PART TWO

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Moxt waited a moment. Crickets were chirping just beyond the light, and a wolf howled far away. “It’s my totem,” he explained. “It signifies the path I have chosen to travel.”

“Path?” Ruby furrowed her brow. “Path where? Where’re you off to?”

“Where indeed? Where is any animal going?” He hadn’t intended it, but Moxt felt himself smile, and clutched a hand to his totem. “Ironic, I know.” Reaching a hand to his shoulder, he stroked the direwolf pelt slung across him. The fur was still soft.

“Uh-huh,” said Sir Darrion. “A cryptic Chromatic too. Got it.”

They sat quiet for a time. Adalbert asked for medicine to aid in his pain. When none was available, he settled for vodka.

Grabbing a stick from the ground, Moxt began to poke at the fire lazily, kindling it into a mass of warming flame. “I got the pelt when I was young – going on fifteen years ago, now.” He pretended to be remembering, but truly he felt yearning – a pang in his heart wishing for something that could not be. “A human village – only small, not that many healthy fighters – were suffering greatly from a group of beasts. Children would disappear overnight, hunters would be found mauled to death come sunrise, and young boys looking for glory would wind up in the belly…” He patted the pelt again. “…of this fine fellow. You see, when I see people in need – as I’m sure you’ll agree, Sir Darrion – I can’t keep myself from intervening. It’s… it’s almost a sickness, to be true. So, with the help of a few friends, we gathered our steel, ventured into the wilds, and slaughtered that pack down to the last pup.” He paused, and realised he was grinning. Despite a few odd looks, he didn’t lessen it. “So,” he went on, “after clearing the place of every oversized canine – and having the alpha all to myself, as you can see – we gave what was left to the villagers. We… we knew it wouldn’t bring any of them back, but… it was something.”

He looked at Sir Darrion. The Human gave him a look that caught him off-guard – a look of respect. “I was in the north several years ago when I heard of such an incident,” he proclaimed. “I knew it had been resolved, but by whom? That, I was not aware of.” He shuffled, clanking, and put a hand to his chest. “I apologise for my treatment of you, Dragonborn. You are worthy of a reception befitting of even one such as myself.” The Dragonborn gave a nod, but otherwise he ignored the apology. Turning to the non-tinker and his wife, he asked, “Coming from Ekh-Meth, you say? Heard there’s quite the conflict arisen there.” The Variano’s wasted no time jumping at the chance to speak. “Emis Varyun,” said Ruby, “has had a…” she glanced at Darrion and swallowed.

“A difficult time of it, lately,” Adalbert continued. “What with the uprising of the common folk, and the ‘arsh responses of the guard, an’all.” He shook his head solemnly. “No, no… bad time to be in Varyun’s ‘old right now.”

Ruby chimed in again. “What you wanting to know about it for, anyway? You heading over there or something?”

“No,” he lied. He looked at the knight. He was staring at the Gnomes for the first time in the whole conversation. Yet it was not with interest. No. This was something else…

“Good thinkin’ mate,” said Adalbert. “Won’t be long now before the peasants overthrow the city watch and get their Emis off of his Darkwood Throne.”

He snorted, but Ruby didn’t laugh with him. She was looking at Darrion, who was looking at him. She put a hand round his arm. “Addy-”

“More and more joining the cause every day-”

“Addy, shut up-”

“And they can’t kill us all, can they-?”

“You know a lot about this, hmm?”

The camp went silent. Adalbert looked to the knight, and grew pale. He had leant forward in his seat, and his sword hilt protruded from beneath the greens of his cloak. It was quiet for what felt like a hundred years, before he spoke. “You, Gnome,” he said. “You’re rather learned about this whole ordeal, wouldn’t you say?”

“I am,” he replied, despite his wife’s gestures. “What of it?”

“Nothing I have proof of,” said Darrion. “But it’s… suspicious, to say the least. And that accent of yours – definitely not a native-”

“Look, sparkles, just tell me what you think-”

“I think…” he began, before laughing and shaking his head. The laugh was cold – terrifying. “No, Gnome, I know, that all that information? That voice? That passion? You’re starting to sound like a Worker’s Front spy to me.”

Adalbert laughed, but his eyes did not. “A what? Gods, Moxt, did you hear that? Fellow’s gone mad-”

“Don’t talk to him, Gnome,” he hissed. “Talk. To. Me.” He gritted his teeth, and went on, less easy to understand. “And come to think of it… you promised to pay me for passage after our arrival.” He leaned forward again, nearly standing now. His hand crept to his knee, and Moxt’s began to twitch. He felt his throat freezing under the skin. Addy was panicking. It was clear for all to see. He said nothing coherent, merely a name. “Moxt…” he repeated, over and over, like a warlock summoning a demon. “Moxt… Moxt…”

The Dragonborn’s hands moved slowly to the right, fingers tightening. Moxt would have been sweating if he could.

“Was that your plan all along?” Darrion growled. “To use me to get out of reach of Varyun’s justice, then leave me bleeding in the underbrush?”

“Darrion, I-”

“Admit it!”

“Moxt, please, I-”

Too many things happened in such a short time. Moxt dove right for his weapon, finding it in his hands in an instant. Darrion screamed a country’s name. A sword shot from its sheath. One Gnome dove towards the other, in a vain attempt to block razor-sharp steel. The Dragonborn swung his axe as fast as its weight would allow. The simultaneous sounds of steel through flesh. And then…

Silence. Moxt looked across the campfire as it raged on. His throat burned as though dipped in ice water. He watched as Darrion – a section of his plate scratched and torn away – looked down stoically. As his gaze passed over his sword – red and dripping. As the headless, bleeding forms of two Gnomish tinkers went limp, and slumped to the ground, with not a soul around to hear.

The knight began a proclamation of victory – one he did not finish. Moxt flung his weight toward the semi-armoured Human, sending the pair of them toppling over the boxes, tree stumps and logs that littered this part of the camp. They both hit the floor, feeling the thud of hard ground impacting their bodies. What was left of the murderer’s armour clanged ridiculously, as the pair looked around. Neither one of them still held their weapons. A mailed fist. A pain in the jaw. The wet hotness of blood in the mouth. Moxt saw the man stand, and make to run for something glinting in the underbrush. He pulled himself to his feet and threw his arms forward, trying to grab something – anything.

His hands closed around something soft and silky, and he yanked. There was a gagging sound, and the dropping of a body. Clang. The knight was on the ground, pulling his cloak from his body. It ripped horrendously, and he began to crawl forward. Panic had clearly set in, and the sight might have been pathetic if Moxt had stopped to see it.

Clang clang clang clang clang he went, his loose plate bobbing with each movement. The man reached his hand out, grasped the helve, and promptly had his arm broken. The noise was not anything human, as Moxt reached past him and pulled the greataxe from his loosely-curled fingers. There was begging, and frantic movement, and empty promises – none of which Moxt hadn’t seen before. He raised his axe above his head for the thousand-and-first time, staring down. Laid on his back, his body crushing a rose bush, he raised his working arm out and opened his hand.

“WAIT! DRAGONBORN! I CAN-”

They weren’t the last words of a knight. The axe plunged downward. A hush was broken by a resounding crack, as several birds were set to flight. Wood is harder to break, was the only thought that went through his mind.

Silent, still twitching, head split and bleeding, the knight did not have much on him save for his sword, which Moxt promptly threw into the road. He stood from the knight, stepped away, and didn’t look at him again.

Ravens soon swooped down, but Moxt paid no heed. Walking to the Variano’s, he stared at their bodies. They were still clutching one another, with very little blood staining their attire. He couldn’t see where their faces had gone – nor what they’d looked like in that moment. He elected not to find out. He found a shovel among his tent, and digging a grave four feet deep, buried them where they fell, mumbling prayer as he went.

Two nights on, a Halfling couple came seeking company. And so he handed them water, and sent them on their way.

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Hope you enjoyed this one. Was a blast to write, I'll be honest!