The dwarves wore no armor, not even leather vests. Their heads were bare, lacking the meanest of helmets, and the weapons in their hands were naught but a few simple hand-axes.

  The Monster Slayer inwardly rolled her eyes, a flicker of exasperation beneath her stoic facade. "I said I can handle this alone. What I want from you is to get the girls out."

  "No way," Roche shrugged. "At first it was Frantans who refused, so those bastards decided to run by themselves. But I doubt they got far without horses. Now they're stuck too—there are some Godmans already prowling behind the tavern."

  Irene groaned. "Are they still inside?"

  "Aye. I had them hide themselves away in the cellar, with strict orders not to emerge, no matter what chaos unfolds above." A mirthless smile touched his lips. "Not unless we win this accursed war, that is."

  A moment of silence. "Priority is to take out the archers," Irene ordered.

  Wenloff Friez did not stop his men from loosing arrows. Three aimed at three different targets, greatly reducing their effect. "Aim for the Monster Slayer, you brainless curs!" Gauner roared, his face flushed with fury. "What blind, dribbling idiot couldn't land a shaft when you're loosing them as wild as a drunkard's piss?!"

  The Friez archers grumbled, reaching for more arrows from their quivers. After the first volley, Roche ducked behind a pile of lumber, Banli chose a barrel by the door as cover. "You took a hit, Irene!" Roche called out, then instantly cursed himself for the slip of familiarity.

  "Just a scratch, ignore it." Irene stayed in the open. "Right now, the archers are the problem, Roche."

  The archers drew on the Monster Slayer. "I'll block their arrows," Irene said, fast but clear. "When they reach for another, you two take them out."

  "No problem." Hearing her use his name, Roche's joy was plain. "A dwarf's aim with a thrown axe is seldom wide of the mark."

  "But once you throw, you're unarmed." Irene looked at him in surprise. "No true dwarven warrior worth his beard ventures into battle with but a single axe."

  As she spoke, the whistle of arrows cut the air. The Monster Slayer lifted her blade, weight on her toes, spun her body and hips, and with the Flower Dance sliced every arrow clean in two.

  Roche and Banli darted from cover, axes flying. Banli was quicker; his axe buried itself in an archer's skull. Roche's throw, whether by an errant toss or a moment of inspired, vicious mischief, flew wide of any vital organ, only to strike another archer squarely in his manhood. Both Friez went down howling. (One left.) Irene caught her breath. The last archer, closest to her, dropped his bow and tried to flee. The Monster Slayer closed the distance in two lightning strides and, before he could fully pivot, her blade drew a searing line from his left shoulder down to his right hip, spilling a gruesome length of his innards onto the bloodied earth.

  "Wenloff," the long-haired Friez said amid the archers' screams, "Maybe we should pull back. They're all dead, see?" He pointed at the foot soldiers. But Wenloff Friez's silence was leaden; so he gave up. "You will bear the 'Girl on a Lance', Gauner," Wenloff rumbled, his voice a low growl that promised retribution for any disobedience. Gauner, reluctant, took the blood-stained lance from the dog-headed Friez. "Felix, Regan—you two, keep the Monster Slayer alive."

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  Felix, the dog-helmed Friez, panted like a hound. Regan wore the simplest Ptolemaick-era bucket helm, only his eyes and a few air holes visible. "Irene, need a hand?" Banli called from behind cover. "I can handle them alone," the Monster Slayer said curtly. "Help Roche."

  Felix swung down from his saddle with a brutal sort of grace, and not even the leering hound's visage of his helm could entirely mask the slavering, maniacal grin beneath. Irene only now realized how huge he was—almost as tall as the burly Wenloff. (Nearly eight feet…) She eyed the long spear in his hands. (And that spear of his… it must be half again as tall as a grown man.)

  The dog-headed Friez was not cautious. The moment he hit the ground, he strode toward Irene, not a hint of hesitation. He went from a brisk walk to a full sprint in about a second. The Monster Slayer raised her sword, pupils narrowing, gaze locked on her foe. Felix stopped abruptly, thrusting his spear one-handed. Irene darted left, sword raised to her face—she expected a sweeping strike next. What she hadn't expected was the sheer force. Her sword blocked the sweep, but she was sent flying several meters.

  Regan, unlike Felix's leather armor, was encased in steel, a walking pile of iron. The dwarves couldn't find a single gap their axes could exploit. Regan bore a colossal, long-hafted maul, and with every ponderous, whistling swing, the very air seemed to keen in its passage. Roche and Banli dared not meet his blows, forced to keep their distance, retreating step by step. Soon, the tavern that once sheltered them became a trap—there was nowhere left to run. One mighty strike from Regan smashed a hole in the tavern's wooden wall.

  Irene pushed herself up, never taking her eyes from Felix's feet. (Don't forget your training,) she told herself. (Remember the ground traps, the stakes on the cliff. The pendulums, the dodges, left foot back, crouch low. Dodge, quick step forward with the right, lean back… dodge…)

  Felix panted with excitement, Irene could feel his breath hissing between his teeth. Felix gave his great, helmed head a violent, dog-like shake, spraying spittle, then hurtled once more towards the Monster Slayer. (He's not a total madman—at least in this fight.)

  Felix lunged with the spear. Irene danced on her toes, agilely dodging thrust after thrust, blocking sweeping blows with her blade. She knew her limits—she knew the Tears of Nira let her block a medium ghoul's blow with brute force. (But not the sword…) she thought, (My blade can't match that iron spear.)

  But she had technique—the technique of a lifelong dancer, and a passable Monster Slayer besides. Her catlike pupils narrowed, and the world seemed to slow. (Farmer Dance.) She waited for the dog-headed Friez's spear to reach its fullest extension, then raised her blade overhead for a powerful downward strike. Sword met spear with a shriek, then the spearhead bit into the earth at an angle. Felix hadn't expected such force, nor that she could muster it. He wrapped his arm around the shaft to avoid being knocked flat. (Branches. Stakes.) Irene stepped in, leaping onto the spear's shaft. (Just like branches, like stakes.) Her weight and the deeply buried spearhead kept Felix from pulling it free at once. (On your toes, Irene—simple, gentle, just like this, step across.) Like in training, she shifted her weight to her toes, spun, and danced along the flexing spear handle, aiming to close in and strike for Felix's head.

  The dog-headed Friez howled with rage—louder than any ghoul Irene had ever heard. Suddenly, she felt herself lurching side to side—Felix, with inhuman strength, had ripped the entire spear from the earth. As she was about to fall, she crouched, let the shaft's flex launch her skyward, and after a backflip as natural as breathing, landed lightly on her feet.

  Felix's effort sent him sprawling. Seeing the opening, Irene rushed in, but she was too eager—she hadn't expected him to recover as fast as a drowned ghoul hitting shore. He abandoned his unwieldy weapon and lunged at her barehanded. Irene dodged to the side; the dog-headed Friez howled at missing his prey, and as he turned, Irene, like a farmer harvesting, brought her sword down from overhead. A muddy clang of iron, something breaking—she struck the snarling helm. A second, clearer ring: her steel sword snapped in two.

  Felix dropped to his knees, blood seeping from under the helmet. At least she'd cracked his skull. The Monster Slayer wiped away the blue tears flung behind her ear. (Otherwise, I might've been the one in trouble.)