Crossing Blades

A miasma of mistrust hung over Stonegate Keep in the days after the fire, more tenacious than the smoke's lingering odor. Every time they passed one of Grakka's fighters, human soldiers moved in close-knit, vigilant formations, their eyes intense. In turn, the goblins appeared to withdraw even more into their own squalid haven next to the stables, their customary guttural conversations giving way to a sullen, smoldering stillness that was equally menacing. Sergeants from both sides swiftly broke up minor altercations that had become regular, such as shoving in tight hallways, fighting over communal resources like water troughs, and charges of tool theft, but they left a lasting bitter resentment. Stitch by agonizing stitch, the delicate tranquility was tearing at the edges.

With meticulous thoroughness, Kaelan plunged himself into the investigation. He conducted interviews with all of the sentries who had been on duty close to the lower bay, comparing their testimonies and looking for discrepancies. In search of any indications of missing lamp oil, he went over weeks' worth of supply logs. He walked around the fire site, analyzing the scorched wood and soot stains, attempting to make sense of the captain's claim of arson and the persistent suspicion, sown by Grakka, that the fire's small area appeared ineffective, if it was only meant to cause devastation. His questions did little more than confirm the garrison's belief that the goblins were dangerous by nature and probably the culprits. He was irritated; he felt accountable for the rising tension but helpless to diffuse it without verifiable evidence of external intervention.

Grakka took a different tack. She sent forth her warriors to watch, not to inquire. Like shadows, they wandered around the edge of the keep's activities, keeping a close eye on things like guard changes, human routines, and who spoke to whom. As patient as a predator on a protracted hunt, Grakka herself, frequently accompanied by Borg, spent hours carefully inspecting the ground surrounding the burned shed and the nearby wall portions. She brushed aside the clumsy attempts by the human guards to secure the area, stepping beneath ropes to look for almost imperceptible depressions in the hard-packed ground or faint scuffs on stone. She once cornered a young, apprehensive supply clerk near the granary, and the two of them stared at each other without saying anything until the lad spilled out information regarding recent deliveries, which Kaelan suspected she already knew, possibly to test the human's reaction to pressure.

Late one day, their divergent routes eventually brought them to the same location: a rarely used postern gate low on the outer wall, partially hidden by overgrown ivy, not far from the fire site. It provided a possible, but dangerous, way to enter or leave the keep. Kaelan was there, wondering how the arsonist could have gotten out of the gate given its old hinges and the fact that the maintain records showed no recent usage marks. He turned as Grakka, who had obviously been looking at the stones above for handholds or evidence of passage, came softly out of the deep shadows beneath the wall walk.

Their astonishment soon turned to distrust as they froze.

"What are you doing here?" With his hand automatically reaching for the hilt of his sword, Kaelan demanded.

"Looking for answers," with narrowed eyes, Grakka shot back. The softskin guards, on the other hand, look at hoof impressions and label it an investigation. What are you doing? putting out fake hints for me to discover?"

Astonished by her contemptuous tone, Kaelan retorted, "I am pursuing logical lines of inquiry," "Perhaps you are here to obscure tracks left by your own people?"

"My people leave tracks a blind mole could follow if they wanted to be caught," Grakka grumbled. "Unlike humans, who stumble around announcing their presence like mating deer."

Days of simmering tension—the weight of their unwelcome link, the forced proximity, the cultural incompatibility, and the stress of the investigation—all came to a head at once. Between them, the air crackled. The spark was fuelled by years of deep-rooted hostility between both peoples.

Kaelan said, "Perhaps," as he moved closer, his voice low and threatening, "you mistake caution for weakness."

Grakka mirrored his motion, placing her palm on her ever-present cleaver. "And perhaps," she said, "you mistake shiny armor for actual protection."

Words fell short. A challenge hovered in the air, unsaid. It was more of an outburst of restrained animosity than a deliberate choice to spar. Kaelan pulled out the practice sword he usually brought on keep tours; it was made of dull steel but was sturdy enough. Grakka didn't grab her cleaver; maybe some part of their bargain remained, or maybe she didn't think he was worth its edge. Rather, she tested its weight by hefting a strong piece of fallen lumber that was roughly the length of a short club.

With flawless footwork and a quick thrust intended to disarm or force her back, Kaelan launched herself first, trying to gain control. Grakka didn't back down; instead, she swung her homemade club in a vicious arc toward his legs while sidestepping with unexpected agility and allowing the practice sword to whistle by. The wood hit the stone where Kaelan's ankle had been a few seconds earlier, and he jumped back. She was so swift and fierce that he was startled.

The altercation took place in a frenzied dance of divergent styles. Kaelan was all measured defense, accurate parries, and using calculated attacks to find openings. His efficient movements, refined by years of rigorous training, allowed him to hold her at bay with the length of his practice sword. Grakka was a tornado of movement and unrelenting aggression. She kicked dirt into his eyes, swung her club with strong, erratic energy, dodged under his defense, and took advantage of the uneven ground. Using instinct, quickness, and a ferocity that Kaelan found both frightening and oddly impressive, she battled like a caged predator.

His arm jarred as he avoided a strike intended for his head. He was pushed back into the wall as she applied the strike. He temporarily trapped her club arm by using the rebound to perform a binding technique learned in knightly drills. However, she responded immediately by kicking his feet out from under him, forcing the breath out of his lungs, and slamming her forehead into his chest rather than attempting to wriggle free.

Both of them fell in a tangle of limbs. Kaelan's breath was knocked out as he landed hard. Grakka snarled with effort as she scurried to pin him, her green face inches from his. His practice blade was lost in the tussle, but he acted instinctively, utilizing leverage to roll them over and trap one of her arms beneath him. They engaged in a fierce struggle in which neither side was able to obtain a clear edge. He sensed her wiry strength and the unexpected weight she was capable of carrying. Her eyes were flaming as she battled in a quiet, concentrated rage.

They came to a standstill, locked together, panting, glaring, the intensity of the struggle temporarily overpowering the motivations. She was pinned by Kaelan, but her knee was cruelly pressing into his ribs, making it hard for her to breathe. Neither was able to strengthen their position.

The rage gradually subsided and was replaced by ragged tiredness. Pretension was stripped away by the struggle's unadulterated physicality as they gazed at one another. He was not only a representation of human power; he was also robust, powerful, and talented. She was more than simply a vicious animal; she was also very fast, shrewd, and unbreakable.

Kaelan grunted, dropped his grip, and rolled away. Breathing deeply, Grakka forced herself to stand up and took out her timber club, but she made no attempt to strike again. Kaelan felt bruises beginning to appear as he carefully stood up and took out his practice blade.

There was no verbal communication. No excuses and no charges. There was just a thick quiet, broken only by the sounds of their labored breathing. After giving him a final, unreadable glance, Grakka turned and vanished as swiftly as she had come, melting back into the darkness beneath the wall walk.

Trying to collect his breath, Kaelan stood by himself beside the postern gate, leaning against the cool stone. Nothing regarding the fire had been settled by the short, violent encounter. However, it had altered their relationship in an irreversible way. Beneath Grakka's rugged exterior, he had sensed the warrior's fiery, uncompromising core. And maybe, just maybe, she had caught a peek of the steel beneath his own gleaming exterior. A tiny, hairline breach had shown for the first time, but the wall of mutual contempt had not fallen.