The Illuthar Continent glimmered in an era of unparalleled harmony and affluence, all credited to the sagacious leadership of Illuen D'Harven, the founder of the United Kingdom of Illuthia a mere four years ago.
Barnachia, the country's oldest and largest city, now teemed with over half a million inhabitants. However, the mountainous southern territories of the city remained a prickly thorn in the side of the knights whose duty was to uphold the city's safety. The craggy landscape was a nomadic haven where inhabitants rejected the norms of language, convention, and authority. Thieves' guilds had embedded themselves in the surrounding regions, entwining a web of power that spanned centuries. Furthermore, the region sat distantly from the epicenter of the Kings' Way and uncomfortably near the southeast trade route, making passage treacherous and bandit-infested.
As the duo journeyed through the area, Brad's thoughts meandered through the various challenges the region posed.
The area between the Seven Mountains' southern slope and the Charlatan Mountains, encompassing Barnachia in a broad arc, was notorious for the bandits and thieves that prowled the rough terrain. The knights on patrol themselves christened the place "Knight Damn." The bandits, on the other hand, were identified as "The Burrow" or the "Rescued Burrow."
"This land boasts the highest concentration of nonhumans," Ismeth observed as they rode through the countryside. "Shall we seek solace with the dwarves and indulge in a drink or two?"
Brad's reply was curt. "Have you familiarized yourself with the orders, Ismeth?"
Ismeth shook his head, nonchalantly chewing on a long straw.
"We have been dispatched to prevent a possible clash between a group of halflings and dwarves who are journeying to the town's fair."
"Aha," Ismeth exclaimed, "and now we find ourselves in a dire predicament. Just the two of us against the lot?"
Brad's eyes narrowed. "Do not be absurd. We will be under the command of a knight captain, Byron Stonecold."
Ismeth scoffed. "Double trouble, my dear Brad. The Stonecold captain is renowned for his ironclad heart and fierce temperament. I've heard whispers that his tactics are unconventional. Each man for himself, no camaraderie."
Brad shrugged, unaffected by Ismeth's cynicism. "The reports state that he was officially lamenting the lack of manpower. He demanded at least twenty men to accompany him."
Ismeth cackled, his cynical personality shining through. "Twenty men? What could he possibly do with so many? We could easily handle the halflings and dwarves ourselves. Charge at them on horseback and slice them down. Besides, there will be plenty of ale to go around."
"Enough, Ismeth," Brad reprimanded him sternly. "We must approach this task with utmost care and caution. We do not wish to get into trouble from the outset." Brad continued to caution his companion as they rode on.
Brad and Ismeth rode south to the foothills of the Charlathan Mountains, seeking to broaden their experience after months of training. Along the trade route, they encountered numerous horse-drawn carriages, each packed with merchants seeking fortune in distant lands. However, as they ventured further from the city, patrols grew sparse, and their journey became increasingly perilous.
As their journey neared its end, they stumbled upon a merchant caravan beckoning them with tempting respite, willing to grant the duo a generous pause in exchange for a fleeting protection on their travels. Yet, with utmost courtesy, Brad rebuffed their offers, steadfastly declaring their duty's urgency. Ismeth silently cursed Brad for missing out on a free meal and a chance to rest. From day one, he had observed Brad moving fast to impress the captain and reach their new assignments on time.
As evening approached, they finally departed the main road and made their way southwest towards the settlement, their bodies stiff and weary from the grueling seven-hour ride.
At the entrance of the Paledorn quarter, the southern wing of the Burrow, makeshift huts sprouted like mushrooms in the damp earth. Local kids gazed at the knights with sullen eyes, their whispers laden with hatred and contempt. Ismeth felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering his own youth spent in similar squalor.
"Aha, the thief guilds will know of our arrival before the captain does," Ismeth remarked, gesturing to one of the children who had been whispering and was now running in a particular direction.
Brad strode up to the pointy-eared boy, who still glared at them with suspicion.
"Good day, lad. Do you happen to know where the dwarven party has set up camp?" he inquired in a booming voice.
The boy didn't reply, but remained rooted to the spot.
"I reckon he's deaf," Ismeth remarked with a grin, turning to Brad. Then he bellowed at the little boy, "Are you deaf, you rascal? Answer me!"
The boy's legs trembled with fear as he pointed southward and bolted in the opposite direction.
"They only understand this language, Brad. You'll learn soon enough," Ismeth boasted, puffing out his chest like a peacock.
Brad shrugged, uneasy with the approach but desperate for any lead. The burrow was a labyrinth of treacherous streets and alleys filled with laundry on ropes, and every corner could be a potential ambush point.
"We must not venture too deep into these parts after dark," Brad said grimly. "That boy led us deeper into the slums."
Ahead lay a crossroads and a large crowd was roaring in the distance. Brad quickened his horse's pace and drew his sword, unveiling his shield. Ismeth, taken aback by his partner's sudden action, followed suit and drew his own sword, ready for any danger that lay ahead. In less than half a minute, Brad and Ismeth turned their horses left at the fork in the road and came across a wide plain where carriages were parked.
Among them, dwarves crowded together, forming a barrier with tower shields and round shields. Some of them held big, shiny hammers that glinted menacingly in the light. On the other side of the barrier, halflings carried whatever makeshift weapons they could find: scythes, spears, brooms, and sticks. Both sides were ready to attack, and the air was thick with the sound of chaos and uproar.
Without a moment's hesitation, Brad spurred his steed and positioned himself betwixt the two quarreling factions. The cacophony of clamoring voices and raucous clamor swelled like a tempest, testing Brad's resolve to unravel the tangled predicament. The stout figures of dwarves loomed before him, their tongues loosened by intoxication, rendering their words an unintelligible blur. Undeterred, Brad cautiously endeavored to raise his voice above the bedlam, attempting to bridge the auditory chasm between the disputing groups. Alas, his gentle endeavors proved fruitless, swallowed whole by the relentless turmoil that engulfed the scene.
"Silence!" he finally bellowed, his voice carrying like a lion's roar.
His voice thundered in the ears of the dwarves and halflings, startling everyone, including the horses. A few drunken dwarves stumbled and fell to the ground, while some cowardly halflings turned and ran. Even Ismeth, who had known Brad for three months, was taken aback by the sudden outburst. Brad, holding his horse's bridle tightly, looked like a flamboyant figure as his horse reared up. Finally, the big man had everyone's attention, and he began to speak in a calmer but commanding voice.
"I am Brad Silverhilt, a member of the esteemed Illuen Knighthood. Accompanied by my companion, Ismeth Crimsongale, we have arrived to lend an ear to you. But pray, might someone enlighten us as to the root of this commotion?"
A dwarven figure, standing at Brad's left, stepped forth with a jolly grin. "By the forge, lad, you sound like Demian's Horn of Doom!" he bellowed, his mane of red hair and beard aflame in the flickering torchlight. His brethren soon followed suit, chortling with mirth.
Meanwhile, a halfling, standing to Brad's right, came forward with a scowl etched on his weathered face. "These drunken dwarves have taken our rightful place!" he spat.
"Not at all, half-pint," a dwarf replied, his eyes flashing with a glint of defiance.
"Dwarfs the snot!" retorted one of the halflings.
A volley of race-specific curses was traded back and forth, threatening to rend the crowd apart. Brad, ever the level-headed one, dismounted his steed with practiced ease. With a mighty heave, he lifted a colossal log that lay nearby and hurled it into the fray, cleaving a path between the bickering factions. The log sailed through the air with awe-inspiring force, causing both sides to scatter in terror.
Once the chaos had subsided, the onlookers stared at Brad with a newfound admiration, whispering his name in hushed tones.
Brad narrowed his eyes, selecting a stout dwarf and a small halfling from the agitated crowd. "You," he said, jabbing a finger at the dwarf, "and you," he added, indicating the halfling. "Step forward onto this log."
"From henceforth, these two shall be your spokesmen. Any who dare to speak out of turn will feel the wrath of this mighty trunk upon their noggins. Do we have an accord?" he continued.
The crowd bobbed their heads in agreement.
"Now, what ails thee, dwarf?" Brad queried, his voice level and calm.
"We rented this space fair and square. Those shifty halflings crept in, uninvited," the drunken dwarf slurred.
"Very well," Brad acquiesced with a nod. He shifted his gaze towards the halfling, urging him to deliver his account with brevity. "And you, diminutive halfling, offer a concise and expeditious rendition of events." Brad's cautionary remark stemmed from his awareness of the halflings' penchant for loquaciousness.
"We had this spot first, sir," the halfling explained. "But these drunken oafs came in the night and chased us off into the bog below. Our wagons are now stuck in the mud, and they won't lift a finger to help!" his voice high-pitched and agitated.
"Aye, I understand. And who arranged this rental?" Brad queried.
"Corbin Thinfissle," they chimed in unison, sharing a startled glance.
"Where might we find this Corbin?" Brad asked, his eyes scanning the ramshackle inn to the north.
"Stony-Brokes Inn," they said, pointing to the crude wooden sign that creaked above the entrance.
Brad exchanged a brief nod with his partner, Ismeth, who dismounted reluctantly. "Good folk, hear me now. My compatriot and I shall make for this inn and negotiate with this Corbin Fissle character. The two on this log shall remain put until our return, and no man nor woman shall cross this boundary. Clear?"
"Or…" Ismeth said with a grin and pointed to the log.
The crowd nodded their heads in assent, awed by the commanding presence of these two strangers who bristled with swords at their hips. Brad and Ismeth made their way toward the inn, their footsteps ringing out across the cobblestones.
As they approached the ramshackle building, Ismeth's eyes narrowed in disgust. "So this is the infamous Stony-brokes Inn. A den of filth and depravity," he remarked, flashing a crooked grin and a sly wink at Brad. "I have a feeling there will be trouble here."
Without hesitation, Ismeth pushed open the door and strode inside, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The interior of the inn was just as squalid as its exterior had suggested: dimly lit, with grime-coated walls and a musty odor that made Brad's sensitive nose wrinkle in distaste.
The Stony-Brokes Inn was a dilapidated establishment with a single, lazy eye. Inside, a round bench occupied the center, and four tables were scattered across the room, with a total of fifteen patrons seated. The stairs to the upper floor were situated at the back left corner. The windows were draped with blankets, and the battered door had seen countless repairs. The regulars glanced over at the well-dressed duo, their white cuffed shirts concealed beneath leather armor and hard leather protection plates slung over their thighs. Their dark grey trousers were offset by the hard-soled pig-nosed leather boots that creaked with each step on the frayed, unpolished wooden floors. Their lion-embossed knight crest on their belt buckles was noticed by the watchful eyes. Neither Brad nor Ismeth cared to wear helmets in their daily travels.
When Brad made eye contact with the innkeeper, he gestured to the man, who forced a smile.
"What will you be drinking, gentlemen?" he asked.
"Ismeth will have malt beer," said Ismeth with a grin.
Brad shot him a disapproving look before turning to the innkeeper.
"We are in search of a man named Corbin. Have you seen him around?" Brad asked.
"I don't know any Corbin," the innkeeper replied, hastily handing Ismeth his order.
"What is your name, brother?" Ismeth interrupted.
"Carlo."
"Come closer, Carlo," Ismeth said, looming over the man who stood six inches shorter.
The innkeeper approached timidly.
"Look at me, Carlo. Confess that Corbin is the blond-haired, centipede-eyed guy at the third table from the right, who is staring us down. Or I'll make you sit on this bottle," whispered Ismeth, grinning as he pointed at the table.
The innkeeper shook his head in terror. They made their way towards the table, Ismeth waving the bottle, Brad's hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The table was occupied by four men, two of whom were burly and two who appeared weak.
Brad fixed a steely gaze upon the thinnest but tallest man, his voice as calm as a tranquil sea. "And you must be Corbin," he said coolly.
"Aye, that's me. What of it?" Corbin responded nonchalantly, lounging back in his chair and regarding Brad with an air of smug indifference. He chewed on a wad of tobacco and spat a stream of brown juice onto the floorboards.
"I am Brad Silverhilt, and this is my comrade, Ismeth Crimsongale, of the illustrious Illuen Knights. All of you should do well to remember our names," Brad said, his words dripping with an air of authority. "As for you, Corbin, you are coming with us."
"Why on earth should I accompany you?" Corbin retorted, his voice oozing with insolence.
"There is a company of dwarves and halflings waiting outside, ready to draw swords. You rented the space to both factions. Is this true?" Brad asked.
"What of it? Why should I care?" Corbin replied with a shrug, clearly uninterested.
Brad's patience was tested to its limits; his neck bulged with a taut rage. He advanced toward Corbin, and Ismeth couldn't help but grin. Brad surveyed the inn and took note of the men carrying weapons. Two men at the table wielded daggers, while others held clubs. At the next table, two men with short swords glared at Brad. But no one seemed willing to intervene. The others lowered their heads, avoiding Brad's wrathful gaze.
"Refund one of the crews, Corbin, and you shall never see me again," Brad said, his voice once again even.
"I do not return money to anyone. It's against my fucking principle," Corbin replied with a laugh, accompanied by his cronies.
Brad had endured enough. His patience spent, he seized Corbin by the collar and launched him with a primal roar at the sword-wielding men at the neighboring table. The impact was sudden and shattering, sending both assailants crashing to the ground.
In the heat of battle, Ismeth's quick reflexes saved the day. With a resounding smash, he shattered a glass bottle on the skull of the club-wielding brute nearest to him.
As Brad had foreseen, the other patrons were already making a hasty retreat, fleeing for the safety of the streets.
But the bald man to Corbin's right was not so easily cowed. He lunged at Brad with his club raised high, only to meet the swift retribution of Brad's boot as it collided with his chin. The bald man tumbled backwards, his balance lost, and fell to the floor with a crash. In a heartbeat, Brad was upon him, delivering two, three, four crushing blows to the head until the man lay still and unconscious. Brad claimed the club and stood up, ready for whatever lay ahead.
The fourth man, armed with a deadly dagger, had already begun his attack. Ismeth recognized his skill and agility, but he was more than his match. He drew his sword with a graceful flourish, leapt forward with a wide step, and swung with deadly precision at the man's hand. With a sickening thud, poor man's fingers were severed, and the dagger clattered to the ground. He screamed in agony, clutching his mangled hand like a broken doll, but Ismeth was not finished yet. In a fit of irritation, he grabbed a metal plate from the ground and smashed it into the man's skull, knocking him unconscious in one swift, brutal motion.
One of the swordsmen -who had stumbled and fallen to the ground when Corbin was hurled at them by Brad while sitting at the next table- gathered his senses and scrambled to his feet, unsheathing his sword with a fierce determination. Brad charged towards the swordsman with a club in hand, his muscles tensed and coiled like a predator ready to strike. The shabby-haired man met Brad's first swing with his sword, deflecting the blow with a metallic ring. But Brad was relentless, unleashing a second swing with even greater force and ferocity. Each strike landed with a resounding thud, sending the swordsman staggering backwards, his defense weakening with every passing moment. Despite the thick stick's durability, it was no match for Brad's superhuman strength. With one final swing, the bat was about to break, but the swordsman was already down, defeated by Brad's overwhelming might.
As Brad prepared to strike once more, the man's short sword split the stick in two, drawing a wide arc in the air. Without hesitation, Brad aimed a powerful kick at the hilt of the exposed sword, sending it flying out of the man's hands. Lifting the disarmed foe into the air, Brad delivered a brutal headbutt, breaking the man's nose with a sickening crunch, and rendering him unconscious in an instant.
But danger still lurked nearby, as Corbin had silently snuck up on Brad with a dagger in hand. At the last moment, Brad noticed Corbin and reflexively leaned back, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow. The dagger penetrated Brad's hard leather breastplate, but luckily, his Orion locket provided just enough protection to prevent a fatal wound. Lady Illaine, the High Priestess, had insisted that Brad wear the locket at all times, and he was grateful for her wise counsel.
Ismeth, who was engaged in a confrontation with the swordsman from the adjacent table, seethed with anger at the sight of Brad's wound. Until then, he had been jesting and engaging in playful banter with the man, but now he was swinging his machete with wild abandon. Dazed by the onslaught of Ismeth's blows, the swordsman chose to flee, dropping his weapon and sprinting in the opposite direction. Ismeth's fury only intensified, and he hurled a nearby jug at the man's retreating figure. The clay vessel shattered on impact, and the swordsman crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Meanwhile, Brad had regained his composure and landed a ferocious left hook on Corbin's chin. The blow left Corbin reeling, his jaw likely broken and his head throbbing with pain. Ismeth hurried over to his friend, scooping him up off the ground.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Brad, are you alright?" he asked anxiously, searching for any sign of injury on the big man's chest.
Brad produced a locket from beneath his shirt, revealing a hole in its center where the embossed symbol of the Star of Light had been destroyed.
"I'm alive thanks to Orion," Brad said, his voice a mixture of awe and solemnity.
Ismeth breathed a sigh of relief, his body shaking with laughter and adrenaline. Both men were exhausted, their bodies depleted from the exertion of battle. They sat back-to-back, their breathing gradually slowing as their nerves calmed.
"Don't do that to me again, partner. I nearly shat myself," Ismeth warned, his tone a mix of playful and stern.
Brad grinned, his spirits lifted by the knowledge that he had survived a near-death experience. "Alright, partner," he agreed.
As the knights burst into the inn, Brad and Ismeth quickly gathered themselves and stood up straight, preparing for a stern dressing down from the leader. The knight captain eyed the two with a stern expression.
"You must be the greenhorns sent to me," he stated firmly.
Brad and Ismeth nodded their heads, their postures stiffening as they awaited the impending scolding. The captain surveyed the scene around them, his gaze lingering on the dwarves and halflings scattered on the ground.
"Well done," he remarked with a hint of grudging admiration. "I need tough men who can handle themselves like that. We'll take care of the rest. Come and report to me in the morning."
"Corbin Fisslethin was the one in charge, sir," Brad interjected, pointing to the blond-haired man lying unconscious on the floor. "He rented public land to both dwarves and halflings and deceived them."
The knight captain's eyes narrowed at the mention of the name, his expression growing even colder. "We'll handle it," he stated brusquely. "Now get out of my sight."
As Brad and Ismeth exited the inn, they could hear the cold-eyed captain, Byron Stonecold, laughing heartily under his thick mustache. Accustomed to dealing with the most incompetent men sent his way, the captain seemed positively delighted by the sight of the six vagrants lying unconscious on the ground.
* * *
Mid-autumn had arrived, a time of neither biting cold nor warmth, but with each passing day, the winds grew harsher, turning the leaves of the trees a deep yellow hue, warning of the coming winter.
That evening, Brad and Ismeth had made their way to the Southern Outpost and spent the night in the cramped dormitory. While waiting to appear before the captain the next morning, they surveyed the compound.
The outpost was surrounded by imposing walls made of dark gray brick that towered three meters high. Spear-tipped iron bars, most of them rusted, adorned the top of the walls as a warning to any would-be intruders. The campus consisted of six main buildings, including a grand three-story main building, a two-story dormitory that could accommodate up to fifty people, two warehouses, and two barns. With the exception of the stables, all the exterior bricks of the buildings were made of dark gray granite stone hewn from the Charlatan Mountains. Unfortunately, the training and shooting ranges were in a state of severe disrepair.
Brad had stopped by the warehouse in hopes of finding a pair of chain-mail gloves but had returned empty-handed. With the tacit permission of the slumbering warehouse supervisor sergeant, they had ventured inside and found that most of the warehouse was empty, save for some withered food and moth-eaten clothing.
The two were summoned by Captain Byron Stonecold, and they hurried to the main building. The captain's office was on the second floor, in the largest room with cracked plaster walls. The captain was gazing at the Charlatan Mountains across the wide window, and there was a weak fire burning in the fireplace. Scrolls and reports were piled up everywhere, from the desk to the cabinets, and even above the bed. The captain's aide let Brad and Ismeth in, and they approached the shabby carpet in the middle of the room.
Captain Stonecold gestured for them to stop, and after a few moments of silence that made Ismeth nervous, the captain spoke, still looking outward. "It's not that I didn't enjoy what you did last night. I will not deny that. In fact, you attacked them, according to Corbin. I don't care what that jackal said. I'll be ready to hear your story and your defense shortly, candidates. But first, I must ask you something. Your mission officially began this morning. Why did you not come straight to the station? What business did you have with dwarves and halflings? Why did you go to the inn after that? That's the detail that really intrigues me."
Brad took a step forward, but his partner interrupted. "Ismeth Crimsongale, sir. We did not go directly to separate the two parties' fight, sir. Only, sir, since the order given to us stated that urgent reinforcement was requested, we thought we would check if there was an incident happening at that moment, and also to see if the knights were there. Then the two groups began to argue heatedly. We intervened as a matter of urgency. When we asked why they were arguing, both sides claimed that they had been swindled by a man named Corbin who did not refund their money. When we went to the inn and asked about Corbin, the sleaze bucket pulled a knife directly on us and attacked with his friends. You know the rest, sir. Brad suggested that we go to the station first, but I insisted, sir."
"Brad Silverhilt, is it all true?"
"Partly true, sir. I convinced Ismeth to join me in checking out the inn after we were told about a problem by the dwarves and halflings. As for the fight, sir..." Brad trailed off as the captain lifted his hand to silence him.
"Enough," Captain Stonecold said sharply. "Your report should reflect the facts as you've stated them. Keep it concise, and leave the rest to us. But if you undertake any more unsanctioned raids, I'll have you crawling on your hands and knees. Understood?"
The two candidates nodded in unison, their faces solemn.
The knight captain continued, "The Southern Outpost, or 'Knight Damn,' as some call it, is a wretched place. We're understaffed and underfunded. You'll be helping with the renovations for the time being. During the day, explore the city and meet the townspeople, but do not venture out at night. Remember, you're still candidates. Any off-duty fights could spell the end of your careers. Be cautious and move deliberately. A fast horse can tire quickly. If you want to climb the ranks, avoid making any costly mistakes. That's all for now. Now go find Sergeant Henderson. He'll tell you what to do."
The two young men saluted and left the captain's office.
Brad descended the stairs and asked, "Why did you interrupt, Ismeth?"
"Oh, come on Brad. Is that even a question? I've been accustomed to nosy inquiries since I was a child. Twisting and spinning stories is my specialty. While you protect us in this wild environment, I'll shield us from the superiors. Do we have a deal?"
"So be it," Brad said, shrugging.
Ismeth had already realized that Brad was inherently incapable of lying. Matters such as fabricating covers were not for Brad, who preferred a straightforward approach.
Sergeant Henderson, a bald man with a large belly and a red machete mustache, assigned the duo to the construction business. They were given the task of maintaining all the walls. Scouting the area, they discovered broken bricks and holes the size of rabbit burrows that required repair throughout the station.
"We're screwed, Brad. What do we know about constructing walls?" Ismeth exclaimed.
"You're partly right, Ismeth. Even if we locate granite stones, transporting and processing them will be challenging. If we use makeshift mortar, it will undoubtedly crumble by spring. They've been using that approach for some time now," Brad replied.
"They botched it," Ismeth said, laughing heartily.
After assessing the damage and making some minor repairs, Brad and Ismeth received permission to purchase materials and explore the area, and so they set out for the Burrow. Their first stop was the spot where they had encountered the dwarf and halfling party. To their surprise, the dwarves were still waiting for permission to enter the city fair and had yet to receive any response to their complaints about the paperwork. Brad promised to do his best to assist them, then they moved on to the halflings on the east flank. The poor folk were still struggling to retrieve their cars from the swamp and voiced their grievances to the duo. Brad offered reassurance, telling them that he had a solution in mind and would return soon to help.
Exhausted and famished, the two decided to find an inn to satisfy their hunger. They glanced at the Stony-Broke Inn, but the rundown establishment was clearly not an option after the last night. Riding around for a while, they settled on the Charlatan's Inn, located on the north side of the mountains and half an hour's ride away. Carved into the natural structure of the mountains, the inn boasted a dimly lit interior illuminated by candles in natural niches on the wall. It was a popular stopping point for convoys heading north, bustling with activity but safe due to the presence of two full-time guards who resembled imposing half-giants. The guards, standing over seven feet tall, eyed Brad and Ismeth with a hint of discontent, but Ismeth greeted them warmly nonetheless.
"Brad, I believe these men hail from Dunhar. Just look at their towering size, they are the spawn of the blessed giant ancestors." commented Ismeth. "You oversized minions of Demian," he whispered with disdain. Brad didn't respond, for it was an obvious conclusion.
During the Great Drought, nearly one hundred and fifty years ago, many barbarian tribes from the north migrated to the Illuthar Continent from the Dunhar Continent. After that, Athelllas Adhellen, the last king of the Althar Kingdom, along with most of his descendants, perished from the Great Plague. Legend has it that the king's final words, spoken in his speech to the Northern lords gathered in the Valley of the Kings before his death, were cursed by the three great gods. Barnachia city remained cursed for nearly a century until the One Command Empire, also known as the Three Kings period, began. It lasted about fifteen years until Illuen D'Harven, one of the three kings, expelled the other two and established the United Kingdom of Illuthia.
"I'm quite satiated, Ismeth. How about you?" Ismeth asked, taking a sip of his beer after finishing his rabbit stew.
Brad nodded in agreement as he finished his pork chop and scanned the surroundings.
"The complaints of those dwarves and halflings caught my attention, Ismeth. We should address these issues," Brad said.
"Indeed, our primary concern should be the renovation, Brad," Ismeth replied.
"Every problem requires attention, Ismeth. We must understand the environment to solve the issues effectively," Brad said thoughtfully.
"Then let's expand our circle of allies, Brad," Ismeth said, standing up.
Brad trudged along behind his partner, a sense of reluctance gnawing at his gut. Ismeth led them toward a table at which three dwarves, their clothes and beards coated in dust, sat drinking ale. As Ismeth approached, he gracefully bowed and placed his right hand on his chest, a gesture of respect that the other men mirrored.
"Good fortune to you, fellow miners. Is this a break from labor?" Ismeth inquired, his words carrying a hint of formality.
"Aye, we've been toiling hard and could use some rest and merriment," responded a dwarf with a black beard that contrasted starkly with the snowy white of his hair. Thick waves cascaded from beneath his cap to his broad shoulders. "I am Charagast. These are my companions, Blimestone and Panderthor. And our assistant, Camill Berthans."
"Ismeth Crimsongale of the Illuen Knight. This is my partner, Brad Silverhilt. We're newcomers to these parts and thought it wise to meet our brethren in the mines and share a drink," Ismeth said with a genial smile.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, knights. Come, sit with us," said Charagast, gesturing to the empty chairs around the table.
As they took their seats, Ismeth leaned forward, his tone now earnest. "We are eager to learn about your endeavors. Are you mining granite? Any troubles besetting you?"
"Aye, granite is our business. It's easy enough for us dwarves to extract it from the earth, but transporting it is another matter," replied Charagast.
"What obstacles do you face?" asked Brad, his voice laced with concern.
"Bandits and highwaymen lurk along the roads, preying on those who pass by. Your organization offers us little protection, and thus our expenses rise," Blimestone interjected, his expression darkening.
"You'll outlive me, brother Blimestone," Ismeth said with a wry smile. "But we came here with the intention of aiding our mining brethren. We wondered how we might be of assistance."
"What sort of help could you offer?" asked Panderthor, eyeing the knights with suspicion.
Drawing nearer to the dwarves, Ismeth's expression grew serious. "Brad and I are part of a special team, devoted to ensuring the safety of travelers along the roads. We identify potential threats and devise swift solutions for any dangers we encounter."
The dwarves exchanged looks of uncertainty. The knights appeared strong and able, but what could two individuals achieve?
"Allow me to elaborate, dear dwarven brothers," Ismeth continued after a brief pause. "You'll guide us through your preferred routes, and I'll inform the commander. The two of us shall accompany your cargo through any hazardous regions. But there's a condition."
"What might that be?" inquired Charagast, his curiosity piqued.
"You'll provide us with granite blocks to aid in our station's renovations. As cut bricks, nothing too extravagant. And perhaps you might send a skilled stonemason as well," Ismeth said with a grin.
The dwarves murmured amongst themselves, their beards twitching with suspicion. Ismeth, the self-assured knight, let out a hearty laugh that echoed through the cavernous chamber.
"Aye, it seems we can cooperate," Charagast said, "but I fear our party may need stronger protection. No offense intended, my stout knight."
""Now you have broken my heart, Charagast. Have you not seen Brad? A warrior of formidable strength, I assure thee. Together, we shall make a fearsome duo." replied Ismeth, his voice tinged with conviction.
Charagast scrutinized Brad with a discerning eye. "Well, he's a sturdy fellow, I'll grant ye that."
"Aye, and more than that," Ismeth continued. "Observe those two figures lurking in the shadows, disguised as half-giants."
Charagast peered into the gloom and spied the looming silhouettes of two hulking brutes. "Brothers Char and Dhar, they call themselves. What of them?"
"Brad could defeat them both in combat, single-handedly," Ismeth declared with a smirk.
"Ye exaggerate, brother knight," Charagast protested. "Char and Dhar are the mightiest men I've ever seen. They could crush a boulder with their bare hands."
But Brad, the stoic warrior, had heard enough. He cleared his throat with a warning rumble. Ismeth caught his eye and winked in response.
"Alas, we knights have sworn oaths that forbid us from fighting for sport," Ismeth said with a sly grin. "But fear not, my dwarven friend. I have an idea that may put thy doubts to rest."
Brad, who was starting to get a sense of Ismeth's character, cursed under his breath as he prepared for an arm-wrestling match with the fearsome half-giant brothers, Char and Dhar. The Charlatan Inn erupted in cheers as the bets were settled, with all but one person favoring Dhar for the first match. Ismeth, ever the confident gambler, put his and Brad's money on Brad, much to the amusement of the mining dwarves who were collecting the bets.
As word spread, the inn filled with spectators, and the innkeeper, despite his initial protests, couldn't help but be pleased with the influx of customers and the constant orders for drinks.
Before the match began, Ismeth sauntered over to Dhar and whispered something in his ear, causing the giant man to burst into laughter. Brad, who had watched the exchange with some suspicion, approached Ismeth and asked, "What did you say to him that was so funny?"
"I'll tell you later," Ismeth replied, his voice calm and collected. "You need to beat those two, because our whole plan depends on it."
Brad raised an eyebrow. "Both of them and what plan?"
But there was no time for answers, as the match was about to begin. Despite his smaller size, Brad's muscular arms and neck bulged with veins as he rolled up his sleeves to reveal his strength. The seasoned spectators had their doubts, but as the competition started, Brad's wild gaze and the veins on his arms and neck began to thicken, causing his opponent to worry.
The fight was over in just thirty seconds. At first, it seemed as though Dhar was close to victory, but Brad's clenched teeth and snarling expression belied a latent power that propelled him to victory in the last ten seconds. Dhar, clutching his bruised wrist, shot his brother a terrified look. Char, even bigger than his brother, laughed arrogantly.
As Brad caught his breath, he wiped his sweaty hands on Ismeth, who grinned in response. Then, without missing a beat, Brad reached for the nearby mining dwarves and dipped his slightly dried hands into the dust on them, a look of grim determination on his face.
"I'm ready now," Brad said, his breaths deep and heavy.
Eager to begin the second match before the adrenaline peaked, Brad glared at his opponent with wild eyes and snarled fiercely. Char sat across from him, oozing self-confidence. The barbarian let out a battle cry, and the competition began in earnest.
However, it quickly devolved into a struggle of who could shout louder. Both sides attacked to intimidate each other, each putting on a show of force before the two wild beasts lunged at each other to the death. Neither would back down. They attacked each other with all their might, summoning reserves of strength they didn't know they had. It was a rare display of physical and mental prowess, the likes of which had seldom been seen in the history of arm wrestling.
For minutes on end, they strained every muscle in their wrists ablaze, screaming until their throats grew hoarse. Some spectators, unable to bear the intense perseverance and brutality they witnessed, grew bored and fled, but the dwarves and seasoned warriors stayed rooted to the spot, their mouths agape as they watched the grueling contest.
If either man had any strength left, he would have congratulated the other on the honorable fight. As it was, they both collapsed to the ground, drained.
Brad was shaken to his core by the latent power he had felt surging within him, a power he had experienced several times before and always denied. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, as the dwarves congratulated him despite their lost money. Unable to find peace in the tumult of the moment, he shoved his way through the crowd, knocking aside anyone who stood in his way. Ismeth followed close behind, his expression unreadable as they hurried out of the inn, their breathing ragged and labored.
Ismeth cautiously approached Brad, who was hunched over and retching. "Are you alright, my friend?" he asked.
"Stay back!" Brad snarled, his body trembling with a fury that threatened to consume him.
If only he could expel the beast within him, he would gladly do so. But he couldn't. He fought to contain the surge of anger that threatened to spill out of him like lava from a volcano. The urge to strangle Ismeth and tear him limb from limb was almost too strong to resist. But Brad knew he had to resist it. This too shall pass, he repeated to himself like a mantra, praying to the gods for the strength to overcome his inner demons.
And then, a miracle happened. Brad heard the gentle chirping of birds outside and the rustling of the wind. He closed his eyes and let the soothing sounds of nature wash over him, filling him with a sense of calm he hadn't felt for long. He sighed, knowing it was only a brief respite. He knew that his inner demons would continue to haunt him, but for now, he was at peace.
Ismeth watched in awe as Brad regained his composure. This was the first time he had seen Brad in such a state of turmoil, and it was a frightening sight. He made a mental note to steer clear of Brad when his adrenaline was running high - a lesson learned the hard way later on for the unmindful knight.
* * *
Brad and Ismeth had secured the trust of the miner dwarves, leaving only the captain's approval to finalize their agreement. Swiftly, they made their way back to the station, where Ismeth made a deliberate omission about Brad's victory over two burly northerners in an arm wrestling match. Sergeant Henderson, a rotund man with a penchant for hearty laughter, seemed incredulous when he heard their news.
"So, you managed to convince the mining dwarves to provide us with granite?" he asked, clearly taken aback.
"Indeed," replied Ismeth, his chest puffed with pride.
"And for free?" Sergeant Henderson asked, his expression one of disbelief.
"Not entirely free," corrected Ismeth, his confidence unfazed. "In exchange, we've agreed to undertake a couple of security assignments for the dwarves' cargo."
"Very well then, do what you must," commanded the sergeant.
"Shouldn't we wait for the captain's approval?" queried Brad.
"The captain is away on a mission. He's entrusted you to me, and that's all the authority I need," the sergeant retorted, his brow furrowed.
Officially cadets, the two were considered superior to Sergeant Henderson and weren't subject to his orders. In practice, however, some knights didn't accord much deference to their fledgling colleagues and preferred to entrust them to experienced sergeants.
"We respect you, Sergeant. If you say it's okay, then we'll proceed," said Ismeth, mollifying the sergeant.
"Good, good," replied Sergeant Henderson, his tone paternal. "Now listen up, lads. Carry out your assigned tasks diligently, and keep me updated. But don't be overly formal. As long as you don't create unnecessary expenses, we'll get along fine. Remember to notify me of the route details before you set off. And ensure that the renovations are completed before winter sets in."
"One more thing, Sergeant. I understand that the dwarves' paperwork for the fair is overdue. Can we do anything about it?" Brad asked.
"There's a paperwork room on the first floor of the main building. You'll recognize it by the piles of documents strewn everywhere. Check the permit papers against the chart, and if they're ready, bring them to me. I'll forward them to the captain," the sergeant explained.
"Bureaucracy at its finest," quipped Ismeth, a grin spreading across his face.
The sergeant chuckled heartily and departed, still chortling.
"What a peculiar place we've landed in," remarked Ismeth as the sergeant walked away.
"Everyone's occupied, Ismeth. We'll find our niche and make ourselves useful," Brad replied.
"Sounds perfect to me," Ismeth chortled.
The afternoon was consumed in a tiresome pile of paperwork. After an arduous search, they finally unearthed the dwarves' documents. They meticulously combed through the papers, verifying each one before submitting them to the sergeant for approval. Ismeth's frustration boiled over, and he cursed loudly throughout the process.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Ismeth urged Brad to visit the halflings' encampment. Brad was surprised to find Char and Dhar there.
"Ahoy, my half-giant brethren!" Ismeth called out, waving enthusiastically.
"We're at your mercy, Ismeth. We've come to make good on our promise," Dhar replied with a sheepish grin.
Ismeth produced a purse from his pocket. "The payment is ready, as promised," he said, extending the pouch to Dhar and winking.
"What's going on, Ismeth?" Brad interjected, grabbing Dhar's wrist and the purse.
The giant's demeanor shifted, and his brother Char tensed up.
"Hold on, hold on. It's all good!" Ismeth exclaimed, raising his hands in a placating gesture. He then turned to Brad. "Remember when I whispered something in Dhar's ear before the match?" he asked.
"Yes," Brad replied, his skepticism mounting.
"I promised them a helping hand in exchange for ten silvers if they lost the fight," Ismeth explained.
"Collusion?" Brad asked incredulously.
"No," Char interjected. "You beat us fair and square. We could have each earned five gold if we won the match, so why would we humiliate ourselves for a measly ten silvers? We agreed to assist Ismeth on the condition that you defeated us both. We didn't think you were capable of such a feat," Dhar added with a hint of dejection in his voice.
"Relax, Brad. I'm paying the twin brothers from the earnings we made. That's all there is to it," Ismeth reassured him, grinning.
Brad nodded, releasing Dhar's wrist. In an effort to apologize, he lightly squeezed the giant's shoulder.
"Pray, tell me, what aid shall we offer?" Char inquired, his nerves now somewhat assuaged.
Ismeth gestured towards the carriages mired in the bog. The twins chortled once more, their mirth now wholly genuine.
Together, the quartet employed their tools and brawn to extricate the vehicles from the muck in under two hours. They then shared a convivial libation. The towering duo imparted a plethora of vital knowledge regarding the Burrow territory. Dhar proffered Brad a challenge of imbibing, but the latter declined. Ismeth took up the gauntlet instead. Towards midnight, Brad had to carry an inebriated Ismeth to the dormitory.
The following day, most of the dwarves, who had been awaiting their arrival for more than a month, expressed their gratitude towards the knight candidates for securing their permits and promptly set off to attend the fair. Brad, who supervised the remaining dwarves and their provisions, pledged to expedite their documentation as well. In recognition of their benevolence, the dwarves bestowed upon the two a pair of chainmail gloves, arm and foot guards, chest armor, and a helmet adorned with the finest dwarven embroidery.
Ismeth selected a comfortable helmet with a visor that shielded the area surrounding his eyes and nose, leaving his face unencumbered. Brad, however, favored a helmet of pliable metal that was interwoven with chainmail and protruded forward, revealing only the upper part of his nose and his eyes. Being versed in blacksmithing, he discerned that these helmets were crafted by the most accomplished dwarves. They both expressed their heartfelt appreciation to their benefactors.
The mining dwarves fulfilled their promise and delivered the granite within a week. Brad and Ismeth commenced their security duties for the cargo that same week, successfully completing three circuits without any untoward incidents.
By the waning days of autumn, the duo had established a well-ordered routine, having completed most of the preparations for the winter and having concluded the renovation of the station. Within a month, they had exceeded the captain's expectations, and he summoned them to his chambers for a crucial mission. After receiving their directives, they departed with the eight men under their command. Observing their departure, the sergeant remarked to the captain:
"Are you certain of this, captain? They are both so young and inexperienced."
The unflinching knight cast a sardonic smile. "Real combat is the crucible in which they will forge their knighthood. Let us see if these valiant youths are lions or mere house cats," he muttered.