The sword was at the apex of execution.

Panic jockeyed the boy as Blacwin wormed his hand for his belt, for the slim slender blade kept hidden away, took it out, and stabbed it into the ankle of the Scarred Man, then yanked the blade to sever the tendon. The man howled, felled like a tree. Blacwin wanted to slash at the Bald Man that kept him pinned, yet with a swift foot the smooth-headed bastard went to kick it out of his hand. Though in a moment of witful reflex the boy supinated the grip, and the blade sank into flesh once the barefoot collided with it. A cry like thunder split the forest and the Bald Man fell too. With the anchor off his back, Blacwin scrambled up, searching for his sword.

There, alone on the ground. He dashed for it with a bullish fury, only for a shackle to find his ankle. The air expelled from his lungs as he slammed the ground. It ached to breathe. And like a ravenous animal he felt a set of powerful hands climb up his leg. Blacwin glanced back. The Scarred Man had the boy in his vices, face snarled with murder.

“Imma crush your head like a melon,” the man spat.

With an animal zeal the boy slashed at the Scarred Man. Weeping lines opened on hands and forearms and yet the man ignored the cuts, too consumed with barbaric intent to care. With a reckless gamble he stabbed with the blade. Flesh and sinew parted in the palm with the ease of butter, only for the hand to close around the blade and wrenched it free from his grasp. Gritting his teeth, the Scarred Man unsheathed it with a gruelling grimace, then tossed it aside, and seized the boy’s head in his hands. Tendrils of spiddle dangled from his lips as he started to squeeze.

A mounting horror swelled within his heart. It oozed out as a groan, then thickened to a scream that frayed his voice. The large pair of hands completely enveloped his skull, and he felt it strain as his head was getting crushed. A vile, giddy laughter bubbled up from the Scarred Man. He licked his lips as he savoured it.

“Die! Die!” he shouted the violent prayers.

And soon it would be granted. There was no escape for the boy. Only a vicious end awaited down the path. No amount of clawing and screaming and cursing would change that, yet for the life of him, which was quickly burning down to the wick, he could not stop lest the regret of being unable to avenge his father consumed him whole, root and stem, once again too weak to have affected anything other than his own demise. If not for the pain and growing horror of his head getting caved in, Blacwin would have cried. He could fill a river with his tears. Except not a drop was shed.

Neither was there a drop of blood except for the man with the scar. His giddy grin turned to shock when his right eye was lanced from the back of his skull. Blood dribbled from the fiendish point like venom from the fangs of a serpent. It spattered on Blacwin’s face. He was perplexed and relieved that his skull would stay intact.

“Are you all right, boy?” a familiar voice said, as the dagger was freed with a hard yank. The body of the Scarred Man fell to the side and revealed the Swordmaster, Lord Darius Wickerd. “Can you speak?”

Blacwin could only nod, too choked with gratitude and hate for words. The pressure from the squashing he took was also throbbing like mad, skull as fragile as a brittle egg.

Satisfied, Darius turned to the Bald Man, who managed to rally to his bases and was holding onto the sword that was dropped. The Swordmaster drew his own as well.

Contrast was night and day. The skill exuded, or the lack thereof. There was the rugged confidence of a thousand battles moulded within the Swordmaster, with his dagger and sword at the ready so casually yet keen as a wolf. There was no contest about it. The Bald Man was dead from the moment he lunged forward to attack. The foolhardy move, doubly so with the injured foot, got deflected by the Swordmaster with a flick from the dagger, right as the sword came down and took the hand of the thug, disarming him completely, then slashed across from jaw hinge to crown. It all happened at the fraction of a heartbeat. Then another body joined the forest floor.

While wiping the blades on the back of the slain, Darius asked, “Can you stand?”

“Y-yes,” Blacwin managed to croak, and he did.

“Good.” He sheathed his weapons. “Let’s go.”

The boy scoffed. “Go? Go stuff yourself, why don’t you! I’m not some dog you can command around.”

“You have an awfully strange way of thanking people.”

“You left me, remember?” The memory was potent, still fresh, and Blacwin was drunk with rejection and rage. “You can’t expect me to join you now. Swordmaster or not, saved my life or not. Want somebody to throw themselves at your feet? Go save a maiden princess.” And the boy strode past the lord to retrieve his sword.

“You want revenge, right? I can teach you all I know in the ways of killing, in swordsmanship. You’ll be a whirlwind at the end, a storm that no man can weather. If you come with me you will learn it all.”

Not much of the sword was wet with blood, so after a quick clean with a handful of leaves it was returned to the sheath. And started walking away.

“You would have died had I not intervened! Head crushed like a pumpkin, your possessions fought over like dogs over scraps!”

The boy stopped, wheeled. “Why now? Why not earlier?... And don’t lie. I feel I deserve the truth at least.”

The lord, once again unable to look directly at the boy, turned to face the foliage of a lowly shrub. “No lord in their right mind would employ any sword who strides up to the gates. There are brigands everywhere, now more than ever. Anybody, no matter how knightley, could be a cutthroat or a rogue. So this is where you come in. A cute face to soften the hard hearts…”

“Is that so? You, getting turned away?”

“Look at me, boy. My lands are gone, my stronghold is gone, my… I’m only a lord in name. Nothing more.”

“But you’re also a Swordmaster—”

“—who could have a mercenary’s heart! Steal his wife and kingdom with a stroke of the blade. These are dangerous times.” He looked around. “Don’t you agree?”

Blacwin couldn’t have agreed more. On a continent populated to the margins with bestial creatures, so far only the cruellest and the strongest have managed to survive, to thrive in fact. And always it was the weak who suffered, gone unwanted and left to fend for themselves in the wake of this apocalypse. The boy looked out at the trampled grasses of the grasslands, the mark of many families that have lost their homes, desperately searching for somewhere safe. And with a much cooler head, Blacwin saw such a possibility with the Swordmaster despite the initial insult. After all, he was nothing more than a boy, a stranger, a burden in some way should he intended it or not. And the man was still a willing teacher too. There was no telling when he would stumble upon such a chance again. The boy nodded.

“Then you’ll join me?”

He nodded again.

“Good. That’s good… We should continue to move while there is still light.”

Blacwin searched around warily. “Have you killed the other thug?”

“Who do you mean?” He glanced at the two bodies he had slain.

“No, the third one I mean. The man who’s missing an arm.”

“Oh, him. He was dead and pale when I arrived.”

“Then I… suppose I killed that man.”

“Have you now?”

“Severed his arm with my sword.”

“Hmm.” He nodded approvingly. “So there’s a killer in you after all.”