My heroine is in a camp run by the brutish graalur...
There was a burly warrior at the entrance to the store, and beside him a human slave. As I peered round the corner at the scene the graalur slammed a fist into the lad’s stomach. The slave crumpled to the ground, and the graalur drew back a booted foot and kicked him in the face. The graalur swung his foot again, but I was already moving. One graalur, one of me, and an attractive man in distress. I’ve read too many of the pulp magazines Verin enjoyed. Usually in those it was a pretty woman needing rescuing from the brute, but the effect was the same – a hero doesn’t pause when an attractive member of the opposite sex is in peril. My fist connected squarely with the thug's chin.
Which was where it all went wrong. In the stories, I would have laid the graalur out, seized the gorgeous prize, and we would have fled out into the wilderness, to find somewhere safe, exchange life stories, and probably engage in a steamy, passionate liaison to our joint satisfaction and no long-term commitment.
But the graalur didn’t go down - instead, he grunted in rage and swung back at me. I dodged, fortunately – close to, I could see that he was built like a steam wrecking-machine and had a punch to match – but he did not abandon the effort. He also bellowed a challenge, which saw fit to summon every graalur within a mile. Worst of all, my handsome hunk scrambled away and fled without a backward glance. So much for gratitude.
As always, comments welcomed!