Reyn sat on the least damaged chair in what remained of The River's Rest's common room, Good Deeds across her lap. Morning sun streamed through various new holes in the walls, illuminating just how thoroughly blood had gotten into everything. Most of it had dried to the consistency of bad paint.

  She worked a cloth along the blade, trying to remove a stubborn patch near the hilt. The exhaustion sat deep in her bones. She'd experienced a full Frenzy twice before; losing control completely always left her feeling hollow afterward, like she'd burned through a week's worth of energy in minutes. Which was essentially what had happened.

  The details of the fight remained frustratingly fuzzy. She remembered drawing Good Deeds. Remembered the crossbow aimed at Venn. After that, things became... less clear. Fragments mostly. The taste of copper. Iron. Garlic? Someone screaming. The wet sound of things breaking.

  "You missed a spot."

  Reyn looked up to find the cook from last night watching her. Built like someone who'd won arguments with livestock, she still carried the pot she'd used as a weapon, though now it contained porridge, its smell blending strangely well with the smell of alcohol and blood dried into broken wood.

  "I did?" Reyn examined the blade.

  "Near the guard. Looks like hair." The cook set down the pot and extended a hand. "Corelei. I run the kitchen. Did, before someone threw a man through my wall."

  "Sorry about that." Reyn accepted the handshake. Corelei had the grip of someone who kneaded bread for a living and meant it.

  "Seen worse." Corelei pulled up another questionably intact chair. "Well, no. But I've seen bad enough. Question is, what now?"

  "The Crimson Hand will come back," Reyn said, returning to her cleaning. "I should stay."

  "Figured as much. Young Petyr lit the signal fire before jumping out the window. They'll know something happened." Corelei ladled porridge into a bowl and handed it over. "Eat. You look terrible."

  The porridge was thick, hearty, and exactly what Reyn needed. She ate steadily while considering options. The town had no walls, no proper guards, no defensive positions worth mentioning.

  "How many survived?"

  "Just the one. Keeps wanderin' around asking where he left his name." Corelei snorted. "And tryin' to count on his fingers but cryin' when he can't remember what comes after seven."

  "The locals?"

  "Cuts'n bruises, that's all."

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  Through the kitchen hole, Reyn could see townspeople dealing with the aftermath. Bodies being wrapped in whatever cloth was available. Blood being scrubbed from floors with the resigned speed of people adding this to their list of weekly chores. From somewhere nearby came the rhythmic sound of hammering as the first barricades took shape. Venn moved among the workers, healing minor injuries and carefully not looking in Reyn's direction.

  "Your friend's been helpful," Corelei observed. "Bit jumpy, though."

  "She saw me fight, I think. A Frenzy isn't... pleasant to witness." Reyn's neck crackled as she stretched it. "Or experience."

  "Neither is taxation by sword point, but we managed that one for months." Corelei's expression was unreadable. "The town elder is useless. Hid in his root cellar all night. Someone needs to organize things around here, I tell you."

  "That would be helpful," Reyn agreed.

  Corelei studied her for a long moment, almost waiting. "Tell me what needs doing."

  The phrasing seemed oddly formal, but Reyn was too tired to consider it. "Barricades at the main approaches. Every able-bodied adult should have some weapon, even if it's just a sharpened stick. Organize watches." She considered. "Pit traps on the roads would help."

  Corelei nodded, producing charcoal and writing directly on the table. "What else?"

  "Secure food and water. Hide valuables. Children and elderly need somewhere safe to retreat to." The lessons of warfare came automatically. "The Crimson Hand prefers intimidation to actual fighting, I suspect. Make it cost too much to take the town and they might negotiate instead."

  "I'll see it done." Corelei stood. "You'll stay until they come?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." She paused at the door. "That survivin' fellow is in the storeroom if you want to question him. Though he's not much use. Keeps tryin' to remember his name and whatnot."

  As she left, Venn finally approached, medical bag clutched like a shield. She stopped several feet away.

  "You need healing?"

  Reyn shook her head. "I'm fine."

  "You caught a sword blade. With your hand."

  "The Rage protects the body while it's active. The cost comes after." Reyn gestured vaguely at herself. "Like borrowing against tomorrow. An uncontrolled Rage that turns into a Frenzy, now that..."

  "I saw what you did. All of it."

  Reyn's shoulders slumped, a motion they weren't used to. "I'm sorry."

  "Are you?" Something complicated moved across Venn's face. "You went through them like... like they were made of paper. Or... or... hay. Or something."

  Reyn had no response to that. It was true. A Frenzied Barbarian was considered nigh unstoppable, even by themselves.

  "I should check on the survivor," Venn said after a silence that went on just too long. "He keeps trying to remember his skills but can only recall random numbers."

  She left Reyn alone with her thoughts. Outside, Corelei's voice rose as she began organizing. Clear orders that people immediately followed. Something to do besides wait and worry.

  People need something to focus on, Reyn thought.

  The survivor stumbled past the doorway, still wearing one boot and half a shirt. "Seven," he muttered. "Seven comes after six. But then what? Eight? Is eight real? It sounds made up."

  Venn followed right behind him.

  The Crimson Hand would return with a sizeable amount of men. Proper fighters with real equipment, experience and a grudge. Against them, a town of farmers, fishermen and a few merchants with improvised weapons and hasty barricades.

  And one very tired Bormecian who'd already demonstrated what happened to those who threatened innocents. A Bormecian who was completely spent after losing control of her Rage.

  Reyn finished cleaning Good Deeds. The blade gleamed, innocent of last night's work. Soon enough, she'd need it again.

  Through the window, she watched Corelei directing townspeople with the control of someone who'd spent years making sixteen dishes finish at the same time. The woman had drawn defensive positions on the side of a building, treating the coming siege like she was planning seating arrangements for a wedding.

  Simple. Practical. Right. Reyn could respect the cook.

  From somewhere outside, the survivor's voice drifted in: "But if I can remember how to pick locks, why can't I remember what I picked them for?"

  "You need to rest," Venn's voice said before drifting off.

  Reyn closed her eyes. The next few days would be interesting.