The first sensation that clawed its way through Ben's unconscious mind wasn't pain, though his body ached like he'd been trampled by a herd of cattle. It wasn't the bite of rough hemp rope against his wrists, or even the humiliating realization that he was hanging upside down, naked as the day he was born. No, what truly got his attention was the sound of voices debating whether to kill him while he was still unconscious.
"We should cut his throat now," came a gruff voice speaking that same twisted English he'd heard from the knight. "Look at what he did to Ser Donnor. Split the man's skull like a melon."
"Peace, Gareth," replied another voice, this one belonging to a woman. "Let us see what manner of creature we've caught first."
Ben's enhanced hearing picked up the subtle sounds of a camp around him. The crackle of a fire, the rustle of leather, the snort of horses. Five distinct heartbeats, all elevated with tension. His gear was nowhere within earshot, which meant they'd hidden it well.
Smart, he thought grimly. Too bad for them it won't matter.
"The demon stirs," muttered a younger voice. "Gareth, ready your blade."
Ben opened his eyes slowly, letting his vision adjust to the firelight. The world swam into focus upside down, revealing five figures arranged in a loose circle around him. Four men and one woman, all armed and watching him with varying degrees of wariness and curiosity.
The camp was small but well-organized, clearly belonging to people who knew how to live rough. Their gear was arranged efficiently, weapons within easy reach. These weren't brigands or sellswords. They moved with the discipline of hunters.
"Well," Ben said, his voice carrying that easy confidence that had gotten him through countless interrogations, "this is embarrassing."
The woman stepped forward, and Ben got his first clear look at her. She was striking in a way that was distinctly different from the women he was used to. Late thirties, with wild black hair that fell in waves past her shoulders and pale skin dotted with freckles across her nose and cheeks. She stood about five foot eight, with curves that her practical leather and wool clothing couldn't quite conceal. But it was her eyes that caught his attention – dark, intelligent, calculating. This one was the leader.
"You speak strangely," she said, tilting her head as she studied him. "Your words are familiar, yet twisted. From what land do you hail?"
Ben tested the rope's strength subtly. Good quality hemp, thick and well-knotted, but nothing his enhanced physiology couldn't handle. The question was whether he wanted to make this conversation or just break free and kill them all.
The memory of the young knight's lifeless eyes flashed through his mind. Maybe he could try talking first.
"America," he said, then caught himself. These people had probably never heard of America. "A land far from here. Very far."
"Essos?" asked one of the younger men, a red-haired fellow with sharp eyes. "Beyond the Narrow Sea?"
"Sure," Ben said. "Beyond the Narrow Sea. Way beyond."
The woman – their leader, he was certain now – stepped closer. "I am Maeryn," she said. "Maeryn Wylde. These are my companions... Gareth Rivers, Rolland Stone, Tommard Hill, and Edric Storm."
Ben noted the surnames immediately. Rivers, Stone, Hill, Storm. All bastard names, if his half-remembered medieval history was correct. A group of outcasts, then. Interesting.
"Benjamin," he replied. "Benjamin Gillman. Though most people call me Soldier Boy."
"Soldier Boy?" Maeryn's lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "An odd name for a warrior."
"Long story."
"We should kill him," growled Gareth, the grizzled older man with the gray beard. "He slaughtered Ser Donnor like the man was nothing more than a training dummy. I saw the body myself."
"Did you now?" Maeryn looked at Ben with renewed interest. "You killed a knight of the realm?"
"He attacked me first," Ben said simply. "I defended myself."
"With what weapon? Ser Donnor was well-armed and armored."
Ben flexed his hands as much as the rope would allow. "These."
The group exchanged glances. Ben could see the wheels turning in Maeryn's head, calculating possibilities.
"Show me," she said suddenly.
"What?"
"Your strength. Show me how you killed an armored knight with your bare hands."
Ben raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that? Once I'm free, there's no putting me back in this thing."
"I am sure," Maeryn said, though her companions looked less certain.
"Maeryn," Rolland warned, "if he truly has the strength to kill an armored knight..."
"Then we need to know what we're dealing with," she finished. "Do it."
Ben grinned. Fucking retards...
He was starting to like this woman. She had steel in her spine, he'd give her that.
With a surge of strength that would have been impossible for any normal human, Ben flexed his arms and shoulders. The rope stretched, groaned in protest, and then snapped with a sound like a bowstring breaking. He dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch, and straightened slowly.
The effect on his captors was immediate and predictable. Gareth and Rolland both drew their swords, while the younger men scrambled for their weapons. Only Maeryn remained outwardly calm, though Ben could see the wariness creeping into her dark eyes.
"Impressive," she said, her voice steady. "But you're still outnumbered five to one."
Ben looked around the circle of armed opponents, noting their positions, their stances, the quality of their weapons. "You have no idea what you've done....lady."
They attacked all at once, clearly hoping to overwhelm him with numbers and coordination. It was actually a sound strategy against a normal opponent. Unfortunately for them, Ben was anything but normal.
Gareth came in first, his sword cutting a wide arc toward Ben's neck. Ben ducked under the blade, grabbed a fallen branch from beside the fire, and swung it like a club. The improvised weapon caught the older man in the temple with a wet, decisive crack. Gareth dropped without another sound.
Rolland tried to take advantage of Ben's apparent distraction, lunging forward with his blade aimed at Ben's back. Ben spun, using the branch to deflect the sword stroke, then brought it around in a vicious backhand that caught Rolland across the throat. The man made a horrible gurgling sound and fell, clutching at his crushed windpipe.
Tommard, the red-haired youth, came at him with a dagger, probably hoping his speed would give him an advantage. Ben caught his wrist mid-thrust, twisted sharply, and felt the bones snap like dry kindling. Tommard screamed and dropped the blade, which Ben caught before it hit the ground.
Edric, the last of the men, was backing away, his face pale with terror in the firelight. Ben flicked the dagger almost casually. It took the young man in the eye with a wet thunk, and he toppled backward without a sound.
The entire fight had lasted less than thirty seconds.