Chapter 5: Dark Clouds

“It’s coming from over there,” said Fog, pointing. Gaius brought the wagon to a halt, and everyone got out. They were now close enough to see what Fog had been smelling: thick, black columns of smoke rose from behind a thicket of trees.

“Maybe a farmer started a controlled burn, to clear away crop residue?” Sashalia suggested. “But Fog said she smelled ‘living things,’ too...”

“Ah—” Darke started.

“What’s wrong?” Sashalia asked; the woman’s usual dreamy smile was gone.

“That smoke...it’s the sort made by burning houses. I’ve seen it several times, a long, looong time ago.” Her tone held the same playful lilt it always did, as though she was telling a joke—but something else burned behind her eyes as she stared at the smoke in the distance. She looked as though the sight of it was a source of frustration.

Sashalia was reminded that she knew nothing of Darke’s past. From the looks of her eyes, however, it was clear that something had happened to her, presumably during the Five-Year War. The eastern kingdom in which Sashalia had lived had been uninvolved, but unfortunately, it looked like her fellow former knight had learned first-hand about the flames of war.

At this realization, Sashalia found it difficult to reply to Darke, and instead turned toward Gaius—and what she saw in his face made her breath catch in her throat.

Gaius wore a look of pure rage. His eyes were wide, and he was biting his lip so hard it threatened to draw blood. The man’s fury was so intense that she half-expected steam to start rising from him as his burning eyes stared at the smoke. Gaius quickly withdrew his trusty faussar from the wagon bed, and with a meaningful look over at Darke, he took off in a fierce sprint as though launched from a catapult.

The rest of the group was left stunned, and by the time they pulled themselves together Gaius had receded into a figure in the distance. Emon grabbed a sword as well and whistled shrilly before running after him.

“Those damn idiots...!” Fog growled. “Men never stop and think! I’m going, too!”

“Stop, Emon! Please wait, Fog!” Sashalia cried. Unsure of what to do, she began to draw her weapon as well before Darke held out a hand to stop her.

“Not you. Sir Gaius ordered me to protect you.”

“When did he say that?!”

“He didn’t have to. It was in his eyes.”

“His eyes...that’s not enough for me to—”

“Please try to understand.” Darke’s firm voice was unusually serious, which took Sashalia by surprise. She began to protest out of habit but caught herself, and her shoulders slumped in defeat.

I get it...I’d only slow him down...

＊

—What a pathetic excuse for a village.

The ruler of a given area will usually order settlements to build a pub or an inn when they get big enough, but this flyspeck is nowhere near that point. There couldn’t even be twenty people living here—no, make it twenty-two, if you count those two women my lackeys have cornered over there.

These were the thoughts of Roche McArdle, a young knight, as he lounged on his soft seat. His perch was not a chair or sofa, but the corpse of a man he’d slain not moments before lain atop the body of another dead man, to provide a high enough surface for him to sit more comfortably.

“Shouldn’t be a problem if I kill off this whole village,” he muttered under his breath as he rested his chin against his hand. The decision made, he waited for the scene before him to end—not out of any sort of conscience, but because he simply wanted nothing to do with these peasant women who reeked of dirt.

And besides, leaving a few survivors as witnesses is part of the job, so it’s fine if some of them manage to escape. He sighed and took a swig from a bottle of alcohol he’d looted.

Nothing about the man’s posture held any trace of alertness or wariness. Considering that most of the residents had already been slain and he was nearly finished in burning down the settlement, this was to be expected. Nothing and no one in the surrounding area could do anything to stop him, and no traveling merchant would stop to inspect the cause of the smoke. Groups were tasked with keeping the peace as they patrolled the region, and normally an incident like this would catch their eye. This time, however, McArdle was not the least bit concerned about being caught by them.

Why not? The answer was simple: because he was one of them.

This stuff is terrible, he thought as he took another gulp.

One of McArdle’s underlings, a man clad in armor, emerged from one of the burning homes. While his equipment made him look somewhat capable, his dull, vulgar face made it clear that he was lacking in intelligence, culture, and common sense. That ugliness, inside and out, was why McArdle didn’t think of them as “his men” so much as “his minions.”

The man held a young boy by the wrist dragging him along the ground as he walked. The boy had taken several blows to the head; it was swollen and sunken slightly in one spot, like a bruised grape. McArdle couldn’t tell if the lad was breathing, but even if he was, it was clear he wasn’t long for this world.

“Eheh heh heh, found this’un hidin’ in the oven, even though ’es already dead either way.”

“Really.”

“Had some fun hittin’ ’im, couldn’t do that if he got burned up.”

“That’s true.”

“Oh, but I can have some more fun now, right?”

“I don’t care. Just do it somewhere I can’t see it.”

“Aye aye!” With a hideous smile, he slowly turned to walk away. The conversation had left a bad taste in McArdle’s mouth, and he turned and spat to his side, still seated on the corpses. The moment he looked up...

...he saw a giant silhouette. It held something made of metal, which it swiftly thrust at the hideous lackey’s torso, skewering him. The figure lifted the man up, swung him around, and slammed him into a wall. The armored torso flew away from the rest of his body.

The young knight McArdle had just watched a man get cut in half right before his eyes.

His underlings used to play with their blades to kill the time, using their short swords to chop fruit in half on tables. He remembered how, when the blades grew dull, they would drag, causing the fruit to go flying once it was cut.

That’s right, they would slice up apples. You could do that with apples. But this time, it was a human torso that lay before him. Just as he tried to catch his breath, he heard a low, deep, rough voice overflowing with anger.

“...What are you doing?”

I should be asking you that... McArdle thought. Just what was this person doing here? Then a realization struck him, and his heart thudded in his chest as a chill ran down his spine: he’d seen this man before.

“I asked you a question!” The man roared.

A body too large to be human. A face like a savage beast. And a black rose incised into his left cheek.

It’s Gaius Beldarus...what is he doing here?!

Gaius, too, recognized the man in front of him. “You’re the man from before...” But before he could finish the thought, McArdle, who’d regained his senses, drew his sword and shouted, “Get over here, boys!”

Three figures immediately emerged from nearby houses, their reactions unnaturally fast. Attacking a vastly outnumbered enemy was their specialty, and it was because of this experience, rather than any sort of teamwork with McArdle, that they quickly fell into formation. Two men flanked Gaius from behind, waving their swords haphazardly, while one blocked his path head-on, his blade pointed squarely at Gaius’s head in a pose called the “bull stance.” Only the man in front appeared to have had any training with a sword. He no doubt chose the posture because it would allow him to switch easily from offense to defense, mitigating his opponent’s size advantage.

Unfortunately for him, his opponent moved with such speed that there was no time to utilize his skills. Gaius lunged forward with a powerful horizontal slash, lopping the man’s head off before he could bring his longsword up to defend himself.

Gaius followed the momentum of his strike, using it to spin around in order to leap at the man who had been behind him and to his left. He brought his sword down diagonally, hewing through the second attacker’s neck and shoulder. As the final enemy watched his ally’s head and arm fall away from his body, Gaius aimed the next swing of that immense, cleaver-like blade at the man’s torso. The blade sliced halfway through before it stopped, and the man’s now-limp body looked like a vegetable in the midst of being prepared for dinner. Gaius once more lifted up his sword with the body of his opponent stuck to it, swung down hard, and slammed it against the ground, severing the man in two as though he were splitting a log.

McArdle watched, unable to tear his eyes away. So this is the Black Rose of Igris...?! He’d thought the stories to be mere tall tales, dismissing his boss’s excited reaction as the aggrandized nostalgia older people were apt to fall into. But now he’d realized his mistake—and that he would be the Black Rose of Igris’s next victim.

Or so he thought. It appeared luck had not completely abandoned him, for two reasons. The first: now that he had realized the difference in their ability, he’d made escape his top priority. The second: the rest of his underlings had finally arrived.

“Cut him down!” McArdle shouted one last order before he turned and ran off. He did not feel even the smallest shred of duty towards his lackeys; from the very start, he’d only brought them along as disposable tools.

As Gaius turned his gang to mincemeat, McArdle ran until he could no longer hear the screams, reaching a lone horse tied to a tree just outside the village. He’d untied the others’ horses and released them after arriving at the settlement, so that if any problems arose, no one could steal one and come after him—and so that his underlings would be forced to stay behind, buying him time.

He did not spare a single backwards glance; he could not afford to. Willing his violently trembling hands to move, McArdle managed to get into his saddle and set off as fast as he could.

＊

“I swear, you’re so hopeless, charging in without even thinking...”

Once again, Fog tended to an injured Emon, whose head had nearly been caved in. The young dwarf encountered another bandit on his way to catch up with Gaius, and had been promptly defeated, taking a brutal kick to the head in the process.

Fog had been the one to save him. Wielding a dagger that Gaius had given her, she’d jumped into the fight and taken the bandit down. Despite having no experience with the weapon, which was designed for human hands, Fog had quickly mastered its use—just as she always claimed, she truly was the kobold village’s strongest warrior.

“...Are you all right, Emon?” Gaius asked dejectedly; he seemed to blame himself for letting one of the bandits get to Emon.

“I cannae see a thing!” the dwarf replied brightly.

“This idiot will be just fine. What about you, Gaius?” Fog looked up at him.

“You do not need to worry about me. Would you call Darke over? I’d like her to treat one of the women who survived.”

With a nod, Fog headed for the wagon at a run. Gaius stared after her for a moment, then knelt down to inspect the body of the bandit she’d killed. He, too, was clad in armor, so Gaius lifted the visor on the man’s helmet. When he saw the man’s face, he clicked his tongue in frustration and scratched at the back of his head.

“What’s wrong, gramps?”

“Come look at this.”

“...Hang about, that’s...!”

They’d both seen the face before. The pale skin, the dirty hair, and the large burn scar across his cheek: he was the leader of the bandits that had attacked Emon.

After lowering the visor, Gaius slowly rose to his feet and said to himself, “It seems we can no longer go to Ryburgh for supplies.”

＊

“What! Were! You! Thinking?!” Gaius and Emon shrank as Sashalia shouted at them.

“I had no choice. Please forgive me.”

“...I’m sorry...”

The first apology came from Emon, the second from Gaius, though the dwarf seemed to be consciously imitating the larger man’s voice and speech pattern. Sashalia smacked Emon so hard tears sprang to his eyes when she heard him seemingly mock her former captain.

Everyone had reconvened just outside the small settlement. While Darke and Fog tended to the female survivor, Emon and Gaius sat on their knees before Sashalia as she berated them.

“That was far, far too reckless! You didn’t know a single thing about the situation! The number of enemies, their formation, who they were—you jumped in without any idea what you were getting into!”

“I apologize...”

“And all without any armor, too! Do you think your shirt is going to stop a sword?!”

“I may have lost my temper a bit...”

“Sir Gaius, don’t you want to get these supplies to the village?! What would you tell them if you’d been hurt?!”

“I’m terribly sorry...”

“And another thing! If my suspicions are correct, you could very well be putting yourself in the middle of House Zigan’s infighting, Sir Gaius!”

“You’re right, I was very foolish...”

On and on the lecture continued. Only after they’d been kneeling so long their legs went numb did Sashalia finally let them go.

＊

Gaius slowly, shakily stood on his legs, which still hadn’t fully regained their feeling. “Right, I’ll go bury the corpses...” He returned to the wagon and withdrew a shovel before glumly shuffling off toward the settlement.

Emon’s legs were even worse off; they were still so numb he fell over when he tried to stand. Still afraid of Sashalia’s wrath, he said meekly, “...Does he really need tae bother with all that? Why not just leave ’em be?”

“Excuse you?! What are you saying?! Sir Gaius is not that heartless! Are you kidding me?! You’re kidding me, right?! Do you want me to kill you?! Do you?! Do you want to die?! You want to die that badly?! Are you stupid?! Are you some kind of idiot?!” Sashalia leaned closer and closer to Emon’s face as her tirade went on, scowling intensely at the dwarf.

“What the hell’re ye gettin’ so mad about?!” Emon practically shrieked in terror. “Didn’t ye just finish tearin’ inta us?! What d’ye even want from the old man, anyway?”

“Ah—” Sashalia froze, her next shout dying out as a strangled noise emerged from her throat. Taking a deep breath, she began her reply.

“...I just don’t want Sir Gaius to be in any danger. But I know he’s always going to do this kind of thing. There’s just no helping it, we all know that about him.”

“Then ye can back off with all the preachin’.”

“No!” Sashalia’s reply was almost as sharp as her glare. “Even though I know that’s how he is, I have to say it! I have to be there to stop him, even if he can’t be stopped! I have to make him do what he won’t! That’s my job! That’s why I’m here!”

“And wha’s that mean?”

“I don’t know how to explain it to you. You don’t have to understand. I don’t think I really understand what I’m trying to say either, to be honest.”

“I think yer just a li’l nag, is what ye are...”

“Shut! Up! Right! Now!” She punctuated each word with a chop of her hands, and Emon yelped with each blow.

“The important thing is, when I watched him take off like that, I realized: he really is just like I remember him...” Sashalia said. She’d decided to keep her earlier impatience, from when Darke had held her back, a secret from the others. “I still don’t get it, but he seems like a right handful for ye. Think he’ll ever stop?”

“It’s okay if he doesn’t. I wouldn’t want to follow someone who was only ever wise, or only strong. It’s because of who he is that it’s worth it to have chased him down to be by his side again.”

“Mmm, t’be honest with ye, when I saw him...I kinda thought the same...thought he looked like a right hero...” the young dwarf admitted bashfully.

“So if you want to become a hero king or have a huge harem or whatever, you’ll need to be more like him!” Sashalia grinned smugly as she tapped Emon lightly on the forehead.

...In the end, two women and one young girl had survived the massacre. Leaving them in Northplain didn’t feel right to anyone, given how unsafe it was, nor did they simply want to leave them to fend for themselves. However, as it turned out, they all had relatives in the neighboring territory of Goldchester. And so, it was decided that the group would take a substantial detour to escort the survivors to safety.

＊

Back at Fog’s home, Sashalia had just finished folding laundry and now sat staring at a small piece of cloth in her hands with a troubled look upon her face. The cloth was embroidered with a crest that Gaius had peeled from the armor of one of McArdle’s henchmen.

The sigil of House Zigan was a pair of crossed gauntlets. However, the version that Sashalia held was an older crest, from before the family’s rule had been confined to Northplain. She’d memorized nearly every crest in Igris’s history, so she was able to identify it without having to consult any records of heraldry. A few years prior, the leader of House Zigan had succumbed to illness, triggering a dispute over the succession that even now brewed beneath the surface. The eldest son still lived, but he had withdrawn from the competition very early on, leaving the house divided into two factions: those favoring Keighley, the former leader’s eldest daughter, and those who backed the second son, Dugard.

Keighley had taken up the current crest, a lone gauntlet, while it was Dugard who had chosen to resurrect the crossed-gauntlets crest for his faction. Igris’s court officials and knights often jokingly referred to the House’s infighting as “hand-to-hand combat.”

Sir Gaius told me that the knight who manages the Ryburgh Adventurers’ Guild, Wyatt, serves Keighley. Then why did his men attack the village wearing Dugard’s coat of arms?

She could think of only one reason: they wanted to make it look as though Dugard was attacking one of the settlements his sister presided over. That way, Keighley’s camp would have an excuse to openly launch their own attack against Dugard. If they framed it as “a counterattack against Dugard’s tyranny and neglect,” they could claim the moral high ground.

The reality of the situation did not matter. All they needed was something they could prop up as the truth. That was always the nature of such political subterfuge. And to that end, Keighley had sacrificed the tiny village and nearly everyone in it.

I guess to that power-hungry lot, their own people are just kindling for the fire...

Sashalia’s brow furrowed. The nobility’s chess game left an unpleasant feeling in the pit of her stomach, but she was at a loss as to how to deal with it. The only thing she could do was warn Gaius away from getting involved any further.

＊

Out in the woods, Gaius, Fog, and the kobold hunting party were face-to-face with another tree-eating lizard. This time, instead of felling the beast single-handedly, Gaius had merely wounded it by jabbing a spear into its side. The lizard backed up in an attempt to change direction, and the kobolds that encircled it made way to avoid being crushed underfoot.

“It’s heading that way!” Gaius called out.

“I’m on it!” A white figure sprang out from the tall grass, landing on the lizard’s back with a dagger in hand—it was Fog, the strongest fighter in the village. She kept her balance as the monster stomped about. Gripping her dagger in both hands, she took aim and plunged the blade deep into the lizard’s back.

The rainbow-lustered blade pierced through its scales with ease, bypassing the spinal cord and severing its carotid artery, exactly where she had meant to strike. Fog knew the beast’s heart was too deep for her to reach with her weapon, so she’d targeted one of its vital blood vessels instead. She could tell by the feeling against the blade that she’d hit her mark, so in one swift motion she withdrew her dagger and made her exit with a deft backflip, polishing it all off with a clean landing.

The tree-eating lizard attempted to charge away, but with so much blood gushing from its fatal wound, it did not get far. Its front legs collapsed, and the forward momentum sent it crashing into a tree before its limp body hit the earth.

In just one deadly blow, the expert hunter had slain the magical beast. As the others surrounded her, cheering and celebrating, Fog turned to Gaius and winked in a silent show of pride.

The dagger she held in her hands was a little over a foot long, but unlike most, its blade was not straight and single-edged. Instead, it was fashioned as a multipurpose weapon: the blade ended in a pyramid shape, and the middle portion was double-edged. The rainbow-colored brilliance that shone faintly from the metal made it appear to be made of mythril alloy, but in fact it was the effect of a low-level strengthening magic with which the metal was infused.

The dagger, called Stingfeather, was one of several weapons Gaius had brought with him from the capital. He’d given it to Fog, who was fond of wielding longer weapons than the others; the size of the dagger suited her style perfectly. While Gaius was fond of collecting weapons, he preferred to see them in use rather than keeping them shut away in storage; over time, he had given away more and more of his smaller weapons to the kobolds.

“That was splendid!” Gaius, too, celebrated Fog’s feat with applause, and she puffed up even more with pride.

“How about that, huh? Pretty amazing, aren’t I?”

“Indeed! I was captivated by you.”

“Oh, come on, don’t go falling for me now.”

Laughing, Gaius leaned over and held out his palm for a high-five, which Fog returned. The pair had only been hunting together for a short while, but many magical beasts had already fallen to their impeccable teamwork.

“This should be plenty,” said Fog. “Let’s carve it up and head home.”

Gaius nodded. “Right. Everyone! Time to get started!” He and Fog waved to signal the others, who came running with smiling faces.

＊

“Gaaah! I cannae do it anymore! Not another bleedin’ second! Me arms!” Throwing his wooden sword off to the side, Emon collapsed in the grass.

“Ha ha ha, we’ve only just begun,” Gaius goaded him. He tapped his “weapon,” a piece of kindling, against his shoulder as he gestured to the young dwarf to stand. “If this is your limit, then your dreams of becoming a hero king will only live in your imagination.”

“I! Hate! Doin’ things! That take! Effort! Or energy! And I hate! Bein’ in pain! No more!”

“Indeed. You mustn’t push yourself too hard, either. Why don’t we take a break after another ten rounds?”

“Och, are ye even listenin’ to me? Your trainin’s too bloody intense!”

“But mine was even worse...” Gaius’s earlier cheer immediately disappeared as he remembered the past, and his face dropped. “My teacher was a queen, the wife of the current king’s grandfather.”

“Crivvens, she musta been some queen.”

“She was a former knight, and a terror on the battlefield. When he saw her in battle, the king fell in love with her immediately and begged her to protect him—that was how he proposed.”

“Oooh, now that’s a good line...I’ll hafta remember that one.”

“In any case, that was my teacher. And since I was chosen to protect her daughter, the princess, she made me train until I coughed up blood—urp—” Gaius clapped a hand over his mouth as though just the memory of it was enough to bring him to the verge of it once again.

“She would tie me upside-down over a casket of water, balance a bowl on my feet, and make me fill the bowl up with only a tiny cup. I had to hold stances for hours while balancing dishes on my body. And maintain my balance standing atop a bottle while carrying buckets of water. And kneel like a sofa for the queen to sit upon. And do push-ups over burning incense. And so on. If my form slipped even the slightest bit, she’d step on me, kick me, and whip me.”

“Was she a beaut?”

“Hm? ...Ah, that she was. She was very lovely.” Gaius had a faraway look in his eyes, now lost in his memories—until his thoughts returned to his training, at which he choked down another wave of nausea.

“Ye call that trainin’, ye big scunner?! That sounds like heaven tae me! This is even more unfair than I thought! Ye got to enjoy all that while I only get tae’ suffer! Aah, I want a gorgeous lassie to abuse me with sweet, sweet torture, too! I want it to hurt so good!”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I’m speakin’ from the heart here!”

Darke and Sashalia watched their exchange, and each made a silent prayer of thanks that Gaius hadn’t put their feet to the coals like that; their drills had been painful enough, but now they realized they had gotten off relatively lucky.

“Sir Gaius really isn’t taking it easy on Emon, is he?” mused Sashalia.

“He can’t afford to. It’s clear that if he were to let Emon go off to the west as he is now, he’d be sending the boy to an early grave. The Knights of the Chain now consists almost entirely of women, so I also suspect he’s having a little bit of fun, training a young man like he would his son. Oh!” she suddenly clapped her hands in delight. “With Emon as his son, myself as his daughter, and you, Lady Denan, as his wife—what an amusing family we’ve become!”

“Stop that,” Sashalia replied wearily.

“But Lady Denan, if you aren’t careful, Madame Fog will take the title of ‘mother’ out from under you.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Even as she said it, Sashalia had to admit: it was clear just how well Fog and Gaius were getting along in every way, from hunting to daily life. They behaved more like equals, unlike Sashalia, who still had not managed to bridge the gap between herself and her former captain. Gaius and Fog acted as though they’d known each other for years. Sashalia would be lying if she said she never felt jealous at seeing how close they were.

“I know Sir Gaius doesn’t worry about race or half-breeds or any of that, but that would be too—”

“—too perfect for you, right?” Darke cackled.

＊

Back at Fog’s house, Darke stood proudly over a fresh, hot meal she’d prepared for everyone.

“I believe you’ll find it to your liking. It’s quite spicy.”

“Wow, I can’t believe you turned a hunk of tough, smelly boar meat into this,” said Fog.

“I tenderized it and chopped it quite thinly, then added some lovely herbs I found growing nearby before trimming the fat and roasting it. Oh, please help yourself to this sauce here. I’m more accustomed to cooking in flat-bottomed pots and pans, so I’m inexperienced in cooking over an open fire the way kobolds do.”

“Well, look at you. You must be a great chef,” Fog said, impressed.

“Ah, well, I was once responsible for housekeeping at the Beldarus residence. Today’s meal is quite simple, but if you’d like I can provide more of a variety next time.”

“Show me some of your recipes! I want to learn how people outside the forest cook!”

“I’d be delighted to! A few of the other ladies have asked me the same, so perhaps we can all cook together some time.”

Fog and Darke sealed the deal with a handshake as Sashalia looked on, wishing she’d brushed up more on her culinary skills as well. I can never tell what that woman is thinking, but gosh, she really is clever...

Despite being a pure-blooded human, Darke had already won over the kobolds, playing up her role as Gaius’s almost-adoptive daughter in order to endear herself to them. In fact, by now, all of Fog’s guests had settled in as proper residents of the village.

As always, the village elder served as the lone voice of opposition, but the wives and mothers of the village had rallied against him again and scared him into silence—a scene that Sashalia had watched with mixed emotions.

It seemed that here in the kobold village, the wives were the ones with all the real power.

＊

After dinner, everyone lounged around the sunken fireplace. On all fours, Fluff tottered over to where Emon sat, even as his mother reprimanded him. “You need to practice walking on two legs, Fluff.” The young kobold still couldn’t quite maintain his balance when walking upright.

“Brother Emon, read some more from your funny picture book! The one about Iwanoshin!”

He was referring to a book Emon had brought along, a picture book in a style that was quite popular among the dwarves of the Great Anvil. They told stories through exaggerated artwork segmented into panels. They were almost always penned by dwarves, and enjoyed some popularity even in the western kingdoms.

“Iron Knight Iwanoshin” was an action-packed tale featuring the gallant Iwanoshin, who saved the weak and defeated one strong opponent after another.

“Not tonight, lad, I’m knackered from all that practice. Next time.”

“Aw, that’s lame. Fine, I’ll read it myself!” Fluff wrinkled his snout at Emon, then turned to rummage through the dwarf’s bag.

“Can ye even read—wait, cut that out!”

“Huh? These are weird. What’re these humans doing without their clothes on?”

Fluff had already pulled out a few more illustrated books, which spilled out onto the floor in front of them. Each one bore a more dubious title and indecent cover than the last: “The Princess’s Private Chambers,” “Shall I Remove My Armor?,” “The Priestess Repents, Part II,” and so on.

“Aaagh! Fluff, what’ve ye done?! Don’t look at ’em!”

Sashalia was seated close enough to see what was going on, and her face turned beet-red as she picked up one of the books.

“But why?” asked Fluff.

“If you read these you’ll end up just like Emon, Fluff!” Sashalia had meant it as a warning, but unfortunately, it had the opposite effect.

“Brother Emon’s really cool! I wanna be like him!”

“There’s absolutely nothing cool about him! You should never, ever try to be like him!” In her fervor, Sashalia waved the book she’d picked up angrily. It slipped from her hand, traced an arc through the air—and landed squarely in Gaius’s face, where he had been lying down beside the fire.

The force of the book colliding with Gaius’s skull knocked him out cold. Sashalia panicked. Emon hurriedly gathered up his treasure. The young dwarf thought everyone was preoccupied until someone brought their hand down hard on his shoulder.

“Huh?! Oh, big sis, ye scared me.”

“You know, Emon...I once had something terrible happen to me, thanks to dwarven treasures just like those. I will be conducting your swordsmanship training tomorrow. Do prepare yourself.”

“Wh-Why? What’d I do?!” Emon protested, now even more panicked than before, until the intensity of Darke’s gaze made him fall silent. Thanks to his real older sisters, Emon had learned the hard way that talking back to a woman with that look in her eyes was dangerous.

“Be afraid. I’ll see you in the morning.”

...Dwaemon was headed for disaster.

＊

One evening, a group of kobold men and children were gathered at the edge of the lake that supplied the village’s water. They’d been training with the weapons Gaius had given them, but were now taking a break to lounge, chat, take swigs from their waterskins, and enjoy the cool air. Fog, Sashalia, and Darke had spent the afternoon in the forest gathering herbs and wild plants and passed by the gathering on their way home.

“Gosh, everyone’s more lively than usual today,” said Sashalia.

“The boys are all interested in Emon’s swordsman training,” Fog explained, “and the kids probably just think it’s fun to watch Gaius smack him around.”

“Sir Gaius is a true master of every type of weapon, not only the sword,” Darke said dreamily. “If he trained the young man with a lance, he could assist in hunts.”

As they watched the group from a distance, they saw the break come to an abrupt end as everyone suddenly stood up, alert, and began gathering around something.

“I wonder what’s going on over there.” Sashalia strained her eyes to try and spot the reason for this sudden motion; the men and children appeared to be looking with fascination at something that had fallen on the ground. Some had taken up sticks with which to prod it, as others craned their necks to get a better look at the mysterious object.

Even Gaius had come out from the makeshift training hall, and once he had noticed what was going on, joined the circle. He picked up a fallen branch and stabbed the object to hold it up, which made both the adults and the children yelp and back away.

Fog brought a paw to her forehead to shield her eyes and look. “...It’s dung. A huge clod of magical beast dung. That’s what they’re so worked up over.”

“Fools, aren’t they?” Darke said flatly.

“Oh, but Sir Gaius is so innocent and pure when he acts like a child!” Sashalia was in genuine awe.

“Lady Denan, are your glasses on correctly? Perhaps your prescription needs some adjusting.”

The group of men was now even more raucous than ever. The kobolds raced to grab longer sticks and branches, then proceeded to skewer the dung on their sticks before engaging in mock sword fights.

“Why are men always like this...?” Fog said with a sigh.

“It must be a universal aspect of male nature, human or kobold.” Darke didn’t hide the fact that she thought she was saying something profound.

“Stop acting like you know it all—” Sashalia cut herself off and pointed. “Oh, look, the village elder is joining them.”

“That old wet blanket’s probably going to tell them to keep it down,” grumbled Fog, at which Darke nodded.

The elder, however, took his walking stick in both hands before plunging the end of it into the beast droppings. With even more enthusiasm, and a technique that suggested this was not his first time, he joined the other villagers in their play sword-fighting.

“They’re idiots, all right,” the three women agreed in unison.

Just as they turned to head home, they were greeted by two small boys running over to greet them—Fluff and his best friend, Fishbone.

“Hello there, little ones.” Darke knelt down to pat their heads. “What brings you out here?”

“Can we borrow that, big sis?” said Fishbone as he pointed to the scoop in Darke’s hand, which she had been using to gather plants.

“Are you going to use it on that dung over there?” Sashalia asked. “That’s a good idea; we should really bury it sooner rather than later.”

But Fluff shook his head vigorously. “We wanna scoop it up...”

“Scoop it up?” Sashalia tilted her head.

“And carry it...”

“Carry it?”

“And throw it!”

“No, you won’t.” Once again, Fog, Sashalia, and Darke were in complete agreement. The pair huffed and complained before trudging off to join the group of men and other children.

“Where did they even learn a...technique like that?” Sashalia’s voice was full of disgust.

“And just what is so fascinating about animal droppings?” Darke wondered.

“Hey! Don’t look at me!” Fog protested. “I didn’t teach them that!”

In the end, the three came to a silent agreement that they would never quite understand it, and with one last heavy sigh, headed back home. Behind them, the dung-swordfighters had moved on to playing and splashing each other in the lake.

＊

In the light of the setting sun, Gaius and the kobolds scooped up cold water from the lake to wash off their bodies and clothes after their intense fight.

This precious source of water was also the source of several rivers, some leading into the heart of the Greatwood. The dried-out river that led to Gaius’s hometown also originated here, but at some point a mound of sand had been piled up between the abandoned settlement and the lake, diverting the river and turning the former riverbed into the roadlike path it was now.

It was dark by the time Fluff, Fishbone, and Gaius returned to Fog’s house. The young pups, who had raced on ahead, were still being toweled off by the time Gaius made it home. He sat beside Fog, water still dripping from his clothes. “Ah, I feel refreshed.”

Fog, on the other hand, seemed anything but refreshed, “Why the hell are you soaking wet?” she asked testily.

“I’ll let the summer heat dry me off.”

She shook her head and held out a towel. “Here, I’ve got more. Dry yourself off already.”

“Much obliged.” The towel looked more like a handkerchief in his large hand. Fluff stood up and animatedly shook out his newly dried fur as he energetically made “Brrrr!” noises. It seemed that even after playing all afternoon, he had energy to spare. As soon as Fog finished drying off Fishbone, the two kids took off running.

“Oh, for the love of—come back soon, you two! It’s already dark out!” Fog yelled after them.

“Okaaay!” They replied as they ran, but whether or not they meant it was another story. Dinner was almost ready, and while they hadn’t played off all of their energy, surely they must have worked up an appetite. They would return home soon.

“Kids can be a real handful, but at least they’re pretty adorable when they’re real small. When I see a baby that’s just been born, I feel like I’d be willing to do anything for them...”

Fog had a faraway look in her eyes, and her voice had much less life in it than before. Even Gaius, never the most perceptive of people’s feelings, could see that she wasn’t only thinking of the two children who had just raced off. He remembered that she’d told him the village had once had many small children, many of whom were born shortly before the attack on their village. Gaius nodded silently.

“...Thank you. You’ve really helped us out. New buildings and houses have gone up one after another, and the tools you brought us are a huge improvement. Our hunts have been better than ever—hardly anyone ever gets hurt anymore, and we have more than enough food to go around now. Have you heard the news? A couple of the ladies are even expecting kids now. It’s been a while since the last time that happened.”

“That’s wonderful news. I can’t wait to see them running around the village.”

Fog replied with a warm, gentle smile. “I need to get even stronger. To keep those kids safe, and everyone in the village...will you train me, too? In swords, spears, anything.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“After all, I’m the toughest soldier this place has got! They’d be hopeless without me around. I’ll study your moves, make them a little more kobold-friendly, and then teach the others. I’ll be even tougher on them than you are on Emon!”

Gaius nodded his approval.

“So I was thinking? That maybe? It’d be nice? If you stayed here? For good? And helped me train them? O-Only if you want to, though.”

“Would it really be all right for me to settle down here?”

“Of course! Everyone thinks so. Even that damned old idiot...even the village elder agrees. He likes to complain, but deep down he knows you’re a good person.”

“Really...? I’m very glad to hear it.”

“Then it’s settled,” Fog said, and practically leapt to her feet.

“Indeed. I’m very much looking forward to it.”

“Welp, we sure are going to be busy! You and me, whipping this village into shape, getting everyone all toughened up. We’ve got to make sure things are looking good for all those little ones we’ll be welcoming soon.” This time, her smile was wide, her fangs on full display. The light from the sunset fell on that smile, illuminating it. Gaius found the sight to be quite moving.

Over the course of his life, Gaius had seen people fight for countless reasons. To secure the interests and prestige of a kingdom, or as a tool for forceful diplomacy. Because they were ordered to. As part of their duty. To fulfill a knightly oath. For the honor and fame of their family name, or simply for money. Or, like the trouble they’d run into in the village, some fought as part of a much grander scheme.

But not the kobold warrior, White Fog. All she fought for was the safety and the future of her people. Her motivation was incredibly pure, noble—and beautiful.

“Fog.”

“What’s up?”

“You’re quite lovely.”

“Wh-Wh-Wh-Where did that come from, you big oaf?! Sometimes you say just the dumbest things, you stupid idiotic idiot!” If kobolds could blush, Fog’s face would have been bright red.

“You know, my husband used to say that, too: ‘You’re real pretty when you stop talking’!”

“Ha ha ha. He was a lucky man.” Gaius’s broad smile looked like the snarl of a bloodthirsty beast, but Fog had come to recognize it for what it was.

Gaius continued, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Come on, you don’t have to be so polite about it. What is it?” Fog cocked her head.

Holding his left hand out to her, Gaius asked, “Would you do me the honor of being my friend?”

Listening to his request, the pure-white, lovely kobold stared at him in stunned confusion before replying.

“...You really are one dense guy, you know that?” She gave him a small, wry smile before placing her paw in his hand. “I’ve been thinking of you as my friend for ages now.”

＊

If one were to enter the Ryburgh Adventurers’ Guild and walk all the way into the back, they would find themselves in a small, seedy pub called the Silver Ladle.

The tiny space, thick with the smell of fried food and cheap alcohol, would never be mistaken for a decent place to spend one’s time. Nevertheless, it was where the adventurer Theron and his party had decided to convene.

They sat around a circular table littered with bottles of cheap beer and spirits. Despite the quantity of alcohol, the conversation was not very lively, and all of their faces were clouded over.

“We need money bad,” muttered Graeme, one of the vanguards. The deeply tanned man was solidly built; even without the heavy armor he wore, he looked like he could hold his own against anyone else in the pub.

“What’s Hubert thinkin’, makin’ us pay him back by the end of the month?! He’s crazy!” exclaimed a pinched, high-strung woman. Her name was Divina, and she was the group’s lone sorceress. While she’d never attended the Sorcerer’s Academy, she had been raised by a family of magicians, and knew how to cast a handful of rudimentary spells.

Even so, armies all over the continent had recently been recruiting anyone capable of casting spells without the need of a costly wand; Divina herself had spent time in the Earl of Grenwyk’s private army. Her paranoid, hot-headed nature, however, made it difficult for her to fit in with such an organization, but as an adventurer she no longer had to hold back. She had fallen in with Theron early in the group’s history, and the two of them had even gotten married.

Beside her sat the silent lancer, Morgan. The party only knew that he had once worked as a brothel guard—all they needed was his muscle, not his backstory, so no one bothered to ask more, and he never offered to tell.

The only other woman at the table, Abigail, spat out a sharp retort: “There’s no goddamn point in whining about it! Fact is, he wants the money, and that’s why we’re trying to come up with a plan!”

Abigail fancied herself a master cat burglar, and while the title was an exaggeration, she did indeed have nimble fingers that were skilled at picking locks and undoing traps. She was wanted for theft in the royal domain of Middlebury, which in her mind meant she had some notoriety, and it was an open secret to everyone in the party but Divina that she and Theron were having an affair behind his wife’s back.

“Now now, ladies, we’re all good friends here. There’s no need to fight. We’re going to get through this together.” As he flicked aside his long bangs, Theron’s smile illuminated his handsome features. Still grumbling to themselves, Divina and Abigail let the argument go.

Cyril the hunter took another bite of deep-fried mystery meat as he watched the rest of the group. He and Theron had known each other since they were young boys, having grown up in the same village. His extensive knowledge of all environments, from dense woods to open plains, made him a valuable asset, well-respected by his leader and old friend...at least, that should have been the case.

“Theron, let’s not forget that it was your gambling that got us in this mess. We had plenty of money after raiding that little dog village, but you went and drank it all away.”

“Who the hell said you could talk, mudpuppy?!” The affable smile on Theron’s face instantly transformed into a nasty scowl as he spun around to face Cyril. Even as an adult, he rarely called his childhood friend by name, instead using an insulting nickname he’d come up with as a boy. Behind Theron, Abigail and Divina joined in, calling Cyril all kinds of names.

“Well, excuse me,” Cyril mumbled into his glass before taking a gulp. Fortunately, it did not seem Theron had heard him. The rest of the group went back and forth, any attempt to plan turning into fruitless bickering, none of which changed the fact that Cyril was right.

The party had borrowed money from a man named Hubert, an influential figure within the Adventurers’ Guild. The situation had only spiraled out of control in the last month, after Theron had lost a huge sum in a few dice rolls, taking out yet another loan and digging them even deeper into the hole.

A violent and vulgar man, Hubert was a senior member of the guild, and many of its members were also in his pocket—either as lackeys or as debtors. However, far from seeing Hubert as a menace, the guildmaster Wyatt considered him an asset; he had a surprisingly convincing way with words, which made him skilled at recruiting new members.

Accepting all this was an unofficial requirement for membership, and anyone who asked for an extension on their loan would be sent off on a dangerous job, never to return.

In other words, living in Ryburgh meant that not paying one’s debts on time was simply not an option if one wanted to stay alive or out of jail. He was a terrifyingly large man, even greater in size than Graeme, with a face that looked as if it had been carved out of stone.

“Let’s just get out of Northplain already,” said Graeme. “We could make a run for it.”

Everyone other than Cyril rejected the plan, shaking their heads. In Goldchester, Northplain’s western neighbor, Theron, Divina, and Morgan were all fleeing charges—for murder, embezzlement, and manslaughter, respectively. To the south lay Midland, where Theron was wanted for rape and murder, Abigail, for theft, and Graeme for arson. Theron had committed yet more crimes in Grenwyk to the east—murder and burglary—while Graeme had escaped prosecution for several cases of fraud. Fleeing to any other region was not a viable escape plan for the party, especially not for Theron. Northplain was the last domain in which they did not have to hide.

Short of building a high wall around every territory, it was impossible to prevent villainous types such as these from slipping through a territory’s borders—a problem faced by the rulers of every domain, no matter the era or region.

Over one hundred years ago, Igris’s nobles had put their heads together to devise a method for curbing the issue, and devised a plan that was groundbreaking for its time: they would hire the outlaws that crossed into their lands, assign them the most hazardous jobs, and put them to work in the service of the greater good. Keeping such criminals busy would minimize their havoc, while enrolling them in a registration system would also help to keep tabs on them.

This method did yield positive results, but only within each individual domain: it sent the message that each land, which was largely self-governing, would not hold the criminals of its neighbors accountable. Rather than address that problem, however, domains focused on improving this system’s image by fashioning an appealing name for it:

“The Adventurers’ Guild” had a much nicer ring to it than “harboring fugitives for cheap labor.” Indeed, the situation Theron’s party faced was far from rare: working as a registered member of a guild in one territory even as they were wanted for crimes in neighboring lands.

“I guess we’ve got no choice.” Theron crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Hey, mudpuppy, you find out where they are yet?”

“I have. I found out where they’ve settled down while I was on my third trip into the Greatwood. But the mutts have only just settled back down—they won’t have much worth taking yet. We hit the little goblins last year, and they’ve only just begun to rebuild. They won’t last the winter.”

Cyril had grown up in one of the frontier settlements on the edges of the Greatwood, and was well accustomed to investigating the forest alone without succumbing to its dangers. Ordinarily, this would have made him a priceless asset to the party, but his terrible relationship with Theron made him something of a pariah, and he was sorely underappreciated by the others.

“Tch. Useless as ever,” Theron scoffed, to which Cyril gave no reply. He’d long since realized that trading barbs with the man would only make things worse for himself.

Instead, he stuck to the subject at hand. “We could go milk them for all they’re worth now, but that’d be the end of them. We’d lose out on a valuable source of income. I think we ought to give it another year.”

Cyril laughed at his childhood “friend” inwardly, even as he put up an outward semblance of cooperation. He wasn’t the one in debt here, since he’d never participated in their gambling.

“I don’t care about that! I care about getting money right now!” Theron shouted, slamming a fist against the table. “The monsters that live in the forest—they hunt, right? They’ve got to have magical beast parts we can sell. Maybe even dragon parts.”

The horn from a one-horned boar, like bugbear liver, was a precious ingredient used in making medicine and fetched a very high price outside the forest. Spear peacock feathers were prized ornaments, while the beard of the forest whale could be used in clothing and instruments alike. The woodland dragon’s horns and fangs were the most difficult to procure, which made them the most valuable monster parts of all in the human world outside the Greatwood.

When they’d attacked the “mutts” the year before, Theron’s party discovered a treasure trove of these precious items. It had been more than enough to pay off the debts they’d racked up at the time, and until a few days ago, they had indulged their every desire.

Theron continued, “We won’t recruit extra people to help out, like we did last time—we’ll go in, just the six of us. That way we won’t have to split the loot as many ways. Even if it’s not a lot, it’s gotta be better than nothing.”

Graeme and Morgan nodded in agreement; Divina and Abigail hadn’t had any intention of defying Theron to begin with.

“So we just need to follow that dried-out riverbed, is that right?” Theron asked.

“Right, but I still think this is a bad idea,” Cyril said, arms crossed as he made yet another attempt to push back against Theron. “This is the Greatwood we’re talking about. We’ll need more manpower.”

“Hey, mudpuppy...are you saying you’re not going to cooperate?”

“No...I just think that—”

“All right then, if that’s how it’s going to be, should I go ahead and share with the class? I can tell them why you’re on the run—what you did back in our hometown. I can let your parents know too, while I’m at it, and your cute little sister...one letter is all it would take. Man, I’d love to see the looks on their faces when they find out what their boy did to the village’s pride and joy, dear sweet Lily...”

Cyrus leapt out of his chair in a flash, the blood drained from his face. “Okay, okay! I get it! I’ll do whatever you want! I’d never just abandon you—I was only worried about you, that’s all!”

“Yeah...yeah, that’s what I thought! I knew you wouldn’t, pal!” Theron stood up as well, briskly walking up to Cyrus and clapping a hand down a little too hard on his friend’s shoulder. They both began to laugh, one smiling broadly while the other grimaced.

“We’re best friends, right?!”

“Yeah! Of course!”

The sound of their false laughter continued to drift from the Silver Ladle.

＊

One afternoon, Sashalia and Darke were lounging at home, all done with the day’s training. Emon was taking his turn with Gaius, and the two women sat cooling off inside where they could hear the sounds of the young dwarf’s training.

“Ha ha ha, don’t run from me!” Gaius’s voice rang out merrily.

“The hell is that bloody puppet for?!” yelled Emon, his voice hoarse and heavy with exhaustion.

“It’s called a ‘wooden swordsman.’ My teacher, the late queen, left it to me. It reminds me of our lessons.”

“Well, get it away from me, I’m dyin’ here! I need tae catch me breath...”

As she listened to the conversation between the master and his disciple, Darke sighed. “Oh, Emon, you still haven’t managed a single victory. Overpowering Sir Gaius will certainly be tricky.” She sat beside Sashalia and cackled as she pulled off her shirt and wiped away the sweat she’d worked up earlier. The half-elf nodded absentmindedly, more focused on what she saw on Darke’s now-exposed upper body.

Darke’s clothing had been concealing a great number of scars along her back, chest, and arms. Some looked as though someone had taken a red-hot iron to her skin again and again, while others looked to be from a whip. From the thick, tough scar tissue, it was clear that none of the wounds had been allowed to heal properly. Sashalia could see that the injuries extended even down the left side of Darke’s chest.

Back in the Academy, we were all pretty open about changing clothes around one another, but Darke always snuck off to do it...I never really stopped to wonder why.

She’d always just assumed the gloomy young woman had a strange, but relatively harmless past, but after seeing them in person, and having learned about Gaius’s paternal relationship to her, she was intensely curious.

Darke must have felt the unwavering stare; she shifted so that her back was facing away from Sashalia, and brought her arms up to cover her chest. She began to twist this way and that in mock embarrassment.

“Lady Denan, if you keep staring at me with such desire, I’ll have to change my pants, too! You’ve got me so excited, I simply can’t stand it!”

“I wasn’t looking at you like that!”

“Oh? But Lady Mildred and the other girls seemed to enjoy the view.” Darke purred, pretending to sulk.

“Mildred...? One of the girls in our class? The one with the curly blonde hair?”

“Yes, the eldest daughter of Viscount Pilcher.”

Sashalia’s eyes drifted off to a point on the wall behind Darke as she recalled their classmate. She’d been the class representative, a well-mannered and bright young woman. Despite her lineage being one of the most prestigious in Igris, she had never joined in when her classmates would torment the half-elf.

“But why her?”

“We were roommates. I had the girl wrapped around my little finger.”

Sashalia furrowed her brow in confusion as Darke continued.

“Someone of lowly birth such as myself couldn’t have survived that den of well-bred wolves unscathed without a...friend.”

“Okay...”

“So I made friends with her. Rather, I waited for an opportunity and took her. My charms are quite strong—she never stood a chance. She and I had so much fun...at least I did. Oh, what a marvelous young woman she was! But you know, maybe I should have chosen you instead, Miss Denan!”

“Don’t come near me!” Sashalia fell backward and scrambled away from Darke as fast as she could, withdrawing into the corner.

Darke watched her panic with a smile, her eyes crinkling. “Please don’t fret. I’m only mostly telling the truth.”

“And how is that reassuring?!” Sashalia tried to ward her off by throwing the clothing she had been about to change into, but all that did was make Darke laugh.

“In...In all honesty, I didn’t get these scars from Sir Gaius, so there truly is no need to worry on that front,” Darke said, a rare hint of hesitation in her voice. Sashalia’s face grew hot, but not because Darke had correctly guessed what she’d been thinking. No, she was ashamed at herself for suspecting the person she held so dear of hurting someone that way.

I can’t believe myself...Sashalia knew she should respond, but the words wouldn’t come, and an uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

Finally, unable to bear the quiet any longer, Sashalia blurted out, “You know, I’ve been thinking—”

But just then, Gaius called out to them from the other side of the front door. “Hello? May I come in?”

He must have realized that the women were most likely changing out of their training garb. Sashalia was still fully clothed, but Darke had yet to put a shirt on—which did not stop her from calling out merrily, before Sashalia could warn Gaius:

“Yes, of course!”

The door swung open as Gaius said, “Fog was wondering if you’d like to gather mushrooms with...her...”

“Oh, I would love to.” Darke turned to face him, her bare breasts on full display. Gaius gave her a look of disgust.

“...You’ve put on weight again.”

“Huh?! The hell did you just say to me?!”

Darke sent him tumbling backward with a single, swift punch to the face, and kicked him over and over until she’d rolled him back out of the house.

“What an absolute piece of filth. That old bag never reacts to me showing off my body.”

“R-Really...”

Darke stomped back into the room and quickly put on her clothes, then huffed and stomped out of the house. Sashalia was left dumbfounded. She scrambled to follow suit and help Fog out, but when she had stripped down to her underclothes, she spotted Darke’s handkerchief on the floor.

“That’s right...” Sashalia thought aloud. “When I first met him, Gaius was bringing gym clothes to the Academy. Were those for Darke...? I wouldn’t have guessed her to be the forgetful type.”

There was a knock at the door. Thinking it was Darke coming back for her handkerchief, Sashalia called out, “Okay okay, I’ve got it right here. Just come in already.”

The door creaked as it swung open, and once again Gaius walked in. “Fog says to bring a bucket to—gaaah!”

“Sir Gaius?! Eyaaah—!”

Sashalia desperately tried to cover herself as Gaius stumbled backward, bumping into everything between himself and the door as he tried to stammer an apology. “I-I-I’m terribly—so very—my apologies for—!”

Even after making it outside, it sounded as though he still hadn’t regained his composure; in the distance, Sashalia could hear kobolds crying out in surprise.

For a moment, she simply stood in the middle of Fog’s house, trying to sift through her emotions. Once she’d calmed down, a single thought remained:

“...I think I’ve finally beaten her at something!” She pumped her fist in celebration.

＊

Just outside the village, Gaius and a group of the kobolds stood in front of a freshly cultivated field as the village elder recited an ancient poem. They sat around his feet, taking a break from the exhausting work, only half listening as the elder moved on to a wordless chant.

“Ommnyo monyooo...munyaaa munyaaa...”

Gaius adjusted his wide-brimmed straw hat as he watched, wondering if this was truly part of some ceremony, or if the elder was simply making it up as he went along. The chanting grew even more bizarre, and he decided that this was simply one of those times it was best not to question things.

To his surprise, a faint green haze began to materialize around the elder, but the other kobolds did not react; some yawned while others struck up idle conversation with their neighbors.

“What’s that, then? You don’t think these crops from the outside will grow well? We’ll manage somehow. You can just do what you always do.”

The village elder had stopped his chanting and was now speaking directly to the mist—the spirits of the dead, a kobold explained.

“You want us to throw you a festival? Come now, we can’t spare that kind of time... Oh, I know, we can have one after the harvest. How does that sound? ...Right, yes... It’s a deal, then. Much obliged.”

With the spectral negotiations apparently concluded in their favor, the elder hurried through the ceremony with a few more half-hearted chants, then turned to the others.

“Oi, listen up now. They’ve agreed to lend us a hand this growing season.”

“Thanks a bunch, old-timer. Back to work, everyone!”

Fishbone’s father, Red Eye, was the first to hoist himself back onto his feet. He was in charge of the village’s agricultural endeavors, and on the orders of their leader, the others followed suit.

Gaius stepped forward to express his gratitude to the village elder, but the old kobold turned away in a huff and hobbled off.

“Don’t worry about that old bag of bones, Gaius. You know how he is. Now come on, today’s planting day!”

Red Eye gave him a reassuring pat on the backside. At first Gaius gave no reply, but after collecting himself he nodded enthusiastically, and together they made their way to the field.

With the tools Gaius had purchased, the kobolds had worked hard to transform the stretch of rock-hard, grassy land into soft, fertile earth ready for farming. They asked Gaius to help out when they needed the extra muscle, while the tireless, gentle golem Claudette had helped to plow the soil and form the crop rows. Kobolds that would typically be out hunting also lent a hand, and with all their efforts combined, the work had progressed quickly.

Each person was assigned a different variety of seed to plant, with Gaius on carrot duty. This particular strain, the Midland carrot, would be ready to harvest by late fall, but since it could survive in the soil even as winter fell, it was an ideal crop for the village.

In addition to the new tools, Sashalia had also read to the kobolds from a farmer’s almanac, and they’d absorbed the information incredibly quickly. She’d wondered if perhaps the kobold’s shorter lifespans made them very adept at acquiring new knowledge.

“Hey hey hey, watch where you’re stepping! You’ll mess up the rows!”

“A-Ah, I apologize...”

“You’ve gotta plant these further apart!”

“L-Like this?”

“Okay, now cover them with some soil...gah, that’s too much! You’re pushin’ them down too far!”

“Oh no...”

“...You’re just all brawn and no brains, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid that’s true.” Gaius laughed and brought a hand up to scratch the back of his head, then realized too late he was rubbing dirt in his hair and tried in vain to brush it out.

“‘Stand by the Sword’...that slogan hasn’t done me any good.”

“Ya got that right. Your master shoulda trained you in how to swing a hoe, not just a weapon.”

Gaius imagined the queen with a hoe in her hands and chuckled. She was a brawny woman, so in a way it did suit her, despite her status.

“Don’t worry ’bout it, you’ve got me to teach you.”

“I wonder if I’ll ever get it right...?” Gaius sighed, looking at his massive, dirt-caked hands. This was more than his usual humble deflecting; he seemed to truly believe he would never make a good farmer.

“Well, you’re not going anywhere, so we’ve got time to work on ya, don’t we? And knowing how thick that skull is, we’ll need all the time we can get.”

For a second, Gaius’s expression betrayed just how much those words amazed him. With a small, gentle smile, he looked down and mumbled, “That’s right...” He pressed down on the dirt beneath his hands, as though trying to contain his feelings within the earth.

“Didn’t I just tell you not to press down so hard, ya damned fool?!” Red Eye exclaimed, dunking his scoop into a nearby bucket of water and flinging it in Gaius’s face.

＊

“Fluuu-uuuff, Bloss-soooommmm, come play with meee!”

Fishbone stood outside Fog’s house, his small but mighty voice calling for his friends like he always did, with his usual vacant expression and ever-present runny nose.

“Comiiing!”

Fluff’s reply grew louder as he raced to the door and flung it open. The boys immediately started poking and shoving one another playfully.

“Let’s play ‘spear of bravery’! I found a perfect spot for it by the riverbed!” Fishbone announced with glee.

“I’m gonna beat you again this time!” Fluff boasted. Blossom emerged from the house behind her cousin, her arms crossed.

Fluff turned around and shouted, “Brother Emon, you come too!”

“No way, laddie,” he groaned, lying beside the sunken fireplace. “I’m beat from this mornin’s drills.”

Fluff craned his little neck and looked around. “Where’s Uncle Gaius, then?”

“Tendin’ the fields with Fishbone’s dad.”

“Aw maaan,” the tiny white kobold sulked, “that’s lame. Okay mom, I’m gonna go play!”

“See you later, Auntie!” Blossom said with a wave, and the three children took off.

Fog sat across the fireplace from Emon, weaving threads of bark into rope. She called after them without looking up. “Don’t even think about going into the woods, now! The wind’s supposed to get real bad later today, so come back soon! Blossom, keep those two knuckleheads out of trouble!”

“I will, Auntie!”

“Okaaay,” the two boys replied together, as unconvincingly as ever.

Fog looked up from her work to ask, “So Emon, what’s that game the kids were talking about? ‘Spear of bravery’? It’s not something dangerous, is it?”

“Ah, don’t worry, there’s no real danger,” Emon said as he rolled over onto his side. “Jus’ somethin’ silly the wee ones’re crazy about lately. Ye each grab a long stick, all about the same length, then ye take turns stabbin’ the target with ’em.”

“And what ‘target’ would that be?”

“A big steamin’ beast pie.”

“Again with the dung...” Fog’s disappointment was obvious, but Emon continued.

“And the one that gets their stick ‘spear’ all the way in is the winner. It’s like a test of bravery, to see who’s willin’ tae get their hands the closest to it, an’ that’s where the name comes from.”

“That sounds like stupidity to me, not bravery.”

“It weren’t my idea, just so ye know,” he added hastily to avoid her scorn.

“Sheesh, these kids...wait...! Did you just say they touch the stuff?!” Fog exclaimed.

“Well, only if they push too far. And if someone messes up, they chase the others down and wipe it on ‘em.”

“Go stop them! I just washed their clothes—I am not doing laundry twice in one day!”

“Aw crivvens, don’t make me get up...”

“I’ll be right behind you, just go and get their clothes for me.”

“All righ’, all righ’, I’ll go. At least they’re only down at the dry river.”

Emon grimaced as he hoisted himself to his feet, stretching his aching limbs before hobbling out the door.

＊

“Fluff wins this time,” Blossom announced with little enthusiasm. Fishbone sank to his knees, while Fluff cheered and raised both his little arms in triumph.

“Do you wanna go next, Big Sis?” Fluff turned to her excitedly, but she wrinkled her nose.

“No way. And if you come near me with those gross hands, I’m gonna punch you.”

Fluff looked down at his dirtied hands, wiped them off on his apron for a second, then nodded. “All clean!” he chirped, despite overwhelming evidence of the contrary.

“Oh no, Auntie’s gonna get so mad at me...” Blossom, who was usually prepared for their antics, picked up the waterskin she’d brought along and used it to wash her cousin’s hands.

“Let’s go again!”

“I just cleaned you up! And it’s starting to get really windy, so we gotta go back now. Come on, Fishbone, I’ll wash your hands too before we go.”

She turned towards Fishbone and noticed he was facing away from them, looking inquisitively down the dry riverbed. He’d seen Gaius come out of the forest down this path many times now, but this time, someone new was walking along it.

No, not just someone—a group. A group of humans.

“Ooh, more humans! I wonder if they know Uncle Gaius?! Or Miss Darke? Or Sister Sasha?” Fluff was bursting with excitement as he raced out from behind Blossom to greet them.

“No, don’t!” But she was too late to stop him. In no time, Fluff had reached the group and was running circles around their feet.

“Hey! Hey! Where’d you come from? Whose friend are you?” He finally sat still in the hopes that they might pet him like Gaius always did when he came home. Looking up with adorably large, round eyes, he sniffed the air lightly as he waited...

...and noticed something strange.

He couldn’t smell the same warmth that he felt from his mother and the other kobolds, or the strong passion that Gaius and Emon radiated. There was something else there, a scent on their souls that the young boy had never come into contact with before: malice.

＊

A small, fluffy white shape traced an arc through the air before landing hard in the grass.

As he brought his foot back down, Theron turned his head and boasted to the rest of his party, “Did you see how far that thing flew?!”

Abigail, also in high spirits, giggled. “Try this one next! Look, his fur looks like it’s got a fish skeleton on it!” She lifted up the small kobold by the scruff of the neck as he wriggled desperately with all his might. The third, amber-colored one stayed where she was, frozen in place out of fear.

“Fluff! Fluff!” The kobold that was being held up wriggled around and bit down as hard as he could on his captor’s hand. Abigail hissed and dropped him. His tiny teeth did not inflict much damage, but they hurt enough to send her into a rage.

“You goddamned fleabag! How dare you?!” She grabbed the little beast by the neck once more and slammed it into the ground. Abigail then grabbed hold of one of its tiny, flailing front legs and twisted it hard until she heard a dull pop. The little kobold wailed in agony as she grabbed his other front paw and bent it backward violently until she felt the same sensation of something giving way along with that terrible sound. The shock of the pain made him go limp.

Abigail’s anger had not yet abated; she changed her grip to press down on the creature’s throat with both hands, applying more and more pressure until—

“Get the hell away from ’em!”

Theron’s party turned in the direction of the sudden, enraged shout to find a young man barreling toward them.

“What’s with the pipsqueak?” Graeme said, rubbing his chin. Each movement emitted the harsh sound of metal against metal as his armored forearm scraped against his heavy chestplate. His gear was far too heavy-duty for an expedition, but in the Greatwood one needed every protection they could muster, especially the vanguard.

Every so often, Divina would re-cast a support spell to lighten the weight of Graeme’s armor, a tactic common in the armies of the southern kingdoms.

“Is that a human...? No, the proportions are all wrong,” said Graeme.

“And he’s hideous,” Divina added.

None of them had ever met a dwarf before, and they’d only expected to find the kobolds. For a moment, all of the humans were at a loss, and so they missed the opportunity to take him out before anything else could happen.

The young man reached the two kobolds lying in the grass and fell to his knees beside them.

“Bro... Em...on...”

“Fluff! Hang in there!” Emon howled. “Och, this is too much...!”

He picked up the tiny white kobold and began to lift him up, but froze when he saw the blood dribbling from his mouth. No doubt he was suffering from massive internal injuries after Theron’s beating.

Emon panicked, unsure of how to handle someone so gravely injured; his own injuries, no matter how severe, had always healed in no time. He wailed in sorrow once more and lay the tiny kobold back on the ground. He then turned to Abigail, who still had Fishbone pinned to the ground, and started to run towards her.

Her hand flew to the short sword at her side, waiting to counterattack—but before she could draw her steel, Theron appeared in front of her and brought the dwarf up short with another kick to the stomach. He knelt down as Emon gasped for air, and brought down his armored fist: once, twice, three times. Each time Theron punched him, Emon’s body jerked violently.

Theron stopped after the tenth blow. He reached into the nearby grass and picked up a heavy rock.

“Come on, cut it out. He’s not one of those dogs—kill him and you’ll be a wanted man in Northplain, too.” Graeme’s voice held neither pity nor remorse; he was simply stating facts.

“Who’d see me? We’re too far into the Greatwood to have any witnesses,” Theron said. “And if somebody did see us, all we’d have to do is kill them, too.” With that, he turned back to his victim and began bashing in the dwarf’s head with the rock again and again.

Thud. Crunch. Squish.

“Hey, you alive in there?” Theron looked down at the young man and stood up when he saw that the boy’s chest was no longer moving with breath. He looked down at the blood spattered up the length of his arm and clicked his tongue in disdain.

＊

Back in the newly cultivated field, several kobolds looked up from their work with puzzled expressions as a strange, faint chirping noise drifted in on the wind.

“Hey, did someone put out another spirit call?” Red Eye asked, but when he turned to either side he was met with shaking heads and confused looks. “Then was it you, old man?”

The village elder, who was taking a water break, only lowered his waterskin just enough to reply, “Probably just some little whelp playing around. Some of the little ones send them out without even realizing it.”

Red Eye shrugged. “Ah, well. We’ll have to see who’s been teaching their kid that kinda thing when we get back.”

Clearly convinced, he turned and resumed working. “What’s a ‘spirit call’?” Gaius asked.

“Huh? Oh, it’s how shamans talk to the dead. No one really knows if it’s something you can learn, or if you’re just born with it.”

“That’s incredible! So you can use it to communicate over great distances, too?”

“Nah. To the rest of us, it’s just noise. All it’s really good for is seein’ who’s got what it takes to be a shaman, ’cause only they can understand it or use it.”

The village elder cleared his throat and began, “You know, a long, long time ago, our ancestors...”

Gaius, who’d been visibly let down by Red Eye’s dismissive explanation of this mystic power, now lit up and began to nod along emphatically.

“Oi, you know you don’t have to humor the old geezer, right?” Red Eye elbowed Gaius in the calf. “Wind’s picking up, too, so we should head out now.”

“O-Oh, right...” Trying to contain his disappointment, Gaius bent down to resume working when he noticed Red Eye now had a peculiar look on his face.

“But you know...even kids don’t like doin’ spirit calls. Makes the user all glum, I hear.”

＊

Fog was the fastest in the village. No one had ever bested her in a race. And yet...

Why can’t I run any faster, damn it?! Tears blurred her vision as she sprinted with all her might. I can’t believe I was so naïve...

They’d survived the attack on their old village, rebuilt sturdy homes, and now had plenty of food. They had so much now. Every day, they worked hard from sunrise to sunset, totally absorbed in the day’s tasks.

With each hurdle they overcame, Fog had begun to believe more and more that they were truly, finally safe. Now she regretted that belief with each step that carried her forward.

All this time, I’m the one that really went soft!

But it was all right. She would make it in time. She would. With the precious little time Emon bought her, her legs would get her there in time. Yes, everything would be all right.

As part of her training, Gaius had advised her to get used to the feeling of carrying a sword at all times. Fortunately, today was no exception. She was lucky. Extremely lucky. So she would most likely get there in time.

No, I will! I have to!

Fog raced on, faster than the wind that pushed against her. She dashed past Amber Blossom, who was still rooted to the spot in terror, and quickly stood between the child and the humans.

She quickly took in the situation: Fluff lay still, Fishbone was terribly injured, and Emon was so badly wounded that she couldn’t tell if he was even still alive.

Five humans. One had long hair, one held a lance, and one was clad in heavy armor, while the two women wore lighter gear.

Five against one would be no problem. No problem at all. Fog unsheathed her dagger, Stingfeather, and pointed it at the adventurers.

“My name is White Fog, and I am the strongest warrior in the village! I’m not letting you take another step!”

She held her dagger out before her, similar to the “bull stance,” but with the point of her weapon lowered slightly—this was the “key stance” that Gaius had taught her. This defensive posture would allow her to react more easily to her opponent’s movements; as things were, she couldn’t afford to be the first to charge in. Fog then took a deep breath, lifted her face up to the sky—

Awooo—!

—and howled as loudly as she could.

Unfortunately, the wind was now blowing fiercely, and they were a fair distance away from the village. There was no guarantee the sound would carry to the others.

But Fog had no time to worry about that. All she could do was act. If one tactic failed, she would move on to another.

“Blossom! I’ll hold them here! Run back and get help!”

The young girl didn’t do as she was told. Or rather, she couldn’t. The terror of witnessing such a horrific scene still held her rooted to the spot, and her thoughts were in disarray. After all, she was still a child, only a few years older than Fluff and Fishbone, and Fog knew it was not her fault. Her gaze remained fixed on her enemies. They, too, stood staring back at her—staring at her weapon, to be precise.

“No way...that’s mythril ore.”

“She’s got an enchanted weapon?”

“What’s a mutt doing with something like that?”

“That alone would be more than enough to pay off our debts!”

“...If it’s the real deal.”

The adventurers were surprised, but not overly excited; their reaction was more akin to a farmer pleasantly surprised by his harvest.

Just as her son had done, Fog sniffed the air to catch the scent that their emotions were giving off.

Their guards are down... They think I’m easy pickings.

But another scent caught her attention even more than that.

I’ve smelled this before...! Back then...when we were attacked! It was them!

Her husband, her brother, his wife, her friends and all her neighbors—and her own newborn child, who hadn’t lived long enough to be given a proper name. The ones who had taken them all away were now standing right in front of her, and her hatred flared back to life in all its fury.

Her blood boiled. She wanted nothing more than to pounce on them, tear their throats out, hack them all to pieces—

—but she also knew better than to let her anger blind her. She purposely relaxed her stance, lowering her dagger even more until it was pointed at the ground. This was the “fool’s stance,” designed to lure an opponent into making the first move. I’ll let one of them come at me first, then aim for their chest.

Her opponents were the people she loathed the most. The tiniest slip-up would mean death. Despite all this, Fog remained calm and collected, patiently awaiting her chance.

“Don’t let that one get away!” Theron ordered. “That dagger alone’s worth everything in their hovels combined!”

“Got it.” The heavily armored man tossed his shield aside and drew his one-handed battleaxe. Morgan, the lancer, also readied his long, slender spear, in the style called a framea, and together they closed in on Fog from both sides.

These two are nothing compared to Gaius, she thought to herself. The lancer reached Fog before the axe-man, but she’d been anticipating that his attack would be first and she easily dodged his thrust with a jump.

Fog landed on the spear’s handle and raced up its length, to Morgan’s surprise. He’d never dealt with anything remotely like this before. By the time he’d realized he should let go of the spear and fall back, it was too late.

“Sting!” Fog cried. Stingfeather’s hilt was adorned with three mythril orbs, one of which flared to life with a brilliant rainbow-colored light. In a flash, the dagger’s blade grew long and thin. This was the magic it had been imbued with, entrusted to her by Gaius.

By resonating with the mythril, which readily conducted magical energy, the tiny amount of enchanted material in each orb was amplified, in this case allowing the user to temporarily extend the blade’s reach. Most likely, this finely crafted weapon had been designed for assassination, and must have taken an exceptionally skilled craftsman to make; the cost of such a weapon’s creation, too, was no doubt astronomical. Gaius would not have been able to use such a delicate weapon without breaking it, and Darke had declined to use it for fear she would do the same.

The foot-long dagger had nearly tripled in length, and combined with Fog’s forward momentum, soon found its mark—

“Ah—”

—Morgan’s expression briefly changed to shock as the blade sank through the man’s right eye and bored straight through his skull. He gurgled like a dying pig as his one good eye rolled back in his head. Within the same second, Stingfeather returned to its original length.

Morgan managed to choke out the name of an unknown woman before he sank to his knees and keeled over, falling on his face. Fog landed right beside him and quickly recovered her stance, shooting quick glances around herself. The others hadn’t yet comprehended what just happened, which meant she still had the element of surprise.

I can do this!

Tightening her grip on the handle, she quickly evaluated her options. Stingfeather had three charges in all, one of which she’d used in training, another just now. She was down to one more shot against four opponents, so at most, she could only take down one more with the dagger’s magic. Of the group, the two women were the least heavily equipped; that most likely meant they weren’t her biggest threats.

It’s okay. I can do this. I am doing this.

Fog kicked off against the earth and launched herself forward—so that she could return home and tell everyone that she had done it.

＊

She got Morg—

Before Theron even had time to process the thought in words, Fog was flying toward him. He dodged her strike and leapt back, making sure to put extra distance between them to avoid the dagger’s extended reach. He’d seen his fair share of combat, but not like this—the damned mutt just kept coming after him.

“Graeme!” he yelled in between dodges, “Your shield, damn it! Grab your shield!” Theron knew trying to deflect that magical strike with his greatsword was far too risky.

Graeme, clearly not one for high-pressure situations, finally picked up his heater shield in the time it took for Fog to lunge at Theron three more times.

“I got it!” he cried out. He took a quick breath to steel himself before throwing himself in the path of Fog’s next attack, blocking it with the misshapen yet sturdy shield. Even if she used the dagger’s ability, the weapon couldn’t pierce it.

Theron leapt out from behind Graeme and positioned himself behind the kobold, flanking her between the two of them, before taking his sword up with both hands and unleashing a powerful diagonal slash. It was the most simple yet powerful attack in the greatsword wielder’s repertoire: the “fury slash.”

But instead of slicing his target in half as he’d intended, the sword swung through thin air and sank deep into the ground. Fog had rushed into the attack, dodging the blade by running towards and under the strike rather than away from it.

“What the—?!” Theron nearly toppled forward, thrown off-balance by his attack, and was soon met by the sight of that magic-imbued blade aiming straight for his face in a horizontal slash. He released his grip on his sword and tumbled to the left, just barely avoiding the blade as it whooshed past.

Impossible... Theron hadn’t yet regained his footing. His sword was still embedded in the ground. Graeme wouldn’t make it in time to help him. The kobold, on the other hand, had already recovered and was already back on the attack.

He wouldn’t be able to dodge the next strike. He didn’t even have the time to raise his hands up in a feeble attempt at self-defense.

Impossible... Impossible... Impossible...!

The same word raced through Theron’s mind again and again as his whole body braced itself for death...

...but the blow never landed. Both he and Fog were so focused on the next blow that neither of them noticed the strange sound coming from Divina.

Rou...aaa...eee...

It sounded like an incantation being chanted, and as soon as she finished—

Shoom!

—the air between her palms crackled with energy, firing a bolt of light aimed squarely at Fog’s torso. It found its mark just as Fog’s dagger was inches away from Theron’s throat, and completely pierced through one of the kobold’s sides and out the other, searing the kobold’s pelt and vital organs. The force of the sideways blow sent Fog spinning like a top before she crashed down into the grass, gasping desperately for air as she collapsed into a twitching heap.

“Theron!” Divina rushed to his side. It took him a while to fully realize he’d narrowly avoided death, but when he did, he turned to his wife and said, “Ah... You really saved me there, Divina...thanks.”

Standing up on shaking legs, he gave a heavy sigh of relief. “That’s our one and only sorceress for you, always saving the day.”

“She’s not the only one who can use magic...” Abigail huffed, though even she couldn’t deny that Divina had saved his life.

“I’m so glad I made it in time,” she purred, stroking his chest.

The spell she’d cast was called a “magic bolt,” a widely used magical attack. Depending on the school of magic being cast, the spell went by several other names: “magic arrow,” “magic missile,” and so on.

Sorcery was different from incantation, or from black magic, which involved channeling power from the souls of the departed, divine spirits, or other mystical entities. Sorcerers manipulated certain magical elements to generate their mystical effects.

Spells like the magic bolt were cast by gathering and attuning the magical elements within one’s own body before converting them into a blast. With each refinement of those elements, a strange sound would emanate from within the caster’s body. Though it wasn’t coming from the caster’s voice, to an outsider it sounded like an incantation so it came to be known as “chanting.” What’s more, among most of the non-magic-using populace, practitioners of all three arts were frequently called “sorcerers” despite the school of magic they used.

“...Morgan’s done for,” called out Graeme, who was kneeling beside the body to inspect it.

“Yeah? That’s awful and all, but what’s done is done. We’ll bury him once we finish our business here.”

“‘Business’? So we’re still doing this?” Graeme was always quick to lose his nerve.

“That’s right. That magic dagger could be worth loads of gold, but we won’t know unless we take it back with us. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it—to find something to pay off our debts? And as payback for what they did to Morgan, we’ll burn the place down and kill every last one of them. But first...Abigail!”

“Yeees?” She’d picked Fog up by the leg and was watching her convulse.

“Hold her just like that.”

Theron picked the dagger up, turning it over in his hands to inspect it. As he’d said, it was impossible for him to tell if it was truly made of mythril ore. He soon gave up his inspection of the knife, clicking his tongue in irritation.

“How’d you make it do that?” he said as he approached the kobold. He lifted the blade and pressed it against her stomach. It pierced through the skin with little resistance. Fog trembled and coughed up blood as the dagger twisted deeper into her flesh.

“Hey, you little mongrel, I’m talking to you.” Theron jabbed a finger into the wound. Fog writhed in pain, but gave no reply—nor did Theron expect her to. The torment was nothing more than an act of revenge.

“I don’t really care if you can’t talk, or just don’t want to. You’re dead either way.” With that, Theron lowered the enchanted dagger and held it up to the kobold’s throat.

Just then, he saw something behind her—the figure of a very large man in a straw hat, approaching them very quickly. He held what appeared to be a hoe in his massive fist.

“What the hell...?” Theron muttered as he squinted, as though to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. “Is that a farmer?”

“Hey, don’t tell me there’s actually a settlement around here?” Graeme’s nerves were even more frayed than before. “This is bad. What’ll we do if he saw us?” First the young dwarf, then this mysterious man—it made sense to believe that humans were living somewhere nearby. He didn’t object to adding another body to the pile, but he wanted to avoid being caught.

Theron, however, was unbothered. “I grew up on the frontier, and let me tell you, no sane person lives in the Greatwood on their own. It’s way too dangerous. And even if there were, it’d be a lone wolf or two at most.”

Graeme relaxed a bit, taking heart in that line of reasoning. “So if we kill them too, there won’t be any trouble for us.”

“Exactly. So let’s get to it.”

This time, their guard was immediately up. Though the newcomer appeared unarmed, he was still well-muscled, and after the trouble that kobold had given them they wanted to take the initiative while he was still too far to do any damage.

“Divina, how are you doing?” said Theron. “Charge up another magic bolt and blast him once he’s a little closer.”

That mysterious chant-like sound again welled up from within Divina as she began manipulating the energy within herself. Eventually, faint light started to appear along her face and hands, evidence that the magic was flowing through her blood vessels. Once she’d finished her preparations, she stood with her hands held out, aimed at the approaching figure; the technique was known as “pre-casting.”

Once the farmer was close enough for her to discern his face, Divina let loose the magic she’d stored up, firing the burst from her outstretched hands. The blast made a sound like a thunderclap as it erupted, careened toward the man’s head—

—and with a sharp, metallic clang!, the energy suddenly careened off to the side. The bolt hit the ground and evaporated, leaving a small crater in the earth. The adventurers all looked from the site of the impact to the man in complete shock.

There were powerful defensive spells that acted as shields, or else augmented armor to withstand the force of magical blasts. But to physically deflect a spell—and with a hoe, no less—was something they’d never thought possible.

Theron was the first to come back to his senses. “D-Divina! Fire another one! Get ready, Graeme!” They’d missed their chance by standing around dumbfounded, and would now have to fight him up close. Theron still strongly believed they had the advantage, by far. Or so they should.

So why, he wondered, is there such a strong chill running down my spine?

Theron braced himself. If he and Graeme could get on either side of the man, they could overwhelm him...but he never gave them that chance.

Instead, he made a beeline for Graeme, who flailed his battle axe around in panic. The man easily slipped under Graeme’s arm in the middle of a wayward swing and swiped his hoe up once to take the armored man under the chin. He turned to face Theron as Graeme fell to his knees, tipped over onto his side, and rolled onto his back.

There were no wounds or even any damage to his armored body. But what had once been his face was now nothing but a stomach-turning slick of muscle, bone, and the too-large spheres of his exposed eyeballs. One swipe of that gardening tool had torn Graeme’s face clean off.

Still, Theron pressed forward with his attack. Even if he couldn’t catch the opponent in a pincer attack, he recognized the familiar sound of Divina having completed preparations for another magic bolt.

This was their last chance.

And he missed it.

In no time the farmer had closed the gap between them, making it impossible for Theron to bring the length of his greatsword to bear. Throwing his hoe aside, the farmer grabbed Theron by the throat, lifted him up, and spun him around—using him as a shield to absorb Divina’s magical blast.

The magic tore through his leather armor like wet paper, ricocheting within his ribcage and completely incinerating his lungs down to the bronchioles before going out. Theron opened his mouth in a wordless scream, blood and smoke gushing from his mouth as he tumbled backward before skidding to a stop.

Theron’s head spun as the burning agony assaulted him; every ragged attempt at a gasp brought him no relief, and in fact, no air at all. From the ground, he heard yet another chant begin—and then abruptly end. Struggling to lift his head, he saw the farmer wrap a massive hand around Divina’s throat, lifting her up just as he had her husband. This time, however, he merely flicked his wrist. The simple movement was enough to snap her neck in his fist.

Abigail dropped her short sword in terror and turned to flee. She did not make it far—the farmer picked up Graeme’s battleaxe and threw it at her, the heavy blade embedding itself in her back and sending her tumbling into the grass.

Why... How...?! How could this...happen to me...?! Theron screamed from within the murky depths of his dimming consciousness. All that emerged from his mouth was a bloody froth.

...Mudpuppy...Cyril! He’s still out there! Come help me!

Cyril was still somewhere in the trees; he’d hung back to guard the group’s rear.

Get over here! Hurry! I...I’m going to die...!

Theron knew his wounds were fatal. Even if Cyril were to show up, he would fare no better against the farmer. And more than that, Cyril would never pass up this chance for freedom.

However, in the midst of his death throes, Theron could not grasp that, even if Cyril were there, he would instead be celebrating the death of his childhood “friend.” All he could think was...

...That damned idiot... You always were...

“Useless” was how he’d meant to finish that thought, but it was too late. Theron would never think again.