Legends Never Die: Taste of War (ch. 9) (Patreon)

I had hoped that since I was traveling with Jarl Horrik’s hird, though I wasn’t a member myself, that I would have a slight clue of what was going on. But, I was absolutely clueless as the campaign began. Near a hundred ships sailed out of Alabu to the calls of good luck from about a thousand families, and we took a familiar trip down south towards Saxony. We maintained a good wind the entire way, until we eventually reached the opening of the river that the village had been sat upon.

It was a heavy feeling as we sailed by the village, and not a single soul came out to see us. I could only hope that meant that they were doing the smart thing and hiding, but I saw signs of the damage that we left. All signs that pointed to the village being abandoned. I said nothing, not even when Father offered a comforting hand on my shoulder. Last year, we had been here to raid the Saxons and now we were going to liberate them. Irony at its finest.

In the end, I was as clueless as everyone else when we were eventually given the order to disembark after sailing up the river for a time. The ships were left behind with a small guard of a hundred soldiers, while the rest of us began to march west. If there was a plan, then Jarl Horrik was keeping it close to his chest. I had volunteered to be a scout, only for the request to be denied by Jarl Horrik, so I was left completely in the dark.

All I could do was obediently follow orders -- march, set camp, sleep, break camp, then keep marching. Which was how I learned that armies moved incredibly slowly. We walked miles every day, yet it felt like we spent more time setting up and breaking down camp. Two days went by before a scout came back with an unfamiliar man, who was apparently from King Sigfred’s camp which was a day’s march away.

So, we marched some more. A day later, we arrived to see a number of tents put up -- it was almost difficult to see them with how dense the forest was. We were led into the camp, our two parties joining together. We got lingering looks from the Saxon and Dane forces, and when we arrived at the heart of the camp, it was then that I met two kings.

They stood in front of an open tent -- two men of average builds, but they stood in stark contrast to each other. One had dark black hair, a short beard that clung to his jawline, and was wearing an iron band instead of a crown. His nose was a bit long, and it had suffered a few breaks at some point. He wore a bear pelt over his shoulders, and a shirt of chainmail with a sword at his hip. It was the first one I had ever seen -- swords were a rare and valuable thing in Scandinavia. They were marks of status, belonging to important thegns or Jarls, or Kings.

The second man was older. He had a bushy brown beard, matching the chestnut color of his short hair. He had bright green eyes, and wore a golden crown on his head. He wore a red cloak around his chest with an oakleaf pin, with scale armor beneath that. He was also wearing fine hide boots and trousers, and like the man next to him he was also carrying a sword at his hip.

I couldn’t tell who was who, but that was quickly cleared up for me when the dark-haired one stepped forward, offering a hand, and spoke in Norse. “Jarl Horrik. It’s been a long time! I see you responded to our invitation with full force,” King Sigfred said, clasping forearms with Jarl Horrik.

“Aye, I couldn’t let an opportunity such as this slip by,” he agreed, giving King Sigfred a nod before he looked to King Widukind and offered a nod. “I have brought a thousand warriors, all eager for Frankish blood. Your missives neglected to state the numbers you bring.”

King Sigfred offered a slight smile, “I have brought two thousand warriors in total. King Widukind has five hundred,” he said, so we had three thousand and five hundred warriors. Jarl Horrik didn’t offer a visible reaction, but I spotted a tell. It was clear that he expected more. And, admittedly, so did I. How was it that the Saxons were fielding the fewest number of soldiers?

The Saxon rebel king offered a smile, “That number will grow,” he said in rough Norse. “Saxon nobles are… cautious,” he said, saying the word in Germanic, speaking to Sigfred.

“Cautious,” I offered, speaking in Norse, earning a look of faint surprise from both kings and Jarl Horrik.

“You know the language of my people?” King Widukind asked me, speaking Germanic, and I offered a small nod. He looked pleased at that. “Then tell your Jarl, that my army shall swell in size when we have our first victory. The nobles have been cowed after enduring Frankish brutality, and after a previously failed rebellion, they are wary of this one also ending in failure.” he ordered with the ease of someone that was used to being obeyed.

I looked to a surprised Jarl Horrik and relayed the message, making him frown deeply. “You speak of the Frankish garrison in Sigiburg,” he said, and despite having absolutely no clue where that was, I relayed the message to King Widukind in his language. It seemed I had volunteered myself to be a translator between them. Jarl Horrik didn’t seem to know a word of Germanic and King Widukind’s Norse was rather bad. It was serviceable, but it was clear that he felt more comfortable speaking his own language.

King Widukind nodded, “It is. Charlemagne stationed a thousand soldiers there to pacify the region if needed. To advance, we must deal with that army, else we will find ourselves surrounded when he marshals his forces against us.” he explained, gesturing to the tent as I translated. Jarl Horrik followed the two kings in and he reached out with an arm, pulling me along to attend.

As he walked, he spoke lowly to me, “After this, see what the Saxons are saying.” he ordered me as we entered the tent. On the table set up inside were two models made of sticks and stones, both in the shape of two fortresses. They were unlike any building I had seen, especially if the models represented the truth -- tall stone walls that sat on top of a steep hill.

“Sigiburg and Eresburg are two fortifications that our ancestors built to secure our border and now Charlemagne uses them against us. For my kin and kind, they will not rebel when they feel the sting of the Frank’s dagger at their necks. For the rebellion to gain any support, both must fall and they must fall quickly,” King Widukind said, leaving it to me to rapidly translate what he was saying. “Both house seven hundred men and are well provisioned, so a siege will only work against us.”

King Sigfred nodded, “Speed is our ally. Charlemagne’s scouts are likely reporting back about our presence now. Saxony needs to be in open rebellion, the troops rallied, and prepared for war before the Franks march upon us.”

Jarl Horrik frowned, “An assault will be costly. An assault, a forced march, then another assault is courting death and disaster.”

I translated both King Sigfred and Jarl Horrik’s words, earning a nod from King Widukind. “That is so. Which is why I suggest we divide our forces. With your combined armies, seize Sigiburg as quickly as possible while I march on Eresburg. I know the commander there -- a hot-headed young man eager to prove himself. My head will be a tempting prize for him. He will sally out, and I shall flee towards… here.” As he spoke, he took out another model of a dense forest on top of rolling hills that had a river flowing through it.

“It’s an hour’s march from the fort. I shall flee to the ford, while one of your armies approaches from the behind and the other seizes the fort from whatever garrison he leaves behind,” he said, positioning the various models to get a sense of scale.

“If the timing is off, then you will be crushed upon the river,” Jarl Horrik said, spotting an immediate flaw with the plan. “And we have no guarantee that he will sally out.”

King Widukind nodded, “Timing is crucial. As soon as the fort is taken, send me a messenger and I shall enact the plan. It will take you a half-day to reach the other fort, then to the field of battle. Any delay could mean the death of my men, so I do ask that you don’t linger.” he said, looking at King Sigfred and Jarl Horrik. “The distance works to our advantage because the scouts that spot your armies' movements won’t have time to reach the other fort. Their warning of your march will come too late. Your thoughts?”

King Sigfred offered a shrug, “You are taking the greatest risk with this plan. If you are certain that it will work, then I see no reason to not believe you.” I translated his words before we all looked to Jarl Horrik. Who offered a frown and a shrug of his own.

“If it works, then it is a good plan. If it doesn’t, then it is a bad plan,” he said, tacitly agreeing to the plan.

And with that, the strategy for our first move in the war was settled on and we began our march.

My ability to act as a translator made me far more valuable than I realized, I learned rather quickly. King Widukind pointedly didn’t ask how I learned Germanic, knowing that I most likely learned from a slave that had been taken from his kingdom. I also did as Jarl Horrik ordered, listening in on the Saxon warriors that marched with us for a time. It was helping my Intrigue stat a bit, so I was happy to do it.

I learned that the Saxons were eager. Every single one of them was here out of a desire for vengeance rather than any true loyalty to the kingdom of Saxony, and they followed King Widukind because he wanted vengeance most of all. No one really had anything bad to say about him -- he was a good leader, and his men respected him. Jarl Horrik simply grunted when I gave him my findings, displeased, but not with me.

I think he was looking for an angle of some kind. He wasn’t here for loot. He was here to protect his own interests. I suspected that he feared that if Saxony managed to rebuff the Franks… then Widukind would repay the favor to King Sigfred and march North to take the city of Alabu for King Sigfred’s kingdom. At least, those were my thoughts.

In my position as translator, I didn’t get to see my family much. I only saw Father on and off when I was relaying messages to Jarl Horrik. There was a lot of logistics work when it came to marching an army. Scouts went ahead to make sure we didn’t run face-first into a Frankish army, forgers returned with berries, nuts, and whatever animals they had hunted. Food was a constant concern, especially when we couldn’t raid and loot whatever villages we came across on because it would be counterproductive.

Admittedly, not that it stopped some. I had been there when the news had been delivered each time that one Danish army or another raided a village for extra supplies, or how a group broke off to sack a monastery. It made it clear that there was no real discipline in the army. No real unity either. There were plenty of rivalries and blood feuds in the Dane armies, both with each other and internally. The Saxons couldn’t speak our language, for the most part, so they were standoffish at best to our people.

It just felt like we were a huge raiding party rather than an actual army.

At least until we arrived at the fortress of Sigiburg. It was based at the top of a tall and steep hill, with tall walls made of stacked stone. It looked like it had been whitewashed at some point, but it was in desperate need of a second coat. I saw two towers overlooking the main path up, with a gate between them. The fortress was a long rectangle, and I noted spots of disrepair. Some of the stonework had crumbled, revealing the men that walked on the walls -- showing that they walked on a wood platform instead of stone.

It didn’t look large enough to house a thousand men. We saw signs of living around the fortress, so I’m guessing it was pretty packed in there.

I approached with Jarl Horrik and King Sigfred, while King Widukind was preparing for a continued march towards Eresburg. Then I relayed their message, “Surrender without a fight and you will be treated with dignity. Your fortress is lost. We shall take it, and we will extract vengeance upon those that survive the slaughter for the price we will pay in blood.” I shouted up to the castle gates, spotting a man on the ramparts.

He looked better armed and better dressed than the soldiers with him. A dirty blonde beard that he kept neatly trimmed, and had on a green cloak that was clasped together with a gold pin. He wore a complete armor set of scale mail, vastly more protective than chainmail or a gambeson. He looked down at me with an expression of disdain. “I’m shocked that a dog can speak the civilized tongue,” he said, speaking Germanic at me.

“What did he say?” Jarl Horrik asked, earning a sigh from me.

“He’s talking shit about me,” I admitted, earning an amused chuckle from King Sigfred. Then I spoke up in Germanic, “Will you surrender or not?”

“Twice, Saxony has been crushed underneath the might of the Frankish Empire. So it shall a third time,” he spoke, earning a breath of frustration from me.

“Is that a yes or a no? Asshole,” I muttered the insult in Norse under my breath, looking up at the commander of the garrison. His lips thinned at me and I wondered if he actually spoke Norse.

“Approach these walls and you shall find your death, you northern dogs! I shall hack off your hands and feet before slaying you, sending you to the depths of hell as a cripple! My men shall feast upon your women, our bodies slick with your blood, and they will bear the children of their husband’s killers!” The man spat at me, missing me by a good fifty feet.

“I see why no one likes you Christians,” I returned, unable to resist. Wilfred had been right -- they seemed to enjoy cruelty. Then again, we were attacking them, so perhaps I was expecting too warm of a welcome. I looked to the two, about to translate, only for King Sigfred to raise a hand.

He offered a small smirk that betrayed his amusement, “I can guess his answer. We will take the fortress with blood and iron. So be it,” he said, sounding eager as he walked away and barked orders to begin preparations. Jarl Horrik looked to me, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

“Wolf-Kissed,” he said, calling me by the nickname that was rapidly catching on. “We need to take the walls fast. The faster the better. I want you in the first wave,” he told me. I didn’t have a lot of experience with actual warfare, but Father had explained the basics to me. The first wave was reserved typically for the berserkers. I had never met one, but Mother had told me plenty of tales about the villainous berserkers -- how they would be possessed by spirits of animals like wolves and bears and attack everyone around them in a mindless rage.

However, their strength couldn’t be denied. Which is why they fought in front of the army.

It was a position of acting as a hammer to an enemy’s formation. They wore no armor. They pressed the attack and carved lines in an enemy’s shield wall as shock troops, paving the way for the other warriors to pour in and shatter their formation. It was a position of honor. To not wear armor showed your bravery, to be placed at the front showed the army that your prowess was recognized and you were trusted to pave a path for the rest of the army.

It was a high honor he was giving me. And a tall task.

“Every man counts, Siegfried. I don’t trust Sigfred. I suspect that he intends to use this campaign to weaken our forces, sapping our fighting strength,” he said, looking at the fortress. “It’s going to take a large toll to take that fortress and Sigfred intends to have my men take the brunt of those losses. Which is why I want you in the first wave. Secure us a foothold on the walls. Even better, find a way to open the gate. Do it, and you shall have my share of the spoils within. Should you fall in battle, know that I will give them to your family.”

I thought about it for a moment, eying the walls with more apprehension now. I quickly came to a decision, “And the farm is given to one of my brothers.” I added my own condition, earning a chuckle from Jarl Horrik as he patted me on the back.

“It is agreed. And I’m glad you found your voice. I never trust a man unless he haggles,” he said, leaving me behind as I continued to stare up at the fortress, looking at the walls for a place to attack.

…

There were a number of preparations for the battle. Chief among them were the sacrifices that were being made. I stood still as I was painted in soot and blood and white lime. There were others, all of them much older than me. I was by far the youngest given the honor of fighting in the first wave. My face was painted red and black, my ears were traced with the lime while the artist drew swirling designs on my pecs and shoulders.

I only had my pants and boots on as my brothers watched on -- some with relief that they hadn’t been picked, others with jealousy that they hadn’t been given the honor, and the rest with worry that I wouldn’t come back. As soon as the shaman was done, my brother Halfdan handed me my shield, the one that Jill gave me. With the harness I made, I immediately scuffed up the artwork painted on me by securing the shield to my back.

In my belt, I kept two bearded axes -- they were needed in the tight quarters on the walls. Anything with more range would just be a hindrance. With it secure, I rolled my shoulders and looked up at the sky, taking in a deep breath. Looking down, I saw my brothers gathered around, taking a moment with me.

“Show them the gates of Hel, Siegfried,” Haldan said, offering a nod.

“I was with a slave girl last night, and I pulled something in my back. So, do the heavy lifting for me, little brother,” Havi said, slugging me in the shoulder, a worried grin on his face. Kirk didn’t say anything, just offering a nod to me. Behind all of them was Father, worry lines marring his forehead. Yet, when the horn blew, he nodded all the same.

“Go find your glory, my son,” he told me, sending me off. I gave them all a lingering look before walking away, joining the others. Men were picking up ladders, but I wasn’t going with them. Instead, I walked to the end of a long pole that was more of a narrow tree. I grabbed hold of one end, tucking it under my arm as I held my axes in my free hand. Other warriors grabbed the other end.

We would have to run uphill to the fortress, but there weren’t really any good points of attack from the ground. The thick underbrush would slow us, as would the hill. However, with the disrepair, there were a few good targets. The ladders would run with us, with those with sticks targeting the crumbling fortifications to make sure the enemy didn’t push them off.

We lined up and I saw the enemy on the fortifications, bows and arrows pointed at us. I became increasingly aware that I wasn’t wearing any armor. They weren’t firing yet, choosing to save their ammo, but that wouldn’t last. I saw shields and short daggers, axes, and spears. A mixture of men holding the walls.

I took in another deep breath, bracing myself as I waited for the signal.

Then, in the form of a long horn blast, it was given.

I sprinted forward, the other ten warriors behind me doing the same, charging up the hill, and I saw the first volley of arrows launch from the bows aimed in our direction. Even with Fast Counter, I couldn’t count them all as they slowly fell down towards us, and with faint thunks, they crashed down. I soon heard screams as men fell, arrows protruding from them. I nearly took one to the foot, while another narrowly missed me and ended up hitting the man directly behind me. He fell, dropping to the ground, but we couldn’t stop.

Pressing forward, we surmounted the hill, weathering another volley just after the first landed, this one coming from on the other side of the wall. We lost another man, and I caught an arrow to the shield, but I was unharmed. My heart thundered in my chest, pounding at my ribs as I fought against the tide, pulling forward towards the wall. More men fell all around me. Not enough to stop the advance, though.

A third volley fell just before we reached the wall, the arrows landing directly on us. Again, I was untouched, only for another two to fall. A second later, we reached the wall and the remaining men lifted with their arms as I leaped up with all my strength, the momentum carrying me to the wall, and with our combined effort, with two short steps, I reached the top. I was greeted by a wall of men, weapons flashing out at me.

Unbreakable Guard saved my life. My axes, both clutched in a single hand, lashed out to divert the tips of the spears or the daggers lunging in my direction. The moment I was up, a foothold secured, I tossed my second axe into my other hand and I lashed out with short, shallow Power Attacks, hacking at the wall of bodies in front of me. Men fell where they were, their bodies pushed forward by the encroaching horde behind them as they pressed forward to fill the gap.

It was nothing like fighting in the battles before. I was hacking and slashing, blood splashing over me like a waterfall, but the tide just didn’t seem to abate in the slightest. In a handful of seconds, I must have killed a dozen men, their bodies piling up at my feet or pushed behind me off the wall, yet I didn’t make any progress. Until, all of a sudden, I did. The smallest of gaps appeared in the wall of bodies, all pressing to push me off the wall. The others were drawing some of the heat off of me, even if I was the only one on the wall as far as I could tell.

Throwing myself into the opening, I turned my back to one side of the wall of enemies and I felt their blows rain down on the shield over my back. I weathered the blows and pressed forward, finding a powerful combination for my abilities against the screaming wall of men. With one axe, I kept Unbreakable Guard up, allowing me to effortlessly and unconsciously catch and divert blows. With my second axe, I hacked and slashed, killing everything before me with Power Attacks. Which axe I used for offense and defense changed seamlessly as I fought, allowing me to rapidly press forward as I continued to drop corpses at my feet.

There was so much blood. It soaked my pants, filled my boots, and it covered every inch of me. It soaked into the wood ramparts, which were more wood emplacements set up to expand how many men could fight on the walls. All I heard was screaming all around me -- men screaming in pain, in fear, in rage, and in horror. The stench of shit from the dead and disemboweleddisembowled was so overpowering that I could taste it on my tongue.

Death was not something that I could avoid. It would come for me, no matter what I did. If fate decided that today was my day to die, then I would die. That’s all there was to it. So, I didn’t fight to live. I fought for glory. For wealth. The share of a Jarl was no small amount and this battle of so many men would be sure to catch the attention of the gods. If I did fall… then I would be sure to be welcomed in Valhalla.

A scream ripped from my throat, joining the chorus of others all around me as I found the pressure taken off of me when more men climbed up on the walls. I reached a barred doorway, hacking and slashing everyone in my way. With a kick reinforced with Power Attack, I killed the man guarding the door and broke through. As I entered the tower, the fact my shield didn’t catch on the remains of the door told me exactly how shattered it was. I paid it no mind as I was attacked by those in the tower -- archers that had been firing from the slits in the windows and men that had fallen back inside of the tower for protection.

I killed them. I wasn’t even sure how. Everything became a blur of combat, of mindless swinging at my enemies and having them just fall away. With so many power attacks, I was feeling my arms beginning to ache with the strain. The exhaustion I felt went bone deep, as if the bones in my arms were straining under the weight of my axes with each swing. The weapons seemed to weigh more with each blow I delivered, but I didn’t slow down. I walked down the tower stairs, killing everyone I could, carving a path for the other warriors to follow.

Reaching the bottom floor, I kicked in a door and was greeted by more men standing in the courtyard. They were set up in a spear wall, the tips of the spears pointed in my direction. The fight was still ongoing on the other walls and I could see men being pushed off the scaffolding and how our warriors were being rebuffed. The only wall that had seen any progress was the one that I pushed through. They were going to try to hold us at the one safe way down the walls. A chokepoint, however a temporary one.

I rushed forward and slammed into the formation, my exhaustion shoved aside as I fought. And I killed. And killed. And slaughtered everything in my way.

As I fought, hacking and slashing, my exhaustion grew and grew with each swing until my guard lapsed. I felt a solid blow to the side of my head, making me stumble for a moment. When I stopped, it was as if my spirit left my body and allowed me to look upon my surroundings all at once. I had focused so much on what was immediately around me, I paid no attention to the actual battle.

I saw a man holding his intestine as they spilled out from his stomach, fruitlessly trying to stuff them back inside of him while he screamed on blood-soaked dirt. I saw a man throw down his weapons, screaming in Germanic that he surrendered, but the Norse warriors didn’t understand a word he said. Blood spattered on my face when an axe was embedded in his skull.

I saw a shieldmaiden get stabbed a half dozen times in her stomach before the blade was buried to the hilt in her throat. I saw a warrior screaming for the valkyries -- not in glory and excitement, but in fear before he was silenced with a spear to the throat. I witnessed Norsemen and Franks screaming at each other at the top of their lungs, cursing the other to die as they traded blows, both of them so wounded there was no hope for them to live beyond the battle.

I saw it all. Courage, bravery, glory, and honor. As well as fear, confusion, anguish, horror, and death.

Then, without warning, I slammed back into my body with almost physical force. Baring my teeth, I killed the man that struck me and continued on my path.

Warriors followed in my wake as I broke through the formation, their spears proving their undoing with their line broken. It was a mess of a melee, and the only way I could really tell where I was going was because of the two towers that marked the front gate. I had no clue how many men were between it and me, only that with each swing of my axe, the distance shrunk by the width of a man.

Then, I was suddenly before them, having carved a line through the reserved soldiers. I spotted the commander of the garrison and rushed him. His guards rushed to meet me in a bid to protect him, but the warriors that followed me through took care of them. I had no clue who he was, or how valuable he might be as a hostage, so I spun my axe and caught him in the temple, dropping him. Screams echoed in my ears, as did the clashing of wood and metal. I pressed forward, trusting the men behind me to protect my back as I undid the wedges meant to support the door.

With a heave, I lifted the bar on the door and tossed it behind me before pulling open the door. I was nearly trampled by our warriors as they poured in.

The commander that I tried to spare was trampled underfoot as men streamed in through the doors, my efforts amounting to naught.

I didn't lament his probable death for long, however. I was quick to rejoin the melee, throwing myself into the thick of it. The resistance in the fortress was crumbling even though there were still plenty of warriors on their side.

I spotted a number of our warriors hacking at a wooden door on the interior of the fortress. Joining them, I lashed out with a foot and the planks splintered, not from a Power Attack, but simple raw strength. The others resumed hacking, and with another kick, the door gave way, falling off its hinges. The room was a large one and richly decorated. My eyes were nearly seared at the amount of colors painted on the walls -- from the floor to a high ceiling were murals depicting men and women.

There were over a dozen men praying at a stone alter with fearful devotion and my stomach clenched when the Norse warriors fell upon them, hacking and slashing at them, showing no mercy or remorse. Blood splattered over the painted interior of the church, the faithful screaming for mercy from God to spare them. It was a horrid sight. A man crawled away over a body, only to find an axe buried in his back. One clawed at a warrior’s legs, begging to be spared, and was answered with a slashed throat. One picked up a candlestick and started swinging as he cursed, making our warriors laugh.

It was difficult to feel pity for them, I thought. I don’t know who these men were, but they had been in here, praying to their God, instead of being outside fighting. Worse, they proved that they were cowards with their begging and fear. The only one that I had any respect for was the doddering old man that was determined to brain at least one Dane with a candlestick before he died. I didn’t know if Christians believed in Valhalla, but I was certain that he would be welcomed.

Striding forward, I walked past the slaughter, heading towards the altar. There was an object on it -- a cross with a dead man on it. An odd thing, but on the blood-splattered pictures on the walls, I saw the same man carrying the cross that he died on. A curious thing. What really caught my attention was what the cross and the dead man was made of -- silver. More than that, there were gemstones embedded in the cross. Without a doubt, it was the single most valuable thing I had ever seen.

Grabbing it, I found it had weight to it. It was at least four or five pounds of silver and jewels. More money than I had ever made put together.

“They really do worship a dead god,” I muttered, looking at the man wearing a crown of thorns. I didn’t get it. It just didn’t make sense. I thought that maybe Wilfred had made that up, but it was the truth. Not only did they worship a dead god, but their offerings were so rich. Pounds of silver, silver and gold candlesticks with rich-looking candles mounted in them. And this room was so rich with color…

What power could he hold as a corpse to justify such worship and offerings?

“No! Don’t touch the cross!” I heard a man shout, leaping up from his hiding place behind the altar, which showed me I really should have cleared the room before looting. He threw himself at me, his hands lunging for the cross in my hand. I caught him in the throat with the shaft of my axe, knocking him off balance before knocking him to the ground with a whack from the cross.

His cheek bled, split open by my holy bludgeon, his hand going up to this face as he looked up at me with horror. I quickly took in his appearance -- the haircut, the robes, the scarf hanging off his shoulders… reaching down, I rubbed my bloody fingers over it to find that it was the softest material I had ever felt. My eyes narrowed, taking in the rest of him -- Dark hair, dark eyes, a slightly fat man with the beginnings of a second chin. His expression was one of pure terror, and it was clear why. I was absolutely drenched in blood. I could feel it drying on me by the second.

A warrior walked forward, raising an axe, but I stopped him by raising an arm. Surprisingly, he stopped, looking at me questioningly. I dropped down, pressing the edge of my blade to the priest’s neck, “Are you Frankish?” I asked him, making him swallow thickly.

He offered a trembling nod. Good so far. “So, you speak Frankish?”

He opened his mouth, the words not coming for a moment, “I… I do… why?” he asked me, his voice trembling with fear. I gave him a smile that made him piss himself.

Looks like I found a new tutor.