I see them no more than once a month when they pass through the forest, stopping to rest for the night, before disappearing in the morning with the hearth’s amber glow glinting against the swords on their backs. Five minutes after the tavern doors clap shut, I forget those three mercenaries exist. The Whistling Dragon’s hall always sinks back into its familiar state as a slow, dozing taproom. 

Each month, they creep through the front doors, hoods up, hiding their faces. I never speak to them; the thud of their purse landing before me on the counter is all the conversation I need. They don’t eat or drink, retreating to the same three-bed chamber and stay there, silent. At dawn, the tall woman nods to me as she passes. A man follows after her, head bowed. Their last member, a person no taller than the bar’s counter, scurries to catch up.

Door open, door closed. Each month, I am three hundred gold richer. Anina never spends more than ten minutes tidying their room. Despite their business, I bristle whenever I catch her bragging to my patrons about the famous adventuring group that stays in that room over there once a month. When I see the patrons’ gaze cut to the chamber’s door, I make sure they get the room over.

One evening, I am pouring a pint for a patron. The Whistling Dragon’s hall is calm, the silence only broken by a soft hum from a conversation. Beside me, Anina sings under her breath as she swipes the scraps from a plate into a bucket.

The front door blasts open and slams the wall with a thundering clap.

The sounds rip through me with a jolt. I drop the tankard and whip around.

A bloodied goblin sways in the doorway and collapses. There’s a sickening crack as its face hits the ground and a clatter as a large sword falls at its side.

‘Oh, my god!’ Anina cries. She drops the plate, which shatters on the floor, as she hurries around the counter. She is the only one to move—the patrons, some standing, some brandishing daggers, stare in stunned silence at the scene.

Anina drops to her knees and hauls the goblin onto her lap. It lets out a child-like wail.

A shout swells in my chest—my barmaid cradles a goblin in her arms—but before I react, Anina screams again.

‘Mazz!’ Anina cups the goblin’s face.

At that, the tavern bursts to life. Benches screech against the cobbles as the patrons start. A split second later, a crowd gathers around the goblin.

My jaw hangs open. My mind races, confused. In the end, all I can say is: ‘Who’s Mazz?’

From within the crowd, Anina yells, ‘the chamber!’ and they move in a huddle across the hall to the famous adventurers’ room, Anina leading, carrying the writhing goblin.

I find myself moving automatically, following them into the room.

‘She needs a healer,’ I catch Anina saying to a patron. With a sharp nod, one darts away, breezing past me as I step from the doorway.

The goblin lays on a bed, squirming and wailing. Against the white bedsheets, its murky brown blood spreads fast. Gaping holes puncture its arms and a slash sweeps down its torso.

Someone steps forward, holding forth a vial of thin, pink liquid. Anina takes it and pops the cork free.

‘It’s a healing potion,’ Anina says, ‘it’ll help.’

With steady hands, Anina brings the vial to the goblin’s face. She pauses as it thrashes, but, as the potion draws close, the goblin’s eyes fix on the vial. It snatches it and gulps. When it's all gone, the goblin takes a deep breath. Then, yells: ‘FACK!’

‘Mazz, you’ll be okay, Ferne is getting a—’

‘What the hell is going on?!’ I yell.

Anina startles. ‘It’s Mazz, one of–’

‘FAAACK!!’

‘—Fell’s Daggers. She—’

‘I know.’ I push through the crowd, standing at the end of the bed. Laying in front of me is the short mercenary, alone. ‘Where are the other two?’

Mazz swings her gaze at me. ‘I’m fuckin’ DYIN’!’

‘Are they—?’

‘Wha’ do you think?!’ Mazz snaps. She wails again.

Anina pulls away, stifling a sob behind her hand. From around me, I hear gasps and curses. Yet I stand there, staring down at the goblin. I furrow my brows.

‘What did this to you?’ I ask.

Mazz’s cry stutters. She peels her lips back, revealing her gritted, pointed teeth.

‘Wasps.’

‘Wasps…?’ I repeat.

Mazz's chest heaves. ‘Yeah.’

I wait a moment, but she stays silent, just staring at me.

‘That’s it? Some little wasps pricked you and your buddies?’

‘Hey, fuck you!’ Mazz yells. ‘These ain’t ya usual garden wasps! They was at the bottom of Rumeston’ Mines!’

‘Your initiation,’ Anina says, ‘Rook told me, before you left.’

Mazz’s eyebrow twitches.

I press again. ‘What happened?’

‘Can’t you just leave a dyin’ person ta fuckin’ rest?!’ But, it sighs heavily, looking between the dozen onlooking people.

‘I don’t know if they’re dead.’ The goblin fixes its gaze on me. ‘But death might be betta.’

Eager faces lean in, desperate for the tale. And there’s me, frowning.

—

‘Rumestone Mine has been abandoned for years, and anyone who enters is never seen again.’ With a sharp strike of flint, fire bloomed from the tip of Breccia’s torch. ‘But, at the bottom, there is said to be gold.’

‘Mazz,’ Breccia said, thrustin’ out the torch, ‘this is your initiation.’

‘My initiation?!’ I squawked. 

Rook sighed.

This was bullshit. The number of times I saved their lives—hell, the number of times I called out mansters prowlin’ in the darkness, where their strainin’, humie eyes see nofin’ further than the fire’s glow—I should’ve thrust this back at ‘em, somewhere their sunlight prone eyes couldn’t see!

But above me, Breccia’s loomin’ face was stone. I glanced at Rook and found him anxiously glancin’ at the mine’s entrance. Its gapin’ mouth was dark and narrow. Breccia’s thick armour would scratch along the walls if she didn’t sidestep her way through, and Rook’s crossbow was useless if he couldn’t see further than the end of his bolt.

Huh. I couldn’t hide my scoff. They’re cowards.

‘Fine,’ I said. I snatched the torch and strode to the mine’s entrance, my cloak billowin’ after me. A wailin’ breeze curled into the entrance as if the mine sucked in a lungful of air.

My ears pricked at the sound of Breccia and Rook’s clatterin’ approach. Before they reached me, I delved in.

The fire revealed rusted minecart tracks runnin’ down the middle, and I followed it, hoppin’ between the planks. The stone chilled my bare feet. The ceilin’ was high, but the way was tight—for some. If I were to reach my arms out wide, my fingers wouldn’t even brush the narrow walls. Behind me, the sun’s rays were fragmented, blocked by shadows of the two hulkin’ humies as they shuffled their way down after me.

I headed deeper into the mine. The walls, once narrow and straight, soon lost their structure, becomin’ jagged and wide. I passed old barrels and empty minecarts. The shufflin’ of Breccia and Rook got quieter, unable to keep up. The mine grew larger, eventually openin’ into a natural cave. The darkness engulfed my flame, but luckily, my eyes cut further. I saw the outline of a forest of pointed rocks, miniature mountains piercin’ the centre of the mine. I followed the tracks as they weaved through the thick of the rock forest. It took me on a tour, showin’ me the crumblin’ remains of what used to be a minin’ camp—storage huts for the ores and rubble; tables blanketed by dust, preservin’ the crumblin’ parchments beneath. I swat away the dust, kicked over barrels that shattered, empty. I searched the mine, wavin’ my stupid torch across its corners, the fire glintin’ in the metal of the abandoned tools. I didn’t see any chest full of fuckin’ gold.

I gritted my teeth and found the tracks again. It wove around the cave, but at parts, it split off, veerin’ down different paths. So I followed it, like an obedient fuckin’ minecart.

Then, the flame revealed the shape of a body. Before me, a skeleton sat hunched in between two rocks. I could tell it weren’t a humie; its bones were short and stubby, and as I stared into its eyesockets, we were face to face.

It was then, like the skeleton whispered to me, that I heard a noise. A hummin’, resoundin’ from deeper tunnels. It grew and grew, loud enough that I could turn and capture where it came from—a slice in the cave’s wall that led into a new, dark vein. The entrance was narrow enough that without the sound, it looked like a mere gap between pointy rocks. 

My heart pounded in my chest. A sick mixture of curiosity and greed lured me off the tracks. I placed my hand on the wall, and for a second, I felt the hum seep into my skin, until a moment later, it stopped. 

‘Fuck it.’ I wormed into the tunnel and followed its tight pathway.  

The tunnel led into a cavern. My torch’s flickerin’ glow did a better job than my sharp eyes—the amber light caught on the nuggets of gold ore spillin’ from the open chest at the other end of the room. My fire made them glitter. The walls sparkled too, gold lined—a night sky wrapped around me.

The flame was nearly snuffed out as I ran forward, reachin’ the treasure. The gold froze my fingers when I picked them up, but they were pure nuggets, some still with stone huggin’ their rugged bodies.

I’d been grovellin’ to two humies, livin’ off their scraps and pocket change. I’d be watchin’ those bastards soak up praise from among the crowd. I stood in their shadows for so long. I knelt and started throwin’ the fallen nuggets back into the chest.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Somefin’ tickled, pin-small and brushin’ like grass, across the back of my hand.

The wasp’s yellow body was bright against my green skin. It scuttled along my fingers, followin’ the arch of my knuckles and stopped at my thumb to adjust its wings. Its path left an ant-like tinglin’ behind.

Fear lurched up through me like vomit, but it caught in my throat and sat there, burnin’. I was not fuckin movin’. Not screamin’, or breathin’, no nofin’. I wanted to rip my fuckin’ hand off, but the wasp tapped the black tip of its stinger on my skin, pressin’ enough to cause my flesh to dip, as if sayin’, ‘I fuckin’ dare you.’

The hummin’ returned, and as my ears pricked back at the sound, I realised, the hummin’ ain’t hummin’. It was hundreds of wasps all buzzin’ together. Above me. 

I craned my head up.

The torch didn’t reach it, but my eyes did. I cursed my fuckin’ eyes, because that fing above me was bigger than the tree these bastards usually tend to dangle from. It could house a family of humies, and actually, it did—in the nest’s very structure, I saw skeletal arms hangin’ out, wavin’ at me. Holes gaped from the nest’s sides, and wasps started crawlin’ out, their feet clickin’ against the nest. 

‘Mazz?’ Breccia called.

Over the buzzin’, I heard their footsteps echoin’ down the tunnel behind me. They clambered in, stoppin’ at the entrance. It's Breccia who started, her boots thuddin’ with each step and armour clatterin’ and chimin’, loud enough to drown out the buzzin’.

The wasp’s wings twitched, blurrin’, and lifted off my hand. It slipped into the darkness. 

Then, I heard a grunt. For the first time, I saw Breccia’s eyes flare, shot with pain. Her armour rustled again as she reached up, grabbin’ at her face.

‘What the—’ she was cut off as she cried out in pain.

‘Breccia!’ Rook yelled. He swung his crossbow over his shoulder.

Through the darkness, I saw black wings glimmer from above. Wasps took flight and dove onto Breccia. Her face was engulfed by them, and the shine from her armour turned from sharp silver to writhin’ black.

Her screams were almost musical. She snagged the handle of the legendary sword, Stalker, and unsheathed it with a hiss. She wound up her arm and swung, but the wasps parted. The sword sliced through empty air. 

Angry, the wasps on her arms disappeared, crawlin’ under the gaps of her armour. Her arms jerked. Her hand opened, and with a clatter, Stalker sparked against the floor.

‘Breccia!’ Rook screamed. There was a click and a whistle as he launched a bolt. It sunk into a wall—near me. He dropped to a knee, whipped out a bolt, and struggled to slot it into the crossbow’s chamber. A second later the new bolt snapped in half under his jitterin’ hands.

The large swarms scuttled between the gaps of Breccia’s armour, disappearin’. When the plates were full, they crawled into her ears, nose and mouth, pluggin’ her screams, and blood streaked down her face. She clawed at her bulgin’ neck, her dumb, frantic mind turned desperate, tryin’ to get at the wasps in her throat. But soon, blood seeped between her fingers. 

By the time Rook stood, Breccia had fallen to the ground, twitchin’ and garglin’.

The wasps pooled out onto the floor. They charged at Rook—and me. But I was quicker.

I swiped at them. Some looped away, but the next wave darted forward in their place. Their back ends curled up, brandishin’ its stinger forward. Like a rain of broken glass, they sank into my flesh, one after another. I felt their spindly legs scratch against my skin, their stingers lodged in my flesh, until the right tug ripped it free.

I bit my lip hard, my sharp teeth slicin’ it to ribbons. It balanced out the pain and shut me the fuck up. As the wasps kept comin’, I just… took it.

Through tears, I saw Rook. In a fog of bugs, he batted the wasps with his crossbow.

‘Mazz!’ He roared.

The wasps stopped stingin’ me. They buzzed in my ears, then turned to Rook and launched. They snaked around him, strikin’ him fast in the places where his flailin’ arms couldn’t reach.

The wasps were small and fast, cuttin’ him deep, gettin’ his neck, his chest, his face. Stab, stab, stab! Each blow made him weaker. When he crumpled to the ground, they kept goin’, lovin’ the feel of their stingers sinkin’ into flesh. 

In a soft hum, they returned to their nest and the buzzin’ finally stopped. 

—

‘Maybe they survived it,’ Mazz says. Her nose curls up, and she starts to wail.

Anina draws her into a hug. ‘That’s horrible.’

But I stare at the goblin’s wounds. The punctures the size of coins. The thick slice across its torso.

‘How did you get out?’ I ask.

Mazz’s cries cut out. She peers at me from under Anina.

‘Reddman, please,’ Anina says, ‘she’s had enough.’

‘No one has left Rumestone Mines alive, you said.’ I lean closer. ‘How are you alive?’

‘I’m barely alive,’ Mazz says. But I wait, staring her down. ‘I was quiet and the wasps left me alone.’

‘Right,’ I say, ‘and the cut on your chest—how did you get that?’

I see the goblin’s eyes widen. Mazz starts to speak, but she is cut off as Anina stands.

‘Stop it.’ My barmaid walks up to me and grabs my arm. ‘Leave her alone.’

I glance back at the goblin. Mazz glares at me.

Anina tugs at my arm, leading me out of the chamber. I willingly follow.

The hall is quiet and calm, and, with a shiver I notice, cold. I glance at the front doors and see a slither of night through a gap. Something sits in the doorway.

‘Why are you interrogating her?’ Anina asks. She has her arms crossed and she stares at me with wild eyes, as though I was the one who put those holes in the goblin.

‘Wasps can’t make wounds that big. They’re goddamn massive.’

Anina shakes her head. ‘And what does that mean?’

I scoff. ‘Do you believe what that thing said? Fucking wasps?!’ I jab a finger at Anina. ‘You sang their praise—you said that Fell’s Daggers killed a fucking dragon.’ I shake my head. ‘Bullshit!’

But Anina’s face sharpens. She pins me in place with her narrowed eyes, filled with unfamiliar vigour. Hatred.

‘“That thing” is an honourable adventurer. She has helped people,’ Anina spits, ‘and she just watched her friends die. Truth or not, it doesn’t matter.’

‘I think it’s a—’

Anina cocks her head. ‘She’s a what?’

I stay silent.

Anina tears off her apron, smeared with brown blood, and throws it to the ground. ‘Unbelievable.’ She disappears into the chamber, slamming the door shut. 

I stand alone for a moment. My mind is quiet. Then, I feel the night air chill me, and I turn automatically and approach the open door. A large and thick sword lays in the gap, keeping it ajar—the very sword that the goblin brought, dropping it at their side. It’s nearly the same height as the goblin. Outside, a thin, snaking line in the dirt veers from the footpath to the tavern’s front doors. Mazz must have dragged it after her as she stumbled away from the mines. I pick it up, letting the doors close. 

Its handle is black and cool to the touch and its steel is a rare ocean blue. I’ve seen it countless times, being the last image I see as the tall mercenary leaves through the doors—it is a unique sight adorning her back. Clearly worthy of some gold nuggets.

Then I freeze. Stalker, the legendary sword, has something on it. At the end of its blade, brown blood drips onto the floorboards.