"They have too many men," Carnegie's companion hissed urgently. "We're just waiting for death in here!" Carnegie rounded on him, "And we've got plenty of men right here!" He slammed his fist onto the table with such force the wood cracked. "Which of you has the stomach to charge forth with me and send these beasts to hell?!"

  Not one soul moved. The militiaman stared in disbelief at the sea of downcast faces. "You yellow-bellied curs!" He lunged, seizing the nearest farmer by the scruff of his tunic, hauling him close. "Do you call yourself a man?! They are seizing our lands, pillaging our homes, and despoiling our women!" The farmer's eyes squeezed shut, his face glistening with Carnegie's spittle. "You worthless curs! Did none of you see that girl? A daughter of Kadenford, she is! Will you truly stand by and watch as they butcher one of our own flesh and blood?!"

  Their silence was a damning admission. "Then go to hell, the lot of you!" he snarled, shoving the farmer away with a revulsion that twisted his features. "May you all rot in the deepest pits, you gelded curs!"

  "Have you finished your little meeting in there?" a voice called mockingly from outside. "No need for such tension." The voice spoke Common, albeit with a thick accent. "We merely seek a bit of ale. And perhaps to... sample... your womenfolk while we're at it." A fresh wave of derisive laughter followed.

  Carnegie glared at the tavern door with such intensity it seemed the wood might burst into flame. Irene risked a quick glance and spotted the speaker—a foot soldier armed with a bow. Upon closer scrutiny, she discerned that the spear-wielding rider was a veritable mountain of a man, his shaggy mane of hair thick and unruly, biceps swelling to the very girth of her own thigh. (Monster.)

  "Carnegie, compose yourself," Roche urged, placing a steadying hand on the militiaman's leg. "Charging them head-on is suicide. We need strategy."

  "What do you propose?"

  "At minimum, we get the women to safety."

  After a moment's silent consideration, Carnegie nodded agreement. "We'll evacuate Madam Danwen, Frantans, Kitty, and the little one. And you," he added, nodding toward Irene—the only other woman present in the tavern. "And what of us?" one of the farmers cried out, his voice edged with panic. "Die in a ditch, you worthless mongrels."

  (Should I remain behind?) The female Monster Slayer hesitated, torn. (They cannot possibly overcome such numbers.)But then she recalled her mentor's stern instruction. (Mind your own affairs, Irene,) she admonished herself. (There's no contract here, and these are men, not monsters.) She resolved to depart with Frantans.

  "The ladies will exit first, then you lot," Roche announced with undisguised contempt. "On what grounds? It is we men who toil and break our backs in the sun-scorched fields!" A chorus of angry objections erupted from all sides. Baldy Forlin scrambled to his feet, his mouth agape to rally his cronies to push ahead of the women--but the words died stillborn as three wooden shafts sprouted from his already open maw. Kitty immediately shielded her little sister's eyes; the tavern fell into a deathly hush.

  The clerk writhed upon the floor like a half-crushed serpent, paralyzed with terror. "They're deadly serious," Roche observed grimly. "To them, we're merely sport for their amusement."

  Carnegie's eyes blazed with the ferocity of a wounded bear. His sword rasped from its scabbard. "We merely seek refreshment. And your females." The Friez called through the door in his broken Common, "Leave us the ale and the wenches, and your miserable lives shall be spared."

  "Yes! We let you go free!" other Friez voices jeered in chorus. "Did you hear that, Carnegie?!" The farmers fixed desperate stares upon him. "But if we just give them the women, none of us has to die!" Kitty clutched her sister tighter, her eyes locked on Carnegie, silently awaiting his response.

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  "Get out," the militiaman commanded, his voice cold as winter iron. "Any man too frightened to die, leave with the women. Those with stomach for battle, remain by my side."

  "If we just surrender the women, none of us need die!"

  "Speak those words once more, and I'll cut you down myself."

  A Friez rapped on the door with exaggerated politeness. "Well? Your answer, Cynthians?" the Friez snarled from beyond the door, his patience wearing thin. "Do not try our tolerance overmuch, you Northmen."

  "Take the rear exit. There are horses in the stable," Carnegie instructed the women, his voice steady and resolute. "Dwarves, ensure their protection." "And what of you?" Roche demanded. "We'll burst through the front. Gut these animals where they stand."

  "I find little merit in this plan. But it's our only recourse." The dwarf sighed. "Don't become entangled in prolonged combat, Carnegie. Once we've mounted, you follow swiftly."

  Roche and Banli took the lead, with Emry the Halfling and the women following closely behind. Within moments, a surging mass of farmers pressed at their backs, leaving only Carnegie's stalwart trio and Mr. Danwen, the chef, within the tavern. The latter gripped a heavy cleaver in white-knuckled hands. Irene brought up the rear. "My beloved! What madness is this?" Madam Danwen implored her blind husband. "Relinquish that blade—come with us, I beg you!"

  Mr. Danwen shook off her pleading hands, drove his cleaver into the tabletop with a resounding thunk, and sat down with finality. "It seems he refuses the coward's path," Carnegie remarked with grim approval. "Well then? Your answer, Cynthians?" The Friez outside growled with waning patience. "Don't test our forbearance, northerners."

  "Have no fear, I'm opening immediately." Carnegie raised his sword high above his head. His two companions reluctantly hefted their weapons, forming up behind their leader. Mr. Danwen retrieved his cleaver and positioned himself beside the door, his one functioning eye fixed intently on the world beyond.

  Banli eased the back door open a cautious fraction. "No sentries visible," he whispered urgently. "Move! Now!"

  Yet it was not Madam Danwen who first bolted through the opening, nor Frantans with her two girls, and most assuredly not Irene. Instead, a score of ale-sodden, panic-stricken patrons erupted outwards, their bodies thudding against the stout wooden door like a frantic drumbeat. The dwarves were bowled aside like skittles; only Emry, with his halfling agility, managed to scramble clear of the stampede. Kitty, half-crouching, strained against the door to keep it ajar, but her two little ones were swept away like flotsam on the surging human tide. "Kitty!" her mother shrieked in raw terror.

  The farmers scrambled and tumbled towards the stables in a desperate, chaotic rush. Finding only three horses there, some broke off, fleeing towards the fence line and sending a flock of startled hens scattering in a flurry of squawks and feathers. "Return here this instant, you miserable bastards!" Roche bellowed, nursing his trampled hand. The female Monster Slayer hauled Kitty to her feet, swiftly checked that the little girl clutched in her arms was indeed unharmed, then pulled them both towards the frantic Frantans.

  "Escort them to the stable immediately!" the landlady called, running in that direction. "Why bring them back this way?!"

  "The horses are lost to us now."

  The struggle at the stables had deteriorated into savage chaos—multiple men fighting ferociously over each precious mount. Not one rider maintained his seat for more than five heartbeats. Former comrades now clawed and battered each other with animal desperation, giving no quarter. The clerk managed to slip astride a dappled chestnut in the confusion, but before his fingers could close around the reins, a spear punched through his left shoulder with sickening force. "Respectable marksmanship, wouldn't you agree?" The speaker's Common flowed with cultured precision, utterly unlike the previous Friez soldier's crude accent. The long-haired Friez, poised calmly upon his steed, surveyed the panicked farmers--a chaotic swarm of ants in a scalding pot--with an air of detached, contemptuous amusement. "Retreat inside, immediately!" Roche and Banli shouted frantically, their words lost in the pandemonium. Those attempting to scale the fence perished under a hail of arrows; those still within the stable yard snatched up pitchforks and hoes, swinging wildly at phantoms. The mounted Friez observed the slaughter with detached amusement, his calculating gaze eventually settling upon Irene. She recognized him as the same rider who had stood beside the brutish wielder of the Girl on a Lance. The Friez warriors loosed their arrows with methodical precision but never closed to melee range. Only after the survivors had retreated into the tavern and barred the door did a count reveal that merely five farmers remained from the original exodus.

  From beyond the walls came the muffled sound of Friez laughter, deep and satisfied.