Torsten had ridden hard through the night and into the dawn, leaving the mountain's shadow far behind him. The journey on horseback had begun the previous evening, and he had pushed the tireless animal onward without rest. The landscape had transformed. The initial, treacherous descent on foot down the goat paths was now a distant memory, replaced by rolling, frost-kissed foothills and finally, the wide, open plains. The air here was thicker, smelling not of pine and clean snow, but of damp earth, livestock, and the distant promise of a thousand chimneys.
The tireless horse Old Man Tiber had lent him thundered along the well-trodden dirt road, its breath misting in the cool morning air. Here, he passed other travelers: farmers with carts piled high with summer squash, a pair of fur-clad trappers heading toward the hills, even a brightly painted wagon belonging to a troupe of mummers.
Torsten paid them little mind. His broad shoulders were slumped with a weariness that went bone-deep, but his eyes, fixed on the horizon, held a grim, unwavering resolve. Every hoofbeat was a reminder of the message he carried, a heavy weight in the inner pocket of his furs. He pushed the horse onward, the first glimpse of a high stone wall and the rising smoke of a bustling town just visible in the distance, Stoneford.
As the town walls grew closer, resolving from a hazy line into a formidable barrier of grey stone, Torsten eased back on the reins. He slowed the horse from a hard gallop to a steady trot, letting the weary animal catch its breath.
He approached the main gate, a wide archway reinforced with iron and flanked by two squat watchtowers. He frowned. The security was tighter than on his last visit a few weeks prior. Two extra guards stood watch, their spears held at the ready and their gazes sharp, scanning every new arrival with a disciplined suspicion.
Torsten halted the horse a respectful distance from the gate and swung his tired body down from the saddle. He gave the horse a grateful pat on the neck before leading it forward on foot. He caught the eye of one of the guards, a man with a square jaw and a familiar, weary expression.
Torsten grunted, the sound rough from a sleepless night on the road. "Morning."
The guard's eyes widened slightly in recognition, then narrowed with concern as he took in Torsten's road-worn appearance. The trader from the high peaks was usually a jovial presence, full of stories and ready for a pint. This man was grim, his face etched with exhaustion and a hard, focused urgency.
"Torsten? By the gods, man, you look like you've wrestled a snow-bear." The guard leaned closer, his voice dropping. "What brings you down in such a state?"
Torsten glanced past him at the other guards, his gaze sharp despite his weariness. "I could ask the same of you lot. What's with the extra spears?"
The guard sighed, a weary sound. "Bandits. A nasty crew hit a merchant caravan on the south road a few days back. The Baron's been tightening the leash on everyone coming and going since. Trying to squeeze them out."
Torsten's jaw tightened. "Ill news travels fast, it seems. I have urgent business at the keep. A message for the Baron's steward."
The urgency in his tone and the mention of the keep cut through the guard's usual protocol. He looked from Torsten's grim face to the powerful horse at his side, then gave a sharp nod. "Go on, then. But be watchful. The town's on edge." He unlatched the smaller pedestrian gate beside the main barred entrance and swung it open, allowing Torsten to lead his horse through.
The moment he stepped past the gate, the feel of the town hit him. The street just inside the wall was narrow, paved with worn, uneven cobblestones that still bore the faint, dark stains of a bygone era of coal dust and heavy ore carts. The buildings here were old, squat structures of grey stone, their small windows looking out like suspicious eyes.
But as he led the horse further in, the town began to transform. The narrow lane opened into a wider thoroughfare. Newer buildings of timber and clean plaster stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the old stone, their upper stories leaning out over the street. Brightly colored banners bearing the symbols of different merchant guilds—a weaver's shuttle, a blacksmith's hammer, a tanner's hide—hung from iron brackets, a splash of vibrant life against the dull grey stone.
The sounds of the road were replaced by the cacophony of commerce. The rhythmic clang of a hammer on anvil from a nearby smithy, the lowing of cattle from a stock pen near the market square, the shouts of merchants hawking their wares. Despite the underlying tension the guard had mentioned, Stoneford was alive with the thrum of trade. He saw merchants in finer clothes than his own haggling over bolts of cloth, and the air, for all its lingering scent of coal, was rich with the smell of baking bread, tanned leather, and exotic spices from lands far to the south. It was a world away from Oakhaven's quiet austerity.
Torsten navigated the horse through the bustling crowd, his gaze sweeping over the familiar storefronts. He ignored the bakeries and the alehouses. He had a specific destination in mind. Approaching the Baron's steward looking like a man who had been dragged through a hedge backward was a poor strategy. More than that, he needed information. Walking into the keep blind, with only rumors of bandits and his own village's troubles, was a fool's errand. He needed the lay of the land from a friendly voice, someone he had trusted for years.
He turned down a quieter side street, the sounds of the main thoroughfare fading behind him. He stopped before a respectable-looking shop. A simple, well-carved wooden sign hung above the door, depicting a bushel of mountain herbs and a string of polished stones. This was his place. This was where he would find his friend.
He tied the horse to a nearby post, giving it a final, grateful scratch behind the ears. The shop door chimed softly as he pushed it open and stepped inside.
A young woman of about sixteen or seventeen stood behind the counter, her head bent over a ledger. She looked up, a bright, practiced sales pitch already forming on her lips. "Welcome to Wincott's Wares, where you'll find the finest... oh!" The pitch died as she recognized the visitor. A wide, genuine smile replaced the professional one.
"Uncle Torsten!" she exclaimed. "You're... come in, come in!" The smile faltered as she took in his road-worn state, his slumped shoulders, and the grim set of his jaw. Her own expression shifted to one of deep concern. "What happened? You look exhausted."
Before Torsten could reply, a smooth, cultured voice called out from a back room. "Is that our mountain hermit I hear, Thalia?" A man stepped through a beaded curtain, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. "It's not yet time for the moonpetal harvest, is it? Don't tell me the old druid's gone and boosted the growth with his magic again."
The man was Geoffrey Wincott, a man who, by his own cheerfully admitted account, was the disgraced third son of a noble family from some faraway, warmer land.
Torsten managed a weak smile for Geoffrey and slumped down onto a familiar wooden bench near the counter, the weariness of his journey hitting him all at once. "Not this time, Geoff. I carry a message from Hemlock. There are... intruders. Near our village. We need the Baron's aid."
Geoffrey's cheerful demeanor vanished, replaced by a look of sharp concern. He shook his head slowly, a sigh escaping his lips. "Torsten, my friend... you've come at a terrible time."
He leaned against the counter, his voice dropping. "Word from the keep is that the Baron rode out yesterday at dawn. He took his entire knight-squad with him to hunt down a nasty crew of bandits that hit a caravan on the south road." Geoffrey's gaze was grim. "He won't be back for days, and in his absence, the town garrison has its orders. They won't move a single man from these walls."
Geoffrey's words fell like stones, each one landing with a heavy thud in Torsten's gut. He had ridden without rest, pushed himself to the brink, all for nothing. The hope of returning with the Baron's men dissolved, leaving a cold, hard knot of failure in its place. He stared at the floorboards, the weight of his village, of his own daughter, pressing down on him.
Geoffrey watched his friend, his usual easy-going manner gone. He saw the flicker of despair in the mountain man's eyes and knew he could not let it take root. "The Baron's aid is not the only kind available in a town like this, my friend," he said, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through Torsten's grim thoughts. "There are other avenues. Other... professionals."
Geoffrey's words cut through the heavy despair like a knife. Other professionals. The thought was a spark in the darkness. Torsten looked up, the hard knot of failure in his stomach loosening its grip. Of course. In his mountain isolation, he had forgotten the complex tapestry of a town like this. The Baron's law was one kind of power; the power of coin was another entirely.
Hope, grim but real, rekindled in his tired eyes.
Geoffrey saw the change and came around the counter, placing a firm, comforting hand on his friend's broad shoulder.
"First things first, old friend. You look half-dead. Thalia will draw you a hot bath, and you will rest for an hour. No arguments." His tone was gentle but left no room for refusal.
"Then," Geoffrey continued, his expression turning more serious, "we will go to the keep. Even with the Baron away, a report must be made. It is the proper way of things, and it ensures no one can say Oakhaven did not seek the aid of its lord."
He gave Torsten's shoulder a final, reassuring squeeze. "Once that is done, I will take you myself. We will pay a visit to the Mercenary Guild and see what kind of help can be bought."