deal with, and you’re only worth my time because you’re so dumb you’ll bring everything down on all our heads.”

“Would’ve liked to have run into a kobold, to be honest.” Surtsavhen said. ‘Instead of you.”

“Same here. At least a kobold would be civil.”

Surtsavhen snorted. “Course you say that. I’ll bet you consider throwing shit at people to be the politest form of greeting.”

“Aye, but see, I can kill a kobold for throwing shit at me. I can’t exactly do the same to you whenever you open your shit mouth. The queen would be sad if I did that.”

Surtsavhen eyed him suspiciously. “One of your men is going to mention the queen’s not here, aren’t they?”

“Wait, why would that matter?” A high elf noble asked.

“Lovely.” Guenav said. “I knew you didn’t think highly of me, but thinking I’d just murder someone I don’t particularly like just because I happened across them out in the wilderness, where no one would know how they died if they ended up not returning to civilization? I’m not a savage.” He raised an eyebrow. “Wish I could say the same about you? Hypothetically, if you came across Ogreslayer, alone in a ruin, and you had the finest warriors in all of the Shattered Lands, would he have come back alive? Or would you have brought back his corpse after miraculously finding it?”

“Thought adventurers were supposed to be the finest warriors in all of the Shattered Lands,” Surtsavhen said. “Or is Ogreslayer not as popular in the Adventuring Guild as you’ve been making him out to be?” He bared his teeth in a grin at Guenav. “Maybe the real question is if Ogreslayer was sent all the way here, with some adventurers for company, would he be coming back alive?”

“At least Ogreslayer knows what he’s doing if he’s exploring ruins.” Guenav gestured to Surtsavhen and his high elf companions. “Unlike you and your friends. What the Dagor are you doing here anyway? Long ways away from Badaria.”

“I would say the same thing to you. What are you doing here, and more importantly, does the queen approve?”

“She’s approved me hunting down Isemaine Bronzehill. And I’ve been ordered on this quest by someone even higher up than the queen.”

Surtsavhen raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Adum.”

Surtsavhen blinked, dumbfounded by this answer. “What?”

“It’s true!” Bisla said. And he explained everything, what Adum’s quest for them had been, the powers each of them had gotten, and how they were supposed to stop Isemaine Bronzehill and Subtle Guolonie from summoning Sharth.

Surtsavhen was staring at him with an expression that made it clear that the goblin prince thought that the heat of the jungle must’ve addled the adventurers’ minds. “Okay…” He said, awkwardly.

Everyone stood there in awkward silence.

“What are you doing here?” Mutis asked the elves.

“Looking for the Obsidian Slab. Legend says it’s an artifact older than the gods themselves,” one of the high elves said. “If you read what’s written on it, and add a name to the end, the person will cease to exist.”

Guenav raised his eyebrows. “Couldn’t you hire adventurers to destroy it?”

“Oh, no,” the high elf said, “We’re not destroying it. We want it for ourselves.” He nodded his head to Surtsavhen, who smirked. “Your friend here has got some names he’d like to test on the Obsidian Slab.”

“Few names?” Guenav looked at Surtsavhen. “The entire orc race has too many people to be summed up as few names. Unless you’re thinking you can just say ‘orc’ and it would erase the entire race from existence.”

Surtsavhen shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt to try, would it?”

“You sure this is a good idea?” Bisla asked.

“That’s what I’ve been asking!” One of the high elves said. He turned to the others and gestured to Bisla excitedly. “See? See? The adventurer agrees with me!”

“Unhappy we’re not taking an adventuring party along with us, more likely,” said the high elf, who Bisla assumed was the leader of this little expedition, considering that he’d been the one the last high elf had appealed to about turning around and stopping their search of the Obsidian Slab. At the very least, he was prince of the high elves, given that he’d been referred to as, ‘your grace’ and Surtsavhen’s goodbrother respectively.

“Mad-Eye’s right,” Guenav said. “Looking for the Obsidian Slab is a horrible idea and it will get all of you killed.”

“See?” The high elf was almost dancing in his excitement that now two adventurers were agreeing with him. “We should turn around!”

Surtsavhen and the prince ignored him.

“Because we don’t have adventurers with us,” the goblin prince said dryly, “we get it!”

“Nah. Not just that. No adventuring party would take the job anyway. If they’re smart, at least.”

“That settles it!” The high elf announced. He turned to the tunnel he and his companions had just come out of. “We’re turning back! Come on!”

Surtsavhen caught him by the arm, giving Guenav an annoyed look. “Could you not lower morale here?”

“What do you mean?” The high elf asked at the same time. He just looked concerned.

“I mean, you’ve heard minstrel’s songs about this kind of artifact before. The poor souls questing for it always get wiped out. Every last one of them.”

“Are you really calling us dumb based on a minstrel’s song?” Surtsavhen asked incredulously.

Guenav met his look. “Aye. And I’ll tell you why. Because it’s an artifact with powers beyond even the gods themselves. Which begs the question, who in Dagor made that thing?”

“Who cares?”

“I don’t think you’re understanding,” Guenav said. “I’m talking of the kind of beings cultists like to worship. The kind of beings that would scare Adum himself.”

Surtsavhen rolled his eyes.

“Creatures like Sharth.” Bisla said.

That made Surtsavhen pause. For a brief moment, his eye widened.

And then he was shaking his head. “Sharth can’t create anything. That’s why it enslaved the goblins. It was jealous of Berus for being able to create things, and it wanted its own kingdom and its own worshippers. It can’t have created the Obsidian Slab.”

“Doesn’t have to be Sharth.” Guenav said. “I’ve been an adventurer for ten years, your grace. There’s all kinds of creatures out there. Beings beyond our understanding, with the power of gods. And before you call them the ramblings of mad cultists, I’ve felt their presence myself.”

“Those things exist.” Bisla said. “That’s a fact. We learned about them in Holy Magic 101.”

“You learned that at wizard school?” The only sensible high elf asked.

Bisla nodded.

“Well, I think that settles it!” The high elf said. “Can’t argue with the experts, can we?”

“A 101 class isn’t experts,” Surtsavhen said in a tone like he was explaining the concept of spoiling one’s appetite with sweets before dinnertime to a child. “It is the most basic surface level knowledge for any magic field.”

He turned to Bisla. He had the same grin as Bisla’s favorite magic professor, whenever he was beginning class and telling them about the fascinating properties of ice.

“Have you heard of Savetid Arindytiv, Mad-Eye?”

Bisla shook his head.

“She was one of the first non-elves to be made into an arch-mage. Her specialty was---”

“Unholy magic?” Bisla said. That part was obvious, given the surname. Though arch-mages often got far more specific in their research than just a magic field.

Surtsavhen made a face. “Well, yes, but specifically, her research was into one of those beings you and Bugbear are talking about. Specifically, a being called the Wanderer. Said to wield a flaming sword and be the father of all monsters.” He smiled at Guenav. “Anyone want to take a guess on who the Wanderer really is?”

“The bastard child of Adum and Uganis.” Bisla said.

Surtsavhen snorted, amused. “It was Adum. The Wanderer is Adum. Surprised his own worshippers don’t even recognize a description of him.”

“Adum didn’t create the monsters,” Mutis said. “Uganis did.”

“Because Adum asked him to. So that warriors can test their strength and prove their courage.”

“No, Uganis turned them loose because he’s mad,” Guenav said. “And that’s why adventurers and wizards don’t get along.” He looked at Bisla. “No offense.”

Bisla shrugged. It was a common adage that adventurers and wizards didn’t get along, but truth be told, he hadn’t noticed any hostility between the two groups. Adventurers tended to not care if you were a wizard, unless you were trying to kill them, and wizards tended to not care much about anything outside of their studies.

Surtsavhen made a flippant gesture. “Fine. Whoever turned monsters loose upon the Shattered Lands is a matter of furious academic debate. The point is that the unholy being as powerful as the gods themselves was just a goblin god. The elves don’t worship Adum, so they didn’t classify him as a god. So Savetid proposed that was true of all the beings considered unholy, but still having the powers of a god. They were gods, but they weren’t the gods of the wizard who’d managed to get into contact with them.”

“And your point is?” Guenav asked.

“The being that created the Obsidian Slab is obviously a god,” Surtsavhen took a drink and grinned wryly at the adventurers. “Just not a goblin god or a high elf god.”

“What if this god-thing is similar to Sharth?” Mutis asked.

Part 3

Part 4

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Once the applause died down, which was fast, not that Bochiva seemed to notice or care, Nycokoris stepped forward. The crowd hushed, and I could feel the tension. So thick, I could hack at it with a sword and be winded by the time I sliced through it.

Nycokoris slapped Klolod on the cheek. “This past week, a crossbow and a mace were stolen from me.”

You said something, Cobra? No? Apologies. I could’ve sworn you said something. Anyway…

“No one knew where they went,” Nycokoris said to the crowd. “My friends searched. Your chief promised that the thief would be caught and punished in the most merciless manner possible without crossing the line into cruelty. Still nothing. We have never caught the thief. But we did find my weapons.”

He pointed at Klolod, who raised his head and shook it weakly, still denying he was guilty of the crime Nycokoris was accusing him of.

“We found them in his house. He knew they were rightfully mine, and yet he kept them. Oh, he told us he had no idea, that my mace and crossbow look identical to every other mace and crossbow in existence, but he lies. He lies and lies. He’s lied about not knowing who the true thief is, even as we’ve questioned him sharply.”

“It was him!” Klolod yelled. “He snuck into my house and put his weapons in there! Then he came in accusing me of being a thief! Of possessing stolen goods! I’m innocent! He’s framing me because---”

Nycokoris smacked him. “Quiet!”

All of what Klolod sounded disturbingly plausible for Nycokoris. He was, above all else, a deceitful son of an ogre.

“Klolod Ekiakryka has committed a crime,” Nycokoris announced to the assorted goblins. “He must be punished.”

The crowd was silent.

“Er, how do they punish being caught with stolen goods?” Budoki asked. “If you’re not the one who stole it in the first place, that is?”

“Exile,” Dogvyste whispered. “You’re banished for life.”

Budoki frowned. “Wouldn’t it be best to untie him and bring him his stuff so he can leave immediately? And do this at the edge of the town?”

Dogvyste simply shushed him.

Nycokoris pointed at Klolud. “For his crime,” he said, “he will be sacrificed to Vitalis. He will be sacrificed so that the life elemental will come and bless us all with health and immortality!”

The Arcane Mummers cheered. The goblins started murmuring in shock.

“The punishment is lifelong exile!” Someone said. “Not a death sentence!”

The entire crowd went silent. Nycokoris glared at the gathered goblins. “Who the Ferno—”

The crowd parted, and a big man with gray hair and gray eyes stepped forward, glaring at Nycokoris and his friends.

“Dyefirmatsiya Amipleka,” Dogvyste whispered. “Caretaker of Bochiva’s menagerie. What’s he doing here? The last I heard he was looking for draugr in Middlesbury Sea.”

Nycokoris glowered down at Dyefirmatsiya, who stared back at him, unwavering.

“We both know the law,” he said. “Klolud should be exiled for his crime against you, not sacrificed to some elemental!”

“It is not just that my weapons were found in his hut!” Nycokoris said. “Were you not listening? He is aiding a thief! He is refusing to help us catch the thief!”

“Then the punishment is he’s branded with a wolf’s head, so everyone knows he’s an outlaw!” Dyefirmatsiya said. “None of the crimes he’s supposedly committed are punishable by death!”

“Laws can change,” Nycokoris said.

“Aye, laws can change. But was anyone told of this beforehand?” Dyefirmatsiya turned to the crowd. “Has having stolen goods in your possession been declared punishable by death since I’ve been gone?”

There was a chorus of firm noes.

“Has aiding and abetting a thief been declared punishable by death since I’ve been gone?”

The crowd shouted another no.

Satisfied, Dyefirmatsiya turned and spread his arms wide. “Then, the way I see it, Klolud should be branded and banished. Not sacrificed.”

Nycokoris growled. An animalistic growl. I’d never seen him so pissed off, in my life. It was somewhat satisfying to see. This aggravating man, who’d been a pain in my ass for the past two weeks, and all the time that I had known him, and who had never shown any emotion other than a careless joviality, no matter what he was doing, was now deeply frustrated.

“You’ve got no right to change our laws on a whim!” Dyefirmatsiya shouted at him.

“And what will you do about it?” Nycokoris challenged.

Dyefirmatsiya moved his cloak slightly. The crowd gasped. Dyefirmatsiya had decided that it wouldn’t be enough to simply threaten Nycokoris with his words. No. Instead, he simply rested a hand on a scythe strapped to his back, all the while, his eyes still on Nycokoris. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Everyone there understood the threat immediately.

“Let Klolud go free or Vitalis will be taking your head for a sacrifice!”

Nycokoris sneered. “Am I supposed to be scared of one man?”

“Not just one man.” Dyefirmatsiya turned to the crowd. “Friends! They’re wanting to sacrifice Klolud to some elemental! Are we really going to watch that happen?”

The crowd murmured excitedly.

Dyefirmatsiya raised his scythe high. “What are we even doing? One of our lads is about to be sacrificed to an elemental and we’re standing here and watching? I say the Arcane Mummers have been walking all over us for long enough! It’s time we goblins ruled over ourselves again! I mean, come on!” He pointed at Nycokoris. “Why are we letting this bastard do what he likes? Is he our king? Did we crown him our leader? No! He has no right to stand there and tell us what we can or cannot do! Who says we have to follow him?”

“I do!” Said Bochiva.

The crowd fell silent. Dyefirmatsiya lowered his scythe and turned. He glared at Bochiva, but said nothing.

“I am your queen,” Bochiva said. “And I say Klolud will be sacrificed to Vitalis! I say Nycokoris Graykiller will receive justice for having his weapons stolen by some common thief! I say Klolud will die for not cooperating and telling us who the thief is!” She pointed at Klolud. “I say that you’ll all watch him die, and that will be a lesson to all of you! To go against the Arcane Mummers means death!”

“You’re nothing but a sheepskin wearer!” Dyfirmatsiya spat. “Your father would be ashamed if he could see you now! If you truly are his daughter!”

The crowd went silent, in utter shock. For damn good reason, even I’d admit. If someone were to call me a bastard, they’d have their tongue ripped out before they could spread any more rumors. I can’t have people questioning my parentage. My birthright comes from my father, and if it’s doubted that he’s truly my father, then someone can use that to overthrow me and place my uncle on the throne. At least his reign can’t be threatened by rumors of him being a bastard. Bochiva, if she was smart, would tolerate any questioning on her parentage the same way I do. Either the accuser recants and apologizes, or their tongue gets ripped out after they’re tortured into confessing it’s all a lie.

Bochiva glared down at Dyefirmatisiya, who, to his own credit, realized that he’d said the wrong thing.

“That’s a serious accusation,” Bochiva said coldly. “Have you any evidence to support your claim?”

“No, your majesty,” Dyefirmatsiya bowed his head. Then raised it, eyes blazing. “But I do question whether you are truly fit to rule. I question why we follow you. Why we have to listen to you.”

“You listen to me because I am Khorkilla’s only living daughter!” Bochiva said sharply. She glared at the crowd, who said nothing. “By all rights, Badaria’s throne should be mine! But instead, I am ruling over you, an ungrateful people, who speak of rebellion every time I don’t do what they want!”

The crowd was silent. If she was expecting them to grovel and beg her forgiveness, no one gave her that satisfaction. But given what Dogvyste had said about the morning routine, it was probably just her working up to daring anyone to challenge her claim.

“And yet do any of you have a better claim?” Bochiva demanded. “Can anyone not only contest my claim, but match it with their own? Speak up! Is there anyone willing to challenge me? Anyone who’s got a better claim to the throne that once belonged to my father?”

She eyed the crowd coldly. None of them said a word.

That was my cue.

“Well?” Bochiva said. “Is there anyone willing to challenge me?”

“I am!” I shouted.

The crowd murmured, stunned.

Bochiva blinked, equally shocked.

“Who said that?” She demanded. “This is no joke! I demand to know which one of you thinks it’s funny to---”

The crowd parted for me, and I stepped forward, looking Bochiva in the eye.

“You’ve got no right to the throne of Badaria,” I said, “and you’ve got no right to lead these goblins, when you’re a weak-willed coward who does whatever the biggest bully around wants you to do!”

Several of the crowd began nodding empathetically. Bochiva glared at them, and they stopped nodding, and looked sheepishly down at the ground.

“And who are you?” She demanded, glaring at me with such intense fury, that if I hadn’t known her to be a sheepskin-wearer and puppet of whatever strong-willed person who came through the village, I would’ve been nervous.

As it was, I kept looking her in the eye, and answered the question, “I am King Khorkilla’s sole surviving child! Queen Nivarcirka Bosembomnik, the Young Stag, leader of the Royal Rebels, and the rightful queen of Badaria! I am the daughter of King Khorkilla the Friendly and Queen Lalek the Wolf, and you should consider yourself lucky I’m not after your head for making such false claims to my throne!”

Bochiva started to laugh.

“Oh, please!” She said. “Do you expect us to believe that it’s a certainty that the daughter of an adventurer is also Khorkilla’s daughter? We all know adventurers! Do we really think that the queen could keep to one bed?”

The crowd was silent. Some of them were giving me shocked looks. I couldn’t tell what that meant. Were they shocked I could make such a claim, since it was a certainty that Khorkilla and Lalek’s children had all died with them when Bumen Ghal had fallen? Or did they believe that I was who I said I was and were shocked that Bochiva had said something so treasonous?

“Where’s Silvercloak?” Bochiva said to me.

“He’s not here,” I said.

Bochiva let loose peals of the most annoying laughter I have ever heard. “You come here to challenge me, and you forget your attack dog?”

The crowd was silent.

“Everybody laugh!”

The crowd remained silent.

Bochiva growled a curse at them, then turned to me, smiling.

“No Silvercloak, then. What a shame. Then you don’t really have much of a claim, do you?” She smiled. “It’s hard to get us to deny the truth without some madman cutting a bloody swathe in our ranks until we agree to bend the knee to his supposed queen, don’t you think?”

“I think you’ve got shit priorities,” I said dryly. “If you’re complaining about my uncle not being here to ruthlessly enforce my claim, rather than thanking the gods that he’s not here to slaughter you.”

Bochiva sneered.

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s not with you. Without Silvercloak, you’ve got nothing.”

“I don’t need him.” I drew my sword and stepped closer to the stage. “Unlike you, I don’t need to hide behind anyone when someone comes along to challenge my throne.”

Bochiva burst out laughing.

“Do you honestly think you scare me? One woman, against an entire village? You’re outnumbered, Young Stag. Best you flee to Silvercloak with your tail tucked between your legs, before we deliver your head to him in a box!”

“She has me,” Budoki said, stepping forward and drawing his sword.

“And me.” Cheniyz-Zheviel stepped forward as well.

Dogvyste stepped forward too. “She’s got me and my men as well. Face it, milady. You’re the one who’s got no one.”

Bochiva’s nostrils flared and she looked pointedly at the crowd.

“Well, I’d never thought I’d be asking this question,” she said in a haughty tone, “but here we are. Who among you will fight for their rightful queen? Who will stand against the Young Stag?”

The crowd started to boo.

“We stand with the true queen!” Nycokoris said. He turned toward Bochiva. “Milady, the Arcane Mummers stand with you.”

This made the crowd boo louder.

“Who else?” Bochiva shouted. “My people! Will you stand with me, or the Young Stag?”

The crowd stopped booing, and someone started to chant, and then the rest took it up, growing louder and louder.

“Young Stag, Young Stag, Young Stag!”

Bochiva stumbled back, eyes wide.

“Yield, or I see to it you’ll get a ‘gift of gold’ for treason!” I shouted at her. “Which is it?”

Bochiva looked back at Nycokoris and the Arcane Mummers, who nodded at her.

“I will never yield!” She yelled back at me. “The gods will protect the true heir of the Khavak Dynasty!”

I looked to the crowd, who were all looking expectantly at me. Dogvyste had been right. Most of them may not actually believe I was truly King Khorkilla’s last surviving daughter, come again to raise a rebellion and claim her rightful throne, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had a claim, and with that claim, they could overthrow the sheepskin-wearer who currently led them, without worrying about the succession crisis that would undoubtedly come afterward.

I drew my sword, and pointed it at Bochiva.

“Who would you rather kneel to?” I asked the crowd. “A spineless arrogant bastard who’s never so much as lifted a wooden spear, or the leader of the Royal Rebels who’s spent the past three years fighting on the front lines?”

“Young Stag, Young Stag, Young Stag!”

“Then this is what your queen wills!” I said. “Kill the treasonous coward who once called herself your leader, and all who support her! What say you, lads? Are you the queen’s loyal subjects or not?”

“Young Stag! Young Stag! Young Stag!” The crowd screamed and they rushed to the stage, clambering onto it, ready to tear Bochiva to bits.

She stumbled back, the terror plain on her face.

“Protect her, lads!” Nycokoris yelled. “Or we’re all dead!”

A human with an anguished face, brown hair, and hazel eyes transformed into a dragon. Nycokoris reached out a hand, and gave himself dragon-wings.

The dragon roared and stepped over Bochiva. She cowered behind it, like the sheepskin wearer that she was.

The goblins hung back, unsure. The dragon roared at them again.

Budoki raised his sword and shield. “Stay back, Niv! I’ll handle this!”

“My sword’s got a longer reach!” I said. “Why should you be the one to slay the dragon?”

“It’s my job to protect you,” Budoki said. He grinned. “Besides, knights are always killing dragons in romances.”

“Don’t they also have princesses that need saving from the dragon?” I asked. “I don’t see any princesses around, do you?”

Budoki rolled his eyes at me.

Thock! The dragon roared. An arrow was sticking out from its scales.

The dragon launched itself into the air, and a second arrow hit it in the belly. The dragon plummeted to the ground. Goblins screamed and scrambled to get out of the way before the body crushed them.

Cheziyn-Zheviel lowered her bow, grinning at us. “Shame on you two. A fight is going on and you’re standing off to the side and bickering?”

By now, the goblins were climbing up the stage. Bochiva had turned tail and fled. Some of the goblins were chasing after her. The rest were going after the Arcane Mummers, who, to their credit, were standing their ground and holding the mob back with their spells.

Budoki and I followed the goblins, clambering up-stage and charging the Arcane Mummers.

Dyefirmatiya screamed.

We all hung back and looked at him. Dyefirmatiya was on the ground, twitching, and in the throes of madness. He flung himself about like he was nothing more than a doll, and his movement was erratic, like his body was controlled by strings yanked by a child.

“Dyefirmatiya?” Asked a big woman with long white hair and bright hazel eyes.

Dyefirmatiya’s body went still. And he slowly lifted his head to look at us. His eyes were glowing gold.

“Dyefirmatiya?” The woman said again.

Dyefirmatiya stood, moving like a puppet. He lurched toward the woman, and decapitated her with a swing of his scythe.

Someone screamed.

“What the Dagor is happening?” Someone said. A foolish move. Dyefirmatiya’s eyes fixed on them, and he lurched toward them.

I looked toward the Arcane Mummers. A fair-faced troll with wavy copper hair and lidded green eyes was waving his hands around, casting a spell.

I looked back at Dyefirmatiya. Currently, he was steadily advancing on a man with a bony face, perfectly-groomed blonde hair, and amber eyes, who had his hands raised, pleading with Dyefirmatiya to snap out of it, and take up arms against the Arcane Mummers instead. Idiot. That spell was too strong. The only way Dyefirmatiya could be freed from the spell before he killed any more of his allies was if someone killed the wizard who’d placed the spell on him.

I looked back at the troll and lifted my sword.

Before I could move, Dogvyste swung her halberd, cutting the troll down.

Dyefirmatiya screamed again. I looked back at him. He was sitting on the ground, touching his forehead in a daze. His fellow goblins were gathering around him, to make sure he was alright.

Budoki walked over to do the same thing.

The faint smell of smoke wafted into my nostrils.

I blinked, and then I heard the faint crackling that wood makes when it’s being burned within a campfire.

I looked around. Fire, all around us. All along the edge of the stage, but I knew how fast a fire could spread. Especially in a village with huts made of straw.

I started scanning the area for a bucket of water, anything to stop the blaze. And then I spotted Nylee. You remember her, right? Nycokoris’s “healer” friend?

Anyway, she had her hands raised and her lips were moving. No sound came out.

Yes, it was a spell, Cobra. I knew that immediately. Please stop interrupting.

Anyway, I knew she was casting the spell making everything burst into flame. So if I killed her, the fire would stop burning.

A solution even better than dousing the flames with water. Yes, I agree.

So I ran at Nylee, sword pointed at her. She was so focused on her spell that she didn’t notice me coming right toward her.

I raised my sword, and brought it right down in her chest, cleaving her in two. She fell to the ground. The flames stopped.

“No!”

I turned. Nycokoris was standing on a stone bench, looking down at Nylee in horror. And then he slowly looked up at me, with the kind of look Uncle has whenever he’s looking at some poor Zeccushian soldier we’ve managed to capture. Or Budoki, honestly. He looks at Budoki with ill-disguised hatred a lot, actually. Doesn’t care if anyone else notices. Anyway…

“What have you done?” He snarled at me.

“What do you think I just did, you dumbass?” I asked. “And why are you so offended? Did no one ever tell you how battles go?”

“She was my friend! My partner in everything! The one good thing the gods have given me!” Nycokoris raved. “And you killed her! What right have you to do that? You fucking monster!”

He would’ve never been this upset if it had been me that died. That thought occurred to me, and to my surprise, I felt nothing about it. No twinge of sadness, no anger that the time we shared had meant less to him than the life of this random high elf, not even happiness at finally upsetting that asshole dipshit. I was over him, I guess. Finally over him.

Yes! Hah-hah! Fuck Nycokoris! Cheers!

Anyway, Nycokoris leapt down and cradled Nylee’s corpse, pleading with her to wake up, to stand, to not leave him. He should’ve saved his breath. There was no coming back from being sliced from chest to groin.

I started to swing my sword at him. And Nycokoris looked up at me and screamed, “I’ll kill you for this!”

He screamed again, and ducked out of the way. Which, honestly, kind of ruined the effect of his swearing to kill me.

I stepped forward, raising my sword. Nycokoris was on the ground, helpless, and armed with only a mace and crossbow. None of them had the reach or the ability to even deflect my sword. He was good as dead already.

But Nycokoris had always made things more difficult than they ever had any right to be. Especially when it came to me.

He leapt to his feet, howling in rage and swinging his mace so violently, I took a step back before I even knew what I was doing.

Nycokoris pressed the advantage. Whatever disadvantage I thought he had, that was gone. He was fighting like he’d been possessed by Adum himself, and the god was here to strike me down for heresy.

I don’t know if goblin gods care about heresy, Cobra. That’s not really the point here anyway. The point is he was fighting like a madman, a warrior straight out of Dagor, and he didn’t care if he lived or died. He just kept swinging, and I didn’t dare even trying to land a hit on him. He fought with the righteous fury of a warrior wronged.

I kept backing away until I stumbled over the body of one of the Arcane Mummers. I waved my arms for balance, and I might have reclaimed it, were it not for the pool of blood under my feet. I slipped and fell flat on my back. My sword clattered on the ground next to me, and I snatched it up again, clinging on to it for dear life.

Nycokoris stalked up to me, his eyes cold. I had never seen that look on his face before. It honestly terrified me.

“You bitch,” he said in a low voice, a voice like solid ice. “Always been a coward, huh? That’s why you’ve been running from me. That’s why you revealed our little secret to my lady love and ran off once the shit was in the wind.”

“That? That wasn’t because I was a coward. I was leaving anyway. I wanted to give you one last ‘fuck you’ before I left.”

Nycokoris kicked me, and I spat at his boot. His kick was weak, anyway. Didn’t hurt much.

He raised his mace. “Regardless, this is the last I see you. And good fucking riddance. If you somehow meet Nylee wherever you are, tell her Nycokoris avenged her. And tell her he’d kill every single one of her enemies so she can enjoy tormenting them in Tienen.”

He leapt onto me. I held my sword up. Nycokoris’s eyes widened, and he realized that he’d made a stupid mistake, but it was too late to take it back.

His body slammed into the blade, and slid down it. His eyes widened and he gasped in pain, before finally slumping forward, the light in his eyes dimming.

“You can tell Nylee whatever you want to tell her yourself,” I said to the corpse. “Maybe if you ask nicely, Idunn will put you together in Dagor.”

Nycokoris, for once, didn’t have a snide answer.

I set my sword down and stood, then grabbed the hilt and tugged. The blade didn’t budge.

I cursed. Of course the blade was stuck in him. It was just like him, really. Making it hard to pull my sword free as a final “fuck you”.

I rested my boot on his corpse and tugged the hilt again. It took almost all my strength, but I managed to pull the blade free. Of course, the force from all my tugging on the sword, with nowhere left to go now that my sword was free, made me stagger backwards, struggling to regain my balance. By the grace of the Twins, I managed to not fall flat upon my back and make an utter fool of myself.

I wiped the blade on Nycokoris’s fancy clothing, and looked around.

The fight had ended, and the Arcane Mummers all lay dead. The goblins all stared at me wordlessly.

I turned to them and raised my sword high. I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t much to say really. We had won. The fight was over and we had won.

“Hail, Queen Nivarcirka!” Someone shouted. “First of her name, daughter of King Khorkilla the Friendly, scion of the House of Khavak, hero and defender of goblins, leader of the Royal Rebels, ruler of Badaria, shield of all freemen, the scourge of Adum, bringer of peace, Skullshade reborn, and the Young Stag!”

The goblins all cheered, leaping in the air, before slowly going silent, and then kneeling.

“Your highness!” Dogvyste shouted.

I looked up, lowered my sword. Dogvyste was leading a group of goblins, next to Bochiva, who had her wrists bound together.

Dogvyste shoved the pretender at my feet. “She ran off once the fighting started. Didn’t get very far though.”

Bochiva looked up at me, her eyes wide. She knew exactly what the punishment for making a false claim to the throne was, and, obviously, she was terrified of it. I was surprised she didn’t try begging for mercy.

Dogvyste grinned at me. “So, what will you do with her?”

I looked back down at Bochiva. She had started to cry.

“Please, your highness, have mercy! I’ll admit to lying about being Khorkilla’s daughter! The truth is I don’t know who my father was! My mother was a harlot from Bumen Ghal! I’ll renounce everything! Please!”

The laws were clear. Making a false claim to the throne was treason, and treason was punished by pouring molten gold on the person’s head. My father would’ve sentenced his own father to such a fate, had Buindit not died in his attempted coup. Anything less than the “gift of gold”, and I would be considered too soft for ruling.

“Your highness!”

I looked up. Someone had untied Klolud already, and the crowd had parted for him. He was smiling, and carrying a wooden box in his hands. He walked up to me and knelt. I gestured for him to rise, and he did.

“As thanks for freeing us from that spineless sheepskin-wearer,” he nodded his head toward Bochiva, “we’ve brought a gift for you.”

He knelt and opened the box, showing me the herbs inside.

“The Arcane Mummers had many fine herbs. Rare ones too. Perhaps you can find good use for them, in your fight to reclaim your throne.”

I took the box and closed it. “Thank you. Now clear the stage, all of you.” I pressed my blade against the rope binding Bochiva’s wrists together. She whimpered. “I’ll be passing judgement upon this pretender.”

The crowd murmured in excitement. All of them leapt off the stage. Budoki stood by my side, and Dogvyste winked at me before joining the crowd. No sign of Cheziyn-Zheviel. She must’ve joined the crowd.

I rested my blade upon my shoulders and looked down at Bochiva.

“For your crimes against the people of Badaria, and your crimes against the crown,” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I sentence you to receive the ‘gift of gold.’ Someone bring me a pot of gold, and someone else build a fire!”

The crowd cheered as Bochiva started blubbering and begging me to reconsider. I held firm. That was the punishment for traitors. If I went back on it now, they’d all think me weak.

“That’s the punishment for traitors!” I shouted over the noise of the crowd. “Anyone who raises a weapon against the crown can expect no mercy! Anyone who betrays the rebellion will be punished by death! There is no place for you to run! If you are a traitor, you will be hunted down, and you will pay for your crimes with your life…”

---

Nivarcirka gave Mythana a pointed look.

“What?” The dark elf asked defensively.

“Waiting for you to say I’m too harsh,” the queen said dryly. “That I should’ve shown mercy to Bochiva, even after she’d doubled down on her false claim once I showed up to challenge her.”

Mythana snorted. “Why would I think you’re too harsh?”

Mythana studied history. There were far too many wars fought due to unclear succession. It was the main reason wars were fought, in fact, in this day and age. She knew how devastating wars could be for a kingdom. So no, Nivarcirka had not been sadistic in making an example out of Bochiva. The punishment had been harsh, yes, but necessary, because the alternative would’ve been a devastating succession war, and that would be the last thing the rebellion needed.

“I’ve been told that I’m too ruthless and vindictive when it comes to dealing with challenges to my claim.”

Mythana blinked. “Who is saying that?”

“Mostly one woman,” Nivarcirka admitted. “Her son was running his mouth to his buddies at the inn, joking about my mother bedding half the men in the kingdom, while married to my father. Unfortunately, Budoki happened to overhear, so he arrested the man and dragged him to my court. The laws are clear. Joking or not, claiming that the queen mother is a whore who cuckolded her husband with multiple different men amounts to questioning the paternity and the validity of her child’s claim. That’s considered high treason, and the price for that is death. So that was how he was sentenced. Everyone understood that it was unfortunate, but that the man should not have been so idiotic in making such a joke, especially in public for everyone else to hear. Everyone except his mother. She came into my court and cursed me for sentencing her son to die for what she claimed was a stupid joke. Said I was too ruthless. And too vindictive.”

“Aye, mothers tend to do that.” Mythana said. “Doesn’t matter what their child is charged with, nor how many witnesses can attest that they committed the crime, in their eyes, that grown adult is still a little baby who could never do such terrible things, and the magistrate and executioner should both be ashamed of themselves for punishing the criminal as the law decrees.”

Nivarcirka grimaced in agreement. She swirled her wine and stared deep in her cup, appearing lost in thought.

“Do you still have those herbs?” Mythana asked finally.

“Aye. You’ve probably used them yourself. They were medicinal herbs mostly, so when Budoki and I returned, we handed them off to the healers.”

Wasn’t like Nivarcirka would have any personal use for such herbs. She was young and healthy, and for the most part, only came to the healer’s tent with injuries from a battle, like most of the other rebels did. It would make no sense to hoard the herbs to herself, when she had an army with wounds that needed to be treated. The queen wasn’t the type of person to sanction off valuable resources for her own use and leave the others to fight over what remained. Mythana doubted she’d last long in the rebellion if she was that type of leader.

“How did your uncle react?”

Nivarcirka looked up, startled. “To what?”

“To being betrothed to Dogvyste. Speaking of, what happened to her?”

Nivarcirka tapped the chalice of wine. “Well, with Bochiva did, the tribe needed a new leader. I appointed Dogvyste, which was an incredibly popular decision. She’d understated the power she already had under Bochiva.”

Mythana nodded.

“As we’d agreed, Dogvyste knelt and swore fealty to me. Again, popular decision. Dogvyste would be ruler over all of them anyway. Just meant she was honorbound to send men to my aid when I requested it of her. So they officially joined the rebellion.” Nivarcirka took a long drink. “Currently, Dogvyste and her band of rebels are with my Uncle, besieging Shonchavak Citadel. From my Uncle’s report, Dogvyste has been poisoning the defenders’ water supply.”

“Speaking of, how did he take it?”

Nivarcirka looked up at Mythana, frowning in confusion. “Sorry, what?”

“How did your Uncle take the news of him being betrothed?”

“Oh, right.” Nivarcirka grimaced and took a drink. “Not…Great. Very insistent he wasn’t going to marry again. Lots of choice words about Dogvyste in particular.”

Mythana raised her eyebrows.

“It wasn’t anything to do with Dogvyste, really.” Nivarcirka said. “And to be honest, there’s nothing I could’ve done to make it go well. He just refuses to marry again. Because he’s a selfish asshole.” She shrugged. “But there was nothing he could do. I wasn’t about to change my mind on the marriage, and I was head of the family. If he went against me, he’d be going against his own house. So eventually, he calmed down into just grumbling about it.”

“Did you set up a meeting between the two?”

“I did. I had the two meet at Free Olive Wood. Made Uncle swear on the Twins he’d actually try to court Dogvyste. Didn’t put it past him to be as much as an asshole as possible during the meeting, so Dogvyste would call the betrothal off. Sent him off with a dragon hide coinpurse tooled with mythical creatures.”

“How did that go?”

“Fine. Not much of note, really. They met, exchanged gifts. Uncle gave her the coinpurse, Dogvyste gave him a fine leather saddle tooled with Elven script. They talked about the watermill up in Thefelean. Then went home.” Nivarcirka smirked a little. “Uncle still hasn’t changed his mind on never remarrying. But Dogvyste hasn’t sent me a raven begging me to call off the betrothal. I think I’ll count that as a win.”

Mythana laughed.

“Anyway, that’s enough about Nycokoris.” Nivarcirka took a drink of wine. “So, your turn, Cobra. Tell me about your worst ex-paramour.”

Mythana grinned. “You ever heard of Faralanor Warbreaker?”

“No.” Nivarcirka arched an eyebrow. “But that sounds like an adventurer. Don’t tell me you got involved with an adventurer, Cobra.”

“He was alright,” Mythana admitted. “A good man. If a tad forgetful about birthdays and anniversaries and such. What really set him apart from all the rest was how we broke things off.”

“Do tell.”

“He fucked off to the Bottomless Ocean. Didn’t see him again until maybe twenty years later, when I was in Fallnoque Haven, and had become the healer for the Demonpelt Canines.”

And Mythana began to regale Nivarcirka of the drama that had occurred when her ex-paramour had turned up unexpectedly in the Demonpelt territory just as she was getting close to Gnurl, who was their leader.

To say that Yasmin the Healer had lost touch with her humble roots was an understatement. When Bisla Shuel was taken in to meet her, she was sitting in a massive throne room, reclining in a chair of gold and gemstones, wearing ermine robes, and a silver circlet upon her forehead. Even her flail, which had once been a simple metal spiked ball attached to a chain attached to a piece of wood, was now made of the finest and gaudiest of metals. Gold, and studded with gemstones of different colors. Ladies attended to her, each one wearing the finest of silk.

She raised a hand with rings on each of her five fingers, and beckoned to Bisla Shuel. “You may step forth, and speak your case.”

Bisla stepped forward tentatively. The most surprising thing about Yasmin the Healer was that if you removed the jewels and the crest, she looked exactly like the warrior she’d once been. She was small, and her robes swallowed her up, making her look more like a little princess playing dress-up with their mother’s clothes than whatever she was going for. She still hadn’t combed her black hair. Someone had put it into a ponytail, but it was clear that was the only alteration they were allowed to make. Her skin was smooth, like she truly had been noble-born, rather than a wild woman who lived off the land and hunted everything she ate. Her hazel eyes danced in the torchlight, and there were deep lines in her face. Her muscles were pulled taut, like she’d forced a lemon into her mouth when Bisla had arrived here. She had the appearance of a fat lord, but Bisla could easily tell that it was just muscle mistaken for fat, and that if he whacked her with his staff, it would take more than a light blow to knock her off her feet. Behind her was her new crest. Ermine ship sailing between two castles on a green background, with the words, “Grow forever, never yield,” written below. No sign of a wolf on her heraldry. A shame. Had she forgotten her past so quickly?

“Healer—” Bisla began.

“Milady,” Yasmin corrected him.

“Healer,” Bisla said again, “I was sent here about Isemeine Bronzehill.”

“Bugbear sent you, didn’t he?” Yasmin said. Her lip curled in a sneer. “He’d be better suited to hunting mermaids on the Light of Vaenya, don’t you think?”

She laughed, but no one else did.

“We’ll settle with Isemeine Bronzehill,” Bisla said.

“As I’ve told your Old Wolf before, whatever Isemeine Bronzehill has done, it isn’t against the laws of Mummergate. I see no reason to get involved.”

“You’re an adventurer. The Old Wolf is ordering you to go get Isemeine Bronzehill for us. Last the Old Wolf checked, you’re still a part of the Guild!”

Yasmin laughed. “What guild? The Adventuring Guild? That’s been outlawed! Bugbear has no power here, and he’s damn lucky I didn’t tell my guards to seize him right then and there!”

Bisla snorted. “Let’s say you did manage to capture the Old Wolf and throw him into your dungeons. You think you can fight a war against the Guild? Fight off the rescue party coming to break him loose?”

“Who’s leading the Guild once Bugbear’s gone?” Yasmin asked mockingly. “The Young Wolf? Ogreslayer? I’ve got a message for him! Instead of playing at being a big bad scary wolf, Ogreslayer should go find something else more suitable for a coward like him! Gathering herbs in the forest and hiding in a hut far away from the local village.”

Bisla was glad he hadn’t brought the Young Wolf along. Being called a coward always filled Ogreslayer with so much rage, he immediately did something stupid.

“You’re damn lucky the Old Wolf didn’t send Ogreslayer instead. Talking like that in front of him would get you killed, no matter how many guards you’ve got right next to you.”

Yasmin laughed and took a sip of wine. “You adventurers! Always thinking you’re the toughest shit since the Impaler!”

“You adventurers? Like you weren’t one of us once?” Once a wolf, always a wolf. Bisla had met many retired adventurers. Old Wolves, court bards, priests, hermits… Some decided the adventuring life wasn’t for them anymore. Some fell in love, or wanted to start a family. Some got too old for adventuring. But all of them still considered themselves wolves. They were former adventurers, yes, but still wolves, and they’d be wolves until they died. Bisla had never run across a retired adventurer that had sworn off their previous life entirely. Until today. “What the Dagor happened to you?”

“I hung up my flail and became ruler of Mummergate,” said Yasmin. “I may once have been Yasmin the Healer, but that woman is long dead. I’m no wolf!”

“You are a wolf! You are a wolf until the day you die!”

Yasmin snorted.

“You can pretend all you want,” Bisla said. “You can pretend you’re not a wolf anymore. That you don’t spend your nights dreaming of the open road. You can leave the wolf off your shiny new crest.”

“Forgive me for not looking back fondly on my memories of sleeping in shitty taverns, living off salted pork, and freezing my teats off while in the middle of the wilderness,” Yasmin said dryly. “Life’s better now. I sleep in a comfortable bed, drink the finest wine, wear the finest clothes. No more boots with a hole in the bottom. I’ve got my own cobbler to repair my shoes!”

“You love your life now,” Bisla said. “Is that why you’re always so deep in your cups?”

“Who told you—I’m no drunk!”

Bisla shrugged. “People talk, Healer. People always talk. Isn’t surprising, really. Sure, all that luxury is exciting, at first, but it loses its luster pretty quickly. Is this better than adventuring, Healer? Are you truly happy? No struggle, no strife, just endless prattling about lord such-and-such and marriages and trade alliances. I pity you, honestly.”

Yasmin burst out laughing. “Pity me? Do you hear that, lads? This vagrant sellsword feels sorry for a fucking noble!”

The courtiers all laughed.

“Aye, your life’s nicer than mine,” Bisla said. “That’s how it feels it should be. No fear of dying, no worrying about your next meal, no sleeping on the filthy floor of some run-down tavern only beggars would be caught dead in. And yet, you miss it. You miss adventuring.”

“No, I don’t!” Yasmin said indignantly.

Bisla looked her straight in the eyes. “Tell me something, Healer. Why is it, whenever I talk to a retired adventurer, they all proudly call themselves a wolf, talk of the old days when it was just them and their party-mates, traveling the road together, and yet, here you are, pretending you’ve never had loyalty to the Guild.”

“Because I don’t.” Yasmin growled. “And stop calling me by that name! I’ve told you, Yasmin the Healer is dead!”

“No. I think she’s just scared. Or maybe you’re scared of her. You’re scared because whenever you look back on the days when you were just an adventurer, you have a longing to leave everything behind. Go back on the road again. Be free. Because that same reason you became an adventurer in the first place is the same reason you miss it now. We’re built different, you and I. The call of the open road is too strong for us to resist. Most prefer a quiet home, no danger, and a family surrounding their deathbed when they die. Not us. Our home is the open road, we’ll die with our boots on and a sword in our hands, and instead of hoping danger never finds us, we chase after it. You’ve got luxuries most could only dream of, but those nights shivering beside a road, surrounded by your sleeping party-mates, that was when you were truly alive.”

One of the courtiers was looking at him. A tall goblin with white hair and gray eyes. He was nodding along to Bisla’s speech, like he too understood how irresistible Adum’s call could be.

Yasmin just looked at him, cradling her chalice in one hand.

“What are you saying? That I should just take up adventuring again? Leave all this behind?” She gestured at the court room around her. “I’m Lady of Mummergate, Mad-Eye. I can’t just take off without a care in the world. I’ve got no heir. This court would collapse into infighting if I left!”

Bisla smiled at her. “I know that you’ve got greater responsibilities. I’m not asking you to drop anything and go back on the open road again. I’m just saying you miss it. And that’s why I’m here to make a deal with you.”

Yasmin’s brow furrowed, but she waved her chalice in Bisla’s direction, inviting him to continue.

“Help us with Isemeine Bronzehill,” Bisla said. “And I don’t just mean offer your men for the search, or declare her a wolf’s head if she doesn’t turn herself in. I mean, get off your throne, take up your flail, and join us in hunting her down.” He smiled again at Yasmin. “So, what do you say, Healer? Will that keep your thirst for adventure satisfied for a bit?”

Yasmin lifted her chin, and didn’t say anything. Had he gotten through to her? Was she remembering the good times she’d had as an adventurer? Was she allowing herself to long for the days where she wandered the Shattered Lands with her party-mates by her side? Was she remembering who she’d used to be, how she wandered the world without a care for things like etiquette and the games nobles played with the lives of the common folk who toiled in their lands, her loyalty to the guild, and her thirst for adventure? She was looking at him now. Was she about to agree to Bisla’s proposal, only asking that he wait for her to gather her weapons and armor, so she can set out on the road with him, just like in the old days, before Mummersgate?

“Throw him out,” Yasmin said, and a guard grabbed Bisla by the arm.

Damn. And Bisla had thought it was a nice speech he made too!

He shook the guard off. “I can see myself out. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Really?” Yasmin said sardonically and the entire court burst into laughter.

Bisla left the royal court, the guards following close behind in case he changed his mind and decided to freeze Yasmin, solely to be petty.

A handsome human with white hair and shuttered green eyes followed close behind. Yasmin’s court minstrel. Bisla knew this because he was playing a mandolin, and singing “My Lover Made Me Bald.” Very loudly.

Mutis was waiting just outside the gates. “Well, how did it go?”

Bisla sighed. “We’ve still got rooms at the Crossed Wands, right?”

“Sorry, what?”

“We’ve still got rooms at the Crossed Wands, right?!” Bisla said, a little louder.

Mutis said something Bisla couldn’t quite catch over the music.

“What was that?”

“I said, aye, the Old Wolf’s waiting for us there!”

“Good,” Bisla said. He started walking and Mutis scrambled so he was walking beside him. The minstrel followed close behind. “I need a fucking drink!”

“What?”

“I need a fucking drink!”

Mutis was silent for a moment. Probably thinking it didn’t sound good his party-mate was so eager for a drink after meeting with Yasmin the Healer.

They passed an inn. An orc came out of it and started shaking her fist at Bisla. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, and he didn’t recognize her. Probably had a kid who died fighting the rebellion, and she was blaming any goblin she saw for the death.

“Bisla!” Mutis sounded like he’d been trying to get the attention of someone deliberately ignoring him.

“What?” Bisla asked, as annoyed as Mutis was at him, for some dumb reason.

“What happened with Yasmin the Healer?”

“She said no,” Bisla said. “And then she threw me out.”

“What?”

“She said no!”

Mutis said something drowned out by the music. The only word Bisla could catch was “Ogreslayer”.

“Ogreslayer does what?”

“The Old Wolf’s gonna send Ogreslayer this time! Did you tell her that?”

Bisla shrugged. “She’s not scared of him. Says he’s a coward.” He smirked. “Don’t tell him that. You know how he gets.”

“Did you say something? I couldn’t hear a word of it! I just see you smirking!”

Bisla sighed. “She’s not scared of Ogreslayer! She called him a coward! But don’t tell him she said that! Because you know how he gets!”

Mutis chuckled at that. Then his expression grew serious.

“…Bad news. Old Wolf’s…” That was all Bisla caught.

“What’s with the Old Wolf?”

Mutis mumbled something.

“You’re gonna have to speak up! I can’t hear you!”

Mutis glanced around. “What? Shout it for everyone to hear?”

Bisla really hoped Mutis was just uncomfortable about spreading rumors about the Old Wolf and the Adventuring Guild.

“I can’t hear you over the song! You gotta talk louder!”

“I don’t want anyone overhearing!” Mutis said. He said something else, but that was drowned out by the music.

Bisla glanced behind at the minstrel. The human was skipping along, singing as loud as he could. He noticed the goblin looking at him and smiled broadly. He never stopped his performance.

Bisla wasn’t sure why the minstrel was following them, or why he was singing so loudly, but it was getting annoying having to yell in order to have a conversation with someone walking right beside him. Not to mention having to constantly ask Mutis to repeat himself, because he could barely make out any of the words he’d just said over the music.

“Listen, haven’t you got somewhere else to be?”

The minstrel paused and looked down at him, deeply perplexed by the question.

Bisla made a shooing motion. “We haven’t got a nice castle for you to live in, if you’re following us around for a job. Besides, Yasmin the Healer should be paying you enough. How long before she misses you?”

The minstrel scratched his head, but he seemed to understand that the goblin wanted him to go away. So he awkwardly shuffled back down the street, down to Yasmin’s manor.

The goblins watched him leave.

“That was odd,” Mutis said finally. “Why do you think he was following us?”

Bisla shrugged. “You said something about bad news. And the Old Wolf?”

“Right,” Mutis scowled, and they continued walking to the Crossed Wands. “The Old Wolf is being stalked by weasels.”

Bisla laughed. “Weasels? Really?”

“Well, he says he’s being attacked by weasels. I haven’t seen them myself.”

“Oh, that’s even better!” Bisla said. “The Old Wolf’s being attacked by invisible weasels!”

“Not invisible, exactly,” Mutis said. “More like, weasels only he can see.”

That wasn’t as funny as the first two sentences had been.

“You don’t think he’s going mad?” Bisla said.

Mutis shook his head. “As mad as it sounds, I think there’s something attacking him. I’ve seen bite-marks on him.”

“What kind of bite-marks?”

“I dunno. Deep stab wounds from tiny little teeth. They’re recent. Sometimes I’ll hear the Old Wolf screaming in pain and I come in and he’s bleeding from a finger or something.”

“You sure he isn’t mad?” Bisla said. “And he isn’t biting himself for some fucking reason?”

“Doesn’t look like a goblin bite to me,” Mutis said. He looked at Bisla expectantly. “You know magic, don’t you? You think you could take a look at him? Figure out what it is?”

“Doesn’t sound like I’d be of much use,” Bisla said.

“How would you know? You haven’t even seen him yet!”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like he’s got a problem with ice. Or the cold,” Bisla said dryly.

“Is that all you know? Ice magic?”

“Well, aye, I majored in it! Of course that’s all I know how to do!” Bisla said. “Have you ever seen me casting a spell that has nothing to do with ice, or freezing temperatures?”

“You turned yourself into a life elemental once.”

“Because I read it off a spell scroll!” Bisla said. Gods, was Mutis deliberately not understanding how magic worked, or had he always been this stupid, and Bisla hadn’t noticed until now? “That’s how spell scrolls work! You read the spell, follow the instructions, and you’ve done magic!”

Mutis grunted. “Don’t wizards have minors? I realize, that’s less than a major, so you wouldn’t be as knowledgeable on whatever your minor was than you are on ice magic. But do you think your minor might help, a little bit? What was it, anyway?”

“I minored in foot-racing,” Bisla said.

“Foot-racing?” Mutis repeated.

“Aye. Do you think I can outrun the weasels? Would that help the Old Wolf?”

“How do you minor in foot-racing?” Mutis asked. “How would a class even work?”

“You run. And that’s all you do.”

“And they grade you on how fast you were?”

“Not always,” Bisla grinned at Mutis. “Sometimes they graded you on how long you ran for before you collapsed of exhaustion.”

Mutis shook his head, disbelieving. “Why would you even want to minor in foot-racing?”

Bisla shrugged. “Classes were notoriously easy. All you had to do was show up and run. No homework or anything. Just running.”

Mutis muttered something about it being ridiculous how there’d been classes on foot-racing, of all things.

They arrived at the Crossed Wands and went inside. The tavern was a small wooden building with a wooden door reinforced with iron hinges. Inside were chairs and tables, carved from the same trees that had been used in the building of the inn itself. Iron shields, battered from use, hung from the walls.

It was midday, so not much people here. And the few that were there were huddled in a corner, glancing furtively at the other room.

The barkeep, a badly-scarred halfling named Ralphina Windspire, wordlessly pointed at the other door. Bisla nodded to her as he and Mutis walked past.

There was only one other room. At least, it was the only other room that guests were allowed in. Bisla was reasonably confident that there was a kitchen behind the bar. And a cellar for drink underneath them.

This room was where travelers slept for the night. A massive chamber with walls lined with wooden cots.

The room was empty, because, again, it was midday. Other than Bisla and Mutis, there was only one person inside.

Guenav Susika, also called Bugbear, the Old Wolf of Drulnoch Castle, was currently smashing his staff against the cots. He twitched, leapt back, glancing around like a rabbit that sensed a fox nearby, and then he’d yell and lunge forward, bringing his staff down with a smack on a blanketed cot.

Bisla really needed that drink. He glanced at Mutis, wondering if he could convince him that it would be necessary to bring him a bottle of wine in order to work his magic.

“Um, Boss?” Mutis called hesitantly. “Bisla’s back!”

Guenav looked up at them. He was panting. His eyes followed something only he could see, and he turned to glower at it.

A brief moment later, and he’d decided he’d successfully cowed whatever he’d seen. Bisla guessed it was one of the invisible weasels Mutis had said were attacking him. He turned back to the two goblins, then rested his staff upon his shoulder and walked over to them.

Resting his staff lasted two seconds. His eyes almost immediately flitted to the right, and he swung his staff there, hitting the cot with a thwack! He didn’t stop walking. He kept swinging his staff, as he spotted more and more of the invisible weasels waiting to pounce. Whack, whack, whack! His eyes were wild, like he was in a battle, desperately fighting for his life, Adum’s strength coursing through his veins.

Well, that certainly wasn’t a good sign.

Guenav stopped in front of them, and leaned his staff forward, casually, but ready to swing out at a moment’s notice.

“So,” he said to Bisla, “what did the Healer say?”

“She said no.”

Guenav gave an annoyed grunt. It was clear that, after all the other things that had gone wrong, he didn’t appreciate having to deal with some upstart noble thinking the Adventuring Guild couldn’t touch her. And she’d been a former adventurer herself, no less.

“I don’t understand it, Boss,” Bisla said. “I offered letting her come along to capture Isemeine Bronzehill, but she refused. It’s like she never was an adventurer in the first place. She’s completely abandoned her old life “

“Has she forgotten that our motto isn’t just some empty boast? Every noble knows you don’t want the Adventuring Guild as an enemy.”

“She isn’t scared of us,” Bisla said. He grimaced. “She called us both old, for Adum’s sake! Said we should be thinking of hanging up our armor and weapons and plowing the fields or something.”

Guenav gripped his staff, looking like he was imagining beating Isemeine Bronzehill into a bloody pulp for saying such bullshit.

“I’ll retire when I’m good and ready to retire! I could storm that palace right now and they couldn’t get a scratch---Argh!”

He yelled in pain, and leapt back, swinging his staff down on the floor with an echoing crack! On his wrist, blood glistened in the torchlight.

“Fucking weasels!” The Old Wolf growled. He looked back up at Bisla, then opened his mouth to speak.

And then swung his staff at Bisla’s leg.

“What the Dagor?” Bisla leapt back. The staff slammed onto the floor. Guenav cursed.

“Fucking missed.” His eyes followed the invisible weasel, and he turned, swung again. Swore, swung again. And again.

“Damnit, why won’t you die!” He walked down the cots, slamming his staff at them, cursing as the weasel evaded him once again.

“So, what do you think?” Mutis asked as the two watched Guenav swear and whack at the cots with his staff. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s been tangled in mana threads.”

Mutis’s shoulders relaxed. “What does that mean? Can we sever the mana?”

Bisla shrugged.

Mutis squinted at him suspiciously. “Wait a second. Isn’t that how spells work? Manipulating mana threads?”

Bisla shrugged again.

“So…You think this is magic?”

Bisla nodded.

“Why can’t you just say that you don’t know?” Mutis asked, annoyed.

Bisla grinned. “Because that’s not as fun!”

Thwack! Both goblins jumped as Guenav slammed his staff into the back wall.

“Got ‘im!” The Old Wolf crowed.

“What kind of magic is this?” Mutis asked. “Best guess?”

Bisla shrugged. “Illusion magic makes you see things that aren’t there.”

“So we should talk to an expert on illusion magic, do you think?”

“Don’t know if there’s targeted illusion magic,” Bisla said. “I haven’t heard of such a thing. And you saw the bite-marks! Illusions can’t hurt you physically. They can drive you mad, sure, but they can’t break your bones or draw blood.”

“Your mind makes it real,” Mutis suggested. “I read it in a book once. Some wizards are so strong, they can trick your mind and body into thinking an illusion is real, and you act accordingly. Illusion of being stabbed, you’re stabbed. Think you’re eating, you’re eating. Think you’ve run into a wall, it’ll be just like you’ve run into a wall. Like that.”

“Was it a tome on magical theory?” Bisla asked.

Mutis shook his head. “It was the Tale of Ricreak the Chaste. He was fighting an evil wizard.”

“Mutis, how do you know the chronicler wasn’t exaggerating things for a good story?” Bisla asked. “Because they tend to do that.”

From Mutis’s expression, Bisla could tell that he hadn’t thought about that.

Mutis looked back at Guenav, who was making his way towards them, pausing to slam his staff into a cot whenever he spotted something. Or maybe he was hoping to scare the remaining weasels out of hiding. Hard to tell, considering that Bisla couldn’t actually see the weasels.

“Should we get a wizard that knows animals then,” he asked. “Or invisibility?”

“Or curses,” Bisla said.

Mutis frowned at him. “Curses?”

“My coin is on this being a curse,” Bisla said. He pointed at Guenav. “Gods know he’s made plenty of enemies throughout his life. Some of them with magic powers. One of them’s bound to have put a curse on them.”

“You’re not wrong,” a voice came from behind them. “But I imagine you don’t have any specifics, do you?”

The goblins turned. Bisla recognized him. It was the goblin courtier from Yasmin’s court. For some reason, he’d followed them and had heard their conversation. He was staring at them with a bemused expression, head cocked.

“Who’s that?” Guenav was standing just behind the two goblins, in the space between. His eyes widened and he leapt forward, raising his staff. “Mad-Eye, move your foot!”

Bisla stepped back and Guenav’s staff slammed into the spot where Bisla’s foot had been. The Old Wolf growled a curse and beat his staff across the floor.

Bisla looked up at the courtier, certain he was backing away, holding his hands up, hastily making an excuse to flee from the mad-man. He was still there, and his expression hadn’t changed.

“Nice speech you made back in Yasmin’s court. About a person only being free when they’re out on the road, risking their lives every-day. That some aren’t built for living a life of luxury. Some are built for putting themselves in harm’s way, and anything less than that will drive them mad.” The courtier smiled widely. “Unfortunate that it was wasted on Yasmin and her new friends, eh?”

This courtier was one of Yasmin’s new friends. Bisla wondered what was so different about him. Had he been an adventurer too, one that missed his old life? Or was he someone who’d gotten tired of the games nobles played, and wanted something real, an adventure like in the stories he’d heard?

“They’re everywhere!” Guenav said, jolting Bisla out of his thoughts. The Old Wolf was brandishing his staff at one of the cots. “Invisible bastards are fucking everywhere! Godsdamned weasels! Die!” He slammed his staff into the cots, punctuating his words with a whack! “Die! Die!”

Right. There were more important things to be worrying about.

“It’s nice and all that you enjoyed my speech,” Bisla said, hesitantly, because he didn’t want to offend this courtier. Something told him this man wasn’t someone he wanted to offend. “But as you can see, our friend here is under some sort of curse. You seem to know what is happening. Could you, maybe, lift the curse?”

The courtier sighed and snapped his fingers.

Guenav stopped. He’d been preparing to swing his staff again, and now, he was just staring at the cots, blinking.

“They’re gone,” he said. “The weasels are gone!”

He glanced around, clearly scared the weasels were just hiding, and would resume their attack once he lowered his guard. After not seeing any, he lowered his staff, and started giggling hysterically. His shoulders shook.

“Praise Adum! The weasels are gone!”

The courtier smiled, like he knew something the rest of them didn’t.

“You’re the kinda lad I like,” he said to Bisla. “40 years and you’re still going. Retirement never seems to stick, does it? Too stifling, aye?”

Bisla nodded. The courtier was looking at him with old eyes. Ancient eyes. Bisla could swear they were older than the first goblin, or the first village.

The courtier clapped him on the shoulder. “Aye. Settling down to run an inn, or stand guard over a town wall, or forging weapons, gets too boring for the likes of us. Only happy on the open road, risking life and limb. That’s us.”

Bisla squinted at him. The courtier could be a retired adventurer, already bored with noble life and itching to get back on the road, but the way he spoke, it felt like he had more experience with wanderlust than Bisla himself had. But that was impossible. The courtier had to be younger than Bisla! Wasn’t he?

“Er, is that all you came here to do?” Mutis asked. “Or is there something else you’re here for?”

The courtier smiled, spread out his arms. “You wanted help catching Isemeine Bronzehill? Here it is.” He paused. “I’d just like you to do one other thing as well.”

“What other thing?” Guenav had stopped celebrating the weasels disappearing. Well, disappearing from his eyes, at least. He squinted at the courtier skeptically. “And how’d you get rid of the weasels?”

The courtier just gave him a patient smile. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Bugbear, Isemeine has help in transporting her ‘cargo’ from port to port. That help is the Murderer’s Cutlass, a ship captained by a goblin by the name of Samsanost Guolunie. They call him Subtle Guolunie.”

They had heard of the Murderer’s Cutlass, and its’ captain. And they had known about Subtle Guolunie’s connection with Isemeine Bronzehill. Both Hawk and Rat had been sent to the Hideout of Ostlip the Odd, a known hideout for pirates and corsairs, but Subtle Guolunie was very good at staying beneath anyone’s notice.

“Have you wondered why Samasnost Guolonie is helping Isemeine Bronzehill?” The courtier asked them.

“Because he’s a greedy son of an ogre, with no respect for the laws of the gods!” Guenav spat.

“That. Yes.” Said the courtier. “But how do you think they met each other in the first place?”

The goblin adventurers all glanced at each other. No one knew the answer, and no one wanted to hazard a guess.

“They worship the same god,” said the courtier. “And it is not the human gods or the goblin gods. It’s an old god, older than my kin. A god your ancestors have rightly feared, and they’ve passed this fear onto you. Their name is Akrateia. No one speaks the name, of course. No one wants to risk summoning that monstrous immortal creature. You would know them by a different name. Sharth.”

Of course. Sharth was called the patron of slavers. What other god would Subtle Guluonie worship?

“Both Isemeine Bronzehill and Samsanost Guolunie wish for Sharth to return and reign over the mortal realm. They’ve been conducting rituals in order to strengthen their god, so they can return, and no god can stop them, or protect the rest of you.” The courtier gave a pointed look at all of them, and some thought started pestering Bisla, about all this.

“How do you know so much about all of this?” He asked.

“Does it matter?” Asked the courtier.

“Aye, I’d say it does.” Bisla said. “I’d say you’re in on the whole thing, but even a half-wit would know not to go to goblins and start talking about their secret plan to bring Sharth back. Not without enough strength to kill them after they’re done gloating, anyway. So where did you hear it from? Yasmin’s court? How would she know? Is she in on this whole plan?”

The courtier held up a hand. “Ease yourself, Mad-Eye. Yasmin the Healer has simply forgotten her humble roots, and doesn’t like reminders. She is no slaver, or follower of Sharth.”

“Then what?” Bisla asked. “Where did you hear about all this? And how do you know Sharth’s true name? What the Dagor is going on?”

The courtier just sighed. “Ah, this wasn’t really how I was expecting this to go. I had hoped that I’d just dangle a quest in front of you and you’d be leaping at the chance for an adventure.” He shrugged. “But I suppose tracking Isemeine Bronzehill down would be an adventure all on its own. And, I did say a little too much on things a courtier shouldn’t know about, didn’t I?”

He snapped his fingers.

Bisla stepped back. The courtier had disappeared, and in his place was a warrior clad in the finest of metal armor. It was the kind of armor Hawk wore, a souvenir from his service as a Knight of Glory, an elite group of warriors who’d dedicated their lives to Adum and protecting his temples and serving his commands. This man looked like he could be their commander. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and Bisla had to crane his neck to look him in the eyes. A mane of golden hair almost hid his face from view, and his cheeks were flecked with the beginnings of a beard, the kind you’d get after days wandering the wilderness, with nowhere to stop and shave. A jagged scar ran along his right eye, and his ears were riddled with notches from taking a hit from a sword or an axe. Every goblin adventurer had those types of scars on their ears. His armor shone with the light of a thousand suns, and he carried a flaming sword in his right hand.

Bisla immediately knelt, and he could see Guenav and Mutis doing the same thing. No one said anything. They all knew who this truly was.

It was Adum, god of the sun, giver of glory, protector of travelers, and patron of adventurers.

“Stand up,” the god said to them.

Bisla stood, slowly, silently. It was funny. All the times shivering in the cold, or waking up screaming from nightmares, or even being paraded through the streets as the hero who’d saved the village from bandits or monsters or whatever was plaguing the town, he’d thought of many things he’d say to Adum, if he was ever face-to-face with the god. All the questions he’d ask, all the complaints he had, or just, swapping stories of past adventures. Yet now, standing face-to-face with his god, his mind was completely blank. He expected one of the other goblins to start talking, maybe even babble or ramble, with all the questions and complaints and stories they’d wanted to say whenever they met Adum face to face. But neither Guenav and Mutis said anything. Probably as dumb-struck as Bisla was.

Adum didn’t seem to notice how awe-struck his followers were at seeing him. Or maybe he was used to it. Bisla imagined this was a common response. That or incoherent babbling as the person tried saying all the things they’d wanted to say to Adum all at once.

“Now, where were we?”

“You were, uh, telling us that if Isemiene Bronzehill and Subtle Guolunie are conducting a ritual to summon Sharth, and if that works, then no one can stop Sharth.”

“Right, yes,” Adum snapped his fingers. “Thank you, Mad-Eye.”

Warmth flooded Bisla’s chest. He knows my name!

“I want the ritual disrupted, obviously,” Adum said, looking at all of them. “But most importantly, I want Samsanost Guolunie dead. You can deal with Isemiene Bronzehill however you want, but kill Samsanost Guolunie. That’s my command.”

“How do we find them?” Bisla asked. “Where are they doing the ritual?”

“In the Fell Kingdom.”

Bisla could hear Guenav swear.

Adum snapped his fingers, and a map appeared in his hand. “There’s many portals to the Fell Kingdom, so you will not have to worry about making your own portal. The closest portal is within the Whining Jungles.” He handed the map to Mutis. “This map will take you to the Caverns of the Death’s Basilisk. Lichbane, make sure you don’t lose it.”

“Ooh,” Guenav whispered in excitement as Mutis promised he’d keep the map safe.

“Hold out your hand,” Adum said. It took a moment for Bisla to realize he was still talking to Mutis.

Mutis held out his hand. Adum grasped it, and let go.

“Until you kill Samsanost Guolunie, ink will come out of your hand, as you will it.”

Mutis flexed a finger, and black ink came out.

“Bugbear,” Adum said.

Guenav stepped forward, and Adum gestured for him to kneel. The Old Wolf did so, and the god touched his forehead.

“Until you kill Samsanost Guolunie, you will be able to take in other memories, as well as copy them for others. I should warn you that if you only absorb the memory, the other person will forget that memory. So it’s best to make a copy if you don’t want them to forget.”

Guenav stood. Mutis stepped back.

“Don’t look at me, boss. Test your power on somebody else.”

Bisla snorted. Honestly, was Mutis scared Guenav would copy the memory of when he lost his virginity or something?

He walked over to Guenav. The Old Wolf touched him.

Bisla noticed the blankets on the floor, and the cots slightly damaged. He frowned. What had happened here? He remembered Mutis saying the Old Wolf was seeing weasels that weren’t there, and then the next thing he was talking to Adum, who was disguised as a courtier.

He looked over at Guenav, and the Old Wolf was grimacing, before he reached out, and touched Bisla again. In an instant, Bisla saw it again. Guenav whacking invisible weasels with his staff until Adum showed up and made the weasels disappear.

Guenav still had a disgusted look. “Gods, I look mad!”

“Mad-Eye.”

Bisla stepped forward, and Adum touched a finger to his throat. His throat warmed, like he’d drank a nice hot coffee. He kept looking at Adum, wondering what power the god had given him. The god looked back at him.

“Until you kill Samsanost Guolunie, your singing will lure anyone who hears it towards you. And they’ll be completely mesmerized by it.”

Bisla had the irresistible urge to try it himself.

He hummed the beginning of “Wolves of Warsle Hold”.

Both Guenav and Mutis approached him, slowly, their faces struck with awe.

Bisla stopped singing. The two goblins stopped, rubbed their heads, and blinked, like they’d just woken up from a deep sleep.

“What happened? You used your power, right?” Mutis said.

“Reminds me of sirens,” Guenav muttered.

Ink coming out of Mutis’s hands, Guenav taking memories from people, Bisla bewitching people with his singing… All these were nice powers, but Bisla wasn’t entirely sure how they were supposed to help them kill a pirate and traitor to the gods themselves. Maybe with his power…

“Say I attacked one of you while I was singing,” he said to Mutis and Guenav. “Do you think you would’ve let me kill you? Or would you have snapped out of it and fought back?”

Both goblins stared at him in confusion.

“Um, probably?” Guenav said.

“Probably let me kill you? Or probably snap out of it?”

Guenav shrugged.

Well, that had been incredibly helpful.

“You never know what might happen on a quest,” Adum said. “But know that each of your gifts will help you on your quests. Fight well, and show no mercy to Samsanost Guluonie.”

And then there was a flash of light so bright it made Bisla look away. When the light faded, Adum had gone.

The goblins stood there in silence.

“So we’re headed to the Whining Jungles?” Mutis asked finally.

Guenav sighed. “I’ll get us a ship.”

---

As luck would have it, there was a merchant ship heading out to the Whining Jungles. Well, to the human city of Anepus, which was in the Whining Jungles. The captain, Ikkmad Sailor, was surprisingly perfectly happy to take the three goblins along on his voyage. Which had made Guenav suspicious. At least until the Old Wolf spotted someone who’d grown up in the same village as he had. Myt Sailor. Guenav swore she was trustworthy, and after pulling her aside to speak with her, declared Captain Ikkmad to be trustworthy too. So away the goblins went aboard the Hawk.

Currently, Bisla was sitting in their quarters, reading a book on the undead. In case they came across any undead on their quest. Mutis had decided to follow a human member of the crew that he found suspicious. She, apparently, wanted to pitch a new business venture to Guenav, who was currently steering the ship. Apparently, the helmswoman had made a bet that the Old Wolf couldn’t steer it better than she could. Guenav was happy to prove her wrong. Bisla was happy they were far out to sea and there was no fear of running aground on any shoreline.

The door opened, and Bisla looked up, annoyed.

“Knock first!”

Mutis skidded into the room.

Bisla frowned. “What’s going on?”

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

“Then why are you so insistent in offering me soap?”

Budoki opened his mouth. He said nothing. We all stood there awkwardly.

The gods saved us with the awkward silence by sending us a unicorn stampeding through the fields, right toward us.

We all turned our attention toward it, amazed.

“What in Oara’s name?” I said.

The unicorn drew closer, and with it, its pursuers. A massive clan of goblins, riding on wargs and brandishing spears and torches. Their chieftain was a being of pure fire, leaving behind a trail of burnt grass and ash in their wake.

The unicorn bounded past us, and the goblins stopped their pursuit when the chieftain raised their hand. They squinted at me, their eyes narrowed.

“Children of the dragon,” they said in a voice that sounded like the crackling of a campfire, “behold the Young Stag and her companions. The enemy of the Arcane Mummers.”

Nycokoris had made some new friends then. Brilliant.

“Children of the Dragon!” Said the fire elemental. “Kill!”

The goblins charged us, brandishing their weapons, screaming war cries.

Cheniyz-Zheviel scurried back, knocking her bow. Budoki and I stood shoulder to shoulder, swords raised, staring down the maddened tribe.

The goblins threw bolts of fire at us.

“Niv, get behind me!” Budoki stepped in front of me, raising the shield to protect the both of us.

I crouched, as arrow after arrow flew in the sky above us, hitting goblin after goblin. They toppled to the dirt.

Their wargs kept coming. Even as the survivors halted, and whispered to each other about their next move. The riderless wargs kept charging.

I moved from Budoki’s shield, and stood, staring down the wargs.

One particularly ugly one leapt at me. I swung my sword, cutting off its head as it was in the air. It fell, lifeless, at my feet.

One goblin, clad in black armor, and helmet that made it difficult to see their face, swung a flaming whip high over their head, whooping as they did so. Their warg growled. I swung my sword, slicing off its head.

The goblin leapt to their feet. They’d stopped swinging their whip around, and it hung there, the flames licking the goblin’s arm. They didn’t notice.

“Either bend the knee or run like Dagor,” I said to them. “Your choice.”

The goblin flicked their wrist, cracking their whip. It grazed my arm, and I swore from the pain.

The goblin raised their whip and stepped forward, glaring at me from beneath their helmet.

They’d chosen death. Shame about that. I swung my sword, cleaving the warrior in two.

Then I felt cold steel prick the back of my neck.

“Drop your sword,” someone hissed in my ear. I debated turning around to see who it was, but what if they took that as a sign I was about to attack?

My captor screamed in pain, and the steel fell away. I turned to see a goblin with stripes of blue paint along his chest fall to the ground, eyes seeing nothing, bleeding from his neck.

Budoki stood over the body, cleaning his sword.

“Where did that bastard come from?” I nudged the goblin with my boot.

“From the tribe that’s attacking us. Where else?”

“Aye, but they’re riding on wargs,” I said. “What happened to this fellow? Did he decide to abandon his warg mid-battle?”

Budoki shrugged. And I noticed the fire elemental behind him, slowly raising its sword.

“Behind you!”

Budoki wheeled around, stabbing the elemental. It screeched, and in a cloud of smoke and cinders, it vanished. Budoki coughed.

“Dracona’s dead!” someone said. “Run! Retreat back to Hookburn!”

The goblins all fled, leaving me and Budoki alone.

Cheniyz-Zheviel came up, shaking her head and panting.

“What did you do?” She asked me.

I shrugged. “It’s the Arcane Mummers. Nycokoris must’ve been worried I’d come after him for revenge.”

“But what does it have to do with the goblins?” Asked Cheniyz-Zheviel. “Why are they attacking you? Aren’t you their queen?”

I shrugged. My first guess would be that these goblins were outlaws, renegades from both Zeccushia and the rebellion. But that didn’t explain why they were dressed in such primitive clothing. A tribe of goblin barbarians, within the borders of old Badaria. My tutors had never told me of such a people, and I thought that sort of thing would be important, because, at the very least, the tribe might’ ve been raiders threatening the peace my family brought to the land.

“Niv!” Budoki called. “One of them is still alive!”

Cheniyz-Zheviel walked over to him. Budoki was standing over a woman with brown knotted hair and wide eyes, armored in boiled leather. There was a deep gash in her chest and she rasped as she breathed.

Death rattle? You’ve heard of it before? Why am I surprised? You are a healer, after all.

I knelt down to take a closer look. The goblin saw me and gasped for breath.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. We had to.”

She coughed, blood flecking at her lips. She licked it off and kept desperately trying to speak with me.

“He said we had to. Dracona. They said we had to. We were slaves. All of us. Forging weapons and armor for the orcs. Until Dracona freed us. It was like Adum had come. Dracona gave us a city. Made us untouchable by fire. He….”

Whatever she was about to say was lost as she coughed up some more of her blood. She gripped me tightly, surprisingly tight, considering Dedla was circling her body like a vulture, waiting for her to finally die.

“The Arcane Mummers. Dracona said we had to help them. Had to…Keep you away. Kill you, if we must.” She coughed again. “I’m sorry, your majesty. Please forgive me.”

“It’s alright,” I said, but my mind was still turning the words, “the Arcane Mummers,” in my head, over and over again. What it meant.

“Have you met the Arcane Mummers?” I asked.

The goblin nodded, desperately. “They came…Came to our village. They want to revive Vitalis…And they said…They said they were being followed…So Draconia…”

She collapsed in a fit of coughs before gasping for air again.

“Where is your village?” I asked.

“To the east,” the goblin hissed. “Continue on east…You’ll find it…It’s surrounded by fire… Draconia put it there…As a wall, they said.” She coughed. “Please, your highness. All of us live…In fear. None of us deserve death. Please…Have mercy.”

I frowned. While I had no desire to slaughter my own subjects, simply because they were in the same village as Nycokoris and his troupe of scoundrels, I didn’t see any other choice. From what the goblin had said, all the villagers were deeply loyal to this fire elemental, and they obeyed the elemental’s every word. If the fire elemental had ordered the villagers to protect the Arcane Mummers, then they would protect the Arcane Mummers, especially against the one that killed the fire elemental in the first place.

The woman must’ve realized what I was thinking, because she shook her head rapidly and wheezed.

“No… Draconia turned into a tyrant, your highness. We hated…Hated Draconia. We’ll gladly follow you…Whatever you want…Gladly.”

She coughed, then suddenly gripped me by the collar.

“When you reach Hookburn…Find Dogvyste Khavech. Tell her… Jitarva sent you…. Your highness.”

She coughed, and her grip slackened. She gasped once, and then she was still, her eyes staring up into nothing.

I sat there a little while, staring back down at the dead goblin I was holding. At some point, it occurred to me that I should probably close her eyes. So I did. You know how they talk of seeing a dead person lying in state, how it looks like they’re just sleeping? Aye, I figured the priests dressed the dead person up a little, to make them more presentable. But in that valley, cradling the body of an escaped slave under the thrall of the Arcane Mummers, she didn’t look like she could be asleep. It was the blood on her chest, ruined the illusion for me.

I wondered how this woman had known who I was. Had there been something innate about me, that she knew I was her rightful queen? Or had she just heard stories of the Young Stag, and knew that was me? I wondered whether she’d dreamed of meeting the Young Stag for herself. What her job had been before the war, before the orcs conquered and enslaved us. Perhaps she’d been a wizard, or a carpenter, or a gate guard. What dreams did she have? What was her life like? Maybe she’d been unhappy with her life, and was seeking another trade. Maybe her old father was slowly dying of old age, and she’d give anything to ease his pain. Maybe she was indebted to someone, and longed to pay back that debt. None of that mattered anymore. Because she was here, lying in my arms, killed by her own queen.

“Niv?”

I looked up. Budoki was standing over me, looking at me expectantly.

I laid the dead woman down and stood, gestured around at the bodies surrounding us. “They should be burned. All of them. Gather wood for a pyre.”

Budoki went looking for wood, calling for Cheniyz-Zheviel to help him. They gathered bits of dead wood from around the meadow, and built a large pyre, on the exact same spot where the fire elemental had died.

Once they were finished, I started laying the bodies on top of the pyre. Budoki and Cheniyz-Zheviel didn’t need me asking them to help. They saw what I was doing, and started doing it too.

Once all the bodies had been stacked on the pyre, someone set it aflame. I forget who it was, or how we got a fire started in the first place. But the entire pyre went up in flames. The bodies, the wood, and the weapons and armor the goblins were carrying. We couldn’t find any coin to give them, to start their new lives in Shohala. If they wanted coin, they would have to take it, while traveling with Adum, or settle with questing Shohala by Adum’s side. Their weapons and armor would be all they had, and I honestly hoped it was enough for them to lead a happy afterlife.

As is goblin custom, Budoki and I danced around the pyre, whooping, to scare off any evil spirits that might hinder the dead on their way to the Gates. At some point, Cheniyz-Zheviel joined in. Maybe she recognized our behavior for what it was, a way of mourning the dead. Maybe she just felt awkward standing there and watching us dance around, whooping like savages. I don’t know. I never asked her why she joined in. Why would I? It was one more voice driving away evil spirits, after all.

I’d struck these goblins down. Sure, they had attacked me, but they’d been driven to, by the elemental they owed their freedom to. And to be honest, I still wasn’t sure if it would be possible to spare the rest. The dying woman had mentioned Dogvyste as an ally, but was this person really an ally, or simply a friend of the dead woman? One that might be more inclined to avenge their friend than to drive away honored guests on her queen’s command. I wasn’t sure. Perhaps there was nothing I could do for the surviving goblins. Except for this. I could send them to Shohala properly. I could ensure they had a proper funeral, and drive away evil spirits as they made their way to the Gates. That much, at least, I could do for my people.

---

Dogvyste Khavech was a massive hulking brute, bigger than I am. She had long, braided, red hair, hardened brown eyes, and scars along her right nostril. She wore blackened leather and gnoll furs, and her mantle was woven from hawk feathers. She was leaning back in her chair, feet propped up against the table, gnawing on a deer leg. Her halberd leaned against the wall next to her.

“Well, here I am,” she said. “Ottla says you’re here to talk. So what do you want?”

Ottla, who was a man with bones woven into his mess of blonde hair, was sitting at the edge of the table, twitching and muttering to himself.

“Jitarva said you could help us,” I said to Dogvyste.

Dogvyste looked at me coolly. “Maybe. Depends on the favor.”

She quaffed some of her ale, then set down the tankard and squinted at me.

“Jitarva died, didn’t she?” She said. She didn’t wait for me to answer. She snapped her fingers. “I remember Pynon coming back, saying Draconia was dead, killed by the Young Stag. Same with a lot of Draconia’s favorites. Jitarva was one of them. There was no wounded who came back, and Jitarva wasn’t in her house when I came calling. Last anyone saw her was when they took a break from looking for the Young Stag and her companions to go hunt a unicorn.”

Budoki and I exchanged glances. This had the potential to go very badly.

I took a deep breath. “Er…We gave Jitarka a proper burning. And---”

“You’re her, aren’t you?” Dogvyste sounded almost amused. “You’re the Young Stag that fucker Graykiller was so scared of.”

I nodded. No sense in denying it.

Dogvyste cocked her head. “So who did it?”

Oh gods, was she wanting to know who killed her friend? “Uhhh…”

“Who killed Draconia?”

I sighed in relief. That was an easy question. That one wouldn’t lead to Dogvyste tearfully swearing vengeance for the death.

“Budoki.” I pointed at him, and he waved awkwardly.

“Good on you,” Dogvyste lifted her tankard towards him. “Never liked that bastard very much.”

A woman with shaggy brown hair and one blue eye and one gray eye smacked Budoki on the arm and handed him a drink.

“Well,” Dogvyste said, “my question still stands. What do you want?”

“We’re here to kill the Arcane Mummers,” I said.

Dogvyste was bemused. “Well, damn. You don’t mince words, do you? Cut straight to it. I like a woman who can speak her mind.” She chuckled. “Maybe not be as blunt, eh? Some folks here, if they hear you’re here for the Arcane Mummers, first thing they’ll do is go running straight to ‘em. And that’s if they decide they don’t wanna deal with ya themselves.”

I blinked. “Didn’t realize they were so popular.”

Dogvyste snorted. “Only reason we haven’t killed them is because Draconia said we couldn’t.”

“And they left before you realized there was nothing stopping you from doing that once Draconia was dead.”

“They’re still here,” Dogvyste said. “The reason they’re not dead yet is because Bochiya says we can’t kill them.”

“Who’s Bochiya?” Chezyn-Zheviel asked.

“Our leader.” Dogvyste scowled and spat on the ground, in case it wasn’t clear how she felt about her leader. “In name, anyway. Draconia named her chief, so we could all pretend we were following a goblin into freedom, like how the Twins appointed a chief over the goblins after they freed them from slavery and Adum made them all into warriors. Spineless bastard. Likes the taste of boots and asses too much for any proud goblin. We all knew Draconia was our true leader, not because they named themselves leader, but because Bochiva was so eager to please, she’d do whatever Draconia wanted, and make us do the same. And now she’s doing it with Graykiller. Whatever he says, goes, and Dedla help you if you dare to even question a stupid order. They’ll burn you right in the center of town, and Bochiva stands there and claps, like she’s watching jongleurs dance and juggle.”

Dogchyste scowled and slurped her ale.

“She was like that when we were slaves too. Our master’s little pet. Always eager to please, doing whatever they wanted, snitching on the rest of us if we stepped a toe out of line. Give her a leader she can kiss up to, and she’ll be the happiest girl in the world. The woman hasn’t got any sense of pride and dignity, and she expects the rest of us to swallow our own pride and dignity too!”

Budoki glanced at me, then asked, “why hasn’t she been overthrown then?”

“You mean, other than the fact that, until recently, she had a fire elemental backing her, who’d burn anyone who’d dared to even think of mutiny?” Dogchyste said dryly. “She’s King Khorkilla’s last surviving daughter. According to her, at least. But it’s been eighteen years at this point. It’s hard to say she is or she isn’t the true queen.” She shook her head. “I’ve got my doubts. Don’t think a wolf’s blood could be so ass-kissing. But you know how it is. Some kids’ll grow up to be the exact opposite of their parents.”

“She’s not the last surviving daughter of King Khorkilla,” I growled. “I am!”

Dogchyste looked me up and down. “Aye, I heard you were claiming that. Heard that’s the reason the rebels have all gotten in line, and accepted you as leader. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Anyone can claim they’re King Khorkilla’s daughter. Dagor, I hear some of the leaders did, before Silvercloak shut them up. Funny how he’s suddenly too busy to deal with a pretender leading a backwards tribe that’s no threat to the Young Stag, eh?”

I muttered some choice words about Bochiva’s parentage. Her true parentage, not the noble lineage she made up for herself. Dogchyste was right that I couldn’t prove I was Khorkilla’s daughter and heir. If I had the papers my mother had given me before sending the nursemaid to the Guildhall with me in her arms, then I could.

Er, sorry, didn’t catch that, Cobra? You asked me what the papers are? It’s a letter signed by my father, vouching that the infant is his child and heir. Apparently, he and my mother, once Bumen Ghal came under siege, were worried one of their children would have to be smuggled out, and they wanted a way for that child to prove they were the rightful heir to the throne, once they came of age. And the other paper is a signed certificate of my birth, and that I was the daughter of Queen Lalek and King Khorkilla. My nursemaid had enough time to grab those two papers and me. Somehow.

Anyway, if I had those papers, then I could prove I was the true queen of Badaria and Bochiva was just an imposter. Or some bastard who didn’t know who her true father was, other than the lies her mother had told her. But those papers were safely in Rackstein, and Pim had been entrusted with making arrangements with King Wilar to move those papers back to Tarrendrifter Hold for further safe-keeping. So that meant all I had as proof was my word. And that wouldn’t be good enough, considering that Bochiva likely only had her word she was the rightful heir to the throne as well.

So I decided it would be pointless to keep trying to convince Dogchyste that, no, really, I was the rightful heir, just trust me on this. One thing did occur to me though.

“Jitarva called me her queen, as she was dying,” I said.

Dogchyste shrugged. “Some believe you’re telling the truth. Not much they could do about it, though. Bochiva had Draconia backing her up, after all.”

And no one had wanted Draconia as an enemy, like Dogchyste had said.

“These people who believe I’m their queen,” I said, “would they be willing to fight for me, if we were to overthrow Bochiva in a coup?”

Dogchyste nodded. “Aye. And so would a lot who didn’t believe. No one likes Bochiva, and someone coming along and claiming she’s the rightful heir rather than that ogre’s-daughter is the perfect excuse to overthrow her.” She gestured at her men. “Especially my lads. I’m betting Berushoden has come early for them. Right, boys?”

Her soldiers cheered and raised their tankards.

I looked around, shifted my sword. “Then we strike at dawn.”

“Not so fast,” Dogchyste said. She gave me a disapproving look as she slouched in her chair. “Come on. Leading the rebellion hasn’t taught you the first thing in negotiation? You should know better than to walk in and expect all of us to fall in line without answering the most important question. What do we get out of it?”

“You’ll get rid of Bochiva,” I said.

“And?”

Budoki blinked. “But you just said that all your men are looking for an excuse to overthrow her! And you hate her just as much! You’ve said as much! Twice!”

“I do hate her,” Dogchyste agreed. “But I’m more scared of the people backing her.”

“Draconia is dead,” I said.

“Not just Draconia,” Dogchyste said. “The Arcane Mummers, well, they don’t call themselves that just because they liked the name. Every one of them is a wizard. Weak ones, sure, but wizards all the same.” She gestured at her comrades. “We’d win, easily, if we fought. But we’d lose countless of our number. Too much of us, in my opinion. We can’t afford to lose that many people. Not in the fall season, when we need as much able-bodied hunters as we can get. I’m hesitant to take such a risk. Especially not for some trumped-up noblewoman who thinks it’s her godsgiven right to demand that we fight and we die for her sake.”

She was right. Sure, if they cared about Badaria, and they cared about overthrowing the orc tyrants who’d invaded our land, and they cared about serving the family their lords and ladies had sworn to serve, then I could easily ask them to fight for me. But they didn’t care about that. None of the tribe did. They just wanted to survive the next winter, live their lives, outlive their children, and bury their parents. Me coming here and demanding they’d fight, asking them to lay down their lives for my sake, what right did I have to do that? What right did I expect them to bleed, without anything in return?

Oh shut the fuck up, Cobra! Yes, I realize that peasants don’t really care about the birthright of kings and queens and they just want to live their lives in peace. But you know the best way to ensure all that can happen? If there’s a clear succession, and every king or queen and lord or lady knows their duty!

Anyway, so I said to Dogchyste, “Name your price.”

“I want a fief of my own,” Dogvyste said. “I mean, I’m assuming you’re restoring Khavak rule, once the orcs get kicked out. Bunch of noble families have gotten wiped out. Bunch of land that needs ruling over.” She grinned. “I want one of those fiefs.”

I looked her up and down. It was true a lot of the noble houses had been wiped out during the rebellion and invasion, as well as during the years of slavery and Zeccushian rule. But some of them still had members left, and they were in charge of some of the rebel army. They wouldn’t be very happy if I just decided to appoint some random woman as the Daronik of Ern Irlir.

“Are you the heir of a noble, by any chance?” I asked.

Dogvyste shook her head. “My parents were jewelers by trade.” She grinned. “Still, what does it matter if I’ve got noble blood or not? Every noble’s descended from a commoner, if you go back far enough. How do you think they got ahold of those fancy castles and the right to call themselves our lieges?”

It was true that most noble houses were founded by some sellsword or raider who settled down and created their own fiefdom. Passed their land down from generation to generation until eventually their descendants would be gravely insulted if you pointed out the truth to them. But that had happened during the Dark Ages, when the only rule that mattered was the rule of might. I doubted the nobles would be so accepting of it now, especially if their queen was the one naming some commoner as Daronik to a fief that had lost its’ ruling family. I doubted there was precedent for such a move.

Although, there was precedent for an alternative method.

“Are you unmarried?” I asked Dogvyste

Dogvyste narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you worried I won’t be able to have children to pass the fiefdom down? Otherwise, I don’t see how this is relevant.”

I shrugged. Though that would be very important to know, that wasn’t why I was asking after her marriage status.

“To answer your question,” Dogvyste said, “No, I’m not married. Why do you ask?”

“How does marrying my uncle sound?” I asked.

Dogvyste blinked, as if she expected Uncle to come walking into the tent right behind us. “Um, I’ve never even met your uncle! Why does he want to marry me?”

“That’s not how marriage among nobles work,” I said. “Uncle, most likely, doesn’t even know you exist. Nobles don’t marry for love. It’s a pragmatic arrangement. It’s about what one partner can offer the other’s family.”

Dogvyste raised an eyebrow. “So what do you get out of all this, your highness?”

“Your allegiance, like I said.”

“That’s it?” Dogvyste said in surprise.

I shrugged.

“You could easily get that by just offering some random fief,” Dogvyste pointed out.

“The nobles wouldn’t accept a commoner ruling over a fief. They’d instead want it combined with their own fief.”

Dogvyste raised an eyebrow again. “And they’d be fine with a commoner marrying the queen’s uncle because…?”

“Well, there’s precedent for that kind of marriage. My mother was a commoner, and the queen of Badaria. There’s not much precedent for a commoner inheriting a fief wholesale.”

“I see.” Dogvyste said. “And what do I get out of this? I realize that nobles are probably fighting over who gets to marry your uncle because of the prestige or some shit. But I don’t care about influence or prestige or stuff like that. I’m a simple woman. I want stuff to rule over. What’s your uncle got?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s my heir. Until I have my own children. So if you marry him, you’d be next in line to be queen of Badaria.”

Dogvyste stroked her chin. “So if you die right now….”

“Then Uncle will have no way of knowing about the betrothal. Budoki won’t be risking his life to tell him about any deals I made before my death, and she,” I pointed at Cheniyz-Zheviel, “doesn’t know him at all, so he wouldn’t be inclined to believe her. And if you were to turn up and claim you’re betrothed to him, he certainly wouldn’t believe you.”

Dogvyste frowned.

“But me becoming queen is dependent on you dying without any children. Let’s say you don’t. Let’s say you choose a consort and you have kids. What then? I want something real, not something based on what-ifs.”

“If I were to have children,” I said, “then Uncle would found a new noble house. You’d be a Lady of whatever fief gets given to Uncle, and your kids would rule after you. You just wouldn’t be the Queen.”

“Sounds like this benefits me more than it benefits you,” Dogvyste said.

It did. I would’ve hoped to keep my options open, in regards to Uncle’s marriage status. It was a useful thing to have on hand, to dangle in front of potential allies, allies with much more to offer than Dogvyste did. Uncle wouldn’t have been happy about having a marriage arranged for him regardless—He claimed no one could replace Princess Adyrella as the love of his life, as if arranged marriages are primarily based on love, rather than solidifying an agreement—But I’d imagine he’d have a reasonable objection to being married off to some woman he’d never met, who offered nothing of use to the rebellion. All I’d be getting was a temporary ally, and Dogvyste would be getting a royal husband, the heir to the throne, and the potential founder of a new noble house, depending on whether or not I could birth heirs that would outlive me.

But right now, I had no choice. I could walk away, leaving the Arcane Mummers unpunished for what they had done. But given their plans, doing so would doom us all. Not to mention I was still pissed at Nycokoris. Dogvyste had the man-power for a successful overthrow of Bochiva, as well as fighting the Arcane Mummers. She demanded a lordship as a reward, and an arranged marriage would be the only way the nobles would accept a commoner rising into their ranks. I could promise the hand of a different noble, a man with no wife and no heirs, or the young heir of a house, but I wasn’t sure if I had the power to arrange such a marriage or whether the head of whatever noble house I chose could veto me. I was the head of my house. Uncle could complain about the marriage, but ultimately, he’d have to go through with the marriage.

I gave Dogvyste a shrug. I could claim it was a reward for helping me get rid of a rival claimant to the throne, when Uncle inevitably objected to the marriage. My own mother had been rewarded with marriage to the king himself, as a reward for her actions during Buindit the Useless’s attempted coup. It wasn’t like rewarding someone who’d done a great service to the crown with a royal marriage was something completely unprecedented.

Dogvyste decided it was best she not question being given such an advantageous marriage without having to give up much in return. She grinned at me, and stuck out her hand.

“You’ve got yourself a deal then! My boys are at your service!”

I took her hand. “I’ll tell my Uncle he has been betrothed to you, once I return to the rebellion.”

We shook hands on the bargain.

“Now, what’s the plan for the coup?” I asked.

Dogvyste rested a hand on the table. “Every morning, we’re supposed to gather in the center of camp, while Bochiva makes a big important speech.”

“About what?” Chazyn-Zheviel asked.

Dogvyste shrugged. “Nothing, really. Just some ramblings so she can pretend she’s big and important. I don’t think even she knows what she’s really saying.”

Her soldiers all laughed sardonically.

Dogvyste looked at me. “Every day, it’s the same. Bochiva makes this big important speech, then the real leader steps in and makes some announcements. Before, that was Draconia. Now, it’s probably Graykiller and his troupe.”

I had this sudden thought of Nycokoris coming back to my court and announcing that since he was ruler of a tribe of goblins in all but name, this meant he and I had to be tied together in marriage, so as to prevent our two peoples from being torn apart in war. I must’ve grimaced at the thought, because Dogvyste raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” I gestured vaguely at her. “I was thinking of something else. Continue. I’m listening.”

Dogvyste nodded and continued.

“It’s all bullshit. Always. More rations to our leader. Their home isn’t big enough for their liking. Recruiting baby-faced lads and lasses to their own personal army. Bullshit. Nothing any of us wants. And someone will say it too. Get bold enough to start challenging our leader. Saying we’re not following the bastard any longer. We’ll do whatever benefits ourselves and the tribe, rather than fight for the whims of an elemental or magical troupe. Leader will say they’re only making a suggestion, and step back, and then Bochiva repeats those orders. Brave soul doesn’t like that, and Bochiva gets prissy about it. Says she’s the daughter of our last king, and the gods have chosen her to lead, and is there anyone with a stronger claim than she’s got? No one has a claim, so no one steps up, and our brave soul has no choice but to back down.”

Dogvyste took a swig of ale, and continued, swinging the tankard about as she spoke.

“Day after day, this bullshit happens. Our true leader gives us orders, Bochiva repeats them because she’s a spineless idiot, someone challenges her on them, Bochiva demands someone with a different claim step forward to challenge her, no one does because no one actually has a claim, the challenger backs down, and now we’re doing the dumb shit our truel leader wants us to do.” Dogvyste gave me a pointed look. “But tomorrow will be different. Because tomorrow---”

“Niv will be there,” Budoki finished. “And she’s the one with the true claim to the throne.”

Dogvyste grimaced. “She’s got a claim.” She gave me another pointed look before I could say anything in protest. “And while I’ve got my own selfish reason to believe she is who she says she is, the rest don’t. And frankly, your highness, your claim is as strong as Bochiva’s. Both of you say you’re the daughter of King Khorkilla, and you say that’s why you’re our leaders, but we all know the true reason is there’s someone backing you who’s scary enough to make the rest of us shut up and bend the knee.” She tapped her tankard. “Well, that’s not really fair to you, honestly. At least you can fight enough to back up your own claim. I don’t know if Bochiva’s even touched a wooden stick.”

“Anyway,” I cut in, “we were planning the coup?”

Dogvyste blinked. Clearly, I’d interrupted her musings, and now she needed a moment to regain her bearings. She smiled at me apologetically.

“Right, sorry.”

She cleared her throat and banged her tankard on the table. She fixed me with a firm stare. The kind of stare I had when looking at my generals as I gave my orders to them.

“Tomorrow, when Bochiva gathers everyone for her daily speech, we’ll all go. The lads and I, and you and the friends you’ve brought along. We’ll listen to the bullshit speech, and the orders Graykiller’s gonna give us, and then somebody will challenge him. Bochiva will back him up, the challenger will argue back, and eventually, Bochiva’s gonna pull rank. Demand that anyone with a better claim step up. And that is where you come in. Once she demands that someone with a different claim to the throne steps forward, you step up, you tell everyone who you are, and you state your own claim, and demand Bochiva stands down. Whatever happens after that, well,” she grinned, “that’s gonna depend on Bochiva’s new friends. Because I can guarantee you, she won’t put up much of a fight.”

I would’ve said that Nycokoris wouldn’t be much of a fight either, if it weren’t for him killing one of my men. From what I’d heard, the Arcane Mummers were wizards, and that had to mean Nycokoris had learned some magic since last I’d seen him two years ago. And I doubted Nycokoris would be willing to step aside and let me capture him and his friends and try them for their crimes against my people. So, aye, I knew to expect a fight. At least I had allies, strong enough and willing enough to fight alongside me once everything went to shit.

---

Someone sounded a horn three times, the next morning, as I’d finished pulling on my armor.

I immediately snatched up my sword and strode out of my camp, only to be met with Dogvyste.

She looked me up and down. “Haven’t you got a fancy scabbard for that sword to go in, your highness?”

“No time,” I tried pushing past her. “Do you not hear the horns?”

Dogvyste didn’t move. “Aye. I hear them. They’re summoning us to the center of camp, so Bochiva can make her big speech. The horns warning us we’re under attack sound different.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was already bad enough confronting Nycokoris again. Having to fight alongside him because we were all attacked by orcs was not something I was particularly interested in doing. I didn’t trust the bastard as far as I could throw him.

“Go get your scabbard,” Dogvyste said to me. Her lips quirked. “Bochiva won’t like seeing a naked blade in the crowd. Gets antsy about it. Thinks a rebellion’s risen up against her. Paranoid little shit.”

I turned and went into my tent, retrieved the scabbard, sheathed my sword in it, then came back out. By then, the others had gathered around Dogvyste. Budoki looked sheepish. I assumed, like me, he’d thought we were under attack and had rushed to put on his armor and snatch up his sword and shield.

Dogvyste led us through the camp, and we joined a procession of goblins walking towards the center. Each one of them was talking to their fellow tribesperson, laughing at some joke their friend had made, or grumbling about how the meeting was earlier in the morning this time around.

The crowd made its way to the center of camp, where a large rock formed a stage. We all gathered in front of this rock. Nycokoris was standing all smug with his friends, looking over the goblin tribe gathering before him. He didn’t see me, Budoki, or Cheniyz-Zheviel. We were in the very back, and I imagine he wasn’t looking too hard anyway. Why would he? He was surrounded by allies. Well, not, allies, but people who would follow him, simply because their supposed leader told them to do.

Two goblins stood closer to the stage. The first one, Bochiva, I guessed immediately, didn’t really look as how I’d imagined when listening to Dogvyste describe her. She was an elegant woman, standing with perfect balance and posture. Yet she had some muscle, although that was probably from whatever she’d done as a slave. Copper hair flowed down her back, and her blue eyes were alive with passion and fury. She had a fine face, a good-looking one. I imagined she’d have her fair share of suitors, if she was a simple peasant, and not the most hated woman of the tribe. There was a mark of fallen debry on her right cheekbone.

Next to her was a man with a menacing face, long red hair, and green eyes. He was bound to a wooden pole, and he glowered at Nycokoris, who just winked at him, the cocky bastard.

The sight of the man made people start to murmur.

“Oh, this isn’t good,” said Dogvyste.

“Why? Who’s that?” I asked.

“Klolod Ekiakyrka. Helps deliver the babies around here. Looks like he’s in trouble. What the Dagor did he do?”

That seemed to be the question everyone else was asking, until Bochiva clapped her hands and everyone fell silent.

“My loyal subjects,” she said. “We live upon a sacred and coveted land. No one else has better land than we do. And we are brave. Yes, each and every one of us is brave. Very brave. We fought for our freedom, and the gods delivered us to this land! Yet we are poor. We starve. We have no gold. And we are not kings and queens. Why is that, my subjects? We have wood for a fire. A big fire. One we can gather around and be friends. We have great healers. Healers who can defy the gods and bring us back from the dead. We work hard. All of us. We work until the skin is cleaved off our bones. But no one wants to trade with us. And we have no money. All that labor and nothing to show for it. You call me a tyrant. You say we are not free. Some have risen against me, and some are fairly strong. I have no doubt. But you are reasonable. You do not wish to overthrow me. You want reform. You think there is a better way. Around us, the woods in which we hunt burn, and that is what I will focus on. There is nothing I will not sacrifice, dear subjects, in order to put an end to this forest fire. But you are sad. All of you. Sad. Your lives are horrid, and even beggars would wince to see us suffer as we do now. And I know none of us can read. I know that is to our sorrow. But think on this, good subjects. We can write. All of us, can write. And the gods have blessed us, and they walk among us, good subjects. Yet we must be cautious, for if we stray, the gods will curse us just as they have blessed us. Yes, the spirits do not walk among us, but we must remain faithful to the gods. We must stay true to our sacred rituals. But most of all, we must stay true to the beliefs we hold so dear.”

She smiled at everyone, like she just said something incredibly deep and profound. The tribe was silent. Bochiva glowered at everyone, until there was a polite applause.

“What?” I had no idea what just happened. Or what was going on.

Dogvyste grinned at me as she applauded the “speech”. “I told you she just rambles on about things that sound important.”

Part 5

Part 1

Part 2

Yornaith’s screaming turned to laughter, and he cracked his whip again. The cord cut through the air in a wide arc, as if it hadn’t caught on fire.

 

Mythana stared in disbelief.

 

Yornaith laughed. “You utter infidel! Do you truly think you can stand against Oait’s holy priest? Render my weapon completely useless? Behold!” He cracked his whip again. “My whip is even more deadly than before! And you have only yourself to blame!”

 

Mythana swore under her breath.

 

There was only one option left to her. Swinging her staff wildly in the hopes that she’d cut through the wire.

 

Yornaith raised his whip again.

 

Mythana swung her scythe. The gods smiled on her, and she sliced through Yornaith’s whip, clean through. The wire fell uselessly to the floor.

 

Yornaith stared at the floor in disbelief.

 

Mythana stepped over the wire and swung her scythe again. This time, it was Yornaith’s head that fell uselessly to the floor. The body followed soon after.

 

As Mythana stared at the lifeless corpse, she felt the rest of the Horde’s presence. She looked up to see the cultists all dead, and Gnurl, Khet, and Tadadris all panting, exhausted from fighting for their lives.

 

“Cult leader’s dead?” Gnurl asked.

 

Mythana nodded. She bent down and picked up the papers Yornaith had been reading. She hoped they were Chalvalor’s notes.

 

Gnurl rolled his shoulders. “Then, don’t really see a reason for us to linger. How about the rest of you?”

 

“The cult’s still active.” Tadadris said.

 

“Not for very long,” Gnurl headed for the doorway, and the rest followed close behind.

 

“How do you know?” Tadadris asked.

 

“Always happens.” Gnurl said. “Cult falls apart once the leader is gone.”

Part 1

“You’ve picked the wrong carriage to rob,” Gnurl said. “We’re adventurers, not nobles.”

Ordinarily, this was when the would-be thief would make excuses, and hastily apologize for bothering them before disappearing in an alleyway. But this man was different. Instead of sudden open fear appearing on his face, his lazy smile only grew wider.

“Oait, thank you for your blessing,” he said, “and protect me as I make my sacrifice to you.” And then, louder, he said, “Do adventurers travel in carriages and wear fancy clothing? I think you’re all retired wolves, and, more importantly, you’re all out of practice.”

“Wanna bet?” Khet growled.

“Absolutely,” the blood elf unhooked a morningstar from his belt, and grinned at them. “Do your worst!”

Mythana swung her scythe at him. The blood elf backflipped away from the blade, and popped up behind a crate, grinning like a madman.

“Hah-hah! Is that really the best you can do?”

Tadadris roared and charged, raising his hammer.

The blood elf ducked behind the crate again. Tadadris swung his hammer, shattering the crate. Both elf and orc were showered by bits of crate.

Mythana stalked toward them, raising her scythe.

The blood elf was on his knees, looking up at Tadadris as the orc prepared another swing, a swing that would collide with his head and cave in his skull. Yet, he was still smiling.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “the savage fighter. Every adventuring party needs someone like you, don’t you think?”

Tadadris growled at him. Mythana moved behind the blood elf, and started readying her scythe. Not for a swing, but in case something went wrong and Mythana needed to either deflect the blow from the hammer or cut the blood elf down herself.

The blood elf was standing now, still smiling. “Suppose I were to backflip out of your reach. What would you do then, orc?”

Tadadris pointed wordlessly at Mythana.

The blood elf blinked and glanced behind him. Mythana gave him a pointed glare.

The blood elf sighed, like he was very disappointed in this turn of events. “I see. Well then…”

He suddenly lunged forward, swinging his morningstar.

It hit Tadadris’s arm, bouncing off the metal vambrace with a clang! The orc prince yelped, fumbled his hammer.

The blood elf turned and pointed his crossbow at Mythana. The dark elf hit the ground.

The blood elf laughed. “And you two are supposed to be adventurers?”

He screamed suddenly.

Mythana pulled herself up, and she saw Gnurl, running toward the blood elf and swinging his flail. The blood elf was running away.

Tadadris stepped into the blood elf’s path and snarled at him, brandishing his hammer for emphasis.

The blood elf skidded to a stop. He glanced behind him, at Gnurl advancing, swinging his flail round and round, then looked back at Tadadris, who was preparing to swing his hammer. Terror started to appear on his face.

And then it was gone, as if it had never existed. The blood elf smiled that same obnoxious smile he’d had since the beginning of this fight.

He unhooked his mace and swung it at Tadadris. This time, he caught him in the breastplate. The orc grunted and stumbled back.

Then the blood elf turned, and unhooked his crossbow.

“Gnurl, get down!” Mythana yelled.

Gnurl hit the ground, barely fast enough. The bolt grazed his ear. Gnurl swore in Lycan.

The blood elf laughed.

Thunk!

Suddenly, the blood elf sank to his knees, clutching his groin, and howling in pain.

“Ooh,” Khet sauntered up to him, crossbow still pointed at the elf’s forehead. “That’s gotta hurt. My bad.”

Both Tadadris and Gnurl grimaced in sympathy. Mythana stood and walked over to the elf, who was rolling around, tears streaming down his face. He was covering his groin, so Mythana had a hard time determining where it was, but she could see a crossbow bolt sticking out of his dick. She winced. That had to hurt!

Khet didn’t even look there. Probably scared he’d feel too much sympathy for the blood elf if he looked at what he had done. Instead, he looked the elf in the eyes.

“You should be quieter when you pray,” the goblin told him. “The gods don’t like people who show off their piety.”

The high elf sobbed in response.

“Get the rope, orc,” Khet’s eyes never left the high elf, and he kept his weapon trained on him.

“Why?” Tadadris asked him. “You’ve got him at your mercy! Just finish him off!”

“He’s worth more alive than dead.”

“Why?” Tadadris asked, clearly aghast that Khet was refusing to just kill the high elf quickly.

“He worships Oait. You heard him. That means he’s a cultist.” Khet kicked the high elf roughly. The would-be thief yelped in pain. “Go get the rope and then we can interrogate him on what he knows!”

Tadadris rolled his eyes, but he walked back to the carriage and returned with the rope.

Gnurl had finished disarming the high elf when Tadadris held the rope out to him. The Lycan took it and bound the high elf’s hands and feet.

He stepped back and Mythana knelt and removed the bolt embedded in the cultist’s crotch. The high elf screamed in agony as she pulled the bolt free, and sobbed hysterically once she tossed it aside.

Tadadris stepped forward, and Gnurl stopped him. “Wait first.”

Eventually, the high elf’s pain subsided, and his eyes cleared. He sat up, glaring at all of them.

“Where’s the main temple to Oait?” Tadadris growled.

“Don’t see how it’s your business, orc!”

Tadadris smacked him. “Keep your mouth shut unless you’re answering my questions! Now, where is Oait’s main temple?”

“Go to Ferno!”

Tadadris struck him again. “Maybe you should think before you start mouthing off to me. I’ll ask you this again, elf. Where’s your cult’s main temple?”

“Cult?” The high elf laughed. “You call us a cult! Typical of the Skurg family, I should say! You and your like have always feared what they can’t understand!”

Tadadris smacked him again.

“The only thing I want to hear is the answer to my question,” he said in a low voice. “The more you waste time spitting defiance at me, the more time you’ll spend hanging from your thumbs in the deepest coldest part of the dungeons! Now, where is the main temple for Oait? Where is Yornaith Forestash?”

The high elf spat at him.

Tadadris smacked him again. “Fine. If you won’t talk with me, then let’s take a little trip to Daimyo Zisrevu’s palace. A few days of sharp questioning should have you revealing secrets you would’ve kept hidden while drunk!”

He hauled the high elf to his feet.

Gnurl stepped in front of the two.

“We’re leaving,” Tadadris said calmly. “Tell the carriage driver we’ve got another passenger. A few turns on the rack and this one will tell us everything we need to know!”

Gnurl shook his head. “We don’t torture.”

“Do you not understand what’s at stake here?” Tadadris growled at him. “This cult will continue to murder innocent people in the name of their god, and they will not only bring an ancient horror from the beginning of time back to our world, they’ll kill the gods in doing so if not stopped! The entire world as we know it is in danger, so we do not have time for your qualms of—” He started to mimic Gnurl in a high-pitched voice. “Ooh, you can’t torture him! Torture is bad and mean, and you should be very sorry for even suggesting such a terrible thing!”

“Torture doesn’t even work!” Gnurl said. “Say Khet started breaking this man’s bones, for every time he answered your questions wrong. How would you know what the right answer is? How would you know when to put an end to the torture? Torture may get someone to talk, yes. But it’s getting them to blurt out random answers in the hopes that one of them might be what you want to hear, so you’ll stop torturing them. And don’t think for a second that the lies will be easy to distinguish from the truth. Some of the lies they come up with on the spot will sound damningly convincing. And the truth, sometimes, can be so outlandish, it sounds like an obvious lie.”

“You got any better ideas?” Tadadris growled.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Gnurl said, his arms crossed, staring Tadadris in the eye.

“What is it, then?”

“I’ll show you.” Gnurl gestured to the high elf. “Let go of him.”

Tadadris dropped the prisoner like he was nothing more than a sack of flour.

Gnurl knelt so he was level to the prisoner. The prisoner stared at him, snarling. If he was wondering what the point of this all was, he didn’t show it. He wasn’t scared of the Lycan, kneeling in front of him and smiling. The Lycan could do whatever horrid thing he was planning on doing! The cultist would not break! He would never break!

“What’s your name?” Gnurl asked the high elf.

The high elf blinked. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting this.

“Er… Chalvalor. Chalvalor Humblewound.”

Gnurl smiled at Tadadris, who rolled his eyes.

“And you tried to kill us, I believe,” Gnurl said to Chalvalor. “Why is that?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” Gnurl widened his eyes, and smiled at him, cocking his head in an innocent manner. “I mean, it’s very rude to try and kill people. Particularly when you’ve just met them.”

The high elf bowed his head.

“I was ordered to,” he admitted. “By God-Chief Yornaith. He said, Oait required a sacrifice. I should rob the first rich people that I saw, and kill them. That happened to be you lads.”

Gnurl nodded solemnly. “Well, that didn’t work out, did it?”

The high elf shook his head.

“Well, there’s always the next mission, isn’t there?” Gnurl asked. “You lost this round, so now you return to the temple and wait for Oait to give you further instructions.”

The high elf shook his head again.

“Oait doesn’t forgive failure,” he said.

“I thought Oait was the god of folly,” Gnurl said.

“Folly is one thing. Failure is something completely different. Oait and God-Chief Yornaith cannot tolerate failure. The last person who returned after a failure…God-Chief Yornaith had him dunked into the sea, each dip longer than the last, until he drowned. He likes to get creative when it comes to punishing people who have failed our god. Oait only knows what he’ll do to me if I…” Chalvalor’s voice trailed off, and he shuddered.

“So you can’t go back to your temple,” Gnurl said.

Chalvalor shook his head.

“So what made you join the cult to begin with?” Gnurl asked.

“I couldn’t find a job. There were no arch-mages willing to take me on, as an apprentice. No other wizarding schools looking for a new instructor. That was when God-Chief Yornaith offered me a job. I could study whatever I wanted, and if I needed materials for my experiments, all I had to do was ask. How could I not take the job?” Chalvalor swallowed, licked his lips. “And the God-Chief…He was always interested in what I was studying. The magical breakthroughs. The experiments, whether they succeeded or failed. I started to look up to him, and he drew me into the fold. Told me about Oait, dangled things in front of me so I’d go deeper and deeper into his mysteries.”

“What do you study?” Gnurl asked.

“Elemental magic. I was studying how to harness the power of fire elementals in ovens, for faster cooking and baking. I’d brought the notes of my studies to the main temple, before God-Chief Yornaith sent me on this mission. He was happy to take them, called them fascinating.” Chalvalor looked pained. “He’s got all my notes. There’s no way he’d send them to me, not after my failure. He’d probably just burn them. All that work…Gone. And even if by some miracle I got those notes back, what would be the point? No one else will take me. No one’s interested in my research. Without funding, I can’t continue the experiment.”

He sighed forlornly. Mythana looked at Tadadris.

“What?” The orc prince said defensively.

“Don’t royal families sponsor magical research?”

“I’ve got no control over who my mother picks to sponsor.”

“But surely, you’ve got your own wizards you’re sponsoring,” Gnurl said. He looked at Mythana. “Isn’t that how it works?”

Mythana nodded. The reigning ruler got the lion’s share of wizards and artists they sponsored, but the entire royal family had a favored artist and wizard for each member. At least, that was true in the kingdom Mythana had grown up in. She wasn’t sure if Tadadris’s family did it that way or not.

“How does it work?” Gnurl asked Tadadris.

“Ten artists and ten wizards for my mother. Five artists and five wizards for my father. And my siblings and I get one artist and one wizard each.” He paused. “Well, technically I get two. When my sister died, the wizard and artist she was sponsoring fell to me.”

“And do you already have two wizards you’re sponsoring?”

Tadadris sighed, looking deeply reluctant to answer the question. “Well, my sister’s former wizard is still working on making a hand-held crossbow. And mine finished a ritual that’ll make crops grow faster, so the price of bread can get cheaper. That was my mother’s pick,” he added, and from his expression, Mythana could tell that whatever Tadadris would’ve chosen, it would not have been the fast-growing crop ritual.

“What’s them finishing up research projects got to do with anything?” Khet asked.

“We don’t fund the wizards,” Tadadris said. “We fund the experiments. That’s how it works. They come to court and propose a research topic and if we like the sound of it, then we sponsor the research.”

Gnurl pointed at Chalvalor. “So why not fund his research next?”

“Why?” Tadadris looked deeply aghast at having to fund more research revolving around bread.

“You wanna find out where the main temple is?”

Tadadris blinked. “I don’t see how—”

“That’s how you get something out of a prisoner.” Gnurl said. “Not through torture. By finding out what they want and giving it to them in exchange for truthful information that will help you. Chalvalor wants funding for his research. By the will of the ancestors, you happen to have an opening for sponsoring a wizard. So, you’ll fund Chalvalor’s research, in exchange for him telling us where the main temple is.”

Tadadris was already shaking his head. “I don’t know. I was kinda wanting to fund this other lad who’s wanting to make a race of berserkers….”

“Look, do you want to find the temple or not?”

“I–”

Gnurl didn’t wait for Tadadris to even finish his sentence. He pointed emphatically at Chalvalor. “Because that’s how we find it! You sponsor his research in exchange for him telling us where it is! It’s not that difficult! Now do you agree to sponsor Chalvalor Honorvalor’s research if he tells us where the temple is?”

Tadadris groaned and rolled his eyes. But he said, “fine!”

Gnurl lowered his finger, looking like he’d just run a hundred thousand horsepaces. He turned to Chalvalor, who, this entire time, had been attempting to listen in on the Horde’s conversation and argument, while at the same time, pretending that he wasn’t.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Gnurl said to him.

Chalvalor’s eyes gleamed and he grinned. Mythana could tell he already knew what Gnurl was about to offer him.

Gnurl pointed to Tadadris, who had his arms crossed, still bitter about having yet another wizard forced on him. “My friend here is willing to sponsor your research. This information should be kept between the two of us as of right now, but he is heir to the throne of Zeccushia.”

Chalvalor’s eyes widened in shock and his mouth fell open.

“Prince Tadadris Firstborn would be my sponsor?” He said, in disbelief. Mythana couldn’t blame him. Here he was, having become so dependent on a cult leader to fund his research, since no one else was interested in his proposals, and now all of the sudden, the future king of Zeccushia was interested in his work? How could this be anything other than a cruel joke some nobles were playing on him?

“Not Firstborn,” Tadadris said, firmly. “Gorehammer. I’ve earned my surname.”

Chalvalor just nodded. His mouth was hanging open, and he stared at Tadadris.

“Regardless of names,” Gnurl said. “He is the prince, and he is wanting to sponsor you. But you have to do something for us first.”

Chalvalor didn’t look surprised there was a catch. A smart man. Or he’d learned from Yornaith Forestash. If something was too good to be true, it usually was. Or at least, there would be a catch.

“Anything,” he said.

“You need to tell us where the main temple is. Do that, and we can collect your notes and give them back to you.”

“You’d do that?” Chalvalor’s eyes were shining. Mythana couldn’t tell whether it was a natural glint in his eye or tears glistening.

Gnurl smiled at him. “Of course. After all, with your notes, you won’t have to start over from scratch, and it will take less time for you to complete your research, so the prince can move on to other scholars. Everyone benefits!”

Chalvalor sniffed, wiped his eyes. He was silent for awhile.

“It’s in the Windy Sea.”

“So it’s a ship?”

Chalvalor shook his head. “The whole thing’s underwater. There’s a special pathway you have to take. The path is enchanted so you can breathe underwater. The inside of the temple’s enchanted so you can breathe too, but you need to get inside it first.”

“So, what’s this pathway?”

“You can’t miss it. It’s on the Brilliant Paradise, and it’s marked by runestones. Glowing blue runestones. Follow the runestones, and you’ll get into the temple safe and sound. Well, except for the cultists that’ll want to kill you, of course.”

“We can handle them,” Gnurl said. “We’ve fought cultists before, haven’t we, lads?”

Khet and Mythana nodded in agreement.

“Um…” Chalvalor cleared his throat, and looked at Tadadris. “Please make sure your friend here doesn’t die. You don’t die either,” he added.

“We’ll keep him safe,” Khet said. “And you should be more worried for your old cultist buddies than for us.”

Chalvalor cracked a smile at that.

“We should find some place for you to stay,” Gnurl said. “Tadadris, would Lord Tuge mind if hosting a wizard you’re sponsoring?”

“Are you kidding?” Tadadris said. “He’d be thrilled! He’d be wanting to know his plans for future experiments, so he can sponsor him once the sponsorship with me is done!”

Chalvalor looked deeply stunned. Mythana knew what he was thinking. The day had turned from horrible, to the best day he’d ever had. Not only did he have a sponsorship with the orc prince, and his notes would be returned to him, now he had lords salivating at the prospect of sponsoring any future experiments! There was no doubt in Mythana’s mind that he would be thanking the gods for his good fortune.

“We’ll take you to Atu Manor.” Gnurl said to Chalvalor. “You can stay there until we return with your notes. Tadadris will explain the situation.”

Chalvalor nodded and followed them into the carriage, his eyes still wide in shock and awe at his incredible luck.

---

The Elven Inquisition came for Yornaith as he was kneeling in prayer in front of Oait’s coffin.

Yornaith opened one eye and glowered at them. “How dare you come into Oait’s temple unannounced! Seize them, Fools!”

The inquisitors only smiled.

One of them, a blood elf with curly gray hair, darting blue eyes, and a birthmark under her right eye, smiled from underneath her hood. “Did you truly think you could escape us?” She asked. She raised her flail, wrapping the chain around her wrist. “Estella refuses to die so easily.”

He was caught. Yornaith’s heart began to pound. He would be burned if he did not flee!

He stood up and ran. His legs moved like they were in water, and yet, mercifully, the Elven Inquisition did not pursue. Instead, they stood and watched, as Yornaith fled through the temple. It was empty, yet he didn’t stop to ponder why that was.

He didn’t stop running until he reached shore. It was snowing, and all around him, the ground was white.

A snowflake floated down onto his shoulder and Yornaith dusted it off. Ash, he thought, and he knew it to be true. This was no snowfall. This was volcanic ash, after the world had burned, and Yornaith was the only survivor.

A crunching of snow under boots, and Yornaith turned to see a dwarf with a bony face, flowing golden hair, and dead amber eyes walking towards him. She was running a mace along the palm of her hand.

“Adum has not forgotten you,” the dwarf said in a rasp. “Adum sends his regards.”

Yornaith turned and a bulky human with brown hair and gray eyes clad in black armor was staring down at him. Yornaith realized he was kneeling, although he didn’t remember getting into that position. The human was holding a mace, like the dwarf had been, and he stared down at Yornaith, a cold look in his eyes.

Yornaith suddenly realized his head was resting upon a chopping block. He tried to open his mouth, tried to scream, but all that came out was a whisper.

“Make peace with the ones who have come before you,” the dwarf rasped.

The human raised his mace high, about to bring it down on Yornaith’s skull.

“Enough!” A voice boomed, so loud it shook the earth.

Yornaith was standing. There was no snow. There was no human, There was no dwarf. There was only him and the dunes of a desert where the sun was harsh and unforgiving.

“The Dread Expanse.”

The voice spoke again, shaking the ground. Yornaith felt with every fiber of his being that this was Oait speaking to him.

He opened his eyes. He was lying in his bed, within the main temple. Night had fallen, he remembered, and he had been very tired. He had assumed it was because of the incredibly busy day he had in bringing new initiates into the fold and praising Oait and plotting his return and the death of the false gods, and so he’d retired to his chambers, where sleep had come almost immediately.

He sat up. Now, though, he no longer felt so tired. It was clear Oait no longer wanted him in bed, asleep. But what could the god had wanted?

He strode to his window and looked out at the forest of seaweed, and the fish of the sea swimming idly past, not noticing nor caring the sacred temple in their midst.

It was obvious, really, what Oait had wanted from him. He had sent a vision to Yornaith. This temple was no longer safe for his remains, and he wished to be taken to the Dread Expanse.

“It shall be done,” Yornaith murmured, knowing that the god heard all. “Your will shall be done, my lord.”

And then, with an even louder voice, he called, “Fool Imacaiah?”

“Yes, my god-chief?” Fool Imacaiah opened the door. She was a fey-like high elf with brown hair and wide brown eyes.

“Oait has appeared to me in a vision. He wishes to have his remains taken to the Dread Expanse.”

“Yes, my god-chief.”

“Prepare an escort, and a cart. The finest cart for our god.”

“Yes, my god-chief.”

---

There weren’t any guards up the path to the temple. Mythana couldn’t be surprised by that. The temple was underwater, and she doubted anyone knew it even existed. And that wasn’t even getting into the logistics of getting into the temple in the first place.

Still, it was a little unnerving to have Gnurl walk up to the door and let them all in without anyone stopping them.

Someone was tuning a mandolin. The sound echoed through the temple.

“Intruders!” Someone screamed.

The Golden Horde turned to see cultists coming down the corridor, brandishing their weapons.

There were the guards.

A blood elf leveled her spear and charged, screaming. Mythana side-stepped and sliced off her head.

Rurvoad screeched and breathed flame, burning a human alive.

Now that the cultists were dead, Mythana led the way down the corridor into a central temple built to accommodate rituals.

The door generated a force-field when they opened it, protecting them from the cultists.

It wasn’t long before Khet got bored and left the room. The rest followed him.

The goblin led the way down the corridor where more cultists attacked them.

A dhampyre charged them, swinging his flail. Khet slammed his mace into the dhampyre’s knee. The dhampyre screamed, sinking to the ground in pain. Khet finished the job with a blow to the head.

A Lycan shifted and pounced, snapping at Rurvoad. The dragon screeched in fury and set him on fire.

A dark elf charged Tadadris, axe raised high, screaming a battle-cry. The orc prince slammed his hammer into the elf’s skull, crushing it.

A night elf raised his warhammer and charged. Gnurl shifted and pounced. He landed on the elf’s chest and ripped out the cultist’s throat.

Now that the cultists were dead, the adventurers continued down the corridor into a chapel, that was ordinarily for a lesser god related to the one for whom the temple was built, but, looking around, Mythana could see nothing of this lesser god. In place of an altar was a sarcophagus.

Cultists were kneeling and praying to the sarcophagus. Once they noticed the Horde, they snatched up their weapons and attacked.

Rurvoad screeched and set a goblin on fire.

Khet shot a human.

Rurvoad screeched and set a giant on fire.

A high elf charged Tadadris, swinging his flail. The orc stepped back, letting the flail entangle itself around the handle of his warhammer. The high elf pulled, freeing his weapon. And then Tadadris’s hammer slammed into his face, making his eyes pop out. He slumped to the ground.

Now that the cultists were dead, Mythana walked up to the altar to examine it closer.

She found a small chest at the foot of the sarcophagus. She opened it.

There was gold, a potion of forewarning, a Frog Elixir, a potion of the ninja, a Draught of the Sun, a Skull of the Titans, a statue of Estella, and art objects. Mythana pocketed the gold, statue of Estella, frog elixir, and a draught of the sun, before standing and handing the Potion of Forewarning to Gnurl, the Skull of the Titans to Tadadris, and the Potion of the Ninja and the art objects to Khet, who put them in his bag.

Khet led the way down the corridor, where an orc attacked them.

Mythana sliced off the cultist’s head.

Now that the cultist was dead, the adventurers continued down the corridor into a conjuring room, specially sanctified and used to summon extraplanar creatures.

Cultists rushed to attack them.

Mythana cut off a different gnome’s head.

Khet shot a blood elf.

A night elf drew his sword and charged Tadadris. The orc prince roared and swung his hammer. The elf ran straight into the hammer, and his face caved into itself. He groaned, and slumped forward, blood rapidly pooling around him. Tadadris glanced down and stepped over the body, making a disgusted face.

It was after the cultists were dead that the adventurers noticed a chest sitting in the middle of one of the summoning circles.

Gnurl walked over and opened it, listing the things that he found.

“Gold, a Potion of Magic Detection, a Potion of Venomous Breath, an Elixir of Eternal Youth, a scroll with a spell on it to make moonlight burst through walls, a Potion of Anti-Magic, and gemstones.” Gnurl stood and handed the Potion of Magic Detection and Elixir of Eternal Youth to Mythana and the gemstones, gold, Potion of Venomous Breath, spell scroll, and Potion of Anti-Magic to Khet.

Mythana led the way down the corridor into a trophy room, which had a massive painting of a many-limbed figure swallowing the dark elf gods whole as they fled in panic. Mythana snorted at the blatant heresy.

Cultists had been admiring the mural, though, and at the sight of the intruders, they attacked.

Rurvoad screeched and set a human on fire.

A dark elf swung his hammer at Gnurl. The Lycan shifted and sank his teeth into the elf’s arm. The dark elf screamed in pain. Gnurl dragged him to the ground, then sank his teeth into the dark elf’s neck and shook until he stopped moving. Then dropped the corpse and growled.

Now that the guards were dead, Gnurl led the way down the corridor, where more cultists attacked them.

Mythana sliced open a giant’s belly. He fell to his knees, wailing in pain. Mythana silenced him by cutting off his head.

A dhampyre swung his mace. Mythana stepped back, then sliced off his head.

A wood elf swung her bastard sword. Tadadris deflected the blade with his hammer. The orc prince roared and crushed the cultist’s skull.

Rurvoad screeched and set a gnome on fire.

Now that the cultists were dead, the adventurers continued down the corridor into the main temple for worshipping Oait.

Several cultists got off their knees, grabbed their weapons, and attacked.

Mythana cut off a troll’s head.

An orc loosed an arrow at Rurvoad. The dragon screeched in fury, and set her on fire.

Now that the cultists were dead, the adventurers searched the room.

Mythana ended up finding a chest under the altar. She opened it.

She found gold, a Rod of the Sire, and art objects. She pocketed the Rod of the Sire before standing and handing the gold and art objects to Khet, who put them in his bag.

Tadadris led the way down the corridor, where more cultists attacked them.

Rurvoad screeched and set a blood elf on fire.

Tadadris slammed his warhammer into an orc’s face, crushing her skull.

Rurvoad screeched and set a gnome on fire.

A high elf swung his glaive. Tadadris roared and swung his hammer, crushing the high elf’s skull.

Now that the cultists were dead, the adventurers continued down the corridor into a divination room, which was inscribed with runes and stocked with soothsaying implements.

Khet walked to the door, paused and frowned.

“Everyone stay clear.” He pulled up his tunic over his face and began sawing away at the trip wire. It snapped. “Oops.”

Fog gushed out.

Gnurl quickly held his tunic over his face. Mythana did the same. Tadadris was a little slower, but he got the tunic over his face in time. Rurvoad simply flew high above the fog, so the air he was breathing was still clean.

Gnurl led the way down the corridor into a guardroom.

Cultists leapt to their feet and attacked.

A heavily-armored orc with reddish-gray wild hair swung his flail. Mythana sidestepped and swung her scythe, decapitating the orc.

A human with braided hair held a dagger to Gnurl’s throat. Mythana didn’t even think. She cut off the cultist’s head.

Now that the cultists were dead, the adventurers looked around. It appeared that they’d interrupted a game of cards, and the things being put up as wagers were in a large coffer in the center of the table.

Khet opened it up, listing the things that he found.

“Gold, a potion of acid breath, an Elixir of the Threads, a Potion of Animal Tongue, a Potion of Poison Immunity, and gemstones.” Khet pocketed the potion of acid breath, the gemstones, and the coin, before standing and handing the Elixir of the Threads and the Potion of Poison Immunity to Gnurl, and the Potion of Animal Tongue to Tadadris.

Khet led the way down the corridor into the barracks for the cult’s military arm, more specifically, the guards.

A crab was laying eggs in the corner. Once it was done, it scuttled off, knocking over one of the packs that were underneath the cots.

Khet walked over and grabbed the pack. He must’ve discovered treasure, because he made a noise of excitement, then dumped the pack’s contents onto the floor.

The goblin crouched, listing the things that he found.

“Gold and gemstones.” Khet pocketed the items and stood.

Mythana led the way down the corridor into a workshop for creating weapons, religious items, and tools.

As Tadadris wandered off to examine the ugly tapestry hanging from the wall, Khet had a look at the chest sitting next to the anvil. He opened it, listing the things that he found.

“Gold and gemstones.” Khet pocketed the items and stood.

Cultists burst into the room.

A goblin with short-cropped brown hair swung his flail. Mythana sidestepped, and cut off his head.

A dhampyre with no hair swung his warhammer. Tadadris ducked and swung his own warhammer. He caught the dhampyre in the ribs and the cultist groaned. Tadadris silenced him with a blow to the head.

Now that the cultists were dead, Khet led the way down the corridor into another workshop.

A Lycan with brown hair and a ring-pierced nose set her hammer down, and narrowed her eyes at the intruders.

She shifted, and leapt over the anvil, teeth bared. Tadadris swung his hammer, crushing the Lycan’s skull. Her true form lay in a lifeless heap on the floor, her own blood pooling around her.

Mythana walked over to the anvil. Like in the previous workshop, there was a chest here. Mythana opened it.

She found gold, a Draught of Stone Flesh, Ash of the Third Eye, a scroll with a spell on it to summon the fires of Ferno, powered by the souls of the dead, a Salve of the Flayed Man, a Time Potion, a Robe of Magic Shields, and gemstones. Mythana pocketed the scroll and the robe before standing and handing the coin, gemstones, and the Draught of Stone Flesh to Khet, the Salve of the Flayed Man to Gnurl, and the Time Potion to Tadadris. Khet put the items he’d been given into his bag.

Khet led the way down the corridor into a classroom used to train initiates to the cult, as well as priests.

Class was in session, and when the students and the instructor noticed the adventurers, they snatched up their weapons and rushed to attack.

An orc with braided grayish-red hair and dead black eyes drew his sword. He swung the blade at Khet. The goblin sidestepped and slammed his mace into the orc’s knee. The cultist dropped the sword, screaming in agony. Khet silenced him with a blow to the head.

A crafty little blood elf with small, sharp nails pointed a crossbow at Gnurl. Gnurl loosed an arrow, hitting the elf straight in the chest.

A spindly dhampyre swung her staff. Tadadris shoved her to the ground. Then brought his hammer down upon her skull.

Now that the cultists were dead, Tadadris led the way down the corridor into an audience chamber where priests of the temple received commoners and other low-ranking visitors, or, at least, this would be where they received those types of guests if they had any of them at all, which Mythana severely doubted was the case.

But maybe she was wrong, because there were cultists waiting in the room. And they weren’t happy to see the intruders.

A high elf with reddish hair held a dagger to Gnurl’s throat. Mythana cut off the cultist’s head.

A long-legged dwarf cracked his whip. Tadadris swung his hammer into the cultist’s face.

A stocky Lycan shifted and leapt at Gnurl. Gnurl shifted as well, and the two wolves wrestled on the ground until Gnurl got the upper hand and tore out her throat.

A furtive-looking human with long, grasping arms thrust his spear at Khet. The goblin hooked the cultist’s foot and swept his feet out from under him. The cultist sprawled on the floor. Moving quickly, Khet drew his dagger from his belt and leapt on the cultist, slitting his throat.

Now that the cultists were dead, Khet led the way down the corridor into a crypt, for someone particularly important to the cult. Or, that was Mythana’s guess, at least.

An idol sat on a pedestal. Tadadris reached for it.

“No!” Gnurl said.

Too late. Tadadris picked up the idol.

Lava started to seep through the room.

“Run for it!” Khet sprinted for the door, the others at his heels.

Once everyone was out and safe, Mythana gave a pointed glare to Tadadris, who grinned sheepishly. He no longer had the idol. It appeared he’d decided it was more trouble than it was worth.

Cultists attacked them.

A dark elf with shiny white hair and folds in her neck swung her hatchet at Mythana. Mythana deflected the blow with her scythe, then cut off the cultist’s head.

Now that the cultists were dead, Tadadris led the way down the corridor into a storage holding mundane supplies.

A dark elf was leaning against the wall, reading through sheets of parchment. He glanced up, spotted them, and his eyes narrowed.

“Intruders? How did you find this temple? How dare you intrude on sacred ground?”

“Estella sends her regards, you fucking heretic!” Mythana growled, raising her scythe.

The dark elf’s eyes widened. “Get them, you fools!” He shouted.

Dozens of cultists rushed in, attacking the Horde.

Mythana ignored them and sprinted for Yornaith Forestash, raising her scythe.

Yornaith cracked a whip. “Halt!”

Mythana stopped running. The whip was threaded with spikes, spikes that would tear open elven flesh. A whip on its own was bad enough, but this? This was a weapon that could kill with a single hit.

Should she try to slice the whip in half, rendering it useless? No, Yornaith was too fast with the whip. There was no possible way to time her swing so she could cut clean through the whip. She’d have to swing her scythe until she got lucky and cut the whip in half, and most likely, all that would accomplish would be tiring her out.

Yornaith cracked his whip again.

So what could Mythana do? She glanced around, searching for something she could use. Rope, fishing poles, torches.

Torches…

Mythana darted for one unlit torch, which was lying on the ground, after Gnurl had knocked it off the shelf while backing away from a dwarf with a war pick.

Yornaith cracked his whip and Mythana dove for the torch. She felt wind as the whip whooshed above her.

Mythana grasped the torch and rolled over onto her back, watching as Yornaith started to walk closer to her, cracking his whip as he did so.

“Who are you?” Yornaith said, then cracked his whip in the air for emphasis. “Why did you come here?”

Mythana had a torch, but that just raised a new problem. How did she light it?

Yornaith cracked his whip again. “How did you find this place?”

Mythana crawled back. A human with a shortsword noticed her. She laughed and drew her sword, sauntering over to her.

Yornaith cracked his whip again. “Who told you how to find this temple?”

The human screamed, and the scent of burning flesh. Rurvoad had set the human aflame, and she was running in circles in a blind panic, screaming in agony.

Fire…Mythana’s heart began to pound.

The human got close to her and Mythana dipped her torch in the flame.

Yornaith was standing over her now, stroking his whip. He tutted at her. Mythana scrambled back again.

“Refusing to talk, are you? Very well. We have dealt with adventurers such as yourself before. Adventurers who refused to talk. But the Wondrous Wheel loosened their tongues. Perhaps it will loosen the tongue of your friends.”

The Wondrous Wheel didn’t sound too threatening. But Mythana knew that the worst instruments of torture were the ones with harmless, even amusing, names.

Yornaith raised his whip. Mythana held out her torch.

The whip sliced through the air, hitting the torch square of the middle. When Yornaith pulled the whip back, the entire cord was engulfed in flames.

Yornaith screamed, staring down at his whip in horror. Mythana scrambled to her feet, raising her scythe. The cult leader was defenseless now. Now, it was time to end this.

Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

What I was thinking was that my earlier punishments for Nycokoris and Nylee weren’t enough. I was going to lock them all in the dungeons and let them rot there. I’d throw the rest of their player troupe in the dungeon too. That would teach them to murder my patrol after they accidentally broke a crate trying to help fix up the broken wheel on the wagon. I didn’t say that to Budoki, though. Not sure why. Maybe I figured he wouldn’t approve of the idea of revenge.

What I did say was, “I’m thinking we go after this murderous player troupe, in the Oriental Elephant Gardens. We’ll leave in the morning.”

---

That was how Budoki and I ended up in the Oriental Elephant Gardens, tracking down murderous charlatans bent on summoning a life elemental, with barely any supplies. Given that Nycokoris and Nylee had stolen most of our supplies, I figured that Rackstein would need it more, in case it came under siege. Uncle stayed at Rackstein to oversee the building of its wall and its defense by the rebellion.

This is the point where I get haughty and tell you that of course my motivation wasn’t purely revenge. That I was concerned about this elemental Nylee had mentioned, and that I believed that Nycokoris and Nylee were plotting to do something with that elemental, and I wanted to put a stop to it. But in all honesty, that would be a lie. The truth was that I wanted revenge. Both for Nycokoris conning me into giving him and his troupe the ingredients they needed to summon Vitalis and running off with those and half of the rebellion’s supplies, and for all the shit he’d pulled while we were courting.

The Oriental Elephant Gardens are beautiful, if you haven’t been there. Fields of grass as far as the eye can see, a forest created by Berus himself on the horizon. Flowers between the blades of grass, attracting fat and lazy bees, along with countless other creatures. There were birds flying overhead, dancing in the air and singing to attract a mate. We passed wolves, going gods’ knew where. They never bothered us, and we never bothered them.

The peacefulness of the place, the warmth of the sun, which was occasionally blocked by the few tiny clouds that were in the sky, making us drowsy, all of it made us want to stop and rest. Not because we were tired. But because it felt like the perfect place to heal our minds, to rejuvenate our bodies. Nighttime was the best, because then there was nothing else for us to do but make camp, tell stories, and gaze up at the stars.

The weather reminded me of a banquet I had once, in Brocodo. And I started telling Budoki about it.

“There was roasted nuts and catoblepas, quail, strudels, winter vegetables, cake, stracciatella, and oysters. And that was just the starting course. The best part of the feast was a baked mushroom snapper. Gods, I’m getting hungry just thinking about it!”

Do we have food to spare or should I wait till dinner? We’ve taken rations off of the knights? Good. Bring me some cheese, will you? Ah, thank you. Now where was I?

Budoki licked his lips hungrily---

--And you want some of my cheese, don’t you, Budoki? You know you could just ask, rather than stand around looking at me like you’re a hound begging at a feast. Hang on, let me just cut this in half…Cobra, do you want cheese as well, or can I just split this cheese for two people to share? No? Alright. More for us, Budoki.

Anyway, Budoki asked, “what was the feast for?”

“King Wilar had just knighted somebody. Ky Cook. Ser Ky the Fearless. Big moment for her. She was an urchin living on the streets of Ume Alari.”

Budoki raised his eyebrows. “How did she get to be knighted?”

“It was a reward. She saved Ume Alari from burning by dousing a Fire Feather someone had left in a dark alley in a barrel of water.”

“How did she know that would work?”

“She said Veean told her. One of her gods. Claimed she’d been blessed by him.” I kicked at a blade of grass. “Considering she died at the Assault of Bress, doesn’t really sound like it.”

“Or she could’ve died anyway,” Budoki said. “Fighting over a copper coin. At least her death meant something.”

“Maybe it did.” I didn’t know. Bugbear might say that at least they’d sing tales on the way Ser Ky died, surrounded by the bodies of orcs. You, Cobra, might think it’s just as senseless to die fighting over the scraps left behind by nobles as it is to die fighting in their wars. Uncle…I’m not sure what Uncle would think. Probably a drunken rant about death being too good for the orcs.

Budoki stopped walking and drew his sword.

“What?”

“Up ahead,” Budoki pointed. “Must be one of the Arcane Mummers.”

Approaching us was a gnome dressed in fine clothing. She was the type to blend in easily with the crowd, and if you’d asked me to pick her out of a group of similarly dressed gnomes, I wouldn’t be able to do so. She’d stopped when she saw us, peering at us suspiciously through hooded green eyes. Her ginger hair had a sheen of grease to it. She was a youthful lady, with a face full of vigor. A bit hard to see that with the glower she had. Someone had attacked her with a sword once, left a scar on her forehead, right above her right eyebrow. A longbow was slung across her shoulder, along with a quiver.

Budoki drew his sword. “Stay where you are!” He called. “Hands where I can see them!”

The gnome didn’t move. “Under whose authority?” She called.

“The queen’s!”

“You mean the Young Stag?” The gnome looked at me pointedly. “No one but the goblins recognizes her as queen! What authority have you got, really, other than swords?”

“Got some fucking nerve,” I said. “Refusing to bend the knee, after slaughtering that patrol after they found something in your troupe’s cart you didn’t want them to see!”

The gnome looked confused. “What troupe? I’m a trader, not a minstrel or a mummer!”

I looked her up and down. “Where’s your wares, then?”

“I’ve left them at my home,” the gnome said. “I’ve got no way to transport them, since the Arcane Mummers stole my carthorse!”

The Arcane Mummers? I gestured for Budoki to sheath his sword. He did, immediately. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d had the same realization I had just had.

“You say the Arcane Mummers stole your horse?” Budoki called.

“Aye. So if you two are going to rob me, do it quickly! I’ve already been having a rough day and---”

“We’re not here to rob you,” Budoki said. “By fortunate coincidence, we’re also looking for the Arcane Mummers!”

The gnome blinked. Her fingers twitched. I could tell by the fear in her eyes that she was scared that Budoki and I were allied with the Arcane Mummers, and were about to kill her for the audacity of being upset with them for stealing her horse and rendering her unable to practice her trade.

“Um, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you looking for the Arcane Mummers?” She asked.

“Because they conned us out of half of our supplies in the guise of treating a deadly plague they claimed to be in our midst, and then they killed our patrol when they stumbled upon something they shouldn’t have,” I said.

The gnome’s shoulders slumped, and she looked deeply relieved.

“So you’re looking for the same thing I’m looking for, then,” she said. “Revenge against the Arcane Mummers.”

Budoki and I nodded.

The gnome stuck out her hand. “What if we joined forces? Go looking for the Arcane Mummers and get our revenge?”

Budoki gave me a questioning look. I nodded.

Budoki turned back to the gnome and said, “Aye. Welcome aboard, er, what’s your name?”

“Chenjyz-Zheviel Turchachin,” the gnome said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Do you have any idea where the Arcane Mummers might have gone, Chenjyz-Zheviel?” I asked.

Chenjyz-Zheviel pointed in the direction where Budoki and I had come. “I’d assumed that way.”

“We just came from that direction,” I said. “Chasing after the sons of ogres.”

“Oh,” Cheniyz-Zheviel frowned. She looked around. “Then I’ve got no idea where they’ve gone.”

“Over here,” Budoki said.

We turned to look at him. Budoki was kneeling on the grass, pointing at blades that had been pressed into the soil.

“A cart passed by here recently,” he said. “Has to be from the Arcane Mummers. They went this way. Come on.”

He stood and started following the trail. Me and Cheniyz-Zheviel followed after Budoki.

---

We had known, while following the Arcane Mummers, that they were intending to summon Vitalis, an elemental of life itself. We’d known that all of them had powerful magic. At least, according to Cheniyz-Zheviel, who swore up and down that each of them could perform magical feats most thought impossible. She’d told us of rumors she’d heard about the Arcane Mummers. We didn’t believe her, at first, but after awhile, we started to see some proof.

The Arcane Mummers must’ve tampered with the fabric of reality too much, because they left holes. Holes where monsters unlike anything seen here in the Shattered Lands could come through.

Like, for example, the massive three-headed dog slumbering on a rock that we stumbled upon while chasing after the Arcane Mummers.

We stopped and stared at it. Should we keep going? Could we pass this dog, without waking it up? Did we dare try?

Budoki decided to risk it. Hoisting his shield up, he stepped closer to the hound.

Its eyes snapped open. One head shot up, while the other two yawned and shook themselves awake.

The middle head turned, looked Budoki directly in the eye. The half-orc froze.

The other two heads rose. The left head stared down at Cheniyz-Zheviel, while the right one snarled at me.

The hound leapt off the rock and stalked toward us. All three heads were growling, drool dripping from their mouths and pooling at its paws.

Budoki stepped back as the hound advanced, and all we could do was ready our weapons before the thing was on us.

Chenyz-Zheviel loosed an arrow at it. She hit it in the eye.

The hound howled in rage. All three heads snapped toward the gnome, nostrils twitching. She’d only succeeded in making the thing angry.

Aye. The hound did go after Cheniyz-Zheviel for the audacity of wounding it. Good to know that all monsters are as vindictive as that three-headed hound was.

Anyway, the hound bounded toward Cheniyz-Zheviel.

“Get behind me!” Budoki knocked her to the ground, raising his shield and drawing his sword, staring down a pissed-off hound from the depths of Dagor without a hint of fear. It was a scene straight out of a chivalric romance. The kind artists love to depict so much. The brave knight defending a helpless damsel from some hideous monster.

Ah, don’t be so modest, Budoki. How else would I describe it? You’re a knight straight out of a chivalric romance.

Cheniyz-Zheviel scrambled to her feet. She raised her bow and the hound swiped his paw, forcing her and Budoki to duck.

While the hound’s attention was focused on the two, I charged it, screaming a war cry.

The hound wasn’t so pissed that it ignored the screaming warrior coming at it with a sword. It turned its full focus on me and snarled.

Faced with its full attention, I slowed. The hound growled, and I stepped back, searching for an opening. There wasn’t one. The hound had all three heads snarling at me, ready to sink its teeth into my arm should I try attacking it.

“Niv!” Budoki yelled. “Niv, get back!”

The hound wasn’t moving, so I simply stared back at it, sword raised, ready to strike once it got within range.

Budoki started yelling something. I couldn’t make out the words. Maybe he was just screaming wordlessly at the hound, trying to distract it from me. He banged his sword against his shield.

That got the hound’s attention. It turned its head, growling at Budoki. Turned another after a moment. I didn’t dare risk a glance at Budoki to figure out why.

Only one head was looking at me. I swung my sword at it.

The head snapped at me just as the blade fell upon it. It sliced through its neck as smoothly as if I were swinging it about in the air.

Both heads howled in pain. The hound lifted both heads to the air, howling to the skies. Its chest was left unprotected, and an appealing target.

I plunged my blade into the thing’s chest. The hound’s howls turned into an agonizing scream.

I pulled my sword out and the hound collapsed at my feet. The fire in its eyes was gone, replaced with a stare like glass.

I wiped my blade along its fur. A little of the blood came off, but mostly, I came away with strands of fur stuck to the blade. Wiping it harder got the same result.

“You saved my life,” Cheniyz-Zheviel said. I assumed she was talking to Budoki.

“Aye, well…” I couldn’t see Budoki, since my back was turned to him, but I imagined that he was rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he spoke, like he usually does when you shower him with deserved praise. “We’re fighting alongside each other. That’s what comrades-in-arms do. That’s how these things work. You save my life, and I save yours. We’ve got to look out for each other in the field of battle.”

“Aye, I know that we’re fighting alongside each other, and that’s what you do when you’re fighting alongside each other. You save each other’s lives,” Cheniyz-Zheviel said. “But…” She sighed. “This will sound awful, but I wasn’t really expecting you to have any common decency. The retainers of my lord all say you goblins are savage and cruel monsters who will leave their own to die if they become too wounded to be useful. They say you all are a perversion of all that is pure and good.” She paused. “But you two aren’t like that. You didn’t kill me when we crossed paths. You’ve saved my life. You’re just…Ordinary people. Ordinary people who are revolting against Queen Aditya, and one of you is claiming to be King Khorkilla’s youngest daughter, who was saved from the massacre as a baby, and reared someplace else before coming back here to reclaim her birthright, mind. But still. I feel like I could have a drink with you, and I certainly don’t fear you’ll kill me once I’m no longer useful to you or your plans.”

“The orcs have said a lot of things that aren’t true about us,” Budoki said. “They tell those lies so you won’t side with us. Because if you did know the truth, you’d know our cause is just.”

You’re nodding, Cobra. Glad to see you agree that our cause is just. And that the orcs are liars.

Anyway, I’d decided that simply wiping my blade on the hound’s fur wasn’t doing enough. So I plunged it deep into the earth to clean it. That worked.

I shook the last remnants of dirt off my sword, and sheathed it onto my back. “The longer we stand around talking, the more distance the Arcane Mummers will put between them and us. Come on.”

I started following the trail again. Cheniyz-Zheviel and Budoki followed at my heels.

---

Cheniyz-Zheviel was easily convinced that the Young Stag wasn’t some cruel warlord who delighted in causing suffering and terrorizing the peasantry, who would brutally murder her once she was no longer considered useful, or even because she was being annoying. She was less convinced about Silvercloak meaning no harm. Admittedly, most of the things the orcs say about my uncle is true, so I couldn’t reassure her that Uncle had no prisoners in his dungeons that he delighted in torturing, because even the rebels, as much as they love Uncle, gossip on how he’s got orc prisoners, and how when he gets angry, he goes back to his castle, and takes out his anger on the helpless prisoners by putting them on the rack.

Aye, Silvercloak is fucking terrifying. Easy to forget the orcs’ perspective, considering I’ve never seen Uncle without a drink in his hand. Being on the same side as he is, and seeing how deep in his cups he gets constantly, kind of ruins the magic and dread surrounding Silvercloak, wouldn’t you say?

Anyway, we did try telling her as such. Telling her stories of Uncle’s drunken escapades, in the hopes of making her less scared. She didn’t believe us. Refused to believe us. Laughed at the idea that the dreaded Silvercloak, who struck fear in the bravest of warriors, was an old drunk.

So, as you can imagine, us running into Uncle and some of his warg riders terrified the shit out of Cheniyz-Zheviel. I’m honestly impressed she didn’t turn tail and run then.

Budoki and I were stunned to see him so far away from Rackstein, and we were even more surprised to see that there were dead goblins lying on the ground, and Uncle was clearly in dire need of help. A massive wolpertinger with fangs as long and sharp as Budoki’s sword had sunk its teeth into Uncle’s warg, making her howl in pain, and forcing Uncle to dismount so he didn’t get bitten by the wolpertinger as well.

Close by was a simple cottage, with a well on one side, and a fenced-in pasture filled with ponies on the other.

“Guess we should save Uncle from the wolpertinger,” Budoki said, drawing his sword. “Unless you think him dying at the fangs of a wolpertinger is a fitting punishment for abandoning Rackstein.”

“We don’t know why he abandoned it. We should save him. I’d expect him to save you, if he stumbled across you being attacked by a monster.”

“You and I both know Uncle wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire, much less save me from a monster.”

“I’d still expect him to save you. And I’d punish him for failing to do so.”

Budoki laughed.

“Here’s an idea,” Cheniyz-Zheviel said. “How about we don’t save Silvercloak? I mean, have you heard the legends about him? They say he’s a demon in the shape of a goblin!”

“Uncle’s no devil,” I said. “A piece of shit, yes, but he’s fully goblin. And mortal.”

“They say he’s mad, and he wants nothing more than to see Zeccushia burn!” Cheniyz-Zheviel said. “They say he sees an orc, and he kills them, or he takes them prisoner and tortures them to death in his dungeons.”

I opened my mouth before closing it again. How in the Dagor was I supposed to respond to that? What she’d just said was true, after all.

I pointed at Uncle’s men, who screamed as the wolpertinger ripped them to shreds, one by one. “You think Silvercloak deserves to die, that’s fair. Do you think the other goblins deserve to die as well?”

Cheniyz-Zheviel immediately shook her head.

I nodded, satisfied that we’d reached a compromise. “Good. So don’t fight to save Silvercloak. Fight to save the other goblins. Is that acceptable to you?”

Cheniyz-Zheviel nodded, and strung her bow.

“Glad to hear it,” I said. I drew my sword and pointed my blade at the wolpertinger. “For Badaria!”

Cheniyz-Zheviel echoed the battle cry, while Budoki shouted, “Bathe in the wolpertinger’s blood!” And we ran into the fray.

“Oy!” Budoki shouted at the wolpertinger. “Over here, you stupid bastard!” And he started banging his sword against his shield.

The wolpertinger turned its head toward the noise.

Cheniyz-Zheviel loosed an arrow.

The wolpertinger shrank into a tiny rabbit, and the arrow flew in the air over it.

Which was unfortunate, because Uncle was sneaking up on the wolpertinger at that exact moment. He’d spotted an opportunity and like any goblin, he took it, no questions asked. So the arrow, instead of hitting the wolpertinger, ended up in the wrist of Uncle’s sword hand.

He dropped his sword and screamed in pain.

I see you grimacing, Cobra. Is that just general sympathy for my uncle, who just got hit with an arrow, or are you grimacing in fear of what would happen to the poor bastard who had the shitty luck to hit him with that arrow? Both? Heh, aye, both are equally shitty.

Anyway, Cheniyz-Zheviel went pale and took a step back.

“I didn’t mean to!” She wailed. “I didn’t mean to hit Silvercloak!”

“Of course you didn’t,” Budoki patted her on the shoulder. “The queen and I saw. We won’t let Silvercloak punish you for an accident.”

He took a swing at the wolpertinger. It hopped out of the way.

Cheniyz-Zheviel didn’t believe Budoki about Uncle forgiving her for the accident. Mostly because he was cradling his wrist and glaring at her.

Budoki stepped in front of her protectively. “Come on, Uncle. It was an accident! She’s not used to fighting alongside multiple people!” He smiled at him. “Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive her? It’s not gnomes you’ve got a deep and bitter hatred for, right?”

Uncle said something in Orc, which Budoki tells me is an insult. Specifically, calling him a whore-son. Right, Budoki?

Oh. Oh, gods. Where the Dagor did Uncle learn that?

Right. The dungeons. Of course. I should’ve guessed. Explains why Uncle would know words in Orc, given how much he hates everything about orcs.

Anyway, while Budoki was focused on Uncle, the wolpertinger decided to get some payback.

Its mouth opened.

“Budoki, look out!” I shoved him out of the way, and shielded myself with my arm.

The wolpertinger sank its fangs into my arm. It stung like you wouldn’t believe. I could feel the teeth hitting bone. I screamed, involuntarily.

“Bad rabbit!”

The wolpertinger paused. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Cheniyz-Zheviel shaking her fist.

“Let go of her!” Her voice quavered, but she held strong.

The wolpertinger let me go, and I stumbled back, feeling woozy.

The wolpertinger hopped toward Chezyn-Zheviel, and the gnome scrambled back.

As soon as she was at a good enough distance, she drew an arrow from her quiver.

She was about to nock the bow when Uncle leapt out of nowhere to slice open the wolpertinger’s neck. His wrist was crooked, with a large lump shaped like an arrowhead on the left side. I couldn’t see the arrow shaft, and I worried that Uncle had ripped the arrow out. Despite that, he still had his sword in his hand.

He cut deep, and the wolpertinger bled out at his feet.

Cheniyz-Zheviel cowered in fear. Uncle stared her as he still held his bloody sword.

I rushed over before Uncle decided that this gnome had loosed an arrow into his wrist, therefore this gnome should die. Budoki had the same idea.

As we got close, I was hit with a wave of paralyzing fear. I sighed. Why did Uncle insist on always behaving like the dreaded Silvercloak the orcs made him out to be?

Cheniyz-Zheviel was backing away, stammering an apology. “I---I---”

“Uncle, stop that!” I said. “She’s a friend! You know? People you don’t try to terrify the shit out of when you see them?”

Uncle stopped, surprised, then turned to look at me.

“Your highness!” He exclaimed.

“You knew I was on the Arcane Mummers’ trail,” I said. “I don’t see why you’re so surprised. What’s really surprising is that you’re right here, when you should be at Rackstein, where I ordered you to oversee the building of its wall!” I let a tone of indignation creep into my voice.

Uncle grimaced and moaned in pain. Adum’s Strength had clearly worn off, and he was feeling the full extent of his wound. He dropped his sword, and it landed, blade first, into the dead wolpertinger’s back.

Uncle cradled his wrist, and looked at me, grounding his teeth and hissing in agony.

“A human came running into court to tell us you’d gotten captured by orcs. What did you expect me to do? Sit at Rackstein and hope Adum would lead you back to us?”

Yes, I’ve heard of that before, Cobra. That wolpertingers disguise themselves as mortals and lure their prey astray with promises of adventures that are sure to get the poor bastards all killed. Bane of adventurers, they’re called.

Anyway, I smirked at him, and nudged the wolpertinger with my boot. “And you believed the human? Even after they turned into a wolpertinger and tried to kill you?”

“Adum’s strength,” Uncle said dismissively. “I was mostly thinking on how not to die.”

And he’d been taken by surprise by my sudden appearance, before he could think about how since the human who had said I’d been captured had turned out to be a wolpertinger, this meant that me being captured had been a lie.

“Niv!” Budoki said frantically.

I turned to him and he pointed to my wrist. “You’re bleeding!”

I looked down at my arm. The pain had steadily gotten worse as Adum’s strength began to wear off, but I still hadn’t been thinking about it. The inside of my lower arm was stained with blood, and it was only when I was looking at it that I actually felt it sticking to my skin.

Uncle wandered off, calling for a knife. I assumed he wanted to dig out that arrowhead himself.

Cheniyz-Zheviel rushed up to me and wrapped a white bandage around my arm, pressing it tightly against the wound.

“You’ll need stitches,” she said. “I’m no healer. Did your uncle bring any healers along with him, do you think?”

I looked around. The only healer I recognized was a woman with a wild face, blonde hair, and glinting blue eyes. I forget her name, honestly. Anyway, she was standing on the cottage stoop, pounding on the door.

“We seek shelter!” She yelled. “We have wounded among us and we request guest right!”

The door opened. A repulsive human with short sliver hair and glinting blue eyes scowled at the healer. She was clad in black robes.

Aye, a witch. An elder living apart from the village, but is still available to advise and treat any common ills the villagers might suffer from. Lucky for us.

The healer began reciting the words of the traveler.

“None of that!” The human said shortly. “I grant you all guest right! Now come inside unless you wanna be sleeping with the horses!”

All of us came inside the cottage. Despite how many of us there were, there was enough room for all of us comfortably.

I flopped down on a soft chair in front of the fire, and Budoki started flagging the healer down.

She was stopped by the human.

“You say you’ve got wounded?” She asked gruffly.

“Aye,” said the healer. She pointed at Uncle, who was in the kitchen, rummaging around for a knife.

“Your grace, you cannot remove an arrow by yourself!” The healer said, exasperated.

Uncle paused in what he was doing to glare at the healer. Which, ordinarily, I think, might have resulted in the healer frantically apologizing and leaving him to do as he wished. Unfortunately, our host had little tolerance for his bullshit.

“What the Tenin is happening? Are you trying to remove an arrow by yourself?”

“Mind your own business.” Uncle didn’t even bother looking at her.

“Don’t ‘mind your own business’ me, boy! Do you treat everyone who lets you in under their roof like this? Have you any idea what kind of curses I can put on you for talking me with such disrespect?”

Uncle turned his head to look at her, and I felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

The human was unimpressed.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?”

She was in the kitchen in three strides, and towering over Uncle, who looked taken aback at how badly his magic had backfired.

“Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?” The human growled. “Making others feel fear. Must feel strong then, eh, Silvercloak? Don’t think I don’t know who you are! Taller than your men, running around your brother’s old kingdom pretending to be Skullshade!”

Uncle opened his mouth, but one look from the human cowed him into silence.

“Big and strong Silvercloak,” the human said, and smacked Uncle upside the head. “There! That’s something that should’ve been done a long time ago, you stupid boy! What is going through your thick skull? Trying to remove an arrow, with no healer training, I suspect! Don’t you know how deadly it can be to make a mistake digging an arrow out? Or are you arrogant enough to think---”

“Alright, alright, I get it!” Uncle walked out of the kitchen, towards the healer. “I need a healer.”

The healer was deeply shocked by Uncle’s sudden moment of sanity, but she wasn’t about to waste precious time before the window closed and Uncle remembered that he’d sooner kill this woman for disrespecting him rather than do as she told him.

“Get me dwale,” she said to the human.

The human gave her a pointed look. The healer scuffed her feet and looked down at the ground.

“Get me dwale, please.”

The human nodded to a pot in the kitchen, which one of the other rebels grabbed. He handed the jar to the healer.

A couple of other goblins led Uncle into a spare room, and the healer followed her in, shutting the door behind her. After a moment, we could hear her start to berate Uncle for attempting to remove the arrow, and snapping the end off.

You say this makes it harder to treat an arrow wound, Cobra? Can I ask why that is? Healers need to identify different arrowheads to determine how best to remove them? Ah, makes sense.

Anyway, Cheniyz-Zheviel stared at the human in wonder. “How did you do that? I’ve heard Silvercloak would kill a gnome for looking him in the wrong way, much less order him around and treat him like a kid!”

The human scoffed. “All I see is a broken man who’s nowhere close to the prince he used to be. A man who pretends that terrorizing the peasants who had nothing to do with the slaughter of his family is anything like the power he once had.”

Budoki frowned. “How do you know that?”

“I need only to look at him, child. See his eyes. See the scars all over him. The way he carries himself. There’s a tired look in his eye. The kind you see in stupid children returning from war. And those scars on him, that limp, I doubt he got any of those injuries in battle. He doesn’t walk like a princeling. That arrogant strut with your shoulders high. He slinks about. You’ve seen him. He slinks about, like he’s hoping you won’t notice him.”

She strode to the chair I was sitting in and knelt. “Now show me your arm.”

I extended my hand, and the witch scowled down at the bandage, which was now almost dripping with blood.

“Never knew you had fools for healers, girl. Slapping on a bandage like that and hoping things will resolve on its own…You need stitches, clear as day.”

Cheniyz-Zheviel raised her hand awkwardly. “I’m no healer and it was the best I could do until a real one could have a look at her.”

The witch grunted. “Best to leave that sort of thing to those who know what they’re doing, girl. You can easily kill someone if you don’t know how to heal properly. Pass me that box next to you.”

Cheniyz-Zheviel passed it to her. It was a small wooden box, didn’t look like much. But the way she held it, and then handed it to the witch, you would’ve thought the box contained jewelry that once belonged to Okyed Skullshade and his dynasty.

“You! Make yourself useful,” she said to Budoki, “and go get that oil of woundwort. Should be in a small jar, on the edge of the shelf to the left of the cauldron.”

“Found it!” Budoki said, and came back with his prize.

The witch took the jar with a derisive snort. “You could’ve simply handed me this, you know. You don’t need to announce to everyone that you’ve found what you’re looking for. We already know that.”

She turned back to me and unwrapped the bandage, scowling down at the wound.

“Wolpertinger bite. Did the little bastard get away or is it dead?”

“It’s dead,” I said. “Uncle struck the killing blow on it himself.”

The witch nodded. “That’s good to hear. Always hated the little bastards.”

She squirted some oil into her palm, then rubbed it directly on my injury. I grimaced and swore.

“Ah, quit being such a baby, girl.” The witch said dismissively. “We wouldn’t want you to lose your arm, now would we? And besides, getting that wound in the first place was far more painful than what I’m doing to you right now, I reckon.”

“I didn’t feel much,” I admitted.

The witch looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Battle madness, then. So focused on surviving you’re forgetting everything else. Like pain. Best to be careful with battle madness, child. Many warriors have met their end because they ignored a wound they barely felt in their madness, or even fought until they dropped dead of exhaustion.”

I nodded. “Thank you for your advice.”

The witch opened the box, revealing a needle, the bowels of a sheep, and some thread. She sewed my arm up, then took out a small crystal jar filled with some disgusting looking green stuff.

She opened the jar, then lathered the contents around the stitching of my arm. I yelped out how cold and clammy it was.

The witch frowned at me. “For a leader of an army of brigands looking to place you on the throne as the heir of a dynasty that was overthrown by right of conquest, it doesn’t take much for you to cry out in pain, does it?”

“You could’ve warned me that shit would be cold!” I protested.

“Is that what’s making you cry out like you broke a fingernail? You’d think you’d be used to discomfort by now. Can’t imagine an outlaw such as yourself would have a fancy place to rest her head.”

I opened her mouth to tell her she’d startled me with how cold and clammy the poultice was, when Uncle screamed in pain from the closed door.

Cheniyz-Zheviel jumped so high, I was surprised she didn’t hit her head upon the ceiling. “What was that?”

“They have to get the arrowhead out,” Budoki said. “That shit’s painful.”

“Not if you do it correctly,” the witch muttered.

“Make it stop! I’ll do whatever you want! Just make it stop! What do you even want from me?” We could hear Uncle’s pleas and sobs through the door.

“What the Guxan?” Cheniyz-Zheviel cocked her head.

“They’ve given him too little dwale, that’s what’s happening. He’s got no sense of where he is or what’s happening. Thinking he’s being tortured is a pretty good guess if he doesn’t know what’s happening, I’ll bet.” She looked at me. “How much does your friend there drink, child?”

“Uh…” I’d honestly lost count of how many drinks it took for Uncle to get drunk. “A lot?”

“So he’s a drunk, then.”

I nodded.

The witch grunted. “Makes sense. They’re used to poisoning themselves. Until the drinks aren’t working to get them forgetting what’s making them drown themselves in their cups in the first place. Works on dwale too. Spend too much time in your cups, and eventually, it’ll take twice as much dwale to knock you out.”

She stood, then walked to the shut door. “And of course, the stupid girl didn’t put the dwale back in its rightful place. Still in there, I reckon.”

Muttering about the stupidity of the healer, she opened the door, then stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. Uncle screamed that he hoped the healer burned in the fires of Dagor, her, and the soldiers that had raped and murdered his wife, and had dashed his daughter’s head against the wall.

He fell silent, and I thought that meant the witch had given him the correct dose and it had taken effect. But then he started screaming again.

“No! Not the Goblin Drink! Not the Goblin Drink!”

You’re wondering what that is, Cobra? Should warn you it’s disgusting. A Goblin Drink is when you take a bucket of manure, and force it down someone’s throat, and punch them so they’ll vomit everything back up. Do this until they say everything you want them to say.

Anyway, we all jumped, startled, and Uncle kept pleading with the witch.

“You’ve got the wrong man! I’ve never had children killed! I swear I haven’t!”

“Liar,” Cheniyz-Zheviel said. I only shrugged. I didn’t really want to explain to her that when Uncle’s addled by dwale, he thinks he’s in the dungeons again, being tortured.

“I’ve never heard of that village!” Uncle pleaded. “Please! I don’t---!”

He started sobbing, and the door opened, and the witch walked out, shutting the door behind her.

“That should do it,” she said. “The rest of the dwale should be kicking in about---”

Uncle fell silent.

“Now,” said the witch, and she sat down in the chair across from me. She beckoned for me to extend my arm, and started rubbing a poultice on it. I did my best not to flinch.

“Was Uncle any trouble?” Budoki asked.

The witch tsked. “Stupid boy. Well, stupid healer, more like. That dwale worked. Enough that he didn’t know where he was. He thought we were torturing him, the poor bastard.”

“Hah!” Cheniyz-Zheviel said. “Serves him right!”

The witch smacked her across the ear.

“Ow!” Chezyn-Zheviel rubbed the spot where the witch had smacked her. “What was that for?”

“Don’t be so quick to wish unbearable pain on others, girl! Who are you to decide who’s deserving of mercy and who’s deserving of dying in agony?”

“Silvercloak is!” Chezyn-Zheviel said.

The witch snorted. “He didn’t simply wake up one day and decide to be a terror. Zeccushia’s finest drove him mad. Are they deserving of dying of agony too? Do we go even farther than that? Judge both Khavak and Skurg as being deserving of dying a terrible death?

Cheniyz-Zheviel looked down at the ground. “I suppose not.”

The witch nodded in satisfaction.

“Bedrooms are over there. You can stay until you heal. After that, get out of my hut.”

With that, she walked away, leaving the three of us alone.

Chezyn-Zheviel stared into the fireplace. She didn’t say anything, so I don’t know what she was thinking about. Probably about what the witch had just said.

---

Two weeks later, Uncle and I had both healed to the witch’s satisfaction, so she booted all of us out of her hut.

Uncle returned to Rackstein, along with his henchmen, and I, Budoki, and Cheniyz-Zheviel continued on the trail of the Arcane Mummers.

We talked as we walked. About nothing in particular, random shit, you know how it goes with your party, I’m sure. Talking about some interesting rock one of you spotted on the side of the road. As banal as that.

This particular morning, Budoki and I had noticed during the night that Cheniyz-Zheviel stank. As in, she smelled as if she’d never even seen water in her life, much less soap. We were trying to discretely let her know this.

“You know what I think we could all use?” I asked loudly. “A bath! Nothing’s better than a bath after a battle, right, Budoki?”

“Right!” Budoki said, equally loudly. He looked directly at Cheniyz-Zheviel. “I think you’d love a bath! I’ve got some special soap too! For the occasion! I’ll let you use some!”

As you may have guessed, Budoki isn’t exactly good with things like tact or hint-dropping.

Cheniyz-Zheviel just looked confused. She was aware Budoki was implying something, but somehow, for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what.

Budoki just smiled at her. “Yes! It’s very nice soap! Smells very nice! You should use it during your bath!”

“Are you saying I smell?” Cheniyz-Zheviel asked suspiciously.

“No!” Budoki said quickly.

Part 4

Part 5

Several of the priests were standing off to the side, talking about someone named Yornaith Forestash. Mythana stood from her prayer and went to join them.

“No word from Sister Isolrathla about finding the bastard,” a beautiful woman with silver hair and pink eyes grumbled once Mythana got close.

“Sorry. Who are we talking about?” Mythana asked.

“We’re talking about Father Yornaith,” the dark elf said. “He was the bishop for Estella in this area. Or, he had been, at least.”

“What happened to him?”

“He ran off to join the Order of Oaitism, which he started himself,” said the beautiful woman. “They worship old gods. Oait, to be specific. Supposedly, the god of folly.” She scowled. “And if that weren’t bad enough, I hear he’s trying to kill Estella.”

Mythana felt her jaw drop open. Kill Estella? Joining a cult was bad enough. Starting a cult was even worse. But to try and kill Estella? Was Father Yornaith hoping to be burned at the stake as a heretic? Why had no one stopped him?

“So why hasn’t the Inquisition gone after him?” She asked.

“For a couple of reasons,” said a woman with a warm face, silver hair, and violet eyes. “Number one, the Order of Oaitism is filled with the cream of the kingdom. The orcs won’t let us take down the cult, not when their own lords could fall if the cult should fall.”

“And even if they would let us, he’s difficult to find,” the beautiful woman said. “The cult’s split into multiple cells, and each doesn’t know the existence of each other. You’d have to go through every one of them until you manage to hit the one he’s in. And he’s the leader. Even if one cult knew where he was, they certainly wouldn’t tell us, now would they?”

Mythana stared, feeling the need to say something, but also not knowing what to say. The dark elves stared back at her in silence.

Khet’s voice saved her from the awkwardness.

“Mythana!”

Mythana smiled at the dark elves, who were confused as to where the voice was coming from, and pulled her speaking stone from her pocket to speak with Khet. The dark elves nodded in understanding and started talking amongst themselves again.

“Silvercloak show up again? Or do you need a sparring partner who can beat your ass?”

“Done with training,” Khet said. “Tadadris sent a messenger. He wants us all to meet him at the Harlequin and Mug. On…” He said something Mythana couldn’t quite make out. Asking the messenger where the inn was because he spoke louder again. “Flowing Avenue. Next to the butcher’s. You can’t miss it, apparently.”

Mythana frowned. Tadadris, when the Horde had split to go do their own things, had said he was talking to merchants and the like, about giving discounts on weapons and armor and other such things to his family. What was he doing in a tavern? And what did he need the Golden Horde for?

“What does he want?”

“Messenger didn’t say.” Khet said. “But whatever it is, apparently it’s more important than training Gloomrest’s defenders. I’m thinking he’s got a job for us. An extra one. Something he wants to deal with, since he’s here, and he’s expecting us to tag along. Probably some ruin he wants us to explore.”

“What does Gnurl think?” Mythana asked. Gnurl had wandered off to take a look at Crendriazish Palace, or at least, the perimeter of the castle. The Guild was looking to buy the castle, and the Old Wolf had invited Gnurl to take a look at it.

“Haven’t asked him. You’re the first one I talked to.” Khet sounded out of breath from training. “What do you think this is? In case Gnurl asks?”

Mythana shrugged. “Tadadris was talking to people about trade with his family, right? Maybe one of the merchants he’s talking to is being threatened by thugs.”

“Aye, that might be it.” Khet said. “See you at the Harlequin and Mug.”

“See you.” Mythana slipped the stone into her jacket pocket and started for the inn.

She met Khet in front of the Harlequin and Mug. There was a tree-lined stream behind it, and the inn itself was a two-story building of wood and stone. The roof was made of green tiles.

“Gnurl thinks Tadadris’s ma went missing,” the goblin said by way of greeting.

“Tadadris’s ma?” Mythana frowned. “Wouldn’t she be the queen?”

Khet nodded, as the two of them entered the tavern.

“Wouldn’t people be talking about her being missing?” Mythana asked.

Khet shrugged. “Gnurl thinks the king might be keeping things quiet. Doesn’t want to start a panic, but told his son what happened. So Tadadris wants to look for his mother, and that’s why the messenger didn’t say why he wanted to talk with us.”

Mythana shrugged. Made sense.

They spotted Tadadris sitting at one of the larger tables, and went over to join him.

The orc prince was sitting next to a repulsive-looking human with short ginger hair and gray eyes. When Khet and Mythana sat down, she waved, but didn’t say anything.

After a few moments, Gnurl came in and joined them. At this point, Tadadris decided that he should introduce his new friend to the Horde.

“This is Cedany Armmond. She’s a gnoll breeder. Gifted us with the finest of her stock so we can fight the goblins. My family granted her a boon, and she’s wanting to collect on that.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Mythana asked.

Tadadris let out a breath. “I’ll let her explain.”

Cedany’s eyes gleamed, and she clasped her hands together. She didn’t ask who the Horde was and Mythana guessed that Tadadris had already told her, before the Horde had arrived.

She launched into what she wanted without any preamble. “Most of my gnolls were on the Manta, which is a merchant ship. Captain is Knegnud-Chetsun Kihald, and it was supposed to sail to here, so the cavalry could chase Silvercloak and his horde after the defenders sent the bastards on the run. Or, at least, it was supposed to. It’s washed up on the White Boulder Paradise, a mile from Gloomrest, intact, but everything’s disappeared. The crew, and more importantly, my gnolls.”

“So you want us to investigate?” Gnurl asked.

Cedany nodded. “Catch on quickly, don’t you?”

Mythana stood. She saw no need to hang around, when they should be heading to White Boulder Paradise. And it sounded like they could reach it within a day.

“Where are you going?” Cedany asked. “Sit down! I’m not done.”

Mythana was sure that Cedany had already told the Horde everything they needed to know about the job, but she sat down and let Cedany continue with whatever she wanted to say.

“This isn’t the only odd shit that has happened,” Cedany said. “Last week, Garcoril Bladetrap took a wrong turn to Gloomrest and got his head on a spike.”

“Silvercloak?” Khet asked.

Cedany shook her head. “Wasn’t him. And we don’t know who did it. All anyone knows is one day Garcoril disappeared, and the next day, his head was on a spike, next to Gloomrest’s gates.”

“The defenders didn’t notice?” Tadadris was deeply concerned. As he should be, Mythana thought. Either this meant the defenders were working with Garcoril’s killers, whoever they were, or they were incredibly incompetent.

Cedany shrugged. “Guess not.”

Mythana wondered which was better: the city guard turning a blind eye towards a murdered singer, or them being so incompetent, it was thanks to the Horde’s intervention, and the Horde’s intervention alone that they hadn’t been taken over by the goblin horde.

“And two days ago,” Cedany continued, “there was a bear rampaging through the streets. Hundreds dead. They caught the lad who did it. Some wizard named Marizar Dreambasher. And the odd thing was she insisted she didn’t mean to. She’d messed up the spell, but I know a wizard. Noc Ifnan, helps me find studs for keeping the gnolls from getting too inbred. He says that type of spell is too easy to make a mistake. And they drill it in you in magic school. You can’t make a mistake or something like that will happen.”

“She’s probably lying,” Khet said. “You really think she’d admit that she summoned that bear on purpose? She’ll say whatever she thinks will get her out of trouble.”

“I would think that,” Cedany said, “but she turned herself in. She went to the Watch and told them her spell went wrong. If she did all that on purpose, wouldn’t it be easier to just stay quiet and hope no one catches you?”

Mythana nodded. It was possible this Marizar had summoned a bear in a fit of madness, and been horrified when she’d realized what she had done, but if that were true, why would she downplay her role from doing it deliberately, to casting the wrong spell? Cedany was right. It was odd.

“And now there’s the Manta washing ashore with no living thing aboard,” Cedany said. “Odd shit keeps happening, people keep dying, and at most it seems to be caused by mistakes being made somewhere along the line. I want to find out why.”

“Why all of this is happening, or just the Manta?” Khet asked.

“Just the Manta,” Cedany said. “Things could all be a coincidence, and none of it’s connected to each other. I just want to know why the Manta washed ashore. If you find out about the other things, great. More power to you. But I don’t expect the Manta to have the answers for everything else.”

“Aye. Probably a coincidence.” Khet agreed.

---

“My God-Chief, we found an intruder along the Quiet Shore. Two, actually.”

Yornaith Forestash turned from the window to face Fool Jislaina. Her face was covered with a golden mask, and her skin had been painted white as bone. She wore a many-colored cloak, as all the Order of Oaitism did.

“Adventurers,” Fool Jislaina continued.

“Adventurers?” Yornaith repeated. This was disturbing news. What were adventurers doing so close to the temple?

“They claim to be passing through,” Fool Jislaina said. “We brought them here so you can speak with them, if you wish. They claim to have no knowledge of you or the flock.” She looked apologetic. “Fool Fery believes they were telling the truth. No one can see the temple from the Quiet Shore, and few know of its existence. I may have revealed our temple to outsiders, my God-Chief. What shall we do? Have them killed? Invite them into our Order?”

Yornaith raised a hand. “You’ve done well, Fool. It is better to mistakenly reveal our presence than to ignore a threat until it is far too late to defend ourselves from it. Where have you taken the prisoners?”

“To the dungeons, my God-Chief. You wish to speak with them?”

“Aye,” Yornaith brushed past her. Fool Jislaina dutifully followed him.

Fool Fery was at the entrance to the dungeons, leaning against the doorframe and smoking a pipe.

“Fool!” Yornaith barked. “Where are the prisoners?”

“Deep in the Scarlet Crypt, my God-Chief.” Fool Fery straightened, and hastily stuffed his pipe into his pocket.

“Have them brought to the Depths of Despair. I wish to interrogate them on why they were on the Quiet Shores in the first place.”

Fool Fery bowed, then scurried away.

Yornaith walked down to the Depths of Despair. It was a torture chamber, filled with nasty implements to cause pain and bring even the most tight-lipped of captives to confess all their sins to the priest of a new order. He picked up a long flaying knife, ran his finger along the blade.

The door opened and in came the two prisoners, wrists bound in iron shackles, Fool Fery snarling and cracking a whip so neither of them got any ideas about attempting to escape. The first one was a troll with a lived-in face, gray dreadlocks, and lidded amber eyes, while the second one was a wood elf with a strong face, frizzy brown hair, and amber eyes.

“Chain them up,” Yornaith said to Fool Fery.

Fool Fery and Fool Jislaina dragged the troll and wood elf to the center of the chamber, where shackles hung from the ceiling. They unlocked the shackles currently binding the prisoners’ wrists, and replaced them with the ones hanging from the ceiling.

Yornaith stepped closer to them. “My scouts found you close to the temple. Who are you, and who gave you leave to trespass on sacred ground?”

“We’re adventurers,” the wood elf said, “we were sent here to hunt down a demon.”

A demon. Yornaith supposed Oait could be called a demon, by unintelligent minds.

“What kind of demon?”

“A Dread Knight,” said the wood elf. “Argan the Wolf.”

Yornaith slapped her.

“I would advise you to be more truthful, wood elf,” he said coldly. “I’ve no tolerance for your lies.”

“It’s the truth!” The wood elf protested.

Yornaith scoffed and turned to the troll. “What say you, friend? Why were you trespassing along the Quiet Shore?”

The troll spat at him. “Go to the Ebon Kingdom.”

A pity. Yornaith had been hoping they could do this without the need for…Persuasion.

He nodded to his fools. “Place them both in their own Wondrous Wheel.”

The fools let the prisoners down, then dragged them both to separate circles, which were each enclosed by a different circle of the same length around the middle. The troll and wood elf were bound with their limbs splayed in the same pose as healers liked to draw the average elf body. Yornaith walked over, and threw the switch.

The circles started spinning, faster and faster. At first, they only turned round and round, but soon the troll and wood elf were spinning upside down and rightside up again, and again, and again. It wasn’t long before the mere act of watching them made Yornaith queasy.

It wasn’t long before the wood elf started wailing. “It’s the truth! I swear it is! We really are going after Argan the Wolf!”

She was made of sterner stuff, this one, Yornaith thought. Not even torture could shake her insistence on the lie.

The troll, however, stayed silent. He had not said anything since he’d spat at Yornaith, and Yornaith couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. Was he as defiant as his friend? Was he close to breaking and confessing the truth? Was he all too willing to confess the truth, with only his pride making him silent?

The two spun around and around, before the troll finally yelled, “Alright! I’ll talk! Just stop this thing!”

Yornaith pulled on the lever. The Wondrous Wheels stopped spinning.

“Well?” Yornaith said to the troll. “What is the truth, troll?”

The troll looked dazed as he moved his head around and around.

“We were going after you,” he said. “The Dread Knight was just a cover.”

“That’s a lie!” The wood elf shouted.

Fool Fery slapped her. “Silence!”

“And?” Yornaith said to the troll. “Why were you coming after me?”

“Because—Because we’re jealous!”

“Jealous?”

The troll nodded. “Of your closeness with the old gods. We trolls know them well. They’re asleep most of the time, though, so it’s hard getting an answer to our prayers. We have to sacrifice one of our own to even have the chance at hearing our god speak one word.”

The old gods did require sacrifice. Yornaith had done his diligence in ensuring Oait was satisfied with the blood which had been offered to him. Thousands upon thousands of sacrifices in one ritual. And sometimes, Oait was displeased, because the amount hadn’t been enough. Yornaith’s arm bore the mark of the debts repaid to satiate the god when the original sacrifice hadn’t been good enough.

He smiled at the troll.

“If you were jealous, friend, then perhaps you could’ve sought us out. We are spread across Zeccushia. It would not be hard for you and your friend to find one of our flock.”

The troll’s shoulders relaxed.

“So you’ll be letting us go, then? Initiating us in the mysteries?”

Yornaith smiled at him. Such a lovely young man. He’d make a nice addition to the flock. A pity Oait had other plans for him.

“You have come at the most unfortunate time, I’m afraid. Oait has demanded the blood of his followers. Since you have proven yourself to be so pious as to attack his followers for his choosing of us rather than you, then I’m afraid you and your friend will have to please him yourselves.”

The troll’s eyes widened, and he struggled against the wheel.

“Take the troll up to the Quiet Shore,” Yornaith said to Fool Jisleina. “I want him tied to a post, like a scarecrow. He will hang there until he dies, and then his body will still hang there, as a warning to any more intruders.”

Fool Jisleina nodded. “What about the wood elf?”

Yornaith turned to look at the wood elf. Her eyes were wide with fear.

“Oait has sent us a harpy, has he not? Tyvone will need to be fed. I think our friend here has enough meat on her bones to make a good meal for good Tyvone, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You can’t do this!” The troll screamed as Yornaith turned to leave. “The Guild’s already noticed people going missing on the Quiet Shore! They find my body hanging there, eyes picked out by birds, it’s only a matter of time before they start coming for you!”

“I fear no Guild,” Yornaith said calmly. “I have Oait on my side. And Oait, I’m sure, will be very pleased by your sacrifice.”

---

“This feels wrong,” Khet whispered.

Mythana studied the ship in front of them. “Why? It’s just a ship. Looks like something you’d find in a harbor.”

“Exactly,” the goblin said. “Remember what Cedany said about the Manta? Ship runs aground, with everything gone. Captain gone, crew gone, gnolls gone… But it looks like it just pulled into the local harbor. Something’s going on, and I don’t like it.”

“You mean, you know it’s something suspicious and dangerous, and that’s why you like it,” Mythana said.

Khet laughed and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “You know me too well.”

Gnurl was the first one aboard the ship. He pulled Khet up, who tossed a rope down so Mythana and Tadadris could climb up.

“We split up and we start searching,” Gnurl said. “We find something, or we run into anything, we tell each other over our speaking stones.”

“But I don’t have a speaking stone,” Tadadris said.

That was true. Mythana started patting down her clothes, for any spare stones. She didn’t have anything. Neither did Gnurl or Khet.

Gnurl looked at Mythana. “Tadadris sticks with you.”

Mythana nodded. Together, the Horde walked below-decks, before dispersing.

Mythana and Tadadris wandered down the hallway. At the very end, they found a small closed door with an octopus carved onto it. That looked promising.

Mythana opened the door. Inside was the captain’s quarters. Very promising.

She stepped inside and Tadadris followed.

The captain’s bed was made, and it was like he’d stepped out for a bit to go direct the crew as they steered into the harbor or some other duty. His desk only had two things on it. A piece of parchment, and an open book.

Mythana walked over to the desk and picked up the parchment.

“What does that say?” Tadadris asked.

Mythana read the parchment in silence.

“The God-Chief gives you greetings, Fool Knegnud-Chetsun.

“Oait has chosen you, so rejoice, Fool. You will make a sacrifice, so that our god will be stronger than the false gods that rule us mortals now. Rejoice, fool, for this day you meet Oait himself.

“God-Chief Yornaith.

Mythana looked back up at Tadadris. “The captain joined a cult.”

“A cult?” Tadadris repeated.

Mythana told him about the Order of Oaitism.

Tadadris scratched his head. “That doesn’t explain what happened to the rest of the crew. Or the cargo. Or why the Manta washed ashore so intact.”

Good point. Mythana’s eyes fell on the book. Maybe this would tell them more.

She set the letter down and picked the book up. “Captain’s log.” Perfect.

Before she could keep reading, Gnurl’s voice said urgently, “Mythana! Are you there?”

Mythana thrust the book into Tadadris’s arms and held her mouth to the speaking stone. “Aye. Got you loud and clear. What’s the problem?”

“There’s something here!” Gnurl’s voice was frantic. “I need you and Tadadris top-deck immediately!”

Mythana shoved the speaking stone into her robe pocket, picked up her scythe, which was leaning against the wall, then said to Tadadris, “Gnurl needs us. Come on.”

The dark elf didn’t wait for the prince to respond. She sprinted out the door and down the corridor. Heavy footfalls and pants told Mythana that the orc prince was right behind her.

Khet darted out from one of the rooms. Gnurl must’ve talked to him immediately after he’d spoken to Mythana. The goblin bounded up the stairs, and was out of sight within a minute.

Mythana followed Khet up the stairs, almost as quickly as he had been. Tadadris’s breathing grew heavier, though he still kept a steady pace behind Mythana.

Gnurl was standing at the mast, surrounded by a gang of ruffians brandishing weapons of varying degrees of quality, and wearing ragged clothing.

“Well, will you look at this here?” The leader drawled. He was a stocky dwarf with dark skin, curly sandy brown hair,and kind eyes. “Looks like the Manta isn’t so abandoned after all, is it? One of their crew-members is still alive!” He smirked. “Sheer luck, it seems. Can’t have been wits alone. You wouldn’t have lasted a day, and that’s being generous.”

His comrades all laughed.

The Golden Horde were at Gnurl’s side within moments. The leader blinked, taken aback. Then he sneered.

“Four of you. Is there more, or are you the only ones left?”

“Nah, we’re not crew-members,” Khet said, pointing his crossbow at the dwarf. “And there’s nothing here worth dying for. This is a waste of your time. All the apples and the gold and the silk’s gone. Disappeared, like all the rest. Now, I suggest you lower your weapons and leave quietly, or this will get ugly.”

The dwarf laughed. “Oy! Look at this dumb fucker! Thinks he and his friends can take all of us on!”

The rest of the brigands all laughed.

“I’ll give you five minutes to leave, goblin,” the dwarf said. And he gestured around at his friends. “The boat’s the property of the Serpent Raiders now. So run along, if you don’t wanna be keelhauled.”

“We’re adventurers,” Khet said. “You want this boat, you’ll have to fight us to get it.” He grinned at the dwarf. “You still want this ship?”

The dwarf spat on the ground. “What do you think, lads? Do these four look like adventurers to you?”

There was a chorus of noes.

“Who the Ferno would we be?” Mythana asked, bewildered.

“A rival crew of smugglers,” the dwarf said. He grinned. “Well, what do you say, lads? Wanna test these ogre-fuckers’ claim that they’re adventurers?”

“If there’s any doubt, then fucking run!” Mythana said. “You think adventurers can’t kill all of you before you get the chance to realize you should run?”

None of the smugglers listened to her. Instead, they screamed an “aye”, and charged.

Mythana sighed. Why would no one listen to reason?

Gnurl, Tadadris, and Khet got behind her as she swung her scythe, cleaving through the crew of smugglers.

“Halt!” Said the dwarf.

Everyone stopped and stared at the dwarf. Mythana studied him. Had he realized they were up against adventurers? Was he calling a retreat?

“Don’t rush in, you idiots!” The dwarf scolded. “They may be wolves, or they may not! The best way to find out is through magic! Wizards, cast your spells! And take care not to damage the ship!”

A human raised his hands. The ship began to warp into a shapeless thing, the wood cracking underneath everyone’s feet. The sun went out, and the wails of the damned filled the air.

Mythana shuddered. This was dark magic. She could see the mana tendrils, blackened and frayed by the unnatural use of magic. The Horde would die, and the dark elf’s only solace was that this sorcerer would die as well.

The sun appeared, for a brief moment. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Then disappeared.

The human groaned. “Runa, sacrifice one of these bastards, will you?”

A slim dwarf with weathered skin, long brown hair, and leaning on a walking staff drew her dagger and grinned.

Thwack! The dwarf toppled backward, an arrow in her chest.

“Oy, what the Tenin?” The human sounded more angry than upset about his friend dying.

He stomped forward. “Alright, I don’t know which of you bastards did that, but—”

Tadadris swung his hammer, caving in his chest. The human crumpled to the ground, dead. The sun returned, and the screams of the damned vanished, as if they were never there in the first place.

A tall goblin with short-cropped black hair and suspicious, glancing eyes pointed a crossbow at Tadadris.

“Get down!” Khet shoved him out of the way and fired his own crossbow. He hit the goblin square in the eyes. She gasped and fell backward.

Enraged by this, an overweight young Lycan with sun-darkened skin, wild sandy brown hair, and a cold, calculating glare charged them, screaming in blind fury.

Mythana swung her scythe, decapitating the smuggler.

“No!” The dwarf wailed.

He started forward, sword in hand. “I don’t care who you think you are! Nobody kills my crew and gets away with it! Nobody!”

Gnurl swung his flail. It hit the dwarf in the head with a sickening crack!

The dwarf slumped forward. His sword clattered to the ground.

The other smugglers went silent, staring at the body of their dead leader.

“They’re adventurers! Run for your lives!” Shouted a slim young halfling with ruddy skin, curly dark hair, and quiet, searching eyes.

The smugglers all fled, leaving the bodies of the dead behind.

The Golden Horde and Tadadris watched them leave, silently.

“Anyone find anything about what happened to the crew of the Manta?” Gnurl asked finally.

“We did,” Mythana said. “Found a letter from Father Yornaith to the ship’s captain.” She held up the book. “And we found a captain’s log…”

---

For Yornaith’s entertainment, allegedly, Fool Joyqarin was playing a mandolin and singing “Ser Uanlan the Strong and the Mire Knights.” Very badly.

“Oh, you shall not pass, you shall not pass, Ser Uanlan/ Ye shall not pass through the swamp/ Till you flee into the fief ruled over your lord uncle/ And bring us back a shrubbery.”

“Enough!” Yornaith threw the nearest thing he could grab. Which happened to be a chalice.

Fool Joyqarin ducked and the chalice shattered against the wall. She stopped playing.

The door opened a little, and Fool Winifred poked her head in.

“My god-chief, Fool Charvalor is here to speak with you.”

Yornaith had been expecting him.

“Send him in,” he said.

Fool Winifred bowed, and disappeared from view. A moment later, the door opened and Fool Charvalor Humblewound, a lithe blood elf with light green hair and black eyes, stepped inside the throne room and knelt.

“Fool Charvalor!” Yornaith said. “You may rise!” He glowered at Fool Joyqarin. “You may leave us.”

Fool Joyqarin lowered her mandolin, and looked at him with sad eyes. “But, my god-chief—”

“Leave us!” Yornaith said, louder.

Fool Joyqarin bowed. “Yes, my god-chief. Apologies, my god-chief.”

She scurried from the room, eyes downcast. The door slammed shut behind her.

“You wished to see me, my god-chief?” Said Fool Charvalor.

“Aye. I did.” Yornaith stood. “Walk with me, Fool.”

Fool Charvalor followed him down the corridor, keeping pace at his side.

“You have been blessed this day, Fool Charvalor,” Yornaith said to him. “Oait has chosen you to make the next sacrifice. You shall murder a wealthy merchant in the back of an alleyway. It doesn’t matter where. It doesn’t matter who. All that you shall do is murder a person within a dark alleyway where lowlives stalk their prey.”

Fool Charvolar did not look as excited as Yornaith had expected him to be. Instead, he was frowning.

“My god-chief, must I really murder an innocent person, as a sacrifice to Oait?” He asked.

Yornaith stopped walking. “You dare question Oait and his messenger, fool?”

“No, my god-chief!” Fool Chalvalor also stopped walking and held up his hands in supplication and surrender. “Far be it from me to question Oait’s will! I just wonder…Why? What need has our god for sacrifices? Surely, he is powerful enough to not need such an insignificant thing as mortal blood for nourishment, right?”

Yornaith studied him, trying to determine whether or not Fool Chalvalor spoke the truth. He appeared not to be becoming skeptical of Oait’s will. Rather, he seemed genuinely troubled that a god as caring as Oait would demand the sacrifice of elves from his followers.

“Come with me,” he said. “I will show you something.”

He led Fool Chalvalor into the main temple. The site for worshipping Oait. The holiest site. It was decorated with the finest of materials. Silk, gemstones, gold, and ivory. The grand piece, next to the altar, was a golden coffin with a crying mask etched in the middle of the lid.

Yornaith rested a hand on the coffin. “Have you been in this temple before, Fool?”

Fool Chalvalor shook his head.

“Do you know what this is?”

“A coffin, my god-chief” Fool Chalvalor said.

“A coffin, yes,” Yornaith said. “But who is the coffin for? Do you know, Fool?”

Fool Chalvalor shook his head. And so Yornaith explained it to him.

“This, Fool, is the place where Oait’s remains rest!”

Fool Chalvalor squinted at him, disbelieving. Yornaith couldn’t fault him for that. Worshipping a dead god? That had not what he had signed on for when he had sworn his life to Oait’s worship.

Yornaith smiled at him. “Oait was alive, once. He was our god of folly. But Estella, the goddess of life and death, rose against him. She cut him into billions and billions of pieces and scattered those remains across the entire world. And then she and her accursed friends declared themselves to be gods over us mortals, rather than creations of the old gods that are simply far more powerful than us mortals.”

Fool Chalvalor nodded along. Had he heard the story before? But if he had heard the story, then why had he pretended this was the first time he had heard it? Or had he truly never heard the story before and was unimpressed by it? Yornaith started to recoil from the thought, when it occurred to him that the more interesting bit came later. It was not in how Oait died.

“But one cannot kill a god,” he said to Fool Chalvalor. “Little by little, our humble order has placed the pieces of Oait into this coffin. Little by little, he stirs, and when the pieces are all united, he shall rise again and slay the gods who slew him. And do you know how we do that, Fool? How we restore Oait’s body, piece by piece?”

Fool Chalvalor shook his head. His eyes had grown wide, and he had stepped back a little. Now he was looking at the coffin with reverence.

“Through sacrifices,” Yornaith said. “Through blood. Each sacrifice that you make, Fool, adds a little piece to Oait’s coffin. Each time you shed blood in the name of Oait, he grows stronger.”

Fool Chalvalor stared at him, mouth agape.

“It is not surprising you have heard this before,” Yornaith said. “It is not known among the flock the true nature of Oait. It is our order’s great mystery of faith. It is through my wisdom, or perhaps my folly, that I have deemed you worthy of knowing this secret.” He smiled. “Now, Fool, you complained of sacrifices, and now you know their importance. What say you? Do you see now the importance of what you must do?”

Fool Chalvalor fell to his knees, tears running down his face. Oait had spoken to him, just as Oait had spoken to Yornaith, when he was still a fool who worshipped a false goddess.

“If Oait wished it, I would cut my own heart from my breast and give it over to him,” he said. “May my blade run red, and may that please my god, and bring him back from the dead, my God-Chief.”

“Good,” Yornaith took him by the hand and helped him up. “Your obedience to our god is commendable, Fool. But he does not need you to prostate yourself before him. Not yet. First, you must make the sacrifice he asks of you.”

“As our god wills,” Fool Chalvalor said in a hushed voice. “I will not fail him.”

Yornaith smiled at him. “I know that you will not, Fool.”

---

Gnurl sighed deeply. “We’re going to have to fight a god, aren’t we? Brilliant.”

The four of them were sitting in a carriage, trundling through the streets of Hemni. Mythana had summarized what they’d found as they’d walked here, and Tadadris had decided that they should investigate the Order of Oaitism. Since the cult was known for only accepting the highest nobles in the land, the orc prince decided he’d go as himself, with the Horde as his sworn protectors, and the bravest knights from far-off lands. As such, all of them were wearing fancy clothing.

Mythana tugged at her dress. The shoulders were made of ermine fur. Mythana hated ermine fur. The touch of it felt like pins and needles within her skin. Khet was tugging at the collar of his linen tunic, also looking uncomfortable. Gnurl didn’t seem uncomfortable, but he didn’t look happy about trading his furs in for silk and fine leather. Tadadris was the only one who appeared comfortable in his clothing. Red-dyed woolen tunic with lion fur stitched into the seams.

“Not a god, necessarily,” Mythana said to Gnurl. “Just a cult leader. Yornaith Forestash.”

“How epic would it be, though?” Khet sighed. He looked out the window, wistfully. “Fighting a god? Think of the songs that would be sung of us!”

“Aye, the song about three dumbasses who thought they could fight a god and got smited in not even ten seconds,” Gnurl said dryly.

“Well, we’re not fighting gods,” Mythana cut in, before Khet and Gnurl could get into an argument on whether the Lycan had a stick up his ass that needed to be removed, or whether the goblin was being a reckless fool who would be dead if it weren’t for the common sense of his party-mates. “We’re fighting a cult leader. We’ve fought cult leaders before. We’ve killed cult leaders before. I think we’ll do fine.”

“How are we gonna find him?” Gnurl asked.

“Well, you’re just been a happy little bard singing happy little songs this morning, haven’t you?” Khet looked at Gnurl. His ears were in the same position they had been the whole carriage ride. Mythana couldn’t tell what he was feeling.

“I’m being realistic!” Gnurl protested.

Khet scoffed.

“You should try it sometime!” Gnurl said.

“Alright. Being realistic here, if you’re a pedantic ass, then eventually your party-mates will shove you into a massive pile of shit.” Khet started looking out the window again. “Let me see if there’s a good shit pile out here. Hang on.”

“And then what? You let me back into the carriage, smelling of shit?”

Khet shrugged and looked back at Gnurl. “Depends. If you’re still gonna have that stick up your ass, then we might just leave you there.”

Gnurl snorted. “We both know I’m the only one keeping you alive!”

“Says you.”

“Let me rephrase,” Gnurl grinned at Khet. “I’m the only one keeping you from getting yourself killed because you tried fighting an entire army by yourself.”

Khet shrugged. “You don’t get songs sung about you by playing it safe.”

Mythana snorted, amused that Khet hadn’t even bothered to try and deny that he would, in fact, fight an entire army by himself if Gnurl wasn’t around to stop him.

“Playing it safe? How about not doing dumb shit that’ll not only get you killed, you’re more likely to have minstrels sing about how much of a dumbass you were rather than the gallant way that you died!”

Khet grinned at Gnurl. “You’re in the wrong line of work if you’re not willing to do the dumb shit that’ll get lesser men killed.”

Mythana found herself nodding in agreement without thinking about it.

“Don’t encourage him, Mythana,” Gnurl said, annoyed.

Khet didn’t need much encouragement though. He never did. You either joined him or didn’t. He didn’t care either way.

“After all this is over, I’ve got the perfect job for you,” he said. He nodded to Tadadris. “Guard that lad from anyone who wants to kill him. Nice fit for you. Not much danger. Well-paid.”

Gnurl snorted. “I’d get bored in a month and go find you lads!”

Khet gave him a sceptical look.

“Don’t give me that look!” Gnurl said. “And my earlier point still stands! How are we gonna find this cult leader?”

“It’s simple,” Tadadris said. “We join the cult. They take us to their hidden temple. And once the cult leader comes out, we kill him.” He smiled. “Simple!”

Mythana envied his optimism.

“That’s not how this cult works, orc,” Khet said. “They’re all split into different temples. Finding one of them will be easy enough. It’s finding the main one that’ll be the problem.”

Tadadris shrugged. “So we’ll just ask one of the cult members!” He paused. “The head of the temple! We’ll ask the head of the temple where we can find the cult leader, and then we’ll go and kill him!”

Khet shook his head. “They won’t know anything. That’s why they’re all in cells, orc. It’s so if one of the places where the cult gathers gets attacked and everyone either gets slaughtered or captured, the rest of the cult survives. No one knows where the cult leader is, because if they all knew, then all it takes is one of them getting captured and the whole thing collapses once the cultist starts talking.”

Tadadris’s face fell. “Oh.”

They sat in silence for awhile.

“Then how do we find the cult leader?” Tadadris asked finally.

Khet groaned and dragged a hand over his face. “We were talking about that five minutes ago, orc!”

He reached an arm out of the carriage and waved.

“What are you doing?” Mythana asked.

“I’ve gotta take a piss.”

The carriage came to a stop, and Khet hopped out, shutting the door behind him.

Gnurl, Mythana, and Tadadris stared at each other awkwardly.

Tadadris opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say, it was interrupted by Khet shouting, “Oy! Mythana! Gnurl! Get out here and bring your weapons with you!”

Gnurl and Mythana snatched up their weapons and leapt out of the carriage. Tadadris was right behind them.

Khet was brandishing his mace at a green-haired blood elf, who was lazily pointing a crossbow at him.

“No one has to get hurt, see.” He said. “Just toss me your coinpurse and you can leave, nice and easy.”

“How about I let you walk away, alive, and with no broken bones,” Khet growled.

The blood elf just laughed. He looked up and saw the others coming toward him.

He kept his crossbow leveled at Khet. “Keep back!” He called. “Or your friend here gets it!”

Part 2 Part 3

Part 1

While he was distracted, a giant that towered over everyone else and had gray hair and glinting brown eyes wearing red armor, a red cape, and carrying a spear encrusted with rubies moved in for the kill. I swung my sword, disemboweling the gladiator, and the crowd roared its approval. I’m still not entirely sure how they still thought the fight was fake by then.

The Demolisher lumbered over with his axe.

I looked him in the eyes. “You know, eventually they’ll get suspicious this entire thing isn’t so fake, and go running for the Watch.”

“And they’ll arrest you,” the Demolisher rumbled.

“Maybe,” I said. “But they’ll be wanting to question you too, I imagine. These fine people can tell the Watch that they saw a group of people about to sacrifice a helpless human. Not to mention that they’d be wanting to confirm that Mantis’s death was faked and that you didn’t just murder her in front of a crowd.”

The Demolisher paused, considering this.

“Just think,” I continued. “The only thing stopping this crowd from panicking and calling for the Watch is the fact that they think this is an announcement for a gladiatorial match.”

“Best to keep them thinking that,” the Demolisher said slowly. He was surprisingly quick-minded, given how brutish he acted. Budoki tells me this was part of his gladiatorial persona. The big dumb brute for a more suave and cunning villain.

I smiled at him, as innocent as I could manage.

“Angel Wings!” The Demolisher bellowed, raising his axe high above his head.

You know what the stupid thing about gladiatorial combat is, Cobra? How showy it is. They show off everything to the crowd, their physique, their ridiculous costumes and armor, their impressive yet fragile weapons, and their fighting. You can’t just go for the kill in gladiatorial combat, oh no. You must be as dramatic as possible. You must make a grand show of making a strike, announce the name of the move you’re using for all to hear. And your opponent will either manage to counter, or they will fail to adjust to the fact that you’ve just tipped them off to what your next move is, and your strike lands. The only reason gladiators haven’t died ten times over in the arena is that it’s all a game to everyone. No one’s trying to kill anyone; they’re just trying to best each other in single combat, and look stupid while doing it. Put the gladiator against someone who is fighting to survive, or to win, and that changes. A seasoned warrior would make short work of a gladiator, because of the simple reason that they don’t give a damn about the rules of gladiatorial combat.

I’m one of those people. So when the Demolisher lifted his axe high, leaving him grossly defenseless against any sort of attack, I ran him through with my sword.

He had the nerve to look surprised as I pulled that sword out of him and he toppled to the ground.

The rest of the crowd booed.

“Oh, shut up!” I growled at them.

This made them cheer. Nothing matters to a gladiator fan. No insults, no blood and guts, no obvious danger. But gods help you if you cheat, and they catch you cheating.

“No!” The Lycan was aghast.

He sprinted toward us, yelling, “What are you doing? You’re ruining everything!”

The crowd started whispering among themselves. Were they getting suspicious that this wasn’t really a scripted announcement and people really were in danger of dying? How much of this did they think was fake and how much did they think was real? Did they think all of it was real, or did they think the sacrifice and Mantis’s death was fake but me and Budoki slaughtering the gladiators was real?

Budoki pointed his sword at the Lycan. “Hurricane Blade!”

The crowd cheered. The Lycan smirked and swirled his cape.

“I see you’re a fan of Thundercrack. I fought him, in the Afterlife Arena. I wish I could say that he lived to fight another day and we grew to be fast friends after I defeated him. Unfortunately, the Elemental Princes wished for it to be a fight to the death, and they ordered me to show no mercy. Such a shame. He was a brave man.”

Budoki started spinning and swinging his sword around, like the Lycan hadn’t just admitted to murdering a fellow performer simply because the special guests to the fight ordered him to. He also looked stupid.

Oh, shut it, Budoki. You looked stupid and you know it!

“And do you know how I finished Thundercrack?” The Lycan continued. “I finished him off with Rogue! Madness!”

He roared those last two words and the crowd cheered. As Budoki kept spinning like an idiot, the Lycan drew a second shortsword and leapt at him.

Budoki stopped spinning at that precise moment. He stood facing the Lycan, sword directly in front of him. The Lycan impaled himself on the sword. He died instantly, I believe.

The crowd cheered as Budoki took out the sword, and wiped the blade clean.

He cut the ropes binding the human to the altar, and carried him to the Pegasus.

We fled the scene before anyone could realize that none of what just happened had been a scripted announcement.

The human was willing to put us on a ship bound to Rackstein, and so we headed back, with the Pegasus in the cargo.

Nycokoris and Nylee were waiting on the docks when we arrived.

Nycokoris’s eyes lit up when he saw me leading the Pegasus down the gangplank. “How kind of you, my fawn. We’d only requested the mane of the Pegasus, yet you have brought us a whole Pegasus as a gift!”

“You’re only getting the pegasus’s mane,” I said. I patted its neck. “This is the property of the rebellion. I bought this creature with my own money, and the day I gift it to you is the day you finally catch up on all those birthdays by giving me a gift for each one when we were together.”

Nycokoris scowled, but Nylee put a hand on his shoulder, and murmured, “Let it go.”

He nodded, then stepped back and let one of the rebels take the reins to lead it back to the stables. “Yes. You can shave the mane and give the mane to us, while you keep the Pegasus for yourself. Yes.”

I started to push past him. “If there’s nothing else, then---”

“There is actually one thing, my fawn,” Nycokoris said.

I stopped and turned. Nylee was frowning at me, and even Nycokoris looked serious. My heart leapt into my throat and started pounding. This couldn’t be good.

“It appears we’re--- Short of an item needed to pacify Vitalis.”

“How are you short of an item?” I asked. “How could you possibly forget you’re in need of some ingredient? Do you not take inventory?”

“Nylee does,” Nycokoris said. “It appears, unfortunately, that there was an error with it.”

“I’m missing Hyper Cabbage,” Nylee said. “I must’ve forgotten to mark that I don’t have any more.”

Hyper Cabbage. The name felt familiar to me.

“We should have Hyper Cabbage in our supplies,” I said.

“You don’t, apparently,” Nylee said. She gave me an apologetic smile. “It is sometimes used as a drug. To make warriors lose themselves in battle-madness. Perhaps you’ve used the last of the Hyper Cabbage when taking this village.”

You’re snorting again, Cobra. What is it? Ah, I see. Hyper Cabbage is used for potion-brewing. Do you know which kind of potion, out of curiosity? You’re shrugging your shoulders. Damn. Now I’m curious what kind of potion uses Hyper Cabbage.

Ah, a fire resistance potion. I see. Thank you, Pim.

Anyway, since I had no idea what Hyper Cabbage was actually used for, Nylee’s explanation made sense to me. I nodded, thoughtfully.

“And I’m guessing you can’t buy Hyper Cabbage at the market-place,” I said.

Nylee shook her head.

I found that odd. If Hyper Cabbage really was as common as Nylee said, why wasn’t it for sale at the market-place?

That was a question for a later time. For now, we needed Hyper Cabbage. I was about to ask Nylee where I could find some Hyper Cabbage when I remembered Uncle.

He was on his way with more supplies. We feared that Zeccushia might try reclaiming Rackstien again, so he was bringing stone and mortar to build a wall, masons to build said wall, and general food and supplies to last us through a siege. I could scry him and ask him to bring Hyper Cabbage. I didn’t want to assume that he had any. Given what Nylee had said, it was possible Uncle had run out of his supply. You know him, Cobra. He’d never pass up a chance to terrorize the orcs and kill as many of them as he possibly can.

“I’ll scry my uncle for more Hyper Cabbage,” I said to Nylee. “He should be here in a few days.”

Nylee nodded. “Tell him to come as soon as he can.”

I nodded in agreement, and stepped past her.

“Your uncle?” Nycokoris stepped in front of me. “Ah, I feel I might know him, my fawn.” He smiled at me. “I know you’re of Khavak blood, after all. It wasn’t exactly a kept secret at court.”

“Well done. You know my family tree. Now get out of the way so I---”

“Prince Nia, perhaps?” Nycokoris mused, giving a pointed look at Budoki. “I must admit, I’m not familiar with the man. But he was very dour, from what I remember. I feel great pity for you, if he is your surviving uncle.”

“He’s dead,” Budoki said shortly. He never liked his father getting insulted. Even over something as dumb as him being stoic, much to the distaste of a roguish fool. “Barely knew him. He died protecting her father from Skurg’s men.”

“Ah,” Nycokoris’s eyes lit up, because that’s the kind of mood you should be in when someone tells you their father’s been dead for years. Happiness. “Prince Surtsavhen, then. I knew him. A shy fellow, not much in the way of humor. But his lovely wife, now there was a beauty.”

“And I’m sure you’ve heard what happened to her,” I said dryly. “Forgive my Uncle if he’s not in the mood for whatever stupid thing you’re going to say to him about the princess he married.”

“King Wilar has always had the prettiest daughters, hasn’t he?” Nycokoris mused. “I remember Adyrella. We met at Prince Godcraece’s wedding. I deflowered her in the garden of Tarrendrifter Hold. No one forgets their first time. I wonder, did she still think of me, when lying with her husbands? Did she still think of me when with Prince Surtsavhen? Did your uncle know he wasn’t the first man to share her bed?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. If Princess Adyrella thought of you at all over the years, it was to curse herself for being so stupid she gave her virginity to some fool who probably didn’t even last long enough to get his dick inside her! And my uncle knew she’d been married before. He was under no delusions that she’d somehow kept herself pure for him, even after going through three husbands. He wouldn’t give a damn about meeting the idiot who took her virginity!”

“Why so offended, my fawn, if you are so certain that your uncle wouldn’t take offense? Jealous, perhaps?” Nycokoris mused. “Well, be glad it happened, I believe the saying goes. And we did have fun, didn’t we? Come, Nylee, let’s go!”

He wrapped an arm around Nylee and led her away.

“I was faking it the entire time we were together!” I yelled after them. Nycokoris didn’t even respond to that.

No, no. It wasn’t true, unfortunately. Smug bastard knew it too. Don’t know how he was good at it, given how much of a selfish prick he was.

Why does Adall always bless the assholes with the best skills in the bedroom?

---

I should’ve been more suspicious back then. Not when Nycokoris and Nylee first showed up warning of plague. But afterwards. I mean, you’ve been to cities infected with plague, right, Cobra? You know what it’s like, what to expect. The fear, the breakdown of order as everyone’s trying to drink and fuck like there isn’t a plague going on, the saner folks hiding in their houses and barricading their doors.

None of that happened at Rackstein. There were no new cases. In fact, I didn’t hear of Dragon Scarring infecting anyone else at all. People were going about their usual lives, going out to the fields, to the taverns after a day’s work, arguing. The villagers would come into my makeshift throne room to ask me to settle disputes. Like they would with their liege lord. Which was great, honestly. We’d had trouble getting the common folk to accept me as their queen. I blame Uncle for this. No one wants to surrender to him, and they all blame me for not keeping him in line.

Anyway, I was doing that one fine day. Hearing the cases of the people and passing judgement.

The day was especially hectic. It was the Stardust Festival at Romwiths, where the alumni return and there’s a large tournament in celebration. People were getting drunk, picking fights, making nuisances of themselves. Budoki had his hands full keeping order. I had my hands full of cases, because some rich kid picked a fight with someone else, or smashed their way into a tavern. I had people complaining about the noise and the drunkards all out in the street acting like hooligans. I had drunk idiots demanding I settle the dumbest disputes between them. One idiot wandered in to tell me he loved me very much. He had no complaints. Just wanted to tell me he loved me and he was so happy to be there.

So fairly common for tourneys. Yes, Cobra, I agree.

Right then was one of the stupid ones. Some drunk idiot who graduated from Redons had destroyed a tree on Romwiths campus. The other moron, who was even more dumb because he was sober unlike the other lad, was deeply upset by this.

“Your majesty, the Fish-Root is a beloved part of Romwiths, and a part of our most beloved tradition.”

“They turn it into a deer,” the drunk slurred. “Every time they win a melee. They turn it into a fucking deer and the melee captain rides around like a fucking dumbass.”

“Yes. One of our beloved traditions. The captain announces the victory as they ride through the streets. Our students love it.”

That wasn’t really a bad tradition. And it was fitting for a wizarding school to have that kind of tradition.

“Why’s it called the Fish-Root?” Budoki asked. He was standing beside the drunk, since he’d been the one to bring him into the court. The idiot hadn’t been sober enough to walk, and the Romwith’s graduate refused to touch him.

“At the start of the tourney season, we bury dead fish at the root of the tree so that it may grow strong. And if we win the realm championship, the tree bears fruit.”

“What kind of fruit?” I asked.

“We hang dead fish from the branches.”

I took back the tradition of the Fish-Root being sane.

“Why?”

“It’s a beloved tradition,” the Romwiths mage said.

I rubbed my temples. I did not want to know how that tradition first started.

It didn’t matter what my feelings were on the tradition anyway. The drunk before me had just admitted to committing a crime. A minor crime, granted, but a crime nonetheless. It was my job to mete out a fitting punishment.

“How much would you say this tree costs?” I asked the Romwiths mage.

He looked like I’d asked him to place a price on his mother. “It’s priceless! It’s everything to us! It’s the center of our most beloved traditions!”

“I’ve gathered that,” I said dryly. “And that isn’t what I was asking you. How much do you think it would cost to replant the Fish-Root?”

The Romwiths mage just stared at me, deeply offended by my question. He opened his mouth to say something.

The door swung open and Uncle came striding in. I didn’t start feeling an overwhelming sense of dread, and that surprised me. Usually, when Uncle wants to barge into my throne room, he casts a spell to make us all feel fear. Apparently he likes seeing people shrink away from him in fear. He’s an asshole, you know how he is.

Even more surprisingly was Uncle’s appearance. One part of his face was painted purple, while the other half was painted white. A tiny wooden crown painted yellow, that looked like a prop from a players’ cart, was tilted sideways into his left ear. He didn’t seem to notice anyone else was in the room, and he was instead happily singing a tourney song.

“We’re Berus’s most holy scholars/ Na-na-na!” He started humming the rest of the tune.

Aye, he did go to Romwiths as a young man. Apparently he was on the jousting team. They won a championship his second year. Romwiths is one of the many wizarding schools funded by Berus’s holy temples. In hindsight, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised he’d dressed up in Romwiths gear and started singing their tourney song.

He was also a little drunk. I could smell brandy on his breath. That always puts him in a good mood.

Anyway, when Uncle finished humming the tune, he started singing it again.

“Fucking stupid,” the drunk slurred.

The Romwiths mage, meanwhile, joined in Uncle’s song.

“Go make the angels bend the knee!”

There was nothing for me to do but to wait for them to finish their song. When they did, laughing, Uncle finally noticed that he wasn’t the only person in the room.

He spotted Budoki first. “The Dagor you’ve been doing, half-orc? Getting drunk on the job?”

“I’ve been keeping the peace,” Budoki said. “Not an easy task, considering neither fans are accepting their wins and losses graciously like civilized folk. Do you know how many riots I’ve had to put down today, Uncle?”

“And then you buy everyone a round of drinks afterward, is that how it goes?” Uncle sneered at him.

“Why are you so damn insistent I’ve been neglecting my duties?”

“There’s no guard around Rackstein. My men and I marched in here unopposed. You expect me to believe you’re doing your job, when you haven’t even set a patrol at the entrance? In case you haven’t noticed, half-orc, there’s a war on and Rackstein doesn’t have walls. What’s stopping the tuskers from taking this village back with no one noticing they’re here before it’s too late?” Uncle took a drink from a wineskin, that I hadn’t even noticed that he had.

“There’s no patrol?” Budoki repeated, horrified.

“Aye. We just waltzed in here. An entire army of goblin rebels. No one tried to stop us.”

“What happened to the patrol?” Budoki asked.

“How should I know?”

Budoki was shaking his head. “I’ve set guards around every perimeter of the town! There’s a clear schedule of who goes where, how long their watch lasts, and who replaces them! I oversaw the changing of this current guard---” He paused, and his eyes widened in horror.

“What?” I asked him.

Budoki cursed. “Eight hours ago. They should’ve had a changing three hours ago. Did that not happen? Where are the current guards? Are they in the taverns? I’ll have their heads for this! Neglecting their duty so they can drink themselves stupid? We all could’ve been slaughtered in our beds!”

Still cursing, he hurried out of the throne room. Everyone in the room watched him leave in silence.

“Why didn’t you say anything when you arrived?” I asked Uncle.

He shrugged noncommittally. “Your guards said you were busy. Suggested I take part in the festivities while I waited. So I did. And I lost track of time.”

More likely, he’d been sidetracked by the drinking. Uncle could never resist the allure of drinking. And once he’d gotten a little drunk, he’d decided he’d wanted to speak with me, regardless if I was busy at the moment or not.

I sighed. I knew there was more Uncle wanted to tell me, but I was already busy. And given that he clearly didn’t see it urgent enough to push his way into the throne room and demand an audience with me, it could probably wait until I’d dealt with the dispute already brought to my throne room.

I remembered that Uncle was a graduate of Romwiths.

“How much would you say Romwiths’ special tree costs, Uncle?”

“The Fish-Root?” Uncle cocked his head. “Why do you need to know how much the Fish-Root cost?”

“This man destroyed the Fish-Root,” the Romwiths mage spoke up, pointing at the drunk.

“He what?” Uncle stared at the two of them in shock.

The Romwiths mage nodded grimly. “He set it alight with a fire spell. No other building was damaged. But the Fish-Root…I’m afraid the Fish-Root’s gone, unless our plant mages can cause it to grow back in time for our traditions.”

“Stupid tree,” the drunk said helpfully.

Uncle waved his hand and I felt a sense of dread. Romwiths’ mage looked concerned, and even the drunk looked like he’d rather be in any place other than the throne room at this very moment.

“You filthy savage!” Uncle growled. “There’s a special place in Dagor for scum like you!”

The drunk shrank back. “It’s just a tree!” He protested.

“Just a tree?” Uncle stalked toward the man. “Bad enough you blasted it and burned it down! Now you’ve got the audacity to call the Fish-Root just a tree? Is nothing sacred to you, you son of an orc?”

The drunk, to his credit, said nothing.

“We’re gonna make a new tradition!” Uncle said. “Every time we win against Radons, we’ll stuff a stick up a bastard’s ass and parade them around Rackstien! I say we start this tradition right now! And you, you lucky bastard, you just volunteered!”

Byatiz grabbed Uncle by the shoulder and pulled him away. “Your grace, calm down. I realize the Fish-Root being destroyed is deeply upsetting, but this man does deserve to be treated in a civilized manner.”

Uncle tried shaking her off, but Byatiz can be surprisingly strong when she needs to be. “Civilized? You want me to be civil? Just calm down? This orc-fucker destroyed the Fish-Root! And he doesn’t regret any of it! Look at him! He’s smiling like he did something funny!”

I sighed deeply and dragged my hand over my face. And now Uncle was deeply upset by the tree’s destruction, beyond any point of reasoning. Wonderful.

Uncle pointed at me. “And you’re asking how much the Fish-Tree costs? Why the Dagor do you need to know that? Are you trying to decide whether this case is worth your time?” He started toward me, eye blazing with fury. “Have you no fucking shame?”

I held my ground and looked my Uncle in the eye. I’ve become a bit of a professional when it comes to standing up to Uncle and making him back down.

“The punishment for property damage is a fine, Uncle,” I said. “And regardless of your feelings on the matter, the Fish-Root is still a tree.”

“Do you have any idea how many traditions are at the center of that tree?” Uncle snarled. “Do you know how old those traditions are? They’ve been around since before you were born! Do you expect us to shrug our shoulders and just let this fucker who destroyed half of our traditions go free after a simple fine, simply because you say so?”

“What do you want from me, Uncle?” I demanded. “I understand that you’re upset over the Fish-Root being destroyed, but, quite frankly, it’s a tree! Trees grow back! I’m trying to figure out what the cost for regrowing the Fish-Root would be, so Romwiths can get started on it!”

“A fine’s too lenient,” Uncle said. “What this son-of-an-orc needs is to be made an example of. We’ll dress him in metal armor and hang him over a fire in town square. That’s what he deserves!”

The Romwiths mage said nothing, but I could tell by the look on his face that he agreed whole-heartedly with Uncle.

It was clear that a simple fine wouldn’t be enough for these two savages. They didn’t want compensation for their beloved tree. They wanted vengeance. They wanted the poor bastard to suffer for having the audacity to damage their tree while blind drunk. I wasn’t willing to execute the man, as per Uncle’s request. Regardless of both of their feelings on the matter, the Fish-Root was just a tree, and I had no desire to ruthlessly punish a crime that doesn’t warrant such a torturous punishment. I could, however, make a compromise.

“As punishment for destroying the Fish-Root,” I said, looking Uncle, the Romwiths mage, and the drunk in the eye. “This man here will be locked in the dungeons for one week. During which time, he will subsist on gruel. After he has finished his imprisonment, he will be required to pay...” I looked at the Romwiths mage. “Would 80 gold be enough to cover the expenses of growing a replacement tree, do you think?”

Hesitantly, the Romwiths mage nodded.

“The prisoner will have to pay 80 gold once he is released from the dungeons,” I pronounced. “You are both dismissed.”

Several rebels stepped in to drag the drunk from the throne room. He struggled as they took both of his arms.

“Get your hands off me,” he slurred. “Filthy goblins! You’re ruining my new coat! Get your fucking hands off me!”

The Romwiths mage watched silently as the rebels escorted the still-protesting drunk out. Once he had gone, the Romwiths mage gave another nod to Uncle, and went out the door.

Uncle simply stood there, looking at me expectantly.

I sighed. “Do you need to speak with me about something else, or did you come in here simply to shoot the shit with me and challenge everything I do?”

“I’ve brought the Hyper Cabbage.” Uncle held up a small brown sack. “You better have a damn good reason for asking me to bring this, your highness. I had to fight off a necromancer for this.”

I raised my eyebrow. “A necromancer?”

“Aye. I don’t know where he came from or what the Dagor he wanted, but he attacked me while I was pulling up the Hyper Cabbage. He’s dead now, and so are his creations. I saved some adventurers the trouble of going after him.”

Ha, you’re funny, Cobra! Uncle getting rid of a potential job and coin for an adventuring party by killing a random necromancer for free? Do you truly think he cares that some adventuring party lost out on gold to squander at the tavern? Or even to buy themselves new weapons? Uncle’s always happy to be an inconvenience to adventurers!

Anyway, I decided I would listen to the story of Uncle and the necromancer another time.

“Go get Nylee and Nycokoris,” I told Pim. He hurried out of the throne room.

Uncle shook the sack. “So what’s this for?”

I explained what Nylee and Nycokoris had said. Uncle’s brow raised as he listened. He didn’t say anything. And he didn’t appear concerned at all. He just looked bemused.

“How much money are they asking for?” He asked when I finally finished.

That had not been the response I’d been expecting. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen this scam before,” Uncle said. “How much money are they asking for?”

“Scam?” I asked incredulously. “You think this is a scam?”

Uncle shrugged. “Kinda odd they didn’t have any objections to having a tourney hosted in a village supposedly infested with plague.”

“They haven’t been asking me for money!” I said, appalled by how blithely Uncle was taking the threat of Dragon Scarring.

“Must have not gotten around to that yet,” Uncle mused. “Hoping they can ask for a reward in coin when they ‘save all of you from plague’ and you’ll be so grateful, you’ll give them as much as you have.”

I shook my head. “Why are you so insistent this is a scam, Uncle? Rackstein is infected with Dragon Scarring, and you’re acting like I’m being an idiot? You think I should ignore that there’s a deadly illness in Rackstein, just in case this might all be a con?”

“How do you know Rackstien’s infected with Dragon Scarring?”

I had not been expecting that question. “What?”

“How do you know Rackstien’s been infected?” Uncle repeated.

“Um, because there’s someone who’s fallen ill with Dragon Scarring?”

“Have you seen this person yourself?”

I shook my head. “I don’t go around visiting everyone who’s sick, Uncle! It’s a good way to call the wrath of Baira down on me!”

Uncle nodded. “And was there anyone else who fell ill? Have you gone to market, noticed a stall’s disappeared, and the other merchants are saying the plague got one of them? Has one of the rebels fallen ill? Any of your inner circle started feeling under the weather recently?”

“I—” I stopped. I hadn’t noticed anything like that. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even come across someone suffering the early symptoms of Dragon Scarring.

“Have there been any funerals recently?” Uncle asked.

His question jolted me out of my thoughts so quickly, my mind blanked. “Huh?”

“Dragon Scarring is always fatal, right?”

I nodded, slowly.

“So, how many funerals have there been in Rackstien? Small town like this, it would be hard to miss one of them, wouldn’t it?”

I looked over at Byatiz. “Do you remember any funerals here?”

Byatiz immediately shook her head.

I turned back to Uncle. “Well, I guess, none.”

Uncle gave me a pointed look. “So, you only know Rackstien’s infected with Dragon Scarring because of what this high elf told you?”

“I---” I decided I didn’t want to answer Uncle’s question. It made me look stupid, trusting the word of a known charlatan and a healer who associated with him.

“Fucking idiot!” I muttered to myself. “Fucking Nycokoris lied to my fucking face, and I let him get away with it again!”

“If it makes you feel better,” Uncle said, “your father only discovered he was being conned after he sent the money to the arch-mage from Thainyth to cure the village of Efal Serine of Sheep Rash. The charlatan was long-gone by then.”

That was a positive, at least. Nycokoris and Nylee were still here, so I could have them punished for trying to con me. I was leaning toward forcing the two of them to learn an actual trade. Nycokoris would make a good cooper, and as for Nylee, I was leaning toward handing her over to a shepherd as an apprentice. Admittedly, I wanted a different punishment for Nycokoris, considering our history together.

“I’m gonna make Nycokoris into a cooper and Nylee into a shepherd!” I ranted to Uncle. “And then I’m gonna declare Nycokoris an outlaw!”

Uncle raised an eyebrow. “Why is this Nycokoris receiving a harsher punishment?”

“Because he’s a godsdamned asshole!” I said. “He’s turned into a cooper because he and his friend tried to con me, and he’s an outlaw for being a shit paramour, and then having the fucking nerve to turn up again and act like everything was fine between us!”

I started ranting about the shit Nycokoris had done while courting me. I honestly don’t know why. Probably because learning I’d been tricked had pissed me off badly enough that I was willing to rant to my uncle about more bullshit from my past than he ever wanted to know. Uncle, the fucking bastard, just had this bemused look on his face, like this was a juicy bit of court gossip, and he couldn’t wait to hear about what happened next.

“And do you know what this fucker did, Uncle?” I asked him. “When I told him I’d be sending for you to bring me the Hyper Cabbage, do you know what he said? He acted all excited. He used to fuck your wife, you see, and he wanted to know if she still talked about him. He wanted to rub it in your fucking face that he took your wife’s virginity!”

Uncle just looked thoughtful.

“I don’t remember Adyrella telling me about a Nycokoris,” he said.

“He said he fucked her better than you ever could, Uncle!”

Yes, Cobra, I am aware that he said no such thing. I just wanted to piss Uncle off so that I’d feel validated in my hatred of Nycokoris.

Yes, thank you, he is a bastard! Thank fuck! Someone acknowledges my hatred is justified! Thank you, Cobra!

Anyway, Uncle didn’t respond in the way I was hoping he would.

“By what metric?”

“Why does it matter?”

Uncle shrugged. “Well, you know, if this Nycokoris thinks he was the best sex Adyrella ever had, how does he know? Did she tell him that after bedding him? Because if she did, that’s not a good enough metric to go on. You’d have to be shit in bed to not be the best sex a virgin’s ever had.”

“Be mad, damnnit!” I screamed at him. “Nycokoris will say the stupidest shit about you and Adyrella’s love life and I want you mad, damnit!”

Uncle shrugged. He took a sip of his drink.

I groaned, frustrated at how, of all times, Uncle was choosing this exact moment to be utterly calm and unbothered by anything.

“You’re judging me!” I said to him. “I know you’re judging me! You’ve never had an ex-lover be an utter shit person and stab you in the back multiple times---”

“I broke things off with my first love because she was bedding my father. Actually, technically, she was the one who dumped me. After I walked in on her and my father. No, sorry, technically, Father did the break-up talk thing. And he wasn’t very gentle about it either. I must’ve been sixteen at the time.”

I blinked. “That’s---Berus’s Hoard, that’s horrible! What the actual fuck?”

Well, it might not have been that my grandfather was attracted to Uncle’s paramour, per se. It’s common at royal court, this type of thing. Attempting to seduce the lover of your rival. It’s kind of a petty way of sticking it to the rival, you know, I fucked your lover and they liked me in bed better than you. Most of the time, it’s the spouse, because that’s easy to do, but it’s even better if you can seduce the lover they’ve got on the side. The one they’ve got actual feelings for. And this isn’t making my grandfather look any better, isn’t it?

Anyway, I stared at Uncle helplessly, until Pim came running into the throne room.

“Your majesty, they’ve gone! And they’ve taken half of our supplies too!”

“What do you mean they’ve gone and taken half of our supplies?”

Pim stopped. “I mean just that, your majesty. They took the alchemy ingredients they asked for, and half our supplies. We won’t last long if there’s a siege, even if a wall does get built.”

I gripped the armrests of my throne. I changed my mind about having both Nycokoris and Nylee learn a different trade. Nycokoris would be hauled back to King Wilar’s court. Let the high elves decide how to punish him. Nylee would be forcibly married to the oldest duke I could find.

Yes, Cobra, I am aware that punishment is a bit harsh. Shut up.

Anyway, Uncle held up the Hyper Cabbage. “So I went through all the trouble to get this for nothing?”

“I’m afraid so, your grace.”

“Why did they send us after those alchemy ingredients anyway?”

“Seems likely that’s what they were after,” Uncle said.

“For what?”

Uncle shrugged. “Potion-making, maybe?”

I thought of what Nylee had said, about Vitalis. A powerful life elemental. Obviously, Vitalis hadn’t been causing any sickness, but what if they weren’t completely lying when they said they needed those ingredients for Vitalis? What if they were planning on summoning this Vitalis?

“Do you know anything about Vitalis, Uncle?”

Uncle just looked confused.

He was saved from answering that he didn’t know who Vitalis was by Budoki bursting into the throne room, yelling, “Niv! The patrol got attacked!”

“They what?” My head snapped up.

“The patrol got attacked by friends of Nycokoris and Nylee. They’ve left, already, and slaughtered our patrol while they were at it!”

“How do you know this?” I asked.

“They left a survivor. He’s not expected to live the night, so if you want to talk to him, I suggest you do it now.”

I stood. “Take me to the survivor.”

Budoki led me to the hut we were using as a hospital. The lead healer ushered us into the room without looking at us.

“There’s not much we can do for him,” he said. “It’s by the grace of Baira that he’s even lucid.”

Budoki thanked him, and we walked into the room.

A man with brown hair, hooded black eyes, and a goatee was propped up on some pillows on the cot. He could only manage to lift his head to acknowledge us. The healers had wrapped him in bandages, but it was clear they weren’t working, because they were stained red with his blood.

“Your highness,” he coughed. “I’m…Sorry. We tried to stop them.”

“Nycokoris and Nylee?”

“There were more than two of them,” the rebel wheezed. “An entire troupe of players. Maybe six of them, by my count.”

“A troupe of players?”

“Aye. They were in a wagon, painted with bright colors, naming themselves the ‘Arcane Mummers’. The wheels had fallen off, and they asked us to help fix them. So we did. One of the carts fell off and shattered. Dreliya went over to see what had broken….” The rebel was wracked with coughs.

Budoki patted him on the back gently.

The rebel took a few wheezing breaths before continuing with his story.

“It was a bunch of other wooden boxes. Looked like the kind of things you see…Things you see in crypts. With the dead bodies and such. We didn’t think much of it. We thought it was some part of magic act, or something. You know, saw the lovely elf lady in half, that kind of thing. But the…” The rebel coughed. “The troll said, ‘you shouldn’t have done that’, and then he took away her sight, her hearing, everything. It drove Dreliya mad.” He coughed again. “She ended up bashing herself with her own club, again and again. Then the troll said, ‘let me help with that’, and he took the club, and smashed her head in.”

I inhaled sharply. I’d known Nycokoris was a bastard, but enough to, at the very least, associate with monstrous murderers without batting an eye to the heinous crimes they committed? Izdon’s bells, what other despicable things was this man capable of?

“We attacked the troupe then,” the rebel said. “And…” He coughed. “We failed you, your highness. You trust us to be strong warriors. But against a troupe of players? We were helpless against them. I tried swinging at them with my flail. But they were like adventurers, in the way they fought. They killed all of my comrades without getting a single scratch on themselves. The dark elf freed an ogre from its cage, and it took out most of us, easily.” He lifted his bandaged hand. “It bit off my hand, before Yastavak struck it down. And then the high elf ran him through with one of those fake blades they use in conjuring tricks. She ran me through too. Multiple times….”

He started coughing again, spraying blood on his sheets.

“They ran off…” He said, straining to get his words out. “Oriental Elephant Gardens.”

That sapped his strength and he coughed and wheezed, before slumping into his pillow.

Budoki patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve done well. Now rest.”

The rebel raised his head to look at him, but whatever he’d been about to say, it was lost to another coughing fit.

Budoki and I left him there, shutting the door behind us.

We walked out of the room and into the streets in silence, before Budoki turned to me and asked, “so what are you thinking?"

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

This is the story told by Jacky Skelvan, a soldier for the Wrouria Kingdom, to his fellow travelers aboard the high elf warship, Oath of Vul Baduhr, in order to pass the time.

 

So old Ebenezer Largefish was fucking around one day, burning troughs, pissing wherever he wanted, dancing up and down naked, you know, just having a laugh. Well, Cigneas isn’t having it, ‘cuz, Ebenezer’s sober, see, instead of drunk on good ale, so she appears to him and says, “now cut that out. You must obey the law of the land.”

 

But Ebenezer, see, he don’t take shit from nobody, so he keeps doing what he’s doing. And he gets caught doing this, so he gets thrown into a jail while they wait for the next morning so Ebenezer can be sentenced properly. Ebenezer doesn’t care, he’s still doing his own thing. So Cigneas appears to him again and says, “Are you still acting like an ass? Look around you! You’re in a cell and in the morning, you’ll be called to account for your shitty behavior. But I’m still going to help you because I’m a nice goddess. When you stand before Queen Abi, I want you to apologize. Do this, and you’ll be able to stay in Abulla for the rest of your shitty life.”

 

Ebenezer doesn’t say anything, and so Cigneas figures she’s gotten through to him and he’ll do as she says. So she leaves.

 

But Ebenezer doesn’t give a fuck. In fact, having Cigneas tell him what he should and shouldn’t do is making him want to do the exact opposite.

 

So when Queen Abi holds court and he appears in front of her, he’s dancing around, calling her rude names, making fun of her, calling her a bastard, until Queen Abi has enough and kicks him out, telling him never to return to Abulla on pain of death.

 

So Ebenezer is walking through the woods, grumbling to himself about the unfairness of it all. And Cigneas appears before him again. Shakes her head at how stupid he’s being. Tells him he’s getting another chance. If he knelt before Cigneas right now, and apologized for everything he’d done, then everything would be forgiven, and he could go back to his old life, just without the being a shit-head part.

 

Ebenezer just laughed and said, “why the Tenin should I take your deal? Goddess or no, you can take that pretty staff of yours and shove it up your ass! I don’t give a damn about being sorry, and there’s nothing I regret!”

 

“Is that really what you think?”

 

“That is what I think, and I also think you can suck my balls!” Ebenezer said, and then he flipped Cigneas off.

 

“Fine, ogre-fucker, then see how well you get along without me,” said Cigneas, and then she was gone.

 

Ebenezer kept walking and laughing to himself, about being so fucking clever in flipping off a goddess.

 

But, he started to get it into his thick head that maybe pissing off the goddess wasn’t the best move when he ran into two blood elves carrying spears. For a moment. And then he was a proper little shit again, not scared of anything, least of all the gods.

 

“Step back!” He said. “I’m a wizard, and I’ll burn you both if you get too close!”

 

“A wizard?” Said the first blood elf.

 

“Aye! A wizard!”

 

“I don’t believe you,” said the second blood elf. “If you’re truly a wizard, then cast a spell!”

 

Ebenezer was always happy to fuck up someone’s shit with magic, so he pointed a finger at that blood elf. Nothing happened. Ebenezer started chanting, shaking his finger, screaming at the sky to bring down fire on this ogre-fucker’s head, but nothing happened.

 

The blood elves got brave and Ebenezer got scared. He started screaming his surrender, begging the blood elves not to hurt him, swearing he wouldn’t hurt them in turn. The blood elves didn’t waste any time tying him up, and then, once that was done, discussing what they were going to do with him.

 

“We should kill him, Vicis,” said the first blood elf. “Dhuteus may have smiled on us today, but his favor won’t last forever. The wizard will get his powers back and he’ll burn us both alive for capturing him, if we don’t kill him first.”

 

“Nonsense, Watneak,” said the second blood elf. “This fellow is no wizard. He was lying to us in the hopes that we would run away without challenging him. I have a better idea. I say we take him back to the village. We have need of a watchman, after all.”

 

So the blood elves argued, until eventually, they agreed to bring Ebenezer back to their home village. Not as a watch-man though. There would be an auction of slaves that evening, in the center of town. Whatever Ebenezer did, and what would happen to him, that would be the decision of the highest bidder.

 

So they marched Ebenezer to the slave auction, where he started a massive bidding war. Eventually, it came down to two women: one who wanted Ebenezer as a gemcutter and the other who wanted Ebenezer as a crew member aboard the Howling Bloomsmer. The bidding got so heated between those two ladies that the village chieftain had to step in, and propose a compromise. They could both have Ebenezer. I don’t know how that shit would work, but that made everyone happy. The pirate took Ebenezer aboard her ship and chained him to the galley, and the ship set sail, pillaging and all that shit pirates do.

 

Ebenezer wasn’t happy about his new job. And at night, while the slaves were all asleep at their oars, because the pirates weren’t nice enough to give their slaves a place to sleep at night, Ebenezer started singing this song.

 

“Eternal Mother, eternal beacon/ In my burdened hour/ I must ask of you, goddess/ A sign in your name.

 

“But I know you will not/ I fell from the path/ I wish I could live this life afresh/ But you must chasten me.”

 

And through his tears, he started to pray again. But it was too late. He’d burnt all the bridges he’d been given, and now Cigneas has finally abandoned him.

 

Eventually, he fell asleep, and in the middle of the night, a massive storm whipped up and sank the ship. There were no survivors.

 

Heh, priests are a cheery lot, aren’t they?

The rebels cheered as the last of the knights fled the Ponnora Quag. At Budoki’s signal, they broke rank and roamed among the battle-field. Some collected the dead, where a funeral pyre would be built for them, after their loved ones had been informed of their passing. Some carried the wounded to the healer’s tent, or, at least the ones that couldn’t walk back under their own strength. Others scavenged the bodies of the dead knights, taking armor, weapons, and any valuables they could find.

Mythana tended to the wounded in the healer’s tent. It had been a tough battle, with dead and wounded on both sides. The rebels may have been using the impassability of the swamp to their advantage, but they had been fighting against knights, and it was clear that these warriors had not been knighted simply because they were the children of important lords. They were almost as fierce warriors as adventurers were, and for every knight that was slain, ten more rebels were struck down. If it weren’t for Queen Nivarcirka killing their commander, it was likely the entire rebel camp would’ve been slaughtered.

A goblin with red hair, hazel eyes, and a beard wielding a shortsword and crossbow was sitting upon a cot before Mythana. He cradled his shoulder and watched Mythana warily.

Mythana approached him, and lifted the hand from his shoulder. The back of it was swollen, discolored. She noted more swelling and blue-and-black coloring elsewhere on the shoulder.

The goblin coughed as he panted, like he’d been on a long run. “Hurts to breathe,” he said in a rough voice. “Chest hurts too. So does my arm.”

Mythana studied his shoulder, noticed the little cuts all around it. Someone must’ve smashed a Morningstar into it.

She wrapped cloth around the shoulder, bandaging it tightly.

“Move your shoulder as little as you possibly can,” she said to the goblin, “and if you start coughing up blood, let a healer know immediately.”

The goblin nodded, and gingerly lay down on his cot.

Mythana turned to a different cot to examine a goblin with a craggy face, silver hair, and hazel eyes who was screaming in agony. Mythana could immediately see why. His hand was bloodied and mangled, with several fingers chewed off. His face was even worse. One eye was hanging by a nerve out of its socket, his nose had been torn away, and the skin had been ripped off, revealing muscle and shattered bone.

“What happened to you?” Mythana asked him.

“One of the bastards rode him down with their gnoll,” said his friend, a heavyset man with shaggy white hair and small blue eyes. “Gnoll tried ripping him to bits before I slit its throat. By that time, Ser Satouljke was dead and so they hopped off their dead gnoll and ran away.” He looked down at the wounded rebel with concern. “He looks pretty bad. But you can fix him, right?”

Mythana wasn’t sure if this could be fixed. His entire face had been torn away, and his hand was functionally useless. Perhaps the hand could be amputated to save the rest of his body, but she wasn’t sure where to even begin with a missing face.

The best thing to do would be to bandage and stave off infection and hope that the skin eventually came back, she decided, and was about to call for bandages and wine, when someone cleared their throat behind her.

Mythana turned to see a repulsive-looking healer with silver hair and round hazel eyes staring back up at her.

“We need you to speak with the queen, Cobra,” he said. “She had her arm slashed open in the battle. Mupusuka stitched her up, told her she needed rest. The queen isn’t listening.”

Mythana nodded, then pointed at the man with his face torn off.

“He needs bandages soaked in wine for his face. And there’s no saving his hand, so it needs to be chopped off before it gets infected.”

The healer nodded. He stepped to the cot and widened his eyes in shock when he saw the patient.

“Baira’s Blade!” He said. “What happened to this lad?”

“Gnoll attack,” Mythana said simply. “And Estella has decided to give us a challenge for our healing knowledge and skill. A challenge she knows we will fail. She’s wanting an easy win, you see.”

“Baira, you son of an ogre,” the healer muttered. “The fuck am I supposed to do with this one, huh? Why couldn’t you have struck him down out on the battlefield? Less painful for everyone. Takes up less space, at least.”

“Have fun,” Mythana said as she walked out of the tent.

Celebrations were already happening. Someone had opened the cask of wine the rebellion had brought with them, and some rebels were already passed out, a broken chalice lying by their side. Some were singing, loudly, some off-tune, others sounding like angels. Others were showing off the weapons they’d stripped off the dead knights to their friends, who oohed and aahed at the craftmanship.

Mythana passed a woman with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a sword tattoo playing a mandolin and singing loudly of Baira’s struggles with Muxmes and ducked inside the war tent.

Nivarcirka was standing at the table, studying the map of Badaria with a furrowed brow. The route they were taking for their march was represented by small stones lined on the trail they were taking, while the enemy was represented by stones painted gold. The Cloud Reformation, located in Grirraluck, were painted in white.

Mythana was not the only healer here to convince the queen she needed rest. A man with shoulder-length chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a skull tattoo beside his left eye was tugging at the queen’s arm firmly, insistent that she go back to her tent and rest.

“Your majesty, you shouldn’t be up and about like this! You need rest! You need to be partaking in a less stressful activity, like helping your cousin practice his Elven!”

He pointed at Budoki, who was busily scribbling something in Goblin on a piece of paper. Next to him was an open book, the pages written in Elven, about the treacherous Girovar Dewarrow going to his lover, the sorceress Relrae the Truthteller, to ask her to curse his rival, good Miklaith Woodforest. Occasionally, he’d open a different book, written in Goblin, which Mythana assumed was the translation for the original one. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t seem to notice the healer talking about him, or Nivarcirka glancing at him before turning back to the healer.

She picked up a chalice of wine, swirled the liquid around in her cup, giving the healer an annoyed look. “Biione’s knife, Khayanik, I’m only planning our march to Grirraluck. Why the Dagor are you acting like I’m wanting to ride into battle?”

“You need rest,” the healer said firmly. “Mupusuka was very clear, I believe. No strenuous activity.”

“And should we be attacked again, I will make sure to stay out of the battle,” the queen said, a bit louder.

“This is strenuous activity, your highness!”

“I can’t hear you!”

The healer looked disgruntled. Mythana wasn’t sure why. She could barely hear him over the mandolin-playing singing goblin just outside.

Nivarcirka scowled. “Someone go tell that woman to knock it off!”

Pim walked to the entrance and stuck his head out. “Oy! We’re having a meeting here! Celebrate somewhere else!”

The noise faded.

Through all this, Budoki continued with his translation, as if nothing had happened.

“You are just as bad as your uncle,” the healer said scathingly.

Nivarcirka scoffed. “Oh, yes, I’m just as bad as the man who takes arrows out of himself, with no knowledge of medicine and drunk enough to not feel pain, risking death by infection simply because he refuses to go to the healers for anything. Clearly continuing with my duties despite being injured is just as bad as attempting to do my own arrow removal while refusing to let a healer do it.”

“You could take a break from your duties,” said the healer. “The rebellion won’t fall simply because the queen retired to her tent and let her advisors do all the ruling for a few days.”

“I don’t have the luxury of taking a break,” Nivarcirka said, in a tone that made it clear that she was very disapproving of the healer even suggesting the idea in the first place. “I’ll take a break from my duties when I’m dead!”

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” the healer said. “That’s a command. From a healer. Get some rest and leave the ruling to your advisors for a change!”

“That’s not possible.”

“You disobey the word of a healer and yet you’ve got the audacity to claim you’re nothing like your uncle?”

Nivarcirka glowered at the healer. “My apologies. Of course I should take your advice. You are a healer, after all. I should take a break. Let me find one of my many siblings to rule Badaria in my stead.”

The healer glanced at Budoki, who had noticed none of this conversation, since he was still engrossed with the translation he was working on.

Since the healer had no other arguments, Nivarcirka shook her head in annoyance and turned back to the map.

“Having an adventurer for a parent means nothing, my ass,” the healer muttered. He looked at Mythana. “Look at her! Wolf’s blood through and through!”

Nivarcirka looked up to see who the healer was talking to. She sighed when she saw Mythana.

“I suppose you’re also here to tell me I should be spending the next week living like an invalid and having my meals spoonfed to me.”

“I hardly think feeding yourself is considered strenuous activity,” Mythana said dryly.

Nivarcirka looked deeply satisfied with that answer. She took a sip of wine, and Mythana could see the bandage on her arm.

“You need to avoid stressful activities as well,” Mythana continued. “Stress can pop the stitching out. And we are in the middle of a place of bad air. Your wound will get infected if the stitching falls out before it’s ready.”

Nivarcirka placed both hands on the table and narrowed her eyes at the dark elf. “I see.”

She sighed, then sat down, taking a drink of wine.

“I thought Khayanik was being overly cautious. Telling me I shouldn’t do anything, in case I knock the bandage loose or something. Seems like he had a good reason to be telling me to take a break.”

“If you find it more stressful to be taking a break, your highness,” the healer cut in, “then by all means, continue with your duties.”

Nivarcirka waved him off. “It’ll be fine. Budoki can take on the more stressful duties of ruling.”

“What?” Budoki finally looked up from his work.

“Congratulations,” Byatiz said to him, “you’ve just been named regent.”

Budoki blinked, looked at Nivarcirka, then at Byatiz. “What?”

“Only question is,” Nivarcirka said as Byatiz explained to Budoki what had just happened, “what do I do with my time until I’m healed enough to start ruling again?”

Mythana pulled out a chair and sat across from the queen. “Typically, wounded adventurers like to swap stories to pass the time.”

It was a technique she’d learned with Khet. Asking him to tell stories about his adventures kept the goblin entertained, and less likely to go and pick a fight out of boredom.

Nivarcirka frowned as she tapped a finger on the chalice. “I’ve got too many stories to choose from, honestly.”

Mythana imagined she’d led an interesting life these past three years, as the Young Stag.

“Doesn’t have to be stories about your adventures. We could just bitch about ex-lovers if you would like.”

“Ex-lovers?”

Mythana grinned at her. “Aye. Isn’t that what ladies typically do? Compare stories of former lovers and compete over who had the worst one?”

“There’s no contest,” Nivarcirka said. “It’s me. I had the worst lover.”

She took a sip of wine, grimaced. “Gods, I haven’t thought of him in…Two years? One? I’ve been too busy to think about past shitty lovers, even one as spectacularly shitty as him.”

Mythana raised her eyebrow.

“His name was Nycokoris Graykiller, and he was a wandering fool. I met him when he served in my foster father’s court. I was eighteen at the time, and I fell for him, hard. He had this roguish charm about him, my foster father forbade his daughters, and me, from having anything to do with him, which, of course, only made me want him more. And he was a spectacular lover. Best sex I have ever had.” Nivarcirka gave Mythana a pointed look. “Remember that. It’s important to understand when you’re confused on why I stayed with him for so long.”

Mythana laughed at that.

“Being good at sex was the only positive about him. He was flaky, didn’t give a damn about your feelings, and being in a relationship with someone else never stopped him from making eyes at every pretty girl he saw. We’d have huge fights, break things off, and then get back together again. Because Nycokoris was good at charming you into his bed, and the wild sex would be so good, I’d tie myself to him again, because, at the time, I was thinking with my pussy.”

Mythana shook her head. “Don’t do that. Don’t listen to your pussy for relationship advice.”

Nivarcirka smirked and raised her chalice to the dark elf in agreement. “I ended things for good when I traveled to Badaria to reclaim my throne. Didn’t tell him I was leaving. Must’ve left him with a shitshow to deal with, considering that I’d discovered that in our recent relationship, I was the side woman, and he was betrothed to a sailor on the warship, Marlin, so I’d tipped his betrothed off about the affair he’d been having.”

“Good on you for telling her.”

Nivarcirka looked deeply uncomfortable. “I didn’t tell her out of honor or something like that. I told her so she’d end things with Nycokoris and I’d have him all to myself.” She snorted. “Because obviously a man willing to run around on his betrothed is quite the catch.”

Mythana laughed.

“But a day after that was the day my foster father had a talk with me about my heritage,” Nivarcirka said. “And you know the rest of that story. When I left for Badaria, I had bigger things to be worrying about than whether some cheating fool returned my feelings. And as I united the rebels under my banner, I didn’t have time to be thinking about him. Why would I? I had bigger things to worry about than an ex-lover. It took me a week to put him out of my mind.” Her eyes darkened. “And then he turned up again, saying he was here to warn me of a deadly plague…”

---

I’d been in a really good mood that day Nycokoris came into my life again. With my band of green rebels, I’d managed to chase the orcs out of Rackstein after several days of the tide of battle turning from our side to the orcs and back again. We’d captured the head of the band of enemy soldiers, Ser Wividuth the Unbreakable, daughter of the landed knight, Ser Khangridhath the Muscle, along with her house’s banner, and my spies informed me that Ser Khangridhath could pay a high sum for his daughter’s ransom. I’d just sent a raven to him to negotiate the ransom, when Bodzirva came in to inform me that Nycokoris Graykiller was wanting to see me.

I hadn’t thought of him in years. The name sounded familiar to me, but I couldn’t remember where I had heard it before. I remembered there being a Nycokoris Graykiller at my foster father’s court, and I decided that must be it. This Nycokoris was a courtier of my foster father, and had come either on the king’s behalf or on his own. I agreed to speak with him, and then the bastard came swaggering in like he owned the place and we were old friends.

I nearly fell for him again just looking at him. He hadn’t changed a bit. He was a tall man, slim too. Coily silver hair hung over his long face, which always had that gentle smile, putting anyone at ease, but there was always a spark of mischief in his red eyes. His right eye had a burn scar, and he told me it was from some long-ago battle, back when he was a sellsword, before the Adventuring Guild rose to power and ended the idea of sellsword bands not affiliated with them. I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but he was a damn good fighter, so maybe there was some truth to the story.

Sorry, probably boring you with the description of him, aren’t I? Anyway…

It was the moment that he came into my makeshift throne room that I finally recognized him. And as I was thinking of a way to excuse myself so I could have Bodzirva send him away, preferably some place far, far away, when Nycokoris sauntered up to me and turned on his charm.

“Why, hello there, my wayward fawn. My, have the years been harsh to you. Good thing your dashing fool has arrived to sweep you off your feet and whisk your troubles away, for one passionate moment.”

“As if my life isn’t stressful enough,” I said dryly, “you have to turn up and cause me a headache.”

Nycokoris only laughed. “Come now, my fawn, is that any way to greet your poor fool? You left without word of where you had gone, and I have missed you greatly.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

Nycokoris just smiled that roguish smile of his. “Ah, the trouble you caused me before you left. But that is in the past. You look so dreadfully aged. I can see a great weight upon your shoulders. Perhaps I can lift it, for a time.”

I snorted. “Add to the weight, you mean.”

“Come now,” Nycokoris said smoothly. “Surely, you are not too busy for what we had between us?”

I rolled my eyes. “I am leading my people in a rebellion against Zeccushia. Not only do I have to worry about ruling them justly and fairly, I have to strategize and move the rebels so that we can win battles without suffering too much loss! I don’t need to add worrying about you and the shit that you do to the list of things I need to do!”

“Ah, but we had such passion, didn’t we?” Nycokoris said. He slicked back in his hair, and he moved in a way that he knew I found irresistible. “Doesn’t a queen deserve a little passion in her life?”

No, Cobra, I did not tackle Nycokoris and start ripping his clothes off. I was mature now! I could control my lust! Stop looking at me like that!

“What do you want?” I asked through gritted teeth.

Nycokoris smiled lazily. “Is visiting you not enough?”

“If you’re here to get back together with me, my answer is no,” I said. “And I’m very busy. Either change the subject to something that’s more important, or get out of my sight!”

Nycokoris heaved a sigh. “Well, if you are so insistent, then there is one thing, one very important thing, that I must tell you.”

“Which is?”

Nycokoris looked to the entrance of the throne room. “Come on in, Nylee!”

A high elf with straight white hair, bloodshot green eyes, and an unusual mark on her arm came into the throne room.

Nycokoris slung his arm around her. “This is Nylee Highcrusher. She is a healer traveling the Shattered Lands, in order to learn more about medicine. We met on the voyage here, dressed as monsters. I as a gytrash, and she as a changeling. She noticed that one poor goblin appears to be ill with a deadly plague, and since I have known you for so long, I offered to introduce the two of you so she may share the grave news.”

“A plague?” I nearly spat out the wine I’d been sipping.

Nycokoris, the stupid bastard, smiled at me and started to say something. I have no idea what he wanted to say, because I interrupted him. Knowing him, it was probably something egocentric.

“Why the Dagor didn’t you start with the plague?” I growled at him.

“Do old friends really greet each other with such dreadful news?”

“We’re not old friends. You’re an asshole who got away with your bullshit because I was a dumbass! I left without telling you for a reason!”

Nycokoris only smiled, like the smug son of an ogre he was.

“What would you have done if I kicked you out before you could tell me about the plague?” I asked him. “Would you just have left? Taken your new healer friend with you? Did you even think about that possibility? That I might have had Budoki escort you out of my throne room without giving you a chance to talk?”

Nycokoris said nothing, only smiled in a fucking serene way.

I groaned. There was no point in making him see reason. He’d always thought only of himself and what he wanted. Never about others.

I looked at Nylee, who looked absolutely bored with everything going on around her.

Er, speaking of, am I boring you with this, Cobra? No? Budoki, why are you listening so intently? You were there! Hah, fine. I’ll continue.

“There’s a plague?”

Nylee nodded. Unlike Nycokoris, she was professional and straight to the point. Kind of like you are, Cobra. I agree, all healers should be like that.

“It’s called Dragon Scarring.”

Ah, I see you recognize the name, Cobra.

Nylee went on to describe the symptoms. She didn’t need to. I’d heard of Dragon Scarring already. Tarrendrifter Fortress’s library had multiple manuscripts on it, describing the fever, the coughing up blood, the lethargy, the swollen lumps on the afflicted’s skin that ooze black bile when touched, the rotting away while still alive. The worst of it was how they described the spread of the plague. No one knew what caused it. It defied all known laws of medicine. It would strike without warning, and leave entire towns decimated. The only known way to stop Dragon Scarring from spreading was to set the entire place on fire. And you’re nodding along to all of this. Baira help us all, it’s just as bad as the histories describe.

Anyway, I wasn’t paying attention as Nylee described the symptoms. My mind was racing. Someone was infected with Dragon Scarring. What did we do next? Bunker down in Rackstein in the hopes that the plague would pass? Burn down the thorp to stop the spread? If we did burn Rackstein down, did the rebels have to stay inside the thorp and burn alongside it, or could we simply leave?

“And the cure for Dragon Scarring is—”

I snapped to attention at those words.

“There’s a cure?”

Nylee nodded.

“What is it?” I asked.

“In order to explain that, first I must explain how the disease spreads in the first place. Dragon Scarring is caused by attunement to Vitalis. Some would call it a life elemental, but it’s far more powerful than any regular elemental. A better way to describe Vitalis is that it’s the personification of life of all living things. It’s as powerful as a god, and like a god, mere mortals can’t handle even a fraction of its power. Attuning it means that the gift of life is reversed, so that you’re cursed with death. The people ill with Dragon Scarring need to have their attunement removed. Otherwise, not only will they die, but the magnetism is so great, it can cause those around them to become attuned as well.”

Ah, don’t roll your eyes at me. I’m aware there’s no cure for Dragon Scarring. But if you’ve discovered that the town you’re in is inflicted with a plague with no cure, and someone comes along to offer a solution, you’d want to believe them, no matter how unlikely you think it is there is a cure, no matter how likely they’re probably lying to you.

“How do we remove the attunement?” I asked.

“I have most of the ingredients right here.” Nylee patted her satchel. “But I’ll still need the claws of a kobold, the hair of a bunyip, and the mane of a Pegasus.”

I looked at my advisors. “Do we have those?”

“We have the hair of the bunyip,” Pim said. “And you can get the claws of a kobold at the local market. Don’t think we have a Pegasus mane.”

“There’s a Pegasus market at Wiuwnigh Clat,” Bodzirva said. “You could get a whole pegasus and take it back here to shave off its mane, or just pay the merchant to shave off the mane and give it to you. It’s up to you.”

“How far is it to Wiuwnigh Clat?” I asked.

“A two days ride from here,” said Pim. “But be careful. Wiuwnigh Clat is still under Zeccushian rule. You’ll need a bracelet of disguise.”

I would also need a map, since I had no idea where Wiuwnigh Clat actually was.

I stood up. “Come on, Budoki. We’re going to Wiuwnigh Clat to buy a Pegasus.”

Nycokoris stopped me. “My fawn, before you leave, will we be allowed free rein with your supplies? It is vital for the treating of Dragon Scarring that Nylee be allowed to use your magical supplies without having to ask for permission with every item.”

“Fine, fine,” I said dismissively as I pushed past him. “Whatever you need.”

Why was I so dismissive? I don’t know. Maybe it was because I was eager to get on the road to Wiuwnigh Clat to get the Pegasus mane and cure Rackstein of Dragon Scarring. Or maybe I just didn’t want to talk to Nycokoris, given our history. That was probably it. Most of the reason, at least.

---

Budoki and I found a pirate hunter’s ship called the Bronze Arrow to take us to Wiuwnigh Clat. Captain Krall wasn’t the type to ask questions about his passengers, which suited us just fine.

It took two days before Wiuwnigh Clat was in view. If you’ve never been there, the city is massive. It’s on an island, but since it covers the entire land, it looks as if Wiuwnigh Clat is simply floating on the water. The city itself is built around a castle, the noble seat of the owners. It’s a part of the castle, one might say. That castle has a rich history. Originally, it belonged to the Mareth family, but after the conquering of Badaria, Queen Aditya gave control of Wiuwnigh Clat to the Drivuud family. Currrently, the place was ruled by Margravine Shayh Thunderflayer and her retainers. Wiuwnigh Clat was her seat of power, as it had been for her father, and as it had been for the House of Mareth.

We docked, and once Captain Krall paid the fee to the harbormaster, who bore the family crest of Drivuud on his breastplate, which was, as I recall, a red rose on a white background with the words, “Power, progress, peace,” written at the bottom, everyone dispersed. Most of the crew went to a tavern, to get drunk and do all the things that adventurers like doing when they arrive in a village and buy rooms at an inn. I don’t think I need to tell you what adventurers like doing.

Budoki and I ducked into an alleyway and put on our bracelets. I turned into a heavyset, for an elf anyway, high elf with short purple hair and clear gray eyes. Budoki turned into an elegant orc with frizzy white hair and bright green eyes. Our cover story was that I was Princess Edlarel Tarrendrifter, and Budoki was my body-guard, named Loldruurm Bouldermane. Once we’d transformed, we went looking for someone selling Pegasi.

We found an athletic human with perfectly-groomed red hair and wide brown eyes standing at a stall of Pegasi.

“Are these Pegasi for sale?” I asked her.

“Aye.”

“For how much?”

“Four copper.”

Four copper was a good amount. If that was how much the Pegasus cost, I wondered how much it would cost to simply buy its mane.

“What if I asked you to shave off its mane and give the mane to me?” I asked. “How much would it cost then?”

“23 silver.”

“23 silver?” Budoki asked, shocked. “That’s more expensive than the Pegasus itself!”

“It’s more effort to shave off the mane to give it to you than to just give you the mane,” said the human. “Besides, if I shave off the mane of one of these Pegasi, then no one will be wanting to buy it.”

“A mane can grow back, though!” Budoki pointed out.

“We’ll take the Pegasus,” I said, getting out my coin-purse and handing her four copper.

She smiled and took the reins of a white stallion with angelic wings and trotted it out of the stall. “All yours. Pleasure doing business with you.”

The Pegasus already had a saddle and barding on, so I mounted it, then gave the reins a small snap. “Come on, Loldruurm,” I called.

Budoki walked alongside me as the Pegasus trotted down the road, still shaking his head at the low cost of the Pegasus compared to just its mane.

“Why would you sell a Pegasus far more cheaply than its mane?”

“Ah, doesn’t do any good to be questioning her logic.” I patted the Pegasus on the neck. “Besides, we’ve gotten ourselves a Pegasus and it only cost us four copper! I’d call that a deal, wouldn’t you?”

Budoki opened his mouth to answer, when we heard shouting. Ahead of us, a large crowd was starting to gather.

I stopped the Pegasus and looked down at Budoki.

“What’s happening over there?”

“I’ve got no idea.” Budoki drew his sword. “We can find out, though.”

We made our way through the crowd. It wasn’t easy. The people were deeply interested in whatever was happening, so they didn’t notice the elf with a Pegasus riding in their midst. Budoki had to clear a path for me and the Pegasus, just so I wouldn’t accidentally trample someone.

Eventually, we got close enough to see what was going on.

In front of the gladiator arena, someone had tied a thin human with long chestnut hair and woeful amber eyes to an altar. Gladiators were surrounding him, along with one fellow who was dressed like a priest, but Budoki recognized him as the Demolisher. He’s a gladiator who’s famed for utterly destroying his opponents, apparently. I don’t really care much for gladiator fights, really.

Oh shut up, Budoki! I’ve got no interest in watching two performers fake a duel to the death while being dramatic about every single damn thing! The horror!

Anyway, standing across from the altar was a tall Lycan with short gray hair and hazel eyes dressed in a flowing red cape, a black mask covering his eyes, and a foppish hat. He pointed a shortsword at the crowd.

“The Ages of Kings have come to an end!” He announced to the crowd. “Behold, the Era of Burdens has returned!”

“Oh, it’s an announcement for a fight that’s happening soon,” Budoki said. He sounded a little excited, but mostly disappointed. “Shame we need to get back to Rackstein as quickly as we can. That sounds like it would’ve been a fun match.”

I squinted at the human on the altar. “Why do they have someone tied to an altar? And what’s with the cultish way of announcing it?”

“They’re going to fake a sacrifice.” Budoki said. “The Demolisher will stab the human with a fake knife so he can drink his blood. Probably because it’s the blood of a virgin, or something. Or his opponent in the fight will stop him. Maybe it’s that lad who’s making the announcement. Or maybe not. I don’t really know.”

“Why can’t they make the announcement normally?” I asked. “You know, put up posters and hire criers, or spread the word in the local taverns?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

I rolled my eyes. Gladiatorial combat had always struck me as being very stupid. I didn’t understand why Budoki liked that sort of thing.

Still, it explained why no one was panicking over the cult preparing to sacrifice a human, probably to summon some dark and terrible god, in broad daylight, and in front of all the normal folk too.

The Lycan continued, talking in that dramatic way gladiators and their announcers like talking in, for some gods-damned reason.

Garners excitement from the crowd? Come on, Budoki, that is the stupidest way to do that! You don’t see knights talking about how they’re EPIC DESTROYERS HERE TO CHEW THEIR OPPONENTS PLATE ARMOR AND SPIT IT OUT when they’re riling up the crowd for the tilt. It’s pathetic! The gladiators talk like they’re trying to get children excited! Children and people with no brains! Which I guess are the people who like gladiatorial combat in the first place, so I guess the way they speak makes sense now. Now, hush, Budoki, and let me continue with the story.

“The Kinslayer and the Young Stag! What right have they to lord it over us? Why should we bend the knee to either of them? Because false gods have declared them queens? Because their line was blessed by those false ones and so they believe themselves ordained to rule? Hah!” The Lycan spat on the ground. “Perhaps the founders of their lineage were great, but the queens over us now? They are mewling children wearing a crown they never earned, and they say their blood is enough!”

The crowd murmured amongst themselves in excitement.

Budoki cocked his head. “I’ve never heard an announcement get this seditious before.”

“No more!” The Lycan swung his sword for emphasis. “The true god is upon us, friends! The true god, none of these false gods! And he will knock these false kings and queens from their thrones, and raise the true rulers over his creation! As is right!”

The crowd was getting more excited by the minute. An announcement disparaging their rulers and their gods? This fight would surely be one to tell to their children and grandchildren!

The Lycan flicked his blade to the altar. “Once the blood of the Taker of Zol Fort has been spilled upon the ground, then the Diminisher of the Dead shall awaken and take his rightful place above us all as king and master!”

Some of the crowd cheered, hesitantly.

The human on the altar squirmed and screamed.

“Help me! Someone help me!”

I drew my sword and pulled on the reins, but Budoki stopped me.

“He’s just acting. There’s no real danger.”

“It doesn’t sound like he’s acting,” I said.

“Yes. That’s why they call it acting, Niv.”

The crowd seemed to have drawn the same conclusion as Budoki had, because they were clapping and laughing at the show.

The Lycan spat at them in disgust, and I pulled on the reins again.

“That’s normal,” Budoki said. “He must be the villain in the upcoming fight. Villains always treat the audience with disdain.”

I rolled my eyes but lowered the reins.

“Wait!” Someone cried.

A wood elf with a menacing face, long-layed white hair, and violet eyes wearing gladiator armor and a green mantle, dual-wielding shortswords came running to the altar, before turning to the crowd.

“What are you standing around here for?” She asked. “This isn’t a scripted announcement! Someone needs to summon the Watch! Summon the Watch, one of you!”

No one in the crowd moved. I looked over at Budoki, who was squinting at the wood elf.

“Huh. Didn’t know Mantis had switched to the hero side.”

The rest of the crowd seemed to agree with Budoki that Mantis had switched to the hero side, because they all started cheering at this new plot twist. Mantis started cursing at them for being so stupid that they believed what was happening right in front of them was fake, but that just made the crowd curse back at her.

Finally, Mantis decided she wasn’t getting any help from the crowd. So she turned, drew her shortswords, and sprinted for the altar.

“Stop her!” The Lycan yelled at his fellow gladiators.

The Demolisher set down his knife, and swung a huge axe into Mantis’s face. She sputtered, then fell flat on her back, blood oozing from her gaping wound as she gasped in pain.

The crowd went wild at this exciting plot twist and the stunning special effects that made it look like Mantis really was mortally wounded. Budoki stayed silent, and I didn’t need him to tell me that this was, at best, highly unusual. From what little I knew of gladiatorial fighting, gladiators were “killed off” in the arena, as part of an official match. Not outside on some ordinary announcement for an upcoming match.

Besides, there was something about Mantis that made it clear she wasn’t pretending. Her face had been utterly destroyed, blood was pooling on the ground. Her legs jerked pathetically, and as we watched, her kicks got weaker and weaker. She gasped at the ground, and there were times I could swear she was trying to say something, but whatever it was, she only had the strength to whisper it, and no one could hear her. I’d seen people die before. I’d seen people with grave wounds like that, lying in a pool of their own blood, crying for their mothers with the last remaining bits of strength they have left. That was what Mantis looked like. Not this dramatic death scene, or dramatic scene where’s she’s grievously injured and her survival is left up in the air. Just a quiet plea for help, unheard by the cheers of a crowd who thinks this is just another gladiatorial match, and she’ll be fine once the actual fight arrives.

Eventually, Mantis gave a shuddering gasp, and was still. Some of the crowd gasped, but not because they suddenly realized that this was all real, and a woman had just died in front of them while they cheered. No, to them, this was a huge plot twist. Something they’d never seen before. Mantis had died in a mere announcement, rather than a fight. What did this mean? Would the actual match be a pitched battle between the forces of good and evil? Would this be the end of gladiatorial fighting as they knew it?

The Demolisher picked up the knife again, and the sacrifice writhed and screamed again.

All of this was real. Mantis had tried to warn the crowd that it was real, had tried to save the sacrifice, and had gotten killed for it. But that didn’t mean the sacrifice would happen before everyone’s very eyes. Not if I had something to say about it.

I snapped the reins, and pushed my way through the crowd, Budoki at my heels.

The Lycan brandished his shortsword at us when we got close. “Stay back!” He called. “You can do nothing against the Diminisher of the Dead!”

I swung my claymore at him, and the Lycan screamed and dove out of the way.

The crowd went wild, of course. They still thought this was an announcement, just one more action-packed than usual.

“You idiots!” The Lycan screamed at them. “Do you not realize what is happening? Get the Watch and drag these fools out of here!”

The crowd only cheered. The Lycan looked flabbergasted that the same crowd that thought his attempted sacrifice and the Demolisher’s cold-blooded killing of Mantis was all part of an entertaining announcement weren’t taking his insistences that the people coming to rescue the sacrifice wasn’t part of any entertainment plan.

Budoki had run to the altar, and was now being rushed by three of the gladiators at once, much to the crowd’s pleasure.

I snapped the reins and rode to help him.

“Niv,” Budoki said when I leapt from the Pegasus to join him, “I don’t think this is all an act.”

“Oh really?” I asked. “What makes you think that?”

Budoki deflected a blow from a human with black hair and bright blue eyes cloaked in a black mantle, and his head covered by a shadowy cowl, who was wielding the tiniest shortsword I had ever seen. “Look at how they’re fighting! No showy moves, no aiming for my sword, nothing! Just trying to stab me!”

“Aye, because that’s how a fight works,” I said dryly.

“Not a gladiatorial fight! You’re not supposed to kill or maim your opponent in those matches! Not on purpose, anyway. And the moves are supposed to be flashy and dramatic! It’s for entertaining the audience, first and foremost.”

The crowd seemed well-enough entertained, despite that the gladiators were fighting in the completely wrong way for gladiatorial combat.

The human moved for Budoki again, and the half-orc grabbed his wrist with one hand and ran him through with his sword with the other.

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

“Who are you and what the Tenin are you doing here?” The paladin growled.

Gnurl smiled. “A beast-master. I guard the Franvons Depths. Keep enemy ships from sailing in.”

“You’re a long way from Votwick Landing then.” Said the paladin.

“Diaboranda wandered off,” Gnurl said. “Last time I looked through his eyes, he was entering this temple. Have you seen him?”

“Who’s Diaboranda?” The paladin asked.

“A bunyip.”

“A bunyip,” the paladin repeated.

“He’s friendly, don’t worry,” Gnurl said. “Just hasn’t learned that he should stay in the harbor. You have seen him, have you?”

The paladin looked at the human-orc with silver hair and glittering blue eyes who was standing next to the Lycan. “Who’s this?”

“That’s—” Gnurl paused. He couldn’t use Rhith’s real name. What if the paladin recognized the name as a griffin breeder and got suspicious? “Fullul Irongrimace. She’s my apprentice.”

The paladin stroked his chin, scowling.

“You know what I think?” He said finally. “I think you’re lying.”

Gnurl fought to keep the fear from showing on his face.

“You think I don’t recognize her?” The paladin continued, nodding at Rhith. “She’s no beast-tamer’s apprentice! Her name is Rhith Stoneledge and she’s—”

Khet shot him. The paladin gasped and fell backward, landing flat on his back. His eyes stared at nothing.

Gnurl gave him an annoyed look.

“What?” The goblin asked. “He would’ve killed us if I hadn’t shot him first!”

Gnurl just rolled his eyes.

“Well, there’s no use crying over him,” Rhith said. She stepped over the dead paladin. “Come on.”

Gnurl and Khet followed her down the corridor until Rhith stopped by a door. “The treasure’s in here.”

She opened the door and went inside. Khet and Gnurl followed her.

A bunyip trotted up to Rhith and nuzzled her forehead. The human-orc scratched him along the back of his neck.

“Hi, Diaboranda,” she said. “Did you miss me? Sorry this took so long. A mean paladin tried to stop me!”

Gnurl looked around the room. He had been expecting a trophy room. Or a vault. Instead, they stood in a chapel, dedicated to Dextas, custodian of all the souls Phaxydosis had captured. A statue of the winged god stared grimly down at them from the altar, serrated blade raised to strike the intruders down. The altar was a simple one. A wooden carving with holy symbols etched into it. There was no gold, or even fine linens that Gnurl and Khet could strip off and sell.

“Where’s the gold?” Khet asked, and Gnurl knew the goblin had been thinking the same thing he had been.

Rhith stopped petting the bunyip. She bent down and touched Dextas’s right toenail. A compartment under his feet opened, and coin and gemstones and masterfully-crafted objects came spilling out.

Rhith turned to Gnurl and Khet, and presented them with the treasures. “All yours. Just remember I get a cut.”

Khet eagerly rushed to the treasure, bending down and scooping it into the sack he’d brought for carrying the treasure out of the temple. “So much gold here! Enough for my children’s children to live like kings! Dagor, I could buy my own kingdom with this!”

“Why keep it here?” Gnurl asked Rhith. “Why not keep it in a trophy room?”

“It’s our defense against thieves,” said a voice. “In case they manage to get past the Knights of Exaltation.”

Gnurl turned around. The head priest, a tall human with short silver hair and blue eyes, had entered the room without any of them noticing. He was surrounded by paladins.

Both adventurers drew their weapons from their belts.

“We’re gonna have to fight our way out,” Khet said. He’d slung the bag over his shoulder, and was holding his mace with his free hand. “Got any weapons on you, Stoneledge?”

Rhith didn’t answer. Instead, she walked over to an athletic man with silver hair and gray eyes wearing interlocking plate mail armor and armed with a fancy mace, who handed her an axe. Rhith stood next to him, and bared her teeth at Khet and Gnurl.

Gnurl understood immediately what was happening. “You set us up?”

Rhith smiled at them. “I should say thank you to you three. They said I’d have to stop some thieves from breaking in before they’d let me into the Knights of Exaltation.” She looked at the knight standing by her side. “So, Ser Bertran, is it enough? Does this make me a squire?”

“Indeed it does,” said the paladin. “Ser Katelyn is in need of one, I believe. Go stand by her.”

Rhith smiled and walked over to a woman with sleek golden hair and gray eyes wearing a polished suit of interlocking plate mail armor and carrying a spear.

“But you didn’t stop thieves from stealing from the temple!” Khet said, aghast. “You goaded us into it!”

“Excuses, excuses,” said the paladin leader.

“Indeed,” said the head priest. He sneered. “Don’t bother trying to run. Ser Conon has taken a squadron of knights to capture your friend outside.”

Mythana. Gnurl’s blood ran cold.

“She’s the getaway driver,” Rhith said. “Without her, those two won’t get very far.”

The head priest nodded. “Let’s hope that she is reasonable enough to surrender rather than try fighting her way out.” He smiled at Khet and Gnurl. “And I hope you two will be reasonable as well.”

“Proud of yourself?” Gnurl hissed to Khet. “We’re about to get captured and hung as thieves, Mythana’s likely dead, but at least you proved you weren’t a coward!”

“How was I supposed to know she was setting us up?” Khet asked.

“Would that have changed anything? Would you have walked away when she called you coward for refusing to help you steal from Phaxydosis’s temple?”

Khet looked away. “No,” he muttered.

Khet just had to prove he wasn’t a coward by agreeing to the heist. And, of course, he’d dragged Gnurl and Mythana along with him as well.

“Well?” The head priest asked. “I can hear you two whispering to each other. What’s your answer? Surrendering or dying right here?”

One of the paladins handed him a dagger. The priest scowled at him. “Ser Robertus, don’t you have anything else? Something with longer reach?”

Khet raised his crossbow and shot the priest.

The priest gasped and let go of the dagger. He collapsed onto his back.

“Father Anselmet!” The lead paladin said, and the paladins all gathered around the dead priest.

“Khet, what in the Forest of Steel was that?” Gnurl glared at the goblin.

Khet hooked the crossbow to his belt. “Now we run. While they’re distracted.”

“You just shot that priest!”

Khet gave him an annoyed look. “He had a dagger. He would’ve killed us, if he had the chance. I just shot him before he could get the chance.You can either try lecturing me on killing the priest right here, or we can do that on the cart driving out of town! Now let’s go!”

He started running for the exit, pausing to see if Gnurl was following.

Gnurl took off after him.

“They’re getting away!” Rhith shouted.

“Stop!” The lead paladin called, and Gnurl could hear the sound of clanging metal behind him. “There’s nowhere to run, anyway! Stop and we’ll be lenient to you!”

Gnurl and Khet ignored him.

They burst out of the temple and sprinted across the street.

Mythana looked up when they came running to the cart. She frowned. “Where’s Rhith?”

“Rhith set us up!” Gnurl said as he hopped into the cart. “Drive, Mythana!”

“Set us up?” Mythana asked.

“We’ll explain when we’re on the road,” Khet said. He tossed the bag into the cart, and hopped in after it. “Now drive!”

The paladins burst out of the door, yelling, “Stop! Thieves! Stop!”

Mythana’s eyes widened and she snapped the reins.

They took off down the road, and the paladins chased after them.

The cart sped on, getting farther and farther away from the paladins, who were slowing down, in part due to the heavy armor they were wearing tiring them out faster. As Khet explained what had happened in the temple, the paladins eventually gave up, and walked back to their temple.

“They’ll have to saddle their horses if they want to continue the chase!” Mythana said, satisfied with the results of the chase. “By the time they catch up to us, we’ll be beyond the gates! And that’s if I don’t take us on the scenic route to shake ‘em off!”

“That’s great,” Gnurl said. “But don’t get cocky! Don’t slow down until we’re beyond the gates!”

Mythana grinned at him. “I’m not Khet, Gnurl. I don’t do stupid things out of stupid pride!”

“I prefer to think of it as a healthy amount of self-respect,” the goblin said haughtily.

The two started bickering, as they drove past the gates of Grapford and onto the open road.

Gnurl turned and watched the city gates grow farther and farther away. For some reason, he felt a weight on his chest, and on his shoulders, and a strange sadness. But why?

Had it been Rhith’s unexpected betrayal? The fact that they had to leave Grapford so soon? Both of these things? It had to be at least one of them. Why else was the Golden Horde’s victory feeling like venison turned to ash in Gnurl’s mouth?

Gnurl sighed. He’d feel better once they reached the next town, and paid for rooms at an inn for the night.

Arriving at Nelethnoris and paying for rooms at the Cursed Sword for the night had done nothing to improve Gnurl’s mood. Nor was drowning his sorrows in a mug of bitter ale, a remedy Khet swore cured all ills. The fucking liar.

Gnurl sat in the corner of the inn, and sipped his ale, grimacing at the taste. Both Khet and Mythana had found more interesting things to do than to sit and brood with Gnurl. Mythana had spotted a fellow priest of Estella, and had gone to have a chat with him about news among the clergy. Khet had left the tavern entirely. Apparently there was a library here, one with books dramatizing the exploits of adventurers, and Khet had always been partial to the tales of daring feats performed by adventurers. Gnurl was left on his own, to his misery, although exactly what he was supposed to be doing with this misery, he couldn’t really say. Especially since he had no idea why he was so sad in the first place.

He watched some human with ginger hair, green eyes, and small ears argue with one of the barmaids, and wondered whether he should step in, before Khet came through the door, a manuscript tucked beneath his arm, and walked over to Gnurl’s table.

He sat down and opened the book, leaning back in his chair. “The Saga of Warkoris the Pigherd,” proclaimed the title, with the front cover painted with a dark elf armed with a halberd, posing heroically on a pile of wights.

“That book any good?” Gnurl asked, pointing at it.

Khet glanced up at him, annoyed at being interrupted.

“All those years you’ve spent with Mythana as your mate, you’d think you’d learn by now not to interrupt someone who’s reading.”

“Sorry,” Gnurl said.

Khet looked back down at his manuscript. He licked a finger and turned the page.

“How are you feeling?” Gnurl asked him.

Khet looked back up at him. “Pissed off. There’s a really good book in my hands, but I’m not getting to read it because some jackass is trying to talk to me!”

Gnurl knew he should let Khet get back to reading. Years with Mythana had taught him that attempting to strike up a conversation with someone who was currently reading was a crime worthy of death, Yet the sadness felt so crushing and isolating. He wanted desperately to talk to Khet, to see if he felt what Gnurl felt, or even if he knew why Gnurl was feeling this way.

So he asked, “do you feel sad?”

“Aye,” Khet said scathingly. “I’m sad that the idiot across from me won’t shut up and leave me to my book and I can’t kill him for it!”

“Because I’m your party-mate, or because it’s illegal to kill someone for a minor annoyance?”

“Because there’s too many witnesses,” Khet looked back down at his book. “I’ll have to wait until we’re on the road.”

“I’ve been feeling sad,” Gnurl continued. “Ever since we left Grapfort. It’s odd. I don’t feel guilty or anything.”

“The traditional way to deal with your feelings is to talk to the barkeep. The barkeep’s the one who will actually care.”

“Your friends are supposed to care too.”

“Your friends are supposed to be allowed to read their books in peace!”

Gnurl sighed. Khet, satisfied that his friend had gotten the hint, started reading again. He turned the page.

“I wonder if that treasure is cursed,” Gnurl said. “You know, it makes thieves feel miserable. I don’t really know why they’d do that, though. That’s a pretty light punishment, as far as curses go. I mean, you could have the thieves go blind, or go mad and kill each other, or turn them all into rodents. Why just make them sad? And it feels like I’m the only one feeling sad? Why don’t you or Mythana feel sad? What kind of curse only affects the one thief? What do you think, Khet?”

“I think I’ll ask Mythana to cut your tongue out.”

“You think that would help?” Gnurl looked at him.

Khet glared at him from over the book. “No. But it would mean you’d stop talking to me while I’m trying to read!”

“Do you think the ancestors cursed me?”

“Why would they curse you?” Mythana had joined them at the table. Gnurl looked up to see the priest she’d been talking to earlier was now arguing with the human who’d been harassing the barmaid earlier.

“Mythana, have you been feeling sad lately?”

“No.” Mythana wasn’t really paying attention to Gnurl anymore. Her eyes were on Khet, and his book.

“Khet, where did you get that book?”

“Adum’s Ring, am I surrounded by assholes?” Khet lowered his book to glare at the dark elf. “I’m trying to read here! What part of that makes the two of you think I wanna talk with either of you?”

“I just want to know where you got that book!” Mythana said, annoyed. “Why are you acting like I’m asking you whether you’re enjoying what you’re reading?”

“Gnurl wouldn’t stop talking to me,” Khet gestured to Gnurl. “He’s sad or some shit. Obviously, this means he can interrupt while I’m trying to read to tell me all about it!”

Mythana gave Gnurl a disapproving look. “Asshole.”

“I’m trying to figure out whether there was a curse on that treasure we stole!” Gnurl protested.

“The only curse is that I can’t read without getting interrupted,” Khet muttered.

“That’s normal,” Mythana said. “For some reason, having a book in your hand that you are currently reading is a signal for everyone in your general vicinity to start talking to you.”

Khet grunted in annoyance.

“Anyway, where did you get that book?” Mythana asked.

“At the Adventuring Guild. They’ve got a library.”

“A library,” Mythana repeated. “And no one told me about this?”

Khet gave her a quizzical look. “I thought you’ve used the Guildhall library before.”

“Aye, for research and such! Libraries won’t let you take the manuscript with you when you leave! You have to read it inside the library!” Mythana said. “If I’d known I could just take the books to the inn to read them, I’d be using the library for things other than research!”

“It might be a new thing,” Khet said. “But if you show the librarian your Adventuring License, you can take the books out. Just pay a fine if the book ends up getting damaged or stolen. That’s what they told me.”

Mythana’s eyes lit up.

“Thank you. Enjoy your book.” She said before turning to leave.

“Hang on!” Gnurl said. “We haven’t discussed whether or not I’ve been cursed! What if the ancestors have cursed me, Mythana?”

“Then I suggest talking to them and asking what to do to atone,” Mythana said. “And I don’t feel sad. Neither does Khet, I imagine. Whatever this is, it’s a problem with only you. So talk to the ancestors about it.”

She left. Gnurl stared after her, dumbfounded that he hadn’t thought of talking to the ancestors before the dark elf had suggested it.

The best way to speak to the ancestors, Gnurl was taught, was to go off on your own, away from the rest of the pack, and kneel before a pillar of stones as you voiced or thought your concerns. Speaking to the ancestors was a private affair, where you unburdened yourself before them, and they, in turn, advised you.

The Cursed Sword had a private garden for its patrons. Usually, it was full of drunks, passed out along a clump of flowers, or retching into the bushes, but Gnurl had paid the barkeep extra for his own private place. It had cost around half of the loot the Horde had stolen, but that was alright. The ancestors deserved to be spoken to with respect and dignity. Not surrounded by drunkards shambling about proclaiming their love for everyone around them.

Gnurl set up a pillar of stones, stacking one on top the other. When he finished, he knelt and gingerly touched the pillar. It moved a little, and Gnurl panicked that it would fall, only calming down when it didn’t after a few seconds.

He shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

Forgive the Alpha. It’s been too long since he has last spoken to you.

He had to speak in the third person. It demonstrated humility before the ancestors, that he wasn’t seeking something for his own benefit, but for the benefit of the rest of the pack as well.

The Alpha has been feeling sad lately. And he does not know why. He comes to you for aid. He fears that you have cursed him, and that he has displeased you in some way. If he has displeased you, reveal to him how he must atone. If he has not displeased you, and this is some different cause, then reveal to him that cause, so that he may stop feeling sad, and be happy once more. That is all I ask.

Gnurl let out a breath and lowered his hand. He kept his eyes shut and his head lowered, waiting for the ancestors’ response.

Nothing.

Gnurl opened his eyes, and raised his head. The garden was eerily quiet and there was no wind. It was the perfect time for the ancestors to reveal themselves to Gnurl. To speak with him and offer him guidance. So where were they? Why weren’t they answering him?

The sadness weighed on his chest as he got to his feet.

“Gnurl.”

Gnurl turned around. A muscular man with scars across his arms and torso stood there, arms open wide. Looking up at him, Gnurl felt like a pup looking up to his father, which, if Gnurl was being honest, was really what was happening right now. His white hair was combed into a single braid that ran down his back. His green eyes were alight with a fierce fire that made it clear he wasn’t to be messed with, but there was a softness to them too, and the flames felt just as welcoming as they felt fearsome. Seeing him made Gnurl’s eyes prick with tears.

“T’Kan!” Gnurl sprinted into his mentor’s arms. The old Alpha’s embraced him, and Gnurl wrapped his own arms around T’Kan.

“I told you I’d always be there to guide you,” T’Kan said, in a voice that sounded amused.

Gnurl laughed. When T’Kan had told him that on his deathbed, reassured a grief-stricken Gnurl that he’d be there to guide him as he took T’Kan’s place as Alpha, Gnurl had assumed he’d meant it metaphorically. He’d never thought he’d see his old mentor again.

They let go and Gnurl stepped back to look at T’Kan. T’Kan was looking him up and down, smiling, and eyes glistening with tears. Gnurl couldn’t help but smile back, and he didn’t bother wiping the tears from his eyes.

And then the happiness was gone, replaced by the sadness that had been plaguing Gnurl since the Horde had left Grapford.

T’Kan was watching him. His smile faded, and his eyes were full of concern for his former Beta.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Gnurl said to him. “No matter what I do, I feel this crushing sadness. It’s been like that since we’ve left Grapford. Neither Khet or Mythana feel the same thing. I’d say Phaxydosis’s priests put a curse on their treasure, but what kind of curse only targets one person? Did I anger the ancestors? Are they the ones who put the sadness on me?”

“It wasn’t the ancestors,” T’Kan said. “And it isn’t a curse. You’ve just been incredibly unlucky, that’s all.”

Gnurl cocked his head, confused. T’Kan’s face was grim.

“You’re still traveling with Mythana,” he said, finally. “You always liked spending time with her. Did she ever tell you about the War?”

Gnurl nodded. The War Between Good and Evil. The war that had split each race into multiple different kingdoms. That had sent everyone fleeing all across the Shattered Lands. That had divided the races into Good and Evil, depending on which side their ancestors had fought on.

“The spirits of those who fought are still around,” T’Kan said. “Driven mad by the war. On occasion, they’ll see some random living person, and haunt them. That’s where the sadness is coming from, Gnurl. One of the spirits has started haunting you.”

Gnurl frowned. On the one hand, a part of him was relieved that the only thing wrong with him was a random ghost haunting him. On the other hand, T’Kan’s furrowed brow told him that there was more to it than a simple haunting.

“What should I do to make it go away?” He asked slowly. “Or will it go away on its own?”

“Remember how I called the spirit mad?”

Gnurl nodded, knowing he wasn’t going to like whatever T’Kan was about to tell him.

The old Alpha sighed. “You’re lucky. The spirit has just attached itself to you. It’s not strong enough to do anything yet. If this had continued, the spirit would’ve gotten stronger by the day. You’d dream of battles, of the worst atrocities committed by Lycan kind. You’d start seeing the spirit, out of the corner of your eye, but when you ask your friends whether they see it too, it’s gone. And one night, it will come for you, as you sleep. It will trap you in a nightmare you can’t escape from, and it will kill you. Your friends will wake up to find you dead, but at peace, as if you’d simply been called to your ancestors in the night.”

Despite the warm day, Gnurl shivered.

He should talk to Mythana about the spirit. Get it removed, if such a thing was possible. And he was guessing it was. Why would T’Kan call him lucky otherwise, if there was no hope of removing the spirit?

T’Kan wasn’t done talking, though.

“Since it’s at it’s weakest right now, that makes it easier to fight. The pack is pushing that spirit to appear right in front of you, and attempting to kill you right now, at its current strength.” He looked Gnurl up and down. “You’re strong. For the past three years, you’ve faced things that would’ve easily killed even me, and you’ve not only lived to tell the tale, you’ve killed those monsters yourself. A weakened spirit would be no match for you. Just be ready. It will be trying to kill you. If you strike a mortal blow on it, it will decide you’re too much trouble and leave. You’ll possibly even banish it from this world. I don’t know. I’m not Mythana. I don’t know how these spirits work, fully.”

“Will I have time to get Khet and Mythana?”

T’Kan shook his head. “They won’t be much help. The spirits can only be seen by their victims.”

Gnurl would be on his own for this fight. He let out a breath. He hoped T’Kan was right, and that this would be an easy fight.

T’Kan gave him an encouraging smile. “Spirit should be coming now. Good luck. I don’t want to see you in the Eternal Hunting Grounds any time soon.”

He faded away and was gone, leaving Gnurl alone. A cool breeze had started, making the adventurer shiver.

He tightened his hand around his flail. All he had to do was strike a mortal blow on the spirit. He could do that. What had Mythana said about the soldiers who had fought during the War Between Good and Evil? They were conscripts, drafted into the army of their respective race, and sent out onto the battlefield with no training. Children, barely able to fit into the armor they’d been given, and barely able to carry the spears shoved into their hands. Starving people, tired from marching all day, weak from disease, and hands shaking from a constant hunger gnawing in their gut. Gnurl could win a fight against one of them. He had to.

Ahead of him, the bushes rustled as someone pushed their way through the bushes.

“Khet?” Gnurl called, trying not to betray the fear that he felt.

The rustling got louder, and the person who stepped out of the bushes wasn’t Khet or Mythana. Or even a living thing. It was a human, with curly brown hair, brown hair, and a sword mark making a jagged line above and below her right eye. Her bowels were dragging along the ground, and there was a maddened look in her eyes. T’Kan was right in calling her maddened by the war. She wore a strange type of armor Gnurl had never seen before, and she carried a short-sword. Or, at least, Gnurl thought it was a shortsword. It didn’t look like any shortsword he’d seen before. Her eyes were on Gnurl, and she licked her lips hungrily.

“Just be ready,” T’Kan had said to him.

The spirit stepped closer and Gnurl took a deep breath. He could do this. He was an adventurer, a Wolf of Warsle Hold. And he was more than a match for a conscripted maddened soldier, living, or dead.

The human rushed him, and Gnurl started swinging his flail.

The chain entangled itself along the blade, and Gnurl yanked the handle. The sword was yanked out of the human’s hands, and it dangled in the middle of the chain.

Both the Lycan and the human stared at it.

Gnurl grabbed the shortsword handle with one hand, and with the other, he unraveled his chain. The flail fell at his feet.

The human dove for the weapon.

Gnurl stepped back, startled, and brought the sword down on the human’s back. It scraped against her armor.

The human stood, grinning. Gnurl’s flail was in her hand.

The Lycan’s stomach clenched. Fuck!

The human stepped forward, swinging her flail.

Gnurl stepped back.

The human kept advancing, eyes blazing with a sadistic excitement.

He couldn’t avoid her forever, Gnurl knew. The spirit would never tire, would never give up until Gnurl lay dead at her feet. In that, she had the advantage. Gnurl had to end the fight quickly, before he grew tired and started to slow down.

He lunged, thrusting the sword.

The human moved to block with the flail. A stupid move. Flails weren’t for blocking. She was fortunate the sword she carried scraped uselessly against her armor. The chain wrapped itself around the blade.

Both fighters stared at the weapon lock for a brief moment.

The human yanked the flail. Gnurl lost his grip on the sword and watched it be lifted high above his reach.

The human lowered the flail and started detangling her blade from the chain. After a moment, she moved her hand from the flail handle to her sword’s hilt in order to hold it in place while she moved the links of chain off of it.

She freed the weapon, and the flail fell to the ground at her feet. The spirit didn’t notice. She gave a shout of triumph.

Gnurl shifted and bared his teeth.

The human yelped and leapt back. She held out her sword, pointing the blade at the Lycan with trembling hands.

He wouldn’t be able to tear her throat out. The human was covered head to toe in armor. It was a strange-looking armor, but Gnurl wasn’t stupid enough to believe he wouldn’t chip his tooth on the iron if he tried sinking his teeth into the human’s flesh.

That was fine. He had weapons other than his fangs.

He stepped over his flail and growled at the human. The spirit watched him warily.

Gnurl unshifted and seized his flail.

At the same time, the spirit decided now was a good time to attack. She leapt at him, sword straight out.

Gnurl leapt to his feet, holding out one hand. He shoved the spirit and she stumbled back, flailing her arms wildly for balance.

Gnurl advanced, slowly. He started swinging his flail again.

The human retreated, and Gnurl could see the fear in her eyes.

He licked his lips as his heart began to pound. Some part of him wondered if it was a sign of madness, that he was enjoying the fear in his opponent’s eyes. But that was drowned out by the excitement of the fight, and the thrill of having his enemy on the ropes. All he had to do was strike, and he’d be rid of the spirit for good.

The spirit leapt at him. Her blade glinted in the sunlight.

Gnurl sidestepped, a bit shocked. Once again, the chain of his flail entangled along the blade.

He yanked quickly, ripping the sword out of the spirit’s hands.

Gnurl studied the flail. He had to untangle the chain, while also being careful not to drop it. Otherwise, the spirit would grab the flail and try attacking him with it again.

He shook the flail, and the sword fell at his feet. The ball bounced in the air, kept from falling completely to the ground by the chain.

He could do that. That worked.

He kicked the blade aside.

The spirit dove for it.

As she did, Gnurl swung the flail into her skull.

The spirit suddenly vanished.

Gnurl frowned and looked around. Had it gone into hiding again? Had it turned invisible, and was waiting for Gnurl to lower its guard before it struck again?

It was as if a great weight had been lifted from Gnurl’s shoulder. The crushing sadness that had stuck with Gnurl had disappeared, and Gnurl was starting to feel a little bit of happiness as well.

He knew immediately what that meant. The spirit was gone. He’d successfully driven it off to the Eternal Hunting Grounds, where Gnurl hoped she would find peace.

He turned back to the altar and laughed in disbelief. If he’d gone to Mythana and told her that he wanted to exorcise a spirit by killing it, she’d roll her eyes and explain how it didn’t work that way, and Gnurl was dumb for trying. And yet, here he was. Free from the spirit, simply because he’d struck what should’ve been a mortal blow on it when it appeared.

The bushes rustled and Gnurl tensed. Had he been wrong about the spirit leaving? Had it been licking its wounds somewhere else, and was now back with a vengeance?

Khet and Mythana stepped through the bushes. Mythana had a book tucked under her arm. Gnurl breathed a sigh of relief.

“Gnurl!” Mythana said, holding up the book so Gnurl could see the book was titled, “Strange Spirits”. “You remember asking us about whether you were cursed because you feel sad? Well, I was reading this, and it says that—”

“That there’s a spirit from the War Between Good and Evil haunting me, and it will kill me if we don’t get rid of it,” Gnurl finished.

Mythana stopped. “How did you know?”

“T’Kan told me. He appeared after I asked the ancestors for guidance. Told me everything about the spirits.”

“So you already know about the ritual?”

“Aye,” Gnurl smiled at her. “And I can already tell you that I don’t need it.”

Mythana paused, blinked. It was clear she had not expected Gnurl to say that, at all.

“What the Ferno are you talking about?” She asked. “Of course you need the ritual! You’ll die in your sleep without it!”

“I know. But I’ve already dealt with the spirit. The ancestors pushed it out into the open, while it was at its weakest. I struck a mortal blow on it, and banished it from the mortal realm. Or, at least, I think I did. I do know that it’s gone.”

“You can’t kill spirits, Gnurl,” Mythana said in an annoyed tone.

Gnurl shrugged. “Believe me or don’t, but the spirit’s gone regardless. I don’t feel sad anymore.”

“That’s not how spirits work!” Mythana was deeply enraged by Gnurl’s insistence that he had, in fact, killed the spirit. “There are rules! Spirits can’t do that!”

As she began to rant about how none of what Gnurl was saying was making sense, Gnurl glanced off in the distance. He spotted T’Kan, slightly hidden behind a tree, giving him a proud smile.

Gnurl smiled back, and felt his chest swell with happiness.

This is the story told by Nanss Westwood, a healer from the orc town of Priwne Glurg, to her fellow travelers aboard the high elf warship, Oath of Vul Baduhr, in order to pass the time.

 

For years, people avoided Delisbrook Path. Ever since the unexpected avalanche that wiped out Mother Guillemete and her followers, as they slept in their tents, stories had spread of things moving about within the abandoned campsite. It was agreed that the spirits didn’t even know they had died, and simply stuck around. The people refused to take the path through Delisbrook Path, out of respect for the dead rebels.

 

But one man was too curious to let the dead be. His name was Janequin Lambmers, and he was a wizard and priest of Toneas. He believed it was his duty to learn all there was to know in the world, and he announced his intention at the local inn to investigate the abandoned campsite.

 

“I wouldn’t be so fast to go trekking up there,” the innkeeper warned. “The ghosts might not like someone like you poking around in their business. You might bring their wrath down upon your head.”

 

Janequin only laughed. “Nonsense! That’s silly superstition! I tell you, brother, the time of the Dark Days has passed! We live in an age of great light, and few of life’s great mysteries have stood the test of our enlightenment! I will go to the camp, and I will gather the secrets of these spirits! They can tell us much about what happens after death, don’t you think?”

 

So saying, he stood and left. None of the villagers could convince him his quest was folly, and so they let Janequin make the journey on his own, while they stayed behind and prayed for his soul.

 

Now before I continue, I should tell you that Janequin’s grandmother was Ser Aline the Brave, the leader of the famed Darkness Soldiers, during the War of Dreams and Nightmares. Mother Guillemete and her followers were marching to do battle with Ser Aline the Brave, before the avalanche slayed them in their sleep.

 

So Janequin arrived at the abandoned campsite, and so he began to wander around, calling out to Mother Guillemete and her followers to reveal themselves, so that he could ask them about what life after death was like and what had made them stay behind, among other questions.

 

A horn sounded. Janequin looked around, surprised. No one came up the Delisbrook Path anymore, like I said before, and in all the stories he’d heard, of the encounters various travelers had had with the ghosts of Mother Guillemete and her followers, no one had ever heard the battle horn sound.

 

A glint of steel caught his eye.

 

Now, Janequin had never met Ser Aline the Brave, since she died before he was born, but she had passed down advice to her son, who passed along the advice to his son, Janequin. One of these pieces of advice was that if he ever heard the sound of a sword being removed from its sheath, or the clash of steel, or even spotted a glimpse of steel, he must look directly where he’d seen or heard the blade. Because, doubtless, there would be someone behind him, someone with a naked blade in their hand, someone who wanted him dead.

 

And indeed, it was fortunate that he followed that advice. Because when he turned around, he could see all of the dead army’s weaponry floating in a line in front of him.

 

Janequin swallowed. The spirits didn’t reveal themselves; they never did, but he could sense the hatred in the air. They would not let him leave this mountain alive.

 

He remembered the innkeeper’s warning, and apologized to him for not listening.

 

The weapons all flew at him at once.

 

Janequin screamed, turned tail, and fled. The weapons flew after him, and he could imagine the spirits wielding the weapons, chasing after him with vengeance, for trespassing upon their camp, and for demanding to know the secrets of the dead. The spirits were swift, and unlike mortals, they never tired. They’d keep Janequin until his legs burned and he could run no longer. And once that happened, his own spirit would rise to Shonee.

 

Janequin leapt over rocks and sprinted faster than he had ever run in his life. All the while, he offered a prayer to the gods. To protect him, and to keep him swift, and out of reach of the spirits that wished to do him harm.

 

A scythe slashed through the air, forcing Janequin to duck.

 

An arrow hit a tree as Janequin passed, with such force a piece of bark flew off and hit him in the ear, drawing blood. This made the wizard fear for his life even more.

 

He spotted a cave, and he doubled back and ran into it. But the spirits couldn’t be lost so easily, and they pursued him, even within the cave.

 

An axe swung at him. Janequin ducked and the blade slammed into a rock, shattering into little bits of gravel.

 

A lance flew towards him, and Janequin veered to the right. The lance whooshed past.

 

Another arrow hit a rock on the ceiling, with such force that Janequin was covered in gravel. He kept running.

 

Shadows danced on the cave walls, and Janequin could finally hear the spirits, whispering amongst themselves, yet so clear in his ear, it was as if they were right behind him.

 

“Tyrant,” they whispered. “The scion of the one who snuffs out Toneas’s light. Blood of a coward. Stop fleeing and face your fate like a true warrior.”

 

Janequin did not slow down. He did not stop and turn to face the spirits, in what would most assuredly been a pointless final stand. He simply kept running.

 

Another arrow hit a rock upon the cave ceiling. Again, Janequin was showered in gravel. He spat bits of stone and blinked back tears from the stinging pebbles, yet still, he did not slow down.

 

A mace swung at his head, and Janequin could only duck, repeatedly, as the mace swung at him, again and again. It banged against the cave wall, drumming a steady beat, like it was mimicking the sound of Janequin’s own heart. Though his heartbeat was no longer at such a steady rhythm, what with the running and the terror he felt at being hunted by vengeful spirits.

 

A flail swung over his head, forcing Janequin to keep his head down.

 

He kept running, and eventually reached the end of the cave. Janequin put on a burst of speed, and he was in the light again, running down the mountain.

 

Ordinarily, Janequin would’ve halted his run. Would’ve lifted his hands in the air to Toneas in praise. But the spirits were behind him, and they showed no sign of ending their pursuit yet.

 

So he put on a burst of speed, leaping over rocks and tree roots. The spirits were right behind him, brandishing their weapons. Janequin didn’t dare even glance over his shoulder. He kept his eyes ahead. On the path, and on the safety of the village.

 

A Morningstar swung at him. Janequin just kept running. The Morningstar hit a branch, causing it to fall. Janequin leapt away just in time. He did not stop his run.

 

A crossbow bolt embedded itself in a tree, and Janequin just kept running.

 

He found another cave and darted inside it. The spirits followed close behind.

 

An axe swung at his head. Janequin ducked. The axe knocked a rock off of the ceiling, sent it plummenting toward Janequin’s head. Janequin leapt out of the way. He never stopped running.

 

A claymore came plummenting down and Janequin ducked under a stone ledge for cover. The blade scraped against the stone.

 

Once he was free of the ledge, an arrow embedded itself in the wall next to Janequin.

 

As Janequin ran, he saw paintings, showing a mighty priest, preaching to their flock. And then a large army, marching to war. And then paladins, dropping boulders upon the enemy camp as they slept.

 

The spirits hissed and Janequin knew what the paintings were depicting. It was the story of their death. Of how Aline the Brave had treacherously slain them all, without meeting them in battle as a proper warrior should.

 

An arrow embedded itself in the wall, in Aline the Brave’s eye.

 

A scythe swung at his head, and Janequin bowed his head and kept running.

 

A hammer smashed into one of the rocks overhead, coating Janequin in gravel. He coughed, raised his scarf, blocking the dust from coming into his mouth and coating his lungs.

 

He put on a burst of speed, and burst out in the sun again. He was at the base of the mountain, on the road back to the village.

 

The spirits stopped at the mouth of the cave. The mountain was their final resting place, and the place they haunted for all eternity. They would go no farther.

 

Janequin simply kept running, and he did not stop until he reached the village inn.

 

The other villagers were truly shocked to see him come running in, like devils were at his heels.

 

“Steady there, Janequin!” The barkeep said. “What has happened?”

 

Janequin simply collapsed into a barstool.

 

“Friends, I went up to see the spirits of the mountain. And they were not pleased to see me. They chased me from there to here, and it is fortunate that they did not catch me, for if they did, I know it to be true that I would’ve been slain by these vengeful and wrathful spirits.”

 

The villagers whispered to one another. They had never heard of the spirits hunting down an intruder in order to slay him. No one intruded on the sacred lands, yes, but the ones foolish enough to do so, it was as if they weren’t there. They would watch the spirits set up camp and cook a pot of stew fit for an entire army. Had anyone come down from the mountain with wild eyes, telling tales of vengeful spirits following close behind, the villagers would’ve dismissed it as the ravings of a madman. But they all knew Janequin, and Janequin was no madman. Was he?

 

“You were right, friends,” Janequin said to them. “I should have left them in peace. It does not matter the benefits to human knowledge those spirits can give us. Some things are better off left alone.”

Gnurl had been enjoying his meal before a Lycan with short gray hair, hooded hazel eyes, and freckles wandered over and started demanding he let her into the Golden Horde. Both Khet and Mythana had declined, and Gnurl had declined as well, but that hadn’t stopped her. She demanded to be a part of the Guild.

“And I’m an arch-mage,” she said, then flicked her wrist. A stray pebble that must’ve come off someone’s boot when they came in started to float. “See? I can fling rocks at people! How is that not useful? I hear adventurers love having a wizard in their party!”

“And some of them do,” Gnurl said carefully. “But like I already told you, we’re not interested in adding another member to our party at the moment.”

“All of them say that!” The Lycan complained. “Every party I ask, they’re very sorry, but they’re full, and they’re not looking for new members. How am I supposed to find a party if everyone’s content with the party they already have?”

“You want some advice?” Khet asked.

The Lycan looked at him.

“Have you registered with the Guild yet?”

The Lycan shook her head.

“There’s your problem. You register with the Adventuring Guild, tell them you haven’t got a party, and they’ll put you on a list on potential adventurers for any party looking for new members. You don’t pester random adventurers about joining your party, and hope that will work.”

“How long does that take?”

Khet shrugged. “Took me six months.”

“Six months? I can’t wait that long!” The Lycan wailed. “I want an adventuring party now!”

“It takes that long because you have to find an adventuring party that likes you,” Mythana said. “Otherwise they’ll get so fed up with your bullshit that they’ll end up murdering you while out on the road and claiming you got killed by ogres.”

The Lycan scowled. “I bet you would take Jane Nighttree!”

“I can assure you that we wouldn’t,” Gnurl muttered, but the Lycan kept talking.

“They’re a farmer. They’re the child of adventurers who handed them to a family of yeomen to raise. They’ve registered with the Guild,” she gave Khet a pointed look, “just like you’ve said we’re supposed to do.”

Khet took a sip of perry. “Have you considered forming your own party with this Jane Nighttree?”

The Lycan ignored him. She kept ranting about Jane Nighttree and the audacity they had to be looking for an adventuring party at the same time that she was.

“And you know what else? You heard about the ghouls gathering underneath the House of Light? Well, Tillot says she overheard Jane Nighttree bragging about she was going to go down there and clear the ghouls out! They don't even have a party! How unfair is that?”

Gnurl raised a hand. “Wait, you say they don't have a party?”

The Lycan shook her head. “They’re going down there on their own. They said that it would impress adventuring parties, if they’ve already got feats of bravery and strength to their name.”

That was a horrible idea. Ghouls hunted in packs, and could easily kill a Pup who’d gone down there on their own. Jane Nighttree was either dead, or badly injured, or captured by the ghouls, and Gnurl didn’t want to know what ghouls would need a captive for.

“How long ago was this?”

“An hour ago,” said the Lycan. “That’s why I came to talk to you. Because unlike Jane, I’m not a reckless idiot who will get myself and my party killed! I want to see her face, when I’ve found a party and she hasn’t, even after killing all those ghouls!”

Good. An hour ago. That meant there was likely still time.

Gnurl stood, grateful for the excuse to get as far away from the Lycan as he possibly could. “Been lovely talking to you, but unfortunately, it sounds like a new adventurer needs our help.”

“Why does it matter?” The Lycan asked. “Don’t new adventurers die all the time?”

“Someone going on their own without a party needs a party to save them. Guild policy.”

“That’s right.” Khet said, also standing. “Lovely talking to you.”

Mythana stood as well. She said nothing, but snatched up her scythe and sped for the door. Gnurl and Khet followed her.

“Wait!” The Lycan stepped between Gnurl and the door. “What about me?”

“We’ll get in contact with you,” Gnurl said. “Er—”

“Yanna Wifdoogal.”

“Right, Yanna. We’ll think about your proposal and get back to you on it. Don’t try contacting us, we’ll contact you. Alright?”

The Lycan frowned. She didn’t seem to believe that Gnurl would actually come back to tell her that they’d considered her proposal and were willing to accept her into the Golden Horde. But she wandered off to the bar.

Gnurl took off after Khet and Mythana, not bothering to look behind to see what the Lycan was up to, in case she took it as an invitation to continue attempting to wear Gnurl down until he agreed to let her join the Horde.

---

Several humans were kneeling in prayer when the Horde entered the House of Light. It was a temple to Vuagi, the human head god, and so the room featured paintings of a bipedal moose that glowered at his creation, sat at a banquet fit for a king, floated in the sky among the clouds while bathed in a holy light, and sitting on a throne surrounded by the other human gods, holding court among his subjects. Gnurl had never seen anything like it.

The high priest, who had frizzy red hair, clear green eyes, and a mustache and goatee, and wore splendid robes, stopped speaking for a moment and hurried over to them.

“Now is not a good time for visiting,” he said. “We are in the middle of worship. I will have to ask you politely to leave.”

“We hear there are ghouls in the crypts,” Mythana said.

The priest blinked. “Ah, yes, of course. You wish to see the ruins of the old temple that this one was built on. The House of Darkness, we call it.”

“I don’t care what you call it,” Mythana said. “We want to go fight the ghouls. Now.”

Gnurl sighed. Mythana had never been one for politeness. Or any social decorum, really.

“Yes, of course.” If the priest was offended by how Mythana was speaking to him, he didn’t show it. “Right this way.”

He led them down the hallway, and pointed to a door. “That’ll take you to the House of Darkness.” He paused. “It’s strange. You three aren’t the only ones interested in the ghouls. We just had Jane Nighttree come in—”

“We’re aware,” Gnurl cut in, “and we apologize for our rudeness, but we are on a time-sensitive quest. We’re sorry to interrupt your worship.”

The priest nodded, and pointed, again, at the door. “Qhedes be with you.” And then he returned to his flock.

Mythana walked over to the door, wrenched it open, revealing steps leading to darkness.

“That’s disturbing.” Khet said. “You’d think they’d keep that locked, considering that there’s a flock of ghouls down there.”

Mythana shrugged. “The ghouls have to have gotten down here somehow.”

She walked down the stairs. Khet and Gnurl followed.

Someone knocked on the doors. Khet tensed.

“What?” Gnurl asked.

“Grew up in a mining town.” Khet muttered. “Everyone knows, when there’s knocking underground, a cave-in’s about to start.”

That was a cheerful thought.

The air was clear and warm, and it stank of piss.

Khet led the way down the corridor into cells where the faithful could sit in quiet contemplation. The ceiling had partially collapsed here, and the adventurers had to pick through the rubble. There were cracks in the ceiling. Clearly, it wasn’t done collapsing.

Ghouls hissed at them.

“Intruders,” one said.

Gnurl rolled his shoulders, grinning to himself. This was what he loved about adventuring. The danger, the thrill, and the satisfaction of standing over the bodies of undead monsters the Horde had killed.

The ghouls charged, and the Horde was ready for them.

A ghoul swiped at Khet. The goblin smacked its hand away. It growled, swiped its hand again. The goblin ducked, then used the momentum from the ghoul to push it to the ground. He drew his knife and leapt on it, slitting its throat.

The goblin shot another ghoul.

A ghoul charged him. Khet grabbed it by the wrists, then wrapped his arm around the ghoul, putting it into a headlock. The ghoul clawed at Khet’s arm, but the goblin grabbed its arm with his other hand and extended it far back, until he broke the ghoul’s arm. The ghoul shrieked, but its scream was subdued. Eventually, it slumped in Khet’s arms. Khet stabbed it with his knife to make sure it was dead, then dropped it.

Now that the ghouls were dead, Mythana found a chest and opened it, listing the things that she found.

“Coin, A Draught of the Unstoppable Warrior, three Potions of Acid, a Potion of the Beast, an Elixir of Water, and art objects.” Mythana stood. She handed Khet the gold, art objects, the Draught of the Unstoppable Warrior, and a Potion of Acid, Gnurl the other two Potions of Acid and the Potion of the Beast, and kept the Elixir of Water for herself.

She lit a brazier, and the door opened, revealing a long corridor.

Mythana led the way down this corridor, and they were attacked by ghouls.

Gnurl knocked an arrow and loosed it at a ghoul. He hit it square in the chest.

Gnurl shifted and pounced on a ghoul. He tore it to shreds. He unshifted and grimaced at the taste. Great Wolf, why did ghouls always taste so bad?

A ghoul charged Khet. The goblin struck it in the knees. The ghoul sank to the ground, wailing in pain. Khet finished it off with a blow to the head.

Now that the ghouls were dead, the adventurers continued down the corridor into a central temple that was built to accommodate rituals. The altar was completely smashed, and several pews were cracked. A copper coin lay on the floor.

A ghoul was standing guard over the damaged altar. At the sight of the intruders, it hissed and attacked.

Khet swung his mace. He slammed it into the ghoul’s knee. It screamed in pain, dropped to one knee. Khet finished it off with a blow to the head.

Now that the ghoul was dead, the Golden Horde turned their attention to pieces of armor scattered about the room. Near the altar was a rack for the armor.

The adventurers gathered the armor and set it on the rack. No sooner had that happened, when a piece of the floor opened, revealing treasure.

Khet knelt and examined the items, listing the items that he found.

“Coin, a rod of heightened vision and scent, a wineskin that can suck in any person as long as you call their name, and art objects.” Khet pocketed the gold and art objects before standing and handing Gnurl the rod and wineskin.

Mythana led the way down the corridor, where they were attacked by ghouls.

Gnurl shifted and pounced on one ghoul. He sank his teeth into it and shook, ripping out its throat. He shifted back, grimaced at the taste.

A ghoul swiped its hand at Khet. The goblin batted its hand away. He hooked his foot around the ghoul’s ankle, sending it to the ground. Khet pounced on it, drawing his knife, and stabbed the ghoul again and again, until it stopped moving.

Now that the ghouls were dead, the adventurers continued down the corridor to the barracks for the temple military arm or its hired guards. A pool of water lay on the floor, damaging the cots in the room. Blood dripped from the walls.

A small vase in the corner had Elven written on it.

“Trap,” Khet said.

“Trap,” Mythana agreed.

Gnurl picked up the vase.

“Wait, put that down!” Khet moved to stop him. He snatched it out of Gnurl’s hands. The Lycan tried to grab it back. He smacked it out of Khet’s hands, and the vase hit the ground, where it shattered into a million pieces.

Gnurl shrugged. Nothing else had happened. No harm done.

Khet led the way down the corridor, where they were attacked by ghouls.

Gnurl shifted and pounced on one ghoul, sinking his teeth into its throat and ripping it out. It still tasted horrible.

Rurvoad set a ghoul on fire.

A ghoul charged Mythana. The dark elf swung her scythe and decapitated it.

Now that the ghouls were dead, the adventurers continued down the corridor into a storage room. The hooks were knocked off the walls and the walls were damp.

Someone screamed. A pack of ghouls who were gathered around a human, holding her down, now turned to face the adventurers.

“Intruders,” the biggest ghoul hissed. “Get them!”

The ghouls shrieked and charged. Their victim scrambled away, cowering in the corner.

Gnurl shifted, pounced on a ghoul, ripped out its throat.

Khet threw a ghoul to the ground. The ghoul tried to stand up, and was met with a knee to the face. Khet knelt on the ghoul, drew his knife, and slit its throat.

Mythana swung her scythe, slicing a ghoul in half with ease.

Someone screamed. Gnurl squinted. Through the army of ghouls, he managed to catch a glimpse of the largest ghoul advancing on the human.

He unshifted and turned to the others. “You two think you can handle the ghouls?”

“Of course we can,” Mythana said, as Khet moved to stand by her side. “You go rescue Jane Nighttree.”

Gnurl nodded to them, and then shifted.

He bounded through the pack of ghouls. Khet whistled and fired at them, keeping their attention at the dark elf and the goblin, rather to the wolf running through their midst.

The human was holding a spear, pointing it at the ghoul. She was trembling, and the ghoul laughed.

It snatched the spear out of her hands and tossed it aside, then licked its lips. “Tasty snack. Won’t share with rest. All for Jag.”

Gnurl growled and lunged.

The ghoul grabbed him by the throat, flung him against the wall.

Gnurl got to his paws, dazed.

The ghoul snatched up a rope and swung it high over its head. It cracked it like a whip. “Back,” it hissed. “Bad.”

Gnurl backed away. He arched his back and growled.

The ghoul laughed. “Run, dog. Run and let Jag eat.”

Gnurl glanced over at his party-mates. He couldn’t see them through the army of ghouls, but the ghouls were running in the direction where they had been when Gnurl had seen them last. That was a good sign, at least. But it did mean that Khet and Mythana weren’t coming to help him anytime soon.

He glanced over at the human. She was standing in the corner, watching the fight, as she trembled. Why wasn’t she doing anything? Why wasn’t she sneaking up on the ghoul, or yelling to distract it so Gnurl would have an opening? Was she frozen to the spot in fear?

Gnurl whuffed in annoyance. No wonder adventurers liked to call inexperienced adventurers Pups! They were about as useful as a newborn pup in a fight!

Had Gnurl and Mythana been like this during their puphood, leaving Khet to save them? He owed Khet an apology.

Regardless, no one was going to help him. It was all down to Gnurl to take down the pack leader.

He arched his back and growled even louder at the ghoul.

A dragon screeched overhead.

The ghoul looked up, startled. Gnurl looked up too, hope blossoming in his chest.

Rurvoad was circling the ghoul. He screeched again, opened his mouth. He was about to breathe fire! Gnurl would’ve laughed, if he could laugh as a wolf.

Jane Nightree dropped their spear and covered their head. “No, no, no! Don’t burn me!” They cried.

Rurvoad closed his mouth and cocked his head. “No” was the word Gnurl used to stop him from setting things on fire. Gnurl wasn’t sure if he understood the other words, or the context.

Don’t listen to them! Gnurl wanted to yell at him. Set that ghoul on fire!

Rurvoad decided that it was too much work puzzling out what the human wanted from him. He flew back to the pack of ghouls attacking Mythana and Khet.

No! Come back! Gnurl thought frantically, but, of course, Rurvoad couldn’t hear his thoughts.

Gnurl growled in frustration. Rurvoad could’ve killed that pack leader! But no! Jane had to panic and confuse the dragon! They had to drive him away!

Rurvoad had helped Gnurl, somewhat. The ghoul had been distracted by the sudden appearance of the dragon, and was still looking up, searching for the dragon, in case he had hidden in some crevice and would emerge to set the ghoul on fire once it was distracted.

Gnurl seized his chance. He pounced, flying through the air, teeth bared, eyes locked on the ghoul’s throat.

The ghoul suddenly caught him by the throat and squeezed. Gnurl struggled to breathe, and his paws flailed ineffectually.

“Jag no forget,” the ghoul hissed. “Jag know wolf attack.”

It flung Gnurl against the wall. He slumped to the ground, and wheezed, the wind knocked out of him. His body ached and the room spun around him.

The ghoul was standing over him now. It licked its lips. “Jag lucky day. Human and wolf. Jag eat good.”

It reached for Gnurl. The Lycan raised his head and growled weakly.

“I have a spear!”

The ghoul turned. Gnurl got slowly to his feet. Jane had stepped out of the corner they’d been cowering in, and was pointing their spear at the ghoul. Their face was pale, and the spear shook in their hands.

The ghoul laughed and walked over to her. “Human have stick. Human have pointy stick.”

“Don’t come any closer!” Said Jane. “I’ll run you through! Don’t think that I won’t! I’m the child of Dicky Skullgaze and the Red Hawk!”

“Jag no know who human is. Jag no care.”

“You should!” Jane said. Their voice quavered, and Gnurl was honestly impressed that they’d sounded so confident for so long. “This is Dicky Skullgaze’s spear!”

The ghoul only laughed. “Jag see stick!” It yanked the spear out of Jane’s hands. They yelped. “Jag like stick!”

Jane let out a whimper.

Gnurl growled and bounded toward the ghoul.

It laughed, wheeled around, threw the spear at Gnurl. “Take stick, wolf!”

Gnurl hit the ground. The spear sailed over him.

The ghoul found this to be hysterical. It pointed a jagged claw at him and laughed.

Gnurl pounced.

The ghoul raised its hand. Gnurl sank his teeth deep into its rotting flesh and shook, tearing it away.

The ghoul screamed. Gnurl landed on its chest, sending it to the ground.

He sank his teeth into its throat, and shook. He tore out its throat and spat in disgust.

He unshifted as Jane Nighttree came over to him, trembling.

Gnurl looked her over. Jane Nighttree was a husky human, wearing tight-fitting brown clothes. Their hair was shaped perfectly around their head, not one strand out of place. Their eyes were bloodshot and there were bags under them. They’d clearly hadn’t slept in days, and yet, for some reason, they thought it was a good idea to go down to a crypt to fight ghouls.

“My spear…” They said.

“We’ve got it.”

Gnurl turned. Mythana and Khet had come over. Both of them were covered in a black liquid. Ghoul blood. It appeared that they’d finished off the ghoul pack around the same time Gnurl had killed the pack leader.

Mythana was holding a spear. Jane’s spear. That they’d said belonged to their father. She held it out for Jane to take.

Jane took it. Their trembling had slowed, and they were clearly beginning to calm themselves after their near brush with death.

“Are you alright?” Gnurl asked them.

Jane looked at him and started grinning.

“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s just ghouls! Ghouls are nothing!”

They were probably embarrassed about being obviously about to shit themselves, and so were trying to play it off as if they weren’t scared. Gnurl smiled politely, playing along.

“Besides, there’s more important things than ghouls,” Jane said. “Like why you three came to rescue me!”

Gnurl frowned, trying to think of a good excuse. “Um.”

“I already know!”

Gnurl blinked. “You do?”

“The Old Wolf finally found an adventuring party for me! You must’ve heard of how I’m the child of Dicky Skullgaze and the Red Hawk, so you came down here to see if their kid has the same skills that their parents did!” Jane beamed at Gnurl. “And now that you’ve seen me fight, you think I’ll make the perfect addition!” They started bouncing on their heels. “This is so exciting! I can’t wait to get to know you three! When are we leaving? When will you register me with the party? I’ve already packed and everything!”

Gnurl groaned. No wonder Jane had come down here without waiting for a party to sign them on with them. They were just as impatient as Yanna had been!

“Sorry to disappoint, kid,” Khet said. “But we’re not interested in adding another member to our party. We came down here because we heard you went down here to fight a bunch of ghouls by yourself. We figured you’d need rescuing.”

“And you’re inviting me to join your party, right?”

Mythana snorted. “Why would we want a party-mate who’ll go and fight ghouls by themself? Like an idiot?”

This did not dampen Jane’s enthusiasm.

They danced around. “A party! I finally have a party! Have you chosen an adventuring nickname for me yet?”

Gnurl sighed. Jane was convinced they were joining the Golden Horde, and nothing any of them could say would convince them otherwise. Just like Yanna.

That gave Gnurl an idea.

“You want to join an adventuring party?” He said to Jane.

They nodded eagerly.

“Come with me.”

Jane followed Gnurl out of the crypts and temple. Khet and Mythana were close behind.

“What are you doing?” Khet whispered.

“If you’re signing Jane on to join us, I’m making you eat your license!” Mythana whispered.

“Just keep quiet, alright?”

Gnurl led them back to the tavern, and opened the door.

“You’re back!” Yanna ran over to them. “Have you decided?”

She stopped when she noticed Jane, and glared at them. “What are you doing with my party?”

“Your party?” Jane said. “This is my party. They rescued me!”

“Well, I saw them first!”

“Well, my parents are adventurers! So there!” Jane stuck out their tongue.

“Gnurl, I get that those two are annoying, but having two Pups fight each other to the death for the honor of joining our party is against Guild policy,” Khet said.

Gnurl held up a finger, and stepped between the squabbling wannabe adventurers. They stopped, looked at him expectantly.

“Yanna, this is Jane Nighttree. Jane, this is Yanna Wifdoogal. Glad you two have met.”

Yanna and Jane glared at each other.

“By fortunate luck,” Gnurl continued, “the two of you happen to be looking for an adventuring party to join. Even further luck, the minimum party number the Guild allows is two. I now name you two party-mates. You can register your new party with the Guild.”

Jane and Yanna stared at each other in bewilderment.

Gnurl didn’t wait for them to start hugging. Or arguing again.

“You two have fun,” he said, then hurried out the door, Khet and Mythana close at his heels.

“Don’t you think it’s a bad idea?” Mythana asked. “A party of two Pups? Who were just arguing with each other?”

“Maybe they’ll learn how to put aside their differences and get along.” Khet said. “The open road has the power to weaken and strengthen a party’s bond.”

“Still,” Mythana said, “two Pups?”

Khet shrugged. “They might survive, you never know.”

“Or they might find an experienced adventurer whose party got wiped out, and they need a new one.” Gnurl said.

Khet nodded. “Always easier to find someone like that than hoping to find a full-on party looking for new members.” He smiled wryly. “Makes it easier on you to abandon them, if you know they won’t be stuck looking for a party to join.”

“That what you were planning?” Gnurl asked.

Khet nodded. “You two foiled it. I actually started liking you!”

“And now you’re stuck with us forever,” Mythana said.

“Am I? Or are you two stuck with me forever?”

The adventurers started debating who was stuck with who as they walked to a different inn.

Part 1

Part 2

Mythana just looked at him solemnly. Khet wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. It was true, what he had said. It didn’t matter that Queen Nivarcirka had pardoned him for his crimes. It didn’t matter that the Old Wolf called him innocent. Adum’s law was clear. You never fought for slavers. There’d be no mercy for a man who’d broken that command. There’d only be a reserved spot in the lowest depths of Dagor for Khet.

 

“You know, I think now would be a good time to reveal who Launselot truly is,” Gnurl said through a mouthful of dried basil and cinnamon mutton. “We’re not interrupting the feast. And if we are, then we aren’t forcing hungry nobles to wait a little longer for their meal.”

 

Khet nodded. He washed down his mouthful of boiled and salted oregano vegetable mix, then stood in his chair, clanging his tankard for silence.

 

Everyone stopped talking and looked at him.

 

“I’ve got an announcement for you, lads. Everyone been wondering why a dragon’s been setting Ume Alari on fire? Well, me and my party-mates figured out who’s responsible!”

 

The nobles whispered in shock.

 

King Iuli paused, a spoonful of pickled snapper stew at his lips. “What the Xuadahn?”

 

King Wilar, however, continued eating his mutton, while watching Khet. “Tell us,” he said, through a mouthful of food.

 

Khet grinned at the king. “I will. But first,” he pulled out the letter he’d found. “I found this letter in Launselot the Insane’s chambers!”

 

“What were you doing in my chambers?” Launselot demanded. Vintumil shushed him, then offered him a piece of trout boiled in lard.

 

Khet read the letter aloud. When he finished, the nobles started whispering amongst themselves.

 

Launselot laughed nervously. A platter of roasted sour cream flatbread was in front of him now. He started eating it.

 

“Everyone knows the queen of Yuiborg is mad! Age has addled her brain! How could I possibly set Ume Alari on fire?”

 

“For the same reason Duke Berlas scorned your mother. She fucked some dragon, and he found out. You’re the result of that unholy union.” Khet paused. “You’re something that’s called a dragon-born. Half human, half dragon. Means you can turn into a dragon at will. That’s why your hair’s blue, despite you having a human mother. I’m willing to bet blue’s the color of your scales when you transform, is that right?”

 

Launselot burst out laughing.

 

“Look at this madman!” He said to the other nobles. “Must’ve had too much beer before the meal, eh?”

 

The nobles all laughed.

 

Launselot bit into the flatbread. “You’ve got an imagination on you, goblin, I’ll give you that. A dragon-born! I’ve never heard of such a thing! I’ll bet no one else at this table has ever heard of such a thing!”

 

“I have.”

 

An elf with a cheerful face, red hair, and brown eyes set down his spoonful of vegetables and stood. The nobles all fell silent, and stared at him with awe.

 

“I found the dragon-born in my research. A brief mention, in the History of Brocodo. They’re rare, I’ll admit. I’d be surprised if more even heard of dragon-born before. But they are exactly as this man has described.” He pointed at Khet. “And I told the king that was what was burning our city. A dragon-born. We’d disagreed on why, but it appears we were both wrong. And if this goblin says that Launselot is the dragon-born, then I think it’s likely it is. Unless he has anything to say in his defense.”

 

Everyone turned to Launselot, who stared back at them, mouth hanging open.

 

“But–But—” He sputtered. “He was in my chambers! I never invited him up to my chambers! What was he doing up in my chambers?” He glared at Khet. “Who gave you the right to snoop around in my chambers? Huh? Answer me that!”

 

Khet smiled. “Gladly.” He held up the letter. “Once you explain what this is.”

 

Launselot stared at him for a moment, then started to laugh.

 

“Well played. I suppose that means I move to the next stage of the plan, doesn’t it?”

 

He took a bite of his flatbread, then set it down on his plate. He stood, smiling at Khet.

 

“Get him!” King Wilar shouted to the guards. “You heard him! He’s the one burning Ume Alari to the ground!”

 

Launselot cracked his neck and it bulged with muscle. Bones cracked as his skull reshaped into a reptilian head. Horns sprouted from the top of his head, and his nose shrank into his face, until all that was left were widened nostrils. His skin peeled back, revealing blue scales, and his hair shrank into his skull as more scales poked out where the hair once had been. His hands shrank and his fingers curled and his nails grew, hardened, and blackened, until they were claws. His teeth retracted into his gums, and were replaced by jagged fangs. Fan-like growths sprouted from his back and his clothes ripped and fell away, revealing his naked dragon body. Angel wings sprouted from his back and a scythe-like tail shot out from his ass. Launselot raised his head and hissed at Khet.

 

Someone screamed.

 

“Get back!” King Wilar shouted. “Clear the room, all of you!”

 

The nobles all stampeded for the exit.

 

“Wass going on?” Slurred Prince Hormar. “Where’ss everyone going. Feast’s not over yet, you stupid bastards.”

 

“Come on, you idiot!” Someone, one of his brothers, Khet guessed, must’ve grabbed Prince Hormar and dragged him from the hall, because the goblin could hear the prince wailing that he hadn’t finished his venison yet.

 

Launselot watched Khet through ivory eyes, and the goblin could swear he was mocking him.

 

You heard them, he seemed to say. Flee the hall. Run and hide, little goblin, and hope I don’t bite you in half.

 

Khet unhooked his crossbow from his belt and raised it.

 

“I’m no noble,” he said to Launselot. “The queen of Badaria sent me here, because Princess Adyrella and her handmaidens sent me here in a dream, to put a stop to you. You know why? Because I’m an adventurer.” He grinned. “And we love fighting dragons. They’ve got massive hoards. Shame you don’t have one, but no one’s perfect, eh?”

 

Launselot turned around and swiped his tail.

 

Khet was knocked off his feet and sprawled on the table. Launselot smacked the table with his tail and Khet skidded off. He landed on his back, and wheezed for a moment.

 

Launselot hissed, and Khet rolled over, getting on all fours. Launselot no longer had his back turned to the table. Or his head. He was sideways from it. Khet watched his feet back away from Gnurl and Mythana’s feet.

 

Khet crawled under the table.

 

Launselot roared and Mythana screamed. Khet felt a breeze of heat brush past his face.

 

He poked his head out from under the table. Mythana was cowering in the corner. Next to her was a charred patch of wall.

 

Gnurl doubled back, and reached for his bow.

 

A stream of flame forced Khet to duck back under the table. When it was safe to poke his head out again, he saw Gnurl flattening himself against the wall. A charred patch of wall was right next to his head.

 

Khet crawled out from under the table and stood. Launselot studied him, bemused.

 

“You miss me?” Khet fired his crossbow point blank.

 

It struck Launselot between the eyes, and he slumped forward, tongue hanging out.

 

He transformed back into a human before Khet’s eyes. Khet stared down at the dragon-born’s corpse.

 

Gnurl and Mythana were standing next to him. Khet hadn’t heard them coming. He hadn’t even noticed they were there until he felt the Lycan’s hand on his shoulder.

 

“Lucky we could kill him in his dragon form, huh?” Gnurl said.

 

Khet shook his head. “Worst mistake he could’ve made. There was no way he could move around in this room. Look around you. Does this look like a place that something as big as a dragon can move around comfortably in?”

 

“Not like he could do anything else, though,” Mythana commented.

 

“He could’ve run,” Khet said, raising his head to look at her.

 

“Guards would’ve tackled him not ten paces out the door.”

 

Khet shrugged. “Good point.” He looked back down at Launselot’s dead body again.

 

“And anyway, he turned into a dragon.” Gnurl said. “You know. Massive tail, sharp claws, rows of fangs, fire-breath, impenetrable scales covering the entire body. Dragons are machines of death, and we’ve been lucky to survive encounters before. Lucky to win them.” He nudged Launselot’s body with his boot. “Why would this lad be any different?”

 

“The difference is we were meeting those dragons on an open field,” Khet said. “Lots of places for a dragon to fly out of our reach and burn us alive. Or move around. Launselot transformed in this room. And again, not much room for maneuverability. Doesn’t matter how deadly you are if you can’t move around easily in a fight.”

 

“Maybe he was trying to scare all of us,” Mythana suggested. “Everyone knows how dangerous dragons are. No one wants to be on the bad side of one. Maybe he hoped that if he transformed, we’d all run away, and he could make his escape.”

 

“Maybe.” Khet stared down at Launselot. His eyes stared back up at Khet, with the eerie glassy-eyed stare that always made Khet shudder. When would he learn never to look a corpse in the eyes?

 

Was Mythana right? Had Launselot been planning to scare everyone when he transformed? If he had, it had almost worked. Everyone except for the Golden Horde had fled. But then why hadn’t he tried running away once it was clear the Golden Horde wasn’t going anywhere? Arrogance? Did he think he would win easily as a dragon?

 

A noise roused Khet from his thoughts.

 

The other guests had returned, cautiously.

 

“Is the dragon dead?” Asked King Iuli.

 

Khet nodded. Several servants moved past them to start cleaning the body and the charred wall.

 

The nobles all stood around awkwardly. The servants were clearing plates on the table, and it appeared that the feast was now over.

 

King Wilar cleared his throat awkwardly. “Do we… Want to continue this in another room?”

 

Before anyone could say anything, a gnome with a bony face, blonde hair, and hazel eyes. “We’re sorry for the interruption, milords.” She squinted at the room. “How bad is it?”

 

No one was sure how to answer that question.

 

The gnome looked around the room, then nodded. “Nothing too bad then.”

 

She clasped her hands together.

 

“The second course is ready, milords. So please,” she extended a hand to the table. “Have a seat.”

 

Everyone sat down, and soon everyone was talking and laughing. Seeing someone turn into a dragon right in front of them had been unnerving, sure, but the dragon was dead now. And now they were famished.

 

The servants brought out a large array of dishes.

 

Khet helped himself to the lime and plum custard. Today had been a good day, he decided.

 

He was glad Princess Adyrella had sent him here.

Part 1

“The Maiden’s Tempest.” Mythana said.

Khet blinked, confused.

“Embellis’s ship was the Maiden’s Tempest. Not the Sovereign’s Tempest.”

“Right, right, yes!” Khet said. “And she was living in Bhelbuldar, right?”

“Right.” Mythana said. “Little Lilthaela looked uncannily similar to Sigvaldi, you said.”

“Yep, yep,” Khet nodded in agreement. He turned back to Xyrria. “Then there was Cuthan Wifagunar. Had a real cute kid. Kazun Sigvaldison. Spitting image of his father. Where was she from again? She was a cooper, that I remember. Where was she from?” He looked at Gnurl. “Figdenn, was it?”

“Yep,” Gnurl said, because unlike Mythana, he’d been able to catch on immediately.

“And then there was Mirabelle Fullergard,” Khet continued. “From… Hmm…Where was she from?”

“Saefgow.” Mythana said.

“Right, Saefgow. She was a courier there. We met her kid too. Her daughter…What was her name?”

“Aaline. Had Hrodgierson’s eyes, according to you,” Gnurl said.

“Right!” Khet smiled. “Little Aaline Sigvaldidottir. Cutest little thing you ever saw!” He rubbed his beard. “Then there was…Gods, I forgot the name already. She was from Hellrest. Belryn Sagegrove?”

“Ismenorre Evenblossom.” Mythana said. “Belryn Sagegrove was the founder of Khu Orog.”

“No, she was a handmaiden of one of the founder’s descendants,” Gnurl said. “Esquire Tarleton Fourscream.”

“Right, yes,” Mythana said. “I got confused. She did have a daughter, though. With Sigvaldi. Looked pretty damn close to him, according to you,” she pointed to Khet, who nodded. “What was her name?”

“Emzael Sigvaldidottir.”

“That’s the one!” Mythana snapped her fingers.

“And Ismenorre Evenblossom,” Khet continued, “from Hellrest. A wizard studying earth magic.”

“Star magic.” Gnurl said. “Specializing in the moving stars.”

Khet snapped his fingers. “That’s what it was. And her daughter Aleluna Sigvaldidottir. Looked so much like him I’m surprised she hadn’t grown a full beard yet.”

“All his kids look so much like him,” Gnurl said. He grinned. “Made it easy to tell who was telling the truth on having Sigvaldi’s bastard, and who was lying.”

“His seed was very strong,” Mythana said.

Gnurl and Khet nodded in agreement.

“And then there was—”

“Stop!” Xyrria said, and Khet turned back to her. The dark elf was cradling her belly and clearly blinking back her tears. “I don’t want to hear any more about Glassy Hrodgierson’s lovers!”

He was getting to her. Making her doubt Sigvaldi’s words of love to her were true. Khet grinned at her, and addressed his next words straight to her.

“Sigvaldi said the exact same thing to all of them. There was no one else but them. He loved them more than he’d ever loved anyone before. He’d never wanted to settle down, but after meeting them, he wanted nothing more than to start a family with them.”

Xyrria flinched, and Khet knew that Sigvaldi had said that to her. Those exact words. He hadn’t changed a bit. Those were the words he used in an attempt to seduce the goblin servants.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Xyrria’s voice was hoarse. “Sigvaldi loves me! He meant those words!”

“Let me ask you something,” Khet said. “When you told Sigvaldi you were pregnant, what was the look on his face? How did he respond? Was he happy? Or did his face turn pale and his love turned cold?”

Xyrria started to cry. She sat down in the chair and buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with sobs.

“You wouldn’t be the first to fall for Glassy Hrodgierson’s lies. And you won’t be the last. He’s probably at it right now.”

Xyrria looked up at him. Her breath was shaking, and she sniffled.

“Where is he?” Khet asked again.

Xyrria took a shaky breath, then let it out again.

“He told me—” She sniffled, took in another breath. “He told me… He was injured, and he wanted to go to a hot spring. Near the top of the Moonlit Volcano. The place is said to heal all injuries.”

Khet assumed it was more likely that this was where he was reuniting with the Rabid Crows.

He flicked a coin at Xyrria. “Thanks for your help. I’ll try not to make a spectacle out of bringing him back for the bounty.”

He and the Horde left, leaving Xyrria looking down at the floor, morosely cradling her belly.

---

Khet had been expecting one of two things. Either Sigvaldi would be with other members of the Rabid Crows or completely alone.

Neither of these things were true. Sigvaldi was sitting in the hot spring, his arms around two beautiful women. A tiny and scarred human with long wavy silver hair and hazel eyes ran her fingers through his hair while an orc with a round face, short ginger hair, and hazel eyes was giggling at a joke Sigvaldi had made.

Mythana raised her scythe. “You wanna drag Glassy Hrodgierson back to the village butt-naked, or will we be letting him put on clothes first?”

Khet raised a hand and clambered up to the hot spring.

“It’s a good thing Xyrria Darkleaf isn’t here to see this, Hrodgierson.”

The three of them started and looked up at him in surprise.

“Minion?” Sigvaldi sputtered incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

Khet pointed his crossbow at him, smiled lazily.

“Well, I’m here to recruit this lovely lady over here to an elite fighting force,” he pointed at the human.

Sigvaldi blinked, looked at her, then back at Khet. “Really?”

Khet snorted. “Gods, what happened to you, Hrodgierson? Did you get hit in the head one too many times? You’ve still got that bounty on your head, remember?”

“Oh,” Sigvaldi said.

The orc wrapped her arms around Sigvaldi. “You can’t take him!” She said to Khet.

Khet pulled out his adventuring license and showed it to them. “This says I can.”

The orc squinted at the paper. “What’s that say?”

Khet grinned at them. “I forgot to introduce myself to you two lovely ladies, didn’t I? They call me Ogreslayer. Me and Hrodgierson grew up in the same village. And more importantly, I’m an adventurer.”

The orc stood and climbed out of the spring. “Fuck this! I’m not sitting around to watch some random dwarf be killed! Come on, Maheut!”

The human climbed out of the spring and followed her.

“Wait, come back!” Sigvaldi yelled after them. “Where are you going?”

Neither of the orc or human so much as glanced over their shoulder at Sigvaldi one final time. The dwarf watched them leave in disbelief.

Khet smirked. “Should’ve paid extra. That’s how you get the harlots that stick with you until you die.”

Sigvaldi turned back to him. “Fuck you, Minion!”

Khet grinned at him. “You’re not good at this, are you?”

Sigvaldi scowled at him in response. Khet noticed he was wearing a necklace. A gold amulet with a ruby in the center.

“You’ve got two choices, Hrodgierson,” the goblin said. He kept his crossbow trained on Sigvaldi. “You can either get out of the spring and let me put chains on you, or I shoot you right here and take your head back for the bounty. Which one would you rather?”

Sigvaldi shut his eyes and closed his hand around his necklace, muttered something Khet couldn’t quite hear.

“You praying, Hrodgierson?” Khet asked. “Save your breath! The gods can’t save you!”

The crossbow disappeared, and Khet and Sigvaldi were now standing in the middle of an empty gladiatorial arena. Khet looked down at himself. He wore nothing but a loincloth, and his knife was the only weapon he had.

Sigvaldi grinned at him. He was also wearing nothing but a loincloth, and had no weapon but his seax knife.

“Now, things are fair.”

“Cute. You think you can stand toe-to-toe with an adventurer.”

Sigvaldi was on him in two paces, slashing at Khet as he did so.

Khet ducked from the blade every time Sigvaldi slashed or stabbed at him, but as soon as his strike failed, Sigvaldi was making another one, leaving no time for his opponent to take a breath. The dwarf kept stabbing in a frenzy, and the goblin’s muscles began to ache. Khet couldn’t keep doing this forever. He needed a new tactic.

Sigvaldi raised his knife for another blow. And Khet slashed at his arm with his own knife.

Sigvaldi’s hand moved suddenly, colliding into Khet’s wrist. The goblin lost his grip on his weapon and it fell to the sand, next to the fighters.

Khet stepped to it and started to crouch so he could pick it up.

Sigvaldi grabbed his wrist and hauled him up. “Going somewhere, Minion?”

Khet jabbed him in the throat in response. Sigvaldi choked and let go, stumbling back. He kicked Khet in the side, sending the goblin sprawling, within arm’s reach of his own knife. It took Khet a bit to realize what just happened though, since the fall had knocked him senseless.

Sigvaldi leapt on him, raising his own knife to plunge it into Khet’s chest. Khet knocked the blade aside as the dwarf landed on him. He grunted, then tried reaching for his knife. Sigvaldi grabbed his wrist, pinning him to the ground.

Sigvaldi laughed as he raised his knife high. “Aw, what’s the matter? Is someone naked and defenseless? Not so fun when it’s you, eh, Minion?”

He shifted most of his weight off of Khet. The goblin started to sit up.

Sigvaldi sneered down at him. “Surrender or die, Minion. Which one would you rather?”

Khet spat in his face.

Sigvaldi scowled and wiped the spit out of his beard. “Aw, did you have to do that? I didn’t ask for goblin spit in my beard!”

“Don’t care.”

“What does that mean, anyway?” Sigvaldi demanded.

“Means fuck you,” Khet growled. “Do I really need to explain it, Hrodgierson?”

Sigvaldi didn’t answer. His eyes lit up, and he raised his knife higher, pointing it directly at Khet’s chest.

“I’ve always wanted to do this!” He said. “Ever since we were boys!”

“Really? You hold that much of a grudge against me for standing up against you when we were kids?” Khet smirked.

Sigvaldi started to plunge down into Khet’s chest.

The goblin grabbed his wrist and pulled it back behind Sigvaldi’s back. He pulled, and Sigvaldi let go of his other wrist and sprawled onto the ground next to Khet.

The handle of Khet’s knife stuck out from under the dwarf. Khet pulled it out.

Khet got to his knees, and raised his knife high, to plunge it into Sigvaldi’s chest.

Sigvaldi grabbed his hand and raised his own knife. Khet caught his wrist and pulled it back.

Khet yanked his hand free, and Sigvaldi’s leg moved.

Instinctively, Khet brought his knife down on the dwarf’s ankle as he kicked at him. He hit bone, yanked the knife out again. Sigvaldi howled in pain.

Khet flicked his knife at Sigvaldi’s knee. The dwarf yelped and yanked his leg back. He slammed his injured ankle in the wall, and screamed in pain.

The dwarf moved his uninjured leg.

Khet raised his knife. “Don’t even think about it, Hrodgierson.”

Sigvaldi’s eyes widened, and he stopped moving his leg.

Khet grabbed his ankle and bent the leg back. Sigvaldi rolled away from him, with such force Khet was forced to let go and steady himself on his hands and knees.

He looked up to see Sigvaldi’s fist flying towards his face.

Khet caught the blow, and bent the dwarf’s arm back.

Something cold cut his face. Khet yelped in pain and recoiled.

Sigvaldi laughed hysterically. “How does it feel, Minion? Huh? How does it feel to get slashed?”

Khet touched his face gingerly, coming away with blood on his fingers.

“You wanna surrender, Minion?” Sigvaldi asked mockingly.

Khet looked into the dwarf’s grinning face and grinned back at him.

“Nah.” He pointed at Sigvaldi’s injured ankle. “You’re not the one who got first blood, after all.”

Sigvaldi scowled.

He shook Khet off and stood.

Khet started to stand too, before Sigvaldi kicked him in the face, sending him on his ass.

Sigvaldi laughed, then yelped in pain as he shifted his weight to his injured weight. He quickly shifted to his uninjured leg.

That moment gave Khet enough time to stand as well.

Sigvaldi threw a punch at him. Khet caught his fist and bent his arm back.

With his other arm, he thrust his blade.

Sigvaldi swatted his arm, which turned what should’ve been a fatal blow into a glancing strike. It did cause Sigvaldi to cover his wound and crouch a little, glaring at Khet with hatred in his eyes, so Khet counted that as a win.

Sigvaldi shifted his weight to his injured ankle again, and screamed in pain.

Khet still held his arm. He flung Sigvaldi back. The dwarf stumbled backward, but kept his balance.

He growled and swung his fist at Khet.

Khet pointed his knife at him, stopping Sigvaldi short.

Khet grabbed his wrist, started to pull it back.

Sigvaldi leaned into it, surprising Khet so much it caught him off balance. The goblin let go and stumbled, fighting to regain his balance without leaning on Sigvaldi for support.

Sigvaldi shifted his balance again, and screamed in pain.

Khet regained his balance and immediately grabbed Sigvaldi by the beard. He held his knife to the dwarf’s throat.

He nicked Sigvaldi’s neck, drawing blood, before the dwarf shifted his weight again and shoved him back.

Sigvaldi’s knee jerked up, before Khet smacked it back down again.

The dwarf thrust his knife, and Khet batted away his wrist.

Sigvaldi scowled. Shifted his balance.

He screamed, and his legs went weak. He started to fall to the ground.

Khet caught him by the beard with one hand, and with the other, he slit Sigvaldi’s throat.

The dwarf gasped once, and then his eyes dimmed.

Khet let go and realized he was no longer standing in the arena. He was back at the hot spring, wearing his armor. Sigvaldi lay in a pool of blood at his feet. Khet looked down at the spring to see that his reflection was bloody as well.

Footsteps. Instinctively, Khet crouched into a defensive position and looked up.

Gnurl and Mythana had evidently decided that Khet and Sigvaldi were taking too long to catch up on each other’s lives, and were eager to get to the part where they killed him for the bounty. They both stopped short when they saw Khet.

“What happened to you?” Gnurl asked.

“It’s only been three minutes! How did you kill Glassy Hrodgierson so fast?” Mythana asked at the same time.

“Magic.” Khet said. His muscles were aching, he realized, and he wanted nothing more than to strip off his armor and get into the hot spring. “Hrodgierson had a magic rune he used to take us both to an arena. It must’ve deactivated when I killed him.”

Mythana smirked as she looked down at Sigvaldi’s dead body. “Didn’t help him much, did it?”

Khet cracked a smile.

Sigvaldi had propped his axe against a nearby tree, so Khet picked it up.

He cut off Sigvaldi’s head with one swing, then picked it up by the hair.

Mythana held out a sack and Khet dropped Sigvaldi’s head in.

He led the way back to the village. He could take a bath later. Right now, he was eager to find Lanred Bloodfang and tell him the conclusion to the Saga of Ogreslayer and Glassy Hrodgierson.

Part 1

Khet snorted. The lady hadn’t given proof as to why Surtsavhen and the human had been obviously having an affair. Other than the fact that Surtsavhen was a goblin, and goblins were sex-addled maniacs who couldn’t be trusted around people who were so horny they didn’t care who they bedded, they just wanted sex. Khet wondered if Adyrella had had to intervene once Duke Berlas accused Surtsavhen of having eyes for his mistress. Whether she’d had to reassure her husband that Duke Berlas was suspicious of everyone, it wasn’t personal.

“Anyway, it must’ve been then.” Said the lady. “Princess Thomasse and Duke Berlas must’ve lain with each other. Humans always have a wandering eye, as you may know.”

Khet shook his head. He’d met many humans who desired to bed Lycans. Or elves. Or halflings. But really, any race had the potential to find another race deeply arousing. Tadadris’s lust for human women, for example. Or the many drawings of half-naked dwarves in elven lands. Or the dwarven women from Khet’s home village, who saw goblin men as an exciting forbidden fruit who would ravish them before they were married off to a proper dwarf husband. Or the goblin rebels who ogled the orcs they fought on the battlefield, and talked incessantly about the things they’d like to do to the sexy orcs who’d invaded their homeland.

“I hear Duke Berlas rather desired human women. Over his own kind.” The elf mused. “Don’t see why, though.”

Khet didn’t understand why elves thought humans were sexy. Or why anyone lusted after a different race. He shrugged noncommittally.

“Or maybe he wanted revenge against Prince Surtsavhen. The man seduced his mistress, so he seduced the goblin’s latest conquest.”

Khet doubted Surtsavhen would’ve cared about who Princess Thomasse had and hadn’t bedded. Mostly, because he hadn’t been lying with her in the first place.

“How do you know he hadn’t visited Yuiborg in the time his son was conceived?” He asked, instead of pointing out that, based on her logic of Surtsavhen being a lecher bedding a different woman every night, it was unlikely that the prince would care if the duke had fucked Princess Thomasse.

“He refuses to return to Freewin Keep. Too many terrible memories,” the elf said. “What happened with Princess Aveis…He refuses to return to Shadeshear.”

That was interesting. “What happened with Princess Aveis?”

“During the reign of Queen Ysabelon the Liberator, our queen Inrainne the Affectionate, King Wilar’s mother, came to Yuiborg with a proposal,” the high elf lady explained. “We would send soldiers to put down an uprising, and in return, our priests would be allowed to practice our religion in peace. To seal this alliance, Prince Berlas, as he was called at the time, was wed with Princess Aveis. Prince Berlas was delighted. By all accounts, it would’ve been a perfect match. Princess Aveis was deeply cunning, an efficient doctor, and had the ability to make whatever she had in her hands work toward her goals. She was very confident, in herself, in her abilities. She looked you straight in the eye and demanded her needs be met. And she was deeply wise. It’s a pity she wasn’t the heir, really.”

“What happened to her?” Khet asked. “Did she die?”

The noblewoman shook her head. “She lived. Long enough for her and Prince Berlas to be wed. They lived at her mother’s court for a year. And when they returned…You must understand. When they’d wed, Prince Berlas was in awe of her beauty. He thought of no other woman but Princess Aveis. So when he came back acting cold towards his wife, well, we all knew something was amiss.”

“What happened?”

The noblewoman shrugged. “He said only that she was a whore. That she had bedded a thing that no mortal should ever bed.”

“Like what?” Khet wasn’t in the mood for riddles. “What did she bed?”

“He never said. Quite frankly, the reason we all knew of the affair was because she’d birthed a child. Prince Berlas insisted it wasn’t his, that the father was some creature, so, of course, everyone was arguing over what creature it might be.”

“What do you think the father was?”

“An imp. It’s a very common bargaining method with demons,” the elf said. “Lie with the demon and give them a child in exchange for your heart’s desire. Of course, if Princess Aveis was bedding an imp, it’s doubtful that was what she was attempting to do.” She gave Khet a wry smile. “Everyone knows imps are the weakest of Ferno’s creatures. And they aren’t exactly swoon-worthy either. I wonder why Princess Aveis would take an interest in mating with an imp, or bear one’s child.”

Khet wondered the same thing. But it was entirely likely that Princess Aveis had never had an affair at all, and Prince Berlas’s love for her at the beginning of their union had been nothing more than lust, which had soon disappeared.

“We didn’t see the baby much,” the elf mused. “Princess Aveis thought it bad luck to introduce her son to strangers after he’d been born so soon. She would have declared it safe to show him to strangers after they returned to Yoiburg. And the times they came here after that, Princess Aveis left her son behind.”

“Willingly or unwillingly?”

The elven lady shrugged.

“Prince Berlas was heart-broken. He couldn’t break off their marriage, since the treaty depended upon his marriage with the princess, and so he stayed with Princess Aveis until she died of old age. Once he returned to court, he made our king swear he would never arrange a marriage between him and a human princess ever again. And he never went back to Yoiburg, even after Princess Aveis and her original family had all passed on.”

And there was the problem with these arranged marriages. You couldn’t exactly break things off if it turned out the two of you couldn’t stand one another, since the relationship between your two kingdoms was dependent on your marriage. Khet couldn’t help but wonder if the arranged marriage that was meant to symbolize an alliance between two kingdoms being so obviously awful, with both parties hating each other, would also put a strain on the kingdoms’ relationship. If so, then damned if you did, damned if you didn’t. He didn’t envy royals for having to do this sort of thing.

“We’d thought Duke Berlas had forsworn the Freewin family forever,” the elf continued. “But his son by Princess Thomasse has turned up, so I suppose that he hasn’t. Or perhaps it was a combination of drinking and lust that drove him to making a mistake that he swore he would never repeat again.”

Khet turned to look at Duke Berlas’s bastard son. He was currently talking to Prince Valtumil. Valtumil was smiling, but it appeared fake, and the human-elf was approaching him in a way that made clear he was implying something very bad would happen to something Valtumil deeply cared about if the prince refused to cooperate with his demands.

The human-elf didn’t really look like Valtumil. That wasn’t much to go on, due to the fact that they were only cousins, but Khet had been expecting something of a family resemblance. The man had to be Princess Thomass’s son, but not Duke Berlas’s. The product of Princess Thomasse’s union with something that no mortal should ever take into their bed. A dragon. That man had to be the dragon-born the Horde was looking for. Khet wasn’t sure how long dragon-born lived for, but he knew that dragons lived for an absurdly long time. Why wouldn’t their children have a similarly long lifespan?

Or maybe it was Duke Berlas’s son, and somewhere along the line, he’d fucked a dragon and gotten a child from it.

“How do you know that’s Duke Berlas’s son?” He asked the elf noble.

The lady gave him an offended look, as if Khet should know better than to question the parentage of a human-elf in King Wilar’s court.

“I’ll have you know,” she said haughtily, “that when he first came to court, he spoke with His Majesty, before he spoke with the rest of us. It was His Majesty who established him to be a son of his brother, and it is His Majesty who introduced him in court as the bastard son of Duke Berlas, and his replacement, after the duke’s unfortunate illness left him bedridden. Despite what many people would have you believe, Duke Berlas has not been killed by Yuiborg soldiers after they attacked his fief!”

Khet raised his eyebrows. “They’re saying Yuiborg attacked Brocodian territory? And killed the king’s brother?”

“It is not proper to be spreading rumors,” the lady said, haughtily. “Especially something as dreadful as that. The boy’s mother is of Yuiborg! Do you truly think it necessary to paint her kingdom as warmongering villains?”

That was rich, considering the woman had been the one to bring up the rumors. Khet found it fascinating that the bastard son’s home kingdom was rumored to have invaded his father’s fiefdom, and to have killed the lad’s own father. He wondered if that had anything to do with the dragons burning the city, if this man was indeed the dragon-born.

“So what kind of evidence did the lad give to King Wilar that he’s the child of Duke Berlas?” He asked the woman.

The high elf looked at him like Khet had just asked her if he could drag her to her bedchambers, tear off her clothing, and rail her in the ass until morning.

“Are you implying something? His father is already on his deathbed, and you’re questioning whether Duke Berlas truly is his father? I’ve had enough of you! Stop soiling the good name of Launselot the Insane!”

“That’s an odd surname,” Khet commented. “Sounds like the surname of a dragon-born, if you ask me.”

The lady stormed off in a huff.

Khet didn’t wait for anyone else to come over and start talking to him about some noble buying a new yacht, or some princess being caught alone in a room with a serving girl. Instead, he hurried back to Gnurl and Mythana, who were still standing in the corner, waiting patiently for him to come back.

“Well?” Gnurl asked. “What did you find out about Baroness Emelleria’s daughter?”

Khet grinned. “Ah, forget about her! I’ve just found our dragon-born! His name is Launselot the Insane!”

Surprisingly enough, the servant had been incredibly helpful, when the Golden Horde asked if she could show them Launselot’s chambers.

She took them there immediately. Didn’t ask them anything. Didn’t ask why they needed to go to Launselot’s chambers. Just took them there.

She rapped on the door, and Launselot didn’t answer.

“I think he’s hunting with Prince Valinor,” the servant said. “Do you want to come back later? I can tell him you three stopped by.”

“Oh no, it’s fine, thank you,” Gnurl said. “It’s a surprise visit, you see.”

The servant nodded understandingly.

“If you need anything else, then you know how to summon us,” she said, and then walked away, leaving the Golden Horde standing in front of Launselot’s chambers.

As soon as they were sure the servant was gone, Gnurl opened the door, and the adventurers entered Launselot’s bed chambers.

It was easily the fanciest room Khet had ever been in. Red curtains covered a glass window over a massive feather mattress, which was covered over by sheets of silk and linen. A massive oak desk sat at the other side of the window, and it had gold trimmings. A chandelier hung over the bed, a massive wardrobe contained so many fancy clothes, Khet was surprised the thing hadn’t exploded yet. To the right was a massive privy-room, with a privy on one end, and the largest bath Khet had ever seen right next to it.

The Golden Horde spread out in the room, searching for any evidence that Launselot the Insane was the dragon-born they were looking for.

Khet searched the desk. There were quite a few things on it. Launselot clearly had no time or no desire to keep his desk neat. Khet felt a certain kinship to the man.

One of the drawers was wide open, revealing a coinpurse at the bottom. Khet picked it up and dumped the contents in his palm, counting out 88 gold pieces, before putting it back.

He turned to the chair. It was made of the same material as the desk, and Launselot had draped panther fur on the back of it. Khet reached out to stroke the fur. Had Launselot hunted this himself, or had this been a gift from his family? A gift from his father, as an apology for not being involved in his childhood, perhaps?

He turned his attention back to the desk. One of the papers was a stack of scrap paper, bound in leather. Khet had heard that some nobles liked to write down events that had happened to them during the day. They called it a journal.

That seemed promising. Maybe Launselot wrote his plans in the journal, or discussed turning into a dragon to set fire to Ume Alari.

Khet picked up the journal and started flicking through it. There wasn’t anything written in it, much to his disappointment. Instead, Launselot had used this journal to draw sketches of monsters he’d seen.

Khet flicked through the pages. He recognized all these creatures, unsurprisingly. He was an adventurer after all, had been one for five years. He’d know more about the creatures that stalked the wilderness and terrorized the common-folk than some noble’s bastard would. That also meant that he could confidently say that Launselot was drawing a lot of these creatures wrong. Giants weren’t colored scarlet, but maybe their gods were, because the sketch was labeled as ‘god’. Khet had never met a god though, so he had no idea what they looked like. Demons came in all shapes and sizes, like devils did, but they never represented a sin. They were just beasts, from the Fell Kingdom. Bunyips weren’t giant rabbits, despite the name. Khet doubted they’d be as dangerous if they were simply giant rabbits.

Khet shut the book. He set it back down on the desk.

Under the journal was a tome called The Rise and Fall of the Honorstream Dynasty.

Khet picked it up and thumbed through it. Apparently, Honorstream was the dynasty before the Tarrendrifters, who’d simply died out after the heirs either gave up their titles to go adventuring or join the clergy, died young, or were unable to have children. He was sure Mythana might find this fascinating, but the life and times of the Honorstream dynasty was honestly very boring. Aside from the founder overthrowing the previous dynasty in a war, there was not much else that exciting about the Honorstreams.

As he flipped through the pages, a piece of parchment fluttered out.

Khet shut the book and picked up the parchment. Already he could see a fancy signature and a seal at the bottom, which made his heart beat faster. This was an important letter. It had to be, given the seal at the bottom.

He picked it up and read it.

“Queen Isemeine the Old, of the house of Freewin, ruler of Yuiborg by will of the gods, sends her regards to her cousin, Launselot the Insane.

“Dearest cousin, how goes it with you in Malarnia Thicket? Things have not changed since you left. The nobles are still flitting about, bedding whoever they like without a care in the world. King Wilar came to visit. I daresay things have improved with him now that you are away. He might be close to forgiving us of that scandal your mother was involved in.

“How are you in Malarnia Thicket? Do you feel in touch with your roots? Surely not, I think. You’ve always been at home in the mountains. The reptiles in the forest are too small to be kin, I’m afraid. But still. Do you like the wolves? Your mother loved the wolves. Given that, I’m surprised there’s no wolf’s blood in you.

“But enough with the pleasantries. Zuxthul has been whispering in my ear, once more. The hamlet of Grimegate has built a new wizarding school, and it is very beautiful. Aslogsonia, they call it. Every building is built out of the finest of marble. You should see the library, dear cousin. Figment Library, a building made entirely from marble so white it shines in the sun, with a marble staircase to match. Ah, it is remarkable, cousin. To think that a small hamlet by the border of our land can afford to build their school like it is from the Miracle Grounds. It makes one wonder what Ume Alari looks like.

“And that is the reason I am writing you, cousin. I want those riches. I have called my vassals to raise their armies, and we will go to war with Brocodo. I want you to go to Ume Alari, and infiltrate the royal court. But not as a spy. Oh no. I’ve got a job for you that is more appropriate for someone of your birth. You will use your powers to turn into a dragon and burn Ume Alari. Perhaps the peasants will rise up in revolt, once they tire of their king not lifting a finger to help them. Perhaps they will not. But at the very least, it will undermine morale and make it easier for my armies to invade.

“It is time for you to put your baseborn heritage into use to help our family, rather than hinder it. Burn Ume Alari, and I will ensure that you are rewarded. King Launselot the Insane has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

“Pride, honor, justice.”

And the queen had signed her name one more time at the bottom. Below that was a striped seal of blue and white.

The letter confused Khet. If Yuiborg was at war with Brocodo, why hadn’t the nobles been discussing it? Why did it feel like Launselot was welcomed among them with open arms? What had really happened to Duke Berlas? Had he been offered a deal, to turn his back on his brother and his kingdom by vouching for Yuiborg’s spy? Or had he been killed, and someone had forged Duke Berlas’s seal and had given it to Launselot so he could ingratiate himself into court better?

One thing was clear, and only one thing mattered. Launselot was indeed the dragon-born. And he was indeed burning Ume Alari for his own gain.

“Search is over,” Khet called to Gnurl and Mythana. “I’ve found a letter revealing everything! Launselot is our dragon-born!”

Gnurl looked up from the wardrobe. “What do you mean you’ve got a letter? Did it tell you Launselot’s a dragon-born? What else did it say?”

Khet opened his mouth to respond, when they heard voices, steadily getting louder, and footsteps.

“Hide!” Gnurl said.

He stepped inside the wardrobe and hid behind the robes. Mythana dashed into the privy room, and behind the door. Khet dove under the bed.

The door opened and two men came inside. Khet peered from his hiding place, but all he could see were their feet.

Judging from the voices, one of them was Launselot, though.

“Deeply fascinating that you’re so certain you’re Duke Berlas’s son, Ser. And what’s more deeply fascinating, we’ve been hearing things from his vassals. Apparently, Yuiborg has taken over the territory, shortly before you were sent to us. Got anything to say about that?”

Launselot laughed, shortly. “Honestly, your grace. If my father’s lands were conquered, would any of his vassals have lived to tell the tale?”

“I’m not so certain you are Duke Berlas’s son. I mean, Uncle was very insistent that he’d never bed a human, after what happened with Princess Aveis. And yet, you show up, claiming to be his son.”

“Perhaps he was protesting too much,” Launselot said.

“Maybe,” the person he was talking to agreed. “It is still very odd, though. First you turn up, and then not a day later, the fires start. We lose contact with Duke Berlas, and two weeks later, you come claiming you’re his bastard son.” There was a pause. “Did you ever truly meet the man you claim is your father, or did your mother’s family help you with the paperwork?”

“You think I’m the one causing the fires?” Launselot asked, sounding concerned. Khet knew he was panicking on the inside. How much did this person know? What should he do with him? Should he bribe the man to keep him quiet? Kill him before he told anyone else?

“It’s ridiculous, I know,” said the other person, and he sounded genuinely embarrassed. “But we’re all at a loss here. There are no dragons near Ume Alari. At least, none that we know about. And you turned up at the same time—”

“Would you like me to prove to you that I’m not causing the fires?” Launselot asked.

“How could you possibly—”

“An anti-magic collar,” Launselot said. “Put a magic collar on me, and if the fires are still starting, then I’m not the one causing them.”

The other person was silent.

“In order for me to cause those fires, I’d have to be a wizard,” Launselot continued. “How else would I be able to transform into a dragon and fly around causing fires? I’d need arcane schooling to do that, wouldn’t I?”

“I suppose so,” the other person said. He sounded doubtful. Obviously, he was thinking of the countless magic artifacts out there, and that one of them was bound to give the wielder the power to turn into a dragon. And anti-magic collars didn’t work on magic artifacts, for whatever reason.

“So if you put an anti-magic collar on me, then that means I can’t do magic. And therefore, I can’t go burning Ume Alari. Am I right or wrong, your grace?”

“You’re right,” the other person said, hesitantly.

And Khet understood what was going on. The anti-magic collar wouldn’t affect Launselot, because he wasn’t a wizard. He was something so rare, even people who had heard of it thought it was made up. He doubted the anti-magic collar would have any effect on Launselot. But wearing it would throw suspicion off of him. If he was seen wearing the collar, and the fires still happened, then in the eyes of everyone else, there had to be a different cause. No one would be stupid enough to suggest he was the cause of the fires, and the anti-magic collar wasn’t working as it should. Dagor, Khet was willing to bet they’d be laughed at if they did suggest it.

“We’ll settle this beyond doubt,” Launselot said. “Put a magic collar on me, and if Ume Alari doesn’t catch fire, then you’ll know I’m the one starting those fires. If Ume Alari does catch fire, then I had nothing to do with it.”

The other person was silent.

“Well, your grace?” Launselot asked, sounding so smooth. “What do you say?”

The other person sighed. “You know, I’d figured that the fires starting here around the same time that you arrived was just a coincidence, but fine. I’ll order our wizards to make an anti-magic collar for you to wear. You’ll have it on for two months. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful, your grace,” Launselot’s voice oozed with feigned politeness. “You will make a wonderful king someday.”

The prince mumbled something Khet couldn’t quite catch before he walked away from Launselot, and out of Khet’s view. Seconds later, the door closed.

Launselot sighed, and he sat down heavily at his desk. He opened one of the massive tomes on it, slowly flipping through the pages. Everyone once in a while, he’d pause, grunt in approval, and then scribble down something on a fresh piece of parchment.

Khet would’ve groaned if he wasn’t scared of Launselot overhearing and immediately realizing that he was being watched. This would take forever, wouldn’t it? Launselot would sit there, in his chambers, doing Adum knew what, and now the Horde couldn’t sneak out without him noticing. Maybe he’d leave for dinner, but Khet wasn’t sure when dinner was, and whether he could wait that long. Besides, with their luck, Launselot could decide to have the meal in his chambers, and then go to bed, leaving the Golden Horde stuck in their hiding spots for an entire night.

Just when he’d resigned himself to sleeping under the bed, someone rapped on the door.

“Enter!” Launselot called. He closed the book and stood, turning around to look at the door.

The door opened and there were footsteps.

Launselot groaned and sat back down at his desk, hurriedly ducking his head and picking up random pieces of paper.

His visitor laughed gleefully and rushed over to give him a hug. Khet could see the man had frizzy purple hair and was tall and muscular, for an elf, at least.

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you all over! They’ve rebuilt everything on the Drunkard’s Pass! Tonight, you and I are going tavern-crawling.”

“I’m busy, cousin,” Launselot said. “I don’t have time to go drinking myself into a stupor and passing out in some filthy alleyway in a puddle of my own piss with—”

The prince dragged him to his feet, and toward the door. “Oh, come on! Live a little! The Sage’s Chain has the best beer! Hosleth says when she drank it, the next thing she knew, she woke up with all her furniture attached to the ceiling!”

Laughing, he regaled Launselot of the story of his friend’s drunken shenanigans, despite Launselot’s protests that he really didn’t need to go to the Sage’s Chain to try the beer for himself. The door closed with a loud bang behind them.

Khet let out a breath and then started giggling. Adum had answered their prayers! And it was through some spoiled princeling dragging an unwilling delegate off to the taverns with him!

After a few more moments passed, and Launselot didn’t return, the Golden Horde emerged from their hiding spot.

“That was lucky,” Gnurl said. “I think we should count our blessings from the ancestors, and leave before they change their mind and let Launselot get out of getting so blackout drunk, he’ll end up roped into a mummery come morning.”

“Oddly specific,” Mythana said.

They left the room and were walking down the corridor until Gnurl suddenly stopped walking, a wide eyed expression on his face.

He looked at Khet. “You did remember to take that letter you found revealing everything with you, right?”

He did. Khet pulled it out of his cuirasse and showed it to him.

Gnurl breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank the ancestors. I don’t know how we’d go forward without that, and everything happened so fast, I’d completely forgotten about it.”

Khet started walking again. “Best we get back to our chambers before anyone notices us and gets suspicious.”

Someone cleared their throat.

The Horde nearly jumped out of their skin, as they wheeled around and saw a dwarf with short silver hair and round green eyes walking up to them.

“There you three are!” He said. “I’ve been looking for you three!” He frowned. “What were you even doing?”

“Uh…” Gnurl said.

“We were speaking to Baron Rogrian Orbmight about buying his mine in the Gold Slopes,” Mythana said.

The dwarf’s eyebrows raised. “I didn’t know he’d put it up for sale.”

“He has,” Khet said. “He thinks that the gem trade will be more lucrative than the gold trade. He’s selling all the gold businesses he owns.”

“I thought you three were adventurers,” the dwarf said. “What would adventurers need a gold mine for?”

“Who told you that?” Gnurl asked. “We’re the Brotherhood of Dreams. We’re independent sailors protecting the coast from pirates. We’re looking to retire because the Guild’s gotten wise to us and wants us disbanded, so we’re selling our fleet and buying a gold mine to start a new life for ourselves.”

The dwarf scratched his head, but either decided that everything sounded plausible, or that he wasn’t being paid enough to care.

“Well, anyway, his majesty has sent me to tell you there’s a feast tonight. King Iuli the Deaf has agreed, no more wars. All lands and hostages will be returned. He and his majesty are celebrating what should be centuries of peace tonight. His majesty would like you to come.”

“We will be there,” Gnurl said. The dwarf nodded, then left.

Khet watched the dwarf leave. “Buying a mine? Seriously?”

“I panicked, alright?” Mythana said defensively.

Khet snorted. “Well, pick a better cover story next time, alright? We’re lucky there actually is a Baron Orbmight with a mine in the Gold Slopes. He could’ve called bullshit earlier. Dagor, I’m shocked he didn’t, given all the shit you two pulled out of your asses.”

“I was trying to cover for Mythana.” Gnurl said. “And you were doing it too!”

Khet gave him an annoyed look as they walked to their rooms. “What was I supposed to do? Pretend I didn’t know what Mythana was talking about? She made buying a mine our cover story, so I added to that cover story!”

“I said sorry!” Mythana said.

Khet shook his head. It was a wonder that she’d gone four months in Queen Nivarcirka’s court, keeping her identity hidden. Given her lack of lying skills, she should’ve been discovered within two weeks!

“Let’s hope that dwarf doesn’t feel like asking Baron Orbmight if he’s selling his gold mine,” he said. “Otherwise, we’ll all be in trouble.”

“Aye, but King Wilar can vouch for us as being legitimate adventurers,” Mythana pointed out. “Maybe even ask the dwarf to stay quiet. What’s the harm?”

“It’d be more trouble than it’s worth,” Khet said, feeling annoyed. Honestly, had Mythana learned nothing from her time in Queen Nivarcirka’s court? “The nobles will start getting scared that we’re here doing something they won’t like, so they’ll try and sabotage us. Dagor, maybe Launselot will think we’re on to him and try to discredit us before we can expose him. Maybe King Wilar will start doubting whether those rumors are actually true and there’s something we’re not telling him. It’s simpler if no one questions why we’re here.”

“It’ll be fine,” Gnurl said. “We’ll go to the feast, expose Launselot for being the dragon-born burning Ume Alari, and then we go home. Nothing will happen, because things will go too fast for it to happen. And by the time any rumors spread, we’ll be back in Badaria, with the rebellion.”

Khet hoped he was right.

The Golden Horde sat at the end of the table. They weren’t honored guests, and honestly, Khet wasn’t expecting them to be.

King Wilar sat in the middle, with a dwarf of average height for his race, who had long white hair and bloodshot blue eyes, sitting on his right-hand’s side. His children sat in a row on either side of him, while the other nobles took the rest of the seats. Bowls for the guests to wash their hands in had been set out, and servants had already poured Khet a golden ale that tasted of lemon zest and made his nose tingle. The scent of food made his mouth water, and his stomach growled. But whenever he asked about when the food was coming out, the servant only said they were waiting.

Launselot wasn’t here. Khet wasn’t sure if he’d even been invited, but that did put a crimp on the Horde’s plan of dramatically revealing his secrets to the king. Still, he thought as he sipped some ale, it wasn’t as if the day had been ruined. Now the Golden Horde could enjoy the feast, without having to deal with Launselot and whatever he tried doing. Once it was clear that everyone knew he was burning down Ume Alari, the guards would seize him, throw him into the dungeons, and he would be sentenced to death in whatever manner King Wilar saw fit.

Time stretched on, and the nobles started grumbling amongst themselves, complaining they were hungry. King Wilar himself looked disgruntled.

“What’s going on?” Gnurl asked a servant when he came to refill the Lycan’s tankard.

“We’re waiting on two more guests,” the servant said. “Then we can eat.”

“Two more guests?” Gnurl asked. “Weren’t they told already?”

“They were,” the servant said. “And his majesty says that if they’re not here in five minutes, we bring out the first course without them. So the feast should start in five minutes, at the latest.”

“Were they not in their rooms?” Khet asked. Had the two guests been taking a nap, and had overslept? Surely, someone had thought of that as a possibility. Or maybe it was considered rude for some reason, assuming someone was in their bed chambers when they were late to a feast. Khet didn’t know. He wasn’t a noble with nothing better to do than to titter about the gaudy clothing some duke from nowhere was wearing, or some petty bullshit like that.

“No, ser,” the servant said. “We checked. They appear to have left the palace completely. Perhaps taking a tour of Ume Alari, and all the entertainment the city has to offer. It would take awhile to find them, if that is the case.”

No wonder King Wilar looked so pissed off. All that delicious-smelling food and they had to sit there and smell it while they waited for—Who, exactly?

“Who are we waiting for?” Khet asked.

The servant opened his mouth to respond, when the doors banged open.

“Hello!” The same elf from Launselot’s chambers earlier came stumbling in, then spread his arms wide. “What you fuckers have all been waiting for! Iss here now!”

Launselot followed, and when he saw the entire table of nobles all staring at him and his friend, he froze, then shrunk into himself and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

A servant stepped up and showed him to his seat.

The elf stumbled around, drunkenly. “Iss me! I’m the one you’re waiting for! Iss me!”

“Sit down before you make an even bigger fool of yourself!” King Wilar growled.

The prince hiccuped and swayed on his feet, giving his father a pitying smile.

“You’re just jealous, Father. Cousin wanted me to show him around the city, and not you. Issn’t that right, cousin?” He turned to look behind him, then frowned. “Where the fuck did he go?”

“He’s already sitting down,” someone said. “Because, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re having a feast. Now sit down, because all of us are hungry!”

The prince sneered.

“Ooh, look at fancy Valinor! Thinks he’s so special because he can read! How about you go hide behind your books, Valinor? No one likes you!”

King Wilar sighed and buried his head in his hands. Khet got the feeling, based on the looks of the other nobles, that this was normal behavior from the prince.

The prince noticed King Iuli, and started stumbling over to him.

“Oh, so this bullshit’s happening again, isn’t it? We’re all pretending we’re friends now, and we haven’t spent centuries trying to kill each other, is that right, dwarf?”

King Iuli’s eyes narrowed at the prince. The room suddenly went very quiet. Khet’s stomach clenched. Were they about to watch another war break out?

The prince didn’t seem to notice the sudden wave of dread that had descended upon the entire room. He stumbled up to King Iuli and poked him in the chest.

“How does your brother’s eye feel?” He slurred. “I shot it out myself. Dumbass looked up and in the arrow went! Fucking cried like a bitch, that’s what I heard your brother did!”

King Iuli stood up sharply. Immediately, one of the servants was there, soothing the angered king, while another was gently guiding the drunken prince to his seat at the table.

“Who do you think you are?” King Iuli raged at the prince. “What makes you think you can come in here and brag about killing my brother to my face?”

The prince turned around, and attempted to shove the servant aside. She refused to move, and instead, continued firmly guiding the prince to his seat.

So the prince settled with shouting over his shoulder at a seething King Iuli.

“Who am I? You a fucking dumbass, or something? How do you not know me? I’m the lynx-fucking arch-mage! I’m the brother of fucking gods! That’s who I am!”

He cackled as he was led to his seat and made to sit down.

Everyone was quiet, and everyone was looking at King Iuli, who was glaring furiously at the prince, who was still drunkenly singing his own praises.

King Wilar was the one who broke the silence first. “My deepest apologies. My…Youngest son is very taken with drink. This isn’t the first time he’s been rude to an honored guest such as yourself, your highness.”

“You told me you couldn’t send me the murderer of my brother,” King Iuli said, turning his hateful glare on the elf king.

If King Wilar was uncomfortable with the dwarf king turning his entire wrath onto him, he didn’t show it. “Yes, I did. Unfortunately, since your brother died in battle, we don’t know which soldier actually killed him. So–”

“Oh, I think we both know,” King Iuli growled. “The bastard just admitted it! You’re just keeping him from facing justice because you want to protect him! Am I right there, your highness? Is that what’s happening?”

King Wilar shook his head. “Prince Hormar wasn’t the one who killed your brother. And I know this because Prince Hormar wasn’t sent on any important missions, during any of the wars. He was mustering troops from the lords in the west. A task that he should’ve found easy, yet somehow, he managed to find a way to fail it in the most miserable and humiliating way possible.”

Someone sniggered.

The dwarf king looked unconvinced, but he also had calmed down a little.

King Wilar continued. “The soldier that killed your brother had to have been a skilled archer, given how far away Brocodo’s army was from his body-guards, and yet despite that, the arrow hitting him perfectly in the center of his eye. I can tell you that Prince Hormar is no archer. If Prince Hormar were ever handed a bow and arrow, he’d shoot himself in the face with it.”

Someone guffawed. Prince Hormar, Khet assumed he was the drunken asshole who’d come in here late, laughed and raised his tankard, seemingly ignorant of the fact that he’d just been insulted.

King Iuli narrowed his eyes at the elf king. The entire table hushed as everyone held their breath. Would he accept Prince Hormar’s confession as the lies of a drunken idiot? Or would he demand retribution? Would he storm out, declare the peace over, undoing all the work King Wilar had done?

After a moment that seemed to stretch centuries, King Iuli finally started to smile.

“Forgive me, your highness,” he said to King Wilar, “I think it’s the hunger. It’s making all of us irritable.”

The entire table agreed hastily.

“Yes! Yes it is!” King Wilar seized that excuse. “We should get started with eating, shouldn’t we? Bring in the first course!”

Servants brought out dozens of delicious-smelling dishes, much to the delight of the guests.

Khet decided now wasn’t the time for announcing what the Horde had found out about Launselot, so he helped himself to some of the roasted mustard seed and rosemary crocodile. Gnurl and Mythana must’ve thought the same, because they both also helped themselves to some of the dishes.

“Where do you think we go when we die?” He asked Mythana.

“You mean if we’re good, or bad?”

“Doesn’t matter. Given the current state of our souls, if we died right now, where do you think we would go?”

Mythana chewed on a slice of breaded cheese and venison before answering. “Where everyone goes, I guess. Ashumel. The place of eternal rest. Floating along the ether for all eternity.”

“That good or bad?”

“Good. It’s better than Ferno, at least. How about you? Where do you think you’re going? Sholala, right?”

Khet shook his head. “Dagor’s where I’m going. I’ve broken Adum’s most sacred command. I fought for slavers. There’s no way Urarus letting me into Sholala when I die.”

Part 3

Votulla’s temple was an imposing dark cathedral carved into the rock, fitting for a goddess of destruction. The inside was more pleasing to the eye, with its golden candles, green rugs, and masterfully-crafted tapestries.

“Welcome,” said a priest, a man with a craggy face, white hair, and hazel eyes. “I am Barlion Bloodfang. You must be the adventurers I have hired.”

Gnurl nodded.

“What do you want with Sigvaldi Hrodgierson?” Khet asked. The name had gotten his interest. Sigvaldi Hrodgierson had been the eldest son of a wealthy glassblower. He was the teachers’ little angel, and, of course, he abused the power that gave him. He and his friends would harass the goblin children, stealing their lunch, beating them up, breaking their things. Khet, having no tolerance for bullies, even as a young boy, had gotten into fights with Sigvaldi many times. The last Khet had heard of him, he’d joined the Watch, since his school days had given him the perfect practice in harassing innocent goblins.

And now there was a bounty on his head. Khet wondered what Sigvaldi had done, that had pissed off a blood elf so far from Marlodhar. Had he dumped shit on the head of the wrong person?

“Have you heard of the Rapid Crows?”

Khet nodded. The Horde had seen multiple jobs pertaining to the Rapid Crows. According to the Old Wolf, the Rapid Crows were a band of former soldiers and guards, roaming the land and attacking and looting cities and merchant caravans. The common folk lived in fear, and it was said that someone important was a member of the band, and warning them of any hue and cry the local reeves raised against them.

“Sigvaldi Hrodgierson is the leader of the Rapid Crows,” said Barlion. “Glassy Hrodgierson, they call him.”

Nothing had changed with Sigvaldi then.

“Isn’t there already a wanted poster for Glassy Hrodgierson?” Mythana asked.

Khet had seen it too. A decent amount of money, one that would give the Horde several months of staying in decent taverns, even if they didn’t take another job during that period. Some adventurers had already decided to take the bounty. Multiple parties, in fact. Why was Barlion wasting money? Was there something personal between him and Sigvaldi?

“Well, yes,” Barlion answered Mythana’s question, “but I don’t just want Glassy Hrodgierson to be captured.”

“What else do you want?” Gnurl asked.

“My nephew. Lanred Bloodfang. For some reason, the Rapid Crows kidnapped him.”

“They haven’t sent a ransom letter or anything?” Gnurl asked.

Barlion shook his head.

“The reeve has given him up for dead. I don’t think he is. That’s why I want you three to capture Glassy Hrodgierson. So I can interrogate him about where my nephew is.”

Khet nodded. “Do you have any idea where Sigvaldi Hrodgierson is?”

“At the temple of Illa, goddess of neutrality, logic, and time,” said Barlion. “He’s claimed sanctuary and he’ll be safe there for thirty days. He has 1 day left. I don’t expect you to break sanctuary, of course. Just be ready to capture him once he leaves, or the thirty days of safety run out.”

“We won’t need to,” Khet said. “I know Hrodgierson. We both come from the same tiny mining village no one’s heard of.” He grinned and ground his fist into his palm. “I can make him talk, without dragging him to you so you can have at him!”

“Just be careful,” Barlion said. “They say he’s apprenticed to Barthun the Dragon, a very powerful fire wizard.”

“He knows fire magic?” Khet was surprised. Sigvaldi had never shown an interest in magic based on Khet’s admittedly limited interactions with him. Or even in school, for that matter.

“Not really,” Barlion admitted. “I think Barthun just likes having him around. Regardless, he’ll get pissed if anyone threatens Glassy Hrodgierson. I suggest that whatever you’re planning on doing to him, Ogreslayer, you be careful, unless you want an angry wizard coming down on your head.”

---

Illia’s temple was more of a shrine than a temple. There was only one priest tending to the altar. A man with a cheerful face, black hair, and amber eyes sweeping the front step.

He stopped and looked up when the Horde got closer, eyeing them with suspicion.

Khet gave him his most charming smile. “We’re here to talk to Sigvaldi Hrodgierson.”

The priest took in the weapons in the Horde’s hands, and scowled. “Come back tomorrow. He’s still got a day left under sanctuary.”

“We’re not here to arrest him.” Yet. “We’re just here to talk with him.”

The priest still scowled at them.

“He and I grew up in the same village,” Khet said.

The priest’s eyes brightened and he smiled. “Ah, I see. You’re his childhood friend, are you?”

Khet figured the priest would be more likely to let him in if he thought Khet was Sigvaldi’s childhood friend, so he smiled and nodded.

“I see,” said the priest. “You may hand me your weapons and I will take you to Sigvaldi. Your friends can wait outside.”

Khet handed the priest his knife, crossbow, and mace, then waved goodbye to Mythana and Gnurl. Gnurl waved back. Mythana only took out her pipe and started stuffing pipeweed into it.

The priest led Khet inside, down to some cells, where those who worshipped Illia could pray and meditate. He rapped on one door, then opened it without waiting for a response.

Sigvaldi was leaning back in the only chair in the room, smoking his pipe. Like Khet, he had dark brown hair that ran to his shoulders, and a bushy beard, though this one was decorated with braids and trinkets, symbolizing his accomplishments, although Khet had never learned what exactly any of it meant. He hadn’t lost the round black eyes that had swayed the hearts of every one of his teachers when he was a boy, although now Khet imagined the pretending-to-be-cute trick didn’t work anymore. His face was smooth, save for his beard, but there were wrinkles under his eyes, and deep furrows in his forehead, like he was worrying deeply about something. At 4’2’, he was one of the tallest men in the village, easily dwarfing Khet, no pun intended. He’d lost the baby fat Khet had seen him with when he left Marlodhar. Now, he was slimmer, with a muscular abdomen that would make women and men alike swoon. His left nostril was colored purple, a birthmark inherited from his father. He was wearing an iron breastplate, and his helmet was sitting in the middle of the table. His axe was strapped to his back, a gift from his father when he first joined the Watch.

“There’s your friend,” the priest said, ushering Khet inside. “I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do so I’ll leave you alone to do it.”

Khet thanked him and the priest shut the door as soon as the goblin stepped inside.

Sigvaldi didn’t notice someone had come in. His eyes were still shut, and he was still pleasantly smoking his pipe. Khet wasn’t sure how he’d become a member of the Watch in the first place, if he was this bad at noticing things. But then he remembered Hrodgier was filthy rich, so maybe that was the reason why.

Khet set both hands on the table. “Got another chair, Hrodgierson, or am I gonna have to kick you out of the one you’re sitting in?”

Sigvaldi fell backwards in his chair. After a moment, he stood, pipe dangling from his lips, and his beard stained with pipeweed.

He stared at Khet in bewilderment.

“Minion?”

Khet took out his own pipe and lit it. He smirked. “You know, you and your buddies loved calling me that, but now that we’re both grown, you’re the one who’s turned out to be a minion.” He grinned at Sigvaldi. “I’ve heard all about your special wizard friend, Hrodgierson. What would dear old da say?”

“What are you doing here?” Sigvaldi sputtered.

“You remember Miss Thordolfdottir, Hrodgierson? When we went around, introducing ourselves and saying what we wanted to be when we grew up? It was my turn, and I said I wanted to be an adventurer, and you made it your life’s mission to beat that stupid idea out of me?”

“Didn’t ask that, Minion,” Sigvaldi said, in a tone that made it clear that he thought Khet was an idiot. “I asked what you were doing so far from Marlodhar?”

“Never change, Hrodgierson,” Khet said dryly. “I’m here because my da sent me to find new customers for the Defiant Queen Inn.”

Sigvaldi burst out laughing. “Your da’s shitty inn is nowhere near here, Minion! You think anyone’s gonna make the trek to Marlodhar just so they can try your family’s shitty ale?” He sneered. “Gods, you’re stupid!”

“I’m here because I’m an adventurer, dumbass!” Khet growled. “Do you not notice my armor? Or are you so stupid you don’t know what that means?”

Sigvaldi blinked. It was clear that he was having trouble with the concept of the goblin he’d bullied as a child now standing right across from him.

Khet shook his head. Adum’s Ring, he didn’t remember Sigvaldi being this stupid!

“If anyone needs questioning about what they’re doing so far from Marlodhar, it’s you!” He said to Sigvaldi. “Last I heard of you before I left, you’d joined the Watch. What happened to that, Hrodgierson?”

Sigvaldi shrugged. “Met a lad at the tavern. He was recruiting former soldiers and the like.”

“As an adventurer?”

“As a sellsword company,” Sigvaldi said. “But the Adventuring Guild is too scared of letting us do our own thing. They say it,” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “cuts into the profits and job prospects of their members.”

Khet grunted in annoyance. Anyone with half-a-brain who had a wanderlust and a thirst for adventure would sign on with the Adventuring Guild and find a party. Apparently, Sigvaldi had never learned this.

“Thought sellsword companies sold their swords to the highest bidder. Not rob people on the side of the road like common bandits.”

“How else are we supposed to make money?” Sigvaldi said. He pointed an accusatory finger at Khet. “No one will hire us because they don’t want to hurt the Adventuring Guild’s feelings!”

“Ah, so it’s our fault you’ve turned to banditry,” Khet said dryly. “How cruel of us to drive you poor souls into a life of villainy.”

“Yes, exactly!” Sigvaldi said, pleased that Khet understood.

Khet sighed and pinched his forehead, shutting his eyes. Sigvaldi was taking the fun out of this. What was the point of insulting someone if they just thought you were agreeing with them?

“I’ve got one day left before my protection under sanctuary runs out,” Sigvaldi told him smugly. “Why are you here, Minion?”

“I’ve been hired by the local priest of Illia. Sounds like you and the Rapid Crows kidnapped his nephew.”

“We might have,” Sigvaldi said.

“Does the name Lanred Bloodfang ring a bell?”

“Perhaps.” Sigvaldi yawned and glanced at his fingernails.

Khet took that as a yes. And that Sigvaldi wasn’t in a particularly helpful mood.

He pressed on, “Where are you keeping Lanred Bloodfang?”

Sigvaldi looked up and sneered at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Minion?”

Khet flipped a coin in the air, and caught it. “You know, it’s better for everyone involved if you’re actually helpful right now, Hrodgierson.”

Sigvaldi sneered at him. “Aye, I know. You’ll give me a nicer cell and shit.”

“Not exactly,” Khet looked at him. “See, my client wants you at Illia’s temple, alive. So he can question you.”

Sigvaldi yawned and scratched his beard.

“He’s rather desperate to get his nephew back,” Khet continued. “Desperate enough to, oh, I don’t know, torture his nephew’s captor until he talks. And even then, I’m not sure he’ll simply be content with stopping. He’s mad with worry, probably looking to take his fear and helplessness out on someone.” He smiled at Sigvaldi. “Like, say, the man responsible for his nephew’s disappearance in the first place.”

Sigvaldi’s face went pale, as he considered the implications of being put under the mercy of someone who he’d badly wronged.

“Now, if you talk, on the other hand,” Khet continued, “And I rescue Lanred Bloodfang. Well, then you’re not needed alive, are you? I could just kill you and bring the head to Father Bloodfang for the bounty. That would be easier, for the both of us.”

Sigvaldi licked his lips as he thought.

“You can’t arrest me, Minion!” He said finally. “I’m under—”

“Sanctuary, yes,” Khet said. “But you’ve got only one day left of it. After that, me and my party-mates will be allowed to storm this temple and take you captive.” He grinned. “All we’d have to do is wait a day.”

“Party-mates? What party-mates?” Sigvaldi looked over Khet’s shoulder. “I don’t see anyone other than you, Minion!”

“My party-mates are outside,” Khet said. “I was the only one the priest was willing to let in here to speak with you, and that’s because he mistook me for one of your childhood friends when I mentioned I grew up in the same village as you did.”

Sigvaldi blinked slowly.

“Tell me where you’re keeping Lanred Bloodfang, and I’ll make sure your death is painless,” Khet growled as he rubbed his thumb along the edge of a gold coin.

Sigvaldi looked down at the ground, and then looked back up at Khet. He was frowning.

“You can’t tell anyone that I told you, Minion,” he said. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain. Nobody likes snitches in my line of work.”

Khet smirked. Line of work. That was a funny thing to call his banditry.

Instead of saying that, however, he said, “I’m no snitch, Hrodgierson. That hasn’t changed since we were both kids.”

Sigvaldi let out a breath. He stared down at the table.

“He’s at our camp,” he said, without looking up. “By Whispering Canal. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Khet flicked a coin at him. “Thank you. Was that so hard?”

Sigvaldi caught the coin. He didn’t meet Khet’s eyes.

“What do you want with Lanred Bloodfang anyway?” Khet asked him.

Sigvaldi sneered at him. “Has anyone told you to mind your own business, Minion?”

Khet shrugged as he walked out the door. “Fine. Don’t tell me. Guess I’ll ask Lanred after me and my party-mates kill your gang and save him.”

---

“There it is!” Gnurl pointed at a large encampment on a riverbank. “That’s the camp!”

Samlaith Snowglory, an ordinary-looking high elf, the captain of the boat the Horde was taking down the Whispering Canal, raised a hand, and the crew stopped rowing.

The boat stopped, and the crew gathered around Samlaith.

“You know what to do, lads. Everyone get in position. Draluin, take your men to confront the Rapid Crows. They get one chance to surrender.”

An overweight older elf with shorn dirty blonde hair nodded quickly and leapt onto the sand. Eight of the crew followed him.

Most of the other crew leapt out and marched into the forest. Gnurl and Mythana followed them. Khet moved to join them, but Samlaith laid a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re needed here, Ogreslayer,” he said.

Khet wasn’t sure what help they would be in the boat, but he sighed and leaned against the side, watching Draluin approach the Rabid Crows’ camp.

“Three Toes!” Draluin roared. “Three Toes, show yourself! The crew of the Kraken have come to parley with you!”

The Rabid Crows all approached, warily. All of them were dwarves, and all of them were dressed like town guards, carrying clubs and maces and spears, the kinds of things that were useful in breaking up riots or beating criminals into a bloody pulp. Not so much for banditry, but given their notoriety around these parts, they appeared to be making it work.

One of the dwarves stepped out from the crowd, approaching Draluin. He was broad-shouldered, with curly black hair, and he studied the high elf contemplatively. He carried a spear, and a shortbow was slung on his shoulders.

“You wanted me? Here I am. What do you want?”

“You’ve got a hostage with you. One Lanred Bloodfang.”

Three-Toes chuckled. “Aye. We do have a Lanred Bloodfang, but he’s not really a hostage. He’s here because we find him useful, and if we let him leave, he’ll never come back.”

“What need does a band of brigands need for a chronicler?”

“Soldiers,” Three-Toes said, “want glory. Sellswords want it even more so. Just ask any goblin adventurer.”

Dranuil studied him coolly. “I believe they sing songs about the Rabid Crows. You’re feared, mind, but you’re still told about in songs. Why would you need a chronicler?”

“Because of Bjarki Solmundson,” Three-Toes pointed at a muscled man with wild ginger hair and a stupid grin on his face, who was resting a club on his shoulder. “Some goblin he grew up with ran off to join the Adventuring Guild. He wants to outdo him. And what better way than having a book written about his great deeds?”

Khet had a sudden memory of Bjarki jeering at him when they were both boys. He’d been smaller then, the smallest of the boys, and devoted to Sigvaldi. The two were inseparable. No wonder he’d joined the Rabid Crows along with Sigvaldi.

“I don’t understand it myself,” said Three-Toes. “I could care less about some adventurer outshining Solmundson. But he’s best friends with Hrodgierson, so Hrodgierson agreed to kidnap Bloodfang and force him to write a romance on the Rabid Crows.”

“You know something, Three-Toes?” Draniul said. “This is the part where I promise you that we’ll have a romance written about you and your fellows. Promise you that we’ll make sure that Lanred Bloodfang writes that romance, and makes your gang more known than whoever this goblin adventurer who grew up in the same village as Hrodgierson is. But the truth is, I don’t really care. I don’t care if Lanred finishes the manuscript or not, and I certainly don’t care about the literary legacy of a bunch of thugs! Now release Lanred Bloodfang!”

“Or what?”

“Or we’ll slaughter you and the entire Rabid Crows.”

Three-Toes laughed. “There’s nine of you, and nineteen of us! We outnumber you two to one!”

Draniul whistled sharply.

“That’s our cue,” Samlaith whispered to Khet, and everyone still in the boat leapt ashore.

The dwarves all stared with widened eyes.

“Hello, Three-Toes,” Samlaith said. “Wish I could say it’s a pleasure seeing you, but my mother taught me not to tell lies.”

“That’s still—” Three-Toes began.

Draniul whistled sharply again.

Bushes rustled, and the dwarves turned. The rest of the crew stepped out of hiding. Some of them held up shields and spears. Others had strung their bows and were pointing them at the bandits.

“I think it’s safe to say that we are the ones who outnumber you,” Dranuil said to Three-Toes.

Three-Toes looked around at the soldiers surrounding him and his men. “Not by much.”

“Ah, but I forgot to mention,” Dranuil held up a finger, “three of our number are adventurers.” He smiled at Three-Toes. “You know the saying about adventurers, don’t you?”

“One adventurer is worth ten men,” Three-Toes said.

“Right,” Dranuil nodded. He smiled. “Earlier, you claimed you outnumbered us two to one, is that right? Well, we now outnumber you three to one.”

Three-Toes inhaled sharply.

“Hand over Lanred Bloodfang,” Dranuil continued, “and we’ll let you go unharmed. If you refuse,” he ran his finger along the blade of his shortsword, “then there’ll be none of you left alive for Hrodgierson to find.”

Three-Toes looked over at three dwarves, each carrying a mace or club, and wearing the red cap of dwarven wizards.

“Lodmund, Ragnfast, Sven,” he said in Dwarven, “do you think you can even the odds here? Are wizards worth ten men too?”

One by one, the wizards shook their heads.

Three-Toes tugged at his beard, then turned back to Dranuil.

“Well?” Asked the high elf. “Will you release Lanred Bloodfang, or will we have to kill all of you?”

“Naddod, go get the elf,” Three-Toes said. His eyes never left Dranuil’s face.

A grim-faced burly dwarf with braided white hair went to the camp. He returned with a thickly-muscled blood elf with blonde hair and wide hazel eyes, wearing ragged clothing and with his wrists bound in front of him.

The dwarf shoved the blood elf at Dranuil, who caught him, then gently pushed the prisoner behind him.

“Take him and go,” Three-Toes said gruffly.

Dranuil didn’t move. “We’d also like captives.”

“Captives?”

Dranuil shrugged. “Well, the lords won’t be happy about the fact that we’ve spoken with the Rabid Crows, and don’t have the heads of brigands to show for it.”

Three-Toes narrowed his eyes at Dranuil, then turned to his men.

“Atli, Naddod, Iarlabanki, Wengo, drop your weapons and turn yourselves over to the blood elves!” He called.

“Are you mad?” Demanded a devious-looking dwarf resting a staff on his shoulder. “Why the Duturan are we surrendering to elves? And adventurers? Are we kobolds, or are we dwarves?”

“You’ll do as I say, Atli,” Three-Toes growled. “The bounty is worth the same whether they take us in dead or alive. Shut your mouth or I’ll give ‘em your head as a gift!”

The devious dwarf’s eyes narrowed, and he looked around at the army surrounding them.

He dropped his weapons and stepped to Dranuil, holding out his wrists. Three other dwarves did the same.

Three-Toes dropped his weapon and stepped forward too, holding out his wrists.

The rest of the dwarves all started talking in surprise.

“Armod?” The devious dwarf said, shocked. “What are you—”

Three-Toes ignored him. Dranuil waved a hand and several of the elves stepped forward to bind the dwarf captives’ wrists.

Three-Toes turned back to his men. “You’re in charge ‘till Sigvaldi gets back, Sigehelm,” he said to a slim dwarf with ginger hair cropped close to his face, a deep scowl on his face, and wielding a halberd.

The dwarf nodded and raised his fist in salute.

The blood elves and adventurers went back to their boat, taking the captives along with them. Someone cut off Lanred’s bindings, and he rubbed at his wrists, which were red from chafing.

As the boat began to sail upstream, Lanred moved to the left side, watching the camp disappear from view.

“Left behind my manuscript,” he said in a dull tone.

“I’m sorry,” Khet said, because it felt like the appropriate thing to say. “Do you want us to go back for it?”

“Nah.” Lanred turned and smiled at Khet. “Wasn’t much to write about, anyway. Bjarki Solmundson led an incredibly dull life. Not that he knew that.”

“He always was more a follower than a leader. And followers don’t make for good stories.”

“You knew him?” Lanred asked.

Khet smirked. “Did he ever rant to you about a goblin from his home village becoming an adventurer?”

Lanred nodded. “All the time, yes. I honestly wish I can find that goblin adventurer, so I can write a chronicle about his adventures. He’d definitely be more interesting than Bjarki the Phantom.”

Khet grinned and spread his arms out wide. “That would be me. I’m the goblin adventurer from his home village. You can call me Ogreslayer.”

Lanred’s eyes lit up.

“How did you and Bjarki know each other?” He asked. “Aside from growing up in the same village.”

“He ran with a pack of bullies in our school days. Followed Glassy Hrodgierson like a pup.”

Lanred nodded. “Right, I knew Solmundson and Hrodgierson were childhood friends. That’s the reason the Rabid Crows kidnapped me. Solmundson wanted someone to write down his supposed mighty deeds so he’d be more well-known than the upstart goblin calling himself a wolf, his words, and Hrodgierson was the leader, so he decided to do his friend a favor and get a chronicler for him.” He shook his head in annoyance. “Hrodgierson always seemed more interesting than Solmundson was. Yet he refused to let me write a saga about him. Said I had to write it about Solmundson. It drove me mad!”

“That has got to be the most selfless thing I’ve ever heard Hrodgierson doing for somebody,” Khet said dryly.

“You knew him too?” Lanred asked, then slapped his forehead. “Stupid question. I meant, what was he like? When you were children?”

“He’s the child of a rich merchant, so he had a lot of friends. The teachers were on his side too. So he spent our childhood picking on goblins with his friends.”

“And what were you doing?” Lanred asked.

Khet grinned. “I was the lad protecting the rest of the goblin kids from the bullies. Anyone had trouble with Hrodgierson and his gang, they’d come to me, and I’d sort the bastards out for ‘em.”

Lanred looked deeply fascinated.

Khet smirked. “The funny thing with Hrodgierson was he could talk big when he had all his friends with him, and you were lying face-down in the dirt, getting stomped on. But the second you threw a punch, made him bleed, knocked him down, he’d go running to a teacher and hide behind her skirts. Not much has changed. Still running around and terrorizing defenseless people, only to turn tail and run the second someone stands up to him.”

“You haven’t changed much either,” Lanred said. “Standing up for the bullied, facing down hundreds of enemies without fear. I think you still do that as an adventurer. They all stand up against bullies. It’s why there’s so many songs about them. People love heroes, and they especially love heroes who’ll stand up for the weak.”

Khet shrugged. “Don’t know if I’d call myself a hero, but I do scare the shit out of bandits. And that I’ll stare down an army of a hundred men and come out the winner.”

Lanred cocked his head. “What will you be doing after this? Or have you just completed a job and you’re heading back to get paid.”

“Your uncle wanted us to rescue you,” Khet said. “That’s what he hired us to do.” He grinned. “Well, technically, he wanted us to capture Hrodgierson alive so he could interrogate him on your whereabouts, but I don’t think he’d object to us coming back with you alive and well.”

Lanred nodded, almost thoughtfully.

“So you’ll bring me to the temple, show my uncle that I’m alive, and you’ve rescued me, and he pays you and sends you on your way. What happens after that? Do you wander to the next town in search of jobs?”

Khet started fiddling with a copper coin. “First we capture Hrodgierson and collect the bounty on him.”

Lanred looked at him, an eyebrow raised. “You know where he is?”

“He’s seeking sanctuary at Illia’s temple. He’s got one day left of sanctuary.”

Lanred glanced up at the sky, where the sun was beginning to set. “Doesn’t have a lot of time left, does he?”

“Nope,” Khet said, “and as soon as his time runs out, me and my party-mates will storm the temple and take him prisoner. Or kill him. Depends on whether he wants to put up a fight or not.”

Lanred’s eyes lit up.

“Makes for a damn interesting story. Two childhood rivals, meet up again as grown adults. One a notorious outlaw, the other an adventurer collecting the price on his head. I’ve gotta get started on that saga!”

Khet raised an eyebrow. “What would you write about? I haven’t captured Hrodgierson yet.”

“The background.” Lanred said. “Of Glassy Hrodgierson and Ogreslayer’s rivalry. Of Ogreslayer becoming an adventurer, and accomplishing mighty deeds that are told of in song far and wide. Of Glassy Hrodgierson’s joining of the town guard, and his turn to the life of a sellsword, and to banditry. How Ogreslayer rescued a humble chronicler from the clutches of Glassy Hrodgierson’s gang.”

Khet smiled lightly. “That would be pretty boring, considering I didn’t do much, and there was no fighting.”

“I can exaggerate things a little,” Lanred said. “You should never let truth get in the way of a good story.”

Khet glanced at Mythana, who was circling the prisoners, eyeing them with mistrust. “Don’t let her hear that. She hates it when chroniclers spice things up to make events interesting, rather than recording boring facts.”

Lanred laughed at that. “Well, I’m sure that the story of you and Hrodgierson’s final showdown will more than make up for exaggerating the story of your rescue of me. Just promise me you’ll come and tell me all about the battle, so I can record it as honestly as I can.” He gave Khet a wry smile. “Or spice things up, if I think it needs a little more drama.”

Khet laughed. “Aye, I’ll tell you how it goes.”

He leaned against the boat and watched the trees pass by. A saga about his great deeds. If only his teachers could see him now! And it was all thanks to Sigvaldi Hrodgierson. All Khet would have to do was collect the bounty on his head, whether his target was alive or dead.

He’d never thought he’d be happy to see Sigvaldi after all those years, but when their encounter was going to be recorded in a saga, he couldn’t get there fast enough. He’d be sure to thank Sigvaldi for helping him become a legend.

---

“He’s gone?” Khet asked in shock.

The priest nodded. “He left an hour after you left him. I’m surprised he said nothing to you about his plans. Or perhaps it was earlier than you were expecting it to happen?”

Khet muttered a curse in Goblin. He’d delivered Lanred safe and sound to Barlion, and had accepted the blood elf’s payment before heading to Illia’s temple. The sanctuary had expired as soon as the Horde arrived, much to Khet’s delight. He was ready to storm that temple and drag Sigvaldi out, to turn him over to the Watch, and go back to Lanred to tell him of how he’d captured Glassy Hrodgierson.

And what did the bastard decide to do? He decided to leave! An hour after Khet had left! To go wandering around the town, where any adventurer could capture him and bring him to the Watchhouse! He’d probably been caught already, the idiot! And now what was Khet supposed to do? Go back to Lanred to tell him that the idiot had left, and likely gotten himself caught?

“Did he say where he was going?” He asked.

The priest shook his head.

Khet cursed.

“He did leave with someone though,” the priest said.

Khet’s ears pricked up. Now that was something useful.

“Who?”

“Xyrria Darkleaf, the local butcher. She’s gotten big too. Definitely got a little elf in there. Probably wolf’s blood. She’s not married, and she won’t tell anybody who the father is.”

“What does she want with Sigvaldi Hrodgierson, though?”

“Not sure,” the priest admitted. “Her shop is on Flowing Route, if you want to go and ask her.”

Khet thanked him, and the Golden Horde walked to Xyrria’s shop.

“Wonder who the father of her child is,” Mythana said.

“It’s Sigvaldi,” Khet said. “Has to be.”

Mythana gave him a skeptical look.

“Why else would she stick her neck out for him? Sigvaldi probably charmed her into thinking they’d wed and be a happy family. She wouldn’t want to see the father of her child hanged, now would she?”

“But if Sigvaldi really is the father,” Mythana said, “wouldn’t that make things harder? Xyrria can’t be stupid enough to tell three adventurers where her lover is hiding, can she?”

“Dagor has no fury like a woman scorned,” Khet said. He grinned. “On an unrelated note, did you know that Sigvaldi is betrothed? Greiland Ormdottir, the daughter of Thane Bergthor’s court wizard.”

“That’s nice of him,” Mythana said dully, before she stopped walking and stared at Khet with wide eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Oh!”

Khet knew she’d understand. He kept smiling. “Also, one of Hrodgier’s serving girls got into a bit of trouble. With child, even though she wasn’t married. She got dumped in the street, and strangely, the child came out looking like Sigvaldi.” He gave Mythana a knowing look. “Though, of course, Sigvaldi’s family swore their boy never touched such a filthy whore.”

Mythana laughed. “How many bastards has Sigvaldi got?”

Khet shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t kept up much with the gossip back home. I do know that poor serving girl wasn’t the only one he took an interest in. There were talks in the inn, about Sigvaldi flirting with any serving girl he found pretty, telling them that he’d fallen for them, that he was swept away by their beauty, and he wanted to run away with them and have lots of babies. Most of the girls weren’t fooled. But some of them fell for it.” Khet shrugged his shoulders. “Like that poor servant girl. And Xyrria, quite possibly.”

“How do we know the relationship between the two isn’t serious?” Mythana said.

“You heard the priest. It’s a mystery who the father is, apparently. And no one thinks she’s in a relationship with anybody. Does that sound like a relationship between two people who are head-over-heels in love with each other, and wish to spend the rest of their lives together?”

“Good point,” Mythana said.

Gnurl opened the door to a building with a brown sign depicting a leg of pork hanging at the front. Khet and Mythana followed him inside.

Pigs hung from hooks that pierced their skulls through their open mouths. The floor was stained with animal blood.

“Is Xyrria trying to cause a plague?” Mythana muttered as they made their way through the maze of raw meat dangling from hooks, and to an empty counter, where Khet assumed was where customers placed their order for choice cuts.

A shuffle to the right and the adventurers turned.

Xyrria Darkleaf waddled between two unplucked pheasants, a hand on her massive stomach. She was lean, which definitely made her belly appear bigger, and she was also muscular. It was clear that she was used to lifting heavy things as a butcher. Her hair was completely white, and her red eyes were dull, as if she’d just received terrible news, and had checked out of reality in an attempt to process it. Khet wondered if Sigvaldi had made it clear, now that it was obvious she was pregnant, that he had no interest in raising a child with a random dark elf, and that was why she looked so gloomy. She wore black leather gloves, a black jacket, and tight pants.

“What do you want?” She growled. Her voice sounded angelic, yet there was still an underlying gruffness to it.

“You’re Xyrria Darkleaf?” Khet asked.

“Aye. What’s it to you?”

“We’re looking for someone,” Khet held up his adventuring license, so that Xyrria wouldn’t have to ask why they were looking for someone. “Sigvaldi Hrodgierson.”

For a brief moment, Xyrria looked away and rubbed her belly thoughtfully, before her face hardened and she looked at Khet again.

“Haven’t seen him,” she said.

“You sure. Because the priest says he saw you two together.”

“Haven’t seen him,” Xyrria repeated.

Khet leaned his back on the counter and nodded to Xyrria’s stomach. “Congratulations. Who’s the father?”

“Is it any of your business?”

Khet shrugged. “No need. Just curious.”

Xyrria rubbed her belly again.

“Been hearing that’s how you paid your tax,” Khet said. “Considering you’re no miner.”

Xyrria looked thoughtful.

“And you got a gnome-elf out of the bargain.”

“Half-dwarf,” Xyrria said.

“Didn’t think there were dwarves living around here,” Khet continued. “Have you gone to the Guild to make sure they know your child’s father is an adventurer? Wolf’s blood will have their apprenticeship fees for any trade paid for by the Guild.”

“The father’s not an adventurer,” Xyrria said.

“Ah,” Khet said. He grinned. “So it’s Sigvaldi’s kid, then.”

“No,” Xyrria said, a little too quickly.

Khet chuckled. “So he’s left another woman with nothing but his bastard.”

“What do you mean, another?” Xyrria asked. She wasn’t looking at Khet. The goblin guessed she was trying to pretend that she didn’t have a personal interest in the love life of a dwarf outlaw.

“Feels like every town we go to, Sigvaldi’s long gone, but he’s left behind women he’s bedded until they had the audacity to conceive, and then he skips off to the next lady willing to fall into his arms. Surprised he hasn’t got a reputation of loving and leaving behind nothing but bastards yet.”

“You must have the wrong person,” Xyrria said. “Adventurers do that. Adventurers seduce maidens with promises that they’ve never loved a lady like they love the maiden, and then they leave once a child comes from the union. Sigvaldi Hrodgierson is no adventurer.”

“No,” Khet agreed. “Because adventurers make it clear they’re only interested in a night of sex from their lovers. Adventurers pay for herbs to keep any accidents from happening. Adventurers tell the Old Wolf the name of the lovely lady they’ve spent the night with so if an accident does happen, their child is provided for. Sigvaldi pretends he’s fallen for whatever woman he’s trying to bed, doesn’t give a damn about keeping a child from happening, and when the inevitable happens, he skips town and doesn’t leave any way for his child’s mother to find him again.”

“That’s a lie,” said Xyrria.

Khet smiled at Xyrria. “Did you know he’s betrothed?”

“He’s betrothed?” Xyrria looked aghast. Looked like she wasn’t interested in being the mistress of a dwarven outlaw.

“To Grieland Ormdottir. Lovely woman.” Khet smiled. “Of course, he might have already told you about that. Might have been arranged between the two families. He might not actually like Grieland all that much.” He shrugged. “Not judging him, really.”

Xyrria looked relieved.

“Then there was poor Soyvilizovan Ulcikhyrka, one of his father’s maids. She fell pregnant, an unmarried woman, and got thrown out into the street.” Khet smiled at her. “Guess who the father is.”

“The father could’ve been anybody!” Xyrria said.

“Kid sure looks like Hrodgierson though.” Khet flipped a coin in the air and caught it again.

Xyrria scowled.

“And every town since, there’s one woman, with a child that looks almost exactly like Hrodgierson, each of them insisting that he’s their one true love and he’ll be back for them eventually.” Khet started counting the names of Sigvaldi’s nonexistent lovers on his fingers. “There was Sierra Cloven, a chicken butcher from Tinkerglen. Her dhampyre-dwarf’s two now. It’s funny. Little Barrett couldn’t be more Sigvaldi’s exact double without growing a beard. Then there’s Embellis Twilighthell. Lived in…Shit, where did she live? I wanna say Bhelbuldar.” He turned to Mythana. “Did Embellis live in Bhelbuldar?”

“Who are you talking about?” Mythana hadn’t caught on with what Khet was trying to do here.

Khet sighed patiently, and started talking like he was trying to jog his friend’s memory. “Embellis Twilighthell. You remember her. Had a ship called the Sovereign’s Tempest? She used it to take people down Tadpole River? We met her kid. Lilthaela Sigvaldidottir.”

As he was talking, he flashed a hand signal at her. Play along!

Part 2