Franco rode at the head of the column as it trailed past ever greater pines and cedars. The north of the continent was upon them; he could smell it in the air. He was at the front of the column today, he suspected that was to avoid any further drama between himself and the gnomes. That meant he was alongside Kherrin, but also that he was directly in front of Whunmar. The previous evening, he had discovered that their older dwarf patron had more than enough money to hire replacements for the presumably-still-incarcerated Eda brothers. Whunmar just didn’t want to. This was news Franco had planned on bringing to Kherrin’s attention, but he and the old dwarf had become inseparable at some point in the previous week, despite being at each other’s throats only days ago.

It’ll have to wait. Some things are better said in private.

The road was wide, paved with stone and straight as an arrow.

Can’t fault the Altomans for their public services. A Dwarven empire would have done a better job of the roads, no doubt. But not bad stonework for humans.

However he did not let his eyes linger on the stonework for long. Despite what the density of the pines would suggest, the road was as close to the coast now as it ever got. That meant as close to any Väahn raiding parties as well. His eyes had been looking east and seaward all morning.

The thing that most surprised Franco - by far - was how little effort the Väahn put into concealing themselves before the attack. He heard their war-cries whole seconds before he saw them emerging from the cover of the trees. There was no chance of the caravan escaping, though. The Väahn were on foot, but with eight heavy-laden wagons the merchants would not be able to outrun them. Four wagons back the shrew human woman started screaming, for all the good that would do, and the kenku were squawking something. But Franco had no time for all that. Without so much as a thought he dismounted his dappled grey pony, pulled his mail vest over his head and donned his spiked steel helm. Lastly he drew his war-hammer from the pony’s saddle, and he almost felt ready. He didn’t bother tethering the pony – that way at least someone might get away. Kherrin was beside him, battle-axe in hand, and Groxx was beside Kherrin with his none-too-impressive hand-axe, an oak buckler and mismatched armour. Finally, Mag fell in place atop the wagon behind them, with the first arrow already notched in her bow.

From that point on, Franco only had eyes for the Väahn nearest in front of him. There were at least thirty in total, but amongst the roaring tide of horned helms, beards, axes and swords he could tell which were his. First, a great big lad with red braids hanging from his half-helm and a great-sword raised over his head. In his peripherals, Franco noticed Ghanmar standing beside him, Ruth in hand. Fucking, Ruth! He heard Whunmar roaring something at his son, but he would not let his concentration be wrestled away from the Väahn with the red braids.

Not long now.

Ahead, an arrow met one of the attackers, but he only stumbled. Then another.

Closer.

As his opponent came upon him, the great-sword was still raised high above his head.

Low.

Franco altered his stance, bent his knees and swung his war-hammer low and wide, striking red-head in the knees before the sword came crashing down. He felt something break in the man’s leg, and his eyes found number two; black hair and an axe.

No helmet. High.

This man’s shoulders were hunched down and he was expecting another sweeping blow from the dwarf. Franco took a couple of steps back, held his war-hammer to his right side, letting no-helmet believe that the low-swing was coming, before pirouetting and bringing the head of the hammer up and down in an arc. No-helmet saw it and ducked to the side, but not quickly enough. The hammer met the man’s shoulder and nearly dragged his arm out of its socket.

Number three was a young one, green. The only experienced thing about him was his sword; dinted and rusting. His grip was weak and Franco aimed a quick jab at the weapon, sending it clattering to the ground. Another thrust with the hammer and the head crashed into the young one’s stomach. He bent over, as expected, and an upwards swing already in the making caught him square in the face. Franco couldn’t have said how, but by the time numbers four and five fell upon him he was on the other side of the wagon line. He was being pushed back. Four and five gave no easy openings and were edging closer, giving him hardly enough time to breathe between parries. There had been no time to unhitch any of the horses from the wagons. A black gelding thrashed out as the two Väahn passed.

Flinched. Right, low.

Franco took a broad swing, aiming low and caught Väahn number four in the knees. He fell, but five kept coming. He noticed most of the merchants were gone.

Ran.

He saw Groxx still in front of the wagons, flailing his axe around violently but still succumbing under a tide of men. Mag was being yanked down from her wagon by the ankles, kicking and screaming. Suddenly Kherrin appeared at Franco’s side, bleeding from under his eye.

“GO!” he screamed, “Away, away!”

He ran, and Franco followed.

The fight had just started, and already it was lost. They ran without looking back and were barely out of sight before the exertion brought them to a stop.

No one ever expects us dwarves can run so fast; in short bursts at least.

“Damn,” Kherrin cursed, “thirty against four. What sort o’ man fights in those odds?”

“Bloete cowards.” Franco spat. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

I must have been caught in the face. When did that happen?

“What do we do?”

Kherrin took a moment to think.

“There’s a small village near here. I saw it on Whunmar’s map. We head there first, then Lochtagh. If any o’ the others got away, that’s where they’ll go.”

Another war-cry rang out from the direction of the wagons.

That sounded far too close.

Kherrin looked to Franco, Franco nodded and the two set off running again.

Dear Edwin,

Last time we spoke in person you were planning on a journey north, to visit your brother and see the Dwarven city. I implore you, don’t go. It’s no longer safe. Since the war has all but started the Altoman forces have all but abandoned the region, and the Väahn raiders have become bolder now than any can remember them being.

I only hope this letter reaches you in time. I’ve sent three all by different messengers, so I can trust at least one will make it through the trap that our lands have become.

Stay safe,

Willard

Letter to a friend – Willard Trainer

Without ponies, it took the rest of the day and then some to reach Kherrin’s village, set in a clearing an acre from the nearest tree in any direction. The sun was long gone when they arrived at the small collection of farm-houses, pens and barns. In the darkness making out anything was difficult, but the silence and the acrid smell of burning flesh told a vivid story.

“The raiding has never been this bad. A whole bloody village… Where are the armies?”

Franco heard his voice rising. They were not his people, but it was impossible to stumble upon a scene such as this and feel nothing.

“West. At the border, waiting for Aren to make a move.”

“Is that what the glorious empire does? They drag all the young away to fight in their war and leave the towns defenceless? Füintach humans.” Franco practically growled the last curse.

“Horse.”

“What?”

“No, a horse. There.”

Kherrin spoke quietly as he gestured with his battle-axe and Franco followed with his eyes. In the twilight he could make out a beige shire-horse stood by one of the barns, tethered poorly to the remains of the doorway. Franco’s war-hammer was already raised, and he and Kherrin took quick, quiet steps towards the animal. Franco had his ears perked for any hint of a sound.

Is that sobbing?

He looked to Kherrin, and his friend was equally bemused. There was next to no light in the barn, but with his Dwarven eyes Franco saw a gnome, clothes and face smudged with dirt and tears rolling down his face.

“Mellbert?”

The gnome looked to Franco, then to Kherrin, then back to Franco, taking moment to distinguish between the two, dark as it was.

“You two. You survived?”

“I’m not proud to tell it, but aye, we ran and here we are. Where’s Lyla?”

“Lyla! You have to help her. She didn’t get away, but she’s still alive, she has to be!” The gnome spoke hastily, desperately.

“How did you get away?” asked Franco.

“I unhitched our shire horse when the fighting started. The two of us climbed on its back and we tried to ride away. But those… men spooked her and she reared. Lyla fell. I tried to stop the horse and wait for her, you have to believe me, I did. But the mare bolted and it was all I could do to stay on.”

Kherrin wiped some dried blood and grime from under his eye. “And how do you know she’s alive?”

“She is. I know she is.” There was a fervour in the gnome’s voice that Franco recognised.

He’s on the edge, or damn near to it.

“And you want us to go running after her? For nothing?”

Franco gave Kherrin a dirty look, but he understood him well enough. We’ve lost almost everything as well.

“I have some gems left. The most valuable ones I carry on my person, sewn into my coat. They’re all yours if you bring her back.”

“And if we go and she’s already dead, we still get half.” Franco punched Kherrin on the arm after he said that.

“I’m sorry,” Franco cut in, “We’ll head off right after we’ve rested up a little.” Kherrin punched him back.

“If we take a snooze and set off in the morning, they’ll likely already be gone. We head off now or we don’t bother.”

“You can take my horse,” the gnome put in, “she’s not all that fast, but she’s strong. She’ll carry the both of you.”

Soon after the two dwarves were mounted up on one shire horse and headed back to the tree line.

Mellbert was right, this is not a fast horse.

“What’s the plan?” asked Kherrin, “Seeing as this was your bloete idea.”

“We make for the coast and follow it. I reckon the Väahn bastards will be camped by their boats. If they have Lyla, we’ll find her there.”

“And if she’s not with them? Or if they’ve already set off to sea?”

“Then we find the wagons, look for a body.”

“Great. I get to share a horse with a moron and a corpse. Bloody fantastic.”

Franco knew his friend and when not to press him further. He can be as stubborn as a… well as a dwarf.

It was an uncomfortable ride made worse by an uncomfortable silence, but eventually the dwarves found the coast. For the first several hours the sky was black save for the white speckles of stars dotted about, which made for hazardous footing for the shire horse and a slow pace. The sea was black too, all but for the moonlight reflected off the crests of the waves. Before long an orange tint began to alleviate the darkness and the stars faded one by one, heralding the gradual emergence of the dawn. Franco’s eyes were heavy, after a night spent in the saddle, and the sunlight caused them to throb.

There was no road this close to the coastline, only the rocky shore. Thus, the going remained slow. The shire horse had to be led carefully and there was no longer opportunity for sleeping in the saddle. Not that it mattered to Franco, unlike Kherrin he had never figured out that particular trick. As time slipped away and the sun rose higher and higher Franco’s thoughts became less hopeful.

She has to be alive. They can’t have left yet. They had dead to bury, injured to carry. Do Väahn bury their dead? What happens to a Väahn screamer that falls behind?

These were questions he would ask Kherrin, but he was not sure his friend was in the mood for conversation just yet.

The sun was no longer low when Kherrin spotted something along the coast.

“Smoke rising. A camp” he hissed.

They fell back from the coast to the treeline, and hastily tethered the horse. The two dwarves crept along behind the cedars and bushes as the drew ever nearer to the source of the rising smoke.

Here ye are. We found the bastards.

There were around forty Väahn in the camp; some sitting and talking, some lying about in and between tents. Not one seemed to be taking watch.

Not an organised lot, Franco reflected.

Of the foes from yesterday that he had not killed outright, he could see none in the camp now. I guess that solves the mystery about the Väahn who get left behind.

He looked anxiously for any sign of the dappled grey mare he had become quite attached to, but only found a portion of what was probably horsemeat roasting over the fire. He supposed if they had just captured maybe twelve or so horses and had no way of transporting them, eating them made sense. Franco only hoped his had gotten away. He then spotted Groxx’s head, on a spike, at the other end of the camp, and muttered a quick eulogy for his comrade.

He gave as good as he got.

Thankfully none of the meat roasting seemed to be reptilian in nature.

A roar went up from inside the camp, and for a moment Franco’s heart sank. He ducked reflexively, but after listening for a moment he recognised the sound to be cheering. A Väahn emerged from a tent, holding Mag by the hair. Her shirt was in tatters, her wrists and ankles were bound, and she was hopping to keep pace. From another side of the camp a Väahn appeared carrying Lyla by under her arms, though her hands and wrists were free. A cheer went up from the camp, as the Väahn formed a ring and the two women were handed blunted weapons. Franco couldn’t see much of what was happening, but he didn’t like it.

They’re making them fight each other?

Franco cursed the Väahn like only a dwarf could.

“What do we do now?” asked Kherrin, “there’s at least forty o’ them. Maybe more in the tents.”

“They’re distracted.”

“So?”

“So, we can get close.”

“And do what?”

“And distract them.”

“Yer being daft, Franco. You see a pair o’ tits and you lose yer wits, is that it?”

“Just follow me and do as I say.”

As the two dwarves crept closer, Franco could make out the sounds of a scuffle. It seemed that Mag had accepted her blunted sword gladly and set to thrashing the nearest Väahn, bindings be damned. The ensuing tumult provided an ideal interference as the dwarves reached the waterline undetected. The pair made for an outcropping of the rocky shore and dipped behind it. Franco reached into his jerkin inner pocket and drew out a small vial. Kherrin took a good look at the luminous orange liquid within.

“Alchemist’s fire?”

Franco nodded. He wound his arm back and launched the vial toward an aground longboat. The vial landed with a faint cracking sound. Several moments later a whisper of smoke rose from the inner boat. The whisper quickly grew to a steady stream, which in turn gave way to roaring flames.

Yelling erupted amongst the Väahn. As raiders hassled toward their boat and began beating out the spreading flames, Mag and Lyla could be seen once again. Taking advantage of the confusion Mag, ankles and wrists still bound, swung both fists at the Väahn closest to her. The two dwarves silently charged; Kherrin pulled a small knife and cut Mag’s hands and feet free while Franco brought his hammer down on the Väahn Mag had floored. Mag snatched the knife from Kherrin’s hands and made a line for her bow. On the way a raider grabbed at her, but he was unarmed. She ducked under her arms, springing up close and cutting his throat open from ear to ear. Franco knew he should be focusing on other things, but something about a lean, scandalously dressed woman expertly wielding a knife really got his furnace burning.

And she’s not even a dwarf. Kardh' mi.

Other Väahn saw what was happening, and an alarm of sorts was raised as they made for their weapons.

“We have to go. Now.” Franco called after Mag and the four of them ran from the camp.

Franco recognised an open chest that had once belonged to a grating human couple, filled with a myriad of clothes and fabrics. He took a fistful, on the assumption that once the adrenaline subsided, Mag would remember she was effectively topless. Half the Väahn were trying to put out the fire and the other half were gathering weapons and helmets in the belief they were under attack. In the confusion the two dwarves, the young gnome and the archer had time enough to get away. Franco noticed Kherrin was holding two battle-axes; the one he brought with him and a beautiful axe wrought with golden Dwarven alloy.

Ruth?

Lyla followed the dwarves to her father’s horse, the saddle of which she was thrown into. Mag hung a little behind, shooting at any Väahn who looked to be in pursuit. It wasn’t until they were a half-mile from the camp when she finally remembered she had almost nothing covering her from the waist up. Franco knew a good fight did unusual things to the male psyche, but his post-battle erection was undeniably more substantial than usual.