Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 49

Hanging upside-down from a tree was not so bad as it might seem.

The good thing was: one was set free from the torment of endlessly regretting their poor life choices, because all the blood rushed to the head and made them too dizzy to think.

But the downside was: one could not come up with an escape plan, because all the blood rushed to the head and made them too dizzy to think.

Such was the case for a chronically unlucky soldier.

For the first few minutes of her confinement, while she still had strength left in her, Farren took hold of the scavenged nails again, and tried to slash at the net around her to little effect. The dead knot taut around her ankle was beyond divine help, and she dared not to sever it for fear of plummeting head-first onto the broken glass-studded rock directly below.

All in all, it was a proper Death Ring situation.

When she was moments from losing consciousness, there echoed footsteps again, light and measured, and came to stop in front of her.

Farren blinked open one eye.

Before her stood a beautiful stranger. An amber-haired woman clad in a low necked, ruffled collar shirt. Slung on her back with long, leather straps was a lute. Beneath high-waisted breeches, moccasins covered her feet.

A rather charming, dimpled smile spread across the stranger's face.

"My, my! This is one strange-looking deer," she chuckled, looking at Farren. "Bet you'll taste exquisite too."

Farren let out a series of incoherent words which further identified her as an unintelligent four-legged creature.

The lady called her companion. "Oy, Bjorn! I think we've found our little mischief-maker. Quick, show me the poster once more, will you?"

Heavy boots thumped across the forest floor, and a huge hand, possibly Bjorn's, tugged at the net enclosing Farren.

A clicking of tongue. "Look, Hilda--the net! She's ruined it. And to think, I spent all week weaving this one," said a man's gruff voice, oddly familiar with a strong Velan accent. He handed Hilda the wanted poster, and as she matched her appearance with the one on the parchment, he turned to her.

Farren found herself looking into the red-bearded face of the Velan mercenary she'd arm-wrestled with at the Olde Weasel.

"You?" said both in unison.

Hilda cast amused looks between the two of them. "Didn't mention you knew this Clearstrike girl."

"I know her," his eyes scanned her face, "Yes...of course. No wonder that poster looked familiar.”

Hilda crossed her arms. "Oh? And who is she to you?"

A swindler who robbed him of his money.

The man hesitated. "A--a friend. Had a few rounds of drinks together. Oh, and she's great at arm-wrestling, I tell you!"

Guilt pierced into Farren like serrated knives. A friend!

"Oh, I'm telling Gunvald. He needs to know the kind of folk his brother makes friends with," said Hilda teasingly.

He grunted. "I honor a warrior who's got a strong grip and can hold their drink. Tell him what you will."

"I only jest." She chuckled. "Now let's get your friend untied. The captain would like a word."

Farren didn't give a damn about the second half, but she would very much like to be on firm ground once again. Her head was spinning, and she could hardly muster enough energy to cast an immobility spell right now.