Dink waited among the brush, peering through the cover of leaves to watch. An angry mob of townsfolk gathered outside a lone cottage on the outskirts of the town. At the front of the crowd, a self-appointed preacher stood before them holding a burning torch. Smoke trailed into the sky as the mob cheered in agreement with whatever he had just said, lifting makeshift weapons in support.

  “A plague has befallen the fine folk of Belltoll! Like generations past, this curse can be appeased by offering a virgin sacrifice to the restless spirits of our ancestors. It’s worked every time before, I don’t see why this time should be any different! You’ve all voted and I’m in full support of your choice. I believe tolerating this witch’s presence in Belltoll is what provoked the dead to rise again. Work with me now to deliver her as an offering at the ancestor’s resting place below the town crypt!” the preacher shouted, inciting the violent mob further.

  Men and women alike cheered at his words, rushing forward to surround the cottage. The preacher stepped forward to hurl his burning torch onto its thatched roof. It immediately ignited into flames. More men forced open the closed shutters and tossed lantern oil inside the windows. Dink’s attention was briefly drawn back to the preacher as the man scratched the back of his neck. Dink frowned as he noticed a chunk of flesh peel away under his fingernails before turning back to the ablaze cottage.

  A delicate hand reached out and attempted to wrest one of the shutters closed from the calloused grip of a scruffy townsman. A second townsman rushed over to aid the first, wrenching the window open from the woman’s grasp. They both reached inside and dragged out a petite woman kicking and screaming.

  The men deposited her in a heap at the preacher’s feet. The girl was garbed in a fine cotton dress with scrunched ruffles and she gripped the fabric of her dishevelled clothing to pull up the collar of her dress that had fallen to expose her shoulder. Black ringlets framed a beautiful youthful face pouting up in defiance from her knees at the man standing in front of her.

  Dink’s nose involuntarily twitched, scenting something unpleasant on the wind, briefly distracting him. His face contorted into a sneer, shifting his focus back to the damsel in distress. His eyes drifted down to the bared cleavage of her torn bodice, clasped to her chest was the recognisable badge of the Arcane Academy. He couldn’t make out the symbol for her chosen discipline but he didn’t need to. A white strip of cloth encircled the arm clasping her dress closed to defend her modesty, marking the woman a healer.

  “This is how they treat someone who dedicated their life to mending the ill and lame?” Dink sneered, fury rising within him. Without realising it, Dink was on his feet, no longer hidden among the thicket.

  The townsfolk didn’t notice him, too busy surrounding the pretty healer crumpled on the ground. An ugly old crone, obviously jealous of the girl’s beauty stepped forward to smear horse shit across the girl’s light-blue dress. She then mercilessly spat in the girl’s face through missing teeth. She turned her head away, suppressing a sob, inadvertently making eye contact with the infuriated Dink on the outskirts. Instinctive fear briefly widened her eyes, quickly changing to resignation as green-brown spittle dribbled down her soft cheek.

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  Dink sensed Murkuk arrive next to him without a word. He could feel his master’s bottomless wrath through their bond. The Goblin tribe joined them to stealthily spread out along the treeline, restlessly shifting while awaiting his command.

  “Wait!”

  Just as Dink was on the verge of action, a man came desperately sprinting into view. He barged through the mob and skidded to a stop across the packed dirt road, throwing dust into the air. Dink lifted a hand, motioning for the Goblin horde to wait.

  The young man’s back was turned to the crowd as he shielded the girl with his body. She immediately lost all poise, leaning into his body as tears streamed down her face. The man gently wiped a thumb across her cheek to remove the putrid spittle and tears. He turned to confront the town, pulling the woman closer into his embrace, rage evident on his face.

  “Marcie’s my woman! We are betrothed. We consummated under the moonlight of the Three Sisters last night,” The boy declared, climbing to his feet and dragging the woman up with him.

  “Triston, you doom us all, boy!” A gruff man pushed out of the crowd to strike the youth across his face, splitting his lip.

  “Father, how could you support this? Marcie fixed Granny’s hip after a fall last winter and nursed her back to health. And Granny, you’re even worse!” Triston accused, pointing at the ugly old hag, who then retreated to the back of the crowd in shame.

  “You ignorant, ungrateful brat. Ma’ always said I was too soft on you. It’s time I remedy that right now,” the father roared, unbuckling his belt and prying it from his trousers.

  Whipping the belt across his son’s face, Triston dropped to the ground clutching his face in pain. The man didn’t stop there, his face bright red with fury, spittle flew from his mouth from exertion as he rained down blow after blow. He didn’t stop until the belt slipped from his sweaty palm, a bloody welt forming across his own knuckles while Triston whimpered in a crumpled heap.

  The man’s expression contorted in hate, disgusted by the boy’s impulsive actions dooming the town. He spun and snatched a pitchfork from one of the townsfolk next to him.

  “No!” Marcie screeched, clutching at Triston’s father in an attempt to stop him.

  He ruthlessly shoved her aside and plunged the pitchfork into the crumpled boy’s exposed stomach. Triston screamed in agony, curling into the fetal position. His father clutched at his chest, releasing the handle to stumble backward, suffering a sudden heart attack from the heightened stress.

  Marcie’s face turned all business as she stood back up to wrench the pitchfork from Triston’s midsection, quickly crouching down beside him. Dink felt the familiar tingle on the nape of his neck as magic gathered nearby. Marcie laid her hands over Triston’s abdomen and got to work. Her hands were illuminated with swirling energy, mana flowing into the gaping wounds. Flesh instantly began to knit together under her direction, saving her lover’s life.

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