The next few seconds were crucial. The shot had missed by a wide margin, the man's trembling hand aiming not near where he should have been.

Ben weaved, stepping to the side to find his footing, and thrust the sword into the man's guts. He then shoved an elbow into the man's chest, making him drop.

A roar came from the bank of the river, a giant man, draped in black and carrying a large war ax. Ben struggled to get his sword free but apparently, it had hit the ribs, as it was not budging.

Ben jumped out of the way of the man's swing, falling into the water up to his neck. He grabbed at the rocks on the river bed, scraping and ripping his nails out as he failed to get a grasp. Finally, he kicked his feet, reaching the bank.

The mercenary was there, giving Ben a kick to the stomach and then raised his ax, bringing it down with all his strength. Ben, out of reflex more than anything, raised his arms in front of his face. The ax struck his forearms with the sound of a clang.

Expecting to meet his maker very soon, Ben had his arms still raised. He peeked beyond his arms, tilting his head, and found the image of the mercenary, befuddled, eyes wide as plates, staring at the broken handle of his ax, the blade missing.

Taking advantage of the few of confusion, Ben sprang off the riverbank, striking the man in the face, and causing them both to roll down back in the water.

The two men struggled to get the upper hand, Ben hitting the mercenary where he saw an opening. The black-clad man reached for his knife, just as Ben gained the advantage, finding his hands around the mercenary's neck. He pushed down and watched the man's head fall beneath the river.

The mercenary reached for his knife, taking him a few seconds, being right in the process of drowning complicating things a bit. When he did grab at the handle, it kept slipping. Finally, he had a good grip, putting all his strength into swinging his arm towards the man that was killing him. It took all the mercenary's strength to throw his arm upwards, and he roared victoriously before the knife found its target, the man thinking he had won.

Unfortunately, the end result was, the knife haphazardly poked out of the water and dug in an inch into Ben's upper arm. Ben cursed and renewed his efforts. The man's face was turning purple, noticeable even through the water. Ben let go of his neck and grabbed the man's collar, dragging him up onto land.

The mercenary sputtered and vomited as he went, crawling in his own sick. Still holding his knife, he attempted to throw it at Ben, but missed, with it landing in the river. In response, Ben kicked him in the head. The man slumped and fell on his back.

Job done, Ben looked around until he found the canteens he had dropped. He limped over to them and let himself fall on his behind, splattering mud. He picked up one of the canteens and dipped it in the water, and then he poured it over his head.

Ben looked with regret at the remaining canteens, with not a few of them missing, since he had dropped them in the water at the beginning of the fight. He sat and waited, filling up the canteens and sipping on water.

Not long after, Sergeant Davies and the rest pushed out of the vegetation, guns drawn.

"You alright there, Everett?" he asked.

Ben nodded and gave him the 'All good' sign, but Davies just looked at him, perplexed.

"Oh, it means I'm all good." He waved a hand around as if presenting the mercenaries. The dead one was being pushed gently against the bank by the water, while his friend lay in a heap, noisily sucking air.

Ben continued, "Got ambushed when I came to get water. No, wait, not ambushed. I think they had the same idea and we just ran into each other."

"Two on one and you're not dead. Must mean you're not useless," said Aetna.

"Not completely," Pritchett said. "He lost my damn canteen."

"Sorry about that," said Ben.

"That's all good." Pritchett made the sign. "I'll just die of thirst."

"Quiet down you hens. Report." said the Sergeant.

"Well," Ben pointed at the body floating in the river as Tillby began dragging him onto land and digging through his pockets. "Saw me first, but took his time to draw his little gun. I charged him, must've spooked him because he missed. Then I ran him through with the sword."

"Yeah, it's still in him." Tillby interrupted, grabbing the handle of the sword, wiggling it, and pulling it out after putting one foot on the dead man's dead and one steady on the ground. The sword cleared the body, the blade stained with blood.

"Nothing much in his pockets though. Some small coins, but that's it," said Tillby. He did not return the sword but gave it to Aetna who slid it on her belt.

"Lunch's on him then," Aetna said.

"Go on." the Sergeant instructed Ben.

"The other one, the one that's still breathing, he came at me with an ax. We struggled, fell in the water, got one over on him, and kinda drowned him. But I changed my mind before the end. Maybe he knows something about what happened to the scouts."

"What's this?" Tillby asked, looking at the horse tracks.

"Right, the first guy had a horse. Must've spooked."

Aetna clapped Tillby on the back and announced, "We'll track the horse. Come on Tillby, go grab us two canteens and let's be off."

"I think she only went because she didn't want to be left without a canteen," said Ben.

"We'll be fine. Just take the dead guy's shit," said Pritchett, turning to the Sergeant. "What do we do with the corpse?"

"You two take the alive one and carry him back to the clearing. Our packs are still there along with Grimby. I'll have to dig a hole and vanish the dead one. The last thing we need now is some wild animal hounding us."

"Would hate to fight a red bear," said Pritchett.

"Red bear, Red River", mumbled Ben to himself. He walked over to where Pritchett was lightly slapping the unconscious mercenary.

"Seems like he's in a good enough sleep." Pritchett said, "Grab his legs."

They set off for the clearing, carrying the unconscious mercenary. He did not make much noise, other than the occasional groan and spitting out river water.

They set him down among the leaves. Grimby was sitting on a nearby felled tree, cleaning his nails with a knife. He nodded when he saw them enter the clearing, but made no move to help, just nodded his head in greeting.

"He the one to blame for that shot we heard?" he asked.

"More or less."

"Any trouble?"

"Everett had a little tussle," Pritchett responded. "Killed one of them, who knows, the world's worst sharpshooter, and made the other one borderline comatose. Now, tell me, Everett who are we going to get information out of him? You know, like have you seen my friends? Did you kill my friends? Did you put my friends in cages and were sent here to negotiate? Small things that you ask before you skewer a guy."

"Friends?" snorted Grimby. "You don't have any friends, Pritchett."

"Shut up, Tim," said Pritchett, lifting the unconscious man and giving him a backslap. "Gods damn it, will this bastard ever wake up? Go on, Grimby get off there and help me tie this bastard to a tree."

Getting rope out of the pack, they tied to mercenary to a nearby tree, heavy rope coiled around his midsection and neck. The trees swung softly in the wind, the noise of the rustling leaves giving Ben comfort, as it reminded him of his childhood home.

It was a very sudden, and almost unwelcome thought. Something he had tried very hard to push at the back of his mind and bury. It was resurfacing nonetheless, perhaps something to do with Ben's current predilection. The killing was never easy, not even in self-defense. When the Empire broke the Dorians, he thought he might never have to hurt anybody ever again.

A thought and belief Ben had not verbalized but had lived hidden in him. That somehow he could return to his blissful childhood days when working on a little farm and running around with the animals was the height of achievement.

Now he was back to killing. His right hand was stained with dried blood where Ben had held the sword handle. He remade the moment in his head and lived again through the killing. He could not recall the man's face clearly, with it appearing like a misshapen fog. Ben gave it detail in his mind, made him younger than he was, more innocent-looking, eyes denoting regret and fear.

Ben's head began to pound and ache. He cradled his head in his arms. Ben felt as if he was about to vomit. With considerable effort he managed to rein himself in, the edges of his consciousness dulled and fuzzy. It was something that happened in times of great stress and hardship. Perhaps it was his mind's way of protecting itself, not allowing much feeling as to not get overwhelmed.

Ben knew he would pay for it later, exhaustion beyond belief, and a desire to not leave the bed for weeks. He watched Grimby throw his knife in the air and catch it, smiling as he watched the prisoner. Pritchett was making sure the ropes were tied on right. Ben thought they both looked like hungry predators, hoping to indulge in their appetites.

He wondered how he would react when they inevitably took to hurting their captive. Would he ask them to stop? Fight them when they disagreed? Ben felt as if his conscience couldn't handle much more erosion before it broke off. He suddenly missed his old armor and the two dueling swords that were so good in close-quarter combat.

Ben sat and waited, eyes glued to what was ahead of him, curious as to what kind of man he would turn out to be.