The Homunculus Knight

Side Story: The Captain, the Merchant and the Warg (Part 1)

“Suffering builds strength. That is a truth of existence, one we know and embrace! We, the children of the Three Queens, seek hardship and through it become worthy! Our goddesses, do not coddle us, they challenge us! Their will, their love, hardens us into something greater! We are their chosen and must ever prove ourselves in their eyes! Through this eternal trial, we make ourselves masters of this world!”- Witch-Priestess Skrya’s benediction before the Battle of Milda

The Dwarf slammed his shield’s rim forward into the shrieking goblin’s face, splintering teeth and breaking bone. As the malnourished conscript stumbled back, the Dwarf brought the hammer side of his weapon down on the goblin’s skull, sending blood and brain splattering across the muddy ground. Before the enemy soldier’s body even hit the ground, two more of his fellows had replaced him, each howling battle-prayers in their mother tongue.

Behind the Dwarf, a human spearman thrust his weapon forward, punching right through one goblin’s shield and into his fur ‘armor’. Even as his brother-in-arms died to a punctured lung, the other goblin kept coming forward, his pinprick pupils telling of the combat drug flowing through his veins. Flipping his grip on his weapon, the Dwarf swung again, protecting the spearman as he worked to dislodge the thrashing corpse-to-be from his weapon. The goblin tried to raise his shield even as he thrust forward with his short-spear. Knocking the clumsy strike aside before it could even scratch his steel breastplate, the Dwarf checked his blow and stopped his axe from getting caught in the goblin’s shield, before slamming his own shield into his opponent’s chest knocking him back and right into another spear thrust from the lines of human pikemen standing behind the dwarven infantry.

Blinking away sweat from his eyes, the Dwarf managed to look past the collection of corpses in front of him and cursed. There was no slagging end to the horde pressing against the company spearline. Even as the human spearmen tore away at the goblins, enough of them slipped through the pikes and attacked the axe-dwarves tasked with guarding their taller comrades.

As the next wave of stupid-slagging conscripts came forward, the Dwarf took a step back and formed a proper line, with his kinsmen on either side. Axes raised, shields ready, the dwarves watched as the goblin cracked under the human spears but didn’t shatter. Clambering over the bodies of their fellows, the goblins howled warbling battle-cries as they fed themselves to dwarven axes.

Armored in wool gambesons, the conscripted serfs carried wooden shields and spears better for boar hunting than war. Compared to the Vindabonian steel the Leaguer army used, the goblins might as well have been naked and armed with sharpened sticks. But religious fervor, desperate hopes and witch's brew kept the goblins fighting long past the time any sane army would break. This mob of fifth sons and half-slaves were fighting to protect their motherland from invaders while trying to earn a place among the Kozaks. Joining those prestigious warrior-clans was one of the few ways a Tzarborn goblin might escape serfdom. So, invader he might be, the Dwarf wasn’t about to let these wretches climb their backward empire’s social ladder using his corpse.

Nearby, a cry went up, and the Dwarf raised his shield high as arrows whistled through the air. Iron tips clattered against his solid round shield like deadly hail and behind him, human soldiers died; the arrows finding gaps in armor or punching through weak points. Some goblins also perished, getting caught in the short volleys, but whatever bastard was commanding the enemy archers clearly didn’t see that as much of a problem. That was what these serf-soldiers, these ‘kholops,’ were for, after all. Holding the enemy in place long enough for the actual goblin soldiers to strike true.

Lowering his shield and knocking some of the looser arrows off it, the Dwarf watched as more kholops came forward to find death while seeking glory. Cursing his idiot commander and his own idiot choices for getting him into this situation, the Dwarf bellowed out a dwerick war-cry, one that was answered by his kinsmen as they smacked axe-heads against shields. Before them, the charging goblins faltered slightly, and for a moment, the Dwarf wondered if the sight of so many furious dwergaz soldiers had finally gotten through to the enemy’s sense of self-preservation.

Something suddenly shifted in the goblins, and the Dwarf caught sight of strange movement behind the enemy bulk. Squinting his eyes, he tried to understand what he was looking at. The back ranks of the goblins seemed hazy, like they were…. were… caught in fog. Eyes widening, the Dwarf just started to yell warnings when two competing horns cut through the din of battle. One was the silver trumpets of Vindabon calling for the company to pull back. The other was the brassy call of Gobavi boar-horns signaling the enemy to do something.

Desperately, the Leaguer army tried to follow the command, stepping backwards even as they fought the goblins. But the order had come too late and the fog bank rolled forward and over the goblin line, into the Holy League army. This close, the Dwarf could see the fog was clearly no natural thing, its swirling shadows darker and more vivid than any mist or even smoke he’d ever seen. This was spellcraft, and the Dwarf wanted to cry out, demanding where the slag his company’s battlemage was. Instead, he focused on the heavy gold ring on his shield-arm’s pointer finger and muttered the activation word. A ripple of magic flowed through the Dwarf’s hand and into the crudely etched runes marking his shield. Feeling the ward snap into place, the Dwarf envied his human comrades, they at least had someone to pray to when shit got this bad.

The fog crackled against the shield’s ward but cared little for the paltry defense it offered, merely flowing around it and onto the Dwarf. Bracing himself, he expected a caustic burn or some sucking hunger, but as neither came, the Dwarf took another step back and stumbled. Catching himself, he grunted as his head swam and his belly heaved. The clank of metal and violent retching from behind caught the Dwarf’s attention. Human soldiers were struggling to stay upright, many on their knees or collapsed into the dirt, many vomiting, others just groaning.

Tightening his grip on his axe and shield the Dwarf looked to his nearest kinsmen who was wobbling slightly and asked. “Wwwahat is-is happa-happa”

As the slurred words left him the Dwarf suddenly understood, he was drunk, very drunk. The condition of the human soldiers also now made sense; they couldn’t handle alcohol like a dwarf or… or a goblin. Forcing his blurry vision to focus, the Dwarf swore at the slowly approaching mass of goblin kholops. “Shit”

Martialing himself, the Dwarf managed to slur out another battle cry, this one matched half-heartedly by his kinsmen. The humans were helpless, each fighting not to drown in their sick, let alone carry a spear. Now it fell to the dwarves, they’d need to fight the jagging kholops and keep them busy until someone undid the hex. Most of the league’s left-flank was under the spell’s effect and the enemy was clearly trying to break them. A stupid little giggle escaped the Dwarf as he eyed the stumbling goblins as they approached. Whoever the enemy battlemage was, they clearly didn’t know much about dwarves. If anyone could fight and win while piss-drunk, it would be dwergaz soldiers.

Slowly the dwarves formed up, putting a solid wall of steel between their hexed comrades and the coming goblins. They needed to hold the left side of the army’s formation against a drunken mob of serfs pretending to be soldiers; it wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. As the kholops managed to work themselves up into a ridiculous parody of the charge, another sound filled the battlefield. At first the Dwarf thought it was another horn, but as it carried on and was joined by others, he realized the truth, it was a howl.

Hearing those horrible calls, the Dwarf’s addled mind remembered something important; the other reason for mixed companies. Axe-dwarves and swordsmen might be able to break enemy infantry or shift the tide in a clash of spears, but they were royally fucked in the face of cavalry. Knights on horseback could cut them down like reapers among wheat; but the goblins didn’t ride horses, or at least not only horses.

Somewhere nearby, someone shouted a single word. “WARGS!”

Bursting out from the nearby woodline came hundreds of lupine monsters, each with an armored Kozak astride them. Larger than any true wolf and ill-proportioned, the creatures loped forward, splitting off into smaller packs and charging towards the faltering Leaguer line. The Dwarf could only watch as one of these packs headed his way; their Kozak riders already loosing volleys of arrows. Shield raised, the Dwarf caught one of the shafts with a grunt, the arrow punching worryingly deep into the reinforced linden wood.

In response to this first volley of arrows a swarm of fiery bolts sailed from somewhere behind the Leaguer front line and struck among the charging warg-riders; each exploding into a sphere of crackling flames that elicited horrible screams and dying howls from those caught in them. But this wasn’t enough, it wasn’t anywhere close; the Kozaks charged on, the fastest of them already falling about the league army’s left flank, tearing into their infantry as they struggled to stay upright.

The Dwarf wanted to dress down whatever shitbrain thought a bombardment was a better use of magic than sobering up an entire section of the army. Instead he screamed orders, trying to rally the dwergaz infantry and few standing humans into a formation that might hold off the two coming charges. Kholops coming from the front, kozaks from the left, the battalion was caught between hammer and anvil.

Trumpets sounded from somewhere to the right and behind the Dwarf’s company and he allowed himself to look. Banners streaming, lances at the ready, the army’s cavalry was coming, slipping through a corridor between the left and center formation. Letting out a breath, the Dwarf started to reevaluate his odds of survival. If the knights moved to intercept the kozaks then, this would-

That thought died as the Dwarf stared in horror at what he was seeing. The knights weren’t intercepting the kozaks, they were slamming into the kholops. Cutting the undisciplined peasants down like wheat while the mutant wolves and their riders surged into the Leaguer infantry. Instead of challenging their peers, the knights were going for easy glory and bloody triumph. Before the Dwarf’s shock could fully turn to rage, the wargs were upon his beleaguered unit.

Coming forward in a gray blur, twelve war-beasts loped along the ground, their riders stowing horn-bows before drawing cruel sabers or polearms. A few of the more functional humans brandished spears at the coming wargs, but they were fast, wickedly so, slipping past the clumsy thrusts and tearing into the tipsy soldiers with claws and fangs. Without a full pike-line, to ward off a charge, there was little to do against the rampaging beasts and their cackling riders. Already past the paltry spears, the warg set upon the drunk soldiery. Hexed as they were, the humans couldn’t fight back, but the dwarves could. Leading his make-shift squad, the Dwarf pointed at the nearest warg and shouted “Surround it!”

The beast in question had it’s jaws around a screaming man’s torso, flailing him back and forth while the kozak atop it lashed out with a bardiche. Seeing the coming dwarfs, the warg jerked its head and snapped the man’s spine with a single cruel movement before turning to meet the new threat. Cursing whatever warlock had created these cruel parodies of an already dangerous animal, the Dwarf pushed towards the warg even as it leapt for him. Diving forward, landing amid mud and blood, the Dwarf heard the whoosh of air as the beast passed over him and into those following him.

Desperately trying to stand up, the Dwarf fought against the sucking swamp the battle had turned the surrounding farm field into. Wiping away stinking dirt from his face, the Dwarf found the snarling warg barely a meter away, its jaws clamped around a screaming soldier’s breastplate, slowly crushing it and him while the kozak hacked at the surrounding axe-dwarves. The Dwarf had lost his shield in the mud but still held his father’s axe-hammer, that would have to be enough. With the warg’s attention on the others, the Dwarf lunged for its back legs, going for the reversed knee. Tested steel was triumphant, cartilage and ligaments snapped as the axe-hammer sunk into flesh.

A howling yelp escaped the warg and it tried to turn but the Dwarf wasn’t done. Ripping his weapon free and spinning the head, he brought the hammer down on the beast’s hip. Bone cracked and the back leg kicked pathetically, as the warg tried to change focus; a mistake that killed it. The other soldiers swarmed in like ants over dropped sugar, hacking away at the creature and its rider. Barciache, lashing out the kozak screamed curses until a shaky pikeman drove his weapon through the goblin’s throat. As warg and rider died under countless blows, the Dwarf realized his head was clearing, the hex was dissipating.

All around him more and more of his company were rising from their stupor, but not all of them. Arrows, kholops and wargs had torn into the ranks, but even now as they tried to regroup, the damage was done. Properly trained and equipped boi-kholopi, the elite slave-soldiers of the boyars, were marching forward, gathering the scraps of previous kholop assaults to themselves while the kozaks rampaged through the left flank. The day hadn’t been decided yet, but any chance of easy victory was long gone.

Like drops of water pooling into a puddle, the disparate survivors of the goblin attack reformed into formation, returning to the rectangular shape they’d been drilled to take on instinct. Reduced in number and shaken, the mixed company still formed up and pushed the wargs back. Which admittedly wasn’t that big of an accomplishment. Once the monstrous cavalry saw they’d lost their advantage, they happily retreated; kozaks reversed in their saddles firing arrows, while their mounts gnawed on whatever poor soul they managed to take with them.

Trying to spot banners and listen for horn calls, the Dwarf got a sense for how the battle was going. The Leaguer reserve was moving up and the goblin assault seemed to be pulling back, but the legitimacy of any Gobavi retreat was beyond suspect. Warg riders and other goblin cavalry would gladly dance around an enemy, nipping at them like any proper wolfpack. Except unlike wolves, the kozaks had swarms of conscripts to tie down and exhaust foes.

Staring at the pulped serfs who covered the ground, the Dwarf felt sick; the pointlessness of all this was staggering. This had started as a minor punitive raid, an ugly little border-crossing meant to avenge some of the goblin’s own banditry and repaint the borders in blood. A dirty business, but a necessity as far as those in power were concerned. The lands of Gobavi were massive but never enough, scheming boyars, hungry peasants and a divinely ordained tradition of expansion kept the Tzardom always pressing and poking at their neighbors. Reminding the goblins the leaguer kingdoms known collectively as the Eastern Marches would not tolerate such aggression was important.

All of that, ugly as it was, the Dwarf could understand. What he could not was how that rat-fucking aristocrat in charge of this whole endeavour had managed to turn it into this steaming pile of goat-shit. Instead of a focused raid, he’d lead his army on a mad march deeper and deeper into Gobavi, facing greater and greater resistance at every turn. General Louon said they weren’t far now, and just needed to take the town of Milda and all this would be worth it. The Dwarf had his doubts, with every kilometer the odds of them getting surrounded, cut off and cut down rose dramatically.

Nearby a voice started to shout, growing closer with every second. “Captain! Captain! Captain!”

Glancing about, the Dwarf frowned, wondering where the company’s chief officer had gotten to? Was he dead in the mud like so many others or in a warg’s jaw. Eventually the soldier standing next to the Dwarf nudged him. “Think that’s for you, sir.”

Confused, the Dwarf started to point at his helmet and sergeant marks but then the distant voice got louder and more verbose. “Captain Ironteeth!”

Eyes snapping open, taking in a deep breath, Captain Arkaz Ironteeth of the Vindabon city watch blinked away old memories and looked up from his desk. Darvy, his ever loyal lieutenant, stood before him, a nervous look on his face. Voice slurred by sleep, Arkaz grunted. “Slag are you doing here Darvy? It's… its, world knows what time.”

Clearing his throat and rubbing his eternal stubble, Darvy replied. “Uh, it’s seventh bell sir, I think you…”

Blinking away the disorientation of sleep, Ironteeth groaned and looked out his office window. He’d fallen asleep working on paperwork and spent the night at the guard tower. Glancing over his messy desk, Ironteeth sighed, his right hand was covered in dried ink and so was the paper he’d been writing on when sleep ripped him from consciousness’s arms. Slowly standing up and starting to clean up his dropped stylus’s mess, Ironteeth glanced at his lieutenant. “Well, does the night shift report anything interesting?”

Nodding, Darvy looked over the paper in his hands. “Some more of the usual. A wake over at the flagon got a little rowdy, but nothing too terrible. Over on Aajie Street someone stole a cart and managed to flip it right in the road’s middle.”

Finding his wash basin and trying to scrub the ink off, Ironteeth grunted. “I assume he was drunk?”

Smirking, Darvy bobbed his head. “Spectacularly. He’s in the holding cells and we’re trying to find the cart’s owner. The horse is missing, though, so I’ve got people keeping an eye out.”

Raising an eyebrow, Ironteeth asked. “He stole a horse and cart, knocked one over and lost the other…. There's probably an impressive story to that. What else do I need to worry about today?”

Darvy shrugged and seemed to hesitate slightly. “It’s not really our business, but I thought you should know. Someone broke into the courier house over by the Sun Gate. I don’t know what they took, but its been all the gossip.”

Finally managing to turn his fingers back to their usual shade, Ironteeth glanced at his deputy. “Really? They keep that place under a heavy lock.”

Handing one of his papers to his now not stained commander, Darvy elaborated. “It’s why everyone's so focused on it; especially since they didn’t steal anything valuable.”

Looking at the document, Ironteeth saw an urgently sketched bulletin alerting all the guards districts about the theft. Glancing it over, Ironteeth’s heavy brow rose steadily. The courier house was the first stop for most messengers coming and going to Vindabon. Lots of coin moved through the structure and it held a series of lockboxes of Andvari dwarf make. Yet, it hadn’t been some pay chest or courier-carried gemstone taken from the house. Instead, someone broke in, ransacked one of the file rooms and took a number of manifests and postal route records.

“Seems to me like someone is looking for something moving in the courier network.” muttered Ironteeth before adding. “You’re right, not really our business, but still interesting. I doubt whatever comes from this will happen in Vindabon. Hopefully, they can get word and extra security to whatever unlucky rider is carrying the thief’s target.”

Setting the paper down, Ironteeth groomed his dark beard and looked himself over in the mirror. Deciding he didn’t look like some grimy deep-shaft squatter, the captain left his office and went about the business of keeping order in the Weinstadt district.

By the time noon came, Ironteeth was thoroughly reminded of why beds existed. A desk, no matter how cushioned by documents, made a very poor excuse for one. Back aching, beard itching, Arkaz split his time between the guard tower and surrounding district the best he could. Helping his subordinates, citizens and doing the most important thing a leader and guard could: be visible. That this kept his sore body moving and away from the equally important task of paperwork was just a nice bonus.

Returning to the tower, after getting himself an oggy at the distract market, Ironteeth ran into a frustrated subordinate on the way back to his office. City-Warden Cat-eyes was less than six months in the guard but already proving a valuable addition to Ironteeth’s staff. Face contorted into an annoyed frown, she saluted Ironteeth and said. “I still haven’t found the horse, sir.”

A little surprised, Ironteeth asked. “Really? Do you think it’s in another district?”

Shaking her head, Alia Cat-eyes replied. “No, that’s the damndest part. I keep picking up and losing the trail. There are signs of the horse all over; hells, I almost stepped in its shit. But no one has seen it, including me. As far as I can tell, it's meandering all around our district without anyone noticing it!”

That set off a new itch in Ironteeth’s beard. Looking towards the holding cells, he started to say. “Let’s go talk with our horse-thief; I’ve got an idea about-”

Darvy appeared from the tower stairway, panting as if he’d been running. “Captain, there’s someone downstairs who insistently wants to meet with you.”

Crossing his arms, the Captain asked. “What about?”

Glancing behind him and then stepping closer, Darvy spoke softly. “He’s a merchant of some kind, and says he’s got information on the courier house robbery. Seems pretty nervous and wanted only to speak to you, saying something about your ‘specific qualifications.’”

That got a raised eyebrow. As far as Ironteeth knew, the only thing that set him really apart from the other guard captains was his species. A factor that came up more often than he’d like. Since every time a ‘dwarf crime’ became an issue, some rat-chewer would think it a good time to ‘consult’ with him on his obvious ‘expertise.’

Letting out a breath from between his namesake, Captain Ironteeth shrugged. “Well, send him up.”

Nodding, Darvy hesitated for a moment before adding. “One thing, sir, the merchant, he’s a goblin.”

That got Ironteeth’s attention. Goblins weren’t common in Vindabon, few of them ever left their homelands. Even the population of league-aligned goblins in the Eastern Marches rarely strayed far from their native regions. For a people who glorified conquest and expansion, they rarely migrated. Bitterly, Ironteeth noted they did migrate, but only after wiping out or subjugating those who’d lived in a region before. He’d seen what remained of villages on the Gobavi border when a Boyar decided it was time to expand, the fires, the rapes, the blood sacrifices.

Shaking his head, Ironteeth grit his jaw. For a moment he wanted to tell Darvy to shoo the little sidhe-shit away. Letting out a breath and pushing down the old pains, Ironteeth said. “I’ll meet him in my office.”

Heading that way, Ironteeth realized he’d almost forgotten about Cat-eyes. “Check on the horse thief, maybe if you find out where the horse was stolen from you’ll know where it’s going. Work horses like that sometimes know their routes better than the driver.”

Settling into his office chair, eyeing his axe-hammer with perhaps a little too much intensity, Ironteeth waited for the goblin. Using a breathing exercise, a Priest of Aunt Seeress had taught him, he tried not to think about the blood and screams of battle. He’d killed lots of goblins, and lost lots of friends to them. This would not be an easy meeting, no matter what.

After nearly five minutes, there was a knock at the door and Darvy swung it open, ushering a well-dressed goblin into Ironteeth’s office. Tall by his people’s standard, being nearly Ironteeth’s height, the goblin had gray-purple skin and long silver hair. Large, almost bat-like ears drooped from the sides of his head and his brow receded slightly. The goblin’s features were sharp and angular, softened only slightly by his small beard. Clad in a garb fitting of any successful merchant, he carried a cap between long fingers. Like all his people, the goblin had six digits, each covered in rings, giving his hands the impression of bejeweled spiders.

For a moment, both goblin and dwarf stared at each other, both clearly sizing each other up. Remembering himself, Ironteeth gestured towards the chair before his desk. Slipping into the too-large chair, the goblin spoke, his voice surprisingly deep and accented by his mother tongue. “Thank you for meeting with me, Captain Ironteeth. I am Boris Tamvo.”

Grunting, Ironteeth asked. “My lieutenant says you have information about the courier house burglary.”

Nodding, Boris said. “Yes, I know who did it and why.”

The Merchant was fidgeting with his rings, nervousness leaking from his every action. Something had him spooked and Ironteeth found himself becoming increasingly agitated just watching Boris. “Well, spit it out.”

Swallowing fearfully, Boris Tamvo leaned forward. “The Warg’s Head.”

Confused, Ironteeth, stared at his ‘guest.’ “And what does that mean?”

Spinning one of his rings so fast its gemstone became a blueish blur, Boris elaborated. “They are an order, a monastic order that serves the Tzar. They hunt his enemies, killing them, torturing them, making an example. They’ve come from the motherland, and they are hunting me.”

Scoffing, Ironteeth started to get up from his chair. “I think we are done here.”

Vigorously shaking his head, Boris spoke rapidly. “No! No! You don’t understand, I’m an Orphan!”

Ironteeth shrugged and gestured towards the door. “So is everyone, eventually. Now please leave and stop wasting my time. The Tzar has bigger threats to send his killers after than a merchant in a foreign land.”

Raising his six-fingered hands in a desperate plea, Boris kept speaking. “Please, I come to you because you fight my kinsmen, you know what my motherland is like, what it makes of people!”

A flash of anger filled Ironteeth. This little slant-browed sidhe-shit had looked into his past! He’d come here, knowing what Ironteeth had seen, what he’d survived. Hand drifting to his belt, the Captain growled. “You should leave now, and not slagging come back!”

Panicked, Boris kept speaking. “There are records! Records of me and my fellow escapee’s at the courier house. Former children of the motherland, all of us hunted but still in contact with each other.”

Ironteeth hesitated and seeing this the Merchant let out a breath and tried to explain. “Am sorry for poor start. I fled Gobavi and its cruelty when I was younger; but I still have family there. People who deserve a better life than breaking themselves for the Boyars and dying for the Tzar. Here in Vindabon I am successful merchant, I make much coin and send some home, to those who want to change things. This probably a dream, but one I share, many of us across your lands send what we can back to those who resist the yoke.”

Fear had thickened Boris’s accent but Ironteeth still understood what was being said. “You’re part of a rebellion?”

Boris shrugged. “Enough to earn the Tzar’s wrath. See, as a merchant in your great city, I act as… connector for different donors. Money and information flow to me and then to my contacts. We do this through the courier network, and there are papers telling of our work, papers now stolen.”

Still listening but not convinced, Ironteeth asked. “What makes you think the robbery has to do with your network? You can’t be the only ones moving valuable information through the couriers.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Boris flicked his eyes around the office, as if he expected to find someone listening. “Two of my contacts in the east have gone silent, one sent word of Warg’s Head sniffing about him before disappearance. That was less than a month ago, and it take nearly that long to reach Vindabon from where he was. Also, the Tzar has been pressing his boot recently, trying to crush any hint of disloyalty. Too much, too soon for all to be coincidence.”

Returning to his seat and leaning back in the chair, Ironteeth spoke slowly. “So assuming I believe you, what will this goblin spy do now?”

Boris let out a tired little laugh. “Kill me, probably horribly, then leave and do the rest to everyone else he can find in the Orphan network.”

Shutting his eyes, the Merchant continued. “If the Varganiki” seeing Ironteeth’s confusion on the goblin word he amended himself. “If the Warg’s Head got enough from my contact to know about the couriers and my place in Vindabon it is only a matter of time until he finds me.”

Ironteeth sighed. “Alright, so still under the assumption this is not paranoia, why come to me? The courier house isn’t in my district.”

The Captain already had an idea as to why, judging by Boris’s frantic words earlier, but wanted to make sure. Bowing his head slightly, the Merchant explained. “You are the only guard officer who fought my kinsmen. What I say sounds paranoid, I understand that, but it is not so if you know my motherland. Gobavi, the land, the people, the gods, are cruel, grasping things that never forget a slight. They will do wretched things to any who wrong them and worse to any who try to take from them. I’ve done both and helped others do the same. You understand that and what they are capable of.”

Boris’s eyes were black, making his pupils seem huge. “It is not paranoia if they really are out to get you, Captain Ironteeth.”

Hand going to the large scar along his chest, feeling its dull ache more than he had in years, Arkaz Ironteeth let out a very long, very tired sigh. “Fuck.”