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.

The mercenary smiled lazily.

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Now there were two options, back away like a reasonable coward, or keep going ahead like a foolish hero and break an arm. Farren, of course, chose the third — cheat like an immoral bastard and hope for the best. Use magic.

"So what's your story, mister? Surely
you haven't come to this miserable little village to drink ale and break bones?" Farren asked, still trying to push his arm downward.

"Looking for my brother." He said after a pause, "glad somebody asked. All the others just keep swearin' and yellin' at me to leave. Not much room for friendly conversation."

"Your brother? Here in Kinallen?"

Don't mind me. I'm just buying time. Dear Gods, I'm an asshole, aren't I?

"Aye. I've been told he has passed through here. Left home looking for work some years back, he did. Now he wants me to join him in whatever he's been up to."

Behind her back, Farren twiddled the fingers of her left hand, muttering incantations of the only spell she had ever mastered with what little sorcerous talent she possessed.

Simple though it may be, this little spell had weakened and paralyzed the muscles of many a foe in battle. It worked wonders upon her drinking buddy too.

The man's grip weakened a little.

Farren smiled. Slowly, now. Can't be too obvious.

"And what's your brother's been up to?" she said, groping for the thread of conversation she'd let go in her momentary joy.

He frowned at their clasped hands. "Says he's joined some mercenary company up north. Pay is good. And if I'm gettin good coin to crack a few skulls, what more do I want?"

"Glad we have something in common." Farren grinned as she managed to push his arm down a few more inches. The crowd buzzed excitedly.

He grunted, and pinned her hand down again. The crowd groaned.

But Farren could see he had gone pale beneath his red beard.

"Again?" She put her arm up. Her brown eyes glinted mischievously in the dim light. Across her left eye was a scar, stretching from the top of her thick, prominent brow to the lower eyelid. Her opponent squinted at it with mild curiosity, then back at his empty tankard.

"Hold up," he said, then yelled to the innkeeper. "Another pint of ale!"

"A shot of Goldcrest whiskey for me," said Farren with a tight-lipped smile.

She must not let her opponent or anyone know what she was doing, for even a child in these parts knew it was illegal for a soldier to use magic.

Yet who was going to find out in this rural outpost at the far east end of Midaelia?

If they did, it would be the high gallows for her. But before that, Rhilio's mercy, this fellow will break my face if he catches me cheating.

For a moment, Farren imagined herself running away to join Captain Walric's company-- a band of battlemages who once served the Midaelian throne, now outlawed for unlawful wielding of sorcery. Yet that was a prospect far too daring than simple tavern games, and she swung her attention back to her opponent again.

If only there was some way Farren could know whether this mercenary understood magic at all... If he did, it was all over. Farren looked around. Then opportunity presented itself in the form of the harried looking innkeeper when he arrived with their drinks.

"Corporal," he said, "this is no Death Ring that you cannot back out of. Leave it, save yourself."

The Velan mercenary frowned. "Death ring? The hell is that?"

"A Midaelian proverb," offered Farren,"meaning a situation you can't back away from." The mercenary remained clueless.

"It's origin," the innkeeper said with a smug air, "is from sophisticated sorcery, good sir. Something the 'weak' Midaelians came up with. When a Midaelian wizard challenges another in a duel, they cast the Death Ring 'round them. A sort of barrier. One cannot get out till the duel is won."

"The best part is," Farren said with an evil grin, "with time, the ring will get smaller and smaller. So even if you don't kill your opponent, the barrier will trap you both, and then blow you to bits!"

"Sounds like too much trouble," said the man. "I prefer my blades. Never quite got the hang of this magic thing."

"I see," Farren said, smiling ear to ear. It seemed luck was on her side today. He has no idea.

The whiskey burned her throat going down. Her eyes watered.

"Bring it on!" she said, shaking her hair out of her eyes. They gripped hands again.

Now the man was focused, bloodshot eyes on their grasped hands.

The crowd watched eagerly, eyes upon them.

And sorcery flared in her palm behind her back.

Farren worked the only spell she knew, the spell of immobility, branch of elemental magic governing the living. With that she began to paralyze her opponent's muscles, little by little. His arm weakened, dipping lower and lower. Outside, someone was calling her name. Farren didn't have time to spare.

The crowd shrank away as the Velan got off his seat, his chair hitting the floor with a loud thud. And Farren did the same, hissing a laugh.

Glasses and tankards jumped as the mercenary's huge arm hit the tabletop, defeated.

"I believe I earned the twenty four mugs of ale," Farren said as the crowd of villagers erupted in cheers and whistles.

He let out a grunt and reached inside his cloak.

"There." He placed a velvet pouch on the table. Shiny, Velan Silvers jingled inside it. "My arm must've gotten tired. But I'll keep my word."

Farren felt a stab of guilt as she reached for the money on the table. She hadn't really earned it, had she? Ah well. She rose with a swish of her cloak, then tossed the little pouch over the counter. The innkeeper caught it in mid-air.

"Corporal?"

"A round of ale for all my friends here, and this gentleman too." She nodded to the mercenary. "To bid him goodbye and wish him a pleasant reunion with his brother."

Cheers rose from the crowd.

--"Forget ale, I'll have what Corporal was havin' before beating the Velan!"

--"Yeah!"

Farren bowed deeply to the people. And in the midst of the commotion the innkeeper handed her a paper wrapped package of bread. "Here, this one's on the house. Fresh baked from the oven."

She smiled warmly. This was good enough.

The door to the inn creaked open. A dark haired, freckle-faced man stood there, looking smug as though he had just caught someone having a midnight snack. He was Rendarr, one of Farren's fellow squad members.

"Been looking for you everywhere, and here you are, getting drunk at this hour," he said, arms crossed.

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Here's the map for world reference. Happy reading ❤️