Darius tapped a finger against his bloodied lip, licking it, taking in the salty tang. He sank back and took another bite of the stale loaf he'd been given. He savored it, taking his time with each bite. Rough though his treatment had been, it looked as though he'd live out the night.

Tomorrow, then, they'll end up hanging me.

A few crumbs fell into his windpipe, and he coughed. Darius looked around the empty cell, wishing he had something to drink. The guards had barely tolerated feeding him as it was.

Always had that effect on people. He patted at a bruise on his head, feeling the swollen bump and the sticky blood, getting all tangled up in his curly hair. The undead hadn't done nearly as much to him. Ah well. Never was much of a looker anyway.

Darius examined his bloody fingers, ignoring the sounds of boots against cobblestones and the clanking echo of iron. Maybe they were back to slug him some more. Maybe they weren't.

He didn't care much either way... or, at least, tried not to.

Someone coughed just outside his cell. Darius didn't glance over. Instead he stared at his bloody fingertips, thinking about the friends he'd lost.

"You must be Darius Grant."

Darius felt little incentive to agree with the man. From the side of his vision, as best he could see with his eye still nearly shut, the new arrival wore pitch-black robes. Dimly, he recognized the man's voice as that of Inquisitor Varus. Yet what he was doing here was beyond him.

The man only seemed interested in strutting about the court and banging his hammer. What, does he want to bloody his nice black robes on me?

Brown boots fell into place beside the Inquisitor. The same kind the guards wore.

"Is he ready to talk?" Varus asked.

"Ah... shall I ask him?" the guard said doubtfully.

Darius smirked, though he did his best not to show it. A silence fell.

"Can you hear me?" With growing irritation, the Inquisitor shifted his questions to the guard. "You didn't cut his tongue, did you? Rip out any teeth?"

"Of course not, sir!" The guard sounded genuinely affronted. "You've been very clear about that. I take my job seriously. No disfiguring marks to the face, no damage to the throat or mouth. Hands, feet, and torso only. Just like you told us."

"Mm." Varus bent down, frowning at Darius. "You'd be surprised at how many lack such a basic understanding of an Inquisitor's methods. Are you in there, Darius?"

Despite himself, Darius stirred, turning to the side and fixing the Inquisitor with a scowl. Darius Grant was a hard man, growing up in the plains just outside the Barrowlands, working hard every day of his life since he could remember. With his fresh cuts and swollen eye, Darius reckoned he made for quite the sight.

Varus glanced away first, and Darius no longer hid his smirk.

"I have some questions for you. Without the others around to—"

"You want me to tell my story?" Darius said, his deep voice seeming to fill the cell. "To let you know my sad tale of woe? Of how I came to be here?"

Inquisitor Varus nodded, leaning closer. His eyes shone bright, and he squatted down, setting his ink pot on the ground. Darius took a deep breath. Then he spat out a wet gob of phlegm, which splattered on Inquisitor Varus' nose. He cackled in glee, even as the guard swore, jamming his iron key into the lock. Darius focused his gaze on the Inquisitor as he produced a purple cloth, wiping away the spit. Darius laughed, louder and louder, ignoring the fists that came his way as several guards swarmed the sell. The punches the assistants they landed barely diminished his laughter.

"Send him away with the other refugees," Inquisitor Varus decreed, stepping away from the stinking cell and wrinkling his nose. "He's of no use to us."

Darius grunted as a heavy blow slammed into his gut. He struggled to breathe, feeling himself hauled upright. Hot, garlic-tinged breath from the nearest guard filled his nose, which streamed blood onto both of them. He made little effort to resist as he was bundled along, slipping in and out of consciousness. At one point they seemed to be outside, the night cool and dark, passing through a wooden palisade after a brief, muttered conversation.

Then Darius was tossed onto a pile of straw. He muttered, drool and blood sticking to his stubble. Several people were looking at him, curious, though he didn't recognize any. For a time he drifted in and out of consciousness. Some time must have passed, though it was dark as ever when he finally awakened. He blinked, sluggishly patting his bruised left eye.

Best leave it alone...

"Are you alright, bud?"

Darius's hand drifted down and he turned, woozily taking in an old-timer sitting in a rickety wooden table. If his drawl wasn't enough, the brown suspenders he wore marked him as a Frontiersman clear as day. The older man tilted his head.

"Seems you got on the wrong side of the Kingdom."

"Haven't we all?" Darius found himself saying, pausing to cough. The man nodded, leaning down to pass over a canteen. Darius accepted it gratefully and drank a few long mouthfuls before realizing he might need to ration it. The old-timer noticed and lifted a hand.

"Don't worry, friend. We have access to a well. Drink your fill."

Darius nodded and regretted it at once. Stars swam across his vision. He squinted, then finally pulled the canteen loose. Blood stained its metal rim, and Darius brought it close to his shirt—which was also stained with grime, blood, and who knew what else.

"Ah..."

"Keep it," the old-timer said. "Looks like you've been through a lot."

"Think we all have." He glanced up at the man, really taking him in for the first time. Dark-skinned and with gaunt cheeks, the other man looked like he'd been through the wringer. Still, the muscles under his ragged clothing spoke of a lifetime of hard work. It brought Darius to mind of his own father... and that didn't bear thinking about. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." The old man slapped at his cheek, producing a gap-toothed smile as he extended his hand. "Well, I'll be. Got one. Place is lousy with fleas."

"Mm. Where are we?"

"Eh? They must have beaten you something fierce. We're right on the border, in Kingdom territory. The group I was in crossed the river just two days ago." The old man peered over in curiosity. "Haven't seen you before, though. Did you come after that? Any chance, uh... you were with anyone with the last name Drummond?"

Darius shook his head.

"Yeah, faint chance of that..."

Darius tentatively explored the inside of his mouth with his tongue. A few of his teeth seemed loose and the taste—and smell—of blood was everywhere. He spat into the hay and rubbed at his chin.

"Got out of Carlesville, just across the river," the old-timer continued. "We were warned, fortunately. Plenty of folk from the north speaking of the plague." He shook his head sadly. "Only a few were smart enough to leave for the Kingdom. Rest of us stubborn old fools stuck around." He paused. "When it... when they came... only then did I get out. Not too many others made it. Even that close to the border." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that." He sighed. "Doubt the river will even hold them for long. Whole Kingdom's done for... 'less they come to their senses."

"Wouldn't hold your breath on that." Darius brushed a hand through his head, wincing as he felt the bruises once again. "They don't seem to keen to listen to our warnings. More than likely..." He trailed off.

Some things just didn't need to be said.

The old-timer nodded sagely. He adjusted his legs and sighed.

"Guess there ain't much else to do but wait it out. But indulge an old man, would you? You didn't happen to run into any folk from Kip's Crossing, did you? Been asking anyone I can..."

Darius hesitated. "Ah... by the time we went there... sorry to say, it was all a ruin."

"Hmm." The old-timer looked away, his eyes misty. "Round about when was that? I mean... sorry to be asking. You don't have to tell a fool like me a damn thing. Guess we've all been through hell, haven't we?"

"Ah. You don't know the half of it." Darius winced, realizing blood was dripping from his nose. He closed his eyes, squeezed his nose shut, and just like that the memories came rushing back. His words sounded strange, with his fingers clamping his nose closed, but they spilled out of him just the same.

"See, I'd been riding herd on two score longhorn a few leagues east of the Barrows..."

***

The night air had the hint of frost to it, along with the familiar scent of manure, but an unpleasantly recognizable stench overwhelmed it all. There was no mistaking it.

Goblin.

"Maybe they won't notice," Tollen was saying, to any who'd listen. "Goblins are dumb as rocks. What do they even want with longhorn, anyway? If we double back a few leagues—"

"Ain't no rock dumber than you, Tollen," Larren replied with a snort. "Goblins may not be the brightest, but there ain't no stopping them when they're on the hunt."

"Arrow."

"Eh?" Larren looked over at Darius. He'd never been the biggest talker. Darius cleared his throat.

"Arrow will stop 'em just fine."

A few of the other riders snorted. They'd been spread out all along the forty-league journey from Wurther's Landing but with dusk falling they'd gathered round the campfire. A jaunty tune echoed over the crackling firewood and Darius savored the scent of the pine, which went some way to muffling the stench of goblin.

Not enough, though.

Larren tsked. "Keep your bow drawn then," he said, kicking his heels in. The stallion burst forward, galloping over to the fire. He slowed, approaching an old-timer bobbing his head in tune to the music.

Larren was an old hand at this work, and it had been him who'd taken on Darius. They'd worked one season together four years ago, before Darius had taken work in a logging camp. Missing the life on the road, Darius had eventually sought him out for another season of riding. This time Larren had been tasked with rounding up a band of guards to keep bandits and horse thieves at bay. With the Frontier swelling in number from the Kingdom's castoffs, life was becoming increasingly dangerous—and cheap.

Still, Darius had hated the logging camps, which had been a vast improvement on the mines. He wasn't suited to anything else. So guarding cattle it was.

He unstrapped his bow, sliding off his mount, Harrison. The horse sniffed at him as he strung the bow together with smooth, methodical movements. Horseback archery had never taken on among the Frontier, and the men around him were armed with a mixed array of lances, short spears, and swords of all kinds. That suited Darius just fine.

Keeps the gobbos busy.

"What?"

The sound came from the old-timer whose herd this was, old Mister Ellison. He'd been sharp enough back in his day, but his day had come and gone ages ago. If he'd been as lucky in life as he'd been in business, no doubt his sons would have taken over years ago. Yet the way Darius heard it, they'd taken to drink and ended up in graves ages ago, with Mister Ellison's sole surviving daughter moving to the Kingdom to marry some banker. And so the old man continued going down the same paths he'd been on his whole life, leading his herd of longhorn up to the grassy plains of the Barrowlands to feed and grow fat, then bringing them back to Wurther's Landing to sell the whole lot off.

Then to start afresh with a new herd.

Same as it had always been. Same as it would ever be. Darius figured there was a certain joy in that kind of life. He'd never found much joy in his thirty years, bouncing from one job to another. So he wasn't one to judge.

Still, the old man is slipping.

Eventually Mister Ellison gave his uncertain approval. The music had faded a while ago, his ranch hands all watching him as they sat around the campfire, tucking in to a meal of bacon and beans. Darius's stomach rumbled at the sight. They'd eat last, once they made sure the longhorn were safe and posted sentries.

"Uh, if you say so, Larren," the old-timer finally agreed, waving the caravan guard off with his spoon. "Keep on playing!"

The musician nodded, and a calming, gentle rhythm settled around the campfire once again. Yet the guards didn't share it. Darius mounted back up, tapping thoughtfully on his bowstring, feeling the tension on his weapon. Metal and leather creaked around him as Larren approached, his face stony under his wide-brimmed hat. The man's stallion reared up and halted just a pace away from them, and Larren fixed them all with a serious gaze.

Darius liked that about the man. This line of work was a brutal one, and a lackadaisical approach could get someone killed. Thoughtfully, Larren pulled out a pouch of tobacco, pressing the powder into his corncob pipe. The caravan guards watched in silence as he lit it, flicking the match free and taking in a deep breath. He let out a puff and watched as the smoke lazily drifted past them. The blue-gray smoke hung low in the air, wafting its way to the south.

"The gobbos are upwind of us," Larren reported, turning on his saddle and gesturing to the north with his saddle. "No more than two leagues, I'd wager. You see the foothills?" There was only the barest hint of light visible as the sun hung low in the horizon. They'd have to make quick work of the goblins if they wanted to avoid a ride in the night. Darius stared hard, trying to sight molehills to avoid. Harrison was the better part of two thousand sovereigns, and good companionship to boot—Darius had no intention of losing him out of sloppy decision-making.

"Almost night," one of the riders commented.

Larren snorted. "What an eye for detail you have. Almost night. That it is, and I don't want to be watching over my shoulder from now until dawn. Kill every gobbo you find. Put 'em down, then we ride on back. Got it?"

Darius, along with the others, nodded. They hadn't seen much action on this cattle run, and so much the better so far as he was concerned. A few of the younger men looked downright eager. If any were nervous, they did a good job of hiding it. Darius adjusted his quiver thoughtfully. Twenty shafts were more than enough, and he had forty more in a trunk back on the wagon train. Far more than he needed.

Still, the fact was a comforting one.

"Swords," Larren commanding, turning his mount around to face northwards. Blades whished, drawn by those around him, while others couched their spears or lances, gripping them in the armpit. Darius held his recurve bow in his left hand, his right hand hovering just beside the quiver strapped around his chest. There was no point in nocking an arrow now.

"Let's gut those gobbos!" Larren called out, spurring his mount forward and leading the charge. Harrison joined in with the others, the horse eagerly stretching its legs. Darius knew his young stallion could more than keep up with the others, but he was careful not to pass the lead riders, knees tight around his mount. Darius's boots were the only ones without spurs. He'd trained Harrison in the Barrowlander style, to respond to commands from his knees, and kept him in the center of the ten-man formation even as Harrison yearned to take the lead.

The land was mercifully clear of obstacles, and the sun still shone on the foothills as the riders came near. Strong as the scent of goblin was, it wasn't until they were well within bowshot that the first of the creatures came into view. One bounded over from a small cluster of trees, peering at them in growing alarm. Darius selected an arrow, carefully nocking and drawing, holding the arrow as he kept track of the rhythm of Harrison's beating hooves. For an instant the horse was aloft—and then Darius released the arrow. It flew true, falling from the sky as the goblin let out a piercing, high-pitched squeal.

The sound was cut off as the goblin sagged back and sank onto the ground, eyes wide in disbelief, the arrow buried deep in the creature's green chest. For a few moments it batted at the arrow's shaft, its arms finally falling back to its sides. A few of the riders hooted and hollered now, several congratulating Darius over the thudding sounds of the beating hooves. Yet Darius made no reply. He'd seen plenty of men bite their tongues, talking while they rode, and saying little of importance in the first place.

And so he simply drew his second arrow.

The rest of the goblins were spilling out of the woods now as the riders drew near. Darius's second shot went wide—too ambitious, leading a target that halted suddenly, sinking into the earth a pace ahead of another goblin. He swore this time, nearly biting his tongue for the trouble, and snatched up a third arrow. By now the first of the cavalrymen were barreling up the hill. One goblin was impaled by a couched lance, the weapon raising high in the air with the creature sliding down the length of the wooden lance. Others whipped their swords down with wild abandon, but the goblins were wily creatures, and dodged under hooves. A horse came down in a flash as one goblin's scimitar cut deep into the horse's leg. Darius's arrow took the goblin right between the eyes, sending it reeling backward, and Harrison leapt over the horse's fallen rider a moment later.

The hill turned into a chaotic, twisting melee as the caravan guards attacked the goblins—who were evidently startled by their arrival. Within moments they were put to flight, the small green creatures lit by the evening sun. Their bodies cast shadows twice their size as they ran. Darius nocked arrow after arrow, hitting his target more likely than not, even as his comrades enthusiastically ran down the fleeing goblins. Clustered as they were among the goblins, Darius slowed his mount down. Harrison reared up, excited by the sounds and action all around him.

Darius glanced around him, feeling a sudden revulsion. The goblins were a threat, to be sure, but that threat had now been eliminated. A few of them still fled, though they were poked and spitted by the spears and swords of the pursuing caravan guards. He sniffed, remaining silent and immobile as the pursuing riders came to a halt.

"Damn..."

Darius looked over. The fallen rider was adjusting his wide-brimmed hat, frowning at the fallen horse kicking on the ground. Blood streamed from the wounded leg, spattering the earth around the beast, and the guard approached warily from the side.

"Do you want..." Darius paused as the man looked up. There were tears in his eyes. Darius nocked another arrow and nodded at the panicking, wounded horse. "Would you like... I mean, I could..."

The man shook his head. "Got to be me," he mumbled, adjusting his longsword. Darius nodded. He couldn't disagree.

The man plunged his blade in deep, ripping through the horse's throat. It lurched around a moment longer before growing still. The man sniffed as he ran a cloth across his bloodied sword. The others were returning now, Larren studying the scene around them as he approached. "Seventeen... eighteen," he muttered, pursing his lips as he took in the fallen goblins. "Ah. That's a shame."

Silence fell around them, though the excited chatter of the other caravan guards echoed around the hill. They were approaching now, looking no worse for wear, and a few were bearing fresh trinkets. Others had hopped down, looting the dead goblins around them. Darius wrinkled his nose at the thought.

Gobbos don't carry much of value, anyway.

Larren studied the battlefield thoughtfully as he drew near. Then he nodded at the man beside his fallen steed, who was unbuckling a saddlebag and prying it loose.

"We'll get you a spare mount. Shame about... well." Larren shrugged. "Just the way it goes sometimes."

Darius frowned, looking past Larren. There was something about the horizon that seemed off. Tendrils of smoke drifted in the air, near what must have been either Granger or Bertright. Chimneys would produce that, to be sure, but the weather was mild and night had not yet fallen. Fires would as well, but in settlements built along the river, even the sort of cantankerous loners who made their homes in the Frontier would have quickly extinguished any blaze.

"I'll put in a good word to Mister Ellison. Might be he'll let you take another horse for cheap."

"Mighty thankful, Larren," the other man muttered, though his heart didn't seem to be in it.

"Larren."

Not only did it seem fires had spread through the city, but part of the land around the nearest settlement... seemed to be moving. Darius squinted, but he couldn't make much out, and already the sun was dipping low beyond the horizon. The plains seemed to shift... and then fell into a dim grayness as the light faded. He scratched the growing stubble around his chin, unsure quite what to make of it.

"You did well, Darius! You're a fine shot with that bow."

"Mm. Thanks. I..."

Darius tried to think of what to say. Larren was looking at him expectantly, but by now darkness was falling, and there was really nothing that could be seen. It would be difficult enough just bringing the horses back and camping out in the open. The other riders sensed the urgency as well, cutting short their looting and saddling back up, gathering around Larren.

"Never mind."

Larren nodded. "Give him a ride back, would you?" he said, gesturing to the dismounted rider. Darius extended a hand, helping to haul the other man up behind him. It wouldn't be the most pleasant ride for either one of them, but there was no point in making an issue of it. Larren dug his spurs in, leading his stallion back to the campfire still burning away to the south, and the others followed along.

Darius spared another glance toward the settlement, just making out what must have been smoke, but the plains seemed as unremarkable as ever.

Must have just been my eyes playing tricks on me.

Darius squeezed his knees and Harrison began cantering down the hill, Darius carefully watching for molehills.

I'm sure it was nothing.