The Seeker: Finna's Quest

Introduction

THE SEEKER – Finna’s Quest, High Concept Science Fiction, is the first novel and the Origin Story a seminal series that pre-date all of our publish stories that deal with the emergence of Homo Evolutis, the already named, next human species.

The Pitch presents the beginning of a thousand year quest.

While Finna crusades for Eleanor of Aquitaine, a time traveler kidnaps her to fight in a feudal Steampunk war across the galaxy.

An epic struggle through space takes the reader through the period of the Crusades into our near future.

Prologue

It Begins

He swung his long sword, and another Persian head fell to the blood-covered floor of the small sanctuary. His backstroke fatally sliced the intestines of the next attacker and with a step forward he impaled his bloody blade into the throat of a third. Drained, he retreated to a corner to catch his breath. Fatigue shackled his arms as sure as any enemy. Blood made the grip on his sword slick and unsure, but the sound of approaching footsteps on the twisted stone staircase sent adrenaline racing through him. Trapped in this bloody crusade with a heavy sword, he wished for his Smith and Wesson. Accepting his fate, he reached for his short sword and took a deep breath. Although he knew it was hopeless, he charged the emerging Lance tips at the top of the stairs .

Leeth found himself weightless in a black void. Another freaking time shift. Cool air rushed into his lungs, and his erratic heart forced blood through veins he knew to be too small. Incredibly relieved to be alive, his only thoughts reflected his unexpected transition. What a rush. The Time Overlords had pulled him out of harm's way at the last second. He hoped they would forgive him his timeline disruptions, but knew it was not to be.

Seven somber faces sat behind a stone cold table and glared at him. The gray-walled room, lacking doors and windows reflected their closed, dogmatic minds. Not a hint of humor marred their dour faces. He snorted. Their pristine white robes seemed incongruous for the anticipated Riot Act about to be served. It didn’t seem fair. It was, after all, their mandate that had sent him back in time in the first place.

Leeth broadened his stance for better balance while stars winked around the fog still clouding his vision. As hard as he tried to face up to these men, the ones about to pass judgment on him and set punishment, fatigue overwhelmed him, and he couldn't lift his head.

A growing pool of blood spread around his feet. His filthy, torn Templar tunic was covered in dirt, blood, barf and horseshit, and if his aching body had been skewered as anticipated, he was too numb to notice. The buzzing in his ears grew louder, and he fought to maintain his balance. He wondered if, at the end of this inquisition, he might prefer to be back in the bloody crusades.

He teetered toward the long thin granite table, which separated the seven chairs of the Overlords and the one for him. He needed to sit before he collapsed and stepped toward his chair.

Halt.

The command jarred him, and adrenaline kept him standing. He regained his balance. The Overlord sitting in the center of the row of white robes raised his hand. "You will first go to the showers and receive medical treatment. You will be escorted back to us within sixty seconds of our time. Say nothing of your travels, Leeth, and do not attempt to escape."

Leeth’s four-hour medical treatment did not include food or water nor did it include comfortable clothes. The medical staff of Seekers dressed him like a monk in a coarse, gray robe before returning him clean, bandaged, starved, and thirsty to the Time Overlords. In their time, he had been gone fifty-seven seconds.

The Overlord who had excused him gave him a curt nod and equally curt command. "Sit. We have much to say. You, however, will tell us of your failures first."

His eyes burned from lack of sleep and his limbs were almost too heavy to move. With a deep breath of air to fuel his motion, he pulled back the plain metal chair and fell into it.

A pitcher of water and an empty glass appeared in front of him.

Using both hands, he poured a glass and drank it down, then almost dozed off.

You need not speak mind-to-mind here, Brother Leeth. Do you remember me?

It was the very Overlord who’d done all the talking. To be more precise, his non-stop rant had chastised and threatened him for over an hour about the consequences of his missteps and errors in judgment.

Leeth cleared his throat. Yes, you are Horace.

"Speak with respect, Brother Leeth. I am Father Horace to you."

The six other Overlords remained mute, and he eyed them with suspicion. It didn't take a genius to figure out from their rapidly changing expressions they were engaged in a private mind-to-mind chatter. Will you be sending me back, Father? he asked, acquiescing to the rebuke, although it stuck in his craw. He raised his chin to make himself taller, a weak protest, but it made him feel marginally better. He'd screwed up, and he knew it.

Horace raised a hand, and Leeth understood the private conversations had ended. Their attention returned to him, and a dribble of sweat wended its way down his itchy back while heat suffused his neck. He took another deep breath to slow his heart from beating more blood to his face. Dammit. He looked as guilty as a kid with a frog in his back pocket at the junior high dance.

Without waiting for Horace to speak, he said. Am I to assume from your rescue of me there is a plan for my full redemption?

Horace looked down his nose. Someone in your position should assume nothing, Brother Leeth.

Then tell me why I’m here, Father.

The bastard was leaving him hanging on purpose. The stern faces across from him changed, eyebrows rose, frowns deepened, and lips pinched. The mental communication, which excluded him, did not look good.

Horace’s fingers danced a nervous drum roll on the table as the unheard conversation took place. Finally, he said, Enough. He pointed a finger at Leeth. You, sir, seemed to make every effort to satisfy your lust for extensive slaughter.

Slaughter was never part of Leeth’s persona.

Do not allow the excitement of the moment to get in the way of your mission. Leeth Letholdus must live out his normal life, or there will be grave consequences for Earth. Can you change your behavior?

Bloodlust? He was just trying to survive. An Overlord at the end of the table extended his hand to speak, and while his expression was not quite so hostile, he was likely to carry much weight in the outcome of the impending punishment. Leeth knew for a fact the big guns sat closer to the center. Nonetheless, the man spoke.

"Father, he must see the record."

Mental-muttering followed until Horace snapped. Enough. Leeth, open your mind, and observe the consequences your disruptive actions made to Earth’s timeline. He glanced at the other Overlords. This is what is at stake for all of us.

Leeth saw space filled with blankets of colored stars hung against deep blackness. Then he saw an Earthrise as seen from someone standing on the moon. Oh, yes, he had seen it many times from early exploration of Earth satellite. The emerging appearance of the blue and white globe was one he would never forget. Momentarily, he smiled in the joy of seeing his Earth from this vantage point.

Suddenly, all tranquility disappeared. Hoards of incoming meteorites streaked through Earth's high atmosphere. He lurched forward for a better view as hundreds of fragments of iron and rock fell toward the planet. Transforming into massive fireballs, they careened into the Earth's surface and erupted in towering columns of molten ejecta that fell with mesmerizing slowness back onto a molten fury. Oceans and continents vanished silently within the white heat. He couldn't close his eyes or shut his mind to the horror.

Leeth sat in mummified shock. Holy Christ. When does that happen?

In a much-subdued voice, the head Overlord said, It can never occur.

The Overlord to Horace’s right stood. "We have followed this timeline many, many times and the only positive outcome rests on her survival, and you are crucial to this scenario."

Me? The Overlord pointed at him while talking about some unknown her.

"You are the only one known to us who can exist outside a host and on your own, anywhere in the timeline."

Leeth pushed his chair back and slapped the table. "Hold on here. What’s going on? Help who? I wasn’t assigned to anyone except this Leeth guy, whose name you keep calling me. Since when can a person who is gleaning in the mind of one person decide to exist on his own? Look, you sent me back as a historian to view the First Crusade from Leeth Letholdus' mind. You gave me a sorry excuse for a host. The feeble bastard died on me during our first attempt to scale Jerusalem's wall and left me to fend for myself in that time period until you pulled me out."

Horace leaned forward. "Yes, but he didn’t die. You did. That is, your body, the one buried in the basement for more than a thousand years after that one died trying to scale that Jerusalem wall."

Stunned, Leeth fought back. "He, or his body, was sure as hell not contributing much when you pulled me out."

Grim faces stared at him, unmoved by his account. "You overcame your host instead of letting him do anything. You assumed control of his body and led the attack on the city, killing dozens."

"What the hell was I supposed to do? I was halfway up the freaking ladder when things went dark, and some twenty thousand Muslims jumped me. I followed all your rules and did nothing that might change the timeline until that moment. I was only defending myself."

A fourth Overlord thumped the table. "Two things must happen. One, you must return to Jerusalem, and it must be as Leeth. You must live out Leeth's recorded life according to our rules, so there are no disruptions to the timeline. Two, you must become the monitor for someone special, so she lives long enough to fulfill her role. She is the person who plays a critical role in saving Earth from the destruction you witnessed moments ago."

Why me?

The Time Overlord sighed. "Aren’t you listening? We have no idea how it happened that you did what you did.. We may learn the technique in a few years or a few centuries from now, but meanwhile, we don't know if it can be repeated. You alone stand before us fully capable of successfully completing the task. He locked his eyes on Leeth. You will go back and continue as Leeth. The man you were no longer exists."

They were scaring him. He didn't want to return to the middle of the Crusades. As far as he knew, nobody lived. "Aaron. My name is Aaron, and I am not going back."

Horace wiggled his finger. "You do not live here anymore. Aaron died of a massive heart attack while gleaning in Leeth’s mind in 1099.

Well shit. That was a game changer. Aaron folded his arms. Leeth’s arms. What the hell? This would take some getting used to. He looked down at his hands. There were small scars on them he didn’t remember. He’d thought the chair was small. Now he realized his legs were longer. What nonsense was this? He had his mind and some crusader's body. A small smile played at his lips when he thought of his niece, Chloe. Biogenetics mastermind that she was, she would be blown away by his situation. The fleeting smile had faded before it was visible.

Is that why there are no mirrors in the medical facility?

Horace pressed his hands onto the table and almost rose. "Must I remind you of what’s at stake here, Leeth? You will return to the time just after you scale Jerusalem’s wall and we will assure you leave that battle alive."

He’d used the name with emphasis. The bastard was probably enjoying all this. You mentioned a woman.

"Just so. You will monitor and protect the young woman living in that time until she fulfills her destiny and you will do it as a fully functional Seeker who has gone through a Second Awakening. You will be able to reposition and move through time and space on your own. He paused and glanced down the table to Brother Braylus, the Overlord who had spoken on Leeth’s behalf for medical help. Thank you for volunteering to aid Leeth in this mission.

Leeth stood, no longer caring if it went against protocol. Tired as he was, he could hardly concentrate. What he thought they were suggesting was that he return to the First Crusade in the eleven hundreds. Only they wanted him to leave the fighting and help some girl he'd never heard of, let alone seen so that she could save the Earth some hundreds of years in the future. He ran his hand through his hair and found it long, and silky, very different from his somewhat wiry think curls.

Brother Braylus stood as well. After you scaled the wall, you opened a gate. Do you remember? Do you let the Crusaders in? When you return to the fighting, make your way to that gate and exit the city. From there, you can go to the hospital tent, which is far enough outside the walls to be safe. King Louis is staked out there with several of his men. They watched the conflict and will recognize you as the first Christian to scale the walls of Jerusalem. Until you board a ship bound for what we now call Italy, they will give you things to do that will keep you away from the fighting and therefore alive.

Do I die there?

We have looked at some possibilities, but remember, when you left Jerusalem it was July 1099. We will live there thirty-eight years until your next mission begins. You and I have some time to work out the details of your redemption.

Knocking around for thirty-eight years? That was nuts. "Can you tell me where and when the next mission occurs?"

Brother Braylus glanced at Father Horace who nodded.

Your real work begins in Vézelay, France, where you’ll meet this young woman during the summer of 1137.

1

The Tournament

Vézelay, France, 1137

The destrier thundered toward her with Bromwell’s lance leveled at her heart. If this doesn’t kill me, my father will.  Finna’s stomach cramped and her vision blurred. No-o-o, she growled through clenched teeth. She would not lose. She blinked to clear her vision, pressed her knees tight to her steed , and prayed to St. George to keep her arm steady. Bracing for impact, Finna held as tight her wooden lance as if it were made of precious Toledo steel .

With an ear-splitting crash, the scene played out in slow motion. Her wooden lance splintered, and pieces of it flew before her like a shattered jug. White stars pirouetted in front of her eyes, and she listed to the right in her saddle. Bromwell, who always pinched, shoved, and yelled sexual insults at her, tipped sideways as well, only he didn't right himself. His horse reared and the bully, with arms flailing, continued his downward slide to land hard on the ground.

She couldn’t believe it. She slowed her warhorse to a walk and patted herself all over, checking for injuries. I’m alive. She laughed out loud. She was alive, and Bromwell was face down in the mud.

What? She looked around. St. George? She put her hand to her head, then shook herself and dismissed what she thought she'd heard. She'd beaten her tormenter in front of everyone. That was what was important. She'd shamed him. He'd have to leave her alone now. Joy filled her, and she guided her mount into a tight spin of celebration. Looking down at the muddy mess of humanity that had made her life hell every chance he got, she tried in vain to forgive him.

He had tripped, hit, and taunted her not because she was a girl, but because he could get away with it. In his devious way, the sorry excuse of humanity had harassed everyone he could. Her lips drew into a grim straight line. He looked good down there, unconscious in a pile of horse shit. She’d dreamt of this day, of besting him, of humiliating him, and yes, of hurting him.

She nudged him with the tip of her lance. He didn't open his eyes, and that concerned her. God’s Bones. She leaped from Trueblood to kneel beside him. Hovering her hand over his mouth as her father had taught her to do, she checked for his breath. Nothing. She'd wanted to beat the snot out of him, not kill him. Hoping he'd just had the air knocked out of him, she stood behind him and pulled him to a sitting position. She slapped his back until he coughed up something she didn't spend much time looking at. When he moaned and began complaining, she knew he'd live and dropped him back in the muck. Without a word, two of his friends appeared and carried him off.

Preoccupied, Finna hadn’t registered the cheering, and when she looked around to see what was happening, it stopped. The silence somehow seemed even louder.

A Templar in full armor and mounted on a white horse beckoned to her from the end of the list. The contrast of his shiny silver chain mail and pristine white outer shirt with the large red cross over his shoulder made her mud-encrusted squire's outfit all the more grubby.

Father. He had expressly forbidden her to enter the contest.

With little enthusiasm, she nudged her horse toward him. There would be hell to pay, and she wanted to run, but where? She raised her lance and lifted her chin. She was a champion. She had just won the squire's tournament. Although she knew it was a stretch to bother him again, she prayed to St. George, hoping he would smile on her.

The crowd, sensing the drama, watched the unmoving Templar, whose protective face armor remained in place, giving him a sinister presence.

For all she tried to avoid looking into the slit of his face armor, Finna could feel the weight of his piercing blue eyes. They drew her like a magnet. When he didn’t move, just held himself in check, he wasn’t just angry, he was furious. An infinitesimal hand motion directed her to ride next to him. He took her horse’s reins and drew her toward the reviewing stand. The sounds of cheers and whistles began slowly, as if from a distance, but in Finna’s head, only the words her father would use in telling her of his disappointment and anger buzzed in her ears.

The knight remained mute, his broad shoulders and silence daunting as he guided their mounts slowly toward the covered viewing stand. When they stopped, he removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and bowed to the queen.

Not father.

She had been so sure that was who it was. The man had the same size and the same helmet as her father but was not him. Granted, it was only a short reprieve, but she breathed a sigh of relief, even knowing her punishment would be a sure thing.

Nod your head in a bow.

What? She’d been congratulating herself on her temporary escape and had not been paying attention.

Bow to the Queen.

Sarding eyes of Christ.

Queen Eleanor and King Louis gazed down at her from the first row of the reviewing stand.

She didn't know if she should get off her horse or not and eyed her companion for clues. Following the Knight's whispered instructions, she removed her helmet, and after taking off a glove and running a hand through her short-cropped golden hair, she dipped her head low in motion as close to a bow as she could manage astride her destrier. When the king snorted, she knew she'd blundered. He'd seen the delicate features of a young woman, not those of the emerging manhood of a young squire. Her heart stuttered in apprehension.

She would be banned . . . or hung. She barely managed to raise her eyes apologetically to her queen. Again, her heart skipped a beat, only this time in surprise. The queen stood and applauded with a smile of delight.

It would be all right. She had done what she had set out to do, to gain the admiration of the Queen.

Normally, the king and queen do not bother with the squire competition, the knight beside her said in a voice only she could hear. "If the queen can ease the anger of the king at your transgression, you will be fortunate to have been seen."

At the queen’s signal, Finna lowered the point of her lance toward the monarch. She took deep breaths to quell her shaking hands and prayed her anxiety would not spook her horse, or unintentionally impale the queen. The queen. Her father couldn’t kill her now. Could he?

Leaning forward, Eleanor tied a green ribbon to the tip of Finna’s lance from which a golden medallion hung. "Well done, champion."

Champion. Finna's heart sang. The queen thought she was a champion and the crowd roared in approval. She waved, and the crowd's roar grew in another wave of enthusiasm.

It wasn’t until Finna left the rarified air of the fairgrounds that her euphoric state settled to practical matters. Now she would have to face her father.

Godfrey’s wail drew her attention. Finna, slow down.

After the knight had ridden off without a word, Finna entered the path into the woods that would take her south to her village and home. Godfrey, who had squired for her, trailed behind. Giving him time to catch up, she dismounted and examined Trueblood's legs again. You are my brave war horse, boy. You worked hard today. Rubbing his forehead and scratching his neck, she waited for Godfrey. As she hummed softly to her steed, her eye caught a movement in the woods off to the right, and her hand immediately dropped to the hilt of her knife. She continued humming while glancing carefully around until her eyes lit on what at first appeared to be a low gray boulder. It was not. It was a monk in a gray hooded robe sitting by the side of the road, apparently asleep.

Strange.

She checked on Godfrey, and when she looked back at the monk, he had vanished. Although she was tired and the day had been one filled with excitement and surprises, she was not prone to hallucinations. She scrutinized the area around her. Where had the man gone?

Wait for me.

Godfrey. She had momentarily forgotten him . . . And how slow he was. She waited for her short, somewhat chubby, companion to catch up.

I need a rest. Godfrey stopped with his hands on his knees and bent over to take in needed air.

She relented. After all, why should she hurry home only to for punishment? She’d disobeyed her father. God’s Bones He’d kill her. The refrain ricocheted around in her head until she shook herself.

She took advantage of the stop, and she led her horse to the small stream that bordered the path. She thought Trueblood was limping and reached for his hind leg to check.

Godfrey caught up and leaned against the trunk of a shade tree with the look of a sweaty, red-cheeked, boneless puppet. I don’t know why we can’t ride double.

"I told you. Trueblood is tired, and I think he has come up a bit lame. We'll rest and imagine how pleasant ‘tis not to have Bromwell to worry about. Toss me the bag with my helmet. I’ll carry it."

With one arm, her squire pulled the bag from his shoulder and tossed it toward her feet as he shuffled to a moss-covered rock and, leaning against it, slowly slid to the ground. You slammed that son of a swine to the mud. Bromwell never knew what hit him. He laughed and continued regaling her on her victory. Your father has taught you well. He was not the only one you downed, either. None of the other squires laid a lance on you in the jousting. Not in the archery competition, either. Your aim is nothing short of a miracle and—

Tell me true, my squire, you go on as though you never wish to leave the soft moss and coolness of the boulder that has become your bed-board.

Godfrey's cheeks turned pink, but he persevered. Not so. Your strength and speed defeated one and all. Your intelligence and ability with your left-hand turned their mistakes to your advantage. He pushed some dirt with his heel. What happened to your knight? I thought he was taking you somewhere?

She waved a hand. He went off, probability doing the Queen's business, but enough. You're in luck; I'll stay and rest. She smiled at him and gently punched his shoulder. "I must thank you for your help. ‘Twas you who borrowed three lances and you who shaved weight from them so I could hold them. She poked him with her finger. And you who thought of the strategy to deflect Bromwell’s lance so it would break rather than make a direct hit."

"But ‘twas you, Finna, who discovered that Bromwell always raised his chin just before contact allowing his helmet to shift and cover his eyes just before impact. You hit him proper. Godfrey laughed aloud. Yeah. I think you hurt him good, the bully. He deserved that and more for all the times he dumped me in the horse trough or sat me in a pile of cow shit. His pained expression changed to one of pride. If I were you, I’d brag to your father. I would think he’d be proud. After all, what was the point of all the training he gave you if not to use your skills?"

She waved a hand in dismissal and stepped behind him to drag off her dirty squire’s tunic and gratefully pulled on the soft woolen shirt she wore when she did chores around the farm with her father. Her father. Now that she had won, it was certain he’d find out. She wanted to tell him first.

2

Finna’s Fear

Reflection

T hat's stupid; he'll be proud of you. You won. You have a gold medal from the queen. She stood and applauded you .

There was no question Godfrey supported her. Finna slid her thumb under the green ribbon and lifted the shiny medal away from her chest so he could see it. Yes, the Queen gave me this. A grin spread across her face. Did I tell you what she said?

Only a thousand times.

" ‘Well done, champion.’ That’s me. I’m the champion." Joy seeped through her. She’d done it. She’d won.

"So then, why would your father be angry with you? What’s his problem with you continuing in his footsteps as a fighter? He is, or at least he was, a Knights Templar. I thought once a Templar always a Templar."

Well, yeah, sort of, but I’m a sarding woman, or haven’t you noticed. Besides, I’m not anyone’s squire. I lied when I applied to be in the tournament and claimed I was my father’s squire.

Godfrey’s eyes grew wide. Then I’m blameworthy, too. I’m not a squire, but I pretended to be yours.

Not the same, you don’t work for me. You are just a friend. She gathered the reins to Trueblood. Are you rested enough? Can you keep up with me until we get home?

He frowned. This moss covered stone is just the right shape to rest on. It gives me great back support, see?

Only you don’t have back problems. He was obviously reluctant to get started again. Come on. Since you don’t work for me, I’ll carry another bag. Hand me the one holding my small weapons. There wasn’t anything he got out the competition. She was lucky to have him as a friend.

"All right. I’m ready if you don’t walk too fast and you tell me why this tournament was so very special to you, even when you knew you didn’t have your father’s permission. And no more about your father slitting your gullet. One way or another, you were going to do it."

The tournament meant everything to me.

You were in it for more than to get even with Bromwell. It was a statement, not a question.

"God’s Bones, Godfrey, of course. Then she gave him a lopsided grin. It was good, though, wasn’t it?"

He returned her grin. Yeah.

All right, I'll tell you, but only if you swear not to laugh. She leaned down and put her nose practically on his face. Do it.

All right. All right. He raised his right hand. I swear.

I hoped my winning would come to the notice of Queen Eleanor and she would invite me to go with her on the crusade. I didn't know she would be watching.

The crusade?

Don't be dense, Godfrey. She knew she wasn't fair. After all, he hadn't seen what she'd seen. "Queen Eleanor galloped through Vézelay with a group of magnificent women who were dressed like Amazons. It was to generate support for the coming Crusade. Did you get that? Women. They were amazing. Women warriors. They rode as one with their horses. When I saw that, I knew I wanted to go."

Go where?

"Are you paying attention? Has your brain dropped from your head? Don’t you get it? The queen is recruiting volunteers for her Women’s Crusade. Can you imagine it? The crusades. And I am going."

Does your father know?

She scoffed. "Get with it, Godfrey. The queen said she would take three hundred women with her to be part of the crusade funded by the king. Don’t you think she would want a champion with her?"

Godfrey scratched his head as he hefted his round body to his feet. You want to go on a crusade and die?

She frowned at him. I have no plans to die.

Humph. No one does. He reached behind him and picked up his bag. And anyway, your father is going to kill you before then, isn’t he?

Before she could respond, something flew past Finna’s ear and bounced hard off Godfrey’s head. Grabbing her short sword from her hip, she wheeled around into a low crouch and searched the side of the road, looking for the culprit. Bromwell. She could smell his presence when he slowly advanced from under cover of the forest with two of his filthy cousins, whose halting gait and shifting eyes marked their uncertainty. All three wielded knives, a testament to expectations of a fight.

Too cowardly to come alone? she asked.

Finna was outnumbered. Blindly, she reached for Godfrey’s unconscious form and non-too-gently, put her hand over his mouth to see if he still breathed.

will be victorious, Finna. Put up a brave front. That will put them off.>

What the hell?

A voice rattled inside her head. Not understanding its origin, she nonetheless followed the directions. What's the matter? Afraid of a girl? Some brave front, yet the three adversaries hesitated, and Finna calculated an exit strategy. Afraid you'll land face down in shit again, Bromwell? Her eyes danced around the clearing as she evaluated the usefulness of each rock and tree, should the three gather their nerve and attack.

Bromwell stepped forward and waved his blade at her, slashing the air close to her face.

That will cost you, Bromwell, Finna said, spinning away while keeping an eye on his despicable cousins, who bobbed around her. Watch your back; this is a busy road.

Bromwell turned to look, and Finna took advantage of his inattention to glance at Godfrey. He was breathing, but she didn't know how bad his wound was. There was a lot of blood. While her father had told her head wounds always bled a lot, she couldn't remember if that was a good thing or bad. She wanted to look more closely, but she didn't dare take her eyes off the three louts to check.

Bromwell leered. Three to one seems good odds to me, you little whore.

He'd made a mistake. You'll eat those words; you chicken shit. I'll wait here if you need to get more backup. She held her short sword in both hands glaring at her foe. A rock hurtled by her head, missing her by inches and she let out a tremendous roar and raced at Bromwell.

His cousins dropped their jaws, then their stones and turned and