Fortifying the Pass of Worr Croa

Druk steps out of the storage room and leaves the counted loot to Roggo. The cave air gives way to hard daylight, white on the stone threshold.

He lifts a broad hand to shield his eyes and judges the sun against the jagged peaks. Midday still, with enough light for work.

Behind him, Roggo settles the locked purse box onto the marked shelf, careful and satisfied.

Wind rolls across the bowl below, carrying the smell of turned earth. Far off, the Thruhhul chanting drifts over the ridges like a slow drum.

Druk leaves the bright threshold behind and heads down to the lower cells, boots dull on the worn stone. The midday glare fades to torchlight and damp echo.

Bruk sits inside the barred cell with his bound limbs drawn close, head lifting as Druk stops at the iron door.

Druk crouches by the bars and lays a careful hand over the worst of the bruising. A warm spell threads through the cell, easing the swelling and drying the blood at Bruk’s temple.

Bruk rolls his shoulder, testing the relief, and looks through the bars with a wary, grudging respect.

Druk lets the warning hang in the damp air, his hand resting on the bars as Bruk finishes rolling his shoulder.

Bruk gives a small, rough laugh, then nods once toward the corridor beyond the cell.

Bruk studies Druk through the bars, then slowly sets one hand flat against his own chest in a small oath of attention.

He glances toward the corridor, thinking it through, and the roughness leaves his face a little.

The torchlight shivers over the damp stone while Bruk gives a careful nod, already carrying the weight of the task.

Bruk leans closer to the bars, thinking aloud now, his voice low and practical.

He glances to the torch, then back to Druk, a faint, dry respect settling in his posture.

He straightens from the bars and taps two fingers to his chest, then points toward the corridor, already measuring the path ahead.

A serving ogre appears at the cell stair with a covered tray, and Bruk’s nostrils flare at the smell of broth and bread.

Outside the stairwell, the cave’s torchline shivers in the draft, and the deep passage toward the yard waits in the dimming light.

Druk takes the tray from the serving ogre and sets it on the stair ledge, clearing space between the cell and the corridor.

Bruk lifts the bread, eats fast, and nods once as if sealing the terms with his jaw.

Druk answers with a short set of cues, the north pass, the cairns, and the angle of approach. Bruk repeats them back without error.

The serving ogre lowers the tray and waits, while Bruk turns toward the stair with a steadier stance, already moving into the role.

Bruk swallows the last bite, then points with two thick fingers toward the stair and the dark above, tracing the route like a map in the air.

He taps the tray once, then the cell bars, a simple count of food, rest, and departure.

Bruk lowers his hand from the stair and straightens inside the cell, chewing once, then swallowing the last of the meal. The tray sits untouched on the ledge, and the torchlight shivers across the bars.

He shifts his weight to the wall, readying himself to rise, his gaze fixed on Druk and the dark stair beyond.

Druk answers with a low, clipped order, and Bruk’s chin lifts at once. The cell feels smaller around the decision, with torchlight twitching over wet stone and iron bars.

He steps closer to the bars, voice steady now, making the route sound like a drill he has already memorized.

The tray on the ledge gives off a thin steam, untouched now, while Bruk angles his body toward the stair as if he has already chosen the march.

Druk gives the signal, and the cell block starts moving. A guard snaps the stair door open wider while boots thud above, carrying the order outward.

Roggo appears on the landing, one hand already on a rolled tally strip. He points once toward the corridor, then back at the cells, measuring the work in his head.

Bruk shifts to the bars, calm and ready, while the untouched tray remains on the ledge beside the torch smoke.

The lower cells settle into purposeful motion, one man waiting, one man organizing, and the stair above filling with fresh footsteps.

Druk turns from the bars and strips off the travel dust with a damp rag, working fast across his neck, chest, and arms before the march.

He hauls on his black armor, then reaches for the heavy crossbow and the hardier kit set aside for giant country.

Leather straps cinch tight over red cloth. The weapon settles into place, ready for a longer throw and a harder impact.

Bruk stays at the cell mouth, steady and waiting, while Roggo marks the last items on his strip and starts for the landing.

Above them, boots shift again on the stair, and the departure order spills into the corridor.