"Horseshit and balderdash! Save that pretty speech for the elves," the fat farmer snarled, wheeling his fury toward Emry. He rounded on Emry next. "And you, Halfling? Don't tell me you're afflicted with the same brand of dwarven stupidity?" Emry offered a solemn nod of agreement. "Marvelous, absolutely marvelous," the fat man sneered, his eyes bulging with rage. "Birds of a feather, these short folk." He seized the bald farmer by his threadbare shirt. "You—go ask those butchers outside if they'll honor their word. Leave the women, and we walk free."

  "Why don't you do the asking yourself?"

  "Because this brilliant scheme was yours to begin with," the fat farmer growled, tightening his grip. "Stop wasting precious time, or I'll hurl you through that door myself."

  The bald farmer attempted to employ the most formal register of Common his limited education could muster. Yet his clumsy pronunciation and mangled grammar provoked waves of derisive laughter from beyond the windows, particularly when he stumbled through four separate attempts before successfully articulating the word "agreement." The mocking laughter ebbed and flowed; the Godman soldiers appeared to derive considerable amusement from his linguistic struggles while showing no inclination to respond. "Does our... our agreement still hold?" he stammered, mustering what courage remained. "If we surrender the women, will you permit our departure?"

  A severed head exploded through the window in a spray of shattered glass, striking the table directly before Kitty with a wet, sickening thud. Frantans erupted in piercing screams while Kitty swallowed convulsively, fighting to maintain her composure even as her legs trembled with seismic violence. Fragments of broken glass had lacerated half of Carnegie's face into a grotesque crimson mask.

  "Who in the seven hells ever struck such a bargain with you miserable worms?"

  Even the fat farmer began trembling uncontrollably. "But you gave your word!" he shrieked with mounting hysteria. "You said if we simply surrendered all the women in the—"

  A second head sailed through the air, landing with nauseating precision at his feet. This time, the ghastly trophy was Mr. Danwen's. Madam Danwen clamped both hands over her face and spun away, mercifully sparing herself a sight that would haunt her remaining days—her husband's gouged-out socket had been grotesquely violated, filled with Carnegie's severed manhood in an act of unspeakable desecration.

  "Do you comprehend now?" Roche's voice emerged as a broken rasp. "They never intended to honor any agreement. This is House Friez we face, friend. House fucking Friez."

  The fat farmer retreated until his spine pressed against the wooden counter. "Splendid then, Frantans," he declared, all vestiges of hope finally extinguished. "We shall perish together as one happy family."

  "There remains a possibility," the Monster Slayer's voice cut through the despair like a blade through silk.

  "What do you mean?" Roche inquired, hope flickering in his weathered features.

  "The soldiers surrounding this tavern are not numerous. Beyond House Friez's contingent, only scattered Godman infantry remain, and they maintain considerable distance." She continued her surveillance through the window slats. "Perhaps they dare not interfere with Friez operations."

  "You could say this territory now belongs to House Friez," the dwarf observed grimly. "They are hunting us for sport. Toying with us like cats with wounded mice."

  "Which presents our opportunity. If we can eliminate the immediate threat at our door, the remaining Godman forces will likely remain oblivious to our escape. They appear thoroughly occupied with—" She paused, selecting her words with deliberate care. "Slaughter. And systematic destruction."

  "I fail to comprehend your meaning, miss," the dwarf said, shaking his grizzled head. "Whether we await death passively or attempt a desperate breakout, our fate remains sealed. Two dwarves and these handful of farmers—" his contemptuous gaze swept over the fat man's trembling companions, "—we remain hopelessly outnumbered."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "And you have my aid as well, for what it's worth!" Emry the halfling declared, his small chin held high with a surprising show of valor.

  "We require fewer participants than you imagine," she replied with quiet confidence. "I alone shall suffice."

  Roche kicked aside an overturned chair and positioned himself beside Irene. "I confess uncertainty regarding your intentions, miss. What precisely are you planning?" His eyes fell upon the twin sword hilts protruding from her back, finally remembering her true profession. "Oh, merciful gods, no. What you suggest amounts to elaborate suicide."

  "Can I entrust their safety to your protection?" Irene asked, displaying no interest in prolonged debate. "While I venture outside to engage the Godman forces, you escort them through the rear exit. Are you capable of this?"

  Roche's response was immediate and absolute. "Absolutely not, miss. I cannot permit you to face such odds alone." Irene merely pursed her lips, then turned back to the window, parting the reed blinds with a delicate finger to continue her surveillance of the scene outside.

  "How exactly do you propose to handle them?" the fat farmer demanded suddenly.

  "Uncertain. Presumably by killing them," the Monster Slayer replied with casual indifference.

  Frantans, whose ample form quivered with terror, recalled their morning conversation. "They are human beings, Irene," she whispered with desperate conviction.

  The fat farmer's gaze lingered hungrily on Irene's weapon harness. "Well... I suppose I could ensure their protection during the escape. Provided, naturally, that you succeed in occupying our tormentors, Master Monster Slayer." His yellowed teeth emerged in what might charitably be called a smile.

  "Perhaps," came her laconic response.

  "More likely impossible," Roche pronounced each syllable with grim finality. "What you propose simply cannot be accomplished."

  "Have you devised superior alternatives, dwarf?" the fat farmer snapped with mounting impatience. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to serve as our distraction? Cease questioning the Monster Slayer's judgment!"

  Words formed on Kitty's lips, but died unspoken. She could not bear the thought of this woman she barely knew sacrificing herself for their sake, yet a colder, more craven part of her dreaded even more the possibility of the Monster Slayer recanting. A wave of self-loathing, sharp and bitter, washed over her.

  "Irene..." Frantans began hesitantly. "You bear no obligation to... to take lives on our behalf."

  Irene leaned against the window frame, releasing a profound sigh. "Don't meddle, Irene." This maxim, repeatedly emphasized by her Monster Slayer mentor Wilmeister, constituted one of their profession's fundamental principles. "We are not warriors, much less heroes. In our world, there exists no requirement for chivalrous intervention, no mandate to draw blades in others' defense. Our sole duty involves fulfilling contracted obligations. Our only legitimate enemies are the monsters that terrorize the wilderness. Never exceed your designated responsibilities. Never meddle in affairs beyond your purview. This represents the most suitable survival strategy for Monster Slayers—it has remained thus for countless centuries."

  "…I truly do not know," she murmured, so low it was almost a breath against the glass. It had only been a year and seven months since she'd left that ruined castle in Kazerath, barely a novice among Monster Slayers. She'd taken six jobs—three for curse-breaking, all failures, as the cursed ghouls or harpies had to be slain outright. Of the other three, two clients turned out to be cheats, inventing excuses to cheat her out of pay. The one true success was in Ellytra, when a count on holiday in the countryside asked Irene to rescue his kidnapped son. Irene had to play hide-and-seek with the child ghouls for seven hours to win him back, but the fat reward kept her from starving for a time.

  But it hadn't lasted. Since then, she'd found almost no work. The Godman army's march northward seemed to terrify people more than any monster. She had sought honest work, and refused far more than she accepted, turning her back on any offer that did not involve the stalking and slaying of true monsters -- a decision that had once led her to decline a lucrative evening as a courtesan. A stammering whelp of a minor lord, in some dingy alehouse, had once proposed that for a single night in his bed, he would grant her coin enough to see all corners of the continent. Irene downed some rancid wine, drew her blades from beneath the table, and the boy climbed out the nearest window. She'd always cared about her mentor's words, about Wilmeister's code for Monster Slayers. But now she truly didn't know what to do. Not a feeling of helplessness, but of not knowing what to choose. (They're people. Monster Slayers shouldn't kill people. They're meant to kill monsters.) Maybe, deep down, she knew she just needed a push. (But can you really call them people?)