Arnzos stepped into the lake; The diamond-colored waters enveloping his body bit by bit. It was the perfect temperature for bathing. Not blisteringly cold or boilingly hot, or even a bit too cold or a bit too hot. It was, in every definition of the word, perfect. As physical mud and grime came off, mixing with the gemmy waters, Arnzos let out a sigh that rang through the plains. Miles away, one would still hear the melting of his stress. He splashed more water on his body, scrubbing the spots that hadn’t seen any in weeks.

  When will he get a chance to loosen himself up again? Arnzos dreamed it would not take as long between last time and this time. Hmm, he needed to stop doing that. Worrying about future predicaments when his current situation was calm. One couldn’t blame him though. That was the mindset of a soldier, and after months of aimless crusades, it was hard to change it.

  Phyletta kneeled down, faced opposite of the lake. She stared at the hill behind it. Partly to take in its enchanting bloom of nature, but also because there was a naked man bathing himself in the lake five feet away. She was dead and had no concept of feelings anymore, but she still had her sense of etiquette. Two thousand years later, it would not help her in this moment. She was never that prudish… well, perhaps she was.

  She went from observing the hill to observing the horse. Arnzos’ supplies were in a handy grey saddlebag hanging next to the creature. As well as Roxbane. Sheathed in white and laying in the grass. That made her curious. She had to test something.

  As Phyletta made her way to Roxbane, she grazed it lightly. The same way she grazed the Psiona Construct earlier. Then, she went to grab it and pick it up. Her green-tinted grasp failed her. Fingers poking through the scabbard like it was a cloud. Though it was her who was nonphysical. Not Roxbane.

  “What are you doing?” Arnzos asked.

  She grabbed at it again. Still failing. She kept her gaze away from the lake. “Testing myself.”

  “Empress. I think I’ve dealt with enough people putting their hands on my belongings.”

  “I understand that. Really. I just want to—” She went for a third time. Perhaps it was a charm? Nope. Nothing changed this try. She let out a brief groan. “Fuck!”

  Instantly, her hands clamped over her mouth. As if some authority was to chastise her for swearing. Arnzos was bewildered. A grown woman—more accurately, the ghost of one—censoring herself? Or… it was less of a censoring and more of an expectance of punishment after said swear. Regardless, Arnzos thought it was funny. He shook his head, jangling out his urges to laugh.

  He laughed anyway. Phyletta still avoided eye contact. “Was that an old habit?” he said.

  “My father taught me it was improper to use profanity in front of men. I know it’s silly.”

  “Your dad sounds like an asshole.”

  Phyletta scoffed. “He was not! Do not insult my father like that. He did his best to take care of our family! The nerve of you.”

  “Okay, I get it. Sorry.” Arnzos retreated further into the lake. “It’s all right if your parents aren’t perfect. Mine weren’t. Well, you saw my memories. You know. With my mom never putting down the bottle and my dad… he had his…” Arnzos didn’t finish his sentence. Moved onto another. “Whatever. The wheels keep spinning and all that shit.”

  “Don’t move, bluescale!” A voice that wasn’t Phyletta’s ordered. He faced the new voice.

  Off the lake shore, was the voice’s body. A stout rodinkin—a mouse-like humanoid about two and a half feet tall, who was also bipedal—had his miniature crossbow ready to kill Arnzos. It would be done at the whistle of lips. Honestly, he found it hard to be threatened by a miniscule mouse gentleman. He was even shorter than dwarves. However, the rodinkin wore a hooded cloak that intrigued Arnzos. The hood was painted, split down the middle by a line. Black on the right. Red on the left. The color scheme followed the cloak as well. A striking mix, like onyx and blood.

  The mouseman had no awareness of Phyletta’s spectral self. She knew this too and took advantage of it. For she wrangled the spectrum of color from the blue lake into a refined luster. If released, it would blind this bandit just like Vaelar.

  “I’m unarmed. I’m not a threat.” Arnzos declared. “I’m naked after all. I can’t do anything to you.”

  It served him well to have an exchange with this rodinkin. For Arnzos watched the creeping spectral prepare herself. A helix of blindness soon to be unleashed from her palms. As she nearly snapped the helix like a dry bundle of wheat, another bandit appeared. The mouseman was east. Now this new enemy was northwest. It was as if he materialized from the six stray blue trees in the distance.

  More arrived. From south and north and upon the hill. Vagabonds, all in red and black, swarmed the lake. Their bows and crossbows and slingshots primed. Phyletta dimmed her destructive helix. For Arnzos, blue returned to the waters. Down from the green mound, where the greedy sentry once laid, came someone on horseback. An orange-scaled minidrake. Like the dwarven version of a dracokin.

  Fluffed against his back and chest was a luxurious coat of sheep’s wool. The kind nobles would wear. It spilled like molasses at his thighs; A liquid quality to it, but very clearly solid fuzz. His mount ambled to the water, drinking from it. The minidrake, Lord Palmgrease, swung a leg over. He was to get off the horse, and a nearby bandit abandoned his post to lift the Lord down.

  Arnzos, with a platoon of ranged hell pointed his way, gradually raised his hands. “Good afternoon.” he said.

  Palmgrease shuffled over to the stray horse and the scabbarded Roxbane. Observing them both like they were apes in a zoo enclosure. He even followed the rules of a zoo. No reaching out to pet the animals. “Where did you get this fine stock?” Palmgrease ignored his greeting. There was a shrill harshness to his throat. “Because I think this is mine.”

  Phyletta fluttered without purpose. The numbers these bandits had was too inordinate. She could blind Palmgrease, but then his lackeys would turn Arnzos into an archer’s training dummy. Blind a random archer and the same scenario would happen. It’s like she was trapped in a cage and only Arnzos’ charisma was the key. She held back for now.

  “I don’t mean to be inflammatory,” Arnzos responded. “But I’d like to keep my possessions. If that’s possible.”

  “Maybe it is.” Palmgrease broke the zoo rule. Ejecting the saber from its sheath. He catcalled the blade with a strident whistle. The Lord liked what he saw. If Arnzos could sweat, he’d be pouring rain.

  “Quite the intricate tool for a humble traveler.” Palmgrease said. He placed the sword back in its house. Tossed it away like a ball of paper. “Unless… you’re more than just a traveler.”

  “I’ve dabbled in combat. Around here, who hasn’t?”

  Arnzos wasn’t fearing for his life, but he wasn’t entirely untroubled either. What gave him a bit of solace was the wool coat drooped around Palmgrease’s shoulders. That could sell for quite a mountainous sum. Arnzos’ friend back in Vannid-Brugen, Olexei, had connections to find a buyer for a coat like Palmgrease’s. It was only fair for Arnzos to plan a theft of this minidrake’s coat, if the minidrake wanted to steal his belongings. He was okay with playing along. Somewhere down the line, that coat would be his.

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  It would pay for food. A good set of armor. Some less worn-out shoes. Frinzel’s expenses back home, with Guthro and Renzi and the crumbling shack they still inhabited. Arnzos would get them enough to find a better place. It was his home too, after all. He could afford to be a tad selfish if it helped out his family. I bet this lizard thinks he’s so slick, Arnzos believed. Right now, with so many bandits here, Palmgrease could have his power. But later, at a moment when he’s vulnerable, who knows what might transpire? Ystryx is a wildly weird place.

  “Get out of the water… what’s your name?” Palmgrease inquired.

  “Arnzos.”

  “Get out and put your clothes on, Arnzos. I want to test your skill with this saber. If you impress me, I have a job for you.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  All Palmgrease did was eep out the smallest of laughs. Arnzos could infer his fate. Awkwardly, watched by dozens of bloodthirsty raiders, he slipped from the gemmy lake out onto the pebbly shore. His hands covered his crotch as he made it to his equipment. Slipped it on—pants and shirt—as Roxbane soon honored his grasp. He saw Phyletta above him. Rather panicky. Uncertain of what she should do.

  “Should I blind him?” she asked. None of Palmgrease’s marauders heard her. It wasn’t possible for them to. Quite a neat addition to her other abilities. Arnzos shook his head. To her, it meant ‘no.’ To Palmgrease, who swung around a rapier, it looked like Arnzos was bored. As if he was already finished with their competition before it began. Insulting the Lord without clacking tongue to teeth. Unintentional on Arnzos’ part, but it was surely felt nonetheless.

  “Oh. Am I too lowly for you, Arnzos? A short minidrake thug like myself?” Arnzos tasted the venom from Palmgrease’s words. He was befuddled by the anger, until he realized he caught his gesture at Phyletta. Wasn’t meant for him. Still, didn’t matter to the Lord.

  “No, of course not. Mister…”

  “Lord Palmgrease.”

  Arnzos stored away his internal dialogue of ‘what’ and continued. “I’ve just been unlucky lately. I had another sword. Sunslash. Much, much better than this one. Got lifted off me by a little fucker back in Ontullia.”

  “Unlucky, but not so shocking.” the Lord replied. “Those pretty boys think that everything belongs to them. One of the many reasons I despise elves.”

  Arnzos and Palmgrease stood in a dueling position. Their boundaries closed ever so, as the bandits pushed them towards each other. They made a ring for the two to fight in. Entirely built from shuffling bodies and barbed arrows. Sure, it was easy for Palmgrease to feel confident. He had an entire legion of henchies to back him up. Arnzos focused on his rapier.

  He played words on repeat in his brain. ‘Disarm him. Do no real harm.’

  Palmgrease thrusted his metal. Arnzos caught him on the verge of his steel. The first time using this saber—it lent Arnzos too much rapidity. To the point where he didn’t know where his blade would end up when he swung it. Sunslash had a delectable heft to it. Balanced well with Arnzos’ powerful swings. Roxbane however? Much lighter and much more disparate. To the point of making him worse in combat.

  The Lord grazed Arnzos’ rib. He left a tear in the shirt. A hot red started to flow from Arnzos’ side. Accumulating in a circle on the inner cloth. It stained deeply. Arnzos plunged in retaliation. The Lord deflected. Then, he went for an impaling blow to the leg. The Lord prevented it. This saber was ruining Arnzos’ swordsmanship. He retreated—a wobbling withdrawal.

  “This is not impressing me.” Palmgrease chided. “I need bite. I need viciousness. Tap into the dragon, Arnzos!”

  Arnzos let his dragon’s jaws free. He was without plan of attack. He stabbed and chopped and sliced away; Precision so faulty, he was like a rabid beast that wanted vengeance on the air itself. Phyletta worried about his defensive capability. All this offense meant Palmgrease needed just one moment to… riposte! And so the Lord did. His rapier punctured Arnzos’ hand and knocked the saber into the crowd.

  It was a duplication of his duel with Vaelar. Two to zero on losing his weapon to a cocky bastard. But the words on repeat in Arnzos’ brain didn’t leave yet. ‘Disarm him. Do no real harm.’

  Palmgrease bowed for his spectators. Some of them clapped. Palms against wood. “I am so impressive. You though, Arnzos, not so mu—” Palmgrease let out a tiny chirp, like a freshly born chick, as the dracokin lifted him up by his head. Just because he had no weapon doesn’t mean he was defeated.

  Arnzos threw around Palmgrease, as if he were a straw doll. Once a confident minidrake reduced to a shrieking lizard. The bandits gasped and wowed, but hesitated to shoot their volleys. Arnzos twisted Palmgrease’s wrist to hurl away the rapier. It also flew into the crowd. After, he slammed the Lord—teeth to dirt—as Palmgrease twirled and oomphed onto his stomach.

  “Oooo… owie…” Palmgrease eeked out.

  Arnzos won. Only for the army of bows and crosses to stick him with a million bolts. They nearly fired, until…

  “Wait!” the Lord eeked again. This time—a touch louder in volume. “Keep him alive. He’s impressed me!”

  The Knights of Butcherie shrugged and huh’d, as their arsenal was put aside. The Lord’s orders were not to be ignored. Arnzos heard the crunches and pops of Palmgrease’s joints as he rose. The Lord massaged his neck. Digging deep into his scute tissue with his knife-like fingers. His bandit buddies backed up. They glanced at each other like lost little kids. Arnzos felt pretty lost too.

  “So… am I good?” Arnzos said.

  Palmgrease put up a solitary finger. He straightened out another group of tightened muscles. Stretching them out. Snaps and crackles galore. For a minidrake, Palmgrease didn’t look particularly old. But all this joint snapping made Arnzos think otherwise. The last of the cracks echoed through the lakeshore, as Palmgrease let out a sigh of relief after. His finger went down.

  “Bravo, my draeken!” Palmgrease exploded. “That was bite. That was viciousness.” He surveyed his men and pouted. Like they weren’t following a protocol that they should have been. “Clap for him, you numbskulls!”

  A collection of quiet ‘oh, okay’s danced around as the knights stowed their weapons. Applauding. Phyletta and Arnzos stood dumbstruck. One would believe it sad that Arnzos thought this was one of the better events that befell him lately, but it was the truth. Sad or not, no injury or theft meant a positive experience. To be fair, he wasn’t one hundred percent certain that theft would not occur. These were still scumbags after all. Even if they clapped for him.

  Palmgrease slapped Arnzos’ back. Funny how the force of his hand seemed weak, yet his rapier thrusts were eye-buggingly strong. “Keep your horse and your saber. That job I mentioned earlier is yours. Will you ride with me?”

  “How much are you paying for that job?”

  “Woof. Right down to the hammered nails, eh?”

  “I have people that rely on my shinies. I can’t pussyfoot around starvation, and neither can they.”

  Palmgrease punched him lightly. “Don’t I know it? I do know it! Because I’ve been in your boots before.” He then wagged his hand at the baby blue sky. “You give this place your best and it throws you in the fire like garbage. Horrible, horrible times. That’s why I said ‘fuck it!’ and made these lands my personal whorehouse.”

  The bandit army dispersed. Travelling up the hill, past its bumped ridge. Their war wagons laid yonder. Except… one bandit didn’t disperse. No—he wouldn’t stop mugging Arnzos. It was the mouseman. The very first ambusher. Not very nice, to stare like he was. Arnzos itched to give him a jab. Break his nose.

  “Modra.” Palmgrease said. The mouse rodinkin acknowledged his name. “Prepare my carriage, please.”

  Modra tapped his foot, but soon left without saying a word. Over the hill and beyond. Arnzos saw Roxbane—dusty and lonesome—and flicked it back into the sheath. The Lord stowed his rapier too. He gathered his thirst quenched horse and gestured to the blank-faced Arnzos to follow him. Phyletta whistled quickly, stopping him for a moment.

  “This isn’t the best idea, Arnzos.” she said.

  “Don’t worry, I’m still helping you.” he whispered back. “But I have to help myself first.”