Merk stood in the mud, opposite the ten remaining thugs, all facing him nervously. They held before them their crude weapons and looked back and forth from their dead leader to Merk, now all seeming less certain of themselves. As flames burned all around him, black smoke stinging his eyes in waves, Merk remained calm, preparing for the confrontation to come.

“Drop your weapons and run,” Merk said, “and you will live. I won’t offer again.”

One of them, a tall brute with wide shoulders and a scar across his chin, grunted back.

“You’re a proud one, aren’t you?” he said in a thick accent Merk did not understand. “You really think you can take us all?”

“There are still ten of us and one of you,” another called back.

Merk laughed, shaking his head.

“You still don’t understand,” he said. “You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.”

He stared back at them with his cold, black eyes, the eyes of a killer, and he could see the fear starting to take hold. It was a look he’d recognized his entire life.

One of the men suddenly let out a shout and charged, raising his sword, filled with more bravado than skill. An amateur mistake.

Merk watched him come out of the corner of his eye but did not let on that he knew. He waited and watched, and at the final moment, as the sword came down for his back, he squatted low and felt the thug rush forward. As he felt his body against his back, his sloppy sword slash whiz over his head, he grabbed the thug and threw him over his shoulder. The man went flying, landing on his back in the mud before him, and Merk stepped forward and with his boot, expertly and precisely crushed his windpipe, killing him.

That left nine.

Another thug charged, swinging his sword down at him, and as he did, Merk calmly took the sword from the man he had just killed, sidestepped, and sliced the man’s stomach, sending him keeling over.

Two more broke off and charged together, one swinging a crude flail and the other wielding a mace. The flail was a clumsy swing, all power and no finesse, and Merk merely jumped back and let the spiked ball whiz by his face, then stepped forward and plunged his dagger into the man’s waist. In the same motion he spun, as the other attacker swung his mace, and slashed his throat.

Merk grabbed the man’s mace, turned, planted his feet, and threw the mace at another charging attacker; it sailed end over end and smashed the man’s eye socket, stopping him in his tracks and knocking him out.

The five remaining thugs now looked at Merk, then back to each other, exchanging looks of fear and wonder.

Merk smiled as he wiped blood off his lip with the back of his hand.