Of Blades, Birds, and Beards

Look at that… what the sands dragged to my doorstep. A little wounded pup."

The harsh words didn't suggest good intentions. Even if they had, the blade pressed against his neck told a different story.

Fuck. Charles wasn't walking away from this unharmed. He was tired, wounded, and couldn't so much as twitch without getting his throat cut. All he had left were words—and words had never been his strong suit.

"I mean you no harm, sir. If you could just… sheath your weapon?"

Silence.

Was the bastard going to kill him without a word?

"Lose your weapons. Slowly. Then we'll talk. No funny business."

Charles almost scoffed. That wasn't something he'd normally do. If he'd been sure this was one of the chief's men, he would've risked dying before giving up his blades. But his gut whispered something different. This stranger didn't sound like he knew who Charles was.

So, with slow, deliberate movements, Charles unclasped his belt and tossed it aside.

"So… can we talk now, sir?"

Another beat of silence. Then, the blade eased away from his neck. Charles turned—

And couldn't believe his luck.

A fucking dwarf. Beard, axe, the works. The massive bow was a bit odd, but who was he to judge?

A dwarf was perfect. They hated slavery, did anything for the right coin… and might just lead him to the Free City.

Before Charles could celebrate, a gruff voice cut in. "Who are you, and what are you doing here? And don't even think about lying. If I catch a whiff of deception, I'll gut you—and sleep like a baby after."

Fair question. How much should he say? Short. Clear. As little as possible.

"I'm an escaped slave, sir. Heading for the Free City. I was hoping… you might give me directions."

Silence. Again.

Was this guy trying to give him a heart attack?

"You don't look like the slaves I know, boy. Most don't carry enchanted blades worth a small village. And that ring on your finger… that crest's no common trash. So, I'll ask once more. Who. Are. You?"

What the hell? A small village? Was that why the chief had been so pissed?

"I am truly an escaped slave, sir. But… my story's a bit unusual. If you've got time, I'll tell it."

This time, silence seemed like permission. Charles told him everything—his whole miserable tale from beginning to now. Took ten minutes, tops. Less than he'd expected. Guess his life wasn't as colorful as he'd thought.

The dwarf crossed his arms. "I want to believe you, boy. And I almost do. We dwarves help escaped slaves—it's our faith. But we're also enemies of the beastmen. I won't risk helping a potential enemy. So… you'll do something for me. It's dangerous. You might die. But if you do it, I'll lead you to the city—and toss you some coin. Deal?"

Did he even have a choice?

"Okay."

---

The dwarf—Gerart—was all business. No chit-chat. His task? Hunt a Rukh—a giant, predatory desert bird.

Charles's role? Go about a hundred meters ahead… and act as bait.

Yep. Bait. A piece of meat for a monster bird.

No wonder Gerart's last partner ran for the hills.

"Still time to pick instant death, you know," Charles muttered.

"I never said it was easy. But I'm the best damn archer you'll meet. You'll live… probably."

Charles almost sneered. Heard that before. But considering how easily Gerart had snuck up on him, maybe this time it was true.

"Let's go."

---

Half a day later, under the blistering sun…

"Are you sure this bird even lives here?"

"Yes. Shut up and walk."

Charming. And they said dwarves didn't have slaves.

Time crawled by. His patience thinned. He was about to yell again when—

"Skreeeeeeee!"

He jerked his head up—just in time to see a blur dive straight at him.

He ran. Pointless. The bird was faster.

He felt claws scrape his back—then heard a bowstring snap—

Thwack.

The Rukh screamed, slammed into him, and they tumbled into a choking cloud of feathers and sand.

"Son of a bitch! It weighs a ton… and smells like shit. I'm gonna puke…"

Pinned under a dead, stinking bird, Charles couldn't move. Any minute now, maybe the dwarf would stop laughing and help—

"Hahaha! You've got guts, boy! Thought you'd scream like a girl!"

"Yeah, hilarious. How about helping me before this thing crushes me?"

"Haha! You're a good lad. You know what? I'll do more than help. I'll be your friend. How's that sound?"

Friend? You tried to get me killed. At least buy me a drink first.

With Gerart's help, Charles got free—but the smell stuck. He was blood-soaked, feather-covered, and probably smelled like a corpse rotting in the sun. And, of course, he'd stay that way until they reached the city.

But he was alive. And now he had a guide.

"What the hell do you even need this beast for? Doesn't look like it's good for anything."

Apparently, the bird had a special stone in its gut—a gizzard stone. Birds like the Rukh used them to grind bones and hard prey. But if a blacksmith crushed the stones into powder and forged it with steel, the result was lighter, sharper weapons. Hunters like Gerart made a fortune off them. If they survived.

"We're in luck, boy. This one's packed. Your share alone'll feed you for weeks."

"Yay. Can we eat it? I'm starving."

That sent Gerart into another laughing fit. "You're a born warrior, my friend!"

The meat wasn't poisonous—just tough and nasty. But after weeks without a hot meal, Charles didn't care. He sat by the fire, cheeks stuffed, grease dripping off his chin, looking like a wild man.

Gerart chatted nonstop—stories, city gossip, even jokes. Where was the silent, deadly hunter from earlier? Charles almost missed him. First impressions really could be misleading.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Charles washed down the meal with a swig of wine he'd stolen from the orc leader.

"So… how long till the city? And how much are you paying me?"

Better than he'd hoped—four days' walk, and three gold coins. Add that to what he'd looted from the bounty hunters, and it'd be enough for a cheap inn until he figured out his next move. Gerart even invited him to join the Hunters' Guild.

Charles wasn't so sure about that. But he'd make the dwarf show him around—if he could survive the constant jabbering.

"You wouldn't happen to have clean clothes in that big sack of yours? These rags are unbearable."

That got another round of dwarf laughter. Gerart cracked a few dry jokes about his stink before tossing him a bundle.

"Cloak and a shirt. Bit dirty, but cleaner than you. I'd give you pants… but they're too short for legs and way too big for the groin—if you know what I mean. Hahaha!"

Fresh clothes made him feel… human again. Or half-human. Whatever. Now all he needed was a few hours of sleep.

Gerart settled in, using a sack for a pillow and a cloak for a blanket.

"We leave at first light. Get some sleep, boy."

"It's Charles, old man. If you're gonna be my friend, at least remember my name."

"Quit with the 'old man'! I'm in my prime! PRIME, you hear me?!"