Chapter 2 — Sheer Dumb Luck
In the stupidest and bravest act of his life, Arsanguir hurled his pitchfork.
The thing wobbled through the air, end over end, more farm tool than weapon. One bandit swore and jerked to the side. Another ducked too late and felt the wood graze his sleeve.
They froze. For a heartbeat the woods went still, nothing but the sound of boots scuffing earth and a crow flapping off somewhere above. Then the men turned to one another, silent communication in their eyes. They would not laugh off this peasant a second time.
The bearded man barked out a rough laugh anyway, because that was the sort he was.
"Hey—he's got more balls than I thought."
The grin lingered only a moment, then faltered as Arsanguir's face came into view.
Not fear. Not pleading. A wild, burning look that made the man's gut twitch.
By the time they registered it, Arsanguir was already running.
Boots slapping the dirt, breath ragged in his chest, he charged the nearest bandit with no plan at all. Instinct alone.
The man panicked and swung, steel hissing down at Arsanguir's bare head. A killing stroke—if it landed.
Arsanguir ducked. His hand shot up, clamped onto the man's wrist. He twisted with everything in him.
Bone gave a little crack. The sword flew free.
Before it even touched soil, it was in Arsanguir's grip. The weight almost pulled him off balance, heavier than a pitchfork by far, but momentum carried him. He pivoted like he'd once seen a knight do at drills years ago—badly mimicked but good enough. The blade swept wide.
The circle of bandits shuffled back a step.
Arsanguir pressed forward, stabbing at the man he'd just disarmed. The steel drove into the man's knee. A scream ripped out of him, sharp, ugly.
He collapsed, clutching his leg, disbelief in his eyes. A trained fighter. A veteran raider. Put on the ground by a boy with calloused hands and dirt still clinging to his boots.
Arsanguir ripped the blade free, lifted again, and swung high for the throat.
Clang.
Another sword caught it. Sparks. The shock rattled up his arms, jarred his teeth. Arsanguir stumbled back, sucking air. Around him, the circle closed tighter.
Ten seconds. That's all it had been. And already it felt like a lifetime.
Then—movement. A shadow cutting air.
His own pitchfork came spinning back at him.
He twisted, bent backward. Too slow. The prongs slashed across his side, carving deep above his liver. Heat flooded him. He gasped, tasting iron in his throat.
The bearded man grinned from behind, hand still half-raised. The boss.
Arsanguir staggered but refused to fall. He tore the pitchfork free of the dirt where it landed and spun it like a spear, forcing the bandits to hesitate. He turned and turned, swinging wide arcs, breath coming shorter each time.
They watched. Waited. He could see it in their eyes—let him tire, let him burn out.
His arms shook. The pitchfork dragged at him. One more swing and his muscles screamed. This was a death spiral.
The sword glinted in the dirt. He snatched it back up, cast the fork aside, and picked a line. Forward.
Better to charge than to wait.
He roared, half in fear, half in fury, and smashed into the wall of blades.
Not for blood. Not yet. He struck at hands, at wrists, at the weapons themselves. Steel clanged, sparks flew. The men cursed, pulled back, closed in again. Arsanguir ducked, staggered, lashed out wide. Wild. Too wild. But chaos made them hesitate.
A boy with no training should not have lasted three breaths. He lasted thirty. Forty. Each one tearing his lungs raw.
Sweat blinded him. His wounded side poured fire down his hip. His arms felt like lead.
And still he moved. Still he swung.
But luck runs thin.
The sword sagged. His knees buckled. At last the world pressed down too heavy. He fell to them, dirt grinding into his skin.
"I'm sorry… Itzima."
The words broke in his head, not his mouth. His fingers found the ring that hung at his chest, clutching it until his knuckles whitened. In the other hand, the broken haft of his pitchfork. His parents' gift.
He bowed his head, waiting for steel.
Instead, he heard thunder.
Not storm. Hooves. The ground trembled.
Knights burst from the trees in a roar of banners and steel. Horses slammed through the circle, lances leveled, swords swinging. The bandits broke like startled birds, shouting, scattering into the woods.
Arsanguir didn't move. For a breath. For two.
Then laughter clawed its way out of his chest.
Ugly laughter, cracked and broken. It shook, it wheezed, it doubled over into sobs. And from the sobs, somehow, a grin. Thin, crooked, stubborn.
The grin of a boy still alive.