[Flashback] Debts

[Ulric]

23rd of Fall, 502 AV Ulric sat astride a heap of detritus, watching the breakers crash upon the rocky, forlorn shore, as he unraveled the strands of a brine-soaked rope. He was scarcely aware of the winds that tugged at his matted hair, nor did he feel the rough fibers that chafed at his hands, smearing them with blood. It was peaceful here, in the calm before a storm, but Ulric could find no respite from his demons. He was haunted by shades from his past; the whore, the fisherman, the seamstress, and the bastard who'd left him with naught but curses and debts. He rejected me, and then he destroyed my life, Ulric scowled and reached for his knife, which he used to scrape at a blob of tar, flicking it upon the shingle. He still had nightmares of the wasted corpse sinking into the murk of the canals, of the cold stare and the fists that had once cuffed away his tears. He can’t have blamed me for what she did. He was a bitter man, with nothing to live for, but he was still there for me. He was my father. No, he spurned that role, a scornful voice cut through his remorse, its tone laced with hatred and impotent fury. He didn’t want you. He never wanted you, same as the whore that brought you into the world. “Petching cunt,” Ulric snarled. He stared out to sea, allowing the din of the breakers to drown out his memories. It was hard to leave the past behind, and harder still to explain how he felt inside. He was troubled but alone – weary, bitter, and despondent. Letting the rope slide through his fingers, Ulric rose and peered at the bleak expanse of coast, from the pebbled shore to the cliffs upon the horizon, remembering why he was here. “Petching cunt,” he repeated, and then, “petching weeper.” Spitting into the wind, he gathered up the frayed rope and returned to the ravine where he’d erected a rough lean-to amidst the toppled boulders and patches of furze. It was a wretched existence, but at least he was safe here. He’d scarcely returned to his rat-infested tenement before an enforcer had shown up to settle the debts that weren’t his, but that he’d damned well better pay if he didn’t want to be separated from his cock. If threats weren’t enough, the man had removed a pair of shears from his sash and a desiccated piece of flesh that had once, most certainly, been used for pissing. Ulric didn’t wait for the others to come knocking. His bowels watery with fear, he’d paid a boatman to smuggle him from Ravok under the cover of darkness, and fled to the desolate coast. Dropping his burden, Ulric knelt and blew upon the embers of his fire, sending up a haze of smoke and swirling ash. He added a few sticks and a handful of beach grasses, and then settled back on his haunches, regarding the half-woven net he’d draped over a shelf of rock. So far he’d subsisted on fish, mussels, and a few roots and berries he’d manage to scavenge from the forest, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Ulric suspected that his luck had begun to run out. Heaving a sigh, he scratched at his patchy beard and reached for the old, dented pot that hung from a length of twine. He strode to the stream that snaked its way to the coast – axe in one hand, pot in the other – and then returned to camp. It didn’t require a great deal of skill to make a pot of fish stew, which in Ulric’s case was a good thing. He set the pot above the embers, adding flakes of dried mackerel, a few mussels and clams, and a chopped root that, while bitter, didn’t seem poisonous. After stirring the contents with his knife, he added a pinch of salt and left the pot to simmer while he went to retrieve his lines. Ulric strode along the shore, retrieving the double-weight cords he’d tied to rock outcrops and stakes driven deep into the shingle. It hadn’t taken him long to isolate the finest spots. Even now, his dark eyes scanned the shore, drawn to areas where the waves broke upon sand, rock, and broken shell. Under these roiling waters were sand bars, and beyond them deep cuts and sloughs that were imperceptible except in lower tides. Lacking a boat, and thus the means to longline for more substantial catches, Ulric targeted the waters between bar and cut, hauling in snook, redfish, mackerel, and a half-dozen other species. Most were small, but he’d had a few decent catches so far – enough that he’d decided to remain here for the time being. Ulric moved from one line to the next, scowling at missing bait and snapped lines, removing hooks, a few sinkers, and the rocks he’d used in their stead. H waded back to the shore and walked further down the coast, where a sheer, barnacle-encrusted shelf of rock had formed a sort of bulwark against the waves. He scrambled up the slope, sliding occasionally on its slick surface, until he reached the toppled menhir in whose shade he’d fastened the remainder of his lines. Here the sea had carved an overhang whose submerged base was pocked with crevices that offered some refuge to fish. Ulric tested his first line, found it empty, and moved to the next – where, to his chagrin, all he’d managed to snare was a clump of dark, slimy kelp. By now, he was soaked through with spray. It plastered the hair to his skull and trickled down the small of his back, lending him the appearance of a half-drowned rat. Cursing under his breath, Ulric crawled to the third line and hauled up a good-sized bluefish. It flopped from side to side, forked tail slapping at the rock, exposing a white underbelly beneath grayish, blue-green scales. Ulric stomped on its head, feeling the bones snap under his bare heel, the squish of brains. He threaded a bit of cord through its gills, coiled up the remaining line, and returned to camp as the first clap of thunder resonated in the distance.

[Ulric]

Ulric scarcely had time to wolf down his dinner before the storm hit. It raged through the night, the fierce winds and rain lashing at his shelter, soaking through its canopy of spruce boughs and banishing any thoughts of rest. Ulric was soon chilled to the bone. He shivered beneath his woolen cloak, using his shield to keep the rain off his face while splinters of lightning split the darkness and claps of thunder shivered the stones upon which he cowered. It was impossible to tell how much time passed before he surrendered to the cold and fell into a dreamless sleep. He awoke several times during the night, and was startled to hear the roar of water surging through the ravine, a torrent that threatened to sweep him out to sea. Ulric was past the point of caring. If the waters came for him, he would not resist their embrace – not now, when all that remained to him were memories of a distant past, of the man who’d died so he might live to see the sunrise. “I’m sorry, Da,” he whispered as the darkness crept over him, “I don’t have the strength you did.” And yet, as the gale subsided and the sun peeked above the horizon, staining the waves with a reddish glow, he still drew breath. It saddened him, and for a moment he recalled the dirge of pipes echoing through the canals, the faint weeping of mourners as they gathered around a ragged shroud. But then it was gone, leaving Ulric bereft. He rose with an audible creak, stripping off his sodden garments, and picked his way to the shore. It was hard not to notice the alterations in the ravine, for the flood had tumbled boulders and wedged uprooted trees into crevices in the muddied rocks. A rivulet snaked its way to the sea, banks heaped with silt and stones, and Ulric bent to drink from it before he strode onto the shore. It was silent there, save for crash of the waves and the cries of the gannets that wheeled overhead and perched upon the kelp-strewn rocks. “Good morning,” Ulric spoke to the birds, and shambled up the coast, pausing to sift through piles of debris. It was to no avail, but the activity helped to warm his bones. As he reached the pinnacle of rock that marked the edge of his territory, Ulric hunkered down to reflect on his plight. He could not return home, nor could he remain on the coast. It was too late in the season to travel to Nyka, and besides, he was unlikely to survive the wilderness. I suppose that shyke of a priest was right – all roads do lead to death, Ulric spat into the sea. I ought to decide now, and save the self-pity for later. He was set on fleeing, and not having a pair of shears taken to his cock, when a flash of motion caught his eyes. It was not a bird, that was certain. Ulric leapt to his feet and sprinted off in pursuit, clutching his axe in sweaty palms. He sped over the uneven ground, hurdling spurs of rock and crashing through brambles, the breath ragged in his throat as he closed with his quarry. Reaching out, he grabbed at the woman’s hair and bore her to the ground, only to feel a white-hot agony lance across his ribs. He wrenched the knife from her grasp and pinned her arms to the ground, cursing as warm blood trickled down his side. “What the petch are you doing here?” he snarled. “Do it,” she stared up at him, her chest heaving, eyes wide with fright. And yet, they were hard with resignation, as if she expected Ulric to petch her bloody and leave the corpse for the crabs. As his dark eyes regarded her pale ones, he came upon a pair of revelations. First, that naked men with axes must be a disreputable sort, and second, that despite the rags and dirt on her face, this woman was one of the most elegant creatures he’d ever seen. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Ulric grunted at last, “but I will if you don’t answer my questions.” He tried his best to seem menacing, wanting her to doubt his words, so she understood that he decided if she lived or died. In a way, he was excited by this sensation of control, of totally dominating another person. Now I know how he felt, Ulric thought wryly. “You won’t?” she gasped. Do I risk it? he thought for a moment, but then shifted so that his bulk wasn’t crushing the breath from her lungs. “I asked what you were doing here,” Ulric repeated. “I think it would be prudent if you responded, or else I might lose my temper. I don’t think you want that to happen.” “I didn’t want to be chased,” she sulked, “but you did that anyways. I should have stabbed you in the neck.” “I wouldn’t speak of stabbing if I was you,” Ulric raised one hand to strike, meaning to backhand the woman, but guilt stayed his hand – which was more than could be said for hers. She clawed at his eyes, forcing him stifle her beneath his bulk, roughly driving her face into the sand. “Do you want me to kill you?” he snarled, and bit down on her neck for emphasis. At first she struggled like a wild animal, but these eventually ceased – and not a moment too soon, for Ulric had begun to feel a stirring in his groin, a primal urge that he could scarcely contain. “All right,” the woman spoke at last, “I live here… along the coast,” she motioned with a flick of her chin, eyes still smoldering with rage. “Nobody lives here,” Ulric scowled, for he had suspected as much. Still, he wasn’t about to trust her. Trust was a dangerous thing. “My name is Elena,” she replied with a toss of her head. “I’ve been watching you for days, ever since I saw the smoke. I thought there might be a shipwreck, but it was just… you.” Ulric thought for a moment. “I’m going to release you now,” he said, “but don’t reach for that knife again, or bad things will happen.” He was surprised when Elena sat across from him, not even trying to make a run for it. She eyed him warily, and Ulric found himself doing the same, looking from Elena’s sandaled feet to her long legs, delicate features, and ash-blond tresses. Not much in the way of a bosom, he reflected, but at least she’s not a sack of bones. “Who are you?” Elena asked suspiciously. “I wish I knew,” Ulric scowled.

[Ulric]

“I came on a ship from the north,” Elena explained as they walked across the coast, she in her rags, Ulric in considerably less. “I was an aurist, the captain said, and she promised to bring me to the city of ships. I consented, for my husband was dead and the men were stalking me like wolves. I wanted to be seen as more than a piece of cunt. I thought I was destined for greatness, but the gods had other plans,” Elena said with a wry smile. “There was a shipwreck. I alone survived, and I have been waiting here ever since, hoping for a ship to pass this way.” Ulric listened to her tale in silence, clenching his teeth as the chill winds caressed his skin. He was starting to regret his decision to leave his clothes to dry in the ravine. It made for unpleasant walk, but strangely, not an awkward one. How pitiful, he scowled at his shriveled manhood, hoping that Elena had not formed the wrong impression of him. “How long has it been?” Ulric cast a sideways glance at the woman, and was surprised to see her mouth curl into a smile. Isn’t this supposed to be a tale of tragedy? he wondered. It doesn’t make sense – unless, of course, she’s pleased to see me. “I have survived three winters here,” Elena smiled, “and for that I am grateful. I count every day as a blessing,” she said and took Ulric’s hand. As they walked, she spoke of scaling cliffs, the cold, of the wind and rain and the deadly reefs that consigned ships to the deep. Perhaps it was the warmth of her callused hand, or the lilt of her speech, but Ulric was comforted by Elena’s words. Here she was, a clever, striking woman, treating him as if they were already lovers. It was confusing, but he didn’t want to let go. Not unless she tried to stab him again. He didn’t know for how long she spoke, for the words seemed to meld into song, but eventually he felt a pressure on his hand, and stared into her pale eyes. “What?” “It’s your turn to share” “Oh, there’s not much to tell,” Ulric lied. “I was expected to bear the burden of a dead man’s debt, a sum that I could not hope to repay – so I fled. He would call me a craven if he yet drew breath, but I would rather live out my days in dishonor than die a hero’s death.” “I have heard tales of the city on the lake,” Elena said, “but I did not know that men could do such things to other men. I have always wished to believe otherwise, that your city is not choked by a miasma of evil, but-" “Do I look evil to you?” Ulric frowned. “ I eat, shit, and breathe like other men, and I pray to a god that protects me from harm. I do what I must to survive, so pray tell me, where is the evil in that?” “And yet you flee,” observed Elena. “It seems that your city has cast you out.” Ulric had nothing to say to that, for she spoke the truth. It was not long until they arrived at their destination – a dugout shelter concealed in the leeward slope of the cliffs. If not for the tiny spiral of smoke rising from the grass, he might have missed it entirely. Shifting aside the lattice of woven branches that served as a door, Elena ushered him inside her home. It was no more than ten by ten feet, and dark – its only light cast by the fire that burned in a stone-lined pit. At the back of the dugout, a shadowed recess held a store of nuts, roots, dried berries, and other foodstuffs, while the walls were adorned with stuffed birds, bones, shells, and carvings of wood. As Ulric studied the chamber, Elena lit a rushlight from the fire and urged him to recline on the sealskin-draped bench that served as her bed. He did not resist, and they spent a few more bells in conversation. It was strange, but he felt completely at ease in her presence, without the suspicions that haunted his every step. I must be going soft, he thought as Elena handed him a mug of tea, or perhaps I’m lonely. It had been years since he’d last spoke at length to a woman, although that wasn’t for lack of trying. During his stint as a mercenary, he’d seldom had contact with women – apart from whores, that is, and they were only interested in coin. Can’t blame them, though, he shrugged, it’s not like they have a choice. It was only later, when Ulric began drop off, that he realized Elena must have put something in the tea. I should have killed her, he cursed as he collapsed upon the packed-earth floor, but it was too late – the darkness closed in, and then he knew no more. When he awoke, he was bound to a post and gagged, his hands lashed behind his back, legs sprawled before him, neck encircled by a cord that pressed on his windpipe – not enough to strangle him, but enough to make breathing difficult. He tried to scream, but he could not, his eyes rolling like a caged beast’s, heart pounding, a sheen of sweat on his skin. “I see that you’re finally awake,” said Elena’s disembodied voice, and Ulric struggled against his bonds, trying desperate to escape. He succeeded only in choking himself out. Later, he was roused by a hand running through his hair, and a face emerged from the shadows. “Do you trust me?” Elena whispered in his ear, stroking the contours of his face, his neck, her warm fingers tracing patterns on his chest and descending to his – oh shyke, no! Ulric recoiled, his mind spinning, almost retching as a tide of dread and revulsion swept over him. How dare she do this to me, he raged, but he was powerless to resist. “I don't think so,” Elena slid her tongue over the base of his throat, licking away the sweat that trickled onto his chest. A giggle escaped her lips, and then she was stroking his cheek, making as if to whisper into his ear. And yet, as he felt her breath warm and moist against his face, her demeanor changed. “Let’s play a game,” she whispered, her tone hard, and clutched his stones. She squeezed them savagely, and Ulric retched as waves of agony coursed through him, his face contorted, legs thrashing as he sought respite from the pain. He could only close his eyes and pray for it to end “Pay attention!” Elena hissed into his ear, and then the pressure was gone. As he struggled to draw breath, she began to striking him with her closed fist, splitting his lip and drawing blood from his nose, his cheek, above and below his eyes. He must have lost consciousness again, for the next thing he knew she was tracing his jawline with the same fingers that had hurt him so badly. “I want you to remember this,” Elena smiled as she licked the blood from his cheek, and then reached for a knife. In the faint firelight, the only things Ulric could see were her rag-shrouded body and crimson lips; the rest of the chamber was consumed by darkness. Elena began to saw with the knife, to etch patterns into his flesh, to – suddenly, there was nothing. His pain disappeared, replaced with an insistent refrain, the strains of a violin, a sudden, irrepressible desire to kill. Frenzied with this unholy rapture, he cast himself at his bonds, wishing only to sink his teeth into this woman’s throat and rend her to shreds. It did not last long, for his world began to shake – its fabric tearing and distorted before his eyes, and then he was peering through a haze of pain and tears as Elena took a metal rod from the fire, its tip glowing-red hot. It wavered in the shadows, and then she forced it against his chest, searing a mark into the flesh. He must have blacked out again, for the next thing he knew she was slapping him awake. “It's going to take a while for you to understand,” she murmured, and then he knew no more.

[Ulric]

As the days passed, Ulric realized that he had never been more content. In a way, he loved Elena more for that night of torture and rape, for she had shown him what she was capable of doing. I had my chance, and she had hers, he recalled, but we both survived to watch the sunrise. I wanted her dead for what she did to me, but how do you kill a person who spares your life? He’d feared the torment would resume the next morning – and yet, when Elena stirred against his chest, she greeted him with a smile. He did not resist as she washed the blood from his face, nor when she smeared an oily, pungent salve onto the abrasions on his wrist and neck. Instead, he raised a hand to her cheek and stroked the pale, freckled skin, wondering if she was a dream. It did not make sense that she would release him, but then again, it did – for reasons that went deeper than Ulric cared to delve. Can it be that I only respect force? he wondered. It was a disturbing revelation. If he’d known what Elena planned on the shore, he would surely have left her corpse for the gulls. Now he trusted her, for she had held his life in her hands, and given it back. I must be petched, he frowned as they lay in bed that night, it’s almost as if she understands me. On the second day, Ulric returned to his shelter to gather his scant possessions. He sat on the shore for a time, contemplating the recent turn of events. It would be easy to disappear into the forest, to leave this place behind. In truth, he was terrified of what he felt – or didn’t feel – in the depths of his heart. No matter where he went, he could not find solace – not in a woman’s arms, or the bottom of a tankard, or even the heat of battle. He was restless in a way that he did not understand. He did not aspire to much, but he could have sworn that, with every step, he neared a destiny that was too huge for his mind to grasp. It felt as though his head was screwed on backwards. And yet, while Ulric knew that Elena was not his fate, he wondered if she was one of the pieces. It’s settled, then, he resolved, banishing what doubts that remained, and hefted his back. Finally, as he headed in the direction of the turf house, he was determined to become the man he’d always wished to be. His first task was to last the winter – and to do that he needed to finish the net. In the days that followed this decision, Ulric descended into a trance-like state, weaving the strands of hemp together with his callused fingers, pausing only to eat and sleep. It was tedious work, but one for which he possessed fond memories. As he labored, he recalled how he used to help his father mend nets as rain pelted upon the roof of their tenement. It hadn’t been his idea of fun at the time, but the experience had served him well. He took care that the stands were no more than a finger’s breadth apart, knowing that it was foolish to expect a cast net to yield larger fish – especially if he was confined to the shore. No, he would have to adapt to a smaller catch, and hope that he had not missed their spawning seasons. It was odd, but the more he worked upon the net, the most eager he became to test his mettle. It was a challenge that he embraced with all his heart, for he had not used his skills this extensively since the days of his childhood. After completing the net, Ulric cajoled a needle from Elena so he could stitch a ring of stones around the edges. At last, when the sinkers were in place, he tied on the trailing line and tried a few throws, adding more stones until he felt satisfied with the weight in his hands. By the time he finished, the sun had all but fallen over the horizon, painting the waves with red and orange hues. “I’ll be back,” Ulric said to Elena, brushing his lips against her cheek. He put the net aside and strode to the sea, rubbing his aching eyes. It was low tide, and the waves had receded a half-hundred paces from the rock-strewn shore, exposing a broad swath of mudflats. Not long ago, most of this was submerged, its features only discernable by the waves that broke over their surfaces. Now, making use of the tide, Ulric strode over the cold, wet sands, disregarding the clams that shifted beneath his bare feet and the clumps of kelp that stuck to his legs, noting the water-filled sloughs and cuts where fish would seek refuge from the waves. He waded into the water and continued his search until he had selected a few likely spots – one of which, a spur of rock that rose like a titan from the deep, seemed promising for both his lines and cast net. That night, as they shared a meal of clams and mashed tubers, his mind was still distracted by thoughts of what the next day might bring. “I don’t see what’s so enthralling about fish,” Elena pouted, her head cocked to one side. “I mean, they’re so smelly and awful. It won’t be long before you reek of scales and guts, and then I won’t love you anymore.” “Oh, really?” Ulric tried not to smile. “I’m not of a mind to take such threats seriously, but now that I consider it, I’ll have to side with the fish.” “What?” squealed Elena. “I dare you to resist this face,” she said with a laugh, “and these,” giving her chest a shake. “It’s definitely a struggle,” Ulric snorted, “but then again, I can’t chew on those, can I?” “It depends,” Elena raised an eyebrow, “on what I get to chew on.” Ulric was not expecting that, and he almost choked on a mouthful of lumpy tubers. “Now that,” he said with a grimace, “is not a pleasant thing to contemplate.” “I wasn’t the one that brought it up.” “Hey, I was talking about fish,” Ulric protested, “I seem to recall you bringing your tits into the conversation.” “I had to do something to catch your attention,” Elena began to twist strands of hair around her forefinger. “I certainly wasn’t going to stab you again – but the more I think about it, better it sounds,” she said, her lips curling into a smile. “Fair enough,” Ulric replied, but her remark had awakened something within him – a faint desire that tugged at his heart. As the smile receded from his face, he stared down at the contents of his trencher, not wanting to meet her eyes. “Elena, what do you see in this place?” he asked, his tone low but firm. “I see many things,” she said, pushing up his chin so he was forced to meet her gaze. “I see solitude, cold, and sorrow, but I also see beauty. I see shadows of death, but I also see the buds of early spring. I see many things, but they are all ambiguous. It is not for me to understand,” she explained as she stared deep into his eyes. “And now I would ask you that same question, Ulric – what do you see?” “I don’t know,” he scowled. “It was a stupid question. I don’t know what I asked.” “No, you don't want to answer me.” “Of course I don’t want to petching answer it! I don’t know what I think. Did you want me to make something up?” he glared at Elena. “Yes, that would be a start,” she spoke in a calm tone, her pale eyes seeming to penetrate to bore into his dark ones, urging him to speak his mind. “Fine,” he paused for a moment, and then spoke. “I see a wilderness to be tamed. I see the sea raging against the rocky shore, its surface white with foam, its murky depths the barrow of a thousand secrets. I see winds tearing at the trees, trying to topple them for the worms, yet continuing on to scrape relentlessly upon the distant, mist-shrouded peaks, caring naught for futility. I feel its hand upon my cheek, and the tang of brine upon my lips. I see the rocks and soil, and smell the dark richness of the loam that slips between my fingers. I see all this, but I do not wish to sow, to harvest, to work stone and raise a fortress that will defy even the ravages of time. I don’t want any of those things. I am not a farmer or a mason, a merchant or hunter. I am not a good man – even I can see that, though I wish to become one. I fear that all I will leave in my wake is destruction. In the end, all I can see is a trail of ash, rubble, and tears.” “I know,” Elena spoke after a time, “for I have seen it within your soul. It is all but concealed within a mantle of shadows, waiting to break free of its shackles, to tear this world to shreds. It is a very bad thing,” she frowned, as if it pained her to continue. In that moment, when Ulric stood so close to revelation, he did not care. “What is it?” he leaned toward her, his eyes fever-bright. “Go on, tell me!” “I cannot,” she replied, turning away as if stricken. “I cannot speak of this again.” “But-” “Please!” “As you wish,” he forced a smile, even as the cogs began to turn in his head. I will not be denied forever, my little bird. It is but a matter of time until you sing a different tune.

[Ulric]

Ulric came slowly to his senses, eyes adjusting the darkness, nose to the acrid smoke – and then, of course, there was the knee in his back. He could feel the mist of dreams slipping away, but there was nothing he could do to stop the encroachment of reality. If he moved ever so slightly, if he even considered moving – well, never mind then, Ulric groaned. He was up now, and that was that. It was time to return to his labors. He rolled over and pressed his body against Elena’s, feeling the warmth of her flesh against his, the dampness of sweat, the softness of her unbound tresses. It was nice to wake up beside a woman for a change, even when she was as petching complicated as this one was. “I’m not in the mood,” Elena murmured. “Go petch a fish or something.” She pushed at his chest, but Ulric was far bigger than she was, and hardly inclined to leave. “What?” he frowned. “I wasn’t even doing anything.” “I’m not stupid, you know.” “But I’m not doing anything!” “Ulric, you’re poking me in the thigh.” “Well, I can’t control that, now can I?” “I’m not so certain,” Elena leaned in for a kiss, her fingers tracing a path down his ribs. Ulric smiled as he stared into her dancing eyes. “Oh really?” “Really,” she replied, and shoved him out of the bed. Much later, as he walked to the shore, Ulric had all but forgotten his wounded pride. It was time to fish. He walked with the cast net slung over his bare shoulders, a knife at his belt and a burlap sack tied around his waist. A half-dozen stone cairns, hastily erected the previous night, provided a reference to the finest spots to throw his net. Ulric paused for a moment and then waded into the frigid water, his teeth chattering, and headed for the spur of rock he’d noted the previous night. It was further out than he remembered, and he was soon had to swim. At first he managed an awkward sidestroke, his legs scissoring through the water – only for his pretentions of technique to go to shyke. He began to flail desperately with his arms, not quite on the verge of drowning, but certainly appearing as such. Petching waves, he choked on a mouthful of water, why does this have to be so difficult? The net was hardly a help. Its burden threatened to pull Ulric beneath the surface, but he continued to fight on, knowing that his relentless will and stamina would prevail in the end. Eventually he was able to clamber onto the slippery rocks, his feet groping for toeholds. He untied the sack from his waist and tossed it to one side, then uncoiled the net from his shoulders. Cast netting, while basic of concept, was tricky in execution. Its mastery eluded most novices, who often believed they could simply pitch the net into water and haul it back. No, cast netting was all about technique – the placement of this hand there, the draping of nets, the balance of weight. It took a more seasoned fisherman to employ such tactics, where the slightest flaw could doom a cast to failure. Ulric began by wrapping the trailing rope around his wrist, ensuring that he would not lose hold of the net or have his technique fouled by the surfeit of rope. He held the net before him, grasping it a foot below the top and in the middle, so that it was divided into three sections. It took him a few tries, but he was eventually able to bunch these into a single hand and reach for the weights, making certain they were distributed evenly. Now came the hard part – the cast, a maneuver that required equal parts of brawn and finesse. Ulric took hold of the leading line and moved the edge of the rock. He rotated to the right, drawing in a deep breath, and then spun back around, casting the net forward. It opened in the air, weights forming a near-perfect circle, and then slapped onto the waves. Letting the net sink for a few moments, he then hauled it from the water, the muscles of his back and shoulders straining with the effort. It was empty, but Ulric was far from discouraged. If fishing were that simple, there would not be as many starving children. He tried again, to a similar result, and then again, hauling a trio of silvery-white herring from the waves. Gotcha, he sneered as he tossed them into the sack. None of the fish was more than half a pound, but then again, he was cast netting. It was absurd to expect a larger catch. Ulric’s next throw yielded a fourth herring and a gray mullet. Not only were these fish edible, but they could also be used for bait. It did not take long for him to fall into a familiar routine: ready, cast, haul, and curse at his empty net. Devious bastards, he realized, and moved to the lateral surface of the rock. Here Ulric met with greater success, and the sack was soon half-filled with herring, shad, and the solitary mullet. “I’d set you free,” he spoke to the mullet, “that is, if you weren’t already dead.” It was tragic, really – but then again, what self-respecting fisherman would do such a thing?

[Ulric]

Some days later, Ulric was surprised when Elena asked to accompany him on one of his fishing trips. “I should probably learn before you leave,” she whispered to him one night, as they lay beneath the furs. He was hurt by the callous words, but he knew she spoke truth. It was obvious they wouldn’t last. I’ll stay through the winter, and then leave, Ulric promised. I won’t even look back. It wasn’t that he was displeased with Elena. In truth, he was falling in love with her dancing eyes, her impish smile – even the distracted manner in which she swept loose hairs from her face, only for them to return within a few moments. He wanted to protect her from all the bad things of the world, but at the same time he recognized that he was forging shackles, trying to bind her to him. It scared him, for Elena was free and pure of spirit – much like a songbird. Ulric couldn’t bear to put her in a cage, but deep down, he feared that she would fly away. A thick fog rolled in the next morning, so when Ulric led Elena to an outcrop that bordered the bay, he could scarcely glimpse the waves that surged around its stone teeth. As they scaled the crag, their feet slipping on its slick rock, Ulric could not help thinking of all the ill-fated ships that must have run aground here, only to be smashed to debris by the breakers. It was difficult to see through the fog, but he still went through the motions, untangling three spools of line, tying a pair of hooks to each – not to mention a sinker – and baiting them with scraps of raw clam. He showed Elena how to coil a line around her wrist and flick it into the holes where fish bided their time, only coming out to feed in the current. It took perhaps a bell or so, but he eventually felt a bite on his left-hand line. Ulric permitted the fish to thrash around for a time, giving it enough slack so that it wouldn’t snap off the hook, but not enough for his line to become tangled in the rocks. It took close to a half-dozen chimes for the struggles to subside, and then he hauled his catch from the depths. It was close to five pounds, with the elongated dorsal fin and distinctive black-and-white coloring of a croaker. Ulric thrust two fingers into its gill, holding it steady while he removed the hook, and then put it out of its misery. “I’m not certain what this bastard is doing up here,” he mused, “seeing as most croakers prefer the waters further to the south.” “I suppose that’s the real question, isn’t it?” Elena lay back on the rock. “I could leave the coast at any time, you know. I’m not certain why I haven’t already,” she said with a glance at Ulric. He pretended not to notice. “So let’s leave,” he replied, and flicked his right-hand line into a hole nearer the base of the outcrop. “I could take care of you.” He saw Elena frown out of the corner of his eye, and for a time there was a discomfiting silence. “No, you couldn’t,” she finally spoke. “Why not?” Ulric met Elena’s stare this time. Her words had struck a nerve, but he wasn’t so concerned with his wounded pride as with the lingering doubts they raised. She really doesn’t have any faith in me, he scowled, even as he realized that – deep down – she was right. I can’t even look after myself, he thought, so what makes me think I can take care of her? I used to believe I was strong, but when have I ever proven that? I never had to because there was a real man at my side. He made the decisions and cleaned up the mess. I was nothing but a burden to him. “Why not?” Ulric’s eyes blazed. He seized Elena’s arm, unwilling to let the remark slide. “If you really want to know,” she said, “it’s because you’re still fleeing your demons. I see it in your eyes, in the way you stare out to sea – you’ve fled to the very edge of the world and still you want to keep going. I am convenient for you, nothing more.” “What the petch does that mean?” “I think you already know.” “Don’t play this game,” Ulric snarled. “I get it, I’m a hapless piece of shyke – but I’m not the only one who’s running. I didn’t believe that tale about your husband for a moment. I think he’s alive and out to get you, or you perhaps that you’ve killed him.” I’m in for it now, he thought, seeing the stricken expression on Elena’s face. “If you must know,” she said icily, “he took his own life.” “Is that taking care of you?” Ulric countered, but he was already regretting his ill-chosen words. As upset as he was, he recognized that he was just trying to hit her where it hurt, to make her regret not wanting to be with him. And failing, he frowned, for he was only proving her right. Is it really a surprise that my life is shyke, when this is how I speak to people? “It’s not the same,” Elena hissed, and for a time they said no more. “I don’t understand why you always have to bring that horrid axe with you,” she spoke after a while. “It’s not as if we’re about to be attacked by a petching sea monster.” “I would feel naked without it,” Ulric sighed, not rising to the bait. “I spent too many years on the road, in the cold and rain, with brigands lurking behind each tree and in every cave, that I can’t not bring my axe with me. I mean, right now I’m thinking I should have brought my armor and shield with me. It’s the sort of paranoia that keeps you alive. I learned early on that it doesn’t matter how good a fighter you are – if you get caught unawares, you’re as good as dead.” “And are you a good fighter?” “I’m not dead yet. I suppose that’s what counts.” “But you have killed men before, haven’t you?” “Not yet,” Ulric replied. “I’ve crossed swords and danced with death before, but when it comes to the killing, someone always get there before me.” Isn’t that right, Kell?

[Ulric]

Ulric had come to the coast to forget, but it was only a matter of time until his past caught up to him. He was laying a few split mackerel out to dry when Elena came running over the ridge, shouting that there were men on the beach. “How many?” Ulric sighed, and tossed the remainder of the fish into a patch of bracken. “I saw three,” she gasped, “but there may be more. I was digging for clams when they stepped out of the forest, but I don’t think they saw me.” “Good,” Ulric replied, his heart sinking into his chest. He would have been a fool not to expect this. Indeed, since a loan shark’s repute was based on the talent to track down and punish their debtors, he’d known that eventually he would have to pay the price. But three men? It seemed more than a little excessive. He desperately wanted to flee this place, to hide like a rat in its hole, but he knew that he couldn’t run forever. If he had to die, he was going to die like a man. “Stay here,” he said to Elena, and ducked into the shelter to retrieve his weapons. “Ulric, you can’t fight them alone,” she snapped, following him inside. “It’s suicide. You’ll get yourself killed.” “Petch that,” he said, slipping into his cuirass, and began to fasten on his bracers and pauldrons. His terror was fading, and now his mind was dominated by a peculiar sense of calm. It was almost as if he didn’t fear death. He had fought men before and prevailed, so why could he not replicate the feat? “I don’t think you realize who I am,” he spoke coldly, taking up his shield. He would not suffer his doubts any longer, nor would he allow the demons of his past to hold sway over him. “What are you talking about?” Elena crossed her arms, a scowl twisting her lovely features. In that moment, she seemed nothing so much as a petulant child, upset about losing her most cherished plaything. Ulric stared into her pale eyes and laughed at the confusion he saw in them. “I’m going to kill them all,” he said, “and then I’m going to come back here, spread your legs, and petch you until you love me.” He pushed past her, and then looked back, the corners of his mouth curling in a smile. “If you don’t, I’m going to kill you, too.” With his threat still fresh in the smoky air, Ulric left the shelter. He paid little heed to the curses that emanated from inside as he reached for his bearded axe and loped to the forest. Its thick ranks of firs and sentinel pines concealed him from prying eyes, and the carpet of needles stifled his footsteps, letting him move like a wraith through the shadows. He could hear the screeches of crows in the distance, and the rustle of squirrels trying to add to their winter hoards. Halting for a moment, he drove a hand into the loam and smeared his face with its dark soil, the richness of the earth merging with the pungent scent of pine needles and fresh sap. It was a shame that he would have to break the peace of this forest by spilling the blood of his enemies, but he did not have a choice. He needed to watch his pursuers from a distance and wait for the right moment to strike. Sucking in a deep breath, he smeared mud on the head of his axe and rose, heading for the ravine and his forsaken camp, wiping his palms on the leather scales of his cuirass. As he crept through the trees, he exulted in the realization that his hunters could be lurking behind every rock and ridge, their blades drawn and their lips twisted by wolfish grins. Ulric found them on the beach. He counted three men, two of them clad in leather armor, the first cradling a heavy crossbow in his arms. A two-handed axe was slung over his back, and he sported a thick, plaited beard. He wasn’t a tall man, but he lacked in height he certainly made up for in bulk. In fact, he resembled nothing so much as a keg of ale. The second man bore a sword and shield, and clutched a conical helm with a nasal guard under his arm. He had a lanky build, and strode along the beach with a practiced ease, making few wasteful movements. It was clear that both of these men were old hands at this, and not to be taken lightly. If they were used to fighting as a pair, then events could become problematic. I think that’s putting it mildly, Ulric observed as he studied their comrade, a bear of a man wearing a scaled cuirass and plate pauldrons, who was clearly in charge here. Bear held up a fist, halting the others so they could confer for a while. Ulric strained his ears, but the wind carried away their words. He crouched down further in the shelter of a thicket, his heart racing, and watched as Bear waved a hand further up the coast, and then pointed to the beach. Keg spoke up again, but it seemed that Bear was having none of his arguments, and eventually the group split up. Bear began to head out, with Keg in tow, leaving Helmet to gather driftwood for a fire. Ulric watched the men shrink into the distance, his lips curling into a smirk. It couldn’t have worked out better. He only had to bide his time, waiting for the others to get far enough away, and then – wait, who the petch is that? Ulric saw a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye, and now he turned his gaze in the opposite direction, where a ridge of rock thrust out into the sea. It rose a hundred feet over the water, its slopes covered with gorse, heather, and stunted pines. Ulric scanned the ridge, his dark eyes darting from tree to tree until they alighted upon a man’s crouching form. [i]Four to one,[i] he scowled, not at all pleased by this turn of events. But then again, while four wasn’t as good as three, it was much better than five. “Petching arithmetic,” Ulric sighed.

[Ulric]

Leaving the thicket, Ulric crept deeper into the forest to avoid detection, and then headed to the ridge. I need to even the odds, he kept telling himself, knowing that he could only strike when his foes were strung out. Four had to be the first. Ulric knew that he’d be flanked on either side if he tried for Helmet, and the sight of Keg’s crossbow had aroused his suspicions that Four was similarly armed. I’ll take him out, and then draw the rest into the forest. I should be able to set up an ambush or two, and if my luck holds, the trees should negate the crossbow. Not satisfied with the plan, but realizing that it was his best chance of surviving, Ulric slipped through the ranks of trees as silently as he could, ducking under branches and clambering up formations of rocks. He made a fair amount of noise as he ascended the ridge, despite his attempts to avoid the desiccated gorse bushes by leaping from rock to rock. Ulric knew that he would never be able to sneak up on Four undetected, so when he spied the man from behind a stunted pine, he charged, trying to close the fifty-pace gap that stood between them. He might have known that Four was already aware of his presence. Before he had taken a half-dozen steps, the man’s crossbow rose and a bolt hissed through the air. Ulric hurled himself to ground, landing awkwardly on his shoulder. “He’s here!” Four shouted. “He’s here! Pain lanced through Ulric’s injured shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and began to close the gap again. He watched Four begin to reload, saw the man place one foot in the stirrup and heave at the cord until it caught, then fumble for a bolt as the distance between them narrowed. Eleven paces, ten paces, nine paces. Four glanced up, sacrificing a precious second as he tried to slide the bolt into the groove. Five paces, four paces. Ulric spied fear in the man’s eyes, watched him recoil as he raised the crossbow – but it was already too late. Leaping forward, he knocked the crossbow aside with his shield, his teeth bared. The bolt went astray, and then there was a crunch of bones. Both men went down, with Ulric on top. He’d lost his axe, so he threw a punch while his opponent was still dazed, using his knee to trap the man’s right arm against the ground. His gloved fist opened a cut below the man’s eye, and then smashed into his nose. Desperate fingers clawed at his eyes, drawing blood from his cheek. Ulric went for his dagger, but as he was about to plunge it into Four’s throat, the man caught his wrist and tried to wrench the blade from his grasp. For a few tense moments they fought like beasts, snarling and growling at one another, until Ulric reared back and brought the rim of his shield down upon Four’s blooded features. As man’s elbow buckled, Ulric sank the dagger into his neck. He gave the blade a savage twist, feeling the heat of blood spraying on his face and arms, and then staggered to his feet – just in time to witness a man that wasn’t Helmet, Keg, or Bear, charge from the trees, whipping a spiked flail over his head. “No petching fair,” Ulric snarled, and then, “this doesn’t even make sense.” He reached for his axe, knowing that Helmet would come upon them in a matter of seconds. In contrast with the others, this man’s best days were behind him, while his filthy, ragged jerkin and unkempt hair lent him the air of a renegade. Is he a tracker? Ulric had time to wonder before Five was upon him, the spiked balls whistled past his head. “Found you,” the man jeered, displaying a mouthful of blackened teeth. “Bastard,” Ulric grunted as he staggered back, using his shield to deflect the backswing. He tried to hook the flail, but Five wasn’t about to let him gain the upper hand. Ulric tried his best to avoid the blows, knowing that while the man’s weapon was shyke for defense, its sustained offense could keep him from landing a blow of his own. He needed to seize an opportunity to get inside. Stepping to the side, he ducked beneath the spikes and tried to feint with his axe – which, as it turned out, was a bungle that nearly caused his death. Sneering, the man stepped back and swept his flail low. Shit! Ulric retreated, stumbling over a root as the spikes descended again. He raised his shield, heard it splinter under the impact. It wasn’t until a moment later, when the shock ran down his entire arm, that he staggered back, barely evading a blow that would have crushed his face to a pulp, and eyed Five warily. If this keeps up much longer, he realized with growing alarm, my brains will be strewn across the ground. I need to finish this quickly. Even as the thought crossed Ulric’s mind, he heard a shout as Helmet emerged from the trees, and for a moment, as the flail blurred through the air, he wondered if this was the end. No, he could not, would not, die here. Snarling with rage, Ulric surged under the looping blow, and buried his axe in the pit of Five’s arm. He tried to duck as the flail swung around again, but two of its balls smashed into his side, driving the breath from his lungs, while the third struck his cheek with a burst of white lights, shattering the bone and sending hot blood trickling down his face. He reeled back, gritting his teeth against the pain, as Five fell to his knees. Ulric kicked the man in the face, almost lost his balance, and swung his axe at Helmet, who deflected the blow with a swipe of his shield. Even as Ulric raised his own shield, Helmet went low. He cried out as the sword carved through his leather armor, inflicting a deep gash on his thigh. Rather than retreat, he bashed at the Helmet with his shield, trying to hook his leg, but the man stepped out of range. “Riek, you all right?” Helmet began to circle, and Ulric couldn’t help but perceive that his breath was labored. He’s tired, he realized, knowing that despite his own fatigue, and the leg wound, that he couldn’t ease up on the pressure. The longer they fought, the stronger Helmet would get, while Ulric could only weaken. “What does it petching look like?” moaned Riek, even as Ulric charged at Helmet. He hacked at the man’s shield and then his exposed side, swiping at the sword with his shield. Feinting with his axe, he tried a shield bash, and then went low, almost managing to hook the man’s back foot. Ulric spat blood when the rim of Helmet’s shield split his lip, feeling the sword scrape along his armor. This isn't going well, he scowled.

[Ulric]

Ulric danced to the side, feinting with his axe, and tried to hook the underside of his opponent’s shield. He nearly managed to rip it away, but Helmet’s grasp was firm. The sword flicked out, trying to open up some space, but Ulric was already moving. He was better than Helmet; that much was clear. It didn’t matter that he was sacrificing tactics and cunning for the sake of aggression, because he was still stronger, faster, and had more tricks up his sleeve. I still have two chimes left, he panted, trying to defy the tide of desperation that kept threatening to engulf him. I need to stop making mistakes, or else it’ll be me feeding the crabs. So far, his plan was working to perfection. He’d taken out Four with relative ease, and while Riek had caught him off guard, he’d still managed to dispatch the man before Helmet could enter the fight. How do you like this? Ulric struck another chip from the man’s shield, turned aside the sword, and tried a low feint. Helmet, it seemed, was slowing down. He took a step back, letting his guard down for a moment. Ulric leapt forward with a hack at the man’s sword arm, and when the shield moved to block, used his own to batter at the petching helmet. He rotated his hips, exposing his left side as he threw his entire body behind the blow. Helmet wasn’t able to counter in time. Ulric heard the crunch of metal, felt the impact all the way to his elbow, and then Helmet was reeling. He tried to seize the upper hand with a series of hacks, hoping that he wasn’t falling into a trap, but wasn’t able to land a decisive blow. His axe sliced through a leather pauldron, cutting to the bone. It tangled with the sword, thudded against the shield, caught on the breastplate. Helmet sought to counter, but Ulric swiped the blow aside with his shield. He tried to hack at the man’s knees, only to step back when the sword swept at his face, then his chest. By the way the man kept his shield near his chest, it was clear that he’d slipped into a defensive mode. “He’s killed me,” Riek was sobbing, “He’s petching killed me.” Helmet didn’t bother to respond. Riek seemed to gurgle when he spoke, which meant that he was slowly drowning in his own blood. Two down, three to go. Ulric took another blow on his shield, danced to the side, and countered with his axe. Helmet stepped out of the way, predicting his next move. It seemed that the man had recovered, and now this was becoming a battle of wits. So be it, Ulric grunted. He feinted in one direction, then reversed and swiped the sword aside. You need to control the distance, Kell’s voice echoed in his head, and Ulric knew he was wasting time. Helmet wanted to keep fighting on the outside. If he kept Ulric from getting inside, it became less likely that either of them would land a decisive blow. He’s falling into a pattern, Ulric realized. Step back, or to the side; block, then use the sword to keep me at bay. It wasn’t always the same, but Helmet’s reactions were becoming too predictable. Ulric didn’t know if this was a trap, so when he leapt in again, it was only as a feint. Helmet chose that moment to launch a counter. Ulric brought up his shield to block, but the sword got through and scraped against his cuirass. “He’s killed me…” “Shut up,” Ulric growled as Helmet went back on the defensive, blocking his axe, and then stepping back from a swipe of his shield. Ulric could hear the man’s rasping breath, could see the redness of his face and the way beads of sweat clung to his brow and trickled from his hair. Helmet was tired, that much as clear. But he was still a thorn in the side. How do I finish him? Ulric paused to catch his breath, his mind wandering back to Kell’s lessons. He still recalled that morning on the strand as if it was yesterday, when he’d somehow managed to land a blow on the warrior. It’s worth a try, he decided, and twirled his axe through air. It’s certainly stupid enough to work. “Die,” he rushed forward, snarling. “You die,” Helmet replied, and tried to spit Ulric on his sword. Ulric retreated swiftly, pretending to stagger over a patch of furze. He was slow to rise. Helmet did not pursue; it seemed the man was more concerned with catching his breath than finishing the fight. That’s no surprise, seeing as he only needs to wait for the others to get here. Ulric swayed on his feet, continuing the deception. He let his lips contort into a grimace, and then, as the man began to lower his arms, suddenly cast his shield like a discus. Helmet raised his own shield – an instinct sealed his fate, for Ulric was already in motion, his bearded axe a blur as it pulled Helmet’s leg out from under him. Helmet went down like a sack of grain, and the last sight that crossed his eyes was a flash of iron.

[Ulric]

Gasping for breath, Ulric wrenched his bearded axe from the corpse’s forehead. “How do you like that?” he spat, but the victory was fleeting. He needed to flee to give himself time to prepare an ambush. Half-running, half-limping to the patch of stony earth where he’d left Four to bleed out, Ulric snatched up the crossbow. His leg was still on fire, but the wound seemed to be closing. He tore a strip from the man’s jerkin and bound it up, then reached for the quiver of bolts. Three down, two to go, he grimaced, knowing this final part was the hardest. So far, he’d only injured his shoulder and sustained a deep gash to the thigh, but those wounds had already slowed him down. He wasn’t as strong, wasn’t as fast, and now he was facing the prospect of two-on-one combat. Kell didn’t prepare me for this, he scowled, unable to resist as doubts crept into the back of his mind. How many times did I almost die back there? If the crossbow had gone off a moment earlier, I’d be dead right now. If Riek was waiting a few dozen paces nearer to this bastard, I’d be dead. If the others had seen me in the thicket, my corpse would be strewn on the ground, awaiting the carrion crows. Petch that. Ulric struggled to his feet. He couldn’t linger here, that much was for sure. It hadn’t been an accident when he sighted Four on the ridge. There wasn’t much cover here, apart from the stunted trees that blocked his view of the coast. He began to head to the forest, clutching the crossbow to his chest. It was the equalizer, after all, for a well-placed shot could turn a two-on-one into a one-on-one in the span of a moment, which Ulric knew would probably mean the difference between living and dying. His only problem was that Keg was probably a better shot than he was. The crossbow wasn’t a weapon that required a great deal of expertise, but Ulric was still at a clear disadvantage. He’d fired one before, so at least he knew the sort of damage he was capable of inflicting. It was hardly inspiring. Ten yards, he scowled again, knowing the range at which he could be confident of striking a target was pitiful in comparison to that a trained crossbowman. He wouldn’t even be able to reload. No, a long-distance fight was out of the question. He needed to wait until his enemies were too close to miss, and to do that he needed cover. “Is this what you wanted, you shyke?” Ulric paused to drive a boot into Riek’s side. “Is this what you wanted?” “Help me,” Riek pleaded. “I don’t want to die!” He was trying to staunch the seep of blood from his wound, hands shaking with fright, eyes wide as the reality of his plight began to sink in. He reached out, sputtering as a froth of blood spilled from his lips. “Go petch yourself,” snarled Ulric, who wasn’t even remotely inclined to help a man who’d sought to smash out his brains a few chimes earlier. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got prob-” His words cut off abruptly as a bolt hissed into his shield, boring a hole through the splintered wood and sinking deep into his arm. The impact tossed him to the ground, where he bit his lip to keep from screaming with the sudden wave of agony that coursed through his limbs. It didn’t work. “Gaaagh!” For a moment, Ulric nearly gave in to the pain. He forced himself to his knees, retching as a wave of nausea struck him, and gathered up the crossbow again. The shot had come from the coast, so he retreated into the forest, his pulse racing. He was fatigued, muscles screaming in anguish from the burden of his armor, weak from his wounds, and above all, afraid. He ran, only now realizing that his trousers were slick with blood, lurching over stones and pushing through patches of brambles, heedless of the thorns that tore at his arms. Finally, he took refuge behind a tree. In the distance, he could hear the crash of his pursuers. Rhysol give me strength, he breathed a quick prayer, preparing for his last stand. The bolt had pinned the shield to his arm, so he had to reach out and snap its shaft before he could span the crossbow. Ignoring the dull, pulsing agony, and warm blood that seeped down his arm, he thrust his boot into the stirrup and heaved back on the cord, hissing as he hooked it over the catch. Ulric reached for a bolt. He slid it into the slot, and then waited, keeping his back to the tree. His pursuers were nearing. He could hear the snap of twigs, the slap of boots against the damp earth, and then, all of a sudden, he couldn’t take the suspense any longer. He spun, taking only a moment to line up a shot, and pulled the trigger. He heard the bolt thrum through the air, and then he was running again, while the answering bolt struck a leaning branch, causing the desiccated wood to explode in a shower of splinters. Ulric threw his shield aside, managing a few dozen paces before he tripped over a stone and slid into a furrow in the sodden earth. He rolled onto his back, spanning the crossbow again, and tried to slow his breathing. Rhysol, you bastard, he grimaced. If you let me die here, I’m coming back as a knight.