The winter dawn broke over Eldermere like a reluctant promise, the sky a bruised gray streaked with pale pink where the sun clawed its way above the horizon. Frost clung to every surface—blades of grass rimed white and brittle underfoot, the rooftops of the barracks dusted as if by a careless baker's hand. The air bit sharp and unrelenting, carrying the metallic tang of impending snow, the kind that promised to blanket the world in silence and chill. Breath plumed in thick clouds from the mouths of the one hundred five militia men assembled in the yard, their boots stamping against the frozen ground to ward off the numbness creeping into toes and fingers. The cold seeped through cloaks and gambesons, a insidious thief that sapped warmth and resolve alike.
But the Tenebrae brothers and their squads were no strangers to hardship. Jeffrey and Harold moved among the ranks before departure, their hands glowing faintly with the soft blue light of everyday maintenance magic—simple spells drawn from household lore, adapted for the field. "Hold still," Jeffrey murmured to a shivering recruit, pressing his palm to the man's chest. A warmth bloomed outward, like sinking into a sun-heated bath, radiating through limbs and warding off the frost's grip. The magic wasn't flashy—no crackling arcs or dramatic flares—but practical: it steadied heartbeats, kept blood flowing freely, prevented frostbite on exposed skin. Harold followed, weaving wards into cloaks that hummed subtly, repelling the worst of the wind's bite and turning snowflakes to harmless mist before they could soak through fabric.
"Feels like Mother's hearth in a bottle," one man grunted, flexing his fingers as the chill retreated.
Roland, at the head of the column, raised his fist. His voice cut through the crisp air like a blade through silk: "Forward!" The roar that followed was mighty, a collective bellow that shook snow from nearby branches, echoing across the frozen fields. Boots thudded in unison, the ground vibrating under the march, crunching through the thin crust of ice that had formed overnight. Shields clanked softly against backs, swords rattled in scabbards, and the faint hum of the wards created a low, comforting buzz that mingled with the men's breaths and the distant caw of crows wheeling overhead.
The path to the quarries led northwest, skirting the edges of Eldermere's expanded fields—now barren and snow-dusted, the stubble of harvested wheat poking through like frozen whiskers. The wind howled intermittently, whipping flurries of snow that stung exposed cheeks and swirled around legs like playful spirits. Eyes peeled open, every man scanned the landscape: the brothers had drilled vigilance into them. Chris, marching at the left flank, spotted the first anomaly—a broken twig on a low bush, snapped at an unnatural angle. "Watch the sides," he called softly, voice carrying just far enough. Tom, with his archer's keen sight, noted faint impressions in the snow—small, clawed prints, clustered like a pack had passed recently.
As they pressed on, the signs of kobold traffic multiplied, turning the march into a tense hunt. The quarries loomed in the distance: vast pits carved into rocky hillsides, their edges jagged and snow-capped, the air around them heavy with the lingering scent of quarried stone—dusty and mineral, like crushed gravel mixed with the cold. But closer now, the brothers saw the infestation's marks: scattered bones of small animals picked clean and discarded near burrow entrances, faint wisps of acrid smoke from hidden fires within the tunnels, and the telltale scratches on boulders—claw marks in sets of four, deep enough to gouge the rock.
"Traps ahead," Sam whispered, halting the column with a raised hand. The first was obvious to trained eyes: a thin tripwire of sinew strung low across the path, camouflaged with snow and leaves, connected to a crude mechanism of sharpened stakes hidden in a shallow pit. The wire hummed faintly when disturbed, the snow around it unnaturally smooth. Jeffrey knelt, his magic probing like invisible fingers— a soft glow revealed the tension in the line. "Simple spring-trap," he said. "Cut here." A quick slice with a knife, and the wire went slack, the stakes collapsing harmlessly.
Over the course of half a day, they dismantled dozens more. The sun climbed higher, its weak light glinting off the snow, but the cold persisted, nipping at noses despite the wards. Traps varied: some were pits covered with brittle branches and dusted snow, the edges giving away by the unnatural flatness; others were snares of looped vines rigged to yank victims upward, baited with shiny trinkets that kobolds loved—bits of quartz or rusted nails pilfered from quarry tools. The brothers' squads worked methodically: scouts like Marek Voss from the new sergeants spotting the anomalies—the slight depression in snow, the misplaced pebble—then disarming with knives and spells. The air filled with the soft snaps of released tension, the crunch of branches pulled aside, the occasional curse when a trap nearly sprang. Sweat beaded under armor despite the chill, mixing with the earthy scent of disturbed soil.
By midday, they reached the quarry proper: a massive excavation, tiers of stone steps descending into a bowl of gray granite veined with quartz, the walls pockmarked with abandoned tools frozen in place—picks half-buried in snow, chisels rusted from disuse. The air here was heavier, laced with the damp, musty odor of underground tunnels and the faint, sour stink of kobold dens— a mix of unwashed fur, rotten meat, and the acrid bite of their oily secretions. Tracks crisscrossed the snow: small, three-toed prints with claw marks, leading into narrow fissures and burrows dug into the quarry walls.
The eradication began quietly. The first den was a shallow burrow near the upper rim—ten kobolds inside, their yips echoing as the squads surrounded the entrance. Roland signaled; Chris and Tom loosed arrows into the dark, the shafts whistling before thudding into flesh with wet impacts. The survivors charged out: scrawny creatures, three feet tall, with mottled brown-gray scales rough as tree bark, long snouts snapping like feral dogs, red-rimmed eyes gleaming with malice. Their horns curled back like ram's, sharp and yellowed; tails lashed as they scrambled on all fours, claws scraping stone. The fight was swift—swords cleaved through thin necks, spears pinning writhing bodies. Ten down, blood steaming in the snow, a coppery tang rising to mix with the cold.
They pressed deeper. The tally climbed: thirty-seven by afternoon, in an open skirmish outside a larger burrow. Kobolds swarmed from the shadows, yipping in high-pitched barks that echoed off the quarry walls like demented laughter. They fought dirty—darting low to slash at legs with claws that tore leather like paper, flinging small, poison-tipped darts that whistled through the air and left burning welts where they grazed skin. One kobold leaped onto a recruit's back, its snout burying into the man's shoulder with a crunch of teeth on flesh; Matthew's knife flashed, gutting it mid-bite, hot entrails spilling in a steaming pile. Roland's shield bashed another's skull with a crack like breaking pottery; Chris's sword took two in one sweep, scales parting with a wet rip. The snow churned to red slush, the air thick with the guttural hisses of dying beasts and the metallic reek of spilled blood.
Most fights unfolded in the narrow passages—claustrophobic tunnels barely wide enough for two men abreast, the walls rough-hewn stone slick with condensation and kobold musk, the air stale and heavy, pressing like a weight on the chest. Lanterns cast flickering shadows that danced like living things, the light glinting off dripping water that plinked steadily, echoing in the confined space. Here, long swords were useless; the brothers switched to knives—short, wicked blades that gleamed coldly—and magic. Jeffrey's wards flared in bursts of blue light, illuminating scuttling forms: kobolds lunging from alcoves, their beady eyes reflecting the glow like rubies in coal, snouts wrinkled in snarls that revealed jagged teeth yellowed from gnawing bones.
In one tunnel, the tally hit seventy-one. The passage twisted downward, the floor uneven with loose gravel that crunched under boots, the ceiling low enough to force crouches. Kobolds ambushed in waves—first a scout, its tail whipping as it darted forward with a poisoned shank, met by Harold's knife slashing across its throat in a spray of dark blood that splattered the walls like ink. More followed: packs of five or six, claws scraping stone with a nails-on-slate screech, yips building to a frenzied chorus that reverberated painfully in the ears. Sam's knife work was brutal—stabbing upward into underbellies, the blade sinking with a squelch through soft scales, guts spilling hot and viscous over his hands. Tom's short bow, adapted for close quarters, twanged arrows into eyes at point-blank, the impacts popping like bursting fruit. Magic turned the tide: Jeffrey hurled bursts of force that cracked kobold skulls against walls with dull thuds; Harold's wards deflected darts that clattered harmlessly to the ground.
The death toll climbed relentlessly—eighty, ninety, over a hundred as they cleared den after den. In the deepest chamber, a warren of interconnected burrows reeking of filth and fear, the final stand came: forty kobolds defending a hoard of shiny baubles—stolen tools, quartz chunks, even a militia helm dented and bloodied. The fight was chaos in the dim light: kobolds swarming like rats, biting at ankles with snaps that drew blood, claws raking arms with burning scratches. Roland's knife danced—thrust, parry, slash—felling three in a blur, their bodies crumpling with gurgles. Chris bashed one with his shield's edge, the crack of its spine echoing; Matthew's youth lent him speed, dodging a lunge to bury his blade in a throat. Magic lit the scene in flashes: blue wards exploding outward, sending kobolds flying into walls with meaty impacts, bones shattering.
By dusk, the quarry fell silent. The tally stood at two hundred and twelve kobolds eradicated—their twisted bodies piled in the open pits, the air thick with the coppery reek of blood and the foul odor of spilled entrails. The brothers' squads, panting and blood-smeared, set to harvesting: knives slicing into chests to extract magic cores—small, pulsating orbs of dim green light, slick with ichor and humming faintly like trapped insects. Scales were peeled in ragged sheets, rough and oily to the touch; claws and teeth bagged for tools or trade, their sharpness tested against thumbs; hides rolled despite the stench, useful for leather if cured properly. The work was grim, hands sticky with gore that chilled in the winter air, the snow around them trampled to a red slurry that froze in patches.
With hours left in the day, they marched back—covered in kobold blood that crusted dark and flaky on armor and skin, the metallic tang clinging to nostrils, the weight of exhaustion pulling at limbs. The wind howled colder now, snow flurries dancing like ghosts, but the wards held, a faint warmth pulsing against the encroaching night. The barracks lights beckoned ahead, a promise of hot meals and rest earned in blood.