Escort

When I returned to the village, the reception wasn't exactly what you'd call warm. Word travelled faster than I had. The inn's common room buzzed with whispered conversations and sidelong glances, but the moment I stepped through the door, the place went silent. Dozens of eyes fixed on me—some with awe, some with fear, most with suspicion. Typical.

I dropped the grimwing's severed claw onto the bar. It hit the wood with a heavy thunk, leaving behind a smear of black blood that dripped onto the floor. The barkeep, the same wiry old man who'd doubted I'd return, looked from the claw to me and back again. His face was a mixture of surprise and grim resignation, as if he'd just realised his wildest hope and his worst nightmare were the same thing.

"Well," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's… proof enough, I reckon."

"I don't need your approval," I replied. "Just my pay."

A murmur swept through the room. The barkeep eyed the claw again, then reached under the bar and pulled out a small chest. He set it down, opened it, and pushed it toward me. Inside were a handful of coins and a few loose gemstones—nothing grand, but enough to keep me going for a while. I reached for the chest, but before I could take it, the barkeep's hand shot out, gripping the edge of the lid.

"Hold on a minute," he said. "What do you plan on doing next?"

"What's it to you?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"Just curious." He glanced at the claw, then back at me. "You took down a grimwing. That's no small feat. The folks here, they might not show it, but they'll sleep easier tonight knowing it's gone. And a dwarf who can do something like that, well… word gets around. You might find more work, if you're looking for it."

I leaned on the counter, meeting his gaze. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Just saying, the road's dangerous, and if you're heading out again, there might be people willing to pay for a bit of… protection. Trade caravans, for one. Maybe a few of the outlying settlements. If you're building a name for yourself, you might as well profit from it."

I studied him for a moment. The man had a point. I wasn't just a wandering forge master anymore. I had a reputation, small as it might be, and that reputation could be turned into coin. Coin that would let me stock up on supplies, upgrade my tools, and—most importantly—continue forging.

"Keep talking," I said.

The barkeep leaned in, lowering his voice. "There's a caravan heading north in a few days. They've had trouble in the past—bandits, beasts, you name it. If you're interested, I can put in a good word. But they'll want to see more than just a fancy hammer. They'll want to know you can handle yourself."

I reached into my satchel and pulled out a smaller, secondary piece I'd been working on: a short, single-edged blade I'd forged during the long nights in Karaz Tarul. I placed it on the counter next to the claw. The blade gleamed in the firelight, its edge wickedly sharp, its runes faint but unmistakable.

"Think that'll do?" I asked.

The barkeep's eyes widened. He didn't touch the blade. Instead, he nodded slowly. "Aye. I reckon it might."

The deal was struck the next morning. The caravan leader, a burly human with a sour disposition named Drenn, agreed to let me ride along as protection in exchange for a modest fee. Not much, but it would cover my meals and maybe leave me a bit extra for materials. The road north wasn't easy, and I figured a little coin in hand was better than wandering aimlessly.

Drenn didn't seem thrilled about it. As we stood by the wagons in the pale morning light, he eyed me like a farmer sizing up a goat that might be too scrawny to butcher. "You know how to fight, sure," he said, spitting into the dirt. "But can you handle a real battle? Not just one beast in the woods?"

I hoisted Skarnvalk onto my shoulder, letting the hammer's weight speak for me. The runes flickered faintly, and I thought I saw Drenn's eyes dart to them. He didn't ask again.

The caravan was a small affair—three wagons laden with crates of grain, cloth, and a handful of oddities wrapped in canvas. The drivers were rough sorts, seasoned by years of fending off bandits and the occasional wild beast, but they didn't have anything like Skarnvalk. They had crossbows, rusty swords, and clubs that looked like they'd been scavenged from the bodies of fallen raiders. None of them gave me more than a passing glance, which suited me fine. I wasn't here to make friends.

The first two days passed uneventfully. The road was clear, and the forest quiet. Too quiet, if I'm honest. Every time the wind shifted, I caught myself gripping Skarnvalk's haft a little tighter, expecting an ambush that never came. The drivers joked and grumbled among themselves, but I stayed silent, scanning the trees and listening for anything out of place.

It was on the third day, as we wound our way through a rocky valley, that trouble finally found us.

The first sign was the birds. They stopped singing all at once, as if someone had silenced them with a wave of their hand. The drivers noticed too, their chatter dying as they exchanged uneasy looks. Drenn, riding at the front, raised a hand to halt the caravan. The wagons creaked to a stop, and the drivers reached for their weapons. I climbed down from the second wagon, Skarnvalk in hand, and stepped to the front.

"Bandits?" Drenn whispered.

I shook my head. "Not bandits."

He frowned. "How do you know?"

"Listen."

It wasn't just the birds that were silent. The entire forest felt… wrong. The air was thick and heavy, like the moments before a storm. And then I heard it: a faint, guttural growl that seemed to come from everywhere at once. It wasn't the low rumble of a beast, though. This was something else. Something worse.

Drenn's face paled as he heard it too. "What is that?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I tightened my grip on Skarnvalk and stepped forward. The runes on the hammer flared to life, casting a cold, pale light that illuminated the path ahead. The drivers muttered behind me, their voices tinged with fear.

From the shadows ahead, a figure emerged. It wasn't a bandit, nor a beast. It was a man—or what used to be a man. His skin was pale and mottled, his eyes black pits that reflected the faint glow of Skarnvalk's runes. He moved with an unnatural, jerky gait, as though his limbs were being pulled by invisible strings. And he wasn't alone. More figures stepped out from the trees, their hollow eyes fixed on us.

Drenn cursed under his breath. "What the hell are those?"

"Trouble," I muttered.

The creatures—if you could still call them that—moved as one, shuffling closer. Their mouths opened in unison, and a guttural hiss escaped their throats. I could feel Skarnvalk's will stirring, the hammer eager for the fight. I met Drenn's wide-eyed stare and grinned.

"Stay back," I said. "This one's mine."