Prologue | Tavern Talk

The Rusty Axe squatted at the village’s edge, its wooden walls weathered by seasons beyond counting. Varian ducked under the low doorway, Garrick at his heels. Five other guards already hunched around a table near the hearth.

“No goblins yet.” Varian shrugged off his cloak. “Maybe we’ll get a quiet night.”

“Quiet.” Garrick snorted. “And I’m the emperor of Grukmar.”

The tavern air hung thick with sweat and sour beer. At the far end of the room, an old minstrel coaxed a mournful tune from a battered lute. Varian took a pull of ale and grimaced at its bitter bite.

Across the table, Tormund leaned forward.

“You lads hear about the goblins in the east? Near Stonehold?”

“What about them?”

“Word is they made some kind of deal. With the orcs.”

“Goblins can barely find their own arses with both hands.” Brynn, a hulking redhead, snorted into his mug. “You expect me to believe they’re suddenly making deals?”

“People been disappearing from villages up there.” Tormund spread his hands. “Something’s riled them up.”

“There’s more.”

Elara’s voice was soft but carrying. The only woman in their group, she’d proven herself twice over—with blade and bow. She had a strange skill for finding gossip that turned out to be something else.

“They say the goblins have shamans now. Witches who can call up storms and ruin crops with a word.” She glanced around the table. “They say they kill captives for their gods. Paint their offering slabs with blood.”

Silence fell heavy as a shroud.

Brynn broke it with a forced laugh. “Stories. That’s all.”

“Stories got to come from somewhere,” Tormund muttered.

“But what about the captain’s orders?” Garrick spoke up. “Double watches. No one past the village edges. He’s not doing that over stories.”

Brynn said nothing. The doubt on his face said enough.

Varian stared into his mug, watching firelight play on the dark surface.

Old superstitions. No sensible man believed such tales.

Yet.

He thought of the tracks they’d found, fresh in the loam. The claw marks on tree trunks—too high for any natural beast. The eerie silence in the forest, as if the very birds and insects held their breath.

He thought of the girl. Her eyes, fixed on that alley mouth. The way she’d shaken like something had reached inside her and squeezed.

“Another round,” he called to the barkeep.

The ale was bitter. But not as bitter as what lingered on his tongue.

The conversation drifted to safer topics. Harvests. Sweethearts left behind. Dreams of glory.

But beneath it all, the current ran dark.

Outside, night pressed close. And in the depths of Grukmar forest, the trees stood silent and gave nothing away.

End of Prologue 4 — continues in Prologue 5: Border Sign