The Monster Slayer had no intention of responding, nor of intervening. She remembered well the lesson from her parents' own fate—the consequences of meddling—and her mentor Wilmeister's constant refrain that had become almost a mantra: Monster Slayers kill only monsters. A sharp pain lanced through Irene's back as her swords were wrenched away and her arms twisted behind her. The little girl, terrified by the sudden violence, tumbled to the floor before scurrying to her mother's side. Irene should have anticipated this, could have prevented it all—but now all she could do was offer silent prayers over a cup stained with rings of stale wine.

  "Been keeping an eye on you, miss." Forlin leaned close, sniffing near the Monster Slayer's cornflower plaits like a hound. "Truth now--where'd a slip like you steal these blades?" His boozy breath washed over her ear, her neck. "Can't believe that someone like you..." His eyes slid down from her shoulder, pausing on her breasts before his hand landed on her hip. "...a delicate piece like yourself, actually handles steel."

  His mates snickered as one drew a sword, flourishing it awkwardly. "Need more steel, do you?" he jeered. "Got plenty for you--three blades, four, take your pick. Just ask nicely, and I might let you wield my 'sacred sword' down here too."

  "Or shove it down her throat," someone else added.

  "Gods," someone gasped, "that's a silver sword."

  "Are you blind, man, or just thick?" Forlin thrust Irene away, snatching the sword from his mate. "Bloody hells, now we're truly fucked." He turned the blade over in his hands--long, slim, with rough scrollwork etched where it joined the crossguard. "She's a gods-damned Monster Slayer."

  "A what?" a filthy man asked. "A Monster Slayer, idiot," Carnegie's right foot still pressed on Kitty. "Those freaks who'll kill monsters for a meal, but end up more heartless than monsters themselves." His stare at Irene was full of contempt.

  "They say they're monsters before they ever hunt monsters," a young man dressed as a clerk chimed in. "Only monsters can kill monsters, am I right?"

  "Anything? They kill anything?"

  "Aye, anything that moves. Got no morals, none at all."

  "Worse than witches, then?"

  "Blacker hearts than any hag you'll find."

  All eyes in the room turned back to the young woman. Irene shut her cornflower eyes, took a slow, deep breath. "Yes," she said, her voice low but clear. "They are my swords. Both of them. I am a Monster Slayer."

  "Oh?" Carnegie sneered, "You're a monster."

  (Endure.) The Monster Slayer felt faint. (Damn alcohol.) "I mean no offense, nor do I wish to cause trouble." She reached a hand toward Forlin, who recoiled five paces, stumbling into a table. "I just want my swords back. Then I'll leave."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Plump Frantans burned to speak up for Irene, but fear held her fast; she could only hold her younger child tighter and watch her elder, heart pounding, mind blank with terror. Then, mercifully, Carnegie took his boot off Kitty--only to hop onto the tabletop himself. "Got an idea, lads!" he declared, grinning wickedly. "Forlin!" He grabbed the peasant from behind and pulled him up. "Your first job as a proper Kadenford militiaman. You're going to tup this bitch. Right here and now."

  Sweat beaded on Forlin's upper lip. "What?" he quavered, eyes darting nervously. "You want me... to her? To the... the monster-witch?" Irene's hand hung motionless in the space between them.

  "That's right, my clever Forlin." Carnegie brushed him off. "I want you to do it right now, in front of everyone. What? Weren't you just all fired up? Not even leaving the women I fancy alone?"

  "That was before, Carnegie," the balding man protested, "Now I don't want to."

  "Then get back to your farm and your wife's hoe, dig for worms." He hissed in his ear. "Well? Will you or won't you?"

  Unwilling to earn the title of shortest-lived militiaman, Forlin yielded. "Good!" Carnegie gave him a rough shove forward; Forlin stumbled, kept upright only by Irene's steadying hand. "Frantans, get your girl out of here. I want to watch the show -- better than anything those mummers put on in the city, I'll wager." The landlady hastily scooped Kitty into her embrace. Forgive me, her eyes pleaded with Irene.

  Irene kept her gaze fixed forward, giving no sign she'd noticed Forlin roughly striking her hand away. "Sirs," she said, her voice deliberate and slow, "I only want my swords."

  "Go on, tup her," Carnegie urged with a smirk. "Tup... tup her!" His two cronies echoed, baying like hounds. The scribe took a slow sip of ale, shrugging as if bored. "M-monster..." Forlin stammered, unable to look her in the eye.

  (Endure, Irene. Take the swords, walk out.) "Sir." Her voice was stiff but still polite. "The swords."

  The bald man stood frozen. Scattered goading didn't move him.

  "They say... relations require consent from both sides. Maybe there's something to it." The militiaman chewed his lip, feigning deep thought. "Right then, perhaps she needs... motivation. Frantans," he called to the mother still soothing the coughing Kitty, "have a word with your guest. If she won't accommodate Forlin, then Forlin can accommodate himself with your daughter."

  "I'd like that," Forlin muttered. "Screw you, beast!" Kitty coughed through another string of curses at Carnegie. "You deserve to be buggered by a gorilla, you bastard…" Plump Frantans clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes dim. Kitty, gasping, slapped at her mother's thick wrist. "Miss," she looked at Irene with pleading, guilt-ridden eyes.

  (I could save this girl, a stranger, a chance-met girl. But the only way is to let some lout—farmer or bandit, who knows—take my maidenhood.) She almost wanted to laugh. Yes, Irene was still a virgin. Her mother had never talked much about such things; before she could grow into a woman's shape, her mother had already lain in an unmarked grave somewhere. All Irene knew was that she was meant to give her maidenhood to Jashir Feromonde, her once-betrothed, son of Baron Feromonde. (Though, it hardly matters now.) "If I agree, will you give me my swords back?"

  "Course I will, monster... ah, whatever." Carnegie smirked. "Both blades, back in your hands. And if you're good," he added slyly, "maybe you can take Forlin's little sword too."

  "Thank you. I only need my own." The young woman had no notion what to do, or perhaps had walled off every memory of violation and shame she'd ever seen. "Lead the way, sir. I confess I am... unpracticed."

  Carnegie raised a curious brow. "None at all? Meaning... you're still a maid?"

  "You could say that."