Ava was in a foul mood when she made it to the giant hut at the centre of The Outpost. It was a massive dwelling and had four smaller huts connected to it. Minervin told her that the wives of Orc warlords slept in those. The more huts, the more wives and with no bedroom of his own the warlord had the freedom to choose in which hut, and wife, he would lay with each night. How many add-ons did Malgorn’s hut have at Blood Rock, I wonder?

Crastius was no orc warlord, however, and used one of these for his bedroom, another for all his women and the rest for storage. The main hut was a tavern, a shop, and a brothel. However, if men had money to waste on a night with his women, they would have to find a bed elsewhere.

“Tell Crastius Ava’s brought in a haul,” she ordered the man sitting outside the tavern, buried inside his fur cloak. He got up in a panic when he realised who she was and disappeared beyond the entrance.

“What’s that?” She heard Crastius shout from inside a little while later. “Well, why’d you keep her waiting outside, you fool? Bring her in!” The man returned quickly with a few others and set about removing her cattle from the wagon and pulling it inside.

The air inside the hut was so warm and stuffy that Ava doffed her hood and scarf soon after entering. It was dark too, the only source of light coming from a large fire pit that burned in the centre. There was a scattering of tables and stools placed around it. A drunken pair of dwarves occupied one of these tables; both were red-cheeked and semi-conscious.

A large bar stood before the far wall. Behind it were numerous tables and cases displaying varying types of merchandise, from food to armour, but Crastius chose the wall itself to portray the weapons up for sale. The centrepiece was a beautiful Sabre with the thinnest blade and an exquisite swept hilt. Ava wanted that sword the minute she first saw it adorning Crastius’ wall, but the imbecile stubbornly refused to sell it to her, despite her being the only person able to buy it.

The man himself was waiting behind the curved bar, beaming at her. Wonderful! I see he has lost his mind too.

The Outpost’s sole merchant was exiled from the human lands many years before he came to Spectermere and lived them out sailing all three oceans as a pirate ship captain. No one was entirely sure how he ended up here, but there were rumours that Crastius’ cowardly nature in battle turned his crew against him. He kept his former pirate connections though, and set up shop, becoming the most powerful and richest man in The Outpost. Everyone went to him for the goods they needed to survive, and for goods that they did not, as well.

Crastius moved to her side with ill-concealed excitement and looked over her haul. Ava was immediately assailed by the man’s stench, a heavy mixture of perfume, sweat and something akin to fish that made her instantly nauseous. He was a seedy, leather-skinned man with greying copper hair, green, shifty eyes, and a rotund belly. He was never afraid to flaunt his riches in a town filled with murderers and thieves and preferred to wear the expensive silk, velvet, and satin fabrics of the Empire’s nobility beneath his cloak rather than wool, leather, and fur.

“You killed two trolls?” he said, his bushy eyebrows lifting skyward.

“I would not have their carcasses if I did not,” she responded, dryly.

“Barter or coin?” Crastius asked, almost foaming at the mouth for the sale. Crastius always itched to have a troll carcass brought to him, its fat was used in smithing and candle making, and rich outlanders would pay handsomely for their pelts and mounted heads. Ava would bleed him dry for these trolls.

“Barter of course! What use would coin be to me in this wasteland?”

“Well, you can buy food and drink at the tavern,” he explained as if she were dense, waving to the drunken dwarves. Both were passed out and snoring loudly now. One knocked over his cup and its contents dripped to the floor.

Ava frowned at his reasoning. “You would have me sell my haul to you for coin, only for me to give that same coin back to you for a small piece of my own game and your vile, poison water?”

Crastius sighed, waving her to silence. “You’re far too clever for your own good, girl,” he said, sneering at the last word. “Name your terms then.”

Ava handed him one of the water skins hanging from her shoulder. “Panacean water for half your arrow stores, cattle feed, hay and one Illuminaris.”

“You lie!”

“If you do not want it, give it back then. I am sure everyone else would pay all of their coins for just one drop of it,” Ava growled.

Crastius moved the skin far from her reach. “No, I never said I don’t want it! Get her everything she asks for and a new water skin,” he demanded of the man behind him, draping the water skin on his shoulder and putting a protective hand over it. “So, you’ve finally found the fountain, have you, girl? Didn’t doubt that you would. Where is it?”

“Will you go searching for it if I tell you?”

“Of course not! That forest is far too dangerous for a man like me,” he confessed with a hand over his heart.

“Yet, I am sure you will get some poor fool to go after it for some meagre coin. I very much like being your only supplier for now, Crastius.”

He scowled at her in silence until his men returned with a large chest, feed, and a small wooden container. Crastius opened the chest to show her the arrows inside and when she nodded her approval, he took the smaller box from one of the men and opened it. A warm, blinding ball of yellow light floated in the centre of the box.

“T’Illuminaris, the little sun. A Dorcan magical item created to radiate sunlight at a temperature and brightness ideal for growing crops, especially in harsh environments. Works in their desert caves and it’ll work here, though I wouldn’t stare too long, girl,” he warned when Ava didn’t take her eyes off the ball of light. She straightened immediately and tried to blink away the temporary blindness that came over her eyes. “The item becomes rather expensive when traded so poorer farmers will never get their hands on it. Are you pleased with it?”

“Yes, five rabbits for eight fish and two deer for their value in bread, seal meat, salt, spice and a few bottles of your poison water...” Crastius clicked to the men around him and they scurried around her wagon, removing items and replacing them with others. “And two trolls for the sword,” she finished.

“No, ask for something else,” Crastius grunted.

“Why not?” Ava raged, just stopping short of stomping her foot like a petulant child. The sword’s value was far less than the Illuminaris, the trolls should have covered it. Why was the man being so hardheaded about it?

“Because that is too fine a sword for the likes of you, now ask for something else.”

Ava did not want something else, she wanted the sword, but she also did not want to sit with a couple of troll carcasses either.

“I have the finest elven silk dresses, very expensive. Female nobility in the Empire would die for them,” he offered softly.

“Why would I want silk dresses? And where would I wear them? I cannot hunt in them, and I would freeze the minute I step out in the cold, you dense man.”

“You could wear them here.” Crastius waved to the tavern.

“Why? So, you can make me The Outpost’s laughingstock?”

The man was being absurd, thinking she would trek from Minervin’s cabin to wear a stupid dress at his tavern. What was he playing at?

Crastius looked genuinely surprised at her outburst.

“No, of course not, girl. No one would laugh at you, no one would even dare,” he said with deadly seriousness. “I have one that seems as if the elves spun threads of the sunset in it, it would go well with your skin. On any other woman here, it would have made them look like a hag. But you would look like a goddess in it, Ava, especially with eyes and ears like yours.”

Ava slapped his hands away before he could touch her ears, shocked and embarrassed by the man’s odd behaviour. That was the first time he called her by her name and it made her shiver. Not even Malgorn made her feel this distressed.

“Have you been drinking your poison water? I do not want your elven dresses!”

“Then take it as a gift, but wear it here,” Crastius offered. Even his own men’s eyes bulged at their master’s uncharacteristic generosity.

“I do not want it, I said. Nor do I want to be one of your women.”

“Must you be so stubborn, girl?”

His hand snaked out and grabbed her. Ava recoiled from him, but the man refused to let go, and her hand quickly went to the hilt of her dagger.

The beast at her belly moved and growled before she could draw it. At least, she thought it growled. It was a threatening enough sound that Crastius released her in his fright and backed away.

“She carries The Reaper’s demon in her womb!” one of Crastius' men shrieked, scrambling from her wagon in his panic and stumbling from the hut.

The commotion woke the dwarves, who watched her in wary confusion. On any other day, Ava would have found the scene mildly amusing, but the strangeness of today spoiled her good humour.

“Pay the boy no mind, he’s new. What have you got under there?” Crastius asked, reaching for her tunic.

“Nothing.” Ava turned from his hand. The beast growled more threateningly, and he snatched it back.

“What do you want for it?” he demanded, salivating at the chance to sell something rare.

“It’s not up for sale.”

“I’ll give you the sword for it.”

Ava dithered over the prospect for a moment.

“It’s not for sale,” she said. “If you will not give me the sword for the trolls, then I will take the armour instead.” Curse her stupid affection for this beast.