Chapter 1: Welcome to Mongrel

  He opened his eyes. He was on the ground. The last thing he remembered was making it out of the Holy Lands and descending into a valley thick with fog–fog so dense he struggled to see more than ten feet in front of him. He remembered the sounds of battle and the screams echoing around him as he slowly traveled through the mist. Eventually, night fell, and his already poor visibility became even worse.

  He found a nearby rock face to lay his sleeping roll against and drifted off. He remembered being woken by the sound of movement in the foliage around him; however, the night had only grown darker, and the fog obscured everything.

  He closed his eyes. If he couldn’t see them, he might as well eliminate the distraction of trying altogether and rely on his other senses. He listened closely as the footsteps crept nearer. How many were there? Two? Four? More?! The number of footsteps seemed to multiply as his would-be attackers inched closer. The scent of stale blood filled his nostrils just as he sensed the first attacker lunge.

  He dodged out of the way–only to be tackled from behind by another. He shoved the creature off as though it were a child. Given the thinness of what had tackled him, he could only assume he had encountered the rumored Fogmen: Hive savages who had abandoned their Hives, choosing a life of barbarism in the Foglands, preying upon and sacrificing foolish travelers to their Fog Princes.

  He barely had a chance to stand before another grabbed him. Then a third. Then a fourth. Soon, he was being beaten by a dozen different Fogmen.

  And that was all he remembered.

  He sat up slowly, rubbing the knot on the back of his head. He hadn't been eaten, nor was he bound to a pole, so something must have happened while he was out.

  Looking around, he realized he was in the center of a town. Even stranger, he could actually see the buildings around him. Had he been carried out of the Foglands?

  Glancing down, he noticed he had been stripped of all his belongings, save for his cloth pants and a rusty iron stick. The Fogmen…or courtesy of my “saviors”? he wondered. Checking his bag, he found his Cats were still there.

  “Well, they didn’t rob me,” he mumbled to himself, “so I guess that answers that question.”

  He stood just as a dark-skinned woman with deep red hair walked toward him.

  “Excuse me, Scorchlander,” he said, holding out a hand to halt her. “I apologize for da intrusion, but where am I? Da last thing I remember, I was traveling through da Foglands when I was attacked und captured by da Fogmen. Now I wake up here, stripped of all my belongings, ja.”

  Frelka spoke with a lilting cadence, his vowels rounded and softened, while certain consonants seemed to roll or almost sing, giving his words a gentle, melodic quality. A trait that always seemed to at least garner a reaction from those he just met; however, not even his accent shook her from her perpetual daze.

  The Scorchlander looked at him…or at least, in his direction. As Frelka studied her, he noticed a lack of light in her glazed gaze, as though all drive or hope had been drained from them. After a moment, she spoke.

  “The name’s Shryke,” she said, her tone as flat as her affect. “And if the last thing you remember is being captured by Fogmen, then I’d say you better thank whatever god you worship that you’re still alive. You know what they do to their prisoners, don’t you?” She paused, shaking her head. “Never mind. If you don’t, you will soon. We hear the screams of their captives every night when the Fog Princes come for their sacrifices. Why they don’t kill their victims before eating them is beyond me. Maybe it tastes better that way. Regardless, you’ve been spared a terrible fate. But I’m afraid that’s where your luck runs out, traveler. You’re in Mongrel now–a solitary island in this sea of fog and death. You can’t leave. No one can. Not unless you want to die, that is.”

  The despair in her voice was matched only by the emptiness in her eyes.

  Frelka felt a twinge of pity for the poor girl. No one should have to live like this. Kenshi was a hard enough moon as it was without this added trouble.

  He put on his biggest smile and flexed his large muscles. “Frelka is never trapped, ja! I got here, und I will get out. Nothing will stop me!”

  Frelka had always said he was the reason they coined the phrase “larger than life.” Standing nearly eight feet tall, he towered over everyone he met. And his height wasn’t his only impressive feature. He had trained with his father every day for as long as he could remember, and his physique was proof of it. His biceps were the size of most people’s heads, his broad chest sculpted from years of discipline. Golden-blond hair framed his clean-shaven, almost angelic face, while piercing blue eyes completed the image of a warrior.

  Whether it was the presence of hope in a place where such a thing was devoid, or his sheer presence, Frelka wasn’t sure, but he saw a flicker of something deep in Shryke’s eyes.

  Warily, she said, “What makes you so sure you’ll get out when so many have failed, huh? What makes you think you’re any better than everyone else that came before you? Hells, the only reason you’re even here now is because you got lucky, and some kind soul rescued you.”

  Frelka felt the accusation stab through him like an arrow. She wasn’t exactly wrong.

  Despite his impressive physique, Frelka had only just begun his adventurer’s journey a week ago. He had made it through the Holy Lands largely unscathed, though that was only because he was human…and male. Had either of those things been different, he might not have made it to the Foglands at all.

  Still, his father had been a successful adventurer, and his father’s father before him. His lineage stretched back through generations of men who had taken up the mantle, proving themselves in the world, helping those along the way, and doing what they could to make the world a better place.

  He wouldn’t be the first to fail. If he was stuck in Mongrel, then that simply meant this was where his story was meant to begin.

  Placing a hand on his hip, he reached out and patted Shryke on the shoulder. “You fret too much about things that don’t matter, ja. These Fogmen are thin twigs to snap beneath Frelka’s boots. If they get in my way, I crush them.”

  “You really mean that, don’t you?” Regardless of whatever had inspired the initial spark of hope in her, his confidence seemed to have pushed that spark to a smolder. Slowly, Shryke allowed herself a tentative smile. “Then,” she continued, her hand unconsciously reaching for the rusting glaive on her back, “if you’re so sure, allow me to join you. If you can get us out of this hell, I’ll stay by your side.”

  Frelka smiled and nodded. The more, the merrier. Adventurers didn’t prove themselves alone. Having her by his side would not only help her, but also allow him to help even more people.

  “Well, now that that’s settled, let’s go to da gates, ja.”

  Shryke’s face, just beginning to remember the warmth of hope, visibly sank again. “Why are we going to the gates?” she asked, her voice thick with concern.

  Frelka maintained his confident fa?ade. “Because while we may not be strong enough to take on a full group of Fogmen just yet, we can build up our skills if we stick to da outskirts of da skirmishes with da guards at da gate.

  “Eventually, we’ll be able to venture out und tackle smaller groups on our own. It won’t be an easy process, but nothing worth doing ever is, ja.

  “Come, we’ve spoken long enough–I’m itching to pay these Fogmen back, ja!”

  With this, he strode past her, leaving her no choice but to follow.

  Frelka looked around the town as they walked past numerous dilapidated buildings. Perhaps it was due to Mongrel’s isolation, but he was impressed by what he saw.

  They passed a bakery, a weaponsmith, an armorsmith, a mechanics shop specializing in prosthetics, three bars, a police station, and a faction HQ for a local guild. He also noticed several vacant homes listed for sale.

  Homes weren’t exactly cheap, but in the long run, buying one would be more cost-effective than paying the fifty Cats per person to rent a bedroll at the bar each night. Plus, owning a place meant they wouldn’t have to carry all their possessions everywhere. They could start stockpiling supplies, setting aside items they didn’t need to haul around every day. And with their own space, they’d be able to buy research books and begin learning how to make weapons and armor. Or, if he was so inclined, learn how to bake, cook, and create various liquors. Because of all the places this town did have, he couldn’t help but notice there was no Frelka’s Tavern. Even if there were three bars, every town needed a Frelka’s Tavern!

  They reached the east gate, one of two into the city, just as a group of Fogmen were running toward them, yelling.

  The city guards wasted no time rushing out to engage them, their protective armor and shining weapons sparking a bit of uncharacteristic envy in Frelka as he looked down at his rusting iron stick.

  He shoved his thoughts aside and charged in. He and Shryke quickly found a lone Fogman and engaged him. It was armed very similarly to Frelka, though naked, with a rusty iron stick as a weapon. But Frelka’s muscles weren’t just for show, and the twig-like form of the Hive Fogman didn’t stand a chance against his might. He swung, aiming to crush the Fogman in one blow–only for it to dart aside at the last second.

  Faster than he looks.

  The Fogman smirked, but before it could counter, Shryke’s glaive struck from behind. Had her weapon been of better quality, the creature would have been cleaved in two. As it was, her glaive was in little better condition than his iron stick, and what should have been a slash served more as a bash. Still, Frelka saw the twinge of pain in the creature’s eyes as it winced at the blow, whirling on the small Scorchlander. Seeing his opening, Frelka lunged, tackling the creature from behind and began bludgeoning its head with his stick. Eventually, the Fogman stopped fighting, but before Frelka could rise, he felt the sting of another iron club against his back.

  Scrawny though they were, he realized the Hive had surprising strength in their insectoid form. He felt the crunch of a rib as a second blow landed. Seeing Frelka’s work on their kin, a small group had detached from the main fight to confront him. He looked around. Through the haze of pain, he saw Shryke struggling as well, quickly becoming overwhelmed by their attackers. With a growl, he dashed to her, scooping her up in one arm and retreating to the safety of the guards’ defenses.

  Inside the gate, he set her down, quickly bandaging her wounds. She’d still be able to fight, but it wouldn’t be pleasant. He wrapped his own chest next, binding his cracked rib as tightly as possible.

  Satisfied that Shryke was safe, he turned back toward the battlefield–only to find the fight was already over, the guards casually strolling back toward the gate, leaving a score of Fogmen corpses in their wake.

  “Damn,” Frelka muttered under his breath. “Well, waste not, want not.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He walked back out onto the battlefield, grabbing the iron sticks from each of the corpses. They served no good to sell as a weapon, but he could likely still sell them for scrap metal at least.

  He continued his looting and made his way back to Shryke, who had found her footing again and was looking toward Frelka, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

  “What did I tell you?” she asked. “We’re stuck here. We wouldn’t have even made it out of the gate if the guards hadn’t been there.” She shook her head. “And I would’ve been captured if you hadn’t rescued me.”

  “Don’t lose hope, ja,” Frelka said, flashing his infectious smile at her, the thrill of battle still surging through his veins. “That vas just our first battle–there vill be more to come. Come now, da day is still young, ja!”

  The rest of their day followed the same pattern. They waited outside the gate for another raid, fought alongside the guards, got beaten to near unconsciousness, recovered, and looted the battlefield for anything they could sell.

  By the time the moons rose, both Frelka and Shryke were bloodied and exhausted.

  “Come, let’s see how much we can get for these at da weapon shop before it closes, ja?” Frelka said, hobbling back into town.

  ~~

  As they sat in one of the bars, counting their Cats, Frelka frowned. He knew the looted weapons wouldn’t fetch much, but they had barely made enough to cover food and lodging for the night. At this rate, they’d never afford a house. He scowled at his weapon. Hells, he thought, we’ll never even be able to afford a decent set of armor or a good weapon.

  Despite wielding the iron stick all day, he still wasn’t used to it. He hated one-handed weapons. He preferred something massive–like a greatsword. Something he could swing in a wide arc, something that matched his size. As it was, the stick felt no better than his fists.

  He sighed, and Shryke gave him a knowing look. “I assume you’re starting to see why I told you leaving here was hopeless?”

  “We fought all day und barely made enough for a single day,” he admitted, too tired for his usual bravado. “Training und getting stronger is great, but if von of us gets injured and can’t fight, how are we supposed to eat?”

  “Well,” she said, “that’s just because we got unlucky. If we can get a Fog Prince to join the attack, we could sell its head for six thousand Cats!”

  Frelka’s eyes widened. “Six thousand?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  His grin returned. “So much for ‘no hope,’ huh? Vasn’t it you who just said we had no options, und now you’re da von encouraging me? What’s gotten into you?”

  Shryke let out a small smile. “I just can’t stand to see such an ox of a man looking sad.” She shrugged. “Besides, I was just giving you information. I never said we were going to find one. Fog Princes rarely attack the gate. We’d probably have to lure one in. And that would require venturing into the fog, which, as I said before, would last all of about ten seconds before we were knocked out and eaten.”

  Frelka took a deep swig of his grog, slamming the tankard onto the table.

  He looked around the adobe building. The bar’s main area was cluttered with misaligned tables and stools, rugs scattered beneath them. A row of sitting pillows lined the front wall, where various patrons lounged, drinking and grumbling about the day.

  Stairs in the back led to the rooftop, where makeshift cloth tarp awnings covered the rented beds.

  To the right of the door, the bar itself stretched two-thirds of the room, the barkeep behind it tending to customers. Shelves behind him displayed food; meat wraps, rice bowls, dried meat, meat cubes, the entire menu sitting in plain sight. Large barrels housed grog, and guards stood in either corner, ensuring no one got too rowdy.

  He also noticed that the bar had a variety of patrons–Greenlanders like himself, Scorchlanders like Shryke, Hive, and Shek–all desperately drinking their worries away. Terrified of the fog that surrounded them. Hopeless for their lives to improve past what it currently was or in their ability to escape the surrounding fog. Their misery clung to the air like a wet cloth, suffocating. These people knew they were trapped. Worse yet, they had accepted it.

  Frelka was about to respond to Shryke when a Hive wandered toward their table.

  “Beep!”

  Frelka turned, raising a brow. He considered most Hivers to be twiggy, but if that truly were the case, this one was made of straw. He looked like he could barely stand on the thin sticks that the Hive called legs in the first place. But, Frelka could sense a burning determination in the solid, beady black eyes that stared at him.

  “Uh…hi, Beep,” Frelka said hesitantly.

  The Hiver’s face lit up in shock.

  “…How…how do you know my name?”

  “Well,” Frelka said, “you just said ‘beep’ for no reason, ja? So I thought maybe you vere introducing yourself.”

  Beep gasped, covering his mouth before saying in a slightly muffled voice, “…You must be some kind of genius then?”

  “Ja! Frelka is über smart!” Frelka proclaimed loudly, throwing out another flex of his biceps and pounding onto his chest proudly.

  In all honesty, it had just been a guess, but Frelka liked being called a genius...He liked this Beep.

  Beep’s look of astonishment solidified into one of seriousness. “Can I join you? I saw you and your companion fighting today. I want to become strong. I want to become a swordsman.”

  Shryke scoffed and muttered, “If you saw us fighting, then I don’t know why you want to join us.”

  Frelka ignored Shryke and looked Beep over again, skepticism creeping in. He’s barely standing upright. “You don’t look very strong, Beep.” He glanced at the Hiver’s waist and back. “You don’t even have a weapon! Do you have skills, perhaps?”

  “I have nothing,” Beep admitted, “Beep.” After a pause, he said, “Sorry, I beep when I’m nervous. That’s why I was exiled from the Hive.”

  “Just because you keep saying ‘beep’?” Frelka asked, stunned at the severity of the punishment.

  Beep cast his eyes downward, shoulders slumping. “I am defective. Not good for the Hive.” He took a deep breath and straightened, the fire returning to his gaze. “But Beep doesn’t give up! Beep is strong! Since I left the Hive, I can feel my mind changing. The way I think, the way I act. I feel…free, having thoughts I never had before. I want freedom, but everywhere I go, things try to kill or chase me. Beep is tired of running. It is time to stab the things that chase me!”

  Frelka was sold. He liked Beep even before his impassioned speech, but the Hiver’s passion burned brighter than a bonfire on a moonless night.

  “Well,” Frelka said, pulling a nearby stool toward the table, “V?lkommen to the team, Beep!”

  Beep grinned widely and quickly sat down. “Beep is glad you will give him a chance to show his worth,” he said. Then, leaning forward, he added, “I overheard you two talking about concerns for Cats. Beep may have an answer for that.”

  Shryke perked up. “Is that so? And what exactly do you suggest?”

  “Copper,” Beep replied matter-of-factly.

  “Copper?” Frelka echoed.

  Shryke scoffed. “Sure, yeah, copper. Why didn’t I think of that? Oh yeah, because it’s in the damned fog!” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you trying to pull, Beep? Trying to get us captured by the Fogmen? Are you one of them? Huh?” Her hand twitched toward her glaive.

  “Beep!” Beep chirped, raising both hands. “No! No! Beep is not one of them. If Beep was one of them, Beep would be out in the fog or dead at the gates! And Beep would be blue, not green! Beep promises! Beep!”

  Shryke still looked unconvinced, but Frelka held out his hand.

  “Come now, Shryke, where’s your sense of trust, ja? I say ve hear Beep out. He’s right, he’s not blue. Besides, I don’t haff any other ideas, und based on our conversation before this, neither do you. So what harm is there in listening, ja?” He turned to Beep. “Go ahead.”

  Beep’s eyes never left the threat of Shryke’s glaive, but he cautiously continued. “As you may or may not know, there are iron nodes fairly close to the city gates. Iron is cheap and readily available–hence why you barely made enough for dried meat and grog with the entirety of your day’s spoils. But copper sells at a premium out here, and Beep just so happens to know of one that is close by–secret and secluded. We could mine it, haul it back, and make a small fortune.”

  Frelka grinned. A plan was forming. If they could mine enough copper, they could buy better weapons. Better armor. A house. “I like your courage, Beep! If you think you can get us there undetected, then I say let’s go for it!”

  He looked to Shryke, who rolled her eyes before taking a long swig of her grog.

  Good enough.

  Frelka turned back to Beep, who nodded eagerly. “Beep does believe he can get the two of you and himself there undetected. We will have to acquire packs for hauling the copper, and we will have to stay quiet so as not to draw the attention of the horde, but Beep is confident!”

  With that, the unlikely trio finished their meal, drained their tankards, and retired to their rented beds upstairs.

  ~~

  The following four weeks were far more tedious than Frelka had expected.

  Beep had been right. The copper node was close, and he had been able to get them there unnoticed. But mining and hauling copper for days on end was exhausting.

  Every night, they returned to the bar aching and sore, their backs and arms screaming in defiance from the abuse of the day. The first week was the worst–eating their dinner felt like a battle in itself, and lifting their tankards to drink required more effort than the fights they had barely survived.

  But Beep had been right about the money. Copper sold for nearly five times what a scavenged weapon fetched. They could now afford better meals–the expensive ones, packed with the calories and protein they so desperately needed.

  While their mining had gone largely unnoticed by the Fogmen, they had had a few scuffles with smaller patrols. It was after their first victory over one of these patrols that Beep reaffirmed Frelka’s decision to let him join.

  They had just finished looting the corpses when Beep clenched his fists and screamed to the heavens, “Yes! Beep wins! Beep is the strongest warrior! All Beep’s enemies will be destroyed! Beep is the strongest now! There will be changes!”

  “The fuck, Beep?!” Shryke snapped as his screams drew the attention of a second, larger patrol.

  “…Beep!”

  They had managed to dodge past the patrol and make it back to Mongrel, but after that, Beep’s enthusiastic war monologues were significantly reduced.

  They hit another stroke of luck in their third week when, as they were mining, Beep spotted a passing Fog Prince and his guards. Being the fastest of the group, he dropped his pack and sprinted ahead, drawing the prince’s attention.

  Frelka and Shryke held their breath when the Fog Prince ran faster than the Fogmen they were used to. Beep was clearly surprised too as they heard him beeping long after he had disappeared around the corner that led toward the city gate.

  Thankfully, he made it, and the guards did the rest. Frelka still wasn’t sure why the guards allowed someone else to loot their kill, but by the time he and Shryke arrived back at the gate, the fight was over. Beep stood triumphant, his arms covered in blood, cradling the Fog Prince’s severed head like it was a priceless jewel, a rusted katana now resting at his hip, a trophy of his victory. That night, Frelka and Shryke allowed him one victory speech.

  But aside from a few more skirmishes, that was it. The rest of their month was spent mining copper until they could barely walk, hauling it back to town, selling it, and repeating the process.

  But now, after four grueling weeks, they had finally made enough.

  Frelka stood in their newly purchased Y-house–a three-winged, one-story building–admiring their hard-earned rewards. A masterwork Samurai breastplate now protected his chest, and a massive, two-handed curved greatsword, which the shopkeeper had called “Falling Sun,” rested against the wall. He looked around their new home. It had taken a few days, but they had filled it with the simple necessities: bedrolls, weapon and armor storage, and a research bench.

  Beep and Frelka sat around the indoor fire eating their meal as Shryke finished reading up on how to make basic weapons. It wouldn’t likely be anytime soon, but if they could make good enough weapons, they may be able to sell them for even more Cats than raw iron. Maybe even enough to keep from having to trek out to the copper node, which had become increasingly depleted over the course of the month.

  Frelka looked up to the other two members of the team he had come to call “Frelka’s Fighters” and said, “Well, I think we’ve done enough mining for now, ja. I say we start back with a little more training–get Beep here up to speed on da warrior he’s destined to be. Right, Beep?”

  “Beep!” Beep replied.

  Frelka wasn’t sure if that was a nervous ‘beep’ or a confident one, but he smiled all the same and laughed. Tomorrow their training would continue.

  As he laid in his bedroll that night, enjoying the warmth of the fire next to him, Frelka fantasized about his upcoming adventures. Soon, they’d be able to start making their way through the Foglands. If he could rid the land of the Fog Princes, maybe he could stop the Fogman Scourge once and for all, freeing Mongrel from terror’s grasp. Then, he, Shryke, and Beep would all have the chance to get out of Mongrel and really start their adventure!