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weren’t already on a quest, I’d travel with you to hunt down these miscreants and mete out punishment.”
    “You’re wearing my murdered kin, you frukxing idiot.” The Bretunian stepped into Dyre’s personal space, and Dyre finally clued in.
    “Is this your way of saying I should remove it?” He eyed his comfortable and versatile cloak. “But I like it. And it’s not as if removing it will return its owner.”
    It seemed his calm logic met deaf ears because, with a bellow, the large brute slammed his head forward. Given he probably had a much harder skull than his own, Dyre thought it wise to duck out of the way. Just like he danced out of reach of the swiping claws and barely evaded the sweep of a knife.
    “Now, can’t we be reasonable about this?” Dyre asked in his most placating voice. He had no quarrel with the beast.
    A roar was his reply, oh and a few more swipes of the knife and claws.
    “I mean, really, you can’t just expect me to throw out a perfectly good cloak. It was a gift you know from a quest.” Unfortunately, the virgin he’d meant to save had gotten accidentally trampled instead of ravished on an altar, which made the present so much more special. Why, they’d even recommended he visit the Bretunian home world and wear the cloak to show them how much they appreciated his service.
    Swinging wildly, the irrational alien kept trying to play with Dyre. In between ducks and dodges, he tried to peek in the direction he’d last seen Betty, only to discover her gone!
    Damn. He needed to wrap this up. “Sorry, but my services are needed elsewhere. Perhaps next time we can have a more civilized chat about my wardrobe.”
    Dyre sent a jab that crunched against the alien’s nose, but didn’t stop him. The fist to its gut did nothing but make it grunt. The sweep of a foot didn’t even make it teeter, and the arm twist Dyre attempted saw him flying overheard as the monster used his strength to give him flight.
    Wheee!
    Landing on his feet, Dyre braced himself for the next rush and finally deigned to pull his sword. It seemed he wouldn’t be able to incapacitate the alien in a rapid enough fashion with hand-to-hand combat.
    Before he could knick a few tendons and disable the thing’s knees, he heard a whistle and then a familiar voice say, “Hey, smelly, walking carpet guy. Any idea where I can get some Bretunian fur sheets?”
    Dyre wanted to shake his head in disbelief. Is she seriously doing this on purpose to put herself in danger? How fantastic. He’d finally get to save her properly, soak in her appreciation, and then kiss her as he swept her off her feet.
    He should have known she’d ruin a perfectly good plan.

Chapter Eight
    “Be proud. Walk tall. Chest out. Sneer in place. Show ‘em what you got.” – A Mercenary’s Guide to Prosperity
    “A hero is humble. Don’t brag, or accept praise.” – The Unofficial Guide to Heroism
     
    Betty sensed more than saw her shadow. One guess as to who it was—Dyre. Zista wouldn’t have bothered with subtlety, just grabbed her by an ear and frog-marched her back on board, locking her in the cabin until she was done.
    But this time, Betty didn’t have her big adopted sister looking after her. This time she’d acquired a tall, ominous guard who wasn’t very subtle in his attempt to keep her in his sights. Kind of hard considering the guy was probably about six and a half feet tall, wore a furry Grim Reaper cloak, and whose very bearing screamed warrior. As to how she knew? It wasn’t hard to spot his reflection in the storefront windows. Just knowing he was there made her more brazen than usual with her pickpocketing.
    Back on Earth, she used to do it so she could feed herself. Her drunken stepdad tended to worry more about his next beer than ridiculous things such as money for groceries. As for her mother, when she wasn’t tired from work, she was at work, attempting to keep a roof over their heads. Thankfully, Betty had left those