The Hidden Highways

Chapter 1: The Hidden Highways

The sun hovered above the vast expanse of the grasslands, casting a soft amber light across the swaying sea of high grass. To the east, the jagged teeth of snow-capped mountains pierced the sky, standing sentinel over the world below. To the west, a dense ocean of forest loomed, dark and endless, whispering secrets only the wild dared share. In between stretched the plains, open and untamed, a place few ventured without purpose. It was here that two figures moved like shadows, two barbarian brothers in their prime, cutting across the landscape with uncanny speed and precision.

Knickon and Gren, sons of Kurikás, chieftain of Bilzark, were no ordinary travelers. At 21 winters, they were in the full bloom of strength—muscular, swift, and tempered by years of experience in the wilds. They had the appearance of men carved from stone, their bodies hardened by the jungle, their expressions grim and resolute. They moved like predators—silent, deliberate, each step measured. Men of action, men of few words, they had little use for the complexities of civilization. The wild was their home, and they carried it with them wherever they went.

Knickon carried his double-bladed war axe, a weapon as familiar to him as his own breath, while Gren’s greatsword rested easily across his back. The brothers were bound not only by blood but by a lifetime of battle and shared purpose. They had hunted, fought, and survived together through every season, every storm, and every threat. Now, they ran—swift and sure, following the secret paths only the gifted could sense, the Hidden Highways and Byways.

Travelers of the Wild

Their father, Kurikás, had taught them this skill long ago. Traveling the Hidden Highways was more than just knowing a shortcut—it was about moving with the land, slipping through the unseen currents that only those truly attuned to nature could perceive. It made the brothers faster than men had any right to be, as if the plains themselves bent to their will, clearing obstacles from their path.

As they ran, the brothers felt everything—the change in the wind, the faint scent of rain carried from the mountains, the rustle of small creatures hiding in the grass. They knew the rhythms of the earth, could sense things most men never noticed: the shifts in weather, the migrations of animals, the pulse of life beneath the soil. They were gifted animal handlers, able to read a beast’s intentions with a glance and calm the most skittish creature with a whisper. It was as if the wilderness itself had taken them in as its own.

But today, they had a destination beyond the wilds. They were making for Halsbeth, a city that crouched at the edge of the mountains like a wolf at rest. They needed to trade—the pelts they had gathered, the trinkets they had forged, the stories they carried. The brothers didn’t care much for the townsfolk or the noise, but the mead was good, and coin was coin. The journey across the plains was long, but with the Hidden Highways under their feet, they would cover it faster than most.

Knickon shot a glance at his brother as they ran, his war axe bouncing lightly on his back. “Almost there,” he grunted.

Gren nodded, his blue eyes scanning the horizon. "Rain, tomorrow," he muttered, more to himself than to Knickon. He could smell it in the wind.

Knickon grinned—a rare thing. "Good. Maybe we’ll get a fight too."

And they did.

As the sun began to dip below the forest line, shadows stretched long across the grasslands. The brothers slowed, senses prickling. It started with a change in the air—a tension, a faint shift in the silence, like a breath held too long. They could feel it without words: something was stalking them.

Gren touched the hilt of his greatsword, his fingers brushing the leather-wrapped grip. "Predators," he whispered.

Knickon nodded, his grin returning. "About time."

They didn’t run. They stopped. Every muscle coiled, ready for the coming storm. The brothers had learned from the beasts of the jungle that sometimes the best way to deal with a stalker was to turn the tables—to stop running, to become the hunter.

Knickon hefted his war axe, feeling the familiar weight settle in his hands. Their Fury stirred, a gift from their god Bahmm, the lord of chaos and battle. They both murmured a prayer under their breath, offering the upcoming fight to Bahmm, as they had done countless times before.

The brothers turned, back to back, waiting. The grass rustled around them, the high blades swaying unnaturally. Something moved—fast and low.

And then they came.

Out of the tall grass burst eight monstrous creatures, their feathers bristling, talons gleaming, and wicked beaks snapping hungrily. Axebeaks—savage, flightless birds as large as horses, with the speed of wolves and the temperament of starving predators. Their eyes burned with wild fury, and their shrieks echoed across the plains like war cries.

The brothers moved as one, instinct honed by years of fighting together. The first axebeak lunged at Gren, its powerful legs driving it forward with terrifying speed. Gren sidestepped, his greatsword flashing in the dying light. The blade bit deep into the bird’s flank, sending it crashing into the grass in a spray of blood and feathers.

Knickon swung his war axe in a wide arc, meeting two axebeaks head-on. The first fell in a single blow, its skull split cleanly in two. The second lunged at his legs, claws slashing. Knickon twisted, narrowly avoiding the strike, and brought his axe down in a brutal chop that sheared through the bird’s spine.

Gren grunted as an axebeak’s beak clamped down on his shoulder, its talons raking across his side. He roared, twisting with the pain, and drove his greatsword up into the bird’s chest. The creature shrieked, black blood spilling over Gren’s arms as he shoved the lifeless body aside.

The brothers fought like a storm—a whirlwind of steel and fury. They took minor blows—scratches, bruises, shallow cuts—but it only fueled their rage. Knickon’s axe whirled through the air, severing limbs and crushing bones, while Gren’s greatsword danced, swift and deadly, slicing through feathers and flesh with ease.

An axebeak lunged at Knickon’s throat, its claws digging into his arm. He grunted in pain but didn’t falter. With a roar, he swung his axe upward, splitting the bird from throat to crown.

Gren spun, parrying a vicious peck aimed at his head. His greatsword arced downward, cleaving the axebeak’s neck in a single, fluid motion. Blood soaked the grass, and the surviving axebeaks hesitated, realizing too late that they had hunted the wrong prey.

Knickon panted, wiping blood from his brow. He glanced at Gren, who was already catching his breath. The remaining axebeaks fled into the tall grass, shrieking in fear.

For a moment, the brothers stood in silence, surrounded by the bodies of their fallen foes. Then Knickon chuckled. “Food.”

Gren grinned, wiping his greatsword on the grass. "Good chicken."

The brothers set to work, gutting and cleaning the axebeaks with practiced efficiency. They stripped the birds of their pelts and trophied the beaks, knowing they would fetch good coin at Halsbeth. They stacked wood and built a large fire, the flames crackling warmly as night settled over the plains.

They skewered the meat on long sticks and roasted it over the fire. The smell of roasting meat filled the air, making their mouths water. They ate until they could eat no more, tearing into the roasted flesh with the same ferocity they had fought with. When they were done, they leaned back, satisfied and heavy with food, watching the fire crackle and pop.

"That’ll do," Knickon muttered, patting his stomach.

Gren nodded. "Coin for drink in Halsbeth."

The fire burned low as the brothers stretched out on the grass, the night wrapping them in its quiet embrace. They slept soundly beneath the stars, the warmth of the fire and the satisfaction of victory keeping them safe.

Just before dawn, they woke without words. The camp was left as it was, nothing but ashes and bones to mark their passing. They slung their weapons over their shoulders, adjusted their packs, and resumed their journey, the Hidden Highways carrying them forward once more.

The city of Halsbeth awaited.Chapter 2: The Tower in the Woods

The brothers ran, tireless and swift, their legs churning through the high grass as the noon sun beat down on the endless plains. Knickon and Gren had traveled this way many times before, and they knew how to outlast the sun's fury. The hot wind blew dust into their faces, and the tall blades of grass whipped at their arms and legs, but they did not falter. Their breath came evenly, their pace unbroken, like wolves on a hunt.

The land stretched on endlessly, a vast expanse of gold beneath the clear blue sky. As the day wore on, the brothers ran through the peak heat of noon and into the hours when the first clouds rolled in from the mountains.

By mid-afternoon, the sky cracked open with rain, but the brothers did not slow. The sudden downpour cooled the sweat on their skin and left their clothes clinging to their muscular bodies. The rain soaked the grasslands, making the earth soft beneath their feet. They ran through it all, feeling alive in the wild, every drop of rain, every gust of wind, every scent carried on the air, filling them with purpose.

By the time the sun began its slow descent toward the western forest, the brothers neared the dark edge of the woods. The tall grass gave way to patches of wildflowers and bramble, and the towering silhouettes of pine trees stretched into the darkening sky, their needles whispering in the breeze.

Here, the world changed. The wide openness of the plains was left behind, and the air thickened with new scents—scents that only wild men like Knickon and Gren could fully decipher. As the brothers slowed their pace, they sniffed the air.

"Alive," Gren muttered.

Knickon grunted his agreement. This forest was full of life. They could smell it in every breeze that blew through the pines—the sharp scent of furred predators, the musk of hidden reptiles, the faint sweetness of birds roosting high in the branches, and the sour tang of rotting carcasses deep in the undergrowth. But there was something more—something unnatural riding the wind. Smoke.

Gren sniffed the air again. "Not forest fire."

Knickon nodded. "Cooking fire." His voice was low, gravelly, like the rumble of distant thunder.

The brothers exchanged a glance, reading each other’s thoughts as they always did. Someone was in these woods. It wasn’t uncommon to find travelers or hunters camping out, but the scent was strange—faint, but purposeful, as if it didn’t belong.

Knickon adjusted the straps on his pack, his sharp green eyes scanning the trees ahead. Their path led straight into the woods. There was no choice but to continue on.

The brothers slipped into the forest without a sound, the pines closing in around them like the walls of a great green fortress. The air grew cooler under the canopy, and the soft bed of needles muffled their footsteps. Small animals scattered in their wake, rustling the underbrush.

They traveled for miles through the forest, their senses alert and sharp. They crossed small streams, cold and clear, and climbed rolling hills, winding through the landscape with the ease of seasoned trackers. All the while, the scent of smoke grew stronger, pulling them deeper into the woods.

The deeper they went, the more the brothers felt the forest change. It wasn’t just the scent of cooking fire—it was something else, something ancient and hidden. The trees grew closer together, and the air felt heavier, like a storm waiting to break. The brothers slowed, their senses prickling with unease.

"Magic," Gren whispered, his hand brushing the hilt of his greatsword.

Knickon’s lips curled into a scowl. Sorcery. They both felt it, humming through the roots beneath their feet, hanging in the air like mist. They hated magic. It was a thing of towns and towers, of strange men with strange powers—things that didn’t belong in the wild.

"Let's leave," Knickon muttered.

Gren nodded. Sorcery never meant anything good.

They turned to leave, but then they heard it—a cry, sharp and high-pitched, cutting through the silence of the forest like a knife. A woman’s scream.

The brothers froze, their keen eyes scanning the shadows. The scream came again, closer now, filled with terror.

Gren looked at Knickon. No words were needed. They would find out what was happening. They couldn’t ignore a cry for help.

The brothers moved through the forest like wraiths, their bodies low to the ground, slipping through the underbrush with perfect stealth. Not a twig snapped beneath their feet, not a branch stirred as they passed. They tracked the source of the scream with the precision of hunters, following the scent of smoke, the hum of magic, and the rising tension in the air.

After a few minutes, they reached the top of a small rise, and there it was—a three-story stone and wooden tower, standing alone in the heart of the forest. The structure was old and weathered, its stones dark with moss, its wooden beams warped with age. It looked out of place, as if it had been dropped into the forest by some unseen hand.

From the tower’s windows, faint tendrils of smoke drifted, carrying the scent of roasting meat and old herbs. But the brothers knew better. This wasn’t just any cooking fire. They could smell the magic mixed with it, a strange, metallic scent that set their teeth on edge.

"That’s it," Gren whispered. His blue eyes scanned the tower, taking in the details.

Knickon grunted. Everything pointed to this place—the smells, the magic, the scream.

And as if to confirm their suspicions, another scream tore through the forest, high and desperate. A woman’s voice, coming from somewhere inside the tower.

"Trouble," Knickon muttered, his hand tightening on the haft of his war axe.

"Could be a trap," Gren said quietly.

"Don’t care," Knickon replied with a grim smile.

Gren grinned back. Trouble was something they were good at.

The brothers crouched at the edge of the tree line, hidden in the shadows, studying the tower with the same focus they used to track prey through the jungle. The hum of magic surrounded the place, faint but undeniable. It made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up.

"We go in," Knickon said. His tone was final.

Gren nodded. There was no fear in his eyes, only determination. They would find out what was happening inside the tower—whether it was a trap, a sorcerer’s game, or something worse.

They moved silently from the edge of the trees, their bodies low, slipping through the underbrush like panthers stalking prey. As they approached the base of the tower, the scent of magic grew stronger, mixed with the smell of roasting meat. The brothers exchanged a glance—something unnatural was waiting inside.

Just as they reached the foot of the tower, the scream came again—louder this time, filled with panic and pain.

Knickon and Gren looked at each other one last time. There was no turning back.

And then, without a word, they moved toward the tower, their footsteps as silent as the wind. The forest closed in behind them, the shadows deepening as the sun sank below the horizon.

Whatever waited inside the tower, they were ready.

The woman’s scream echoed once more, sharp and desperate, as the brothers slipped into the shadows of the tower, ready to face whatever lay within.

The Tower in the Woods.