I. The Wounded Beast
The decision to ride for Stoink made tactical sense, even if the name made us wince. One hundred fifty miles east and south, it offered rest on the road to Trigol and a crossing of the Artonsamay that avoided Radigast entirely. More importantly, Stoink’s reputation as a sewer of villainy meant three dusty travelers might pass unnoticed where cleaner towns would ask too many questions.
We left Riftcrag at dawn. The forest thinned as we rode, the well-trodden path letting us make good time. By midday on the second day, we were halfway there. The howls that haunted our nights were fading from memory, the horrors of that cursed place loosening their grip on our thoughts.
Then came the scream.
It cut through the afternoon stillness like a blade through silk, raw and desperate, coming from a clearing west of the path. We reined in, exchanging glances. Ignore it? Ride on? Crow said nothing, simply turned his horse toward the sound. That settled it.
We found the source in a sun-dappled clearing: a wyvern, magnificent and terrible, thrashing in an iron bear trap. Three heavy chains anchored it to the surrounding trees. The creature’s scaled wings beat against the earth, raising clouds of dust and dead leaves. Its reptilian eyes rolled white with pain and panic. This was no monster. This was a prisoner, a sky-lord brought low by cruelty and crude mechanics.
“We free it,” Ender said. Not asked. Said.
He handed Crow a net. The ranger approached with silent steps, the mesh spreading between his hands like a fisherman’s dream. The wyvern lunged, jaws snapping, tail stinger darting with venomous intent. Crow danced aside, never still, never where the beast expected. Meanwhile, Ender produced his immovable rod and did something clever with it, using the rod as a fulcrum to tighten the net’s grip until the creature was secure but unharmed.
“Since when did you grow a brain?” I asked the dwarf.
He grinned. “Always had one. Just don’t waste it on small problems.”
Before Crow could retort, three figures emerged from the treeline. Bugbears, thick with muscle and indignation, weapons already in their hairy fists. Their trap. Their prize. Their mistake.
The fight was brief and brutal. I opened with faerie fire, painting them in violet radiance that made them curse and stumble. Crow’s bow sang its deadly song, each arrow finding vital flesh with surgical precision. And Ender? Ender waded in like a force of nature, his mace crushing bone and splattering gristle, finishing with searing smites that left smoking corpses and the smell of cooked meat in the afternoon air.
Crow looted the bodies with efficient detachment. Two gold pieces. Two bear traps with chains. Ender wiped his mace on a dead bugbear’s tunic and turned to the imprisoned wyvern.
What happened next, I will remember until I die.
Ender knelt before the beast and closed his eyes. He called to Moradin, and holy light answered. The dwarf’s hands glowed with otherworldly strength as he forced his fingers between the trap’s iron teeth. Muscles straining, face contorted with effort, he pried the jaws apart and threw the trap aside. The wyvern’s bloodied talons twitched free.
Crow kept his bow ready. The creature regarded us for a long moment, something ancient and knowing in its golden eyes. Then it limped into the forest, wings dragging, but alive.
We mounted up and rode on, none of us speaking of what we’d witnessed.
II. Mel of the Floating Throne
The waystones appeared the following day, some seven miles short of Stoink. We heard them first, a sound like a pressure vacuum pump throbbing in the thinning trees. Then we saw the ruins, standing stones weathered by centuries, arranged in patterns that ached the eye if stared at too long.
Crow slipped ahead, ghosting between the stones. He returned with news: a lone figure inside, dressed in blue robes, seated upon a throne that floated in midair, humming to himself while staring at a blue flame.
“Harmless?” I asked.
“Eccentric,” Crow replied. In his vocabulary, this was diplomatic.
I approached alone, hands visible, bard’s smile ready. “Well met! I’m Aelfric. These are my companions, Crow and Ender.”
The man turned. “Mel,” he said, as if introducing himself to an old friend. “I have been to the southern bay and spied a naga!”
We blinked at each other. Sarasha. He meant Sarasha.
“The throne,” I tried. “Might we ask-”
“I like to lay low,” he interrupted, and resumed his maddening hum.
Ender, never one for social nuance, described Riftcrag’s horrors and warned Mel away. This, finally, pierced his distraction. He sat up straight. His eyes, fever-bright and ancient, focused on us for the first time.
“Waystones can be used to jump to other waystones,” he announced. “I can show you some rules.”
We exchanged glances. Why would a stranger gift such powerful knowledge? But the memory of He-who-shall-not-be-named appearing and vanishing at the Molag stones was too fresh, the temptation too great.
“Each waystone has its own symbol,” Mel explained. “Find the constituent parts. Construct the marker. This one is a runner.”
He pointed to scattered stones. We set to work, Ender counting on his fingers, Crow arranging with quiet precision, me providing encouraging commentary. Within minutes, we’d assembled the runner symbol.
“Two schools of thought,” Mel continued. “Scatter the stones after, so no one follows. Or don’t, to ease the next traveler’s path. Your choice.”
“Depends if we’re being pursued,” Crow noted.
“Exactly.” Mel beamed as if Crow had solved existence itself. “Now: picture your destination’s stones. Place your hand upon the marker. Speak: Shel-réal. But beware-” his voice dropped to a whisper, “-long jumps are dangerous. The mind can… fray.”
We now knew three waystone locations: Molag, the Phostwood, and here, seven miles from Stoink.
We turned to thank him.
He was gone. Throne, flame, and all. Only the scattered stones remained, and the faint scent of ozone.
I stood there, staring at the empty space where he’d sat moments before. The waystones thrummed with residual power, or perhaps that was just my imagination. I thought about what he’d given us-knowledge that could save our lives, or end them just as easily.
Why? That was the question that gnawed at me. Why would a stranger, clearly touched by something beyond mortal understanding, simply hand us the keys to travel between waystones? Was he truly as mad as he appeared, dispensing wisdom like a drunkard spills wine? Or was there purpose behind his charity?
My mind kept returning to Molag. To the waystones there, and how He-who-shall-not-be-named had simply appeared and vanished at will. The same stones. The same power. Mel had mentioned Sarasha by name-called her a naga as casually as another man might comment on the weather. He knew things. He saw things.
Could he be working for one of them? For He-who-shall-not-be-named himself, perhaps? The thought made my skin crawl. We’d been given a gift wrapped in riddles, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the giver expected payment in kind-just not yet. Not today.
“Shel-réal,” Ender muttered. “What in the Nine Hells does that even mean?”
“Probably ‘hope you don’t explode,’” Crow suggested.
We scattered the stones and rode on.
III. Entering Stoink
If ever a town earned its name, it was Stoink. We knew the reputation: thieves’ guild ran everything, Master Thief Gellor ruled from the shadows, and the slave markets did brisk business alongside timber, weapons, and beer. We planned to stay one night, resupply, and vanish at dawn.
The town squatted before us like a disease made architecture. Buildings leaned against each other in drunken camaraderie, held upright by sheer criminal stubbornness. The stench hit us first-rot and refuse, stale sweat and something worse beneath. There was no gate guard. In most towns, this would be welcome. Here, it was terrifying.
We entered as evening bled across the sky. Eyes watched from doorways, shifting silhouettes that vanished when approached. Catcalls followed us, mocking and predatory: “Fresh meat!” “What you selling?” “Nice horse-shame if something happened to it.”
Three brutes blocked our path, arms crossed, smiles full of rotted teeth. I stepped forward, bard’s instincts screaming that charm beat steel in this den.
“Fine sirs!” I flourished, “Might you direct us to the Three Gables Inn?”
They exchanged looks. Two melted into a side alley. “Catch you later Albert,” they said as they silently slipped away down a side alley. The leader, Albert, considered us as a merchant appraising livestock.
“Maybe,” he allowed.
I produced a gold coin, letting it catch the dying light. He reached. I snatched it back.
“The Inn first.”
He muttered curses but beckoned us to follow. I noticed Crow’s eyes, never still, tracking rooftops, alleyways and shadows, his hand resting near his bow. Ender walked heavily, making himself impossible to ignore, a threat in plate armor.
“Armory in town?” Ender asked our guide.
No answer. Just nervous glances back, checking we followed, checking something else.
The street narrowed. An alley yawned to our right. Ahead, the Three Gables glowed with warmth and false safety.
“Front door’s watched,” Albert hissed. “Come round the side, I’ll get you in the back. Much safer.”
Ender moved.
One massive hand closed on Albert’s collar. The dwarf drove him against the wall with a crash that shook the plaster loose. Albert’s helmet spun through the air, clattering into the gutter.
“Tench, it didn’t work!” he screamed.
From the alley: running feet, metal scraping stone.
IV. Ambush in the Dark
Ender pounded Albert’s face with steel-gauntleted fists, blood spraying the crumbling plaster. Each blow was methodical, crushing; the work of a blacksmith shaping metal rather than a warrior in battle.
Crow moved like smoke.
A sideways roll took him across the narrow street, coming up on one knee with bow drawn and aimed down the alley. He first marked the runner-Albert’s accomplice-and then released. The poison arrow took the man through the shoulder, spinning him back into darkness.
But the third brigand had climbed. From the rooftop above, he unleashed magic, a cloud of whirling daggers that enveloped Crow and Ender in a cube of slashing steel. Crow’s hunter’s mark faded as he fought to defend himself. Ender grunted, trapped between his prisoner and the magical assault, blood welling from a dozen small cuts.
I stepped into the moment.
Drawing on true strike’s charismatic power, I raised my crossbow and fired. The bolt caught Albert through the throat, pinning him to the wall. His eyes went wide, surprised, then empty. He slid down, leaving a red trail on the white plaster.
Ender broke free of the dagger cloud, roaring, and unleashed sacred flame upward. The rooftop mage dodged, laughing, and retaliated with three glowing darts-magic missiles, one for each of us. They struck simultaneously, exploding against armor and flesh, stinging force driving us to our knees.
I recovered first, voice ringing with a command: “Approach wizard!” If the enchantment worked, he’d step off the roof to meet the stone below face first!”
He laughed. “Nice try, bard.”
In the alley, Ender had closed with the wounded man. The sound of his maul meeting bone was wet and final, followed by a guttural scream and the thud of a body hitting cobblestones.
The rooftop mage’s laughter died. He looked at three survivors, at Crow’s bow trained on his heart, at Ender’s blood-splattered form advancing toward the building’s edge. Fear spread across his features, naked and desperate.
“Hold on!” he cried. “Don’t kill me-I’ll put in a good word with Gellor! You’ll need friends in this town!”
We climbed up, weapons ready. His offer smelled genuine, or at least desperate enough to be useful. But Ender wasn’t satisfied with words.
The dwarf snatched the mage’s staff, then seized his ankle. With one hand, Ender spun him upside down and dangled him over the street, three stories down. The mage screamed, begging, pissing himself as Ender let his grip slip just enough to prove he could drop him.
Then Ender yanked him back up, flung him onto the roof, and tossed the staff to me.
“We’ll keep this,” Ender growled, the sound rising from his chest like stones grinding together. “You get it back if we’re not bothered. Understand?”
The mage nodded, trembling.
Ender turned and descended, heavy boots finding purchase on the sloped tiles. Crow and I followed, leaving the would-be ambush to lick his wounds and consider his choices.
Below, the streets of Stoink waited, dark and hungry. But we had survived our welcome. And in this town, that was something.