The children instinctively huddled together as the bounty hunters with drawn weapons converged. With clenched jaws and void filled eyes, they slowly closed around us. Every eye was fixed on me.

Only Aram had the audacity to dance and hopped from boulder to boulder till he landed in front of me.

“You are indeed a very resourceful person, Lady Rylonvirah,” he leaned on his Warhammer feigning boredom, “One moment you are clad in nothing but rags and a few days later you are leading an illustrious mercenary company.”

My mind raced frantically in desperate circles.

What do I know about Aram? Anything that would give me an edge in the situation.

He harbours delusions of grandeur and aims to be bigger than what he is.

He likes to boast and crown himself with laurels.

He needs to be in control.

He loses his refined demeanour when he is challenged. Prod him and he would fall for the trap. Again.

“Enough with the fake modesty,” I scoffed, “Lay a hand on me and my company will put you like a rabid dog, or with just hunt you to make a sport of you.”

Anger surged in Aram. My words had the intended effect.

“You are only needed alive,” Aram's eyes flickered twice and a predatory grin danced on his lips, “but not unharmed.”

Aram cackled and was soon joined by the jeers of fellow bounty hunters.

A viciously spiked mace was passed to Aram. The sharp end of the spikes reflected the light of the dusk.

Aram gave it two swings and decided to test it against a deadwood. Splinters flew from his blow. The spiked mace embedded itself firmly. He gave it a firm tug and pulled again. As the mace came free, more splinters flew.

“Pathetic,” I said loudly drawing the ire of most, “You are not so scary with your failure of a bravado.”

Some of those who laughed held their laughter at my words.

“We drows, invented the art of torturing,” I continued, “It is not the pain but properly conveying the apprehensive feeling of pain. Obviously, you even failed at imitating us.”

Now I had Aram’s full attention.

“Not that I expect you to possess the intelligence to process,” I added.

Aram hissed in anger.

“Next time when you try to use a half-learned torturing method, make sure not to use it against a drow,” I said loudly for all to hear.

Aram gave the mace a twist as his eyes lingered over my legs. A malicious grin masked his face.

“It is too tiring to chase you and you are obviously fond of running, so let me shatter that kneecap, saves me the trouble the next time,” he threatened.

“That is if there is ever a next time,” he added as an afterthought.

“Aram, stop,” interrupted one of the men, “Ten thousand crown souverain, think about it.”

“Nobody with pay the full price for damaged goods,” chimed in another voice.

Ten Thousand Crown Souverain. That denomination is a high-elven currency. So Zelaphiel is their mysterious benefactor.

Upon being interrupted, Aram’s rage had a new target. His own men.

“When the bounty was announced you sods were drinking in your own piss,” he pointed the mace at them in a dramatic fashion.

“I am the one who knew that she would be seeking that demonic wench.” Aram shook with fury.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Seeing no response to his anger, Aram continued to belittle his band.

“I am the one who pulled you all out of your pigsty and granted you a vision,” he shouted, “yet, you dare to remind me on how to run my own business.”

“Ten Thousand Crown Souverain,” he repeated, “that is a lot in Grand Lira.”

Suddenly, a twinkle in his eyes replaced his rage.

“I could get myself an estate, maybe marry into some landless nobility or better buy myself a title.”

In a voice with oratorial flair, he pronounced clearly, “Lord Aram Clawthorne.”

“How does that sound?” he asked no one in particular.

“And you lot could be my retainers,” proclaimed Aram to his compatriots.

Only my laughing interrupted the sublime moment of Lord Aram Clawthorne’s ascendance.

“Not if you are conscripted into Zelaphiel’s host and die fighting the One Horned Warlord’s brood,” I answered pouring cold water on Aram’s dreams.

A few of the bounty hunters visibly stirred at my response. I have stuck a nerve.

“Don’t listen to her lies,” hissed Aram in a feeble attempt to gain control, “She sows seeds of discord. Trust me. I know all her methods.”

Some shook their head in rejection.

Seeing his persuasion failing, Aram screamed, “Was I ever wrong about her? Was she not colluding with the demonic begotten harlot?”

“Aram, the Forge Marm is well respected in these parts,” snapped back a bold voice from one of his compatriots, “it would do you good to remember this.”

“Well-respected, I do not fear her. She bends her knee to me,” scoffed Aram in dismissal, “Your well respected Forge Marm willingly tributed this Warhammer to me.”

“That is not how I remember it,” countered a clear voice. Stepping behind another curve in the trial, the source of the voice revealed herself, Lyria.

Even at the distance, her pristine voice carried a commanding presence.

“I gave it to you as a sign of goodwill,” she continued as she walked down the path.

With powerful strides, she crossed the distance. Even in her casual stance, she somehow radiated great vehemence.

“We had a pact. You lay your hands of the orphans around Halcyon Hollows and in return....” Lyria left the rest unspoken.

“There was no pact,” denied Aram, “and no tribute. You placated me with that Warhammer. That was the only path left for you.”

As Lyria approached, her indomitable will unconsciously forced the bounty hunters to part.

Her eyes drank in my pathetic state and then she considered the rest. Her gaze lingered for a long moment on Theko before she turned to Aram.

“You have broken the pact,” she declared.

“They are not children,” denied Aram and then after a moment of deliberation, he changed his stance.

“She hurt my operations. This is not business. This is personal. This is my retaliation. My retribution.” shouted Aram like a ravaging madman.

Lyria did not budge. Shivering under her unrelenting gaze, Aram changed his tone.

“Walk away from this,” he demanded, “You are alone and surrounded.”

Aram, she had demons begging for mercy. That threat will do you no good.

“Let us come to an understanding,” he offered, “Let me deliver her and I could provide you with younger girls if that is your preference. New ones too.”

Her hands firmly clasped behind her back, Lyria stood staring at Aram’s stupidity.

“I might have tolerated you, but you overstep your bounds,” warned Lyria.

“You are alone with a cripple and on the run.” bravely taunted Aram not realising the cold icy fingers of death closing around his throat, “You have outlived your usefulness.”

He threw the mace that he held and hefted the Warhammer.

“This is your end,” he declared foolishly.

Farewell Aram. It was not so nice knowing you. Your unremarkable life and your plans for a grand criminal empire failed before it could take its first steps.

I would get Maapu to offer an expensive wine on the grave of the future Lord Clawthorne but not before passing the contents through his bladder.

*****

A still silence reigned, the sort like a calm before a storm. Aram then kicked his feet and rushed with raised weapon towards Lyria.

Lyria, neither budged nor winced. She blocked the Warhammer with her palm. Firmly grasping the head of the swung weapon, she turned with the grace of a dancer and delivered a kick. The flat of her foot met the midriff of Aram and the sound of bone crunching echoed. Aram flew, tossed aside like a child’s broken toy.

Aram attempted to stand and coughed blood instead. Finding the strength suddenly failing him, he went limp.

Lyria held the Warhammer on its head for a singular heartbeat displaying her unassailable strength. Then in a dramatic show of her prowess, she tossed the Warhammer and caught its handle.

Lyria, convinced that she now held the attention of all, in a loud and clear voice she uttered, “Some of you know me personally and others through reputation, so heed my words when I say this, take Aram and leave with the gift of your lives. Stand and your ashes will become the base for my steel weapons.”

Without any altercations, they left carrying the battered Aram.

*****

The girl with green eyes and freckles composed herself and approached me. Seeing the bounty hunters scurry away brought a sense of relief to the children but the presence of Lyria added to their discomfort.

“Karotak was right,” she started, “You have death written all over you. You dance with the reaper one too many times. We will take our leave now.”

I tried to protest only to be stopped by Lyria’s touch on my arm.

“Anywhere is safe except near you,” said the girl.

She collected the rest of the children and as a last parting word, added, “I would wish you farewell but deep down, I hope we never meet again.”

*****

Neither of us spoke as we watched the trail of children walk away from us with clumsy steps. Though their backs bent with their meagre belongings, they still walked proudly.

Eventually, I broke the spell of silence.

“You came back,” I said.

Lyria did not respond, instead, her eyes had that faraway distant look.

I knew she was about to tell a tale.

A tale from a forgotten memory whose echoes still haunt her.

A tale that she would rather not talk about.