Chapter 1

For three days, the rhythmic effort of oars below deck sang alongside the cacophonous melody of exotic birdsong, jaguar calls, and the ever-shifting jungle as they pushed the small galley through the emerald waters of the ancient river. Wood and rope creaked as the captain, a swarthy man with the belly of a noble but the deep chest and thick arms of a hard laborer, pulled at the helm and started a gentle arc starboard. The galley rounded the snaking corner and plunged deeper into the dark jungle. The broad river narrowed. Sagging trees weighed down by time and heavy vines spider-webbing across their branches made for obscuring walls of foliage along the dark shore. Standing in defiance of the current, a stone pillar painted green with algae and pitted from eons of weathering stood ten feet out of the water. 

“We’re getting close.” The captain whispered to the man beside him.   

A pair of gray-green eyes looked up from underneath a wide brimmed hat as Roland Borak’s attention shifted from oiling the internal mechanisms of his experimental weapon to the partially submerged obelisk and the image engraved on it. The small crew went about their duties, but Roland’s party all stopped whatever they’d been doing to stave off boredom and cast investigating glances at the red stone.

“A marker?” Roland asked.

The captain nodded, “Of sorts. But the antiquarians I brought here a month ago said it was a warning. A border.”

“For what?”

“When you find them, you can ask.”

As the galley approached, the engraving grew more distinct. Carved deep enough that not even heavy weathering of ages faded the bizarre likeness etched into it, the scene depicted some creature beneath the water. Wolf-like in the head and body, clear depictions of hands and a long, seemingly prehensile tail lent it more to simian features. The end of the tail, which he presumed stuck out of the water, was missing. Time and the unyielding growth of vines chipped away at the stone from all angles and the top of the mural was an unfortunate victim of such a process.

“Any idea what that’s supposed to be?”

The captain shrugged, “I have traveled this river since boyhood and never seen the likes of such a creature as depicted there. This part of the river holds many myths of peculiar beasts ready to pounce on unwary boatmen. Most end up being nothing more than exaggerated tales of the great constricting serpents or a stonehead fish of unusual size. The river holds too many real dangers for me to cower over the long forgotten superstitions of whatever peoples erected such a glyph,” a teasing smile pulled at his features, “You’re not getting nervous, are you?”

“I’ve hunted my fair share of river monsters and superstitions hardly concern me. But this team you’ve assembled… I don’t much care for strangers at my back on missions such as these, much less animals.”

He cut his eyes to the gray wolf still peering over the bow. He’d have sworn it was part dog, seeing its gentleness around the captain’s young deckhand. Besides its master, that was the only other person it ever neared. But for all its domesticated behavior, its size dispelled any idea of its bloodline being tainted.

“You know how those druid folk are.” The captain said, “I haven’t seen one of them without some kind of beastie, be it bird of critter, always following at their heels. Besides, I figured a wolf’s nose would be an asset in tracking down my missing antiquarians.”

“You’ve never hunted wolf before. A beast like that is wasted in the service of a halfling. He should be hunting in some snowy forest, not panting to death in this humid heat… Magnificent isn’t he? His head would look remarkable hanging in my study. But, perhaps he’ll be of use as you say, though you’d hardly need a wolf’s sense of smell to find a group of treasure hunting Dwarfs.”

“I’ve worked with them before. Their goals are mostly academic. Of course, their expeditions need funding, and they can be persuaded to part with the occasional artifact to continue their endeavors, but half of them are scribes, dedicated to filling scrolls more than their own pockets.”

“What about him?”

Roland gestured to a tall man dressed in durably made but suspiciously clean clothes nonchalantly leaned against the railing, one hand on the hilt of his ornate rapier, the other meticulously curling his immaculate blonde mustache. His otherwise handsome features sullied by a terrible scar, a horizontal stroke of pink spanning almost the whole length of his face, even over the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, a treasure hunter to be sure, but Lord Atticus is probably the best swordsman this far down the coast. I made it clear, we’re looking for dwarfs, not treasure, but he insisted on seeing the ruins for himself. He’s got the wanderlust in him, like another noble type I know.”

Roland huffed, “In the unlikely chance any fighting is to be done, Gwyn and Argos are more than capable of dealing with any trouble.”

“I know you three work together, but with the money I had left over to hire rescuers, I thought it best to get my coin’s worth of steel. Its a long trip after all and I’d hate to have to come back a third time.”

“Left over?”

“Right. The halfling is doing this for free. With a you and a free wolf to track, I thought one more sword couldn’t hurt.”

Suspicious eyes studied the halfling. Towards the middle of the deck sat Argos, his dwarf friend, and the halfling stranger, Wallace Winterwood, playing some type of dice game atop of a crate. The halfling was a gentlemanly type, wearing sturdy clothes of once fine make and earthy color, but discolored hand-stitched patches revealed their heavy wear. The wooden pipe he ceaselessly smoked seemed the only thing on his person kept in any order. With a roll of the dice, Argos laughed off his defeat and took a deep swig from his gourd.

The captain chuckled, “I don’t think he’s won a single game since we left.”

“What inspires such charity from Winterwood? Does he know any of the missing?”

“No. But he’d come here in search of the same ruins as them. He volunteered his services for a chance to investigate them himself.”

“So, you put someone in our party who’s top priority isn’t rescuing your antiquarians?”

“I made the nature of our mission clear. He’s a kindhearted fellow, he’ll fall in line before he gives you any trouble.”

Roland sighed and cast a hopeful glance to Gwyn. The centaur stood opposite lord Atticus, sharpening her spear between ever vigilant glances at the shore. Her broad but supple shoulders carried a resting strength in their subtle movements her simple linen shirt couldn’t hide. He relaxed, whatever opposed them would have to face the unyielding fury she’d wrought on many a foe when she donned her plate mail.

Several hours more they traveled upstream until, across the river, the trees cleared away and revealed a dark sandy beach.

“This is it,” the captain spoke loud enough for all to hear, “This is where they made camp. Prepare yourselves, I’ll take us in.”

He leaned on the helm and the galley drifted to port. As they crossed the widest part of the river a startled yell rang out from below deck, followed by the loud snapping of wood and thrashing water. Fragments of the shattered oar cartwheeled through the air, flinging splinters on the deck.

Lord Atticus jumped off the rail, his rapier half drawn as he spun to investigate. Hooves sliding on the wooden deck almost sent Gwyn overboard as she rushed to defend borders. Roland, opened his rifle’s breech, and sprang to his feet. He rushed to Gwyn’s side. Practiced fingers pulled a brass cartridge out of his bandoleer, loaded it, and cocked the hammer before lining his sights on the thrashing thing in the water.

Over twenty feet long, the bony fish chomped at another oar. Black stripes and ocher skin flashed as its swept back tail heaved the creature’s blunt head at the side of the boat. With a head carved of reddish brown rock, it opened its jaws to reveal not teeth, but shearing plates of jagged bone. The oars retracted with muffled curses of shock from the crew below as the beast rammed the galley. The impact almost caused Roland to fire before his sights were properly aligned. He saved the shot but had to reset. Gwyn muttered curses, her spear unable to reach the creature from the main deck. The whistle of an arrow sailed by Roland and would have pierced the fish had its thrashing head not intercepted the bolt. The arrow glanced harmlessly off the bony face.”

“Damn stonehead.” The captain growled, fumbling to notch another arrow.

Roland squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell and the earsplitting crack of his rifle filled the air with smoke as it deafened the sounds of the jungle. The lead projectile sank into its cartilaginous back, just below the dorsal fin. The creature flinched, turned from its rampage, and swam off, its wake growing fainter as is returned to deeper waters.

“What did I tell you, Roland. Unusual size and all that.”

Roland’s thumb flicked open the breech and a smoking casing ejected onto the deck. He nudged Gwyn with an elbow, “I’ll let you have the next one.”

Standing at half a head taller than him, she didn’t struggle talking over to the captain, “Any chance it will attack again?”

The captain shrugged, “Maybe. They’re an aggressive breed. But the hole in his back and nothing for his troubles but a mouthful of wood might dull his eagerness.”

Gwyn continued scanning the water and the captain shouted an order for his young apprentice, Kopa, to take the helm before disappearing below deck to check on the crew and potential damage. The boy, no older than sixteen, unclasped his ears and ran to his new station, smiling as he passed Roland. The wolf trotted behind the boy, its tail and ears down as it followed. It widened its path as it passed him. Curious yellow eyes glanced at his rifle then briefly met his.

Roland smiled at it, “You’ve nothing to fear from me, sir wolf. I’ve bagged my fair share of your kind and I’m looking forward to getting to hunt with you for a change.”

The wolf slowly bobbed its head as it walked away, and for a moment Roland thought it nodded.

When the captain returned, from making sure the boat was in good order, they made for shore. Gwyn donned her armor and was the first one off the boat. Her spear in one hand and an intricately carved, but heavily scarred round shield slung over her shoulder as she strode down the gangplank. Argos was next. The dwarf carried little more than his pack and his long axe. Not the broad headed choppers kind his kind are known for, but his had a taller, thinner haft, and a smaller, but just as deadly, blade. Lord Atticus jumped off the gangplank, tying his best not to soil his boots. Winterwood and his beast followed, his pack loaded onto the wolf’s back with a special harness made custom for it. Winterwood rode a top his bag until they got to shore, then dismounted. A whittling knife on his belt and a crooked branch of a staff in his hand made him an even lighter traveler than Argos.

Something about seeing such a noble creature as a wolf being used as a common pack animal bothered Roland, but he dismissed the thought, readied his pack and finished oiling his three blades; a brass-hilted saber, a large single-edged hunting knife, and the small spare he kept inside his boot. He loaded his rifle, but didn’t draw the hammer back. Four cartridges stayed looped in his bandoleer while the other fifteen hung in a waxed canvas pouch at his hip, safe from any moisture. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Roland set off after the others with the captain, Kopa, and two armed crewmen behind.

The camp was deserted, and had been for some time. Set in a clearing, too close to the river, stood six large tents around a central fire place, all dilapidated, one on the end, half collapsed from neglected guy lines. Water from any number of rains since the dwarfs went missing, pooled on loose tent roofs, having long washed away any evidence of their whereabouts. Equipment and half dissolved parchment lay strewn about the site.

Roland squatted by the main fire pit, stepping over several wooden plates and eating utensils. The kettle tripod lay collapsed on its side, the kettle and chain missing. His hand inspected the moist charred wood. The ground was damp and the ash had begun to melt into the soil below.

The tread of sandaled feet behind him told him the speaker’s identity before the hardy voice.

“What do you think, Roland?”

“Hard to be precise with the rain, but I’d say over a week.”

“I could have told you that. From the time they missed their check in to the time it took the captain to organize this little excursion and get us here was over a week itself. They’re awful close to the shore. You think some beastie could have carried them off?”

“There are quite a few reptiles swimming in that river that could have perhaps made off with a few maybe, but not all twelve. They would have moved camp if they were being preyed upon by the river.”

“Maybe they did?”

“Then they would have taken their camp, don’t you think?”

Gwyn strode up beside them, “They were attacked.” Her spear pointed to the refuse scattered about, “and ransacked.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Ransacked.” Roland nodded, “but not attacked. At least, not here.”

She raised an eyebrow, “What do you see?”

“It’s what I don’t see. Call it a hunch, but I don’t see any signs of a struggle. This site’s only battle has been against the elements. Whoever ransacked it did it at their leisure. Let’s check inside the tents and see if there’s any clue that hasn’t been erased by the rain and see if anything is missing.”

“I didn’t pack for them,” chuckled Argos. “How would I know if anything is missing?”

Roland gestured to the kettle stand, “I see wooden utensils, but I’ve yet to see the pots, kettles, or pans that usually accompany them.”

Roland relayed his theory to the captain and the party split up to investigate. The first two tents were sleeping quarters, one was supplies, and the other three were filled with tables of stone relics waiting to be archived. Roland and the captain took the nearly collapsed supply tent while the others formed loose groups and each picked their own tent. Roland spotted the Kopa following the halfling and the wolf into one of the barrack tents.

“Wouldn’t the boy be safer on the boat?”

“If anything were to happen, I’d rather he be with your party than with my deckhands.”

“Distance can be a far stronger armor than steel plate.”

“Assuming something happens here and not on my boat.”

Roland scanned through the crates. Many were opened with a pry bar that was nowhere to be seen, but others were smashed apart. Packing straw and splintered wood littered the floor. But not much else. It wasn’t until he looked into the other tents that he confirmed his suspicion. Most of the tools were gone. The only ones remaining were odd measuring devices. They were interrupted when a large wolf’s head poked through the tent flap. It turned and huffed.

“That one.”

They heard the halfling say from outside as hurried footsteps soon brought him and another to the entrance of the tent.

“Kopa found something I thought you should see.” Winterwood said, the boy standing behind him.

Roland and the captain followed them back to another tent, one filled with cots. Kopa hurried ahead and pointed at the discovery. Roland knelt by the faded footprint next to one of the cots. Its four clawed toes spoke to a reptilian or even bird-like countenance, but not wholly animal. The others didn’t notice, but Roland detected the imprint of a heel as well. Larger, but not completely dissimilar to a man’s.

The eager boy knelt beside him, “What is it?”

“The print is too old. Some kind of reptile… maybe. Could be any number of creature stumbling in from the jungle to investigate… Good find, boy. Many people would have missed this.”

Kopa’s eyes brightened.  

When they all met up to discuss their findings, only Argos seemed excited to present an unopened bottle of strong mead as if it were a real clue. Lord Atticus stepped forward with a diary, its final entry spoke of the ongoing excavation at a place referred to as ‘the idol site’. That turned out to be the only relevant clue discovered among the party and after little deliberation, they decided to part with the captain and search on foot from here. Then the captain announced that it was about time they earn their fees before wishing them all good fortune and gesturing Kopa back to the ship. The boy smiled at them, thanked Winterwood for something, then petted the wolf’s great head. The beast grew uncomfortable, but tolerated it. Roland shook his head, amused that the boy, born in this jungle land, thought of the wolf as little more than a big dog.

The captain and his crew returned to the boat, and the party started their trek into the jungle. The trail wasn’t hard to find. With axe and boot, the dwarfs had carved a narrow path through the jungle, the diary telling of a several hours walk to the idol site. But even a week of inactivity was enough time for the jungle roots to begin their reclamation. Tall twisting trees with mossy, vine-wrapped trunks reached skyward. Their uppermost parts obscured by the shorter, wider trees with tendril-like branches growing in outward gasps like the stiff fingers of a dead man. The noonday sun illuminated the leaves above in a sinister sea of shambling green legion. The sheer density of the canopy blotted out most direct sunlight, enabling a terrible humid fog ripe with biting insects, both flying and creeping from limbs, waiting to fall on unsuspecting travelers.  

Roland took point, scanning the trail for clues before they were lost under the clumsy feet of his party. Behind him Gwyn’s eyes scanned as much as his, but hers were looking for threats, not the subtle bends of foliage that told stories of animals hunting. Argos took a swig from his gourd. His carefree stride just keeping pace with the cautious centaur. Lord Atticus followed behind them, struggling with the abundance of insects. The halfling and his wolf took up the rear.

Roland frowned. He’d met a few individuals steeped in the nature magics, and while impressive as any other mage, they often lived secluded lives surrounded by nothing but forestry and wild animals. They often grew detached and struggled in group settings. Winterwood was no different. The halfling sat atop the wolf, struggling to light his pipe with the beast’s trotting gait.

“Winterwood,” Roland called, “Your beast would be of more use up here, scenting the trail. Perhaps save the smoke for when we break camp.”

The wolf looked back, awaiting its master’s command. The halfling nodded, and the wolf trotted passed the others. It slowed as it came alongside Roland, carefully matching his pace.

“Marlow,” said the halfling.

“Pardon?”

“The wolf. His name is Marlow.”

“Noted… You practice the magic of nature, yes?”

“I dabble.”

“This jungle, what does it say to you?”

“Before this, I lived and honed my craft in forests at the foot of snowy mountains. This is the first I’ve ever stepped foot in a jungle, hunter. She speaks to me, but with word and accent so foreign, I can’t understand. I’m still learning her voice, but I feel her life, enough that I’m sure I can channel my magic through her. But she whispers other things to me, words I can’t make out, but their meaning is felt as much as understood.”

“What do you feel?”

The halfling packed his pipe away and looked up into the vine riddled canopy of green oppression.

“This jungle is ancient and she carries ancient wounds of a dark sort. I fear those wounds never healed properly. When I hear her, I hear dread.”

Roland nodded, “Good to know I wasn’t the only one… What brings you this far from your wood?”

“Hope and rumors.”

“I don’t think you’ll find hope here, but what kind of rumor possessed you to join our party?”

“We’re searching for something. I heard rumor of a relic. Tales of a magic ring with transformative properties. We saw an opportunity to perhaps do good and it just so happened to be going our direction.”

“Really?” Roland didn’t try to hide his disappointment, “You, a common treasure hunter? I didn’t expect a druid folk to go traipsing off half way across the continent just to chase rumors of magic trinkets… If there even is such a ring like the one you’re after, the damned thing is probably cursed.”

Winterwood straitened, “I’m not looking for treasure, I’m looking for a solution…”

The wolf’s ears sank.

Winterwood stroked its head with a comforting hand, then continued. “Besides, like you’re any better. Their trophies are gold and glory, yours are skulls and facsimiled corpses of noble creatures slain to satisfy your ego. Tell me, hunter, what game brought you to this part of the world?”

“Currently, I’m hunting dwarf. And those noble creatures you hold in such high esteem would likely rend you limb from limb given half a chance.”

“Beasts only kill out of defense and necessity. What you do is-”

“We both know that’s not true. Nature is cruel and often malicious. The great bears of your wood have no need or reason to fear such puny things as us, but even with full bellies, that won’t stop them from slaughtering most anything unfortunate enough to cross their paths. What I do, I do because I enjoy nature as much as you. The difference between us is that I take some of it back home to mount on my wall.”

The wolf huffed as if amused.

Winterwood withdrew his hand, scowling, “Something funny, Marlow? Perhaps I’ll let the good hunter have his fun after all?” The halfling turned his attention back to Roland, “How much of a head start do you think we should give him?”

“We?”

“Yes, I think, just this once, I might be persuaded to embrace your philosophy.”

The wolf let out a series of gnarled growls that made the halfling snicker and continue to pet him. “This is nothing like the forest you grew up in. You wouldn’t make it a day, running from the good hunter.”

Roland smiled, “This hunter’s name is Roland.”

“I know who you are, sir Borak. We nearly me once. I missed you by two days. It was a couple years back, but you helped Marlow’s village run off a wolf pack that’d grew too bold. You were all the locals could talk about when I came to visit. The livestock was saved by the great hunter with a booming staff like magic… I don’t much care for your kind, sir Borak, but so long as you’re putting your skills too noble use, I don’t see any reason for conflict between us.”

“Agreed… Did you say ‘Marlow’s village’? He couldn’t have been more than a pup back then; I hope I didn’t shoot his parents.”

“Don’t worry, Roland. It wasn’t you that got his parents…”

With the passing day, the sun’s influence ebbed in the midafternoon. Shadows lurched and slithered out from the trees as darkness settled over the lush green like a haunting smoke. While most of his companions could see far better than Roland in the dark, it was only him and the druid who felt the subtle change in the jungle’s attitude. A change brought on from more than just the dark clouds sweeping in from the south, bringing with them static energy that saturated the air and warned of rain. The two shared uneasy looks but said nothing. Both feeling as if the jungle itself was conspiring against them.

Rolling clouds rustled the treetops with a gentle breeze. The wolf froze, bringing the whole party to a halt. Its ears sprang up as it began scenting the air. It whispered a growl and Wallace dismounted.

“Marlow?”

The wolf turned and sniffed Argos’ robes. The dwarf held his mead over his head, away from the intrusive black nose.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Argos laughed, “Find your own, doggy.”

Marlow snorted twice then began scenting again. He turned to Wallace and huffed.

“Are you sure?” Wallace asked.

To Roland’s amazement the wolf nodded, but before he could form a response, Wallace turned to him.

“He smells dwarf ahead.”

Roland met Marlow’s gaze, seeing for the first time, an uncanny intelligence gleaming in those yellow eyes. He gestured the wolf forward.

“Lead the way.”

Marlow glanced at Wallace. The halfling nodded, and the wolf took off down the trail. A gray phantom gliding across the uneven surface of an ever-darkening world. Roland kept the beast in sight as best he could, but the low sun slowed his steps with caution. Gwyn overtook him in a racket of pounding hooves and clanking armor, followed quickly by Argos’s silent strides. Wallace, deprived of his mount, struggled to keep pace alongside Roland, which left Lord Atticus maintaining his position in the back.

Roland smelled the river before he heard it, but once that thunderous hum reached his ears, it was only a short sprint before the trail spat them out by a large clearing on the river. Dark water speed along its eternal path. That was when they heard the cry for help.

It wasn’t one of his party, but the terror it carried sent a chill down his spine. Gwyn and Argos continued forward, towards the river’s rocky shore, but the wolf didn’t move. Marlow stood, frozen in place, terrified yellow eyes peering vacantly ahead.

“Help!”

The cry, same as before, sounded from behind the shore’s curve, this time followed by a large splash.

As Roland sped by, Marlow caught him by the shorts and almost caught a buttstock between the eyes for his trouble.

“Wallace, call your beast off-”

Marlow let go, barked to Wallace, and ran off after the others.

The halfling caught up to Roland.

“He said to stay back. Something isn’t right.”

Roland’s eyes widened with shame as the realization dawned on him. What he’d originally mistaken for terror in the voice, wasn’t the raw emotion that set teeth on edge, but the uncanny imitation of it. Both cries were the same. Identical. Not cries at all, but mimicries of one. Roland unslung his rifle, checked to make sure it was loaded, and ran off after his team, who were disappearing behind a bend in the river. 

The cry was brief, but the accent was unmistakably dwarvish. Argos took a burning swig from his gourd and dashed towards it. Gwyn kept pace until the red shore turned rocky and uneven. There her hooves worked against her. Argos’ time as a sailor taught him surefootedness along such jagged and algae-slicked stones. His feet only found the stable dry spots as he glided over the shore. The cry rang out again followed by loud splash. White knuckles curled around his axe as he rounded the bend. The splash hadn’t been the end of the noise. Water churned as a single grasping hand rose, thrashing from the river. Argos didn’t slow until the water came up to his waist. Then he trudged through the green murk. Water, sullied by silt kicked up from the struggle, lapped at his chest. With a final stride he reached the drowning dwarf and took his hand. So focused on the rescue that he didn’t hear another injured dwarf emerge from the trees, shouting at him to get out of the water.

The hand grabbed him by the wrist with a grip so tight, he arched in pain. Then the hand shimmered and changed. In the motion of thrashing, he’d been sure it was smooth flesh he reached for, but now, a coarse brown-black hair unfurled revealing a bestial hand more akin to a bugbear’s than any dwarf’s. With a tug that almost dislocated his shoulder, he disappeared beneath the murk.

His axe was useless underwater. Brawny muscles strained against the unseen force pulling him deeper into the river. Unable to hit the hand shaking him violently, he tucked the haft under his arm and plunged his axe head into the river’s sandy bottom. It sank deep into the sediment until finally catching on a buried rock. It stopped his decent long enough for him to whip his head back, desperately trying for another breath. Just as his head was about to break the surface, a titanic pull ripped him back beneath the water. The jolting pain knocked the air from his lungs. His body burned for air. He heard a splash behind him and a pair of teeth sank into the back of his belt. His descent slowed, but the strain on his arm made his tendons threaten surrender. Oxygen deprived lungs and muscles panicked as they sensed imminent failure. A gauntleted hand grabbed him. Wolf and centaur slowly overcame his foe. Argos’ head breached the surface and tried to fill empty lungs while wanting to scream at the pain of being half quartered by friends and foe.

With her free hand, Gwyn hurled her spear at a disturbance in the water some fifteen feet away. The spear plunged into the surface almost a foot before sticking out of the unseen shape below. Argos felt the grip on him loosen ever slightly. The loud crack from Roland’s rifle rang across the river as a lead ball kicked up a thin column of water next to Gwyn’s spear. The monster’s hand released him. The wolf and Gwyn nearly collapsed from the sudden release. The hand rose out of the water and, to their shock, it was attached to no arm, at least not the kind they’d expected. Covered in smooth otter-like fur was a curling tentacle, tipped with the deceptive lure. The hand grabbed the spear and hurled it back. Gwyn barely got her shield up in time before her own weapon sank deep into the wood. The wolf continued pulling him to shore as Gwyn, drawling her arming sword, covered their escape.

The wolf didn’t stop until they were under the shade of trees, some forty feet from the shore, before releasing him. Argos collapsed. Heavy breaths lifted his chest while his numb arms hung at his side. As his breathing steadied his vision cleared. Two dumbfounded yellow eyes hovered over him. He tried to pet his savior, but his arms were unresponsive. With a quick explosion of energy, Argos sat up just enough to kiss the wolf’s black nose before collapsing back onto the grassy earth. The beast recoiled and Argos smiled.

“Good boy.”

Roland kept his rifle ready as he sprinted towards Argos. A glance told him his friend wasn’t seriously injured, but it never hurt to confirm.

“Argos?”

A thumb lifted on one of his hands and Roland took that as confirmation of his wellness.

He tipped his hat to the wolf and passed Gwyn.

“Excellent work as always, deary.”

“My armor is soaked.” She growled, her eyes never leaving the river, “When it starts rusting, I’m going to make him scrub it to a mirror polish.”

“That’ll be difficult with blued armor.”

“How unfortunate for him.”

Roland continued passed his friends and approached the dwarf who’d rushed out of the trees to warn them. Her blistered feet showed early signs of infection and what was left of her khaki uniform dangled off in mud-stained ribbons. Hair that had once been the color of fire was a sullied mess of tangled twigs and leaves held on by caked dirt and dried blood.

“Stay away from the river. It lives in the river-” she shook and repeated the phrases several more times, paying no attention to Roland’s approach.

“You’re safe now, we’ve come to rescue you. Where are the others?”

Eyes wide with fear, but glazed with exhaustion stared through his.

“We’re not safe. It’s still out there, and they’re hunting me.”

Roland handed her his canteen, “Who’s hunting you?”

She snatched it from him and guzzled the clear liquid, spilling half of it down her chin.

About a hundred feet further down the shore, a dark creature burst out from the jungle and onto the river bank. Hunched as it was, it stood over six feet tall. Its tail swaying with each lumbering step towards them. Yellow-green eyes narrowed slit pupils from under a mask made from some other great horned reptile’s skull. Clad in a fine silk loincloth and ornate copper harness, the lizardman’s chest swelled, before throwing its head back with a deep, bellowing, howl. The jungle erupted with answering bellows, all much closer than Roland would’ve liked. Its snout murmured arcane words from a long-forgotten language and bones tied to the end of the creature’s rough-hewn staff rattled their warning. Its black scales seemed to grow darker in the ghastly hue cast by its staff.

The dwarf pointed a hopeless finger.

“The worshippers of the god with three hands…”