The Golden Axe, Woodhall’s most reputable tavern, was a barrage of noise, smells, and strained humanity. Usually a bustling hub for the fortress’s officers, clerks, prominent merchants, and off-duty garrison soldiers, its ranks were now swollen with hollow-eyed refugees from Crickleleaf and beyond, mud-stained troopers from the battered relief force, and stranded travelers whose journeys north had been curtailed. The air was thick with the fug of damp wool, stale ale, cheap pipe tobacco, woodsmoke from the overworked hearth, and an underlying metallic tang that Ronigren suspected was the lingering scent of unguents and dried blood. Every bench was taken, every stool occupied, and the din of a hundred conversations made it difficult to hear oneself think.

  He had managed to secure a large booth alcove in a quieter corner, though "quieter" was a definitely relative term. The ten of them were squeezed in so tight that elbows constantly jostled and knees knocked. Gregan’s considerable bulk, Sabine’s towering frame, and Masillius’s comfortable girth took up more than their fair share of the worn wooden bench, leaving poor Snik, perched precariously on the edge between Sabine and Masillius, barely able to see over the ale-ringed tabletop. He clutched a small cup of watered wine Masillius had procured for him, his golden eyes wide and constantly darting, taking in the overwhelming press of so many humans.

  Ronigren waited until a harassed-looking serving wench had deposited a tray of battered pewter tankards filled with thin, wartime ale and a platter of pickles, hard bread and even harder cheese. He took a long swig, the ale doing little to soothe the weariness that had settled deep in his bones.

  "Alright," he began, his voice pitched to carry over the immediate din of their alcove but not, he hoped, to the surrounding tables. "Finn’s reconnaissance confirms the enemy is licking its wounds. Captain Eghel believes Woodhall can hold for now, especially with Lord Marshal Tyrell’s men bolstering the defenses, even depleted as they are." He paused, letting his gaze sweep over each member of their unlikely fellowship. "But holding is not winning. Falazar’s intelligence from Alkaer, and what we’ve learned here… it’s clear we need more than just strong walls."

  He took two long gulps of the unsatisfyingly thin brew and locked his eyes down into the tankard as he spoke. "I believe our best chance, perhaps our only chance, to gain a significant advantage in this war is to pursue answers. To find a way to awaken or understand these powers before the enemy does, or before they return in even greater force. That way lies northeast, those answers lie where Sabine was found."

  Masillius placed his hand on Sabine’s arm, his brow furrowed with paternal concern. "East? Towards the Bleeding Marshes? That’s wild country, Sir Ronigren. Dangerous even in peacetime. And Sabine…" His gaze softened as he looked at his daughter, then hardened again. "She’s strong, yes, but this… this is asking a lot of a young girl who’s already seen too much."

  "Father, I have to do this. If there are answers about… about who I am, about this amulet… if it can help…" Sabine straightened, a spark of her restless energy returning to her eyes despite her pain. She touched the chain at her neck. "I can’t just sit by." Ronigren looked up at the girl. The thought of action, of purpose, seemed to invigorate her more than any of Myanaa’s healing poultices.

  Gregan drained his tankard and slammed it down. "West, east, north, or south, Sir Knight. Makes no difference to me. If there’s a fight to be had, or a mystery to unravel that’ll give us a better poke at those green-skinned bastards and their oversized pets, then Gregan’s your man. Besides," he winked at a passing serving girl who pointedly ignored him, "heard the K’thrall brew a rather potent swamp liquor."

  Finn nodded, his expression unreadable, meeting Ronigren’s eyes with a silent affirmation. The unknown held no particular fear for him; it was another landscape to be read, another trail to be followed.

  A loud crash from a nearby table, followed by a roar of drunken laughter as a serving wench cursed a clumsy patron, momentarily broke the tension in their alcove. Gregan grinned, but no one else reacted, their focus entirely on the momentous decision before them.

  Myanaa traced the rim of her cup with her finger. "The eastern marshes… they sing a different song than these northern hills, Sir Knight. Older, perhaps. Wilder. There will be dangers unseen by most. But also, perhaps, knowledge the stones and waters have kept hidden for an age." She glanced at Snik. "And if our friend here is right about the enemy’s paths, avoiding their main strength by heading east might be wise."

  Stolen story; please report.

  With a dismissive sniff Artholan conceded, "The K’thrall borderlands? Primitively fascinating, I suppose. And the prospect of studying the Jotunai amulet’s resonant properties in closer proximity to its point of origin is, I must admit, academically compelling. It is after all an art that draws its strength from the land itself." He paused, then added, with a theatrical sigh, "though the lack of proper libraries and civilized discourse will be, I anticipate, profoundly trying."

  "The path to understanding our burdens is often a hard one," Marta said softly. "But if answers lie in the west, to the west we must go. The Keepers… they sleep again. But I feel they are waiting. For you, Sabine. For the song only you can sing."

  Ruthiel, who had been silent throughout, finally spoke. "The East holds echoes older than Argren, Sir Knight. The place where the child was found… it lies near ancient convergences, places where the veil between worlds is thin. It is a path fraught with peril, not just from mortal foes, but from powers best left undisturbed. Yet," a rare, almost imperceptible smile touched their lips, "it is also a path where lost knowledge might be reclaimed, and forgotten strengths rediscovered. If you go, I will accompany you.”

  Ronigren was asking a lot of them. A wounded giant’s descendant, her worried merchant father, a scarred goblin scholar, a bluff corporal with a broken heart, a silent tracker, a nature-wise healer, a pompous but brilliant mage, a wise old woman carrying a magic key and an enigmatic Elf of countless centuries. An unlikely fellowship, for such a perilous quest.

  "Then it’s settled," Ronigren said, "We resupply and rest what little we can. On the day after the morrow, we ride west at first light."

  The Golden Axe roared on around them, its patrons oblivious to the momentous decision just made in their crowded alcove. But for the ten individuals squeezed within it, the path ahead had just taken a sharp, uncertain turn into the mysteries of a world awakening to its forgotten past.

  Masillius and Ronigren pored over a collection of worn maps the next morning."The direct route northeast from here, towards the Bleeding Marshes where I found Sabine," Masillius explained, his voice a low rumble, "is mostly untamed wilderness once you leave the King’s Road. It skirts the southern edge of the Grey Hills, where Snik says that goblin warren, Greyfang Tor, lies. Too dangerous, that. We’d be walking right into their den."

  Ronigren nodded, studying the topographical lines. "Agreed. We give Greyfang Tor a wide berth."

  "There’s an older track," Masillius continued, tapping a faded line on the map. "The Old Salt Road. It swings further south first, through the Dragon’s Tooth foothills, then cuts northeast towards the headwaters of the Serpent River, which straddles the K’thrall Fens. Longer, yes. More rugged in places. But it avoids the main goblin concentrations, at least according to what Snik has told us." He paused. "It will also take us closer to some dwarven outposts, they’re abandoned yet still safe to spend a night in, in a pinch."

  Having concluded his planning session with Masillius, Ronigren returned to his small chamber and unclasped the bronze bracelet. The moment the metal left his skin, crippling fatigue washed over him. The steadying influence was gone, in its place a raw, aching weariness. His thoughts turned bleak. The odds seemed insurmountable and their quest a fool’s errand. He sank onto his cot, the sheer, crushing weight of their situation threatening to overwhelm him. With a conscious effort of will, and the memory of Masillius’s words about bending rather than breaking, he pushed back the encroaching despair and refastened the bracelet, its cool touch bringing once more a brittle, artificial calm.

  * * *

  Sabine had taken Snik under her wing. The small goblin, though still terrified of most humans, seemed to find a measure of comfort in her towering presence. She shielded him from the hostile glares and muttered curses of some of the Woodhall townsfolk and soldiers as they took a slow, careful stroll through the less crowded parts of the bailey.

  "They… they still hate Snik," the goblin whispered, shrinking closer to her.

  "Some people are slow to learn, Snik," Sabine said, her voice gentle. "You saved a lot of lives with your warnings. They’ll see that, in time." She wasn’t entirely sure she believed it herself, but she wanted to. She idly wondered how many of those stares were directed at her, rather than her diminutive friend.

  As they neared the eastern gate, which looked out over the scarred, empty plains where the goblin horde had recently camped, Sabine saw him. Monty. The black cat was perched on a section of the battle-damaged wall, placidly grooming himself. In his claws, he held a struggling spikeworm; a nasty, thumb-sized grub with venomous spines, common in the region and a painful nuisance to travelers. With a flick of his paw, Monty dispatched the creature and nibbled at it with a delicate, almost finicky, air.

  He looked up as Sabine and Snik approached, his yellow eyes fixing on them with that cryptic gaze. He made no move towards them, simply watched. The conqueror of spikeworms, the unperturbed spectator of sieges. “Enjoy your meal, Mr. Monty!” she waved at the puzzled feline, giggling to herself at his typically feline haughty expression.