• City of Haes
“Captain, the Lord Mayor wishes to see you and Master Roald both.”
Rennalt opens his eyes to see the desktop. Looking up he sees the ruddy, smiling face of Sergeant Gilly leaned over him. The sergeant shoves a mug of hot tea into his leader’s hand.
A rumbling sound comes from somewhere in the back of the office. A familiar musty odor rises to Renn’s nose—bear? Here?
Looking about, the watch commander discovers a black bear cuddled in one corner of the drafty room, with a dwarf almost as hairy as it wrapped in its arms.
“New recruit, sir” the sergeant comments. “Roald’s friend, I think. Fell to sleep drunk late last night. Bear might have been drunk too. I thought it best not to try to move them. “
• A farmer’s house at the southern verge of the town of Croaker Norge, Monsedge province
Duke Devlin’s party crossed the rain soaked moors and arrived in the town Croaker Norge last night. Every barn, woodshed, loft, and spare bed seemed to hold a weary refugee; men, women, and children who had fled the fury of the northern goblins. The local pub was so full that men slept in piles on the floorboards. Despite the crowding, or maybe because of it, several locals actually brawled over who would get the honor of providing lodging for the duke and his party.
Devlin is roused in his borrowed bed by one of his knights, Sir Joram. The young man tells his duke-“More messages, Your Grace.” He hands Devlin a packets of much scratched and battered parchments. Joram opens the shutters, letting the gray light of morning into the bedroom.
Filbert wakens with the smell of fresh baked rye teasing his nostrils. A quick peek out of the cupboard where he had slept (fixed up by the farmer’s wife as a cozy improvised bed, with a thick quilt and a bundle of dry wool) reveals the woman of the house drawing a loaf of brown bread from the little fieldstone oven built into the side of the fireplace.
• Woods in a hidden valley west of the town of Fox Run, Ghonallison province
A big black shadow with four legs stalks misty, brushy woods just on the north side of the misty game trail, sniffing the air. Behind the monster and on the narrow trail marches a troupe of bandy-legged goblins, who shift and grumble uneasily as they watch the trees with huge yellow eyes.
Gunnar’s seven hand-picked men lie silent and still in their hunters’ blinds or creep as slowly as stick insects moving through the fog-wrapped forest. The skinniest and shortest of the men slithers over the damp underbrush, making little noise, and reaches Gunnar’s resting place under the cover of a thick stand of timber.
He sidles up the plate-armored giant and whispers in a tiny voice-
“Goblin patrol. Big wolf in front. Orders?”
• The northernmost monastery of the Militant Order in the mountains of western Ghonallison
Two days out from the relative comfort and safety of the poachers’ cave-home, Cormac and his band have reached the cliff top monastery, sneaking up from the southern edge and watching from a jumble of boulders and wind-twisted pines. At the distance a strong man might hurl an axe, the monastery looks as much like a little lording’s fortress as a place of prayer and contemplation. A single tall watchtower rises from the square formed by rugged stone walls. A wooden wicket gate faces onto the only trail wide enough for a cart. It remains closed; a careful looks reveals scorch marks to its outer face. Now and then, robed figures appear atop the stout outer wall, patrolling with shouldered spears or spiked clubs.
Foerde heard
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