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Drakwald shoved the dead man aside and began to continue on his way. He glanced around at the surrounding cliffs warily, muttering darkly. That man had demanded payment for passage of the road.

Drakwald had reminded the man that the Burning Way was a free path. Forcibly reminded him.

For this warrior was a massive bear of a man, towering at seven feet high, two hundred pounds of solid muscle and armoured in all-encasing plate mail armour, painted blue and gray. He had a helm, shaped into the form of a daemon skull, painted bone-white. Beneath his unassuming brown traveler's cloak was a vast iron sword, easily the height of most men and half their width.

He heard a faint scuffling of leather from above on the cliffs. He froze, dropping into a combat-ready crouch, glaring at the cliff tops, waiting and watching for movement.

As if on cue, numerous heads - and crossbows, of course - appeared at the cliff top, firing at the lone man below.

At least a dozen of the foul bandits, Drakwald estimated as he tried to dodge the deadly quarrels - no easy task for a man in plate mail, which weighed in at nearly seventy-five pounds itself.

Suddenly, without any form of warning whatsoever, a number of them disappeared into the brush far above, and the rate of fire raining down at him decreased exponentially. There were several snaps, as though a man were snapping twigs, from the area where the others had vanished.

A body plummeted to the earth directly in front of Drakwald, although if it were by coincidence or design was any man's to guess.

It was a bandit, that much was assured. Dressed in armour fashioned from cured deer hide, pierced with hundreds of metal studs, and wrapped in an old, ragged black cloak, this man was not a civilised person.

His neck was broken. That was obvious as soon as Drakwald saw the corpse. His head lolled brokenly on his neck.

Even if that hadn't killed him, the fall most certainly would have. Seeing as to how he did not see anything up above, he wondered what had killed the man.

And then it struck him that there were no more bandits firing at him. They were all either dead or they were fleeing.

Drakwald glanced at the now-silent cliffs.

And wondered.

* * *

Lupus leapt gracefully down the rocky slopes, guided instinctually over the crumbling cliff. He glanced about, noting the body that he had accidently let drop into the road. Clumsy. Very clumsy.

He was a tall, lean Phelgon, widely considered handsome amongst his own kind. He had dark gray fur, a black Mohican style mane over the top of his skull, along with a handful of golden rings in his left ear. His green eyes were sharp, but often glinted with good humour. He was dressed in a battered leather vest, numerous metal plates sewn onto it, along with a loincloth attached to a pair of equally battered thigh guards. He carried an axe and a sword hooked onto the rough piece of rope that served him as a belt, as well as a pouch that contained his most precious item - a weapon of some power known as the Eye of Night, a throwing star. He had acquired the dangerous artifact from a street vendor in the slums of Vranek's capitol city, Blackwater. That had been an interesting trip. Sneaking into the most fortified city in the world, which just-so-happened to be the capitol of the most pro-human and anti-other nation in the world. Purely lovely.

Irregardless, he was getting distracted. He had to go check on that human. He continued down the cliff face, ducking into the brush at the side of the road, watching this strange fellow travelling down the road. Heavy armour, large blade, wary posture. This was obviously a warrior-kin; there was no doubt about it. He stepped into the road.

"Hail, manling!"

Drakwald came to a halt, eying the odd-looking Phelgon in front of him. He immediately brought the ancient blade into a guard position, watching the creature intently for any signs of hostile movement.

"What do you want, wolf?"

"Easy with the insults now. I did just save your arse, you know." Lupus remained utterly unperturbed. "Anyway. I am Lupus, manling. What of yourself?"

"My name is my own."

"Ah, one of those angry types, are you? Well, I'm sure we'll find a use for you, assuming you can handle yourself in combat."

"What do you mean, find a use for me?"

"Come with me, and I'll be glad to show you, manling." He was still utterly calm, the smug creature.

"Why in the Nine Hells should I trust you?" Drakwald glared at his opposite impatiently.

"Are we talking apart from the fact that I saved you from a horrible death? It's getting tedious, having to return to that subject repeatedly."

"Well why do you want me, then?"

"We're recruiting." This simple phrase came with the hint of a smirk.

"And just who is "we"?" Drakwald frowned, his patience being worn thin by the endless riddles.

"Let's just say we're a group of friends, alright?"

"Does this group of friends have a name?"

Lupus hesitated for a moment before answering. "We call ourselves the Companions of the Nine Axes. That is all you need to know as of right now. Now come on, we don't want to be late."

"Well where exactly are we going, then?"

"You'll see soon enough."