Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 1

When the Velan mercenary slammed her hand down on the oakwood table at the Olde Weasel inn, Farren Clearstrike realized she had made a horrible decision. Almost all her decisions had been fairly bad, mind, but accepting the challenge to arm-wrestle with this man twice her size had to be one of the top ten at least.

A groan rose from the spectators, mostly patrons, and a handful of poor souls who had made the same mistake of accepting the mercenary’s challenge, and now sat nursing their fractured wrists. All of them would now need to pay a visit to the village Witch-doc.

“Haven't had a good drink for days, Corporal,” wailed one of them, words already slurred at the crack of dawn. “You gotta do something!”

“If you want to have a drink so badly, why not earn it?” The mercenary leaned back in his seat. “Rhilio's mercy, a worthy opponent is all I ask.”

For the last five days, this mercenary from the highlands of Veland had been staying at the Olde Weasel inn in the little frontier village named Kinallen and drinking up all the booze. The innkeeper wasn't too displeased, as he did pay for his drinks. It hardly mattered whether the alcohol went down one throat or twenty, as long as he got the coin. But the other patrons have had enough of the man. And in that the mercenary had seen an opportunity of easy entertainment.

He laughed. “If a man's gon' snatch my drink, gotta have arms stronger than mine. Bring it on then, people. How does a match of arm-wrestling sound?” he'd said. “Beat me, and I'll be packin' up and be on my way. Hell, I'll even buy you a drink.”

After the first participant broke a wrist, however, the man began raising the number of drinks he promised. It was nearing twenty mugs of ale when she poked her head in through the doorway, for Farren Clearstrike would certainly pick up the scent if alcohol and a chance to show off was involved.

But now she wished she hadn't showed up at all.

“Leave it, Corporal. Man’s an ogre,” said the innkeeper now. “I’ll get the guards. They’ll sort him out.”

“Ah, but I didn’t come here to leave it to the guards, did I? Don't you worry,” said Farren with a dimpled smile that had won hearts, and managed to dissuade the innkeeper as well.

“A pint of ale, please, if there's any left,” she said. As the worried innkeeper shuffled off to get her order, Farren faced the mercenary. The man sat with his beefy arms folded over the table. His bright red hair and beard indicated his Velan descent.

“Tell me, are all Midaelian warriors so weak?” he said.

Lowering her hood, Farren shook out her bushy mane of copper hair and smiled. She might try to look grand, give her most charming smiles, cock her eyebrows and all that; but in truth, the fool regretted all her decisions that had led up to this point.

“Who am I to represent all of Midaelia?” Farren said with a flourish, which nearly sent her drink splashing over the innkeeper when he arrived with her order, “I’m naught but a humble soldier. And so it'd be a shame if you lost to such a nobody as myself.”

She downed the tart ale in one go, grimaced, and placed her arm on the table again. “Another round, good sir?”

The man grunted and clasped her hand.

By. The. Gods.

Any doubts she had, that she lost earlier because she hadn't tried hard enough, all cleared up like the sun does the fog.

She would soon join the crowd of broken wrists.

Sweat drops appeared on her forehead as she pushed with all her strength against him, but couldn't move his arm an inch. An ogre indeed.