A Coward's Tale

[Nedward Underhill]

A Coward's Tale
A Novel set in the World of Warcraft Universe

By Troy Harwood-Jones

Dedicated to the Defenders of Valor

November 25, 2007

[Nedward Underhill]

Chapter 1

Nursing his wounds, Robbyn cursed himself for a pathetic useless fool. He trudged through the rain, shivering as a cold trickle ran down his back. He was cold, and lost, and terrified, and, not for the first time, wished he had never left home. No, he corrected himself, anything was better than home.

Robbyn knew he was just being miserable. There were things he loved about the General’s house, like freshly baked bread from Onna’s kitchen, or reading with pretty little Zhi after she did the accounts. Of course, anything with her was good, he thought, flushing uncomfortably. He stopped trudging and put a sodden leather glove to his head in frustration at his own cowardice, muttering, “Even in the middle of a f-forest, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to see me but robbers, w-wild beasts and k-k-kobolds, still I’m embarrassed.”

Robbers, wild beasts, and kobolds! A wave of terror washed through him at the thought and he hurried forward again through the darkening Elwynn forest. He had barely survived his last encounter with two of the forest’s hideous monsters, and had the scrapes and bruises to prove it. He must have wandered too close to the kobolds’ burrow, for they had suddenly risen out of the rocks and come at him screaming terrible curses and jabbing at him with devilishly-sharp blades. Strange beasts they were, half the size of a man and wiry, with long mole-like faces, beady eyes, and twisted minds. Their language was primitive, but unless he was mistaken they had been convinced that he was come to loot their burrows and take their precious “candles.” He had spent the fight alternately screaming frantically, back-pedalling madly, and flailing wildly about with his mace. Somehow he had survived. He had actually felled one of them, by accident. The other must have run off at some point because when he stopped swinging he found himself alone in the woods. But the flush of victory had faded quickly as he realized that he had completely lost his bearings. Since then he had gone around in circles trying to retrace his steps back to the Maclure farm, only to wander deeper and deeper into the forest. As the afternoon waned he had been set upon by coyotes, wild boars, and even one bear, all of whom proved the folk wisdom, “they are more afraid of you than you of them” wrong by ferociously attempting to devour him despite his best efforts to steal away unseen. Then the sky had opened up. All in all, it was just about the worst day of his life. Well, not actually the worst. He did not like to think about the worst day; the day his General had told him what he really thought of his second son.

* * * * *

Robbyn was literally dragged kicking and screaming into life. A “lusty lad,” as they say, he came into the world a hefty babe of thirteen pounds, twelve ounces. The mid-wife who delivered him claimed she never saw such a massive head on a baby. There were complications. His mother was a small and slight woman, and ill-equipped to birth such a child. The best surgeon in Stormwind City had been summoned in the night and had managed to save both child and mother, but not without trauma. People said that Robbyn’s mother was never the same afterwards. She had been a socialite, outgoing and vivacious, in stark contract to the blunt seriousness of her husband. But she never gave birth again, and she withdrew into herself. So it was that while other Stormwind families had five, six or seven children, General Marcus Jonathan had two. Two boys, as unlike each other as could be.

Robbyn’s older brother, Vatorio, was everything that General Jonathan might have hoped for in a son. A blond-haired, blue eyed, broad-shouldered, good-looking boy. He was obedient, charming, and easy-going. From the day his boys turned six, the General insisted upon at least one hour of combat training each day, which he himself would administer. On the practice field, Vatorio was strong, good with a blade, and a quick learner. As the General was wont to say, “The boy does not need discipline; he learns the first time.” Even when he grew to be a teen and broke curfew to sneak out and sow his wild oats, Vatorio somehow managed to never get caught. Perhaps the General turned a blind eye to his elder son's indiscretions.

Robbyn, on the other hand, was a complete failure. Two years younger than his brother, he shared his brother’s broad shoulders, but where Vatorio was chiselled, Robb was chubby. Robbyn’s brown eyes had no steel in them, and more often than not they were obscured by an unruly shock of red hair. He loved books, particularly histories and tales of old heroes such as Sir Anduin Lothar and Uther the Lightbringer. His indiscretions involved hanging around in the servants’ quarters and the kitchen and sneaking pastries. On his sixth birthday, when he opened his present and saw that it was a practice sword, his lip quivered and visions of his older brother’s daily welts and bruises flashed through his mind. But when he begged to give it back, the General flew into a rage and, over the weak protestations of his mother, dragged Robbyn down to the sweaty field behind the house and gave him a silent beating under guise of his first lesson. When he was done, Robbyn was left cowering, covering his head with his hands, and bawling on elbows and knees in the yard. There was no birthday cake for Robbyn that night; the celebration was cancelled.

The General never laid a hand on his boys. But every day Robbyn and Vatorio would meet their father for martial training in the practice field and a measure of their father’s displeasure could be read into his lessons. The sessions were always long and gruelling, but if Robb had been caught sneaking dainties into his room or if he had spent the day at the Stormwind library instead of doing his chores, he would be guaranteed of a sound thrashing. Vatorio would always go first, and Robbyn would start to shake even before his brother’s lesson was half done. By the time he stepped before the General, his palms would be sweating and his weapon would be shaking uncontrollably. The General would bark at him to keep his eyes up, but he could not meet that steely gaze. The General’s unwavering eyes exposed all of Robbyn’s secrets and bared him for the fat coward that he was.

When the General summoned him to his office and told him that he was terminating his lessons in swordplay and would only train him in blunt weapons, Robbyn was a confirmed failure. He knew how important swordsmanship was. The General’s greatsword, “Oathbringer,” was hung above the head of the table in the formal dining room, and Robbyn had heard the General say on several occasions that you could take a man’s measure by his skill with a blade. That night, however, the General sat rigid behind his desk, his pale eyes looking through his second son, even as Robbyn tried desperately to straighten his back and stand at attention. The boy’s notched and battered practice sword lay displayed like a badge of shame on his heavy wooden desk between them. As the General spoke curtly about Robbyn’s lack of progress, Robb fought to control his lips from shaking. He nodded or shook his head when required, not trusting himself to speak. It did not take long for the General to issue his judgment. Robbyn didn’t need the General to tell him he was too slow or too fat, he already knew. Even if he had disagreed, Robbyn could not have imagined arguing. For what seemed like an eternity, the silence stretched awkwardly between them. Finally, the General stood, picked up the wooden blade and tossed it into the fire, and Robbyn fled from the room, dismissed.

Robbyn did not blame his father. The General was a hard man, but not an evil man, or even a bad father. He cared deeply about the upbringing and character of both his sons. True, he was not overtly affectionate. In fact, he rarely touched his boys at all outside the practice field, but to his credit he took a direct interest in their rearing. Many men with his level of duties and responsibilities to the King and kingdom would not have been concerned with such matters. And if his sons succeeded at something significant, he would show his approval with gifts, or special privileges. In rare occasions they might even earn a priceless glint of pride from his eyes.

As Robbyn trudged along through the damp undergrowth of the forest, he recalled six years previous, when Vatorio won his first sparring tournament. It was at the annual Anduin Festival, held every May in the battered and dusty tourney fields just north of the town of Goldshire. The main event of the festival was, of course, the knights’ jousting and heavy arms tournament, but on the sidelines of the main event was an amateur competition in which Vato was registered. It was fairly well attended, mostly by families and friends, but also with the odd enthusiast or recruiter from the Stormwind militia and Cathedral of Light. Vato was sixteen, which was young. The field contained participants ranging from Vato’s age all the way up to twenty years. Some were even veterans of a tour of duty.

The General was well prepared for the tournament. He had studied all of the top contenders. He knew most of their trainers by name, and had taken his son to watch as many as possible as they practiced on the weekend of the tourney. In addition, for a month prior to the competition the daily combat training had been exceptionally hard on Vatorio and the General’s hits were punctuated with a thousand admonishments about how Vato would have just “lost the match.” Robbyn cringed every time the General drew blood, but Vato just set his jaw and met the challenge. Robb and Vato shared a room on the third floor of their father’s house and on more than one occasion Robb thought he heard his brother crying in pain from the wounds after he thought Robb asleep, but when Robb whispered into the dark and asked him how he could stand it, Vato curtly answered that the hard training was necessary if he was going to win. And perhaps he was right. On the day of the tournament Vato defeated seven opponents and took the day. He was the second youngest participant to ever win the tourney.

There were no bleachers for the spectators; someone had just driven three-foot long wooden posts into the ground in a rough circle and used red and white ribbon to mark out the fighting field. Onlookers brought blankets and chairs to sit on, or sat on one of a few stumps scattered about, or stood. Three judges sat on a rolled-up log, with a table in front of them, quills in hand. As the amateur tourney needed to be finished before the main event began, the matches began early in the morning while there was still dew on the ground. The General saw to it that they arrived before first light, and put Vato through his paces even before anyone had arrived. He had originally assigned Robbyn the task of “squiring” for his older brother, but had ended up wading in himself to make sure that the weapons and armour were are perfectly polished, fitted, and adjusted. Robbyn did not mind being sidelined. He was actually relieved, having lost more than one night’s sleep worrying about how he would forget something and be responsible for a disaster.

Vatorio was clad in a red doublet under unadorned chain mail chest and greaves polished to a bright sheen. He wore perfectly fitted boiled leather boots, belt and gloves, and sported an iron half helm with chain mail coif. He fought alternately with longsword and studded pine shield or two-handed bastard sword and, to Robbyn, looked like a knight of old. Before he entered the ring, and as the General checked the fittings for the last time, he looked over at Robbyn solemnly. A lump of nervousness had crept into Robb’s stomach and it must also have crept into his face for Vato suddenly winked at him and teased, “Careful you don’t get hurt out in the crowd, Robb. You never know when they might go out of control.” The General’s eyes flicked up at Robbyn from where he knelt by his son, and then he ordered, “Go on. Make sure our spot is not taken.” Though they had placed their chairs the night previous and no one would have likely taken them, Robbyn immediately rushed off to sit and wait for the tourney to begin. No need for him to be infecting Vatorio with his cowardice.

He needn't have worried; Vato fought fearlessly. He exploited his opponents’ weaknesses the way that he had been taught to, and fought with a well-controlled fury. By his fourth fight word had spread of his successes and the crowd began to respond to him. At the end of each fight he would help his opponent up, then take off his helm and coif and turn to the judges for permission to leave the ring. With his high cheekbones, blonde hair shining in the morning sun and blue eyes flashing, he soon gained the fancy of more than one young fan. Robb watched as a group of young ladies flocked together to giggle at Vatorio and wave. Throughout, the General sat quiet, only rising to after each match to quietly check the straps and binding after each fight and issue whispered instructions.

By the time Vato had won his way to the championship match, there was a veritable buzz through the assembled onlookers. Vato was a tall young man, but his opponent, a Redridge farmer’s son who had recently joined the local militia there to make a future for himself, towered almost a head taller and had a good fifty pounds on him. The farm boy fought with a crude but extremely large hafted double-headed axe and had beaten his previous opponents senseless through sheer force and power. Vato chose sword and shield. When Vato disarmed his opponent and forced him to yield, the crowd erupted with cheers and clapping. It was a spectacular victory. Some had even leapt to their feet in excitement, including Robbyn, but the General had sat still as stone, quietly apart from the general foolishness. Only when Vatorio tore off his helmet and looked over at Robb and the General before turning to the judges, did his father stand, and even then he only nodded once. But Robbyn could see a clear as daylight that his eyes were glistening with pride. He gruffly ordered Robbyn to help his brother out of his armour and said, “Tell your brother he has no curfew tonight.” Robb could barely push to Vatorio through the press of the throng of friends and well-wishers to deliver the message, and when he did his brothers’ friends started hooting wildly. The tourney prize was five gold after all, which went a long way even in Goldshire’s notorious tavern.

*****

[Nedward Underhill]

The sudden cracking of a fallen twig or dead branch ripped Robbyn from his reverie and sent a sudden shock of panic through his body. What with the overcast skies and late hour, it was now almost pitch black around him. Robbyn stood stock still, shaking in terror and straining his eyes and ears into the darkness around him. An absolute silence seemed to have fallen over the forest night around him, but Robbyn was sure that something or someone was out there in the darkness studying him.

“Hello?” he squeaked. “Who’s th-th-”

‘Who’s there’ was what he had meant to call out, but Robbyn’s tongue betrayed him and he could not get the word out. For some reason, the Light had seen fit to curse Robbyn with not only the heart of a coward but also with a terrible stutter. His condition had manifested as a young boy and had become progressively worse as he aged. Of all the things that he hated about himself, his stutter was the first. It was a never-ending cause of embarrassment and frustration to him, and was like a badge of shame advertising his cowardice to the world.

To his perpetual horror and mortification, Robbyn’s speech impediment had grown to be his signature characteristic to the world. Possibly because of the General’s high position with the military and commanding presence, people were more apt to notice the garish advertisement of his son’s fearfulness. Even people who didn’t know Robb knew of him by reputation. Indeed, he had overheard more that one conversation in which the General was described as having two sons: Vatorio and ‘the Stutterer.’ To make matters worse, his stammer became exaggerated whenever he got nervous. This fact was particularly terrible because he usually got nervous around the General. Inevitably his stutter would act up just when Robbyn needed to answer a command or sharp request, and he would be left spluttering and floundering, desperately trying not to see the blue of the General’s eyes turn cold and distant before him.

The General had repeatedly drilled into him that projecting confidence and dominance was one of the best defences against attack. Robbyn knew from first hand experience that a stutter brought trouble. As a kid, he had seen Vatorio talk down boys twice his age with sheer force of personality and fearlessness. Robbyn’s stammer, on the other hand, was like a magnet to a back-alley beating. He could not count the number of times Vato had been forced to wade in to save Robbyn from crawling home with a blackened eye and a swollen lip. But Vatorio was not here to save him this time. Robbyn stood frozen in space, palms sweating, his mace forgotten at his side.

Out in the darkness, the ruddy red flicker of a torch flashed into existence not twenty paces from where Robbyn stood. It was only a single smoky torch, but the contrast of this sudden spark of light with the darkness about him caused the light to appear glaringly bright to Robb. The forest scene flashed into view about him, oriented on the light. Suddenly, he realized that he stood at the edge of a small dip in the forest floor, like a miniature ravine. One more step and he might have fallen down the side of the steep slope in front of him! With a sudden intake of breath, he back-pedalled from the edge and pressed himself against the trunk of a nearby tree.

The torch was held by a dark hooded figure, clad in black leather and with a red mask over the lower half of his face. He moved with the surefooted step of one who was familiar with travelling secretly and at night, and had the hard grizzled hands of an experienced killer. With a chill, Robbyn knew immediately that the figure below him was one of the notorious Defias bandits that more and more frequently plagued the local populous. More than one dinner at the Jonathon household had been ruined by the thievery and violence of the infamous bandit gang. The General was known to swear, throw things, and launch into a tirades about his limited resources when his soldiers proven ineffectual against them. But though no one ever said so, it seemed to Robbyn that the rogue gang must have had deep support among the local populace, for no matter how many trumpeted successes and public hangings the General announced, the attacks of the Defias continued. Indeed, most agreed, though not within earshot of the General, that the whole of the neighbouring province of Westfall was overrun and that there was nary a single farm outside of the garrison town of Sentinel Hill itself that had not been abandoned to them. Robbyn could not blame the farmers for abandoning their homes and fleeing to town. By all reports, the Defias were cold, ruthless, and methodical killers, bent entirely upon destroying the rule of law to serve their own selfish ends. Some even said that they drank the blood of their victims, though Robbyn didn’t really believe it.

The dark figure held out the torch in front of him to light his step as he followed a path leading through the little gully. As Robbyn cowered above the hidden path, he saw three more figures emerge from the darkness behind the first. The guttering light from the torch cast wild shadows, making details hard to make out, but from his vantage point Robbyn could clearly see that two of the following figures held between them a struggling captive. The figure between them was slight and sinewy, perhaps a boy of no more than fourteen or fifteen. He was dressed in what looked like a rough padded leather jerkin over a light-coloured loose-fitting shirt. A double-scabbarded belt was wrapped around his middle, though both scabbards were now empty of their weapons. Dark leather pants, laced at the calves and ankles, over padded shoes completed the outfit and spoke of someone who moved quickly and silently, possibly a thief. His hands were bound behind him and his head was covered in a burlap sack. The captors were large bulky shapes in comparison to their slight captive.

Robbyn’s breathing caught in his throat and he pressed himself into the shadow of the tree behind him. The troupe approached beneath him and, as he watched the scene in silent terror, he saw the boy twist in his bonds and toss his head back and forth inside the sack. A few steps more and they were within ten feet of him. Robb saw the signs of a recent struggle on the captive’s clothing: his front was covered in dirt and debris and his clothing had been cut or torn in a number of places. Notwithstanding the burlap sack, Robbyn overheard every word as if he were standing amongst them in the hidden pathway.

“Pock-faced sons of a Goldshire sow, let me go!”

The voice confirmed Robbyn’s original estimate of fourteen or fifteen year of age, or possible even younger, for the voice was sharp and high, not yet a man’s voice. Evidently not your typical thirteen-year-old however, given the colourful language.

“Don’t take your hands off for a second” the leader said over his shoulder, nursing a cut on his face.

In response, the captive lashed out with, “Jerod, you plague-infested coward, get this moth-eaten sack off my blighting head. I should have cut your eyes out!”

The leader ignored the prisoner’s tirade and spoke to the other two captors, or perhaps to himself. “Almost there. Then we can get rid of this sack of garbage.”

Suddenly, with a violent wrench, the boy ripped out of one captor’s hands, then kicked the other. For a second it looked like the boy would break free, though how he would get away bound and blind was not clear. Then the three men fell upon him and dragged him to the ground with rough force. A heavy stream of profanity poured from the burlap sack as the men took a few kick and punches at the helpless youth into order to vent their rage and shut him up. As he laid into the slight form with his boot, the torch-bearer kept shouting, “Shut up!” until the boy fell silent. Then the bandits dragged him to his feet again and headed off down the hidden path. For a moment the ruddy light of the torch flared and moved along the grassy walls beneath where Robbyn stood, then it faded away as the bandits and their captive rounded a corner in the hidden pathway through the forest. Darkness reasserted itself about him.

With a start, Robbyn discovered that he had been holding his breath. His knees were weak and his head was spinning. With a large exhalation of air, he lowered himself to the ground and leaned heavily against the rough bark of the tree that sheltered him. His heart went out to the child, captured by Defias and taken away for some dark purpose. The echo of the leader’s voice came back to haunt him. He hardly needed to guess what “get rid” of their captive meant. He had become an inadvertent witness to a troupe of murderers about to conduct their filthy business.

“It doesn’t involve me. It’s not my b-b-business,” he told himself. It was no use. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Robbyn knew that he was likely the sole witness to a planned execution, and the boy’s only hope of rescue. But how could he rescue anyone? He had practically soiled himself just at the sight of the bandits in the night. And even if he were somehow able to screw up the courage to follow them, there were three of them. “And who knows how many more w-wherever they are g-going,” he whispered to himself. All that would happen if he followed would be that he would end up captive and knifed by bandits himself.

No, he was no hero. Robbyn pushed himself to his feet and turned away from the direction that the light had gone, trying to will himself to leave the boy to his fate. But he could not walk away. He stood in the darkness, torn inside. A tear trickled out of his eye at the thought of the terrible tortures and death in store for the courageous youth and a wave of shame washed over him. A boy, perhaps five or even six years his junior, had shown the courage to stand up to three hardened killers, and Robbyn could not even find the courage to follow and watch for an opportunity to help. With a pathetic moan, and a racing heart, he turned himself around and forced himself to take a step in the direction of the vanished light. The first step was the worst. Robbyn’s legs felt like jelly and he bit his lower lip as he edged over to the slope down into the hidden pathway, then half stumbled and half slid down the grassy side of the ravine. The noise of his clattering mail seemed to reverberate like cymbals in the darkness. Gathering himself up at the bottom of the gully, he stood stock-still, his senses on high alert for any sight or sound in the darkness, but all that he heard was the distant hooting of an owl and the quiet wind through the trees above him.

His sweaty hands fumbled with the clasp holding his mace to his side and he drew it shakily forward in front of him as he started to inch forward, down the path. After a few steps he started breathing deeply to calm himself and stop his hands from shaking. He would not try anything foolish, he told himself, just follow out of sight and wait for the right opportunity. Maybe the bandits would leave the boy alone for couple of hours or something. Maybe they hadn’t eaten for days or would wait until the morning before they did anything with their prisoner and they would all fall asleep. He imagined himself sneaking into a bandit camp and stepping over the sleeping form of the leader, Jerod, to untie the boy’s bonds, but even in his imagination, as he stepped over the prostrate man the bandit’s eyes snapped open eyes and Robbyn was confronted by a cruel broken-toothed smile. Robbyn stumbled and grabbed his chest in the dark, his heart racing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. No, he thought, bandits were light sleepers; sleeping was not safe enough. “B-but these are violent murderers,” he argued to himself. “Maybe they w-will g-get into a fight and k-k-kill each other.” Somehow, thinking about murderous bandits did not help Robbyn quell his fears in the slightest.

At the end of the hidden gully the undergrowth grew dense, camouflaging the path's existence. Beyond, the trees grew more sparsely, and then stopped entirely at the edge of the broad dark expanse of the Elwynn River. The clouds still covered the sky, but here and there patches of night sky were emerging as the rain blew off to the south. Thirty yards or so from where Robbyn stood and nestled upon the banks of the river sat a decrepit shack. Even in the scattered moonlight the single storey building spoke of wreckage and disrepair. Its flat roof bowed as if about to fall in, all of the windows were boarded up, and a few of the planks that made up its surface hung off the side of the building, exposing cracks through to the inside. Beyond the house, the sunken remnants of a pier floated half-submerged out into the slow waters of the river that bordered the southern edge of the forest. Evidently the bandits had taken their captive inside of the broken-down hideout, for light showed through the cracks in the wooden walls. Robbyn crouched down into the brambles and shrubs that obscured the path’s exit, only to be poked in the face by a particularly unwieldy branch. Only barely did he stop himself from crying out in pain as he jerked his head away and stumbled blindly through the scratching branches out into the clearing behind the house. By the time his eyes stopped watering, Robbyn realized that he had stumbled too far out into the open and was exposed to sudden discovery. In a panic, he rushed forward to hide himself against the back wall of the house.

Up close, the shack was even more dishevelled than when seen at a distance. Bits of discarded rusted metal, broken glass, and assorted garbage littered the ground around the cottage. Tall weeds sprouted everywhere, even growing out from the wood of the hut itself. Some of the boards were covered with mold and rotting. In more than one place bent and rusty nails stuck out haphazardly, waiting to catch the unwary. Very slowly, Robbyn inched his way along the back wall of the cottage, carefully avoiding the rusted nails and other debris, until he reached a crack in the wood. Then, heart racing, he peeked inside.

The crack he was peering through was about three feet off the ground. Part of his view was obscured by what appeared to be someone’s legs as they leaned against the wall inside, and so Robbyn could not make out the full scene, but what he did see was not heartening. The shack looked to be a single room dwelling of about eight to ten feet square. Hanging from a large metal loop in the centre of the ceiling was an oil lantern that filled the room with a pale light. The torch, no longer needed, had evidently been tossed into a large wooden drum filled with water by the open door on the far side of the room. The interior of the hut was mostly devoid of ornament or fixture, other than the occasional rope, box and barrel. In the far corner was a bloody cutting board with a few bits of fish scattered about it, and something hanging from a rusty nail above it that might have been salted pork. Underneath the lantern was a slanted table sporting mismatched legs, and upon the table was a large metal flagon and an unmarked bottle of liquor. Slouching or standing around the room were the three bandits from the forest along with two others evidently come in to see the “entertainment” that was to be the prisoner.

There were two chairs near the table. The first was directly across from Robbyn and in plain sight to him. It was placed out of leg-shot from the table and contained the wiry form of the prisoner, bound waist and legs with thick-woven cords. The second chair was pulled up next to the table, but from where he kneeled peeking Robbyn could not see its occupant, he could only see two thick legs shod in dark chainmail leggings and thick-soled boots. The prisoner still wore the sack over his head and was again swearing a blue streak. Robbyn had heard a fair amount of cursing from the General and from the soldiers who occasionally came to visit, but still he was surprised at the sheer volume of profanities that poured from the sack. Every once and a while the captive would twist as if testing the bonds, but the rope was tight and the knots only grew tighter with each twist and turn. The men around the room stood silent, taking in the show.

Finally, the boy fell silent. After a lengthy pause, the man seated at the table spoke. He had a low raspy voice, old, and slightly slurred, as if his lips were disfigured. He spoke quietly, but with the authority of a man who would nonchalantly kill any man who did not obey fast enough. As he spoke, he held up the metal flagon in a gnarled hand and tipped it from side to side.

“Right. Jerod, take it off.”

Jerod stepped up behind the captive and lifted up the burlap sack. Long, fine, straight copper hair showered down to stick to the prisoner’s sweaty neck and flushed freckled face. Angry blue eyes glared out from beneath sharp, fine eyebrows and above and a thin straight nose. In other circumstances the captive’s lips might have been full and animated. Now, they were pressed together in a thin tight line. As the prisoner stared daggers and blinked in the dim light, Robbyn barely stifled a gasp and squinted in disbelief. For the Defias’ fearless prisoner was not a young man at all, but a woman.

[Nedward Underhill]

Chapter 2

“Well, well.” The man at the table spoke quietly, but Robbyn could just make out his words. “Copper, you are one mother of a pain. You know that, don’t you?”

“Dark take you, Hatch,” she spat. The woman did not look at the speaker. She spoke at him but she stared straight ahead, as if she were speaking to the man leaning against the wall above the crack where Robbyn knelt peeking. There was a pause. The man at the table quietly tipped his flagon as if considering her remark. The room was dead quiet. Finally, he spoke again.

“I already let you carry on and get all that out of your system. Now, you and me, we’re gonna be…civil. You caused the dockmaster and his boys here some trouble, looks like… In fact, you cause everyone trouble. I aint gonna hold that against you. But… talk to me like that some more and I don’t care who’s whelp you are, I’m gonna straighten you out, and you aint gonna like it.”

Hatch paused, took a swallow of his drink, and then went back to rocking it back and forth. The woman sat silent.

“Glad we have an understandin’. Now, look at me.”

The woman’s eyes reluctantly flicked towards the speaker, and then she slowly turned her head to him.

“Okay. We need to have a little talk, and I need to know that you aint lyin’ to me. That aint gonna be so easy for you, as I aint a trustin’ man. But I’m gonna have to keep askin’ ’til I’m sure you aint lyin’. Got it?”

For a few seconds the woman simply stared at him, then she nodded.

“Good. Now, Jerod here tells me that you was hidin’ out at the loggin’ camp, diddlin’ some lumberjack.”

Fire flashed in the woman’s blue eyes. “Jerod don’t know what he’s talking about. He probably wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if he could get one.” A ripple of grins ran around the room. Jerod opened his mouth to say something but then closed it abruptly, evidently at a glance from Hatch.

“Is he dead?” Hatch asked the room in general.

“No sir,” Jerod answered. “We got her away quiet, like you said. He was off.”

There was a pause as Hatch considered his drink a moment. Then he said, “Copper, I don’t really care what you were doin’ with him. What I gotta know…is whatcha told him.”

“He don’t know jack.” After a second, she continued, “I just said I was from Stormwind and didn’t want to go back. I said I didn’t want to talk about it, and he let it go.”

Hatch rocked his drink back a forth for a few seconds, then put the flagon down on the wooden table with a dull click. The old wood creaked as he pushed his chair back.

“You’re lyin’.”

Robbyn heard Hatch slap his thighs and then stand heavily. A hint of fear flickered across the prisoner’s eyes for a second. Hatch came into view as he walked around the table and approached the young woman. He was a large, broad-shouldered man of fourty-five or perhaps fifty years. His chest was thick and heavy with a noticeable paunch, but nothing was soft about him. He wore a short-sleeve leather buff coat under a battered and loose-hanging steel cuirass, and though clearly passed his prime, his scarred leathery arms were still imposingly thick and powerfully built. The signature red mask of the Defias bandits was twisted and tied with a knot around his neck. At his waist was a big-buckled, studded leather belt, and looped in a coil at its side hung the iron chains of a morningstar. His gait was slow and measured and there was something like a limp to it. The steel shaft and spiked iron head of the morningstar clanked at his leggings as he walked.

Hatch sidled up to stand behind the woman and lean his left wrist casually on her shoulder. As it came into the light, it became clear that something was wrong with his hand. For one thing, his ring finger was missing. But there was something else about the way that it sat beside her face, a slight deformity and clawed shape, as if it had been broken and then poorly set. The woman in the chair stared straight forward; not looking at it as he slowly brushed her hair away from her skin. However, it was not his hand, but rather Hatch’s face that caused Robbyn to turn away involuntarily. The right side of Hatch’s face was unblemished, but as he turned to stand behind the captive woman his left side came into view. Something or someone had evidently burnt his face long ago, for the flesh on the left side of his face was scorched red and grotesquely misshapen. On the left side of his head his hair grew in sparse patches and there was only a slight protrusion where his ear should have been. A black gaping hole stared out where his left eye should have been.

Hatch brought the disfigured side of his face down beside Copper. “You know, sometimes I get a powerful itch where my old ear used to be. I like to think that maybe…sometimes…this itch, it makes me hear funny. So, I’m gonna listen with my good ear and I’m gonna ask you again.” As he spoke he pulled lightly on his right ear. Then, taking firm hold of her left shoulder, he continued, “Tell me again, Copper. What did you tell this simple lumberjack about yourself?”

The woman’s left eye twitched, but she did not recoil from him. Her voice was clear and steady. “First of all, it was a husband and wife. I chose them ’cause their cottage was on the edge of the camp and they seemed soft-hearted. I spoke to the woman first. I told her that I was from Stormwind…and running away from my husband. I told her that he beat me and that I wanted to make a new life. I made sure I had enough bruises. She took me in. When her husband came home we had another talk. I told them that I would only stay a few days and then be on my way; that I didn’t want to bring them any trouble.”

Hatch nodded. “And…?” he prompted. His hand squeezed painfully into her shoulder.

The girl winced, but did not cry out. With a deep breath, she continued, “And…I told them that my name was Evlin. And I told them that I didn’t want anyone to find out I was staying with them ’cause I was afraid my husband would find me. I told them that I just needed a safe place to stay for a bit. I don’t know how much of it they believed. I heard them fighting about it. He thought I was a liar and wanted me out. But I guess she won, ’cause they let me stay.”

Hatch released her shoulder and tapped under his good ear with a hooked finger. “See? My good ear. You like the name Evlin, Copper?”

She shrugged her shoulder against the lingering pain and didn’t answer.

“I like it.” Hatch moved to stand to the right side of her and looked about the room for a moment, considering. Then he looked back at her and asked, “Tell me, Evlin, what’s your last name?”

“Parker.”

“Evlin Parker?”

She nodded.

Hatch turned and walked to the table. From the table he lifted a thin, finely wrought short sword, slightly larger than a stiletto. Its blade was crafted of some shining metal brighter than steel. His large hand swallowed up its red leather-bound grip as he lifted it up and look down its length. On the blade, and near to the quillons, was a red mark of some kind, but Robbyn could not make it out.

“Miss Parker, how does a runaway bride explain a sword like this?”

“They never saw it.”

The large man was facing away from the helpless woman, measuring the small blade in his hand. Without warning he turned and plunged the small blade into her. Robbyn’s could not see what Hatch did exactly as his bulk blocked the view, but he heard her gasp and curse in pain. Robbyn felt sick and dizzy, and he pulled away from his peephole to lean against the side of the cottage wall.

The woman’s scream was high and disjointed. “Aaah! Son of a…! Hatch! I stuffed it in the back of my shirt before I met the woman and then I hid it in my room! She never saw it! I knew that they’d turn me over to the Stormwind militia if they saw it. Light!!” Robbyn was shaking; he could not watch. He closed his eyes as he rested his head against the wall. The low rasp of Hatch’s voice said something from inside, but Robb could not make it out. Then the woman spoke again. Her voice was breathy and ragged. “No! I was careful. I tied it tight to the underside of the bed. I…insisted on cleaning my own room. They were trusting, Hatch. I’m telling you. Even if she went through my things, she didn’t find it.”

Robbyn heard the creak of the wooden chair again, then silence. From inside, he heard the woman cough. After a minute, the dockmaster, Jerod, spoke up.

“More drink?”

“Yeah,” said Hatch.

The man leaning against the wall behind Robbyn started to walk away towards the door on the far side of the shack. Terrified of being discovered, Robbyn sat perfectly still, straining to hear anything that might indicate where the man was going. The floorboards creaked in rhythm with his step as he crossed the room, then there was silence. Robbyn's heart was racing as he listened for the sound of the man’s footsteps coming to discover him. Nothing. After a minute, he heard the metal rattle of a chain being removed somewhere on the far side of the building, then the sound of a door creaking open, followed by the clink of a bottle being placed on the ground. Robbyn sat in perfect silence, barely daring to breathe, as the door closed and the chain rattled again. Only when the man’s steps once again creaked on the floorboards inside did he start to breathe normally again.

Meanwhile, inside the woman continued to speak. “Pull the blighting knife out of me Hatch. You call this civil? I didn’t lie to you!”

There was a long pause. Then Hatch answered, “Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. I aint a trustin’ man.”

“You filthy, sick, and twisted…” the woman stopped abruptly at the sound of Hatch getting up from his chair. After a moment, Robb heard him sit down again.

“Tell me, Copper. If you were bein’ all lady-like, when did you put on the leather and weapons?”

“I saw Jerod and his boys from the upstairs window. I got dressed for a fight. Then I ran out the back and into the forest. Hatch, take the Light-cursed knife out of me.”

“Maybe later. I figure you’re less likely to run, nailed to the chair.”

She swore and cried out, but whether from anger or pain it wasn’t clear. The man returned with the drink, and Robb inched over to peek inside again. The bandit placed a large dark urn on the table and then turned away to return to his spot by the wall. This time, however, he did not block Robbyn’s view. As Robbyn watched, Hatch picked up a second knife from the table, uncorked the bottle with it, and filled his cup. He took a long swig.

The woman was stabbed through the soft space between shoulder and chest and impaled upon the wooden post of the chair behind her. The blade was thrust deep; so deep that of the two-foot blade only an inch remained visible before the quillons and grip. Blood soaked her padded jerkin around and beneath the blade and pumped sluggishly from where it ran through her. Her head sagged slightly and a light sheen of blood coated her lips. Sweat beaded her brow. She still stared at Hatch, but her eyes had lost focus.

Her interrogator sloshed his drink around, and then drank again. After what seemed like ages, he spoke. “Right. I heard enough. Truth is, you didn’t tell no one nothin’. Like as not, this couple was happy to see the backside of you. But one can never be too careful.” He turned on the dockmaster. “Jerod, you make a strong brew, I give you that. But the reason why you’re stuck in this run down hole brewin’ firewater and runnin’ goods is ’cause you are so rotting stupid. You saw the lumberjack, but not the wife. You couldn't even sneak up on the house without Copper here seein’ you. Then you let her lead you on a merry chase into the forest and away from the house where the missus was hidin’. You better hope she was glad to see her guest clear out. Otherwise, the woods ’round here might just be crawlin’ with blades by mornin’.”

Jerod had no answer.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do. How far to the cottage of these nice people?”

“An hour,” said Jerod.

“Ok. Jerod you’re gonna send three of your boys back to light up that cottage. You got oil, take it. Take this here lantern too, but cover it. And a pile of rags from your still. Once the house is lit up, they’ll forget all about little missy Parker. Your other boys are gonna keep their eyes open around here just in case anyone is searchin’ for her in the woods or downriver. Copper’s gonna have a nap. Me, I’m gonna finish this drink.”

At Hatch’s command, Robbyn’s head snapped up and away from the peephole. The words, “your other boys are gonna keep their eyes open around here” were like a knife in Robb’s chest. There was no place to hide. The clearing behind the cabin was just an empty open space. Robb’s eyes darted over at the woods, but there was no time to get there. Even if no one heard him clanking and wheezing as he ran for his life, there was thirty yards of clear ground before he reached the trees with only the odd bit of tall grass and ground cover. He had never been a fast runner. He would never make it.

Inside, the men stirred into activity. Robbyn heard their footsteps heading to the doorway on the far side of the building. He knew full well that a terrible fate was in store for him should he be discovered. Robb’s mind worked feverishly trying to weigh the risks and reduce his chance of discovery. The back wall of the shack was in front of him. He remembered that he had seen, as he approached from the hidden pathway, that there was an open space on the right-hand side of the building all the way to the half-submerged dock. The right side of the building was the closest path to the hidden path. Jerod’s men, or three of them anyway, might come around the right-hand side to retrace their steps to the hidden pathway. But he remembered that the man sent to get Hatch another bottle of firewater had gone to the far left. There must be a shed or something – the still – that way. Hatch had told them to get rags from the still. So maybe they would go left and then around the left-hand side to get to the pathway. Which way was more likely? There was no way to tell. On top of which, there were the two others who were being sent to “keep their eyes open” in case someone was hiding!

Robbyn was paralysed. He remained on one knee, pressed against the back of the house. His throat was dry and he swallowed hard. He knew that he should do something, anything, but he could not move; he could not think. The bandits moved and spoke quietly and gave scant indication as to their exact location. The light inside the shack wobbled as the lantern was taken down from its hanging place. Hatch’s rasp cut through the air. “Light a couple of those torches and stick ’em by the door so me and miss Parker can see each other.” After a moment there was the light whoosh of a torch being lit and dancing shadows flicked around the clearing, though Robbyn remained in the shadows on the far side from where the torches were planted.

Suddenly Robbyn heard footsteps and something, a twig or branch perhaps, cracked in the night. In his state of mind it was impossible for him to tell, but Robbyn thought it came from the right side of the house. A wave of panic screamed to him that the men were coming around the right side of the house and that he would be discovered. Before he knew what he was doing, Robb rose up to a low crouch and half-tiptoed, half-shuffled over to the left corner of the backside of the house with every intention of rushing around the corner to hide. But just as he went to turn the corner he lost his nerve. Instead he stopped and peeked his head around.

It was a good thing that he hadn’t rushed around the corner. There were two buildings hidden on the left-hand side of the bandits’ hideout. At about ten paces from where Robbyn crouched was a wooden outhouse, tilted and broken-down, with a dark hole where its door should have been. At about thirty paces, and close to the bank of the Elwynn River, was a small stone building of about ten feet long and six feet wide. Though overgrown with creeping vines and weeds, and though surrounded by various rusted and discarded pieces of debris, a closer look revealed that the stone building was solid and impenetrable. It was this cache that both contained the still and functioned as the storage room for the bandit gang. The cache was tucked out of sight of the river by several close-set trees, one of which was tilted and whose branches hung down like a curtain over the water. The low stone building had upon it a thick wooden door with a metal handle where the iron chain would have been fastened. Now, the door was open and Robbyn saw Jerod and three of his men gathered around it. Jerod had with him the small lantern taken from inside. In its light, Robbyn saw two of the men gathering supplies from inside the cache, and the third, after a brief exchange of words with Jerod, heading off into the woods to the east.

In between the two hidden buildings was a single tall oak tree. Its branches were thick, high, and spread over the shack, the outhouse and the hidden stone cache. As Robbyn’s mind furiously counted the men, something moved in the darkness under the tree and Robbyn heard the dull thud of a hoof stamping on the ground. Robb squinted into the darkness. Standing at about fifteen paces from him, and in between Robbyn and the three Defias, was a great black stallion tethered to the oak by a long length of black cord.

The horse shook its large head and stamped again at some flea or annoyance. Robbyn was immediately taken aback by its size. It stood at least sixteen hands high. Its body was heavily muscled and honed for power. Robbyn had grown up around military horses and he immediately knew that he would not like this animal. He liked slow, gentle horses that took sweets from your hand. The kind that rarely galloped; that children played on. He liked horses with ribbons in their hair; that went in parades or at the faire. This beast, that measured Robbyn with pitch-black eyes, was a horse for the General and his troops. This was a beast bred to be both mount and weapon. Robbyn had seen displays of such horses’ brutal power with bite and kick upon straw dummies outside the military barracks at Stormwind. He knew that they were usually deliberately kept fierce and temperamental, and that even their owners were wise to tread carefully around them. He pulled his head back.

Remembering the footstep he had heard moments ago, Robbyn looked behind him just in time to see the fifth Defias bandit disappear in the forest on the far right hand side of the clearing, near to the river. The man was walking west, downstream, and evidently had not come to look behind the cottage. Robbyn breathed a small sigh of relief. Two gone.

By this point, Jerod and his men were finished, and Robbyn heard the sound of the heavy door closing and the chain being put back into place to secure the contraband supplies of the gang. He could not get up the courage to look around the corner. He knew that now they would head his way, but he did not know which side of the shack to hide on, and his heart raced in his chest.

Fortunately, they carried with them the lit lantern. Evidently Jerod and his men also knew well enough to stay far away from the black stallion tethered on the left side of the house for they travelled the long way around the right side to travel across the clearing and follow the pathway back to the Eastvale Logging Camp and the cottage of the lumberjack and his kindly wife. As the light from the lantern waxed brighter on the far right side, Robb inched away and then ducked around the corner.

Unfortunately, Robbyn did not see the loose nail sticking out from the wood at the very corner of the house. At the last second he found himself yanked back by his shirt and unable to finish rounding the corner. For a second he was stuck halfway as the lantern’s light spread across the back of the shack and the men’s padded footsteps came into view. Then, with a rush of adrenaline he tore his shirt and ducked around the corner. For a second the men stopped walking, and Robb was sure that they had heard him, but then they moved on. Finally, the light of the lantern faded as the three men entered the forest. Robbyn stood panting in the darkness, pressed against sidewall of the run-down shack and staring into the eyes of the black beast tethered before him.

* * * * *

[Nedward Underhill]

Inside the rundown shack, Hatch sat silently drinking the hard liquor. He was a hard man, with a will of iron and an unflagging determination to survive. As his face would bear witness, Hatch had survived encounters that would kill a normal man. Many now maintained that he could not die. He had even heard whispers that some thought he had made a dark pact with some warlock and sold part or all of his soul in exchange for physical invincibility. He did not bother to dissuade them. In his line of work fear was more important than any weapon. Likely, he thought idly, the same could be said for any line of work.

The trouble with being alive when you should by rights be dead was that your body was not so easily persuaded. In Hatch’s case this meant that he lived with almost constant pain. Every day of his life the first thing he knew in the morning was how much his body ached, and the last thing he thought before he slept was how much his body just wanted to lay down and die. Something had festered in the old injury to his hand and everyday it seemed to curl more into an unusable fist. It was excruciatingly painful to bend his fingers back and force his left hand to lie flat, but he did it like a ritual to push back the implacable foe that was his own deformity. As for his ruined face, the flesh might be gone but his nerves were not yet entirely dead. Sometimes the lightest touch set off a spasm of pain that made him buckle and want to rip what was left of his face clean off. Not a day went by that he didn’t lie in bed wondering if he should just let death win already.

Sometimes it helped to hit things until the pain to his flesh and blood outweighed the ache of his contorted bones and exposed nerves. Most times he just used drink to moderate his pain. And Jerod might be a useless idiot in every other regard, but he made the strongest booze Hatch had ever tasted. It was a foul-smelling syrupy substance that was supposed to be watered down before consumed. Undiluted, it burnt like felfire going down, and on the heels of the burning came a merciful numbness. Any amount of hangover was worth that respite.

The light of the torches by the door half illuminated the small room, casting Copper into shadow. Hatch took another long swallow, then sat back to study the girl as she sagged from lost blood. Her eyes were still open, but already she stared blankly at the floor. A bit longer, then he would be guaranteed there would be no trouble along the way. Once she passed out he would patch her up with the bandages in his saddlebags and head off for Westfall with her. Better she be bled and weak; otherwise she was likely to kick up a fuss as usual. Hatch shook his head. Too much like her old man, he thought. She’d get herself killed yet, but not on his watch.

Jerod and his boys wouldn’t be back for a few hours. Even if they botched the job and brought the whole logging camp on their heels, he and Copper would be long gone before they got back. There was plenty of time to get right pissed. Hatch poured himself another drink, then tipped it back and forth to let it breathe. The stuff was fire. Hatch took his time drinking, and by the fifth or sixth tankard the girl was done. Her head hung limp and her breathing came slow and shallow. Jerod’s boys were long gone by now. With a sigh, Hatch put his cup down then pushed himself back from the lopsided table. Standing, he realized that he was already more than half cocked, for the room tilted slightly and he had to take a moment to steady himself. He whistled appreciatively. He’d have to remember to take a bottle with him. “Wait,” he muttered, correcting himself. Jerod would’ve locked up the cache; he knew his life wasn’t worth spit if he botched a delivery. “Ah well,” he slurred out, resignedly. He shook his head ruefully and licked his lips. At least he still had most of a bottle to take with him.

Turning back to the table Hatch poured himself another glassful of the distilled firewater, but he must have been drunker than he thought for he slopped some on the table. What a waste. It was the uneven surface of the table that was to blame. Why couldn’t Jerod even fix a rotting table so it was flat? He carefully put the bottle down, placing his good hand on top to steady it, then lifted his glass in his left hand and turned back to Copper to toast her health. Tipping back his head he downed half the tankard, savouring the sweet pain of the liquor as it rushed through his veins and forced his body to involuntarily shudder.

Hatch had intended on pulling out the knife from the girl, but suddenly he felt the need to relieve himself. With a garbled, “Hold on there, Miss Parker” he stumbled towards the doorway of the shack and the torches planted there. For a moment, he stood with right hand up high on the doorframe and left hand low holding his sloshing drink. Then he lurched past the torches planted in the ground and headed around back, to where the outhouse was.

Hatch did not make it to the outhouse, however. He decided that the corner of the house was good enough. Turning the corner, he stepped up to the sidewall, loosened his belt with his right hand and then set about his business. For a long moment he stood staring at the wall in front of him, taking the occasional swig from the tankard in his left hand, while the stream ran down the wood and was swallowed by the weeds. Then Hatch looked to his right. He shook his head and blinked, not believing his eyes for a second. There, standing not ten paces from him was a blighting Stormwind guard! It was dark, and the large man stood in the shadows, but Hatch would recognize the breastplate and surcoat of the Stormwind militia anywhere. The man was large and heavily built, wore a full helm, and clearly meant business. “What the…?” escaped his lips as he saw the warrior raise a heavy iron mace in both hands.

Hatch lurched away from the wall, dropping his drink and spraying an arc of urine in the air. His mind was thick and his vision lurched sickeningly. He fumbled uselessly at his belt, trying to release the straps and get his morningstar into his hand. The large man first stepped away, and then silently approached with the careful stance of a well-trained warrior leaving nothing to chance. Hatch had no time to get his weapon free, so instead he barrelled into the man attempting to knock him down. For a big man, the guard was surprisingly fast. He managed to plant a hit on Hatch’s chest with his mace, slowing Hatch’s charge and preventing him from getting a decent handhold. Hatch did get one hand onto the man’s surcoat, but he knew his attacker’s next hit would likely break a bone, so was forced to release him. Hatch pushed the man away, then staggered back, trying desperately to keep his footing. The man started to approach again. Finally, Hatch’s fumbling fingers released the weapon at his side and it fell in a clatter at his feet. For a second both men stopped. Then, as Hatch reached for his weapon the man ran at him. Hatch barely managed to sidestep and the big man swung wildly and barrelled right past.

Finally, Hatch got his hand on the shaft of his weapon and turned around to face his attacker with weapon in hand. “Okay, you maggot,” he began, but then stopped. Hatch looked and saw that when the man had missed him he had run close to where Hatch had tethered his horse, and now the beast was biting and harrying him from behind. Hatch knew that in his intoxicated state he was lucky to still be alive. He needed to end the fight now. Raising up his morningstar, he began to spin the chained weapon above his head, then charged while his foe was still distracted. Hatch was a strong man and he put all of his force into the whirling attack. The spiked iron ball flew at the man, but in his stupor Hatch had misjudged the distance. With a loud crack the ball embedded itself into the gnarled bark of the oak tree. A foul curse flew from his lips and Hatch braced himself for his enemy's counterattack. But even though he had lost his weapon, the attack did not arrive as expected. Instead, two things happened in such rapid sequence that Hatch’s befuddled mind could not keep up. First, with a fierce bray the stallion rose up on its hind legs and lashed out with its fore hoof. Second, the large man suddenly dropped down and crawled away on hands and knees. It didn't make any sense. Hatch's mind was too slow to react. All he knew was that he suddenly stood blinking at a hoof as it hurled toward his face. He felt a blinding flash of pain; then blackness took him.

* * * * *

By the end of the fight, Robbyn had lost any remnant of courage and he was reduced to a blubbering fool, begging for mercy and crawling away on hands and knees. It was not until he had scrambled to his feet by the shack wall and turned to defend himself again that he realized that Hatch was lying prone on the ground. The great black horse snorted and stamped, staring balefully at him and occasionally pushing at the prostrate form of his master with a fore hoof. Hatch lay still as death, his head twisted at an unnatural angle and his one eye staring blankly at Robbyn. After a long breath, Robbyn slumped down against the wall, pulled off his helmet, and started crying weakly. Even lifeless, Hatch was terrifying.

After a minute the night sounds of the forest came back into Robbyn’s mind and he started to collect himself. From far off across the water of the Elwynn River a wolf howled at the moon. He needed to hurry; Jerod’s men might return at any time. With his eyes on the prostrate form of the monstrous bandit, Robbyn pushed himself to his feet and began to edge along the wall towards the front door. Only when the corner of the shack fully obscured Hatch’s body did Robbyn turn and, stepping past the now guttering torches, hurry inside.

The room was devoid of any decoration; clearly intended to suggest to the casual observer that the place was long deserted. In the far back corner of the room was something that might have been a mattress. The smell of the room assaulted his nostrils; blood and alcohol mixed with rotten fish and old sweat. Flies were everywhere. Disgusted, Robbyn put a hand over his nose and mouth and approached the woman.

Copper lay bound and slumped in the half-light. She remained bound waist and legs, but her head rested on her chest and he hair fell down in a long sheet around her. Robbyn knelt down beside her and checked for vital signs. Her breathing was shallow and ragged but she was still alive. The cruel blade ran her through and stuck out of the wood of the chair behind her, cracking the wood of the post. Blood stained the floor beneath her.

Robbyn knew by now that he should never have gotten involved. He cursed his stupid instincts; they were always wrong! He should have never followed Jerod and his men in the woods. This was none of his business. From the overheard conversation between Hatch and Copper, he knew that she was a bandit just like the rest of them. She probably deserved whatever it was that they were going to do to her. But here he was, looking at the broken body of the once fierce woman, and his heart went out to her. He could not help it. That little voice inside his head whispered that maybe there was an explanation. She didn’t look wicked. In fact, under the cuts and bruises she was quite beautiful in a sort of delicate and fragile way. Maybe she had gotten drawn into a life of crime against her will or through bad luck, he thought. Who knew what her story was? He had no idea; who was he to judge? Whoever she was, he could not just leave her here to die.

It was impossible to tell if the bleeding had stopped under her leather jerkin. Robbyn knew he needed to get the knife out, but he also needed to get them both away from the shack before one of Jerod’s men came back. He had a small belt pouch with first aid supplies, but he could not risk ministering to her here. And if he just removed the knife without bandaging her it would certainly cause more blood loss, which might kill her. No. He needed to get her away and then take the knife out. But how? He would not get far carrying her strapped in the chair.

Robbyn looked again at the wood of the chair where the knife pierced it. The wood was old and split where the knife had run it through. It might be possible to break the wood and free the knife, he thought. Over on the table was the bottle of firewater and beside it the dagger Hatch had used to open it with the cork still stuck to it. Tying his helm to his waist, Robbyn retrieved the knife, removed the cork, and came back to stand behind the woman. The end of the knife fit into the crack above the thicker blade of the shortsword. Robbyn knew that he would probably jar the woman when he twisted the blade in the wood. He checked to make sure she was unconscious. He hoped that he did not wake her. This might hurt.

Taking firm hold of the lower chair back with his left hand, Robbyn pried the dagger to the right in a sudden hard motion. There was a loud crack, the wood split, and a large piece of the chair post flew off across the floor. Robbyn checked the woman but she still slept. He breathed out, relieved. Using the knife, he then untied the bonds holding her to the chair and picked her up gently. She moaned slightly, but she did not wake. The blood had apparently clotted around the knife, for only a small trickle slipped down the blade as he lifted her. It was a bit awkward carrying her without touching the blade, but he managed the best he could. When he reached the doorway of the derelict building Robbyn turned sideway and slid past the torches. He stood outside the cabin, glad to be out of the foul smell inside, but painfully aware of how he had no idea where he was going. In his mind Jerod’s men were everywhere. One had gone upriver to the East, one had gone downriver to the West, and the others had gone North. The only other way was the river to the South. But Robbyn could not swim the broad river in his mail.

Robbyn walked down to the river, wracking his mind for some way to get across. As he approached the edge of the river, he emerged from the tree cover and the light of the moon shone down upon them. The water moved languidly in the moonlight, but he knew full well that the thick murky depths hid treacherously powerful undertow. Even if he were to strip down he would never make it to the other side. Copper turned her head and grimaced in his arms. Robb looked at her worriedly and was shocked to see that the men must have hit her repeatedly in the face. Dark welts were starting to swell on her face and a dried line of blood trailed from her nose. A wave of anger swelled through him as he looked down upon her. The General was right; the Defias were monsters.

As he stood in the moonlight, Robbyn remembered something from the bandits’ conversation. Hatch had said that Jerod was “running contraband.” Perhaps it was no coincidence that the bandits’ hideout was on the shore of the river, he thought. Maybe they smuggled their goods up and down the river. And if they did, they would have a boat hidden somewhere nearby. It was only the faintest hope of a chance, but Robbyn latched onto it and looked about for a hiding place. Over by the stone cache the tilted tree hung down over the water, and there, under the shadow of the leaves Robbyn found a wooden boat pulled up and hidden among high weeds and brambles. It was actually more like a raft than a traditional boat. It was about seven feet long and almost equally as wide, with short thick sidewalls and a large flat centre area with no seating. It’s wood was old and even in the darkness Robbyn could see the paint curling and peeling off it, but it appeared solid. Two broad paddles were tucked against the sidewalls along with a long wooden pole, but the boat could not be rowed, as it had no gunwales.

Placing the woman carefully on the ground, Robb went to push it back into the water. It did not budge. For a moment he thought that maybe it was beached because it was not seaworthy. He looked again inside the craft but could see no holes in the wood or rot. Walking around to the front of the boat he saw scrape lines that confirmed that it had seen recent use. He pulled on it, but his boots slipped on the muddy ground and the boat remained fixed in its spot. Clearly moving the boat was more than a one-man job.

To be so close to escape and stymied! The first touch of panic began to creep into him, and questions rose up unbidden in his mind. What if Hatch was not dead but was this very moment rising up in the darkness to catch him unawares? When would Jerod’s men return? How long had it even been since they left? Robbyn fought to keep the panic at bay. For a second he thought he should go check on Hatch’s body, but the stallion was back there in the darkness and he could not get up the courage to look. Instead, he went around to the other side again and put all of his weight into lifting and pushing the heavy wooden vessel towards the water. “Please!” he begged between gritted teeth, straining with all his might. The panic was rising uncontrollably. Then, with a sudden lurch the boat slid forward and Robbyn fell with a clatter onto the ground. When he scrambled to his feet and looked, he saw that half of the boat now stuck in the water. Robbyn glanced around quickly to make sure no one was coming, and then carefully retrieved Copper and placed her inside the front of the boat. With her added weight it was relatively easy to finish tipping and pushing the craft into the water. Robbyn waded out in the stream and then clumsily clambered aboard.

Taking up the pole, Robbyn pushed through the hanging branches and began to make his way out into the deep waters of the river. The ground under the shoreline water was soft and muddy and sucked at the pole. He knelt down to make sure that he did not get pulled overboard. Before long, he could no longer reach the bottom safely and, laying down the pole, he picked up one of the broad wooden paddles. It was not easy work for one man, paddling the unwieldy craft. Instead of heading to the far shore it turned in lazy circles as the steady current of the river grabbed the boat and began to carry it downstream. Robbyn moved back and forth in the stern of the boat, trying to keep the boat from shaking the passenger, but he was a heavy man in heavier armour and the craft tipped wildly every time he shifted. He watched in horror as Copper’s body jerked against the long blade that stabbed through her and the wound started bleeding again. There was nothing he could do. He moved up to her and moved her nearer to him, then held on to her with one hand as he moved from side to side. Progress was slow.

The far shore was overgrown with gnarled trees and thick vegetation that came right down to the water’s edge. Robbyn had a secret passion for cartography and had studied the maps and travelogues in the Stormwind library, so he knew that the land before him was the forest of Duskwood, and knew that it was a large and mostly uncharted wilderness. Few travelled there. The land was too rocky to make good farmland. There were no real settlements until Raven’s Hill, to the south, or Grand Hamlet to the distant east. Any travellers wanting to get to Raven’s Hill took the road through Westfall. Travellers to the Hamlet were best off to take the long road east into the province of Redridge and then back south to the town. As for the forest, it was generally recognized to be impassable but for on foot. A perfect place to smuggle goods if you were willing to travel on foot and did not want to be discovered, he thought.

Slowly, painfully, the boat moved across the water. To Robb is seemed like he would never make it to the safety of the far bank. Out in the water he knew he was entirely exposed to a shot or poisoned arrow from the shoreline. He kept looking back over his shoulder nervously. He knew that one of Jerod’s men was in there, searching. Nothing stirred. Robb puffed and wheezed with exhaustion but kept switching his paddle from side to side until the far shore began to appear closer than the Elwynn forest side. Finally, he saw rocks in the water under the boat and he was able to switch back to the pole and pull the boat awkwardly into the shallows. Finally, with a grate of rocks and then a jarring crunch, the boat came to stop on the bank.

Copper had not made a sound, even when the boat lurched to stop. Robbyn was worried about her. He knew he needed to get that knife out of her. It had been too long; he had been too slow, immobilized by his cowardice and delayed by his incompetence. Putting down the staff, he shifted her body over to the side, then hopped out into the ankle-deep water and turned back to lift her out. For a moment he could not tell if she was breathing, but then her body gave out a ragged shudder. Holding her closely to him, Robbyn pushed the boat out into the water again with his hip to make sure that they could not be found. He had to walk out to his waist before it was taken by the current and swirled off towards the centre of the channel. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped into the thick undergrowth of the Duskwood Forest.

[Nedward Underhill]

Chapter 3

Robbyn was plunged into pitch darkness. The forest was dense and a thick scent of decaying leaves rose up from the ground. The air was heavy and still. Far above him the leaves competed with each other for light and cut Robbyn off from the night sky. Robbyn stood still, hoping that his eyes would adjust to the darkness and taking strange comfort from the limp body of the woman in his arms. After a minute he began to make out his surroundings and slowly began to move forward again.

The forest floor was soft and moist and his heavy boots sank into the ground as he walked. Littered among the layers of dead leaves were fallen branches in various states of decay along with the occasional stone that tripped at him as he moved forward. More than once he almost lost his footing and reeled clumsily to the side or down on one knee. But just as he was beginning to give up hope of finding any solid ground, the massive shape of a boulder rose up in the darkness before him. The surrounding trees were pushed aside by the rock and a light shower of moonlight trickled down to illuminate its top surface.

Finding a way up was not easy. The layers of rotting leaves made climbing difficult and Robbyn did not have the benefit of his hands. After a few failed starts, Robbyn finally made it to the top and placed the unconscious woman upon the mossy surface of the stone. The knife clicked softly as she settled. With a groan, Robbyn straightened his back and stretched his aching muscles. He was long past exhaustion.

He knelt down beside her, removed his chainmail gauntlets, and examined the sword where it entered her. The blade was approximately an inch and a half broad and it pinned the rough padded leather of her jerkin tightly against her shirt and skin. The clothes on her right side were saturated with her drying blood. When Robbyn looked closely at the wound he realized that Hatch had not merely stabbed her. He had actually stabbed her and then twisted the blade an inch or so downward into her chest either to deliberately torturer her or to cause her to bleed profusely, or both. Probably both, Robbyn thought angrily. No wonder she had lost so much blood.

Robbyn removed his small travel pouch, fished out his first aid supplies, and brought them close beside her. Fortunately he had a good supply of bandages, for the wound would likely need to be dressed a few times before it healed. He knew he would need to get her armour off to treat her wound. The blood was congealed now, but as soon as he pulled out the blade it would begin to bleed again. The blade was clean, sharp and crafted from high quality metal, and her clothing had covered the wound, which was fortunate in that the wound would likely be relatively clean. The real danger at this point was more blood-loss. He had a thick paste that would slow the blood-flow somewhat, but he knew he would need to wrap the wound tightly. And he could not do that without removing her garments.

Robbyn had two problems. One, the shortsword pinned her clothes to her preventing him from undressing her, and two, he felt embarrassed about taking her clothes off. Robbyn certainly had never undressed a woman before. In fact, he had precious little experience with women, and what experience he did have did not make him feel comfortable around them.

Copper’s padded jerkin was tightly laced up her front by a single long leather string that looped at the bottom and tied at the top. Robbyn reached out and began to gingerly unlace her, trying not to disturb her body. Once the vest was unlaced, he removed the leather cord, laid it aside, then carefully peeled open the padded leather to examine her shirt. The stark contrast of the dark red blood and the off-white of the loose-fitting cotton shirt was disturbing. It was long sleeved and clearly was simply pulled on over her head, as there were no ties or buttons. The neck was loose and followed the line of her collarbone. He could not very well pull off the shirt over her head, he realized. He would need to cut it open. From his pack he brought out a small fishing knife. Then starting from the bottom hem of the shirt, he cut a long rough slash up the front.

Her skin was pale and soft in the dappled moonlight. As it came into view Robbyn saw more bruises from the beatings she had received at the hands of Jerod and his men. Even with the bruising her skin was beautiful, and he swallowed hard and tried not to touch her body as he worked. Her stomach was thin and muscular and she had a small athletic chest. Robbyn kept her body covered as best he could with the sides of the cotton shirt and tried not to look. Once the shirt was cut from neck to waist, he took hold of the sword in his right fist and splayed his left fingers on either side of the blade against her chest. He took a few deep breaths and then, holding her body fast, he yanked the blade out of her with all of his strength. With a wet sucking sound it slid from her body. Her body fell flush on the stone and immediately her blood began to spurt out again. Quickly, he tipped her body up, and then slipped her leathers and shirt off and down her arm. Her clothes caught on her arm for a moment, but he managed to get them off. Then, holding her body tipped on its side, he smeared the thick paste on her chest and back where the blood poured out. It did not stop the bleeding but it helped. Once that was done he began to loop the bandages tightly around her to stop the flow of blood. After he had secured the bandages, he carefully slipped her arm back into the sleeve of her slashed shirt and bloody vest and covered her nakedness. Throughout the ordeal she never woke, which was a mercy. Completely exhausted, he lay down beside her simply to rest a moment. He had intended on making a crude shelter for the night but his when his head lay against the stone his eyes closed involuntarily and he knew no more.

* * * * *

When Robbyn opened his eyes the forest was still in darkness, but the sky showing through the forest branches above him was pale and light. Robbyn had fallen asleep so quickly that he had slept fully clad in his armour. Now, his muscles were sore and aching. The metal edge of his breastplate jabbed into his back painfully, and he had a terrible kink in his neck from sleeping with his head tipped back. He reached up and lifted his head with a groan. For a second nothing made sense, as his mind scrambled to catch up with the fact that he had fallen asleep. Then his body snapped up to a sitting position as he realized what had happened and the danger of his current situation came home to him.

Copper was lying beside him still. She lay on her back, with her legs tilted towards him and her back flush against the stone surface. Her padded vest was open and stood out from her body on either side of her chest, but her cut shirt lay flush against her body. A thin line of her pale flesh peeked out from where the sides of the cotton shirt almost met and ran intermittently down from the hollow of her neck to her waist. Her face lay towards him and her hair was matted and tangled about her face like straw. She did not appear to be breathing. Even when he put a hand over her mouth Robbyn felt nothing. Only when he rolled over on hands and knees and put his face next to hers did he feel the slightest flow of air coming from her lips. Even though it was dangerously weak, he sat back on his haunches and breathed a huge sight of relief. She would make it, he told himself.

Robbyn leaned forward again to peel back her shirt slightly and check her wounds, all the while cursing himself for falling asleep. Her shirt was crusted and brittle from her dried blood, and had to be peeled away from her body. It was hard to check her wounds without exposing her nakedness inappropriately, but Robbyn did his best to keep her covered while he worked. The bandages were saturated. Fortunately, the bleeding seemed to have stopped. The bandages clung tightly to her wound making it impossible to inspect without risking aggravating it further. He would not change the bandages and risk reopening the wound, he decided. The bandages had been clean and with her lying still there was little chance of contamination. What she needed was time to heal, and her body needed food and liquids.

Thinking of food caused him to realize that he had not eaten since yesterday noon and how hungry he was. On cue, his stomach rumbled. What he would really like was a nice hot meal; maybe with roast beef, baked potatoes, and mulled wine. Or thick pumpkin soup the way that Onna made it! Or… “Or a t-tasteless strip of dried salt pork, raisins, and crackers,” he sighed, pulling out his meagre rations from his small travel pouch. He had not planned on getting embroiled in any of this, and certainly had not packed travel provisions when he had set out yesterday.

After he had left Stormwind, Robb had meandered aimlessly south taking the odd job, ostensibly to put a roof over his head and a meal in front of him but in fact to have something to do while he figured out what he was going to do with himself. The Maclures had a fair sized winery and had posted notices that they were looking for help, so he had approached them and offered his services. Pa Maclure and his boys were a rough lot, and had eyed him warily as he approached on account of the Stormwind militia armour he wore, but they accepted his offer of help. When Robbyn had tried to address him as “Mr. Maclure” the old man had insisted that Robb call him “Pa” just like everyone else did, even “Ma,” his wife. Robbyn had then asked for a room in which to store his armour and belongings so that he might get to work in the fields, but evidently Pa had had other plans, for he had kept Robbyn on his porch listening to a lengthy saga which boiled down to what sounded like a never-ending feud that the Maclures had with the Stonefields, another farming family not a league off to the west. By the end of the rambling diatribe, Robb could not keep track of who had killed whom first and how, or who had betrayed whose trust first or last, or if it even mattered any longer. Robb started to worry that he might have given the wrong impression. He kept putting in how he didn’t want to get involved, and even didn’t like fighting at all particularly, but the old man did not appear to be listening.

Dinner conversation had also revolved around the family’s apparent obsessive hatred for their close neighbours. One of the burly Maclure boys had volunteered that he had whacked one of the Stonefield boys with a sling that day, to which Pa nodded into his stew and responded that the son should have put an arrow in the boy instead. Down at the end of the table, little Billy Maclure kept looking at Robb with beady calculating eyes as if he was counting the coins in Robbyn's purse just by looking at him. Then Pa and Ma’s pretty young daughter suddenly started crying and ran out of the room. Apparently she did this all the time; at least that’s what Ma said to Robbyn as she served out more stew. Pa muttered that it was “the hormones.” It was all very disturbing.

As Robbyn had tried to settle down in his room that night he had received several unexpected visitors. A couple of the older boys wanted to know how many gnolls, kobolds, and men he had killed, and then asked if they could try out his mace. Robb had stammered and fumbled out something noncommittal, not knowing how to ask them to leave him alone, and he let them try swinging the mace in the tiny quarters, which was a mistake. For a second it looked like they were going to do some serious damage to the room until the daughter, Maybell, had come in and run them off. The boys towered over her and taunted her with named like “weeping willow,” “gusher” and “bawling baby” but they put down the weapon and cleared out. Robb was amazed, and had turned to thank the young woman for saving him only to see her duck into the room and close the door behind her conspiratorially, which caused his blood pressure to go through the roof. He didn’t need any trouble, he stuttered out, but she blurted out that she desperately needed his help. Then, as he stood slack-jawed, she proceeded to reveal to him that she was secretly in love with one of the Stonefield boys. He must help her or she was bound to kill herself, she declared, near tears. Robbyn just had to help get word to her true love, Tommy Joe, that she desperately loved him, even though their families were mortal enemies. Her eyes ached to gaze upon his handsome face even now! Robbyn was pretty sure that he had not promised anything of the kind, but she had nonetheless pressed a letter to Tommy in Robb’s hand and thanked him for agreeing to save her from certain death. When she had finally snuck from the room, Robbyn hid the note under the mattress and lay on the bed terrified.

The next day Pa had sent his boys out at dawn but much to Robbyn’s horror, had insisted on Robb getting into his armour “so as to guard the farm from them crooked Stonefields.” Robbyn had started to protest until Pa gave him a look that was so dangerous that Robbyn’s tongue had gone dry in his mouth and he had stuttered to a halt in mid-sentence. So it was that he was cooling his heels by the house after lunch when Maybell brought to him the letter. She had fished it out from under his mattress, she told him. Then she somehow simultaneously commanded and pleaded him to deliver the letter to Tommy Joe, “down by the river.” Robbyn was not sure how it happened, exactly, but he somehow found himself travelling through the forest. That was when the kobolds had found him, and then he had gotten lost, and now here he was, hungry, sore, and alone with a dying bandit woman in an uncharted dark forest.

Leaning his head on his hand, Robbyn began to miserably gnaw on the tough dried meat. The food did not lighten Robbyn’s spirit much but it did at least take away the gnawing ache it his stomach and allow him to think things out more clearly. Copper would need food and water to help her body restore lost blood if and when she woke, but she obviously would not accept anything while unconscious. Even when she woke, she might be too weak to eat much and certainly would be too weak to eat the tough dried meat he had brought with him. A soup would be good, but for that he would need a pot and fire. He had some tinder, and there was plenty of dead wood about in the forest. He could make a small fire nearby on the rock. But what if the bandits saw the smoke? He would need to be careful to choose wood that would not smoke, he realized, just in case he was being followed. Though the chance of being followed was pretty slim what with having taken the bandits’ boat and pushed it downriver. It might be in Westfall by now for all he knew. He had no cooking supplies, however. Would crackers be enough for her to recover? Probably not.

Robbyn’s own clothes were still damp from wading out into the river last night and were starting to get itchy. He shifted and scratched himself, and his helmet clanked against the stone beside him. It was still looped through his belt. He untied it and placed on the stone beside them. It was a crazy idea, admittedly, but looking down upon the pot-shaped helm he started to think that maybe he had a pot with him after all. He would need to remove the lining, but that was fastened to the inside by metal snaps and was removable. Robbyn picked up the helmet, turned it over and unfastened the leather inside. Under the leather was a wad of padding in the peak of the helm, but it came out in his hand revealing a relatively smooth metal inner surface. He looked at the emptied helm in his hands, thinking about how the General would kill him for blackening it with a fire. Still, the more he thought about it the more it seemed like his best option.

Robbyn began to scour the forest for dry, moss-free twigs and for something that might work as a handle for the makeshift pot. There was no lack of firewood, but it did take some doing to find a forked branch that would hold the helm securely enough. Eventually he found a ten foot fallen log with a serviceable branch sticking from it, and dragged it through the fallen leaves back to the camp. The back end of the log was rotting and the whole thing was heavier than it looked, but the front was sturdy and once he had got it to the camp he was satisfied that he could position it to hold the helm securely in place about two feet off the ground. Room enough to build a fire beneath it.

Robbyn knelt down and checked Copper before heading to the river for water. Her skin was cold and pale, and her pulse was weak, but she was still breathing shallowly. Robbyn wore a mid-length woollen cloak, and pulling it off he covered the frail form of the sleeping woman. Then, emptying the rest of the supplies from his leather belt pack, he stuffed it with moss and slipped it under her head. A gust of her breath brushed the inside of his arm causing the hair on his arm to stand up. Carefully, he removed the hair that was plastered to her face. The left side of her face was swollen from her beatings at the hands of her captors and a purple ring framed her left eye. Her eyes fluttered at his touch but she did not wake.

Robbyn picked up his helmet and headed off towards the river. He was surprised to see the distance that he had covered the previous night. Given the thickness of the forest cover it was impossible to see the river, but he used the great stone of the camp as a guidepost and followed the direction it pointed. He was pretty sure that it had confronted him head-on in the darkness. Still, it was several minutes downhill before he reached water. He could barely see the camp behind him.

[Nedward Underhill]

The undergrowth was particularly thick at the river’s edge. Robbyn knew that he would need to let Copper out of his sight in order to step through the undergrowth and down into the water’s edge. He didn’t like to lose sight of her, but there was nothing for it. With a last look back, he pushed his way through the tangle and stepped down into the reeds lining the gravely edge of the river. Midday sun shone down brightly upon him, painfully reminding him that his eyes had adjusted to the twilight of the covered forest, and showing him exactly how much he had slept. Before him the great expanse of the river rippled and flowed. On the other side, the Elywnn Forest looked peaceful and safe. Suddenly Robbyn regretted his panicked decision to get rid of the smugglers’ boat and hide his location. It couldn’t be more than two day’s journey north to Stormwind; one to Goldshire. Even if Copper recovered enough to strength to travel on foot, it would be at least three days south to Raven Hill, if not more. And without the sun to guide them they would be liable to get lost. He didn’t know much about Duskwood, but he knew he did not want to get lost in there. Robbyn leaned down and, filling his helmet, drank deeply of the water. It was yellowish from mud and silt, but he was thirsty and it tasted wonderful. Then, filling the helm again, he turned back into the dark of the forest.

As he returned to the camp, Robbyn saw that Copper had shifted slightly in her sleep, disturbing the cloak that he had wrapped around her. It was a good sign. He wrapped her up again, and then set about getting the fire started. He had gathered some birch bark and the moss about the stone was dry, and before long he was feeding a little blaze. The tiniest wisp of smoke trailed up to escape in the patch of sky above him. Surely not enough for anyone to see. He was careful to keep the fire tended until the larger logs were burning steadily, then got up and poured half of the water from the helmet over the forked branch that was to hold it in place over the fire. Then he shifted the log into place and carefully placed the helmet over the flame. Sitting back down, he began to tear the strips of dried meat into pieces and to toss them into the would-be broth. He was quite pleased with himself.

His armour was really aggravating him, but he kept it on for safety, only loosening the straps that bound the breastplate front-to-back. He loosened his belt as well, then sat back to wait. He had no spoon, but would be able to use the fishing knife to stir the broth as needed. Robbyn went to retrieve it from where he had laid it aside the previous night and noticed Copper’s shortsword lying on the stone’s face. He picked it up and examined it. It was incredibly light in his hand; lighter than any metal he had ever felt. The metal was bright silver and glistened with a remarkable beauty. As he turned it over in the half-light he noticed a small engraving next to the handle. Carved in red into the base of the blade were two crossed swords behind a pointed shield. Robbyn could just make out a stylized letter inside the face of the shield, which might have been a “B,” or an “L,” or both.

The blade was stained with Copper’s dried blood and should have been cleaned the day before. Robbyn brought out a small handkerchief from his pocket. It was damp, like most of the rest of his clothing, which saved him another trip down to the river to wet it. He began to carefully clean the blade. Again the strange metal surprised him. As the cloth passed along its surface, the blood slipped off as if it were still fresh. Some of the blood had soaked into the red leather of the pommel, and that would not come off, but otherwise, after a few passes with the cloth, the blade was like new.

As Robbyn sat studying the metal and wracking his memory for some text about obscure metals, something moved in the periphery of his vision. He looked up sharply and all thoughts of the origin and craftsmanship of the blade vanished from his mind. Standing about fifty paces from the camp was an enormous wolf. Robbyn sat frozen, staring at the creature. Its fur was a patchwork of grey and its eyes shone with a strange luminescence in the darkness. Its head was up and its nose quivered as it sniffed the air. Robbyn broke out in a cold sweat and his fingers inched towards the mace at his side. Copper’s shortsword would be worse than useless in his clumsy hands. The wolf had been looking slightly to the side of Robbyn as it smelled the air. Now it turned its head and looked straight at him. A cruel intelligence shone out its eyes. The beast was tall but it had a thin hungry appearance and its unblinking eyes silently took his measure. Robbyn found that he could not look away. All about him the forest seemed to have fallen silent. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the grey wolf turned and slipped back into the shadows of the forest.

Copper stirred beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her legs moving, but Robbyn remained transfixed, staring out into the twilight of the forest for any sign of the wolf. Only when she coughed did he glance down to her, and even then he could feel the hair on his back standing up as if to warn him that the wolf was right behind him. He looked back and scanned frantically, but all was silent and empty in the forest. Copper was still sleeping but her breathing was stronger and deeper than before and her body was warmer than it had been earlier that day. A trace of sweat glistened upon her lips and her cheeks were flushed. She appeared to be dreaming. Her eyes moved behind her eyelids, and a small frown line appeared on her forehead, but it was still impossible to tell how long it might be before she woke.

The appearance of the grey wolf had completely unnerved Robbyn. He knew that wolves usually travelled in packs. The fact that it had not attacked was no great relief, as it likely hunted at night. Robbyn was sure that he and the injured women had looked like easy prey. They would need to get moving before dark. But even if Copper woke, she would need time to heal. Robbyn checked her again. The bandages around the wounds were still secure and a dark bruising spread around them, discolouring the freckled skin on her shoulder and neck. He would just have to wake her if she did not wake on her own. Even without the threat of predators in the woods, he only had enough food for perhaps one more day at most, and even that was pushing it. Neither did he have any way to get more food. If they headed straight south…and were lucky…they might be able to make it to Raven’s Hill before his meagre provisions ran out, but they would have to get moving soon. They would also need to find some secure place to rest before night fell. Out in the open they were just asking for trouble.

There was an oppressive quality to the forest. Looking up to the light Robbyn tried to gauge the time but could not be sure if it was midday or later. A grey pall seemed to hang over the air, making everything dreary and depressed. Robbyn was craven, he knew, but he could not shake the sense that something was wrong with the forest. It was as if malicious eyes surrounded them in the darkness, watching. He stirred the soup and tested it with a finger. It was bland and tasteless, but the meat was mostly broken down into stringy bits now, and a light film of fat covered the bubbling top of the broth. Mercifully, the wooden fork holding the helm in place had not caught fire or deteriorated, though it and the helm were now thoroughly blackened. Not having a spoon, he needed to let the helm, and the watery broth within it, cool. As it was, it would be too hot to touch. Robbyn retrieved a fist-thick branch from the pile of firewood and scraped the fire away from under the helm, leaving a sooty stain upon the stone’s rough surface.

Time slowly passed. Robbyn tried to remember the maps of Duskwood Forest that he had studied in the Stormwind library. If memory served, there were some ancient and long-eroded mountains in the heart of the forest. Robb guessed that would be approximately southeast of where they were camped. He was not sure if they were passable. But, in any event, they would not be heading that way. That way led to the Hamlet, which was probably four or five days journey by foot. They would probably head southeast only until the mountains came into view and then turn due south, he thought. Judging from the wet and rotted leaves all around them, the chance of their passage directly south being impeded by marshlands and bogs was high. If they stayed on higher ground and kept the mountains to their left they would be less likely to get lost and would also avoid being caught in a bog and having to backtrack.

Other than the mountains, there were no landmarks that he knew of until they reached the massive wartime burial grounds to the north of Raven Hill. After the Third War, the human dead, other than those plague victims that had to be burned, were brought back in sealed cartloads for public honours. Even with all those quarantined and burned, the Stormwind nobles still needed a vast space to house the dead and selected Raven Hill as the location of the war memorials and massive burial ground. Robbyn remembered travelling as a family to the dusky town when he was a boy. The General was just newly elevated to High Commander of the Stormwind Defence and needed to be in attendance at the ceremonies. He had impressed upon the boys the courage and nobility of the fallen and the dire necessity that required such valour and sacrifice. He had called it a moment of national significance, and had ordered that the family attend with him for the affair of state. So it was that they had all travelled in a plush carriage through Westfall to spend a few days in the quiet Duskwood town and attend the ceremonies.

A large contingent of militia had travelled from Stormwind, all of the high-ranking officers, and several other families. Through the windows of the carriage, the young Vatorio and Robbyn had watched the steely-eyed men travelling with them with awe and fascination. Robbyn remembered how he and his brother had argued because Vatorio had declared that one day he was going to be a the greatest hero that the nation had ever seen, and Robbyn had said that no one could be greater than Sir Anduin Lothar, who first formed the Alliance and saved humanity by leading them to safety in Lordaeron. Vatorio dismissed Lothar as a coward and failure, and Robbyn had gotten frustrated. He was upset partly because Vatorio was being ignorant, but mostly because his brother was pretending like he knew what he was talking about, even though Robbyn knew full well that Vatorio had not even read the histories. Robbyn had said as much. Robbyn heatedly declared that Vatorio would listen enough to form an ignorant opinion and then would act like he knew it all. To which, Vato had shot back that all Robb ever did was read books and that he would never amount to anything. In the end, Robbyn began stammering uncontrollably and their mother had to break them up. Notwithstanding the argument, Robbyn remembered the trip to have been, for the most part, quite enjoyable. The General spent the days away at the front of the column, but was in good spirits when he returned to eat with the family. Robbyn remembered that when they arrived in Raven Hill they had stayed in a beautiful old inn, with high wooden ceilings, pale blue painted walls, and white lace curtains. He remembered how the innkeeper had kept a bowl full of red caramel apples on a counter by the entryway. It was the first time he had ever had such a delicacy, and he and his brother had been given one each to take out the back porch while their parents settled their things into the room upstairs.

As he sat waiting in the half-light of the forest, the memory of the interminably long day of the military memorial service came back to haunt him. The dead were long buried, and all that could be seen were row upon row of sparkling clean tombstones arranged in a great circle about them. The day was hot and bright, the General was dressed in his finest, their mother stood quiet, and the boys were expected to stand at attention in their dress clothes and to appreciate the importance of the event. A large crowd was on hand, but everything was silent in the great graveyard but for the sequence of diplomatic speakers who paraded before them. The speeches were long and Robbyn soon lost interest. Even the occasional symbolic military displays did not break up the monotony, and Robbyn’s mind had wandered back over the argument he had had with his brother. Suddenly he felt the oppressive weight of the thousands of dead bodies buried right under the stones around him, and an overwhelming sadness welled up inside him. He cried then, thinking about the men who had thought to be great heroes too, but who had ended up laid to rest under the soil of the Raven Hill cemetery. The guards stood in shining ranks about him and as his eyesight blurred with tears Robbyn could no longer tell what was a tombstone and what living. In that moment all he knew was that he did not ever want to be a hero, and he did not want Vatorio to be one either.

Robbyn had been lost in his old memories and so had not noticed that Copper’s eyes had opened. When he glanced over to check on her he almost jumped at the sight of her steely blue eyes staring directly at him. Her left eye was smaller than her right on account of the bruising on her face, but that lack of symmetry just added to the piercing nature of her stare. A cold calculation showed in her eyes and for a moment she reminded him of the wolf he had seen earlier that day. Something about that look made him feel like she might rise up and strike him at any moment.

Robbyn had thought of a number of things that he might say when she woke, but suddenly his mind was a blank. He opened his mouth, but his tongue was like sandpaper and after a moment of looking like an idiot he simply shut it again. The longer the silence stretched, the more nervous he got, and the more desperately he wracked him mind for something, anything, to say. She blinked, but said nothing. For some inexplicable reason, the words that finally tumbled out were as follows:

“I hope the p-p-pot isn’t t-too hot.”

He shook his head and tried again. “I mean…ahh…I have s-soup…”

That was, of course, not at all what he had meant to say, and didn’t explain anything. He started to sweat nervously and babbled on, “...b-but no spoon. And it’s not very g-good. You see, I wasn’t expecting…that is…” and then, “I thought you’d be hungry. You’ve b-been s-s-sleeping…”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. He couldn’t blame her. His brain was firing uselessly and he knew that his mouth was hanging open like an idiot again. Too late, he remembered what he should have said, what he had meant to say instead of launching into a discussion about soups and spoons.

Hanging his head, he muttered, “My name is Robbyn. I’ll just get the soup.”

Robbyn turned away and went to retrieve the broth. He tested the metal of the helm lightly. It was still warm, but not dangerous. Inside, the broth was surprisingly cool and the fat from the dried meat had congealed disgustingly over the surface of the water. Robbyn stirred it quickly with his pocketknife, but his efforts did not improve its appearance much. With a small sigh, he eased the makeshift pot out of its perch with both hands and brought it over to the prone woman. A light steam from the soup trailed over the surface as he kneeled over her. She did not move, simply looking up at him that same cold wariness that so unnerved him. She had not even said she was hungry, he realized. Defeated, he sat back on his haunches and put the pathetic mixture down in his lap.

Finally she spoke.

“Hatch.” It was a question, but the way she said it, it sounded like a command.

“I think he’s d-dead.”

“How long?” She swallowed. “How long has it been?”

“Since you…?” Robbyn could not find the right words. He gave up, and started again. “About a day. I f-found you last night.”

Her eyes left his face to take in their surroundings. “Where are we?”

“D-Duskwood. Across the river. Are you hungry? You lost a lot of b-blood, and should eat.”

She nodded, and then grimaced.

“Careful. Let me help you,” he said. Switching his grip and wrapping the fingers of his right hand over the top edge of the inverted helm, he reached behind her neck with his left hand and carefully helped her up to drink. She moved both hands up to take the bowl, and then drew a quick breath through her teeth. Her face contorted with pain.

“D-don’t use your right hand,” he said.

She did as he suggested, and cupped the bottom of the bowl with her left. The smell of the broth was weak and unpleasant, but she drank greedily. After a gulp she started coughing, so he took the bowl away from her and lowered her down again to clear the air passage. After a moment she quieted.

“That’s disgusting,” she said.

Robbyn nodded. “I’m sorry. All I have is dried salt pork, raisins, and c-crackers.”

After a moment, she looked at the helm and commanded, “More.” He lifted her again, and she finished the rest of the broth with his help. Putting the empty bowl aside, he laid her head back down upon the makeshift pillow. She looked down at her bloody shirt and the bulge where the bandages pushed the shirt up, and asked, “You do that?”

Robbyn nodded.

He felt the weight of her scrutiny. “Why?” she asked.

It was a good question, and one that Robbyn had asked himself many times in the last twelve hours. He had no real answer, and the one he gave was mostly a jumbled mess. “I didn’t mean to…I mean, I saw you w-were in trouble and ... I didn’t w-want to get involved, but… I was afraid…and it all k-k-kind of just happened. Somehow. In the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.” He paused, then added as an afterthought, realizing that what he had said hadn't made a lot of sense, “…I just couldn’t leave you like that.”

She was not listening. She had already fallen back asleep.

[Nedward Underhill]

“Great,” he said to himself sarcastically. What a way to make a first impression! Not only that, but he had forgotten to say the anything important. Important details like… that there was no way back across the river. That their entire provisions consisted of five strips of bacon, a small bag of raisins, and a dozen crackers. That a horrible giant wolf was right now gathering his pack to come feast upon them. And that Robbyn had no idea where they might find safety. Instead, he had just let her fall asleep while he rambled on mindlessly.

Robbyn knew that he should wake her and get moving, but looking down he did not have the heart to disturb her. Instead, he occupied himself striking the makeshift camp. The supplies that belonged in his belt pouch he simply gathered together, as Copper’s head still rested upon the makeshift pillow he had made. He stuck his gloves through his belt and gathered up Copper’s blade from where it was laid. After another glance, he carefully slid it back into the scabbard at her side. Looking at her other empty scabbard, he realized that he had left her other knife back in Jerod’s shack. “Nothing for it now,” he said to himself.

Robbyn gathered up the discarded helm and headed off to the river. The light again shocked his eyes when he emerged from the forest cover, but squinting and looking up he saw that it was not far past midday. He had thought it much later. Evidently, it was impossible to track time within the forest. Across the water the Elwynn forest sat quiet and inviting, and though he scrutinized it for signs of life, he saw nothing but tree and leaf, rustling quietly in the lazy afternoon breeze. Likely there was not a person for leagues around. He fished his handkerchief out of his pocket, then plunged the makeshift pot into the river and began to scrub it clean. Bits of sinewy pork remnants rinsed out and floated away into the open water. The blackened exterior was permanently stained, but he figured that there was no real harm done to the metal. He would still be safer wearing it.

Twenty minutes later he was back at the camp. Copper still slept, but she had tossed off his cloak and pulled back her torn shirt to cool her feverish body. Sweat glistened on her neck and chest where it lay exposed, and though her breasts were still covered, Robbyn felt wrong looking at her and had to avert his eyes. He felt flushed. To occupy himself, he picked up the leather inner lining and padding for his helm and, turning his back to her, he worked the pieces back together. The fact that her fever had broken was a good sign, he thought, but it also meant that she would likely be unable to travel for a few more hours. Also, she would need something cold and damp to bring down her temperature. He could soak his cloak in the river, but wool stayed wet forever and he wanted to keep it dry in case she needed something warm that night. His handkerchief would have to do. Copper moaned and turned her head in her sleep, so Robbyn put down his work and turned back to check on her. Her damaged face lay towards him and it broke Robbyn’s heart just looking at it. Folding the cool wet cloth, he lightly wiped her forehead to calm her. She muttered something unintelligible and then sighed and her body relaxed against him, and for the first time in ages Robbyn felt like he might have done something right.

The afternoon waned and still Copper did not reawaken. Robbyn used his small cloth to periodically wipe away the sweat from her head and neck. The sweat poured off of her; so much, in fact, that he had to make another trip to the river to rinse the small cloth. A slight odour of sweat and blood rose from her body as her perspiration soaked into the blood-caked shirt. He thought about removing her shirt and taking it to clean the blood out but he could not bring himself to undress her. Visions of her fierce eyes opening while he pawed her came to mind and made him shudder. No, not a fate he wanted to court.

Robbyn was becoming more and more nervous about the coming night. It was summer, but still, he estimated that they only had about five good hours of daylight. Finally, her eyes opened again. For a moment she gazed blankly at him, as if furiously processing what she was seeing, then the steel returned to her blue eyes.

“Thirsty…” Her voice was rough and gravely.

Cursing himself for a fool, he said, “You have a high fever and have been sw-sweating a lot. I don’t have any w-water, but can get you some from the river. I’ll be a f-few minutes though. It’s not that close.”

She just looked at him, but he could see profanities in her eyes. He scrambled up.

“W-wait here,” he said, stupidly, and ran off hitting his head with his palm.

He was puffing by the time he got back with a mostly-full helm of river water. He had run all the way there, but had been forced to walk back after most had slopped out on the first run back. She was sitting up. Approaching her, he offered her the water, but she needed his help to drink. Even when she drank her eyes remained fixed upon him, studying his every move. It was very unnerving. At last her thirst was sated. When she was done, he finished the rest of the water. It was silty and warm, and tasted vaguely of the leather liner he had reinserted into the helm. When it was empty, he put the sodden thing back on his head. A trickle of wet ran down his forehead and neck, which was actually a comfort after his exertions.

“Robb, is it?” she stopped to confirm his name. He nodded. “I need you to explain what happened, starting from the beginning. Okay?”

“I w-will, but I c-can’t right now,” he responded. “At least, not until we get moving. Can you w-walk?”

“I think so.” She struggled to her feet. When she stood, she closed her eyes for a moment and wobbled precariously, but as much as Robbyn wanted to he did not reach out to steady her. Now that she was awake he was afraid to touch her. Her shirt hung limply off her body and while she was not exactly exposing herself, neither was she exactly decent. She made no attempt to cover herself. After a moment, she opened her eyes again, and said, “This had better be important.”

Robbyn gathered up the rest of the supplies and provisions while he talked. “I’m sorry, but it is. There is no w-way back across the river and I don’t have much in the way of rations. Also, there are w-w-wolves in the forest…w-we need to find shelter before nightfall.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Umm, our best chance is Raven Hill…to the south. I think it’s about a day’s hike. If w-we can make it there, w-we can…umm, well, it’ll be safe anyway.”

Robbyn shook the moss out of the makeshift pillow, and then put away the various supplies and wrapped the pouch around his waist. Once finished, he stood up and casually moved to her left side, just in case she felt faint and needed something to grab onto.

She regarded him coolly. “Listen, if you think that we can just waltz through Duskwood Forest, you are sadly mistaken. There are worse things in here than wolves, and I for one am not interested in becoming food for some wild beast lurking in the heart of the forest. How is it we got across the water but can't get back?”

Robbyn felt his face flush. “There was a flat b-b-boat in the reeds. I rowed it across the river, but was afraid of being…of being discovered, so once w-we got ashore I...I p-pushed it down the river.” Embarrassed, he looked down.

There was a pause. Then she said, “You stole Jerod’s boat.” There was a strange tenor in her voice.

Robbyn looked back up at her and saw a wicked smile on her face. For some reason, she seemed highly entertained by what he had done. “I didn’t know w-what else to do,” he explained.

“That thing was about fifty years old and as heavy as a dead kodo. How in the Light did you move it?”

Robbyn shrugged. “It sure was heavy.” She laughed then, a light chirping sound like a bird, and Robbyn felt a goofy grin spread across his face. Unfortunately the laughter shook her chest, which caused her to wince and curse. As quickly as the laughter had come, it was gone. After a moment he continued, “I am sorry. I w-wasn’t prepared for any of this. W-we don’t have enough food. I don’t want to go through the forest at all! I w-wish I hadn’t got rid of the boat. Really. But I was afraid of being discovered. I knew you were injured and they seemed like b-bad men…”

“You have no idea, Robb.”

“…and, umm, I did think about sticking to the water's edge, but it’s got to be at least four or five days journey around the forest, and I j-just don’t think w-we have enough food to make it. Here look,” Robbyn showed her the meagre provisions. Her calculating eyes took it all in.

For a second she stood there staring at him. Then, with a curse and a muttered, “You had better be good with that mace,” she started walking southward. He hurried after her. Her movement was slow and she winced with each step, but she didn’t reach out to him for support, and a determined look flashed from her eyes. The dim light of the forest enveloped them completely as they stepped away from the great stone outcropping and began to work their way slowly through the forest. As they walked, he explained to her how it all happened: about the Maclures, and getting lost, and happening upon her in the dark, and the shack, and everything. It took a long time to explain it all, but Copper listened quietly throughout without interrupting. While he talked, he gradually directed them toward what he hoped was the southeast, and eventually he was explaining to her about the appearance of the grey wolf and about his plan to stick to the higher ground for speed and safety.

It was hard going through the rotted undergrowth. Robb did offer to stop and rest several times, but notwithstanding her wounds and fever she refused. Each time he stopped, she would just walk past him and say, “I don’t need any blighting pity.” He assured her that he intended no insult and that he marvelled at her determination. He guaranteed her that if the situation were reversed he would not be as tough as her. She just scowled and kept walking.

After a few hours, they emerged from the dark of the forest and came across the remains of an ancient dried riverbed. The forest branches hung out over the scattered stones from either side, but the tree cover was incomplete. The evening sun slanted down around them, giving the pale stones a ghostly appearance. Even so, it was good to be out of the oppressive darkness of the Duskwood Forest and Robbyn breathed a small sigh of relief. The river had evidently once run down in force from the high land to the east, down into the lower flatland and eventually to the Elwynn River to the west. In its day it must have been at least fifteen feet across, but for some reason it had dried it up at some point and all that was left of the forest stream was a tiny trickle of water that wound its way through a winding channel at the centre of the stones. Here they stopped, drank from the water, and rested on the large stones. Robbyn shared out some of the meagre rations and they ate in silence. Robbyn had not realized just how hungry he was, and he tried to savour each bite.

Copper had been silent for so long he was startled when she spoke. “So you didn’t check Hatch’s body to make sure he was dead?”

Robbyn looked at her. For a second a vision of Hatch’s twisted neck and horrible disfigured face flashed back at him, but he just shook his head. “He was too close to the horse.”

She was quiet a while longer. Then she said, “He ain’t dead.” She looked up at the fading light and spoke quietly and impassively, but what she said made the blood run cold in his chest. “He ain’t dead, and you better hope he was too bloody drunk to remember your face, for he ain’t likely to forgive you for what you’ve done. It’s a good thing you hid our tracks ’cause that man is a blighting bloodhound, and I don’t care about any kind of ‘undertow,’ if you hadn’t got rid of the boat he would have swum the Light-forsaken river and been upon us in the night.” She looked at him then, and though that dauntless fire still flashed in her blue eyes there was a hint of compassion there. After a pause she continued, “When we get to Raven Hill, you’re going to go your way, and I’m going to go mine. And if you want my advice, you’ll take yourself back to Stormwind and stay there. You seem like a decent sort, Robb…which is, frankly, a bloody shame. ’Cause if Hatch ever finds you, he is going to tear your blighting heart out.”

Robbyn suddenly wasn’t hungry any more.

Robbyn had not mentioned Stormwind in his narrative. Copper must have assumed he was from the militia because of the armour he wore. Robbyn didn’t want to talk about Stormwind, however, so he said nothing. In an attempt to calm his nerves, Robbyn went and wet his handkerchief in the water. He then handed the damp cloth to Copper.

“Here. You still have a high fever,” he said.

She took the cloth from him and proceeded to wipe her head, neck and chest with it. She clearly did not have any sense of propriety, for she merely pulled back the sides of her blood-caked shirt and wiped herself without bothering to make any effort to cover herself or even turn away from him. When she began to expose herself to him, Robbyn felt a lump swell in his neck and a hot rush of embarrassment rushed to his face. He quickly averted his eyes and turned away.

“W-w-who is he?” he asked, looking off down the path of the dry riverbed as it disappeared into the forest to the west.

“Hatch? A very dangerous man. Likely the best killer I’ve ever met, and that’s saying something. Before the Resistance went underground he was a farmer, like most of them were. His name is Hatcher; he raised chickens, I think. Anyway, his family did. Hatch killed them.” Robbyn’s breath caught in his throat. “The chickens, Robb,” she said, clarifying. “Hatch killed chickens.”

“Oh,” he said, relieved.

“This was all before I was born, you understand,” she continued. “The way I hear it, Hatch had a wife and bunch of kids. He was a hard man even then, but a good farmer. Like most about everyone, Hatch didn’t pay the blighting Stormwinder’s Levy. He probably was involved in the Resistance one way or another, but Shadow take me if I know. It don’t matter. What matters is that one night the militia showed up and killed his whole family; wife, kids, dogs…everyone. Torched his farm. Word is that they killed Hatch too and left him dead in the fire. But…well, maybe it’s like they say. Maybe he sold his soul for revenge. I don’t know, and I don’t rotting care. What I do know is that it is going to take a lot more than a horseshoe to put him in the ground. He don’t feel pain the way that others do. I have seen him fight. Sometimes some stupid hotshot who wants to make a name for himself will call Hatch out. Everyone knows Hatch is some kind of Scourge-tainted freak, invincible. Makes him a target for the scraps. Hatch, he fights to kill, and everybody knows it, but still some of them are stupid enough to want to take a shot at him. It’s not approved of, but…”

Robbyn had unconsciously turned back to Copper in horror at her story. She shrugged, and continued, “The fights don’t last long. Hatch is a big man and he is good with his hands. He just goes in for the kill. He don’t even need a weapon. I have seen him lift a man up by his neck with one hand and crush the life out of him. I’ve seen him get stabbed right through, with blood shooting out of his back, and not even flinch. I’ve seen…”

Robbyn could not take it any more. “P-please! Stop!” he blurted out, interrupting her.

Copper regarded him for a moment. Then she held up the sweaty handkerchief. “You mind wetting this again?”

Robb looked at the rag and blanched, thinking of where it had just been. Still, he knew she could not lean down without pain, so he took it from her and knelt to wring it out in the tiny stream. Then he gave it back to her, saying, “W-what do you mean, the ‘Stormwinder’s Levy’?”

Copper held the cold cloth to her blackened eye and the bruises on her face, and answered, with a touch of exasperation, “The Reconstruction Levy? The Great Tax? You know, after the war…”

Now Robbyn knew what she was talking about. After the city of Lordaeron was destroyed in the north, the remnants of humanity fled to the south for safety from the armies of the undead Scourge and their terrifying weapon, the plague. Stormwind was a ruin at that time and had to be rebuilt to house all of the dispossessed and to give humanity new hope. The coming of the Scourge was so horrifying that many felt that it was only a matter of time before even the southern kingdoms were besieged. It was then that Edwin VanCleef, quite possibly the greatest construction engineer to ever grace human society, designed a master plan that would raise from the ruins of the once great city a marvel of human engineering. More than a just new capital, the new Stormwind was to be a wonder of the world, an indomitable fortress, and a vision of the power and enduring splendour of human society. Diplomatic emissaries were sent to every nation asking for aid, including the dwarves in the north and even across the sea to the land of the then reclusive elves, requesting support for the Stormwind reconstruction. Every able-bodied citizen was called upon to volunteer his or her time and talents. And a great tax was imposed upon every citizen of Elwynn, as well as in its neighbouring provinces of Westfall, Duskwood and Lakeshire, to rebuild the city. The levies were hard, but it was for the greater good, and the people gave generously to protect their homes, their families, and their very way of life. Craftsmen poured in from every land to lend a hand to the undertaking. They came by the hundreds and thousands, and within a mere two years virtually the entire city was rebuilt. Build out of massive white stones, and sweeping up to a crowning cathedral the size and majesty of which had never before been seen, the new Stormwind was indeed a beacon of hope. But though the white city was magnificent, the very reconstruction effort itself was also a crowning achievement and a testament to the indomitable power of the human spirit.

“Oh, that,” he said. It was a shock to Robbyn that anyone might have not paid the reconstruction levy. “W-why didn’t he pay? He couldn’t afford it?”

Copper put the cloth down and looked at him scornfully. “Are you blighting kidding me?! No one paid the plague-infested levy!”

Robbyn realized that he hated it when Copper swore. It was strange, because Robbyn had grown up with foul language from the General. But the General swore at his men, not at his boys, and never at his wife. And Robbyn’s mother was always quiet and well mannered. Copper’s way of speaking was so aggressive and angry; it made Robbyn feel attacked. And it was disturbing to have such a beautiful woman saying such things. He didn’t say anything about it to her, of course, only, “W-where did the gold come from then? The city got built...”

She interrupted him. “Look Robb, you are…” She paused and stared at him, her eyes smouldering, before continuing, “Ah, forget it. You’re not going to want to know the truth anyway.”

“No, I am interested. Really. I know it looks like I’m from the g-guard,” Robbyn waved his hand over the Stormwind crest on his breastplate, “but I w-want to know the truth. It’s just that the capital got rebuilt, so someone must have p-paid.” Copper held the wet cloth to her face again and looked away from him. Robbyn waited, but she clearly was no longer interested in talking to him. After a few minutes, he said, “It’s g-getting late. Are you alright to keep going?”

“Do I have any blighting choice?” She stood up, wincing.

When they pushed their way back into the forest, it was immediately apparent that evening was upon them. The forest light, always dim, was now so dark that they had to peer into the darkness. Robbyn thought it might have been just his imagination, but it seemed that a low-hanging fog covered the ground, dampening sound and blurring the darkness around them. More than once a fallen branch was invisible underfoot until it was upon them, tripping them up. Copper cursed terribly every time she stumbled, and though Robbyn tried to make himself available to assist her, she refused to even look at him. She certainly did not reach out for help. Robbyn worried about her, but there was nothing he could do. They just went slower.

All day Robbyn had not been able to shake the sense that someone was watching them. Now, as the darkness thickened around them, that feeling began to become overpoweringly real. Every time Robbyn looked over his shoulder, he had the distinct impression that glowing malevolent eyes had just closed to hide themselves from him. And every time he looked away, his spine tingled to tell him that they had opened again. The shadows moved in his peripheral vision but faded away when he tried to see what was there.

Copper was fading. Given the amount of blood she had lost, it was amazing that she had lasted so long. More than once she stumbled and almost fell. Her breath came ragged from her chest and her eyes began to sag. Robbyn knew he needed to find shelter, but there was nothing safe around them. Just endless tree trunks and rotten ground and fog and darkness. Then, out of the darkness came the shrill howl of a wolf. Instinctively, they both stopped walking. Robbyn’s mouth went dry and Copper’s eyes snapped open. It was impossible to tell if the sound had come from before or behind them. For a heartbeat they waited, then Robbyn whispered out, “W-w-we need to hurry. You should hold on to m-me so that we can g-go f-f-faster.” To his surprise, she obeyed.

The darkness pressed in around them as they stumbled forward blindly. A cold sweat dripped down from Robbyn’s forehead and got in his eyes, causing him to blink back a sting of salt. His helmet did not help matters either, blocking his eyesight on left and right and dampening the already hushed forest noises, but Robbyn was terrified to remove it. The fog opened in front of them and closed behind them and out in the darkness, just beyond his vision, dark shapes seemed to rush along beside them. Another howl rose up, this time closer and clearly behind them. Visions of the grey wolf filled Robbyn’s mind, of its wasted and hungry appearance and its cold calculating eyes. Robbyn rushed through the woods, halfway dragging Copper as she held tightly onto the leather of his shirt at his shoulder.

They were travelling uphill, and as they did so the lowest branches of the trees about them started to creep down until they were slashing at the pair as they hurried along. Robbyn bulled through them until one snapped back and hit Copper in the face, causing her to release him and spew a string of profanities. Robbyn stopped and went to help her but she just grabbed back onto him and commanded him to keep going. He turned and continued forward again, but brought his mace out and began swinging violently at the base of the branches, breaking a path before them.

Again the howl went up behind them, this time echoed by a second canine voice somewhere in the forest to their right. Robb’s legs and arm started aching from his exertions, but the blood-curdling cries of their pursuers kept him moving. Looking over his shoulder he saw that Copper had brought out her blade as well, and that she watched behind them for any sign of the hunters. Robbyn turned back forward just in time to see another branch swinging maliciously towards them. He grabbed it with his left hand and snapped it in two, then pushed forward again.

Robbyn looked frantically for a rock wall, stone outcropping, or anything that they might use for defence or shelter, but all around them were only thinning trees and rotted undergrowth. It was impossible to see. For all they knew they might be passing within a stone’s throw of a cave and still be completely oblivious to its existence. The cold realization sank home to Robbyn that they were going to be run down and devoured by a pack of rabid wolves in the darkness, and there was nothing they could do about it.

A sudden sharp squeeze on his shoulder caused him to look back. Copper’s head was still twisted around to stare behind them, and following her gaze Robbyn saw the luminous yellow eyes of their pursuers materialize behind them in the woods. It was hard to tell how many of them there were, for the eyes shifted and moved and the wolves’ bodies were still hidden by the darkness, but there might have been a half dozen of them loping along behind them, wearing them down. Robbyn was already breathing hard and his muscles were crying out from the strain.

The eyes in the darkness were too much for Robbyn; he lost all sense of reason. Grabbing Copper by the waist he sprinted uphill full tilt. Her feet slipped and dragged behind her and she swore something furiously in his ear, but Robbyn could not understand her. He was in full flight from the terror behind him. The forest blurred before him and he blinked back the sweat running down his face. He ran, but his head twisted around repeatedly, watching in horror as the wolves casually emerged from the darkness. Five of them; twenty yards behind them. They ran with a killer’s grace and closed in upon them.

Something hit Robbyn’s knee, hard, and before he knew what was happening he and Copper had gone flying over a large fallen tree that he had not seen in his panic, what with his head turned back. Their weapons flew out of their hands, hers to imbed itself in the base of a nearby tree and his on the ground beside them. She fell on her injured shoulder and did not get up. Robbyn frantically grabbed his mace and scrambled to his feet. The wolves had slowed and were sliding forward around him at about ten paces. Robbyn’s animal instincts took over. He started screaming incoherently. He waved his hands up and down in front of his attackers, as if trying to scare them off with his size and power. The wolves were each more than half the size of a man. Their heads were down and their teeth bared as they surrounded him. Robbyn twisted one way and then the other, trying not to let any get at his back.

Robbyn had always read in the histories about how heroes had faced their death with grim determination. How they had made a last stand and died nobly, defending that which they believed in. As he stood over Copper’s fallen body and looked at the face of his own death in the dark forest, for some bizarre reason all he found himself thinking about was Onna’s meat pies back home. Onna was a short broad woman with a big mouth who believed in cooking with liberal amounts of fat. Her meat pies were good enough to sell. In fact, once a year she would take a week off and set up at table at the harvest faire and turn a tidy profit with them. In the Jonathan household, she always made a huge batch of them at a time. She cooked them with lots of onions and garlic and she sautéed the onion and garlic first. Everyone always knew when she was cooking meat pie because the smell would fill the house. Robbyn’s mother hated it, but Robbyn would sneak down and just sit in the servants’ quarters, savouring the delicious aroma. Now, as he twisted frantically back and forth in the darkness, waiting for the inevitable attack, all that was in Robb’s head was a wistful sadness that he would never be able to enjoy them again.

Copper shuddered and Robbyn dropped his guard momentarily as his concern was drawn to her. Too late he realized his mistake. A ripple of fear raced down his spine and he twisted around to see the grey form and feverish yellow eyes of one of the wolves leaping towards him. Something snapped inside Robbyn; time seemed to slow down. It was as if he was outside his body and merely watching as his mace came up from below to meet the head of the hurtling foe. The heavy iron of the mace sank into the soft head of the wolf and it burst in an explosion of blood and bone. The body of the wolf crashed into him, but it was surprisingly light and merely forced his body to twist rather than knocking him over.

Suddenly Robbyn felt a pinch and a heavy weight on his left arm, and looking down he met the cold eyes of a second attacker as its teeth sank into the flesh. Its fore paws clawed at his side but scraped harmlessly off of his chainmail hauberk. Robb saw his own blood fill the beast’s mouth, but his mind registered no pain. All the same, the weight of the wolf as it yanked upon him caused him to stumble. He tried to shake off the wolf, and his eyes caught sight of a third wolf lunging in low, either at Robbyn's legs or at Copper. He brought his mace down upon it hard. There was a crack of bones breaking in its spine and it crumpled, yelping piteously. Two more rushed at him. One pinned his right arm and pulled him down onto one knee. The other went at his face. Robbyn saw nothing but teeth and turned his helmet at the last second. His head snapped back from the impact. He tried desperately to rise, but his feet could find no purchase on the rotted ground cover.

Pain suddenly washed back into his consciousness. The wolf on his left arm had torn off his leather sleeve and it felt like his arm was being ripped off. Still struggling to rise, Robbyn managed to bash the head of the one on his mace arm against the log that had tripped him, but he lost hold of his mace in the process. It was all a blur now. Suddenly the pressure on his mace arm released. He quickly brought his hand up and grabbed at the head of the wolf that was biting at his face. An unnatural hatred shone from its eyes. Looking into its eyes, Robbyn recognized the eyes of the great beast, the one he had seen that morning. From its size and ferocity, he instinctively knew that it was the pack leader. Robbyn’s fingers tangled themselves in the fur at its neck. He ripped its head away from his face, and then began shaking it madly in the air above him as if he might kill it simply by shaking the life out of it. The wolf dangled in the air, its long claws tearing futilely at his armour and face.

The last wolf had savaged his left arm and side but with a massive effort Robbyn managed to toss it away from him and stand. A large piece of his flesh ripped off and a spray of blood filled the air as the wolf rolled to its feet on the far side of the fallen tree. As it prepared to spring upon him, Robbyn screamed again and brought the lead wolf’s body down upon the tree between them, like a stick upon a drum. The wolf facing him hesitated, then turned and ran off into the darkness. Robbyn continued screaming, smashing the grey wolf in his hands against the fallen tree before him until it’s blood covered the surface of the log and the its body lay broken and lifeless in his hands. Even then he did not let go of it, but just stood panting and tottering in the darkness. Finally, he released the shattered body and look down at where Copper had fallen. She lay underneath the lifeless body of the wolf that had attacked Robbyn’s mace arm. Reaching down he grabbed the beast and rolled it off her, revealing her unconscious form. Her hand still held onto the hilt of her sword where it ran the beast through.

Robbyn was covered in blood. Some of it was the wolves’, but most of it was his. He seemed to be bleeding everywhere. Blood poured out from the hole in his left arm and overflowed his mail glove. Blood ran down his chest from a gash in his collarbone. His chainmail leggings were torn and tattered in several places, exposing bleeding furrows from the clawed paws that had ravaged him. His legs were shaking uncontrollably. A warm dampness and the pungent smell of urine told him that he had soiled himself sometime during the fight. Robbyn sank down to sit on the wet ground and leaned heavily against the bloody log behind him, his head drooping.

The last remaining wolf still cried piteously nearby. Robbyn’s eyes were drawn to it by the sound. It kept pathetically lifting its head as if it were trying to get up, but its back was broken and its body no longer responded. A black pool of blood surrounded its head. The dark yellow light of its eyes had faded away and it stared blankly at Robbyn with a pale weak luminosity. Looking at the tortured creature, Robbyn suddenly felt an overpowering gag reflex and, bending over, he threw up violently on the ground beside him. Robbyn had not eaten much that day. Before long his body was shaken by dry heaves. When even that reflex stopped, he collapsed back against the tree, breathing raggedly. A long line of spit and vomit trailed from his mouth and down upon his chest. He wanted to wipe it away but his arms were too heavy. A fog was in Robbyn’s mind and he could not think straight. His heartbeat felt weak in his chest and he knew that he should do something about his wounded arm, but he could not focus long enough to think of what it was he should do. His eyes were heavy. He just wanted to sleep.

Off in the darkness, Robbyn heard barking and howling again. More wolves, he thought idly. He was too weak to be afraid and just started crying weakly. It was too much to bear. He could not even stand to face them. He could barely hold his head up.

A red light swelled in the darkness of the forest. Robbyn heard more barking and the sound of something scrabbling noisily towards them. His mouth was so dry. He just needed a drink of water. Robbyn tried to keep his eyes open. He tried to keep his head up. The red light blurred and then refocused into two dancing fires, bobbing from side to side in tandem. Robbyn’s eyes closed for a moment. The next moment, something large and bestial was licking his bloody arm and a fire was shining in his eyes. His helmet was off and the forest air felt cool on his cheeks. There was a murmur in his ear but as much as he wanted to understand it he could not focus and his eyes closed again.

Someone was slapping his face and talking to him. Robbyn looked up into the face of an old grey-bearded man. The man's eyes were dark and surrounded by wrinkled leathery skin, and his moustache and beard were unkempt and matted. Though bald on top of his head, the man’s grey hair was long at the sides and hung down wildly to his shoulders. He held a torch in his hand and was saying something to Robbyn, but Robbyn could not understand it. About him a pack of leashed dogs roamed freely, sniffing the carcasses. Robbyn was not sure, but he thought he saw one of the dogs eating from the shattered head of one of the dead wolves. The man slapped Robbyn again and then grabbed Robbyn’s face and forced it back to focus on what he was saying. Something about a cart. Robbyn shook his head, no. He didn’t have a cart.

The man stepped away and returned with the leather remains of Robbyn’s shirt. Taking hold of Robbyn’s arm, he tourniqueted it tightly above the wound. Then he pressed a bottle to Robbyn’s lips and tipped it back. Robbyn felt a wave of fire rush through him as the alcohol rushed down his throat. He coughed and his eyes cleared.

“Thank you,” he gasped, weakly. “Who are you? How did you find us?”

The old man had a rough, nasally voice. Choppy; as if he were unaccustomed to conversing with others. “I live here. Heard your screaming; used the dogs to find you. The name’s Abercrombie.”

[Nedward Underhill]

Chapter 4

Robbyn did not remember much of what happened next. The light faded and returned, and somehow he found himself on his feet, leaning with his back against a nearby tree. His mind was a fog. The old man…what was his name?…must have lifted him up. Robbyn’s head kept falling upon his chest, but he knew he needed to stay awake. The forest wasn’t safe. The wolves were coming and he needed to get them to safety. No, that wasn’t right, he thought. The wolves were dead. A scratchy voice cut into the foggy silence in his mind, startling him. Robbyn still stood, but he realized that his chin had fallen on his chest and that his eyes had closed again. With an effort, he opened them and he looked up at the blurred figure of the old man in front of him. Abercrombie. That was it. That was the man’s name. Abercrombie was carrying Copper. He had her body slung over his shoulder like bag of sand. Her body lay lifeless and her bruised face was turned towards Robbyn. Her hair poured down the old man’s back like blood. Copper’s body floated off into the forest, illuminated above by the ruddy torchlight. Her head hung limply down and her hair waved as if saying goodbye. Someone was barking at him to follow. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t far. Robbyn pushed away from the tree, but the world spun and he fell on one knee. Something rough and wet licked his shoulder and Robbyn’s mind filled with a panic of wolves. No, the wolves were dead. Robbyn had broken the wolf’s body with his bare hands. Abercrombie. Abercrombie had dogs. It was just a dog.

Robbyn staggered back to his feet and lurched forward after the red light and Copper’s waving hair. He was so tired. Everything was silent but for the sound of blood in his ears. The torchlight was at the end of a dark tunnel. He needed to hurry. The shrinking torchlight dwindled into the darkness. He wanted to call out to the old man to wait, but his mouth was too dry to speak. His tongue was stuck again, and useless. Everything ached. Robbyn plodded along trying to keep his head up. His eyes kept closing and he had to blink to keep them open. A tangle of shrubs and clinging branches surrounded him, barring his passage. The trees grabbed onto him, trying to keep him back from the dwindling firelight. Robbyn crashed forward and the branches fell behind him. He was out…out of the forest. At last. A cool breeze brushed his face and the smell of decay slipped away. He was standing wavering upon the top of a small rise, looking down upon a small clearing. Wandering shadows played upon the surfaces of a few squat buildings within the clearing, distorting them and making them look as if they were alive. Somewhere in front of him the torchlight was bobbing down the hill, and the old man’s face appeared inside it looking back up at Robbyn. The face had dark cadaverous holes where the eyes and mouth should have been. The name of the old man escaped Robbyn again. A dull thudding blotted out all sound. Robbyn started to stumble down the hill, but the slope was too steep. His feet did not land properly on the ground. The tiny firelight twisted and spun away from him. A swift wind rushed by his face. The pale moon swung into sight before him, halfway obscured by a drifting cloud. It was so large. Robbyn’s body hit something soft and solid. Darkness.

*****

Robbyn was back in the woods. He was running. It was dark and the tree cover weighed down upon him oppressively. Robbyn was looking for something in the forest, but he could not remember what it was. All around him the forest seemed to press forward, as if blocking his path. A wall of branches appeared before him and he put his hands up to protect his face. It was then that he realized that his hands were pale, colourless, and semi-transparent. Pale wisps of white smoke trailed off his fingers as he moved. Shocked, he stumbled and fell into the branches but they did not seem to touch him, they simply passed through his body harmlessly.

Robbyn fell on his hands and knees on the far side of the forest branches. The forest melted away and a great yellow moon shone down upon him. He knelt upon the top of a dry lifeless hill and looked down into a deep narrow valley, almost like a crevice. Far below, a few broken buildings sat lifeless in the darkness. Somehow Robbyn knew that whatever it was that he was seeking was down there, in the darkness. He was afraid of falling, but he started down, pulled like gravity towards his goal.

Robbyn’s body was light and airy and floated down into the darkness. Although he touched the steep ground, he felt nothing. The walls of the valley rose up on either side and closed in upon him. The sickly light of the moon faded and was blocked out by earthen walls on either side of him. Robbyn looked back up and saw that he was in some kind of hole cut into the ground. Far above him, the pale sky sat within a rough rectangular frame. Everything else was darkness. The urging pull of his objective was strong here, and Robbyn scrabbled away in the soil covering the bottom on the hole. His could no longer see himself in the darkness, but he felt himself getting deeper as he pushed the loose dirt aside. All around him faces appeared in the darkness, watching him, waiting for him to fail. He did not want to look at them, but he knew the General was there, watching with cold disappointed eyes. Robbyn realized that he must have begun crying, for his vision shifted and blurred before him. He wiped the tears away with a muddy hand.

All had been silent around him. Now a quiet rhythmic knocking came out of the darkness in front of him. The sound was muffled at first, as if from behind a wall or door, but it continued, getting increasingly louder as Robbyn dug deeper into the ground. Robbyn could make out two beats to the pounding rhythm, beating almost together. It grew to be a great pounding, urging him forward. Whatever it was under the ground desperately needed to be released. Robbyn dug faster.

Out of the soil before him two arms shot up, scattering dirt and debris around him. Long human fingers took hold of the top of his breastplate, right at his neck, and pulled down hard. Robbyn’s armour ripped away from his body, and something dark and terrible rose up before him. Vaguely human, but grotesque and wasted, it forced its way out of the ground beneath him. The sudden knowledge that he was kneeling in a grave came home to Robbyn and a wave of terror washed through him. Robbyn tried desperately to get away but the creature wrapped cold fingers around his arms and held him down. Robbyn lay upon his back in the darkness. The risen creature towered over him, it’s head framed in the moonlight. Long straw-like hair fell down about its head. It was impossibly strong and Robbyn could not move. Something cold and dreadful rasped out his name.

“Robb!”

Light.

“For crying out loud! Robb!!” The dream faded. It was Copper’s voice.

Robbyn opened his eyes to find Copper sitting on top of him, her knees holding down his hands at either side of him and her hands pinning his shoulders to something soft behind him. He blinked and stopped struggling against her.

“You awake?” she asked.

He nodded confusedly. She grunted, climbed off of him, and moved to a nearby chair muttering something about Robbyn’s strength that might have been complimentary if it had not been filled with expletives.

Robb laid for a moment trying get his bearings. He lay in an old sunken bed with the ragged remnants of a dirty sheet upon him. Someone had removed his armour and his upper body was naked and half-exposed to the heavy air of the room. His left arm was tightly bandaged where the wolf had bitten him. The room was dark and the fetid odour of an animal den assaulted his nostrils. A few glimmers of daylight slanted into the room from various cracks in the wooden walls, but there did not appear to be any windows. The only real source of light came from the square frame of an open doorway at the far side of the room. The interior of the dark room was oddly gutted, as if someone either never finished constructing the inside or else had decided at some point to renovate but had only got so far as to tear down most of the interior walls. Various frames and supporting posts remained intact, suggesting three or possibly four original rooms, and in one place most of a dividing wall remained, but to all intents and purposes it was a one-room dwelling. Chests, drawers and tables lined the perimeter wall or sat scattered about the room, but every surface and most of the floor was littered with disorganized heaps of odds and ends. In the centre of the room was a large oaken table piled with various unrecognizable objects, and in the far front corner, near to the open doorway, Robbyn could make out the shape of a wood stove surrounded by a jumbled pile of chopped wood. The most striking feature of the interior, however, was neither the missing interior walls nor the ubiquitous mess, but rather the embalmed trophy heads that stared blankly down from every wall. Creatures of all kinds and descriptions were stuffed, mounted and hammered into the walls, making the space feel uncomfortably small and crowded. Robbyn stared open-mouthed for a moment, and then looked back to Copper for grounding.

“Wh-wh-wh-”

“What the blight!?” Copper volunteered.

Robbyn’s tongue was useless and his mouth was dry. That wasn’t what he was going to say, exactly, but it would do. He just nodded.

Copper was wearing her leathers, but she seemed to have found a new shirt. It was light coloured and feminine, with a tiny flower pattern running down it and a frilled low neckline that swooped down to a bow between her breasts. Her hair was washed and brushed clean, and the bruising on her face was inexplicably gone.

“The old man fixed us up,” she said, looking around. “This place is apparently his home.” She turned back to Robbyn and must have seen the confusion in his eyes, because she said, “Last thing I remembered was that wolf tearing into me in the woods last night, and me ripping the sword out of the tree to defend myself. Then I woke up lying on the table with the old man leaning over me sewing up my shoulder. Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, I can tell you. But he had tied me down to the table and I could barely move. He kept rambling on about someone named ’Liza, but it didn’t make any blighting sense. Then he put this wet cloth over my mouth and, next I knew, it was morning.” Copper paused, as if considering what to tell him next, then continued, “When I woke up, the old man was sleeping with his dogs in this here bed, but he got up, came over, and untied me. He told me his name. I told him I didn’t blighting appreciate being tied down. He didn’t exactly answer but he started talking to himself again and I gathered from what he said that he had left me tied up for my own good.”

Copper paused again, thinking for a moment. “Something aint natural about the old man’s potions. ’Cause there was this disgusting green paste on my shoulder and face, but when I washed it off, my wounds were blighting gone.” She put her left hand under the neckline of her shirt to touch where the hole from the knife wound should have been, as if she still hardly believed it. “Anyway, you were out cold on the floor. I guess Abercrombie had dragged you inside, as there was a long trail of your blood out the door. He had already sewn up your arm, I guess, ’cause it was wrapped up, but he rambled on about how he needed to get you undressed and up on the table so he could work on you. You were in pretty bad shape. We got you out of what was left of your armour, but couldn’t lift you to the table so we put you here instead. Then he set about fixing you up. I don’t blighting know what all he did, but I saw him pour some kind of foul yellow mixture down your throat, and he muttered that it would probably make you shake. He told me to tie you to the bed so you wouldn’t hurt yourself, but I didn’t believe him. I should have. You were thrashing something awful before you woke.”

Robbyn didn’t know what was worse; that Copper had seen him naked, or that he had been too heavy for the two of them to lift. He reached up to his neck, where the wolf’s teeth had scratched him, and his fingers encountered a soft substance covering the wound. When he looked at his fingers, their tips were covered in a thick green paste. It smelled awful. Putting his hand down, Robbyn looked back to Copper and asked, “W-where is Abercrombie now?” His mouth was parched and his voice sounded like a rasping squeak.

“You lost a lot of blood. Drink,” she said, handing him a bottle of water. Robbyn sat up slightly, took the bottle, and drank eagerly. She continued, “The old man took his dogs and went out this morning. I think he said something about the wolves in the woods. Haven’t seen him since.” Robbyn handed the empty bottle of water back to Copper, who looked at it and then tossed it aside into a pile of clothes lying nearby. He lay back down, and tested his wounded arm. To his surprise it moved without any pain and felt surprisingly good. Reaching up, he went to remove the bandage, but Copper stopped him. “Abercrombie said not to touch it for a day. Something about how it needed time to grow back.”

Copper had leaned forward over him to stop him, and was holding his arm by the wrist. Her grip was rough and firm, more like a man’s than a woman’s. The light from the doorway was behind her and her eyes appeared dark and almost compassionate in the shadows. Her cheek, bruised and purple just yesterday, was now clear and smooth. For some reason he felt himself start to blush and he looked away. His body felt limp and weak. After a second she released him and sat back.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a second. Then he looked back to her and said, “I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Copper.”

“Oh,” he said stupidly. “On account of your hair?”

She nodded slightly. “Yeah. On account of the hair.”

“Ah.” What he wanted to say was, what is your real name? Instead what he said was, “I’m Robbyn Jonathan.”

“Jonathan?”

He nodded.

“Hm.”

More silence. Robbyn was kicking himself inside. Why had he told her that his last name was Jonathan? She was a Defias! The General flogged and hanged her people! Surely anything, anything at all, would have been a better topic of conversation. He sighed at his own stupidity and itched to punch himself in the head. He tried to think of something to change the subject, but his mind was a blank and his tongue was, as usual, useless.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Ah…w-well, actually…good.”

“There’s a bowl and sponge if you want to wash. Over there.” Copper pointed to the other back corner, where the last remnants of the inner walls still stood.

Robbyn pushed the ragged sheet off and immediately covered himself back up again. He was stripped down to his small cotton underclothes! His skin was pasty, and his gut folded and flapped embarrassingly. Robbyn hated being undressed at the best of times. Now, with a beautiful woman sitting not three feet from him, it was awful. Instinctively, he looked up at Copper to see if she had seen anything. She stared right at him and laughed.

“You think I’ve never seen a naked man, Robb?”

“No. I mean, I d-don’t know. I guess so. It’s j-just that I’d rather you not look.”

She smiled mockingly at him for a long moment. Then with a backhand, “I can’t blighting believe this,” she walked across the room and stepped out the front door.

As Copper stood silhouetted in the doorway, Robbyn slid out of the bed and walked over to the corner she had indicated. A large shallow bowl sat on the floor, filled with cloudy water and a sponge. The floorboards were cold and wet against his feet and showed the splatters of someone else’s bath, likely Copper’s that morning. Robbyn turned his back on the door and began to clean himself. The water was cold and smelled curiously of mud as he washed the dirt, sweat and the strange green paste off his body with the sponge. It all ran down and soaked the wood at his feet, and Robb wondered why the wash was inside rather than out in the yard. As usual, he had more questions than answers.

Only when he was done did Robb realize that he did not know where his clothes or armour were. Fortunately, finding his armour was easy. It was piled up against the wall near the bottom of the bed. His leather shirt was gone though, and his chain leggings were tattered. Robbyn held them up towards the light and stood looking at the great gashes and broken rings for a long moment, then involuntarily shivered as the memory of the wolves’ attack came back to him. It was a miracle that he was alive at all. He sat down weakly on the bed and looked down at his legs, which showed no sign of injury. Copper was right. The healing was disturbing.

“I figure you’ll need new pants and a new shirt.”

Robbyn’s head snapped up at Copper’s voice. She still stood in the doorway, but she had turned in towards Robbyn. She probably couldn’t see him in the dark, and he felt foolish for doing so, but he covered his legs with the ruined chain leggings anyway. “What can I wear?” he asked.

“I just scrounged around and found a few things. That’s how I found my shirt. The old man didn’t mind. There wasn’t much that might fit you, though. Look on the back of the chair I was sitting on.”

On the back of the chair were draped a pair of cotton pants and a heavy woollen shirt. The pants were several sizes too small. When Robbyn tried to get them on, they only went down to his calves on him, and he couldn’t do up the buttons at his waist. The shirt pulled uncomfortably at his shoulders and did not reach over his gut. He stood for a moment in the darkness of the room, feeling both uncomfortable and ridiculous, then got undressed again and put his armour on. The chainmail leggings jangled noisily when he walked and the breastplate chafed against his skin, but at least they fit.

Robbyn hated being overweight almost as much as he hated his stutter. His weight made him too slow to fight and too slow to run. It made him sweat profusely, and he hated how he always smelled. He was embarrassed by how his behind did not fit in normal chairs, and how he crowded people at a table. He particularly hated the way people looked at him while he ate. As a boy, he had made all kinds of vows to himself about how he would tone himself down, but nothing had ever worked. Probably he did not keep his resolves long enough. But even when he starved himself for a month, eating no sweets, snacks or deserts, and only picking at his food, it made no difference. The Light had cursed him to be bloated and useless.

Once his leggings, belt, boots and breastplate were on, Robbyn looked around for his mace and helmet. With a sinking feeling in his chest he realized that he had left them behind at the wolves, along with Copper’s sword. He closed his eyes and groaned. What would they do without any way to protect themselves? Not only that, but Copper’s sword had been exceptional. It was probably worth a fortune. Robbyn certainly did not relish the idea of explaining to Copper that he had lost her sword. But he would never be able to retrace their steps; the journey to Abercrombie’s home last night was nothing but an indistinct blur in his memory.

Robbyn stomped over to the doorway and pushed past Copper in his tattered armour. One of the leather straps that held the left side of breastplate was broken and flapped loudly against the rolls of fat that stuck out from his sides as he walked. He did not look at her; he did not want to see her condescending eyes and mocking smile.

“Didn’t fit?” she asked blandly.

He shook his head and asked, “Where’s my jacket?”

“The dogs got it. It was blighting ripped to pieces and covered in blood.”

“It could have been w-washed,” he snapped. No response. She didn’t seem to even notice he was upset.

It was a small mercy to get away from the heat and rank smells inside of the house, and Robbyn took a deep breath of the outside air, looked around, and tried to calm himself. From the position of the sun it must have been about midday, but though there were no clouds in the sky, it not hot. It was as almost as if the sun did not give off heat. Before Robbyn was a worn pathway up the hill flanked by something that might once have been a vegetable garden, but which now looked more like a heavy collection of weeds. Various bits of debris stuck out of the ground around the yard, and two large muddy wheel tracks ran up and over the hill. As for the house itself, its front was a patchwork of haphazard repairs. All of the windows were boarded up, sealing the inside in darkness. Misshapen and broken boards stuck out from the house at various locations, giving it a heavy lurching appearance. Immediately behind him, the door was thick and composed of several layers of nailed-together boards. Looking more closely, Robbyn realized that the boards hammered all over the outside of the house and blocking off the windows were taken from the missing walls inside the house.

Copper spoke up casually. “There’s a ton of junk inside. I’m sure we can find you something.”

[Nedward Underhill]

Robbyn was about to reply when his attention was distracted by the sound of something crashing through the woods in front of them. A moment later Abercrombie appeared, walking stick in hand, followed by his pack of dogs, which were now harnessed and pulling a massive flatbed cart out of the forest. Upon the cart were the rotting carcasses of the wolves.

The cart wobbled and jerked slowly down the hill, retracing the path of the ruts that led around the side of the house. It stood three or four feet off the ground, was at least eight feet long, and appeared constructed entirely of heavy dark wood. In its corners, tall spoked wooden wheels stuck out and stood several feet above its flat top surface. The great wheels were covered in a layer of dead leaves, and the wooden axles groaned as the dogs pulled the heavy cart downhill. Various leaves and twigs, ripped from the forest undergrowth, fell off the cart as it lumbered forward.

The dead wolves had been tossed in a rough pile at the back end of the cart and they flopped and threatened to fall off at each bounce and jerk. Robbyn and Copper stared in stunned silence as the dogs worked the cart around to the side of the house. Abercrombie did not acknowledge their presence, simply slouching forward on his long bony legs beside the cart. When the cart reached the corner of the house he yelled at the dogs and the whole thing ground to a halt. Then, reaching onto the top surface of the cart, he retrieved Robbyn’s mace and helm and Copper’s sword, and threw them on the ground.

A wave of relief washed through Robbyn at the sight of Copper’s sword and he looked over at her to see how she might react. Her face was impassive, but she walked quickly over and slipped the blade back into the scabbard at her side. Even though she was hard to read, Robbyn thought he detected a hint of relief in her body language as the shining blade slid back into its place. She then picked up Robbyn’s things and tossed his helmet at him. Robbyn caught it, but not without hurting his hand in the process. He winced.

“You’re such a blighting baby,” she said, handing his mace back to him.

“S-sorry.”

After depositing their things, Abercrombie barked at his dogs and the cart, with its disgusting cargo, moved out of sight. Robbyn and Copper followed to the corner of the house. As Robbyn rounded the corner, a second building came into view. Set back about fifteen feet from the house was a long single-storey grey stone building, about six feet high, and at least twenty feet long. Though cracked and crumbling slightly in the corners, it was made out of huge stone blocks, and appeared indestructible. The outer surface was periodically broken up by small two-inch slits, which may have been either arrow or air holes. It had no windows or visible door. Robbyn had no idea what it was, but to his mind it looked disturbingly like a mausoleum.

Abercrombie pulled the cart up to the far end of the building. As the dogs stood panting, he walked back to the end of the cart to unload the carcasses, then stopped and stared at Copper and Robbyn.

“Wh-what do you think he’s doing with them?” Robbyn whispered to Copper.

“Cursed if I know,” she answered. “I think he’s blighting crazy.”

Abercrombie turned away from the dead bodies, and then went back to the dogs and released them. As soon as they were all released, they came racing over as a pack to Robbyn and Copper, barking furiously. Abercrombie yelled something and waved his walking stick menacingly, and several turned back to the cart, but a few ignored him and continued to approach the pair menacingly. Robbyn stood stock still, sweating profusely as they smelled at his privates. For some reason most of them seemed to leave Copper alone, except for one male who leapt up on her and got a snarl and swipe from her for his trouble.

Abercrombie approached and swatted at the dogs that were intimidating Robbyn. He did not look at either of his guests and he seemed to speak to no one in particular. “Shouldn’t be outside. It’s not safe. Never know if the Rotted Ones are coming. They’re fast. And they’re not the only ones. Flesh Eaters, Bone Chewers, Brain Eaters, Rotted Ones, Plague Spreaders. More maybe. The Plague Spreaders are the worst. Never kill them. They didn’t believe me. ’Liza didn’t want to believe, either. Told them to leave the town, but they didn’t listen. Mostly don’t come out during the day, but it has happened. Uh huh. And darkness comes during the day too, sometimes. Better inside. Uh huh. Better to stay safe.”

Robbyn was completely confused. He decided that he had to ignore the man’s rambling. “Abercrombie, wh-what are you doing with the w-w-w-... the dead bodies?”

The old man’s eyes snapped to Robbyn. “The dogs get the meat. I get the skins. For my work.”

“Your w-work?”

Abercrombie was clearly agitated by Robb’s question. He shook his staff angrily at Robbyn. “None of your business! It’s my work. That’s all you need to know. You wouldn’t understand… And it’s not finished.” His long skinny arm pointed back at the stone building behind him. “Never. Never to go in there!”

Robbyn stood slack-jawed, not knowing what to say. Half of the dog pack still milled about them, and more than one had stopped to watch their master closely. Robbyn swallowed hard. After a moment, he said, “Alright. I w-w-wont. P-promise.”

For a second, Abercrombie continued to stare at the two of them alternately. Then he relaxed and said, in Copper’s general direction. “I know ’Liza wouldn’t like it. She never liked conflict.”

Copper grunted something noncommittal in response.

Abercrombie pointed at Copper’s shirt. “That’s her shirt, you know.”

“Ah.” Copper nodded. “It’s…nice.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Always very generous.”

“She sounds very nice,” Robbyn volunteered.

Abercrombie shooed them back towards the doorway into the house. “Uh huh. Generous, to a fault. Trusting.”

Robbyn and Copper had no choice but to back up around the corner. Abercrombie walked forward, and the dogs milled about them. Several more turned back towards the cart. Robbyn wondered if they were hungry. They sure looked bony and ravenous.

“You’re going to skin the wolves?” Copper asked.

Abercrombie nodded. “Uh huh. I’m just an old man in the woods. Town’s too far away, and I’m so old and feeble. Can’t let them go to waste.”

Robbyn’s ears perked up at mention of the town. “The town? Is that Raven Hill? How far is it? That’s where w-we are trying to get to.”

Abercrombie had continued to move them towards the doorway, but he stopped and stared hard at Robbyn. As the silence stretched, Robbyn tried desperately to figure out what he had done. After a long time, Abercrombie turned his head and looked away to the woods. He was so long answering, it seemed like he either was not going to answer or had forgotten the question. Copper coughed meaningfully, and then opened her mouth to speak, but Abercrombie cut her off. With a haunted look in his eyes, he quietly replied, “There ain’t no Raven Hill any more, son. It’s gone.”

Robbyn’s wasn’t sure quite how to take Abercrombie’s words. Copper just closed her mouth and studied the old man, like a bird deciding whether or not to attack a strange insect.

“Gone?” Robbyn said.

The old man took a deep breath and exhaled out his nose, then looked back to take in the two of them. “Uh huh. I told them. I told them, move the town! They wouldn’t listen. They scoffed at me; Ello and his precious council. But I saw the signs…before anyone. I showed them dead Liferoot even before the streams dried up. Clumps of it. Enough to make fifty bottles of greater healing…if it hadn’t been sick and rotten. I shook it in their faces. Still they didn’t listen. I know what it was. Jealousy. It was his jealousy that killed my ’Liza. He tried to take her from me…”

Abercrombie’s voice had faded away to almost a whisper. Robbyn tried to follow the rambling, but he couldn’t. Copper evidently didn’t have Robbyn’s patience. She threw up her hands and interjected, “The town can’t be gone. Towns don’t just blighting disappear.”

Abercrombie appeared lost in his memories. Robbyn tried to get him to focus. “Abercrombie,” he said, laying a gentle hand on the man’s thin and bony shoulder. “Wh-what do you mean by ‘gone’? What happened?”

Abercrombie’s eyes came back into focus on Robbyn’s face and a terrible sadness filled his eyes. “Tried to warn her. I knew. I knew she was afraid. I was afraid too, but the horses were strong. We could have made it past the barricades. No one would have chased us. It wasn’t far to Westfall. We could have started a new life.”

“Abercrombie, I don’t understand. Wh-what happened to her?”

The old man didn’t answer. Instead he suddenly said, “I have to work! The stiffening sets in fast. The pelts will be useless!” Then he brusquely pulled away from Robbyn, walked to the corner, and slouched out of sight.

Robbyn stood at the doorway, unsure of what to do, or even what to think. Clearly the man was not entirely right in the head, but there was an undeniable ring of truth in his voice. If only he could have kept Abercrombie talking! Robbyn rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then turned to Copper to see what she thought. She just fixed him with a look and answered, “You can’t be taking him seriously. Robb, he’s crazy! Towns don’t blighting-”

“…disappear. I know.” Robbyn held up a hand to stop her. “B-but what if the town is still there, but the p-people all left for some reason. You remember the stream yesterday? The w-water was gone. Maybe something did happen to Duskwood. A drought or something.”

Copper considered for a second, then shrugged. “Well, we wont know what the blight happened until we get there. We can stock up on food here and make it there, probably in less than a day. The town had at least twenty families, not to mention the outlying farms to the south. There’s got to be someone left.”

At the mention of food Robbyn’s stomach growled and he realized how hungry he was. “Is there any food?” he asked.

“Yeah. There’s some inside. Nut-job here stores all of his food in jars or under the floor.” Robbyn’s confusion as to how she might have learned such a fact must have shown on his face, for she added, “He got some out for me earlier.”

Returning inside, Robbyn was again confronted by the overpowering den-like stench. Clearly, Abercrombie never cleaned, and with the windows boarded up the ripe smells fermented. Copper walked over towards the bed, then pulled up a hidden trapdoor and, kneeling down, drew up large a leather pouch. Robbyn could not help being curious, and walked over to look into the hole. It was a three-foot square opening in the floor and was about three, perhaps four, feet deep. The walls were earthen, but smooth, and covered with what appeared to be red paint. Inside of the cavity were a collection of leather pouches of various sizes and shapes. Kneeling down, he took a closer look at the one in Copper’s hand and saw that it was composed of a collection of stitched-together leather scraps, somewhat like a quilt. A cool air rose from the cubbyhole, along with the smell of preserved meat.

“F-fascinating.”

“Whatever.” Copper closed the trapdoor in his face and carried the leather package over to the table.

“Are you sure w-we can just help ourselves? The food doesn’t b-belong to us, Copper.”

“I’m gonna eat. You can do whatever the blight you want.” Copper pushed open the package to reveal a large pile of leathery strips of meat. Robbyn wondered what animal it might have come from, his thoughts running back to the wolf carcasses outside, but his stomach growled and his mouth watered. He was starving. Copper closed the leather bag again and carried it outside, declaring, “Must be a fire pit around here somewhere.”

Robbyn trailed along, worrying. Turning right, Copper travelled around the corner of the house on the far side from Abercrombie and the dogs. The weed garden continued around the house, but halfway to the back of the house it ended, and was replaced by dry stony ground. The ground appeared well worn, as if the dogs had run there extensively. Small clumps of the short grass grew in places between the rocks or struggled out of cracks in the ground. There was no fire pit, but there was a blackened place or two where a fire had clearly been burned.

Copper continued to the back of the house, looking. The back of the house was covered with scratch marks and signs of attack by animals. Whatever it was must have been tall, because the damage, and the ramshackle repairs, went up six or seven feet. Robb was about to mention it to Copper, but judging by her muttered language, she evidently was getting frustrated by the lack of fire pit. He decided that it was not the right time for his curious mind.

“Maybe he c-cooks inside?” he suggested.

Without acknowledging him, Copper turned back to one of the scorched places at the side of the house, and then ordered him to get some wood from inside. Robbyn went inside and got a small collection, along with his belt pouch with his tinder supplies. By the time he returned, Copper had found a rusted metal object in the garden and was pulling it towards the blackened area. Robbyn deposited the wood and went to help. He was not sure exactly what it was that Copper had found. Possibly the remnants of an old fence, though whatever it had been it was now twisted and rusted beyond recognition. They leaned the frame against one of the larger stones, and then began to build the fire beneath the triangular space between the metal, ground and stone.

All of the time while they searched around and then fashioned a makeshift fire pit, Abercrombie was nowhere to be seen. Even more curious, none of the dogs came over to look at what was going on. As Copper got the fire started, Robbyn went over to talk to Abercrombie and to ask permission to eat his food. It would put them in Abercrombie’s debt further, but Robbyn planned to offer to work it off somehow. Perhaps the old man needed help gathering plants from the forest or something. However, when Robbyn arrived at the cart, both Abercrombie and the dead wolves were nowhere in sight. As he leaned against the back of the cart, Robb looked down and realized that the wood was not painted red, it was stained with dried blood. He stumbled back, horrified. How many dead carcasses had the old man hauled?

As Robbyn rubbed his hands uselessly against his ripped chainmail leggings, he looked up at the stone building in front of him. It was not hard to guess where Abercrombie was. On this side of the building, a well-worn path led down to a double set of metal doors set down about two feet from the ground level. All of Abercrombie’s dogs lay or sat facing the doors, expectantly waiting to be fed. Every so often one of them would wake a small whining sound, but otherwise they were silent and still. Robbyn thought he heard the sound of scraping metal inside.

Abercrombie’s admonition to never go into the stone building was clear in Robbyn’s mind, and so it was with some trepidation that he knocked and called out through the heavy doors.

“Hello? Abercrombie?”

No answer. The sound of activity stopped dead.

“Abercrombie, it’s Robbyn. I’m not going to c-come in. I just w-want to talk to you.”

Silence. Then, muffled, “Don’t bother me now! I need to work!”

Robbyn was defeated. Asking for permission to eat was a stupid idea, he realized. Clearly Abercrombie would mind the interruption more than their helping themselves. Robbyn could just make it up to the old man later. They could cook some for him as well; he would appreciate that. After a second, Robb called out, “Alright.” Then, in an attempt to set the old man’s mind at ease, he added, “I’m g-going now.” As he walked back to Copper, he thought he heard the muffled scraping start up again, but it was impossible to tell for sure.

The slabs of red meat taken from the leather bag smelled oddly as they charred on the metal railings of the makeshift cooking grill. They smelled almost as if they had been pickled, but fat and blood dripped down the scraped metal surface and spattered in the fire. The fire burned and spit, sending a puffing trail of smoke up into the sky. A vague unease took hold of Robbyn as he looked down at Copper’s handiwork and wondered again from what kind of animal the precisely sliced pieces came. There was no way to tell for sure.

Robbyn quietly sat down upon a nearby stone and watched Copper work. After a few seconds, she wiped a strand of sweaty hair away from her face with her forearm and spoke over her shoulder to him.

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing. I mean, he was w-working and didn’t w-want to be disturbed.”

Copper fixed him with a look that as much as said, ‘I told you so.’

“It was the right thing to ask,” he said defensively. “W-we are in his debt for saving us already.”

“For saving us? Robbyn, we…you killed the wolves. He just patched us up.”

Robbyn was not sure that they would have survived if Abercrombie had not come along, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to argue with Copper. Instead, he said, “I guess you’re right. Let’s just make some for him too, in case he’s hungry.”

“Fair enough.” Copper leaned down and fished out another precisely cut piece and placed it carefully on the slanted grill with her shortsword. The red emblem at the base of the blade glinted in the light.

“That looks like a valuable sword. I was w-worried we had lost it,” he said.

Copper replied curtly, “It is.”

Robbyn was curious about the sword’s extraordinary properties. “What kind of metal is it?” he asked.

For a second Copper's hands stopped moving, then she snapped, “Mind your own blighting business.”

“Alright,” Robbyn blurted, startled by her sudden hostility. What had he done?

Copper went back to turning the meat, and an awkward silence filled the space between them. After a moment she said, “There’s pickled everything inside in the cupboards. Why don’t you go get us something to go with this?”

Robbyn stepped back into the shack and began to rummage around in the half-light looking for something to eat. The stuffed heads stared down upon him from the shadows above, and he tried not to look at them. Now that he began to look around more closely, he realized that there was a lot of shelf and storage space in the room. Virtually all of it was filled with an infinite variety of vials and bottles, and inside each one were murky shapes surrounded by liquid. Some of the pickled items Robbyn recognized: fruit, potatoes, vegetables. Others, he was less sure. Robbyn foraged about laying various options upon the large table, trying to guess what was the safest option. Many of the bottles had strange coloured liquids, which made him nervous. After some digging, he spotted a large jar on the bottom shelf of a cupboard filled with what looked to be carrots suspended in a clear liquid. Carrots in water sounded safe. He reached down, intending to take a better look in the light on the table, but as he did so his eyes were drawn to the other jars lining that particular cupboard’s shelves. Inside each jar was a single large floating object. The liquid was dark-coloured, and Robbyn squinted into the darkness as he turned one of the jars slowly trying to make out the object inside. Finally, he lifted it up and brought it out to the light.

As the light from the doorway fell down upon the murky jar Robbyn realized what he was holding. The water inside was a thick red and floating inside was something that he had previously only seen in textbooks in the science section of the Stormwind library. Instinctively, his hands flew away from the jar and it fell from his hands to land with a crack on the top of the table. As he covered his mouth and watched with horror the blood within the jar began to bleed out from the hairline crack running up the side of the glass and a small pool spread around the base of the bottle upon the table’s surface. He tried to call out to Copper, but all that came out was a series of meaningless grunts and gasps. The water level inside the jar descended, exposing a human-sized heart.

Suddenly Copper appeared in the doorway, knife in hand. Her eyes flashed as she scanned the darkness for danger. Robbyn rushed passed her to bend over and gag towards the ground.

“What in the Light…?” she asked, confused.

Robbyn wiped the spit away from him mouth. Without looking at her he said, “I found a heart in a jar. It’s on the t-table. I think there’s more.”

He heard her step inside. A moment later he heard a colourful outburst. When she reappeared at the doorway she held the dripping jar in one hand and an unlit torch in the other.

“It’s a bloody heart, alright,” she said, holding it up and studying it. Robbyn did not appreciate her wordplay. He kept his eyes averted. Placing the dripping jar on the ground, Copper went around the house and then returned with the torch lit, evidently having used the cooking fire to light it. Then, gesturing to Robbyn to follow, she said, “Show me where you found it.”

With Copper beside him, Robbyn re-entered the dark and foul-smelling room and approached the cupboard where he had found the heart. The light of Copper’s torch played upon the surfaces of the room, exaggerating the shadows and making the eyes of the mounted heads flash crimson down upon them. Copper held the torch towards the shelf Robbyn indicated and, despite himself, Robbyn found himself drawn forward to examine the other bottles. Copper began to turn the bottles and jostle their contents to expose what was inside. There were at least twenty jars together, and every single one was filled with thick blood and, submerged within, some kind of heart. They were of all sizes and shapes, from the size of a walnut to the one the size of Copper’s head. Robbyn felt faint.

“P-p-please, just close the cupboard and let’s g-get out of here,” he begged.

Copper closed the door and then led the way silently outside. They stood for a moment together in silence before she said, “That’s blighting sick. The old man is…he’s a...” She seemed at a loss for words.

Robbyn could not help staring at the jar on the ground, and the dark stain around it. His mind was spinning, unsuccessfully trying to find a rational explanation regarding why Abercrombie might keep pickled hearts in his cupboard. “At least twenty pickled hearts,” he said to himself, clarifying his thoughts.

“You think it’s human?” Copper asked, indicating the jar in front of them.

“I uhh…don’t know. It’s…I think it’s the right size…”

“Light,” she murmured.

The smell of burning meat wafted under Robbyn’s nose from the fire pit around the corner. He wasn’t hungry any longer. They both stood, staring at the bottle as it slowly stained the ground red. Then, as they stood speechless, from the other side of the house they heard the sound of the metal door on the sunken stone building creaking open. Abercrombie was coming out again.

Copper’s head swirled towards the distant rasp of the metal door and, handing Robbyn the burning torch, she slipped off to the corner to peek around and see if Abercrombie was coming. After a second, she looked back to Robbyn, made a quick motion with her hand, and whispered, “Get that jar out of sight!” Robbyn stood transfixed, not wanting to touch the jar and completely at a loss as to where he might go. Around the corner of the house the clink of a metal bucket could be heard and the dogs began to bark and howl furiously. Robbyn tried to keep images of the old hermit’s ‘feeding time’ out of his mind, without avail.

Copper appeared beside him, cursing furiously. She took the torch from his hand, then picked up the seeping jar and put it in his hands. It felt warm and sticky and he looked into her eyes piteously.

“Robb, we don’t have time for you to panic. The guy’s a blighting lunatic. Now, take that and hide it out in the woods, before he finds out we’re on to him.”

Robbyn’s brain was not responding. Where? How? What? He stood stupidly before her. Copper grabbed him and pushed him forcibly towards the side of the house with the fire-pit, away from Abercrombie and his dogs. Robbyn stumbled forward, his heart racing. As he turned the corner, he heard the old man’s voice behind him.

“What’s that smell? Why you holding a lit torch in the middle of the day?”

Copper’s response was lost to Robbyn as he rushed along the side of the house, trying not to look at the thing in his hands. When he reached the back of the house he looked to the right and saw the pack of dogs huddled together, devouring a bloody mass that was smeared upon the ground. Robbyn shuddered and looked away, and then hurried across the open ground to duck into the woods at the backside of the house.

Again Robbyn was struck by the preternatural darkness of the Duskwood Forest. For a second he was completely blind, and he had to stop and let his eyes adjust. Then, slowly, the forest came into focus around him. It was the same as he remembered it. Thick overhanging trees, filled with dense foliage, and layers of decaying leaves covering the ground. However, there was one thing unusual about this spot. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Robbyn saw that near beside him was a fresh mound of dirt. The pile was approximately six feet long, and half as wide, and roughly tossed together. On impulse, Robbyn knelt down to hide the jar under the loosely piled soil. It was wet and soft, and struck to the blood on his palms as he dug down. Robbyn was suddenly struck by an overpowering feeling of déjà vu. He stopped and dropped the bottle in the hole as his dream of the night before flooded back into his mind. Suddenly, Robbyn realized that he knew what the six-foot pile of dirt was. He was an idiot for not realizing it sooner. The fresh pile of dirt covered a grave. A human grave; recently dug by the looks of it.

There was only one person who might have made the grave: Abercrombie. On the heels of the realization of exactly where he was burying the bottled heart came a rush of fear for Copper’s safety. Robbyn had left her back at the house, at the mercy of a dangerous madman. Not just a madman; one who had killed, and recently. Who knew how many bodies were buried out of sight in the woods? Quickly, Robbyn pushed dirt over the jar with his foot, then turned and ran back through the undergrowth towards the house. This was how Abercrombie worked, he thought. His mind twisted and corrupted, the old man enticed strangers into his lair only to kill them and dissect them for his jars. Terrible images flashed through his mind. Copper was tricked into looking away just as Abercrombie drew out a razor-sharp blade and cut her throat. Her eyes glistened with fear and helplessness. She thrashed weakly as her blood poured out and her body sagged in the old man’s vice-like grip. The crazed old hermit laughed maniacally, dragging her body down into his terrible stone workshop, where he would proceed to remove her head and then mount it as another trophy on his wall. Filled with these horrible visions, Robbyn burst out of the forest and into the open field behind the house, mace in hand and crying out, “Copper! No!”

But Copper was not dead. She was standing over by the fire pit, mad as a hornet and swearing up a storm, as Abercrombie furiously kicked the fire out before her. The metal grill was tossed aside and Robbyn appeared just in time to see the last remnants of the steaks being devoured by the dogs. Both Abercrombie and Copper turned and looked at him as he burst screaming from the forest. Robb stopped, painfully aware that he had just made a fool of himself, his broken chainmail jangling as it flapped against his legs. No one said a word. Abercrombie and Copper continued to stare at him, waiting for an explanation. At that moment, Robbyn realized that a leafy twig had gotten stuck under his breastplate and was itching his stomach. He pulled it out and giggled nervously.

“I…uhh…” he began, nervously looking from one to the other. Copper was looking at him meaningfully, and her face made clear that he had better have a good explanation for his bizarre actions. Curiously, Abercrombie also seemed unusually intent upon an explanation. ‘He knows I found the grave!’ thought Robbyn. He tried to look as calm as possible. A trickle of sweat slipped down the back of his neck. Putting his mace away at his side, he jangled forward, wiped his muddy palms against the remnant of his leggings, and offered, “I…uhh…had to go to the b-bathroom?” And then, innocently, “What’s g-going on?”

It was enough. The two looked back at the smouldering fire and forgot about him. Copper threw up her hands in disgust, “Ask him.”

Abercrombie looked back to Robbyn. “You don’t understand! It’s not safe.” He pointed a bony finger at the grey sky. “See that cloud?”

Robbyn followed the direction of his finger and saw a dark grey mass on the horizon. “Looks like rain?” he asked.

“No! Not rain! Death!” Abercrombie’s eyes were wild and bulging from his head. Robbyn felt a ripple of fear run down his spine. The hermit continued, “Never cook outside! It’s not safe...”

A few of the dogs wandered off, back to the workshop and the bloody mass that Robbyn did not want to think about. Robbyn’s mind was spinning. He needed to pull Copper aside to tell her about the danger they were in, but Abercrombie riveted his attention.

“Abercrombie, I d-don’t understand.”

Copper slapped at one of the remaining dogs with the side of her blade and cursed again. “We don’t have time for this! We’re starving. We haven’t had anything to eat all day. And now, thanks to this blighting madman, our food is wasted!”

Robbyn’s stomach gurgled again.

Abercrombie’s temper flashed and he turned on Copper. “You have no idea what’s out there in the woods!”

“What I know is that whatever is out there, I’d face it a lot better on a blighting full stomach!” Copper shot back.

Robbyn felt himself shrinking inside. The two of them stood face-to-face, rage flashing in their eyes as their voices rose. The dogs began to circle and growl. Robbyn tried desperately to think of what he might say to break up the fight.

“You come to my house, you steal my food, and you have the nerve to call me mad? I saved your life!”

“Rot and maggots! You didn’t blighting save us, Robbyn did! You just have your bloody potions and your freakish green paste! Light only knows what you did to us!”

“Foolish girl! I thought you were like ’Liza, but you’re not like her at all. You’re just rude and ignorant. Taking advantage of an old man. Uh huh. Just like all the others! I should never have taken you in!”

“Fine! We’ll leave then.”

Robbyn couldn't watch. He looked up at the sky. The dark cloud on the horizon seemed to be spreading quickly towards them. Already it seemed to fill a quarter of the sky. It might have been his imagination, but it felt like a small wind gusted around his feet. His broken chain leggings jingled quietly. Perhaps it was just his knees knocking.

“Fine!” Abercrombie spat back, pointing off into the woods. “Go. Go and die!”

“Copper…” Robbyn put both hands out, palms downward, to make a placating ‘stop’ gesture. “Maybe we should just c-calm down a minute…”

That was a mistake. She turned on him, eyes flashing, and he suddenly was very aware that he was confronting an angry woman with three feet of blade in her hands. He put his hands down and involuntarily pulled his head back.

“What? You’re taking his side?! I can hear your stomach growling, and you…you…” her eyes narrowed, “…you blighting coward! Go ahead an starve for all I care!” With that, she whirled, grabbed the leather pouch with the remains of the meat from inside, and marched off across the weed-infested yard towards the forest, leaving Robbyn speechless behind her.

Abercrombie was tromping on the remains of the fire as Robbyn made up his mind, sighed audibly, and went running after Copper. As he jangled off across the yard, he heard the old man muttering behind him but all he could make out was snippets like ‘damned fools,’ and ‘the dead,’ and something about ‘washing his hands.’ Robbyn had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he had no time to stop and ask for clarification. Copper was already out of sight.

Robbyn crashed into the forest. He called out Copper’s name as he blundered blindly through the darkness, but she was much quicker than him and clearly did not want to be found. The damp surroundings sucked away the sound and made his voice die on his lips. His feet slipped on the rotted leaves, rocks stubbed at his toes, and the low tangle of hanging branches that covered the edge of the forest near to the hermit’s clearing whipped at him, mercilessly raking his skin. The forest was dark and impenetrable, and there was something distinctly wrong about it, as if it were infected with a horrible disease. In his mind Robb heard the treble voice of the old man, “Never know if the Rotted Ones are coming. And they’re not the only ones. Flesh Eaters, Bone Chewers, Brain Eaters, Rotted Ones, Plague Spreaders. More maybe.” Every nerve within Robbyn cried out for him to be quiet, but he continued yelling frantically, “Copper! Copper! I’m sorry! Come back!” He wasn’t even sure exactly why he was apologizing. It didn’t matter.

The darkness was complete. Above him, he heard an ominous rippling in the trees. His mind went back to the dark cloud that Abercrombie had pointed out. It had seemed to billow out at an unnatural pace even as Robbyn had watched it, and now, he knew, it was coming to them. Robbyn’s eyes searched above as he stumbled and slid along down a steep slope within the forest, calling out Copper’s name. The trees about him began to creak and moan, and the rustle increased in volume. A shimmer appeared up in the branches as the leaves began to whip and toss erratically. A storm was definitely coming.

His foot landed on something soft and sank into a hidden hole in the ground, causing him to twist his ankle and fall. Robb’s body hurtled downward with increased speed because of the slope and he instinctively put his hands in front of his face. Just in time too, for the gnarled bark of a great tree-trunk suddenly materialized before him, and Robbyn barely managed to avoid crashing into it face first. As it was, his forearms and shoulder took the worst of the impact before he crumpled to the ground. As he lay panting on the ground in the darkness, all he could think of was what a fool he was. Copper hadn’t wanted him to go after her. Of course she heard him, and had she wanted him to find her, she would have come. All he had done, most likely, was to drive them both deeper into the terrible dangers of the forest. He nursed his ankle and moaned in pain and despair. “She needed to be alone, you idiot!” he said to himself, banging the back of his head against the tree behind him, but he could barely hear himself over the gathering roar of the leaves above him in the darkness. But what should he do now, he wondered. They had made no plans, other than to go to Raven Hill. Surely she would not have started out alone, would she? He hoped not. The forest had already proved itself to be harsh and unforgiving and Abercrombie’s warnings still sent a chill down his back. “No,” he said aloud, convincing himself. She would not have gone alone. She probably would just take a little time to cool down and then go back to Abercrombie’s house. He hit his head in frustration. The house was not safe, and he was not of any help to her flailing uselessly through the forest. With a heavy sigh, he clambered up to his feet and gingerly tried to put weight on his twisted ankle. It was not in good shape and he grimaced at the pain. Yes, what he needed to do was to get back to the house. Perhaps, he thought, he had overreacted about the pile of dirt he had found. He did not know it was a human grave; he had just let a crazy dream spook him. Perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation why Abercrombie kept pickled hearts in his cupboards, and locked himself away in a stone workshop ‘working’ with carcasses. But the more Robb thought about it, the less convinced he felt.

Robbyn straightened up and began to hobble back up the way he had come. The air was thick and still, but the wind whipped the forest cover above him ever more madly. Every so often he heard a crack and a branch would fall down from the treetops to crash into the rotted ground with a soft thud, like the footsteps of some giant bird. The dark shapes falling about him startled him, and his head whipped back and forth as he limped uphill. It was almost as if the forest was alive around him. A wave of goose bumps ran down his back. He limped faster, his heart racing in his chest. Pain shot through his leg. He tried not to look back.

Abruptly, the wind stopped. The trees stopped creaking and the leaves suddenly went absolutely still. It was as if he had entered into the heart of the storm, and all about him was dead silence. For half a dozen heartbeats Robbyn stood transfixed by the sudden change. Then, off behind him and to the right, Copper’s voice broke the silence in a blood-curdling scream.

Robbyn twisted around towards the sound. The fact that Robbyn knew Copper to be absolutely fearless only made her scream all the more terrifying. He wanted to help her, but he could not move. Whatever it was, if it were frightening enough to made her scream like that, he did not want to meet it. In his head he head Copper’s voice screaming at him, “Move, you blighting idiot!” but his legs would no longer respond. He just stood transfixed in the darkness, his legs knocking together and his lip quivering pathetically. He loathed himself, but he could not go to her. Instead, every muscle of his body screamed at him to flee up the hill, away from the nightmare in the darkness, back to the safety of the hermit’s cottage.

Copper only screamed once, and the sound died as quickly as it had come, swallowed up by the impenetrable darkness of the thick forest air. Robbyn strained his ears for some further sound that might tell him she was alive. But when at last a sound arose out of the darkness, it only made matters worse. It was not Copper’s voice. From somewhere down the hill in front of him came a low broken sound, something between a moan and a gag, as if someone was trying desperately to vomit. The sound was enough to curdle Robbyn blood, and if that was not enough, soon after the first a second rasping noise pierced the darkness, and then a third. They were clearly not animal noises. Each sound was vaguely human, though sick and twisted, and each was distinctly hideous.

Abercrombie’s voice chanted over and over in his mind, “Flesh Eaters, Bone Chewers, Brain Eaters, Rotted Ones, Plague Spreaders…” It was too much to bear. Robbyn stumbled backwards and stepped heavily upon his twisted ankle, which caused him to cry out in pain. Copper was dead; he knew it. Devoured by the horrors that Abercrombie had seen. As he stood transfixed in the Duskwood Forest, the boarded up outside walls and windows of Abercrombie’s house suddenly flashed into Robbyn’s mind. He saw the six-foot scrapings along the back wall of the house with terrible clarity. Abercrombie wasn’t a madman tearing out the inside of his house for no reason. He had cannibalized the inside of the house in order to repair the damage made by the monsters in the forest. He ate inside, bathed inside, and for good reason. It wasn’t safe! Abercrombie barricaded himself inside with his dogs for safety.

Still Robbyn could not move. He felt dizzy from the pain in his ankle and wanted to pass out. His stomach was heaving and out of his mouth little panicked noises gurgled with his breath. Then, out of the darkness before him came the sound of something scurrying towards him up the hill. As he stared petrified, out of the darkness materialized a human-like shape, scrambling up the hill towards him at a ferocious speed.

Robbyn’s spirit shattered. Any lingering resolve to go to Copper down in the dark evaporated and was gone. Under its own volition now, his body twisted around and began to tear through the forest, back uphill towards the clearing and the old man’s shack. He hobbled at break-neck speed, with pain shooting up his leg at every other step. It barely registered. He urged his legs faster and he ran for his life. But whatever it was, it was clearly gaining on him. He heard the wet thud of its feet ripping up the rotten leaves behind him, coming closer and closer. He could not look back. As he ran, little wheezing squeaks burst from his lungs. He was in all out flight from the monster in the darkness behind him and he ran like he had never run before. But no matter how much his vast legs pumped and churned beneath him, it was not enough. As he exploded out of the woods, he felt the creature right behind him, heard its ragged breath as it ran him down. It was upon him; he was going to die. He closed his eyes and stumbled forward blindly.

But he did not die. In fact, as he stumbled forward he heard the creature pass him on his right. And then suddenly its pounding feet were in front of him and Copper’s panicked voice broke out across the clearing, “Open the blighting door Abercrombie! By the Light, open the door!”

Robbyn opened his eyes. There, in front of him, was Copper, very much alive and sprinting full tilt down the hill. Her lithe form moved like the wind, leaving him plodding along clumsily behind. It should have been the middle of the day but the clearing was dark like night. The mysterious storm cloud sat immediately overheard, a great swirling mass, blotting out the light. Ahead of them, down the small slope of the hill, was Abercrombie’s shack, shut and sealed. The dogs were nowhere to be seen but Robbyn heard their muffled voices barking furiously inside. Copper arrived at the house and began banging madly upon the door, swearing and begging for the old man to let them in, but the door did not open.

What terror could cause Copper to flee? Robbyn was halfway to the house when he heard the terrible broken noises break out again behind him. Against his will, his head twisted around slowly. What he saw was something that should have only existed in a nightmare. The dead were emerging from the forest. Once human, they were now only a contorted mockery of life. Their skin was a colourless grey or charred red, mottled with some sort of disease, and barely covered their bones. Great bald patches covered their heads, and where there was hair it hung down in filthy tufts and clumps. Some had the ripped and ragged remnants of clothing draped upon them; most were naked. Their bodies were in various states of decay. Holes riddled their skin, or their eyes were dead sockets, or their noses or ears were simply missing. But notwithstanding their decayed bodies, they surged forward towards Robbyn and Copper unerringly, drawn like a magnet to living flesh and blood. In an instant, the image of the horror behind him was indelibly stamped in Robbyn mind. Then he screamed like a little girl.

Copper was shouting something and pounding on the door. Robbyn’s mind was a blank. He was screaming too, but he did not know what he was saying, if anything. All he thought, as he ran towards the house, was that he needed to get away from the nightmarish dead behind him. He needed to get inside. He would just break the door down if he had to. His body was like a boulder rolling towards the door, picking up speed as he came. Ten feet to the door he put his arms in front of his face. Copper looked back at him and screamed again, but Robb had no idea what she was saying. Behind him the moaning dead raced forward, doubled over and propelling themselves forward with hands and feet. Their jaws hung down brokenly before them. Five feet and Robbyn bent forward to ram the door. Copper was waving her arms wildly before him, panic in her eyes, her mouth formed into a round “o”. He could not have stopped now even if he had wanted to. Copper stepped out of his way. Three feet. Then, with a wooden scrape, the door flew open at the last second. Abercrombie stood in the doorway with his dogs. Robbyn barrelled into the house. He smashed into the frail old man and sent him flying into the air, across the top of the table, and out of sight. The dogs scattered. Robbyn ran right into the massive table and felt his body crumple against it. His legs flew out from under him and the full weight of his body fell upon it. There was a great crack as his chest smashed into the wood. Copper slipped inside. The door slammed shut. The wooden brace crashed down into place.

[Nedward Underhill]

For three interminable seconds nothing but silence filled the room. A lone torch beside the door lit the room, and in the silence a thin popping sound was heard as the fire turned part of the wood to ash. Then chaos broke upon them. The walls erupted in a barrage of assaults. Outside, the walking dead ripped and tore furiously at the windows, walls and door. Their broken mouths wailed and screamed muffled half-words with an unbridled fury. The door shook on its hinges as they threw their bodies against it, frenziedly trying to get inside.

For a second Robbyn lay winded and disoriented. It felt like he was cast away at sea in a shipwrecking storm. For a second was swept away back to his childhood, and to his one and only sea voyage. It was his mother’s idea. He was about ten-years-old. He remembered that it was mid-summer, for though the window of the upstairs bedroom was open it was hot in the bedroom. The city was busy down below, and their mother had come in to kiss them goodnight. Vatorio complained that he was too old, but Robbyn still loved her softness. His mother had sat next to Robbyn in his bed and patted his face gently, and then had asked both of them what they thought of a sea voyage. She was clearly excited about it, and they were captivated. Vato had sat straight up in the bed and asked her where they were going, and when, and why, and she had answered calmly that it was not finalized yet, but that she and the General were talking about a cruise to Menethil, or perhaps even Booty Bay. Booty Bay! After she was gone, Robb and Vato had stayed up half the night talking about the great adventures that they were going to have. Both Menethil and Booty Bay were harbour towns, and both were known to be rough and filled with seafaring characters, but it was particularly Booty Bay, on the southern-most tip of the great uncharted Stranglethorn Vale forest, that fulfilled a boy’s fantasy of high-seas adventure. It was well known that real pirates and even goblins lived in Booty Bay.

Robbyn had read more than his fair share of swashbuckling adventure tales, of course. Few figures captured the imagination like Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, and the histories of his victorious campaigns against the bloodthirsty Horde during the Second War were legendary. The day after his mother made her quiet announcement, Robbyn had rushed down to the library to find everything he could find on the subject of naval adventures. It was then that he got to know Donyal Tovald, the librarian. It was Mr. Tovald who put into Robbyn hands the “young man’s edition” of the Admiral’s travelogue of his early adventures as he mapped the savage coast of Strangletorn Vale. Years later, Robbyn realized that it was just raw fiction, and that the Admiral’s great naval campaigns took place both long after the coast had already been mapped and also, for the most part, across the world in Durotar. But in the month before they took their sea voyage, Robbyn pored over every syllable of that travelogue as if it were gospel. Even Vatorio took an interest in the book, and had Robbyn read the best parts to him, though he was admittedly more interested in playing ‘Admiral and savage’ down in the yard with their practice weapons.

Robb and Vato were not the only ones enraptured; the house was abuzz with excitement. Finally, the long-awaited day came. Stormwind was a citadel built into the mountains, but there was a small port town less that a day’s travel from the capital, right on the edge of Elwynn Forest. This town, appropriately called Forest’s Edge, had a garrison and a few ships, and it was there, where the river broadened and entered the Middle Sea, that they began their summer voyage. Their ship was a thing of beauty. More than fourty feet long, lovingly crafted, with three towering masts filled with great billowing blue and gold sails emblazoned with the roaring lion of Azeroth. And, as the General could not travel without escort, two smaller ships travelled with them, captained by the navy’s best officers. Sadly, almost as soon as the ship left port, Robbyn’s romantic notions were ruined by the reality of seasickness. He spent almost the entirety of the voyage green in the face and heaving over the side of the pristine craft. The remaining portion of the voyage was spent cowering in the belly of the vessel as a storm threatened to tear them all apart.

In fact, the General had an ulterior purpose for the supposed summer “vacation.” Edwin VanCleef, the same genius architect who had designed the glorious city of Stormwind, had apparently been dissatisfied with the payments provided to him for his work, and had mysteriously disappeared for a few years only to re-emerge in association with the notorious Defias bandits. This was a serious blow to the Stormwind militia, for VanCleef turned out to be something an excellent military tactician. He had, apparently, sunk and pirated more than a few Stormwind galleys. The General had been advised that VanCleef might have been operating from a hidden cove off the Stranglethorn coast. And though the General had no intention of endangering his family, the two disguised warships that travelled with them had instructions to explore every inlet and bay as they travelled slowly down the coast to Booty Bay, and to capture any Defias they might find for interrogation.

The first week at sea, Robbyn lost fifteen pounds. He was so ill, in fact, that his mother began to plead with the General to command the captain to hurry up and finish the journey. But the General would have none of it. His captains reported signs that suggested that they might be close to a discovery, and the General was fixated by the thought of locating VanCleef’s hideout. They lingered and searched another week, and then a third. In the end, it was this same fixation that caused the General not only to ignore the pleadings of his wife, but ultimately also the warnings from his men that a storm was coming. The final week at sea was a nightmare, and more than once Robbyn desperately prayed to the Light and promised that, if they were only delivered from drowning at sea, he would never ever set foot on a ship again as long as he lived. It was a promised that he had kept.

With a jolt, Robbyn came back to reality. Copper was standing next to Robbyn, screaming at the crumpled form of Abercrombie where he was curled up on the floor on the far side of the table. She pointed wildly behind her at the door and the horrors outside. The barrage on the outside of the house continued unabated. Abercrombie gasped out an answer but their exchange was lost in the din. Robbyn shook his head and pushed himself up. A series of large cracks twisted across the surface of the table from where he had crashed into it. Its contents were scattered around on the floor. As he straightened, the table wobbled, revealing a broken leg. He went over to Abercrombie to help him up. Abercrombie winced and put his hand to his ribs. His eyes flipped from the shattered table to Robbyn.

Copper approached Robbyn and shouted in his ear, “You okay?”

Robbyn nodded. Other than a bruised face he was fine. The breastplate had born the worst of the impact, and there were certain benefits to having an excess of padding in the stomach. He was more worried about Abercrombie. It was clear that the old man was in a lot of pain.

Robbyn carried Abercrombie over to the bed and laid him down carefully. The dogs had fallen silent and now pressed close around them, seeking comfort from the terrible noise outside. Copper stood in the centre of the room, rubbing her silver blade along her palm and staring at the front door as it shuddered and threatened to break. The worst of the assault was still at the front of the house, and though Robbyn was primarily concerned that he had not broken the hermit’s ribs on impact, he was glad to be as far away from the noise as possible. Abercrombie settled down with a groan.

Abercrombie turned his beady eyes on Robb. “Flesh eaters! I think. Couldn’t see for sure…”

“Let me t-test for broken bones.” Robbyn began pushing lightly on the old man’s chest. He was skin and bones, and flinched more than once as Robbyn checked him over. The darkness in the corner made it impossible to assess the damage.

“Copper, I can’t see!” Robbyn called.

“Shh,” Abercrombie warned, weakly. “They’ll hear you.”

Copper grabbed the torch out of its holster by the front door and came over to hold it over them, still tightly gripping her sword in her other hand and looking nervously over her shoulder. The beasts outside continued to throw themselves against the door and boarded windows. Abercrombie was scraped in a few places, but he did not appear to be bleeding. He was wearing a simple brown robe, tied at the waist with what looked like a hemp rope, and must have caught his shoulder on something when he was propelled backwards for the shoulder was ripped and ruined. His white-haired chest was half-exposed, and Robbyn examined the sensitive places again. Though Abercrombie winced a few times, there appeared to be no permanent damage.

“I don’t think anything’s b-broken,” he declared at last. Unfortunately, just before he spoke, the slavering noises outside fell silent. Robbyn cringed inside as his voice cracked out across the dead air. There was a moment’s silence, and then the back wall beside the bed shuddered with a barrage of new pounding, scratching and grotesque howling, as the Flesh Eaters renewed their desperate efforts to get in. The creatures seemed to be somehow drawn to the living bodies inside, for they attacked the house precisely where Abercrombie lay helpless. The dogs scatted. Robbyn fell back heavily on the ground. How many of them were there? Robbyn could only guess. At least half a dozen, he thought. Not that it mattered. Even one would likely be enough to kill them all. Then, in the firelight, Robbyn saw one of the boards blocking a back window crack and splinter. For a second his heart stopped. Then Copper was there, standing beside the window, sword in one hand and flame in the other, poised to strike if the window was breached. Robbyn cowered away, praying that she was quick enough to save them. There was another crash against the covered window, then a third. Before their eyes, the wood cracked and bent inward. Then, just as they braced for the wood to shatter, the assaults stopped entirely.

For a second, silence again. Then, breaking the silence came a new voice. Similar to the tortured sounds of the Flesh Eaters, and terrible in its own right, it was high and shrill, almost like a demented cackle. It sounded like it originated a shirt distance from the back of the house. Robbyn could not be sure, but it sounded disturbingly like a woman’s voice.

“No…No!” Abercrombie cried, clutching at his chest.

Both Robbyn and Copper turned towards the old man as he frantically tried to sit up in the bed. Terror and pain flashed equally from his face.

“Abercrombie what…?” Robbyn moved towards the bed, but the old man cut him off.

“She’s awake! But she shouldn’t be. She was safe. Safe underground!” Looking at them frantically, he suddenly announced, “We need to save her! The Flesh Eaters will tear her apart!”

“Who? Who is it?” Copper shouted, evidently frustrated and confused.

“No time to explain!” Abercrombie swung his legs over the side of the bed, went to stand up, and then gasped and crumpled to the floor from the pain in his chest. For a moment he lay whimpering from the pain. Then he wheezed out something that sounded like, “Must go…’Liza…my love…”

Outside, the Flesh Eaters could be heard shambling away from the house. Their guttural moanings faded away as they scrambled off, interspersed with ghastly wailing and strange barking noises. Over them all and piercing their clamour, however, were the maniacal shrieks of the shrill woman’s voice. Abercrombie knelt beside Robbyn on the floor of his hovel, gasping for breath. He grabbed hold on Robbyn’s arm with a skeleton-like hand and, looking into Robbyn’s eyes with abject desperation he begged, “Please…” There were tears in his eyes.

Robbyn stared at the broken old man before him, completely speechless. Then, slowly, the coin began to drop. “Abercrombie…is that your w-wife out there?”

“Yes. Please! They’ll tear her apart!”

Robbyn could not look into the eyes of the broken old on man on his knees before him. He wanted to help, but it was madness to go outside.

“I’m sorry, Abercrombie,” he managed, looking away.

Abercrombie struggled up to his feet. He held his chest and began to stumble towards the front door, but Copper moved to block his way. Her knife pointed at the old man’s chest and her eyes flashed dangerously. A harsh realism rippled through her tone. “Whatever that is out there, it’s not alive. It’s…it sounds like one of them, whatever they are!”

Robbyn listened to the sounds of fighting outside. If it was Abercrombie’s wife, it did not sound to Robbyn like she was dying. Through the wall he heard her feral cackle rising higher and louder, while the moaning voices of the Flesh Eaters were violently silenced one by one. “Abercrombie,” he said, without turning, “Did you bury your w-wife?” Robbyn felt both their eyes turn upon him in the darkness. He turned around and went to the old man. “Did you bury her?” he asked again. “ ’Liza; your wife? In a grave…in the w-woods behind the house?”

“She’s not dead!” the old man breathed.

“Then, w-why did you bury her?” he pressed.

Outside, the chorus of guttural voices was gone. ’Liza’s shrieks cut through the wall to them. The voices rose and clashed, followed by a sickening crack of bones breaking, and another of the low voices was harshly silenced.

“What kind of sick…” Copper breathed.

Abercrombie looked at Robbyn. “Because…she’s not herself!” he answered. “And she’s…allergic. Allergic to the sun. I… You wouldn’t understand!”

Beyond the wall, the final moaning voice came to a sudden stop. ’Liza’s cackling rose in pitch and frenzy and a fleshy ripping sound came through the wall. A moment later something heavy and soft bounced off the back of the house. There was the sound of distant branches being ripped aside, and then she was gone. Abercrombie sighed. It was hard to tell if he was devastated or relieved.

For a few seconds the three inside the house stood in complete stillness, each lost in their own thoughts. Then Robbyn put his hand gently on the old man’s shoulder and said, “Abercrombie, you are right. I don’t understand. Please, can you explain?”

The hermit sank weakly into a chair next to the great cracked table. Through a trick of the light, his eyes were shadowed and he seemed to look at them from dark cavernous holes. For a second there was silence between them. Then Abercrombie sighed and began to speak softly. “When you love someone, it’s like nothing else. When it comes to you, you know. Uh huh. You just know it’s forever. Some folks never find the one they’re meant to be with. Maybe it’s a blessing for them. Because, if you meet the one, it grabs you. Grabs like nothing else, and wont let you go. You know you have to have them by your side. You can’t eat. Can’t sleep. Can’t do anything if you’re not with them. The one’s who never had it, just don’t understand. Nothing is too much for the one you truly love. When I nearly lost ’Liza…it almost destroyed me. That bastard! That bastard would have just let her die. I wasn’t her time. No. We were supposed to be forever.” He paused for a moment, and then continued, “You think I always lived like this? Long ago, things were different. I lived in town. I had a good job, was respected. I was the local apothecary. You know what that is?” Robbyn nodded. “My medicines kept people alive.” Abercrombie shrugged. “Sometime I eased their passing.”

Abercrombie raised a thin body arm and gestured weakly towards the back wall of the house and outside. “Her name was Eliza Marian. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She had long black hair. It hung down to her waist. The biggest, kindest, brown eyes you’d ever hope to see. And all of the curves that only come to a woman in youth. The sort that make an old man’s heart ache for wanting. I loved her…from the moment I saw her. I didn’t pursue her at first, on account of my being a less-than-handsome man, almost twice her age, and on account of the fact that she had eyes for the local hero, Ello Ebonlocke.” Abercrombie spat the name out as if it were poison. “Ello was a good-looking snake of a man. Just back from the war. Not particularly bright, mind, but he had a serpent’s tongue…and ’Liza was charmed. Uh huh. Just like all the other young ladies in town. I figured…I didn’t have a chance. But love had got a hold on me. I just wanted to be near her. So I would make up excuses for happening by. Whenever we were together…time would just melt away. I would tell her crazy stories and act the fool. I could make her laugh describing the stupid things I’d done.

“Long story short, one day she just up and kissed me. Uh huh. Shocked the life out of me. She had stopped by the shop. We were sitting out on the stoop. Watching the sunset. I had just started telling about the time I ate wormwood and how my tongue froze up for a day. Suddenly, she was pressed up against me. Her lips tasted like strawberries…” Abercrombie’s voice faded away into reverie. “I was speechless.” he chuckled. “A man doesn’t know a woman loves him…until she up and tells him directly.

“We were married in secret, on account the town didn’t approve. I knew that Ello was jealous. He couldn’t understand why such a beautiful woman would chose a man like me…over a man like him. He’d smile to our faces. But he’d make snide remarks behind our backs. In a small town, word gets around. I didn’t care what he thought of me. He was fool. But any insult to ’Liza was like enough to boil my blood. ’Liza cried about it…but she didn’t like to fight. She even tried make nice with Ello’s wife when he got married, but got a cold shoulder. I gave Ello a piece of my mind that night. Uh huh. And after that…the war between us was open. When we passed each other in town, he wouldn’t even look my way. Which suited me just fine.

“About that same time…he became Mayor, though not by my support. If I didn’t like something he did, I said so. To him, and to whoever would listen. The dark times were coming then. I started to see the signs. The plants were sickening. I could see there was something terrible. Then the dead started rising. He did nothing; called town hall meetings! I told them ‘move the town!’ They didn’t believe. Him and his council…They decided to defend the town.” Abercrombie scoffed. “They were ignorant. They had no idea what they were facing. Even when his wife disappeared, Ello still denied the truth.

“Not long after, they were quarantining and burning the dead. We heard that the news had got up to the capital, and that they had sealed us in to die. ’Bout that time Ello formed up the Night Watch. Just a fancy name for a mostly useless collection of brigands and thugs. The Night Watch wouldn’t let anyone out of town. But I told ’Liza…we could make a break for it. The horses were strong and fast. We could travel light. Sneak past the barricades and into Westfall. Make a new life. Only she didn’t want to leave. Just like everybody else, she was afraid. Afraid of being set upon on the road, or cut down by the soldiers. I begged her to reconsider. She wouldn’t listen. So…we stayed. I wouldn’t leave her.

“The more that were injured, the greater was the call for my services. I worked long hours with dwindling supplies. Then one day… I came home late. ’Liza was sick. I found her fallen on the floor. Running a high fever. A terrible sickness had got a hold of her. It clouded her mind. Ravaged her beautiful body. It was the constant fear! Uh huh. It broke her body down until she was screaming in the bed, her eyes white and cloudy, and she wasn’t herself. I locked up the house. I strapped her down so she wouldn’t hurt herself. I treated her. She fell deathly quiet. Her breath faded away. But I listened closely…and I heard a heart beating. I knew she was still alive.

“I locked up the house. But Ello and his Night Watch came and demanded her from me. They said she was dead, which was a lie. It was his revenge. I wouldn’t answer the door, but I heard him. He ordered them to break down it down, and they did. And then…I fought them. But they were fully armed, and I was just a grief stricken old man. I should have kept the dogs with me. The dogs were tied up outside. The Night Watch…they held me down. While I thrashed and swore, Ello and his men took ’Liza from me. To burn her!” Abercrombie was rambling on quickly now, less and less coherently, lost in the overpowering memories of the past. “They dragged her away. But even after she was gone I heard her heart beating. It spoke to me. Told me she was still alive. I stopped struggling so that they would release me. It was then I knew. I lay in the darkness of my own home. I listened to that heart beating. And then I realized that the heart I heard…it wasn’t just hers alone. It was my heart as well. That’s the truth. When you love someone like I loved ’Liza, it’s like you become one flesh. One heart. I still hear it at night. I stole her back from those bastards who wanted to kill her. Then I came out here…to be alone with her.”

Abercrombie turned his head up, and the whites of his eyes flashed at them piteously. “I know she is not herself! She's feverish. The disease still has a hold of her. But you hear her; she’s not dead! She’s wild and dangerous. I tried to keep her safe in here with me, but she escaped. Then she dug a hole and buried herself... I still feel her heart beating... I still hear it…uh huh… I’m...I’m still looking for a cure… And I...will find it… and someday, Ello will pay… he’ll pay what he’s done…”

Abercrombie’s voice faded away to meaningless mutterings that faded away until he sat before them, head bowed, with his hands to his face, crying soundlessly.

[Nedward Underhill]

Chapter 5

The first thing that Hatch thought on waking was that he was going to kill that bloody horse. This was followed by several minutes of pure agony, where thinking was not an option. Hatch writhed helpless on the ground, trying not to choke as his vomit pooled about his face. The combination of having his head smashed in on top of a hangover was bad enough, but evidently Jerod and his boys had seen fit to clear out without even the courtesy of straightening out his body from the twisted position in which he had fallen. Now, as Hatch’s body rejected the foul swill that he had been consumed the night before, his neck remained twisted and the watery bile burned as it passed up through the constricted passageway and spewed out onto the ground.

Finally the pain diminished to a raw ache and he slowly began to be able to think again. With a series of popping cracks, he straightened out his neck and took a few deep ragged breaths. Then he rolled over and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Nausea overtook him again, but at least he no longer was rolling in his own filth. A few minutes later he was down by the river’s edge, stripped down and wading into the water. So long as he was careful to keep his burnt face out of the water, the silty water felt good against his scarred and leathery skin. The dockmaster’s place was deserted. No surprise. Judging by the light, it was mid-day. The boys kept day jobs in the neighbouring towns and only showed up at night or to do a job. Lucky for them they weren’t around. At least one of them would pay dearly for leaving him to rot.

Not to mention letting the girl get away. As he scrubbed the soft loamy soil over his body, Hatch tried to make sense of what had happened. It just didn’t make any sense. Why would the Stormwind militia send one man to capture the girl? How could they have arrived so quickly? Jerod’s boat was missing. Why would they have taken the boat? Then again, perhaps the fact that the boat was missing showed that more than one fella involved. After all, it would take a couple of men to move that old crate once firmly beached. Hatch cupped the water and carefully washed the vomit off of his face. It burnt like fire, but was a familiar pain and it cleared his head. He was satisfied that there had been more than one kidnapper, but the missing boat itself was a riddle. For some reason, the attackers had taken off in the boat. Why wouldn’t they just walk the girl back to the city? Maybe they thought that Copper was too weak to walk and too heavy to carry that far. Hatch nodded to himself. That must be it. He had been a bit rough with the girl because he hadn’t wanted her getting spirited on him. They must have figured they had a better chance to get her away by water.

Jerod had made that boat himself years ago. It was his pride and joy. He had named it “Martha,” after his dead wife, if Hatch’s memory served correctly. The edge of Hatch’s mouth curled upwards on his good side. Jerod’s old lady had been a hefty one too. That Light-cursed boat must have weighed three hundred pounds if it weighed an ounce. It was a hunk of garbage, but Jerod swore by it as a trustworthy craft that had never let him down.

Hatch waded back out of the water and got dressed thinking about the mess on his hands. A simple collection job, hardly even worth his attention, botched. If he had not have been so drunk it might have turned out differently. Drink was going to get him killed one of these days. Then again, the way he felt dead would be a mercy. His head was still splitting, and his mouth was dry and thick. He had seen in the water that his face now sported a large purple welt. Yet another reason for the girls to fall for him, he thought wryly.

Hatch trudged back into the house, unconsciously performing his daily stretch upon his deformed hand and grimacing. Sadly, the half bottle of firewater he had left inside last night was now gone. Jerod must have taken it or, more like, put it back away in the storehouse. “Too bad,” Hatch muttered. He could sure use a drink to take the edge off his hangover. Then, leaving the shack again, he walked around the building and retrieved his morningstar from where it lay discarded on the ground. He coiled it back up carefully and clipped it onto his belt, ready for quick use. Finally, he turned and addressed the black horse.

“Listen Stupid, you kick me again, you’ll end up my dinner for a month.”

Hatch never called his horse by its real name. Duke was a pedigreed stallion, gift from VanCleef some years back. Probably taken from some soft noble. Apparently, according to VanCleef anyway, such horses came with names already given to them. Hatch had half a dozen more colourful names for it that he preferred: variants of “Brainless,” “Jackass” and “Stupid” being his recurrent favourites. When asked, he usually responded that it didn’t really matter what the horse’s name was, as it didn’t listen anyway. But whatever its name was, it matched Hatch for ruthless spite, and had the weight on him. Hatch didn’t have the energy to get into a mix up with the stubborn thing today. He got some feed out of the saddlebags, hitched up the feedbag, then untied the horse and led it over to the water. After the feed was gone, he put the bag back away and let the beast drink its fill.

Hatch stood by the water looking across at the Duskwood bank on the far side and tried to plan out what needed to be done. He was not about to go back empty-handed. If the kidnappers had taken to the water there was one of two possibilities: upriver or downriver. If they went up, they would either go to Darkshire or Lakeridge. Darkshire was not on the water, so if they were headed there the boat would be left somewhere near to the Duskwood path. Wouldn’t make any sense to pole all that way only to have to carry the girl inland for half a day’s travel, however. Lakeridge was more likely. The town sat right on Lake Everstill, right at the river’s source. They could pole all the way there by water. Hatch turned and considered the downriver option. Not much that way in the way of towns. A few farms and vineyards, that was about it. They might have taken the fork in the river up to the old garrison near to the ruins of the town of Forest Edge, near Westfall, but there were a few rapids on that river before it widened out, and Jerod’s boat would sink like a stone in that kind of water. Again, not likely. It was possible, but highly unlikely, that the captors took off into the Duskwood forest. If they did, they would likely be dead by dawn. The forest was worse than haunted and pitiless with strangers. Besides, the militia would want the girl in Stormwind, out of the Brotherhood’s reach. It just didn’t make sense to head south.

Just in case, Hatch would send birds to every place he could to have their people watch for Copper and a couple of Stormwind guards. Redridge, Westfall, the farmsteads, he would even have his people watch the Moonbrook bridge far to the south. As for himself, he would head to Goldshire to make inquiries. He checked his coin purse. It always cost more to insure anonymity, but he should have enough. Besides, there was someone there who he could trust. As the stallion continued to drink copiously, Hatch clambered on up. The dizziness came again, but he held on until it passed. Then, taking hold of the reigns with one hand he spurred the beast off towards the northwest.

There were two things that were always available in the town of Goldshire: fights and dames. As Hatch arrived at the outskirts of town he halfway felt like he was coming home. Goldshire existed principally as a plaything for the young men of the soft nobility of Stormwind. With typical hypocrisy, the church imposed strict rules of “moral behaviour” with an iron fist within the city walls, and allowed a veritable a cesspool of depravity to continue not ten leagues away. To add to the irony, the devotional retreat and centre for Cathedral training, Northshire Abbey, could only be reached by way of the Goldshire Road. As a result, the priests and paladins had to go through the town regularly. Some maintained that the town existed to stiffen the faith of the devout. Hatch figured that might be part-ways right.

Hatch slowed Stupid to a walk at the outskirts of town, removed his Resistance colours, and slipped his grey hooded cloak over his head. There was a lazy military presence in the town, and he didn’t need any trouble. Besides, his disfigured appearance generally brought unwanted attention. He hunched forward in the saddle, trying his best to appear innocuous, no small feat for a man of his size astride a warhorse. Fortunately, he didn’t have far to go and the horse seemed to know its way. He kept his head down. As he plodded through the milling crowds, Hatch was struck, as usual, by the number of idiots filling the streets and spoiling for a fight. He grunted disparagingly and corrected himself. These shining “champions” were in town for the express purpose of engaging in gallant duels to advance their personal reputations. Not surprisingly, they were universally cowards. They swaggered around in immaculately crafted armour and flourished ferociously expensive weapons. They only challenged those who were complete greenhorns, with armour and weapons that were vastly inferior to their own. And even that absolute assurance of victory wasn’t enough. The greenhorn had to also promise that the duel would not be to the death. Then followed the trumpeted advertisement of the duel followed by all kinds of prancing about, running back and forth, swirling swords, leaping and other such nonsense. None of which had anything to do with really fighting, and Hatch had no patience for any of it. He learned long ago that fighting was not about honour, or pleasure, or proving one’s worth.

Besides the fights, Goldshire was famous across both continents for the “entertainment” to be found at the Lion’s Pride Inn. Hatch had heard that there were courtesans within the Orc capital city, Ogrimmar, that would pleasure a man, or women for that matter, in ways that the delicate flowers at the Lion’s Pride wouldn’t even consider. Hatch had no idea if it were true, though he had known a few Orc ladies and, from those fierce experiences, he was inclined to believe it. Still, he would never have enough gold, or inclination for that matter, to sample either wares. Lords and lordlings were their clientele, and they paid handsomely for even the smallest pleasures.

The stallion turned away from the milling crowds and up a narrow, and relatively deserted, street near to the edge of town. The rank smell of human waste and decaying garbage rose up around them, and the horse quickened its pace, knowing that their destination was at hand. A wind blew in from the south, as if nudging Hatch forward. At that end of the derelict street leaned a two-storey wooden building, its bright yellow and red paint peeling off in the sun. Over the sunken doorway a wooden sign squeaked and tilted. It had an old, cracked, and faded picture of a voluptuous woman lying with her back against a tree, her arms outstretched to the traveller. Engraved in thick black letters above her arms arched the inn’s less than subtle name, “The Shady Bush Inn.”

A small walled paddock preceded the low entryway into the inn, and Hatch dismounted and pulled open the gate. It squeaked on rusty hinges and stuck even more than he remembered. The enclosure was about twelve feet wide and extended about halfway down the building. Various nondescript items lay scattered against the walls and in the corners. The back wall of the enclosure was made up of a single storey addition that extended out and ran at a right angle to the main building, with a cracked window and a slanted door. There were no individual stalls for the horses, but a low roof extended six feet or so from the house, and underneath, running along the side of the building, was a single long trough filled with bits of straw. One other horse stood tied up next to the wall, a fat old mare, and it stared at them with huge vacant eyes as they entered. Brainless went right over to the trough next to her and started nosing about for something to eat.

Hatch was had just finished tying up the horse when he heard the back door open. He knew she was there, standing in the doorway like always, but he did not acknowledge her presence. Instead, he went and forced the gate closed. Then, without making eye contact, he crossed over to the doorway, pushed past her, and wordlessly went inside.

The Shady Bush was for the locals. With the odd exception, the gals were farmers’ daughters or widows. They offered a plain fleshy fare, at an affordable price, which was generally to the taste of the working fellas roundabouts. The traffic was regular and the dining room was generally filled. And if the gals had a couple of extra pounds on them, or if their bodies sagged more than they might have, it didn’t seem to matter. They were an easy-going, friendly lot. They laughed easily, and the men drank heavily, and the Shady Bush turned a modest coin. The extension on the back of the house was little more than a small unlit hallway with a couple of extra room for the customers. The door to the stable had been an afterthought. Hatch walked in, down the hall, and around the corner into the dining hall. It was early yet, and so the place was mostly deserted. Across the room, Buck, the bouncer, leaned back in a chair against the wall in the far corner of the room, snoring lightly. His thick tattooed arms sat folded on top of his ample gut. Buck was a big, stupid, ugly man, with a bad temper, which made him perfectly suited to keeping the peace in the place. He was also as lazy as an Orcish peon under a Barrens sun. All he ever did was to sit on his ass in the corner where the wall jutted out to accommodate the landing of the stairs leading up to the second floor rooms.

The room was decorated in various cheap paintings of half-naked dames. Garish feather garlands were draped along the tops of the walls and wrapped around the supporting pillar in the middle of the room. The tables and chairs scattered about were of various sizes, shapes and heights. Nothing matched. Everything had been cobbled together on a shoestring budget. The aroma of old liquor came off everything. On either side of the front door were two large windows, with thick yellow curtains that were pulled aside now to let in the slight breeze from the street. But though the room had a dirt floor, it was swept clean enough and the tables were wiped and ready for the night’s business. Hatch instinctively checked for exits. There were four. The front door across the room, the stairs up to the second floor on the far right and behind Buck’s head, the double swinging doors into the kitchen on Hatch’s immediate right, and the hall behind him. He was glad that no one was around, and his hunched shoulders relaxed slightly. Unless he was working, he hated the stares that inevitably came whenever he entered a room.

From the kitchen came various muffled clanks as Bonavita, the cook, set about preparing the house special.

“Pork roast?” he asked, drily.

“How’d you guess?” came the woman’s voice behind him. It was a joke. Bonavita had one customer. She had come on a few years back to run the kitchen. A big black gal, with enough ass for three women, she didn’t usually say much but she cooked up a storm. She was, in fact, a halfway decent cook, but her real gift was a knack for turning ten copper’s worth of leavings into a satisfying meal. This was enough reason to make her indispensable. But, as it turned out, she ended up more than paying for her own wages. About a year or so after she started, one the regulars fell in love with her cooking. Some say that the best way to win the heart of a man is through his stomach. The fella, a pig farmer as it turned out, he took a shine to big Bonavita. She hadn’t had a man in years, and he didn’t have much coin, but they worked out a deal. He paid in pork. After the pigs started to arrive, her salary was topped up according to their value to the establishment. Just so, the house special was always pork roast.

“You want a drink?” the woman behind Hatch asked. Though technically a question, it sounded more like a statement of fact, which it was. The woman’s voice was deep, clear, and resonant, with a touch of rough edge to it. The kind of voice that did not mince words and never suffered fools gladly. Hatch turned his good side to her and nodded. “Somethin’ to eat,” he added, looking her up and down.

Rose was the sole owner and the manager of the Shady Bush. She was a woman of indeterminate age, perhaps thirty-five or fourty-five years, with tanned skin and black eyes. She wasn’t young, and neither was she soft on the eyes, but she did take a certain care of herself. Her hair was dyed red and hung down to the middle of her back, tied up out of her eyes in a ponytail. On her feet were plain, low-heeled, polished dress shoes. Her legs showed thick and muscular behind a calf-length pale blue gathered skirt. She had little in the way of hips. On top, she wore a low-cut off-white blouse that accentuated her ample and well-lifted breasts. She wore a conspicuous amount of jewellery: bracelets, necklace, earrings, and four or five rings, none of which were wedding bands. Her facial features were firm and commanding. She had thick eyebrows, a large broad nose, and a square jaw. Her ample lips were painted dark red and smiled knowingly. Her dark eyes met his and, as always, seemed to Hatch to look right through him.

She turned her face slightly and shouted at the swinging doors, “’Vita! Pork, taters, and ale!” The sounds in the kitchen stopped for a second, then started again. Across the room, Buck snorted at the noise then went back to sleep. Rose turned her eyes back at Hatch. “You gonna take your cloak off and stay awhile?”

Hatch grunted, then reached up and pushed back the hood from his face. After a moment he moved away from her, pulled back a chair from a nearby table and sat down heavily with his back to the wall. Rose stepped into the room, looking at the round purple welt on his face intently.

“What happened?” she asked.

He shrugged and shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it.

“Fine,” she said, accepting. “How long you staying?”

“Not long.”

She nodded, then moved off to the kitchen.

Rose and Hatch went a long way back. She was born Alison Smith, first of five children to the Smith household in the town of Moonbrook. It was Alison, then three boys, and then another girl who was born simple. Rose’s father had been the town blacksmith, but some time after his last daughter was born had was found guilty of stealing from a nobleman, and they hanged him for it. After that, Rose and her mother did the best they could, but the boys were too young to take up the smithing and the family fell on hard times. The three boys got into trouble of one kind and another and eventually disappeared. Hatch wasn’t sure what had happened to them; dead or rotting in the stockades, most likely. Rose’s ma just got worn down over the years and ended up falling sick. She mostly just wasted away. That was when Hatch met Rose again, only now she was a grown woman. Hatch’s wife had had a good heart and had got involved in the situation, and Rose and her sister had started helping out on the Hatcher farm. Back then, Rose was young, buxom, and high-spirited. She also had a devilish sense of humour. Though Hatch had never cheated on his wife, he found himself watching her sometimes in a way that he knew he shouldn’t. One night, Hatch’s wife had gone to bed early and Hatch and young Alison had got into a bit too much wine. The wine had led to a midnight walk, and Hatch had found himself throwing her up against the back of the barn and kissing her roughly. She had been willing enough, but in the end he had pulled away. The next day she was just gone, leaving Hatch and his wife saddled with the simple-minded Smith girl. Hatch’s wife had not been furious, which told Hatch just how much she had been on to them, but he didn’t say anything. Later on, Alison set up the Shady Bush in Goldshire and Hatch had come across her under her new name. By this point his family was gone, along with half of his face and most of his soul. To her credit, she was likely the only person in the world who ever was anything like glad to see him.

Hatch sat quiet in the darkening dusty room. The evening was coming on and he had work to do, but his head still ached something awful. A three-hour trot through the forest hadn’t helped. Twice he had been forced to stop to heave up the watery contents of yesterday’s meals, and he was feeling pretty weak. Hatch realized that he must have been in worse shape then he had thought. Buck’s snoring, the hint of a breeze, and the dampened kitchen noises through the doors played upon him. A thick fog welled up in his mind and his eye drooped shut. Next he knew, Rose was back at his table, tossing down the plate of eats and the mug of ale in front of him.

Hatch took a long draught and bent to the food. Rose sat down beside him. Rose didn’t say anything, which was nice, just took out some tobacco leaves and started rolling herself a smoke. For a few minutes he just ate as she sat quietly smoking beside him. Slowly he felt his strength returning. When he was done, he drained the last of the drink off while Rose got him another. Then he was ready to talk.

As she slid the full mug in front of him, she asked, “You working?”

“Sorta. I got a problem I gotta fix.”

She took a long pull at her smoke, studying him. Then she said, “No one I know, I hope.”

He shook his head. “No. It aint like that. I’m dealin’ with a runaway. Maybe a snatch and grab. I dunno yet.”

Quietly, Hatch told Rose as much as he could. Even though he knew Rose was absolutely trustworthy, she was not a member of the Brotherhood. Plus, it just went against the grain for him to share information with anyone. But he knew that he needed her help. She would be able to send the messages he needed to get out with fewer questions asked. And he wasn't going to get her help unless she understood some.

“I’m lookin’ for a girl. Red hair. Short. Wiry. Got a mouth on her. I got word she been found hidin’ out at the Eastvale Loggin’ Camp. Yesterday, some boys went and picked her up, but they botched the job. Left a trail. So when I got there, I sent them to fix it up. Then, before I took the girl with me, this Stormwind guard shows up. Big guy.” Hatch paused, trying to explain what happened next. Finally he said, “I had had a few drinks. Got into a fight with the guard, and…got clocked in the face by Jackass outside.” Hatch made a jerking motion with his thumb through the wall behind him. “Put me out like a candle. When I woke up, the girl was gone.”

Rose took it all in. When he got to the part about his horse she grinned, like he knew she would, but she didn’t say a thing. Still her twinkling dark eyes spoke volumes. He took another long drink to busy himself.

“So,” she began. “You’re looking for a girl. She must be important.”

There was a hint of something in Rose's tone that made him look at her quickly. She should know better than to think that he would have a romantic interest in anyone. He set her straight. Very quietly he said, “She’s important to VanCleef.”

VanCleef was not the sort of name that one mentioned casually. All of the laughter went out of her tone and she immediately got dead serious. Rose might not have been in the Resistance, but she was a sympathizer. Anything involving VanCleef would be treated with utmost respect.

“What do you need?” she said.

“To write some letters and get them out to a few places fast.”

“What are we talking?”

“Someone’s got to talk to Brother Neals. I need some birds sent tonight.”

Rose blew out a long stream of smoke from her nostrils as she considered him. The only place nearby where they kept carrier pigeons was Northshire Abbey. Brother Neals was a defrocked priest who had been sent off to the Abbey in disgrace a few years back. Hatch didn’t understand most of it, but he knew it had something to do with some books or something that Neals wrote, that the church didn’t approve of. VanCleef had explained it once, but Hatch hadn’t paid much attention. All he needed to know was that the Resistance had a mole in the Abbey. VanCleef had apparently written to him under a fake name and had recruited Neals himself.

The Abbey was only about three hours northeast of Goldshire, but it might as well have been on the moon as far as Hatch was concerned. Because virtually all of the Stormwind recruits came through the Abbey at one point or another, it was guarded like a fortress. There was no way that Hatch would be able to get in and talk to Neals. Hatch saw the realization of what he was asking in Rose’s eyes. She took another drag, thinking long and hard.

“You are asking me to get involved in your blighting war,” she said, looking away.

Hatch said nothing.

The silence stretched between them. Hatch understood that what he was asking was a lot. The authorities suspected Rose of being a sympathizer, but they had nothing on her. She had always been very careful to just run a business and keep her nose clean. Sure, her gals serviced some of the boys in the Resistance, but that didn’t mean anything. It was just business. This was different. If she were discovered carrying a half dozen letters signed by him, things would get very ugly for her very quickly.

Finally she turned back to him and asked blandly, “How many letters am I writing?”

Crazy woman, he thought, as they headed upstairs to write the letters. He almost smiled.

In the end they prepared five letters. To the Resistance’s contacts in Redridge, Duskwood, and Westfall, to an agent in Stormwind, in case Copper had slipped by already, and also one to Neals, telling him that Rose was on Resistance business. Hatch told Rose what the papers needed to say, and signed the letters. When the ink was dry, Rose quietly sealed and then folded them up in a soft leather carrying cloth for the short journey. She grumbled that there would be no one to collect the patron’s silver if she was gone off to the Abbey, but she stopped short when he brought out ten gold and tossed it on the table. Just in case she was stopped or had any trouble with Neals, he told her. It was enough to buy two Shady Bush inns, and Rose’s eyes sparkled just looking at it. You had to like a woman who appreciated the value of coin.

Once that was taken care of, they talked about Goldshire. Ever since he had entered the town, Hatch’s gut had told him that the girl wasn’t here. Still, he needed to be sure. Give a woman an inch and she would take a league, and before long Rose was telling him that she knew people, that she would use the girls to make inquiries, and that she would stop over at the local healer to see if the girl was there. Hatch just stared at her and waited for her to stop yammering.

“I don’t need any help. You’re goin’ to Neals to get those birds out. I’m gonna ask around town.”

Rose’s chin got tight and her fist went to her hip. “This is your plan,” she said sarcastically. “You’re going to go talk to people you don’t even know to get information while I go off to waste my time and get arrested?”

“You do as I told you, and there aint gonna be no trouble.”

“Light take it, Hatch! You want my help, fine. But I aint going anywhere until we know she’s not right under our noses here in town.”

Now she was starting to piss him off. It didn’t matter that what she said made sense. Actually, it kind of made it worse. His bad hand itched to backhand her and wipe that glare off her face, but he restrained himself. Instead, he just quietly said, “You aint gettin’ your girls involved in this. They’re are too rotting stupid and they’ll screw it up.”

Rose’s eyes flashed angrily at the insult to her gals, but she knew Hatch was right. “Fine. Then I’ll do it myself,” she replied. “Hatch, a couple of the guard are regulars here! I can talk them up. You can’t get that information.”

Hatch considered. He didn’t like to admit it, but she had a point. And as if to prove it, Rose dropped her eyes and sidled her body up near to him. She came so close that her prominent breasts slightly rubbed against his mail and her thick perfume wafted up to him. Leaning in close on his good side she laughed melodiously in his ear and smiled demurely up at him. “Come on, baby, I just want to talk for a second. I don’t want to fight…”

She was good at her game. Hatch felt himself stiffen and his hands started to slide up her body as a great aching need filled his chest. “Curse you, woman,” he whispered. He closed his eye and breathed in her warm scent.

Rose wrapped her arms lazily around his neck and purred in his ear, “So you’ll wait for me and I’ll be back in about an hour? You need another drink…”

Though Hatch was a regular at the Shady Bush inn, he never slept with any of the gals. He saw the fear and revulsion in their eyes, and he didn’t need their pity. Rose was not for sale, and nothing had ever happened between them. In fact, though she sometimes patted his shoulder or punched him in the arm, she had never got this close to him. Normally he just came in, sat in a back corner and drank until the place shut down. When it was quiet and everyone else was gone, Rose would come over and sit or talk quietly with him. Those were the good times. He couldn’t say that he had never thought about her, but he knew that the love of a woman was no longer in the cards for him. She and he were old friends, and that was something that he wasn’t going to mess up by making a fool of himself.

Ever since that night so long ago behind the barn, he had never felt her body this close to him. Now, with her musky scent filling his nostrils and her rough skin against his neck, those same old primal instincts swelled up inside of him. His hands pressed against her blouse and he yearned to grab her roughly and pull her face to his. A spasm rippled through his body. Then, as his mind uncontrollably raced over the idea of passionately pressing her lips to his own, he felt something wet upon his chin and the horror of his disfigured face came back home to him like a cold shower. The burns had forever stretched his lips apart on the left side of his face. Normally he concentrated and kept his jaw and lips clamped together. But now, as Rose pressed her warm body against him, his mouth hung open and a line of spit drooled down upon his chin disgustingly. What was he thinking? It was just a power game she was playing on him to make her point.

He ripped her away roughly and growled, “Just go.”

She was breathing deeply and her hands covered her arms where he had hurt her. A wounded fire burned in her eyes. She turned and left him.

Hatch went back down to the dining hall and waited a few minutes after Rose stormed away from the inn before he headed out. Bonavita got him another drink, and though she looked daggers at him she kept her thoughts to herself, which was a good thing too. Hatch was in a black mood.

Hatch never felt sorry for himself; pity was for the weak. For some reason, however, as he sat in his usual chair at the back of the Shady Bush inn he found himself thinking about his old life, before the militia came and burned his heart away forever. Twelve years. Twelve long years since he had met VanCleef.

*****

[Nedward Underhill]

Edwin VanCleef appeared in Westfall like a strike of lightning. He was a small, lean man. Muscular, without a shred of fat on him, with a shock of raven hair, and the wild eyes of a prophet. But it was not so much his appearance that you remembered as his voice. It was deep, but sharp and clear, and he had a strange way of speaking, like waves of sound. VanCleef would get his message out in a rush and then would suddenly grind to a halt. After an almost awkward silence, he would do it again. One could not help but be riveted. When he spoke, there was something magical about him. It was impossible to doubt him. It wasn’t just Hatch who was affected. Weak and broken folk became passionate followers when they heard him. They came to barns and basements just to hear him. They pressed in around him wherever he went. For the poor and oppressed, VanCleef fed their need for respect, decency, and a higher calling. He spat upon the “Stormwinder’s Levy,” telling them to refuse it. The nobles did not need their gold, he cried; the tax was simply an attempt to oppress them, to keep them beggared. Hatch bought it hook, line, and sinker. They all did.

When his family was murdered, Hatch went to VanCleef and begged him for help in getting revenge. He had nothing else left. It was then, as Hatch kneeled before VanCleef in an upstairs room in Moonbrook, that VanCleef first spoke to him about a secret society. The Brotherhood of Lordaeron, he said, had existed in the shadows for countless generations. They were pledged to protect the ancient bloodline of the King, and the true strength and higher calling of humanity. He promised Hatch his revenge and more. VanCleef told him that a foul corruption had crept into Stormwind, twisting all that was good to darkness and evil. VanCleef told him that he had need of Hatch; to build an army, to win a war. The King had already been spirited away by the Brotherhood and VanCleef had been tasked with gathering an army to root out the Stormwind corruption so that the King could again retake the throne and restore dignity upon the common people. VanCleef called Hatch’s suffering a “chalice.” Laying his wiry hand on Hatch’s burnt face, VanCleef said the pain would make him strong. Strong enough to serve a higher purpose. Strong enough to get his revenge. That night, Hatch swore an oath in blood that he would give his life to the Brotherhood’s war. He was knighted. Knighted into the secret society of the Brotherhood to become VanCleef’s personal champion and guard.

VanCleef and Hatch traveled all over Westfall. VanCleef told the people that, like it or not, a war was coming. He preached that it would all be over quickly once the Resistance mobilized. Righteousness was like a beacon, he said. He told them that the people in all the neighbouring provinces would rise up to support their cause. That justice would be served upon the wicked. Justice would be restored. That once the nobles saw the will of the people in force, they would have to treat with them. And every time VanCleef spoke, the ranks of the Resistance swelled.

Hatch remembered as if it were yesterday the day that they took Westfall. VanCleef planned it all. A military masterstroke. Hatch hardly believed that so few men could take control of so much in one night, but he saw the plans. The Resistance had people perfectly placed in every community. It was all there, indisputable. Secret beacon flares were set up in the Dagger Hills, and on a signal they went up together. They walked into the guard halls, the nobles’ mansions, and the churches, and decapitated the Stormwind control. In the morning, Westfall belonged to the people.

Stormwind sent their troops in glistening formations, but VanCleef was always ten steps ahead. The Resistance attacked in ambushes, disappearing before the Stormwind troops could re-organize their lines. They had men on the inside. Platoons turned upon their officers, slaughtered them, and defected to the Resistance. VanCleef made a secret pact with goblins engineers from Booty Bay and across the sea, and the leather-skinned creatures provided diabolical weapons of war that decimated the enemy. VanCleef had them bury shining fist-sized devices under the ground of the roadways, and when the plate-clad armies stepped over them they were devoured by flames, cooked in their armour. An armada of ships arrived in Forest’s Edge, bringing reinforcements from the north, but VanCleef had already taken the town. The Resistance ambushed and slaughtered the troops as they slept, then pillaged and stole the ships.

The nobles fell back inside the walls of Stormwind. VanCleef send messengers requesting that they come and hear terms, but they were slaughtered. VanCleef was enraged. He called a summit and declared that they would take the Brotherhood’s message out to the people. He declared again that the people of Elwynn, Duskwood and Redridge would rise up. But he had underestimated the ignorance of the common folk. The church proclaimed the rebels heretics and unbelievers. The nobles began a campaign of lies, with travelling tents of preachers turning the people against them. The boy King and his court of nobles cried, “They defy us! They defy us!” and, unbelievably, the common folk took up the cry. ‘Wanted’ posters cropped up everywhere, mockingly calling them the Brotherhood of the Defias. Hatch was stunned. VanCleef had never mentioned the Brotherhood in public and yet, somehow, Stormwind knew. But VanCleef was not surprised. They faced an old, vastly powerful, and devious enemy of the Brotherhood, he said. Both sides knew each other well.

Inside Stormwind, General Marcus Jonathan took charge of the war. He was a cold calculating killer. Stormwind began to advance again, though more cautiously this time. Jonathan set up garrisons outside Westfall, on the other side of the Elwynn River. Forest’s Edge was razed to the ground. He snuck his people inside their lines and established a bastion at the old garrison on Sentinel Hill right in the centre of Westfall. Loyalist sympathizers came out of the woodwork and fled behind their walls. Siege engines were set up and began to advance. The armies salted the ground as they came. The Resistance simply did not have the training or the numbers needed to survive a sustained military campaign.

It was then that the scheming goblins revealed their most terrible weapon. In a secret meeting with VanCleef, deep in an underground lair beneath the Dagger Hills, they whispered that they had constructed of an army of metal golems to fight for the Brotherhood. They claimed that they had long used such machines for harvesting trees over in distant Kalimdor, but that they had modified the design so that these ones ran without controls. Their armour plating was twice as thick as anything a man could wear. No sword could break them. But there was a catch. Not only would such an army cost more gold that the Resistance could possibly afford, but also, once unleashed, the golems could not be controlled and would kill anything that moved. With every setback, VanCleef became more and more desperate. They could not afford to pay, but VanCleef pledged that the Brotherhood honoured its debts. That was acceptable to the goblins, so long as there were generous interest terms. Finally, he ordered that the golem army be unleashed upon the countryside. Better Westfall be a wasteland than that the corrupt oppression of Stormwind be forever entrenched, he cried. So it was that Westfall was forever broken.

The Brotherhood fell back to the hills and underground, to eke out the meagre existence of outlaws. But the war did not end. VanCleef still commanded strong support. Stormwind was corrupt and the people still suffered. There were new recruits all the time. If you listened to VanCleef, their support was growing. He claimed that he was just biding his time; setting up the next stage of the war. But for Hatch it was one unending bloodbath, and whatever meagre faith he had borrowed from VanCleef eroded in the long darkness. Hatch knew his destiny. The war would never end, at least not for him. There was no going back, and the Resistance would never move forward. It would be just one long unending cycle of violence and death until the darkness covered him for the last time.

*****

Placing his mug down upon the table and tossing down a few coppers for Bonavita, Hatch slipped his cloak back over his face and stepped out into the streets to make his inquiries. He had three calls to make.

Goldshire did not get calmer at night; it got busier. After leaving the relative quiet of the dusty street that led up to the Shady Bush, Hatch quietly made his way through the swelling crowds. There were two main roads in town; the one that cut through Goldshire and travelled from Westfall in the west to Redridge to the east, and the one that started in town and headed the short way north to the city of Stormwind. The famous Lion’s Pride Inn sat prominently where the two roads met, and perhaps for this reason alone, or perhaps because the Lion’s Pride kept the corner brightly lit throughout the night, the corner attracted all sorts of rabble-rousers every night. Hatch pulled his hood further down to ensure that his face was in darkness as he looked for his contact. The Stormwind militia maintained a visible presence at this one corner, and though they rarely did anything but stand about, Hatch didn’t need trouble.

As it happened, the corner was even busier than usual. The travelling Darkmoon Faire was in town, and, as usual, had set up in the tourney field just south of the main corner. Various colourful tents and decorations were strewn haphazardly around the trampled grass and in front of each some form of barker, harrying the passers-by with proclamations of the “celebrated wonders” found inside for a few silver. The din of competing voices was atrocious, and the traffic of spectators had churned the dusty faire grounds into a muddy smear. It didn’t seem to matter; the Faire was fit to bursting with patrons.

Hatch slowed to scan the corner. Six guards by the looks of it, he noted. Roughly twice as many as usual, likely on account of the Faire. There were likely at least two patrolling as well. Still, with the press of bodies filling the corner, it was actually easier to pass unnoticed through the crowd, notwithstanding the increased military presence. Hatch raised himself up to his full height and looked over the crowd. Lounging over in the shadows near to the painted door of the Lion’s Pride Inn was the man he wanted.

Antonio Perelli was a long-time informant for the Resistance. He travelled everywhere, ostensibly hawking wares as a travelling salesman. He hardly ever sold anything, on account of the fact that his wares were overpriced junk. Anyone who bought anything from him was either a simpleton or a fool. The fact was Antonio didn’t need to sell a bloody thing. His job was to lounge about, right under the nose of the guard in every town, and to report whatever information he was able to overhear. For this, he was paid well. Too well, in Hatch’s opinion, seeing on how rarely Perelli’s information turned out to be anything they didn’t already know. For once, it seemed that Perelli was in the right place at the right time. Assuming he had been lounging about all day, he would certainly have seen if the girl came through.

Hatch had been moving with the flow of the crowd and was now standing next to the muddy entrance into the Faire. As he turned and started to push his way across the crowd someone grabbed onto his cloak, and a crone’s voice behind him called out, “Your fortune’s in your palm. Only one copper!” Hatch’s hood was pulled back, revealing his face for a moment. He whipped around to confront the woman, ripping the cloak out of her hands. With his left hand he grabbed the hood and pulled it back roughly into place. His right slipped into his boot and brought out a hidden dagger. In an instant he had it at the old woman's throat.

The old woman was shrivelled and beggared, and she gazed forward with clouded milky-white eyes. At the prick of the knife her mouth closed sharply. Her body shook. Hatch felt the stares of passers-by upon him. For a second everything seemed to still. Then he removed the knife from the woman's throat and slipped it back away. The old crone collapsed upon the ground before him. Behind him, Hatch heard a buzz of disapproval ripple through the watching crowd.

‘Light take it,’ he thought. Holding his hood in place he swept away from the old woman’s form, avoiding eye contact. A path in the crowd opened in front of him.

He took half a dozen steps before a voice behind him brought him to a stop.

“Halt, coward!”

The voice was high and slightly slurred, a young man’s drunken voice. There was no mistaking the fact that it was directed at him. Hatch stopped, then after a second started walking again.

“Oh ho! Afraid to face a man, are we? He only duels blind old ladies, I see.”

A titter went up from the crowd at Hatch’s expense. ‘That’s right. Go ahead and laugh it up,’ Hatch thought. Someone blocked his way, and he was forced to stop again. Without looking up, he knew what was happening. A ring of spectators was gathering for the inevitable duel. The drunk fool behind him probably did not care two coppers for the fainted old beggar woman. Most likely, he had been tooling about looking for an opportunity to challenge someone all night. Slowly, Hatch turned. The man is front of him was in truth little more than a boy. Everything about him turned Hatch’s stomach. Tall and thin, with a carefully coifed mane of blonde hair and a wispy patch of hair on his face that pretended to be a beard, he could not have been more than sixteen. He had a pretty face, and the rich, arrogant eyes of the Stormwind nobility. He was dressed in an ornate armour suit lavishly crafted out of rare mithril, and sported a matching jewel encrusted long sword and dagger. His armour and weapons were likely worth more than half the town. A silk cloak was bound around his neck by a golden cord and tossed nonchalantly over one shoulder. His weapons were drawn and he fixed Hatch with a steely gaze down the length of his longsword. He wasn’t even holding the sword properly.

“Oh ho! The coward turns,” the boy-man cried to the crowd. He turned back to Hatch and slurred out, “Sirrah, I, Baurles Wishock the Second, challenge thee to a duel …for the honour of…That is, for what you have done to this hapless woman. How now do you answer?”

Hatch itched to cut out the idiot’s tongue, but he just stood with head bowed and said, “You’re drunk. Go home.”

The lordling sauntered forward. “That is no answer. You must accept the challenge or tuck your tail and flee…like the coward you are!” As he walked forward, he put away his dagger and then pulled at his calfskin glove with his teeth, presumably in order to formally challenge Hatch to a duel. Hatch looked out at the crowd. Sure enough, a couple of guard had sauntered over to watch with everyone else. The boy-man was now within swords reach and still could not manage to remove his own glove. Giving up, he loudly proclaimed, “I would know my enemy,” and then attempted to flip off Hatch’s hood with the tip of his longsword. Hatch pulled his head back, but Baurles Wishock the Second began poking at him repeatedly, threatening some serious harm if Hatch continued to do nothing. Finally, Hatch reached up and grabbed the blade with his good hand.

Hatch forced himself to say through gritted teeth, “I decline your duel, boy.”

The boy was either not listening or not satisfied. Shouting, “So it begins!” he yanked at the longsword, but Hatch held it securely and it did not budge. Hatch watched from within the darkness of his hood as the boy blinked, momentarily confused, then whined, “Give me my sword!”

Someone in the crowd started shouting out, “Duel! Duel!” and soon the whole crowd seemed to have taken it up. After all, this was the entertainment that they loitered around waiting for. The crowd continued to swell as the drama played itself out. Hatch made up his mind. Avoiding the fight was impossible now; he would just have to make sure that the crowd was disappointed.

For a few seconds, Baurles Wishock the Second continued to furiously tug on the sword. Hatch watched his eyes, waiting for the boy to remember that he had a dagger at his side. When he finally did, and as his hand reached down to grab the dagger, Hatch suddenly rammed the longsword up and forward into the boy’s face. It struck him in the mouth and blood and teeth poured out. Baurles released hold on the longsword as his hand flew to his mouth. Hatch’s deformed hand flew forward to smash into the young man’s bleeding face. Baurles' pretty face twisted around disturbingly, but Hatch was careful to hit him just hard enough to break his jaw, not his neck. As quickly as it had started, the fight was over. The boy dandy lay moaning and writhing on the ground. The crowd fell quiet. Hatch tossed the jewelled sword point first into the ground, then turned and walked away. Only after he had turned the next corner and made sure that no one was following him did he breathe a sigh of relief. He would have to make his other call first, then come back to talk to Perelli.

The local healer maintained a small shop a few blocks off of the main thoroughfare. It was a two storey whitewashed affair with a covered front porch and a converted main floor to serve the healer’s purposes. A well-kept sign beside the door advertised first aid and midwifery services by Michelle Belle, physician. Given the condition of the shop, it looked like the healer did quite well for herself. Likely on account of a steady stream of idiot combatants around town, Hatch thought. With luck, Baurles Wishock the Second would scurry off to his mama and the priests in Stormwind rather than trust himself to the care of a country doctor.

A sign on the door showed that the clinic was closed, but the door was unlocked and Hatch stepped quietly inside. A small bell rigged up to the door sounded his entry and a woman’s voice called out from somewhere inside, “One moment!” Hatch took in his surroundings. The front room was clearly a reception area, dominated by a large oaken desk in the centre of the room and covered with various scattered papers and parchments, along with a feather quill and sealed inkpot. A large bay window spread across the wall to Hatch’s immediate right and pushed out into the covered porch. Pale blue curtains hung down loosely on either side of the window, and lining the wall underneath the window was a series of waiting chairs. Three exits led from the room: the front door at Hatch’s back, a white door to the left of the oak table and directly in front of him, and an opening to the right of the table where the room continued around the corner and out of sight. Evidently the industrious doctor maintained a small store as well, for as Hatch wandered over to the right corner of the room various advertisements and display cabinets with first aid supplies came into sight in the back portion of the L-shaped front room. A third door sat at the back of the store area, behind a small counter and till. Satisfied that no one else was around, Hatch proceeded to draw the curtains closed on the front window, throwing the room into semi-darkness. Then he pulled back his cloak, exposing his armour and face. Finally, he brought out the signature red bandana of the Resistance, tied it loosely around his neck, and settled in to wait.

A few minutes later, the doctor pushed backwards through the white door, wiping her hands with a small cotton hand-towel. She was a pretty young woman of about twenty-five or so with a round face and broad shapely hips. Her blonde hair was shoulder length and neatly brushed back from her face. Hatch estimated her height to be just over five feet and her weight to be in the range of one hundred and ten pounds. She had long fingers but little strength. No more than a twig in his hands if necessary. She was wearing a floor length purple striped skirt, and had a frilly bright coloured blouse under a good quality, short-sleeve, white cotton jacket. She was looking down as she came and entered the room saying, “Can I help you? We closed…” but her voice died on her lips when she looked up and was confronted by the darkness and Hatch's looming bulk.

Hatch was usually able to read a person’s mind in their eyes and body language. It helped in his line of work. The healer stood stock still and her eyes scanned about the room taking in the situation. A wave of nerves washed from her. Good. A little fear would only work to loosen her tongue. Staying in the darkness Hatch answered, “I hope you can help me, doctor.”

She tried to collect herself. “We closed…”

Hatch stepped forward, cutting her off. “Just a few questions.” He towered above her, increasing the power imbalance.

Hatch let the silence stretch as she peered up in the half-light at his “Defias” colours and his disfigured face. He could see the questions behind her eyes, but she just waited, saying nothing, her mouth hanging slightly open. Hatch saw the helplessness in her eyes and on sudden intuition said, “You are not married, but you have a child.” Her eyes flicked up to the second storey, giving away that he was right, at least regarding the child.

“Strange. Pretty young woman, unmarried.” He looked up at the ceiling. “The boy's upstairs?”

“What do you want?” she asked, fighting hard to keep a tremor out of her voice.

Hatch went into the routine. How many times had he broken someone? Always the same: fear, control, pain, truth. Hopefully it would not take too long. “We just need to have a little talk. Only thing is, I need to know that you aint lyin’. That aint gonna be so easy for you, on account of I aint a very trustin’ man. But you just be square with me, and we aint gonna have no problem. Got it?”

Half an hour later, Hatch closed the door behind him and left the shop, satisfied that Copper had not come by the clinic. Likely because he had guessed about the boy upstairs, it had been very easy to break the healer. He hadn’t even needed to hurt her more than a bit of bruising and couple of backhand slaps. When she cried and pleaded with him, she kept her voice down, not wanting to bring the boy down. The answers tumbled out of her to all of is questions, no matter how strange he made them. He learned about the fella in town who had knocked her up, and about how her boy Michael was growing fast and was learning to read at only five years old. Hatch shrugged. He supposed knowing how to read might save a bit of coin, but told her she needed to make sure the boy learned how to fight. She agreed with him, of course, and she told him that Marshall Dughan had volunteered to teach the boy. Hatch suspected that the Marshall would only spend time with the boy until he managed to bed the pretty doctor; still her connection to the Marshall was a stroke of luck. Hatch turned the conversation to the Stormwind guard. Had she met any of the Marshall’s men? Hatch described the man who had attacked him the previous night as well as he could remember. A big man, six foot five perhaps, and pushing three hundred pounds. Good with a mace. Brown eyes. Doc Belle shook her head. Her lip quivered, but she told him there was no such guard. Hatch wasn’t satisfied, and was about to press her harder when her eyes lit up and she remembered treating a young man who fit that description a few weeks back. He had hobbled in to the clinic complaining of a sprained back, but it had turned to only be only muscle tension, she said. He had complained to her about how everyone wanted to fight in town and how it made him nervous. He wasn’t in the guard. He was someone’s son from the city. Anyway, he had moved on from town a few weeks back. He needed a name, he told her, as the first ripple of excitement washed through him. She started frantically flipping through the papers on the desk but the light was too dim to see, so they got a lantern from the next room and came back, and a moment later she had found it. There on the pages of the clinic’s registry she read out to him the name. Robbyn Jonathan.

Jonathan. Strange enough to be true, Hatch thought as he made his way casually back towards the Lion's Pride Inn and Perelli. He would need to get someone to get some information on the General and his family. Strange that the son wasn't in the guard with his old man, especially given his size and skill with a mace. Hatch reconsidered. Had he just been so bloody drunk that his memory was twisted? He was sure that the guy he met had been decked out in Stormwind mail. Perhaps a special military operation? It was possible, but Hatch's instincts said no. More like, the General's son was just like all the adventurers that seemed to pour out of the Goldshire woodwork, looking to make a name for himself. Not too smart. Hatch wondered if the fella had any idea the hornet's nest he had decided to step into.

Hatch put his hood back up, then took a last look back at the whitewashed clinic before pressing himself back into the milling throng on the main road. The healer had not come out and the main floor was dark. Upstairs, a single light shone out from the middle window, but the curtains were all drawn and no faces peered out. Little chance that the healer would squeal any time soon, he figured. He had made clear to her the consequences to her and to her boy should she “accidentally” remember him to someone like Marshall Dughan. She would have some bruising on her face, so he suggested she close her shop for a few days. Maybe take her boy on a little vacation up north. She had promised she would. Of course, by that point in the conversation she would have burned her house down had he told her to. It didn't really matter one way or another. Women lied about their bruises all the time. She might whisper her secret out eventually, but not until she was damn sure that her house was safe with a big man or two and maybe a couple of dogs. Maybe not even then, if she was as smart as she seemed.

Perelli had set up a little table at the main corner and Hatch began to quietly browse through the displayed goods. Perelli knew him, but did not react, just kept hawking his wares to the crowd of passers-by. Hatch was surprised; Perelli had brought the quality of his wares up significantly. Not only that, but he had actually got his hands on a couple of decent weapons. Not spectacular, but serviceable enough. They were secured to the table against thieves with rough cord, and to pass the time Hatch reached forward and flicked the metal of the great sword that sat in the middle of the table, gauging its strength and weight. He preferred blunt weapons, but he could still appreciate good craftsmanship in a blade.

Perelli's story was that he was from across the sea, in an uncharted land where no one spoke Common. Once you got him started, he would put you to sleep with never-ending tales about the majesty of his home country and the proud beauty its women, but he never explained how it was that he had come to the Eastern Kingdoms. Instead, he would just hang his head and say it was a story that could never be told, “lest the whole world, she would weep and break in two.” Hatch wasn't sure how much of it to believe. What was undeniable was that Perelli had the strangest way of speaking Hatch had ever heard this side of the Horde.

Turning at the sound of Hatch's test of the blade, Perelli fixed his eyes on Hatch, then announced in a loud voice, “Ah, my friend, jou have excellent taste. Is she not... magnífico?”

“I’m lookin’ for a sword...that was taken from me,” Hatch responded, looking steady forward to make sure Perelli understood his meaning.

“Oh? Taken from jou? Muy malo! What was this...sword?”

“A young copper blade. Small, but vicious. You might know her.”

Perelli's eyes bulged. “A small copper blade? Ah, sí, I know of such a weapon. But I have not seen her, my friend.”

“Perhaps you have seen a large Stormwind mace? I’m lookin’ for that also. Actually, I was hopin’ to buy them both. They would be together.”

“There are many Stormwind maces, my friend. But...perhaps you should consider this one?” Perelli waved his hand back towards a heavy spiked mace strapped to a tree behind him. “Oh jes, is it not fearsome? Monstruo!”

“Excuse me?” A young woman was browsing through the jars of herbs on the table. “How much for the liferoot?”

“Ah, señora...Liferoot is very rare at this time of year. What jou see, she is the last of Perelli’s precious supply. But, though it break my heart to do it, I will give it away to jou for only...five silver.”

She turned the bottle in her hands, unimpressed. “It looks a little sparse for five silver. I think it goes for less at auction...”

Hatch was losing patience. “A Stormwind mace and a copper blade, have you seen them together? Maybe a day ago. Or today.”

“No, no. Perelli has been here all day, señor, and has seen no such thing! But...a grande hombre like jou...does not need a copper blade, or a mace. Jou need this blade.” Perelli ran the back of his hand down the length of the great sword between them with a flourish. “She is so fine... an executioner did use her once. It is no lie!”

Hatch had heard enough. Perelli had seen nothing. He moved away into to crowd as the woman started up again behind him, “What about that bruiseweed?”

Hatch looked up at the setting sun. One last piece of business to take care of before heading back to the Shady Bush.

Out behind the faire grounds and on the south end of the town were a few scattered houses and there, sprawled on an ill-kept piece of land, sat Jerod’s farmhouse. There wasn’t much in the way of road, and even the path was starting to get hard to see in the setting sun, but a wooden signpost advertised Jerod’s Tannery, with a picture of a skin being stretched on a frame like a rough five-pointed star. It was a fair sized farm, with a simple wooden fence running all around it, the kind that was useless for anything but keeping in big livestock that were too stupid to know better. A lone horse grazed off in the distance, shaking its mane against the flies. Hatch lifted the latch on the gate and stepped into the field leading to the house. It had been a long day from a bad start and he was tired. Though he always walked with a sort of jerk on account of the damage to his left leg, as he started up towards the house he knew that his limp was more pronounced than usual. He would just get the business over quick. Sure could use a drink, he thought.

The farm was composed of three main buildings. In the front, and next to the path was the tannery. It was little more than a wooden roof on four supporting beams, with a collection of frames, display racks, barrels, stools, and tools scattered underneath. As Hatch approached the wind shifted, and a sharp smell, somewhere between spoiled wine and alcohol, mixed in with the reek of lime, wafted towards Hatch, reminding him of Jerod’s infamous brew. Next to the tannery was a low hut where Jerod smoked the skins. Behind the tannery and off to the back was a large wooden barn, its great double doors left wide open. In the fading light, Hatch could just make out a horse stall, a few farm tools, and a rough collection of straw inside the barn.

At the end of the overgrown path was the house. It was a single storey dwelling that appeared to be composed of several additions, for the wood and stone did not match and the lines of the walls and roof did not meet up exactly. It was all well enough made, it was just as if Jerod had either repeatedly run out of materials, or lost interest, or both, as it was being constructed. The front portion of the house appeared to be the original building, about twelve feet square and built out of logs. A single small window had been added to the front wall at some later point, and a cheap frame of distorted glass was hammered into place. Beside the window was a plain wooden front door, without ornament or step or landing, and outside, next to the door, was a small metal bench. The place appeared deserted.

Hatch wandered around to the back, examining the house. It had few windows and though a few lights shone ruddily from inside, he saw no one. Notwithstanding the several additions, there was only one other exit, and it was on the far back corner. Here, a recent addition seemed to have engulfed an old fieldstone shed with a rough door hanging slightly a kilter on rusted hinges. The door opened outward, and its hinges were mounted on the outside of the stone and clay wall. A worn path led from the back door the fifteen feet or so to the outhouse, and a large rain barrel sat full beside the back corner of the house. The barrel weighed a ton, but Hatch managed to quietly move it in front of the back door and blocked the exit. Then he went back around to the front of the house.

Hatch checked the front door and it swung open. He stepped inside. The front room had been converted into a kitchen and had three exits: the front door, a twisted hallway in front of him, and a door across the room into what was most likely a pantry. The furniture and fixtures were made out of sturdy materials. A large dark-stained oak table sat in the middle of the room, littered with the remnants of Jerod’s cooking. The greasy smells of food still lingered in the room and a roast bird sat half-eaten on a wooden cutting board with a large carving knife protruding out of it. A couple of empty bottles of wine sat on the countertop and table. A half-finished plate of baked potatoes sat cooling nearby, along with a bowl of gravy with a ladle. Evidently, either Jerod enjoyed cooking for himself or he had company.

Hatch didn’t really know much about Abel Jerod’s private life. He figured Jerod to be in his mid-fourties. He had heard about Jerod’s dead wife only by the name of the stupid boat. From the looks of the farm, either Jerod never had kids or they were all grown and moved off. Jerod had been running his racket before he joined the Resistance, but as Jerod simply directed the operations and didn’t make deliveries to Westfall, Hatch had mostly just known of him by reputation. For the most part that reputation was that Jerod was a tired old man, that he was inflexible with his prices, and that he delivered on time. He was also known for his vicious booze, of course. Other than that, Hatch only had what he had seen yesterday to go by. Hatch’s assessment was that Jerod was an idiot and a coward, that he didn’t give a damn about the Resistance, and that he was just in it to turn a coin for himself.

Hatch quietly confirmed that the far door was the pantry, then stepped out of the kitchen and proceeded down the main hallway. The front rooms were composed of a large living area, and a couple of darkened small room. Hatch proceeded methodically through the house. The furniture was mostly the same; well made, from solid wood or cast iron, but generally old and worn. The floor was covered in a few well-cured bearskin rugs. An oil lantern remained lit in the living area, and the half-eaten remains of Jerod’s meal were spread out on a low table. Dinner for two it was, with another bottle of wine and two empty glasses. As he stood looking over the scene, through the door leading into the back of the house came the sounds of high-pitched laughter. Hatch sighed. A woman. Well, it complicated matters, but he needed to move on tonight, so he couldn’t come back later. Question was, did she have to be disposed of? Hatch stood in the living room considering his options. He had wanted to talk to Jerod first. But he couldn’t have her running off and bringing the guard. The quiet sounds of the couple’s chatter played in the background as Hatch made up his mind and headed into the back of the house, led by the breathless giggles of the woman. The doorway creaked slightly as he passed through it, but obviously the couple was too busy with each other to pay any attention.

Hatch stood silent in the hall, getting his bearings. Five exits. Two closed doors on the left, one open on the right, the door behind Hatch, and at the end of the hall the fieldstone construction of the back of the house began, marking the approach to the barricaded back door. The hall was unlit, and light shone out from the open door to cast a bright band across the floor and wall. Hatch figured it for a bedroom. A small trail of silken clothes and shoes lay near to the doorway. She was a noisy one, all right, alternately shrieking and cackling away at whatever Jerod was saying. Hatch stood for a moment in the darkness of the hallway stretching out his bad hand, while Jerod slurred out various wisecracks and the woman giggled hysterically. Both were obviously drunk. When he was ready, Hatch stepped into the light and looked into the room.

The bedroom had no exit other than the one Hatch filled. The walls were undecorated, other than an old wooden mirror on the left wall. A heavy pine dresser and an old locked chest sat against the right wall, and a large four-poster bed dominated the room, piled high with feather mattresses and rumpled silken sheets. As the trail of clothes outside had suggested, the couple was half dressed. They were engaged in some kind of kinky hide-and-seek, or something. The woman was on all fours on top of the bed, blindfolded and waving one arm out in front of her face, searching for Jerod. She was large and well past her prime, with broad fleshy hips and an ample bosom. Evidently, Jerod didn’t mind. He was in high spirits, dancing around at the end of the bed, with his back was to Hatch, calling out various encouragements to her.

Hatch’s bad knee decided to act up just as he stepped into the room, and his foot came down more heavily than he had intended. The floorboards squeaked and Jerod’s head spun around into the mirror. A look of utter panic washed into his eyes as he locked eyes with Hatch. Hatch’s mind worked rapidly, taking in the entirety of the situation. ‘Ah…blight it,’ he thought, changing his plan of asking Jerod to step out and talk. Stepping forward, his right hand reached down and unbuckled the morningstar at his side. It flew forward in one fluid motion to wrap around Jerod’s neck. The chains clinked against each other like falling coins as it wrapped three times around his neck, cutting off the small man's voice and breath. The spiked ball hurtled faster and faster before slamming into Jerod’s face, drawing forth a spray of blood upon the bed.

Dazed, Jerod fell sideways. One more step into the room and Hatch was next to the end of the bed. With his deformed hand he grasped the chains wrapped around Jerod’s neck, pinning them in place. Then, releasing the handle of the weapon with his right hand, he lifted the dazed man up with his left and delivered two quick punches to the centre of Jerod’s chest, just below his ribs. Jerod’s mouth flapped open as the air was forced up through his constricted neck, his eyes flew up into his head, and his body collapsed entirely.

The blindfolded woman on the bed tipped drunkenly sideways. Giggling wildly, she asked the room, “Sweets, what’s that noise? What are you up to now?”

Hatch dragged Jerod’s small limp body out the door and down the hall. As they moved away, the woman’s voice took on a curious tone, then one of concern.

“Sweets? … Abel? … Abel?!”

At the end of the hallway, Hatch closed the door that led into the back addition and, reaching down into his boot, he brought out his knife and jammed in through the wood, sealing the woman inside. Jerod was coming to, and his hands were fumbling at the chain around his neck as his eyes rolled wildly and his body fought for air. Hatch took him into the living room and threw him roughly down on the table. Jerod's back hit the wood hard and he fell onto the floor buckled in pain and gasping to breath. Calmly, Hatch whirled the cruel spiked ball twice, and then brought it down hard on Jerod’s knee to a satisfying crunch of breaking bones. Jerod screamed.

Finally, Hatch spoke. “Weren’t polite of you to leave me lyin’ on the ground like a sack of rottin’ grain, Jerod.”

Jerod begged for his life. Hatch just reached down and picked up the little man with one hand, then threw him back against the wall. Jerod twisted in the air, then hit the wall at the corner of the doorway and crumpled to the floor.

Hatch walked over and knelt down beside Jerod, then said quietly, “Tell me about Copper, and the guard.”

“Please…Hatch, w-we thought you were dead,” Jerod stuttered out through bloody lips.

Hatch hit him hard across the face. Calmly, he said, “Copper…and the guard.”

Jerod didn’t look up, just letting the blood pour out of his nose to cover the floor. From the back of the house, the woman’s voice had risen to panic now, likely on account of hearing Jerod’s scream. She reached the sealed door and started pounding on it, trying to get out.

“Ok! Ok!” Jerod gasped, covering his face with an arm. “Give me a second to get all the details straight…”

“It was yesterday, Jerod. Don’t try playin’ games with me. I aint a patient man.”

Jerod shuddered and nodded. “We were off at the lumber camp. We torched the place, just like you said. When we got back she was gone.”

Hatch walked a few steps away to look out the window. The last of the light was fading and the horse was making its way to the barn. Chances were Jerod didn’t have any information. Hatch was wasting his time. He should just get done, and go have a pint at the Shady Bush.

Looking out the window, he asked, “That it? You got nothin’ else to tell me, Jerod?”

The only sounds were the muffled wails of the fat woman from behind the door. It gave Hatch a headache listening to it. He turned back towards Jerod, but the little man was gone. Quickly, Hatch limped back over to the hallway. He turned the corner just as Jerod stumbled away into the kitchen, dragging his broken leg and leaving a spattered trail of blood down the hallway. Hatch tromped down the hall after him, his morningstar swinging loosely at his side. When he entered the kitchen, Jerod was standing on the far side of the table, holding the carving knife in his shaking hands. Fear poured off him.

“Hatch, you got no right to kill me. I never did nothing!”

Hatch took a step forward, but Jerod hopped on one leg and kept the table between them. “You’re losin’ focus Jerod. Copper, and the fella. That’s what you should be talkin’ about.”

“I told you, I don’t know! We came back and found you dead. Your blighting horse wouldn’t let us get near you. My boys didn’t see anything. By the time I came back, the girl had broke out of the chair and took my boat!”

Hatch limped around the table, but Jerod kept moving. The knuckles of Jerod's hand were white as he clutched the table to avoid putting weight on his broken leg.

“You find it?” Hatch asked.

Jerod blinked at him a second, then answered, “The boat? Yes, I found it. Down past the Stonefield farm. Washed up on shore.”

Hatch kept slowly circling, wearing out the younger man. “We’ve got some people down there, Jerod. You ask after the girl?”

Hatch could see in Jerod’s eyes that he hadn’t. All the man cared about was his cursed boat. “Yes,” Jerod lied, “They said she was last seen heading back to Westfall.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jerod.”

The sounds of the woman’s pounding increased in force. She was throwing herself at the door, sounded like, screaming out Jerod’s name. Hatch looked into the old man’s eyes and decided that the idiot didn’t know anything else. Jerod had returned from the lumber camp to find the girl gone. Hatch accepted that Jerod had honestly thought him dead. Fact was that if Brainless hadn’t been guarding Hatch’s body, like as not Jerod’s boys would have picked his pockets and tossed him in the river. Jerod hadn’t searched after the girl or done anything useful, he had just put the rest of his homebrew away in the cache, and then set off in search of his bloody boat.

“Your boat, Jerod,” he began. “She was named ‘Martha,’ right?”

Jerod looked at him blankly. “No. Delilah.”

“Delilah. That’s it.” Where had he got Martha from, he wondered? He shrugged, reached down under the table and got a good grip, then lifted and pushed it into Jerod as hard as he could. It was heavy, but Hatch put his weight into it. Jerod fell on his back and the table fell upon him. The roast bird landed with a slippery plop beside Jerod’s head and broke, spewing stuffing across the floor. Hatch put a heavy foot onto the table, pinning the thin man to the floor. Then he swung his weapon lazily to get up enough speed to finish the job. Jerod’s scream was cut short abruptly as the spiked ball crushed his skull.

Before he left the farm, Hatch went out to the tannery and grabbed a few large earthenware jugs of oil along with a container of the strong-smelling tanning liquid. Then he returned inside, spattered it all over Jerod’s body, the overturned table, and down the hallway. The woman had stopped trying to break down the door and was crying somewhere at the back of the house. Hatch grabbed the lantern from the living room, limped back to the front doorway, and threw it down like a molotov cocktail. As the house lit up behind him, Hatch decided that Rose would need to write another letter. Maybe VanCleef could cut a deal with the goblins and offer Jerod’s business as part payment on the Brotherhood’s debt.

[Nedward Underhill]

Chapter 6

Crumbling embers pulsed and cracked as the dry wood spat sparks up into the thin mountain air. The small fire still gave off a comfortable heat, the meal was done, and an evening chill was coming on. Robbyn was surprised and pleased. Though he wasn’t one to draw attention to his accomplishments, he felt the rough meal had been particularly good. Copper leaned against the base of a nearby tree, staring off down into the distance with a satisfied expression on her face. Robbyn puttered about, scraping and cleaning the dishes as best he could with rationed water. Who knew? Maybe he had discovered something he could be good at.

The General had never approved of his sons learning to cook, so Robbyn had never been taught. There were military cooks, to be sure, but his boys were to have higher aspirations. A servant’s place was in the kitchen, not a leader of men. That was not to say that the General did not appreciate good food. In fact, not only did he enjoy a good meal, he prided himself in having one of the better kitchens in all of Stormwind. He and Robbyn’s mother would regularly hold dinner parties for the officers, usually complimented with expensive wines. Even without company the Jonathans never lacked for food. The trouble was that, because of Robbyn’s weight, the General would always be quietly scrutinizing the portions that Robbyn helped himself to. If Robb took too much, or asked for seconds, or ate too greedily, he would invariably be quietly confronted by the General with a loaded question such as, “how much exercise today, Robbyn?”

Well, he certainly had been getting enough exercise these days, Robbyn thought dryly. He wondered if he had lost any weight. He and Copper had been walking all day up into the hills, following a rough map that Abercrombie had drawn for them that showed a secret way through the mountains. With luck they would make it to the Duskwood Road in another two day’s time. From there it was a half-day’s walk up the road to the town of Grand Hamlet. Almost two day's journey saved by travelling through the mountains. Robbyn couldn’t wait to be back in the safety of town, not to mention sleeping in a proper bed again. He and Copper had planned to leave at first light but had not managed to get away until almost midday, and so they had pressed hard, trying to put as many leagues as they could behind them before night fell. They were both weighed down with proper provisions for the journey, and with the added weight of Robbyn’s mail, he had been puffing and sweating copiously. Robbyn knew he was carrying the lion’s share, but he didn’t mind. He was stronger and it felt good to be useful.

In the end, they had stayed three days with Abercrombie. Visions of the nightmarish attack by the Flesh Eaters still made Robbyn shudder but, curiously, it had actually brought the three of them together in a strange way. As they had sat in the house waiting for the unnatural storm to pass, Abercrombie had quietly started to answer their questions and explained everything to the best of his ability. It didn’t all make sense. Abercrombie’s mind had been forever twisted and broken by his grief and sometimes he would just ramble off incoherently. But, even despite the frustration of these lapses, Robbyn’s heart went out to the old hermit for all that he had been through. Even Copper softened towards him. By morning, they were sitting around and laughing about the look on Abercrombie’s face when Robbyn launched him over the table. The transformation was more than strange, but it was good.

From what Abercrombie told them, Robbyn pieced together that a plague had come to Raven Hill a few years back, possibly the very same that had come before the armies of the undead rose up against them in the Third War. The thought was horrifying. The Scourge’s dread plague was the most terrible weapon humanity had ever faced. No one knew how exactly it was spread, or how to avoid becoming infected. All that was known was that once contracted, it quickly spread throughout the victim’s body, eating them away from the inside. Death would inevitably come within weeks, if not days. There was no cure. There had not been a lot of medical research on the plague, for it was apparently extremely contagious. What scientific study there was, was primarily based upon anecdotal reports from soldiers and the few wartime survivors who were willing to speak about it. The writings Robbyn had seen described a myriad collection of conflicting symptoms: burning fever, blindness, cracking skin, internal bleeding, cold sweats, lesions, madness, numbness, frothing mouths, bruising, discolouration of the skin, and disfigurement. The lists went on an on, each writer making vague assertions of how the plague might be fought. According to the army, the only real solution was to quarantine the infected, and to burn the bodies of the dead. During the war, great pyres of the dead had been burnt as the humans fought desperately to survive. In some cases entire cities had been sacked and burned to the ground. For if the bodies were not burned, they would rise up from their graves, transformed by the plague into hideous monstrosities like the Flesh Eaters that had attacked Robbyn and Copper.

Humanity had barely survived the Third War. When the plague came, it was terrible. There was no warning, and no way of knowing the horrible enemy that they faced. Grief-stricken survivors were killed and sometimes devoured by their dead loved ones, risen up from the grave and shambling forward with inhuman strength and power. These undead creatures became the armies of the Scourge, mindless in their own right but somehow bent and devoted to their masters’ terrible purposes. Armies could not fight the plague, and the men and women would die in their armour, only to rise up to strengthen the advancing armies of their implacable enemy. In the end, it was only by the alliance of all mortal races that the dark magics of the undead Scourge had finally been stopped. Even so, Lordaeron and its surrounding lands remained forever lost. By all reports, the distant north was a broken wasteland, permanently infected with a wasting blight that corrupted all life.

Robbyn had been told that the soldiers that were interred at the Raven Hill memorial were only those that were safe from the taint. Possibly they had been. Abercrombie told them that a dark necromancer named Morbent Fel had taken up residence in the Duskwood Forest. Abercrombie had discovered the warlock’s dwelling as he had foraged for herbs in the forest a few years back. He claimed that only after Morbent Fel arrived did the forest start to turn sick and die, and believed that the necromancer’s dark magic had been used to bring forth a the dead from the Raven Hill cemetery.

Where Robbyn and Copper were perched, the air was thin and clear. But down below them, a dull fog crept and hung over the vast expanse of the Duskwood Forest. It seemed to pour out from a spot far to the southwest, near to where the remains of Raven Hill would lie. Abercrombie believed that Morbent Fel could cast out dark clouds such as the one that they had experienced. Under the shadow of the necromancer’s storm clouds came the living dead. Abercrombie told them that shortly after he and Eliza had escaped Raven Hill, he had watched as pitch-black clouds had billowed out to cover the town. When Abercrombie had gone back to check on the town, he had found Raven Hill ripped apart. There would be no going to Raven Hill for Copper and Robbyn. The undead had killed everyone and destroyed everything. The town was simply gone.

*****

Robbyn never did see what became of Eliza. It seemed pretty evident that Eliza had fallen victim to the same corruption that had infected the other denizens of Duskwood, but Abercrombie would not hear it. He maintained that she wasn’t dead, and they didn’t press him on it. After all, it was clear that the old man’s false belief seemed to be the last thread of hope left to him. Over and over he told them that she just wasn’t herself, and that she just needed to live underground. He didn’t explain why, other than that the sun burned her. Apparently on moonless nights she would rise up and ravage the house and yard, sometimes wandering off to hunt in the woods while Abercrombie hid inside with the dogs. By morning her rampage would be over, and she would have dug herself back into the soft soil of her grave.

When Robbyn asked him about the pickled hearts, Abercrombie replied that it was part of Eliza’s ‘treatment.’ He was fanatically devoted to the idea that he would one day cure her of her illness. Back when she first broke out of her bonds and escaped, he had followed a trail of carcasses to finally find her in the woods. Apparently, each one had had the chest ripped open and the heart devoured. Robbyn was sick at the thought, but Abercrombie related the facts as if it were normal. He claimed that the heart had fantastic healing properties, and that Eliza’s horrific behaviour was just a symptom of her trying to heal herself by consuming the hearts of her victims. He then told them that he periodically hunted with the dogs and brought the bodies of the slaughtered beasts back to his workshop for study and use. He had designed a ‘treatment’ regime for Eliza that involved dissecting the hearts of the beasts he killed and then injecting them with various potions and distilled herbs to enhance their naturally regenerative properties. When he knew it would be a new moon, Abercrombie would take out a bottle and leave it beside Eliza’s grave for her to consume when she “woke up.” Robbyn skin crawled at the thought and he was uncomfortably aware of the broken bottle that he had buried in Eliza’s grave, but he said nothing.

As for the sunken stone workshop, Abercrombie volunteered little. Robbyn gleaned that the building was the last remnants of an ancient fort or garrison, and may at one point have served as a defensive installation. Abercrombie had chosen the location for his home because he could be safe from the townsfolk who he claimed might have been chasing him. Though small and dark, it had served as a temporary dwelling while he build the house by hand. With the ever-growing numbers of walking dead that spread out from the Raven Hill burial grounds, Abercrombie had in fact retreated underground for safety on a few occasions. The old man got very agitated when they asked what he was working on in there. But every day, he would quietly slip out of the house and go lock himself inside of his workshop for hours, working at something. It was clear that the workshop was where Abercrombie performed his dissections. Robbyn decided that he didn’t want to know anyway, and stopped asking.

Other times, Robbyn heard Abercrombie off in the woods by Eliza’s grave, talking. Apparently, she was back “home” underground. Robbyn was simultaneously terrified and fascinated by the grave in the woods and its fearsome inhabitant. He did not eavesdrop, but as he worked in the yard he could not help hearing the old man’s rambling voice in the woods. It seemed that Abercrombie engaged in conversations with Eliza while she lay in her grave. The hermit’s wild mutterings would stop and start as if he were listening to a silent response and answering. Curious, Robbyn asked Abercrombie if Eliza talked to him. The old man fixed him with a stunned expression before saying, “Of course!” Abercrombie had then volunteered that, “’Liza’s not good with strangers,” but that she had said that would leave Robbyn and Copper alone as long as they left her alone. Robbyn’s throat had gone dry and Copper had had to rescue him by putting in, “Don’t worry. We’re not staying long.” Abercrombie had nodded, evidently satisfied.

Abercrombie was temperamental, and not always easy to understand, but there were certain themes to his ramblings that he kept coming back time and again. He was consumed with hatred for Mayor Ello Ebonlocke and his brutish Night Watch, who he blamed for dooming the town of Raven Hill and for destroying Abercrombie and Eliza's life together. He was terrified of the woods and the living dead. He raged against the foul powers of Morbent Fel and his corruption of the forest. But over and above them all was Abercrombie’s devotion to his wife. The smallest thing would set him off reminiscing about the lost glories of the past and the love that they shared. Sometimes the thread of the narrative would break down as the hermit lost himself in wild uncontrollable laughter, but he might just as easily start weeping inconsolably. More often, however, his mind would simply wander off and the words would fade away, leaving the meaning hanging and unresolved. Robbyn had to listen very carefully to follow the train of thought, and it broke his heart to see what had happened to the poor old man.

Copper did not have Robbyn’s patience. She figured out that Abercrombie had a stash of skins somewhere, pointed out that Robbyn needed new clothes, and volunteered that she could work leather. To Robbyn’s surprise, that evening Abercrombie brought a stack of tanned hides back from the workshop. It was obviously very hard for the old man to part with his stash, but he gave them up, along with a pile of threading. After that, when Abercrombie started off on one of his narratives, Copper would go outside and busy herself working the leathers into an outfit for Robbyn. Her hands were very good, and fast, and before long she had made for him clothes that fit like a glove. Robbyn was amazed. When they were done she tossed them roughly into his arms and said, “Get dressed. I’m tired of looking at your fat ass.” A tear welled in Robbyn’s eye as she stalked away; he was so touched by her kindness.

They did what they could to repay Abercrombie before they left. The old man insisted that the scattered remains of the Flesh Eaters ripped apart by Eliza were no longer contagious, but Robbyn could not get up the courage to gather them together to be burned. Instead, he went and gathered the logs and kindling for the bonfire. Then, while Copper and Abercrombie tossed the strangely bloodless remains on the fire to burn, Robbyn fled off into the forest to cut down a fair sized tree. He used Abercrombie’s double-handled saw and worked at making replacement boards to fix the broken table and the damage to the house, all the while trying desperately to ignore the stench of burning flesh. Abercrombie tossed on the fire some kind of herb to cut the smoke, but they still watched the sky carefully for another dark cloud and they slept fitfully that night. Robbyn and Copper slept next to each other on the floor, in beds fashioned out of the scattered clothes. When he quietly asked Copper how she got up the courage to handle the dead, she just shrugged and said it had to be done. She didn’t criticize, but he heard unspoken condescension in her tone and, not for the first time, Robbyn wished he were as brave and fearless as her.

On the second day they took a journey to the tiny remnants of a mountain stream that still trickled down a few hours walk from the house. They filled as many jugs as they could carry and lugged them back to the house. It was exhausting, but Abercrombie was very appreciative. He told them that it was impossible to get the cart to the water, and now he and Eliza would be set for months. Robbyn started to ask if Eliza drank water, but Copper shot him a look and he took the hint. Better just to let it go. Robbyn also offered Abercrombie gold, and though the old man grumbled, “Where would we ever use it?” surprisingly, he accepted. Robbyn was glad. He knew that they could never fully repay Abercrombie for his strange kindness, but he told himself that someday Abercrombie might accept that Eliza was forever lost and then return to society. Or, who knows, he thought, maybe Abercrombie would find a cure. Who knew what was possible?

Finally, they were ready to leave. Abercrombie told them that due south the woods were infested with gargantuan spiders, half the size of a man, and told them to use the mountains to get to the main road. He mapped a path for them and sent them on their way with proper travelling provisions, even some of the precious water. Robbyn asked Abercrombie to come with them, but the hermit was adamant that he could not leave his wife. In their brief time together, Robbyn had somehow become very fond of the crazy old man, and his handshake somehow turned into a teary-eyed hug. After that, they all stood around uncomfortably for a few moments before Copper said that they needed to get going, and she and Robbyn started up into the mountains. The last Robbyn saw of Abercrombie, the old man was shambling off toward Eliza’s grave.

*****

Copper helped herself to the bottle of moonshine that was sitting beside her, then wiped her lips with her arm and held out the bottle towards Robbyn. “Swig?”

“No thanks.” Robbyn had gotten out two rough metal mugs from their packs when Copper had brought out the bottle. She had filled his glass but then just tipped the bottle up to her lips. As they ate she had offered the bottle to him a few times and each time he had refused. He wasn’t that thirsty. Besides, it was pretty strong. Robbyn was amazed that Copper could down it so casually.

Robbyn scraped the pan as best he could and laid it out to dry, then went over to check the shelter. Back at Abercrombie’s, Copper had taken all the leather scraps she could find and had sewn them into a large quilt. As they set camp, they had stripped the branches from three small trees, tied the tops together, and wrapped the quilt around the trees to make a shelter against the wind. Inside, they had gathered moss and leaves to make a bed and spread out the bearskin pelt Abercrombie had given them. It was rough, but would be comfortable enough for one night.

Copper brought him up short with a backhanded, “You checked it three times, Robb. It aint going anywhere.”

Robbyn blushed and stood for a moment wondering what he could do next. Everything was done. Too bad he didn’t have a book to read. Maybe they would have a library at Grand Hamlet.

“You gonna wear your armour all night?”

Robbyn looked down. The ruined chainmail leggings he had left behind with Abercrombie and he wore the leather pants Copper had made for him. However, he was wearing his breastplate, and his gloves, helmet, and mace hung heavily from his waist. All told, it was probably thirty pounds of metal. It gave him comfort to have it on. Still, he supposed Copper was right. He wasn’t going to sleep in his armour and could put it close by.

“Sorry.” Robbyn removed his things and tucked them inside the shelter, then rolled his shoulders to get the kinks out. Turning back around, he noticed that Copper was watching him. He flushed, aware of how his substantial gut was now hanging out, and stammered, “W-what?”

“Nothin’. You know you apologize too much?”

“S-sorry.”

She regarded him coolly. Her eyes were dark and huge in the twilight. Then she turned back to look off into the distance. “Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

“Actually, I just started.”

Copper turned back to him, obviously surprised. “Really?”

“Yes. The Gen…my f-father didn’t think I should learn.”

“Why the blight not?”

Robbyn shrugged and poked at the fire. “I’m not sure. He had high hopes for me, I guess.”

“High hopes?” Copper was incredulous. “High hopes somehow means you can’t cook?”

“Umm…that is…I mean, he w-wanted me to be an officer, not a c-cook. Maybe he thought I ate too much.”

“Light! That’s just blighting perfect. Boy Jonathan can’t get his hands dirty. Can’t be one of the common men, that it? You’re telling me that an officer is not a good leader if he can make sure that his soldiers are well fed? How well do you think that they will fight without food, Robb?”

“It’s w-wasn’t my idea…”

Copper turned away angrily. “Blighting Stormwinders.”

Robbyn didn’t know what to say. Copper finished off the bottle of moonshine and tossed it aside. Finally, Robbyn mustered up his courage and said, “Have you lived your entire life an outlaw?”

“Basically. Ever since I was a small child, anyway.”

“W-was it hard?”

“What the blight do you think? No, it was a bed of roses living underground, surrounded by cutthroats and thieves.”

“Sorry. St-stupid question.”

“Bah. Not your fault,” she said, softening. “You’ve just grown up soft, pampered in the city. Do you even have any idea what’s going on with the Resistance?”

Robbyn knew he didn’t. He didn’t even know what she was talking about. “You mean the…the Defias?”

“That name is a lie. There’s no ‘Brotherhood of the Defias.’ It was like a joke, based on the way the prince slurred his words when he was five.”

Robbyn was stunned. Now that she said it, he could hear the voice of the child-King crying out “Defias” in his mind. King Anduin Wrynn was twelve years old and still had something of a lisp. It was worse when he was younger. A few years ago, Robbyn remembered hearing about the young king shouting out “they defy us” repeatedly in the throne room, much to the amusement of the assembled nobility. The boy had thought it wonderful to be so funny. King Anduin Wrynn had been crowned while still an infant, when his father, the former King Varian Wrynn, had disappeared. The General was loyal to the boy-King, of course, but the fact was that he was too young to make any real decisions. Fortunately, the Crown was guided by the Lady Katrana Prestor, an uncompromisingly firm but extremely insightful noblewoman who acted as High Counsellor to the King. It was not publicly known, but the General generally took commands from the Lady Katrana or her High Council. The child-King merely signed the writs. Under her capable guidance, young King Anduin was sure to grow to be a shrewd leader one day.

“If you are not the Defias, then w-what are you called?”

Copper looked back at him coolly. After a long moment she seemed to make a decision, then answered, “Just…the Resistance. The People’s Resistance.”

“The People’s Resistance,” Robbyn repeated. He wondered what had she decided not to say.

“Copper, do you remember telling me that no one paid the Great Tax?” he said, changing the subject.

Copper nodded.

“Did the…Resistance…refuse to pay the Tax for some reason?”

“I told you before…no one paid it. How much do you know about the Stormwind nobles, Robb?”

Robbyn shrugged. “I see them… I mean I used to see them around. My family wasn’t nobility, if that is wh-what you are asking.”

“I figured that out already. They ever strike you as poor? Needy? Unable to feed themselves or to clothe their children?”

“Umm, no. They’re pretty rich, mostly.”

“Pretty rich,” Copper echoed, sarcastically. “Robb, ‘pretty rich’ is…you need a new horse and you just go and buy it. ‘Pretty rich’ is buying a new suit of clothes every week and not worrying if you will have enough silver to make it through the winter. You sure that’s the word you mean?”

“Alright. Alright. Very rich.”

“Rotting flesh, Robbyn! Those blighting nobles build new castles for themselves on a whim, and then don’t live in them. They go and buy every scrap of mageweave for sale at auction just to commission a new style of undergarments for their mistresses that none of their buddies’ mistresses will have. You ever seen a noble do a scrap of work?”

Robbyn found it hard to talk to Copper when she was agitated. “S-s-sometimes?”

“Really. Really work? Get their hands dirty?”

“W-well, not exactly, I guess.”

Copper grunted and nodded, satisfied. “I wish I could open your eyes. Robb, there are people, commoners mind – the kind that cook their own blighting food? – who work themselves into their graves trying to make a decent life for their children. And failing, mind you, ’cause of the blighting Stormwind nobles and their blighting taxes. Why are we paying their taxes? What do we get for our money? Respect? Justice? Courtesy even?” Robbyn knew they were rhetorical questions. He kept his mouth shut. Copper continued, “Fact is, I know there was enough gold in the King’s treasury to build that blighting city three times. The money was set aside before the work ever began! The Stormwinder’s Levy was…” Copper trailed off for a second, trying to find the right word to express her outrage. “The Levy was a light-cursed evil act, Robb. No other way to describe it. It was a weapon, designed to weed out the strong, to break the will of the people, and to keep them destitute, weak, and dependant.”

For a second, Robbyn just stared at Copper. Her cheeks were flushed and she spoke with such passion that it was clear that she was absolutely convinced that what she said was the truth. But what she was saying was crazy. Finally, he asked, “If w-what you say is true, how have I never heard of any of this?”

“You’ve been raised on lies, Robbyn. You can’t grow up in Stormwind and see the truth.” She raised her arm and pointed down below them to the noxious fog corrupting the Duskwood Forest. “If you ask me, the cloud of lies sitting over the capital makes that forest look like a joke.”

After a full day of walking, they were pretty high up in the mountains, and the evening chill was coming on as the sun went down. Copper stood up and padded over to sit next to him at the small fire. She wobbled slightly, showing the effects of the moonshine. Robbyn sat puzzling things out in his mind.

“You are nothing like I imagined,” he said.

Copper casually reached over and took the stick he was poking the fire with out of his hands. Her hands were rough but light and dextrous as they rubbed against his, and he hardly even knew what was happening before it was gone. “You’re driving me crazy with that,” she said, tossing the stick into the fire. She held up a finger threateningly. “And don’t apologize!”

The apology died on his lips. “I mean, I always imagined that the D…the Resistance w-was… sort of like…w-well, like criminals, I guess. Not committed to j-justice, like you are.”

The moonshine had clearly loosened her tongue. “You see? That’s just what I’m talking about,” she said, a hint of slur in her speech. “Did you ever stop and think about it? Why would our people choose to live in the Dagger Hills and to lurk about broken-down farms without proper water or decent supplies? And what kind of farmer is going to pick a fight with the Stormwind army?”

“When you put it like that, I guess you’d have to be pretty crazy…or I guess you’d have to believe in what you were fighting for. But...what do you w-want? To conquer Stormwind and kill all the nobles?”

Copper threw back her head and laughed musically. “I wish! No. Listen; can you imagine a bunch of farmers storming the capital? Climbing the walls? Breaking down the gates? With what?! Blighting throwing knives and rusted swords? We might as well just line ourselves up for the hangings.”

“So…then w-what?”

Copper seemed to have lost interest in the discussion. “Ah…it don’t matter.” She tipped drunkenly and waved a hand dismissively at him.

“No, really! I need to understand w-what it is you are fighting for.”

Copper fixed him with a long look. When she answered, her pattern of speech took on a strange singsong quality. Her statements were quick and short, and between them she would pause, as if letting the meaning settle in before moving on. She had either heard or said this speech many times before, and knew it by wrote. “We have a document. It’s called a ‘Writ of Rights.’ It sets out rights that every person should have. That every person should be able to take for granted. These are ‘presumptive rights.’ You are right to presume that you have them. Freedom, dignity, law, morality, security, expression. These are the rights we give our children. These are the rights we give our neighbours and our friends. And yet, we do not enjoy them ourselves. For they have been denied to us. But we will not be denied. Because these rights are worth fighting for. Because these rights are worth dying for. And we will die, if we have to. We will die fighting for our rights. For if we do not have these rights, we are not yet alive...”

Despite himself, Robbyn’s heart was racing, just listening to her. Her voice had risen in volume as she spoke and when she stopped it echoed off into the distance. For a moment they sat in silence. Then she said, dismissively, “There’s a barge-load more, but I’m tired and drunk…and it’s time for the sack.” She got up and moved off towards the shelter. Over her shoulder, she asked, “Coming?”

Robbyn felt a lump in his throat as he turned to watch her. She was already unstringing her leather jerkin as she walked and, likely on account of the booze, her hips swayed more than usual. The fact that they would be sleeping together had been in the back of his mind all night, but Robbyn had been trying to not think about it. Back at Abercrombie’s they had slept next to each other, and he tried to tell himself that it was really no different here, without success. His body told him that it was one thing to sleep beside Copper on the floor of the shack with the dogs all about and the old man in the bed nearby, and another thing entirely to sleep next to her in the little leather shelter, alone. He took a breath and tried to answer her casually, but on his first try all that came out was a squeak. Blushing furiously, Robbyn corrected himself, “I mean…in a b-b-bit. I’m enjoying the sunset.”

“Suit yourself, liar.”

She disappeared inside. For a few minutes Robbyn stared out at the darkening sunset that spread over the grassy plains of Westfall in the distance. It was, in fact, spectacularly beautiful. But he could hardly pay attention to it.

“Copper?” he called out, a few minutes later.

Her voice floated sleepily out from the darkness of the shelter. “Mmm?”

“If you believe in the Resistance so much, w-why is Hatch trying to kill you?”

There was a pause. Then, “If Hatch had wanted to kill me, I’d be dead. No, he was just an errand boy, come to take me back ’cause I ran away from home.”

“You left the Resistance?” Even with all the new information Copper had just given him, Robbyn’s heart leapt at the thought that she might have defected from the Defias.

There was a long pause. Then, out of the shelter came Copper’s slurred and sleepy voice, “Robb, either come in and bed me, or blighting shut up.”

Robbyn’s breathing stopped. Suddenly his heart was racing and he had broken out into a cold sweat. For a second he could not believe his ears. Surely he had not heard her right! But in his head, her words repeated over and over in his mind like a mocking echo. She was drunk and had just invited him to do…that. He had never. His mouth soundlessly opened and closed. Copper was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. What was wrong with him? She could not have made it easier! But, for some reason, he just could not do anything. He was terrified. His head fell into his hands as he sat helplessly transfixed, unable to go to her. Time ticked past agonizingly; too much time. The moment was lost. Copper would have fallen asleep. In fact, he never did respond. He just sat still as a stone, cursing himself for a fool and a coward in his mind, as the sun sank away and the cold night wind blew right through him.

* * * * *

[Nedward Underhill]

The next morning, they were both miserable. Copper on account of a splitting headache, and Robbyn because he had slept the night in his leathers and outside of the warmth of the bearskin pelt. As he stretched his aching muscles and hobbled out of the shelter, the light streamed in and Copper started cursing weakly. He apologized, then went off to relieve himself and think. When he returned she was up, but not happy about it. They broke camp in silence. Robbyn tried not to make eye contact and evidently Copper wasn’t keen to look at him either. Neither of them was hungry.

As they started off, Copper brought out a red cotton bandana from somewhere, wet it, and wrapped it around her head to cool it and to cover her eyes against the sharp morning light. Robbyn didn’t say anything, but he was taken aback. The red bandana was the signature of the Defias, but Copper had never worn it before. He hadn’t even known she had it. He knew he was probably being ridiculous, but it felt like she was telling him that she was offended that he even suggested she might have left the Resistance. She had just run away from ‘home,’ wherever that was. She was still very much a criminal, no matter how she carried on about rights and justice. All his life he had heard reports of what the Defias bandits did to innocent people. With his own eyes he had seen the houses burned, seen the terror in the eyes of the villagers when they were warned of Defias activity nearby, and seen fleeing Westfall refuges huddled together and destitute. For all he knew, everything Copper had told him was a lie. Her well-rehearsed speech about a ‘Writ of Rights’ sure sounded like a barker’s con, now that he had time to think about it in the light of day.

The Duskwood Mountains were old and worn, but they were real mountains none-the-less. Copper and Robbyn were above the tree line now, scrambling along treacherously steep slopes and next to sheer cliff walls. One misstep and they could well slip and fall hundred of yards down to a grisly death. Even with her hangover, Copper seemed to glide along sure-footedly without a fear in the world, while Robb inched and plodded along cautiously, sweating and anxious. Their progress was slow. The map that Abercrombie had scribbled was crude, and more than once they had to double back when it became clearly too dangerous. Robbyn was reading the map, so every time they lost their way it was his fault. Each time he would apologize uselessly as Copper scowled and led the way back, searching for another way.

The way was hard, and most of it uphill, and before long all Robbyn could think about was keeping one foot safely in front of the other. The unforgiving sun beat down upon them and soon he was drenched in sweat. The stiff mountain winds gusted, threatening to over-topple him and send him screaming over a precipice. More than once his fear became so great that Copper had to reach back and drag him forward like a reluctant mule. They did make progress, however, through slow and painful effort, and by midday they reached what appeared to be the summit of the path. At the crest, two great stone obelisks stood on either side of the grassy trail, like giant pointed teeth. As they passed through the stones, the vast expanse of the southern forest came into view beneath them. It was breathtaking. The mountains about them stood up old and grizzled, speaking of forgotten ages past. Before them, a deep verdant expanse spread off as far as the eye could see. On the distant horizon, Robbyn could just make out flashes of colour as the deep lustre of the Duskwood Forest slowly transitioned into the more colourful hues of the tropical Stranglethorn Vale. A bird of prey circled lazily off in the distance, scanning for its next meal.

There, in the shade of the massive stone teeth, they stopped and rested. Robbyn eased off the heavy provisions with a muffled clank and sank down exhausted. The shade of the great stone felt good, and he leaned his head back and closed his eyes to catch his breath. When he opened them again, Copper was digging through the pack and fishing out provisions for lunch.

“Just give me a second,” he began, but she cut him off.

“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

He was too tired to argue. Still, he had planned their meals carefully, so as she fished about he could not helwwp saying, “We should have the left over…”

“…salt pork,” she finished. “And the raisins, the pickles, and some of the leafy herb the old man gave us.” Magically, she brought out all the provisions he had planned for the noon meal, along with the small wooden board that they used for a rough table. How had she known? He just nodded dumbly as she laid the food out, and then ducked back into the sack to get out their metal drinking glasses. A small mountain stream sprang up from a hidden source nearby and ran lightly down the grassy slope before falling off down the mountain in a delicate spray. Clinking the mugs together, and giving him what might have been a wink, Copper rose up and went off to the steam to fill their glasses and re-wet her bandana. Robbyn just stared at after her, stupefied. How had she known?

Copper had borrowed Robbyn’s fishing knife at some point and was carrying it in her second scabbard. Returning, she brought it out and started chopping and separating the provisions into two piles on the wooden board, a large one for him and a small one for her. Robbyn shifted over and thanked her as she handed him his water. For a few minutes they just ate and quietly stared out over the majestic panorama. It was simple fare, but Robbyn’s spirits rose as he ate.

Copper broke the silence. “Mostly downhill now, looks like.”

Robbyn nodded. He was glad. The last day had been hard, but it would be easier now. “How far to the road, do you think?” He pulled out the map out of his back pocket and looked at it while he ate.

Copper moved around the table to sit beside him. “Hard to say. Can’t see it from here, but if this scribble,” she pointed her finger to a sketch on the map, “…is that ridge,” she pointed the knife off at a ridge of low hilltops running a few leagues off beneath them, “then should be about a day, I guess.”

Robbyn agreed, but he kept studying the map and scanning the horizon anyway. Partly because he enjoyed reading maps and partly because Copper was making him nervous, sitting so near.

Out of the blue, Copper said, “You’re old man’s the General?”

Robbyn looked quickly over at her but she was looking away into the distance. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Figured.” Her voice was bland and her face was inscrutable. “Can’t be that many Jonathans, after all.”

“Actually, there are six recorded Jonathan families in the four provinces. Seven, if you include ‘Johnathan’…w-with an ‘h,” he explained. “None are related to us, though.”

Copper turned and looked at him curiously.

“There’s been a registry of families maintained by the library since the Third War,” he explained. “It’s quite fascinating reading, actually.”

Copper went back to eating, and Robbyn wondered if he had said something wrong. Finally, she exclaimed, “Light! Did you spend your whole blighting childhood at the library?”

Robbyn blushed. “Kind of, I guess.” He had used the library as an escape from home. What he said was, “It’s just that there are so many interesting things there.” That was true as well.

“I would have figured you more of a fighter, what with your size and all.”

Robbyn sighed. “I know. That’s w-what the General wanted. But I’m too much of a c-coward.”

“The General? You mean your da?”

Robbyn laugh nervously at the idea of calling the General ‘da.’ “W-we always called him the General. Well…umm…actually we answered him ‘Sir,’ but everyone refers to him as ‘the General.’ He is kind of formal that way.”

“So you and your old man didn’t get on?”

“Oh, it w-wasn’t that. W-we never fought or anything. It’s just…umm…I don’t really w-w-want to talk about it, if that’s alright.”

Copper made a noncommittal noise in her throat and shrugged. “You gonna eat that?” she asked, pointing with her knife at the last pickle in front of him. When he shook his head and replied, “Go ahead,” she reach across and skewered it, then started munching away. After a minute or so, she asked, “Your old man tell you that you’re a coward?”

Robbyn remembered all the times that the General had barked at him not to be a coward during sparring sessions and nodded, but said, “Actually, it was more in the w-way he looked at me. He didn’t need to t-tell me, after all. I already knew.”

“Sounds like a piece of work.”

“Oh, no. It w-wasn’t him. I know you probably hate him, but he’s really a good man. A g-great man, actually.” It was hard for Robbyn to defend the General to Copper, but he ploughed ahead anyway. “He has done so much for the people of Stormwind…for all the p-provinces. He w-works all the time. You have no idea. He’s the General and High Commander, and no one ever gave anything to him. He has had to work for everything he has earned. Originally, his family was from a small town in Alterac, way up north. His father was just a private in the army, and his mother was at home. They never had much. The General...my father…didn’t have any formal education. At fifteen he enlisted, which was underage even then. His mother didn’t approve, but I guess his father didn’t t-tell on him, because he didn’t get caught. He learned how to fight while on active duty. He worked night and day, and he soon outstripped his father’s rank. In the war, he became corporal, then sergeant. At night, and when there was no more work to be done, he taught himself how to read out in the field, reading the Book of Light. His father was killed in the line of duty, and his mother was killed when the Scourge attacked his hometown and destroyed it. He never told me exactly, but I think he was there w-when his father died. He might have been his father’s commanding officer by that time, I don’t know. I have always imagined him holding his f-father as he died…” Robbyn trailed off in thought. After a moment, he collected himself and continued, “Anyway, the Gen…my father lost all his family during the war. I have no aunts or uncles or anything. I looked into the registry to see if I could find any living relatives, b-but there are none. None recorded, anyway.

“The General is not a scholar, but he is b-brilliant when it comes to fighting and w-war. He has never lost a campaign. During the war, soldiers started pledging allegiance to him, even though he was not a noble. By the end of the war, he w-was a General. But even after the w-war ended, he kept working. There was the reconstruction, and the ongoing incursions of Horde throughout the Eastern Kingdom, and keeping the King’s peace, of course.” And the Defias, Robbyn thought, but he did not say it out loud. “He never has enough troops, or officers for that matter, and has to do a lot of the w-work himself. Every day he gets up before dawn, and is gone until sundown. Usually he stays up at night meeting with officers or working in his study until long after everyone is asleep.

“He has w-worked night and day not only to get where he has, but also to make sure that my brother and I had every opportunity that he did not. He got me the b-best tutors, and trained me to fight himself. It is true that he is a hard man. But it’s because he expects perfection from himself, from him men, and from us too. Long ago, he told me that there are no excuses for f-failure. Failure is a choice. I know he is right. I know that he drove us hard to make us as great as he is, but…well, I guess I made the w-wrong choice somewhere. I…umm…”

Talking about his failure was hard, and Robbyn felt his tongue thickening in his mouth. He looked away. He really had not meant to say so much to Copper, but once he had gotten started he had just rambled on out of control. Copper wouldn’t believe a word of it, of course. To her the General was just an evil heartless bastard, bent on killing her people. He sighed. Copper said nothing. The sun shone down upon them brightly, and the wind played around them, sometimes pushing them apart, sometimes together. Finally, with a small grunt, he got up and started packing the bags. They would never get to the road sitting around and being maudlin. She stood as well, and then surprised him by adjusting the heavy bag on his back so it would sit lighter. When she was done, he turned towards her and muttered thanks. She stood in front of him for a second, regarding him with those steely eyes. They dug into him, but for once he did not look away. After a second, she reached up and slapped him in the face, but softly, and muttered something disparaging under her breath.

Unfortunately, contrary to what he had hoped, the way down was not easier than the way up. True, he was not lugging three hundred and fifty pounds of flesh, supplies, and armour uphill, but now all that weight threatened to hurl itself down the side of the mountain at Robb’s every step. In addition, while the paths of the day before might have been just as steep, when coming up Robbyn could choose not to look down. Now he had to see the danger facing them, and the ground seemed to drop off at a perilous rate. A slope looks worst from the top. The path, when they were on it, was steep and littered with rocks and loose stones that would give way suddenly. When they lost their way, the ground became insanely sheer. Repeatedly they found themselves standing at the top of an almost vertical slope, poring over the map and trying to determine if they had lost their way or if they really had to risk breaking their necks stumbling and sliding down. And on more than one occasion they finally decided to continue, clambered awkwardly down, only to discover that they had in fact been wrong. Then they were faced with the added task of climbing back up to find another way. Robbyn found himself spending a good deal of time wearing out the leather on his rear.

They travelled down and the first small trees rose up to greet them. It was both a blessing and a curse. They would not have been able to make any progress in some places but for the fact that they could grab onto the stems and branches, but the small trees and bushes also blocked their passage, whipped at them, and sometimes broke off in their hands to send them skidding down precipitously. Hidden roots jutted up to trip them. On one particularly steep decline, Copper was following behind Robbyn, helping spread out the weight of the pack, when he forgot to warn her about a protruding root. She, and the weight of the pack, had suddenly lurched into him and the two of them had crashed headlong through a half-dozen small trees before skidding to a painful halt. They had both been scraped up pretty badly, and several of Abercrombie’s pickling jars had broken in the fall, forcing them to stop and empty everything out of the bags and repack. Their supplies were soaked and smelled like vinegar. Still, it could have been a lot worse.

Also, as they travelled down, the oppressive darkness of the old forest began to envelop them again. The southern part of the Duskwood Forest did not have the ever-present feeling of sickness and corruption as the west did near Raven Hill. All the same, the forest cover closed above them and the half-light and shadows pressed in upon them. Robbyn found himself thinking that if forests had personalities, this one would be like an old man on the edge of town who didn’t want kids like them tromping through his property. He asked Copper what she thought about it, but she just replied that he had a too active imagination. It wasn’t the trees they needed to worry about. That reminded him about the wolves he had met, and the spiders Abercrombie had mentioned, and he began looking around nervously. Copper was right about his too active imagination. Still, it almost felt like the forest was pushing them this way and that, as the way forward became impassable repeatedly and they had to veer off from their path. Being cut off from the sun made it difficult to be sure that they were even staying on course. As the evening came on, the speckled shimmer in the leaves above them faded, and still they had not made it to the low ridge that they had seen from the peak. They both knew that something was wrong, but neither said anything for a long time, just tromping ahead stubbornly, following the land upward. Robbyn got out the map and squinted at it again.

Copper scowled at him. “Blood and bile, Robb. Looking at that useless thing wont help.”

“W-we’re lost, Copper.” There. He had said it.

“You think I don’t blighting know that already?! It’s this Light-cursed forest!” Copper angrily sliced off a long branch hanging in front of her. “If only I could get out into the open…”

But Copper’s voice was cut off by a low sound like thunder, off in front of them. Only, as Robbyn suddenly broke out into a cold sweat, he realized that it wasn’t thunder. Thunder did not speak. It was too far off to make anything out for sure, but Robbyn had the distinct impression that the sound that they had just heard was some kind of language. Rather than one long rumble, the thunder came at them piecemeal, like great drums pounding in the distance. A moment later, a ripple of light cut though the leaves above and illuminated the ground around them. When the darkness returned a second later, Robbyn felt blind.

The first thing Robbyn saw when his eyes began to adjust was Copper’s sword, rippling purple in the darkness. It burned low, but her face was illuminated from below and long shadows played across her features. She stood transfixed, staring at the blade in her hands and waving it back and forth in wonder. A purple flame flickered along the strange metal of the blade, running along its surface and leaving the slightest slight wisp of a trail in its wake. Robbyn was speechless.

For a moment, Copper twisted the blade in her hands, then her face turned to Robbyn. “Let’s check it out.” Her voice rippled with exhilaration.

“Ah…C-C-Copper…I…”

But she was already gone. Up the hill in front of him she sprinted, fuelled by her excitement. The blade moved before her like a pale lantern. Robbyn had no choice. With a shuddering sigh, he hefted the sack higher on his back and started after her. The violet blade dwindled and Robbyn wanted to call out for her to slow down, but he was too afraid to speak. Off in the distance before them a terrible roar erupted, deeper than any animal sound. Robbyn did not want to see what could make such a sound. Copper’s blade disappeared over a rise in the land, and Robbyn hurried after her. The darkness pressed around him and he fought the urge to glance over his shoulder. When he reached the top of the hill he saw that it levelled out, and then rose up in a nearly sheer rock wall of about twenty feet high. Copper was already halfway up, the sword in her teeth as she searched out handholds and footholds. Robbyn groaned pathetically. There was no way he could climb that. He was a terrible climber.

Another great thunderous roar erupted over the top of the rock wall and a few seconds later a flash of lightning exploded, bathing everything in a harsh light for an instant. It was as if the very forces of nature had themselves become sentient with a terrible rage. The sound alone was enough to break a man’s spirit and send him fleeing for his life. Such sounds should not exist; they were a violation of the very laws of nature. Robbyn stood at the bottom of the cliff wall look up at Copper’s lithe form as she clambered the last few yards. She was insane! He called after her and begged her to come back. They should be running away, not heading towards the living thunder and lightning! But she ignored him and her legs disappeared over the top.

Now that he was close to the wall, he saw that it wasn’t exactly perpendicular. The rock face was cracked and broken, and he might be able to find purchase if he could just find the courage. Still, he would not be able to get anywhere carrying the huge pack of their supplies. Suddenly it occurred to him that Copper might not be herself. Clearly, there was something unnatural about that sword she carried. Perhaps it had affected her mind. She was running headlong into danger and she wasn’t herself. Perhaps the blade was cursed, and somehow lured its victims to their doom. He had to stop her before she got herself killed. Though terrified, he tossed off the heavy weight and started carefully up the wall. His arms ached and his heart raced, but he kept his mind focused on Copper and did not look down. Finally, with a gasp, he crawled over the top. Copper stood with her sword in her hand on top of the wall, transfixed with awe and wonder. As Robbyn stood up, her left hand reached out to him almost as if to steady herself, but her eyes never left the sight in the distance and a whispered stream of expletives poured out from her lips.

They were standing on a ridge of stone above the trees. The flat surface of the ridge was about ten feet wide and covered with a short growth of grass and weeds. Where it stopped, it appeared to fall back down the twenty feet to the forest floor. On either side of them the ridge arched away, almost as if monstrous stonemasons had formed a great wall or natural barricade out of the mountains in ages past. But Robbyn hardly had a moment to take in his surroundings. His eyes were drawn forward with Copper’s, off into the distance before them. As they watched, a great green-scaled serpentine head rose up to tower over the trees. Massive bat-wings flanked it, beating down angrily towards the forest floor. A storm seemed to swirl around it, and more lightning flashed out in jagged arcs to burn into the ground. Already, a forest fire was raging about the great beast. Robbyn’s mouth hung open slack-jawed. Before them was something that only existed in legend and in myth. But there could be no denying; not two leagues from them raged a living dragon. They stood together, Copper’s left hand resting forgotten against his arm. Before them the purple flame pulsed within the smooth surface of the shortsword as if the blade was breathing in time with the great beast before them.

Something was harrying the dragon from below, underneath the tree cover. Its massive scaled body rose up, exposing a brownish scaled underbelly, and long black claws came into view over the treetops. A moment later its body crashed down with a distant thud that sent a tremor through the ground beneath them. Its head shot forward and out of sight, only to emerge a moment later to toss something small and bloody across the treetops.

What in its right mind would attack a dragon? When that thought sank in, Robbyn realized that he and Copper were was only perhaps three days flight to the city. Less, to Goldshire or Grand Hamlet. It was still hard to believe that what they were seeing was real. One would think that if a dragon came so near to Stormwind that the whole countryside would be up in arms. Was he that out-of-touch after a mere few weeks away from home? How could that be possible?

Again the beast roared thunder and spat lightning at the ground. It turned about sharply and its great spiked tail swung into view, tossing flaming trees aside like kindling. Robbyn shivered at the thought of the valiant knights who might be in front of it, fighting for the King’s peace. It would take an army to fight much a monster.

Copper stared forward, a look of wild abandon in her eyes. Her lips were moist from licking them. Releasing him, she started forward again, but he placed a restraining hand upon her. “Blight!” she whispered. “Is it not the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”

Now Robbyn stared slack-jawed at Copper. Nothing came out from him but idiotic grunts. She was insane. How could she think that kind of dreadful menace was beautiful? All he could think of was that he was glad there were leagues between them and it!

Robbyn pulled on Copper’s arm, trying to get her away, but she brushed him off. “W-w-we b-b-better get...”

With a piercing shriek, the great winged serpent rose up into the air above the forest, its great green wings forcefully pumping the air and its long neck rising up to its full height. Its full body cleared the flaming trees and came into sight. From smouldering nostrils to the end of its spiked tail it must have been ten wagons long, and its great barrel chest must have been at least four wide. Its outstretched wings were as vast as a tourney field. It rose before them into the air and appeared to swell in size, if that were truly possible. Around its head swirled a great black mass, and it seemed to breathe in the storm clouds. Then its head whipped downward and the sky shook as a great wave of burning light spewed out of its mouth and down upon whatever was beneath it. It was so bright, Robbyn’s head instinctively turned away, his hand went up over his face, and his eyes blinked to stop the hurting. On and on without stopping the dragon’s breath continued, sending skittering shadows off in every direction. Then, finally, it faded and was gone. Robbyn rubbed his eyes and looked back towards the beast just in time to see its great wings furling back under the leaves, and its serpentine head sliding out of sight.

Copper was shaking, she was so beside herself. “By the Light, Robb! That was blighting amazing! Holy…” She gazed forward in wonder.

“D-d-do you think they k-killed it?”

“Are you blighting kidding me?! I don’t know who that was, but they are nothing but crispy snacks now. Man!”

She was definitely insane. But he had to agree that that last image did not look like the beast dying, unfortunately. With an icy chill, Robbyn suddenly wondered if the General had been one of the ones to challenge the beast. How could he not be? A threat like that right within the kingdom? They would have mustered every able-bodied man and woman. And Vatorio! He would have risen to the call of battle too, to defend the lands from such an enemy at their gates. No dispute could have kept him from doing his duty. Robbyn closed his eyes and started praying to the Light. Please, let there be survivors!

“Robb? What the wrong with you? Come on, it’s leagues away…”

A flash of anger shot through Robbyn, hot and deep. His eyes snapped open and now it was his turn to shake, though from anger, not excitement. “Copper, do you have any idea who w-would have challenged such a monster?”

“Idiots?”

“A d-dragon, not three days from Stormwind, right in the heart of Duskwood! Likely less that one day’s flight from the Hamlet? That kind of d-danger could not be ignored! There are innocent lives at stake. There are some w-who’s job it is to protect the innocent. W...we just w-witnessed a massacre! People, Copper. Knights and soldiers most likely. Dedicated to fight and die to p-p-protect this land. People like...my brother, my f-f-father…and you…y-you…” He was too angry to continue. Instead, he just turned away from her and started down the rock face. He was so angry in fact that he didn’t even feel terrified of the climb. When he got the bottom he hefted the pack roughly, then set off towards the south. He had no idea where he was going. It didn’t matter. Just so long as it was away from her.

“Robb, you are being ridiculous. A real dragon! Come on!” Copper kept up easily. Robbyn said nothing and just tromped along, seething. “Hey! Hey! Come on! Look!” Copper grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around to face her. She was standing close to him, and for the first time he realized that he towered over her by about a foot. There were tears on his face and he kept turning away from her, but she kept reaching up and pulling his face back to her. “Shadow take it! Robb, look at me!” Finally, she just held his face in place with her rough palms as he stood blowing air through his nose like a bull.

“What?” he demanded, turning his eyes back upon her.

“Look, you can’t just go storming off. We’ve got to stick together.”

“That’s it? That’s w-what you have to say to me?”

She stood for a moment in silence, and he was about to break away from her when she said slowly, as if she had to force the words out, “No. I…also wanted to say…I…wanted to say…thank you.” The words were curt, and cut off at the ends, but obviously sincere. Just like that, Robbyn’s anger evaporated. Instead, he was confused.

“Thank you?” he blurted.

She nodded, still holding onto his face with her hands. His arms hung limp at his sides. “I never did thank you for saving my life. Twice. Blight, I never…” She trailed off, and looked down. Then she blew out a long breath at his chest and continued, “You are something else, city boy. You…you’ve got a good heart. I’m just not…anyway…Look. What I’m trying to say is…what I’m trying to say…”

“It’s alright,” he interrupted. He didn’t need to hear her say she was sorry. “Maybe my imagination got carried away again,” he managed.

She let go of him slowly, almost reluctantly. “Maybe. Fact is, we have no blighting idea if any of your family was back there. Me, I think it’s pretty unlikely. But, you know, we can make inquiries when we get to town.”

Robbyn’s face was still warm from where she had touched him. Somehow, the forest didn’t seem so dangerous any more.

That night they talked about the sword. A great stone outcropping jutted out to hang over the ground, creating a small covered area where the ground was bare and free of the decay of leaves. Copper fashioned a windbreak out of two cut saplings and the leather quilt on one side and piled the cut branches, some leaves and a few stones on the other, and before long they had the rudiments of a shelter. Hopefully it would not rain in the night, for the water would run down to pool where they planned to sleep. Other than that, it was quite serviceable. Robbyn puttered around contentedly, breaking out the provisions and starting the fire. Their second night. Robbyn had planned a big meal, expecting their energy would be low after so much walking: potatoes with garlic oil, roast pork, pickled eggs (which Robbyn had salvaged after their fall and which had not yet gone bad), along with the leftover stew from last night (the bottle had cracked and the juice had leeched out, but the thick remains were still tasty), and even a bit of apple sauce which had miraculously survived the fall. Originally, he had thought they might also have a glass of the heavy moonshine with their meal, but Robbyn decided water was a better idea and left the last bottle tucked away.

Before long, they were sitting near to the fire, watching the roast crackle over the fire and relaxing. Abercrombie had given him two old beaten tin plates, and Robbyn doled out the feast and licked his fingers with pleasure. When it was ready, Copper insisted on cutting the roast, which was fine. She was is high spirits, and spontaneously showed him some slight of hand, making his old fishing knife magically appear from out of her sleeve. She was so good that even though he had her do it three times, he could not see how she did it. There was more food than they could eat which, in Robbyn’s opinion, was how it always should be. Copper agreed.

Copper had taken off the sword and it lay in its scabbard near to the fire, the dark metal of the quillons and at the base of the handle reflecting the light of the fire dully. She was obviously still pretty excited about the behaviour of the blade. She kept reaching over to unsheathe the blade to see if it still shone. But though he metal of the blade shone brightly, whatever had caused the unearthly fire was now gone. Robbyn just waited, hoping that she would start to talk about the sword, and finally, as the food settled in, she did.

“It was a present. From my da,” she began. The fire still burnt brightly, crackling, spitting sparks, and sending a trail of smoke up through the trees. Robb just washed and cleaned up quietly, not wanting to miss a thing. “My whole life I have trained to be a good with a blade. When I was little, I trailed along with my da, all over. I spent a lot of time in basements, attics, and barns. While he talked, I sat at the back and fiddled with knives. My old man, he could throw a knife like you wouldn’t believe and he saw that my hands were good too, I guess, so he let me do what I liked. There’s a game that the fellas play with knives, underground. Got it from the goblins, probably. The way it works, someone gets trussed up against a board, and then you throw knives at them. There’s different silver values for different places around the body. You know, like: twenty silver for next to the head? The game is pretty simple. You call your shot. You miss, you pay. You cut the person, you pay double. But if you hit the sweet spot, they pay. Each toss, the stakes are raised. First toss, one times; second toss, two times; and so on. Also, it matters how close. Touching the skin, without cutting, you double up...” Copper’s eyes flicked across the fire to take in Robbyn’s horrified face. “Robb, the mark volunteers. You can make a lot of coin that way. Anyway, you don’t need to know the details. The point is that it wasn’t long before I was playing, and winning too.

“When I was twelve, I started fighting in the pits. I figured my da didn’t know. It’s not approved of, anyway. Mostly it’s just, you know, sport, but sometimes fellas die.” Copper shrugged. “When I found out about the pits, I snuck out and watched a few. Then, before I knew it, someone had called me out, and I started fighting. I got cut up pretty bad sometimes, especially at the start, but my hands were good, and I was quick…and men always underestimate a woman.” She grinned wickedly.

“Did your father find out?”

“Turned out, he knew the whole time. Robb, do you believe in fate?”

Robbyn was startled by the question and didn’t know how to answer. “I guess so. The p-priests at the cathedral say that the Light has a design for each of us…”

“Dark take the priests. They don’t know rot.” She tossed it out like nothing but Robbyn winced. Who could say such a thing?! Copper continued on, as if it was nothing, “One day, my da, he calls me in and tells me that he’s been watching me fight, watching me ‘forge the chain of my destiny,’ as he call it. He talks like that. Don’t ask. Then he pulls out this sword and gives it to me. I’ll never forget. That sword was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen...” Copper’s eyes were lost in her memory. “Da laid it in my hands, then cupped his around mine and held my eyes with his. He said that the sword was very old. That elves had forged it out of a kind of metal called truesilver and that it had elven magic within it. I didn’t even know that elves had blacksmiths. Then he said that it had been handed down for generations, and that it had been made for me. That it was part of my destiny.” Copper blinked, and her eyes returned to the present. She waved a hand dismissively. “Frankly, I thought it was a crock. I mean, I love my da, and the sword was…well, it was a pretty blighting nice gift, you know? But all that ‘elven magic’ and ‘destiny’ rot, I just didn’t believe it. And then today, just like that, it’s on fire in my hands. But not hot. It was like…soothing, and strong. It was like I could do anything! It was like being in the pit and knowing you are going to take your opponent down within ten seconds, with exactly three moves. It was like… It was like I was totally alive, totally…connected.” She stopped, and looked over at him apologetically. “None of this is making any sense, is it?”

“No. I mean yes, it does. It makes sense. It’s j-just very strange.”

“You are not blighting kidding.”

Robbyn asked to hold the sword, and she told him to go ahead. Nervously, he slid the shining blade out of the leather sheath. It was tiny and impossibly light in his hands. Truesilver. He had heard of such a metal, but he had never seen it. But there was something else about the blade that spoke of its quality, above and beyond the unusual metal from which it was made. Everything about the blade spoke of master craftsmanship, as if it had been forged to be a perfect weapon.

“So, w-what about your destiny? Do you believe what your father said about that now too?”

Copper shook her head. “Nah. We make our own destinies. I don’t care what the blight anyone says, no one…no one is going to control my fate, but me.”

The fire started to die down as the night came on. Copper had gathered a small pile of firewood, and Robbyn added a large piece to keep the fire sustained. Hopefully a fire would help keep the forest animals away. Still, they would sleep with weapons close at hand. Robbyn realized that he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept well the night before, after all. And the day had been long and hard. In fact, he could hardly keep his eyes open. Still, thoughts of the previous night swirled through his head, causing him to fall silent with anxiety. Copper was quiet, lost in her own thoughts. He didn’t know how to bring up the subject.

Though Copper said nothing, neither did she seem particularly tired. Robbyn couldn’t stop himself from yawning. Finally, he stood and made his way back to the sleeping area at the back of the camp. He had already removed and piled his armour and mace against the back wall, but he was dressed in the leathers Copper had made for him. For a second he stood, staring down at the bearskin and considering his options. Now that they were down from the mountains, the air was warm and heavy. It would likely be cold later, but now it would be hard to get to sleep fully dressed. Besides, the leather was itching from being worn too long. What he really wanted was to get them off and bed down with the leather beneath him and the soft bearskin above. Trouble was, that would leave him in his underclothes next to Copper. He wasn’t sure he could handle that. An image flashed into his mind of her crawling in beside him. A gust of wind lifted the bearskin, exposing him lying before her with a small tent in his underclothes. That sent a wave of panic through him and made his mind up. Underclothes for his top; leathers for his bottom. That would be best.

Robbyn slipped off his boots with a grunt. Then turning away from Copper and the fire, he undid the small hoops fastening the leather and slipped out of the jerkin with a small sigh of relief. It felt good to get the wrinkled and dirty leather off. Underneath, his sleeveless cotton undershirt was soaked through with his sweat. There was no reason why he couldn’t take that off as well, he thought. He was making a big deal out of nothing. Screwing up his courage, he reached down, pulled the thin shirt out of his pants and then pulled it off over his head. The cooling wind upon his skin felt so good. Looking down, he checked his bruises and absent-mindedly scratched at his belly. His flesh still hung out over his waist significantly, but he was convinced that he was looking thinner. A small smile played on his lips. He flexed his bicep surreptitiously in front of himself. Not bad, he told himself.

“Who you trying to impress there, city boy?” Copper’s voice appeared in his ear, making him jump out of his skin. A small scream escaped him lips and he twisted around and fell backward to land heavily upon his substantial behind. “Ow!” He reached back and nursed his bottom with one hand, looking up at Copper. She had slipped out of her leathers and had them tucked under one arm as she looked down and giggled at him. Her underclothes were small and barely covered her freckled skin. In fact, she wore no shirt at all, just a small cotton strap across her breasts. On her bottom she had a small tight-fitting pair of shorts that hung low on her waist and which barely reached down to her thighs. Robbyn swallowed hard, suddenly forgetting his bruised behind. Copper laughed again and lay her leathers down on the ground. Her body was thin and lithe as she carefully stretched out on the leathers. As her body moved, a slight sheen of sweat reflected in the firelight. She was looking right at him.

“Ah…umm…” Robbyn’s tongue was not working, as usual. His eyes must have looked like saucers. A craving heat spread through his midsection causing him to blush and look away. Maybe this was a bad idea. “I d-didn’t know you w-w-were looking,” he explained feebly. Copper just laughed. She seemed to find something terribly funny. Then she reach over and grabbed the clothing he had dropped and spread it out beside her. “Come on lover boy, I wont try anything, if you wont.” Did she wink at him?

“…uhh…” he said again. His heart was racing and him mind was mush. What was she saying? Was he supposed to ‘try something’? Or was she really trying to make him feel more comfortable? What did he want? He knew he was hyperventilating. Suddenly he felt like throwing up. The fire snapped and cast a puff of smoke into the air, making Robbyn jump. He closed his eyes and the nausea passed. Off in the distance a bird called and was answered by another. When he looked back at Copper, she had rolled away and was lying still under the bearskin, one arm exposed to the air. The covers hid her underclothes, making her appear naked. He swallowed again, trying to get up his nerve. In his mind he heard her fiercely berating him for being such a coward, but it did no good. He was rooted.

“The food was great, Robb,” she said, still turned away. “What was in that stew?”

Released by her question, he moved forward and sat down beside her. “Actually, nothing p-particularly strange. Just garlic, onions, w-wolf meat, cubed, potatoes, spices…and lots of oil. I w-worried that losing the moisture would ruin it, actually.”

“It was good.” She kept her back to him, which was a mercy. She had pressed the bearskin down tight against her body and her small curves filled his eyes. He tried to think of something cold and unpleasant, but it didn’t work. Quickly, he slipped under the covers to further cover himself.

“Thanks,” he replied. “Actually, even though the General didn’t want me to be taught, w-we had this cook…” He told her about Onna. About her onions, and garlic, and the meat pies, and how he used to hide under the stairs into the kitchen and watch her work. How she used to wink at him when she added more oil to the dishes and say, “Just to be sure!” with her big voice. How she taught him that a dash of sugar could make all the difference. At some point Copper rolled over and started looking at him. He was lying on his back beside her, talking and looking up at the forest cover above them, but he felt her eyes upon him. In his mind he could see her blue eyes, great black irises in the darkness, fringed with pale blue, like two moons blotting out a clear sky in the middle of the day.

“Copper?” he asked. A slight gust of wind blew the fire, and a bush rustled nearby in the forest.

“Mmm?”

Robbyn turned towards Copper, lifting himself up on one elbow and looking down at her as she lay quietly beside him. “What’s your name?” he asked. He looked at her and saw the machinery turning in her mind. Her eyes were just like he imagined. They were eyes that grabbed his heart and pulled him in. Seconds passed as she looked up at him, studying his face him with those burning eyes. Then she reached up and touched his face lightly. An impish smile played upon her lips, but still she didn’t say anything.

Instead, a man’s voice cracked through the silence. “Her name is Ina VanCleef.” Both of their heads snapped towards the sound, and terror flooded through Robbyn’s body. Stepping into the firelight was a tall, wiry man, dressed in studded black leather armour. His hair was black and hung wild and loose around his face. It appeared that he had a moustache and beard but it was impossible to tell, for the lower half of his face was covered by a Defias mask that reflected blood red in the firelight. Cold grey eyes regarded the two of them where they lay before him, and a pair of shadowy thugs holding notched crossbows emerged out of the darkness behind him. “…and you, my friend, are in a tough situation.”