*Year 1622 — 9th Day of Eudia — The Thornwood, Boreas*
The Thornwood had been quiet for three days.
That was what worried Arthur.
He rode at the head of the Iron Hounds, his sword across his saddle, his eyes moving from the treeline to the forest floor to the sky. The old logging road they followed was barely visible—a scar of packed earth and rotting stumps that wound through the ancient oaks like a river gone dry. The trees here were massive, their trunks wider than a man's height, their branches so thick that they blocked the sun. The air smelled of moss and decay, of things growing and things dying.
"Three days without a sign," Brigid said. She rode beside him, her twin swords across her back, her face turned toward the forest. "No tracks, no scat, no nests. The goblins are hiding."
"Or they are gathering," Arthur replied.
"Same thing."
"No. Hiding means they are afraid. Gathering means they are waiting."
Brigid did not argue. She had learned to trust his instincts. The Thornwood had been quiet since they left Oakwold—too quiet. The goblin nest they had destroyed should have been one of many. The villagers had spoken of other nests, other attacks, other villages that had been abandoned or destroyed. But they had seen nothing.
"Maybe the Hunters cleared them out," Finn said from behind them. He rode with his spear across his saddle, his shield on his arm, his young face eager. "The Hunter's Guild has been working the eastern marches. They could have pushed the nests deeper."
Arthur had heard of the Hunter's Guild—a loose fellowship of monster hunters who operated across the continent, taking contracts to clear nests, track beasts, and protect villages too poor to afford mercenary companies. They were not soldiers. They were specialists: trackers, trappers, poisoners, men and women who had learned to fight the things that lived in the dark. The Iron Hounds had crossed paths with them before, in the Free Cities and the southern kingdoms. They were useful, when they were not competing for the same contracts.
"The Guild does not work this far north," Brigid said. "They have their hands full in the Free Cities."
"Maybe they are expanding," Finn said.
Before anyone could answer, Elara emerged from the undergrowth. The scout had been ranging ahead, slipping through the trees like a shadow. Her face was flushed from running, her daggers sheathed, her eyes sharp.
"There is a nest two miles east," she said. "I saw tracks. Hundreds of them."
Arthur pulled his horse to a stop. "Fresh?"
"This morning. They were moving north."
"Toward what?"
Elara shook her head. "I do not know. But they were moving fast. Not hunting. Not foraging. Moving."
Arthur looked at the map in his mind. The logging road they followed led north, toward Thornhaven. But east of them, beyond the ridge, there were villages—small ones, the kind that did not appear on any map. Villages of farmers and trappers who had been there for generations, who knew the forest better than any soldier, who had survived orc wars and troll migrations by being too small to notice.
"The Ridgemont settlements," he said. "There are three of them. Farmers, mostly. No walls. No soldiers."
Brigid's face hardened. "If the goblins hit them—"
"They will not hit them. They will swarm them." Arthur turned his horse. "We go east. Fast."
They left the logging road and cut through the forest, following Elara's lead. The horses struggled in the undergrowth, their hooves slipping on moss, their riders ducking under branches. Finn had to dismount twice to clear fallen logs from their path.
The ridge rose before them, a spine of rock that ran north and south, separating the old logging territories from the settled valleys beyond. Elara climbed it first, her hands finding holds that Arthur could not see, her body disappearing into the grey stone. She was back a moment later, her face pale.
"They are already there."
Arthur was beside her in moments, pulling himself up the last few feet of the ridge. Below, in the valley, he saw the village.
It was small—a dozen houses huddled around a crossroads, a blacksmith's forge, a well. There was no wall, no palisade, no gate. Just open fields and a single road that led north toward Thornhaven.
And coming out of the forest on the far side of the valley was a tide of green.
Goblins. Hundreds of them. They poured out of the trees like a river, their claws scraping the earth, their voices rising in a screech that echoed off the ridge. They were small, barely waist-high, but there were so many of them that they seemed to cover the ground.
"The villagers see them," Brigid said. She had climbed up beside Arthur, her swords drawn. "They are running."
Below, people were fleeing their houses, grabbing children, running toward the road. A few were trying to form a line—old men with axes, women with hoes, a young man with a bow. They had no chance.
"We cannot stop them all," Finn said. His voice was tight. "There are too many."
Arthur looked at his men. Twenty Iron Hounds. Against a tide of goblins that would have overwhelmed a hundred soldiers. But they had something the villagers did not. They had cores.
"We do not need to stop them all," he said. "We need to slow them down. Give the villagers time to run." He pointed at the road. "Elara, take Finn and Una. Get to the village. Get them moving north. Do not stop."
Elara was already moving. Finn followed, his spear in his hands, his face pale but his jaw set. Una went with them, her skin humming, her hands already sparking with the mana she was still learning to control.
"The rest of us," Arthur said, turning to the remaining Iron Hounds, "hold the ridge. They will have to come through us to reach the road."
Brigid looked at the goblins below, then at the narrow pass that led up the ridge. "We can hold them here. The slope is steep. They will have to climb."
"Then we make them climb." Arthur drew his sword. "Iron Hounds—to the pass."
The pass was a gash in the ridge, a narrow path worn by generations of farmers and trappers. It was wide enough for two men to stand side by side, no more. On either side, the rock rose steep and treacherous, too steep for goblins to climb in numbers.
Arthur placed his men in a line across the pass. Mikkel was at the center, his shield raised, his mace in his hand. Torben stood beside him, his flail already swinging, his hands crackling with lightning. Dagny was behind them, her skin hardening, her warhammer ready. The others filled the gaps—Kael with his cleaver, Ilsa with her rapier, Hakon with his claws extended, Jesper with his hammer.
And behind them all, Viktor stood with the banner raised, the black hound on a grey field snapping in the wind.
"They are coming," Brigid said.
The goblins had seen them. The first wave was already climbing the slope, their claws scrabbling at the rock, their eyes fixed on the pass. They came in a flood, a carpet of green that covered the stone.
"Archers," Arthur said. "Make them pay for every step."
Nessa and Corbin drew their bows. Corbin's arrows were steel-tipped, his shots precise. Nessa's arrows sang as they flew, guided by the mana in her blood, finding goblins that were still fifty paces down the slope. The first goblins fell, tumbling back into the mass behind them, but more came.
"Hold," Arthur said. "Hold until they are in the pass."
The goblins climbed faster, scrambling over the bodies of their dead, their screeches rising to a fever pitch. They reached the pass, and the Iron Hounds met them.
Mikkel was the wall. His shield caught the first goblin, crushed it against the rock, sent it spinning back into the ones behind. His mace swung, and another fell, and another. The goblins climbed over the bodies, but Mikkel did not move.
Torben was beside him, his flail a whirlwind of steel and lightning. The goblins that came close enough to reach Mikkel's shield were met with a crackling arc that sent them flying. His hands were glowing now, the lightning that had been sleeping in his blood finally awake, and he laughed as he fought.
Dagny was behind them, her warhammer rising and falling, crushing the goblins that tried to slip past the front line. Her skin was like stone; their claws broke against her arms, her shoulders, her face. She did not bleed. She did not stop.
The goblins kept coming.
Arthur stood at the center, his sword in his hands, his body screaming for the mana that was not there. He had no core now. No blade aura. No lightning or stone or steel. He had only the skill he had learned in twenty years of fighting, and the men who trusted him.
He killed a goblin. Then another. Then another. The blade was heavy, his arms were tired, but he did not stop. He could not stop. If he stopped, the line would break.
"How many?" he shouted.
"Too many!" Brigid was beside him, her swords flashing, her arms slick with blood. "They keep coming!"
Arthur looked down the slope. The goblins were still pouring out of the forest, a river of claws and teeth that had no end. The village below was empty now—Elara had gotten them moving—but the goblins were not chasing the villagers. They were coming for the Iron Hounds.
"They are not trying to get past us," Arthur said. "They are trying to overwhelm us."
Brigid followed his gaze. "They are throwing themselves at us. Like they do not care how many die."
"They do not. There are always more." Arthur looked at his men. They were holding, but they were tired. Mikkel's shield was dented. Torben's lightning was flickering. Dagny's skin was cracking under the constant assault. They could not hold forever.
"We need to break them," Arthur said. "Make them afraid."
"How?"
Arthur looked at the slope, at the bodies that were already piled at the base of the pass, at the goblins that were climbing over them. And he saw it. The goblins were using the bodies of their dead as a ramp, climbing higher, faster, pressing harder.
"Torben!" he shouted. "Burn them!"
Torben looked at him, his face pale, his hands crackling. "I have been burning them. There are too many."
"Not the goblins. The dead. Burn the bodies. Take away their ramp."
Torben's eyes widened. He looked at the slope, at the pile of corpses that was growing with every wave, and he understood. He stepped back from the line, raised his hands, and called the lightning.
It came not as a bolt but as a wave, a sheet of white fire that rolled down the slope, catching the bodies, the rocks, the goblins that were climbing. The corpses ignited, the fat and flesh burning with a greasy flame that spread faster than the goblins could climb. The ramp that had been building for an hour was gone in seconds, replaced by a wall of fire.
The goblins screamed. They were not afraid of steel, but they were afraid of fire. The ones at the front tried to stop, but the ones behind pushed them forward, into the flames. They burned. They screamed. And the wave behind them hesitated.
"Now!" Arthur shouted. "Push them back!"
The Iron Hounds surged forward, their weapons raised, their voices raised. Mikkel led them, his shield a battering ram, his mace a thunderbolt. Torben walked beside him, the lightning still crackling, the fire still burning. The goblins broke. They turned and ran, scrambling down the slope, falling over each other, trampling their own wounded.
Arthur stood at the pass, his sword in his hands, his chest heaving. Below, the goblins were streaming back into the forest, their screeches fading into the trees. The valley was silent.
"They are running," Brigid said. Her voice was flat, disbelieving.
"They are regrouping," Arthur replied. "They will be back."
"How long?"
"Long enough."
They found the villagers on the road north, a ragged column of men, women, and children carrying what they could grab. Elara was with them, her daggers drawn, her eyes scanning the forest. Finn was at the rear, his spear raised, his face pale but determined. Una was with the children, her hands glowing softly, her voice steady.
"They are safe," Elara said when Arthur rode up. "We lost one—old man who would not leave his house. The goblins found him."
Arthur nodded. One death was a victory, given the numbers. But it did not feel like a victory.
"The goblins will come back," he said. "They will hit the other villages. We need to get these people to Thornhaven, and we need to warn the others."
"We need more men," Brigid said.
"We need more hunters," Arthur agreed. "The Thornwood is waking up. The goblins are breeding faster than we can kill them. We need people who know the forest. People who can track, trap, fight in the dark."
He looked at the villagers—farmers, trappers, a blacksmith's apprentice. They were not soldiers. But some of them had been born in the Thornwood. Some of them had hunted these forests since they were children. Some of them had lost everything to the goblins and would rather fight than run.
"We are looking for recruits," he said. "Men and women who can fight. Who know the woods. Who want to make sure this does not happen again."
The villagers looked at him. Some of them turned away. But a few stepped forward.
A young woman with a bow, her face scarred by claws, her eyes hard. "My father was a hunter. He taught me. I can shoot."
A man with the arms of a blacksmith, his hands calloused, his jaw set. "I can fight. I have nothing left here."
A boy—barely older than Finn—with a knife in his belt and a look in his eyes that Arthur recognized. "My family is gone. I want to fight."
Arthur looked at them. Three. It was not enough. But it was a start.
"Your names," he said.
"Rina," said the woman with the bow.
"Hal," said the blacksmith.
"Tom," said the boy.
Arthur nodded. "Welcome to the Iron Hounds."
They marched north at dawn, the villagers in the middle, the Iron Hounds on the flanks. The road was wide here, the trees thinner, the sky visible. It would take two days to reach Thornhaven, two days of watching the forest, waiting for the goblins to come back.
Rina walked beside Elara, her bow strung, her arrows in her hand. She had not spoken since they left the village, but her eyes were always on the trees.
"You grew up in the Thornwood," Elara said.
"I did."
"Then you know what we are facing."
Rina looked at her. "I know what the goblins did to my father. I know what they did to my mother. I know what they did to my sister." Her voice was flat. "I have been waiting for someone to fight back."
"And now?"
"Now I am fighting."
They came at dusk.
The road was narrow here, the trees pressing close on either side. Arthur had posted scouts ahead, but the goblins came from behind—a wave of them that burst out of the undergrowth, their claws reaching for the villagers at the rear.
Finn was there. He had been walking at the back of the column, his spear in his hands, his shield on his arm. He saw the goblins coming and he did not run. He planted his feet and raised his spear.
The first goblin impaled itself on the point. Finn twisted, pulled the blade free, and thrust again. The second fell. The third. He was young, barely trained, but he had held the old road. He had died and come back. He would not run.
The Iron Hounds turned. Brigid was there, her swords flashing, cutting a path through the goblins. Mikkel was there, his shield raised, his mace swinging. Torben was there, his lightning crackling, his fists blazing.
The villagers screamed, ran, fell. Arthur was at the center, his sword in his hands, his body screaming. He killed a goblin. Then another. Then another. The goblins kept coming.
Rina stood on a rock, her bow singing, her arrows finding goblins that were reaching for children. She had not missed. She would not miss.
Hal the blacksmith had found a length of chain, was swinging it like a flail, his face a mask of fury. Tom the boy was behind him, his knife in his hand, his eyes wild.
The goblins broke after ten minutes. They had expected easy prey. They had found steel.
Finn stood over the body of a goblin, his spear dripping, his chest heaving. He was wounded—a gash on his arm, a cut on his cheek—but he was alive.
"You fought well," Arthur said.
Finn looked at his hands. They were shaking. "I was afraid."
"Good. Fear keeps you alive." Arthur clasped his shoulder. "You did not run. That is what matters."
They made camp that night in a clearing, the road behind them, the forest before them. Fires were lit, sentries posted, wounds were bound. The Iron Hounds were tired, but they were alive.
Rina sat by the fire, her bow across her knees, her arrows laid out before her. She was counting them, checking the fletching, the tips, the shafts.
"You were a hunter," Arthur said, sitting across from her.
"I was."
"You shoot like one. You do not waste arrows."
She looked at him. "In the Thornwood, you learn not to waste anything."
"Where did you learn?"
"My father taught me. He was a hunter. He knew the forest better than anyone." She picked up an arrow, turned it in her fingers. "He taught me to track, to trap, to shoot. He taught me to be quiet, to be patient, to wait for the shot."
"What happened to him?"
Rina was silent for a moment. "Goblins. Two years ago. They came at night. He got me and my mother into the cellar. He did not make it."
"And your mother?"
"She died last winter. She never got over losing him."
Arthur looked at her. She was young—younger than Finn, maybe—but her eyes were old. "You have been alone."
"I have been waiting," she said. "Waiting for someone to fight back."
"And now?"
She looked at the fire, at the Iron Hounds who were sleeping around it, at the banner that Viktor had planted in the center of the clearing. "Now I am not alone."
They reached Thornhaven on the 12th day of Eudia, the villagers safe, the Iron Hounds tired but whole. Gareth met them at the gate, his face grave, his eyes on the three new recruits who walked behind Arthur.
"You found trouble," he said.
"The Thornwood is waking up," Arthur replied. "The goblins are breeding faster than we can kill them. There will be more attacks. More villages lost."
Gareth looked at the villagers, at the children who were being led away, at the old men and women who had lost everything. "What do you need?"
"Men. Women. Anyone who can fight. Anyone who knows the forest. The Iron Hounds are twenty. We need more. We need hunters."
Before Gareth could answer, a voice spoke from the shadow of the gatehouse.
"The Hunter's Guild can help with that."
Arthur turned. A woman stepped out of the darkness, her cloak grey, her boots scuffed, her face half-hidden by a hood. A bow was slung across her back, and a long knife hung at her belt. She was not tall, but she moved with the easy confidence of someone who had spent her life in places where the wrong step meant death.
"You are from the Guild," Arthur said.
"I am." She pushed back her hood. Her hair was dark, cropped short, her face sharp, her eyes the color of old iron. "Name's Kestrel. I've been tracking this swarm for three weeks. They pushed out of the eastern hills after the orc war scattered their nests. Now they're breeding faster than anything I've seen."
"The Guild sent you?"
"The Guild sent word. I came because this is my territory." She looked at the recruits, at Rina's bow, at Hal's calloused hands, at Tom's knife. "You have good people. Hunters. Woodsmen. They need training."
"And the Guild provides that?"
"The Guild provides a way." Kestrel's eyes were steady. "We are not soldiers. We do not fight wars. We hunt. We track. We kill the things that kill villages. And we teach others to do the same." She nodded toward Rina. "That one has talent. Give her a year with the Guild, and she will clear nests on her own."
Rina's jaw tightened. "I do not need a year. I need to fight now."
Kestrel smiled. It was not a warm expression. "Good. That is the first thing we teach. The fire. The need. The second thing we teach is patience. A hunter who cannot wait is a dead hunter."
Arthur studied her. "You want to train them."
"I want to help. The Guild has been watching the Thornwood for months. We know the nests, the migration patterns, the weak points. We can teach your people how to find them, how to clear them, how to make sure they do not come back." She paused. "In return, we want the right to operate in Thornreach. The king's permission to take contracts, to train hunters, to do our work without interference."
Gareth stepped forward. "You want a charter."
"I want the same thing the Iron Hand has. A place. A purpose. Your kingdom is healing from a war. The goblins will not wait for you to be ready. The Guild can help you prepare."
Arthur looked at Gareth. Gareth looked at Kestrel. The silence stretched.
"We will talk," Gareth said. "But first, we have people to shelter and wounds to bind. You are welcome to stay."
Kestrel nodded. "I will stay. And when you are ready, I will show you what the Guild can do."
The training yard was lit by torches, the shadows dancing on the walls. Rina stood at one end, her bow in her hands, her arrows in her quiver. At the other end, a target had been set up—a wooden post, scarred by a thousand practice shots.
"Show me," Arthur said.
Rina drew an arrow, nocked it, drew the string to her cheek. She held it for a moment, her breathing steady, her eyes fixed on the target. Then she released.
The arrow struck the target dead center, splitting the shaft of the arrow that had been there before.
Arthur nodded. "You are good."
"I am better than good."
He almost smiled. "We will see."
She shot again, and again, and again. Each arrow struck the same spot, splitting the shaft before it, until the target was a circle of splintered wood with a single shaft protruding from its center.
"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" Finn asked. He had been watching from the edge of the yard, his spear in his hands, his eyes wide.
"My father," Rina said. "He was the best hunter in the Thornwood."
"Was?"
She did not answer. She did not need to.
Kestrel watched from the shadows. When Rina lowered her bow, the Guild hunter stepped forward.
"Your father taught you well," she said. "But you shoot like a hunter who waits for the prey to come to her. That works for deer. It does not work for goblins. They will come at you from all sides. You need to move. To shoot without aiming. To trust your hands."
Rina's eyes narrowed. "You think I cannot?"
"I think you have not been taught. That is different." Kestrel drew her own bow—shorter, darker, the string wrapped in leather. "May I?"
Rina hesitated, then stepped aside.
Kestrel nocked an arrow, but she did not raise the bow to her eye. She held it low, at her hip, her body relaxed. Then she moved.
It was not a shot. It was a dance. She spun, the arrow flying from her hand before she was facing the target, and it struck the post an inch from Rina's arrow. She was already nocking another, pivoting, releasing. The second arrow split the first. She dropped to one knee, drew, fired—the third arrow buried itself beside the others, so close they touched.
She stood. "That is how you fight goblins. You do not stand still. You become the thing they cannot catch."
Rina stared at the target, then at Kestrel. "Teach me."
Kestrel smiled. "That is what the Guild does."
Hal stood in the forge, his hands on the anvil, his eyes on the fire. He had been a blacksmith in the village, the only one for fifty miles. He had made plows and horseshoes and the iron fittings for the doors of his neighbors' houses. He had never made a sword.
"You can fight," Arthur said. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his eyes on the man who had killed three goblins with a length of chain.
"I can swing a hammer," Hal said. "That is not the same."
"It is close enough."
Hal looked at his hands. They were calloused, scarred, the hands of a man who had worked with iron for thirty years. "I made the hinges for the church door. I made the latch for the mill. I never made a weapon."
"You will learn."
Hal looked at him. "And if I do not want to?"
Arthur met his eyes. "Then you go back to the village. You rebuild. You wait for the goblins to come back. They will come back. They always come back."
Hal was silent for a long moment. Then he picked up a bar of iron and laid it on the forge. "Show me what to make."
Tom sat in the corner of the barracks, his knife in his hands, his face turned toward the wall. He had not spoken since they reached Thornhaven. He had not eaten. He had not slept.
Finn found him there, as he had been found once, in a tent on the old road, when he was young and afraid and alone.
"You are thinking about them," Finn said.
Tom did not answer.
"I know," Finn said. "I lost people too. On the old road. I died, and I came back, and they did not."
Tom looked at him. His eyes were red, his face was pale, his hands were shaking. "How do you keep fighting?"
Finn sat beside him. "Because someone has to. Because if I stop, they died for nothing."
Tom looked at his knife. "I want to fight."
"Then fight. But do not do it alone. That is what the Iron Hounds are for."
Tom looked at the barracks, at the men and women who were sleeping, who were cleaning their weapons, who were laughing at some joke he could not hear. "They do not know me."
"They will."
The word spread through Thornhaven like fire. The Thornwood was waking. The goblins were coming. The Iron Hounds were recruiting—and the Hunter's Guild had come to help.
They came from the villages, from the farms, from the logging camps that had been abandoned when the orc war began. They came with bows and axes and the knives their fathers had carried. They came because they had nowhere else to go, because they had lost everything, because they wanted to fight back.
Rina stood in the training yard, her bow in her hands, her eyes on the recruits who had gathered. There were twenty of them, men and women who had hunted the Thornwood since they were children, who knew every path, every stream, every shadow.
"You know the forest," she said. "You know how to track, how to trap, how to kill. That is what we need."
She pointed at a target at the far end of the yard. "Show me."
The recruits raised their bows. Arrows flew. Some hit the target. Some did not. Rina watched, her face unreadable.
"You are not soldiers," she said. "You are hunters. You do not stand in a line and wait for the enemy to come to you. You move. You hide. You strike. You disappear."
She drew an arrow, nocked it, and released. The arrow flew into the trees at the edge of the yard, and a moment later, a crow fell from the branches.
"That is what we need."
Kestrel watched from the shadows. When the recruits lowered their bows, she stepped forward.
"The Guild has been tracking the Thornwood for months," she said. "We know where the nests are. We know how the goblins move. We know when they will strike." She looked at the recruits. "If you want to fight, we will teach you. But you will do it our way. No glory. No heroics. You hunt, you kill, you disappear. That is how you survive."
The recruits looked at her. Some of them nodded. Some of them did not.
"The Guild has rules," Kestrel continued. "You do not fight when you are tired. You do not fight when you are angry. You do not fight when you are afraid. You wait. You breathe. You choose your moment. And when you choose it, you do not miss."
She drew her bow and, without seeming to aim, sent an arrow into the center of the target. "That is the first lesson."
Arthur met with Gareth in the great hall, the maps of the Thornwood spread across the table. The Iron Hounds had been patrolling for weeks, marking nests, tracking movements, counting numbers. Kestrel stood beside them, her finger tracing the lines of the forest.
"They are gathering in the east," Arthur said, pointing at a cluster of marks. "Three nests, maybe four. Thousands of goblins. They are waiting for something."
"They are waiting for the moon to turn," Kestrel said. "Goblins breed by the moon. When it is full, they are restless. When it wanes, they are hungry. In three days, the moon will be dark. They will swarm."
Gareth looked at the map. "We do not have enough soldiers. The army is still rebuilding. The militia is scattered."
"You do not need soldiers," Kestrel said. "You need hunters. The Guild can bring fifty. More if you give us the charter."
"Fifty hunters," Arthur said. "Against thousands of goblins."
"We are not going to fight them. We are going to burn their nests. Goblins without nests scatter. They fight each other. They retreat. You do not need to kill them all. You just need to make them afraid."
Gareth looked at her. "And the charter?"
"The charter gives us the right to operate in Thornreach. To take contracts, to train hunters, to be paid for our work. The Iron Hand has the same. We ask for no more."
Gareth was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. "You will have your charter. After the nests are burned."
Kestrel smiled. "Then we have work to do."
The recruits gathered in the training yard for the last time before they would go into the forest. The moon was full, the stars were bright, the air was cold. Rina stood at the front, her bow in her hands, her face turned toward the forest. Kestrel stood beside her, her own bow slung across her back.
"Tomorrow, we go into the Thornwood," Rina said. "We find the nests. We burn them. We kill every goblin we can find."
She looked at the men and women who had come to fight. They were farmers, trappers, hunters. They were not soldiers. They had never been soldiers.
"You will be afraid," she said. "That is good. Fear keeps you alive. But do not let it stop you. When the goblins come, you fight. You fight for your homes. You fight for your families. You fight for the people who could not fight for themselves."
She raised her bow. "We are the hunters now."
The recruits raised their weapons. "We are the hunters."
Kestrel stepped forward. "The Guild has one more rule," she said. "You do not leave anyone behind. If one of us falls, we carry them out. If one of us is trapped, we go back. We do not stop until everyone is safe. That is the oath."
She drew her knife and laid it across her palm. The blade gleamed in the moonlight.
"I swear it," she said.
One by one, the recruits drew their knives. Rina went first, then Hal, then Tom. The Iron Hounds followed, Arthur and Brigid and Finn and all the rest.
"I swear it," they said.
They went into the forest at dawn, twenty Iron Hounds, twenty recruits, and fifty hunters from the Guild. Arthur led them, his sword in his hands, his body still empty, his will still burning. Rina walked beside him, her bow strung, her arrows in her hand. She had not slept. She had not eaten. She was ready.
"You do not have to do this," Arthur said.
She looked at him. "Yes, I do."
Kestrel ranged ahead, her steps silent on the fallen leaves. The forest was waking around them, birds calling, squirrels chattering, the wind moving through the high branches. It was the sound of a forest that did not know what was coming.
They walked into the Thornwood, into the darkness, into the green tide that was waiting.
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**End of Chapter Seventeen**