The Kobold looked at him thoughtfully, and shrugged. “Fine. Guy calls himself Tychus of Copper. Real ugly.”

And so Burt related the story of his friend’s struggles, interspersed with streaks of profanity stronger than the coffee. And Gorm listened, and wrote things down, and cared.

Everybody jumped back when the bottle shattered on the broken cobbles of Borskin Way. Accusatory shouts rang out from the children on either side of the street, alongside the biggest and most taboo cuss words that each group could muster. The Orcs and Goblins had an advantage here, as the Human children could only swear in Imperial. Swearing was the only situation where Recky Figgs envied his Shadowkin neighbors’ bilingual skills. Only Belnitha Potts could compete, as her father was an Elf and she could swear in Root Elven. But Elven swears were less expressive, and took too long to say, and nobody else could understand them anyway.

The Orcs insisted that Boggs Fuller threw the bottle just to start a fight. They were right, of course. Boggs was the oldest kid this side of Scoria’s tannery district, a thick mass of muscle and acne with a smattering of wispy hairs around a chip-toothed smile. He took special delight in starting brawls with younger children, and even more delight in finishing them. It was a given that Boggs had thrown the bottle, and it was equally certain why he did it, but no Human of any color was going to admit that; siding with the Orcs on anything was a sure way to find yourself on the wrong side of Boggs’ fists when the fighting started.

Instead, Recky accused Scubgar, a weedy little Goblin who always cried and ran home rather than fighting back. Scubgar teared up and looked ready to bolt, but that only made the remaining Shadowkin angrier. Things were headed for a brawl, and just to make sure they got there quickly, Boggs began shouting slurs at the Shadowkin children. Recky saw Throg Gub’Zubba grab a thick branch that would make a nasty club. The young Human searched for a good throwing rock, just in case Throg got a chance to use it.

Thardu, a young Orcess with warg-fang bracers, screwed up her face and sneered at the older boy. “What’d you say?”

“I said you’re a swamp-pelted wolf-loving greenskin!”

“No, I heard that!” said Thardu. “I meant the part about not fighting.”

Boggs’ brow wrinkled. “What?”

“Tra lee, tra la! Let’s not fight! Let’s hear a song!”

“Is that a song?” asked Rax.

“It’s genuinely hard to tell,” said Belnitha.

“Oh, har-dee-har.” An adult Human rounded the corner into the alley. His clothes were bright, his hat was floppy, and he was, for lack of a better term, playing a lute. “Perhaps not a song, but a story! A tale to amuse and amaze and, if possible, de-escalate.”

“De-what?”

“I believe that stories have the power to change young minds, as they’re so impressionable!”

Unfortunately, another trait of young minds is that they often have underdeveloped impulse control, and at that moment several children from both sides of the street gave in to the natural inclination to throw things at an obnoxious bard. A hail of stones, bottles, and broken sticks sailed through the air.

Then the shadows moved with a sound like silk whispering in the wind, and something huge passed in front of Recky. The child ducked instinctively, and when he opened his eyes again, a massive Imperial man in a dark cloak and a red scarf stood in front of the bard, holding a green bottle. A heap of other projectiles were stacked neatly on the street in front of him.

“Allow me an introduction,” said the bard. “I am Heraldin, and as I mentioned, I believe that stories have the power to end violence. Metaphorically. This is Gaist. He believes in stories too, but should they fail, he also has the power to stop violence. Physically.”

Gaist crossed his arms.

“He wants me to tell you a story.”

“He… he does?” asked Scubgar.

“Believe me, I’d rather be performing at the Curious Milkmaid, but he—oof!” The bard grunted and shot the huge man a loaded glare, but he said, “I mean, yes, we both want you to hear our story.”

“Yeah?” Boggs demanded, sensing that the moment for a good brawl was passing. “And what if we don’t?”

Gaist’s eyes locked on the boy.

Boggs froze in that black-diamond stare. Sweat beaded on his brow as he tried to meet it, but he couldn’t hold the gaze for long. “Yeah, all right,” he said, sitting down.

As if on cue, every other child in the street dropped to the street or clambered atop one of the barrels and crates scattered about the alley.

“Now,” said Heraldin. “How many of you have heard the tale of a Goblin who befriended a Dwarf?”

The children’s confused stares were ambiguous.

“None of you, right? You shouldn’t have. I own the exclusive rights to—ow!” The bard shot the weaponsmaster a dirty glare and rubbed his elbow.

“A Dwarf chummin’ with a Gobbo? That’d never happen!” protested Boggs. “Who’d want a Goblin for a friend?”

“Anyone wise!” said the bard. “Goblins are famously loyal creatures. A Goblin’s heart is brave, and they’ll do anything for their friends even when they’re misunderstood or underappreciated—which is almost always the case. Like a good beer—ow! I mean, like a good tea cake, they make almost any day better.”

“But a Dwarf?” protested a child. “Liked a Goblin?”

“It’s true. They became the very best of friends.”

“Really?” said Scubgar.

“Oh yes. It’s part of the tale of the Troll and the Elf who fell in love.”

“Ew!” said Thardu, but she scooted closer to the bard.

“Is that true?” asked Belnitha, casting a sidelong glance at Throg.

“Every word of it. We saw it ourselves,” said Heraldin. “And it all started when a particularly brave Goblin lost his family, but still found the courage to befriend a curmudgeonly Dwarf…”

Epilogue

“Crag will smash you!” the Troll growled. Thick cords of muscles rippled under his shaggy fur, and his wicked teeth gnashed dangerously. “I’m gonna beat you into a paste!”

This display would normally be enough to send any traveler running, but Crag’s captor hardly seemed to notice. Thick, damp arms wrapped around the Troll’s shoulders and held the back of his head, so that he couldn’t reach behind him. His legs scrabbled for purchase on the path, but they were weak after days of being dragged through the woods. “I’ll kill you…” Crag croaked, but much of the strength had left him.

The walking statue said something else in an unfamiliar tongue; the same one it had spoken in when it wandered into Crag’s den days earlier. The Troll had originally tried to extort treasure from the strange rocks. When robbery failed, Crag tried to intimidate the sculpture into leaving. It didn’t react at all, save to repeat itself in its strange tongue with infuriating patience. When Crag finally lost his own and threw a punch, the sculpture casually let him shatter the bones of his hands against its face before it grappled him in an iron hold. The Troll had been on a forced march since, despite struggling with all of his strength.

“Athor?” a voice called out from the trees ahead. “Athor, is that you?”

Crag looked up as the sculpture spoke again. He had been hauled to a strange archway of Myrewood brambles and white dogwood. In the center of it, a strange man with spiraling tattoos stood smiling up at the Troll.

The insolence of the man brought Crag’s fury back. “Crag will grind your bones!”

The man considered him thoughtfully, stroking his long, braided beard as he did so. “Perhaps,” he said. “Let him go, Athor. Uh, rilyanethe.”

The sculpture’s hold on Crag released, and the Troll dropped to the ground. He was back on his feet immediately, though his exhausted legs buckled and confusion roiled his thoughts. “Run! I’ll kill you!” he roared. “I’m a Troll!”

“So am I,” said the man. “And I am a Sten, as are you. My name is Thane.”

“I... I’m a Troll!” Crag reiterated, in case Thane had not heard him. When the Sten didn’t react, he added, “You should run. People are scared of Trolls.”