Luck.
If she had any, Myg would not have been standing adjacent to the incredibly imposing man - so close, in fact, that she see the flecks of dirt on his skin and the hair on the back of his neck. Had she had any wisdom she would have kept her mouth shut, but unfortunately Myg was destitute on both accounts.
“Ehrm, ‘scuse me sir, I do believe that man has a point.”
Stiv turned at the small interruption, an ugly look crossing his uglier face when he zeroed in on the insolent bitch who had the gall to challenge him.
“Is that so?” he said almost playfully, his boots loud on the wooden floor as he approached her. “I’ll show you a point or two, lass...”
“Hm,” she contemplated mockingly, tapping a finger to her chin. “I don’t believe you will.”
Bewilderment crossed Stiv’s countenance.
“And why would that be,” he asked, unsheathing his sword and taking a menacing step toward her. Some of the smarter patrons began to make themselves scarce during the distraction.
“Well,” began Myg, pulling over a chair and casually resting a leg on it, nonplussed as ever. “For one thing, these lands do not belong to you nor the Morrigens. I’d say that they belong to no man here.”
Stiv’s eyebrows rose at her impudence, gaining the attentions of the other Morrigen soldiers who began hooting and hollering crass suggestions and insults. Had they been more vigilant, they would have noticed that the back door was slightly open.
“Another is that you have the looks and intelligence of a braying ass,” she continued, as if explaining to a child that Dorne was hot and that the North was cold.
The sound of glass shattering brought on darkness, and with it, chaos. A few expert strums of a bow had three more men down, the others drawing their weapons and swinging blindly in the air, with two soldiers mistakenly taking each other down. Screams rang out as patrons scrambled over overturned tables, chairs, and even bodies that started to litter the floor, felled by two cowled figures.
One, tall like the oaks in the Rainwood, was deftly cracking skulls with a single swings of a club; The other, more nimble and dexterous, weaved between obstacles in the dark with ease, plucking arrows when needed or using shards of broken dishes to sever ligaments.
“And, lastly, you-” Myg was silenced by a massive backhand to her face followed by an equally rough slap that sent her to her knees. She cried out in pain when Stiv yanked her head back by her hair, his sword drawn to her throat. There was a momentary pause as his vision adjusted to the dimness, resting on the outlines of the two hooded assailants, the rest of the locale now deserted.
“What was that, girl?” he spat at Myg, his breath hot and sticky against her cheek, a sinister snarl on his lips. She struggled to say something, but the blade was only pressed harder against throat. Small droplets of her blood ran down its edge, falling upon the toe of his boot in soft putters -- once, twice, thrice.
Stiv’s convulsing body fell as the fourth drop did. A torrent of inky black flowed free from a deep carving that ran from under his navel up to the end of the knife - the same one that Chella had been using earlier - its cedar helve now embedded in the soldier’s groin by Myg’s own hand.
As the girl kneeled down to push the handle deeper into his gut, ignoring the entrails that spilled forth from the gaping wound, she did not see the face of the scarred and poxed man. She did not see much anything at all.
But she did feel.
She felt the point of the knife puncture through his insides and scrape against solid bone, a bright alabaster even in the shadows. She felt the hot piss that soaked through the Morrigen man’s breeches and onto her own legs along with the blood she would spend days washing off. She felt the intoxicating power behind making a man draw sharp, staggered breaths as she pressed on with all her might, even when his chest no longer rose and his body went limp - for so long that she was eventually steered away by a hand to her shoulder.
“That’ll do it, lass,” Barba said, her voice raspy from behind the roughspun hood. “That’ll do.”