The towering wooden gate of Marsh Town loomed before them, reinforced with thick iron bands and flanked by high wooden walls sharpened at the tips. The settlement looked impenetrable, its defenses built to withstand both monsters and desperate travelers alike.
Two heavily armed guards stood at the entrance, clad in mismatched armor—a mix of chainmail, leather, and salvaged metal plates—giving them a rough, mercenary-like appearance. Their spears were crossed in front of the gate, barring entry.
The taller of the two, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward. His voice was gruff and bored. "Where are you coming from?"
Khaltar, still exhausted from the journey, let out a deep sigh. "The Grey Mountains."
The second guard, shorter and stockier, narrowed his eyes. "You're lying. Nobody comes from the mountains."
"We just did," Yaraq said dryly, gesturing behind him. "Unless you think we climbed out of the ground like swamp goblins."
The taller guard grunted, uninterested in their sarcasm. "Fine. That'll be 100 Dun per head."
Everyone stiffened. "A hundred Dun?!" Nadra exclaimed. "Each?"
"You deaf, girl?" the stocky guard sneered. "You want in, you pay. Otherwise, turn around and crawl back to wherever you came from."
Hadeefa stepped forward, trying to appeal to reason. "We don't have that kind of money, but we have meats and hides—good trade. Fresh from the Grey Mountains."
The taller guard shook his head. "We don't take meats or hides."
"Why the hell not?" Khaltar demanded. "You live in a swamp! When's the last time you had fresh mountain goat?"
"Orders." The stocky guard tapped the hilt of his sword. "Dun only."
Arianne sighed, rubbing her temples. "Let me guess, you don't actually care about the payment, do you? You just want a bribe."
The taller guard chuckled but said nothing.
"Look," Khaltar said, forcing patience into his voice, "We've traveled for weeks—crossed mountains, wastelands, and nearly drowned in the damn marshes. All we need is to pass through. Let us in, and you'll get a share of whatever we earn inside."
The stocky guard spat onto the dirt. "Not our problem."
Khaltar clenched his fists. He looked up at the massive wooden gate, its sheer size making any thought of forcing their way inside impossible. The walls stretched in both directions, reinforced with thick logs and sharpened stakes. There were no weaknesses, no gaps to exploit.
Yaraq crossed his arms. "So what, you expect us to just sit outside the gate until we rot?"
The taller guard smirked. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Soraya glared. "Wouldn't be the first time a guard got his throat cut either."
The stocky guard smirked at Soraya's threat, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt. "Big words, girl," he sneered. Then he tilted his head upward, eyes glinting with amusement. "But before you get any ideas, maybe take a good look up."
Everyone instinctively followed his gaze—and there, perched atop the watchtowers, were half a dozen bowmen, their longbows already drawn, arrows locked and aimed directly at them.
The weight of silence crushed the air. Even Nadra, who had been brimming with defiance moments ago, swallowed hard.
The taller guard chuckled. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
Soraya's hand twitched near her blade, but Khaltar shot her a warning look. This wasn't a fight they could win. Not here.
A moment passed before Gorim finally spoke. His voice was calm, but firm. "You said the price is 100 Dun per head, aye?"
The stocky guard nodded. "That's right."
Gorim scratched his beard. "Then tell me this—are there any dwarves in Marsh Town?"
The two guards exchanged glances.
"What's it to you?" the taller one asked.
Gorim smirked. "Because if there's one thing in this world that never changes, it's that all dwarves are cousins. Let me in, and I'll find a kinsman willing to cover the Dun for us."
The guards stared at him, weighing his words. Finally, the stocky one shrugged. "Yeah, there's dwarves inside," he admitted. "Few of 'em work the forges. But the rule's the same—pay first, get in second."
Gorim chuckled, shaking his head. "Figures. Human cities always did love their damned tolls."
Khaltar stepped forward, desperation thick in his voice. "Please, listen to me. We need to find the blacksmith of Marsh Town. Someone who knows how to work Red Steel."
The guards exchanged a glance, unimpressed. The taller one scoffed. "And why should we care?"
Khaltar clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay calm. "Because we found Red Steel already—blades, arrows, but they're too small. We need something bigger. A weapon that can kill the Elder Dragon."
The stocky guard raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "Elder Dragon? Pfft. You mean the same beast that torched these lands? You're telling me you lot—a bunch of filthy, coinless travelers—plan to slay the thing?"
A few nearby guards laughed, shaking their heads. Soraya's grip tightened on her pack. "We're not asking for charity. We'll trade for passage. Meats. Hides. Weapons. Whatever you need."
The stocky guard spat on the ground. "Unless you're hiding a bag full of Dun in that pack of yours, you've got nothing worth our time."
Nadra stepped forward, her eyes blazing. "We have pelts. Good ones—snow leopards, cave wolves. The best furs you'll find this side of the Grey Mountains!"
The tall guard shrugged. "Marsh Town isn't short on pelts."
"What about food?" Soraya added quickly. "Dried meats, cave goat jerky—enough to last weeks."
The stocky guard sighed, looking bored. "You see any starving men around here?"
Khaltar felt his patience cracking. "We're not asking for much. Just let one of us in. Let us find a dwarf willing to pay our toll."
The guard grinned. "And if no one's willing? Then we let your friend walk back out and watch you rot here?"
Yaraq scowled. "You can't just turn us away."
The guard leaned forward, his smirk widening. "I can. And I am."
A long silence stretched between them. Their supplies meant nothing to these men. The guards had all the food, furs, and weapons they needed. Only Dun mattered.
Gorim exhaled through his nose. "Typical."
As their argument escalated, voices rising in frustration, the sharp clack-clack of horseshoes—and a lighter, uneven trot—echoed from behind the guards.
The stocky guard glanced back, his rigid stance relaxing. "Ah, Master Borgrim!" he greeted, standing a little straighter. The other guards followed suit, dipping their heads in respect.
Riding a sturdy, shaggy-coated donkey was a dwarf dressed in a thick leather apron, soot-stained gloves tucked into his belt. His beard, though shorter than most dwarves, was braided with metal rings—each one glinting faintly in the dull morning light. Borgrim Blackmane, one of Marsh Town's finest smiths.
Borgrim gave the guards a brief nod, then swung a leg over and dismounted with a grunt. "What's all the ruckus here?" he asked, dusting off his trousers.
Before the guards could answer, Borgrim's gaze froze—his sharp grey eyes widening. For a moment, he just stared. Then, in a stunned whisper, he said, "Uncle…?"
Gorim's brow furrowed. "What—?"
Borgrim strode forward, his voice growing louder with certainty. "Uncle Gorim?"
Gorim blinked in disbelief. "By the forges… Do I know you, lad?"
Borgrim's face broke into a wide grin. "You should! My mother, Ragnhild—your sister's eighth born! I am Borgrim Blackmane!"
Before Gorim could react, Borgrim closed the distance, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him into a crushing embrace. The guards and travelers watched in stunned silence as the two dwarves clapped each other's backs.
"By the stones, lad!" Gorim finally exclaimed, stepping back, eyes scanning Borgrim in awe. "I thought my kin were long gone from these lands!"
Borgrim laughed, his voice rich with warmth. "And I thought you were dead! You disappeared decades ago—no one ever knew what happened to you!"
Gorim let out a gruff chuckle. "Hah! Trapped underground with nothing but ghouls for company! Would've stayed that way if not for these fine folk." He gestured toward Khaltar and the others.
Borgrim turned his attention to the group, his sharp gaze assessing them. "You're traveling with humans now, Uncle?"
Gorim smirked. "Aye. And they're the reason I'm standing here."
Borgrim's grin softened. "Then you have my thanks, travelers. Any kin of my uncle is welcome in Marsh Town."
He turned to the guards, crossing his arms. "Let them in."
The stocky guard grimaced. "Master Borgrim, they haven't paid the—"
Borgrim raised an eyebrow. "You really think I'd let my own blood stand outside like a beggar?"
The guards hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. Borgrim huffed. "I'll pay their damned toll."
The stocky guard sighed, stepping aside. "As you say, Master Borgrim."
Borgrim grinned. "Good." He turned back to Gorim. "Come, Uncle. You've a lifetime of tales to tell, and I've a mug of strongest ale waiting for you."
As they stepped through the creaking wooden gates of Marsh Town, Gorim threw his head back and let out a booming laugh.
"Hah! What did I tell you, lads? All dwarves are cousins!" he bellowed, glancing smugly at the guards. "You should've just let us in from the start instead of acting like gate-keeping trolls!"
The guards gritted their teeth, clearly irritated but unwilling to argue now that Borgrim had vouched for them. The stocky guard muttered under his breath, "Lucky bastard..."
Nadra, however, wasn't laughing. She crossed her arms and shot an unimpressed glare at Gorim.
"This isn't funny, old man. We had to offer everything we had just to be sneered at like beggars." She turned to Borgrim, her brows furrowed. "You should've seen how they treated us before you showed up. They didn't even care we had food, hides, or weapons to trade! All they wanted was Dun. What kind of town ignores survival goods?"
Borgrim sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I won't defend their greed, lass. But Marsh Town's not what it used to be. Dun runs everything now."
"That's a damn shame," Khaltar muttered, adjusting the heavy pack on his shoulders. "A town that turns away travelers with full supplies in a land this harsh is asking for its own downfall."
Gorim chuckled, slapping Khaltar on the back. "Spoken like a true wanderer! But don't worry—now that we're in, we'll get what we came for." He turned to Borgrim. "Speaking of which, lad—where's the blacksmith who knows how to work Red Steel?"
Borgrim's grin faded slightly, his expression turning serious. "You won't like the answer, Uncle."
The group exchanged uneasy glances.
"Why? What's the problem?" Soraya asked.
Borgrim exhaled deeply, his gaze shifting toward the town's inner streets. "Because the only man who knows how to forge Red Steel... hasn't touched a hammer in years."