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Osric made a show of considering this, then said, “No.”

He strode away. The wind whipped away most of Fairhrim’s retort—something about him being horrid. He didn’t respond, because he was.

He advanced towards the lighthouse. The tide had receded and left a slippery path of rocks in its wake. Barnacles crunched underfoot as Osric stepped along this provisional bridge.

He was challenged as he approached by a rough “Oi!”

“What?” said Osric.

“What’re you doing here?” asked the challenger. With his ill-fitting leather armour and battered sword, there was a whiff of banditry about him.

“Walking,” said Osric.

“Well, you can’t walk here.”

Bandit One was joined by two equally disreputable-looking colleagues, who eyed Osric’s kit with interest.

“I like those boots,” said Bandit Two.

“I want the cloak,” said Bandit Three. “Is that real gold along the edges?”

Osric decided to exercise his limited diplomacy skills, given that he was being observed. “You lot need to clear out for a few hours.”

“Lighthouse is ours,” said Bandit One, inserting his thumbs into his waistband and broadening his chest. “S’private property.”

“Give us your boots,” said Bandit Two.

“Is anyone else in there?” asked Osric, jutting his chin towards the lighthouse.

“Twenty men,” said Bandit One, at the same time as Two said, “Fifty men.”

“No one, then,” said Osric. “Good. Off you fuck. Don’t make me hurt you.”

The men stared at him as they processed his audacity. Osric wasn’t the most patient sort and would normally have slit throats at this juncture. However, given that he was under Fairhrim’s steely eye, he gave them another chance.

He removed his glove and flashed his tacn at them. “Last warning.”

“A Fyren,” gasped Bandit One.

“Fuck this,” said Bandit Two.

They both fled. That left Bandit Three, the stupidest of the lot. Osric put his glove back on and studied him with mild interest. How to dispose of him while inciting the least amount of pearl clutching from Fairhrim?

“Bet that’s a fake mark,” said Bandit Three. “Bet it’s just a tattoo.”

This theory he, apparently, decided to test by throwing a punch at Osric. Osric blocked it; as feeble as the punch was, he considered his nose well shaped, and preferred to keep it that way.

Now that someone else had attempted to draw first blood, Osric’s foray into diplomacy came to an end. He delivered a knockout punch, straight into Bandit Three’s stupid mouth.

Osric waved Fairhrim over. She picked her way towards the lighthouse as Osric hog-tied the man with his own belt.

“Was that really the only course of action?” asked Fairhrim.

“Yes,” said Osric, plucking a tooth out of his glove.

“I thought Fyren were meant to be subtle.”

“I’m not wasting my seith on the likes of him.”