In the muddy palisaded town of Lastwall, Knight Ronigren of House Varden stared into the dregs of his watered ale. The common room of 'The Weary Axe' enveloped him in its usual tableau of off-duty soldiers, tired merchants and local trappers filling the air with smoke and the drone of oft-told tales.

  He was twenty-four, yet a cynicism older than his years had settled upon him. Bright ideals of chivalry and valor, lauded in the stories he’d devoured as a boy in his father’s modest keep, had been dulled by the grit and grime of frontier service. The oblivious softness of the southern nobility grated him in letters from his younger siblings, concerned with courtly dances and advantageous marriages. Here life was stark, stripped to essentials. Yet, even here he could feel a suffocating inertia. He wanted to matter, to be part of something larger than chasing poachers or mediating squabbles over stray sheep.

  A heavy hand clapped on his shoulder. "Lost in thought again, Sir Knight? Dreaming of silk sheets and spiced wine?"

  Ronigren managed a thin smile. "Just the wind, Borin. Sounds angrier than usual tonight. Besides, they usually spice only foul wines, and silk is not nearly warm enough for this fine northern weather." His second in command grinned at that and excused himself, joining a table of old timers, leaving him as usual to brood in peace.

  The wind howled indeed tonight, and an unease rippled on the hardened soldiers’ features, unspoken. They were the shield of Argren's northern flank, a shield grown tarnished with disuse, its bearers more accustomed to polishing than parrying.

  As the darkness grew stiller the last few patrons stumbled home braced in furs, soldiers returned to the barracks, the memory of the brief northern summer fading below their hefty blankets.

  "Man the gate! Runner approaching! Fetch the Serjeant-at-Arms!" The sentinel’s shout echoed through the pre-dawn stillness. Lights flickered to life in the windows. Doors creaked open, and sleepy, startled faces peered out.

  Still awake, the uneasy wind having kept him from any deep slumber, Ronigren grabbed his sword belt and strode out the door as Serjeant Borin, half-dressed and buckling his own gear, bellowed orders.

  "You lot, get to the gate! Torches! Kallen, find Sir Ronigren!"

  "Here, Borin!" Ronigren called, striding towards the gatehouse.

  The girl was a huddled, shivering wreck on the muddy ground.

  Two guards were lifting her – clothes were torn and soaked, face smudged with dirt and tears. She must have been no older than his youngest sister, and a fierce and protective pang shot through him.

  "Easy, lads," Borin rumbled, his usual gruffness softened by the sight of the girl's pitiable state. "Get her inside. Someone fetch warm blankets and broth."

  Ronigren knelt beside her. "Child, what happened? Where are you from?" His voice was even gentler than he intended.

  Elenya’s teeth chattered, but she managed to gasp, "Alderholt… Goblins… hundreds… they’re… they’re going to kill everyone…" Her voice cracked and dissolved into wracking sobs.

  "Goblins?" Borin repeated, his brow furrowing. Most of the soldiers present had heard the tales, dismissed them as folklore. But the terror in the girl’s eyes was no legend.

  A cold knot of dread coiled in his chest, true, but beneath it, a faint guilty thrill rose. Goblins. Creatures of nightmare, of legend. The prospect of facing an unambiguous evil, however terrifying, stirred a primal urge within him, the thrill of a boy dreaming of knightly quests.

  He exchanged a grim look with Borin, pushing the unsettling thought aside. "How long ago?"

  "Ran all night" Elenya managed, her gaze fixing on Ronigren’s insignia – the worn silver hawk of House Varden – a faint glimmer of hope in her eyes. "The signal pyre… Marta… they were fighting…"

  Alderholt was an almost two-hour ride if you knew the trails well and your horse was fresh. If she ran all night, the attack could have started four, five hours ago? Time was short.

  "Borin," Ronigren said, his voice tight with urgency, "Sound the muster. I want every able-bodied man ready to ride in twenty minutes. Lightest possible marching order. We move fast."

  Hesitation flashed in Borin’s eyes. But the raw terror in the girl's report, and his noble rank, however minor, gave his command weight. Besides, he wasn't asking, he was ordering.

  "Aye, Sir Knight," Borin nodded, then turned and bellowed, "HORNBLOWER! SOUND THE ALARM! FULL MUSTER! MOVE, YOU DOGS, MOVE!"

  The blaring cry of the garrison horn pierced through the pre-dawn gloom, Lights flared across town. Men scrambled from their bunks, cursing, fumbling for weapons and armor. The clang of steel, the shouting of corporals, the whinnying of horses shattered the silence.

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  Ronigren tried to get more from Elenya, though he feared pressing her too hard in her state could be fruitless. "How many? What kind of weapons did they have?"

  "So many…" she whispered, shaking despite the blanket now draped around her. "Sharp. Shiny. Like teeth… And a… a rider… on a big wolf” She pointed a trembling finger towards the forest. "They came from the deep woods… the Old North Trail…"

  A rider on a wolf. That detail sent a fresh chill down Ronigren’s spine. This suggested leadership, perhaps even something… unnatural. The Chained Races. The term, almost academic in its historical context, stirred alive, staggering his heartbeat. His earlier, boyish eagerness curdled. This was no fireside tale.

  His men assembled in the muddy central square of Lastwall, their faces still bleary with sleep but moving in haste. Elenya’s words were murmured from man to man, casting a pall over the expectant bravado.

  "Sir Ronigren," Borin saluted crisply, "forty mounted men ready, sir. Mostly light horse, a few of the heavier lads. Best we can do on short notice if we want speed."

  Forty men. Alderholt had maybe sixty souls. If Elenya’s account of "hundreds" was accurate, they were riding into a slaughterhouse. But they had to try. Duty demanded it.

  Duty, and the image of the small, terrified girl burned in his mind.

  "A small contingent will remain to guard Lastwall, Borin. You take command here. I'll lead the relief force." Ronigren knew it was his place. He was the ranking knight present. "Pack half a dozen horses with extra arrows, basic medical supplies. We travel light and fast. No baggage train. Myanaa, send your ravens to Captain Eghel in Woodhall."

  Myanaa looked up, coppery brown curls undone, shielding a nervously pacing bird on her glove. Practitioners of her ancient art, often called "Whisper-Kin", were rare, yet invaluable on the frontier.

  She gently stroked the sleek black feathers of the raven perched on her gloved wrist, murmuring to it in a low, sibilant language that seemed to mimic the rustling of leaves. Two more ravens sat patiently on a nearby branch.

  With a slight tilt of her head three birds launched into the air, cawing once before winging their way south-east, dark specks against the brightening sky.

  Borin’s weathered face was lined with worry. "May the gods ride with you, sir."

  Ronigren nodded, strapping on his helmet. He glanced back at Elenya, who was now being tended to by the cook’s wife. The girl’s haunted eyes met his in a silent plea.

  We're coming, he thought, a surge of resolve, and that faint, disquieting echo of battlefield anticipation hardened his features. He turned to the assembled men, his voice ringing out in the torchlight. "Men of Lastwall! Alderholt is under attack by forces unknown, but numerous. We ride to their aid. We ride to save who we can, and to answer this aggression with Argrenian steel! Mount up!"

  A ragged cheer went up. Horses snorted and stamped, eager for the release of movement. Ronigren swung himself onto his warhorse, a sturdy grey named Stormchaser.

  "For Argren! For the King! Forward!"

  With a clatter of hooves and a jingle of mail, the relief force surged out of Lastwall’s gate, a trickle of armored hope vanishing into the fading darkness, racing against a dawn that threatened to reveal only desolation.

  The ride to Alderholt was a frantic, jarring passage through a world shrinking into the oppressive darkness beyond their torchlight. Ronigren pushed Stormchaser hard, fast scouts ahead of him, the forty riders strung out trailing him in a column, the narrow overgrown trail dictating their formation. The forest pressed on them like an active antagonist. Ancient trees loomed out of the night, closing in on them. The thick undergrowth rustled with unseen things.

  "Close ranks!" Ronigren called back, his voice sharp. "Keep your eyes on the treeline!"

  Even the veterans, men like Corporal Gregan who’d served twenty years on the frontier and boasted of scars from a dozen skirmishes, rode with a nervous tightness around their mouths. "Never seen the like. Goblins in force? Not in my lifetime. Not since the tales of the War." Gregan said to the man beside him, young Halsted, whose face was pale in the flickering torchlight.

  "The War of Solitude?" Halsted shot back, the name itself a legend.

  Gregan spat. "Aye. Before your grandpa was even born, lad. Best hope these ain't the same kind."

  The only sources of light, apart from the sputtering torches, were the faint ethereal glimmers conjured by Earlant, a quiet, unassuming man, one of the few in Argren’s military with even a minor talent for the magic arts. Tonight he coaxed small drifting cloudlets of faerie-light into existence, pale green and blue, that hovered around the column. They offered fleeting glimpses of the path ahead, revealing treacherous roots or sudden dips in the terrain and perhaps providing a moment's warning if something monstrous lurked beyond. Faint lights, struggling with the vast darkness pressing in.

  The mood was brittle, a taut wire humming with nervous energy. Low-hanging branches snagged at cloaks and helmets, forcing riders to duck and weave. The ground, soft from recent rains, sucked at hooves, slowing their pace despite Ronigren’s urging. Silence fell, broken only by the jingle of harness, the snorting of horses, and the labored breathing of men. The usual nocturnal sounds of the forest were eerily absent. The land itself held its breath.

  A prickle of unease ran under Ronigren’s skin. A palpable sense of malice hung in the air, a wrongness deeper than the threat of ambush.

  A startled deer crashed through the undergrowth nearby. Swords were half-drawn, men tensed, before the creature bounded away in a collective sigh of relief.

  "Steady!" Ronigren commanded, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  They forded the Blackwood Creek, the water dark and swift in the pre-dawn light. The girl must have waded through this. They were getting closer.

  Finn, by far the best tracker in Lastwall, reined in, holding up a hand. Ronigren urged Stormchaser forward.

  "What is it, Finn?"

  "There's a scent on the air. Like… burnt meat, and something else. Something foul."

  "How much further to Alderholt?"

  "Half a league, maybe less, through the thicket ahead. The smell of smoke grows stronger. We'll see the glow of their signal pyre soon.”

  If it’s still burning.

  "Torches out, except for Earlant’s lights," Ronigren commanded. "We approach quietly. Finn, you take point. If Alderholt is still fighting, we hit them from the flank. If not… we see what justice we can deliver."

  He drew his sword, the rasp of steel loud in the sudden hush. The men followed suit. The faint, ethereal lights of Earlant’s magic danced ahead, leading them into the final stretch of their journey, towards a dawn that promised no comfort.