The barbarian Grignr had spotted them hours earlier, three wisps of smoke on an empty horizon. Now they were within striking distance. The black diamond on their helmets was unmistakable. A death squad from the Norgolian empire, sent for him, the killer of thousands.

He stepped from behind an outcropping of rock, blocking the trail. Surprise was a crutch for the weak.

The lead rider looked up. A flicker of recognition.

“Prepare to die,” he said, drawing his sword.

Grignr smiled. Then in one swift movement, he ran at the soldiers and became airborne, impossibly fast, impossibly high. The blade of his sword swept a merciless arc through them, cutting throat, wrist and belly.

Gore sprayed the parched earth. The first rider slumped dead in his saddle, while the second cast about with his remaining hand. The third stared at the loops of his innards drooping slowly to the ground.

The barbarian rose from where he had landed, his sword running red. Two clean strokes later, he was alone again on the rocky trail.