It didn’t take Dean long to find his way to the warehouse where the hostages were kept. The front of the building, the place where the main gate was situated, was heavily guarded. When he’d tried wandering up to them pretending to be drunk and lost, the guards had waved him away.

  These, too, were former soldiers. Dean didn’t need to see the tattoos of service on the inside of their wrists to know it was true. Their sobriety and the way they held themselves apart from the other bandits was proof enough.

  It was what he needed to confirm. Most of these men were petty criminals. Thieves, swindlers, and even smugglers who’d been recruited by this man they called the chief. Bandits were nothing new, although their prolonged existence in the empire was uncommon. But veteran soldiers? When Dean had fought in the militia, there had been a certain pride among soldiers. To serve one’s empire, especially against the forces of hell, was considered honorable.

  But these men… These soldiers were nothing more than mercenaries. But why join forces with a bandit group destined for the gallows? Surely short-term profit wasn’t worth one’s life and honor. All these thoughts and more swirled around in Dean’s mind as he rounded the corner into the alleyway beside the warehouse. A thick wooden fence blocked access to the run behind the warehouse itself. He peered through one of the gaps between slats and could make out a single back door. That door was chained, and the guard wearing the key was sitting in an old chair nearby. His hat was tipped over his face, and every once in a while, a snore would sound from within it.

  That was his way inside. A loud bark of laughter sounded from behind him, and Dean tensed, turning to see two bandits entering the alleyway. They were clearly drunk in the way they tottered back and forth. One had the sleeve of his padded shirt rolled up, his arm draped over the shoulder of his companion.

  “Ah, now I missed this,” he said, pushing off and making his way to a stop at an alcove. “Been a while since we’ve been allowed to just let loose. All those weeks spent squatting in the woods like a bunch of beggars.” He spat on the ground, or at least tried to, only to have the glob of phlegm land on his boot.

  “But the chief changed things for us. We ain’t beggars no more, no. Now we’re warriors. Real warriors.”

  The other bandit laughed, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

  “Listen to yourself. We’re better off, aye. At least when it comes to the pay and the, well, liberties...” He cast his gaze in the direction of the warehouse and grinned. He was missing a tooth. “But we ain’t soldiers. At least, not like the chief’s favorites. Why should they get all the glory, eh? The best gear and weapons, first pick of the loot and of the women.”

  He shook his head.

  “Nah, that ain’t right if you ask me. Think they’re better than us, they do. In their fancy armor with their fancy...” He hiccupped loudly and fell silent. There was an unzipping and then a splatter as his companion relieved himself against the wall.

  Charming, Dean thought as he stood in the shadows. The men hadn’t noticed him yet, but without the cloak to shield him, the best he could do was remain still and hope these bandits were too drunk to see straight.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” grunted the companion as he adjusted his steam. “Things were all well and good with us before Damon was in charge. Damn, that mercenary thinks he can come in and tell us how to be. How much to drink, how much to eat. Now he says we ain’t allowed to touch the prisoners. What’s the point of having prisoners if you can’t fuck with ‘em, eh?”

  He belted out a laugh so loud it echoed off the nearby buildings. Dean winced and glanced through the crack, but the sleeping guard seemed undisturbed.

  “Aye, that’s what I’m saying. Banditry used to be fun. We could have strung them up and played target practice, you know, like the old days. Like they used to do with those…” The man’s words seemed to elude him once again, and the splatter of vomit across the street was a clear indication of why. His companion snickered.

  “You know why. The prisoners are for them rituals, ain’t they? That dark magic. We don’t want to be anywhere near here when that happens.”

  The back of Dean’s neck prickled. Dark magic? Perhaps a mix of alcohol and superstition had them spouting nonsense. Or perhaps… perhaps something else was going on. Dean took one last glance at the sleeping guard before he sighed internally.

  His brain was telling him to move on, to let it be, and let the loose ends stand. He had a job to do, a mission to perform, and time was slowly ticking away. At the same time, his instincts were warning him that something dangerous was going on here.

  He clenched his jaw, swearing under his breath as he stepped forward out of the shadows. He couldn’t simply let it go. Not with his suspicions rising.

  Dean moved quickly, closing the distance between himself and the men faster than any normal man should have. The bandit taking a leak was just finishing up, belting his trousers back up, when Dean’s blow came from behind. Dean backhanded the man with enough force that his head bounced off the wall, knocking him instantly unconscious. He keeled sideways, and Dean stepped over him as his companion turned. The man’s grin faded to a frown as Dean approached.

  “What are you –” he started to say, but then he met Dean’s gaze and froze. Dean’s inherited trait pinned the man like a lanced fish, forcing him to go rigid. His eyes widened, and he tried to fight it, but he was no longer in control of his body.

  “Listen to me,” Dean said, stepping so close to the man that they were nearly chest to chest. He could practically smell the fear radiating off the bandit as he stared into Dean’s cold silver gaze.

  “I’m going to give you one chance and one chance only to tell me what I want to hear. Fail, and I’ll slit your throat and leave you to bleed out like a pig in a slaughterhouse. It won’t take long, given how much alcohol thins the blood. But it will be long enough for you to regret your decision.”

  He tapped the blade of his knife against the man’s collarbone.

  “Do you understand?”

  The bandit blinked slowly, his head dipping slightly as he tried and failed to nod. Dean smiled coldly.

  “Good. These rituals… the ones your companion called dark magic. Tell me what he meant.”

  The man’s throat bobbed.

  The back door to the warehouse flew open, and Shae whirled out and would have taken Dean’s head off with an axe swing, had he not caught the haft of her weapon in one hand.

  He gestured to himself, then reached up to pull off his helmet. He almost sighed in relief when the cool air hit him. Dean hated helmets, always had. The restriction to hearing and vision was a debuff he’d never considered worth it on the battlefield. One of the few things he and Captain Ridley had vehemently disagreed on.

  “How did you get past the guard?” asked Shae in an urgent whisper, glancing over his shoulder. The guard was still slumped in his chair, hat hanging over his face. Only now, a steady drip of blood was pooling by his boots. “Ah,” said Shae, nodding. “I suppose that figures. I had to kill a sentry on the way in. Wouldn’t leave me alone, kept insisting I identify myself. In the end, he was drawing so much attention to me, I didn’t have a choice.”

  “Where did you stow the body?”

  “Bottom of a dried-up well. They won’t find it anytime soon. At least, not in the dark. How’d you fare?”

  Dean glanced at the two bodies now hidden in the shadow of the alleyway.

  “I was less discreet,” he admitted. “I’d say our time is limited before they’re discovered. If we want to make a move, we’ll want to do so soon. How are the hostages?”

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  The scout knelt next to the door, his ear pressed to it as he listened to the guards outside. At the sight of Dean, he gave a nod, which Dean returned in kind. The inside of the warehouse was dark and dingy. It had been emptied of most supplies and valuables and instead housed only villagers. Dean’s stomach turned over when he saw the state of many of the village people.

  There were ropes tied around their necks and wrists. Dean could see areas where the skin was torn, rubbed raw by the tightness of the bonds. The villagers hunched together, their eyes downcast. Many of them had been beaten or worse judging by the scratches and bruises on many of the young men. And then there were the women.

  They were huddled at the center of the group with the children. The men had formed a protective ring around them, and the look in these villager’s eyes, the hatred in them, told Dean all he needed to know.

  “It’s alright, everyone,” said Shae, her voice carrying in a low whisper. “This is Dean Thompson. He’s with us, an Adventurer.”

  An older man with a cut along his forehead pushed himself to his knees. It was clear that he had been recently unbound, as the rope marks around his hands and feet were still raw and fresh. Several of the other men bolstered him, lending the elder their strength as he forced himself to stand.

  “Dean Thompson,” said the elder, looking over him. He nodded slowly. “We are grateful to see our prayers answered. When the village was first attacked, we prayed that the local garrison would come. That imperial troops might storm this place and set things right. We held out, you know.” His smile was tight. “We might be a small town, but we wouldn’t go down without a fight. Our families have lived in the south for generations. We’ve fought off raiders, thieves, and brigands before. Little did we know that this time things would be different.”

  The other hostages grunted in agreement, some nodding, others turning their faces away in shame.

  “We failed, as you can see,” said the elder. “These bandits, they aren’t like any criminals we’ve had to beat off our doorstep before. They’re organized, they’re equipped, and they fight like… like…”

  “Soldiers,” said Dean grimly. The man nodded.

  “We didn’t go down easy. The gods themselves know that. We fought, as all men ought to protect their homes. But in the end, they overwhelmed us. They captured others, forced us to throw down our arms and capitulate.”

  The man swallowed hard.

  “But in the end, I doubt it was worth it.”

  “They’ve been taking prisoners,” chimed in Shae. Her grip on her axe kept shifting, and Dean could tell she was agitated.

  “Two at a time usually. They say every night they take them, and they don’t come back.”

  Dean felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool night air. He knew these rituals… knew what they meant. And before he’d killed the bandit, he’d gotten confirmation of what he had already suspected.

  “Dean, they are doing something to these people.”

  “I know.”

  Shae’s face paled.

  “You saw?”

  Dean shook his head.

  “No, I… interrogated someone. Listen.” Dean turned towards her. “We should have this conversation in private. Away from –”

  He flicked his gaze to the children who hunched in their mothers’ arms. Shae swallowed and nodded. Several of the men were bending down, and Dean saw the flash of steel as they were freed from their bonds. It was only a matter of time.

  “I’ll come,” said the old man. “And so will the other elders.”

  Dean started to protest, but the man’s gaze was steel as he lifted his chin.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Thompson, my people deserve to know exactly what is happening here. Men have lost wives. Women have been widowed. Children have been left parentless. We have bled, and we have lost. We deserve to know why.”

  Dean glanced around the room, at the figures huddled together wearing ragged clothing and hopeful expressions. But what Dean had mistaken for weakness before he now saw was something else. Resolve. Every eye turned towards him had in it the hard edge of determination.

  Dean bowed his head.

  “Very well,” he said. “Gather your elders.”

  The scout gave them the all clear, and Shae and three of the villagers stepped aside, away from the prying eyes and ears of the others. At first, Dean relayed what he’d seen, explaining the bonfire and his encounter with some of the bandits. Then he launched into an account of what he’d learned. By the time he’d reached the conclusion, several of the elders looked pale. The old man, whom Dean now knew as the village leader, paced before him.

  “Goblins?” he asked, his voice incredulous. “It cannot be. Men do not ally themselves with monsters. It cannot… that cannot…” He was shaking his head, his mouth opening and closing. The female elder, a robust woman with muscular forearms and a round face, looked troubled.

  “So they are selling us off to this… shaman? As food?”

  Dean hesitated, and the woman’s eyes narrowed.

  “I have reason to believe it’s far worse than that. This goblin shaman uses dark magic. Occult stuff, things that are forbidden to human casters. That we know, there is only one type of magic that uses human sacrifices in its rituals.”

  Shae went still as Dean’s words landed. She turned to him, her eyes going wide.

  “You cannot mean... Dean, those are legends. Dark stories meant to scare children. They aren’t real.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Dean’s face was impassive as he met her stare. He could hear the elders muttering together, but he didn’t look away. He knew that what he was saying sounded mad. To most people these days, demons were nothing more than a fairy tale. But Dean knew differently. Right now he wanted to tell her everything. Wanted to explain the signs that heralded demonic invasion. Wanted to explain that as far as he knew this was just the beginning.

  But he knew from experience that trying to force the issue wouldn’t lead to the outcome he wanted. Not yet.

  “It’s just a hunch,” he said. “But one thing is certain. The goblins, for some reason unknown to us, have formed an alliance with these men. I don’t know why or how. But the attack at River’s Crossing and the disappearances on the road – they’re all connected somehow. That much I know to be true.”

  “Shit,” muttered Shae, dropping into a crouch and resting her axe across her knees as she pressed her palms into her eyes.

  “Shit. Dean, this is bigger than us. We need the Guilds. Hell, we need to report this to the governor.”

  The elder shook his head.

  “I hate to break it to you, miss, but Haven is a three-day ride from here. Even if we were to dispatch a messenger, it would take the governor’s garrison days to prepare and march. We’re looking at a few weeks at most, likely more.”

  “He’s right,” said Dean grimly. He turned, clenching his jaw as he assessed their options. “What’s more, the lord of Bridgeport told me that he doesn’t think we can expect any help from Haven. The leadership there has expressed… reluctance to assist the south.”

  Shae rose slowly to her feet, disbelief on her face.

  “That might have been before, but this is a different matter. Bandit mercenaries and goblins joining forces? Not even the emperor himself would turn a blind eye to something like this.”

  “Then let us hope we get a chance to petition him. For now, our priorities haven’t changed. There are two dozen hostages here that need us; a third of them are children. We get them out first, no casualties.”

  Shae nodded, her face growing serious. The scout at the door caught Dean’s eye, giving him the signal. Dean nodded.

  “We’re grateful for your help, Adventurers. We know what you’re risking to help us.” The old man stepped forward, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “And yet you’ve stepped up when no one else would. We won’t soon forget it.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. In order to get the hostages out alive, we’ll need to ask something of you. It’ll be dangerous, but without your cooperation, making it past the guards will be impossible. Are you willing to try?”

  “Depends on what it is,” said the woman, sensibly. “But aye, Adventurer. We out here are hearty folk. We’ll stand with you. At least as best we can.”

  Dean looked to Shae, who nodded her assent. He glanced at the hostages. To the men and women whose homes had been taken from them. Whose people had been slaughtered in the name of some unknown dark intention.

  “Alright,” he said, steeling himself. “Here is what we need to do.”

  Sergeant Kane lit himself a cigarillo, frowning at the sound of revelry echoing through the village. Drunk men hooted and hollered, laughing and arguing with one another as the night wore on. He’d assumed, rather foolishly, that the bandits might drink themselves into a stupor by nightfall. But it would seem bandits had a stamina for getting themselves absolutely pissed.

  A fight broke out in one of the nearby buildings, and Kane watched with disgust as one of the windows shattered. A filthy man was thrown into the street, and the man who had thrown him, some big bastard whose face was covered in tattoos, came after.

  “This is the problem with bloody scum,” he said, dragging on his cigarillo and holding the smoke in his mouth. “No fucking decorum. They slobber all over each other like mad dogs. No self-control, no common sense. Just pointless fucking violence. While we’re stuck up here doing the real work.”

  One of his men, a mercenary the others had come to call the Hound, nodded his head and grunted. He was a man of few words, the Hound. And despite this, he managed to convey his disdain for the bandits in that one simple sound.

  “How long must we keep up this farce, sarge?” asked one of the others. It was Aken, his visor lifted up, his customary expression of boredom and disinterest plain for all to see. That expression never changed, Kane knew. Not even on the killing field.

  “I mean,” said the man, adjusting his sword belt. “How long until Declan gives us the all clear to kill them? It’s not like they are of any value to the cause. Damon said –”

  “Piss on what Damon said.”

  Kane made to drag on his cigarillo again, only to find it had gone out in the bloody cold wind. Fuck it all. He tossed it away with a hiss of annoyance, pushing himself off the barrel he’d been sitting on to pace.

  “It’s Damon’s fault we’re in this mess at all. Partnering with criminals was bad enough, but now we’re making deals with green skins? They’re monsters, for Valnir’s sake. These are the gods-damned enemies of mankind, not our allies. I signed up for liberation, not this madness. This was supposed to be about the South. About bloody independence.”

  The Hound grunted again, and Aken leaned over and spat on the ground. The spit was dark, a testament to the man’s unfortunate dip habit. It was more dignified to smoke. Every soldier knew that.

  “I could give a damn who we work for or why,” he said, sniffing in that peculiar way he did. “I just care that we get paid. And money is late.”

  Typical for a bastard like him not to stand for anything.

  “Money’s late because we haven’t finished the job,” said Kane. “You know the drill. We’re to stay here until Damon makes the trade. When that’s done, then we torch the place. Kill and burn any stragglers, and that’s that. No loose ends. And it’s not like these bastards deserve any mercy.” He scratched at his neck, the same spot he’d been scratching at for days, and cursed when a few ribbons of dry skin came away. Gods-damned rashes. This was what happened when he was away from the bathhouses for too long. Or perhaps the ugly rash now spreading up his neck from his shoulder was an unwanted memento from his last brothel visit. Oh, how the gods loved to punish him.

  “Can you believe they think themselves our equals? Petty criminals.”

  He laughed, and the sound was echoed by his other men. His merriment died, however, when a sound came from the warehouse they were guarding. It was a wail, long and drawn out. The sound of grief. The Hound frowned towards it, but Kane waved a hand.

  “Ignore it,” he said. “Whatever’s going on in there isn’t our problem.”

  “But what if something’s wrong?” asked Aken, adjusting his helm and glancing at the door. “Damon said they needed live prisoners, not dead ones.”

  Kane didn’t answer, choosing instead to rummage in his inventory for his cigarillo tin. When he finally found it, he pulled it out, snapping it open and smiling when the smell of flavored tobacco hit him. That was all he needed to calm his nerves and his stupid rash. Just another pull from –

  A second wail went up, and Kane found himself grinding his teeth.

  “Sarge,” said Aken again.” “If one of them dies on our watch...” Kane resisted the urge to throw something as the sound continued.

  “I know, damn it,” he growled, slamming shut his cigarillo and shoving the cold one between his lips. As irritating as he could be, his soldier was right. Damon had given them one task, and that was to ensure the security of the prisoners. He had made it clear before he’d retreated to his gambling den inside the village hall that the prisoners were a form of currency. Though for what, Kane had no bloody idea.

  All he knew was that he wanted all of this to be over. Declan had promised them mounds of gold. Enough coin to retire from mercenary life and buy himself a nice house somewhere on the coast. And maybe find a girl. Or two. Or three, for that matter. The thought calmed his nerves, and finally, he waved a hand.

  “Go and check,” he said to Aken. “And whoever is making that gods-awful racket, shut them up. A good beating should keep things quiet. Make it severe, that way the others don’t have any... change of heart.”

  He inclined his head, and one of the other guards stepped forward, lifting the heavy beam off of the door. Aken rolled his shoulders, letting out a long sigh before pushing open the door and stepping into the darkness inside. Kane lit a match, bringing the flame to the end of his cigarillo until it smoked. Then he inhaled.

  Another fight had broken out in the nearby street to no one’s surprise, and he puffed, watching as three bandits went down in a flailing of tangled limbs and stupidity. Such a waste of time, he thought. To be here, now. They could have been miles away by now with all the loot and supplies that Declan had demanded.

  Being here, playing sitter to a bunch of blithering idiots, criminals, and scraped-up scum from the bottom of the barrel was frankly insulting. That house on the beach couldn’t come soon enough.

  He took another pull and glanced behind him to the open door.

  “Hurry it up,” he snapped. “I don’t want this door open longer than it needs to be.”

  Aken didn’t answer. The Hound was giving him a look, and Kane lowered his cigarillo, cocking his head.

  “What?”

  The Hound didn’t say a word, but the look in his eye was enough to make Kane sigh. Damn it all, he should have sent someone else. Aken had the unsavory habit of enjoying the company of women who did not enjoy his company. If Damon found out the goods had been damaged, he, Kane, would end up on the bull’s horns for this.

  “Bloody fucking shit,” Kane muttered, stubbing out his second cigarillo on his boot and tossing the thing away.

  “You two, go and get him. And If I find out that he’s done it again, tell him there will be hell to pay. A little public whipping might raise morale in this hellhole.”

  Two of his soldiers nodded, and he watched as they tromped towards the door. Why was it always him who had to sort things out? It had been that way in the army, and it was that way now. Always Kane whipping others into shape. Always him taking on the hard jobs that nobody wanted. And what did he have to show for it, either during his years of service or now? Bloody nothing.

  Well, Kane was tired of having nothing. In fact, he was tired of just about everything. He was –

  A sound interrupted his thoughts. It was a soft thumping nose, followed by the rasp of cloth on metal. Kane scowled.

  “Well?” he snapped. “Are you idiots quite done?”

  There was no answer from within the warehouse. In fact, there was no sound at all. Even the wailing had fallen silent. Kane stood slowly, his eyes flicking to the Hound who had followed suit. The soldier had drawn his short sword, placing a finger to his lips. Kane nodded slowly, placing a hand on his own sword as he gestured to his remaining man.

  Something wasn’t right, and he intended to find out what.

  “Aken?” he called, pulling his longsword from its sheath at his him. The metal came away with a clean rasp. Oiled, as it always was. “Answer me, damn you.”

  But nobody answered. Kane nodded to his men, and they moved forward, his lead soldier in front, Hound second as they moved towards the door. Kane shouldered the heavy warehouse door aside, glaring into the darkness. Hadn’t his men placed a lantern in here? And it stank, stank of unwashed bodies, stank of piss and fear and… something else.

  There was a metallic smell in the air. One he’d recognized during his time as a service man, and even after. It was the copper scent of blood.

  “Hold,” hissed Kane, his eyes darting around the dark corners of the warehouse. Something was very wrong. Kane fumbled with the crystal at his belt, shaking it until the light illuminated the space. The prisoners were still where they always were. Hunched together in a ground on the ground. And yet he could see no sign of his men.

  “The fuck,” he muttered, staring around. “What’s… where’s…”

  The sound of the door shutting behind him made him freeze. He turned his head, and what he saw nearly knocked the wind out of him. There were two people standing to either side of the door. One, an armored woman wielding an axe. And the other was a man. He was young by the look of him, younger than most fresh recruits Kane had seen. But he was muscular, broad in the shoulders, and he was carrying a sword so large that Kane’s brain took a moment to register its size. He blinked, his mind finally catching up to the fact that these people were impostors.

  “What the… who the hell are you?”

  That was the last thing he managed to say. Something slipped over his head, and Kane found himself being wrenched backwards off his feet. The woman wielding an axe stepped forward, so fast he almost missed it, but moments later the Hound’s head thudded to the floorboards, rolling back into the darkness. Kane tried to shout, tried to say anything really, but the thing around his neck, a rope he realized, was constricting his airway.

  “Quietly,” said the woman with the axe. The prisoners were standing now, and Kane was alarmed to see they were unbound. How and when the hell had that happened? A knife was flashing towards him, and Kane wasted no time in activating his combat skill. The knife bounced off of his neck, and Kane laughed into his gag.

  Stone Skin was his best skill, one he’d gained on the battlefield as a veteran. It was a skill that rivaled even that of an Adventurer, or so he’d been told. It rendered him temporarily invulnerable to all physical attacks, at least until the timer ran out.

  “Damn it,” hissed someone from behind him. “I can’t cut him!”

  The knife descended for him again, and this time he twisted, raising his armored forearm to deflect the blow. The hold on his ? loosened, and he managed to grab hold of one of his attackers and wrench them off balance. His sword flashed forward, but it stopped dead when a force unlike anything he’d ever felt clamped around his forearm.

  He looked down to see a gloved hand gripping his bracer as the second stranger appeared beside him. Kane fought, gritting his teeth as he exerted himself. He was invulnerable now. All he needed to do was free his mouth and sound the alarm. He was so close, and yet the stranger did not budge. In fact, his grip tightened, and Kane felt the metal of his armor creak and begin to bend inward.

  Kane gaped at him. Just what the hell was this man’s strength stat? It shouldn’t be possible, not for any normal…

  And that’s when the pieces of the puzzle snapped together for him.

  “Adventurer,” he hissed through his gag. But it sounded more like a muffled jumble. The man seemed to get his meaning, though, because he smiled, an expression that seemed strangely devoid of emotion.

  “That’s right.”

  Kane jerked in surprise as the woman’s axe flashed towards him, only to huff out a breath of relief moments later as it was deflected off his neck with a clang.

  “Shit. The others are right, Dean, he can’t be cut. Must be some sort of ability. We need to subdue him; we’re running out of time.”

  The Adventurer tilted his head, cold blue eyes boring into Kane’s. Kane felt the need to bare his teeth in response, the feral instinct of a cornered animal.

  That’s right, you bastard, you can’t kill me. Any second now, the alarm will go up and every person standing in this room with be fucking mincemeat.

  “Can’t kill you, huh?”

  It was as if the stranger had read his mind. The man reached out with his free hand, tapping at Kane’s cheek. He tried to jerk his head away, but his hands held him in place.

  “It’s true, his skin is as hard as rock. It’s a skill I’ve seen before, though I’ll say it’s very rare. It’s called Stone Skin, if I remember correctly.”

  Kane’s heart was thundering beneath his breastplate. How the hell could this kid possibly know that?

  “I don’t give a damn what the skill is,” snapped the woman with the axe. “I want to know how to kill him. We can’t afford to just tie him up and hope nobody stumbles across him. We could knock him unconscious, but if he wakes before we clear the camp, we’re as good as dead, and so are our charges. So, if we can’t cut him or break his bones, how do we kill him?”

  You can’t, you stupid bitch.

  Kane felt the triumph flooding back into him at her words. There was nothing they could do. No place on his body that could be stabbed. Not his eyes, not his nose. They had no choice but to spare him. He sneered at her through the gag, and she glared back, raising her axe.

  “There’s only one problem with that skill.” The man’s eyes locked on Kane’s, and he was forced to stare into them. Like blue chips of ice that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  “What?” The woman’s brows had drawn together. The Adventurer smiled again.

  “Every man needs to breathe,” he said.

  An iron grip clamped around Kane’s throat, lifting him off his feet like a child chastised by his father. One moment, he was struggling in the air, the next, he was slammed into the ground with a rattle of armor. He tried to fight, tried to push back against the hands holding him down, but the weight was too much for even him.

  He could see a forest of dirty bare feet around him. The prisoners. That was who was doing this to him.

  “Cover his mouth and nose,” said the man calmly from above him. “Hold him down until he stops kicking, and wait another minute after that just to be sure. Keep it quiet, the kids are out back, and they don’t need to hear this.”

  “And what about you?” asked a man from somewhere above him. “Aren’t you going to stay and see the job done?”

  The man only grunted.

  “The village square is crawling with bandits. With a group this large, we won’t make it twenty feet if I don’t do something about it.”

  “What are you going to do?” the woman asked again. But there was no fear in her voice, no sound of concern for her mad companion, who was striding into the midst of a camp of half-feral criminals, half of which had combat classes. No, if anything, she sounded exasperated.

  “Oh,” he said, as his boots thumped across the floor. “Trust me, you’ll know soon enough.”

  The door opened and shut softly, and Kane felt a surge of terror as he realized what was happening. The floorboards around him squeaked as more prisoners joined the ones holding him down. He could hear the low murmur of voices, the rustling of cloth. He tried to shout, to cry out, but the sound was muffled.

  “Thought you could come into our village,” said a voice from above him. Kane tried to turn his head, but someone grabbed it, slamming it into the floor. A sound choked from him. Was that a sob? Dear gods, he couldn’t go out like this.

  “No,” he tried to say. But it was lost in the confines of the rope gagging him.

  “Thought you could take liberties with our wives. Kill our people and steal what doesn’t belong to you?”

  Something appeared in front of his face, and Kane only saw a flash of cloth before it covered his eyes, nose, and mouth. He tried to scream, but the sound was muffled as hands clamped over his face. They were all over him, holding him down, shoving the cloth flush against his mouth until he struggled to draw in breaths. His feet kicked, the toes of his steel-toed boots, expensive boots, scraped against the floorboards.

  They couldn’t kill him. He was a bloody soldier. They were nothing. Villagers, mere civilians. Kane jerked wildly as his lungs began to burn. He couldn’t bloody breathe, damn it. Damp ran down his legs, and he realized with horror that he’d pissed himself.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was the strong one. He was the man who always held everything together in crisis. He wasn’t a bad man, not really. He was fighting against the oppression. Against the Empire’s need to put its boot on the throat of the South. Sometimes bad things had to happen so that good things could happen. Everyone knew that. So why was this happening to him of all people?

  Kane started pleading with the gods. He hadn’t prayed in ages. Not since he started working for Declan. But surely they would hear his prayers now. His vision began to fade as his lungs felt as if they’d caught fire. He was dying, he knew it. And it wasn’t fair.

  His last thought was of the man with the blue eyes. The coldness in them had frightened him. It was the lack of mercy or remorse. Those were eyes he knew well. Soldier’s eyes. Kane’s movements slowed. His vision went dark. He began to shiver. Was it fear? Or just the creeping cold? All the while, those eyes watched him in the back of his mind. Cold and unyielding.

  That man… whoever or whatever he was. He was the real monster.