Lester and the guardsman both let go of one another. Now free from restraint, Lester backed away slowly from the man and faced Torren.

“Torren…”

The guardsman stood up to his full height and glared down his nose at Torren.

“Drop the sword, boy.”

Torren backed away into the growing space between him and the crowd. Ellis, one step at a time approached him with his sword arm out stretched. Torren looked around frantically. The only one in the crowd who hadn’t backed away was Mary. She did not have a face of fear; there was something else in her eyes. Something Torren couldn’t quite identify, but which made him furious all the same.

“Listen, boy!”

Torren snapped his attention to the guardsman, who was now completely focused on him.

“Put down the sword, before you hurt someone.”

Torren was panting heavy now, the rush of his anger was beginning to leave him. He was tired. His body was in pain all over. But he couldn’t stop now.

It was too late.

Torren watched as the guardsman continued to move, slowly but surely, to the space between them where his polearm lay in the dirt.

“Don’t move!”

Torren lunged forward in warning and stabbed at the air. The guardsman backed off, retreating a few steps away but not nearly far enough to put Torren at ease.

“Torren, listen to him.”

Lester was trying to remain calm, but even he too was backing slowly away.

It made Torren sick — down to the pit of his stomach.

“Why are you looking at me like that!?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Lester said with wavering confidence.

“LIKE THAT! LIKE THEM!”

Torren cried out and drew an arc in the air with the sword as he pointed to the crowd. As he did so, several people gasped at the suddenness of his outburst and a few turned to run.

In the split second of that commotion, the guardsman saw his chance and lunged for the polearm.

Torren caught his movement and in a panic jumped at him with the sword.

Clang!

Torren felt a powerful force knock his arm away and the sharpened steel of the guard’s blade continued to hum in his grip.

Ellis stood in front of him, his blade held up and his body poised.

Just then a voice cried out.

“No!”

Sensing his brother was in danger, Timmy had run to his aid, but in the end he stood no chance. The guardsman reached out, grabbed him by the shirt and hoisted him into the air. Timmy struggled desperately but was unable to break loose. As he kicked and fought his hardest, the ruck sack over his shoulder fell off and landed on the ground. From inside, a small purse burst open and coins spilled out onto the street: among them was a purple-silk pouch.

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“Thief!”

“Churl!”

“Hedgeborn!”

A cacophony of slurs erupted from the onlookers who were spurred into an uproar at the sudden development.

Torren’s whole body was twitching with anticipation. He wanted nothing more then to run to his brother’s aid, but he couldn’t, not with Ellis in the way.

“AHH!”

Torren let his anger take him and, before he knew what had happened, he came flying toward Ellis with his sword drawn. Torren got within range and swung the sword wildly. Without even realizing, Torren had closed his eyes mid-swing. It was for this reason that he had no idea how the sword had left his hands and ended up on the ground.

He stared down at his hand, then to the sword, and then to the crowd. They were all looking at Ellis.

Ellis.

Who stood there in virtually the same exact position he had been in before, with his sword arm outstretched and a stillness in his glance.

Torren growled under his breath and lunged toward the ground to pick up the sword. He held it up again, waving the sword around and baiting out the fearful murmurs of the crowd.

Yet Ellis remained still.

The rage continued to build inside him until it was too much to bear. Once it had reached a boiling point, Torren charged once more toward Ellis. This time, when Torren swung at him, he kept his eyes open. He saw a blur of silver and a movement that he couldn’t follow. A piercing sound split his head and he felt the vibration of the sword in his hand. Torren bit down and gripped tight to the handle.

Ellis had deflected his strike again.

Torren was begining to shake with anger now.

Why couldn’t he just get out of the way?

Why was there always something standing in his way?

Why was he always powerless to move it?

“MOVE!”

Torren rode his anger like a wave and let it crash into Ellis, one strike after another. Yet each time he swung at Ellis, even with as much force and speed as he could manage, he was met with a parry.

Every strike.

Clang!

Every stab.

Clang!

Every slice. Every swing. Every cut.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Torren was running out of stamina. His shoulders were slumping and he had barely enough strength left to hold the sword. With each panting breath the blade tip fell lower and lower until eventually he was unable to even hold it upright.

Meanwhile, Ellis stood in front of the guardsman, his body becoming increasingly light and responsive with every passing second. Compared to training, this was nothing. Torren was slow, incompetent with a blade, weak and uncertain. That made him easy to anticipate and easy to counter. In fact, from the moment he had drawn his sword, Ellis knew the victory was his. Throughout the course of their fight he had been unconsciously evaluating Torren as an opponent. Ellis knew he was stronger than Torren was.

So why did he keep fighting him?

“Take his hand!”

“Thief!”

“Punish him!”

“Cut off his stinkin’ hand!”

“A thief’s hands!”

“Put ‘em out of his misery!”

“Cut him down!”

The voices from the crowd swelled around them as people began to shout their demands.

They wanted Ellis to be their executioner.

To enact their judgement.

Soon, the nearly incoherent cries from the crowd began to synchronize into a cheer.

“Take his hand! Take his hand!”

“You have my permission, boy.”

Ellis was surprised to hear the guardsman speaking directly to him.

“It is not an uncommon punishment for thieves and street urchins like him. You would be doing this town a favor…”

Torren let the tip of the blade dip forward until it sank into the dirt. His arms were shaking, and the rising chant of the crowd was filling him with an unimaginable fear and dread. He had never felt more like an animal— like an ugly thing not fit to see the light of day.

Well, if they wanted an animal, he would give them one.