This story is a continuation of The Legend of the Dreamstalker.

The journey to Nabar delighted Stalker. She traveled through a world filled with colors, smells, and sounds she never thought possible. Birdsong reminded her of the whistles and pipes the tribal shamans played on ritual days. The clop of horses’ hooves became the heartbeat of each day, adding rhythm to the bird calls.

Stalker kept mostly to herself, having tasted the bitterness of false friendship in the pits. Gladiators didn’t make friends; they made temporary alliances that served a specific purpose. And she had no intention of using the people she traveled with. She would see what Nabar offered.

Many of Master Sim’s caravan guards kept to themselves. With one exception. Thorim Deepbreaker.

She’d never met such a curious dwarf before. Then again, she hadn’t met many dwarves. Those held in the arena kept to themselves. One morning, she woke up hearing prayers much too close to her pallet. Then, her greataxe shifted. Without thinking, her hand shot out, grabbing a thick wrist. She recognized the pattern of the leather bracer beneath her fingers.

“Mine!” she roared, waking the nearest sleeping guards and attracting the attention of the posted sentries.

“I… I…” the Dwarf stammered.

“You dare to steal from me?” Anger clouded Stalker’s thoughts until she realized she was no longer in her cell in the Bajevo arena. She lapsed into a string of curses in Goliath. Most aimed at herself.

When she finally calmed herself (Master Sim had come over to calm the commotion), she let Thorim explain himself.

“I… I’m a cleric of the forge, ya see,” he stammered. “I… I can bless a weapon once a day. And, well, since you cut through them bandits like butter, I thought I’d bless ya with a bit of help. I’m sorry. I probably should’a asked first.”

Stalker stared down at him, angry at herself for her outburst, embarrassed that she lost control, yet grateful for his [attention].

“I accept your apology,” she grunted, heading toward the fire. He didn’t know she heard him sneak over to her pallet after that to bless her weapon. Every morning, she said a prayer of thanks to Kavaki for the generosity of this cheerful dwarf.

As the caravan lumbered along with its covered cargo, bandits saw opportunities. Little did they know that the four-oxen teams weren’t hauling the gold, silver, and gems they envisioned. Rather, the beasts pulled simple stone blocks. Barely a day went by that the slow pace didn’t draw the interest of opportunists.

“Must be you,” said Master Sim to Stalker after the fourth attack in six days. “Either your reputation has preceded you, my friend, or the bandits hereabouts think having a Goliath as a guard means we have something worth guarding.”

“I doubt my reputation is known this far from Bajevo,” Stalker replied. “At least, I hope not,” she finished, half to herself.

Despite her reserved nature, the rest of the guards invited her to join them in celebration after each battle. The more she talked with them, the more she enjoyed the camaraderie of the evening camp chatter. Her admiration for the young healer grew after one nasty battle when she lost her footing, lurching forward. The bandit got a lucky blow, leaving a bone-deep gash across her arm, shoulder, and chest. Thorim laid his hands on her as she impacted the ground.

Warmth and light spread through the wound, stopping the warm flow of blood. The sensation might have given her pause had the blow not enraged her past the point of reason. With her energy restored, Stalker leaped to her feet, swinging at the bandit running up behind Thorim.

That night, she pulled her bone pipe from her pack and played a dirge for the guard who hadn’t been as lucky as her. Losing herself in the mood and music, she continued with a tune of gratitude to Kavaki for their success in battle. She included a special coda for Thorim because she knew that had it not been for Thorim’s quick action, she might have lost some use of that arm. She’s seen that happen in the arena.

Thorim took to calling her ‘Beanstalk’ as she stood half again his height. Stalker called him ‘Runt’ in return as he was so much shorter than she. As the caravan lumbered closer to Nabar, Stalker and Thorim became an almost inseparable pair.

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