One hand for her great-ax, one for Clarissa. Stasia led them down the stairs, through the tiny den, past the fireplace, and to the rickety back door. She didn’t bother pressing her ear to it or sneaking a glance through the keyhole. She knew the tactics of a sweep. When they started sledging open the front door, they’d also check the back for inevitable runners. But unlike the front, in clear view of the street and the other squads barging into the nearby homes, there would be only one or two soldiers hidden in the back.

Stasia carefully unlocked the door, let go of Clarissa, and then tensed with the ax gripped tightly in both hands. She waited, every muscle primed for explosion. A soft, startled cry escaped Clarissa’s lips when a loud smash marked the sledge hitting the front door. Stasia never even flinched, only imagined the scene in her mind. The soldier pulling back the sledgehammer, hoisting it up and over his shoulder for another swing, and then sweeping it back down.

That second hit masked the sound of Stasia’s shoulder ramming open the back door. She burst into the alley with her ax already raised. As she anticipated, a soldier waited on either side. Her ax buried into the ribs of the man to her right, the sharp edge punching through his chainmail and into the vulnerable meat and bone underneath. Instead of trying to pull the weapon free, she powered her swing through, every muscle in her body tensing as she dragged the dying soldier around. The hapless man found himself between her and his partner, his body a shield that absorbed the frantic thrust meant to skewer Stasia through the back.

Stasia relinquished her ax, a decision her remaining foe foolishly did not replicate. As the other soldier tried to pull his sword free, Stasia shot over the body and collided with the man. Her hands found his throat. His windpipe crumpled beneath her grip. The momentum carried them both backward. He tried to swing at her, but it was wild and desperate. She leaned in closer, her elbow catching his wrist so the weapon flailed ineffectually behind her. Her right hand flipped the helmet off his head, then pulled back into a fist. Three times she bashed his face, smashing cartilage until it barely resembled a nose, all the while holding him upright with a vise grip about his throat.

She dropped him, a sputtering, gagging, bleeding mess. Whether or not the wounds were fatal, she didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. A single, hard pull freed her ax from the first dead soldier. Now rearmed, she offered her bloody hand to Clarissa.

“We must run,” she said as the front door shattered.