Mist caressed the moors. Crawl­ing along the bruise-black heather, deposit­ing gen­tle dew­drops on the count­less twist­ed stems. It kissed the still faces of stag­nant pools, stroked every dip and dell, and spilled wet fin­gers into the shad­owed crevass­es of glacial ravines. It groped, inva­sive, into the trench­es dug by human hands.

“Shite’s cold,” said a man, hunch­ing his ranger’s cloak against the creep­ing mist. Icy dew dripped from the flat bill of his helm and min­gling with snot. He squat­ted in a dugout off the trench, pressed near a round, mea­ger stove. A dinged gun­spring across his knees. 

“Here, Seg,” said anoth­er. He picked a steam­ing cop­per pot off the stove and prof­fered it in mit­tened hands.

“Blimey, New­cas­tle” said Seg, try­ing it. “D’y­ou strain this through your socks?”

“It’s the water, mate. Full of some­thing,” said New­cas­tle.

Seg stared into the cloudy tea, gri­maced, and took anoth­er mouth­ful. Some­where near­by, a bugle cut the dull air. A . Seg peered out of the dugout, over the rough edge of the trench. Stalks of heather were sil­hou­et­ted against the low, grey sky. He squint­ed, frowned.

“What d’y­ou reck­on that was?” said Seg.

“Patrol to Dun Derthe get­ting back.”

Seg made a grim sort of grunt, put the tea down. “Don’t envy those lads. Reports were a bloody night­mare.”

New­cas­tle wiped a drop of snot and snort­ed. “Did­n’t read ’em. What was the mat­ter?”

There was a short clank. Seg had opened the breach of his gun­spring, was squint­ing at the bolt sled. “The folk had quit burnin’ their dead,” he said, idly twist­ing the catch. “Tied ’em to stakes to keep the rag­wretch­es out, like guard dogs.” He squint­ed down the sights, adjust­ed them. “Stench was ter­ri­ble. Peo­ple were los­ing their minds.”

“Hey!”

A grey mouse had scur­ried into the dugout. A trail of bro­ken mist swirled behind her. She peered fear­ful­ly from under a deep hood, clutched a pis­tol gun­spring in pink paws. “Hey! Get wary, lads. The patrol’s back with com­pa­ny.” She scam­pered off, cloak flap­ping.

Out­side the trench, a ruckus grew. Shouts cut through the dead, wet air, lift­ed from neigh­bor­ing for­ti­fi­ca­tions. Boots thumped on oak­en planks and slapped into mud. The dis­tinct click and hair­spring-slith­er of prim­ing gun­springs whis­pered all about. 

To the East, not far off, anoth­er com­mo­tion was grow­ing: A thun­der­ing of feet. A high, massed cry of croak­ing voic­es. A ter­ri­ble rhythm of drums stretched from human hides. 

New­castle’s eye bugged. He lunged for his weapon. “In the day­time?” he said, duck­ing out of the dugout. Seg fol­lowed.

They stuck their heads just above the crawl­ing mist. All around them, hood­ed sil­hou­ettes were ris­ing, too, nestling weapons on the lip-boards of trench­es. Seg did the same, tuck­ing his elbows into the moist and mossy soil, cra­dled his weapon, steady. 

Past the gun­spring sights, dark things shift­ed in the mist. A line of thin and crooked fig­ures writhed over the back­drop of low hills, indis­tinct. Seg thumbed the primer, and the weapon’s springs went taut. 

“Hold steady!” called a Sergeant two trench­es behind.

The shapes in the mist began to resolve, draw­ing clos­er. Spindly horns showed over leer­ing masks carved from wood and pelvis­es. Voic­es could be heard over the mass, shreik­ing for flesh and mur­der.

“Rangers, pick tar­gets!” said the Sergeant. Seg squint­ed, slowed his breath­ing.

Beside Seg, New­cas­tle gasped and point­ed: A shape broke from the mist, larg­er than the oth­ers. It loped on long, mus­cled thews wrapped in raw hides, waved a half sawmill blade above meter-long horns. Upon each of those spikes of bone was skew­ered an eye­less, skinned head. 

“Well, slap me thrice and hand me to my mum,” mum­bled Seg. He pulled his aim to the mon­ster. 

“Free vol­ley!” called the Sergeant.

There was a massed, over­lap­ping crack of steel. Bal­lis­tic nee­dles cut waver­ing lines through the murk. Seg’s weapon snapped and whirred six times, sabot-bits scat­ter­ing the ground before him with every rac­ing shot. Twist­ed fig­ures jerked and fell mid-run, spin­ning down into the heather. The mill blade-wav­ing fiend screamed, enraged, but kept its pace.

“Ready arms!” said the Sergeant. 

A slith­er of rustling blades filled the trench­es. Seg dropped the gun­spring and drew a stout and heavy side­sword.

“Good luck, mate,” said New­cas­tle, elbow­ing his com­rade.

“Same to you,” said Seg, eyes locked on the giant wretch’s glint­ing pits of eyes. The thing met his gaze and bared its jagged rows of teeth—a smile. Seg sneered, crouch­ing, ready to spring.

“Charge!”

They did.

* * *

The Ranger’s boots crunched with every step, crush­ing frozen stems. She clutched a navy-blue ranger’s cloak  tight with red­dened fin­gers. A scab­bard poked neath the cloth, wob­bling as she walked. Clouds of breath float­ed behind her, dis­si­pat­ing over the stark and moor­land.

The ranger stopped to sur­vey the undu­lat­ing, rocky plain. Great, low waves of mist rolled from the east, dis­ap­peared in the yel­low burn of a low, West­ern sun. Not a struc­ture could be seen, save for the car­cass of an ancient tow­er on some far­away hill.

“Ah, stuff me.” She wrin­kled her frost-nipped nose. “Give me left foot for a cup­pa.” She kicked at a mound of sod and trudged on. 

Some time lat­er, the sun had near­ly set. The ground lay obscured by low mist made opaque by light’s low angle. A cop­per moon already hung above the scar­let hori­zon.

With a huff, the ranger knelt by a rare spin­ney of squat shrubs. She began strip­ping one for kin­dling. Dry twigs crack­led and snapped like pop­ping fin­gers. Some­where near­by, some­thing else rus­tled.

The Ranger shot upright. “Who’s there?” she said, spew­ing steam.

“Oi, par­don me,” said the rustling, not far behind.

The ranger spun about, stared at a hunched, lit­tle fig­ure bun­dled under a hood and heavy furs. It car­ried a stained bun­dle over one shoul­der, looked down at the soil. “Did­n’t mean to star­tle you,” it said, voice bro­ken, weak: An old wom­an’s.

“Oh,” said the Ranger, slow­ly releas­ing her hilt.

“I’m Gre­tle. Live just over the hill, the old tow­er.”

“Kirst Pow­ell, of Charholm; Ward Ranger, Sec­ond Class,” said Pow­ell.

“You look awful cold, Dear. Come and warm up, aye? Have a bit of tea,” said Gre­tle.

Pow­ell hes­i­tat­ed, look­ing up at the ruin-topped hill. She sti­fled a shiv­er. “Well, if you don’t mind.”

Gre­tle ges­tured bid­ding­ly with a rab­bit-fur mitt and tot­tled towards the tow­er. Pow­ell fol­lowed.

On the hill­top, a wrecked half-cylin­der of stone rose from the stone, crum­bled and eat­en by lichen and mistle­toe. A thin rib­bon of smoke curled from a low, pile-stone hut built in its cen­ter. Gre­tle dis­ap­peared through the knot-whorled door, then called out.

“Leave your sword out­side, Dear. It shan’t fit.”

Pow­ell shiv­ered as she lift­ed the cov­ered longsword from neath her cloak. Buck­les clinked. She set it beside the door and ducked inside. 

“Mind your head,” said the hunched woman. The hut was smoky, clut­tered, hung with count­less plants, skins, and ropes of herbs. A clus­ter of ooz­ing can­dle butts stuck to a low table lit the place. “Sit,” said Gre­tle, pok­ing the embers of a clay fire­place.

“You’re alone, here?” asked Pow­ell, curl­ing her legs at the table. She looked to a grey wolf’s skin pegged to the wall through its emp­ty eye­sholes. She sniffed. The smoky air smelt of ren­der­ing meat.

“Aye, I man­age,” said Gre­tle, set­ting down a clay mug. Her clubbed fin­ger­nails were stained with green. “Are you a cun­ning-woman?” she asked, tak­ing the mug. It smelled of mint and sage.

“Oh, no,” said Gre­tle, rub­bing her nose beneath her con­ceal­ing hood. She sat oppo­site the ranger, eyes glim­mer­ing in her shawl. “I’ve ways, but no real art.”

She looked at Pow­ell, tilt­ed her head. “Nev­er mind me. What’s a Dear like you doing on the win­ter moors?”

“I’m a Ranger,” said Pow­ell, tug­ging the man­tle of her cloak. A crest was embroi­dered there in dark thread; a fir cone set on a shield.

A wide smile gleamed under Gretle’s shawl. “And Ranger girls wan­der the moors alone with naught but a sword and a mouth­ful of curs­es?”

“No. I got lost. We were look­ing for dene­holes, and a storm came up,” said Pow­ell. She held the tea, clutched the warmth. “Don’t you know of the Ward Rangers?” 

“Of course. ‘Fast is the shield against night,’ ” recit­ed the old voice.

“That’s the mot­to,” nod­ded the Ranger.

“Wise woods­folk and sol­diers, keep­ing fairies, beast­men, and rag­wretch­es at bay.”

Pow­ell grinned, wry. “Admit­ted­ly, I’m not such a wise one, yet. Got lost in just a lit­tle flur­ry,” she smiled, looked seri­ous. “My thanks for bring­ing me in, Mas­ter Gre­tle. I wish I might repay you.”

“Oh, but you might, yet,” said Gre­tle, eyes gleam­ing, large, under the dirty shawl. 

“Oh?”

“You said it your­self, dear. ‘My left foot for a roof and a cup­pa.’ ”

Silence for a moment. The fire crack­ling behind Gre­tle. Pow­ell’s eyes bugged, fixed on the large, black-gummed teeth grin­ning in the dark shawl.

A log popped in the fire, and Gre­tle leapt, short claws grasp­ing. Her hood and shawl fell away, reveal­ing bat-ears and a blunt, fat-nosed face. The Ranger lashed out, kicked the table into the lung­ing fairy-crea­ture.

Pow­ell rose, scram­bled from the fairy hole. Claws grasped at her depart­ing boot heels. She dashed out into the dark and the cold, whipped the sword from where it lay. The scab­bard flew off and land­ed amidst the ruins. 

From the hut charged Gre­tle, ears pulled back, black eyes reflect­ing red spots of moon. She cir­cled the Ranger, hiss­ing at the bared steel. She lunged, roar­ing, far faster than her stub­by legs belied.

Steel flashed in the crim­son moon­light. The trol­l’s roar ceased, cut by a wet spat­ter and a hiss. With a scream, the crea­ture bolt­ed, trail­ing smoke, steam, and hideous curs­es.

Pant­i­ng, Pow­ell looked down: A wide ear lay on the heather, thawed the frozen sod with a trick­le of smok­ing, black gore.

Ward Rangers

North­east of Fir­lund, along­side the yawn­ing sea, there stretch­es a range of vast and oth­er­world­ly fens. Few civ­i­lized folk abide on these cold and evil plains, for they are awash with the mist of the Oth­er­world. They are the domain of all manor of fairy and mon­ster. They are the Moors So Sere, and they are no home to Human­i­ty.

If left alone, a slow and preda­to­ry wave would sub­sume the good realm of the Firls. Every hill would be a troll­hole. Every mistle­tree a leer­ing älf’s perch. Every cra­dle a rag­man’s feed trough.

But a hardy force keeps the Oth­er at bay: The Ward Rangers. They are the cun­ning step of the hunter; the burn­ing steel fléchette. They are civ­i­liza­tion’s shield against night. 

Though the Crown has not been at war for two score years, it has sup­plied and for­ti­fied a bit­ter front for more than two cen­turies. This front is the effort of the Rangers, a defense against the encroach­ing Oth­er.

Though the Rangers are a mil­i­tary orga­ni­za­tion, they are sep­a­rate from Fir­lund’s army. They are spe­cial forces, trained to a high degree in the ways of patrolling and guard­ing the moors and clad in sig­na­ture man­tled cloaks to demark their sta­tus. Recruits are select­ed not only from the Firl­ish armed forced but from the ranks of pri­vate secu­ri­ty forces and for­eign armies. The net must be cast wide, for such a role, for sign­ing on is no small deci­sion, and many soldiers—given the choice—would risk life as a cut­ter before broach­ing the Moors.

Mul­ti­ple lay­ers of defens­es are held across the moor­land front. The first is the army’s own North­ern line of fortress­es, where­in Rangers and sol­diers sta­tion and oper­ate togeth­er. These forts serve as sup­ply and mus­ter­ing grounds for fur­ther Ranger lines. The sec­ond line is a broad, many-league swathe of neu­tral­ized ground, upon which Ranger lodges are con­struct­ed. These lands are civ­il enough, and many good folk make their lives with­in them, guard­ed by fre­quent Ranger patrols. The final line, where the mist of the Oth­er swirls unabat­ed, resem­bles a lit­er­al front against the wilder­ness. Rangers keep trench­es and for­ti­fi­ca­tions here, play a slow and dead­ly tug of war with mon­strous oppo­nents.

Rangers hold ground against a spo­radic and cun­ning ene­my, one well at home in oth­er­wise dif­fi­cult ter­rain. The mon­sters they face are mul­ti­far­i­ous, wicked beings.

Ragwretches

All rangers know a sin­gle wretch to be dead­ly as any human com­bat­ant. In a group, the red-eyed beasts make a mani­a­cal and vora­cious host.

On the moors, rag­wretch­es grow to unusu­al size and strength. A plen­ti­ful diet of human flesh makes even the skin­ni­est scrap of a wretch into a mon­ster of vil­lage-devour­ing pro­por­tions. A blood­ed rag­wretch is big­ger, stronger; pos­sessed of mas­sive horns and an inap­pro­pri­ate num­ber of teeth.

As the impres­sive heads of hordes, giant wretch­es lead offen­sives on Rangers lines, greater than any force out­side of the Under­world. 

The Mist

On some days, a pall of weird mist flows from the wilder­lands to the North and East. It is the spoor of the unknown, a sign the Oth­er­world is press­ing near.

Where the mist creeps, the ene­my is strong. Rangers take this vapor as sign of a job yet to be done. Every meter of ground sat­u­rat­ed with the stuff is a meter to be claimed and bro­ken, to be owned by the world of humankind, rather than the Oth­er. 

Where the mist is ban­ished, the Ward Rangers have won, claimed anoth­er vic­to­ry for a world slow­ly encroached by a realm which would con­sume it.

Notes

This is super out of date. While Ward Rangers are def­i­nite­ly a thing, going for­ward, this needs a rewrite to lend them nuance, prob­a­bly relat­ing to their pro­pa­gan­dis­tic roll in grow­ing Firl­ish patri­o­tism and the exis­ten­tial case it uses to hid its dan­ger­ous nation­al­ist real­i­ty.

Trolls? I don’t know about trolls.

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