It started to rain. Speckles of water began to grow in number, becoming sheets of heavy rainfall. A few days had already passed after Qualtan and Glaive had left Graunt and the other centaurians. Now, the two sat under a canopy of overhanging tree branches that bent downwards, creating a tent of leafy protection. Glaive peered out from the foliate curtain, grumbling as a mighty crack of thunder reverberated through the forest. Inside, droplets plopped through the branch-work, creating small pools of muddy water. Qualtan sat to one side. His shoulder was still secured in wraps of cloth. He tested his arm delicately, rolling it up and down to gauge any limitations. Glaive sat across from him, chewing on sticks of dried fruit given to them by Graunt.

“That is amazing,” he said, pointing the fruit stick at Qualtan’s arm.

Qualtan winced as he stretched it out.

“That blade cut through flesh, muscle, and nearly bone, yet in four days time your body has already re-stitched your arm, like a child’s stuffed plaything.” Glaive thought a moment, chewing loudly. “I wonder, would you have re-grown your arm if you’d have lost it? Or could you reattach the thing if Termenon had cleaved it through?”

Qualtan moaned, as a brief flash of pain fired through him. “I don’t know. Nor do I wish to experience it to find out. It’s still tender,” he said, pulling loose some of the binding to show the purplish black color of his upper arm. Glaive winced.

“It’s swollen.” He grimaced at the color. “The wizards made true weapons of war out of you and the elf.”

“There are others like us,” Qualtan reminded him.

“Yes, so you’ve told me. But with the Great War long gone and done with, it seems you’ve outlived your purpose before even getting a chance to begin it.”

Qualtan frowned. “There are two Dark Ones that are still free. Shaz and Darksiege…”

“Yes, yes. Well, perhaps you enchanted heroes can stop your squabbling in order to unite to defeat them and then go on to a quick retirement. Or maybe you’ll have some new foe to hunt down and kill—keep yourself busy in your dotage, you know.”

“If I was feeling better I would throw you out into the rain,” Qualtan responded.

The two companions quickly shared a laugh.

“The color has returned to your skin,” Glaive said, giving Qualtan a bag of their dried foodstuffs.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Qualtan said, lying back. He fumbled with the dressings on his shoulder. Glaive, sighing, sat next to him to assist.

“Here, let me do that.” Beads of sweat dripped past Qualtan’s forehead. Glaive went to wipe his brow with a cloth but was taken aback by the heat he felt generated from Qualtan’s temples.

“You’re boiling over like an overcooked stew! You sure you are all right?” Glaive asked, his concern showing through.

Qualtan nodded. “I’m still healing,” he said dizzily.

Glaive spat to one side. “That blow took more out of you than you’ve been letting on. Accursed centaurs, abandoning us like this!”

Qualtan smiled. “They stayed with us as long as they could. We are back on course.”

“You and your arrogance. You insisted that they leave us here!”

“There was nothing else they could do for us.”

“How long you have been like this?”

Qualtan laughed weakly. “Are you now my mother?”

“Bah! I’ll be throwing YOU out into the rain instead. Let me take care of that.” Glaive took his cloth and stuck it under one of the dripping branches, gently wetting it and placing it on Qualtan’s forehead. He propped him up as best he could, as Qualtan’s head lolled onto Glaive’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Qualtan said.

“Just swear to keep this to yourself! You’ll be ruining my reputation if this ever gets out!”

“I swear,” Qualtan replied.

“Well, seeing as I’m forced into the role of nanny, perhaps I can regale you with tales of my thieving exploits; stories that should be written down by booksmiths and copied for aspiring young thieves everywhere to read!”

“I would like to hear them.” Qualtan half-closed his eyes, attempting to sleep away the throbbing pain from his injured shoulder.

“Very well! I will tell the tale of Glaive the Master Brother of the Dartful Hand and how he led his band against Lord Thule’s greatest merchant lord rival, Ablecrom the Rich!” Glaive continued, entertaining the resting Qualtan throughout the day and night as the storm raged on. At last, when the clouds began to abate, Qualtan was feeling well enough for them to move on. They followed the now swollen banks of the Gladed River, as Graunt had instructed. It was days more travel, until they began to hear the sounds of bustling activity. They followed in the direction of the smell of burning embers and the squabbling of voices, finding themselves in a clearing where the empty stumps of cut trees heralded their arrival into the area inhabited by the Fisher People. The shores of the river were busy with craftsmen hewing boats out of fallen timbers. Wagons crowded the beginnings of new roads, as troops of merchants and traders walked about. Piers extended out towards small skiffs that were used to ferry people and supplies to the many long, slender boats in the center of the river. The boats lay anchored so closely to one another it seemed to be an entire village floating on the bobbing waves. Fishermen hauled in nets while others swam about with sharply barbed spears. Music played from the densely packed boats and Qualtan could see the small fires where the catches were cleaned and cooked. Some of the boats would separate from their home base on occasion to go further down the river. Others guarded circular platforms where fish were farmed and tended.

The smell of fish overwhelmed the area. Qualtan and Glaive moved past various camps, ignored by most who concentrated on negotiating the sale or barter of products and services. Most of the merchants maintained their own contingent of armed escorts which kept briganding or escalated conflicts with customers and rivals to a minimum. What few gold pieces Qualtan and Glaive had remaining purchased them plates of skewered blackened fish meat. Finding a free area by the river’s edge, they sat down to eat.

“These folk own this piece of the river,” Glaive said, smacking eagerly at their hot meal. They observed the boat city, the patrols of guards on lesser rowboats, allowing none to set foot in the boat-village without permission. “Look around here. They’ve subdued this part of the forest. The roads bring travelers and their escorts bring security. Ah, in the old days, I could have easily…” Glaive stopped himself, looking over to Qualtan guiltily.

“You could have easily what?” Qualtan prodded, knowing where Glaive had been going.

“Easily … well, of course, easily have directed routes for better supplies from the Wildwood Ports. Think of the schoolbooks their children must lack!”

Qualtan laughed. “Of course.”

At night, the various wagon parties held bonfires, dancing, and music. Qualtan and Glaive sat by their own small fire, observing the colored paper lanterns that ornamented the boat-village and the free boats that bobbed around it. They were surprised when a member of one of the wagon groups approached them. Looking up, they took in the newcomer. He wore baggy blue pants, a yellowing stained shirt, and a matching blue vest. His sleeves were rolled up to display rows of silver circlets. A short beard could not hide his wide grin or the brown eyes that peered from beneath a floppy hat. He held a cup in each hand.

“Good evening to you, brothers! Too dark a night to sit here alone! Will you not join us?”

“And you are?” Glaive asked suspiciously.

“Your pardon, good sirs! I am Lofgren. My clan and I are travelers, plying our trade of woodcraft and carpentry. Please join us?”

Qualtan and Glaive took the cups as Lofgren bowed in response. They peered over to the nestled caravan from which he came. Their eaves were dark green, and their high arched wagon wheels were painted bright red. Etched scrollwork covered their sides. Windows were ornamented with small shutters of blue and green, and brightly arrayed flower boxes hung beneath them. Hearing sounds of laughter and gaiety, they both shrugged and rose.

“Well, as long as you are not pilgrims looking for converts,” Glaive said, sniffing at the cup before drinking.

“My name is Qualtan. This is Glaive.”

“An honor to meet you both! Come!”

“You are most kind to offer invitation,” Qualtan said as they followed Lofgren back to his camp.

“Not at all! We have traveled through this area for years. We’ve made many friends here. You meet quite a few familiar faces when you travel on the road.”

“Where do you travel?”

“Turinthia. My friend here is to become a knight,” Glaive said, though Qualtan scowled at the remark. Who knew what was to become of them, next?

Lofgren’s eyes widened. “I see! Honored friends indeed! But you are injured?” He took notice of Qualtan’s favored arm.

“Not all of the Gladed Forest is friendly.”

“Indeed. To travel as you do in a pair is quite risky. Still with a knight-to-be, there is little to fear!”

“And you?” Glaive asked.

“We travel to Turinthia ourselves, to ply our trade there. Welcome!” Lofgren said, waving to his fellow clan folk as he led Qualtan and Glaive into the area within the wall of circled wagons. Women and men danced around fires while others clapped to the beat of flutes, violins, and drums. Drink and food were freely shared as Qualtan and Glaive were introduced to the clan members. There were other visitors sitting or standing about, members from other parties they had befriended. The dancing couples made way for a group of three men who began to perform, dancing wildly with swords. The observers clapped and cried out happily at them, until they were literally pushed away to one side by a group of women who began to dance, twirling with bright scarves and clicking jeweled cymbals on their wrists and ankles. When they were finished they bowed to a rousing clamor of approval, at which point they began pulling in some of the non-clan folk to join with them. One of the women pointed towards Qualtan and stood before him, hands on hips. Her long hair was as dark as the night and she pursed her bright red lips. She beckoned, as those around Qualtan laughed and teased him.

Qualtan declined, pointing to his arm, but the dancer would have none of it.

“I cannot, milady. My arm has been injured.”

“Then we will dance more slowly than the rest. Come!”

Qualtan was unsure, but Lofgren prompted him to join in the revelry.

Glaive began to feel slightly less guarded, as the talk around him centered mostly on trading with the Fisher People, supply delays, the various worth of this item or that and other mundane problems experienced on the roads. Although the area was not as large as the vast trading markets in the Ports, it still attracted quite a few merchants from lands near and far away. Despite Qualtan’s injuries it seemed he was enjoying himself, and eventually the dancing came to an end, with a bow and curtsey.

They were introduced to many of the other merchants, as well as the elder clan leaders, before the night was through. As they readied to leave, Lofgren and some of the others they had befriended insisted they camp with them.

“Thievery is rampant at night, especially for two such as you. You can stay here in the safety of our camp!”

“We have already taken too much advantage of you as it is,” Qualtan contested.

“Never! You are injured! Stay the night safely here with us. We will be leaving shortly to Turinthia after all, so enjoy our hospitality while we are here!”

Another traveler, a poet, with grey beard and balding head, concurred. “I also travel alone but always find comfort when I find again their clan. You may as well stay.”

With additional pleas from other members of the group, Qualtan and Glaive decided to accept their offer. Blankets and pillows were given to them, as well as a makeshift tent to sleep in within the boundaries of the wagon’s circle. They slept with a restful ease they had not experienced since they had been taken in by the centaurians. The woodsmith clan took to their own wagons, which were comfortably fitted with sleeping rooms, partitioned by handsomely sewn curtains.

In the morning, the folk awoke early, and shared the day’s first repast with them, offering hot plates of bubbling eggs and boiled potatoes.

“These folk kill you with kindness!” Glaive said to the minstrel who joined them. He nodded happily, his face stuffed with breakfast.

“They’re good folk, they are!” the minstrel finally said, after swallowing down pieces of egg picked from his beard. “I’ve been through these parts three times this year, and they have always welcomed me back. I’ve never traveled with them, but at long last I will be joining them, to Turinthia this time! Safety in numbers is needed for these dangerous roads, and I have promised them songs to warm their hearts in return!”

Glaive snorted, turning to Qualtan. “Huh. Well, Qual, it looks like your priestly qualities have met their match. These people…” Glaive paused seeing Qualtan was now fully engaged with the dark haired girl who had just served him his meal. She had been the one who had pulled him out to dance the evening before, and already he could see the attention she was lavishing upon him. She coyly played with her tresses, and gently pressed a hand on Qualtan’s mending shoulder. Lofgren appeared, joining the duo.

“The lad never learns,” Glaive said. He looked back to find agreement from his eating companion, but the poet was busily licking his plate clean, humming happily.

Qualtan and the other two continued to talk for some time. Bored, and not interested in joining them, Glaive went back to pack their belongings in preparation for the final leg of their journey. He re-inspected his wrist gauntlet, making sure all of its intricate workings had not been damaged by the high elves during his capture. He locked a firing bolt into place, confident all was well. “Just in case we need another getaway,” he said softly to himself. After all, who knew what they would find upon reaching Tringolm? He paused for a moment, thinking through their dealings with the high elves. Glaive closed his hands into tightly balled fists, berating himself for what he had wrought. “Stupid orc. With any luck you’ll be shot down by brigands in the forest.”

“Glaive!” Qualtan cried out, bringing the half-orcne out of his dour thoughts. “Good news, Glaive! I was speaking with Isibelle and Lofgren. They have asked us to join them. They will be taking the road towards Turinthia. We can travel with them up to that point.”

Glaive thought a moment, rasping his grizzled face with his long fingers. “Well … that sounds a fair plan, and traveling by wagon and horseback will surely help. Why the offer?”

“The roads are heavily used but also heavily attacked. They’ve already experienced that sort of trouble and luckily escaped from marauders in the past with little loss. Some of the others are coming with them, like your friend bard over there.” Qualtan said, pointing to the snoring musician, asleep once more from his meal.

“Yes. I know.” Glaive looked at the bard with some disgust. His beard was tangled with pieces of egg, and he let out a loud belch.

“Besides, a knight-to-be and his loyal squire would be of great assist to them if trouble arises again.”

“A one-armed knight-to-be, you mean.” Glaive gave Qualtan a disapproving stare at his shoulder.

He laughed in response. “It’s getting better. The pain has dulled and the black bruising has turned to green.” He raised his arm.

Glaive, seemingly unimpressed, pinched his upper tricep. At once, Qualtan recoiled.

“Ouch!” he said, glaring at his friend.

“Hah! Better, but not best. Well, it’s as much security for them as it is for you in your present state. For once, I agree with you. Besides, a meal every morning and every night would be a welcomed change of pace.”

Qualtan rubbed the spot where Glaive had poked him. His bronze skin had only grown darker during their journey, but his blue eyes were still clear and dazzling. His brown hair was longer now, having passed his neck, and splotches of uncut beard furred his face. Still, despite his worn look, his youthfulness showed through. Seemingly relieved of Glaive’s easy approval, he flashed a toothy grin.

“Good! Then I will let Lofgren know. Put our bags away, then, and let’s get to work!”

Glaive arched both eyebrows wide. “Eh? Work? What do you mean, work?”

“We must help our hosts clean up from the merriment of last night.”

“We do?”

“And stock up their wagons in preparation to leave.”

“Right now?”

“There are the tables and chairs from breakfast, too.”

“But … I just ate breakfast!” Glaive protested, patting his stomach.

Qualtan sighed, taking the satchels from out of Glaive’s hands. “Come on.”

“I hate this plan,” Glaive complained.

Though it wasn’t surprising, many of their fellow merchants joined in to help. Bonfires were dowsed, tents and tables folded and put away. Final purchases of supplies were delivered and stored. It was a communal effort that seemed to draw as much energy and excitement as the night’s gaiety had done before. One of the Fisher People, delivering crates of dried fish, engaged Glaive as they toiled together.

“These carpenters certainly do seem to make friends,” Glaive said.

The fisherman stood up, wiping sweat from his brow. His simple brown and grey shirt was already stained with sweat and dirt, and he spilled water from a bottle over his head. “They are decent folk, and have never failed on their debts. Why, three of them crafted some fine chests and a cabinet for me in return for just a barrel of fish! I got more in that trade than they, to be sure!” He nudged Glaive, who did not appreciate the gesture. “They are always welcome to our lands here. We Fisher People keep our trade to the shores; as many strangers come here, you never know, but they are one of the few we allow passage to our floating boat-city.”

A sudden loud snap brought immediate attention. A damaged wagon wheel split in two, giving way with a thunderous boom. Objects spilled out from the back of the large vehicle, and it teetered over with a groan. A child began to cry from within as faces appeared from its windows. Others rushed to ensure the occupants’ safety. Some of the men cursed as they viewed the damage.

“We have extra wheels but we will need to lift the wagon to enact repairs to the axle,” said one.

“We will need many backs to lift it!” complained another.

“Empty it out! Get poles!” cried a third.

Qualtan, standing alongside the gang of men who pulled out a now laughing child from one of the windows on the wagon, stepped closer. “Well, at least I can test my returning strength,” he said. Grabbing hold of the wagon’s fallen side, he positioned himself while the others watched curiously, unsure of what he was doing. Bending his knees, he pressed his back against the wagon and strained to lift it. Some of the men began to laugh, failing to see what the stranger expected to accomplish.

“Now, now lad! This is no time for games! Here, let go of it before you ruin your back…”

Suddenly, their amusement stopped when the wagon began to creak and shake. Qualtan’s eyes began to glow, and the onlookers gasped, stepping back. The wagon’s injured side began to tremble, and then rise. An elderly lady still inside the wagon looked out with a gasp, holding onto the shutters in surprise.

“Quickly now!” Qualtan said, as he balanced out the weight pressed against him. The men were suddenly spurred into action. They rolled out a wheel from a smaller supply wagon while others inspected the axle beneath Qualtan, looking nervously from the warrior’s bulging sinews to the base of the wagon that slightly trembled in his grasp. The men were relieved; the axle was still whole. Only the wheel had broken free. A new wheel was quickly pounded into place. Cheers resounded from the crowd as Qualtan gently lowered the wagon. He laughed as the well wishers surrounded him. He held onto his injured arm as it throbbed from the exertion. Lofgren rushed into the crush of well-wishers offering a cup of cool water for Qualtan, which he accepted eagerly.

“Our thanks to you, Qualtan! Your friendship has already borne us fruit! Lucky indeed are we that you have decided to join us for a time. What say all of you?” Lofgren said.

The others roared their approval.

Near Glaive, a member of the woodsmith clan stood in awe, pointing towards Qualtan. “Did you see that?! Your friend has the strength of a giant!” The fisherman also stood by, dumbstruck from the sight.

Glaive shrugged. “Eh. I’ve seen him tear through troops of orcs, ripping out heads and pulling off arms with relaxed ease,” he said, enjoying with some pride the amazement his friend had caused.

The woodsmith, however, looked back at the warrior with sudden fear.

It wasn’t long before the seven wagons were fully loaded. As a crowd of well-wishers waved, the group moved their horses into the direction of the road that led towards Turinthia. They passed through archways of trees and marked the passing of other caravans with winks and smiles. Fallen leaves blew in their passage, as Qualtan and Glaive idled away the hours with other guests of the woodsmiths; the elder bard, already drunk from a small brown bottle he liberated frequently from the folds of his vest, two brothers, canvassed artists of the quill, and a grim faced smithy, looking to ply his trade elsewhere. As the wagon bounced over rough roads, the bard slid over Glaive’s shoulder, snoring loudly. When an additional swerve of the wagon brought the minstrel to wrap his arm around Glaive, mumbling happily, the half-orcne quickly shoved him back, awakening him briefly with a loud snort. The two brothers, twins, laughed at his expense.

“Whence do you two travel?” Qualtan asked the twins. Both were clean faced, young, with curly locks of blondish hair. They wore simple tunics, and long walking boots that wrapped up to their thighs. Carrying-packs filled with long brushes laid by their feet. “I am Frahn, and this is my brother Arnim. We travel to Mulberry, a lesser city of Turinthia. We return home after traveling to many countries selling our art.”

Glaive smirked. “You travel alone with no weapons?”

Arnim looked confused. He showed Glaive a small short sword strapped to his side. “We are but poor artists. Nobody would waste their time robbing from us!” He laughed, looking at his brother, who nodded in agreement.

The grim faced smithy turned to face them. “Nobody would rob you, ‘tis true. From the look of you, it’s obvious you have no wealth.” A broken-toothed smile formed under a black burly beard. “But there are other creatures out there that would hunt you for … better reason, eh?”

The brothers looked away, ignoring the words. The smith laughed evilly. He looked to Glaive as if to gain his agreement.

“And you are?” Qualtan asked, irritated by his dark manner.

The smith immediately drew himself up. “I am Sarvov, the blacksmith,” he said proudly. His arms were hairy and dirty from months of travel by foot. His long walking stick, its head carved into the likeness of a dragon, leaned to one side. Sacks of tools and supplies surrounded it. “I travel to Turinthia as well, for my cousin sent word for me. He owns a shop and his own blacksmith has left him, so I go there to work. You two should listen.” He focused on the artists, pointing at their small weapons. “I’ve been chased by thieves and orcs, and tiptoed around trolls and all manner of beasts to come this way. Those little stickers won’t help you if it ever comes to it. You need a man’s weapon, like this,” he said, pulling from a furry cloak a large shining broadsword. “I made this myself!” he said proudly, prodding it towards them. The two showed little interest, looking over to Qualtan apologetically. Another bump in the road caused the sleeping minstrel to flop off the bench he curled upon, falling onto the floor of the wagon.

“And who is this fool?” Sarvov asked, giving the awakening musician a glowering look.

“His name is Brelk. I gained that much the last time he was awake … and sober,” Glaive said, as the minstrel looked about sleepily, crawling back with a laugh onto his seat.

“You two are warriors, eh? I saw that feat,” Sarvov said, staring at Qualtan appreciatively. “We of my craft’s guild appreciate a man of strength!” He bowed slightly, mumbling words of praise in the tongue of his order.

Glaive folded his arms, ruefully staring at the bard, who once more slid sleepily next to him. “What fun this trip will be.”

For hours they traveled, at times stopping to clear fallen stones or pushing through areas where the maintenance of the road had fallen shabbily, and large grasses and small trees had taken hold. Other times the caravan would halt to give the horses rest, and at those times, the woodsmiths would congregate outside of their wagons to stretch and chat. Glaive jumped off immediately, anxious to relieve himself.

“Where are you going?” asked Qualtan as Lofgren came by to visit.

“The loo,” Glaive said.

“Well, don’t go too far into the line.” Qualtan pointed to the heady walls of trees that flanked the road.

Glaive grunted in response, stepping past a wall of hedges and overhanging vines. He sighed happily, lowering his trousers as he swatted at a swarm of small flies that clouded his face. Birds chirped all around him. He appreciated the brief respite from the thrashing of the wagon and the never ending jabber of the evil-faced blacksmith. Indeed, the drunken bard was even worse and Glaive had to keep himself from striking the drooling, rambling old man squarely on the head. Suddenly one bird call roused his attention, louder than all the others. He quickly secured his pants and stealthily moved towards a nearby tree. He squinted into the lowering sun as the cry came back again. It was a familiar call, a loud squawk, one that he had heard before.

“Where the devil are you?” He stepped closer. He looked up, his hands shadowing the light. Glaive smiled when he at last found his prey. Atop an outlying branch sat a large bird, as large as a raven, with a red head and black body, eyeing him curiously.

“You again, eh?” Glaive said, slapping insects away from his body. He paused, thinking back to the bird they had seen upon leaving Cuthbert, a bird Qualtan had said he had seen in town before. “You weren’t native to Cuthbert from what Qualtan’s little lass told him. Haunted villages and wind-scarred lands seem to be your favorite nesting spots. Three times seems more than just luck, wouldn’t you say? I wonder who’s sent you, if you are the same bird.” It flapped its wings crying out again, but keeping a quick eye on his every movement. It hopped closer towards the edge of the branch, guarded from Glaive’s advance. Suddenly the bird grew quiet. Glaive snickered as he loaded his wrist gauntlet. “For good or not, we’ll finally figure you out.” He squinted at the sun as he took aim. Perhaps it was some lesser servant of the haegtes or an evil force from Cuthbert’s mayor Mistress Welda, sent to keep an eye on them. Glaive smiled, baring his fangs as he prepared to shoot. As he did, he paused, and arched an eyebrow with concern. The other birds had grown silent as well. Glaive looked about. All was still. No sound was heard. A feeling of unease overtook him, and he slowly lowered his arm. Leaves rained down from the green canopy above. Even the insects that had plagued him had seemingly disappeared. From the corner of his eye, a shadow seemed to form near a mould-encrusted tree. He whirled to look at it directly but it was gone. Glaive removed a blade from his belt. He felt as if he was being watched by someone. The red-headed bird immediately began shrieking wildly, bringing Glaive’s attention back to it, as it flew off into the forest. A snap of twig from behind made Glaive spin around, arm extended. A darksome figure seemed to flee behind yet another tree, or was it a trick of the light? Glaive slowly waded past the tall flowering grasses towards the tree. “Some thieving orc, I’d say.” He stopped, hoping his stalker would show itself. It did not, so he resumed his march. Facing down the tree, heart pounding, Glaive took a breath, and nimbly leapt to one side shooting a bolt from his wrist bow. The sharpened arrow struck into the tree, cleaving through chunks of mossy bark. There was no one there. Glaive felt frustrated. He pulled out the arrow, twisting it free as he looked about. The feeling of unease did not leave him until Qualtan’s voice was heard.

“Glaive! We are leaving!”

Glaive stood still, listening. The bird calls began again. Shaking his head, he returned to the train of wagons.

Qualtan looked at him curiously as he passed the curtain of grass. Lofgren stood beside him. “What were you doing out there? I thought I saw you jumping about.”

“I thought I saw something. I shot at a tree where I thought something was hiding.”

“And…?” Qualtan asked, interested in the tale.

“Nothing.”

“Orcs?” Lofgren asked, staring into the trees.

Glaive did not say. The prickling of his hair, the tingling of his skin made it seem as if something more malevolent had been there, over and beyond some sneaking orc.

“Who can say? Probably an angry rabbit.” He walked past Qualtan and Lofgren into the wagon.

“My friend’s senses are keen. We should be wary,” Qualtan said to Lofgren, still straining to see if he could identify anything beyond the trees.

Lofgren nodded, looking away. “Aye. There is no safety outside the boundaries of men.” He began bellowing out to the other wagon riders to depart.

The drunken bard, Brelk, appeared from their wagon’s doorway, looking about with heavy lidded eyes. “What did I miss?” he asked, as Qualtan moved past him inside. The bard merely shrugged his shrunken shoulders and as the wagon began to lurch, took another swig from his bottle, and followed Qualtan in.

The day’s travel was uneventful, as was its night. The woodsmiths maintained doubly duty, guarding their wagons throughout based on Glaive’s earlier misgivings, to the point of insisting their guests stayed within the wagons to sleep, crowding in with some of the craftsmen families. The elders knew full well a caravan such as theirs would be an obvious target within the wood. The morning’s approach led towards the roar of a waterfall, as the path navigated precipitously round the edge of the deepening river. They followed it upwards, as the river gouged through a shelf of slowly eroding rock, tumbling below. The way was perilous, and many times they had to pause to review their ascent. Horses struggled, and many had to disembark from their traveling homes along with the removal of numerous barrels and crates to lessen the load. The voice of the spraying waters thundered as the road went higher and higher to where the river first spilled. The path grew slippery, as slimy rocks wet with moisture became treacherous. Above, they could see a bridge, carved from old wooden planks spanning the river. Old fibers wrapped into thick, tight ropes held it firm, forming a net-like framework that hung to either side. Great rusty staples held the cords in place.

“We haven’t come this way in some time! I prayed the bridge was still in one piece!” said Lofgren, as their incline widened into a flat ledge, to the cheers of the others. They paused, resting from their exertions. Lofgren walked over to the edge of the rocky expanse along with Qualtan and Glaive. “This has been used for many ages. We should best send one wagon at a time with only a riding pair, to be sure.”

“Indeed,” added one of the elders, an old man who stood with a shaking cane for support. “There was a time one of our wagons got stuck when a board broke loose—dangerous enough to pull it free, much less continue with the rest. You were but a child then, Lofgren.”

“I will write a song about our journey!” Brelk said. “Let us empty out the wagons, then!” another elder said, a woman with bent back and clawed hands. The group returned to the line of carriages to supervise the process. Brelk stood by the very rim of the shelf. He pulled out a small grey wooded lute as he looked towards the waterfall for insight. He fumbled for words that rhymed, oblivious to the hard work being done behind him. He paused, removing his bottled vial and quickly took a sip before returning it back into his tunic.

“Aah! That’s better! My lips are wetted as is my inspiration!” He plucked at his instrument’s cords, fiddling at the tuning pegs. Clearing his throat he walked about, experimenting with his song. He frowned at the loud crash of water and strove to sing above the clamor. Sarvov, assisting the twin artist brothers with moving a long crate of tools, paused to yell at the minstrel.

“Hey you! Less music and more work, if you please!” he said.

Brelk paused, pointing at his lute. “This IS my work, and better deserving of praise than yours, blacksmith!” he cried back, ruffled at his statement.

“If that IS your work, than we have already suffered from its quality!” Sarvov said back, bringing out laughter from those around them.

“Hah!” Brelk retorted, walking back towards the cliff’s edge. “Surrounded by peasants with no knowledge of the arts! I cannot wait to be in Tringolm, capital of Turinthia, to be once more surrounded by patrons deserving of my skills!” As he observed the wagons, playing with his lute, he did not notice the two pairs of green-brown hands that suddenly gripped the ledge behind him. They were large hands, horned and calloused with black nails and grizzled knuckles. Larger than a man’s, they lifted mossy, knotted arms up from below, followed by bloated bellied bodies that wore animal pelts around their swollen forms. Crude necklaces of skulls and other bones dangled from their thick necks. Big, dangling noses sniffed at the minstrel, as bulging frog eyes of red peered curiously. Warty faces broke wide smiles of jagged sharp-edged teeth, as the two trolls pulled themselves over the ledge to stand behind Brelk.

One of the woodsmiths at last took notice, and he pointed towards them with a cry. Others stopped what they were doing, and began rushing about in panic. Many fingers began to point towards the trolls, and Brelk grew upset.

“Enough with your jests! You wouldn’t know good music if it jumped up and bit you!” he said angrily, until he fell under the giant creatures’ shadows. He stood still and slowly turned about, to see the tilted, smiling heads of the trolls as they stared at him hungrily.

Brelk dropped his lute, screaming wildly as he ran towards the wagons. The trolls lurched forward, smashing his instrument with a heavy stomp. They paused when the woodsmiths grouped together, aiming arrows and spears at them.

“Trolls!” gasped Lofgren as he took full measure of them. One of them removed a long tree trunk that was used as a club from its back, grumbling loudly. They stood a full twelve feet tall, despite their hunched appearance. Taking in the travelers, the lead troll slammed its tree club into the ground with a resounding crash to gather their attention.

“Hear! This bridge is no longer free for passin’!” the lead troll said in a husky voice. “Tis our home now, and you’ll be payin’ a price if you want to use it!”

Qualtan and Glaive joined the throng. Glaive sighed when he saw what now stood before them. “Those are trolls?” Qualtan asked, hearing the name from the others who stood around him fearfully.

“Trolls they are, and woe to us because of it! Nasty beasties! They like hiding under bridges or lurking around roads to bully and threaten. These two must have come across the bridge in between our travels and made a home of it! Not very smart, but crafty beasts! We will not be able to pass!” Lofgren said angrily.

“What trouble do you want?!” An elder of the group said wearily, knowing full well their intent.

The lead troll laughed and snorted, patting his club. “Trouble? We wants no trouble, sir! We traveled long and hard before finding this place. It’s nice and cool here, with plenty of water, and lots of game, eh, Ort?” The troll’s companion nodded his head, oversized ears flapping.

“Game is right, Nort!” he said, pulling at the skeletal ring around his neck. The travelers saw the humanoid skulls that were attached to it, and understood their double meaning.

“We’re hungry! Your swords wont help, and your arrows won’t either,” Nort warned, flaring his bull-like nostrils. Their skin was hard, like rock itself, and the woodsmiths knew it would take many blows to defeat them, blows the trolls would not allow for very long.

“We have food to share…” one of the elders began.

“That you do, sir, that you do!” Nort responded happily.

“I want a horse!” Ort said, in a whining voice.

“My brother wants a horse. We haven’t tasted them in a goodly while! We’ll have half of what you got.”

“Half? Our wagons need two horses each to travel. We would abandon most of our wagons here!” Lofgren cried out, walking up to stand by the elders.

“We don’t care. Give us half,” Nort insisted.

“We cannot,” the elder said defiantly. “We can give you two, one for each.”

“A horse!” Ort said, smiling at the agreement.

“Shut up!” the elder troll yelled, shoving the other troll back.

“My brother is stupid, but I’m not!” Nort said. “You can’t harm us, but we can harm you. We want more.”

“We have other foods we can give,” another of the elders offered. She moved forward, both hands on her walking cane. “Please. You two are strong and powerful folk. We are at your mercy. Please help us.”

“She said I’m strong! I’m strong!” Ort said, nudging his brother with some pride.

The lead troll swiped his brother’s hand away. “You’re a horse’s ass is what you are, now shut up and let me finish here!” Ort whined submissively. Nort returned his attention to their guests.

“We don’t want human food. Cooked. Dry. Tough,” Nort said, a grimace on his knotted face. We want live flesh! Squirming, screaming!” He said.

“Screaming!” Ort repeated, nodding with pleasure.

“But our horses are weak, skinny, tired! They would not give you a good meal,” the elder said.

The troll slammed his club again, pushing them back. “Don’t tell me what to do! No more words! Gimme half, or…” The troll stopped, with sudden thought. “Or, gimme two of you.”

“No horses?” Ort asked disappointedly.

The elders looked to their followers in defeat.

“We can’t escape. To travel whence we came with two trolls on your back we would risk crashing down the road in our haste! They would kill us all!” Lofgren said miserably.

Qualtan agreed. “We cannot go back.”

“What can we do?” Lofgren pleaded.

Resolved, Qualtan moved forward past the elders. “Here we go again,” Glaive said to Lofgren, with a knowing smile as he followed. “You well as may take cover and keep your archers ready. This is where the fun begins.”

“You cannot mean…” Lofgren said, a look of astonishment on his face. He looked to the elders before him, waving at them to come back to the wagons as Qualtan walked past them, Glaive in tow. They looked at him with confusion as he gently prodded them to retreat.

The trolls laughed and poked at each other until they saw the human warrior appear. Nort paused and growled threateningly. Qualtan could already see they could not barter their way out, and was resigned to what was to occur next.

“Eh? What do you want?!” Nort said.

“You will not have two of us. Two horses are all you will get.”

Nort breathed in deeply. “I said no more words!” he bellowed.

“Then step aside,” Qualtan said.

“What did you say to me?” Nort said, bending forward to listen.

“Step aside.”

Nort began to sputter and then laugh. The other troll seeing his brother’s mirth, emulated him.

“Did you hear that, Ort? This one told me to step aside. ME!” he said, his laughter suddenly ending. Ort continued to laugh until a stern stare from his brother stopped him.

“You want to die then, do you?” the troll said, tightening its grip on the tree club.

“I want you to step aside, or are trolls as deaf as they are hairy and fat?”

Nort was quickly taken aback. Hissing with rage, he raised his club but as it struck, Qualtan moved to one side. As the troll bent forward with the blow, Qualtan used both fists and slammed into the troll’s wrist. The strength of the impact surprised the troll and it lost its hold on the weapon. The troll hesitated as Qualtan grabbed hold of the club. As it lunged towards him, Qualtan struck back with the stolen club, knocking the troll off its feet with its own weapon. Ort quickly jumped into the fray, crashing both of his fists into Qualtan’s back, pounding him to the ground. He quickly grabbed hold of the dazed warrior and threw him into a tree, toppling it over with the impact. Glaive quickly followed him, arming his wrist gauntlet as he ran.

Nort was still bowled over, rubbing his chin as Ort charged after Qualtan, pulling free a stone hewn hammer strapped to his leg.

“You’ll pay for hurtin’ me brother!” Ort screamed as he smashed his way through the trees to where Qualtan lay. Finding Qualtan, Ort lifted his hammer. However, Qualtan merely jumped up, his fists and forearms blocking the blow. The impact hurled him away again but the hammer was shattered in Ort’s hands. Dumbfounded, Ort stared at the handle of his now headless hammer and growled in furious rage at the loss of his favorite weapon. Dropping it, he rushed to where Qualtan had fallen again, for though large, trolls could move fairly quickly. He stood above Qualtan and raised his foot to level a telling blow. But Qualtan was too quick. He unsheathed his sword and impaled the rotting boot as it fell. Ort howled in pain as he grabbed hold of his foot. Qualtan quickly scampered towards the troll’s other leg and rammed himself into Ort’s shin. The troll staggered, hopping about with one bloodied foot while pawing at the other. Losing balance, he tripped over himself and crashed into a line of trees, dropping to the ground as the trees fell atop him.

Nort rose at last and immediately took hold of his club and chased after Qualtan. Nort followed his brother’s trail, grumbling along the way. “Curse you and bite you! You won’t get away, you filthy rabbit! We’ll have all of you now! Do you hear me? We’ll skin the lot of you!” The troll looked about noticing the fallen trees and then seeing the slowly rising form of his brother Ort. Relieved, Nort paused until he heard a loud challenge.

“Come get me, filthy troll!” Qualtan said. The troll straightened its misshapen form. Pursing his lips, Nort turned around, slapping his club against his open hand. He did not expect to see a fallen tree hurtling through the air towards him. It struck the troll squarely in the head. Nort lost his balance as the tree trunk shattered against his steely hide, causing the troll to stagger and sway. He dropped his club, falling to one knee. Qualtan ran towards him. His face contorted by rage, the troll reached out with a fleshy claw. The young warrior took the hand, twisting it violently. The troll screamed, again, not realizing the strength of its enemy. As Qualtan twisted, locking the troll’s arm in place, he flung Nort over his head with a grunt of effort. The troll crashed into another patch of trees and, unable to right itself, began tumbling down the side of the cliff, smacking into trees and rocks on its downward journey.

“Nort!” Ort called out as his brother rumbled past him. He winced at each moment he heard his brother troll collide with another obstacle along the way.

“It’s over, troll! Go find another hole to hide in, and remember this lesson well the next time you threaten innocents!” Qualtan said. Ort stared at Qualtan, frothing with rage.

“You hurt my brother, Nort! I kill you!” he said, lifting a fallen tree trunk and snapping it in order to make a useable weapon. He limped towards Qualtan who stood unmoving, sword in one hand. Ort stopped a few feet away from him, and raised his new bludgeon to strike. As he did, Qualtan ignited the enchanted bright light that he could call from his magicked blade. In the shaded darkness the troll shrieked in pain at the unexpected radiant glow. It swung blindly, missing Qualtan. As it did, an arrow flew from the branch of a nearby tree. It struck directly into the troll’s left ear. Ort howled, clawing at the side of its head, dropping its makeshift club. Qualtan took aim again and struck deeply at the troll’s wounded shin, this time with his sword.

“Ouch!!” the troll cried out miserably, stumbling forward yet again. Its head cracked into a pile of stones covered in yellowish mossy plants. The stones exploded from the impact, and the troll laid still, knocked senseless.

“Nice shot!” Qualtan cried out to Glaive, who waved back happily from the tree he had climbed upon.

“He won’t be out for long,” Glaive said as he jumped from branch to branch back onto the forest’s floor. “And his brother will probably be back up this way at some time.”

Qualtan agreed. “We better cross that bridge while we may.”

As Qualtan and Glaive appeared from the trees, the woodsmiths had stood rooted to the spot, awed by what they had seen. Lofgren’s eyes bulged as Qualtan returned.

“N … never in my lifetime have I ever seen…” Lofgren stammered.

“They are not dead yet! We must cross, and quickly!” Qualtan said.

As he ran past Lofgren, the woodsmith still did not move. “Like legends from the Great War come to life…”

“Worship later! We must go now!” Glaive insisted, pushing Lofgren along.

The wagons were quickly moved back into line and driven across the swaying bridge. In their haste, many supplies were left behind as they dared not risk wasting additional time in retrieving them. They clattered onto the bridge. It creaked and groaned but held their passing weight. With the very last wagon safely across, the trades folk stopped and looked back. At the other end, they could clearly see the two troll brothers, Nort having climbed back, limping and staggering, howling and cursing at them. The trolls were too fearful of the chasm, and would not pass, taking gentle steps onto the bridge and quickly retreating back.

“Trolls may like to hide under bridges, but hate passing over them,” Lofgren said happily as they soon lost view of the angry trolls on their trek forward. “You’ve saved us yet again!”

“WE saved you this time!” Glaive corrected, as Qualtan tended to his injured arm, stronger still, but still a source of discomfort.