Lord Dahlhan looked down upon the former scion of a now-dead southern house. He had introduced himself as Ash. A fitting name for an Ashling. Behind him were his five followers, all of them prostrate before Dahlhan's throne. He considered the young man barely above a boy, as well as each one of the followers, only one appeared dangerous. “And what is it you want from me, Ashling?” he said, testing the title and finding it appropriate.

  “I do not seek protection, nor pity, I only request permission to settle in your hold and continue on with my life.”

  Lord Dahlhan rapped his fingers on the armrest of his throne. He could practically feel the lips tighten and brows knit together of his advisor to his left. His gaze roamed from the former lordling to the remnants of his retinue. A knot settling in his stomach. He took a breath, and with a wave of his hand said, “Fine, you may go.”

  The boy’s retinue got up, keeping their eyes low and backing out. The Ashling himself stood straight, and looked Dahlhan in the eyes, as though they were equals. And then he bowed, not with the respect given to someone above his station, but with respect resembling something of acknowledgment that a favor had been done. The knot in Dahlhan’s stomach tightened. It brought up questions about men’s loyalty, and what really made them tick.

  “Your thoughts?” Dahlhan asked his advisor as soon as the group had left.

  “I would suggest keeping a close eye on that one, my lord,” said the older man. “I can’t quite tell if it’s a boon or a curse.”

  Dahlhan pressed his lips together and considered the advice. He happened to agree.

  ***

  Tankards of ale were delivered to Ash’s table by a dark-skinned human barmaid who was far more attractive than he would have given any of the taverns credit for.

  The place was actually well kept. The building was in good condition, and though it did smell of stale ale and body odor, it was pleasantly covered up by the smell of firewood and whatever else they threw inside the flames to give the place a rustic but sweet scent. The light was dim. The ale was actually pretty good. And so far, the service had been everything one would expect from a reasonably well-run tavern. The attractive barmaid gave him a smile as she took his coins. Then he watched her wander off to serve the next set of guests.

  Ash passed down the ales around the wooden table. First to the brothers, then to Juran, Ingrid, Chui, and then finally to himself.

  “Well,” he said, trying to organize his thoughts. “Here we are in the Northwatch Holds. Never thought I’d end up here. Frostmounds, if I remember correctly.”

  He looked around at each individual member. “I’ve got Shield Brothers with no mead hall, a porter with practically nothing to carry, a shrine maiden with no shrine, and an oath-sworn with no lord.”

  Chui’s lips pressed together. She didn’t like that last statement, but she was just going to have to learn to live with it.

  “So anyway, we need to refill our power base. I’m not exactly sure what that’s going to look like, but I know how it’s going to start.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He cut it there, leaving it open for somebody to ask the obvious question.

  “How are we starting this?” asked Juran, never the one to fall into asking the obvious question.

  Ash raised his tankard. “Delving. Dungeon delving.”

  Ingrid lowered her eyes. The two brothers grinned at each other.

  Chui narrowed her already narrow eyes. If she had her way, Ash would never leave the lab or his smithy. Then again, if she had her way, they’d probably all be dead. So, whatever.

  Ch 2

  The warg stopped a few paces away from the trap, put its nose to the air, and sniffed. The hairs covering its muscular body twitched, its two intelligent red eyes scanning the trees. Whether it had simply caught their scent or had noticed that the path in and out of the cavern had been altered, Ash couldn't tell, but the warg clearly scented their presence, whether it knew they were there or not.

  The goblin, on the other hand—with its tattered clothing and too-wide mouth stretching its face into a pseudo-grin—took no notice of the slightly altered path in and out of the former mine. The warg chuffed, catching the goblin's attention, but it wasn’t enough of a warning to get it to stop. Its small gait meant more steps directly over the trap. The metal jaws shot upward, the thing practically jumping up and catching the goblin mid-thigh.

  The goblin screamed, its cries echoing out into the dark, dust-lit forest. As it stared at its own leg, bent at such a horrific angle, it only meant the bone had been broken. The sound caused the warg to jump, but it again missed the trap. Still, the screaming goblin caught enough of the warg’s attention that it missed the six crossbow bolts fired at it, turning it into a large, muscly, wolf-shaped pincushion.

  The warg yelped in pain, its eyes scanning the tree line and making the decision to move forward, clearly deciding it was going to die anyway and wanting to take someone out with it. Only then, because fate was cruel, did it wander into the trap. With another snap of metal jaws, both set traps had caught something. And the warg fell face-first into the dirt, as the screaming hoots and yells of other goblins in the caves grew closer.

  Ash dropped his crossbow and stepped forward, swinging his shield around and pulling his axe. Yorvik did the same, coming out of the brush, as did Chui. One of the goblins came out of the cave charging forward, only to have an arrow bury itself into its chest. Clearly, Jorgen had already pulled his bow and was advancing.

  Ash locked his shield in with Jorvik, Chui falling in to his left. Jorgen was struggling to get his shield and axe out and in the proper position. Two more goblins came out of the mine, followed by a much larger creature, hunched over with beady eyes and a toothy maw. It was covered in scraps of armor, carried a shattered shield, and wielded a club-like structure capped with spikes.

  “Bugbear,” Jorvik muttered.

  Its two long arms and odd gait crossed the distance between them rather quickly. That was not as terrifying as the other warg had been.

  While the bugbear seemed perfectly pleased to walk directly toward the thick of combat, the warg—with its far too intelligent eyes—scanned the evolving battlefield and picked out the weakest member of the party: Jurin, who was in the back, picking up the crossbows.

  “Chui, protect Jurin,” Ash ordered, as Jorgen fell in line and locked shields with his brother.

  Chui didn’t initially move. Ash thought she was… Ash opened his mouth to repeat the order when the warg leaped over its fallen companion and started crossing the distance. Only then did the Oathsworn break away from the person she was sworn to protect.

  Whether the warg thought it was faster than her or assumed it could easily get by considering she was not holding a weapon, it seemed to ignore her.

  A mistake on its part.

  There was a soft clink of metal as Chui pushed the guard of her katana away from its sheath. The warg underestimated her reach when lunging, and the Oathsworn only had to take a single practiced swipe to open its side and cause the creature to let out a yelp of pain. It hit the dirt and rolled away, turning in a canine-like manner and focusing its attention solely on the Oathsworn threat.

  No longer underestimating the Itaean girl.

  The two goblins were flanking around Jorgen. Ash pulled back and switched positions, circling around Ingrid, who had her hand on Jorvik's back, chanting in an attempt to give him some sort of defensive buff.

  Jorvik pounded his axe on his shield and called out to the bugbear, “Hey, fugly—come face me!” He shifted positions slightly, attempting to drive the bugbear in the preferred direction. Whether the creature understood the common tongue or not, it seemed to listen, stepping directly into the next bear trap.

  The creature screamed in pain as the iron jaws clamped around its ankle. The two brothers took the opportunity to attack. Despite its current predicament, it still had the wherewithal to raise its shield and attempt to block. It was doing a rather adequate job, and soon was swinging its spike-capped club with all the rage and fury of an injured bugbear.

  -