An old man sat atop a fallen tree.
With a thick white beard, he was a heavily armored warrior. He wore a tapered helm, chainmail of hammered flat rings, and a hound's pelt as black as wet soil draped over his shoulders. He carried a blade at his hip, and the bare skin of his hands and feet was wrapped in dark cured leather.
The armor, was thin iron plates pressed into the leather to guard his wrists, hung shattered and dangling. His sage-and-amber striped trousers were torn and dark with blood along the left leg.
The wounded man leaned his head against the iron handle of a strange axe, using it as a cane. He squinted, breathing in long, deliberate pulls. A foul-smelling liquid, pale as curdled milk, crept from the corners of his mouth and ran quietly into his beard.
"Hey, Commander."
At the familiar voice, the old man's eyes opened slowly, and he raised his head. His faithful red-haired second, Oren, who had ridden beside him for more years than either cared to count, came into view. He knelt on one knee, battle axe across his thigh. Powder flasks, all open, swung from his belt, and the charred matchlock at his side was evidence enough of what the last hour had been.
"Are you alright?"
The old man gave a single nod. Oren grinned. The relief in it genuine. And he clapped him on the shoulder.
"I thought you'd lost it. That beast is no common wolf. Congratulations, Commander."
Oren stood and turned. Fifty paces ahead of him lay the Greymantle — dead, swarmed by soldiers who still seemed unsure whether to celebrate or keep their distance.
No ordinary wolf. The Greymantle's corpse, as large as a barn, was entirely bloodied — riddled with dozens of shot wounds, and the number of spear tips and axe gashes buried in its body was beyond counting. 'Crushed' would have been more accurate than 'killed.'
The wolf had attacked one old man and inherited an army.
"I caught it?"
The old man finally managed words. Oren turned back, spreading his arms wide in a performer's flourish.
"Only the Commander, not in the Veld, but on the whole continent could split that creature's jaw single-handed."
The old man shook his head.
"It was the Stillbrew. I couldn't have done it alone."
Oren laughed and dropped his arms.
"Then if you knew that, don't go alone next time. I thought my heart had stopped."
The old man released the axe handle and reached for one of the small clay flasks strung diagonally over his left shoulder. The mouth of it was stained the same pale color that had gathered at the corners of his lips. He looked inside and exhaled slowly.
"Nearly all spilled. If I'd only had a moment to seal it."
"Can't you ask the Ashen Sisters to prepare more?"
"I may need it before I can reach them."
He tilted his head back, opened his mouth to the sky, and drained what remained. A few pale drops fell. Only after confirming it was empty did he close the lid. Oren shrugged, then looked sideways at him.
"Since you've already taken it, skin the Greymantle for me."
The old man turned his gaze to the corpse. He considered it for a moment and reached his conclusion.
"Burn it."
"What?"
"Burn a single claw. Burn all of it."
"Uh.. why? It's a mess, but the pelt alone would be worth.."
"Fur isn't something you kill and skin. It means nothing to someone like me. And there's no time. If I arrive late, the branch warden will have my name in his mouth before I reach the door."
"Even so, the Pale King will be displeased if you burn the body. Even worthless, wouldn't one claw make a decent keepsake?"
"I don't keep souvenirs. And this isn't a butcher's yard? I only dispose of what I've killed. I don't claim what isn't mine to take. Burn it before it rises."
"I'm sure the King won't make an issue of it. Still, what a waste."
The old man said nothing. His subordinate's regret was a living thing, refusing to settle.
"This isn't the Veld. We're inside the Free Reaches' sphere now. A walking corpse here becomes a story, and stories travel fast. Do you want to be the Northman who deals with the risen dead?"
Oren's expression shifted the moment that particular nerve was touched. In a trading partner's land, bad rumors weren't just embarrassing, they were expensive, sometimes fatally so. And for a man of the Veld to be linked to the Pale King's affairs, even incidentally, even while breathing, was the kind of association that followed a person home.
"...I hadn't considered that. Burn it now."
Oren jogged toward the Greymantle's remains. A moment later, low grumbling spread among the soldiers — those who had already begun prying out claws and teeth quietly withdrew their hands. The cremation preparations moved quickly. Gunpowder and oil were poured, a match was struck, and the flames rose without hesitation. Twigs and split wood followed, and the fire broadened into something steady and serious.
The Greymantle burned without spectacle. Not even smoke lingered long.
The old man watched until there was nothing left to watch. Then he spoke again. Not to Oren, not to the soldiers. To someone behind him.
"Wolves are wise, they say."
Silence.
He continued.
"A wise wolf doesn't bare his teeth without cause."
The cool breath of the forest moved against the back of his neck. His grip tightened on the axe handle, not urgency, just readiness.
"You're not attacking."
The unloading docks of the free commercial city of Velrun were, as always, loud with foreigners and restless ships. Among them sat a group of somewhat old-fashioned northern warships. Long and narrow, deckless, each carrying roughly thirty men.
Three in total. Because they all bore green sails and flags striped with gold, most people on the docks recognized their owners immediately.
Those sails, in a color combination that suggested either confidence or madness, belonged to the armed merchant fleet of Commander Aldric, a mercenary, thief, and merchant, in that order depending on the day.
Despite being called merchant ships, Aldric's vessels had shallow drafts, making them poorly suited for hauling large quantities of cargo. Whatever they carried, therefore, was inevitably either valuable or stolen and usually both. The people at the docks watched the armed fleet with mild unease cut through with undeniable curiosity.
At first, the unloaded goods were exactly what one would expect from a northern trader: crafts and prints from the arcane kingdoms of the central continent, gunpowder and firearms, Veld-distilled spirits, bundles of herbs carefully chosen by the elders...
And then appeared the thing the crowd had quietly hoped for, even while pretending discomfort. The sound of leather boots heavy-heeled, unhurried, struck the wooden dock planks. Every nearby head turned.
Five men, longswords at their hips, walked past the sailors and laborers unloading cargo and continued toward the city. At the rear, two typical northern men with fair skin and thick beards carried a large palanquin.
A golden light bled through its curtains, the gold of the dead, the very gold people had whispered about. Lost jewels. Dazzling and wrong in the open sun.
Walking side by side in the center were a balding old man and a broad middle-aged man.
The old man had deep-set wrinkles and a long white beard that fell to his waist. His head was entirely bare of hair. He wore several gemstone rings. Two or three on each finger — and his billowing white robes, along with the worn brown leather satchel draped over them, had faded to the color of old paper. His uneven appearance marked him clearly as a member of the Ashen Covenant, a northern order that preached integrity while maintaining a peculiar and well-documented obsession with rings.
The man beside him had short red hair, a square beard, a broad nose, and eyes slightly too large for his face, lending him an expression that read as naive until you noticed the weapons. His solid frame was wrapped in chainmail, a round helmet sat on his head, and he carried both a two-handed battle axe and a northern arquebus.
A leather strap running from his left shoulder to his right belt held a row of carved powder flasks. He looked like any ordinary northern musketeer. Given his position, however, he was clearly the commander's most trusted second, Oren.
The white-bearded old man walking two paces ahead of the two was Commander Aldric, leader of the merchant fleet. He wore a tapered helm with a nose guard, chainmail reaching to his elbows and knees, and a black hound-skin cloak. The torso of the chainmail was held tight by flat rings rivet-fastened, while the sleeves and lower half were simply woven.
His wrists, emerging from the sleeves, were shielded by several thin iron plates fixed to leather bracers. Badly damaged now, most of them hanging. His hands were gloved. Little skin showed. His sharp eyes and heavy white beard seemed to be all he truly possessed. Buried in armor was the phrase that came to mind.
"Commander Aldric. It's been a while."
A man in long black robes stepped forward, standing before the five. The attire of a Free Reaches merchant, formal by habit, not occasion. Aldric got directly to the point.
"The deadline has been met."
"Indeed. The Ember Empire is hungry for gunpowder these days. Gold is always welcome, of course."
"There's more to selling than powder. Where's the branch warden?"
"At the branch."
Aldric half-turned, his gaze settling on the gold-laden palanquin. Then he looked forward.
"Let's go."