Page 78 of The Blight of Hollowmire

Bandits, most likely, though the distinction between bandits and hungry men grows thinner with every passing month, particularly now that the curse has everyone scrambling for survival and morality has become a luxury many can no longer afford.

Settling against the rough bark of the cedar, I listen intently, intent on understanding precisely what sort of fools I am dealing with.

“I still say we should've taken them yesterday,” one of them—a young man with a ginger beard—complains.

“Aye,” agrees another.

This second man spits into the fire and watches it hiss while Ginger Beard pokes idly at the coals with a stick. These two carry themselves with the careless confidence of men who have yet to discover that confidence and competence are not remotely the same thing.

“Yeah, well. The old bastard ain't going anywhere.”

Several of them laugh at that, which I confess stings my pride more than the discussion of murdering me.

“What about the woman? She must be fae, or cursed, with antlers lookin’ like that.”

A shrug follows.

“What about her? Soon as he's dead, we've got everything.”

“If she’s alone and unprotected, she might be worth a bit of fun.”

My vision begins to go red at the edges, unfamiliar seething rage stealing away much of my better thoughts and years of experience. My fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword as I listen to them discuss Vireth with the battle thrill beginning to surge in my veins. It would be nothing to me to kill them all for simply daring to entertain the idea. Then again, I don’t need to add any more lives to the list of my penance, and we don’t have time to deal with five corpses today.

“The packs looked full enough,” one says.

“Food. Blankets. Coin, maybe.”

“And those swords,” another says.

“Aye. They’ll definitely be worth something.”

Ginger Beard grins and nudges the fire with his stick again, sending a small shower of sparks into the air.

“We’ll hit them at the boulder around the bend. Drustan will kill the old one before he knows what's happening.”

“Why me?” Drustan whines.

“You’ve got the axe. It’ll be quicker with an axe, probably.”

For a long moment I simply stand there listening to five strangers discuss my death, and I don’t feel fear or even outrage, but rather a profound irritation at the certainty with which they have already decided the outcome. This must be what Vireth feels when she needles me about my entitlement. I don’t care much for the feeling.

I’m annoyed by the assumption that a gray beard and a persistent limp have somehow transformed me into an invalid, and memories surface of Arden's young soldiers with their polished, ill-fitting armor and brazenness of youth. That day, they all learned a valuable lesson about underestimating old men. Mayhap these fools require the same education.

With a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in my bones, I step out from behind the tree and into the clearing.

“Good morrow, gentlemen.”

Silence descends so abruptly that even the horses lift their heads from grazing, while five pairs of eyes fix upon me with expressions that shift rapidly from confusion to alarm as recognition dawns.

The nearest man—Drustan, apparently, my would-be executioner—lunges for an axe lying beside his bedroll, but I’m already moving before his fingers close around the haft. I cross the distance between us in several long strides and drive the pommel of my sword across his mouth hard enough to send him sprawling backward into the dirt with a satisfying spray of blood and profanity.

The second man, Ginger Beard’s friend, makes for a bow, which strikes me as a remarkably poor decision given our proximity, so I simply kick the fire directly into his face before he can scarce nock an arrow, and his resulting scream echoes through the trees as sparks and ash explode around him.

The remaining three finally seem to grasp the danger of their situation, though unfortunately for them, it’s rather too late.

Ginger Beard draws his sword and charges me with admirable enthusiasm and considerably less admirable technique, and whistles through the air as I duck beneath the too-wide arc. I drive my shoulder into his chest, sending him tumbling backward across the ashen remains of the firepit.

The move jars every injury I possess, sending pain through my knee and shoulder and ribs, but instead of frustration I feel something dangerously close to satisfaction.