The wind howled a mournful dirge across the desolate moor, whipping Elmsworth’s thin grey hair across his face. He clutched his staff, its wood worn smooth from years of use, more for balance than any real sense of defense. Elmsworth was no warrior. He was a hedge wizard, a weaver of minor enchantments, a healer of livestock, a diviner of lost trinkets. His magic was subtle, the magic of the hedgerow and the hearth, not the grand, explosive magic of battle. He’d been foolish to accept this commission – escorting a merchant’s cart through this bandit-ridden territory. Foolish, and now, fatally so.

  Ahead, blocking the narrow track, stood a figure of terrifying proportions. A barbarian, clearly, clad in furs stained with mud and what Elmsworth suspected was dried blood. He was a mountain of a man, his face a brutal mask of scars and weathered skin, his eyes cold and devoid of any hint of mercy. In his hands, he held a massive double-bladed axe, its steel gleaming dully in the overcast light.

  The merchant’s cart, a rickety wooden affair pulled by a nervous pony, had come to a shuddering halt behind Elmsworth. The merchant himself was huddled inside, whimpering softly. Elmsworth knew there was no escape.

  He raised his staff, a desperate attempt to buy himself a moment. He muttered a quick incantation, a simple binding spell, designed to slow the barbarian’s advance. It was a weak spell, even at its best, and against a warrior so clearly fueled by raw aggression, it was almost laughably inadequate.

  The barbarian roared, a sound that echoed across the moor, and charged. Elmsworth could see the binding spell shimmer briefly around the barbarian’s legs, a faint distortion in the air, but it had no discernible effect. The man barely faltered, his momentum barely checked. It was like trying to stop a charging bull with a cobweb.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Elmsworth’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew he was outmatched, hopelessly outmatched. He had no illusions of victory, no heroic last stand in mind. He simply wanted to delay the inevitable, to give the merchant a chance, however slim, to escape.

  He tried another spell, a desperate attempt at a diversion. He whispered the words of a minor illusion, trying to conjure a sudden burst of light and sound, hoping to startle the barbarian, even for a second.

  But the barbarian was too focused, too single-minded in his intent. He simply lowered his head and charged through the illusion as if it wasn't there.

  The axe swept through the air, a blur of steel and brutal force. Elmsworth barely had time to register the movement before the blade connected. There was no time to dodge, no time to cast another spell, no time for anything.

  The axe struck Elmsworth across the chest, the force of the blow sending him flying backwards. He landed heavily on the muddy ground, his staff clattering away. He could feel the life draining out of him, a cold, numbing sensation spreading through his body.

  He looked up at the barbarian, who stood over him, his chest heaving, his face still a mask of brutal indifference. The axe dripped with Elmsworth's blood. The barbarian didn't even bother to check if he was dead. He simply turned his attention to the merchant's cart, the promise of loot shining in his cold eyes.

  Elmsworth lay on the ground, his vision blurring, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The wind continued to howl, a mournful dirge for the hedge wizard who had died without a fighting chance, a small, insignificant death on a desolate moor. The merchant, witnessing the brutal end of his protector, knew his fate was sealed.