“The only thing worse than fighting in a war is accidentally walking through one.” Line attributed to Marteel, soldier of Tiberea (819 B. F. E.-808 B. F. E).

Cold winds blanketed Garassk as he kept his hand near his sword and looked around for signs of trouble. His snake-like tongue tasted the air for various scents as he made his way through the forest. Life was everywhere, but it would only take one hostile individual getting the jump on him to cause trouble. The only scents he could taste right now were deer, bugs, birds, and fish. The maze of trees thinned as he pressed on, paving the way for a castle, and a village before it. His green skin stood out next to the dull lands around him.

The scent of fire suddenly danced along his tongue as he stepped into a gap between the trees. He stopped in his tracks to see an armored figure with a domed helmet pointing a sword right at him. Several archers stood behind the man, all of them ready to shoot. A village burned behind all of them.

“I don’t know who you are,” the swordsman said. “But you’re in the wrong place.”

“Easy,” Garassk said, moving his hands away from his sword and gesturing to indicate that he wasn’t looking for a fight. “I’m just passing through.”

“A likely story,” one of the archers in the back snorted.

“No, really,” Garassk said. “I’m just trying to get home. I might want some food soon, but whatever you’re doing, I want no part of it.”

“You shouldn’t have come here then,” the swordsman said. “Now you can join Jarl Morgwar in Hell.”

“Who?” Garassk asked, tilting his head. Instead of answering, the swordsman raised an arm. The archers took aim at the lone lizard in front of them. Garassk moved back into the trees, reached for his flute, and blew a shrill note. A few arrows hit the nearby trees, as he reached for his shield to block the closest shots.

“Enough!” the swordsman finally shouted loud enough that Garassk could understand it. “I’ll deal with him myself.”

“Or you could just leave me now,” Garassk said, drawing his sword and turning around. “No one has died yet, and no one has to.”

“Many will die tonight,” the swordsman said. “And you’re one of them.”

He bellowed and charged forward. Garassk parried the blow and moved between the trees. His opponent moved alongside him. The two of them alternated between attempting to lash out at each other, and retreating back into the trees as it became clear that neither of them had the advantage.

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As he started to make his next move, and arrow slammed into the tree right next to him. Garassk turned to see the archers moving around him. He started looking around the entire landscape to figure out where everyone was. I can do this. I can do this, he thought. He steeled himself and charged at the nearest archer, pinning him to a tree, and bit his throat out.

“He’s over here!” someone shouted nearby. Garassk turned toward the sound, saw the men running, and moved in the opposite direction.

The familiar click of a crossbow stopped him in his tracks. He turned back to see the man gathering around one of their own.

Right on time, he thought. Dropping to the ground, he crawled toward the men, careful to make as little noise as possible. The men were dragging a fallen comrade to safety. A crossbow bolt was sticking out of the man’s abdomen. Another bolt shot straight into the leg of another man, causing them all to drop their wounded ally.

“Over there!” one of them shouted. As they fumbled with their bows, preparing to confront their new opponent, Garassk got up and charged. None of them were prepared enough to aim properly, and he cut down the closest man in one swing before slamming his tail into the next man. The rest of the archers regained their composure, but he’d broken off already and backed away from them, sword ready.

“Forget him,” the swordsman commanded. Garassk turned to see him approaching.

“But what…?” one of the archers started asking.

“Go find his friend!” the swordsman barked. “I’ll deal with him!”

Another bolt claimed a life as the archers hurried to obey their leader’s command. Garassk swung for his opponent’s head. The man ducked and swung his own blade for a stab, but Garassk sidestepped it. The two of them alternated attacks, once again, with no clear advantage.

“Who are you?” Garassk asked as they circled each other.

“The last thing you’ll ever see,” the swordsman sneered, swinging for the kill.

“But I wasn’t trying to cause any trouble,” Garassk said, lunging, parrying, and backing away. “We’re just trying to get home.”

“Not a chance we’re willing to take,” the swordsman said, charging forward for a stab. Garassk moved to the side and turned around to notice a new figure approaching.

“Who the hell are…?” he started. Before anything more could be said, the newcomer backhanded the swordsman to the ground, and buried and axe into the man’s neck. The fight ended with the swordsman twitching and gasping for air as he bled out on the ground in front of them. Garassk was about to ask who the newcomer was again, but he heard screams in the direction of the archers, cutting him off.

Moments later, a new army marched toward them, with Rathorn limping at their side. Several more soldiers were marched along in chains. Prisoners of war, evidently.

“What’s going on?” Garassk asked Rathorn as he walked to him.

“Hell if I know,” the older varanian grunted. “These soldiers just showed up and killed the ones trying to kill me. Then they took the survivors prisoner.”

“You two!” the figure who’d killed the swordsman barked. His voice went deeper than a human voice could, and now that Garassk had a good look at him, he noticed that he was bigger too. Small tusks protruded out of his mouth, and other boar-like features were evident in his face.

“Yes?” Garassk said, standing at attention.

“What are you doing here?” the orc demanded.

“Would I be stepping over the line to ask who you are first?” Garassk asked.

The orc bared his fangs and snarled.

“Right. Sorry,” Garassk said, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’m Garassk, and this is Rathorn. We were passing through, and these men tried to kill us. I don’t know who they are, but they seemed to think that we were working for someone named Jarl Morgwar.”

“What?!” that orc snorted, trying to stifle a chuckle. “Those morons really thought that?”

“I’m guessing you know what they were talking about?” Garassk asked.

“I am Jarl Morgwar,” the orc said. “And these buffoons were trying to assassinate me.”

“Well, I guess that explains why they didn’t want to listen to me,” Garassk sighed. “Just what have we stumbled into?”

“It seems that Hrogvorth was lying,” Morgwar snarled, walking away from Garassk. “He told me that he wished to talk further. He must be confident if he’s willing to do something this underhanded.”

“What?” Rathorn asked. “What are you talking about?”

“The time for talk has passed,” the orc continued, turning to one of his troops. “Take the prisoners to the nearest building that they’ll all fit into, and burn it to the ground! Rally any volunteers you can find when you’re done”

“For what?” Garassk asked. “What’s going on?”

Morgwar finally seemed to remember that the varanians were there and looked at them. The prisoners shouted out their protests, but their fate was sealed.

“You seem to be good with those weapons,” he said. “What is your experience with them?”

“I served under King Roland Brass…” Rathorn began.

“We’ve seen our share of wars,” Garassk cut in. “We were on our way home from one. What are you asking of us?”

“We were preparing to make peace with Jarl Hrogvorth,” Morgwar said. “These men worked for him. If he’s willing to have me assassinated before we can negotiate, then I believe that he no longer sees me as an equal. I need all of the soldiers I can spare against him. I will pay you handsomely for your assistance.”

“What you have us do?” Rathorn asked.

“Follow me,” Morgwar said. “For now, we go to Fort Vorkash to… talk to the jarl.”