Stone allowed his head to sink back into the mud.

He was really here. Rauthgar. An alien world.

Though the fact that it had pig styes was kind of comforting.

More pigs joined the first in eyeing him. Stone studied them back. Not cute little pink piggies, but more like bristle-covered boars. Sows? Hell of he knew. But they were big and ugly and no doubt were debating coming down here to see how edible he was.

Never trust a man with a pig farm, he’d heard once.

But he wasn’t worried about the pigs. He stared past them at the sky. Dusk was falling, it looked like. The first pinpricks of stars.

Stone closed his eyes. The past few hours washed over him. He began to shiver. Going against Anahydra like that had been an act of feverish bravery. Only now did the enormity of what he’d done wash over him.

You don’t go a decade fearing a goddess only to turn and spit in her eye with impunity.

But damn her. Damn her plans. Stone grit his teeth and willed himself to grow calm. And miracle of miracles, it worked.

That’s your Absolute Willpower, said Metacognition in his ear. Your mind wasn’t too strong before it - more like the tattered sides of an old tent - but Absolute Willpower has added some granite blocks. You can demand things of yourself and actually get them, now.

Stone went to respond, then stopped. Who was he talking to? Himself. No need.

Instead, he sat up.

The mud squelched as it let him go.

His strength and endurance were greatly increased, but not his balance or ability to jump. He’d have to climb out of here the old-fashioned way.

Carefully, slowly, he worked his way out of the pit and back into the main stye. It was a poorly built building, little more than poles, planking, and thatch, and it stank of pig shit.

The pigs had backed away from him, their bodies massive in the gloom, but one of their number squealed angrily and stepped to the fore.

A boar.

Its tusks were easily a foot long, and it had to weigh some thousand pounds. Bristly hide, and red little eyes thumbed deep into its porcine skull.

And it wasn’t happy to see him.

“Look, bud,” said Stone wearily. “I’ll just go. This doesn’t have to get ugly.”

The boar seemed to swell with rage. It lowered its head, dug one hoof through the mud, then charged.

Time seemed to slow.

Stone had never fought an animal. But he didn’t hesitate. The boar was coming at him like a runaway truck. Those tusks would tear him right open.

Just one chance to get this right.

At the last second Stone dropped right down into a deep crouch and swung his fist around in a tight hook.

It was the easiest, most natural thing in the world. His body moved like an oiled, precision machine. He struck the boar in the side of the head, just above its left tusk, a split-second before it impacted him.

The punch collapsed the architecture of the pig’s skull. Its head was so thoroughly demolished that bone, brain, and blood blasted across the far wall of the stye as if shot from an arena T-shirt cannon.

But the laws of physics meant the boar’s momentum carried its thousand pounds right into Stone, slamming into him like King Kong’s palm.

Stone yelled in shock and pain as he and the corpse crashed to the ground and slid all the way to the wall. The boar’s body lay atop him, crushing him, blood gouting out everywhere and freaking out the other pigs who bucked and crashed into each other in an attempt to get away.

“Fuck,” grunted Stone, blinking away the mud and blood and staring at the huge body that lay across him. Already the bruising and pain in his ribs from the impact was fading, but the sheer weight of the beast held him pinned.

The mud was accommodating. Stone was sinking under the dead boar.

With a grimace he got his hands under the bristly beast and tried to shove it off. Nothing. He just pushed himself deeper.

Shouts came from outside the stye. Barked commands, the cackle of geese, and then the deep barking of a large dog.

Great. The locals.

Stone didn’t want to meet them while half buried under their dead pig.

So he took a deep breath and studied the problem.

A suggestion? The ghostly form had appeared by his side. Your Physical Realm talents are well suited to this task. Allow them to do the heavy lifting, as it were.

“Right,” grunted Stone, and activated Kinetic Energy Manipulation.

His hands incandesced with gold flames and he shoved.

The mud compacted sufficiently beneath him to form a foundation. The boar’s huge corpse bowed up before him and Stone heard bones break within, felt muscles tear, saw the skin split so that more blood rained down him, turning the mud almost immediately into a morass of hot goo.

But the boar was too huge and heavy and his angle too ungainly for him to just bench press it off himself. Instead, he shot out from under it, sliding right up against the wall and leaving a furrow in his wake.

“God damn.” He went to wipe the hot blood from his face, but his hands were in even worse shape. Instead, he wiped his upper arm across his cheek and brow, smearing the mud and blood further.

Fucking blood-drenched pig styes.

The far door cracked open and a bearded face peered in. At the sight of Stone sitting against the wall the man’s eyes widened in alarm and the door slammed shut.

Guess he wasn’t looking his best. He'd not tried to reassure anybody in years. Had lost the practice. But right now he had to say something.

“Don’t be afraid,” he yelled out. “I don’t want trouble. I just fell here.”

He could hear a frantic argument taking place outside, but not the particulars. With great care he rose to his feet. The swine were still jostling each other on the far end of the stye, eight of them making a heaving barrier between him and the door.

Stone peered at the ruined roof, the blasted trough, the huge dead boar, then sighed. Using the door would be almost weird at this point.

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The wall was thick and sturdy. Meant to last, meant to keep out predators, no doubt. Not to keep divine champions in, though.

Stone punched his way out.

The boards shattered easily, and he pushed his way into the dusk. A large, sagging house stood across a crappy yard from him, three women clustered in the doorway. A second building formed a third side to the yard, a barn maybe, the double doors closed and barred from the outside.

A dog came tearing around the corner of the stye, a massive black hound with a head like a bucket and a dull satiny coat. It bayed as it came, jowls frothing, and Stone stepped back, fists coming up.

Please, he thought to whomever might be listening. Don’t make me kill a dog.

But the hound fetched up short to bark at him so violently that its whole upper body lifted off the ground with each bark.

Three men came rushing up behind him, each holding a spear, with the third and eldest a round shield with an iron boss in its center.

For a second Stone's impulse was to fight. They were coming at him with weapons. It would be the easiest thing in the world to splatter them across the yard.

He curbed that impulse hard.

“Whoa,” said Stone, raising his palms placatingly. “Calm down, everyone. This is all an accident.”

One of the women had a pitchfork. Broad shouldered and with a face like the hound, she stepped forward, tines aimed at his chest. “Who are you! What manner of devil? How’d you get into the stye! Why you covered in blood?!”

“Peace, Abigail,” said the older man with the spear and shield. His was the bearded face that had peered in the door, his black beard silvered now at the chin, his face lined and worn by a life hard lived. “The man says he doesn’t want trouble. Neither do we.”

“He killed Black Sam,” said the youngest, a teenager with a wicked case of acne that had turned his face into a partially baked pepperoni pizza. “Did something to him, at any rate! His whole head is gone!”

“Self-defense,” said Stone, hands still up. “He attacked me. Don’t blame him, but..." Why was it so hard to talk to people? The words wanted to stick in his craw. "I’m partial to my guts staying inside of me. I’m real sorry he’s dead.”

The older man was still watching him warily. Sharp eyes, a pensive frown. A clever man. “Who are you, stranger? Why were you in our stye?”

“He fell through the roof!” said the kid. “Busted through the rafters and everything! He fell from the sky, pa!”

“That true?” The older man straightened slightly to peer up at the thatched stye roof. In the growing dusk it was swaybacked and little more than a dark smudge, but the gaping hole at the peak was obvious. “Ylvas wept, you really did.”

Abigail waved her pitchfork. “What were you doing, hey? Flying? Riding a griffin? Fell off? Got drunk? You a demon? You a demon, hey?”

Stone lowered his hands. It brought him back, this kind of standoff. Locals furious at jarheads who’d accidentally created a situation. The old lessons came flooding back.

“You’re right to be upset. This is... this is my fault and I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean to fall into your stye. It was an accident.”

His tone helped bleed some of the tension away. Nobody lowered their spears, though, who could have been the younger brother of their leader, moved over to grab the hound by the collar.

“We believe you,” said the older man. “But that don’t change what’s happened. A boar like Black Sam costs seven talents, and the damage done to the stye at least a talent more. You have that coin on you, stranger? If so, we can settle the matter here and now and be done with it.”

Abigail shook her pitchfork. “What about the bother and consternation?! The time that’ll be needed to fix the stye, to fetch a new boar? Another talent, at least!”

Stone spread his hands placatingly again. The words came from a thousand years away, another life, another time. “I’m sorry. I have no money.”

Faces tightened and spears rose an inch.

“No money,” said the man’s brother. “Ain’t that convenient.”

“Then we have ourselves a problem,” said the older man. “Problems are usually brought to the magistrate, but he’s been drawn and quartered, last we heard. Do you have -”

The hound suddenly turned and woofed at the darkness beyond the yard. A lane ran out along the fenced in field, and a shadowed shape was racing toward them all along its length.

“It’s Nils,” cried Abigail. “Nils, father!”

A young kid, perhaps twelve, staggered into the yard, puffing for breath. His cheeks were mottled with exertion and his shoulders heaved. “Pa. Pa.” He straightened, blinked as if getting rid of stars, then saw Stone and let out a cry.

“Easy,” said the father, even as Stone took a step back again. “Just a stranger we’re dealing with. What is it?”

“On the high road,” gasped Nils. “A group of riders. Saw them coming around the copse. Maybe six of them. Riding from Bendry.”

“Shit,” said the father. For a moment he seemed overwhelmed, but then he glanced at Stone and lowered his shield and spear. “We’ve bigger problems now then this man. Abigail, take Nils, your mother, and sister toward Hard Holm Woods. Susie, gather a basket of food. Nils, grab blankets and take my best knife. You need to be gone in less than a minute. Go!”

Abigail grunted and took the older woman’s elbow. She was gray faced, her expression vacant, her eyes unblinking. “C’mon, ma. Let’s get your coat.”

Nils cast Stone a terrified glance and ran into the house behind the other young woman, Susie.

“What’s going on?” asked Stone.

“Bendry’s been occupied by mercenaries these past three days. It’s been a bad business. Several times I almost decided to abandon the farm, but…” The father glanced back at the barn. “I had reasons to stay.”

“Markus, we should go to Hard Holm with the women,” said the man’s brother. “Is Tommy worth dying for?”

Markus, the father, turned to stare into the darkness from which Nils had come. “Maybe I can host them, feed them, send them on their way. Maybe they’ll pass us by altogether. They might not take the turn-off the highway.”

“Foolish thinking.” His brother stepped in close and took his elbow. “We should go, now. We’ll return to whatever they leave us.”

Markus’ expression turned bleak. This man’s seen some shit, thought Stone. For a long aching while he stared into the dark, then he turned back at last to his brother. “You can go. Keep the women safe. I’m staying.”

“But why?”

“Why?” Markus’ voice grew soft. “I can't risk Tommy getting out. You know why. It'd take a madman to release him, but these six, if they're drunk enough, or think to make sport of him... no. I'll stay. They can burn the farm down, if they must. But I'll convince them to leave Tommy in his irons.”

“Pa?” The acne-riddled young man stepped up beside him. “I’ll stay with you.”

“Madness,” said the brother. “This is… you heard what they did in Bendry. It’s death to stay. Maybe worse.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You. Stranger.” Markus looked over to where Stone had been listening in silence. “What’s your name?”

“Abraham Stone.”

“Abraham Stone. You owe me for a dead pig. It’s precious little claim, but you can make it right by standing beside me now for what’s to come.”

“Six mounted men? Mercenaries?”

“Aye. Hard men that are used to taking what they want when they’re not paid. Which they haven’t been, it’s said, for over a month.”

Nils and Susie interrupted their exchange by rushing out of the house, traveling coats pulled over their shoulders and sacks slung over their backs. Abigail hustled her blank-faced mother out behind them.

“Go,” called Markus. “Don’t look back. If you don’t hear from us, return at dawn two days from now.”

“Luck,” called Abigail, her expression hard. Nils was crying, but he gave a curt nod, and together the four of them rushed into the field.

“I see you’re not leaving,” said Stone to the brother.

The man spat. “Neither are you.”

Stone tried to put his sentiment into words. He clenched his fists, then relaxed them. He couldn't just say he was looking forward to a fight. He'd sound... he'd sound mad.

They'd look at him like people back home did.

“I killed your pig," he said at last. "I’d be a bastard if I just walked away.”

“You killed our pig.” The brother considered these words then laughed bitterly. “As stupid a reason as any to die. The name’s Mattias. Well met, Abraham Stone.”

They clasped hands. Abraham was exceptionally careful not crush the man's fingers into tomato juice.

“Whatever you did to Black Sam,” murmured Markus, turning to face the approaching lane. “I pray you’re able to do it again if the need arises.”

Stone stepped up beside him. They formed a line across the yard, the pigs still grunting their distress to their left, the house dark to their right, the barred barn behind them.

“Who’s Tommy?” asked Stone.

“My other son,” said Markus. “We keep him in the barn. It’s no concern of yours.”

“Fair enough.” Stone glanced back at the barn. “Weird, though.”

“There,” said Mattias, pointing. “On the highway.”

Stone peered into the dusk. A narrow lane dipped down to the bottom of a shallow valley then climbed again to the far side along whose top ran a distant road. Woods arose on the highway’s far side, topping the valley's edge, and in the murky evening light it was hard to make out much of anything.

But Mattias was right.

Large, shadowed shapes were trotting along the main road, coming toward the lane.

“Maybe they’ll ride on by,” whispered the kid. “Right, pa?”

“Maybe,” said Markus grimly. Stone could tell the father didn’t believe it.

They watched in silence.

Six men on horses. They were massive shadows, the light of the rising moon occasionally gleaming on pieces of metal they wore.

They reached the entrance to the lane and slowed. But they didn’t stop.

“Thank Ylvas,” whispered Markus, and pressed his thumb to his lips.

But Stone knew they weren't out of the woods yet.

The riders slowed, slowed, stopped. They seemed to confer.

Then they turned back and took the turn to begin the ride down the lane, down the great slope of the valley, alongside the field and toward where the farm buildings stood.

“Shit,” hissed Mattias.

Stone cracked the knuckles of his right fist, then his left. He inhaled deeply and felt a strange sense of peace wash over him.

The other three men looked terrified, but he wasn’t afraid.

He felt ready.

Calm.

Excited, even.

Because a dark, murderous, broken part of him wanted to see just what would happen if he hit a bad man hard enough.