With an Adventurer's Guild medal ID labeled "C-113(P)" in my pocket, I insisted the party go back to make sure nobody had tampered with Reka's trunk (and died).

  Thankfully not!

  The others in my party had ID numbers from C-112 to C-115. They're easy enough to understand. "C" is our rank, and the number is sequential, with a "P" in parentheses for "provisional". Hmm, does that mean there are only a little over one hundred C-rank adventurers total? That seems so small for the size of this world.

  "The lady from the guild didn't exactly explain the ranks," I say to no one in particular. This "Baron" and his tower house are a bit of a walk away, and the streets are hardly worthy of the name, muddy pits! I'm sinking! If Reka couldn't clean my boots with magic, I'd be really mad right now.

  "Adventurers among the Dwarves aren't rare," Semuel says, his short legs struggling to keep up with the rest of us. "It goes from 'A' to 'E'. E-ranks are arrow fodder, as you can imagine. When parents can't afford to feed all their children, the surplus are left with the guild, or so it is with men. We Dwarves are more civilized and don't breed children we can't take care of." He shakes his head in disgust.

  Dew beads from his beard. What a miserable, humid swamp this place is! Malmark's deserts are so much nicer, especially with my wife's air conditioning spell.

  "And then what?" I ask.

  "They die," Semuel says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Adventurers are those the world has no use for. Throw them at troublesome foes, the great and good may do, but none mourn them."

  "Kind of a shitty life," I say.

  "Proper knights serve proper lords," Alice interjects, looking at Reka. Semuel notices but says nothing. He promised not to tell anyone she can do magic, or that she's the real boss here. I guess time will tell if that weird green oath he took means anything.

  "That's so." Reka puts her arm around me. "I do not throw away the lives of my people recklessly. Equipment, training, and maintainence are costly, you know. But my love wants 'lore,' I can tell. He is from far away and wishes to learn more about these lands"

  "D is for 'Death,' or so the tales say," Semuel continues. "An adventurer who doesn't die in their first few jobs and learns the right way to hold a spear will make D-rank. Just about everyone we saw in the guildhall was a D, I'd wager. They may live, for a few years, anyway, and earn enough bread to fill their bellies, but no more. It's a terminal rank, in more ways than one."

  "So gloomy," I say. As if to match my words, my boot sinks so deep that I have to wrench it out of the ground with effort, the momentum almost causing me to topple over. Reka and Alice react quick as lightning, each grabbing me with a steadying hand.

  "Tis a gloomy world, my love, and a poor one," Reka says, not unkindly.

  "Aye, Malmark's folk live better than most," Alice agrees.

  So, merely "not starving" is considered a good life here? Man, the reality of a fantasy world is depressing, not like a story at all!

  Semuel runs his meaty Dwarf fingers through his beard in thought. "As I said, most D-ranks die there. Sooner or later, they meet their match. C-ranks are real proven fighters, and the equal of true knights, or at least men-at-arms. B-ranks are peerless heroes who serve kings and queens."

  "And A-ranks?" I press.

  "The stuff of legend," Semuel grunts. "Their like has not been seen in the world since the Great Demon War."

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  Reka is pressed up against my side, and I feel her flinch at the mention of the war. Something must've happened to her, something bad. Maybe some demon spell banished her to Earth, and that's how we met. I won't dig too deep, I decide. She's happy now, and I don't want to make her relive her trauma.

  A tower house kind of looks like they started building a castle and just stopped. Reka and I live in a tower, but it's just one of many in Malmark Castle. Our Baron, our new boss, lives in a round squat structure of weathered granite, covered in moss. One man-at-arms guards the entrance, but he doesn't look like he's paying particular attention to his surroundings. When we four adventurers show up, decked out for battle, he almost pisses himself.

  "State your business!" he orders, but his voice squeaks. The poor bastard isn't even wearing real armor. Clad in a greasy leather jerkin and clutching a spear in unsteady hands, he would be no more an obstacle to us than the rotten door beside him.

  "A party of C-rank adventurers," Reka states officiously. "We seek the Baron. There is an Orc problem, no?"

  "I...I...yes! Right this way." The guard stands aside, and we walk right in.

  "Baron" in my mind conjures images of Baron Harkonnen, a big fat evil bastard, stuffing his face while his people starve. From the conditions of this village, I wonder if that's not close to the mark.

  "Damnit!" a shrill voice, a boy's voice, echoes across the ground floor's single room.

  A crowd of people, looking a little cleaner and healthier than those outside, crowd around a writing desk where a finely-dressed young man with curly brown hair and freckles stares at a puddle of spilled ink, flowing over a roll of parchment. They look on worriedly.

  Our young man, a boy, really, is the very picture of frustration. An arrogant young master, perhaps? He certainly seems to be in the midst of a tantrum.

  "My soldiers are all cowards!" he complains loudly, making the people flinch back. "They aren't worth the coin I pay them, and that's the truth! Being called on to fix my father's mess is mortifying! How am I supposed to write a letter begging the queen for assistance if you keep spilling my ink, Lambert!"

  Lambert, likely an old retainer, holds his head in shame. "Apologies, my Baron. I know how humiliating it is to tell the queen you can't defend your own land."

  So he's the Baron! What a skinny thing the lad is. At least he's not eating up the people's food.

  "And who the devil are you?" he demands when he notices us. No fear. That's good. Even though we're dressed for war, he doesn't cower. I like him already.

  "My lord," Reka bows, and the rest of us follow. She's been trying to teach me courtly manners, but in situations like this, it's better to just follow her lead. "We are a party of C-rank adventurers, and ready to serve you in the matter that vexes you so."

  "Hah! You hear that? At least somebody wants to fight!"

  There is a single hearth in this room, and everyone stands around it awkwardly, trying to get as far away as possible from the young lord's anger. The Baron pulls his cape around himself as if to ward off all the eyes on him. Not used to the job? He straightens up and looks Reka right in the eye.

  "I am Baron Taras Tar Guldrim, and the land hereabouts belongs to my family of old. Savage Orc tribes in the eastern forest harry us, and they are massing for a large attack once the harvest is brought in. No soldier I command can face them. You think you can do better?"

  "I know so, my lord," Reka says confidently. She holds up her bow, and, taking the hint, Alice holds up her sword, Semuel his hammer, and I my own weapon.

  And my axe! I think, smiling at the secret joke only Reka and I would get.

  There's a skeptical look on Baron Taras' face, but also calculation. "You seem like you can handle yourself in a fight, I'll grant, but the Orcs are many. I can't spare much coin either. Likely, I'm sending you to your deaths."

  "Such is the lot of an adventurer, my lord," Reka says diplomatically. They look at one another for a long while, then Taras nods in acceptance.

  "So be it! I'll draw up a C-rank contract presently." He looks over his shoulder. "If you succeed, you can have this month's payroll for my COWARD GUARDS!"

  Little man, big voice.

  The formalities don't take long. Baron Taras scratches out the terms on a strip of parchment and has Lambert, his steward, run it down to the Adventurer's Guild. With no further business, we take our leave.

  We have no compass, but Reka knows which way is east. Those Orcs have no idea what they're in for. Down the hill and into the woods beyond, we march. Alone again, just the four of us.

  "I want that one," Alice blurts out suddenly.

  "Whatever do you mean, dear?" Reka asks.

  "That one, Baron Taras. He's spirited withal, but skinny and cute. My lady is wise, but your man is too brawny for my tastes."

  My wife sighs. "I'll see if I can't obtain him for you once our business is concluded, but no promises!"

  Baron Taras Tar Guldrim