Chapter 15: A Debt in Blood
Zane didn't have time to think.
The goblin bowman's arms rose—smooth, practiced—arrow already knocked.
The hooded figure tensed to spring back toward the rune-carved stump, like it was the only safe direction left.
It wasn't.
Not with three angles locked.
Zane slid down the slope on wet leaves, keeping low, using trees to break sightlines. His ribs screamed when he shifted, but he forced his body to move anyway. He didn't sprint—he couldn't—but he moved with the only speed he had left.
Decision.
The bowman drew.
Zane saw the exact moment the shot would loose.
He raised his stone wedge and threw it—not at the goblin's face—
At the bow.
The wedge struck wood with a dull crack.
The shot released anyway, but the arrow flew wild, slicing through leaves and burying itself in a trunk behind the hooded figure.
Every head snapped toward the sound.
Zane didn't waste the confusion.
He surged out of cover, dagger in one hand, a jagged stone in the other—poor weapons, but enough to force distance. He angled straight for the bowman, because ranged threats didn't get to exist if he had any say in it.
The armored goblin barked something—an order.
The spear goblin stepped into Zane's path, point leveled.
Zane didn't stop.
He angled.
He let the thrust come, then twisted his torso just enough that it skimmed his bound ribs instead of punching through. Pain flashed white-hot and nauseating, but he stayed upright long enough to hook the spear shaft with his forearm and yank it down.
The spear goblin stumbled forward.
Zane drove his jagged stone into its knee.
Not clean.
Not perfect.
But enough.
The joint buckled. The goblin shrieked, balance gone.
Zane didn't finish it.
Not yet.
He shoved past, closing on the bowman.
The bowman fumbled for another arrow, eyes flashing with irritation more than fear. It had expected prey, not a wounded man who still chose violence.
Zane slammed into it shoulder-first.
His own shoulder screamed.
The goblin flew backward, hit the stump's edge, and dropped its bow.
Zane stomped down on the bow and felt wood flex under his boot.
Then he stabbed—fast, controlled—into the goblin's collarbone where crude armor didn't cover. The goblin spasmed, choking.
Zane ripped the blade free and backed away before the armored goblin could reach him.
The armored goblin charged.
Fast. Heavy. Cleaver coming in a wide arc meant to end things with one hit.
Zane dropped low, rolled under the swing, and came up on the goblin's right side. He stabbed for the hamstring.
The dagger bit—then skidded.
Armor plating strapped too low.
The blade tore flesh but didn't disable.
The goblin roared and backhanded him.
Zane took the hit across the ribs.
The world went white.
He slammed into the ground, breath gone, vision tunneling.
Get up.
Get up or it's over.
A shadow fell over him.
The cleaver rose.
And then—
The hooded figure moved.
The metal strip flashed and sank into the armored goblin's wrist.
Not deep enough to sever.
Deep enough to force reflex.
The cleaver dropped.
Zane rolled away on instinct as the goblin howled, clutching its hand.
The spear goblin lunged at the hooded figure immediately, trying to capitalize.
The hooded figure pivoted, caught the spear shaft with their left hand, turned so the thrust slid past instead of impaling. Their right hand ripped the metal strip free and sliced across the spear goblin's forearm.
Blood sprayed.
The spear wavered.
Zane forced himself upright, dizziness screaming.
So the hood wasn't helpless.
Just trapped.
The armored goblin recovered fast—too fast. It reached into a pouch at its belt and flung something to the ground.
A small clay sphere.
It shattered.
Green-black dust erupted.
Zane's eyes stung instantly.
Not smoke.
Not fire.
Something worse—irritant, choking, meant to blind and separate.
Prepared.
Zane staggered back, coughing, trying not to inhale. His fever made the burn feel like knives in his lungs.
He grabbed his wedge from the ground and hurled it again, this time at the armored goblin's face.
It struck cheekbone with a wet crunch.
The goblin stumbled, snarling, vision disrupted for a heartbeat.
That heartbeat was all Zane had.
He lunged, grabbed the goblin's belt, and yanked hard—using his whole body weight, not his arms.
The goblin toppled forward.
Zane drove his dagger into the side of its neck where plates didn't reach.
Once.
Twice.
The third strike didn't land.
The goblin slammed an elbow into him and ripped free, bleeding heavily but still moving.
Zane stumbled back, coughing, eyes watering. His thigh wrap felt wet again.
He was out of time.
The hooded figure glanced at the rune stump.
For a heartbeat, they looked like they might fight toward it.
Like leaving it meant losing something they couldn't replace.
Zane saw it then—clear as pain.
This stump wasn't a camp.
It was a failed attempt.
A door that didn't open.
And the goblins weren't here for Zane.
They were here for whatever the hooded figure had been trying to do.
"Move!" Zane rasped. "Now!"
The hooded figure made a decision.
They kicked the smoldering leaf pile hard.
Ash puffed up. Smoke thickened instantly, low and dirty. The clearing blurred.
Then they grabbed Zane's sleeve—strong grip for someone that size—and pulled.
Zane almost yanked away on reflex.
But the grip wasn't pleading.
It was commanding.
They vanished into the brush, dragging Zane off the clearing line, away from the stump, away from the goblins' clean angles. Zane forced his legs to cooperate, every step a spike of pain.
Behind them, the armored goblin screamed orders.
Shapes crashed through undergrowth.
But the hooded figure didn't run blindly.
They chose routes that avoided mud, avoided dry twigs, avoided the obvious gaps.
Zane realized with a sick twist of respect that this person had been surviving out here longer than him.
They dropped into a shallow gully and shoved into shadow behind a root cluster.
The hooded figure pressed a hand over Zane's mouth.
Zane froze.
Footsteps—close.
A goblin scout slipped along the gully edge above them, sniffing, peering into the dark.
Zane's heart hammered so hard it hurt.
The hooded figure didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Zane matched them, forcing his breath into silence.
The scout lingered… then moved on.
A minute later, forest sound returned in pieces.
The hooded figure released him and leaned back against the root wall, chest rising and falling. For the first time, their hands trembled—small, controlled tremors like someone holding themselves together by force.
Zane swallowed blood and air.
"You could've left me," he rasped.
The hooded figure didn't answer immediately.
Then they pulled their hood back.
Dwarf.
Dark hair braided close to the scalp. Beard short and travel-trimmed. Skin roughened by cold and wind. Eyes like hammered iron—steady, heavy, sharp enough to make Zane feel measured.
The dwarf stared at Zane for a long moment, then frowned slightly.
Not suspicion.
Evaluation.
Like seeing an apprentice handle a master's tool correctly without being taught.
"You're not trained," the dwarf said, voice low. "But your hands…"
Zane didn't understand.
The dwarf's gaze dropped to the wedge, to the dagger's reshaped edge, to the way Zane kept positioning tools within reach even while shaking.
"A craftsman," the dwarf muttered, almost to himself. "No… more than that."
Zane shook his head weakly. "I'm nothing."
The dwarf's eyes narrowed in disbelief.
"Nothin' men don't aim at the bow in the first breath of an ambush," he said. "Nothin' men don't shape stone while half-dead."
Zane didn't have energy for pride.
He only had questions.
"That stump," Zane rasped. "Those runes. What were you doing?"
The dwarf's jaw tightened.
For a heartbeat, Zane thought he wouldn't answer at all.
Then the dwarf said, "Tryin' to open a way that won't open."
A door.
A dead end.
Not a plan.
A need.
The dwarf looked past Zane, listening.
"We can't stay," he added. "They'll circle back. They were organized."
Zane stared harder now, and something in the dwarf's face struck a memory that wasn't from this forest.
A name in lore text. A portrait in a side story. A dwarf who never returned from the north.
Zane's stomach dropped.
No.
That wasn't possible.
He forced the words anyway. "What's your name?"
The dwarf hesitated, then gave it like it cost something.
"Brann Ironvein."
Zane went still.
Ironvein.
In the game, Brann Ironvein died in the north while searching for a cure. His body was never found. His story ended in a line most players skimmed past.
But Zane had never skimmed anything.
Not after Kay.
Not after hope turned into method.
"You're supposed to be dead," Zane whispered before he could stop himself.
Brann's eyes sharpened instantly. "What did you say?"
Zane coughed, pain ripping through his ribs. "Fever. Talking."
Brann didn't look convinced.
But he didn't press.
Not yet.
Instead, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a leather-wrapped bundle—small, heavy—and then stopped. His eyes narrowed, weighing Zane like a scale.
Trust decision.
Zane watched the bundle like it was water in a desert.
Brann didn't offer it.
Not yet.
He tucked it away again.
"You saved me," Brann said. "So I'll pay the first part of that debt."
He leaned closer, eyes hard.
"You don't go back to that ridge," he said. "Not today. They saw two of us. They'll bring more."
Zane's mind raced. The ridge was his only prepared ground. His water. His warning net.
But Brann wasn't guessing.
He was stating.
Zane swallowed. "Then where?"
Brann's gaze flicked northeast.
"There's a break in the stone. When can stay till our wounds pass," he said. "High ground. Roots thick enough to hide more than a body. If you know what you're lookin' at."
Zane's hands tightened around the wedge.
He forced himself upright, wobbling.
"Lead," he rasped.
Brann watched him stand—watched the way Zane kept his ribs bound, the way he favored the thigh, the way he still treated the wedge and dagger like tools, not trophies.
Surprise flickered again across Brann's face.
Then something deeper, buried under iron.
"Fine," Brann said. "But if you fall, I'm not carryin' you."
Zane managed a weak, humorless huff.
"Fair."
They moved.
Slowly. Quietly.
Two wounded men in a forest that hunted anything that bled.
And behind them, somewhere in the trees, a goblin horn sounded—not frantic, not panicked—
An update.
A new plan.
Zane didn't look back.
Because now he knew something the world didn't want him to know.
Fate could be interrupted.
And if he could keep Brann Ironvein alive—
Then this time, the story didn't have to end the way it was written.