Stupid stupid stupid!

Not the best choice for a rousing combat cry, but Parry merely thought it. He could have shouted it top of his lungs, it wouldn't have mattered: one of the thugs had a silence stone or had cast [All Quiet] or something similar. Whatever the outcome, this fight would take place without sound.

Reflexively, Parry pulled the quick-light he'd strung on the candles and lantern--more light could only help him. It gave everyone an instant's pause, enough to take stock.

Their mark was not asleep, he was up, dressed, armed with a narrow sword and very ready. Worse, he activated some kind of spell, flooding the room with light and opening small pits in the wooden floor under their feet, just at their boots, dropping them down a foot into miniature pits ringed with downward-pointing stakes.

It was a nice little counter-trap, but he had miscalculated. Those chained shaper spells from [[Friends with Wood]] worked a treat, trapping legs...four legs on two assailants. Parry skimped on spending mana and only made enough for two assailants. Their third friend, the fellow with the glow in his fists, stood firm.

Stupid! There always could have been three or even more, why did you assume two?

The limn of light around the other two flickered away, but they were pulling free of the traps without a scratch.

All three had a [Lesser Shielding], absorbing one single first attack.

So much for surprise. At least they still have to get their limbs free.

And that explained the setup indoors. Scouts, thieves and spies used [Greater Shieldings] without the tell-tale glow. But if the victim was indoors and asleep, the far-cheaper and easier to get [Lesser Shielding] was good enough, especially combined with the silence. They hadn't been as sloppy as Parry presumed.

Arrogance. Thought I knew it all. I've been coasting on memories of the last life, on thirty years of Overlord Parry, trusting to subordinates for protection, not bothering with contingencies. Now I'm fighting for my life without a Plan B.

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Parry instantly made for the fellow standing free. If he could get that one out of the fight before the others got out of the floor traps, it'd be a two-on-one. Hardly ideal, but better than now.

This one was a brawler, tall and broad-shouldered. Rough clothes, dock-workers stuff. Probably used to fighting taller (or at least full-grown) opponents, his swing went high. The whoosh of air told Parry those stones in his hands were amplifying him somehow. Better not take a hit.

Parry ducked low, bending a foreleg for extension, managing a lucky stab around a kidney. He couldn't get too close, or those fists would spell his end, so the wound was superficial but drew what looked like a grunt from the big man. The silence was eerie.

The close-quarters fighting was a help and a hinderance: Parry wasn't very tall and his weapon was nimble, but if he wasn't very careful there'd be a wall at his back and three fighters ringed around him.

Either they had no more magic or they didn't want to use it here at the end, so the other two didn't hold back, lurching forward out of the floor traps. One held a knife, the other a short stout club, perfect for room fighting.

With a tight spin, Parry slashed at Mr. Brawler's wrist, hoping to get him to drop one of those stones, or whatever was glowing in his hands. After the torso shot, the man had pulled his arms in to defend and wasn't expecting that. He silently yelped as the blade slashed tendons, blood coloring the glow a deeper, duller red.

Parry lashed out a kick at Mr. Club who was top-heavy trying to lean out of the floor trap. It wasn't a hard shot, but it knocked him back into the pit and the downward-facing wooden spikes bit in and held him, earning Parry time.

Styak hissed, which did very little for morale one way or the other.

Mr. Knife was on him now, edging the wounded brawler over towards the cot. Parry hadn't been in a knife fight in so long it felt absurd. Speed was his enemy here, that blade could flick in and out and let the man close tight for a restraining hug or a punch. Now his longer blade was trying to keep the thief at bay. The utter silence of his sword against the knife hilt made the whole fight seem like a mummery.

Parry got in a few flicks with his longer weapon, but he bit little more than clothes. This wasn't a fight he was about to win. If it became a question of endurance, he was lost: they could press him against the wall, keep him defending until he tired or made a mistake. There was no shouting. There would be no rescue, the saloon keep was in on the grift.

Stupid stupid stupid! One of your best starts to a life ever and you're going to waste it here?

Another hiss from the kitten made Parry grit his teeth with frustration.

Wait...

"Styak, I can hear you! The silence can't grip a demon, cast a spell on these bastards."

"What spell? Everything I prepared is meant to hurt you, from the inside."

"Well then go digging for something!"