"That man sure gets things done," Behar said, staring down the corridor. He and Zef had just made it to the second floor of the Carcani manor, following the trail of corpses Oak and Geezer had left in their wake.

"Hmm." Zef grumbled.

The pale giant ripped open a door and he and his enormous dog charged into the room beyond. A vase came flying out of the room and it shattered against the opposing wall. Behar could make out the tell-tale sounds of combat. None of the voices doing the screaming sounded like Oak, so he wasn't too concerned. As he had already told Zef, the northerner could clearly take care of himself.

"What, you don't like him?" Behar glanced at Zef, brow raised.

In truth, Behar was mighty relieved that the Ensi had opened his coin purse and hired the northerner's services for the assault. It was not a question of ability, on Behar's part. He had put in long hours at the training yard and sweated buckets in the sun every week so he would be ready when the time came to earn his keep.

Anything less would have felt like a betrayal of the trust Halit had placed in him.

But despite his extensive preparation, Behar had never killed a man in battle before and the prospect didn't excite him. If push came to shove, he would do his duty, but he wasn't looking forward to wetting his blade with blood.

"I like him well enough." Zef sighed. "I just have a feeling in my gut."

"A feeling?"

"Yes. A feeling that despite his usefulness, I will be glad to see the back of him."

A severed head rolled from the open doorway Oak and Geezer had charged through and bounced off the pale yellow wall of the corridor. It belonged to a middle-aged man who had an enormous bald spot. The eyes of the severed head spun around as it rolled and Behar felt a little ill.

Okay, that is creepy and excessive as all Hell, but he does make things easier for the rest of us.

"Hmm." Zef grumbled.

Ferhati warriors crowded into the second floor landing behind him. Men rushed down the neighboring hallways and ripped open doors, looking for members of the Carcani clan. An enterprising warrior with streaks of black painted on his cheeks ran up the steps to the third floor and got a crossbow bolt through the eye socket for his trouble. He flopped back down the stairs and crashed into the second floor landing with a thud.

A pair of Ferhati men saw this and concluded that whoever shot their friend had to be currently reloading their crossbow. The chance of an easy kill and an opportunity to avenge their fallen comrade was too precious to ignore. They roared and charged up the steps, swords held high and shields raised.

Twang.

"Oh, fu–"

Twang.

Two corpses with bolts in their eyes rolled down the winding staircase in a tangle of limbs. The pair got stuck halfway down, arms and legs sticking out between the railings.

"Got you, you scum-sucking bastards!" a creaking female voice shouted from the third floor, loud enough to pierce the sounds of battle.

Behar stared at the corpses and winced. That sounded like Flaka. The Carcani shipmistress was famous for two things: a fiery temper and a set of lungs to match it. When Flaka was angry, even the people living across the lake got to know about it. Apparently, she was also a crackshot with a crossbow. And smart enough to have more than one bow at her side, loaded and ready to go.

People are full of surprises.

Someone grabbed Behar by the shoulders and yanked him back behind the corner. A bolt flew by his nose and smacked into the atrium wall with a thump. He fell on his ass, pale as a ghost, and tried not to throw up his supper. By the Hashmallim, that was too close. Zef slapped him in the face and when that had no effect, he did it again.

"By the Hashmallim, Zef!" Behar shouted. "You saved my life!"

"Focus, you moron!" Zef growled. "We are here to win, and to do that we have to live through the night."

With utmost care, the veteran poked his head out and looked down the corridor. "All right. The fuck-face who shot at you must be reloading." Zef spat and stretched his legs. "Get your legs under you and keep your shield up. It's time we got our licks in."

As fast as he could, Behar got back to his feet and followed Zef into the corridor, shield raised and sword at the ready. One door near the very end of the corridor was ajar. It did not take a genius to figure out where the bolt that almost ended his life had come from.

"Follow me!" Zef shouted and charged.

Like all men, Behar had his faults, but he had decided a long time ago that he would never be a coward.

So despite his fear, Behar ran after his friend. His father had always taught him you didn't leave your buddies out to dry, and Behar was not about to start now.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Here we go. Mother preserve me.

They were at the halfway point when things went to shit. The door at the end of the corridor swung open and a teenaged boy with his long hair tied in a ponytail aimed a loaded crossbow right at Zef.

"Shit!" Behar shouted.

A door two steps ahead of Zef snapped open, and the veteran crashed right into it face first. He bounced back, blood streaming from his forehead, and fell down on the floor.

Twang.

"Aarg!"

A broad shouldered Carcani man in his late fifties wearing a blue tunic stumbled into view, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his back. He held a war-axe in a white knuckled grip in his right hand, arm trembling with the effort.

"Shit!" the teenaged boy wailed. "I am sorry Ervin. I–I didn't mean to. You just got in the way, is all!"

Ervin shook his war-axe in Behar's direction and grunted. He took a step forward, blinked and fell over on his face. Never one to spit on the gifts of the angels, Behar seized the opportunity and split Ervin's skull with a well-placed chop of his sword. Then he jumped back into cover behind the open door, out of the reach of crossbow bolts.

See, just like in training. Nothing to worry about.

It felt almost too easy. Just a quick swing of his sword, and now there were brains all over the floor. Behar wasn't sure if this counted as his first kill, since the teenager had done most of the work for him. If anyone asked, he could omit that detail from the story.

It might be for the best. No need to embarrass the young lad. And how am I going to impress the ladies with stories of martial valor, if I just dined on someone else's leftovers? No, better to keep the tale simple.

Behar bent down to check on Zef and removed the veteran's helmet. To his relief, he could feel a breath against his palm. The older man was just unconscious, and he had a massive purple bump on his forehead. Zef would feel this one tomorrow, but the codger would live.

Oak and Geezer thundered past, running full tilt at the enemy. The pale northerner's hands dripped with blood and he sang a verse in his own savage tongue, rejoicing in the delights of combat.

"Now, hold on–"

A swish of air and the sound of a heavy impact silenced the teenager for good. No doubt Oak could have killed the boy by just running over him, but by the sound of it, blades were involved. That left the lad's chances of survival in the gutter.

Zef sat up, bent over, and barfed his supper on the floorboards. Vomit mixed with broken pottery, blood, and stomped over flowers, creating a strange, disturbing looking soup. The severed head from earlier lay in the middle of the concoction, open eyes staring accusingly at the veteran.

That felt a tad unfair on the corpse's part, though Behar could see both sides of it. He wouldn't want anyone barfing on his corpse either. But it's not like Zef had vomited on the severed head on purpose, and things did not always go to plan in a battle.

As they say, shit happens.

"Are you okay, Zef?"

"I'm fine. The world's spinning more than usual, that's all."

A loud roar sounded from the end of the corridor, followed by wailing and the sound of breaking furniture. Heavy smacks, like someone was beating an ox to death with their bare hands, echoed down the hallway.

"I better check that Oak is still in one piece," Behar said and stood up. "That does not sound like a picnic to me."

"You go and do that." Zef gagged. "I will rest here for a bit."

Whistling a tune, Behar jogged down the corridor. Other than Zef's unfortunate run in with the door, things were going surprisingly swimmingly. For a rookie in his first battle, he thought he was doing a reasonable job so far. If he played his cards right, this time tomorrow he would be sleeping in Dafina's bed after a well-deserved night of celebrating.

Or maybe I should try my luck with Mimoza. We really hit it off in the tavern tonight.

The teenage boy's body lay in a heap against the wall next to the open doorway. His unloaded crossbow lay next to him, cut in twain. Oak had opened the boy up from navel to neck and broken his skull. Every hair on Behar's arms stood on end as he looked at the boy's guts, spilling out of his ripped open stomach.

Something in the back of his mind told him to run and never look back. Behar shivered and discarded his silly instincts.

His father had not raised a coward, and on this night Oak was his brother in arms. It would be a rotten thing to do to leave the man alone, if he needed aid. Decision made, Behar strode forward and through the door.

Splatters of blood covered the walls of the smoking room. The smell of blood, offal and feces mixed sickeningly with the scents of tobacco and hashish, creating a cocktail of odours so terrible it made Behar gag.

By the Mother.

Oak stood in the center of the charnel house, covered in blood from head to toe and breathing hard. The mutilated bodies of two young men on the cusp of adulthood lie around him like broken toys. The furniture had seen better days. Splintered cabinets, shattered chairs and a table smashed into two pieces told a tale of what had happened better than any bard.

Such waste made Behar sad and uncomfortable. His father had been a carpenter by trade and he had an inclination how long it took to make a good cabinet. In a few brief moments of violence, Oak and Geezer had ruined months of work.

As if his ears had just popped from rising pressure, Behar realized he could hear a voice. The pale giant still sang his savage verse in the tongue of his homeland, looking like he was a world away. From the corner of his eye, Behar spotted the northerner's giant dog licking his bloody chops.

Another shiver climbed up his back, but Behar pressed on and stepped closer. "Hey, Oak! Are you all right?"

The pale giant turned around and looked right through him. Behar swallowed. "O–Oak?"

"Oak is not here."

Head lolling to the side and a demented grin on his face, the northerner sprang to action. The blade of a massive cleaver shone in the lamplight, coming from somewhere behind Behar. He felt an impact and spun around without meaning to, feeling cold all over.

Behar crashed face down on top of the remains of the broken table. To his growing horror, he realized he could not breathe. Or move. His ears rang as if someone had struck a gong right by his head and his jaw felt like it was made of broken glass.

What? Why? Everything was going so well!

He tried to speak, but only a keening wheeze escaped his lips. It was hard to see. Everything was so far away. Behar tried to keep his eyes open, to no avail. He struggled against the darkness creeping into his vision, like he had never struggled before, but in the end, he failed.

Something snapped, and Behar let go.

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