A group of goblins came storming at them from the far side of the mound, wielding a mixture of wickedly serrated scimitars and crude stone-tipped spears. Their grotesque faces were distorted by rage, and their high-pitched shrieks sent a chill down the recruits’ spines. But it was the figure at the rear of the group that truly struck fear into their hearts.

  The orc was a fearsome presence, taller than any of them. His dark skin, nearly black, was covered in a layer of coarse, dirty hair. His long arms rippled with thick corded muscles and ended in clawed hands that gripped a pair of deadly spears, each tipped with jagged iron. Somehow it had found a chainmail vest, the links dulled with wear but still formidable. The orc’s angular feral face was framed by pointed ears that slanted backward, and his yellow tusks jutted menacingly from his mouth. His eyes had a sickly yellow hue, and shone with cold, calculated malice.

  The orc bellowed, his deep voice reverberating like a war drum as he hefted a spear.

  Kharg’s voice rose to an angry roar, the words of Elemental Fire reverberating through the glade as a ball of flames began to rotate above the palm of his hand. The incantation reached its crescendo just as the goblins charged. Ecstasy flooded Kharg as he poured the elemental mana into the ball through the amber pommel of his dagger and the ball compressed before he hurled it at the charging goblins.

  The explosion thundered through the glade. Flames erupted, and with a roar, they engulfed the goblins in a searing inferno. The ground shook with the force of the blast, and the acrid stench of burning flesh filled the air. When the flames subsided, most of the goblins lay still, their charred bodies sprawled on the ground. Two goblins at the edge of the blast moaned in agony, their twisted forms writhing in the dirt.

  The orc, undeterred, hurled one of his spears with incredible force. Aster raised his shield just in time, the impact ringing out like a bell and forcing him back a step. The orc snarled, hefting his second spear and preparing to charge.

  Kharg’s voice dropped to a whisper, the chant of Elemental Air barely audible yet deadly in its precision. The hiss of his words belied the deadly force he summoned. A guttural snarl rose behind him, low and close, but Kharg forced himself not to turn. Every ounce of his will went into shaping the air, yet the orc loomed ahead, a towering mass of rage with its weapon raised high, the promise of death flashing in its eyes.

  Something heavy crashed through the underbrush. Fafne’s alarmed hiss brushed his thoughts. Kharg’s stomach lurched but the orc was already lunging. The air thickened and coiled in his palm, sharp as glass. With a sharp, fluid gesture, he released the spell. An almost translucent arrow of hardened air streaked across the glade with incredible speed, piercing the orc’s skull between the yellow eyes. The beast staggered, a look of shock freezing on his face before he crumpled to the ground.

  Then a sharp cry cut through the chaos, Jore’s voice raw with pain. Kharg risked a glance over his shoulder. Shadows burst from the treeline—not dark folk, but massive, furred wolf-like beasts. Too large to be wolves. Jore was down, one beast tearing at his thigh while another had leapt onto his back.

  Kharg spun, barely catching his breath before the first beast hurtled toward him. It was a blur of teeth and bristling fur, the stench of blood thick in the air. He flung up his left arm, the conjured shield of air flaring to life as he shaped a force-block before it. The two barriers met the creature’s charge with a thunderous crack, the impact jolting through his arm. He dove sideways, the monstrous claws raking empty air where he had stood a heartbeat earlier.

  Aster shouted something behind him, boots scraping on gravel. Kharg hit the ground hard, rolled, and glimpsed movement at the edge of his vision—Aster turning toward him, shield raised. One of the beasts let out a savage growl that made the air quiver. Jahram’s face flashed pale as he spun toward the sound, sword trembling in his grip.

  The second beast charged Aster, a dark mass of fur and muscle, while the first regained its footing with terrifying speed. It came at Kharg again, snarling, jaws snapping. He had not yet found his balance. Another force-block flared into being just as the creature’s maw crashed against it. The spell deflected the bite, but one of its claws raked him across the chest. Pain seared through him, stealing his breath and staggering his thoughts.

  A shriek split the air, high and metallic, filled with anger. A silvery blur struck the beast’s neck, Fafne’s wings glinting as the creature reeled with a gurgling snarl. The reprieve was brief but enough. Kharg finished his roll and pushed to his feet, chest burning, blood wet against his coat. A detached part of his mind registered that the wound wasn’t deep, the aerial armor had absorbed most of it, but the pain still threatened to seize him if he faltered.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught Aster bracing himself, shield angled low. The second creature struck him mid-leap and Aster met the impact squarely. The blow crashed against his shield with a deep, jarring thud, and the brute was thrown off course, tumbling past in a spray of dirt and leaves. Beside him, Jahram stood rigid, frozen mid-step, fear written plain across his face.

  Fafne darted clear of the snapping jaws before they could catch him, his wings a flicker of silver in the firelight. The distraction gave Kharg the breath he needed. He was already shaping another spell, the weave of air tightening between his palms until it shimmered like glass. The wolf-like creature turned back toward him, yellow eyes gleaming with a predatory cunning as it began to stalk closer through the smoke and dust.

  Grateful for the extra time the beast gave him, Kharg poured more mana into the forming arrow. The pain in his chest dulled beneath the surge of power—there was only the spell, the motion, the need to strike first. The beast crouched, muscles tensing for the leap. Kharg released.

  The arrow hissed through the air, but the creature twisted mid-spring. The shot struck its forequarter instead of the skull, tearing through flesh and bone. Blood fanned across the glade as the beast’s foreleg was ripped away. It crashed into him an instant later, slamming against his raised shield. The impact jarred him to the core, driving him back several paces. The beast hit the ground with a snarl, writhing, and collapsed sideways when the missing leg failed to support it.

  Snarls and heavy thuds came from behind. “To my side!” Aster’s voice cut through the noise, but Kharg paid it little heed as he drew his rapier in one fluid motion and began to weave a new arrow. The wounded beast staggered up, dragging itself forward. Kharg circled, keeping the shield between them. It lunged, jaws snapping, but he leapt aside while trying to keep his focus on the spell. Another arrow formed in his grasp, weaker but faster, and he loosed it at close range. The shot struck deep into its flank, spinning the creature off balance. Mad with pain, it sprang again.

  Kharg braced, using a force-block to weaken the attack and then turned the maw aside with his shield. The beast fell to the side again, and before it had time to get back up, Kharg lunged with his rapier, the blade sinking a full foot into its flank. He left the blade in place and stepped back, breath ragged.

  A quick glance showed Aster and Jahram standing shoulder to shoulder, shields raised, facing the second beast. It prowled before them, feinting left and right, looking for a way around them. Blood darkened Jahram’s thigh, running freely down his boot.

  A low growl drew Kharg’s attention back to the beast he had struck. It was still moving, struggling to rise. He steadied his stance and began weaving another arrow, pouring extra mana into it as he took careful aim. The pain on his chest was only a dull throb now. Though the angle wasn’t great, he still saw enough of its head to aim at. Reaching out with both hands to steady the spell, he waited until the beast paused for a moment, crouching and snarling, as if readying itself for a leap.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Kharg released the spell. The translucent arrow darted through the air and struck the beast at the base of the neck. The beast fell without a sound, limbs folding beneath it.

  Groans rose from where Jore had fallen. The man was half-propped against a root, one leg twisted beneath him. Nearby, the wounded beast still snarled weakly, its jaws snapping in vain at the air. Kharg shaped another arrow without hesitation. The translucent spear flared to life, its edge humming with compressed wind. He aimed for the creature’s head and released. The arrow struck true. The snarl ended mid-breath, the body collapsing in a twitching heap.

  Kharg ran to Jore’s side, breath still ragged. The ranger’s face was white with pain, sweat streaking the grime on his brow. “Easy,” Kharg said, kneeling beside him. “Stay still.”

  Jore grimaced, jaw clenched. “I’m not going anywhere,” he managed, voice hoarse. Blood seeped darkly through the torn cloth at his thigh and shoulder.

  Kharg pulled the elk-horn plaque from his pouch, its carved surface warm to the touch as he began to chant. The shamanic syllables rolled through the glade, deep and rhythmic, carrying the pulse of old power. Light gathered faintly around his hands, sinking into Jore’s wounds. The ranger’s breathing steadied, and the tension eased from his face as the pain dulled.

  “Feels… gods, that’s better,” Jore murmured, voice rough but grateful.

  Kharg nodded, his focus unbroken. “Hold still,” he said again. He shifted his hands to the wounded thigh, the chant resuming in a lower tone. The bleeding slowed, turning from a steady flow to a sluggish trickle. A second incantation followed, softer, directed at the torn shoulder. The glow deepened briefly, then faded as the worst of the blood loss ceased.

  “Keep watch!” Kharg called over his shoulder. “Aster, eyes on the trees. We’re not alone out here.”

  “Got it,” came Aster’s quick reply, his voice taut as he scanned the tree line.

  Kharg let out a slow breath, the spell’s strain catching up to him as the magic settled. Jore’s eyes were open now, clearer, though pain still lingered behind them. “You’ll live,” Kharg said quietly.

  Jore gave a faint, wry smile. “I’d rather not test that twice.”

  Kharg pressed a hand against his chest as he rose. The torn fabric was sticky with blood, though the pain had dulled significantly. He murmured a short incantation, shaping Water, Earth, and Fire into a compound weave. The faint shimmer of cleansing magic rippled across the wound, washing away the dirt and blood. Another whisper followed—a shamanic tone this time, drawn from deeper within. Warmth spread through the torn flesh as the bleeding slowed, then stopped entirely. The ache remained, but it no longer hindered his movement.

  He crossed the glade toward Aster and Jahram. Aster was kneeling beside the fallen man, shield still in hand, eyes darting between the trees. Jahram sat slumped on the ground, one hand pressed to his thigh where blood had soaked through the leather.

  “Hold still,” Kharg said, dropping to one knee beside him, and the man nodded weakly, jaw tight. Once again, he worked the shamanic magic and the blood flow stopped. Kharg drew his dagger and, with quick and precise cuts, opened the torn leather around the wound. The smell of blood mingled with sweat and smoke. He set the blade aside and lifted his other hand, summoning the threads of Water, Earth, and Fire. The cleansing spell swept over the injury, washing away grime and dried blood until the wound stood clear in the flickering light.

  It was messy but shallow, the beast’s claws having torn through the muscle without touching the bone. Kharg let out a quiet breath of relief. “You were lucky,” he said. “Another inch and it would’ve torn the major blood vessel.”

  Jahram gave a strained chuckle. “Doesn’t feel lucky.”

  Kharg grasped the elk-horn plaque firmly and began to chant. The shamanic words resonated low and steady, a cadence older than speech. Light gathered beneath his hand, seeping into the torn flesh. The bleeding slowed, then stopped, the edges of the wound knitting together under the spell’s pulse.

  When the glow faded, Kharg sat back on his heels. “It’ll hold,” he said quietly.

  Jahram stared at the mended wound, disbelief flickering across his face. “You can heal,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “I thought only priests could do that.”

  Kharg gave a faint shrug. “They pray to gods. I call on spirits. The result’s much the same.”

  Jahram let out a shaky breath, eyes still on his leg. “Spirits or not, you’ve my thanks.”

  Kharg rose, wiping his hands on the inside of his coat before glancing toward the treeline. “Keep your weapons ready,” he said. Kharg turned from Jahram and hurried back to Jore. The ranger sat propped against a fallen branch, pale but alert, one hand pressed against his thigh.

  “I needed to stop Jahram’s bleeding before I took a closer look at you,” Kharg said as he knelt beside him. “But now let’s see to you. These look rather bad.”

  Jore managed a dry smile. “I’ve had worse. Still, my thanks. You’re full of surprises, Kharg, like Jahram said. I’ve never heard of a healing mage.”

  Kharg said nothing. He eased Jore’s hand aside and helped him pull the torn fabric free to bare the wound. Several deep gashes scored the thigh, the edges red and ragged. The bleeding had slowed under Kharg’s earlier spell, but the damage was severe.

  “I’ll need to bind this. The gashes are too deep for my healing. Do you have any bandages?”

  “In the satchel,” Jore muttered, nodding toward his side.

  Kharg found the roll of linen and spread it open beside him. He lifted his hand and murmured a cleansing spell, and faint ripples shimmered over the wound, washing away the grime and blood until only clean flesh remained. Then he wrapped the thigh tight and firm before turning his attention to the shoulder.

  “This one’s nearly as bad,” he said quietly. “I can mend some of the gashes, but not all.”

  Jore grunted. “Do what you can.”

  Kharg drew the elk-horn plaque from his coat and held it against the torn flesh. The old words came low and steady, carrying a pulse that stirred the air. Light seeped from between his fingers, faint but insistent, and the worst of the wounds began to knit together, the swelling easing. When it was done, he bound the shoulder in clean cloth.

  Jore exhaled, shoulders relaxing. “You’ve my thanks,” he said. “You know the ways of a healer, fortune prick me.”

  Kharg wiped his hands and stood, glancing again toward the dark treeline. “Enough thanks for now. Keep your bow close. We’re not out of this yet.” Kharg’s gaze lingered on the dark woods beyond, senses still sharp, listening for any sign of movement. The glade was silent now, but the smell of blood hung thick in the air, and he knew better than to mistake silence for safety.

  Kharg called Aster and Jahram over with a curt gesture. “We’ll need to search the mound,” he said. “Make sure nothing else is hiding in there.” Then he turned to Jore. “Will you be safe enough here?”

  The ranger shifted slightly, testing his wounded leg before shaking his head with a grimace. “Aye. It’s unlikely there are more wargs here. And dark folk rarely come out during the day, not unless something drives them to. You shouldn’t have trouble with any of those showing up now.”

  Kharg frowned. “Wargs,” he repeated quietly. “I thought they were wolves at first, but there was something… off about them.”

  “They’re cousins of a sort,” Jore said, resting his head back against the branch behind him. “Twisted things. Goblins sometimes ride them. I’ll tell you all about it later, once we’re well away from this place.”

  Kharg gave a short nod. “Stay hidden, then. We won’t be long.”

  Jore gestured toward a patch of dense shrubs a few paces off. “I’ll crawl in among those bushes. Leg’s not keen on another climb anyway.”

  As Kharg turned back toward the mound, Fafne swooped down from the branches above, alighting gracefully on his shoulder. The faerie dragon’s scales shimmered faintly as he settled, eyes bright with satisfaction.

  “Thank you, little one,” Kharg murmured, reaching into his pocket. He drew out a piece of dried fruit and offered it, which Fafne accepted with a pleased chirp.

  Kharg faced the others. “Ready to go inside?”

  Aster and Jahram exchanged a look, faces pale but determined, and both nodded.

  “How’ll we see in there?” Aster asked.

  Kharg lifted his hand. “Like this.” He whispered short incantations, and two orbs of light formed in the air, gliding over to fasten themselves just above the rims of their helmets. A third shimmered into existence and hovered at his side, following his movements like a loyal servant.

  Jahram blinked against the sudden brightness and barked a short laugh. “That’ll do it.”

  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.