The North Gate caravan yard was awake before dawn. By the time the party pushed through the gate the place was alive with motion. Oxen strained in their yokes as handlers urged them forward, dragging empty wagons into lines while apprentices swarmed axles and measured harness straps. Horses stood with their heads over water troughs, ears twitching at the noise of hammer, rope, and boot. Men shouted over one another, tally clerks scratched columns into ledgers, and the whole yard smelled of hay, damp wood, and iron. Caravan Master Ingrel found them in the middle of it, a compact man with a rasp of a voice and a tally stick that snapped against his palm as he walked. He did not waste time. “You must be the Guild party,” he said. “Good. I cannot hire a full guard line without hazard pay anymore. Half the free spears in the city will not touch the north road unless coin sweetens it. Even then they walk stiff.” “How many wagons have been hit?” Elira asked. “Four in three weeks,” Ingrel said, jaw tight. “Last one we fetched is there against the fence.” He pointed toward a wagon loaded with goods that looked ready to depart. Its canvas was rolled tight over crates stacked neat, reins coiled on the empty bench. “Good wheels, good horses, strongboxes locked. Drivers and guards gone. By my count there have been roughly thirty people taken in the last month.” Borin rubbed at his beard thoughtfully as he looked at the wagon. “They did not take coin or goods.” “They are taking people,” Elira said. “Slavers, most likely,” Calder murmured. “Leave the goods, sell the folk. It fits.” Max’s hand tightened on his shield strap. “S-slavers,” he said. “That is… wrong.” Borin’s glance was steady. “Aye. Happens all the same.”
Ingrel snapped the tally stick once, bringing them out of their musings. “Call it what you like. What matters to me is that my wagons roll and my men come home. You want to help, good. Ask your questions.” “How many guards do you put on a run?” Max asked. “Between six and ten, depending on the haul and how many I can hire that morning,” Ingrel said. He shrugged. “Not all runs get ten. I try.” Borin nodded. “Thank you for your time. We will speak with the watch now.” Ingrel jerked his chin toward the gatehouse. “Sergeant Pell is the man to speak to. He has been out there. He can point your boots where they need to go.”
They crossed the yard, the returned wagon and its empty bench at their backs. The guardhouse crouched low against the wall. Inside, heat from a brazier pushed against the cold. The smell of boiled leather and oil hung thick. A handful of men sat on benches with gear close to hand, eyes on the door as the party entered. A broad-shouldered sergeant with close-shorn hair rose and came over with a soldier’s pace. “You are the Guild party assigned to the disappearances on the north road,” he said. “Pell. I am the sergeant running the patrols.” Max nodded. “A-aye. We are here to listen first.” Elira stepped forward. “How many attackers are we talking about?” she asked. “A dozen,” Pell said after a beat. “Give or take a few.” “That is fewer than I expected,” Calder said, as he rubbed his chin and adopted a thoughtful expression. “It doesn't take more if they are disciplined,” Pell replied. "Are they?" asked Borin. "Aye, that they are. Every attack site has been clean," the Sergeant replied. “How many guards escort the wagons?” Max asked. “Between six and ten, when Ingrel can muster them,” Pell said. “You know how it is, some days there are not enough hands.” “And how trained are they?” Borin asked. Pell’s mouth flattened. “Most of the guards are townsmen who picked up spears for steady pay. They're good enough to hold a post, drive a cart, or scare off a cutpurse. A few veterans in the mix, not many. Some take these caravan jobs for a little extra coin in their pockets.” “Can you describe the ground of the attack site?” Elira asked. “In brief.” Pell nodded. “Wagons are pulled off the road neatly. Horses led away or tethered nearby, not butchered. Very little blood,” Pell said. “Strongboxes still closed. No bodies ever. That is the pattern. They ambush, take control quickly with minimal fighting, move the folk, then take their time. Organized and efficient, like soldiers.” “C-can you take us to the last site?” Max asked. “Aye, I can,” Pell said. “It is a half-day north. We leave now, if you are ready.” “We are,” Borin replied.
They stepped out into gray morning light. Breath steamed, and frost held the hedgerows brittle. Beyond the gate the north road ran pale and hard, ruts frozen in shallow ridges that snagged boots if one was not careful. They marched north in comfortable silence, Pell setting a brisk pace. Around midday, Pell raised a hand. “Here.” The ambush site sat in a shallow bend where the lane widened and hedges broke. Wheel marks forked in clean arcs to the side where the wagons had been pulled, not abandoned in panic. Borin crouched beside a dark patch, tracing the edges. “Blood,” he said. He pointed to another stain, then a third. “But not much. Not enough for anyone to die.” Calder followed the trail of frozen drops a few paces and stopped. “It ends here. If the guards bled, someone bound their wounds quick. That means they need the people alive, and in relatively good health.” Elira brushed frost off the ground with a gloved hand until layered prints showed. “Same weight and stride,” she said. “No scramble, no rush. Twelve, maybe eighteen pairs at most if you stretch the count.” Max looked from the tidy wheel ruts to the small, stopping smears on the dirt. “So. From what we can see here, it seems like an organized dozen or more bandits hit hard and fast, disable the only threat, binds the prisoners’ wounds, pulls wagons off the road, then leaves. Against six to ten men who are not soldiers, that is more than enough.” Pell folded his arms as he watched the party move around the site and work. “That is my read as well. They hide what you might expect to find. We've seen signs of straw dragged to scuff prints and obscure their trail. They take the horses with them and then double back before leaving them tied nearby to confuse the prints even more. Boots wiped. Whoever they are, they must have drilled and planned this carefully.” Borin rocked back on his heels, then sucked air through his teeth as he gave the site a critical look. “Does this have the look of slavers to any of you? They're too organized, too efficient, and slavers usually don't care about binding wounds. There's something else going on here." Calder and Alina shared a look, then shook their heads. Borin looked around once more, then said "We will not pull much more out of old dirt.” “No,” Elira agreed. “They were careful. The ground will not give us what it does not have.” Max exhaled, breath white. “Then we have to make them come to us. A bait wagon, not well guarded. We let them think it is an easy take and learn what we can.” Pell considered this, then nodded. “It is dangerous, but it is a plan. If you are serious, Ingrel has a northbound run leaving in two days. We march back now, and you use tomorrow to prepare. I will place two steady men with you, with heads that will not panic. You will have to carry most of the fight.” “That is enough,” Borin said. “All they need to do is buy us a breath and we will do the rest.” They stood a moment longer in the quiet of the bend. Blood that stopped too soon. Wheel tracks that veered off the road too neatly. Prints that were too even. The pieces pointed the same direction, toward something careful and deliberate. It fit slavers on the surface, but the boldness and frequency did not sit right with any of them. They turned back for Brindleford with a plan set: rest, resupply, then hitch themselves to the next caravan and draw whoever had been working the north road into the light.
They used the free day to buy what they knew they would need, not what they wished they had. Rations, rope, torches, two small whistles that made a songbird’s note when blown, bandages, salves, spare bowstrings, and oil for steel and leather. Borin sat with them for an hour by the hearth and walked them all through quick wraps and compresses, how to pack a cut to slow the bleed, how to splint broken bones. “This spares mana when it can,” he said, hands sure as he tied. “Not every wound requires magic to heal." He paused before continuing, "and do not mistake the earlier attacks. They did not kill because they did not need to. If we press them and fight back, they will fight to kill. We should assume someone will be hurt badly in the battle tomorrow. Be ready to keep that person breathing while I am doing two other things.” They nodded, and kept practicing with the bandages for a while longer. Later, when the talk turned to the fight itself, they kept it simple. From the road, it would look like five guards and two drivers. The two guardsmen from Pell would stand and cover Calder with their shields once things started. Borin, Max, and Calder would walk close to the wagon with spears to sell the picture, their true weapons tucked under canvas where a hand could find them without fumbling. Elira and Alina would tail the wagon out of sight along the hedges. If they saw movement ahead, they would give the signal, one short note followed by a long on the birdsong whistles. After that, they would focus their shots on enemy archers, then pick apart anyone trying to push for the drivers. If a leader showed himself, they would try to keep him breathing. Hard answers come out of living mouths better than corpses.
At first light they were back in the yard. They shifted their heavier gear into the wagon where a hand could find it in a heartbeat, and met Pell by the gate. “We will need spears to blend in as guards,” Max said. Pell eyed their packs tucked under canvas and gave a short nod. “Fair. Take them.” He handed over three plain shafts and old round shields, then jerked a thumb at the hired men stepping up to join them. “These are Hadrin and Sell. They will hold a line if you do not ask them to be heroes.” Borin looked the two in the eye. “You are there to live, not to win glory. Hold your shields high, cover the mage, and do not chase. Prioritize your life. If we shout for you to pull back, you do it.” Hadrin, a square man with a scar under one eye, nodded once. Sell, younger and pale, swallowed and matched the nod.
“These two are Elira and Alina,” Max said as he pointed them out to the guardsmen. “They will trail the wagon out of sight. They will signal if they see movement ahead. He had them show the guards the whistles and blow them so they would recognize the sound. "One short note followed by one long means an attack is coming,” he explained. The guards swallowed nervously but nodded, stiffened their backs and gave a short salute. Elira and Alina palmed the small whistles and tucked them where fingers would find them. No one had anything clever left to add. They took their places and pointed the wagon toward the north road.
The north road ran pale under a thin winter sun. Frost clung to hedgerows and turned every rut to a shallow ridge that tugged at careless feet. The wagon creaked along the road at an honest pace, the horses breath steaming in the morning chill. The two drivers hunched in their coats, reins loose and eyes forward. Max and Borin walked close, spears and guards shields in hand to complete the look of ordinary guards, their higher quality shields and true steel stowed under the wagon canvas within easy reach. Calder kept to the rear wheel, one hand on the wagon’s rail, the other near the hidden butt of his staff. Hadrin and Sell paced ahead and to the side, shields ready but low.
After a few uneventful hours on the road, they heard it. A soft birdsong trilled from the hedgerow behind. One short note, then a long. Then it came again, farther off to the right. Elira and Alina. Movement ahead. They exchanged looks, and readied themselves. Borin’s lips moved. “Bless.” Warmth ran down backs and shoulders like steadier breath. Hadrin and Sell stepped up without being told, shields coming level as they took station in front of Calder. The drivers tightened reins. The closer driver flicked a glance at Max and Borin and got the smallest nod. He drew the team to a stop, then both drivers slid off the bench and tucked themselves under the wagon, behind the wheels, low and still.
A large group of figures rose out of the brush and winter grass with the kind of confidence that comes from practice. Max looked around and counted quickly. There were fifteen men, boots wrapped, their shields rough and dark, three of them with bows already half-raised, another two with short javelins held ready. They spread to surround the wagon in a semicircle and blocked the bend in the road. Short calls ticked through their line, sharp and clipped: “Three together. Hook left. Spears up.” Three-man cells shifted together, shields overlapping for a heartbeat, then peeling to expose a spear thrust before sealing again. The timing was good enough to feel drilled.
“Drop your spears. Step away from the wagon,” the tall man in front said. His voice carried and did not rise. “Do that, and you will live to see home.” Max snorted. It probably would sound like a good offer to regular untrained guardsmen, but he knew the truth. None had returned after being taken. He moved tighter to Borin, the two of them edging closer to the wagon where their gear lay. "No answer?" asked the man. "Alright then, I guess we do this the hard way." He turned to his men and was about to signal them.
The answer came right then.
Elira’s bolt cracked out of the hedgerow and folded a bowman with a strike under the collarbone. Ambush and Sneak Attack bit in the same breath. Alina’s string thrummed twice, as she used Volley, and two arrows hissed through the air right on the heels of Elira's bolt. One arrow punched a javelin-man’s thigh, the other took a second archer high in the chest, causing him to stagger, but not fall. Even as she moved she whispered Hunter’s Instinct, her focus sharpening at the edges of her sight.
Max dropped his spear to the ground, turned, and tore shield and sword from under the canvas. Battle Focus slid over his senses, the world narrowing to lines and timing. Adrenal Surge hit like a flood, strength and speed spiking through his limbs. Iron Guard followed, hardening his muscle and stance until he could turn heavy impacts to dull shocks. Borin shoved his spear aside, hauled out his hammer and shield, and flung a palm toward Max as the first rank came on. “Stone Ward.” Cool weight settled along Max’s bones, the thin rocky layer on his skin granting strength and durability. Calder slammed the staff butt to dirt. “Armor Ward,” he snapped, weaving glow into Borin’s shield.
The ring closed.
The two archers shifted to a staggered angle and drew on Alina from opposite sides, trying to force a crossfire lane. Their leader chopped a hand and a javelin flew low just as the first melee push hit the wagon. It came in cadence, three men across. Shields overlapped for a breath, then quickly parted, spearheads flashed through the momentary slit, then sealed again as a second rank of attackers stepped in to shoulder and shove. Calder’s hands sketched movements fast. “Radiant Flare.” A bright white glare burst from his palm in a low cone and washed across three faces. They reeled, blinded and cursing. A javelin still came from the side, skimming the edge of Max’s shield and clipping him above the knee with a muscle deep slice that threatened to buckle him, Iron Guard turning what could have been a crippling hit into a hot line and wet warmth flowing down his greave.
The archers loosed. One of Elira’s return bolts drilled a forearm and spoiled the shot; the other arrow found Alina, punching straight through her upper arm near the shoulder. She yelled in pain, and rolled to the side. The coordinated fire had driven her into a bad lane, and she grunted, teeth bared, snapping a Binding Shot into the legs of a spearman charging Hadrin. Spectral vines burst from the shaft and snarled ankles, dumping the man to the dirt and entangling him.
On Borin’s side two bandits worked a high-low. One pinned his shield high with a blade while the other swung his mace into his ribs in the same heartbeat. He saw gray and tasted copper in his mouth, but his boots held and he answered with a short, brutal hammer stroke that broke the lower man’s shin. The man with the blade tried to follow with a thrust through the newly opened line, and Borin rolled his shoulder, catching it on the rim of his shield and shoving it wide.
Max met a three-man group that called its moves under breath: “Push two, thrust.” The two men on either side of the formation crouched, moved forward, and shoved hard, their shields smashing into his boss while the center spearman thrust over the top for Max’s thigh. He cut the spear aside with a flick of his wrist, pushed his own shield forward to meet the two opposing shields, and thanks to his buffs and Borins Stone Ward, he managed to win the engagement. The two men staggered back at the impact, and Max chopped tight into the collar seam of the right-hand man. The man fell to his knees, and Max kicked him off of his sword. The left-hand man tried to smack his shield edge with his spear to expose him, but a quick twist allowed Max to deflect the blow easily. A javelin caught his eye as it flew toward him in his peripheral vision. He tried to move his shield to block it, but wasn't fast enough, as it struck a blow on his thigh, causing him to stagger. It glanced off his toughened skin, but still cut deep, Stone Ward preventing a crippling wound. A second group of three men slid in to flank with a short call of “Hook left,” aiming to turn his shield. Calder laid a Frostsheet under their boots. All three skidded, their practiced cadence wrecked for critical heartbeats. As they fell, a bolt caught one of the men in the temple, and Alina found a neck with an arrow. The two men dropped dead to the ground, leaving three men facing him still.
Three others tried to rush around Hadrin and Sell for Calder. “Frostsheet,” Calder hissed again, layering the ground in front of them with slick ice. Boots skated, and all three went down on the suddenly slippery ground. A fourth man chose the edge and Calder stepped up to meet him, his staff cracking a wrist, then jabbing the butt into a knee so the man collapsed screaming, holding his ruined leg. One of the fallen spearman got to his feet on the icy ground and lunged at Calder from the blind side in the same instant a second man swung high. Mana Shield caught the high swing and blew out in a spray of light, but the low thrust scraped his forearm and opened a burning line. He snarled, reset, and ripped a jag down the dirt. “Earthsplit.” The ground between two pushers broke into low ridges, catching ankles and wrecking their timing. He layered another Frostsheet across the right flank when a fresh pair tried to skirt the fight. Hadrin and Sell recovered, and moved forward with shields raised and spears held ready, meeting thrusts with wood, buying Calder precious seconds. The men facing them found their footing and pushed back hard, one managing to catch Hadrin with a spear thrust in the chest, just sliding in under his ribs. The other shoved forward with his shield, catching Sell off guard and striking a blow to his head with his shields edge. Sell staggered back and fell to the ground.
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Elira ghosted from hedge to shadow and back again, Shadowstep bending sight as she slipped into shadow, then reappeared at the spearman’s flank without notice. Distracting Feint twitched his eye at the wrong instant and her dagger slid into the gap under a pauldron. She fell back down into the mans shadow, came up behind the man who had knocked Sell off his feet, cut his hamstring short and drove steel up under his ribs. The crossfire archer pair adjusted and one arrow tore a hot groove along her side as she committed. She sucked air through her teeth, rolled under the next shot with Evasion snapping her through a space that did not exist a breath before, and came up to put a bolt through one of the bowmen's eye, breaking their coordination.
Alina, now bleeding profusely down her sleeve, her coat stained a dark red from shoulder to wrist, ducked behind some dead grass, drew a breath through her teeth, and let Hunter’s Instinct carry her aim. She put two more into the third archer, one into the meat of the shoulder, one low into the lung. He toppled and fell dead to the ground. A runner tried to peel away at the fringe to circle on the wagon. She put a Binding Shot into his calves and pinned him thrashing until Hadrin could step in and kick his blade away. Sell had recovered and was standing protectively in front of Calder, his shield raised high as he looked around for the next attack.
On the front, the bandit leader kept the press coordinated with clipped calls. “Two and hook. Brace. Now.” A man slapped Max’s shield rim wide as another thrust came for the exposed line. Iron Guard soaked the glancing thrust off Max’s mail. Max answered with a shield boss to the chest that cut the cadence, then stepped through and hammered steel down into a shoulder. The leader pushed for the wagon, sword high, using a feint from his right-hand man to draw Borin’s shield. Max met him head-on, Iron Guard soaking up another strike that would have rung bone. Steel rang off steel once, twice. The leader slipped and lost his balance on Calder’s second Frostsheet with a snarl and Max drove, taking advantage of the moment with a shield-shove to the chest, his sword raking down the arm to ruin the man’s grip. The leader hit the ground hard and Max’s blade settled at his throat.
“Hands,” Max snapped. The man spread them, teeth bared.
The line broke then. Those still standing faltered under hammer, blade, ice, and jagged ground. Two tried to run and Elira’s bolts took their legs. One fell on his face and did not rise. Another screamed until Borin’s hammer ended it. The remaining four bandits dropped their weapons and raised their hands.
Silence came back in ragged breaths and the slow shifting of the oxen.
Max lowered his shield and the world rushed back in. Blood ran warm down his shin from the cut above the knee where that well-timed javelin had skimmed his thigh. He staggered slightly as the adrenaline of battle wore off, and the pain set in. Borin’s breathing caught where the high-low team’s mace had fractured a rib under his mail. Calder’s sleeve was dark to the elbow from the forearm scrape that slipped in when his Mana Shield ate the heavier strike. Elira pressed a palm hard to the groove in her flank from the crossfire that had almost pinned her. Alina’s upper arm bled through her makeshift wrap where the staggered archers had landed their shot. Hadrin sat with his back to the wheel, one hand clamped on a puncture under his ribs where a spearman had slid a thrust past his shield during a coordinated shove, eyes bright and far. Blood leaked slowly between his fingers and from between his lips. Sell rocked on his heels, bleeding from a gash above his eyebrow where a shield edge had rung him during one of their maneuvers.
“Who's in the worst shape?” Borin asked, voice even despite the pain. He looked around, then his eyes widened when he saw Hadrins wound. He immediately shuffled to him, and placed his hand over the mans bleeding chest. Hadrins breathing was ragged as he looked up at Borin, jaw tight with concentration as light pushed flesh together just enough to keep the man alive. Next he moved to Max, who was struggling to stay upright, set his palm on Max’s thigh and let Heal pour warmth into torn muscle until the bleeding slowed and strength came back into the leg. Then he pressed both hands to his own ribs and let a thin trickle of power ease the grind of bone on breath. Calder pressed cloth and wrapped Elira’s side while she hissed and made a face at him. Max bound Calder’s forearm tight. Alina let Borin lay a hand on her pierced shoulder for a slow pulse of Heal, then finished the bandage herself with clean wraps that would not slip. Sell’s cut took gauze and pressure; the boy blinked, looking around with a dazed expression until his eyes finally cleared.
They gathered the captives together, and quickly tied their hands and feet.
Only after their own wounds were sealed and tied did they move on to the enemy. Those who yet breathed had their wounds bound sufficient to keep them from dying in the dirt. Wrists and ankles were cinched tight and triple checked. Gags went in hard. They worked together to haul the dead into the bed of the wagon, canvas dragged over them until it was one heavy shape. When that was done, Borin inspected each tied up man in turn, casting his Heal spell on the worst of the injuries. The 5 captured bandits looked up at him, eyes wide.
Max cleaned his blade on frozen grass and slid it home. He looked to the kneeling leader and then to the others, and they did not need words for what came next.
“Alina,” he said quietly. “You and the drivers take Hadrin and Sell down the road a stretch. Keep your eyes peeled on the hedges. If anyone comes, you whistle.” She looked at Max, smiled slightly, and nodded. She limped off with them, bow over her shoulder, the two guards leaning on each other, the drivers wide-eyed but composed. When they were gone, Max, Borin, Elira, and Calder turned back to the prisoners. The wind worried the dead grass. The road lay empty in both directions. “Time to talk,” Elira said, voice gone flat. “And to listen.”
The captives sat bound and gagged in a half circle on the frozen ground, their ankles bound and wrists tied behind their backs. The wagon loomed behind them, canvas drawn tight over the dead. No fire burned. The air was too sharp and none of them wanted smoke rising. The ropes had already rubbed the leader’s wrists raw. Dried blood darkened the cord and his skin looked abraded and angry, but his eyes were steady. Max crouched in front of him. “You led them,” he said. “You know why you are here. Speak, and maybe you live to see Brindleford.” The man stared back without a word. Elira came down on her heels beside Max, drew a dagger, and turned the blade so the last of the light ran along its edge. She looked over the leader at Borin. The dwarf set his gauntleted palm on the man’s shoulder, the faintest warmth building under his hand. “You may wish to answer before she works,” Borin said. “I can keep you alive longer than you will want.” The leader’s mouth twitched. He said nothing. Elira slid the point into the meat of his thigh an inch and then twisted. He jerked, breath catching through his nose, but he did not cry out. One of the younger captives made a strangled sound behind his gag, eyes wide. Calder moved to him, tugged the gag down. “You want to live?” Calder asked, voice calm. The boy swallowed. “My name is Deren,” he blurted. “I will talk.”
The captain’s head snapped toward him, a hard warning in his eyes. Elira pushed the blade a hair deeper and Borin fed just enough healing to hold the wound from becoming dangerous, keeping pain high and blood loss low. “Where are you from?” Max asked Deren. “Talenor,” Deren said, words spilling. “The western kingdom. We were soldiers there. Pay stopped coming. Rations cut. We were ordered to hold posts and starve quiet. The Captain led us out. We followed.” “When you crossed into Valdarin, what work did you take?” Elira asked. “I have to assume you did not start with attacking merchant wagons and abducting people.” “No,” Deren said quickly. “We took what work we could. Escorting drovers between villages. Guarding a timber camp. Watching a toll ford at night for a farmer who worried about thieves. Nothing glorious. Enough coin to eat. Sometimes a merchant paid us to ride behind his wagons and look stern.” “How did that turn into abductions?” Calder asked. “After a few months, a man found us in an alehouse outside Fenwick,” Deren said. “Face covered with a mask, hooded, hands gloved even indoors. He offered good silver for finding a man who owed debt. Said there would be more work if we kept quiet. We did it. Then there were two more like it. The targets changed. A drunk with no friends. A vagrant who slept under a bridge. A woman who worked the night off a lane. The coin was clean and always on time. After that, the hooded ones came to us and said they would pay double if we brought numbers, not ones and twos. They did not want goods. They wanted people, breathing and walking.”
Max’s jaw worked. “Why leave coin and crates sitting ready?” he asked. “Why not take both if you risk the gallows anyway?” “They warned us not to touch the goods,” Deren said. “Said if a lock was broken or a chest was light, the work would end. People only. No dead unless we had no choice. We started staging scenes to hide it at first. We made it look like a stray goblin raid on a back road, or a wildcat kill. But a month ago they wanted numbers fast. They told us to change ground, strike caravans, then move again. We were going to move on next week.” “Where do you take the people after you grab them?” Borin asked. “Exactly.” “To our camp,” Deren said. “A hollow a day north of here. Old oaks on the rim. We keep cages along the slope. We keep them alive in the cages until the buyers come.” “Who are the buyers?” Elira asked. “What can you tell me that is not a hood and a mask.” “I have never seen a face,” Deren said. “The one who speaks for them wears a leather cord with a little bone carving on it. Sometimes they smell bitter, like burnt herbs or some bad oil. They speak little. They count prisoners, pay, and go.” “How often?” Max asked. “Once a month,” Deren said. “Always at dusk. The next pickup is in three days.” “How many in total have you taken,” Borin asked, “since this began.” Deren looked sick. “We lost count. At least a hundred in six months, maybe more, and then the thirty this past month. We do not mark names. We keep heads down and take the coin.” "Do you think these buyers are slavers?" asked Calder, although he and the party knew the answer before it came. "I don't know, but I think not," replied Deren. He continued, "We dealt with slavers in Talenor as part of our duties in the army. They prey on the vulnerable and try to keep their activities out of the eyes of authorities. These people do not care about such things."
Elira eased the blade out of the captain’s thigh, wiped it on his trousers, and then pressed the flat gently against the inside of his forearm where skin is thin. She turned her eyes back to the leader. “He does not know everything,” she said, tapping the flat of the dagger on his arm. “But you do.” He set his jaw and stared past her. Elira shifted, reached toward Deren’s hand, and set the point against the web of skin between thumb and finger. Deren flinched and squeezed his eyes shut. The captain made a low, guttural sound. “No,” the captain said, voice cracking through the cold. “Enough.” His chest rose and fell once. “It is too late to hide it from you. You know too much by now.” His head drooped forward, chin resting on his chest. “Then talk,” Elira said. “My name is Verric Keld,” he said, eyes on her blade. “We deserted because I would not let my men starve on a wall for a crown that forgot us. I took them out of Talenor. I kept them fed with work that dishonors us. Months ago, the buyers found us. They come hooded and masked. The one who speaks wears a leather necklace with a bone charm. They bring a wagon with a dark cover. They use a shuttered lantern so the light is tight, and they flash it twice at the rim to signal they are close. We answer with two short knocks on a shield. They do not show faces. They do not linger. They count prisoners, pay in sealed purses, and leave the way they came. There are usually eight to ten of them. They carry knives and short swords. No banners. No names.” “How many men in your group, how many men guard your camp on a normal night,” Borin asked, “and how do you set your watch.” “We number twenty-five. Six to ten stay on watch when everyone is back, but its only four at most when a group like ours is out collecting more bodies,” Verric said. “You'll find two watching each side of the camp, and the rest sleeping in their tents near the cages. We turn watches every four hours. No palisade. The hollow’s sides and the oaks do the work. We put stakes near the path to slow a rush. If you come loud, you will win. If you come clever, you can walk in behind men who would rather be warm.” “Describe the camp’s lay,” Elira said. “All of it.” Verric spoke, grudging at first, then steady as he realized that the shape of it would be found even if he held his tongue. He described the slope and its angle, the cage run, the firepit flat in the center, the brush that had been cut back along the path, the place where a man could crawl along the edge of the stream bed and come up behind a wagon. When he finished, he looked back at Deren. “Keep your mouth shut now,” he said, the words sanded down to something tired.
They gagged the captives again and made ready to move. By dusk the wagon rattled back through Brindleford’s gate, the prisoners tied tight beneath the canvas. The guild’s holding cells swallowed the mercenaries. A clerk took down Deren’s statement and Verric Keld’s words in a neat hand while Borin stood next to the man to ensure he did not try to bleed himself for stubbornness. Verric was given charcoal and parchment and scratched a map out, which was copied clean. After he was taken away to the cells for further interrogation, the party was summoned to Guildmaster Halbrechts office to give their report. Mara unlocked the door, let them in, and told them he would be with them in a few minutes.
When Guildmaster Halbrecht stepped into his office and shut the door behind him, the air seemed to still. The party stood waiting, travel grime and blood still on their cloaks despite the wash basin Mara had pressed on them. He studied their faces, then gestured to the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit. Tell me what happened.” Max sat forward, hands braced on his knees. His voice was steady but low. “We set the ambush as planned. They came on us with fifteen men. They were disciplined and fought like trained soldiers. We cut down ten and captured five alive. We interrogated two of them after the battle. We brought the bodies back in the wagon you saw outside. The prisoners are in your holding cells.” Halbrecht’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Fifteen, and trained. What did you learn of them?” Elira answered without hesitation. “They are deserters from Talenor, led by a man named Verric Keld. He said the crown abandoned them on the walls without pay or rations, and he took his men across the border rather than starve. They turned to mercenary work in Valdarin, small jobs at first. Months ago they were approached by masked buyers paying for live captives. That is when the abductions began.” Halbrecht leaned back a little in his chair, gaze hard. “Masked buyers? Did you learn anything more about them?” Calder nodded. “That was the most consistent part of their story when we interrogated them. They both said that the buyers always arrived at their camp hooded and masked. They've never seen a face or learned a name. Verric says they come at dusk once a month with a covered wagon. The next collection is supposed to be in three days. He says that they count the prisoners, pay in sealed purses, and leave. According to him, the one who speaks for them wears a leather necklace with a small bone carving on it. Both Verric and one of the younger men described a bitter smell, like burnt herbs or cheap oil. That description matches what we found in Stonebridge and Greenglade. The bone charm, the smell, the secrecy. I believe these could be the same people.” Halbrecht’s jaw tightened as he turned his eyes to Borin. “How many captives?” Borin’s voice was steady, though low with distaste. “By their own count, at least a hundred over the last six months. Not counting thirty in the past month alone. They keep them alive in cages at their camp until collection.” Halbrecht’s brows drew tight. “Where is this camp?” Elira leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “A hollow a day north of here. Twenty-five men in their band, but with the fifteen we accounted for, that leaves only ten at the camp now. Verric said they keep four on watch at most, two at either side. The rest stay in tents near the cages. No palisade. Just the slope, brush, and stakes near the path to slow a rush. He drew us a map.”
For a long moment Halbrecht said nothing. He steepled his fingers, eyes fixed on the grain of his desk. Then he asked, very quietly, “What do you propose?”
Max answered first. “We wait. We do not strike the camp, not yet. We watch the hollow until the masked men come to collect the prisoners. Then we follow. We need to know where the captives are being taken after they leave the camp. If the chance comes, we strike and kill as many of the masked men as we can. If we can take one or two alive, we will. They are the ones with answers.” Elira’s cut in before Halbrecht could respond, her tone sharp, almost bitter. “We could kill deserters every day and nothing would change. If we do not cut off the buyers, they will just hire another band and keep at it. The camp is not the head of the snake. The masked men are.” Halbrecht looked at her hard, "What about the prisoners? Are they supposed to rot in cages while you wait for these buyers to arrive?" Borin inclined his head. “I do not like leaving those people caged either, but all signs point to them being kept alive until the handoff. The buyers pay only for the living. That means they are almost certainly kept alive until they reach wherever these masked men are taking them. If we move too soon, we risk saving some but losing the greater truth.”
Halbrecht sat back, studying each of them in turn. The firelight caught the deep lines on his face. At last he said, “So that is your course. You will leave the camp standing, wait for the buyers, and track them when they leave with the prisoners. You strike if you must, but your aim is to bring back at least one alive and speaking.” His gaze sharpened. “Do I have that right?” Max nodded. “You do.” Halbrechts voice lowered, but the weight in it pressed on the room. “This is dangerous work. I may not like the idea of leaving prisoners in cages for longer than necessary, but you are right. The deserters are not the true enemy. The masked ones are. If you follow them to where they take the captives, you may bring back something more valuable than thirty lives. You may bring back the truth of what we are facing. But hear me now: the prisoners are still my priority. If you must kill every last one of these masked figures to ensure they come back home, do so. We will learn what we can from their dead bodies if we must.” The Guildmaster drew in a long breath and let it out slow. He looked around his office, studying their faces, and seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Very well. Sergeant Pell will be warned. He will keep his patrols off the north road until you are done. I will set a quiet net of my own. Merchants, drovers, Guild eyes who owe me. Nothing loud, nothing that stirs talk. Just enough that no word leaks and no one stumbles into your hunt uninvited.” He leaned forward, placing both hands on his desk. “Prepare yourselves. The Guild will provide what it can: dried rations, rope, oil for steel and leather, manacles, torches. But you will need to buy heavier clothing for yourselves. Word from the scouts and caravan drivers is that the air is heavy and the wind is turning. The first snowfall is coming soon, tomorrow or the day after. You will need thicker boots, warmer cloaks, whatever else you feel need to stay alive in the cold. Do not be caught unprepared.” Borin gave a small nod. “Thank you for the warning, Guildmaster. We will be ready.” Halbrecht looked at each of them one last time, his expression steady but grave. “You have done Brindleford proud thus far. Now you must go finish this. Go and rest while you can. Tomorrow you march north.”
They rose, the scrape of their chairs loud in the stillness. As they filed out into the dim corridor, Elira drew her hood up against the draft that coiled under the door, Alina leaned into Calder’s arm, and Max looked back once at the closed office door before turning toward the square. Outside, the night was cold and sharp, and the stars cut clear above the roofs. The wind bit at their cheeks as they walked, and though none of them spoke, each felt the weight of what waited in the hollow.
Max led them out into the cold night air. "Three days," he said. "Then we find out who these bastards are." No one argued. They turned their steps to their lodgings, eager to find a warm bed before the miserable cold that awaited them, with the weight of what was coming pressing against the silence.
