They advanced toward the mound, its earthen rise sloping sharply upward, the entrance framed by massive stone slabs blackened with age. Gaps where the goblins had pried apart ancient capstones revealed the black mouth of a tomb, exhaling the acrid, pungent stench of their lair. It was a vile cocktail of unwashed bodies, rotting meat, and something metallic and sharp, like rusted iron. Kharg wrinkled his nose as he stood before the entrance, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow that only emphasized the dark void ahead.

  Fafne balanced on Kharg’s shoulder, chirping softly as his nostrils flared. He sneezed in exaggerated distaste, causing Aster to chuckle nervously. “If your dragon is offended, we’re in for a treat,” Aster quipped, though his grin faltered as the oppressive odor hit him in full force.

  Kharg sent his glowing sphere forward, bathing the archway in its warm glow. The light danced across the rough stone, revealing crude scratches and markings, likely goblin scrawls.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Aster muttered. “Let’s tread carefully. This place reeks of death and danger.”

  “Among other things,” Jahram muttered with a firm grip on his shield as he squinted into the gloom. The man was tense with fear but managed to overcome it and took another hesitant step forward.

  Kharg took the lead and sent his orb of light floating ahead with a slight gesture. The stench intensified as they stepped inside, the foul air thick enough to taste. The interior was cold and damp, the walls formed of great fitted slabs leaning inward to meet beneath heavy capstones. Moss and black grime streaked their weathered surfaces, and water dripped where the goblins had broken through joints that had held for centuries.

  “Smells like they’ve been hoarding rot,” Aster muttered, trying to breathe shallowly. “Or worse.”

  The passage widened into a chamber whose corbelled roof loomed over them, its ancient stones now smeared with soot. Whatever noble purpose this place once served was lost beneath piles of matted straw, gnawed bones, and the crude trophies of goblin raids. Ancient burial niches lined the walls, shallow stone recesses stacked with the long-dead. Some still held brittle skeletons, their repose long since disturbed by the goblins’ filth. Wooden racks along the walls held mismatched weapons, crude spears and jagged knives, and scraps of tattered armor. Smoke stains marred the ceiling, and the corners of the room were darker still, almost oppressive in their blackness.

  “Charming,” Aster remarked, trying to mask his unease with humor.

  “This place reeks of their filth,” Jahram said, his voice low and tense. He glanced warily at the shadows.

  Fafne flitted from Kharg’s shoulder, his wings barely stirring the fetid air. He landed on a wooden rack, sniffing cautiously before chittering in disapproval. His silvery scales shimmered in the golden light as he darted toward a narrow tunnel at the far end of the chamber.

  “Fafne’s found something,” Kharg felt a bit proud that he managed to keep his voice steady despite the nervous energy thrumming through him. He gestured for the others to follow and pressed on as Fafne returned to his shoulder.

  The stench thickened as they descended the narrow passage. The air was thick and heavy, filled with the rank scent of goblins and the underlying musk of something far older and more sinister. The light from Kharg’s glowing orb was reflected by the moisture seeping down the damp stone walls where shadows might hide concealed dark folk, ready to jump out at them at any time. At least, that was what passed through Kharg’s mind as they crept down the almost claustrophobically tight passages. Every scuff of boots, every clink of chainmail echoed weakly, amplifying his sense of confinement.

  The tunnel bent sharply, and just as the light from Kharg’s orb spilled into the next chamber, a pair of shapes detached from the shadows above.

  A screech split the air. Two goblins dropped from hidden crevices in the ceiling, daggers flashing in the dim glow. Fafne hissed and flung himself clear, wings beating frantically as Kharg froze in shock. The first dagger struck his chest and skittered away with a sharp crack of air, while the second glanced off his shoulder. His aerial armor shimmered briefly, deflecting both blows before the creatures tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs and snarls.

  Kharg stumbled back, heart hammering, as the goblins scrambled to their feet, shrieking curses in their guttural tongue. Aster reacted first, stepping in with a roar. His sword came down in a hard arc that bit deep into the nearest goblin’s shoulder, sending it sprawling.

  The second creature darted at Kharg again, teeth bared. He met the attack with a desperate punch to the face. Pain shot through his knuckles, but the blow sent the goblin staggering back. It lashed out wildly, its dagger scraping against his arm, the strike too weak to pierce the shimmering layer of air that clung to him.

  Kharg forced himself to focus. He drew a sharp breath and began weaving the next spell, an aerial spike. The goblin shrieked and came at him again, slashing in frenzy, but this time Kharg had his aerial shield in place. The translucent barrier curved from his arm, turning each blow aside with crisp, ringing cracks.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Aster lunge after the other wounded goblin, but the narrow tunnel blocked his view. The hiss of his spell grew sharper and the air in his hand solidified into a glass-like shard. He flicked his wrist and the spike shot forward, piercing the goblin’s chest with a wet thud. It gave a strangled squeal and doubled over. Kharg stepped in, drawing his rapier in one smooth motion, and thrust. The blade caught the creature under the jaw and drove through the throat. It fell back with a gurgling rasp, twitching once before lying still.

  He turned quickly, breathing hard. Aster stood half a dozen paces away, sword lowered, and the other goblin motionless at his feet. Kharg lowered his rapier slowly, the echo of steel fading in the narrow tunnel. The only sound was their uneven breathing and the faint drip of water from the stones above. His pulse still pounded in his ears.

  He glanced at the bodies on the floor, and then at Aster, who was wiping his blade clean on a scrap of ragged cloth. “Next time you say you’ve got a bad feeling,” Kharg said, his voice rough but steady, “I’ll make sure to listen.”

  Aster let out a shaky laugh, a touch of relief breaking through his tension. “Yes,” he said. “I’d say that’s fair.”

  The weak smile that crossed Kharg’s face faded as quickly as it came. He glanced deeper into the tunnel, senses still taut. “Let’s hope that was the last of them.”

  They stood for a moment in the aftermath, the close air thick with the stench of blood and smoke. Then Kharg exhaled slowly and nodded toward the darkness ahead. “Let’s move. Whatever’s left down here will have heard that.”

  Aster retrieved his shield and stepped beside him, the faint glow from the light-orbs glinting across his mail. Jahram followed close behind, blade drawn, his face still pale but resolute.

  The passage sloped gently downward, the walls pressing close again before widening into a broader space. The change in air was immediate—warmer, fouler. A dull, reddish glow flickered from ahead.

  They emerged into a larger chamber. A crude fire pit smoldered at its center, its embers throwing up threads of acrid smoke that stung their eyes and throats. Around it lay the remains of a meal, bones gnawed clean and scattered among scraps of fur and hide, the floor slick with grease and soot. Near the pit lay several bunches of dried and half-fresh plants, their crooked stalks bound with thin cords of sinew. The pale leaves were mottled with purple veins, and their cloying, unpleasant scent mingled with the smoke. Kharg paused, frowning.

  “Henbane,” he murmured. “My shamanic teacher once showed me these. Said the herb drives the mind to madness—makes the eater blind to pain, lost in rage.”

  Aster shot him a wary glance. “Explains the two that leapt at us, then.”

  Kharg nodded, eyes narrowing on the bundles. “Right. Seems they dosed themselves before the ambush. Lucky for us they didn’t manage to take more.”

  Kharg let his light float higher, the glow spreading across the walls. What it revealed tightened his grip on the rapier. Grotesque carvings ran along the stone, crude figures of goblins and beasts locked in battle. Others showed smaller shapes prostrate before hulking forms, their claws outstretched in what might have been worship.

  “Smells like they’ve been cooking something worse than goblins,” Aster muttered, pinching his nose.

  Jahram’s eyes darted warily over the carvings. “Those don’t look like goblins to me,” he said. “Whatever they were praying to, it wasn’t friendly.”

  Kharg said nothing. He moved closer to the wall, tracing the rough gouges in the stone with a finger. The figures were distorted—humanoid but wrong, their proportions stretched and twisted. Eyes too large, mouths too wide, teeth carved into jagged crescents. Some bore horned heads and the suggestion of batlike wings rising from their shoulders. Others loomed over smaller shapes, clawed hands reaching down as if demanding tribute. Offerings were etched beneath them—bones, blood, and fire.

  “They’ve been here for some time,” he said at last, stepping back. “Long enough to make this their shrine.”

  Fafne flitted ahead, landing near another passage at the far end of the chamber. He turned to Kharg and chirped urgently, his tail curling in a way that spoke of his unease.

  “There’s more ahead,” Kharg said. He gestured toward the passage, keeping his voice steady. “No reason to linger here.”

  Guided by his glowing sphere, Kharg led them farther inside, the oppressive smells and sinister carvings a constant reminder of the dangers lurking within the mound. Every step took them deeper into the darkness, and the foul air seemed to close in around them, urging them to stay sharp and ready for whatever awaited them in the depths.

  The heavy silence of the lair was broken only by their soft footfalls and the occasional scrape of a weapon against the stone walls. Kharg’s conjured globe of light served them well, far better than any oil lantern would have. The stench of death and decay persisted, clinging to the air as if the mound itself refused to relinquish the horrors it had witnessed.

  They pressed deeper and soon came upon a third chamber. Like the others, it was a ruin marked by filth and neglect. Ancient burial niches lined one wall, the stone shelves littered with shattered bones. Matted furs clung to the floor, and a crude table lay overturned near the center. The walls were covered with goblin carvings, showing scenes of crude warfare, snarling faces, and what might have been offerings made to some primitive altar. At the far end stood a dirt-caked altar fashioned from piled bones and cracked skulls, their yellowed surfaces jutting from the grime like broken teeth. Fixed to its front was a crude clay plate, its surface marked with the faint arc of a circle and a single deep groove angling down. From the top of the groove, two shallow lines branched outward like crooked wings, though the rest of the design had long since worn away.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Aster pointed toward it. “That altar looks old… maybe worth a look?”

  Jahram shook his head sharply. “Not me. I’m not digging through whatever filth and blood’s smeared on that thing.”

  The tang of dried blood lingered here, strong enough to stir nausea, but no movement betrayed the presence of life.

  “Nothing here,” Kharg muttered, his eyes scanning the chamber. “Let’s keep moving.”

  A low opening on the chamber’s flank led into another dark passage. Kharg sent his light bobbing ahead and they moved on, the corridor narrowing until two men could not stand abreast. He drew the air in his palm and shaped it into a waiting arrow. The weave held, clear and hard as glass, its pull mild enough to keep without strain. He kept his left arm ready behind the shield and moved with the half-formed spell cupped in his right, prepared to loose at the first rush from the dark.

  They advanced with slow, careful steps, alert for another ambush. Aster and Jahram held their shields ready and swords poised to thrust, a few steps between them. Kharg’s pulse thudded in his ears. He listened hard, trying to hear anything past the clinking mail and the heavy tread of boots. He wondered if Aster’s bad feeling still held. Fafne pressed close to his collar, tense and silent. Now and then Kharg let the orb sweep the ceiling and corners, counting heartbeats between each pace.

  At the next bend, the orb’s glow caught a thin line at ankle height. Kharg raised a hand. “Wait. Something here.” Two paces ahead, a taut leather string crossed the passage, plain enough once he looked for it. He followed it with his eyes. One end looped around a stout stick wedged at an angle between wall and floor, then ran three paces to a second slanting peg, and from there climbed along the stone. His gaze tracked the line to the ceiling. A shallow groove was carved above them, and within it sat a small tree trunk hung to swing. Five sharpened wooden spikes were lashed to its end. Kharg hissed a curse under his breath.

  “Back a few steps,” he said. “Trap. We’d never have seen the string by lantern light. Yom is with us today.”

  “Yom’s luck—fickle as a gambler’s,” Jahram muttered, but he retreated without argument.

  Kharg kept the spell cupped in his right hand, then angled his wrist and let the aerial arrow fly. It struck the slanting stick with a sharp crack, and the pin jerked free.

  The pendulum dropped with a snap and a rush of air. Five sharpened spikes swept along the passage at chest height, scything through the space where a man would have stood. It hissed past and swung back, slower but still dangerous. Dust sifted from the ceiling with each pass, grit pattering on the stones.

  They had already stepped well back, out of reach, and watched the beam’s arc fade. A third swing, then a fourth—each weaker than the last. Eventually it hung still, creaking on its pivot and everything grew silent. He listened a moment. Only their breathing and the soft settling of dust.

  “Crude, but clever,” he said.

  Aster exhaled, shoulders easing. “Would’ve taken my head off.”

  “Let’s continue,” Kharg said. “Keep alert.” He sent the light bobbing ahead, and edged past the hanging beam, the glow skimming the floor for any second string or hidden peg. The passage beyond narrowed again, the stone close and damp, and he felt the stale air press colder against his face as they moved on. Another bend led to a new chamber.

  The fourth chamber lay at the end of another narrow passage. As they entered, the flickering light of Kharg’s spell revealed a space that seemed to serve as living quarters. Piles of crude bedding made from matted furs and straw lined the corners, and a low, broken bench stood against one wall. The air here was slightly less foul, though the smell of unwashed bodies and damp earth was still strong.

  “This must’ve been where the orc slept,” Aster said, prodding one of the bedding with the tip of his sword. He wrinkled his nose as a cloud of dust and filth rose into the air.

  “Over here,” Jahram called, crouching near a small pile of belongings. Among the refuse, he uncovered a small leather pouch. The jingling sound it made as he picked it up caught everyone’s attention.

  “Hold onto it,” Kharg said. “We’ll let Jore have a look outside.”

  Satisfied nothing else moved in the shadows, the group retraced their steps, quickening their pace as the mound’s oppressive air urged them toward the exit. Near the third chamber, Jahram halted, his gaze fixed on the bone-and-skull altar. “Not leaving that behind.” He set his boot against one of the supports and shoved hard. The brittle bones cracked and collapsed in a clatter, the clay plate shattering on the stone floor. Whatever crude power the goblins had poured into it was gone in an instant.

  On the way past the ambush, Aster paused by the fallen goblins. “Wait! Didn’t Jore say there’s a shilling per goblin ear?”

  Jahram grimaced. “That’s… a bit grisly.”

  Kharg sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It is. Though I do have magic to cleanse us…”

  Aster grimaced but knelt to the work while Jahram looked away. Kharg murmured a brief cleansing to strip the worst of the blood from Aster’s hands when he finished.

  As they emerged into the daylight, the fresh forest air was a welcome relief. Kharg dismissed his globe of light, letting the natural sunlight wash away the feeling of oppressive gloom. Jore sat where they had left him, bow close, leg bound. He looked up at the sound of their boots. Kharg gestured to the pouch and the small, stained linen bundle Aster carried.

  “Finds inside,” Kharg said. “And two sets of ears from the ambush.”

  Aster cleared his throat. “There’s a bounty per goblin ear, yes?”

  Jore nodded once. “Right. But by custom it’s only the right ear. One shilling per goblin.”

  Aster looked at the bundle, then back at Jore. “Pity, I’d figured we’d get twenty-two from the goblins alone. We took both from the first two. Perhaps something for the orc as well?”

  Jore gave a curt nod. “Aye, the orc’s worth two shillings for his ear too. But I wasn’t clear earlier, by custom only the right ears count. One shilling per goblin.” Jore took the pouch, feeling the heft of the coins before tipping some of its contents into his palm. Silver shillings and copper pennies clinked together, their dull gleam catching the light. “Around two hundred,” he said with a grin, turning to the others. “A nice bonus, and that’s why I turned to adventuring.”

  “We’ll deal with the rest outside the mound.” Kharg looked to Aster and Jahram. “Keep your eyes open. We’ll tally with Jore’s count and then collect the rest.”

  Kharg hesitated at the first body. The goblin’s charred face was frozen in a half-snarl, half-scream, and the stench of burnt flesh clinging stubbornly to the air. He steeled himself, drawing his steel dagger with a faint tightening in his chest. Jahram kept his distance, his expression tight, while Aster crouched by another corpse with the casual air of a man skinning a rabbit. In short order, the grisly work was done.

  Aster gave a short laugh. “Easiest coin I’ve made in weeks. Well… except for the smell.”

  Jore eyed the bundle Aster carried and the small pile they’d set down beside him. “Right ears only,” he reminded, mouth quirking despite the pain. “Looks like you remembered—mostly.”

  “We sorted them,” Aster said, opening a coarse jute sack from Jore’s kit. He held it wide while Kharg tipped the stained linen in. The ears fell with a soft, unpleasant patter.

  “Good,” Jore said. “Guild clerk’ll want them counted in front of him.” He shifted, sucked a breath through his teeth. “I can stand. I won’t walk far. Not on this leg.”

  Kharg studied the bound thigh, then considered the walk through the trees. “We’ll carry you.”

  They moved to the treeline. Kharg pointed out two straight, pole-length saplings. “These. And one shorter crosspiece.” Aster braced a trunk with a boot and hacked clean, his sword biting deep; Jahram followed suit on the second, then took the crosspiece. They trimmed branches and nubs with short, practiced strokes, sap bleeding where twigs came away. Two cloaks came off, Jahram’s and Aster’s, folded double and tied between the poles until the fabric made a tight sling.

  “Will it hold?” Jahram asked, testing the lashings.

  “Let’s hope so,” Kharg answered with a wry grin.

  They eased the litter down beside Jore. “On three,” Aster said. Kharg braced Jore’s shoulder while the ranger gritted his teeth and shifted, then they settled him into the sling. Aster took the front poles, Jahram the rear.

  “Light and steady,” Kharg said. “I’ll go ahead.”

  Fafne chirped and lifted from his shoulder, circling once before angling down the trail. Kharg sent a globe of light drifting low, skimming roots and stones, and moved at a careful pace, listening for any stir in the brush. Behind him the poles creaked softly, Aster and Jahram breathing in time as they adjusted their grip.

  “Call if you need to stop,” Kharg said over his shoulder.

  Jore’s answer came dry but steady. “Just get us to the village. I’ll complain later.”

  Kharg allowed himself a thin smile and pressed on, Fafne scouting ahead as they began their cautious walk back through the trees.

  * * *

  The sun had passed well below the trees by the time they emerged from the forest and approached Wood’s Hollow. The children who had waved at them on their arrival now stood silently at the outskirts, eyes fixed on the litter swaying between Aster and Jahram. The villagers began to gather, curiosity and anxiety mingling in their expressions.

  Sam, the elder, pushed through the onlookers. His gaze flicked from the jute sack at Aster’s belt to Jore’s bound leg and shoulder. “What news?” he asked, voice steady.

  Jore managed a rough smile from the sling. “It’s done. The mound was the nest. Goblins and their orc, no more.”

  A collective sigh of relief rippled through the crowd. Sam’s shoulders eased, and a grateful smile spread across his face. “We cannot thank you enough,” he said warmly. “The Guild’s fee is a small price to pay for the safety of our homes.” He raised his voice. “Marta! Bring your bag.”

  A spare, gray-plaited woman shouldered forward with a leather satchel. Kharg stepped aside, but stayed close as she unwrapped Jore’s bandages with quick, competent hands. She sniffed at the herbs on her thumb and gave Kharg a sharp look that softened almost at once.

  “Clean work,” she said. “No filth left in it. You’ve stopped the worst and set the edges right.”

  Kharg inclined his head. “He’ll keep the leg if he rests it.”

  “He’ll keep it,” Marta agreed, binding him afresh. “But he won’t walk far. I can add a poultice for swelling, that’s all.” She glanced at Kharg’s chest through the torn coat. “You as well.”

  “It’s handled,” Kharg said.

  Marta’s mouth twitched. “If you say so.” She patted Jore’s shoulder. “Sleep, ranger. No stairs.”

  Several villagers came over and offered them fresh bread, jars of honey, and bundles of herbs as tokens of their gratitude. Though short on coin, they had brought plenty of good food, a fact that pleased Kharg. His stores had almost run out by now, so this would save him from a return trip with dreadful cuisine. Jore accepted these gifts graciously, ensuring the villagers that their efforts were appreciated and that the Adventurers’ Guild was always ready to protect those in need.

  Sam offered to house them again, which they gratefully accepted. Several of the men joined them after the evening meal, producing pipes and a barrel of ale, which they shared around the fireplace. It did not take long before the worries had disappeared like the last snowflake of winter and been replaced by sounds of merriment and hearty tales of past encounters with dark folk, their voices animated and their spirits buoyed by the success of the adventurers. Kharg sat near the hearth, carving on a piece of bone with Fafne enjoying the warmth of the fire nearby.

  After a time, Jore cleared his throat. “I told you I’d speak more on wargs,” he said, voice low but carrying. The room settled. “Didn’t expect warg-riders this far south. Among goblin clans, riders sit high—near chiefs, sometimes above them. You don’t waste a mount like that on rabble.”

  Kharg looked up from the strap. “Cousins to wolves, you said.”

  “Distant,” Jore replied. “Heavier through the chest and shoulders. More muscle over the forequarters. Shorter snouts. And the claws…” He lifted his good hand, curling the fingers. “They don’t rake like a cat’s, not quite—but closer to that than a wolf. Halfway between, you might say. Enough to tear and hold. I’ve heard they’ll take to trees to reach their prey—low trunks at least. Wouldn’t count on height to save you.”

  Aster frowned into his cup. “And the sun doesn’t trouble them.”

  “Not like it does dark folk,” Jore said. “They’ll hunt by day if hungry or sent. Smarter than wolves, meaner than most men. A rider makes them worse—goblin sees farther from that saddle, and the warg gets someone to set the knife where it hurts.”

  Jahram shifted, eyes on the flames. “Anything else we should know?”

  “If you must stand,” Jore said, “face them square with shields tight. Don’t give the leap a side. They like a feint, then a shoulder-smash to break your line. And if one goes down, watch the jaws even when it looks done. They bite long.”

  Silence held a moment, broken only by the pop of a knot in the fire. Kharg nodded once. “We’ll remember.”

  Jore’s mouth tugged in a tired half-smile. “I’d rather you not need to.”

  They turned in early. The wooden rafters creaked as the night cooled, and Kharg lay awake a time, listening to the old house settle and the faint wind at the shutters, Fafne’s breath soft against his neck.

  At first light the square was misted and pale. They brought the horses out to the lane. Aster and Jahram rigged a side mount for Jore—blankets folded thick across the saddle, right stirrup unbuckled, the bad leg cradled and tied off so it wouldn’t jolt. Marta checked the lashings, satisfied with a grunt.

  “Slow pace,” Kharg said. He rested a hand on Jore’s boot while the ranger settled with a tight breath and a nod. “We’ll stop if the bindings bite.”

  “I’ll shout,” Jore said dryly. “Save your ears for the Guild clerk.”

  Sam clasped their hands one by one. “You’ve given us more than a night’s sleep,” he said. “You’ve given us time.” He glanced at the sack on Aster’s belt and grimaced without quite looking directly at it. “May you be paid fair for foul work.”

  Kharg swung into his saddle. The others mounted, taking positions by habit—Aster at Jore’s bridle, Jahram guarding the flank, Kharg a few paces ahead with the light of morning on the road. Fafne rose, a brief glimmer, then settled back on Kharg’s shoulder.

  “Easy step,” Kharg said, and they moved out under the thinning mist, the village falling quiet behind them.