The Outlaw stares at us, eyes wide with shock, and we stare back with eyes even wider. The difference is stark and readily apparent, for our weapons are drawn while his are not.


    Silence stretches out between us, its long reach brushing against all our souls as we stand in the dry streambed. Nobody dares flex muscles nor utter words, the fragile quiet all that stands between us and a sudden storm of violence. Each passing thump of the heart''s hammer is a chance to study our newfound opponent for another moment more, opportunities I would be fool to waste.


    The Outlaw stands still, his leather-skinned arms laden by collected deadfall, as his beastly eyes narrow and trace across Bear, Sticks, and I. Just as I study him, he studies us with a wicked, animal cunning more fitting for a monster than a man.


    He''s skinny, much too skinny for a man full grown. Shallow, festering wounds cover what skin can be seen through the ragged remains of tunic and trousers. His feet are bare with gnarled, claw-like toenails exposed to the world. He''s gone hungry and now stands at the verge of starvation, his only saving grace the rabbit in the pot.


    A rusted axe dangles from a crude rope-tied belt, its rotting haft snapped in two. He''s taller than all save Bear, but his advantage in reach is lessened by his weapon''s lacking length. He bears no hint towards any manner of shield, meaning he either wields his axe with two hands or he needs his off-hand free to use a kunna—a form of mastery over an aspect of the world.


    Regardless, his hands have no influence in the opening moves, for he''ll need to drop his lumber load to draw his weapon. That''ll give us the best chance we''ll get to wound him, which he must surely be savvy to. So, how will he prevent us from wounding him?


    Realization strikes as the Outlaw''s muscles twitch and the Hound of Hel lets loose his fateful call.


    In the span of a handful of heartbeats, three things happen back-to-back. The Outlaw hurls the dead-fall, I strike it from the air, and Sticks returns the favor with a throw of his own.


    Sticks'' green-glowing spear whistles in flight while the Outlaw desperately twists to the side. Sharp iron parts weak flesh and sinks deep, the Outlaw gasping in surprise and pain as a pierced-through trouser-leg turns a deep dark red. He grunts while drawing axe, his yellowed eyes focusing on the sudden intrusion of Bear and I inside his personal space.


    Bear lets loose a fearsome battle-cry, the world shaking with his furious bellow as long legs carry him forth. He swiftly outpaces my charge as his shield''s rim dives towards the Outlaw''s chest in a display of amber ordstirr.


    The Outlaw jerks away only for the leg-lodged spear to catch on the stream-bed''s root-ridden walls. Amber-strengthened shield crushes through hunger-weakened rib cage, knocking the Outlaw back and into the earthen surface. Blood sprays from around shattered bones and chest-filling shield as Bear lifts his sax; just as the Outlaw lifts his head.


    Sickly yellow ordstirr flashes as the Outlaw''s empty hand flicks down. Bear cries out in surprise, shield-lacking arms wheeling as the earth opens up beneath his feet. Not nearly enough to swallow him whole, no, but plenty to engulf his feet and force him to the ground.


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    Bear falls and I take his place, the Outlaw''s eyes widening in surprise. The Outlaw having a moment''s rest? Not on my watch!


    I swing, my sax carving through empty air as the Outlaw ducks down and growls. Surprise slips my lips as he pushes off the wall, skinny arms held wide as he tackles me to the ground.


    My back strikes earth as the chest-lodged shield knocks the wind from my stomach. Pain rattles through my body, a sickening squelch filling the air as the rim drives too deep. I keep my grip on my own shield, though, which stops a following axe from finding a home in my flesh. Blocking-shivers ride through my arm as the tell-tale crack of breaking iron fills the air.


    Enraged by his weapon''s failure, the Outlaw bares his beastly fangs as he scrambles to get a grip on my own shield. Fingers flash around the edge only for my sax to leave them little more than stumps before the monstrous man presses his full weight against my shield.


    I bear my shield and grit my teeth, the weight of a fully grown though hunger-starved man difficult to resist as gnashing teeth grow ever-closer to my face. Thick slobber flings free, wetting my cheeks as the stink of nid fills the air.


    D-did he just fucking spit on me? A sudden surge of anger fuels my beating heart; this insult cannot be allowed to stand.


    Wrath breaks free from my mouth in a wicked, throat-shredding scream. Crimson ordstirr collects at my knee as I whip my shield to the side. The Outlaw dives, aiming for my exposed throat, only to catch my shield in the side of the jaw.


    He staggers and I explode into motion. Leaping to my feet, my crimson-clad knee swings up like a lumberjack readying his axe as momentum adds ample force to my strike.


    Grapes don''t grow very well in Norway, the climate is much too cold for them to flourish. Still, Dad was determined to find a way to make it so—wine, after all, is his favorite drink. He''s always been great with plants, my Dad is, and so he now is the proud owner of a teeny tiny vineyard.


    The grapes are quite small and have a certain bitterness to them, but its enough to make a few bottles of wine with. Of course, when making the wine, the first step is to crush the grapes.


    I''ve never had a chance to try out my Knee-Groin Trick and so I''ve always figured that it would probably be pretty similar to crushing grapes.


    Turns out, I was right.


    A certain pair of sickening squelches fills the air as Bear and Stick both cross their legs, eyes wide with a horror exceeded only by the pain behind the Outlaw''s gaze.


    He stumbles back, legs shaking and tears welling in his eyes, but I''m far from done.


    My leg continues its motion as my knee gently taps against my chest. I kick and my heart''s flames surge, exploding out and lending my leg great force as booted foot finds rawhide-wrapped shield-rim.


    The Outlaw gurgles as he finds his spine replaced by a shield''s wooden surface. He falls to his knees, stump-laden hands pawing uselessly at his chest, but falls limp as my sax finds a home in his head.


    I give him a couple more blows to make certain he''s dead. He doesn''t get to have dignity in death, not after fucking spitting on me, the bastard son of a dog-fathered whore!


    "You, uh," Sticks says, releasing tension on his bowstring, "you doing okay, Halla?"


    "Bastard spat on me," I grunt, kicking the corpse as Bear silently reaches for his shield.


    He freezes as wood snaps, his face falling alongside the broken remains of his shield. He sighs, scowls, and joins me in my kicking.


    Sticks blinks and looks between Bear and I before shrugging and joining in.


    We don''t leave much of a corpse behind.