Reyn tested the third pit trap's covering with her boot, watching the thin wood bend under minimal pressure. It would hold long enough to look like solid ground, which was all they needed. The exhaustion from yesterday's Frenzy made even this simple task feel like swimming through porridge.

  "Deeper on the left side!" Corelei's voice carried across the square. "You think a chargin’ horse will politely step into the shallow end?"

  The townspeople worked with the focused energy of people who'd discovered that impending doom was excellent motivation. They'd been at it since dawn, turning their quiet river town into something that might generously be called defensible.

  "I'm helping!" the survivor announced, dragging a cart toward the main barricade. He'd found clothes somewhere, though he wore them with the confidence of someone who'd just invented the concept. "I definitely know something about defensive positioning. This is like chess, right? I remember that one."

  "Sure," muttered one of the farmers. "Chess with swords."

  "Swords?" The survivor brightened. "I think I can use one!"

  Reyn moved to the next position, checking sight lines. Her body felt like it belonged to someone else, someone who'd been beaten with hammers and then asked to run a marathon. Every Bormecian learned about Frenzy aftereffects during training, but experiencing it was different. It was like her strength had taken out a loan and now the collectors had come. There was a reason they spent years learning to control the Rage, only using what they needed.

  Corelei appeared at her elbow with a cup of something that smelled like stubborness mixed with herbs. "Drink."

  "What is it?"

  "The kind of tea that makes you forget you're tired. My grandmother's recipe."

  Reyn drank. It tasted like someone had boiled oak bark with alcohol and a hint of mint. Surprisingly, she did feel slightly more alert.

  "Positions look good," Reyn said, surveying their work. Three main barricades using overturned carts, furniture, and anything else that suggested it might slow down a charging man. Archers positioned on rooftops, mostly hunters who knew which end of the arrow went forward.

  "They'll hold until they don't," Corelei said . "How many are comin’?"

  "Twenty, maybe thirty. I think. We don’t know their numbers." Reyn rolled her shoulders, trying to work out stiffness that went bone-deep. "They'll test the defenses first. When that doesn't work, they'll adapt."

  "And then?"

  "Then we find out if furniture makes good shields."

  One of Corelei's runners sprinted into view, a girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen. "Dust on the north road! Moving fast!"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  The square transformed. People who'd been working with focused determination now moved with focused panic. Final preparations, last-minute position changes, mothers ushering children to the designated safe house that was really just the sturdiest building they could find.

  Venn appeared from the makeshift medical station, medical bag in one hand and quarterstaff in the other. "How are you feeling?"

  "Like I wrestled thirty men and an ox yesterday and lost."

  "You won."

  "My body disagrees."

  The dust cloud resolved into shapes. Three groups, exactly as Reyn had predicted. They moved with coordination, shields up, formation tight. This wasn't a mob of bandits. This was a somewhat professional military unit that happened to commit crimes.

  They stopped just outside of pit trap range, because of course they knew about pit traps.

  "People of Rivier!" The speaker stood behind the safety of the front line. "You have one chance to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Surrender the town peacefully, and only those who raised weapons against us will face justice."

  "Define justice," Corelei called back, because apparently she'd decided negotiation was her job now.

  "Swift."

  "That's not very specific."

  "It's specific enough."

  Reyn studied their formation from her position at the central barricade. Standard approach, nothing special. The kind of tactics any semi-competent mercenary company would use. But something felt off. Their discipline was too good, their positioning too precise for common sellswords.

  "I think we'll decline your generous offer," Corelei announced. "But thank you for askin’ first. Very polite of you."

  The Crimson Hand leader made a simple hand gesture. Not the one speaking, Reyn noted, but someone standing with the central group. Someone large. The assault began.

  They came carefully, testing. The first rider discovered the pit traps when his horse suddenly found itself exploring what lay beneath the road. The crash was spectacular, the screaming less so.

  Arrows flew from the rooftops with more enthusiasm than accuracy. Most thunked into shields or sailed past entirely, but they forced the attackers to advance slowly, shields high.

  "Seventeen!" the survivor shouted from somewhere to Reyn's left. "Seventeen comes after sixteen! I'm on a roll!"

  The Crimson Hand adapted quickly. Too quickly. They split into smaller groups, probing for weaknesses. When they found the gap between the second and third barricades, they flowed through like water finding a crack.

  That's when Reyn saw him.

  He emerged from the central group as his men engaged the defenders. Average height for a Bormecian, which meant he towered over most of the locals. He moved with an economy of motion that made Reyn's exhausted muscles ache in sympathy. Two braids, barely decorated. A greatsword that looked like it had seen too much use.

  He hit the first barricade's defenders like a battering ram.

  Reyn watched him flow through the defensive line, not just overpowering but using techniques she recognized from her own training. A farmer with a pitchfork tried to keep him at distance. The Bormecian redirected the thrust, stepped inside the reach, and put the man down with an elbow strike that was almost gentle by Bormecian standards.

  "No," Reyn breathed, pushing herself forward. But her body responded like she was moving through honey. Too slow. Too tired. Too far away. She tried to pull on her Rage, but there was little to gain.

  The Bormecian carved through defenders. Not killing, she noticed, but incapacitating. Broken arms, dislocated shoulders, precise strikes that took people out of the fight without taking them out of life. It would have been merciful if it wasn't so professionally destructive.

  A group of townspeople, including some elderly who'd insisted on fighting, stood between him and the medical station. They raised their improvised weapons with the kind of courage that came from having nowhere left to run.

  Reyn knew what would happen next. She'd seen Bormecian warriors in action. These brave farmers would last exactly as long as it took him to reach them.

  She tried to run, but her legs had other ideas. The Crimson Hand soldiers between her and him might as well have been mountains. She cut through them, but each movement cost more than it should. Good Deeds felt like it weighed as much as the responsibility she carried.

  The other Bormecian raised his sword, preparing to scatter the defenders like autumn leaves.

  "STOP!" The word tore from Reyn's throat in Bormecian, carrying across the battlefield with the force of desperation.

  He paused. Turned.

  Their eyes met across the chaos of battle. His were brown, like hers, but older. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion. Something moved in them. Recognition? Evaluation? For a moment that stretched like taffy, they simply looked at each other.

  Then his lips quirked in what might have been a smile or might have been disappointment, and he turned back to the defenders before him.

  The sword began its descent.

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