The sound of clinking glass and hushed conversation filled the dining hall of the Caravanserai. Merchants and caravanners of every race gathered around long tables, eating, arguing, bartering in low tones. Humans and Elves murmured over scrolls and ledgers. Goblins and Gnomes squabbled in high-pitched trade disputes. Dwarves glared over their mugs at a group of Orcs and Beastkin seated across the hall.

  But all eyes kept drifting toward the cloaked figure seated in the far corner.

  He was tall—1.9 meters when standing—with broad shoulders and a presence too solid to ignore. At first glance, he looked human. A rugged one, maybe a mercenary or hunter. But as he lifted his tankard, the firelight caught his features: light gray skin, long untamed brown hair, and thick brows perched over amber eyes. Slightly pointed ears. And when he chewed, pointed canines jutted just enough to give him a beastly edge.

  A half-orc.

  That wasn’t so rare anymore, not after the Great War. What was rare were the objects strapped to him.

  A mithril handled hatchet hung from his left hip, the gleaming handle slim and silvery. It looked decorative to most—but the Dwarves knew better. They recognized craftsmanship meant for battle.

  And then there was his long-gun.

  It was slung across his back, but not like any standard dwarven long-rifle. This one had a thicker, shorter barrel—only twenty inches long—and a stock shaped for one-handed grip. Its lockplate was unusual, with a secondary plate over the priming pan: a flash guard. A wider vent fed powder from the barrel directly into the pan when loaded, allowing faster fire.

  The dwarves scowled, recognizing the modifications. The goblins and gnomes stared, whispering. The orcs growled in disgust. No true warrior of their bloodline would ever use what they called a coward’s weapon.

  And yet, there he sat. Calm. Eating stew with a pair of Direwolves at his feet.

  The somewhat moment was shattered.

  "BANDITS! BANDITS!"

  Screams echoed from outside. Weapons clattered. Panic surged.

  The dining hall exploded into motion. Guards drew swords and dashed for the doors. Merchants scrambled for cover or shouted for their wares. The half-orc sighed, rose to his feet, and reached for his gun.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Outside was chaos.

  Masked riders swept through the Caravanserai, slashing at guards, grabbing goods, dragging screaming captives toward their horses. Bandits on foot rammed open crates and sacks. Defenders tried to form a line near the wagons, holding ground with shields and spears.

  The half-orc stepped outside, raised his gun.

  BANG!

  A rider pitched backward off his horse, a hole punched clean through his chest.

  Smoke curled from the gun barrel as the half-orc knelt, calm. From one of his pouches he drew a thick paper tube, bit the end off, and poured powder and shot into the barrel. With the shaft of his mithril hatchet, he rammed it home, cocked the hammer, and stood.

  BANG!

  Another bandit down. The defenders paused, watching. He was firing nearly twice as fast as the dwarven rangers. One shot. Two. Five. Each time, a bandit fell. Sometimes two at once.

  The bandits noticed.

  They screamed and charged.

  He didn’t flinch.

  He reloaded calmly as they ran.

  Suddenly, from the flanks, two massive blurs of fur and fang erupted. Dire wolves.

  The dark-furred one, Nyx, slammed into a bandit from the left, teeth clamping on his arm with a sickening crunch. The silver-furred Fang took the right, dragging another to the ground, his scream cut short as jaws tore through his throat.

  The bandits faltered.

  The half-orc moved forward. Shot one more time. and reached for his pistol.

  Then a horn sounded.

  The remaining bandits regrouped as a fresh wave approached—this time with more mounted raiders and a figure in blackened plate at the head.

  The bandit leader.

  The defenders drew up in a ragged line, weapons raised. Their courage was thin. The bandits prepared to charge.

  The half-orc stepped forward, calm.

  He handed his rifle to an injured guard. "Hold this."

  He walked forward.

  From another pouch, he drew a round iron sphere with a fuse. On his left thumb and forefinger glinted a pair of metal rings. He snapped his fingers—a spark jumped.

  The fuse caught. He hurled the sphere.

  BOOM!

  The grenade exploded in a roar of fire and iron. The bandit leader was thrown from his horse. Several mounts panicked and fled. The charge turned to chaos.

  Bandits broke ranks, and Garrok charged.

  He drew his long-barreled pistol, cocked it, and fired point-blank into a screaming raider’s chest.

  Then, gripping the barrel like a war club, he swung the pistol into another’s skull with a wet crack. He moved like a storm, hatchet in his left hand, wolves at his side.

  Steel met flesh. Blood sprayed. Armor split.

  Nyx and Fang flanked every move, pulling foes off balance. Garrok’s hatchet flashed, finding gaps between helm and collar, knee and shin.

  The defenders rallied. They charged.

  The bandits, already broken by the grenade and leaderless, buckled under the fury.

  The survivors ran.

  Garrok stood in the center of the field, his hatchet dripping, pistol covered with blood at the stock, chest rising slow and steady.

  He walked back to the wounded guard.

  Took back his rifle.

  "Thank you."

  And with his wolves trailing behind, he returned to the dining hall.

  He was still hungry.