A band of bandits was waiting for them. Armed with shields and spears, showing their being better than simple brigands through the uniformity of their equipment, they formed a somewhat irregular line that impeded further advance from the breach.

Undaunted, the Gremlins charged forward, shouting and waving their weapons.

Tur launched a warcry, that his warriors picked and repeated. As he ran, he aimed at one of the bandits barring the way, a big bruiser of a man with a scar on his face and a leather cap.

It was a split-second decision. Then the fight was on.

The two groups slammed against each other in a flurry of clanging weapons and angry shouts. The gremlins chopped savagely at the spears pointed against them, catching their thrusts with their shields while trying to get close and personal. The bandits held their ground. The longer reach of their weapons gave them the edge, and soon the Gremlins found themselves stuck, fighting to get close enough to bring their shorter arms to bear while trying to avoid for the points of their opponent‘s weapons to slip around their shields.

The bandit Tur had aimed to thrust at him with his spear. Tur slammed the point out of the way with his shield and charged forward, slashing for the man‘s neck. A ripple coursed through his arm as his blow slammed against the other’s shield. The spear came stabbing at his face. He barely managed to deflect it and was forced to stagger back. Undaunted, he returned to attack with renewed fury.

His example was being followed by all his soldiers. Their charge had slammed uselessly against the bandit line but they still attacked relentlessly. Their ferocity caught the bandits by surprise. Used to ambushes and quick attack, none of them was a true soldier despite some degree of training. And now they found themselves against the most ferocious attackers they had ever met. They managed to hold for some time, but soon the difference started to tell.

One of the bandits fell, blood spurting from a neck wound. Two Gremlins jammed themselves into the hole, slashing savagely. The bandit line bent like a reed under a violent wind.

Tur was starting to think that a breakthrough was moments away when the Gremlin at his side fell with a scream. With a surge of horror, he saw an arrow sticking out of his neck. The soldier tried to get up, but before he could, and before Tur could help him, a bandit thrust a spear deep into his back. The Gremlin shuddered and fell still.

The world seemed to slow down as Tur took in the scene. It was the first time he saw one of his soldiers die. Something akin to stupor enwrapped him. He knew his soldiers one by one, had shared bread and drink with each of them; he had laughed with them, joked, sweated, and struggled. Surely, it couldn’t be possible for one of them, for one of his precious friends, to fall so easily?

A memory struck him, vivid like he had seen it just yesterday and not when he was still a Goblin, a lifetime ago. A candle stood behind the window of a shabby house, its flickering light dancing over the stained glass. He had liked to watch it, imagined it to be a piece of the sun, taken and brought down from the sky to lit the gloom of a room. There was a movement inside, a writhing shadow, and the candle went out. He had felt an uncomprehending emptiness then, the same that now clawed at his chest.

A slam against his shoulder ripped him away from his ennui, making him yelp.

Hastily, he fumbled to deflect another assault from the bandit, his mind still reeling. Then the realization hit him, and the daze turned to anger.

“Blood for blood!” He shouted, launching himself forward.

Taken by surprise by the sudden assault, the bandit‘s defense thrust was sloppy and easily deflected by Tur’s armor. The Gremlin’s slash wasn’t nearly as ineffective, the deadly sword cutting through leather armor like it was paper. The bandit went down, and Tur jumped through the hole left by his demise.

“Kill them all!” He cried out, turning to hit the other bandits forming the line. His soldiers replied with furious cheers, their movements turning into a frenzy.

The bandit resistance collapsed. They simply couldn’t match that ferocity. They broke and ran, with some of the slowest cut down while they tried to escape.

Tur downed another opponent and his gaze fell upon one of the fugitives, this one armed with a bow. The feel to pursue and kill the dog tugged violently at him and he stepped forward. Still, a voice inside of him reminded him of his duty. A chief couldn’t afford himself to get lost to the fumes of bloodlust, not when there was a need for a cool head to guide and lead. The Master himself had taught him that.

With a considerable effort, he reined himself in.

“Stop!” He shouted. “No pursuing!” And to emphasize the order, he brought the bone whistle he carried at the neck and blew into it. As the sharp sound cut through the air, his soldiers, that were already on the chase, stopped sharply. Some hesitated, others blinked like they were trying to clear their heads. Eventually, they all returned to him, forming up into a defensive formation. He saw his own Warriors, each wielding blooded weapons.

Tur repressed the surge of grim pride to focus on what needed to be done.

He looked toward the camp interior to assess the situation. Divided from the palisade by a small tract of woodland, a disorderly gamut of log and treehouses mixed with the wood itself. Between the small buildings, he could see the bandits struggling to reorganize. The clamor of combat filled the air, but, impeded by the trees, he hadn’t a clear vision of it.

At some distance, he could see a bigger house, this one built on top of a small motte from which side a large tree emerged. He couldn’t be mistaken. He had thoroughly memorized the map provided to them by the Master. That was the bandit leader’s dwelling. That was where he was supposed to go.

“Out with the fire!” He bellowed.

At his call, a group of Gremlins came running through the breach. They all carried large bags, with one of them carrying a brazier dangling from his back.

“In formation! Assault group in the front! Incendiary in the back!”

The Gremlins moved with the efficiency born from training. They divided into two groups, the members of one gathering around the bags-carrying soldiers. These ones received each a smaller bag jingling with small pots filled with pitch. Clustering around the brazier, they lit their projectiles on fire, then formed up into a line once again.

They looked at Tur, waiting for his signal.

The Gremlin chief inspired. Move quick, that’s what the Master had said. The fire spread fast.

For a moment, he was taken by doubts. They were making good progress, weren’t they? Maybe they could just destroy these bandits through force of arms alone? They didn’t seem to be putting up the resistance that the Master had foreseen. But no, it wasn’t his place to doubt. And anyway, he had to consider the bandits’ unusual preparation, the Dires’ presence, and the need for utmost speed if they wanted to catch the leader before he slipped away. No, he had to stick to the plan.

With renewed determination, he turned to the waiting Gremlins.

“Light this place up!” He ordered.

His soldiers, grinning like only Gremlins that still remembered the fire-loving of a Goblin could, didn’t need to be told twice. Flaming pots streaked the air, smashing against roofs and trees into small fiery blazes that took root immediately.

“Ah, the Sun Lord honors us with his presence!” One of the priests, Sun, said. Even with his mask on, Tur could see the Gremlin’s eyes, two smoldering coals eagerly drinking on the sight of the spreading fire.

Repressing a flicker of distrust for the Sun Priest, Tur turned to the other group of soldiers. While the incendiaries were going at their destructive work, they had been obediently waiting for his orders. Tur caught Huk’s look at him, the silent giant regarding him with a grim kind of approval. He nodded.

“Ready, boys and girl?!” He called, lifting his sword.

His answer was a wave of cheers and raised weapons.

Tur grinned. He was about to order to advance when he noticed Dara’s silent figure behind his soldiers. The priestess was raising from the body of the soldier he had seen fall.

Their gazes meet, and in Dara’s there was a sad, resigned comprehension that impressed him.

It was a moment, then he was back at the moment at hand.

“Forward!” He bellowed.

He sprinted forward, the Gremlins forming up behind him.

The center of the camp was a large clearing of beaten dirt that the bandits used for training, cooking and communal activities.

Tur wasn’t surprised at seeing the mass of armed brigands that filled it. The Master had foreseen that, with the degree of organization they had, the bandits would probably be ready to regroup in that place once the need became dire.

Turning, Tur saw the main force engaged in brutal combat. The Urs fought at the forefront of combat, spinning their weapons into great arcs. Still, as fearsome as they were, their opponents were just as powerful, and even more intimidating.

Tur blinked in disbelief at the six bloated monstrosities that held the front of the bandits' line. Towering over the humans, they wore patchwork armor over misshapen bodies, their limbs mismatched and twisted. The weapons they swung with great bellows were even larger than the Urs’ and they didn’t show to be fazed by the great Gremlins in the slightest.

Tur realized quickly what those beings were: Ogrekins, the twisted union of man and Ogre. But their info said that there was supposed one of the blighters, not six. Had Gus misled them? The Master was sure that he hadn’t. That meant he didn’t know, or that the other Ogrekins had arrived at the camp while the fat man was away. Once again, Tur found himself beset by questions. The bandits had been tipped off at their assault, that was for sure. But by whom? And how?

While Urs and Gremlins fought, the remaining two Otyoughs were busy grappling with three Dires. The massive wolves clung at the ponderous creatures’ bulks, biting and clawing savagely. Still, for all their aggression, they seemed unable to pierce the scavengers’ tough hides and armors. As he watched, one of the Otyough clasped a tentacle around a wolf’s leg and smashed the beast to the ground, eliciting a sharp whine.

Still, despite small victories like that one, the bandit resistance didn’t show signs of crumbling. If anything, the brigands seemed to be dishing out just what they got, while others of their ilk sniped at the Gremlins from the treehouses, shooting arrows or throwing rocks.

Tur gritted his teeth. The plan had seemed flawless on paper. In and out, a clear cut through naked flesh. Instead, everything had gone wrong from the moment that idiot Gus had given away their presence. The words of the Master came back to him: “Always remember this, Tur. No plan survives contact with the enemy. There will always need for a degree of improvisation when the chips are down, and that will fall to you. So choose wisely.”

As always, the Master’s wisdom didn’t disappoint. Maybe for the first time, Tur didn’t find it reassuring. So it fell to him to adjust the plan accordingly. Now he wished that the Master could have led the assault himself…

Tur gripped his sword tighter, the weight of the weapon helping him to push back the anxiety. His soldiers counted on him, Master counted on him. He wouldn’t let them down.

He looked at the clearing. A sizable group of bandits waited for his group, blocking the path to the central house and covering their fellows already in combat from flank attacks. Tur counted twenty of them more or less, with some more armed with bows standing on the tree houses or on the bridges and ladders connecting them. There were two Dires as well, the large beasts pawing at the earth while growling menacingly.

“Dara,” Tur called. The silent priestess was at his side in a moment. He gestured for the two wolves. “Can you do something about those?”

“No,” the priestess said quietly. “Those wolves don’t fall under the domains of my Goddess.”

“Alright, never mind.” The priestess drew back with a small bow. Tur wanted to add something else but now wasn’t the time and so he let her go.

“Gunnar! Sun!” He called. The two priests replied eagerly to his summons, the Sun Priest with a disdainful expression. “You take care of the Dires.”

“Ah! A worthy opponent!” The burly war-priest twirled his sword with an eager smile.

“By your will.”

Tur didn’t miss Sun’s insolent tone but ignored it. His attention turned to the two men standing at the fore of the bandit line. The first was a menacing bearded brute, wielding a large axe with a wicked grin. The second was somewhat smaller, but the relaxed way he held his sword spoke of long experience with the weapon. Tur recognized them by the descriptions of Gus: Tall Jon and Robin Rickter, the two on top of their list of priority targets.

Tur hesitated. If those two were there, wasn’t it better to redeploy the incendiary squad and use them for the assault instead? But that would mean to counter a direct order from the Master. Yes, he had given him leave to do it, but…

He pushed away from the idea. Even without that squad, he had more or less the same numbers of the bandits. It shouldn’t have been a problem even if he didn’t recall the arsonists.

Having taken a decision, he raised his sword.

“Charge!” He called and started into a sprint.

The Gremlins picked up his cry, following him. The bandits didn’t wait for them. Their leader launched his own warcry and led them to the attack. The two groups clashed hard, their momentum bringing them to mix with each other. Soon, lines and any semblance of order were lost amidst an array of individual combats.

Fret scampered under a bandit’s slash, her long knife leaving a furrow in the armor covering the man’s thigh. She yelped when the man whirled around and slammed his elbow against her chest, punching the air out of her lungs.

She didn’t bother to try and resist, instead leaving herself fall back and then rolling into a crouch. She panted her cheeks a cherry red and with a grin that didn’t stop tugging at her lips. The emotion, the danger. She just loved it.

The man came at her swinging, but she was ready. She ducked, feeling the blade pass above her head, and threw herself against his opponent’s legs. The man fell forward with a cry. Quickly, she scampered at her feet and jumped on his back. Laughing, she brought her long knife against his armpit, right where the armor didn’t cover. The sound and feeling of iron sinking into flesh felt satisfying.

With the man having stopped moving, she watched around. With her hair disheveled and the eyes gleaming, she looked just like an impish creature of the forest, come out to stab and maim.

“Having fun, eh?” Tad called. The Gremlin was busy avoiding the slashes of another bandit. “How about, ulp!” He didn’t need to finish. Moving around, he had his opponent gave the back to Fret.

The girl laughed. Jumping from the corpse, she threw herself against the bandit, stabbing wildly at his back. The man cried out, but before he could do anything the two Gremlins made short work of him.

Panting, they got up, exchanged a look, and grinned.

“Put it here!”

Laughing, Fret smacked her hand on the one Tad proferred her. Together, they threw themselves back into the fray.

BANG BANG BANG

A loud banging resounded in the clearing, managing to be heard loud and clear even amidst the din of combat.

“Brothers and sisters! Warriors all! Hear His Voice!”

Gunnar’s bellow was almost loud enough to drown the sounds of fighting. The Dire Wolf facing him flinched with uncertainty.

“Can you hear it?” The priest bellowed heartily. He rhythmically slammed his toothed sword against a heavy bell-like object he carried at the belt. “Can you hear His Voice into the banging of iron? Can you hear it in the loud crash of metal? He speaks to us, guides us! To glory and victory! To great and mighty deeds! Hear His Voice! Be inspired!” He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that dripped with merry bloodlust.

“Beast!“ He shouted, pointing at the wolf with his sword. “Your only worth lies in the strength of your muscles, of your sinew! You know nothing of righteous war, of glory-bringing clash of arms! Ah! I pity you, beast!”

The wolf tilted his head, not understanding but still somewhat off-put by the tone of the priest.

“And I pity you, barbarian.” Sun, his mace held easily at his side, stared down with noble disdain at his own opponent. “Speaking to mutts as they could understand you. Befitting you and your brain-addled god indeed.”

“Ah!” Gunnar laughed like the Sun Priest had just said a funny joke.

Sun grimaced with disgust.

Since it wasn’t facing a bellowing, intimidating barbarian, the Dire facing the priest was much less wary. With a howl, he launched himself at Sun with fangs bared.

“Insolence!” The Sun Priest moved out of the way with surprising swiftness, but not enough to avoid a scratch on his shoulder. He cried out, more in outrage than actual pain.

The wolf skidded to a stop while he watched his ruined shoulder pad with furious, wide eyes.

“Beast or man, those that dare to lay their hands on the Sun’s chosen will know pain!”

The Dire probably wasn’t a very pious individual because he was on the attack even before Sun managed to finish his sentence.

Still, the priest was ready for it.

“Cower before His brilliance!” He shouted. Planting his feet, he thrust his head forward, widening his eyes until they were wide as platters. Suddenly, they flashed with a brilliant light.

The Dire let out a surprised howl, limbs flailing as he was dazzled.

“Crumble before His Might!” Sun shouted, dashing forward. Poised to strike, his mace was enveloped by a nimbus of radiance and flame. He slammed it against the Dire’s side, sending the beast jumping back with his fur in flame.

Whining and howling, the wolf rolled madly on the ground, trying to put off the fire.

His expression as pitiless as the mask he wore, Sun spread his arms in a grandiose gesture. “Burn into His Flame!”

His grandstanding was interrupted by Gunnar’s jolly laughter.

“Ah! So melodramatic. Your God only speaks through pretty lights and fancy words. The voice of mine is the clashing of steel and the cries of war.”

“Silence!” The Sun Priest gave his colleague a wrathful look.

Gunnar grinned, hefting his sword.

Having worked up the courage, and furious for his mate’s wound, the Dire dashed toward him.

The War Priest didn’t even try to get out of the way. He met the Dire’s assault head-on, slamming the flat of his blade against the animal. Incredibly, the beast was stopped dead in his track like it had slammed against a brick wall.

With a cry that was half a laughter, Gunnar reared back and smashed his fist against the beast’s muzzle. The Dire howled in pain and staggered back, only to receive a kick in the head that sent it jumping back.

“Ah! Gories!” The war Priest shouted. He slammed his sword against the contraption at his waist. “We hear you, War-Chanter! We hear you loud and clear!”

Sun sniffed arrogantly, and turned to face his own opponent.

Huk blocked the sword cut with the heavy haft of his weapon. He gave the panting bandit a look that was a mix between sad and resigned, before sending him staggering back with a measured push. The Gremlin’s axe whirled into the air, and another corpse joined the three Huk had already felled.

Raising his head, he took in the chaos of combat raging around him. He saw Tur, the chief just about finishing off another opponent. They exchanged a knowing look. At some distance, the two leaders of the bandits fought back to back, with none of the assailants managing to bring them down.

Tall John and Robin Rickter felled their respective opponents just in time to face the duo’s assault.

Huk felt tremors ripple through his arms as the brigand lieutenant blocked his axe blow with his own weapon.

Close by, Tall John looked all the parts the barbarian woodcutter. With his unkempt, crumbs-ridden beard, shaggy mane of hair and soiled leather armor, he looked like he had just come out from a drunken brawl.

The bandit growled something in a language that Huk didn’t understand, giving him a mouthful of bad breath.

The Gremlin spared the quickest glance for his boss. Tur was currently embroidered in combat with the leader of the bandits, the two matching blade against blade. Huk wasn’t a combat expert, but he didn’t need to be one to quickly understand that his chief was on the defensive and struggling. Even if they were evenly matched in equipment, Tur probably having the better when it came to their weapons, the bandit leader had the edge when it came to experience. Huk hoped that someone would quickly come to help them but it was a faint hope: the combat raged all around them, with no spare attention allowed.

Tall John snarled and pushed him back, bringing him back to the time and now.

Huk stepped back, carefully parrying the bandit’s wild swings. As he did, he weighed his options. Despite his wish to help his comrade, it was clear that his attention was to be focused on the enemy in front of him. And anyway, he had faith in Tur. The man showed himself to be a brilliant leader and an outstanding warrior. He would pull through.

He couldn’t be sure of the same for himself. John had ten times his experience when it came to fighting.

Huk kept stepping back, keeping a defensive posture before the bandit’s savage assault. The man’s blows were thunderous, each sending ripples through his arms as their weapons came together with sharp cracks and clangs.

Huk was starting to get concerned about his weapon’s resistance, when John bulled forward, slamming him in the chest with the butt of his weapon’s handle. Most of the momentum of the blow was absorbed by his armor but Huk staggered back the same. He lashed out with his fist as he did, smacking his opponent on the shoulder.

“Ripa peroeta!” The bandit bellowed in anger. The blow seemed to have managed only to make him angrier.

He attacked again, coming much faster than Huk could have thought possible. The axe’s edge was almost at his chest before the Gremlin managed to put his own weapon in its trajectory. He grimaced as the haft of his axe gave an ominous creaking.

Still bellowing in his strange language, Jon came forward, punching wildly. Huk defended himself with a raised arm, his armband creaking under the assault.

“What a strong opponent,” thought a part of him that, despite the fierce combat, still managed to remain calm and detached, like it was observing everything from the sidelines.

He grimaced when a particularly strong blow sent pain blazing up his arm. He lashed out, pushing the hulking bandit away, then followed up by whirling his axe into a two-handed blow. John managed to deflect it, but now it was his turn to stagger back.

Huk didn’t follow, preferring to retake his stance. He briefly wondered about Tur but the thought passed quickly. Now it wasn’t the time. The bandit was strong. He needed to focus on him first.

His heart beat fast, but it was a far feeling, tinged with coldness. In his mind, he felt strangely calm and collected. It was his thing, he supposed. As long as he could remember, it had always been like this.

John cursed and spat, slamming a boot down.

“Cockless southerner!” He bellowed, and, in a strange manifestation of anger, actually slammed the haft of his weapon against his chest. He jabbed an accusing finger toward him. “Weakling! Coward! You don’t come at me because you’re a spineless wretch!”

Huk tilted his head in curiosity. Was he trying to bait him? Ah, another proof that the man had ten times his experience. He wouldn’t have thought of that.

Deciding to give him what he wanted, he suddenly put some skip in his step. The feint worked, as the bandit hurried to raise his weapon to block him. But he was already coming from the other side.

He saw John’s eyes widen a moment before his axe burrowed into the bandit’s side. The man threw himself away with a scream, barely managing to avoid being gutted.

Huk quickly repositioned himself, expecting a retaliation. To his surprise, John didn’t come at him right away. Instead, the bandit stood at some distance away, carefully touching his slashed side. His hand returned covered in blood, and he watched it with shock. He turned at him with the same expression, then back at the hand again.

Then the unthinkable happened.

The bandit let go of his weapon and dropped at his knees, starting to babble piteously in his strange tongue.

Huk started in surprise. The transformation couldn’t have been more complete. Where before had stood a raging, bellowing barbarian, now the man was a wreck, looking almost on the verge of tears. Huk couldn’t understand what the other was saying but, judging from the tone, he was begging for mercy.

He thought about it. The orders didn’t specify killing, did they? And, admittedly, the idea didn’t appeal to him. On the other hand, couldn’t it be another trick? The man could be this crafty…

Huk watched him silently. He probably was going to regret this…

Warily, expecting a retaliation at any moment, he reached for the weapon the bandit had let go with his own and dragged it to himself. He picked it up with a vague kind of surprise. So it was really the truth?

The bandit had fallen silent now, holding his head down and his hands on his knees. He didn’t protest as Huk bound his arms with rope, only grimacing when the movements pulled at his wound. The Gremlin blocked the bleeding with a piece of cloth. The wound wasn’t as bad as it looked but it would be better to have a healer look at it sooner rather than later.

Standing watch over his prisoner, Huk sighed. This was returning to bite him. He didn’t know how but it was definitely going to.

With a slight start, he remembered his chief. He turned, a bad feeling gnawing at his gut, and started. Tur was slumped in the dirt, blood pooling under him. There was no trace of Robin Rickter.

Horribly concerned, Huk hurried at his chief’s side. Relief washed over him at finding him alive and awake.

“That bastard…” The chief said through clenched teeth, eyes blazing with fury. “He took my sword.”

Huk noticed that he was holding his right wrist. He grimaced at the bloodied gash on it. Judging by Tur’s slack hand, his tendons had probably been cut. The Gremlin chief wasn’t going to use a weapon anytime soon if the Master or Dara didn‘t take a look at him.

Putting the matter aside, Huk busied himself with stopping the bleeding. Briefly, he wondered where the bandit chief had run away.

Robin Rickter knew how to recognize a situation beyond salvaging.

Panting, still clutching the sword he had pilfered, the bandit leader stopped at the top of the small motte and looked back.

The camp was in complete chaos. In the clearing, his men were embroiled in a confused melee with the invaders. They had managed to fell some, but the number was pitiful compared to the bandits littering the ground. The two Dires weren’t doing any better, the two priests bludgeoning them relentlessly.

At some distance, the defense seemed to be doing better, with the bandits holding their ground against the invaders, but Robin knew better. He could see well enough that the resistance was already showing signs of crumbling. And anyway, the monsters grappling with the wolves would soon make short work of them and then there was nothing to stop them from ravaging the line of his men.

Robin’s mind was awash with fury and questions. Who the hell were these demons that had appeared in his camp out of nowhere? They fought with the fury of old Helcar himself, dammit! And his men, worthless all of them! And the wolves as well. For all the boy’s bluster, his mutts were just as useless!

He could see the fire the invaders had set spread steadily from tree to house. There was no question: the camp was lost. The Arrows would follow right after.

Well, he wasn’t going down with them.

Struggling to keep a low profile, the bandit started down the other side of the motte. He briefly considered searching for Tanya. He had lost sight of the woman shortly after the beginning of the assault. She probably was hidden in some hole with her other friends. He discarded the idea quickly. It would take him too much time and now each second counted. And anyway, she could be saved by the worm that gave her that earring, couldn’t she?

Keeping his head down, the bandit reached a shabby cabin tucked out of the way. The flimsy door gave way immediately as he kicked it.

She was inside, leisurely sprawled over a chair, with her legs on a table.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said lazily, her voice husky. She raised the glass she was nursing as a means of greetings. “Interesting news?”

Repressing the need to snap at her mocking tone, Robin swallowed. Even with a battle at his heels, even sprawled as she was, that bitch managed to emanate a threatening aura that gave him pause.

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re getting slaughtered out there,” he hissed, struggling to remain calm.

She shrugged. “Nothing interesting then.” She took a pull.

“Four hundred pieces if you cover my escape.”

She paused. Slowly, her crooked smile moved on him. “Ah, we’re already at that point then. I always knew you were a coward.”

Robin disagreed with the insulting tone. In his book, coward was only another way to say not being suicidal.

“Are you doing it or not?” He asked tensely.

The bitch took another relaxed pull from his drink, leaving him to smolder for some moments.

“Make it six hundred and I’ll give you a good running start.”

“Done.” The satchel made a metallic sound as it hit the table. It wasn’t a small sum, but if it bought him a chance at survival, Robin wasn’t complaining. He had more hidden in secure caches anyway.

The bitch glanced at the sack for a moment, then at him, her amber eyes sparkling with something dangerous and her smile turning feline. A graceful movement and she was on her feet.

“I’d be starting running if i was you,” she said, grabbing a long spear that rested against the back of the chair. “Time starts now.”

Robin didn’t remain to see her down the rest of her drink. He sprinted away, aiming straight toward the closest hidden escape route.

He couldn’t stop himself from smirking. The bitch was expensive but differently, from bandits and wolves, she wasn’t all talk. Hiring her to defend the camp was beyond his money capabilities, and he suspected she wouldn’t do it even if offered a king’s ransom, but in the end, it didn’t matter. By the time the short-time hire was over, he would be gone.

Sitting at the center of a clearing at some distance by the ongoing battle, Gorren used his mystical senses to keep track of what was happening.

The effort was childish in its difficulty but it irritated him nonetheless. If the bandit camp was farther from the town, he would have been able to intervene personally, and all this expense of lives and time could have been avoided.

Suddenly, a familiar presence hit his perceptions. Gorren stiffened. No, it couldn’t be…

Frowning, he focused, but the presence didn’t change. There could be no mistake.

“This is… problematic.”

He opened his eyes, glaring hard at the grass before him.

“They have a Hero.”