They held before them their crude weapons and looked back and forth from their dead leader to Merk, now all seeming less certain of themselves. As flames burned all around him, black smoke stinging his eyes in waves, Merk remained calm, preparing for the confrontation to come. “Drop your weapons and run,” Merk said, “and you will live. I won’t offer again.” One of them, a tall brute with wide shoulders and a scar across his chin, grunted back. “You’re a proud one, aren’t you?” he said in a thick accent Merk did not understand. “You really think you can take us all?” “There are still ten of us and one of you,” another called back. Merk laughed, shaking his head. “You still don’t understand,” he said. “You’re already dead. You just don’t know it yet.” He stared back at them with his cold, black eyes, the eyes of a killer, and he could see the fear starting to take hold. It was a look he’d recognized his entire life. One of the men suddenly let out a shout and charged, raising his sword, filled with more bravado than skill.
