Ghorrarr Bloodsnout sat on his roughly hewn wooden throne as two females served his lunch, reflecting on his success in life thus far. His lip twisted into a sneer as he gazed into the sunshine beyond the cave, surveying his domain. A band of over sixty did his bidding, and he had multiple breeders at his disposal. Not bad for a gnoll who nearly didn’t see his second litter day.

  He huffed in disgust after sniffing the first offered platter, flecks of mucus and moisture spraying from his canine snout. He watched her recoil as it splattered across her spotted face and mane. How dare she bring something so unfit for the leader of the pack! The ropey muscles in his long, thick neck tensed, his lips curling into a growl, exposing distended lower canines. Terrified by his rebuke, the female retreated from the cave’s shadows, never turning her back.

  The second crawled forward with another offering, bowing deeply. He sniffed again. Better. Snatching the food with his right hand, Ghorrarr lifted his left leg. Delivering a powerful kick, the pads of his three-toed, clawed foot caught her right in the chest, sending her sprawling backward. Wounded yips and whines mixed with the hollow clatter from his bone necklace bounced off the cave’s walls as she, too, withdrew.

  Left alone with his meal and his majesty, Ghorrarr’s lips pulled back in a menacing grin as he attacked the tray. Holding it up to his maw, he gobbled directly from the wooden surface, unconcerned with the castoff showering the cave floor. Satisfied in mere seconds, he tossed the tray aside, his long canine tongue gathering any reluctant morsels from his hairy face. He calculated his next action. Swift, vicious violence would be a fitting vindication for the culinary abomination. His upper lip began to twitch as he rose, his sinewy muscles coiling, his chest inflating as he strode toward the cave mouth. But something else was already happening.

  The distressed barks and yips began to rise before he strode into the daylight. The smell of smoke filled his sensitive nostrils, along with something else, or rather someone else. Not gnoll, not orc, not barbarian, not even elf. It was no species he had smelled in his four wizened years.

  The curiosity, however, was fleeting. The entire camp was engulfed in flames. Every building burned. His tribe rushed to and fro among the smoldering huts. Some futilely tried to douse the thatch and wooden structures. Others frantically distanced themselves from the growing inferno, gathering near the forest barrier, watching it burn. Even the guards had abandoned their posts along the brush wall to take in the spectacle.

  A sheen of sweat instantly dampened his fur, blinding rage swelling, narrowing his vision. His eyes frantically sought an enemy, finding only familiar faces. Who is responsible for this? Who dares to challenge the mighty Ghorrarr!

  A growl escaped his lips as the gnoll leader dropped to all fours and accelerated into the clearing. Moving upright, the longer arms and slightly humped back of his species lent a stilted and lumbering appearance to his gait. On all fours, however, he rapidly covered the distance before rising back onto his hind legs. The blood lust now fully controlling his actions, he barked accusations at his brethren.

  And there it was again, that unfamiliar smell.

  Minutes before, Segwyn, having observed silently in position for over an hour, winced at the dull ache in his calves. Setting his bow in a rocky cleft nearby, he raised his feet and rolled his ankles several times before kneading first one lower leg, then the other. As he finished, Tsuta’s voice whispered in his mind.

  The marks are in position. Fire when ready.

  Copy that. Give me three to four minutes and I’ll kick things off, he thought in reply.

  The ranger reached behind him, twisting his satchel into his lap. He extracted four objects, setting them gently on the flat rock to his left: a flint and steel, a small block of waxy wood, and a vial Bird had provided for the task. Slinging the satchel back over his shoulder and out of the way, his eyes narrowed, scanning the activity in the camp below, the corners of his mouth flinching up. The noon meal was in full swing down on the valley floor. A quick headcount returned nearly sixty gnolls, all gathered around the central firepits, some cooking, some eating, all thoroughly distracted. This was the moment.

  Reaching over his shoulder, he pulled a dozen white fletched arrows from his quiver. Clearing a few loose rocks from the ground beside him, he methodically laid the arrows out on the stone surface, tips pointing forward. There were fifteen structures, but he estimated only enough time for a dozen shots, about thirty-five seconds, before someone below would notice the tinder-like huts going up in flames. He chose his targets carefully, counting on the breeze and the crowded construction to reach his goal. Timing is everything. They can’t have any suspicion that I’m even here, let alone that I started the blaze.

  Satisfied with the positioning of his ammunition, he gently lifted the vial. Raising the stoppered bottle to his lips, he pulled the cork out with his teeth. Spitting it to the side, his features stiffened from the taste and smell of its contents. Natha’n Fire, he called it. The fumes burned his nostrils, and the taste was noxious. He spat before wiping his forearm across his mouth. The cat certainly carries some peculiar supplies, but this will do the job. He poured the vial’s contents over the tips of his prepared arrows, letting the liquid pool below the heads and upper shafts before flipping each one for full saturation.

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  Setting the empty vial between his raised knees, he picked up the small waxy block – fatwood. Cut from the resinous stump of a fallen pine tree, every ranger knew its worth. It would light easily and burn for several minutes, even when wet – more than enough time to get a campfire started, or in this case, ignite a dozen arrows. Picking up the first well-soaked arrow from beside him, the ranger used its length to estimate the optimal position for his fatwood. He needed to enflame each arrow in a single, smooth motion before drawing and loosing the shot. Placing the block, he took one last glance at the landscape below and reached for the flint and steel.

  After several long, deep breaths to steady his heart rate, the ranger scraped flint against steel, shaving particles onto the wood’s surface before emphatically striking the two together. The spark immediately caught the shavings in a hissing sparkle, and the surface of the fatwood flared to life with a small tendril of black smoke. A stable three-inch flame sputtered to life, quickly spreading through the volatile terpenes in the wood between his feet.

  Dropping the flint and steel next to the vial, he picked up his bow. His brow furrowed in concentration as he visualized the sequence. With one last deep breath, he began. Moving from left to right, the ranger picked up the first arrow, nocking it on the string before dipping the head to the flame. As soon as the Natha’n Fire flared on the arrow’s head, he raised the bow, drew aim on the back wall of the leftmost building, and took the shot. Hitting an inanimate object at this distance wasn’t the challenge. The difficulty lay in getting all twelve shots off quickly, before the crowd below started gawping skyward for the source and spotted him. Iskvold needed to be able to take the credit for their plan to work.

  With fluid execution, the ranger methodically worked his way across the camp’s layout. Nock, dip, aim, fire. He didn’t even pause to look back at his earlier targets. Nock, dip, aim, fire. Twelve arrows found their mark in thirty seconds. As the smoke began to thicken, a light breeze pinned it against the cliff’s surface. Segwyn slung the bow and carefully flipped the fatwood over before extinguishing it against the stone with his boot. Gathering up his flint and steel, he heard the yips and squeals of alarm beginning to rise from the valley floor as he silently disappeared above the lip of the cliff and into the woods, his job completed.

  Though the timing of his aerial barrage was perfect, the timing of his retreat couldn’t have been worse. When the ranger crested the cliff-face, he nearly collided with two gnolls on patrol. It was impossible to tell who was more surprised. These were the first gnolls he had ever seen up close. Nearly identical in height, their proportions and physique were different from the more civilized races he was familiar with. Bodies covered in brown mottled hair, the coloration on the long, muscular necks was off-white with black spots. Their facial features were canine: round heads, small, pointed ears, and elongated snouts. Their lips pulled back in a low growl, exposing vicious upper and lower canines. Muscles rippled across their broad torsos and hunched shoulders, stretching down their long, sinewy arms that reached to their knees.

  As the first gnoll thrust his spear forward, Segwyn twisted right. Several stones cascaded over the cliff edge at his back, reminding him of his precarious positioning. The ranger dropped and rolled forward to gain some ground and avoid being flanked. Drawing his short swords, both gnolls began to bark loudly in alarm toward the encampment. The ranger could only hope their warnings went unheeded, drowned out by the chaos of the fire and the frantic crowd below, or the plan was ruined. When the second spear swept toward his crouched form, he launched himself vertically and forward. Jumping over the arcing spear, he closed on its owner to get inside the weapon’s range. Pressing in tight, he kept the spear out of play and prevented a piercing thrust from the enemy behind. He buried the first blade into the creature’s abdomen, using the forward momentum to enhance the strike.

  Shoving the creature back into its ally, his bloodied sword left a gaping hole in the gnoll’s midsection. Segwyn followed up with his off-hand. Connecting with the creature’s ribcage in a hollow thud, he could feel the blade’s vibration, pushing through the bone. His opponent let out a grunt before slumping into the leaf litter.

  With a rapid series of barks, the second attacker dropped the spear in favor of a short sword and charged into close combat. The move was unexpected. The first strike caught him in the thigh before the creature’s bullrush forced him onto his back. Stronger than he anticipated, the gnoll leaned into his positional advantage, both hands on the sword. It pushed with all its strength, driving the blade towards the ranger’s throat. Segwyn gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled to hold the weapon in check with his own, mere inches from his skin. He could smell its fetid breath billowing from the bared teeth and snapping jaws. His defending arm began to shake uncontrollably, and he saw the creature’s lips twist into a fleeting canine grin.

  Then, the tabby’s words were in his head, echoes from a sparring session in the abbey’s courtyard. ‘When the opponent fully commits to one approach, he is equally fully exposed to another.’

  So fixated was this creature on bringing blade to flesh, it was completely ignoring his off-hand. The ranger turned his wrist, slowly bringing the point of his second sword, unnoticed, to the side of the gnoll’s torso. With everything he could muster, he drove the point into the soft flesh beneath its ribcage at an upward angle, all the way to the hilt.

  The creature shook involuntarily, and the saliva dripping into his face quickly ran red, its jaw falling slack. As the gnoll’s eyes turned vacant, Segwyn shoved the dead weight off his body and lay panting, drenched in sweat, on the forest floor.

  After a long minute, the ranger rose to a crouch, grimacing from the gash in his leg. The arcane energy crackled to life around his bloody fingers, and he winced again, pressing the healing magic into the wound. A soft chuckle resonated through the now silent forest as he got to his feet. Finally able to risk a look at his handiwork in the valley below, he was pleased with the pandemonium.

  Many buildings were fully engulfed, their construction succumbing quickly to the flames. A heavy haze of smoke pressed up against the cliff face, enshrouding the entire camp. The inhabitants, confused and increasingly irate, had congregated against the camp’s modest barrier of brush, as far from the flames as possible. Perfect. Now it was up to Iskvold. Segwyn dragged his forearm across his brow, his leather bracer smearing the sheen of sweat rather than absorbing it. He didn’t care. The ranger sheathed his swords, checked his satchel, and headed back toward the trail and the meeting point.

  The Glimmerstone Enigma?

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