Meanwhile, the battle at the main door had already erupted into violence. The Friez messenger, faced with Carnegie's sudden opening of the door, hesitated, surveying the seemingly deserted tavern with suspicion. Mr. Danwen, his patience worn thin, lunged forward a single step, spun his body outward with surprising deftness, and drove his cleaver into the Friez's unprotected throat, aiming for the lifeblood beneath.
As a crimson geyser erupted from his throat, the Friez envoy let out a single, strangled squeal like that of a stuck pig. Instantly, every Friez beyond the threshold unleashed a torrent of obscenities, arrows nocked to bowstrings in unison.
Carnegie delivered a savage kick to the still-spurting messenger, propelling the body two meters clear. "Come on then, you curs!" he roared. "You beasts! You dogs of the south!" A volley of arrows sliced through the air; the Cynthians raised their blades in desperate defense.
Mr. Danwen dove back inside with the speed of a startled hare, the stout wooden door instantly sprouting a thicket of black-feathered shafts, resembling a grotesque porcupine. Of Carnegie's two companions, one transformed into a human pincushion within heartbeats, while the other, courage evaporating, cast aside his sword and fled in blind panic. Carnegie managed to deflect two incoming arrows but caught a third squarely in his left shoulder.
A Friez warrior adorned in a dog-headed helm split his lips in a savage grin, drove spurs into his mount's flanks, and thundered toward the fleeing companion. With practiced brutality, he lowered his ponderous lance and, harnessing the horse's momentum, skewered the Cynthian through the waist. The hulking Friez who bore the 'Girl on a Lance' merely watched the unfolding butchery, his gaze occasionally drifting with feigned solicitude to the grisly trophy upon his spear, as if concerned the sheer barbarity of the spectacle might unduly distress her. The dog-helmed Friez howled with cruel delight at his successful kill, his maniacal laughter echoing across the yard. Attempting to hoist his trophy aloft, he cursed upon realizing the shaft might splinter under the weight.
"Gods damn your bloated hide, you swine!" he cursed, and with a grunt of effort, contemptuously flung the body from his spear. Carnegie wrenched the black-feathered shaft from his shoulder with a savage grunt, cast it to the ground, and spat contemptuously on the now-silent messenger. The remaining Friez soldiers raised their bows in unison. "Lower your bows," the hulking Friez commanded, his voice devoid of warmth.
"You will meet their steel with your own. If they wield swords, so shall you." The foot soldiers muttered dark imprecations but complied, slinging their bows and drawing swords instead. "However," he added, his tone like winter frost, "cast aside any pretense of knightly fair play." Two lightly-armored Friez warriors raised their blades to guard position and began to circle the militiaman with predatory patience.
Carnegie's wounded shoulder throbbed with searing pain, forcing him to grip his sword more tightly in his right hand. One Friez perpetually sneered, flashing yellowed teeth as he feinted and probed, while his companion maintained a mask of utter impassivity. Carnegie resolved to permanently erase the sneering one's expression first. He hefted his blade into an awkward high guard, then committed to a powerful downward strike. The sneering Friez skipped back with an almost contemptuous agility, easily evading the telegraphed blow and sending Carnegie stumbling, dangerously overextended.
The impassive Friez immediately capitalized, lunging to strike at the exposed back. The opportunistic attack failed spectacularly. Mr. Danwen materialized as if from thin air, his rust-flecked cleaver intercepting and deflecting the Godman's blade with a discordant clang of metal. The sneering Friez's mocking expression momentarily faltered. "Leave his back to me," Danwen grunted, his voice raspy. "Nay," Carnegie bit out, teeth gritted. "We each take our own man." The two Cynthians advanced upon their chosen adversaries—unwittingly playing directly into the Friezs' tactical design.
The sneering Friez's perpetual mockery ignited Carnegie's rage to incandescent levels; he launched a flurry of wild, undisciplined slashes, every one of which the Friez avoided with contemptuous ease. After several exchanges, Carnegie's arm grew leaden, his blade feeling impossibly heavy. The sneering Friez nonchalantly slung his sword over his shoulder and began to whistle a jaunty, if discordant, tune. Carnegie stood panting, saliva streaming unchecked down his chin. Then, with a final desperate snarl, he charged. The sneering Friez, ever watchful, gave ground smoothly, his sword coming up to shoulder height in a textbook execution of the ox guard.
Carnegie's momentum carried him forward inexorably; the Friez's blade punched into his already wounded left shoulder with surgical precision. The militiaman collapsed to his knees with an agonized howl. Behind him, Mr. Danwen's duel with the impassive Friez had evolved into a tense standoff. Danwen maintained his right foot forward, body angled to present a minimal profile. The Friez, having deduced his opponent's partial blindness, repeatedly attempted to exploit the left side, but never discovered a viable opening. Both combatants circled warily, each awaiting the other's fatal error, reminiscent of lionesses stalking prey.
Finally, the impassive Friez committed to a probing thrust. It was a decision he would bitterly regret. In the instant the Friez extended his arm, Danwen's cleaver described a vicious arc, cleaving through both thumb and forefinger with brutal efficiency, severing flesh and bone alike. The Friez, no longer impassive, let out a howl of pure agony, cradling his mangled hand to his chest as his other instinctively snatched for the pine bow slung across his back—only then did the sickening realization dawn: a maimed hand could not draw a bowstring.
Just as Danwen lunged to press his advantage and finish the Godman, an arrow sprouted from the Friez’s forehead, a wooden shaft quivering where a moment before there had been only flesh and bone. "Gods damn it all!" the sneering Friez spat, his face a mask of fury as he instantly nocked a second black-fletched arrow and sent it tearing through Danwen’s torso. This time, there was no miss.
The sneering Friez hawked and spat, lowering his bow with grim satisfaction. "I instructed you," the burly Friez observed with glacial indifference, "to employ whatever weapons they themselves utilized." "But Wenloff, my dear captain," the sneering Friez replied, his lips curling with insolent amusement, "a cleaver is not standard issue in our noble arsenal." The long-haired Friez guided his mount around the tavern's perimeter, rejoining the group. "What transpired at the rear?" Wenloff demanded. "Nothing of consequence," the long-haired Friez replied, absently raking fingers through his lank hair. "Some attempted to flee amid the confusion. Most have been... returned to the fold." "How many escaped?" "None," the long-haired Friez shrugged with casual indifference.
"Those not inside are no longer among the living." The dwarves fortified the rear entrance with every available object—tables, chairs, barrels, and miscellaneous detritus—laboring until the soldiers' threatening calls faded into the distance. "Gods curse it all," Roche rasped, sliding down the wall to land heavily on an upturned skillet. "A bloody, gods-damned mess. Those self-serving, suicidal bastards." "And five of those very same 'heroes' are still cowering in here with us," Banli remarked, his voice dripping with scorn. The surviving farmers fixed them with glares compounded of terror and indignation.
"We were just trying to save our own skins, is that such a crime?" a pockmarked farmer whined, his voice thick with self-pity. "Their blood is on your hands! It was agreed—the women and children were to go first!" "Why should those wenches receive priority?! Are we somehow less deserving of life?" a corpulent farmer countered belligerently. Frantans sat motionless, her complexion ashen, eyes vacant and unfocused, cradling her youngest daughter who sucked absently at her tiny fingers. "Cease this bickering," Kitty whispered urgently. "Let us instead devise a means of escape." "And what brilliant stratagem might you conjure now, girl?" the fat farmer sneered, jutting his chin belligerently at Kitty. "As I see it, the only path to survival lies in leaving you womenfolk to their mercy. You are the very bane of our existence here." The young woman lowered her gaze, refusing to dignify his outburst with acknowledgment.
Irene maintained her position by the window, arms folded across her chest, dividing her attention between the internal squabbling and sounds from outside. "The combat has ceased," she observed flatly. "The militiaman and cook have evidently met their end." Madam Danwen's eyes had swollen with silent tears. "They marched to inevitable slaughter," the fat farmer declared. "Victory against such opponents is inconceivable—be they Godmans or Friez or whatever accursed name they bear." "Perhaps we should propose surrendering the women in exchange for our freedom," suggested a bald-headed farmer.
"That's clearly their primary objective." "Don't be a bloody fool, man," Roche snapped, his patience frayed to a thread. "To butchers like that, man, woman, or child—it's all the same grist for their mill." "That contradicts their explicit statement. Surrender the women, and the rest go free—including you dwarves, and you, Halfling." Emry responded with a noncommittal shrug. "What harm in attempting negotiation?" Both dwarves raised their eyes to regard the cunning, corpulent farmer. The atmosphere underwent a palpable transformation. "I implore you, master dwarf," Frantans begged, voice tremulous, "place no faith in their promises..." "Hold your tongue, you useless baggage!" the fat farmer roared, snatching up a pewter tankard and sending it crashing against the wall, mere inches from the landlady's head. "And don't you dare drag us down to die with you!" Kitty sprang to shield her mother, her eyes blazing defiance at the corpulent bully. "I must apologize," Roche stated solemnly.
Frantans's breath caught in her throat. "We cannot—will not—ever consent to such an arrangement." The landlady's eyes welled with tears of profound gratitude. "Oh?" The fat farmer dug a thick finger into his ear, a look of exaggerated disbelief spreading across his fleshy face. "Did my ears deceive me then?" "Your hearing remains unimpaired," Banli declared, planting his hands firmly on his hips. "We absolutely refuse to abandon these women." "What precisely is this? Some peculiar manifestation of dwarven chivalry?" he jeered. "A principle worth sacrificing your lives for?" "This," Banli replied with quiet dignity, "is dwarven honor."
