“Argh! What the fuck!?” Rumlar yelled out, dropping Falka’s limp body to the floor, “who the fuck did that!”


    Grasping his right shoulder where he had just been stabbed, the mercenary spun around to face his assailant, swinging his sword in a wide arc.


    “Clang!” the clear sound of steel on steel resounded throughout the inn. Rumlar’s blow was veered off course, the blade flying out of his hands. It lodged itself in a nearby table, nearly chopping off a distracted mercenary’s finger.


    “Behave yourself you dumb mongrel,” said the newly arrived fighter, sheathing his saber, “the Duke allowed us to take any resources we required for our task, but people aren’t –resources-. She refused your advances, you should have left it at that. Now pack up, we’re going.”


    He wore a full set of armor as black as night. His head was entirely covered by an intricately ornate helm, on the sides of which protruded two curved ebony horns. The metal was engraved with various patterns and designs, many of which represented the more powerful species of creatures that roamed the land. The golden hilt of the saber hanging at his waist had been expertly forged, and the cross-guard had been shaped into a large feline pouncing on its prey. The hilt was tightly wrapped with straps of fine leather, and an enormous ruby had been inset in the pommel. The sheath had been carved out of rosewood, and a gold filigree, made to look like a halberd and a glaive behind a shield that bore a roaring lion’s head – the insignia of Willdoak, had been inlayed on its sides. He was two heads shorter and half as wide as Rumlar, yet the latter’s blow had been deflected as if he were swatting away a fly. The fiery look of his eyes was his only visible facial feature.


    As the masked fighter turned around to leave, the vice-captain laid a hand on his shoulder.


    “B-but captain”, stammered Rumlar, “she used magic, she burned me, sh-sh-she….”


    “Shut your whore mouth!” the armored warrior yelled. In a flash, the tip of his sword found the underside of the larger man’s chin, nicking his skin. Blood started to trickle down his neck, “But this, but that, I don’t give a fuck! You’re a member of the Blackspear mercenaries for fuck’s sake, act like it! I don’t want no fucking excuse. Pack your stuff and get ready to leave!”


    Taken aback by their captain’s sudden outburst of anger, the rest of the men and women were too dumbfounded to react. Every single member of the troop was staring wide-eyed at their leader, not too sure what to do.


    “…That’s an ORDER!” he shouted after looking at their puzzled expressions, “what the fuck are you staring at me for huh?! Get moving!”


    Recovering from their initial shock, the mercenaries slowly picked up their belongings and made their way towards the entrance. Rumlar followed close behind, looking embarrassingly at the floor.


    “Man, the captain’s such a killjoy…” groaned one with a dejected tone.


    “Shhh, don’t want the big boss to hear you,” his neighbour hushed him, signaling him to lower his tone, “don’t wanna end up like Vana. Heard she saw hell when cap’n took her away last time she stepped out of line. Poor thing hasn’t spoken a word since. Last time I saw her she had this look, ya know’, kinda like a dead fish.”


    The captain stood, chin up, glaring at his troops while they moved out. He had an intimidating air about him, despite his small stature. His subordinates avoided eye contact, preferring to look straight ahead, rather than to face his stare. One by one, they passed through the doorway. Only when Rumlar, who was the last to leave, was out of sight, did the captain move.


    “Ahhhhhhhh, so tiring,” he sighed, hanging his head and letting his arms drop to his sides in exasperation. He sheathed his blade. “I swear, the only way to make those dogs listen is by getting mad.”


    Taking off his right gauntlet, the mercenary captain walked towards Falka’s listless form. His hand was rough and scarred, yet strangely delicate. Thick calluses, marks of swordsmanship, lined the insides of his fingers. Kneeling down near an unconscious Falka, he hovered his hand near her lips, feeling for her breath.


    “Ah, she’s still alive,” the captain said softly, with hint of dissatisfaction, “that thick-headed Rumlar is fortunate. He gets to keep his bollocks this time around.”


    A creaking sound made him about-face. The innkeeper, dragging his wounded arm behind him, had managed to crawl behind the captain.


    “Uh, urk, e-excuse me?” murmured Oshwald, pushing himself onto a nearby chair with his remaining hand. His voice was coarse and his face pale. In the ruckus, he had managed to sneak away and fabricate an improvised tourniquet from a wooden spoon and a dirty rag. His stump was still bleeding, but the flow had slowed down. He held the injured limb above his head to let gravity do its work. Blood trickled down his right arm, staining the sleeves of his tunic, “t-thanks for your help, I’m Oswald. I own this place.”


    “Think nothing of it,” replied the armored man, “rather, I apologize for my men’s unsightly behaviour”


    He stood up, and walked towards the suffering Ohsmald.


    “Usually, I would not give you a dime,” the captain continued, “seeing as we are employed by the Duke, and have been allowed to take what we require from his subjects. But we’ve done you great injury, both to your family and your inn”.


    The warrior unhooked out a hefty pouch from his belt, and nonchalantly tossed it at Ohsmald’s feet. It hit the floor with a resounding crunch – the pleasant sound of coins.


    “This is a meager compensation, but please accept it. Now let me see that arm.”


    Taking off his remaining gauntlet, he gently lifted Ohsmald’s stump with one hand, and lightly brushed the exposed flesh with the other.


    “O-y-yowch!” the innkeeper exclaimed in pain.


    “Stay still,” admonished the captain.


    A soothing light emanated from his fingers. Little white tendrils reached out of the glow and plunged into the wound. Ohsmald stared with incredulity as tiny bright strings mended muscle, skin and bone. The tourniquet, now loose, fell to the ground. After a short while, only a purple star shaped scar remained.


    “I’m sorry I could not do anything about your missing hand,” said the captain apologetically, “but reattachment is beyond me. I’ve done all I could. No harm has come to your daughter, and she should awaken soon enough. I must leave now and regroup with my men before they cause any more trouble for your town.”


    Pushing himself back to his feet, the captain put back his gauntlets made his way towards the exit. Though the wooden floor was old and creaky, his metal grieves did not make a sound as he stepped past the seated innkeeper.


    “A-Ah!” exclaimed Ohsmald, reaching out to grab the captain’s wrist his remaining hand, “i-it wouldn’t be too much to ask for your face and name would it?”


    “Oh, how rude of me,” the captain answered, “my mind was so preoccupied I forgot to introduce myself!”


    Slowly, the warrior reached into the lower back of his helmet, and undid the clasps holding it to his head. The leather bands hung loosely. He removed the helmet gently. Lowering it, he let it rest between his arm and waist.


    Ohsmald’s jaw fell as he gawked in disbelief.


    “A-a woman!?”


    Free from the helmet, her long flowing deep blue hair fell effortlessly over her shoulders and reached down past her midriff. She had a heart shaped face and soft features. Her skin was pale and without a single blemish. Brushing away a stray strand of hair, she fluttered her eyelashes for a moment before looking back as the innkeeper. Her almond shaped eyes were wide and bright blue, set below fine, well-trimmed eyebrows. Her pouty lips were dry and cracked from the cold, and had lost much of their color – “Yet,” though Ohsmald, “they take nothing away from her beauty...”


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    “I am Avah of Willdoak, daughter of Count Jeremy of Willdoak and heiress to the county of the same name,” she stated formally, placing a fist over her chest, “I’ve been charged by the Duke of Belnar, in the wake of the Southern Uprising, to find and subjugate any that may threaten his rule.”


    At the mention of her title, the innkeeper’s eyes opened wide.


    “A noble? In my establishment! Ha!” Ohsmald exclaimed with a smile, lowering his head as best he could in his seated posture, “Never thought I’d see the day. Your presence honors us. I’ve heard great things about your father. A just and fair ruler, no doubt.”


    Ohsmald straightened himself back in his chair.


    “But, the Southern Uprising, eh?” he continued quizzically, “I’ve nothin’ but rumours about it. Rotten rumours at that. Say the rebels ‘ave been dabbling in some foul arcane whatsamajig. Not anything an innkeeper such as myself would know much about. But hell, we’re so far north, and it’s the middle of the damned winter! What kind of danger could possibly reach us up here? Of course, if you don’t mind me asking…eh…milady?”


    “I don’t know myself,” answered Avah, “but the Duke of Belnar insisted that I assemble a respectable amount of men and patrol the duchy in his stead. I doubt this fear is nothing more than the ramblings of a senile and paranoid old man. Even so, I am his subject, and I must comply.”


    Avah donned her helmet once again and redid its clasps. She walked towards the door.


    “Now please excuse me,” she said turning back, standing in the doorframe. “I must be going. Good night, innkeeper.”


    “Yes, good night, milady. I wish you safe travel.”


    Avah stepped out into the winter night. The door slammed shut behind her. The inn was silent once again.


    Ohsmald sighed, looking dejectedly at his scarred stump.


    “How am I going to work without a right hand?” he spoke to no one in particular, “good thing I’m left handed…”


    Feeling around his stomach, he found that the pain from Rumlar’s kick had faded. He bent down to pick up the purse that Avah had given him. Pushing himself off the chair, he staggered to the counter, and held himself up with his remaining hand. He dropped the purse onto the counter.


    Ohsmald’s severed right hand was still lying on the ground, hidden underneath the shadow of a table. The innkeeper stared and pondered for a second, before walking up to it and pushing it out into the open with his foot. He placed himself so that his detached member was between him and the fire.


    “Hup!” he kicked the hand into the flames. The fire flared up for a second, then settled down. The smell of burning flesh started to fill the inn.


    “Well, at least it smells better than those mercenaries, heh,” joked Ohsmald.


    He made his way towards his unconscious daughter. After struggling to get both his arms underneath her, a frustrated Ohsmald unceremoniously grabbed her with his left arm and tossed her over his shoulder.


    “Sorry dear,” he grumbled while walking to the back room and up the stairs, “kinda hard to get my hands under you when I’ve only got one.”


    After laying Falka down on a bed above, Ohsmald made his way back down, bringing with him a moist towel. He got down on all fours and started cleaning away the bloodstains – his bloodstains, from the hardwood planks.


    “Clunk!” the familiar sound of a mug hitting wood drew his attention back to the counter.


    The cloaked man was still sitting there, and had just laid down a mug previously filled with ale next to four others.


    “You’re still here? Thought you had run off when them brutes came in. Skinny and dirty as you are, I’d have thought you would be the type to run off at the first sign of trouble. Guess you’ve got more balls than that, eh?” said Ohsmald, shifting his gaze towards the five empty mugs lined up on the counter, “and looks like you’ve had quite a share of drink too.”


    “I can say the same to you,” answered the cloaked man, running a finger around the rim of a mug, “about that first statement that is. Faced with ruthless mercenaries, a severed hand, an unconscious daughter and who knows how much lost food and drink, and yet you are here, nonchalantly cleaning your floor. I helped myself to some of the abandoned drinks. I hope you don’t mind.”


    “This tavern had seen its share of less than reputable guests throughout the years. Seen a lot of weird types like you too. This ain’t the first time I’ve had to deal with party happy soldiers or little too enthusiastic farmers,” Ohsmald shrugged. Looking down, he caught sight of his right arm, “though this is the first time I’ve had lost a hand, ha!”


    He peered back at the row of mugs on the countertop.


    “Bah, and I wasn’t going to get paid for that ale anyways. Not like I can pour it back into the casks. Knock yourself out,” he said, going back to rubbing the hardwood planks.


    “I thank you,” said the cloaked man, standing up and moving towards a flagon of brew resting on a table. He downed it in one go. “I will be leaving now. It would be rude of me to impose upon you any further.”


    “Hmm? Yeah sure sure…” Ohsmald replied, busy wiping the floor, “…hey, wait a second! It’s the middle of…”


    The innkeeper turned only to see the door slam shut.


    “…the night…winter too…”


    A pair of damp boots and socks still laid near the fire.


    * * *


    Back at the Blackspear mercenaries’ camp, south of the town, preparation were being made for a prolonged stay. Stakes were hammered into the snow to establish a perimeter. Tents were raised, fires were lit, and a flagpole bearing the insignia of Belnar was erected in the center of the encampment.


    “How’d it go captain?” asked Rumlar to a silhouette through the canvas. He sat cross-legged in a tent, wrapping bandages around his burned forearms.


    “I think he bought the act,” answered Avah, stepping into the tent. “How are your burns?”


    “Feelin’ much better now. Good thing the girl showed up when she did. Saved me the time of going to get her. Didn’t think she could use magic though,” he said as he put on his gauntlets. The large mercenary winced as the leather rubbed against his wounds. “Ah well, things can’t always go as planned eh?”


    “Good. Time to move on to the next step. Are you men ready?”


    “As ready as they’ll ever be. They’re holed up in a barn in the northern part of town. Had to kill the owners though. Buried them in the snow. With this cold I doubt they’ll find the corpses before spring.”


    “Perfect,” approved the captain, “I’ll be expecting the attack in two days, at dawn. Soon, all of Crusal will be heralding me as their savior.”


    Rumlar stood up as he applied the last of the bandages to his wounds. He then walked up to the tent flap and lifted it as stood in the entrance.


    “I’d better regroup with my men,” he said, turning towards Avah and saluting her. “All glory to House WIlldoak.”


    “All glory to House Willdoak.”