Bloody hell, this is a scary bastard. I’ve never had a problem with heights, must be something about being bakaneko, even if it’s bollocks that we always land on our feet we’re really good when it comes to sudden drops, but just being close to this impossible emptiness is proper messing with me. If one of us loses it over the side of this it’s over, no chance of rescue and a certain death from drowning or, more likely, getting pummelled to splinters by haphazard rocks under the water. It’s enough to make a cat hang onto whatever grip they can find with all their claws.

It doesn’t help that this road, such as it is, is perilously narrow. It’s just about comfortable enough being on horseback, although my filly is sticking uncomfortably close to the wall on my right and I can’t blame her in the slightest right now, truth be told I’m somewhat thankful for her fear in this instance. Even Kesla’s taking it careful, and while Ulrich’s a much braver sort than my own mount he’s still a good deal more skittish right now. It’s Gael and Wenrich on the cart behind us I’m scared for, there’s barely enough room on this ledge for them.

Chancing a look back over my shoulder now, hoping my horse doesn’t freak out while I’m not looking and pitch us right into the void, I see they’re about as uncomfortable as they could possibly be right now. Wenrich is sitting up very straight on the bench right now, shoulders raised right up to his ears clearly advertising his displeasure, while his clenched teeth flash between peeled back lips, eyes narrowed to fuming slits as he resolutely concentrates on the road. Gael isn’t even looking now, she’s just sat stock still, gripping her staff in front of her with knuckles whiter than I’ve ever seen, eyes tight shut while it seems like she’s muttering to herself, her face almost as pale as her knuckles. Even the carthorses look unhappy, a little frothy at the mouth and their eyes wide as they doggedly plod along the path, probably moving on pure instinct at the moment. After a moment I chance a look at their wheels and I genuinely have an involuntary reaction, a sharp intake of breath as a I see that there isn’t even an inch of clear ground between them and grinding off into the empty.

Wincing, I turn back to the road ahead, and my horse grunts in a manner I could almost describe as grateful, as if acknowledging I’m finally paying attention again. I resist the urge to give her neck a little pat, envisioning her freaking right out and rearing in shock, pitching us both over the side trying to escape whatever she perceives is attacking her. Instead I simply shush her gently and leave her be.

The Hungrenn Gap is a truly terrifying place, really. The two towering cliff-faces close in tight around us, and even looking up gives me enough dizzy vertigo I did it once early on and now flat refuse to try it again in case it kills me. I’ve stopped looking down for similar but far more intimidating reasons, so as we ride all I can do is look ahead instead. So far the mist has made it hard to make much out, but as we get close to the bridge the uneven spray starts thinning enough for a proper look.

From a distance the bridge looked like a pathetically inadequate, spindly, fragile thing, but once I get proper eyes on it I can see it’s actually more well-constructed than I would’ve first guessed. It’s another beautiful example of dwarven architecture, hardened metal reinforcing stone that’s probably stood here for centuries, and is likely to be here a millennium or more after we’re all dead. The arches beneath are far more robust that they seemed from afar, actually somewhat overbuilt and therefore much more reassuring to look at, even if the whole thing is so massively long that the central stretch still looks uncomfortably thin. A criss-crossed latticework of heavy metal beams encases the entire construction, and this must surely add great strength to the whole thing. The truth is the closer we get the more impressive it becomes.

As we approach a second structure becomes clear beyond it, maybe twenty feet past, built less on the ledge itself than right onto the wall like some kind of tumorous growth in the slick pale grey stone of the cliff. Some kind of large shack, a haphazard mess of a building that serves no purpose that I can discern. There are platforms jutting out of it on at least three different levels, just hanging out over the gaping emptiness, and they’re deeply uncomfortable to look at. What sane person would actually stand out on one of those things?

Looking closer, least as much as I can through the unreliable vapour, I see an entrance in the wall closest to us, and as I squint I can see there’s a covered lamp burning above it. In the middle of the day, with the sun still casting enough light that we can make our way with ease. That’s an odd little detail.

“Boss!” I wince the moment the word’s out of my mouth, not realising I was going to speak until I did it, but thankfully she doesn’t jump hearing it, thus resisting Ulrich killing them both. Instead she simply reins him up, and thank the gods he has the sense to just stop when she does it, then looks back over her shoulder at me. The look on her face is almost as discomfiting as if she was proper furious at me, ‘cause she’s just so calm, almost smiling back at me instead.

“Art of Shadows, whatever possessed you to shout at me like that? You wanna kill me?”

Scowling, I rein the filly up gentle as I can, and she seems to have enough sense in her to react the same as Ulrich, although when she stops she’s clearly shaking. This time I give her neck a careful stroke anyway, hoping it’s enough to reassure her. “Not my intention, boss, just thought I’d point out a funny little something. That look at all suspicious to you?”

Kelsa frowns as she turns back as I point at the lamp, and for a moment there’s no further reaction. Then comes that little head-tilt I know so well, and I know she gets it. She watches for several more moments, likely evaluating, then finally turns back. “That’s interesting, sure. Could be a sign, could mean nothing at all. What’s your take?”

“I don’t like it.” I realise I’m checking over the blades tucked to my sides, at my hips, strapped to my thighs, the small of my back. Don’t need to check the ones between my shoulder-blades, that old reassuring pressure’s enough to confirm their security for me.

“Yeah, same here.” Kesla looks past me for a moment, then glances down, which boggles me to watch. Then she turns back for another look before offering me a sidelong glance. “Just keep your eyes peeled, yeah? Just in case.”

“Sure thing, boss.” I give the sword at my side a gentle adjustment, more for reassurance of its weight and familiarity than anything else, then spur the filly on at the same time that Kesla sets Ulrich moving again. I’m scanning our surroundings now, and somehow having a purpose in mind makes the vertigo ease off some, or maybe that’s just me reading too much into it.

The next few minutes pass quietly, our progress still slow and hairy but now feeling more purposeful, and I continue my vigil as we go. We’re almost to the bridge now, close enough I’ve started scanning its length too with greater purpose, and now that I’m looking it seems to have as many potential blind spots as the cliffs above us or that incongruous building. I can feel that old watchful niggle now, the cold prickle along my back, the itching in my paws that has me constantly flexing them, ready if they’re needed. I’m not picking up on anything specific, it’s just the general possibility. I’m hoping that’s all it is, but that inexplicable light is still bugging me.

“Shit!” I hear Wenrich shout out behind me, and I pull the reins up a little more savagely than intended, my filly startling a little. My head snaps round in time to see him wrestling with the reins while the draft-horses start struggling, scrabbling some on the slick, scree-covered path for purchase, while the cart starts to slide. The left wheel in back has left the track and it’s hovering in empty space, nothing supporting it now, and with a slow, inexorable grind the whole thing’s starting to go over, dragging the horse team with it. They’re starting to go nuts.

Gael’s not even waiting for it to tip, I can see them scrabbling across the bench to try to get off, already shoving past Wenrich in their efforts. No, that’s not what they’re doing, they should be heading sideways, straight for the relative security of the wall on their right, but instead they’re climbing into the back … oh, of course. The prisoner. I can already hear him screaming through his gag, no doubt reading the situation as clearly as the rest of us and mightily indignant about being trussed up and helpless to save himself right now. Can’t say I blame him. But Gael, gods bless them, they’re not thinking of themselves now.

I’m all set to jump down off the back of my horse, already preparing my spring and the subsequent run and leap onto the backs of the terrified horses, determined to help even if it just means grabbing Gael and dragging them off before the whole mess goes over the side. Then the great hulking mass of Driver 8 shoulders his way up the ledge past everyone else and reaches out one massive hand to grab the tailgate, arresting the cart’s progress in an instant. There’s a great creaking and grinding as he lifts, and for several tense moments I expect the boards to shatter in his hand while the whole thing goes anyway, but instead it holds and he’s able to right it again, settled firmly on the track again, precarious as it is.

For several moments nobody does anything, even Big Man himself is hanging on for what feels like grim death, as though making sure it’s not gonna happen again. Then Wenrich lets out a great deep sigh as the tension leaks out of him and that seems to break the tension, Gael visibly slumping where they’re stood and almost dropping on the spot, but thankfully they stop themselves in time and straighten up again. Then they remember themselves and continue the task at hand, and after they’ve reached down I hear a spitting sound followed by a string of particularly blue curses.

“You fucking idiots! What the fuck is this, you think this is a game? I coulda been killed back ‘ere! I can’t fucking move! What am I s’posed to do, roll over the side?”

I suspect Gael might be considering putting the gag back, but instead they’re already heading back to the bench, a little unsteady on their feet now. They grab their staff and, instead of sitting back down, move to the side of the cart closest to the wall, and now I can tell they’re doing what I thought they were before. They take a moment to adjust their pack and satchels, finally the sword strapped to their belt, and jump down without ceremony, immediately pushing through past the horses as they pant and snort and generally come down from the frothing terror they’ve just been through.

“How’s it going back there?” Kesla calls out now, out of the saddle now but holding Ulrich’s reins as she glances back. “Everything okay?”

“Cart near went over, but Big Man’s got it now.” I respond, looking back to Gael as they emerge and start to walk my way, a bit steadier on their feet now but still looking pretty rattled. “You got it, don’t you Big Man?”

“I have it, yes. I will remain where I am to make sure this does not happen again.”

“Okay.” Kesla’s frowning deeply, clearly troubled by what almost happened, and she hesitates before swinging back up into the saddle.

I watch Gael making their way towards me, finally turning my filly enough that I don’t have to keep craning round. “You all right?”

“I’m not getting back on that thing. I’d rather walk.” Their voice is low, somewhat haunted now, and I wince hearing it. They’re keeping their eyes firmly set on the ground in front.

“You wanna jump up here with me then?”

They stop in their tracks and look up at me, surprised, then thoughtful. A very complex selection of very subtle emotions seems to cross their face before they finally let go a slow sigh. “No, I’d better not. I’m going to walk. Thank you though.”

“Right.” I don’t even think about it, I simply drop down out of my own saddle and hold my hand out to them, which brings them to a stop again. “C’mon then.”

Gael looks at my hand for several moments, thoughtful and troubled all at once. Finally a subtle smile touches their lips, then they sigh again, finally stepping up as they transfer their staff to their left hand to give me their right. I keep my grip gentle and reassuring as I begin to lead both them and my horse along the track again, keeping far to the right as I can.

Up ahead Kesla watches us for a few moments, frowning, before simply rolling her eyes and turning Ulrich back and spurring him on again. Then I hear the crack of reins behind and the sound of hooves and grinding wheels again underscoring that constant, oppressive, almost physical roar of water from below.

“I really don’t like this place.” Gael mutters eventually.

“I’m with you there.”

“You think that bridge is safe?”

“Looks good enough to me.” I shrug. “It’s all we got, so we’re using it. Look at it this way, we might be able to stop ‘em here.”

“How? They’ll just follow us right over it. At best this place buys us a few hours.”

“Ah, but you forget, we got us a double-threat. Big Man’s super strong, and you got your magic. That bridge won’t stand a chance.”

They look at me with wide eyes but don’t stop walking. “What … are you seriously asking us to tear the bridge down? That was built here for a reason, people need this to survive. We can’t just destroy it.”

“Hey, it’s either that or they can just follow us like you said. We do this here, it slows ‘em down a lot. Could make the difference.”

Gael frowns, looking ahead now, and I reckon they’re staring right into the back of Kesla’s head now. “So that’s what she meant.” They give a bitter sigh. “I don’t like this, not one bit. It’s not the kind of shenanigans I signed up for when I joined you. It’s wanton vandalism.”

“No, it’s survival. We’re doing what we gotta do. Look at it this way, we do this now, it helps us finish our job. Then the Order owes us big time. Be pretty easy for ‘em to commission a new replacement bridge, right?”

This time they cock a more thoughtful brow and look at me for a few moments. Finally they give a half smile. “You crafty bastard, that was actually convincing.”

“Hey, I have my moments. Kesla reckons I got a silver tongue.”

“She’s right, you do.” We continue in silence for a minute or two, then they look down at our hands, still laced together. They frown again, but it’s softer, doesn’t last long. A little sigh and the smile returns. “Thank you.”

“Any time.”

“Art, heads up.” Kesla calls from ahead, and it snaps my attention back to the road. We’ve pretty much arrived now, and now we’re at the bridge the air is clear enough I can get a proper look at the building. It’s a ramshackle mess all right, but there seems to be a purpose to it after all. There’s a lot of windows all over it, all of them facing the track and the bridge itself, and now the platforms make more sense too. Some kind of guardhouse. There’s no barrier across the bridge itself, so I doubt there’s an actual toll, but it makes sense they’d want to put some kind of guard on this crossing all the same, given how wild and dangerous these climes are.

“Hello!” Kesla reins Ulrich in just short of the bridge itself, watching the shack close as I am.

Nothing happens. After a moment Gael slides her fingers free, taking a few steps away from me so they can flank Kesla, transferring their staff back to their right and gripping it with purpose now. I guide my filly to the right, stopping her by the wall and giving her a reassuring stroke to calm her and winding the reins round the horn of my saddle before leaving her to join the others.

Kesla’s watching the shack with some real intensity now, and after a moment I give the air a little sniff, looking for anything I might’ve missed coming in. Nothing. All I can smell is water, that damn vapour’s wetting everything down too much. There could be orcs everywhere and I’d never know.

“Art?” Kesla never takes her eyes off the door.

“I got it, boss.” I put my hand to the hilt of my sword, but then decide against it. If I’m going inside I might want something better suited to cramped confines, just in case. I reach into the small of my back and slide one of my daggers free instead.

Gael breaks away from Kesla, moving to my side. “I’ll go with you.”

For a moment Kesla looks set to argue, but she stops herself. “Be careful. I don’t like this.”

“Me neither.” I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders a little, my head on my neck, limber up some. Just in case. Then I give Gael a look, and they return their own more complex one. “Just follow my lead, okay?”

“Sure.” It doesn’t sound all that convincing.

Yeah … let that be, Art. They’re just nervous. After that scare reckon they’re entitled to be a little twitchy, but I seen ‘em in action, I know what they can do. It comes to it, they’ll do fine like always. I go to the shack now, approaching the entrance with a seeming casualness I sure don’t feel right now.

I see the door’s ajar before I even reach it, just a half-inch crack but it’s enough to make me stop short, holding my free paw out to stop Gael in their tracks too. I start moving again but it’s slower, careful as mice now, knife hand reaching out now to push the door open the rest of the way. There’s a little creak from the hinges, but less than I expected given all this moisture. They must keep it all oiled.

Despite the lantern, it’s relatively gloomy inside, but my eyes see everything all the same, and I know Gael’s got the same benefit. It might look like a moss-covered, damp-riddled, half-rotten mess from the outside, but inside it’s surprisingly cosy, the wood dark and well-maintained, a couple of threadbare rugs on the panel floor that have seen inconsiderate, muddy feet and better days. The first room is little more than a reception, dominated by a tall wooden desk that’s battered but looked-after, and behind it there’s a glass-fronted case containing spears, bows, arrows and a few relatively cheap but decent swords. There’s the smell of damp in the air, and the whole place is generally musty, but nowhere near as bad as I would’ve expected. There is something else in the air, though. Something very familiar.

“What is it?” Gael barely breathes, subtler than a whisper, but I know they trust my keen ears to pick it up all the same. They must’ve noticed me tense up when I caught that scent.

“Blood.” I carefully adjust the grip on my knife, starting to move to the open door directly past the desk. “I smell blood.”

“Shit.” they hiss, falling into step behind me.

The door’s already open wide so I can also see into the room before we enter, but I’m cautious all the same, watching the open space to the left and shooting a quick glance through to make sure there’s nothing waiting to ambush me. All clear. The rest of this floor seems to be made up of a combination of bar and mess hall, two long tables with eight chairs each taking up much of the space while there’s a long partition in the back wall, what looks like an extremely rudimentary kitchen beyond it. There are six places set at the table while the rest are empty, and plates and bowls out containing what seems to be breakfast of simple ham and eggs and bread that seem to be in various states of consumption. Two of the chairs at these places are turned over, the rest shoved away from the table. Clearly they all got up in a hurry, and from the smell of the food it was recently.

“Well that’s not a good sign, is it?” Gael mutters, somewhat deadpan now.

“Something of an understatement there, my dear.” I breathe in response, stepping up to the foot of a cast-iron spiral staircase leading up through the ceiling into the levels above. I look up into relative darkness, and see nothing in it. Lots of conflicting smells waft down to me, but nothing definitive. I pull away, turn back to the kitchen. The smell of blood’s much stronger here, reckon it’s coming from the half-open doorway in the wall beyond, which looks like it’s cut into the solid rock of the cliff-face. Interesting.

“Wait here.” I point to the stairs. “Watch ‘em.”

Gael doesn’t answer, simply nodding. I take a deep breath and step into the kitchen, looking inside quickly and finding nothing but the remnants one would expect from the preparation of a substantial meal. The smell’s stronger here, and as I follow it I realise it’s as much underfoot as ahead, and once I really look at the floor, dark wood as it is, I can just see streaks of blood on the boards. Like something very messy was dragged through here. No, not like. That’s exactly what this is.

I don’t bother trying to skirt the blood, there’s clearly too much of it here. Something pretty nasty happened in here. Stepping through, I reach under my cloak and slide the corresponding dagger free from the small of my back, more for insurance than with any real anticipation, and push the door the rest of the way open. I don’t go through. I wait.

Nothing happens. Moving very slowly, I advance, once again giving a quick, covering peek within and finding a large, cavernous space beyond, hewn from the very rock of the cliff. It’s cold in here, which I guess is the idea since this is essentially a storeroom, the space crammed with stacked boxes and crates and racks with hanging joints of meat. And lots of places to hide. The smell’s so strong in here that the scent of blood in my nose is starting to do things to me, deep down. Curse of the bakaneko, being too much like a true cat. The predator in me’s starting to wake up.

Ignoring the rumble in my stomach that’s now starting to make its presence felt, I sidestep away from the door, backing up enough that I can look past it without fully exposing myself to anyone who might be behind it. Nobody there. Okay. I sniff again but the blood’s so strong now that everything else seems to be overpowered, and now I think about it that just might have been intentional. Taking another breath, I start to move into the room proper.

The bodies are beyond the first big stack of crates, and from the look of it they didn’t even try to make an effort to hide anything. Six bodies, clearly the poor bastards who manned this guardhouse, cut down in the middle of their meal and dragged in here to make the barest minimum of effort to hide them. No, not really hide them, just make sure they weren’t spotted right away. Ah …

The swing comes so fast I barely catch it in time, ducking into a roll just in time for the heavy broadsword to smash into the crates beside me with a great crash and a rain of splinters. The whole stack above it gives a great shake, but I’m concentrating on the moment as I reach my feet again, spinning on the balls before I’ve even stopped moving. The first attacker, a particularly big, heavy brute of an orc with two rows of spiked black hair lining either side of a shaven crown and a long, braided chin goatee, is stuck now, grunting furiously as he attempts to free his long, jagged blade from the broken crates. Two more are coming in fast around him though, and they’re both heavily armed. Okay, this ain’t quite how I wanted to go about this … so I do the first thing that comes to mind, I throw the daggers.

The human with the twin handaxes takes the first blade full in the chest and lets out a winded gasp as his legs turn to jelly under him, dropping to his knees and folding with a wheezy groan. The female half-orc behind him’s already raising her big double-headed battleaxe, summoning a war cry that chokes off with a squeak before it’s fully formed as the second blade catches her in the face, and she’s dead before she even drops. I scramble back a few steps as I draw my sword, already reaching for my long knife as the orc finally drags his sword loose and turns to me with fire in his eyes.

In time for half the crates to drop on him with a great creak and shatter in a violent explosion of splintering wood. I jump back, almost stumbling in my landing as I come down on the piled bodies, but catch myself at the last and simply watch as my would-be opponent is buried, along with his friends. I wait for a few beats, but nothing moves amongst the fresh carnage, and finally I’m able to let out the breath I realise I’ve been holding. Okay … damn it, I got no time to dig through that mess looking for my knives. Maybe when this is over, I might have an opportunity. But right now … shit.

“Gael!” I shout out, already winding up my spring so I can leap clear over this mess instead of spearing my feet trying to cross. The landing’s a little clumsy but I shrug it off, already moving again.

They don’t answer me, but I can hear the sounds of a struggle outside, the clatter and ring of steel. Yeah, that doesn’t sound good at all. “Gael, I’m coming!”

I reach the doorway just as someone backs up to it, and I draw back my lunge on instinct. Thankfully I’m not about to stab Gael, instead seeing a particularly shaggy-haired human woman in tatty leathers and piecemeal scraps of plate armour over equally patchy mail, stumbling back with sword and axe in hand. I don’t even think about it, I drop into a practiced posture and execute what my teacher would’ve called a textbook lunge. The blade’s strong and sharp enough I could puncture clean through mail if I wanted to, but I aim under the arm all the same, and skewer her clean through the heart without meeting any real resistance. A gasp and she’s dropping before I’ve even withdrawn.

Jumping over the slumping body, I re-enter the kitchen and finally witness the scene unfolding in the mess hall beyond. Gael seems to have abandoned their staff, which is lying discarded on one of the tables amongst the scattered, spilt remains of one of some of the breakfasts, and has drawn their sword, holding it out before them with something approaching ferocity despite the situation. As I approach one of their attackers stumbles back clasping their forearm, and as I look I can see it’s hanging loose below the wrist by nothing but a minimal scrap of skin and sinew. The human, not much more than a boy really, is already turning white as he vainly tries to staunch the arterial flow of his life from that ruined stump, and looks like he’s about to drop from shock right there. Yeesh, Gael, but also nice one.

That said, they’re still pretty outnumbered. For the walking corpse and another one who’s already sprawled facedown across the other table in someone else’s breakfast, there are four more who are working them back towards the big set of diamond-paned picture windows set in the wall of the chamber. Looking to back them into a corner so they can overwhelm them. Even so, as I approach, I see one of them go for Gael and they respond beautifully, one of Kesla’s hard-taught lessons seeming to click right into place as she deftly turns a particularly fast and savage sword thrust away harmlessly. The follow-through would make their mentor proud too as Gael side-steps him as his momentum gets the best of him and they respond with a backhanded slash across the man’s throat that frees a substantial gush of blood.

Wow, Gael. You’d make Thorin himself proud with that one. I doubt they’re really thinking about it, clearly taking one of last night’s core spoken lessons to heart – you get into the thick of a fight, stop thinking so hard and just react. Trust your body to know what to do and muscle memory should do the rest for you. You can’t fight tactically if you’re second-guessing every single stroke of your sword.

Even so, they’re not quite there yet. Their footwork’s still sloppy, they still aren’t raising their sword quite high or fast enough, and as I watch I can see they’re starting to tire, although I suspect that’s more due to lingering fatigue. As the remaining three hang back I can tell they’re evaluating the situation, and they’re coming to the conclusion that they can still overwhelm this relative novice by fighting smart. Reckon they’ll rush ‘em, all at once. That won’t end well for my friend.

Of course, by this point I’m already in the fight. The first one’s already alert to me, a more lanky, sinewy male orc than I’ve encountered in the past who has the look and stance of a true swordfighter rather than a typical raider, decked out in lightweight leather and mail. His face is heavily scarred and his longsword is broad but nowhere near as heavy or workmanlike as most orc blades, also speaking to a certain philosophy of speed over strength. As he turns to me he’s already affecting a ready stance, two-handed grip on the sword and ready as I plant my feet in my own responsive posture. Need to finish this fast, but looking at him I don’t know if it’s in the cards.

There’s nowhere near as much fire in this one’s eyes, a cooler, more calculating control than I tend to encounter in orc-kind, but as he takes a slow, subtle sidestep across my path there’s still the subtlest ticking of a smile to his lips. He loves a fight as much as the next orc, then, but I won’t catch this one coming up short due to rage or battle-hunger. I take a deep breath to prepare, focusing on his eyes as I wait for his move.

Some teachers tell you that in a fight you should watch your opponent’s shoulders, look out for the slight giveaway before the punch or stroke or thrust, but my best said that if you can read your opponent’s eyes you’ll learn catch them faster. People don’t like to strike blind, they want to be sure they’re going to hit what they’re aiming for, so at the last moment they’re far more likely to look that way. So when his gaze shifts, ever so slightly, right before he moves I’m already reacting.

It’s a great thrust, a thing of beauty, and if I’d been less well-trained I’d be a corpse in an instant. Instead I sidestep the lunge and wheel about, aiming my own respondent thrust at his midsection that he nonetheless mostly manages to dodge all the same. My blade catches the outside of the leather plate at his waist and, while it cuts deep I don’t quite catch the meat. He recovers fast and is already turning on me as I respond, and I’m barely able to parry the second sweep in time, catching and turning the blade with a deft twist from my own longsword. He dances back, still smiling that inscrutable smile, and I decide I really hate this opponent.

As we wheel around I barely catch movement behind him, realising I’m now facing the back of the room again and, in particular, that spiral staircase, so I see another bunch of would-be raiders spilling down it into the room with us. One’s a hobgoblin, but not the same one from last night, this one’s a very different sort. To my eye he’s smaller, although you’d never know it to look at him, decked out in a motley but nonetheless effective-looking suit of full plate that looks like he’s scrounged it from a variety of sources and patched it all together himself. He’s scarred as hell, almost painful to look at, and while he’s squinting some he seems comfortable enough in the relative gloom of the room without those smoked lenses I tend to see hobs wearing during the day. He’s also carrying a very big broadsword.

Looks like this is the one in charge here. He quietly barks orders to his men as they arrive, and while three more of them stay here most of them surge past their boss, heading through into the reception and the world outside. Going to ambush our friends …

The orc attacks again before I can do anything about it, silent and controlled as he drives a trio of savage fast cuts towards me, not intended to make contact but simply drive me back as I react to them. I grit my teeth and do as I’m bid, but respond on the back of the third stroke by springing forward as he extends and surging in round his side, sword raised high so I can strike down into his throat. He catches the move just in time and drops into a roll, but I’m already reacting to it, rushing him as he comes back up, and for the first time I see a little more emotion cross his face – surprise. He brings the sword up but I smash it down and follow through, jumping up to smash the pommel of my sword into his mouth with all my strength and momentum. He doesn’t react quickly enough to that.

Orcs are built for war, they’re seriously tough bastards, and nothing in their body is tougher than their skull. Their jaw’s like an anvil, if you’re gonna punch them you better be ready to break your hand in the process. It’s still bone, though, and the pommel of my sword is a solid chunk of tempered steel. It meets the corner of his mouth with a satisfactory crack.

It doesn’t shatter his jaw like I would’ve hoped, but it clearly hurts him, and he wheels back, unsteady now, swinging wildly while blood pours from his mouth, and as he doubles over he spits out several broken teeth. Okay … that could just be enough to make him angry, but I’m not gonna wait and see. I’m already rushing him again, and as he blinks tears from his eyes he’s not able to focus quite fast enough to react. I don’t bother with finesse, don’t try any of my light jab-jab-jab, like Kesla occasionally laments about. I wind up hard, drop into the most perfect posture I can, and aim true.

His leather breastplate’s well-made and might have adequate offered resistance before, but I know what I’m doing here, so while there’s a some resistance my point still punches through, sliding clean through his heart before passing right on out his back again. He gasps and goes stiff, face tightening as his eyes lock on mine, and finally that damned smile disappears. The sword slips from his numb fingers and clatters to the floor as his legs start to give out, and I give the sword the best tug I can to free it before he can drag me down with him.

While I’m turning I realise the hobgoblin’s gone, but the bandits he left behind are already acting, two rushing past me for Gael while the last one’s facing off on me. An older human, head shorn smooth save for a long goatee, big and heavy but with the easy, rolling gait of a true, seasoned fighter, and he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, sword and axe held low but ready. I don’t have time for this, so I don’t even wait for him.

He reacts fast enough to respond to my stroke, parrying the sword thrust, but I’m already feinting around it, bringing up the knife in my left as I lunge in close on his side. I aim high and ram all twelve inches of the blade through his ear and he goes stiff in an instant. For a moment my knife’s all that’s holding him up, but when I drag it from his skull he drops like a sack of potatoes.

“Art! A little help, please?!”

I’m already turning, finding Gael’s finally dispatched the last of the original attackers but is now being hounded by the two remaining newcomers. As they’re pressed back into the corner and start swinging their sword in wild desperation I stop thinking about what I’m gonna do and just start charge.

Jumping up on one of the tables, I throw myself forward at the last and barrel right into one of them, a female orc who doesn’t even realise I’m there until we collide. The impact largely arrests my own progress but knocks her badly off balance, and as she stumbles there’s nothing to break her fall but the window. Glass and lead are no match for a few hundred pounds of orc-meat, and with a great crash she smashes clean through the window. Somehow my aim was good and instead of spilling her out onto the platform beyond there’s nothing beyond these panes but empty space, and once she hits open air she must realise she’s fucked ‘cause she starts howling as she drops like a stone.

I crash through glass too, but thanks to the impact I bounced off the right way, so as I roll onto my back I find myself spread out on the wet boards of the observation platform. What’s left of the shattered door’s hanging by a single hinge as I turn back to it, checking myself over for a moment to find I’m completely unharmed. Okay …

Looking back through the broken windows I see Gael pressed back into the wall, barely blocking furious sword cuts and clenching their teeth, eyes wide with terror. Thanking the gods I’m still holding my weapons I duck straight back in through the ruined doorway.

Another orc. No wonder they’re under such duress, those blows are brutal. After Gael clumsily knocks back another swing and winces, clearly struck by the vibrations, their attacker draws round on the backswing and prepares to chop down while their own sword’s out of the way. I don’t give them the chance, dropping into my thrust while I’m still moving, my slick boots sliding on the wooden floor as I skid in and catch him high under the arm, easily bypassing his armour.

This ain’t an instant kill, but as I pull back the orc stumbles back, lowering his sword harmlessly slow. Even so, Gael ducks out the way as it comes down, scrabbling awkwardly to the side to circle round behind the orc as he instead starts turning my way, wheezing heavily while his eyes fight for focus. Still up, still on his feet. Dying fast, but still dangerous enough. Damn it, this is exactly what Kesla keeps lecturing me about.

He grunts a few times, blinking rapidly at me until he can finally focus, then grunts, starting to raise the sword again. It’s a massive thing, typical orc-craft, broad and jagged edged and heavy, not a weapon for finesse but perfect for rending an enemy into pieces with brutal efficiency, and if that comes down on me I’m a goner. I don’t give him the chance to try another attack, but thankfully he’s not fast enough now to stop me as I simply walk up and ram my sword clean through his throat and sever the reptile brain at the base of his skull. It snuffs him out like a candle, dead before I’ve even whipped the blade out, and he drops like a stone.

For several moments I just stand there, working on slowing my breathing while my heart eases down on its own, and I look round the room. If it was a subtle mess before it’s pretty much a charnel house now, a few more bodies I can clearly chalk up to Gael’s sword-work. Not bad at all.

When I turn to them it’s clear they’re cracking badly. Gael’s slumped back against the wall, shaky legs barely holding them up while they’re panting fast and hard, and their face ain’t just wet from sweat either, while their blood-slick sword barely hangs from their limp hand.

Dropping my own weapons, I rush to them, catching them by their arms before their legs give out, and after a moment I pull them into a tight embrace. After a moment they hug me back with their free arm as the sobs come and I just let them get it all out, rubbing their back and gently shushing in their ear, squeezing ever so gently just to reassure them. “You’re good. You’re good. You did real good. I’m proud of you.”

Once their sobs have subsided Gael’s able to support their own weight again, and they slowly push me away, breath hitching a little but easing down now. “Thank you.” they manage to get out, vaguely reaching out and just managing to find my shoulder with their empty left hand, giving it a weak squeeze.

“Hey, y’know me. I won’t ever let anything bad happen to you.”

Gael lets their head drop back to the wall, snatching in a deep breath. “Oh gods … that was horrible. I didn’t enjoy that at all, I was scared out of my mind.”

“Yeah, maybe, but you did good. You held your own real good.”

“Yes, well …” They start to pull themselves together, finally looking down at the sword still locked in their right fist like grim death, and frown deep. “The first ones, they were pretty much just kids, like me, it wasn’t that hard, they weren’t much better trained when I was when I graduated. Those others, though, they were much better. If you hadn’t come when you did …” They take hold of the pommel of the sword in their left hand and, after a few moments’ effort, finally pry their fingers of the right out of that death grip so they can try shaking some feeling back into the hand. “Ow. That hurt. You … you saved my life.” They smile at me, and it’s such a pathetically fragile thing right now on that tear-streaked face with those trembling lips. “Thank you.”

“Don’t even have to worry about it. I would’ve come anyway.” I lick my lips now, traying not to seem nervous as I fumble for the words, but I doubt they notice. “You’re my friend.”

“And you’re mine, of course.” They break out a brilliant smile, a little more confident, which makes it clear the tears are behind them. Can’t help returning it, allowing myself to be folded into another hug. This one doesn’t last so long, but I don’t mind.

“So are they …” Gael falters, still shaking feeling back into their hand as they look past me, scanning the room now. “They’re all gone, then.”

“We need to move. This was an ambush, wasn’t just meant for us. If they haven’t jumped on our friends they’re about to. We gotta help.” I go to the table and grab Gael’s staff from where it was unceremoniously tossed in the fight, and they barely manage to catch it in their beleaguered right hand, frowning down at it. “Your magic still on the fritz?”

Their frown deepens, then they get it. “Oh, no. It’s not that. When the first ones came down, I couldn’t even produce a sigil. It doesn’t matter if my magic’s back or not, I can’t use it here, not now. We’ve walked right into a null field. A big one if Driver 8 couldn’t tell they were here in the first place.”

That gives me pause as I allow the ramifications to sink in. Big Man’s not inherently magical, from what I’ve learned about golems they might have been manufactured using something resembling arcane arts but they’re actually built to be resistant to most magic, or maybe it was a by-product of their creation. Nobody really knows for sure. But some aspects of how they function are certainly very much like magic, including their incredible senses, or at least that’s how Driver 8 works, and a null field can block that just as effectively.

“You don’t reckon that’s something that was already here, do you?”

Gael shakes their head, clearly as nervous as I am about this turn of events. “No. That doesn’t look likely. This was intentional, meant specifically for us.”

“So they’re here. They’re all here, they beat us to the punch. Crafty bastards …” I whip my sword and knife to flick away the blood slicking the blades, and for just a moment I pine for the knives I now have no chance of retrieving from the back room. Just for a moment. “Yeah, we gotta move. Either gotta warn the others or they already need our help. You good?”

“I … Art, I don’t know. I can’t use my magic, not here. I’m useless.” They’re wide-eyed and shaky again, the panic clearly returning.

No time to place nice with this. I grab their arm, give it a squeeze, harder than I’d like, but I need to. “Look, you’re being an idiot. The last thing you are is useless, you just proved that spectacularly. Now our friends need us, and magic or not you can fight. Now I need you to move. Can you move?”

They look at me for a long moment, and finally their face starts to harden as they narrow their eyes. “Yes. I can move.”

“Good. I’m right behind you, I promise I got your back. Let’s go.”