The rippling water reflected the sun as invitingly as any river Toran had seen in the world of light.  As he glanced at roadside stream, he sighed with regret and reminded himself there was no time for drink or take a lazy dip.  His hair was whipped by the wind as his horse hurtled down Gallows Road, towards the Dread Lord’s Keep.  Where many considered a horrid place one would be doomed to visit was the destination of his and Glum’s desperate salvation. 

“Did you hear that, Doctor,” Glum asked as he tugged at the elf’s sleeve.  The goblin was wedged between the horse’s neck and saddle’s horn.  In his arms he clutched his cane and one of the goblin communication devices.  Those things made him feel like he’s drunk just a little too much before falling asleep in an awkward position. 

“What was it, Glum?” 

“The invaders are here for you!”

Toran choked on the reins.  He’d forgotten about the magical bridle, and so the world about them blinked as it rotated about them.  When at last they stopped, Toran was flung forward, squishing his unfortunate riding companion. Greybrow squatted beside the horse with his tongue hanging out while panting.  The bags strapped to the wolf’s back slid down and their contents spilled onto the dirt road.  A few of the some of the many golden rings of power rolled along the dirt road while the cracked mirror of foretelling flopped out and landed with a crunch.

Toran dismounted.  “Gather the lures,” he told the goblin as he pulled him down.  “And tell me about what you heard.” He bent forward and dry heaved, trying to get over the effect of the bridle’s spell.  Glum took a moment to stretch before he shuffled towards the wolf.

“Tad said the invaders came here for you, Doctor.” Glum waved the communicator in the air as he shuffled toward Greybrow.  “Something about a rescue?”

“A rescue? I’m not a prisoner here! If Yendell demanded my presence, they could have just sent a golden peacock with a message.” He clutched the sides of his head.  “All those lives lost because they didn’t care to practice diplomacy. Typical Yendellian arrogance. I should suggest Withering Sorrows wipe out the whole lot!”

“Don’t be so hasty.  Tad also said one of the mercenaries was a relative of yours. Your niece?”

“Ayara?” He rushed to the goblin, fighting his nausea in as he dashed and crouched before him. The elf almost pulled Glum off the ground as he grabbed him by the collar.  “It must be Ayara! Is she hurt?”

“I suspect he would have said if she was.  He’s a thoughtful boy,” Glum eked.

Toran let him go.  Greybrow licked Glum’s face. 

“I didn’t want to ask.  I doubt he would have heard me over the galloping and Hohza would have heard us.” Glum fussed at his shirt, straightening the collar with elven-like propriety.

“Right. Sorry.” Toran wandered to the riverside and sat, balling his hands into fists and pressing them against his eyes.  Well over two hundred orcs met their ends or were grievously injured last night, all because Yendell preferred a violent invasion to politely requesting his return.  Then tied his family into this nastiness to be extra unpleasant.  What could possibly compel a nation which had turned him away to go to such lengths to torment him in the name of a “rescue?”

As Toran pondered the matter, he heard Glum collecting the lures and fastening them to Greybrow’s harness.  When he was done, he brought the elf back from his increasingly violent rumination by thumping the his knee with heavy head of his cane.

“We should go,” the goblin said.

Shaking out the last of his worries, the elf stood and looked down the road.  It would be hours still before they reached the Keep.  His horse was already running haggard.  Lives were at stake but he would fail them if he broke his horse trying to get there.   

He scratched under his ride’s chin.  Did this steed even have a name?  Only famed horses ridden by War Masters tended to be named.  They rest were considered interchangeable.  If they succeeded in this mission, Toran would claim this as his personal ride and name him Savior.   Savior murmured in satisfaction and smiled as well as a horse could. 

“You need a drink.” Without taking the reins, for fear of them twisting the poor animal around with their magic, Toran coaxed  his horse to the river.  He drank heavily, his cheeks billowing with each thirsty gulp. 

Following the elf’s lead, Glum did the same with Greybrow.  The wolf lapped in the clear, cool water with his bright pink tongue.  Wading beside the wolf, Glum scooped a handful of water into his mouth and sighed with satisfaction as he drank it down. 

“This is the Tears of Torment river,” Glum said.  He petted the animal’s side. “When I was younger, we’d venture out of the Machine Works and work on a device to catch fish.”

“A rod and string were insufficient?”

“Sufficient? Sure. Efficient?” Glum shrugged.  “You waste a lot of time trying to catch one fish at a time! We installed tracks on both sides of the river with dollies on them.  We hung a net between them  and pushed the carts to scoop up all the fish in that stretch of river!”  He laughed.  “Sadly, gutting the things was still a manual process.  But with enough goblin you could work through the catch fast enough.”

“I should take you and Tad fishing some time.  Show you the simple pleasure of being on the water battling nature.”

“Nature battles plenty.  Bearwulvs, flying spiders, hordes of razor squirrels … I’m fine with an occasional machine to even the odds.”

“Machines, you say?  Most orcs rely on their own ability and faith in the Dread Lord.”

Glum looked down. “If Tad survives, I might have a bit more of that, too.”

“Your assistant is more capable in matters of war than I think anyone could have imagined.”

“Well I taught him everything he knows,” said Glum with a prideful nod of the head.  As he turned, he froze and stared at the river a moment. “Oh.”

“What is it, Glum?”

“It’s just … here, this part of the river with Greybrow on the bank.” He swept his hand across the view.  “I saw this before, in the mirror.” He held it up, making sure to keep the face of it turned away.  “Except my I was lying in the water.  I was dead and burned.”

Toran grabbed the goblin and climbed on Savior’s back. “We make haste!  Even if the mirror can be wrong it’s not without sense.”  He steered the horse back onto the road.  With controlled twists of his wrist, he used the enchanted bridle to turn Savior about faster than any horse normally could.  Greybrow whined in surprise at the sight; to him the horse and riders were rapidly blinking and reappearing from the world just as the world briefly vanished to them.

As Savior carried Toran and Glum to the road at a gallop, Greybrow whined, struggling to keep up.  It didn’t matter to Toran now; the enemy was welcome to the lures.  However, if the magic mirror was showing they were intent on harming Glum, he could not be caught.   

A single rider emerged from the forest. Standing over the road in the full, stiff, black and red regalia of the Yendell army he watched Savior’s approach.  Then he turned and began charging towards them.   He had a staff tucked under his arm, its jeweled head pointed at Toran, and a sheathed sword at his waist.  During his term in the military he’d handled these weapons before and was familiar with their capabilities.

But Toran knew they were here for him, which meant a fatal blow to the head was not a valid option; this was merely an attempt at intimidation.  The doctor leaned forward, staring at the glittering jewel. It grew closer, and closer still, as neither rider wavered from their destructive paths.  “You’re an officer; you’re as by-the-book as they come,” Toran said with a cocksure smile on his face. 

“Toran,” Glum squeaked.  He squirmed in the elf’s lap as he tried to brace himself for the collision. 

Just as they were about to collide, the doctor jerked the reins to the left.  Instantly, instead of being on the road with the forest on their right and the river on their left, they were dashing toward the river.  Toran craned his neck to see the would-be attacker struggling to steer his horse toward the doctor and Glum.  Behind him, Greybrow was admirably keeping up with their chase.

Toran gently turned his horse to run parallel to the river.  As the hooves beat into the wet grass at its edge the sprayed water.    

Glum wriggled about, pulling aside the sleeve of Toran’s shirt like a window curtain to watch the elf chasing them.  “I’ve got some nails and screws on me.  Do you think we can hobble his horse with them,” the goblin shouted to be heard over the thunderous hooves. 

“We can try!” With two quick flicks of the wrist they were charging at the enemy again.  The riders grinned at each other.  The soldier thinking he was too smart to fall for Toran’s trick again, Toran satisfied he had a whole new trick. “Ready?”

“Got it,” Glum answered. He slid to Toran’s other side, a fistful of fasteners ready to be unleashed.

This time, instead of suddenly turning ninety degrees just as they were about to collide, Toran veered to the left. His eyes met with the other elf’s, disbelief on the soldier’s face as they passed each other.  So distracted, the soldier didn’t notice as Glum reached out to sprinkle his assortment of items onto the ground.  One of them found their mark and the horse reared up, braying in anguish.

“Greybrow, attack,” Glum ordered his wolf as they passed him. 

A terrible splash sounded behind Toran as he slowed Savior and came about.  He watched as the horse struggled onto its legs and hobbled away while the soldier was splayed on the ground, splashing water as Greybrow, snarling, bit into his sleeve and shook about.  The soldier grabbed up his staff and began slapping it against the wolf, who didn’t relent. 

“Call off Greybrow,” said Toran.  They ambled toward the fray.  The soldier took notice of them, but couldn’t waver from the wolf’s relentless assault.  The straps of his gauntlets were tearing, and one of the buckles broke.  It seemed even in his old age, Greybrow was as fearsome as any wolf in his prime. 

“Is that wise?”

“A gesture of peace,” Toran answered.  “Let’s see if there’s any sense left in Yendell.”

“A simple ‘no’ would do,” grumbled Glum.  He whistled, short and sharp. Although still tugging at the elf’s arm with his teeth, the wolf’s eyes turned to Glum.  “Heel! Retreat!” Greybrow obeyed, opening his mouth wide to release the soldier, who couldn’t resist a swipe at the animal as he slinked away. Greybrow began circling them, watching with a wolf’s predatory gaze.

Half-drenched, the man stood and faced Glum and Toran as they approached him.  His right gauntlet hung from his arm and his faded purple hair, which was already slicked back, hung over his face in thick tendrils.  He held the staff with one hand, his tight grip straining the knuckles of his glove.  

“I see you’re a lieutenant,” Toran said, looking down on the man from his mount.

Raising his staff, pointing the jewel, the man answered. “I am Lieutenant Chrincha.  I have been charged with collecting you for return to Yendell!” He glared at the two from beneath furrowed brow and with a cruel snarl.  His heaving seemed borne more furry than exhaustion. 

“I have not been a Citizen of Yendell for over a thousand years, Lieutenant.  Neither I nor the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows recognize your authority here.  I am going to them now.  It’s up to you whether I ask for a Wraith’s Call ordering their forces to crush your invasion or surrender to it.  I suspect you entangled my niece in this mess to avoid me from doing the former.  Know that I can ensure her safety now that I know she’s here.”

For just a moment his eyes widened and his lips pursed.  It seemed Lt. Chrincha hadn’t expected Toran could learn such a thing.  The shock disappeared, replaced by a cold menace. “It matters not.  I read your record.  You’re a second rate soldier who rode out his term of service as a medic because he had no talent for war.  You won’t make it to the Dread Lord.  I’m taking you back to the camp.” He pushed the jeweled head of the staff forward, with Savior craning his neck out of its way so it could point at Glum.  “You can come peacefully or force me to resort to violence, but I can assure you, in the event of the latter, this monster won’t survive.”

“You assume he has any meaning to me.”  Toran’s bluff came out in a scratchy croak, his throat suddenly dry. 

The Lieutenant sneered.  “That was terribly delivered, just like your threat to have my forces slaughtered.  As I said, I read your file.  You’ve a weakness for all life; even lesser things like … that.” He jabbed the staff forward, the crystal almost tapping Glum’s nose.  The old goblin cowered from it, pushing himself back.  He gripped his cane like he wanted to knock the jewel away, but wisely didn’t try.

Toran closed his eyes and breathed deep.  “Very well, Lieutenant.” He kept the reins gripped in his right, careful not to pull them in any direction, as he slid out of the saddle.  “Stay there,” he whispered to Glum.

Watching him warily, the Lieutenant stood a moment, his eyes darting from Glum, to Savior’s face, to Toran.  As he took his staff’s aim off the goblin he said to Toran “let got of the reins.”

“Of course.” Toran gave them a hard yank. Instantly the world turned a half circle around him and Lt. Chrincha was knocked aside by Savior’s rear.  He dropped the staff, which landed partway into the river with a splash. Toran was hanging off Savior’s neck, who brayed as he swung his head to throw the elf off.  Toran lost his grip and fell down.  Small stones dug into his back when he landed. Moaning, he rolled to the side while above him, Glum whistled.

“Fetch!” Glum pointed at the weapon.  Greybrow dashed over and dove at the staff, kicking up spray as he snatched up the stick in his jaws. 

The Lieutenant drew his other weapon, a small sword that was straight and pointed with a twisting guard. He thrust at the wolf, who jumped to the side, but not fast enough to keep the blade from cutting flank and the harness he wore.  The magic lures spilled on the ground again, trailing the wolf as he ran off with the staff, passing Toran as he got to his feet.  Chrincha gave chase, but Toran snagged his ankle, tripping him.  Both on the ground, Toran clawed at the soldier’s boots, trying to pull him toward him. 

What was his plan? Did he mean to thrash the fellow? Try and talk sense to him?  Amidst the kicks to the face and grunted curses, Toran lost track of himself.  He took some satisfaction at managing to pull the sword out of the his enemy’s grip and tossing it into the river.  Savior moseyed around them with Glum on his back.

Grabbing at each other’s necks the two elves rose.  They’d snarled at each other while senselessly turning around.  The officer’s grip was stronger, though, more sure.  He wouldn’t choke Toran to death, but he’d fall unconscious.  Then Glum would be at his mercy, unless he had the sense to ride off. 

“The Dread Lord,” Glum yelled.

Both elves paused and turned. They found themselves facing Savior’s rear, with Glum standing on it with a smug smile on his face.  He jabbed the pointed end of his cane into the horse’s meaty left flank, and with an angry neigh he kicked with his rear leg.  The hoof caught Lt. Chrincha square in the chest, knocking him into the air a meter before he splashed into the river.

Still lost in his bloodlust, Toran beamed at Glum as he let out a burst of laughter.  Then he realized a man was possibly drowning and turned.  Wading into the water he grabbed Lt. Chrincha, who wheezed as he pulled him ashore. 

The doctor found the short sword, half buried in mud, and pulled it out.  He hacked at the soldier’s uniform to see the angry bruise over Lt. Chrincha’s heart and specks of blood.  “You’ll be dead in a day if I leave you here unattended.”  He placed the sword down, then thought better of it and picked it up back up before walking to Savior and inspecting his satchels.  “I can give you something to dull the pain, but I’ve much more powerful medicines in my hut near The Keep.  Your only hope of survival is letting me get to the Keep.”

“I’ve … doctors … in my … camp,” protested the lieutenant.  Every word took effort and came with a dreadful rattle as it scratched past his lips.

“Which was a good ways west of the Prison.  It’s a much further ride unless you want to go directly through the woods.”  Toran shook his head. “You wouldn’t survive the rough terrain.” He lowered Glum from Savior.  “You ride Greybrow, now.”

“Yes. And collect the lures … again!” He began shuffling to the wolf, stooping to retrieve items along the way.  When he picked up the mirror he stared directly in its face and stuck out his tongue.  “You keep showing me ways I’ll die, but you keep being wrong.  Oh! Is that and elf and old goblin maid with me and Tad?  Impossible.” He mumbled.  Then he packed it onto Greybrow’s load.  The wolf still held the staff in his mouth, presenting it to Glum as though he expected the minute monster to play fetch with it, wagging his tail with excitement.

Toran retrieved a container of salve from one of Savior’s pouches.  He returned to the lieutenant and rubbed it into his wound.  The officer winced and hissed in pain as he did.  “You’ll be riding with me, Lieutenant.  Or I could leave you here and call for orcs to retrieve you.  They’d bring a cart.  It might be an easier ride.”

“If they don’t … eat me … along the way.”

“Only if I told them to.” Toran pocketed the contained and crouched to get his arms under the lieutenant.  With tremendous effort he lifted Chrincha up and carried him to Savior. After throwing him over the horse’s back, Toran swiped sweat from his brow. 

Still with the staff in his mouth, Greybrow loped over to the elf.  Glum was riding him.  “Take the staff,” the goblin said.  “Too big for us to carry.”

“Of course.”  Toran took it and held it up.  “Feels nice.  I can see why it’s reserved for officers.”

“You’re … no officer,” Chrincha said.  His eyes rolled dazedly.

“And I can’t trust you won’t try something stupid.”  Toran thrust the weapon into the ground, letting it stick up from the riverbed, its red jewel shining in the sunlight.  “You’ve already done plenty to make me question the quality of education the Yendell army provides its officers.”