Chapter 1: The Halfling

The great wooden doors of the tavern slammed back against the grimy walls with a resounding crunch and a menacing silhouette paused in the entrance.

The Wild Wolf Tavern crouched between the smoky furnaces of the Black Wolf Hammersmiths and the renovated ruins of the Merchants' Guild. Visited regularly by the city's outlandish, independent adventurer population, it had recently been overwhelmed by a steady stream of freeblades, mercenaries and treasure hunters. Ever since the fall of Krudenwald, a place that had served as home to many footloose, young rogues as well as dwarf Trollslayers and the occasional Questing Knight, Middenheim had become the prime settlement for explorers and enterprise. Rumour had already spread of the infestation beneath the city, and many were eager to travel deep into the heart of the Ulricsberg in search of lost treasure and glory.

The Wild Wolf was a base, a control centre for mercenary companies in Middenheim. From here bands of vengeful warriors launched raids on the ruins of their former city, clashing in Krudenwald with its vile inheritors. Its reputation was fast growing for the best place in the city to recruit bodyguards, caravan escorts, bounty hunters, soldiers for hire and even assassins. Overflowing with gold-hungry mercenaries, even the grim, rough bouncers were ex-sellswords: the remnants of the landlord's old mercenary company. Regular troops generally avoided the Wild Wolf – this was where men fought for money, not some fool's perceptions of honour or personal power. Here men valued cold steel and the glint of gold over such things as the favour of the gods.

The walls of the Wild Wolf were worn and stained by years of ale. The paint had long since peeled off and hadn't been replaced; leaving a cold, stone look that suited the sellswords who cared nothing for décor. A roaring fireplace dominated the common room, and two spectacular, crossed swords were fixed above the mantelpiece, each one's hilt finely engraved with running wolves.

The tall man entered, his iron-shod boots causing the wooden floorboards beneath his tread to groan, as if tortured by the knight's presence. The cold light glinted on pointed canines. It glittered from golden eyes set in a handsome but rugged face framed by a shaggy, auburn mane. He was clad in frost-dusted plate armour that seemed perhaps a little big for him. He also wore a wolf-skin cloak that covered his massive shoulders, giving him the appearance of some gigantic snow creature.

Aethur silenced the surrounding drinkers with his mysterious stare and lupine aura, before his predatory gaze settled upon his prey. It was not unlike a hungry wolf considering its next meal. The barman, a large man with a full beard and a wolf claw tattoo over his left eye nervously hailed the templar as he closed on his chosen target.

'Aethur! How goes the…'

'Fine,' Aethur snapped, without taking his eyes off the halfling, who sat a small table by the fire. Partially frozen in stunned silence, the diminutive man set down the tankard that had been raised half way to his mouth. Aethur grabbed his shoulder roughly, hoisting him out of his chair and lifting him up to eye level. The halfling smothered a shocked cry of dismay, bravely meeting the templar eye-to-eye. Aethur examined his quarry, the way a dragon might analyse a particularly choice morsel before devouring it.

'So,' he growled, 'you're the one called Lightfoot?'

'Uh, yes, Folco. Folco Lightfoot…' The halfling gulped.

'You were meant to meet me under the statue.'

'Well, I, er,' Folco stammered. 'I got distracted.'

'Obviously,' Aethur sneered, looking disdainfully at the tankard below. He returned his gaze to the halfling, setting him back down none-too-gently. A woodsman and a ranger, Folco was garbed in green and brown, a hooded cloak falling over his back and clasped with a shiny brooch. Numerous pouches and other equipment adorned a cross-belt he wore across his chest, some of which, Aethur noted with suspicion, looked like they had nothing to do with hunting. As the sounds of banter began to re-emerge into the atmosphere, Aethur took a seat opposite Folco and slitted his eyes.

'What is a halfling doing in Middenheim, anyway?'

'I left Schnappleburg,' Folco began, hoping to become something more than little needed baggage.

'What-burg?'

'Schnappleburg, my home village. It lies in the Borderlands…'

'Just…get on with it.'

'Uh, well, Schnappleburg is an ill-defended, old-fashioned village. It's a collection of buildings inhabited by a number of peasants and their elders. The days are tense: there's not much to do, and every hour is strained, as if waiting for the next greenskin raid. That's what brought me here.' Aethur's ears seemed to prick up at the mention of greenskins. Seeing the sudden interest, Folco continued. 'Uh yes, Orcs, and Goblins. For many years, the town has relied on "hired thugs" for protection, but recently, the elders paid a bunch of heavily armed soldiers to defend our homes. A hard-bitten, mercenary company of horsemen and infantry, going by the name of the "Grudgebringers," and led by a ruffian named Bernhardt. They defeated the greenskins with almost no losses, they did. I was there. But enough of them, they got tired of Schnappleburg after only two weeks, and moved on. I remember Bernhardt grumbling something about peasants and ale money. Obviously not the heroic sort, I figured. Now it's garrisoned by a proper fighting force – the "Schnappleburg Militia," or so I am led to believe.'

'Hmmm…' Aethur grunted. 'Greenskins are supposed to be nearly as tough as the beastmen I've fought in the Drakwald. It is said that one orc is a match for several men. Or a dozen halflings,' he added. Folco's bright, inquisitive eyes looked up at the templar.

'So, when do we set off? Into the Ulricsberg?'

'We? Depends on whether or not I like you,' Aethur drawled, recalling Barathor saying something about Halflings being small, swift and unnoticeable. 'But I couldn't be bothered seeking out another halfling anyway.' He smiled, his fangs gleaming like icicles. The Wolf templar made a show of shaking the halfling's hand, nearly crushing it.

'Come, little man, there's a band of adventurers to round up. I'm sure…one such as yourself has an eye for "the heroic sort."'

'That I do,' Folco agreed as the duo made for the doors. 'It's in my blood.' He grinned impishly.

'Halfling blood,' Aethur snorted. 'Whatever.'