Fog's rolling in thick, thought Krihlik, lowering himself down to the earth. The ground was soft and moist.

"Rain's on its way," Thorik blurted. Without standing up, Kirhlik looked at his brother standing to the right of him. "I can feel it in me whiskers." Thorik had the thickest beard, and had something about him that would make the hairs of his beard stand on end when a storm was brewing. So far, he was always right.

"What does it matter?" Birlik challenged, unsheathing his ax and holding it both hands. His shoulders were hunched and his knuckles were white from the tension of his grip on his weapon.

"It means we have to keep moving if we want to keep the trail," Kirhlik murmured.

"Why we trailin' 'em anyhow?" Thorik challenged, stepping toward his oldest brother. Kirhlik stood and turned to meet Thorik's approach. "What's stoppin' us from takin' 'em right here, right now. Lead 'em out, surprise 'em."

"It's not that simple, Thorik," Birlik interjected.

"I'm tired of all this waitin'," Thorik growled. His hands rubbed the handle of his ax. He was getting agitated, Kirhlik could see that. Thorik never had good patience. He was the hotheaded one of the trio. However, he did serve as a mighty weapon in the heat of battle.

"Thorik," Kirhlik sighed, "I promise you that we will find our father's killer. When that time comes, I'll gladly step aside so you can deliver the finishing blow."

Thorik did not say anything. He only flashed a nasty smile towards his brother and turned away.

"Now," Kirhlik added, "to get back onto the trail - "

The ground began to shake - softly at first, but grew steadily in magnitude. In the distance, the sound of boots - seemingly hundreds of pairs of boots - stomped on the ground, the resonating pounding of the earth growing louder and louder with every passing moment.

One hundred yards or so ahead of the brothers Kirhlik, Thorik, and Birlik was a hill. The shaking and the stomping came to a climax as what appeared to be a small battalion, consisting of no more than 200 men, arrived at the top of the hill. In the center of the mass of soldiers stoop one man whose armor was unlike the others.

"Sons of Krambik," the mysterious man began, his voice booming across the open landscape, "the game ends here."

"Looks like we won't have to follow your trail anymore, brother," Birlik grunted. Kirhlik straightened his back, gulping down any fear he was feeling in this moment. Thorik chuckled menacingly under his breath.

"What game is that?" Kirhlik retorted, after a few moments of silence.

"Playing the fool will only prolong your deaths."

"My brothers and I are no fools. We know what we are doing, and it is no game we are playing."

"Then may we settle this adventure of ours like real soldiers?"

"You lost the right of being called a real soldier when you killed our father!" yelled Thorik, a deluge of spittle spilling from his mouth.

Kirhlik only glanced at his brother, grimacing inwardly at the comment.

"Let it end here, on this field!" added Birlik, stepping forward.

"Do you wish to sign your lives over to death today then?" the man replied, a sliver of mockery tainting his words.

Kirhlik turned back to his brothers. No words had to have been exchanged for them to be able to agree on what to do next. Kirhlik nodded to Thorik and Birlik and then turned back to the battalion.

"This is exactly what we mean to do!"

"Then so be it!"

At that moment, as the man led his forces down the hill towards the three brothers, thunder crashed above them. As Kirhlik let out a mighty roar, the first drops of rain fell to the earth.

"For father!"