“There are those who despise goblins and say we are untrustworthy, that our friendships are false and our words are empty. Perhaps it is true of some of us, but who could blame even them? The people we would befriend are those who will kill us if we don’t.”

Mergheer, Pargrym’s mentor.

There wasn’t a child in the land, human or goblin, who didn’t know the legends of King Marguff, the greatest cataphract of all time. He had plenty to make him famous. There was the deep tragedy of his kingdom's fall long before the unification of Gurngamos, intense battles with all manner of monsters and men, and the complex cast of other heroes who served him, all with their own stories to tell. But what everybody remembered most was his mighty griffon, Timyr.

Saved by Marguff as a kitten, he grew into the largest griffon to ever live, a being of absolute ferocity who could tear apart dragons with his talons. Many of his followers took the kittens Timyr sired to raise as their own mounts, and thus began the tradition of griffon-riding cataphracts. To this day, the griffon is their universal symbol, the proud mark of a true warrior. Of course, most cataphracts don’t ride griffons. Not only are they rarer these days, they are particularly difficult to tame. More than one would-be rider only ended up riding from the inside after their mount slew them. The second-best option was a hippogriff.

While a griffon was predation incarnate, equal parts bird of prey and big cat, a hippogriff was herbivorous, with the sturdy body of a hooved mammal. Not all were suitable for riding, but there was a species that had long been domesticated in northern Gurngamos, and if I wasn’t mistaken, those prints belonged to them. The body of a caribou mixed with a ptarmigan. They were sturdy, resistant to Gurngamos’ brutal winters, and about as docile as anything with a bird’s head could get. They couldn’t carry as much as our big cart horses, but they were better suited to the forests the squirrelfolk roamed.

“They were probably the first things they bought.” Maarken grumbled. “Too useful to pass up.”

"You have those? I always assumed somebody in Fellowstell made them. I suppose they are far too pragmatic for those lunatics." Esen traced the footprints with her finger.

“Lunatics by your standards?” Maarken mumbled so quiet he likely thought himself inaudible, but Esen’s ears perked up.

“I had to do two years of schooling on the mechanics and ethics of necromancy before I raised so much as a scarecrow. And that was after I was vouched for by a guild member. In Fellowstell any maniac with enough skill at altering flesh is allowed to cough up whatever abomination they please. Not to mention what kind of person you have to be to want to make monsters that can’t even live normal lives.” Esen gestured wildly. I hadn’t seen her so passionate. “There are entire regions of their own country they have rendered uninhabitable with their experiments. Nobody in Harthell fears that what the guilds make will destroy their homes."

"You were part of a guild? The town guard guild I guess." I still didn't get her job, but I did understand guilds.

"Not quite. Most towns did not need a guild for their guards, but ours was large enough that it was determined necessary for us to be reinforced with the undead. Since guild membership was required for that knowledge, all officers selected for the program were inducted into the Raiser's Guild and taught to raise and control the most basic undead." Esen's ear twitched a little when she said "most basic".

"Why did you leave then? You were educated and had something steady, like me. I got roped into it by you guys, so how did you become a mercenary?" I asked. There was a long moment of absolute silence. Esen’s pink eyes narrowed at me and I felt Hugred tense for action. He felt his master's sheer fury, directed at me. Behind me, Maarken held steady, hammer away and arm relaxed.

"That isn’t any of your business." Esen hissed at last before vaulting up the gullies edge.

I was left shaking. For one tiny moment, I truly believed that she was going to kill me. Internally I kicked myself. Idiot! It's your job to read people! How did you miss the signs you were stepping on her tail!? I had gotten complacent after how easily Maarken opened up. As if he knew I was thinking of him, his massive hand plopped onto my head. The pat was on the rougher side of gentle, and my knees buckled the slightest bit.

"She was not going to harm you." Maarken’s certainty was reassuring. "There is a difference between being angry and being angry enough to kill. You were nowhere near that line."

"For a human maybe. I have heard tales of elves skinning people alive for petty insults." I was a touch ashamed to rely on the sort of rumors I usually wrote off, but I needed a reason to be shaking now.

"Well unless elves also express their emotions entirely differently she wasn't that angry. I think her ears express like a goblin's. If she was really furious they would go straight back. Save your worries for everything around us." He said before he began scaling the wall.

I stayed behind for a moment. I looked at Maarken’s enormous stature, his sculpted muscles. I saw the shining silver hammer at his hip, so recently dripping with the brain matter of a creature he mauled for reasons I still wasn’t entirely onboard with.

Ahead of him was Esen, armed with her own blade and unknown other gifts. She was not so huge as him but still made me look puny. Under her armor was a body forged for physical combat, and at her side a creature who obeyed her every whim.

How could I not be worried about them?