I see the inn in the distance. As I draw closer I can see Osric lying sprawled across the snow-caked steps, blood matting his hair. Elsie kneels over him, sobbing, her hands stained red as she presses them uselessly to his wound.

  In front of them, Dale and Philip stand firm, spears levelled, holding off a group of six brigands. Snow churns beneath their boots as they jab and feint, keeping the attackers at bay.

  An arrow thuds into Philip’s side, and he curses, staggering slightly, but the brittle shaft splinters against the links of his mail.

  Before he can recover, one of the brigands skirts wide around him. With a lunge, he grabs Elsie by the hair and yanks her back with a rough laugh, dragging her toward the shadows.

  "Come now, little hen," he sneers. "We'll see how sweetly you squeal."

  Elsie screams, kicking and clawing. "No! No, please! Papa! Help!"

  "Get away from her you filth!"

  Philip lunges, teeth bared, but another brigand slams into him from the side. A dagger slides under his arm, finding the gap in his mail. Philip grunts, eyes wide in shock, and crumples to the snow.

  "Philip! No!!!"

  Dale roars, charging forward as the others close in, blood on their blades and murder in their eyes.

  He spears the brigand standing over Philip, the man shrieking as the steel drives through his gut. Blood spills in hot ropes as he collapses, writhing. But just as Dale pulls his spear free, another brigand barrels into him from behind, driving him down into the churned snow. The blade flashes once, slashing deep across his neck. Blood sprays, thick and pulsing, painting the snow crimson. Dale twitches violently, choking on his own breath as the brigand steps off him.

  Elsie wails, voice shrill with despair. “Dale!!”

  The brigand sneers and backhands her across the face. She slumps in his grip, dazed, blood leaking from her nose as she gasps, barely conscious.

  “Stop crying,” he growls, yanking her upright by the hair. “We've only just gotten started.”

  He grabs for her dress, fingers curling into the fabric-

  “Oi! Toren! Behind you!” one of his allies shouts.

  Too late.

  I slam into him from behind, my club crashing into his skull. It caves under the blow, and he drops like a sack of meat, blood seeping into the snow.

  I whirl toward the others.

  Four. All armed.

  Two carry rusty hunting blades. One holds a worn field scythe. And the last holds a small bow and arrow, drawn and aimed at me.

  Too many for one man. I should flee.

  But... Elsie is still here. She can't run, not like she is now.

  I steady my breathing, shifting my stance. The four of them approach, circling around me. I grip my club tighter, knuckles white around the haft, and meet each man’s gaze in turn.

  Surely four isn't so much greater than three? Is it? I can win... surely.

  One of them steps forward and snatches up Dale’s spear, tossing aside his shorter blade with a sneer. Between him and the one with a bow, I stand no chance. My grip tightens, sweat prickling along my brow.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Fuck! This is what I get for trying to help. I deserve this.

  I dash for the brigand nearest to me, the one wielding a scythe, praying beneath my breath. The archer looses his shot, but the goddess answers. The arrow flies wide, vanishing into the smoke. The others charge, shouting after me, but I’ve already reached my mark.

  He swings his scythe, but I duck low, circling fast. My club cracks into the back of his skull with a dull, meaty thud. He crumples instantly, knees buckling, but I catch his tunic with my free hand before he can hit the ground.

  With a roar, I draw deep from that same strength I found in the tournament. My muscles burn, tendons straining. I swing him around like a sack of grain and hurl him into the others.

  He crashes into the group of brigands, a tangle of limbs and weight. Two go down in a heap, weapons clattering.

  No time to waste. I bolt for the bowman before he can nock another arrow. He fumbles, trying to draw back the string in panic.

  I'm fast. Faster than I've ever been. Even with the bruises the tournament left me, my legs carry me forward with speed I've never had.

  At least, not without Zaenith's potion.

  The archer looses, his aim still poor, but I'm closer now.

  "Argh- fuck!!"

  I curse as the arrow grazes my shoulder, pain flaring hot and sharp.

  But I'm close now and I don't stop. Crossing the distance, I drive my club into his chest. He crumples with a wheeze, air bursting from his lungs. Before he can recover, I bring the club down again and this time, he goes still.

  The two men on the ground scramble free from beneath the dead brigand, turning to face me, their eyes lock on me, panic and fury both burning in their expressions.

  Just in front of me I spot Philip's spear in the snow, still clean. Quickly, I snatch it up and level it at them.

  They hesitate now. Watching. Weighing me.

  They look to one another, eyes wide and uncertain.

  "Sod this," one mutters. "He’s not worth it."

  He turns and bolts.

  "Oi!" the other snaps. "Gendel! You fucking coward!"

  As does the other, fleeing after him.

  But I do not let them go.

  Blood. I want to see their blood.

  I break into a sprint, long strides swallowing the distance. The first doesn’t make it far, I drive Philip's spear into his back with all my weight behind it. The tip punches through bone and out the other side. He chokes, stumbles, then drops like a felled tree.

  I leave the spear embedded and launch myself at the second man, 'Gendel'. He turns just in time to see me descend on him, my club raised.

  "Wait-"

  We crash into the snow, and I slam the weapon down, again and again. Bone cracks, blood sprays across my arm and chest. He twitches... then stills.

  I sigh, exhausted.

  Is this enough, I wonder? Have I done my part?

  I stand, walking over to the inn. Elsie lies in the snow where I left her, sobbing, her body shaking, so... alive.

  But Philip and Dale... they're both gone.

  Osric, though.... he breathes. Shallow, ragged, but still. I kneel beside him. His head took a hard blow, blood matting his hair and freezing against his scalp.

  Just like Zaenith taught me...

  I pull my cloak free and tear strips from the edge. With careful hands, I clean the blood away using snow and wine from my flask, better than nothing. Then I pack the wound with clean wool and crushed dried yarrow from my pouch, hoping the herb stanches the bleeding.

  His breathing is shallow, but steadying. I bind his head tight with the cloth, tying it off firmly to keep pressure on the wound.

  He groans faintly.

  He'll live... maybe.

  Grimacing, I do the same for the wound on my shoulder, binding it with the last strip of cloth I have left. With a grunt, I rise again and make my way over to Dale.

  His body cools in the snow, eyes still half-open in death. Kneeling beside him, I murmur a quiet prayer and an apology for my next action.

  Sorry Dale. But despite everything, this is my true trade.

  First, I undo the leather ties holding the mail hauberk beneath his arms and at the shoulders. I ease it off slowly, working it up over his head and down his arms. It takes effort, the mail is heavy and stiff in the cold, but I manage it, laying it beside me for a moment to catch my breath.

  After leveling a deep nod of respect, I slip the hauberk over my own head, letting the weight settle onto my shoulders. The chill of the rings bites against my tunic, but it fits well enough.

  Better than nothing. And I’ll need it.

  Next, I strip Philip’s spear from the corpse of the brigand to the north, yanking it from his torso. The shaft is sticky with gore, the iron head dulled at the edge, but it feels good in my grip. I give it a small testing stab, then let the weight settle against my palm, reassuring and solid.

  Something to remember you both by. I'm sure you won't mind, seeing what I'll do with them next.

  Results

  + 1 Skill

  + 1 Philip’s Spear

  + 1 Dale’s Chainmail

  Stats