Following Torm’s guidance, they left the city through the western gate. The ruin they were sent to clear was near the border to Ylieli, but so deep within the jungle that neither nation could be bothered to build the necessary infrastructure to properly claim this remnant of the Precursors.

  “It really isn’t much,” Torm told Oras, once asked. “Couple of walls, a collapsed rooftop, a multitude of pillars… a goblin tribe that would use it as their base of operation won’t be larger than 20 at the most. Around 10 is more likely.”

  “And you recommend we whittle down their numbers first?”

  “Savage goblins are instinctively clever, but they have little in terms of actual planning skills and pattern recognition. They’ll come out in groups of 1 to 3 over the course of a day to hunt for food, that is when we will strike.”

  “Sounds like a plan - a dull plan, but a plan,” Theria remarked. “Heard that the rule of thumb is two goblins per adventurer is a safe ratio?”

  “That is about right. Savage Goblins generally prefer to take live prey, especially when it comes to women.”

  “And them being small, therefore light, means that at least two goblins are needed to pin someone down,” Oras analysed. “In a direct confrontation, the difference in our builds also means that we have the reach to take down one quickly.”

  “Which makes a 2 vs 1 reasonably safe, as far as adventuring goes,” Torm said in support of the analysis. “You fought goblins before. I can hear that in the familiarity.”

  “There were plenty of them where we grew up. They even dared to raid the village one time.”

  “That must have been harrowing,” Torm remarked.

  “Inspiring, actually,” Oras disagreed.

  “His dad charged in all impressively and cut the host down, the other men of the village at his back,” Theria recounted. “It was pretty cool.”

  “That does sound… impressive,” Torm said slowly.

  Oras could hear that Torm tilted more towards the word ‘reckless’, but kept his real opinion to himself. It irked the Dragonblood a small bit. The heroism that his father displayed that day only ever deserved praise. Flying off the handle about it would have been unreasonable though, especially since Torm was being diplomatic about it.

  “When can we expect to arrive by the ruins?” Oras asked.

  “4 to 7 days from now, depends on how lucky we get with the rain. Impatient?” the mentor asked with a jokingly raised eyebrow.

  “I merely like to know the details.”

  “Mhm… you’re a rare breed of recruit. Usually, this is the point where I have to explain to newcomers that 95% of what adventurers do is walk from point A to point B.” The crunching of dirt beneath their feet was proof of that, baked into every step. “Lots of people think adventuring is just one big rush of adrenaline.”

  “I have read plenty of accounts on the matter. I am under no illusions. For now, I am only as strong as humans are. My riches are in the future.” He sent Theria a smile. “I got a wife though. I am counting my blessings.”

  “Stahp it,” Theria waved off with a blush.

  “A fortunate arrangement,” Torm said.

  “Any family of your own?” Oras wondered.

  The older man shrugged. “I never married - just didn’t find the right partner for it. My brother has enough children for the two of us though.”

  The conversation gradually faded after that. It didn’t come to an awkward stop, simply petering out when neither side had anything they wished to add anymore. Oras and Theria continued to chat actively, and Torm would chime in often enough to prevent him from being fully isolated. It was good enough for an improvised party.

  After they spent most of the day walking, Torm waved them off the road and showed them a nice resting place. A massive boulder laid stably across a gap in the landscape that a river had slowly etched into it. Said river had since diverted, leaving behind a dry and easily defended position in the shadow of the stone.

  “Popular spot, glad it isn’t taken today,” Torm announced.

  Those words proved to be a jinx. The group had barely put down their backpacks, when shadowy figures stepped out from surrounding trees. Brandishing knives and religious symbols painted onto foreheads immediately made it clear what kind of people they were dealing with.

  Theria immediately knocked an arrow. Torm and Oras repositioned themselves so the archer was between them. Two of the cultists stood on one end of the resting spot, two more on the other. The same attributes that made the gap in the landscape easily defended also made it a fantastic spot to trap people.

  “Glory to Zurael! Fate has chosen you three to be the sacrifices for our cult,” one of the men shouted. “Lay down your arms and this will be over quick.”

  As the cultist shouted, Oras noted the variety of holes in his dark robe. There was no visible armour on his body, nor did he or any of his companions sport anything more than a knife. This was not some organized demon cult. More likely, it was one of manifold religious minorities of the Midyurters.

  Torm raised his hands in a dissuading gesture. “I’m sure you got your reasons to do this, but, let me tell you, I have seen this spiel before and it never works out in the long run.”

  “Zurael will assure we are the exception!” The cultist’s voice was raised in a shaky fervour. It sounded like he was making himself believe that. “THERE IS NO NEED TO LISTEN TO UNBELIEVERS! ATTACK!”

  The four cultists charged in.

  The crowd of cultists was inexperienced, but extremely aggressive. Oras concentrated on the two that came at them from the back. One of them pulled ahead, swinging his knife with a religious trill on his lips.

  Oras tried to deflect the blow with his knuckledusters. It partly worked, turning what would have been a slice across his chest into a wound across the back of his hand.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  The cultist was ready to take that first blood and retreat to a safe distance, but he hadn’t accounted for Theria. The redhead was wide-eyed and focused, any and all mirth wiped from her face. When it came to life and death situations, the hunter turned into a person of single-minded dedication.

  The prepared arrow was loosened from her bow, whizzing past Oras’ head, and piercing the attacker’s eye socket. The jump back became the last motion the man would ever make. By the time his feet touched the ground again, the spark of life had left him and he crumpled to the ground.

  “I got your back, hubby,” Theria said, her tone flat and serious, contrasting her affectionate choice of words.

  “I know that, wife,” Oras responded, just as earnest.

  The cultist that had done the speaking now crossed the distance. Prepared for the attack, Torm easily side-stepped it.

  Knowing that his assigned mentor was fine, Oras whirled around and lunged at the second cultist on his side of the field. She was a middle-aged woman, an ugly scar across her face. There was shock on her face, a disbelief that her companion was already laying in the dirt. It was enough that Oras hesitated for a brief moment.

  The cultist turned his hesitation into her opportunity. She lashed out at him. Oras had been prepared for a punishment. His torso twisted to the side, the same motion bringing his right arm up with the force of a young dragon’s claw. The knuckleduster pulverized the left temple of the woman, even cracking the surrounding skull. The cultist collapsed to the ground like a sack of turnips.

  ‘Show mercy and always be prepared for when it is rejected,’ Oras recounted one of the mantras his father had taught him.

  With no one left on this side of the field, Theria turned her arrow at the two cultists attacking Torm. The speaker was swinging his weapon uselessly at the seasoned adventurer, leaving only one viable target. Before that second cultist could even figure out where he was supposed to join into the brawl, he had an arrow in his jugular. It was not a clean, immediate death, but it put the cultist out of commission instantly.

  One overambitious step from the first and last cultist was all it took for Torm to dispatch him. The motion that drew Torm’s sword also took off the cultist’s head. The cut was clean and swift, showcasing strength and speed that was in the realm of a low superhuman. It took a second for the body to realize the decapitation. The legs only gave out after the head had already hit the ground.

  Torm looked around, his head mildly bobbing with repeated, impressed nods. “You two got real talent.”

  “I know, right?” Theria asked with a proud smile.

  _________________________________________________________________

  About an hour later, the tree of them were hanging around a campfire. A depression to pile up wood in had been left behind by all the previous people that had used this as their resting place. The corpses of the cultists they had unceremoniously dumped into a ditch about a hundred metres from this spot.

  “If adventurers dug graves for every bandit, cultist and creature we killed, we’d break our backs after the first mission,” Torm had said.

  Four knives had been all that was worthwhile from the corpses. Only the name of the god that they had uttered gave any clue about their identity. No one in the trio knew it. Zurael must have been the god of some minor cult.

  “You said that you’ve seen this spiel before,” Oras broke the silence around the campfire. “How often does this kind of thing happen?”

  Torm was carving away at a piece of wood. He did not stop when he was asked the question, only hummed thoughtfully. “Down here in the lands of the Midyurters, I’d say cults that go mad make up about a fifth of all adventuring missions.”

  “That many?” Theria asked aloud.

  “Midyurters are quite permissive of other religions. That individualism has its problems.” Shavings from Torm’s work flung into the fire, burning up instantly. Bigger pieces of wood continued to sit in the flame, only slowly getting consumed. “People that do not follow the teachings of the Supernatural Elephant often find themselves isolated. Sometimes it's because of pride, other times because they are shunned for their practices, usually because those practices truly are odd without the esoteric background. When faced with hard times, such cults easily turn to underhanded methods. They think themselves the enlightened ones in a scattered society.”

  “Ya sayin’ that we’re wrong to be tolerant of other faiths?” Theria asked.

  Torm shook his head. “You realize pretty quickly on your travels that there’s a lot of things where wrong or right doesn’t really apply. Not to say it never does, savage goblins are evil, orc warbands rape and pillage, and the Stringless have done the world a great service during their time as the String. Good and evil absolutely does exist, but for a society that has stepped out of barbarism… things get complicated. I’m not a big genius on social matters…” he scratched the back of his head with the butt of his carving knife. “...I think we got it pretty good in Kumsyurt. You just got to acknowledge when something bad is the consequence of something that’s meant well. I don’t even know how many major faiths we got on this continent.”

  “Ten - Eleven if you include the Stringless,” Oras informed him.

  “...Let’s go with ten, then. Ten big faiths, each with their own local denominations, and then hundreds of small cults beneath that. Sometimes it’s money, sometimes a sociopath becomes a cult leader - one time, I was supporting a party that found out the cult had been deceived by a demon that made them believe their god was talking to them.” Torm shrugged again. “So, altogether, this sort of thing happens frequently.”

  “How do other cultures handle this sort of thing?” Now that they had started to talk, one question led to another and Oras wanted to know everything.

  “Dunno,” Torm answered flippantly.

  “Ya dunno?” Theria tilted her head in confusion. “You’re an old guy adventurer, you have to have been all over the place.”

  “I’ve been all over this continent. I am what they call a local expert.” Switching his grip slightly, Torm went from rough shavings to deliberate cuts on the wood. “I got hired by parties that needed an extra hand or a guide. Usually meant I got to watch stronger people deal with things. Safe job, decent pay.”

  “Ya must have visited some interesting places over the years.”

  “I have, but nothing that would topple an elephant. The lands of the Midyurters are pretty much the same across. Jungle, forest, a bit of savannah at the northern edge, with cities that all look about the same, differing mostly in size.”

  That was disappointing, but in line with the read Oras had on the old adventurer. “You do not have a lot of ambition.”

  “I don’t,” Torm agreed readily. “Kept me alive. I realized early that I am an average adventurer at best, so I took on averagely difficult work at worst. Others got too big for their britches. They’re not here anymore.”

  “I have greater desires.”

  “All the young ones do.”

  “I will not let your wisdom go unheeded, however.”

  That did make Torm stop in his carving for a moment. He laughed tiredly and shook his head. “You really are an unusual one.”

  “If you do not mind, I would like to hear about opportunities you did not choose to take - regrets and validated experiences both.”

  “Mhm… a regret… I always worked alone, but a few years into my career, I was invited to join an Association. Do you know what those are?”

  “Unofficial bandings of individuals and parties, sort of guilds within the guild,” Oras explained his understanding.

  “Exactly. It was an association of people that aimed to push the boundaries of our understanding. They thought I was fit to act as a supporting member of their group. I preferred staying alone. The offer was eventually withdrawn and the Association moved west. They’re pretty big now - they go by the Frontier Walkers.” Torm looked at the carving it had made, resembling, in the broadest shape, an elephant. “I do sometimes wonder how my life would have changed if I had gone for that opportunity.”

  Oras filled that away in his mind. “And stories of validation?”

  “A lot more numerous,” Torm answered swiftly. “I have been asked to be part of an expedition into a proper goblin cave - all dead. I have been asked to be the first to scout out a newly discovered ruin of unknown origin - a demon got summoned and almost wiped out that entire party. I have been offered a spot in the supply chain for health potions - turned out to be a massive scam.” Torm tapped the side of his nose. “I may have kept low to the ground, but my intuition hasn’t failed me most of the time. You can take this to the bank: if you want to get old as an adventurer, you either have to know your limits, be actually exceptional, or get crippled early. Everyone else dies before they retire.”

  A humbling note to end the day on.