“Y’know what you need?” Grelin doesn’t even look up from the tankard he’s polishing, his heavy brow so deep I can barely even see his eyes under the thick hair, even from my angle. I’m perched on the stool at the bar but I still have to prop myself up with both elbows so I can get to my drink in the first place. This place ain’t really built for the shorter races, I noticed. Then again, human-owned places don’t tend to be. I’ve learned to make do.

I watch him for a long moment before answering, my mug hovering close to my lips in both hands since I was about to take a sip. “Daresay you’re gonna tell me, so why don’tcha just get on with it?”

Now he lifts his chin and fixes his eye on me. Only one of them works, mind – he’s blind in the right, much o’ that side of his face mangled by some pretty nasty scars, a rebellion souvenir I suspect he’s come to regret in the years since. Makes him damn intimidating, mind. Old man Grelin’s a tough son of a bitch I wouldn’t want to fuck with if you paid me to, even if that is what I get paid for in the first place. Not that I’d take this contract anyway, he’s my friend.

His look’s unreadable as ever. Even without the scars, doubt he’d ever be a particularly expressive man, the most I even think I might glean from that face is a little more testiness in light of my words, but even that’s a real small thing. We’ve never had any problems in the past, I doubt my own frustration’s going to change it now. He knows well enough what we’re putting up with right now.

“You need yourself some outside help. Like you said, the local guard ain’t shit, an’ you’re outta leads. Not that you would’ve had many to start with, mind. So you might wanna try some other source instead.”

Raising my mug again with both hands, I take a deep pull of ale without taking my eyes off his own once. I swallow, lick my lips and just watch him for a few beats before I speak again. “Grel, what the fuck are you on about?”

No answer, he simply lets out a deep sigh as he gives the tankard one last wipe and pulls the cloth out before setting both under the bar. Planting both hands on the bar to lean forward he make the whole thing creak subtly as he flexes his shoulders, which bunch up bigger than ever. He’s one of the biggest, most powerful-looking humans I ever come across, impressive and intimidating in equal measure as only a former soldier can be. But somehow this doesn’t feel like a threat, I seen him do this enough times to know he’s only getting comfortable. “You pray much, Thel?”

That makes me blink. I look left to Dumoli, who’s paused with his own mug right in front of his mouth, watching me close now. Then right to Brung, who’s just crouched on his own stool, too short to both sit there and set his own mugful on the bar, so he has to compromise. Right now he’s got his claws dangling between his knees, bright eyes glowing from under his hood as he watches me too. Both clearly curious as to what I’m about to say, I imagine.

“When I got to. Thorin, mostly. I’m a fighter, can’t really help it when shit goes off.”

“There’s more to religion than a little divine support in battle, lass.” He reaches under the collar of his shirt, draws something out on a thong from round his neck. A small jumble of medallions, maybe half a dozen looks like, all dangling together on the same line. They all seem to be pretty cheap, made of brass and simple steel, looks like. There’s the hammer and sword of Thorin the Stormlord, the spoked sun of Helios, even the crescent moon of Serena, but others I don’t immediately recognise. One might be the black raven of the death goddess Corvina, the thought of which makes me a little uncomfortable in present circumstances. “You need help in other times, sometimes it’s good to ask for it.”

“Grel, you honestly reckon we’re gonna find the solution for this by talking to a god? None of ‘em are apt to answer in a crisis, far as I know, ‘least not in any way you can recognise. There’s times it’s hard to even believe they really are out there, wherever they are.”

Letting the jumble of medallions settle over his chest, Grelin cocks his head to look down at me from a fresh angle. He’s still wearing his unreadable, heavy-browed frown, lips pursed under his thick, grizzled salt and pepper moustache and beard like always. “I know you seen enough crazy shit to know that ain’t true.”

“You mean clerics? The undead? Blessings and curses like that don’t mean shit, that’s all just magic same as what wizards an’ druids an’ the rest do. More dressed up, maybe, but still magic. Just cuz a priest or healer can string some mumbo jumbo together an’ something happens don’t prove it’s down to a god.”

“Then why d’you pray to Thorin in the first place?”

Frowning, I raise my mug to my lips again. “Hedging my bets, maybe? Better safe than sorry, the kind of shit we faced over the years.” I take another swig, unable to meet his eyes now knowing I don’t really believe that any more than he thinks I do. Grelin can see right through me right now.

“Y’know how that all works though, right? Thorin don’t take sides in a fight, if you’re gonna win you will, same for the poor bastard whose day it is to die. You don’t go to Valhalla cuz you prayed for it, you go cuz Thorin reckons you fought your best, an’ you died well. Valkyries collect you regardless o’ your beliefs.”

“What you trying to say, then, Grel?” I put the mug down a little more forcefully than intended, but if he notices he don’t show it. “You reckon there’s no point in it, then? So what’s all this talk o’ prayer?”

“I’m just saying a part o’ you gets there’s more to this than just what you can see, Thel. Maybe you should try listening to it once in a while.”

“Like now, you mean? I should talk to Thorin about this? You just said he don’t take sides in a fight, and he’s the god of war. What we’re stuck in now ain’t even his wheelhouse. Why’d he be any more willing to get mixed up in this than that?”

Grelin smiles now, and it’s a little shocking like always. His teeth ain’t too pretty, especially after he got half his face stoved in with a mace trying to take a breech when he was in his twenties. There’s a reason he keeps his facial hair thick as he can. “When did I say Thorin was your answer? There’s other gods out there ‘sides him, remember?”

Again I look to Dumoli and Brung before turning back, judging their reactions. I know Du’s as casual a follower of Thorin as I am, but he’s always had more solid faith in him that the gods really are out there than me. Brung, on the other hand, never talks about it, and I never had the nerve to ask him. Not sure I want to know what kind of gods goblins worship, if they follow any religion at all. “Like who?”

“This whole problem you got, ain’t something you can just punch your way out of, is it? This is a mystery, so you gotta think your way out of it. Which ain’t great, cuz that ain’t exactly one o’ your great strengths, is it?”

“Hey. Are you calling me stupid?”

“Not at all. I know you’re smart enough, you been through some hairy shit you needed brains to fight your way out of well as brawn. But you ain’t trained for this kinda thing, so you’re floundering, cuz you ain’t got a clue where to go now the small handful of ideas you had turned out to be useless. What you been doing with yourselves these last two days?”

“Wracking our brains.” I growl under my breath, turning back to Dumoli, who just looks into his beer after taking a deep pull that must pretty much empty the mug.

Damn it, Grelin’s right. We ain’t suited to this. When we got into the mercenary game it was all about using our muscles and our blades, the few times we really had to stretch our brains at all’s when we came up again some extra smart crew o’ bandits or some more esoteric threat on the road. This is an investigation, like something the townsguard are supposed to be getting on with. Except they’re shit right now because we don’t have a first bloody clue which we can even trust. Truth is we’re proper clueless right now.

“Okay, so which god’s good for this shit, then?”

Grelin watches me for a long moment, then finally reaches up, fiddling with his medallions for a few moments as he seems to be checking through them purely by touch. Finally he plucks one free from the jumble, raising it in front of him.

It’s the only one of the bunch looks like it might actually be worth something, because this piece is silver. It’s a very stylised face, fashioned in the likeness of a wide-eyed owl, feathers shaped like horns giving it a somewhat intimidating visage. It takes me a few moments to work out who this is supposed to represent. “Is that Minerva?”

“Your best bet right now. That’s what I reckon.”

Hmmm … I don’t know about that. Never had a whole lot of use for the gods, even my relationship with Thorin, tangential as it might ultimately be, has been an uneasy one. There’s a substantial pantheon worshipped throughout Rundao, and even more further south in Abharet and elsewhere, and I only even know some of ‘em by name alone, never mind having any real knowledge about what they do or why. Minerva’s little more than a name to me, tell the truth. “You’re sure about that?”

“She’s goddess o’ knowledge and wisdom. You’re on an investigation right now, she’s the patron you want. A lot o’ the townsguard investigators put their trust in her much as Mithra or Rao, cuz she helps ‘em think.”

“Yeah, but … praying to her, I mean, how do we know that’d be any better’n appealing to Thorin? Is she more of a hands-on goddess for her worshippers?”

Grelin thinks about it for a moment, finally just shrugs. “I really couldn’t say, but I ain’t never seen any evidence of it. Couldn’t hurt, mind.” He cocks his head, thoughtful for a moment. “Hers is one o’ the biggest temples in the Round, if you’re interested. Be a good place to start. Besides, there’s more to her’n just helping you be smart.”

“Really?” I can’t keep the dubious tone out of my voice as I cock my brow. “How so?”

“Who’s Minerva the patron goddess of?”

That rings a bell actually, now I think about it. About the only other thing I know about her, other than her having a love and affinity for owls, is that she’s long been the patron of … yeah. I get it now. “The Silver Order? How’s that any better? I thought they just policed magic stuff.”

“Well, that ain’t strictly accurate. Sure, that’s their big thing, but them Order wizards as are always goin’ from place to place don’t tend to restrict ‘emselves just to solving supernatural problems. They’ll help anybody in need’s not getting any help from anyone else, just like clerics. Given the local help ain’t doin’ shit for you right now, might be your best next move.”

I turn to Dumoli again, find him stroking his chin whiskers in that absent way he does when he gets particularly thoughtful. “What d’you reckon?”

“Might work.” He looks my way now. “How about you?”

“Never worked with any of ‘em myself, so I couldn’t judge. You?”

“A couple times, before you came along. Security, mostly, kind of like we do now, but for higher stakes. Generally if any of their folk need our kind of help means they’re going up against something pretty nasty.”

“Liches, mutants, warlocks.” Brung growls “Shit like that.”

Thinking it over, I take another pull on my beer, emptying my mug almost without even noticing until I’ve set it down on the bar. “Does actually sound like a smart idea. How do we get hold of ‘em, though?”

“Minerva’s patron o’ the Order, so they maintain a presence in her temples. Should be one or two in the local, after all this is what they’re there for in the first place.” Grelin picks my mug up. “And now you’re all o’ you officially cut off for the day.”

Du and I both start protesting at once, but Brung just sits where he is, like he don’t care one way or the other. Through it all Grelin just stands there, my empty mug in his hand, calm and cool and unflinching as a boulder. “You done?” he finally asks.

“C’mon Grel …”

“No, really. You got shit to do, and I won’t have you lot moping round here anymore. You been sitting here two days now, just thinking and drinking and doing nothing. I’m sick of it. Now you can go to some other pub and drown your sorrows there, or you can get yourselves to that temple in the Round now you got something resembling an alternative plan, but you ain’t welcome here anymore. Not today. I don’t wanna see you three again until tomorrow night at least. You hear me?”

I give Dumoli a look and he rolls his eyes, but nods along all the same, and I have to admit he’s right. “Yeah, sure.” Scowling a little, I hop down from my stool and then start to collect myself, giving the others a chance to finish their own drinks. Brung takes a few moments longer than he really has to, but it just gives me time to retrieve my coat from where I’d hung it over my stool and pull it on before slipping my battleaxe into place across my back.

He's got a good point, anyway. After that freak encounter across the river the other evening, we’ve been coasting simply because we ain’t had the first bloody clue what else to do. Fair enough, we know somebody wants us dead, and it’s clearly got something to do with what we’re looking into, but we don’t have a clue what to make of it beyond that, or how to use the information to move forward. So we just settled in that night in Grelin’s tavern, the Free King, and started drinking. Then, when we got up the following day, we came back to try and work out our next move, but when we drew a blank we just got to drinking again. From that point on guess it just turned into a self-defeating cycle. So here we are.

Putting his mug on the bar, Brung doesn’t so much hop down as just stand up on the stool itself, then turns to Grelin for a moment before tipping him a nod from under his hood which the grizzled old vet behind the bar returns. Now he hops down to the floor, cocking his head towards the door. “Time to go.” He starts walking without bothering to confirm we’re even coming with him.

Turning back to Dumoli, I fix him with a pointed look before nodding to the bar. He just stares back at me, frowning for a long moment before scowling a little as he realises I’m not budging on it, then fishes in his pocket for a moment. “Your round next then, damn it.” He growls as he tosses the handful of coins onto the bar before dragging his hammer up from the floor beside his stool and swinging it up onto his shoulder.

“Reckon we drunk enough for a day or two now, don’t you?” I turn back to Grelin, giving him my own nod, which he returns with the subtlest smile just showing through his facial hair before collecting the other mugs along with mine. As he turns to dump them all in the wash basin behind him I take that to be it with our interaction, so I just follow Brung to the door.

It's still day out, but not by much, the sun already down behind the lines of the buildings in the west, which means it’s likely already starting to go down, so the sky’s a beautiful gradient of dramatic colours right now. The shadows are deep and heavy, light already fading fast down here in the tight crush of buildings, and so there’s plenty of places to hide out there right now as we step out. We’ve been going slower today than we did yesterday, but even if lunch soaked up some o’ the alcohol there’s enough in us I’m still dulled, and I reckon Dumoli’s feeling it too. We ain’t drunk, but we’re definitely buzzed, and that’ll make us slower and less aware than I’d like right now. Given what happened the other day it’s probably not a good state to be in.

Least Brung’s still pretty sober, but then he never drinks a whole lot, and I get the impression what he does drink don’t have a whole lot of an effect on him most of the time. Maybe it’s just a goblin thing, but whatever it is, he’s definitely the sharpest of us right now. As I turn to him he’s already looking round, noting all the shadows, though with his eyesight he can likely see as well in them now as at noon. “You got anything?”

“Doubt it.” He doesn’t turn back to me, just keeps scanning. Doesn’t making me any more comfortable. “Lot to smell, mind. Throws me off.”

That’d be about right, really. It’s still early enough there’s plenty of folk out here right now, some going to work for the night, more still coming off their own shifts and looking for a drink. We’re quick to vacate the entrance to the Free King so we don’t get battered about in the jostle of folk wanting to get in there now, but there’s still room enough to gather ourselves.

“Well, if there’s anybody out there, doubt they’re gonna make it so easy on us after last time.” I consider flipping my own hood up, but it doesn’t seem particularly important right now. We’re in relatively safe company right now, considering, Brung’s own hiding in plain sight mostly just playing it safe. So I leave mine down, and Du seems happy to do the same. “Still early. What d’you reckon?”

Dumoli turns to me, and he seems there enough, I reckon. He considers for a moment, letting his hammer thump onto the decking of the entrance porch. “The Round, you mean?” He thinks a little more, likely calculating distance and time, finally looking to the sky westward, growing increasingly red with each beat that’s louder in my ears than I’d like. “Ten minutes’ walk, it’s close enough. We’ve got time.” He cocks a brow. “That’s not what you mean, though. Is it?”

“How’s your head?” I give my own a little shake, which clears it a bit, but it also makes my hair tumble into my face and I have to shove it out again best as I can. “Damn it.”

“It’ll serve, I think.” He swings his hammer back up to rest across his shoulder, and it makes him sway a little before he’s quite got his balance. “Um … more or less.”

“Safe enough.” Brung growls, turning to me. From my height I can barely make out the glow of his stare from under the brim of his hood. “I’m sober.” The way he says it’s so matter-of-fact it’s almost enough to convince me we’re safe.

Even so, I take another look round all the same. Across the street there’s the usual handful of Tektehran troopers, just like always. Grelin’s never made any great efforts to hide that he’s a veteran from before the Occupation, and opening a tavern called the Free King could be called a middle finger to our militant hosts. They never been subtle about the fact they’re keeping an eye on this place, there’s always two or three troopers camped out across the street, as much to make a point as anything else.

Might even be the same three guys, I couldn’t really be sure. They all look the same, never lifting those anonymous visors of theirs so how’d we ever know in the first place? That being said, they’re more casual than most o’ the Terrors I seen over the years, two of ‘em just slouching against the storefront they long since appropriated as their observation post, the third sat between. This one leans forward with gauntleted hands dangling between his knees, and all three look unusually chill with their ubiquitous shields and halberds propped against the wall beside them. They might be watching us, or focused on the pub in general, I can’t tell with that weird smoked glass. I don’t feel watched right now, though.

“Sod it.” I turn away from them, instead taking a moment to check over my gear. Everything seems to be in place, but I still find myself being overly attentive, maybe overcompensating due to mild intoxication. “Might as well head to the Round. Temples are s’posed to be open all the time, right?”

“Are they?” Dumoli frowns. “I wouldn’t know.”

I frown back. “I’m sure they are. Gods are, like … omnipotent, ain’t they? That means they should be up all the time, so that means temples never close either.”

Du turns to Brung, who might as well be an oyster given how he just stares back. “You convinced by that reasoning?”

Looking back at him, I turn a little too fast and there’s maybe a moment where my head swims just a touch. I give my head another little shake and it sets my hair loose again. “Either that or we find another pub an’ call it a day.” This time I take a breath first, more gentle as I brush my bangs out the way. “We got ourselves a lead, Du. Okay, maybe not a lead, but a chance at one, maybe. Which d’you prefer?”

“What, between a lead or a chance, or …” He blinks. “Oh, right. Um …” Looking down, he thinks for a moment, leaning a little to his right and almost going down as his hammer starts to unbalance him a little. He catches himself in time, don’t seem rattled by it. “Hmmm … well it has been pretty frustrating of late … fuck it, might as well. If we strike out, we can just find another tavern nearby.”

“That’s … well, that’s kinda the spirit.” I start heading up the street. “C’mon then.”

“Thel?” Du’s call brings me up short, and I turn back.

“The Round’s that way, remember?” He points the other way down the street, looking a little sheepish about it.

Ah … yeah, so it is. I take another deep breath and compose myself well as I can as I turn all the way back round and start after them. “Not. A word.” I growl with as much warning as I can muster as I pass Du, who remains blessedly silent as he falls into steady enough step behind me. Brung’s already cutting ahead of us through the modest crowd.

In truth, being outside is making me feel a little better. The air down here in the relatively tight streets of this urban warren may not be much fresher than in the tavern, but it’s cooler in the growing gloom and there’s a bit of a breeze somehow filtering in from the coast that’s surprisingly soothing. After a few minutes I feel my head starting to clear, at least enough I don’t have to concentrate so much on keeping my gait steady anymore. I chance a look back at Dumoli and he’s lumbering along comfortably enough, so I suspect he's feeling better too.

Something flickers on my left as I’m turning back and I almost stumble in my surprise. As it is I come to a rather clumsy halt, casting about in the direction, but the alley I’m now facing seems clear. I squint a little even though this doesn’t really do anything to improve my nightvision, but turn up nothing. I take a deep breath and turn back to the street.

“Thel?” Du’s at my side before I realise it, and when I turn back to him he’s looking into the alley himself. “You seem … spooked.”

“Jumping at shadows is all.” I mutter mostly to myself, not entirely sure I believe it, and slap him on the shoulder. “C’mon, time’s burning.” As I start walking again my right hand comes to rest on the corresponding handaxe on my hip without conscious thought, and I start looking round in earnest as I move now.

Nothing else happens to us on the way to the Round, so when we finally cross the wider thoroughfare to find the tall arch gaping ahead I finally start to relax. Brung hasn’t turned once since he started walking, which should’ve been reassurance enough to me, but I reckon the alcohol still swimming through me must’ve been making me a little more paranoid than usual. “Okay, guess we’re good then.”

“If you say so.” Dumoli mutters, looking off to the right with a deep frown on his face.

Starting to admonish him, I stop short and turn to follow his gaze, down the thoroughfare in the direction of the docks. There’s two young kids stood maybe twenty paces away, just watching us, right there in the middle of the road. There’s little traffic here now, most normal business seems to have called it for the day now so while there’s a few carts making their way most have already long departed this stretch of road now, and those on foot are thinning too. These kids stand out some.

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“Huh … what d’you make of that?”

“Honestly?” Du scratches his chin whiskers, seeming a little wearier than usual. “They creep me out.”

“Yeah, me too.” I take a step back, start to turn a slow circle, taking my surroundings in now. This thoroughfare’s one of the more dominant business lines in this quarter, so there’s lots of stores, hostelries, eateries and businesses operating here. Some are still open, and are likely to stay open until the small hours, a few not closing at all. But the majority are already closed, or at least in the process of shutting down for the day, so there’s bustle, but a different kind, more relaxed. Most everybody I see’s busy with something, but there are a few …

Yeah, more children. A couple more have stopped just inside the side street we just come out of, and more gathered round us as I turn. Another pair roughly in the same place as the others in the opposite direction, three more stood nearby, just outside a bakery that’s currently being shuttered. You’d almost think they were the kids of the family who owned the place if it wasn’t for the way they’re watching us.

All of ‘em, the whole bunch, are staring at us in the exact same way. Quiet, thoughtful, not threatening but somehow it don’t feel friendly either. No, they’re not a threat themselves, that’s clear enough. It’s more that … I don’t know, it’s hard to get a grip on. More a feeling than anything else. They’re here for something, or because of something. Or both. I don’t know. They’re keeping track of us, I reckon. Question is, why?

“I don’t like this, Thel.” Dumoli’s not readying his hammer yet, but his offhand rests on the shaft of his hammer now, like he’s thinking about it. “I’m starting to rethink this plan.”

“We’re right outside, Du.” I start to sidestep the way we were originally heading, keeping my eyes on the nearest group. “Let’s just get to the temple, then we can think about our next move. Nobody’s dumb enough to fuck about in the Round, are they?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” he mutters, leaving his offhand where it is as he backsteps after me, watchful as I’m being. I got a feeling he’s sobering up fast right now, because I’m getting there myself. Adrenaline has a tendency to do that, at least in the short term.

Brung’s waiting just inside the tunnel as we enter the archway in the perimeter wall. As the gloom falls more fully around us his eyes blaze brighter than they have all day in the deep shadow of his hood, and they’re fixed on me. “Something up?”

“Maybe.” I idly brush my hair aside again as I take in our surroundings. The usual collection of beggars are sat along the walls on both sides, a few looking our ways in hesitant hope but most resigned to just go with whatever comes. There’ll be more inside, no doubt, trying to play on the sympathies of the pious, for whatever good that might do. “Those kids … you didn’t say anything.”

“Been on us since yesterday. Didn’t seem pressing.”

That makes me blink, and I give him a long, wary look. Brung’s our friend, he wouldn’t set us up for anything, he’s in this as much as we are. But still, I’m surprised he’s been so quiet about that.

“Ain’t first time, Thel.” The subtlest tilt in his head, it could almost be considered a quizzical look if his face had changed at all. “Been followed before.”

“Maybe, but … like this?”

He pauses for a long moment, maybe thinking. No way to be sure with him. “This is … unusual.”

“Gods’ sake, Brung.” I breathe, turning back. The kids who must’ve been following us are still stood where they were, just inside the shadow of the side street. Eyes still locked on us.

Turning my back again, I walk on down the tunnel, right past Brung as he turns to watch me go by. A few of the beggars make half-hearted pleas for a coin or two, whatever I can spare to help a broken veteran or a sick man or woman. I find myself patting my pockets, looking for change, but stop myself. No time for this, not right now. Maybe after, if it turns out this has all just been a big waste of our time and there’s no threat after all …

The Gods’ Round is something like a tiny walled city within Untermer itself, six of these arched tunnels granting entrance to a clustered maze of temples to the gods that patronise those who call the port city home and the thousands more who pass through every year. There are dozens of buildings dotted throughout, the larger temples surrounded by clusters of smaller shrines, while lesser deities are more often served by open air vendors operating out of kiosks lining the main wall or the makeshift streets. The whole clutter, however, forms a rough crescent around an open stretch of ground given over to a ramshackle market that tends to the faithful’s worldly needs as much as the wares their own gods peddle. As we step out into the open again it spreads out before us, although by this time it’s a mere shadow of its usual busy self.

Just like the rest of the city, most of the daytime business has gone its own way by now, and most of the stalls already closed and stripped for the night, the few that remain already well into the process of following suit. What’s mostly left is cluttered lines of wooden frames, some with ratty curtains folded away over the top but most stripped bare. There’s something desolate about it like this, but my attention’s mostly focused on the grander, more permanent structures rising beyond. There are smaller temples and shrines dotted throughout the rest of the city, but most are outposts of these various headquarters. If the gods are truly anywhere in Untermer, it’s probably here.

One more time, I turn back the way we’ve come, and what I see this time stops me short. The others turn to me after a moment, clearly picking up on my own surprise, and finally Dumoli asks: “What?”

The kids are gone, or at least that’s what it looks like. None of ‘em followed us in, and I can still make out the side street across from the far end of the tunnel given how good the light out there is, and the pair who were there seem to be gone too. Not sure if that’s a good sign or real bad.

“Huh.” Du frowns. “Well that’s …”

“Yeah, I don’t like it either.” I give him a vague thump on the shoulder as I turn back. “Keep an eye out.”

Brung doesn’t seem to need prompting, he’s flexing his claws now as he turns a slow circle while moving ahead, likely looking for threats. If any of us are gonna pick up on anything first it’ll be him, but after our recent exchange I find myself wondering how forthcoming he’s being right now. “Brung, you got anything?”

“Place still stinks of people. Stuff. Too much smell.”

“Shit.” I mutter under my breath, flexing my own hands now, itchy as I turn my own slow circle while still moving vaguely in the direction of the temples. In the back of my mind I’m thinking I’ve only been here a few times in the past and never to any specific temple, I don’t have the first bloody clue where we’re actually going now. But right now we need to clear the market, so I’m going to concentrate on that.

Furtive movement on the right grabs my attention and I tense right up, grabbing my right handaxe and preparing to draw while I’m still turning. A body runs for the wall, laden with goods, and I freeze as I realise it’s a teenage boy, one of the vendors clearly, moving to the bow-backed carthorses that are being tended by a grizzled man who’s clearly his father. No cart, the goods are being loaded right onto the horses’ backs. Just poor folk trying to get by, and I damn near killed one of ‘em. Get it together Thel, stop overcompensating.

Given it’s such an open space, with the empty stalls spreading out around us as we pick our way through it feels strangely confined right now. Skeletal as the frames might be, it’s still hard to see too far through the clutter, and now I’m realising if anyone wanted to sneak up on us in here it wouldn’t be so hard for them as I would’ve thought. So I leave my hand where it is as I start moving again.

“Look lively.” Brung growls when we’re maybe halfway across the market, now thick into one of the winding paths through the jumble. I stop dead again and cast about, and I’m not long getting what he’s on about – there’s more movement on either side, and not more of those vendors, least not so far as I can tell. Truth is, they’re not trying very hard at all to hide.

More furtive movement catches my attention on the left, and while some of it’s clearly more whoever, stalking away, a little further on I spot more market vendors hustling away, a little more panicked now. Reading the scene and wanting to be far away whenever what’s about to go down happens, no doubt. As I look a human girl no more than thirteen fumbles a small stack of crates and spills half her load, and as she stoops to retrieve the wreckage her mother tells her to leave it and just get on, rushing to finish her own packing too. Just as I catch my first clear look at who’s flanking us.

Most are still making a clear, concerted effort to hide in the relatively plain sight of the stalls, but a few are moving into position a little more casually now I’m looking. They’re still holding back for now, letting the rest take up closer positions, I reckon, and don’t seem bothered about us seeing their approach. Not a good sign in itself, but worse that I recognise them so quickly, after a fashion.

That same all-black stealth gear I recognise from the other day, although now they clearly learned their lesson since our first encounter because there’s real armour under the cloaks and hoods now. Some leather, but there’s tougher pieces in the mix too, some sporting additional pieces of steel plate and mail. They ain’t fucking round now.

And there’s Wolf Mask, right there in the mix. I swear he sees me spotting him and maybe he actually smiles under the mask, I can’t quite tell. Prick.

They’re already drawn, too. Knives and handaxes and more than a few swords ready for a fight. Some o’ the ones holding back are carrying shortbows as well, although none of them are nocked yet, at least. But the implication’s enough to give me pause.

Holding out my hand, I check Du’s progress as I draw to my own halt, slipping my right handaxe free in the process. Ahead of me, Brung’s already come to a stop, taking in our plight with a good deal more detachment as he shoves his hood off and shrugs his cloak back to free up his shoulders before drawing the shortsword from his back almost like an afterthought. As he turns he peaks over his shoulder at me, and there’s a subtle quirk to his brow as he growls: “That time again?”

Fuck … I don’t like these odds at all. Last time we were outnumbered but they underestimated us, didn’t think we’d just come right out the gate swinging before they were ready. Even though I can’t tell how many there are it’s definitely plenty more this time, and they ain’t fucking round this time, they know full well what they’re facing now. They’re not interested in giving us any chances this time. We’re sitting ducks.

“Brung, Du …” I barely whisper it under my breath. “I think we’re gonna die.”

Dumoli takes a look round, hammer in his hands now, and suddenly he looks a good deal more sober than he did just five minutes ago. Takes me a moment to realise I’m feeling a lot tighter now too, but likely it’s just the adrenaline. Can’t imagine that’s going to last too long. “Not a bad day for it, all things considered.” he muses after a moment.

I almost snap a retort to that, like he doesn’t get it, but I realise it’s fatalist bravado as much as anything else. He can see we’re in deep shit as well as I can, so he’s just getting ready to meet his fate well as he can. Maybe I should prepare myself accordingly too. So I take a deep breath, offering up a simple prayer to Thorin to watch over me in the next moments if he will, and take me if it comes to it, which is likely. Then I slip my other handaxe free and turn back to face Wolf Mask again.

There’s no way I can get to him. He’s too far away, and there’s no clear, direct line between me and him. No chance I’ll make it. But I’m going to try all the same. I want to wipe that smug smile off that face, I swear. Even if I have to die trying, which I know I will.

Thorin take me, Valhalla feels like a good enough trade-off if you’ll just let me reach that bastard before I go down. Giving both axes a little flourish, I start to smile, and maybe, just for a moment, his own starts to falter, just a little.

More movement, on both sides, just in the corners of my vision. Whoever they are, they’re closing in, ready for a strike, but still hiding themselves impressively well. They’re close now, reckon they’re almost ready to spring. We’re down to seconds now.

To hell with it then … “Du?”

“Aye?”

“Kill something.” I haven’t taken my eyes off Wolf Mask the whole time, and as I start running I keep track of him the best I can as I plot my clearest path to him. Somewhere in the distance of my attention as I start moving I hear a scuffling footfalls and a winded grunt accompanied by a dull bony crunch I can only imagine is Du smashing his first attacker in the ribs with his hammer. Closer there’s more of those quick feet closing fast, and again through the corners of my eyes I just barely spot low, quick figures in black whipping towards me and I know I won’t make it to my target.

Something comes shrieking in low just over my head and some wary part o’ me just overrides everything else as I duck on pure instinct, dropping into a roll as I go down, and as I start to wheel round on my landing I take in my nearest would-be attacker. Not that it’s such an accurate description now – they’re flying back through the air like they been hit by a small but terrifyingly accurate catapult, but as I focus while things are suddenly so slow I realise they’re impaled on an impossibly long black arrow. Never seen any arrow hit with this kind of force though, they’re flung back they disintegrate one of the skeletal stalls in a cloud of dust and splinters. I’d stop dead in my tracks to gawk if another figure didn’t start rushing my other side as my instincts start screaming at me again and my muscles reflexively tense.

They duck and weave as they charge me, and maybe that’s enough to throw off the unseen archer’s aim but I suspect it’s mere luck that makes the next arrow whistle a bare inch past their hooded head. They’re no taller than me, and leaner, so the simple blade in their hands is large enough to seem like a longsword as they swing it at me. Stepping in to intercept them as they come, I duck left at the last so their swing goes a little wide and hack my right handaxe across to jam it aside a little harder, hoping this’ll be enough to unbalance ‘em as I lunge with my offhand axe.

Instead they duck hard into a dive along with my driving momentum and my own chopping swing misses their head, instead ricocheting from a steel pauldron under their cloak that makes my hand buzz, and I’m unbalanced. I growl an oath under my breath and do the only thing I can, picking up my feet to turn my stumble into a spring to the side, and it’s barely enough to keep from getting impaled as they come back round on me with a tight, well-practiced lunge. I swing wild with my offhand and barely batter their counter away as I dance in a clumsy circle round them, trying to open some distance as I fight to recover my composure.

Damn, they’re good, whoever this fighter is, they’re a lot better than I would’ve expected. We got lucky before, we caught ‘em by surprise so they had no chance to respond, but it’s becoming immediately, alarmingly clear to me that taking these folk on in a straight fight is gonna be a bad idea.

Well, any chances of survival we might have ain’t getting any better, so whether we live or die we have to work with what we got. I feint right and whip down and left at the last, hoping, to catch my opponent napping, but they don’t quite fall for it, countering my true attack in time to turn it away and making me stumble awkwardly aside as they push me away. They’re already countering, and I just stop thinking about what I’m doing now as I just let the fight tell me what to do as I try to get out of this quick as I can. So as they bring their swing round to cut into my side I twist into it and turn my own swing up, battering it aside and whipping into a spin as I go, bringing my other axe round fast and hard as I can as I move.

Somehow it works, they’re open enough to expose their head and shoulders to me on the backswing and I drive the blade home with all the force I can muster so it bites deep into the crook of both neck and shoulder. The hook of the beard sinks deep and the blade cleaves a wide groove deep through the tissue of their upper back, and as their legs turn to jelly they’re driven to their knees from the force of the strike. It takes me a beat to steady myself so I’m not pulled over as they start to fold, and in that moment the reality of my current battlefield catches up with me.

The second attacker’s on top o’ me almost before I realise, a pair of shortswords in either hand, one lunging right in, intent on skewering me high in my side while I’m still dealing with my first kill. I don’t even have time to shuck the axe free from the gushing wound, I barely have enough to slip my hand from the tether in order to let go so I can duck the thrust. Now I’m down a weapon and I got a fresh opponent already rounding on me, so I dance back a few steps to open up space enough to gimme time to prepare for the next attack, reaching under my cloak with my now free right hand. No more handaxes, so I go for my longest knife, lamenting the fact there’s no time to just ditch the spare and unsling my battleaxe. Twelve inches of sharp, well-made steel will have to do instead.

They’re taller than the last one, heavier too, looks like, but with lighter armour, I think. Might be there’s enough trade-off to work with if I play this right. Depends how good they are. Amber eyes, might be green skin under the hood, can’t quite tell in this light. Might be a half-orc. Strong, then, but I’m strong too. Still have to be quick, though, so I don’t give ‘em time to plan their next move, I just charge with a deep growl.

As I come their eyes widen a little, telling me I caught ‘em by surprise, but they’re quick enough reacting. Not so slick as my last opponent, though – this time when I feint left they fall for it, so when I whip back right they’re exposed and I swat their offhand sword aside with the axe before they can recover. By this point I’m deep inside their reach and the height difference between us is negligible enough I only have to reach up a little to ram all twelve inches of knife blade up under their arm. I give it a little twist before I withdraw to open the wound a little more and as they stumble aside trying to clear space I’m already doing the same, and while I dance on sure feet they swerve like a drunkard now. The wound’s gushing, the artery badly severed and their time before unconsciousness numbers less than a minute. They’re already dead when they start to realise they’re in trouble.

I chance a quick look round, tensing the whole time in case I’m about to take a blade in the back as I turn, but there’s no immediate threat right on top o’ me. Dumoli’s laid two … no, three down in the time I been engaged, and is currently moving on through the maze while trading blows with another one significantly taller than him. Even so, he’s driving them back hard with his massive hammer, while their own longsword gets battered away with each attempted block. Brung’s nowhere to be seen, but a few bodies close by that don’t have more of those inexplicable black arrows through ‘em look very much like his handiwork.

Then something else that gives me a breath-length’s pause, I can’t help straightening up seeing it. There’s others in here fighting the black-clad, hooded figures now, seeming to have claimed their own kills too. One I’d almost mistake for one of them if not for the fact they’re fighting against the ones sharing their dress-sense, but the others … yeah, they’re definitely some other group. What they’re here for I don’t know, but I appreciate the help.

There’s a woman, one of the biggest human women I’ve ever seen, looks like she’s made of muscle but she’s fast with it too. Mostly dressed in leather, but it’s raw brown buckskin rather than black, a pair of loose, baggy britches tucked into tall, strappy boots and a short tunic under a heavy duster coat that doesn’t slow her down in the slightest. Her skin’s almost as dark brown as her buckskins too, looks like she might’ve come from somewhere deep in the south of Abharet, although her face and neck have plenty of white scars that mark her as a born fighter. Her hair’s a wild, choppy jet black mess o’ curls that looks like it might’ve been a mohawk but the undercut’s grown in enough to get shaggy as the rest now, but it sure don’t seem to bother her now. As I watch she lays one of the black-clad attackers down with a savage stroke from the scariest bastard sword I ever seen, then cuts another down in a quick recovered slash before they have the chance to capitalise on any distraction. Fuck … whoever she is, she’s lethal.

The one that could’ve passed for one of our attackers is significantly smaller, lean and lithe and impossibly agile, seeming to move with such unbelievable speed and grace I can’t catch every movement. It takes me a few more beats to process exactly what I’m looking at while they run one of the hoods through with a slender longsword, the kind o’ precision lunge I only seen executed once or twice in my life before. Then I catch a good enough glimpse under their hood to make out their face and realise why they move so well.

You don’t see that many bakaneko in Rundao, they’re more common further south in Abharet. I’ve known a few in my time, and they’re all very nimble and usually full of energy, like they know in their bones they don’t live that long compared to some other races so they’re born to make the most of the time they have. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes, some more fierce and ferocious looking than others, mostly dependent on the cat they take after, and I met a couple in my time who were big and sort of scary, although they were really just cuddly sweethearts. This one’s definitely one of the smaller ones, shaggy silver furred with black stripes and the brightest green eyes I ever seen.

Thieves Guild, I reckon. Watching them for a moment more I make the connection at last. Maybe it’s the superior quality of their well-tailored black leather armour, liberally strapped up with a variety of wicked looking blades, that suggests a prowler rather than a lowly pickpocket or simple burglar. The big woman, on the other hand … no, she’s not Guild, in truth she looks like she’s in the same line of work we are. Means they’re sellswords, fellow mercs. Which makes me wonder what the hell they’re doing here.

It's the third one in the group that really gives me pause. Half-elf, looks like – their ears are more subtly pointed, least what I can see with their curly black bobbed mop flying about as they fight with a slender metal staff with a white crystal mounted in its flanged top. They’re almost as tall and lean as their staff, their pale, pearlescent features fine-boned and fragile but as strikingly beautiful as their full pink lips and big, impossibly blue eyes. They’re dressed in an interesting mix of dark kid and light grey suede leather travel clothes and a thick, layered wool robe-coat that’s mostly white but picked out in patterns of rich silver silk that I’m way quicker recognising. This one’s got to be Silver Order. A wizard, currently swinging about with impressive skill with their staff as they lay each successive foe down with a selection of deft, agile moves, and I can see they got a sword strapped to their hip too. If they’re Order, they’re one of the wandering types who go round doing good wherever they need to, and seeing this is enough to finally put me at ease with their current company.

Well, whoever they are they came along at just the right time, and suddenly those arrows make a lick more sense, like one of ‘em is scary good with a really powerful bow as they cover the rest from somewhere. Not one to check a gift horse’s teeth, I finally take a moment to clean my blades on the cloak of my last kill and stow ‘em, then retrieve and do the same with my lost axe. Then I throw my own cloak aside to access the catch on my harness, thumbing it loose so I can finally drag my battlaxe free. I take a moment to heft the heavy, long-shafted weapon in my hands and give it an experimental swing, pleased to find my hands still deft enough for the task at hand as I turn back to where I last saw Wolf Mask …

Just as another hood comes charging at me, eyes widening as they realise I’m paying enough attention to react before they can catch me napping. I step back as they rush in swinging their own handaxe, a shortsword in the other hand, and plant my feet, timing my response well as I can in the time I got. The swing comes and I duck it, already winding up as I shift my feet and powering the broad, long-hooked beard of my axe’s head hard into the side of their ribcage before they can correct their charge.

Blood splashes me as my axe doesn’t so much pierce their chest as rupture it, and they stop dead with a breathless wheeze as their eyes goggle wider than ever. Their shortsword clatters on the floor while their axe drops to dangle from the tether on their wrist, legs giving out after another beat as they start to slump. I let them drop and step aside, letting their momentum help me as I twist the shaft and shuck my battleaxe free, leaving the body to flop over onto its side as I straighten up again.

There’s only one more hood in my vicinity when I look up again, and they’re already starting to back-peddle after seeing me fell their companion so effortlessly. Granted, my look right now probably doesn’t help, and I let it work for me as I fix them with a stare and heft my axe again, squaring my shoulders. “Your choice, mate. What’s it gonna be?”

Sheathing his knife, they let the axe drop on its tether and put their hands up as they back away more purposefully. “Cool, cool … you win.” Two more steps and they break, turning to run for the wall. They ain’t alone, there’s more running now, and I reckon I see Wolf Mask among ‘em, already close to the tunnel we came in through. The fight’s already pretty much over, a lot are dead and most of the rest fleeing, we could just let them go right now. But I want that smarmy little prick, so I start running before I can really think about it …

Making for the archway’s not so easy as I would’ve thought, we’re still in the middle of a wooden maze that makes it hard to keep a straight line and maintain my eye on my target. Then I find a relatively clear spot and come across what I thought was a bunch more folk in the middle of a ruckus until I finally get a proper look at it and almost stop dead on the spot … I heard about golems, but I never actually seen one before, and I’ll admit there’s a moment I’m first looking when I think I might just be looking at an ogre until I see its face as it turns some of the hoods into messy red smears. It’s too smooth, too simplistic in its form, maybe, it’s more like a really big, simplistic suit of dull grey plate armour moving round on its own, but it’s clearly been modelled on an ogre – the way the arms are so long compared to the legs, the shoulders impossibly broad, and no neck, the head just sprouting right out the top of its immensely wide chest. It’s the eyes that clinch it, though, two blazing red coals in a face that’s almost entirely featureless.

It's not fighting alone either, there’s two more strange warriors backing it up even though the golem could clearly annihilate every threat in this place singlehanded. One’s short but stocky enough to be a dwarf, but soon as I get a look at their face I know they sure ain’t one – tengu, I never met one before but I know enough to recognise one. The head of a giant crow sprouts from their collar, shiny black beak and sharp dark eyes and glossy black feathers. They’re dressed in what I could almost mistake for a priest’s robes, picked out in black and grey, if they weren’t cut for ease of movement and a certain amount of protection given there’s some thick leather plate in the mix. A cleric, then, and clearly one o’ the more militant ones given how effectively they’re laying opponents low with a silvered warhammer that might actually be bigger than Du’s.

The other one’s a half-orc, a woman, taller than the other merc but also significantly leaner – if it wasn’t for her cool green skin and the subtly pronounced tusks poking out from under her bottom lip I’d mistake her for a half-elf with her smaller pointed ears. She’s very beautiful, I must admit, but in a very fierce way, not least how she fights, whipping about with a subtly curved longsword that looks more like clouded glass than steel. She moves like water, each motion flowing with flawless grace and efficiency that nonetheless clearly has a lot of precise strength behind it. She’s dressed somewhat like the other merc too, but more streamlined and clearly fitted for speed, favouring a lighter buckskin jacket and fitted leather britches tucked into tall boots strapped up past her knees. She keeps her shaggy black hair tied back too, clearly preferring to keep it out of her face as she fights.

As she cuts another one down with a stroke that cleaves their head clean off their shoulders, hood and all, she looks my way as she starts to straighten up, and our eyes lock. Strange eyes for a half-orc, they’re too dark, a rich chestnut brown and there’s a very sharp intelligence in them. She almost seems surprised to see me for a moment, then remembers herself and calls out: “Are you all right?”

“Am I … what?” The question feels so nonsensical in the moment, I don’t know what to think, never mind say.

“Thel!” I hear Dumoli call out to me now, and I can’t help turning back. He’s stood with the big woman now, almost doubled over with his hammer just propped on the floor in front of him as he struggles to collect himself, but it looks like their fight’s already done, much like this one’s already in its final throes. “Thel, it’s done! It’s over!”

No … no, it ain’t. Not for me. I look back to see Wolf Mask’s already made it to the tunnel, he’s racing down it with his few remaining friends in tow. It’s a run, but I might still be able to catch him, and I know now there’s no way I can just let him go. Not without at least trying.

Adjusting my grip on the axe’s shaft as I take it up in my right hand, I start running, mapping out the straightest line I can to get through this mess and reach the tunnel before I run the risk of losing them entirely. I hear Du shout after me again, and more voices now besides, some must belong to these newcomers that so inexplicably came to our aid. I’m thankful, they definitely saved our lives, but I can’t falter now.

That bastard’s mine. I’m gonna get my answers out of him it I have to kill him to do it. Hell, I probably will have to. And I won’t lose any sleep after …