Page 80 of Not That Impossible

I closed the article and opened up a new document.

It was time to get serious now. I needed to capitalise on my success and brainstorm some ideas for another article. Think about what mattered to the community.

What did people want to read about?

It was easy; all I had to do was pin that down, and the ideas would flow.

I stared at the cursor.

They’d flow.

All of the ideas.

Like a river. A bountiful river of creativity.

Okay. My creativity river was flowing like a glacier.

I had to shake it loose, stop overthinking it, get the blood pumping.

I leapt out of my chair, did some lunges and squats, and sat back down. I closed my eyes, set my hands on the keyboard, and started typing…

At long last, I had been summoned to the warlord’s tent.

I was shaking and nervous, yet determined to do the right thing. I would stab the blackguard through the heart, in the name of King Adam and the conquered people of Fayreford, one more kingdom swallowed up by the dark greed of the barbarian warlord Liam Nash.

I would look down on him as I fulfilled my destiny, and I would laugh in his face as he expired at my feet, smitten by the deadly beauty of Fayreford’s Avenger.

I would toss my hair out of my eyes and sneer and say, “And you thought I was a simple soldier. You handsome fool! But, no. I am a highly skilled assassin, with no mercy, and nothing but loyalty to my king and my people in my heart. Despair of the day you cast your lustful gaze upon our kingdom!”

Or something like that.

I had been chosen, along with other favoured friends of the king, as hostages for King Adam’s good behaviour. We had been traveling for weeks, dragged along on foot behind the the warlord’s mounted soldiers. Now, finally, I was summoned.

Nash sprawled on a rough-hewn bench, lounging with the remains of a feast spread out on the low trestle table before him.

“Bring him over here,” he said, sounding bored.

I put up a show of resistance—not too much, though—as his second-in-command shoved and wrangled me forward. She thrust me down to my knees at Nash’s feet.

“Leave us.”

Excellent. Everything was unfolding perfectly.

It was just me and Nash in the dark and candlelit tent, with lots of furs and weapons and stuff around. Shadowy, iron-bound trunks. Piles of treasure. The usual ill-gotten loot.

Any minute now I would snatch the knife from my boot, plunge it into his wicked heart, and—

Nash gripped my chin in his hard hand and turned my face up to the light. He tilted it this way and that, eyes like wicked steel boring into mine.

I did my best to boldly glare back at him but my gaze fell before his as my breathing sped up.

He stood slowly, bringing his groin level with my face.

I went cross-eyed trying to focus on it.

“Well, then?” he said softly. “What are you waiting for? I know you want to try it.”

“Oh, fine,” I said, and undid his breeches.

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