“What happened?” Jurot asked, carrying a bundle of plants towards the wall.

“Apparently Entalia came around and helped out,” Adam said, grabbing a bundle and following him to the wall. “Then the Chief started to talk to me about marriage.” He was still suffering from whiplash. He thought about how much he owed to Entalia, then how much he’d need for a dowry for marriage. ‘I’m already so poor…’

Jurot nodded his head. “Chief Merl always talks to interesting travellers about marriage.” He even recalled a few weeks ago when he passed by the village and the woman tried to marry him off to one of her granddaughters. “She has tried to marry her children and grandchildren into the Iyr.”

“That’s quite the dream,” Adam said. He wondered if he should try and find a nice Iyrman to marry. There were no doubt plenty of beautiful women in the Iyr, especially those who were strongly built. Adam cleared his throat, pushing away the heat in his cheeks.

“One of her children,” Jurot placed the planks down next to a pile, using the moment to recall the name, “Fort, married into the Iyr.”

“Really?” Adam asked, placing down the planks too, ignoring the looks from the villagers. “How did she manage that?”

“A few years ago, a few Iyrmen were stationed here around this time. The numbers of undead were particularly high that year, so the Iyr had made sure at least three Iyrmen were dispatched to the various villages around. When the undead came, Fort made sure to stand side by side with the Iyrmen.”

“Impressive,” Adam said. A villager standing side by side with Iyrmen? ‘He must have been one hell of a prodigy.’

“He fell within minutes,” Jurot said, walking back to grab some more planks to move.

“Oh.”

“He did not run,” Jurot said, smiling. “When an Iyrman stands by your side, it is safe to run. He decided to die at an Iyrman’s side. He did not die, though. When the tale had been brought back to the Iyr, an Iyrman made her way to the village to beat him.”

Adam blinked. He had heard so many ridiculous things today, so he wasn’t sure if he heard that right. “An Iyrman came to the village to beat Fort? The guy who almost died by the side of Iyrmen?”

Jurot nodded his head, smiling at how romantic it was. “She made sure to beat him every day for a week.”

“What happened to him? Did he die? I can’t imagine anyone living after being beaten for a week.”

“No, they married,” Jurot said.

Adam shook his head, trying to shake the ridiculousness out of his ears. “Excuse me?”

“Ah,” Jurot said, understanding that Adam was no Iyrman. “When I say beat him, I mean that she came to test his fortitude.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down, Jurot.”

Jurot blinked at Adam. “She took her fist,” he held out his fist, “and punched Fort repeatedly.” Jurot punched the air, cutting through it with his great strength.

“Right. Jurot, I’m going to be honest, I’m still very confused.” Adam wasn’t sure what he should say, not wishing to offend the Iyrman.

“If he died too quickly, it would be difficult to have children,” Jurot said, as though it were obvious.

“So Iyrmen beat their husbands and wives before they marry?” Adam asked. He certainly hadn’t heard about this in his previous life.

“No, of course not,” Jurot replied, furrowing his brows at Adam. “That’s barbaric!”

“Right, sorry.” Adam squinted, wondering why he was apologising.

Jurot shook his head. “She told him that if he was still willing at the end of the week, then she would marry him.”

“So… he just let her beat him?” Every time Jurot elaborated his point, Adam spiralled further into confusion.

“No,” Jurot said. “He tried to fight back, but he was fighting an Iyrman.” Jurot shrugged. “He had no chance.”

“So he was beaten by an Iyrman in public every day for a week? Then he could marry her?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Why the hell did he let someone beat him in public for a week? Even if he wanted to marry an Iyrman, that seemed a little excessive. “Was she rich?”

“As any average Iyrman.”

“Ah, then that must be it.” Adam nodded his head. He assumed Iyrmen were quite rich, considering how many of them went out to explore. ‘Though, then again, they probably are more community focused, so they most likely don’t have much individual wealth.’

“No,” Jurot said, shaking his head. “That wasn’t it.”

“Then what was it?”

“She was known as a beauty in the Iyr,” Jurot said.

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“Oh,” Adam said, nodding his finally. “That explains it.”

It was only when Adam dropped the second set of planks that he realised what Jurot had said. “Jurot, when you say she was known as a beauty, do you mean she could compare to Entalia?” He spoke as diplomatically as his 16 Charisma allowed.

“Yes,” Jurot replied back. “She was, and is, as beautiful as Entalia.”

Adam whistled. “Okay, that makes complete sense.” Once they had returned to pick up more wood, Adam thought about the tale. “Would you let a beautiful woman beat you in order to marry her?”

A thought came to Jurot’s mind for a moment, losing himself to it. He quickly came back to the world, lifted up the planks, and marched off. “We should continue our work,” he said, his face like stone. His ears had turned completely red.

“This work is making me hungry,” Adam said, following after him. He wondered if he should continue. “Moving heavy things always makes me hungry. What say you, Jurot?” He cleared his throat, trying to not laugh.

“Yes,” Jurot replied, glad that they had changed topics.

“I could really go for some bread right now.” Adam stopped, holding onto his knees to stop himself from falling over. He bit into the side of his fist to stop himself from howling with laughter.

Jurot dropped his planks, his face turning completely red.

“Are you alright?” Adam asked, still trying to contain his laughter. His eyes were full of tears which threatened to fall.

“I’m okay,” the tomato red Iyrman said, picking the planks up again and swiftly carried them to the wall. ‘Can he read my mind?’

‘He’s growing up so fast,’ Adam thought. He looked up to the sky, seeing the almost clear blue sky above. ‘I hope Sonarot is fine…’ He checked his Omen.

Omen: 3, 14

A shrill whistle blew from the east, where the broken wall was currently being repaired. Villagers each scrambled to grab their weapons, whereas others picked up children and quickly rushed off with them.

“Bandits!” a young voice called as the teen quickly dropped down and scrambled away, an arrow narrowly missing them. “Bandits!”

‘Why am I always raising flags?’ Adam thought, quickly rushing to the wall, donning his helmet and shield. He glanced aside to try and find Jurot, but he had been up ahead, and had bolted much quicker. Tazwyn’s jangling came from behind, causing the villagers to part to allow the warriors through.

Stood ahead of them, beyond the broken wall, was a large man, a mountain of muscle. Dark hair fell to his shoulders, and his eyes, dark as night, glared at the villagers. His skin was pale too, like that of bone. He wore splinted mail, as black as his eyes, and a grim smile on his face. A large battle axe at his side glinted under the sun, which illuminated the seven well equipped marauders.

The large man grinned. “Look at all this fresh-“

“Balrog?” Adam called out, as though he were meeting an old friend. “What are you doing here?”

The villagers gasped, having heard the name of the bandit before. They had heard even the Iyrmen weren’t able to deal with him, and suddenly their feeble staffs and spears seemed more like twigs in their shaking hands.

Balrog’s brow pulsed in anger, noting the warrior in chain mail who had so rudely interrupted him. “Who in the blasted void are you, boy?” His voice was a near growl.

“I’m Adam,” he said. “Son of Fate.”

“Who?” Balrog furrowed his brows at Adam, before scanning around the crowd. As he saw Jurot, his eyes stopped, noting the tattoos, and for a moment a brief flash of recognition and fear filled his eyes, before a wild grin crept across his face.

Jurot narrowed his eyes, his nostrils flaring. He reached for his axe, but Tazwyn placed a hand on his shoulder, before she stepped forward. She removed her helmet, revealing her face and her forehead tattoo.

Balrog’s eyes met hers, understanding that this raid was going to be more difficult. The seven of them were outnumbered by the villagers, but they were all weary from fighting the undead and working all day, and more practised with fighting undead, not well trained bandits like he and his fellows.

Balrog threw a glance back to one of his men. “I thought you said the village was clear,” he said. “Why do I see an Iyrman.”

“Was clear when I scouted here, boss, I swears,” the man in the leathers whimpered. He had a shortbow in hand, and a pair of daggers across his belt, which wrapped around his chest.

“You’re lucky it’s only one Iyrman,” Balrog snarled, his eyes flashing to Jurot, “and a pup.”

Jurot kept a firm grip on his axe, but Tazwyn’s grip also remained on his shoulder. “A friend of yours?” Tazwyn asked, throwing her gaze back towards Adam.

“No,” Adam said. He scanned the group. “Though I have heard of another one of their men. Where’s Moonblade?”

Balrog smiled. “You sure talk a lot for a boy, huh? Does he talk for you, Iyrman?” Balrog spoke with little respect to the Iyrman, but he wasn’t going to start disrespecting her either. He didn’t live this long by making enemies of the Iyr.

“He is a guest,” Tazwyn said. “He speaks for himself, but his words are backed by my sword.”

“A mighty fine sword it is,” Balrog said. “I’m not here for steel though, I much prefer gold.” He glanced at the villagers. “Well, silver and furs, considering where I am.”

“A tribute?” Tazwyn asked, her eyes narrowing. “So close to our land?”

“But it’s not your land, is it?” Balrog said, a small smile appearing on his face. “There’s no need for any fighting here today, Iyrman. We take a small tribute of coin and furs, and we leave. No need to get messy.”

Tazwyn remained quiet for a moment. If there was a fight, she would be able to take on Balrog, she was sure of that. The others, however, were each stronger than Adam and Jurot, and much stronger than the guards and villagers. The wall here didn’t provide much protection, and if they were to fight, many of the villagers would be wounded, or worse.

It was one matter to have a village near the Iyr pay tribute, but for there to be such a heavy loss so close to the border, especially with the village which had always been so accommodating to them. ‘I can’t allow any blood here to be spilled.’ Argon would never forgive her, but more importantly, she would be unable to forgive herself.

“I heard that you had some kids in your employ,” Adam said, breaking the silence.

Tazwyn threw a glance towards Adam, wondering what he was talking about. ‘Did I make a mistake in giving him my backing?’

Balrog froze, the grin on his face twisting slightly. “What are you even talking about?” For a moment, he wondered if Adam knew.

“Isn’t that what you do?” Adam asked. “Smuggle children?”

“Oh?” Balrog licked his lips. “How did you find that out? Don’t you know that it’s dangerous to know too much?”

“I’m a smart boy,” Adam said. “That’s why I am standing next to an Iyrman, and you’re standing next to dead men.”

“You should be careful, boy.” Balrog reached down towards his axe, which permeated with the deaths of hundreds of smart boys like Adam. “Not even nobles take that kinda tone with me.”

“Oh?” Adam asked, tilting his head slightly. “And which nobles are they?” He reached down towards the hilt of his sword, not stepping back from Balrog. Last time, he had killed Balrog with ease, but last time he was much more powerful.

“They say the loudest mice are killed first,” Balrog began to draw his axe.

“Uh, Boss,” one of his men called out from behind, a hand on their own weapon.

“What?” Balrog growled, glancing back at him, only to notice the four Iyrmen surrounding them from behind.

Two had drawn their mighty greatswords, each able to split a man in half under the strength of the Iyrmen. Another’s greataxe was ready to hack a man to bits. The last, a woman with the most wicked grin on her face, drew her warhammers, which were ready to break their bones.

“Oh balls.”