His physical body felt no fatigue as he thumped along the empty road. A quick inward scan showed him the true cost of his exertions. The large pool of ether in his chest was draining, a trickle of power feeding his Spirit Body every time he moved.

He had a good reserve, however, and the drain wasn’t terribly fast. Marek could keep up this pace for an hour, possibly longer. As it turned out, he needn’t do so. Five or so miles north of the shack, the trail of ghostly prints veered off the left side of the road. They followed the bank of a small stream and vanished into the forest a half-mile away.

Marek slowed his approach to a jog, grateful for the burble of the creek. As he crept toward the oaks and red pines, he could scarcely hear the sound of his footfalls. If I had a little training, I’d be undetectable. Mags would kill for an Ability like this.

Soon after delving into the trees, harsh voices drifted to his ear. The orange glow of firelight came next. Thanks to his keen senses, it took a full five minutes more to reach the clearing where the men had broken camp. Marek covered the last two hundred feet in a low crouch and poised behind a broad cedar. Before him, arrayed around a blazing campfire, the three men feasted. Their choice of shelter betrayed a knowledge of the area. Rather than pitch camp under the cover of the forest, they’d sought out a tall pine that had fallen on its neighbor and retained enough roots to survive. It offered a generous shelter of tangled branches and needles some twenty feet above the fire.

Marek spotted movement, and his eyes landed on Tregan. The brute had finished picking the bones of the rabbit he’d taken, and he now tossed the remains into the forest with an exaggerated grunt.

“You should bury it,” the archer said beside him. “Gonna bring in wolves or maybe even a bear. Ain’t proper.”

Tregan spat into the fire. “If they come, I’ll kill each and every one and eat them too. Oh, to taste a bit of bear right about now… Greasy, but in a good way.”

The leader was subdued, staying out of the banter. Marek could only see the man’s back. The archer’s drunken features were well lit by the blaze, however, and the man was as ugly as he was rude.

The horses stood at the edge of the clearing, their reins tied to a stump. Lydia stood with them. The mule’s head hung low, her hide twitching every now and then as if she were frightened of the bigger animals. Seeing the men seated before him, a thread of doubt touched Marek. Can I really do this? he thought. No, not can, he corrected. Will I? The blanket of numbness had lifted a little. Reminders of Mags and Lydia, and remembering that though they were scoundrels, these were living, breathing men had stirred up a variety of emotions.

Tregan coughed and lifted a dark bottle, drinking deeply. He wiped his face and groaned. “I don’t know. What’s the point of being bandits if we can’t have a little fun? That girl back there could have been entertaining. ”

The archer withdrew a stick from the fire and traced a lazy circle in the air with the orange coal at its tip. “Skinny, though. I like the fat ones. The way it all moves when you’re poking ‘em. Nothing beats it.”

The leader’s head swiveled calmly. “You’ll have entertainment enough when the war starts,” he said in a cold voice. “Women to spare in those times. And you don’t have to remind us, Riggs. Everyone in Swiftwall knows you like fat women.”

The archer cackled, slapping his thigh. “Point taken, but just to be clear, Leyan, I’m with the big guy. Not too late to backtrack and have a bit of fun. She looked mean, too. Woulda put up a good fight.”

Tregan guffawed, handing the bottle to the leader.

Leyan’s shoulders rose and fell as he sighed. “If you hadn’t joined up with me, you’d have both been hanged years ago. We’re high-leveled for this area, and I’m sure we could gut most folk around here without trouble, but you two need to remember, there’s nothing worse than a posse of fools. All we need is an ambitious Sheriff and a dozen men with axes and pitchforks after us.” Leyan sipped from the bottle and passed it back. “No, we press on. And when the war breaks, you can spend your days working over Ardean refugees. Logic knows there’ll be plenty.”

Marek’s anger iced over. Within his summoned armor, his emotions were transmuted yet again. This time, they weren’t fully subdued, but changed. Instead of fear or reckless anger, a deep and unshakable resolve settled in his gut. A resolve tempered by steady logic. He didn’t need to hear any more from the bandits. So as the men talked and drank around the fire, Marek let his mind absorb every useful detail.

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His position behind the tree was around fifty feet from the men. All had been drinking, but none were intoxicated enough to be unable to fight. Tregan’s gone too far, though. I should worry about him last if I can. Since Marek couldn’t see Leyan’s longsword anywhere, he had to assume it remained fastened to the leader’s belt. Can’t find the archer’s bow either, he thought. That could be troubling. Oh, but there’s Tregan’s mace, leaning against their packs. That’s what… six, seven of his huge paces away.

He looked next to the horses. One of the beasts was unlike the other two. It was stout in the chest and limbs, well-muscled and aggressive, judging by the way it shoved its companion. The other horses stretched their leads to give the beast as wide a berth as possible. A warhorse? he wondered. I’ll have to be careful with him too, then. Some mounts will fight with their rider. It’s probably Leyan’s.

Marek studied the scene as intently as a sigil schema. He used Intuit no less than three more times to formulate a solid plan. No matter how he worked things over, though, the outcomes were bloody and fraught. Nothing promised clear victory—not until Riggs stood and stumbled toward the packs, anyhow. The archer flopped down amongst the strewn gear and announced for all to hear he’d see them in the morning.

That leaves two. If I can get the drop on one, that’ll even the odds a bit. Damn, but I wish I knew their Levels and Classes. Marek’s instincts still warned against anything brash. He considered waiting until all were asleep, but he doubted that would happen. Leyan would surely keep a guard, and he’d rather seek an opportunity in which the two before him were separated. His head swung to the horses again. Marek altered his plan one last time and trusted his gut. Intuit was fallible and took mana, which he was dangerously low on after crafting the staff. I’m done planning. Now it’s time to see how strong Remnant Mage really is.

Marek withdrew from the edge of the clearing and picked his way toward the horses. Five tense minutes later, he was close enough to act. Marek inched out of the trees, low to the ground and shielded by the horses. One of the beasts whinnied and stomped its hoof at his approach. Marek froze in place and ducked lower still. His shortsword trembled in his grip.

“The fuck is that?” Tregan barked.

“Only thing big or dumb enough to attack our horses would be a bear, or a mad cougar,” Leyan grumbled. “Go check it out.”

The big man stood and then faltered, sitting down again abruptly. “Ugh, if it’s a bear, you know I’d kill the thing… ‘cept my legs ain’t so good right now. Might be best you do it.”

Leyan sighed, long and loud and weary. “Tregan, you’re a waste of whiskey half the time. If you weren’t so good at killing, I’d stick you in your sleep.”

Marek watched Leyan stalk closer through the gaps between the horses’ legs. Only the man’s silhouette was visible with the campfire burning behind him. Leyan checked on the warhorse first. Calming the beast, he whispered in its ear before moving on to the next. “What was it that scared you?” he asked the animals in a deceptively kind voice. “Something spooked ya? If it’s a damned raccoon, I swear…”

Marek tracked the movement of Leyan’s legs beneath the horses. He moved in the opposite direction and ducked behind Lydia, praying the mule wouldn’t give him away in a foolish attempt to bite him. He touched the mule’s flank to still her trembling, and the stubborn creature acted civilly for once, only nudging him with her snout.

Leyan finished his cursory search before stooping to the knot of reins bound to the stump. He fumbled with the leather cords to confirm all was secure. Then he cursed and turned around. The man took three strides before Marek made his move. Pulse racing, he rose from his hiding place, swinging the shortsword with all his might.

Speedy though the attack was, Leyan reacted quicker than imaginable. The man spun on his heel and blocked with his forearm. A shimmer of power rippled across Leyan’s form and solidified on his upheld appendage. Then Marek’s blade struck. The Skill the bandit had used likely would have blunted most attacks, yet empowered as it was by Marek’s Spirit Body, Leyan’s defenses were overcome. The shortsword hacked clean through the man’s appendage and sank into his neck.

Leyan tried to inhale, but the blade was lodged in his spine, cutting off his wind. A gurgling hiss rose from the wound, however, the sound so distinct and horrible Marek would never forget it.

Crashing into the larger man, Marek found himself gripped by the bandit’s remaining hand. It made contact with his body, though the pressure was blunted by his spirit-forged armor. Leyan’s eyes stared into Marek’s, wide and wild. Marek shoved the man and yanked his sword free. Blood spilled to the ground. The horses reared, and Leyan’s bubbling cry pierced the night.

“Oi! All right over there?” Tregan shouted. This time, when the big man rose, he was steadier on his feet. Fighters were like that. Marek had observed several men sober the moment a fight started. The warhorse stamped and reared up, but Marek had already retreated into the woods.

The sound of Tregan’s heavy boots blended with a horse’s neigh and the last curdled sigh of a dying man. Marek didn’t waste a second as he dashed through the trees to the other side of the camp, seeking his next target.