“Garen,” said Ritso, “they’re trying to help her. Let. Them.”

The captain flinched, then his pale face reddened as others in the tavern echoed Ritso’s sentiment. An argument ensued, but Riggs focused on the operation before him.

The stranger ripped open Tarley’s shirt around the broken shoulder and grimaced at the sight of it.

Seconds passed, and the stranger did nothing.

“Can you help her?” Riggs asked, the stranger’s eyes rising to meet his. “Please?”

They looked away, shoulders slumped, then turned back, took a deep breath, and nodded. “This will take some time and... will be agonizing.”

Tarley nodded up at them, “Please, anything.”

“Of course. I am Lyraal, of the Wardens. I will do anything I can to help.”

“Thank you - I’m Riggs.” The big man introduced the others.

“A pleasure to meet all of you. Ritso, I dropped my pack outside, just around the corner. Please fetch it for me, I’ll need it to heal Tarley.”

Nodding, the stout man handed his torch to Lyraal and took off. “Riggs, keep pinching the wound on Tarley’s leg, but get ready to switch with me and restrain her,” Lyraal walked next to him, one hand held above the torch’s flame. The smell of brimstone intensified as their hand began to glow white-hot, like a fire poker.

Lyraal handed the torch to Garen, who took it with a glower. They placed one cool hand on Tarley’s chest and then quickly clamped the other over her injured leg, Riggs’ moving his hands as he felt the intense heat and smelled the searing flesh. Tarley cried out, biting back the noise until her lips bled. She rocked, but Riggs held her down and prevented any movement that could worsen her injuries.

“That’s what you call helping?” Garen said, hostility in his tone.

Seconds later, Tarley stopped struggling against Riggs, unconscious from the pain and breathing heavily. When Lyraal removed their hand, blood clotted across the wound rather than poured freely. The process left the skin around Tarley’s wound blistered and swollen, threatening to slough off at the lightest touch.

The Warden followed quickly with a spell circle that radiated deep blue energy and water appeared over their hands. They laid their hands back upon Tarley’s wound, steam hissing from where the cool water touched the burned skin. The woman gasped in pain, but her breathing evened out as the water continued to flow over her injury, reducing the redness and swelling of her flesh.

“That stopped the bleeding, but we must keep this skin clean and safe from infection.” Lyraal warned, “The next step will be worse. I’ll need peace and quiet to work, as well. If there are further arguments, they should take place outside or upstairs. Better yet, people should collect the bodies outside, strip them of valuable resources, and start a pyre.”

Garen turned towards Riggs, but before he could bark any orders Lyraal lifted a hand between them. “Not him, I’ll need his strength for the ritual.”

Ritso dropped the large, heavy pack next to Lyraal with a grunt and was immediately conscripted to go outside with Garen. An elderly woman lit another torch and took Garen’s place.

Lyraal rummaged through their pack and pulled out various reagents, but all Riggs identified was what looked to be a lizard tail and a mortar and pestle.

“How can I help?”

The Warden placed the mortar and pestle beside Tarley, then flipped Riggs a small, sharp knife. It bounced off his chest and he fumbled to catch it, but managed. “I need a few drops of your blood,” Lyraal said, “give your palm a shallow cut and drop the blood into the bowl.

“I’m not a witch and we’re not performing dark magic,” Lyraal added impatiently, watching Riggs’ expression.

You have to trust the people who fight beside you.

Riggs cut himself deeper than he wanted, more than few drops of his blood falling into the mortar.

“Good, go rest nearby until I call for you again.” Lyraal dropped ingredients into the mortar: the lizard tail, a pinch of some kind of pale dust, their own blood, then ground the contents of the bowl into a gritty, red paste. Daubing the paste onto their finger, they painted circles with strange, angular symbols in them onto Tarley’s bruised, swollen skin.

The golden halos in Lyraal’s eyes glowed as they concentrated on Tarley and Riggs lowered himself to the floor against one of the inn’s walls. He watched Lyraal’s hands move over Tarley, a golden light pulsing between them. Sleep came for him, but he shook his head to fend it off.

I need to be here in case they need me. His muscles relaxed as he sat against the wall, his head leaning back. How long has it been since I slept? Three days? He sighed, closing his eyes. Closing my eyes for a bit wouldn’t hurt...

He woke to hear Lyraal and Garen arguing: “...I said I need your best.”

“He’s not our best!” Garen snarled, “Our best are dead because of him.”

"Look at him!” Lyraal shot back, pointing at Riggs, “He single-handedly held the line against the enemy and shrugged off blows that would have felled anyone else here. He literally smashed the opposition into dust – no one else here has the endurance to do that. Only a skilled necromancer can produce this many monsters and craft one such as that bone scorpion – I will need backup that can hew through a forest of enemies.”

“Fine, get both of yourselves killed then – I'm done trying to talk wisdom to children.” The captain turned to leave, but Lyraal grabbed his arm. "How dare yo-” he stopped when their eyes met.

“We live in dark times and I’m sure you have suffered and lost greatly,” they whispered to him, “but the only way forward is by working together. If,” their grip tightened, “you continue to abuse those trying to help you, you will quickly find yourself alone.”

Garen pulled away and they let him go.

Riggs stood as Lyraal approached, the big man feeling better for the nap. The Warden’s eyes had lost their inner halo, leaving them a simple, light brown. Behind them, he saw Ritso holding Tarley’s good hand as she trembled and groaned in pain. Her broken shoulder, still covered in symbols of blood paste, seemed to shift as if something crawled beneath her skin with a faint grinding noise.

“Get your things, we’re leaving for the keep in a few minutes.”

The smith stroked at his red stubble, realizing that someone had patched up his head and cleaned off the blood while he slept. “Give me a bit more time, I want to leave orders with Ritso and Kirk.”

“You’re not going to question why you’re coming with me?”

“Is it the only way to stop these monsters?”

“‘Yes.”

“Then I’m coming with you.” He shrugged.

Lyraal nodded, pleased. “Move quickly, I want to catch up to the fleeing bandits before they make it to the keep.”

They left several minutes later, stocked for the short journey with dried food and a fresh shield for Riggs. The pyre still smouldered and crackled outside, Riggs gagging at the stink of burning bodies as they walked past. Kirk and Avi waved goodbye from the second story window and Riggs put on a brave face before returning the wave. Lyraal set a harsh pace for their journey, but between his long legs and physique, Riggs kept up without difficulty.

They travelled by moonlight, the pale light giving a silvery sheen to the many root vegetables growing in the fields that surrounded Honour. The buildings where farmers and ranchers lived not long ago sat abandoned and boarded, but, as they moved further from the hamlet each homestead grew increasingly more decrepit. As the forest drew close, they came upon a sawmill and lodge that looked only recently abandoned and boarded.

“That’s Ritso and Tarley’s place,” Riggs said, just to make conversation, “Ritso and a few others cut down trees and use the old sawmill, while Tarley is an apprentice at my pa’s forge, like me.”

“You sound close.”

“Aye, we grew up and trained in the militia together.”

“I’m surprised to hear you speak of it fondly,” Lyraal turned to look at him, “your captain is... not a kind man.”

“Hm? Oh, you mean Garen,” Riggs shook his head, “he was the captain in my pa’s days, apparently a legend with a sword. They didn’t get along, but he, umm, had a daughter who he trained, she ran the militia when I joined. And, well, ugh, he has his reasons for not liking me. Please don’t be hard on him.”

“We’ve all suffered, Riggs, it doesn’t excuse how he treats you and the others.”

Riggs shrugged and left it at that.

They stopped at the forest’s edge. Trees varying from ancient giants to small saplings formed a veritable wall, with a path choked by underbrush and encroaching roots offering the only sensible entrance. The moon had moved on from the horizon and now shone down on them from high above, the keep’s silvery outline still watching them over the treeline. Not a single ray of moonlight penetrated the many, dense layers of gnarled branches that formed the forest’s canopy. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Riggs smelled something other than rotting flesh: wet, cool earth and moss wafted up to his nose, mixed with scents of decaying leaves and hints of wild flowers he never learned to name.

Lyraal pulled a lantern from their pack and produced a small spark with a snap of their fingers. The lantern’s light fared little better than the moon’s. The forest’s thick canopies and understory devoured the light before it travelled more than thirty feet. Bare tree limbs of different sizes, shapes, and hues reached out in all directions, creaking and swaying in the chill wind.

He looked back and saw the outline of Honour’s little buildings, only a short distance away, easily spotted by the dying pyre in its midst.

I want to go home.

But I won’t have one – none of us will – if I don’t keep going.

Riggs turned back and found Lyraal studying him, perhaps once again reading his mind. The big man said nothing, but Lyraal read his expression and looked pleased. They entered the forest and Riggs followed.

They marched up an overgrown path that was once fit for wagons. The lantern light swept across the ground to detect any roots that sought to trip them. Lyraal avoided the underbrush with nimble steps, but slowed their pace as Riggs stumbled and smashed his way through the malicious roots and grasping branches. The big man stiffened at the call or skittering of every animal, or whenever the wind howled through the tree’s branches.

Above them, a raven cackled as Riggs tripped over a large root hidden from sight. Leaves and bushes rustled and crunched as he fell to the ground, and the raven cackled more. Riggs spat dirty mushrooms from his mouth and glared at the raven as he stood, but looked away as the bird’s glassy eyes met his. It was gone when he looked back.

“I’m sorry for slowing you down.”

“All is well,” Lyraal said, balancing on a root and pointing out where Riggs should take his next steps. “There may be great danger at the keep and I will appreciate a staunch ally if my fears prove true.”