The fort stood damaged but defiant, black smoke curling into the sky from the scorched remains of the buildings attacked by the orcs. Fires had been quenched, bodies gathered, but the stench of blood and ash clung to the air. Amidst the grim bustle, Garrok's mind raced, consumed by the grim certainty of what had happened.

  They had taken Tink.

  He stood over the remains of her shattered SPAL bow, the broken limbs of the weapon cradled in his calloused hands. His heart pounded a furious rhythm in his chest, each beat feeding the storm of dread rising within him. His first friend since leaving the wilds—the only one who had treated him as an equal without fear or prejudice—now dragged into the hands of monsters.

  If the orcs kept her, she might be enslaved, adopted into their tribe like his own mother had been. But if they sold her to the goblins… Garrok’s jaw clenched. Death would be a mercy compared to what awaited her there.

  A rage deeper than any he had felt before surged within him, hot and blinding. Yet as the fury crested, it was met by a familiar chill—the cold clarity of survival, the focus of a hunter stalking prey.

  He rose to his feet, eyes hard, and turned toward his wagon.

  “Garrok, where do you think you’re going?” Captain Firebeard demanded, striding toward him through the ruin of the courtyard.

  “My wagon,” Garrok replied evenly, his voice low and steady.

  At his wagon, the bodies of slain goblins lay scattered where Nyx and Fang had defended their master’s home. With a sharp whistle, the dire wolves trotted to him, blood caking their fur but otherwise unhurt.

  Garrok gave each an approving scratch behind the ears. “Good work, you two. But we’ve more to do.”

  He rummaged through his supplies, pulling out the well-maintained saddles. The wolves whined and wagged their tails, recognizing the gear and understanding the mission ahead.

  “I know, been a while,” Garrok muttered as he cinched the straps. “But we ride tonight.”

  He filled his cartridge pouches, secured his double-barreled Dubbelebois and hatchet, and packed the saddlebags with provisions, powder, and medical supplies.

  The captain’s heavy boots thudded to a halt behind him. “You’re serious about this.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re going alone? That’s madness, Garrok.”

  “If I take a force, they’ll hear us coming and kill her out of spite. Alone, with my wolves, I can slip in unseen. I can follow their trail.”

  The captain’s gaze softened just a fraction, though his lips pressed into a grim line. “I can’t stop you, lad. But I’ll send riders after you as soon as I can spare them.”

  Garrok nodded. “Appreciated, Captain.”

  Without another word, he mounted Fang and gave the command: “Seek.”

  The wolves leapt into motion, noses low, following the scent of orc and goblin through the trees as the moon rose high over the wounded fort.

  X---X

  The chase was brutal. Hours passed in the darkness as Garrok and his wolves followed the trail across the hills and through the brush. The scent of sweat, blood, and horse lingered thick in the air, easy for the wolves to track.

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  Garrok’s mind burned with thoughts of Tink’s fate, the anger a steady fire beneath his ribs—but he held to his focus, breathing slow, eyes sharp. There would be time for fury. Now was the time for patience.

  Just past midnight, the glimmer of firelight appeared ahead. Garrok dismounted and crept forward through the undergrowth. A crude orc war camp sprawled before him: a scattering of yurts, the perimeter hastily fenced with brush and sharpened stakes. Sentries lounged at the gaps in the wall, their shapes hulking and careless.

  Toward the back of the camp stood a lone yurt, separated from the others. A single orc guard paced outside, his wolf sprawled beside him.

  “That’s the one,” Garrok whispered. “That’s where they’re keeping her.”

  Moving low through the bushes, Garrok quietly cut through the thinnest section of the wall. As he crept closer, he overheard the guard grunt in Orcish, calling into the dark:

  “Who goes there?”

  Garrok slapped Nyx’s flank, prompting a sharp yelp.

  “Apologies, brother,” Garrok called back smoothly in the guttural tongue. “Damn bitch is in heat, got the other wolves stirred up.”

  “Hah! Keep that bitch away from my post!”

  Another voice chimed in from beyond the fence. “What’s the ruckus?”

  “Just a bitch in heat! Go back to sleep!”

  The orc guard stepped closer, grumbling—and that was when Garrok struck. The hatchet flashed once, clean through the throat, while Fang lunged silently at the wolf, tearing it down without a sound. Garrok dragged the bodies into the bushes and pressed on.

  Inside the isolated yurt, Garrok heard the soft thud of a fist striking flesh, followed by Tink’s pained gasp.

  “You will tell me how many are coming,” the goblin interrogator hissed. Another blow followed.

  The goblin sneered down at the battered gnome, gripping her jaw roughly as he leaned close. "You're a stubborn little thing," he hissed. "Shame you won't talk. You're quite pretty for your kind. Maybe after I’m done, I’ll put a brat in your belly, then gift you to the Pasha for his amusement. That’ll teach you to hold your tongue."

  Tink’s glare burned through the swelling around her eye, but she spat blood at his feet in defiance.

  The goblin laughed. "Still feisty. You'll break soon enough."

  It was the last thing he ever said.

  Garrok slipped into the yurt like a shadow, his hatchet flashing as he grabbed the goblin by the jaw, yanked his head back, and slit his throat in one smooth motion.

  “Tink.”

  She looked up, one eye swollen shut, lips bloody—but when she saw him, she managed a faint, relieved smile. “Took you long enough.”

  Garrok knelt and cut her free. “You held out. Good girl.”

  “I didn’t tell them anything,” she rasped. “They know the fort is expanding. They wanted to know how many were coming.”

  Garrok nodded, searching the goblin’s body. There, tucked at the goblin’s waist, was Tink’s pistol—the very one Garrok had gifted her, now stained with the blood of its captor. Beside it, a slender stiletto dagger gleamed wickedly.

  He passed the pistol and stiletto to Tink. She held the pistol tightly, eyes flashing with fury, and tucked the stiletto into her belt with grim satisfaction.

  “Now let’s get the hell out of here,” Garrok muttered.

  X---X

  They crept out the way Garrok had come, Nyx and Fang leading the way. But by the time they reached the edge of the brush, a cry of alarm rose behind them. The bodies had been found.

  “MOVE!” Garrok barked, throwing Tink onto Nyx’s back as they sprinted into the woods. Shots rang out behind them, the bark of orcish matchlocks cracking through the night.

  Pursuit was relentless. Garrok and Tink fired back as they rode—Garrok unleashing the thunderous twin blasts of his Dubbelebois, dropping two riders with a single volley, while Tink snapped shots with her reclaimed pistol, her hands steady despite her injuries.

  When her pistol emptied, she used the stiletto as a ramrod to hastily reload, spitting curses through clenched teeth.

  “Keep going!” Garrok growled, firing again, shattering the skull of an approaching rider.

  The wolves pushed hard, muscles straining as they bounded through the underbrush, dodging arrows and gunfire. The orcs closed in, howling as they gave chase, their mounts foaming at the mouth.

  Just as exhaustion began to weigh down their mounts, horns sounded ahead. Thunderous hooves, gleaming helms, and bright feathers flashed through the trees.

  “URAAH!” The Hussars charged in, sabers raised, crashing into the orc riders.

  Moments later, pistol shots echoed—the Reiters arriving behind the cavalry, firing volley after volley into the disorganized orc ranks.

  “Master Smith!” a dwarf scout called out, galloping up on a stocky pony. “We’re here to cover your retreat!”

  Garrok reined in, gasping, and nodded once. “Good timing.”

  They rode hard back to the fort, now under the protective screen of the human and dwarven cavalry. When they reached the gates, cheers erupted from the garrison. Hats flew, sabers lifted, rifles raised in salute.

  Garrok barely managed to dismount before his knees gave out beneath him. The last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him was the captain’s voice:

  “Well, lad. Looks like your damn fool plan worked after all.”