“Anything?”

Hurgus raised bleary eyes to his boss. “Any interest in mice?” he wondered. “Looks like a few of ‘em heading this way. Other than that, just what I’ve already told you about.”

Bear lifted his hand to give Hurgus a thump, but didn’t bother. Mice. He snorted. Let the cats worry about 'em.

Out in the darkness, Jack crouched behind the rails of the corral, hugging the deeper shadows. He’d just seen a hulking brute in three quarter plate with a shield hanging from one shoulder wander into the stationmaster’s cabin, and wondered if that was the bandit leader.

“You see his rank?” he whispered to Luciandro.

“Eighteen,” Luciandro’s voice was thin and brittle. “Place me on the ground, Jackson,” he wheezed. “We haven’t much time left, so you must hurry if you expect my aid with the mage.

“Once you take your shot, run. Meynardo will help me to get clear. I’m afraid I won’t be of much help beyond that.”

It had taken them longer than it should have. The bandits were more alert than they’d expected, given the hour. Their leader must have been up their asses the whole night to get this kind of dedication out of them. But he was here now.

Meynardo had been right about the window. He couldn’t see much through it. Light and vague shapes, no more. But his detect life skill may as well have been a ten thousand dollar thermal vision scope for the clarity he was getting this close in.

The lines of the figures were sharp and clear. He could easily tell the big rank eighteen from the hunched over mage, from the huddled forms in the back room. If only he could get a little closer.

“Boss?” Hurgus looked over to Bear, a quaver in his voice and a pleading look in his eyes.

“Oh, alright,” Bear groaned. "I don’t conjure nobody’s gonna cover a whole lenn while yer in th’ privy. But be quick about it.”

Hurgus lurched to his feet, and turned for the door.

The hell? Jack saw the mage’s silhouette shift, its head rising up to clear the window, and without conscious thought, he straightened, drew, and let fly, all in a single motion. He was still riding the follow through when he heard a yell to his left and something sliced through the web of his left thumb. He hit the ground scrabbling for the back of the corral, ducking beneath the legs of the nearest horse and clawing his way across the mud for the back rail.

He heard more yelling in his wake. Words he couldn’t understand, but whose intent rang loud and clear. And the voice was coming closer.

Farther off, another, deeper voice, started yelling something, voice bleeding anger.

He cleared the back of the corral, and hit the ground rolling. Staggering to his feet, he turned and nocked an arrow, pain lancing up his arm as the blood-slicked bow pressed against the slice in his hand.

Looking up, he sucked in a breath. One of the bandits was perched on the far rail of the corral, straddling it, his bow already aimed, an arrow already at full draw. He was still yelling, but his voice cut off with an abrupt, “OW!”

The shot went well wide and high, sailing out into the trees. Jack’s return shot didn’t, and the bandit rolled over backwards into the mud of the yard.

Jack spun and legged it into the trees, ducked over and smiling grimly. Somebody had put an itty bitty poisoned arrow into that clown’s neck just as he’d been about to put his much larger one into Jack’s middle. Thanks, Meynardo, he thought. I owe you one.

* * *

Hurgus hadn’t taken a full step before an arrow sliced through the window covering and buried itself in through his ear. He crumpled bonelessly to the floor without so much as a whimper.

Bear couldn’t immediately come to grips with the sight, and stood frozen for half a second.

Then Timony started yelling and running across the yard, “I got’im, I got ‘im!”

“NO, you fool!” Bear launched himself for the door. “Don’t you follow ‘im!”

He bounced off the doorframe and out onto the porch just in time to see Timony let fly wildly into the trees with another arrow, his right hand going to his neck as he spun his head to his right. An instant later, he was rolling backward off the corral and into the mud, an arrow sticking up out of his chest.

“Alright,” he hauled up on the porch, raging. “I’ve had enough of this! I’m done playing with this ghost in the rain and the dark.”

Raising his voice, he called out to his remaining minions. “HIE! Back here, all of ya! Now!”

“You! Flost!” he ordered the first of them to appear from the rain drenched trees. “You and Membry bring them wenches out. All of ‘em. Strip ‘em down and string ‘em up yonder by the corral. See can we get ‘em screamin’. He’s close in now, at least. That’ll bring him the rest of the way, I’ll wager. You others, hunker down and find cover so’s he don’t just pot us from th’ trees.”

“Even the little ‘un, Boss?” Flost wondered.

“You punch drunk?” Bear snarled. “She ain’t no wench, now, is she? Product is what she is. The wenches, blast you! Now go!

“Likes to pick us off one by one, eh?” he muttered while his two subordinates hustled into the cabin. “Let’s see how good he is with all of us to oncet.”

* * *

Jack was back in the trees a hundred yards or so, where he’d left FoeSmite before going in. He was cinching a bandage around his left hand, one end of the cloth rag in his teeth when he heard the commotion start.

He’d heard the leader calling them in a few minutes earlier, though he’d not understood the words. What else could he have been doing? So much for their brilliant plan, huh? There wouldn't be any tiny little archers distracting the bad guys from hiding now that the bad guys were all displacing. But the chance for that shot had been too perfect for him to pass up.

Then the first scream split the night, and his blood went chill.

Snatching up FoeSmite, he shimmied ‘round the tree he’d been hunkered beneath and arced in towards the camp for a better look, crawling low on his belly through the slick grass, FoeSmite gripped at the end in one hand and trailing behind.

They’d thrown ropes over a hanging limb near the corral and had already hoisted one of several naked girls up by her wrists until her toes left the ground. She hung limp.

The screaming was coming from the second, who they were still about hoisting aloft, none too gently. Even as he watched, one of the bandits snapped at her with a length of rope, the crack of its impact ringing clear even through the rain. Her screaming intensified as fresh blood ran down her rain-slicked flesh.

Two more girls were being held ready, the last of them still being stripped of what crude garments they’d allowed her up until now while she wept bitterly.

Something changed inside him in that moment. Something that had been building for most of his adult life. Building from his time in the desert, watching the horrors inflicted on the sex slaves the jihadis had captured and held. Building from the tales of the grooming gangs running rampant throughout Europe, preying on young girls, and protected by the so-called law. Building from the legions of sex traffickers who ran the southern border of his own country like a route, all the way to the halls of government in the east and the dens of the glitterati in the west. Tens of thousands of innocents tortured and abused every year for the amusement of the sick and twisted.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Faintly, a chime sounded in the back of his head, followed by a clear voice. Calm, feminine, like the helpful guide in a GPS navigating app. He should have been paying attention, but his whole consciousness was focused on the hulking rank eighteen with the sword and shield, laughing and waving as the terrified girls were strung up one after another.

New skill acquired, the voice informed. Status affect. Cold Rage.

Speed, plus ten percent.

Strength, plus ten percent.

Agility, plus ten percent.

Perception, plus ten percent.

Auto-cast Ignore Wounds (Minor).

Duration: one hundred-eighty seconds.

Cooldown: four hundred-twenty seconds.

Skill cost: two mana points per second.

Skill cost: one health point per second.

Cold Rage, Once initiated, cannot be cancelled while MP or HP remain.

The chime sounded again.

New skill acquired. Secondary affect. Ignore Wounds (Minor), rank one: Ignore Minor Wounds.

Duration at rank one: two hundred-forty seconds.

Skill cost: zero point five mana points per second.

Effect: Minor wounds suffered will have no effect on user while status is active. Intermediate wounds will be reduced by half their normal effect.

Caution: Ignore Wounds does not prevent wounds, nor heal them. All wound effects will manifest upon status expiration.

A third chime.

Bonus. Equipped item. Ring. Blessing of the Children of Scarpwatch. While equipped, Blessing of the Children of Scarpwatch decreases the cost of all casting by ten percent. May be combined with other bonuses.

* * *

“Oh,” the Mauler laughed menacingly as he stalked to the hanging girls. “This won’t do at all, will it? We needs ‘em all screaming, don’t we?”

He slung his shield and moved to the nearest of the wenches. The farm girl they’d only taken earlier in the week. The strongest of them, she was. Not yet completely drained. He knew she had some yell left in her, but she refused to more than sob. Closing on her, he hauled his free left arm back to see could he clout her loud.

“Boss!” Membry called to him in a nervous voice. But he’d already seen the movement from the corner of an eye.

Turning, he watched the dark figure rise from the grass. All hooded, cloaked, and scarifying, he was. Except he wasn’t, was he? Confusing was what he was. A hand came up, swept the hood clear, and undid the brooch holding the sodden green cloak at the neck, allowing the garment to slide from armored shoulders, giving Bear his first good look.

Tattered, stained armor, helm, sword, dagger. All of them obviously well higher than rank zero to his well-trained eye, beat up though they were. And yet, no life crystal. Not even a shimmer.

And that stick. Held crossways at the figure’s hips, seven long feet of it and glowing dark carnelian red, crimson veins so bright as flowing lava coursing its length. Obviously enchanted to a stupid high degree, that stick.

But no crystal. Was the figure a construct of some sort? Couldn’t be a grubber, could it? Not with them weapons. Then the figure looked up, and The Mauler stifled a gasp. Its eyes! The whites of its eyes were glowing like pale fire.

* * *

On the far side of the station, Ephram saw the glow of the eyes, and turned quickly away. “Yep!” he nodded to himself as he spun. “Higher Golem. Madwoman’s back, alright! Good luck, boys!”

He was shedding his already loosened armor as he ran the ten steps to the end of the pier, and was into the river and swimming hard for the other side by the time any of the others had time to move.

* * *

Jack took his first step and the four lesser bandits arrayed around the yard stepped out of cover and let fly, all at once. He ducked and weaved, FoeSmite spinning baton-like too fast to see, intercepting every one. One deflected arrow, bounced from a pauldron, one dug into the ground between his feet, the remaining two, sailed clear.

He twisted his upper body, drew back his arm and released, slinging FoeSmite spearlike straight at the rightmost of the bowmen, going nearly to a knee with the force of the throw. He struck his target in the helm, the blow knocking the helm clear and rocking his head back, toppling him into the dirt.

The instant FoeSmite struck and rebounded, Jack called it back, catching it as he regained his feet, spinning with the catch and releasing at a fresh target as he came full circle.

FoeSmite twirled away like a flying buzzsaw blade, whistling through the air and striking a second bandit hard at the juncture of neck and shoulder as he was nocking an arrow for a followup shot, snapping his neck and near tearing his head from his shoulders before caroming away. Jack recalled the staff an instant later, smiling grimly as it changed course in mid-air and returned to him.

The Mauler had unslung his shield by this time and charged. FoeSmite slammed into Jack’s hands barely in time to block the first powerful blow of the heavy sword. A second came down almost too swiftly to counter, but Jack was moving nearly as quickly now, his reflexes supercharged by the layered bonuses. This blow he parried to the side, following through with a whirl and a strike.

The Mauler got his shield down in time to save his legs, but the glowing staff struck with such force the rank sixteen shield buckled and was dashed against them in any case, knocking him back a couple of paces.

Another, lesser volley of arrows was coming in, and Jack wasn’t able to completely block them. The first, he managed to divert so that it scraped along his brigandine, but the second was biting into his thigh even as FoeSmite shattered the shaft midway between head and fletching. He didn’t even look down to the wound. He looked up instead. Into the eyes of the frightened bowmen.

But the Mauler was coming in again, dashing his ruined shield into Jack’s face as he charged. From there, they each forgot about the others.

Even with his current buffs, Jack was in nearly all ways clearly outmatched by the rank eighteen. All but one. FoeSmite.

Bear the Mauler wielded a magical weapon of his own. Unnamed, it was, but powerful in its own right. A rank fifteen bastard sword of uncommonly rare quality and possessing two upgrade slots, both of which the Mauler had filled.

Durability took up the primary, and sharpness the secondary. The Mauler was an old hand and understood that the sharpest of blades would do no good if it broke. With the shield gone, he bore it now in both hands, and its speed was the greater for that.

The sword, with it’s high rank and upgrades, ignored Jack’s much lower ranked brigandine, and the mail beneath it as though they were common cloth. Its every bite drew blood, its every touch clawed at his life, already wicking away under the grip of his status effect.

For all the damage he was doing, though, the Mauler was in little better position. FoeSmite had been caught up in the status effect. Its rage, however, was in no way cold. Under the impetus of Jack’s enhanced abilities and deadly concentration, every strike against the bandit chief’s armor sundered steel. Every kiss pulped flesh and crushed bone.

More, with each exchange, each block, each bind, wherever wood touched steel, it was the steel that gave way.

The two remaining archers, Membry and Flost, they were, were visibly shaken as they watched the duel, drawing together unconsciously. Each had an arrow nocked, bow half drawn, but neither could do much more. The combatants were too close together. They moved too quickly. Almost too quickly to follow, let alone target.

And then the agony came. Some invisible foe began peppering them with tiny slivers, each of them delivering the pain of a cave wasp’s sting. Turn as they might, neither could find the least trace of what might be attacking them. And the attacks kept coming.

A minute and a bit into the fight, the bandit leader cried out for the first time. A few seconds later, he went down to a knee, desperately beating back the stranger’s attack,

Membry and Flost found their breaking point. Between their leader going down, and the rain of agonizing pain, they looked to one another, nodded and spun on their heels to leg it into the trees, not even bothering to catch up horses.

Had the two held but a few more minutes, they’d have seen their chance. For if Bear the Mauler was done, Jackson Grenell was little better. His final strike, the one that ended the duel, had come at the cost of three inches of steel in his belly, right through the steel plates and rings. Cold Rage had expired, and the last few seconds of Ignore Wounds were ticking off. He had nothing left.

He sank to his knees, and back onto his heels, FoeSmite held upright before him as the bandit leader flopped over and lay crumpled in the dirt a few feet away.

The Mauler lay where he’d fallen for a moment or two, pain taking up his entire world. his legs were broken, each of them in multiple places. And his arms. Ribs, too, more than a few. His left shoulder joint felt like jagged glass sawing through his flesh. He was frothing blood at the mouth, so he knew he’d one dead lung. But at least only one. Everything between his chest and knees was pure, acid dipped agony.

The crystalless monstrosity had gone still, finally, its eyes losing their unholy glow. Maybe he’d done for it at the end. Maybe he wouldn’t be dying here in the slowly falling rain after all. He had potions in the cabin. Some of them very powerful. And magical charms that would speed healing, or even mend bones.

He didn’t even bother trying to get up, though. Shrugging himself over onto his belly, he scrabbled slowly towards the cabin with the half arm he had left, hoping against hope that the false grubber didn’t simply wake up, come over and crush his skull with that damned cursed staff as he crawled.

He was nearly to the cabin when the thing toppled to its side in a spreading pool of crimson, but he didn’t stop crawling. He didn’t get to those potions quick, he wouldn’t get to them at all.

Of the two who’d run, only Membry made it out of the camp.

As Flost was pelting through the tangle of wagons, a small form leapt onto his shoulder from one of them. Before the man could realize his peril, Meynardo drew and let go his last arrow into the man’s carotid artery from less than an inch away. He leapt clear as the man stumbled, rolling and springing to his feet as the human crumpled, twitching.

While it was true that the poison wasn’t normally strong enough to kill a human, there were some exceptions. Delivering it directly to the brain was one of them.

Staggering back to the twitching human, Meynardo drew his knife. Small, it was, but razor sharp. He’d eventually make it through to the jugular if he worked at it. After that, it was only a matter of whether the poison or blood loss killed him first.

The Mauler finally reached the cabin and disappeared inside. The camp fell into silence, broken only by the sounds of the falling rain and the soft moaning of the hanging captives.