The snow which crunched unfoot cloakes the prairie in shifting waves of white. The party moved quickly west, away from the goblin-infested watchtower. With the captives freed and the bridge far behind, every minute they remained on open ground increased the risk of discovery. Who or whatever was in charge of the horde seemed more than a war-leader. He had been watching the roads, watching the river. That was no rabble. That was a vanguard. The wind howled through the sparce coniferous trees, carrying with it the faint cries of crows and the grim whisper of something darker.
Behind them trudged Harnok and Lady Syboril. The dwarf's fine clothes were ragged from his imprisonment, but he moved with purpose, one hand ever brushing the haft of the new axe he'd claimed from the crates. Their breaths puffed in cold clouds, boots crunching on ice-rimed ground. None spoke for a time, the escape still too near in memory.
It was Grey who broke the silence.
"They'll be looking for us. Whatever was in charge of that goblin horde. It will very likely send scouts while the others dig out the exit. They cannot be far behind us."
Nixor nodded grimly. "I saw a real big goblin, or maybe hobgoblin in the lair. He'll want to know where the prisoners went. And if they see us on open ground…" He glanced around the wide, snow covered plains. "We'll have no cover and nowhere to run. Best keep moving."
"He saw us?" asked Cairvish.
"We can't know," said Nixor. He held the lead, his coat drawn tight and his hood up. His voice was low, grave. "But if he saw us... he won't forget."
"The tower overlooks the road. From there, they can watch both crossings. We'll be lucky if we're not already marked," Krashina muttered. "At least now, we have good steel. We will make a showing of ourselves."
"He'll not just send scouts," Harnok said. "He'll test the villages. Pick the weak first. Winter is a weapon for goblins. They move quicker on frost. They don't need shelter like men."
"If Morin's Stand isn't warned," Syboril added, breath fogging in the cold, "they'll be slaughtered like the caravan."
"Then we move fast," Cairvish said. "Morin's Stand is fortified. We just need to reach it. I've known the local Lord since childhood. He was a friend of the family. Although, I admit, it's not really high marks right now."
Grey stared ahead, walking beside Cairvish, though he often turned back to check their trail.
"We won't outrun them if they catch our trail," he said. "But maybe... maybe we're not the real target."
"What do you mean?" Cairvish asked.
"The Baron. The Inquisitor. Both sent us after the same shadow: The Black Spore. Either they want us dead, which would have already happened, or they believe we'll find something they don't want to touch themselves."
"You don't think the Spore is real?" Cairvish arched an eyebrow and instantly regretted it. The cold was starting to freeze his face, he feared.
"I don't think he's a person," Grey said.
They pushed forward for what seemed an eternity before the slope broke into a sweeping view. The cliffs that cradled Morin's Stand rose in the distance, a jagged, defiant outcrop above the river. Beyond it, on the opposite bank, they could make out the trace of the eastern road, still faint beneath snow and distance, but unmistakable.
As they walked, the conversation shifted.
"You lot were talking about the Black Spore before," Harnok said, his voice muffled by his beard. "You don't think it's real?"
Grey gave him a glance. "I think it's dangerous. Whether or not it's real depends on what you mean by 'real.'"
Syboril sniffed. "He's real enough. Controls half the shadow markets in the southern duchies. Whispers into the ears of kings, they say. Turns sons against fathers, guilds against each other. I've heard his name in high places. I've seen his sigil, black mushrooms growing from a silver tree, carved into the handles of knives, burned into the undersides of coins."
"You saw this?" Grey asked.
"In the south. And in Ereny. There's no doubt. He's real."Merchants and nobles disappear if they speak against him. Or worse, wake up changed."
"Changed?" Krashina asked.
Syboril looked away. "Eyes glassy. Like something crawled inside their minds and never left."
Nixor's lip curled. "My guild doesn't think he's a person. The Shadow Guild teaches that the Black Spore is an idea. A sort of… corruptive will. A seed planted in the soul of civilization, festering. Wherever power concentrates, it grows. The name is just a symbol."
"An idea doesn't sign letters, or leave wax seals, or order killings," Harnok scoffed.
"But ideas spread," Grey murmured. "And this one's spreading fast. Too fast."
Krashina looked at him. "You don't think the Baron or the Inquisitor really wanted us to find him." Silently, she had been filing away Nixor's confession: the Shadow Guild. Had he let that slip, or was he being bold? She caught Cairvish's eye. He had noted it as well.
"I think they wanted us chasing shadows," Grey said. "A convenient distraction. And maybe they're afraid of what we'll find if we dig deep enough."
Syboril's eyes gleamed. "Maybe they're afraid because they know what the Black Spore really is."
Silence fell for a few moments. The wind hissed over the plains, tugging at cloaks and scarves.
Harnok pulled his coat tighter. "There's a ruin east of here. Out on the moors. Folk say it predates even the Tremharin and Cauldean Empires. An ancient city. Magic, some say. Others say it's cursed."
"I've heard the same," Syboril added. "Traders call it the Hollow. Some call it the Nameless City. It doesn't show up on most maps, but there are stone paths leading there. The kind of road made before men ever worked iron."
Grey's brow furrowed. "I've read something. One of the banned tomes in the academy. Said the early priests of Erathmus found heresy there—texts etched into stone that spoke of a 'blooming shadow' that devoured thoughts."
Krashina's hand twitched, shivering from both the cold and the implications of Grey's statement. "You think the Black Spore came from that place?
"Harnok nodded. "Maybe he didn't start there. But if there's anything deeper behind him, something ancient, old magic buried by the Church or the Empire, that's where you'd find it."
Nixor gave a dark laugh. "If he's real... that's the kind of place he'd be born."
"I don't know," Grey said. "But I think the Church knows more than they're saying. And I think the Baron and the Inquisitor are both playing games we can't see yet."
Nixor muttered something in a southern dialect, shaking his head. "This is what I feared. Not just goblins and scheming nobles, but powers older than the empires. And worse—belief. People start believing in things, and soon those things become real."
Syboril frowned. "That ruin's got more than just old stones. There are legends of vaults down there. Vaults that whisper. They say the deeper you go, the more you forget your own name."
Harnok grunted. "My grandfather claimed to see the moors once. Said there was a light beneath the ground. Said it watched him."
They were quiet after that. Snow kicked up in a gust of wind. The wind brought a faint sound—distant howls, not wolves. Krashina stiffened.
"We need to move."
Morin's Stand loomed larger now. The palisade, thick with sharpened logs and topped with a narrow walkway, circled a cluster of stone and timber buildings. Smoke rose from chimneys, curling into the winter sky. A bell rang from the small chapel near the center, and figures moved along the walls.
"We're spotted," Cairvish said. He raised his hand. They climbed the slope to the main gate, where three men in enough furs to appear as bears leveled crossbows. One called down: "Who comes?"
Syboril and Harnok stepped forward, lifting small, rectangular medallions etched with silver runes and the hammer-and-scale of the Merchant's Guild.
"Lady Syboril of Syboril's Mercantile! And Master Harnok Dazran of the Southern Dwarfship! Survivors of a caravan raid by goblin horde—armed, dangerous, coming fast! Those who accompany us are fellow travelers who rescued us from the goblins"
The guards exchanged glances. One disappeared behind the palisade, returning moments later to wave them forward. The gates creaked open.
There was a pause, then a voice called back, "Approach slowly. Show your marks!"
The gate creaked open just enough for a older grey haired woman in a patched soldier's coat to emerge. She studied the medallions, nodded, and gestured for them to follow. "Lord Marden will want to hear about the raid. And the goblins."
She led them toward the Lord's lodge, a squat building of stone and heavy timber at the village's center. Smoke curled from the chimneys. Behind them, wind howled across the plains. The storm would come soon. And with it...
Maybe something worse than goblins.