**Chapter 2: Northward Bound**
Adrian Hall left the waystation at first light, the rain reduced to a persistent drizzle that clung to everything like a bad debt. He adjusted the strap of his crossbow across his back and set off along the northern road without looking back. The bearded man and his two companions had already departed, their tracks visible in the mud but already softening. Adrian preferred it that way. No farewells, no offers of partnership, and no unnecessary words.
The path wound upward through thinning trees, the Whispering Woods giving way to rolling hills dotted with rocky outcrops. His boots squelched with every step. Water had seeped into the seams overnight despite the careful oiling he had given them the week before. Such was the life of a mercenary: constant small defeats against the elements.
By mid-morning the drizzle stopped, though low clouds remained. Adrian paused at a stream crossing to refill his waterskin and check his gear. The sword on his left hip slid smoothly from its sheath when he tested it. Good enough. He had sharpened it by firelight in the inn room the previous night, the rhythmic scrape of whetstone against steel a familiar lullaby.
He continued on, eating a strip of dried meat as he walked. The taste was salty and tough, but it filled the stomach without complaint. Adrian valued practicality above flavor. Grand feasts belonged to lords and bards. Men like him ate what kept them moving.
The road remained empty for several hours. Once he spotted a distant farmer's cart, but it turned off toward a side track before he drew near. Solitude suited him. Conversations on the road often led to questions he had no interest in answering.
Toward noon the hills flattened into open farmland. Stone walls divided fields where early wheat pushed through the soil. A village appeared ahead, modest houses clustered around a central square and a small stone temple. Smoke rose from several chimneys. The scent of baking bread reached him on the breeze.
Adrian's steps slowed. Villages meant potential work, but they also meant people. He weighed the lightness of his coin purse against the comfort of another night under a roof. Practicality won.
He entered the square as a group of villagers gathered near the well. A middle-aged man in a stained apron spotted him first and raised a hand in cautious greeting.
"Stranger," the man called. "You look like a fighting man. We might have need of one."
Adrian stopped a respectful distance away. His grey eyes took in the group: farmers mostly, with a few younger lads carrying pitchforks like they hoped to pass for guards. "What sort of need?"
"Goblins," another villager said, spitting to the side. "They raided our northern fields two nights back. Took three goats and scared the herdsmen half to death. We drove them off with torches, but they'll be back. Always are."
Adrian nodded once. Goblin raids were common this time of year. The creatures grew bold when winter stores ran low. "How many?"
"Ten, maybe twelve. Small band. No shaman that we saw."
The price came to mind automatically. Clearing a goblin nest usually paid thirty to fifty silver, depending on the size and the desperation of the client. These villagers looked worried but not destitute.
"Twenty silver," Adrian said. "Half now, half when the job is done. I work alone. No villagers tagging along to get in the way."
Murmurs rippled through the group. The man in the apron frowned. "That's steep for a small band."
"It's fair for a man who might bleed for your goats." Adrian kept his tone even. "Or you can wait for the next mercenary who passes. Might be cheaper. Might also be drunk or dead by the time he arrives."
The villagers conferred quietly. After a minute the aproned man nodded. "Done. Come to the temple. The priest holds the village purse."
Adrian followed them across the square. The temple was simple, dedicated to some local harvest god whose name he did not bother to learn. Inside, the air smelled of incense and old stone. The priest, a thin man with nervous hands, counted out ten silver coins and passed them over.
"Bring proof," the priest said. "Ears or heads. We pay only on proof."
"Understood." Adrian slipped the coins into his purse. The weight felt reassuring.
He left the village before the afternoon grew old, following directions to the raided fields. The goblin trail was easy enough to pick up: broken stalks, small footprints, and the occasional dropped trinket of shiny metal. Goblins loved anything that glittered.
The trail led into a rocky gully half a mile from the fields. Adrian moved carefully now, crossbow loaded and ready in his hands. His grey eyes swept the boulders and sparse bushes. The wind carried a faint stench of unwashed bodies and spoiled meat.
A rustle sounded ahead. Adrian dropped into a crouch behind a fallen log. Three goblins emerged from a narrow cave mouth, arguing in their guttural tongue over a stolen copper pot. They were small, green-skinned, with jagged teeth and crude spears. No armor worth mentioning.
Adrian waited until they drew closer, then rose and fired. The crossbow bolt took the lead goblin through the throat. It dropped without a sound. The other two spun, screeching. He dropped the crossbow, drew his sword in one smooth motion, and met their charge.
The first goblin lunged with its spear. Adrian sidestepped, brought his blade down in a short arc, and severed its arm at the elbow. The creature howled. He finished it with a thrust to the chest. The second goblin turned to flee. Adrian's shorter blade flew from his hand, embedding itself between the creature's shoulder blades. It stumbled and fell.
Silence returned to the gully.
Adrian retrieved his weapons, wiped them clean on the goblins' rags, and set about collecting proof. Six ears in total. The other goblins must have remained inside the cave. He approached the entrance carefully, listening. No movement.
He lit a small torch from his pack and entered. The cave was shallow, barely ten paces deep. Four more goblins lay dead or dying from wounds sustained in the earlier village raid. Adrian dispatched the survivors quickly and humanely. No sport in prolonging suffering.
He emerged with twelve ears strung on a cord. The sun had begun its descent when he returned to the village. The square had filled with more people now. Word of the hired sword had spread.
The aproned man met him at the well. His eyes widened at the sight of the ears. "You did it alone? So fast?"
Adrian shrugged. "They were few and careless." He handed over the cord. "Twelve. Count them."
The villagers paid the remaining ten silver without argument. A few clapped him on the shoulder. Adrian endured the thanks with minimal response. Praise felt unnecessary. The job was done; the coin was earned.
The priest offered him supper and a bed in the temple's guest cell. Adrian accepted both. The meal was simple—bread, cheese, and a thick vegetable stew—but hot and filling. He ate at a corner table while villagers told exaggerated tales of the raid. He listened without comment, the corner of his mouth twitching once when a boy claimed the goblins had been twenty strong and breathing fire.
After the meal he retired to the small cell. The bed was narrow but dry. He cleaned his weapons again by lamplight, oiled his boots, and counted his coin. Twenty silver plus what remained from before. Enough for supplies and a few comfortable nights.
Sleep came easier than the night before. No dreams troubled him. Mercenaries who dreamed too vividly rarely lasted long.
Dawn found him on the road once more, the village already behind him. The sky had cleared, revealing pale blue streaked with high clouds. Adrian walked with a steadier stride, the new weight in his purse a quiet satisfaction.
Yet as the morning wore on, he noticed fresh tracks on the road ahead. Wagon wheels, deep and recent, accompanied by many booted feet. A caravan, and a large one. The same merchant guild the bearded man had mentioned?
Adrian kept his pace even. He had no intention of joining them. But the road north was narrow in places. Paths had a way of crossing whether a man wished it or not.
By late afternoon he crested a low rise and saw the caravan camped in a wide meadow below. At least eight wagons, heavily laden, with armed guards patrolling the perimeter. Smoke from cookfires rose in straight lines. Horses grazed nearby.
Adrian paused, grey eyes narrowing. Something felt off. The guards moved with visible tension. One man gestured sharply toward the treeline as if expecting trouble at any moment.
Practicality dictated he swing wide and avoid the camp entirely. Yet curiosity—and the possibility of better-paying work—pulled at him. Adrian Hall did not seek trouble, but he had learned long ago that ignoring the world entirely sometimes cost more than engaging it on his own terms.
He started down the slope toward the camp, hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. The road continued northward beyond the meadow. For now, at least, his solitary path ran parallel to theirs.
(Word count: 1014)