Gorren came back to with a hitched breath.

He needed a moment to realize where he was, to put on focus the spartan wood and bare leather around him. When he did, he sank back with a sigh. My coach, of course.

He passed a trembling hand over his face. It had been some time since he had dreamt. So strange for it to happen at that moment, and about events so far away in time.

He folded his arms, shivering all over. He wasn’t fond of remembrance in dreams. The images conjured by sleep lingered in his mind with all their cargo of pain and sorrow, refusing to disappear even before the attempts of his well-oiled mind. So they did in that moment, taunting him like ghosts, reminding him of his failures.

He folded over, resting his chin against his chest. The coach was stuffy usually. At that moment, it felt cold…

A sudden realization jolted him out of his reverie. He wasn’t alone in there.

Dara melted with the gloom like she was but one of many shadows. The priestess’ pale face seemed to hang mid-air, her features turned into apprehension.

“Master…” she said, her tone concerned. “You suffer…”

Gorren drew back like if stung by a viper. Curse his disattention! Sleep had dulled his senses. What else had she heard? Had he been talking in his sleep?

“Know your place, servant,” he growled, outraged for that intrusion and furious for his own disattention.

Dara bowed her head.

Gorren sank back into his seat, gaze blazing with suspicion. The magical oath that enforced the priestess’ obedience to him was strong, but muddled by a divine presence; and Gods weren’t to be trusted, nor underestimated. They were riddles, Nama doubly so. He couldn’t trust her just like he couldn‘t trust the sea to remain calm. The secrets of his past, what made him tick… nobody had to know them. They belonged to him, and him alone.

He watched the priestess’ bowed head, conflicting emotions battling inside of him. Those secrets, those memories, they belonged to him alone…

A knock jolted him out those thoughts.

“Master?” Said Tur’s voice. “The boys have returned. We’re ready when you say it.”

Gorren grunted. Good, finally the waiting was over.

Launching a last warning glance toward Dara, he pushed open the coach’s door and exited.

The summer sun blinded him, and he needed a moment to find the chief of his men-at-arms.

Tur was ready and able as always, his leather and iron armor oiled and polished until it seemed to have been fabricated only yesterday.

Gorren nodded with approval. Attention to details and zeal were qualities he deeply appreciated.

“So?” He asked. “Where are they?”

He ignored the uncertain glance Tur launched Dara, the priestess dismounting from the coach as well, and followed him when he gestured and started walking.

His band had made camp in a clearing some distance from the Bronze Road. Gorren’s Gremlins had pitched up tents, building a simple encampment.

As they walked, they passed through leather and iron armored warriors busy training, doing maintenance on their weapons or resting and talking. Tur had a word for everybody, especially for the new batch of recruits that were arrived from the home base only recently. He dispensed encouragements or exchanged jokes, eliciting grins and laughs, or putting a new spark in hesitant gazes.

Gorren limited himself to just acknowledging the respectful greetings that were directed his way. He eyed critically transmutations or young Gremlins that tried too hard to look like humans. Satisfaction bubbled in his chest at the calm discipline hovering over the camp. Guards, never alone but always in pair, patrolled the camp’s edges, making sure that nobody could sneak in unseen. He knew that others were stationed farther in the forests, hidden between the vegetation at regular intervals and on the lookout for possible intruders. Dara’s rats took care to keep the contact with these sentinels, going to check on them at regular intervals and returning to report if nothing unusual was happening or not.

Mention of the priestess put a cloud over his satisfaction. He snuck a glance behind, finding her trailing him and Tur, her head still lowered.

I have to be more careful.

Thoughts for another moment. Turning, he looked toward the part of the camp where his pride and joy of the moment were stationed.

The five hulking Ur-Gremlins clustered around a large fire. An entire deer had been impaled over a spit so large that could have passed for a roof beam and set to roast. One of the Urs carefully handled the lever, turning the meal from time to time, while another poured sauce over it from a large pot, making sure that it was well impregnated. The rest watched, sniffing the air like dogs and exchanging words. All of them, despite the hotness and the fact that they were resting, wore their heavy plate armor, not a gesture or expression to show that they felt any discomfort.

Ah, my hounds. Wonderful. The Urs was a variant that didn’t happen naturally. They were his own, personal creation. Larger, stronger, faster than any Gremlin, they talked little and acted much, were obedient and grim, bearing pain, discomfort and fatigue with the same stoicism of a pack mule. His heavy soldiers, he was proud of them like a craftsman with his puppets.

And they weren’t the only ones.

At the edge of the camp, given a wide berth by the Gremlins, three shallow pits had been excavated and then filled with water, creating mudholes. Bulbous figures as large as horses wallowed in them, enjoying what little protection from the heat provided by the mud. The trio were the children of the first Otyough he had captured back on the island. He wasn’t going to lie: they were disgusting creatures, but tamed and provided with enchantments and adequate protection they made for excellent war-beasts. Four Handlers doted over them, throwing water from buckets to keep them cool or providing them with branches, saplings or refuse to eat. Nothing but snacks; the Otyoughs were surprisingly low-maintenance, one of the reasons he had picked them.

Gorren nodded with satisfaction. With the new recruits, he had thirty warriors, plus ten scouts, five Urs, four Handlers and three Otyoughs. Given these numbers, this little bandit problem should have been resolved easily enough. But he wasn’t going to run ahead. First, he needed to know who was he up against.

A small tickling against the wrist attracted his attention.

With a smile, he reached in the inside pocket of his coat and, from a small packet he kept there, pulled out a nut. He pushed it in his sleeve, just to have it stolen away by something hidden inside.

Hearing the small crunching sounds, he chuckled. It had been a long work to make it viable, but the shrunken Aranea made for a wonderful final product. A magical oath to keep it compliant, some nuts and a Mana injection from time to time to keep it happy, that was all it took to have an easily hidden, thoroughly deadly secret weapon, ready to be unleashed on any who dared to come too close.

Good. Very good.

Tucking his sleeve back in place, he followed Tur with a little spring in his step.

The Gremlin chief brought him to the center of the camp, where a small group clustered around a large map of the area. It was formed, apart from the five-group of Warriors, by the four officers Gorren had handpicked to lead his Gremlins into battle.

Gorren nodded to receive the general greetings. “What do we have?” He was eager to come to the point, but hid that fact behind a mask of stern calm. It wouldn’t do for his servants to know too much about him. The previous stumble with Dara played a big part in his caution.

Tur gestured. Tad, Fret and Sela stepped forward.

Like a well-rehearsed play, the trio took positions around the map.

Looking less than sure, the male began: “So, ehm, we asked questions around town and the villages of the area.” Crouching, he pointed in succession at the settlements showed on the map. A big one, close by, and three smaller ones. “People were just too eager to start talking, really. You almost didn’t need to take out the coins for them to start talking good about these Arrows of theirs.” That had to be an attempt to humor because he paused and made a hesitant smile.

Gorren frowned. Was this idiot trying to waste his time?

Tad’s smile withered. “Ehm, so, right.” He coughed. “Everybody we talked to said that the Arrows are heroes of the people or something. They throw money around, buy drinks and stuff, and every bard and their mother have at least a couple of songs about how they kick the rich people’s arses around.” He grimaced. “The songs mostly suck, but people love them all the same.”

“Indeed.” Gorren agreed. Rich and poor. That dynamics would never go out of style, no matter the age.

Tad nodded and stepped back, making a very poor job to hide his relief. Gorren ignored it.

Sela picked up where he had left off. “Finding different opinions has been difficult,” the tall girl said with a professional tone. “We had to dig much. Still, eventually, we found a couple of people that had less pleasant things to say about the Arrows, and they were invariably kept in contempt for it. It was difficult to coax them to talk but eventually they told us more or less the same story: they were making their way out of the town when they were assaulted and robbed. One suffered a broken leg, the other lost his wife. They were sure that their assailants were the Arrows. Apparently, they don’t mask their identities and they are easily identifiable from the arrow-shaped badges they carry.”

Gorren mused over those pieces of information. “Were these two from the town?”

“No, Master.” Sela shook her head. “They were both rich merchant travelers only passing by. They remained only because the robberies deprived them of the means to leave.”

“So their losses didn’t impact the town’s economy.”

“No, Master.”

“There were others like them?”

“Yes, but none has been hit as badly. They long moved on.”

“What about the Arrows’ other targets?”

“They’re always rich merchants or nobles of this territory. They seem to be especially fond of attacking tax collectors. They usually don‘t leave any dead.”

Gorren hummed. So the Arrows attacked violently only non-locals and only those that had already concluded their business with the area. If they attacked locals, it was those that could endear them to the larger population. To keep their facade with the local poor, obviously. Enjoying a high level of reputation with them would open many avenues, first of all, protection and information. Still, that level of thought and control was too much for simple brigands and implied some connection that allowed them to screen their targets. It was likely that Joseph was right in his assumptions: they were being controlled for some play by someone else.

I wonder…

“What do we know about their area of action?” He asked. As useful as those pieces of information were, it was all things he already knew.

Sela stepped back, nodding to Fret. The bubbly girl all but jumped to point at the map.

“Here!” She chirped. “All the assaults from the Arrows happened more or less in this area!” She circled with her finger a wide area between the town and the villages, where the Bronze Road snaked its way through a forest.

“Too close to the town,” Gorren said with displeasure. “I won’t be able to use my magic.”

He had been only half-surprised to find a similar barrier to the one in Blackstone emitting from the house of the mayor’s town. With that in place, it was too dangerous for him to attempt spellcasting.

Do these bandits know about it? Do they attack in that area on purpose? It was an interesting line of thought, but secondary for now.

The Gremlins accepted their Master’s limitation with grim stoicism. For them, it only meant that they would have to make up for it with attention, enthusiasm and ability. In a way, it was a point of pride to be entrusted with his safety.

Gorren wasn’t nearly as pleased about it. For a moment, he entertained the idea of keeping his exact limitations to himself, but then he discarded the thought. He needed to trust his servants if stupid mistakes were to be avoided.

“I’ll be able to transmute myself,” he said. “But only into human-sized forms at a maximum. More and the detection field will be able to trace me. Healing won’t be a problem, and I guess I could make some minor cantrips, but I would avoid it if possible. I still don‘t know the exact limitations of this type of field.”

The Gremlins dutifully registered.

Gorren nodded, then threw an annoyed glance toward Fret, that was bouncing on her feet, painfully eager to let out the rest of her speech.

At his nod, she started back with enthusiasm.

“So, we scouted the road and there are a lot of good places for an ambush, especially here where it passes through the forest.” She pointed on the map. “The only problem is,” the girl hesitated, making a pained grimace. “We don’t know when and where they could strike. The forest is dummy dense. They could set up anywhere!”

Gorren took a moment to admire the sheer idiocy of that “dummy dense”. Done that, he cut the air with a sharp gesture.

“Let me be the one to think about that,” he declared. “Anything else?”

Fret blinked. “Oh! Yes! Yes!” she said hurriedly. “Actually…” She paused, throwing a hesitant glance around.

“Well? Spit it out, girl!”

The girl jumped. “It’s just,” she said with a grimace. “While we scouted, we found… like, a lot of Dire wolves?”

Gorren planted a withering stare on the girl, making her eep a bit. “Dire wolves?”

Fret gesticulated in panic. Thankfully for her, Sela stepped in.

“The area seems to be infested, Master,” the tall girl said. “We couldn’t delve much in the forest without having at least a wolf observe us. We… we didn’t dare to explore further, lest we attract further attention.” She bowed, looking ashamed.

Gorren thought about it. That new development put a new whole level of difficulty.

“That’s why this band has been so difficult to eradicate? Are they protected by Dires?”

“So it seems, Master. The guards we talked to attest to it.”

“Still, the wolves don’t attack them…” Dire Wolves were notoriously territorial, unafraid of attacking men that delved in their territory, even strong, armed groups. Brigands, as much as well-equipped they could be, should know better than settle in a pack’s land. Except if they could somehow control them. There were a number of ways to do it, ranging from the alchemical to the magical. Simple taming was out of discussions. Dires weren’t tameable following the mundane route. Very interesting.

“We’ll take care of it,” he said grimly.

The Gremlins nodded resolutely. They had full confidence in their Master.

“Is this all?”

To Gorren’s annoyance - he was eager to get to work - Tur advanced to meet the question.

The old mage noted the very uncharacteristic shyness surrounding his military chief. Curious despite himself, he gestured for him to go on.

“So, ehm, Master, this is probably not relevant, but,” the Gremlin passed a hand over his head, at unease. “We’ve been kinda wondering.” He underlined the “we” by looking around for support. Nods and awkward glances answered. “What’s up with these humans being happy that some poor sods ended up being robbed? Like, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but… we get why someone may decide to rob someone else. Money and stuff, alright. But why being happy if someone you never knew ended up with his ass on the ground? It’s so… well, we don’t get it.”

Gorren arched an eyebrow at that awkward, wonky explanation.

Turning his gaze around, he saw the same confused expression of Tur painted over all the Gremlins’ faces. Has this happenstance affected them? How peculiar. But it made sense. As much as they had been humanized, his servants remained not-human and still trying to adapt to the mindsets ruling over human society. With their background made of united service and tight-knit brotherhood, it wasn’t so strange that seeing humans taking joy from others’ ruin had managed to get under their skin.

Gorren entertained the idea of just let them sort it out of themselves but was quick to discard it. Better not let such confusion go unanswered.

“It’s not a simple thing,” he began. Turning, he addressed the entire group. “Imagine that you are a woodcutter. You work from dawn to twilight, you break your back, you risk injury, every day, always; and you make barely enough to feed yourself and your family. On the other hand, there’s this rich merchant, this rich noble. What does he do? He sits, writes something, hawks his wares, rides rich horses. He does nothing compared to you, and he still makes hundreds of times more. And that’s only the beginning. If he’s injured, medics run to his bedside; if he ends up in court, he always gets treated better by the judge; if that happens to you, the best you can hope it’s not to end up completely ruined or lame for life. He goes to great parties, all you can afford is the tavern and its watered wine. He gets to wear fine clothes, yours are just rags. Is that right? No, not of a long shot. Worse of all, these people that do nothing even get to run things; they send their lackeys to take what little, hard-earned coin you make, and even get angry when you complain! Like it was right!” Gorren turned his gaze around his audience. Nobody talked. “Now, imagine that there are others like you, others that work, others that don’t get nearly as much as they deserved and still get the short stick about everything, while these others do nothing and get everything. You have a group. An “us” and a “them”. Still, what can you do? Nothing, really. The world turns that way, and it’s not like you can change it. If you try, at the best you get a flogging, at worst its the noose.” He held up a finger. “Now, imagine that, amidst all this frustrated powerlessness, some arrive. They attack only the rich, they don’t kill, they share what they take. What are they? Mh? What? I tell you what. Heroes! That’s what they are! While everybody is too scared, they act! They right injustice and put the world back where it’s supposed to be! And that makes them heroes! True heroes! But there’s more…” Gorren narrowed his eyes. “They are of “us”, part of our group, of us that suffer this injustice. And they attack and take back, they do what we all wish to do, but for a reason or the other, we don’t. That makes them our voice, the way through which our aspirations become reality. They become our expression, you see. When we listen to their adventures, when we cheer for them, we do more than just take back what is ours; through them we strike back at the oppressors. Through them, we get our revenge and justice and live another, better life.”

Gorren ended his speech with a frown. A deep, thoughtful silence had fallen over the Gremlins.

“Ehm, Master?” Fret raised a hand timidly. “But then, aren’t these bandits doing, like, good?”

Gorren gestured sharply. “No,” he said. “For these very simple reasons: their aims aren’t to help the poor, but to manipulate them. This makes them liars and cheats. Secondly, only because a woodcutter doesn’t appreciate a merchant or a noble, it doesn’t mean that they are useless. In fact, they are needed just as much as he, their roles are just different. Thirdly, change over injustice is not something that can be brought forward by such a simple thing as highway robbery. Or at least, not only by that. It needs more, more people, more effort, more will, focus and, more importantly, direction. This is just flailing blindly. Lastly, this isn’t something you should concern yourself with, do you now?”

A wince passed through the audience. The Gremlins nodded quickly.

Gorren smiled. He appreciated the intellectual problem and appreciated that it had been brought up by his minions. Still, that was enough time spent on it.

“Go now. Make preparations for our leave. I’ll give you instructions soon.”

There was a general “yessir”, and the Gremlins dispersed.

Gorren folded his arms before his chest, watching them go. Look at them; how far have they have come from simple, stupid goblins. Ah, his tools were maturing nicely. He was almost getting fond of them. He wouldn’t waste them. Still, he wouldn’t hesitate to use them up either. It was the reason he had gifted them with transmutation after all.

Like a shadow, Dara emerged at his side. “You are wise in the ways of the human, Master.” The priestess wore a kind smile.

Gorren snorted. “Too much. Think about your beasts,” he ordered. “We’ll be moving soon.”

The priestess bowed, and retreated, leaving him alone.

Gorren didn’t bother to watch her go. A mental note to be more careful around her was enough. Instead, he thought about what he had said to his servants. Indeed, highway robbery wasn’t but a piece of a puzzle. The problem was to see what the puzzle pictured. What was the Crow’s endgame? What did he mean to accomplish with this?

Mph, we’ll see it soon.