Jack and Cain moved up the slope searching for a more defensible position. The mountain’s edge narrowed to a jagged shelf of stone, no wider than a corridor. On one side, a sheer cliff face, and on the other, a steep drop into a churning river. Below, the hounds howled and barked like they could summon death itself. The path ahead twisted into switchbacks and steep ridges, slick with broken shale.

  They stood on one such ledge, ten paces wide. The perfect place to make their final stand.

  Cain slapped the horses. They stumbled uphill, trembling, and half-dead, but moving.

  “If we live, we’ll need them. If we die… well, not our problem,” Cain said with a grin.

  Jack gave a weak smile at his optimism. He knew they weren’t getting out of this alive. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. I’ve failed you again. He thought about his family as he prepared to die. He wondered what they’d do later today. They’ve probably been up all night worrying that I didn’t come home. The guilt burned deeper than his exhaustion.

  Below, the enemy had gathered. Two dozen guards. Mostly beastkin spearmen and warriors, armoured in boiled leather, chainmail, and steel-reinforced jerkins. A couple had bows strapped to their backs. Two carried nets and truncheons. A dozen hound handlers stood at the rear, the deer-hounds and lymer hounds thrashing and barking like they could already taste blood on the wind.

  Jack could feel it in the pit of his gut; the hounds wanted their well-earned meal.

  Three nobles stood behind the guards. The other nine older blood mages, including Viscount Tides, were not present.

  Baron Greaves’ face was unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back, as if he were awaiting a lecture to begin. To his left, Baron Argil, trembling with rage, eyes red with fury. To his right, Baroness Vampese, lips curled in a twisted half-smile. Like she was watching a favourite play.

  And behind them, young Fenton, stood tall, stiff, and glaring. His blond hair was wild, his sword was drawn, and his eyes were locked onto Jack like a predator with an ancient grudge.

  “It might be just me… but I believe they might be a tad upset about something. Do you think we can talk our way out of this? Invite them to a wine and cheese tasting, perhaps?” Jack joked.

  Cain gave a hearty laugh, the sound echoing against the mountainside. “Maybe if we had a few barrels of dwarven ale, but alas, we’re all out.”

  Jack chuckled. “Looks like they’re underestimating us. They’re only sending two dozen well-trained guards and four blood mages. This will be a piece of cake.”

  Cain smiled. “Let’s make them regret that decision. I’ll die happy if I take one noble with me.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Jack nodded. The joking around was helping calm his frayed nerves. I’ll die happy if we kill Greaves. It might just save my family.

  Deep down, he knew there was little chance Greaves was going to die today. Not with a Mage Shield, and Gods knows how many enchanted items protecting him. He could hit the Baron with his four remaining [Frost Breath] and [Fireball] spell scrolls while Greaves stood still. Only to find he had multiple protective enchantments that negated the attacks. It was a certainty that the older nobles could absorb at least one of all common mage spells before becoming vulnerable.

  A bronze messenger beetle buzzed up the valley and landed in Greaves’ palm. He whispered into its pulsing blue shell and released it. The drone departed back the way it came.

  Cain checked the grip of his sword. Jack counted his arrows; eleven left.

  “They’ll send a small group,” Cain said. “Test us. Maybe try to take us alive. I fight until I die.”

  “I fight until I die,” Jack echoed.

  Jack offered Cain his hand. Cain took it.

  Jack offered a prayer to Moras, the God who personified inevitable doom. “I pray Moros, dark-born son of Nyx, the shadow that walks ahead of death, watches over you today. May he grant you the strength to face what must be, and the clarity to see the thread as it nears its end. Walk with open eyes into your fate, and let no fear stain your final hour.”

  Cain towered over Jack with a huge grin. “You’re full of surprises, Jack the scribe.” He patted him on the shoulder as the prayer ended. “Let’s kill some bastard nobles and meet our fates head on.”

  Jack almost buckled from the heavy shoulder pat. He doesn’t know his own damn strength.

  Six guards began the climb. A wolfkin with a spear. A tigerkin with a net. A hawkkin with curved knives. A human with a hooked blade. A foxkin with a sword. And a towering bearkin carrying a club as thick as Jack’s torso, banded with iron rings.

  As they climbed, the taunts began.

  “Hope you brought clean trousers, boys,” the tigerkin called up. “We’re not taking prisoners who piss themselves.”

  Cain laughed.

  “Save me the pretty one,” the hawkkin said, licking her blade. “The young one with the little dagger.”

  Jack stiffened.

  The bearkin let out a roar and beat his chest with his club. “I’m gonna wear your spine like a belt, boy!”

  Cain chuckled. “They talk too much.”

  “They’re trying to shake us,” Jack said, but his hand still trembled on the bowstring.

  The guards climbed the slope with caution, like they were hunting dangerous prey. But Jack could see it in their eyes that they didn’t expect much resistance from him. Of course, they’d be wary of Cain, but not him. They expected to make sport of the weak scribe. You’ll regret underestimating me.

  Cain stepped forward to the narrowest point of the ledge.

  Jack stayed a step behind, white oak bow in hand, his heart hammering as he nocked and drew back an arrow. He activated True Aim and aimed at the largest target, the bearkin who was hefting the massive club. If I miss, I should throw myself in the river.

  The bearkin let out a roar that echoed across the cliff face. He knew Jack had targeted him. He bellowed again and pointed his club at Jack. “You’ll be red paste, twig-boy!”

  Come on, Jack thought while waiting for the skill to activate. I’ll only get one chance. True Aim took too long to activate for a fast-paced fight. It would be his opening shot, and then only faster arrow shots… if he had time.

  Jack focused. Six seconds. Just hold. The skill activated, and he loosed the arrow. The arrow struck with a thunk just beneath the bearkin’s collarbone. Blood welled, and the bearkin staggered… but didn’t stop. He roared, ripped the arrow from his chest, and kept coming.

  Jack gulped. Fuck! I just pissed him off! He nocked another arrow.