Korrak had followed his clan's trail for six days. On the seventh, the trail stopped. The Ashmarked, his people, had left no tracks, no fire pits, no bodies. They had simply vanished from the ridge where he last saw their smoke. Now the tall orc stood in the muddy street of Evan's Grove, a shotgun on his back and no idea where to look next. He tipped his brimmed hat low. Villagers crossed to avoid his tusks and his shadow. He needed information. Nobody in the settlement would give it. He asked a butcher about strangers passing through. The man locked his door. He asked a farmer about raiders. The farmer walked away fast. A voice stopped him. "Sir! You have the face of a man who has lost something!" A gnome stood on an overturned crate. He wore a patchwork vest and a red bow tie. A green dragon puppet covered one hand. He made the puppet talk instead of himself. "He's tracking, isn't he? I can smell tracking on him." This was Fizzik, a traveling bard who spoke through his sock puppets. A blue dragon puppet took over his other hand. "Then we should help him, brother!" Korrak did not laugh. "You know these roads?" "We know a merchant who knows everything," the green puppet said. Fizzik hopped down and led him behind a wagon. Two more of his friends waited there. A young woman in dark armor with orange flames held a large white egg against her chest. Her glasses caught the light. "Make it quick," she said. This was Caoimhe, a fire druid, and her tone had teeth. Beside her stood a small half-goblin girl in a witch hat. She poked Korrak's boot with her staff. "You're the biggest orc I ever saw," the girl said, grinning. This was Freya. She was not afraid of him at all. The merchant sat on a stool by a cart of strange bottles. His eyes were two different colors. He looked at Korrak and did not blink. "The Ashmarked," the merchant said, before Korrak spoke. "You want them. I saw them taken. Chains and a black wagon. Twelve days east, toward the salt cliffs." Korrak's chest went tight. "Taken by who?" "That answer costs more than coin." The merchant smiled. "But the girl's staff interests me." He pointed at Freya. Freya stepped behind Caoimhe. Caoimhe's hand tightened on her own staff. The egg glowed faint orange. Fizzik's puppets went silent for once. Korrak looked at the four of them. He had come here alone and hunting. Now he had a direction, salt cliffs to the east, and a merchant who wanted to trade a child for the truth. He put himself between the merchant and Freya. "No," Korrak said. "You've told me enough. East. Salt cliffs." He turned to the others. "I'm going. You can come or stay." Freya grabbed his coat. "East," she said. And the road was chosen.

The road east climbed for two days. Korrak's group left Evan's Grove with full stomachs and empty packs. Now the packs stayed empty. Freya lagged behind, dragging her staff. Caoimhe rationed the last strip of dried meat and cut it into four pieces. Fizzik's puppets said nothing. Korrak counted the miles to the salt cliffs and knew the truth. Without food, they would not reach his clan alive. They found a ruined estate near the road at dusk. Broken windows lined three floors. Ivy crawled over cracked stone. Korrak pushed the front door open with his shotgun barrel. Dust hung in the empty halls. He hoped for a cellar, a forgotten larder, anything. A voice rumbled from the dark. "You eat my catch, you help me carry it." Korrak raised the shotgun. A huge man stepped into the faded light. Scales like a beetle's shell covered his arms. His beard reached his belt. Behind him swayed a scorpion's tail, its stinger high. A dead boar hung from his shoulder. This was Mittsu, and he did not look afraid of the gun. "Salt cliffs," Mittsu said, nodding east. "That's where you're headed. I smell it on you. Desperate men always go that way." "You know the road," Korrak said. "I know it kills the unprepared." Mittsu dropped the boar on a broken table. "I hunt these hills. I have salt, dried fish, water. Enough to get you there." His tail flexed. "But nothing's free." Caoimhe stepped forward, hand on her staff. "What's the price?" Mittsu grinned through his beard. "The salt cliffs mine slaves. I lost a brother to them years back. I've wanted to burn the place down since. But one man can't." He looked at Korrak's shotgun, then at the fire glowing in Caoimhe's egg. "You've got teeth. I give you supplies. You let me walk with you. We break the cliffs together." Korrak's chest tightened. His clan was chained in that place. This mutant wanted the same fight for his own dead brother. "My people are there," Korrak said. "The Ashmarked. Taken twelve days ago." "Then we want the same door open." Mittsu held out a scaled hand. Freya tugged Korrak's coat. "He's got fish," she whispered. "I can smell it." Korrak lowered the shotgun. He shook the offered hand. Mittsu's grip could have crushed stone. Then the big man crossed to a corner and dragged out three heavy packs. Salt, smoked meat, waterskins. Enough for the road. They ate the boar that night by a small fire in the ruined hall. For the first time in days, the group was fed. But Mittsu spoke while they ate. "The cliffs have guards. Iron doors. A slave-master who keeps a ledger of every soul." He wiped his beard. "If your clan went in, they're on that ledger now. And nobody walks off those cliffs unless the master lets them." Korrak stopped chewing. The road ahead had just gained a name, and a keeper.

The salt cliffs rose gray against the sky. Korrak lay flat on a ridge above the mining operation. Below, two iron doors sealed the entrance. Six guards stood watch. Mittsu crouched beside him, his scorpion tail low in the dirt. They had planned an assault for two days. Every plan died the same way. Any group that charged those doors would fall before reaching them. "We can't break them," Mittsu said. "Not with six of us." His fist ground into the rock. His brother had died behind those doors. Korrak's clan waited behind them now. Freya wriggled up between them. She peered over the ridge with wide purple eyes. "You're all thinking wrong," she said. "You want the doors open. So make them open the doors for you." Korrak looked at the small half-goblin. "How?" "Prisoners," Freya said. "They march new slaves in all the time. The guards open the doors for those." Caoimhe pushed her glasses up her nose. She held her egg close, its shell warm with fire. "So some of us go in wearing chains," she said. Her voice stayed cool. "We let them cage us. Then we open the doors from inside." A hard smile crossed her face. "I like it." Fizzik shook his head. A green dragon puppet spoke from his hand in a squeaky voice. "Bad guards check faces. Bad guards ask questions." Then his blue puppet answered. "So we give them a show they won't forget." Korrak understood. Fizzik would perform. A wandering bard, captured on the road, worth selling to the mine. The story would hold long enough. They worked fast. Mittsu cut rope into rough manacles. Korrak surrendered his shotgun and hat to Caoimhe, who would wait outside with Freya. His hands went into the loose ropes. Fizzik and Mittsu bound themselves the same way. Mittsu marched them down the slope. He played the slaver, one hand gripping Korrak's shoulder. His tail curled like a whip. A guard shouted for them to halt. "Three strays," Mittsu called. "Caught them on the east road. The big one's an orc. The master pays for orcs." The guard studied Korrak's tusks. He hesitated. Then Fizzik began to sing. His puppet danced on his bound hands. The guards laughed. Their eyes drifted to the gnome. The iron doors groaned open. Korrak walked through. The moment his boots crossed the threshold, he tore the ropes loose. Mittsu roared and drove his tail into the nearest guard. Korrak grabbed a fallen spear and jammed it in the door's track. The doors could not close. "Now!" he bellowed. Caoimhe's fire lit the ridge. She and Freya charged down through the open gate. The entrance was theirs. But inside, alarm bells rang. Boots pounded on stone. Deeper in the dark, a cold voice called for the ledger to be sealed. The slave-master knew they had come. And somewhere in his records, the Ashmarked were about to be moved.

Boots pounded down the corridor. Armed guards spilled from side tunnels, spears and short swords ready. Korrak leveled his shotgun and fired. Two guards dropped. But more came, filling the space behind them. He worked the pump. The shell casing rang on stone. There were too many. He could not clear this hall alone. "Behind me!" Korrak shouted. He backed toward his friends. A spear grazed his arm. Blood ran warm down his sleeve. Caoimhe stepped up beside him. She held her egg against her chest with one arm. Her free hand gripped her staff. She was the fire druid who had waited outside, cool and patient, until the doors opened. Now her patience burned off. She pointed the staff down the corridor. "Get low," she said flatly. Fire poured from the staff's tip. It rolled over the guards in a wave. Men screamed and fell. The front rank collapsed into smoke. Mittsu roared and charged the gap. His scorpion tail whipped over his shoulder. He drove the stinger into a guard's chest, then hurled the body into two others. His brother had died behind these walls. Every guard he broke was a debt paid. "Korrak, the tunnel forks ahead!" he called. "They're running that way!" Fizzik danced behind them. A blue puppet snapped on his hand. "Loud noises coming!" the puppet squeaked. The gnome sang a sharp, rising note. The sound slammed into the guards like a fist. Their swords clattered down. They clutched their ears and stumbled. Freya slipped through the smoke. The half-goblin child raised her staff and grinned. A cluster of small lights burst around the guards' faces. They swung at nothing, blind. "This way's clear!" she shouted, pointing at the fork. Korrak fired one last shell into the wavering line. The corridor emptied. Broken guards lay on the stone. The rest fled deeper into the dark. Korrak lowered his shotgun and breathed hard. His arm throbbed. They had won the hall. He ran to the fork with Mittsu. Two tunnels split before them. One led down, toward cells. The other climbed toward a barred back gate. Korrak looked into the lower tunnel. Empty chains hung on the walls. Straw lay scattered on the floor, still fresh. "They moved them," Mittsu said. His voice cracked. "The Ashmarked. The slave-master took them out this way." Korrak knelt and touched a broken shackle. It was warm. His clan had been here minutes ago. Now the cells stood empty. He looked up the climbing tunnel, where the back gate hung ajar. Wheel tracks scored the dirt beyond it. A wagon. His people were being hauled away while he fought in the hall. Korrak stood. He pushed the shotgun's stock against his shoulder. "They're not far," he said. "We follow the tracks. Now."

The back gate slammed behind them. Korrak burst into open air with his shotgun ready. Cold wind hit his face. Wagon tracks cut through the dirt ahead. His clan, the Ashmarked, had been hauled this way minutes before. He followed the tracks at a run. Then the ground changed. The dirt ended. Hard rock spread out before him. And the tracks split into two. Korrak dropped to one knee. Two trails scored the stone. One bent left, down a slope toward broken hills. The other ran right, over flat rock toward a stand of dead trees. Both looked fresh. He could not tell which wagon carried his people. He touched one groove, then the other. His breath came fast. Pick wrong, and his clan slipped past the last reach of daylight. "Wheels don't lie," Mittsu said behind him. The huge mutant crouched low, scales dark in the gray light. His brother had died in this mine. He wanted this hunt as much as Korrak did. He ran a thick finger along the right-hand groove. "Empty. See how shallow? No weight. Decoy." He moved to the left trail. "Deep. Heavy load. People." Korrak stared at the two grooves. He could not see the difference Mittsu saw. "You're sure?" "No," Mittsu said. "But I've tracked six months. I trust the deep line." Freya scrambled up onto the rock. The half-goblin child pointed her staff at the left trail. Small lights drifted from the tip and floated over the stone. They pooled in one groove and skipped past the other. "The lights like this one," she said. "There's something warm down there. Lots of somethings." Fizzik caught up, breathing hard. A green puppet snapped onto his hand. "A wet nose knows!" the puppet squeaked. The gnome sang a low, humming note. The sound rolled down both trails and came back. He tilted his head. "The left one swallows my song. A crowd eats sound. The right one echoes empty." Caoimhe knelt at the fork, egg tucked under one arm. She pressed her palm flat to the left groove. Her jaw tightened. "Warm," she said. "Bodies passed here. Not long ago." She looked up through her glasses, cold and certain. "Left." Every sign pointed the same way. Korrak stood and slung the shotgun over his shoulder. "Left. Move." They ran down the slope. The deep track led them around a bend. There the wagon sat, one wheel cracked against a rock. Empty. No people. No driver. Only chains coiled in the bed and a torn scrap of gray cloth. Korrak snatched it up. He knew the weave. An Ashmarked cloak. Mittsu studied the ground past the broken wagon. Footprints scattered in every direction. "They unloaded here," he said. "Split them up. Marched them off in groups." Korrak closed his fist around the cloth. He had picked the right trail. His clan was near. But now there was no single path to follow, only many. The hunt had just broken into pieces.