Vermis hated the cruor, also known as the season of blood, and the smell that lingered in the Ironwood until the day of rebirth.

  He observed another caravan of traders from the trees. It would have been the umpteenth one he let pass, but he couldn’t. Only three mercenaries guarded it. Vermis thought about his estate. Maybe he shouldn’t have accepted it. But he did, and with it, the obligations and fees. But this month seemed cursed. He had only a few days left to gather enough loot for the estate. Whatever was in that rattling cart had to be his.

  He dashed through a narrow path to one half of his gang. Some waited eagerly, swords in hand, others lazier, leaning against trees. Hie was shaving.

  He shouted out.

  They jumped onto the road in front of and behind the cart. The dense tree trunks closed the path from the sides. Like a well-functioning mousetrap. The coachman on the box stopped the horses.

  The swords clashed, the mercenaries cursed, while they were surrounded from all directions.

  "Bring him to me!"

  The warrior's lips trembled, and he couldn’t even look Vermis in the eye.

  "What’s your name?"

  "Fetus," he stammered.

  He reminded him of his son.

  He kicked the warrior in the chin, ripped the sword from its sheath, held it with both hands, and thrust it into the chest of the one lying on the ground, through the heart. His eyes widened, the last few heartbeats ran along the blade, into the hilt.

  The remaining two warriors surrendered. Vermis immediately jumped to the carts to see what they had looted. But they were filled with chairs and back scratchers. The most valuable thing he found among the junk was a bottle of wine and a stinking wheel of cheese. He stomped the cheese into the mud, then pushed against the side of the cart, tipping the whole contraption into the trees.

  The man on the box started moving with the remaining cart.

  "Let him go! Burn this pile of trash!"

  ***

  The rain had been drizzling all day and continued into the evening. The moon shimmered behind a curtain of clouds. Vermis sat in his tent, thoughts of his son intruding.

  "Damn him, wherever he is. I worked for him. And for what?"

  He didn’t want to think about it anymore, and he didn’t want to smell this stench either. Instead, he guzzled the looted wine.

  Just a blink, and night turned to day.

  A monotonous gray covered the sky, with barely any shadows. His men were just as worn out as he was. Vermis had no idea how much he had slept, only that it was too much. Most of his men hadn’t even crawled out of their tents or were dozing on the ground. "Damned slaves. They don’t care if I live or die, don’t care what happens to me. They’ll just shuffle back to their master and continue serving under someone else." Vermis’s boot struck into their stomachs and the faces of the unluckier ones.

  ***

  They watched the road from a high point, to no avail. Either the caravans had too many guards, or they had no guards and no loot. Vermis glanced at the sun more and more frequently, which seemed to be sinking faster and faster.

  "Luck sat in someone else’s lap, the damned whore. I’m not asking for much, just one more caravan."

  He watched the road, then the sun, then the road, then the sun again. When he looked down at the ground, he saw a group of hero mice. They sniffed and would have eaten if he hadn’t scared them away with his sword.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Get out of here!"

  The fleeing mice glanced back at him, squeaking something. He swiped at them again, and they scattered, disappearing among the leaves.

  One of his men signaled from a tree that he saw something on the road:

  "Three carts. Eight mercenaries. No, nine. There’s a woman with them too. Hahaha. I wonder what she’s looking at with that telescope in the horse’s ass?"

  He looked up at the sun again.

  The mousetrap was ready, the rodent had walked into the trap. Surrounding the carts, they shouted, slashed with their swords, but kept their distance, as if a moat surrounded them. The mercenaries' eyes jumped from one of his men to another, positioning themselves, ready to attack.

  The two groups stared at each other. A bead of sweat trickled down Vermis’s forehead.

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he said, flashing his vile teeth, his voice hoarse. Vermis cut through his men on his horse. He let the mercenaries see what stood before them. He hoped that his eight-foot height, his tree-trunk arms, and his hands large enough to wrap around their heads would be enough to make them sheathe their swords. He waved his heavy, broad-bladed sword before him, which was as long as any of them. He let the doubt show in their eyes, let the fire go out. "Those carts are well loaded. Let us lighten your burden."

  "Come closer if you’ve got too many hands!" one of the mercenaries replied.

  Hie laughed.

  Vermis’s sword pierced Hie’s abdomen at one point and emerged from the other side. He didn’t pull it out, just ripped it from his stomach. Hie fell to the ground like a torn rag.

  The mercenaries took a step back, placing their swords before them. Their voices weren’t as firm as before.

  Vermis just laughed hoarsely.

  "Maybe the gentleman is right. What’s the point of slaughter?" said the coachman.

  Vermis sighed.

  "What about a deal?" continued the coachman. Vermis spread his arms. "Let it be decided by single combat. If my man wins, you let us pass in peace. If he loses, you can take whatever you want."

  The silence had stretched too long; he had to say something. Vermis laughed:

  "I accept. Send anyone!"

  The coachman called the warrior Ignis, who stood in the middle of the road with a sword in hand. Vermis stood twenty paces away from him.

  "I’m going to gut you," Vermis yelled, "you pile of crap."

  He looked at what stood before him. With a face twisted in disgust, he slashed at the air. Clotted blood had already stuck to the blade. Behind them, the mercenaries and bandits stood in two groups. The wind howled through the trees.

  "Come on!"

  Ignis closed the distance in a few steps, his face bearing the look of a mad wolf. His blows sparked against Vermis’s sword. Sweeping them aside, Vermis thundered toward the retreating Ignis. He grabbed him, his beam-like arms wrapping around the reed-thin body compared to him. He blew his foul breath in his face, and the bones bent under his grip. Ignis’s elbow struck between his ribs. The spots where the blows landed burned, forcing the air out of him. While he struggled with the pain, Ignis freed himself. Vermis, frothing at the mouth, lunged at him again. Ignis tried to maintain the distance, dodging left and right.

  Between two swings, Ignis ducked under his sword and thrust toward his stomach, but Vermis grabbed his throat. He lifted him into the air; Ignis gasped, flailing like a mad dog. When Ignis swung his sword at him, Vermis had to throw him. Drops of blood flew everywhere, mixing with the mud on the ground.

  Vermis ran his hand over the fresh, burning cut from his eye to his mouth, then wiped the blood off his hand with a snarl.

  "You filthy bastard."

  He stomped through the leaves, his men shouting in the background. His long sword swings pushed Ignis before him, almost knocking the sword out of his hand. Vermis exhaled like a bellows with each swing, but he didn’t stop, only when a missed strike made his sword slam into a tree. His face was drenched in a mix of blood and sweat. Ignis disappeared among the trees; Vermis followed, dragging his sword along the ground into the shadows of the leaves. Leaves cracked behind a tree.

  Another crack, then heavy drops of blood fell among the leaves from his face. He didn’t swallow, didn’t blink, just gripped his sword.

  Another crack, Ignis jumped out from behind the tree to the left.

  "There you are!"

  Vermis’s sword plowed the ground, then, straining his muscles, he lifted it into the air. The blade reached Ignis but didn’t stop there, running along him, slicing through his stomach. The body split in two, falling toward the ground. A satisfied grin spread across Vermis’s face. The body vanished before it hit the ground. More cracks behind him.

  He spun around, but the sword struck his face. Not caring about the blood pouring from his chin, he swept Ignis off his feet and thrust. He tore a piece of cloth from Ignis’s clothes as Ignis rolled away from his strike.

  "What the fuck was that?"

  Vermis slammed Ignis’s head into a tree, and he was still reeling when the sword whistled toward him. He could only deflect it, his sword embedding in the bark.

  They returned to the road while the wind howled among the crowd. Vermis’s strikes followed one another, as if he were chopping wood. His arm grew stiffer, their eyes almost devouring each other when they came close enough.

  His muscles were burning, but his opponent’s sword bent with each clash, coming closer and closer to flying out of his hand.

  A swing, then a clash, then panting. Another swing, clash, panting, sweat drops, groaning. Again and again. Until suddenly, without understanding how, he had to parry, but the swords didn’t clash, even though he expected the weight of the blade. It just passed through without any resistance, without even cutting, as if only the wind had passed through Vermis’s body. Before he realized it, pain sliced through his side from the opposite direction, every muscle contracting. Ignis's blade stuck out of him.

  The heat washed over him, and he collapsed. Vermis’s eyes were still open, rolling.