The River ran wide and far, following the road, fringed by jagged rocks and dead greenery, the surface prickled by the snow, flat and grey as far as the eye could see. Art’s eye couldn’t see very far in this weather, it had to be said. The opposite shore could’ve been a hundred strides away, and it would remain so for miles. The great Iron River, as they called it in these parts. Nothing great ‘bout it, other than a great pain in the ass.

Art had long ago given up any attempt at staying warm, and the wind cut through his pants, his coat, his banded armor. Felt it gnawing on his fingers, and chipping his lips. Can’t feel my toes.

Being cold, tired and hungry had become a part of his life. It had been so for a long time, come to think of it. He closed his eyelids, felt the snow patter against his face, heard it land on the frozen earth with soft taps. Art knelt by the river, pulled the stopper from his water skin and pushed it underneath the surface, watched the bubbles break as it filled up.

He placed the opening against his chapped lips, tipped it back, and took a wincing swallow. Cold water didn’t taste well in cold weather, but he needed to drink. What I really need is some ale and a piece of meat.

He had become a lot thinner, following the barren road North. These were lean times, after all. He silently cursed the mongrel that had left a pit in the road. Horse stepped right into it. Broke its leg and plunged in the frigid waters some sixty miles back. All Art’s gear loaded. All his luggage sunken to the murky bottom of it.

He blinked through the snowfall, at a bend in the river further upstream. His map was gone too, and his memory of this area was vague at best. The weather did nothing to improve the experience either.

“Third bent ‘round. This must be the Tri-point, North side of the river.” If memory served him well, which it often did, there should be a bridge to cross the water some distance ahead.

He thoughtfully rubbed his frozen thumb along his rough chin, trying to recall the distance. Thirty miles. He sucked his teeth, tried moving his toes. Failed. Thirty miles.

Past the bridge he knew to be a town of sorts. He could get some decent food there. Perhaps even lift with a farmer’s wagon. Few farmers active this time of year, though.

He took the last heel of moldy black bread, and chewed on it as he started walking again. The blisters on his feet were burning, sending sharp stings along his ankle. He wrapped his coat round himself a bit tighter. Did next to nothing in that cutting wind.

He remembered well the last time he felt like this; in the frozen tundra of the Brethon mountain-range. The snow as his blanket, two other trainee Tyran as company. He remembered sleeping in a clear cave, and waking in darkness. The snowstorm had closed their crevice completely, burying them in an early grave. If he hadn’t woken in time, they would have all suffocated.

Thinking back, he almost felt his fingers dinging through the frozen snow once more. Dark-blue fingers with bursting skin, blackened nails, torn and worn. He remembered having to amputate Werner’s dying hand, too. Then his left foot. His ears. Remembered having to carry him on his shoulder trough miles of steep cliffsides and deep valleys. Remembered his cries when he had to abandon him in some grim forest. He heard them from far away, those screams, further than one should. Sometimes Art still heard them, when the moon was gone and the trees howled in the wind.

Berg had broken his leg some days later while fleeing from a Graffer, big and brown, and filled with hunger and carnage. Art remembered his wails and broken screams as the beast tore him apart. Remembered the sloshing of his guts as they were ripped out and gobbled down. Remembered his blisters searing as he fled down the hill. Remembered being unable to move his toes as the bellowing frost lashed at his battered body, his beaten spirit. It certainly put things into perspective, now. Made him think thirty miles weren’t all that bad.

The sun, having become bored with looking down on grey clouds and frozen land, headed for the horizon, and the world darkened with it. The shadows casted by grisly trees blackened the water’s already somber surface. Now it mirrored nothing and no one.

The road climbed steep into the rocks above the lake, here built up, there cut deep into the stony ground. It was worn and pitted with age, pocketed with weeds. Art was panting and sweating, his legs and feet burning with the effort. His pace had slowed significantly.

His boots barely gripped on the frozen cobble, packed with snow and covered by a sheet of ice, all slippery and cumbersome. I hope I slip right here and fall on my ass; that would be fucking perfect.

From between the looming tree line, Art spotted a dull light, bravely piercing the darkness. He stared at it, carefully thinking, clenching and unclenching his hands, trying to work some warmth in them, and movement in his fingers. Far too late for that.

The crossing was still roughly ten miles ahead. The light couldn’t possibly come from the town, and Art wasn’t in the habit of trusting random campfires, hidding within the forest. He was too tired and knackered to be bothered fighting highroad scum or savages. He knew the latter to be active, further North. They were about the last thing he wanted to meet at this point.

But the night sapped all the heat from his body, or what remained of it, at least. He would take his chances and scout whatever dared camp in these woods. I’ve always been my own worst enemy.

His leather boots silently trudged through the forest’s soil, dampened by quietly cracking snow. He heard some bird chirp above, in the clawing canopy. Heard the soft snapping of wood in the fire. Muted breathing and restless shifting. Some horses snorting and moving carelessly.

He brushed some twigs away with his hand, frozen snow clutched to his palled face. There were two figures lying close to a struggling fire, flickering in the vehement breeze. They were huddled against each other for warmth, shivering, plumes of smoke rolling from their blue lips in the dim light.

Art looked around and saw two horses bound to a tree at the edge where the flame’s clarity reached. A cheap cart with two wheels laid a bit further, loaded with some goods, too obscure for Art to see anything in particular.

The flames danced and lit the figures more clearly. A middle-aged man sporting a dark beard with a girl in his arms. Young, no older than thirteen turns, Art guessed. A strange gathering at this time, in this place.

He slowly slid from the thicket, felt the glow of the fire stroke his face, thawing his frozen eyelashes. His knife was held firmly, or about as firm as one could hope for in these conditions. He snuck closer, making no sound. Not even his leather groaned. Not even his chainmail dared tinkle.

He was close enough to feel their clouded breath on his hand, steel against the man’s throat, shining brightly under the ever-moving moon. Art sucked in the cold night air through his leaking nose, preparing himself for whatever there was to come. Nothing pretty, that much is as certain as the edge of my blade.

“Wake up.” Art muttered, heart calmly pounding, calm as the snow topping the three of them.

The man opened one sluggish, exhausted eye. He blinked at the sudden light, his reddened eyes widened when he saw the ghastly shadow hunching over him. Art’s hand covered his mouth, only muffled yelps came out. He struggled, but it ended the moment Art pressed the blade against his bare neck. A thin line of red formed where steel met skin.

“Good. Be nice now, and I will return the curtesy. I’d be a shame if we had to wake the girl, wouldn’t it?” Art warned, glancing down at the sleeping child.

The man nodded slowly, saw the amulet dangling from Art’s neck. Frightful eyes staring hard. They were a dark brown, Art noticed. Not the right time for that.

“I will remove my hand now, and you will behave. I am going to ask you some questions, and you will answer them to the best of your abilities. Understood?” Art spoke every word unhurried and deliberately. The stranger nodded once more, as he understood, and Art relieved his grip, hand damp with the man’s breath.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here,” he looked at the girl, “in this particular company?”

The man swallowed, his throat pushing against the blade’s razor edge. Some droplets of blood trickled down. But Art did not remove his knife. Only a fool would.

“we’ve,” the man seemed to hesitate, unsure of what the best course of action was. He was thinking, and that wouldn’t be the truth. Art barred his teeth, bleak in the dull light.

“One more pause like that, and I’ll carve a bloody smile in your throat. You got that?” He hissed viciously. By the look on his, now, paler face, he seemed to have understood. He swallowed again. More blood dripping.

“Men from Imgrint thought I’d talked, even though I hadn’t! They were going to arrest me and lock up in the dungeons! I had to flee!” His voice was raw and wet with tears, but his eyes were hard and dry. He had shed his share of grief.

Art gestured at the child with his chin. “What about her? What did she do?” Art also wanted to know where the mother was.

“They, they,” his face contorted, eyebrows knit together as rage was swelling and mingling with helplessness. “They we’re going to take her, just like they took her mother! They took my wife! I saw them dragging her away, kicking and screaming! I took my cart and horses and Claudile and fled with whatever was at hand!” He had gotten louder now. Too loud for Art’s liking.

“Shhh! Quiet down before-” He looked down at the man’s daughter and saw two big brown eyes staring back at him. As brown and fearful as her father’s. shit

The scream was high and piercing, stung right inside Art’s head. He pulled his hands away to cover his sensitive ears, ringing and buzzing from the noise. The bearded man saw his chance, and jumped up, unsheathing a knife of his own, only shorter and dull as a cow’s imagination.

He pushed his daughter behind him before jumping at Art, roaring as loud as he could, trying to work some courage into himself. The first thrust was wide and crude, but Art was off balance and the tip punched right in his gut.

Art wheezed and grabbed the man’s wrist tight, keeping the blade pressed against his stomach. Stuck in the chainmail.

The father tried punching him, but was cut short. Art’s forehead struck his chin with a hard thud. The man reeled back, but Art gripped his coat, pulled him closer once more. The next blow split his nose open, sent blood flying, and the man sagged to the cold ground.

Art’s head thumped and hurt, but it wouldn’t last for long. It never does. Being a tyran is worth something, after all.

The girl rushed to her downed father, still squirming in the dirt, clutching his bubbling nose. Art sighed tiredly. He had come here in the hopes of a night’s rest and a warm fire, maybe even some food. And look wat’s come of it. He turned to leave. This place had nothing to offer but sorrow and heartache.

But as luck wouldn’t have it any other way, three men came from the trees. They were cladded in light armor, wielding sturdy broadswords, and colored in some lord’s symbol. They seemed desperate, and exhausted. But quickly brightened up when they spotted the father-daughter pair. The one who seemed to be the leader grinned at Art.

“My thanks, stranger. You’ve made this a lot easier for us.” They were all smiling now. Disgusting smiles, Art found.

“He knows too!” The father yelled, as loud as he could with blood seeping down his face.

The expression on the soldier’s face darkened, and so did the others. They spread out to Art’s left and right flank. “My apologies, stranger,” the leader said, “it seems there’s no other way.” His sword was held at the ready, both hands enveloping the handle.

“Aye,” Art growled, “I’m sorry too.” His boot kicked at the burning coals. Cinder flew through the chill air, hissing angrily as they hit the left one’s face. The man shrieked as he dropped his blade, rubbing feverishly at his eyes, only making it worse.

Art flung his knife at the person to his right. The blade sunk deep between the slits of his helmet, right into his mouth. He sputtered and gurgled, lurching forward as he spat out broken teeth.

The sword of the last one whistled past him, only dodged at the last instant. Art’s grappled his arm, locking it down at the elbow in the meanest grip he knew. Increased the strength until the man released his blade. Until he screamed and begged. Until he heard the sickening snap of bones breaking.

The soldier dropped to the ground, grabbing at his mangled arm with the other. Art heard some horses in the distance gallop away, frightened by all the noise, but paid it no mind. His boot came down hard. There was a crunch as the man’s skull caved in, and shards of white bone and blobs of pink brain splattered about.

He casually walked to the last one standing, still scratching his face with dirty gloves. Art’s fist shot out and connected with his throat, felt something break and give away underneath his hardened knuckles. After a couple futile attempts to breathe, the swordsman fell down. Another corpse to stack the pile.

Art retrieved his blade from the now dead man, the metal all slick with dark blood. He used the lord’s colored cloth to wipe away the filth, and sheathed the clean blade back where it belonged after turning it over in the moonlight, inspecting for any damage. Broken point. Just what I needed.

When he turned ‘round, two pair of panicked eyes were staring unbelievingly at him, cowering in the dying light of their petty fire. Everyone knew Tyran were dangerous. But most don’t even have an inkling as to how horrifying it is to see one at work. Now they know why folk call us Slayers.

“Your horse and some of your food.” Art said without any trace of emotion to his voice. The two stared at each other, not knowing what to make of it. Art cleared away some blood from his face.

“It’s the price you will pay me for the job.” He explained, dead eyed. Dead as the corpse’s littering the forest’s pitiless floor.

“But, but, with only one horse we can’t take the cart with us!” The man stammered, eyes darting about, alive and filled with fear. “I never agreed to a job!”

“You agreed to it the moment you involved me!” Art snarled, looming over him, fists clenched, nails digging into flesh. “Be glad I don’t put you in the ground with the rest of ‘em for attacking me!” He threatened, taking another menacing step towards them.

“But…” The man searched for something to say, “Don’t you have a heart?” He asked, hugging his daughter tight, clenching his jaw tighter through tears. “Aren’t you Slayers supposed to help people?” A good question indeed.

“No. We fight apparitions and beasts. Nothing else. All fore a price. And that debt is due.” Art walked past them, towards the cart, and started stuffing a bag with food. The man made a strange noise, something between a sob and a yell.

Art unsheathed his blade and pivoted around. The point of it was broken, but it skewered the man with nauseating ease. There was a cry from behind the father’s broad back. Probably the girl.

The man, whoever he was, coughed up a mouthful of blood, right in Art’s face. He could taste the bitter iron in it. Almost made him sick. But I’m past that. Far behind, far ahead. Feelings like that are a thing of antiquity.

The man fell backwards, the knife remained stuck in his chest; sticking out horrid and sobering. Not even the sight of a helpless girl touches me. Not her wails, nor her outbursts. I am not a good man, after all. With me I bring nothing but death and misery.

He saddled the horse and walked it out of the woods, towards the dimly lit road. The mare’s hooves lazily hit the worn stones with clear clacking. The wind seemed colder than ever, but there was no warmth left inside Art to rob him of. Now, it will come.

During fights, his mind is free of any murk or doubt. It was clear cut as a great river-smooth stone, translucent as the finest Acrea glass, peaceful as the sea before storm. But it was now, when he was alone in the darkness that it came crashing down on him. He shook like a leaf in the autumn wind as he walked in absolute silence and reviewed the carnage he had caused that day. The agony he had brought. The lives he had ruined.

He chewed on the insides of his cheeks, and thought dark thoughts. Dark as the night that welcomed him. As the Great Iron River. And he whispered, too quiet for even the curious owls to hear.

“Still alive." He muttered

"Still alive."