Blaine Anderson trudged through the ankle deep mud left behind after a day of driving rain. Each agonizing step sucked his legs further and further into the thick quagmire of earth, hay, and horse shit. It seeped through his shredded pants, tormented his wounds, and accumulated in clods that weighed him down.

By some divine intervention (though it came several hours too late), Blaine made his way to an obscure village without encountering any cutthroats along the way. No one who laid eyes on him offered the injured man any aid. They simply cleared the way for him to pass, as if he were some harbinger of doom. A light drizzle blossomed around him, but he could scarcely feel it touch his body. He kept his hazel eyes glued to the inn in front of him, using this destination as an anchor to help navigate his way through the red haze of fever scorching his skin.

The rain had begun to pummel Blaine in earnest when he reached the doorway to The Rose and Crown Inn. The sound of the falling water hitting the inns sparsely shingled roof disappeared once he stumbled into its crowded, dimly lit dining hall. He cut quite an odd figure in his soaked through shirt and the tattered remains of his once fine pants, but no one seemed to notice. His golden eyes burned red with fever. His breathing labored, he stumbled, catching his foot on the body of a drunken sot who had his fill and passed out where he sat. Blaine stumbled again, this time on his own useless feet, and fell full face against a nearby table.

Blaine sat undignified on the bench and lifted his stiff left leg up to rest beside him with an effort that made him nearly scream with anguish. From the midst of the loud, drunken crowd, a plump barmaid ambled toward him. Her flimsy chemise peeked over the rim of a tightly laced bodice that boasted a more than ample bosom. A tray of filthy tankards balanced precariously on her fingertips, she leaned in so close that he could smell her scent – stale ale mixed with an overpowering musk, and the tang of cheap perfume. A tiny, withered nosegay stuck out from betwixt her bosom. Blaine felt sorry for the poor thing. It was definitely being prevailed upon to do too much.

"ello, love," the barmaid said in an accent that offended Blaines ears more than anything. "Is there somethin I can do for you…or to you?" Her innuendos were lost in the horrendous ringing of his ears. The din of endless rowdy conversations and off-key singing only added to his intense misery.

"I need…a woodsman…" Blaine demanded, barking out the words between increasingly strained breaths, his eyes squeezed tight against the pain of hearing each syllable bounce around his head before it passed between his lips.

"Wha?" she asked. The look on her face would have been comical if Blaine had the sense to find it amusing.

"Or a butcher," Blaine said through gritted teeth. "Or anyone with an axe."

The barmaid began to shake her head, but her face went pale when she finally noticed it – the rancid smell of decaying flesh. She looked down at the leg Blaine had rested on the bench. Through the torn shreds of what used to be a finely tailored pair of pants she saw his leg…or the rest of it at least. The skin was char black and rotting on the bone like spoiled beef. A strange substance oozed from within the cracks that branched down the length of his lower thigh. Flies had even started.

"Oh my…" She uttered an oath that faded beneath her breath into the surrounding din. "Yur not needin a woodsman, milord. Yur needin a doctor."

"I have a doctor," Blaine snarled, his nostrils flaring at his attempt to breathe. He brought his fist down on the table, more out of a need to divert his own attention from the throbbing in his leg than out of anger. "A doctor can do nothing for me. What I need is an axe."

"Ho, friend," a surly voice boomed from behind the ale wench. "What seems to be the trubble ere?"

Blaine looked up into the eyes of a burly wall of a man. His scraggly ashen beard surrounded his face, leaving only a thin slit for him to speak out of. His leather coif barely contained his unruly mass of hair. His layers of wool clothing, his tunic, his pants, and his heavy leather apron were spattered liberally with blood and grease.

"Eh, Jonas," the barmaid said to her giant friend, "this gentleman ere is fierce ill. I think he has a fever. And look…" She motioned to his leg, fighting to hide the grimace on her face, "there. He needs a doctor right quick or hes goin to lose his leg."

"Its already lost. What I need," Blaine said with punctuated words, "is an axe, and a man who knows how to use it."

"Please, mlord," the man slurred, struggling with the thicket of fur on his face, "Delilah heres right. Youll be needin a doctor. Now, theres a right good one…"

Blaine shook his head vigorously, feeling his temples drum with each sharp movement. He reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out a leather satchel. His trembling fingers fumbled with the thong closure, eventually spilling the bags contents across the wooden table. Delilahs eyes widened at the quantity of coin he carried.

"I will surrender this gold and more to any man here who can help me with my problem." Blaine felt his head fall to the table, his shoulders unable to maintain its weight any longer. As he caught a whiff of the vile stench of his own leg, he felt his stomach lurch, its meager contents threatening to spill out his mouth and onto the floor. It wouldnt have made much of a mess. There was naught left in it after his journey from the riverbank where he had left his stallion to die alone in the wet rocks and sand along the shore. Blaine swallowed as he imagined the poor creature, kicking his legs fruitlessly, breathing his last, suffering due to Blaines lack of a pistol to properly put the creature out of its misery.

Blaine would forever regret the state of that loyal animal.

Blaine heard a slight scritch-scritch noise as Jonas troubled his chin thoughtfully with his dirty index finger, pondering Blaines proposition, captivated by the small mound of glittering coins lying right in front of him. Finally, after several excruciatingly long minutes of contemplation, Jonas leaned close to Delilah and uttered some command that Blaine could not understand. Delilah turned quickly, the tankards on her tray clattering together with a dull knocking noise. She gave one last look at the broken man and his pile of gold, then tottered off in the direction she had come.

"Aye, mlord," Jonas said, collecting up the coins in one massive hand, dropping them one by one into the leather satchel, and handing it back over to Blaine. "I think I can help you with yur problem."

Blaine snatched the satchel, trying to maintain confidence in his feverish glare.

"See that it is done quickly."

Jonas smiled. In Blaines present state, he was in no condition whatsoever to be quibbling with this gigantic man. On one of Blaines best days, Jonas could still probably break him in two with nary a swing of his meaty fist. Blaine was out of his element here. It wouldnt matter one way or the other if Jonas and his buxom barmaid knew exactly who Blaine Anderson was. It might be better that they didnt. In this remote village, this was the kind of place where men of Blaines stature disappeared without a trace, often to be found weeks later by the roadside with their purses emptied and their throats slit. Not that that particular knowledge would do him any good now. He was stuck where he sat and vulnerable. It was blind luck that led him to this inn and did not leave him face down in the muck outside, vulnerable to the bloodthirsty thieves and brigands that wandered the countryside at night.

Still, Blaine took a huge risk, especially in relinquishing the fact that he carried such a pregnant purse on his person, but his mind was not clear, and had not been for a while. If this Jonas was a man of his word, Blaine would thank his lucky stars, the Lord God above, and all the fallen friends and family who watched over him in his time of need. Then he would reward Jonas richly for his help.

Delilah returned briefly, pointing at two other men almost equally as large as Jonas, who were making their way through the crowd. The first man carried two tall rods bound together by a length of rawhide – a makeshift stretcher, no doubt. Blaine sighed with relief, but his heart still raced uneasily. Unable to move or barely breathe, Blaine had no choice but to entrust his life in the hands of these three men who could probably throttle him without much effort. Blaine wasnt convinced that he wasnt too far from deaths door as it was.

The two men, led by Jonas, carried Blaine through the dining hall and down a long, dark passage, past the noisy patrons and the other nosy ale wenches, who craned their necks to get a glimpse of the man on the stretcher. They entered into an uncomfortably warm room that Blaine knew right away was the kitchen of this establishment. Delilah rushed in after them, her arms burdened with a load of linens stuffed into a deep, wooden basin. She immediately set about busily filling the basin with steaming water from a pot hanging above the kitchen fire, and shredding linens, all the while muttering a prayer as she worked.

The two men who carried Blaine placed him down carefully on the long table normally used for cutting up butchered meat. If not for the rawhide of the stretcher, Blaine would have found himself lying directly atop old, dried-out shreds of scrap meat and congealed, maggoty blood. Jonas went to the fire. While the hired men tore away the last bits of Blaines trousers and tied a tourniquet over the artery of his rotting leg, Jonas heated a heavy axe blade, and then took it to the grinding stone for sharpening.

Delilah placed the basin of water down on the table with a dull thunk to match the thudding noise in Blaines skull. She procured a bottle of whisky from another curious barmaid and took a swig. Then she wiped the mouth on her apron and handed the bottle to Blaine.

"ere you go, love," she said with soft affection. "Its our finest. Ive seen five swigs of it put that ox to sleep in seconds…" She motioned with one thick thumb to the larger of the two strangers at Blaines side. Blaine looked at the bottle skeptically, but Delilah shoved it toward him, insisting, "Drink up. Youll need it."

Blaine grabbed the bottle by the neck and brought it up to his lips. The first sip burned his throat like molten lava, but in an instant after that, he had sucked the bottle half-dry. His throat screamed. The alcohol continued to sear his throat swallow by swallow, but he forced himself to gulp down the harsh liquor.

If this was their finest, hed hate to sample their worst.

Blaine brought the bottle down on the table, his body racked by vicious coughs.

Delilah shook her head mournfully as she fiddled with the lengths of linen. The two men laughed, struck by nerves. One of them clapped Blaine on the back hard.

"Here now," he said, his gritty voice assailing Blaine for the first time. "You want to dull yur senses, not kill yurself."

Blaine didnt even try to force a smile, but truth be told, he didnt rightly know if killing himself wasnt his intention.

The grinding of Jonass wheel suddenly ceased, and the man approached them slowly, a large axe resting in his calloused hands. He looked like an executioner to Blaine. A cold shudder raced down Blaines spine.

Jonas stood before him, a mixture of pity and conceit on his hardened face.

"You mighten want to hold on to somethin," he said as he prepared to position the blade. Watching as the firelight glinted off the steel, Blaine started for the first time to reconsider his brash decision. Blaine brought the bottle back to his lips, drinking down the rest of the whiskey, along with his lingering doubts. He felt something hard and wooden press against his lips. Blaine turned his swimming head and saw Delilah prodding him with the handle of a wooden spoon. He opened his mouth to accept the utensil and gripped it hard between his teeth.

"Are you ready?" Jonas asked in a flat whisper. Blaine nodded, gripping the sides of the table beneath him until his knuckles turned white. Before he closed his drunken eyes, he saw one of the men cross himself as he and his friend backed away, not eager, Blaine assumed, to be covered in his blood. Tears gleamed in Delilahs wide, brown eyes.

Jonass gruff voice muttered low as he heaved his axe, "One…two…three…"

No one in the inn, drinking their watered-down ale and singing their bawdy tunes ever heard the sound of the axe that came down hard enough to nearly break the oak cutting table in twain, or the tortured wail of the man who paid a fortune in gold coins, and later more, to amputate his own leg.