Durest:

  The Dev of the Green Shore Woods finally falls at my feet. His remaining eye twitches slightly before glossing over—like a doe’s eye before death. His other eye—the one I stabbed through with a wooden shard—bleeds with yellow, bubbling blood that pops intermittently.

  I fall to my knees. Pant like a dog.

  That took too long. Too many aches scour my body.

  But I won. Because that’s what I do. Eventually, no matter what, I always win.

  I stand up slowly, legs wobbling, eyes peering down upon my slain foe. The yellow blood flows onto his tusks—drenches them.

  I kick his corpse.

  That’s for my client.

  I kick it again.

  That’s for me.

  And again.

  And that’s for killing my fucking horse, you shit eating piece of dogshit motherfu—

  Before I can kick another time, something nuzzles my shoulder. I sigh. Then, I place a hand on Qaswa’s muzzle.

  I know girl. That’s my bad. I shouldn’t curse. Even if it is in my head. Father would slap me with his slipper for that.

  I scratch her chin before reaching into my pocket and absentmindedly handing her a shiny red apple. She bites into it—dribbles some apple juice on my wrist, as always. I don’t mind. I used to, but, now, it's just par for the course.

  Eventually, I hoist myself onto Qaswa. The night wanes into day. I stare off at the rising sun and its gleaming arc over the forest.

  I give the Dev’s corpse one last spit before trotting off, back to my client.

  And thankfully, back to my undamaged, perfectly marketable cart.

  …

  When I get back to camp, my client is dead. Which is annoying, because I just saved him.

  Unfortunately, in my absence, about thirty armed men undid my work.

  Cultists by the look of them. Fair-skinned, purple-coat-dawning, dagger-licking cultists.

  When I ride into camp, half-dead, eyes drooping from exhaustion, they pelt me off my horse with slings. Then, their leader—some idiot with an orange beard—asks me where their god was.

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  Being so tired, I simply point up to where the real God is.

  He kicks my jaw for that. Which is good, in all honesty. I don’t have to make elaborate hand gestures to explain that I can’t speak—he gives me a good enough excuse.

  When he asks me again, I finally put two and two together and realize my oversight. Devs are known to be tricky bastards. Many of them have a pedigree for gathering human followers—mostly using them as sacrificial food sources. I should’ve prepared for the fact that this Dev might’ve had human followers lying in wait. I guess I got too focused on killing him.

  Regardless, I now find myself being dragged along the road, with a rope lassoed around my body. They make my own horse do it too, poor girl. She tries resisting. They whip her for that.

  I’ll just have to kill them too.

  I mean honestly, why do they always go after my damn horse? Assholes.

  Calm down. Anger will get you nowhere dumbass. This one is still salvageable, even if the client is dead.

  Look on the bright side. They did not touch your cart.

  Still marketable.

  The Legend of Durest endures.

  I start laughing at my own stupidity. Though, when I laugh, it must look quite odd. No sound comes out, so my body mimes the sensation of laughing. Some of the cultists walking alongside me give me strange looks.

  The dragging halts. A murmur starts amongst them. Murmur turns to gasps. Then shouts and wailing.

  Well, I’m dead. Soon to be at least.

  I don’t even blame them too much. If I found out someone killed my ‘god’, I’d rip that someone to pieces. Of course, that would never really happen to me, cause my God is God.

  Eh, that’s besides the point.

  The point is, when they cut the rope and raise me to stand, all chanting and whispering in some foreign language that sounds an awful like snake hisses, I know where this is leading.

  They wait till nightfall. Set up their own campsite. Bury their ‘god’.

  Then, they stab out a circle in a muddy patch of grass. Lay me flat on it.

  I sigh.

  There are certainly better ways to die.

  The leader stands over me. Makes some speech to his comrades in that hissing language. Then, he crouches over me, knife in hand.

  “I thank you,” he says in common tongue. “You have given me… a great opportunity.”

  I nod as if I understand. He continues.

  “You see, when I eat your flesh and the flesh of Raka, the greatest of Devs, I will become a ‘god’ to these people,” he whispers.

  Again, I nod. Give him an encouraging smile even. I’m glad someone’s benefiting from this.

  Of course, I’ll have to kill him later. But that’s a problem for later.

  For now, he can enjoy his victory. Well-earned. Good on him.

  He’s a little put off by my enthusiasm, evidently. His face twists from glory to anger. He chants back to his cultists, who surround the sacrifice circle now.

  Then, he raises his dagger to deliver the killing blow—

  An arrow made of fire bursts through his head and engulfs his body in orange light.

  He doesn’t even get the chance to scream. Just dies.

  I sit up, confused. I didn’t have anything like that planned. Nor do I have friends in the area. So… who is it? Some counter-cultists? Imperials? Soldiers?

  Whoever they are, they’re a damned good shot.

  Five more cultists fall in a blazing flame, with arrows seemingly coming from every direction.

  Some of the remaining cultists draw their blades. Twist their heads in frantic search.

  It takes another four dead companions for them to start running. But those are picked off, like sheep to the slaughter.

  When ten remain, they group together. I just sit up and watch, tilting my head to get a better look at the two people emerging from the shadows of the forest.

  One is the flame-archer. In her bow, she strings forth three fire arrows at once, aiming them at the grouped up cultists.

  The other is a stocky looking soldier-type. He carries two bearded hatchets and a smug, untouchable look.

  Just before his friend fires, he presses the bow down gently and points at the cultists. The flame archer sighs and takes a step back.

  The man steps forward.

  “Hello bastards,” he begins cheerfully, twirling his axes. “My name is Gareth Rathkar. Remember it before you die.”