Ten years later in a small village outside the capital . . .

Ten years later and Izzie could still hear the screams of her village as they were burnt alive; could still see with vivid detail the rape of her mother and sister and their brutal slaughter.

At such a young age, only eight, she had not known what the men had been doing to them but as she grew wiser in the ways of the world she realised with disgust what had happened.

It just made her anger even more vivid.

There had been nothing left of her village when she returned at the age of fourteen after mastering the bow and arrow; no one had survived to rebuild the village and the kingdom simply turned away when they came across the charred ground where so many atrocities had taken place; it was a black memory in the history of their land and no one liked to remember the bad times.

But Izzie lived for those times for she could not think of anything else other than revenge for her family.

The mercenaries who had attacked them had grown fewer in number over the years and she had already killed one of the men who had been involved in her family’s murders.

She had been walking through a town one day and there he was; sat outside a brothel, his shirt half open, and his face relaxed as if he had just found release.

Izzie wasted no time in running him through with her sword. He hadn’t recognised her but she didn’t mind because she recognised him.

That was a year ago and far from her first victim.

Izzie smiled as she remembered the feeling of his warm blood seeping out down her blade and over her hand.

She attracted a few looks as she approached the next village where news had reached her of some retired mercenaries that were bunking down there; this was her fourth stop since she had heard the news by a traveller but so far all the ex-mercenaries she had found weren’t the ones who had killed her family.

After ten years of fighting and learning to master many weapons in existence Izzie had built a reputation for herself.

Her name had grown to be whispered rather than shouted out; her presence invoked fear and rumours of her past had spread like wildfire but no one knew the truth.

Izzie clasped eyes with numerous simple village people as she progressed through the small streets and alleyways.

Villagers were coughing and spluttering the deeper she moved into the village; none of them paid her any heed as they doubled over coughing up what seemed their entire insides.

Izzie hurried through before finding the local inn and stepping inside for a drink and some food.

The chatter died down as she entered; faces looking at her with a mix of fear and intrigue.

It wasn’t every day that people saw a female warrior. It was unheard of in their patriarchal land where men were the soldiers and women the wives.

And Izzie rather liked being one of a kind with her black leather outfit and black hooded cape that was tied together around her neck.

A bow was strung across her shoulders, a quiver strapped to her belt and her sword sheathed on her other hip with daggers nestled inside her knee-high leather boots.

Her long dark hair that reached the bottom of her back was braided into a single loose French plait down her spine with little wisps of hair that framed her face.

Walking across to the bar she sat down and ordered a drink which arrived instantly by a terrified looking barkeep.

When the chatter didn’t return she turned in her seat, her eyes narrowing, and people jumped back around and started talking louder than before.

She turned back to the barkeep and started her inquiry; “Tell me,” she licked the residue of beer off her lips, “where might I find the retired soldiers of this village?”

“The only person like that here is Marrok,” the barkeep told her, his voice shaking, “You’ll find him over at the blacksmiths,”

“Thanks,” she nodded her head and paid for the beer before getting up to leave when a figure in the corner of the room caught her eye.

His face was covered by a black cloak and he was so secluded into the corner that she had trouble to separate him from the shadows.

She narrowed her eyes at him but she carried on leaving the inn and heading through the village to the blacksmiths.

* * * * *

She had spotted him, Drystan cursed himself.

He had made sure to be safely hidden from her direct eye line and yet she made him out within seconds; this woman, Isadora, was good. And beautiful.

He would have to keep his distance, he thought, as he found out from the barkeep where she was heading; the blacksmiths.

Having arrived a day earlier he had been able to scout the village and was thus able to take the shortcuts to the blacksmiths and arrive before she did.

Keeping his back pressed against the wall of the alleyway and staying in the shadows he had a perfect line of sight at the front of the blacksmiths shop.

The door was open and the sound of hammer against metal rang out in the air when the movement of someone turning into the small square caught his eye.

Isadora.

She was really unique with her male clothes of leather pants and a leather shirt. Her hood was down revealing the long plait that was coming undone and yet she didn’t seem to notice as she had one hand wrapped around the hilt of her sword and was approaching the blacksmiths with stealth.

Drystan watched her as she cast a glance over her shoulder before slipping inside the blacksmiths. She was already wanted for murder and countless other crimes against the King’s guard but she was obviously looking for something.

He wasn’t going to get in the way of that so he sat back and watched the blacksmiths; he could approach her later.

Or not, Drystan thought when he heard the heavy footfalls of approaching guards under the King’s rule and hurried across to the blacksmiths, withdrawing his sword from under his cloak ready.

They met by the entrance to the blacksmiths. Drystan cast a glance over her shoulder at the now dead blacksmith who was strewn across the floor and bleeding like a stuck pig.

He didn’t miss the fact that he had had his genitals hacked off.

He looked down at Isadora’s hands and found a long sword in her left and a smaller, bloodier, dagger in her right.

Isadora caught sight of his own sword.

“We need to leave,” Drystan told her, pointing over his shoulder at the noise of the approaching guards. Screams were starting to rent the air meaning they were closer.

“We?” Isadora asked him; her voice rather light but heavy at the same time.

“I’ll tell you everything later, but the guard can’t catch you or me,” Drystan stepped back to show that he wasn’t there to harm her and he could be trusted, “I know a back way out, follow me,”

Drystan started to hurry off down the alleyway when he realised that there weren’t any footsteps behind him.

Backtracking to the blacksmiths entrance he found Isadora gone. Staring at the dirt ground in hope to pick up her trail he found it empty; no footsteps leading away or into the blacksmiths.

A sound blasted above him and he looked up to see her running along the roofs of the huts and barns.

Drystan shook his head before he leapt up and followed her.