A few days after leaving the settlement, the caravan linked up with the rest of the expedition and pressed on toward the old outpost. The sight was something to behold—rangers, builders, and laborers all marching under the banner of the Dwarven Rangers, united by a shared goal: to rebuild, fortify, and garrison the frontier stronghold.

  The steady rumble of wagon wheels echoed along the dirt road, mingling with the plodding steps of pack animals, the creak of leather harnesses, and the occasional bark of dire wolves trotting alongside their masters.

  Garrok drove his wagon near the center of the procession, with Tink perched comfortably atop the canvas cover, her legs swinging idly as she scanned the horizon. The two chatted along the way—mostly Tink filling the air with her observations, while Garrok nodded and grunted, content to let her talk.

  “They say there’s not much left of the old outpost,” Tink remarked, leaning back on her elbows. “Just the blockhouse, still standing. Scouts reported the rest was burned out or crumbled. The plan is to repair the blockhouse first—make it the citadel. Then build walls, towers, a barracks, and… an underground mushroom farm.”

  Garrok raised an eyebrow. “A mushroom farm?”

  Before Tink could answer, a nearby ranger chuckled and turned toward them.

  “Aye, lad, the mushroom farm serves more than one purpose,” the dwarf explained, stroking his beard. “If we’re ever besieged, it’ll keep the larder full. Trade the surplus for coin and supplies, too. But most importantly—” his grin widened—“mushroom ale. No proper dwarven outpost’s complete without an alehouse.”

  Garrok gave a soft huff of amusement, shaking his head. Dwarves never strayed far from their traditions, no matter how deep into the frontier they went.

  The journey carried them through shifting landscapes—rolling hills giving way to dense forests where ancient trees arched overhead like cathedral pillars. Sunlight trickled through the canopy in soft beams, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Birds sang overhead, their chirping punctuating the rhythmic clatter of the caravan.

  Though Garrok had spent much of his life in the wild, he couldn’t help but admire the rangers’ discipline. Scouts and hunters moved ahead of the convoy, carving a safe path through the wilderness, setting traps for predators, and ensuring fresh game for the cookfires. Their work kept the expedition moving steadily and well-fed.

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  Weeks passed this way—navigating winding mountain passes, fording roaring rivers, enduring bitter storms beneath hastily lashed tarpaulins.

  Garrok found himself useful beyond his wagon-smithing. One evening, as he sat by the fire repairing a damaged spring on his pistol—a casualty from using it as a club—he heard the crunch of boots on gravel.

  “Hail, Master Smith!” came a voice, rich and deep.

  Garrok glanced up from his work. A stout dwarf stood before him, light bronze skin illuminated by the fire’s glow. He wore a green cloak thrown back over a broad-shouldered leather cuirass, powder horn at his hip, a pouch of shot strapped at his belt. His black beard was neatly combed, thick eyebrows nearly meeting above a sharp, perceptive gaze.

  “The name’s Thorvald Ironheart,” the dwarf said, tapping his chest with a gloved hand. “Sergeant of the scouts.”

  “Well met, Sergeant,” Garrok replied, setting his tools aside. “How can I be of service?”

  Ironheart grinned. “I saw you during the bandit raid back at the caravanserai. Fine shooting. Damn fine. And from someone of Gron’kul blud, no less.”

  Gron’kul blood. Orc-blooded, Garrok translated in his head, but kept his face neutral.

  The dwarf continued, nodding toward the rifle resting nearby. “That long-gun of yours… rumor says you made it yourself.”

  Garrok picked up the rifle and offered it to Ironheart for inspection. “Aye. That I did.”

  The dwarf turned the weapon over in his hands, inspecting the craftsmanship with a practiced eye. Garrok showed him one of his paper cartridges.

  “So this is how you load so quick,” Ironheart mused, running a thumb along the cartridge. “Could you make some of these—for my Long Claw?”

  Garrok leaned back, stroking his chin. “Might. If you let me have a look at her.”

  Ironheart returned the rifle and, a few minutes later, came back with his own weapon—a long, beautifully crafted rifle with a polished walnut stock and burnished steel barrel nearly as tall as its owner.

  “I call her Long Claw,” the dwarf said, pride evident in his voice. “Had the Master Gunsmiths build her to my specifications—range and precision above all else.”

  Garrok studied the weapon. “Flintlock’s standard, but your frizzen’s grooved at the rear. Clever design, more spark, more reliability.” He nodded appreciatively. “She’s a fine piece.”

  Ironheart grinned. “Problem is, takes me a while to reload. Two shots a minute if I’m lucky. But with paper cartridges…?”

  Garrok nodded slowly. “I could make them. But I’ll need to know exactly how much powder you charge per shot.”

  The bargain was struck that night. Word spread quickly through the camp, and soon other rangers approached Garrok with their own rifles—each one custom, each requiring careful measurement and fitting.

  To Garrok’s surprise, the dwarves began addressing him as “Master Smith”—a title of genuine respect in their culture, offered only to those who earned it.

  With the number of orders piling up, Garrok hired Tink to help with the workload, her nimble fingers well-suited to rolling and folding the cartridges under his supervision.

  It had turned out to be a very lucrative journey indeed.