A few hours later, Adarin went to the docks for a final check of the preparations. The ships were mostly ready—only the supplies, specifically the powder kegs, were still missing. Naturally, Adarin had followed the tracks of Count Marquardt to the quartermaster’s warehouse, where he walked in on a scene.

  A middle-aged man with dark rings under his eyes, disheveled hair, and a manic look was holding a torch up to a pile of what were clearly powder kegs. Duke Marquardt stood there, hands spread, speaking very slowly and carefully. His sword lay in front of his feet where he had dropped it.

  “I’m telling you, my order said ten kegs.”

  The middle-aged man nearly stumbled over the words. “The document I received specified eight. Eight, not ten. Do you understand that?”

  The man’s uniform was crumpled, and Adarin took in the small encampment next to his desk.

  Resignation, anger, frustration, and terror all warred openly on the Count’s face.

  Adarin sighed. Was everyone in this organization insane?

  He had to dodge out of the way as a group of skeletons shoved wheelbarrows down the warehouse aisle, utterly uncaring about the quartermaster’s suicidal stand on his supply of powder kegs.

  “I believe we shall make do with eight powder kegs,” Adarin said.

  Count Marquardt looked at him, a pained smile playing over his face.

  The quartermaster screamed. “Do you really think this is still about two powerkegs? No—it is—” He took several labored breaths. “It is a matter of principle!”

  “Great. A matter of principle,” Adarin drew out the last word, but the man went on with the steam of a runaway train.

  “Expectations! I work for three days and then someone comes in here, pushes me about, calls himself a consul, and insists I made a mistake—”

  Only now did Adarin realize he had made another fatal error: he had left the warehouse doors open. Soldiers and civilians were streaming in, enjoying the show. Some asshole was even taking bets. Adarin barely held himself back from screaming at them.

  Do any of you have a survival instinct? He’s about to blow a powder warehouse, and you’re watching like it’s a street brawl.

  Though he smirked briefly—there were a number of superior officers in his past against whom he wouldn’t have minded making a stand on a pile of powder kegs—he still noted that someone had clearly left this man to his own devices for far too long.

  “Alright,” Adarin continued, “what do you actually need? There’s an attack of greenskins coming, and I need this man to help defend against it.”

  White lies. Well—green lies, in this case.

  The quartermaster’s eyes went even wider, something Adarin hadn’t thought possible.

  “Greenskins. Again.”

  Once more, Adarin saw Count Marquardt’s fists clench and unclench. He tilted his head, thinking. The first rule of a fire was deciding if it was really yours to put out.

  Do I really need the Count? I’m fairly certain there are other ways to get powder in this city… But no—guess I have to be the one adult here.

  Adarin studied the oil-wrapped hides protecting the powder barrels from moisture. Slowly, he walked closer, expecting the quartermaster to order him to stop. But the man didn’t care or notice him.

  Count Marquardt studied Adarin with a look somewhere between caution and respect. Then, just as Adarin readied a root whip, the quartermaster swayed, stumbled back, dropped into a chair, and began to cry.

  “Everybody keeps screaming at me. Everybody.”

  Count Marquardt looked around the warehouse, utterly confused.

  Adarin shrugged. “Well, apparently my good looks are sufficient to resolve this situation.”

  Then Marquardt rallied and turned to his men. “Ralof—get this man to the—”

  Adarin interrupted whatever unwise thing the Count was about to say. “—healers. Ensure he gets a good healing tea and sleeps for at least three days. I’ll check on the situation myself. Understood?”

  The soldier swallowed hard and looked to Count Marquardt. The Count pressed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, then nodded. “Do as he says.”

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  Adarin approached the man. “My dear Consul of Military Affairs, this little matter points to a greater problem, does it not?”

  As the crowd dispersed and money changed hands on bets, the Count looked around, then took the chair the quartermaster had sunk into before letting out a long breath. He pulled from a cloth from a pouch and wiped his sweat-stained forehead.

  “This entire situation is a bloody mess. We just need more time.”

  Adarin studied the powder kegs, carelessly piled on the shelves. “We’re stretched too thin and occupying a city. Do you have anyone trustworthy you can spare who can actually audit situations like this?”

  The Count nodded and sighed. Adarin gestured for him to follow toward the ships. On the way, they quickly organized the Count’s men to run spot-checks and get healers to examine soldiers and personnel. Too much had happened, and the occupation had been too fast.

  The words stood unspoken between them: what had just happened could have gone far worse.

  As they, with their ten powder kegs in tow on a wagon pulled by the undead, reached the ships, Duchess Viola stood next to the captain—a man dressed in a smart white-and-blue uniform and a heavy leather surcoat. He was staring through a spyglass at the upriver island.

  The Duchess spoke up hesitantly. “Something is happening there. I believe there is fighting afoot.”

  Count Marquardt sneered, none of the tension from the previous warehouse standoff remaining. “I am sure, with your vast expertise in such affairs, you will in no way have mistaken a simple disembarkation for a combat operation.”

  The captain cleared his throat, clearly disapproving. “Lady speaks truth,” he rasped around a satchel of chewing tobacco. “Seeing flashes of green. There’s magic up there. My three pennies—something other than greenskins took up residence in that fort, and didn’t appreciate visitors.”

  Adarin refocused his Thousand Eyes skill.

  The island lay almost five kilometers upriver, a shallow wooded hillock dominated at one end by a large bastion fortress—an imposing square of stone in the middle of the river. Adarin studied the situation: three ships lay beached, small river cutters apparently used in this sort of operation. Over a hundred greenskins had dug in, watching the forest that had engulfed the fortress.

  A trail of dead, blood, and moving wooden pieces marked the way to the bastion entrance. Adarin frowned and relayed his observations as Liora, Devin, and Gavin came aboard.

  Gavin’s eyes lit up. “Well, we might finally be meeting your family, Adarin. Could be interesting.”

  Adarin smiled inwardly but responded sternly. “I’d appreciate something more substantial than speculation about my family.”

  The alchemist was undeterred. “Could be dryads, spriggans, branshees, ents, schrads—too much living wood out there to count.” He chuckled. “Though all of them are weak to acid and fire.”

  “Acid and fire?” The goblin repeated with gleaming thoughtfulness and began bouncing on his heels. “I have something I need to get!”

  Adarin was about to order the goblin to stop, but he was already halfway down the gangplank and running back into town.

  “Well, the last few times he used his alchemy, it was impressive,” Adarin muttered. “And if we’re about to run into something nasty.” He turned to the Duchess. “You held this city for a long time. Any idea what’s in those fortresses?”

  She shrugged. “Orcs aren’t great seafarers. The river fortresses… the one downstream was cleared out two years ago—pirates had taken it over. The other one never gave us trouble, so no one bothered with it. But if something started living there and turned it into a monster den—well, that’d be why.”

  They formed a huddle and discussed tactics. Adarin let the captain take the lead on how to position the ships. After all, I’m only trained in commanding light patrol spacecraft. And the rules are clearly different with boats. Only an absolute moron would believe that knowledge about commanding one would transfer to commanding the other.

  Soon Gavin returned, ten zombies carrying several barrels. He grinned broadly. “Quicklime incendiaries, pickled in oil. Get them to the cannons, get them there—yes, yes—we can burn this whole island down!”

  Devon, who had been disinterested in anything earlier, perked up. “Burn the island down?”

  Adarin groaned. “We are not burning any islands down.” He paused and observed the situation on the distant beach for a few seconds. “Yet.”

  “So you’re saying it’s an option?” Gavin asked, far too hopeful.

  Liora chuckled as the Duchess and the Count exchanged uneasy glances with the captain.

  A few more pointless exchanges later, sails were set, and the warcogs left the harbor—cannoneers at the ready, decks bristling with Count Marquard’s men. They soon arrived half a kilometer downstream of the island.

  Adarin had an anchor dropped on the captain’s recommendation, and the leadership trio settled in to observe the situation more closely. The greenskins were waving a flag of parley. Duchess Viola was enthusiastically returning the gesture. Preparations began to set her down in a rowing boat to advance to the greenskin beachhead.

  As the sailors rowed the duchess over under guard, Adarin frowned. He studied the environment and played back his memories. What has changed? Why am I so on edge?

  The boat was less than fifty meters from the beach, when it sprung out at Adarin. The trees on the island stop moving while we put the boat down. Do I sound the alarm?

  He considered who to ask about this—when suddenly the western section of the bastion began shaking, the part engulfed by the woods.

  Adarin read the Count’s quiet expression, then saw the creature: a lumbering tree wrapped around a heart of thorny, twisting vines. The vines shot outward, propelling it forward like a grotesque cross between octopus and slug.

  “Shrads!” shouted Count Marquardt.

  Adarin studied the seven woodland creatures as the orcs broke into panicked battle preparations. Next, several dozen humanoids emerged from the forest, and a strange hum filled the air. Their bodies were unnervingly beautiful yet alien—horned humanoids with feminine features, moving with eerie precision, flowing like leaves on the wind.

  Adarin spun toward the captain. “How long till we can fire a broadside over the orcs? Hit those fuckers!”

  He turned to Devin and Gavin. “Is Gisela ready?”

  “Of course she’s ready,” they answered in unison.

  “Fire. Take out the closest shrad. Fire, fire, fire!”

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