Reaper of Iron and Blood

From the shadows ahead, a figure emerged. It wasn't a bandit, nor a beast. It was a man—or what used to be a man. His skin was pale and mottled, his eyes black pits that reflected the faint glow of Skarnvalk's runes. He moved with an unnatural, jerky gait, as though his limbs were being pulled by invisible strings. And he wasn't alone. More figures stepped out from the trees, their hollow eyes fixed on us.

Drenn cursed under his breath. "What the hell are those?"

"Trouble," I muttered.

The creatures—if you could still call them that—moved as one, shuffling closer. Their mouths opened in unison, and a guttural hiss escaped their throats. I could feel Skarnvalk's will stirring, the hammer eager for the fight. I met Drenn's wide-eyed stare and grinned.

"Stay back," I said. "This one's mine."

The creatures moved fast—faster than I'd expected from something so unnatural. They darted forward, their jagged claws reaching for me, their blackened eyes locked onto my every movement. I stepped into the charge, raising Skarnvalk high. The runes flared bright, a pale silver glow that spilled over the grim faces of the attackers.

The first blow came down hard, and the curved blade at the top of Skarnvalk cut cleanly through the first creature's outstretched arm. It didn't scream—just staggered back, black ichor oozing from the wound. I followed through, bringing the hammer's blunt side around in a wide arc that smashed into its torso. Bones shattered under the impact, and it crumpled to the dirt, motionless.

The others didn't hesitate. They swarmed, moving like a single entity, their gnarled limbs reaching for any opening. I swung Skarnvalk in great sweeping arcs, cutting through the nearest two before they could close the distance. The runes glowed brighter with every strike, their light searing through the darkness. It wasn't just a hammer anymore; it was a beacon, a weapon with a life of its own.

I danced through the chaos, each movement calculated, each swing deliberate. Skarnvalk responded like an extension of my will, the runes guiding my strikes with an almost eerie precision. I felt its hunger, its desire to destroy these twisted abominations, and I let it lead the way.

One creature managed to slip through, its claws raking across my side. The pain was sharp and immediate, but I didn't falter. I drove the hammer down with both hands, smashing its skull into the dirt. I could feel the warmth of my own blood soaking into my tunic, but there was no time to tend to it. More were coming.

Behind me, I heard the shouts of the caravan drivers, their voices filled with panic. I didn't bother looking back. I couldn't afford to. My focus was on the creatures in front of me—on staying alive long enough to end them all.

Another swing, another body crumpled to the ground. Black ichor splattered the dirt, the stench thick and choking. My breath came in short, ragged gasps, but I pressed on. I knew I couldn't stop. Not until every last one of these things was destroyed.

The fight raged on, each moment blurring into the next. The creatures were relentless, but so was I. Skarnvalk's runes burned like fire, their light illuminating the forest in flashes of silver and gold. Each strike was a roar, each kill a victory.

By the time it was over, the ground was littered with broken bodies. I stood in the center of the carnage, bloodied and bruised, Skarnvalk still glowing faintly in my hands. The hammer's hum had quieted, its hunger sated. For now.

I turned back to the caravan. The drivers stood frozen, their faces pale, their weapons untouched. Drenn's eyes were wide with shock as he looked from the bodies to me, then back again.

"Are you…?" he began, but the words caught in his throat.

"I'm fine," I said, though my ribs told a different story. "Start moving. This place isn't safe anymore."

He nodded numbly, and the drivers hurried to get the wagons moving. I climbed onto the lead cart, gripping Skarnvalk tightly. The hammer's runes pulsed gently, their light a reassuring presence.

As the caravan creaked forward, I glanced back at the pile of corpses. The forest seemed quieter now, as if the very land had been holding its breath. Whatever those things were, they weren't natural. And something told me they wouldn't be the last I'd face on this road.

We didn't stop until nightfall, the tension hanging over the caravan like a shroud. The drivers barely said a word, their faces drawn and pale. I kept my seat on the lead wagon, one hand resting on Skarnvalk's haft. My side throbbed where the creature's claws had raked me, but it wasn't deep enough to slow me down. Pain was just another kind of fuel.

When we finally pulled into a clearing for the night, I stepped down from the wagon and began to set up my forge. The drivers watched me with a mix of fear and curiosity, though none dared approach. That suited me just fine. I wasn't here to hold their hands. I was here to make sure we all reached the next town alive, and if that meant putting the fear of the gods into them, so be it.

The forge was nothing elaborate—just a portable anvil, a few tools, and a small collapsible brazier that could hold enough heat to work with. I set it up near the campfire, feeding the coals until they glowed white-hot. The familiar warmth washed over me, and I felt my muscles relax for the first time in hours. This was my sanctuary, my real home. The hammering of steel against steel, the smell of hot metal and burning coal—these were the constants in my life.

I pulled out the short blade I'd shown the barkeep back in town. It had done its job, but the fight had left it dull and chipped. I began sharpening it, running the blade along a whetstone in slow, deliberate strokes. The rhythmic scrape of metal on stone drowned out the murmur of the camp, and I let myself focus entirely on the task at hand.

My mind wandered as I worked. The creatures we'd fought weren't bandits, weren't animals. They were something else—something wrong. The thought nagged at me like a stone in my boot. If they were a one-off, some cursed wanderers that happened upon our path, then fine. But if they were part of something bigger…

I shook my head and kept sharpening. Worrying wouldn't do me any good right now. The blade needed to be sharp. The hammer needed to be ready. The forge would take care of the rest.

"Doran."

I glanced up to see Drenn standing a few feet away. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, but there he was, clutching a dented short sword in his hand. It was a cheap, crude thing—probably bought from a traveling peddler who barely knew which end of the blade was sharp.

"What is it?" I asked, my tone flat.

"I… I saw what you did back there. How you fought. How that hammer of yours glows like it's alive." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I've been doing this a long time. I've seen fighters, mercenaries, even a few swordmasters. But I've never seen anyone… like you."

I snorted. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"It's supposed to be a question," he said, his voice low. "What are you, Doran?"

I stared at him for a long moment, then went back to sharpening the blade. "I'm a forge master. A ruin master. I make things. And if I have to, I break things. That's all you need to know."

Drenn frowned, clearly unsatisfied with the answer. But he didn't press further. Instead, he held out his battered sword. "Can you… fix this? At least sharpen it?"

I looked at the sword, then at Drenn's face. He wasn't just asking for a better blade. He was asking for a measure of trust. A step toward understanding the kind of person he was dealing with. It didn't change the fact that he was an ass. But it was a start.

"Leave it with me," I said. "It'll be ready by morning."

He nodded and stepped back, leaving me alone with the forge. The night was quiet now, the forest still. As I worked, I felt a strange sense of calm. The fight was over. The road ahead was uncertain. But for the moment, I had my tools, my hammer, and the fire. And that was enough.

Morning broke with a pale, silvery light filtering through the trees, and the camp stirred to life. The drivers moved about their tasks with nervous energy, still shaken from the previous day's attack. I handed Drenn his repaired sword without ceremony, the blade now gleaming sharp and free of the nicks and dents it had borne. He accepted it with a grudging nod, then hurried off to help ready the wagons.

I had no interest in their gratitude or their conversation. My focus was on the road ahead and what might be waiting for us. The creatures we'd encountered yesterday had left their mark—not just on my side, which still ached, but on my thoughts. The question of what they were and why they'd been there nagged at me. But that was a puzzle for another time. For now, I had a job: get these wagons safely to the next town.

The caravan resumed its journey, the wagons creaking and groaning as they rolled along the uneven trail. Drenn, perhaps emboldened by his now-sharp blade, rode near the front, casting frequent glances over his shoulder as if expecting me to take up conversation. I didn't. Instead, I walked beside the lead wagon, Skarnvalk resting on my shoulder, eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of movement.

The forest grew denser as we pressed northward, the air cooler and damper. Shadows played tricks on the eyes, and every now and then one of the drivers would jump at a rustle in the underbrush or a branch creaking overhead. I stayed quiet, trusting my instincts and the faint hum of the runes on my hammer. They had a way of warning me when something truly dangerous was near.

By mid-afternoon, the trail emerged onto a broad ridge. The ground here was rocky, the trees sparse, and the sky stretched wide above us. It felt safer, more open. Drenn let out a relieved breath and called for a brief halt. The wagons rolled to a stop, and the drivers climbed down to stretch their legs and tend the horses.

I stood at the edge of the ridge, looking out over the valley below. From here, I could see a scattering of smaller forests and rolling hills, and in the far distance, the faint outline of another town—our destination. The sight gave me a strange mix of relief and unease. We were close, but not close enough.

Drenn walked up beside me, his repaired sword at his hip. "Not far now," he said, his tone more conversational than before.

"Not far," I agreed, though I didn't turn to face him. "But that doesn't mean we're safe."

"Safe as we'll get, I reckon," Drenn replied. "What happened back there… I've never seen anything like it. Those things weren't bandits or wolves. They were something else."

I nodded, still scanning the horizon. "Something worse."

Drenn was quiet for a moment, then asked, "You've dealt with things like that before?"

"I've dealt with a lot of things."

"Helpful answer," he muttered. Then, after a pause, he added, "But you're not just a dwarf with a fancy hammer, are you?"

I finally turned to look at him. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who barely said two words to me before I saved your ass."

He gave a half-smile. "Fair enough. I guess I just… I dunno. Want to know what I'm dealing with."

"You're dealing with Doran Thargrimm," I said, leaning on Skarnvalk. "A forge master. A ruin master. And someone who knows his way around a fight. That's all you need to know."

Drenn held my gaze for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright, Thargrimm. I'll leave it at that. But if you've got any runes or tricks that can keep us alive, I'd appreciate you using them."

I grunted in acknowledgment and turned back to the valley. The drivers were already climbing back onto the wagons, and Drenn moved off to oversee the preparations. I stayed where I was, Skarnvalk in hand, and watched the horizon. The road ahead might be shorter than the one behind us, but that didn't mean it would be easy. And something told me the worst wasn't behind us yet.