Thousands of bodies, mangled beyond comprehension, littered the field before him. Stretching, contorting, a hellish cacophony of indistinguishable voices calling out. “Come to me! Come to me! Come to me!” Inching towards him, stumbling and crawling, some in too many pieces to move, all shrieking. “Come to me! Come to me! Come to me!” Their screams rocked the very earth asunder, splitting open, the fissured ground spurting blood.

The crimson syrup flowed across the field like a river, blanketing out the sea of green with one of red. Unable to move, he stood there, watching as the bodies began to drown, powerless to help them – to help him. “Come to me! Come to ME! Come to ME!” They pleaded, the bloody abyss pulling them further down beneath its murky surface, reaching out bony limbs for help. Reaching out for him.

“Come to me! Come to me! Come to me come to me come to me come to me! Come to ME!” Their pained chants finally spurred him into motion, rushing into the red tar, the blood already up to his waist, soon reaching up to his chest, dragging his feet, grasping them like a sea of chains.

Then he sank, his vision enveloped in endless red, lungs filling with the thick blood.

The cacophony doubled, then tripled, head pounding with countless voices tearing away at his sanity.

Just as his mind began to split apart, a hand grabbed his arm, jerking him up, saving him, just like he always had. And just as his vision came back to him, another hand grabbed his neck, strangling him. His face was contorted, mouth impossibly wide, like it had been carved at an angle. His teeth were jagged, one of their eyes twisted and bloodshot. With that twisted mouth parting open, he leaned in. “Come to me! Come to ME! Come TO ME! COME TO ME!” His voice distorted more and more, until it barely sounded human, becoming monstrous, soon turning into a garbled mess beyond comprehension.

Unable to move, he dangled, barred off from any more oxygen. Then he, with his twisted smile, bit down. Fangs tore into flesh, and though he tried to scream, he was denied even that small comfort. The pain overtook him, one final shriek echoing through his battered head.

“COME TO ME!”

* * *

Jolting awake, cold sweat running down his face, Talon scrambled for the icy touch of his gauntlets, the smouldering remains of their campfire the only source of light casting dead shadows across the soft dirt.

Sitting up, slow and deliberate, he scanned the resting campsite, eyes meeting Selora’s, the elf leaning casually against the thick trunk of an old tree. “Couldn’t sleep?” His voice croaked, clearing it without comment.

“I’m on watch right now, if you’re really too tired to remember.” The elf cocked her head, examining the human. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“You just did.” Attempting to hide disrupted nerves, Talon’s snark-filled reply did nothing in accomplishing this goal, the elf staring in silence, waiting for a serious answer. He relented. “What is it?”

“What was with all that magic you displayed the other day? Granted, I’m no expert on mages or anything, but I’ve never known one who could manifest it in such an… electrifying way.”

Talon breathed easier, posture relaxing. “Oh, that? Well, you’re right in that I’m not a spell-slinger, or anything like that. I can’t cast spells, as the formulas confuse me to no end, and it’s never really been my style anyway.”

Selora pursed her lips, “So what’s with the show of mana? I mean, it’s so thick that you can see it. That’s not normal.”

“Well…” Feeling that a quick lecture would distract him, Talon obliged. “In the most basic understanding that I have, my body produces an excess of magical energy, which has both active and passive benefits – faster healing, physical enhancements, and it even allows me to see in the dark.” With a soft tapping, he indicated his eyes, their cerulean glow like that of a lightning bug’s in the dead of night. “An old acquaintance of mine once told me that it’s a pretty rare condition among humans – only one out of every thirty-thousand people have it – wherein a body generates mana from within, instead of gathering it externally, like most humans.

“Most of these humans become things like Paladins, heroes, and are often able to become part of the Eternal King’s personal guard.” Talon picked up his gauntlets from the ground, holding them up for Selora to see. “Honestly, what makes me different from most others, besides my pension for the subtler arts of combat, are these.”

Selora nodded. “Orichalcum.”

Taken aback, Talon took a moment to assess the girl before him. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of the stuff. Even a lot of metallurgists don’t know it exists, and even some masters can’t identify it on sight.” Setting the crystalline armour back onto the grass, he pulled one knee up close, letting his arms rest over it.

A small smile broke against the elf’s face. “One of my clan’s Elders used to tell these wild stories about the world. They were always crazy, and sounded so detached from reality that most of us just took him for a stringer of fiction. But one that everyone agreed was true – had to be, essentially – was the story about the old Elven King, and his sword of Orichalcum.” Selora pulled her legs close to her chest, almost mimicking Talon. “The story said that this mystical blade enhanced all magic that its blade passed through, using this power to protect the elven lands.

“Granted, your king struck him down in his quest for domination of the lands, proving more-or-less just how fragile our final lord was.” Her mood souring as she spoke, Selora struggled to continue. “But that’s the world, isn’t it? You fall in line to the strong, or perish beneath their boot.”

“Well, glad to know that some people educate themselves on such matters, at the very least.” Looking up, the rogue spotted the moons above their heads, deciding then that he didn’t want to go back to sleep. “You should get some rest. I’ll take over watch for now.”

“Works for me. I was going to wake you up in an hour anyway.” Sliding to the ground, wrapped up in her cloak, Selora closed her eyes, body relaxing within a few minutes. Though she slid into unconsciousness with ease, it did not go unnoticed by Talon that her bow was still strung, her quiver full and within easy reach.

Through the soft breathing of his companions, Talon’s thoughts drifted. Back to his dream. Back to them. Putting on his gauntlets, he let the familiar feel take over and calm his nerves, clenching his fists together.

The rest of the night passed them, quiet and peaceful, the trio of adventurers continuing on their way in the morning.

* * *

“Hold, travelers!” Talon felt his eye twitch as the man in ill-fitted armour yelled out from within his visored helmet. The scrawny knight swayed atop his horse, his balance an unsure thing, taking up the whole of the small wooden bridge required to pass over the rushing stream below.

“I do not have the patience for this.” The silver-haired rogue lamented, pinching the bridge of his nose. His patience sat at a razor’s edge, exhaustion edging in.

“You’ve found your way to Sir Richard’s Bridge, but if you wish to proceed further, you’ll need to pay a toll! A gold piece for each head is demanded, or you’ll be forced to turn around immediately!”

Selora chuckled. “Quite the confidence for one who’s a good sneeze away from toppling off his horse.”

Torden sighed, “Aye, dis ‘ow it is, I’m ‘fraid. Ne’er a good blade ta put ‘em in dere place.” Turning towards Talon, the dwarf shrugged his battleax into position. “Shall I cut ‘im down a peg?”

“Answer now, or I shall be forced to take action!” The horse jostled, and the man nearly fell, staying atop his steed solely by his white-knuckled grip on the reins.

Talon growled, staring daggers at the foolish man that dared to block their path. “Just do it quickly.”

“Aha!” Stepping forward, Torden unslung his ax, gripping it tightly with both hands. “Lissen ‘ere, Lad! I’ll be facin’ ya in one-on-one combat. Turn tail an’ run, or face yer kin wit’ honour!”

“Choose the second one, you’ll live longer that way!” Selora yelled out, bow in hand, arrow nocked and ready.

Loose plates jingled as the young knight flailed backwards, not expecting the group to challenge him. Surprised as he was, however, he still took Selora’s advice, and charged, a rhythmic clacking of hoof on wood ringing out into the open air. He drew his one-handed sword, nearly dropping it in the process, intending with no hint of confidence to cut the dwarf’s head off. “En garde!”

He would have been better served running the dwarf under the horse than trying with his sword, Talon thought, Torden swinging his ax in one easy motion, lopping the poor fool’s hand off as he rode past. With a pain-filled scream, the armoured man fell from his saddle, one foot catching in the stirrups, his steel-cased head cracking against the hard, rock-strewn ground.

Blood gushing from the dismembered wrist, the prone figure made no further sound as his horse, spooked, sprinted down the road, barreling past Talon and Selora. The grooves of the dying man’s armour dug streaks into the well-worn dirt road. “Well that was… something.” The elf marveled, still able to hear the horse’s panicked neighs in the distance. “Should we, uh, go stop it?”

“Would never catch it,” Talon stated, making his way towards Torden, the dwarf just as confused as the other two adventurers.

“I didn’ expect da bugga ta go down so easy. Was wantin’ ta at least take a moment more den dat.” Shaking his head in disappointment, the dwarf slung his ax back over his shoulder. “Well, s’pose dat’s dat den. Shall we move on, Lad?”

* * *

Two days went by, the massive green of the Wildlands stretching before the adventurers.

Selora had made a strange face as they approached the forest, suggesting they make a wide berth of the area. Even on horseback, such a journey would require days, and such a waste of time was something Talon wasn’t willing to accept. Besides, there was nothing truly dangerous amidst the well-traveled roads, he argued, and only a truly foolish creature would openly attack a group of armed travelers.

A foolish thought itself, Talon would later realize, as a net, carefully hidden beneath a layer of dirt, flew up into the trees, Torden a prisoner amidst the whipping branches and fluttering leaves. And from the brush, droves of little green monsters dashed and dived, baring daggers and clubs, ramshackle bucklers of poorly-sawed lengths of pine grasped firm within grubby, dirt-stained paws.

Goblins were a wily race that most adventurers and seasoned warriors laughed at. Standing no taller than a man’s shin, their large heads, bulging eyes, and big, hooked noses sat upon disproportionately small bodies, grotesque in their appearance. With a sadistic and mischievous nature, goblins were ostracized from most modern communities, forced into hiding, hunted by those that wished to sell their husks to alchemists and leather-workers for a reward, small though it was.

Talon spun around towards Selora, crouched with his hands cupped together. “Up. Now!”

She didn’t hesitate, dashing, putting one foot in the human’s hands, the other on his shoulder, shooting up towards a thick branch hanging several meters above them.

Talon unsheathed his dagger, point held forward in warning.

Grabbing the branch, Selora spun, landing atop the wooden limb with steady feet. Within moments, her bow was drawn, her first arrow was launched, the iron tip shredding through the rope that held Torden captive, dropping the dwarf unceremoniously into the dirt. The second shot, as well as the third, fourth, and fifth, were placed between the large eyes of the rushing goblins, dropping their small bodies in moments.

Screaming in a language none understood, the goblins raised their shields, the poor constructs shuddering against the thumping arrows.

Torden yelled, bellowing rage as he crashed through the goblins from behind. Shrieks of terror rung through the air as tiny limbs flew from scrawny bodies, plopping to the ground in pools of acidic, tar-black blood. Burning grass led to rising smoke, choking Torden, his eyes tearing up, the blinded dwarf swinging wildly.

Arrows continued to rain down with frightening accuracy as Talon slashed at the toddling creatures, his leather armour crackling as their blood splattered, his blade sizzling. The goblins tried stabbing at Talon with poisoned blades, but were deftly deflected, while those that lived long enough to assault Torden were unable to make it between the spaces in his armour.

Bloody seconds flew by in a haze of violence, goblins dying one after another. Bodies piled up, blood sizzling, before only a dozen-or-so goblins remained, running and screaming.

As the remaining creatures fled, yelling at one another in their twisted tongue, Talon felt a moment of relief.

Adrenaline was still pumping through the dwarf, his nostrils flaring as he looked around with wild eyes for another opponent.

“Relax, Torden. They’re dead and gone.” Talon stepped to the side as Selora dropped from her perch.

“Well, that was… something,” Selora said, for the second time during their journey.

“What, you never faced goblins before?” Talon began stretching, shoulders popping as he slid his knife back into its acid-burned sheathe.

“Not that big of a group, no.” With a huff, the elf began collecting her arrows, annoyed at how many of them had snapped under the weight of stomping feet and falling bodies. She gagged as she was forced to put her hand against the bodies, her arrow too deep to simply yank out. “These things smell disgusting,” she moaned.

Torden, still hocking up the last of the noxious smoke, had trouble getting his thoughts out. “Li’l devils…” Cough. “near took me…” Cough. “pride…” Cough. “‘long wid me life.”

Selora let out a sharp laugh. “What, that didn’t happen when you were dangling from that tree all helpless like, needing a little ol’ elf to help you down?”

“Lissen ‘ere, Lass–”

“Stop!” Talon commanded, the ice in his voice cutting through the choking air. “Let’s hurry this up, and go. The longer we stick around, the more we have to smell these putrid things.”

“So,” Selora began, putting away the last of her unbroken arrows. “What should we do with the bodies?”

“Leave ‘em. The wolves will take care of it once night falls, and by then the acidity of their blood will have dissipated.” Noticing a draft of smoke rising from the hem of his cloak, Talon cursed. “Though, again, we should hurry this up, and go. Wouldn’t want to be here when those little green bastards come back with reinforcements.”

* * *

Captain Evrich, leading his exhausted men back from their latest mission outside of the city walls, had decided they would cut through the Wildlands, using their commendable size to ward off any potential threats. Save for the occasional pack of wolves, and the stray horse dragging a dead knight around a way’s back, little of note had occurred. This was, until they came across the scattered bones and singed grass left by several dozen dead goblins.

The old soldier signaled for his men to stop, one half responding within moments, stopping their horses with a smooth ease; the other half nearly falling off their horses as they bumped into one another, their reaction time slow, their movements oafish. Bloody vagrants, Evrich thought bitterly, cursing the new recruits the Prime of Law had thrust upon him for “training.”

Swinging down from his old horse, Arrow, Evrich strode over to the gory scene, sword drawn. His cape fluttered behind him, a constant reminder of his position’s responsibilities, bunching up atop the ground as the Captain dropped to one knee. Digging through the bones and strings of flesh, he found the remains of several arrows. The shafts were expertly made, though of common oak, stitched together with a random assortment of feathers, and low-quality iron.

Upon further inspection, he found pieces of peeled leather, singed and stained. On the edge of the massacre was a net, splayed upon the grass.

An ambush that had gone terribly wrong for the goblins.

Satisfied with such a conclusion, Evrich sheathed his blade and turned back to his men, awaiting his next orders. “Just a little skirmish, nothing to worry ourselves with. We move onward.” Hopping back into Arrow’s saddle, Evrich and his men headed for home.

For Marbleton.