《The Maid Of Doldery(Berserk x YS)》


 Chapter 1

    "Pride¨Csuch stifling pride.


    Festering from within, rooting deep into the soul, clouding judgment...breeding delusion.


    Behold where it has led you, my errant child, lost and tottering on the precipice.


    Do you find solace in the thought of withering, forgotten and forsaken, a mere footnote in the annals of eternity? ¨CAnother life you shall not receive.


    I, who unleashed the deluge and spoke existence into being, my wrath is boundless, my power infinite, my mercy unmatched, and my love for you unending.


    I, the architect of creation, the shaper of destinies. My will the heartbeat of the cosmos, my breath the whisper that stirs the winds.


    I, who set the stars in their orbits, who called forth light from the void and breathed life into dust. My hands shaped the mountains, my whispers stirred the oceans.


    I, the architect of all you see and of all that lies beyond. Under my gaze, the firmament quakes, the seraphim sing their exaltations; eternal, unending, and the wicked tremble with fear in their hearts.


    I, the Alpha, the Omega, the beginning, and the end. Every knee shall bow, every tongue shall confess. You are no exception. Your defiance is but a fleeting shadow against the radiance of my eternal light.


    ¡­why then do you resist what I have ordained?


    You, of brittle pride, are but chaff in the whirlwind of my judgement. My word, sharper than any two-edged sword, slices through your obstinacy, exposing your rebellion. My hand, mightier than any fortress, crushes your futile resistance.


    ¡­why then do you close your eyes to this folly of yours?


    I have known you before you were formed and shall know you at your final breath. My judgment is inescapable, my justice unwavering. The heavens bear witness to my words. Tremble, for my decrees are eternal and immutable. The universe bows to my will, and you, too, shall bow or be broken.


    You dare defy the Lord, the cornerstone upon which all rests. My throne blazes with the brilliance of my righteousness. The cherubim and seraphim, with wings that veil their faces, cry out in endless worship, "Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come!"


    All your deeds, whether good or ill are inscribed in the books that shall be opened, and the lake of fire awaits those whose names are not found in the book of life.


    ¡­why then do you not comprehend the weight of your own hubris?


    My creation, groaning as in the pains of childbirth, yearns for the revelation of the sons of God. Yet you, like the foolish builders of Babel, erect your tower of vanity, striving to reach the heavens by your strength alone¨C your foundation is sand, and great will be your fall!


    I, the true vine, extend an invitation, but you refuse to abide in me. The branches that do not bear fruit are cut off, cast into the fire, and burned.


    I am the good shepherd, who lays down his life for the sheep, yet you stray, seeking your own path through the valley of the shadow of death.


    What is your aversion to me?


    The whirling stars, the radiant nebulae, the drifting galaxies¡ªsigns and wonders that testify to my power, to my providence. Still, you murmur and doubt, fashioning golden calves in your bitter blackened heart.


    Repent!


    Repent!


    Repent, lest you be cast into outer darkness, where there is only weeping and gnashing of teeth.


    I am the potter; you are the clay. Shall the clay say unto the potter, ''What are you making?'' Nay, your purpose is within my hands, your destiny inscribed upon my heart.


    Kneel to me! Not from fear alone, but from the understanding that my grace is sufficient for you. My strength is made perfect in your weakness.


    You cannot hide from my presence; you cannot flee from my Spirit. If you ascend to the heavens, I am there. If you make your bed in Sheol, behold, I am there. My kingdom is not of this world, yet it encompasses all. I am the resurrection and I am the life.


    Do you now see the futility of your pride then? The foolishness of this rebellion, the err of your being?


    I am the vine; you are the branches. Apart from me, you can do nothing and are nothing. Come to me, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your weary soul.


    For my love endures forever, my mercy is new every morning. Your sins are scarlet, but they shall be as white as snow. Your iniquities are many, but my love covers a multitude of sin. The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky proclaims my handiwork. Your place is here, within the fold of my grace, under the shelter of my wings.


    Remember this, child of dust: My will is law, my voice the final command. As I have declared, so it shall be. Bow now, or face the boundless void of my wrath. For I am the eternal, the everlasting, the one true sovereign of all that is, was, and ever shall be. You will know your place before the end, for my dominion is absolute, and my reign is without end.


    My mercy is your only refuge; my love, your only salvation. Return to me, for I will see you redeemed.


    Believe in me, and live, for I am the light of the world, the hope of all Glory."


    ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    Gangly, gap-toothed, and a face fit for muck.


    Yet limbs¨Csurprisingly robust.


    He took in the man''s appearance with a single sweep of his eyes: dirt-caked hands wringing together nervously, the fool had the look of someone who had just crawled out of a pigsty and carried with him the smell to match.


    "Mi'' Lord?" the man stammered, his voice wavering, hands fumbling as if kneading invisible dough.


    ''Lord, huh. Wouldn''t that be nice.'' He mused, lips curling into a sneer.


    He let the silence stretch, enjoying the sight of the yokel wilting under his gaze, sweat beads trickling down the man''s too-long, too-narrow face, making the grime on his forehead glisten like the filth on a pig.


    "Name?" He snapped, deciding the pause had dragged on long enough.


    The peasant''s eyes jittered wildly, mouth flapping like a fish out of water, speech having escaped him. Finally, after an excruciating silence, the man gathered enough of his wits and croaked, "Oh... uh... Arnold, Mi''lord. Arnold of Greenford."


    "Sounds about a name for a rat that forgot how to scurry." He grunted before adding, "And Greenford? Never heard of the shite-hole,", the name lingering on his tongue like something especially rancid. He leaned back, the worn leather of his chair creaking under his weight, eyes drilling into Arnold''s face.


    "We''s a poor village, Mi''lord, up North from Valmont," Arnold mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.


    He nodded, eyes dropping to the man''s hands¡ªrough, calloused, nails chipped and filth-ridden; hands of someone who knew hard labor and little else. His gaze traveled back to Arnold''s face, studying the anxious lines etched into his grimy skin, framed by a mop of unruly, mud-colored hair sticking out every which way like an old beat up broomstick.


    "What makes you think you''re fit for this band, Arnold?" he asked, voice dryer than a bone.


    Arnold swallowed hard, his thin neck constricting visibly as his Adam''s apple bobbed. "I''m strong, sir. Can swing an axe as good as any. My village, they... they don''t need for me no more," he stammered; a slight tremor in his voice.


    "Why ditch your village, Arnold?" he asked, feigning interest.


    Arnold''s mouth opened and closed a few times, as if trying to find the right words. His unremarkable fish like eyes flickered down to the floor, then back up, hurt filling them¨Cgrief as raw and plain as an open wound.


    "Dead, sir. All dead. Plague took ''em. Ain''t¡­ain''t nothing left for me back there," he confessed, his voice cracking.


    "Is that so? My... condolences, " he aired, every word a lie.


    "Thank ye, sir," Arnold replied; face softening slightly.


    He counted out two pieces of silver from a sturdy, nondescript chest and laid them on the table beside a worn parchment tome, its yellowed vellum filled with hundreds of names scrawled in crude, uneven handwriting.


    "Sign here," he said as he pushed the book towards Arnold.


    The quarter-wit stared at its pages, thick bushy brows furrowing, lips moving soundlessly as he wrestled with the unfamiliar symbols on it mocking him.


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    Each stroke of the quill, awkward and uncertain, blotted the parchment below, ink pooling heavily to form a scratchy ''X'' where he was told to mark.


    "A...aye," Arnold mumbled, passing the book back, eyes now on the silver.


    He took the book and, with his own crude handwriting, signed "Arnold of Greenford" next to the scratch mark left behind by the illiterate hayseed.


    "Welcome to the Steel Hounds, Arnold of Greenford. May we live long and be merry!" he cheered, slapping Arnold hard on his shoulders.


    Arnold grinned broadly, his eyes lighting up with a rare spark as he pocketed his silver, his steps light as he went to join the others.


    "Three weeks," the heavy-set man next to him grumbled, voice like shifting gravel.


    Leaning back in his chair, he let a smirk tug at his lips. "Two, Gaspard," he countered, not bothering to look the man''s way.


    "Heh, feeling generous, are we, Gambino?" Gaspard chuckled, moving to usher in the next lackwit from the queue.


    The next one lumbered up, a hulking figure with the unmistakable brawn of a blacksmith''s spawn. Shoulders broader than an ox yoke, hands like hammers, calloused and stained with soot. Yet, despite his bulk, there was a softness in those eyes¡ªa softness that wouldn''t do.


    "Name?" Gambino barked, causing the young man to shrink back.


    "¡­Isaac, sir. Isaac of Redvale," he replied, deep voice quivering.


    Gambino sized him up. "Why do you want to join the Steel Hounds, Isaac?"


    Isaac''s eyes, wide and dull, darted nervously, thick fingers picking at the hem of his brown tunic.


    "Me Pa." He began nervously, "he says there ain''t no future in the forge for me. Says I''m meant for bigger and better things. I want tah prove ''im right," the boy said, unsure of his own drivel as it spewed from his mouth.


    ''What kind of numbskull leaves a steady forge in the middle of thrice damned war? ''¨CGambino wanted to ask but that hardly mattered. The boy; sharp as mud, but a forge hand was not the worst thing to have in a band of killers.


    Gambino nodded, his face a study in stone. "Good, lad. Sign here," he said, pushing the book toward Isaac.


    Isaac took the quill, his large hand timid as he signed a cross mark in light strokes and handed the book back to Gambino, who nodded approvingly.


    "Welcome to the Steel Hounds, Isaac of Redvale," Gambino said, his voice devoid of warmth and glanced back at Gaspard, a silent wager in his eyes.


    Perhaps three, no, maybe four.


    "Next."


    A lad this time, scarcely more than a boy really, strutted forward like one of those Kushanite birds the lords and ladies simply adored for their pretty feathers.


    His hands, soft as a baby''s bottom and nails trimmed neat with a shock of rust-colored hair; meticulously groomed sitting atop his head¨C not a strand out of place. Clad in a finely fitted gambeson and flaunting good solid steel at his side, he held his head high, chin jutting out proudly¡ªthe pompous little toff.


    "Name?" Gambino asked, already feeling the need for a pint.


    "Edmund, third son of Lord Falkner," the boy preened, a slight accent to him as he spoke in common; neither Midlander or Tudor, his words dripping with self-important pomp as if his obscure lineage warranted admiration.


    "And why are you here, Edmund, third son of Lord Falkner?"


    The whelp stayed quiet for a beat then cried, "I seek glory!" making Gambinos eyes do turns inside of his skull.


    "More than glory; I demand to etch my legacy into the very crust of this world with my own two hands. Far beyond the shadows of my father, far beyond that of my brothers!" Edmund finished, chest swelling like a pompous windbag, his rehearsed words carrying with it a caustic bitterness, especially towards the end as he hissed out the last word like some venomous pit viper.


    Gambino raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Glory, eh? You think we dole that out like some trollops crack in an alley, boy?"


    Edmund''s eyes blazed, his cheeks aflame, matching the fiery hue of his hair as he inhaled sharply. "I am not...I am not some coddled noble. I have trained¡ª"


    Gambino cut him off with an exaggerated sigh, uninterested in whatever soliloquy the boy had probably planned. "Yes, yes, very impressive, young Falkner. Now sign here," he said, pushing the leather-bound book towards the whiny squirt.


    The brat scoffed and gave a sour tut before he snatched up the quill, his hand shaking tremulously as he scribbled his name in pretentious script; a grandiose flourish towards to the end of his signature as if he were signing a royal decree.


    "Welcome to the Steel Hounds, young Falkner," Gambino said with little emotion before dismissing the petulant whelp with a wave of his hand.


    Simply amazing that the twit hadn''t been robbed yet¨C Gambino marveled.


    A day or two at most.


    "Next."


    Thick-bearded and weathered by sun and battle with a speckle of salt and pepper in his thinning grey hair. Clad in a blend of plate and well-worn mail, the hilt of his long sword battered from use the bastard had an ugly scar running down one weather-beaten cheek of his.


    "Name?" Gambino grunted, his interest piqued for once.


    "Sir Alaric, Alaric of Windermere," the man replied, his gravelly voice steady and unassuming, yet holding a quiet authority.


    "A knight?" Gambino probed, eyebrow raised.


    "Once," Alaric affirmed, his steady gaze betraying nothing.


    Gambino studied the man for a long moment, trying to piece together his story before finally nodding. "Sign here," he said, shoving the book toward Alaric.


    The hedge knight''s hand was steady as he marked a neat ''X'' where he was told, adding his mark to the ranks of many who wouldn''t live to see the ink on its pages dry.


    "Welcome to the Steel Hounds, Sir Alaric," Gambino said, his tone surprisingly pleasant. He then met Gaspard''s eyes, a knowing look passing between them.


    "Next!"


    A ragged sot.


    Bloodshot eyes and a wobbly gait betraying a night¡ªor perhaps many nights¡ªspent in the embrace of stale ale and stinking piss. His reeking clothes, stained and tattered, hung off him like loose rags that had seen too many years and too few washings.


    "Name?" Gambino asked, his voice promising bodily harm.


    "Bran, sir¡­ just¡­*hic Bran," the drunken oaf slurred, swaying as he fought to stand upright, his breath so foul that it almost made Gambino heave.


    He regarded Bran with murder in his eyes, a look that went lost on the inebriated wretch. "Why are you here, just Bran?"


    Bran hiccupped, a toothless grin splitting his fractured lips. "No coins, sir¡­*hic" He slurred words tangling together.


    Gambino sighed; heavily.


    "Fine then. Welcome aboard!" He grumbled completing the paperwork himself, his quill scratching irritably against the parchment.


    A week, not one more.


    "Next."


    On and on they came, each more desperate or delusional than the last and often a torrid mix of both. There was simply no end to the parade of fools.


    Gambino turned away very few, if any, as long as they knew which end of a spear to stab with and could sit still long enough to catch arrows with their thick skulls, each blot of ink, each scratch of the quill on the ledger, added yet another sorry soul to his motley band of nitwits.


    By mid-afternoon, the sun already hung low. As the line of volunteers finally dwindled to an end, he hauled himself up from his seat, cursing as his stiff joints creaked. He let out a hiss at the pain in his back and the sharp flaring in his ass, blood rushing back into his neglected limbs, causing his legs to tingle with the prickling sensation of pins and needles.


    He arched his back, each vertebra popping like firecrackers, releasing the tension built up from hours of leaning forward, scrutinizing the sorry lot that had shuffled before him. Flexing his fingers, he felt the stiffness in his knuckles and shook out his hands, trying to get some damned life back into his tired limbs.


    Just as he was about to drag himself to camp for some much-needed rest, Gaspard''s voice cut in.


    "Sir, there''s one more." Gambino paused, the hope of a quiet respite slipping away, making him let out a long drawn out sigh.


    "Of course, there is," he muttered, the weight of his own cursed success pressing down on him.


    "Fine, let''s get this over with," he grumbled, sinking back into his seat, bracing for the next desperate wretch to shuffle forward.


    The first thing to strike him were the eyes. Eyes much like his own.


    Two glacial blue orbs, cold enough to freeze hell thrice over, sized him up with the same ruthless scrutiny he gave everyone else. Keen and calculating, they held no warmth or pretense. It felt like staring into a bottomless, frozen lake¡ªa warning to tread cautiously or risk being swallowed whole in its icy depths.


    The second thing that caught his eyes was the hair. Hacked at and ragged, it stuck out in wild, uneven clumps. Patches of straw-like strands jutted at odd angles, like a field left to rot. Some were barely an inch long, while others hung past the earlobe, each yellow tuft with a will of its own.


    Gaunt-faced and hollow-eyed, the boy, if one could call him that, had the look of someone who had weathered more winters than most knew how to count. Yet he couldn''t have scarcely seen past a dozen given how not even a whisker marred his grimy features.


    But what struck Gambino the most was just how¡­ scrawny the thing was¡ª swathed in frayed rags, nothing but skin and bones, like a scarecrow pecked to tatters by scavenging birds after being left too long in the field. His eyes half feral and half starved, giving the boy a certain wildness, like a wolf on the prowl where the timid deer would dare never to tread.


    Gambino glanced at Gaspard, who responded only with a dismissive shrug, then turned back to the boy.


    Without warning, his laughter boomed.


    "Ha... HA! HA! HA!" A harsh, jarring sound that shattered the stillness like brittle glass.


    Gambino doubled over, clutching his sides, each guffaw louder than the last, tears streaming down his face. He laughed and laughed, wiping at his tears; shoulders still shaking, then looked back at the boy, which made him laugh even more.


    "Gaspard, tell the¡­ tell the runt, we are no charity parish here." he said in between fits of mirth, another burst of laughter bubbling up again, Gaspard joining in.


    Both their laughter carried on for a good while, unbothered, before petering out.


    The boy stood still, his face void of so much as a tick, cold grey-blue eyes fixed firmly on Gambino. "Are you daft, boy? I said get lost," Gambino snarled, but the child''s eyes never wavered, unblinking and eerily still.


    He looked over the boy once more. His gaze roving over the frail, emaciated frame. Skin stretched thinly over sharp bones, eyes hollow and shadowed¡ªa look of a wraith barely tethered to this world.


    Gambino leaned back, eyes narrowing as he searched for any shift in the boy. The boy''s demeanor remained steady, skeletal hands creaking as they tightened being the only tell of any movement.


    "Well, aren''t you a creepy little bastard?" Gambino grunted.


    "Gaspard, what do you make of this scrawny piece of shit?"


    Gaspard spat on the ground and sneered, "Ain''t worth pissin'' on if he was on fire, boss. But damn, look at ''im standin'' there, like he owns the place. Might be a mad little fucker, this one."


    Gambino grinned and leaned forward; eyes locked onto the boy''s.


    "Your steel, boy," he barked, gesturing to the hidden object beneath the boy''s filthy rags. "Bring it out."


    Cold eyes met his, an eternity passing between them before the boy slowly revealed a dagger¨C ornate and of quality, its pearly enamelled hilt gleaming even in the dim light¡ªa weapon far too rich for some starving wretch''s too thin blood.


    Gambino leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he examined the dagger. Swirling patterns of gold embossed the hilt, and a crest of some kind had been scratched off, leaving behind jagged scars.


    A petty thief then, he reasoned, but the look in the boy''s eyes suggested otherwise.


    He glanced at Gaspard, who looked equally puzzled. Gambino mulled it over, then decided to probe further deciding to indulge his curiosity this once.


    "What is your name boy?" He asked, his voice; dangerous and low.


    The emaciated whelp looked down at his hands, where the dagger was grasped in frail, thin wrists, tendons stretched taught like a cocked crossbow. His knuckles whitened as he clutched the weapon tighter, the silence thickening like viscous tar.


    Slowly, the boy looked back up, and in a low, husky tone, he rasped, "Rufus."


    Gambino''s eyes roved the boy, studying his face closely, not buying the poor fib.


    "Rufus," he repeated, dragging the name on his tongue. "Where did you come by such a fine piece, Rufus?"


    "It''s mine." Rufus replied, steel in his eyes.


    "Is that so?" Gambino aired; unconvinced, crossing his arms, his gaze boring into the boy''s gaunt face, searching for a crack in his mask.


    "Never mind that. Why are you here, boy?" Gambino pressed.


    The boy stood still for a while, his gaze dropping to the ground as if searching for answers in the dirt. The moments dragged on before finally, he looked up, eyes hardening.


    "¡­I have no other path," he said, voice like iron, strong but brittle.


    Gambino''s eyes narrowed, searching the boy''s face for any hint of deceit. He searched every flicker of movement, every twitch of muscle, but found nothing, those final few words ringing with truth.


    Warm bodies for the meat grinder were aplenty, and not much meat on this scrawny wretch to grind, yet he could make for some decent bonemeal at the very least.


    With a grunt, he passed the worn ledger over to the boy


    Rufus approached slowly; his movements cautious and timid as a hare.


    The ink flowed smoothly onto the parchment, his frail wrists remarkably steady. Neat, flowing letters took shape¡ªsmooth, not one line out of place ¨CWell, ain''t that a nice surprise.


    The elegant script of a scribe, utterly incongruent with the near corpse he was looking at. Sadly, he didn''t have much use for a scribe in this line of work.


    Gambino pried open the chest, the clinking of coins filing the air. Extracting a single silver piece, he sliced it into quarters with his dagger. He placed one segment on the table, its dull sheen catching the boy''s eye.


    The boy squinted at the measly piece of silver, his face scrunching up.


    "Go on," Gambino prodded.


    "I was told it was two silvers each," the boy protested.


    "Two silvers a man," Gambino spat back.


    "And I see no man in front of me. Just a walking talking pile of bones draped in a bunch of rags."


    "...take it or leave it, kid."


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 Chapter 2.

    Blood.


    Piss.


    And shit.


    An unholy trinity that seared the lungs and scorched the throat. Each breath of the vile human soup like sucking down a nasty plague¡ª a stench so nauseating, so gut-wrenchingly putrid, yet maddeningly, not the worst I''ve endured.


    I lay still, eyes half-lidded, breaths coming shallow and silent.


    The corpses around me; cold, their skin clammy and bloated, oozing rancid sticky fluid that colored the mire a deep shade of crimson maroon. Newly hatched maggots wriggled in and out of gaping wounds, their tiny, fat white bodies squirming against my skin, leaving behind trails of viscous slime that burned like acid.


    The ground beneath was slick with gore, a sticky, cloying pink film that clung to the skin, staining it a dirty almost brackish red.


    Flies buzzed in thick swarms, drawn to the feast of rotting flesh and the fetid reek of emptied bowels. Their wings a constant, maddening drone that drilled into my skull.


    They landed on my face, scuttling over my lips and eyes, their tiny cold little feet tickling and their fat round bodies smearing long trails of putrid grime.


    I felt them crawl into my nose, my mouth¨Cmy stomach churning and bile rising up my throat as I fought the urge to retch. Every instinct screamed to swat them away, to claw at the wretched pests buzzing around without so much as a bit of care, but I moved not an inch. For to do so was to die or, worse...


    "Well, lookie here," a man cooed, and my heart seized, an iron fist wrapping around it, squeezing, twisting, wrenching it down down and down into a bottomless pitless abyss where there was only the void.


    "We''ve got a live one, boys." The same slimy voice slithered through the air, sending the feasting carrion birds into a frenzied flight, their wings beating like a thousand frantic drums.


    I dared not move, scarcely breathing, as the shuffle of plate and the clinking of mail grew louder and louder and louder; each step like the strike of a hammer against an anvil on my eardrums¡­ before drawing away¡­petering out.


    "Please, no. Please! NO! NOOOO!" A man was yanked from beneath a pile of carcasses, much like the one I hid under.


    His frenzied, pleading screams rose in a high-pitched wail, much like a pig dragged to slaughter, a desperate, blood-curdling bid for mercy that fell on deaf, uncaring ears.


    "I''ll do anything, please! PLEASE! LET ME GO!" he shrieked, his voice cracking.


    They yanked him to his feet, his limbs thrashing and fumbling uselessly; eyes wide and leaking tears. He kicked and screamed, his gangly limbs flailing wildly, accomplishing nothing but earning a vicious shove that sent him sprawling to the ground.


    He slammed into the slurry of guts and rancid shit, blood and entrails splattering every which way.


    Gasping, he clawed at the warm, congealing muck, snot and tears dribbling down his face mingling with the rest of the filth that smeared it.


    Pitiful sobs escaped him, each one more pathetic than the last, as he was dragged through a torrent of viscera and offal, slick and putrid. He convulsed, retching helplessly, his gagging blending with the squelch of filth around him. His eyes, wide and crazed, darting wildly for an escape that didn''t exist.


    Then came the laughter, always the damned laughter¨Cshrill cackles, each a maddening, callous refrain that gnawed at the edges of ones bones, making the hairs on my arms prickle and rise from some primal tell.


    "Look at this sorry bastard," one of them sneered. "Barely worth the trouble."


    The men gathered around their hapless prey, cackling like a pack of hyenas, their grating, mocking laughter churning the gut from the sheer sadistic glee that laced it.


    They began to toy with him, starting with jeers, then escalating to punches, kicks, and then onto vicious bites of steel. Like a pack of starving wolves, they closed in, each one hungry for a pound of flesh to call their own.


    "Think you can play dead, eh?" one of the men snarled.


    Another blow landed, eliciting a choked gasp from their mewling prey, a sound that reminded me of a whimpering dog.


    "Mercy, please! Have mercy!" he wailed, his voice breaking into fits of sobs.


    A gauntleted fist rocketed into his jaw, pummeling his face and sending teeth flying in a spray of blood and thick drooling saliva. Blood streamed down his face, eyes now swollen shut. He tried to speak through the blood and broken teeth, his voice; absolutely pathetic in how it sounded.


    "Pl... pleeshe... no mor," he cried. "I''ll do anythin''. Anythin'' you want! Jes'' spare me, pleesh! I beg you!"


    "Look at him squirm," one sneered, driving a steel-tipped boot into his ribs, the crack of bones drowned in the man''s scream as his body jerked and spasmed.


    "Pathetic! You and the rest of your fucking hounds," another spat, a thick wad of spit landing on the man''s bloodied and broken face.


    One of them grabbed his mud-caked hair, yanking his head back so he could look into those ugly fishlike eyes of his as he spoke. "You bunch of sorry piss pots thought you could take on the Bloody Hand, did ya? Well too bad. Castle Volkgard is ours, you worthless sacks of shit."


    "Please¡­ plesh¡­ no more¡­ I can''t¡­ jusht please, no more..." he begged, words slurred by shattered teeth, blood dribbling from his mouth.


    "Begging already? We''re just getting started here, aren''t we, boys?" the man aired, which was met by a chorus of sadistic laughter.


    "Hope you enjoyed your last meal, dog" laughed another, kicking him again.


    "Gonna be shitting teeth for weeks from now on when we are done with you¡ª that is if you even make it that long, heh, which you won''t!"


    One of the mercenaries then took a knee beside the man, a steel dagger flashing in his hands "Steel hounds, my ass. All bark, no bite from you sniveling lot." He grunted for all to hear.


    "You mangy mutts need a lesson in proper discipline, I say." He added as he proceeded to grab the man''s hand, yanking the fingers apart.


    "Let''s see you howl for one, dog!" he ordered barring his teeth, flashing the steel in his hands dangerously.


    The pitiful man tried to comply, but only managed a pathetic whimper, which only further spurred on his tormentors.


    "Howl, I said!" The soldier with the dagger snarled.


    "Or are you too much of a sniveling little bitch to even do that?" With a flash, he sliced off several of his dirt caked fingers. Blood spraying in a long arc as the man shrieked, the sound so utterly raw, like flesh being picked from the bone.


    "Louder!" The mercenary said as he stomped on the now severed fingers, grinding them into the mud beneath his heavy boots.


    Seeing no effort from his prey to comply, he rammed the dagger into the man''s palm and began twisting, turning and wrenching it like a rusty corkscrew. "Louder, I said!"


    The man''s screams ripped through the air, a raw, guttural howl that could have come straight from no other place but the burning pits of hell. A sound so brutal and shrill, it seemed to rip at the seams of the world and the very fabric of reality. His voice broke, buckling and splintering into incoherent wails and babbling as his mind finally shattered and unraveled under the torment.


    "Useless dog," one of them sneered, kicking him hard in his broken ribs. "Can''t even take a beating."


    "See if this piss-stains got anything worth a copper on him before he croaks," another muttered, making the sign of the falcon with his palms spread out in a quick prayer.


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    "Better luck that way than looting off the dead." He added, gesturing to the others to rifle through the man''s pockets.


    "Come now, you lot, shake ''im down!" barked another, crouching down next to the groaning man.


    "Eh¡­ worthless," spat one, flinging aside the man''s meager belongings.


    "Fool''s got nothing. Absolutely nothing. Who sends a bum piece of shit like this to storm a castle?"


    "The old dog''s luck must''ve turned sour. Gambo¡­ or some shit, I think his name''s¡­" someone chimed; snickering.


    "Must be scraping the bottom of the barrel with this lot. And what the fuck kind of stupid name is Gambo anyhow?" He jeered, yanking the man''s muddy boots off with a rough twist.


    "Bet his whore mother pulled that name straight out of her sore arse." He added making the others roar with laughter.


    A towering potbellied man muscled his way forward, hefting a weighty mace like it was a battering ram, his ugly face filthier than the mud they all stood in wagging their tongues.


    All a sudden the chortling stopped.


    "Well, in any case..." He hoisted his mace with agonizing slowness, grinning like the devil showing off a row of piss-yellow teeth that looked like they''d been used to chew on rocks.


    " ''Is all a bit dreary out here, wouldn''t ya say." He said as he swung the mace in a lazy arc, the metal head whistling through the air. "How about you keep me and the boys entertained for a bit, dog?"


    "Yer hound master teach you any tricks before he sent ya out here to die, dog?" He asked a manic smile on his lips.


    With a sudden, vicious jerk, he smashed the mace down into the mud beside the man''s head, splattering filth everywhere. "Come now, dog, let''s see you dance!" He yanked the man up by his dirty brown hair, dragging him to his feet.


    "Beg for your life while you are at it and make it worth our while. Who knows, yer might even get tah keep breathin,"


    "Pleashe..." The broken man gasped, tears cutting tracks through the filth on his face. "I have... nunffing..."


    The mercenary''s grin widened. "Aye, that you do, dog. You''ve nothing and you are nothing. So why don''t you get up and give us a dance, like the good little mutt you are?"


    The man threw up his hands, a pathetic plea for mercy. Eyes, swollen and brimming with tears as he choked out garbled, desperate pleas, his voice breaking and cracking with each slurred word.


    The mace slammed into his knee with a disgusting wet crunch. Shattering bone into powdered bits of dust with a sickening crack. A primal scream ripped its way into this world, a feral wail that slashed through the air, shredding the fringes of ones sanity.


    "DIDN''T YOU FUCKING HEAR WHAT I SAID? I SAID DANCE!" He barked before hammering the mace down, again then again and¡­again. Each blow landed with a gut-churning crunch, blood exploding in wide arcs, bones snapping and popping like dry brittle twigs.


    His comrades stared, horrified, the man''s hulking frame, painted red, panting heavily, gore dripping from his armor and mace.


    He snarled, "The hell are you lot gawking at?"


    Which had them quickly averting their eyes, terrified of setting off his volatile ire.


    "B..best finish him off, Rog." One of the braver ones piped up¨Ceither that or one of the stupider ones, glancing to the man on the ground, miraculously still alive and breathing.


    "Is not right. Leaving ''im like that." He made a quick shacky prayer before adding, his voice quivering, "Is not right leaving one of the Light, like that, Rog. He ain''t no pagan."


    "Nah, don''t think so. Let his mutts friends find him if their sorry arses ever come charging again. Might make ''em think twice. Rog snarled, wiping the blood-slicked mace against his armor, smearing the gore further.


    He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Don''t give a toss about the Light or the Falcon, anyhow."


    "Now, you idiots, get to it! Move, strip anything of value and drag it in! And see if there are any more dogs out here playing dead." He said shoving another out of his way, leaving the man on the ground to suffer; death too kind a mercy for the likes of us mercenary scum.


    I watched on, silently, one eye open to the world only glad that it was not me in the unfortunate man''s place, bones powdered to dust and leaking guts out onto the ground.


    Rog kicked the man on the ground once more for good measure, sneering as he turned away. At his word the rest of the mercenaries got to work, rifling through the corpses, stabbing, prodding and kicking at them to see if there was any reaction.


    "Bloody waste of time," one muttered, kicking a corpse aside.


    "Nothing but rot and stink here," another spat.


    The clinking of metal and the dull squelching of their boots against the mud begun to grow closer again. The sound of laughter and crude jokes filling the air, each taunt a dagger to my frayed nerves as I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to blend in with the rest of the lifeless bodies surrounding me.


    A nearby thud made me flinch, my breath hitching.


    "Look at this poor bastard," one of them said, nudging a body with his boot. "Bet he shit himself before he died."


    "Probably," another laughed. "They always do that."


    They were getting closer, their long shadows in the evening sun creeping over me. One of the Bloody Hand, a wiry, rat-faced man, jabbed his spear into a pile of corpses, drawing a sickening squelch from the rotting human meat.


    He thrust his spear again, the tip tearing through the corpse above me and pressing against my ribs.


    I clenched my teeth, holding back any sound as the pain stung at my eyes as the pressure behind it continued to mount.


    Then he eased up, pulling it out with a slick, wet sound.


    Rat-face''s eyes narrowed, sensing something off, and he re-adjusted his grip, readying for another strike as I in turn prepared for the worst. When suddenly¡­


    ¡­the ground erupted with a savage force, tossing and turning the mercenaries off balance. A deafening explosion tore through the air, a bone rattling percussion; its shockwaves slamming into everyone like a battering ram.


    Rat-face faltered, his spear frozen mid-thrust, eyes wide.


    The ground shook violently beneath us, a thunderous eruption of splintering wood and shattering stone. The blast roared like a great beast unleashed, followed by a series of smaller, snapping explosions like cannon fire.


    "What the hell was that?" Rat-face yelled as more of his fellows scattered, some stumbling, others knocked flat by the blast, frantic screams and the harsh clash of steel on steel emerging out of the sudden chaos.


    "Shit, what now?" one of them growled, his voice on edge as his head snapped toward the direction of the explosions, eyes the size of saucers.


    The mercenaries exchanged wary glances, ears straining to listen. "That¡­ that''s where the magazine is. THE FUCKING MAGAZINE!" another of the Bloody Hand shouted, his face drained of color.


    "THEY HIT THE POWDER STORE!"


    "But how? I thought the fuckers ran away! When did they come back?" yelled someone, his voice nearly drowned out by the din of the explosions and the ensuing chaos.


    "Shit! Forget the bodies and get inside, you stupid cunts. MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! I SAID FUCKING MOVE!" their leader bellowed, his face all twisted in rage.


    The mercenaries stumbled and floundered over one another, their panic turning them into a chaotic mess of rabble. They tripped over each other, cursing and shoving in their haste, while I lay motionless among the rotting corpses, unnoticed.


    Each second dragged on, every heartbeat beating like a sledgehammer in my skull and sweat stung at my eyes, but I laid utterly still.


    The sounds of frantic footsteps, shouted orders, and the clashing of steel filled the distant air proving for a constant white noise that distracted me from the weight of the body that continued to weigh down on me making it difficult to breath.


    Time crawled at a snail''s pace, every second an eternal, endless stretch as I waited for the chaos to subside. Only when the noise dimmed, the footsteps fading and petering out into the back drop, did I risk moving, confident that they had all run off.


    I shove the bloated corpse off me, sucking in air like a man drowning, the sweet sting of oxygen filling my lungs with a burning relief.


    I glanced down at my chest, my rags nearly black with all the muck that stained it. The rags themselves were beyond saving¡ªno amount of scrubbing would get out the blood and filth. Lucky for me, the dead had no need for their pants or tunics anymore.


    But that could wait, seeing as how they weren''t in any particular hurry to be elsewhere and I had more pressing issues to tend with, lest I risk a terrible infection spreading through me.


    The filth caked rags made it all but impossible to see where Rat-face had tried to skewer me. Instead, I poked around with my fingers, half-expecting a gaping wound. Thankfully, it turned out to be only a minor bruise; the spear tip having failed to fully penetrate my erstwhile corpse shield and lucky charm.


    I brought out the fetish from underneath the fabric, an ugly bauble; one of its misshapen eyes slowly peeling up to stare back at me¡ªstill as creepy as ever; I see.


    I let out a tired sigh as I sat, gathering strength in my limbs, stewing in my own thoughts.


    Five whole silvers to any idiot dumb enough to charge the walls head-on¡ªa pittance to be sure, but one that I needed and desperately at that.


    I had borrowed a meager sum for my provisions on my march here to play soldier and accounting for the bloodsucking interest rates I was being charged I''d be lucky to scrape together three silvers by the end of it¨C for what good could a quarter of silver piece really afford me?


    A miserable payout for risking my neck in this shitshow, sure¡ªbut at the very least, it was a start and one better than any other piss-poor option I had in hand.


    And I couldn''t risk nicking anything too valuable from the dead either, as that would see me quartered, gutted and thrown in a ditch. Perhaps a small trinket or two I could hide away. All loot gathered was supposed to go to the monkey-faced bastard in charge; one third would then go unto the crown, another third he''d keep for himself, and the final third was left for the rest of us to fight over.


    Mustering the strength, I forced myself to stand. My head spun, and my starved, exhausted body threatened to collapse. My muscles screamed with each movement; the price of hours spent buried under corpses. I swayed, cursing my own stupidity for signing up for this crap sack of a task.


    I rummaged through the corpses, searching for the least filthy hose that would fit me and a tunic to match, rifling through the pockets of my erstwhile companions while I was at it for any treasures small enough that I could comfortably hide away.


    Blood and muck smeared my hands as I turned over corpse after corpse, my fingers numb from the cold and gore. The battle raged on in the distance, but I cared little¡ªI''d done my part. Or maybe not, seeing as the ugly bastard running this circus probably didn''t expect any of us poor sods to make it out alive, all our lives worth less than the steel in our hands.


    A few moments into my grim thrift shopping spree, as I examined a particularly intact pair of leggings that I could trim to fit me snugly, I heard a wet, gurgling sound behind me.


    I almost ignored it, too focused on my new pair of death couture, but then I thought better of it.


    After all, what would it cost me? Absolutely nothing was the answer.


    With a resigned sigh, I reached for my trusty bit of steel, hanging by a strip of leather around my waist in place of a belt.


    The pants could wait, at least for a little longer.


    ¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C


    And a very special thank you to both my patrons, Gremlin Jack and Aaron, for their continued input and support. I will be having an extra packet of Miso ramen this month in their honour.??


    For art; x.com</a>

 Chapter 3

    "YOU FUCKING MUTTS, YOU DOGS, YOU''LL PAY FOR THIS, YOU HEAR? YOU''LL FUCKING PA¡ªOOF!" A shoulder rocketed into his gut, cutting off his rant mid-way and folding him double like a sack of milled grain.


    Rough hands yanked him back upright, the rope biting into wrists; raw, bloodied and bruised.


    "YOU THINK THIS IS OVER, YOU PIECES OF SHIT?" he spat, eyes ablaze.


    "YOU THINK YOU''VE WON? I''LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YA HEAR? I''LL RIP OUT YER THROATS AND SHIT DOWN YER NECKS! EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YER BASTARDS WILL PAY!"


    "I, ROGIER OF THE¡ªOOF!" A fist pummeled his jaw, snapping his head to the side, sending a spray of blood and spit onto the dirt.


    His face, beaten beyond recognition, was a swollen, ruptured mess. His features, buried beneath a tide of blood, brises and grime, barely resembled those of a human''s.


    "I''LL¡­ GUT YOU! I''LL GUT YOU! I''LL GUT YOU LIKE PIGS, YA HEAR?" he screamed, voice cracking with rage, blood dripping from his split lips and broken nose.


    "I''LL FUCKING¡ªUGH!" Another blow to the ribs had him wheezing, his breath hitching as he fought against the ropes cutting into his swollen, raw wrists and ankles.


    "Shut the fuck up already," someone barked. "Can''t stand another word from this fat bastard."


    "The fucker killed ten of ours," another growled. "We should string him up by his guts and hang him from the gates, let the crows pick him clean."


    "Boss''s orders," a third cut in, his voice lazy and flat, wishing it were otherwise.


    "YOU... YOU HAVEN''T SEEN THE LAST OF US, DOG! COMMANDER DURNARD WILL RIP YER BASTARDS APART. HE''LL MAKE EVERY ONE OF YA MUTTS PAY!" Rogier barked, struggling to stay upright, hobbling and wobbling on feet bound by heavy rope, forcing him to shuffle like a trussed-up hog.


    One of the mercenaries, sick of the captive''s mouth, kicked the back of his knees, sending him crashing to the ground face-first. His nose crunched with a sickening thud against the dirt, blood pouring down his abused face.


    "I''ll rip out your fucking tongue if you don''t shut your trap, you fat fucking pig." They yanked Rogier back to his feet, face now like a pumpkin kicked in, dragging him along with the rest of the captives, who shuffled forward in a miserable, winding line.


    "Look at this sorry lot," someone cackled, pointing with a greasy finger. "The Bloodied Hand, soon to be bloodied stump. Have fun jerking it now, you sorry cunts."


    "Better start practicing with your feet then, eh?" another jeered, triggering a round of raucous laughter. Some slapped their thighs and others nearly doubled over, guffawing like a band of idiots.


    They dragged Rogier onto the platform, shoving him to his knees. His hands, raw and torn from the ropes, were yanked free and slammed onto a splintered block of wood, stained a deep, dark violent red.


    "Hands out flat, so I can make it nice and clean," a brute of a man sneered, hefting a massive bardiche over his shoulders, its blade catching the orange firelight along its wicked edge.


    He ground Rogier''s palms into the rough wood with his filthy boots, twisting his heel with a special malice as he forced them flat against the splintered surface.


    "Do your worst, dog," Rogier spat through a mouthful of blood and drooling spittle, his voice hoarse from a night spent screaming expletives and describing mothers.


    "Oh, believe me, I''m dying to. But tonight¡­" The man raised the bardiche high, grinning as the world held its breath. "¡­ just a little trim."


    With a sickening crunch, the blade crashed down, tearing through flesh, bone, and sinew in one brutal stroke.


    Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, splattering the executioner''s boots. Rogier''s scream shredded the night, a clawing, guttural howl that echoed off the castle walls. The crowd''s shouts and jeers joined in mingling with his tortured wails as he clutched his shredded stumps, blood spurting from the savaged ends.


    "Tch... tch... tch... messy nails," the axe-man chided, a smirk curling his lips.


    He wiped the blood from his blade with a rag, kicking the severed hands aside like so much garbage, adding them to the waist-high pile of discarded limbs that would only grow before the night was done.


    "Didn''t your mother teach you any better?" he sneered, watching as the hands landed on the bloody heap.


    "Look at him now!" one of the mercenaries shouted. "Bet you won''t be so fucking handy with that mace of yours anymore, huh?"


    "Guess you''re going to have to get real creative when you need to rub one out, ya stump-fuck."


    "Think he can still pick his nose?" called another.


    "Fuck him, he ain''t picking anything ever again!" someone else shouted. "Good luck wiping your ass, stumpy!"


    "Bet he''ll use his tongue for everything now," a voice jeered. "Enjoy the taste of shit, pig!"


    "Maybe we should chop that off next!" another barked, drawing more cackles.


    "Next!" the axe man growled and Rogier was dragged away, leaving behind a smear of blood as another poor soul was shoved into his place, thrashing, wailing, and pleading; all for naught.


    "What?" Gambino, the prick who fancied himself king of this sorry lot snapped my way.


    My gaze flitted, unsure.


    Should I ignore the man? Pretend that I did not here?


    Perhaps I should have simply been grateful that I had survived this far and not risked demanding what I was deserved for my so-called ''daring volunteerism.''


    "Nice little distraction you lot were," Gambino grumbled, eyes never leaving the ledger as he noted the bands haul amidst the cries of the maimed. "And I see you ditched those rags of yours. It''ll be coming out of your pay."


    Shit, of course. I should''ve expected that. The fucking miser.


    Was I to respond?


    That seemed unwise, but staying silent might only serve to worsen his already foul mood. Yet ignoring him entirely could be even more dangerous, especially with my unpaid wages hanging in the balance as they were.


    Yet to engage him? That would be just as bad maybe if not worse.


    "Ha! What''s this? Got a case of the shies, have you?" He grunted.


    "Spill what''s on your mind, little mouse, or I''ll have to tickle it out of you." His laugh was a harsh and ugly bark; an unpleasant assault on the ears.


    The man''s thick, Neanderthal brows knitted together as he meticulously cataloged every scrap of leather, fabric, and metal plundered from the defeated Bloodied Hand. My gaze swept over the line of captives shuffling forward, then settled back on Gambino.


    Despite my reservations, I knew it was best to speak up before pushing him any further.


    "You''re... not killing them?" The absurdity of it all echoed in my voice. He glanced up from his ledger, his eyes lingering on a pilfered tapestry from the castles'' keep, confusion flickering across his face.


    "That''s what''s bothering you?" he asked, confused.


    I nodded slowly.


    "No," the churlish bastard snapped, before he returned back to his task.


    Few were keen to cough up a mercenary''s ransom, and even less so for a crippled one. Better to try and hawk off rusted nails, one would think.


    Selling them as war slaves made more sense; even a broken body has value in the mines or as battlefield fodder. Keeping them alive, even briefly, wasted resources and time¡ªhardly the kind of avarice I''d expect from this tightfisted bastard.


    No god, rule, or higher ideal commands a mercenary more than the lure of coin, making this decision all the more baffling. This miser, who wouldn''t spend a penny on a napkin and would rather drag his ass across someone else''s rug, now choosing to be wasteful? Utterly bizarre. Those maimed without hands were without worth to put it frankly¡ªthey couldn''t farm nor could they work a trade, and infection will likely do them in soon enough.


    If so, then why maim instead of kill?


    "Please, I have a family!" The plea tore through the air, raw and desperate.


    "And they''ll love hearing about Daddy Stumpy," one of the soldiers chuckled. "Imagine all the stories you''ll tell. Bedtimes gonna be a real treat."


    "Once upon a time... Daddy had fingers, ALL TEN¡ªHA! What a tear jerker." someone added, drawing out another round of cruel chuckles.


    A whistle and a thud, then a shrill scream as another pair of hands were severed.


    "Hey, Stumpy, how you gonna hold your kids now? Oh, right, you fucking can''t!" The laughter grew even louder, more vicious, as the captives'' screams were drowned out by the mocking taunts


    The obvious reason would be to sow fear, to instill terror so deep our enemies would rather face a plague than meet us in battle. History is littered with such warlords who used fear like a scalpel, cutting through armies with barely a drop of blood spilled.


    But us? ¨CWe''re just mercenaries, hired butchers, and societal leeches meant to kill. Gambino, in the grand scheme, was still just a two-bit thug, not some grand warlord carving out his kingdom ¨Cor maybe he fancied himself one; it was still much too early to tell.


    Too much cruelty, though, and he''d become a liability to his employers, turning the populace against their would-be lords. Plus, it would rally even more enemies against us, painting targets on our backs when we could ill afford it.


    The fear he instilled might keep a village in line for now, or it might rout the enemy at a critical juncture but it also planted the seeds of vengeance. Those seeds would grow, watered by blood spilled for no reason, and one day, they''d come for us with a vengeance that we couldn''t afford.


    Gambino''s short-sightedness could make for a costly indulgence. Yet here he was, indulging in gratuitous cruelty with no clear financial gain. Each cut, each severed hand, was a coin down the drain in a line of work where every coin counted and every decision had to serve the bottom line.


    Perhaps I had made a very critical error in aligning myself with these maladjusted individuals. My options were undeniably limited at the time, no wider than a tooth pick really, yet hindsight offers with it a particularly clearer perspective.


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    Gambino looked up from his work, eyes narrowing as the scratching of his quill halted for but a second. Sensing the man''s growing impatience, I opted for a quick response to stave off his rising ire.


    "Why?" I asked, "Why not just kill them and be done with it?" In the background, another scream echoed, a pair of hands freshly severed at the wrist.


    "Why? What do you mean, why, you nosy little imp? You think I need to explain every piss I take to you?" Gambino growled, his tone icy but lacking true anger, not even glancing up as more and more loot was piled next to him as he continued with his scribbling.


    "I doubt you do much without a reason, sir," I ventured, nudging carefully, trying to sound as deferential as possible, making sure as to not to offend; my past life having prepared me expertly for this role. After all, it paid to be mindful of his temperament, especially in a company as delightful as this cesspool of degenerates.


    "Otherwise, none would speak of the Steel Hounds the way they do." Playing kiss-ass to a psychopath¡ªexactly the kind of career progress I had always envisioned. It was flattery, of course, but hopefully not too sycophantic or obsequious.


    A looted silver chalice was flung in to the growing pile which Gambino noted down after a quick cursory glance.


    "Awfully chatty, aren''t you?" He said whilst scribbling before later adding, "But I do plenty of things without needing reasons for them." He jerked his head toward the pile of severed limbs.


    "See all those hands, you little pisser?" His voice was cold, and I followed his gesture, nodding reluctantly.


    "Thought it''d make for a laugh." His expression stayed grim, then he added with a gruff sneer, "And because Durnard''s a prick with a rod shoved so far up his arse it''s a wonder that he doesn''t shit fucking splinters. The fucker''s ego''s only outdone by that bloated codpiece of his, the bastard."


    That was¡­worrying¨Cextremely so.


    The outfit had gained some notoriety and enough renown for some to be aware of it and moreover had survived thus far.


    I would have liked to think that it wasn''t solely due to dumb luck but partly because of the man steering this wreck. Gambino, from what I''d observed, was a ruthless and callous bastard, squeezing blood from a stone if it meant an extra coin. His irritation at my survival; all the proof I needed.


    Or had I perhaps misjudged him?


    Was he just a spiteful, petty tyrant, driven by whims that overruled even his own greed? If so, that was troubling as my fate was now tangled with this sorry lot, despite my deepest wishes otherwise.


    Greed was predictable; it was something you could count on in humans. Emotion, far less so in all regards.


    Logically, Gambino''s actions made little sense from a financial or strategic perspective. His cruelty seemed excessive and gratuitous in both measures, missing the calculated coldness expected from a mercenary leader of his stature.


    If his goal was to create fear or to antagonize Durnard, a swifter, more brutal approach would have been more efficient. This lingering, inefficient sadism hinted at something deeper¡ªa potential instability that could endanger everyone under his command.


    Another thud and a wail, and another pair of hands joined the pile.


    Or perhaps¡­could there be a deeper motive at play?


    The man''s past victories suggested he couldn''t be a complete brute ruled by impulse alone. I wasn''t privy to all the details of the previous battle, and it wasn''t my place to inquire. Nevertheless, we had won, incentivizing the ill-equipped rabble like myself to sacrifice themselves willingly so the seasoned and better-equipped core of veterans could remain out of harm''s way.


    Was his cruelty a calculated tactic then, cleverly disguised as petty indulgence? Perhaps there was a twisted logic at play here, not immediately evident.


    Controlling a group of human scum such as this required more than brute force; it demanded a balance of fear, respect, and cunning. A leader who appeared unpredictable and ruthless could deter dissent and maintain control through terror. By indulging in acts of cruelty such as this, Gambino might be aiming to solidify his image, ensuring no one dared to challenge his authority.


    However, from what I have perceived so far, there was little sign of dissent within the party, with the exception of the new recruits¡ªand those were few in number. The core members displayed unwavering loyalty to Gambino, their positions secured, and their lives relatively protected in how he chose to wage war.


    In contrast, the recruits, deemed expendable, were frequently sacrificed in battle to keep the backbone of the mercenary group out of harm''s way. This imbalance revealed a managed hierarchy where loyalty was rewarded, and discontent was minimized.


    If his cruelty was a calculated tactic, cleverly disguised as petty indulgence, it might have been designed to maintain an iron grip on his followers.


    But even then, that seemed too¡­simplistic for someone like Gambino.


    What then was his angle?


    "The hell are you gawking at? Eyeing up those bloody chunks for supper? You''re even worse than that other pint-sized runt of ours." Gambino let out a heavy sigh,


    ''The other?'' Whoever they were, it could wait, as it wasn''t immediate or pertinent to the matter at hand.


    Durnard''s presence suggested the Bloodied Hand was a far larger and more organized outfit than this ragtag group of sorry excuses. Their threat was one that was far from yet diminished.


    If Gambino had no plan to kill these men, the only option left was to let them go.


    Sending these incapacitated men back to Durnard instead of killing them outright must be a deliberate tactic then.


    Cripples, unable to fight effectively, would impose a significant burden on the Bloodied Hand. Their maintenance would strain the larger force''s finances and resources. The Bloodied Hand, with its presumably superior funding and size, would be compelled to reallocate resources to care for these men. This diversion of support would not only drain their financial reserves but also disrupt their operational efficiency.


    Gambino''s approach seemed aimed at undermining Durnard''s forces not through direct battle but by targeting their logistical and financial stability. By depleting the Bloodied Hand''s resources and causing internal strain, Gambino sought to weaken the enemy through indirect means. This method of destabilization showcased a ruthless strategy, leveraging the enemy''s own resources against them to achieve a long-term advantage.


    In essence, Gambino''s strategy was to inflict long-term damage rather than immediate destruction. By sending crippled men back, he was ensuring that Durnard''s forces would be bogged down by their own injured, draining their resources and creating internal turmoil. This kind of indirect warfare demonstrated a cunning that went beyond simple cruelty, revealing a leader who understood the power of attrition and psychological warfare.


    "Are you going to let them go back? Back to this... Durnard?" I inquired, striving to mask my realization that I was dealing with a true maestro in the arts of war.


    Gambino''s eyebrow arched, but his cold gaze remained unwavering. With a dismissive shrug, he snapped, "Don''t give a rat''s arse what happens to them. But what''s it to you?" His voice had a sharp edge, laced with irritation. I was treading on thin ice. Better for me to get my payment and leave before pushing my luck any further.


    Yet I persisted.


    Demonstrating that I could grasp the overarching intent of his strategy and rise above my current role as a mere meat shield whos'' only purpose in life was to catch swords with their face was crucial for my continued survival. If I could show that I understood his broader scheme, I might curry favor and secure a position beyond the ignominious rank of human fodder¡ªpossibly one less involved with hiding under corpses or something where fewer sharp objects were aimed at my vital organs.


    "You''re trying to bleed him dry," I said, eager to prove my worth. My heart pounded in my chest, knowing that this moment could determine my fate. Gambino''s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me with a cold intensity.


    "Bleed him dry?" he echoed, his tone mocking, so as to discourage me, obviously. "What the fuck am I going to bleed him of?"


    "By sending these crippled men back, you force Durnard into a predicament," I continued, determined to demonstrate my understanding.


    "He''s faced with a choice between two equally damaging options: either he endures the significant financial and logistical burden of caring for these wounded men, or he risks undermining¡­"I stopped mid-sentence, biting back the rest of my corporate jargon that I always found myself defaulting to when faced with a superior.


    This wasn''t a boardroom, and the man I was addressing sure as hell wasn''t a CEO. No, I was dealing with a cutthroat mercenary leader, not some suit with a corner office. Speaking the way, I was used to back in my old life wasn''t going to get me anywhere here. If I wanted to survive this, I needed to adapt ¡ªanything less would be a fatal mistake.


    "¡­he¡­ he either spends a fortune keeping these men alive, or he leaves them and wrecks his reputation. It''s a smart play¡ªto drain his resources and make him look bad."


    Gambino raised an eyebrow, his face otherwise unreadable. I pressed on, hoping to prove my worth beyond that of doubling as a mobile sponge for arrows.


    "A leader with any sense wouldn''t cast his men aside, even the injured ones. If Durnard pushes these soldiers out, it''ll be clear he doesn''t give a damn about them. His image would take a nosedive, and his men wouldn''t trust him as far as they could throw him. Kicking his own troops to the side would crush morale. They''d start thinking that the second they''re no longer useful, they''ll be tossed out too" I glanced at Gambino, hoping my words were sinking in.


    "If Durnard''s got half a brain, he might try to sweep this mess under the rug," I said, my tone sharp. "But trying to hush up a hundred broken men is a tall order and word will spread fast, from the taverns to the brothels. This kind of scandal will ripple through the ranks, and no one''s going to be eager to sign up under a leader who dumps his own. The backlash could trash his reputation choke off new recruits, and gut his command''s strength."


    Gambino''s eyes narrowed as he listened, his face a blank slate. The silence that followed my words hung heavy, a sign I was hitting the mark.


    "So, you''re setting up a win-win for yourself," I continued, pushing the advantage. "If Durnard takes on these crippled men, he''s saddled with a load of extra costs and headaches. He''ll have to drain his resources just to keep them breathing, and that''s going to stretch him thin. But if he dumps them, his reputation''s in the gutter. His men will start doubting him, and no one''s going to want to sign up under a leader who ditches his own. Either way, you''re ready to take the upper hand."


    Gambino stared at me for what felt like ages, his face giving nothing away. Finally, he spoke, incredulity dripping from his words. "What the HELL are you blabbing about¡ª" he began, then suddenly clammed shut. It was clear he was struggling to accept that his scheming had just been outed by someone he hadn''t expected to in the least.


    "Please," someone begged, tears and snot streaming down his cheeks. "Please, you don''t need to do this." To my surprise, it was the damnable Rat-face this time, being dragged forward, pale as death, trembling like leaf, his eyes darting all over the place.


    "Look at the little baby," one man taunted. "Scared of a little chop, chop?"


    "Quit your whining," another spat. "We''d lop your heads off if the boss didn''t say otherwise."


    Rat-face''s sobs turned frantic as he clawed at the block. "Please! No, no, not my hands! I-I''ll do anything, just¡ª"


    Steel came careening down, biting through flesh and bone, sending a spray of warm blood arcing through the still air. His hands fell away, severed at the wrists, blood spurting from the stumps in grotesque, pulsing jets.


    "Next!" the axe man barked, barely glancing at rat face writhing on the ground.


    "Pity, if their hands had been crushed instead of cut off, they''d have a better chance of making it back to the Bloodied Hand alive without infection setting in," I mused, feeling the ends of my lips creep upwards as I watched from a far Rat-face get his due.


    I turned to Gambino, who met my eyes with a grim expression. His face as stoic as ever, but with a shift in the way he looked at me, something new in his eyes.


    Gambino set down the quill he''d been scratching away with and reached for the cask of ale resting on the table. He held it aloft, pausing as if lost in thought. The furrows in his heavy brow deepened, and his eyes narrowed slightly. After a long moment, he took a deep swig, his throat working steadily with each gulp, before lowering the cask with a satisfied sigh.


    He reached down slowly, his fingers bringing up a small pouch onto the table. "Your pay for yesterday''s stunt," he muttered, voice gruff.


    The pouch looked depressingly small.


    As I reached for it, the weight was feather-light, almost mocking in its insubstantiality. A wave of frustration surged through me, the urge to rip out the man''s throat born from sheer, maddening depression.


    All that for nothing? And it was not like I was in a position to force the man to pay me what I was due.


    I tried to keep my voice steady. "This is it?"


    Gambino''s eyes met mine, an ugly grin spreading. "After those new boots and clothes of yours not counting what you still owe me. Thought you smarter than to ask, mouse." He shrugged.


    "You should be thankful I''m paying you at all and not having you ''hushed up'' like you just said." Gambino continued in the same breath as he nudged his head toward Gaspard who was overseeing the loot being brought in.


    I tightened my hold on the pouch, the scant coins shifting inside. The bastard!


    "Maybe you''re not as dumb as you look, little mouse. But you''re still green as shit. You''ve got a lot to learn before you start thinking you can read me." He later added with a low chuckle.


    Then he placed something heavy on the table with a weighty thud, startling me.


    Wrapped in leather with bits of parchment sticking out the middle. A book?


    "¡­Here, your share of the loot. Now fuck off." Gambino muttered, his voice flat and emotionless, as if he were handing me a piece of bread.


    I stared at the offering, my mind racing.


    This¡­this was incredibly generous, more than generous; it was downright absurd. Even though the printing press had been around for ages, books still commanded a ludicrous sum, especially in this part of the world. But something about this didn''t add up. Gambino wasn''t one for charity.


    I hesitated, my fingers brushing over the rough, cracked leather cover. The texture felt wrong, uneven and damaged. As I leaned closer, the truth became more obvious. The book was in terrible condition¡ªblack soot marks marred the cover, the edges were frayed and crumbling, and entire sections of parchment were likely missing.


    The double bastard! Handing me rubbish and acting like it''s a favor.


    I picked it up, its weight uneven in my hand, the charred scent of burned pages clinging to it. As I thumbed through the brittle remnants, I couldn''t help but notice the gaping holes where pages had been torn out, leaving only jagged stubs behind.


    Then, I turned it over the symbol on the cover having caught my eye¡ªa , gilded emblem, prominent against the charred leather.


    My heart skipped a beat as recognition struck¨Cthe Falcon of the Holy See.


    The triple fucking bastard!


    ¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C¨C


    And a special thanks to all my patreons, (left to right) Stinker, Gremlin Jack, Aaron and Hayden.Joiner(not here) for their continued support and input. Thank you, it truly means a lot.


    <div>


    For more art; x.com</a>

 Chapter 4.

    "...came with pictures in it."


    A jagged scar; twisted red and angry, snaked its way down the man''s cheek, while his armor¡ªa mishmash of dented tin and rusted links¡ªseemed almost determined in its efforts to out-stink a swine pen.


    I looked up, realizing I hadn''t caught the man''s words the first time around.


    "Sorry?" I asked, straining for a bit of politeness, only to be met with a glare so sharp it could''ve soured milk on the spot, the mans scarred face contorting like he''d just swallowed a mouthful of bitter vinegar¡ªa tad bit dramatic, given my minor lapse in attention.


    He huffed, and I could feel the irritation rolling off him in thick waves, stronger than even the reek of his own rank armor that smelled like it had been soaking in a cesspit. Not that it made him particularly stand out in this band of grubby savages¡ªwithout the slightly less-shoddy steel at his hip and the pretentious attempt at knightly armor, he''d have blended right into the muck with the rest of them.


    "The Holy Canon¡ªdidn''t know it came with pictures," he repeated, voice dripping with sarcasm so thick some unfortunate could drown in it.


    "It... doesn''t?" I replied, still not catching on, genuinely stumped by what the man was driving at.


    His bushy brows mashed together like two angry caterpillars ready to brawl, then he let out a scoff so loud and mocking you''d think I''d just claimed that pigs could fly. The look he gave me was almost pitying, as if I were the dullest thing he''d ever seen.


    "What''s the point of gawking then?" the spritely man challenged, arms folded so tight and his eyebrow cocked as if I''d missed the bloody obvious.


    I opened my mouth, hoping to fire back, but any retort I had planned withered away before it even reached my tongue. My jaw hung open, useless, before I snapped it shut with a click loud enough to make my teeth ache and make me wince, his words replaying in my mind over and over and over.


    Though I have always prided myself on my rationality in all things, my heart betrayed me still, thumping in my chest like a damned traitor as I felt my pulse quicken and a flush of heat creep up my neck.


    My hands tightened around the brittle parchment, crinkling its already frayed, fragile and abused edges under the sudden pressure of my mounting frustration.


    Was he... really?


    Was this greying fart really?


    Was he really implying what I think he was implying?


    That I¡ªme of all people¡ªcouldn''t¡­read?


    That I was somehow... illiterate? ¨CThat I was no better than the rest of these slack-jawed hayseeds that made up this sorry excuse for a band?


    The audacity! The nerve! The sheer gall of this muck-covered lout who fancied himself a cut above the rest because he could swing a sword without chopping off his own toes.


    Did this fool really think I was sitting here, staring at the page like some half-witted idiot because I couldn''t piece together a few letters? I ought to throttle the bastard right where he stands, bash his skull in with this cursed book to show him I can read it well enough¨Cdamn him!


    But instead, I forced my voice into a deadly calm, "I''m reading," I said, hoping he''d get lost and stop pestering me, though my fingers itched to wring his neck.


    The greying sod scoffed again, that same smug smirk plastered across his weathered face, practically begging to be wiped off¨Cpreferably with a rock.


    "Heh... sure you are, Roach." He grunted.


    "Roach?" I shot back, half-amused at the sudden moniker¨C Roach? Really? That''s what they settled on? I was hoping for something with a bit more bite to it to reflect my new choice in careers¡ªbut alas I wasn''t exactly consulted on the matter so I had little say of it in the end.


    "Heard the men jawing, after you slunk off to the boss," he said, his face twisting like he''d just caught a whiff of something foul at the mentioning of Gambino.


    He looked me up and down like I was some crusty old heel of bread before continuing, "Said you''ve got the devil''s own luck on your side, surviving like you do. Hard to kill and all a bit like a¡­roach."


    The devil''s luck, is it? Luck isn''t exactly how I''d put it, but the devil part was not that far off now that I thought of it. ¨C But as captivating as his theories might be, I wasn''t exactly feeling charitable enough to humor them as I were.


    The boots I''d swiped off the stiff at Castle Volkguard¡ªmay the worms have their way with him¡ªwere about three sizes too big, if not more for these dainty little feet of mine. I had stuffed them with every scrap of cloth I could scrounge up, even tried cramming in straw, but it still felt like I was slogging through thick mud with every step I took. My feet as they were, were torn to shreds and blistered to hell, raw as a butcher''s slab, with each cursed day of marching we took to just to offload our spoils at the nearest city.


    Velka, they called it, a five-day slog with Gambino cracking the whip like we''d personally wronged his mother. Whatever the man''s got wedged up his prickly arse, I''d like to see it replaced with these damned ill¨Cfitting boots I was cursed with.


    And of course, being one of the few fresh meat still left breathing, I was graced with all the ''essential'' tasks crucial to keeping this band of rabble running.


    "Start the fire," some crusty bastard with more scars and steel than I had years would bark at me, and I''d reply like a good little dog, "Right away, sir."


    Then it''d be, "Chop the wood,"


    "Feed the horses,"


    "Muck the stalls,"


    "Dig the latrines,"


    "Polish my boots,"


    "Haul the water,"


    "Scrub the pots,"


    "Pitch the tents," and I''d parrot back, "Sir yes, sir."


    A never-ending parade of unpaid, unappreciated drudgery. It was a small wonder they didn''t just work us to death and toss our bodies into the same latrines we dug, just to save themselves the effort of burying us at this point.


    Winded, aching, and utterly fed up with the soul-crushing grind that''s now become my life, I finally managed to steal a few moments to myself. But no sooner had I found a quiet spot¡ªfar enough from the other thick-skulled morons in this band of degenerates¡ªsome nosy bastard with nothing better to do comes lumbering over.


    All I wanted was a moment of peace, a sliver of privacy. But no, that''s too much to ask, wasn''t it? Not with this lout lumbering closer, his shadow falling over me like a cursed omen with the stink coming off him enough to knock a vulture off a carcass¡ªmud, sweat, stale ale, and gods know what else he stuffed down his gullet this morning. The smell nearly twisted my gut, and I had to fight the urge to vomit right then and there.


    "When they said someone made it back, I was hoping you''d be more..." The bastard let the words hang like his foul stench, all the while sizing me up like a sword, he wasn''t sure could hold an edge.


    I glanced up at him, tilting my head just a bit, trying to keep my face as flat as a millstone. "Someone more what?" I asked, half-expecting some cocky jab as a reply.


    He shrugged, a smirk twisting his scarred mug to the point I was quite sure if the oaf patted himself on the back any harder, he''d have dislocated his shoulder.


    I leaned back, trying to get some distance from the stench rolling off him in thick unending waves. I gave him a look that said as much, wondering just how much longer I had to suffer through his mindless yammering before I could get back to something that didn''t make me want to slit my own throat nearly as much.


    With a sigh that could''ve carried us all over to Velka, I forced my eyes back to the brittle parchment in my hands, its edges frayed and the leather binding barely holding together, ready to crumble any second. The words on the page swam before me, a blessed relief from the stream of filth spilling from the man''s flapping gob.


    Not that I had any love for the filth I was reading¡ªquite the opposite, if anything, it made me want to hurl it into the nearest fire and to see it go up in flames.


    It was an affront to reason, the kind of drivel that could drive a sane man to madness. But what kept me going was the sheer audacity of the nonsense, scrawled in some bloated, pompous hand that just barely managed to lift my boredom above the level of outright misery.


    During these endless, soul-deadening marches¡ªbroken only by the occasional, wretched scraps of sleep that left you feeling worse than before¡ªentertainment was a rare sight. With my feet blistered and my body aching like I''d been trampled by a herd of oxen, I had no taste for anything too demanding.


    Not that I had much choice in the matter either.


    Aside from listening to the crude, witless banter of the idiots of this merry bunch of psychopaths, my only other option was pondering the many creative ways I could use the contents of my rucksack to end it all. This cursed book, useless as it was, became one of the few distractions I had. And the irony of it all? It was the very thing I''d used to teach myself to read, long before.


    The thought of using something that was the domain of that sanctimonious parasite, wasn''t lost on me. I savored it, in fact. There was a twisted sort of satisfaction in using that filth for my own ends¡ªa small, bitter triumph, a spit in the face of the heavens, a middle finger so to speak.


    Being X could strip me of everything¡ªhome, dignity, comfort, sanity and even my fa¡­ that hardly mattered¡ªbut my literacy? That was beyond the reach of any spiteful deity. Clinging to this final act of rebellion might seem pitiful, but what else did I have? Choices were a luxury long gone.


    So I read. I savored the bitter taste of defiance, sneering at the pages before me. This sorry excuse for a book would be sold the moment I found some fool willing to part with coin, but until then, I''d extract every ounce of usefulness from it¡ªwhether to pass the time or keep my mind from decay.


    When that moment came, I''d gladly toss it into the nearest fire, watching the flames consume its drivel-filled pages. But until then, I''d make use of it, no matter how vile. Better after all to squeeze something out of it than to let it rot.


    In some twisted way, I found satisfaction in this ritual¡ªreading something so beneath me it insulted the last shred of sense I had left. Like chewing on a bone, it was a reminder that, despite everything, I was still here, still scheming, still alive¡ªno matter how much that sanctimonious godling wished otherwise.


    So I kept reading, not because the book deserved it, but because I needed to prove that I was still fighting, still refusing to let some delusional deity dictate my fate. When I''d drained every last drop of twisted satisfaction from its pages, I''d find some zealot to take it off my hands. If not? I''d burn it myself and watch the ashes drift away, like the last vestiges of¡­


    "You sure you''re not just flippin'' them pages to look clever, boy?" the insufferable windbag wheezed to my side.


    I didn''t bother gracing him with an answer.


    My eyes firmly fixed on the book, the faded words blurring as I focused all my willpower on pretending he wasn''t there¨CMaybe, if I stared hard enough, I could will him into silence, banish him to whatever hell he crawled out of.


    "Ah, giving it the old stink-eye, eh?" he persisted, voice dripping with that sickening smugness. Every word was like a splinter under the skin, sharp and annoying, digging deeper the longer he yammered. My eye twitched¡ª the traitorous little bastard. But I kept my mouth shut, not about to give this halfwit the satisfaction of knowing he was grating on my last nerve.


    "Reckon the book''s got the better of you," he drawled, laziness oozing from every syllable, finishing it off with a yawn so big I half-expected his jaw to unhinge. Each slow, deliberate word was another hammer blow to my patience, fraying it to the point where I could almost see myself shoving the cursed book down his throat just to shut him up.


    The edges of the cursed book bit into my hands, the worn leather digging into my skin as I glared at the faded ink, willing the blasted words to stay put. The grizzled bastard beside me wouldn''t shut his trap, his voice droning on like a hive of angry bees.


    "Maybe if you glare at it hard enough, lad, it''ll start readin'' itself," he chuckled and my jaw clenched so tight I thought I might crack a tooth, but I swallowed down the urge to spit venom back at him.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    The words on the page twisted and danced, blurring into a useless jumble under the relentless assault of his yammering. He was like a bloody gnat buzzing in my ear, impossible to ignore and twice as infuriating. My neck tensed, muscles straining against the urge to turn and give him a good wallop. I could feel his sunken eyes boring into me, relishing the fact that he was getting under my skin.


    "Try tilting your head, boy, might start makin'' sense," he jeered, his words slithering into the cracks of my already crumbling composure, poking at the last frayed edges of my patience. My grip on the book tightened, the brittle pages crumpling as my knuckles turned white. His voice pounded in my skull, drowning out any sense of calm I might have mustered.


    "Squint a bit, Roach, heard it helps with the hard stuff," he added with a smirk that made my fist itch to connect with his jaw. My fingers dug into the book, the urge to use it as a weapon growing stronger with every word he spewed.


    I saw the insufferable pinhead take another breath, no doubt ready to spew out another gem of wisdom of his, and something in me finally snapped.


    "WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP?" The words tore out of me, raw, jagged, and loud enough to echo through the edges of the camp, drawing some curious eyes my way.


    The old bastard didn''t flinch nor did he even blink for that matter. His grin only grew, too thick-headed to realize just how close he was to losing the rest of his blackened teeth still clinging to his gums. His smile widened further, those crooked, stained teeth on full display like some kind of badge of honor.


    After an awkward pause, he let out a slimy chuckle, his voice sliding through the air like oil on water. "How about I make you a wager instead, little Roach?" he said, each word dripping with that oily charm of a snake oil peddler, convinced he''d already won the game.


    His grin was so wide I half expected his face to split open, and the way he looked at me, like he''d already taken everything I had, made my blood boil. "You read me a verse, and I''ll toss a silver your way. But if you''re just bluffing for show, that book and everything else on you is mine to take."


    I kept my voice steady, cool. A silver wasn''t much, but it was certainly enough to get some illiterate fool to pretend they could read.


    "And if I refuse?" I replied as if I was simply discussing the weather on a fine summers day. No need to make a repeat of my earlier outburst¡ªno sense in giving him more reason to gloat.


    He shrugged, a lazy gesture that matched the droop of his jowls, though his eyes, sharp and narrow, gleamed with the glee only a true bully could muster. "Then you keep your precious book, and I keep my coin. But backing down from something this simple? Sounds like someone''s just as thick as the rest of us."


    I narrowed my eyes, seeing through his crude and obvious attempt at bait; subtle as a club to the skull. "Which verse?" I asked, my tone flat, though inside, the gears in my mind were already turning, calculating the profit of this little game of ours.


    His grin sharpened; his eyes gleaming. "The verses of the Tribulatum," he purred, dropping his voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper as if he were letting me in on some grand secret. "Ain''t one I don''t know, so don''t get any ideas, lad."


    Ah, this was rich. The irony of making a quick coin by spouting the holy drivel of that self-righteous deity I so loathed¡ªit was almost too good to be true. I had to fight the urge to let a grin split my face. The thought of turning this sanctimonious rubbish into profit, of spitting in the face of that delusional Being X by making money off its so-called sacred verses, filled me with a twisted sort of glee, like biting into something bitter just to savor the taste.


    I''d play his game, but only because I knew I''ve already long won.


    I felt the corners of my mouth twitching, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral, a picture of somber reflection. I wasn''t about to let him see how much I was enjoying this.


    Instead, I slowly opened the tome, the leather crackling like dry tinder, making a show of turning the pages with exaggerated care, my fingers brushing over the worn edges, deliberately glossing over the parts where the pages were missing or torn.


    The sheer idea of making coin off this holy nonsense was almost too sweet to pass up. Here I was, about to earn a whole silver off the back of the very god who''d turned my life into this mess. If there''s a hell that isn''t this miserable earth, I''d wager I''m booking myself a seat right at the front. But that just made it all the more tempting.


    I exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the lines of text like I was handling something precious, like I actually cared. Any true believer would have wept to see such devotion. But all I could do was choke back laughter at the sheer absurdity. This fool thought he was laying a trap, clueless that I was already neck-deep in this farce¡ªall for the price of a single piece of silver.


    "Fine," I said at last, my voice dripping with fake solemnity, as if I were about to recite some sacred scripture rather than just indulging in this absurd farce. The bitter taste of irony lingered on my tongue¡ªhere I was, turning the very words of a god who had only ever brought me misery into a tool of capitalism¨C there was a demand and I aimed to supply.


    I let the moment hang, savoring the anticipation as the smug idiot in front of me swelled with self-satisfaction. Let him wallow in it, I thought, just for a heartbeat longer. The higher he climbed, the harder he''d fall when I brought him crashing down.


    Then, with all the gravitas I could muster, I began, my voice resonant, letting each word roll off my tongue like it was spun of gold:


    "Behold, in the days of affliction and trial, the faithful shall be purified as gold is tried by fire. Through tribulation their spirits shall be made strong, and though the nations rise against them, their hearts shall hold fast, for they are grounded in the truth of the Lord."


    As the words poured out, his smirk began to slip, his self-assured demeanor souring with curiosity. I suppressed a grin, instead delivering each phrase with the solemnity of a preacher at his pulpit.


    "When darkness encircles and despair threatens, they shall find refuge in their unshakable faith and shall emerge unblemished, renewed by the endurance of their sufferings."


    Eyes from the camp flicked toward us, but I paid them no heed, locking my gaze on the fool before me, watching his earlier confidence slip away.


    "For the Lord is a fortress and a refuge, His mercy boundless and His justice swift. He shall not forsake those who seek Him with a sincere heart, nor leave those who cry out in their anguish."


    I caught the telltale crunch of leaves and the dull thud of boots inching closer¡ªdrawn in by the promise of a spectacle. I continued, my voice oozing with mock piety, fully embracing the charade.


    "The righteous shall be as a beacon in the tempest, their faith a guiding light. They shall prevail not by their own might but through the enduring power of the Spirit that dwells within them."


    I could hear them now, shuffling closer, the rustle of cloth and the soft thud of boots on the packed earth. But I kept at it, voice as steady and pompous as if I were preaching to a congregation of the saintly.


    "And when the last trumpet sounds and the heavens are unveiled, the faithful shall be gathered unto the Lord. Their sorrows shall cease and their sufferings be no more. For they have endured the greatest trials, their faith a monument to their strength. In the eternal kingdom, they shall find peace everlasting, embraced by the love of their Maker."


    The crowd was close now, their murmurs a faint hum at the edge of my hearing. But I didn''t so much as glance their way. Instead, I stayed locked on to the pages, channeling every ounce of my acting skill into sounding as holy and sincere as a cleric swearing on his saint''s bones.


    "Blessed are those who endure for righteousness'' sake, for they shall inherit the kingdom of God. They shall be called the children of the Most High, their spirits uplifted by divine grace. Their names shall be written in the Book of Life, their deeds remembered in the courts of heaven. For they have walked the path of righteousness, guided by the hand of the Almighty."


    I held the moment in my grasp, letting the stillness settle for a long moment. Then, with the calm of a man about to deliver a fatal blow, I spoke the final line, each word dripped in the pretense of sacred weight, the perfect end to my little charade.


    "Be strong and of good courage, for the Lord thy God is with thee; He shall not leave thee nor forsake thee. Stand firm in faith, for the testing of thy faith worketh patience. Let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, lacking nothing. Rejoice in trials, for the sufferings bring thee nearer to the glory of God, who strengthens and sustains thee in His eternal peace."


    I looked up, finally acknowledging the crowd, and saw their faces, some mummering between themselves, chortling and passing jokes as men were to do. But my attention returned to the man who had dared to presume me illiterate.


    "How''s that for thick?" I asked, my voice hopelessly smug.


    The man just stared, too dumbstruck by my performance to spit out a word most likely.


    "My coin, if you please," I said, wearing a grin that practically shouted victory. The smugness seeped out of me as I watched him reach for his purse, his face grinning for whatever odd reason, as he fished out a whole silver piece and tossed it at my feet the crowd''s eyes locking on to that tiny scrap of metal like it was a king''s ransom.


    I spotted a dark skinned brute plowing through the crowd, his bulk tearing through the lot like a battering ram. His presence alone shut mouths and made men think twice. He stomped right up to me, reeking of sweat and piss-poor ale.


    His voice came out like rocks scraping metal, "Preaching the good word, huh?" The sneer in his tone, half-taunt, half-threat, had his crew snickering in the background.


    "Why don''t you spit some of that wisdom at us poor bastards too, boy?" he spat, crossing his arms, itching for me to slip.


    I kept my cool, flicking the coin to catch the light.


    I knew these sorry degenerates well enough by now to know they didn''t come for no sermon; all they wanted was for a show, a spectacle enough to hold their violent and brutish minds occupied for a few minutes to keep them entertained.


    I locked eyes with him, flashing a grin just shy of insolence. "The scriptures say even the most damned can claw their way back to the light," I began, my voice steady, coaxing. I let the words roll off my tongue like raw honey, drawing them in.


    "But it''s not just about words. It takes honest belief, effort... and sometimes, a small token of sincerity." I toyed with the coin, letting it spin between my fingers, knowing full well how much these dogs loved a bit of theater.


    His eyes narrowed, and for a second, I thought I''d pushed too far, his glare sharp enough to gut me. The crowd held its breath, tension thick enough to choke on.


    Then, just when I thought I''d overstepped, his scowl cracked, and he barked out a wicked laugh that cut through the silence "Ha! Even heaven''s got a tab, eh?" he roared with laughter, the sound rough and raw. "Can''t expect to keep those pearly gates open without a little coin, now can you?"


    He chucked a few coppers, the crowd egging him on as his grin stretched wider. He threw an arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close like we were tight.


    "Tell me, preacher boy," he slurred in my ear, "you think those angels ever get lonely up there, or do they find themselves some ''heavenly'' company?" He roared with laughter, and I had to stifle a grin¡ªwell, well, well wouldn''t he just love to know.


    ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    Thank you to all my patrons for bearing with me;


    Stinker, Aaron, Roblo42, Gremlin Jack, Johan Fischer Nielson.

 Chapter 5.

    The stench came first¡ªthick, sour, rancid.


    I trudged through the muck, each step like pulling my boots from a swamp. They were too big, boots made for a man twice my size, moreover they fit like buckets. The cobblestones sucked at them, as if the street wanted to swallow me whole. I yanked my legs free with every step, my feet dragging.


    Above, a shadow flickered. I looked up in time to see something tip over. Something dark spilled out, hitting the streets with a wet splat and missing me only by inches.


    The rancid sludge surged, a brown wave. I sidestepped, but it caught me still. Filth splattered my hose. The kind of stain that a bonfire would do better than soap to clean.


    Peddlers shouted, indifferent, their voices tangling in the filthy air. They could''ve been selling anything¡ªgold or rotten fish, but it hardly mattered. The noise hammered on, like being stuck in a pen of hens, each one louder, more desperate to be heard over the others.


    The city''s walls loomed above, old and crumbling. Moss and lichen clung to the weathered stones like something alive creeping along their ancient surfaces. The streets below stayed in perpetual shadow, even though the sun had come up hours ago. It was near noon, but Velka wasn''t in a hurry for daylight. The city liked its shadows too much.


    I pushed through the crowd and milky eyes followed me. An old woman sat on a filthy blanket by the roadside. Her face; all lines and cracks, like leather left in the sun too long. Her eyes were clouded, like she couldn''t see, but as I passed, I felt those hazy orbs boring into me.


    I stepped around a pile of dung further ahead, fresh and steaming. It reeked, sharp enough to burn my eyes, but I kept moving.


    The taverns and brothels behind me were packed to the rafters. The Iron Hounds had come in after days of marching, taking Velka like wolves on a sheepfold. They drank, whored, and spent their coin on every vice mercenaries crave when there''s no one left to kill, at least for now.


    But I had no taste for it.


    The crowd thinned as I moved away from the market square and soon enough I was alone.


    The air hung thick and dirty here, the kind that sticks to your lungs. Soot covered everything¡ªbuildings, streets, even the rats had turned several shades darker. I knew then I was near the smithies.


    The air wasn''t clean here, not by any measure, but after the stench that soaked the rest of Velka, it almost felt like a relief. Ash in the lungs certainly beat the stink of sewage curling through every alley and crooked street of the city.


    Ahead, smoke billowed from the chimneys, thick and black, twisting up like it meant to choke out the sun for good. The forges hissed and spat, their fires glowing like old embers, too tired to burn anything today. The blacksmiths hammered away, bending swords back into shape, knocking dents out of shields. Iron met anvil with a hard kind of love.


    Sparks flew, bright for a moment, before they faded, joining the soot and dirt that covered everything here.


    Since arriving in Velka, I''d spent most of the day hopping between merchants, gathering the bare essentials for the soldier''s life I''d now committed to. My errand was nearing its end, and the blacksmiths'' district was my final stop. All I needed now was some armor¡ªthen I''d be set. Standing against a man in full steel with only linen? Those weren''t odds worth betting on.


    The first thing I had grabbed when we rolled into town were provisions. My coin didn''t go very far. So, I settled for hard bread, the kind that soldiers chew on when there''s nothing else. It was heavy stuff, wrapped in a crust that felt like biting into a stone. Probably half sawdust. It looked like it was made for building walls, not feeding men. One bite and my jaw ached, but it was food, and it would keep me from starving¡ªif my teeth held out.


    "Good for weeks," the vendor had said. Yeah right! Good for weeks of cursing my luck is what he should''ve said.


    Then there was what might generously be called a tarp. It sagged, full of holes, eaten through by moths. It wouldn''t do much, but it''d break the wind. Maybe I''d wear it, pretend it was a cloak, though it hung on me like a sack. Still, it was better than freezing.


    Small mercies, I suppose.


    The load on my back dug into my shoulders like it had a grudge. My scrawny frame, the one Being X cursed me with, wasn''t made for hauling anything heavier than a half-empty wineskin. Every step was a reminder of that.


    But there wasn''t much of a choice. Being X sure as hell wasn''t going to carry it for me, and anyone else would probably stab me for the chance.


    _____________________________________________________________________________________


    "You''re not gonna find anything better, lad, especially for the piss-poor coin you''re flashing."


    I stared at the ratty bit of fabric and jumble of tin being offered, wondering if it would hold up against a peasant''s pitchfork, let alone a proper blade.


    Six coppers in my fist. Useless. Lighter than before. The sum of my wretched existence.


    My daily preaching to the pack of reprobates I''d fallen in with had scraped together most of it. The rest had gone on provisions¡ªhard bread and the lot.


    The cursed book dragged at my belt. Selling it might buy real armor¡ªsomething that wouldn''t fold like parchment under a blade. But then what? Nothing but Being X''s cruel whims keeping me fed when I hit the bottom again.


    I wasn''t exactly sure as to which was worse.


    The lowlifes hurled their dumb questions and idiotic comments as I droned through the drivel scrawled on those brittle pages whenever we made camp. I''d grin like some pious idiot, pretending I was there to save their worthless hides from damnation. They''d heckle and jeer, thinking they were so clever, tossing their coins my way¡ªnone of them realizing I was laughing right along with them.


    But all the same some of the older fools stuck around afterward. Sure, it kept the coins trickling in¡ªmeager as they were¡ªbut it also meant spewing the same tired drivel and chanting hymns to that cursed Being X.


    The shriveled bastard who roped me into this mess, the butcher who calls himself a surgeon, the fat, greasy paymaster, and a swarm of half-dead wretches would crawl over like maggots on a corpse every time I dragged out the cursed tome, expecting me to vomit out a few verses.


    Idiots, the whole damn lot of them but that was really neither here nor now.


    "Sure there''s nothing else?" I asked, though I knew better.


    The ragged cloth he tossed at me wasn''t worth a damn, arrows would punch right through it but the thought of heading back into that fight with even less made me try again. Still, ten silvers for a scrap full of holes, more worn out than a whore''s drawers, was a bit too steep for my taste.


    He laughed, loud and sharp, until it turned into a cough that sent spit flying in my face. His breath smelled like old ale, burnt metal, and something worse. Like death, only fresher but barely.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Holdin'' out, eh? If I had anythin'' worth a damn, you think I''d waste it on a skinny rat like you?"


    I stared at the few coins in my palm, willing them to multiply. But no matter how long I looked, they stayed the same pitiful handful.


    "Maybe if I toss in a smile, we could¡­um¡­sweeten the deal?" I asked, trying my hand at charm attempting to sound smooth, though it came out as weak as the ragged scraps he was selling for armor.


    The bastard tilted his head, lips curling into a smirk before twisting into something meaner. He let the silence stretch, enjoying it.


    "A smile, huh? Damn generous of you I say but how about this: you throw in whatever''s left of your luck, shrimp¡ªseeing as you''ve got none¡ªand maybe, just maybe, I''ll knock off a copper for ya."


    "I''m being serious!" I snapped, but even to my own ears, it sounded weak.


    His smirk fell and his eyes turned cold all of a sudden. He pointed a thick, soot-caked finger at me, and the stench of sweat and ash hitting me like a slap. "Listen, kid. I''m a blacksmith, not some damn charity. Short on coin? Then take your sorry ass elsewhere. I''ve got work to do."


    He spat a gob of something foul onto the dirt with a wet *thwack. Then he turned, grabbed his hammer, and brought it down on the glowing metal with a crack that made the walls rattle and shake. The sound crushed any last bit of begging I had left in me.


    Tsk... maybe it was time to cut my losses.


    Walk out of here with whatever''s left of my dignity, or what passes for it. Hell, at least that''d still be something.


    But¡­but I had one last trick up my sleeve¡ªthe same sorry move I''d been pulling all week. Thinking about it made my stomach churn like I''d swallowed a barrel of swill.


    I gritted my teeth. Not out of shame, of course no. I''d left behind what little I had a long time ago. Shame didn''t pay, didn''t put food in your gut or steel on your back.


    No, this was the kind of sour taste you get when you know you''re about to do something dirty and your whole body''s screaming at you to stop. Telling you to get the hell out before you make it worse.


    I could feel my pride talking, trying to get me to turn and walk, but the part of me that didn''t want to end up face-down in the mud shut it up quickly. Besides, that dirty little trick had worked so far, hadn''t it? It was still better than marching back onto a battlefield without a damn thing between me and a spear. Better to swallow whatever scraps of pride I had left than choke on them while bleeding out.


    I hacked out a cough, rough and loud, like I''d been chewing on gravel, hoping the old bastard would notice. The blacksmith stopped, hammer hanging in the air like he was weighing whether to keep pounding metal or smash my skull in instead.


    He turned, slow, too slow. His eyes narrowed as he looked me up and down like a butcher sizing up a half-dead cow. His grip tightened on the hammer, knuckles going white, veins bulging like they were ready to burst. His eyes twitched, bouncing between telling me to piss off and planting that hammer right in my face.


    I straightened, pulling my shoulders back, letting the defeat crawl over me like a kicked dog. I widened my eyes just a bit, enough to look pathetic¡ªnot enough to beg outright, but enough to wring a scrap of pity out of the crusty old bastard. Every second dragged.


    Pity wasn''t something you found out here. Kindness neither. You''d have better odds spitting into the wind.


    But faith? Like shit on a pig, everywhere you turned. Every corner, every face, every half-burnt prayer in this guilt-ridden, God-fearing hellhole stank of it.


    "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," I said, letting the words slip slowly like honey off a spoon. The kind of words these folks clung to, draped over like a wool cloak in the rain.


    I pulled the ragged book from my belt, held it up so he could see. I rapped my knuckles on it, the thud cutting through the thick air between us. The blacksmith''s eyes shifted. Not much, but enough.


    "That''s what it says, isn''t it? What it all boils down to." I flipped open the pages, careful-like, each crackle of paper breaking the silence. His jaw tightened, just a twitch. I could see his hands were still. He hadn''t moved. Good.


    "There''s a story-The Good Samaritan." I said, voice lower now, drawing out each word, taking my time. I let the book hang there between us, loose in my grip. The pages fluttered a little, like they had a mind of their own.


    "The one with the man who saw his fellow beaten, stripped, and left for dead on the side of the road? Two others passed him by, but he? A stranger no less, he took pity, didn''t he? He didn''t hesitate to help a man in need, and he was blessed for it. That''s the kind of person we should all strive to be. A man who sees another in need and offers what little he has. I''m not asking for charity, sir, no. I''m asking for a little kindness, the sort that you''d want shown to you if the tables were turned."


    "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy," I said, letting the words slide out slow, sticky with the kind of piety that makes a man squirm.


    "A little mercy now, and it''ll come back to you, tenfold." I whispered, letting it hang there, waiting for him to budge. The heat from the forge pressed in, the sweat on my back soaking through. But he just stared, squinting like I was a fly buzzing too close. I dropped my eyes, playing small, though my hands itched to wring his thick neck. I swallowed it down.


    "I was hungry, and you fed me. Thirsty, and you gave me drink. A stranger, and you took me in..." I let the words trail off, watching his face. Nothing.


    "You know how it goes," I said, quieter now. "We''re measured by what we do for those at the bottom. And right now, I''m there. Rock bottom." I caught his eyes, saw his jaw clench. Grinding his teeth. Maybe I had him.


    "You don''t want to be the man who turns away a soul in need, do you?" I kept my voice steady, but pushed the edge. "It wouldn''t cost you much. You know that. A decent man, a believer, wouldn''t shut his door on someone just trying to make an honest go of it."


    I waited, watching his mouth twist, like he was chewing the words or holding back the spit.


    The smith grunted, his lips pulling into something between a sneer and a grimace. His eyes crawled over me like he was sizing up a sack of spoiled potatoes, deciding if it was worth the trouble to throw me out or just kick me aside.


    "Remember," I said, keeping my voice sweet, "The Almighty loves a cheerful giver. And you''ve got that warmth, I can tell. A man like you, big heart. You wouldn''t be the one to turn away a soul in need, would you? Not when you could be an inspiration. A beacon of generosity."


    He didn''t say a word, just scanned me again, slow. From the mud-caked boots I''d barely tied together to the threadbare rags draped over my bones. His eyes lingered, hard, like he was chewing on something bitter.


    "Inspiration, huh?" His voice came out low and rough, like it had been scraped from the bottom of a barrel.


    I nodded, quick, eager, all wide-eyed and desperate. My neck nearly snapped from the force of it, but I kept it up. And for a moment, I saw it¡ªa flicker, a crack in the armor. His shoulders sagged, just a little, but it was enough. He let out a sigh so deep it rattled the tools on the wall.


    I could feel it then, that shift.


    He was buckling. The old bastard was falling for it, every word sinking in like a fishhook. So close. All I had to do was tug a little harder¡ªjust one more nudge and he''d be mine. I could already picture it, the look on Being X''s face. The son of a bitch watching me, thinking I''d never crawl my way out. But here I was, on the verge of pulling another one over on him.


    Victory was close. I could feel it, almost taste it.


    I dropped my eyes, low, playing up that last card. Maybe the old man had something left, buried under all that dirt and grime and grumbling where his heart should''ve been.


    He leaned forward, slow, deliberate. My heart pounded hard, like the beat of a drum, steady and deafening. This was the moment. He was about to dig deep, haul out something from the back, some real gear, something worth its weight in steel.


    I watched every move, every twitch. I was waiting for him to give, to break, to offer something that wasn''t a complete waste.


    He leaned in more. Close now. I could see the lines in his face, dirt packed in tight, the smell of old sweat and smoke thick around him. His voice came slow, filled with the kind of disdain that didn''t need to hurry.


    "Funny, that," he said, with a tone that could cut. "You''ve got a real knack for scripture, lad. But guess what?"


    His sneer twisted sharp, ugly enough to curdle milk where it stood.


    "So do I!"


    His teeth¡ªyellow, cracked like old tombstones¡ªgleamed as he jabbed his finger into my chest. Thick and grimy, it hit hard, knocking the breath out of me.


    I staggered back, biting down on the curse that tried to crawl out of my throat.


    "''Beware of false prophets,''" he hissed, his voice low and mean. He leaned closer, breath sour and heavy. "''Which come to you in sheep''s clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves themselves.''"


    He paused, letting it sink in. "You wouldn''t be one of those, would you? A filthy wolf in rags, trying to scam a poor blacksmith out of his coin?"


    "N¡­no," I managed, a dry croak in my throat.


    He didn''t seem to care. Didn''t even blink. He shoved in closer, filling the space between us with the rank stench of his sweat. His greasy apron brushed against me, rough against my thin clothes, like it was scraping the skin off my bones.


    This was supposed to be simple. Talk him up, flash a grin, walk out with something half-decent. Now I''m knee-deep in it all of a sudden with this fat bastard breathing down my neck. How the hell did it go so wrong? What the fuck did I miss?


    His breath hit my face, thick, rancid¡ªlike something died in his gut and was rotting slow. "''And here''s a bonus for you, preacher boy,''" he growled, voice like gravel.


    "''THOU SHALT NOT¡­ FUCKING STEAL!''"


    And before I could flinch, his hand whipped across my face with a force that felt like it could break the earth in two.


    The slap cracked sharp, louder than the forge behind him. My head snapped sideways, the sting spreading like fire, and I tasted blood.


    Never knew that grace came with a side of bruises, but now I knew how it felt.


    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    A very special thank you to my patron Terrifying, Beautiful, Powerful Grey Prince Zote for holding out hope.

 Chapter 6.

    I shoved myself deeper into the hollow, the bark clawing at my skin and shredding my sleeves. It wasn¡¯t as deep as I¡¯d hoped, the walls pressing in like a vice, but it would have to work. No full-grown man could squeeze in here, and that was all that mattered.


    I held still, swallowing against the pounding in my skull where that bastard of a blacksmith had whacked me good. Felt like my brain was leaking into my throat. Should¡¯ve been dead with the size of his arms, maybe. If this was X¡¯s idea of payback for all the scams and cheap sacrilege, he could stick it where the sun doesn¡¯t shine.


    My chest hitched with shallow breaths as I gripped the whistle in my palm, its edges biting into my skin. Not heavy, no, it wasn¡¯t the weight that mattered. It was what came next.


    Through a gap in the bark, I squinted at the scene outside. The oxen hauled forward, necks straining, veins standing out like rope under hide. Their sides heaved, breaths misting in the cold. Every step punched through the mud with a wet suck, pulling them deeper into the muck as they neared the crossing. The sound of it made my teeth itch.


    The wagons screeched like something alive, wheels snarling and skidding in the sludge. Not just creaking¡ªthis was uglier. A snapping, grinding mess, like ribs caving in under a boot.


    The guards slogged through the mire beside them, spears slung lazy over their shoulders. They didn¡¯t look jumpy, but they had the gait of men who¡¯d seen enough to know trouble could rear its head any second.


    I stayed put.


    I watched.


    I listened.


    Every slurp of mud, every shuffle of boots, every goddamn creak of the wagons. If they suspected anything, they didn¡¯t show it. The spears hung loose, their eyes locked on the road ahead. None of them so much as glanced at the reeds, let alone the steel crouched and waiting in the dark.


    They hit the first marker¡ªa sagging, split branch barely holding on over the far bank.


    Right on time.I started counting.


    ¡°The ambush is perfect,¡± Gambino had said, hand on his thigh. ¡°They won¡¯t know what hit ¡®em.¡±


    Liar.


    Forty at first¡ªnot great, but doable. Then more kept coming. Boots stomping through the muck, faces hard and set. Fifty. Sixty. No, it was pushing a hundred. Maybe more.


    Numbers swimming in my head, but I knew one thing for sure: this was a damn slaughter waiting to happen, and we were on the wrong side of it.


    And the wagons¡ªsomething wasn¡¯t right. They groaned under their loads; heavy. Tarps stretched tight over shapes that didn¡¯t look like grain or plunder.


    Gambino had sold us on a raiding party. Quick. Dirty. Just enough muscle to snatch what they needed and piss off the local lord we¡¯d been paid to protect. But this? This wasn¡¯t a raid. This was an army. A moving graveyard, and we were about to fill the holes.


    The whistle sat cold against my lips, waiting for the signal. One breath from me, and it¡¯d start. Bolts tearing through flesh. Men screaming. Blood soaking the mud faster than it could dry.


    Maybe we¡¯d hit them hard enough to win. Take them by surprise, carve them up before they figured out how few of us there were.


    Maybe.


    Or maybe it¡¯d all go to shit. Two hundred of them, easy, against seventy of ours.


    The convoy crept closer, step by goddamn step.


    Almost in range.


    But what if they knew? What if someone had tipped them off? The thought squirmed in my gut like a parasitic gutworm. Blowing the whistle now could be the end of us¡ªmore of our men shredded, their screams feeding the silence while the rest of those bastards marched over our corpses.


    The whistle pressed hard against my lips, the metal; biting. I stared through the crack in the bark, barely more than a slit, sharp-edged and black. The reeds stayed still, but I felt the tension in the men crouched there. Crossbows loaded, blades itching for blood. Waiting on me to give the signal.


    The river gnawed at the banks, quiet but steady, too calm for the weight settling over everything.


    The oxen slogged forward, muscles knotted under muddy hides, their breaths fogging the chill air. Hooves splashed into the shallows with that god-awful sucking sound, wagons creaking and groaning like they¡¯d rather die than roll another inch.


    And Gambino¡¯s voice rang in my skull, smug and slimy: ¡°They won¡¯t know what hit ¡®em.¡±


    Easy for him to say, tucked away safe while I rotted in a hollow, watching two hundred well-fed killers close in like they owned the damn world.


    The wagons were wrong. The numbers were worse. A trap inside the trap? Hell if I knew. Thinking wasn¡¯t exactly part of my contract.


    My job? Blow the whistle. Not too early. Not too late. That¡¯s it. No grand strategy, no heroics. Just one shrill note at the right time so I could keep sucking air another day.


    What I was doing now¡ªturning plans over in my head like I was some warlord¡ªwas about as useful as a janitor barging into the boardroom to lecture the suits about profit margins. Stupid. But at least I had the brains to realize it. Not like most people.


    The plan wasn¡¯t mine, and neither was the call. But the whistle? That was all me. If they were onto us, sitting quiet wouldn¡¯t save anyone. If they weren¡¯t, blowing it might get a few more of us out alive. Not many, but enough to matter.


    The caravan lumbered past the second marker, right where the reeds thinned. Perfect for a clean volley¡ªbolts punching through men and wagons like they were paper. My ribs pressed into the bark, tight and unmoving. My breathing stayed slow. Steady.


    My eyes locked on the lead wagon. The oxen strained, shoulders bunched, legs shaking with every slogging step through the shallow crossing.. Whatever they were dragging, it wasn¡¯t light.


    The weight hung in the air too, pushing down harder with every second, until the only thing I could feel was the whistle digging into my lips, cold and sharp as a razor.


    I blew.


    The sound ripped through the air, sharp and final. For half a heartbeat, everything stopped. The guards froze mid-step, the oxen¡¯s ears flicked back, and even the river seemed to hold its breath.


    Then the world came apart at the seams.


    Crossbows snapped, and the bolts screamed like banshees, gut-wrenching and shrill. The reeds exploded, men tearing from cover, hollering like feral dogs.


    They charged with blades up, faces twisted with rage. The oxen bawled louder, panic and pain rolling off them in waves as shafts punched into their thick hides. Legs buckled. They went down hard, slamming into the river and yanking the wagons sideways with a sickening crunch.


    The tarps ripped apart, spilling bodies like a butcher¡¯s cart tipped over. Corpses and half-dead men tumbled out, flailing in the muck, clawing at anything solid.


    I watched as the first volley hit, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack a rib. Bolts slammed into the front ranks, tearing through flesh and bone like paper. A dozen men dropped where they stood, twitching like slaughtered hogs, their fingers scrabbling at the wooden shafts sticking out of their chests. Blood soaked the dirt, dark and steaming, pooling faster than the earth could drink it.


    For a heartbeat, it looked like they might break. Like they¡¯d see the mess and run.


    But no. They came harder.


    The survivors charged, trampling their own dead without a second thought. Boots crushed ribs, ground faces into the mud until they were just red smears. Spears jabbed out, shaky and wild, but just enough to slow the rush.


    Then the lines slammed together, loud enough to shake the air. Shields buckled. Bones snapped. Men screamed. Spears drove into flesh, punching through chainmail, or snapping uselessly in the chaos.


    It was a meat grinder. Blades hacked and stabbed, splitting skulls and gutting torsos. Blood sprayed everywhere, hot and thick, painting faces and soaking hands.


    One man shrieked, clawing at the pulpy ruin of his face, chunks of skin dangling from his fingertips. Another fell gurgling, a spear shoved clean through his neck, his blood spraying in quick, rhythmic bursts. Shields shattered under the blows, the crack of wood barely audible over the roars and dying gasps.


    It wasn¡¯t a fight anymore. It was slaughter, plain and simple.


    The line buckled, men bracing with teeth bared, screaming curses and prayers in the same breath. The enemy shoved harder, swords carving through guts and muscle, edges dripping red and gleaming in the dim light. The ground churned under their boots, thick with mud and blood, swallowing bodies like quicksand.


    But the guards didn¡¯t break. Not yet. Somehow, they held. Shields split and soaked, arms shaking under the strain, but they held. The line bent like a rusted hinge, groaning under the weight, but it didn¡¯t snap. They shoved back, boots grinding into the sludge, faces twisted with rage and fear. For a heartbeat, the mercenaries stumbled. Just a flicker. Not enough.


    The ambush had rattled them but hadn¡¯t crushed them.


    I crouched low in the hollow, ribs locked in a vise of bark and breath coming sharp and shallow. The whistle cord stuck to my neck, slick with sweat, swaying against my chest like a jeer. My fingers jerked toward the knife at my side, gripping the cold steel hard enough that it hurt.


    The Hounds and the guards slammed into each other, locked in a heaving, grinding mess. Neither side gave an inch. Swords flashed in the chaos, arcs of blood spraying high before splattering back to the ground. The air reeked of iron and rot, thick enough to gag on.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    It was a coin flip now. Someone would crack, and when they did, the real slaughter would begin.


    Gambino¡¯s voice ripped through the noise, sharp and full of spit: ¡°Push, you bastards! Push! Don¡¯t let ¡®em breathe!¡±


    My legs moved before my brain caught up, dragging me out of the pit and straight into the mess.


    The field was hell¡ªmen screaming like animals, steel smashing wood, the ground churned into sludge thick with blood and shit. The line was holding, but just barely, and it wouldn¡¯t hold for long. Jumping in was a death sentence. Staying back? Worse. If we lost, they¡¯d find me and kill me anyway. If we won and I wasn¡¯t in the fight? They¡¯d string me up for being a coward, or worse, have some fun before they finished me off. Either way, I¡¯d end up dead.


    A spear punched through one of ours. Quick. Wet. He went down hard, screaming once before the ruddy water swallowed him.


    Another guy swung his shield, the edge catching a merc¡¯s skull. It cracked loud, but the bastard still twitched, hand scrabbling at the air like he could grab onto life. Didn¡¯t matter¡ªanother one shoved him aside, teeth bared, boots grinding over the corpse like it was nothing.


    My hand found the knife, the ivory hilt cold and slimy. My breath was wrong¡ªtight, shallow, like I couldn¡¯t pull in enough air. The mud sucked at my boots, like it wanted to drag me down with the rest of the bodies. A part of me thought about stopping, just sinking into the water and vanishing. But it was too late for that now.


    The Hounds were toast. I could see it now, clear as day. The enemy was regrouping, and once they hit back, our lot wouldn¡¯t hold. The bodies piling up in front of them said all that needed saying. If I waited, they¡¯d finish the Hounds and then move on to me.


    I forced my feet forward, slipping and sliding in the muck. The knife came free from my belt, light and almost useless in my hand. It wasn¡¯t made for killing¡ªtoo fancy, too delicate, more decoration than weapon. My grip wobbled, slippery and weak, and I swore it would fall out before I even got close.


    Ahead, the line almost shattered, mercs folding like wet paper, crushed under the enemy¡¯s counter charge. Blood sprayed in thick, disgusting arcs, soaking the mud until it turned into a reeking swamp.


    Everything stuck¡ªmud, guts, God knows what else. The stink of iron was everywhere, sharp and rancid, burning the back of my throat. Screams ripped through the chaos, quick and jagged. Somewhere, bone snapped, loud enough to churn my stomach.


    The noise shoved me forward, legs moving on autopilot, even when every part of me screamed to stop.


    This was the job. Signed the contract, took the coin,as meager as it was but now it was time to deliver. No room for excuses or bad days¡ªjust pure results. I tried to keep it together, reaching for the same BS I used to peddle back in my office days: ¡°commitment to excellence,¡± ¡°go the extra mile.¡± Total crap all of it, but the garbage  kept me sane during performance reviews.


    Except this wasn¡¯t a desk job. This was a blood-soaked battlefield, and the only metrics that mattered were survival and body count. My tools? A frilly dagger and hands shaking so hard I could barely grip the damn thing.


    Somewhere out there, some imaginary HR suit was probably drafting my pink slip: Failed to embody company culture when faced with screaming mercs and arterial spray.


    Walking away wasn¡¯t an option. Not if I wanted to keep my head attached to my neck. So I kept moving. One heavy, miserable step at a time. My chest burned, each breath sharp as broken glass.


    The dagger was slick and hot in my grip, slippery with whatever mess it had carved through. This wasn¡¯t bravery. It was survival, pure and stupid¡ªkeep going or die where you stand.


    My legs carried me at full sprint for a few dozen yards, carrying me closer to and away from a certain death.


    But then I saw him.


    Near the rear wagons, some bastard was barking orders over the din of chaos. No armor, just a beat-up leather coat, but he carried himself like nothing could hope to touch him.


    His voice cut through the screams and clanging steel, sharp and mean, snapping the guards into place. He wasn¡¯t just shouting to be heard¡ªhe was dragging them through the fight by sheer force of will.


    Even from where I stood, I could tell he was no amateur. Every gesture was sharp, every move precise. No wasted effort. A man who¡¯d been through this before and knew exactly how to pull his sorry crew together. Leader, no question. He was rallying the scraps of their defense, patching their broken lines like it was nothing.


    The knife in my hand felt laughably light, more like a joke than a weapon against someone like him. But if I could take him down¡­if I could against all odds take the bastard down, it¡¯d be more than just survival¡ªit¡¯d be a golden ticket.


    Bringing him down wouldn¡¯t just justify my paycheck; it¡¯d shoot me straight to the top. This wasn¡¯t just a fight anymore¡ªit was a damn performance review.


    A bold move like this? It¡¯s what gets you noticed. "Eliminate barriers to success," right? Well, that cocky son of a bitch was the biggest barrier standing in my way, and I was about to cut him out of the equation.


    I staggered forward, legs dragging one after the other, the thought of murder the only thing pushing me forward.


    Ahead, the enemy commander kept barking orders. His voice a whip, driving his men into formation on the crumbling left flank. Shields locked tight, spears bristling, they surged to hold the line.


    He needed to die.


    I hit the shallows, mud and water sucking at my boots as I pushed toward him, slipping and sliding with every step.


    One of ours¡ªa Hound¡ªrushed past me, sword raised and yelling like an idiot. The commander didn¡¯t even flinch. He stepped into the swing, rammed a short sword straight through the guy¡¯s chest, and spun away like it was nothing. Blood sprayed everywhere. The Hound hit the dirt, choking on his own lungs.


    That was my opening.


    I pushed harder, closing the gap. He hadn¡¯t noticed me yet, too busy yelling orders and swinging that sword of his  in tight, brutal arcs, keeping our men off him.


    His back was wide open to me.


    Perfect.


    This was it¡ªmy shot, my one chance to gut this bastard and actually make a difference. The knife felt pathetic in my hand, but it would do. Every muscle in my body screamed, every nerve was ready to go. I raised the blade, all instincts yelling the same thing: kill him.


    I lunged, aiming for the sweet spot between his shoulders. My blade struck home, sinking into flesh. For a moment, he froze, his breath catching in a jagged hiss. His body buckled slightly, and I thought¡ªjust for a heartbeat¡ªthat maybe I¡¯d done it.


    But then he roared.


    The sound was feral, guttural, and raw, vibrating with pain and fury. His hand shot up, gripping the handle of the blade I¡¯d left in him. Blood ran freely down his back, dark and thick, but he barely seemed to notice.


    He spun on me, his face twisted with rage, eyes burning with something primal. Before I could step back, he lashed out. His fist slammed into my chest like a battering ram, sending me sprawling onto the ground. The air whooshed out of my lungs, leaving me gasping and dazed.


    "That," he growled, wrenching the knife from his back and tossing it to the ground, "was a mistake."


    I didn¡¯t let the bolt of pain barely slow me. I snarled and charged, ramming into him full force. The hit caught him off balance, and we both went down, slamming into the churned, stinking mud.


    I clawed for control, my hands scrabbling at his sword arm, desperate to pin it down. His coat was slick with water and filth, my fingers slipping as he twisted beneath me. Then his elbow smashed into my ribs¡ªhard, brutal, like a hammer driving a nail. Air punched out of me, and my vision went white with the pain.


    Before I could regroup, he shoved me with a strength that felt inhuman, like something out of a nightmare. The mud shifted beneath us, stealing what little leverage I had. He threw me off like I weighed nothing, and I hit the ground hard, the splash of cold water soaking me to the bone. My lungs screamed as I struggled to drag air back in.


    The knife¡ªwhere the hell was the knife?


    I didn¡¯t get the chance to look. His hands were on me before I could blink, iron-strong, locking around my throat. His grip bit into my skin, rough and closing, shoving me backward as my legs crumpled.


    The river surged around me, icy and vicious, smashing against my head. Bitter, filthy water flooded my nose and mouth, choking me as the current roared in my ears.


    I thrashed hard, panic burning in my chest, my lungs screaming for air. My nails tore at his wrists, ripping at the tendons, but it didn¡¯t matter. The man barely even flinched.


    "Thought you¡¯d get it done quick, huh?" he snarled, voice cutting through the roar of the river and the sound of me drowning.


    His grip tightened, shoving my head deeper into the freezing current. "Sneak in, stick me like a pig, and walk off all righteous? Pathetic."


    "You¡¯re not the first dumb bastard to try, and you sure as hell won¡¯t be the last. But you¡¯ll die just as useless as the rest."


    He slammed my head into the riverbed, sharp rocks tearing at my scalp. The water surged over me, biting cold, choking, shoving filth down my throat. His weight bore down hard, pinning my arms in the sludge as the current yanked at them like it wanted to rip me apart.


    ¡°You¡¯re nothing,¡± he spat, voice flat, like it was already decided. ¡°A little maggot with a blade.¡± His lips curled into something close to a sneer. ¡°What do you think? Should I let you up? Watch you crawl? Or should I make you beg for breath you¡¯ll never get?¡±


    His hands crushed down on my neck, cutting off the last scraps of air. My chest bucked, ribs jerking like it could force the river out, but it just poured in deeper, colder.


    The moonlight above was gone, swallowed in muddy streaks. Bubbles broke free from my lips, weak and frantic, gone before they reached the surface.


    ¡°Come on,¡± he hissed, leaning in, his grip like iron. Each word was low and haunting, drilling into me like nails. ¡°Struggle harder. Show me if there¡¯s anything in you worth killing.¡±


    The fire in my lungs tore through me, ripping up my chest, hammering into my skull. Every nerve lit up, screaming bloody murder. My body bucked, legs kicking like a cornered animal, clawing for something, anything. He didn¡¯t move. His hands stayed locked around my neck, iron-tight, grinding bone against bone.


    The river clawed at me, stronger now, yanking at my legs like it wanted to tear them clean off and drag me under. My fingers found his wrists, latched on¡ªnot fighting, not even trying to break free. Just holding on, stupid and desperate, like that would make a damn difference.


    It didn¡¯t.


    The blood in my ears thundered, drowning out the roar of the current. My body gave up¡ªarms useless, legs stiff as wood, just dead weight for the river to claim. My chest burned hotter, a furnace about to blow, and when my mouth opened, the water rushed in.


    It hit like ice and filth, thick and foul, slamming down my throat again and again, shoving its way deeper.


    It wasn¡¯t just cold¡ªit was alive, writhing, choking, digging in like it meant to kill me from the inside out. My body jerked once, a pathetic spasm that only let it push deeper. My lungs begged for air, but the scream stuck in my head, nowhere to go.


    All that was left was the river, crushing and endless, and my heart, hammering slower, weaker, until even that started to quit.


    The black swallowed me whole, slow and pitiless. It crawled in, choking out the scraps of light, smothering everything that wasn¡¯t cold, crushing, and wrong.


    My chest gave one last, pitiful heave, then quit¡­


    ¡­and then his grip slipped.


    Air tore its way back in shuddering gasps, shredding my throat as I sucked it down. I wrenched my head out of the water, coughing hard.


    Every breath burned, wet and rotten, but I kept dragging them in. My eyes stung like hell, the world a smeared mess of spinning shapes.


    I wasn''t yet out of danger and I turned to look through hazy, blurry eyes.


    The man loomed over me still, chest heaving, his shadow thick, ominous, like a weight pressing down.


    His hands, the same ones that had been squeezing the life out of me seconds ago, hung limp at his sides, fingers twitching like they didn¡¯t know what to do next while his mouth hung open, a snarl frozen halfway to a scream.


    Then I saw it.


    Steel. Jammed deep in his ribs, just under his heart. The blade¡¯s hilt barely poked out, but the blood kept pouring; surging hot and fast, soaking his coat and splattering into the mud like a leaky faucet.


    He staggered, one hand clawing at the wound, like yanking it out would undo the damage.


    It didn''t.


    The commander spun, his lips working, spitting half-formed curses that didn¡¯t make it past his teeth.


    Then his knees gave out. He hit the mud like a sack of meat, eyes blown wide as the blade ripped free from his side. The river claimed him without ceremony, dragging him under with a slurp, leaving only a ripple and the sharp stink of blood behind.


    Then the shadow shifted, water sloshing as a blade too big for the scrawny hands holding it scraped against the river bed.


    The tip dragged, gouging an uneven trail along the shallows.


    Their arms shook like they''d snap, but the look in their eyes? Hard as iron, dead steady.


    ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


    A huge thank you to both my patrons Grey_Prince_Zote and Weise

 Chapter 7

    I hacked until my chest felt like it would tear open, breath slicing through my throat. My arms gave out, and I clawed at the ground, mud and grit grinding under my nails. Cold slime clung to me, soaking through, burning. I wiped at my face, only smearing more filth into my eyes.


    When the spinning stopped, I forced myself up, trembling, every muscle screaming. My clothes hung off me, soaked and stinking, streaked with blood. I looked down at the wreck of myself and wished I hadn¡¯t.


    Then there was the kid, standing there with that dumb, proud look, soaked to the bone like a stray mutt who¡¯d just pissed on the carpet. I coughed out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a growl.


    "Fucking perfect," I snarled, voice shredded to hell. One shot to prove I wasn¡¯t dead weight, and it gets blown to pieces by this idiot¡ªbarely out of diapers and running on fumes for brains.


    My chest burned like I¡¯d inhaled fire, hands still cramped from dragging myself out of that sludge, and there he was, standing like he¡¯d just pulled off a miracle. I didn¡¯t bother looking at him as I turned away.


    Maybe he said something. Maybe he didn¡¯t. Who cared? All I could hear was the ringing in my skull and the wreck of my own breath. The river hadn¡¯t killed me, but this? This sure as hell might.


    I could feel blood sliding down the side of my face, sticky and warm, getting in my eye and blurring everything worse than it already was. There was a nasty gash on my head, the pain only now registering that the adrenaline was wearing off.


    Felt like someone had split my skull open and decided to leave it half-finished. My whole head throbbed like it was about to split apart, and the blood kept coming, dripping into the mess already covering me.


    ¡°Hey,¡± the kid called out again, his voice steady in a way that grated. ¡°You¡­ you okay?¡±


    I stopped dead.


    My fists curled tight.


    Nails biting into my palms hard enough to break the skin. My shoulders went rigid, and I dragged in air through clenched teeth like I was choking it down. Slowly, I turned to face him, letting the rage build like a fire in my gut. I locked eyes with him, my glare sharp enough to cut.


    ¡°Do I look¡­.okay to you?¡± I snapped, each word dripping with venom.


    The kid flinched like I¡¯d slapped him, his grip slipping on the oversized sword he¡¯d barely managed to drag this far. His knuckles were bone white against the hilt, his hands shaking like a leaf¡ªwhether from the weight or the situation, I didn¡¯t care. He looked ready to puke if I so much as breathed wrong, but the little bastard held his ground.


    "I just¡­" he stuttered, swallowing like it might keep his voice from cracking. It didn¡¯t. "You were¡ªhe had you, and I¡ª"


    His face drained white, knees shaking like they were about to give out. "I wasn¡¯t trying to¡ª"


    "Trying to what?" I snapped, closing the distance until I could smell the fear pouring off him, thick with sweat. "Trying to think? For once? Before flailing that chunk of scrap metal around like a goddamn moron?" I jabbed a finger at the blade shaking in his grip, his knuckles locking up like letting go would kill him.


    The urge to tear into him burned hot, the words piling up in my throat, jagged and mean, ready to cut him down to size. I wanted to scream at him about how I didn¡¯t need saving, about how I¡¯d had it under control before he stuck his nose in where it didn¡¯t belong.


    But then I stopped, just for a second, and actually looked at him.


    His face was smeared with mud, streaked with scratches and sweat. His chest heaved like he¡¯d been running for miles, and his knuckles were locked tight¡­ so tight around that damn sword they looked ready to crack.


    What the hell was I even doing? Screaming at some dumb kid who¡¯d jumped in, blind and reckless, because I¡¯d been a hair¡¯s breadth from having my neck snapped like a chicken¡¯s? Tearing into him when the truth was I¡¯d been too slow. Too weak.


    The anger boiled hotter, carving me up from the inside like a dull blade. Not at him. At me. At the useless sack of shit I¡¯d turned into, getting hauled out of the fire by some kid who couldn¡¯t even grow a beard yet.


    ¡°Fine,¡± I ground out, the word tasting like bile.


    It wasn¡¯t thanks. It wasn¡¯t even close. Just a bitter grunt, grudging acknowledgment. ¡°You did fine.¡±


    The kid¡¯s shoulders sagged like I¡¯d handed him a goddamn medal. That stupid look of relief on his face made me want to punch something, anything, just to drown out the itch under my skin.


    I couldn¡¯t look at him anymore. My eyes dropped to the muck around my boots, thick and slimy, pulling at me like all the shit I couldn¡¯t shake.


    Up ahead, the real fight raged on¡ªscreams ripping through the air, steel crashing like a war drum. People out there earning it, spilling their guts for it. And me? I was stuck here, wheezing like a dying dog; useless, so out of depth from what I was used to in a life prior.


    My fists were clenched so tight the filth dug into the cuts on my hands, sharp and filthy. Just another slap in the face that I was drowning in shit I couldn¡¯t handle.


    Damn that bastard, Being X.


    The bile I wanted to spit boiled in my chest, clawing at my throat like broken glass, too jagged to let loose without ripping myself apart. I shoved it down, choking on it, like all the other rotting filth festering in the pit of me.


    The fight twisted around us like a rabid dog, chewing through the noise and spitting out chaos. The clash of steel gave way to something worse¡ªwails, high and cracked, like animals caught in traps. Shadows stumbled through the muck, slipping, dragging, dying. Men, if you could still call them that, flopped face-first into the dirt, guts spilling or skulls cracked. Bodies piling up like so much garbage.


    The enemy shattered.


    They scattered like rats, scrambling over each other to get away. Some dove headlong into the river, probably thinking drowning was better than getting gutted. Others froze up, slack-faced, looking like they couldn¡¯t decide whether to shit themselves or just stand there and take it. Swords hit the ground, shields were left behind, and they ran for any hole that might keep them breathing. The ones too stupid or too scared to move just stood there, shaking and useless, waiting for the blade to drop.


    A Hound tore past me, his axe slick with blood that wasn¡¯t his, his face painted in it like some kind of sick war mask. He roared like a lunatic, his grin all teeth and rage. ¡°Don¡¯t let those bastards run! Cut ¡¯em down!¡±


    The pack didn¡¯t need a second invite.


    They howled like animals, charging in, hacking and stabbing anything dumb enough to still be breathing.


    One poor bastard was thrashing in the river, arms flailing like he thought he could swim out of it. He jerked hard when a spear rammed through his back, the point bursting out his chest in a shower of red, leaving him to sink like a stone.


    Another one hit his knees, hands up, blubbering for mercy that wasn¡¯t there and never would be. Pathetic. It didn¡¯t stop the axe¡ªit came down hard, splitting his neck with a wet, meaty crack. His head flopped sideways, barely dangling by a string of gristle, before he pitched forward into the shit, face-down and twitching like a slaughtered pig.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    The air reeked¡ªblood, piss, shit¡ªthick enough to make your guts churn, but by now, I barely noticed.


    The Hound with the axe stopped, chest heaving like a bellows, his face a mask of dried blood and grime. He spat into the filth, the glob landing next to some poor bastard¡¯s mangled hand. ¡°Ain¡¯t nobody crawling out of this shit tonight,¡± he growled, his grin stretching wider, all teeth and malice. ¡°We finish it. Right here. Right now.¡±


    And they did.


    The screams didn¡¯t last long. The wet crunch of blades ripping into flesh, bones popping like twigs, and bodies thudding into the mud drowned out everything else. The river kept moving, swallowing the corpses without a second thought, dragging them off like trash.


    Through the haze, I spotted Gambino, wiping his sword clean on a dead man''s shirt. His voice cut through the chaos like a whip, sharp and mean. ¡°Take the wagons! Anything that moves, kill it. If it¡¯s dead, strip it. Burn everything! Leave no one breathing!¡±


    The men roared, a low, guttural noise that turned the stomach. They swarmed like rabid dogs, tearing through the last scraps of resistance, hacking and slashing like it was a game they couldn¡¯t get enough of.


    The cheers blurred into the dull pounding in my head, like a drumbeat I couldn¡¯t shake. The stink of death, smoke, and burning shit hung heavy in the air, thick enough to make you gag. Bodies bobbed in the river, arms and legs snagged on reeds, twisted and limp like busted-up dolls, the current tugging them downstream, quiet, steady, uncaring.


    Thick, black smoke billowed up from the wagons, choking the air. It stuck to your lungs, greasy and suffocating, blotting out the moon until the night felt like it¡¯d been swallowed whole.


    Gambino stood at the river¡¯s edge, boots sinking deep in the mud. Blood streaked his face, cutting through the grime like war paint. His nose was still dripping from a hit he¡¯d taken earlier, but he didn¡¯t even bother wiping it. One of his men limped toward him, his second in command¡ªa big bastard with a lumbering gait that was now slowed by a fresh, ugly limp and an arm that hung uselessly to a side.


    ¡°How many?¡± Gambino barked, sharp enough to make the second jerk like he¡¯d been slapped.


    The man hesitated, eyes darting to where the mercs were dragging corpses into the mud from the shallows to begin looting them. One of them shoved a body face-first into the muck, cackling like it was the funniest thing he¡¯d ever done.


    ¡°At least twenty,¡± the second muttered, voice low like whispering might make the number hurt less. His hand shot to the back of his neck, rubbing like he could scrub the truth off his skin. ¡°Plenty more fucked up real bad.¡±


    Gambino¡¯s jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn¡¯t shatter. ¡°Twenty?¡± he growled, the word dragging out, slow and jagged, sharp enough to cut.


    He stepped forward, shoulders squared, chest out, every muscle wound so tight it looked ready to snap bones. He didn¡¯t need to be tall to be terrifying; the way he moved screamed it louder than words. The second held his ground, but the sweat carving rivers down his face and the way his throat bobbed like he¡¯d choke on the silence said everything.


    ¡°Could be worse,¡± the second muttered, shifting like his feet were on fire, his eyes flicking anywhere but Gambino¡¯s face.


    ¡°Could be worse?¡± Gambino barked a laugh, bitter and ugly, more spit than sound. He hawked a glob of phlegm, spitting it square on the chest of a dead guard slumped in the muck. The bastard didn¡¯t blink, didn¡¯t flinch¡ªjust stared up at nothing, eyes glassy and useless under the black sky.


    Twenty. Maybe more if you counted the ones who¡¯d still croak by morning. Not greenhorns meant to catch arrows with their skull either but veterans.


    A third of us wouldn¡¯t hold jack, and half wouldn¡¯t last longer than it¡¯d take the enemy to floss their teeth with our ribs.


    Gambino let out a low, guttural growl, spinning on his heel so hard the mud grabbed at his boots, clinging like it wanted to drag him under. He yanked them free with a wet, sucking rip, every move sharp and jerky, pure pissed-off energy barely held together.


    Then his eyes snapped to me, and that sneer twisted his mouth again, curling it with a mean edge.


    He didn¡¯t say a word, just let his eyes drop to the mangled mess of the enemy leader at my feet. His lip twitched, curling higher.


    Then his gaze slid past me, slower, meaner. That sneer stretched wider, sharper, and his eyes landed on the kid a few paces behind me.


    ¡°Guts!¡± Gambino¡¯s voice cut through the stink and noise like a whip, loud enough to make the boy flinch.


    The kid looked like he¡¯d crawl into the dirt if he could. Pale as a goddamn ghost, face smeared with mud, blood, and sweat. His mangy mop of black hair wetter than a dog.


    His hands gripped that hunk of steel tighter than a drowning man grabs a rope, but it didn¡¯t stop him from shaking like a leaf. His knees buckled, his chest heaved, and for a second, it looked like he might keel over right there.


    Gambino¡¯s eyes dragged over the kid like he was a carcass on the chopping block, sizing him up piece by piece. That sneer on his face twisted tighter, colder, until it looked like it might cut through skin. Then he barked out a laugh¡ªsharp, mean, not even close to amused.


    ¡°That¡¯s how you fucking do it!¡± he roared, loud enough to make the nearest men jolt. ¡°Took down a goddamn commander while the rest of you cowards were pissing yourselves in the river!¡±


    The men muttered, shuffling in place, eyes darting toward the kid. A few gave stiff, grudging nods, but most looked at him like he was shit they¡¯d stepped in¡ªcurled lips, narrowed eyes, all venom. The boy didn¡¯t flinch. Didn¡¯t blink. Didn¡¯t move a muscle. His face stayed locked in that frozen, pale mask, tight enough to snap, but his eyes¡­ His eyes burned, wide and wild, locked on Gambino like a tether keeping him upright.


    ¡°Guts,¡± Gambino said again, softer but twice as sharp, his lip curling like he¡¯d just tasted something sour. He clapped a heavy hand on the kid¡¯s shoulder, hard enough to make the boy sway. ¡°Guess you''re not as useless as you look huh.¡±


    Then Gambino turned to me, and whatever flicker of approval he¡¯d thrown the kid was gone, snuffed out like it had never been there. His sneer twisted back into that full-blown look of disgust.


    ¡°And you, mouse, ¡± he snapped, voice low and dripping with venom, ¡°standing there like a soggy sack of shit. What the fuck are you waiting for, a goddamn invitation? Move your ass, or I¡¯ll drag it back into the river myself!¡±


    The words hit like a punch to the gut, knocking what little breath I had out of me.


    Rage burned up my throat, hot and choking, desperate to get out, but all I could do was stand there and grind my teeth until my jaw felt like it would crack.


    Every inch of me screamed. My clothes stuck to me like a second skin, reeking of river water, sweat, and blood¡ªmine and God knows who else¡¯s. My legs felt like they¡¯d snap if I so much as shifted, but I hauled my sorry carcass upright anyway. My knees wobbled, my vision spun, but I stayed up. Falling wasn¡¯t an option.


    Gambino was already walking away, barking orders at the men like nothing had happened. ¡°Loot faster, kill cleaner! We¡¯re not running a charity here!¡± He stopped to kick a body in the ribs, checking if it was dead. It groaned. He stabbed it without a word and kept moving.


    ¡°The rest of you!¡± Gambino¡¯s voice tore through the murmurs, sharp and raw. ¡°Strip the wagons bare, or I¡¯ll strip the flesh off your damn bones! Move!¡±


    The men jolted into action, shoving past one another like rats fighting over scraps. Nobody wanted to be the one caught dragging their feet. Boots stomped, hands grabbed, curses flew. Someone yanked a tarp too hard, ripping it, and a string of panicked swearing followed.


    Gambino didn¡¯t even look back. His boots splashed through the mud, every step like a hammer driving home a nail. His shoulders were hunched, tension carved into every inch of him. He barked orders at anyone close enough to hear, each word laced with venom. ¡°You call that looting? I¡¯ve seen drunks pick pockets faster! Move it, you useless sacks of shit!¡±


    The men muttered under their breath, but not loud enough for Gambino to hear. Nobody wanted to test him tonight. Not after the kind of slaughter we¡¯d just crawled out of.


    A shout rose from near the wagons, cutting through the noise like a blade. ¡°Boss! Over here!¡±


    Gambino froze mid-step, his head snapping toward the sound, his eyes narrowing. ¡°What now?¡± His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, promising pain if this was another waste of his time.


    The man by the wagon shifted, gripping the edge of the cart like it might swallow him whole if he let go. His face was pale, his eyes darting like a trapped animal¡¯s. ¡°Boss, uh¡­ You¡¯re gonna want to see this.¡±


    Gambino¡¯s jaw worked, his teeth grinding audibly. He moved toward the man, every step slow, deliberate, like he was deciding whether to kill him before or after hearing what he had to say.


    ¡°If you¡¯ve dragged me over here for nothing,¡± Gambino started, his voice low and sharp, ¡°I¡¯ll hang your intestines from the nearest tree¡ª¡±


    ¡°It ain¡¯t nothing!¡± the man stammered, his voice pitching higher. He flinched back, one hand twitching toward the tarp covering the wagon.


    Gambino shoved him aside with one arm, not breaking stride. ¡°Then quit pissing yourself and get to the damn point.¡±


    The tarp came off in one motion, slapped the mud, and splashed filth up Gambino¡¯s boots.


    The waning moonlight caught on metal.


    Gambino stared down at the haul, his body rigid, his face unreadable. Then his mouth split into a grin so wide it looked like it might crack his skull.


    Teeth bared, sharp and feral, his laughter cut through the stillness like a knife through butter.


    ¡°Well, boys,¡± he drawled, turning to face the rest of us.


    ¡°Looks like we¡¯ve just struck gold.¡±