The city of Palsgrave came into view. It is a grim, gnarly looking place, surrounded by series of trenches and low stone walls, pockmarked with old wounds from cannon-fire. Black banners hung limp over the ramparts, only the rare gust of wind allowing a glimpse of the White Lion of the Empire upon the black. Where tall towers had once loomed, only their blasted remains showed like broken teeth, dwarfed by the thin spires of smoke that choked the sunlight. Even now, the furnaces of industry still burned to feed the machine of war.

Myra’s eyes glowered darkly from the shadow of her hood. Once she might have looked upon the city in fear and awe, overwhelmed by the crushing weight of civilisation. But now, she was numb to all thought, all sensation, that did not fuel her rage.Her heart had been ripped beating and bloody from her chest. It was as though she were already dead, a living ghost that had stalked through the hills and moorlands, neither eating nor sleeping, driven only by a terrible need for vengeance. There was nothing left for Myra in that cold, dead world, save to fill the awful wound in her heart with spilled blood.

She slipped into the city at dusk, just after the gates had been closed for the night. It was not difficult. The walls had fallen to ruin in many places, and the sentries were huddled over games of dice, or dozing against the barrels of their muskets.

Myra had never been inside a city before. If she were whole of mind, she might have more carefully picked her way through the streets, or been more aware of the dangers that a narrow alley or a dead end could hold. But, clutching a tattered cloak tight about herself, her darkly rimmed eyes seemed like hollow pits set in a gaunt face. It was a mask of despair that every Mornishman had seen before, worn by women who had lost families, dignity and sanity to disease, hunger, and war. Even the most black-hearted villains stalking those streets lowered their gaze as Myra passed by, lest they somehow be cursed by the tragedy of her existence.

Eventually, Myra found herself, more by chance, in Silk Street. Painted women in dresses of old lace stood beneath the lamp posts, bored with the ease of which their patrons fell into their arms. The smell of alien perfumes came sharply to Myra’s nose. Thoughts began to stir in the fog of her mind. Where else would a lonely warrior spend his ill-gotten money?

“Have you seen the scar-faced man?” Myra said to the nearest harlot. The woman turned as if to shoo away a beggar, but recoiled with a strangled gasp when she saw Myra’s wild eyes.

“Have you seen the scar-faced man?” Myra repeated.

“Go away,” shrilled a fat woman in a straining corset. “We’ve got no money. Clear off.”

“I’m looking for a soldier,” Myra said, in a thin, coarse voice. “He has a face of scars, and a fancy sword…”

“You’ll scare away the gentleman,” snapped an old woman in scarlet. “Go away!”

She gave Myra a hard shove, but Myra was unmoved, flashing the old woman a murderous glare. The harlot stepped back, and Myra might have spat a threat, if she did not notice the many pairs eyes glower at her, and many hands reaching for weapons hidden in the folded skirts and jackets. Myra glowered at the sullen revelers, turned on her heels, and stalked away.

Her mind was lost in dark thoughts as she made for the shadowed streets once again. So at first, she didn’t hear the gentle voice softly beckon her.

“Miss. Excuse me. Miss!” the voice said, more insistently. Myra spun around to face the voice in the dark alley. The dagger in her hand flashing in an instant. She was met by the sight of a wide-eyed young woman, hands raised in surrender.

“Woah!” she cried. “Mercy! I don’t mean no harm! Don’t hurt me!”

Myra stepped back and lowered her dagger. “Who are you?” she snapped, not knowing what else to say.

“Sorry to startle you miss,” the girl panted, raising a hand to her chest. “But you sure gave me a fright. So I suppose that makes us even. My name’s Claire.”

She stepped into the light, a rather short and thin woman in a modest dress. Though she was rather pretty, and had the impish smirk to show that she knew it.

“What do you want?” Myra narrowed her eyes at the girl.

“You can relax miss, I’m not asking for money,” Claire smirked. “That’s what men are for. No, I overheard you talking to that sour tart back there. You were asking about a soldier, with scars?”

Myra nodded, holding her breath.

“A lot of soldiers have scars, miss,” Claire continued. “We get all sorts come from here. You can take your pick of them.”

“I know the man I’m looking for,” Myra said, coldly. “The head-taker. Scarface Pike.”

Claire gave an inquisitive tilt of the head. “I know that one. The whole city does. A redhanded killer, they says. In this country, that kind of reputation says a lot. What’s possessed you to look for a man like that?”

Myra’s hands trembled as she spoke. “He did me wrong. He…” she could not get the words out. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. “He’s a murderer.”

Claire nodded at the dagger, still clenched in Myra’s hand. “A bit of backstreet justice then? Don’t worry, I understand. Sometimes a girl has to take matters in her own hands.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Your in luck, sister,” Claire stepped closer and lowered her voice. “That man’s no friend to anyone in this city. Everyone’s talking about how he attacked Governor Grimfles and wounded Sir Erasmus. The mad dog escaped, to lurk in whatever hole he’s hiding in.”

“He’s not in the city?” Myra asked.

“I didn’t say that,” whispered Claire. “He’s still here, no doubt. Just waiting for the chance to dodge the guards and take to the woods. If anyone knows where he might be, it’ll be Big Sis.”

“Who?”

“My big sister. She’s another… escort. And she tells me, that she’s Scarface’s favourite. She was the only soul kind enough to offer him company. He’ll come back to her, sure as the sky is blue.”

“Where is this sister of yours? Where!?” Myra went to grab the girl by the shoulders, forgetting about the dagger in her hand.

“Easy miss!” Claire staggered backwards. “No need to wave that pig-sticker around. I’ll take you to Big Sis right now.”

Myra flushed in embarrassment, returning the blade to its hidden sheathe. “Sorry about that. I don’t have much money. But everything I have, I’ll give it to you and your sister if you’ll help me.”

Claire shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Us girls have got to look after each other, as Heaven intended. You look like you need a feeding and a safe place to sleep too. Come on then, follow me.”

The young woman shuffled away in a rustle of skirts, Myra following excitedly behind. For the first time in days, she felt like she was alive again. Vague thoughts of vengeance had become shiningly clear in her mind. Fate had given her a path forward, a purpose to which she could cling to. Myra’s life was not over yet, not while she still had her quest.

Claire wound her way through the maze of streets with all the confidence of an alley-cat, Myra trailing close behind. The girl would look back at Myra from time to time and flash a reassuring smile. “Not far now,” she would say. “Almost there.”

But the night dragged on, and the shadows deepened. They left behind the lamplit streets and turned into a network of alleys, lit only by the stars and the faint light that slipped through shuttered windows. The buildings clustered closely together, as if jostling for space. Even in the darkest forest, Myra had never felt more suffocated, never felt more hemmed in.

But Claire only seemed to feel more at home in that grim district. She even quickened her pace, and Myra had a hard time keeping up.

“Come on!” Claire said excitedly. “It’s just around the corner. Supper’s waiting!” She skipped ahead like a carefree child, turned a corner, and disappeared.

“Hold on!” Myra ran after her, but Claire was nowhere to be seen. She looked about frantically, but there was nothing but shadows. Myra almost jumped out of her skin as a rat scurried past. “What’s keeping you?” Claire’s voice echoed. “Hurry up slowpoke.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Myra dashed in the direction of the voice. Around another corner, and still no sign of Claire.

“Come on,” came the voice again. “Come on.”

Myra ran, panting heavily. She could scarcely breathe now, nearly choking on the heavy smoke with filled the air. Panic was seizing her. Her foot snagged on a broken piece of flagstone, and she fell with a loud thud.

She knelt there for a long moment, forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths. After a while, she slowly rose to her feet, and looked around. Her eyes landed on a figure, standing at the end of the street, staring in her direction. A chill ran through Myra’s blood, but it quickly subsided. The heavy clouds above parted, to let through some starlight. The figure was Claire, waiting for Myra with hands on her hips. Myra put her hand to her heart and let out a deep sigh. She raised her arm to wave at Claire.

When she felt the man’s hand wrap around her wrist, her startled cry was muffled by a another rough hand smothering her mouth. The unseen man’s grip was like an iron vice, and not even Myra’s own sinewy strength could break free.

Her free hand went to her dagger, but too late, as a shadow appeared suddenly in front of her. The starlight glinted off her own blade as it was held against her throat, the shadow holding it leering at her with an evil grin.

The man holding Myra’s dagger licked his thin lips, looking her up and down with a single, yellowed eye. “Not a very pretty one,” he cackled.

“What do you expect? A harem queen?” Myra watched in horror as Claire sauntered up to them, mouth curled in a sly smile. “You’re lucky I found anything on such short notice.”

“She doesn’t need to be pretty,” a deep voice rumbled in Myra’s ear. “It’s her blood we need.”

“Of course,” sneered the knife-man. “But we might as well have our fun. It’s always a shame to see good flesh go to waste on some savage’s table.”

“She’s all skin and bone,” mocked Claire. “Those ogre-men would be lucky to get a mouthful between them.”

Myra had stopped struggling, staring at Claire in wide eyed shock.

“Oh, I’m sorry, miss.” Claire smiled, though her eyes gleamed with an evil light. “I quite forgot. Big Sis died years ago. Silly me.”

Tears welled up in Myra’s eyes. The shame of so foolishly walking into a trap overshadowing the horror of her own fate.

“Oh… don’t cry sister,” said Claire. “Think about it, if he’s not there already, you’ll be waiting there to meet Scarface in Hell!” She laughed cruelly.

“Be off with you girl,” the large man holding Myra spat. “Before you wake the neighbourhood.”

“Fine,” Claire scoffed and turned away. “But remember, I want my fair share of the money.”

“Only if you keep your whore-mouth shut,” snarled the knife-man. “If you spread a word of this…”

“If I was a whore, the old hags on Silk Street would starve.” With that, Claire strode back into the shadows, and was gone.

The two men spared no time in gagging Myra with a hemp rope and binding her wrists together. The larger man, who looked like a slab of ham beneath a mop of spidery black hair, prodded Myra in the back with his own knife, while his weasel-like mate led the way. Myra offered no resistance, her mind numb from the shock of betrayal. She knew that death awaited her if she did not fight back. And if she did resist, she would die all the same. For days, she had gone without food and sleep, driven by her oath sworn on Garth’s shallow grave. And now, it seemed like it would all be for nothing. She would die an ignoble death, before even passing the first hurdle, because of her own stupidity.

It was all too much for Myra’s mind. The weariness and hunger caught up to her with a vengeance in a single moment, and her legs gave way beneath her.

The piglike thug swore and kicked at Myra with his foot, but she barely had the strength to respond.

“Get up, you skinny sow,” the brute snarled. “If you won’t walk, I’ll hack off your feet and feed them to you!”

“What’s going on?” the weasel hurried over. “Get her moving. It’ll be dawn soon.”

“The woman won’t walk.”

“Then make her walk!”

“I can’t. She’s half dead already,” hissed the big man.

“Then prod the other half and get her movin!”

“Keep your voice down you fool! ”

“Who’re you calling a fool, you lumbering oaf!”

“I said stop yelling! You’ll give up the game!”

“You’re the one who’s yelling!”

The spat was cut off suddenly. The sound of glass shattering echoed around them like thunder. The two kidnappers froze on the spot, and turn slowly to the source of the noise. There, sitting in an alley where they had not seen him before, sat a broad shouldered man atop a pile of crates. He had the bearing of a soldier, though his linen shirt was shabby, and his face was half obscured by bloody bandages over his left eye.

“Look what you made me do, with your infernal ruckus,” drawled the man, “your… caterwauling, has made me spill my wine.” The man held out his hand and gestured dramatically at the evidence pooling on the cobblestones.

The kidnappers were tense, daggers half raised. But they felt some relief as they glanced at each other. The man was clearly drunk.

The weaselly one laughed nervously. “Sorry about that mate. We’ll leave you be.”

“That…” the drunk man snapped, pointing at the broken bottle, “cost me good wages.” The man tried to lower himself from his perch, but slipped and stumbled to his feet, fighting to keep his balance. “I demand… compensation.”

“Of course, my good fellow,” said the weasel. The piggish man, standing over Myra, glowered at his companion.

“We can’t spend all night chatting with a drunk,” he hissed under his breath.

“Shut up and let me handle this.” The weasel shoved a hand in a pouch at his belt, and fished out a silver coin. “One drachma, mate. Go and be about your business.”

The one-eyed man didn’t so much as look at the silver coin tossed at his feet. “That bottle… was the last bottle of Roland’s Red in the whole country. I want ten… no… twelve drachmas!”

“What?” gasped the weasel.

“We don’t have time for this…” muttered the pig again.

Myra’s eyes wearily stared at the stranger. The man’s square jaw and auburn beard stirred dim memories…

“Twelve drachmas,” the drunk man said again, crossing his arms and swaying a little. “Or… if you can’t afford that… six. Six drachmas… and that woman tied up at your feet.”

The man’s green eye suddenly cleared of its fog. The kidnappers became keenly aware of the sword hilt at the man’s waist.

“Woman?” the weasel stammered. “Oh! This woman? My friend, this is a criminal. A murderous she-devil. Slaughtered her own family she did. Would have killed us too, if we hadn’t tied her up and…”

“Good Heaven,” the man said flatly. “A murderer? Then you really ought to hand her over to me.”

“To you?”

“My name is Erasmus de Mouton. Knight-palatine!” Despite his haggard appearance, the man stood tall and proud. He drew the saber at his side, and though its blade was broken in half, he still held it with the confidence of a practiced swordsman. “You will give that woman into my custody. That is what you intended, is it not?”

Erasmus? Somehow, that name began to stir Myra out of her daze.

The weasel, again, laughed nervously, flashing a meaningful glance at his pig-like companion. “Of course… good sir knight. Bless our Stars, to stumble upon a paladin, just when we needed one.”

Clutching Myra’s collar, he dragged her up into a sitting position, pressing his dagger to her throat. “Drop the sword,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Move or make a sound, and I’ll tear her damn throat out.”

Erasmus’ eye narrowed, though he lowered his broken saber. “You’ll try and kill me if I do. Do you presume that I would risk my own neck for stranger?”

The weasel cackled. “It’s worth a gamble.”

Erasmus’ gaze met Myra’s. They stared at each other for a short moment, and, to her surprise, he sighed and let his sword clatter to ground.

“Now!” shrieked the weasel. “Kill him now!”

The piggish man roared and charged forward, knife flashing before him. Erasmus raised his left arm defensively, and just in time. The knife came arcing down, stabbing clean through Erasmus’ forearm. The kidnapper did not stop his reckless charge, his massive bulk slamming the paladin into a brick wall. Erasmus’ pained screamed whistled through clenched teeth, the knife still transfixed in his forearm, blood spurting as the thug tried to wrench the blade free.

The weasel, still holding Myra’s own dagger against her throat, watched the bloody brawl nervously. “Hurry up,” he said. “Just kill him already.”

The piggish man suddenly let go of the trapped knife, and slammed his right fist into Erasmu’s bandaged eye. Fresh blood poured through the already soiled bandages. But whether through sheer rage, or drunken stupor, Erasmus continued to fight back, delivering a sudden headbutt into his attacker’s nose. The thug staggered back, blood gushing from his nostrils. It was enough for Erasmus to go on the offensive, punching the thug square on the chin and rattling the man’s brain in his skull. Free from the piggish man’s crushing weight, Erasmus fell to his knees, and made to crawl for his broken sword.

“Damn fool!” the weasel shrieked. He thrust Myra away from him, and went to dash forward and end the fight. But, he did not reckon that Myra, watching the struggle, would suddenly find her will to live. As her kidnapper went to dart forward, Myra thrust her leg out in his path. The weaselly man plunged forward, face first into the cobblestones.

Myra tried to get to her feet, but her hands were bound and she was still too weary to summon much strength. The weasel, spitting out blood and bits of broken teeth, got back on his feet and rounded on Myra. She tried to crawl away, but the man was too fast. He lunged and grabbed hold of throat with his free hand, leering down at her with a face bloodied face, twisted in rage like a demonic mask. Hands still bound, she desperate attempts to fend him off were fruitless.

“You bitch!” The weasel gurgled through his broken teeth, blood dribbling down his chin. Tears were welling in his eyes from the pain. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

He raised the dagger. Moonlit glinted off the edge, dazzlingly bright in the gloom. And then suddenly, it was gone. The dagger, and the hand holding it, simply fell away. The weasel turned his head, saw a surge of blood spurt from his the stump of his hand, and saw the broken blade of Erasmus’ saber, hovering above him. The would-be kidnapper could only stare at the blade in shock, and let out the beginning of a scream, before the paladin brought the blade down on his skull.

Myra felt the mangled corpse hauled away from her. She scrambled up, gazing up at Erasmus standing before her, and then towards the body of the larger thug, lying still in a dark pool of blood. Erasmus had took up his sword just in time. He knelt before her now, and gently cut the bonds from her wrist. When she removed the gag from her mouth, she stared up into his face. The memory of that day, when she and Garth and all the others had slaughtered a troop of paladins came to her suddenly. She remembered the one they had let live, the one they had cruelly mocked.

“You’re… you’re…” she stammered.

“Wounded, I think,” Erasmus said weakly. “ He raised his left arm, still transfixed by the dagger, dripping with blood. His whole left side was glistening crimson. “I don’t suppose you could…”

Whatever he was going to say next remained unsaid. Erasmus’ eye rolled into the back of his head, and he slumped forward, completely unconscious.

Myra stared at the knight for moment. By some twist of fate, her life had been saved by this paladin, of all people. Just a few weeks ago, she had put an arrow in him, mocked his dead companions. And now, he was lying wounded, because of her, again. And he needed her help.

The sound of the brawl had not gone unnoticed. But it was a while before anyone in the neighbourhood plucked up the courage to investigate. The discovered the horrific scene, two men dead and a third terribly wounded.

And Myra was nowhere to be found.