Entering Tribute over the wooden defensive wall was easier than Nina had expected.

Although the rain helped hide her presence, as did the point humans were effectively blind on a dark wet night like this, she had expected them to at least be more vigilant.

Even so, this was not something to be focusing on; the plan was working as expected.

Her run through Alra, all three days of it, was treacherous. Avoiding the patrols had been the biggest challenge. Not so much the elven ones, but the Sujo were a different story.

Absolute perfection was required to avoid detection by the Sujo. Their large frames belied their stealth and keen senses.

In the end, driven mostly by adrenalin, she was able to get through Alra Forest to Tribute, and to finally meet Rufus.

Even though she was still to complete her task, she felt able to relax a little. The real danger was behind her, and now she was within the walls of the town, all she needed to do was locate the house and the baton could be passed on.

Wearing only black, flitting through the back streets undetected was easy. The rain disguised her light footsteps, the dark her blackened lean figure.

So as she was jogging down the alley, when the slim rope draped across the road popped up, when she fell to the ground, she was absolutely taken by surprise.

Surprise was still no match to her well honed instincts, created through endless training in falls and recoveries. As she fell, even with her surprise, her body acted faster.

Tuck in the head, roll the shoulder, and use the momentum to assist with a rolling stand.

By the time the four men were almost on top of their fallen victim, she was standing with sword drawn.

She ducked the first blow, a club of some description, sweeping in for her head. The fist she avoided mostly with a rolling shoulder, the impact was still powerful but nothing to worry about.

She took a few steps back, located who was closest, and retaliated with a kick in the groin to her puncher. This collapsed the large man immediately.

But the tackle by the third man was a success for him.

They fell to the ground hard with his body weight landing fully on her, squeezing the breath out of her in an instant and knocking her sword from her hand.

She heard it clanging along the cobble stones as it scooted out of reach.

He was scrambling for her arms but she was quicker. She found the small blade she had attached to her forearm, snapped it off and stabbed the man in the side.

For a man this size, she figured it was only enough to stun him a second before it annoyed him.

This was enough time for her to escape his clutches, only to be hit by the club as she attempted to stand up. A glancing blow to the head, she doubted she would have remained conscious with a full blow.

In falling back to the ground, towards her fallen sword, she was feeling lucky she located the handle immediately.

To her feet again, defensive stance secured and her wits about her.

Her back was to the wall, three large bruts stood in front of her. One man still down.

“We have a feisty one tonight” the tackler said to the others.

She held her defence, unmoving and silent.

Mr Tackle moved first.

She took one step back then stepped aside and struck out for the club man. He was not expecting the assault that way; she slashed at his knee and got it.

Moving right along by skirting around him, she began the hunt for the third man standing, leaving Mr Tackle to figure out which way she was moving.

The third man now had a sword drawn; he looked semi capable but not a true threat.

They parry a few times and she was about to take her shot at disabling the brut when the pain stung her from behind.

The blade sank in deeply and was withdrawn. She had little time to waste; this fight needed to end fast before the pain and blood lose took her over.

She swilled around, sword flying full speed and with lethal intent. It met its mark and the boy fell to the ground.

She stopped in horror…. a boy no more than ten years old lay on the ground dead.

Instincts saved her for the second time. The sword missed her by only a fraction.

“Survive” she called to herself.

The sword man was dead within three parries, the puncher was backing away with intent to run and Mr Tackle had stopped the attack to be by the boy.

He was in despair “You killed my boy” he yelled at her. “You killed my boy!”

Her horror at the site, a youth dead in a man’s arms, was already digging into her soul.

“Survive”

The warmth of her blood spilling down her back reminded her she had little time. She pressed her hand against the wound and tried to stop the blood flow with pressure. She moved as quickly as possible.

“You killed my boy!”

People nearby were looking out windows but had not seen her. She found somewhere hidden quickly, removed her knapsack and took a small jar from it.

Removing the lid was a task with the slippery blood and rain, but she got it off. The pain was hitting hard now.

She scoped out a handful of mud, curing, and smeared it over the wound, being careful to press the loam into the wound.

She then knelt down and sat against the wall, dizziness was taking a hold but she had been fast enough.

The curing was already working, the blood flow was slowing, she could feel the warmth of the fast healing occurring inside her and the pain had subsided.

The cost of the healing was tiredness, and with a wound this size she would most likely have to sleep fairly soon.

She was close to losing consciousness already. She was desperate to find shelter, and a tavern was out of the question now.

Looking around quickly, the fuzziness creeping in fast, Nina found a small door leading under a house.

Not much, but enough.

Checking the streets again before moving, she crossed the ally and crawled through the door. Closing it behind her, she had a quick look to decide if it would keep her dry and mostly safe.

Once she had decided the space was enough she cast a lock spell on the door to prevent all but the most determined intruders.

Once that was done she shuffled the things in the small space to make it semi comfortable.

The curing, miracle loam that it is, always knocked out the cured.

The more it healed the bigger the hit.

She fell asleep hoping that she would wake up by morning.

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