The smell of stale manure and hay permeated the stables. Nessalir wrinkled her nose as she stepped through the doorway and shook a few stray fkes of snow off her coat. It seemed like there was always a light snowfall this far North.

  Outside, the sounds of wagons and horses and the low murmur of travelers could be heard. Inside, it was strangely quiet, save for the occasional whinny of a horse in its pen. Nessalir looked about the stables, then coughed loudly.

  "Yes?" a boy asked, appearing from around a bale of hay. He was young—sixteen at the very oldest—and his clothes were stained and smeared with grime. His bright blue eyes widened a bit when they took in the woman before him.

  "My horse," said Nessalir. "Huunang. I'd like him saddled and ready as soon as possible."

  The boy nodded. "The rge bck one?" he asked.

  "Indeed," Nessalir confirmed.

  As the stablehand scampered off deeper into the wooden structure, Nessalir leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. It really was a shame that the man from earlier had been so aggressive. His strong arms were exactly the sort that she enjoyed on a male. If she'd been in a better mood, Nessalir might have been tempted to flirt a little—maybe py matchmaker. It would hardly have been the first couple she'd brought together in her bed. Then again, the history between him and Gerti hadn't sounded the most pleasant, so perhaps it was for the best.

  Her stomach growled. That was the real issue. The fool had interrupted her breakfast and made it far too awkward to continue eating at that inn. Nessalir thought she recalled a bakery on the edge of the vilge—perhaps she'd stop there on the way out.

  A presence came up behind her, and she stepped to the side to let a man in a thick cloak enter the stables. He regarded her with dark eyes, his gaze running up from her boots to her scarlet hair in a way that seemed to go beyond simple curiosity. Then he bowed.

  "Nessalir the Red?" the man asked.

  "I am," said Nessalir. "To whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

  "Jaran Gunderson," said the man. "I have been sent by King Kartesk of Redair, ruler of these nds and this vilge, to request your audience at his hall."

  Nessalir sighed and gnced across the stables. The boy was coming back, leading a huge bck-furred horse. He didn't look altogether comfortable in the beast's presence.

  "Have I done something wrong, or does the king have a request of me?" she asked.

  "To my knowledge, it is a request," said Jaran Gunderson. "I was dispatched st night and rode through til morning to reach Halvar's Crossing, so I know that it is an urgent request indeed."

  "This is all you know?"

  Jaran smiled. "I can hazard a guess or two as to the king's business. However…" He gnced at the boy and raised an eyebrow to Nessalir. She understood his meaning; this was not a conversation to be had around others."

  "Very well," said Nessalir. "I will accompany you to Redair."

  She paid the stablehand, and led Huunang out onto the muddy road. Snowfkes fell through the air of Halvar's Crossing, though it was not cold enough for more than a thin ir of powdery white to remain on the ground. Jaran untied a gray mare, half the size of her own steed, from a post, and the two prepared to depart.

  "There is a bakery I'd like to stop at before we go," said Nessalir.

  "Of course, my dy."

  "I'm no dy."

  The look the messenger gave her was inscrutable, but Nessalir didn't care. It was a rare thing that anyone knew what to think of her.

  She prepared to mount Huunang, but was interrupted by a shout from across the road.

  "Where do you think you're going, bitch?"

  Perfect. Her would-be foe had recovered from his humiliation in the Trout's Last Meal and was ready for a rematch. Oh, and this time he'd brought some friends.

  Rost—she thought that was the name Gerti had called him—had murder in his eyes, and he held an ax in his hands. There was a splotch of skin on his face that was already starting to bruise where she'd kicked him. Two other men fnked Rost. One held a pitchfork and the other carried an ax of his own.

  "Do you want me to stay?" Nessalir asked. "Shouldn't you be trying to patch things up with that lovely young dy?"

  "You think this is funny!?" Rost spat. "You may be a freak, but we're going to show you what happens to women who don't know their pce." He grinned, and Nessalir noted he seemed to be missing a tooth that he'd had that morning. She hadn't even noticed it vacating his mouth when she'd kicked him. "Don't worry. I'll be gentle."

  "Shame. I'm not really a gentle sort of girl." Nessalir gnced at Jaran, who was already astride his horse and watching her with an expression of anticipation. He was excited to see the famed warrior in action. With a shake of her head, Nessalir patted Huunang's neck. "Stay here," she told the horse.

  He snorted, and Nessalir was certain he was annoyed at the dey. She smirked, then stepped toward the advancing trio of men, hands settling on the weapons at her side.

  She drew her sword with her right hand, and a light hand-ax with her left. Shifting her feet into position, Nessalir held both weapons in a light but firm grip, and rolled her head along her shoulders, cracking her neck. "Well come on, then," she said. "I haven't got all day."

  Red-faced, Rost bellowed in rage and charged forward. He had a woodsman's ax—heavy and made for felling trees, but not exactly the most wieldy of weapons. His bance was thrown off just a little in his swing and Nessalir was easily able to hop out of the path of the head and thwack his hands with the side of her own ax. He yelped and recoiled, but didn't let go.

  Nessalir snickered, and Rost's face twisted in embarrassed rage.

  The man with the pitchfork charged, attempted to spear her in the side while she was distracted by Rost, but Nessalir had been watching him from the corner of her eye. She twisted out of the way and brought her sword up against the haft while at the same time bringing her ax down. The wood snapped and splintered apart, and the fool was left holding a shattered stick in lieu of a farmtool.

  He blinked at the wood in his hands in confusion, and Nessalir kicked out at his knee. With a grunt, the man fell over, eyes wide as he tried to comprehend what had just happened to him.

  By now Rost was coming in for another swing, and the other ax-wielder was trying to fnk her. Nessalir took a step back, then another, nimbly dodging the mad blows that Rost attempted again and again to rain down on her. He was so furious he didn't even see where she was leading him until it was too te.

  Without warning, Nessalir dropped down and rolled away. The woodsman's ax sailed over her and buried itself into the left shoulder of the other man. He screamed in pain and terror as blood spttered all over Rost's shocked face.

  "Tovir!" he excimed. "No! Not you!"

  He wrenched the ax out of his friend, which was the wrong move. With nothing blocking the wound, blood now spurted freely. The other man fell into the mud, gasping and howling in pain, clutching at his shoulder with his right hand. His left flopped about uselessly beside him.

  "You bitch!" Rost screamed, whirling on Nessalir and raising his ax high. Nessalir had hoped that accidentally butchering his friend would humble the man somewhat, so she wouldn't have to spill any blood herself, but she could see now that wasn't going to happen. So, in the split second it took Rost to focus once again on her, Nessalir decided to end this farce.

  She stepped under his guard, brought her sword up, and before he could react, slit his throat.

  Rost colpsed, red blood flowing freely from his neck, gurgling and sputtering as he tried to hold onto life. Nessalir stood above him and watched for a moment, then gnced over her shoulder at the man whose pitchfork she'd destroyed. He had only just succeeded in standing back up, and his clothing was completely covered in mud.

  "Are you going to keep fighting?" she asked. "Or will you do the smart thing?"

  He didn't answer. He just turned and ran. Evidently, he'd chosen to do the smart thing.

  Nessalir rexed her shoulders, sheathed her sword, and hooked her ax back into the ring at her side. "Am I expected to clean this up?" she asked Jaran, gesturing at the dead Rost and his dying friend.

  Jaran hadn't moved from atop his horse the entire fight. "No need," he said, pointing to the guards who were approaching.

  "Shit," one cursed as they reached the scene. "That's the drakkowar."

  The messenger held out an amulet. "I am an envoy of King Kartesk, sent to collect this woman. As we were preparing to leave, she was accosted by these men."

  "Always knew Rost would pick a fight he couldn't win one day," a guard said, shaking his head. "His father'll want a blood price."

  "If Nessalir succeeds in the task the king sets for her, then he will gdly pay it," said Jaran.

  "And if she doesn't?" asked another guard. Nessalir frowned at him.

  "Then she will be dead, and the point will be moot," Jaran replied.

  "Fine," said a guard. "Get on out of here, drakkowar. See that the king is satisfied."

  "Gdly." Nessalir climbed atop Huunang, who gnced over his shoulder at her like he couldn't believe she'd wasted his time with all this nonsense. "Let's go see what your king wants, Jaran Gunderson."