RUMGEARD

The Junkmaster's office was bathed in the warm glow of oil lamps, their flickering wicks casting long shadows upon the walls. His office was cluttered with stacks of parchment and leather-bound logbooks that contained the evidence of his ceaseless work through the years overseeing both Midden as well as Harborfell's other waste management programs. The sturdy wooden desk before him was piled high with papers, orders, and ledgers, each painstakingly labeled by his rough penmanship.

He heard the clomp of boots outside his door, and glanced at the clock on his wall, its pendulum ticking away the seconds. They were late. The heavy wooden door to his office creaked open, revealing a broad-shouldered figure who looked to have had a difficult day. Eadward, the paladin, had removed his helm. His once pristine breastplate was dented, and the shield hanging from his back was cracked nearly through. He had a broad, serious face, with a heavy moustache that dropped over a pair of thin lips.

“Hail, Junkmaster.”

Rumgeard nodded in response as two other young heroes entered behind the paladin. Alfric, his robes dingy, had a bump on his head the size of a goose egg. He bowed to the Junkmaster, offering no other greeting. Leofwynn, the red-robed sorceress, had the sense to curtsey and address him properly.

“We return, sir, and we thank you for allowing us to attend you. Our contract is complete.” There was a satchel hanging from a leather strap on her shoulder, and he gestured for her to bring it to him. Leofwynn was pretty, with dark hair and violet eyes. In his youth, the sight of her coming to him fresh from battle would have stirred something in him. As he was, he just felt tired.

She lifted the strap over her head to place the satchel in the lone square of space on his crowded desk. He opened it and made a quick estimate. He’d seen enough bags of goblin ears in his day not to have to count them individually.

“Thirty?” He said, “is that all?”

Eadward cleared his throat. “There were, ah, complications.”

Rumgeard leaned back in his seat, clasping his hands at his waist. Complications. Weren’t there always?

“Where is Hawken?”

Eadward cleared his throat again, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. It was Alfric who answered.

“He went his own way sometime during our confrontation with the goblin tribe. He may still be hunting.”

"He shall soon return,” Eadward promised, “I am sure of it.”

“You left him behind?” The Junkmaster’s smile, creased by old scars, was unpleasant to behold.

“He left us behind,” Leofwynn said, exasperated. “We are not his keepers.”

The Junkmaster’s office contained no windows. He didn’t trust them. He glanced at the clock.

"The sun sinks low, does it not? His contract has expired." Rumgeard tapped the stack of papers nearest his hand. “If he does not return soon, the price will be dear.”

“That has nothing to do with us,” Leofwynn protested.

Rumgeard gave her a long, evaluating stare. Wizards were supposed to be smarter than this. What did they teach them in that ghastly red tower? “You didn’t read the fine print, sweetheart. The moment you four entered Midden, you did so as a party of heroes, responsible for and to each other. You better hope he is dead. If he has broken the contract, each one of you will be held liable until the debt is paid.”

Leofwynn reddened but had the presence of mind not to argue further.

Eadward inclined his head. “We fully understand. The sanctity of the contract will be upheld. I swear it.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Rumgeard rolled his eyes. [Paladin]s were all the same. “Of course, you do, now tell me about these complications.”

“As you wish,” Eadward said. “We traversed Midden without issue, and the goblins we encountered along the way to the target zone were silenced before they could warn the tribe of our presence. When we arrived at the camp, the goblins mounted a defense. We would have made quick work of them, but their chief confronted me in single combat, and he was unexpectedly resilient.”

The Junkmaster looked the man up and down, noting every dent in his armor. “I can see that. Did you kill him?”

“We fought, and he retreated,” Eadward allowed. “We discovered his body in the aftermath.”

“He died from his wounds, then?” Rumgeard raised an eyebrow. “How fortunate.”

Alfric and Leofwynn exchanged glances behind the paladin. She bit her lip, and the Junkmaster once more wished that he was a younger man.

“He was killed,” she said, “we think Hawken finished him.”

This was interesting. “You aren’t sure?”

“Knife wounds,” the wizard shrugged. “Hawken had a knife, but we did not see him use it in battle. There were a number of goblins killed in the same area as the chief, cut down as they fled. The problem is the timeline. Most of the tribe broke the moment the fight began, and Hawken didn’t go off on his own until after the chieftain ran. He was headed in a different direction, but he could have circled around. These other goblins…it looked like they were ambushed. They were trying to reach a warren near the chieftain’s tent. It doesn’t seem possible that Hawken could have killed them all, given that they should have had plenty of time to reach the warren while Hawken was with us, combatting the chief and his warriors.”

“Was there another party?” Alfric cut in. “Were we double booked?”

Rumgeard gave him a dangerous look. The young monk had all but accused him of violating his own contract. Alfric paled, realizing the magnitude of his mistake.

“There was no other party,” the Junkmaster stated flatly. “Your failures are your own.” He grabbed the satchel and tossed it to Eadward, who caught it reflexively. “Turn those into the Guild for your reward. I’m done with you.”

The heroes filed out, shutting the door behind them, and the Junkmaster stood. His stern expression hiding the unease he felt churning within. Something was amiss in Midden; he could feel it in his bones. Something had sent his hound scampering back to the kennel that very morning, and there shouldn’t have been a soul in Midden capable of frightening that beast. Fang had been unharmed, but he’d been unmanageable ever since. Rumgeard had been forced to cage him until he settled down.

There had been no second party, so someone else had been hunting the Midden without his permission. With the heroes accounted for, the Junkmaster left his office to visit the gate. The wall that separated Midden from Harborfell was an imposing structure of weathered stone and timber, somewhat irregular, as it had been constructed in pieces over the course of many years as various bureaucrats picked up the mission of hiding the great dump from the eyes of Harborfell. Easily twenty feet high in places, but only ten in others, and spotted with wooden watchtowers, it cast an odd shadow over Midden.

The stone was not uniform, a mix of granite and limestone and basalt, as if each block had been taken from a different quarry or salvaged from a different failed construction project. Bureaucrats were nothing if not cost conscious. Moss and creeping vines have made a home in the cracks and crevices, a constant reminder that the wall was not consistently maintained. Wrought iron spikes jutted up in stretches, another addition that had never been completed.

A pair of guards stood on either side of the steel gate, trying to look vigilant. They worked for him, but they were paid by the city, and the city didn’t pay well. They saluted him, and he didn’t return the gesture.

“Have you been here all day?” He demanded.

“Yes, sir,” the first man responded. “Our shift doesn’t end for another hour.”

“Who did you let in?”

The guard looked confused by the question. “The hunting party, sir. You were there.”

“I know I was there,” Rumgeard snapped, “I mean, who else did you let in? Who bribed you? Don’t lie to me, boy, I won’t have it.”

The guard, who was as old as Rumgeard, reddened at the accusation. “No one, sir. The hunting party and the wagoners. There was no one else.”

“And the wagoners? Any fresh faces?”

The second man was looking nervous, so Rumgeard stepped in, close enough to smell the dankroot on his breath. “What about you? What’s your name, soldier?”

“Gunton, sir,” the man stammered. “We checked all their passes. Everything was in order.”

The Junkmaster looked between the pair. They seemed honest enough. Working men were susceptible to an offer of extra coin. It had happened before. But the fact was, a hunter, or several hunters, who wanted to bypass the contract system wouldn’t have to enter Midden through the main gate. If they were high enough level to kill a goblin chief, they were high enough level to scale the wall without being seen, depending on their class, of course. The watchtower men would have already filed a report with him if they had noticed anything. Unless they had also been bribed. Money had a way of ruining everything.

“As you were,” he said coldly, and stalked off without an explanation to the pair of baffled guardsmen. He’d spent half of his life in waste management, and he took any violation of the Midden contracts as a personal affront. The fate of the [Ranger] needed to be confirmed, and then this mystery violator. No one was going to hunt in Midden without putting their name on the dotted line and paying what was owed. Not on his watch.