By afternoon, the snow had thickened, blanketing the pine needles and crunching earth with a silence that muffled footfalls and slowed time. The river, still close to their west, cut a black path through the pale expanse. They'd followed the disturbed snow from the bridge- a churned, chaotic pattern of footprints, deep heel marks, and drag lines. They'd passed clots of blood frozen into the powder, and a piece of fine red cloth snagged on a thornbush, like a silken flag of surrender.
It led them to the base of a bluff. Atop it squatted the cracked bones of an imperial watchtower, a remnant from an age when men in steel tunics with crimson cloaks had stood guard over these wild marches. Now its blackened stones jutted up like a broken tooth against the sky. The tower was hunched and crooked, its crenellations half collapsed, windows empty as eye sockets. Snow clung to its lee side, windblown into deep, deceptive drifts.
"This reeks of an ambush point," Cairvish murmured, crouching behind a snowy pine.
Krashina, sword in hand, nodded. "And a den."
From their vantage, they saw movement. Goblins. Half a dozen at least, maybe more. Filthy and bundled in scavenged hides, their skin sallow as old wax, mottled with sores and rashes. They squatted around a smoking brazier of green-burning moss. Lounging among them was a larger brute, taller than a man, with blotchy red and green skin and the broken-toothed grin of a hobgoblin.
"A chieftain," Grey whispered. "Or even a warleader."
Nixor's hand hovered near his brace of knives, but he glanced at Grey. "You got any of that sleep magic left?"
The sorcerer nodded once. His pale eyes glimmered with arcane light. "A whisper more."
They crept through the snow, slipping from trunk to trunk. The goblins, inattentive in the false safety of their tower, didn't notice the shimmer of power in the air until it was too late. Grey spoke an old word, soft and bitter. It slipped through the wind like a serpent's hiss.
The goblins fell like marionettes with cut strings, twitching into unconsciousness. The hobgoblin blinked blearily, staggered to his feet, and then collapsed against the brazier.
Silence reigned.
Nixor didn't hesitate. He strode forward, and one by one, slit the throats of the sleepers with quiet, efficient cuts. Blood steamed on the snow. Krashina watched, jaw set, her knuckles white on her sword hilt. But she said nothing. These were not honorable enemies. They were monsters, and should be put down as such.
The tower door stood slightly ajar. The party pushed inside. Cold stone greeted them, the interior lit only by the wan daylight slanting through the collapsed upper floors. The stench was immediate: stale urine, rotting meat, smoke, and something else. A kind of earthy mildew that clung to the walls like a second skin.
Just inside, the snow was churned again, heavier here, but mixed with goblin boot prints, dragged bundles, and a strange smear leading toward the far wall. There, in the shadowed corner, a broken archway opened to a downward stair, cut from black stone and worn by centuries of feet. Beside it, hidden behind old crates and barrels, was a wooden cargo lift. The lift's frame groaned in the wind that slipped through the tower's cracks. The platform had no pulleys remaining, only thick rotting ropes.
Nixor moved to it, tugged on the edge. "Looks like a deathtrap."
Grey peered down the shaft. "More like a gift. We don't have to take the same path."
Krashina grunted. "A split?"
Cairvish nodded slowly. "We'll take the stairs. Nixor, see what's below. Be ready to come back up fast."
Giving a roguish grin Nixor vanished into the shaft, scaling down the inner rope like a spider. Below, his boots touched stone, and he slipped into a dark chamber. No torches, just the glimmer of firelight through cracks in the far wall. He stepped forward- and froze.
A massive chamber. Once a cargo store, if the rusted racks and ruined crates were any sign. Now? A horde. Easily a hundred goblins lay sprawled around the place, curled in filthy nests, slumbering in groups beneath rotted banners and shredded canvases. The stink was unimaginable, like a butcher's midden and a stagnant swamp.
Nixor didn't hesitate. He climbed back up.
Meanwhile, the others descended the stone stairs, their boots echoing on each step. The walls were carved, imperial in style designed only for precision and utility. Even in an obscure garrison, the old empire had valued function over form. At the bottom, the stair opened into another wide chamber, this one half ruined. Old armory racks stood empty or rusted. The forge, long dead, now served a more primal purpose.
A half-dozen goblins crouched near the flames of a bonfire made from broken racks and furniture. They jabbered to each other, throwing bones into the fire for amusement. Across the chamber, tied to each other were two captives.
The first was a dwarf, short and stocky, with a tattered blue and red tunic that might once have cost a prince's purse. His golden beard was matted with blood. One eye was swollen shut.
The second, a woman, wore clothing more suited for a desert court with bells, silks, and sashes. Her wild hair was dark, and her expression one of furious defiance.
Grey didn't hesitate. He muttered another incantation and gestured toward the fire. It flared, momentarily blinding the goblins. Krashina charged, her broadsword blade flashing in the firelight.
Cairvish followed, slender sword held high, smashing aside a thrown pot. He barreled into the nearest goblin and drove his sword deep. Another screamed as Krashina gutted it, then kicked it into the flames.
The goblins died quickly, and in the resulting silence Krashina's breathing could be heard, slow and deep. The lady knight was barely winded.
From the shadows near the fire, a voice croaked. "Quickly. The others. More of them are deeper. You must block the door!"
It was the woman. Her voice held command.
Cairvish and Krashina pushed a stack of crates in front of the only other door just as it began to rattle with goblin fists.
They cut the ropes binding the captives. The dwarf groaned, clutching his ribs.
"I am Harnok of Mar Zakûn. A merchant... or I was," he spat. "And this is the esteemed Lady Syboril of Cesnara. They took us after they wrecked our wagons. Slaughtered the guards and our entourage. They ate everyone else. We were probably the next meal."
Syboril straightened, already pulling a winter cloak from a crate. "We need weapons. And coats."
The crates, marked in dwarven script, held southern weapons- fine blades, hatchets, and spears. Syboril, her hands trembling, selected a slim stiletto and a dwarven hand crossbow. Mar Zakûn fished out a wide bladed broadsword and a long spear. "Here, young lady," he said to Krashina. "Take these. I guarantee that these blades are far superior to the one you carry now. That one's not your normal sword is it? A merchant and smith always knows these things."
Suddenly, a goblin screamed.
The one feigning death had sprung to its feet, knife in hand. Before anyone could react, a shadow fell across him.
Nixor.
The rogue's blade sank deep into the goblin's neck. It gurgled and fell.
"Place is full of them," he said. "Sleeping. For now. We need to move."
Together, they slipped up the stairs. The tower above remained quiet. The hobgoblin's corpse had frozen stiff in the cold. The brazier sputtered low.
Outside, the wind had picked up, tearing at cloaks and howling across the bluff. The road below glittered with ice, and across the bridge, the way to Morin's Stand beckoned like a promise- or a trap.
They didn't look back at the tower as they fled, but the wind carried up the first wailing goblin cry, long and sharp.
The horde had awakened.