A wagon hits a rock

The convoy had been rolling steadily for most of the morning when the lead wagon hit the rock.

It wasn’t a loud crash — just a sudden, sickening crunch of wood and iron. The front left wheel struck something half-buried in the road, snapped clean at the axle, and sent the wagon lurching violently to one side. Horses screamed. The driver shouted. The entire line of wagons behind it slowed and began to bunch up.

At first it looked like nothing more than bad luck.

Crombie had been riding a little ahead of Joy’s wagon when it happened. He reined in his big horse and turned in the saddle, yellow eyes narrowing as he watched the lead wagon tilt dangerously. Several traders were already jumping down to check the damage.

Then he saw it.

The “rock” wasn’t natural. It was a log, deliberately placed and partially covered with dirt and leaves. And the trees on either side of the road were moving.

“Ambush!” Crombie roared, his deep voice carrying down the line.

Masked figures burst from the undergrowth — at least a dozen of them. Some on foot, others on lean horses. They carried short blades, clubs, and crossbows. The attack was fast and coordinated, aimed at the front of the convoy where the broken wagon had created a bottleneck.

Crombie didn’t hesitate.

He swung down from his horse in one powerful motion, halberd already in hand and shield sliding onto his left arm. The massive round shield caught the first crossbow bolt with a heavy thunk. He charged forward, blue fur bristling, white mane flying as he moved between the wagons.

The first bandit who reached him died quickly — Crombie’s halberd swept low and hard, the axe blade biting deep into the man’s side before he could even swing. The second attacker tried to flank him. Crombie slammed the edge of his shield into the man’s face, sending him sprawling.

Behind him, he heard Joy’s voice rise in a sharp, clear note — not quite a song, more of a piercing call that seemed to sharpen the senses of the nearby guards. Several of the traders’ hired men rallied faster because of it.

But the real surprise came from the trees on the left side of the road.

A lean figure in dark leathers dropped silently from a low branch. Twin curved blades flashed in the dappled sunlight. The elf moved like liquid shadow — fast, precise, and utterly merciless. One bandit raised a crossbow toward the convoy. The elf’s blade took the man’s hand off at the wrist in a single clean stroke. The second blade opened the bandit’s throat before he could scream.

Crombie recognised him instantly.

It was the same elf who had severed the thug’s hands back in Havenford.

The elf’s yellow-green eyes flicked toward Crombie for the briefest moment as he spun past another attacker, blades dancing. There was no greeting. Only a sharp nod of recognition before the elf vanished between two wagons and reappeared behind another pair of bandits, dropping them with surgical efficiency.

The fight was brutal but short.

Between Crombie’s raw power and the elf’s lethal precision, the ambushers broke within minutes. Those who could still run fled back into the trees. The ones who couldn’t lay bleeding on the road. The convoy’s guards finished the last few.

When the dust settled, Crombie stood near the broken wagon, chest heaving, halberd dripping. The magical chest at his hip was still secure. His new horse had stayed calm nearby, well-trained.

The elf approached through the aftermath, wiping one of his blades on a fallen bandit’s cloak. Up close, he was even more striking than Crombie remembered — tall for an elf, with sharp, elegant features, long dark hair tied back, and a calm, almost bored expression despite the blood on his blades.

“You again,” the elf said quietly. His voice was smooth, with the faint accent Crombie remembered. “I was wondering if our paths would cross a second time.”

Crombie lowered his halberd slightly but kept his guard up. “You helped me in Havenford. And now here.”

The elf gave a small, almost amused shrug. “I have a habit of being in inconvenient places at inconvenient times.” He sheathed one blade and extended a blood-stained hand. “Allareon. Rogue by trade. Currently… between contracts.”

Crombie studied him for a moment, then clasped the offered hand. Allareon’s grip was firm and precise.

“Name’s Crombie,” he rumbled. “You fight like you’ve done this before.”

“I have.” Allareon’s eyes flicked toward the magical chest at Crombie’s hip, then away again as if he hadn’t noticed it. “That chest you’re carrying… it’s bound to you, isn’t it? I can smell the magic from here.”

Crombie didn’t answer directly. Instead he asked, “You travelling with this convoy?”

Allareon gave another small shrug. “I was. Quietly. Until that wheel decided to break at the worst possible moment.” He glanced toward the trees where the last of the bandits had disappeared. “This wasn’t random. Someone knew the convoy would be here. And they knew about the chest.”

Before Crombie could respond, Joy appeared from between two wagons, lute still in one hand, tail flicking with leftover adrenaline. Her green eyes moved between the two tall males — the towering blue Bugbear and the lean, dangerous elf — and a slow, intrigued smile spread across her face.

“Well,” she purred, “this just got interesting.”

Allareon’s gaze shifted to her, one eyebrow rising slightly. He gave her a polite, almost courtly nod.

Joy’s eyes sparkled with clear interest in both of them.

The convoy was already beginning to repair the wheel and move the dead. But the three of them stood together in the aftermath — Crombie with his halberd and bound chest, Allareon with his bloodied blades, and Joy watching them both with open curiosity and that same playful hunger she had shown Crombie earlier.

The road ahead suddenly felt much more complicated.