Knock turned his attention back to the board, drawing Ash’s eyes there as if it were a mysterious cloud on the horizon. Mountains shrank as they traveled into the Ashen Lands. Even on his homeland’s outskirts, Ash saw hints of the desolate wastes that had tortured and strengthened him. Trees grew in scattered clumps, devoid of leaves and offering scant shade against the blazing daytime sun. The first of the firemounts rumbled in one corner of the game board, belching sparks and ash. A fine dusting of that gray ash covered an unsettled land. As far as the Radiance was concerned, Westerbrook was the end of the world.

In a flash the landscape changed, filling with buildings. Core, capital of the Radiance with Spire at its center. Neither the air nor rock districts could be seen. The gameboard only showed the barest sliver of the city and only hinted at Spire’s size, the base dominating all other buildings like a hob beside a rat. One day soon, Ash would see Core’s walls torn asunder.

Ash didn’t dare blink as the board filled with all the various lands under the Radiance’s protection. The forest cities of the wodenlang glowed with the light of a thousand nesting wisps. The sun between man and hob vanished as their view sank deep into the ground, unearthing an unending series of burrower caves. Each was more elaborate than the last, carved into markets, homes, schools, assembly halls, moss farms, aqueducts, and a thousand more uses.

“Choose a land.”

“For battle?” Ash asked.

“For battle, yes,” Knock said, wearing another grin. “You’ve heard of the game, I see, but don’t be too proud to ask questions. I believe in nothing if not the bridge beneath my feet and fair is fair.”

Possibilities tumbled through Ash’s ever-calculating mind like dice on a tavern table. Was it better to choose familiar ground or test strategies in the lands he hoped to conquer? Knock would know bridges, mountains, rivers, and even forests, so the answer was obvious.

“The Ashen Lands.”

The familiar terrain had already risen upon the game board, leaving Ash to wonder if the hob had conjured it before or after Ash had made his decision. How much did Gailinn know of him and his plans? How much had she shared with Knock?

A firemount rose in one corner of the board, the land around it jagged and scarred. Ashen soil grew small sickly plants with more spines than leaves and thick exteriors. The few trees scattered throughout the terrain didn’t offer much advantage with their slender trunks. A grommel herd grazed near the board’s southern edge, their humped bodies like hairy warts on the face of the Ashen Lands. Ash reached for the largest grouping, and his hand passed through, dissolving them until he removed his hand.

Armies appeared on the field without warning. The young couple in the tavern had also spoken of that.

Gray-skinned gravelings shambled forward, red eyes flashing. They almost appeared human, until you noticed the bird-like talons in place of hands and feet. And the beaked mouths, wickedly curved to rip the flesh from carrion. Slaghounds galloped onto the field, biting the air with vicious snarls.

Untamed in lizard skin armor rose a head or two higher than the average humanoid. During the cataclysmic eruptions long ago, only the strongest of their kind had survived and their god, Chaur, had supposedly infused the land with magic which strengthened the Untamed to this day.

In the very back of his ranks, skeletal archers made up for their frail forms by wielding longbows nearly as tall as themselves. Magic allowed them to bend their limbs beyond fleshy constraints, increasing their speed and strength.

“You can move each group once on your turn,” Knock said. “Do you know this part? No? Slide them in a direction, and they’ll move.” He tapped a finger the size of a loaf of bread against the group of gravelings which shambled forward. “The harder you push, the faster they’ll go.” Another push against the gravelings dropped them to all fours where they reached their maximum speed, fast enough to run down even fleet-footed lycanthropes. “When it’s time, the different units fight on their own. It’s as simple as that.”

“How can I trust you or Gailinn? If I were in your place, I would hold back rules or create ways to cheat,” Ash said. “You both seem to know too much of my plans. Why shouldn’t I leave the bridge and reduce this entire town to rubble?” He bluffed, hoping to learn how much Gailinn knew of his powers, or at least how much she had shared with Knock.

“That’s always an option, if you think you can manage it before I flatten you.” For good measure, Knock cracked his knuckles. The hob’s hands were capable of crushing a human skull, and Ash’s was within reach. His head would splatter like a snowball struck by a hammer. “We hobs are notoriously hard to kill. We also don’t lie. Not about our bridges or matters of the bridge. I trust Gailinn, and you’ll trust me.”

Ash looked away from the game and his companion for the first time since sitting down. The fisherman still sat with rod in hand, but his relaxed posture suggested he had fallen asleep some time ago. A handful of travelers or locals crossed the bridge, a few glancing with great interest at the game though they all followed some unspoken rule not to interrupt.

“Besides, you won’t destroy anything today,” Knock said and smirked. “It’s too late. I’ve seen the way you watch the game. Good ones have a way of setting barbs in you.”

Of course, Knock was right. Ash had become hopelessly caught. He chewed his lip, just a corner at first, but as his vexation grew, both disappeared into his mouth until it became a hardened pale line. Ignoring his opponent’s internal struggle, the hob concentrated on the game, sliding his units into formations.

As one would expect, Knock’s wodenlang archers lined up behind human infantry with burrower bruisers to one side and cavalry in three groups, one to each flank and one in the back. With foothills to his rear there was little chance Ash could surround Knock’s army while the same could not be said for Ash’s troops. The gentle slope of the firemount in one corner offered high land if he was forced to retreat, but it was too far from the main battlefield to offer any advantage. They would throw their main forces against each other, gauge weaknesses, and the winner would be decided by whomever reacted quickest and anticipated the other’s moves.

Ash positioned his own troops in a near-reflection of Knock’s. When he was done, the hob gestured for him to take the first turn. Following Knock’s earlier example, he extended a finger toward his front ranks of Untamed. Before he could brush the tops of their heads, his finger met resistance. With a slight push, he set them moving.

After that, both players took their turn, ordering all their units forward.

“In Westerbrook they name you the hero of Shrivemount,” Ash said, breaking his long-held silence. He watched the game board where his skeletal archers stopped and began to fire volleys deep into Knock’s ranks.

“They do, but stories change in the telling.” Knock frowned as arrows arced through the sky. The hob’s confusion reassured Ash his opponent wasn’t cheating. He was obviously surprised by the skeletal archer’s extraordinary range. Only a wodenlang could match it, according to Krachnis. The forest dwellers were notorious for their archery skills.

“Is it true?” The arrows reached the human infantry. Gleaming metal shields deflected some but not all of the arrows, and a few soldiers fell. Sparks of something like magic jumped around in Ash’s stomach.

“My story’s not part of the deal, Ash,” Knock said, only half paying attention to his words as he concentrated on the game. His infantry continued to march forward, followed by cavalry at a slow trot.

Stolen story; please report.

“Let’s make a new deal,” Ash said. His archers fired an endless rain of arrows, and Ash felt like laughing. He would win the game in the first moments. “A story for a story.”

“You first,” Knock said, adjusting his troops. Now Knock’s entire force advanced in a tight rectangle. Bunched as they were, arrows would soon decimate the hob’s infantry. Ash did chuckle.

“Fair enough,” he said. “You already know my title, something none this side of the Lendanfall Mountains should know. I’m the Scheltro, but did Gailinn explain what that means?”

Knock shrugged as if the answer were no more important than which way the wind might blow tomorrow.

“The Scheltro is leader of the Untamed with the power to command the dead. When a human has died, whether still clinging to its useless flesh or a rotting collection of bones, I breathe new life into it,” Ash said. To illustrate his point, he blew a tight stream of air into his stationary gravelings and slaghounds as he moved them to meet Knock’s forces. “Ethereal bonds reconstruct some portion of the creature’s spirit, but it belongs to me.”

“Like a puppeteer,” Knock said and motioned to his troops. He waggled his fingers above his infantry who adjusted their ranks, filling gaps created by their fallen comrades.

“You’ll see, Knock,” Ash boasted. “When I win this game, you’ll become a general of my army.”

Slaghounds lopped ahead of the gravelings. Their long strides chewed up great swaths of land even as Knock’s wodenlang archers stopped advancing and fired. They anticipated the hounds’ speed well, but each volley only dropped one or two while Knock’s infantry continued to fall. Ash’s stomach churned with energy unlike anything he had experienced. It arced out to his extremities as he felt goosebumps rising along his arms.

“Now, why is the Hero of Shrivemount guarding a bridge on the frontier?” Ash asked, sitting back a little as the hob began his turn.

“Stories are funny things,” Knock said. He didn’t speak again for some time, all his attention on the battlefield. His troops moved, anticipating the slaghounds’ arrival while the wodenlang archers turned their bows toward the bulk of Ash’s army. “I disappeared and didn’t want to be bothered until Gailinn… it doesn’t matter. Everything the bards sing about me, all the pictures--lies.”

When the slaghounds struck, they tore through the humans like ballista missiles. Each hound was nothing but a collection of razor sharp teeth and claws launched by taut muscles. Ash released the breath he had held in anticipation of the blow, and a chuckle escaped with it. Unfazed, the hob concentrated on the board a moment, issued orders to his troops, and continued his story.

“I held the bridge. That much is true. I maintained her for decades. Never thought about finding a mate. She was my other half. In the winter she creaked and shivered, but I could soothe her. Rains rarely fell--once a cycle if we were lucky. That high up, everything froze. Rain was her favorite, washing her clean of dirt from a thousand boots from a thousand kinds of people. Pilgrims ever wandering, couriers between realms, mercenaries, armies, merchants, brigands, adventurers, and even families misplaced or simply looking for something better. They’re the bravest of the lot.

“When Sineck led her army to my bridge, she cried out. In all the decades, she had never felt such evil. I didn’t fight because I care about the Radiance. Some of it's good, but some of it's rotten. Just like anywhere. Just like anyone. Same’s true for me as it is for you.”

Ash listened, hoping that no matter the outcome of their game, he could still convince the hob to join his side.

Except, a funny thing was happening to Ash. For the first time, the voice in his head was silent. Memories of a forgotten life before the Ashen Lands bubbled from deep within his mind as his memories began to simmer. They popped with sounds of laughter and images of warm light and green cover, things alien to the Ashen Lands.

“We met the enemy on the western side,” Knock continued. “I see you’re surprised. The stories say I fought alone. No. Wodenlang arrows whistled into the enemy ranks. Druí Menders healed what injuries they could. Shield Burr and Shield Flarsov led cavalry. Burrower, human, and hob--we stood side by side on the front line. We even held for a time.

“I was terrified. Never been in a battle before that day or after. Other races think because of our size and gruff exteriors, hobs must be formidable warriors. Some, perhaps. Not me.”

Riveted to the hob’s story, Ash almost didn’t notice the shifting tide of battle on the game board. After their initial charge, the slaghounds had continued to tear through the human infantry, but they had quickly adjusted their ranks, working in small groups to concentrate on one hound at a time. Not only that, the humans had created an opening for the cavalry, which sped toward Ash’s gravelings in a tight wedge.

“The slaghounds struck first,” Knock said. “Their claws tore my flesh. Each time one lunged for my throat, I fought to survive. Nothing heroic or calculated. I raged. Thrashed. Threw my great weight, crushing whatever limbs I could grab a hold of.

“Rockeaters came, showering stones. I saw more than a few lift a man skyward, beating their powerful wings away from the bridge and dropping soldiers into empty air. Nightwings raked us with their talons. Lycanthropes howled in the distance, gathering in the mountain passes. Fallen bodies became projectiles, ammunition affording me a few seconds to catch my breath. Precious moments for my muscles to stop screaming. I fought in blood and gore, slipped in my own excrement.

“Everything grew silent when the golem came,” Knock said. “In my...memories it filled the whole bridge. When I tore the bridge apart, collapsed it from the middle, I wasn’t protecting the Radiance. Those who had fought beside me that day--I told them to flee, but they were determined. Didn’t understand what I had planned and couldn’t imagine abandoning me. Not a single one of them survived, but I had no choice.

“I didn’t want to die, and I saw my death in each of that abomination’s many eyes. They circled its head, seeing in all directions. I didn’t bother to count its arms, and my bridge shook and shuddered beneath its many feet. The bard’s tales may have exaggerated its size--I heard one say its head brushed the clouds as it stormed across the bridge, which was like a tightrope beneath its bulk--but that’s how it felt.”

Ash was like a child listening to a tale at the campfire, mouth agape. “What happened next?” he asked.

“I ripped my bridge’s heart out and heard the golem groaning as it fell. As I fell. All who had fought beside me fell. I didn’t fight the water’s pull when I struck the Tornilen River. When I awoke in Digref’s Bay, after marveling that I still lived, I disappeared into the forest.”

All order had broken down on the game battlefield. Archers fired wildly, picking at whatever targets presented themselves. Ash’s hounds were dwindling in number, and his gravelings had been obliterated by the cavalry charge which had punched through, threatening his exposed archers. Burrowers and Untamed waded into the thick of it all, aiding where they could with devastating blows.

Hearing the hob’s story, Ash nearly forgot about his original motivations for winning. He focused on the game, smiling when his troops seemed to be winning, then languishing when Knock gained the upper hand. His entire life had been preparation, gathering power and planning his incursion into civilized lands. The game represented his first taste of what a battle could be--the strategy and testing of wills--while Knock’s story sobered him.

Ash realized too late that what he’d mistaken for chaos on the gameboard only appeared so to his untrained eyes. Knock had slowly been retreating, gathering his troops into tight pockets on either side of the battlefield. The cavalry had decimated his skeletons while Knock’s wodenlang archers continued to fire at choice targets.

Ash had placed too much confidence in the strength of his warriors, which the hob had deftly countered with speed and skill. He watched helplessly as the wodenlang echoed his opening attack, launching arrows into his divided army followed by a final cavalry charge.

“Well played,” Knock said. Only scraps of Ash’s army remained. He stared at the battlefield, searching the fallen bodies for hints of where he had lost control. The dead offered nothing.

“I was too distracted by your story,” Ash said. He’d failed in his first two tasks upon entering the Radiance. Both hob and bridge were lost to him. Bracing for Krachnis’ scorn, he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

“Don’t feel too bad,” Knock said. “Of those I’ve challenged, none have beaten me. You fared much better than most.”

Ash opened his eyes, remembering Krachnis could not reach him on the bridge. He studied Knock, taken aback by the hob’s grace in victory. If their roles had been reversed, Ash would not have treated him with the same respect.

“Of course, if I were present on the battlefield, it would have been a very different outcome,” Ash protested. Knock’s kindness soothed the loss, but there was a hunger growing in his belly to try again. He was already imagining better ways to use his troops. “Your fallen warriors would only have added to my numbers.”

“Who can say?” Knock shrugged. “But war is ugly, Ash. Children pretend to be Shields. Bards sing of glory and triumph. We make games of war.” Knock gestured to the mock-battle stretched between them. He spoke with great sadness. “I’ve seen how would-be heroes die. Brutal. Slow. Alone.” His army swept up the last remnants of Ash’s army. The Ashen Lands disappeared, and only a wooden board remained.

“Another game then?” Ash asked, licking his lips. “A new deal?”

“Our deal has been made, Ash. Westerbrook is now protected from you,” Knock said. He reached for the game, as if to close it, but he hesitated and gave Ash a searching look. “We can play another game, if you’d like.” The hob smiled for the first time since before their game had begun. “For fun?”