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“Dammit, at this rate we’re all dead…!”
Hamel bit down hard on his lip as he aimed his bow from behind the wagon, directing the mercenaries. The metallic stench of blood steadied his faltering limbs.
His instincts, honed as a former ranger in a mountain guerrilla unit, screamed at him to retreat. To survive, to stall for time, to force attrition—that was a ranger’s duty. However, he was no longer a ranger. He was a mercenary. He had accepted this escort contract and had to fulfill his duty by protecting these people.
Shit. I knew that face looked familiar.
As he belatedly recognized the enemy, Hamel ground his teeth. This was Garlond the Gale, an A-rank swordsman who had been making a name for himself in the mercenary world.
Garlond’s swordplay was said to surpass that of most knights. Why he had suddenly snapped in broad daylight was anyone’s guess.
The five mercenaries here are C-ranks, and I’m the only B-rank. How are we supposed to take down a rabid A-rank?
It was absurd. Forcing down the urge to abandon everything, Hamel nocked one of his three remaining special arrows. The two explosive arrows and one frost...
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