I. The Three Gables Inn
We wiped the blood from Ender’s plate mail, the crimson smearing across the iron rings like a fresh wound. We tethered our horses to the post outside, their flanks still steaming from the ride, and stepped through the threshold of the Three Gables Inn.
The common room fell silent as we entered. Dozens of eyes turned toward us, some wary, others fearfully assessing the strangers who had just killed men in the street outside. Word travels fast in towns like Stoink, carried on whispers through back alleys and dark corners. We were marked now, associated with violence, and in a place where Gellor’s men ruled, that made us dangerous or doomed, perhaps both.
We sauntered up to the bar with practiced nonchalance, the floorboards creaking beneath our boots. The bartender proved to be a short, stocky dwarf whose stature required an impressive array of stools, three of varying heights arranged behind the bar like a staircase, to reach the higher shelves of liquor and glassware. His beard, braided with copper wire, nearly brushed the floor when he bent to retrieve a bottle.
“Ale for my companions,” I announced, sliding coins across the scarred wood, “and one for yourself, good keeper.” I have learned through hard experience that information flows best when lubricated by generosity. The dwarf’s eyes gleamed at the offer; he poured our drinks with a steady hand and raised his own in silent toast. The minutes stretched into comfortable silence. The locals, having determined we were not immediate threats, returned to their conversations and their cups. In Stoink, apparently, a street fight ranked no higher than a minor inconvenience, hardly worth interrupting one’s evening over.
Ender, ever the pragmatist when it came to equipment, leaned across the bar. “Armory in this town?” The dwarf scratched his beard. “Blacksmith south of here. Decent work, if you don’t ask too many questions about the steel’s origins.”
“And Gellor?” I interjected, keeping my tone casual. “Where might we find the gentleman?” The bartender’s laugh was bitter and short, a bark of sound that held no humor. “He finds you. That’s how it works here. He finds you.” The warning hung in the air between us. We finished our drinks and made our way upstairs to our room, the stairs groaning beneath Ender’s armored weight.
II. Night of Chaos
Sleep came fitfully, broken by sounds that spoke of Stoink’s true nature.
From below: shouting, the crash of overturned furniture, glass shattering against stone. From the streets outside: screams that rose and fell like waves, punctuated by the meaty thud of fists against flesh, the scrape of blades drawn in anger, the heavy thump of bodies hitting cobblestones. I lay awake, counting the different types of violence by their distinctive sounds. A bar fight below. A mugging in the alley. Perhaps something worse in the square. The symphony of urban savage played on until near dawn.
When morning light finally crept through the shuttered windows, we descended to find the common room transformed into a battlefield’s aftermath. Chairs lay splintered against the walls like broken soldiers. Daggers protruded from the oak beams, their hilts still quivering. Dark circles of dried blood marred the floorboards, each one being scrubbed with methodical efficiency by the innkeeper’s lackeys. Their movements held no urgency, no shock-they worked with the resigned calm of men who had performed this task many times before. Last night had been ordinary. Tonight would likely bring more of the same.
We paid for our rooms and broke our fast on hard bread and harder cheese, chewing in silence. The road south beckoned, and we had no desire to linger in Gellor’s domain any longer than necessity demanded.
III. The Blacksmith and the Boots
The blacksmith’s forge lay on the southern road, its chimney belching smoke into the grey morning sky. The smith himself was a massive human, his arms corded with muscle earned through decades of hammering iron. He wielded a pair of tongs with the casual menace of a man who knew how to use them as weapons.
“You Gellor’s boys?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing as he reached for a pair of light, green boots resting on the anvil behind him. Opportunity knocked rarely in this world, and I had learned to answer with enthusiasm. “Indeed we are,” I proclaimed, stepping forward with my most aristocratic bearing. “New recruits from Midmeadow, here to impress the guild with our initiative.” The blacksmith’s expression shifted from suspicion to something approaching amusement. He studied me-my fine cloak, my educated accent, the way I held myself like a man more accustomed to theater stages than smithy floors. “Don’t recognize any of you,” he said slowly. “Don’t look like guild types.”
Boots of Elvenkind
Ender pushed past me, his bulk filling the doorway. The paladin stood a foot shorter than the smith but made up for it in width, his plate armor gleaming dully in the firelight. He planted himself before the larger man with the calm confidence of someone who had never learned to back down.
“We’re new,” Ender rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. “From Midmeadow. Here early to make an impression on Gellor and the guild.” He gestured to the boots. “Give us the fucking boots. Gellor will pay you later.” A pause, then: “Or I can rearrange your face on that anvil. Your choice.”
The smith’s hand tightened on his tongs. Violence hung in the air, thick as forge smoke. “I’ll take that warpick as well,” Ender added, his tone shifting to something almost conversational. He pointed to a wicked-looking weapon hanging on the wall. “Looks good for sapping. How much?” The appearance of actual gold coins, Ender produced them from his belt pouch with a flourish, transformed the blacksmith’s demeanor entirely. Business was business, after all, and gold spoke louder than threats.
War Pick
Crow, not to be outdone, purchased a quiver of arrows and tried on the boots. He took a few experimental steps, his eyes widening at the sudden lightness in his step. “Enchanted,” the smith confirmed, counting his coins with satisfaction. “Lightfoot enchantment. You’ll move quieter than a shadow.”
We gathered our new equipment and continued south, the bridge over the Artonsamay River marking the boundary of Stoink’s corrupt influence. Freedom lay beyond.
IV. The Stable Master’s Favor
We had nearly reached the bridge when a voice called out behind us.
“You there! Horse masters!”
A tiefling stood beside the stables, his horns curving back from a face that seemed strangely familiar. We ignored him, spurring our mounts toward the bridge and the open road beyond. We had business elsewhere, debts to settle, and no time for stable masters with suspiciously convenient timing.
“How rude!” the tiefling shouted, and something in his tone, an edge of power beneath the petulance, made us rein in our horses. We turned, approaching him with the caution of men who had learned that nothing in this world came without strings attached.
Up close, the resemblance was unmistakable. The same crimson skin, the same horns, the same bearing of casual authority. He could have been the twin of the stable master we had encountered in Molag, half a world away.
“Good,” he said once we stood before him, his lips curling into a smile that revealed too-sharp teeth. “It’s time to call in the favor.” He produced a parchment sealed with crimson wax, the emblem pressed into it unfamiliar but ominous. “Deliver this document to Chun. In exchange, Brittany will allow you to keep the horses.”
The choice was no choice at all. Walk two hundred fifty miles to Trigol, abandoning the steeds we had grown fond of, or deliver a piece of paper and ride in comfort. The horses had become more than transportation; they were companions now, trusted in battle, steady on the road.
We accepted the parchment.
We saddled up, rode across the bridge, and left Stoink behind us. The town’s stench faded from our nostrils, replaced by the clean smell of open road and possibility.
V. The Skeleton Gamblers
The first day’s journey passed without incident. The road was well-traveled, ruts deep from countless wagon wheels, the surrounding countryside peaceful in its mundane way. On the second day, as the sun climbed toward noon, we heard it: a rhythmic clicking sound emanating from a copse of trees west of the path. Click-clack-cluck. Click-clack-cluck. The pattern repeated, mechanical and deliberate.
We tethered our horses and approached on foot, moving through the underbrush with practiced stealth. The sound grew louder as we neared-a clattering like dice in a gambler’s cup, but wrong somehow, too hollow, too sharp. We pushed through the low branches and froze. In the clearing before us, two skeletons sat on bent knees, engaged in a game of rock-paper-scissors. One wore a full-face helmet, an axe resting against its bony knee. The other had a sword belted to its hip, its empty eye sockets fixed on its companion’s gesture. Behind them sat two small piles of stones, tokens of their wager, which they exchanged with each round.
“Well met, dear sirs,” I called out, stepping forward with arms spread in greeting. “A fine day for-” Their heads ratcheted around with mechanical precision, empty sockets fixing upon us. For one heartbeat, nothing moved. Then they charged.
I stumbled backward, hands already weaving the familiar patterns of faerie fire. The violet light arced over their heads as I lost my footing, dissipating harmlessly among the trees. The helmeted skeleton veered right, bones clicking as it accelerated toward Ender. Its axe swung in a wild arc, missing the paladin by inches before the momentum carried it into Ender’s horse. The beast reared, screaming, and its hooves caught the sword-wielding skeleton square in the ribcage. Bone fragments sprayed across the clearing like shrapnel, but the vertebrae remained standing, held together by some dark magic.
Not so the helmeted skeleton. Ender’s maul descended with the force of a falling tree, the cubed head smashing through the ancient helm and caving in the skull beneath. The paladin followed with methodical efficiency, each blow dismantling more of the undead framework until nothing remained but scattered bones and dented steel.
We had perhaps three seconds to celebrate before three more skeletons emerged from the trees, and behind them, something worse. The bonecaster wore full robes that might once have been purple, now faded to grey. Its eyes burned with crimson light, intelligence gleaming in that hellish glow. It hung back, using its minions as a wall, and we knew immediately that it had to die first.
Crow’s bow sang, arrows finding the damaged skeleton with the missing ribs. It collapsed into a pile of bones, but the remaining fighters pressed forward, and the caster prepared its spell. We had clustered together, a fatal mistake. The bonecaster thrust its hands forward, thumbs touching, fingers spread wide. A sheet of flame erupted from its fingertips, washing over all three of us in a wave of burning agony.
I rolled in the long grass, desperate to extinguish the flames consuming my hair and cloak. Crow had the same idea, and we collided as we rose, rubbing our heads and blinking away smoke.
Ender had suffered worst. Trapped in his superheated plate armor, his face glowed crimson as he endured the trapped heat. He held his ground against the three advancing skeletons, but his maul swings grew slower, his shield arm dropping lower with each blow he failed to block. They targeted his unprotected head, skeletal fingers clawing at his eyes.
I focused on the caster, covering it in magical Silence. The crimson eyes widened in panic as incantations died in its throat, spells locked away behind a wall of quiet. Crow’s arrows flew true, augmented by dreadful magic drawn from the Feywild’s shadowed hollows, and another skeleton fell.
But Ender was failing. He dropped to one knee, and I called out Healing Words, divine energy flowing into his exhausted frame. He rose with renewed purpose, channeling his divinity to mark the bonecaster as his sworn enemy. The maul rose and fell, each impact accompanied by radiant smites that tore through undead flesh and ancient magic alike.
The bonecaster fell. The remaining skeletons followed soon after, and we collapsed onto the stone tokens the gamblers had used as currency, too exhausted to celebrate our survival.
VI. The Road to Trigol
On the remaining journey to Trigol, Ender shared what he knew of the town from his previous travels. Trigol sat on the Franz River, an important stop on the trade route from the interior to the cities on the Nyr Dyv, the Lake of Unknown Depths, including Greyhawk itself. A dock existed, but no one stayed long; the town was no destination for tourists.
We arrived after two uneventful days on the road, having spared our horses the exhaustion of forced march. The streets were crowded with armed soldiers, yet the townsfolk moved among them with no apparent fear. It might have been parade day, or perhaps military occupation had simply become routine.
We passed a blacksmith’s forge with teams of helpers and displays of weapons and armor sufficient to outfit the town twice over. The sheer volume of steel on display spoke of preparation for something-war, perhaps, or the expectation of it.
The Broken Tusk Inn stood in the town center, its sign depicting exactly what the name suggested. As we approached the door, a man stumbled out, blood streaming from one eye that he covered with a trembling hand. He screamed as he fled, the sound of agony following him down the street.
We tethered our horses, exchanged glances, and entered.
VII. The Broken Tusk
Chun the Unavoidable was impossible to miss.
He sat at a massive oak table in the inn’s center, his bulk dominating the space like a mountain occupying a meadow. The other patrons and furniture had arranged themselves around him, giving wide berth to the orcish warlord. The room had fallen silent at our entrance, every eye turning to watch our approach.
An elven woman stood beside Chun, her staff of office gleaming in the firelight. She whispered something in his ear, studied us with cold assessment, and backed away into the shadows.
Chun jutted his chin forward, eyes narrowing as he subjected us to prolonged scrutiny. I felt very small in that moment, a mouse being considered by a cat who had not yet decided whether to play or to pounce. “Ring the bell,” he commanded, his voice filling the room like thunder. The tension shattered instantly; conversations resumed, chairs scraped against floors, and the innkeeper began pouring ale with obvious relief. “Drinks for everyone!”
The massive orc spread his arms wide, encompassing the room in his generosity. “Eat up!” he roared, and a barmaid deposited a huge cooked pheasant before him, its skin golden and crackling.
We ordered sausage and eggs, though my appetite had fled at the sight of the freshly sewn eyeball that adorned the front of Chun’s cloak. The atmosphere could shift from celebration to slaughter in an instant; I could feel it in the air, taste it like copper on my tongue.
Chun’s gaze swept over our party, lingering on Crow and me with a flicker of recognition that warmed his red-rimmed eyes. “The bard and the ranger,” he rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. “From the prison wagons. You survived the road to Orcatraz, then. Good.”
His attention shifted to Ender, the orc’s brow ridge lifted in appraisal.”And you,” Chun continued, fixing Ender with those calculating red eyes. “The holy warrior from the Lortmill mountains. I have heard whispers of your sister, the one who danced to another’s tune. The compulsion spell that bound her will made ripples in certain circles.” He tore off another strip of meat, chewing thoughtfully. “A delicate thing, magic that crawls inside the mind. Your Order does not forgive such violations easily, yes? Neither do I.” He nodded slowly, as if granting Ender some unspoken approval. “We have that in common, dwarf. We protect what is ours.”
“So, my cousin Urum,” Chun began, tearing into the pheasant with teeth like yellowed daggers. “A good spy, yes?”
We exchanged frantic glances. Ender, praise Moradin, stepped forward to deliver the report. “He… requires some work on… timing and technique.”
“Meaning?”
“He revealed his cover in public.”
Chun chewed thoughtfully, grease running down his chin. “Ah yes. He lacks subtlety, this is true.”
“But he got us here before the full moon!” Crow added enthusiastically. Chun’s hand moved faster than sight, slapping Crow’s back with force that drove the ranger’s face into the pheasant. “Eat up!” the orc bellowed, laughing until the walls shook.
“I was planning on using you three,” Chun continued once his mirth subsided, “but it appears you are more useful wandering on your own.” We nodded with desperate enthusiasm.
The elf returned, carrying parchment and a pen that floated beside her without visible support. I noted the phenomenon, floating throne, floating pen, mentally filing the information. Mel’s style, perhaps? Or merely similar magic?
“Tell me,” Chun asked, his brow furrowing, “how did you break the compulsion?”
“We don’t fully understand ourselves,” Crow admitted. “We ordered Zuzu to let her come with us, and he complied.”
The floating pen scratched across parchment, recording our words.
“Mmh,” Chun rumbled, clearly puzzled by how we had repossessed Phlegan. “Perhaps the bond between siblings,” Ender suggested. Chun bumped against the paladin playfully, playfully for him meaning Ender stumbled but remained upright.
The orc called for a box, and when the innkeeper produced one, Chun flung his mug into the air. I ducked; it shattered against the wall above the bar, ceramic shards raining down.
The elven mage leaned close, her voice barely above a whisper. “Chun likes you. He likes everyone, at first.” She pressed small stones into our hands, “practice waystones. There is a penalty for failed waystone travel. Use these to practice. Stay tonight, but leave in the morning. My name is Jespa.”
I handed her the sealed parchment from the tiefling stable master. Better she deliver whatever news it contained than I. She broke the seal, one eyebrow arching as she read. Then she looked up, her expression unreadable.
“What do you think Chun should do?”
An open question deserved an open answer. “I think Chun will do whatever he wants.”
Jespa’s lips curved in something that might have been a smile. “I agree.”