“If you’re coming with me, you’re going to fight how I like to fight,” Arn said with a forced whisper. “That means we won’t be doing any of this sneaking around shit Thorda’s daughters are so good at. I’m going through the front door, and I’m going over the bodies of my enemies. If you have a problem with that—”

“I can go running back home, tail between my legs, my belly yellow, so on and so forth,” Cyrus interrupted. He lowered his hands to the hilts of his swords. “You’re part of the team now, Heretic, which means I’m sticking with you through thick and thin. I pray this is worth it.”

Arn punched his knuckles together. The metal gauntlets rang once, and the big man grinned behind his fox mask.

“We’re killing imperials,” he said. “When is that not worth it?”

Cyrus returned the grin in kind.

“You have me there. Lead on, crazy bastard.”

Arn had not been exaggerating when he declared there would be no stealth or subterfuge. Despite the considerable distance between them and the steps of the church, he cut to the center of the street and then dashed straight ahead. It took about a full second before the soldiers noticed the mad approach of a gargantuan man clad in dark leather, and the cloaked Vagrant chasing after him with the moonlight glowing off his silver crown. Cyrus could see the soldiers’ shock by their body movements. They stiffened, jaws dropping, hands fumbling for undrawn weapons. One looked around, whether for help or anticipating additional members of an ambush, Cyrus could only guess.

Despite Arn’s significantly greater weight and size, he easily kept pace ahead of Cyrus. His long coat, custom made by Thorda upon his arrival to Thanet, billowed behind him despite its tremendous weight. The soldiers managed to ready their weapons as they approached, but it didn’t matter.

Arn leaped at the last possible moment, body rotating to add strength to his long, winding punch. The center soldier lifted his shield while pulling back his sword, as if he might counter once the attack was blocked. Instead Arn’s punch caved the shield in at the middle. Metal shrieked, as did the soldier as his arm snapped at the most awful of angles. They collided, Arn’s body perfectly positioned to take advantage of his momentum. His shoulder hit the soldier’s chest, his legs pumped to keep himself moving, and he carried the screaming man several feet past his fellows. A twist, and Arn lifted the man up high off his shoulder and into his hands. A drop of his muscular arms, and he smashed the soldier upon the steps as if cracking open a melon.