In the end, inexperience betrayed her. The battle cry that channeled all her fury revealed her position, while the excessive charging distance gave the Friez ample time to react. The butcher pivoted swiftly, stepping two paces back and to his left; the spear merely grazed his right leg, staining his leather armor crimson. The spearwoman tumbled forward onto her husband's corpse. "Fucking hell!" he roared. "Who in damnation are you? Where did you crawl from?"

  "Die!" The spearwoman struggled to her feet, ignoring the bits of flesh stuck to her face and the nauseating stench of blood, clutching the spear with white knuckles. Now positioned between Carl Clawyn and the Friez, she inadvertently blocked Carl's opportunity to assist. (The ambush failed.) A knot of tension tighter than hers twisted in his gut. (I have to help this woman. If I don't, she will die...)

  "Are you blind?!" The Friez bent to check his wound, then roared at Carl, "You just watched that bitch skulking back there? She damn near killed me!" His face was purple with rage. "What are you staring at? Cut the whore down! She's right in front of you, you useless fool!"

  The spearwoman stepped over her husband's remains and advanced toward the Friez. Then she froze. Her daughter still peered through the doorway, her eyes fixed on the Friez's broad back. Less than ten paces separated them.

  That moment's hesitation proved fatal. The Friez seized his opening, sidestepping the threatening spear point; with his astonishing stride, he flanked the woman in two bounds. Carl Clawyn's sword cleared its scabbard almost reflexively, sensing her vulnerable moment and the imminent danger, but the distance between them was insurmountable. The maul crashed against her left temple with sickening force. Watching her mother collapse like a discarded doll, the girl shrank back behind the door.

  "Now you remember how to draw steel, do you?" He spat viciously onto the spearwoman's body—Carl wondered what reservoir within him produced such endless phlegm. "If I'd relied on you, that bitch would've opened my guts by now. Pah. What madness compels the Empire to knight such useless refuse?"

  (At least he hasn't discerned my intention.) Carl eased his blade back into its scabbard. (I should leave.) Half the little girl's face appeared again in the doorway. (But I must protect her... She's just like Amy... yes, my daughter.) He bit his lip until it nearly bled. (That monstrous bastard will soon discover someone hiding in the house, and he'll slaughter every living thing he finds. To a Friez, anything not a dog is merely prey...) The knight's hand hovered indecisively over his hilt. (But I can't defeat him. Cold reason tells me so. Despite his bulk—his heaviness—he moves with frightening speed. In a single breath, he crossed to the woman and brought the hammer down. No time to react—not for her, not for me.)

  Farone, the wounded knight, couldn't comprehend the distant commotion, hearing only raised voices. "Return, Carl!" he called feebly. "Forget the herbs—come back and talk awhile instead..."

  (...Perhaps I should go. Farone awaits.) He couldn't distinguish Farone's words either—just faint sounds carried on the wind. (You cannot save everyone, Carl Clawyn. You're merely a fallen knight—stripped of title, lands, and family members. All that was yours is gone. Leave. Entrust her to the Triad's mercy.) He tugged at the reins. "Departing, knight?" Carl Clawyn offered no response.

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

  "A word of advice—be vigilant on the battlefield." Initially Carl interpreted this as a threat—a Friez promise of assassination. "Don't carry that sluggish awareness into combat, or you'll end up scattered in pieces. Stay alert, knight. That's never poor counsel. Farewell. Good fortune to you. Try not to die too quickly."

  Carl Clawyn couldn't determine whether the Friez spoke sincerely or merely offered empty courtesy, yet somehow he felt something in those words—something no one should ever expect from a Friez. (Perhaps he'll spare the child. Perhaps he's an exception among his kind...)

  The dull thud of the hammer penetrating soft flesh; the girl's legs buckling slowly; her vacant, fish-dead stare—he heard and saw it all. In that instant, every extraneous thought was purged from Carl Clawyn's mind. The monster was beating her mother.

  What little courage remained, what rage still burned, and the tenderness he felt for the girl—all fused into a single impulse. He freed his longsword, drove his heels into the horse's flanks, and aimed for the Friez's massive, poorly protected throat, intending to impale him. The Friez heard the charge and tensed. "Another spearwoman?!" He raised his hammer high and turned, scanning his surroundings, ruining Carl's perfect line. In the next instant, realization dawned—the killing intent came from a fellow Imperial knight. The Friez hesitated, just for a heartbeat.

  That moment of uncertainty proved fatal. Carl Clawyn angled his blade, found his mark, and with the stallion's momentum behind it, cleaved deep into the Friez's neck. Blood sprayed from the draw-cut, splattering both him and his grey mount.

  (I killed him. Yes, Carl, you killed him.) He snapped his wrist to fling blood from the blade. (I did it. I killed him. Yes, you did. Well done.)

  The girl, trembling, watched the butcher collapse, then slowly emerged from behind the door. Carl shook off the last crimson droplets and sheathed his sword. He didn't know how to communicate with her, whether she understood any Common Tongue. (But that's not what matters now.) He steadied his breathing. (I'm an Imperial soldier who conversed with the Friez moments ago. And her mother died before my very eyes...) He feared she would be terrified of him.

  Carl chose patience over haste, deciding to wait. Eventually, the child pushed the cracked door wider, as if having carefully evaluated her options. His heart pounded harder. He released his grip on the sword hilt, intending to lift her onto his saddle. As for her future—where he would take her, how he would enter her life—he had no conception whatsoever.

  Carl Clawyn's outstretched hand froze mid-air. The little girl, still unsteady on her feet, approached her parents' bodies. Perhaps her father had been dead too long, his features too mangled—or perhaps there had been little affection between them—but she didn't touch him. Instead, she crouched beside her mother and, with hands far too thin for her age, shook her shoulder. By some cruel mercy, the spearwoman's ruined face was pressed to the earth, leaving only the unmarred side for her daughter to see. The girl shook and shook, childish words tumbling out in fragile syllables. "Wake," she said. "Wake, momma." No response came. "Wake... morn, momma. Sun is... morn. Wake, momma." She shook, and she called, and she wept.

  Carl Clawyn's helping hand remained suspended, frozen in the air between them.