Riggs looked towards the keep he knew loomed over them, even though the forest’s canopy shielded it from his sight. “What do you think is there?”

“A dark presence of incredible power drew me here from leagues away. Do you not feel the sickness in the air?”

Riggs paused, then sniffed loudly. “No, nothing.”

Lyraal chuckled, “I am not surprised, those of your blood are usually deadened to magic.”

“My blood?” He looked down at the cut on his hand.

“Riggs...” Lyraal hesitated, “Can you not tell that you are different from the others of your village? Doubtless one or both of your parents were similarly as big as you, no?”

Riggs grunted in acknowledgement and then in frustration as he slipped on a root. His next step was forceful, crushing branch, shrub, and weed underfoot. “Yeah, my pa was even bigger – maybe not much taller, but broader. Ma was big, but nothing like us, though you couldn't tell given what she could do to you with a rolling pin.”

“Were I to make a guess, I’d say you have the blood of the kitahm in you,” Lyraal looked back and saw the confusion on his face, “They are the smallest of the giants – born long ago from the offspring of humans and tahbolg.”

“Nah,” Riggs shook his head, “I got whupped by plenty of the other militia folk.”

“That’s because you have to hold back during sparring, afraid that you might hurt someone.”

The big man shrugged. “That’s just what strong people should do. I’m nothing special. You should have seen-” he choked up.

Keep at it and you’ll be as good as me before you know it.

Lyraal laid a hand on his arm, “They sound like incredible people to have won your loyalty and affection. I would love to hear about them, whenever you’re ready.”

Riggs only nodded and Lyraal pressed no further, as they continued on in silence.

Between their rush to escape and the injuries they bore, the bandits left an easy trail to follow. They took the forest’s path, with no effort made to conceal their tracks in the muddy ground, the underbrush they trampled, or the blood they left on every branch and bush. Riggs and Lyraal even passed several clearings where fallen branches and trees were swept of debris and moss, littered with discarded bandages covered in dried blood.

But their pace through the forest turned glacial, Riggs incapable of coping with the underbrush and tiring from the effort. In the dark of the woods, guided only by the lantern’s light, they couldn’t tell if the trail was growing colder or warmer.

“I think more of them join the trail the deeper into the forest we go,” Lyraal mused as they entered another small clearing at the top of a rise, where the bandits may have rested.

Riggs huffed up the hill, sweat stinging his eyes, too tired to respond. He used a large branch he’d picked up to feel out his next step, feeling triumphant as he felt a root and strode over it. Whatever his foot landed on rolled beneath his great weight, and he grunted as he toppled.

Stay down, boy. You’re not worth anyone’s time.

Riggs sagged, the warm ground calling to him.

Warm?

Lyraal flashed the lantern over him, revealing a filthy man’s corpse beneath a thin layer of detritus.

Riggs cursed, crawling forward and kicking back, hard. Bones cracked beneath his boot and the body rolled a few feet back down the hill, snapping twigs and rustling leaves before stopping face up.

You oaf. You couldn’t sneak up on a barn if a horde of children were banging pots together.

“Shh.” Lyraal helped him to his feet. They pointed the lantern light on the body and saw it was stripped of its clothes, equipment, boots, and anything of value. On one pallid shoulder, a strange mark marred the flesh like a puckered scar. A bandage wrapped around its torso was crusted to the flesh with dried blood, a splintered protrusion suggesting an arrow that was crudely snapped off instead of being removed.

But the arrow did not cause his death.

Fresh, warm blood spilled from a ragged slash to its throat, the man’s grimy face frozen in a look of shock, horror, and anger.

“These filthy savages know nothing of loyalty,” Lyraal spat.

Riggs wobbled as he stood and Lyraal handed him his walking stick. Taking a few deep breaths, his eyes locked with those of the betrayed corpse before him. His mind couldn’t imagine any of his fellow militia doing that to him, not even those that were mean to him.

He shook his head, breaking eye contact.

You have to trust the person beside you in battle.

You have to look out for each other, defend each other.

Take a blow for them, if you must.

Riggs felt a hand on his arm and looked down at Lyraal, tears blurring his vision.

“Are you okay to go on?” The compassion in Lyraal’s voice made him choke back a sob.

“S-sorry,” he said, wiping tears and sweat from his eyes with a dirty glove, then blinking dirt and grit out of his eyes instead, “I’m always a burden.”

“Without you, your village would have fallen to the bandits and zombies earlier this night. You were not a burden then,” they replied, then gestured around them with the lantern’s light, “This would not be an easy journey for anyone, and one cannot be good at everything. That is why having friends is important.”

“You seem good at everything,” Riggs countered.

“I’m good at travelling and killing monsters,” the Warden opened their arms to encompass everything around them, “you haven’t known me long enough to see what I’m bad at.” Lyraal gave him a sympathetic smile, “But you have known yourself your entire life and have all the memories to scrutinize your actions, rather than seeing the good you have brought to others.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy to stop.”

“No, it’s not.” Lyraal agreed.

“You seem wise.”

“Thank you, it comes with age.”

“How old are you?”

“Old,” Lyraal smiled.

Screaming erupted from the darkness, echoing all around them. The forest’s density made it impossible to tell where the noises came from, but Lyraal locked the lantern’s light onto the trail and strode forward, waving for Riggs to follow. The screams continued, growing in frequency and volume as they pursued the tracks further up the hill.

“Hide!” Lyraal hissed, closing the hood on their lantern to block its light.

Up ahead, Riggs heard the trampling of underbrush more clearly. He stepped off the path and put his shoulder against an ancient tree, the only one in immediate vicinity capable of concealing his bulk. With no time to strap on his shield, he drew the longsword at his hip and waited.

“Run!” A woman wailed, “It's chasing us!”

What should I do?“Back to the village!” Another voice shrieked, “We should have never camped in this curs-”

Riggs made out a sudden choking noise and the sound of someone crashing to the ground. The voices and footsteps grew clearer.

I can’t let them get past us.

He took a deep breath and glimpsed the barest flicker of cinders dancing in the air across from him.

Leaves rustled and crunched.

A twig snapped.

Riggs spun around the tree with a powerful backhand swing - too soon. The tip of the blade bit something as it soared past, but then buried into the tree with a deep thunk. Whoever was rushing down the path cried out in alarm and crashed into him at full speed.

Riggs plummeted with whoever ran into him, the sword pulled from his hands as it remained wedged in the tree. He felt a hafted weapon of some sort pressed between them as they fell to the rough, uneven ground, then the other person crashed down on him and knocked the wind from his lungs.

A gout of flame roared overhead, raking the immediate area.

People screamed.

He gasped for air, inhaling burning cinders and gagging on the smell of burning flesh and melting fat.

The flash of fire outlined the silhouette straddling him as it bashed him across the jaw with the haft of its weapon with a panicked, incomprehensible yell. They tried to stand and get away from him, but Riggs grabbed the haft and pulled them back down. The person fell back on top of him, not expecting resistance from someone reeling from a blow to the head.

They yelled again, throwing a few crazed punches at his head with both fists before trying to escape again. Left in full control of the weapon, Riggs slammed the haft into their chest with an audible crunch and threw them off him.

That gave him the space he needed to roll to his feet, where he spotted three more bandits coming towards him. The two in front wielded crude clubs and torches, but the third in back held a spear. Riggs looked down at the weapon he inherited, which appeared to be a heavy lumberjack’s axe, and adjusted his grip to make better use of it. He looked back up, staring at the three incoming enemies, who stared back.

Even a great fighter doesn’t have good odds against two opponents at once.

“Go, get him!” The spearman broke the silence. “I’ve got your backs!”

Avoid it at all costs. And never consider fighting three...