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Rawl spent the rest of the afternoon after being ordered by Borst to find the boy and his goblin, gathering his men and seeking out the tracker Fenris. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across Sablewood’s winding streets as Rawl found himself outside a dingy tavern. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stench of stale ale and unwashed bodies that wafted from the open door.
Inside, hunched over a grimy table, sat Fenris. The tracker’s once-keen eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, his hand wrapped around a tankard of cheap ale. Rawl’s lip curled in distaste. He had never liked Fenris, but the man’s skills were unmatched when it came to tracking prey across any terrain.
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