“The Black Crown”

An Age of Adventures Novel

John A. Douglas

Copyright © 2023 by John A. Douglas

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All written work within was done without the use of an AI program in any form.

All art used for the publication of this title on the exterior and interior was created without the use of an AI art program.

Editing by Morgon Newquist and Daniel P. Riley

Cover art by Jcaleb Designs

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

GLOSSARY

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is dedicated to the family that endured years of my endless typing on the keyboard in the living room while they tried to watch tv in peace. My mother Sandi, my father Mark. My brother Lee. My loving wife of 20 years, Wendy. And to our delightful three children: Jacob, Rylee, and Evan.

Thanks to my editor Morgan Newquist for helping me become a better writer.

I want to thank the dearth of other indie fantasy authors and indie creators I have read and met over the past few years whose enduring work helped encourage me in my own writing career. Authors and creators like Jim Wilbourne, Jeffrey Speight, John Palladino, Michael R. Schultheiss, Herman P. Hunter, Bryan Asher, Razorfist, M. Anthony Harris, RH Snow, Joshua Scott Edwards, TJ Lombardi, Christopher P. Brenning, Eric July, Ethan Van Sciver, Luke Stone, Animaine, and Blaine Lee Pardoe. Whether you know it or not, you helped inspire and encourage me in this path. Thank you.

Special thanks to indie authors David J. West, Brian Niemeier, David Stewart, Ryan Williamson, Craig Martelle, and Jon Del Arroz. When I had stupid newbie questions about indie publishing, they never hesitated to answer them. Arguably, without them, this book wouldn’t exist as it does now.

An especially special thanks to Royce from the YouTube channel A Drink With Crazy. A man who’s enduring faith in indie creators has been an inspiration to myself. Hail the Iron Age.

And to R.A. Salvatore, Margaret Weis, and Tracy Hickman. Crystal Shard and Dragonlance were the 1-2 combo that brought me into the fantasy genre in the first place.

GLOSSARY

MEASUREMENTS

A HAND OF TIME: Unit of measurement equalling one hour.

HALF-A-HAND: Unit of measurement equalling half a hand of time or thirty minutes.

A FINGER OF TIME or A FINGER: Unit of measurement equalling ten minutes.

A ROUND: Unit of measurement equalling ten. In military terms, referring to a squadron of ten.

HALF-A-ROUND: Unit of measurement (or military unit) equalling five.

RACIAL TERMINOLOGY

HALFKIN: General term referring to people of mixed race parentage between the common races of Allspire such as human, elf, Orc, halfling, dwarf, or other.

ORCBORN: Referring to those of Halfkin nature with one Orc parent.

ORCBRAT: Derogatory term for Orcborn. Usually used in association with Orcborn orphans left in the wake of the Orc Wars.

ORCPUNCHED: Colloquialism referring to acting out of sorts or without good sense.

ORCSHIT: Colloquial vulgarity used in reference to an undesirable situation or when calling out a situation that doesn’t seem honest.

SPEAR EAR: Derogatory term for elves or Halfkin elves.

ARCANE TERMINOLOGY

THE ARCANE ORDER: Referring to the Order of the Arcane Flame. Sometimes called simply The Order.

MAGE/MAGI: Common term for practitioners of magic of the Arcane Order, be they wizards, enchanters, or other such designations.

SPELL GOVERNOR: An enchanted device worn as a bracer that generates an illusory menu of spells assigned to the individual Mage for approved usage depending on their tier and rank within the Order. It assists with the pronunciation and somatic movements for spell usage and may also contain spells enchanted at the ready.

CONDUIT: A spellcaster’s magically enchanted device for channeling the arcane energy from a casted spell. As a discharged spell can potentially injure its caster, the use of Conduits helps prevent injury and accurately direct spells. Conduits are commonly enchanted wands, staffs, or scepters.

FLICKER SPELL: A very simple spell that requires little to no effort to cast depending on the caster’s Affinity. Called so because their usage can evade arcane detection as a “flicker”.

ARCANE BACKLASH: When a spell is performed incorrectly, it will cause the arcane energy generated to erupt or dispel in unpredictable ways.

AFFINITY: Referring to an individual’s connection and ability to use magic. The higher the Affinity, the more powerful their magic. It is measured as Poor, Mediocre, Adequate, Good, Very Good, High, and Very High.

ARCBLIND: Being unable to connect to or use magic in any way.

ARCANA SPHERE: A powerful magic device with a multitude of uses assigned to Archmages of the Arcane Order.

GILDED MARK: A mark given to royal members of the Crown Pantheon in the palm of their hands, branded and enchanted into their skin. It is all but impossible to replicate and acts as irrefutable proof of their royal birth.

GLOSTONE: A crystalline mineral mined primarily in Machavia. It holds simple enchantments, allowing it to produce light for years at a time before needing replacement. It is accessible to all as a cheap, abundant lighting source.

WEAVERS: A class of magic users outside the authority of the Arcane Order or the Crown Pantheon. Born as defenders of the natural order of Allspire’s environment, their magic is innately acquired through birth, and they are tied to the lands they defend. Depending on the biome they defend, their name may differ (i.e. forest-dwelling weavers are known as Treeweavers, mountain dwellers are Stoneweavers, desert inhabitants are Duneweavers)

THE FORBIDDEN FOUR: Four classes of magic strictly forbidden by the Order. The use of which is punishable via execution at the discretion of an Order Mage: Witchcraft, Warlock, Necromancy, and Sorcery.

ORC TERMINOLOGY

SLAAG: Orc term for undesired. Used by full blooded Orcs in derogatory reference to half-Orcs.

KAR-KATTA: A challenge of leadership by one of a shared bloodline.

RATH-KA: A challenge of leadership by one of a different bloodline.

MAGNUS: The highest ranking Orc cleric, who speaks with the authority of the Orc gods and wields their magic.

THE MATRON: An elder Orc woman in a given tribe. Having lived to an old age and birthed multiple children, her wisdom is coveted, and her role is considered sacred. Her hut is regarded as a place for women alone.

MISC. TERMS

CROWNING: A ceremony in which one born to a royal family of the Crown Pantheon is given their Gilded Mark and expected to become a representative of their Crown.

ARLOR: A common term for a representative of either a body of people, a trade, or organization.

INQUISITION: The court system by which Crown Pantheon law is enforced.

INQUISITOR: The judge who presides over an Inquisition trial and determines guilt or innocence. A High Inquisitor is assigned for more important trials and will have a bench of other Inquisitors with whom they may confer.

GODSTONE: A nigh indestructible ore believed to be placed by the gods. It appears as a dull white, neither warm nor cold to touch and with a texture similar to unpolished ceramic.

PHYSICARY: A highly educated individual in the school of medicine. Though they may be taught in many differing areas, they are counted on as healers who offer sage advice.

FACTIONS

THE CROWN PANTHEON

The ruling body of the continent of Evergrad is comprised of by four kingdoms (Namaria, Sylveria, The Starsong Dynasty, and The Feylund Jungles), one empire (The Norenrauth Imperium), one dictatorship (Machavia aka The Iron Regime), and one plutocracy (The Allurious Coast). A number of independent provinces exist in conjunction with the Crown Pantheon. Each ruling body has their own sigil.

THE ORDER OF THE ARCANE FLAME

The autonomous collective of magic users self-governed outside of the Crown Pantheon’s rule. Though not a part of the Crown Pantheon, they nonetheless work in union with them. They police and enforce the usage of magic according to their own laws and punish infractions against their rules. (Known commonly as The Arcane Order or just The Order). Their Order is located in Arcathoria. The Arcanist Zenith is the Order’s headquarters. The Vaithlorn Academy is the only school in the Crown Pantheon that trains Order Mages. Their leader is the High Archmage.

THE KNIGHTS VALIANT

An order of self-governed knights consisting of the most skilled individuals from across the Crown Pantheon. All warriors and Magi of exceptional ability. They are without peer and revered as honorable heroes and defenders of all realms. Their leader is the Grand Knight.

NIGHT-TAKERS

Notorious and efficient kidnappers known to operate in areas of the Crown Pantheon with less guarded communities. Often used by parents to keep their children from wandering out late at night, they are, however, real and their victims are often never seen again. It is believed their victims are taken to glostone mines in Machavia, as the practice of slavery remains an accepted part of their culture within their borders. The practice is lucrative enough for Night-Takers to risk their trade everywhere on Evergrad.

THE SHADOWSPELL SOCIETY

A loose network of rouge magic users operating outside the purview and authority of the Arcane Order.

THE SUNDERFANG TRIBE

The largest and most notorious Orc tribe who led during the time of the Orc Wars. It was ruled by three brothers: Warlord Thorgoth, Warchief Gorvok, and Magnus Krannok.

AGES OF ALLSPIRE

THE PRIMAL AGE: This age was the creation and formation of Allspire by the gods. It is said they forged the world after scouring the cosmos for fragments of ruined worlds. The races of Allspire in their infancy were feral and uncivilized. The gods conflicts with each other damaged the land and the races they created, so they withdrew to a divine plane. After this, civilization began to take hold.

THE LOST AGE: The time between the creation of Allspire until the War of Sorrows. Very little is known about this time. All of the civilization and kingdoms that prospered during this time have little in the way of evidence that they even existed.

THE WAR OF SORROWS: A war that consumed the entirety of the continent of Evergrad, fought by the peoples of Allspire against a sorcerer of omnipotence named Selrach The God-Sorcerer. The war ended when Selrach was at the cusp of attaining godhood during a pitched battle at his mountainous fortress. The gods of Allspire stepped into the mortal realm and smote him with a gargantuan arcane flame from which the Arcane Order takes both its name and its sigil.

THE AGE OF RUIN: A nigh-apocalyptic era of several centuries following the War of Sorrows in which civilization struggled to survive the aftermath. Multiple small kingdoms, city-states, and empires rose and fell. Monsters, abominations, and aberrations roamed freely. Magic usage went unchecked. The people of Evergrad struggled to restore civilization.

THE AGE OF CROWNS: Civilization managed to attain a foothold and the races of Allspire prospered again. This led to centuries of conflict and war as kingdoms rose, fell, and were unified. This age saw the formation of the Crown Pantheon and its eventual establishment as the governing body of Allspire. The Arcane Order and the Knights Valiant were founded during this time.

THE AGE OF ADVENTURE: The current age. Over these last few centuries, the Crown Pantheon provided enough stability that efforts to find and eliminate monstrous threats to civilization in their lairs proved a dangerous, yet profitable venture. “Dungeons” as these leftover strongholds from the War of Sorrows were called, housed hoarded riches and magic items for those who risked exploring them. Guilds for organized adventuring popped up in every city with a sizable population. Successful Adventurers became vaunted celebrities, until the number of viable places to explore dwindled. At this time, it is considered to be in its dying days.

PROLOGUE

The Orc city smoldered, burned down in the wake of battle. The ground soaked in a knuckle’s depth of blood and ash. The savage cries of its defenders now silent and still as its ruin was overseen by the architect of its very destruction.

The Orc Wars were finally over.

“There is nothing more reviled than the Orc,” said the elvish king, marching amidst masses of the Orc dead. “Extinction is the reward they deserve. Alas that we must sully our noses with their wretched stench when it was the human queen they abducted. We do not rest until she is found.”

Acrid smoke and the stench of death congested the mid-morning air. The streets of the ruined Orc city were strewn with the bodies of its inhabitants. Twin columns of elvish soldiers marched on the blood saturated soil, flanking both sides of their king: Sothren, the Elder Elf, King of Sylveria. Resplendent in pristine, shining armor, he towered over the elves who guarded him. His narrowed eyes scanned in every direction, surveying the carnage laid out before him with contempt in every flicker of his gaze.

The ramshackle Orc city smoldered as flames devoured wood and flesh alike. All that was left was smoking pyres and bones; the devastation nigh complete. By his command, only the main hall at its epicenter stood untouched. An army with the combined might of every regime in the Crown Pantheon surrounded it. Every banner from across Evergrad flew proud amid their victory.

Sothren looked down his long features at the devastation before him and remained as unmoving as stone. He cast his gaze over every horror, inhaled the stench of burned flesh, bore witness to the mask of death on each corpse and not a flinch flickered on his unblemished features. At long last, the Orc menace had been put to heel.

“To think creatures such as this could manage to build such a city!” came an intrusive comment spoken by Ardneth, a trusted advisor who was ever in his shadow. The robed elf stepped ahead of him with caution in every movement, picking a path through the labyrinth of burned debris and dead Orcs. The honor guard on all sides pressed through the unmoving masses, spearing every corpse to ensure the dead did not hide the living. Though Sothren led the command in sacking the Orc city, his part in the battle was observation only. His sword had not been unsheathed in decades and had not drawn blood in centuries.

Sothren paused, looking about with a terse scowl. “Give them no credit. They use human and low elf slaves. Woodworkers, smiths, servile jobs performed at sword’s tip. Nothing more.”

Ardneth sneered, a look not uncommon to him. “Dwarves, perhaps. What dwarf wouldn’t want the chance to build?”

“A dwarf would die before lifting a hammer for an Orc. Their pride is as deep as their beards are long.” Sothren did see the odd human or elf in slave’s rags amongst the piles of corpses. “The scale of this city...I admit surprise. It is vaster than we anticipated, built quickly even here in the depths of Dreadmour. A host this size marching on Havenlore would have been devastating.”

“They could never have been a threat to us,” Ardneth countered, though his bluster wavered when he dwelled on the thought. “Twenty years of Thorgoth’s menace are finally at an end.”

“That remains to be seen.” Sothren pressed forward in his survey through the war zone. “I want to see Thorgoth’s body for myself. I was told he engaged with our warmage directly, but he and his brothers have yet to be found.”

Ardneth sniffed, his hand over his nose as smoke drifted near him, “Hiding as the cowards they are.”

“Orcs flee when they sense defeat,” Sothren declared, “Only a strong leader keeps them fighting to the end. Dead or retreating, Thorgoth’s absence on the battlefield took the heart out of them. Your counsel is wise, Ardneth, but your underestimation of Orc tactics has ever blinded your judgment.”

Ardneth bowed at the rebuke. “Forgive me, sire, if my counsel has ever failed you.”

“Failure would be the Orcs walking through the remains of our city, not the other way around.” King Sothren paused and looked aside to Ardneth, “This will hold for later. For now, we search for the Namarian queen.”

His voice trailed as a white winged steed descended from above bearing an armored elf on its back. The majestic steed landed, and the elf dismounted, taking his battle-damaged helm off. His young, handsome elvish face was framed by honey gold locks. His strained features were fair, but the weathered lines in his grimace spoke more of his time in battle than in comfort. The resemblance between him and the King was unmistakable.

“Son,” The King said with pride, “The Skyknife fought well.”

The prince grunted. “The prospect of ending decades of conflict with the Orcs stoked a fire in many hearts—especially the humans.”

“How did they fare, Prince Valkor?” asked Ardneth. “They took the vanguard against the city walls while the Skyknife distracted the Orcs from the skies.”

The prince turned a scowl on him, “I was there, Ardneth. You needn’t remind me of things I already know. The humans bore the brunt of the casualties. Their dead number in the thousands.”

“And ours?” Sothren asked.

“Some pockets of fighting are still ongoing, but I’d wager several hundred at most with as many injured. Alas, the Skyknife has taken heavy losses, father. Our distraction at dawn worked. The ground forces breached the city with little resistance. I dare say the attack would not have succeeded without our sacrifice, but less than half remain.”

“It pains me to suffer their loss.” The King tilted his head down as his scowl dug into his face. “We had five hands of Pegasi cavalry and rider strong. It could be a hundred years or more before that strength returns to their numbers.”

Ardneth and Prince Valkor remained silent. The famed Pegasus Knights were not merely elves on winged horseback, but the most highly trained of all the King Sothren forces—deadly in almost any form of combat. They were his personal command and he their most capable warrior, but he had not seen the need to ride at their head for this battle. Valkor rode in his stead.

Sothren tilted his head back up, his regality once more in place.

“And the Arcane Order’s Magi?”

“Many slain. With the Orc Magnus and Warlord Thorgoth engaged with the Golden Mask, most Orcs were little match for the Order’s Mages, but the chaos of battle can cripple untrained Magi. Their numbers will be stretched thin for some time.”

Sothren nodded, concerned little with the Arcane Order. “Word of the Golden Mask’s feats here will resonate throughout the Crown Pantheon. They’ll know the Golden Mask works at the behest of the Sylveria and it will stifle dissent from the other Crowns.” The slight smirk on his face was barely contained.

Ardneth shared the King’s satisfaction. “We were some distance, Prince Valkor, but we could hear the overture of the Golden Mask’s might. Was it as bold a spectacle up close?”

The prince’s dark expression told the other two elves more than words could say. Valkor spoke in a lowered tone and said, “Two hundred years, I’ve lived, much of it on the battlefield. I’ve seen many magics in my time, but nothing like what the Golden Mask unleashed. It was horrifying.”

Ardneth shared a pleased look with the King.

“The decades we’ve spent in conflict with Warlord Thorgoth and his Orc horde were equally horrifying, sire,” Sothren said, speaking boldly for all to hear, “It was far past time for this conflict to conclude. Where are Thorgoth and his brothers?”

“The Orc warlord and the Magnus engaged in battle not long after it started. He spilled more elvish blood than any other. He met the Golden Mask in close combat in the commons near their main hall and fought the warmage hand-to-hand, bolstered by the Magnus’ cursed spellcraft. As I said, I’ve seen many a magic in my time, but none this powerful. Every soldier within sprinting distance couldn’t flee fast enough. Those who were near said each struck a killing blow to the other.”

A noise of displeasure rattled in King Sothren’s throat. “My warmage is dead?”

Valkor shook his head, “Badly wounded, but alive.”

“And again, I ask, what of Thorgoth?”

The prince pointed to the distance, past the ruinous heap of the city’s walls and towards twisting, towering trees and gnarled underbrush of the forest beyond the city. “Alive, but only just. Fled with his brothers in the chaos afterwards. We suspect they ran into the deep valley. I have men in pursuit now, but the wilds of Dreadmour are just as dangerous as Orcs and twice as treacherous to venture.”

Sothren gave a curt nod. “I want him dead. Without question.”

“Sire, even if he’s not found, his numbers are beyond recovery. He would need decades to replenish those slain today,” said Ardneth.

“He’ll have that number in less time if he remains alive,” said the elvish king. “His name is a rallying cry to every Orc across the face of Allspire. If they know he is alive after this, they’ll march to him twice as fast. Orc blood feuds are eternal. If we act now and hunt those who remain, they won’t have descendants to carry the grudge. From this victory, we can hunt the Orc to extinction if we commit to the effort. The Orc’s losses number in the tens of thousands—their best warriors and soldiers. What remains will never threaten our kingdoms again. Our numbers lost today will have saved countless more and now Namaria will bend their knees to me. We have a human army at our beck and call.” He looked between the two of them and gave a triumphant smirk. “Today has been a victory on many fronts. Now then, what news of the Namarian queen?”

The sound of footfalls drew their attention as an elf soldier ran up the street towards them. He came to a halt, bowing hastily.

“Sire. We found her.”

The main hall of the Orc city stood three stories tall, a monument for the remaining Orc’s final stand now surrounded by armored troops of elf, dwarf, and human alike. The doors to the hall were a splintered ruin. The bodies of defending Orc warriors lay scattered in unison with Sylverian and Namarian knights—all littering the approach to its entrance.

King Sothren, Ardneth, and Prince Valkor arrived to a muted stir of humanity. Though victorious, the troops milled in anticipation. Their gazes held to their fallen kin, but the work to move them halted. Their casual stances stiffened to attention once the nobility arrived. An ebon-skinned human woman approached them. Her short, close-cropped mane was disheveled with dried blood and sweat. Her armor, damaged in places, still shone immaculately. Her hand crossed over the ‘V’ emblazoned on her chest plate as she saluted.

“Your Majesty. The hall has been secured, paid for in the blood of four Knights Valiant, half-a-hand of Magi, and rounds of soldiers. The Orcs dug in deep and fought like beasts.”

Sothren inclined his head. “My condolences, Valiant.”

Her mouth fixed into a tight line. “Would that your golden masked warmage done the work for us.”

“Had the Golden Mask intervened, the hall would be a smoldering crater. Inform the soldiers they may remove their dead now. I was told she’s been found?”

She gave him a terse nod. “I’ve ordered two Knights Valiant guarding the room. I found her as we purged the Orcs. She was told to stay put. None are allowed near the hall until you give the order otherwise.”

King Sothren turned to his trusted advisor and his son, fixing them both with a gaze. “Ardneth, with me. Valkor, take as many as you need to hunt down Thorgoth and his brothers. Put an end to this. Kill them. Then stick their heads on pikes for every Orc to see right here at the foot of his hall.” The king swept past throngs of soldiers, all backing away to make room. Ardneth followed closely as the prince departed to carry out his orders.

Inside the Main Hall, the stench of death and Orc was overwhelming. Ardneth held a cloth to his nose as he and the king strode slowly, allowing the honor guard to clear the path, tossing bodies aside after spearing them. The inside was a cluttered disaster of swords, axes, and other weaponry. Shattered bottles of elixirs and liquor leaked their contents on the floor. The bodies of the elves and humans who had braved the suicidal task of storming the Orc’s main hall were being carried out by their knight brethren, soldiers' heads bowed in reverence for heroes fallen as they passed by. Without them, the siege would have been longer and bloodier.

King Sothren gave only a nod, moved by none of it. He would have the honor of speaking at their funerals once he returned. They would be laid to rest so reverent flowers could bloom for their families; their statues would gleam over their graves, legends to future knights and immortalized on the tongues of tale-tellers for generations to come.

They marched up the stairs and down a wide corridor until the two of them came to a large door guarded by two Knights Valiant. One, a heavily armored dwarf with a warhammer in each hand, his broad frame so wide he took up most of the corridor. An elf in a loose uniform robe of deep cobalt stood flanking him, hands bearing a staff glowing with arcane power. Both wore the emblazoned ‘V’ on their left breast, but the elf’s was set against a white flame, designating him as a Mage of the Arcane Order.

The moment they saw the King, they dipped their heads reverently and stepped aside, not a word from their lips. Sothren opened the thick oaken door and stepped inside the room.

An expansive down bed dominated the center of the room. Weaponry and macabre Orc trinkets such as skulls, animal heads, pelts, and carved bones lined all the walls. It surprised the king to even find a bed in this barbaric place. To think the infamous Orc warlord slept on a bed stirred his contempt at their mimicry of civilized life.

She sat on the edge of the bed, a human woman draped in a cloak of wolf fur thrice her size. She clutched the edges together as her eyes of deep azure drifted to the figure in the doorway and realization sank in. Slowly, she stood to her feet.

“King Sothren,” she said, her voice cracking.

He inclined his head. “Queen Seranna. Are you true?”

She lifted her hand, fingers spread, and showed him a golden mark set into her palm.

In response, he did the same, his own golden sigil brought to bear. She took a few halting steps towards him. Her raven-black hair spilled around her head as she sighed and dipped low in a bow. She looked rattled, but otherwise in good health. Even in her disheveled state, she was a woman of striking beauty–for a human.

“We all thought you dead months ago. I am relieved to see the whispers of our spies were true and you are unharmed,” Sothren said.

She parted the furs wrapped over her slowly and his eyes glanced down, lips drawn into a tight line.

He let out a terse sigh.

“My dear, I am truly sorry. We came as soon as we could. Let us get you home.”

Miles from the scene of the Orc massacre, the thundering sound of heavy footfalls heralded a round of Orcs in rapid escape. The bedraggled few made a mad dash through the mist-infested woods in the haggard lands of the Deep Valley. Clad in their scavenged and scorched armor, their bloodied faces turned towards the three largest Orcs leading their charge.

They held their pace hard, their breath ragged as they drove forward as one unit. Not one dared utter a complaint even as the charge led them from the vast greens of the valley’s upper forest to the dark and twisted wood occupying its lower hook in the shadow of the mountain Sora-Kul. Here, the trees, leafless and gnarled, curled together with a drifting fog to form a canopy that kept the sun from reaching its barren floor.

Their charge came to a halt before a pair of curved, stone spires reaching up from the ground like tusks. A foreboding path snaked between them, leading downward into a depressed valley shrouded in even thicker mist. The Stonetusk Gate was as far as any of them were willing to travel.

As the Orcs caught their wind, the three largest broke from the pack and took rest on a fallen trunk. One, adorned in the vibrant paints and accouterments of a chieftain’s rank, held his hand to a gaping, seared wound in his chest. Deep gashes and ruinous burns, grievous to behold, marred his body. It seemed miraculous that he still stood, but his shoulders slumped in the effort to remain upright.

The smaller of the three came to the chieftain’s right side and inspected him. The side of his face was a tapestry of bloody, fresh wounds. He was draped in a hooded robe, with a long, thin gray beard, and clutched a thick staff with a gloved hand. He needn’t inspect the wounds for long. In the thick, guttural Orcish tongue, he said, “Thorgoth, you must heal, brother. Your wounds will prove mortal.”

The largest of the three approached the chieftain’s left, a massive brute with a scowl as deep as he was tall, his chest covered by a great dark beard. “Use your spells, Krannok! Or have the gods truly abandoned you?”

“The gods' magic has its limits, as do I, Gorvok.” The robed Orc spat. “It took all of my strength to keep Thorgoth shielded from that elf mage with the gold mask. If I cast one more spell, it will take my life.”

Gorvok snarled, “Then what use are you? Is your brother, your warlord, not worth it?”

“Enough!” Thorgoth, wounded as he was, shoved his muscled arms between his two brothers. He met Gorvok’s sneer with his own, “Krannok kept me alive. I will not hear another word of this bickering.” His threatening posture held for a moment, but his heavy, rattled breathing spoke of the effort it took. Silence took them all as the day’s events weighed down on the survivors. Dread settled over their weary forms. Most of the assembled Orcs were too downtrodden to be angered over their loss against such overwhelming odds. Even the three brothers in their years of campaigning against the Crown Pantheon had never seen such force directed against them.

Krannok sighed, leaning on his staff, “They must have been truly desperate to call down the might of so many Crowns against us. Many sigils. Namaria, The Feylund, Sylveria, Norenrauth, The Dynasty.”

Thorgoth’s voice rattled, “Not many. All. The Crown Pantheon emptied its armies into our Valley. I thought it would be a generation until they found our city, hidden as it was.  How desperate were they to ally as they did against us?”

Gorvok paced before them, snapping at the air, “We must rally! Circle back and gather our forces to retaliate.”

“What forces?” Thorgoth snapped weakly, “Our city is in ruins and our armies lay gutted in its streets. What forces we have left will have fled.”

Krannok pointed out, “The Cragclaws were gone before the first warning horn. Not a gray Orc amongst the dead.” That accusation hung damningly in the air.

“Betrayal!” Gorvok said. “They brought the elves and human armies down on us! Their lust for our forests and hunting grounds have always boiled under their thick hides. Who else would inherit the valley if our tribes were wiped out?”

Both Krannok and Thorgoth shared a look. The absence of their rival tribe at the battle was infuriating, but moot in the face of their monumental loss. They had escaped and just barely. Many Orcs had not and the devastation to their city, their very civilization, was nigh complete.

“We have to go back.” Gorvok said, breathless in his fury, “First to take back our city and once we’ve driven the wretches out of Dreadmour, we wrench the Cragclaws out of their mountain caves and flay them for their treachery! We—”

He spun when Thorgoth’s hand fell on his shoulder and paused, knowing better than to turn his rage on his brother. Thorgoth let a defeated breath escape his massive lungs.

“I want nothing more than to make our enemies suffer for this, but we must face what is real. Our war has ended. Twenty years, we have raged against the Crown Pantheon. It was inevitable they would unite against us. Our legions are gone. Our city burns. My children no doubt slain like dogs. And my que–” Thorgoth coughed, doubling over as his breath rattled with every heave; flecks of blood spattered across his lips. He growled in frustration and stood back up straight.

“This loss will not be tolerated. You know what must be done. Is that not right, Magnus?” Gorvok postured over him, speaking boldly.

Krannok looked between the two of them, the tension between the massive Orcs, blood brothers and lifelong rivals, palpable. Ever ready to come to blows in an instant. “Gorvok, now is not the time for Kar’Katta. It is a time to regroup, to heal, reunite our scattered kin.”

“Now is the time for Kar’Katta!” Gorvok bellowed. “Thorgoth’s loss has proven his inability to lead! We have lost the city, our army, and all the victories won are now for nothing. All because you had to keep that queen for a pet instead of sending her back in parts! I invoke the right of Kar’Katta!”

A flash of rage and Thorgoth’s hand shot to Gorvok’s throat, clutching with all his might. Gorvok gurgled, his hands tearing at the Warlord’s iron grasp. The grip tightened, Gorvok’s eyes wide as his throat was closed, but not crushed. Thorgoth leaned in and glared into Gorvok’s fearful eyes.

“Even as I stand at the gates of the gods, I could crush your throat and send us both into glory.” His hand lessened its grip and Gorvok broke free, gasping for air. “You have long coveted my title, brother. Take it. Lead what is left of our people into your golden age.” The spite laced on his last words lingered as Thorgoth turned his back and walked away. Ahead of him, the Stonetusk Gate loomed and its descending path beyond shrouded in thick mist.

“That is not the way of Kar’Katta!” Gorvok said. “We fight to the death.”

Thorgoth glanced back. “I am not long for death’s embrace. Take my title and go. Or tell the tribes how you defeated your brother after an elf weakened him first.”

Gorvok sneered and looked back at the Orc troops watching their exchange. He would have to kill them all to keep such a secret, and they all knew it. When he looked back to his brother, he saw Thorgoth heading towards the Stonetusk Gate.

“I will raise an Orc horde ten times greater than yours, brother! When I am done, your name will be forgotten, and your legacy erased for the cowardice you’ve shown today!” Gorvok cried after him.

Krannok strode next to Thorgoth and heard his brother utter, “Dullard.”

The Magnus placed his hand on Thorgoth’s shoulder. It burned his blood for Thorgoth to go to the gods’ gates, leaving their people in the hands of Gorvok, but there were precious few options.

“Where will you go, Thorgoth? Into the Deep valley’s roots? The terrors there–”

“I would rather go to the gods’ gates fighting the terrors of the Abyss than die at Gorvok’s hand. He is too stupid to lead our people anywhere but the same endless cycle that has fractured us since the God-Sorcerer’s death.”

Krannok pleaded, “Let me give my last breath to call the gods’ favor and heal you. At least then our people have a leader to unite them again. There is yet more you can do. This cannot be how it ends.”

Thorgoth let a heavy, rattling breath leave his lungs. The way his shoulders slumped, his defeated posture, the stare that went into his mind’s eye. The warlord set his glare on the mist-shrouded path ahead.

“I have lost all that I built...and something I can never regain again. Were I to stay, I would live with a red-hot dagger forever lodged in my chest. At worst, the armies of the Crown Pantheon will hear I am alive and set their knights and Mages against us again. You must stay, brother. Rebuild your temple and give our people faith. They shall need it.” He glanced back to Gorvok, already gloating to the Orc troops.

Thorgoth gave his brother a final clap on his back and hefted his axe onto his shoulder, striding into the lower valley path until the mists swallowed him. Krannok stood at the precipice of the Gate, fighting the urge to follow Thorgoth into certain death. He could not tear himself from the spot until a hard clap on his arm spun him around. He looked up into Gorvok’s glowering visage.

“Where do your loyalties lie, Magnus? With me? Or with the dead?”

Krannok set his jaw and inclined his head. “I am yours to command...Warchief.”

Gorvok snorted at him and spun, marching off to espouse the start of his reign. Krannok glanced down, seeing a trail of blood in Thorgoth’s wake. Blood pooled in the imprint of Thorgoth’s footstep. Deftly, Krannok kneeled and took a vial from his pouch. He dipped the vial into the puddle of blood until it filled and then corked it shut.

“Krannok! We leave!” Gorvok’s order, the first of many to come, brought Krannok to his feet. He fell in step behind his new chieftain.

The weeks following the decimation of the Orc horde became a time of celebration and revelry not seen in a generation. The Elvish King traveled between the kingdoms comprising the continent of Evergrad and though all had contributed to the battle, Sothren was sure to be there so no one ruler would take credit for themselves. As the armies trickled back to their kingdoms and the soldiers back to their homes, the news traveled like a wildfire: the Orc Wars were over. Warlord Thorgoth and his brothers were driven into the wilds of the Dreadmour Valley, their horde either rotting openly at the site of the final battle or scattered to the ends of every wild and wood dark enough to hide them. Where returning soldiers went, celebration commenced. They heralded the victorious as heroes, the fallen enshrined as legends, sung by tavern patrons and songstresses alike.

Life returned to a peaceable normal as the threat of the Orc vanished. The shroud of fear that one would wake and find an Orc army at their doorstep was gone. Children who had never lived without this fear were given a gift of new peace. Those who had lost their loved ones in the war now slept with the contentment that justice had been delivered. They carried news of victory to their loved one’s gravesites so that reverent flowers would bloom in the soil of their sacrifice. From the capitol cities to the distant towns and villages all across the continent, taverns emptied their ale stores in celebration.

In a month’s time, the victory tour brought Sothren to the land of Namaria, the only kingdom in the Crown Pantheon ruled by humans. With little fanfare to announce his arrival, he was escorted through the warm stone halls of their capitol’s castle, Canlyn’s Keep. He ignored the stares of the human soldiers that lined every corridor. The guards said nary a word in his presence, waiting until he and his honor guard were long out of sight to whisper to each other. In every room he entered, every voice went still, and all eyes drew to his presence. He commanded the attention of all without the utterance of a single word.

He swept into the throne room and found the king on one knee, his head down in the ears of two young children. As Sothren approached, the king stood to his feet, hands on the children’s shoulders. He forced a smile on a weary face already stricken with lines despite his youth. Even his dark hair had grown gray well before its time.

The human king looked up from his bow and said, “Your majesty. Children, show your respect.”

Sothren watched as the young children, a raven-haired young girl and boy, both the same age, bowed in quick, inelegant succession and then promptly ran off at their father’s urging.

Sothren waited until they were gone before asking, “Are your walls safe, Brightsorn?”

“As safe as can be. What need do we have for secrecy now that our enemies are dead?” King Jaenar chuckled dryly, frowning when the Elder Elf did not find the notion as humorous as he. “They are safe, I assure you. I am glad you came so I could give you my deepest thanks for all you have done to return my beloved wife to me. I was so sure she was dead. I didn’t believe the reports until she was home again.” His words trailed as his eyes drifted.

“And with that concluded, we can discuss what Namaria will give in exchange for the return of their queen,” said the Sothren pointedly.

Jaenar’s brow  furrowed. “Namaria led the frontlines of that battle. We suffered the highest casualties of all the Crown Pantheon’s forces. Over half my soldiers died in Dreadmour. Our cavalry is all but wiped out. It will take years to recover our strength.”

Sothren was unmoved. “Your vanguard did well, but Sylveria suffered losses unequal to mere soldiers and cavalry. I lost more than half of the Skyknife. Elvish Pegasus Riders, my son’s own personal command. It takes generations to train both knight and Pegasus in the art of winged combat and it will be a hundred years at least before those stables are fully stocked. The Arcane Order lost rounds of Mages. Their diminished ranks will embolden unrestricted magic use. Seven Knights Valiant dead. Seven.”

Jaenar’s words caught in his throat. The enormity of that last statement weighed on him. No warrior in the entirety of Allspire was more capable than a Knight Valiant. Their skills were unmatched and their heroic order unrivaled. One Knight Valiant was worth a hundred knights. 

“It was not by my hand these deaths occurred.” Jaenar replied.

“It was by your request that they were dispatched. Your case before the Crown Pantheon was a compelling and convincing performance. You convinced many a Crown the worthiness of your cause. It was your efforts that summoned this accord, and it shall be Namaria that gives tribute for this favor.”

Jaenar’s scowl spoke for him. Sothren’s impassable glare betrayed nothing as he continued, “The hand of the Crown Pantheon does not come freely. We suffered much for your queen, and you shall give both tithe and soldier in recompense.”

Jaenar’s lungs emptied, and his will withered. His emotional plea to the Crown Pantheon and the entirety of Allspire nobility had indeed been a stirring clarion call to cooperative unity. They conceded, joined, and now what was he to do after other kingdoms had bled and died for him? His hand brushed through his short beard, but his every fidget only delayed his inevitable nod. “Aye. Namaria shall be beholden to your sigil, sire.”

King Sothren, impassive to the last, gave Jaener a smoldering grin. “What are friends for?”

Jaenar’s eyes burned in fiery disdain, a furnace of restraint staying hand and tongue alike. Sothren gave his contempt no more thought than a stray hair in his vision. He waved a dismissive hand.

“Your queen is well? What of...” his voice trailed off, the insinuation hanging in the air.

“She is as healthy as far as the Physicary can tell. She will not speak of it to me, I fear. I’ll not force her to relive such memories. As for...” his hand wavered over his abdomen, “I asked Physicary Percis to provide her something to end it, a draught he knows — Moonshade, I believe — but she has thus far refused. I’m not of mind to tell her what to do given what she has endured, but she cradles her belly the same as she did when pregnant with our twins. I fear she has grown attached.”

“Surely, she doesn’t mean to keep it? Have your Physicary slip the draught into her drink and be done with it.”

“Not so easy. He says the elixir is bitter and its taste too potent to disguise. She pours all her own drink and has tasters for her food. She was never so paranoid. Even if it could be slipped to her, the Physicary says Orcbrats are hardy and the chance of it working is slight.”

“And if she keeps it? Then what? A half-orc bastard in your court?”

The Namarian king gave a short scoff. “An Orcbrat Brightsorn? The very thought is lunacy. It would not be tolerated by me or my people. One look at the squalling thing and she’ll be begging for us to take it from her sight. Mark my words: nothing with green skin shall find sanctuary in these lands.”

CHAPTER ONE

“Namaria stands alone within the Crown Pantheon as the sole kingdom composed of, and ruled by, humans. They are a people fiercely loyal to each other and their Crown king.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

‘No entrance beyond this door without order from King or Queen Brightsorn. All trespass shall be punished with death.’ The framed parchment declared from its place on the stout oaken door bound in thick iron bands. Two guards, clad in armor of deep emerald-and-black, stood firm in their duty on both sides of it.

The clacking of leather boots on smooth stone echoed down the long halls of Canlyn’s Keep. The quick steps alerted the guards on duty long before their owner arrived. Around the corner came the tall, spindly man with graying hair. He looked down at them across a nose as long as the horizon and he came to a halt in front of them, presenting a small parchment adorned with the seal of the king.

“Physicary.” The guard inclined his head. He knew the man well and his daily visits were not unknown, but the king allowed no dereliction in this station. Everyone’s parchment was to be checked. “Physicary Percis Findwell is permitted by order of the King.’ King Brightsorn’s seal was emblazoned on the bottom.

The older man said nothing, waiting until his paper satisfied the guard. The other guard had already flipped through his keys, unlocking the heavy iron bolt and sliding it back to swing the door open with a loud creak. They stood aside as the man passed without a word, his eyes fixed down the long dimly lit hall and the warmth of a glowing orange light at the end. Behind him, the door shut and locked again.

Passing through the unlit hall, he fell under the scrutiny of kings long past, immortal inside their dust covered paintings on both sides of him. Exiting the hallway with the wash of nostalgia that always accompanied it, he stepped fully into the warm expanse of a small library within. Every wall and shelf lined with tomes from across Allspire, from the mundane to the rare. A study set off to the side held not only more books, but a large bed as well. Beyond the common room of the library, through doors of glass, lay a small courtyard walled off from the rest of the castle.

Its construction had been at the behest of Jaenar’s grandfather, a studious king who had wanted his library to be filled to the brim. He hadn’t lived to see his shelves full, but in the following generations, his sons and grandsons had taken up adding to the collection in piecemeal offerings. Percis remembered when the library's volumes were once stacked in thoughtless disorder, absent a dutiful custodian…until seventeen summers ago. It had since been organized and added to meticulously by the wing’s current occupant.

From the courtyard came the familiar clack clack clack of colliding wood, punctuated by an occasional grunt of pain. Percis strode to the stone patio, knowing what he would find. To one side of the open courtyard was a ringed circle of dirt and within, a pair of combatants. Both young men, but their similarities ended there. The taller of the two had locks of raven black hair spilling across his broad shoulders. He had the handsome, angled features befitting one of royal birth. He circled with a fearless swagger, wielding a wooden sparring sword with practiced ease. Shirtless, he cut a striking figure as one used to the rigors of a soldier's routine and moved with the economy of a hungry lion.

His opponent could not have been starker in difference. Shorter by half-a-head and a few years younger, his green skin shone with sweat from the exertion of their bout, dotted with dark bruises. He lacked the taut frame, seeming just a touch softer than his opponent. A pair of short tusks protruded from his bottom lip and his hair—the same raven-black—was cut short just above his ears. Covered in scuffs and dirt, he held his opponent's gaze with the same azure blue eyes. Eyes that darted about, searching for any exploit to gain advantage over his domineering opponent.

Nearby sat an audience of one: a young woman, beautiful in her finely woven robes and flowing raven-black hair. She watched the bout with detached interest and a bored expression.

Sir Percis knew the royal children well. He had brought all three of them into the world. The eldest prince, Brutis, his twin sister Sariah, and their half-orc brother shared common traits from their mother: silken hair of raven-black and striking azure eyes. Their similarities ended there.

With a push of his foot, the Orcborn prince lunged forward and met his older brother in a rush of cuts and slashes, all of which were easily dispatched and countered. A last-ditch effort to break the defense of the elder prince led to their sparring swords locked. They pushed against each other, both vying for dominance. The older prince pushed his half-Orc brother down until the Orcborn’s strength waned and he fell to one knee. Even then, the younger prince refused to yield, struggling to hold back the inevitable.

The princess spied Percis watching the bout and sighed in relief, "Brutis."

The older price turned his head to see Percis and nodded. He flashed the Orcborn a smug grin and with a quick flourish, he lashed his brother’s sword out of his hands. With two flicks of his wrist, he swatted the half-orc with the flat of his sparring sword: once across the cheek and again across his back, each accompanied by a loud TWACK!  He spun on his heel and walked away without so much as a glance at his fallen sibling. He tossed the practice sword to Percis and followed his twin sister to the exit of the library.

Percis strode over to the half-orc sullenly catching his breath and rubbing the red mark across his cheek.

“Prince Ragoth?”

The Orcborn youth tilted his head up to regard the Physicary and nodded to the sparring sword. “Greetings, Sir Percis. Pray tell, would you care for a few contending rounds to test your swordsmanship? I daresay even you have a chance at thrashing me properly.”

Sir Percis tossed the sparring sword on the ground, “Not my forte, young sire. I’ve not the time nor the ability. I’ve a great deal of work and only so much time for your tutoring.”

An animalistic growling noise not uncommon to those of Orc blood reverberated as the prince grunted and stood at his full height. Many of half-orc parentage stood taller and were often built solidly. Not quite so for Ragoth, though he was well within the range for young men of his age. Already, he had shed much of the round, cherubic features of boyhood. He hurriedly toweled himself dry and tossed on fine garments, adorned with the emerald greens-and-blacks of Namaria. If his loss in the ring upset him, he showed none of it.

Percis was an educated man of advanced knowledge and medicine, far from a student of the martial arts, but even he knew the young prince was hardly a match for his older brother. Brutis adored the fight, lived for the sword, and did not shy from remaining dominant in his sparring sessions with his brother. He tossed his sparring sword into a cabinet of supplies near the rows of library books and returned to meet Percis at his study desk.

Despite his loss, Ragoth returned to Sir Percis, beaming, “Apologies, Sir Percis. Only a jest.”

“You’re in high spirits,” Percis noted.

“Aye! I can hardly contain myself. It’s only a week until my Crowning ceremony. Mother told me what to expect, but I’ve yet to rehearse and have not seen her since last week.” He gestured to the library in which they stood. “Sixteen summers of this will be over. Finally, I can take my place in the court with the rest of my family. I’ll have my own crown and my own throne.” He looked down at his hand. “I’m nervous about the gilding, though. Does…does it hurt?”

Percis grimaced, “It is applied with an enchanted carving tool, much like the surgical knife I use. I assure you, young sire, the pain is fleeting, but I could provide a draught that would dull it. Only afterwards, though. You must keep your wits about you for the ceremony.”

“Very well then,” Ragoth said as he looked down, flexing his fingers, “Will you pass word to mother to meet with me? I’m anxious to rehearse. I don’t want to make a mistake in front of the royal court during my introduction. Mother always said there’s no second chance to present a first impression.”

“Your mother is wise, one of the wisest women I’ve ever known. I will speak with her about your concerns, young sire. For now, put all thoughts of your Crowning aside and focus on your studies. A prince needs his education.”

Ragoth crossed his arms and said, “Am I not educated enough? I’ve read every book here. Twice. Including your own.”

Percis’ eyebrows lifted, “Oh? And what did you think of ‘The Prime Basics of Physicary Studies’?”

“It's a touch dull, to be honest. It presents a myriad of facts with little in the way of flair.” Ragoth shrugged, “Forgive me if I offend. I do find tomes of adventures to be more exciting.”

“Nothing to forgive, young sire. But your education is more important than your imagination.”

Ragoth paced, ticking off his fingers. “How much more must I be educated? I know the history of Allspire from the War of Sorrows to the Rockbrow Rebellion, the politics of the Crown Pantheon. I am versed in the economic, political, agricultur—”

Percis held up a hand before the boy could continue. “I’m aware, young sire. You are correct. Your mother wanted your education no less extensive than that of your siblings, though between us, you have far exceeded them most of your life. Were it up to me, I’d deem you more than ready for your father’s court.”

Ragoth sighed and sat down. “Father does not seem to share your assessment.”

Percis’s lips drew into a tight line. For all his knowledge, he was a single man with no children. He had been there for Ragoth’s first wailing breaths and schooled him from childhood to now, but counseling the prince in family dynamics was beyond the scope of his practice.

He was saved from the attempt, as it were. A hand fell on his shoulder and a head leaned in to speak in a soft tone. “It’s much harder teaching them when their only interests are swinging a wooden sword and slaying imaginary monsters, isn’t it, Sir Percis?”

Together, they beheld the new arrival. He was an elvish man draped in a fine traveling cloak. His narrow cheeks and chin jutted out from under his wide-brimmed hat topped with a red feather. He removed the hat and a cascade of silvery-white hair spilled out. He was as most elves: a fair and rather statuesque individual, not a wrinkle to be seen.

Sir Percis started. “Ah. Mister Samiri, I didn’t hear you enter.”

Ragoth jumped out of his chair, “Samrose! You’ve come back.”

Samrose gave Ragoth a grin and a nod to Percis.

“Sir Percis. I was not far behind you in the halls. Just arrived in the city a few hours ago, so I came to the castle to see the prince before I retired for the evening. I apologize if I'm interrupting your tutoring. I can return tomorrow if you wish.”

“Not necessary,” Percis replied, already making his way to the exiting hallway. “I’m sure the prince would much rather spend his time with you instead of another physiology lesson. I’m well aware of where his interests lie, and I have much to do. I’ll leave you to your time with the prince and return tomorrow. Until then, young sire. Good sir.” He bowed to both of them and left.

Samrose and Ragoth shared a look and the elvish man gestured to the common area near a lavishly crafted reading couch and several chairs. Samrose was a friend of his mother, a wealthy socialite and retired Adventurer. He was well-connected to noble courts, merchants, and elite guilds, traveling across the continent in his retirement. His visits to the castle were infrequent, always resulting in several days of his own form of unique tutoring. Ragoth learned things from Samrose that no other could…or would teach him.

Intricacies of business dealings, scraps of knowledge cobbled from a lifetime of travel, and bits of scuttlebutt from the various courts across the Crown Pantheon. His lessons could be anything from thought experiments to hypothetical moral quandaries to cultural details picked up in his travels. Samrose was his favorite tutor, a seemingly endless wellspring of knowledge that Ragoth couldn’t acquire from anyone else.

“It's good to see you again, Samrose.” The prince seated himself in a chair across from the elf. “It's been months. Sir Percis is an exceptional instructor, but...” he trailed off, trying to find a line that wasn’t ungenerous to his most common tutor.

“He lacks my imagination, cunning, and good looks?” Samrose laughed. “I can imagine so. Physicaries are highly educated men. Their entire lives are the pursuit of facts and cold, hard science. Matters of more esoteric pursuits aren’t their forte. Your mother was fond of my teachings as well. I had hoped to not intrude at a bad time. I’ve not even spoken to your mother yet. I was told she is with your younger sister at present.”

“I’ve not seen her today, either,” Ragoth replied, pressing his fingertips together, “I was expecting her to help me prepare for the Crowning ceremony next week. It’ll be my seventeenth summer.”

“I’m aware.” Samrose’s eyes twinkled at the mention. “An important day for every royal.”

“Will you be there?” The prince asked, hope etched in his request. He was as close to his tutors as possible. They were the only people he had contact with from outside his confined wing. He admired Samrose for his wellspring of culture and wisdom just as he admired Sir Percis for his exceptional knowledge. Even Brutis, overbearing as he was in their sparring, had forced him to develop a mind keen to act, if only to avoid being thrashed. Sariah had never spoken directly to him in all his life, but she was never far from Brutis’ side.

And then there was Ragoth’s mother, the queen herself. A cunning lady of the court from the cold northern realm of Machavia. She instilled in her son the knowledge of the politics and responsibilities that came with being a Crowned prince. Though he knew his status as a bastard meant he was unlikely to ever sit on the throne of Namaria, it was still beholden to him that he be prepared for such in the event his human father or his brother were unable. He was still a royal son of the Crown Pantheon. He would be a representative and emissary for Namaria. The only unknown would be the reaction of the people once his Crowning came about and his isolation ended. It would be the most important—and frightening—day of his life thus far. He wanted Samrose there for it.

The elf’s defeated expression gave away his answer. “Alas, I’ll be traveling east next week, lad. I’ve some business on the Allurious Coast that was made months ago, and I fear I was thoughtless in keeping my schedule clear for your Crowning. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t mark the occasion.” He glanced back to the dim hall from which he’d entered.

“What’re you looking for?”

“Just making sure we’re alone.” He reached into his traveling cloak and produced an ornate glass flask. “I have something to share, but don’t tell your mother. Go grab us a pair of goblets.”

Ragoth leapt out of his chair and fetched a small pair of glass goblets wrapped in an opulent silver caging. Samrose took them both and poured half-a-glass each from the bottle, a deep red liquid pouring out. He was careful not to spill a drop, handing one to Ragoth. “A treat from a Dynasty noble. Elvish summer wine. A true delight. Only half a cup for you, young man. I doubt such little wine will go to your head, but it behooves one to be cautious when trying new spirits. Cheers. To your Crowning.”

They tapped their goblets together and Ragoth sipped the wine slowly, its exquisite flavor dancing on his tongue. His nose came alive with that aromatic bouquet of its scent. He tried to place its taste, only able to detect a subtle hint of wild berries. Eyes wide, he broke into a lop-sided grin, tongue licking at his tusk.

“It’s good. Very good. I don’t know that I’ve ever tasted anything like it.” He quickly attacked the cup as Samrose watched, amused and savoring his own wine. Even as the prince tried to make the wine last with smaller sips, it was gone all too soon.

“One must be careful when drinking.” Samrose cautioned. “It can go to your head when you’re not used to it. I thought a taste of something so elegant should be shared.”

“Is this my lesson?” Ragoth asked, “A wine sampling?”

“I’ve never come without something to teach. But given your seventeenth summer is just a week away and I’m to be off before long, perhaps a day without tutoring is well earned? What do you say? A mind without rest is likely to burn out. You’ll have plenty to take in next week.”

Ragoth agreed, and the two of them spent the rest of the afternoon in casual conversation. Much of his time in isolation was spent by himself or in tutorship. The chance to sit and converse was often denied to him. Life in such isolation had often been a source of frustration, but even at its worst, he only needed the calm reassurance of his mother to set his heart at ease again. It was through his books that he found escape. He could recite the rules of a royal court, but he’d never set foot in one. He could explain the complexities of the Crown Pantheon’s exhaustive interlacing economies, but he’d never handed a coin to purchase anything. He knew there were dangers abound in the world outside his walls, but they seemed like distant shadows, unable to harm him here.

The guards at the doors would not answer him, though they were always there. No housekeepers would clean up after him; they expected him to keep everything tidy and clean or risk a reed across his backside from his mother. His meals came via a dumbwaiter on the side of the library wall. Clothes were left in a hamper near the door and returned washed while he slept.

His siblings were often too busy to visit, tutored extensively in much the same manner as he. The twice weekly training sessions with Brutis were hardly times of brotherly love. There was little to Brutis’ visits beyond the obvious: their mother forced him to spend time together with Ragoth. Brutis, four winters his senior, did little to keep his contempt off his face. To Ragoth’s relief, his visits had grown more infrequent as his brother found his time was better spent doing anything else.

Only Sera, his sister younger by two springs, with her bright smiles and tight hugs, approached him with the warmth of a true sibling. Their time together was the time he valued most, as she was always eager to spill whispers of life in the castle that others would not. Her joy at seeing him was as genuine as the sunrise and just as warming. Much as he wished he could spend more time with her, she was kept busier still with her own tutoring. These days, his siblings visited him less and less. He told Samrose as much.

“Even mother is more busy than usual. I saw her last week and not since. My only friends are...these.” He gestured to the books in the library. “And Marvallo. But he is seldom free to spend time with just me.”

Samrose stood and walked the length of the bookshelves, his fingers trailing along the spines, noting titles at random, ‘Namarian Kings of the Age of Crowns, ‘Abiding Rules of Guilds’, ‘The Lost Orders of Paladins’, ‘Introduction to Inquisition Law’, ‘Bestiary of the Feylund’, ‘History of the Crown Pantheon’, ‘Deeds of the Valiant’. The books went on as Samrose examined them. He couldn’t imagine the prince’s frustration, left to his own devices with only books to keep his sharp mind busy. No time spent with his contemporaries. No social engagement. Only a few tutors and his family. It would have driven Samrose mad.

His eyes settled on the small wall of books at the prince’s desk where an open book picturing a hunched, long-armed Orc caught his eye. Standing over the book, the elf’s eyes scanned the pages passage:

‘The Orc is feral and beast-like in nature. Its tongue is harshly spoken, broken into simple terms for the Orc is a simple creature. It is prone to fits of rage and thrives in an environment of constant conflict. It lacks the ability to reason. It delights in violence and will attack anything it sees—even its own kind. What semblances of humanity or civilized behavior it displays are a crude imitation of what it witnesses in human, dwarvish, elvish kind.’

Samrose lifted his eyes to the prince. “You haven’t been reading this, have you?”

Ragoth noticed what Samrose was looking at and rubbed his neck sheepishly. “It’s one of the few volumes that speaks about Orcs in any length.”

Samrose closed the book. “You shouldn’t. You’re nothing like your Orc father.”

“Am I?” Ragoth queried, “Samrose...what are they really like? Are they as bestial as the tomes proclaim? Every page I read that pertains to them only speaks of their brutality and danger. They are ever written as a foe to be avoided at all costs. If they are so feared, is that fear carried over to me? Is that why I’m kept secluded from the rest of the court?”

Samrose sighed heavily and dipped his head, “I cannot give those answers, Ragoth. That responsibility is your mother’s and your mother’s alone. It is not my place.”

“She’ll only tell me I'm not old enough to understand.” The prince’s posture slumped in defeat.

Samrose approached Ragoth and grasped the prince by the shoulders. “Never doubt your mother’s wisdom, lad. In due time, I'm sure she’ll tell you. What I can tell you is out in the wild places of Allspire, Orcs can be very dangerous. But so can humans, elves, dwarves, halflings, goblins, trolls. Intent is the true danger. You are more your mother’s son, every bit as cunning as she and you will do great things once you’re Crowned. You are more special than you realize.”

Ragoth looked up at Samrose, a smile creeping across his still cherubic cheeks. “I am grateful for your counsel.”

Samrose cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps enough for one day. I must retire soon; it’s been a taxing journey. Since I won't be here next week, I wish you a happy and healthy seventeenth spring and a glorious Crowning ceremony. Damnation, I forgot a gift. What would you like?” He pulled out a long, slim wooden writing implement and a small pad of parchment from his jacket pocket.

Ragoth furrowed his brow, pointing to the writing implement. “What’s that?”

“This? It’s an Everquill. Handy little thing for those of us who write in excess. Its enchantment ensures it never runs out of ink.” He scrawled on the parchment to demonstrate.

The prince’s eyes lit up. “One of those would be nice.”

Samrose smiled and nodded. “So be it. Not this one, though. I need it. I’ll have one sent to you.” He placed it back in his pocket. “Good as it is to see you, I must retire soon. A good evening to you, Ragoth.”

He clapped the prince on the shoulder and all of a sudden the boy swept forward and took him in a tight embrace. Stunned, he gave Ragoth a friendly return to his hug and waited until the prince finally let go.

Ragoth watched Samrose quietly collect his bottle of elvish wine and tossed him a last glance. The look on his face was unreadable, one Ragoth had never seen before. Sadness? Confusion? It was hard to pick up on the visual cues of those he didn’t see with regularity. No sooner did he see it than the retired Adventurer had spun and returned down the darkened hallway. The sounds of clanging iron echoing as the door opened and shut again.

Ragoth stood there for nearly a hand of time, watching the blackened corridor in hopes his mother might soon appear as well.

Ding.

A small bell sounded from a wall at the far end of the library, signaling his dinner meal had arrived via dumbwaiter. He ignored it for the time being, allowing his gaze to drift upwards to the top of the castle walls that encircled his courtyard high above. Over their precipice the dim orange glow of dusk hovered in the sky. An indistinct, distant murmur of gathered humanity drifted like a whispering tease of a world denied to him for too long. With little recourse and a week still between him and the rest of his life, he grabbed a book in the vain hope his mind could be taken anywhere but the present.

As the hours passed, Ragoth sat in the sparse grass, cross-legged with Botanical Notations and Practical Applications in his lap. He scooted himself from one flower to another along the base of the walls and identified it in the book. The sparse wildflowers growing here seemed like gifts from the world outside, a rare glimpse of something just beyond his reach.

Encompassed in a studious habit, he lost the sense of the isolation that threatened to overwhelm him at times, especially in the last few years. His mind craved ever expanding knowledge, yearning for pursuit of the unknown and to master as much as could be learned. Though he loved books, he knew his library word for word with perfect recall. It had baffled Sir Percis to be told he didn’t need a topic to be taught twice, but the Physicary insisted on “reinforcement” of learned material. It was a teaching practice that Ragoth endured out of politeness.

The limitation of his access to more knowledge was truly maddening. He knew every picture, every face, every author. He knew the towns and cities littering the continent of Evergrad (Travels of Evergrad). He knew the wood his furniture was made from, and the techniques used to carved it (Elvish Woodworking Fundamentals) and the philosophies of the great thinkers (Grendun’s Tome of Ponderings). He could converse about the dwarvish civil war that occurred after the Rockbrow Rebellion from the accounts of both sides. Every bit of information the castle library provided; he knew.

But he didn’t know what it was like to talk to someone new. To visit the places he only read about. To taste something besides the predictable food prepared for him, however lavish it was. Even hours later, he was in no hurry to eat. No matter the variety, he had eaten every dish the chef could prepare for him. Nothing was new. Nothing surprised him. His Crowning in a week’s time was only a minute solace.

As his mind’s eye drifted aimlessly, a shining point of light arching over his head brought him back to reality. It reached the apex of its skyward climb and burst into a dazzling shower of sparkling golden lights accompanied by a resounding POP!

Ragoth jumped and spun, a grin plastered on his face as a cartwheeling blur of red-green-and-blue spun out of the library towards him. In the figure’s wake came an array of exploding lights cascading into the air, showering the courtyard with a grand display of sparkling showers exploding in every color of the rainbow.

When the figure reached the carved stone railing between the balcony and the courtyard, it leapt into the air, spinning like a tightly wound ball before landing on the railing with expert ease on his feet, arms outstretched in a grand flourish.

The tall and thin-limbed jester tossed his hands into the air, a beaming grin occupying most of his crescent-shaped face. He gave a hearty laugh and declared in a voice amplified many times its actual volume, “From winter's cold to summer's light, Marvallo the Magnificent comes within your sight. Your eyes shall widen, and your jaws shall drop. Till a smile is on your face, I shall not stop!”

The jester moved with a smooth grace along the railing as he spouted his lyrical introduction to Ragoth, who grinned in delight.

Marvallo cartwheeled, leapt, and rolled down the railing, onto the grass and over to Ragoth, where he gave a final theatrical flourish with a fan of red, blue, and green sparks showering out behind him. Ragoth laughed, giving Marvallo vigorous applause for his entrance. The lanky jester bowed before him, his features buried under a layer of white paint with intricate designs of red, blue, and green. His garish outfit was a loose-fitting affair of the same color scheme designed to allow him freedom of movement as he performed.

“Marvallo! My friend, it's good to see you again!” Ragoth beamed. He so seldom had a reason to be mirthful, but a visit from the castle jester was never a dull one.

“A little bird chirped in my ear that our prince was feeling out of sorts.” As Marvallo said this, a tiny sparrow hopped onto his shoulder from behind his head, chirping in his ear. “I am, if nothing, a servant of the royal family. I shan’t leave the young prince in such a state. A smile and a joyous heart are always to be had.” His fingers pressed up on Ragoth’s cheeks, forcing his smile upward, a gesture that made Ragoth’s face look comically grotesque. The jester gave a crouch and then catapulted himself backwards into a series of somersaults, bursts of bright lights and whizzing noises accompanying his gymnastics.

Marvallo was the only person who visited him without the purpose of tutoring him. The jester had been a familiar face as long as he could recall. Ragoth’s earliest memories were sprinkled with afternoons spent watching Marvallo perform his dazzling craft, a well-honed display of acrobatics, fireworks, and sleights of hand that never failed to amaze him.

“I learned this in the Academy.” Marvallo declared, molding something in his hands as he knelt. He thrust his hand into the ground and sprung up with a spin, conjuring a pair of flames that spiraled around his body from the earth into the sky.

“You never mentioned you were a member of the Order.” Ragoth gasped in awe.

“Alas, they saw little use in a Magi using his gifts for the benefit of ‘mere entertainment’. But what a dreary life they must have to dismiss such gifts.” As Marvallo spoke, the fire in his palm spread to engulf his hand. He shrieked, taking a comically deep breath and expelling it on his hand. The breath turned into a spout of frost blasted into the air, extinguishing the fire and drifting to the ground in a gentle snowfall.

“But fear not for me. I found my calling once I was done with those stodgy old spell slingers. The thespian arts awaited! I honed my acting skills in the finest theatrical melting pot across the face of Evergrad in the Soaring Sails Circus!” Marvallo wove his story in elaborate and exaggerated body language, vast sweeps of his arms and a voice that carried each word with overbearing dramatic tones. Ragoth was enthralled.

“They must have been masterful teachers. Look at you now.”

“Look at me now!” The jester replied. “Indeed! I perform at the behest of a royal family of the Crown Pantheon. Why, I’ve taught your sisters to dance. I’ve spoken of the Feylund philosophies with your mother. I even taught your father the bawdiest tavern joke I know. He was in tears.” Ragoth’s smile faded, something Marvallo was quick to notice. “Not a fan of jokes?”

“He’s not my father.” Ragoth was quick to say, turning on the jester and walking away.

Marvallo’s fingers tapped together in the awkward silence that lingered. He followed the young prince as he made his way back to the library, fingers stroking his narrow chin. “The king is regarded as your father, young sire. In all the ways that matter.”

Ragoth spun back to him, “Is he? He has shown me little in this regard. He never visits and only then because he is accompanying mother. When he does grace my presence, his eyes are cold as the heart of winter. Is it because I am yet Crowned? Or because my true father was an Orc? I understand I am a bastard son, but it feels as though I have no father.” He was ranting now, and the boy’s fiery response put Marvallo back. He was unaccustomed to such anger from the prince.

“Mother tells me the virtues of patience, but I am loath to wait any longer. And once I am Crowned, what will await me when I am finally let out of this...this prison?” There. He had said it out loud for once. “My father’s cold stare? My brother’s fists? My sister’s indifference? Only Sera and mother act as if I'm worth their time and even then, they barely visit.”

Ragoth saw Marvallo trailing him at a distance, an unsure look on his usually jovial face, “Forgive me, Marvallo. It is wrong to foist my frustrations on your shoulders. You’ve ever been my only friend.”

Marvallo cleared his throat. “Nothing to forgive, young sire. You’re a young man and no longer a child. Perhaps too old for the likes of a master of thespian prestidigitation.” He flicked a tiny fireball off the tip of his finger. “I fear I’m not much for advice. One could look back on my life choices and make a number of criticisms. Nor do I know how it feels to be of royal blood. I do know you must be of a great temperament as a part of the Crown Pantheon. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ragoth felt his gaze drop. “Aye. Is that what this is? A test of my temperament? Why do my siblings not fare the same?”

Marvallo listened, scanning Ragoth’s desk and the adventure tomes stacked on it as he approached, stroking his chin thoughtfully. It was a moment before he spoke, leaning down into the prince’s ear in a low tone.

“I fear for my life to tell you too much of the truth. But you, above your siblings, are more important than you know. Your skin is not merely a sign of your parentage, it is...a destiny in and of itself.”

Ragoth looked at him curiously. “Destiny? I don’t understand.”

Marvallo withdrew, biting his lip and looking around nervously, “No. I fear I’ve said too much. It is not my place to speak with you about this.”

His hushed tone sent shivers up Ragoth’s spine. He hung on the jester’s every word.

“Your mother and father cannot tell you yet. It is not safe to speak of such until your Crowning, until you take your gilded mark. One word before then would invite calamity.”

He pressed a finger to the prince’s lips as questions formed, “No! Not now, young sire, I beg of you. After your Crowning. There are so many things that cannot be said until then. You must hold vigilant and be patient, I beg you. It is a matter of life and death and to speak of it before then would put your life at risk. You trust me, yes?”

The fierce intensity in Marvallo’s eyes gripped the prince. He felt his own hand coming up to his throat and nodded. “Aye, Marvallo. I trust you. I won’t speak a word either.”

Marvallo let out a held breath and patted his shoulders. “Good. A prince needs those he can trust.”

“Mother says much the same.”

“Our queen is wise.”

Ragoth stopped him with his hand, “Marvallo, do not tell mother my frustrations. It was a moment of weakness, nothing more.”

“Not a word from my lips.” The jester pressed his lips together tightly, standing back to his full height and starting for the hallway. “I must be off. I’m surely being missed at mealtime. I’ll speak with you after your Crowning and not a moment sooner. Farewell.”

“Farewell.” Ragoth waved, but by then, Marvallo had spun on his heel and was walking into the dark hall. The prince watched him leave, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. The hallway echoed with the familiar clanging of the locks and once again, he was alone in the damning silence.

CHAPTER TWO

“The gilded mark of a Crown brings with it rights that few are afforded and responsibilities even fewer will ever comprehend.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Night had long since fallen. The only ambience was the sound of crickets from the small courtyard. Normally, this time of night, when the moon was midway through its nightly traverse, Ragoth slept in the comforts of his lavish trappings. Other nights, he buried himself in books, reading until he fell asleep. No one saw him to bed, but he had suffered more than a few days struggling to stay awake during his lessons. Percis never let him slack in his studies just because he wanted to sleep in. Try as he might, tea was too weak to wake him for long.

That night, Marvallo’s words echoed in his head with damning frequency.

Destiny.

Crowning.

Mother.

He couldn’t sleep and reading didn’t hold his attention when he knew the passages by heart. He returned to the book he treasured more than most: The Testament of the Knights Valiant.

The Knights Valiant were an order of the Crown Pantheon’s most capable and heroic knights, exceptionally skilled swordsmen, Magi, battle worn warriors, and Adventurers of the highest regard from every corner of Allspire. Their deeds were the realm of legend and their ability second to none. Revered as heroes, the tome was a collective testimony written by the Grand Knight Eris Endenthaw, the former Grand Knight of the Knights Valiant. The way he wove the tale of a single knight's lifelong accomplishments in his elegant prose always enraptured his imagination like no other.

The young prince was never short of daydreams, imagining life as a Knight Valiant in gleaming armor and basking in the adoration of others. He had never seen in the Testament any knight of royal blood within their ranks, but he wondered...oh yes, he wondered. There was no chance of him ascending to Namaria’s throne, but there were other paths to prominence. Oh, to be out of this damned place so he could better assess where his future would lie.

His curiosity festered, building within him for hours, fueled by years of discontent and rationalized by any justification his mind could summon. He couldn’t stay here anymore. He wouldn’t! He had to speak to his mother at the very least.

He approached the dumbwaiter in the library, sparing a glance at the dark hallway leading to the only door in and out. There were guards there, he knew. There always had been and no amount of knocking or pleading would stir them to answer him. Even if he tricked them into opening it, he doubted he could get past them. They wouldn’t so much as acknowledge him, much less pass a message for him. No housekeepers to clean up after him, he was expected to maintain the cleanliness of his abode–including washing his clothes, mopping the floor, and refilling the oil in his hooded lanterns scattered about.

If a thing is to be done, best ensure it's done by my hand, he thought.

With the spirit of the Knights Valiant in his heart, he yanked the door to the dumbwaiter open, taking some care he didn’t make enough noise to spur a response—if he even could. His dinner was inside, uneaten. He took a few meager bites. When he went to drink from the mug, he paused, his nose wrinkled at the strange smell. For once, they gave him something new to drink and it smelled awful. Making a face, he set the tray on the floor before climbing inside.

It was a tight fit, laughable to look at, but limber as he was it was not impossible. Once squeezed inside, his hand reached for the string tied to the bell and gave it a few quick yanks. Somewhere, on the other side of that string, a bell rang to have his tray retrieved. It took a few moments, long enough that he thought he’d waited too late, but the dumbwaiter gave a lurch and crawled downwards. Darkness enveloped him as the slow-moving dumbwaiter descended into its shaft.

A few moments later, he heard the clicking of gears and the sound of a winch being turned. He came to a stop in the dark for a moment. Just as he wondered if he should test the door, it was yanked open, and he found himself face-to-face with a plump human woman. The second she saw him, she let out a terrified shriek and threw herself backwards, nearly toppling a shelf filled with silverware and cutlery. Before he could say anything, she darted away in a frenzied panic out through the door, yelling, “Goblin! It...it’s a goblin!”

Wincing, Ragoth grabbed the edge and forced himself out of the cramped hole, tumbling onto the floor in a heap. He stood up as quickly as he could and looked around. The warm room was lined with ovens, cast iron cauldrons, and an abundance of shelves stacked with platters. A kitchen, he surmised. He’d never seen one, and the moment almost overwhelmed him. The first new room he’d seen in sixteen summers. The lingering aroma of fresh cooked bread and simmering stew still hung heavy in the air. The smoky scent of the cookfire smoldered in the corner. He wanted to linger and study the kitchen, but in the back of his head he knew that the kitchen maid wouldn’t let his presence go unreported.

He was in a first-floor kitchen below the library. A flash of memory in his mind’s eye and his memorization of the castle floor plans told him where his next destination would be. He pressed through the side door just in time to hear the kitchen maid re-enter the kitchen with a pair of heavy footsteps following her.

“It was there! In the library shaft.” Ragoth held his pointed ear to the door and listened carefully. “I opened the door and there was a goblin staring me in the face, I swear!” she sputtered.

Ragoth pressed the door open just a crack, spying two guards as they marched past the woman and inspected the dumbwaiter shaft. Even without having seen them before, he recognized them as guards of the king, clad in emerald armor trimmed in vibrant silver, the black cloaks emblazoned with that of a winged sword upon a shield. The Swordarix, the Namarian royal sigil.

They stuck their heads into the dumbwaiter, glanced up and around potential hiding spaces before turning back to her and declaring, “There’s no goblin here. Go to bed, Barva. You need some sleep.” Despite her protest, the two guards left with her following close behind as she kept nervously glancing back over her shoulder.

With the map of the castle ever present in his mind, Ragoth tread carefully through the halls of the castle. This time of night, the guards were lax in their duties and those he saw were either talking with other guards or empty at the eyes.

Eventually, he caught sight of a doorway with an expansive room beyond its threshold. Crimson fabric and stone columns grew in his sight until he slowly stepped into the massive chamber. Once inside, his eyes widened, and his jaw hung slack.

His mother had often described the magnificence of the throne room to him, but her words hardly bore it justice. The sweeping cathedral ceiling craned upwards, far taller than the walls of his courtyard. It was dizzying to behold. Oblivious, he walked into the center of the massive chamber, eyes scanning every detail he could absorb. Elaborate tapestries and the statues of kings long past lined the walls—the same kings that lined his hallway. The tapestries displayed significant events and battles in Namaria’s history, all of which Ragoth could name from his extensive studies (History of the Namarian Throne, Namarian Wars: Volumes 1-6 and The Namarian Military Ideal). He marveled at the craftsmanship, human in design but worthy of comparison to those of elvish make. Banners bearing the Swordarix littered the upper balconies that looked down on the throne room’s first floor.

There, at the center, his eyes finally fell on the lavish throne and its companions. It drew the eye with its rich crimson hue lined with vibrant gold. It held a familiarity to its exquisite craftsmanship that matched that of the furniture in his bedroom and library. He saw the second and smaller throne to the left: his mother’s throne, designed in a softer, curving make that seemed to fit a queen. And two smaller thrones past hers for his sisters. To the left of the king’s throne was a smaller, more intimidating throne, squared and box-like. His brother’s seat.

There, next to his brother’s throne, sat a crystalline sphere set into a metal stand. It rose to the height of his sternum. The metal was crafted in a fluid-like manner and inscribed with elvish runes lining the contours. Standing this close to it, it thrummed with a sense of unseen power. He had been told of this from Percis, his mother—even Sariah had mentioned it to Brutis in his presence. Even those not trained in the arcane could sense it if they stood close enough.

“The Archmage’s Arcana Sphere.” Ragoth said in a breathless whisper. He looked to his right palm, knowing his gilded mark would be placed there during his Crowning and the Sphere would be the tool that placed it there. With his mark, any Archmage could identify him as a royal son of Namaria. It was physically and magically carved into the hand—a mark that was impossible to forge and proof that he was of royal blood of the Crown Pantheon.

"What are you doing out here, little brother?"

Ragoth gave a start, spinning around to face the voice. Brutis stood just behind him, muscled arms crossed over his broad chest. His sardonic grin filled his square-jawed face as his jet-black locks framed his angular head. Just over his shoulder, always close by, stood Sariah. She was the mirror image of their mother, a resemblance that caught most by surprise, but not Ragoth. He could never see his mother wearing Sariah's piercing glare, nor haughty gait. She shared a wry grin with her twin brother as she moved past him towards the Arcana Sphere, her hands reaching out to caress its smooth surface.

"You didn't touch this, did you? You have no business with such a device. What if you'd broken it? Why are you here and not in your library?”

Ragoth looked back and forth between their accusing stares and stammered, "I-I was only curious. I snuck out to speak to mother about my Crowning next week."

An amused, shocked expression came to Brutis and Sariah's faces as they looked up at one another in silence. She looked as if she couldn't contain herself with a hand on her mouth and Brutis leaned down, saying in a low voice, "Your Crowning?"

A barb sank into his very heart hearing the utter disbelief lacing Brutis' words. Ragoth swallowed and said, "A-aye, brother. As is the tradition of the royal court that one of royal blood—bastard or not—be Crowned by the Archmage and given their gilded mark, a crown, and a throne." He gestured to the dais where the thrones sat and only then did it occur to him that there were five thrones, not six. The empty silence that followed filled him with a sinking dread. The two of them had him between their eyes, their shared glances speaking to each other in a way he couldn't interpret. They both looked at their own hands, where Ragoth could see the elaborate golden outlines of their gilded marks. The Swordarix shone with a golden, mirrored sheen.

He jumped when Sariah took hold of his right hand firmly, her finger tracing idly inside his palm. "A gilded mark? A crown?"

Brutis' hands fell onto his shoulders, "...and a throne." The older prince pushed him down forcefully into the throne next to the Sphere as Sariah steeled her grip on his hand and yanked it out. Ragoth fought to leap up, but in a flash, Brutis' hand shot to his mouth, clenching his jaw tight. Ragoth’s cries were drowned out and his efforts to fight against his brother's strength were futile. Sariah held his arm down and placed it palm-up on the surface of the Sphere.

"You heard him." Brutis said cruelly, "It's tradition, after all."

Her fingers encircled the Sphere, a runic circle forming around the crystal as it hummed to life, glowing with a magical aura. She grabbed at the side of the stand and produced what looked like a shard of mirrored silver, its tip honed to a fine point that glowed white hot. Her fingers circled another rune, and the Sphere sucked his hand onto it, drawn and held in place with a force unseen. His fingers bent back painfully, a sharp yelp erupting as he panicked. He heard Sariah say, “I’ll give him a crown.”

Dread rose in his throat seconds before a searing fire shot through his hand. He was no stranger to pain, having endured the worst of it at his brother’s hand, but this was not the stinging thwack of a sparring sword or the strike of a hard fist into his arm. A sharp, burning agony arose from his palm and sent shockwaves of torment shooting up his arm. On instinct, he shot up and nearly threw Brutis to the floor, but the older prince shoved him back down and smothered him under his weight. He tried to pull his hand free, but the magic of the Sphere held it fast. He opened his mouth to scream, but his brother’s body shoved him into the cushioned throne and muffled his cry.

Agony filled his hand and arm, a ceaseless torment that seemed to last an eternity. The acrid scent of his own burning flesh threatened to make him vomit. He fought and struggled to do something, anything to end his suffering, but he could only wail uselessly as he was crushed between his brother and the throne. He would have remained that way had he not turned his head and pressed one of his tusks into Brutis’ side.

The older prince issued an angry yelp and shot to his feet. Ragoth leapt up only to meet the back of Brutis’ hand as the older prince spun around and struck him. Ragoth fell to the ground, but his hand remained fixed to the Sphere. There he hung awkwardly, Sariah perched over his hand with the silver shard in her grip, gouging it into the flesh of his palm. Smoke from his burned flesh curled around her dark locks and cold, unflinching glare.

He issued a wail of pain. Thoughts flew from his mind. Rationality and lucidity were distant memories lost in a haze of pain and fire. Just when it felt as though he would lose all consciousness, his hand was suddenly free. Whimpering, he scrambled to escape and fell down the stairs of the dais, painfully tumbling until he came to a stop at the bottom. Sariah’s laughter followed him as he fell as Brutis cursed openly about the tusk wound in his side.

Pain and fear engulfed him, his hand a quivering thing he buried under his arm. Rolling onto his back, Ragoth watched the distant stone ceiling and rising columns of the throne room blurred and spun in his distorted vision. Blood rushing through his ears made a chorus of shouts and cries seem distant. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but suddenly he stared up at faces he had never seen circled around him, looking down in shock. Guardsmen, by the look of their helms. Before he could utter a word, a familiar figure forced himself into the throng surrounding Ragoth.

King Jaenar glared down with a mixture of shock and anger.

Ragoth stuttered, “M-mother—”

He glimpsed Brutis lunging at him with a guard’s cloak and his vision went dark.

Through the horror of it all, Ragoth was vaguely aware of being picked up and carried on Brutis’ shoulder. His entire world was the disorienting pain in his hand, the uncomfortable bouncing on Brutis’ shoulder, all in darkness. He heard an excited voice or two, but their words were indistinct and soon all he heard was his own ragged breath.

“Open it!” Brutis barked a command. Ears cringed at the loud clank of iron bars and a squealing metal door followed by quick boots echoing in a narrow corridor. Ragoth’s groaning ceased, though his hand was still shaking from the pain. Just when it seemed his senses were coming about, he was tossed off the shoulder. He flinched, expecting to meet the floor only to land on a familiar softness. He lay unmoving for a moment, still stunned, still in pain. The only sound he heard was fading bootsteps. Cautiously, he fought to throw the cloak off his head and looked around.

He was in his bed, back in his library. The familiar trappings weighted in on him like a vice around his chest. Ragoth flung himself off the bed, ran out of his bedroom, and into the hallway. He felt the stares of the old kings bearing down on him as he fought to run faster, seeing Brutis’ broad frame in the light of the open doorway. The elder prince spun, casting that damnable grin at Ragoth one last time before shutting the door.

Ragoth threw his body against the door just as the locks clicked in place. He fell back onto the floor, shot back up and slammed his fists and feet against the door for several minutes. He grunted and snarled, a deep-seated anger rising from his gut. The more it rose, the more he wanted to feed it, a red haze creeping into the corners of his vision. Every lesson his mother had ever instilled in him to curb his anger failed as true rage throttled his conscious thought. Anger was a poison that simmered in his Orc blood, ready to boil at an instant, she had warned.

Ragoth didn’t care and vented a lifetime of frustration upon the door, as though his anger alone could tear it down. He drove his shoulder into the door and a jolt of pain shot through his arm. He leaned there gasping for breath, the anger fading slowly, the redness clearing from his sight. The door stood unscathed; its guards as silent as ever.

In reluctant surrender, Ragoth went back down the long hall, head hung before the shadows of his forefathers and feet shuffling against dusty stone. Once in the flickering light of the library again, he looked around in despair. The comforts of his home were no better than the iron bars of a prison.

His spirit defeated, Ragoth sullenly returned to his library and came around to his desk chair. Before he sat, he looked down at the Testament of the Knights Valiant and his eyes furrowed angrily. The prince grabbed his favorite tome and hurled it across the room. He swung his arms across the stacked columns of books, scattering them. Collapsing back into his chair, he felt every ache and pain from the last few hours. His head and shoulder throbbed, his stomach roiled painfully from lack of sufficient food, and his right hand shook from a deep aching pain that was every bit unbearable as it was unfamiliar.

Finally lifting his hand, he looked at his palm to see a crudely drawn crown carved deep into his flesh. No blood came from the deep wounds, cauterized by the heat and magic used to gouge his flesh. Horrified, he realized the scarred mark was gilded. Ragoth stared, trying to come to terms with the shock, the sheer hurt of his sibling’s cruel act. His father's indifference looking down at him. He could still feel those cold eyes. Why hadn't his mother been there too? If she had, would any of this have happened? He wrapped a handkerchief around his palm as a bandage and sat back.

"Mother," he whispered. "Where are you?"

The prince lowered his head, let out a shaky breath, and wept until sleep took him.

Ragoth's eyes shot open with a start, staring out into total darkness. The library around him was devoid of all light, every candle and lamp without even a flicker of flame. Only the light of the moon intruding from the courtyard doors lit the interior. The still air and quiet dark was unsettling. The hooded lamp on his desk had run out of oil. Still in pain, he groaned as he fetched a portion of oil from a wooden cask in his supply closet.

As soon as he had a flame and shut the hood, an echoing whisper sent chills up his spine. He spun around, trying to divine its origin.

"H-hello?"

The darkness did not answer.

He went to return the brass oil flask when the whisper returned, louder this time. The harsh noise seemed to drift from nowhere and now there was a gurgling chuckle to accompany it. Nervous, Ragoth looked around, unsure, frantic to know the source. Surely not a sound a human could make.

It returned, snapping his head around to the hallway. "At las-s-s-st!"

"Who's there?" Ragoth cried. The mouth of the hallway vomited a drifting mist that crept in, covering the floor as it spread to every corner of the library’s floor. Fear filled Ragoth, his heart sinking as he backed away slowly. The first hand appeared from out of the darkness, a pale, withered thing gripping the stone wall. A second hand emerged, gripping the other side. Ragoth couldn't breathe as he stood there in silent terror.

The ghoulish figure emerged from the shadow, cloaked in robes of shimmering darkness. His elongated, bony face the same sickly pallor as his hands. A pair of unearthly gold eyes glared from their sunken depths in his skull-like visage. Black horns jutted out of his head, and a sickly yellow flashed as his thin lips curled into a putrid smile at the sight of Ragoth.

“Here you are, boy.” The dark one’s voice slithered out of his decrepit mouth. It pierced Ragoth’s heart with ice and froze him on the spot. He moved towards Ragoth in long, flowing strides, as if gliding across the floor. The depths of his obsidian cloak moved with living shadows, billowing slowly in a wind that wasn’t there.

“At long last. The Prince That Was Chosen.” He hissed, “They were wise to hide you from me, but my eyes never close, my search unending...and my grip ever reaching.” His bony hand reached out; fingers open to grasp at Ragoth’s face.

Only a few inches away from him, Ragoth snapped to his senses and threw himself backwards, tumbling over furniture and spilling stacks of books in his mad scramble to escape. The ghoulish figure followed him slowly, grinning with malice.

“And with your death, my reign of darkness will unfold across every kingdom. Every crown shall shatter and every magic fade at my hand.” He clenched his fist and laughed, a hissing mockery that filled the library.

Ragoth spun to his feet and dashed for the courtyard, halting at the threshold as he gazed upward. An immense shadow descended from the top of the wall, nearly filling the entire courtyard. Only when its taloned feet struck the ground, its glowing amethyst eyes flared at him and its terrible wings unfurled, did Ragoth recognize the creature in front of him: a dragon with scales darker than night. It opened its mouth, exposing rows of dagger-like teeth in a cruel mockery of a grin. Glaring at him, the maw seemed to come from a lightless abyss. A rumbling growl issued from its throat, loud enough that he could feel it in his chest.

Ragoth stepped backwards slowly until he caught sight of the bony hands on both sides of his peripheral vision, trying to grab him. He ducked out of the ghoulish figure’s closing grip. In a panic, he ran into his bedroom, but this only trapped him inside. Looking back, the cloaked ghoul stalked towards him, grinning, laughing at him.

“You cannot hide anymore, Prince Who Was Chosen. The scent of your fear will never leave me. I can follow you wherever you go.”

Ragoth whipped his head back and forth, frantically trying to find an escape. His bedroom was merely a converted study of the library, and the only way out was the window facing the courtyard. He sprinted for the window just as the ghoul lunged for him. Blood rushed in his ears as he struggled to find his voice, crying out for help just once. His every instinct was to flee as fast as he could.

Crash! Through the windowpane he threw his body, slamming into the ground five feet below amidst a shower of splintered wood and broken glass. In an instant, he jumped to his feet and found himself almost face-to-face with the shadow dragon, its rumbling chest and bared teeth looming over him. 

He grabbed a stone from the ground and threw it, running back towards the library opening. The stone sank harmlessly into the shadowy depths of the creature's black hide without a sound. It moved its head in pursuit, hovering over the balcony as Ragoth dashed back inside.

In the library, Ragoth realized he was yet again trapped, running futilely in circles like a rat in a cage. There were only so many places he could run. The darkness and mist burst out of the doorway to his room, the grim ghoul laughing maniacally as he approached the prince again. “Embrace death and I shall make your end quick.”

Ragoth backed away until he hit his desk with his hip. To his right, the shadow dragon loomed over the balcony. The pale ghoul blocked his path back to his bedroom, the shadow dragon engulfed the exit to the courtyard, pinning him back against his desk. He had no weapons except…

He gasped and ran to the side, up the nearby ramp and tearing the door open to his closet where he kept an assortment of possessions. He saw the sparring sword but paused as something else caught his eye. The ghoul and the dragon now converged at his desk, cackling. They had him trapped.

“Embrace your death, boy. You…” The ghoul’s taunt died on his lips as Ragoth came running forward with something cradled in his arms. Ragoth lifted a wooden cask, and the ghoul watched as Ragoth flung it at him in a short arc. At first, it seemed a desperate move on Ragoth’s part and the ghoul grinned. The cask came far too short to hit him, but he realized, too late, the intended target.

The cask burst open against the desk, the oil splashing onto the hooded lamp on top. As it tipped over, the ghoul issued a loud gasp before flame met fuel.

FWHOOMP!

The lantern oil went up in a large fireball and threw flaming fuel in every direction. Ragoth and his foe backed up, shielding themselves with their arms as the desk went up in flames. Ragoth glanced about, horrified to see his beloved books now on fire, the flames reaching higher and higher. By the gods, they would engulf this place within minutes. Even the ghoulish creature, shocked, backed away.

“What have you done? Fire!”

Ragoth flattened himself against the wall with his hand over his mouth as the flames spread. Another voice came from the hallway across from where he stood.

A guard bolted into the library. “Who said…Fire! Aaugh!” His first yell came from the fire, the second from catching sight of the ghoulish being. He saw Ragoth as well, but compared to the fire and the demonic figure, a half-orc seemed unremarkable.

Then Ragoth saw a light at the end of the hallway.

The door.

It was open!

He dashed down the ramp, jumping over the flames at its base and ran with all his might. The stunned guard did nothing to stop him, but the ghoul cried out, “No!”

“Help me!” Ragoth yelled, as if the figures in the paintings would spring to life in his aid. The dark one’s raspy voice followed him, echoing off the stones.

“You godscursed Orcbrat!”

The hallway was only forty or so footspans, not long in the scheme of things, but it was the longest distance Ragoth had ever run. Every step felt like it took an eternity to land and the ever-present fear that the ghoul’s hand would grab him spurred him on. He had to reach the end, had to get to the door, he had to escape! Every ounce of strength in him went to building an unstoppable charge.

When the door loomed just ahead, the face of the second guard came into view, peering inside curiously. Was it the noise? The yelling? Or his own pounding feet on the cobblestones? Whatever had drawn his eye, he was not prepared for Ragoth barreling into the door at full speed. Ragoth caught his look of wide-eyed shock in the second before he collided with a tremendous crash. The impact sent the guard into the wall across from the door, only to have the prince smash on top of him. They sank to the ground, but Ragoth was up and bolting down the hall before the guard even knew what happened.

Ragoth couldn’t focus on the layout of the castle as he ran as fast as he could. The halls gave way to rooms and antechambers, ever winding corridors, but nary a guard was to be found. All of the immaculate furnishings flew by in a garish blur as he ran, lungs burning for air. He’d never run so hard for so long, fear taking the very breath from him. Where was the throne room? Where were the guards? Where was his mother? Was she safe, or had this ghoulish demon taken every blessed soul in the castle?

Every so often he stopped to catch his breath, but only a moment would pass before the shadowy ghoul would emerge nearby, and the prince was off again. He had run long enough that his legs were straining to keep going. His path through the castle was a winding labyrinth of random turns of opportunity taken to shake his pursuit.

He dashed up a flight of stairs to a second story and came to a room that made him pause. Its interior was awash in lush evergreens, exotic flowers and plants of Machavian origin (Flora of the Machavian Tundra). And a fishpond at the center of the back wall fed by a small trickling fountain from a trench stretching from one wall to another. In the sudden quiet, he heard softly running water and his own haggard breaths. Ragoth trotted forward and recognized the familiar design of the trench as a part of the aqueduct system providing water to the castle.

The familiar hissing growl grew closer behind him, jolting him out of his curious stupor and back into reality. He jumped up onto the edge of the smooth stones and saw the rush of water flowing through the aqueduct into the room and out via an opening in the wall. A small diversion on the side fed the fishpond, which itself bled off into the plants and into smaller divergences running to other parts of the castle proper.

In a shroud of darkness, the ghoulish figure engulfed the doorway, a flood of gloom and mist in his wake.

“No escape. Death finds you this day.” He sneered at the prince, his clawed hand already reaching for him.

Ragoth searched frantically for an escape, but the black shadows moving under the dark one’s power engulfed the room. No matter which way he might dash, he was only one step away from ghoul’s reach.

The ghoul chuckled in victory until Ragoth, in a flash of inspiration, threw himself up into the aqueduct's rushing waters and slipped away. Watching as the dark ghoul howled in rage, Ragoth’s head hit the wall with a thump, and he was gone with the rushing water.

Crying out, he managed to not lose consciousness, finding himself in the small tunnel, rushing forward in total darkness. For just a moment, there was only the rush of water, then suddenly he was out in the open air, staring up at the night sky under countless stars and a bright moon’s light. He leaned his head up, looking over the side to find himself high above the castle’s courtyards. The waters swept him away as the aqueduct passed over the castle grounds. Before now, he’d only glimpsed rough sketches and still paintings. In that moment, finally outside his confines, he lost himself in momentary awe. He glimpsed a fire on the opposite side of the castle, a billowing column of black smoke rising up along with distant cries.

And then they were gone. With a rough crash, he slammed into a hard metal gate at the end of the aqueduct at the castle wall. With water sloshing around his legs, he grabbed the top of the gate and stood up. The small gate was open slightly to regulate the water exiting the aqueduct and keep it from overflowing the duct. The aqueduct extended into darkness past it, vanishing out of his sight.

He glanced to the side, his breath taken again but this time by the sea of lamplight and glostones outlining the expansiveness of the city skyline. Without a window to glimpse outside his walls, he had never seen the city of his birth, the capital of Namaria. Here he had an unrestricted view of its spires and rooftops reaching skyward. Nothing rose above the castle’s heights as it sat perched above the city, rising from the base of a low mountain, overlooking everything. It extended for miles until ending at the distant walls and an expansive bay.

A deep, hissing growl shook him back out of his trance, drawing his gaze back as the lightless dark of the shadow dragon perched on the aqueduct behind him. It slinked forward with its maw opening slowly, teeth shining. The dark ghoul’s hissing laugh echoed somewhere in the distance.

He stepped over the gate onto the aqueduct, now with only a trickle of water running through it. Looking down as he backed up, a sickening dizziness overtook his senses. The ground seemed impossibly distant below. He wobbled, almost tipping over, but turned around and moved down the aqueduct as it extended into the dark night.

Every step was fraught with fear. Behind him, an equally terrible fate awaited as the shadow dragon drew closer. One graceful step on the structure at a time it moved, wings folded back as its glowing eyes hounded his stumbling escape.

He was so consumed with trying to outrun the beast, his head whipping back every few seconds to keep it in his sight, that he didn’t see the end of the aqueduct. His foot went to step down, and he went cartwheeling into open air in a free fall. He screamed as the sky and ground spun back and forth in his vision before he hit a wall of cold with a hard clap.

The shock of the sudden plunge into cold water nearly knocked him out, the instinct to breathe sending a cold splash into his lungs before he coughed it back out. His air-starved lungs burned as he struggled to reorient himself. Ragoth’s futile flailing brought him nowhere. He’d never swam in water deeper than a tub. He knew the technique of how to swim (Essential Skills for Adventurers), but in his state of panic, the memory flew from his thoughts. Ragoth had never been in water this deep.

Just as his lungs were ready to explode and force him to breathe, his hand breached the water’s top. He scrambled and broke the surface, inhaling with a loud gasp, coughing violently as water kept flying into his mouth. He flailed to keep his head above water. The effort to keep from drowning wore his arms far past their tolerance as his muscles burned. For all his training with Brutis, there was little to prepare him for fighting for his life in a churning body of water.

His foot seemed to brush a soft surface at the bottom and soon he found an occasional purchase to bounce himself upwards. He had only a glance to see the castle looming in the distance and getting smaller and smaller. The sense of movement, the increased rush of water, and seeing the outline of the shore drifting past only reinforced the revelation: he was being swept away in the current of a smaller river—most likely from the pond formed on the outside of the castle walls by the aqueduct runoff. It ran down the length of the city and emptied into the bay. He made for the shore, seemingly close enough to reach until he tumbled down a small rapid that carried him away faster. The struggle to remain above water continued. The castle faded from sight.

The last thing he heard as the rapids carried him away was the outraged cry of the dark ghoul, his voice growing smaller as he roared, “I will find you, boy! Death haunts your every step!”

The rapids took him barreling down into lower portions of the city. He couldn’t see where he was or where he was going, he only knew his flailing barely kept him above water. For as long as he could do that, he would stay alive. Every fiber of his being fought in this effort, though his body screamed in desperation to rest. He couldn’t stop. He refused. He fought, flailed, kicked, tumbled, until the rapids that swept him away eased. The ground now evened out, and he found himself deposited in a slower moving part of the creek. His only light now was the occasional lamp or the light of the moon. Slowly, his body near its breaking point, he moved himself closer to shore and caught hold of an extending pier. Feet slipping on a muddy embankment, he lurched onto the bank underneath the pier and threw the top half of his body into the muck and mud.

Gasping, chest heaving, he laid his head on his arm in the cold mud and exhaustion took him.

CHAPTER THREE

“If one should pass through Havenlore to stroll through its many splendors, make sure to see the Hall of Valor. Here resides the most noble of orders: The Knights Valiant.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

‘MERIT IS THE MEASURE OF A KNIGHT’

The words shone in the waning evening sun, emblazoned in stark, glimmering gold across a dwarven stone archway high above the cobblestone pathwalk in which he stood. He could have admired it from across the street, but he wanted to be close enough to see into the courtyard.

Dwelling within were half-a-round of individuals, their armor gleaming as bright as the gold runes of the archway. The stone path into the courtyard led to a fork from which many branching paths broke free, weaving through a grove of statues of mighty figures. The paths came back to a fountain of four figures standing with their backs against each other: a human, an elf, a dwarf, and a halfling. The statues had to be admired from afar. None save a Knight Valiant were allowed under the arch, on the path, in the courtyard, or in the Hall of Valor itself. The Hall of Valor was a tall and grandiose structure, but only the Knights Valiant were allowed to behold its interior.

The only feet permitted on the Path of Valor were those who had earned it. The penalty for trespassing was at the discretion of the Knights and their wrath had left no small amount of trespassers in a bloody mess for the city guardsmen to find.

City guardsmen like Cortland Lowhelm.

He was a bland contrast to the Knights Valiant milling about in their magnificent armor. From where he stood, he could make out the mirrored polish of enchanted armor and spotless garments of elven craft. His own garb was cheap and dull, his cloak a rag in comparison, a simple thing handed down from the last guardsman who wore it. They carried exquisite swords, ornate shields, and finely made bows. He carried a crude short sword with a nicked blade that couldn’t keep its edge and a wooden shield all but one strike away from buckling entirely.

He carried the stature of a knight, tall and broad of shoulder. His short dirt-brown hair tended to spike no matter what he did to it–if he did anything at all. His squared jawline was framed by a short scruff of beard, ending at his chin in a narrow spike.

He’d come far from the simple trappings of the rural farmlands in Namaria, but not as far as his ambition desired, only as far as his wallet managed. All he’d done was trade a farmer’s hoe for a guardsman's sword.

The evening sun was already down past the tops of the skyline, leaving a golden red dusk in its wake. The market vendors were closing their stalls and, like him, many were returning home from a day’s work. Humans, elves, halfkin, and some dwarves. Havenlore was like much of Sylveria and its neighboring kingdom, The Starsong Dynasty. Both were a melting pot of many ethnicities and cultures from across Allspire. It was hard to tell people from the two kingdoms apart at times when their accents and culture mirrored one another. Supposedly, there were subtle ways to tell them apart, but being from Namaria, they all sounded and acted the same as far as he could tell.

He turned to leave and stopped short, his eyes widening. Crossing the street, heading for the entrance to the hall, was one of the Knights Valiant, every bit as tall and imposing as the legend about them. He had seen them before, but always from afar. His district Captain had explicitly ordered him and any other guard not to speak with them and to discourage citizens from approaching them as well. Even in the dim evening glow, the Valiant’s armor gleamed, its vibrant silver-and-crimson catching any glimmer of light. It glowed of its own accord; a magical essence so strong even a farmhand like him with no arcane training could see it. And why wouldn’t they have the finest armor gold could afford? They were exceptional warriors of skill beyond reckoning. Their armor and weapons amplified their abilities far beyond any ordinary knight.

Cort was never supposed to speak to them. They were above him in every respect.

He damned his orders and approached the Valiant directly, lifting his hand, “Good sir Valiant, would it trouble you if I stole a moment of your time?”

The Valiant paused, turning his head, his long chestnut locks tinged in a touch of gray, barely covering the point at the tip of his ears. His trimmed beard was much darker, but also touched with the salt-and-pepper of age. He gave Cort a hesitant look but relented, as though he were used to being stopped by admirers.

“Be quick about it. I’m off to the south at first light and I need sleep.”

Cort nodded, taking a deep breath. He was sure the Valiant was used to people gushing praise onto his shoulders and kept that praise to himself. He felt lightheaded standing here, speaking to such a man, “My name is Cortland Lowhelm. Forgive me, I would only ask one question: how does one rise to become a Knight Valiant?”

The Valiant lifted an eyebrow, toying with answering him or simply laughing in his face. He flicked a finger at the words above the archway. “You’ve seen our creed, yes?”

Cort nodded, “Aye. Every day when I’m on patrol.”

“Merit. It is the only credit which the Knights value. Reputation beyond reproach. Honor personified. Experience unequaled. Many of us proved our merit in the years before the Orc Wars and some during.”

Cort nodded, listening intently.

“Reputation comes first. Then accolades. That gets your name whispered in places where voices carry. Eventually, it gets spoken of in higher circles until it lands on the right ear.” He tapped his pointed ear. He was a halfkin elf, not uncommon in Sylveria. “Joining is rare. More difficult than you can ever imagine. You need to be one of exceptional ability, honor, and talent. The tales spoken about you must be grand and, most of all, verifiable. Just like an Inquisition, the more witnesses you have, the better. The Crown Pantheon and their Inquisitions always require the same standard: at least two valid witnesses to back up your claims.”

The Valiant rapped his knuckle on Cort's breastplate. "Grateful as we are for your diligent work, the guard is not the path to the Knights Valiant. Travel, explore, become something far greater than yourself. Maintain the selfless honor befitting a Knight Valiant. Many who were capable were turned away because their character was poor and their sense of honor unworthy. It requires more risk, anguish, and fortitude than you can possibly imagine. If I'm being perfectly honest, it would take a miracle of the gods for you to do everything I told you. Merit is the measure of a Knight Valiant and your merits must be the thing of legend. You’re not likely to find such a thing here. Better chances for that in a city of sellswords, adventuring guilds, and arena tournaments. Somewhere like Barrow’s End.”

A voice in the distance cried out to the Valiant, "Galdren! The Grand Knight awaits."

Galdren gave an apologetic shrug and walked away, "Sorry, lad. You asked. You want my true advice? Stay a guard. You'll live longer." With that, he was gone, his crimson cape billowing behind him until he vanished into the Grand Hall.

Cort aimed himself for The Giant’s Mug, a tavern several blocks away. His star-struck thoughts awash in repetition of Sir Galdren’s words. The Knight made it seem impossible, and perhaps it was. Many of their number were of elvish, halfkin, or dwarvish blood, meaning they lived for much longer than a human like him. Humans were not entirely unrepresented. Their former leader the Grand Knight was a human, he knew. But those of long-lived blood also had longer to cultivate a reputation. It was, by all measures, a daunting task. He wanted to abandon the notion, but he kept seeing himself at his partner’s age, thirty years of patrolling peaceful streets to end every day in a pint of ale at The Giant’s Mug. Did he really want to trudge through three more decades of this? He’d had enough of this city and the life it brought him.

“Damn that,” he said aloud. “I will be a knight. Somehow.”

A small body collided into him. Sturdy as he was, Cort didn’t budge and looked down to see a small, green-skinned lad in shabby clothes no older than ten summers. The very tip of his small tusks barely protruded from his bottom lip. The lad jumped to his feet and apologized profusely, backing away from Cort and into the busy street.

“Wait.” Cort said, but the lad was already stepping backwards away from him. Only Cort’s long stride and quick hand grabbing the front of his collar saved the lad from stepping into the path of a horse-drawn cart as it clattered by.

“Watch where you’re going, Orcbrat. You could have been killed.” Cort snapped. The halfkin Orcs weren’t out much in the day and seldom liked by the populace at large. This one looked like a street rat. Even a pristine city such as Havenlore had its underbelly and unwanted children.

The lad’s only reply was to turn on his heels and run off again, this time keeping to the sidepath out of the street before vanishing down an alleyway.

Cort resumed his walk towards the nearby tavern and entered. Its proximity to the command post where Cort was stationed meant it was a favorite haunt of guards just after their shift. Or, in the case of his partner Bor, just before the end of his shift. This was where Cort found him, three ales deep with a pair of other guardsmen who left when Cort approached.

“How’s the weather up there, Quarter-Giant?” Bor laughed, raising an ale.

“I told you; I don’t like that name.” Cort sighed, taking one of the empty seats.

“You don’t like nothin’, Cort. You didn’t like bein’ called Tatertosser or Longface. Don’t like your patrol. Don’t like your home. Don’t like your pa. Never seen a man so young be so dour as a Mudmouth about everything.”

“Hard to be optimistic when I’ve been here for two years with nothing to show for it. The more I think on it, the more it seems that if I change nothing I’ll be where you are in thirty years.” Cort ordered an ale from a passing barmaid and reached down for his coin pouch. When he didn’t feel it, he looked and found it gone.

“Son of a sucking sow!”

“What? What’s wrong?” Bor asked.

“That pissing little Orcbrat stole my coin when he ran into me.” Cort slammed his fist onto the table, causing the empty tankards to jump up. A few patrons at surrounding tables laughed at him and Cort was sorely tempted to rearrange their faces. Even Bor chuckled at his misfortune.

“I can cover you for an ale, big man.” Bor offered and Cort took the ale tankard down in one breath. He slammed it down as Bor took another in hand.

“That was half my pay, Bor. My rent is due tomorrow, and I don’t get paid for another five days.” Cort stood to his feet, his voice rising. “The Captain outfits us with garbage armor and gear, the pay is too low, the job asks nothing of us, everything fun in Havenlore is too expensive, and to top it all off? The ale here is asswater. To the fucking Abyss with this puss-suckering city and the gutter shits who live here!” He swatted the tankard of ale out of Bor’s hand.

Bor met Cortland with a stern grimace. The sound of chairs scraping across the floorboards brought Cort back from his rage induced haze. A round of men, most of whom had laughed at him a moment before, were now on their feet and looked none too pleased at his outburst. The tavern owner at the bar, hands on hips, glowered.

“About time for you to check in with the Captain,” Bor said pointedly. “Shift’s over, I’d say.”

Cort met the eyes of the men in the tavern. He wasn’t afraid of a tavern brawl, no. He had earned his reputation in his hometown by his propensity to clear a tavern and remain standing. Eager as he was to vent his anger on the locals he had no love for, he decided against it and made for the exit, returning every ugly look he passed on the way out.

“The ale tastes like goblin piss.” He spat on the floor just as he walked through the exit.

Cort made his way back to the guard’s station, through the halls, and knocked on the door of the district Captain. A word from inside brought him in and standing before Captain Yusel, a younger elf of two hundred years old or so, discontent with his station, rank, and general lot in life. He knew this because the Captain took every opportunity to make his problems everyone’s problem. The haughty officer glanced up from his desk full of parchments at Cortland with no amount of joy. “Yes, Guardsman? Something to report?”

“I’m sick of this patrol, Captain.” Cortland said, his blood still boiling. Cort planted his hands on the desk and Yusel jerked back, “I’ve been here for two years. Grateful for the opportunity given, but I didn’t leave Vaelyn’s Deep to come babysit piles of crates and barrels for fat merchants. I want another district. Somewhere I can put myself to better use. Something like the Barinsur District.”

“Denied.” Yusel said without a second of hesitation. “I need you here.”

Cort sneered, staring from under his brow. “The hell you do. A dullard dog could do my job.”

“Then perhaps we should hire the dullard dog and send you back to the dirt patch you came from.” Yusel sighed and sat back in his chair, fingers pressed together. “The Barinsur District residents are elves, quite affluent and, frankly, not fond of humans. Elves prefer our own company—especially in places we call home. It’s only been two years. Why not wait for a promotion or a better time to transfer?”

A scoff left Cort’s throat. “By the time you approve my transfer, I’ll be older than Bor. Is that the game you play, Captain? Promise things you never deliver and hope you outlive the request?”

Yusel bristled at the accusation. His face wrinkled in a way that looked foreign on his fine elvish features.

“I smell ale, Cortland. Go home before I toss you behind bars for drunkenness and insubordination. I expect you to report for your patrol, sober, tomorrow. If I’m not transferring out of this district, neither are you. Understood? You may make use of the door now.”

Cortland’s lips tightened to a thin line; his every muscle tensed. He leaned over Captain Yusel with the posture of a wolf standing over prey and snarled through clenched teeth.

“Takes more than one ale to get me drunk just like it takes more than one puny elf to send me packing. You want me out, put me out.”

Yusel struggled to remain composed, his eyes darting to the window of his office where most of the guards had departed for their patrols, leaving only a few of the documentation clerks to occupy the station. “You are out of line, guardsman Lowhelm.” Yusel spat the title as if rank were a shield. “I’ve entertained your cantankerous human temper enough. The next words that leave your mouth should be considered wisely.”

Cort leaned in closer. “The wise thing would be to leave, peaceably. But my father always said I was too dumb to have good sense.”

Yusel shook with fury. “I warn you. I’ve learned many a martial art in my life. Do you want me to thrash you?”

Cort slowly stood back to his full height, his shadow engulfing the now shaking elvish Captain as he snarled, “I wanna see you try.”

A few hours later, after wandering through the back alleys with a few of his possessions and meager coin in hand, Cort finally took notice of his bloody knuckles. Hard to tell if it was his blood or Yusel’s. His memory was a touch hazy, though he did remember with great fondness the terrified look of shock on Yusel’s face when he grabbed him like a halfling and threw him through his own door. The shock of the other guardsmen was less amusing. He had no quarrel with them. Five desk riding parchment pushers against the pugilistic farmhand hardly seemed fair…for them. They must have sensed it too, immediately backing away to make room for Cort to leave.

Yusel, good to his word, had initiated an impressive series of twirling and dance-like spins taught by whatever dancing-and-spinning martial art required such overblown contortions as part of its teachings. Perhaps it was more effective against elves. Yusel soon found out his dancing kicks mattered little against a man who stood a head taller and twice as heavy.

It was only in the aftermath that Cort began to dwell on the repercussions and worry set in. No doubt once Yusel woke up there would be a search party sent for him. Piss on him. Best to put Havenlore behind him. The city gates leading south were a considerable walk, moreso if he took the winding route to keep out of the eye of other patrols.

He shook his head in disgust. Two years of his life wasted on guarding warehouses, taking orders from a petty elf with a grudge on life. Not what he’d left home to pursue.

Not for the first time, Cort threw his fate into the winds to see where his ambition swept him. To this end, he spent the night making his way through the city’s inner depths to the markets and businesses that had nestled near the southern gate. Most markets near the city gates were the food vendors and trinket makers to dazzle travelers' eyes as soon as they arrived. City dwellers kept to the markets near their homes and avoided the outrageous prices charged at the gate markets.

Guilds were another commonality and as it so happened Cortland had his eyes on one he’d noticed but never entered. Hours before morning broke, he approached a single-story hall long past its prime with a faded sign reading, “Tombs of Terror Adventuring Guild”. The very name had stirred his imagination a number of times.

As he approached the door, the run-down nature of the hall took him back. The paint was sun-faded and peeling, the wood not properly treated in years, the steps badly needed replacing. By all appearances it was abandoned, but a faint light flickered within. As he set foot on them, they creaked and threatened to break under his weight. The sign above him broke free of one hinge and swung loosely. The windows were too filthy to see through. It was late, but guilds were supposed to be open day and night. He opened the door, and it hit a stack of crates inches from opening.

“The hell’re you doing?” came a gruff voice from inside. A moment later an older dwarf long into his graying years staggered up to the crack in the door. “Cantcha read that sign?”

Cort tilted back and looked, “What sign? This one?” He tapped the broken sign hanging next to the door.

“Not that old splinter, the one that says to use the side entrance.” Said the irritated old dwarf.

Cort looked again. “I don’t see a damned thing, dwarf.”

The dwarf gave him a rather exasperated look and blew a sigh out of his lips. The amount of booze on his breath almost knocked Cort off his feet. “Damn street rats stole another sign. Hafta paint it on the door. Come in, come in, but be careful. Those steps are a death trap, lad.”

Cort pushed the boxes aside as he forced his way in. Once inside, he paused. The condition of the hall outside should have been a warning of its interior. The unkempt dwarf opening the door limped backwards on a wooden peg leg.

Rather than a bustling guild, the inside looked more like a squatter’s hovel. A couple of dwarves snored in the corner with empty bottles in their hands while a stout curly-haired halfling occupied a small corner, running what looked like a butcher's block. His bloody hands were rotating a crank on a meat grinder as it churned out sausage. He gave Cort a cursory glance and nothing more.

“You call this an Adventurer's Guild?” asked Cort. “What a joke.”

A derisive snort from the dwarf drew a laugh from the halfling. He shrugged at Cort.

“Tell myself the same thing every morning. Name’s Orden Bramblebrash. Sorry to say, not much business in adventurin’ this deep into Sylveria as of late. Guild’s not much more than my home fer me, an’ a few souls got no place to go. Mayhap it's picking back up? Yer the second soul to ask in a day’s time.”

Cort’s head tilted down. “That’s unfortunate. I was hoping to leave for Barrow’s End and perhaps go with a group rather than by myself. Tonight, if possible.”

Ord nodded in approval. “Not a bad idea. The Dwarf Road, paved as it are, can still be a danger to a single traveler. Ye’d have a touch more luck providin’ escort for a convoy or wagon and in the daylight when businesses are open. Mind ye, that’s usually the Freelancer’s Guild an’ they don’t take kindly to non-guild members latching on to their profits. Have to pay em a hefty fee for that privilege.”

“Suppose I could pay for an escort, then?”

“That’s just as pricey. Might as well buy yer own horse.”

Cort spat a curse. “So I came here for nothing.”

“Hold on then.” Ord slapped his hand on Cort’s hips. “Got an idea. Lad stayin’ in the back was heading out come dawn. Said he was goin’ south too. Might be ye could work together.” The dwarf hoofed his way down a back hall, the rhythmic sound of his false leg on the wood floors echoing in the Guild Hall.

Cort looked around, curious. The only sounds were that of the halfling turning the grinder and the snoring dwarves, and the crackle of a small fire in the hearth. Dim glostones kept a soft orange light in the den.

The common room in which Cortland stood was a dusty mess of worn-down furniture, tables piled with crates and rubbish. The paint inside was less faded than out but covered in years of dust from Ord’s inattentive cleaning. The fireplace was large enough to accommodate a bonfire, but currently only a small cookfire burned there. Over the mantle hung a crooked painting of a group of five: Orden, himself at the center with a fierce look of pride and in his prime, holding an axe in one hand and a full tankard in the other, his foot resting on a goblin’s corpse. Above him stood a bald human in full plate armor, a blonde halfkin elf girl holding a bow nocked and drawn dramatically, a silver-haired elf in the cerulean robes of a Mage of the Arcane Order, holding a stoic pose, and a halfling with a pair of daggers and a sly grin.

The plate on the bottom read: “The Tombstormers"

“Paid good gold for that,” said the dwarf when he returned. Behind him, a dirt-haired elf followed with hands folded inside the sleeves of his earth tone robes. Ord marched up next to Cort and a twinkle of delight sparkled in his eye, his beaming smile a sure sign he was happy to have an excuse to dredge up the nostalgia in the painting. “But back then, I had a lotta coin in my pocket. The Tombstormers, we were called. Heard of us?”

Cort frowned. He’d heard of a lot of Adventuring groups. “Not once.”

Ord’s face dropped, but he puffed out his chest and said with a grunt, “Bah! Youngins don’t know, but not surprised. Our best years were over before the Orc Wars even started. We five delved into many a dungeon an’ ancient temple across Evergrad.”

“There were many such groups, Goodsir Bramblebrash,” replied the elf in his polite, soft tone. “One could fill a tome of the groups and their members' names alone.”

The dwarf held up a finger. “Ah, but none of them, not a one, were the group who survived the Tombs of Terror and came out with the treasures inside. Oh, but those were good years. Thinkin’ back now, we crawled the last great dungeon across all Evergrad. T’was that damned tomb broke our five. Our halfling Sneak was the best eye for traps I’ve ever seen, but even he couldn’t escape the gaze of a basilisk. Turned right to stone and the cursed beast shattered him with its tail. Not a thing we could do. Our Mage, stodgy grump that he was, went out in a blaze o’ flamin’ glory when we fought th’ monstrous Minotaur King making the tombs his home. Impaled on the beast’s halberd. Thought he were done fer, but it looked to bite his head off, so he set off a fireball in its mouth and blew the both of them to the Abyss.” Ord’s eyes were awash in memory, his hand over his heart. “Broke Ellelia’s heart. She left. Not long after, Sir Tulmund passed, an old man asleep in his bed. Lucky bastard. That tomb took my leg. I kept my share o’ th’ gold an’ those fer trophies.”

Cort and the elf followed Ord’s hand to see the massive halberd mounted on the wall just below the broken remnant of the minotaur’s skull.

They stood in silence for an awkward moment as Orden took his time walking back from the past. He spun and finally realized what he’d been doing. “Ah, right. Longshanks, this be the elf that came earlier. Elf, this human lad says he’s headed south, too. Since I can’t help either of you, perhaps you could help each other.”

Cort looked down at the elf, who gave him a polite smile and extended his hand. “Denith. I’m an acolyte of the Unexalted Faith.”

“Cortland Lowhelm.” His hand engulfed the elf’s. “Heading for Barrow’s End?”

“I’m going much further south to the Feylund Jungles, but Barrow’s End is on the way. Like you, I thought perhaps that an Adventurers’ Guild might provide company with travel. Seems most of them are long since out of work.”

Orden gave a shrug in apology. “Sorry. Not any members left for such a thing.”

“What of you, Goodsir Bramblebrash?” Denith asked, extending his hand. “One last adventure on the road?”

Orden rubbed his beard, a twinkle in his eyes. From across the room, the young halfling began shouting, “No! No, no, no, don’t you dare, Orden.” He marched over, waving his hands in the air, “Not another word about adventure. You’re too old for such nonsense. The Age of Adventures is dead, you hear? Don’t feed him such ideas, elf.”

The irritated noise that erupted out of the dwarf shook dust out of his beard. “Hrrph! I’ll thank you not to tell me my business, Landy. You’ve gotten a cushy ride from my generosity. What do you think paid for this roof and the food in your belly? Just one last escort. Just to feel the road under my achin’ feet again.”

Landy protested again, but Orden shut him down with a glare and the halfling retreated to his sausage grinder. Within a few minutes, Orden went to a back room and returned with a travel pack caked in dirt and mouse nesting. For all the time it had spent in disuse, it was filled to bursting and seemed ready for just such a moment. Aching foot and wooden leg didn’t stop Orden from leading them out towards the city gates. Cort grumbled under his breath but allowed it. Some companions were better than none.

“Landy seems concerned with you leaving like this,” Denith said to Ord. A glance back at the shrinking Adventurer's Guild behind the trio and he could see the forlorn halfling watching them from the side exit, hands wringing his butcher’s smock.

“Bah. Landy’s a worrywart. Not been the same since the Tomb of Terrors took his father from him, truth be told.”

Cort looked back with a pained expression. “He’s the son of your group’s Sneak? The one killed by the basilisk?”

“Aye, that’s th’ one. Couldn’t leave th’ boy on his own. Least I could do for my old friend.”

Cort shared a mournful glance with Denith, who had donned a wide-brimmed hat, as they followed their new dwarvish escort out of the city under a full moon’s light.

CHAPTER FOUR

“King Haldrem pressed his sword into the ground at the top of the mountain in the Age of Ruin and declared all he saw to be his domain. Thus, Namaria’s borders remain to this day.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

The hard clomping of boots woke Ragoth from the deepest sleep of his life. The cold had seeped in with his bottom half soaking all night in water. Small rays of sunlight filtered through weathered boards over his head, their planks moving as footsteps marched down the length and came to a stop at the end. Ragoth picked his mud-caked head up and watched a figure step down into a small boat at the end of the pier and take off into the water beyond.

He moved and his entire body screamed in protest, a thousand muscles he’d never exerted—and some he wasn’t aware he even had—crying out in sheer agony. A sharp groan escaped his mouth as he fought to pull himself fully out of the water into a sitting position. For a long time, he merely sat there, head pounding, body aching, his stomach burning in a deep hunger he had never felt before.

“What happened?” he asked aloud. “Where am I?” The painful croaking in his throat added itself to the list of problems that now threatened to overwhelm his already throbbing skull. As awareness seeped back into his mind, the events of the night before ran through his head. His eyes widening as he recalled what had happened to him in the night. His head spun, trying to cope with everything all at once.

The ghoul’s final words echoed over and over again. “I will find you, boy. Death haunts your every step.”

The dark ghoul had come in the dead of night. Surely, he dared not show his face in daylight, where the city guard and his father’s knights could fight him? Where were they last night? Not one guard had seen him racing through the halls. Was it the ghoul? Did he have powers to keep them at bay or…

He shook his head to force his ponderings away. Here and now was more pressing, he was a lone half-Orc miles from the only people he’d ever known. Samrose and his mother had long ago advised him to be cautious if he found himself outside of the protection afforded by his birthright. Moving from yard to yard, he discreetly swiped a cloak and hood from a laundry line. Then he set out to make his way through the back alleys and side streets to return to the castle.

Fortunate for him that his memory was ironclad, as clear in his head as his own sight. He had poured over maps of Allspire in his vast amounts of spare time. Every capital of every kingdom, every street in every city, locations of villages, topography, trade routes…and the street by street map of his own capital. He navigated with the map in his head guiding his path, avoiding everyone he could.

At mid-day, the lack of food and the exertion of his ordeal brought about the worst hunger pangs imaginable. He dry heaved, but nothing came up. When passing through the market district, he couldn’t stop himself. The smell of cooked food was too overpowering, and he tore the top of a refuse barrel and began rummaging.

After a meager meal of a half-eaten apple, some bell pepper ends, a few bites of turkey still on a bone, he wasn’t sure what disgusted him more: his meal or that he was forced to sink to this level just to survive. A restaurant worker emerged from a back door and shouted at him, sending him running away before he could search for more food.

What he couldn’t outrun was the shame and embarrassment that he had to endure to keep from being seen or fainting from exhaustion.

Him. A prince.

A thief.

A garbage-eating thief.

“Thank the gods.” He sighed in relief, making a trot for the main gate. The winding path back to the castle had taken most of the day and the sun was halfway down the horizon. A pair of guards and a grizzled, bearded Gate Captain were posted at the entrance, engaged in casual conversation. The drawbridge behind them seemed a long, impossible distance. He considered dashing past them, but a glance up and a glint of armor in the parapets made for a grave understanding of his fate if he tried.

The guards had their gaze on him as he approached from the side. He had given little thought to this moment beyond prayers to errant deities watching his dilemma, but there was nothing to be done now but appeal to have the guards contact someone he knew within the castle.

Hands in his pockets, head down and hood up to avoid eye contact, he approached and croaked, “Good…ahem, good evening, Captain. A word, if I might?”

The rim of his hood obscured the guard’s faces. He dared not lift his head enough to meet their eyes lest his skin peek out of the hood’s shadows and give him up.

The rumbling voice of the Gate Captain answered, “State your name and business, lad.”

“Ah. I’ve a friend in the castle I would very much like to speak with, if I may? Physicary Findwell. He’s known me since I was a babe. Samrose Samiri is also a friend, if he’s still here.”

A pause. Dread clenched its black fingers around his thudding heart.

“Name, lad?”

“Ragoth, sir.” He could feel their glares even without seeing their eyes. His nervous fear so consumed his thoughts that he didn’t think and lifted his hand to scratch at his neck. The captain’s hand shot out like a dart and grabbed his wrist, wrenching it painfully.

Ragoth let out a yelp of pain, his hood yanked back. Now their eyes met his, their trio of wary glances turning wide in shock.

The captain roared, “It’s an Orc! At the king’s doorstep, no less.”

“Little small for an Orc, isn’t it, Captain?” one of the other two guards asked, grabbing Ragoth’s other arm in a curious grip. Ragoth squirmed to wrench himself free, but the guard captain held him still with the firm grip of a parent holding their child.

The third guard seemed indifferent. “It's just an Orcbrat. The other kingdoms are lousy with ‘em. How this one lived long enough to get here is beyond me. We should take him to the dungeon. See what the Physicary knows? He asked for him by name.”

The captain’s free hand went to a dagger at his belt. Ragoth caught the sight of the polished steel sliding free of its sheath.

“You two know the law. The Physicary can inspect his corpse.”

Ragoth froze in terror, his mouth hung slack in a silent cry as the captain raised his arm to stab down.

Snap!

The snapping of fingers caught the eyes and ears of the four, turning to see a tall, rather lanky man in traveling clothes stepping out from behind the Captain with a grin as broad as his face was narrow.

“Gentlemen, good evening. Might I interrupt this gathering for a mere moment and inquire how I might save us a touch of bloodshed?”

Ragoth paused, squinting. The face, the lanky limbs, even the voice triggered a fleeting hint of recognition, but he was sure he hadn’t seen this tall man in common clothes before. Had he?

The Gate Captain lowered his dagger and said, “Get gone. This is the king’s business, and we carry out the king’s law.”

“The king’s law?” the lanky man frowned. “Ah yes, those of green skin. I suppose, then, that you’ll take your blade to yourself?” He pointed at the Captain’s arm and a pair of gasps erupted from the two guards as they spun on him. The grip on Ragoth’s wrist released, and he stepped away before they knew they’d released him.

The Captain turned his gaze on his arm and gasped with them. He wrenched his sleeve up his arm, the skin now an emerald green.

“Wha-what? What in the Abyss is this?” He saw the look in the other guard’s eyes as their hands slowly gripped their short swords and freed them from their sheaths.

The Captain of the gate turned around to Ragoth and the prince gasped as well. The man’s gruff, bearded face had turned into that of a portly, tusked Orc with an expression of shock. A shout from the parapets preceded a trio of arrows slamming into the Captain’s back. A strangled gasp escaped his throat as he fell onto the ground, his heavy armor crashing against the cobblestones. The two guards turned to the archers above, shouting and waving their hands in panic.

A firm yank on his arm pulled Ragoth into a sudden exit from the castle. As they left the scene at a brisk pace, the stranger leaned down and said, “Quickly now or we’re next.”

Realization struck Ragoth like a slap. “Marvallo?”

A shout behind them set their pace into a dash for the closest cover. Arrows soared past their heads, bouncing off the stones around their feet.

Marvallo yelped. “And we’re off! Hurry, boy! They’ll have horses on us soon enough.”

Ragoth followed his friend, whose long legs had him running in great strides ahead. Even exhausted and starving as he was, Ragoth’s heart thundered with a renewed spirit. He followed Marvallo down winding alleyways and twisting corners, weaving a path through the city so exhaustively thorough that Ragoth couldn’t locate it in his head. Without keeping track, he soon had no idea where in the city they were.

He rounded a corner and bumped into the jester at a standstill as he was bent over, hands on knees to catch his breath. Ragoth bounced back, staggering uneasily before he finally tipped over and lost all balance.

Marvallo kneeled next to him. “Young sire, you need to get up. We’re nearly there.”

Ragoth planted his hands on the cobblestones, arms shaking as he struggled to push himself up. He couldn’t fathom ever being so weak and helpless, but he couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t! Ragoth forced himself back to his feet and followed Marvallo at a lessened pace until they reached a covered wagon behind a stable. Before Ragoth could utter a question, Marvallo scooped him off his feet and dumped the princeling into the back, right into a shallow alcove dug in a bed of loose potatoes.

Ragoth looked up to see Marvallo holding a barrel. “Sorry about this. It won’t be comfortable, but it’ll keep you alive until we’re out of the city.”

“What are you doing?” Ragoth asked.

Marvallo grinned. “What I do best: improvisation.”

He buried Ragoth under an avalanche of potatoes.

Jostling about, buried in unwashed potatoes, one loses their grip on time and reality. There was only the swaddling of spuds and the earthy scent of nature’s most versatile root. Perhaps being entombed in the smothering spuds wouldn’t have been so bad if Ragoth could have had his back flat against the wagon, but he had the misfortune to be settled on a small layer of potatoes under his back and the discomfort was unbearable. That didn’t stop him from falling asleep once the cart steered out of the city, however. He stayed awake long enough to hear Marvallo speaking to the city guards, and then they were off into the dark of night. He’d have spoken up if Marvallo hadn’t occasionally assured him they had to get farther from the city patrols first. Ragoth found a position as comfortable as he could stand, and sleep took him for the night and into the following day. It was the price he paid for overexerting himself the day before.

His awareness came flooding back as he woke, and he took stock himself without letting panic take hold.

I’m not dead. I wonder if that’s truly a mercy.

He risked moving and pushed through the burying layer of potatoes. Tentatively, he sat up and looked around. It was nearly twilight, rays of dwindling sunlight filtering down through the branches of scattered trees. One horse hitched to the wagon looked back at him with a blank stare and shook its head with a snort. He was fascinated for a long moment, having only seen horses in pictures. So strange to see one move. When it snorted, he gave a start. Ragoth stretched his aching muscles with a loud groan. He was starving, but at least he was well rested.

Suddenly, Marvallo was there, resting against the side of the cart with a smile. Ragoth yelped, and the jester chuckled.

“You’ve had quite the nap, young sire. Slept an entire day away. We’re near the border.” He assisted the young prince out of the cart. Rags croaked, his mouth bitter and dry. The jester handed him a water jug and Ragoth tilted it up, chugging as fast as he could while the excess ran down his chin. It was lukewarm and tasted of cork, but never had anything slaked such a thirst.

“Easy now, lad. Not too much or you’ll toss your beans.” Only a moment after the warning and Ragoth hurled forward, spewing much of the water back onto the ground. “Warned you. Small sips for now. You’ve been through quite a lot.”

He guided the prince to sit near a small campfire. Just as Ragoth’s mouth opened to pour out questions, Marvallo pressed a plate of cooked potatoes, sausage, and cheese into his hands. Emitting a cry like a newborn pup, Ragoth attacked the plate, his sense of decorum lost at the sight of food. The sausage was too greasy for his liking, the cheese a touch too hard, and the potatoes undercooked, but at that moment nothing had ever tasted so delicious. By the time he finished, he was licking the platter as Marvallo watched.

“Your mother would be appalled at your manners.” Marvallo noted, picking gingerly at his own plate. He pointed to a bundle of clothes at the prince’s side. “Change out of your royal garb and toss them on the fire.”

Ragoth obeyed, changing quickly and watching his comfortable elvish nightwear catch fire. They were replaced with a worn tunic and leather vest with some trousers that smelled of something he couldn’t identify. He had a keen nose, but every moment outside the castle had been an assault on his senses. Every smell was new, and the symphony of scents was, at times, overwhelming. He’d never worn such baseborn clothes before. They were itchy and a touch too loose compared to his finely tailored norm. He still had the cloak he’d swiped, and the guilt of that act needled his conscience. He idly wondered if he’d ever be able to compensate the owner for the loss. What if it was their only cloak? His musings were interrupted when his eyes scanned the tree trunk next to him. Unable to contain his curiosity, Ragoth placed his hand on the trunk and rubbed its bark up and down. That was how Marvallo found him a finger of time later, fixated on the texture of the bark.

“What in the…what are you doing?”

“It’s a tree.” Ragoth said, a smile breaking out over his face. “Specifically an oak, based on the leaves. I’ve never seen one before. Its…amazing.”

Marvallo strummed his fingers together, clearing his throat. “Ahem. I see. When you’re over your botany inspection, we should speak about what comes next. Lest you forget, we aren’t out and about for a merry jaunt.”

Ragoth nodded and left the tree, following back to their campfire where he helped himself to another serving. “Right you are. Marvallo…you saved my life. I am eternally in your debt. When we get back, I will see that you receive a hero’s honor.”

As strange as it was to see the lanky jester in plain clothing without his customary paint and colorful garb, the sad frown that crossed his thin face was an even more alien effect. “Alas, young sire, I fear there is no going back for us.”

Ragoth struggled to comprehend, turning the jester’s words over and over in his mind. “We have to go back. I have to explain to mother and father what happened. I must warn them of that ghoulish figure who got into the castle and chased me out.”

Marvallo sighed, “Blight. His name is Lord Blight…and he is hunting you, young sire. You’re rightfully confused. I understand. If you’ll grant me a few fingers, I shall explain.” He set his plate aside, his somber tone gripping Ragoth as he spoke.

“Lord Blight is a dangerous and powerful dark magic user, a sorcerer who has evaded the grip of the Order of the Arcane for many years. He works in forbidden Abyssal shadow magic not seen since the days of Selrach The God-Sorcerer during the War of Sorrows. Before your birth, a prophecy was  shown to your mother and father speaking of a chosen individual. The only one who could truly defeat the dark lord Blight. The Prince Who Was Chosen.”

Ragoth felt a chill sink into his heart as Marvallo’s finger stabbed directly at him.

“Me?” he squeaked, “But why? Ho-how do you know this?”

“Something to do with your bloodline, which is of both human and Orc nobility. I have overheard much not meant for my ears in my time in the Namarian court. This much I do know: if you die, the dark lord will remain unopposed and can become more powerful than you can possibly imagine unless you fulfill the prophecy and slay him.”

Ragoth clutched his chest, distress wrenching his face into a horrified mask. “Slay him? How? I’ve not a sword or magic spell to use against that…that thing! How can I fight a master of Abyssal shadow magic? I don’t even know if I have an Affinity for magic. The Namarian Archmage has never tested me. Doesn’t the Order have anything to say about this?”

“Alas, sire, I’m not the one with such answers. But what I do know is the answers you truly seek lie with your people: the Orcs of Dreadmour. Your father’s people. Your true father. Warlord Thorgoth of the Sunderfang Tribe.”

“My true father,” Ragoth echoed softly, his eyes wide in wonder, “You mean the Orc who imprisoned my mother? She told me he was dead.”

“And so he is, but his brothers remain, or so the word of mouth claims.” Marvallo tapped his ear, “Stewing in their valley in the wilds of Dreadmour and feuding with the other Orc tribes once united under your father. One is the leader of the tribe and the other is its Magnus, their holy figurehead. It is they who know the specifics of the prophecy and they alone. More importantly,” Marvallo reached into a pack and produced a wrapped bundle five handspans long. Carrying it carefully in his hands, he knelt in front of the prince and presented it with reverence. “They are the only ones who can teach you to use this.”

Gingerly, Ragoth took the object and removed its burlap wrapping. The gleam of shining steel caught the flickering light of their small campfire. As the wrap fell away, Ragoth’s mouth fell. He took hold of the sword in his hands. Its crafted pommel and handle were a deep black. The design resembled a dragon’s scales; an amethyst-colored gem set into the pommel.

“It’s amazing.” Ragoth said, lifting it with one hand, his eyes fixated on the blade.

“It’s called Wraithslayer.” Marvallo said, seeming to shrink in its presence. “When I heard the whispers that the dark lord and his shadow dragon had swept into the castle, I swiped the sword from the castle vault just in case he came looking for it. Without you or the sword, the dark lord has already won. You were not supposed to know about this, Ragoth. They kept it from you for a reason: to keep the dark lord from finding out you had been born.”

Ragoth gasped, “This is what you were alluding to in the library, isn’t it? You knew! You knew, and you didn’t warn me.”

Marvallo’s hands shot up in defense. “To protect you, I swear. You are my friend and I hated to keep such a truth kept from you, but it was not my place to warn. That was your mother’s duty and one to be fulfilled after you had been Crowned and received your gilded mark. That was the truest way to protect you from the dark lord’s power, but he must have found you beforehand.”

“But I was marked.” Ragoth showed Marvallo his scarred palm. The wound still throbbed, but the pain was easier to ignore amidst all the chaos that had followed. The jester peeked under the wrapping, wincing, “I don’t think that’s the same as the court Archmage performing the gilding spell. You needed to be openly Crowned by the king to be made a part of the Crown Pantheon in the eyes of the law.”

“Brutis and Sariah did this to me.”

Marvallo gave a long, dramatic sigh and replied, “Well…those two have always been a troll’s bollocks.”

Ragoth snorted and issued a peal of laughter. It was the first time he had ever heard anyone speak of his siblings in any manner that wasn’t dodging how they truly felt. It felt good to laugh, good to feel something besides hunger, pain, and fear.

“I don’t like them much either.”

Marvallo’s smile returned, happy to see the prince mirthful again. “Few do. No sense of humor, those two.”

“What of mother?” Ragoth asked. “I cannot just leave her. She’ll be worried sick about me. She must know I’m gone by now. What if she thinks I perished in the fire?”

“As I said, young princeling, you cannot risk going back to the castle. Blight knows you were there, and he will no doubt return to see if you come back. It was dangerous enough to smuggle you out of the city. I’m certain the king has patrols looking for Blight. If they find us, we’re in trouble.”

“Why? Why wouldn’t my father send soldiers to look for me?”

Marvallo cleared his throat uncomfortably, his eyes darting off to the side. “This is going to be hard to hear, but in order to protect you from potential kidnappers and to create the illusion that no Orcborn could be within the kingdom’s borders, the king instituted a law in Namaria.”

Ragoth wore a puzzling look as the jester ran his finger across his green skin. “In Namaria, your skin is a death sentence. Anything with green skin is to be put to death on sight by order of the king. That is why the guards tried to kill you before I was able to interrupt.”

The prince felt his heart plummet into the vicinity of his boots, a lump caught in his throat, “Wh-what? That’s absurd. I’ve lived in the castle all my life.”

“In seclusion and secrecy, for your protection. All of it for your protection. They couldn’t risk your Orc brethren finding out, or they might have tried to rescue you. In their desire to help, they could have led Blight right to you.”

“For all the good it did. He found me anyway.”

Marvallo nodded, gripping the prince by his shoulders, “That is what we must focus on: staying ahead of Lord Blight and getting you out of Namaria so that you can make it to your father’s tribe in the Dreadmour Valley.”

“That’s on the other side of Evergrad! It’ll take weeks to travel across Sylveria and the Dynasty to reach it.” The sword dipped in Ragoth’s hand.

“It’s a long path.” Marvallo admitted, “And dangers a-plenty: highwaymen, savage beasts, and the like. Night-takers snatch the unwary in the dark and take them off to be bound in chains. But if we stick to the Dwarf Road though Barrow’s End to Roraberg Crossing, then to Dessius, it’ll go quicker than you think. With the gods luck, we could have Blight fooled into thinking we’re still close to the capitol.”

Ragoth looked doubtful as he re-wrapped the sword and tucked it beside him. “He said he can find me wherever I am. Is this prophecy the truth? Is this sword enough to fight such black arts?”

Marvallo sighed, his arms going wide. “In truth, young sire, I don’t have enough answers. I only overheard more than I should have. Nor can I return to explain. Wraithslayer stolen; a guard captain shot because of a simple trick. If I show my face back at the castle, my head is as good as gone.” He drew a finger across his throat. “The same goes for you if they catch you before we reach the border. Orcborn aren’t unheard of but keep your wits up and your eyes open. The world is much different outside the castle walls.”

Ragoth had his head in his hands, feeling the weight of creation bearing down on him all at once. Everything he ate was threatening to escape. “This is just so much…I don’t know what to think or do.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to sit about and merrily chat about your problems as the Prince That Was Chosen.” Marvallo stood, cracking his back. “We must be off before long. We’re hours from the border to Sylveria. There’s a town next to the river called Redleaf. Once we’re across the border, we won’t have to worry about the king’s patrols finding us.”

A third voice said, “Already found you.”

Ragoth spun so fast, he almost fell. Marvallo merely lifted his hands up as they both watched a man walk carefully out from behind their cart with a crossbow trained at them. He wore the royal green armor of the Namarian Guard, a Swordarix over his breastplate.

“Both of you up. Against that tree.” He ordered. The prince and the jester complied quickly, hands up in surrender. The soldier regarded them both before fixing his gaze solely on Ragoth. “You both know the law, aye? You know what happens when he gets caught inside Namaria’s borders?”

Marvallo’s face and body language became animated as he spoke, a familiar performance Ragoth had seen many times.

“Oh my, but I had forgotten how far into Namaria we came, my good sir. I’d not want to trouble the good king with my friend. This is Rags, my helper. Rags, bid the guard good tidings.”

Ragoth gave him a nervous grin and waved meekly.

The guard looked back and forth at them for a moment, nervous and wary. Ragoth felt his legs going numb, his heart threatening to thud out of his chest. Don’t fall over. Don’t move. Don’t give him a reason to shoot you.

Marvallo lowered his hand. “Listen, my good man. I apologize for our presence here,” He slowly reached as he spoke, grabbing at something on his belt, “And I wouldn’t want to burden your troubled schedule this evening.”

He gave the purse a flick of his fingers and it landed at the soldier’s feet with an unmistakable clink.

The soldier looked down, nudging it with his foot. “What’s that?”

“A way to unburden your troubles.” The jester grinned.

Bending slowly, the guard snatched the purse while keeping one hand aiming the crossbow at them. Rags held his breath, watching the man loosen the string and peer inside. Whatever it was, it held his attention for a long moment. He looked at Marvallo, ready to act. The jester only gave him a knowing grin.

The soldier tucked the purse at his belt and said, “Be on your way and quick. I circle back in a hand of time. If you’re still here, I’ll put a bolt in both of you and kick your bodies into the brush.”

He stepped backwards slowly, never lowering his crossbow until he was well into the thicket. It wasn’t until they heard his horse galloping into the distance they finally relaxed again. Both Rags and Marvallo let out their breath together, sharing a tense look.

“That purse. What was that?” asked Ragoth.

“That, my dear prince, is the simplest magic one can perform.”

Marvallo’s smile lasted until they heard the damning sound of wings flapping overhead and a familiar cackling laugh echoed in the woods, creeping in with a dark fog.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Traveling, even on the Rockbrow Traverse, presents a perilous chance. It behooves one to have companions and weapons at the ready.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

I wonder if all such Adventurers harbor the same doubts as I. Cort thought, staring up into the afternoon sky. The sky had stared back at him plenty over the years, but if it held a significant answer to his silent ponderings, it kept them amongst the heavens.

A few days out from Havenlore and they had put miles of the Sylverian landscape behind them as they approached the border with Namaria. The vibrant greens of plains grass sprawled out before them as distant forests teased relief from the spring sun. The air was a touch cool this close to the highlands and rocky ranges of Machavia, but the promise of warm weather was not far from fulfillment as spring shed the trappings of winter.

Despite Ord’s hobbled leg, he attacked the trip with great eagerness. His mood was nothing less than joyous, filling the air with song in the dwarvish tongue and regaling them with tales of his time with the Tombstormers. Cort suspected it had been some time since the old dwarf had been so full of joy. It went a long way in mitigating the rigors of the road. One of many things Ord was happy to chat about.

“I was a wee lad when the elves contracted my kin to build the Rockbrow Traverse,” he said with pride. “These days they call it the Dwarf Road. Bit simplistic, but it’s as fine a craft as any castle or city wall ever made with dwarvish hands. Jus’ look at it. It’ll be here till the end of Allspire’s days.” He tapped his traveling stick on the smooth stones with confidence.

The Traverse was indeed a marvel of dwarven craftsmanship. Wide enough to accommodate two carts passing each other, the smooth stones made travel by cart or foot easy, and the sturdy construction was already a hundred years old with no sign of wear. The many branches of the Traverse connected the major capitals and cities of the Crown Pantheon to one another. It had taken just over a hundred years to build with the majority of the dwarf population working on its construction.

Cort glowered, immune to Ord’s infectious mirth. He and Denith had to walk slower to keep from outpacing their dwarf friend. It irritated Cortland like a small stone in the bottom of a boot. He cast a look at Denith, who seemed quite content with their pace, and that only irritated him more. The slower their pace, the less ground they covered, and the deeper Cort’s frown dug into the recesses of his jawline.

“A hundred years is how long it’ll take to reach Barrow’s End if we don’t quicken our pace. We’re still on the outskirts of the Gnarlknot Wood,” He said finally.

“No reason to hurry, Goodsir Cortland,” Denith replied.

“Easy for you to say. You’ll live long enough to finish the journey. You’ll be burying my bones in some scattershack town with no name.”

Denith inclined his head with an amused smile. “If that is your wish. I shall endeavor to find a scenic place for your bones to rest in eternity. If you like, I can carry one with me to Barrow’s End so your spirit can rest knowing part of you finished the journey. Can’t have your restless ghost haunting other’s travels, now can we?”

Cort spent a finger of two figuring out if the pleasant elf spoke in jest or not. Not knowing for certain also irritated him. He had existed alongside elves while living in Havenlore, but he was hardly friends with any. Sylverian elves were aloof and dismissive by nature, a trait they took from their king, often disregarding the humans who inhabited their capital. Cort was no exception. “I don’t need your sarcasm, elf.”

“Fortunate, then, that I didn’t offer it. You’ll find the Unexalted Faith lacks humorists in our ranks. Servitude rarely calls for people who feel prone to snide replies.” Denith said, his attention unwavering as he kept his gaze forward.

Cortland scoffed. “Not known many elves to humble themselves. Most have little to say to a city guard. They thought themselves better.”

“We can be a haughty bunch.” Denith said with a shrug, “I’m sorry if your interactions with elves have been less than friendly.”

Cort tucked his jaw into his chest. Never heard an elf apologize in all his life. It almost made him regret his sharp tongue.  Almost.

“What’s your cult sending you south for?”

Denith took his brash tone in stride. “The Unexalted Faith are goodwill workers. I’m going to do such work in the Feylund Jungles.”

“That’s much farther than I’m going. I hope you can find an escort.”

“So do I.”

Cort let a pause linger between them. “I don’t think I can help you. So don’t ask.”

“Perish the thought. What of you, Goodsir Cortland? What do you want?” Denith chuckled.

“I want to be a Knight Valiant,” he said immediately. “Laugh all you like.”

“I will not. I wish you well in your endeavor.”

“Yes. Much danger about,” said Orden, having misheard. “Always danger on the road. Tell me, lad. Can ya swing that sword?”

Cort touched the handle of his sword at his belt. A comforting remnant of his now former profession.

“I can swing it. Practiced in the guard training pits at least once a week per captain’s orders. Deni at least has some magic, aye?”

Deni caught him with a look from under the rim of his broad hat. “Oh. Not at all, Cort. I fear I’m Arcblind.”

Cort paused. “What? But...I thought all elves had a touch of Affinity in their blood?”

“The gods saw fit to gift their magics to others.” Denith gave only an apologetic gesture.

It was then that Cort realized a stark truth. “I assumed you carried no weapon because you had the use of magic.”

Denith laughed and held out his plain robes. “Do I seem like an Order Mage? Goodsir, I have no magic, no sword, and no bow. Not even a dagger. I am but a humble servant to others, not a master unto myself. That’s why I needed your escort.” He tilted his head to the side and gave a sorrowful look. “I am truly sorry. I’m no Adventurer.”

“You have no sword.” Cort’s incredulity was as plain as the tusks on an Orc’s face.

“No,” replied Denith.

“And no bow.”

“Never have.”

“And you don’t know the first thing about magic?”

“‘Tis true.”

“Can you heal? Cook? Talk to animals? Anything useful?”

“My area of expertise was more centered on cleaning. Laundry, dusting, toiletry. Things like that.”

Hands on his hips, Cort’s temper flared. “What are you good at, elf?”

“You’ll have the cleanest campsite you’ve ever seen.” Denith reached up and pinched Cort’s cheek with a grin.

Cort fell behind his companions. He was on the road with a helpless elf and an old one-legged, half-deaf dwarf.

“What have I gotten myself into?” he swore, looking up at the golden-purple haze of the sky’s twilight. As before, the heavens kept their answers.

When nightfall came, they were well short of any sheltered habitat, so a night in the open was their only option. As soon as they made the decision to make camp, Orden steered them off the road. For all the safety that the Dwarf Road provided, its uses were well regulated throughout the entirety of the Crown Pantheon. One of those regulations was keeping encampments at distance in order to keep impromptu settlements from being built on top of a section of the road and forcing travelers to pass and pay a toll.

The Dwarf Road was routinely patrolled to keep the peace and, indeed, they had passed several patrols on horseback during the day. Its surroundings were maintained meticulously to prevent ambush by highwaymen or bandits. Most of the Dwarf Road had a clearance of several hundred footspans from any hills, trees, or buildings. A settlement had to go through a lengthy and costly legal process to build around the road. Here, upon the edge of Namaria and Sylveria’s border, close to the Gnarlknot Wood, the trio camped in a small bundle of sparse trees just within the forest itself.

Deni, true to his word, had taken to making their camping site neat and clean, fastidiously clearing the twigs and leaves. Cort contented himself to sit back against a tree on his cot while Orden fixed the firewood. The elf had a small dusting brush, of all things, stowed away in his robe pockets and swept the ground around the fire, picking up any errant twig or leaf that dared remain.

Orden looked up at him and the elf, judging something internally and then quickly snapped his fingers at the fire pit, saying clearly, “Flarniel!”

At once, a small fire burst in the middle of the logs, setting them aflame. Ord chuckled happily, waddling nearby before falling into his seat with a groan.

Cort stroked his chin, “You didn’t tell us you’re a Mage, old man.”

“Mage? Feh! That flicker spell’s older than the Order itself. Not a group of jackasses ever entered a dungeon without knowing how to make a fire first.” He fixed Cort with a hard look. “Not gonna spout that Order magic-policing Orcshit, are ye? I’ve had my belly full of them bastards. Why do ye think adventuring ain’t the same anymore? Who can stand havin’ the party wizard always tossin’ ye fines fer every flicker spell ye use. Ruined adventurin’, but ya know why else?”

Deni hurled an armload of leaves into the woods and dusted his hands off. “Ran out of dungeons?”

Ord pointed to the elf. “That. That’s a big part of it. Even if they weren’t, the Order clamps down too hard on Mage activities. Says it's too hard to find and train new ones, so they stopped letting them go into danger. Buncha overzealous spellslingers, if ya ask me. Too worried about people snappin’ a fire to keep warm than they are a dark lord comin’ back into power.”

“There hasn’t been a dark lord or any such thing in hundreds of years,” said Deni, brushing the ground before he sat down. “Doesn’t that mean the Order is effective then?”

To that, Ord merely sniffed gruffly and stuffed an intricate wooden pipe into his mouth. A handcrafted gift from his fellow Tombtaker, he bragged. When asked which one, he merely closed his eyes, inhaled deeply with a puff of smoke and hummed softly to himself. They dined on a dinner of hardtack and beef jerky, washed down with truly awful wine.

Cort sighed, feeling he should have been more content living out his decision. Maybe it would come with enough time.

Deni took the first watch of the night. Cort closed his eyes, comforted that at least someone with working ears was on watch.

It was Ord’s strangled cry that woke Cortland first. The alarming noise brought him to full alertness in mere seconds. In a short breath, he took in several things at once.

Ord, staring in shock at the spear stabbing into his chest.

The goblin holding the spear, its snarling mouth curled in bloodlust.

Denith peering around from the other side of a tree on the perimeter of the camp, his eyes wide with shock.

The other five goblins, charging into camp with crude weapons in clawed hands, amber eyes shining in the dark. Their snarls were lost as blood rushed into his ears.

It wasn’t until Ord’s second cry of pain that Cort snapped out of his shock and scrambled to his feet. His armor and sword were lying halfway across their camp. He no sooner scrambled to his feet than two of the goblins plowed into his gut. The three of them tumbled to the dirt and Cort swung wildly. Only his frantic flailing saved him from the goblin’s daggers getting too close. He knocked one goblin away with an elbow, sending it spinning into the campfire. It howled in pain and thrashed around as its clothes caught fire. Cort heard the other goblin’s cackling laughter through a distant rush of wind, drifting about his head as if lingering from a dream.

Terror coursed through his body as Cort fought with the goblin straddling his chest, dagger raised to deliver a killing blow. He grabbed its torso, struggling to keep it from lunging. The goblin was stronger than it looked and thrashed like a wild beast. Its vile breath filled his nose, threatening to bring up everything he’d eaten hours ago. Gnarled teeth snapped at his arm as the dagger thrust and slashed with wild abandon.

All he could hear was its vicious snarling, all he could see was its amber eyes full of murderous desire, his only feeling was that of trying to find a grip on it to keep its blade from his unarmored torso. The goblins' aimless stabs faded, its eyes growing still. Was it tired? Faking to trick him into letting it go? He held it away, pouring every ounce of strength in him to keep his attacker distant from him.

“Ay, boy! I say, boy! That’s enough, the damn thing’s dead.”

A hard boot kicked him in the shoulder, bringing Cort’s attention back to the here and now. Only then did he realize reality had been busy passing him by while he fought with the goblin. He found himself amid a half-round of armored guards bearing the Namarian Swordarix on their breastplates. A scouting party, from the look of their light armor. A few of them were tossing dead goblin corpses into a pile while the others were having quite a jolly laugh at the dumbstruck look on his face.

“Thought you’d strangle that thing until its head fell off!” roared the Sergeant of the patrol, his hand of guards joining him in laughter. The coursing terror subsided; Cort’s awareness of his surroundings returned slowly. Only then did he realize he’d been gripping the goblin by the throat and had squeezed the life out of it in his fearful fight to stay alive. The vile thing hung limp in his hands as the guards had rushed in and finished the goblins.

“Ay, get up, lad. Toss that little green shit on the pile.” The Namarian Sergeant said, “I’ve got questions for the both of you.”

“Sarge, don’t bother with him, he’s orc-punched,” replied one of the other guards. Behind him stood Denith, standing meekly with his hands folded in front of him.

The Sergeant reached down and delivered a solid smack across Cort’s face and hauled him to his feet with a yank on his collar. The Sergeant's face hardened, the mirth on his voice gone. He gave Cort a rattle, the kind his father used to inflict when he wasn’t paying attention.

“Get your head back on straight, boy. Take a look.”

Cortland followed the Sergeant’s stabbing finger and felt his heart drop. He didn’t remember breaking the man’s grip, only descending to his knee next to Ord. The dwarf’s empty eyes stared out into camp, his hand still clutching a hatchet that would never find its target. The spear shaft still jutted from his chest, driven all the way through.

Deni’s voice was just behind him. “Oh, Ord…”

Cort couldn’t take his eyes off the lifeless dwarf, his gut wrenched in shock and sorrow. The Sergeant shattered his grief by taking hold of the shaft and yanking it out of the fallen Tombstormer. The man pointed it at the two of them.

“Camping near the Gnarlknot Wood is dangerous for exactly this reason. You’re both lucky we heard you two bellowing like fawns without your mothers. Redleaf is a few hours away. I suggest you head for it and thank the gods we were passing through. Why weren’t you standing watch?”

Cort snapped his head to Denith, who shrank under his glare. The elf spread his hands helplessly.

“I saw nothing. Heard nothing. All at once, the goblins were in our midst, and I ran as fast as I could. I am truly sorry, Cort.”

“Don’t apologize to me, you cowering gunt!” he snapped, nodding to Orden. “Apologize to Ord. He’s the one who paid for your mistake with his life. How could you be such a damn dullard?” Denith withered under Cort’s scathing rebuke so hard that he looked ready to burst into tears.

The Sergeant cuffed both of them on the arm. “Enough out of both of you. Settle your dispute later. For now, take your friend and find shelter elsewhere before more goblins have an excuse to pour out of the forest. We’re on the lookout for two who escaped from the capital and don’t have time for this. Anders, any sign of them in the east?” A single scout came galloping up to them, a crossbow slung across his shoulder.

The scout saluted. “Nothing but brush and forest. What happened here?”

“Goblins,” the Sergeant said, signaling with his hand. “All hands to mount. We’re leaving and not coming back.” He cast a last look at the two travelers and he and his guards vanished like wraiths into the dark forest past their camp’s perimeter.

Cortland and Denith remained silent for a finger of time. Cort kept a smoldering glare on Denith as the elf silently worked to bury their dwarf companion. He waited for Denith to defend himself, offer an excuse, deflect the blame away from his own incompetence, something that would give him an excuse to vent his rage at the elf. But as Denith used a spade from Ord’s pack, his only words were occasional whimpering sobs and apologies directed to the dwarf’s body. Though he wanted to pin Denith to the ground and hammer his face into the dirt with his fists, Cort knew he wouldn’t feel any better and then he’d be down another companion.

Cort and Deni buried Ord, leaving the spade and Ord’s helm for a marker. Now there was the question of what to do next. Neither of them had the desire to return to Havenlore and inform Ord’s halfling friend of his death.

“How can I tell him that his father’s oldest friend died a few days into his last journey?” Cort said aloud.

“He survived the Tomb of Terrors,” Denith remarked, morose as they stood over the grave. “He helped kill the Minotaur King only to be killed by a goblin in his sleep.”

“He had to have cut down hundreds of the green bastards in his time,” Cort mumbled. The former guardsman sighed deeply and considered his life choices. He could go back to Havenlore and answer for his unorthodox resignation or continue on in his rash decision to pursue knighthood with a floor-scrubbing elf.

“We might need more companions if we’re going to continue farther south,” said Deni.

And that was when the crazed half-Orc came bolting out of the woods, fell over their campfire and crashed into Denith, sending them both to the ground in an inglorious heap.

CHAPTER SIX

“What the Southern Provinces lack in abundant civilization it makes up for in breathtaking landscapes. One should, at least once, travel on foot to appreciate the splendor it presents.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

“He’s still glum,” Deni noted, leaning closer so only Cort would hear him. Cortland glanced back over his shoulder to the solemn Orcborn trailing them. His shoulders slumped, back bowed, and eyes cast at his feet. He had made for quite the silent companion over the past week.

“He’s in good company.” Cort replied, exhaling. The rank stench of his own breath blew back in his face, and he flinched. It was the only thing more overpowering than the odor emanating from his own body. Deni fared no better, his earth toned robes stained with mud and caked with grime. Onward the trio trudged, having put miles of Sylverian countryside behind them in their progress southward to Barrow’s End. As beautiful as the rolling hills and wild trees were, they had a hard time appreciating it through their hardship. Try as he might to bury the superstition, their bad luck had started the day Rags tore out of the woods and into their camp.

It was a sleepless night after they buried Ord. Fearful the goblins would return and now with an unconscious Orcborn in their charge, Cort opted to finish their trip to Redleaf. He carried the Orcborn over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes over the border into Sylveria. Relief set in when they at last arrived at the border town only for the guards at the front gate to turn them away.

“No one in or out after midnight. Town Arlor’s orders.” The gatekeeper’s words were final. Cort spat a choice number of Vaelyn Deep’s most profane vulgarities before retreating with Deni and their unconscious friend in tow. They spent the rest of the night just outside of town, huddled near a small campfire. Just as sleep began to take them, the Orcborn woke screaming and flailing from some night terror. It had taken some effort to calm him down and convince him he wasn’t in immediate danger. Oddly enough, the only thing that calmed him was an offer of wine from Deni’s pack.

He had immediately paused, leaning forward and asking hopefully, “Elvish wine?”

Cort and Deni watched him sip the wineskin, calming like a babe at a mother’s breast. He remained reserved—even after assurances he wouldn’t be harmed.

Cortland had been a guard for several years after leaving behind the luxuries of potato farming, not terribly long in the grand scheme of Allspire. Long enough to have encountered a number of incidents: bar brawls, domestic disputes, petty robbers, but on a few occasions he had encountered those who had been involved in traumatic events. Victims of something significant that had changed who they were forever. Whatever circumstance had brought the Orcborn lad to them had cowed him into silence. He regarded the two of them as though they were going to carve him up if he looked away. For hours, he hugged his knees and stared into space, hearing nothing but his own thoughts. Denith took a place next to him and finally calmed him enough to get a name.

“My…my name is Rags.”

And that was the most he’d divulged or spoken in the next seven days. Returning to Redleaf in the morning, they were again rebuffed as the head gatekeeper, an obese man living under the delusion his armor fit him appropriately, had taken one look at Rags and cast all three of them out.

“Absolutely not. I’ll not have an Orcbrat mucking about our town. All three of you be off.”

After they spent too long pleading and arguing, the three left, dejected. Cort spat curses at that man, swearing pain and blood at the end of his fists if they ever met again. Deni backed away under his threat. Rags mouth wrenched into a shocked expression at hearing such deeply offensive and rampant profanity. Cort fumed in anger but led them away before the gatekeeper held good to his word to have the town guard run them down on horseback.

They marched in silence for a few miles until they came to stop at the fork in the Dwarf Road. Hands on his hips, Cort glared back to the north from where they came and then to the south-east, where the road wound through the hillsides and over creeks of the southern plains until it reached Barrow’s End. A solid week of travel on foot. The third fork went west to the Allurious Coast.

“Will you head back?” Deni sighed, holding his hat in both hands in his lap.

Cort looked down at the diminutive elf and snapped, “What do you care, you craven lickspittle?”

“I fear if I go back, I may not be able to make this trek again for some time. The goblins who were not killed made away with what little gold I had.”

“Mine as well,” Cort growled through gritted teeth. “How many rations do we have?”

“With Ord’s stock, four days. Five, if we are careful. But those are rations for two and we picked up an extra mouth.” He gestured to Rags, who was too busy staring off down the south-eastern path on the Dwarf Road.

“I’d recommend that both of you go back. I’ll have an easier time making for Barrow’s End by myself.” Cort sighed, wiping his hand down his dirty face. This was more that he’d bargained for.

“I told you, I can’t go back,” Deni insisted. “And Rags can’t go back to Namaria, they’ll kill him.” They might have been out of Namaria’s borders, but this close to it the people still carried their resentments. Half-blood Orc or full blooded Orc, many did not make a distinction. The green skin was more than enough.

Rags said nothing and walked down the south-east fork, leaving them standing there. They watched him.

“We should go with him, Cort,” said Deni.

“We?” Cort scoffed. “There is no ‘we’. Your usefulness was already in question, but it ended the moment you couldn’t keep adequate watch. If not for your incompetence, Ord would still be alive.”

The rebuke shrank Denith, and he shriveled under Cort’s glower. “I cannot apologize enough for my mistake. I told you before that I am no Adventurer.”

“Nor will you be. Not with me.” Cortland sneered. “I can’t trust you to watch my back or help protect me. If we are traveling together, it is only because we are going the same way. Don’t look to me for a friend.” With that, he marched off down the road towards Barrow’s End, catching up to Rags in short order.

Deni stood in the road for a long time, not moving, clutching his hat in his hands and his head hung down. At some point, though, Cort noticed he had caught up to them and they reluctantly began their journey south-eastward.

If Rags wasn’t happy with their presence, he said nothing. Imperfect though they were, the trio struck out for Barrow’s End with little in the way of rations and one sword and shield between them. To Cortland, it felt like a farcical parody of adventures he’d been told.

Not a child across the face of Evergrad grew up without hearing the vaunted tales of those that called themselves Adventurers. There had never been a child who didn’t grow up playing Dungeon Delver with their friends, a simple game of high energy and loose rules. It was a battle of wits and imagination, exciting glory and wondrous tales told later in fond memory. Every tavern heard songs of great heroics and epic battles by traveling musicians and bands. Tales passed down from the memories of grandparents who had held them in high regard in their own childhoods. Adventurers were a thing of legend and awe.

Cort had played it, too. Always a knight, of course. But try as he might, he couldn’t recall the parts of adventures speaking of sore feet from days of traveling, the aching muscles, the strain on his back from carrying his pack, the borderline starvation, or trying to decide if hours spent foraging were worth the time spent not traveling.

High spirits were in short order. Cort seethed, Deni was withdrawn, Rags said nothing—even when directly addressed. He either acted as if he hadn’t heard or gave a curt single word response. They learned soon enough to simply let him be. Whatever troubled him he kept to himself, not that Deni or Cort were in a mood to pursue questioning. Theirs was a fellowship of convenience and little more.

They crossed through the plains and hills, passing distant farms and inviting homes. Every time they did, the smell of a hearth and home cooked food overpowered their other senses to the point of madness. Though the scenic, sweeping lands of Sylveria’s rural farmlands were breathtaking to behold, their predicament stole all of their attention. The first and second days passed with a mixture of simmering emotions, wordless miles, and rumbling bellies. They looked forward to their meager dinners of dried biscuits and jerky, eaten in sullen silence.

By the third day, their rations wore thin, and their belts tightened a notch. Rags ate the least of all of them, his gaunt look was troubling, but he seemed to have little appetite, refusing many offers. Cort noticed Deni saving some of his own portions and passing them to Rags, but he turned it away.

If Cort had a bow, he could have hunted. He wasn’t especially skilled; but given time, he could have done something, anything. At one point, while passing a local fisherman at the base of a bridge, Cort attempted to appeal to his goodwill and barter for labor. He would have given his only weapon for a plate of food. The grizzled old fisherman took one look at Rags and pointedly stated he had nothing of interest to sell. Cort’s fists tightened, and the urge to beat a meal out of the fisherman rose. Denith’s hand on his elbow brought him out of his enraged state, pointing out that Rags had already gone off without them.

He knew better than to unleash his anger on the man. The horseback patrols would have been the end of them if he laid a hand on someone. At least twice a day, the Sylverian guards either passed or questioned them. The guards were mostly elves or half-elves, wearing pristine royal blue-and-silver trimmed armor bearing the Jathari on their breastplates. The fisherman would have alerted passing patrols, and they’d be run down within hours. Some guards noted Rags and interrogated them at length before letting them go with a warning to be on their way quickly. The elvish and half-elf men and women on horseback rebuffed their requests for food or rides. It was clear their disdain for Rags was the cause of their lack of generosity.

A slight reprieve came when Denith managed to successfully beg a farmer on his way to a neighboring town to let them ride on the back edge of his wagon. For the first time in days, they could rest their feet, feel wind in their hair, and for a brief period appreciate the verdant greens and bubbling brooks as they rode by. They covered more ground in that one day than walking for two.

The pleasantness faded on the fourth day as the skies clouded over, and a hard rain drenched them to the bone. They scoured the nearby hills and scattered bits of forestry but found nothing in the way of shelter. It only made them hungrier and more miserable. Their sleep was fitful though thanks to Rags every night of sleep was fitful. He tossed and turned, troubled by night terrors. Often, he awoke with a cry, drenched in sweat. He always slept away from them. Cort asked him what was wrapped in burlap, five handspans long with a rope sling he wore over his shoulder. Rags would insist it was nothing, but it never left his reach.

The fifth day was the worst. Heavy rain kept them saturated; their rations were gone; exhaustion made their feet drag the ground and their pace slowed to a crawl. Now, it seemed, the plains held fewer trees, fewer homes, and no place to rest.

Cort asked Deni if he was fast enough to catch a wild rabbit, to which Deni replied, “What does a wild rabbit look like?”

At the end of the day, they crested a hill and beheld the Dwarf Road stretching into the distance. Cort groaned. The plains laid out before him were more barren in the southern provinces than before, trees dotting the landscape singularly and only a cattle farm at the base of the hill. A cookfire drifted smoke out of its chimney and with it, the aroma of a cooked meal the three had gone too long without.

He looked back and saw Rags speaking into Deni’s ear, pressing something into his hand and the elf nodding in response. He watched as the elf scurried down the hill ahead and went to the door of the farmhouse. It was too far to hear what was being said or to make out who came to the door, but by the time Deni returned, the excitement on his face was unlike anything Cort had yet witnessed.

“He says there are a few open stalls in the barn. We can make a fire in the horseshoe forge.”

Cort’s mouth dropped, flapping up and down a few times before he charged ahead in a straight line for the barn across from the farmhouse with Deni and Rags on his heels. Once inside, the smell of hay, horse, and manure hit Cort’s nose like a fist and a thousand memories of home flooded him. Rags’ nose wrinkled as he looked about the stalls, fielding looks from horses regarding him with the same curiosity. Deni, at once, was by the small forge and stacking firewood on top the dim coals. Rags and Cort doffed their soaked clothes, though Deni seemed to prefer his robes as they were.

In short order, the fire in the forge was roaring, their boots and cloaks hanging near it as they pulled short wooden stumps near it and let the heat warm their cold bones. A knock came to the door, sending Deni in a dash to open it. He returned a moment later with something in his arms. Rags and Cort both jumped to their feet when they saw it. Deni held a large tray, loaded with trenchers brimming with beef stew, hot rolls, spiced potatoes, thick slices of cheese, and a small pitcher of milk. Deni barely had the tray set onto a workbench when the three of them tore into the offerings. With little regard to decorum or manners, they devoured all of it greedily, their mouths chewing loudly as they shoveled food into their gullets. Rags enjoyed it the most, by far, making happy noises with each mouthful, his eyes rolling up as every bite brought with it a bliss missing from his life.

A wave of homesickness rushed through Cort. He said out loud, “Just like home.”

“Mmm!” Deni agreed.

Cort asked, “How? What did you say to garner such favor, Deni?”

“Thank Rags. He gave me five gold tilts to ask if we could stay here. I added food to the request, just to see if they would. I would have been happy with a dry place to sleep, but this is a godsend. Thank you, Rags.”

“Not bad, Rags. Bout time you held your own weight.” Cort clapped the young half-orc on the shoulder. Rags took the praise in stride, too busy eating to reply. The rest of their meal passed in relative peace, and the exhaustion of the week on the road settled in. Laying back in a bed of hay, Cortland produced a wooden pipe from his bag. He spun it between his hands for a finger of time, his gaze fixated on its simple construction. Peering into a small leather pouch, he made a soft grunt before putting both of them back into his pack and collapsing into sleep.

At night, Ragoth only knew fear. All of his life, he had never slept in anything but comfort and peace. Now, when he closed his eyes, the harrowing, ghoulish figure of Lord Blight was there to greet him. Always running, the gnarled limbs of trees reaching out to grasp at Rags as he ran from that damning cackle through an endless forest in the black of night.

“Take the sword.”

Marvallo’s voice echoed, ringing in his ears.

“Find your uncle Gorvok in Dreadmour.”

The approaching growl of the shadow dragon inched closer, no matter how fast he ran.

“Tell no one. One misspoken word and he’ll find you!” The panic in Marvallo’s voice was matched by his own.

The manic compulsion to run faster overtook him, but he was not fast enough. Heavy footsteps approached him rapidly from behind. Panic turned to terror and then the suffocation began. He struggled to breathe, lungs burning, spinning in search of help. It was over in the blink of an eye.

His eyes shot open, gasping as a hand came away from his nose and mouth. In that waking moment, he caught sight of Deni crouching on his haunches over his head and realized the elf had been pinching his nose in his sleep.

“Whu—”

“Sssh.” Deni pressed a finger to his lips, whispering. “You were thrashing in your sleep again. I didn’t want to shake you awake. I’m sorry if it caused you distress. I wasn’t sure how else to rouse you.”

Rags took a moment to catch his breath, his head falling back into the hay. Thick rivulets of sweat rolled down his face, which Deni patted away with his sleeve. “You have very troubled sleep, Rags. Every night you’re like this.”

“I have nightmares,” he replied, looking up at the elf. He sniffed, his nose wrinkling. The barn held an ever-present pungent aroma to it. At that moment, it seemed much worse.

Deni said, “We’ve noticed. Might I ask what troubles you so?”

Rags let a pause hang between them before he answered. “I can’t say.”

“Hm.” Deni sat down next to him, crossing his legs, “Something terrible happened to you, I think.”

Rags said nothing, casting his eyes about the room to avoid looking at Deni.

Denith waited to see if Rags might be forthcoming, but his silence spoke for him. “I see. Forgive my asking. As we of the Unexalted Faith say, “A friend is entitled to their secrets.”

Rags turned back and sat up on his elbows. “Friends? I’ve only known you for a few days.”

“We’ve traveled together, eaten together, and now we’re sharing hay and manure together. Is that not what friends do?”

That brought a frown to Rag’s face. “Is it? I’m not familiar with such a custom.”

“Ah. Well, some friends are different from others.” Deni shrugged. “I’m not one to pry into others' business, Rags. I am an elf of the Unexalted Faith, a servant at heart. I hear much, but I keep my tongue still. You need not speak your troubles aloud when you wear them on your brow. It darkens your heart in both your dreams and your waking hours.”

Rags looked away; his saddened expression told Deni much.

“You’re fleeing Namaria. Not just leaving. Fleeing.”

If he hoped that would prompt Ragoth to spill his tale, he was rewarded with silence, the Orcborn’s eyes wavering as his secrets strained behind his lips.

Deni tried not to laugh. “You’re not used to keeping secrets, are you, Rags? It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything. I think a friend is what you need most right now.”

Rags shook his head with a sigh. Was it so obvious? It was a wonder the whole realm didn’t know by now. “You don’t understand, Denith. I’ve already lost one friend on this journey. I’d prefer not to lose another, no matter how altruistic your intentions. I must get to Dreadmour with all speed.”

“Rags, if you’ll pardon my presumption, but your journey will be difficult enough even with a bit of gold. Without help, it may be impossible.” Deni tilted his head back and forth as he listened.

“What makes you say that?” Rags asked.

Deni reached down and softly pinched Rag’s skin, “This. Much of Sylveria and the Dynasty stand between you and Dreadmour. Though killing Orcborn is not law as it is in Namaria, the sentiment towards your kind is no less volatile. It’s only in recent years that some have been allowed to take labor jobs in the cities. I’ve heard of towns and villages who ran them out. Those who have nowhere to turn resort to banditry and fulfill the fears about them. An Orcborn who is not careful may find a blade in his back for nothing more than that.”

“Why?” Rags asked, “I’ve done nothing to them.”

Deni looked at him with a furrowed brow, “It is too much to speak of tonight. I only ask that you be wary and cautious as Cortland has asked.”

“Keep my hood up. Head on a swivel,” he said, as though repeating a mantra. “Trust no one. Get to Dreadmour and…” He trailed off, looking over at the sleeping Cort lying on his side. “What of him?”

“Goodsir Cortland is in pursuit of his own goals. Perhaps it’s for the best. His temper gets the better of his good judgment. It would put the both of us in more danger. But, regardless, you say you must get to Dreadmour and with all haste. You need someone at your side. I am, as an acolyte of the Unexalted Faith, a servant foremost. It is my place in life to see to the needs of others. If you will have me, I give you my oath of servitude. I will aid you in your journey until you have reached safety.”

Rags pondered, weighting the choice to bring another into his fold after all he’d been through.  Though Denith was less capable than both himself and Cortland in almost every regard, there was an earnest manner about the elf. “It will be dangerous.”

“If it’s in service of another, I’ll have done the work of the goddess. To serve and aid those in need is the only calling of my faith. I know how it feels to be without a friend in the world.” Deni said with a smile. “What say you? It is not a bad thing to have a friend.”

Rags held out his hand and Deni clasped it tightly. A tension left Rags then, a light seeming to return to his eyes that wasn’t there before. “Friend. Not a bad thing at all.”

As Deni went back to his own spot in the hay, Rags, having spent that time in close proximity to the elf, sniffed the air again and came to a conclusion days in the making: Denith reeked.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“One does not travel the breadth and width of the Crown Pantheon without passing through Barrow’s End. It is known as ‘A Fortnight from Anywhere’.”

‘The Adventurer's Guide to Allspire’

“Barrow’s End!” Rags said as he hopped up and down on both feet. “I’ve only read about it. Oh, look at the walls! Sixty-two paces high and twenty paces thick. In four hundred years, the walls have never been breached. Not splendorous enough for the Sylverian king to call home, or so I’ve heard, but as impregnable a city as ever existed. The arena is the second largest in all of Allspire. Look at it! The books don’t do it justice.”

Cort stared at the massive gate looming before them, arms crossed, glowering. “We aren’t inside yet, Rags.”

“Impressive.” Deni said, his neck craning up to see. “What else do you know ab—”

Cort’s hand clamped over Deni’s mouth, but it was too late. Rags, scratching his chin, rattled off the history of Barrow’s End and its placement in the Sylverian plainslands. Barrow’s End was the last major city before the Sylveria’s plains gave way to the Starsong Dynasty. It was a hub from which five points of the Dwarf Road joined together, the most of any other great city of the Crown Pantheon.

“The five points of the Road lead to the Feylund Jungles, Machavia—also known as the Iron Regime, Havenlore, Arcathoria in the Starsong Dynasty, The Norenrauth Imperium also—”

“Stuff your spud hole, Rags.” Cort snapped. “We’re almost to the gate and if we give them any reason to doubt our stories, they’ll toss us back to the road.”

“No need to be so angry.” Rags said, “If anything will work against us, it’s your temper.”

“Like blood and bollocks it will!” Cort barked. Heads turned in the line in front of the city’s towering gates towards him. The gate loomed over them like a giant mouth. Great oak beams bound by thick bands of iron stood closed while a smaller gate was open, built into the larger door’s base to grant entry for merchants and travelers. The contingent of guards at the entry point was enough to dissuade any notion of muscling through.

Rags and Deni took his outburst in stride. Cort’s fiery temper boiled closer to the surface than before. Almost anything would get his voice raised. Rags was taken aback at the stark difference from his brother Brutis’ cold, quiet cruelty, but only at first.

“Doesn’t take much to make him angry,” Deni whispered to Rags.

“Mayhap he needs a hug?” Rags said. Deni tittered. The two had spent their time conversing during their trek to the city. Much of it came from Ragoth, who was keen to talk at length about anything and everything, often distracted to a fault. Denith proved to be the best kind of friend a knowledge sponge like Ragoth could have ever hoped for: an attentive ear to his open musings.

While Cort spent the days traveling on the lookout for signs of danger, Ragoth had left the barn renewed in good spirits and with it came a boundless energy and thirst for the world at large. While Rags’ eager verbalizing annoyed Cort, Denith listened with a smile. He was the only person Rags could ever remember who laughed at his observations.

“Anger is a flame that burns bright but cannot sustain itself in time. You’d do well to remember, Cortland,” said Rags, side-eyeing his sneering companion.

“Wise words,” Denith remarked.

“My mother taught me that.”

“I’ll teach your mother a thing or two.” Cort snickered.

Rags pursed his lips, confused. The cart in front of them lurched forward to the gate’s entrance.

“Pass them!” A halfling in guard’s armor walked over to them. He looked up at the three with a parchment and charpen. “Alright then, I’m Gatesman Galvold. State your names and business.”

“Cortland Lowhelm of Valeyn Deep, looking for a guild to join.”

“Denith of the Unexalted Faith from Havenlore, traveling through to the east.”

“Rags.” Ragoth paused before the halfling’s gaze prodded him, “Oh, I’m an orphan, good sir. No family name.”

“Business?”

“None of yours, I assure you.”

Galvold’s stony expression never wavered, and now Cort and Deni had their eyes on him. “Lad, if this is your first time gaining entrance to a city, then best learn how things work.”

Rags eyes flickered between the three. The cart ahead of them was moving through the gate, and those behind were waiting to enter. As the tension built, Ragoth took a step forward and pointed on the parchment in Galvold’s hands. “I do know how things work. I trust our entrance to the city won’t be an inconvenience to you.”

As Cort and Deni watched, Galvold’s eyes followed Rag’s fingers and widened, making his graying hairs rise on his head.

“Er, yes. So, you do.” He cleared his throat, looking back over his shoulder as he quickly stuffed his hand into his pocket. “On you go. Pass them!”

Cort and Deni shared a stunned look before hurrying themselves towards the gate, not questioning what transpired.

“Gatesman, can you suggest an appropriate Inn for newcomers?” Rags asked Galvold.

“Aye, that I can. Four blocks inward, you’ll want the Maiden’s Helm. Miss Jessilyn is a good lass, she’ll put you up for a fair price. Mind the girls, though. They’ll have your purse before your pants are on the floor.”

Rags nodded, but that last statement left his brow furrowed.

“What was that?” Deni asked when Rags caught up to them.

Rags only gave them a wry grin. “Just the simplest magic one can perform.”

A commotion behind them drew their attention. Here rode an elf in armor more suited to the kingdom’s military than the patrols on the Dwarf Road. Rags ducked behind Cort’s wide frame and watched the rider pass the line, shouting directly at Galvold. The halfling cried an order and dashed inside.

“What’s happening?” Deni asked, his hand holding his straw hat on his head.

“I don’t know.” Cort answered, “But let’s not linger. It took long enough to get here.”

Rags pointed straight ahead. “Four blocks down. Maiden’s Helm. Miss Jessilyn. Something about girls and our pants.”

“Finally, someone more interesting than you two,” Cort muttered, ushering them all inside. Rags tilted backwards as he strained to take in the gate's immensity, losing his balance enough that he fell backwards. He was caught on the tunic by a quick-witted Cortland and lifted back to his feet.

For a moment, the trio stood just past the threshold and took in the vast expanse of Barrow’s End stretched out before them. Twilight wove its vibrant colors in the spring sky. The buildings were mostly brick instead of wood, as the city was far removed from an abundant source of forests this far into the plainlands. Its people were not the stuffy makeup of fastidious businessmen or scholars from Havenlore, but a vast mixture of all manner of the common races of the Crown Pantheon. Human, elf, dwarf, halfling, all moving in an unorganized mob, trying to avoid clashing with one another. The noise was louder, the crowds ignoring anyone that wasn’t their business, and the buildings made wider instead of taller. Many rose two stories, the city Arlor’s building rising no more than three, but few buildings would mirror the majesty of the Obsidian Arena. The second largest arena on Evergrad, a monolithic structure of black brick, where only the most skilled warriors plied their trade in their tournaments. Even the Knights Valiant participated in order to keep their skills honed.

Rags had his hood up and its front folds over his mouth, sweeping his eyes about to spy any others with green skin. Surely, there had to be other Orcborn, not just him. Deni scanned their surroundings, hands tucked into his sleeves and silent.

They were a block into the city when Rags brought them to a halt and pointed. “Look! A job board!” He bounded over to inspect it with his two companions in tow. “The lifeblood of any Adventurer. The proverbial watering hole for those who ply their skills and risk their lives for the reward of gold and…” his voice trailed as he lowered his arms to his hips. There was no need to point out the obvious: the board was empty, save for two parchments. One was half-torn and the other hanging by one nail. Both were so sun-bleached that the writing had all but faded, unreadable. The only thing on the board was a woman’s name and location written in black ink on the frame.

Cort tore one parchment free and tried to read it. He tossed it angrily and pressed his fist against the board. “Dammit. Are all the Adventuring jobs in Allspire gone now?”

“A sign of the times,” Deni remarked as he re-adjusted his hat, “The Adventuring Guild in Havenlore was just as barren. If Havenlore and Barrow’s End have so little to offer, perhaps the profession is a thing of the past. Ach, look at my robes. They’re filthy. I need a good wash.”

“You really do,” said Rags, taking a step away.

“I am truly sorry if I offend.” Deni took a whiff of his robes, curious if he was as rank as Rags suggested.

Cort spun and pushed past them. “Nothing a hot bath, a hot meal, and some ale can’t cure.”

Four blocks in, just as told, the Maiden’s Helm came into view. A steady stream of patrons flowed in to replace the ones staggering out. Its two-story construction had the top story leaning over the bottom, all the interior alight with the magic of glostone and flickering lamplight. The raucous din of uproarious laughter and elevated voices spilled out into the street.

“It appears quite lively,” Deni noted, glancing at Rags and Cort to judge their own assessment. Rags nervously plucked at his tusk. Cortland cracked his knuckles and neck, grinning.

“Good. Nothing worse than a boring tavern.” Cortland stood tall and marched ahead of them. He swung the door open with both hands and expected the Havenlore and Vaelyn Deep response: for all the clamor to come to a sudden halt as the regular patrons turned their attention to him. He was ready to return a stony gaze right back at them in a moment of tense silence before they returned to their drinks.

Instead, the patrons inside cast not a flicker in their direction. The after-work revelry was in its zenith and the entire tavern was more concerned with their own drinks than paying the three of them any mind. They stood in the door long enough for a quartet of dwarves to shove past them.

“Move, ya bastards!” One said as their thick boots clomped on the wooden floor.

“Well,” Denith said, trying to make his profile as slim as possible. “Here we are. In Barrow’s End.”

“There is no more ‘we’.” Cortland turned to them and tossed them a salute. “You’re on your own now, you pestering arseflies.”

Ragoth suspected this was coming, but the moment was still bitter. For all his bluster and robust vulgar vocabulary, having Cortland and his sword near comforted Ragoth. On more than one occasion, his practical know-how had made life on the road just a little easier. Making the journey from here would be hard enough without his help.

“Are you certain, Cort? We couldn’t convince you to remain with us?” Rags asked.

“Stay? Ha!” He stabbed his thumb into his chest. “There’s adventuring to be done and I’m the one to do it. But if we ever meet again, drinks will be on me. By then, I intend to be a knight.”

Rags lifted an eyebrow. “That is what you’re so keen to accomplish? Knighthood?”

“Damn right. I’m not going back to potato farming or guard patrols. I’ll die of boredom before old age can find me. I need the experience adventuring provides. I need merit and those of good standing to bear witness. I’ll not gain anything by escorting a helpless elf servant and an Orcborn all across the ass end of Allspire. Of the things you two will bring me, none of them will be merit, good standing, or honor beyond reproach.”

“So your search for knighthood begins by abandoning those you deem of no use to you?” Deni asked, matter-of-fact. “Is that the right of it? Is that honor worthy of a Knight Valiant?”

Cort looked as though he’d been slapped. Ragoth defused the tension by stepping between them.

“Cort, do not feel obligated to accompany us. I’m traveling through to Dreadmour, and the path may prove quite dangerous. Our path together thus far was one of circumstance and I’m grateful for all you’ve done. Go with the gods’ luck and I hope one day to see you again when you’ve been knighted.”

Rags held out his extended hand and Cort took it reluctantly. “You’re a prize of a pup, Rags. Deni, you’re still a goblin’s bollocks. I leave you both with the sagest advice I know: If you need to insult someone, tell them you violated their mother and be ready to fight.” He left them to saunter into the crowd, a puffed-up chest and a grin leading his way.

Rags sighed, crest-fallen at seeing Cort leave. But he couldn’t deter in his quest. He grabbed Deni by the sleeve and wove through the throng towards the bar in hopes of finding the proprietor.

After his lifetime of solitude, here he stood in a tavern of dozens from differing races, both men and women. He wanted to talk to them, run up to the nearest stranger and question them to his heart’s content. His head, however, kept his eyes glancing over his shoulders. He couldn’t afford to lower his guard, even in public. Now, with Cort free to pursue his own interests, there was only him and Deni to stand back-to-back against the dangers of the road ahead.

Gingerly, the two of them moved towards the bar. The dwarves who had pushed past them came away clutching two mugs of ale per fist, full of mirth. A dwarf woman, gray in the hair, worked at keeping the glasses full at the bar. Rows of casks and bottles of hard liquor lined the wall behind her. On the second story above them, girls of various races occupied the railings in revealing dresses, smiling down at the patrons. A sign on the wall read, “The Maiden’s Helm. Jessilynn Jabberstone, owner.”

The energy of the tavern was a new mystery to Rags as patrons walking past jostled him. it was a cacophony of too many sounds, everything moving at once, and an assault on his nose. He struggled to manage the chaos until he squeezed in near the end of the bar, nestled between a barrel-gutted, middle-aged man who forgot to buy a shirt with sleeves and a haggard old fellow interested in talking to someone only he could see.

Above the din, he heard a loud snoring, seeing a dusky woman with a mane of red hair, napping with her head half buried in her arm at the bar’s end around the corner. A small army of empty flagons and tankards surrounded her, stacked like fortress walls. Deni stayed close behind him, eyes darting about.

“Excuse me.” His meek announcement died in the clamor. Rags spoke louder, pulling his face covering down, “Pardon!’

The fat man next to him turned to leave after receiving his tankard and ran into Ragoth, knocking his hood back. The tankard in his hands dumped across Ragoth’s vest. The man’s chins quivered angrily. He made an irritated noise when he saw Rags.

“Fucking Orcbrat!”

Ragoth opened his mouth, but his words died on his tongue when the man’s fist struck him on the face and sent him to the ground.

Only later did Ragoth understand how much Brutis had pulled his punches in training. Those rough taps on the shoulder and quick jabs to his gut were a shadow of the fierce impact driven into his face. His vision exploded; he went deaf as blood rushed to his ears. He didn’t remember waking up, only that he was dazed, on the ground as the man stood over him and laughed. The fat man’s thick, hairy hands clutched his collar and hauled him back to his feet, dragging him towards the door. He spoke angrily, his horrid breath flinging spittle at Rags as his hearing slowly returned. “—doing here? Who let you greenskins in the door?”

Rags was still trying to shake his daze when Cort rushed into the scene, punching Fat Man in the face. The solid whack drove the man backwards, his nose crushed and blood spraying onto his mouth. His plump hands dropped Rags, who backed against Cort’s chest. Cort’s hand pulled Rags close as he shook his fist at the brute.

“Toss down with someone your own size, lardarse!” Cort bellowed.

That was exactly what he did, charging at Cort with an angry roar that had every eye in the tavern turned on them. Cort and the fat man met in a furious exchange of blows. Cort’s gleeful anger led the way, matching the man blow for blow. Despite his rotund physique, the man was built like a tree stump and stayed on his feet as Cort peppered his portly flanks with fists. Poor Rags was jostled back and forth between them.

Deni watched helplessly, holding both sides of his head. A roaring cheer filled the tavern, gold flying as patrons placed bets. Ale spilled and tables toppled. The crowd closed in to form a ring around them. Blood, teeth and sweat flew, a frenzy ready to erupt as patrons shoved each other to move closer. Elbows flew into chests, curses were spat, and shoves tossed freely as the tavern threatened to erupt in a full-blown brawl.

Dingdingdingdingding!

“MORA!”

All at once, the clamor came to a complete halt. In a sudden rush, every patron gathered around scrambled like mad for the walls, pressing themselves as far away from the fight as possible. Some even bolted out of the tavern. The dwarvish barmaid stopped ringing the metal triangle over the bar with a scowl.

An eerie quiet fell over the tavern for a few heartbeats as all within held a collective breath. Cort and the brute both paused with their fists raised, looking around as Rags dared to step out from between them. Through a drunken haze, there was fear in the fat man’s eyes.

“Oh no,” he whimpered.

They heard a loud SNORT from the end of the bar. The dusky woman, head still resting on the bar with her auburn mane spilling out over the counter, now had a single eye open. It fixed on them with a burning glare. Cort and Rags locked gazes with her for a moment before she moved to stand.

“Oh, blood, bollocks, and shit,” Cort cursed under his breath.

She stood and seemed to keep standing until she towered over the bar, a mountainous woman taller than Rags or Cort had ever seen. Horns jutted from her head; her muscled physique clad in simple leather armor. Rags and Cort both had seen others in peak physical condition, but none quite as impressive as hers. An avatar of pure physical strength, her human face had belied an un-human form.

Clop! Clop! CLOP!

With quick strides, she moved her muscled bulk around the bar at a speed that defied her size. Once she cleared the corner, her furred lower half came into view, her legs ending in hooves that dug into the floorboards.

The brutish man backpedaled, his hands up in fear. Rags and Cort froze in shock as she bore down on them. Even if Cort had the notion to fight back, he had little chance to enact it. Charging, she swept all three up in a bear hug without breaking her stride. Within a few quick steps, she tore through the doorway, flinging them off the raised porch and into the street. The three of them went tumbling like children’s dolls across the dusty cobblestone before skidding to a halt.

“Farg, you knew better than to start fights in my tavern. You’re banned for a month this time; you busted troll’s arse!” The dwarf woman emerged from the doorway, giving the half-bull woman a pat on her hip as she shouted down the street at them. She watched him slink away, then turned her attention to Cort and Rags.

Cort groaned, picking himself up as Rags staggering to his feet nearby. All the world was a spinning blur of lights and sounds, their senses returning to them slowly.

“And you two,” Jess huffed, “I’m fair to new faces, but not when you start tossing fists the second you walk in the door. A week ban for you, human. Same for your green friend.” She turned to stomp back up the steps.

“Now see here!” Rags cried, staggering towards her. “I did nothing wrong. That man punched me first.”

The dwarf woman turned back to him. “Aye, that he did. And if you set foot back in my tavern, I’ll do the same and then some, Orcbrat.”

Rags didn’t know what hurt worse, the punch to his face or the proverbial knife to his gut. His face contorted, trying to process her scathing rebuke. “I strongly object. That kind of treatment isn’t fair! I’ve done nothing to you!”

Now, her hands clenched into fists, a quiver in her lip. She stabbed a finger at him.

“You go, Orcbrat. You go to the north gate. Go out to Fairhorn Fields! Ten rows in, seven to the left. Find Jathro Jabberstone. Come back and tell me your kind have done nothing to me.” She spat on the ground at his feet and spun.

“Thanks, Mora,” She said to the horned woman and stormed back inside.

“Anything for a few gold.” Mora tossed Rags and Cort a stern look before following her. Once the lingering patrons realized the confrontation was over, they dispersed.

Cort kicked up a plume of dust. “You’re bad luck, Rags. I should have gone off on my own long ago. At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with all the problems you bring.”

“You’re the one who started brawling.” Ragoth shot him a withering glare. His lip was split, and his face stung from the blow.

“I oughta throttle you!” Cort’s mouth twitched; all his body coiled as his hands clenched over Rags’ head.

Rags ignored his threat, looking around. “Where’s Deni?”

“He went into hiding as soon as trouble reared its head. It’s what he does best.” Cort tried to spot Deni with no luck. When he looked back, he found Rags gone. He eyed the young Orcborn down the street, tugging his hood back into place. Despite his aspirations of finding adventure without the two, a pang of guilt and discomfort settled in his throat. He called out, “Where are you going?”

Rags didn’t even look back. “You’ve already demonstrated your disinterest.”

Cort was left standing in the dusty street with only his bruised ego to cloak him. He fumbled for a retort, but his anger took over and he cried out, “Go on, then! There’s nothing where you’re going anyway. If we ever cross paths again, you’ll be calling me Sir Cortland!”

“Sir Cortland?” A raucous laughter erupted behind him. Cort turned around. A half-dozen men were gathered at the railing on the Maiden’s Helm raised front deck, the tallest among them nudging his friends with his elbows. “Dreams of knighthood, lad? You’ll have to do better than losing tavern brawls in Barrow’s End.”

Cort approached, seething, ready to toss a few more punches when he caught sight of the tallest man and came to a halt.

“Sir Galdren?”

The lack of armor did little to hide the man’s knightly frame and familiar face, but it was indeed the Knight Valiant. It was his voice that had laughed first. He regarded Cortland, tilting his head and breaking into a small grin.

“Ah, I recognize you. The guard from Havenlore. I see you took my advice and set out to elevate your name.”

“That I did. What are you doing here?” Cort asked, trying to salvage what little of his pride he could.

Galdren leaned forward against the railing. “Traveling south to visit family, as I said before. So, tell me, what adventures have you had thus far? Explore anywhere dangerous? Killed a few foes? Let us hear your tale. I want to tell everyone I knew Sir Cortland before he was a knight.”

A bead of sweat ran down his face as Cort tried to filter the week of hard traveling and suffrage through a more exciting filter. “We were…ambushed a few days out from Havenlore. Our camp was attacked by goblins from the Gnarlknot Woods.”

Galdren listened intently, his interest piqued.

“They killed our dwarven guide and would have killed us before one of Namaria’s patrols came to our rescue.”

The Knight Valiant sank back with a disappointed look. “That’s all?”

“I did kill one.”

“One what?”

“One goblin.”

The eruption of laughter from the six men tore through the evening as they clutched their bellies, struggling to stay on their feet. Galdren wiped tears from his eyes.

Cort clenched his entire body in anticipation of a rush. Jail wasn’t his idea of fun, but at least he got a cot and some bread to eat. The part of his mind warning him against doing stupid things— things like jumping off of high cliffs, trying to grapple a bull, or picking a fight with a Knight Valiant— stopped working in the face of such humiliation.

Before he could explode, Galdren gave a hearty sigh, hand on his gut. “Gods, lad, I haven’t laughed that hard in years. Thank you.” He motioned for Cort to join him. “I could use a few more of those. Come, join us for the evening. Ale is on me if you can bring a few more laughs.”

A slow grin crept over Cort’s mouth as he swelled with pride, enough to quash his anger at being the source of their laughter. A night of drinking with a Knight Valiant and his companions was preferable to scouring for a stable to sleep in. He bolted up the steps and paused.

“The owner banned me for a week.”

“Ha!” Galdren wrapped his arm around his shoulders, “A perk of my station, lad. Jess won’t toss you out if you’re my guest.” The Knight Valiant tossed the door open, leading Cort inside with a grand proclamation, “Behold, everyone! Cortland Lowhelm. The Goblin Knight!”

Everything hurt.

Ragoth walked numbly as he tumbled his own thoughts about. He was in constant pain, be it from hunger, discomfort, or an assault. He hadn’t known comfort for so long it felt like a fleeting dream. Already exhausted and hungry from a day’s travel, now skid burns marked his face and his eye was almost swollen shut. The sun was retreating behind the immense walls, but he was determined to press on.

The trip northward was more winding than he’d anticipated, carrying him through multiple districts and neighborhoods. His caution and his curiosity fought for control as his eyes searched for potential threats, but every block brought some new interest: buildings and their architecture, outdoor forges and markets, fenced off mansions, people in questionably functional garb. There was so much to see here, and he had so little time. As always, he glanced over his shoulder one moment and the sky the next.

His face and nose were still sore from the punch, and a throbbing headache made every thought resonate with pain. His split lip had stopped bleeding, at least. The man in the tavern had only to look at his green skin to pass such judgment. Worse was the dwarven bartender and her fury. He had seen that kind of anger only once before when teasing Brutis. He needled the older prince that because he was half-Orc, he might one day be taller and stronger and tougher. At that time, Ragoth hadn’t recognized the look in his eyes. He mistook it for Brutis being embarrassed. Now he saw it for what it truly was: hatred.

Jess’s hatred ate at his consciousness like a parasitic worm. The why of it. Her cryptic instruction hadn’t left his thoughts. She had dropped something of a mystery at his feet. One he intended to solve.

The northern gate was identical to the one he’d entered hours before, every bit as immense and imposing. He spoke to the Gatesman, explaining his desire to go to Fairhorn Fields. The Gatesman, a bearded halfkin elf, assessed him for a moment before waving him through a small gate. “On with you, then. Go pay your respects and be back soon. If you’ve not returned by the moon’s height, you’ll not be let back in the gate.”

Ragoth nodded and thanked him on his way out. He need not go far. He had only to set foot outside the gate, and the dwindling twilight cast its last light over the fields before him. The Dwarf Road passed into the horizon, splitting fields of green and a display of colored flowers and…

The prince felt his heart drop.

Row upon row of headstones, stretching as far as the eye could see. Each gravesite grew with a small clutch of reverent flowers at the base of the headstone. The flowers grew two handspans high and blossomed with petals of dazzling colors. As he walked into the Fields, he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in his gut.

There was a phrase he had seen in many tomes. A common colloquialism: “May reverent flowers bloom where you rest.” His mother said it was a gift from the gods, a sign that the spirit of whoever died was at rest in the afterlife, so their loved ones knew they were truly at peace. He was not one of faith, nor had his mother taught him about the gods in anything more than the academic sense. Here he stood amidst fields of the flowers, a testament of peaceful rest for thousands upon thousands of dead.

Ten rows down, he counted. Seven to the left. He stopped at a dwarven stone marker, cluttered with colorful reverent flowers. It was marked in dwarvish, but Rags could read dwarven script.

Jathro Jabberstone. Died defending the Feylund during the Orc Wars.

Rags couldn’t swallow the hard lump in his throat. He stepped to the next headstone, this one written in Common.

Alvis Regalath, died during the Siege of Overthorn during the Orc Wars.

He dashed to the next, this one in elvish: Elnora Mornsur. May she sing forever. Died in the burning of Fort Barinthor in the third year of the Orc Wars.

Now he ran, eyes glossing over the details except for the one he searched for. There he found it over and over.

Died in the Orc Wars.

Died in the Orc Wars.

Orc Wars…

Orc Wars…

Orc.

Deni found Rags a hand of time later, sitting on his feet in front of a small stone statue of two hands cradling an infant. His gaze held to the statue until the light of Deni’s hooded lantern caught his reddened eyes.

“The Gatesmen loaned it to me. I thought perhaps you might need it if you intended to stay out past dark.” The elf smiled softly.

Rags said nothing, holding his eyes on the headstone. So much of his youth seemed drained in that moment. He pressed his face into his hands and let out a weary breath. Deni sat next to him after setting the lantern on a headstone.

“I can see you’re in distress. When you wandered off, I thought you were Orc-punched.”

“What? What’s Orc-punched?” He almost laughed despite himself.

“It means to be punched so hard you lose your senses and act out of sorts. It’s a common saying. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it before.” The elf turned his attention to the headstone, “Be at peace, little Tilly. May the gods rest you far from the reach of Orcs. Poor child. The Orc Wars were a terrible time.”

Rags hand shot up, his finger wagging in the air. “That name again. What was it? What were the Orc Wars?”

“I’m sorry, Rags. I forget how young you are. You must have been born at the end of the wars, but how do you not know about them?”

“Denith, I am well versed in history. I’ve studied every major war of the past thousand years involving the Crown Pantheon, from the War of Sorrows to the Rockbrow Rebellion. I have studied the writings of generals and kings, but not once have I ever heard of the Orc Wars.” He swept his hand over the fields. “Now I find fields of the dead and Orcs to blame? Did you see the way she looked at me? She spoke to me as if I were the one to drive the life out of her son’s body.”

Silence. The pregnant pause held expectation for the elf, one laced with allegation.

Denith let out a breath. “I’m but a simple servant. There is much about life in the Crown Pantheon I do not understand. I lived through the Orc Wars, but I can’t tell you of its origins or end. Only that there was a fear at any moment an army of Orcs could descend and tear your home and life out from under you. My previous chapter of the Unexalted Faith lived in fear, but we, as a faith, are beholden to be humble and beneath the events of the world.”

“So, then I am not merely an Orcborn,” said Ragoth. “I am the personification of their fear and hatred, even though I’ve done nothing to them of my own volition. Why visit their anger on me?”

“I’m sorry, my friend.” Deni rested his hand on Rag’s shoulder, “I do not have the answers you seek, but you see the reason for my warning laid bare. You’ll find few friendly towards Orcborn. That is why I offered to help you.”

Rags sighed. “I’m already —I’m on my own and have a long, arduous way to go without the biases of others working against me. Tomorrow, we must leave. I apologize for my secrecy, but I need to get to Dreadmour with all haste.”

“Since Goodsir Cortland is seeking his fortunes elsewhere, we will be two instead of three.”

Rags stood, helping Deni up. “That won’t do. We need an escort. A protector.”

A glint of inspiration twinkled in the elf’s eye. “I have an idea, if you’re willing to part with some of your gold.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Many call themselves Adventurers; few embody the title.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

“What do you mean I can’t have an ale?” asked Mora.

The defiant dwarf continued to clean tankards and wipe down her bar as if Mora wasn’t there. If Jessilyn Jabberstone worried about the mountain of muscle scowling down at her, she betrayed none of it. “I didn’t stutter, Mora. You’ve not paid your tab in weeks.”

“It’s been one week at most.”

“You’ve been hitting the ale too hard and the job boards too little.” Jess fussed as she scurried about, “Your credit’s not any good here anymore.”

“I broke up that fight last night.” Mora argued.

“Oh, whoopie doodle dee, and you drank two kegs of ale all on your own. You cost me more gold than you’re worth. Get another job and come back when you can pay your tab. Take an arena fight or two.”

Mora gave a protesting groan and plopped onto the floor with a heavy thud, resting her crossed arms on the bar with a defeated huff. “To the Abyss with the arena. I’ll do anything else. Not even one mug?”

A gold tilt landed on the bar with a loud clink. Mora and Jessilyn both turned and found a familiar Orcborn and a demure elf standing next to Mora.

Rags politely smiled. “A drink for the lady? Keep the rest for yourself in apology for the trouble last night.”

Jess scooped the tilt and had a foaming tankard of ale in front of Mora, who didn’t question her good fortune and emptied it in big gulps.

“I’ve got a kitchen to clean for tonight’s business. When I return, you and your friend best be gone, Orcbrat,” Jess said. The dwarf vanished into a nearby door.

The tankard crashed onto the bar as Mora let out a fierce belch, “Thanks, lad. Sorry to toss you out last night. Nothing personal. I’m just a professional. I have a job to do…well, had a job.”

Ragoth rummaged in his bag, “Since you’re unmoored from your current employer, might I propose a new one? I must travel to Dreadmour and I’m in need of someone to escort my person and ensure my safe arrival.”

Mora’s eyes rolled up into the top of her head as she let out an exasperated groan. “Not this again. See here, my adventuring days are done, I’m not—”

Rags lifted a hefty coin purse out of his pack and plopped it in front of her. The unmistakable sound of gold coins punctuated its landing, and Mora sat up straight with jolt. Deni leaned forward curiously, his eyebrows lifting high enough to touch the brim of his hat.

“Anything for a few gold? Deni heard you say that.” Ragoth smiled.

Mora’s finger pried open the edge of the purse, peering in to glimpse hundreds of Namarian tilts. She resisted the urge to whistle out loud. “How much?”

Rags answered, “All of it. Half now, half when we get to Cravensrest, the capital of Dreadmour. You just have to get me there, alive.” He paused, then added, “Me and my friend.”

A contest of need and wariness fought in her flickering dark green eyes, her hand wavering as she flexed her fingers. Chewing on her lip, she evaluated Rags and Deni with a discerning study.

“I haven’t gone adventuring in years. Not since before the Orc Wars.” She said, “And for a lot of justifiable reasons. Not the least of which is how bothersome it is playing bodyguard to wide-eyed whelps with delusions of living on in legend and song.”

“You seem intent on talking yourself out of it,” Deni pointed out. “We only wish to make our trek safer, and your presence might keep trouble at bay.”

Mora thumped her fingers on the bar, her other hand running through her red mane. “Put that away before someone sees it. Where’d you get it?” She pushed the gold back into his hands.

“I sold my father’s farm.” Rags stuffed his sack of gold back into the pack.

“Farm? Where?”

“Namaria.”

“Orcshit.” She spat. “What is—”

“I’m not hiring someone to put forth an Inquisition. I’ll find another escort who will take us. Good day.” He turned to leave, and her large hand landed on his shoulder. The strength of her fingers alone alarmed him. She could have crushed him with her grip.

“You take that gold anywhere else in the city and someone will be miles away with it before you even see the knife they shove in your guts.” Mora said as a matter-of-fact, “You two are as green as spring grass and I don’t mean the color of your skin. If I let you leave out of here to find an honest soul in this city, I might as well kill you myself.”

“Then you accept the job?” Rags asked. Mora rubbed her face with both hands in frustration, groaning.

“Gods help me.” An exasperated sigh of defeat left her. “Fine. I’ll take the job. We have a contract.” She held out her hand and Rags shook it enthusiastically. Rags and Deni both grinned, bouncing up and down on their feet excitedly.

“Thank you, ma’am. You won’t regret this. I’m Rags. This is my friend, Denith of the Unexalted Faith.”

She smiled in return and jabbed her thumb into her chest. “Val’Mora. They call me The Beast of Barrow’s End.” She paused, waiting on a look of recognition that never came, leaving her with a look of disgust, “Why do I bother?”

“I trust you are an experienced Adventurer?” Rags asked. “With an appropriate knowledge that comes with the vocation?”

“If you’re asking if I know a lot, aye, that I do. I know every path, creek and crevasse in the southern provinces. I’ve helped clear some of its most famous dungeons and dangerous locations. I’ve traveled with more groups than I can recount. I can walk from one side of Evergrad to another without gold, shelter, or provision. I know how to survive in the wilds with only my wits. However, there is no skill or weapon more potent than my connections. It’s not just what I know, it's who I know. And who I know is rather extensive. You’re lucky you stumbled over me, lad. Anyone else would have taken your gold with a goblin’s promise.”

A loud cry for help came from the second floor that broke the moment. They craned their heads up to listen as sounds of helpless rage and vulgarity came pouring out from behind a door visible from the balcony.

Ragoth narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like Cortland.”

“I recognize his profanity.” Deni replied, then to Mora he said, “Excuse us, our friend may require assistance.”

Mora chuckled knowingly, watching as they ascended the staircase, found the room in question, and went inside. The discordant chorus of disgust, mockery, and anger that filled the air only made her laugh harder.

“Cort, what are—where are your pants?” Rags cried.

“Shut up and help me!” Cort wailed in response.

“What happened to you?” asked Deni.

“Is this the proper path to knighthood, Sir Cortland?” Rags laughed; Deni joined him.

“When I get free, I’m strangling both of you!”

“I found his pants.” exclaimed Deni.

“No! Give them back or I’ll strangle you and beat you both.”

“Best be done soon, or Jess will call the guard on the lot of you,” Mora called up to them.

Rags and Deni dashed wildly out of the room with a shirtless Cortland hot on their heels, cursing as he chased them while shoving his legs into his pants at the same time. He lost his balance and tumbled down the stairs, landing in a painful pile at the bottom. As blood pooled around his head from a busted nose, Rags, Deni, and Mora gathered around and looked down on him.

“Is he your friend?” Mora asked.

“Not according to him.” Rags answered. “He was quite adamant in pursuing his own interests over continuing our journey. To be fair, we traveled together by virtue of a shared destination. But it looks like us helpless elves and Orcbrat arseflies will have to fend for ourselves.” He held out his hand to the bloody nosed human, who slapped it away in disgust.

“That’s right.” Cort growled as he struggled onto his feet, “I’ve got better things to do than babysit these two or put up with Galdren and his ilk! Noble Knight Valiant. Ha! What a joke.”

Mora snorted in laughter and slapped her thigh. “Galdren got you drunk, and the girls tied you naked to a bed once you passed out. Never gets old. Welcome to Barrow’s End, Goblin Knight.”

The mention of that name cast a dark look over Cort’s face, his scowl digging deep into his jowls. “If I ever hear that name again, I’ll die trying to cut open the one who says it, you hear me? I didn’t walk across half of Sylveria to get mocked by an old knight or follow these two to the pissing end of nowhere for no gain.” He glared at each of them, all unphased by his threat. Deni & Rags tried not to burst into laughter at him. “I’ll make more of myself than either of you and without your help. There’s plenty of Adventurer’s Guilds in need.”

“No, there aren’t.”

All three of them turned to Mora, who crossed her arms and leaned over so she could be closer to Cort’s head.

“Sorry you had to hear it like this. You came along a few decades too late. All the Adventurer’s Guilds in Barrow’s End are closed. The best shot you’ve got to earn a reputation is the arena, and even that’s a slim chance at glory. They only accept established names to help weed out the hapless glory-seekers being beaten trying their luck against the champion.”

“How would you know?” Cort asked.

“Because I was the champion who was beating them.”

The silence between the four of them held them for the longest moment of time. Long enough for a commotion from outside to break the silence. It was the urgency of several people bolting past the door of the Maiden’s Helm and the raised voices that brought about a sense of unease shared by the four.

Ragoth took off for the door, Deni and Mora following close behind. Deni caught Rags and yanked his hood and neck wrap back over his face. Sure enough, the street was alive with people heading for the Western Gate at a rapid pace.

Mora descended the steps and snagged one of the rushing passersby by the collar. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, the Western Gate was opened not long ago. They only open the Gates when there’s something big coming through. Word is there’s a column of military on the way. Namarian banners.”

Mora let him go and clucked her tongue, “Namarian troops? This far into Sylveria?”

Suddenly, Rags was in front of Mora, frantic and waving his arms. “We must leave. At once.”

She asked. “Why?”

“No time. No more questions. Don’t forget.” He said.

Mora gave him a wordless grunt and ducked back into the tavern, returning with a ready pack and a massive dwarven mace. Its handle was almost as long as Rags was tall and looked heavy enough that an Orc would struggle to lift it. Yet Mora hefted it one-armed with practiced ease. She didn’t take the notion of leaving immediately well.

“You’re Orc-punched, lad. We can’t leave with no supplies. It’s a week or more to Roraberg Crossing.”

“We are quite used to hunger.” Deni pointed out.

“We’ll eat when we get there.” Rags echoed.

Mora cut them off. “I’ve heard enough out of both of you. You hired me to escort you. I’ll do just that. Leaving ill prepared is a fool idea and I’m of no mind to entertain it.”

She left with her two charges in tow, their chattering filling her ears with nuisance. Looking back, she got a last look at Cortland trying to locate his paltry possessions inside of the tavern.

She brought them across the city to its Eastern Gate before they were caught in the path of the Namarian military. Once their supplies were gathered, Ragoth, Deni, and their new escort Mora waited in line dutifully and filed out of Barrow’s End less than a day after arriving—now with one mace-wielding Auroch at their back.

When Cort caught up to them less than a mile from the gates, they paid him only a curious glance. He grimaced and fell in line next to them.

“Can’t let you lot get into trouble without me,” he said, just loud enough to be heard.

Rags and Deni shared a smile with each other as Cort pretended he hadn’t threatened to kill them not too long ago. Mora, mace hefted across her shoulders, dutifully marched behind them with her head swiveling back and forth.

Rags looked back at the vanishing city behind them. “All things considered…with the four of us, this feels like a proper adventure.”

“I do hope there won’t be anything too dangerous.” Deni tugged on his hat nervously.

“I pity the pus-guzzling pissard who thinks to cause trouble with me around,” said Cort.

“No,” said Mora sternly. “This is not an adventure, and we are not gallivanting across the southern provinces in search of it. We are going straight to Dreadmour via the Dwarf Road and nowhere else. I am not babysitting a pack of Dungeon Delver playing children who—are you listening?”

Mora came to a halt, exasperated as she watched the three of them talking excitedly to one another, oblivious to anything and everything around them. She groaned at the sinking feeling in her gut and followed in their wake.

CHAPTER NINE

“The quality of one’s journey is often dependent on the quality of one’s companions.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Though the circumstances of his venture were less than ideal, Ragoth was elated. It was easy to forget the danger he ran from or the dire circumstances that led him here. Now that he was well rested, well fed, and with a friend at his side, a lifetime of isolation finally bled out of him. Granted, Mora’s companionship came at a cost, a fact she was quick to point out when trying to engage her in conversation. She had swapped her leathers for what she called her “traveling armor”, a chestplate, pauldrons, and vambraces. Nothing on her lower half, as armor pulled at the fur on her legs, according to her. When asked why she didn’t wear a full suit, she replied. “Don’t often need it. Auroch hide is tough and our muscles thick. Unless I’m going to war, full armor isn’t worth the discomfort.”

He could hardly fathom what value Cort saw in accompanying them, given his constant glowering and occasional bouts of anger. By now, Rags and Deni both shrugged off the temperamental outbursts, agreeing in secret that all his ire was bluster.

With companions and comforts, it made their journey’s first steps a thing to enjoy. One could hardly ask for a better start: the sun-filled sky had nary a cloud in sight. The warm winds blew across the rolling hills and grassy farmlands that swept past them.

Rags, at times, would stand by the side of the Dwarf Road and gaze out into the seas of wheat swaying in the spring breeze. The tranquility of sitting near a flower he had only seen through sketches in books set him at ease. He took the time whenever they stopped for a short rest to write down the details of his journey thus far, adding sketches of anything new that caught his eye. The book and charpen he’d procured with the rest of their supplies before evacuating Barrow’s End.

His companions were unwitting partners in his efforts to author their travels. He asked Deni about his life, which amounted to very little when Deni was done.

“You’ve lived for one hundred years, and I feel as though I’ve experienced more than you.” Rags pointed out.

“I am but a humble servant of the Unexalted Faith.” Deni said, turning his gaze. “What else is there to know?”

“Then who was the Denith who came before the Unexalted Faith?”

Deni turned to Rags with a strange smile and said, “No one worth remembering.”

Cort was even less forthcoming when Rags questioned him as they crossed a small bridge over a bubbling brook, “Piss off, Rags. I can’t believe you even know how to write.”

“And why wouldn’t I know how to write?” Rags asked.

“Never heard of an Orcborn who could.”

“And precisely how many Orcborn do you know well enough to make that assessment?”

Cort paused, thinking. “You’re a smarmy little shit, you know that?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Answer this, pissbucket.” Cort spun and gave Rags a one-handed shove over the side of the bridge and into the brook ten feet below. The cold shock of dropping into the water hit Rags, a cold knife of fear wrenching his chest with immediate panic. He flailed; taken back to that night he was swept away from the castle. His memory flashed back to the river and flailing to stay alive, images of Blight flooded his mind. The devilish cackle, the gnarled hand reaching for him, dark mists snaking wherever he looked. Lungs burning, he thrashed wildly until someone grabbed his side and forced him above the water’s surface.

Gasping, Rags was tossed onto the shore of the brook and Cortland crawled out beside him. As he coughed up water, the vague sound of Mora scolding them drifted down through his waterlogged ears.

Rags looked and a large bullfrog jumped in front of his face. He leapt back and almost slid back into the brook if not for Cort grabbing him and hauling him to his feet.

Cort fussed as he wiped mud from his hands. “How in the Abyss can you possibly drown in a brook that’s shorter than me?”

“I can’t…I can’t swim.” Rags said, coughing. “I’m sorry.”

“Blood and bollocks, Rags. How are you so smart and so stupid at the same time?”

“I’m sorry.”

Above them on the bridge, Mora stood with her hands on her hips. “Stop wasting time and get back up here.”

When Rags rejoined them, Deni gave him his fallen book and charpen. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine.” Rags said just before Mora snatched him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him into a quick walk to a secluded spot.

“Sorry. I can’t–”

“I noticed,” she said. “First, stop apologizing. Don’t cower in simple conversation. Second, the next time Cort–or anyone–does something like that to you, repay them in kind with your fist.”

Rags blinked, water still dripping down off his hair. “I much prefer the diplomatic approach.”

“Offer diplomacy once they realize you won’t be cowed. Your friend is a horse’s arse, and he could have killed you with that stupidity. Men like him respond to fists more than words. Getting you safely to your destination means you have to be ready for times when I can’t help you, understand?”

He conceded her wisdom and nodded. To his surprise, she reached up and tousled his hair before walking off. “First thing any adventurer should know is how to fight.”

That night, as they made camp, Cort made his way over to Rags and mumbled an apology.

“Didn’t know you can’t swim. Sorry. No hard feelings, ay?” He patted Rags on the shoulder.

Rags nodded, narrowed his eyes as he considered an appropriate response, and punched Cort in the stomach. Cort let out a loud Whuff and doubled over. Rags was ready to apologize when Cort laughed and punched him back, a hard tap on the shoulder before walking away to gather firewood. Rags was left wondering why Cort would find being punched so funny. After a lifetime of having Brutis punching him for any reason and no reason at all, the exchange made no sense to Ragoth, but it was one of the few times he had seen Cort laughing.

As Cort stacked the firewood, he looked over to Mora sitting against a tree with her eyes scanning about. Rags sketched an inchworm moving along a low hanging branch. Deni returned from the woods and set about cleaning fastidiously.

“You’re a former Adventurer, ay? How about saving us time with the flint and use that spell?” Cort asked her. He snapped his fingers, imitating Ord’s hand motion.

Mora cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, that old flicker spell? Auroch’s don’t use magic. It’s against our beliefs. My people pride themselves on purely physical prowess. Casting a spell would be akin to heresy. What about the elf?”

“He’s Arcblind,” Cort grunted. “I suppose I could try. The Arcane Order tested me once and said my Affinity was “Poor”. Not sure what that means.”

“It means your ability to cast magic is nigh useless,” Mora answered. When he shot a cross glance her way, she clarified, “Don’t give me that ugly look. I’ve known a lot of Order wizards, enchanters, and Mages in my time. Try if you like, but low Affinity magic users struggle even with flicker spells.”

Cort huffed and stood over the campfire defiantly. He snapped his fingers, pointed, and shouted, “Flairnel!”

Nothing happened.

“Stop yelling. It doesn’t make the spell work any better. And if there’s something or someone nearby, you’re alerting them to our presence,” Mora said.

For half-a-hand of time, Cortland stood and angrily snapped his fingers at the firewood. He spat the word Flairnel over and over through his teeth, each attempt sounding angrier than the last. Denith cleaned the campsite around him as Rags watched, his knees drawn up to support his book in which he wrote.

Mora shook her head, silent as he tried to kindle the same spark of arcane ability that others enjoyed so easily. His temper got the best of him, and Cort channeled his frustration into one final casting. He screamed the word as if his anger could force the fire into existence. A bright spark gave a loud pop on the tips of his fingers, making him jump back and clutch his hand.

“Argh! Blood and bollocks!”

Mora chuckled. “Arcane backlash. Never fails. We’ve wasted enough time. Use this. Squeeze it.” She tossed him a twin-pronged fork that seemed unremarkable until the pliable tips touched, generating a series of sparks. Within moments, Cort had their fire going, and the promise of a warm meal settled his temper.

Denith, finished with his routine of clearing debris out of their campsite, found a seat next to Rags to watch him write.

“Did you not wish to try the spell?” Deni asked.

“I’ve never tried. I’m not allowed to attempt magic until …” Rags paused, looking up from his book and stared into the star-laden sky until Deni pressed a finger into his arm to see if he was still awake. Rags shook his head. “Huh? What?”

“You said you weren’t allowed to attempt magic until…and then you stared off at the stars.”

“Oh. I, er, remembered something I forgot. Forgive me.” He snapped his book shut and shoved it back into his pack, then laid down on his bedroll with his back to the camp.

“You’re turning in? Supper will be ready soon.”

“I’m not hungry.” Rags mumbled.

Deni frowned and waited near Rags, seeing that something had troubled him, but unsure what it was. The elf ate in silence and kept a bowl of traveler’s stew for Rags, hoping the smell might change his mind, but the Orcborn youth remained where he was for the rest of the night.

It wasn’t any fault of Denith’s. Rags felt a twinge of guilt turning his back on his friend, but he couldn’t tell his friend the truth. Not without risking his life further. Rags wasn’t allowed to perform magic until he was Crowned. He never had his Affinity for magic assessed. When he remembered this, he realized that in all the rush of the past week that he had lost track of time and today was his day of birth. Today he would have been Crowned.

He pulled the tied rag off his hand and stared at the crude crown carved into his palm. It had healed quicker than he thought it would. The lines gave off a soft golden hue instead of the dark pink of a normal scar. He should have been home with his mother, going to sleep in a soft bed with warm meals. All his thoughts of joining the court and having an active role in the family were gone. All his tutoring and training for nothing. Every lesson from his mother felt meaningless.

The forest in front of him went blurry as his eyes welled. Everything fell away. The camp, his companions, the smell of supper. He fell asleep, miserable. Though there were three others with him, he had never felt so lonely.

Compared to their week trudging along to Barrow’s End, the trip to Roraberg Crossing felt half as long. Mayhap it was being able to stop and sleep at local inns or the abundance of proper supplies and rations. The comfort of Mora’s protection played no small part in this. Even though she had set off begrudgingly and kept to herself at first, her guarded stoicism eased once she was more well acquainted with the three. Soon, it was as if they had been traveling together for much longer than a mere week.

Ragoth kept his eyes on the road behind them and the skies above, breathing a sigh of relief each time. The pleasant days after leaving Barrow’s End came and went without incident until finally Roraberg Crossing came into sight.

Roraberg Crossing was either a large town or a small city depending on who you asked. The debate over this distinction was so contentious that it could start a fight with a local if one wasn’t careful. It sat on both sides of one of the larger tributaries of the winding Avalor River that came south. As with most communities built around water, their commerce had sprouted from what the water provided as a resource. Its banks were littered with piers, its waters lined with boats of all types—from one-person dinghies to cargo ships with multiple sails. Its people were notoriously cantankerous and unwelcoming—especially to travelers. A bewildering notion given their position on the Dwarf Road.

They were not rude to the Auroch with the massive mace slung across her shoulders knocking on the gate at night’s fall or anyone in her companionship. The gruff old man who questioned them at the gate took one look at Mora and found a politeness uncommon in the region. She led them inside with orders to stay close and talk to no one. Easily done, as one look at the hard-lived folk who walked the streets with their wary scowls was enough to keep their tongues in their mouths.

Mora brought them through the glostone-lit thoroughfare, past glowing windows of stalls and businesses until they reached the river. The Dwarf Road stretched over the river in a sturdy bridge, but rather than cross it she led them along its banks. The smell of fish was overpowering, but Mora persisted until she brought them to a destitute two-story inn that looked cobbled together from old planks and jutting nails. It sat nestled between a warehouse and an old temple of a forgotten god. The sign on the front was gone. The inside looked dim and foreboding, not a place for strangers new to town.

Rags swallowed a lump in his throat. “This is awful. I’d rather sleep outside again.”

“Me too. Come on, inside all of you.” Mora ordered, “Don’t touch anyone. Don’t speak to anyone. And, whatever you do, don’t draw any weapons. Let me do the talking and do as I say.”

“This is where we’re gonna be knifed in our sleep,” Cort whispered to Deni.

Once inside, doubt deepened to fear as they took in a shady den of even shadier individuals, many hunched over their drinks or gathered in corners, turning beady eyes at them as they entered. Cort gathered Rags and Deni to his side, a hand on their shoulders as they shuffled in small steps around tables of patrons who regarded them from under hoods or from the side. The interior was poorly lit, only a few lanterns providing the faintest glow. Rags studied every person present.

Mora knocked lightly on the bar.  A haggard halfling woman stuck her face out from behind it, hacking a glob of spittle onto the floor.

“Eh? Mora? Been many moons, it has.”

“Room for the night and a meal,” Mora said in a low tone, sliding some tilts over to the innkeeper. Mora jerked her head, and the three followed her upstairs to a room overlooking the river from a single filthy window. Once inside, Mora left them in the decrepit room with a dilapidated straw mattress and one bedside stand. Rags opened the drawer and jumped backwards as roaches scattered out of it.

“Not the worst place I’ve slept,” Deni admitted.

By then, Mora had returned and delivered trenchers filled with an unsightly brown stew. Rags sniffed it curiously. Deni puckered his lips. Cort pinched the meat to test its texture.

“Eat,” she said. “I’ll be back shortly. Go nowhere. Do nothing. Speak to no one, not even each other. I’ve got arrangements to make.” Her stern expression never changed. They sensed something was amiss and ate as ordered, an uneasy quiet settling between them around the dim light of a single lantern.

Rags’ tongue struggled to unravel as a flood of queries tried to burst forth, but Mora’s orders kept it in place. He could only trust her judgment. She returned as promised and locked the door, saying nothing and standing in wait. She had yet to remove her pack, so they followed suit.

As the last bites were downed, a light tapping came at the window. Mora said, “Let’s go. Out the window and down the ladder. Quiet as you can. Bite your tongues or I’ll tie them around your throats.”

Her calm orders carried a sense of urgency and authority, leaving no room to question. Rags opened the window and a rat-like head as big as his own poked in. He jumped back with a start, seeing its whiskers twitching as it sniffed at him and tilted its head curiously.

“A kobold?” Deni asked.

Rags was dumbstruck. There had been so little written about kobolds and much of what he’d seen was only in the most ancient of tomes. Those tomes had described kobolds as lizard-like.

“Hello.” He gave a smile and a wave.

The kobold replied in a series of rapid clicks and soft squeaking noises.

“KeeKee can’t speak the common tongue,” Mora explained. “But she understands it. Follow her down. Not another word.” The finality of her command moved them. Even Cort, who despised orders without question, stayed silent. A crude ladder going up the side of the inn waited outside the window, the kobold already at the bottom on the rickety pier below.

It was as quiet a descent as they could manage. Every board creaked louder than they wanted, straining under their weight. Mora waited until the others were down before testing the ladder herself. She hissed as her first step onto it protested, creaking and cracking, but it held her weight. She descended in three long steps, one rung falling away in her hand as she reached the bottom.

The kobold spat her strange language out so quickly it sounded less like language and more like a clicking-chattering noise. She pointed to a contraption sitting in the water that could have been called a boat were it not such a confusing mess of planks, boards, ropes, and canvas. They hesitated, the kobold urging them on with a squeak.

Mora gave Cort a shove, tumbling him into the haphazard dingy with a dull thud, and picked up Deni and Rags up in her arms like a frustrated mother carrying her stubborn toddlers. She sat them down as the kobold mounted a seat, fixing her feet into a set of pedals and pumping her legs furiously.

The boat lurched forward slowly, churning the water behind it. Rags crawled to the back and watched the water curiously, marveling.

“It’s got a paddle system,” he exclaimed in a loud whisper.

“And a slow paddler.” Mora, seated in the front, twisted around, and put her hands on the pedals. “I paddle. You steer,” She said in response to the kobold’s surprised noises. She pedaled as quickly as she could while mindful not to break them with her strength. The water churned faster, sending the boat forward at a quicker pace. The kobold steered them through the other vessels cluttering the river. The moon was tucked behind clouds, providing little light for their watery departure. Every so often one of them would gasp as they skirted past the dark shape of ships unseen until it was within arm’s reach.

Rags glanced and saw the kobold’s eyes glimmer in the dim moonlight. He understood. She could see in the dark well enough to steer around the river traffic. How Cort and Deni’s eyes darted about made it apparent that he could see in total darkness better than they. He had always wondered why it never seemed to be fully dark to him. For once, he realized his Orc blood had gifted him with something that his companions lacked.

Soon, KeeKee had steered them into clear waters and Mora propelled them fast enough to make the canvas covering the top of the boat flap in the wind. Deni had to hold his hat to keep it from flying off.

Up the river, they went, paddling until daylight.

The fear was always with him, no matter how fast he ran. No amount of speed could escape the shadow at his heels. Fear gripped his heart and stole his breath. The shadow of the dragon loomed over him, gaping maw closing.

When Rags looked back, he saw all of those in his company.

Denith.

Mora.

Cortland.

And there was Marvallo, his last look of helpless fear as the maw closed on all of them.

He spun around and there was fur and warmth in his face.

When he awoke, Ragoth found his face buried in KeeKee’s furry chest, her clawed hands holding his head tight to her chest and stroking his hair. The chittering of her speech rattled in his ears. Once she knew he was awake, she held his head in her hands and chattered at him in a soft, comforting tone.

Then she licked the top of his head several times until it slicked his hair back. The surprise of her actions left him too stunned to reply.

“You’re finally awake. Good.” Mora said. She sat at the front of the kobold’s boat, eating a shared breakfast of dried meat and a preserved ball of dried fruit, oats, and nuts rolled in honey and sugar to harden it—a staple food of Adventurers called a Halfling’s Fist. “KeeKee is very motherly.”

“So, I see.” Rags politely tried to break the embrace with KeeKee, who gave his head another loving stroke with her clawed hand before returning to the pedals and resuming their upstream voyage.

“Eat. We have a long way to go yet.” Mora pressed a Halfling’s Fist, dried meat, and a waterskin into his hands.

Cort broke the peace of their morning meal. “Now that we’re all awake, may I ask what the bloody pissing bollocks we’re doing on a kobold boat heading north when Dreadmour is the opposite way?”

Mora was calm, her eyes gazing down at the three of them. “It was the best way to lose our pursuit. By now, they’ll have realized we aren’t in our room and, if luck holds, they’ll be miles deep in the Dynasty by now, looking for us in the other direction.”

“Pursuit?” asked Rags, the fleeting fear of his dream returning.

Mora fixed him with a knowing gaze that shot through him cold. She turned it on all three of them.

“The boat is also so that none of you run–especially Rags. It is time the four of us spoke about the lies. I’m over a hundred and forty years old, just so you’re all aware. I’ve been lied to plenty of times. There are good liars and bad liars. A good liar cloaks himself in his lie, believes it until it becomes truth—even in his own mind. A bad liar erects his lie like a poorly made shield and prays that it will deflect anything that tests its integrity.”

She jabbed her finger at Ragoth, making him jump. “You are a terrible liar.”

Rags clung to the boat railing as if he meant to throw himself over, but Mora continued.

“Your lies are as plain as the tusks on your face. A farm in Namaria? When the king has ordered anything with green skin be put to death since the end of the Orc Wars? That you think me so stupid is insulting. The very moment you put that obscene amount of gold in front of me and said you’re heading for Dreadmour, of all places, I knew that someone was after you. You rushed out as soon as the Namarians arrived at Barrow’s End. Your eyes are on the horizon behind you as often as they are in front.” Her voice raised to a bellow. “Someone is pursuing you, and I want to know who.”

Rags looked, scared, to Deni and Cort, but they were in no place to help him. The small boat had no room to move. Even standing too quickly might tip it over.

“Look at you. You’re the very image of guilt. You look like a child with his mouth covered in sugar being asked who ate the sweet rolls. How you three traveled past patrols without being brought in for Inquisition astounds me. You’re all lucky that the elves are slack in their duties this far in the southern plains. The time for lying is over. You’re far too educated and well-mannered to be a mere farmer’s son. You have neither the strength of hand nor the street wits to be as low born as you claim.” Mora shook her head, pointing at Rags.

Rags looked down at his hands. They were soft, uncalloused, damning to the right set of eyes. “I cannot tell you.”

“Someone sent the Namarian army to Barrow’s End to find you. You’d best think of a better explanation or I’m going to toss you into the river, Rags.”

“No!” he cried, trying to back away from her. “I can’t swim!”

She gave a small nod. “That I believe.”

“Good lady Val’Mora, please. Rags has endured great loss in recent weeks. We found him when passing the Namarian border, scared and alone. It is unfair to place such a yoke of scrutiny on his shoulders when we all carry secrets we wish to remain as such.” Denith leaned forward, trying to put himself between the two.

“There’s a difference,” replied Mora, “His secrets are the kind that get people killed. If I’m being paid to escort this Orcborn to the arse end of Allspire, I want to know who or what is on his heels before it costs me my life. Rags, you hired me knowing you were being pursued and that kind of thing would have altered my decision to take you up on your offer. Were I less of a professional, I’d wring your neck so your pursuers can find your body on the side of the Dwarf Road.”

“She’s right,” Ragoth meekly spoke up. They all met his guilty gaze. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to endanger you or anyone else. I run from a…being of terrible power. I dare not speak his name, nor even think of him lest he appear. It already cost my only friend his life.”

Mora’s eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Why can’t you speak the name of your enemy?”

“I was told not to by my friend lest it summon him to me. Drown me if you wish. I’ll not speak another word of it.” Rags shook as he spoke as much as he dared. Not the whole truth, but enough of it to satisfy the Auroch, he hoped. “Please, I beg you fulfill our contract, and you’ll not see my face again. Once I reach Cravensrest, I will find my own way.”

A tense moment passed as Mora gauged him, her hand swiping at her mouth. The other two remained silent, waiting to see if they were left without the Auroch’s help. Only KeeKee’s squeaking pedals and the sloshing of water behind her boat punctuated the air between them.

At last, Val’Mora gave a sigh of surrender. “That is one of the most absurd things I’ve ever heard of in my life. But…I’m nothing if not a professional. I’ll honor our contract. To Dreadmour, you’ll go.” Then she turned her ire to Denith. “Elf.”

“Me?” Denith turned as if slapped.

“I’ve been around elves of the Unexalted Faith. You assert yourself enough to be thrown from their ranks. Either you’re good at lying or bad at being an acolyte. Why are you going with Rags?”

“The Crown Pantheon is a cruel place to travel for the Orcborn. Even on the Dwarf Road, one shouldn’t travel alone. He has suffered, hungered, and lost. My heart goes out to him, for I have gone through much the same in my life. I gave my oath of servitude to help him until he reaches safety. He’s in need of a friend and that is what I am: his friend through danger and damnation.” Denith was quick to answer.

Those words had Mora nodding. KeeKee squeaked an approval.

“You speak a powerful truth,” said Mora. “Or you’re better at lying. If you wish to follow him to danger and damnation, then assert your wisdom more. How old are you?”

“Just one hundred winters.”

“Even a servant of the Unexalted Faith knows simple wisdoms. You’d best untangle your tongue and speak more of it to Rags before damnation finds you both. And it will certainly find you if you keep slinking off into the woods when you think we’re not paying attention. Is there a reason for that?”

“I…Its…” Denith stammered, trying to hide his reddening face behind his hand. “It’s embarrassing to say.”

“Next time, take Rags or Cort with you,” Mora said.

“Halfling’s Fists and travelers stew do not agree with my stomach,” Deni tried to pull his hat down over his head in the vain hope it might kill him and spare him the embarrassing admission. Cort snickered.

“It’s not funny,” Deni whined.

“It’s a little funny,” Cort said.

Mora turned to Cort. “And you. What in the Abyss do you think you’re doing out here, Cortland? You dragged a hunted Orcbrat and a helpless elf across the southern provinces seeking what? Glory? Fame? Gold? Women?”

“Knighthood,” Cort answered defiantly.

“Of course. Why settle for some when you can accumulate all at once? Fabled knights of heroic tales, dreaming of an age long past and damn the people following you, right? You’re a real Pallie, Goblin Knight.”

Cort’s eyes flashed, and he snapped a fist bound for Mora’s face. Any other person and he would have driven their teeth down their throats, but Mora was the quicker and caught his fist, holding him fast with a great strength.

Cort growled, defiant to the last. “No one calls me a Pallie!”

“What’s a Pallie?” Rags asked.

“You say too much with too little, Rags. Who in the Crown Pantheon hasn’t heard of Paladins?” Mora tossed her head back and laughed into the sky. She let go of Cort’s fist.

“Of course, I’ve heard of Paladins. The holy warriors of the gods themselves. Channelers of great power and paragons of virtue and heroism.”

This time both Mora and Cortland burst into peals of laughter, holding their sides as their bickering was momentarily forgotten. Denith’s brow furrowed as he stared at his own feet. Even KeeKee tittered at the remark.

“He said all of it with a straight face,” said Cort, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Then he is truly ignorant,” Mora replied, “Rags, I’m glad you bumbled your way into my tavern and not into a temple. Those unrepentant scoundrels would have had you chained to a brothel bedpost as plaything for their brethren. Gods, what have I gotten myself involved in with this Orc-punched fool?”

Rags sank into himself, blushing in embarrassment as Mora resumed her scolding at Cort.

“I know what you seek, Cort, and you’ll not find it. The Age of Adventures is all but over; we live in its dying days. The dungeons have all been raided, the tombs all uncovered, the coffers of gold fattening those who succeeded, and every item of magical power lies in the control of the Arcane Order. It is folly to chase those dreams. The Adventuring Guilds are a thing of the past, and I admit I do miss them.”

“Which guild were you in?” Denith asked.

In answer, Mora reached into her pack. “Only a few, but mostly my own.” She tossed him a thin metal plate no bigger than the palm of a hand.

“A guild tag?” Denith exclaimed.

Rags gasped and took the tag. “My friend Sam told me about these. To help prevent unnecessary death in explorations, Adventurers Guilds had signature metal plates made to signify when they had already been through a place of interest. It would be placed at the entrance to let any wary soul know there was nothing of value left inside. I’ve always wanted to see one.”

Mora grunted. “That’s its intended purpose. Most dungeon entrances are littered with them.”

Rags turned the tag over in his hands. “The Guild’s insignia, name, and location are stamped onto it. But he said as the Age of Adventures wore on, the plates were often left in empty rooms at the end of an arduous dungeon to spite rivals or mock young adventurers.”

Cort added. “I’ve seen them hung on tavern walls. Heard they handed them out to spread their name around,”

“I kept one for a keepsake,” Mora said in a resigned sigh, “I fought in mercenary bands, worked with some guilds as they needed. I cut my teeth in adventuring. When the Orc Wars came, no one spared their thoughts for adventuring or its guilds when there were Orcs roaming through every kingdom and crevasse. By the time the war ended, the guilds began to shutter. A lot of the young who once craved that life either died in the Orc Wars or saw enough to ward them off the path forever.”

They beheld a lifetime of bitter disappointment on her troubled scowl. “And of those guilds who died with the Age of Adventures, mine was one. I used to escort less experienced adventurers into places they could test their blades without running afoul of something too dangerous. Good gold back then, but these days it’s a fool’s dream. There’s precious little adventure left to be had. I put everything I ever earned into that guild before having to sell it. I swore I’d never adventure again.”

She shifted her weight, trying to regain some level of comfort in the cramped boat. “Now here I am with another group of young fools with adventure in their hearts and not a lick of sense between them.”

Rags leaned towards her. “You’ve made your peace known, Mora. I respect your caution, but I must reach Dreadmour alive and all I ask is you keep me safe until we arrive no matter who hunts me. If they find me and you feel you are not a match for them, I will not hold you to protect me to your death. If you cannot protect me from them, who could? Now will you take me there or wag your finger at me incessantly in inquisition?”

The sternness of Rags’ voice pulled her up straight and set her jaw. “I’ve done much in my life that I’m not proud to speak of, lad. This, at least, will not be one of them. Keep your demented secrets, then. I’ll take you to Dreadmour and soon as we reach the city gates, you find your way as you said.” She was pinching the bridge of her nose and rubbing her eyes. “Understand this, you all will heed my advice as we make for Cravensrest. We stick to the Dwarf Road, sleeping at inns when we can. Inside of another week, we can arrive at Arcathoria for supplies and then head for Dessius. From there, we take the Shankshire Pass around Karthak’s Talon.”

“Arcathoria? That’s north. You’re taking us in the wrong direction.” Rags balked.

Mora nodded with a grin. “And by the time your pursuer tries to find you on the eastbound road and realizes you’re not ahead of him, he’ll double back to figure out where he lost you. By then, we’ll be damn near at Dreadmour’s doorstep.”

“You are a most wise guide, good lady Val’Mora,” Denith beamed. “We thank you for your cunning.”

Ragoth looked back down the river, its expanse long and narrow instead of winding. He imagined Blight trying to hunt him along the eastern road past the river crossing, flying on his dragon over the countryside. Even under Mora’s watch, tenuous as it was, that needle of fear remained in his heart. His eyes constantly glanced upwards and over his shoulder, dreading any moment the ghoulish shadow lord might appear and devour his friends with his shadow dragon.

Just like Marvallo.

“You three were foolish to brave the roads, but I can see there’s no stopping you. Don’t take this journey for some merry jaunt about the countryside,” Mora warned. “There’s much about the tales of old that are never sung. Not all Adventurers have reverent flowers blooming on their graves.”

CHAPTER TEN

“Never fail to enjoy your journey, but never relent in your watch.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Wrong direction or not, it was peaceful drifting past the high grass of the Sylverian plains. Those gave way to rocky cliffs and towering forests that rose high over their heads on both banks. The river went from straight to winding and curved, making their progress feel slow. Traveling upriver was a laborious effort. The riders took turns at the pedals to keep going without resting. Cort proved to be the most resilient of them all, with legs seasoned by years of farmwork and then years of guard patrol. Rags and Denith both became winded all too quickly, despite traveling by foot for weeks. The soreness the next day was crippling for both of them. Mora was insistent that with her own leg strength she could go for days without rest, but the pedals proved a poor fit for her hooves. Using her hands kept her in an awkward position that made her “cranky as a dragon” as Denith said, a comment that saw him dangling over the side of the boat held only by Mora’s hand. He would have lost his hat if not for Rag’s quick hand.

Each night when they made camp, Cort always took the first watch. Mora rotated their watches, but whenever it came to Denith’s turn, Cort stayed awake anyway. If he felt fatigued the following day, he hid it beneath another layer of anger and irritation.

Ragoth never went to sleep without an entry in his book. His script was tidy and small, packing as much as he could write into as small a space as he could. Every other page had a rough sketch on it, a variety of sights and things he’d seen. A flower. The patterns of the dwarven stonework on the Dwarf Road. The gates of Barrow’s End. A rough approximation of the landscape. Mora’s mace. The rows of headstones outside the gate.

He reserved a selection of the back pages for people. Cort. Deni. Mora. A half-elf courtesan from the Maiden’s Helm. KeeKee. The half-orc driving the cart. A pair of dwarves.

When Cort and Deni asked to look, Cort flipped through and returned it without comment. Deni examined each page. When he found his portrait, he stared at it for a long time.

“I look sad.”

“It’s supposed to be worry,” Rags replied. “I’m not much of an artist. You look worried often.”

That made Deni look worried. “Do I?”

“Are you?”

“I don’t feel worried. A little concerned, mayhap.”

Near the end of their fourth day, they scouted the banks of the rivers for a place to camp amongst the ever-encroaching trees. At one bend in the river, they came across a flat place on the bank with signs of a well-used campsite already established. The three began to chat excitedly, but Mora waved it off.

“The mouse does not understand why the cheese is offered for free. Keep going.”

KeeKee heeded her warning and pushed ahead for another two hours before they tucked the boat into a thicket of willow branches near the water. A hundred or so paces away from shore, their campfire was set near a stone outcropping. Its cover helped limit the light through the trees. Ragoth stowed his bundled sword just under his sleeping roll, making sure it was secure from prying eyes. Thus far, none had asked him about it, but he had caught their curious glances.

By night’s fall, the five of them hovered quietly over a dinner of something Mora called ‘River Stew’. KeeKee tossed what looked like a Halfling’s Fist into her small stew pot, added water and brought it to boiling. Soon, they had bowls of hot soup with ingredients Rags had trouble identifying. It had a strange, gamey taste, but it filled the belly. A far cry from his catered meals and soft bed.

KeeKee doted on him when she brought his soup, a habit he’d become accustomed to. She brushed his hair with her claws and licked it, chattered at him in soft tones. He thought it might be some kobold ritual or habit, but she gave no such attention to anyone else.

As his hair was drying from another tongue bath, Mora leaned in when the kobold was out of earshot and said, “She’s a motherly sort. She told me you remind her of one of her sons.”

When he looked at the kobold again, kindly sharing her meager rations with the four of them, a knot welled up within him, unbearable to hold. He stared out into the darkening forest as his food went uneaten, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

Abruptly, he got up and walked out of the camp to stand near the water’s edge, watching its dark depths flow in a soothing stream. His hand clenched a tree limb and his grip tightened until he twisted the bark off. The lump came back in his throat and threatened to overwhelm him, his eyes welling with tears. Soon, Mora’s heavy hoof falls heralded her approach. She could no more sneak up on someone than he could outmatch her strength. She stood over him, a towering build of muscle next to his slim form, dwarfing him almost entirely.

“Breathe deep. Keep your calm. The years do not dull the edge of that knife,” she said.

“What do you speak of?” He blinked the tears away.

When Mora looked up, she gazed across the river to a place only she could see.

“The sickness for home. The ache for the comfort of home and family. It escapes none who ever called themselves Adventurer or explorer. Even those whose hearts call to the winds ache for it. You lost your home, yes?”

“Aye, it was taken from me. What I would give to go back and have one more night in my bed. One more meal on the tray. Oh gods, I may never see my mother again. To feel her embrace, hear her voice just once more.”

She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “Life is often a cruel yoke to bear—even under the security of the Crown Pantheon. We are only given the illusion of choice. The elves still rule over us all. There are precious few places in this world for those of us outside the norm and those few are ruled by harsher crowns than King Sothren. Do what you must: cry, bloody your knuckles on a tree, claw at your hair. But when you come back, your focus needs to be on nothing but keeping your eyes and ears open. We’re far from the Dwarf Road and I can’t always keep my eyes on you.”

She added. “Life was not made for the meek, Rags. The strong put them under their heel. The sooner you learn to be stronger than those who seek to bring you to heel, the better.” She turned to leave.

“Mora,” he called out. She paused.

“I’m not one for these kinds of talks, lad. I told you what needed to be said.”

“Exactly,” said Ragoth. “That’s what I seek. You speak with a curt tongue while my family and friends protect me from the truth. Fairhorn Fields told me a truth to which they kept me blind. Please tell me…what were the Orc Wars?”

A deep breath came out of her. “It started maybe thirty-five or forty years ago and lasted for two decades. Orc incursions into civilized lands all across Evergrad. Wherever you lived, one day there wouldn’t be an Orc in sight and the next they would have a small city of them within a day’s walk. Migrating, mayhap. Not certain. Villages, towns, and small cities banded together, but the Orcs proved the better. There were Orcs in every corner of the Crown Pantheon, striking and running before most forces could organize against them. When they did, they would arrive too late and find the Orcs gone or worse, lured into a trap.”

“I fought for a high paying mercenary band, helping keep richer provinces safe. I fought a few warbands in my time—even felled a high ranking general. Does that bother you?” When he shook his head, she continued. “I fought and killed many Orcs for whoever had the gold to pay me during those years. I was not in the larger conflicts when Orcs and the Crown Pantheon’s armies did meet, though I heard the Orcs won every battle they engaged. Heralds told of a ruthless Orc warlord named Thorgoth of the Sunderfang leading a vast horde. No army ever defeated him, nor was he found, until the final battle. They arrived and vanished like wraiths. People lived in fear. Nowhere felt safe.”

After a pause to let her words settle he asked, “And then it ended?”

“There was politics involved, ones I don’t understand; but for many years, not all the Crown Pantheon believed the Orcs were as much a threat as others—until the Orcs made off with Namaria’s queen. That convinced many that their heads were not safe from Thorgoth. They united, and once they found where the Orcs marshaled their main forces, they destroyed them with every ounce of their military might. I heard the final battle was legendary. I wish I had been there to be part of history, but I was stuck guarding a garrison in the Tripath from Norenrauth raiders.”

She caught his troubled expression. “Nothing personal. It was war and the fear of Orcs gripped everyone from beggar to king. I was only one blade in that war.”

“I understand, Mora.”

“My sympathies. I take it you were the get of an Orc on a human woman?”

He nodded, shoulders slumped and back bent, the yoke of much weighting down his young brow. “That much I know, but there is much yet I do not.”

“One thing you should know,” she added, as she walked back to camp, “The last battle of the Orc Wars…the one where the Orcs were decimated? It was in Dreadmour.”

Ragoth was not the only one to receive a word from Mora that night. Cort insisted, as always, on holding the first watch. When he woke Mora for her watch, she asked him in low tones, “What are you doing, Cortland?”

“Going to sleep,” he huffed, leaning against the rock wall next to their camp.

“You know damn well what I mean. What are you doing traveling with us? You’ve made no secret of your glory chasing. Yet you’re still tailing us on our way to Dreadmour.”

“And I’m trying to sleep now.” He turned away from her, eyes closed.

“What happened? Grow tired of farm life? Guard duty in Havenlore too boring?”

“Aye.”

“Now, you’re chasing knighthood through merit. I know what you’re about. You saw those Knights Valiant wandering about and decided you wanted others to regard you the same. Their Grand Hall is in Havenlore.” When he remained still, she said, “The inside is even grander than the outside.”

His eyes snapped open. “You were in the Grand Hall?”

“That I was.”

“You’re a Knight Valiant?”

She opened her mouth and paused, eyes drifting to his side. “Don’t move.”

Cort didn’t have to look behind him. “You either.”

Slowly, they raised their hands as firelight caught on arrowheads poking out of the dark, surrounding the camp as small figures stepped into the dim light, dozens of them. They came with small faces painted in elaborate designs around shimmering yellow eyes, unkempt hair, and sharp teeth. Their pointed ears were tipped in black, their horned heads covered with the hollowed skulls of skinned animals.

One bearing the head of a buck stepped forward, glaring at them with bright eyes and a dark scowl coated in red paint. His lower half was the same as all of them: that of a four-legged deer with a matted coat of dark brown fur, white spots, and black hooves.

“Who are they?” Cort asked.

Mora shook her head. “Too small to be centaurs.”

The tiny figure in buck furs snapped a word at them, waking the others. KeeKee squeaked and skittered to hide behind Rags. Rags was the last to rouse and inspected their captors.

“By the gods! Fawnlings!” He gasped.

The buck Fawnling spoked in a different tongue, and they aimed two arrows at Rags. For a long moment, they held their hands where they sat, looking at the buck who gave the others their orders. He lowered his bow and produced a stone knife. He pointed it at each one of them, speaking. Though his tongue was unknown, his tone was threatening.

“Denith, what are they saying?” Mora looked and Deni’s bedroll was empty. Rags gasped and looked around, fighting the urge to run into the woods to look for the elf were it not for the arrows aimed at him.

“How long has he been gone?” Ragoth asked.

“How should I know? He’s quieter than a mouse. Watch it!” Cort snapped, the arrows moving closer the more agitated he became. Their leader spoke again, more insistently. Cort tilted his head as one moved close to his neck. “Would be nice if someone here spoke elvish.”

“They’re not speaking elvish,” Rags said. “They’re speaking Feylish. A tongue of the Feylund Jungles.” Ragoth cleared his throat and spoke in a stuttering dialect that halted the four-legged figures and spun all their heads towards him.

The Fawnling leader approached him, spitting at him in harsh tones as he brandished his knife, pressing it against Ragoth’s throat. Rags answered and began an exchange with his captor. The tension in the camp held for a finger of time as they conversed. Cort saw Mora’s eyes flicker to her weapon nearby. He knew she could likely take it before they could stop her. He was ready to reach for his sword even with two Fawnlings aiming right at him.

“They are searching for people. Hunters. They think we’re part of the hunters they seek,” Rags finally said. “Hunters of people. People who…chain?”

“Slavers. They think we’re Machavian Night-takers,” Mora spat.

“Slaving is illegal in the Crown Pantheon,” Rags protested.

“Doesn’t stop it from happening,” replied Mora. “Machavia and Norenrauth still turn a blind eye. The Allurious Coast is lousy with them. Rags, this isn’t the time for this conversation. If Night-takers are hunting near here, I’d bet any amount of gold they have Denith. Tell them we’re not slavers, just travelers.”

“I’m trying. They think we’re part of a band that took other Fawnlings. This one is Narthas. He is the tribe leader. They are tracking in this area but found none until us.”

Narthas produced a small figure from his belt and held it out. Though primitive, it was masterfully crafted with smooth stone eyes and braids of green and brown hair. The hair on the doll matched the hair on Narthas’ head.

Ragoth’s face fell when he saw it. “I think they have his daughter,”

“So tell them we don’t have her and leave us,” Cort growled.

“You dullard,” Mora said. “They’re not just gonna leave strangers in their territory. They’ll put our heads on pikes to warn others.”

“My head’s not going on a pike. I’ll take their heads before I fall to a bunch of half-sized barbarians.”

“Shut up. Listen,” Mora said as Rags spoke with Narthas in pleading tones. He had a strength to his tone, his hand pointing to Cort and Mora and mimicking the swinging of weapons. His words had the other Fawnlings glancing at one another.

Rags took the bandage off his hand and held it out before Narthas, speaking a phrase with an authoritative tone. Narthas put his knife away and signaled to the other Fawnlings, their bows lowering as they stood down on his order.

“They will not kill us, but I promised we would help them find their people and Deni as well. I swore an oath to Narthas for our hand in rescuing them,” Rags told them.

Mora lowered her hands and snatched up her mace, keeping a wary eye on the Fawnlings surrounding her. “I don’t appreciate people volunteering my services, Rags. How do you propose we even find them?”

“Don’t worry. I can find Deni as long as they don’t give him a bath. Follow me.”

Mora and Cort shared a bewildered look as KeeKee and the Fawnlings fell in line behind Rags charging into the dark woods.

“I distinctly remember telling him we wouldn’t be diverging like this,” Mora grunted disapprovingly.

“You’re the one who took us off the Dwarf Road and upriver in the wrong direction,” Cort said, kicking his sword into the air and catching it.

“I’ll give you that one and never again.” Mora made a face, her finger hovering in front of Cort’s smug look until she broke the stare and marched off in pursuit.

The moon was high over the rocky hills and rising cliffs of the Dynasty, shining down on a wooden cart laden with its cold steel cage. The cart was guarded by cloaked figures as it slowly moved forward through a small field of high grass. The driver looked ahead for the trampled trail, aided only by moonlight. At his side, his bulky and scaled compatriot swiveled his lizard-like head in all directions, occasionally casting a glance at the small figures bound and gagged in the cage. Two figures hung on both sides of the rear, both with crossbows at the ready. The cart creaked and the cage clanked, the only sounds in the night during their trek until a rustling in the grass behind them brought their procession to a halt.

One of the cloaked guards at the rear produced a small crystal from his pouch and rapped it twice against wood, causing it to emit a strong beam of light. He shone it on the path behind the cart as the cloaked figures hefted their crossbows warily.

For a brief moment, the shadowy figure of a rat-like creature scampered into view on the trail, looked at them and left just as quickly.

“Just a kobold,” said the figure with the light just before the air was filled with the sound of a dozen bowstrings loosing at once. A horrid screech followed. They whipped around back to the cart to see their scaly compatriot slump on top of the cage, riddled with arrows from all sides.

Cries of alarm went up, but the attack was already sprung. The cloaked guards leapt onto the cart, the driver raising the reins to whip the horses forward in a movement he would never finish.

The sound of Mora’s dwarven mace as it soared into him was akin to a ripe melon being dropped onto cobblestone from on high and the results were much the same. Driver and mace vanished into the swaying high grass in a bloody spray.

Chaos erupted. The guards scrambled atop the cart and its cage, one grabbing the empty reins as the two horses reared back in panic. The first to reach the reins was met by Cortland bounding up the cart and tackling him, sending them both crashing to the ground. Cort came out on top, straddling the man and raining blow after blow onto his face.

From out of the grass on both sides came the Fawnlings, moving in silent tandem. The remaining three guards found themselves surrounded. Panicked, they fired their crossbows, the bolts finding no target as the deft Fawnlings scattered.

From the grass, Mora erupted in a charge, slamming shoulder first into the cart and knocking the three figures off the top, but also spooking the horses into a sudden gallop. When the cart lurched forward, Cort and his adversary both stopped in the midst of their struggle. The guard had only a second to scream while Cort held him in the path of the wheel as it crushed his neck.

“The cart!” Cort cried as he fell back. Behind him, the three slavers screamed as the Fawnlings leaped onto them with spears and knives. Mora bounded after the cart, but the spooked horses took off at a full gallop with the cage of captured Fawnlings locked inside. She inched towards it, hands outstretched, but an errant stone stumbled her pace and she fell behind.

Ahead of the cart, hidden in the high grass, Rags watched in horror as the cart came barreling towards him. Mora insisted he be away from the fighting, even though it was Rags who conceived the trap. He had to watch from afar and leave the bloodshed to those with experience. Ragoth stood out of cover as the driverless cart careened some twenty paces away. He bolted to intercept it before it could pass them.

Ragoth dashed with all his might and met the cart with a mighty leap, his fingers grasping the side of the cage. Mora called after him as she shrank into the distance. In the darkness, he hung from the side of the cage, feet dangling over the ground.

Don’t look down, he thought, immediately looking down at the ground passing under him at great speed.

Slowly, inch by inch, he climbed up the side as the cart bounced precariously back and forth, threatening to tip over. He crawled onto the top and low-hanging branches lashed across his face. The horses had bolted out of the high grasses and into sparse standings of trees. He forced himself to push past the sharp stinging to his face and crawl towards the front of the driverless cart, fighting every bump that threatened to buck him off and every branch that thrashed him. Under him, he could make out the fearful faces of the captive Fawnlings—most of them women and children—and hear their pitiful cries as they were thrown about the cage.

There was Deni. Bound, blindfolded, and gagged, tossed about helplessly.

He crawled to the driver’s box as the trees thinned and gave way to a cliff’s edge. Hands gripping the frame to keep from being thrown, he held on with all his might as the horses jerked to the right. They avoided a headlong charge over the cliff and instead ran up a narrow path in the side of an ascending cliff nearby.

He reached over the side of the box to grasp at the reins dangling behind the horse’s galloping legs. His heart was lodged somewhere in his throat and his gut wrenched with fear. If the cage went over with the Fawnlings inside, he would see their desperate eyes in his mind forever. Deni would live his last moments in pure terror. He could not, would not, abandon them to such a fate.

A last desperate reach clutched the reins, bringing him back into the box in time to see the approach of a corner too tight to manage at their speed. He yanked back on the reins and the horses reared, their back hooves digging into the rocky precipice as they came skidding to a halt at the jagged edge.

Ragoth sat on the carriage, his breath coming in gasps and his heart thundering against his chest. He risked a glance over the side at the plummet he had narrowly avoided.

Oh, how he missed his comfy bed in his dusty old library.

Rags carefully stepped off the carriage box and made his way to the back, where the Fawnlings sat in dazed wait. Deni’s head moved about.

“You’re safe now, Deni. I’ll get you out momentarily,” he said. Deni jumped, looking in his direction anxiously.

He took hold of the cage’s thick padlock and spent a moment to examine it. Seconds passed before his recollection brought a tome to mind. ‘Dwarvish Mechanics and Mechanisms’ was the one, a tome from Samrose added to the library within the last year. A fascinating book full of cutaway diagrams of dwarvish mechanical constructs—including locks. Not identical, he noted, but perhaps the internal components were similar. He took his dagger and pried loose a nail on the carriage, then used it to work on the lock.

The Fawnlings inside eyed him warily, many pressing against the back of the cage in fear at the sight of an Orcborn. He offered reassurance, telling them in their tongue, “Fear not. You will be free by my hand.” It did little to quell their fear of him. Why would it? In the gleam of the moonlight, he was an Orc to their eyes. A few moments ticked by and Ragoth wasn’t sure his efforts would prove fruitful when the lock suddenly fell open with a clink. He stood in awe of his accomplishment and uttered an excited gasp. He erupted in a peal of laughter that echoed along the cliffside.

“I didn’t know if that would work. Let’s get you all out, shall we? Deni, I’m–”

No sooner did he open the cage than movement under the cart caught his eye. His eyes darted down to see a dark-haired halfling rushing from under the cart with a cry and a glint of steel in his hand.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Not all who travel raise arms, and not all who fight do so from desire.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Cort shot to his feet, discarding the dead man under him as the cart took off into the dark. The Night-takers were in a frenzied row with the Fawnlings and their primitive weapons. The unmistakable sound of swords leaving sheaths sent alarm coursing through Cort and with a furious roar he charged them. Forged steel was more than a match for stone-tipped spears, but as they swung at the Fawnlings in their hides and war paint, Cortland threw himself with wild abandon into the trio.

The life of a farmer’s son was a hard one despite the notion that it’s a simple job for simple people. It is a day full of hard work that requires an equally hard form. From the time he was a boy, Cortland had been up before dawn carrying supplies and tools, lifting with every muscle in his body, trudging through fields, working harder and harder, lest he summon the ire of his father. That ire came with a price of pain. Even though he fled his father’s anger, he soon found he could not escape his own.

Irritable though he could be, there was a power in his rage and his broad-shouldered form, properly fueled by said rage, became a two-fisted beast. In seeing the danger the Fawnlings faced, his eyes flashed, and the anger roared inside him like a blazing furnace. He hammered down on the face of the man below him with hard blows, bones and cartilage crushing under his strength. No tavern drunk took more than a blow or two to regret their decision to face him and the cries of the man under him bore testament to similar regret. Armored plates were of little use with uncovered faces.

The flash of steel from above turned his eye, and he froze. Just like when the goblin had snarled in his face, his vision narrowed, and he saw only the bearded lout bringing his sword down. The Fawnlings saved him, a pair of spears stabbing into the slaver’s unarmored legs to topple him mid-swing. The sword fell from his hands and the Fawnlings swarmed on his moment of weakness.

A strangled cry came from behind where KeeKee latched onto the back of the final Night-taker, her twin daggers driven into the man’s shoulders. As he fought to buck the kobold, Narthas quickly rushed in and speared the man in the throat. It was over within a few heartbeats. Cort, hardly a tactician, could not help but admire that Rags plan, formed within a minute of finding their quarry, had been executed almost without flaw. The Night-takers were all dead and a quick glance suggested that none of the Fawnlings had suffered casualties. Swarming the cart, even by surprise, might have proven more deadly.

“Cort!” He snapped his head around to Mora, rushing in from the dark.

“Where’s Rags?” Cortland asked.

She pointed to the distant dark forest. “On the cart, bound for the wood. Hurry!”

Cort cursed and took off at a dash, following the trail of bent grass until the sparse stands of trees loomed overhead. Not a skilled tracker by any measure, he nevertheless had no issue following the broken branches and trampled brush made by the cart. He gave no mind to creatures of the wood that might lurk. Nothing but the sound of his footfalls and heaving breath echoed through the dark woods. Behind him, he could hear his compatriots as they raced to catch up to him. Mora was never hard to locate, her hooves thundering in the still of the night. As one, the group came to the end of the woods and found themselves at a cliff dropping below them. Cort scanned the cliff path as the Fawnlings scoured for a sign of the cart, fearful to peer over the edge. Cort cast his gaze up at the cliff side path.

“There! On the cliff path.”

Mora rushed past him, her hooves kicking up clods of dirt as she ran. Cort followed, out of breath but refusing to fall behind. Mora’s size was no impediment to her speed as she rushed with the power of a charging bull; soon she was far ahead of him. The narrow cliffside led to an air of caution for Keekee and the accompanying pack of Fawnlings using the bright moonlight to guide them.

Cort and Mora reached the cart and approached cautiously, not seeing anything move save the horses shaking their heads. He took stock of the captive Fawnlings still cowering in the cage with the door ajar and gave them a reassuring gesture as he pulled Deni closer and cut his bonds. He yanked the blindfold off, pulled the gag out and Deni cried at the sight of him.

“I’m so sorry, Cort! I wandered too far. They…They took me. What…Where’s Rags?” He broke down all at once, throwing himself into Cort’s arms. The farmer’s son said nothing, cradling Deni effortlessly into his arms like a child.

“Oh no,” Mora said.

There, they saw Rags with his back against the cliff side, his breath heavy and fast. He could see an array of cuts along Rags’ face and arms, eyes wide and fixed on a figure laying still on the ground. A halfling in a dark cloak stared up at the night sky, a knife jutting from his chest as blood pooled under him.

It didn’t take an Inquisition to guess what happened. Rags eyes were lost in a haze, even as Mora knelt beside him and shook him. One look and Deni abandoned his own trauma, jumping out of Cort’s arms and latching on to Rags.

“Rags. Look at me,” Mora said in a stern tone.

Rags gave a start and, once he recognized her, he clutched her furred leg. She paused, her hand hovering over him in indecision before relenting and rubbing his head in comfort. “It’s alright, lad. The first one is always unsettling. Did he hurt you?”

“I-I-I don’t know, I can’t…” he stammered, his thoughts racing and eyes wild. He grabbed the rim of her chest plate with a tight grip. “He gave me no choice. He came at me with the dagger, I had no recourse, I fought with him and took the dagger and…”

Mora finally took the hysterical half-orc into a tight embrace to still his shaking. Cort glanced back to the dead halfling and cursed the fates that forced this on Rags. Poor boy was shaken to his core. Dangerous world that it was, he still never liked to see what killing did to people forced to do it.

“Listen to me,” she said. “You did what you must to stay alive. Killing is what we must sometimes do, but our way is not butchery. Be calm and brave for those you saved. Let them see the strength you used to free them.”

He took a few moments to calm down, his face resting against her muscled arm. He collected himself with deep breaths and stood to face her.

“If only I were strong like you.”

“True strength is not the power of your body, but the steel of your conviction. My greatest strength is not my strike, but my restraint. On your feet, now. I need you to speak to them.”

Cort moved the dead halfling to the side and let Rags open the cage. It took a few fingers of time to coax the Fawnlings to even speak back. They did not trust him no matter his role in their freedom.

By this time, the rest of their companions had caught up to them and Narthas was the first to the cage. Climbing in, he swept a young girl into a tight embrace as she cried in his arms. One by one, they exited the cage, rushing past him and into the waiting arms of the other Fawnlings, who took them into a protective circle.

Cort took the time to search the dead halfling. Deni stood behind him in silence, the slow realization dawning on him as he looked between the knife and Rags. Right away, KeeKee fell over Rags, fussing in her language as she looked over his skin. A loud squeak erupted every time she found a new wound on him. Deni put his hand over his mouth as he stood over KeeKee’s shoulder, assessing Rags' wounds.

Rags seemed as surprised by his wounds as they were. His arms, upper chest, and face bore multiple slash wounds, some deep, some shallow. KeeKee busily rubbed away dried blood, her worried eyes blinking away tears as she caressed his cheek.

“Are you in pain?” asked Deni, tracing a cut that ran the length of his cheek.

“I didn’t even feel it.” Rags touched the cut and winced. “I knew he’d cut me, but I felt little pain. Even now, it feels distant.”

Cort leaned back, looking over the cuts. “You Orcs are a tough lot, Rags.”

“I’m only half an Orc, I fear, and not gifted with great strength.” Rags let KeeKee apply a sticky salve. It smelled strongly of pine and kept the cut sealed.

“Orc blood is potent,” noted Mora. “You are stronger than you think. How else did you wrest the dagger from his hands? A halfling man is not that weak.”

Rags eyes drifted back to the frantic seconds of his fight to the death. The flailing arms, desperate gasps, and loud grunts as they rolled on the ground. “I caught his arms. I squeezed and he cried out. He dropped the dagger, so I grabbed it and…” he recalled, looking at his fingers, the nails coated in drying blood.

Cort lifted the halfling’s sleeves and winced. “His wrists are crushed.” A red and black tattoo shaped like a talon on the wrist caught his eye. “As we thought. Night-takers. Machavian slavers, sending people back to the frozen north to die mining glostone. I once helped bring down a ring this size in Havenlore. We must be close to one of their routes.”

Narthas approached them with his daughter firmly clutching his side and spoke to Ragoth in his Feylish tongue.

“Narthas is appreciative of our aid but asks that we leave. They don’t permit Orcs in their lands.” Rags grimaced.

Cort stood to his full height, glaring down at the Fawnling with fists clenched, “After what we just did for him? He has the balls to—”

His ranting stopped before it could go further as Rags put a hand on his chest and said, “Cort, it is alright. This is his land, and I shall respect his wishes. It’s enough for me that his people are safe.”

“It’s a long way back to the boat,” Deni noted.

“We have to go back,” Rags said, speaking around KeeKee’s wound tending. “We need our packs.” He told Narthas as much.

“Guess we’ll spend the night in the boat,” Mora groaned, “I can already feel the cramp in my neck.”

Ragoth walked past her and grabbed the cage in the back of the cart. He gave it a shake and found it rattled rather loosely. With a grin, he said, “Perhaps not.”

By the time they had traversed back to the boat for their packs, the sun had finally come up over the horizon and weariness bore down on them. Ragoth was relieved to find the bundled Wraithslayer still under his sleeping roll. He held it for a moment, remembering his promise to Marvallo. If only he could fly to Dreadmour and be done with all of this, but he still had a long way to go.

Parting ways with KeeKee proved hard on the poor kobold. She wrapped her spindly arms around Ragoth. Her mournful chattering kept him frozen in her arms as she poured out her heart to him.

“I’ll miss you too, KeeKee.” His cheeks burned, and he gave her a lop-sided smile.

She kissed him on the forehead and tore herself away, running for her boat and shoving off back down the river—but not before she cast one last look back at him. Ragoth didn’t know how to quell the fuzzy sensation in his belly as he watched her, but the urging of the Fawnlings left no time for consideration.

They stripped all they could from the slavers. Their gold was a mixture of Dynasty starmarks and Sylverian suns. The stars and suns were not surprising, but buried under most of the gold and silver were a handful of Machavia’s famed black gold coins. Colloquially called shims for their unusual shimmer. Ragoth had only seen one in his economics lessons, but its shining dark hue held the eye. Glanced straight on, it looked like shimmering obsidian, but tilted its golden hue was visible. There was only one known way to achieve such an effect on the coin.

“Dragon’s gold,” Ragoth said, turning a shim over in his hand.

“Explains why they’re worth so much more than stars, suns, or tilts,” replied Cort as he hefted their supplies over his shoulder. They marched back for the cart with the Fawnlings in escort, spears at the ready but not as forceful as the night before. “Hardly ever seen them before and people aren’t keen to flash them publicly.”

“No one in the Crown Pantheon enjoys dealing with the Iron Regime,” Mora pointed out. “Or the Empire. Norenrauth’s emperor turns a blind eye to the sordid black markets operating in his lands, so long as he makes some coin from it. Chief amongst them indentured servants and slave labor. Machavia is no better.”

“Why does the rest of the Crown Pantheon not argue against it?” Rags asked.

“How should I know? Politics,” Mora scoffed, as though that were all she needed to say on the matter.

“But I don’t understand. I was told the Crown Pantheon frowned on the practice of slavery. How would two of its own members permit such barbary?”

Mora gave a derisive laugh. “What you call barbarism others call ‘religious and cultural traditions.’ They hide behind a facade of spiritualism and silver tongues, but what can King Sothren and his allies do besides go to war? Who will want a civil war with half the Crown Pantheon for the sake of lost orphans and those unfortunate enough to vanish in the night? You think the continent of Evergrad would erupt in a bloody civil war over a few slaves?”

Rags had his head down. The Orc Wars were unsettling enough, but only a piece of a more disturbing puzzle. When he churned through his mind full of stored facts, he realized he was not aware of any significant historical events or conflicts after the Rockbrow Rebellion nearly 100 years prior. He knew the current rulers of the Crown Pantheon, the governing body over Allspire, their families, the lords and ladies of their individual courts, economies, history, cultural facts, and the exhaustive intricacies of dealing with all of them thanks to his mother’s tutelage.

That familiar knife in his chest from the night before twisted at the very thought of her, but he kept it from his face, hardened like Mora said. He longed to see her beautiful visage and long mane of silken, raven black hair—the same hair that sat unkempt and unwashed on his head. She never failed to fill the room with warmth and love, even in his loneliest days. She always stayed as long as he asked but was never there come the morning. For all her motherly love, she filled her every moment with him in lecture and lesson. Often, she leaned in and imparted the wisdom only a queen deeply invested in court politics could provide. He had soaked up every word like a sponge, just as he’d devoured every word written in his library.

Queen Seranna was not negligent in his education, so why had knowledge of recent events been withheld? Or was she the one deciding to withhold it? His fragile understanding of his world buckled at the thought. Would she? She only withheld when she let him ponder her quandaries. Oh, how she loved those.

“Change,” he muttered aloud.

Cort and Deni both looked his way.

“It’s a quandary. My mother liked to present me with moral or philosophical quandaries to see my answer. She never gave me the answers, she let me arrive at a conclusion. They are frustrating. I don’t like not knowing things. There was one she asked me and every time I gave her an answer she would smile, bow her head and leave.” he explained.

“Why did the goblin cross the street?” Cort quipped. Mora thumped the back of his head.

“Can one person change the world?” Rags asked.

Deni scratched his chin. Mora snorted. Cort blurted out, “No.”

“What answers did you give her?” Deni asked after a long moment.

“Doesn’t matter. None of them were right. Just answers I pondered too hard to find the right answer. Maybe there is no right answer.” Ragoth waved his hand.

“Maybe there is no answer at all,” said the Auroch. “But what would I know? The only way I’ve changed the world is by reducing the amount of people in it.”

Ragoth’s mind drifted off as they walked. He cast a wary glance over his shoulder, ever in fear of Lord Blight. All he saw was sunlit skies over the green forests and gray cliffs of the Dynasty.

The cage on the back of the cart proved no match for Mora’s might. With a few strong yanks, the cage broke free and was tossed aside, leaving a simple cart for them to travel in. Rags asked Mora to destroy the cage in front of the Fawnlings and they watched as she used her mace to crush it into uselessness.

Ragoth approached Narthas. “This cage will never again imprison any of your people. I understand you wish us departed from your lands, but should you ever need help, I will gladly come to your aid.”

Narthas gave him an appraising look from under the cowl of the buck’s pelt, his wild eyes seeming to shine in shadow. “My people have suffered for hundreds of years under the evils of Orcs. They slaughtered us for sport. Devoured us like game. I lost my beloved, the mother of my children, to the cruelty of your kind. Our people cannot abide you here. Other chieftains will not stay their blades at the sight of you.”

He reached up and pressed his finger on the red slash across Ragoth’s cheek where the knife had cut him. It stood out amidst a plethora of scratches and smaller cuts delivered by the branches that had thrashed him.

“But you fought for my people. Bled for my people. Killed for my people. Never would I think to call an Orc—even a half-orc—a brother. Your deeds will not go unforgotten, Prince of Namaria. As a father and chieftain, I thank you.”

He clasped Ragoth’s hand tightly, gripped at the wrist. Rags felt his chest swell with pride, overwhelmed by having earned the Fawnling chieftain’s respect. Daring to expose himself as a prince to Narthas to earn his trust had been a risky gamble, but one that had paid off. Rags was glad none of the others could speak the Feylish tongue or his secret would be out in the open. Narthas clasped hands with all of them before they piled into the cart and Cort took the reins to lead them out of the meadow.

Narthas was not alone in gratitude towards Ragoth. That first night after being rescued, Denith caught Rags in a moment of privacy and spent a finger of time gushing profound thanks to him.

“How did you even find me?”

“They could have run for a day or more and I’d still be able to pick up your scent, sorry to say. It’s quite strong. I found you within hours.” Rags chuckled.

Deni sheepishly shrank and thanked him again. All Rags could do was smile and say, “What are friends for?”

There were things that could not be said that were told with the eyes, etched in the lines of one’s face. Denith, demure and worrisome elf that he was, wore such a mask of complexity in that moment that Ragoth could not read it. Something pained. Something expectant. Something appreciative. If Ragoth had not left when called by Mora, he suspected Deni might have stood there forever. Maybe the elf didn’t know quite how to express such deep gratitude, Rags assumed. For him, it was enough that Deni was safe.

From that point on, Deni seemed to find that the most comfortable place to be was right next to him.

The Starsong Dynasty in its southern reaches was not like the open plains and rolling hills of Sylveria. Instead, it was clogged with thick forests and frequent spires of rock, plateaus that rose high and forced unwary travelers to find alternative passage. The Dwarf Road made travel through the Dynasty a more winding affair, but quicker than older, less developed routes.

Adventuring guilds were once a mainstay here. Everywhere one looked, there were ancient ruins, crumbling temples, abandoned forts, and foreboding entrances carved into cliff sides. Closer glances revealed each one littered with the distinct glimmer of sunlight shining against dozens of guild tags nailed to the entrances. Every so often, Mora would point out a location she had once visited. Cort and Rags pressed her for more tales of her adventuring days, but she waved them off. If not for her knowledge of the area, they would have been hopelessly lost.

The cart was an improvement over KeeKee’s rickety boat, but only marginally. The back had no seats, and it had little in the way of suspension. Before long, their backs protested. The beaten path through the maze-like hills and forests finally deposited them far enough north to encounter the Dwarf Road and a smoother ride. Arcathoria was still several days yet ahead of them. They were thankful that, at least, the weather remained pleasant. The wind caressed them with a gentle breeze, and the sun full of soft warmth. Mora even declared one afternoon that, “It is not a bad time of year to travel. Not at all.” It was the first time they saw her smile for longer than a few seconds, and the hard lines on her stoic face softened.

As in Sylveria, scouts and guards patrolled the Dynasty’s roads. The closer they came to a village or town, the more frequently they were stopped. Most were content to let them pass with a few questions answered and names given. Rags had to pull his cloak back up and sulked in the corner of the cart, hunched over with Deni pretending to care for him.

“Sick to his stomach, he is. Ate a bad Halfling’s Fist days ago and he’s run all over the cart and himself,” the elf would say whenever a guard tried to peer at Rags too closely. They winced and recoiled quickly. It was easier when they didn’t know he was Orcborn and that rankled Ragoth.

There had been many a time when Ragoth had dreamed of sleeping under the stars and on the road with his own band of adventuring compatriots. As he settled down for another dinner of dried meat and hard tack dipped in water, he took back those wishes. There was much more hardship and hunger than he imagined and a lot more bickering. Their camp, nestled within a depression in the ground, was at least within view of the Dwarf Road.

“Two more days to Arcathoria,” Mora said absently, poking at the fire with her hoof. “Provided we aren’t stalled with another night of heroics.”

“You didn’t finish answering me that night,” said Cortland. “Before those half-deer showed up, you said you were a Knight Valiant? You were inside their Grand Hall?”

She felt their gazes on her and her head rolled back with a groan. “Fine. Would have come out eventually, I suppose. I was not a Knight Valiant. I was, however, considered for their ranks. After the Orc Wars, there was an influx of imprisoned Orcs and Orc allies. The Arena in Barrow’s End had plenty of fights, but few fighters. So, I fought. Orcs, trolls, ogres, monsters of all kinds. The Order would capture monstrous creatures for study and when they were done, they sold them to the Arena, and I cut through them. That’s where they began calling me the Beast of Barrow’s End.” She grinned, pride in her eyes.

“Why did you stop?” Rags asked.

She leveled herself with him and looked him in the eyes. “You’re half-orc, Rags. Only half. But tell me true: have you been regarded well in your travels?”

He shook his head.

“They see you as every bit the Orc your father was. So how do you think I felt the day they paraded a minotaur into the arena opposite me and declared it beast versus beast?”

“You beat it?” asked Cort.

“Didn’t fight it,” She said, “It was then I realized they didn’t see me as the warrior I am, they saw me as a beast to pit against other beasts. Watching me fight was no different than Orcs watching Wargs fight. I turned my hooves on them and never went back. Oh, I’m sure they’d take me back if I asked and then feed me to five dragons at once to pay me back for walking out. There is no glory or future in the arena. Only an endless meat grinder for the amusement of a bored populace.”

“What does that have to do with the Knights Valiant?” Cort asked.

“My Arena exploits and reputation amongst merc bands had my name reach the right ears. I was among a handful of candidates chosen for entry into the order. The Knights spent years replenishing their ranks after the Battle of Dreadmour. Seven of them died in that battle, you know? A single Knight Valiant is worth a hundred men and seven dying in one battle was unheard of.”

“A hundred men would cower at a Knight Valiant. They’re worth a thousand men,” Cort replied.

“I had all three tomes of their exploits,” Rags said. “’One Hundred Years of Courage’, ‘The Testament of the Knights Valiant’, and ‘The Grand Order of Valor’. I can recite the passages from memory.”

“Aye, all that and more. In truth, I was honored to be considered. They were accepting one more amongst their ranks, and I was one of six. But…” her voice trailed off as her eyes narrowed. “In the end, my worth was not as valuable as that of the Grand Knight’s son.”

“Galdren,” Cort spat the name off his tongue. “His father was the Grand Knight of the Knights Valiant during the Orc Wars. So, it was Galdren took your place.”

“Sir Galdren Edenthaw?” Rags mouth fell.

“It wasn’t my place. It never was. The gathering of candidates was a formality for tradition, but there was never a moment I was considered. I left that festering boil of an order behind and stomped my own thoughts of knighthood into the dirt where they belong!” By the time she finished, Mora was shouting and standing over them, fists clenched and eyes flaring. “I told you to stop chasing knighthood, Cort, so you won’t waste your best years seeking glory only to wind up at the wrong end of five handspans of steel or dragging your arse back to your potato farm with nothing to show for years of bloodshed but a broken body and spirit.”

“I’ll take first watch,” Cort said after a long, uncomfortable silence. He pushed to his feet and turned his back on them, walking towards the cart.

When he was gone, Ragoth said, “I think you crushed his spirit.”

“Better now than after decades of lying to yourself.” Mora plopped onto the ground with a thud and crossed her arms.

Ragoth felt a twinge of sorrow for Mora. Here sat a great warrior, knowledgeable from years of fighting and adventuring, reduced to a tour guide escorting three who had not even a fraction of her experience.

“For what it's worth, Lady Mora, I think you’d made an exceptional Knight Valiant. I think it is their loss.”

“Stop calling me lady. That’s noble talk. There’s no court out here.” She closed her eyes and turned her head as she settled into sleep, shutting out the camp chatter.

Rags and Deni both slunk to their sleeping rolls, dejected in spirit. Mora’s stoicism was turning into an open bitterness before their eyes. Rags had not known her long in the grand scheme of things, but she had proven to be of better character than his own brother. Even if she brushed off the rejection, he was angry for her. He thought to offer every condolence he could, but there was no balm to soothe such an old hurt.

In the fleeting hours in which Ragoth slept, he dreamed again. The sense of ever-present dread accompanied his waking hours, but tonight it manifested in terror. He was gripped by the breathlessness, the memory of his last night with Marvallo played out before his eyes again as it often did.

They heard the loud swoop of wings overhead, the rumbling from a dragon’s gullet as the light of the moon went dark over their heads. He and Marvallo looked at one another in fear and snatched up their packs before running into the dark of the woods. In the deep night, there was little light, but the forest was sparse enough to bolt through without risking running into trees. Their lower branches still clawed at them like talons in the dark.

Behind, they could hear the crunch of the dragon’s feet as it tore its way through the brush. Its sniffing and growls vibrated in Ragoth’s ears as if it were right behind him. The shroud of night did not reveal the steep edge of a hillside as they careened over the side and tumbled over logs and roots before coming to a stop. Before Ragoth could utter a word of his pain, Marvallo’s hand clamped over his mouth. From up above, the distant sounds of the shadow dragon echoed through the trees as it hunted for them. A tense moment passed and the sounds of it faded. They waited longer still before daring to stand and continue.

“How did it find us?” Rags said, not daring to look back.

“I don’t know,” Marvallo said, his eyes wide as he scanned every direction. Without the dragon’s rumbling, their footfalls seemed louder in the still quiet, their breaths heavy and rushed. “It will hunt you until you are dead. You must travel to Dreadmour, seek your uncle Gorvok. Take the blade and never let it out of your sight.” He pushed Wraithslayer into Ragoth’s hands, tightly wrapped in burlap. “Trust no one, young sire. Any person you trust may give you up to the dark lord’s power with a single careless word—even your own. Tell no one, not even if they threaten you with death. Give name to your pursuer and he will surely find you. Do not even use your name. If any ask, your name is Rags.”

“Marvallo, what are you saying?”

The dragon’s rustling through the brush grew louder. Its hissing growls returned in great menace.

Marvallo clapped his shoulders. “I fear this journey you must make alone.” He passed his pack to Ragoth. “Use the gold inside wisely. Tell no one the truth of your journey lest the dark lord find you. I will stall the dragon while you get away.”

“You can’t fight that thing alone!” Ragoth protested, but Marvallo shoved him away. Ragoth’s feet carried him into the woods, watching Marvallo grow smaller behind him.

“I always have a few tricks up my sleeve. I’ll do what I do best: improvise.” The jester flashed his signature grin. A tongue of flame flickered from his fingertips.

The prince wanted to protest, to stand down their enemy together, but in Ragoth’s mind he understood Marvallo’s truth: a jester mattered little compared to The Prince Who Was Chosen. He felt as if his heart would tear itself in two, a deathly cold wrenching its icy fingers around his gut as his feet took him farther and farther from Marvallo.

The shadows themselves came alive as the dragon towered over him. Its burning eyes regarded Marvallo and did not see Ragoth, who ducked behind a tree and peered out to see the jester twisting in an elusive dance that sent flame and dancing lights at the dragon’s face. It regarded his tricks with a moment of disdain and shot forward.

Marvallo looked back with a mask of fear on his face as it swallowed him in a single deadly bite.

Rags clamped his hands over his mouth to keep from screaming. He spun with his back to the tree as the shadow dragon’s triumphant roar echoed in the forest, followed by the beat of its wings.

All at once, the prince was alone.

He dashed into the woods, no clear path in sight, filled only with the instinct to run until he was at Dreadmour. Tears filled his vision as fast as he could blink them away. He did not know how long or how far he ran, but eventually he burst through a clearing of brush and fell over a campfire tended by an elf and a human.

A low rumble woke Rags. His eyes darted about as he caught his bearings. Deni and Mora slept, Cort watching the gray clouds in the sky flash every so often with a distant rumble of thunder. He carried himself to the cart and took a seat next to Cort. He felt a soft wind blow over his face.

“Storm coming?”

“A small spring storm. Just thunder in the clouds, not even a drop of rain. Nothing to wake the others about. Your watch, Rags.”

Rags pulled out his traveling journal and flipped through his recent entries: details about the Fawnlings with accompanying sketches. Images of the cart. The lock. He tried to be as academic as he could, leaving out his personal feelings after killing the halfling Night-taker. By now, he’d come to terms with the act, thanks in no small part to Mora’s guiding words and Deni’s support. Despite her outwardly detached demeanor, she often checked to see that he was coping well. At the very least, his death was not causing Ragoth to have nightmares.

As Cort went to leave, Rags asked him, “Not that I’m ungrateful for your continued, if temperamental, presence, but how long will you be traveling with us, Cort?”

“Until a better opportunity presents itself. Useless as he is, Deni had a point when he said I had no honor in leaving you two. If Mora is right and adventuring is truly dead, I may just go back to Namaria and join the military. I should have done that from the moment I left my father in his potato fields,” Cort answered.

“Is everyone’s father so egregious? I thought it was only mine.”

“My father is not whatever that word means. He’s a stubborn old man who lacks the desire to do anything different from farming potatoes. Just like everyone else in Vaelyn’s Deep, too set in their ways to think bigger than their own plot of land. I suggested something else, anything else, but would he listen? Ha! Just like my mother, he’d tell me. Always wanting to leave home and hearth, he’d say.”

“My father was cold,” Rags admitted. “I’m certain now he hated me and resented my mother for not killing me.”

“Sounds better than my mother.” Cort spat on the ground. “My mother was a Pallie.”

“You’re jesting?” Rags froze, eyes wide.

“No, and piss on that woman for carrying me to birth only to drop me in that man’s hands. He said she used to come through town with a group of adventuring Pallies, kill a few goblins and spend the gold on drinks before moving on. Who knows how much ale it took to get them both drunk enough to put me in her belly, but once I was born, she never came back.”

“Do you know her at all?” asked Rags.

Cort shrugged. “I know her name, the name of her group, the faith she served, but it matters not. I’m not interested in knowing her nor finding her, but if we cross paths, I’ll have some choice words for her. I hope by then to be a knight and prove myself better than a rotted Pallie who dumps her son in the gutter of Namaria so she can seek gold and ale.”

Rags lifted an eyebrow, “Are you sure you aren’t following in her path? What would you call seeking glory in the Knights Valiant but the—” Rags got cut off as Cort punched his shoulder. He grasped it in pain. “Agh! What was that for?”

“Keep that waggin’ tongue behind your tusks, Rags. Smart squint like you ought to be smarter than to throw that back at me. Have I said a word about your orcshit quest to Dreadmour? Not a one. Call me Orc-punched, but as much trouble I’ve been through being around you, I feel honor-bound to see this through. Don’t make me think twice next time you’re in another tavern brawl.”

“You hit like an elf girl.” Rags rubbed his arm.

Cort spat a curse and grabbed Rags by the collar, pulling the two of them off the cart. Down they went, grappling and rolling in the grass, but laughter punctuated their struggle as Cortland fought to keep Rags still long enough to rub his knuckles into his scalp. They broke free of each other and sat in the grass, panting as they laughed, their hair disheveled.

Mora peered over the cart. “Are you two fighting?”

“Yes.” They both said, grinning.

“Which one of you started this?” she asked.

They both pointed at the other. Mora huffed.

“Off to bed, both of you, since I can’t trust you to keep watch. Enough with the barnyard brawling. The next one to throw a punch eats one of my fists.”

Rags and Cort shuffled back to bed. As soon as Mora wasn’t looking, Rags gave Cort a last surprise punch to the arm and Cort countered with one of his own. They went to their bedrolls rubbing their arms. Rags hadn’t thought before spitting the insult out, one that Brutis had taunted him with when he managed to land a blow during their sparring. When Cort had pulled him to the grass, he feared he had incurred the man’s wrath, but the rough tussle lacked the malice of genuine anger. He wasn’t quite sure what had transpired between them, but he went to sleep with his chest feeling lighter, a smile on his face.

Nearby, Deni shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Mired in jutting spires and rocky precipices, the landscape of the Dynasty made farming in the region tricky, and its villages and towns were more distant apart than those of Sylveria. Rags passed the time riding in the cart by sketching, but his writing implement had been sharpened to a mere nub. An errant bump from the cart snapped its point. Rags stared at the broken tip with a grimace.

“Damnation,” He tossed it over his shoulder. “And I don’t have another.”

The patrols were sparse until they drew closer to Arcathoria, and more than a few of the patrols disapproved of the quartet, though without outwardly breaking laws there was little reason to detain them. In the southern provinces, most scouts and patrols along the Dwarf Road were moderately armored by whatever settlement they hailed from. The guards of Arcathoria, however, were resplendent in gleaming plates of dwarvish make and billowing capes of cobalt blue and stark white. Though part of the Starsong Dynasty, their sigil was that of the white flame, the sigil of the Arcane Order itself.

“What do you know of the Arcane Order?” Rags asked as they crossed a section of the Dwarf Road bridging over the tops of thick trees, winding streams, and sharp rock spires. The terrain below would have been too difficult to build on, so the dwarves simply went over it.

“They’re a bit zealous for my liking. You either cast magic for the Arcane Order or you do not cast magic.” Mora stated, leaning back in the cart as Deni passed the time brushing her hair. “Been some years since I visited this city. It’s as flawless as a Knight Valiant’s armor. You could eat food on the cobblestones.”

“Never could wrap my head around them. They’re called Magi, but aren’t they wizards?” Cort wondered aloud.

“They’re all the same to me,” Mora replied. “Different colors of the same cloth, doesn’t matter if you’re a wizard, an enchanter, a warmage, or–”

“But not sorcerers.” Rags jumped in. “Sorcerers are explicitly forbidden by the Order. They work to hunt down unauthorized usage of magic—including the four forbidden classes: Sorcerers, Warlocks, Witches, and Necromancers especially.”

Mora, Deni, and Cortland waited in mute pause to see if he would continue. Rags cleared his throat.

“Apologies. I’ve read so much about Arcathoria and the Order. It is exciting to think about laying eyes on The Zenith, the center of the Order itself. Or the spires of the Obsidian Reach, a wizard’s tower from the time of the War of Sorrows itself. Or the Vaithlorn Academy where they train their Mages and maintain the largest library in the southern provinces. Oh, to see that.” The distant look in his dazzled eyes had the three others sharing concerned looks.

“We won’t be seeing any of it,” Mora stated matter-of-fact. “We’ll be lying low in Mageroot, staying out of taverns and replenishing our supplies. Our rations are almost gone. If we head for Dessius without stopping, it’ll be another four days on the road without food.” She saw the looks on their faces and knew they weren’t willing to entertain the notion, not after they staggered into Barrow’s End half-starved. The Dwarf Road eventually descended into a small maze of rocky spires and brought them back down to the ground. They pulled the cart to a stop at the apex of a hill, just past a stone arch.

Rags, Deni, and Cort let out a collective gasp of awe. Mora let a smile slip onto her face as she beheld Arcathoria in all its glory.

“You never forget the first time you see it,” she said with a smirk. The capital cities of Allspire were all grandiose in their own way, but Arcathoria existed with the seeming determination to put them all to shame. They stood in the cart, jaws dropped in silence as the three tried to process the sight.

It was not every day one saw a city built on the hand of a dead god.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“If one is inclined to adventure the face of Allspire, Arcathoria should be considered the last stop on your journey, for all other sights will seem tame once you’ve rested your eyes on its majesty.”

‘The Adventurer's Guide to Allspire’

“The creation of Allspire, it is speculated, was a time of unparalleled chaos and magic. The gods, and they were many, created a world and all things within it. They made peace and broke peace with one another, warring amongst themselves as often as not. It was thought that one of those wars had seen a god fall and, once fallen, his body stilled and was buried deep within the stone of the world. What god was it that fell and left only its colossal hand jutting from the ground? An avatar of the world itself? A forgotten forger of the land? What, even, was his name? There was no answer from man or god alike, but the sight of the hand was known as a wonder long before even the God-Sorcerer came into power. It is one of many monoliths scattered across the face of the world. The wrist juts from the ground at an angle, palm upward and fingers curled skyward. A gargantuan monolith to rival any mountain.”

“Then a wizard seeking to isolate himself from the rest of the world—as wizards are prone to do—made his tower in the palm of its hand. Others did likewise in the years following, until it became a safe haven for practitioners of the arcane. Allspire’s Crowns were not keen on so many arcane practitioners in one place. The Magi did not work well with one another, much less forge a working government, but the threat from fearful monarchs forced them to ally with one another. There were sieges, a few small wars, and eventually a partnership was forged between the Crown Pantheon and the newly created Arcane Order during the Age of Crowns. The Mages could keep to their city as they saw fit and, in turn, they enforced the laws regarding the usage of magic across all of the Crown Pantheon. Their unity as Magi helped keep the disparate kingdoms of the Crown Pantheon in some semblance of order. None of the Crowns could afford to operate without the use of Magi lest it put them in a position of weakness amongst their peers.”

Ragoth stopped, realizing he had been openly repeating the text of the Arcanum Historica verbatim. Cort and Mora were waiting for his breath to run out. Even Deni, usually an attentive listener to his ramblings, was staring off into nothing. A blush of embarrassment took him, making him bite his lip.

The white stone wrist rose, slanted, into the air several thousand feet before the palm evened out. The city in the hand of the dead god was as immense as it was chaotic. Its skyline was a dizzying array of roofs with spires, chimneys, domes, thatched tiles, balconies, and stone bridges and wooden walkways to other buildings forming a chaotic web that sprawled across the palm, between the fingers, and on the very tips of the fingers themselves. Since the city could not develop outward, its infrastructure went up and from a distance it looked as if the hand had spiked coral growing from it.

The pictures in his tomes did not do justice to the sheer size and majesty. Ragoth was awestruck and struggled to take in the true scope of the monolith and the city nestled in its hand.

Cort squinted. “What are those lines traveling down from between the fingers?”

“Waterfalls,” Mora answered, nudging the cart towards a fork in the Dwarf Road. “The Magi use an enchantment to send water up to the city.”

“The waterfalls flow upward? Extraordinary!” cried Rags, leaning closer for a glimpse though they were miles away.

“It’s a city of Mages and magic,” Mora said. “Things can get strange quickly.”

“We’re going to stand out regardless,” Cort snorted derisively.

“Fortunate, then, that we won’t be going to the city proper. Mageroot will...” She trailed off.

“Mora.” Denith stood up in the cart and pointed.

“I see them,” said Mora, grimacing. The small town at the base of the wrist was swarming with a great host. Even from miles away, they caught the glimmers of silver armor and blue capes—the banner colors of Sylveria.

“What is the elvish military doing here?” Ragoth said with a hushed voice, as if they might hear him.

“What was the Namarian army doing at Barrow’s End?” Mora queried aloud, looking directly at him. “Much as it pains me, we shouldn’t test our fate trying to enter Mageroot. The second they find our gold with shims at the bottom they’ll send us straight to an Inquisition and none of us will ever see sunlight again, much less Dreadmour.”

Ragoth instinctually gripped Wraithslayer, its pommel covered in layers of burlap. For a long moment, they sat in the cart and studied the army nestled about the entrance to the city of mages. It was a daunting thought to sneak past them, but Ragoth knew the truth of the matter. If he were questioned and searched, they would find his magic sword and his purse of tilts. He couldn’t risk it, even for the chance of rations and supplies.

“Looks like we’re going hungry again,” Cort grumbled. Deni suddenly latched onto his shoulder, excitedly gripping his cheek.

“Perhaps not. Listen, if you will.”

“This won’t work,” Cort muttered, his hand reflexively going back to touch the spot on his hip where his sword should be. He missed the sword’s weight and that of his breastplate. To his side, Ragoth felt similarly naked with his cloak discarded. He was accustomed to donning his hood when they approached people or entered civilization. Having it down around so many people made him feel vulnerable.

“It won’t work with such a poor attitude,” Rags said, though he glanced about with equal worry. They had no choice but to pass through the midst of elvish soldiers and cavalry, milling about in full armor and none of them looked particularly happy to be there.

Deni steered the cart to one side so traffic going the opposite way could pass and no small amount of heads turned upon seeing Cort, Deni, and Rags in their rickety cart as they approached the walled town surrounding the wrist.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do to look less like an Orcborn?” Cort asked as an aside. Mora had warned them Orcborn did not frequent the city and Rags would stick out worse than usual, but Deni’s plan required them to doff their cloaks. As he explained, hiding faces is one of the few things the Unexalted Faith considered akin to heresy.

“I can do this.” Rags took hold of his upper lip and stretched it out over his tusks. It made his mouth comically wide, a result that sent Deni into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. His high pitch titters were infectious, and Rags was chuckling along with him.

Cort looked at them in annoyance, but turned his head away before they could see his wavering grimace as he fought to suppress snorting chuckles.

If the elvish troops had any mind to investigate them, none took the initiative until they were at the gates. There they were met by an ebon-skinned elf, his long braided hair formed in a top-knot, clad in the deep cobalt robes of an Order Mage.

Rags stared. He’d never met an Order Mage, only read of them. The man held himself with an air of haughty authority. The Mage regarded the three of them as their cart came to a stop.

“Halt. Claim yourselves and state your business in Arcathoria.” His tone was none too friendly. Rags prayed in silence that Cort would keep his tongue held tight.

Denith produced a simple parchment from his robe’s sleeve and handed it to the Mage. “I am Denith of the Unexalted Faith. I am traveling with two initiates into our faith. We seek a night’s respite in our temple upon the great hand.” He pointed to the city and kept a polite smile.

The Mage turned his gaze on Rags and Cort, who were both left with naught but their plain traveling clothes to give the appearance of being destitute. The weeks of grime and sweat had left them looking worse for wear and the cart’s poor condition helped sell their ruse. All of it an effort to convince the gatekeepers they were truly desperate to join the faith. Cort took on a different mannerism. Shoulders slumped and back bent forward. He was poking his gut out far enough to be comical.

The Mage regarded Cort with wary eyes. “You’re a big one for the Unexalted Faith.”

For a long moment, Cort didn’t answer. He lifted his head and gave a lopsided, open-mouthed smile and waved his hand vigorously. “Hullo.”

The elf turned his nose up and gave Rags an appraisal, who took great effort to not hold himself with the regal bearings his mother had instilled in him since he could walk. He slumped, eyes down.

The Mage gave him a derisive scoff and said, “I thought we killed all of your kind, Orcbrat. You’re like rats climbing out of every crevasse the moment I look away. You want him in the Unexalted Faith?” He asked of Denith.

“The Unexalted Faith does not deign to question an individual why they join. We are all brothers and sisters in service of others and under that calling our petty appearances mean little.” Denith answered.

“Empty your packs.” The Mage ordered. He watched them empty their meager belongings and sparse rations until he was satisfied. His hand, resting on the lip of the cart, came away with a sneer and wiped it on his robe. “Take your dullard and your Orcbrat to your temple. Do not linger in the streets lest you wish to be trampled. Royal processions do not have pity on the slow-witted.” He waved his hand and allowed them through. Denith set the cart into motion and pressed them forward.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Cort spat, “Pissant spear-ear. No offense, Deni.”

“None taken,” he replied. “The Faith is looked down upon by elf and human alike.”

“They rule everything: the Crown Pantheon, the Order, the Knights Valiant. Not a scrap of land on Allspire that doesn’t pay them homage.”

“Except Namaria,” Rags mumbled. “No home for an Orcborn like me.”

“Sorry,” Cort said. “Don’t let those long eared bastards speak for all of us.”

“I’m not troubled by him.” Rags lied, looking away. He was troubled beyond measure, the perpetual desire to reach Dreadmour saddled now with the weight of undue hatred. His mind sought to reconcile the reputation of Orcs with the reality that he was not like them. He knew this and his friends—for they were his friends, yes?—knew that as well. It gave him pause to consider what others would have experienced to form their prejudice. How many deaths would be heaped on his head unjustly? Looking about, he caught no sign of any other Orcborn.

His musings were short-lived when they entered Mageroot. The base of the massive stone wrist was a symphony of chaos, a true melting pot of all manner of races from across the lands of Allspire. Lines formed heading to the base wrist itself. From there lay a selection of ways to ascend the wrist to the city above. On both sides of the Dwarf Road stood businesses built around commerce for local and distant travel. Before they left Mora behind, Rags had postulated that they could simply replenish their supplies in Mageroot. Mora patted him on the head like a child. “Never seen what military occupation does to a town, have you?”

True to her word, every general store and supply depot they passed had crudely painted signs mounted on their doors.

‘Out of Stock,’

‘Limited Supplies,’

‘No Vacancy,’

“Looks like we’re going up to the hand. Ah well, what a pity,” Rags said with a smile.

They waited in a short processing line, repeating their story to young mages in robes of deep brown—some as young as Rags. Apprentices, they assumed, paying dues by working for the city itself. One offered them a stable for their horses and cart, an offer they gladly accepted, and waited in line on foot. Rags hearts dropped seeing a wide flight of stairs built onto the wrist ascending to the city above, but there were thankfully quicker options. A pair of gondolas rose on a cable-and-pulley system that moved upwards slowly. Beside those were stone platforms lined with seats and railings lifted by magic, each worked by an attending Mage.

In the end they settled on the levitating stone platforms and within minutes they were well into the air at a brisk pace, accompanied by other passengers and a halfling Mage charged in using his magic to work the platform. Deni casually said, “Levitating an object like this is a very high tier spell, or so I’ve heard. A highly paid profession for some Magi with a gift for it.”

Once they were airborne, Ragoth stared upward in breathless awe as the gargantuan grandeur of Arcathoria loomed ahead of him and the splendor of the Dynasty spread out beneath them.

“I never thought to see such magnificence,” he said aloud, more to himself than anyone. “I was in that damn library for so long. It feels like so long since then.” He brushed his dark locks out of his eyes as the wind whipped at it. He caught Deni looking at him and they shared a smile. Rags turned his eyes back to the south, towards the Dreadmour Valley waiting past the horizon. “Still so far to go. I hope Mora will fare well by herself for the next day.” His eyes squinted to perceive a point in the distant woods a few miles away, where he knew the Auroch was guarding their possessions—including Wraithslayer. It was a risk leaving it behind, but one he was willing to take if she was the one guarding it.

Cort heard him but said nothing. He was busy trying to lean away from the railings behind their seats.

“Cort, are you well?” Denith asked.

“I’m well enough!” he snapped, staring in fury at his feet. “But why does this damn platform have to go so high?”

“But it must go up to the city. That is thousands of feet into the sky. The stairs would have taken far too long.” Rags chuckled.

Denith leaned over and asked, “Cort, are you afraid of heights?”

“I’m not afraid of heights, I’m afraid of falling! There’s a difference!” he cried out, eyes fixated on the stone. “If you both don’t stow your putrid tongues, I’ll toss you over the side!”

The halfling Mage working his spell governor turned his head, “If you cannot control yourself, you’ll be dealt with until the platform has fully ascended.”

Cort shot to his feet, shaking his middle-finger at the Mage, “Ascend this, you blue-bellied fuuu—” A wave of the Mage’s hand, a whispered incantation, a small crackle of magic at his fingertips and Cort went silent and limp. He collapsed, his face smacking the stone like a wet apple. Denith and Rags both leaned over him as he started snoring loudly.

The Mage sniffed and turned back to his spell governor. “As I said. Dealt with.”

Rags and Deni enjoyed the rest of their skyward voyage in peace, and once it docked with the city proper, they each took one of Cort’s legs and dragged his sleeping form with them. By the time he woke, he was more eager to find the Mage who cast the spell than let Denith nurse his bloody nose. By then, the platform was already descending with another payload of passengers.

The three of them pressed onward into the winding streets of the City of Magic and up close its sights were as grand as they were pristine. Between them, hardly a word was uttered as their eyes feasted on the menagerie of off-kilter architecture that could only have been conceived by wizards and their ilk. The buildings, they noted, must have been placed before the dwarven cobblestone streets as the structural placement could best be described as a discordant nightmare. This meant the streets were utterly confusing, a haphazard and winding mess. They crossed and curved in every direction in a chaotic jumble that had no sensible direction at all.

“How does anyone find their way around this ridiculous city?” Cort said.

“The city sprung out from around the first tower,” Ragoth stated. “Other towers and homes followed. They placed a building and then another without thought to a design. The roads merely pass through them. I read about it in The History of Arcathoria. The city is shaped unlike any other. Deni, which way to your temple?”

“I have never been to this city. We must ask, I fear.” Deni was holding onto his hat as he looked about.

They searched for a friendly face, but there were few to be found. Most they encountered were in some wild rush or took one look at them and turned away. Those not in Order robes were, instead, dressed in some of the most bizarre garb they had ever seen. That was only the ones who were walking, as the skies above the rooftops were alive with cobalt-clad mages flying from one place to another on objects enchanted to carry them—often followed by an animal familiar. Only an apprentice, devouring a meal on a bench, pointed them in the right direction.

The entrance square they passed was a green park full of small ponds and framed by colorful hedges of wildflowers. At its center was an enchanted fountain with water that flowed upwards into a rotating globe of water. Fish jumped from the globe to a levitating rope of water leading to a different body of water on the ground.

Once beyond that they were in the midst of shops with a dazzling array of windows with books, potion bottles, robes, animals, glostone and glostone caging, antiquities, and, most importantly, items of magical enchantment. The stonework was immaculate, not a brick out of place, nor cracked or chipped stonework. Not even so much as a layer of dust could be seen. For as old as the city was, it looked untouched compared to the level of chaotic activity around them.

Not a moment passed without something exploding, someone yelling, or things launching into the air. Signs and clothing would change color from one glance to the next. Coils of arcing arcane magic sparked between metal spires. Objects would fly past them overhead, never colliding. It was a mesmerizing cacophony of arcane chaos.

“Mother always said the wizards were eccentric,” Ragoth mused, his eyes darting everywhere. “Her words do not do this city justice. It is unlike anything I could ever imagine.”

Denith and Cortland were in mute agreement, their eyes wide and mouths slack as every corner took them past another sight to behold. Cort had to grab Rags by the back of his collar time and again as the ever-curious Orcborn would break from his path towards something that caught his eye—usually a shop lined with books.

Tomes were not all that caught his eye. Elves were ever present across the lands of Sylveria and here the Dynasty as well. In the City of Magic, there was an abundance of them—pristine and beautiful as the city itself. Their angular faces were built from a kaleidoscope of complexions and colors. The women, especially, kept his eyes wandering whenever they passed by. Oh, he had thought his mother beautiful and, indeed, she was, but there was an elegance about the elves that caught his eye differently. They were not shy in wearing form fitting robes, low cut dresses, and glamours that gave flourish to their appearance.

His head turned to follow an elvish girl with long waves of golden hair as she passed them, her eyes on him with a cautious glance. Suddenly, Cort’s hand palmed the top of his head and forced it to face forward.

Leaning in close to his ear, Cort warned in a low voice, “A bit of advice: look with your eyes, not with your head.”

Rags uttered a noise in apology and tucked his chin to his chest, trying to squelch the flush of red rising to his green cheeks. Deni elbowed him teasingly.

In time, they arrived without incident at the temple of the Unexalted Faith, a building as unassuming and bland as the acolytes themselves. A short elf with curly dark hair and ears that drooped downwards answered the door. Rags knew that the ears were something elves prided themselves on and low born elves with halfling blood in their lineage were shorter, with ears that drooped. They were commonly called low elves, but the moniker was considered rude, or so his mother taught.

“Welcome, brother. Be at home.” The elf gave them a demure smile and bowed low.

Deni bowed. “And you as well. My friends and I are in transit south and require respite.”

“You shall have it.” He stood aside and bowed.

Denith stepped inside, and Cort and Rags followed. They had never been inside the temple of a faith of humility and, once inside, there was little to brag about. It spoke to the traits of the earth-tone robed acolytes milling about, most moving something from one place to another. There were no grand high ceilings, nor elaborate tapestries. Each room and hall was clean and yet there still were a number of their order on hands and knees, scrubbing and washing the floors.

The central chamber was not filled with pews or altars nor were there fetishes or displays of religious icons. Only a single statue in the center indicated this as a place of piety, that of a robed elf on her knees, her face so close to the floor that her features couldn’t be seen.

“I will speak with my brothers and sisters. Both of you should settle in for now,” Denith told them.

“Is there no head priest?” Rags asked, looking about.

“We have no hierarchy or leadership within the Unexalted Faith,” Deni explained. “Such roles feed the ego and humility becomes difficult to maintain. We do not seek the elevation of ourselves, but to remain steadfast in our faith.”

After being shown to a room in the corner of the temple and given a fresh change of simple traveling clothes, Rags and Cort were left to their own devices. The amenities left much to be desired. They had to take a towel bath out of a shared bucket in a separate room. It was cold, but the wash helped them feel, and smell, better. Deni changed into fresh robes, but these were worse fitting than his old ones.

“This faith seems disorganized,” Cort remarked. He had met few of the Unexalted Faith and, upon examining them in their own temple, found them less than impressive.

“It seems exactly what I would expect of a leaderless caste,” Rags replied. “But it's their faith to run as they see fit. Who are we to question? They do good works across the Crown Pantheon.”

They were brought a bowl of the communal stew and chewy bread ends. The quality was rather poor, making Rags wonder what its contents were. He squelched his urge to complain as he stared out of the window and into the vast cityscape before him. A bowl of poor stew was better than eating out of a refuse barrel. The memory of that hungry, awful day lingered at the forefront of his mind.

Deni returned a few moments later, smiling. “Brother Lem has graciously agreed to let me accompany him to the commons market. He is fetching supplies for the faith, so I will fetch ours for the journey ahead.”

“You have some of the gold?” Rags asked.

Deni patted a pouch inside his robe. “Enough for two weeks of provisions. I promise.”

“Buy them and give whatever is left to your faith,” Rags said. “It’s the least thanks we can give them.”

Cort muttered some choice words, but as usual, they ignored his grumblings.

“I should return near nightfall. I hope. Hard to say. I will try to hurry as much as I can, but Lem has supplies of his own to buy. Stay well, my friends.” Deni waved as he closed the door.

“I’m not your friend!” Cort called out as they watched the elf leave. He tossed himself onto one cot, hands behind his head, and settled in. Rags walked to the window and stared out at the cityscape beyond. His prolonged silence must have alarmed Cort because half-a-finger of time into the mute pondering the former guardsman spoke up.

“Rags. What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“Well, stop it. Sit down and rest your mind for once. Deni will get the supplies and we can leave tomorrow morning.”

“I’m worried about our possessions.”

“You think someone will take one look at Mora and think, ‘I should rob that massive Auroch with the gigantic mace?’ She can take care of herself.”

Another moment of silence passed. Cort growled, trying to keep his eyes shut. “You’re still thinking. I can hear you doing it.”

“We are in one of the most amazing cities on the face of Allspire and you want to nap?” Rags pressed his face against the window.

“We’re in a city full of Mages who can subdue us with a spell and the elvish army is camped everywhere looking for…” he pointed at Rags so as not to say it out loud. “And you want to go sightseeing?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Rags wrang his hands together. “I know of many places here in Arcathoria. I used to pour over the maps of cities, places I intended to visit one day when I was able. In the center of the city palm is where the Vaithlorn Academy resides. The sole school in Allspire that teaches magic.”

“Interesting.”

“Vaithlorn was the wizard who led the final triumphant assault on Selrach the God-Sorcerer in the final battle of the War of Sorrows. They named the school in his honor. Back then, Mages and wizards and such had free rein to practice magic as they wished. When they formed the Order of the Arcane Flame, all magic users were required to join them or become enemies of the state.” He paced back and forth in the small room as he spoke.

“Indeed.”

“Their admissions are stringent, their rule over all magic use is as tightly controlled as the Crown Pantheon over its subjects, and every magic user—Mage, wizard, enchanter, or healer—answers to the Order.”

“Truly.”

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” Rags stopped and caught Cort with his eyes closed and feet and arms crossed.

“Something about wizards, aye?”

Rags promptly sat on Cort’s stomach, forcing him awake with a loud oof. “Cort, my friend Marvallo, the one I lost the same night I met you; he was once a student of the Vaithlorn Academy. I don’t know any of his family and it galls me to think that they do not know of his passing. I’d like to see if someone at the Academy would have record of his family or be able to get word to them.”

Cort let out a long noise from his gut that spoke to his annoyance. “I suppose you won’t be convinced against this?”

“It would honor a fallen friend. The kind of honor that a knight would embody.”

“You are a vexing little shit. Deni told us to stay here.” A contemptuous sneer crossed Cortland’s face as he casually pushed Ragoth off his gut and onto the floor.

“He said nothing of the sort. Denith holds no power over us and if we hurry, we will be back before he returns.”

“You’re going with or without me, aren’t you?”

Rags shrugged.

“I’d best go with you. You’ll get into trouble without me. Hafta ask for directions, though; we don’t know how to get there.” Cort got to his feet with a groan.

“I know where it is. I studied maps of the city.” Rags tapped his temple with a sly grin.

“You remember maps you read?”

“I remember everything I read.”

Through the winding streets of Arcathoria Cortland followed Rags and made him cut through back alleys. Their path was more winding, but true to his word, Rags knew every street and corner as though he had lived in the city all his life. A few skulkers had the same idea but changed directions once they saw Cort posturing aggressively.

Only a peddler in a long, multicolored robe didn’t recognize Cort as a threat and flashed a handful of dried leaves at them. “You lads like shiny?”

To Rags’ horror, Cort reacted with the most vicious punch he had ever witnessed him deliver, a lightning-fast strike that resounded with a loud crack and sent the hapless fool to the cobblestones a bloody mess. Cort searched him, produced a small bag and emptied its glittering contents into the wind.

“What was that for?” Ragoth asked as they walked away.

“Glimmerleaf dealer. Piece of Orcshit, selling that poison.”

“What’s glimmerleaf?”

“A drug, so stay away from it if you value your health or I’ll give you thrice the beating I gave him.” A potent threat laced Cort’s words. Ragoth tucked his tongue behind his tusks, and for once, took the threat to heart.

Their last obstacle on their route was people lining the streets, watching and waiting for something. They crossed the crowds quickly enough and within an hour they stood before the immensity of the Vaithlorn Academy. Its towering spires, myriad of connecting bridges, and massive halls made it a campus equal in size to Namaria’s castle. The city had never-ending sights that kept their mouths from closing and the Academy held them in rapture for almost a finger of time.

“Do we just go inside?” Cort asked.

“I suppose so. There must be a clerk who keeps records of past students.” Rags replied.

They navigated through the gardens and under floating spheres of water. Apprentices in dull brown robes sat about as they practiced spells, producing flashes of light, bursts of wind, or occasional cries of pain from a misfire. A few eyes regarded them curiously, but none stopped them. A cobalt robed elvish Mage exiting the steps to the front entrance happened close enough to them. Cort tried to catch his attention, but the elf spat something in his tongue. The elf turned his nose up at them as he swept past.

“Is the courtesy of the Magi so lacking?” Ragoth spat back.

The elf stopped and spun, glaring. “Where did you learn my tongue, Orcbrat?”

“Your mother was an exceptional teacher. Give her my regards and an invite for another night together.”

The elf’s hand was up in a flash, arcane energy arcing over his fingers as he opened his mouth, the utterings of incantation on his lips.

Cort jumped in front of Rags, fists raised, but before they clashed there came a shout.

“Hold!”

The three of them turned to see a white-bearded dwarf in white robes trimmed in burgundy and gold approaching them with a disapproving look on his face. His features were unlike most dwarves, soft instead of calloused and rough. He wore an expression of stern amusement at the spectacle trying to unfold before him.

“Gentlemen. If you please. Not on the front steps of my academy.”

The elf immediately lowered his hand and bowed. “Forgive me, headmaster. I was just ushering these vagrants off of the premises.”

“We are not vagrants of any sort. Only travelers seeking information within the Academy,” Rags replied, poking his head out from behind Cort.

The dwarf turned to him with a look of pleasant surprise and said in the common tongue. “Well now. An Orcborn who speaks elvish. I’ll confess I’ve not seen the like in my many years. Damith, you may go.” He waved his hand, and the elf gave Rags one last glowering look before departing.

The dwarf approached them with hands clasped in front of him.

“I’m Headmaster Stonebroth. Misunderstandings happen, but I daresay I shan’t tolerate such pugilism. If you can refrain from such antics, perhaps I can direct you?”

Rags approached and explained himself to the older dwarf, who stroked his beard thoughtfully. The Headmaster pursed his lips.

“Hmm, the name Marvallo does not sound familiar. But, if you like, head into the Hall of Tomes to the front clerk’s desk. Ask to speak to Scribemaster Celia Rithwurnn. Tell her I sent you with my blessing.”

Ragoth bowed and spoke in dwarvish, “You have my profound thanks, headmaster.”

“My my my, you are full of surprises, young sir. My condolences for your friend’s passing. I hope you can find his family and send word. Farewell.” Stonebroth was taken aback, a bemused look on his face. He left, but his curious eyes glanced back to regard Rags in assessment.

Rags and Cort passed through the massive doors marking the entrance into the Academy, dwarfed by carved stone archways, immense statues of past headmasters, and windows of elvish forgery filled with panes of colored glass. Once inside, their tongues stilled at the sight of the immense foyer looming high overhead. Staircases led to distant floors as cobalt-clad Mages scurried back and forth with nary a thought to the two visitors in plain garb, gawking openly. The inside was bright, illuminated by glostones gleaming in arcane light. At their feet, the floor was smoother than glass with a mirror sheen.

Another apprentice directed them down a long hallway and as they walked its length, Ragoth sniffed at the air. An excited spark lit in his eyes, his lips quivering as he walked faster.

“What’s wrong with you?” Cort asked.

“Don’t you smell it?”

“Smell what?”

“The books. I know that smell anywhere. It’s a library!”

Before Cort could stop him, Rags ran for the end of the hallway. By the time Cortland caught up to him, Rags stood before the enormity of the Hall of Tomes with his head in his hands.

True to its name, the Hall of Tomes stood several stories tall and was long enough to take a finger of time to sprint from one side to the other. Shelves of tomes, books, and scrolls lined every wall and ceiling while rows of shelves filled its middle portion. Desks and comfortable corners lined the floors. As Rag’s eyes drifted upwards, he saw the shelves curve along the cathedral-style ceilings and even on the top of the ceiling—all lined with books.

“How do the books not fall out?” Cort asked out loud.

“Magic, I assume.” Rags scanned every corner and wall with his eyes, his hands brushing the spines of books closest to him. “This is the most amazing place I’ve ever seen. A lifetime of tomes, knowledge beyond all compare. Oh Cort, I could stay here forever. This library I could live in for all my life.”

“I wouldn’t be that lucky. Find the Scribemaster so we can leave. We haven’t all day.” He grabbed Rags by the collar and forcibly dragged him, searching the doors lining the walls on their level.

Rags couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Mages and apprentices using pulley platforms to ascend to high shelves and pluck tomes out of their allocated place. His mind was a maelstrom of thoughts at what he could learn if he but had the time to stay here. And to converse with others of a like-mind for such knowledge? If only he had the time. If only. The lingering touch of new tomes left his fingers as Cort forcibly reoriented him out of his hazy book lust. Once they found the office, Cort ushered him in while waiting just outside of the entrance.

Scribemaster Celia occupied an office tucked away in a corner in a room that, like the main library, was lined with tomes and shelves piled high with scrolls. A small mountain of books that made Rags miss his own little fortress of literature surrounded her. He approached and cleared his throat. The elf was busy writing in an open book with a black-and-gold implement topped with a small black feather. Rags immediately recognized the Everquill. She frowned as she wrote, her brunette curls moving as her head went back and forth. Rags made a second noise, and she finally lifted her head, narrowing her eyes at the sight of him.

“Visitors are not welcome in these offices, Orcbrat. Begone,” She said in elvish, nodding to the door.

“I beg your pardon, Scribemaster. Headmaster Stonebroth gave me his blessing to seek you out.”

She lifted from her hunch, head tilting. To hear her tongue from the mouth of an Orcborn set her back in her chair. “Did he now? Very well. Speak quickly, I have little time to waste.”

“Years ago, there was a student at this academy, a friend of mine named Marvallo. He died recently and I know not of the whereabouts of his family. I would like to send them word, if their names are listed in your records of him.”

She placed her Everquill down on a piece of blank parchment and performed a quick motion of her fingers and hand, uttering an elvish incantation ending with the word ‘Marvallo’. The implement stood straight on its point and began writing on its own accord. It scribbled across the page with a furious speed as the two of them watched in silence. Rags marveled at the spell, wondering if he were capable of such a feat. He was supposed to have his Affinity for magic tested by the Archmage of Namaria on the same day as his Crowning. One of many thresholds he had not crossed because of the interference of that ghoulish sorcerer.

The Everquill fell and Celia picked up the parchment, now filled with text and illustrations that Rags couldn’t make out from where he sat.

“Marvallo was an alias of one Martas Lorias. A stage name, if you will. He was, indeed, a student here, briefly, and accumulated quite a list of offenses,” she said after a moment of reading.

That raised his eyebrows. “Offenses?”

“Disruptive behavior, insubordination towards instructors, excessive tardiness, excessive amounts of partial or total nudity, oh lovely.” Her lip curled as she read.

Rags listened to her rattle off the list of offenses with a worrisome look. He only knew the jester, not the man himself, but his smile had always radiated the warmth of friendship. Was this truly his friend she spoke of?

“…And finally, the theft of a magical item from an academy vault resulting in expulsion. Hmm, I fear your search is in vain. There is no record of family.”

“May I see the parchment?” he asked in the common tongue.

She shook her head. “This is for Academy personnel alone.”

“I understand it is Academy property. I don’t wish to take anything from you, only see it for myself while I still have time. I understand you are busy and don’t wish to be disturbed, but it would be a great boon if I could at least read the parchment.” Rags spoke in common and louder than necessary.

The stern glower on her elvish features spoke of a woman at the end of her patience. She straightened her back, his dismissal at the edge of her tongue when her eyes flicked towards her open door as a book sailed past the doorway.

“What in the abyssal hell?”

Cort’s voice came bellowing, “Pissant books for pissant Mages! Pack of spell-flinging puckerpuss shitheels! Where’s the booze in this place?”

She shot to her feet and dashed out of the room. Rags jumped out of his seat and went around to the front of her desk. He grabbed the parchment and folded it into his tunic, pausing just for the breadth of a moment as his eyes scanned her desk for anything else before dashing out.

Outside the office, Cort was plucking tomes out of their slots and tossing them over his shoulders as he spouted off Valeyn Deep’s most select rural obscenities. Students in the reading chairs were watching with horror as their sacred space and peace was desecrated.

Celia rushed in and snatched his wrist. “How dare you, you brutish clod?”

“Sorry, I don’t speak your fairy tongue.” Cort gave her a lopsided grin. Her fair face turned several shades of red. She stabbed her finger to the exit.

“Get out before I have Academy guards toss you and your Orcbrat over the side of the city!”

Cort maintained his foppish grin. “You’re rather cute when you’re angry. Care for a drink? I’m fond of ale, myself. You strike me as a woman who loves her wine.”

“Out, whoreson!” She stormed back to her office and shouted the same at Rags as she brushed roughly past him. He sputtered a quick apology before briskly walking out with Cort quick on his heels.

“Did you read what you needed to read?” Cort asked as soon as they were in the hallway again.

“Even better.” Rags produced the folded book page in his hand.

“I thought you remembered everything you read.”

“I do, but there wasn’t that much time. Easier to take it and read later. I’m glad you listened to what I was trying to say.”

“Of course I was listening. Why wouldn’t I?”

Rags chuckled. “You normally don’t listen to me.”

“I only listen when you say something important.”

“Are you saying what I say is not always important?”

“Oh, so now you’re listening to what I’m saying?”

Rags aimed a finger at him. “If you think to engage me in a game of wits, I would warn against it.”

“If I’m going to engage in a game of wits, I’ll do it with someone who actually has the game pieces,” Cort quipped. Rags sputtered in impotent frustration as Cort walked ahead of him wearing a rather proud grin. His grin vanished when a shrill cry rang through the hall and a loud crackle of cast magic erupted around them. Cort and Rags went to cry out, but found themselves frozen in place, unmoving, unblinking.

Scribemaster Celia came around and stood in front of Rags, her face redder than before. Behind her stood an older human man in cobalt robes holding a wand with a thin stream of smoke coursing from the tip. She rummaged in his pockets until she produced her Everquill.

“I see now why Marvallo was your friend, thief.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“The Elder Elf stands above his brethren, what few are left. An elf may live to a thousand years, an Elder Elf will live ten thousand or more. Their bloodline, it is said, comes from divinity itself. None exemplifies them more than Sothren, the Elven King of Sylveria.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Were it not for the circumstance of being locked in an unmoving state, facing the wrath of the Arcane Order, Ragoth would have found the interior of the Headmaster’s office fascinating. Aside from having its own interior library–and oh, what those tomes might contain made the hair on his neck shiver–it was a small museum of magical artifacts and items of historical importance. He recognized little, though he did glimpse a much-rumored item near him: the Godstone Staff. Its glassy black exterior drew his gaze, a circumstance he welcomed as he pointedly avoided looking at Cort next to him.

Cort looked as though he was trying to hate him to death.

Nearby, the Scribemaster and the Mage who froze them waited in silent guard until Headmaster Stonebroth finally swept into his office, where he was summarily informed of their actions. Kindly as the Headmaster had treated them at the onset, there was no disguising the disappointment in his face. He waved the two Mages out of his office and once alone turned his attention on Rags and Cortland. A wave of his hand, a whispered word, and the spell holding them in place released. Their movement returned and a strange crick in their muscles set in.

“I am very disappointed in you two,” said the dwarf, shaking his head. Ragoth felt his face burning. Somehow the Headmaster’s disappointment was much worse than the anger he’d anticipated.

Cort stepped forward. “I take full blame. He’s my responsibility. Had I known, I’d have kicked the green right off his arse and forced him to bring it back.”

“Cort, no.” Rags stepped in front of him. “Headmaster, I apologize. He didn’t know what I intended. He’s only trying to protect me. Don’t listen to him.”

Cort and Rags argued and stabbed fingers at one another, but the stout headmaster moved his broad frame in-between them and pushed them apart.

“Enough!” His stern tone held them both like a father at the limit with his bickering children. “First, you nearly start a fight with one of my Mages. A misunderstanding to be sure, but you took my blessings to harass my scribe, disrespect academy property by throwing books about, and worst still, you stole from her. Is there an adequate explanation or should I shuffle you both off to the guard now? Do you even know what you were trying to steal?”

Rags cleared his throat. He had always been obedient and never caused trouble for his mother. It was rare he had been scolded in such a manner and it burned like nothing ever had. Stealing after earning a measure of kindness only compounded his shame.

“I knew what it was, sir.”

Cort questioned him with a look. Stonebroth seemed surprised and reached over to his desk, grabbing an Everquill and holding it up.

“An Everquill is not a terribly rare thing, but sate my curiosity, lad. Why?”

Rags felt their eyes on him and took a breath to steady his nerves.

“I’ve been traveling for some time, putting char to parchment about my travels. Ink and quill are cumbersome when traveling by cart. I used a charpen until it broke, too small to use anymore. That was a few days ago. I never thought I might own an Everquill, so I…” he trailed off.

Stonebroth shook his head. “You thought you’d take one of ours and we wouldn’t miss it. You underestimated how fastidious Celia can be. It is one quality that makes her well suited to the scribe work. What is your best quality, then? Hmm?”

“It's not thieving,” Cort said as he crossed his arms.

“Indeed not,” Stonebroth agreed.

Ragoth tried his best to shrink down in the vain hope there was a crack in the flooring he could crawl into and never be found again. He had stolen in weeks past to facilitate his own survival, but the Everquill was an impulsive grab, one he hadn’t thought to control. He reached into an inner pocket and found a small, hidden coin pouch stowed away for an emergency and offered it to the headmaster.

“For your trouble, sir. With my sincerest apologies.”

Stonebroth rejected the pouch. “If you’re truly repentant about your impromptu purloin, then you’ll have plenty of time to reflect on it in the city jail cell. And furthermore—”

Ragoth’s nose wrinkled, a familiar stink curling into his nostrils, but much more pungent. Far more potent and concentrated. The Headmaster’s speech cut short as the echoing rhythm of boots in military march came from the other side of his office door. The increasing volume of the approaching number cowed them into utter silence.

The double doors swept open, held there by two in gleaming armor. Twin lines of elvish soldiers, resplendent in their blue-and-silver armor, entered the office and formed a protective lane that led to the trio.

Stonebroth let out a surprised noise and said, “Oh. Oh my.”

Cort and Rags inched closer together as the soldiers came to rest and they beheld the arrival of the elvish king.

Sothren entered the room with little fanfare, his hands clasped behind his back and an entourage of robed elves in tow. His traveling robe bearing the Jathari sigil was the finest garment Ragoth had ever laid eyes on. It conformed to the king’s figure and made his physique all the more impressive. His long ears, longer than any other elf, stood out as a physical sign of his Elder Elf bloodline. His stare, cold and calculating, was fixated on the Headmaster alone.

His eyes flicked over to glance at Ragoth and the Orcborn’s blood froze in his veins. Not even Lord Blight’s vile gaze instilled such ardent fear. His teeth clenched as the whole of his body tensed. Beside him, Cortland assumed a similar stance, his quick tongue tucked back for once.

Sothren spoke and his voice commanded the room, “Headmaster. I require the service of your Arcane ability in tracking one of the Crown Pantheon’s own in possession of a magical artifact.” He paused and continued in Common, “Accepting Orcborn into your institution, are you?”

Stonebroth looked at Rags. “Just a couple of vagrants causing trouble, m’lord. Not applicants, oh, but this one could. A bright lad, if a bit mischievous. Nothing some Order discipline couldn’t–”

“Do not let yourself be fooled. The Orc is a regressive, backwards thing—especially their halfkin spawn.” Sothren narrowed his eyes.

Rags felt his pride bristle, his back stiffened at the insult, and he couldn’t stop himself. “I beg your pardon?”

Sothren snapped at Ragoth before Stonebroth or Cortland could react. “You’ll not have it. I was born before the War of Sorrows, boy. I knew the Orc when they were but feral animals. The Orc did not speak until they heard the elf tongue. The Orc did not wear clothes until they saw the humans wrapped in hide. The Orc did not wield a blade until the dwarf slew them in droves. Everything the Orc does is in imitation of those better, for the Orc is and always will be a lesser being.” With each comment Sothren took a step closer until he glared down at Ragoth, his contempt seething with every word.

Every fiber of his being screamed at Ragoth to respond. There they stood, locked in a moment of mutual disdain broken as Stonebroth gripped his forearm and led him around the king and his procession.

“I’ve more pressing matters than you two. Exit the Academy premises at once and don’t let me catch you here again.”

With as much dignity as he could muster, Ragoth strode past the throng of elves with his head up. The elves lining the halls regarded him with little more than passive caution as he exited the headmaster’s office. He knew Cort was behind him—even without looking, he could hear his heavy footfalls and sense his large frame. The hallways beyond were lined with elvish soldiers holding guard every ten footspans, their eyes kept trained on the two as they passed. No doubt if they tried to turn around and march back, they would find every sword drawn against them.

There was much Ragoth knew about Sothren and none of it was comforting. He had long known Namaria was beholden to him, and the arrangement was under duress. His mother had coached him for years about what to expect when he met the elvish king, but the moment had come, and he found himself in cowardly retreat. The man was regality personified, unafraid of an unknown human and Orcborn in the room. Rags understood there was no recourse. Sothren didn’t know him or owe him a defense of his half-blood status. It was sobering to hear the elf’s blatant disdain of him, but no one would champion the pride of an Orcborn.

The statement spoken when he first entered rattled Ragoth. The king of Sylveria did not know who he was on sight but was very much looking for him. Was he in league with Blight? Why? To what end? Was there no end to this conspiracy? Questions he didn’t have time to pursue. He did as Stonebroth instructed and left the Academy grounds with the encounter still buzzing through his thoughts.

Cort followed in silence but once they were well and clear, he swatted Rags in the back of the head hard enough to almost send him to the ground.

“Blood and bollocks, Cort!” Ragoth rubbed the back of his head.

“I don’t know what you’re worse at: lying or stealing. I’ve seen one-handed trolls swipe better than that, you greedy gunt.”

Rags looked back at the Academy as it vanished behind them. The elvish military was out in force on the grounds, milling about with the population. If they were hunting him per Sothren’s orders, why not detain him on sight? He was the only Orcborn prince of the Crown Pantheon.

Perhaps they don’t know I’m Orcborn. They’re looking for a human with a magic artifact, he thought. If Stonebroth has a way of divining my location through magic, then we don’t have long to linger.

“Let’s get back, Cort. Hopefully, Deni will be returned. We can’t tarry any longer.”

Cort snatched him by the sleeve and pulled him back. “Next time you decide to pilfer a wizard for their magic trinkets, you’d do well to remember the first rule of thievery.”

Rags sighed, “Which is?”

He pressed something into Rag’s hand and said. “Don’t get caught.”

When Rags looked, he was holding Stonebroth’s Everquill in his fingers. The implement had a small, pearly white feather with inlays of gold and silver on the wood. Rags marveled at it until Cort snatched a handful of his collar and yanked him into a trot.

When Rags and Cort arrived back at the Temple of the Unexalted Faith, the sun was nearly down, and the evening caked the city in a deep golden-red. They had taken an exhaustive route to avoid the Sylverian troops stationed almost every corner and sidewalk. Hood up and head down, Rags avoided prying eyes until they were safe in the temple.

Deni was there, waiting for them and plenty cross.

“Where have you two been? The city is crawling with Sylverian soldiers.”

“We noticed,” answered Cort, thumping Rags on top of his head one more time. “Blame Rags. He insisted we hunt down his dead friend’s family. Then he tried to rob a book wizard, so I tried to woo her, and we got sent to the Headmaster.”

“It was humiliating,” Rags huffed.

“Aye, it was the most fun you’ve been this trip, but even I know better than to argue with King Sothren.”

“That’s an oversimplification, Cortland. Have I not apologized enough for you? How long must I endure your constant physical abuse?” Ragoth crossed his arms.

“Until I’m convinced you’ve learned your lesson.” Cort threw himself onto the bed in the corner and let out a long sigh of relief.

Deni fell quiet. Rags put the Everquill and parchment into his pack.

“You’ve got the supplies, Deni?”

Deni nodded. “We have enough, though not as much as desired. The markets shuttered when the elvish king came through.”

“You saw him?” asked Rags.

“No. Supposedly he went to the Arcanist Zenith...” Deni paused when he saw Cort’s puzzled expression. “Which is the headquarters for Arcane Order for those of us who are unaware. From there he went to the Vaithlorn Academy. Word was rampant in the streets. There was no lack of chatter about his whereabouts. What of you? You said saw him?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Cort answered. “Sothren wanted to speak with the Headmaster while we happened to be in his office and Rags decided that was the moment to grow the minotaur’s balls it took to try and spit in the king’s eye.”

Rags bristled, stuck his nose in the air. “The man insulted my father’s people to my face. He all but called me a simpleton. Was I supposed to stand there and be insulted without rebuttal?”

Deni gawked and shook his head in disapproval. It was hard to discern why, but Denith’s simple gesture stung worse than the elvish king’s bold-faced insult. He lowered his gaze, but in that instant, he remembered what the king had spoken in elvish. Everything else would have to wait until another time.

“We must leave. Now. And we have to make down Mulgart Pass as fast as possible.”

“The platforms shut down at nightfall.” Denith pointed out the sun outside their window fading into the distant mountains.

“Why not ask a wizard to fly us down?” asked Cort, eyes closed as he put his hands behind his head. “Better still, why not pay them to fly the whole lot of us all the way to Dreadmour? That’d be much easier.”

Rags stood over him, arms crossed and said, “Wizards can’t fly, Cort.”

“Not with that attitude,”

“It's true,” said Denith, “Something to do with the magic they can cast and the magic that comprises our life force. It's very complex and Magi have been trying for centuries with no success.” Deni shook his head angrily. “This doesn’t matter. Rags, the cart was lent to someone else, and we don’t have it. The supplies are heavy and would have to be carried. I don’t think we can make it in time.”

Denith had hardly finished speaking when Rags had his pack on and hefted a sack of their supplies onto his shoulders. Without a word, he marched out the door. Denith exhaled a frustrated breath and picked up his own pack on the way out.

Cort opened one eye and saw himself left alone with his traveling pack and the large burlap sack of supplies.

“A day will come when I am an honored knight,” Cort growled through gritted teeth. “And if I ever hear of this leaving your tongues, I’ll drown you both in troll piss.”

Their progress back to the city entrance was slow as Cortland fought to maintain his balance with an overstuffed pack trying its best to topple him at every wobbling step. Ragoth and Denith did their best to carry their share and bore packs stuffed to the brim. Much as they both found Cort’s threats amusing at times, they were too burdened in their efforts to roll their eyes.

The sun’s last glimmer vanished in the horizon by the time they reached the floating platforms. As they caught sight of the same halfling wizard, he closed the gate, and the platform began to slowly descend away from the edge.

“No! We’re too late.” Rag rushed to the stone railing and caught the eyes of the Mage guiding the platform. Cort dropped his pack, hunched over his knees as sweat poured off his face.

“Apologies,” The halfling wizard called as the platform descended at its steep angle. “Last ride down. You’ll have to wait for tomorrow at first light.”

Ragoth collapsed against the railing, his sweat-soaked head cast down in defeat. Deni joined him and let out a disappointed sigh, then a sudden shriek. Rags looked up just in time to witness Cort hurling Denith—pack and all—over the side of the railing. The elf screamed as he soared over the gap and landed on the platform, crushed under his own pack. The passengers and Mage cried out in shock. Ragoth had not a moment to think when Cort grabbed him by his pack and hefted him off the ground.

“Cort! What are—Aaugh!”

Cort spun around and launched Ragoth and his pack into the twilight sky. There was a brief, terrible moment when the city was no longer under Ragoth, and he could see the ground thousands of feet below him. As often as he had felt the lurch of his heart when his life was threatened, the momentary flight still sent a lance of terror through him. Arms flailing, he flew like a graceless green bird before crashing into Deni as the elf sat back up. Groaning, they struggled back to their feet in time to use their faces to catch the overstuffed burlap pack as it landed on them.

The platform was in an uproar over them, voices raised in protest as the Mage tried to regain control and concentrate, ordering everyone to settle back into their seats. Rags and Deni peeled their battered forms out from under the tangled packs and stood up, looking up at the railing above them. They saw Cort’s head briefly before it suddenly vanished.

Silence took the platform for a moment. The two of them looked up, despondent, as the edge of the city slowly crept farther from them.

“He’ll have to catch up to us tomorrow,” said Denith.

Ragoth issued an angry huff, tugging at his tusk.

“Yeargh!” Cort’s resounding cry caught every ear as he launched himself off the railing and sailed through the air. Rags and Deni cried out and rushed to the edge of the platform in unison, reaching it as Cortland slammed into the railing. He grasped for purchase as he slid down. Ragoth caught his sleeves, green fingers digging into his skin, elvish hands grasping his forearms, his feet dangling over the abyss.

“Pull me up, you motherless bastards!” Cort screamed as he slammed his eyes shut.

Rags and Deni fought to lift him, a pair of passengers joining the effort to snatch his tunic and help bring him over the railing. The trio collapsed together, panting and exhausted as the passengers berated them. The Mage fumed at the disturbance, but the platform took most of his effort to maintain.

“Where…where did you find such strength?” Rags finally asked.

Cort grinned and poked his thumb to his chest. “Not to be a braggart, but I’m Vaelyn Deep’s potato sack tossing champion.”

The half-orc and the elf stared at him with their mouths hanging in shock.

“Potato sacks?” Ragoth asked. “You risked our lives because you used to toss sacks of potatoes?”

Cort held his hands out wide. “They were big potato sacks.”

The moon was rising by the time they passed the last absent-eyed elvish trooper stationed around Mageroot and spurred their horse and cart into a fast gallop. It was several miles back to the forest by the fork. Traffic on the Dwarf Road was sparse this time of night, not that Rags considered it when he made Cortland veer off the road. They made for a thicket of trees at the base of a rocky outcropping and as they drew near to the trees, Val’Mora stepped into the open cautiously.

“What are you doing back so soon? You were supposed to come back at first light.”

Ragoth bounded out of the cart before it stopped moving. “Is everything safe? Our packs are stowed and secret?”

“As you left them.” She pointed to a nearby broken stump, and he ran to it. He dove into the stump to retrieve their packs, ignoring the multitude of bugs crawling on his arms when he emerged.

“Cort? Care to explain?” Mora asked as she watched Ragoth grip his burlap bundle in relief.

“Bit of a story, but the King of Sylveria changed our plans. He’s in the city. Looking for something.” Quietly, to her, he said. “Or someone.”

“Sothren? That explains the amount of elvish troops. No one loves a show of military force more than he.”

“Long eared ass rash,” Cort spat.

“Where do you hear such vulgarities?” Deni asked, making a face.

Ragoth returned with their packs in tow and tossed them into the cart. He jumped into the back and looked at his companions expectantly.

“What are we waiting for? We make haste for Dessius, due south through Mulgart Pass.”

His excitement lasted until Mora lifted a finger. “Rags, we are spent. The horses need rest, as do we. Dessius is four days hence, three if we make all haste—longer still if our horses die of exhaustion. We cannot keep such a difficult pace.”

The sound of a distant horn drew their ears.

“Not a comforting sound,” Cortland stated.

“Nor should it,” Mora replied. “I’ve heard it before. Elf horn. One blast. The Sylverian army just signaled its troops to assemble and ready to march. If we stay here, we’ll have them surrounding us, given our luck.”

There was a shared look between all of them, a resignation of their fate. It dawned on the three following Rags that the escalation of their shared journey had reached a breaking point. There was scarcely little they could do to repel the might of Sothren’s army. Or any military, for that matter. They were but four travelers in a rickety cart. Even with Mora on their side, brute force was not a winning option.

Ragoth spoke, his voice sullen. “None of you should suffer any consequence on my account. Let me go. I’ll outrun them on my own. This was always my burden to bear. I won’t think less of you if you choose to go no further. But with or without you, I will make for Dreadmour at any cost.”

“I will not leave you to face such perils on your own. You’ll not be rid of me so easily.” The cart shook as Deni climbed into the back with him.

Cort lifted himself into the driver’s box, muttering discontent and cursing the entire time.

“If you desire, Mora, I will release you from our contract. I cannot expect you to shield me from Sothren and his military,” Ragoth said to Mora.

She held his gaze, shifting it between all of them in stoic quiet. It seemed quite apparent that the offer was being considered. The night sky was a dim blue amidst hints of the distant sun softening the skyline with a quickly fading golden yellow. Stars sparkled overhead, and a second horn bellowed in the distance. Two blasts. The elves were moving now.

Mora snorted and leapt into the back of the cart. “I’ve got no love for Sothren. Or his army of arrogant arsehole elves. And I never break a contract, Rags. I’m a professional. I’m getting you to Dreadmour. Let’s not linger. Their army moves and we should get as far ahead of them as we can.”

She spurred the horses into a gallop, taking the Dwarf Road into Mulgart Pass.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“In your adventures, it behooves one to be cautious in the path taken. For if danger arises in the wrong place, one may find themselves trapped by their own hand.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Mulgart Pass was a narrow strip of land with rough, jagged spires cloaked in deep forests to one side and the western edge of the Pathbreaker Mountain Range on the other with nothing in the way of civilization. No towns or villages resided in this stretch between Arcathoria and Dessius. Much of the land fell beneath them as the Dwarf Road once more sent them high over rivers and streams. The Pass itself was only a few miles wide with a snaking series of deep chasms cut by winding rivers that wove back and forth under them intermittently. The cart carried them over the smooth dwarven stones but clattered noisily all the while.

The first dawn came, their hearts elevated in the rush to escape. Then the second dawn passed, and the exhaustion settled in, eroding their spirits bit by bit. The chase seemed to last longer than it truly was. They rested the horses but never more than an hour and it was clear even from this distance that the army marched relentlessly in pursuit. Sleep came in short, fitful bouts if it came at all. The cart was uncomfortable, but the added help of their packs kept their heads off the boards. Mora’s tall frame sat hunched in the driver's box, making sure they kept their pace into the night.

“I can take over if need be,” offered Cort.

“I can go days without sleep.” She insisted. Cort saw Rags passed out with his head against his pack, head bobbing back and forth as he snored. Deni sat with his head down, eyes staring into nothing. Cort tried to keep watch south but too often he ended up with his chin in his chest, snoring.

The second night stretched on for an eternity. What little sleep they managed did nothing to curb their weariness. The three companions in the back of the cart either kept their gaze on the passages behind them or staring up into the stars. Their banter was stolen under the specter of pursuit, all mirth taken from their hearts.

Ragoth kept his eyes skyward. Is the maw of the shadow dragon a better fate than the sword of the elf? Thrice now I find myself fleeing an insurmountable peril. Does Blight move them? But he must. Why else would the elves hound me to the ends of Allspire? What else could give Sothren motivation to hunt me? Blight’s reach is truly limitless if Sothren bends to his will.

Such thoughts only drove home the paramount importance of his destiny.

The prince cast a glance at Denith, head bowed in mute sullenness. Cortland watched the road behind them, jaw clenched, and hand gripped at the wrapped pommel of his sword as if he expected an enemy to jump into the cart at any moment. Bravado would not see him cutting through soldiers of the Crown Pantheon, though. Mora could, perhaps, but he didn’t cling to that hope. His mother had long ago taught him that loyalty bought with gold is a castle built on sand.

So long as they could run, he felt hope, but it dwindled as the chase wore on and hung by the barest thread. Come the dawn of the third day, the creeping dread of reality seeped in. They came to a bridge spanning a great gorge with a river coursing far under it. Ragoth studied the patterned stones passing under their cart, briefly marveling at the dwarven architecture and stonework. It felt like an odd thing to think but as the realization that they were running on borrowed time settled, his mind seemed resolute in denying the truth with distractions.

They came to the opposite end of the gorge to a grassy clearing on solid ground, and Mora steered the cart into the grass, bringing them to a stop. The trio in the back looked around, ears ringing in the breezy quiet that now dominated in place of clattering wheels and clopping hooves.

Mora sat still for a long moment before turning to them. “If we push the horses any further, they’ll die underneath us.” The horses heaved for breath, foaming at the mouth.

“Look,” Cort pointed to the distant northern horizon, where the glint of dawn against elvish steel could be seen. A sight of blue and shining armor blotted out the earth tone colors of the Dwarf Road. The elves had kept pace with their cart and slowly advanced.

“How far?” Deni asked.

“A few hours at least. Their army can move quickly even without the help of Magi casting spells to quicken their pace, taking away their exhaustion and hunger,” Mora answered as she unfastened the harness of the horses and led them to a nearby brook for water. The others followed her.

“We have little reprieve. So here we must decide our fate. If we keep running, eventually they will run us down. I don’t see us being able to reach Dessius, even with their army on foot. No doubt they’ve caught sight of us.”

“So, we fight?” Cort asked.

Mora approached him, her face stern. “A last, glorious stand? A valued end for some Adventurers, if there were anyone around to witness it or spread the tale. But we must face the truth: there are three of us to fight and an army of them.”

“I can handle a few elves,” Cort answered.

“You overvalue your skills, Cortland. Anger will not shield you from elvish steel, nor give your sword speed. The elf is not a strong fighter, but their hands are quick and their blades light. And you are armored–and armed–poorly in comparison.”

“We have you,” Cort said.

Mora took her mace out of the cart. “I appreciate your vote of confidence, but I cannot hold back an army of elves any more than I can tear down a mountain or fight back the waves of the sea. My armor is back in Barrow’s End and while one or two arrows won’t take me down, a flurry of them will. As far as last stands go, we could make a glorious mess on this bridge, until the next rain. Dwarven stonework doesn’t stain.”

Cort turned his desperation on Denith, who was fidgeting with his hands. “Maybe you could negotiate with them. Send Denith to distract them while we get away. It’d be the only thing he’s good for. Or better still, perhaps he can travel with them. People who travel with Deni have a habit of dying because of his incompetence.”

Deni’s ears dipped down, never once raising a word of rebuttal. He spoke up and said, “I could try to distract them. Catch up if I can.”

“No,” Ragoth stood between them. “None of this will bring about anything but delay the inevitable. I’ll not have any of you die or sacrifice yourselves on my behalf. There must be another way.”

“Look around you, lad. We’re boxed in. The horses are near death, we cannot outrun them. Mountains to one side and dark forests growing in impassable rock formations to the other.” Mora swept her arms out.

“What if…” Ragoth’s mind raced for an answer. “Our cart. There are rivers below. What if—”

“The cart isn’t a boat. At best, we could float on it, but the rivers below are rife with rapids and, if I recall, you cannot swim.” Mora shot him down with a scoff.

“Could we run to the forests? Hide in the thicket?” Cort asked.

Mora let out another snort. “We may as well fling ourselves into the gorge. Those are the ruins of Lobandir, the old capital of Allspire. Selrach razed it and cursed its ruins. What lurks there would assure our deaths. No adventuring party, no matter how experienced, has ever come out again.”

“Is there no path in the mountains?” Deni asked.

“Are you daft?” Mora cried. “Scale the Pathbreaker Mountains with what? A few rations and not a scrap of fur to shield us? We’d freeze to death before we reached the first summit!”

“Rags, where are you going?” Cort asked.

They looked, seeing Rags had wandered from them and seated himself on the raised stone railing of the bridge, his bundle in his lap. When they came to him, he gave them all a sad smile.

“So our journey ends. We did what we could, but I fear our efforts were for naught. I’ll not ask my friends to die in my defense. Take the cart to Dessius and think well of me, my friends. It was a grand adventure while it lasted.”

The three others cast their heads down, searching for comfort in each other in a moment of surrender. Strong as the desire to fight against the inevitable was, there was no escape that seemed possible.

“Mora, take the gold for all you’ve done. You have been a mighty friend to me in my time of need. And an exceptional tutor. Cortland, I wish you all luck in your pursuit of knighthood. May you bring honor and dignity to such a title.”

“I promised to stay with you in your journey and I shall. This end, I will not let you face alone.” Deni sat next to him and wrapped his arm around Rags’ shoulder. Ragoth muttered his gratitude and was thankful for the elf’s presence.

Cort watched the distant advance of Sylverian soldiers as their ranks filled the Dwarf Road.

“There must be something we can do other than surrender,” He said to Mora.

The Auroch crossed her arms and sighed. “If there is, I cannot see it.”

“We are but stones falling down the mountain of fate,” Deni said. “It is arrogant to think the mountain will move to our whims.”

A finger of time passed, their eyes cast upon the dwarven stonework as the four of them settled against the stone railing and waited for the elvish tide to claim them. Shoulders slumped as hearts sank and there was no comfort in blaming the machinations that had led them to this moment. Cort gripped his sword in impotent rage. Mora set her mace head down in disgust. She was not one used to the prospect of failure in her ventures. Its strike against the stone road prompted a spark, and a chipped pebble flew to the side before it came to rest at Ragoth’s feet. He idly picked it up, turning it in his fingers.

A moment later, he shot to his feet. His gaze went down the length of the bridge spanning the gorge, hundreds of feet of dwarven stonecraft. Kneeling, he ran his hands over the stone at his feet. He moved frantically, scanning the bridge with wide-eyed wonder, running his hand through his hair over and over.

He spun. “Mora, do you trust me?”

“Not in the slightest.” She shook her head.

“Get your mace and follow me. Hurry.”

She looked at Deni and Cort, who only shrugged in response. Mora grunted, irritated, and hefted her weapon across her shoulders as she trotted after Rags. He dashed madly across the bridge, far ahead of her. Long-legged as she was, it was nothing to catch up to him and keep pace. He stopped in the center of the bridge with several hundred feet to both ends and looked back and forth along the stones at his feet.

He pointed and tapped a large square stone under his foot. “Break that stone.”

“You’ve lost your senses,” She scoffed. “You’re not asking what I think—”

“Break this stone and the bridge will fall. This portion of it, at least.”

Mora put a hand on her hip. “How could you know such a thing?”

“I studied it. Stonework Structures of the Dwarf. Dwarvish stonework relies on keystones to maintain the structural support without mortar. Remove it and the structure’s integrity is compromised. This is the keystone for this portion of the bridge. Break it.”

“You’re daft. This is dwarven stone.”

“And that is dwarven mithril. It will cleave this stone.” He pointed to her mace.

She brought her mace to bear, gazing over its craftsmanship as his words dawned on her. She eyed the stone. Her gaze drifted up to behold the Sylverian troops marching closer. Close enough now to hear the clamor of feet on stone.

Val’Mora grimaced, knuckles white as her grip went firm. “Get behind me.”

Soon as he was behind her, the Auroch warrior lifted her mace, bringing it down on the stone with a yell. It smashed into the stone, sending sparks and chipped bits of the dwarven stone flying. The keystone was marred by a large pit, cracks radiating out from it. She set her jaw and lifted, bringing down her mace again.  And again.

Over and over with every bit of strength in her. From behind, Ragoth watched as her corded muscles moved in unison with the strength afforded by her Auroch blood. Her roars echoed over the chasm; a deep, thundering bellow not unlike a bull beset with rage. Flecks of stone pelted her with each strike, but she swung with unrelenting strength.

A finger of time passed.

Two fingers.

Half a hand.

Ahead of them, the procession of Sylverian troops had drawn close enough to see Sothren’s sigil on deep blue shields. Rags cried her on as each strike cut deeper into the keystone. By now Cortland and Denith had crept up out of curiosity and flanked their Orcborn friend, watching Mora as she flung rubble and sweat in her ceaseless barrage against the keystone. Any dwarf or Orcborn would have tired by now, but every strike in whence the stone did not yield only further enraged her. Her hair and furred legs were matted, saturated in sweat that flung off her body with each swing.

When the strain began to truly wear her, she channeled all her strength, all her fury, into one final blow. The massive mace came down in a strike that would have smote a god as she cried, “Break!”

The final blow struck and the bridge itself shook from her might. A crack like a peal of thunder sounded as the keystone buckled and fell out of its place in the bridge. Then came the shout from the entrance of the bridge, a commanding elf at the head of the procession pointing at them.

“Run!” Mora cried, but the others already fled for the bridge’s opposite end. Hooves pounded into the stones as the bridge shook under them. Arrows pelted the surrounding stones by the dozen, spurring Mora faster until she could scoop Rags under her arm. Ahead of her, Denith tripped on his robes and went down, but Cortland snatched him up and had him over his shoulder with little momentum lost.

Mora heard cries and crashing of stonework, feeling the bridge rumble harder. The edge of the bridge was fast approaching. She dared not waste a second looking behind. Cort and Deni reached the safety of land and spun, urging her on as they looked behind her in terror. The bridge tilted slowly to the side and shifted under her.

Just as the bridge listed too far to the side, she leapt with all her might. The bridge went crashing down, falling away from the cliffside. She and Rags landed on the edge, gripping the grass. Cort and Deni pulled her and Rags to safety, who finally looked at their handiwork just as the final section of the bridge collapsed and crashed into the chasm below. On the other side, the Sylverian troops sat in their impotence and watched the bridge that had stood for a hundred years crumbled in front of them. Only three pillars remained standing, now little more than monuments.

The four companions sat mute at the destruction laid before them. The Dwarf Road, a marvel of craftsmanship made during the Age of Adventures, now lay in a massive broken pile of rubble at the bottom of the gorge.

Mora sat up and Deni winced. “Oh no. Mora.” The elf gingerly touched an arrow jutting from the back of Mora’s shoulder just under her pauldron.

She craned to see it. “That doesn’t belong there.”

Rags winced. “We need to get you to a physicary.”

“Shall I shove it through your shoulder and sear the wound shut with a red-hot poker?” asked Cort.

“Bite your tongues, you wailing whelps,” Mora snapped, yanking the arrow out without so much as a flinch. “Auroch hide is tough and our muscles thicker still—more so even than Orcs. It’ll take more than one elvish arrow to fell me. Come, we need to keep moving.” She fell back into the grass and groaned. “Someone else can drive the cart, though.”

For what little rest they and their horses had, none were content until a day’s march was put behind them. Their need to run had lessened from the night before, and the horses were content to trot at a casual pace. They crossed a few bridges that extended over creeks, but the desire to destroy bridges had since left them. By twilight, Deni had keenly found a small nook tucked inside an extension of forestry, away from the Dwarf Road. Deni made the campfire, using flint and tinder from their new supplies and eagerly used a small cauldron donated by the Unexalted Faith to make a hearty supper. Cort tended the exhausted horses while Rags doctored Mora’s shoulder, using needle and horsehair to close her arrow wound. She endured the procedure without complaint.

“Given all your knowledge, it doesn’t surprise me that you know how to close a wound,” she said when he finished.

“I learned from a skilled Physicary. He had me use a flank of beef to practice, though I closed my own wound a few years back.” He showed her a small scar on his forearm.

“What grand battle were you in to be so grievously wounded?” She quipped

“Training bout with my brother. Though he struck me quite hard. I thought if I stitched the wound myself, it might impress my tutor. It did.”

She considered him for a moment. “You have the knowledge of an Adventurer, Rags. But not a lick of common sense. I wish you had crossed my path much sooner in life. We could have made quite the team. I daresay I’ve not had a companion half as clever or resourceful as you in many years.” She ruffled his hair, watching him blush and smile at her praise. The sense of pride and the rush of victory following their escape had yet to wane, and now Ragoth was almost giddy at having accomplished something so impossible as earning Mora’s praise. He had felt this kind of victorious elation before—usually in the wake of passing a challenging test. Now he was out in the real world and accomplishing things he never thought possible. Elation filled him and, in spite of everything, he felt happy. Truly alive.

Friends. Food. Traveling across the southern provinces. For a short time, it didn’t feel as if the weight of all the world was depending on him.

The exertion had taken its toll on them all. No sooner were their trenchers of stew devoured than the other three fell asleep near the fire with Mora standing watch and preparing a cauldron of stew she intended to eat for herself.

Under overcast skies, their trek continued southward at first light. Soreness had set in, and their backs protested the lack of adequate cushioning. The pass narrowed as it drew closer, but the Dwarf Road was as safe here as it was in Sylveria. Though their pursuers could not cross the gorge, that did not mean they would give up, and the four were keen to arrive at Dessius as quickly as they could.

It was during a brief rest the next day as Ragoth ate his loaf and a Halfling’s Fist that Mora approached him and tossed a four-foot rod at his feet.

“Come with me.”

He did as told and followed her to a space nearby swept free of debris. Deni and Cort watched, and ate, in silence. She brandished her mace in her hands.

“Try and strike me as you would with a real sword. Don’t hold back.”

He obeyed, taking his stance as he had been taught and staying light on his feet. She watched his movements and waited. He pounced, advancing a series of strikes against her. She shifted the position of her mace’s handle to block. For a few moments, their sparring in the small field filled the air with the rhythmic sounds of wood on metal.

Thock…thock…thock.

Mora gave neither praise nor condemnation, instead letting him advance as he pleased. For a finger of time, he tried several advances to break her defense. He never tried the same advance twice, sometimes using a series of blows twice just to change one strike to catch her off balance.

He gave a flourish and slashed twice; her handle too high in defense to catch the stab he shoved into her belly. He apologized immediately.

Whoosh

The sound of her mace passing over his head by a hair’s breadth registered too late. He jumped back on instinct, far too late, stunned as he struggled to grasp the speed of her swing. She lowered it and cornered him with a stern look.

“Do not halt yourself to apologize to me. You see these scars on my body? I have suffered far worse than a poke in the belly with a stick.”

He bowed his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And never lower your head to an adversary. You only make it easier to lop your head off if they know you’ll do it.” She rapped the back of his head with her knuckle.

“I was told it was a sign of respect,” he said, rubbing the stinging knot.

“You showed reverence to a paid tutor, but we are in the real world and hesitation in battle can mean the end of your life will be spent watching your innards decorate the ground. I’m not your hired tutor and you’re not in your pampered space. Since our trek has proven more perilous than I once thought, I need to know the value of your swordsmanship.”

“And does my value meet your standards?”

“It does. Whoever taught you was an exceptional teacher, and you are a quick learner. You’ve proven many times that you are not some dullard who buries his face in books and applies none of it.” She rubbed her belly where he struck. “You learned my tactics and used a feint to strike me where I was weak.”

“It’s what I was taught.”

“And were you fighting an Orc, you would have given him a nasty stab before he took your head off.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Your swing was too fast. I couldn’t avoid it.”

“Aye, against me you’d have no chance,” She shrugged with a grin. “Best hope we never find ourselves enemies. Try this.”

Mora lifted her mace high over her head and roared, bringing it down as Ragoth dove out of the way. She heaved it back and swung sideways at him, forcing him to the ground before her weapon’s head could smash into him. Quick as a sprite, he was on his feet and deftly dodging side-to-side as she swung at him. A bellowing roar accompanied each strike from her. Her swings were far slower than he’d witnessed before now. He noted she left herself open and so he stabbed, slashed, and cut against her whenever he could.

Finally, she held up her hands, and they both paused. He caught his breath. She was not even winded.

“That is how an Orc fights,” she said. “They are strong. Do not ever match one for strength or you’ll be crushed easily. But they’re slow, their swings are simple and often they give you ample warning to avoid them. Stay out of their range and you can fell one with ease.”

“What if one grabs me?”

“Pray he finishes you quickly.” The statement hung heavy in the air. She ruffled his hair. “We’ll practice whenever we stop. The path to Dreadmour around Karthak’s Claw is prime breeding grounds for trolls, skyhooks, and many creatures that reside amidst high peaks. The pass between Karthak and the Pathbreaker mountains is narrow and filled with a fetid bog. The Dwarf Road has its perils, to be sure, but once we leave the road, we cannot afford to let our guard down—even once we reach Dreadmour.”

“You’ve been to Dreadmour?”

“Once.” She frowned. “Once.”

Ragoth tossed the wooden stick to Cort, who caught it with a smirk. Now his turn, he assaulted Mora, and the speed of his strikes came harder and faster. Mora defended with ease, not letting a single blow through her defense. She would jab or swing at him from time to time, just to test his reflexes. He was deft in stepping out of her wide swings, though he caught a glancing blow across his cheek that sent him to the ground. He came up spitting blood and dirt, but ready for more.

“You’re strong, Cort. For a human.” Mora held her next blow.

He spat and wiped his mouth. “Is that an insult?”

“Not at all. You fight like an Orc, barely controlled, but strong and with enough tact to fend off an experienced opponent. If I’m to guess, you’re used to overpowering your sparring partners with brute force.”

“It’s worked so far.”

“Against smaller men and elves, no doubt.” She rubbed her chin. “If I’m being honest in my assessment of your style–and I have decades of experience to inform on this–you are ill-suited to the kind of discipline needed to master sword and shield. Were I you, I’d switch to a weapon more suited to your rage and strength. A warhammer or mace.”

“I’ll think it over.”

Mora pointed to Deni, who froze mid-bite. “Your turn.”

“I beg you, lady Val’Mora, do not ask such a thing of me.”

“Our lives may depend on you,” Mora pointed out.

“Then we are doomed. Ord already paid the price for trusting this elf.” Cortland said.

Mora drew up to her full height over Cort. “One more word out of you like that and I’ll send you back to Havenlore with your legs broken. All of you set out on this fool’s venture like the pack of wide-eyed navel-gazers you are. You all know a dozen or more songs and stories about brave Adventurers dying in noble sacrifices, but they pale next to the number of dead who were never mourned.”

“I’ve lost rounds of colleagues and guildmates. Rounds. Many I hold in fond memory, but many were not killed in glorious battle against some monstrous foe. Many were killed by a wrong step. An unseen trap. A maw full of teeth that escaped their sight until it was too late. Your dwarf friend was not the first Adventurer to be killed in his sleep, nor was Denith the first watch to not notice intruders until they were in your midst. I pray there never comes a day when your mistake costs someone their life. That is a hard guilt to live with. I would wager any amount of gold that none here feel worse for your dwarf friend’s death than Denith does. Do not give Deni a reason to not want to save you one day.”

The Auroch turned on her hoof and approached Deni, who looked up like a child when confronted by an angered parent.

“I do not like pacifists, Deni. More than one of my dead compatriots walked the path of no violence and their ends, I assure you, might have been prevented if they’d had the heart to fight.”

“I beg your forgiveness and offer my condolences for your friends,” Deni said. “But our faith forbids such a thing. The assertion to commit violence is not the path of a servant.”

“You would die before defending yourself?”

“I would.”

“And if one of your friends is about to take a sword to their heart?”

“I would throw myself on the sword of our enemy if it gave my friends the chance to escape.”

Mora crossed her arms and gave a long sigh. “You are either very brave or very stupid. I hope that you never have to find out.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Dessius is neither remarkable nor essential to anyone’s journey save its proximity to one of the Godstone monoliths.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

The small, walled off city of Dessius was known in passing as The End of the Road. Its placement on the corner of the road to Arcathoria and Roraberg Crossing meant it was little more than a rest stop for travelers between the cities and a hub for the smattering of villages and towns along the southern end of the Dynasty. It was a welcome sight, if a touch unremarkable compared to the grandeur of Arcathoria. By comparison, Dessius seemed rather plain.

The only remarkable thing was the enormous Godstone ring standing hundreds of feet high,
looming over the city.

“The Godstone Arch.” Ragoth pointed in awe. “Not as large as the hand holding Arcathoria, but astounding, nonetheless. I’ve long wanted to traverse Allspire and gaze upon all the Godstone monoliths for myself.”

“Not that it isn’t impressive,” Cortland remarked. “But what is it for? Who put such a thing

there?”

“Those monoliths are littered across Allspire. Relics from before the War of Sorrows,” Mora answered. “I’ve heard their creation was the gods’ work, but whatever its purpose, it's long since been nothing but a monument. Only thing interesting about it is that it's made of Godstone.”

“What’s Godstone?” Cort asked as they approached the city gates.

“That great hand holding up the city of Arcathoria? Godstone,” Rags said. “Not just any mere ore, but a substance harder than anything found across Allspire. It is said that only the hands of the gods can craft it, thus its name.”

Cort said, “It’s a wonder they don’t mine the stone for weapons and armor.”

“Not for lack of want,” Rags pointed out.

The Arc loomed over them even from behind the city. The sun was drawing down and lanterns across the small city were being lit. Beyond the ring of Godstone loomed a mountain in the distance.

“We’re close now,” Rags said. “All we need to do is cross around Karthak and Dreadmour will be before us.”

“We’ll discuss it in our room after we eat. Mind who you speak to here,” Mora warned, “Dessius sneaks are drawn to new faces like trolls to a fresh kill. Don’t let your gold walk off because your eyes are feasting on the sights.”

Ragoth didn’t understand when she warned him, but it became apparent soon enough. Once admitted, they set into the city and stabled the horses. Mora assured them she knew a place to settle down for the night.

Dessius was lively in the early evening amongst its well-lit corridors where travelers frequented. Taverns, dance halls, inns, and closed shops. Oh, but the closed shops did not mean there weren’t goods on display.

Girls aplenty were plying their bawdy trade, tossing offers to them as they passed. The longer Mora led them to the more destitute, less reputable areas of the city, the more girls there were offering a night of pleasure for a few gold. Rags wasn’t sure what they said when they spoke. His attention was transfixed on the curvaceous forms and exposed flesh of brothel workers on display outside their respective establishments or street corners. More than one would lean forward to tempt him, Cort, or Deni while letting a hefty amount of their bosoms spill out to sweeten the offer.

In front of the brothels, there was often a flock of them. Even a few handsome fellows tried their hand at courting Mora. She passed them without a word or glance.

“Would you consider lending me a few gold?” Cort leaned down and said to Rags.

“Is that the behavior of an honorable knight? Cavorting with brothel girls?” Ragoth shot him a look, unsure if he was joking or not.

Cort’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “Damn your honesty.”

Deni snickered.

Mora led them past large, well-lit inns—and one shuttered adventuring guild, Cort noted—to a large hall with small huts scattered about the grounds behind it. It had no sign and not a soul could be seen on the outside, but the interior was loud and thrummed with a buzz of occupancy.

“What is this?” asked Deni.

“A place I trust,” said Mora. “Bit of a rough crowd, if they don’t know you, but you’re with me. Stay close, mind your tongues, watch your coin, and you’ll be fine. We’re only here for the night. Don’t get too comfortable, but all things considered, a bit of comfort isn’t uncalled for. Who’s up for dinner, booze, and a bath?”

Stoic as she was, Mora couldn’t stop from smiling as the other three responded with cheers and whooping.

She knocked on the door and a bearded man with a barrel gut answered. He was a big one, taller than Cort, but still looked up at Mora. Like many in their travels, he took one look at them and spat on the ground.

“You all look like a pack of troll’s arseholes. Piss off!”

Mora palmed the side of his head with her hand and shoved her thumb into his eye, just shy of gouging it. His bravado left as he screamed and beat at her arm to free himself. She moved him out of the doorway and let him go to writhe on the ground, clutching his eye.

“Some people just learn the hard way,” She said, pushing into the doorway.

They strode in and the aroma of pipe smoke and hard liquor struck like an Orc punch. The inside was a spacious hall, built like a tavern. Far less glamorous and inviting as The Maiden’s Helm, if the occupants were any indication. The old wood planks creaked, and the floor was littered with wood shavings and spilled food. They pushed inside, wading into the smoky den half-full of surly patrons. They were a far cry from the working class of Barrow’s End.

Rags nose wrinkled fiercely, the stench of smoke, booze, and poor hygiene threatening to overwhelm him. Humans, halflings, a few elves, and more than a few scowling dwarves comprised its occupancy. Many had side-long stares held on them the moment they stepped through the door. Mora met their gazes with one of her own until most returned to their drinks. She led them towards the bar where a haggard voice split the air.

“Mora! I’ll be a troll’s bollocks! Val’Mora returns!”

A half-orc figure hopped the bar, bounding across the room and punching Mora in the arm. She was as tall as Cortland, lithe, sported a bartender’s smock and one tusk in her mouth. Her hair was a graying black, crow’s feet wrinkling around her eyes as her jovial cheeks bore a wide grin. “The Beast of Barrow’s End, everyone! Bid her welcome!” A half-hearted cheer from a few nearby patrons went up in answer.

Mora pulled the Orcborn bartender in a friendly embrace. “You look well, Vera. Missed your voice, I have.”

“And ain’t it a beaut?” Vera laughed; her voice had the pleasant tone of a knife blade scraping on a grinding stone. “Clears out the clientele when I’m ready t’go home.” She and Mora shared a laugh before she spied the other three. “Ah, ya got a party with ya? Back to adventurin’ again?”

“Not quite. Simple escort job, though nothing about it has been simple. That’s Cortland, Denith, and this is Rags.”

Vera nodded to Cort and Deni, then gave Rags a smile sweeter than sugared honey. “Lookit you, handsome. What’s wrong? Not seen another Orcbrat like yaself before?”

“No, ma’am. I fear not.” Rags shook his head.

“Ma’am!” Vera tossed her head back in laughter. “Lookit me, Mora. A proper ma’am now. Ain’t that a toss in the ditch? Y’all get used to it. Lotsa Orcbrats round this end o’ the Dynasty. Got a lil’ room to the side just fer ‘em. They like their privacy. Me regulars were likin’ eggin’ em on to fight, so they keep to themselves. Ya can join em, if ya want. Yeesh, what black bog ya been trompin’ these youngin’ around in, Mora? You’re all filthy as swamp rats, an’ ya smell just as bad.”

It wasn’t until then that Ragoth felt self-conscious of his appearance. Tailored silks and warmed baths felt a lifetime ago. His simple traveling clothes were, by now, filthy and torn in places. They had traveled at such a harried pace that their hygiene had long since been forgotten. Hair unkempt, clothes filthy, and reeking, the whole lot of them. Mora scratched behind her ear and acknowledged the poor state of their being.

“Hopefully, we can solve that problem. Looking for a touch of hospitality. A good meal, some ale, a bath and huts for the night. Got coin for the courtesy.”

‘Easily done,” Vera leaned in, nudging with her elbow. “Gonna give the crowd a show in the pit? Just like old times?”

Mora looked over to a large corner of the hall, where a pit sunk into the ground lay in wait. Inside a pair of drunks sloppily exchanged blows as patrons cheered. Mora shook her head.

“Not this time. Our travels have beaten me enough. I want a hot bath, a big meal, and a soft bed. I’m sick of eating road stew and laying on roots.”

A mustachioed man from behind the bar yelled out. “Back to work, Vera! I don’t pay you to gossip with out of towners.”

“Jus’ getting’ em settled fer the night, boss.” Vera shouted back. To them, she grumbled through a fake smile. “Ballbustin’ sonofabitch can go bite a troll’s arse. I gotcha, Mora. I’ll tend ya right. Take yer pick o’ the huts and get settled, get a bath an’ I’ll have ya bellies full when ya done. Bath hut is the buildin’ in the center. Take the four farthest to the left when ya walk out.”

As Vera pointed them to their stay for the night, Ragoth glimpsed a pair of half-orcs entering the entrance to the hall. They turned and made for a hallway on the side, vanishing from sight.

Orcborn. Other half-orcs. Just like him.

He stared at the door until Cort pulled him along.

The small huts, only fit for a single person each, were sparsely furnished and in need of renovating. Given the class of who stayed at the hall, Rags doubted the owner was looking to put a shiny veneer on the housings. They tucked their supplies away safely and accepted a change of clothes. Ragoth’s seemed a size too big, but he could hardly complain about clean clothes after all he’d been through. He was wary of a public bathhouse, having had private baths all his life. But he was the first to make it there and the large steaming bath lay before him under the soft ambient light of glostones near the end of their enchantments.

But oh, there were no words adequate to express the feeling when he sank into the warm comfort of a hot bath. The grime and tension of weeks of travel finally melted away from his aching body. He would have fallen asleep in the comfort of that tub, were the promise of a hot meal not waiting for him.

He saw a white bar resting on a nearby tray. Soap! They had soap! He washed with vigor and for the first time in weeks, his skin and hair felt clean instead of oily. He reveled in such a simple pleasure. It was not lost on him how much he had taken for granted in his life of luxurious isolation. The comforts were indeed missed.

Catered meals from royal chefs, daily baths, a soft bed, warmth, and security. It weighed on his mind when he had time to spare the thoughts. All of it taken from him by the machinations of a dark lord and an ancient prophecy. Every moment he evaded Blight and the Sylverian army, his resolve strengthened. His victories thus far won by the virtue of his guile and the help of his friends. A smile came to him.

Never count on friends as a prince. Trust few. A friend is only an enemy whose blade remains hidden. When they plant it in your back, you need not act surprised. Those words of his mother came unbidden, but he could not take them to heart. Were it not for his friends, he would have died long before now.

Exiting the bath, he passed in front of a full body mirror, the first he’d seen outside of his old room. For a moment, Ragoth did not recognize himself. The weeks of constant travel had whittled away the years of pampered meals. The thin pudge Sera would pinch and tease him over was gone, and in its place were the faint outlines of the musculature and physique that Brutis himself bore. His brother trained relentlessly, and his form was the muscled physique of a soldier. Cortland was rural born and a lifetime of hard labor had given him a solid, wide-chested, broad-shouldered frame. Even Mora, by virtue of her race, was gifted an almost god-like physique compared to his. Only Deni, with his scrawny form, was smaller than Ragoth and that he hid under baggy robes.

A sliver of pride rose in him. This was the first time his physique shed the soft contours of boyhood. He gave a little grin, a facial gesture that his tusks would often distort to the point of comedy. The wounds on his cheeks from the knife were already scarred, fully healed in so short a time. His heritage from his father’s blood was never more apparent.

The strip of cloth on his hand came off. The scar of the crown scrawled into his palm remained, faint lines of gold that shimmered when glanced at the right angle.

Give him his crown.

“I am a prince of Namaria,” He said to himself, clenching his fist, naked in front of the mirror. “I will not be driven to death by the dark hand of sorcery nor the sword of the elf.”

The door to the bath pushed inward suddenly, and Rags jolted as Mora walked in and immediately began shedding her leathers. Rags tried to cover himself with his hands. “What are you doing? I was bathing!”

“It’s a public bathhouse,” Mora said, tossing her clothes onto the floor without a shred of modesty. In their time traveling together, he had come to regard Mora as something of an older sister. Her naked body was the kind of thing he did not let enter his mind. Friend or not, her curvaceous and muscular body was now bare in front of him as she lowered herself into the hot pool. She saw him trying to hide his embarrassment.

“What is wrong with you?”

“I’m naked!”

Mora barked a laugh as Cortland walked in and started to similarly disrobe. “I’m a hundred and forty springs old. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Cort as he kicked his pants into the corner.

“Rags is bashful.” She answered, dipping her head into the water. “I walked in and found him staring at his pickle in the mirror.”

“Pickle! Ha!”

Rags fell over trying to reach his change of clothes and still remain covered. “You’re both just going to bathe together?”

“Aye,” they answered in unison.

“There’s no designated turns for men and women separately?”

“Why would there be? It’s a public bathhouse.” Cort sank into the pool across from Mora and started lathering his hair with the soap.

“It’s uncouth, I say,” Ragoth protested as he collected his clothes.

“It’s a bathhouse, Rags. What do you not understand? Am I speaking another language?” said Cort, scrubbing his arms.

“Even if you were, he could still understand you, I’d wager.” Mora said. Her and Cort shared a laugh as Rags clumsily stuffed his legs into his pants, snatched the rest of his clothes under his arm and staggered out of the bathhouse in a huff.

“Uncouth!” He cried back at them one last time. His foot caught an errant plank, and he stumbled out into the dimly lit yard between the sleeping huts. When he regained his balance, he caught a whiff, a scent of something familiar. Of all the unusual scents to pick up in his travels, this one seemed to follow him. A vexing aroma he couldn’t quite place, but it reminded him of Denith.

He lifted his head and there, by the edge of a stone well, a pair of dainty booted feet dangled in front of his vision. He looked up and their eyes met. Though buried deep within a dark hood, the amethyst shade of her gaze still shone through the shadow. Waves of hair black as night framed her fair, pale skin and spilled out of her black hood—a shade of black that also colored her lips.

Ragoth furrowed his brow, never having seen a woman color her lips black. The effect was alluring and after a moment or two, he realized he was staring, half-dressed in the open air. She herself wore a tight outfit that hugged every curve, draped by a dark cloak. An array of dagger handles littered her belt, sides, and boots. She looked close to his age, as best he could judge.

She returned his silent gaze, a slight tug at the corners of her mouth. Ragoth’s mouth went dry and, for once, he failed to find adequate words to say. Or should he even say anything? She wasn’t saying anything. She seemed quite content to watch him stand there, gawking at her. He half-expected Cort to run out of the bathhouse and punch him in the back of the head. A fluttering sensation flitted through his gut.

In the absence of a viable decision, Ragoth chose the option providing the least amount of embarrassment and, the only one he could think of at that moment: he walked away without a word back to his little sleeping hut. When he cast one last glance over his shoulder, she still sat on the edge of the well, watching him as he hurried inside and shut the door.

After taking a finger of time to settle his nerves and dress, Ragoth dared to exit his hut and found the pale girl gone from her perch. He figured the others would wait until they were all bathed and dressed to return so they could eat together, but he had something else in mind. Venturing back to the noisy hall, Ragoth went inside by himself and skirted the edges of the room, following the wall and keeping an arm’s length away from the other patrons until he found the hallway where he’d seen the two Orcborn enter.

He went down the hall, passing a few doors from behind which he heard indistinct voices. At the end of the short hall, he could see the movement of multiple green bodies. A sign hung over the door frame of the pointed ear of an elf and a red X carved across it. He heard the din of conversation and a murmur of gravelly voices. He took a cautious peek inside and gasped with the rush of discovery as he found a second tavern, smaller than the hall and filled with almost two rounds of Orcborn. A rougher crowd he couldn’t imagine, some barely clothed in ripped tunics, open vests, and worn boots. The room was pungent with ale and unwashed bodies, but the scent of Orc was strangely relaxing. He took a few cautious steps inside the Orcborn sanctum, as though walking through a dream where no one could see him.

Ragoth wrestled with a mixture of awe, elation, and cautious fear. Unlike Barrow’s End, where he was keenly aware of how much he stood out, here he felt almost invisible. For the first time in his life, he stood in a room full of half-orcs and no one noticed him.

That lasted until another Orcborn brushed past him, paused, and took a good look at him. He scratched his scalp and said loudly, “Ay, who’s th’ runt?”

Every head at a nearby table swung his way. The scrutiny of a round or more Orcborn—all of them taller and more built than he—turned on him. Much like being under the gaze of the pale girl, he found his words caught in his throat. Stepping back towards the door, he apologized when a large hand placed itself on his back, leading him forcibly to the table and being placed in a seat.

“Why off in such a hurry?” The first Orcborn that had noticed him looked him up and down. He was a rough-looking specimen, with poor hygiene and even poorer breath. “Now then…not seen your face round here afore. Wot’s yer name, lad?”

“R-Rags.”

“Roit, Rags. I’m Morg,” He pointed to the others seated around the table, “This big oaf be Garv, the bloke wit one eye is Knuggle, Th’ lil pissant over there is Squeak, and an’ th’ looker is Brenna.”

Big Garv dominated almost an entire side of the table by himself. Knuggle either had lost an eye or his enormous brow dipped too far down to make it viable. Squeak was being pushed around by the other Orcborn as he returned to their table with an armful of mugs of ale. And Brenna gave him a snarky grin as most of her saggy bosom threatened to spill out of her loose blouse.

“Me pa was an elf, he was.” She said in a loud whisper, as if no one else could hear.

“Uh, greetings to you all. I’m only passing through; I don’t wish to cause trouble.” Rags tipped his head.

“No trouble here,” Morg said, picking up a deck of cards and flicking them out to the others. “Jus’ a buncha Orcbrats havin’ some booze after work, ain’t that right?”

The others gave a chorus of agreements. Morg distributed the mugs to everyone—including Rags. Squeak protested, since the mug was his, but his pleas went ignored.

Morg noticed Rags shifting and looking about. “Ya look nervous, lad. What’s wrong? We’re all Orcborn.”

“Where I come from, I was the lone Orcborn. I have not been well received in many communities, if I was noticed at all. Even my own family disdained my existence. So, I stowed away and left and now I find the world at large does not regard us with much love.” Ragoth cleared his throat nervously.

“Yah, no one likes us. Not humans. Not dwarves. Especially not elves.” Morg spat on the ground and the others followed suit. “Stinkin’ elves makes me nose hurt. Figgers them long eared bastards be th’ ones to rule over us.”

“Wish I could eat em,” Garv said in a deep growling voice.

The table shook with fists pounding it in agreement, sending their ale flying and scattering the cards. There was little love lost, Rags noted, between the common folk of the southern provinces and the elves of the Crown. Theirs was not merely sour feelings. It was outright disdain—hatred, even.

“Wish I could tell ‘em off the way I like.” Brenna said.

“I told one off.” Rags mentioned.

“Yeah? What’d ya say?”

He hesitated, thinking of how to reword his encounter at the Vaithlorn Academy to not reveal his most recent whereabouts. “I asked one for directions and he told me to elope from his sight. I told him, in elvish, he was rude. When he asked how I knew how to speak his language, I told him his aesthetically challenged mother was an excellent teacher once her sexual proclivities were indulged.”

They looked at him quizzically. He quickly realized his vocabulary had gone over their heads and imagined how Cort would say it.

“Er…He told me to piss off, so I told him I fucked his ugly mother.”

There was a pause and a table full of slack jaws as the joke took a moment to sink in before they erupted in a chorus of gut-busting laughter. Morg and Knuggle clapped him on the back hard enough to almost drive the breath from him, but the tension between them was gone. Ragoth grinned and laughed with them.

Morg lifted his mug and toasted Rags. A round of ale was demolished, and stories flowed from the others with their own tales of tossing insults at elves. Rags sat back and listened, enjoying the moments of fellowship with those who shared his blood.

For the first time in his life, he was among his own kind.

Yet there remained a sense of separation as well. His upbringing was one of luxury and comfort. These Orcborn were not as fortunate. In every sense of the word, they seemed to have very little. He engaged them with something his mother taught him, something meant for usage in royal court. A conversational technique she called corner talk. It was a way of working in questions one wanted to ask by asking innocuous questions to disguise your true intent. She was not shy in admitting it was something that worked best on people in lower classes who were not used to the verbal savvy of court politicians. As it turned out, she was right.

Rags spent half-a-hand with them, using corner talk to extract the information that he truly wanted to know: the life that Orcborn truly lived. He learned they were prevalent in most cities and large towns. Smaller communities, ones that had suffered the hardest in the Orc Wars, had not been kind to those born of Orc blood. Women who fell victim to the Orcs and lived with their child in their bellies found attempts to terminate them in the womb all but impossible. Orc children were resilient, even as unborn babes. There was an elixir for such a task, but its chance of success was marginal. Because of this, the Orc babes were done away with just after birth. Many lived, but even more had died. Those that remained were an underclass, many connected to one another from place to place via drinking dens such as the one they occupied.

The Orcborn who lived were only spared because they were born in a temple of Sandressa, the goddess of motherhood (The Divine Testament, he recalled. A holy tome of Allspire’s pantheon of gods). This Ragoth remembered from his tutoring. The priestesses and midwives who comprised the faith’s numbers would bring no harm to a child—no matter how unwanted. Thus, the mothers who entered Sandressa temples heavy with Orc child left without them. Orcborn were mostly raised in the orphanages run by the temples. Once grown, they shuffled into meager tasks and hard labor. Many skilled trades wouldn’t take them either out of malice or distrusting of their ability to even learn.

Thus, they remained here: a secluded people with no family but each other. Ragoth saw his life of seclusion in a new light. He silently gave thanks to his mother and the love she had for him to not cast him out for his birth.

No child should be without the love of their parents. Imagine what they could be if they but had the chance to thrive. Their ambitions wither on the vine and their potential is unrealized, all through no fault but for the blood of their Orc parent.

They asked questions of him in return, so he fed them falsehoods to ensure no one could accurately track him. No mention of Dreadmour slipped his lips. There was a moment when Brenna leaned closer to him, her eyes suspicious as she pointed out his speech was notably more enunciated than theirs.

He shrugged helplessly. “I like to read books.”

They responded with a round of dismissive noises. It was then their noses wrinkled and Ragoth caught a whiff of a familiar scent. Morg and the rest turned to the doorway as anger curled their lips and bared their tusks, as did many others in their vicinity. An ambience of low growls spread across their corner of the tavern.

Rags turned to see Deni standing in the doorway, caught under the gaze of the Orcborn. Deni’s confusion turned to fear and horror, even after he caught sight of Rags. He was half-turned, already on his way out of the room, when the Orcborn closest to the door jumped out of his seat and pinned Deni to the wall, his large green hand clutching the elf by his throat.

“Who said you could come in here, elf?”

Rags darted out of his chair and across the room, driving his shoulder into the half-orc and forcing him off Deni. The elf took a gasping breath, clutching his freed throat as Rags placed himself between the half-orc and Deni. In his rush, he hadn’t taken his opponent into consideration and now looked up at an Orcborn taller and heavier than he. Diplomacy was a far flung notion as his opponent punched him in the mouth. Rags forced the pain out of his mind and swung back, exchanging a few blows in the doorway with the half-orc until Morg and Knuggle pulled them apart.

“He started it!” The other Orcborn said.

“An’ I’m endin’ it. Shove off, pissa.” Morg shoved him back into the tavern and turned to face Rags and Denith. “Rags, you daft? Wot’s yer problem?”

Rags jerked his head towards Denith. “This elf is my friend.”

Morg frowned, an effect that pushed his tusks higher and exposed his yellow teeth. The warmth of comradery was gone from his eyes.

“Ain’t no elf a friend o’ us Orcborn. You’d best learn that fore this stinkin’ elf does you wrong.”

Rags had his hands up, fists balled and shaking. Blood trickled down his split lip, but his focus remained solely on keeping himself between Deni and the others. Slowly they inched backwards back down the hallway. The others soon flanked Morg from their table, and they seemed no less thrilled to learn Rags kept company with an elf. Slowly, Rags backed up down the hall as Morg and his kin stalked him step for step. Deni stayed in his shadow.

“Don’t trust your life to this spear ear, lad. He’ll be the death o’ you. Ain’t worth it. Yer own kin are th’ only ones you can trust.”

“I’ll keep my counsel on who I judge worthy, Morg.”

“Think you best leave, then. An’ take yer elf love-toy with you.”

Rags and Deni backed into the hall proper and didn’t turn around until they saw the Orcborn return to their own tavern. Ragoth swiped at the blood dripping from his bottom lip. Deni gasped, using the edge of his sleeves to dry the blood. He jabbered his thanks over and over, but Rags’ eyes were a long way from where they stood at that moment. His entire time there replayed over and over in his mind, his thoughts a maelstrom of conflicted feelings, but not regarding his decision to defend Denith. The elf had stood by him with no gain to himself. Morg and the Orcborn, halfkin brothers or not, did not have his loyalty. He wouldn’t even dignify Morg’s last jab with a retort.

“Rags,” Deni patted his cheek and pulled him back from his troubled thoughts. “What were you doing in there to begin with?”

“Learning things that can’t be taught in books. Why were you there?” He answered sternly.

“I was looking for you! I peeked in the bathhouse, but Mora and Cort said you had left, but you weren’t in your hut, so I came in and circled the hall a few times before I tried the hallway. I…” Deni’s frenzied ranting came to a pause. He was throwing his hands out as he spoke, looking for all the world as though he would start crying. It took Rags back for a moment. He’d never seen Deni so upset over something that felt so trivial.

He put his hands on Deni’s shoulders to steady him and looked the elf in his eyes. “I’m fine. I was only curious to speak to other Orcborn. I’ve never had the chance before, so I sought to investigate.”

Deni swallowed a lump in his throat and pulled Rags aside to a small corner where they were out of the way of foot traffic, tucked in shadows and obscurity. He leaned in, his voice low and serious. 

“Rags…Mora told me to speak my wisdom to you more and I implore you to listen. I understand you are seeing much of this for the first time, but you cannot let your overactive curiosity blind you to surrounding dangers. We are not in a cozy tavern in Barrow’s End, we are in a den of thieves and people for whom the law carries little weight. There is almost nothing to stop them from whisking you into a Night-takers cage and selling you for a few gold. Imagine spending the rest of your life in a Norenrauth mine with a chain on your ankle. Or freezing for the rest of your life in a Machavian quarry.”

“You have maintained that we not draw attention to ourselves, yet you are constantly wandering in places where you stand out. Arcathoria is the seat of power for the Arcane Order. You crossed paths with the Academy Headmaster and King Sothren within a few hours. Worse, you insulted the most powerful Crown in Allspire. That is hardly a low profile. Now you wander yourself into a nest of Orcborn and think your shared race gives you shared commonality? Rags…I thought you were smart.”

The sting on his split lip was nothing compared to the wrenching spike that stuck through his gut when he heard that. No scolding from Physicary Findwell ever struck such a nerve, but a wrong answer on a test was a far cry from disappointing someone he cared for. In reflecting on his actions, he realized he couldn’t deny such a truth. Even so, he did not want to admit it.

“I was only trying to find common ground with them.”

“I am elf, Rags, but I share very little in common with my high-born brethren. I abhor many of them—even some of my own family. The Unexalted Faith abdicated me from those attachments.”

“They live in squalor. Their lives are bereft of upward mobility. Many cannot even apply to learn trades. None of them have even attended school. It is demeaning to deny one the chance to excel.” Ragoth remained defiant.

“Their lives are not your responsibility, but your life is ours and you keep disregarding your safety to satisfy your curiosity. Those Orcborn have nothing in common with you and, most of all, it is unlikely they value life as you do. Heed my wisdom: stay close to us and control your urge to wander. If something happened to you we could have helped prevent, I don’t know that I could live with myself.”

Guilt flooded Rags. He felt foolish to not see such a simple truth. Feeding his desire to act on his curious musings had placed him in an immediate threat to his quest. He could not reach Dreadmour, find his uncle, or fulfill his destiny if he gawked at everything that caught his eye. Deni was right.

“I will be more mindful in the future. But I will not be coddled like a child. I can’t expect Mora or Cort to always come to my rescue. They aren’t that fond of me.”

“A friendship bought in gold is not a true friendship.” Deni looked off to the side.

Rags wrinkled his nose again. “Did you not bathe?”

“Oh,” Deni looked down at his fresh robes. “I changed. I might bathe later. I’m not fond of public bathhouses. I find it strange, sharing a bath with other people. Just sort of…”

“Uncouth?”

“Aye.”

“I thought much the same,” He spied Mora and Cortland across the tavern, their eyes sweeping the crowd in search of them. He gave Deni a pat on the shoulder. “Enough of this. Let’s go eat. I’m starved.”

They crossed the tavern and met with Cort and Mora, who noticed his bloody lip at once. Mora tilted her head and scowled.

“What happened? Where were you?”

He nodded to the distant hallway. “Just poked my head in with the rest of the Orcbrats. Rough company. I had a disagreement with a brute named Morg.”

She started clenching her fists, “Do I need to—”

“No, I’m fine. It’s not worth your time, and the last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves. When do we eat? I’m famished.”

Mora considered him and gave an approving nod. She led them to a large table in a corner booth and the four of them sat down as their food filled the table. Heaping piles of turkey, spiced potatoes and vegetables. All accompanied by mug after mug of foaming golden ale.

Rags tore into his food and gave the ale a try. It was good, but he hadn’t developed a taste for it yet. When Vera returned with Mora’s fifth mug, he asked, “By chance, do you have any elven wine?”

She gave him a broad grin. “Sure, love. Got just the thing.”

“While you’re in search of things,” Mora stopped her and drew her in close. “What about some provisions? I’d like to restock before we head out for Dreadmour tomorrow.”

Vera frowned. “Oh, Mora. You came by at the wrong time. The city council got the pass around Karthak shut down. Nasty band o’ trolls roamin’ round somewhere. Gonna have to wait till the city guard can clear em’ out.”

“How long will that take?” Ragoth asked.

Vera waffled her hand in the air. “Don’t know. Could be a few days. Could be weeks. Depends on how soon they find em.”

‘We can’t wait a few weeks.” Rags almost jumped out of his seat in alarm, but Mora held up her hand until he sat back down.

“Vera, I know there are other means and paths to get to Dreadmour. Would it be possible to bribe the guard into letting us through the gate?”

“Not unless ya got enough gold fer the whole division stationed there an’ that’s gonna draw a few eyes. Ya said ye wanted to keep things low, right? Don’t recommend testin’ the pockets of the guards. Some are flexible fer a bit of gold, but there's them that won’t flinch no matter how much gold ya got. Principles, am I right?” She rolled her eyes as she gave a little shake of her head.

Rags leaned in and brought all their heads together—even Vera. “We aim not to linger. I’m not keen to sit around, so if you’ve got any other notion, I’m willing to entertain it.” He discreetly pressed a gold tilt into her hand and watched her pocket it without looking.

Vera leaned on the table. “I know a lil’ gal. Name’s Oy. She comes here once in a while. She’s half-a-dullard but got a knack fer getting’ in an’ out o’ places without people noticin’. Just so happens she’s leadin’ a group to Dreadmour in th’ mornin’. How? Don’ know. But if ya really wanna get there, can always try yer luck wit her.”

The four of them shared dubious looks, but Rags remained steadfast in his choice. “Where is she?”

“See that short bundle? Wearin’ th’ baggy hood an’ an clothes? That’s her. An’ that’s the group she’s bout to travel wit.” Vera guided their eyes to another corner booth.

They looked where she directed and saw a halfling bundled from head to toe in loose traveling clothes, a heavy hood, face wrapped in a thick scarf. Surrounding her were four individuals. Two men, two women. Two humans, a half-elf, and a dwarf. They were clad in worn and battered armor that was once white tinged with gold, but the sheen had long since worn away and the gold glittered no longer. It was a strange sight to Ragoth, as the colors were not an arrangement he recognized from the Crown Pantheon. From that distance, he couldn’t make out the gold-branded sigil emblazoned on their pauldrons, chestplate, and cloaks.

The response from his three companions was immediate. Denith made a groaning noise and grabbed the rim of his hat, pulling it down over his head.

Cortland wore a disgusted sneer. “Blood and bollocks.”

“What’s wrong? Who are they?” Rags asked, “Are they adventurers? Bounty hunters?”

“Worse,” Mora spat, “Pallies.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Faith in the gods is a personal matter, but adventuring carries risks the gods may stave off.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

The Church of Andoreon was the most prominent faith amongst the pantheon of gods worshiped across Allspire. A powerful being who saw the gods in their primordial forms clashing in the chaos at the birth of the cosmos and spoke into creation its greatest gift: light. He was regarded as the guiding father of all, but like every god who came down from their lofty heavens to smite Selrach the God-Sorcerer, once it was done Andoreon vanished. Their clerics and acolytes had kept their faith since, but their prayers were met with silence. The Paladins had been the militant arm of many faiths for thousands of years. The tales spoke of the old ways where Paladins of the gods were practitioners of powerful magics only their gods could grant.

Ragoth was schooled on many faiths, though his mother was quite adamant that faith and politics were best left separated. Cortland and Mora had made their disdain for Paladins known and as they shared a table with four of them, he understood why.

The leader of this band of four was called—or so he claimed—Pastro the Bold and his boldness manifested in an exuberant display of excessive drinking and drowning out every voice near them. When he spoke, he moved with extravagant gestures, and his locks of golden hair flew back and forth in front of his chiseled face. His squared chin made him look like a block of stone with a woman’s wig affixed to the top. After a few introductions, they invited Rags and his companions to sit with them and share their ale and food, where Pastro regaled them with tales of their travels.

“Ever been to Norenrauth, boy?” he asked, catching Ragoth by surprise as he ate from a leg of chicken. When Rags shook his head, Pastro laughed and slammed his fist on the table.

“Seas of sand and pillars of stone as far as the eye can see. Hardy people, they are. Harsh life under the Emperor, but good gold to be made hunting rogue Mages. The Shadowspell Society is thick in those lands, cloaked in secrecy and slithering in the dark places most dare not tread, but the light of Andoreon guides us to their lairs. Right, Kronn?”

Pastro directed his question to a dour dwarf. He was thick as a tree stump, bald and gray in the beard, scowling in silence. Kronn set his drink down, ale dripping off his bulbous red nose.

“Mmhm.” Kronn muttered half-heartedly before returning to his tankard.

“Not talkative?” Rags asked, seated next to him.

“Kronn not talk. Kronn kill. Tell Kronn when time to kill.” Kronn growled in a deep, dwarven accent, his command of the common tongue barely understood.

A buxom woman leaned on Cortland, who looked as uncomfortable as one could be.

“Don’t mind him. He’s not one for conversation, but when a fight breaks out, you’ll be glad he’s on your side.” Her name was Savia, a tall, statuesque blonde, handsome with a strong jaw and a notable lack of attire on her curvaceous form. Her armor was made for a woman, just not a woman of her proportions, and the result left her with more skin exposed than covered. She was Pastro’s twin sister, and she was doing her best to lean against Cort as Cort leaned away from her. His efforts were in vain, as he was crushed against Kronn’s broad bulk.

“I’ve had enough talk for one meal,” Mora interjected, setting a turkey bone into a small mountain of them on the table. “Our path has been long and a good night’s sleep is in order. Let’s discuss business.”

Pastro shrugged and sat across from her at the table.

Rags studied everyone at the table with a cautious eye, disguising it as an interest in his food when he felt something brush his leg. He paused mid-bite, eyes narrowed, and brow furrowed as the light touch started at his ankle and slowly made its way up to his thigh. He resisted looking down, scanning those present until he caught sight of Avora, the same raven-haired, pale halfkin elf he had encountered earlier. Her amethyst eyes peeked out of the dark of her hood and a hungry smile danced on her shadowed lips.

Avora’s touch went a little too far and Rags gave a startled yelp, jumping up in his seat and smashing his knee against the table.

Mora looked at him. “Are you crazed?”

“Aye. I mean, no. S-sorry.” He mumbled, still feeling Avora’s eyes on him. The touch against his leg had left, but the memory of it lingered.

“Pipe down and listen,” Pastro leaned in, indicating they all do the same. “At first light, we leave for Karthak. Our guide says there’s a passage through the mountain.”

Mora held up a hand. “Through the mountain? Where does it come out? We’re trying to reach Dreadmour safely and I’d rather pass through the bog on its safest path.”

“It exits out in the middle of the pass beyond, just before the bog. It’s a quick jot down the mountainside, or so we’ve been told. This’ll be our first time through, but Vera vouches for her.”

“Not opposed to another group going with you?” Mora sat back with a sigh and clenched her jaw.

“Not at all.” Pastro said. “If you help us pass through the mountain, we’ll help you pass through the bog. The light of all creation shall guide us.”

“What’s in it for you?” Cortland asked, wary of Savia as she tried to link her arm in his.

“The chance to rid the world of the evil things that crawl in the dark. No doubt there are such things about the tunnels through the mountain, but nine of us should be more than sufficient.”

At that moment, a small pair of gloved hands reached up onto the table to grab a mug of ale. The halfling glanced back and forth at them, her eyes notably blue. The rest of her was swaddled head-to-toe in baggy clothing, a raised hood, and a lifted face covering. Aside from her eyes, it was all but impossible to see her.

“This is Oy. She’s our guide. She offered to show us the passage for gold.” Pastro said.

She bounced up and yelped. “Oy!”

“And you want our help with ridding the tunnels of these things?” Mora pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tell me, Oy, what kinds of things are crawling in those tunnels?”

“Bug. Slime. Big rat.” Oy shrugged.

“You see?” Pastro grinned. “Nothing we can’t handle with our combined might.”

“Kill.” Kronn growled.

“Oy!”

Mora took a long drink from her tankard, glancing around to meet the gaze of her companions. She set it down.

“Give us a moment to consider it?” she asked. “Alone.”

Pastro grinned and bowed. “Speak with your compatriots, my good lady. When you’re ready, so are we.” He flashed Mora a charming smile; she was not keen on returning it as he backed away from the table. Kronn left with Avora in tow. Savia cast a long, lingering smile at Cortland as she made a show of struggling to leave his side. She put Avora’s saunter to shame with a full body hip wiggle that caught every eye in proximity. A feast for any eye, but her gaze was fixated solely on Cortland. Loathe as he’d been to approach the Paladins, even he didn’t have the fortitude to look away.

No sooner than the four Paladins were out of earshot than Cortland shot Rags a dirty look.

“What in the bloody Abyss are you thinking?”

“I don’t trust them, either.” Mora leaned back in her seat.

“I don’t understand. Paladins are virtuous and noble warriors of the gods. They…why are you laughing?”

Cort erupted into uncontrolled chuckles before Ragoth had finished his sentence. Denith’s mouth had fallen open, and Mora was in the midst burying her face into her hand.

“Is there no end to your ignorance of the world at large?” She said with a sigh.

“Pallies are vile and treacherous. Swindling gutter fucks, the whole lot of ‘em.” Cort said.

“Since when? How did that happen? Everything I’ve ever read of them made no such claim.” Rags protested.

“You don’t know about The Paladin Rebellion? The Faith of Fear? The Crown’s Divine Wrath?” Denith asked, aghast.

“I…no. Evidently not.” Ragoth sank in his seat, furious at yet another gap in his knowledge.

“Trusting them would be a mistake,” Mora said.

“But a few extra swords can be helpful. Once we’re through the bog on the other side, the worst of our journey will be behind us. A hidden path through Karthak will delay our pursuers that much longer, if not entirely.” Rags pointed out.

“What if those four turn on us?” Deni asked.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve put Pallies in their place.” Mora grabbed a turkey bone in her hand and deftly snapped it in half with her fingers.

“They’re quite obnoxious,” Deni said. “And their intentions seem simplistic for such an undertaking. We could find another way, perhaps.”

“We could, but time and other considerations are against us. The longer we spend trying to find an alternate path, the more chance we have of being boxed in here,” Rags said.

Mora grimaced. “You’re not seriously considering taking their offer, are you? We don’t know those tunnels. We don’t know these people. No matter how much you make sense of this course of action, my gut instinct says otherwise. I see nothing but warning horns about this.”

“We have only to tolerate them for a few days and be rid of them. What can four of them do against your might, Mora? Are you or are you not the strongest, most learned Adventurer and arena champion in the southern provinces? I say we do this with all caution and if any of them look at us wrong, we take matters into our own hands.” Rags tried to compromise.

“For once, I like the way you think.” Cort chuckled.

Mora frowned. “I don’t like this course of action. Too many unknowns. But if that’s what you want to do, I hope you’re prepared to live with the consequences if things go wrong, Rags.”

“I will follow Rags.” Denith added.

Cort tossed an spent bone onto the table. “I hate this. We’ve done well enough on our own thus far. Inviting these pissants is asking for trouble.”

“We already have trouble,” Mora replied, grabbing another turkey leg and breaking it off the bird. “Better we keep trouble on its toes than the other way around. Now eat hearty and grab a good night’s sleep. We leave at dawn. Cortland, if you’re so uncertain of our path, then stay here. We’ll do without you.”

A sour exchange of looks between them passed for a heartbeat until Cort poured himself a new tankard of ale, muttering his reluctant acceptance.

Although the desire to relax in the tavern and have a few more ales was strong, the morning would see them off with the dawn’s first light, so they retired early. Cortland shuffled into his hut and sat on his bed for a few minutes in his small clothes, his fingers turning his long, wooden pipe slowly.

Knock, knock.

He eyed the door warily, setting his pipe down and approaching it with caution. He held himself with a lowered ready stance, fist clenched in case someone tried to break their way inside. When he cracked the door, his eyes were treated to a healthy serving of bared flesh framed by blonde hair. Savia propped herself by one arm against the door frame, clad only in her ill-fitting small clothes and wearing a hungry grin.

He opened the door just enough for his face to be seen and took a deep breath. A very real fight within him that had sparked over dinner now erupted.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, come on, love.” She rolled her eyes and gave a shake of her head; her mane of sandy blonde bounced in a way that enticed Cort. Cracks formed in his internal defenses.

“I’ve got no love for Pallies,” he spat, shoring up his mental battlements. He tried to imagine this was his mother, even though he knew she was too young, but the effort to force himself to be reviled by Savia was failing. He wasn’t dull enough to see why she was there. His mind warned him against this. It was as if he was defending a castle from invaders and suddenly the inside of the castle walls was swarming with goblins setting everything on fire.

She put one hand on the door and pushed it open further.

“Then don’t. I care not what you think of my order. But I do hate to start a quest before I scratch a certain…itch. I just need someone to scratch it.” She pushed a finger into his chest and clawed at him playfully.

One wall fell. The stones crumbled. The battlements were ablaze.

“I just met you,” he said, his protest feeble.

She took a step into his doorway. “And now that we’ve met, let’s get better acquainted. Come on, what do you say? I’ve got a dungeon that needs delving, if you’re adventurous enough to brave it.” A slip of her finger against the tie to her upper small clothes and they fell away. Cort’s defenses collapsed entirely. The years of isolating himself from Havenlore’s social circles, ones he had never felt comfortable in, had eroded his will power in that moment. He remembered the last girl he’d been with back in Vaelyn’s Deep had spent hours after their coupling whispering of a future together and planning a life he had no intention of living. That moment had lived in his memory, a harsh and painful reminder that he had left to pursue his own ambitions and in doing so no doubt left her broken-hearted.

Those memories went flying as Savia stood there, all but undressed, eyes full of lustful hunger. He snatched her around the waist and yanked her in, slamming the door as she squealed in laughter.

Mora approached her hut, rubbing blood from her knuckles. Not her own. When she looked up, she found Pastro loitering near her hut, wearing a fine linen shirt and freshly bathed, a bottle of liquor and two goblets in his hand. He beamed as soon as he saw her.

“Lady Val’Mora. I was hoping to catch you.”

She looked down and finished cleaning her knuckles with the rag she had taken off the owner of the blood.

“You were hoping to bed me with smooth words and cheap booze. Why don’t you try it on one of the Orcbrat girls? I just happened to see one with her evening free now that her friends are busy bleeding in an alley.”

If her rejection dissuaded Pastro, his unwavering grin didn’t betray it. He approached her with a slow saunter, every ounce of charm he owned on display.

“I would not dare trick such a lovely and powerful woman as yourself. Obviously, you’re no tavern wench or homely low-born maiden.”

She ignored him and walked past, approaching her door. “I’m going to bed. Alone. If you talk again, you’ll sleep outside and unconscious.”

“If you like—”

THWOCK!

The crunch of his face under her fist was every bit as satisfying as she’d hoped it would be. The Paladin flew backwards and came to a rest on the gravel walkway around the well. Once she heard his unconscious snoring, satisfied he was still alive, she resumed going inside.

“I’d like that.”

Bedrolls were only so much comfort. The hard ground was not an accepting mistress. Even thick grass was only so much relief. Nothing compared to the comfort of a bed. As refreshing as the bath was, the overwhelming sense of relief when Ragoth fell back into the simple down mattress was ecstatic.

He was asleep almost immediately.

Sleep was something he dreaded as of late. Between the lucid nightmares and ever-present sense of foreboding, he slept fitfully but on this night, he fell into the bliss of dreamlessness.

Hours vanished in an instant, but amid his rest, his awareness crept back. He inhaled that familiar smell, stronger now, until it was all but a reek that clenched his gut. He opened one eye, seeing the elvish form as it entered his room. Ragoth’s Orc blood turned even the darkest of rooms into a place of gray and shadows. He saw the slender build, the pointed ears, smelled the familiar aroma as it inched forward.

Deni?

No. The smell was similar, but not the same as Deni at all. When the elvish figure’s hand lifted with a pointed object aimed at him, he snapped his leg and kicked the hand with all his might. It clattered as it landed in the corner. The noise of surprise was deep and gruff.

Too small a room to fight. Too dark. Rags launched himself off the bed and through the window above it, head down, elbow shielding his face. The glass and wood shattered as he went through but came to a halt when his leg was grabbed. He was sticking halfway out of the broken window when his assailant pulled him back in, a yelp escaping his throat.

He spun and grappled with the elf. Though taller than the Orcborn, the elf struggled against Ragoth’s strength. Their grappling contest carried them from one side of the room to the other, crashing over every bit of furnishing until they finally broke through the door and spilled onto the gravel pathway outside.

Ragoth crawled away and looked up to see Pastro, but no sooner did he cry out for the Paladin than he saw the man was splayed face down in the gravel, unmoving.

The elf kicked Ragoth in the ribs, pushing him over onto his back and planted a boot on his chest. The elf drew a dagger with a sneer. “Filthy Orcbrat! I’ll—”

His words were lost as he heaved forward, staring down into Ragoth’s eyes as a lithe form suddenly mounted on his back. Rags saw Avora in her dark hood, twin curved daggers raised as she clung to the elf with her legs tightened around his waist. The elf tried to buck her, but her daggers bit down cruelly, stabbing over and over into the elf’s back as she laughed with maniacal glee. He fell to his knees, a sickening gurgle in his throat. Blood spattered on Ragoth as the elf coughed his last breath. Avora’s laughter rang in his ears. As the elf finally collapsed, Ragoth pounced to his feet and cried out for his friends.

Avora tossed her hood back, eyes wild as she breathed heavily through her grinning teeth.

“Nothing like a good kill to get one’s blood rushing, eh?”

Rags took a step back, guarded as he tried to gather his senses. “Wh…what…”

“What happened?” The hard clop of heavy hoof steps heralded Mora’s quick arrival. She stepped over Pastro like so much rubbish and glanced down at the murdered elf.

“Blood and bollocks, what in the abyssal hell is going on? Can’t I sleep in peace?”

Rag recounted the events to Mora. A few other patrons peeked out through their doors to see what the commotion was about and promptly returned to bed, unconcerned unless it involved them. Deni stumbled out, hands over his mouth, horrified at the sight. He examined Rags for injuries as the Orcborn spoke, frantic at the events unfolding. Mora gave Rags a quizzical look.

“You smelled him?” she asked.

Rags nodded, “Its—I don’t know what it is. I can smell Deni more than anyone else. I thought we were rank from our travels, but—"

“Are you hurt?” Deni asked, trying to find a cut or stab wound on his person.

“It’s his blood,” Rags said, trying to wipe it away only to smear it.

“Step back,” Mora said to all as she leaned down and lifted the head of the dead elf. His dark hair was short, unkempt, and a spider web tattoo decorated his ears. “Never seen him before. Likely trying to rob you.”

Cortland came up then, dressed only in his small clothes and brandishing his sword. A few steps in his wake came Savia in a similar state of undress, a sword in one hand and her other arm clutched over her bare breasts. Mora shot them both a scowl and stood up.

“Your hut was next to his, was it not? You heard nothing?”

“No. We were—I was...”

“So I see.” Mora turned her back on them.

Ragoth leaned over the elf to study him. He gasped, pointing. “I do not know who he is, but I remember seeing him. He was in the corner of the inn we entered back in Roraberg Crossing. I saw his face and tattooed ears.”

Mora lifted an eyebrow. “That was days ago. A week almost. You remember him?”

“I remember everything I see.”

“Dear gods, did he kill my brother? Pastro!” Savia cried, rushing to Pastro and flipping him onto his back. He groaned, a massive bruise around his left eye swollen shut. “What happened to you, brother?”

“He was looking for a warm bed to spend the night,” Mora cracked her knuckles. “He should have considered his own.”

Pastro stirred as Savia cradled his head, a tiny smile cracking his chiseled face, “Tha wommahn…”

“Ah-ha.” They heard Avora exclaim, producing the elf’s coin purse and peering into it, “It’s Bagreth. Cutthroat piece of shite merc, he is. Oh! The bloke’s heavy pursed. Blood and shite, that’s a lotta tilts.”

“Tilts? Let me see that.” Ragoth went to snatch the purse from Avora, who held it out of his reach with a mischievous grin and a wag of her finger.

“Ah ah. Is that how you Orcbrats thank a Sneak who saves your life?”

He was taken back, speechless in embarrassment. He cleared his throat.

“You speak the truth fairly. I thank you, Avora, for saving my life. You have my gratitude.” He bowed slightly, never taking his eyes off her.

Avora’s grin made him shiver. “Such a proper gentleman. You shan’t rob me in the dark of night, I hope.”

Ragoth took the purse from her slowly, peering inside. “There must be a hundred gold tilts here.”

“Why would an elf be carrying that many tilts this far from Namaria?” Savia stood with her brother leaning on her arm and clutching his eye.

“He’s a mercenary,” Mora answered, crossing her arms. “Someone hired him.”

“To kill Rags?” asked Deni, his hand over his mouth.

Ragoth shut the bag and handed it back to Avora. “Take all of it.” He turned on them, pausing when he saw Cort and Savia mostly naked, then marched back to his hut.

“Where are you going?” Deni asked, following on his heels.

“To gather my things,” Ragoth snapped. “Before a damned shadow dragon swoops out of the sky and swallows me.”

He stormed off back to his hut and angrily kicked his bedpost. His anger and frustration were in danger of exploding. He could not even indulge in the simple comfort of an undisturbed night. He wanted to punch everything in sight and damn what his mother would think. He was so preoccupied; he didn’t even hear Deni enter the hut until the elf spoke up.

“Rags?”

“Every step of this journey has been fraught with peril,” Ragoth ranted, “I cannot so much as sleep without fear of a blade in my chest. Shadow dragons, Night-takers, Sothren, elvish armies, and now mercenaries. Why not bring the gods themselves down to smite me?”

Denith approached and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Forgive my asking, but what is it that truly hunts you? Why are you so important that such forces would hound you so?”

Ragoth let out a deep breath, seeing the worry etched into Denith’s elvish features.

“More than I can ever say; More than you should ever know.”

Deni went to speak, but his eyes caught sight of something on the floor. “What is that?”

Rags followed his gaze and picked the object of his attention from the corner. He turned it over in his hands, examining a glass syringe with a thick needle and metal cap. The inside of it swirled with a viscous black liquid.

“He had this in his hand before I attacked him. He was going to stab me with it.”

“What is in it?”

“Poison, most likely. What kind, I can’t say.” He wrapped the syringe carefully and placed it in his pack.

“I understand you wish to hurry, but we need to rest some more. If it makes you feel better, I can sleep with my back to the door.” Deni offered.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to sleep tonight.” Ragoth sighed and tossed his pack down in frustration.

“Then I’ll sit up with you.”

“What about the dead mercenary?” Rags asked.

“Cort suggested notifying the guards before I followed you and everyone laughed. I believe Mora is taking care of it and I feel the less we know the better. I confess I’m not used to congregating in such company that disposing of a dead body is regarded as a frequent annoyance. I wish to leave these roguish underbellies. I have no defense against such scofflaws.”

“I’ll watch out for you, Deni.” Ragoth said, pausing. Unsure of what to do or say next, he awkwardly reached out and patted Deni on the head. The elf gave him a strange look, followed by a strange smile and chuckled.

“What are you doing? I’m not a cat.”

“I don’t know, I just…I don’t know.” Ragoth and Deni shared a laugh. They heard a rapping of knuckles on the doorframe, and they saw Avora leaning against it.

“Still a few hours till dawn, Rags. You shouldn’t be by yourself for the rest of the night.”

Ragoth walked to her. “I won’t.”

He shut the door in her face.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“The mountain of Karthak remains a point of attraction for those who dare climb mountainous peaks. From its zenith one can see the entirety of the Dreadmour Valley and that is close enough.”

‘The Adventurer's Guide to Allspire’

Karthak loomed over Dessius but remained two days' travel by foot. There was little about the land surrounding the city that was of much worth. There were no formed roads and the terrain too treacherous for cart travel. It was too rocky for farming, and the few hardy souls that tried to build a homestead in the lands around the mountain were prone to vanish. Their abandoned hovels rotted openly throughout the landscape as warnings to others who might have the same inclination.

Mora gave the cart and horses to Vera, compensation for the trouble caused the night before, and the troupe set off on foot with four paladins and one halfling guide in the dark hours before dawn. Rags presumed she was halfling since Oy remained swaddled from head-to-toe in her baggy clothes and deep hood. For being burdened by such garb, she moved swiftly and quietly.

They passed by the Godstone Arch at Ragoth’s request to see the monolithic thing up close. He could not pass up the chance to see Godstone and touch it. Their urgency had not afforded him the chance to examine it in Arcathoria. Here there were no guards and nothing to restrict them. Ragoth ran up and pressed his hand to it.

The Godstone appeared matte white on the surface, not warm nor cool to touch and smooth in its flawless, seamless texture. When he rapped his knuckles on it, there was no vibration and no sound.

Pastro was not shy about sharing his knowledge of them.

“Do you know how the Godstone monoliths came into being? The gods created our world, formed the lands and rivers and forests. From every grain of sand in the deserts of Norenrauth to the deep jungles of the Feylund to the vast cliffsides of the Allurious Coast. But when they were done, Andoreon was left unfulfilled, and so he filled the world with the monoliths. He wanted to create something that fulfilled him and used the stone of the gods themselves. The other gods joined him and thus every Godstone monolith across Allspire was the gods' attempt to find the fulfillment they craved in creation. It was not until Andoreon created the races of men, elves, and dwarves that they found what they sought.”

“Praise the light of creation,” The other three Paladins muttered in unison.

“And they ensured that no mortal hand could ever craft from it,” Pastro added, grinning at Mora to see if she was impressed. She was not.

“That’s not entirely true, though,” Rags corrected.

They turned to him as they left the Arch and he launched into an explanation as he walked through their midst. “It takes six Archmages no less than thirty years to cut even a small piece of Godstone and likely a few decades to forge it. Forged Godstone has a glossy, black sheen with very faint veins of amethyst or amber. The Grand Knight of the Knights Valiant has a sword forged of Godstone. There are, to date, only seven Godstone artifacts in existence, though likely more are being forged.”

Ragoth continued for a few steps before realizing he walked alone. When he turned, he found the rest of them standing still and staring at him with their mouths agape. Deni was holding his hands to his mouth in shock. Even Mora was openly aghast.

Pastro stepped forward, hand on his sword hilt and a grim scowl replaced his usual jovial grin.

“Godstone has not been forged by mortal hands since Selrach the God-Sorcerer carved his Black Crown out of the Machavian Stonewall. Forging it is heresy, punishable by death. Even suggesting such a thing should get you thrashed. How do you know the Arcane Order is forging Godstone?”

The air grew still and quiet, only eyes moving from one to another as Ragoth found them centered on his next words.

“Performance is a skill requiring more deftness than dancing with a blade.” His mother’s words rang. “You weave others in a dance of tales. You make others believe what you want them to believe, feel what you want them to feel, as they will do to you. Never bare your true self to those you trust least.”

Ragoth flashed a lop-sided grin. “My friend Marvallo said so. He’s a court jester for a noble lord. He’s heard every whisper from the lord’s pillow talk to his mistress.”

“Your friend is a lying bastard.” Pastro sneered. “Is that the sort of company you keep? Heretics and—" A hand clapped on his shoulder and Mora spun him to face her, bent at the waist so Pastro could stare down the top of her breastplate.

“Come now, Pastro. Rags has a long tongue, and he wags it at great length. He also told me King Sothren was Selrach under a magical guise. Trust his tales like a goblin’s promise.” She smiled and the effect on Pastro was immediate. His charming grin returned, and his hand fell away from his sword pommel.

“So long as he understands not to wander into heresy again. Andoreon’s truths are not to be trifled with.”

She twirled her finger around one of his golden locks. “I’ll tie his tongue up good. Come then, you were leading us?”

“Er, yes. Onward!” Pastro ruffled Rag’s hair when he passed and said. “If you take truths from a jester, do not be surprised when they turn out to be a joke.”

As Pastro marched forward and intertwined his arm with Mora’s, she shot Ragoth an angry look that made him wither where he stood. Savia followed, pulling Cortland by his arm. Kronn stomped past, glaring. Oy looked up at him with her sharp blue eyes and shook her head.

“Don’t fear Pastro, Rags. He’s a boastful one, but quick to forgive. He’ll forget why he was mad before mid-day, but you can wag your long tongue at me all you like.” Ragoth felt a slender arm slip under his as Avora sidled next to him.

Denith followed behind the two, glaring.

Ragoth pondered his mistake in speaking his knowledge as they marched through the day. Forged Godstone items were something he thought to be common knowledge. That Mages acted against the established religions in defiance of their beliefs had never been imparted to him. Perhaps his mother neglected to tell him such knowledge was not widely known, or perhaps Pastro was not well informed. Whatever fury had come over the Paladin, it quickly passed as he was now enraptured by Mora’s change of heart. The Auroch gave him just enough attention to keep him fixated on her as they led the way.

Given her open disdain, Ragoth saw the ruse for what it was and meant to thank her for disarming the Paladin’s ire. Every moment she caught his eye, she pierced him with daggers. Rags wanted to stay close to his friends, but the Paladins were quite taken with the lot of them. Avora was never out of sight, her eyes always on him. Even when Pastro had her scout ahead, she would return behind them, tapping Rags on the shoulder playfully.

He tried to stay close to Deni, but Kronn had taken to lurking near the elf. He was not as deft as Avora and Deni would catch his eyes lingering. Once Rags caught him reaching for Deni’s hair but held back before he touched it. When Rags told Deni later, the elf was horrified and began looking over his shoulder to ensure Kronn stayed as distant as possible.

Most shocking to him was Cort. His ill-tempered friend had tossed his disdain for Paladins after spending one night with Savia. What a night she must have given him.

In truth, Ragoth’s feelings were sundered.

His mother was the only one to speak to him of matters regarding intimacy and those conversations she kept brief, speaking of how to receive ladies of the royal courts. No doubt she expected he would be exposed to them more than others, but any other questions were brushed off with “Ask your brother.”

When he had asked his brother, the older prince had laughed so hard he couldn’t stand on his feet. Brutis then told his twin sister, and she joined in the raucous laughter. Ragoth had cowered in shame, as though he’d done wrong. That laughter still echoed in his mind when the memories came unbidden.

While his mother had taught him to be cautious with girls, his good sense was almost overpowered. He was overly conscious of every fair girl that came within sight. It was unreasonable to think they were all looking at him, but it felt that way. Paranoia, he told himself, but what if they were? His cheeks threatened to flush at the very thought.  He felt confident in his ability to control his wandering eyes after Cort scolded him. “Look with your eyes, not your head.” Practical wisdom given from a practical man. He had always wanted friends to congregate with, but only now did he see the true value of friends with diverse backgrounds. Cort, Mora, and Deni all imparted very different wisdom, yet all of it was applicable. Only Cort had given him advice on the fairer sex, though.

However, no matter how strong he felt in his confidence, Savia was the siege machine that broke through his inner-caution.

Common market girls and brothel wenches caked in rouge held little compared to Savia’s natural beauty. She was, indeed, striking to look at and he wondered if he would have done the same as Cort were she to come to his bedroom. She was as subtle as the dawning sun. Her molded Paladin’s armor of white and gold allowed more flesh to spill out than not. Every curve was visible, and she wasn’t averse to wandering eyes. She moved and held herself in such a way that it was impossible to avoid staring. She once caught his eye and smiled with a wink, rushing blood to his face.

He was both disappointed in Cortland and yet could hardly blame him. Cortland was always the center of her attention, and he was smitten. He’d never seen Cort so congenial. He also felt a twinge of jealousy, and he wasn’t sure why. Without a just cause, he dismissed it, but the feeling still lingered.

A multitude of thoughts occupied him as they made their way into increasingly rocky and difficult terrain. The standings of trees became thinner and less frequent. Oy pointed them to a small clearing near bubbling brooks fed by melting snow from Karthak’s peak.

“Good place rest,” She said in her broken dialect.

Come the evening, they arrived at the clearing and set to make camp. Rags set his pack and bundled sword into a hidden crevasse and tried to find a moment to speak to Cort, but he had vanished. Likewise, Savia was nowhere in sight. Mora was setting the camp with Pastro talking her ears off. Deni was missing. Avora was nowhere to be seen. Kronn was drinking. Oy was preparing food.

Fuming, Rags left the camp, all of Deni’s prior warnings flying from his thoughts. He made for the standings of trees around them and after marching through brush for a finger of time, he found a swollen brook flowing from the summit. The air held a slight chill but wasn’t cold.

His chest and neck were still sticky from the splash of blood the night before. He’d been too upset to consider another bath before leaving. The scent of elf blood was putrid, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. That hot bath the night before was already fading into distant memory, and the crystal-clear brook would be a last chance to clean before they entered the mountain. He dipped his fingers into it and winced at the cool water. Not pleasant, but it would do.

The camp wasn’t in sight. Chilly or not, the brook was a temptation he could not pass. He tossed his clothes off and hissed as he inched his way into the cold brook. The shock went up his spine. His teeth chattered, but the water was refreshing. A few moments in the brook were invigorating, and he was quick to wash.

The cold did not dull his sense of smell, however. He caught the scent of Avora before he heard the splash behind him, whipping around just in time to see a mane of black hair and pale feet vanish into the water. He spied her pile of discarded clothes on the bank before her head broke the surface near him.

“Blood and bollocks, Avora. You scared me,” he yelped.

“You’re easy to spook.” She grinned, her dark hair clinging to her head as the rest stirred in the water like a blot of ink. “Especially for someone with his eyes cast in every direction. Always on the lookout, but not for me.”

“What do you want?” he asked, backing away from her.

“A touch of trust would not hurt.” She said, drifting closer, “Were it not for me, you would have been killed by Bagreth, the scum. Fortunately for you, I was near.”

His brow furrowed. “Why were you near at that hour?”

“Greener than spring grass. How have you not had a dagger sunk into your eyes as wide as they are? Do your friends not teach you anything about the world? Your friend Cort was quick to sink into Savia’s desires. She’s fond of the rugged, handsome ones.” She chuckled.

Listening to her words was difficult as he grappled knowing they were together without a stitch of clothing. Her pale flesh contrasted with the crystal-clear water and vibrant greens of the banks filled. He felt trapped, torn between her advances and crippled by the uncertainty of very much everything in this moment. He floundered for an escape as she inched closer, enough that he could feel her breath on his face.

His eyes were drawn to her black-stained lips. “We should go back before we get too cold.”

He felt no cold.

“I’ll warm you plenty,” she said as she sank under the surface.

Ragoth was left in silence, watching her distorted form under the surface of the water for a long moment before he felt her touch and let out a yelp. He jumped, bolting backwards and tearing out of the water bare ass.

Avora’s teasing laughter followed him until he was out of earshot.

No sooner had Cortland returned, hair disheveled and wearing a pleased grin, than Mora tapped him on the shoulder.

“Rags went off somewhere again. Help me find him.”

“I’ve no doubt he’s fine.” Cort waved her off. “Probably with that half-ear girl that can’t stop staring at him.”

“After last night, I don’t want him out of my sight. Now, help me find him.”

“Find Rags?” asked Deni, wandering up to them and only now realizing the half-orc was gone. “Where did he go?”

“Thought you would know,” said Mora. “You two are often together.”

Denith leaned in and whispered. “I cannot move without one of the Paladins near me—especially the dwarf. It is unsettling.”

Mora tossed Cortland his sword. “Come. We’ll go as one.”

“Where are you going? The food is nearly ready.” Pastro saw them leaving and stood up.

“Perimeter check,” said Mora over her shoulder. “We always make one before settling down at camp. Make sure all are accounted for.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Stay and guard the camp. Won’t take long.” She marched on without giving him the chance to follow.

They made a wide sweep of the surrounding standings of trees, Mora with her mace at the ready. At times, they called for Rags, though not too loudly lest something or someone hear them.

“I tell you he’s with that half-ear,” Cortland said, lax in his efforts to search. “She’s not kept her eyes off him since we met them. Let a lad finally free in the world have a touch of fun.”

Mora snorted. “Glad you could wrench yourself away from your bedmate long enough to notice.”

“A fine thing to say from my companion.” He snapped “I’ve helped drag this Orcbrat and elf across the southern provinces, cut down slavers, threw myself off a god’s hand, ran from the Sylverian military, and been humiliated at the hands of Galdren. I’ll not spit in the face of the gods smiling upon me for one night.”

“You spoke of Paladins with pure spite. Savia had only to heave her tits into your face and you abandon your disdain. Her charms must be– ”

Cort spun on her. “Think of me what you like. I’ll not bend to the approval of Rag’s hired sword. At least they’re doing what I set forth to do. A proper troupe of Adventurers from all I’ve seen. I think perhaps you judge too harshly—especially when you’re busy making eyes with Pastro.”

Mora’s eyes rolled into her head. “A performance so bad only a dullard like you would believe it. That is to keep him away from Rags. You were too enamored with Savia to notice her brother was ready to put your friend to the sword. I’d rather lop off my tail than warm his bed.”

“What’s wrong?” Cort asked. “Afraid if you pretend to have fun or friends that you may have either?”

Mora flicked her tail, annoyed. “Take a pinch of salt with your sweets, Cortland, and hear the advice of a veteran Adventurer: taking your adventuring companions into your bed is one of the worst things you can do. Often, it ends badly for one or both. I can’t tell you how many groups split apart because a lover’s quarrel forced them to pick sides and fracture the team. It is a path of broken hearts, hurt feelings, and my least favorite adventuring annoyance: dramatics. I’d rather hoof a week without food than go one day with a pair of bickering lovers. I say this again because you did not listen the first time.”

“All those pairings and none ever ended happily? No one fell in love, got married, and lived out the rest of their lives?” Cort scoffed.

Mora was quiet, rubbing her temples again. “I’d be lying if I said no, but they are an exception, not the standard. Savia does not strike me as the type to settle down with—" Mora paused when a stone bounced off her arm. She whipped her head around and together, they saw Rags, shirtless, half-buried in the bushes, waving at them. She squinted.

“Don’t tell me he’s naked, hiding in the brush.”

Cort pushed past her with a grin. “I have to hear this.”

Ragoth watched his friend’s approach, his cheeks burning a deep red as he hugged his arms. Mora stood over him.

“I suppose there’s a reason you’re sulking about the brush naked?”

He told them, embarrassed and eyes cast down.

Cortland tried to stay on his feet and not erupt in laughter. Deni only stared with pursed lips. Mora wiped her face and sighed.

“You’re not hurt?” she asked.

“Only his pride.” Cort said. He jolted sideways as Mora drove her elbow into him and told Deni to fetch Rags’ clothes from the brook. “Cort, go with him in case Avora is still lurking around.”

As soon as they left, Mora crossed her arms and buried her mouth in her hand. “All the years I’ve been alive, I’ve never known a young man to turn away the advances of a willing girl. Either you’re daft, fancy men, or you hold your celibate convictions with an iron grip.”

Ragoth spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Mora, I do not trust her. You didn’t see her when she killed that other elf. She was grinning. Laughing like a demon. She enjoyed it. What sort of person derives such pleasure in killing?”

“You’re not wrong,” She muttered, setting her mace down and leaning on the handle. “Keep to your mother’s advice and don’t stow your sword in a crazed sheath. We should do our best not to leave each other’s sides until our journey is done. Our Paladin companions seem too eager to earn our trust. Cort, I fear, is already far past any warning from me. Give that girl a wide berth if you can.”

“I think she likes that I don’t reciprocate her affection.”

“Some girls think it a challenge.” She patted his head and ruffled his hair. “I don’t think she understands you like we do.”

“Mora,” He jerked away from her. “I’m naked.”

“This again? You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“That does little to make me feel better.”

“In my people’s culture, we value pure physical strength. Hiding your strength behind clothing is seen as lying, hiding your true self. Wearing clothes is akin to heresy. Nakedness is our norm.”

He tilted his head. “But you wear a breastplate and armor.”

“For the benefit of those around me. I wear what armor I can within reason. Would it make you more comfortable if I were naked as well?”

“No!” Rags barked.

Mora cackled loudly.

Returning to camp, fully clothed, the nine of them shared a meal in tense quiet. As darkness crept over them, they began settling down for the night. Cort took the first watch, as always. He perched nearby with his back to a thick tree.

Mora found Rags and pulled him aside.

“Should have done this long ago. Bought these from Vera. You need them.” She handed him a pair of daggers and a short sword, well used but in good condition. He placed them next to his bedroll and gave her his most sincere thanks.

The companions were used to each other in camp and their established roles. Having five more people nearby made sleep a flighty thing. Every new noise brought their eyes open. Pastro flopped from side to side. Savia would sometimes whistle through her nose. Kronn was the worst, snoring with the might of a dwarven god. Avora and Oy huddled at opposite ends, wrapped in cloak and hood. The wind howled softly, carrying a relentless chill breeze that came down from the mountain ahead of them.

At the moon’s height, Ragoth gave up on sleep and went to relieve Cort on watch. He was almost near him when he paused, a glint of campfire light dancing off something metal at his feet.

A bell. No, three bells in line, all connected by a string tied to an exposed rock. He followed the string and found the other end tied around Cort’s foot. He had only to jerk his leg and the bells would sound.

“Quite ingenuous.” He remarked when he sat next to Cort.

Cort grunted, spinning a wooden pipe in his hand absently as he kept his gaze over the camp.

“What if someone were to get me while I was keeping watch and cut my throat before I could shout? Just a kick of my foot and I can warn you all.”

“Clever. I’m impressed.”

“Piss it off.”

Rags chuckled. “I wasn’t aware you smoked.”

Cort rested the tip of the pipe on his lips, his other hand clutching a small leather pouch.

“A gift from my father. One of the few things he gave me that didn’t come with the back of his hand. I smoke a pinch of Barther’s Bold when I miss home.”

“You’re not smoking it, though?”

“I was considering it, runtnuts.” he handed Rags the pouch, who looked inside to see it nearly bare. “Only one solid pinch left. If I want more, I’ll have to go back home to Vaelyn’s Deep and buy some from Barther himself. I was hoping the last time I smoked it would be the place I consider home, so I won’t be tempted to go back to Vaelyn’s Deep.”

“Was it really so bad?”

“No. And, in truth, I deserved a lot of the backhands he gave me. I’m not an easy man to get along with, I know that. Often I remember the bad more than the good. He’s a hard-working, honest man who got gifted a roaring bull of a son. We simply could not live together anymore. But I don’t want to go back. I don’t belong there. And if I go back, those I left will heap guilt on me until I stay. Can’t go back.”

Rags pulled at one of his tusks idly. “I once had some elvish wine. It was sweet and full of warmth. I had a goblet after supper in the tavern and for a moment it felt like I was back in my home.”

“Hmm,” Cort murmured.

Another moment of silence before Rags asked. “Might I inquire about something without your derision?”

“Only if you ask me in the common tongue and not that gibberish you speak.”

“Can I ask you something without you mocking me?”

“No.”

“What is it like? Being with…?”

“I thought you had a father to have this talk with?” Cort let out a sigh.

“He was not a man I could easily converse with, and you’re the only other man I’ve known. I’ve never been with a girl.”

Cort grinned, tapping his pipe to his lips. “You needn’t tell me. It’s as plain as the tusks on your face. You’re as green as—”

“The spring grass.” They finished together. “Aye, Avora told me as much. I’m unfamiliar with the colloquialism.”

Cort inhaled deeply. “A woman is a complicated thing. We are as much alike as we are different, and navigating a relationship has as much chance to succeed as it does to fail. I was with my share of them. Being with a woman is a pleasure, but a fleeting one if your hearts aren’t coupled as well. You learn many lessons when you’re with a woman. Some from her and some from their angered fathers chasing you in the dead of night with a wood axe. When I felt the urge to leave Vaelyn’s Deep, I stopped indulging in the warmth of women lest I leave a child of my own behind as my mother did me. I wanted to make sure there was nothing to draw me back.”

Rags was unsure if he should laugh or worry. “Perhaps you should have courted their daughters properly.”

“The farmlands and wall-less villages aren’t part of whatever social rules you’ve learned. We do as we please, norms be damned. I was…” he trailed off, eyes staring into memory. “Back in Vaelyn’s Deep, I was as close as our town had to a knight. I was bigger than everyone, even the grown men. Stronger and faster, too. I could fight five men into the dirt and come back smiling. I had my pick of the girls there. The town Arlor tried to give me his daughter’s hand.”

“You had an easy life, so why leave it?”

“Why did you leave yours?” Cort shot back.

“It was not by my choice. I was forced to leave.”

The human nodded. “I left of my own choice. I felt the spoils of Vaelyn’s Deep beneath me. I swore to leave and pursue my destiny. Knighthood has a certain flair to it, don’t you think?”

“You, goodsir Cortland, are even more of an arrogant braggart than I previously thought.”

“I thank you. It’s my best quality.”

The two shared a short laugh.

“Aye, Rags. I do think myself better than a potato farmer’s son, better than a valley of them. And better than to bed down a dirt-faced wife picked from a herd of dirt-faced daughters. I have only to open my eyes for the chance to grasp my aspirations. Savia, Pallie or not, is a far cry better than any Arlor’s daughter. Do you not believe in destiny? Fate? That you are made different from those around you?”

“I’m Orcborn. I feel it every day.” Rags replied.

Cort poked at him with the stem of his pipe. “Just an Orcbrat, my arse. You’re smarter than the eight of us together and I’d wager far more important, given the enormity of foes at our heels.”

“Not so loud!”

“I stand by my word.” Cortland continued. “I was not made to sit in a farmer’s town, watching crops grow as my neighbors squabble and a low-born wife swats our belligerent children.”

“It is no shame to be low-born.” said Rags.

“Perhaps not, but I was born better, and I will not concede to such circumstances. My fate lies elsewhere. My legacy will not end in Vaelyn’s Deep. Answer me, do you not believe in fate? In destiny?”

Rags gave him a stern glare. “If you knew what the fates have done to me, you would wish for your farmland back. I would rather have the free will to forge my own path. But alas, we are only pawns in destiny’s grip. I suppose we go where it commands.”

“Not I. I was made better than where fate left me. Fight it. Forge your own path, make your own fate. Embrace the fires of defiance. And embrace what tiny pleasures we can find. There’s precious few of them.” Cort clapped Ragoth on the shoulder and lifted the loop of string off his boot.

“I’m not of a mind to embrace Avora if that’s what you mean. Perhaps you should exercise such caution in your own bedmates.”

Cort grinned. “You know what’s best for your bed, Rags. Worry not about mine.” He tossed the string to Rags and went to take his bedroll next to Savia. Ragoth huddled into his cloak, listening to the crackles of their smoldering fire and chill breeze that drifted through night’s darkness.

The trolls attacked an hour before dawn. Kronn was on watch, but he need shout no warning. The stench of the beasts drifted on the breeze downwind from the mountain. Ragoth woke from a dead sleep at the wretched stink and Mora jolted up seconds later.

“Trolls,” She and Kronn said together.

The Paladins, to their credit, were not lax in their response. They were on their feet with weapons at the ready within seconds. Cort was still rousing and Deni opening his eyes when the trolls charged the camp, a dozen strong. They snarled through rotted teeth, drool slathering their fetid skin.

Ragoth recalled one book he read the most: “Monsters, Aberrations, and Abominations of the Age of Adventures”. The detailed anatomical paintings and renderings did not paint its subjects in a flattering light. Any misgivings Ragoth had as to the accuracy of the book’s depictions of trolls was shattered upon seeing the gruesome beasts up close. The overpowering stench of rotting flesh and festering disease made every grotesque feature worse.

“Cut the bastards down!” someone cried as the camp erupted into sheer chaos. The massive beasts were strong, but clumsy and stupid, often striking their own by accident when rearing their hands back. As blades began cutting into thick troll flesh, the air filled with cries of battle and roars of pain.

The sound of a hard smack heralded a spray of gore that was once a troll’s head. Mora’s return swing with her mace came back and sank deep into another troll’s thick gut.

Rags processed the fight with a detached mind, as though this wasn’t happening to him, until a troll swatted him across the camp.

He rolled through dirt and stone before scrambling to his feet, short sword in hand. He focused on one target, trusting his comrades to take care of themselves. He caught sight of a troll on all fours, crawling its way towards Denith as the elf scrambled backwards on hands and feet. It’s disgusting maw opened in anticipation of a hearty meal of elf flesh.

Rags spurred into action, blade raised, urgency sending him with all speed. Deni pressed up against a stone and issued a high-pitch scream, unable to back away further as the troll’s maw closed in over his head.

Ragoth ran up and threw himself to his knees, skidding under the troll’s head and slashing through its thick neck with his blade. Every muscle in his power, every ounce of strength, went into carving his blade through corded muscle, thick hide, and bone.

It went through! He looked back as the head of the beast plopped into Deni’s lap. The poor elf cried out and pushed it away, disgusted.

Rags helped him to his feet. “Behind me.”

In the heat of battle, the Paladins were manic and loud. They hacked at the trolls and deftly avoided their swipes, slashing and stabbing at their misshapen heads with an expert ease. Kronn menaced their legs and bellies. Cortland stood with Savia, forcing their target to attack one or the other and cutting into its open flanks until it fell.

But it was Val’Mora who commanded the battle. As relentless as she was strong, each blow inflicted a killing or crippling strike. Her mace turned heads and limbs into a flying spray of pulverized flesh and blood. No movement was wasted. Every swing found its intended target. She uttered no cries, her energy spent in the effort to strike down the next enemy. Every step made in service to advancing to her next victim. It was a fierce thing to see the Beast of Barrow’s End unfettered in her assault. Ragoth understood now the extent of her restraint.

There came a moment when two trolls came at her from two sides. Her mace came down, scraping across one side of a troll’s head and taking most of its face with it. The head of her mace sank into its shoulder and its opposite arm caught hold of the handle. She spun her head to the second troll and snapped her hand out, catching it by the folds of its fat throat. For that moment, she was between the two foes, holding them at bay in a stalemate.

Ragoth made for her, blade ready, when she kicked the gut of the troll in her grip. It staggered back and fell, clumsy with its short, stubby legs. She grabbed her mace with both hands and tore it free, then swung back underneath and buried it in the troll’s guts. The bulbous belly exploded like a bladder full of gizzards. She let the mace go as the troll slowly sank to the ground to die.

Mora looked back to see the second troll lunging for her. She caught its head under her arm and wrangled it until her hands caught the grip of its jaw. She issued a roar, accompanied with the sounds of cracking bones and tearing flesh as she tore its jaws apart. The screaming troll fell to the ground, clutching at the ruins of its face, until its end came when Mora crushed its skull with her heavy hoof.

The last troll turned to run and barreled straight towards Ragoth and Deni. The half-orc threw caution to the wind as he charged, thrusting his sword into the monster’s gut. It belched a gurgling cry at him, the stink enough to wrench his stomach. Gritting his teeth, he held firm as its hands closed around his chest, squeezing him, nails digging into his flesh. He heard Denith shout as his sight blurred. He let go of his restraint, a defiant rage swelling within. The edges of his vision went red as a growling roar rolled out of his mouth. He fought against the troll’s grip, and, for a few fleeting seconds, its fingers pulled apart ever so slightly.

A pair of blades erupted from its chest. Cortland and Savia roared in victory. The beast floundered and dropped him, arms flailing, when Avora leapt onto its back and drove her daggers into its neck. Her maniacal laughter sang in the early dawn. The final troll collapsed onto the ground and lay still with a gurgle as its last breath escaped.

The fight lasted only a few minutes and was over as quick as it began, leaving the eight of them panting and searching the campground littered with massive stinking corpses in search of a foe yet slain.

“Oy?” Oy poked her head out from behind a stone and looked around.

Weapons lowered as the party breathed easier. Pastro, splashed with troll bits, flashed a grin and puffed his chest out.

“Nothing like a fight to get the blood coursing in the morning. Who’s ready to eat?”

Ragoth emptied his stomach onto the ground.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Adventuring, being fraught with no small amount of peril, should be undertaken with capable, trustworthy allies. A guide of exceptional repute is also recommended.”

‘The Adventurer's Guide to Allspire’

The stench of trolls lingered as they began the trek up Karthak. Tall though the mountain loomed, Oy assured them they would not be going to the precipice. She led them on a winding path fraught with loose rocks and sharp juts waiting for an unwary step. Halfway up, they came to a thin spire of rock with the skeleton of a dead dwarf hanging from it. Oy identified it as a dwarf she once knew nicknamed Luckbeard.

Were it not for the weeks of travel, Ragoth suspected his legs would have given out, but he was stronger now than at the beginning of his journey. He paused once in his ascent and swiped at the sweat on his forehead. When he turned his arm around, he beheld a sight familiar, but not familiar on him. With a finger, he pressed against a vein on his arm, protruding prominently in the same manner as his brother. When did that happen? Mora had them. Cort had them. Now him?

They only took one rest a few hours in. Mora slipped away from Pastro for a few minutes and caught Ragoth’s ear.

“You handled yourself well during that fight. I didn’t have to stop what I was doing to protect you. Moreso, you saved Deni’s life and put his safety above yours. It takes a lot to do what you did. To do many of the things you’ve done so far. It’s…you’ve done good, lad. Made me proud.” She ruffled his hair playfully.

Pride exploded within Ragoth. Sworn by gold or not, having her approval felt like what he imagined being Crowned would have felt. Unlike when he sat with the other Orcborn, he felt truly accepted.

She squeezed his shoulder and added. “Just don’t let it kill you.”

He pondered her words as she left and when he looked up again, there was Denith, sheepishly holding his hands in front of him.

“I cannot provide you with anything as thanks for saving my life. I can only offer my servitude and life should the time come.”

“I don’t want your life or your servitude, Deni. You’re my friend. I wasn’t about to let a troll devour you.”

“You’d be the first.”

“What? A friend? Surely, you’ve had more friends than just I.”

“Not ones who would risk themselves as you have.”

“It is a matter of trust. I trust our friends were able to fight for themselves and, should we need their help, be there for us. The same night I met you, I lost my dearest friend. I trusted in him, and he gave his life for me to escape. What sort of man would I be if I would not do the same for my own friends?” Rags pointed to their companions.

The elf’s lips wavered, swiping at his eyes. “I wish there were more men of your character in this world.”

“I’d not realized such values were not the norm.”

“They are not,” Deni said, bitterness in his tone.

They pressed onward up the mountain.

By mid-day, they followed Oy to the entrance she charged so handsomely to divulge, just large enough to enter on hands and knees and tucked well behind an outcropping sheltered from view. It was so well hidden that stumbling upon it would have been a miracle. Oy walked in first, ducking low as she urged them to follow. One by one, the party entered the tunnel.

Mora looked back at her companions as she was about to enter.

“There are no guild tags on the entrance. No matter what happens inside, we keep going until we’re out the other side. I mean not to sleep in this place.”

The others agreed in a chorus of nods and followed her inside, leaving the light of day behind them with mournful glances.

Stories power imaginations—especially those of children. The Age of Adventures had been a time rife with storied journeys and quests, fueling generation after generation of adventure seeking youths. No Adventurer story was complete without delving into a dark place in search of their glory, dangers, and treasure.

Much of Ragoth and Cort’s perceptions of adventuring altered the moment they stepped into the widening cavern pathway and stared forward into absolute darkness. The humid aroma of wet dirt and standing water filled every breath. It unsettled them to their core. Mora gave the cave a disapproving scowl and swept her eyes everywhere.

Only a few fleeting rays of light intruded into their tunnel, where the two groups huddled around Savia. The Paladin fumbled with her backpack until a bright light erupted from it. Squinting, she produced five small glass globes encased in metal cradles, suspended by thin chains. Inside the globes, tiny figures flitted about, glowing brightly. Rags tried to glimpse them up close, but they were too bright to catch any details.

She handed one to Cortland. “Feylund volcanic sprites. Nasty little things, but they’re better than torches. Careful not to break the globes. If they get free, they’ll go right for your eyes.”

She distributed the five globes amongst their group, though Rags declined the offer. He saw in the dark just fine.

Into the deep, twisting caverns they went, Oy leading them in a procession through the darkness. The air was still and quiet and it brought with it an unease born from fear of the unknown. Not a quip or remark was to be heard, as their eyes were in search of any threat that could hide in every shadow. Ragoth’s normal curiosity was quelled. Their footsteps, light as they were, still echoed too loud for their taste.

Without the light of the sun, their sense of time was skewed. In the deep of Karthak’s belly, there was no day or night. How long they traveled was uncertain, as even minutes felt like hours. Rest held little comfort and lasted only a finger of time. Pastro grumbled first about sleep, but Mora glowered at him and shut his mouth.

Denith’s hand was a constant presence on Ragoth’s shoulder, the elf staying close to him. Cortland made sure nothing followed them. He spared a glance back at every chance he could spare. It was the only time Rags and Deni noticed him apart from his Paladin lover. The tense dread was palpable to the entire group, and even Pastro’s braggadocious voice fell silent.

It was during one rest Rags made a remark.

“These tunnels are very quie—Mmph!”

Mora’s hand clamped over his mouth with a quick slap, her clenched teeth grinding loudly.

“Do. Not. Ever…Say that word in my presence.” She looked at all of them. “That goes for all of you. If I hear that word come out of your lips, I’ll rip them off your face with my bare hands. That word has killed enough of my companions to fill a giant’s bathtub.”

She released him; the red imprint of her hand still stinging as it wrapped around his jaw..

The trek through the jagged pathway passed through junctions leading elsewhere into the mountain, but Oy kept them away from divergent passages. The farther they progressed, the more the tunnels widened and the ceiling, once within arm’s reach, rose well above their heads.

Oy spoke for the first time since entering and pointed to an opening ahead.

“Karthak’s innards.” she said.

The mouth of the tunnel ended, and the cavern expanded before them, glowing in soft amber and dim yellow. Spires and columns of crystalline stone jutted throughout the cavern, higher than castle walls and thick as great tree trunks. The soft glow from the crystals was enough to give the immense cavern a low light, a welcome relief to complete darkness. Such was its enormity that their light could not touch the ceiling, nor their eyes see the other side.

“Glostone crystals,” Rags whispered to Deni with awe. “If the queens of the Dynasty knew this was here, they could challenge Machavia’s hold on glostone production. This is enough to make an empire!”

“You are too ambitious for your own good,” Deni whispered back.

Mora swept her glowing glass orb from side to side, uttering a curse under her breath.

“What’s wrong?” Denith asked.

“Big things live in big places,” Mora answered,

“Isn’t it beautiful, though?” Pastro gestured. “The beating heart of Karthak lights our way for us.”

“Romantic.” Mora couldn’t keep the sardonic tone from dripping off her words as she passed by him.

Ragoth’s lingering dread faded as he entered the cavern with a sense of wonder. They passed several crystalline clusters and, though he knew better than to touch anything or wander from their group, he wanted to take in the details for later. When they took a brief rest, he spent all of it sketching in his travel journal. He sketched the various shapes of stone and crystal structures around him with Everquill in hand. He didn’t notice Avora hovering over his shoulder until she spoke into his ear.

“You are quite the artist.”

Her breath on his skin sent an electric shiver across his body. “Oh. T-tis nothing.”

“I mean it. Most Orcbrats I meet are more concerned with bashing things than writing. Most of the dullards can’t even read. I had a feeling there was something unique about you.”

He wasn’t sure what to say. Or what to think. Her words locked up his tongue, lacking the playful slyness typical of her speech. Was she, he dared to wonder, genuine for once?

He turned his head, and she was even closer than when she approached him in the brook. His chest grew uncomfortably hot as she whispered in his ear.

“When we’re out of here, perhaps I can give you something better than stones to sketch? Something much softer. I’ll wear my lucky cloak...only my cloak.”

The green of his skin was not enough to hide the bright red that rose to his cheeks.

She produced something from a pouch at her belt and discreetly showed it to him.

“Care for some? It helps settle the nerves.”

Ragoth caught the distinct shimmer of a dry leaf in her pinched fingers and recognized the glimmerleaf.

He shook his head. “I value my health.”

“No fun.” She commented before pushing the leaf into her mouth.

The clop of Mora’s hoof startled them both. The Auroch warrior, hand on hip, scowled down at them.

“We move.”

Rags leapt to his feet and tried unconvincingly to pretend to find something fascinating about anything else in sight. In his haste, he collided with Denith, who was pale as a sheet.

“Where were you?” Rags asked.

Deni cast a glance at Kronn, who was stroking his beard with a strange, pleased look on his face. The elf all but pressed himself against Ragoth, his hands clutching tightly at the side of his clothes. It took a moment for Deni to gather his wits enough to respond, but when he did the tremble of real fear laced his whispered words.

“Rags...please don’t leave my side again.”

There was no mistaking the terror in the elf’s voice. Rags put his arm around Deni to stop his shaking as the rest of their troupe resumed its marching order and set off once more.

Crossing the enormous cavern took longer than desired—a meticulous and slow path through treacherous ground. Everyone tripped, fell, and stumbled over the cavern’s uneven floor—often over tilted surfaces or stones not seen.

When, at last, the wall on the other side came into view, Oy turned to the Paladins and said, “Near.”

“Which way?” asked Pastro, and Oy pointed to a distant tunnel entrance to his left.

“Quiet,” she said, holding a finger to her covered mouth.

Two loud hoofsteps later and the short Oy found herself scooped up, dangling from her neck in Mora’s clenched hand.

“Why did you say that?” She growled through her gritted teeth, “I told you not to say that word. Why be quiet now when we’ve been quiet all this time?”

Oy’s strangled cries were drowned by the sound of swords being drawn and Mora found herself at the end of Pastro and Savia’s blades. Cort was left stunned next to Savia. He reached for his hilt and froze as Avora’s daggers pressed against the flesh at his throat. Rags pulled a dagger in one hand, his other hand shielding Denith behind him.

“Put our guide down.” Savia ordered. “Or we’ll take your head.”

“There’s no need for bloodshed,” warned Pastro.

“No need but it’s always fun,” said Avora, grinning at the prospect.

“Kill,” growled Kronn, his axe at the ready.

“There’s plenty of chance for gold for all of us, Mora, if you but listen. Let us not be hasty here.” Pastro said.

Mora spared not a glance at the Paladins. “No one mentioned gold. What’re you on about?” Her face dropped; her head tilted as her eyes were drawn to the distant entrance. She sniffed the air, inhaling deeply.

“You smell that, Rags?”

Confused, he sniffed at the air. Strong, differing scents that he often ignored beset much of his life. The scent of elf was unique enough to catch his attention, but only when Mora made note did he now notice the pungent musk. Once he caught the scent, it was trapped in his nose, and he couldn’t smell anything else. It was unlike anything he had ever smelled in all his life. He wrinkled his nose.

“Blood and bollocks, that reek. What is that?”

“Dragon.” Mora sneered. “I knew it. I knew you Pallies weren’t swinging your blades true.”

Ragoth’s face dropped as his mind worked.

“That’s why there’s nothing else living in these tunnels. You lured us to a dragon’s lair?”

“Let us explain,” begged Pastro, but Mora stopped him with a look. Savia and Kronn inched closer.

Mora pulled Oy closer to her face, staring eye-to-eye.

“Listen carefully, because your future health depends on it. Do we have to pass through the dragon’s lair to get out of the mountain?”

Oy shook her head with vigor.

“Where is the exit? Be truthful or I will kill you with a flick of my wrist before I kill them.”

Oy’s hand shot up, pointing to a second tunnel opening next to a nearby cluster of crystals. Mora dropped her. Oy dashed to safety behind Pastro.

“Now, you may speak,” Mora said to the Paladins.

Pastro lowered his sword. “There’s a small mountain of gold and jewels in that lair. Enough for all of us to squander for the rest of our days and still live in comfort. All we have to do is kill one dragon. Tell her, Oy.”

Oy nodded, holding up her gloved fingers in surrender. “Small dragon. Lazy. Sleeping.”

“See? Enough of this. We need not be enemies.” Pastro nodded to the other Paladins and as one, they slowly lowered their blades. Cort let out a held breath and stepped away from Avora.

“Enemies, no,” Ragoth said, creeping towards Mora’s side as Deni hid behind him. “But we paid for a guide through a mountain. That dragon is your business and yours alone. We’re leaving.”

“Leave, we shall,” Mora added.

Pastro scoffed. “I heard the Beast of Barrow’s End was a mighty warrior who once turned her tail in the arena. It seems your reputation for cowardice is well deserved.”

“My ego is not as fragile as yours, Paladin.”

The flush of rage on Pastro’s face was almost frightening if the shade of red was not so comical. He turned his gaze on Ragoth.

“What of you, lad? Or you, elf? Surely a lifetime of riches is better than following in the footsteps of that cow? Can you not imagine such riches? The light of Andoreon guides and protects us. Your blade would–”

“He wants us for bait while they kill the dragon and take the gold.” Mora said, her back still turned as she waited for Rags, Deni, and Cort to follow her.

Ragoth bristled, fixing Pastro with a sneer. “Unlike you, I value Val’Mora’s wisdom and trust her judgment. I’ll leave with her.”

“I go with Rags and Mora.” Deni said.

“I told you, Pastro,” said Avora, as she caught Ragoth’s eye. “He’s too soft-hearted and gentle for such ventures. What else can you expect from a boy who runs at the touch of a woman, hiding behind the skirts of his nursemaid and elf slave? Pathetic Orcbrat. I should never have wasted my time on you.”

Rags turned his nose up at her. “My mother always told me not to trust women with eager mouths and open legs. Waste your words on someone as low as your standards.”

There was no rush of red to her cheeks, but a dark look shadowed her bared teeth as Avora sank back into her hood. The leather of her gloves creaked as her grip on her daggers tightened. Behind her, Pastro and Savia tried to contain their snickering noises, their faces red from the effort.

“Our business together is at its end.” Mora said with finality. “May the gods bless you. You’ll need it.”

They turned to leave only for Deni to glance back.

“Cort?”

Rags paused and saw Cort, arms crossed, feet planted where he stood.

“He’s already made his choice, lad. Best leave it at that.” Mora told them.

Rags ignored her and walked back. “Cort?”

“I told you before, Rags. My destiny lies apart from yours. This is where our paths part. Savia and her kin are doing what I set forth to do. This is fate extending its hand and I will accept it. This is best for all of us.” he snapped; head bowed.

Rags approached him and stepped out of time itself, ignoring their companions. All the dark dreariness swept away, and it was only Ragoth looking up at his friend, a man who had given him as much grief as his own brother and yet been closer than one.

Cort’s jaw was set firm, his eyes wavering as his gaze drifted at the space next to his half-orc friend, not at him. It was hard to gauge how long they stared at one another in silence. Rags did glance past him at the four Paladins waiting with arms crossed. What could he offer to his temperamental friend that they could not?

Rags gave him a soft smile and held out his hand.

“I don’t think you should do this, but I won’t make you beholden to my path. I don’t know where your destiny lies, but I trust you see what I cannot. I wish you well in your travels, my friend.”

Cort’s eyes darted to his hand as a fierce scowl bared his teeth. He slapped Rags’ hand away.

“I don’t need the well wishes of an Orcbrat to send me on my way. The day will come, Rags, when you’ve no place left to run, and all the world finally crashes down on top of you. And when that day comes, you will pray that Cortland Lowhelm will rush to your side.” Cort stood over Rags with trembling fists clenched. “Take your hired cow and that helpless elf and be gone! You’ve been nothing but a pest since I found you! I shall relish traveling with those who are capable and strong. Gods, I am glad to be rid of you!”

Ragoth let his rage wash over him, squashing the anger that threatened to rise within. His heart plummeted down in his chest as Cort’s fury unleashed. Yet when he was done, Rags smiled in the cordial way his mother had taught.

“I hope you attain all you desire before your days are done so that reverent flowers bloom where you rest.”

Rags turned and walked back to a waiting Mora, still with her back turned, and Deni, who watched the exchange in morose silence. As one, they made for the exit with two of Savia’s Feylund Lanterns in hand. Rags only spared one look back, seeing Cortland tensed to fight a foe that neither fist nor blade could slay.

The very moment they entered the massive tunnel, Mora set them off in a run.

Deni held his hat as he trailed behind. “Why are we running?”

“Because those Paladins are about to raise swords against a dragon, and we don’t want to be around when they do.”

“Oy said it was a small one,” Rags said.

“Orcshit!” she spat. “Little ones don’t reek like that so predators can’t find them. Only big ones have a musk.”

Ragoth stopped and stroked his chin. “Really? Intriguing.” He pulled out his journal to write it down, yelping when Mora snatched him by the collar.

“But Cortland—” Deni cried.

“He chose his fate,” Mora replied. “As we are choosing ours.”

“I just hope they know about the Dragon’s Veins.” Rags said as looked back.

Cortland watched Rags, Deni, and Mora vanish and a dark pallor settled over him. Torn, conflicted, awash with the raw emotion of turning his back on his traveling mates–the few true friends he’d made since settling in Havenlore.. He knew what he wanted to do, what path he had chosen to walk. So why was it so hard this time? He wanted to follow Rags more than when he wanted to leave Vaelyn’s Deep, but the Paladins were true Adventurers. The thought of a lifetime of comfort and glory that his share of dragon’s gold would bring burned deep. As if sensing his indecision, Savia wrapped her arms around him from behind to galvanize his choice to stay. She whispered soothing comforts in his ear as she tried to pull his attention away from his departing friends.

Cort’s thoughts swirled about his head when heard the Paladins talking.

“–would have been nice to have Mora on our side,” said Avora. “Nice going, Pastro. You managed to find the one woman in the Dynasty immune to your charms.”

“Piss it off,” Pastro said, taking a swig from his water skin. “Some women take longer than others to come around. You couldn’t even get your lips on that Orcbrat.”

Avora scoffed and turned to Cortland. “What’s wrong with your friend, Cort? He only fancies elf men like Deni? The way the elf clings to him…”

Her words trailed off as Cort lifted a single finger at her and fixed her with a venomous glare and a guttural warning.

“Not one fucking word about him, you sow sucking slag.”

Before Avora could pull the daggers in her grip, Savia put herself between the two. “Enough. We can settle this orcshit later when we’re knee deep in dragon’s gold. We’ve got to be focused for this. Let’s go.”

Cort watched Avora stalk ahead of the group and buried his dark thoughts as fuel for the fight to come.

Cortland and the Paladins entered the entrance leading to the dragon’s lair, a tunnel large enough for such a creature to pass uninhibited. They walked side by side without touching the walls, blades brandished, and wills steeled. They had yet to sleep but none were open to rest with the source of their desire so close.

A dim, orange glow filled the tunnels ahead, just around a looming corner. Pastro’s hand fell on his shoulder, pulling them all to a stop.

“Be warned. The light is that of the Dragon’s Veins. The beasts do not care for the dark in their lairs, so they carve trenches in the floor and walls filled with their vile ink. They mix their blood, oils, and venom in pools then set fire to it. It glows forever, but it acts as an extension of them as well. Be silent as you can, for they will hear you if you speak near their Veins and feel you should you touch it.”

“Burn finger off,” Kronn grumbled, then showed his hand and his missing middle finger.

“Stop trying to scare him,” Savia scolded. “We need everyone at the ready. Even a small Wyrm like this is dangerous.”

“You’ve fought them before, aye?” Cort asked.

As one, the Paladins held up necklaces and bracelets adorned with small dragon teeth. It instilled a touch of confidence in him. As they moved closer to the orange light, he smelled the stink of dragon. No doubt Orc and Auroch noses were better than his, smelling the beast from much farther away. As he approached, he beheld glowing lines scratched into the stone. He inhaled the pungent scent, and it turned his stomach. The others seemed unaffected.

The Dragon’s Veins were deeply etched on all sides of the tunnel several inches deep, glowing and pulsing with an amber hue. The lines crossed like a lightning bolt bred with a spider’s web. They stepped cautiously over the Veins carved at their feet. It slowed their progress, but they feared the dragon’s awareness more than their desire to move quickly. The trek wore him down. Cort was approaching exhaustion, but what excuse was that to turn back? Return to Vaelyn’s Deep piss broke as the man who was near a dragon’s lair but lost his heart because he needed a nap?

His resentment towards Rags fueled him for now. Already, he looked back to see, and hoped perhaps his Orcborn friend might be there.

Deeper onto the mountain the tunnel stretched. Cort stepped lightly over hundreds of Veins; the continued trek eroded his reserves and their desire to press onward. The closer they got, the more Veins lined the walls, and the brighter the glow lit their path. They didn’t need their glowing orbs to see. A brightness like daylight filled the expanse of a chamber ahead. Cort tucked the glowing orb into his pack.

Oy looked at them and pointed. The dragon and its lair lay ahead.

The Paladins stopped and reached into their packs, producing several glass bottles of a swirling red liquid. As one, they tilted their heads back and downed the viscous potions. Questions burned on the tip of Cort’s tongue, but he dare not utter a sound this close to the Veins. The change in the four was almost immediate: their eyes wide and manic, blades trembling in clenched hands, chests heaving with shaking breaths. Only four potions, it seemed. Cort was left with only his nicked sword, worn shield, and his own courage.

Savia looked at him and gave him a wink and a smile, blowing him a kiss before the other four charged ahead into the lair without warning. He was caught off guard and dashed to stay on their heels.

The dragon’s lair towered over them in its immensity, alight with deep Dragon’s Veins thrumming in their orange and amber glow from floor to ceiling. On the floor were several large pools of the glowing fluid. Their ambient light shone off the massive pile of gold and gems covering the vast expanse of the floor. Cort and his companions came to a halt, taken by the immeasurable wealth that stood before them and towered well over their heads.

There was no dragon in sight.

Pastro walked ahead of them, his eyes wide as he took in the treasure before him. A movement caught Cort’s eye, and he glanced up at a protruding ledge on the wall above the pile of gold. He spied a glimpse of a familiar set of raggedy clothes climbing up the rocks. Only then did he realize Oy was not with them.

“It must be gone. Praise the light of all creation!” Pastro turned and flashed them an enraptured smile.

The dragon’s head shot out from behind the mound of treasure and snapped shut over the Paladin. The remaining four cried out in horror as the massive beast tilted its head up and devoured the Paladin whole. His muffled screams trailed him all the way down the throat as he was swallowed alive.

For a one, silent moment, the beast locked eyes with them. Cort struggled with the enormity of his mistake. This was no small beast. It rose to tower over thirty feet in height. Its slick scales shone a deep emerald hue, lined with stripes of black. The spiked ridges down its back and the velvet flesh of its wings burned a deep crimson. Its spiraling horns were black as ink, its teeth a sickly white, and its eyes blazed with burning gold.

It all happened so quickly. Its deafening roar spurred them into flight, they scattered in panic. Cort’s heart left him, and he dropped his sword, taking refuge behind an outcropping of stone. He grabbed his head, consumed with fear as the thundering scream of the fearsome beast deafened him.

“Cort!” His eyes met Savia’s, her hand outstretched to him.

Her last words were a guttural scream as a gout of flame engulfed her. Cort watched in horror as the form of his lover burned away in seconds, leaving only a charred husk of bone and flaming flesh to collapse on the ground.

Kronn’s response was a death cry, flinging himself against the creature’s legs. He lived up to his ironclad demeanor and met the dragon’s strikes with axe and fury. Avora ran nimbly up its backside, daggers in hand. Split between the two threats, the dragon was too busy to notice Cort hiding behind the stone. He presumed their daring and quickness to be the work of their mysterious potions, as they were possessed of a fearlessness unlike anything he’d ever seen.

Cortland peered over the edge of his stone shelter and looked in time to see Oy swinging on a rope from the ledge above. She swooped past the mound of treasure and her hand snatched at the gold, swiping coins into the air as she grabbed a handful. She let go and slid down the small mountain of gold coins, breaking into a dead run as soon as her feet touched the floor. She made for the exiting tunnel, darting past his hiding place.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her run, and fury welled in him. He turned at a scream and saw Avora’s arm caught in the dragon’s teeth. It snapped its head around and sent her flying across the lair. Her scream was cut short as she collided against the stone wall and fell into a pool of the glowing dragon’s ink. She erupted from the pool a few seconds later, engulfed in the glowing liquid. Her blood-curdling screams were ear shattering, ending as she collapsed.

Only Kronn remained, raging and bloodied from deep gashes over his form. His armor was in tatters and his wounds mortal, but still the defiant dwarf thundered and attacked the beast. He swiped at every claw and tooth that came near him, deflecting some, but many finding their mark. Their fight moved them around in a circle and Cortland saw the dragon, its back now to him, as his one chance.

He sprinted into the tunnel, watching his every step as he bounded over the Veins with as much caution as he could muster. Only when the dwarf let out a last cry did he turn, seeing Kronn impaled on the dragon’s immense talons. His battle-axe fell from his hands as the dragon bit into him.

Cort bolted again, Kronn’s death screams echoing in the tunnels as he ran. The lightning of raw terror jolted through his body, driving him to surpass his exhaustion.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! He should have gone with Rags. Should never have trusted those damn Pallies. No matter how many pleasures Savia promised him. His only thought now was to run. Fly fast and not stop until he felt the light of day on his skin.

Eventually, nearing the end of the Veins, he dared glance back and saw no pursuit, heard no dragon’s roar, but he wouldn’t stop. So close. The bend in the tunnel was almost upon him. Then he saw her, darting just ahead of him. He had caught up to Oy, who jumped over Veins deftly.

His rage swelled in his chest, and he dashed at the treacherous little thing before she could see him. If nothing else, he would make sure she paid for her part in this, leading them to doom while she made away with the gold.

Cort threw himself forward, tackling her to the ground in a tumbling heap, their packs and their contents flying about—including the gold coins from her hand. The heat of several Dragon’s Veins burned his arms and singed his clothes, but he caught her writhing form in his grip. She was wiry and hard to hold, like a piglet. She cried out as he rolled on top of her and tore her cowl off, halting as he stared upon a fair green face glaring back at him.

“A goblin?” He cried.

She snapped. “Oi! Get yer fookin’ hooks offa me, ye arsefaced longshanks!” Her short, dark green hair tossed about as she struggled in his grip, trying to bite and kick herself free.

“I think not.” He held her tight as she wiggled. “You’re going to pay for what you did to them! I strangled one goblin; I can do it again.”

She gasped in fear as his hands moved to clutch her neck when the deep, rumbling roar of the dragon came thundering in reply. They both looked down the tunnel and heard the distant approach of the enraged beast.

The goblin grinned up at him. “Oh, he’s heard us now. Gotch yerself a wee bit o’ trouble, boyo. Kill me iffin ye like, but that dragon’ll be here soon. Wot’s it gonna be: waste time stranglin’ me gobbie neck or get t’goin’ so ye can live another day fer ale an’ wimmin’?”

Cort growled and shot to his feet, running back down the tunnel with one of the Feylund Lanterns lighting his way. The goblin gathered what she could of her scattered things and took off after him.

Soon, she had caught up to him with her cowl back in place as they entered the monstrous crystal cavern in its glowing majesty. Cort cursed loudly as the goblin sprinted ahead of him and went left to the other tunnel.

He tripped and fell, rolling to a hard stop against a pack of crystals as she bolted into the other exit and left him behind. Breathing heavily, his exhaustion took his strength and now he had only his worthless shield to use against a dragon. He had not the strength left to run, nor the voice to cry for help. He got back unsteadily to his feet.

Behind him, he heard the approaching dragon as it neared the exit into the cavern, and steeled himself with the last of his iron will.

No weapon. No allies. Nothing between him and the monstrous beast.

Damned if he would die hiding like a coward.

It was not far past the exit when Mora, Deni, and Rags encountered Dragon’s Veins of their own. With a quick explanation from Mora, the others wove their own cautious path down the long winding tunnel towards the exit. Hours later, the distant rumbles and echoes of dragon roars caught their ears. Mora uttered a choice curse under her breath and looked back.

“Time to run again.” She said, “Let’s hope it's too busy with them to worry about us.”

They took off, fighting through weariness to reach the other side of the mountain. Mora betrayed no fatigue, but the dark rings under her eyes told a different tale. The tunnels grew smaller as they progressed, but the Veins remained, and the rough walls looked as though they had been hewn wider.

The dragon’s roaring stopped for a time. Their steps over veins in the tunnel floors resumed, as quick and careful as they dared. The roaring began again shortly after and soon it grew louder. They eventually had to stop to catch their breath once they reached the end of the Veins.

“It’s coming,” Mora said. Deni and Rags both fought to breathe, hunched over and hands on their knees. They were spent, and the Auroch knew it. She snatched the Feylund Lanterns out of Rags' hand and stowed them in his pack.

“No need for these anymore. Both of you grab ahold and don’t let go.” She sighed and summoned her resolve, scooping the two of them into her arms and exploding down the tunnel with the speed only her legs could grant. Her hooves echoed a loud Clop! Clop! Clop! Clop! in the stone tunnels.

The roaring grew louder. Its scales made a loud scraping that reverberated throughout the tunnel.

“Mora, I see someone!” Deni cried, squinting down the tunnel behind them.

She skidded to a halt and caught her breath as they waited and listened, an approaching figure dashing towards them accompanied by the sound of rapidly pattering feet.

Rags jumped up and down on his feet. “It’s Oy!”

The goblin cried as she ran past, “Dragon coming!”

“Where’s Cort?” Rags asked, but Oy ignored him.

Mora swore and scooped Rags and Deni up in her arms again. “The exit had better be close. We can’t outrun that thing forever.”

“It close.” Oy said. She jumped as the dragon’s roar sounded again, louder than before, and now they could hear it clawing through the tunnel. Mora’s hooves pounded the winding stone floor. Years of the dragon crawling in and out of the mountain had smoothed its surface.

The dragon soon came into sight behind them, hunched and crawling at a slower speed to fit into its tunnel, but the sight of them spurred it into further rage. It spewed a gout of flame, but a quick corner spared them. Rags and Deni could only hold onto their Auroch friend for dear life as she put all her effort into outrunning beast and flame. At each chance, it spewed its hellish flames, and each time, Mora denied it a target with a deft duck or burst of speed.

Suddenly, they emerged into an open cavern that soared over their heads with natural pillars and stalagmites littered about its interior. There, at the opposite end, a distant tunnel shone with the light of day. Mora’s eyes went wide. She poured her diminishing strength into a charge across the cavern.

Behind them, the dragon thrust into the cavern and leapt into the air, using a single wing flap to soar over them and land in front of the exit. Mora skidded to a stop in the middle of the cavern. She dropped her passengers and brought her mace to bear, backing away slowly. The vile beast bared its bloody maw at them, its deep growl reverberating in its enormous chest.

“All of you. Be ready to run,” Mora warned, crouching as she stared the dragon down. It inhaled deep, spreading its wings, and she screamed for them to scatter. They dashed in different directions as it spat another gout of flame, weaker than the last.

“It’s almost out of fire!” cried Mora from behind a stone. As she said this, its head snapped around the side. She swung her mace and missed, striking stone, an eruption of pulverized rock flying in its face.

They ran about the chamber, darting from stone column to standing rocks to evade its sight, but the dragon would snap or swipe at any who dared come close to the exit it guarded. The dragon forced Mora to the opposite side of the cavern from the other three, taking cover behind one of the many outcroppings of stone.

“A fine calamity we’re in!” Rags yelled to Oy. “What happened back there? Where’s Cort?”

“Pallies fault! Dumb Pallies!” She cried out from the other side of the cavern.

Rags tossed a stone at the dragon’s head and drew its ire. The dragon tried to bite him; snapping shut on his cloak. As soon as the cloth throttled his neck, he slipped his head out of it, leaving it to dangle from the dragon’s bottom teeth.

When he darted to safety, he found refuge next to Oy and Deni behind a rocky outcropping barely high enough to hide behind. On the other side, Mora took her swings where she could, but the dragon had surmised the manner of her attacks. It was deft enough to jerk its head or feet back and her powerful swing passed through air uselessly. Despite the danger, the toll of their travels through the mountain and hours of running were slowing her down. Only one feint landed a glancing blow to its snout, sending it back a few steps.

Mora sized up the situation. There was no way to truly hurt the dragon without getting close. If she had a Magi or archer, or other capable allies with ways to distract it, she could strike and run before it could find her. There was always a strategy that worked on beasts of this size, but by herself she knew she could not hope to defeat it. She shouted across the cavern. “Rags! Be ready to run! This beast is mine!”

Her words sank in and turned his guts. “Mora, no! You can’t fight it alone!”

“I’m the only one who can.” She sighed, clutching her mace tight. “I set out in life an Adventurer. Only fitting I go out as one.”

Rags threw his pack and bundled sword to the ground. He grabbed the sword, feeling it under the burlap wraps as he had but a moment to consider his next action. Using Wraithslayer before he was trained could be disastrous, but what choice did he have? It could be the only way. He looked past the bundle in his hands to the Feylund lanterns shining in his open pack. With a burst of inspiration, he tossed his sword back over his shoulder by its sling.

Mora gritted her teeth and threw herself out of cover, yelling, “Come now, you green bastard! They’ll not fill your guts like I will.”

The dragon spun and roared at her, advancing with its maw open. Mora roared in return and raised her mace, rushing in for the final fight of her life.

“Catch these bollocks!” The voice of Ragoth boomed and brought both dragon and Auroch to a halt.

“Rags, no!”

The dragon swung its head back, only to find two glowing Feylund Lanterns–hurled with precision–smashing against its face. The glass shattered and the angry, glowing sprites flew out. For a moment, they only kept the dragon’s gaze distracted before they swarmed at its eyes and sent the beast roaring, rearing on its back legs and thrashing about as it sought to evade them.

“All Together!” Rags command spurred them all into a bolt, ducking under the dragon’s flailing. Its tail tore through a stone column and the ceiling shuddered and cracked. Great stones broke from above and crashed down around them. Its enraged cries deafening any efforts to shout at each other, but Rags, Deni, and Oy reached the exit tunnel as Mora climbed over falling rubble to reach them.

The dragon lurched in its blind panic towards the three. In desperation, Mora heaved her mace overhead and sent it hurling with all her might. It spun through the air and struck the dragon’s side hard enough to send it veering away from them. She abandoned her mace and ran to reach the entrance first, urging them on.

“The cavern is collapsing! Fly, all of you!”

Rags reached the exit tunnel last, only for the tip of the dragon’s tail to lash him across the back. The impact sent him careening down the tunnel and smashing against the side wall. All the world spun into darkness and dust. He heard, but couldn’t see, his friends calling for him.

The light. That he saw. Hands gripped onto the stone floor, crawling towards them as pain and exhaustion threatened to take him. He could see them at the end of the tunnel, calling him, hands reaching.

A terrible crack like lightning and the mountain shook as if struck by a god. The dragon’s cries were not of rage, but pain. He scrambled for the exit, the tunnel collapsing around him. The final collapse brought the tunnel down just as he jumped into Mora’s arms. A concussive blast of dust and stones erupted from the exit, sending them flying backwards over the side of the cliff’s edge.

The mountain Karthak went still.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“The Age of Adventures has brought glory, wealth, and immortality to many, but also grief, guilt, and infamy.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Karthak spat the four Adventurers out onto a steep, snow-covered rake halfway down the precipice with stones raining down around them. Down the icy slope they careened, frantically trying to control their descent. Ragoth smashed his side against a jutting rock, unfortunate enough to not pass out. Their helpless descent ended as abruptly as it began when it deposited them onto a ledge. Rags lifted his head once and collapsed. Deni lay unmoving on his back.

Or so said Mora later when they woke at the bottom of the mountain in a grassy knoll right in the middle of the Pass. Oy lay unconscious nearby, her hood down and her true face exposed. That was a surprise to both of them, but not Mora.

“Knew she was hiding something. Everyone is,” she said.

Mora had stayed conscious while Rags and Deni had given in to the exhaustion of the entire ordeal and she had carried the whole lot of them down herself. She’d readied a camp and hunted down a wild goat currently roasting over their fire.

“Cortland?” Deni asked, looking back up at Karthak. Only their goblin guide knew where  the entrance back into the mountain lay.

Mora shook her head. “Dead, no doubt. Just like those arrogant Paladins.”

Ragoth hung his head with Deni. The realization of all he’d been through and all he’d wanted seemed not worth the effort in the face of losing Cort. Even though the choice to leave was his own, the glimmer that Cort’s better senses would prevail had remained. That was gone now and so was his friend. He slumped in defeat, weary of body and of heart. Deni did much the same.

“There it is,” said Mora, her eyes dark and sharp. “There is the regret. The guilt. The helplessness. You wanted an adventure, lads. You’ve not got a proper one until you’ve buried your friends along the way. I tried to warn you all. Shame you must find out like so many others. I hope it was worth it.”

“I just wanted to reach Dreadmour,” Rags admitted, his face in his hands. Deni placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll get there if I have to carry you there in a sack,” Mora snapped. “I’ve reached the end of my patience. Night-takers, elvish military, mercenaries, Paladins, and now a damn dragon. In all my years, I’ve never tempted fate by walking into a dragon’s lair. Want to know why? Because you either kill them or they hunt you for the rest of your days. Dragons are vile, vindictive creatures and they will hunt your scent to the ends of Allspire. They can find you no matter what hovel you squat inside. I’m full to my gullet of the trouble you bring, Rags.”

“I hired you to protect us,” he protested.

“Had I known even half of what we’d encounter, I’d have demanded more gold or sent you back the way you came. But damn me, I’m a professional, if nothing else.”

She stood up and, in two steps, towered over Rags as a parent does their child. It made Ragoth feel like nothing more than one.

“Know this. I’ve not the goodwill left for more trouble. I am not your friend; I work for you and that thin thread is fraying. If I didn’t need your gold…” She left the end unsaid, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Rags and Deni fell quiet at her admission, a cold settling in their stomachs.

“If you knew the enormity of what I was trying to accomplish, you’d see it is worth more than gold can buy,” Ragoth said.

Mora threw her muscled arms up. “Enough! I gave adventuring up because of this orcshit. And gods damn me for my good nature. I’ve gone soft. Thought I’d learn by now. Well, this is the last time I work for someone with a cause. I do not join causes, Rags, no matter what yours may be. I work so long as the gold flows. So, until we cross the threshold into Cravensrest, you’ll keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Push my patience a horsehair further and you won’t realize I gave you the back of my hand until you wake up the next day.”

“The dragon wasn’t his fault,” Deni shot to his feet, trembling.

“If Rags wasn’t in such a damn hurry, we could have avoided all of this.” She pointed to the goblin. “I do want to know what happened in that dragon’s lair, so as soon as she wakes, her tongue better loosen. Sit back down, Deni, unless you want some of what’s owed to her.”

Deni and Rags sank back down, silent; there was no use arguing any further. Much as they were heartsick at losing Cortland on top of Mora pushing them away, her frustration was justified. Famished, they devoured their goat flanks and drained their water skins. Denith sulked while Rags lamented the loss of his cloak, hugging his arms to his body.

Just before nightfall, the goblin stirred and sat up, holding her head.

“Oi…wot time it be?”

“Time for you to answer questions,” Mora told her, grabbing her around her throat. The goblin clutched her fingers, trying to pry them apart to no avail.

“You told those Pallies about the dragon, but not us. Why?”

“Hrk! They told me not to. Said they give me a cut o’ th’ treasure iffin we got more swords t’help. Didna matter t’me. Jus’ needed the dragon busy so me could swipe from it.”

Deni lifted his head, his mouth open. “You don’t sound like half-a-dullard. You can speak just fine.”

Rags rushed to Mora’s side. “You said it was a small dragon.”

She nodded. “Aye. It is a small one. They get much bigger.”

“You lied to them. To us,” said Deni, joining Rags. “It cost our friend his life.”

Her wide eyes looked down at them as she tried to keep from suffocating in Mora’s grip.

“No lie. Venturin’ groups wanna know where th’ dragon is, so me tells em and guides em fer gold. When the big thing busy wit em, me swipes me share. Not me fault they cannae fight fer shite, making a bunch o’ racket instead o’ workin’ together.”

Rags squinted at her. The goblin girl was far unlike the depictions in his books. Her skin looked weathered but smooth and fair. Her eyes were a stark blue instead of yellow. And her ears were narrow and thin, not wide and sagging. She looked more like a green elf than a goblin. “You're not entirely goblin, are you?”

She grinned awkwardly, “Good eye, lad. Not a full blood gobbie, no. Only half-a-one. Me ma was a gobbie brothel worker an’ me pa was an elf sailor. Dontcha think me pretty?” She flashed her eyes in an unconvincing manner.

“Show me what you took,” Mora demanded, watching her reach into her pocket and produce a handful of shining gold coins. “That’s all? You went through all that trouble for one handful of gold?”

“Me needs dragons gold fer me forge, but me no stupid. Don’ get greedy. Jus’ one handful an’ thas all. No more.”

“Is that so?” Mora snatched the gold from her.

“Oi, give that back, ya mangy heifer!”

“Watch your tongue or I’ll kick you like a green ball right over the Pathbreaker Mountains. I’ll hold these for now until you make sense and tell us everything.” She set the goblin down, who rubbed her throat angrily. Deni offered her some water and dried meat, which the goblin snatched and devoured.

“Truth is me works in Cravensrest. Smithy by trade.”

“Oy the goblin blacksmith?” Rags tilted his head. “What an unusual occupation for a goblin.”

“Me names not Oy, Tis a—wot ye call it?—a alias so peoples in Dessius dinnae come lookin’ fer me. Name’s Oli.”

“Is that short for something?”

“Olitora Oglianthiorpe. Sorry. Gobbie names tend to wag th’ tongue a might. Aye, me owns a smithy. Make good weapons and plate armor, iffin ye keen. Been me life’s work t’forge a suit o’ dragon’s gold armor. Oh, that’ll be a beaut. Sell it fer a hefty price t’some rich arsewipe an’ live out me days in comfort.”

“Dragon’s gold would make poor armor. Why not just keep it?” Mora pointed out, turning one of the gold coins in her hand.

“Aye, it’s shite fer armor. But see th’ coin? How it shimmers? Tis the oils from the dragon seeped into the gold over time. Makes th’ gold fire-proof an’ all shiny. If forged right, ye can fashion it into somethin’ fancy, like armor. Good fer ceremonies or fer royals, noble arseholes, that sort o’ type. They’ll pay fer more than th’ gold itself be worth. So, can me have me gold back?”

Mora scoffed and grabbed her by the throat again. “Dead goblins don’t need gold. I’m not leaving someone I don’t trust running loose. Do you believe in the gods?”

“A-aye?”

“You’re about to meet them.”

As Oli’s eyes went wide in fear, Rags’ hand grabbed Mora’s wrist. “Just a moment, Mora. Oli, you said you live and work in Cravensrest? In Dreadmour?”

Confused, Oli nodded. Mora’s grip loosened.

“Do you know a path through the bog that’s safe?”

“Me knows a path. Safe and dry, it is.”

Rags went to his bag and returned, opening his hands in front of her and showing her the shims they’d acquired from the Night-takers. Oli’s eyes shone at the glittering dark gold.

“Ten shims. Machavian dragon’s gold. All them yours if you show us the safest route through the bog and no tricks. Mora, let her go.”

Mora let out an annoyed noise but let the goblin free. Oli reached for the shims, but Rags pulled his hand back.

“Only once we are within sight of the city.”

She huffed. “Fine. Me’ll guide ye.”

“No tricks,” He warned.

Oli flashed him a toothy grin. “Wot, ye think me a true cur? Me a businesswoman. Ye got a deal, boyo.”

“My name is Rags, not Boy-oh.”

Oli cocked an eyebrow and looked at Mora, “Is he damaged or somn’?

Mora shook her head. “Greener than spring grass.”

Any hope of a nightly watch was futile as the four remaining companions gave in to their exhaustion. Even Mora, who was adamant about keeping watch, had not the strength to keep her eyes open. Karthak had taken its toll. Sleep took them, deeper than they’d had in weeks, and the dawn came in an eye’s blink.

Oli remained with them, true to her word and seemingly the most chipper of the bunch. She had shed her ragged robes worn since Dessius and changed to more form-fitting traveling clothes.

“Buncha weak longshanks, ye are. Me been up afore th’ dawn most o’ me life. Get more done afore midday than most longshanks do all day. Why the glum looks? Ye made it out.”

“Cort didn’t,” said Rags.

Oli cringed. “Yeesh. Dinnae pay me no mind. Never was no good wit th’ social graces. Wotta ye expect? Who loves havin’ us gobbies around, eh?”

“I’m sure you have plenty of friends.” Deni said, sarcastically.

Oli’s only reply was a derisive “Pf-f-ft!”

“Up, all of you. We leave in a finger.” Mora snapped her fingers.

With a final, sorrowful glance back up at the mountain now serving as Cortland’s grave, they climbed down the rest of the way into Karthak’s Pass and into the murky marshland that inhabited the remainder of their journey unto Dreadmour.

The length of the Dessius Pass was as narrow as it was unentertaining. The Pathbreaker Mountains to one side and Karthak’s towering precipice to the other. Because it was high on the sides and low in the middle, any rain that fell or melted snow remained trapped in the pass. This left the pass a soggy bog full of mud, stagnant water, winding dry patches, and withering, gnarled trees amidst a tangled, turgid underbrush.

The bog held little in the way of entrancing wonder for the inquisitive Ragoth. It was humid, and the sun bore down on his now hoodless head. The ground was untrustworthy, soft and muddy. After an hour in the bog, Ragoth decided he’d seen enough bog to last a lifetime—especially after his feet sank into mud and soaked his boots. Mora’s sour disposition was made worse as she sank into mud more often than anyone thanks to her hooves. Biting bugs swarmed them. The sound of hands swatting at necks and arms accompanied them the entire time. Deni huddled inside his robes, whereas Mora’s tail flicked at her back constantly.

But the worst for Ragoth was the boots. He had read of the many habits of soldiers on march and their afflictions, ailments of Adventurers, and experienced a plethora of unpleasantries in his own weeks of travel. Nothing, he decided, was worse than marching in wet boots all day. The only thing he wanted, the only thing he could think of, was having dry feet again.

The only one in good spirits was Oli, who seemed thrilled to have travelers with her. Once she learned everyone’s names and of their travels (barring mention of forces in pursuit) she was eager to share her own tales.

“Been alone most o’ me life. Grew up eatin’ fish heads unner th’ docks o’ the port till a sailor tossed me inna water to see if me could swim. Me cannae. After that, me had ta get away from th’ water, so me lived on th’ streets o’ Cravensrest most o’ me life, till me took over th’ smithy in the Muckfoot Quarter. Th’ Gobbies Gauntlet, it is. Good work, but me gets th’ travelin’ bug at times. Been wit a coupla venturin’ groups, nothin’ serious. Got a knack fer tinkerin’ an’ keepin’ traps from goin’ off. Not a big fighter, no. Me can whack a kneecap wit me maul, but them monsters’ll eat a wee thing like me in one bite. Tha’s wot happened to me last venturin’ group. We found th’ dragon, but it gobbled em good. Been swipin’ it’s gold ever since.”

Rags couldn’t take anymore. “What is your atrocious accent? Where did you learn to speak? You do not so much speak the common tongue as you chew it up and spit it out.”

“You’d do worse as me, boyo, iffin ye learned t’speak from a buncha salty seadogs wit a gobbie tongue wot mangles errything ye say.”

A sudden shriek from Deni spun them in time to see him sprawled forward on the ground, half-covered in muck. He looked back and cried out as the mud tried to swallow him. It moved and flopped over his legs with a strange sound. “Muh. Mugh. Muh.”

“Help me! It’s eating me!”

Rags and Oli rushed forward and grabbed Deni’s hands.

“Damn Mudmouths,” Oli said, digging in with her feet until Deni came out of its muck-filled maw with a loud schlooorp! They fell backwards in a heap as the Mudmouth lunged at them a few inches at a time. It appeared like a large mound of mud, but when it lifted, it had a strange frowning expression to it and made its mopey noise.

“So that’s where the old saying comes from,” remarked Rags. It tried to throw its mouth over their boots. They stood and backed away, watching it lift its “mouth” and utter a dour “Muuuh.”

“It almost ate me,” Deni said, his hand over his chest.

Oli laughed. “They’ll not eat ye lessen ye let em. They’re more like a plant than animal, but even if one swallows ye, tis not hard t’punch yer way through their hide. They’re better at trappin’ hares an’ frogs an’ shite. Only makes that noise cause o’ how it moves. Not wot ye call bright, these things.”

“Kill that damn thing or get your asses moving before I leave the whole lot of you!” Mora’s voice boomed from ahead of them.

The three of them gave the pitiful Mudmouth a last glance and left it searching in vain for its next meal. It didn’t have the speed to keep up with them and soon went back to lying in wait for easier prey.

Deni might have stumbled over their first Mudmouth, but the bog was full of them. The sound of repetitive “Muh. Mugh. Mugch!” was as prevalent as the buzzing of bugs and chirping of frogs. Mudmouths proved easy to avoid. The ones with the misfortune of lunging at Mora paid the price. Bereft of her mace, she had to stomp most of them, splattering them everywhere and covering her lower half in the resulting muck. It only made her disposition worse. Rags missed her wry comments, her practical wisdom. The stoic way she set about their trek now was as tense as outrunning the elvish military.

Oli nudged Rags. “Wot bug crawled up her arse? She always like this?”

“No,” was all he said.

“This journey has exacted many tolls on us,” said Deni, stepping gingerly over Mudmouth parts. “Are we near the end? I’ll be glad to see the last of this.”

Oli fished a trio of rations from her pack as they walked. “Aye, inside a couple o’ hours we’ll be at the mouth of the valley an’ we can stop fer th’ night. Got a good spot lots o’ travelers use once they’re done wit th’ bog. Hungry?” She tossed a traveler’s biscuit to Rags. He snatched it out of the air. She tossed one to Deni, and it struck the right side of his face.

Deni flinched under the pastry’s assault. “Wha—Do you mind?”

“Ha! Thought ye elves had good reflexes.” Oli turned to elbow Rags in the side. “Yer elf friend is…” She trailed off when she saw his face, alert and looking about with a finger pressed to his lips. Similarly, Mora had halted ahead of them.

The three caught up and found Mora standing before a large body of water spanning from one side of the bog to another. There was evidence a wooden bridge once crossed it, but only the posts and some broken planks remained. Rotted logs and overgrown water weeds lined the edges of the fetid waters.

Oli clucked her tongue. “Trolls trashed the bridge last winter, tryin’ t’trap caravans from Dessius. Pass has been closed to carts ever since. Not to worry, there be a thin bit o’ land off to th’ side we can use t’skirt th’—”

“Shut up,” Mora said. Her eyes  swept across the pass in front of them.

Beside her, Rags sniffed the air. “You smell them?”

“Of course, I do,” she answered. “They know we’re here. I’m in no mood for this.”

Oli and Deni started looking about, seeing nothing.

“Who?”

“Bandits, most likely.”

“Fabled highwaymen,” Rags said with a gasp.

“Knowing Dreadmour, it's just bums with short swords,” Mora spat, “Crossbows too, I’d bet. Robbers are cowards who won’t fight if they can’t overwhelm.”

Rags nodded. “You can borrow my short sword if you like.” She shot him an angry look and he thought better of it. “We can—”

“We aren’t doing anything. You stay here.”

She unstrapped her pauldrons and chest plate, discarding them onto the ground. Mora studied the pond and the surrounding area for a moment, then went running for the water. She jumped and landed on top of one of the posts, leaping from post to post in quick succession. It was the nimblest thing they had seen her do, a feat of balance and acrobatics that defied her size. Once she was on the other side, she leapt off the last post and landed in the water near the shore with a great splash.

At once, the water of the pond came alive as a multitude of alligators reacted, turning the small pond into a pit of angry jaws and snapping teeth. Mora erupted out of the water, wrestling one of the larger beasts by its tail. She stood on the shore amidst several of the agitated reptiles and spun around, hurling the beast into a standing of high swamp grass just past the pond.

A chorus of terrified cries accompanied four raggedly dressed bandits scrambling out of the bush to avoid the thrashing teeth of the alligator. Only four, as the fifth was caught in its jaws and screaming as it tore into him. One ran away, breaking for the exit of the pass. A second dashed madly right into a tangle of gators who grabbed him and savagely ripped him apart. They dragged him into the water as he screamed.

The third and fourth brandished short swords. One was a half-orc, who pushed his smaller human friend. “Let’s get her! She got no weapon.”

They charged as one, but Mora grabbed another gator by the tail and swung it like a scaly cudgel. She struck the half-orc and sent him flying. The human slashed at her, so she let the gator drop and caught his arm. With a quick twist, she cruelly snapped his unfortunate appendage. He had time to gasp before she hurled him like a rag doll into the pond. He landed with a splash and broke the surface a moment later, crying out in pain. Behind him, the water stirred and the largest alligator in the pond lunged out of the surface and took him in its jaws. He gave a short scream before vanishing under the water, a cloud of dark blood spreading in his wake.

The half-orc stirred and tried to sit up, but Mora’s hoof landed on his chest and pushed him down.

“Makin’ a big mistake. When Longtusk finds out about this—” He growled up at her.

“He won’t.” She crushed his neck with one hard stomp and left him gurgling through his ruined windpipe. Looking up, she caught sight of the escaping bandit far in the distance and broke into pursuit.

On the other side of the pond, Ragoth, Denith, and Oli watched the chaos unfold, flinching as one bandit after the other fell. Mora took off, leaving them to wonder if they should stay or follow her.

Rags grabbed Mora’s armor and nudged Oli.

“Show me the ledge so we can get across.”

Oli brought them to the edge, and they shimmied along it until they came to the other side. The gators could be heard ripping, tearing, crushing bones in their jaws. Ragoth tried not to look as they edged past the grisly sight. A rumble of thunder echoed in the sky as a rainstorm set over them.

Mora arrived at the end of the pass and quickly found herself on a rocky outcropping the size of a village square. There was nothing in sight save for a long dead tree trunk and a few remnants of a well-used campsite.  Off to the side was a long land bridge that descended in a long slope to the valley floor. The rain had soaked her, but also washed off most of the mud and grime. Hair clinging to her body, she stormed up to the land bridge and looked down its length. It descended at an incline to the valley floor, one of few ways into or out of Dreadmour, with no place to hide on its length. The escaping bandit wasn’t anywhere in sight, sending an alarm through her. He couldn’t have gotten down that far so quickly.

Just as she turned, suspecting another ambush, a crossbow bolt sank into her upper arm. She uttered a sharp cry of pain, angrily glaring at the arrow. She glimpsed the little coward hiding behind the rotted tree trunk. Hooves pounding, kicking up mud in her wake, she ran for the tree before he could load another bolt. She reached him as he leaned out of cover, grabbing the crossbow as he pulled the trigger. She issued another cry of pain, this one drowned by her angry growl when she saw the arrow protruding halfway through the top of her hand.

Mora snatched the crossbow out of his grip and broke it across his head. He went down, face bloody and mangled. She snapped the arrow shaft and yanked it out of her hand, wincing. It took a lot of punishment to truly hurt her, and this was far from the first time her hand had suffered, but it was one infraction too many.

As he groaned back to consciousness, she grabbed him with her good hand, dragged him to the edge of the cliff side and hurled him to the valley below. His screams faded, lost in the thunder and rain.

Daylight grew dim and not just from the clouds overhead. Night was falling. She marched back toward the pond when she spied her three charges running up to her.

“I told you three to stay put!” she fumed.

“Where is the last one?” Ragoth asked.

“On the valley floor for the sport of wolves.”

“You killed him?”

“Was I supposed to let him run off and tell his boss about us so they can come back in force? Do it, Rags. Spew that moral orcshit at me.”

Ragoth caught his words and swallowed them. He nodded reluctantly.

“What is done is done.”

“How far to the city?” She asked Oli. 

“Bout six more hours,” Oli answered. “But they shut the gates at nightfall an’ lessen ye got enough got enough gold to tickle their purse, they’re not keen to open up.”

Mora cursed something in a tongue that made Ragoth wince. She stood, hands on her hips, and looked out at the valley. With little choice and the day of travel done, she plopped onto the ground and rested her arms on her knees, her gaze staring out over the valley.

“Should we…make camp?” Deni asked cautiously.

“Do as you like,” she answered and said no more.

They tried to camp, but the rain made sleep dour and cold. They gathered scattered bits of wood, but much of it was wet. The rain was not heavy, but it made sparking a fire impossible. Try as they might, they could not get flint to spark on the damp kindling. After a hand’s worth of effort, they gave up in disgust. The rain had not let up.

Rags snapped his fingers. “I have an idea. Oli, you are half-elf, are you not?”

“Aye.” She said. “Wot’s it matter?”

“Then perhaps you have an Affinity for magic? There is a spell. A simple one. I saw Cort try to use it.”

“Err, not so sure thas a good notion. Me gobbie tongue mangles them words somethin’ fierce. Thas why me no enchants me weapons anymore. Magic backlash be a right bastard. Wot about yer elf friend?” Oli tugged at her collar as their eyes trained on her.

“Deni is Arcblind.”

“So, wot about ye? Ye never tried?”

Ragoth picked at his tusk in thought. “I’ve not the faintest notion of my Affinity level. I suppose I could attempt such a rudimentary casting.” He stood over the assembled firewood, his hand ready to snap.

“That’s not a good idea, Rags.” Deni stiffened.

“I just want to start a fire. I remember what word Cort used.”

“But Cort—”

“Flarenel!”

Snap!

THOOM!

A concussive blast from his hand sent the four of them flying backwards into the mud. Ragoth rolled onto his side, his ears ringing as distant voices tried to catch his attention. His hand was blackened and numb, smoking from the backlash. He moved his fingers, testing them, and aside from minor burning, he was thankful to see he was otherwise unharmed. His crown scar remained, giving off its dull glint of gold.

Mora picked him up by the collar with a tight grip and opened her mouth, something vicious on the edge of her tongue. She seemed to think better of it.

“Don’t start any more fires,” she snarled.

She sat away from them, back against the tree. Ragoth gathered his friends, and they huddled to keep warm. When sleep didn’t take him, Rags went over the spell in his mind, his perfect recall showing him Cort’s strained efforts with the flicker spell. He softly repeated the word over and over, wondering where he went wrong.

“It’s Flairnel.” said Deni, eyes closed as he huddled between Rags and Oli. “Not Flarenel. Cort said it wrong. Spells require precise pronunciation. That’s why your spell backfired.”

His unspoken question answered, Rags joined them in a miserable, cold sleep.

Come the morning sun, Ragoth and his weary company finally glanced over the cliff side overlooking the Dreadmour Valley. The sight took his breath for a moment. The low, sweeping fields and trees vanished into the horizon, only a jagged peak in the distance piercing its edge. Much of the valley floor this side was cleared of all but the sparsest foliage, but the distance was thick with forest.

And there, within sight, was the distant walls of Cravensrest, the only city of Dreadmour.

“It’s beautiful.” Ragoth smiled.

Oli and Mora both turned a nasty look on him.

“You’ve never been to Dreadmour, have you?”

“Oi, it’s a proper shithole.”

Rags clutched his withering inspiration as the others walked by him. He sighed and followed.

They took the descending land bridge to the valley floor. It was more than accommodating at a half-mile wide, filled with soft grass and a worn trail in the middle. The sun shone brightly, and a gentle spring breeze helped dry the waterlogged, weary foursome. They trudged along the packed down dirt road weaving through the plains grass up to the weathered gates of the city.

Up close, the walls were forty feet of worn gray stones and the open gate made of massive oak timbers bound by thick iron bands. Two guards clad in mismatched armor stood at both sides. Given their relaxed posture, they seemed less attentive in their duty than the guards at Barrow’s End or Arcathoria.

Oli stopped before they reached the gate and held out her hand. “Right, deals a deal, then?”

“Thank you for your help, Oli. Despite the events, I did enjoy your company.” Ragoth nodded and produced the ten shims and her handful of dragon’s gold from his pack.

She tossed an eyebrow up at him and flashed a crooked grin. “Yer a right good one, boyo. Most folk me meet treat me like shite unner their heel. An’ ye saved me life, too. Come see me smithy inna Muckfoot Quarter iffin ye want some work. Keep yer arse outta trouble, hear?” She pinched his cheek playfully and gave it a light slap before scampering off through the grass, quick as a hare.

“I wonder why she went that way?” Deni asked.

“Because she has a way into the city that avoids the guards,” Mora growled, stabbing her finger at the gate. “Through that gate. Now.”

Rags bristled at her tone. “There’s no need to be so curt.”

Mora snatched his arm and walked to the gates, forcing him along. Her wrenching grip did not lessen until she stood by the guards, who watched their approach with increasing caution.

“State your names and business,” One guard asked, his eyes drifting up as she towered over him.

“None of your business.”

With little discreteness, she pushed three gold tilts into the guard’s hand. The guard next to him coughed and wiggled his hand, waiting.

“I’m not in a mood to haggle. Split it between yourselves or keep pressing your luck at your own risk, little man.” Mora let out a loud snort that made them both jump.

Their hands withdrew and they stood aside. Mora marched past them with Ragoth in her grip like a mother dragging a disobedient child. Once she was well inside the gate, she let him go and fished his gold purse out of his pack. With it in her hands, she walked away without a word.

“Mora?” Rags called out.

She glowered back. “Our business is over, Rags. Contract completed. You’re in Dreadmour, as agreed. Unless you have more gold. Lots of it.”

“You have acquired all the wealth I have.”

“Then the adventure is over. Get gone and may reverent flowers bloom where you fall, which won’t take long if your knack for drawing trouble holds. Ay!” she yelled at the guards. “Where’s the closest tavern?”

“The Horse’s Arse in the Muckfoot Quarter,” A guard yelled back to her, pointing to the right of the gate. “Keep goin’ till you see mud and Orcbrats.”

“Mora, you could stay with us,” Rags pleaded. “I have no gold now, but as I told you, I fight for something that could well save the entirety of Allspire.”

“And as I told you, I do not join causes. I work for gold. We’re done here.”

Rags ran up to her. “If you let me explain—”

He had no chance to react before the back of her hand swatted him across the temple, sending him sprawling to the ground, unmoving.

“Mora!” Deni cried, rushing to Rags' side. The Orcborn was out cold.

“He’s a bright lad. One day, he’ll learn when to keep his mouth shut.” Mora walked away.

Denith was too busy trying to rouse his half-orc friend out of consciousness to catch Mora’s final glance over her shoulder before she vanished down the cobblestone street.

The elf stifled his tears as he struggled to pick Ragoth up onto his shoulders.

“I need a physicary!”

The eastern face of Karthak was still, whistling winds blowing across its rocky precipice. The snow fell in gentle harmony. Hardy plants that took root where they could swayed in the occasional breeze.

All was still.

All was silent…

Until Cortland Lowhelm thrust out of the dark, covered in grime and burns, looked up at the sun and screamed in utter defiance. He collapsed onto the stones, his face ashen, his strength spent. His only thoughts bent on survival.

He worked his dry mouth up and down, his thick tongue desperate for water. He spied a ledge with snow lining it and crawled towards it. He gathered a handful of snow and shoved it into his mouth. He knew better than to take snow for water, but his desperate thirst proved stronger. Just a little, just enough to wet his dry mouth.

He lay on the mountainside, cold and hurt but triumphant. He sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the sun was in a different place, and he wasn’t sure if it was the same day or the next day.

Such good rest. He had gone so long without it, but he dared not sleep in the mountain tunnels. His hand still clutched the Feylund lantern, the only thing he had left besides his battered shield. He filled his chest with cold air and summoned the strength to continue. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but his will screamed right back. He checked his pack. No water and his last ration was half a hardtack biscuit saved for this moment. Not much, but it was better than the gnawing hunger. As he ate, his eyes beheld the distant monolith, the Godstone Arch towering over Dessius.

He chewed in mute contemplation. A defiant anger roiled through him, stirred and unbidden.

He had stood there in the crystal chamber with his sword, his determination to meet his end steeled inside him. With his final moments upon him, he had mustered all his will to stand against the dragon.

Events, however, had conspired against him. In its mad rush out of the tunnel into the crystalline chamber, the dragon plowed through a cluster of glowing amber crystals that rained down on Cort. He’d thrown himself aside to avoid them and by the time he looked up, the dragon had already rushed past him. Whether by sheer luck or indifference to him, it was more concerned with crawling into the exit tunnel.

The reasoning took far too long for him to conclude: it was after his friends!

He reached into a reservoir of willpower that drove him sprinting down the tunnel, chasing after the roaring thing until the mountain trembled under his feet and the sounds of bellowing cries and falling stones echoed.

Then nothing.

The damning silence struck like a knife as he ran forward until he found a wall of rubble sealing the tunnel shut. He pried a few stones loose to dig through, but it was clear the collapse was complete. He had no choice. Little food, no water, and at least a day’s walk with only the Feylund lantern to light his way.

Thus, he’d set out on his trek and the hours bled together in a dark silence. At times, he’d felt as though he were walking through eternity itself. Perhaps he had died and was doomed to walk through this dark purgatory, forever parched and with hunger gnawing at his gut. Only his determination drove him past his limits. Something ate at the side of his foot, but he ignored it, fearful he might find a terrible wound.

He found his way back to the original entrance, and now he descended back down the mountain. With a touch of rest and a little food, he traveled while lost in his focus. There remained the thorn of doubt that his friends had been buried, but he wrenched that doubt away and pushed himself forward. His muscles screamed. Dark bruises and cuts covered his body, dried blood caked on much of his exposed skin, but onward he pushed.

He passed back by the campsite, where the trolls lay dead and swollen. Not even birds who feasted on dead flesh would touch them. Hand over his nose, he went past them and straight for the nearby brook.

Cort threw himself into it face-first, drinking deep from its cold waters until his belly bulged. He sat back, refreshed, allowing a small smile back onto his face. No sense in putting it off any further. That pain in his foot had gnawed at him. If it was a grave injury, he didn’t want to acknowledge it until he was close to help. He pried his boot off and examined his foot. Other than the side of his foot being rubbed bloody and raw, it was not the injury he feared. Something in his boot was rubbing his foot as he walked? He turned his boot upside down and a gold coin spotted with his blood fell into his hand. He turned it in his fingers, seeing the luster of its shine.

“Dragon’s gold.” He said in a croaking voice. “But how?”

He recalled hearing the goblin’s things clattering on the ground when he tackled her, including the sound of coins on the stone floor. By the luck of the gods, one must have fallen into his boot, of all places. Such a crazed thing to happen by sheer chance.

It was worth ten times a regular gold coin and he knew it.

A renewed strength flooded his very core. A sense of purpose that had him back on his feet and once again running for Dessius. By nightfall, he was at Vera’s doorstep with his dragon’s gold for a bed, a bath, and a solid meal. He said nothing of what happened, but when inquiring, he learned the Dessius Pass had been opened after the trolls were found dead. He pretended to know nothing about it, even when she asked. He was unsure of whom to trust. The only one he would trust was on the other side of the mountain. He had to get there and find out if Rags had made it.

By dawn, he was on his way into Karthak’s Pass, bound for Dreadmour on a brindle mare.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Dreadmour is a remnant of many men’s foolish notions to bring civilization to untamed lands. Arguably, its civilized portions are every bit as dangerous as the wilds around it. Avoid, if possible.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

For once, Ragoth awoke to a pleasant smell. The aroma of good, home-cooked food wafted through the air and awoke his appetite. He hummed a happy noise, rousing slowly in a soft bed.

Soft bed?

Someone suddenly draped a cool cloth over his forehead and his eyes flew open, beholding warm sunlight drifting over the hazy visage of a woman’s face framed in blonde locks. Though his vision took a moment to clear, the warmth of her smile had the word ‘mother’ on his lips. He smiled back as his vision cleared and a woman hovered over his head.

“You took a frightful thump to the head, youngin’,” She said, “And by the look of your cuts and scrapes, you’ve been through a lot to get here.”

His eyes scanned the room. The homely room looked much like the inside of Vera’s single bed huts, but there was a welcoming coziness to it. Vera’s huts were utilitarian. These felt like the inside of a home. Colorful curtains, fresh flowers in pots, an assortment of homemade decorations and small, hand-painted murals adorned the room.

“Where am I?” Ragoth asked, then winced at the pain on the side of his head.

“You’re in Rosy’s Mercyhouse in the Soddenstone District of Cravensrest,” she replied with a smile. “And Rosy, I be. Breakfast is ready when you are, Rags. Do not dally too long or Cornelith will eat all the bacon.”

“You know my—” He shot up in bed. “Bacon?”

She gave him a bright smile. “Thought that might waken your spirits. Not met the Orcborn child who doesn’t love bacon. I cooked a whole rasher of it. But first, let me look at you.”

He thought, at first, she was kneeling next to his bed, but upon sitting up he realized she was at her full height as a halfling. Clad in a traditional dress and wearing an apron, she moved a small stool to stand up closer to him, placing her hand on his head and pressed gently at his sides.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because your elf friend brought you in here yesterday and you were both in quite poor condition. How do you think I knew your name?”

“Deni!” Rags asked, looking around. “Where is he?”

“He’s resting as well. Don’t fret, he’s close. How long have you two been traveling?”

“Ah, several weeks. A month, perhaps.” He answered as she took hold of his jaw and pried it open and pulled on his tongue to peer in his mouth. “Ar’ thu’ a heelur?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said, moving her hands to the sides of his neck. “I’m not one of those ordained arcane healers from the Order, if that’s what you think. Nor am I a trained Physicary. I do help heal people, though. Mother taught me the apothecary craft and herbal remedies. You had several cuts, bruises, and gashes. I fixed them as best I could. You Orcborn are hardy, though. How do you feel?”

He took a deep breath and moved his torso back and forth. “My head hurts a little, but that aside; I feel very well, indeed. I’ve not felt this invigorated in some time. Like I’ve had a week’s rest. Was I out long?”

“No more than last night. Fortunately, that bump your attacker gave you wasn’t serious. Here, chew this pinch of leaves. It’ll help your headache. Now, judging by your diminutive stature and muscles, I’d say you’ve been without a proper meal for some time.” She pinched his arm.

“Madam, I am not diminutive. My mother and physicary say I’m within the proper height expectations …for a human, at least.”

“Hmm. I’m used to Orcborn your age being much taller. Certainly, far more muscular. Perhaps you were a runt.”

“I beg your pardon?” His cheeks went red.

She poked his chest with a grin. “Ah, consider that nerve touched. Don’t be such a sensitive elf, you’ve got a long way to grow yet. Start with a good breakfast, I’m sure you’re famished.” Rosy stepped off her stool and made for the door. “Your clothes were in very poor condition and your boots were falling apart, so I’ve taken the liberty to provide some better ones for you. They were donated, but they’re not covered in holes.” She closed the door behind her.

As he dressed, the soothing sound of a vyngola played in the adjoining room, a stringed instrument he had not heard in months. The plain brown pants and simple tunic she provided smelled as though they had been in storage for too long, but his boots were worn in. He could feel his feet thanking him as he took a few steps to test them out.

Ragoth entered a large, cozy central room with a single wooden table stretching from one end to the other. Rosy waddled in from an adjoining kitchen with a plate filled with bacon strips, placing them on the table next to separate plates of eggs, home cooked biscuits, sausage links, fresh fruit, and a pitcher of cream.

A modest meal, but to Ragoth, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He could hardly sit and hold back his hands as Rosy brought out a pot of oats boiled in milk. She saw the look of desperate hunger on his face and waved her hands at the table. “Do not wait for me. Eat. Eat!”

He had enough manners in him to pile his plate full before devouring the meal with his bare hands. Much as he tried to keep his composure, the turmoil since leaving Dessius had filled his heart full to bursting. Cortland and Mora gone, his gold spent, his body weary, and his heart ached with no chance to sort through his feelings of any of it. Worse, his journey was not yet done.

From the corner, the soft vyngola music came from a figure hunched in a chair. Ragoth had to blink twice. A Scaleborn! An honest to goodness, Voar Isles native. Commonly called Lizard-men and known for their prowess in hunting and curiosity about distant cultures. Their people lived in secret enclaves, and a Scaleborn would die before divulging their location. Almost nothing was known of their society, but many ventured into Allspire on pilgrimages, seeking travel, work, and knowledge. But unlike a warrior-hunter this one looked rather lanky, his posture hunched and one of his golden eyes was a dull white. The other one, a bright yellow, watched him as his clawed hands worked the vyngola strings with an expert’s touch. When he finished playing, Rag’s applauded.

“Cornelith is quite the musician,” Rosy said, making some breakfast for herself. “He fills our Mercyhouse with a healing no medicine can provide.”

“Good morn, lad.” Cornelith tipped his head.

As his hunger was satiated and his chewing slowed, Ragoth pointed and said. “You’re playing Wyndreth’s Caress by Lelian Leafswan.”

“You don’t know how happy you’ve made him.” Rosy grinned as she set a platter of butter and jam down.

The lizard man’s large jaw dropped. He raised his hands and exalted. “At last! Someone who knows the classics. Oh! What a day this has become!”

He sat himself across from Ragoth as Rosy took the head of the table. “Young man, where did you develop such an exquisite taste in music?”

“My mother taught me,” he replied, pouring himself some cream. “She was fond of composures by Namarian and Dynasty musicians—human and elvish alike. May I?”

“It's my only one.” The lizard man cradled the vyngola, reflexively.

“I promise I shall treat it with all due respect.” Ragoth reassured him.  

Cornelith placed the vyngola gingerly in Ragoth’s hands. He set it into position under his chin, working the strings to test its tuning.

“Been a few months,” he grumbled as he caused a few sour notes. Rosy and Cornelith flinched, but as soon he played; he brought to life a tune that filled the room with a bright and moving composition played competently.

Rosy smiled and Cornelith’s face lit up. He clapped his scaly hands together.

“Ah. A summer melody from the Feylund jungles. It has been so long since I met someone else with such an affinity for the instrument. You are a prodigy, dear boy. Have you trained for long?”

Ragoth brought his tune to an end and handed the instrument back. “Since I was a child, but it was more to overcome my boredom, I fear. I’ve not the passion for music to invest the time to master it, pleasing as it is. I do enjoy your playing, Cornelith. Thank you.” He turned to Rosy, “And thank you, good ma’am, for your hospitality and the wonderful meal. I haven’t felt this way in months.”

Rosy furrowed her brow. “Felt what way?”

“Normal,” Rags answered. “Well rested. Well fed. In good company. I missed it so. I cannot repay you for taking me into your home like this.”

Rosy buttered a biscuit and said. “My Mercyhouse is a place of respite for the weary, for the sick, and for the hungry. I have several rooms for those in great need and someone pointed your elvish friend to our doorstep. We do as much as we can, but I’m only one halfling. If you can donate anything for our cause, it would be appreciated. Everything goes to the benefit of others.”

Ragoth nodded as he chewed. So, this was a place that worked goodwill for the less fortunate. Much as Denith’s sect worked goodwill deeds. “Is Denith nearby?”

“He is resting in one of my rooms,” Rosy answered. “After he brought you, he refused to leave your side. He prayed over you. You are blessed to have such a close friend. Your travels must have been arduous, indeed. I found him passed out on his knees next to your bed and Cornelith carried him to another room. That was only a few hours ago. He should wake up in the afternoon.”

Ragoth nodded and wiped his mouth, pushing his empty plate forward. “Thank you. If I had the coin, I would surely donate to such a worthy cause. Alas, I paid all my gold to the guide who helped us travel to Dreadmour. The cost of escort from Barrow’s End to here was not cheap. Should I come back through with any amount in my purse, I promise to give back what was given to me and to give forward to those who come after.”

Rosy gave a soft sigh and nodded. “I understand. Please do not forget. Your care was paid by those who came before you. Would you like some coffee? It would help with your headache.”

Rags leaned forward on his arms. “Some…what?”

“It's a drink made from a roasted bean that grows here in the valley. Bit of an acquired taste, but once you’re used to it, you’ll wonder how you ever got along without it. If not, I have tea.”

“Why not? I’ve lived an adventurous month or so. What could a drink hurt? What does it do, if I might ask?” Ragoth tugged at his tusk and shrugged.

“Wakes you up right good, it does,” Rosy said, fetching a tin kettle and pouring him a wooden mug of black liquid. The aroma was strong, very pleasing.

“Ack. Bitter.” He took a sip to assess and puckered.

“You can get used to the pure black if you drink it long enough. Or try a little sugar and cream. I have a cream with vanilla and one with hints of cinnamon and hazelnut in it, if you like variety.”

Cornelith chuckled and sipped a cup of tea. “She’s determined to have someone enjoy that as much as she does.”

Ragoth let Rosy put a spoonful of sugar and some vanilla cream in his cup, stirring it to a caramel hue. This time, the taste was much more pleasing.

“Mmm! Yes, this is quite interesting. I could get used to this.” He wasn’t sure if he would, but he wanted to be polite. “If I might inquire about something, Miss Rosy, while I’m in your company?”

She lifted her mug. “Ask if you like.”

“Much as I am loath to part with your company, I came to Dreadmour on pressing matters, and haste is of the essence. I am looking to return to my people: the Orcs.”

A fearful look crossed Rosy’s lovely features. Cornelith’s jaw slumped into a deep frown as his hand went to his breast.

“Dear gods, my boy. Why would you ever want to do that?”

“I have pressing business with their leader, Gorvok. Dare I ask if you know how to find his village?”

Rosy rubbed a hand over her mouth, her eyes shut as she contemplated his request.

“The Orcs of the valley are divided into several tribes. There is more than one village, you see? Too often at war with each other to bother those of us who live in the city. Gorvok  rules the largest tribe, the Sunderfang. They do not welcome half-blood kin into their fold. You will either be cut down or forced into servitude under their heel. I beg you to reconsider. There is an Orc in the Muckfoot Quarter named Longtusk who does take in Orcborn looking for a place to belong, though he is not a man who holds much to laws, if you catch my meaning. He would have you more willingly than Gorvok.”

“They will see me in their midst,” Ragoth said, authority swelling in his chest. “I have something of theirs. Something that will assure my safety. Trust me, please.”

Cornelith shook his head as Rosy sighed deeply.

“I do not trust for your safety,” she said.

“If I don’t find them, then I am already dead from what hunt’s me.”

Rosy let out a long noise from her throat, biting her lip. “If you wish to truly know, there are only two people in the city you can ask. Longtusk is one, but his information always comes at a high cost. The other is a goblin lass who runs a smithy, if she is there. Her name is—”

“Oli?”

“You know her?” Rosy’s ears twitched in surprise.

“We met on the road to Dreadmour. She helped guide us through the bog. Had I known, I’d have asked when I last saw her. She knows how to find the Orcs?”

“I’m not certain, but her half-sister belongs to the same tribe. She may point you to her if you ask her nicely. Her forge is called The Gobbies Gauntlet. I suggest you try your luck with her.”

“I shall.” He stood and went back to his room, returning a moment later with his pack and bundled sword slung over his shoulder. He lifted the wooden mug and drained it. “You’re right, that does grow on one’s palette. I take my leave of you, Goodlady Rosy. Goodsir Cornelith.” He nodded.

“But what of your friend?” Rosy stood up in alarm.

Rags looked down. “Let him rest. He’s earned it. But my people will surely not tolerate an elf in their midst. I never told him I was coming to find the Orcs. He followed me into the lair of a dragon. He would follow me to the depths of the Abyss. When he wakes, tell him I went where he cannot follow and his oath of servitude to me is fulfilled.”

Rosy approached him from around the table, her head only coming up to his sternum as she looked up at him. “You didn’t see the desperation in his eyes when he brought you here. He stayed at your side until he collapsed in exhaustion. That elf will be shattered if you abandon him. Take one more day, I beg.”

“It is to make sure he survives. If the gods are good, perhaps we can all share another meal again someday, but the fates have been cruel, and I fear more cruelty awaits. I cannot expect him to shadow me if it means his death. Tell him I’m sorry.”

Ragoth left with their eyes on his back. He only gave them a sad smile and a nod before he was gone and out the door.

The Muckfoot Quarter turned out to be the slums of Cravensrest. Not that the rest of the city was much better by comparison. Once he had left the quaint hall of Rosy’s Mercyhouse and into the city, he understood why Oli and Mora had taken such a derisive tone about it.

The city seemed to come from an older age, a time before dwarves were the primary architects to employ. The cobblestone streets looked worn down, the brick and mortar of the buildings in poor repair, and everything looked and felt as though it had been decades since being cleaned.

The castle loomed in the distance at the city center. While not as grand as his old home in Namara, its spires and width were no less impressive. That this city had such a massive castle in such a remote place on Allspire was truly puzzling. He noted an aqueduct system trailing down from the mountainous valley walls and beside the castle. Where it went was unknown, but as he passed the middle of the city, he made note of a large common well in the center of the market. It was dry save for a slimy rain puddle at the bottom.

The state of the city held much to be desired, but its populace left even more. It was as though Vera’s tavern hall and the destitute inn from Roraberg Crossing had conceived and birthed an entire city of derelicts, cutthroats, and hooded vagrants. An unfriendly lot, most of them. Scowls and deep frowns from all in sight. There was no warmth to the people or their surroundings, no sense of awe and wonder at this new place. Rosy was the exception, it seemed.

City guards, in their piecemeal armor, gave him naught but side-glances and he soon found out why. A number of Orcborn would lumber out into the open as he traversed the city. Only one guard was Orcborn, and he gave Ragoth a questioning glare until he was out of his sight.

The closer he got to the Muckfoot Quarter, the more Orcborn he saw. The city seemed to be mostly humans and a few halfkin elves—not a dwarf or elf in sight. Odd, considering the Crown Pantheon was known as a melting pot of many races. If only he had the time to inquire with a local, but he had to remember why he was here.

As his eyes drifted up to the sky, a realization struck him. It had been weeks since he could reflect on anything but his most immediate circumstances. And now he turned his gaze skyward, a habit he had fallen out of, to his chagrin. He had not seen Lord Blight or his shadow dragon since he left Namaria. He had not wanted to give voice to this nagging thought in the back of his mind lest he summon them as Marvallo warned, but the fact was true. Had he done it? Had he truly lost his pursuer? Best stow his thoughts for another time, rather than worry on things yet to happen.

He wandered the Muckfoot Quarter for an hour or so, tromping through muddy streets and decrepit slums. Many an Orcborn seemed to dwell here, none too friendly looking. But another, albeit shorter, half-orc wasn’t out of place, and he was thankful for it. He came to a run-down tavern with a sign hanging from it, The Horse’s Hoof. Only the Hoof was scratched through, and Arse was scrawled above it. Mora would be inside, but he wouldn’t risk her wrath again. Her strike had hurt more than his head.

Not far from the tavern, tucked into a small little nook next to the city wall, stood a rather unassuming two-story building. The sign swinging in front had a crudely drawn goblin with a golden gauntlet on its fist. The sign read The Gobbies Gauntlet and smoke billowed from a smokestack above the workshop. The rhythmic sound of hammer on metal sang in the midday sun.

He opened the door, stepping inside. The aroma of old wood and oiled metal assaulted his nose. The smell of the heated bellows from the open-air forge drifted in through a rickety wooden door. The walls were lined with an array of swords, shields, plate armor, spears, daggers, and hammers. He picked up one of the short swords on display and inspected it. The heft was light, and the make was almost elvish in quality. He smiled to himself.

“Quite the craftsmanship.”

“Oi!” came a voice from the forge. “Who’s there?”

“In the shop!” he replied, placing the sword back.

The door to the forge crashed open as Oli kicked her way in, wearing a blacksmith’s smock and thick gloves. She lifted the goggles on her head and squinted at the sight of Rags.

“Wot’re ye doin’ in me forge, boyo? Wot, ye got used t’havin’ a gobbie gal run around wit ye?” She leaned against her display, grinning.

“I was sent to your business by a mutual acquaintance. Rosy. I require your assistance. Again.”

“Oi, thas a right change, it is. Nice t’be wanted fer once. Most o’ th’ time me gets shooed away like a pest.”

“I don’t think of you as a pest.”

“Pf-f-ft. Ye ain’t known me long enough. So wot’s this about help? Iffin ye need sword or plate, me got wot ye need. Fair price fer good work. Me am Cravenrest’s best kept secret. Ye’ll not find daggers this good anywhere else.” She waggled one from her display in front of him, the tip pointed at his nose.

He pushed the blade away with a finger. “I fear not. I need to find my way to the Orcs. To the Sunderfang tribe to which Rosy says your sister belongs?”

“Piss off, boyo. Me ain’t helpin’ ye do shite.” Oli tossed the dagger back onto the front counter and her face fell with disdain. She turned on her heel and walked back into the forge, leaving him in the shop. Surprised, but not undeterred, he forced his way into the forge where she was ferrying an armful of scrap metal and tossing them into a molten slag pit.

“Oli, I implore you—"

She stabbed her finger at the door. “No customers in me forge. Lessen ye wanna buy somethin’, get yer arse outta here.”

“Your sister—”

“Me don’ even like me sister an’ she feels much th’ same. She’s half-orc an’ all arsehole. Iffin she don’ kill ye, them Orcs will. Ye don’ know wot yer askin’ fer.”

“They’re my people,” he pleaded, following her as she scampered about her forge.

“Them Orcs don’ like nobody,” she spat, shaking a red-hot iron at him. “Not even each other. They’d overrun this city iffin they weren’t so busy at war wit each other. Not like th’ old days when Thorgoth ruled the bunch. Had a good thing wit him, an’ he paid good gold. Tha’ was an Orc who knew how t’do business.”

Ragoth’s head shook with a snap. For all his efforts over the weeks, hearing her speak that name broke his control. He lurched forward and clutched her shoulders.

“You knew my father?”

A dawning look came over her face. “Ooh, me gets it now. Yer Thorgoth’s boy lookin’ t’go home.”

“In a manner of speaking. I don’t understand. How are you old enough to have known him? He died before I was born.”

“Fifteen or sixteen years ago, aye, that he did. City was crawlin’ wit Crown Pantheon soldiers fer weeks back then. How young ye think me am? Told ya me got a good bit o’ elf blood in me. Done haunted these parts fer fifty years or so, by me reckonin’. Ye don’ get good at smithin’ in no time at all.”

“What was he like, my father?” Rags asked.

“Yer not gon’ cry like a welp iffin me yaks about yer dead dad, are ya?” When he shook his head, she continued. “Oh, he was a mighty feller, he was. Last o’ them true Orcs. Ye come from good stock. About as close to a king th’ Orcs ever had, though he never took the title. He was hard as stone, but true to his word. Not a lyin’ tusk in his body. Saw th’ value in folk who could help th’ Orcs, which be why he bought from me.” She looked him up and down. “Ye sure yer his boy? He was a big fella. Tall an’ strong, too. Ye don’ look much like him.”

“Mother says I’m perfectly within my size for a human.” He blushed uncomfortably.

“Yeesh, ye got th’ runt side o’ th’ deal. His brother Gorvok was even bigger. Dumber, though. Yer pa was the better warrior. Me figgers thas why he never challenged Thorgoth fer leadership till the war ended.”

“Then you’ll help me find my uncle?”

“Gorvok’ll flay yer dumb arse alive th’ very second he hears yer his kin–specially Thorgoth’s spawn. He won’t suffer a challenge t’his throne. Rip yer head offa yer shoulders and stick yer skull on th’ gates wit th’ rest o’ dumb bastards thought they could take him down.”

“I don’t want to challenge his throne or take anything from him, Oli.”

She crossed her arms with a huff. “Then wot’re ye about, eh? Come all th’ way from th’ human kingdom t’cast yer lot in wit a rotter like Gorvok? Even if he don’ kill ye, yer life’s as good as forfeit. They’ll toss ye in wit th’ rest of th’ slaags an’ ye’ll be slavin’ away fer th’ rest o’ yer days.”

“It is fate and destiny that brought me to Dreadmour to begin with. I will be safe once they see what I have brought them.”

“Is it that?” She pointed to his bundle on his back and the way he flinched told her all she needed to know. “Yer not makin’ a lick o’ sense. Ye tell me wot yer about or me’ll drag ye back out me door and toss ye back on th’ street where ye belong.”

With a sigh of resignation, knowing he was close to his goals, Ragoth told Oli the truth in whole. He spoke in the vaguest manner to avoid speaking Blight’s name aloud. She listened, her eyebrows twitching up and down as he spoke. When he finished, she snorted and exploded into laughter, slapping the wooden worktable next to her.

“Thas th’ biggest buncha orcshite me ever heard!”

“I saw that ghoulish sorcerer myself!” he cried. “I have been in death’s gaze all these weeks and you think it’s funny?”

She nodded, snickering. “Me gots no doubts ye saw wot ye saw, but that story yer jester friend fed ye is th’ stuff nursemaids tells their brats at bedtime. There’s nae been a dark lord type since th’ War o’ Sorrows. The Arcane Order stomps them rogue magic users like a housewife stompin’ a bug outta her kitchen. Ye been fed a right story, lad.”

A cross scowl marched over his face. “My friend risked his life to keep me safe. He gave his life so that I would live. He would not tell me such a lie. And I have the proof.”

He unfurled Wraithslayer from its burlap wrappings and held it aloft with reverence. “The blade Wraithslayer. The only weapon that can defeat the dark lord. And only I can use it, however its secrets are ones that the Orcs alone can reveal.”

She held her hands out. “Right. Lemmie see it.”

He hesitated, but she was a skilled smithy. Perhaps she had insight into it that no one else could provide. He gently set it in her hands and watched as she turned the blade over, running an expert’s gaze across the sword. Her fingers ran over the edge and the gems set in the pommel; the designs etched into the crossguard while her lips pursed in concentration.

Oli gave a curt nod. “It’s proper shite.”

“It’s a magic blade.” He said, frowning.

“This thing is about as magic as me green arse. It’s a decoration. Th’ kind o’ shiny thing a cheap merchant hangs on his wall jus’ fer th’ looks. Or an actor might use it in a stage play. Looks pretty, but not worth a damn. Iffin ye tried t’cut someone down wit this, ye’d prolly break it.”

“You’re wrong.” he said, defiantly. “It’s enchanted. I just haven’t had the training to unlock its power.”

“Ye ever seen an enchanted weapon afore?” she asked, waiting for him to shake his head. “There be a certain look about em, even when dormant. Enchanted shite got this unnatural shine to ‘em. They’re hard t’forge an’ even harder t’hide. Don’ ye know anything, boyo?”

“I know plenty. I’ve spent most of my life learning things you could hardly fathom, Oli,” Ragoth sputtered.

“Errythin’ cept how t’see through a lie.” She handed the sword back, his grasping hands snatching it and re-wrapping it back in the bundle. “Oi, Mora was right. Yer greener than spring grass an’ twice as fragile. Word from a wise gobbie gal wot been round a while: people’re good-fer-nothin’ liars an' they’ll lie right t’yer face iffin they think it benefits them. Why ye think me works on me own? Been lied to like a dog since me was a wee gobbie. Even yer friends lie to ye. Errybody got something they don’ want erryone else t’know bout.”

She saw his confused and angered face, clutching at his cherished sword and the memory that came with it and continued on.

“Sorry, Rags. Know ye don’ wanna hear it, but mayhap if yer other friends were better friends, they’d done told ye afore now. Mora jus’ wanted tha gold ye paid her. The longshanks and th’ elf prolly thought ye were full o’ shite too an’ were too polite t’tell ye so.”

“I don’t believe you,” he snapped. “My friend didn’t die with a lie on his lips and if you won’t tell me how to find the Orcs, I’ll wander the wilds of Dreadmour until I do find them.”

Oli rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Oi, yer a stubborn bastard, ye know that? Fine, go get yer face bashed in by me sister an’ see if me cares. All ye gotta do is head straight southwest from th’ gate. Keep goin’ till yer hip deep in boars.”

“How will I find her?”

“She’ll find ye first, most like. Gettin’ her t’take ye to the Sunderfang is yer job. Her name be Iggi.”

“I’ve come this far. I will continue until I’ve fulfilled my destiny. Thank you.” Rags went to leave when Oli stopped him with a shout.

“Meant what me said. Don’ tell Gorvok who yer father is, or he’ll kill ye where ye stand.”

Ragoth only gave her a curt nod. The burning indignation smoldering within sent him stomping out of her shop. He pushed her laughter out of his mind and filled it with determination.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Orcs thrive in wild, untamed lands. Their skin adapts to their surroundings and their keen noses know when prey is about. Wandering wild lands is the best way to earn their attention.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

By mid-day Ragoth had left the city far behind. A few miles of clearing stood between him and the imposing forests comprising much of Dreadmour’s valley floor. The sprawling plains were flat, with large standings of strong oaks littering the lands, a few brooks and streams that wound into the deeper depths of its forests. The sun bore down on him, and he again lamented the loss of his cloak, but with no gold he would have to do without. He was as much a street orphan now as when he’d first fallen from the castle walls. If he was too late in reaching his people, his lack of gold or food wouldn’t matter.

True to Oli’s word, the further he traveled southwest, the more wild boars he saw about the woods. They roamed in pairs and packs, often scattering when they heard him approach. The ground was littered with gouges from their rooting about for food and the air hung thick with their wild scent. Unpleasant as they smelled, the more he took in their scent, the hungrier it made him.

Try as he might to expel his meeting with Oli, her mockery haunted him like a phantom. He tried not to think about it, but gnawing doubt clawed at his thoughts. Such was he lost in his own musings that he stumbled through a patch of brush and directly into a pack of boars. The pack squealed and scattered at the sight of him, but the largest charged. He turned and broke into a run, struggling to keep ahead of the squealing beast. No sooner did his short sword clear its sheath than the boar trampled him. His sword went flying, his body tumbled across the ground as the boar gored him in the side. Pain flared in his side as the tusks stabbed into his flank. The boar backed up, pawing at the ground in preparation for another charge.

Clutching his side, he lifted his head in time to see a flash of green and an ear-splitting “Re-e-e-e-e!” cut the air. The boar turned to run too late as the small figure dropped a large hatchet onto its head. The splatter sent a flowered spray of blood into the air as the massive boar dropped and twitched, dead.

Ragoth sat up, gawking. She stood at half his height, clad in small hides adorned with teeth and bones. Stockier than Oli, she was a tiny thing of wiry muscles and an unpleasant disposition. Her unfriendly face regarded him, topped by a shock of unkempt black hair tied into a messy ponytail, accentuated by a single small tusk jutting from her scowl.

She marched up to him, sniffing at him. He lifted his hands at her and gave a weak grin. “Iggi?”

She sneered and punched him in the face.

For once, Ragoth was glad not to be knocked out, but there wasn’t much to be done in defending himself. She caught him off-guard with the punch and before his head cleared, she had him hog-tied. Iggi was as unpleasant a captor as could be and unceremoniously dragged him through the dirt to her meager campsite. She tied him against a crude rack next to several butchered boar corpses, his hands bound above his head.

She met any attempts to converse with him with silence and or fist to the stomach. He tried to assess the damage of the tusk wound in his side, but his blood-dried shirt obscured it. It burned to breathe, but the wound did not feel deep. She left and returned a half-hand of time later with the corpse of the boar who had attacked him.

“I have to go to the Orcs of the Sunderfang,” he told her. “I need to meet someone.”

“You go to Gorvok,” she said in her snarling voice.

Rags sighed. That, at least, was somewhat in line with his plans. Not quite how he envisioned it.

Iggi sniffed the air, then ran out of the camp, leaving him to wonder and wait. She had piled his few belongings nearby, taking none of them for herself. Another half-hand of time later, Iggi returned with someone, dragging them on the ground behind her. The familiar scent caught his nose and Rags' heart dropped. He recognized the earth-tone robes and dirt-brown hair. Iggi strung the unconscious Denith against the rack next to him. A drizzle of blood from his hairline ran down across his fair cheek.

“Don’t hurt him. That elf is my friend.” Rags said, straining against his bonds.

Iggi snorted. “Elfs not friends. Stinky elfs only good for food.”

Ragoth recoiled. “You’re not seriously going to eat him…right?”

“Gorvok eat your elf, slaag,” she said. “Then you. Iggi give slaag and elf to Gorvok, then Gorvok let Iggi back in tribe.”

Ragoth tried to follow her butchering of the common tongue. “Are you not a part of the tribe already?”

“Iggi not full-blood Orc. Gorvok not like half-blood slaag. Sometimes Gorvok forget. Sometimes lets Iggi trade with tribe. Sometimes orders Iggi shot with arrows. Now Iggi have elf and slaag to trade.”

She sat down and hacked a haunch off of a boar and hung it over her campfire to cook.

Deni moaned and stirred, his eyes fluttering open as he took in his surroundings. When he saw Rags, he let out a relieved sigh.

“There you are.”

“Aye, here I am,” Ragoth replied bitterly.

“Rags, please don’t be angry.”

“Oh, it's far too late for that. I left you behind for this very reason.”

“You should have told me you were trying to reach the Orcs. I would have stopped you long before now.”

“There is no convincing me away from this, Deni. I set out on this task the night before we even met. I can’t abandon it now.”

“For the love of all the gods, Rags, why?” Denith begged. “This is a madman’s folly, even if they are your people. Orcs despise their half-blood kin.”

“Yes, Rosy and Oli told me as much. I go because I must. I go because it is my destiny to do so, my mission to save this world. How did you find me, anyway? Did Rosy and Oli tell you where I went?”

Deni nodded. “Because they were worried about your well-being too. Rags, please, it’s not too late to turn from this path. Surely destiny cannot mean for you to march into a den of Orcs, asking them to teach you how to use some magical weapon. You showed it to Oli, aye? Did you not believe her?”

“You have said the whole of it. And now, you follow in my shadow like a pup, your life forfeit.”

Deni hung his head. “Then may the gods favor our path. Whatever fate you’ve brought upon yourself, we share it.”

“No one forced you to follow me. I did my best to protect you from this.” Rags turned to him angrily.

“You did not trust me with the truth.”

“No. Nor should I. Is a friend not entitled to their secrets as you once told me?”

The finality of his tone left Deni silent. Ragoth could not decide what was worse: his anger or his silence.

Iggi untied their hands and dropped a steaming cut of boar into their laps, bidding them to eat. Deni managed a few bites, but Ragoth tore into the meat. Inhaling the aroma of roasted boar, its gamey scent triggering something savage deep within him. He loathed to eat with his hands, the cooked juices dripping down his face like some uncultured vagrant, but the meat was too good. He picked it clean to the bone and once he was done, Deni offered what was left of his flank and he devoured that as well. It might well be his last meal.

Once they finished, Iggi re-bound their hands together and marched them out of her camp with a pile of boar carcasses on a litter harnessed to the largest boar Ragoth had seen thus far. It was taller than she was, it’s tusks the size of her forearms, and it ignored everything around it.

Iggi leapt onto its back and kicked her heels into its sides. “Piggy, go!”

Piggy ignored her, continuing to root around in the dirt.

Iggi dismounted and walked up to the boar. She raised her fist and bashed it on top of its head with all her might, then grabbed it by the tusks when it grunted in protest. She forced it to look her in the eyes and with an enraged cry, she said.

“Piggy, go to Dawntusk!”

Iggi leapt back on top and kicked her heels in, spurring Piggy into a quick trot.

Into the warm afternoon, sun they marched; bellies full of boar. Deni tilted his head down, no longer marching with his broad-brimmed hat to protect his eyes. Rags felt naked without his sword, cloak, or daggers. Through throngs of wild boars and across the fields and forests, the trio marched onward into the very heart of Dreadmour itself.

In the waning hours of the day, they pushed through the forest and came to a cleared portion where the spiked timbers of Dawntusk’s walls lay. Its maw-like gate invited one to dare being devoured upon entry, the spikes of the walls lined with the skulls of those who had ventured in and never returned. Ragoth sucked in a breath, seeing for the first time the green-skinned figures of his father’s people guarding the gate. Iggi brought them right to the front guards, who spat at her. She snarled back in the harsh Orc tongue, pointing to Rags and Deni and her boar-laden litter. The two guards shared a look and appraised the two of them. They were tall and well-muscled, clad in simple hide and leather garb of hunter-gatherers. They were taller than him, though not as tall as Mora.

How he wished his Auroch friend were here now.

They waved her through, and Iggi led them into the city itself. By now, Ragoth was used to the shock of differing cities and cultures that came with them. The Architecture of Allspire was a favorite book in the months before his exile. He had knowledge of this type of small, thatched roof village, but this was on a much larger scale than human villages. The city, with its huts and hovels, sprawled out before them, well over a mile in width. But though it was large, its foot traffic suggested there were more homes than Orcs to fill them.

The scent of cook fires and wet earth overwhelmed him. There was something in the air, a stench of sweat, dirt, ash, and bodily aroma he had never gleaned except in the den of Orcborn in Dessius. It took him a few moments to realize he smelled the Orcs themselves. The scent was everywhere. He could hardly detect Deni’s scent in this place, and the elf was right next to him. The dirt roads wove through the huts, towards a grand hall standing in a central commons at the heart of the city.

For the first time, Ragoth laid his eyes on Orcs, true ones. Some milled about, while others worked or set to some task. Their eyes turned to them as they passed, looking none too kindly on Ragoth or his elvish companion. He would have thought them poverty-stricken had he not read of the ways of tribal hunter-gatherers in his studies (Isolated Societies of the Feylund).

Their hide clothing was accentuated by bits of armor, plates that were well past their prime, scavenged from whatever corner of Allspire they had been stolen. He recognized human and dwarf forged plates, but no elvish. Their weapons, those that weren’t clearly trophies or stolen from a fallen foe, were crudely forged axes, hammers, and mauls. No swords to be seen.

Or children. He had expected to see some children running around, but few were to be found. The youngest Orc he saw was perhaps ten summers old, busy with carrying a cask on his back.

He bore witness to a few Orcborn like himself, half-bloods that stood shorter and with more defined human or elvish features. They bustled about with simple tasks, washing clothes or carrying weapons or hauling buckets of water. None of the Orcborn wore armor or the garb of warriors or hunters. Most bore faces of misery and regarded him with no warmth as soon as he met their eyes.

Their passing was not unnoticed, as a small entourage of the citizenry had taken enough interest to follow them to the Commons, an open place of gathering just in front of the Grand Hall. Towering torches lined its macabre borders, witnessed by the skulls of human, elf and dwarf. Rounds of warriors occupied the interior, standing around a raised dais under the lip of the Grand Hall. There stood the throne, a great thing of wicked spikes, adorned with skulls of fallen Orcs, and large enough for an ogre to sit.

And on the throne sat the largest Orc Ragoth had seen thus far. He was heavy with decoration, as much of his person adorned with animal skulls, claws, and spikes. His chest was covered not by armor, but a frighteningly enormous beard. Though his rounded belly spoke of a life of ease, he easily dwarfed any and every warrior in the tribe. His broad frame filled the massive throne and bore on them a cloak of dire wolf fur, its head sitting atop his brow like a gory crown. Both sides of the throne were flanked by gaudy dressed Orcborn women bearing trays of food and enormous tankards of ale.

Gorvok seemed quite pleased with himself.

Iggi dropped her litter off of Piggy and brought Rags and Deni up to the foot of the dais, bending to one knee and yanking on their ropes until they did likewise. Deni put on a brave face, but Rags could see the terror in his eyes. Why hadn’t he stayed behind?

Gorvok looked down at them with disgust, waiting as Iggi stepped forward.

She spoke in their shared Orc tongue, pulling the two of them forward and presenting them with a flourish.

Gorvok spat a laugh and uttered a harsh retort, waving his hand away. Iggi snapped back at him, but Gorvok’s snapped fingers sent two warriors running up to her. The Orclin gave a yelp and dashed off with the warriors in pursuit, her cries and curses following her as she fled to escape. She launched herself onto her boar mount and kicked him into a frantic escape as fast as the boar’s legs could manage. A chorus of laughter from the gathered Orcs followed her, along with a few lazily hurled spears.

“I don’t think they care for her much,” Deni remarked as she fled.

“I doubt they’ll care for us much, either.” Ragoth turned back and now found himself the center of the massive Orc warlord’s attention. Gorvok issued a rumbling growl like a roused bear, deep and full of threat.

Ragoth gave a curt bow. “H-hail the great warlord, Gorvok.”

Gorvok uttered something in Orcish at him.

“I fear I do not speak your tongue.” Ragoth swallowed hard.

Gorvok scoffed and spoke in common. “You enter my domain and do not even speak the tongue of your blood, slaag?”

Rags swallowed again. He was suddenly thirsty beyond measure, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“Ah, that is my mistake, great Warchief. I am but a humble son of those who fought in the Orcs Wars many years hence. I sought out my fellow Orc, so that I might join their glorious ranks.” He hoped a touch of flattery might ease the tension and stroke his uncle’s ego into acceptance. Ragoth understood his life balanced on the Orcs allowing him some level of sanctuary. A current of mocking laughter rippled through the crowd.

Gorvok laughed and took a tankard from the girl beside him, downing its contents. The smell of ale was familiar, but the brutish Warchief spilled as much on his beard as he poured down his gullet. When finished, he slammed it into her and sent her tumbling to the ground before raising to his feet.

Ragoth watched him descend the steps, one thundering footstep at a time, until he towered over him, sneering down at the diminutive prince. Ragoth’s head only came up to Gorvok’s gut. His fist alone was the size of Ragoth’s chest. The Orc was enormous in every capacity and when he bent down to look at Ragoth more closely, it felt like staring into the dragon’s maw. His tusks were easily the size of the dragon’s teeth, and his heartless glare no less evil.

Whatever assessment Gorvok used to judge who was worth keeping did not pass Ragoth. He gave a derisive snort.

“Another useless slaag. Every year, you filth grow smaller and weaker. The blood of the Sunderfang is the truest of all bloodlines. Here you stand, a pitiful shadow of true power.”

He shoved Ragoth with the tip of his finger and toppled him backwards. Rags jumped back to his feet.

“I can be of help, truly I can. Whatever you need, I will endeavor to bring you and your rule the truest glory!”

Gorvok bellowed with laughter. The Orcs that ringed the Commons laughed in echo, though whether they found it funny or were following in Gorvok’s path, it was hard to say.

Gorvok waved his hand dismissively. “You couldn’t best my weakest warrior, slaag. I’ve got enough water fetchers and clothes washers in my midst. I have no use for you or your stinking elf pet.”

Deni shrunk to be as still and unnoticeable as he could. He trembled where he stood, eyes darting about in search of some salvation yet found. Ragoth’s heart sank.

“I can prove my worth, if you but give me the chance,” he said.

Gorvok swung around and the curiosity and patience were gone from his eyes, the beady black pits held no pity.

“You can join the rest of those who begged for my mercy. Put the slaag’s skull on the wall. I’ll have the elf for supper.”

The warriors closest to them closed in. Hands bound, Ragoth and Deni backed against each other and yelled out as Gorvok’s warriors took hold of them and lifted them off the ground.

“Hold!”

The simple command, spoken sternly, stopped the warriors in their tracks. Every head present whipped around as another Orc entered the Commons from around the side of Gorvok’s throne. He was large, like Gorvok, but not as tall. A heavy cloak and cowl shrouded his hunched form; his gloved right hand clutched a gnarled staff from which hung small fetishes, topped with a small orc skull. Silence came over the crowd as the Orc came forward and stood before Rags and Deni. His eyes shone an unnatural green in the shadow of his cowl. His bottom jaw protruded from its depths, the long gray-and-white beard unable to hide the mangled left side of his face.

Gorvok was not happy to see the new arrival. “What do you want, brother?”

“Respect for my title, for one. Or have you shunned the gods entirely?”

“What can I help you with, o’ exalted Magnus?” Gorvok snarled through his teeth.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, Warchief. I’ll just need a moment.” The hooded Orc turned to a shorter, slimmer Orc sporting a black mohawk that descended into a long braid. He spat something at the smaller Orc, who bristled at his request until the cleric threatened him with a fist and he ran off.

Ragoth felt the gaze of the hooded Orc staring down at him.

“Who are you?” he asked in a low tone.

The warrior behind him jabbed the butt of his spear into Ragoth’s side, driving him to the ground.

“Slaag’s do not speak to the Magnus unless spoken to first.”

By the time Ragoth got to his feet, the slim Orc had returned with a small armload of scrolls. The Magnus, as he was called, leaned down and looked into Ragoth’s eyes.

“Do as I say if you wish to live.” He took a scroll and handed it to Ragoth “Can you read this?”

Ragoth took it and unfurled the scroll. It was written in the common script of Namaria.

“Yes. It appears to be a communication from a Namarian Commander to a lesser ranked Captain. Something accounting for the movement of troops through Sylverian lands.”

The Magnus nodded and took the scroll, handing him another. This one was elvish, a script detailing aspects of the elvish dialect, which Ragoth read aloud as soon as he opened it.

“You read elvish?” the Magnus asked, stroking his beard.

“A-aye.”

“This one.” He gave Ragoth a folded parchment.

Ragoth unfolded it and tilted his head. “Looks to be an inventory manifest from a dwarven mine concerning shipments of ore. It details what ore was mined, how much of each was shipped, and what payment is due upon delivery.”

“Read it aloud.”

“In common or dwarvish?”

“I’ve seen enough,” He straightened his back and turned to Gorvok. “I’ll take the boy off your hands. No need to send his skull anywhere but my temple.”

Gorvok crossed his arms and glared. “A slaag serving in your temple? I gave you Oothor, did I not?” He gestured to the shorter Orc holding the scrolls.

The Magnus shook his head. “Oothor cannot read. Nor write. And he is loath to attempt either. I can make more use of this one.”

The prospect was not welcome to Gorvok or Oothor, but the Warchief took one look at Ragoth and shrugged him off.

“As you wish. What you do in your temple is no concern of mine. Take the slaag.”

Ragoth gasped, realizing he was not about to be beheaded and rushed to the Magnus’s side. He tapped the massive Orc on the arm. “I will need the elf as well.”

The elder Orc frowned, his tusks rising as he did so. “You would risk angering the gods of your people, bringing an elf to their most sacred temple?”

“Er, well, he is my bound slave, broken by my sheer savagery and forceful will.”

After a moment of thought, the graybeard saw Gorvok ascending his dais to return to his throne and then shot a commanding snap to the warrior clutching Deni. He was released and scampered next to Ragoth, trying to hide behind him. The two of them followed in the Magnus’ shadow, feeling the eyes of the milling populace on them as they did—especially Oothor, who glowered with clenched fists at Ragoth.

As twilight fell over the Orc city, the Magnus brought them to the only building that rivaled the Grand Hall. The twisted spires and haunting gloom of the Orc temple cast a pall of fear when they looked upon its menace, but without hesitation they followed the larger Orc within. Low lit torches and a massive bubbling cauldron in the back-center of the temple cast a soft green and orange glow over the interior. Its walls were lined with scrolls, candles, fetishes and accouterments placed within pots and jars. The wall at the very center and back of the temple was an altar made before a curved nook upon which skulls of Orcs lined its entirety.

“Its … rather lovely,” Ragoth said, trying to ease the tension.

“Stay your jokes and tongue, boy. The skulls of Magnus’ long past comprise the Sorgoth Altar. We are revered, for we commune with the gods. We are conduits of their power. And we do not suffer a flippant tongue in the gaze of the gods.”

Rags lowered his head. “My apologies, sir…er, Magnus.”

The Magnus set his staff against the wall and plopped onto a pile of cushioned sacks. He leaned forward and pulled his cowl back, revealing the harsh lined face of an Orc who had lived well past the normal Orc life expectancy. The scars forming the left side of his ruined face unsettled Rags enough that he could not look on it.

“I am Krannok, the last Magnus of the Sunderfang. You might have deceived Gorvok, but you do not deceive me, nephew. I see through your deceit with ease.”

Ragoth and Deni froze, but Krannok extended a hand to a seat across from him.

“Sit. We have much to discuss.”

Not long after Ragoth left Cravensrest, Cortland galloped up to the gate, trousers thick with mud from the bog in the pass. He had cursed going into the bog and, upon coming out, tenfold cursed his utter hatred of Mudmouths. He was thankful his horse despised them as much as he did and proved it by stomping every Mudmouth they encountered into a writhing paste. His surly mare rode him into the gates, where he negotiated entrance into Cravensrest at the expense of the remainder of his gold. And the guard, thankfully, remembered when he asked if they’d seen a large Auroch pass through.

Soon, he marched up the steps of the Horse’s Arse and threw the door open. The clientele of the tavern could be best described as languid and uncouth. An old drunk here, a few lads at the bar, the owner behind the bar, cleaning mugs.

And one large Auroch in the corner booth, snoring with her hooves kicked up on the table, surrounded by a pile of empty tankards.

Cortland stomped up to the sleeping Val’Mora and slammed his fist on the table.

“Where’s Rags and Deni?”

Mora snorted and cracked an eye open, shooting up the second she saw him. “Cortland! By the gods, you’re alive!”

“No thanks to that damn goblin, Oy.”

“You mean Oli? Aye, she’s a real piece of work. But what of you? What happened? Tell me everything. Have some ale. My treat. I have to hear this.”

Over several servings of piss poor ale, Cort told Mora of his tale of loss and survival. She drank with him, twice as much, and slapped the table with a laugh when he finished.

“Damndest thing I’ve ever heard. You’ve got a helluva story to tell around the taverns when you’re an old man. You’re a real Adventurer now. We thought you were dead and gone. You were mourned and all that. Those two were beside themselves for the rest of the trip.”

Cort waved her praise off. “I’m not back for no good reason. Where’s Rags and Deni?”

“How should I know? Soon as I crossed the gates, I sent them off. My work was done. Rags tried to fill my head with notions of destiny, but I won’t hear of it. Not sorry to see the back of him. Never had an escort job go so wrong as this one.” She tossed her hands up.

“You just cast them aside on their own? Here, of all places?” Cort’s eye twitched.

She looked at him crossly. “That was the deal I made with him, and I fulfilled my end. I told you, I’m a professional.”

“And what will you do now?”

She emptied her tankard and plopped it down in front of her. “A bit more of this, I think. Might look up an old acquaintance I heard is here and catch up. After that, who can tell? I go where the gold is plentiful.”

“How noble,” he said through his teeth.

“Don’t look down your nose at me, welp. It has served me well all these years and I’m not of a mind to stop now. It’s clear whatever crazed cause Rags believes in won’t stop him and I don’t fight for causes or friends. Only gold.”

Cort scoffed through his nose. “He’s a baseborn Orcbrat. What cause could he possibly have?”

Mora laughed heartily, tossing her head back. It was strange to see her act so unprofessional now that she was unbound from her contract. He wondered how much the ale was speaking for her as she shook her head.

“You’re as dense as you are irritable. Have you not yet put it together? I’ve been doing it since the start.”

When he answered her with a confused stare, she leaned forward and drew him close.

“I knew he was full of orcshit from the moment he tossed that enormous bag of gold in my face. Haven’t you wondered about the lies he’s told us every step of the way?”

Cort considered it but shrugged it off. “Figured he was hiding something, but it wasn’t my business. Nor did I think to be with him long enough for his troubles to matter.”

“Crown Pantheon troubles.” Mora tapped her temple. “Think, Cort, think. He’s, what, almost eighteen summers old? He is more educated than any Orcborn I’ve ever met–more than many humans, elves or dwarves. Smart as a scholar, but not a kobold’s whisker of common sense. Someone had the gold to have him highly educated away from the rest of the world.”

Cort followed her words in silence.

“He speaks with the air of a noble, walks with the ignorance of someone who has never endured hardship, and, most importantly, he was already in Namaria when you met him, heading for the border.”

Cort nodded with a slow understanding. “You think Rags is some Namarian lord’s get?”

Mora lifted a finger to pause his thoughts. “It was almost as many summers past when the Namarian queen was captured by the Orcs. I know you were just a babe when that happened, but you heard of it, aye? Eighteen summers later, a high born, scholar smart Orcbrat is running to escape Namaria, the nation that puts any Orcborn to the sword by order of the king.”

“You cannot be serious.” He shook his head, then his eyes went wide. Mora took a victorious swig of her ale.

“I would wager an entire dungeon’s take of gold that we've been escorting your own kingdom’s own bastard prince across the southern provinces for weeks. It must be. Who else could he be?”

Cort stared at her with his mouth agape. “When did you figure it out?”

“Around the time he admitted to being tutored. Tutored about medicine, architecture, swordsmanship. He has the soft hands of a pampered noble and, even though his skill with a blade is rudimentary, he had the muscle memory of someone long trained by a seasoned swordsman. When the Namarian military showed up, I was suspicious, but when the elvish army came after us, I knew he wasn’t some Orcbrat trying to kindle adventure. He’s a royal on the run.”

“Prince Rags? It’s too ridiculous to be real.” Cort said with a hushed whisper. “Where is he now? Where did he intend to go once he got here?”

“He went looking for the Orcs in the valley, if he followed through on his words. That’s what he insisted upon. Need a lot more gold to get me to follow him there.” She shrugged helplessly.

Cort’s eyes narrowed. “You let Rags and Deni go looking for Orcs?”

“He said he wanted to find his people. I warned him against it, but he was adamant.” She tossed her empty tankard on the table. “ Sorry. Not my problem anymore.”

Cort sat back in the booth, his mind swirling with a thousand thoughts at once. He tried to reconcile everything, make all of it make sense. “They were hunting him the whole time. Why?”

“A rogue prince of the Crown Pantheon? Not hard to imagine the Crowns not wanting such a loose end wandering about unrestrained. Rags knew the Arcane Order was forging Godstone items and I must confess, even I did not know such a thing. What else must he know that the Crown Pantheon doesn’t want the populace at large to know?”

“But what of his family? My king and queen?”

“Who do you think threw him into exile to begin with? The noble king of Namaria rescues his queen only to find her belly swollen with a child of the enemy? I’d wager he wanted to die of shame. Is it any wonder he made the law to kill anything with green skin on sight?”

“Then why let Rags live so long?”

She shrugged again. “A mother’s love is a powerful thing. Ever notice how often Rags spoke of his mother? She was like a mythological being feeding him knowledge only he could hear. No doubt it was her wish to keep him alive, likely behind castle walls where no one would know. Nobles are a very finicky bunch. Never liked them. That’s why I avoid politics. Too messy. Gold is simple.”

Cort’s hands went to his head, trying to claw his hair off in distress. “The Crown Pantheon wanted him dead.”

“And I’d say we did a good job keeping him alive. If he is still alive.” She smiled proudly.

“What am I going to do now?” he asked, pleading. “I don’t know where Rags is. I have no gold. No home. And now I have no friends.”

Mora clucked her tongue. “They say the city guard is always in need.”

The look of defeat on his face was something that stayed unbidden with Mora for some time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“When events conspire to keep one from their intended destination, just remember: there is always another path.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Night descended upon the Orc city and throughout the night hours, Ragoth felt the weight of the world lift from his chest as he recounted his tale to his uncle Krannok. The older Orc had Deni dismissed from the temple to wait. Reluctant though he was, he obeyed and vanished outside.

Ragoth gave forth every secret and held back nothing as Krannok listened. Ragoth fell into a trance, pacing back and forth in front of the altar as he spoke. Krannok was tall enough that even sitting near the floor, his head came up to Ragoth’s. At times, he would pour from a kettle into a small bowl and drink from it while Ragoth spoke, or he would light a long stem pipe and smoke with an attentive look in his shining green eyes. The temple eventually became half-filled with the pungent smoke.

When he finished, Ragoth was out of breath but relieved. He had carried so many secrets, so many tales and memories. For someone to hear them all, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. Krannok leaned forward, taking Ragoth’s face in his taloned hand to inspect him closely. He rubbed a pinch of his hair in his fingers.

“You have her hair. And her eyes. Your mother was a human one does not easily forget.”

“Is that why my father took her?”

“We ran across her caravan by accident and raided it. Once he realized who she was, he knew she was more valuable to him alive. I did not question my warlord. It was not my place. He took who he wished as spoils of war. The months that your mother was imprisoned, he was often with her. He kept her in his very bed chamber.”

Ragoth toyed with his tusk. “She never spoke of her captivity. She only said my father was an Orc warlord dead before I was born.”

Krannok’s head bobbed. “After our defeat at the hands of King Sothren and the Crown Pantheon, we fled and soon after, your father marched into the mists of the Deep Valley. It is a trench of horrors. Whether at the hand of a monstrosity in the mists or by his mortal wounds sustained in that final battle, he was surely dead before your first breath.”

The Magnus offered him a bowl of his own, which Ragoth accepted. He sniffed the concoction, unable to place the aroma, and took a sip. After a few convulsions and a coughing fit, he felt a strange warmth come over him.

“I knew who you were the moment I saw you. Gorvok is too stupid to see it and you should not tempt fate by telling him.” Krannok continued.

“I will not.”

“Good. Because he will kill you without hesitation to safeguard his seat of power. If the rest of the tribes knew Thorgoth’s son lived, they may well rally behind you. The tribes would go to war again. Gorvok will not take that chance. For all his faults, he has staved off all challenges to his rule and the five tribes seem content to wait for him to die of old age rather than work together against him.”

“I have no aspirations of ruling the Orcs, though I do hope someone competent will.”

Krannok grumbled and discarded his drinking bowl. “Those hopes lie in tatters so long as Gorvok can swing an axe. We lost our best warriors years ago in the war. Since then, the tribes are scattered, and few remain who can challenge Gorvok in Rath’Ka—much less Kar’Katta.”

“What are those? Challenges of leadership succession?”

Krannok nodded. “You think well. Rath’Ka is a challenge by one of a different bloodline. Kar-Katta is a challenge by family blood. Kar-Katta carries more weight and glory. Orcs do not always take well to a new bloodline rising to prominence without just cause. Many who invoke it are seeking glory needlessly. A challenge is no light matter. One must steel themselves, for the challenge is a fight to the death.”

“What of you, uncle? Surely with your magic, you could do this?”

“I cannot. I am forbidden by the gods.” Krannok showed him an Orcish rune branded into his left forearm.

Rags let the topic go. “Now that I have arrived, what do I do? I brought the Wraithslayer as Marvallo told me. He said the Orcs would know how to train me in its use so I might fight the dark Lord Blight.”

“Hmm?” Krannok stuffed another pinch of leaf into his pipe and lit it with a stick from his fire. “That was quite a tale you were told. I have not heard these names before, nor heard such legends. Your friend told you this, but you didn’t question him on how he knew?”

“I was under quite the duress when he told me. There was no time to ask questions. My every step was haunted by that ghoul. His shadow dragon chased me as soon as Marvallo told me what little he could. I saw it devour him!”

Krannok’s eyes drifted into memory. “I don’t doubt the things you’ve seen, but I doubt that humans would have any knowledge of our legends or myths. We have many, but none named Wraithslayer.” He held the sword up in his hand. “I’ve seen many a sword in my time— enchanted ones too. This is a mere plaything. No Orc would craft such a weapon. Look at it. It was made to fit human hands. Poorly made, at that.” He tossed the weapon on the ground at Ragoth’s feet.

“That cannot be. You must know something. If not you, then who?” The prince looked down at it in despair.

Krannok’s face scrunched with a loud sniff, and he grabbed his staff. He gave a sharp jab to a curtain behind Ragoth, resulting in a thunk when it struck flesh. After a loud yelp, Deni fell through the curtain, clutching his face.

“I told you to wait.” Rags lifted him off the floor.

“I’m sorry.” Deni pulled his hand away from his face, a smear of blood running from his nose, “I thought I might hide and–”

“You can’t,” said Rags. “We can smell you.”

“You can smell me? This again?” Deni clutched his nose.

Krannok sniffed. “We Orcs know the stink of elf well.”

“I thought you had poor hygiene,” Ragoth said. “But it wasn’t until that elf ambushed me in Dessius that I realized you elves have a unique scent. I can smell you before I even see you. It is how I found you when the Night-Takers took you. I followed your stink.”

Deni crossed his arms and for once a blush crept onto his cheeks.

“I do not have a stink,” he muttered.

“Enough. Out, elf.” Krannok pointed to the entrance.

“Uncle, it’s alright if Deni stays. I’d have not made it this far without him. He should know this. I’ve kept it from him long enough.”

“I’ll not begrudge you an elf slave, but unless he knows more than I, it changes nothing. Your journey, perilous or not, was made in vain. There is no Lord Blight. There is no prophecy. You are not a Chosen anything. Your weapon is a farce. Your friend is a liar. Elf, did you see any such dark lord or shadow dragon?”

Deni shook his head, looking worried at Rags, who fumed. He grabbed his bag and tore through it, tossing items to the ground.

“That cannot be! Absurdity! I saw Marvallo die! I did not cross hundreds of miles across half of Allspire for nothing. I did not dream up these things. I am not crazed. There must be something here he didn’t have time to mention, some clue he left me.” He looked through the supplies Marvallo had given him, searching through the pack for something overlooked.

“Rags,” Deni spoke up, a hand on his shoulder. “Of all the dangers we faced, neither I nor Cort saw such things the night we met. I noticed how often you looked over your shoulder or sent your eyes to the sky. I wondered what you could fear so much. I question if you truly saw what you claim.”

Ragoth refused to listen, tearing through his pack.

“Marvallo died, Deni. I saw him die. I watched that shadow dragon devour him in one bite and Blight promised to do the same to me. He promised he would haunt my every waking step.”

“Then why haven’t you seen him since that night?”

Ragoth paused as if struck. The shadow of unspoken questions roiled in his consciousness. He looked up at Deni, who said more in silence than in words. Krannok stayed quiet, busying himself inspecting the things Ragoth was tossing aside.

“I am only a hundred years old, but I know many a legend, myth, and tale. I have never heard of such a being as Blight. What I do know is the Arcane Order is zealous in their pursuit of sorcerers and necromancers and other users of dark magic. A being of such power, with a shadow dragon no less, loose in a castle of the Crown Pantheon seems… unlikely. Does Namaria not have an Archmage in their service?”

Rags pondered Deni’s words. “I never met the man, but mother said there was an Archmage. All Crowns of the Pantheon have one in their service.”

“Where was he when a sorcerer and shadow dragon were chasing you around your castle? They can detect magic usage with ease, even simple spells. Even if the Archmage were too late to confront Blight, he would have sent an alarm to every Magi in Namaria and then the Order itself. By the time you got back to the castle, the city should have been swarming with Magi.”

Ragoth had no words. More questions that had no answer, ones he should have asked long before now.

“I don’t know. There is too much I don’t know. None of this makes sense to me.” Ragoth came to a torn, folded piece of parchment and opened it. Moments passed as he studied it in utter silence, his frown deepening.

“What is that?” Deni asked.

“I took this from the scribe in Arcathoria. I sought to inform Marvallo’s family through the Vaithlorn Academy, but they had no record of his lineage. I meant to read this when I had the time, but I forgot about it. Apparently, Marvallo was his stage name when he was a stage actor, and he was a troublemaker when he attended the academy.”

He took the moment to read the various infractions his friend had acquired. There, at the bottom, something else besides the list of mischiefs committed: a small sketch of a simple ring with a black-set gem in the middle. Next to it, the text read, “Theft of a magical item from academy inventory: Illusory Ring. Item remains unrecovered.”

A cold came over him as he said aloud. “He stole an Illusory Ring.”

Krannok stroked his beard as he watched Ragoth. Deni neared him as a damning realization crossed his thoughts. Ragoth shot to his feet and began pacing, the parchment clutched in his hand.

“He was a court jester,” Ragoth said, looking at both of them. “He performed tricks with lights and sounds and fire. I never questioned how he performed those tricks, but he must have used this ring.”

Krannok leaned forward. “Your friend was a jester.”

“Who was an actor,” Deni added.

“Who was kicked out of the Mage’s Academy for stealing a magic ring that casts…illusions.” Ragoth finished. “Oh, blood and fucking bollocks!”

“You haven’t seen Blight or the dragon since the night he died. If that’s what truly happened.” Deni said, pointedly.

Ragoth took a deep, calming breath and closed his eyes. He forced himself to remember. Though the events of that night were chaotic, his recall was perfect. For the first time since they transpired, he allowed himself to look back through the chaos and see with clarity. When he dove through the mists of memory, the moment of meeting Lord Blight was as clear as the moment it happened. He pushed down the terror inside him when he again saw the scowling ghoul and forced the fog of memory to clear. At the time, fear had consumed him. In the clarity of perfect memory, he could sift through the details.

He finally saw Blight for what he was: tall and lanky…

Just like Marvallo.

His flowing robes flapped in an unseen wind as his clawed hand reached for him. His face contorted in a maniacal grin.

Dramatic and over the top, just like Marvallo.

And on that clawed hand, a silver ring with a black-set gem, shining with the enchantment of magic.

Ragoth’s eyes snapped open with a gasp, and he saw the other two looking at him expectantly, having reached the conclusion before he did.

“Marvallo was Blight the whole time! Nothing but a glamour cast by his magic ring! He tricked me!”

“Of course, he tricked you,” Krannok said, inhaling from his pipe calmly. “Like an elderly mother telling her children a farce to scare them. He frightened you so that you left and never returned. You should expect such treachery from humans and elves. The Orc does not work in such foolish mischiefs, we settle our grievances with blade and fist.”

“But why?” Ragoth cried, his fingers grasping at thin air. “Why go through so much to drive me away? Namaria is my home. Its Crown family is my family, my blood.”

Krannok sneered and puffed on his pipe. “For all your intellect, you have not the wit to see the world as it is laid out before you. You trust too much in the honor of those who do not have it themselves.”

“Have you not considered that your family did not want you?” Deni spoke up.

Rags stared in disbelief. His contention with the twins and his father were nothing that warmed his heart, but he knew his mother loved him and his younger sister’s smile was not a devious one. Yet, he couldn’t refute the accusation.

Krannok leveled a pointed claw at him. “Even amongst humans, you have witnessed the disregard they give an Orcborn. You may not have seen it, but there is little doubt your very existence did not sit well with the king. What king would suffer his queen bearing the spawn of his enemy?”

“Why else would they hide me away?” Ragoth said, looking down at his scarred gilded crown. “Only mother and Sera gave me kindness. What did the king or my brother give but their utter contempt?”

“Do not doubt it runs deeper than that,” Krannok said. “That man, your siblings, they hate you. They hate that your mother did not cast you into the river the moment you were born. Ever has the human and the elf looked down on our kind. There is no place on Allspire for the Orc.”

“Or your half-blood kin, either,” Ragoth snapped. “Humans despise us and Orcs revile us.”

“That is why they are called slaag,” Krannok explained. “That is what that word means. Undesired.”

Ragoth clenched his fists. “Then why not just kill me and be done with it?”

“Your mother,” Deni answered.

Ragoth blew out a long breath. He wanted to collapse on the ground, but he couldn’t stay still.

“Was I spared all my life because of her alone? I was to be Crowned. It was my right, no matter my birth. But Jaenar couldn’t let that happen, could he?” Now it began to truly settle on him. His pacing became faster, his fingers clawing at his chin and tugging at his tusks. “It makes sense. He did not want me, but he could not kill me. So, I was exiled. Without ceremony or declaration, but exiled, nonetheless. Who would believe an Orcborn to be the prince of Namaria?”

“Somehow, that very night perhaps, Marvallo put an idea into the king’s ear to help drive me into exile. He concocted that ghoulish dark lord with his Illusory Ring and tried to catch me. I don’t think they expected me to be able to escape. Marvallo found me the next day and got me out of the city. That was when he told me my so-called destiny and gave me the sword, the gold, and the quest to come here. Blight and the shadow dragon chased us before I could question any of it. Why not just come with me? Ensure I left the kingdom?”

“The longer he stayed with you, the more questions you would ask,” Deni answered, wringing his hands. “You have been driven, Rags. Possessed in your efforts to see this quest done, but had you consulted any of this to myself, Cort, or Mora, we might have reached this conclusion before now. Mora saw through your ruse right away.”

Rags lowered his head. “Marvallo told me not to tell anyone, lest it summon Blight. I don’t understand why he would do this. Marvallo was my friend. I trusted him and he lied to me! Lied to drive me as far from Namaria as possible.”

“That is why his ruse worked so well,” Krannok spat. “You trusted no one would ever lie to you. The world is full of such liars, weaving their falsehoods to attain what they desire.”

Ragoth sank down on his haunches, chin in hand as he continued to openly ponder. “Why tell me to find the Orcs of Dreadmour, then? They wanted me gone, but not dead. The Orcs would have no such compunction.”

“You would be quite dead had I not interfered,” Krannok noted.

“And I see what savagery the Orc inflicts on his own kind as well.” Ragoth shot back, standing again. “You cast many arrows, but from your own mouth, you admit the Orcs are splintered.”

Krannok huffed, blowing an angry puff of smoke into the air. “I place that blame at Gorvok’s feet. I am bound, as the Magnus of the Sunderfang, to serve those who lead the tribes. But Gorvok’s rule is one of arrogance, serving the good of only himself and no other. Ever was he jealous of your father’s cunning and leadership. The Orcs of tribes from across Allspire were drawn to your father’s success and glory. That is the way of Orc leadership: glory is power. Gorvok could not hold together the coalition in the war's wake. He deigned to relegate our women to broodmares for his sons, so most of them fled to the east. Many skilled warriors and hunters did not want to rekindle the war after our loss, so they fled to the west. Those who stayed are subject to his malice and those who did challenge now decorate his throne with their skulls.”

Ragoth sighed, his head hung, and shoulders slumped. He was numb to the world, burning about him with lies. “My own family cast me out, hoping I would find the Orcs so the Orcs would kill me. Then their hands would be clean of my death, in their own vile eyes.”

“You see the truth of it,” Krannok said. “A harsh lesson to learn, but the wretchedness of the Crown Pantheon spares none—not even its own sons.”

“What must be done now?” Deni asked. “You will go back, aye? A place in the Namarian court is yours by right.”

Rags shook his head angrily. “They counted on Namaria’s law ensuring I couldn’t return without risking death. Were I to even reach the castle, there are precious few who would help me. Mother couldn’t keep me safe from father’s wrath that night. How could she do so again?” He sank to his knees in front of the altar, cloaked in defeat. Looking at his hands to grasp at something that might bring him back from the precipice of this failure. “I fear I am lost. I…I don’t know what to do. Going back would be suicide.”

A terse silence hung in the air between the three. The pungent aroma of Krannok’s pipe smoke drifted between them as the air of indecision grew thick. Ragoth pressed his face into his hands and groaned.

“I have nothing. No home. No family. No gold. Nothing.”

Deni caught his hand and squeezed it. “You do not have nothing, Rags. Prince or not, you are one of the most intelligent and cunning men I’ve ever met. There may not be a throne or crown in your future, but you now have the choice that most have: the freedom to do as you wish. A world of possibility at your beck and call. You could travel to yet distant lands, see the menagerie of cultures in Allspire. You have it in you to be a great scholar or a physicary. I have faith you will find a place in this world where you belong. And we could do it together.”

“But what of your order?” Rags asked.

“They will not miss me, nor will I break vows in leaving. I joined to abdicate myself of my old life, but I would leave to forge a new one.” Deni waved his hand dismissively.

Krannok sat back. “Whatever you decide, best decide quickly. The longer you stay here, the more dangerous for you and your elf. Even if you slide under Gorvok’s sight, the rest of the tribe does not look on slaags with favor. They will see you as less than Orc. One errant step and you’ll find yourself without a head.”

Ragoth rubbed his neck at that comment.

Deni smiled. “Perhaps a good night’s sleep will help settle your heart. Come the morning, you can decide what your next path will be, since destiny has led you down a false one. You are better than where fate has led you.”

“Best do as your elf says. There is no place here for you, Ragoth.”

A few moments of time passed in meditative quiet. Ragoth stared at his hand, the gold shimmer of his crown mocking him with the birthright he was so cruelly denied.

No place for him in Namaria.

No place for him in Dreadmour.

No place for an Orcborn.

Ragoth clenched his fists and shot to his feet, eyes alive and angry. He pointed to Krannok and cried. “No!”

Krannok lifted his wrinkled brow curiously. Deni took a step back.

“I will not accept this farcical destiny. I will not accept destiny at all. I refuse to settle for the circumstances of my situation, merely because those I trusted lied to me and cast me out. I am not put on this world to be a scholar or physicary. I am a prince. I am the royal blood of the Crown Pantheon itself—born of its most beautiful queen and of Allspire’s most fearsome Orc. I was not made to live in passive impotency!”

Deni watched Ragoth’s ranting, taken aback. He had never seen his friend so overcome with anger. He stayed out of arm's reach to avoid his aimless gestures and swinging limbs. Krannok remained impassive as he listened.

“Uncle, you say there is no place for me with the Orcs. I refuse to accept such a fate. I choose to fight it. To embrace the fires of defiance. I will forge for us a place where Orc and Orcborn may live in unity and the tyranny of elves, and the lies of humans cast no power over us. That much I can do. I have made my choice. I will usurp Gorvok, and I will be the leader that the Orcs truly need.”

Krannok leaned forward to his nephew and with a grin.

“Now, you sound like the son of Thorgoth.”

A pause came in Ragoth’s declaration. “Though I don’t see any other means of accomplishing this without challenging Gorvok to Kar’Katta.”

“There is no other way. A fight to the death, but not just for he who loses. The winner is free to execute any and all allies of his foe and Gorvok has shed the blood of entire Orc bloodlines in his time as Warchief. Our numbers are few enough. The challenges were not worth the loss of lineages.”

“There must be a way,” Ragoth pondered.

Krannok stroked his beard for a long moment. His eyes drifted up to the small skull dangling from the end of his staff.

A sly grin flashed on Krannok’s scarred lips.

“We need a Gods Brew.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Cravensrest is a relic of a city. Its stones are old and its people unwelcoming. It holds no value to the wayward Adventurer.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

“I hate my life,” Cort grumbled, adjusting the mismatched, aging armor assigned to him. Hours of sifting through piles of armor just to find a chest plate, vambraces, and studded leather. He couldn’t find a matching set of greaves, but his old shield remained as battered as ever. His new sword was even older than his first. His helm was dented and reeked of vomited ale.

That day he was bid to meet the Regent, the man who governed over the city of Cravensrest, and swear his oath of fealty. Havenlore had never required such, only a signed agreement of work for payment. His fellow guards milling about were indifferent to his presence, and he soon learned most were working just to earn a meager pay. Most of their gold would go to tavern and brothels.

Entering the assembly hall of the castle, a spacious if gloomy place, another guard brought him to tables lining one side of the room, occupied by members of the guard on their meal break. A cauldron of perpetual stew sat in the corner, dished out by a burly fellow with an unkempt beard.

“Three gold a week.” The guard escorting him said, “You can earn a few more if you pick up another shift or volunteer for wall duty. You’ll be assigned a regular patrol.”

“What about a partner?” he asked.

“What about it?” The guard replied.

Cort grimaced as he approached the dais, which rose above the head to lead to an empty throne. At the dais’ base, a smaller opulent throne sat to the side and in it sat an elvish man draped in black. Most elves were beings of elegance who held themselves with an air of superiority. Even simple merchants and travelers regarded him with a haughty demeanor, their backs stiff and noses turned up.

The Regent, clad in a black cloak and spotted fur, seemed at first dressed in opulence, but a closer examination showed an elf hunched, hovering over his parchments like a vulture over living prey. His scowl dug deep into his lean face, eyes caged by crow’s feet and hands beset with gnarled fingers. His sickly pallor was made all the more prominent by his thin, stringy black hair flattened against his dome. He didn’t look up as Cort stood before him, instead leering down at his parchments.

The guard cleared his throat. “New guardsman, Regent Thornmire.”

“Swear your fealty and be done with it.” The Regent spared a flickering glance and waved his hand.

Cort frowned and glanced at the note handed to him earlier. “I swear fealty to the Regent of Dreadmour, until such time he requires my death in service.”

The Regent paid him no mind if he heard him at all. If there was pride to be had in this meager ceremony, Cortland didn’t feel it. Now he was back where he started, clad in guard’s armor and in an even worse corner of Allspire. He missed Rags and Deni, to hear their voices next to his. Oh, to hear even one familiar voice in this place.

“Goblin Knight?”

Cort’s eyes shut. Oh no.

Not him.

Not here.

With a slow turn, he faced a nearby table where two men sat sharing ale and trenchers of stew. Grinning ear-to-ear was Sir Galdren, the Knight Valiant himself. Next to him sat a man of the same age and build who looked so much like Galdren, sans the long locks of hair, that Cort had to look twice.

Galdren stood with a laugh and swept Cort over to his seat. “Now, my trip is complete. Brother, this is the one I told you about. He’s hounded my steps from Havenlore to Barrow’s End and now I find him in Dreadmour of all places. What’re you doing here?”

Cort’s mouth wrenched sideways, a croaking noise in his throat. “Perhaps another time, Sir Galdren. I've got work to do. I’m a guard now.”

The man Galdren addressed as ‘brother’ spoke up. “Then you’ll be answering to me. I’m Gareth Edenthaw, the Captain of the Guard, Goblin Knight. Your new commander. I would bid you sit with me and my brother. Don’t make it an order.” His tone was harsh and there was not a trace of the same jovial nature that seemed to possess Galdren.

“Share a mug of ale with your Captain.” Galdren laughed.

Cort sat down reluctantly and accepted a mug, leaving it untouched before him.

“Sir Galdren, what are you doing here?”

Galdren slapped his brother on the shoulder. “As I told you in Havenlore, I was traveling south to visit family. My brother Gareth has been Captain of the Guard in Cravensrest for some time and for reasons I’ve yet to divine he likes living in this abysmal place.”

“I’ve my reasons,” Gareth said. His grimace ran deep, his gaze hard, and a scar cut through one side of his beard. He didn’t look as though he liked anything at all, much less living in Cravensrest.

“You groan like a Mudmouth,” Galdren said. “Before I leave, we should have some sport. Your men could use the experience. A sheathed blade grows dull.”

“I’ll see what sport can be had.” Gareth said, his gaze strangely fixed on Cortland. He thought about asking how Galdren got around the locked pass, but he didn’t think anyone would tell a Knight Valiant he wasn’t allowed through the gate.

“Find a pack of goblins and unleash the Goblin Knight here,” Galdren said. “He was keen on adventuring back in Barrow’s End. Tell me, young adventurer. What tales do you have to share?”

Cortland inhaled, staring into his ale and told them of his travels—abridged, to keep his friends safe and deflect the notion they had been pursued. He spoke of the Night-takers they fought, the mercenary who attacked Rags, the trolls, the Paladins, and the dragon.

When he finished, Galdren and Gareth both stared at him, sharing a look of disbelief. Galdren lifted his ale and fought to keep from laughing.

“Either you’ve lived a lifetime in these past weeks, or you’ve learned how to lie.”

Cort’s eyes flashed. “You think me a liar?”

“What say you, brother?” Galdren wavered his hand in the air and elbowed Gareth.

“Is there any who could vouch for your tales?” Gareth narrowed his eyes.

Cort rubbed his jaw. “Val’Mora would, perhaps.”

“I’d believe her,” Galdren said, draining his mug and standing. “Drank many a night with that one. Who else? You need two to verify your claims.”

Cort sighed. “They’re gone now. Cast to the winds on their own travels.”

“Hmph. Now I know what became of those trolls. I was hoping to cut them down on my way here. And you’re staying to don a guard’s uniform? After all you went through? Not following your friends?” Galdren broke free a piece of bread and dunked it into his stew.

“They went somewhere I couldn’t follow.” Cort took his ale and drained the thing in several gulps. With a touch of finality, he left the table and went to start his new job half-heartedly.

There was little to learn and even less to care about. His assigned patrol was in the lower markets and the slums, but he soon learned that patrols were more of a suggestion than an order. Guards in armor wandered where they wished and did as they pleased on duty. The discipline of their city guard was as prevalent as a paladin’s honor. The people of Cravensrest weren’t keen to bring the guards into their business. There was little oversight in his duties. Captain Gareth might bring a room to attention when he snapped an order, but none of his subordinates commanded authority.

Within a few days, Cort wondered why he was even there. When his first week’s pay was dropped into his hand, he felt guilty. He’d done so very little to justify pay. Not once was he asked to separate a fight, intervene on someone’s behalf, or investigate a crime. From all he saw, they paid him to wander the streets dressed as a guard. It grated against his upbringing to earn what he made through hard work.

The few positives to Cravensrest were an abundance of cheap housing and even cheaper “entertainment”. He found a two-room loft outside the Muckfoot Quarter for two silver a week. It smelled of wet mud but was furnished enough for his needs. Havenlore had charged him twice this for a smaller single room.

The entertainment aligned itself right outside of his doorstep. Brothel Row lined one side of the city, leading up a paved road from the upper-class district, through the market, and finally ending in the Muckfoot Quarter. The farther down one traveled, the less glamorous the brothels, taverns, gambling establishments, and their clientele became.

Cortland sat at the very end, a bevy of less desirable brothel workers clamoring for his meager pay. Some of his fellow guards indulged in their services, unable to afford the higher cost of the brothels in the upper districts. He felt no temptation. In his quiet moments at night, by himself, he was quick to think of Savia. What could these frumpy, over-rouged brothel girls compare to her? She had barged into his life with a hungry look in her eyes and an insatiable desire. Theirs had been a short, very passionate time together, but one that lingered on his tongue like sweetened honey.

Thinking of his Paladin lover only made him relive her terrible demise. That last, terror-filled look at him before a gout of infernal dragon fire swallowed her haunted him. He couldn’t shake her death screams. Gods, he could still hear Pastro’s muffled screams as he slid down the dragon’s throat. Avora drowning in the dragon’s burning inks. What horrid deaths. At least Kronn had gone out fighting with all his might.

Days wore on, then a week. He took on the surly demeanor of the city. He focused his thoughts on learning the city streets, often stalking through areas of the city with little heed of direction. It felt good to walk, to move forward, as though he might stumble over Rags at any minute.

Prince Ragoth.

Prince of Namaria.

His prince. The one he should have been protecting the whole time, but no, he wanted to chase adventure and glory. He was never the brightest lad in the village, even he admitted such, but he cursed himself as a dullard for not recognizing Rag’s role in his search for fate’s path. He had only to extend a simple kindness to a friend in need.

By the week’s end, he was miserable, cloaked in a dark self-loathing. That day, his loathing turned to anger, his pacing down the streets stoking the flames to burn white hot. He wanted something to pay. He wanted something to hurt. Himself, more than anyone else.

In a city like Cravensrest, a vice was only a few questions away. He had only to ask a few of his fellow guards on patrol to find what he sought, along with warnings that flew in one ear and out the other.

They gave him a name: Longtusk.

When his shift ended that evening, he set out into the Muckfoot Quarter. Not far from the Horse’s Arse stood a two-story guild hall, nameless in the front. A pair of rather large Orcborn stood guard in front of the door, watching with displeased scowls as he approached. He marched up to the door and was stopped by a hand on his chest.

“Don’ like strangers ‘round here,” one Orcborn said. His lip curled, but Cort glowered right back.

“I’m looking to fight.”

“Piss off, squish,” The Orcborn said, his voice rumbling deep. Cort glared back in silence; their eyes met for a moment.

Seconds later, the door to the guild hall tore off the hinges as Cort and the guard careened inside in a full body tackle. Cort had the bodyguard lifted in a bear hug and slammed him onto the floorboards with a vicious crash.

Standing over the groaning guard, fists clenched and ready, Cort bellowed. “I said I wanna fight!”

The notion he had stepped in over his head dawned on him as two rounds of green faces all turned on him. Orcborn almost all of them—save the few goblinoids who occupied one table. The hall filled with the sounds of creaking boards, scraping chairs, cracking knuckles, and deep grunts exhaled through tusks. Still clinging to his bravado, they surrounded him within a moment, his trembling fists ready to strike.

“What’s all this?” cried a deep, booming voice.

The crowd surrounding him parted, and heavy footfalls from a flight of stairs heralded the arrival of a massive full-blooded Orc, portly and bearded. Clad in fine leathers and flashing gem-laden rings on his fingers, the Orc approached one step at a time, letting Cortland contemplate his mistake until the Orc stood over him. One tusk rose higher than the other.

“Longtusk?” Cort cocked his head.

The Orc nodded, gripping his lapel and flashing a large, predatory grin. “Before you die, enlighten me on what you’re doing here.”

“Heard this was the place to go if I wanted to fight.”

Longtusk looked taken aback, stroking his beard. “Fight? You hear that? The squish wants to fight!”

A hall full of chortles and cackles cascaded over Cort, but his anger was an armor no laugh could pierce.

“We don’t have any fights scheduled tonight, squish. And I don’t take kindly to humans barging into my home and making demands.” Longtusk waved his hand in dismissal.

“With cowardice like that, no wonder the elves so easily cut you down at the end of the war.” Cort flashed an arrogant grin.

The hall fell deathly silent, and the faces of its occupants turned every shade of red with fury, but none laid a hand on him without Longtusk’s order. The Orc flung his finger to the barkeep.

“Open the Warg Pit!”

The crowd roared its approval and in unison shoved tables to the side, spilling food and drink. A quartet of hooked chains fell from the ceiling to be fitted to holes in the floor by the Orcborn.

The unruly crowd grabbed Cortland and hauled him to the side. He was forced to watch as the chains were hoisted up, a sizable section of the floor pulled towards the ceiling as it lifted off a large, circular pit depressed into the floor.

“Warg! Warg! Warg!” the blood-hungry Orcborn crowd chanted. Looking over the edge, Cort saw the dirt bottom covered in dark stains, the stone brick sides marred by gashes and cracks.

Someone shoved him into the pit, and he fell, slamming onto the ground. He jumped to his feet and spun to meet the eyes of all jeering him. He tore his shirt off, bare-chested and furious. He let his frustrations, his fury, and all the failures that had driven him mad for weeks come to the surface. Rage boiled in his blood, burying all fear and doubt.

Longtusk took a seat on a balcony overlooking the Warg Pit and poured himself a healthy sized tankard of booze. “Baros, he attacked you first. Care to fight?”

The Orcborn guard grunted his approval and leaped down into the pit opposite Cortland. He let out a guttural roar, one returned in kind by the crowd. Bets flew back and forth. Cort could hear none of it, his entire focus on the Orcborn recipient of his fury. He let his anger consume him, seething as he waited for the signal. Baros snarled at him through his stubby tusks, but there was no fear in Cortland’s eyes.

Longtusk shouted ‘Go!’ and Cort was off in a dash. Baros was thicker, taller, and heavier, but the farmboy was rage incarnate and nothing would deter Vaelyn Deep’s potato-sack tossing champion. Cort leapt into the air with frightening speed and hammered his fist down onto Baros’ face before the half-orc had a chance to follow his movement. Down they both went, and the roar of the crowd filled the hall, eager for human blood to coat the bricks.

Once standing, he unleashed everything. There was nothing strategic about Cortland’s pugilist tactics. He fought with brute strength, fueled by black rage, inelegant in every sense. In Vaelyn’s Deep, he had spent much of his life brawling against those bigger than him. It wasn’t until manhood that he stood taller and stronger than everyone. When they couldn’t fight him on equal standing, they tried superior numbers, and he fought back with the ferocity of more than one man.

But Orcborn weren’t squabbling farm hands or town drunks. He’d never stood against one before, but there was a first time for every fight. He held nothing back, his blows thundering into Baros’ side, trying to hit the liver or a kidney. The Orcborn’s sides were broad and tough, like punching a slab of butchered cattle. He took the Orcborn by surprise, the wind escaping his lungs in gasps as Baros fought to orient himself.

Cort was merciless in his onslaught, one blow after another to the body and face. He tried not to strike near the tusks, but the bleeding from his forearms soon spoke of that failure. He felt no pain, the rush of frenzied fighting washing it away.

Baros charged forward, tackling Cort against the wall. They traded blows in a brutal exchange. Cort learned the hardiness and strength of an Orcborn, taking blows to the body and face. Cort’s head snapped from side-to-side, his nose crushed and gushing blood as Baros gave back every punch he’d taken.

The crowd’s clamor grew distant, Cort’s vision blurred as he fought to blink away the blood dripping down his head. Images, unbidden, flashed before him.

Cort saw the dragon lunging for him.

His lover’s last cry, reaching with desperation.

Rags rattling off some nonsense with a smile.

Mora shouting some encouragement to him.

Deni fussing over some bit of untidiness.

For a fleeting second, he saw Baros’ green fist careening for his head and snapped his head aside. Baros punched the stone wall. The crunch of bone could be heard over the crowd’s wincing groan, a splatter of blood erupting around a spider web of cracks.

Cort grabbed Baros by the pointed ears and drove his forehead into the Orcborn’s nose. Another sickening crunch and splash of blood, another wincing cry from the crowd. He snapped a foot to Baros’ knee and drove him onto his back. Cort straddled his chest and rained his heaviest blows onto Baros’ face.

That’s when he heard his name. Not a cry of alarm, nor to catch his ear, but a chant rising from the crowd.

“Cort! Cort! Cort! Cort!”

He paused for only a tic and Baros rolled him off. Back on their feet, tired and hurt, they nonetheless went back and forth, exchanging blows with little in the way of defense, driving each other from one side of the Warg Pit to the other. A finger of time dragged into a pain-filled eternity. Their blows slowed, their breath came in heavy gasps, their faces hidden under crimson masks, but neither relented. Tired though he was, Cort felt good. Alive. Finally in an element he could flourish without restraint.

Baros charged and Cort threw a knee into the Orcborn’s chest and a second into his gut. Baros staggered, doubled-over. Cort grabbed his neck and ran him into the brick wall of the Warg Pit. Baros slammed face first with all his weight behind it and sank to the ground, a smear of blood trailing on the bricks.

Cort held his fists up, staggering on his feet as he waited for his opponent to rise. But for the rise and fall of his chest, the Orcborn lay still. Cort blinked, blood rushing through his ears as he heard someone call the fight and an eruption of cheers washed over him.

He staggered about, not believing the fight was over, but there was no mistaking his name on the crowd’s lips.

“Cort! Cort! Cort!”

He held out his arms and fists and gave a bellowing cry of victory. The Orcborn crowd joined him in his revelry. Above the fray, Longtusk watched and drank.

Cort knew one thing as they pulled him out of the pit: he needed to get drunk and fast. Once his blood settled, the pain would soon follow. His performance had thankfully won him some admiring fans, and he soon occupied a place of honor at the bar, surrounded by a wall of drinks with which to drown his pain. He tossed back ale as he wiped his bloody face with a rag, cracking his broken nose until it was straight. His right ear was swollen, making him damn near deaf in it. Baros had yet to wake and had to be carried off by the other patrons. The very Orcborn who had clamored for his blood at first now attempted to walk by and slap his back, congratulating him on his win.

Longtusk’s large hand clapped on his shoulder.

“Not seen a fight that brutal or entertaining in some time. You have the spine of an Orc to come here and demand such a challenge, Cort.”

“Yah know muh name?” He asked, his voice slurred from swelling and booze.

“Someone in the crowd did. By the way…” Longtusk dropped a small purse of gold coins next to him, drawing a confused look.

“Wha’ this fer?”

“That someone who knows your name bet on you and won big. They asked I give you half their winnings and not kill you for barging into my hall. You make friends in strange ways, Cortland Lowhelm of Vaelyn’s Deep.”

Cort tucked the gold away, even more confused. He peered over his shoulder, scanning the crowd, and glimpsed a familiar Auroch frame in a distant corner. Mora raised a tankard to him when he spied her.

“You fight with a fury few humans can summon. Have you distant Orc blood in your family?” Longtusk said.

Cort shook his head. “Nah. But muh bes’ fren’ is an Orcbrat from up north. Smart lad. Like a brov’r.”

“Ah, a friend to us green skins. Glad to hear. Where is your Orcborn friend?”

Cort sighed. He looked at his pummeled reflection in his ale.

“Wish I knew.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Mysterious is the Orc; his true ways known only to him. Though known to be capable of communication, attempting to do so is often not worth the risk.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

The Gods Brew, Ragoth learned, was a ritual. One that could bring great power if done properly. It was not something to be done on a whim. Krannok told him he would have to wait a few weeks. Whatever the cleric had in mind could only be done in the dark of a new moon at the divide between spring and summer. He required components that had to be gathered.

Rags had no choice but to wait. In that time, he was nothing more than another slaag in the tribe. Deni was shackled by the neck and taken to the slave quarters with the other servants, some humans, elves, and halflings. After that, Rags hardly saw him. He tried to convince Krannok to let the two of them stay at the temple, but the Magnus refused. Even Krannok did not sleep in the hallowed place of worship, but in a hut next to it. Ragoth, instead, would stay in the slaag hut and there he found neither welcome nor fellowship with the other Orcborn. The large hut was a crowded hovel to a round-and-a-half, all of whom were taller and stronger than he. He offered his name and was rewarded with a chorus of vulgarity that made it clear how little they regarded him.

They were all young, most around his own age or a few years older. They carried on in their own interests and paid him no heed unless he was in their way, then they shoved him to the ground. The bulk of the slaag men were hardened laborers while the girls were mostly cook maids and caretakers for the Matron.

As days flew by, his life turned into a daily fight to keep himself alive. Much of the day, he ran errands for his uncle, fetching things throughout the city. Tasks that would be easy anywhere else, but in Orc society he fought for something simple as a pail of water. Any Orc he passed within arm’s reach would swipe at him if he dared get too close. By the week’s end, he’d collected a few extra scars on his arms and his skills at dodging had vastly improved.

If he only performed errands for Krannok, that would have been fine. What he learned was that a slaag was the property of anyone who needed them at any given moment. He would be in the middle of bringing firewood to the temple and an older mother might call him to prepare a meal or one of the Orc guards would swipe his water pail and drink it for himself. Back to the well for more, only for a hunter to use his pail for target practice for a jest. The chaos was maddening. He learned the hard way that denying one of these was a good way to get killed.

He went to the butcher, or what passed for one. The slovenly Orc was fatter than anyone he’d ever seen and even more foul tempered than Iggi. Krannok had asked him to fetch rashers of boar bacon, but the butcher shoved a bloody knife into his hand and ordered him to help butcher a carcass.

“No. Do it yourself. I’m busy.” Rags tossed the knife back to him.

The butcher came at him, roaring, sending his bloody table flying as he backhanded Rags across the face. He flew backwards, tumbling head over heels until he slammed into a post.

“Getcher slaag arse over there an’ cut that carcass!”

Rags shook his head to clear the haze and set to the task. In the end, he mangled two boars with the butcher screaming at him the entire time in Orcish before he slipped away while the bloated fool argued with another Orc. When he returned to Krannok, the gruff Orc saw him covered in blood, holding shredded flanks of boar meat.

“I don’t know if any of these are the bacon part of the boar, but it’s all I could do,” he admitted.

“You must fight back, boy!” Krannok let out an annoyed breath as he took the boar chunks from him.

“I have not the size or strength to fight back. They’ll kill me.”

“They’ll kill you if you don’t.” Krannok clenched his fist at Rags. “There is nothing an Orc hates more than weakness in his brethren. Orcs respect strength, power, ferocious savagery! The weaker you seem, the more they’ll hate you. Do you not see it? An Orc, even a slaag, must fight to survive. Even a small Orc may command enough respect to keep his brethren at bay if he shows that he has the will to fight.”

His uncle gripped him by the shoulders, his unnatural green eyes meeting his gaze.

“You are not in the human world now, boy. Ever do we Orcs live under the specter of death. There is no room for weakness in Orc society. One survives or perishes at the hands of those stronger. It is how Orcs have survived since the dawn of time. Our fury makes us strong, our blood rage even stronger, and under a true chieftain we are an army more fearsome than any have ever seen.”

“Blood rage?” Ragoth asked.

Krannok let go of him in disgust. “Bah! You and these questions. This is why I did not father children of my own. It is not my place to teach you how to be an Orc.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and composing himself. “The blood rage is a rare gift given in the throes of battle. Most who attain it do so in their last, dying moments, a final gift from the gods to fell as many foes as one can before death takes them. Your strength is unequaled and…what am I saying? You’re half-blood. You will not see the red rage enter your sight, nor bellow the cry of your forefathers.”

Rags shrugged it off. “Not that it would help me at my size. If only I were built like Cort.”

His uncle flexed his gloved hand. “I was the smallest of my kin. Many were the days I thought death would cull me from the tribe no matter how hard I fought, until I came to understand my place was not as a warrior, but a conduit for our gods. I served our tribe better in this than I ever did with an axe.”

Rags accepted the wisdom and nodded. “I’ll survive, Uncle. I’ve not come this far to give up now. Will it be much longer before the —?”

Krannok held up a finger. “Soon. Next week, perhaps. Speak nothing of it, lest ears be listening. Gorvok does not seem suspicious since your arrival, but we cannot take that chance. Be ready when I come for you and be on your guard. We can ill afford a mistake in this.”

At night, there was but one solace from his torment. The slaag hut was a disorganized hovel at bedtime with bedrolls scattered about without thought, but he had made a small cot on top of some burlap sacks right under one of the open windows. He would lie there and stare out at the stars, watching the moon in its ascent.

For just a little time, he felt a calming peace. It brought back memories of watching the stars on his watch shift. He could close his eyes and see Cortland grumbling as he tried to find comfort with a root in his back. Mora, sitting up, eyes closed, and arms crossed, deep in sleep yet ready at a moment’s notice. He could smell Deni’s pungent elf aroma.

He sniffed and sat up, leaning out of the window in time to see his elvish friend trying to climb up to the window at the same time. Their heads smacked together, sending Deni falling back to the ground. Rags leaped out the window and onto the ground, helping his elf friend to his feet. “Next time, just wait until I catch your scent and I’ll come out.”

He caught sight of his elf friend and his heart dropped. Deni’s robe was in tatters and face smeared with dirt and dried blood.

“Are you hurt?” Rags reached to inspect the elf, his fingers probing at bruises and scrapes.

Denith’s head lowered. “Your kin are not kind taskmasters. I washed an iron pot an Orc found unsatisfactory, and her wrath was swift.”

“And the other elves or slaves? Is there an ally in their ranks, perhaps?” It was a fleeting hope, but he was desperate for anything to aid them.

Deni’s reply shot that hope down. “Those I share hearth with are cowed into subjugation. I tried to engage them, but they are broken things. They only exist to serve their Orc masters. They would betray us if we trusted them.” He rubbed his cut ear. “Rags, it has been weeks. I don’t question your judgment, but...” he trailed off as fear pressed into his elvish features.

Rags nodded. “Next week, or so Krannok says. He has yet to tell me what will happen or my part in it. I’ve no choice but to wait.”

“And then what? What is it you hope to accomplish here?”

Ragoth pursed his lips. “If it can be done, I will carve a path of my own making in defiance of the lies that led us here. Never again will I act upon the will of anyone save myself. There is something here, a potential I feel in my heart, but I have to overcome our ungracious Warchief.”

“You aren’t making any sense. But I trust you.” Denith shook his head, his now dirty, matted hair due for washing.

“It will make sense one day, Deni. Now you’d best be back before you’re missed. Be careful and keep your head down. We’ve passed through danger before, together. We shall do so again.”

Rags gave his friend a tight embrace. Their shared suffrage felt smaller knowing they fought it together. Deni gripped his arm before he could climb back through his window.

“I did not come merely to gossip, but to warn. You’ve not noticed, but I have seen it several times now. Oothor shadows you, Rags. To what end, I can only guess, but I doubt his reasoning to be altruistic.”

It was as if time itself worked against Ragoth. The days following that night seemed longer, as every moment in the Orc city dragged on forever. Krannok seemed indifferent to his suffering and Ragoth surmised that suffering was so ingrained into Orc society that they weren’t capable of the simple act of living peaceably. This notion weighed down on his ambitions, but now was not the time to address his people’s societal ills.

Every goal he accomplished was done so at the threat of violence. Simple communication between two Orcs was a challenge to see who of the two could threaten the other into compliance. If a brawl broke out from this, other Orcs would gather around to witness who lost, and a lost fight meant lost glory, lost respect.

There was no moment he feared for his life more than when he searched for the armorer and entered the Matron’s Hall by mistake.

The moment he crept through the door, he realized his mistake too late. A round of female Orc heads swung in his direction, enraged eyes flaring at his intrusion. He winced and tried to exit, but a hand clamped over the back of his neck to toss him into the center of the small hall. Three Orc women had him grappled within seconds, forced to kneel before the Matron seated in the center of the raised platform. She sat on a cushioned seat, her body racked by the ravages of time. She was a wretched thing to behold, surrounded by braziers of acrid smoke wafting about her. She leaned her head through the haze and fixed him with a glare promising death.

Other than Krannok, he had not seen an Orc so old. Most were young adults or younger. Only Gorvok seemed to have lived long enough to seat himself as Warchief. He had long ago concluded the life of an Orc was not one suited to death at an old age. She spat at him in Orcish, flinging spittle and rancid breath into his face. He held his breath and clamped his lips shut to keep from retching. When he leaned away from her, it earned him a hard slap across the mouth from one of the women standing around him.

The Orc women spoke in their tongue, some brandishing daggers eagerly in front of his eyes. He apologized, but a fist shut his mouth, spattering blood onto the floor. His head snapped back as they yanked his hair. Held in place, he endured the long, agonizing minutes as the Orc women took turns scolding him in their tongue, striking him, slapping his face, drawing their blades across his skin in threat. He tried to think of a way out, but his fear that he had wandered into his own execution left him in terror. He listened, able to tell from their inflections that he was being berated. For what? Wandering into the wrong place?

One Orc female with spiked blonde hair took hold of his shirt and brandished her bone dagger in front of him. She moved it slowly from side-to-side before his eyes. Where, oh where, will I thrust this blade, her playful eyes said. When she slashed down, his eyes clenched shut. She sliced his tunic down the front and tore it off his body, laughing. Then she took hold of his pants and cut until she was able to yank them off. As Ragoth stood bare naked in front of the women, they mocked him, pointing and laughing. The old crone cackled in a raspy voice.

No question then where he stood in their eyes.

The Matron pointed to the door. He shouted in protest as he was unceremoniously tossed back into the streets without a stitch of clothing. Humiliated, he frantically hid and tried to navigate back to the slaag hut. Try as he might to remain inconspicuous, a naked half-orc was not hard to spot, and laughter followed him with every step. He cut between two huts and almost barreled over one of the elf slaves. The disheveled blonde elf girl in a ragged dress looked him up and down, said nothing, and lowered her eyes into the pail she carried.

Ragoth leaned in. “I need breeches. Please fetch me a pair?”

The elf stared, blinking.

“Do you understand?” He asked. The elvish scent wrinkled his nose.

She continued to stare mutely. No flicker of comprehension.

He spoke in the elvish tongue. “I need breeches. Pants! Help me, I beg you.”

The elf’s eyes went wide. She bolted away from him and left him to wait between two huts with his hands covering his front. All he needed for this disaster to be complete was a dinner picked out of the refuse barrel.

He didn’t have to wait long. The elf came running back with a pair of pants that were a touch short as he yanked them up, but they were better than nothing. He let out a breath as he slumped, hands on knees, glad to be clothed again.

“Thank you. You have my gratitude.”

This time, she looked away. Her cheeks flared a bright red.

“Do you not talk?” Rags asked.

In response, the elf opened her mouth and made a strange noise. Ragoth grimaced, distressed to see the elf’s tongue had been cut out. A sick cold cut through his insides. Such cruelty against someone who could no more fight against an Orc than a child could an adult.

He took her hand in both of his. “I am truly sorry. My kind can be cruel.”

She stared at his touch, perplexed. Perhaps she had never encountered kindness from an Orcborn before now. He was about to leave when his curiosity triggered. He took a step closer and put his face next to her head, inhaling deeply. She had that elvish scent about her, the one he associated with Deni, but not the scent the elf bounty hunter in Dessius had. His thoughts percolated until he met her wide eyes, leaning away from him as if he might bite her.

“I have to return.” He squeezed her shoulder and smiled. “Be well and safe. Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

A small, meek smile formed on her lips. Perhaps the first one in a lifetime. When she did, a small, happy noise escaped her lips that made Rags smile even wider. He hated to leave the poor elf, but there was little he could do. He left her standing in the small alley, but later glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of her peering out from behind a tent. She darted back into hiding when their eyes met.

He returned to Krannok's temple and caught the Magnus amid his work.

“The more you interrupt me, the less I get done. What is it now?” Krannok spat angrily, placing vials sealed in wax into a wooden box.

Ragoth explained what happened and Krannok laughed.

“You went into the Matron Hall? Men aren’t allowed there, it’s a place for the women alone. Even Gorvok would be cut open if he went inside. You’re lucky they didn’t open your belly and make you dance in your own entrails.”

“I feared they would.”

“Good.” Krannok slammed an old tome onto a pile of parchments, sending a plume of dust into the air. “Never underestimate the cruelty of Orc women. Nor carry hopes of bedding one now. You’re nothing in their eyes unless you prove yourself.”

“Glory is power,” Rags recited.

“You are a quick learner. Now begone. A few days yet.” He gave a second glance behind them as he lifted at the edge of a board under a dirty rug at the base of the altar. He lifted it and pushed the box inside next to an assortment of items: a large tooth, a ceramic pot, a stained knife, and a curved black horn. “Be ready and don’t get yourself killed doing something stupid.

“You’ve still not told me what this entails.”

“Leave!” Krannok’s bark sent him scurrying back to the slaag hut in the worst of moods. The demands of Orc society taxed him. He understood now how soft his old life in Namaria had been and it was easy to miss it in the moments when he could rest.

The words of Sothren stung harsher now. The truth of his condemnation became more apparent now that he could see the Orcs up close for himself. There was a regressive nature to his people in that they integrated aspects of other cultures into their own, but without thought of what worked or not. What he saw was a self-destructive people who culled the weak, yes, but kept them at odds with each other when a unifying threat was not immediate. His father was legendary for being able to quash squabbles and keep everyone under a single command according to Krannok. He thought past his next step and understood the very people he sought to lead would be his highest priority. Krannok was his most valuable conduit to Orc society, and he valued the moments when the Magnus took the time to speak with him. He learned much, but he also learned Krannok was a cantankerous old man who didn’t enjoy answering a barrage of questions. He was a lot like Cortland. Of all the wisdom he imparted to Ragoth, there was one that seemed to be the crux of it all.

Glory is power. It was a simple creed for a simple people. The Orcs valued accomplishments as a sign of many things: physical prowess, savage ferocity, the grit and steel will to face adversity without fear. A strong leader exemplified these traits and the more glory, more victories they had, the more Orcs responded with reverence. Their devotion to their leader was one of their greatest strengths, but losing that leader crippled them. If a strong Orc leader was slain in battle, the force following him would be devastated in their ability to maintain their assault. If they perceived a battle was lost or hopeless, they would lose heart and scatter.

“Your father had a black war horn carved from a minotaur he defeated when he was young. It was his clarion call. It kept his forces fighting in battles they might otherwise have lost. That war horn, in the right hands, can help unite our people,” Krannok had said.

In the right hands. Hands that had glory. As of yet, he had none and the pursuit of it would take time and effort. Ragoth asked if his exploits along his journey were examples of glory, but Krannok shot them down. “Glory to humans, perhaps. You did not kill the dragon, nor bring back proof you even faced it. You ran. They will see you as a coward.”

“I killed a halfling with a knife,” he mentioned. Krannok had rolled his eyes and shook his head. Not good enough, apparently.

In the dim glow of sunset after the humiliation at the hands of the Matron, he entered the slaag hut, wanting only a meal and a night of rest. He found the others busy devouring their dinner. The communal pot of boar stew sat at the common table and though he was often the last to dip his bowl, this time he looked down at an empty pot.

He looked back and asked, “Why was I not left any stew?”

The others ignored him, conversing amongst themselves. Not uncommon. He was the smallest male and in the weeks he had lived here, they’d not so much as bothered to learn his name. Of all the knives to be plunged and twisted into his proverbial chest—betrayal, rejection, loss, despair—there was one that especially irked him: his peers acting as though he did not exist.

Ragoth’s bared teeth flashed as a swell of anger built inside him. The weeks of humiliation, fear, and uncertainty had eaten at his patience. Everything that had happened since that one night had weighed on his chest, every event a burden he carried like a beaten mule.

Until now. One slight too many.

He snapped, yelling. “Where’s my food?”

All voices went quiet, and all eyes turned on him. One of them, a churlish oaf with sloped forehead named Durth, pointed to his empty bowl as he chewed.

“You were gone, so I took yours. Be quicker next time.”

Ragoth marched up to him and threw himself against Durth, sending both of them to the ground. Before Durth had a chance to register the attack, Ragoth straddled his chest and fought with wild abandon.

Cort would have been proud.

Ragoth unleashed his anger. The same anger that had snapped a halfling’s wrists when in fear of his life. He had a grip on Durth’s tusks and used them to slam his head into the floor over and over. The others went to their feet, shouting and laughing at the fight.

A fist hammered his face as Durth fought back, but in his anger, Ragoth felt little pain. Durth was older and bigger. He grabbed Rags and soon, the two were rolling around the hut, tossing fists like brawling trolls.

For a few minutes, Ragoth was unfettered, lost gleefully in a fit of Orcish anger that would have made his mother ashamed. But his mother wasn’t there and none of her lessons, none of her tutoring, had given him the clairvoyance to navigate living with these savage brutes. Durth’s face blurred as Rag’s eyes welled and spilled, tears lost in the torrent of violence. Blood ran down their faces in red rivulets. No words, only guttural noises as they unleashed on each other.

Neither of them won or lost the fight. They rolled away from one another, spitting blood and heaving for breath, when a voice outside shouted. “Wha’s all tha racket, slaags?”

One girl poked her head out of the door. “Nothin’. Not a thing.” She went to close the door when it was shoved open, sending her to the floor.

Oothor stood there, trying his best to tower over them. He looked right at Ragoth, sneering.

“Keep your noises down, slaags. If I have to come back, you’ll catch a beating.”

Still coursing with hot blood, Ragoth sneered back and flung his middle finger at Oothor. “Bite a troll’s arse while I fucked your mother!”

Not quite how Cort and Vera had used their insults, cobbled together as it was in the heat of the moment, but it had the desired effect. It put Oothor on his heels, especially when the other Orcborn burst into laughter. Oothor threw himself at Ragoth, wrapping his hands around his throat and squeezing. The strength of his grip was deadly, closing his windpipe. He meant to kill Ragoth, of that he had no doubt. Rags took hold of Oothor’s wrists, his every frantic thought now surging with the instinct to survive, live, fight! Staring up at Oothor, rage coursed through him, his vision tinted red at the edges. His fingers clamped deep into green flesh as he slowly pulled Oothor’s fingers away from his throat. Confusion and anger crossed Oothor’s face, unable to fight against Rag’s sudden burst of strength.

Suddenly, it was over. Oothor let go and vanished from his sight, pulled backwards by the other Orcborn as they grappled him to the floor and mercilessly pummeled him as a group. Rags sat up, his vision returning to normal, watching in disbelief as the Orcborn beat Oothor bloody before shoving him out through the door with all the grace of someone emptying their chamber pot. They slammed the door shut and laughter filled the Hut. Ragoth stood uneasily, feeling his battered face and wiping the blood away. He lurched forward as Durth, of all people, clapped him on the back.

“Good one on ya, lad.”

Another ruffled his hair. “Not seen that arsehole ever so pissed. Bout time someone gave him a bit of his own spittle.”

”Ya got bollocks bigger than Gorvok’s head fer that!” One of the girls told him.

They gave him a round of laughs, the praise sending a touch of warmth into him. Ragoth was stunned, but in that moment, he understood his kin in a way that eluded him before. The same feeling of pride that flooded his heart when Narthas clasped his hand returned.

“Thank you. I thought he would kill me,” he said, rubbing his neck.

“Us slaags gotta stick together. Tha tusk rotter nothin’ more than Gorvok’s squealer. Never liked him,” Durth told him, punching his arm as though they’d always been friends.

“What if he tells Gorvok?” Rags asked. The last thing he needed was unwanted attention from the chieftain.

“Tells him what? That he got beat by a pack of slaags?” Durth laughed.

That made sense. Oothor would slink off in shame and tell no one lest his reputation suffer for it. But now he had even more reason to watch for the Orc trailing him. There was an eased tension in the hut after that. The glares at him stopped, and the words spoken to him were less harsh. A few of them had taken their unfinished bowls of stew and dumped them together, making a full bowl he gratefully accepted.

They learned his name. The first time they’d bothered.

In such a strange manner, Ragoth had carved at least a small corner of this cruel place for himself. Through all the pain from his fights to that day, he fell asleep with a weight lifted off his heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Local proprietors make for excellent connections. It is good practice to help keep their business steady, their dinner plates full, and their ale overflowing.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

“Where do the Orcs live?” Cortland asked as he collected his guard armor and short sword in the morning as the city guard changed shifts.

Captain Gareth lifted his head from the parchment he was reading and lifted an eyebrow. “Why? What interest is it of yours?”

Cortland wished Rags was there to think his way through this. He could have thought quickly on his feet. Why would he want to know if not to go there? Like a bolt of lightning, it came to him.

“I heard much of the final battle of the Orc Wars when I was a lad. Being this close to the place where it happened, I thought I might see it with my own eyes.”

The Captain seemed to see right through him, but after a tic, he said. “That place is farther to the east, near the Deep Valley. The way is dangerous and the forest dense. If the wilds of the Valley don’t kill you, odds are the Orcs who thrive there will. A foolhardy desire just to see a city of burned huts and Orc skeletons. Besides, that was the old city.”

He gave a nod of his head, as if he hadn’t considered the danger beforehand. “What of the Orcs who lived after the war? Do you know where they live now?”

“They’re scattered all over the Valley, but Gorvok and the Sunderfang live in Dawntusk.” Gareth replied as a squire handed Cortland his guard armor and short sword. Cortland took his equipment and watched as the Captain walked off with his interest buried back into the parchment. Gareth’s last comment dug under his skin as he went on his shift.

Cravensrest and its guards were far from a beacon of greatness, as he’d come to learn. Most of the guards were not merely on the Regent’s payroll, but active in the vices that thrived throughout the city. Some provided protection for small thieves’ guilds by accepting their bribes. Some helped transport illicit goods. Others yet were also employed by the richer merchants who made up the bulk of the city’s wealthy. Commerce that resumed now that the Dessius Pass was open again.

The guard stayed clear of only one area of the city: the Muckfoot Quarter. That was Longtusk’s territory. Those who lived or frequented the slums and ghettos of the Muckfoot were aptly nicknamed Mudfeet, the reason why evident as he looked down at his own mud-caked boots. Orcborn and other unsavory types dwelled there, Cort vaguely remembered that warning before he so brazenly marched into Longtusk’s own hall and demanded to fight. Mora had told him later that he walked into that hall a dead man and somehow had proven too angry to die.

“Would you have intervened had they chosen to kill me?” Cort had asked.

She had given him a coy grin. “I’d consider it.”

Thus, Cortland took it upon himself to patrol the Muckfoot Quarter, the only guard to even consider such a notion. There were precious few who needed his aid, and he was content with it. Every day since arriving felt like an arrow lodged in his flesh, the irritation only growing as he came to terms with letting Rags out of his charge. Knowing his traveling companion was actually a prince of Namaria only drove that knife deeper.

Exultation was rarely Cortland’s close friend and even then, it was only a fleeting visitor that left as soon as it came. He had felt it leaving Vaelyn’s Deep before Havenlore robbed him of it. Again, it visited him upon leaving Havenlore before Rags crashed his way into their camp. He had felt it his first night with Savia, lying in a sweet bliss as he held her in his arms before Rag’s cry of alarm sent him dashing outside nearly naked.

That day, on his patrol, exultation struck when he came upon the Horse’s Arse and saw a familiar green figure exiting the tavern. He could hardly believe it when he saw “Oy” scampering down the dirty street.

Cortland stood on the street with his mouth open, stuck on the spot. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t have seen the same goblinoid. His hand gripped his short sword tightly. His teeth clenched until his jaw trembled. He trailed after her, following her for a few blocks until she vanished into a large blacksmith’s shop. As he approached, the sound of rhythmic hammering on metal came ringing from the forge.

He read the sign: The Gobbies Gauntlet

Puzzlement crept onto his face. Surely the wretched little thing wasn’t the one running this smithy? Whether or not she was, he intended to make her answer for what happened to Savia.

If it was truly her. He had to be sure.

He stepped around the outside until he came to the open-air entrance into the forge and saw her disheveled shock of dark green hair as her hammer was raised mid-strike. He recognized her immediately.

Unable to stop himself, he cried. “You!”

Oli glanced up. “Oi, wot’s yer—oh blood an’ shite!”

Fast as Cort was to leap at her, she bolted backwards just out of his reach, leaving him to land on the ground with a loud Whoof! She dashed into the shop interior on quick goblin feet.

Cort slammed his fist on the ground, growling angrily as he got back on his feet and made for the shop entrance. He crossed the threshold and too late realized she was lying in wait, swinging a metal maul at his kneecap. He turned enough for it to catch his thigh instead of bending his kneecap backwards.

Cort bellowed in pain, driven to one knee as Oli reared back for another strike intended for his face. This time, Cort’s hand caught her wrist. He took hold of her and tossed her across the shop. Oli shrieked as she careened into a rack of spears, smashing the display and scattering the weapons around her.

For a moment, their eyes locked as they fought back to their feet.

“You killed my companions!” Cort yelled.

“Tha’ dragon killed em, not me!” she snapped back.

“You led them to it!”

“They paid me to!”

Cort charged again, but Oli lifted a spear off the ground and aimed it for his heart, thrusting hard.

Cort caught the shaft, the tip pressing into his leather armor, but not enough to pierce through. He lifted the spear, taking Oli with it and swinging her over the display counter and into a rack of daggers. The goblin went crashing down with the display and its remnants.

He went to the counter and peered over, only to have her leap onto his face, lashing in a frenzy of gnashing teeth and swiping claws. Cort ignored the pain and grabbed her with both hands, tearing her off of his head and slamming her onto the counter with all his might.

Oli hit with a terrible crack, her head bouncing off the wood. Moaning, her eyes rolled around, stunned.

“I killed one goblin,” Cort said, hovering over her. “I can do it again.”

He clamped his hands around her neck and squeezed. Oli uttered a strangled noise and her hands tried to pry his iron-like grip free. Her feet kicked, but Cort had her tight and though she was strong for her size, she was no match for him. Cort squeezed. He wasn’t afraid. He was focused. Intent. He heard every sound around him. Noticed every feature on her face as she struggled. Felt her strength wane as her air dwindled. Her kicking feet slowed. Her blue eyes flashed with terror.

His gritted teeth turned into a frown. Why was this different? Before he had clutched the goblin with all his might, so hard he noticed nothing until the Namarian scouts stopped him.

Then he was in danger and fearing for his life as he defended himself. Now…

His grip came away. Oli gasped, sucking down air as she clutched her neck. Cortland stood over her, looking at his hands.

She lifted her hand, fearing his wrath should he come to his senses. “T’wasn’t me fault. Adventurers pay t’find th’ dragons lair. Me jus’ a guide. Not a fighter, me. Wot can me do against a bloody dragon? Me hates em. They scare th’ shite outta me.”

Her voice pierced his thoughts and brought him back. He took a staggering step back. “Not enough to stop you from stealing from it.”

“Me needs dragon gold.” She explained, “Not much. Jus’ a handful o’ coins. Thas all me did. Swipe a handful while th’ dragon busy is all. No more, no less.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I can still hear their screams in my head. They died and I couldn’t save them. She burned to death in an instant while I watched. While you swiped gold, they died.”

Oli put her hand around her neck, scooting backwards. Her other hand fumbled and found a club with a metal end, brandishing it in defense. But Cortland didn’t charge her again. His hands hung at his side. He limped towards the door.

“I killed that goblin in Namaria to save myself. What good would it do killing you?”

He went to the door and looked through its small window to the dirty streets outside. A strange, reassuring calm came over him. A smile played on his lips.

“When I was a boy—Oof!”

His thoughts were interrupted as a green missile flew into the small of his back, feet first. Cort crashed through the door and slid face first into the mud outside. When he picked his head up and looked back, she tossed the club at his forehead where it struck with a hollow thunk!

“Stay outta me shop, longshanks! Go follow yer Orcbrat friend to Dawntusk. If’in ye come back, me’ll shove ye inta me Forge an’ cook me dinner o’er yer burning arse!”

Cort spat mud out as the sound of the door slamming shut and locks and latches clicking into place.

“Hail the Goblin Knight!”

Cortland sneered when the guard at Longtusk’s Hall announced his derisive moniker as he entered. At once, the other Orcborn milling about replied with an amused and hearty “Hail!”. Still wiping the mud and blood from his face, he found Mora at a table, arm-wrestling with one of Longtusk’s underlings. The contest was rather comical, as by now the half-orc had abandoned proper form and was using both arms to combat her. Her muscles bulged, veins protruding, but her amused look betrayed not a whit of fatigue.

She caught Cort’s eye and grinned. “Just a moment, I’ll have a seat free for you.” She gave a roar and slammed her arm down, flipping the half-orc onto the ground. He came to his feet, wincing and clutching his arm, but gave her a laugh and a promise of a rematch.

Mora set the table and chair right and gestured with her hand. Cort dropped into the seat and propped the club in his hand against his chair. He rubbed at the red spot on his forehead where it had struck him, still stinging.

“Hail, Cort. Got into another fight?” A pair of ale tankards appeared in front of them, courtesy of the Orcborn she’d beaten.

“I found that slimly little goblin who took us to the dragon’s lair. Tried to give her a touch of payback, but she’s more sturdy than she looks. Seems unfair that Savia’s death would go unanswered for, but these days nothing seems fair.”

“Life seldom is. Here. Share in my spoils, Goblin Knight.” she pushed the second ale towards him.

Cort grumbled, accepting her drink. “Sick of that name. Its followed me across two kingdoms and I still can’t escape it,”

“You think I was happy when they started calling me ‘The Beast of Barrow’s End’? Beast, they said. They don’t tell you that about gaining a reputation. You don’t get to pick your legacy. Or what people call you, for that matter. Best you can do is own it, wear it with pride. Make it yours. Goblin Knight does have a certain ring to it.” She gave his leg a playful kick and lifted her own tankard, downing it in large gulps. Cortland drank with her, something he’d never have done in Havenlore while on shift. But as there was no accountability to his whereabouts and actions, he saw no reason not to indulge. He might have felt guilty anywhere but here.

No guard had clean hands, but Cort alone was welcome in Longtusk’s hall. As he found out from the Orc himself, he had come looking for a fight in the one place humans weren’t welcome. As it so happened, he found himself at the doorstep of one of the most dangerous individuals around: an Orc War veteran who now unofficially ruled over a part of the city.

Longtusk liked to call himself a “problem solver”, a provider of needs and a purveyor of vices. Cortland knew a gang boss when he saw one, but his performance in the Warg Pit had strangely endeared him to Longtusk and his crew of Orcborn ruffians. He hadn’t planned to return, nor expected to be welcomed, but many respected him for not only winning the fight but displaying an edge of brutality seldom seen from humans. When Longtusk asked him one evening to regale them with his story, he did so, expecting to be laughed out of the room.

Recounting his travels to Sir Galdren had been a clinical experience, dry to the last word. An eager number of curious Orcborn who had never gone farther than Dessius, however, made for a more enthusiastic audience and pulled a more performative story from Cort. When he started, he sat back in a chair, but by the end he stood on it, one knee perched on the table as he wove the hardened pack of Orcbrats a bloody good yarn. For every moment of disbelief, Mora was nearby to speak up.

“Aye, that’s true. I saw it.” Or “It happened. I was there.”

Much as they enjoyed his part of the story, it was Ragoth they wanted to hear about the most. In a moment of loose tongue, he spilled the presumption of Ragoth’s royal bearing and at heavy insistence told them what he and Mora suspected. Even to a pack of hard-nosed Orcborn, the notion of a half-orc prince was enough to make even the toughest of thug’s eyes sparkle in wonder. Cort told of Rags' cunning and quick wit, smarter than everyone around him, unafraid to throw himself into danger for the benefit of those who couldn’t defend themselves.

At the end, a nearly drunk Cort tilted his head sullenly. “He is my prince and my friend. When he needed me most, I turned my back on a knight’s honor and lost him.”

Cortland sat back in his chair, too inebriated to notice his words had moved his audience. That a human born so free from persecution would hold himself to such honor for an Orcborn was a thing that had never graced their sight. That night, the burgeoning respect they had for Cortland blossomed into admiration. Even Longtusk, who had no love for humans, who had gone to war against them, looked upon Cort that evening and said to himself. “I like this human.”

Upon his return to the hall the next day, he sat next to Mora and asked to speak to Longtusk. The barkeep nodded and vanished up a flight of stairs.

As he sat across from her, Mora said. “You’re a man of unconventional luck, Cortland. You’ve survived a dragon’s wrath and now you’ve somehow raged yourself into the good graces of a gang of Orcbrats. Longtusk likes you and I daresay he’s never liked a human in his life.”

“Then perhaps he’ll help me. I want to go find Rags.”

Mora’s response was a long sigh and an even longer drink from her tankard.

“Thus ends the tale of the Goblin Knight. Maybe the Orcs will put your head next to his.”

“You think so little of him?” he snapped.

She brushed his anger off. “I like Rags, Cort. But he would not be turned away from his mission, no matter the warning. For all his intellect, what he did was stupid. Going to a city of Orcs that hate half-bloods is stupid. Taking an elf even stupider. You can’t protect someone intent on committing an act of stupidity.” She drained her tankard as he bitterly nursed his own.

“How have you come to make yourself at home here? Did you fight in the Warg Pit as well?”

She barked a laugh. “Longtusk and I go back.”

At the mention of his name, the heavy Orc came down the stairs one at a time, the boards creaking under him. A pair of his underlings brought a cushioned, wide chair for him to sit in as he took a place across from them at the table.

“Ah, good to see you both. What’s all this about then, Goblin Knight?”

Cort’s mouth tilted at the name. “How did you even learn that name? I never told anyone.”

Longtusk chuckled. “I know many things, Cort. It’s how I keep us stationed here in the city. If I know the right thing about the right person, I can crush them.” He clenched his fist dramatically, then grabbed a dagger and held it by the pommel above the table. “Or I can dangle it over their heads and get something from them in exchange. Favors for favors. Deeds for deeds. In the war, I was deadly with an axe. Here, I need only a whisper in the right ear to end a life.” He let the dagger drop and stick into the table.

Cortland nodded. “Whisper or not, I would ask a boon.”

Longtusk perched his head on his fist and asked, “A boon? Presumptuous of you. I like you, but a boon is a service and services cost gold. Let me hear this boon.”

“You know the location of Dawntusk?”

“I do,” he said with a curt nod. “And you’ll not learn it from my lips. No, stay your anger, Goblin Knight. The location of Dawntusk is a secret only given from Orc to Orc. I swore a blood oath after the war because a traitor gave the location of the old city to the elves, and they decimated us by the tens of thousands. I would die before giving you this secret.”

At that, Cort let out a defeated huff and glared at the knife on the table. A moment later, he shot back up.

“Then can you send someone to Dawntusk and find out if Rags is alive or not?”

Longtusk stroked his beard in silence, long enough to draw Cort’s ire before he gave a slight nod.

“Aye, that can be done. I’ll send someone. You’ll know within a few days.”

“My thanks, Longtusk. I have to return to the castle to report for the evening.” Cort gave a nod to them and marched out of the hall.

When he was gone, Mora turned to Longtusk.

“He has not the faintest idea of what you’ve just done.”

“I told him plainly before he asked and he still asked for a boon,” Longtusk replied. “I own him now.”

“He’s an angry, headstrong fool. But he holds to honor. Whatever you ask of him in the future, it may fall into conflict with his morals,” Mora said.

“He’ll find I’m not so fond of those who do not return a favor for a favor.” Longtusk snatched his dagger off the table and left Mora staring at her tankard.

Cort had taken to trying different routes in the city when going from one place to another, all to learn both effective shortcuts as well as to learn the lay of the city. His old guard instincts still worked. Despite his assigned patrol in Havenlore, he had known more than just his own route.

Thus, when passing into the border of the market district, he cut behind a large warehouse and came to halt when he saw a few familiar green faces in the midst of re-allocating barrels of ale into the back of horse-drawn wagons.

He ducked behind a corner and waited, considering his next course of action. They knew Cort was a city guard, but enjoying his company over casual drinks was a far cry from being caught during a robbery. Even though he wasn’t one to think past the next punch, Cort knew there were few options that ended with him alive if he interrupted this.

Try to stop them, have them arrested, or interfere and he’d not only have a fight on his hands, he’d end up answering to Longtusk in the end.

And if he ignored them, then what? Who would know? Gareth? The Regent? In Havenlore, it would not go uninvestigated for long. But in Cravensrest? Was there anyone to care?

It’s not honorable, he thought before a dark look came over him. But neither was not listening to my friend. I turned my back on him, and he wished me good luck. Seeing me do well was more important to him than asking me to stay.

They loaded the last barrel and set off. Cortland watched them go, conflicted, before he returned to the castle and turned in his armor. He was so caught in his own thoughts, he had to be nudged by another guard trying to catch his attention.

“Cort, you coming to the culling?”

He scratched his head. “Say again?”

“The culling. We do it every few years. Captain says it's to keep our wits and swords sharp. It’s a grand time to be had. We run a cavalry charge on one of the nearby Orc tribes and thin the numbers. Keep those bastards in check. Best of all, Sir Galdren is going! Imagine that, eh? Riding with a Knight Valiant! A hero from the Orc Wars in the flesh. Can you imagine how many we can cut down with him at our side? There’s already five hundred men going.”

“When does this happen?” Cort put a hand on his stomach as a cold knife stabbed his gut.

“We’ll ride around dawn. Tomorrow or the next day. Not sure yet. Talk to Gareth if you want to go.”

Cort’s lips thinned as he pressed them together, his jaw muscle clenching. “He knows where to find the Dawntusk?”

“Course he does.” The guard said, shooting him a look of incredulity. “Don’t think too hard. All you need to do is follow and we’ll cut them down before they even know we’re in their midst.”

The howling winds of Karthak blew relentlessly, no matter the season. Even at the higher reaches, where the snow littered its stones, there grew the tough sprouts of hardy plants digging into what little crevasse they could.

It was a hard climb for the hardy white-furred mountain goat, but the sprouts were plenty up here. The ledge he’d found with stones spilled outward provided some shelter from Karthak’s never-ending winds. The only trouble was the occasional rumblings from behind the fallen stones. A persistent shaking, a sharp scratching, an occasional deep growl from within made it harder to rest.

A stone falls nearby, catching its ear. The goat steps up to the small opening, sniffing at it curiously. From within came a deep, rumbling growl. A sharp burst of putrid air blasted out, causing the goat to recoil and abandon its ledge just as a glowing claw pokes through the opening.

The dragon’s talon clawed its way back, opening the fissure wider and wider.

A furious snarl issued from behind the stones. The talons re-emerged and worked to tear the opening further.

Inch by inch, stone gave way to the carving talons and the opening grew wider.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“An extended stay in uncommon communities may be unavoidable. Adapt wisely.”
‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Life with the Orcs only got marginally better. Ragoth still ran about, attending to busy work, trying not to get struck by an errant fist. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of Deni set to his own tasks. Each time the poor elf seemed more haggard than before, his clothes just a little more torn, his face more gaunt. He couldn’t speak to him openly and risk Gorvok thinking they were communicating. He had his eyes open in every direction for Oothor, but since the night of the confrontation he had yet to catch sight of him.

Rags risked a thrashing of his own when he ditched one of his errands to run a trencher of stew to Deni. The Orcs had gotten several wagonfuls of ale barrels from somewhere. They insisted he help, but after having a few of them tossed right into his face, he walked away defiantly to bring Deni some food. Hiding in one of the city’s many uninhabited huts, he watched the elf devour his food slowly. He contemplated ways of sending Denith back to the city, but in the end, he knew his friend would never agree.

He returned that night to the slaag hut. This time, though, they addressed him by name and his portion was waiting for him. For all the bickering and fighting they endured, he found there was one thing that unified the half-orcs: a mutual dislike for the full-blooded orcs.

As he ate, one of them, a half-elf Orcborn, said something in mid-conversation that caught his ear. “—piss poor life at the hands of these tusk rotters. What if we leave? Let them fetch their own things. Must be somewhere up north for us.”

“There is no place for us.” Ragoth openly scoffed.

The others paused in their meals and looked at him. He set his bowl down and leaned toward them, holding their attention.

“I come from the north. There is no place there for Orc or slaag alike. Up north, they call us Orcbrats, bastard orphans of the Orc Wars. Those I saw worked jobs no more glamorous than what you do here. All under the eyes of humans and elves who hold equal disdain for us. In Namaria, they put you to the sword just for having green skin, your only crime is being born. In the Dynasty, we work as laborers, no better than beasts of burden. In Barrow’s End, they lay the blame for their dead at your feet. In Sylveria, their King sees us as animals to be driven back into dungeons. Only here in Dreadmour do we live without the humans or elves imposing their rule over us. Even then, our own kin do not accept our existence.”

Bitterly, Durth repeated. “No place for Orc or slaag alike.”

“It shouldn’t be that way,” Ragoth pointed out, his voice rising. “Something must change.”

“Nothing changes here. We were born here. We’ll die here,” Durth replied. The other’s heads bobbed in unison. Ragoth had quashed even a momentary desire to leave in their hearts. There was no place for them anywhere.

“Someone should do something.” He sat back, feeling defeated.

“Who’d want to help a bunch of halfkin Orcs like us?” someone spat back.

He wanted to tell them. He wanted to gain their trust and help, but the risk was too great that Gorvok would discover the truth of his lineage before he had a chance to act.

Who, indeed, would want to help Orcs? If not him, who?

He went to bed with a troubled heart and just before dawn the scent of elf drifted into his nose again. In a quick leap, he jumped out and landed on the ground, where he found Deni and Iggi waiting for him.

“Krannok sent us,” Deni said softly. “It’s time.”

Iggi led them to a broken post in the city wall, its break well concealed from a casual glance. They scurried through it, and she guided them through the dense woods, heading towards the summit in the distance. As dawn broke, they came to a waiting Krannok, and a two wheeled wagon of covered supplies harnessed to Piggy. They set out at a steady pace.

Krannok informed him Gorvok was preparing a hunt for the equinox and then a feast where he and his warriors were sure to drink themselves into a stupor. Not an opportunity to be wasted. “Tonight. It must be tonight. We make for the other side of one of the mountain’s ridges and we do not stop.”

“Why is Iggi with us? She captured me and Deni. I don’t trust her.”

Krannok snorted and grinned through his tusks. “She will stay true to me. Do not doubt.”

The finality of his words left no room to argue. He would have to trust Iggi. He glanced up to see Iggi marching stoically ahead him, either unaware or uncaring. That this stout girl of sneering anger was in on their plan unsettled him. He thought to question her, but she regarded him with a menacing scowl.

The prince turned back to Krannok, his mind burning with inquisitiveness.

“You have been evasive these weeks, but we cannot put it off. Tell me what we’re doing. What must I know?”

Krannok looked skyward. “The Gods Brew is a complicated ritual. It must be done when the magic of the seasons stirs. The components are rare, more than you realize. I gathered them for years. Your father and I both used the Gods Brew to gain advantage in the war. Gorvok wished to do the same once he became Warchief, but I lied to him. Told him I did not have the components to make it. If he knew otherwise, his wrath would know no bounds. As for you, know this: the gods are fickle beings, but I am a favored son in their eyes. You are slaag and I cannot know what they will do.”

“We’re summoning the gods?”

“Not quite. It is a communion with them. You will have a brief window in contact with them and ask of them a boon. If they see fit, they can extend their power and grant you a boon that no axe can combat.” He squeezed his gloved hand, a glowing green emanating from his fist.

“What must I do? Pray?” Ragoth asked. He knew the gods of Allspire were real, but religion had never been a part of his life. He only knew of the gods in the educational sense.

“Think,” Krannok answered. “You must think of what you want. When the time comes, you must be ready to ask for it. Be clear. Be honest. Make your desire known and if the gods see fit, they will grant it. But do pray. It can only help.”

Ragoth spent the day, agonizingly long as it was, deep in thought over his uncle’s words. Their winding path through the deeper woods was made all the quicker by Iggi’s guidance. Occasionally she would stop and sniff at the air, only to continue onwards.

Much like Karthak, the mountain Sora-Kuul’s arms reached out into Dreadmour Valley, its descending lines of sharp peaks extending out for miles, rising hundreds of feet high. Ragoth had seen the map of Dreadmour, he knew the direction they were taking. By mid-day, they had rounded the tip of the claw and were making through hills in the thick forest that rose steeper and steeper. Urgency drove them forward, wearing them out long before their destination.

As the sun drew towards the horizon and its orange hues beamed through the forest canopy, Krannok emerged through a thicket and into a small clearing. He approached a stone structure covered in vines of ivy.

“The grove remains,” he said, tearing the vines away. “When last I was here, it was your father’s God’s Brew. Now, it shall be you.”

He freed the stone structure of its ivy prison, revealing a massive iron cauldron as tall as the Orc cleric. Wide stone steps set on four sides let one walk up to the cauldron’s rim, while gaps underneath it allowed for wood.

He nodded to the three of them. “We have work to do. Elf, get in here and clean the inside of the cauldron. Not a speck of dust. Iggi, Ragoth, get plenty of wood for a fire and be quick about it."

They set to their tasks and worked with urgency, bringing fallen logs and branches. Denith set to work scooping the leaves and debris out from the inside and kept true to his nature, scrubbing the inside as clean as he could. Once a kindling fire was set, Iggi and Ragoth took hand axes to fell smaller trees and logs. Rags recalled his books on wilderness, the proper wood for fires like oaks, ash and birch (The Ranger’s Guide to the Wilds of Allspire) and cut down the ones he found.

He hacked until broken blisters littered his palms, wilting away the soft skin of a pampered prince. He winced through the pain, lost in his task as his mind pondered.

Think of what I want. What do I want?

They piled logs and smoke rose as the flames caught. Krannok tossed them pails and pointed to a stream fed by a cragged waterfall nearby. He ordered them to fill the cauldron, but only with water from the fall, not the stream below. He himself stayed busy placing small pots and vials on the stone steps.

They did as told, racing back and forth with two pails each, dumping the cool water into the cauldron. It hissed and threw steam as the cold water met the hot iron. It was hours of grueling work on top of an already difficult day’s march. The three pressed onward with all their strength, though Deni began to stumble and fall as his strength waned.

As they ran their pails and the cauldron filled, Krannok stood on the steps, standing over the cauldron and speaking in a tongue Ragoth had never heard. It was not Orcish and the longer he chanted, the more his voice seemed to distort in nature. Though he spoke in low tones, there were times his voice pierced like a whisper in their heads. His gloved hand stretched out over the cauldron, a green glow slowly growing brighter. Tendrils of a wispy green smoke drifted from his hand to the cauldron. Every so often, he would empty something from a pot into the water and it roiled higher.

The sun faded over the trees and evening dark crept in. The fire was their only light. The Magnus called an end to their water runs as the cauldron bubbled fiercely, overflowing. The three of them collapsed nearby, watching as Krannok spoke a word of power and thrust his hand into the water.

A green light shone, a crackle of energy, and the cauldron shook with power. He lifted his arms, gloved hand and gnarled staff shining in radiant green light, the same light now coming from his own eyes.

Exhausted though they were, the sight transfixed Ragoth, Deni, and Iggi. Orc magic, often spoken of in low tones, seldom witnessed by the eyes of outsiders, now flared to life through the living Conduit of their Magnus. Krannok’s voice lifted the foreign tongue loud enough for the gods to hear. He poured waves of emerald arcane power into the cauldron, taken, it seemed, by a force not of this world.

He took his staff with both hands and lifted it, bringing it down on the cauldron. A crack of thunder tossed the three onto their backs. The water in the cauldron turned still and shone a dull green. Krannok lifted his head.

“Now. All of you. Take your places.”

Ragoth bounded up the steps across from Krannok, looking in wonder as Deni and Iggi followed him, ascending the steps to his left and right to stand by the cauldron’s edge. The heat was almost unbearable.

Krannok produced a red horn and lifted his head to the sky.

“A gift of strength. The horn of a king ogre.” He threw it in. The fires turned a shade of crimson and seemed to cool.

Krannok took a pot and discarded the lid. “A gift of courage. Blood of The Goraag.”

He tipped a pot full of black ichor into the pot, and the cauldron rattled in its stone cage. The fires stilled more, and an edge of emerald tinged the flames.

The cleric produced a wrapped bundle from his cloak. “A gift of vengeance. Bones of a rival, slain in battle.”

He unfurled the wrap, letting a pile of bones fall into the water. The waters roiled higher. Krannok lowered his staff, grasping the small skull that perched from it and plucked it off. He studied it as he held it over the cauldron.

“The sacrifice of kin. An heir taken before their time so that the stronger may rule.”

Those words chilled Ragoth, made worse when he contemplated what that meant. The skull was too small to be anything but that of a child. Its tusks were stunted and barely visible. He winced as Krannok’s hand closed around the skull and crushed it with a resounding crack. He let the pieces fall into the cauldron. The roiling liquid swirled with a maelstrom of emerald threads.

Krannok looked at Deni and Iggi.

“Do as I say now. Speak not a word. Igora. Yours is the sacrifice of the heir. You forego any future challenge to your father’s claim as leader. You surrender your right to challenge your brother Ragoth for leadership.”

Ragoth’s eyes went wide. Brother?

Iggi turned her foul expression towards him, but without breaking eye contact, she retrieved a bone dagger from her belt and carved a symbol, a simple Orcish rune, into the flesh of her arm. She never flinched as the tip dug through her thick hide, blood pooling around the blade and dripping off of her arm. As it dripped into the cauldron below, the rune on her arm glowed bright emerald green. The droplets formed rivulets of crimson that mixed with the emerald in the swirling liquid. She pulled it back, watching the rune sear on her arm, the stench of burning flesh wafting in the air. Ragoth recognized the rune as identical to the one on his uncle’s forearm, and he understood now why Krannok could never challenge Gorvok. He had been the sacrifice of the heir for Thorgoth, surrendering his right to challenge for leadership so that Thorgoth’s Gods Brew could be complete.

Krannok nodded, satisfied. “The heir has surrendered her right to challenge and supports her brother’s claim to leadership. Now,” he turned to Deni. “The sacrifice of flesh and blood of the elf.”

Ragoth’s eyes shot to Deni, his mouth open to yell but Deni’s hand was already up to stop him. Defiance of his uncle’s orders boiled inside him. What did that mean? Only then did it occur to him that Krannok had kept secrets of the Gods Brew from him while he was running about doing busy work.

He distracted me while convincing Iggi and Denith to take part in this.

Deni held out his hand, a dagger in his gloved palm. Ragoth looked at it and shook his head vigorously. The cauldron roiled angrily, glowing red.

“You must offer the elf’s flesh and blood, a sacrifice of significance. He offers willingly. The Gods Brew will not work without it and there is little time.” Krannok hissed.

Ragoth took the dagger as though it were a serpent in his grip. When he looked up at Deni, the elf had placed a wooden stick wrapped in leather into his mouth. His hand shook in fear and anticipation, but he didn’t withdraw. Ragoth refused to believe what Denith was telling him. As clear in his eyes as if he spoke it: Take the hand.

Not like this. Not my friend. Hesitation stayed his blade. Friend or no, he would have hesitated to do this no matter the person. He didn’t want to take anyone’s flesh or blood, but the crimson roil of the cauldron at his feet warned of the consequence of his inaction. He had asked for this, he reminded himself. He had told himself he would do anything to make his desires reality. He lost much on his journey to Dreadmour. He had little left to lose—except his lone elf friend.

Deni shook his hand again. Take it, he screamed in silent warning.

Ragoth gripped the dagger, looking Deni in the eyes. I’m sorry, he mouthed.

Quicker than the elf could react, Ragoth reached up and snatched Deni’s ear in a hard grip. A flash of steel, a splash of blood, and Denith reeled back, clutching the side of his head, shrieking in pain. He fell off the stone steps and slammed onto the ground below.

Ragoth’s stomach threatened to upheave as he quickly tossed Deni’s severed ear into the cauldron. The red hue faded, returning to a bright emerald glow. Ragoth tried to offer what silent solace he could to Deni, but the God’s Brew was waiting for him. The elf rolled on the ground, blood seeping around his fingers as he wailed in pain.

Krannok reached into a pocket inside the satchel at his waist and produced a vial. He handed it to Ragoth.

“Take this vial of your father’s blood and put your own into it. Then drop it into the brew.”

Ragoth nodded, taking the dagger in his hand and pressing its tip deeply into the end of his thumb. He pulled the top off of the vial and squeezed his thumb over it, dripping his blood until it reached the top. With little ceremony, he dropped it into the swirling green concoction.

Krannok raised his staff with both arms and roared in Orcish. The cauldron erupted from the top, a towering column of crackling, bright emerald arcane power that pierced the night sky. The force of its eruption threw all of them back off of the stairs and onto the ground save for Krannok, who had braced for it. His cloak and hood whipped wildly as fierce winds ripped through the groove. Rags looked up in wonder as the emerald tower dissolved, dispersing in a green miasma that filled the groove with radiant light. The cauldron lay still, its top glowing, pulsating with green light as it vomited mist. The flames underneath it crackled low in a dark amethyst.

Krannok stood over Ragoth and tugged him to his feet. “It worked. The Gods Brew is ready. You must look into the face of the gods and speak what you want.” He held up a finger in warning. “But know this: the gods do not give without taking away. Whatever boon they give you will come at a price. What the cost is, I cannot say for certain.”

Ragoth gave him a terse nod and walked up the stone steps to the cauldron’s lip. There was no heat from the fire nor stir of the wind. He lowered to his hands and knees and crept towards the edge. Though it had been over a fire for hours, when his hands touched the lip of the cauldron, he felt only a creeping cold. A growling whisper seemed to linger in the air.

He leaned his face over the edge. The radiant emerald of the cauldron’s contents no longer bubbled as liquid but was smooth as mirrored glass. He could see tendrils of lighter green swirling within, shining with the touch of the arcane. He saw a storm of Orcish faces amid a perpetually churning conglomeration. They whispered his name, drawing him towards the brew by a force unseen. Unbidden, the whispers spoke in a thousand Orcish voices at once and he understood them.

What do you want, son of Thorgoth?

He felt the flash of memory, seeing five thrones instead of six.

A sister’s cruelty instead of an honored ceremony.

A brother’s callous contempt instead of comradery.

A human father’s cold indifference instead of pride.

An elvish king’s seething hatred for no sin greater than living.

Humans, elves, dwarves, and halflings benefitting from hundreds of years of common rule. Lives made easier by the industrious, the innovative, and the shared comforts of stability that the Crowd Pantheon provided. Even the lower rungs of society were afforded the comforts of purified water, home and hearth with abundant light thanks to simple enchanted items.

And there was the Orc, lost and fractured. A people despondent in the face of cruelty and infighting. He could help them. He knew it. He could lead them to a future where the Orc could not only live, but thrive, free of the tyranny wrought by others. They would not ask for permission to excel. They would answer to no one. He only needed to know how to gain it.

Ragoth looked into the cauldron and cried. “Show me a path to power!”

A jagged bolt of arcane energy arched out of the cauldron and struck him in the left eye. The ear-piercing sound of thundering magic filled the air. Or was it his own screaming? Or was it his friends screaming behind him as he was held there, unable to move. The mirrored sheen of the cauldron’s liquid shift as images were cast, flashing in his mind unbidden, as clear as his own sight. The forest went flying past his vision, soaring across the fields to the deeper end of the valley until there came the sight of dead, gnarled trees. What he saw was burned into his mind.

Twin stone spires, like tusks, jutting from the ground.

Two small figures standing by the spires, watching him leave.

A channel extending into deep mists.

The chatter of unseen terrors called out.

The walls of the narrow valley rose high and descended deep.

There, a bridge looming ahead.

A towering fortress rising from the haze.

Abandoned halls within, the air and mist filled with tentacles writhing, black as ink.

A throne room cloaked in darkness, hosting a terror that fled even the semblance of light.

A stone throne on the dais…

and there lie a crown of dark black.

An unearthly, abhorrent roar shook him to his very core, as a pair of gleaming crimson eyes bored out of the darkness.

A glowing, red maw descended over him with sudden finality.

A last glimpse of the crown, then an overbearing compulsion for it.

Ragoth’s vision faded as he passed out of consciousness, but rest eluded him. The vision from the Orc gods played over and over in his mind until he jolted awake. He sat up, sweating and gasping, trying to gather his wits as the visions lingered.

They were still in the Grove. Denith and Iggi lay nearby, snoring soundly. Krannok sat cross-legged next to a small fire, smoking his pipe calmly. He turned to see Rags sitting up and made a gruff noise.

“Hrm. Awake so soon? Good. Come and tell me.”

Ragoth got up but teetered on his feet, sweeping his head back and forth. “Something’s wrong. Why…why is…” he trailed off, holding his hand in front of his face and turning his head back and forth.

“Blood and shit! My eye! I can’t see out of it.”

He closed only his right eye, and the world went dark. Krannok leaned over and inspected his left eye.

“The eye is white. It’s gone. I warned you the gods would take from you. What did you ask of them?”

“I said ‘Show me a path to power’.”

“And they took your eye for showing you. You are fortunate.”

“How do you consider this fortunate?” he shouted.

“Because your father was cheated as well. It cost him—and all of us—everything that had been gained from its use. Here. Smoke and calm your nerves before we speak. Eat and restore some of your strength.”

The young prince obeyed, eating a flank of hare and washing it down with a flask of water. He was reluctant to smoke, warnings of the habit flaring in his head, but Krannok insisted. He inhaled the pungent leaf and coughed. It took a few tries before he could hold the smoke down and by then the leaf’s properties had taken effect and a soothing calm came over him. His overbearing aches went numb, and he found that his erratic thoughts grew distant and still.

When he was calm, Krannok said. “Your father and I smoked like this after his Gods Brew, many summers ago. Before the conflicts.”

“You mean the Orc Wars?” Ragoth tilted his head.

“Orc Wars? That’s what the humans and elves called it?”

“From what I have learned. They kept everything about that war from me. Only after my exile did I learn of the war itself and even now I know too little, save that humans and elves see us Orcborn as wretched things.”

Krannok’s chest puffed out as his eyes looked back into memory. “We did not come from Dreadmour, you know. Your father, Gorvok, and I were born to a large tribe on the borders of the Feylund. Conflict is a constant for our people, but when we faced the overwhelming might of the Sylverian elves or being forced into submission by the Feylund Treeweavers, your father begged the gods for a gift to repel them.”

Krannok reached down to his glove and pulled at the fingers. “I had already used a Gods Brew before the death of the last Magnus. I asked to be the conduit of their power to strengthen our tribes and defeat our foes. My desire was granted at this great cost.”

He pulled the glove off and Ragoth recoiled. Krannok’s right arm to his elbow was skeletal, not a trace of flesh or muscle on it. It moved, held together by the magic of the very gods he served.

Rags reached out and touched it, unbelieving even as he felt them move under his touch. “Does it hurt?”

“Always.” He placed his hand back in his thick glove. “The smoke of the pelly leaf is all that eases the pain. Your father risked the Gods Brew as you did. I made the sacrifice of the heir. This is why I cannot challenge Gorvok for leadership. But your father’s gift was less obvious. He did not tell me what he was granted, but with it, we evaded the Crown Pantheon’s armies, lured smaller forces into traps, and won great battles. There was no end to your father’s cunning. The more battles we won; the more Orc tribes joined under his command. We started with hundreds and before it was done, we had tens of thousands. The Crowns of the elves and humans must have been furious they could not even catch such a force loose in their borders. We sieged and sacked Barrow’s End, gone before Sylveria could muster its army.”

“They did not forget.” Ragoth remembered Fairhorn Fields with a knot in his stomach.

“But the march of war was not your father’s intention. We needed a land of our own, he said. A kingdom to defend. Eventually, he chose Dreadmour. We passed to it through the Pathbreaker Mountains, treacherous though they were, and took the wilds of the Valley for our own. The Regent never knew we were here.”

He took a long toke of his pipe and blew the smoke out through his nose.

“By then, we had captured your mother, just before crossing into the mountains. Your father was no fool. He knew who she was and what her worth would be. She was to be bargained back for our independence in this valley. With her, we could sue for peace.”

Ragoth furrowed his brow. “But then the Crown Pantheon attacked, and the war was over.”

“Thorgoth’s gift did not stop the attack. The Crown Pantheon avoided us after they knew they couldn’t trap us. Their petty politics kept them from uniting against us until we took your mother. That spurred them into action, and they united for a final assault. We fought with everything, but the tide was too great. I could have done more against their numbers, but Sothren sent his warmage against us. The elf in the Golden Mask. He massacred hundreds on his own with magic so powerful I’ve never seen its equal. Your father and I fought him. Only my magic kept your father alive to flee, but not before he struck the warmage with his axe. The Golden Mask cast a bolt of fire into Thorgoth, a wound most mortal. We knew the city was lost and our enemy was too great. Though it pained him, we fled when we should have died like Orcs in the glory of battle.”

“Why flee then?” Ragoth asked.

Krannok looked at the dark sky. “Your father changed much after he found your mother. Something drove him against the way of the Orc that day and I did not question him on it. It did not matter; his wounds from battle were mortal and Gorvok saw his chance to take control. Rather than give Gorvok the satisfaction of taking his head, your father went into the mists of the Deep Valley to die fighting the terrors within.”

A silence came over both of them as Rags took in his uncle’s words, sharing a flask of water.

“I suppose I am grateful to have only lost my eye.”

“Now, you know the cost of the gods’ gifts. Thorgoth lost everything he had won in the war in one fell swoop. Knowing the weakness of his boon could have prevented that. Now then, tell me what path did the gods show you?”

Ragoth told him in great detail every sight and sound of the visions shown to him by the Gods Brew. Now that he’d heard his father’s true end, he wondered if the gods would trick him in much the same way. Or if this path was even possible. As he mentioned the crown, an anxiety rose in his chest, a desire to move at once towards the southeast. Yes, that felt somehow right.

Krannok’s eyes shot wide. “The Black Crown? Here? In Dreadmour?”

“What is this Black Crown?” Rags asked.

“What do you know of Selrach the God-Sorcerer?”

“What most know, I suppose.” He shrugged, ticking off his fingers. “He rose to power as a sorcerer, leading his army to bring most of Allspire to ruin in war. He was at the cusp of attaining godhood when the gods themselves stepped out of their divine realm and used a powerful arcane flame to destroy him and his fortress. Then came the Age of Ruin and then the Age of Crowns and now the Age of Adventure.”

Krannok snorted derisively. “Age of— insipid humans. Hrmm, your grasp on history is only through the eyes of human lore. We Orcs were Selrach’s army, and the Black Crown was his own. When he died, we scattered for ages, but there has always been told the myth that the Crown’s heir would one day return.”

“So there is a prophecy?”

“No. Only a myth told down through the generations, but the Black Crown is real, and the gods have shown you where to find it. With the Crown, your claim to rule is indisputable. Word will spread that the Heir of the Black Crown has come forth. Every Orc on Allspire will run to Dreadmour to serve you.” A rare grin crept onto his face, his sharp teeth flashing between his tusks.

A silent gasp escaped Rags' mouth, the chill of revelation coursing through him. He could hardly fathom the possibilities of having such numbers under his rule. For a few seconds, he considered the easy life of a scholar before quashing it. No, he had chosen this path and sacrificed too much to go back now.

“Then where must I go? Does anywhere I described sound familiar?”

Krannok stared at him for so long that worry crept in. When he finally spoke, he was forlorn. “The spires you saw are the Stonetusk Gate. It is the entrance to the Deep Valley, where your father went to die. None who have ever ventured within its mists has ever returned. The terrors within have never been seen by any who lived to tell of them.”

The sounds of frogs and crickets echoed in the night. The smoke of Pelly leaves drifted around them. Ragoth wrung his hands together, just to have them doing something. When he glanced over at Deni and Iggi, he found they were awake, watching in silence. The side of Deni’s head was wrapped in a blood-stained cloth and that expression of unsure fear seemed frozen on him. Iggi remained stoic in her sneering. In the distance, the silvery glow of an approaching dawn was only just starting to line the early morning sky.

He stood up. “Then that is where I go. The gods would not have shown me the path if they did not want me to take it.”

“Rags, you heard what he said. Think of what you told the gods. You asked them to show you a path. They did not necessarily show you the best one, only the quickest. If your father couldn’t pass through that valley, what hope do you have?” Deni shot to his feet and ran over to him.

“Hope is all I have,” he answered, though he didn’t feel as confident as he spoke. “I’ve gone this far on it, even through the lies that led me here. I have hope. Hope that I can usurp Gorvok. Hope I can build a better place in the world for my kin. Hope that one day I’ll sit on a throne and make my mother and father proud.”

Iggi flanked him, a whole head shorter, and looked up. She pinched his arm in disgust.

“Brother weak. Short, scrawny, small tusk, stink of elf. But Gorvok cruel, force me to live in wild like diseased Warg. Scrawny brother better than Gorvok.”

“You know the way?” he asked.

She nodded. “Take you there. Leave now.”

“I’m coming, too,” Deni said. “I can’t let you leave without help.”

“Deni, you’re hurt. And…I…” Ragoth stammering, staring at the bloody bandage on Deni’s head. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to apologize for cutting his friend’s ear off? Sorry about the ear, but it was better than severing a finger or your whole hand?

“It’s…I’ll live,” Deni answered, swallowing hard as he touched the bandage. “You truly believe this Crown is attainable? It sounds impossible.”

“I feel it. Even now, something draws me towards it. Mayhap the Crown will guide me or protect me as we draw closer, but I cannot stay here. I chose this path, and I will not diverge from it. I just wish you weren’t so damn determined to die with me.”

Deni shook his head. “My mother always said I was too stubborn for my own good.”

“Then we go together. Uncle, will you come?” Rags smiled and clapped Deni’s shoulder.

Krannok stood, his old bones creaking.

“No. I must return to the tribe and make sure what we did went unnoticed. I wish you well, nephew. May the gods guide you to power and back to us.”

Ragoth gave Krannok a nod and took Deni and Iggi to gather what supplies they needed and set off. Krannok watched them leave and sighed. The weight of many years, many wars, had crushed his own hopes for so long that he feared them dead. In his nephew, half-blood slaag though he was, he saw the resilience of Thorgoth. The unstoppable resolve that had carried him through decades of war and a lifetime of brutal strife. Maybe his nephew’s optimism was infectious, but within Krannok, there flickered a tiny flame of hope.

A few hours of sleep were not enough to fully recover from the past day, but it did not stop them. Piggy bore them for most of the morning until he refused to carry them further. From there, they ran on foot with Piggy trotting behind dutifully. None were more driven than Ragoth, his compulsion to head for the Crown like a talon in his mind. The clouds overhead blotted out the sun shortly after dawn and blanketed the valley in gloom.

Ragoth trailed Iggi as Deni tried his best to keep up, but the elf was pale and withered. If the stump where his ear had been caused him pain, he uttered no word of complaint—much as he had kept his suffering throughout all their journeys to himself. Rags wanted to comfort his friend, talk to him and shower apologies at his feet, but the compulsion to reach the Crown consumed his thoughts.

He did this now or not at all. Every minute he did not push toward the Crown, a coil tightened in his gut. They took a rest, a mere finger of time, and he spent that time pacing back and forth. A finger felt like a hand, stretched for too long. The only time their pace slowed was when Iggi brought them to the gates of the old city, the ruins of the final battle of the Orc Wars.

Deni shivered as they looked out upon the jagged, burned husks of the city and hugged his arms.

“This place fills me with dread. Let’s go around.”

“No,” replied Iggi. “Too far. Take too long. Look well, elf. Was your kind did this.”

“Iggi, I’ll not have you denigrate my friend. T’was not his hand that brought this calamity.” Rags put himself between the two.

“Me spare elf only on brother’s order,” Iggi said in return. “If me had choice, would eat elf.”

“I would make a poor meal. Too stringy.” Deni tried to joke, but his weak voice belied how he truly felt.

Ragoth held himself to his full height, which accounted for little, but he still stood taller than his Orclin kin.

“Speak ill of my friend again and the only one eating will be the boars who feast on what’s left of you. Don’t try my patience again, understand?”

There was a flicker of fear that flashed over Iggi, not long but Ragoth saw it as she twisted away from him, muttering an unintelligible remark.

Passing through the ruin of the Orc city unsettled the trio. High grass and vegetation had reclaimed much of it, only a few animal paths through the brush remained to follow. Orc skeletons littered the ruins by the tens of thousands. They had to step cautiously to avoid disturbing the bones where they lay.

Others had come back to scavenge, that much was clear. Little remained save an arrow or discarded dagger, though Rags did happen to catch a glimpse of steel and found an elvish short sword under the lip of a burned hut. It was light and sharp, and he’d lost the one Mora gave him, so he kept the blade. The only armor to be found was sundered by combat, bent into uselessness during the battle. The sights stirred discomfort in Ragoth as he tried to imagine what this had looked like in the immediate aftermath.

The bones stacked knee high, skulls grinning in death at those who passed their final resting place. The bodies would have been up to his shoulders in the thickest of the piles.

“Krannok was right,” he said. “This was a massacre.”

“The mercy of the elf is death.” Iggi snarled, looking about in disgust. “Me saw that day. Watch from trees far from city. Was only small Orc then. Child. Fires everywhere, lightning in streets. Sounds so loud it scared grown Orcs.” She pointed overhead. “Sky filled with winged horses. Arrows like rain drops. On ground, men and elves and dwarves swarm like ants. Screams of dying. Orc horn stopped blowing.”

Iggi picked up a dented helm of elvish make and spat on it. “Me learn hate that day. For elf. For hooman. For dwarf. Only trust Orc.”

Rags and Deni shared a glance but said nothing. He couldn’t imagine the horrors she had seen. They followed her through a central clearing, what looked to have been a market or square at one point. Here Deni paused, lingering to look about. Ragoth noticed and went back, following his friend’s gaze. There were erratic trenches in the ground, remains of stone posts that still bore jagged pock marks and splintered remnants.

“Magic.” Deni said, “Powerful arcane spells.”

“Uncle said there was a warmage present. Their reputation for destruction is unrivaled in the Order's history. He called this one The Golden Mask.”

Their lingering ended as Iggi urged them on. They passed by the remnants of the Grand Hall, now collapsed in on itself after so many years in the elements. Every moment they were in the old city’s walls came with a sense of dread that did not leave until they were well past the shattered remains of the timber walls. They dove into the dense wood, passing with good speed for another hour until Iggi came to a halt, sniffing the air and turned on the two of them with her finger to her lips.

“Follow slow. No noise. No talk. Not safe.”

She proceeded forward at a slower pace, walking with a care uncommon to her. Rags grew impatient, the compulsion urging him to move faster. Only his will and caution kept him from running. Even Piggy sensed Iggi’s mood, his head down and his usual grunts silent. As they proceeded through trees taller than giants, there came a sound that puzzled Ragoth. He tried to make sense of the ambient noise filling the air. It was repetitious and deep, a loud rumble echoing in the wood before pausing. After the pause, the sound of rushing wind through a narrow tunnel followed, then another pause. The sheer volume of it vibrated their chests. At the closest they came, they had to cover their ears, and the forest fell dark when passing by a cliffside of dark stone. The air was thick with the smell of burned wood and ash, but no smoke in sight.

Rumble, pause, wind, pause, rumble, pause, wind, pause…

Half-a-hand into their glacial trek, Ragoth’s eyes went wide.

Breath! Something is breathing! Something large. Larger than even a dragon!

His panic compounded, but Denith seemed not to notice. He wanted to speak, tapping Iggi on the shoulder, but she spun on him and viciously pushed her finger to his lips. The way she violently shook her head told him more than enough. Even a whisper might mean their death. With a harrowing gulp, he swallowed his fear and kept pace behind her through the agonizingly slow walk.

They gave their path all caution until they left the breathing behind and the scent of burnt wood and ash no longer in the air.

Iggi finally said to them. “Safe now.”

Ragoth breathed in relief and asked. “What was that?”

Iggi gave him a grave look. “The Goraag.”

By mid-day, the dense forest gave way to gnarled trunks and leafless branches. The ground moved in a slight decline and the lush green growth grew sparser until there was nothing but bare earth under their feet. A light mist hung in the air.

Finally, they came upon the Stonetusk Gate. The stone spires jutted from the ground, with a path leading down into misty depths.

Iggi plopped onto her backside and Deni wobbled before collapsing entirely.

“Hehehe. Stoopid elf weak.” The Orclin giggled.

Rags knelt and turned Deni over and brought his water skin to the elf’s mouth. As he drank, Rags looked back at the entrance to the Deep Valley. The mists grew thick not far past the Gate and all seemed still as death within. Not a plant grew, nor a creature stirred. The conflicting sense of urgency pulled him towards the mists, clashing with the foreboding that warned him away.

“I feel its draw. Closer now,” he said aloud, more to himself. “Be it the gods or the Crown, it pulls at me. I cannot deny its call for much longer.”

“We have to go in there?” Deni followed his gaze and his face drained of even more color.

“None return,” Iggi said. “All die.”

“None goes into that mist but me.” Ragoth said as he brought Deni to his feet. “You and Iggi are going to stay here and wait for me. Iggi, if Denith tries to come after me, stop him.”

“Rags,” Deni spoke with weariness in his voice. “You can’t go by yourself.”

Ragoth was already stepping towards the mists. “I have to. The gods showed me this path. They showed two figures standing at the Gate. In their vision, I entered alone.”

“Ragoth, please! There must be another way. I don’t want you to fall to the same fate as your father. I will have nothing if you are gone.” Deni grabbed his wrist.

Rags paused in his step, Deni’s hand too weak to stop him, but his words too strong to ignore. He turned back to Deni and gave him a smile.

“I won’t live my life governed by the lies of others. For once, my path is made clear by my own choosing—even if it leads to my death.” He wrapped his arms around the elf in a tight embrace, one returned just as fiercely. “Denith, you are the truest friend I have ever known. If we do not meet again, know I went to death warmed by your selfless compassion.”

Ragoth slipped out of Denith’s embrace, whose arms hung empty in the air. Rags strode in confidence, never looking back. A world’s worth of words withered on his tongue. When he reached the threshold of the twin spires, the sound of rapid footfalls made him look back. Denith raced up to him, hands thrust into his traveling pack.

“I will not let you wander into the grip of damnation without protection.”

“I have all I need.” Rags patted his short sword.

“Take this and ask me no questions.” Deni produced a short scepter and held it out. Rags took it gingerly and let an awed noise escape his lips. Gleaming in pearl and mirrored silver, the scepter of elvish craft was one of the most exquisite things he had ever laid eyes on. Ragoth eyed the carved handle and intricate head, his fingers running over the inlaid gemstones and the crystal head encased in gold lattice. Unlike Wraithslayer, it did gleam with the unusual shine of magic. He spied the sigil of a crossed arrow and blade over a shield. “The sigil of Alinora. Elvish goddess. Paragon of bravery and courage. Deni, this is no mere trinket.”

“The Scepter of Alinora is a holy relic of great power and magic. Its presence may frighten creatures if they dwell there. If the goddess sees your courage…it may also respond to your will. You have a high Affinity for magic.” His gaze stayed on the scepter for a moment. “I will want it back when you return. Then I will tell you the truth. All of it.”

“If I’m not back in three days, do not wait any longer. Until I return, don’t get too close to Iggi. She bites.”

Volumes of unasked questions hung thick in the air between them, but Ragoth left them unasked as he tucked the scepter into his pack. He gave a silent thanks and turned to walk the path of his father.

Ragoth vanished into the mists of the Deep Valley.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“No greater enemy in your travels than that which is unknown. Prepare as best you can.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire

The rock walls rose higher the deeper Ragoth pressed forward. The mist was thick, never letting him see more than a round of paces ahead or above. The channel was lifeless, not a trace of plant nor animal, only bundles of dead vegetation and rotted sticks piled against the channel walls. His grip on his short sword tightened until his fingers went numb. He crept forward with a sense of dread convincing him the next step would be his last.

The compulsion to go forward was so strong that he knew it was not of his own volition, but he had to assure it did not lead him to his own death. Traveling towards the path had eased it, though the further into the Deep Valley he went, the stronger the urgency felt. Beforehand, resting for a finger had made him anxious, but now even pausing for a moment would find him stricken with near panic. Was it the vision? The Deep Valley itself? The mists?

No. It was the Black Crown. His blood cried out to find it while his rational mind tried to reel him back. He grappled with these until the channel walls widened out of his sight.

There was no path, only bare earth ahead.

He looked back. Bare earth behind.

He walked through a true abyss, surrounded entirely by mist. But for the compulsion, he would have had no sense of where to step next. It pulled him and he followed in defiance of what lay ahead.

Gods protect me. Alinora, see me true.

At his cautious pace and the mists obscuring even the sun, it was impossible to know how long or how far he went into the mist. The channel could have been fifty paces wide or not there at all. But for his caution, he would have fallen right into the pit in front of him. He yanked his foot back before it could step into the abyss.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

He looked in and saw only more mist, swirling with a distant noise he couldn’t place. He made his way around the pit and kept his eyes on the ground as small gaps, pits, and chasms opened up in his path, ready to swallow the unwary. Stronger the compulsion grew. It threatened to overpower his caution. He became so engrossed in fighting it and skirting the pitfalls that he didn’t notice the shadowy figure in the mist until it was nearly in front of him.

He saw the shadow and stopped dead, holding his breath. The silhouette of a lanky figure no taller than he moved in the mist like a phantom. The air was deathly still, and all sound had ceased. His heart thundered so hard he feared the phantom would hear it and find him. It lingered on the outskirts of visibility, too far to make out a face until it finally moved closer to him. The familiar face was a momentary relief.

“Denith?” Rags sighed with a hand over his chest. “I told you to stay behind.”

His scolding came to a stop as he saw Denith’s bandage was gone, and his severed ear bled fresh over his robe. Gone was the demure and trusting face, replaced with one of mournful accusation.

“You left me. I gave you my devotion, my flesh, my very life, and you left me like a mange-ridden dog to be forgotten.”

“Deni. I would never abandon you. I wanted to keep you safe.” Rags balked.

“You left all of us to chase your own glory and power. You would not fight to reclaim your true birthright, so instead, you petition the Orcs accursed gods for the crown of a man reviled throughout history.” Denith snapped back.

Ragoth stepped back, stung by the rebuke. Something was wrong and not just Deni’s demeanor. He couldn’t smell Deni. That familiar scent of elf was gone with nothing in its place.

He cast his gaze down. “This isn’t like you, Deni. We can talk when I —”

“Leaving friends to die is what the Orcbrat does best.” A familiar voice spoke up.

Rags spun to see another phantom melt out of the shadows, almost falling to his knees.

“Cortland!”

The cocksure human approached with a slow stride. “You had the chance to talk me away from pursuing true folly, yet what did you do? You wished me well in my journey to death and damnation.”

“I respected your choice. Any true friend would. Who was I to keep you from the path you so desired?” Rags asked angrily.

“You were the friend who should have talked me out of such stupidity. I trusted your judgment. Had you but said the word, I’d have gone with you without question.”

Ragoth turned back to Deni to see the elf on one knee, pale and clutching the bloody stump of his ear.

“I suffer in the slave huts, starving, while you dine with your Orcborn kin in comfort. You fight to earn their fellowship and forget I who stayed by your side. Your friendship is a fleeting one, cast aside at the first chance.”

“That is...” it was not a lie. He had done just that and reveled in it as a triumph. Their accusations cut him deep and twisted a knife in his heart. He turned from them and found himself staring up at Val’Mora, who looked down her nose at him with her arms crossed.

“Too weak to fight your own battles. Too stupid to see through the lies of a jester. Too cowardly to confront your uncle, so you turn to power that was never yours. What vanity to think a pretty crown will win you the servitude of Orcs who are your better.”

Do not stop! The compulsion tore through his guilt and ripped his mind away from them. He walked backwards, his friends staring at him as they spat accusations like daggers, following at a short distance.

“Greedy little prince. Missing his soft bed and catered meals whilst all around him live in squalor,” Cort taunted.

“You will only be prince of a race of murderous dullards and savages,” Deni said.

“We all suffered for your incompetence,” Mora hissed. “Pain and death have followed in your wake everywhere. I was never so glad to be rid of such a pest. I’d have crushed your neck for free had Sothren but asked.”

He went to take another step back and found no purchase. Ragoth flailed his arms as he lost balance and slid off the edge of a pit. His hands reached for the rock, fingers clawing into the solid earth for purchase. He hung over the edge, trying to keep from sliding further. His friends watched impassively, and none moved to help him.

Grunting, he lifted himself over the edge and pulled himself to safety, swinging his legs over the side. He fought for breath, his fear subsiding as the compulsion crept back into his mind the second he was safe. He lurched to his feet, retrieving his fallen sword, still hearing the relentless onslaught from those he trusted. He gripped at his hair, torn between them and the compulsion, the searing shame of guilt making him want to claw his own chest open. The wrongness of their presence here did nothing to dull the cut of their words.

He put a few paces between them, seeing them approach in gliding steps. When he turned to leave them behind, he found a fourth figure already waiting in front of him with a familiar pair of alluring amethyst eyes.

Avora grinned, as sensual as ever in her tight catsuit, the laces undone to let her flesh spill out. She licked her lips at the sight of him.

“Was I not good enough for you? I would have given you every pleasure imaginable, and yet you cast me aside for your gutter-born elf slave.”

Ragoth paused, silent.

“I saved your life. I gave you the chance to ravish me and you gave me the back of your hand. Is that the way of it?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. Ragoth shimmied around a small fissure that spanned between them. He leaned into the compulsion, its clarion call rising above their continued berating. He understood they were not who they appeared to be, but it did not help quell the depths of regret and guilt he felt. Doubt had been the enemy he fought the most and in their voices his doubts were said aloud, laced in the poison of truth.

“Does it hurt to know you fell for such a paltry child’s tale?”

He stopped, his feet skidding on the earth. He heard that familiar voice behind him, the others falling silent save for Marvallo.

A rising anger drove him to press onward as the specter of the jester followed in his wake, a jovial, taunting voice in the mist.

“You were taught everything—except how to tell a lie. You gave me the unconditional trust of a child, so I sent you on a quest only a child would believe.”

He knew if he turned, he would see that lanky jester’s grinning face mocking him. Every breath he took exhaled harder than the last. His blue eye burned in rage as Marvallo’s form followed him.

“A dark lord? Ha! A magic weapon? Pf-f-ft! A chosen one? Only you, swaddled in the luxury and comforts of royalty, would be so gullible to fall for such utter drivel. That you didn’t die on your journey was a miracle. At least then you wouldn’t have lived to see the true scope of your failures.”

The pits and fissures lessened. Ragoth’s blood was infernal with the urgent pull of the Crown and a seething rage. The same anger he had been taught to suppress.

Anger clouds the mind. Anger drives one to irrational decisions. Anger damns men to die.

He did the opposite of his mother’s teaching, leaning into the anger to quell the unbearable guilt. It worked enough to push on against their verbal assaults. The channel walls re-appeared, looming ahead of him, guiding back to a path out of the gloom. They followed him still, a cacophony of voices casting their dispersions, but the anger rushed blood to his ears and drowned out their words. The less he focused on their spiteful rhetoric, the more clear his focus.

Silence fell again. Ahead, he saw his exit, but another phantom stood in the pathway. A tall, curvaceous form that struck him like a hammer to the chest. He lurched forward quickly to make out the face and slid to a halt less than arm's reach from her.

She was every bit as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her. She was grace personified. Raven-black hair cascading down in waves, contrasted against her favored azure dress. A silver crown atop her fair head. She looked down at him and, for just a moment, he was home again. He smiled and love for his mother overcame him.

He frowned as her face hardened, looking at him with contempt. Her blue eyes—his mother’s eyes—filled with scorn. Wrinkles of disgust, never once worn on her face, appeared.

She opened her mouth and said, “You—”

In a flash, Ragoth lanced his sword out and pierced the phantom in the center of its chest.

Tears spilled down his cheek. “I will not hear your lies from her voice! You will not use her against me!”

He pulled the blade out, slashing through her torso. Where blood and bone should have been, there instead flew writhing innards and black ichor. The scream from its mouth was a shrieking warble no human throat could make. It fell, the form of his mother shifting until only a sickening grayish form blotted with green and black remained. Its face was a horror of inhuman eyes and a gnashing, fang-lined hole instead of a mouth.

Ragoth spun on the phantoms behind him. Cort and Deni both rushed to grab him. He cleaved Cort from shoulder to belly and drove his fist into Deni’s face. Its features shifted when he made contact, smashed inward in an impossible way. Mora and Avora fled, their frightened shrieks trailing behind them.

Marvallo fell to his knees, pleading. “We only hunger. Despair is sweet. Guilt even sweeter. You are thick with guilt. Have mercy.”

Ragoth took its head off in one blow and walked over its corpse.

Ahead, the channel narrowed again, five or six shoulders across, now aimed straight down into the deeper recesses of the valley.

He moved with confidence, never slow in his stride. The eerie sense of unreal permeated the misty air. Rattled by the phantoms, but unrelenting in his quest, he buried his fear and kept his eye searching for any more unseen dangers. Having two eyes would be preferable, but what was done was done.

His foot caught something and looking down, he found the lip of a cobblestone embedded in the earth. For as far as he could see in the heavy mist, the unshaded earth gave way to a cobblestone path and the channel walls now smoothed, patterns and runes carved into them. Ragoth ran his fingers along the runes. Dwarvish script, but old and in a strange prose unlike the modern dwarf readings he’d studied.

Strong stone, strong of hand

Hammer and might eternal

Guiding ancestor, Hall be hewn

Rock & Stone

Over and over one word repeated.

Grimhold

Were the damnable compulsion not eating at him, he would have stayed to study. He couldn’t tell what the runes were trying to portray. A marker? A tale? A warning?

The runes that read Grimhold were spaced evenly as he went forward. After some time, he had to stop reading to keep focused on the trek at hand. If he were still here when the sun went down, he would be at the mercy of anything in the dark.

When he looked ahead, he found himself in the shadow of giants. Two of them towering above, standing guard at both sides of the channel. For at least a finger of time, he fought to stand still and see what they would do or if they saw him, but they were still. In the mist, only their size was evident.

He inched forward, more features of the giants forming until he finally made out the stone surface of two enormous statues of dwarven warriors in mute guard. Breathing a sigh of relief, he passed by them without incident. Dwarf runes, dwarven stonework, dwarf guards. What were dwarvish structures doing out in the depths of Dreadmour Valley, cloaked in haunted mists? Alas, he knew less of the dwarves than he did his own people save their historical position in the Crown Pantheon.

Like the Orc, they were a nomadic people without a kingdom of origin. So history was taught that in the height of the War of Sorrows, Selrach struck with great fury at the dwarves for opposing him. He used his god-like sorcery to drown their homeland under the sea. Those left behind were without a land of their own to this very day.

History and archaeology would have to wait for another time. Once he passed the titanic statues, he faced a stone railing at the edge of an enormous chasm and a bridge four Orcs wide reaching into the mist. The repetitive hissing-type noise coming from the pits grew much louder now, coming from the chasm below.

A movement caught his eye, along with a gurgling sound. He faced a shadow lurching in the dark towards him. Rags drew his sword, the sound of steel ringing as it left its sheath. His stomach lurched to see the monstrous thing. Grotesque, pale skin draped over a misshapen figure that hobbled on legs broken and never healed. At once he saw a greave and a shoulder guard, a tattered remnant of a tunic dangling from its disjointed arms. Bones protruded from rotted fingers, sharpened to spikes. It gurgled through the hole in its face where the lower jaw once was.

It was human, he thought. Now, it is some horror of…undeath.

It saw him through eyes of sickly white and charged, diseased spittle erupting from the hole in its throat. He had his sword up in time to be tackled by it, pressing him against the wall as his sword pierced through it. A disgusting fluid leaked out of the puncture wound, but it gave no indication that it felt pain.

Ragoth put his foot on the Undeath’s gut and shoved it off with a kick. It fell down and began climbing back on its feet. He heard another hissing gurgle and saw the large form of another Undeath, this one unmistakable as an Orc. Half its face was gone, only rotted muscle stretched over a visible skull remained. An elf Undeath crawled on its hands behind the Orc, missing everything below its torso. The elf’s head had been half-severed, left to dangle sideways on the flesh that remained of its neck. Still, it clawed towards him.

Now, he knew why none returned. These aberrations felt no pain, and no wound was mortal.  He considered the chances of wading into battle with the hideous monstrosities and thought the better of it. He bolted past them, their hands swiping, missing by inches as he evaded their reach.

Ragoth ran onto the bridge and the Undeaths followed, hobbled though they were by their broken, rotted limbs. In the quiet, his pounding feet seemed louder than thunder. In his haste to reach the other side, he ran up on an Undeath by surprise. The humanoid shape turned in time for Ragoth to plow his shoulder into it, knocking the thing over the stone railing and plummeting to the chasm below.

Ahead, the bridge was littered with more of the shambling monsters, each more grotesque and misshapen than the one before. Several had the handles of weapons jutting from their body, a testament to a failed killing blow.

Ragoth clenched his teeth and gripped his sword. A new strategy, then. They were not too quick, but neither were they sluggish enough to dash through them all at once. He ran at another Orc Undeath and ducked under its swing, slashing its leg off.

The trick worked. It felt no pain, but now it was forced to crawl to him and that alone slowed its progress considerably. He moved to the next and took its leg, then again. The methodical process worked well as he moved from one Undeath to the next, hobbling them until they were crawling behind him, too slow to matter.

He was closing in on the other side when he misjudged one Undeath’s swing and it swiped him across the shoulder, sending him to the ground. His sword flew over the side of the bridge. He gasped and shot to his feet as the Undeath slashed at his arm, its sharpened bone tips dripping red. He caught its next swing with his hand and tousled back and forth with it until he could push it over the edge.

He had wasted too much time and now had no weapon. Ragoth looked back and saw the accumulated Undeaths in pursuit of him. They clogged the bridge, blocking the path back. He ran again, putting as much distance as he could behind them.

Here the shadow of a structure took shape above him. The end of the bridge seemed near as he looked ahead and saw the entrance to a gargantuan structure carved into a mountainous cliffside. The dwarven architecture rose high above him, too far to see its zenith.

With a whisper of awe, he said. “Grimhold.”

When the bridge met an expansive balcony jutting from the entrance into the fortress, Ragoth stopped in his tracks. The entire balcony was crawling with Undeaths, many of which had now seen him, and lurched towards him in a gurgling mob of rotted flesh and flailing bone claws.

He turned back, but those in his wake were not far behind.

Trapped! And no weapon.

He swiped at his forehead and took his pack off. He would have to move as swiftly as he could if he were to have any hope. Fight his way back, acquire a weapon before taking on such a mob. He had only one thing to use in defense.

As the two mobs closed in on him, both less than ten paces, he grabbed the Scepter of Alinora out of his pack. Four handspans long might be enough to use as a cudgel. He lifted it into the air, ready to strike the closest foe.

The Scepter vibrated in his hand, coming alive with a crackle of arcane power. The crystalline orb on its head flared to life in a brilliant white light, repelling the surrounding mist. An ear-splitting symphony of wailing shrieks came from the Undeaths as the holy light repelled them. Those closest to Ragoth erupted in smoke, writhing as they fled, their claws tearing into their own tattered flesh. Several threw themselves over the side of the bridge to escape.

Ragoth held the scepter with both hands and all his might to keep from dropping it. The magic thrummed with such force; it was like trying to grasp a bolt of lightning. His pack back in place, he turned the scepter on the mob of Undeaths swarming about the castle’s entrance and strode forth to pierce their numbers. They fled over the side to their doom or back into the entrance. Those that found no exit ran at the walls to get away, clawing at the hewn stone until their flesh scraped off and their bones snapped.

The way cleared and Ragoth set forth into the dark halls of the dwarven castle of Grimhold.

There was no light inside, save the meager glow of daylight near the entrance. Even that waned not far into the structure. The light from the scepter’s gem was not bright enough to penetrate both dark and mist. He could see a little farther, but only just. The compulsion guided him now.

The Undeaths fell silent as they vanished from his vicinity, leaving him with only thick mist and stale, moldy air. He regretted he couldn’t see the interior in all its splendor, for the grandeur of dwarven structures was spoken of in the highest regard. The designs in architecture scrolls and paintings in tomes did no justice to seeing them with one’s own eyes. Here this ancient castle fortress stood, and he couldn’t see past a sword's length.

The ceiling should be hundreds of footspans above me. The columns should be a few hundred handspans apart. Dwarves build their castles and fortresses to be as imposing as the mountains they call home.

He found the enormous base of a column and ran his hand along it. Ancient as it was, it remained as smooth and flawless as the day it was hewn and set. Only godstone surpassed dwarven stonework. He pressed forward, his head pounding in a dull ache with the compulsion. His thoughts and character were, by now, little more than subconscious notions as the compulsion took deeper hold. He’d have walked past his mother now if she stood in his way. Only the sense of self-preservation was strong enough to break the compulsion’s hold. By now, he moved forward with little caution, eyes set forward. Any deviation to the left or right sent a flare of panic shooting through him that he couldn’t suppress.

That disregard almost cost him his head. He didn’t see the flying beast until it's tendrils were almost wrapped around his head. Rags threw himself to the ground as a black shape soared out of his sight, silent in its flight. He kept low to the ground, waiting as he fought to keep his panic under control.

Looking at the scepter, he whispered. “Is there a way to coax more light from you?”

The scepter’s brilliance increased, but only in one direction, driving the mist far from him in an instant. For just a flash, he could see the swarm of black-fleshed creatures surrounding him before they scattered from the light. They were the size of cats with a shape like that of a small kraken, their tendrils tightened together as they flew and opened when they neared him. A pale beak parted in anticipation when they dove at him. They swam through air with silent grace just beyond the edge of the mist.

The tip of the scepter cast a strong light that scattered the creatures when he shone it on them, but it left the darkness around him closer. He turned and again ducked as a creature made for his head, only for one to slam into his side and sink its beak into the thick of his shoulder. He cried out, the searing pain shooting through him as he took the scepter and slammed its glowing end into its eye. A flash of searing white fire erupted from its eye sockets. It fell, white fire spreading over its skin until it vanished in a hail of scattered ash.

Ragoth ignored the blood and the pain, brandishing the scepter with both hands and swatting at them as they swarmed en masse. Frantically, he swiped the light back and forth, scattering many, but not enough to keep them entirely at bay. Several latched onto his arms by their tendrils. Beaks sank into his flesh. Their combined mass weighed him down, swarming him like hornets. Panic, compulsion, terror, and fear flooded him all at once. He wouldn’t die like this, in battle with gnats of the Abyss. He looked at the scepter, desperate as rage filled him and the swarm enveloped him entirely in their black tendrils.

One thought screamed in his mind. If I only had a blade!

A crackle of thunder shook the castle, and this time, his arm did feel as though it gripped a bolt of lightning. Piercing white light lanced through the bodies of several of the creatures and sent their ashes flying into the air. His arm free, he swiped again and again, blind to everything, but the more he slashed, the more he came free.

He cut across the one clinging to his face and as it vanished into a cloud of ash; he beheld the scepter now thrumming with a blade of pure light emitting from its orb. After only a second, he turned the blade on those still clinging to him. He carved through black flesh until he was free.

The swarm spiraled in and out of the darkness, seeking a moment of weakness with which to attack. Now, though, instead of scattering them, the light cut them down.

Ragoth slashed as he ran, Orc rage swelling inside him and driving the pain and fear away, the red tint filling the edge of his vision. He needn’t look where to run; the compulsion guided him. Ragoth kept them at bay and with each swing, he whittled their numbers down. The host seemed insurmountable, always swarming outside the edge of the light, always diving out of the darkness in pursuit.

In the heat of it all, he didn’t notice the ascending steps until he tripped on the bottom one and fell. He rolled onto his back, scepter-blade cutting and eyes darting about. There seemed to be less of the black creatures. Those remaining were still swarming and swimming about. They dove at him less as he crawled backwards up the stairs. Yes, up the stairs. That’s where he needed to go. His mind formed words and thoughts that were not his own.

Crawling on his back, but knowing he couldn’t be taken from that side, he pushed up the steps one at a time. He slashed as they dove, and they swerved to avoid the blade of light. How long would they hound him? He didn’t want to look at the wounds he’d sustained, but the pain broke through both rage and compulsion enough to warrant his concern.

I must find the Crown soon before these beasts are the death of me.

A great shadow interrupted his thoughts, looming overhead. A massive form soared out from above him and swatted at the kraken creatures. They scattered and fled, disappearing into the dark where they stayed.

Ragoth looked up in horror at an immense black tentacle hovering over his head, ten foot spans across. Its wet, smooth exterior shone with the same inky black texture as the little krakens, veins of faint crimson pulsing along its length. It slowly withdrew back from where it came—the same room Rag’s compulsion directed him. He kept to his stomach, crawling up to the top of the stairs where the mist thinned out. A shroud of it remained thick at his knees, but above that the air was clear.

He found himself at the threshold of a massive doorway to another immense chamber. The effort to remain still in spite of the inexorable compulsion caused a piercing in his head so great that he shed tears of pain.

He clutched the scepter close. “I can see in this dark. I’ll call you when asked. Go away for now. Please?”

The blade extinguished, leaving him in darkness. With the mist clinging to the floor, he could see in the dark above him, and the kraken creatures were nowhere to be found. Whatever was in here was enough to drive them off, and that frightened him even more. He wanted the Crown, but the arduous journey he had endured had taken its toll on his body and his heart. A growing part of him was weary beyond measure, and the fear of eternal rest did not carry the same sting.

Nothing worth having is acquired through ease, he thought. For the first time in his life, he cursed the pampered comfort he had grown accustomed to. It had given him a sharp mind, but a soft edge, and only now could he truly understand the depth of that failing.

Every journey’s end only brings me to the beginning of another, more difficult path. Am I forever trapped to seek an end that never comes? Is that the life of an Adventurer? Never-ending toil and strife? Mora tried to warn us. The stakes are not world ending. The Orcs will move into history without my guidance. But they will continue on in the same cycle of self-destructive tribalism that rends them asunder. Deni will not leave this place alive if I fail. My fellow Orcborn will live as lesser people in the eyes of the Orcs. And worst of all, Marvallo and Jaenar will have succeeded in their goal to rid the world of me. I will not let this resolve waver. Nor let any doubt find purchase.

As these thoughts crawled through his mind, a deep warmth crept into his chest that made him breathe easier, his aches and pains dulled, and his arm vibrated gently. When he opened his eyes, he was clutching the scepter to his chest, and it radiated warmth that now spread through his extremities. When it ceased, his energy was renewed, as though he’d taken a short nap.

Still hungry, though.

No time for pondering. He crept forward into the chamber and took in its adorning statues and seated balconies. The tapestries had long since rotted away, their place on the walls marked with stones lighter than those around them.

Not a mere chamber. A throne room.

The face of the shadowy monstrosity in his vision loomed in his memory, and he had no doubt it lay in wait. Forcing the compulsion to quell itself was a misery, but he shimmied along the side wall, so his approach was behind the columns leading forward. It was here he encountered more of the enormous black tentacles, floating in the air above his head, thick as tree trunks. Their tips searched aimlessly in the dark with an unsettling quiet.

Ragoth picked up a fallen stone near his foot and tossed it across the throne room. It landed with a loud clack and the tentacles moved swiftly, searching for the origin of the sound. He took the chance to move himself closer, mindful of the enormous tentacles’ proximity.

He crept forward past pillar after pillar until there were none left. Ahead of him was the foot of a small dais, several steps leading up into a darkness his sight couldn’t penetrate. Darker than dark, an appalling black that seemed alive. With his vision, he swept his gaze up and only just made the outline of a gargantuan shape looming at the top. The monster from his vision towered over him and the entire throne room.

He swallowed hard, the compulsion now screaming through his mind and body. This close, he found his willpower slipping. He longed for a full day’s rest and a soft bed and a hot meal and maybe a cinnamon snap with some sugar lemon drink. His belly rolled at the prospect of a full meal, and when he put his hand to his belly to stop it, he found himself several paces out of cover. When did he walk forward? The damnable compulsion!

Two of the massive tentacles slammed down on either side of him. With the column behind him, he was trapped. The silence broke as a rumbling growl echoed in the dwarven throne room. Light finally broke through the dark, a hellish red burning through a pair of eyes glaring down at him. Rags stepped back until he hit the stone column, watching as a maw opened, black teeth glistening with dripping saliva, lit by the same fiery glow from its throat.

The air filled with an unholy peal, an abyssal cry that shook the castle to its foundation. The same roar that had terrorized his vision. Rags froze on the spot with a fear that shot through his heart and dropped him to his knees. Not even the dragon in Karthak had wrought such absolute terror. For a fleeting instant, he wished for death to take him quickly to avoid hearing and seeing this creature a second further. That wish went unanswered as the hellborn being lowered closer to him, its slathered maw open with ill intent.

Warmth. It spread through him from his arms and the overwhelming fear receded. The scepter vibrated in his grip, crackles of magic sparking as the pervasive fear fled under the scepter’s influence.

The monstrous abomination’s face hovered within arm’s reach.

Ragoth let loose a roar, springing out of his crouch and hefting the scepter high. His will commanded it, and the blade of light sprang to life in dazzling brilliance. For a moment, he beheld the demonic entity in the light, and it was every bit as hideous as he could imagine. Its inhuman form writhed with the same sickening black as the kraken creatures. Its spiked head sat atop a bulbous, armless form that ballooned into a base comprised of the massive tentacles stretching throughout the throne room.

It recoiled from the light as Ragoth cut a circular slash in the air, cutting the tentacles trapping him. The scepter’s blade rendered the thick flesh with ease, severing them with a gory splash of rancid black ichor. The demon’s roar—whether in pain or outrage—filled the air as it tried to retreat. Ragoth took the chance and pressed forward with a charge.

As its other tentacles lanced out towards him, he dodged, leaping about with as much grace as he could, given his dwindling energy. He twisted from side to side, his senses alight with awareness. He could tell the signs of movements not entirely his own, an instinctual prescience emanating from the scepter–just as the compulsion came from the Crown. Juking from side to side, he slashed through the creature’s tentacles as each sought to slam into him. Each cut he roared and pressed forward, never ceding ground gained until he reached the creature’s base.

He thrust the scepter into the air, the blade fading as its crystalline orb flared into a magical brilliance that forced him to shield his eyes. The throne room, for the first time in untold generations, was bathed entirely in radiant light. The abyssal creature wailed pitifully and in desperation it threw itself forward, jaws open and ready to devour him at any cost.

Ragoth lifted his hand, the other ready to strike with the scepter.

“Back, you festering pissbucket!”

Impossibly, the command brought its charge to a halt and the maw snapped shut. The room fell into an eerie quiet once again. A multitude of confused questions and assumptions took form in his mind as he narrowed his eyes, locked in a stand-off at the base of the creature.

The light of the scepter repelled it, but it did not command the beast. No, this was different. He lifted a brow in wonder and said. “Onto your belly.”

It growled in displeasure but obeyed. It lowered itself until its face was near the floor, looking at him as a scolded dog to its disapproving master. The shock of discovery left him speechless for a moment. The beast was compliant, be it the scepter or divine intervention. He chose not to question such fortune.

“I have come for the Black Crown. Where is it?”

The beast tipped its head forward to him. Upon its brow were spikes protruding from its flesh and it took a moment to understand that the beast must be wearing it, buried somewhere under its flesh.

He took a steady breath. “Give me the Crown.”

It uttered a pitiful wail, and to his shock, managed a raspy, guttural word.

“Cu-u-u…cu-u-ur-r-r-rse!”

Curse? It is cursed? Would that Ragoth had the time to ponder an entity of the Abyss being able to speak, but with the creature at bay, he couldn’t risk losing the advantage he held. So, the Crown held a curse.

“Tell me how to acquire the Crown.”

“K-ki-i-i-ill…me.”

Rags gripped the scepter tighter. “So be it.”

Ragoth stepped towards the unholy beast to end its existence. It fell back, howling in terror and writhing in agony as the scepter’s blade flared brighter than ever. The presence of holy magic was of such magnitude that its very flesh boiled and sloughed to the floor, vanishing into clouds of ash. The holy blade didn’t even touch its skin before it would smoke and split itself in recoil. The closer he drew to the head, the more its form deteriorated. It lay to rest on a massive stone throne. The black flesh dissolved and fell away. Its wails grew weaker as it thrashed, and its form diminished in size.

Suddenly, a great fist erupted from its tattered flesh, startling Ragoth into stepping back. A second one tore free of the flesh on the other side. Arms of pale green skin, thick muscles and covered in festered wounds. His mouth dropped as the claws reached up to its face and clutched the burning, sodden black flesh.

Ragoth watched in horror as it let out a pained scream and the black skin came tearing off in its grip, pulling its own face asunder. Bit by agonizing bit, the flesh was torn free until at last there remained only the head of a screaming Orc.

“By the gods!” Ragoth stared in breathless wonder. The Orc was big enough to rival Gorvok, his scarred face fierce even as he writhed in torment. As more of the blackened flesh peeled off of his head, there he saw it: nestled firmly around the Orc’s brow was the gleaming beauty of the Black Crown. Now that he’d laid his eyes upon the Crown, the compulsion vanished and, in its place remained an overwhelming relief that threatened to reduce him to tears.

The Orc let out a strangled noise, breathing deeply for several moments. The last of the Abyssal flesh sloughed away, leaving only the form of the Orc sitting in the throne. When he opened his eyes, they gleamed in a dull red, as though the demonic fires inside him smoldered. He turned his gaze down to Ragoth and spoke in Orcish.

Rags shook his head. “I am sorry. I do not speak the Orc tongue.”

The Orc grimaced, as if the common tongue tasted foul in his mouth. “You have eased me of the torment of the Crown’s curse…for now. You have my gratitude.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Warlord Thorgoth of the Sunderfang.” The Orc lifted his head.

Ragoth gasped. “Father?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Be wary of who gives you succor, for blades may hide in honey.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

The inner sanctum of the castle dimmed in the waning light of evening as the Regent moved about with indistinct purpose. Most of the guards in his employ regarded him with little reverence, only jumping to his command on the rare occasion he gave one. Any other time he was as much a part of the scenery of the castle as the oil lamps lining the walls. Given to wandering the castle, he would seem less interested in maintaining the order of the city and more given to making sure the castle walls still stood.

The sound of boots in quick march brought his eyes to the entrance of the throne room, where the twin figures of Captain Gareth and Sir Galdren marched in unison. As he happened to be standing in their path, he felt compelled to greet them though he hated small talk.

“Captain. Sir Galdren. How is he?”

The grimaces on their faces spoke plenty.

“A curmudgeon, as ever. You’d think seeing both his sons would have brightened his day,” said Captain Gareth.

“He never was one for pleasantries, the old warhorse.” Galdren shot back, scanning for a guard. He bellowed at the first one in sight for a pair of ales in the largest tankards he could find.

The Regent’s face scrunched. “My sympathies. Family can be complicated. As you requested, Captain, I sent an occasional scout to check on his well-being. He sent several back with broken bones and bloodied faces, so they must observe from afar.”

The guard returned with two heaving tankards in his hands, accepted by the brothers. The Regent declined a drink when offered. Gareth and Galdren touched tankards before downing as much as they could at once.

Galdren let out a sigh and wiped his mouth. “Any Knight Valiant would not appreciate being watched like a child, much less a former Grand Knight. Break as many arms as you must, Regent. The old man is not as young as he thinks, and I won’t let a broken hip be the end of him. I care not that his wish is to live out his last days in the wilds near Orcs.”

The Regent gave a nod. “It will be done. Though the Orcs have not gathered in number since the end of the war. I have it on good authority that the many tribes remain splintered. Gorvok reigns in his brother’s stead, but the tribes did not unify under his rule. He flounders in leadership where his brother flourished.”

At that, Gareth snorted and shook his head.

“Couldn’t happen to a better Orc. To think that we fought them for so long, all because one brother ruled instead of another. Gods be praised that Thorgoth was slain, eh, Galdren?”

Galdren stared into the depths of his tankard as he mulled the past, his brother's words washing away unheard. He had been young when the Orc Wars started, barely an adult and one of only two sons born to the Grand Knight Maseon Edenthaw, the heralded leader of the Knights Valiant. A man who had no equal with the sword, who had forgotten more about swordplay than most would ever learn. As stern and calculating as he was deadly.

To say that he and Gareth felt the shadow of the Grand Knight and his expectations loom over them was a gross understatement. And, for their part, the brothers excelled as warriors as the war went through its peaks and valleys. The Orcs, under Thorgoth, were wily and elusive—often striking when victory was all but assured and vanishing before a responding army could take up the chase. It prolonged the war for nearly twenty years before ending in Dreadmour.

Now he stood here in the cradle of victory, awarded the mantle of Knight Valiant and a place in the Hall of Valor for his efforts while Gareth remained near their father. Not that such devotion moved the old man. If there was an ounce of tender love in Maseon’s heart, it never reached the lines etched in his face.

Galdren looked up, vaguely aware that Gareth and the Regent were speaking to him.

“You are certain the Orcs are no threat?” he asked of the Regent.

The Regent lifted his hands and curled and uncurled his fingers, a sign that Gareth recognized as the Regent trying to grasp an answer that was uncertain.

“As little a threat as can be expected, but no doubt their numbers have grown over the years.”

“How many do you think are in the valley? If they swarmed the city, could you repel them?” Galdren asked.

The Regent’s thin fingers tapped against his chin in consideration. “Difficult to gauge the numbers. The Sunderfang number at least a few hundred warriors strong and a hundred others in their city. Formidable, but the guard number in the thousands.”

“But you have no knights,” Galdren pointed out. “No trained cavalry. Your soldiers are escaped convicts, thieves, debtors, smugglers, and, no doubt, worse. What combat have they seen in their years here?”

“My men might come from dubious origins, but they respect my authority and will fight for the Regent. They would be happy at the chance to spill Orc blood in his name.” Gareth bristled at the accusation,

Galdren seemed unconvinced. “Father lives isolated and alone. No doubt he’d prefer to die in battle with his sword in hand, but if we can cull a few numbers off the Orc tribes so that doesn’t happen, I can rest a little easier at night. He need not know.”

“As it so happens, Captain Gareth is organizing a culling,” the Regent said. “We cull the Orc’s numbers every few years to make sure their numbers remain low. He knows the locations of the Sunderfang’s city, Dawntusk. Sir Galdren, would you honor us with your sword in this endeavor?”

The Knight Valiant grinned. “It would be my genuine pleasure, Regent.”

“Excellent. I’ll leave it in your hands, Captain.” A long sigh escaped Thornmire’s mouth. Without another word, the Regent walked off, leaving the brothers.

“Odd one, that.” Galdren remarked.

“Ignore him,” Gareth replied. “He’s little more than a figurehead, buried in paperwork when he’s not wandering the halls. If I send the word out now, we can muster a thousand men for the effort and go at dawn's light.”

Galdren paused as they made their way out of the throne room and towards the common hall next to it. “What of the Orcs in the city? You told me there is a nest of them here, yes?”

Gareth dropped his tankard at a table and led his brother down another hallway.

“In the Muckfoot Quarter, aye. Longtusk’s gang. Orcbrats and brute labor, the whole lot of them. Not to worry. Longtusk has no love of the Sunderfang or any of the other Orc tribes.”

The Captain stopped before a double-ironed door. He fished a key off of a ring at his side and unlocked the door with a loud metallic clank. The door swept open, and Gareth took a torch off the wall to let them peer inside.

Weapons racks lined the walls and ran three rows deep into the armory. In the torch-lit room, they saw swords, axes, spears, maces, and hammers. Shields piled against one corner while crates of arrows occupied another.

Galdren picked up a sword to examine it, brushing the dust and cobwebs off of the steel.

“Tell me the truth, brother. Do you think your men will perform well enough against the Orcs? They do not strike me as the disciplined type.”

Gareth crossed his arms and tilted his head up. “A motley crew, I admit. But so were the Copper Lads when I led them in taking Downsen Keep from Norenrauth mercenaries. You should have seen us that day, brother. The gods were truly with us. If I could lead them to victory over an Empire stronghold, I can take these ruffians and trounce a few Orcs. When they hear they’re riding with a Knight Valiant at the head of the charge, you won’t be able to stop them.”

“The men accompanying me came with the expectation of rest and drink. I may have to pry them out of the brothels and taverns—even then if they wish to remain, I’d not blame them.” Galdren put the sword back and approached his brother.

“Would your men truly stay behind while you rode into battle?”

“No. They’d not. Think of it, Gareth. We can fight one last battle in the Orc Wars. Cut down Gorvok and end the Sunderfang legacy once and for all.” Galdren summoned a charming smirk and clasped Gareth on the shoulder.

Gareth shared his brother’s grin. “A fitting end for our fight against those green bastards. I trust you brought your armor and Dawnraker?”

“Always. Send the word to your men. At dawn, we ride together. Brothers in blood and sword!”

Dusk settled over Cravensrest as Cort shuffled back home, scowling the entire way. Trudging through his daily routine waiting for answers had made him as irritable as a dragon with a sword under its scales. Every hour, he fought the urge to take his horse and ride into the wilderness in search of Rags.

His mind was made up. Unless he heard good reason otherwise, he would take Rags and Deni both from the Orcs and ride for better ventures. Damn the Adventurer’s life. What life did he deserve if he let brotherhood wither to an unearned fate?

As he unlocked the door to his meager accommodations, buried in his thoughts, he heard a gravely little voice say. “Cortland. Look here.”

He spun, eyes trained on a shadowy nook near him, where he watched a short, hook-nosed goblin emerge from the dark. His beady yellow eyes matched the yellow grime on his sharp, gnarled teeth.

“Longtusk sent me.”

“Why?”

“To give ye a message.” He looked about cautiously before continuing. “The one ye seek be alive. Saw him meself.”

Cort leaned in with rapt attention. “You sure? Human height? Black hair, blue eyes, and slim in the chest?”

“Aye. Livin’ in the slaag hut with the rest of the half-bloods.”

Cort’s teeth clenched. Rags rubbing shoulders with half-orcs raised in Orc society. They were probably slapping him around and stealing his food.

“What about his elf friend? Same height, with long dirt colored hair? Wears a wide brim hat.”

The goblin’s hooked nose wrinkled at the word. “Wasn’t sent to find no elf, ya mongrel prick. Jus’ the Orcbrat, an’ he alive.”

“How can I get to the Orc city?” Cort clenched his fist in victory and looked back at the goblin.

The goblin shook his finger. “Not a chance. I’m loyal to Longtusk and he says yer not to know.”

“Look here—” Cort reached for the goblin, but he melted back into the shadowy nook and vanished. A skittering of feet soon followed, and Cortland was left by himself.

He breathed a sigh of relief, head hung low. Rags was alive.

For now.

The taloned arms emerged from the stony orifice on the side of Mount Karthak and tore another gouge in the mountain's side as it clawed back in.

The dragon shoved its face at the entrance, its head nearly fitting through the jagged opening. Its eyes blazed in fury, the color of dancing flames. It gave a growling huff, expelling a puff of flame before it returned to its arduous task.

Its enormous talons, glowing at the tip from years of carving Dragon’s Ink, tore at the opening, bit by bit. Blood and scales littered the stones, but there was no pause to its relentless task.

Smoke and incense hung heavy in the Temple, where Krannok kneeled before the altar. On his knees, gloved hand gripping his staff, Krannok offered the gods silent thanks. By all measures, he had succeeded in his subterfuge, and Gorvok was none the wiser. Likely still drunk. He’d not seen the Warchief at all that day. Many of the Orcs were milling about, but a sense of unease still clung to the air. Krannok begged for peace of heart and for Ragoth’s success.

How long Ragoth would be gone was unknown. If he even succeeded. But if he did, it would not take long for word to spread across the valley. The Black Crown would carry immense reverence and the words ‘Son of Thorgoth’ would carry even more weight. Even those too young to have served under Thorgoth would flock to his name. Unlikely that Gorvok would abdicate his leadership, so the challenge would need to be given. Be it through submission or death, ascending as Orc leader would only be the beginning of Ragoth’s troubles. So much work to be done. All on the shoulders of an Orcbrat born on the other end of the continent. He would need Krannok’s wisdom and guidance.

Krannok sensed the figure just before he heard the footsteps on the temple floor. His eyes glanced back, too late in time to catch the glint of steel.

He had felt the bite of a blade many times in his life, but this one bit deepest. The slash of an Orc blade carved down on his outstretched arm. The suddenness of it held him in mute horror as he saw the bloody stump first, then his gloved arm clutching his staff as it lay on the floor in front of him, the emerald magic inherent in it flickering as it faded.

The pain came flooding into him, but the Magnus clenched his teeth and fought against it. He knew before seeing. He would not give his brother the satisfaction of seeing him writhe in pain or beg for mercy that would not come. The sting of long-awaited betrayal blossomed. He tried to stand on his feet, but a grip on his shoulder pulled him to his back.

Gorvok stood over him with his heavy boot on Krannok’s chest as the bloodstained tip of his axe loomed, ranting in their shared tongue. “Did you think I would not know? That I would not find out? What kind of dullard elf do you take me for?”

Krannok felt shock taking his senses. Blood gushed from his severed arm, pooling underneath him. A deep sense of foreboding and fear gripped its black claws around his heart, but he embraced it. He would not give Gorvok what he wanted.

“I smelled your treachery long ago.” Gorvok said, pushing the edge of his axe against Krannok’s neck. “Unlike you, Oothor is loyal. He has told me your apprentice’s every step. He followed you to the grove and what does he see? A Gods Brew! After you told me you had not the components for one. Years of lying to my face! What have you to say, brother?”

Krannok spat. “I give you the same thing you’ve given our people: nothing.”

Gorvok’s teeth spread out as he grinned, “Your magic will not save you, Magnus. And your slaag usurper will know death once Oothor tracks them down. As soon as he warned me of your treason, I sent him to bring back the slaag and any loyal to him. Your skulls will rest under my feet until my dying day.”

Gorvok lifted his axe over his head. Krannok looked to the altar and saw the skulls of his ancestors as their eyes came alive.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“After one chooses to travel, and before one has left, take a day to spend time with those you care for most. This comfort may carry you when all others are fled and faint.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Sunderfang was an old bloodline from the time of the War of Sorrows. Many Orc lineages had been diluted and lost over the generations, but the Sunderfang was as close to royalty as an Orc bloodline could be.

Gorvok was gargantuan, a war machine of an Orc, and Krannok, though shorter and hunched, still cut an imposing figure. Neither of them radiated the authority of Thorgoth, something that the throne in which he now rested amplified. The Black Crown clenched around his head, radiating streaks of black that crisscrossed over his still impressive physique. Scars of wounds long ago pulsated in the same sickly black flesh as that of the abyssal monstrosities. There was a great strength to him, weak though he appeared. Ragoth could sense the air of command that brought others under his father’s rule. A mere gaze would have brought a lesser Orc to heel. The difference between him and Gorvok was never more apparent. His brutish uncle could never hope to cast such an aura of authority as his father.

It was humbling to Ragoth to know that he came from such an Orc.

His father. His true blood Orc father.

Alive!

The long moments of silence hung thick as they regarded one another. Thorgoth appraised him silently before leaning forward to glimpse at him closer. His cracked lips parted as he stared.

“By the great gods…it cannot be.” Thorgoth whispered.

Rags gulped loudly and stepped forward, clutching the scepter in both hands like a child clutching a toy.

“I am... Ragoth, Prince of Namaria. My mother is—”

“Seranna.” His voice spoke her name in hushed reverence. His hand came forward and brushed Ragoth’s cheek and hair. “I could not forget those eyes. That hair. She kept her promise. She let our child live. My son. Our son.”

The Orc Warlord let a smile come to his lips as he took Rags in. Ragoth shuddered, his heart alive in emotions too numerous to process at once. The compulsion was gone and in its place he felt every question he’d ever wanted to ask, every dreamed scenario, every wishful hope he’d ever wanted to speak to his father threatening to all spill out at once.

He rushed forward and threw himself against the Orc’s chest, wrapping his arms around the enormous trunk of his torso. A grunt and a sigh came from the Orc as he put one large hand on Ragoth’s back.

“All too human,” he said, shaking his head. Thorgoth winced and hissed, his flesh beginning to smoke and crackle as Ragoth touched the scepter to his side. “Gah! The scepter! Get it back!”

Rags backed away until his father’s pain subsided. Wiping his damp eyes, he said, “Sorry, father. Are you alright? Did the scepter harm you?”

“It repels the curse.” Thorgoth said through clenched teeth. “Little wonder you made it through the mists and past the Crown’s thralls. I am impressed that you managed so well with such a puny stature.”

Ragoth brushed his hair back, breathless in the face of it all.

“I have so many...so many questions. So much to tell you.”

Thorgoth inclined his head. “Long have I dwelled in darkness, suffering the Crown’s curse. I welcome anything over that torment. Tell me.”

Ragoth launched into his tale and spoke at length, often pacing back and forth in front of the throne. He told Thorgoth from the time he was a child to the last moments before he nearly used the scepter to slay him. At times he spun away from his tale to delve into ramblings and his father would reel him back. There was great relief, much like when he recounted his travels to Krannok. A weight lifted from off his chest to speak of his journey. But there blossomed another feeling—a true happiness that had eluded him all his life. The love for a father who was missing, a lost piece of himself now found. An emptiness that was always with him, now filled and overflowing.

Thorgoth asked a rare question at times, listening in rapt attention to his long-lost son. The only time he seemed displeased was hearing the name of Sothren. He spat on the ground at the name.

When he had finished, Ragoth’s mouth was dry and his stomach tightened as it begged to be fed, but he refused to waste a moment of this. He could eat later.

Thorgoth finally cleared his throat. “You are more human than Orc, that much is certain. You have the soft heart of humans, and you clutch to her ways like a babe to a tit. It is a wonder you survived these few weeks with our people. You have cunning and luck, at least.”

“There was no one to teach me how to be an Orc.” Ragoth’s shoulders slumped at the rebuke.

“The way of the Orc is one of strife,” said Thorgoth, his voice rising. “Every tribe is beset by other tribes, every Orc beset by another Orc. None will hesitate to strike you down if you show weakness and thus the Orc either makes himself stronger or perishes by those who prove the stronger. Glory is power.”

Ragoth gave an exasperated scoff and swung his arms out. “And that is why we stagnate! Our only unity is in fighting against another race. We fight each other more than those who would see our kind driven to extinction.”

To Rags surprise, his father nodded in agreement. “Now you sound like your mother. She said much the same in our time together. She was as wise as she was beautiful.”

“Tell me what happened,” Ragoth asked. “She never spoke the full truth of her capture. I thought she was too ashamed.”

“Ashamed?” Thorgoth said. “What did she tell you?”

“That your warband captured her and took her prisoner. Held her against her will until the day the Crown Pantheon’s forces freed her. She didn’t tell me of what you did to her, but the Crown Pantheon is littered with the halfkin Orcs your war bands left in their wake. It was not hard to imagine.”

The Orc’s brow lifted in surrender. “Do not lecture me about spoils of war. Humans in the aftermath of battle are no better. She was not fond of it either but understand that our campaign was not war for the sake of it. We had endured a generation of efforts to wipe our people out at the hands of the elves. The Sunderfang did not hail from Dreadmour. I was born in the depths of the Feylund before their Treeweavers drove us out. The “Orc Wars'' as the humans call it, started because we were driven out of our hunting lands. Everywhere we tried to settle, we came into conflict with those who resided close by. I took in lesser tribes to increase our numbers, but the larger our numbers became, the larger the armies they sent.”

He curled the clawed fingers of his hand, growling at the memories and gripping the sides of the stone throne.

“We faced annihilation in the lands of our enemies. I was desperate and Krannok suggested the Gods Brew. He went first and gained gifts of magic greater than any Orc Magnus who ever lived. I was next, and the gods gave me a gift that led to our victories to come.”

Ragoth tapped his blind eye. “The gods' gifts are not without their price.”

“Thank the gods that you only lost your eye and that you know what was taken. I was given a gift of foresight.”

“Foresight? You mean prescience? You could see into the future?” Ragoth gawked at the possibility of such a gift.

Thorgoth shook his head. “I could see far enough to warn of attacks to myself. No more than a day ahead. So long as I stayed in the bulk of the army, I knew when our enemies would strike. We evaded capture, eluded traps, and won many battles with my gift. Even more tribes joined our cause until we were enough to challenge any army in the Crown Pantheon. We were somewhere in the Dynasty when we happened upon your mother’s caravan.”

Ragoth nodded. He knew this much. His mother had traveled in secret to Arcathoria, but never made it there. It was her capture that triggered the Crown Pantheon’s overwhelming response. One of the few times in its history that the seven Crowns had worked in absolute unity.

“We thought the caravan merely merchants until Gorvok almost took her for his own. She showed her gilded mark, and I ordered her not to be touched. From then on, she remained at my side for her own protection.”

Rags aimed his finger at his father. “You forced her into your bed and put me in her belly. You call such savagery ‘protection’?”

For the first time, Thorgoth let out a knowing chuckle and a grin.

“Do not take me for a fool, son. I knew the worth of your mother and so did she. It was her who convinced me that her safe return could help end the war. She was my best counsel, not just a mere bargaining chip. I could not just take her like a brothel girl to be passed around.”

“Then...how did you and her...?” Ragoth furrowed his brow, frowning.

Again, Thorgoth flashed a knowing look that peered back in time.

“We spent much time together. Spoke for hours, as you and I do now. I was cautious not to let her charm me, as some women will, but there came a time when she was no longer at my side against her will, but by her own. The bond between her and her king was, as she told me, ‘political’. I did not force her into my bed. She went willingly and took me with her.”

Rags face dropped, his eyes searching around the stone at his feet as he grappled with his father’s words. The Orc’s laughter battered his ears.

Love is not a luxury afforded to the Pantheon nobility. Should you find it, be grateful. But have every expectation that your marriage will be arranged for the sake of alliance, not affection. Rags recited her words from memory.

“She tried to tell me, and I was too dull to realize it. She did not love Jaenar. I imagine you were quite the contrast.”

“As she was a contrast to the fierceness of Orc women.” Thorgoth shook as he chuckled, and a raucous laughter erupted from his gravely throat.

Rags couldn’t help but share the laugh. “What’s so funny?”

The Orc held a hand to his shaking belly.

“You…you went into the Matron’s Hut, and they slapped you around and tossed you back onto the street naked. I’d have given anything to see that.”

“Father, that was humiliating!” Rags blushed and shrunk into himself.

That only made the Orc laugh harder. His booming chortles echoed across the stone throne room.

“I’ve not laughed since the last night I shared with your mother. She knew how to make me laugh.”

His laughter turned into a coughing fit that had him clutching at his chest. As soon as it had begun, the levity between them was gone.

“I told you that you were fortunate to know what price you paid when you communed with the gods because I did not know until it cost me everything.”

Leaning forward on the throne, Thorgoth hung his head, weariness bearing down on his massive shoulders.

“My foresight was not whole. It showed me every battle that was set against me...except for the final one. When I needed it most, my gift was silent, and the combined might of the Crown Pantheon decimated my people. They attacked at dawn before most were awake. The Skyknife, Sothren’s elvish Pegasus knights, came out of the sky with the sun at their backs. It was minutes before the first alarm sounded and by then most of our wall guard was dead.”

“Shrewd tactic,” Rags said, stroking his chin. “Very shrewd, indeed.”

“I’d have done the same.” Thorgoth said, a sneer now crept into his face. “We all joined the fray, but the enemy was too many. The Pantheon sent its armies, the Order sent its Mages, and the Knights Valiant emptied its Hall to see us undone. I carved my way through their numbers, but it was the elf in the Golden Mask who did this.”

He leaned back, exposing a deep wound carved across his chest. Of all the wounds that remained unchanging on his body, this was the most grievous. His fingers ran along the jagged edge of the cavity.

“Krannok’s magic was the only boon that kept me alive when Sothren unleashed his warmage on us. We fought together, Krannok and I, but the war was lost by then. The Golden Mask’s magic was as potent as dragon’s fire. Had I not landed a critical blow on him, we’d not have the chance to escape here.”

“My wounds were mortal. My people dying. My queen and my children lost to me. All my years of work undone because I put my faith in a broken gift from gods who were not there when their people needed them. Few of us escaped. Gorvok challenged me to Kar’Katta when he saw I was near death, but I denied him my head. My brother long coveted my title. He is fierce and strong, but as sharp as a dwarf’s head. He knew I could best him in battle, so he held his challenge until I was at death’s doorstep. I know him. His rule is only maintained so long as he is feared.”

“You know well indeed,” said Rags. “Krannok says the tribes are split into five across the valley. The Sunderfang are only several hundred strong.”

“There should be thousands,” said his father. “Oh, to return and sound my horn again. Summon our people in unity. To hear their numbers roar one more time. They would rally to its cry, they would.”

Ragoth’s eyes tilted up, looking into memory. “Your war horn. Curved and black?”

Thorgoth nodded.

“I saw it in a hidden place under Krannok’s altar.”

“Hidden from Gorvok. Good. Should you take the mantle of leadership, you would do well to remember the horn. It will bring Orcs to your side. Those are the times you need to stay alive the most.”

“You said you denied Gorvok his challenge, but how did you come to be here?”

“I walked into these mists to die, fighting every step of the way, fully taken by the blood rage…until I found the Crown.”

Thorgoth touched the Crown at his brow and winced. On his body, small tendrils of black slowly worked their way across his body. Rags noticed, but stayed where he was. “You’re in pain. Is it the Crown?”

Thorgoth nodded slowly. “I was at the edge of life when I found the Crown and took it, but its curse trapped me in that abyssal form.”

“But you’re alive because of it.” Rags pointed out.

“I am neither truly alive nor truly dead. The Crown was crafted by the God-Sorcerer himself. He wove it from godstone with his own hands and imbued it with magic from the Abyss, the realm between life and death. Its magic is like a thousand daggers piercing me at once. I hear its whispers, feel its power trapping me here!” Thorgoth slammed his eyes shut. Ragoth touched his eye on instinct. Oh, he knew well what it felt like. The unyielding power of the Orc gods was an agony he could never forget.

Thorgoth opened his eyes again. “But the Crown’s control is not wholly complete. I know its secrets. Listen to me, son. The Crown curses those who touch it but who are not of Selrach’s bloodline. Those it curses turn into Abyssal thralls, obedient to whoever commands the Crown. Those who are  of Selrach’s blood will not draw the curse and will command its power. You.”

Rags pointed to himself in disbelief. “Me? A descendant of the God-Sorcerer?”

“You must be. Why would the gods guide you to a cursed crown you can’t use? It is known that Selrach originated in the north and your mother is Machavian. This Crown is yours by birthright.” A gleam came to the Orc’s eyes, wild and alive.

Ragoth pondered as his gaze settled on the Crown. The compulsion within him flickered as he debated taking it or not. What his father said was true, but he was ignorant of his Machavian lineage. He only knew his grandfather’s name and title, but in truth his ancestry was a mystery to him. What little was known of Selrach was from the accounts of a handful of Elder Elves who had been born in the aftermath of the War of Sorrows. That tumultuous era was known as the Age of Ruin, and little knowledge survived those chaotic centuries. No one even knew what Selrach looked like. He was depicted throughout history as fully adorned in black armor.

“Then let us take the Crown back to Dawntusk together,” Ragoth suggested. “I’m sure Gorvok will be quite surprised to see you.”

Thorgoth sat back in the throne, his expression distant. “It is not so simple. The curse is the Crown’s defense against those who would take it for themselves. Its power, in the right hands—your hands—is such that it exerts your will. It compels others to obey your command—Especially Orcs. None will question your authority, but it has one weakness: the Crown’s magic will not work on those of close blood.”

“Close blood,” echoed the deflated Prince. “Then I can’t use the Crown to command Gorvok to abdicate his power.”

“No,” answered Thorgoth. “You must challenge him and invoke the right of Kar’Katta. Your claim must be undisputed lest another Orc challenge you as soon as you win.”

“But Gorvok is three times my size. No one had bested him since he took control.” Ragoth started pacing again.

Thorgoth snorted. “I agree. You’re a scrawny runt. He’ll kill you with ease.”

Rags brushed his father’s words away and wracked his mind for another way.

“Wait! I can use the Crown. Order the other Orcs to rush him and kill him. He can’t cut down the entire city.”

For the first time, his father looked down on him in disgust. “The Crown’s power does not command them forever. You have not the pride in our ways to know of what you speak. Do this and the Orcs who serve you will resent your ill-gotten power and challenge you. The Crown’s power can be fought, if their resolve is strong enough. Orc rage gives strength over mind-altering magics. It is a defense imbued in us to protect against elvish magic.”

Thorgoth winced again, doubling over for a moment. “Glory is power! Orc pride is a powerful thing, son. To win their true allegiance, you need more than a magic Crown. You need the bearing of a ruler, the authority of a king, the accomplishments of a true warrior. You have the right as my son, as a Sunderfang, and as the heir of the Black Crown. I can’t tell you how to defeat Gorvok, but if you do not ascend in the right way, your rule will be challenged until you are deposed.”

Thorgoth’s hand was gripping his chest now, his pained expression worsening.

“I ruled by strength and guile. My victories gave my rule credence. My glory was unrivaled. Gorvok rules by fear and force of hand. You must choose the path by which you rule. Take the Sunderfang back from Gorvok. Unite the tribes again. And then...”

His voice trailed off as he clutched at his wound, groaning in pain. Rags looked on in worry.

“What is it?”

“Urg! Don’t worry about me. You must defeat Gorvok in single combat. He is brutal and strong, but you’re quick and cunning. I sparred with him many times. He will try to overpower you at every opportunity. Don’t be foolish enough to match him in a contest of power and strength.”

Ragoth took a step forward and stretched out his hand. “Even if the Crown will not command Gorvok, you can still come back with me. We can depose him and unite the tribes together.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he knew the answer.

Thorgoth’s head fell back as he slumped on the throne, groaning. Rags saw his authority, his commanding stature, seem all but drained. The older Orc shook his head as his eyes found the floor.

“There is no going back for me. Not so long as the curse holds me in its thrall. Even now, the curse is fighting the light of your scepter. Soon, it will prevail, and I will once more be trapped in everlasting agony. Do not let it happen. You cannot remove the Crown from my head without killing me. Even were I to return, the Orcs would not accept you over me. What do you think would happen if word spread that I lived again?”

Ragoth didn’t need the gift of foresight to know what would happen.

“The Crowns would mass in numbers and march to the valley before we had an army of any size to repel them.”

“You have heeded your mother’s wisdom all your life. Heed mine as well: it is for the best that I not leave this room alive.”

Rags hearted dropped, his eyes welling. “But...I just found you. I don’t want to lose you.”

Thorgoth leaned forward and ruffled his son’s hair.

“I willingly surrender my life so that you may live yours. It is the greatest gift a father can give his son. My time as the ruler of the Orcs is over. Yours is just beginning if you have the strength to fight for it.”

Ragoth lowered his head, not wanting to accept his father’s fate, but he could see the truth before him. The black tendrils were forming a web of new flesh over Thorgoth’s body, soon to consume him. The red glow was returning to his eyes and mist drifted from his mouth.

Thorgoth saw his hesitation. “Every moment the Crown rests on my head and its curse resides with me, I suffer. Every waking moment I have endured an endless torment. I wish to be at true rest. Free me from this curse. Take my head back so that your claim is strengthened. Lead our people back to unity and triumph over those who would unleash steel against us.”

Ragoth swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed the tears from his eyes. Thorgoth leaned back and gave a deep sigh. His son stepped forward with the scepter in hand, vibrant in white light as it sensed the cursed being before it.

“This scepter is a holy relic, powerful and true. I must use this.”

“So be it,” Thorgoth grumbled. “Purge this curse from me and let me truly rest. I welcome the mercy of death.”

Ragoth stepped onto the throne, standing in front of his father with both hands clutching the scepter as it threatened to shake out of his grip. Arcs of white magic sparked off its crystalline orb. He gave his father a last look and rushed forward, embracing him one last time.

“I’ll never again have the chance to tell you I love you.”

“That human word again. What does it mean?” Thorgoth said.

“Do you remember what it felt like when you were with mother? To cherish her presence and miss her in her absence?”

“That I do.”

“That’s what it means.”

Thorgoth rumbled a last chuckle as he felt his son’s embrace. “Orcs do not have a word for it. I consider it one of many gifts she gave me. I regret our time together is short, but know that you bring me pride, son.”

Rags let go and saw the creeping black flesh had nearly consumed Thorgoth. He summoned the white blade and held it above his head, turned down to stab.

“I am sorry, father.”

Thorgoth gave him a mournful look. “Do not be. I do not wish to live in a world where I can’t have Seranna at my side.”

The scepter trembled at the height of Rags’ lifted arms, stalled in hesitation as the prince struggled to do what he must. In everything choice given to him, he always sought an alternative, but he’d run out of time and only one choice remained. He cried out at the cruel injustice and brought the scepter’s blade down, just as the black flesh reformed and Thorgoth’s eyes resumed their hellish hue.

Ragoth drove the scepter deep into Thorgoth’s chest, the holy relic crackling with a peal of thunder as it fought the curse’s presence. If he hoped the process would be quick and painless, he was disavowed of the notion as Thorgoth clutched the arms of the stone throne and roared in agony.

The curse of the Black Crown and the holy light of Alinora dueled within the heart of the Orc Warlord. The foundations of the very castle shook in tremors and the thunder of magic boomed its deafening peal. Arcs of black and white magic lanced out, but Ragoth held the scepter firm. Howling winds drawn into Thorgoth’s body brought the thick mists with them, but Ragoth held the scepter firm. His father’s final screams seemed lost amidst the maelstrom of thunder and wind, but Ragoth heard his last words.

“I shall die a free Orc!”

As the winds and magic raised to an apex, the scepter’s orb erupted with a concussive blast that tossed him backwards. The winds rose to deafening heights as the torrent of wind and mist swept over Ragoth. He covered his head, prostrated on the floor. Abyssal screams whispered past his ears. He feared the winds might prove strong enough to push him along the floor and then…

Silence. Over as quickly as it started. He risked lifting his head and saw his father’s body on the throne, now a pale thing bereft of life. His head craned upwards; mouth open in an defiant roar to an unseen foe. The black flesh had flaked away, and his eyes were now empty. The scepter lay on the ground, sparking as it exhausted its power, glowing faintly.

His father, the mighty Thorgoth, was gone.

In the quiet aftermath, Ragoth sat alone in the dwarven throne room under the light of the scepter. He wanted to grieve, wanted to cry, wanted to scream his fury at the gods in their divine place, but in the end, he buried his grief and ate one of the few rations left in his pack. All the while his eyes were fixed on the Crown. It remained on Thorgoth’s head. His every thought was on the choice that now lay in his immediate future. The Black Crown cursed his father to a living damnation as an abyssal creature. A truly horrid fate to anyone that touched it.

It would be his fate if his blood was not truly descended from the God-Sorcerer. Incredible that over a thousand years later, his presence was still being felt. A son of Namaria he might be, but his mother was that of Machavia and her blood was strong. Dark hair, eyes of azure, and pale skin were the well-known features of a Machavian, ones he and his mother both exhibited. It was possible Selrach’s bloodlines endured in the north, isolated as its people preferred. He fed himself sustenance of dried meat and deep memory.

Recounting Machavia’s history in his mind held many questions and few answers. It would be possible to trace his lineage back if he left, traveled to Machavia and gained access to the nobility’s historical records. It was as daunting a task as going back to Namaria and confronting the king in his own throne room. It would take months of travel with gold he didn’t have, protection he couldn’t afford, and no one to accompany him but Deni.

Possible? Yes.

Probable? No.

In the end, he’d be back here with the same uncertainty facing him. Either he was of the right blood to hold the Crown, and he more likely than any other. Or he wasn’t and the curse would take him. He imagined writhing in agony as a cursed thrall, waiting for the day someone could venture far enough into the castle to end his misery. His only luxury was the scant chance of an unknown bloodline.

Pacing in thought for a hand, his eyes never left the Crown. He was not here by some divine fate or ancient prophecy, but his own actions. He had dared the dangers surrounding the Crown and found the same thing he had before leaving his friends behind: naught but the chance to forge his own future. No jester to mislead him. No brother to pummel him. No sister to mutilate him. No false father to imprison him. No Auroch to guide him. No Cortland to save him. Only one elf to support him.

After all was said and done, if he truly could wear the Crown and use its power, every choice he made would affect more than himself. He would have the true responsibility of a prince, and that path he had only gleamed through his mother’s tutelage. What sort of ruler would he be if he had his crown and throne?

He wiped his hand over his mouth and filled himself with every ounce of courage available. Alone in the tomb of his father, he marched up to the stone throne and ascended to confront his father’s dead face, hands reaching to the Crown. His trembling fingers paused above the forged godstone surface as the enormity of his choice threatened to overwhelm him. In these fearful seconds, he said the closest thing to a prayer to any god listening.

“If I rule, I swear this: never a tyrant.”

Ragoth gave his life to his choice and touched the Crown on his father’s brow.

He stood still, breath held, sweat pouring down his face as fingers clutched the cool forged godstone. He waited for the curse to fill him until finally his lungs burned for air and his tension eased. Slowly, he wrapped his fingers around the crown and drew it closer to his vision so he could inspect it.

Forged godstone was a thing of dark beauty. As black and shining as polished obsidian but shot through with faint veins of deep amethyst only visible up close. The longer he touched it, the more he realized its curse was not taking hold of him. He felt its draw, the magic compulsion that drove him before was now satiated, filling him with a warmth of comfort when holding it. His entire body was alive with pins and needles.

“I live!” The words came out in a laugh.

His triumph was almost complete. The Crown, unfortunately, looked to have partially sunk into his father’s flesh in its occupancy on his brow. After a finger of time trying to pull, push, and pry it, there was no other option left. He would have to cut it out of his father’s flesh.

His blade was gone, but fortunately his father was still well armed. He took a large dagger from a side belt and examined it. It gleamed with a mirror sheen, flawless and sharp. Now he understood what Oli tried to tell him: this dagger was enchanted. When he tested its edge against a leather strap, it sliced through with almost no effort.

Ragoth leaned his father’s head to the side, hoping to strike the underside of the Crown with the blade and knock it loose. The Crown was made of forged godstone, so an enchanted dagger was unlikely to damage it.

He swung, striking the Crown. An arcane crackle sparked where the blade and the Crown made contact and the dagger shattered like glass. He gawked at the empty pommel still left in his hand, the tiny fragments of the enchanted metal scattering uselessly. He tossed it with a sigh and grabbed another dagger, this one unenchanted and stuck the blade under the Crown, working to cut it free from the surrounding flesh. This blade did not shatter, thankfully, and with a little work he finally pried the Crown off. He examined its surface, its three ascending spikes, and promptly stuffed it into a satchel hanging on his side. Then, he took the dagger and eyed his father’s head.

One grim task yet to complete.

CHAPTER THIRTY

"The risks of adventuring are many, but when all the world comes crashing down, you’ll find there’s no greater ally at your side than legs accustomed to running.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

The trek back to the Stonetusk Gate was a much less arduous affair than arriving. Without the Crown’s curse to summon or enthrall the aberrant monsters, the castle was little more than the dark, empty halls of a long lost dwarven king. The mist was gone, leaving only a still quiet. The Undeaths that remained lay still on the ground, finally at rest. When he emerged from the entrance and stepped onto the balcony, the faint light of the dawning sun glowed over the peaks of the jagged crags that formed the edges of Dreadmour’s boundaries. He blinked to adjust to the light and crossed back over the bridge.

The bridge across the chasm soared hundreds of feet above the crashing waves of the ocean below and finally he could place the repetitive hissing sound. How was he to know the sound of crashing waves? It was one thing to be told what something was and another to see it for himself. He stared at the waves, transfixed for a few moments.

Without the mist to obscure it, the true height of Grimhold was visible. It soared overhead, a marvel of dwarven manufacture that rivaled the mountains into which it was built. Astounding that this would be here, unbeknownst to any other. His knowledge of the dwarves’ ancient homelands and strongholds held no mention of a place called Grimhold. But this was a mystery for another day. He had more urgent matters.

The widened portion of the path and its many pits were visible. He was surprised to see it was only a hundred or so foot spans across. Not quite as vast as the mist’s obscurity made it seem. The pits themselves were not as numerous or wide either. The bodies of the wretched creatures who fed on his emotions remained, withering under the sun in formless death. He booted them into a nearby pit and watched them careen into a black abyss before hearing a splash in return.

He marched up the path no one had ever returned from and passed back through the Stonetusk Gate, weary but triumphant.

And alone.

He stayed still, eyes scanning the dreary wood for any sign of his friends. Had he been gone the full three days? Everything that had transpired had carried such urgency, every step so fraught with peril that he had lost track of time. He had a constant hunger and weariness gnawing at him. He sniffed for a trace of their scent. Nothing. Not elf nor Orc in his nose, but…there, a whiff of smoke. He followed the scent until he found a smoldering cookfire nearby.

His strides came to a halt when he took stock of the camp. Deni and Iggi weren’t there, but the campsite was in apparent disarray. The stone ring  around the campfire lay scattered as if kicked. Bedrolls had been left empty. Dark stains littered the ground near the fire. The dirt itself was filled with deep scuff marks and looked unsettled, kicked about. A flank of boar meat, barely seared, lay next to the smoldering coals.

Something happened. There was a struggle.

He circled the area, looking for signs of his companions escaping, but the only clue was the trail of disturbed leaves leading away from the camp. He took some of the dark stained dirt in his hand and held it to his nose.

Blood. Not fresh, but not fully dry. Less than a few hours old. A struggle, likely between Iggi and another. She would never let herself be dragged away willingly. She must have been knocked out after a fight and taken. Someone had Iggi and Deni, but who?

“Gorvok,” Ragoth said aloud. It had to be. Or one of those loyal to him. How? How did he know? How much could he know? Did they not cover their tracks well enough? Rags took a deep breath to keep panic from overwhelming him. He recalled his mother’s wisdom: When you are unsure of what your enemy knows, assume they know everything.

He shook out of his thoughts. Then there was nothing left to be done in this place. A twinge of regret flashed as he wished Cort and Mora could be here with him. Even Oli would be a welcome ally.

He had to collide with the consequences of his decisions or abandon forever the people he fought so hard for. Escape was not an option. Deni and Iggi’s lives depended on him. He ran out of the camp, hoping that Gorvok’s pawn would be slowed enough that he might be able to catch him before they reached Dawntusk. But on foot, it would take most of the day and they had a head start of hours, at least.

He skidded to a stop, a familiar scent in his nose and a soft grunting catching his ear. He looked aside and saw Piggy nearby, rooting for grubs. He ran up to Piggy and the boar regarded him with disinterest as he jumped on its back. He kicked his heels into the boar’s flank.

Piggy didn’t move.

“I don’t have time for this.” Ragoth snarled, jumping off. He pushed and prodded, but the stubborn beast refused to move. Fed up, Ragoth marched up to Piggy’s face and punched the boar on top of his head. He grabbed the tusks as the massive beast snorted angrily and forced it to look him in the eyes.

“Piggy, go to Dawntusk!”

Whether it was that he utilized Iggi’s command style or because he screamed it with the force of an enraged Ogre, but the boar took off as soon as he re-mounted.

As dawn was breaking over Cravensrest, Cortland arrived at a castle courtyard in sheer chaos. He came to a halt at the entrance as dozens of guards scrambled to don armor, line their mounts up, all as they attempted to present a minute amount of professional presentation.

In the center of the chaos, he spied Captain Gareth, red-faced, shouting orders. Next to him, Sir Galdren sat atop his mount, resplendent in the same shining armor Cortland had seen him wear back when they met in Havenlore. The gleaming armor with its mirror sheen made him stand apart, like beholding a silver gem laced in radiant blues amidst a pile of rusty rubbish. He was not as red-faced as Gareth, but he looked none too pleased, either.

Cortland caught the arm of one of his fellow guards and questioned him.

“What’s going on?”

The man jerked his thumb in Galdren’s direction. “The Captain an’ his brother are gonna ride on the Orc city and run them down. Kill the whole lot. Ay, let go!” He looked down at Cort’s hand clenched tightly into his arm.

Cort yanked him closer, snarling through clenched teeth. “When?”

“Soon as we get our shit in order, Cort. Now get yer paw off me and go get yer armor or stay here with the belly-achin’ squires.” He tore his arm free and went to join the others. Cortland stood for a moment in the castle's threshold, staring down in the vain hope this wasn’t happening. He had never expected his friends' lives to hinge on his actions. All he wanted now was Rags back and safe. That made his choice easy.

He turned around and bolted back into the city, never relenting in his sprint until he arrived at Longtusk’s hall and came up on the Orcborn guards, conversing with each other. Their warm greeting for him faltered upon seeing his urgency.

“Is Mora inside?” He asked, chest heaving as he bent over his knees.

“Why?” they asked.

Cort pointed to the outer wall. “The city guards are massing as I speak. They’re going to run down the Orcs in Dawntusk—including Rags!”

The two Orcborn shared a look of alarm and one of them ran inside the hall as the other one leaned forward.

“Rags there wit da Orcs, Cort?”

“He is,” Cort nodded. “Alive for now, but not if the guards rout them.”

“Ya gonna go after Rags?”

Before Cort could answer, Longtusk squeezed his massive gut through the straining door frame with a huff and faced the human, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“What’s this I hear about the guard hunting Orcs?”

“Sir Galdren and Captain Gareth are leading the charge, gathering men right now. Hundreds strong, maybe a thousand. They’re going to cull the Orc village and kill them all.”

Longtusk clucked his tongue. “Ah. Damn shame for them.”

“You’re not going to warn them?” Cort’s mouth fell.

“Warn them? They’ll be doing me a favor. Gorvok has had this coming for a long time. With Gorvok dead, the tribes across the Valley will unite under a different ruler—hopefully one willing to do business with me.” The massive Orc leaned back against the door frame.

Cort did his best to go toe-to-toe with the burly Orc, but the top of his head only came up to the bottom of Longtusk’s jaw and the gut kept him distant.

“My friend Rags is in that city. The prince of Namaria! He’ll die with the rest of them.”

The Orc held his hand over his right breast. “And I truly lament his passing. Would that he was here with us instead of in the guard’s warpath. I’d have welcomed such a bright mind into our fold. It would be nice to not have to do all the thinking around here.”

“And you’ll do nothing while your own kin die?”

The Orc laughed. “What army do you think I have at my disposal? As if my men would fight both man and Orc for one Orcborn? Even a prince? You’re a mad lad, but that is true stupidity. Right, boys?”

The Orcborn gathered around Longtusk gave a half-hearted agreement, their heads bobbing in unison while their eyes flashed a worried look to Cort.

Disgusted, Cort turned and ran off, leaving Longtusk at the entrance of his hall. Grumbling to himself, the Orc went back inside and brushed past his underlings. They exchanged conflicted glances behind his back.

Only minutes later, Cort barged into the Horse’s Arse, seeing a few sparse souls eating breakfast and morning ale. He found Mora in her favored spot: sleeping in the corner booth with her hooves propped up on the table and surrounded by a mountain of empty ale tankards. He slammed his fist into the table and Mora jolted awake, standing up and fists at the ready within the blink of an eye.

“Ah! What? Cortland! Damnation, boy, what is it now?”

“Rags is in trouble. The Regent has Sir Galdren and Captain Gareth leading a force of men to kill everyone in the Orc city. Rags is still alive there.”

Mora gave an exhausted groan and plopped back down in her seat, grabbing the tankards to see if any had a swig left.

“My services are for sale, if you need it.”

Cort’s fists clenched and his face grew red. “Blood and bollocks, Mora! Have you no heart? He’s our friend! You fought for him.”

“He was my employer. I protected him because he paid me, not because he’s my friend,” said the Auroch. “You think I’ll risk life and limb for nothing but gratitude?”

“You selfish cow!” Cort swiped his hand at the empty tankards, scattering them across the tavern. Mora’s mouth drew into a tight line, her eyes narrowed as she steadily put her hooves down and slowly stood up to her full height. Imposing as she was, Cort stared right back up at her.

“He deserves better than to be cut down like a dog.”

Mora tapped her finger on the top of his head. “And what’re you gonna do? Rush out to Dawntusk and face down all the Orcs to warn him? It might save Rags, sure, but it’ll cost the guard in lives. They find out it was you, they’ll cut your head off as a traitor and that’ll put an end to your dreams of adventuring, won’t it?”

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “I’ll not leave Rags to die on a guard’s sword.”

“Then you’ll die with him,” she replied. “Of all the pig-headed things you’ve ever done, Cort, this is by far the worst. Accept that some people’s destiny is outside of your own.”

“I spit in the eye of destiny. Better to die with my friend than live my life as an honor-less wretch.” He shot back.

“Honor doesn’t put food on your table, nor a roof over your head. Gold is an easier master than honor.” She snapped.

Cortland gave her a disdainful sneer and then looked down at the table where she drank her days and nights away. He turned and marched out.

“Rags would come for you were you in peril. He valued us more than gold, more than his own goals.”

“I don’t need a bookish Orcborn to come to my rescue, and he’s smart enough to know that.” She shot back.

Cort’s voice faded as he left the tavern.

“He’d still do it.” 

Mora watched Cortland vanish into the dawn lit street and snorted to herself.

Cort wasn’t twenty steps out of the tavern when the door flew open and he looked back, hoping to see Mora following him. Instead, he found her. The same goblin he’d almost throttled to death in her own smithy, now running up to him.

She looked up and asked. “Heard wot ye said back there. Rags be in trouble inna Orc city?”

“Yes.” he replied cautiously.

“Me owes that lad me life. Kept that big lummox from stranglin’ me after we escaped tha’ dragon. Yer a right bastard, but me wants t’help Rags.”

Cort almost fell over himself. “I’m sure it’s quite a tale, but every second counts. I have to get to the Dawntusk, but I don’t know where it is and the only man in the city who does won’t—”

“Me’ll take ye right to it. Me got a sister me wants t’keep safe too. Gah–!” She’d hardly finished her sentence when Cort hefted her under his arm and took off in a run for the stables to retrieve his mare. In short order he had his mare saddled, out of the stables, and galloping for the gate. Their exit came to a rather abrupt halt when they approached the edge of the Muckfoot Quarter, stopped by no less than a round of Longtusk’s men already mounted on horseback.

“What’s this?” asked Cort.

The one who spoke up was Baros, the half-orc he’d beaten in the Warg Pit.

“We goin’ wit you, Cort. Rags need us, he does.”

The others nodded in agreement.

“Longtusk won’t like you going against his orders.” Cort said.

Baros shrugged. “He said he won’t help you. Didn’t say we couldn’t. Course, he don’t know we helpin’ right now, thinks we runnin’ an errand. Better ask fer forgiveness than permission, he always say.”

“This could be dangerous,” warned Cort, patting his sword. “We could die doing this.”

Oli’s head snapped up at him. “We?”

“Better fer the Orcborn prince than anyone else. Any chance t’ piss off the Regent sit wit us well. He’s had it out fer us fer too long. You lead, Cort, an’ we’ll follow.”

Cortland weighed their words, and their bravery emboldened him. He lifted his spiked club in the air. He squinted, thinking the spikes on it were larger than he remembered.

“The time for speeches has passed. Damn the consequences! We ride!” He led a charge out of the quarter, through the city gates, and towards the distant wilds.

With a crack that split the tunnel asunder, the dragon forced itself through the opening and emerged from its stone tomb with a roar that bellowed across Karthak’s side. It stretched its wings wide and craned its neck, sniffing at the air. It lowered its head and removed the traveling cloak that had been caught in its jaw. For weeks now, trapped in the stone cave, it fought to free itself. All the while, it breathed in the scent of an Orcborn. A scent now etched into its memory. Now, it was free, and the scent of its captor was foremost in its mind.

Amidst a plume of snow and stone, the dragon took into the sky and followed the scent into Dreadmour.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“In your adventures, the direst of circumstances may occur: conflict with your life at stake. Flee, if you can. Fight, if you must. And if you must fight, be sure of body and mind to win.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

The guards at the gates of Dawntusk paced with little attentiveness to duty. Their days were often dull and uneventful. This deep into the wilds of the Valley, there was little to concern themselves with when Gorvok could end any conflict by wading into the midst of it.

When the slaag carrying a bloody pack and followed by a boar strode up to the gate, they thought little of him beyond curiosity. He strode with a swiftness and confidence that belied his shorter stature. He had his hand in the satchel slung around his shoulder. They picked up their one-handed axes and stood in front of the gate.

He met their glares as he approached and, once he was within a stone’s throw, he said, “Stand down.”

There was such an authoritative tone to his voice, spoken with a commanding presence that tore through their cautiousness and compelled obedience. As one, the two guards lowered their axes, confused but without reservation. Yes, why not stand down? He was little harm, surely.

“Step aside,” Ragoth said, marching past them as they parted to allow him entrance. “Follow me.”

As one, they fell in behind him and followed without a second thought. He wasn’t unknown to them, and he had a good reason for needing their help, they knew.

Rags held the forged godstone as he clutched the Black Crown in his satchel. It worked! His father was right. He had only to touch the Crown and exert his will forcefully enough. The arcane power was there, and he felt it. Even having only possessed it for so short a time, he could sense its presence. Its powerful magic worked to his will. The Crown was truly his.

Through the streets, he marched with a single-minded focus. Orcs who had spurned his very existence watched his passing and, pulled by an unbidden compulsion, they followed in his wake, their previous disdain now silent. He drew them in, first a round, then two rounds. Soon he had an entourage of thirty or more. The Crown had a subtle latent effect. The Orcs could sense something about him, similar to the compulsion that drove him to the Crown.

He happened upon one of the Orcborn girls who shared the hut with him. She looked up at him and her eyes widened, as though she’d never seen him before.

“Where is Gorvok?” he asked.

“A-at his throne with the traitors.”

Rags heart jumped, anger flashed in his eye, and she recoiled until her back was against a post.

“Are they dead?”

She shook her head, and he broke into a sprint. No sooner had he passed than she joined the throng of Orcs following him. Rags’ sprint slowed before long, and he grimaced at the thought of why. He had pushed himself past his limits. The barrage of constant fear had drained him as had much as the physical exertion. He hadn’t rest well since leaving for the Stonetusk Gate, and now he was about to challenge an Orc chieftain to combat.

The Commons where Gorvok lorded over the Sunderfang was ringed by a throng of onlooking warriors, hunters, and denizens of Dawntusk. Rags could hear Gorvok’s voice blasting proclamations to a disinterested audience who had witnessed this spectacle before. Those who noticed his approach heard Ragoth bellow “Move!” and threw themselves out of his path. He charged into the Commons.

“Gorvok, I invoke the right of Kar’Katta!”

Rounds of Orcs snapped their heads to him, held in rapt attentiveness by the sheer authority of his voice bolstered by the Crown’s magic. Gorvok was the last to turn to him, holding a limp Denith by the leg in his grip, his axe ready at the neck. Near him, Oothor held a snarling Iggi bound at the hands, squirming to escape. Malicious was the sneering grin that crossed the chieftain's face. He dropped Deni to face Ragoth.

“I spared your life, slaag, and how do you and that traitorous Magnus repay me? By conspiring to usurp me.”

Rags drew himself up. “I said I invoke the right of Kar’Katta.”

“You have no claim, slaag.” Gorvok’s grin mocked him.

“I claim the right of Kar’Katta as the son of Thorgoth of the Sunderfang and Queen Seranna of Namaria.”

Gorvok’s sneer faltered. “So, the humans did not cut you from her womb.”

Ragoth reached into the bloody bundle in his arms.

“I went into the mists of the Deep Valley, Uncle. Through the Stonetusk Gate. I drove back the horrors there and cut the curse out of the Deep Valley’s heart. You have taken many heads, Uncle, but I have taken my father’s.”

Ragoth pulled his father’s head out of the bundle and held it high for all to see. Gasps and exultations filled the air. Word spread through the city like lightning, drawing Orc, half-orc, and slave alike. The throng around the Commons fully circled them, four deep, crammed together to witness the challenge. If there was any doubt about the identity of the head, Gorvok’s startled reaction left none.

Ragoth knew he was now in the arena his mother had trained him for. She had schooled him in many things, but politics and leadership were the ones where she imparted the most knowledge. He recalled her every word, her most whispered secrets, every twist of nuance. The eyes of all Orcs were on him and the performance he had to give now. If he couldn’t convey the stature of his claim, to accept him as their leader, killing Gorvok wouldn’t matter.

“You didn’t kill Thorgoth in the right of Kar’Katta as you have claimed all these years, Uncle. You let him walk into the Deep Valley to become a cursed thing dwelling amidst the undead. Those who knew this truth have long been dead, or am I wrong? Unlike you, I invoked this right, and I return now to take back the mantle you stole from him.”

Gorvok’s grin was gone.

Ragoth knew he had the crowd in his grip. Even without using the Crown, invoking the name of his father was speaking legend to life. The realization of his true lineage laid bare swept like wildfire on their lips. The entirety of the city was poised upon their toes.

“I am not merely Thorgoth’s son and a son of the Sunderfang, but a crowned prince of Crown Pantheon itself.”

A rousing clamor of Orcish voices climbed in magnitude. Gorvok glowered with all his furor, but his fearful grip on their loyalty waned by the second. Ragoth reached into his satchel. Now he would turn them once and for all.

“But more than that, I am myth made flesh. I am the blood of the God-Sorcerer. Look and see the truth, Uncle, for I am the Heir of the Black Crown!” His hands shot above his head, holding the Crown for all to see. Every Orc voice raised at once in a cacophony of uproarious cries and roars. Even Gorvok went pale at the sight of it, his lips silently muttering. Rags strode in circles, presenting his crown to every eye as proof of his claims. He didn’t need its power, but still he tapped into it.

“I am the Heir of Selrach, and I wield his Crown’s power!”

The power of the Crown gave his words truth. In no mind was his claim questionable. Not even to Gorvok, whose axe lowered as he watched his seat of power slide through his fingers. Oothor let Iggi out of his grasp, too caught in the moment to remember his duty. She worked to cut her bindings and, once free, joined in the clamor in favor of her brother.

It would be so easy, Rags knew, to turn them on Gorvok. One command and they would, but he had to heed his father’s wisdom. Orcs were not a people he knew well enough to play with their beliefs and systems of honor. It would be akin to asking a Crown’s knights to turn on their king. His glory has lifted him, but there remained one task left. He saw Deni on the ground, relieved by the elf’s visible breathing.

As he stepped towards Gorvok, he stretched his hand towards his Uncle.

“Uncle, my claim is indisputable, but I am not without thought. Your people, our people, can be united once more. I would have you at my side as my general, the strongest Orc warrior as the tip of the sword that will protect our kind. What say you?”

Uncertainty crossed Gorvok’s face, but it vanished quickly. He raised his axe in defiance.

“Your Crown holds no power over me, slaag. When your blood feeds the dirt, there will be but one Heir to that Crown. I accept your claim. I will rend you asunder and devour your heart. Krannok was unwise to put such much faith in so meager an heir.”

Gorvok hefted his one-handed axe and gave a roar. He was off with a kick of dust, charging with all his immense weight and power brought to bear without the weight of armor to slow him down. Rags tossed the Crown and satchel down and ran to meet Gorvok in the center of the Commons. He pulled free another of his father’s long, enchanted daggers–this one long enough to be a short sword in his grip.

The distance was only a few seconds apart, but Ragoth moved with calculated steps. A calm washed across him, piercing his exhaustion and fear. He had ridden for hours until Piggy refused to carry him. He ran the rest of the distance, but running was a function of the body, not the mind. Hours spent in a trance pouring through every bout, every grapple, every strike he ever learned. This was not so different. His brother had always been taller, lording his size over his halfkin brother just as Gorvok did to his subjugates. Then, he thought his brother’s size and prowess was too much to overcome in a straight fight. He thought within the boundaries of his tutelage and realized he had to think outside them. Mora’s lessons dwelled within the forefront of his mind, but although they were helpful, they would only keep him alive longer, not kill Gorvok for him. Fighting him blow-for-blow was suicide.

Gorvok’s axe raised, signaling his blow, and letting out a frightful roar, just as Mora taught him. Just as he expected. He shot forward with a burst of speed he’d held back so that when Gorvok brought his axe down, it would sink into the ground as Ragoth fell flat on his back and went sliding under his legs.

His savior was not his brother’s cruelty, nor his books and their wisdom. Not even Cort or Mora’s practical knowledge that formed the foundation of his counter, the only blow he needed to land more than any other. He sent a short prayer to Physicary Findwell as he stabbed his blade into the back of Gorvok’s heel and slashed through the thick tendon.

Rags was rewarded with a roar of pain tearing through the air. The Orcs that ringed the Commons sent their roars of approval as one as Gorvok dropped to his knees. His attempt to stand led to him collapsing back to the dirt. Rags whipped around and with the advantage of confusion on his side, he brought his sword down on the back of the other foot until it caught Gorvok’s bone and stuck in his flesh.

The Orc chieftain spun with his fist, a massive thing of bone and flesh, and drove it into Ragoth’s face and chest. Not in all of creation was there a physical blow that struck with such force. Pain exploded throughout his entire body. Ragoth flew backwards and violently tumbled across the ground until he slammed against the timbers under Gorvok’s throne. His senses evaded him as he threw his hands out, trying to grasp reality while it spun away and left him dizzy and stunned. He couldn’t think, couldn’t see, his mouth opened, and whimpering noises emerged.

Ragoth was orc-punched.

As the world tumbled in front of his vision, his eye tried to focus on one thing, anything, to center himself. What he saw was something that Gorvok’s body had blocked. It took a moment to recognize the face in front of him.

“Kra…Krannok? Uncle?” He said, but no answer came. The noise of the crowd, Iggi’s screeching cries cheering him, Gorvok’s howl of pain. So distant. He blinked as his vision focused on Krannok’s face. Why was it sideways? Where was the rest of him?

With horror, it dawned on him that he was staring at Krannok’s severed head. The bloody thing sat on one of the steps leading up the wooden dais, his empty eyes staring back at Ragoth. Through the hazy depths of his addled mind, his focus returned with sharp clarity and the shameless cruelty of Gorvok was fully displayed. Ragoth’s sullen gawking turned into a mask of unbridled fury. The depths of a rage he had long suppressed came rushing to the surface and erupted. That familiar red tint crept into the side of his vision until it consumed everything, and all his sight went red as blood.

The stupor washed away and there was nothing left of the Namarian prince. Every sense came alive at once, an awareness that bordered on omnipotence. Every muscle tensed, coiled and seeking to unleash on a target. Gone was the pampered prince with a mind full of volumes of knowledge. Gone was the soft boy raised in comforts and luxury, who never knew true hardship. In that moment, his human half was no more.

There was only the Orc.

He turned in time to see Gorvok, lunging with his axe soaring down on him. His uncle was fast, but Ragoth was faster still. A quick tilt of his body, more deftly than he’d ever moved, and the axe sank into the ground beside him.

Gorvok’s face filled his vision, his roar washing over Ragoth in his state of fearlessness. Ragoth roared back, filled with the fury of the Sunderfang coursing through his heart. Gorvok’s hands left the axe and instead gripped Ragoth’s torso, attempting to crush him. Ragoth felt cracks, but pain took no hold over him. His hands shot out and gripped Gorvok’s large tusks. He planted his feet on Gorvok’s face and kicked. His body drew taut, bellowing his rage, and with all his might, the young prince tore one of the warlord’s tusks off with a great snap! He reared back and stabbed it into Gorvok’s eye.

Gorvok fell back, clutching at his face as blood seeped through his fingers. Rags was on his feet, trembling, fingers grasping at the air. He saw the handle of Gorvok’s axe, still lodged in the ground, and grabbed it.

In Gorvok’s hand, the axe was one-handed, but Ragoth fought to pry it out of the ground and hefted it in the same manner Mora would heft her mace. The rage fueling him burned deep, and his arms trembled as he lifted it. He fought to keep his balance, to carry the axe steady, to put one foot in front of the other as every drop of his strength was spent in a last charge towards his singular foe. Gorvok saw him coming and ignored his ruined eye to throw himself at Ragoth, arms outstretched to throttle his neck.

Ragoth’s ear-rending scream tore through the air as the axe carved down into Gorvok’s skull. The massive Orc slammed into the ground with a heavy thud, axe half-buried in his skull. In spite of the grievous injury, Gorvok’s twitching arms came up, still reaching for him, still drawing breath in defiance. Rags grabbed the axe again and yanked it free, now struggling to heft it back into position. Gorvok struggled to his knees and hands. The grisly wounds in his head poured blood onto the ground, a gruesome sight to behold even for a bloodthirsty audience of Orcs.

Gorvok tilted his head, beholding Ragoth’s final blow as the axe soared once more through the air. His last thoughts were a torrent of disbelief and shock. How? How had this bastard slaag bested him? How did he so badly underestimate this boy?

Oh, but he was truly Thorgoth’s son.

The axe struck true at the neck and Gorvok’s head fell from his shoulders to land in the blood-soaked dirt. There Ragoth stood as the blood rage faltered and everything it numbed flooded back. The pain, the exhaustion, his ability to think rationally; all paid back threefold for the time it was gone. Focused now, he heard a roaring wind chanting his name.

No. Not the wind. The Orcs.

Gasping, spent, covered in a dearth of wounds and blood, Ragoth found himself at the center of the Commons with the Orcs of Dawntusk raining their cries of joy and victory upon him. Deafening roars, thundering voices, cries of exaltation!

Their heir.

Their prince.

His arms lifted, but his strength failed. His knees threatened to buckle underneath him when he saw Deni’s motionless form nearby. It was all his effort to lurch the few steps to where Deni lay and collapse onto his knees, cradling his elvish friend’s head in his lap. A trickle of blood from a blow to the head marred Deni’s ashen face. The light of day faded as the Orcs pressed around him and celebrated the fall of their former leader.

Rags patted Deni on the face a few times until the elf roused.

“Denith. Wake up. Please.”

Deni’s eyes fluttered, but never opened. His thoughts sifted through his memories of Physicary Findwell’s lessons in medicine to see if he could determine the extent of his injuries. A deep gash, but the bleeding had stopped, and no bone was visible. He could be out for hours yet. He turned to Iggi and hefted the elf into her arms.

“What happened?” he asked.

Iggi jerked her head to the crowd. “Oothor attack us. Ambush near dawn. Me fight him. He smash head. Lucky me have strong head. Wake up in front of Gorvok. Would be dead if not for brother. Iggi owe you life and loyalty.”

Rags eyes narrowed. He grabbed the Crown, summoned his will and shouted. “Oothor, kneel!”

Oothor, trying his best to not be seen amidst the crowd, dropped at once to his knees and the Orcs surrounding him cleared away. He pried his sword out of Gorvok’s heel, took hold of Gorvok’s head and marched up to Oothor as the Orc cowered. The crowd watched impassively, waiting to see their prince dole out his justice and revenge.

“You were loyal to my uncle, Oothor.” said Ragoth, placing the tip of his blade at Oothor’s throat and lifting the head. “Had you defied him, Krannok would be alive. Were I not swift enough, you’d have cost me my dearest friend and my sister, as well. What have you to say?”

“I only did as I was ordered. Gorvok was my chieftain and I obeyed. I did not know that you were Thorgoth’s blood or the Heir of the Black Crown.” Oothor plead pitifully.

“And now that you do?”

Oothor bowed at his feet. “You are the Heir of the Black Crown. You bested Gorvok in Kar’Katta. By right, the Sunderfang is yours to command. My life is forfeit.”

Ragoth felt the weight of all the eyes around him, waiting in bated breath for his first declaration. He knew what was expected of him, but now that he had what he fought so hard for, he knew what sort of leader he wanted to be. He stabbed the blade into the dirt by his side.

“It is my right to put those who were loyal to my uncle to the blade, is it not?”

Oothor lifted his head and nodded. “It is.”

“It is my right…but not my desire. Gorvok’s blood is the only Orc blood I intend to spill. I will not turn my blade on my own kin. The day will come when those who want us dead will march on us and when that day comes, I want your loyalty and your blade at my side, Oothor.” He held out his hand.

Oothor was stunned, words failing him as he considered Ragoth’s mercy. Slowly, he lifted his head.

“I will fight and die for you.” He clasped arms with Ragoth tightly. “For the Heir of the Black Crown!”

“Then on your feet. From this moment forth, Orcs shall never kneel again!” Ragoth proclaimed and helped him stand.

A rousing approval came from the assembly and Oothor, once his foe, joined them in shouting their support into the air. The Orcs lifted their arms and voices in celebration as they chanted the words over and over.

“Never kneel! Never kneel! Never kneel!”

A loud clamor came from the front of the city, and the Orc’s chanting fell away. The unfamiliar sound of horses turned all in alarm. Rags couldn’t see over the throng of taller bodies, so he ordered the closest one to lift him up. Once clearing the heads, he caught sight of a cavalry charge heading right for the Commons with a round of Orcborn and at their head a loud, braying man waving a spiked club over his head.

“It can’t be,” Rags said. He lifted his voice and cried. “Stand aside! Let them enter!”

The Orcs in the Commons parted and left a wide berth for the newcomers, their weapons ready at the sight of a human. The riders came to a halt just outside of the Commons and Rags jaw fell. He jumped down, Gorvok’s head still in his hand, and approached as disbelief flooded him.

Cortland launched himself off of his horse and came running at him, laughing. He took Rags in an embrace that lifted him off his feet. The two let out a chorus of laughs before Cort set him down and dug his knuckles into Rags’ head. Then he punched Rags on the arm angrily. Ragoth winced as the Orcs let out a warning growl and advanced, but Rags waved them off.

“If you ever get out of my sight again, I’ll break your arm.” Cortland took his head in a tight headlock. “Stupid thing you did, Rags, letting me talk myself into leaving you and the others. Won’t let you do something like that again.”

“Cortland.” Rags tried to breathe, his insides hurt, but he refused to break Cort’s embrace. “How? Oli said you were dead.”

“I was too angry to die.”

As they spoke, Oli came running up to her sister. “Oi, Iggi. Good seein’ ya.”

Iggi frowned. “What sister do here? Know you not welcome.”

“A fine welcome fer yer sister. Me came to give ye a touch o’ help an’ ye get yer tits in a bunch.” Oli scoffed.

Iggi spat something back in Orcish. Oli bumped chests with her, spitting curses, and soon the two started swatting at each other, bickering while Deni was slumped over Iggi’s shoulder unawares.

Cort let Rags go and finally came to an awareness of everything around him. He stood amidst a throng of Orcs looking down their noses at him, none too friendly, and Rags himself, bloody, covered in wounds, and gripping a massive severed head.

“Rags, what in the puss-puckered damnation have you been doing here?”

Ragoth shrugged. “A lot, actually. It’s a bit of a tale and one I’ll be glad to tell you once I’ve rested. Deni took a thump to the head from Oothor, but I trust he’ll be fine with rest. Right now, I fear I’m dead on my feet.”

Cort gripped his shoulders. “You’ll be dead before sundown if you stay here. The tales can wait. I came here to warn you. The city Regent–” He paused as a hand tapped on his shoulder. Baros leaned in with the other Orcborn huddled behind him. Their curious stares and breathless anticipation had them on their toes, waiting.

“Eh, Cort? This him?” Baros pointed at Rags, who was surprised by the sight of so many Orcborn clad in urban garb riding with Cortland. Clearly, Cort hadn’t spent all their time apart in mere idleness.

Cort nodded. “Aye, this is him. Rags, you’ve got a few fans back in Cravensrest that wanted to help.”

“It’s him, boys! The Prince of Orcs! We wuzn’t too late!” Baros spun back to the others.

Rags found himself lifted off his feet and onto Baros’ shoulders, finally dropping Gorvok’s head. The Orcborn around him cheered. The full-blooded Orcs surrounding them, wary at first, approved of the praise and joined in. From his sudden perch, Rags saw the crowd of his kin—full blood and half-blood alike—chanting his name in praise. Cort yelled his name, trying to catch his attention. Iggi and Oli were still exchanging sibling blows.

Even through the pain and weariness that had him at the knife’s edge of passing out, Rags was overcome with the rush of his victorious efforts. Through danger and death, he had fought to see this moment realized. The prince had stepped out of legend and brought to his people a pride once lost and victory not seen in a generation. His most trustworthy ally by his side and now his friend Cort back from the dead. He took the Black Crown out of its satchel and raised it above his head.

He said loudly. “Today, a victory not just for me, but for all Orcs!”

The Orcs cried louder, watching as he lowered the Crown. Just before the forged godstone could touch his brow, a terrifying bestial roar split the air with a thunderous peal and brought every voice still. All eyes went to the sky.

Oli halted mid-punch, eyes wide in terror, “Oi…is that a fookin’ dragon?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“Concerning Dragons: Avoid at all costs.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

“Fly out, you craven bastards!” Captain Gareth bellowed, waving his sword to rush the mounted guards out of the city gate. Behind him, Galdren was shaking his head.

“Sloppy, Gareth. Really damn sloppy.”

“Stow your tongue or you’ll wish the Orcs got to you first.” Gareth flung spittle as he yelled back.

Galdren’s grin suggested he feared neither the threat nor the Orcs. He let out a frustrated grunt. They were leaving much later than he liked and the element of surprise with dawn was long gone. At the very least, there would be some sport to be had, but it was the chieftain he sought. Let Gareth and his gaggle of penny armor guards clash with the Orcs. Come darkness or death, Gareth intended to hold the head of Gorvok.

He kicked his horse into a gallop to take his place at the head of the formation next to Gareth.

Day turned to shadow as the dragon descended over the Commons and crashed on top of Gorvok’s throne, smashing it into a pile of kindling. Its presence sent the assembled Orcs scattering in all directions. Orc and half-orc alike tore off in a frenzy to escape the path of the beast. The horses bearing Cort and his company galloped out of reach and left them with no escape, save their own feet. The dragon towered over the Commons and sniffed the air, turning its glare on the fleeing crowd. It sensed its prey was near, but there were too many smells, too many distractions, to pick them out easily.

Baros dropped Rags to his feet. Cort brought his shield up as Oli and Iggi backed away slowly.

“It come back fer me.” Oli said, “Me always knew this would happen.”

“It’s come for all of us.” Ragoth said, hearing the dragon sniff at the air and scan the crowd. He quickly stuffed the Crown back into his satchel. “We were all in those tunnels. But they collapsed. How did it get out?”

“We have to run,” Cort said.

Ragoth’s legs wobbled at the very thought. The surge of fear was there, but not the rush that previously drove him. Even facing the certainty of the dragon’s wrath, his eyes were heavy and his limbs sluggish. In spite of it, when Cort grabbed his collar, he joined them in their mad dash for the front gate. Oli’s little legs pumped as hard as she could in keeping next to him as Iggi trailed behind, hauling Deni on her shoulders.

Behind them, the dragon bellowed in its nightmarish report. It inhaled deeply, its chest swelling, its wings flicked out wide as it took a deep breath. It unleashed a torrent of flame that engulfed whatever it touched be it building or Orc. Screams arose amongst the fleeing Orcs, and none held a thought for their new prince.

Ragoth gave his escape his all and made it halfway to the entrance before his vision blurred. The whole world seemed to tilt slowly. It wasn’t until he was almost to the ground that he realized what was happening and by then he was face-first in the dirt and knew no more.

Iggi yelled out when she saw Ragoth fall. Oli looked and swatted Cortland on the side. He came to a halt, running over to Ragoth and rolling him onto his back. “What happened?”

“Brother fall.” Iggi explained. Cort didn’t bother to ask the questions her statement brought to mind and simply hefted Ragoth over his shoulder. He ran as hard as he could with the goblins in tow. A distant crash heralded splintered debris raining down around them as the dragon tore through the huts in a murderous rampage.

Their exit from the city took less than a finger of time. Several hundred paces out from the gate, they met with a small gathering—little more than a dozen Orcs and half as many Orcborn huddled near a small standing of trees. Oothor, Baros, and Durth were amongst their number and jumped excitedly to see Cort carrying Ragoth to them.

“Wot happened to em, Cort? Dragon got em?” Baros peered over Cort’s shoulder.

“No, he’s passed out. I’ve never seen him look so exhausted. And Deni got thumped by someone named Oothor.” He propped Deni against a tree.

Several heads turned to Oothor, who looked quite unhappy to be called out. “Didn’t hit him that hard. Elves are delicate.”

Deni’s eyes fluttered, his head rolling about weakly. When his vision cleared, Cortland Lowhelm, of all people, came into view.

“C-Cort? Where…where am I? Where’s Rags?” He said weakly.

Cort gave his hair a ruffle. “Rags is here. We’re gonna leave soon. What in the pustering piss-puddle happened to your ear? Nevermind. Sit here and don’t move.”

Oli knelt next to Cort. “We oughta run, boyo. Longer we sit here, the sooner that beast sniffs us out. Head back to th’ city.”

Iggi gave Oli’s shoulder a smack with the back of her hand and barked.  “No, should go to forest. Hide in thicket.”

Cortland blocked all the chatter about his head and focused on Rags. He’d seen farmhands who passed out in the heat of summer like this. Rags needed water and rest, but time wasn’t on their side. He wanted Rags awake. He’d know what to do.

“He needs medicine or water. We need to wake Rags up.”

When he turned his gaze over the assembled, the Orcs weren’t forthcoming with a solution. Oli doffed her pack and rummaged in it. She produced a long metal container and yanked the cork out of the top.

“Hol’ his head up, longshanks. Me got somethin’ might perk em up.”

They watched her slowly pour a dark liquid into Ragoth’s mouth. He swallowed it one gulp at a time, taking several minutes to drink it down. After she got half into his gullet, he coughed, and his eyes flew open with a vigorous shake of his head. Everyone waited for him to speak.

Ragoth smacked his tongue, tasting the bitter brew in his mouth.

“Is that…coffee?” He grabbed the canister from her and chugged it greedily.

Oli grinned. “Aye. Rosy makes a strong batch fer me erry mornin’. Jus’ th’ thing fer a lazy bum like you. Now bounce up, boyo. We gots t’get outta here afore that scaly bloke finds us.”

“She’s right, Rags,” Cort said, pulling Ragoth to his feet. “The sooner we leave, the better.”

He went to tug Ragoth, but the prince stayed put and pulled his arm away. He walked over to Deni and knelt next to him.

“Deni. How are you?”

Deni lifted his head and his eyes lit up like the sun coming over the horizon. “Rags. You came back. You made it.”

“And not empty-handed.” Ragoth tugged at the edge of his satchel and showed Deni the Black Crown. “Gorvok is dead, and I rule the Orcs now.”

“Yer not liable to rule much anymore. Not if our friend has anything t’say about it,” Oli pointed out. The dragon still rampaged within the city boundaries, swiping its tail and arms through every structure in its path. It heaved its breath left and right, setting everything that could burn ablaze.

“Then let us run and come back when it's gone.” Cort suggested. “We can—”

“We’re not running,” Ragoth said. Everyone stared at him in disbelief.

Oli’s ears twitched. “We? Wot’s this we orcshite yer peddlin’?”

“Rags, you can’t mean to fight that thing? I saw it tear through the Pallies like a bull charging through fawns,” said Cort, throwing his arms out wide. “I watched Savia torched into a skeleton in seconds. I can still hear Pastro’s screams when it swallowed him whole.”

“We’re not elves,” Ragoth said, rising to his feet and looking at the assembled around him, “Nor feylings or halflings or humans. We are Orc! And I will not run while this beast destroys my home and my people. I endured the long mists of the Deep Valley and cut my way through the hordes of the Abyss. I broke my father’s curse and tore the Crown from his head. I brought Gorvok to his knees and excised his tyrannical rule and I tell you I will not leave my people while our city burns. It won’t matter if we run. That dragon followed our scent here from Karthak. It will follow us to the city or the forests and without others to help us fight it, it will almost certainly be our death. But not if we fight it now and end the threat once and for all.”

“Our people fled, my prince,” Oothor pointed out, “Most will run to the forests and hide. The chance to press an attack has passed and they are too scattered now to truly rally them back?”

“That is not true,” Ragoth said, focusing on the city with his eyes darted about in search.

“I’ve seen that look before,” said Cortland. “He has an idea.”

“Even better. I have a plan, but it will require all of us to work. Who will stand with me?”

The Orcs and Orcborn grunted their approval. Cort and Iggi brandished their weapons. Oli looked sideways and inched towards Deni by the tree.

“Me’ll stay wit th’ elf, iffin ye don’ mind. Not much a fighter, me.”

“Keep him safe then.” Ragoth turned back to Oothor. “Oothor, your part in this is the most important.”

Oothor was too surprised to answer.

“Go around the wall, take the east entrance into the city. It’s closest to the temple, and the dragon has yet to touch it. Go to the temple and look under the front of the altar for a hidden compartment set into the ground. You’ll find my father’s war horn inside. Bring it back here. With it, I can rally the Orcs back to us.”

Oothor nodded, listening. Once the order finally clicked in his head, he flashed a toothy grin and thumped his chest with his fist.

“It’ll be done, my prince. For the glory of the Sunderfang.” He broke into a run and was soon out of sight.

Ragoth watched the dragon approaching the front of the city, sniffing the air, searching, seeking. He gathered Cort, Durth, and Baros to him.

“The dragon has my scent and there’s little chance that Oothor can return before it finds us. We will have to make a stand until he does. Durth, take everyone to the armory by the gate. Grab a blade and then grab every bow and arrow you can.”

Durth grunted with a nod and left with the rest trailing him. Cort stayed, watching over them as Rags knelt by Deni again. The elf was once again unconscious, his head tilted down.

“I’m glad you’re here, Cort.”

“You should be.”

Ragoth chuckled despite himself. “Still a goblin’s bollocks, aren’t you, Cort?”

“I’d say it's my best quality.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Mora figured it out, just so you know. You could have told us you were a prince. I’d have not betrayed you.”

“The lies of misplaced trust led me astray.” Ragoth moved to stand next to him. “The past two days have been the hardest of my life, but my heart is filled with gratitude. For all I’ve endured, at least here the hardship comes by my own choice and no others. You were right, Cort. We were not made for the destiny we thought laid before us.”

Cortland cleared his throat and clapped Ragoth on the back.

“I said that before I knew our paths led us into the fires of a dragon.”

“Had you known, would you have stayed in Havenlore, walking your route? Forever dreaming of becoming a Knight Valiant?”

“I chased my dream and found that is all it ever was: a dream. I followed those dreams right into the dragon’s lair and we were all the worse for it. What of you? Will you miss your lavish life as a prince?”

Ragoth exhaled deeply. “I do miss my soft bed. I miss the smell of my books. I miss the catered meals and elvish wine. But there’s no return to the life from which I was cast out. I’ll not die in the wilds of the southern provinces like they wanted, but neither will I stay idle in my aspirations. There, I am a bastard Orcbrat. Here, I am the Heir of the Black Crown.”

“Heir of what?” Cort’s brow furrowed.

Durth and the other Orcs were approaching them, arms loaded with weapons. Ragoth gave Cort a friendly pat.

“I’ll explain later if we get the chance. If we don’t make it, it won’t matter.”

The Orcs spilled armloads of weaponry into a pile and, at Ragoth’s order, armed themselves. Cort questioned one last time if an assault was better than running, but Ragoth was resolute in the decision. It would not relent in its pursuit, no matter where they went. The only path forward now was a defense, one they had scant moments to prepare for. He grilled Cortland of what he saw in the dragon’s den, trying to glean something of use against it. He felt the glimmer of hope and clung to it. For the future of himself and his people, he had to.

They gathered around him as he laid out his plan. A desperate one, but with the dragon approaching, they had little choice.

“It is not at full strength. It has been trapped for a month under rocks. Its eyes were injured just beforehand, and I suspect its sight is highly impaired or else it would have seen us. It is angry and dangerous but weakened. Follow my words and we can gain yet another advantage.”

Through the front gate it came crashing, sending the structure exploding outward, its head sweeping back and forth to survey the clearing. It spied them not far away, arranged in a wide line and waiting. One whiff of their scent was enough to raise another roar from its throat. It took to the air with a single beat of its massive wings and came to land before them, a scant thirty paces away. It caught several of the scents burned into its nostrils over weeks of being trapped. Scents that drove it to blinding rage. Its teeth bared as a horrific roar left its mouth.

Ragoth held his hand up, staring the dragon in its eyes as it towered ahead of them, approaching with heavy footfalls that shook the very ground. The Orcs and Orcborn flanked him on both sides, their bows taut, aimed, and ready to loose on his command. It lifted its head, drawing its breath with a hellish glow emanating deep within its maw. As it did, it flicked its wings out wide, the moment Ragoth had been waiting for.

“Fire!” He cried.

To call an Orc arrow such was gross misinterpretation. The hardy shafts were more akin to thick bolts and twice a man's arm length. The arrowheads were the size of spear tips, and they were fired from bows that no human could draw. By the time the dragon realized what they’d done, it was too late and a round of Orc arrows crossed the distance in an instant. They struck true and pierced the thick hide that comprised the dragon's left wing, riddling it with holes. a stray arrow went for the right wing, prompting Ragoth to scold. “No, the other left!”

The dragon reared back on its hind legs to leap into the sky over them, soaring over their heads. Its wings flapped, trying to carry it higher, but each beat of its wings tore the holes wider and wider until it could no longer stay aloft. With one wing crippled, its brief flight ended with a deafening wail as it crashed down to the ground. It gathered itself back to its feet, trying to make sense of what happened.

The Orcs and Orcborn sent up their voices in cheer. Rags glanced back to make sure Oli was watching over Deni. The elf seemed to stir, moving his head about as Oli stood watch over him, trying to shrink out of sight. When Ragoth looked back, it was in time to see the dragon rushing towards them with its eager maw open. Ragoth and Cortland cried out together, wordless declarations shouted in the heartbeat they had before the maw would clench over them.

It’s jaw snapped shut less than a handspan from them, their arms still held up in defense. They met its eyes and for a heartbeat its confusion mirrored their own. It was even more surprised when it suddenly inched backwards, seemingly not of its volition. A questioning noise rattled in its throat. It was pulled back again, this time several foot spans. And again. Its claws left gouges in the dirt, its head swiveling around. Cort and Rags rushed out of the dragon’s reach and the two peered around to find Mora clutching its tail, hooves dug into the ground as she pulled with all her might.

Rags and Cortland cried her name. The dragon roared in anger. Mora answered in a roar of her own, hooves mashing into the earth as her strength pulled the dragon back a few handspans at a time.

“Get out of here!” She bellowed before the tail yanked her free of the ground. Pained and angry, the dragon swung its tail back and forth, but the stubborn Auroch held firm with her exceptional might.

When it couldn’t dislodge her, it brought the tail around to its mouth and grabbed her in its maw. Its mouth bit down on her but came shy of closing completely. Mora, hands clutched on the teeth above her head and hooves planted on its tongue, slowly forced its mouth back open in a display of true strength. Its vicious roar and flying spittle put a scowl on her face, but she never flinched.

“I hate dragons!”

The familiar sound of a deep inhale tickled Mora’s ears. She gasped, feeling the rush of heat at her back. She threw herself forward as a gout of flame flooded out, kissing her flesh before she could freefall out of its reach. She careened into the ground by the dragon's feet, groaning in pain.

“Draw its attention,” Ragoth cried. He rushed forward with Cort, Baros, and Durth on his heels. Mora lay curled on the ground, wincing as growls strained through her teeth and smoke rose from the singed portions of her fur and hair. They grabbed her legs and pulled her clear of the dragon's reach as it was beset on all sides by the Orcs and Orcborn. They numbered less than a round, but rushed its side with reckless abandon, hacking at the dragon’s thick scales.

The scales of a dragon are as solid as forged armor, but an Orc’s might is not insignificant. Their blades bit deep, carving into the scales and the flesh underneath, much to the dragon’s shock. It reared back and thrashed at them with its tail, sending several spiraling into the air and the rest retreating.

Cort and Rags pulled Mora towards the entrance of the city in the distraction. Ragoth looked to the city, anxious and wondering. Where was Oothor? Good as it was to have Mora there, the dragon remained a grave threat, even without its flight. They could only watch as chaos unfolded. The dragon smashed its foes with a footfall and speared them with its claws. It bit down on one Orc, who screamed as the teeth sank into his body but fought to hack at it with his sword just once more before it tossed his lifeless body down. It only took a few moments to dispatch the few who had not retreated, and the dragon turned in search of its retreating prey.

The remaining members of Rags small band collected themselves by the ruins of the front gate. Mora grunted, lifting to one knee, groaning in pain. Nearby, she saw a discarded Orc axe from the remains of the smashed armory and hefted it up. She grimaced, testing its weight.

“That’ll do.”

A slim shape suddenly ran into Mora’s side, hugging her tightly. She looked down and said. “Deni! You can’t be here. That damn dragon is coming for us.”

Rags peeled Deni away from Mora, the elf hugging him and then Cortland. He looked at them all, tears streaming from his left eye, and said. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re delirious,” Ragoth said. “Get behind us.” He pushed Deni to the back of their formation.

The thud of the dragon’s footsteps shook the earth as it stalked towards them. Mora lifted her axe.

“What’s the plan, Rags? Do we run or fight?”

Cort steadied his shield and spiked mace. Durth and Baros clung to their axes, shaking and unsteady, stalwart companions in the face of death.

Ragoth pulled his sword free and said, “All together!”

Expecting a charge, they braced but too late saw their error. The dragon instead came to a halt and reared, inhaling deeply as it readied its infernal breath.

There was a sharp tug at Ragoth’s pack and suddenly the scepter of Alinora came into view over Ragoth’s head. A word of arcane incantation screamed in his ear as piercing white light surged out from the scepter to meet the flames. The dragon's fire poured out and its flow split aside just above their heads.

They were held captive in shock as a curved shield of crackling arcane energy held back the searing flames. The dragon emptied its lungs against them, the fires parting to the sides and sparing them. Once the flames trickled down to nothing, it saw them unharmed, and its head tilted in curious anger.

Denith stood there in their midst, the scepter in his hand, his robes and hair billowing and alive with summoned arcane power. He stood with a defiant authority unlike him, his magic shield flickering out over their heads. He met Ragoth’s eyes as a truth lay confirmed between them. There was so much to say and even more to ask and they had the time for neither before the spell faded and the dragon’s claws raked through their huddled gathering in one devastating swipe.

The world went violently spinning. For Ragoth, time slowed to a crawl, the ground appearing over his head and vanishing again and again. When he hit the ground, it was like being orc-punched again, his senses taken leave. Urgency gnawed at him as his exhaustion threatened to take him once more. Fighting with all his dwindling strength, Ragoth sat up and heard a world of chaos through muffled ears. Cort held his shield arm, visibly pained, his old shield splintered into nothing. Mora cried out, but her voice sounded as though it passed through water. Durth and Baros wobbled on their feet, both half-covered in blood. He glimpsed Oli peering out from behind the tree.

Deni lay nearby in a thicket of grass, unmoving, his robes saturated in bright red. Ragoth crawled towards his fallen elf friend, desperate to reach him, when a shadow overtook him. Looking back, he saw the dragon looming above him with searing hatred in its scratched eyes. Mora was right. The dragon did not forget, and it was vindictive in its pursuit. Even burying it under a mountain had not quelled its fury.

A new cry pierced the muffled veil. It turned the dragon away from Ragoth. The prince looked and from the broken remains of the front gate came Oothor in full sprint, axe in one hand and war horn in the other, shouting his challenge. Oothor leapt over the prone Ragoth, putting himself between the dragon and the prince. The great beast swiped and bit at this new foe, but Oothor proved a deft target and moved with a swiftness that kept him just out of its reach and a courage that saw him fearless. He claimed a strike against one arm and another against its jaw. His voice raised in the heat of battle,.

“For the Sunderfang! For Prince Ragoth! For the Black Crown!”

Ragoth was awestruck. This Orc, who not long ago sought to see him dead, now fought in his name. From behind came Mora, her axe cutting deep where she could land it. Attacked from two sides, the dragon fought to defend itself from both, spinning around, biting at its flank and front. Mora swung two-handed and carved into its tail. It half-spun to snap at her head, just missing. Seeing it distracted, Oothor turned to Ragoth and hurled the war horn at him.

The moment cost him. No sooner did the war horn leave his hand than the dragon crushed him in one bite. His legs dangled from its mouth as it shook him back and forth. Gripping the horn with all his strength, a scream built within Ragoth as he brought the horn to his lips and blew. The sharp, booming call of Thorgoth’s war horn sounded for the first time since the final battle of the Orc Wars. Ragoth poured his outrage and dwindling strength into a last call for help.

The horn fell silent, and then the Orcs answered.

Throughout the city and beyond its walls came rounds and rounds of Orc voices lifted in an answer. The dragon dropped the body of Oothor as a rumbling permeated the air. Like a tide of green, they ran out of the city, pouring over the top of the wall or breaking through it. Orc and Orcborn alike running to answer Ragoth’s call.

Within moments, rounds of Orcs surrounded Ragoth and his companions, a growling host that grew by the second. Those who fled outside the city swarmed from around both sides of the wall. They brandished any weapon at hand—axes, clubs, and mace. Their sudden numbers took the dragon aback. It roared at them, but its defensive stance was not as confident as before.

Ragoth spoke, his voice rising so all could hear. His fingers gripped the Black Crown and its power cast his command.

“It cannot fly. Its breath is spent. Now, it fears the might it has unleashed. I have faced death and I no longer fear it. Fight with me! Today, this beast shall know fear! It shall know the wrath of the Orc!”

As one the Orcs roared, their weapons lifted high and their voices higher still. Mora’s bellowing war cry joined theirs, as did Cort’s.

The dragon took a step back.

Ragoth drew as much power from the Crown as he could. “All together!”

Into the churning chaos of battle he ran, this time with his friends and his kin at his back. The vile dragon drew its breath in, but instead of a gout of flames, its exhale sputtered and produced nothing. Its only weapon left was the vengeful hatred fueling it to continue. It stormed forward and met the Orc charge with a swipe of its head through their number. Orcs went flying into the air, but thrice that number swarmed its side and unleashed their furor on the beast. With their prince in the fray, his command driving them on, they were fearless in their attack. Their weapons hacked at the dragon’s feet and belly, while some tried to climb on its back.

Ragoth went for the chest, diving under head and stabbing upwards. His blade struck the scales and glanced off. He slashed again and again, the blade not finding purchase until it caught under a scale. He stabbed, driving the blade deep into the flesh before it spun in place and the leg slammed him to the ground. As the foot passed over him, he thought it would crush him, but Mora plowed her shoulder into the leg and shoved it aside. She gave only a glance and a quick warning before she began harassing the dragon’s flank.

“Don’t stand still. Keep moving!”

Ragoth rolled out of the stomping dragon’s reach only for it to bring its head around in a massive low swing. Were it not for Cortland, the dragon’s jaw would have taken him. Flying past Ragoth in a crazed leap and roaring, Cortland intercepted the dragon’s head, fist cocked back to deliver a blow. As foolhardy a thing as he’d ever done, but his reckless haymaker was rewarded with a solid strike to the dragon’s unsuspecting eye.

He sank wrist deep into the soft flesh and the dragon erupted in squealing cries of agony. He caught the edge of the dragon’s eye socket and gripped it with all his might. His bellowing anger mixed with the dragon’s cries of pain as it swung its head back and forth, shaking to dislodge Vaelyn Deep’s prodigal son off its face.

His other arm raised his spiked club and swung it. The impact delivered an impossibly powerful concussive blast that sent Cort flying into the air and stunned the dragon.

Mora took the advantage of the distraction to find an exposed spot on its back leg and put all her might behind a strike. Her axe tore through scale and muscle until it struck the bone deep and stopped. The dragon snapped up, its hoarse throat retching a strangled wail.

Cort’s forceful ejection spun him away and he landed on top of a gaggle of Orcs waiting for their turn at the beast. At the same time, it kicked the leg and thrust Mora and those around her back into a dogpile of bodies all trying to get back up and continue the fight.

Ragoth observed the dragon’s quick movements. It was slowing in its counters, its body riddled with cuts, its life’s blood pouring out. The effort to knock off Orcs on its back took all of its attention away from those slashing into its underside. Orcs continued to emerge out of the city, a steady stream of fresh warriors to replace those who had fallen or been knocked away. Try as it might, the Orc’s sheer numbers overwhelmed the beast.

And there was Ragoth, blowing the horn again and renewing their efforts. He kept crying out above the fray and soon all of the dragon was covered in Orcs climbing and hacking at it. Its other wing now torn useless, its tail severed, and a death of a thousand cuts loomed.

The realization of its fate came from its own cries, now pitiful and weak. It caught sight of Ragoth outside of the Orc pack and summoned a second wind to roll and toss those climbing it. With a great sweep of its tail, it cleaved through the Orcs to give itself a clear path to Ragoth. It rushed in a hobbled charge, sending him running. If there was but a little strength left in him, he might have been able to stay just ahead of the injured beast, but his strength had emptied, and his body betrayed him. He could no more run than he could flap his arms and fly. He staggered forward with the dragon only a few steps behind him.

It lunged to bite him and only the flying green missile into his side saved his life. Ragoth and Oli rolled together in the grass, the nimble goblin on her feet before he could lift his head. She grabbed his collar and frantically pulled him backwards through the grass.

“Get yer green arse movin’, boyo! Fookin’ hell!” She cried, looking up as the dragon rose over them. Ragoth and Oli saw its maw open, dagger-like teeth still dripping with Orc blood. The Orcs ran for them, but they wouldn’t reach them in time. Oli latched onto him, burying her face in his neck. The head came down and Ragoth tossed Oli aside. He gave his last bit of strength, all he could manage, and jumped at the moment the dragon took him with a snap. It tilted its head up and swallowed Ragoth whole.

It was Cortland’s scream that rose above the frightened cries of the Orcs. He charged the dragon and Mora, her insides twisted with grief, echoed his scream. The Orcs let their rage known and they charged once more. The dragon braced to face them and opened its jaws to growl, its tattered wings spread in a final show of strength.

Suddenly, there came a loud WHUMP as its chest cavity expanded violently and contracted within a heartbeat. It vomited a plume of smoke and flame hiccupped from its mouth. The vile beast staggered on its feet for a moment before collapsing onto its side, blood gushing from its open mouth. Cort, Mora, and the Orcs all came to a stop a few paces from it, standing in silent bewilderment, looking to one another and to the seemingly lifeless dragon. Oli clutched her head, yanking at her hair, face frozen in horrified shock.

None dared speak.

None dared breathe.

Only Mora dared a slow approach. She took one look and knew life had fled from its eyes.

“It’s moving!” Cort shouted, pointing to a moving bulge on its belly.

“It can’t be.” Mora whispered, reaching out with her hand. She jumped when an orcish blade erupted from the dragon’s belly and cut across the hide. In a flash, she grabbed the edges of the wound and ripped it wide open. The Orcs behind her watched and gawked as a blood drenched Ragoth thrust his head out of the dragon and took a loud, gasping breath. Mora grabbed his tunic and pulled him free of the dragon’s innards.

“He’s alive! The Orc prince is alive!” Durth called out and received a rousing cheer in return.

Ragoth collapsed on the ground, struggling to catch his breath, saturated in the dragon’s blood. His eyes were listless, staring into the memory of being swallowed alive. He wasn’t aware of Mora calling his name, not until she pulled him to his feet and shook him by the shoulders.

“Rags!”

He snapped his head around. “Huh? What?”

“Are you alright? Because you were just eaten.” She gave him a once over.

He nodded slowly. “I’ll live.”

“It’s fookin’ dead. How...what did ye do, boyo?” Oli looked up at the dragon.

“I just…I tried to start a fire.” Ragoth lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.

Mora held his gaze for a few breaths before breaking out into a wide grin and ruffling his hair. “You are a clever one.”

“What are you doing here?” Ragoth asked, wiping the gore from his face.

“I’d ask the same,” Cort said, leaning on the dragon next to Rags, cradling his arm. There was a sizable gash across his face caked in grime and dried blood. “Did you think someone here had gold for you?”

Mora, for once, seemed flustered and fumbled to find the right words. In the end, she rolled her eyes, gave Rags hair another tousle and said, “I’ll send you a bill.”

A peal of sudden thunder made them all jump. The air thrummed with the crackle of arcane power and a dome of white magic thrummed to life for a few seconds nearby before dissipating.

“What in the festering gutter slush was that?” Cort asked.

“A transportation spell.” Mora answered. “It came from—”

“Deni!” Rags launched himself into a run and somehow convinced his depleted body to dash for the spot where he had last seen the elf. As he neared it, he caught sight of a smoldering circle burned into the grass where Deni had landed after the dragon’s claws cut them down. In all the chaos, all the struggle to stay alive, and his extreme exhaustion on top of it, he had forgotten his friend.

Now, he stood in a burned circle of grass. Denith was nowhere to be seen. Not all of him. Rag’s guts threatened to upend as he stood over Deni’s severed left arm and both legs laying in the blood-soaked grass. He lifted the arm, the glove still on the hand, and didn’t know whether to cradle it or drop it. He stared at Mora and Cortland in mute horror, but they were just as speechless.

“I don’t understand. Where did he go?” Rags pleaded.

“He cast a transport spell with that scepter.” Mora looked up. “He could be anywhere. He’s alive, at least, but without a physicary or healer…” She dared not finish her words.

“A spellcaster. All that time, he was a Magi. Wasn’t as useless as he made out.” Cort looked down in guilt.

“I knew he was hiding something.” Mora remarked. “He was a good liar, at first, but the more time went on, the less he acted like a member of the Unexalted Faith. I thought perhaps he owed money. Why else come to Dreadmour if someone’s not trying to run you down?”

“Orcshit!” Cort spat, drawing more than a few cross looks from Ragoth’s people. He looked upon the horizon. He could hear a distant rumble, faint but growing. “Rags, we’re not out of danger yet. The guards of Cravensrest are coming and Sir Galdren is at their head. They mean to storm Dawntusk. They’ll be here any moment.”

Ragoth set the severed arm down and the weight of all existence pressed down on him. He took stock of his friends and his Orcs. They were standing, but not without cost. Their numbers were fewer and many who remained were bloody and battered. Still, upon hearing the guards were coming, many made ready their weapons. Mora, Cort, Oli, Iggi were in no condition to fight against a cavalry charge.

Durth spoke for the assembled. “We will fight if you ask. To the last Orc.”

“Does that mean me can go home?” Oli asked.

“We’re all in bad shape, lad. Be smarter to run,” Mora said.

“They’ll run us down,” Ragoth snapped. “Catch us in the fields before we have a chance to reach the protection of the deeper forest.” None considered surrender an option.

Ragoth looked over to the dragon and gave his tusk a tug. A wily smile came over him. He lifted his hands to the Orcs. “I have an idea. But you will have to follow my orders without fail. It may gall many of you, but it will assure we live to rebuild our home and that the Sunderfang remains in Dreadmour. Are you with me?”

When they gave a unified agreement, he smiled and, for good measure, he held the Black Crown as he spoke.

“Then here’s what we’ll do…”

It had taken long enough for Galdren & Gareth’s forces to breach the other side of the forest, but they were finally on the outskirts of Orc territory. Galdren yanked his sword free, a signal for the rest to do the same. He would relish the chance to bring Gorvok’s head to the home of his father. A fitting trophy for the old man’s mantle above the hearth. A touch of praise well earned, indeed.

His senses were on high alert. He smelled smoke. Not uncommon near a high population, but it was thick. Too thick for the likes of cook fires. Something was ablaze. They had yet to come across a scout or guard and they were nearly upon Dawntusk.

When at last they broke through the thicket and into the cleared plain that lay in front of the gates, Galdren, a veteran of war who had seen much in his life, was not prepared for the sights before him. The Orcs were already gathered, not in a formation for defense, but in a loose throng centered around a ...

Dear gods, was that dragon?

His sword lowered, and a confused frown took his face. The Orcs, all the city it looked like, gathered around the unmoving corpse of a dragon and a pile of ale barrels stacked near it. As he drew closer, he saw the Orcs were all but ignoring them. Not a sword or axe to be seen. Every hand clutched overflowing tankards of ale or flanks of meat. Galdren was dumbstruck.

They looked to be celebrating.

They were! Dancing up and down, grinning and laughing, singing in their harsh tongue, passing kegs around and pouring drinks. He caught sight of one short Orc covered in dried blood on the shoulders of...

“Val’Mora?” He said aloud. Then next to her another familiar face. “Goblin Knight?”

The blood drenched lad on Mora’s shoulders waved at him. Mora and Cort did likewise. At a hundred paces from their gathering, the Orcs turned on them and waved their ale, flashing grins and shouting in welcome.

Thirty paces out. Taking in everything at once, Galdren turned back to the soldiers riding behind him.

“Halt! Halt, all of you!”

Confused, but not ones to question a Knight Valiant, the guards pulled on their reins and brought their horses to a halt.

Gareth was beside himself. “Brother, are you mad?”

Galdren ignored him. The charge came to a stop, and he sat in disbelief as the Orcs approached, full of mirth and song. At their head was Mora, who approached Galdren and said loudly. “Sir Galdren! Pleasant surprise to see you. Been in Dreadmour long?”

“Val’Mora,” Galdren said, trying to piece things together in his head. “What are you doing here?”

She patted Rags as he sat perched on her shoulder. “Helping a friend. Together, the Orcs and I have slain a dragon that tried to lay waste to their city. A victorious effort, thanks to the cunning of their new ruler. This is Ragoth. Rags, Sir Galdren of the Knights Valiant.”

Ragoth extended a hand, a touch awestruck.

“Sir Galdren Edenthaw. I’ve read of your exploits. Well met.”

“New ruler?” Gareth sputtered, shaking Rags’ hand. “What of Warchief Gorvok?”

“Dead.” said Ragoth. “By my hand. Imagine my surprise to face Gorvok and a dragon in one day, but I led my people to a resounding victory. Thank you for coming, Sir Galdren, but alas, you are too late to help us fight the dragon. The glory of the kill belongs to the Orcs. Now, we celebrate, and I welcome you all to revel in our victory. Come, my friends! It is a new day for all the people of Dreadmour.”

As he spoke, Galdren and Gareth watched the Orcs press into the midst of their ranks and start lifting their men off their horses, placing ale in their hands and dancing with them on their shoulders. The guards were wary and frightened at first, but the more it seemed the Orcs would not attack, the more the men accepted the celebration and joined in. Most were more interested in inspecting the dragon up close.

Galdren was speechless and still taking in the entire scene before him. Captain Gareth spat half-hearted orders that went ignored and ultimately gave up, scowling from atop his horse.

Mora gave Galdren a friendly pat on the thigh. “Come celebrate with us, Galdren. We can catch up. I last saw you months ago in Barrow’s End.”

As his motley assembly of city guards mingled and cautiously shared in the revelry, Galdren’s dreams of a final glorious victory over Gorvok dwindled. He looked down at his sword and gave a resigned sigh. He sheathed his sword and dismounted. Mora lowered Ragoth off her shoulders and led Galdren to inspect the dragon’s corpse, detailing the fight to him.

Ragoth sighed in relief, watching his gambit work. The Orcs were no friends of the humans, but he told them to celebrate with them, and so they did. For the moment, they had won, and they had peace. Rags allowed himself to breathe, all the tension and fear bleeding out from him.

Glory was power and in the eyes of all Orcs present, he had earned more glory in one day than a hundred Orcs over a hundred lifetimes. He walked back to where Denith had vanished and stood in the burned circle, his gaze skyward, wishing he could follow.

“Deni…where are you?”

Cort was drowning his pain in stolen ale as he cradled his injured shield arm, possibly broken, when Captain Gareth approached and glowered eye-to-eye with him.

“And just what are you doing here?”

Cort jerked his head to the massive corpse. “Helping kill a dragon.”

“You think me stupid? You must be a true dullard to think I believe that piss poor of a lie. I have not forgotten that you asked me where to find the Orcs.” Gareth’s lips curled away from his teeth.

“My friend Rags was in danger. I couldn’t let him die.”

“Enjoy your ale. It’ll be the last you have for some time.” Gareth said in a harsh tone, leaving.

Cort watched him leave, and rather than continue to celebrate, he searched for Rags. He found the Orcborn prince lying in the center of the burned grass, snoring loudly and fully asleep, clutching his satchel to his chest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“Avoid trouble with local law enforcement. Innocence via Inquisition often requires more proof than one may be able to provide.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

Captain Gareth was true to his word, and no sooner had Cortland returned to the city than he was arrested and placed in the castle’s dungeon. Regent Thornmire was furious to hear the assault had gone astray and that they had not put the Orcs to the sword. Gareth took a tongue lashing from the elf while his eyes bored into the stonework of the castle walls. The assault, Gareth assured him, would have gone as planned had his brother not been there to halt the charge.

But it was Cortland who received the Regent and Captain Gareth’s wrath. He was held in the dungeon for weeks in the aftermath and likely would have remained there until the end of his days had Ragoth not come to his rescue. It would have been easy to ignore the Orcborn’s persistent inquiries about Cortland’s wellbeing and legal rights, but when his audience with the Regent and Captain Gareth was finally granted Ragoth brought with him the full weight of his knowledge. He had weeks to prepare. They didn’t stand a chance.

Ragoth had studied the intricate workings of the Crown pantheon’s legal system. Not the most entertaining of reads, but all the time in the world and a thirst of knowledge proved valuable to a voracious reader like Ragoth. He was not shy about running circles around both Regent and Captain in discussion, much to their annoyance. It took hours just to get Gareth to admit what Cort’s charges were and allow Ragoth to speak with him in his cell.

“They’re accusing you of betraying your oath to the Regent and for working with the Orcs to plot a counter-assault,” Ragoth explained.

“I’d like to wring his scrawny neck,” Cort said, his hands wringing the bars of his cell.

“Be that as it may, I’m going to have your accusations tried in a formal Inquisition court.”

“What good will that do?” Cort asked.

“It’ll at least give you a fair trial in front of impartial Inquisitors. Otherwise, the Regent will keep you in this cell until he forgets you’re here.”

“You’re doing this all on your own?”

“As much as I can without help.”

Cort chewed on his lip for a moment. “Go talk to Longtusk in the Muckfoot Quarter. He’s connected. He might be able to help.”

Ragoth spent another few weeks browbeating the Regent with legal proceedings and threats of bringing the Arlors of Law from the Dynasty down to Dreadmour to see why a citizen of Namaria was denied their right to defend themselves. He knew if they tried Cort in Cravensrest, the Inquisitors would do whatever the Regent commanded. He wanted an Inquisition carried out in a much more neutral place. Coming from anyone else, his threats would have carried little weight, but Ragoth was far more knowledgeable about the twists and tricks of the legal system. The Regent, in his paranoia and ignorance, became convinced that Ragoth could carry out his threats and feared the arrival of Inquisitors of Law not under his control.

Ragoth took Cort’s advice and went to see Longtusk, only to arrive to a hero’s welcome from his underlings. Baros, proudly bearing scars from his fight against the dragon, had embellished the fight with the dragon to the rest of the Orcborn.  Ragoth had gone from mythical folk hero to living legend. And as it turned out, Longtusk was more than adequate an ally, though he was none too pleased to have lost five of his men in the dragon’s attack—especially considering they had gone against his will to help a half-orc they’d never met.

“Any other Orcborn and I’d have sent a knife in greeting. But thanks to Cort and Baros, you’re quite the celebrity. I’d lose a majority of my workforce if I laid a hand on you.”

Sheepishly, Ragoth shrugged. “I’ve no intention of taking your men from you, flattered as I am that they think so highly of me. Nor do I seek to usurp your role here in Cravensrest.”

Longtusk leaned forward on his knee, his gut bulging like a bladder of water being squeezed.

“Is it true? They said you bested Gorvok in single combat and hacked his head off with his own axe? Then killed a dragon after it ate you?”

“That’s an oversimplification. But it is the truth. Cort said you might help with his incarceration.” Rags scratched the back of his neck.

“Hrmph.” Longtusk sat back and examined the rings on his fingers. “The Regent and his bootlickers are no friends of mine. They’ll not touch a bribe if they know it comes from me. But there are other avenues that gold may open—provided the new leadership of the Sunderfang is more willing to do business with your city-dwelling kin. Gorvok was rather unaccommodating.”

Ragoth gave his word and Longtusk worked with him to find a solution to Cort’s imprisonment. Moving Cort’s Inquisition required a series of communications with the various Inquisitors of Law throughout the Dynasty. Dessius would work with them, but Longtusk was only willing to part with so much gold in the effort, and those he messaged wanted more. In the end, it was Arcathoria that provided what they sought.

Through a bit of wily maneuvering on his part and several contacts of Longtusk, Ragoth convinced a High Court in Arcathoria to conduct the Inquisition. The only catch was the charges against Cort had to be elevated from oath-breaking to committing a grand conspiracy to usurp the Regent. It was ridiculous on the face of it, but Cort agreed to it.

“What have we got to lose?”

“Your life,” Rags told him. “Either life imprisonment or execution at worst.”

“Rags, after all the dangers we’ve faced together, why would we shy away from this one?”

Rags grinned. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”

It was a slim chance, but one they were willing to take. Mora agreed to testify on his behalf and Cort would need it. Ragoth knew an Inquisition would want testimonials from witnesses who could vouch for the veracity of the accused’s claims. Ragoth knew they would have to lay everything on the line in order for it to work. The High Court couldn’t be bought by Longtusk, but it was the best chance to clear Cort’s name.

Come the day of the trial, nearly three months after the Battle of Dawntusk, Ragoth and Mora stood in the vast chambers of the High Court of Arcathoria. A dais in the center of the cathedral-sized room held twelve men and women of elvish, dwarvish, and human descent. Both sides of the High Court were lined with long balconies three levels high from which witnesses, curious on-lookers, and Heralds of the Crown Pantheon watched. Word of some of the events had traveled and the trial of a low born Namarian man committing grand conspiracy drew a few more eyes than usual.

Rags and Mora were situated into a cordoned area along the chamber wall, along with Cort’s appointed defending Arlor of Law, a young, long-eared halfling named Tomis, who was grateful and ecstatic that Ragoth knew as much about the legal workings of the High Court as he.

“For an Orcborn, you’re quite knowledgeable,” he remarked at one point.

Ragoth couldn’t decide if it was a compliment or a backhanded insult.

At the start of the trial, the Regent’s Arlor laid out the accusation: Cort worked covertly for Longtusk and used his position in the guard to leak vital secrets about the city guard and the castle to a known war criminal before helping set up a counter-attack to the culling. All to weaken the Regent and usurp him from power. Gareth gave an account of what he had seen and what he knew of Cortland. When questioned by the Inquisitors, he admitted he had not paid Cortland much mind at the castle and was shocked to see him at the Orc camp.

Tomis, though, pushed the defense that Cort and Ragoth provided: a simple man traveling in search of adventure and work with his elf and Orcborn companions. Proving so meant retracing every step in Cort’s journey.

Much to Cort’s shock, Captain Yusel came to Arcathoria via an arcane Magegate to testify. When Cort told him about the events that led to Yusel being pummeled, Tomis nearly pulled his hair out. Ragoth heard his recounting and hinted to Tomis a workaround. Through a bit of questioning, Tomis made Yusel unintentionally admit that it was his own provocation and threats that led to the fight. That he lost the fight was inconsequential. The only thing Yusel could do was admit that until his statement of resignation, Cort’s career as a guardsman was without blemish. Yusel caught Cortland’s eye on his way out of the chamber and they had never seen an elf look so enraged and afraid. He stormed out in a huff.

Galdren proved the most important witness, as he begrudgingly acknowledged that he had spoken with Cort in Havenlore the day he left and had all but traveled together at the same time to the same place. Tomis was pleased with this, as it showed that Cort hadn’t gone to commit conspiracy but was, indeed, an adventuring youth who fell into his old vocation once his gold ran out. A familiar tale for many who had set out in the Age of Adventures and fallen short of their dreams.

Every time Galdren referred to Cort as The Goblin Knight, he did so with a flourish that had those in the balconies tittering. Cortland endured it with a groan and a dip of his head. Cort would have burst out loud at several points had Ragoth not been there with a hand on his arm. He knew his behavior might count against him. Having the High Inquisitor dislike him for an outburst was not a chance he could take.

After that, they put Cort on the podium to give his account. From Vaelyn’s Deep to the Hall of Valor to Barrow’s End to Arcathoria to Karthak to Dreadmour to the climactic battle with the dragon—Cortland laid his every step with Rags, Deni, and Mora to bear. Galdren’s presence had brought even more eyes than usual, but as Cortland’s testimony grew longer and longer, the balconies filled. By the time he had exhausted his journey, the attendance had gone from sparse to packed shoulder-to-shoulder as intrigue about the Trial of the Goblin Knight caught the attention of more people than could fit into the chambers. Pantheon Heralds carried daily updates of the Inquisition through Magegates to every capital across the continent. Ragoth noted several high-ranking Mages of the Order in the crowd. Even Headmaster Stonebroth was in attendance near the end, waving at Ragoth with his cheerful grin the one moment their eyes met.

At the end, Cortland stood before the Inquisitors on the podium and said. “I wanted nothing to do with the Regent, Sir Galdren, or Longtusk. I went to Dawntusk to save Rags and Deni. Nothing more or less.”

“Were you so brazen as to think you could fight through a city of Orcs to retrieve your friends?” one Inquisitor asked.

Cort nodded. “You’re damn right! They are as kin to me. I could no more leave them behind than I could lop off my own head.” He had left the truth of Rags identity unspoken, but none questioned an Orcbrat wandering about the southern provinces.

The Inquisitors dismissed Cortland, and he marched back to the cordoned box as the crowd filled the chamber with the hum of murmurs and low conversation. Sir Galdren regarded him from a balcony above, his chin pressed into his hand. The Inquisitors talked amongst themselves.

Tomis praised Cort’s testimony. “You did well. Came across as one of integrity. I wish you were born of higher standing to strengthen your testimony.”

Ragoth suddenly sat up with a jolt, looking around wildly as he was hit with a whiff of a familiar scent. There were elves here, yes, but this one he knew better than any. He shot out of his seat, drawing the attention of the others. They followed his gaze to a familiar robed elf in a wide-brimmed hat entering the chamber, walking as casual as could be. Cort and Mora rushed to their feet, but Rags bolted and all but tackled Denith off his feet. Laughing, with tears in his eyes, Ragoth held Deni off the floor in his arms. Denith laughed with him until Cort crushed them both in a double-armed embrace. Mora watched from a few handspans away, smiling to see the three of them united once more. A few of the balcony dwellers above them witnessed the reunion.

“Deni, you’re...you’re...” Rags voice caught in his throat, his eyes watering. “We feared you dead.”

“I came as close as one can come to death,” he replied, smiling and wiping his own tears away. “I am sorry it took me so long to return to you. My recovery has been extensive. Word reached me about Cort’s trial, and I came with all haste. You all look well.”

“As well as can be expected,” Mora said. It was a generous statement. Ragoth had scars on his face and now wore a black patch over his blind eye. A great scar crossed the width of Cortland’s face from forehead to ear where the dragon had raked its claw. Mora seemed no worse for wear, her tough Auroch hide had absorbed the considerable punishment. They noted Deni seemed untouched. Not a scar in sight, to say nothing of his legs and arm seemingly restored. Even his ear was returned.

“I don’t understand. We saw your legs and arm. How—” Ragoth reached up with a finger and went to touch Deni’s previously severed ear, but his finger passed right through it.

“A simple glamour for public appearances,” Deni explained. “I didn’t want to draw too much attention.”

“I have many questions.” Rags said. “But in your own time, if you feel up to it. After all—”

“A friend is entitled to their secrets.” Deni finished for him, smiling warmly. “You…you know, don’t you?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“You’re not an elf of the Unexalted Faith, are you?” Cort tilted an eyebrow upward.

Ragoth sighed. Mora pinched the bridge of her nose. Deni endured him with grace and a smile.

“No, I’m not. There will be a time for answers, but, I think, perhaps, we should ensure your freedom before we become entangled in all of that.”

Tomis ushered them back to their box as the voices in the chamber stilled. The High Inquisitor, a stoic elf of gray hair who presided over the court, asked of Tomis. “If there are any who wish to speak in defense of Lowhelm, they may present their testimony before the Inquisition.”

Mora stood and stepped over the railing to make her way to the podium. In the vast expanse of the chamber, every clop of her hooves against the glossy floor echoed across the walls. Even in a place as uncommon and full of strange, wondrous things as Arcathoria, an Auroch was an uncommon sight, and she drew every eye. They were fixated on her as she stood before the Inquisitor and recounted her time with Cortland.

As she did, Cort leaned over to Rags and asked. “What now?”

“Now, we speak on your behalf. If two or more witnesses have their testimony declared valid, then by law, your testimony is considered truthful. You’re certain to be set free,” Ragoth answered.

Tomis poked his head into their discussion.

“That is only if they find the witness is worth validating. Pardon my presumption, but why didn’t you hold this Inquisition in a lower, local court?”

“Because the courts of Dreadmour are corrupt and the Regent there would have crucified Cortland.” Ragoth told him. “And the Arlors of Dessius wanted more gold than we had to offer. Our best chance for a fair trial was to have it held here and away from the Regent’s influence.”

Tomis sniffed and nodded.

“That’s fair, but higher courts demand witnesses of higher standing. Are you planning to do this yourself, Ragoth? Because if you are, I’m afraid you’ve cost your friend his freedom.”

Ragoth blanched at his words. “Am I not a suitable witness?”

“You’re an Orcborn with no family lineage, holdings, public standing, or gold. You’re the last person the Inquisitors would believe.” Tomis sat back and a cold settled in the pit of Ragoth’s stomach. He looked back in time to hear Mora finishing her testimony.

“And you vouch for the veracity of the events as told by young Lowhelm?” The High Inquisitor asked.

She nodded. “They are truthful to the last.”

“And yet you omitted facts from your recounting, did you not?” The High Inquisitor tilted his head up.

“I don’t understand.”

“Lowhelm and yourself admitted you traveled from here to Dessius on your way to Dreadmour, but you were not forthcoming with the events that transpired between the two cities in Mulgart Pass. It was four months prior, at the same time you and your companions traveled that one hundred rounds of the Sylverian military dispatched from this city bore witness to an individual destroying a portion of the Dwarf Road spanning one of the gorges, rendering travel between the cities impossible.”

A ripple of shock rose in the balconies. Ragoth grimaced, having all but forgotten until that moment. The High Inquisitor held up a parchment and read it aloud: “The suspect responsible for the destruction as witnessed by several Sylverian soldiers noted as described: Female, tall, dusky, horned, muscular build, hooves, red hair, armored, wielding a large mace or hammer. Sound familiar?”

An increased murmur of disapproval tore across the balconies as Mora felt the weight of her actions. She searched for something, anything, to say. 

“Could have been anyone.”

Tomis’ head fell into his hands.

The High Inquisitor didn’t seem amused. “Are you aware that intentionally damaging the Rockbrow Traverse is against Crown Pantheon law?”

Mora cleared her throat. “We thought we were being pursued by nefarious forces.”

“Not an excuse for causing enough damage to collapse an entire bridge of dwarven stonework. Although work is underway, it will be months before the Mulgart Pass will be available for use. Commerce is slowed and merchants have to take a longer route. Your thoughtless actions have damaged the very economy of the Dynasty. Have you anything to say to this?”

Mora grumbled to herself before lifting her head and saying. “I’m a professional. It was just business.”

The Inquisitors took a moment to speak to each other as the crowds lining the balconies murmured loudly to each other.

“Oh no.” Deni moaned.

“I didn’t think they could see us.” Cort remarked.

Tomis tapped his finger against his temple. “Sylverian elves have exceptional eyesight. So do us halflings, but I don’t need it to see this trial ending with your two friends in a dungeon for the rest of their lives.” He chuckled.

“You’re taking this well,” Ragoth noted dryly.

“Oh, this is an unmitigated disaster. I should never have taken your case. I’m only chipper because I’m imagining the amount of liquor I’m going to have to drink to bury the shame of this failure.”

Rags sat back, crossing his arms in disgust as Cort slumped next to him.

The High Inquisitor spoke up then, staring straight at Mora.

“Despite your record of good standing in Barrow’s End and your service during the Orc Wars, in light of your felonious actions damaging an avenue of vital commerce and travel, we agree that your testimony is not valid. Dismissed.”

The crowd’s loud murmuring returned, and Mora stormed back to the railed box. She sat down and gave Cort an apologetic look.

“Sorry, Cortland. I tried.”

“Arlor Tomis, do you have any other witnesses?”

“It’s pointless now, isn’t it?” Ragoth sighed.

Tomis leaned forward so he could see Rags from around Mora’s torso.

“You can certainly try, but don’t cling too hard to hope.”

Rags collected himself and went to stand when Deni caught his arm and whispered to him.

“Tell them the truth, Ragoth. All of it.”

He caught Deni’s eye in pause, then nodded and made his way to the podium. He could feel the weight of so many unfamiliar gazes on him as he stood in the center of the room and faced the impassive Inquisitors on their elevated dais before him. He took a deep breath and in defiance of Tomis, he clung to hope. It had served him well so far.

“My friends call me Rags. I’m the one Cortland was trying to save. I was with him in Namaria until we parted ways in the passages of Mount Karthak. I can vouch for the truth of his statements. He watched over me as though I were his own blood and brother. He has saved me from death again and again. As we traveled, he stood watch over me. He fought by my side in fights he had no stake in. I would be a craven man to not stand up for him in his time of need.”

The disinterest in the Inquisitor’s faces told Ragoth that his testimony at this point was a fruitless effort. They were only waiting for him to stop talking so they could pass judgment. He glanced aside and saw the defeat weighing down on Cortland. To have survived all that he had only to now lose his freedom was a bad joke. It conjured the image of Marvallo, no doubt laughing back at the castle at his successful scheme. Ragoth’s anger rose. Cortland had risked everything for him. What kind of friend was he if he held back now?

“Just tell the truth,” he whispered to himself. “No more lies.”

Sounding tired of the proceedings, the High Inquisitor spoke. “If that is all and your testimony is that of a baseborn half-orc of no standing, then your testimony is not—“

“I am not finished,” Ragoth said, his voice boomed in the chamber with a sudden peak of authority that caught the Inquisitors off-guard. “My friends may call me Rags, but my birth name is Ragoth Brightsorn, Prince of Namaria.”

A scattering of disbelieving noises and outright laughter swelled from the balconies. The Inquisitors themselves were busy blinking and cleaning their ears with their fingers to make sure they hadn’t misheard him. The High Inquisitor dropped his formal bearing.

“What? You’re who?”

Ragoth took a deep breath. “I realize this may be a shock to many, as my existence was kept a secret from all but a select few, but I am the son of Queen Seranna Brightsorn and…. Warlord Thorgoth of the Sunderfang.”

Oh, but those names stirred whispers upon whispers that grew around the room. He couldn’t let the momentum grow still. He continued. “When she was recovered after the final conflict of the Orc Wars, she was already pregnant with me, and I lived in seclusion in the library wing of Namaria’s castle since my birth. My brother is Prince Brutis, and my sisters are Princesses Sera and Sariah. I am a prince of the Crown Pantheon, entitled to all rights and privileges that come with the title, and I tell you my testimony is valid.”

Murmuring had given way to open conversation that turned the chamber into a roaring swell of voices, but the laughter had stopped. Tomis had taken a flask from his jacket and was promptly draining the contents down his throat.

The High Inquisitor rapped a scepter against the arm of his chair, causing the ruckus to die down. Once all were silent, he leaned forward and fixed a discerning gaze on the Orcborn before him. “Young man, this is a high court of Inquisition, not a tavern full of drunks for you to practice your childish theatrics. Your wild claims require validity that you have yet to present. What proof do you have?”

“Is a gilded crown proof enough?” Ragoth raised his hand, the golden outline of the crude crown carved into his palm visible for all to see. A few gasps and pointed fingers, another round of excited talk as the twelve Inquisitors leaned forward and began talking amongst themselves.

Before another word was said, a distant voice rose over the crowd, causing them to part aside and allowing a tall, dusky elf in cobalt robes to emerge. He held a long, golden staff in his hand and his robes of vibrant cobalt were woven with intricate gold trimming and elvish patterns. He strode towards Ragoth without a glance at the Inquisitors, his silver eyes held entirely on him.

“If I might question this young man for a moment, High Inquisitor?”

He was granted permission but acknowledged nothing as he stood before Ragoth and looked him up and down.

“Do you know who I am?”

Ragoth inspected his robes, the insignia, the indications of rank emblazoned on his breast. “Archmage, Gold Tier. Sigil of the White Flame. That is the Staff of Imrinal. And you have eyes of silver. You are High Archmage Daven Morgareth. Head of the Arcane Order. Mother told me of you. Good things, I promise.”

There. A flicker of emotion, a little quirky movement of his eyebrows, and Ragoth knew a connection was made. This was a man who indeed had met his mother. Daven narrowed his eyes.

“Show me your mark.”

Ragoth presented his palm and the Archmage scrutinized his golden scar, tracing its outline with his finger. It was a risky gamble, but he knew of no other way to prove who he was without having his mother declare it in front of the Inquisitors. As the crowd in the chambers buzzed with interest, the Inquisitors waited patiently. Daven lifted his head and said. “This is not the Swordarix of Namaria. What sort of forgery are you trying to foist?”

“No forgery. This was done with the Arcana Sphere in Namaria’s throne room. Cut into my hand by my older sister as a cruel joke.”

“Only one of magical aptitude and training may use that device,” The Archmage stated.

“All I know is she used it to carve this into my hand while my brother held me down. If the Archmage knew, he did nothing. I was a week away from my seventeenth summer. I was to be Crowned and receive the Swordarix, but I was forced into exile. That was perhaps five months ago.”

“Stand still. Keep your hand out,” He ordered. The elf spread the fingers of his hand and his spell governor came to life, a myriad of elvish runes on a disk illuminated by arcane light. He wove a somatic pattern between three runes and then placed the head of his golden staff under Ragoth’s hand, where a cone of light shined upwards. As soon as it passed through his hand, the crown-shaped scar in his palm glowed a bright golden hue, shining with arcane light. The mark projected a floating image above his palm in the same shape as it was carved into his skin.

The chamber was silent and still, holding a collective breath. The High Archmage’s impassive face betrayed nothing, but the length in which he studied the mark went long enough to make Ragoth worry.

“What is your Affinity level?” The High Archmage finally asked.

“I don’t know. It was never taken.” Rags answered. A person’s Affinity level was the extent and ease to which they could perform magic. Cortland’s Affinity was poor, thus his difficulty in using a simple flicker spell.

“Easily done.” Devan’s fingers wove another somatic pattern, his lips whispering a second incantation. He held the spell governor up, viewing Ragoth through a translucent window which displayed a gold aura around him. The elvish man’s eyebrows lifted up in surprise.

“Your Affinity is Very High. This Affinity level is quite exceptional.”

Ragoth said nothing, waiting as the Archmage scrutinized his mark again, longer this time as the entire courtroom waited with bated breath. As Daven stared at the golden crown floating between them, he betrayed a hint of mirth.

“You are a long way from Namaria,” He said softly, so only Ragoth would hear.

“Not by choice. And I’d not be here if not for those with me.”

“I was listening. Your friend’s trial has garnered much attention. Of the many things I thought to come from this trial, an unannounced prince of the Crown Pantheon was not among them.”

“Then you believe me?” Rags felt his spirits rise.

“This mark is the best testimony you could have given.” The High Archmage tilted his gaze aside and seemed distant in his thoughts, as though trying to decide what he said next…or if to speak at all. Ragoth understood. He only wanted to help Cort, but confirming his status as prince would change things forever. This was as close to his Crowning as he would ever come.

The High Archmage ended the enchantment. The floating gold crown vanished and the crown on his hand returned to its original shade. Daven wore a bemused look as he regarded Ragoth for a moment before turning back to the Inquisitors.

“The mark of the gilded crown is only for those born into the bloodlines of royalty in the Crown Pantheon. Forging a replication is impossible. Only a magic user of or beholden to the royal family using an Arcana Sphere enchanted to that family can do so. It is proof beyond proof of one’s royal birth.”

He held a hand out to Ragoth. “His mark is genuine, made with the Arcana Sphere of the Namarian throne. His words are true. He is a Crowned prince of Namaria, and I vouch for the veracity of his claim.”

The eruption of clamor that followed was near deafening. A few Heralds bolted out of the room, heading straight for the Magegates to spread the news: Namaria had an Orcborn prince!

Mora nudged Cort with her elbow. “Told you.”

Ragoth for his part, felt the final weight lift off his chest. A prince of Namaria, proven in public court. Undeniable, irrefutable, and legitimized. The secret of his existence was now known and soon word would fly to every corner of Allspire. Oh, to be a fly on the wall when King Jaenar learned that all his efforts to suppress his existence had failed and all the realm knew the truth. He caught sight of Deni giving him a proud smile and returned it.

The High Inquisitor consulted his subordinate Inquisitors as the crowd continued its excited conversation. Eventually, the High Inquisitor rapped his scepter until every voice died down.

“Archmage, we are honored by your presence, and we thank you for your contribution in our efforts to ascertain the truth of these matters. By the truth of your words, the young prince’s bloodline does indeed bring validity to the weight of his testimony. After conferring with my peers, we declare his testimony valid.”

A round of cheers and applause now filled the chamber, as those who had followed the Inquisition from the start saw Cort and Ragoth’s efforts to save one another truly noble. Ragoth stepped down from the podium and Daven put his arm around his shoulder as they walked, speaking so he could be heard above the crowd.

“You were not as well kept a secret as you might think, young prince Ragoth. Archmage Caelm was aware of you.”

“I never met the Archmage assigned to the Namarian throne,” Ragoth admitted.

“Even so, he knew of your presence and passed that knowledge to me. Had he not, I’d have thought your gilded crown an elaborate ruse. Your sister is apprenticed to him, though her knowledge and use of an Arcana Sphere is strictly forbidden for someone of her rank. For the love of all the gods, why? Why would she do such a thing to you?”

“She’s always been a bitch,” Ragoth said bluntly.

Daven’s mouth fought not to break into a grin.

“Ah, I see you’ve met her.” Ragoth added and this time, Daven let a single laugh escape his lips.

“She will have to answer for her actions. The Arcane Order does not suffer infractions against its rules—even from the Crown Pantheon itself. She will not be so bold once I am through with her.”

Ragoth could see in his mind’s eye Sariah being scolded like a child by the High Archmage himself.

“I would love to be there for that.”

“I’ve no doubt. For now, you’d best return to your friends. I wish you well in your future endeavors.” He surprised Ragoth as he clapped his hand, shaking it firmly. Daven returned it and found a seat to occupy while the trial resumed. Ragoth sat down next to his friends, comforted with assuring claps on his shoulder and back.

Deni leaned near his ear. “You never fail to impress me. I am proud of you, Ragoth.”

The High Inquisitor brought order and asked once more if there were any others who desired to provide testimony in support of Cortland. They had one valid and one invalid testimony. Deni sighed and stood to his feet. He took off his wide-brimmed hat and handed it to Rags.

Rags took the hat. “What are you going to do?”

“The same as you: tell the truth. All of it.” Deni smiled and replied.

Rags grinned and stood to lean on the railing as Cort, Mora, and Tomis exchanged curious glances.

“What’s Deni doing?” asked Cort.

“Rags knows something we don’t,” Mora pointed out. “What is it, Prince Ragoth? What did you figure out that we haven’t?”

“Watch and see.” Rags looked back with a knowing grin.

Denith took to the podium and stood before the Inquisitors, a simple elf in simple robes. The people in the balconies lowered their voices, anticipating every word now that Ragoth had piqued everyone’s interest. There was a mournful sigh from Deni, and he addressed them in a clear voice.

“I wish to give valid testimony in defense of Cortland Lowhelm, whom I have traveled with from Havenlore to Dreadmour. However, I cannot do so under this guise.”

As the assembly watched, Deni untied the rope at his waist. He withdrew his arms into his robe and pushed it over his head, letting them fall to his feet. Another round of murmurs began to build. Cort and Mora joined Rags at the railing. Deni wore a simple white blouse and short breeches that hugged his physique. Once the curves of a slender form appeared, the murmurs grew louder.

Deni waved his hand, causing a shroud of arcane light surrounding his form to vanish. His appearance shifted. The ear vanished, replaced by a healed section of scar tissue. The right arm and both of the legs turned a shade of green, the musculature without skin and looking as though made of tightly woven emerald cords. Most dramatically, Deni’s hair went from a dull earthy brown to a vibrant and lovely honey gold.

Ragoth’s breath was taken away. “I knew it.”

Finally, Denith hooked two fingers into the flesh at the bottom of his neck and pulled, yanking down and stretching the flesh far past its limits. It elongated and distorted until the flesh comprising his entire face pulled taut like linen held at each corner. Then he lifted the flesh up like a cloth and pulled it off, tossing the face of “Denith” onto the floor.

A collective gasp rose as the female elf standing there turned her head to her three friends. Her form was undeniably feminine, slim and curved, but her elvish fairness was marred. A wide, disfiguring scar ran from the top of her brow, across the remains of her right eye, down the corner of her mouth and continued down her neck until it vanished into her blouse. On her scalp above the scar, a patch of hair was missing, and a second jagged scar cut across her nose and through her other cheek.

Rags beamed. Cort was trying to pick his jaw off the top of his chest. Mora made a surprised noise.

“How long have you known?” Mora asked.

“I figured out Deni was a girl when I learned male and female elves each have a distinct scent. The day I used the God’s Brew, I was sure. We were too busy then and afterward to talk about it, but I knew,” he replied.

“Denith'' spoke up in a more dulcet, feminine voice.

“Inquisitors of Arcathoria, I apologize for the ruse. I stand before you as I truly am. I am Ahni’Alla Starsong, daughter of Queen Erlynn Starsong. Princess of the Dynasty and the Crown Pantheon.”

She pulled the glove from her right hand and held her palm out. An intricate gold sigil, the Dynestris, lay bare on her pale palm as she swept it around, slowly spinning to show all the proof of her claim. The crowds present responded in kind with noises of shock and gasps. Far from unknown, but no less unexpected than Ragoth. Tomis dropped his flask.

Ragoth caught Mora and Cort both staring at his slack-jawed expression.

“That I did not know,” he admitted.

Even the High Inquisitor seemed shaken by the revelation. He turned to Daven.

“High Archmage?”

Daven stood by one railing, arms crossed. “No need to confirm her mark. This one is known to me. She speaks the truth.”

“My disguise notwithstanding, I can and will vouch for the truth of all of Cortland Lowhelm’s motives. In my guise, we traveled together by happenstance and his desires were laid bare from the start. He sought an adventurer’s life, as many have before him. He charged across the southern provinces from one danger to the next against all who told him it was a fool’s quest. He saved my life…and he did so when I didn’t deserve it. He defied his allegiance to the Regent to save Ragoth and myself—two members of the Crown Pantheon. He fought for his beliefs, strove for his desires, and more than many men I’ve known, he met death eye-to-eye and spat in its face,” Ahni continued.

Her regal stance broke for a moment as she shook her head with a laugh.

“That man struck a dragon in the eye to protect his friend. And you would think him a conspirator against some Regent in Dreadmour rather than a heralded protector of the Crown Pantheon’s own? I cannot imagine the Queen would find jailing such a heroic adventurer in the best interest of the realm.”

The mood in the chamber immediately shifted as the Inquisitors high on their stone dais conferred with one another. From anyone’s mouth but hers, it would have been an insulting dispersion cast on the court’s integrity. But from her, from this princess of the very kingdom Arcathoria resided within, the full weight of the Crown Pantheon came bearing down with her words. Ragoth placed a hand on Cort’s shoulder.

“Your friends are here for you, Cort.”

“Thank all the gods my friends are royalty. I used to think we were all evenly baseborn. At least I still have my rugged good looks,” Cort replied.

Ahni let that final statement stew amongst the Inquisitors and rejoined them at their bench. She paused when she entered, seeing her friends who had known her for months as a male elf of low born status now revealed in all her regality as a princess. And she made to sit next to them as though nothing had happened with all their eyes locked on her. Tomis fell over himself, offering his seat and bowing deeply.

The crowd went still, and Cort had Mora and Ahni on both sides, clasping him in support as the High Inquisitor turned from his cohorts and cleared his throat.

“Cortland Lowhelm, present yourself before us.”

Cort strode to the stand, his head up and a defiant grimace plastered across his scarred face. Damnation or not, he refused to walk to his fate with anything less than his full pride. He faced the Inquisitors and clasped his hands.

The High Inquisitor laced his fingers together.

“An oath of allegiance is not a thing to break lightly, but the travels you detailed have been quite exceptional. Although it could be argued you could have found some other way to avert the events, you strike me as a man who barrels into danger with little thought to your own safety. A fortunate trait for those you sought to protect. However, your actions, reckless though they were, protected two of the Crown Pantheon’s own as the princess stated. They are alive today because of you, and their valid testimony in your defense has guided our decision.”

For the first time, the High Inquisitor’s impassive mask slipped away, and he seemed relaxed, wistful even.

“I, myself, once traveled with an adventuring group in my youth—several humans amongst them. They were good companions, but I’d be lying if I said any of them would have thrown themselves in front of a dragon and struck it in the eye to save my life. The prince and princess are gods blessed to have you at their side.”

Cort couldn’t help himself. “They get into trouble when I’m not around.”

“Then far be it for me to propagate such trouble or separate such a fellowship. The High Court of Inquisition of the sovereign city of Arcathoria hereby clears you all charges and wrongdoing, Cortland Lowhelm. May the Goblin Knight live to adventure another day.”

He rapped his scepter in finality, sending a shockwave of applause and cheering throughout the chambers. Cort’s mouth worked into a grimace as he realized the name wasn’t going anywhere. Mora had been right: he didn’t get to pick his legacy. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Rags collided into his side and the two shared a brief moment of exultant celebration as relief and joy washed over them both. They exited to the sound of uproarious applause from a crowd that had spent days following the events of Cort’s trial and been rewarded with a cavalcade of adventurous tales and incredulous surprises.

As they left the Inquisition chamber, a chant of “Goblin Knight” echoed behind them. Cort flashed the crowd a grin and pumped his fist in the air to a rousing return.

Headmaster Stonebroth caught Rags on their way out and vigorously shook his hand.

“I knew there was something special about you, lad. Prince! As bright and brilliant as one would expect. If you ever decide to walk the path of a Magi, I shall welcome you with open arms.” To make his point, he squeezed Rags in a tight dwarvish embrace, shaking him vigorously before letting him go. Ragoth laughed at the man’s exuberance.

They followed Tomis to a nearby antechamber away from the crowds, a quiet spot where the halfling shook all their hands and promptly told them he never wanted to see any of them ever again.

“But we won,” Ragoth argued.

“And your drama took twenty years off of my life. My heart can’t take this. Farewell, prince and princess. I wish you well in your future endeavors. Please don’t contact me again.” He made an exit as fast as his little legs allowed, leaving them alone.

Ahni watched as Cort stood before her, trying to decide if he should bow or kneel. In the end, it looked more like he was trying not to fall.

“Cort, what is it?” she asked. The voice was no longer than of Deni, but a dulcet variation that resembled the voice of the elf they knew.

“I just...ah, to pissing hell with it. I owe you an apology. I’ve treated you like orcshit since we met. Didn’t want you watching my back, thought you might fail me like you did Ord. Wouldn’t have done that if I knew you were a princess.”

She looked down. “You were right to do so. Ord’s death was entirely because of my negligence. I was used to using magic to guard me at night. I failed him and his death is something I must live with.”

Mora cleared her throat firmly. “Not to be ungrateful for what you did today, princess, but I would like an explanation for the many times we faced death, and your magic was nowhere to be seen.”

Ahni’s eyes slowly rose to meet Mora’s, who looked down with her muscled arms crossed. Ragoth wanted to chide her for not being more respectful, but he saw Cort’s expectant stance. Both wanted to know the answer. He couldn’t deny wanting the question answered as well.

Ahni held up her hands, steadying herself. “I hope you will all understand I did not wish to see any of you in danger or even risk yourselves for my sake. Before I left Havenlore, I made a difficult choice to remove myself from the path of a Magi. One does not lightly walk away from the Arcane Order. I took an Oath of Abstainment. I swore to never again use magic–not even a flicker spell. It was an oath I intended to keep—even if it cost me my own life.”

“But you broke that oath. You used magic to save your life when we fought the dragon.” Cort said, leaning forward.

A sad smile crossed her scarred face. “I wasn’t trying to save my life.”

Ragoth was inspecting the fleshy mask she had pulled off. It had the feeling of true flesh and at times even moved under his fingers.

“So, who was “Denith”? Someone you knew?”

Ahni shrugged. “A false name to go with a false face. I wanted to travel as inconspicuously as possible. I used a dye to hide my hair, loose robes to hide my form, gloves to hide my gilded mark. The Sneak’s Mask, however, was an expensive acquisition. Not many left in the world and one of the few people who owned one was a Sneak with a group called the Tombstormers. I bought the mask from his son in Havenlore.”

“Ord’s friend?” Cort asked, “That’s why you were there?”

She nodded. “I wanted out. I intended to retire myself with my grandmother in the Feylund. I have done so little on my own, without the clinging entourages of royal life. It suffocated me. I wanted time to feel…unimportant. Unmoored. Who would suspect a simple elf of the Unexalted Faith? You were right, Mora. It was not easy to be as humble as a true follower, but in truth I did not expect to be questioned much or to fall into the company I did. Nor did I think to be caught up in such events. I only wanted to get to the Feylund, but by the time we reached Barrow’s End, it was clear Rags intended to face his journey with or without anyone’s help. I…I just couldn’t let him travel the southern provinces alone.”

Ahni turned to Rags. “It seemed so simple: Just help an orphan Orcborn get to Dreadmour. What could go awry? After that mercenary elf in Dessius tried to kill you, I decided I would drop my guise when the time was right…but that time never came.”

“He wasn’t trying to kill me. He was trying to take the last thing I had that made me who I am.” Rags said. He tapped his finger to his head. “He dropped a syringe during our fight. I kept it, but it wasn’t until a few weeks ago I had a chance to find out what was actually in it. Longtusk is quite a resourceful individual.”

“Crime bosses usually are,” Mora noted.

“I thought it was poison and in some ways I was right. Shallowsend extract is a vile concoction that puts one in the grip of a death-like state and damages the mind—specifically the areas of memory. It’s rare, difficult and costly to make. The dose in the syringe would have had me out for days and torn my memories to shreds.”

Mora winced. “Blood and bollocks. Shallowsend. I saw someone who received a small dose once. Repeated everything he said minutes after telling you. And he sent that vial with some cut throat mercenary?”

“I’ve had time to ponder things since I no longer had death nipping at my heels every moment of the day.” Ragoth held up a finger.

“Going to be here all night then,” said Cort, leaning against the wall.

“Hush,” Mora said. “I want to know. I was right, Rags. I guessed you were Namaria’s prince before we got to Dreadmour.”

“And you still knocked me out with a slap?” he asked.

“That was very discourteous, Mora,” Ahni stated, wagging a finger.

She fixed him with a glare. “I was very annoyed with you when I did. I always say a royal needs a good punch in the face to remind them they’re not gods. Be grateful you still have your head. We could have avoided a lot of pain and anguish had all of you been forthcoming from the start.”

“I am truly sorry for all we endured because of me. If you wish to place the blame on anyone, blame King Brightsorn.” Ragoth conceded her truth.

“I can’t slap King Brightsorn,” Mora said. “But please, continue.”

Ragoth took a deep breath and paced in front of them. “Janear has never wanted me in the same castle as him. He has ever been cold to my existence. Only my mother’s love kept me alive. I can only surmise he hoped she would grow tired of me one day and send me off, but when my Crowning approached, he grew desperate to ensure I was never Crowned as a royal member of his family—even as a bastard.”

“Marvallo had to be the origin of the ruse to force me into exile, one I suspect was much simpler than what happened. I recall my evening drink smelled strange that night, so I didn’t drink it. I suspect it had something to make me sleep. Instead, I got out and my mark was carved into my hand. I unknowingly foiled their attempt to drug me. They didn’t account for my keen sense of smell. Not the last time this nose of mine would save my life. If it had worked, by the time I would wake up, I would be across the border of Namaria with nowhere to go and no one who would believe me. Then he disguised himself as “Dark Lord Blight” to kidnap me, but he didn’t anticipate I would escape.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but why didn’t they just kill you?” Cort asked. Mora rewarded him with a backhand into his gut for even voicing it.

“My mother,” Ragoth admitted. “Always my mother. Janear is truly a bastard, but even he knew my mother loved me as any mother would love their son. His marriage to her ensures Namaria is not an open enemy of Machavia. She’d have gone right back to the north and the nations would be enemies again. But his pride wouldn’t allow him to acknowledge me as his blood or allow me at his court. Engineering my exile was the middle ground he chose, only I escaped and Marvallo had to then find me. He knew I’d go right back to the castle and was waiting when I showed up.”

“And what was the king supposed to tell your mother when she found out you were gone?” Cort asked. “Or that your library got burned down?”

“That Rags ran away. Or was killed in the fire.” Ahni answered for Ragoth.

Ragoth pointed to Ahni with a laugh. “Exactly! When I escaped, he had to think of something else to keep me from going back. Marvallo knew me well. He knew I dreamed of the adventure and excitement denied me by my isolation. He smuggled me out of the city and concocted that story about me being The Prince Who Was Chosen, gave me a stage sword, and told me to find my Orc family. Then he faked his death before I could question him about any of it. He tricked me into traveling to the end of the continent in the expectation that if I didn’t die along the way, the Orcs would kill me when I found them.”

“Some friend,” Cort scoffed. “How could you believe all of that? Prophecies, a dark lord, and a chosen one? Those are child’s tales.”

“And I trusted as a child does. I can’t apologize enough for what my misplaced trust put all of us through.”

Mora, Cortland, and Princess Ahni heard the depth of Ragoth’s sadness as he spoke. His despondent tone spoke of mourning for the lost innocence he had. He had trusted blindly and been rewarded by being sent to his death.

“But, I am not so easily dispatched, as he found out. He followed us. You were right, Mora.”

“I usually am,” she replied with a smug smile on her face.

“Marvallo, I can only surmise, returned to the castle sure his ruse had worked and found it was not enough. Perhaps the king was not satisfied with me in exile. So, he came back, knowing I was on the Dwarf Road and this time he acquired the Shallowsend poison. At some point, he found my trail and waited for the right moment, but then in Roraberg Crossing, he lost us when Mora made us flee. Mora’s instinct was right and when we made off in the night up the river, he went east towards Dessius thinking we’d left him behind. I don’t imagine it took long to realize he’d lost us. Go back, try to find us or stay put? He didn’t know which way to go, so he split his efforts. He paid the elf mercenary at Roraberg Crossing and left him the syringe with instructions to look for me in Dessius and use it if I showed up.”

The three of them were digesting his words, watching him pace like a madman.

“So what happened to him after that?” Cort asked.

“Who knows?” Ragoth shrugged. “Likely backtracked to Barrow’s End. Either way, he couldn’t find us. By the time he returned to Dessius, we would have been through Karthak and in Dreadmour. Maybe he went back and told the king I was dead. Who would be the wiser? For what he put me through, I hope he got tossed from the castle walls when he returned. In truth, I may never know the whole of this conspiracy and all who played part in it. I feel vindicated in that I survived their efforts. My every breath is repudiation of their plan and I take great comfort imagining the humiliation King Jaenar must live with after his failed plot. Now all of Allspire knows I exist. As mother once told me: The best revenge is living well.”

Mora was rubbing her face and temples. “This is why I avoid politics. The royals always cloak themselves in enough dramatics to drown a troll. I much prefer burying my axe into someone’s head.”

A loud noise from Cort’s belly broke their conversation.

“Apologies. It’s been a long day. Can we retire? Finish all of this over ale and food? I’ll have to borrow a few gold, but I’ll pay you back.”

“I have very little gold to spare,” Ragoth admitted. “The Orcs had some stored away, but not all of it was the right currency. Or even made this century.”

Mora laughed. “I’m broke as well. Right back to where I started.”

“What happened to all the gold Rags paid you? You didn’t drink it all away so soon, did you?” Cortland asked, aghast.

“How do you think I found out where Dawntusk was located so I could come help rescue your ungrateful self. I paid Longtusk for the location.” Mora replied.

Cort’s jaw dropped. “That fat bastard told me the location was a secret only for Orcs.”

The all-knowing smile on Mora’s face was as wide as it was maddening.

“That’s because you don’t know how to talk to people who deal in information. Everything has a price—especially secrets.”

“The simplest magic one can perform.” Ragoth wiggled his fingers in front of Cortland’s face.

“Oh, shut your royal mouth.”

Their banter came to an abrupt end when the sound of marching boots caught their ears. A round of Sylverian elves in gleaming full plated armor marched into their room. Gleaming silver and blue with the polished sheen of enchantment coursing through the metal, they came to a halt and a commander marked with a feathered helm walked up to them.

He stopped in front of Mora, his jaw twitching as he faced her.

“Val’Mora? I am Commander Audroa of Sylveria. I’m here to place you under arrest.”

Mora tensed. Ragoth and Cort looked ready to pounce to her defense when Ahni held out her hands and stepped forward. “Commander, I am—”

“I know who you are, Princess. And your authority has no jurisdiction in this matter. Val’Mora is being arrested for her part in destroying a significant portion of the Dwarf Road bridge. She’s to be brought back to Barrow’s End to face trial for her crimes. By force, if necessary.”

“I’d like to see you do it,” Mora said, causing Commander Audroa and his men to take a step backwards, hands on their sword hilts. A long, tense moment passed as the elf and his soldiers prepared to draw swords. Cort and Ragoth placed their feet behind them, preparing for anything. They were entirely unarmed, having had to surrender their weapons to enter the high court. Ahni brimmed with anger, her scars turning a shade of dark red.

Mora let out an exasperated breath and turned her back on the commander to gather the others near her. “Right. Looks like I won’t be going back to Dreadmour with you.”

Ragoth shook his head. “Mora, we can—”

“Now listen to me. We just—”

She looked back as the elven commander butted his head into their group.

“I must insist we leave — MRRPH!” His words cut short as Mora’s large hand firmly clasped over the front of his head like a child gripping a toy ball. Audroa flailed his arms, threw his body backwards and beat at her arm with his little fists to no avail. Mora simply held him in place as his troops looked on, stunned and too afraid to act against her.

“You’ll leave when I’m damn good and ready to leave.” She turned her attention back to the three and gave them a reassuring smile. “Best not fight my way out of this one. You three just got yourselves out of trouble and I’d hate to see you back into it on my account. I’ll get this settled and taken care of when I get to Barrow’s End.”

“Are you sure?” Ragoth asked.

She winked at him, grinning. “Trust me. I know people.”

Ragoth walked forward and took Mora in an embrace. She hugged him back, her arm dwarfing him in size. He told her farewell, then Ahni repeated the gesture and Cort shook her hand. Mora took the opportunity to ruffle Ragoth’s hair one last time before she finally released the commander. He fell backwards and landed on his rump at the feet of his men.

“Just remember, Commander. I’m coming with you because I allow it. Let’s stop by the tavern on the way out, I’m parched.” Mora laughed.

She marched out of the hall with the elvish soldiers scrambling to surround her. Audroa stumbled to keep up.

“We are not stopping by a tavern.”

“You’re not in charge here,” Mora retorted, their argument echoing down the hall until they disappeared.

Ragoth, Ahni, and Cortland all shared a defeated look. They left together with Princess Ahni leading them to a luxurious inn called The Sapphire Clutch for an evening of fine food and good ale to wash down their bittersweet victory.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“The true appeal to adventuring the face of Allspire is not just the lands or the people, but the thrill of uncertainty. One will find there is always something they unaccounted for.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

“Wondrous,” Ragoth said in a hushed tone as he leaned in close to examine Ahni’s left arm. Its dark green corded fibers slid against each other with a magic fluidity whenever she moved it. She patiently waited, letting him examine to his heart’s content as he held her arm in his hands and ran his fingers along the surface, oblivious to anything else.

The three of them sat inside Ragoth’s room, an overnight accommodation of luxurious furnishings and ornate decorations made for nobility. For Cort, it was the fanciest place he’d ever been in. For Rags and Ahni, it was closer to their own upbringing. The three of them sat at a small round table with their dinner plates now bare. Ragoth and Ahni had goblets of elvish wine and Ragoth enjoyed every sip as though it were his last. They had spent the evening in a bittersweet celebration of Cortland’s freedom, though none of them felt truly victorious with Mora being hauled away at sword-point. Ragoth assured them she knew what she was doing and deferring to her wisdom had never steered them wrong.

Still, they missed her, and the night seemed lesser for her absence. Over the hours, they exchanged their stories after parting in Karthak and reuniting in Dawntusk. All the layers of their kept secrets finally laid bare, Cortland was left to shake his head that he had traveled with, and aggressively berated, two Crown royals.

“They are indeed wondrous,” Ahni said, watching Ragoth’s inquisitive nature consume his good sense. “They were a gift from the Treeweavers of the Feylund. I have been a friend and ally to them for many years. My grandfather is one of them.”

“Is that where you were transported when you vanished?” asked Ragoth.

“Yes. I have known pain in my life, and I know the shock of such a terrible wound. I had little time. It took all of my strength to cast that spell, taking me right to the Healer’s Chamber in my grandfather’s palace. I could think of no other place to entrust my life. They told me I was almost too late. When my strength returned, the Treeweavers had their most skilled spellcasters fashion and enchant these limbs for me.”

“Good to have friends in high places,” Cort noted.

Ahni shrugged. “Mora said it best. It’s not what you know, but who I know. Being princess does have its privileges, I admit.”

“It’s like a bundle of tightly woven cords. Like strong vines animated by magic,” Ragoth ran his fingers in the grooves. “Can you feel anything with them?”

“I feel sensations, but not as keenly as against my skin.” Ahni noted Cort was staring at her and inclined her head to him. “You’re unusually cordial, Cortland.”

He leaned forward with a dour sag of his shoulders. “All those weeks we traveled together. I called you helpless. Useless. I dragged you through troll shit for your inability only to find out I could be executed for it. I considered myself honorable and mighty but gave no thought to the welfare of someone who needed it most.”

Ragoth finally released Ahni’s false arm. “That’s the most insightful thing I’ve ever heard you say, Cortland. I daresay it’s downright magnanimous. I hardly recognize you.”

“Choke on my foot, Rags.”

“Ah. That’s better.”

Ahni reached out and gently clutched his large hand. Cort met her eyes with a sorrowful scowl.

“Cort, we are all flawed things. None of us are perfect, not a one. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my mere hundred years, it’s that one’s true self always shines through their murky traits. You looked down on me but did not cast me out. You could have left Rags to fend for himself, yet you followed him and kept him under your watch. At every chance to escape us, you instead remained at our side. Even when you did part from us, you fought like a man possessed to return. You broke your oath to ensure we were safe. I see through the anger to the good man underneath, Cort. Thank you for all you have done,” she said.

“You’re the brother I should have had,” Ragoth said.

Cort glanced between the two of them and grinned. “I struck a dragon in the eye. Good luck stepping out of my shadow.”

The two royals burst out laughing.

“I needed that. It feels...feels good. To have a laugh. I don’t think I’ve had a moment like this in months. Not since before we went into the mountain. I’d almost forgotten what happiness felt like,” Ragoth said.

Cort pointed at a puckered scar on the top of Rag’s chest.

“What’s that one? That scar on your chest?”

Rags looked down and opened his tunic. “Those abyssal cephalopods in Grimhold did this. Their beaks bit deep.” He stood and removed his shirt entirely, leading to a low whistle from Cortland.

Ragoth’s entire torso was littered with scars. Aside from the star-shaped punctures of the kraken creatures, there were several smaller slashes and one large gash at his right side.

“The smaller ones are from Gorvok’s nails when he tried to crush me. This, I think, came from the dragon. But this? How many can claim to have lost an eye to the gods?” He lifted his patch.

Cortland nodded in approval and pulled his shirt off. A pair of large gashes cut diagonally across his broad chest.

“These, and the one on my face, all from the dragon. Thank the gods they were mere scratches or else I’d have been carved into several pieces. No offense, Princess.”

“None taken. And please, we are friends. Call me Ahni.” She waved him off with a smile.

“Ha ha…No. What of you, though? Your legs and arms that beast took, but what did that?” Cort ran his finger down his face in gesture to the palm-wide scar running down hers.

“Orcs,” she said, her gaze distant.

The room went quiet, a tense stillness only broken when Cort put his shirt back on and cleared his throat.

“I’ve grown weary of this room and all within. Should either of you need me, I’ll be down in the common room abusing the privilege of Ahni’s bottomless coffers. I hope they have something better than this elf drek. If you two have better taste, you may join me. If not, enjoy the evening regardless.”

Rags stood and offered his hand in farewell. Cort grabbed him and pulled him into a one-armed embrace. Ahni, likewise, threw her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly. He gave them a last look before closing the door behind him and making his way down the stairs to the soft din of a posh tavern common room. He approached the bar and asked the barkeep to bring him something close to a common ale when a familiar voice caught his ear.

“Goblin Knight.”

Cort tensed, his eyes squeezing shut as he turned and found Sir Galdren occupying a table by himself with a mug and a pipe. Cort gave him a cordial acknowledgment, but the Knight Valiant pushed a chair out with his foot.

“Come. Join me for a drink?”

“After what happened in Barrow’s End?”

Wary, Cort walked over with his mug in hand.

Galdren burst out laughing. “Are you still sore about that? T’was nothing more than a bit of jesting between fellows. Come now, surely we’re past such nonsense—especially after all that Inquisition bollocks.”

“Your brother tried to have me put away for the rest of my life. Am I supposed to move past that as well?” Cort sat down; his guard still raised.

Galdren’s face soured. “Gareth is a goblin’s arse, that I won’t deny. But my brother works the Regent’s will as I work the Grand Knight’s will. If I took every slight against me as a gospel of hatred, I’d have not an ally in the world. I’d rather have an ally that needles me in jest at my back than a man who resents me. In my time of need, who is more likely to come to my aid?” He leaned forward on his elbows at the table. “I listened to every word of that trial. Imagine my shock, hearing you trailed my every step, having a proper adventure while I daydreamed on horseback to piss the day away. The kind of adventure I’d craved in my own youth.”

“You’re not going to tell me I remind you of yourself as a lad, are you?” Cort groaned.

“You? Ha! Not at all. I was disciplined and committed to training. We’re nothing alike. But I tell you I truly envy some of what I heard you and your friends went through. Fawnlings, Night-takers, mountain caverns, trolls, Orcs, and a dragon? Who says the Age of Adventure is dying?” He took a drink and sat back. Cort sipped his and reached into a pouch at his side.

“Did you truly do it, Cort? Did you strike a gods-honest dragon in the eye? With just your fist? Why? What madness took you?” Galdren held him in regard.

“It left me no choice. Turn the dragon or lose my friend,” he admitted. In truth, he had done as he always had: thrown himself at a threat and punch until it solved the problem. It had worked for much of his life. Galdren pounded the table with his fist as laughter billowed out of him.

“I’d call you Dragonstriker if Goblin Knight didn’t already suit you so well. It’s a fine name, aye?”

Cort pulled out his pipe, turning it over in his hand. “It’s growing on me.”

“Do you recall what I told you before we left Havenlore? What the words above the entrance to the Hall of Valor say?”

“Merit is the measure of a Knight,” Cort answered without even thinking. He eyed his pipe but didn’t light it.

“You’ve earned no small amount of merit. It would be a shame to let such potential waste in a mere guardsman role. Now that you’re free of the charges and I doubt my brother would have you serve under him again, why not come back with me? The Knights have rounds of our own in our service in whom we see great potential. An apprenticeship, if you will. I can put you on the path to becoming a Knight Valiant one day if things go well. What say you?”

Cort’s eyes flickered at him, the tip of his pipe landing on his lips as he considered that last pinch of Barther’s Bold.

“I’ll be going back to Dreadmour with Rags. He gets into trouble when I’m not around,” he said.

Galdren blinked a few times and shook his head. “You’re mad, Goblin Knight. But it’s your choice. And he may well need you. Your Orcbrat friend will have a lot of unwanted eyes on him once word of his bearing spreads across the realm.”

“My Orcbrat friend,” Cort said, slowly and deliberately, “Is a crown prince of Namaria. Any eyes that choose to peer in on him will find my fist in wait.”

Ragoth and Ahni finally had the chance to speak unfettered once Cort left. His gaze drifted to the scar on her face. Whatever had caused it had nearly cloven her head in two. The scar tissue where her eye once belonged was so thoroughly closed it was hard to tell if she ever had one.

"I knew that scar was not from the dragon. The scar tissue healed long ago," he commented, sitting in a chair adjacent to her. She sat with her arms and legs close together, her flesh hand touching an ornate shield pendant around her neck. She had never worn it as Deni.

"Do you want to know?" she asked.

"Only if you wish to tell." he answered.

Ahni steeled herself and found her emerald eye distant, her hand reaching up to touch the scar and with it the memory of its origin.

“I was a Mage of the Order for a decade before the start of the Orc Wars. I did so willingly. My father was a Dynasty general killed by an Orc incursion on a garrison and I wanted revenge. I was part of a round of Magi meant for frontal assaults and such. I was there at the final battle in the Old City. An Orc warrior broke through my defense as I used every spark of magic to carve through their ranks. I remember seeing his axe just before it struck and the next I knew I was being healed and the battle was over.”

When she looked up at him, it was with tears in her eye.

“Rags, I have killed many Orcs in my time. I sought to put an end to the threat, but afterward I saw the hills of the dead. I beheld what my magic wrought on others, and I felt justified in my deeds. But even when the war was over, he would not let us rest.”

She stood and Rags stood with her as she walked over to the twin glass doors and swept through them. They stepped onto a small balcony patio overlooking the beauty of Arcathoria under the light of a crescent moon. One of the gargantuan fingers towered above them a few hundred feet away, thick bridges with homes and businesses built onto them spanning the distance between the fingers.

She pointed to the northwest. “That way lies Sylveria and on its throne sits King Sothren. What did your mother teach you about him?”

“He is an Elder Elf who rose to power at the end of the Age of Ruin to form the nation of Sylveria. He is the founder and figurehead of the Crown Pantheon and most of the kingdoms answer to him. In all but name, he rules over the entirety of Allspire.”

“A very academic answer. What did she really tell you?” She gave him a look cold as stone.

There was a pause before he answered. “That he is a vicious, calculating ruler who will not hesitate to use any means available to him to strengthen his own power. That he is no friend to any but himself. He holds no love for any but his fellow elves and nothing he does is done in service of any people but his own. He is a tyrant who will see no others rival him.”

“All true, but you above any other should know this: his hatred for Orcs burns hotter than the arcane flame that scorched the God-Sorcerer off the face of Allspire. The war ended for all but him.” She grabbed him by the shoulders.

Rags nodded. “I saw his hatred for myself. He was not shy about sharing his contempt. I don’t think my status as prince will change his mind.”

The wind of the staggering heights brushed her hair back. Ragoth could only listen as she leaned on the railing, her head lowered.

“He saw the Battle of Dreadmour as the chance to exterminate Orcs from the face of Allspire. He sent me and an entire regiment from coast to coast, from highest peak to lowest valley to find tribes and wipe them out to the last. They jokingly called us Orcslayers, and we lived up to that title.”

He couldn’t think of an appropriate response. “I do not put blame on you. You did as you were ordered.”

“No, Rags. I did it because I wanted to. Because I saw Orcs the same as most: as savage brutes who revel in violence. They killed my father; they filled the realm with fear and death for an entire generation and left their half-blood children for all to remind them of what had been done. I endured all of it and more, but when the day came that I asked King Sothren when we could stop fighting, he answered me ‘Until the blood of every Orc has gone dry’.” Ahni pounded her fist against the stone railing. She looked as though the weight of her confession broke her spine. All her blurred vision saw was the brightly lit streets below.

Ragoth took hold and pulled her up. She crushed herself against him. Her strength left her, and she wept. Only his embrace kept her on her feet. Ragoth was unsure of what to do, having neither words to comfort nor the confidence to speak. He gave the only thing he ever had to offer: the presence of a friend.

When her composure returned, she said weakly. “I was naught but a tool, a scythe he could use to cut down any he wished. I saw no end to his all-consuming hunt, so I left, as was my right. When the Order tried to make me answer for it, I saw only one way out: taking the Oath of Abstainment. They did not know I planned to vanish. I disguised myself as Denith and left Havenlore to travel to the Feylund and live in the jungles, free of the Order and the Crown Pantheon.”

“It was you.”

Ahni lifted her head and Rags couldn’t help the blood rushing to his cheeks this close to her.

“The Sylverian army was here when we arrived. Sothren said he was looking for a noble with an artifact. I thought they were looking for me, but it was you they were after,” he said.

She sighed. “Sothren does not accept rejection with grace, though taking the Scepter of Alinora for myself was petty on my part.”

She led him back into the apartment and took the scepter out of her pack.

“It is an astounding relic,” Ragoth stated. “Were it not for its power, it’s likely I’d have died in the Deep Valley mists.”

“It was a gift from the High Archmage after my previous Conduit was broken by the axe that almost killed me. All mages and wizards must use a Conduit to focus our spell casting, lest we injure ourselves. Mother likely influenced his hand. She never wanted her daughter to be seen as anything less than a beacon of supreme grandiosity. It is enchanted with several spells at the ready: a shield, light, repelling necromantic magic, the blade of courage, and others.”

“And you took it even though you could no longer use it?”

She nodded. “It is mine to do with as I please. I would rather it rot in a chest than be in his grasp. Do not assume all elves love Sothren. It was worth it for no more reason than to infuriate him. Oh, and to force him to speak with my mother, which they both hate. The thought of their bickering makes me feel warm inside.” She chuckled. “The Crown? It is with you?”

“It never leaves my side.” He patted his satchel.

“See that it doesn’t. If the Order finds out you have it, they will not be kind in their pursuit of it.”

“I do not fear the Order or their Mages. They’ll have my Orcs to contend with if they choose to test the limits of my patience. It is mine by right and by deed. I did not go through torment to see my birthright claimed by bureaucratic elves.”

Ahni shivered. When Ragoth spoke, it was not the voice of the scared, wide-eyed young man who traversed the southern provinces with her so many months ago, but the commanding tone of a man sure in his own authority. A tone she had heard from many men, but never with such confidence as his.

“What of your Orcs? Are they waiting for you to return? What will you do now?”

“I ordered them to rebuild and keep silent of my presence. I couldn’t go back until I was sure Cort’s freedom was assured. Now that it is, I will return and once we’re ready, I’ll send word to the other tribes of the valley and unite our people under the Black Crown.”

“And then?”

He grinned wide, a strange looking gesture because of his tusks.

“A new dawn for Orcs. Something they’ve never had before: a place where they belong. A land to call home. And a royal lineage of their own. It’ll be different now, Ahni. The Orcs have something they’ve not had since Selrach walked the realm: a leader to guide them and a vision to outline their future. My vision. One you helped me achieve.”

In the soft light of the room, Ahni beamed at him with a slightly crooked smile thanks to her scar.

“You are a man of true integrity, Ragoth. Those months on the road, I have never been so vulnerable in all my life. I always thought myself capable until I didn’t have magic to depend on. I was never skilled with blade or bow, but magic? Oh, I truly excelled. Had I my magic during our journey, it would have made things easy indeed. I am no Adventurer, I admit. Just as you missed your comforts, so I missed mine. But…I did have you. A true friend, not a clinger or sycophant. I had nothing to offer you and you protected me when I couldn’t protect myself. I have known men who bear the title of prince but never any who deserve it as you do.”

He could only chuckle, scratching bashfully at the back of his neck. “High praise from a princess. I’ll do my best to make you proud.”

“I know you will,” she said. He nodded and an awkward silence passed, neither sure of what to say next. They both shared a small laugh, both on the verge of something unsaid, waiting to see what the other said first. She watched him expectantly before she finally half-turned to the door.

“It’s been an exhausting day. I know you have a long trip back to Dreadmour tomorrow. I’ll leave you to retire.”

He caught her hand. “There’s something I want to know. You followed me across the realm. At every step, you were willing to die to keep your oath, yet you endured when you did not have to. Was I truly worth such devotion?”

Ahni gave him a sweet smile that made his heart leap unexpectedly. She straightened the collar on his tunic, fidgeting.

“That night you ran into our camp, scared witless, you had my pity. I saw no harm in ensuring you reached a safe haven. But once you came to your senses, you broke from your fear and… Ragoth, I have lived my life surrounded by trappings much the same as yours. I was not confined, but neither was I free. I had hoped the path of a Magi would remedy this. It did not. I have…” Her head leaned aside, seeing a hundred years of memories. “Long have I struggled with my own emotions. At times, I felt as though I were incapable of contentment, enjoying nothing though I had everything one could wish for.”

“And then I met you. You were like a pegasi colt let out of the stable for the first time. Unleashed in a world where any small thing is a wonder to you. Your good nature is infectious. I followed for fear of your safety. I stayed because you were the first true friend I’ve ever had.”

Ragoth rubbed his mouth, his finger tapping his tusk. “You did not travel my path with me just to watch me pick at plants and sketch wildlife. Ahni, I led you to the very edge of the Abyss. A troll almost ate you. My people took you as a slave. You were seconds from being beheaded by Gorvok. You were mutilated by a dragon! Blood and bollocks, you let me cut off your ear, for all the gods’ sake, to give me the chance to achieve my aspirations. All of that...all of that and I could not…I just want to know why. Why did you do all of that? Why for me?”

Ahni tilted her head and gave Ragoth a bemused smile, her flesh-and-blood hand sliding across his cheek.

“Oh, Rags. I thought you were smart.”

He didn’t understand at first, not until they both moved together. Her hand slipped behind his neck as his arms drew her closer. The silent tension between them broke and he pulled her into a fierce embrace as their lips pressed together. For once, there were no books to recall and no advice to bring forth from his memory. Ragoth acted on the instincts he felt and indulged in the unfettered flood of young love.

He wasn’t sure how long they were there, locked in that kiss, drinking in the bliss of each other’s touch. But when at last they parted, he refused to surrender her embrace for even a moment. He swept her in his arms and carried her to his bed as she hugged his neck.

It wasn’t until the dark hours before dawn when they finally fell asleep. He lay once again in a soft bed, now with Princess Ahni cradled against his chest.

The sound of an insistent knock finally roused Ragoth from his slumber. He sat up, his head unusually hazy as he blinked sleep away and looked around. Ahni was nowhere in sight. He glanced out the window and was shocked to find the sun well into the sky. Was it mid-day? He was never one to sleep late.

He heard his name beckoned at the door and fell out of bed, struggling to find his clothes as they were strewn about the floor. Rushing into the common room of the apartment, he answered the door and found Cort on the other side, looking worried.

“It’s damn near mid-day, Rags.”

“I had a... long night.”

Cort fixed Rags with a knowing grin and clapped his shoulder. “Why do you think I left? Not as big a dullard as you’d take me for—especially when it comes to women.”

“Is it so obvious?” Rags asked as Cort pushed past him and entered the suite.

Cort glanced about, scratching his chin beard. “Her room wasn’t slept in. The bed was untouched. Wasn’t hard to guess. Thought we’d be off by now. Where is she?”

“She was gone when I woke up. Maybe she went to eat?” Ragoth rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

He walked to an opposing room with furnishings and a second bed but lavish as the suite was there was little in the way of places to hide.

“Ah. Blood and bollocks,” He heard Cort say. Rags came back to the common room and found Cort grimacing at a folded parchment on the table in front of him. Ragoth picked it up slowly and found it closed with the Dynestris sigil on the wax seal and his name written in elvish script on the front.

His eyes furrowed in question as a strange cold settled in his belly. He stared at it until he noticed Cortland already walking out and closing the door behind him.

“I’ll be downstairs.”

That only bewildered Ragoth more. An unbidden worry blossomed in him. He plucked open the folded parchments to find several pages of finely written elvish script. He sat down at the table and began reading.

My Dearest Ragoth,

I apologize for the Sleep spell, but I could not bear to speak these words to you. I’m not sure I can even write them.

Know that I shall cherish our night together. For perhaps the first time in my life, I felt truly loved unconditionally. I have lived a life bereft of people I can trust and even fewer I love. You and I both lived in captivity, but whereas your gilded cage was a library in seclusion, mine was the trappings of station. To be a princess of the Crown Pantheon is to live under the scrutiny of schemers and appraisers. You are not a person to the nobility of the Crown Pantheon, but a resource for the use of others. I loathe it. I despise the lying, the sycophantic clingers, the never-ending performance of court politics. Joining the Arcane Order gave me an escape from my station, and I took it.

You asked why I did everything that I did for you. Because I could not bear to see you fall to some highwayman’s sword or monster’s maw in your journey. Every day that passed I found it harder and harder to leave your side, as it was obvious you intended to march into dangers one could scarcely face alone.

I don’t know when it happened. Mayhap that night in the barn. Or when I saw your selfless heroism to save me and the Fawnlings. I could have kissed you when you saved me from that troll, my guise be damned. But by the time we reached Dreadmour, I knew for certain.

What other way can I say it? I fell in love with you.

I do love you.

I could say it for my remaining nine hundred years and never tire of it.

That is why I have to leave. I saved your life because my love was stronger than my adherence to the Oath. Not our friends, much as I adore them—even Cort. Not for myself. Only for you. I know you will accomplish great things and I hope to see your aspirations come to fruition, but there are consequences to breaking my Oath of Abstainment.

Part of the Oath is the consequence of breaking it by using magic once more. The Oath comes with a detection spell that knows if it is broken and alerts the Order. The second I saved your life, I damned myself. I have but two choices: Either I submit to execution, which I will not do, or I rejoin the ranks of the Arcane Order. I must return to my duties as an Order Mage and where I go next is out of my control. I cannot take the Oath again. It was my one and only chance.

By the time you read this, I will have returned to the Order and reported to the High Archmage. I do this willingly, gladly, so that you may continue forging the path you fought so hard to attain.

I hold you to no promise. Do not wait for me, for I will not expect you to hold yourself true for a scarred, broken thing such as myself. I cannot say that we will never see one another again, but I do not expect the Order’s work will bring me near Dreadmour soon. Do not spare your thoughts for me. I accept my fate with grace, knowing you are free to live yours.

Live free. Lead your people. My gift to you.

My prince.

With love, Princess Ahni’Alla Starsong

Distortions in the ink dotted the pages where teardrops landed amongst Ahni’s farewell. Ragoth could see the faint outline of a pink lip print below her signature as his vision blurred. He let out a wavering breath as the pages fell from his fingers onto the table. The fine elvish script glowed brightly and then faded until it was gone, leaving the pages blank. It didn’t matter. The letter lived in his perfect memory now, an eternal memorial to his shattered heart.

After an hour, Ragoth ambled down the stairs into the common room where Cortland waited patiently with a smattering of lingering guests. By the time he slumped into a chair across from Cort, a pair of ales arrived and were set in front of him.

“Drink up,” Cort offered.

“I don’t want it.”

“Drink.”

The insistence made Rags pick up the tankard and, against his good sense, he drained it in several large gulps, slamming it down with a gasp as Cort watched.

“Let’s hear it,” Cort said.

Ragoth cradled his head helplessly. “She’s gone. She broke her oath to save my life, so she belongs to the Order— now and forever. I may never see her again.”

His human friend nodded. “Mmm. It hurts. Trust me, I know. I haven’t a damn thing to say that’ll make it feel better, either. It’s just...a part of you now. You live with it and keep on. I feel bad now.”

“Why do you feel bad about it?” Ragoth scoffed at him.

“Because if I’d been nicer to her when she was disguised as Denith, maybe she’d have fallen in love with me.” Cort jerked his head to the side to avoid the tankard Ragoth threw at his face.

“You are such a fucking goblin prick.”

Cort nodded as he crossed his arms. “I’d say it’s my best quality.”

“Uugh,” Rags tilted his head back, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes. “The Orc gods destroyed my eye. Abyssal creatures almost tore my body to shreds. I had to kill my own father to claim my crown. Almost crushed to death by my uncle. Swallowed by a dragon and then almost blown up by arcane backlash.” Ragoth pounded his chest, grimacing, “But this? This hurts worse than all of those at once, Cort.”

“Aye, I know that particular hurt. I got left a couple letters like that when I was younger. Left one myself, even. It’s harder to let such things go when you live in a smaller community. You see them and at first the nerve is still raw, but then time goes on and there’s just this odd unspoken look you give each other. Sometimes you try again, and it fails again and rips that hurt open all over again. You feel that hurt often enough; you stop thinking about finding someone. My father didn’t know women as well as he knew farming. And my worthless mother, well, what would she teach me?”

He pushed his untouched ale over to Rags, who accepted it. “You have it tougher, Rags. You’re royalty. You can never trust a woman’s affections ever again without thinking she’s after your power and gold.”

“You’re a comfort to be around.” Ragoth’s tone dripped with sarcasm. He took down half of his second tankard and felt a little warmth in his gut.

“Just being honest,” said Cort. “I won’t coddle you with a sweet lie, so you feel better. It’s the favor I return for giving me much the same before we parted ways in the tunnel. If, perhaps, I’d had your words on my mind instead of Savia’s ti...” he caught himself and glanced around, lowering his voice. “That is, I had my mind elsewhere.”

After a pause, Ragoth said, “I forgot you lost her. My condolences.”

“I doubt I was anything more to her than another notch on her belt. A distraction on her way to swindle someone else. Still, so far as I knew she didn’t deserve her fate. And it felt good to be wanted, if only for a short time.”

The two of them lapsed into a short silence.

Eventually, Ragoth said. “They were rather large, weren’t they?”

“Right? Like two summer melons in a cow’s udder. I had her like this and she was, er, bouncing, right? They kept hitting my face. I feared she might knock me out with them.” Cort held his hands out, simulating the lewd act.

The two exploded into bawdy laughter, drawing a few looks as they clutched their sides at the very thought.

“Wait, remember back at Barrow’s End? You were tied naked to the bed?” That elicited a fresh round of laughter. Thus went the rest of their day spent at that table, reveling in the memory of their time spent in path and peril. No two brothers ever seemed closer and Ragoth lapsed into a tranquil sense of ease to finally speak at length about the minutiae of their journey. He detailed things to Cort that had remained hidden until they had the freedom to talk. Laughed at the small moments, filled in gaps of time, remembered the fond time there was nothing but the four of them and their road. For all its hardships, now that it was all in the past, it was hard not to see it through the rose-colored lens of memory.

Cortland pulled out his pipe and toyed with it again as he told Rags the raunchiest jokes to ever grace Vaelyn’s Deep. The Orcborn had never heard such jokes and laughed so hard he fell out of his chair. They ate a light supper and had another round of ale.

As their evening came to a close, Ragoth sat back and found the searing pain in his chest had dwindled to a dull ache—still hurting, but not the white-hot knife that had tormented him earlier. He beheld Cort, sitting back with his pipe in his mouth, looking as smug and irritable as any man ever walked the face of Allspire. He understood now what Cort had done for him this day. He couldn’t put into words his gratitude or ever repay him for guiding him through heartbreak with brotherhood.

“I suppose one more night here wouldn’t hurt,” said Ragoth, standing and stretching his back. The two of them walked back up to Ragoth’s room.

Once inside, Cort vanished into the pantry area. “So long as we’re staying and the price remains the same, I’ll help myself to some more of this elvish swill, if you don’t mind.”

“Help yourself.” Rags walked to the double-doors leading to the small balcony and stepped out onto it, watching the sun set on the horizon over the distant cliffs. “I tell you, Cort. I will miss this city, this grand sight.”

“Son.”

Ragoth froze at the voice. His entire body went rigid as stone. His heart skipped a beat. He felt overcome with the fear he had misheard. At once, he spun, and his legs threatened to buckle as his eyes went wide.

There she stood in the open door of the apartment, resplendent in a simple gown of blue and gold and silver. There was no woman on Allspire who compared. Her beauty could make even the most plain of dresses seem glorious. Her lustrous raven-black hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back. Her cerulean eyes glimmered like gemstones.

His own eyes. One of the many gifts he inherited from her.

She took a few steps in, extending her arms in welcome. “I’m here, son.”

Cortland’s head poked into sight after hearing the voice, a wine bottle in hand, as he peered into the room to see Ragoth gawking at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Ragoth stared for the longest moment of his life and then burst into a sprint for her open, waiting arms. She beamed with a radiant smile, welcoming his embrace.

Before he could fly into her arms, quick as a flash, Ragoth pulled a dagger from his belt and sank it into his mother’s chest down to the hilt. She gasped, coughing a spray of blood that splashed on his face. Cort spat out a wordless noise in shock, frozen where he stood. Her hands clutched the hilt as Ragoth held it there, his once stunned face now burning in unbridled hatred.

As she looked at him, grasping feebly at his hands, he snarled. “I am wise to your tricks, Jester!”

Ragoth grabbed the Illusory Ring on her finger and pulled it off. Cort stumbled into the room and watched as the form of Queen Seranna shivered and faded, revealing a tall, lanky man with a face locked in the throes of death. His hand reached for something in his sleeve, but Ragoth swatted it. A syringe of Shallowsend poison dropped onto the carpet.

Ragoth’s eye never left Marvallo. If he had a last confession, a last word, it was lost as his lungs filled with blood and the light left his eyes. The jester fell back, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Bright crimson pooled under him as his last breath escaped in a soft hiss.

Ragoth stood there, bloody dagger and Illusory Ring in hand, looking down at Marvallo’s body. He collected his wits and steadied his breath. He knelt, wiping his dagger on the jester’s pants, and then slipped the Illusory Ring back onto Marvallo’s hand.

“No more tricks.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“The best and worst part of adventuring is the inevitable end. Back to the comfort of the home one left. Or the great promise that comes when a new home is found.”

‘The Adventurer’s Guide to Allspire’

The proprietor of the Sapphire Clutch was most unhappy to have a murder reported in one of his most expensive suites. Rags and Cort spent the rest of the night in intensive questioning by Arcathoria’s guard. Cort feared he was about to be jailed again, but he had Ragoth’s quick wit to thank, once again. Before they could inform a soul, Rags had it all figured out.

It wasn’t hard to believe that a burglar with a magic ring tried to rob them, only to find those he victimized had the upper hand. After all, it was Ragoth and Cortland’s word versus that of a dead man with an Illusory Ring.

“Contact the Vaithlorn Academy and Scribemaster Celia. You’ll find they have records of this thief in their files. That magic ring belongs to them, I believe. He went by the alias Marvallo the Magnificent. A failed Magi and failed actor. I’m not shocked he turned petty robbery,” Ragoth told the guard captain.

“You know him?” The guard captain questioned.

Ragoth looked down at Marvallo’s pale, dead body.

“He’s no friend of mine.”

By the time Rags and Cort left the Sapphire Clutch, it was morning the following day and their tab, the owner told them, officially expired after leaving a dead man on his floor. The two of them left the inn behind and made for the floating platforms that would lead them out of Arcathoria.

“Another feather in your hat, Rags. The first man to ever murder someone at the Sapphire Clutch. Your legend grows,” Cort remarked.

Rags shook his head, more intent on taking in their last look at the splendor of the City of Mages before they left. Somewhere behind him, he knew, Ahni was back in the clutches of a life she had fought to escape. It humbled and troubled Rags she had done this for him. He didn’t feel worthy of her sacrifice or her love, but he trudged forward with a heavy heart and a faint hope.

Hope had carried him far. That, and true friends at his side.

“Don’t you have Orcs to rule? Are they okay with you being gone so long?” Cort asked as they passed through crowds. More than a few turned their heads at Ragoth, who walked with his hood down for the first time. He was tired of hiding his face.

“They’re rebuilding as I ordered, awaiting my return. The Orcs went twelve hundred years waiting for their heir. They can wait a little bit longer.”

“And once you get back, then what?”

Rags smiled, turning his face to the warm sun. “Then the real work begins. I reunite the disparate tribes and forge a homeland for all Orcs and Orcborn across Allspire. We will be a home to those who have none. A free people unburdened by the callous indifference of a world that spurns them. True change, Cort. I do not seek to consolidate power for my ego, but to change Orc society itself. Mother once asked me a conundrum: can one man change the world?”

Cortland shrugged.

“The answer is yes. Because one man can lead many. Will you join me in this?”

His friend cleared his throat. “I might as well. The guard won’t take me back. And I’m in Longtusk’s debt. Fair is fair. Besides, I can’t let you wander far from me. You’ll get into trouble.”

They arrived at the platforms and waited with a dozen others to file on. Just as the platform Mage was closing the gates, a figure in traveling robes and a fine hat exiting an opposing arrival platform came dashing over, shouting. “Wait! Wait, hold the gate!”

The man jumped over the railing to the Magi’s protest and ran towards Ragoth and Cortland sitting in the corner.

“Thank the gods I caught sight of you. I finally found you, lad!” he pulled off his hat, revealing an elvish head of silvery hair.

Rags jumped to his feet.

“Samrose!” He met the elf in an embrace, laughing to see his old mentor again. Samrose clutched Rags by the shoulders.

“Bless you, lad, you are alive. Oh, when I heard the rumors of an Orcborn prince of Namaria being claimed in court, I came as fast as I could.”

“Has word truly spread so quickly?”

“You’re on the lips of everyone, everywhere. Alinora’s Blessing, I’m so grateful you’re safe.” He pulled Ragoth into another hug. “I had no idea what happened. I came back the next day after I met you and the castle was locked down. They said I was no longer granted access to the castle or anyone within. Hrmph! The dullards thought their scowls and clanking armor could keep me out. But I have my ways, lad. I got in and spoke briefly to your mother.”

That lit up Ragoth’s eyes. “Is she alright? Is she safe?”

“She is livid,” he hissed. “She and her orc-punched husband are at each other’s throats over what happened. She sent an entire legion of troops into Sylveria as far as Barrow’s End in search of you before her command was stripped and her influence diminished. She is all but trapped there. She keeps herself in your former quarters, as far from him as possible. Worst is your sister. Sera is beside herself and misses you dearly. It is such a mess. What...what happened to you?”

Rags dispensed with quick pleasantries and used their time on the descent to the ground to recount his travels—ending with the confession he had killed Marvallo for his treachery. The platform landed, and they disembarked into the bustling city of Mageroot. They quickly found a tavern corner to occupy while they finished speaking.

“I imagine Marvallo was still searching for me when news spread after the Inquisitors had no choice but to acknowledge my claims. Thought to finish the job and catch me off guard disguised as mother. A few months ago that ruse would have worked, too.”

“Can’t say I ever liked that slimy smile of his,” Sam said with a shake of his head. “Good riddance. Now then, I know you’ve been through a lot, and it could be an arduous trek, but I have resources, gold, and a few devilish tricks. I can get you back into Namaria and to your mother. I suspect with the secret of your existence now common knowledge, it would help.”

“Help with what?” Rags asked.

Sam laughed as if Rags didn’t know.

“Why, to make your case to the Crown Pantheon and take your rightful place as a Crown prince. Your fathe—sorry, King Jaenar can’t deny you your rights as prince, even if you aren’t his child by blood. Your mother is queen. Bastard born or not, you have a birthright claim in Namaria. Bring your friend and you can name him your Honor Guard. Knighthood for one you can trust.”

Ragoth caught Cort’s eye as he weighed the option given to him. The chance to right the wrong done to him and make Cort a knight took them both by surprise.

A moment's thought was all he needed.

“Do you have parchment?” he asked. Samrose nodded and handed several from his pack.

Ragoth reached into his vest, fishing around. Confused, he looked inside and then checked all his pockets. “Where the blazes is it? I left it here in…Oh.”

“What is it?” asked Cortland.

Ragoth laughed and shook his head. “The Everquill. I keep it in my vest pocket. I had it in the Inquisitor's Chamber. Just before we left, Stonebroth stole it.”

“Stole it back, you mean,” Cort snickered.

Ragoth and Cort shared a laugh as Ragoth produced a charquill and began writing. When he finished, he handed Samrose two parchments, folded and sealed with twine.

“You’re going to use your resources and bring these to the castle. One for my sister and one for my mother. Let them know I am safe and in good health, but I won’t be coming back to Namaria.”

Sam took the two parchments, staring in wide-mouthed wonder. “I don’t understand.”

“By birth and by my own hand, I am a prince. And I shall not discard what I fought so hard to achieve. If they wish to see me, tell them to find a way to Dreadmour. I won’t be hard to find. Everything else is in my letters. Will you do this for me, Samrose?”

Samrose clutched the letters in his hand, a strange and determined look in his eyes as he tucked them into his traveling pack. He pulled out a small coin purse and a tome, handing them to Ragoth.

“It will be done as you ask. Here. Take this. My belated birthday and Crowning gift to you. If you’re going back to Dreadmour, at least spare your feet and buy a couple of horses. And now that you are free about the world, should you decide to travel elsewhere, you’ll find my tome may be of use. I’ve been to every corner of the Crown Pantheon and further still. I thought the wisdom from such travels should be shared.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Rags took the gold, a bit relieved he wouldn’t have to beg for rides to get back home. Only traveling with Cort’s guard detail had spared him on the trip to Arcathoria. He gave Cort the gold, who left to purchase their horses.

Samrose regarded him in a new light. “You surprise me, Ragoth. I’d not thought you capable of such acts of sheer grit.”

“Mother always told me the most dangerous thing in the world is a man with ambition.” Rags smiled at the compliment.

“Then you are no doubt a true danger to anyone who stands in your way.”

Ragoth lifted a finger. “One last favor to ask? It might delay you just a little, but you would do me a great boon.”

“Name it.” Sam waved his hand.

Ragoth leaned forward on the booth and took his charquill to the wooden table, scrawling on it.

“On your way back to deliver the letters, every town, city, or tavern you stop in, if you could find as many Orcborn as you can and give them this message: ‘Hail The Black Crown. Prince Ragoth welcomes Orc and Orcborn alike. Those without home or family will find their place in Dreadmour’.” When he finished, he tapped the simple black crown he had scrawled into the wood. “And give them my sigil.”

Samrose took it all in and nodded, replying with a stern. “Hail the Black Crown. I’ll miss you, but I fear I have nothing left in which to tutor you.”

“Safe travels, Samrose.”

Cort returned with their horses and Ragoth said his farewells to Samrose, waving as he and Cort rode out of Mageroot and towards the winding portion of the Dwarf Road back to Roraberg Crossing.

“We should be fine, just the two of us, aye?” Ragoth asked.

“Good question,” Cort suggested. “Perhaps we should find another adventuring party, just to be safe.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Rags answered. “As it so happens, there is a little adventure left in the world. Mayhap, the Age of Adventures isn’t truly over.”

“If you jinx our trip, Rags, I’ll knock your good eye out of your head, and you’ll be known as the Blind Prince of Orcs.”

Rags had to look away before he let his grin split his face. “Doesn’t roll off the tongue as well as Goblin Knight.”

Ragoth ducked a wild swing aimed for his head and reined his horse out of Cort’s reach. As they settled in for a long day’s ride, he took one last look at the splendor of the city soaring high in the godstone hand.

As they trotted forward, he produced Samrose’s book from his pack and found a black-and-green Everquill in its protective leather cover with his name engraved into the side.

The title on the first page read:

‘The Adventurer's Guide to Allspire’

by Samrose Samiri.

Come their arrival back in Dreadmour, their backs ached, and their bottoms were saddle sore, but the walls of the old city never looked more comforting. They stabled in the Muckfoot Quarter at dusk and spent a last evening in fellowship over ales at the Horse’s Arse. Oli and Iggi were already there and joined them, their bitter sibling rivalry seemingly at an end. It felt wrong to have such revelry with Mora heading back to Barrow’s End in chains and Ahni conscripted back into the Order, but for the time being, there was nothing to be done for it.

Ragoth’s friends had told him to trust them. He held faith that they were more than able.

He and Cortland stayed the night in Rosy’s Mercyhouse and in the morning they rose to a hearty breakfast courtesy of the motherly halfling. No longer rushing to flee on a quest, they enjoyed a morning of pleasant company and conversation over a cup of blessed coffee. Cort found it disgusting and was all the more confused when he later wanted another cup. Rags played a few songs with Cornelith, who was ever pleased to have someone share in his taste of music. Before leaving, Ragoth gave the last of Samrose’s gold to her. More gold in one donation than she received for months. He accepted a grateful hug and a bag of roasted coffee grounds to take with him.

They traveled back to the Orc village, a path Ragoth knew well by now. A sense of peace settled in his heart as he took in the forests around him. It had been some time since his last nightmare. His wounds were healed and his mind awash with the potential the future held. It would take time to enact the change he envisioned, but that was something he had now. By the time his efforts were noticed, he would have enough Orcs in his ranks to make any elf army hesitant to draw down against him.

A peculiar scent caught his nose as they neared Dawntusk. Ragoth looked and saw Cortland enjoying the ride in the late summer day, a peaceful look on his face as he finally partook of his last pinch of Barther’s Bold.

At long last, months after they had left, they came back to the sight of Dawntusk. The dragon was gone, gutted and skinned. Its parts had been appropriated for decoration, weapons, and trophies. The front entrance and walls were still in a state of repair, as Orcs had a very rudimentary understanding of carpentry. As he approached, Durth met them at the entrance and enthusiastically heralded their return with his one remaining arm, the left arm severed in the fight with the dragon. The reception caused celebration to ripple across the village. The Orcs ran from their huts and met Rags in the street, following him in an ever-growing procession. They showered him with shouts of praise and admiration. A horn sounded, and the cry went up from every Orc.

“The Prince has returned! The Heir of the Black Crown rules again!”

Cortland trailed behind, letting Rags have his victorious return. Uncertain as he was about where his future lay, there was no doubt to him that he was where he belonged.

When Ragoth reached the Commons, he received a shock. The throne had been rebuilt, a monument to reflect his glory. Gone were the skulls of Gorvok’s victories, now brought to line the outer walls to ward away intruders.

His new throne was now built on a taller dais, lined with burning braziers. It was suited for his smaller stature and flanked on both sides by crude green-and-black flags adorned by his sigil: the Black Crown. Per Orc tradition, the skulls of Ragoth’s slain conquests would adorn his throne.

Affixed to one armrest was the large skull of an Orc, no doubt his father; Gorvok’s skull with its broken tusk on the other. And the dragon’s massive skull was fixed above his throne, a fearsome sight to behold. He drank in the majesty of their gift to him: a place from which he would rule. Later, he would see to it personally that Krannok’s skull was placed on the altar of the temple with the rest of the Magnus’ who served their gods. That they once spurned him as less than equal seemed a distant memory. He held them in no contempt, for in their eyes he had proven to be worth the mantle he claimed.

His glory was now power.

He ascended the dais and turned to them, a sea of green faces and flashing white tusks. Even the slaags and slaves joined in. Ragoth held his hand up and the crowd quelled to let him speak.

“Today will dawn a new era for the Orc. Our people are scattered across the face of Allspire, but word will soon reach them that the Heir of the Black Crown has been found and rules in Dreadmour. They will come from afar and we shall bring them into our fold. The Sunderfang tribe shall rest and the Blackcrown tribe shall rise from its ashes.”

He swept his gaze over them. “From here on, there shall be no distinction between pureblood and slaag. All are Orc. Any who cast their lot with us shall know strength and fellowship. Any who cast against us shall know only death and tragedy. We will build under our feet a mighty nation where none are turned aside. Their blades will rise with ours and as one we will defy the tyrannical forces that seek our destruction!”

They cheered, enraptured by his speech, awed by his delivery. His mother, cunning royal that she is, had taught him well indeed.

He waited for a lull and spoke again. “And know this: The Black Crown is just…but shall never kneel.” Their cries echoed his own elation. They raised their weapons and cried over and over, “Orcs never kneel. Orcs never kneel! Orcs never kneel!”

As they chanted, Ragoth produced the Black Crown from his satchel and their voices rose to a wild cheer at the sight of it. He lifted it into the air with both hands to let all see and all know that his crown and rule were indisputable.

Their chants changed, filling the Commons with the declaration in common and in Orcish: “Hail Prince Ragoth! Hail the Black Crown!”

He lowered it onto his brow, the forged Godstone cool against his skin. The Black Crown, at long last, adorned his head and he sat on the throne, smiling.

A crown and throne of his own.

THE END

Epilogue

Princess Ahni’Alla opened her one eye and lay in the still of the early morning, watching Ragoth’s chest rise and fall with her cheek against it, their arms draped around each other. Serenity washed over her, a true peace that had long eluded her. She prayed silently to Alinora that she might live in this moment forever. This close to Ragoth, her only desire was to cling to him as long as she could. The temptation to rekindle their passion from the night before surged within her, but the gnawing at the back of her mind would not be denied. If she gave in to passion now, it would overwhelm her good senses and she wouldn’t have the strength to do what needed to be done.

Whispering words of incantation, her hand directed the arcane energy into him. When she finished, he continued in his sleep, heavier and sure to stay that way for hours.

She tossed the sheet covering their naked bodies aside and sat at the edge of the bed with her stumps peeking over, her enchanted legs and arm nearby. They were marvels of arcane craftsmanship, but hardly permanent attachments. Their magic held to her body well, but a strong enough force would dislodge them. Marvels, but not perfect.

Looking down, she saw the opposite end of the scar that started on her face. It continued down across her chest and belly, ending at her waist. Whatever elven beauty she’d once had was forever marred after that Orc axe tore across her body. Now a dragon had taken her very limbs from her. She felt shame and discontentment at her appearance, wishing she could have been the flawless beauty that her prince deserved. But oh, he saw past her scars and loved her just the same.

She looked back at him again and brushed her hand over his cheek. How many times had she wanted to reach out and touch him, hold him, rest her head next to his and give the warmth of close comfort? Never a right time to bring her truth to light. Had she done so, their time together would have been longer. How many more nights together would they have had just like this one? Her body flushed at the mere thought of it. Now that she had laid her secrets bare, she had to let him go. If she could go back and have the choice, she would do it again and gladly.

She attached her arm and legs and threw on a simple shift. She sat at the table with parchment and pen, casting a spell to assure only he read her words. Her bittersweet farewell spilled onto the paper as freely as her tears. By the time she left it kissed, folded, and sealed, she had pushed the lovesick lump into her throat behind a mask of courage from Alinora herself.

She dressed, quickly, in the cobalt blue robes of a Mage of the Order, something she had hoped to never put on again. She brought her pack to the table and opened it, looking inside. She gave Ragoth a long look, assuring herself he still slept, then reached into the very bottom and pulled out a small, flat and wrapped bundle. Hesitantly, her fingers pulled back the cloth and a golden glow illuminated her face as she stared down at the Golden Mask in her hands.

Its powerful arcane presence held her gaze for a long time before she returned it to her pack and threw her hood over her head. Ahni leaned over Rags and kissed him one last time.

“I’m sorry, love. Forgive me for all I’ve done. Be free.”

She closed the door, left the room, instructed the innkeeper to cover any charge accrued by Ragoth or Cortland, and marched through the city with the rest of the morning crowd. Arcathoria was coming alive with Mages of all colors and creeds, heading for either the Academy or the Zenith. She walked without pause to the Zenith and passed through the security with a show of her gilded crown. She did not stop until she was before the High Archmage’s office.

She swept inside, meeting Devan at his desk and snapping a sharp salute.

“Warmage Starsong reporting, sir.

He returned the salute. “Welcome back to the fold, princess.”

Before he could say another word, she said. “Before you ask, sir, I am making it known that I will hunt Orcs no longer.”

“I’m not concerned about Orcs.” The Archmage swept his hand across his desk with a flourish of magic. An illusory image of a massive metropolitan sprawl appeared before him. At its center rose an immense pyramidal structure with a white capstone and the sigil of a pyramid and skull emblazoned into the side.

Imperiax. The Capital of Norenrauth. The Empire of the Severed Sands.

“We have a warlock in Norenrauth,” The High Archmage said and the significance of this was not lost on her. “He masquerades as a champion of the masses, but he attacked the Emperor in his own throne room before escaping.”

“Do we know who it is?”

“He hides behind an alias. The people call him Lionheart.”

THANK YOU FOR READING.

I hope you enjoyed The Black Crown, the first entry book into the Age of Adventures series. If you did, there's more books, novellas, and comics to come set on Allspire. The next book was teased in the epilogue is The Lionheart, coming in 2024. If you enjoyed this book, consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads and letting me know what you think. 

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