Chapter 7

Mirri woke me before dawn. I ate what was left from the night before and helped break down the camp. We packed the tent, folded the hides, buried the fire, and crammed what little we owned into Ashlara’s pack. Mirri tied the tent’s cords together so she could sling it over her shoulder like an oversized satchel, and I tucked the hides under my arm. Ashlara shouldered her pack, and we set out just as the first edge of sunlight crested the horizon.

Despite being painfully out of shape, the walk wasn’t bad. Sure, I was winded within fifteen minutes, my legs were on fire, and my back reminded me I’d never been built for hiking, but it was still more activity than I’d had in years, and strangely enough… I didn’t hate it.

The sun was warm, but the forest’s canopy kept the air cool. With low humidity and a gentle breeze, the sweat clinging to my skin stayed a thin sheen instead of a miserable drip. Birds chattered overhead, small animals darted through the underbrush, and the occasional dragonfly zipped past like a tiny iridescent helicopter.

Mirri was her usual cheerful self, while Ashlara moved with her typical stoic focus. She said little as she led us, sometimes slipping almost out of sight before waiting for us to catch up. Meanwhile, I walked beside Mirri and soaked up more of her lessons on magic.

We stopped when the sun reached its highest point. After finishing our meager lunch, Ashlara vanished into the trees and returned with a straight branch about six feet long, maybe two inches thick.

“Take this and follow me,” she said, in a tone that didn’t invite argument. Not that I would’ve argued anyway. She led me a short distance to a sparser patch of woods. “Until we get you a real weapon, this is what you’ll use.” She planted herself in front of me. “Ready yourself and attack.”

I hesitated before slipping into what I imagined a fighting stance looked like - feet shoulder-width apart, staff held at an angle like every kung fu movie I’d ever seen. “Are you sure?” I asked, lowering the staff. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She snorted. “You couldn’t hurt me if I gave you a sword and five knights. Attack.”

I readied myself again and swung the staff toward her. She caught it without effort and twisted it out of my hands.

“Wrong.”

She handed it back and circled me. When I instinctively turned with her, she planted a firm hand on my shoulder, pinning me in place. From behind, she hooked her foot around my right leg and nudged it backward.

“Feet here.”

She moved around again, grabbed the end of the staff, and pulled it toward her face. “Weapon here. Where you can see it. Small, tight strikes. Like this.” She shifted the staff left and right, never straying more than an inch or two away from her head. Then she released it and stepped back. “Again.”

I tried copying the movement, using my left hand to level the staff as I brought it down. She caught it instantly and moved beside me.

“Arms here. And here. Like this.” She repositioned them with quick, decisive motions. Then stepped back. “Again.”

I swung. She caught it. “Again.”

We repeated that pattern for nearly an hour. By the end, my arms and hands burned, my shoulders throbbed, and I could barely lift the makeshift weapon. Only then did Ashlara nod once, apparently satisfied, and we continued on our way.

* * *

The next several days fell into a steady rhythm. While we walked, I soaked up Mirri’s lessons on magic. At midday, Ashlara put me through practice - sometimes striking drills, sometimes defense, though the two blended together more than I expected. A block, she explained, was just a strike aimed at the opponent’s weapon instead of the opponent. After dinner, I sat cross-legged and worked through the focusing exercises Mirri had taught me, trying to shape my will the way she described.

On the fifth day, the forest ended so abruptly it felt unnatural. The trees and underbrush had been hacked back into a wide, barren ring - at least a hundred feet of open ground between the treeline and a spiked barricade encircling a settlement. Instead of Wolfsend’s tidy wall of vertical logs, Woodshome had a chaotic lattice of sharpened spears leaning outward like the world’s most aggressive thorn bush.

Crude watchtowers rose every fifty feet or so, giving a vantage point over the clearing. As we approached, I saw a ditch beyond the spears - eight feet deep, sloped on the near side where the spears rested, sheer on the far side. A flat bridge of rough-cut logs crossed it, the only break in the defenses.

Three orcs lounged on the bridge in leather armor, each armed with a double-bladed axe. They watched travelers with all the enthusiasm of bored mall cops, barely sparing us a glance.

Inside the perimeter, longhouses made of rough hewn logs formed a loose semicircle around an open marketplace cluttered with tents and stalls. The town looked slightly larger than Wolfsend, but the people seemed fewer, giving the place an easygoing, almost lazy feel.

Orcs were the majority here, but they weren’t alone. I spotted dozens of short, gray-skinned folk similar to Mirri, plus a handful of squat, bearded men who could only be dwarves, a scattering of humans, and a couple of towering, fur-covered figures with broad shoulders and flat faces that I couldn’t begin to identify.

I felt painfully underdressed in my leather vest. Surrounded by this many people, it suddenly seemed ridiculously inadequate - more a suggestion of clothing than an actual garment. And with nothing covering me from the waist down, I was one strong breeze away from flashing the entire town. But there was nothing to be done about it at this point.

Ashlara wove through the market without hesitation, bringing us to a squat stone building at the far edge. Smoke bled from a hole in the roof, and the ringing of hammer on metal filled the air. Inside, heat pressed against me like a wall. The smith, a massive orc, taller and much wider than Ashlara, stood at his anvil, his arms bulging with every rhythmic swing.

Ashlara got his attention with a sharp call, and the two launched into a quick, clipped exchange in a language I couldn’t follow. She gestured; he nodded. Soon he was guiding her to a weapon rack where she selected an axe and a straight, short sword. They traded coin, and without so much as a glance in our direction, she strode out of the smithy.

I hurried to keep up with her, but the market pulled at my attention. Bright fabrics, strange tools, foods I couldn’t name, jewelry and clothing were all on display. Mirri, however, didn’t even pretend she was going to stay with us. I lost sight of her within minutes.

I hesitated, torn between searching for her and following Ashlara. In the end, I chose to stick with the orc. Ashlara knew where she was going, and I could only hope Mirri knew how to handle herself.

* * *

Our next stop was a rough-timbered building, built in the same style as the rest of Woodshome. A crude sign out front showed a busty woman straddling a sword - subtle as a hammer to the face. Inside, the place was dimly lit and busy, half a dozen tables all packed with patrons. At the far end stood a long, scarred bar, and behind it a somewhat portly orc polished mugs without much enthusiasm. A gray-skinned serving girl slipped out from a back room balancing drinks and bowls of stew before weaving her way to a waiting table.

“Need a room. Two nights,” Ashlara said to the barkeep.

He grunted. “Four silver. Five with breakfast.”

She slid seven coins across the counter. “Two more for breakfast.”

He scooped them up and jerked his chin toward the stairs. “Up the steps. Last room on the right.” As I followed Ashlara, he gave me a look - not hostile, just curious, as if trying to piece together why someone shaped like me was trailing after a warrior like her.

The room itself was barely ten feet square. Two narrow beds took up most of the space. A small table sat against one wall, a candle and flint striker resting on top. A single window let in a sliver of daylight.

Ashlara handed me the sword. “Here. Now you’ve got a real weapon.”

I thanked her and started to buckle it on, but my vest rode up too high and I didn’t feel like flashing half the town, so I set it on one of the beds instead.

“Let’s get lunch downstairs,” she said. “Give Mirri a chance to catch up.”

I agreed and followed her back down into the bustle below. A few minutes later a table freed up and we took it. The gray-skinned server from earlier strode over, smiling warmly.

“Welcome to the Skank and Scabbard. What can I get you?”

Up close, the contrast between her and Mirri was almost comical. Mirri was all slender grace; this woman was… built. At barely four feet tall she was stacked with curves that looked like they belonged on someone twice her size. Her bust strained the seams of her blouse, her hips flared dramatically, and her thighs were the sort that made the word “thick” feel inadequate. Her skin was a darker gray than Mirri’s, her black hair carrying a faint purple sheen. She was cute, friendly even, but Mirri’s beauty was in a league of its own.

“Three stews. Three small beers,” Ashlara said.

“I’ll be right back,” the woman replied, giving me a playful wink before disappearing into the back room.

The busy woman returned a few minutes later balancing three bowls of stew and three mugs of a dark, cloudy drink. Ashlara dug in without hesitation, so I followed her lead. The stew was… interesting. Chunks of meat, tiny cubes of potato, and dark green leaves all simmered in a broth that tasted vaguely herbal. Familiar in some ways, completely alien in others. I couldn’t place a single flavor.

The beer, however…

I barely got the first sip down before coughing it back into the mug. It tasted like someone had watered down flat beer and tossed in sage or rosemary, or maybe both. But it was the texture that truly betrayed me. Not quite chunky, but full of soft, squishy bits, like soggy bread or boba that had given up on life. My throat had not been prepared for that level of treachery.

Ashlara shot me a sidelong look as she took a casual drink of her own, her expression unreadable. Heat crawled up my neck, and I retreated back into my stew.

Several minutes passed before Mirri breezed into the restaurant with her usual sunny smile. She’d swapped out her long, paint-splashed vest for a leather bikini top that didn’t fit quite right and a short leather skirt embossed with little flower motifs. She wore sandals now - strange, considering she’d been barefoot as long as I’d known her - and a small satchel rested on one shoulder, the tent still slung over the other like always.

She scanned the room once before spotting us and practically hopped into the empty chair.

“That’s a pretty skirt,” I said. The table sat at shoulder height for her, making her look almost childlike as she reached for one of the beers.

“Thanks,” she said, face flushing with a shy pink that felt oddly unlike her. “I’ve got family here, so I was able to get a change of clothes.”

The waitress drifted back over to check on us, then turned away without comment, but I caught the quick, disapproving look she shot Mirri. I knew Mirri had seen it too, though she didn’t let a hint of it show. Her smile never wavered.