The Hail of Misfortunes

“I’m sorry, Noren. I have to stay and protect Freya,” Tolruk said, staggering to his feet and brushing the dust off his clothes.

“Keep her safe.” Noren nodded, then hurried away.

She recovered five javelins, three with bent iron heads and two with broken wooden shafts.

Gazing at the raging flames engulfing the village, she guessed the bandits must have used animal-fat fire oil.

How else could they set thatched roofs ablaze in this snow-covered season?

While the roofs were made of straw, and the villagers regularly replaced it and cleared the snow, without fire oil, the fire wouldn’t have spread so fiercely.

“Damn it,” Noren cursed. “That fire destroyed all the villagers’ stored grain… I’ll have to go to Hradec to buy wheat and lend it to them!”

“Woo—” Suddenly, a strong wind swept through, and a hailstone smacked against Noren’s face with a sharp crack.

One hailstone, then countless more followed.

The crackling sound of impacts filled her ears. Noren pulled down her chainmail visor, leaving only her bright eyes exposed.

“Hailstorm…” She fell silent for a long moment before slowly speaking. “When it rains, it pours… The wheat in the fields…”

“Sigh…” She closed her eyes.

After calming herself, she opened them again. Her gaze revealed neither joy nor anger—or rather, what use was there in being angry at the heavens?

“Better deal with the bandits first.”

****

“Ah! Stay away!”

“Go to hell, you scum! Take my pitchfork!”

“Hehe…”

The man’s grip on the pitchfork went limp. An arrow stuck in his chest. The bandit, ignoring the woman’s flailing fists and kicks, easily pinned her down as the man lay dying.

*Thud!* The bandit took a light blow to the back of his head. His linen padded hood could handle low-impact blunt force—at least enough to fend off a child’s strike.

“Ouch!” The bandit grimaced, rubbing his head.

He pulled his fingers back and looked. Blood!

“Run!” the woman screamed in panic.

The bandit turned his head, his lips stretching into a grin that revealed two rows of yellow, rotten teeth. “So, a little brat.”

The boy gripped a wooden sword, his legs spread at a 30-degree angle, body slightly hunched—a knight’s stance.

Hmm… if not for his trembling legs, the bandit might have thought the boy was a squire being trained in the village knight’s household.

“Want me to let her go?” the bandit suddenly felt playful.

“Let. Her. Go!” The boy’s voice was firm and forceful.

Then something struck him, and his legs gradually stopped shaking. “Otherwise, Lord Svein will split your head open, and then…”

And then… what came next? The boy couldn’t remember.

The bandit laughed freely. He grabbed the woman’s skirt with both hands and tore it open with a *rip*, revealing linen trousers underneath.

“So, is that all the courage you have? Just shouting your knight’s name?” the bandit said in an arrogant tone.

With one hand, he pinned the woman’s hands behind her back, his right hand pulling at the edge of her coarse linen pants.

He looked at the boy. “Go ahead. Attack me again.”

The boy had struck once and quickly retreated, now ten feet away.

“Come on,” the bandit taunted. “Little bastard, you hit pretty hard just now. What’s wrong? Scared now?”

“I…” A flicker of hesitation crossed the boy’s eyes.

“Yah!” His gaze suddenly hardened. With a childish shout, he charged, wooden sword raised.

He swung down straight!

The bandit looked surprised, momentarily dazed. The boy’s charge seemed to have ten thousand knights behind him.

Full of momentum, charging forward without looking back.

Seeing the bandit’s stunned expression, joy flashed across the boy’s face. He felt he could kill this wretched thief with one blow!

*Slap!* A crisp sound rang out.

The boy was knocked to the ground by a slap. The wooden sword fell, and a large foot stomped on it.

The bandit scratched his head through his hood, irritated by flea bites. “You little bastard, you almost fooled me… You made me, ‘Snot Dragon,’ lose face…”

He lifted his foot, picked up the wooden sword, and grabbed the boy by the collar, lifting him with one arm.

Looking at the boy’s swollen cheek, he sneered, “Stupid, lowborn farmer’s son. Let me teach you how to use a wooden sword—”

He paused, then spat out, “—to kill.”

The wooden sword pressed against the boy’s chest. The bandit’s fingers tightened one by one, ready to push it through. Suddenly, a dark figure lunged at him.

*Rip—*

“Aaaah—my ear!”

The bandit shook the woman who was biting his ear, raising his fist and pounding her head again and again.

The bandit was a fool. If he had known that when a human head takes a heavy blow, the jaws reflexively clench, biting off anything inside the mouth, he might have been more careful.

The bandit shook the woman off, but at the cost of one ear.

The woman fell to the ground, unconscious.

Clutching the side of his head, the bandit howled impotently at the pitch-black sky. His only answer was a few hailstones that flew into his throat.

“Urgh…” His breath caught. The sudden choking sensation made him inhale more violently.

His suffocation grew worse.

After being slapped, the boy’s mind was spinning, his eyelids drooping. But when he saw the bandit choking, he saw another chance. His drooping eyelids snapped open.

Wide!

He stumbled to the dead farmer, picked up the pitchfork, and aimed its prongs at the bandit’s chest.

The bandit drew his short sword, swinging wildly and chaotically. When the boy didn’t approach, he hurled the sword.

The boy didn’t move. The sword flew over his head.

“Go to hell!” That was the last thing the bandit heard.

*Thud!* The pitchfork plunged into flesh.

The bandit died.

The boy let go of the pitchfork’s shaft, watching the bandit fall sideways.

Expressionless, he looked at the dead farmer, then crouched beside the woman whose face was covered in blood.

He felt like he should cry—cry his heart out!

But why couldn’t he cry?

“Son of a b*tch! Some idiot got killed by a peasant!” Another bandit appeared.

The boy looked up, his gaze numb as he turned to the newcomer. He felt nothing. Resistance was pointless.

“You little bastard!” The new bandit’s face twisted with fury as he strode forward.

As he walked, he raised his short sword high.

“Little bastard.” The new bandit met the boy’s numb stare. He wanted to see fear, but that utterly unreadable look—like he was watching a clown—only made him angrier. “f*ck you!”

The iron sword cut through the orange air, leaving a silver streak.

*Bang!*

Ripples finally appeared in the boy’s eyes. Perhaps this new death brought him shock.

He stared blankly as a bloody hand pierced through the bandit’s chest. Countless ribs burst out from the bandit’s front, exposed to the air.

A beating heart pulsed between the bloody fingers.

*Slap!* The fingers tightened. The heart exploded.

The world filled with scarlet. The bloody hand reached out toward the boy.

Two fingers extended, pinching the boy’s cheeks and shaking them.

“Scared stiff?”

“You lost control of your temper again,” a woman muttered. “Looks like I shouldn’t use such violent killing methods. Look how scared the kid is…”

“Completely dumbstruck!”