Dark Powers (Chapter 2) (Patreon)

I had fun with this chapter. I know you guys might not be in to Warhammer, but it might be a nice pallet-cleanser after DIID's average protagonist. Radomír is a lot stronger, though at this point he's only on the level of being a top-notch warrior. He can still be overwhelmed with numbers, or sneak-attacked.

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They were the Silver Wolves, one of the northern tribes fleeing the remorseless winter, come to plunder ‘soft, fat southerners’.

They had a simple purpose for Radomír and the other youths—replenishing casualties. As it was, their leader, Björn and his dozen shield-brothers were the last of a hundred-strong force.

Unsurprisingly, the captives didn’t welcome this fate. Who’d join those responsible for slaughtering their tribesmen?

However, according to the Silver Wolves, they barely participated in the southerners’ subjugation. These captives were bartered from other warbands.

If the ‘recruits’ stumbled across friends or family, they were to invite them— Björn’s frank words.

Some of the boys were persuaded, perhaps unrooted long ago. Others weren’t, remembering their families’ deaths.

Radomír kept his opinions to himself.

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That night, Björn’s tent-flap was pushed open, a shadowy figure slipping in.

A fat-candle burned inside, the Silver Wolves’ chieftain conversing quietly with a tall, burly warrior.

“Who?”

Sensing an intruder, the barbarian stood while Björn remained seated, smoking herbs on a pile of furs.

Radomír emerged, his fiery hair, fair face and youthful figure revealed in candlelight. He didn’t speak immediately, glancing between Björn and the warrior.

The one-eyed man smiled, exhaling a steady stream of smoke.

“If it isn’t my favored son. Come, sit. Eat something, have a drink.”

Radomír remained silent. Truthfully, he didn’t know what to make of this man. Björn was strange—his personality, his aura, his handling of the situation.

For him, a reincarnator to feel that way was saying a lot.

“I’m not your son.”

Björn chuckled, grabbing a handful of roasted seeds.

“I accept you as my own son. To reject me as your adoptive father is your own decision.”

Radomír exhaled slowly. He didn’t come to argue over nonsense. Ignoring the chieftain, he locked eyes with the looming warrior.

Long, matted hair covered the man’s ugly face, and a pear of dark, beady eyes gleamed in his sunken eye-sockets. The brute was more in-line with Radomír’s perception of northmen.

The youth’s eyebrows furrowed, his gaze piercing. He noticed the giant earlier, and the more he looked at him, the surer Radomír became.

“I remember you. You were there, during the battle.”

The air turned sharp and brittle, like jagged ice.

The giant revealed a bloodthirsty grin, two rows of file-sharpened teeth.

He said something, his words so crude and accented Radomír understood nothing. However, his disdainful, taunting tone was clear as day.

The youth’s amber eyes gleamed in the orange light. His gaze was hard, resolved.

He took a step, the shadowed half of him now illuminated. His cloak shifted, and a blade gleamed—three feet long, and wickedly sharp.

Before his rebirth, Radomír already channeled the winds.

He doubted it was common, for the unborn to have awareness like him. He guessed it related to the strangeness of his soul.

Whatever the reason, it was not an opportunity to be missed. Without much hesitation, he charted his course—modifying his body, and guiding his physical growth.

At first, he made small changes, unskilled as he was.

Over time, his proficiency and insights grew under the Blood Eagle shamans’ tutelage. He was bolder with his enhancements—strength, speed, senses and mental faculties.

Radomír’s abilities even extended to dampening or outright cancelling others’ magics, becoming a veritable anti-mage.

Giving his all to these pursuits, other powers languished. Each day only held so many hours. However, confusing guards to steal a weapon was hardly tenth-level magic.

The giant’s eyes widened, but then his face showed a mocking sneer. He glanced at Björn, saying something in the same unpleasant language.

The chieftain didn’t replay, observing this turn of events interestedly.

Before the warrior took issue with this, Radomír lunged.

During their previous battle, he was outnumbered. Having only two hands and no eyes on the back of his head, he suffered an ambush and was defeated.

Things were different now.

The warrior grunted, pulling a long, evil-looking knife, rusted with blood. The material wrapping its handle was eerily similar to human skin.

Aethyr surged in Radomír’s blood, a drug-like concoction of hormones and magic. The rush was like a song in his mind, his senses sharpening to inhuman degrees.

Time seemed to slow as his blade rose up, winding like a serpent. His thirteen-year-old body couldn’t compete with the brute’s height and strength, but metal was harder than flesh.

The warrior took full advantage of his size, outranging Radomír. Guarding his vitals, he went for a deathblow!

However, the boy’s weapon suddenly changed direction, his movements outrageously fast. The brute’s thoughts couldn’t keep up, never mind his reflexes.

Severed fingers flew into the air, blood spurting, crimson droplets hanging suspended in Radomír’s time-dilated vision.

The moment stretched on. Light reflected on the red liquid, mirroring three faces. The giant showed shock and fear, while Björn seemed surprised and excited. Radomír’s expression didn’t change at all.

Time resumed, the sword-tip continuing unstoppably toward the warrior’s torso. With a thump like striking wood, it sunk into the man’s dense, muscled chest.

In a last-ditch effort, he roared, one paw-like hand going toward Radomír’s neck. However, the youth disappeared like a shadow, appearing a few yards away. In his hand was a stained sword, dripping red on the floor.

The warrior took a step, but blood surged from his mouth and nose, choking him. With a pierced heart, he was already dead.

He collapsed onto one knee, tried to get up, then fell forward on his face. A pool of blood expanded slowly under him.

Björn looked at the cooling corpse, impressed.

“You killed Halfdan.”

Radomír locked gazes with him, approaching sword in hand. His face, half in shadow and eyes, glowing like coals in candlelight, looked terrifying.

Standing in front of the Silver Wolves’ chieftain, he put a blade to the man’s neck.

Björn’s eyebrows shot up.

“Scary~…”

The youth pushed the blade closer, almost scraping skin.

“You lied. The attack was orchestrated by you.”

The grizzled, half-blind man chuckled.

“You’re mistaken. Halfdan doesn’t follow my orders. Didn’t, I should say.”

He glanced briefly at the body.

Radomír pursed his lips, wondering how to do this. His new family always treated him well—if they were alive, he’d find them.

“You said other Blood Eagles survived. Where are they?”

Björn smiled. Reaching for the sword at his throat, he pinched it between two fingers. Running his hand along the blade, he tested the edge, but didn’t push it away.

“An excellent blade, lad. It was yours, I assume?”

Radomír frowned, not happy about being ignored. He pushed the sword, cutting Björn’s fingers and scraping a red line across his neck.

“I ask, you answer.”

Björn chuckled, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. Putting his hands on his knees, he got up slowly.

“Boy, when old men make small talk, you should go along with them. Never mind, since you’re impatient, I’ll take you there.”

Not caring one whit about his life hanging by a thread, he turned and gestured politely toward the tent’s opening.

Radomír narrowed his eyes, not knowing the man’s intentions. However, he wouldn’t recklessly go outside—the giant’s final shout attracted attention.

“What are you planning?”

Björn stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, appearing confused.

“Didn’t you ask about the Blood Eagles, lad? A pile of corpses aint much interesting, but I reckon if you saw ‘em, it’d give some-… what’s it again, closure?”

He grinned at Radomír.

The red-haired boy felt anger surge, and he almost killed the Silver Wolves’ chieftain on the spot.

“Their dead? You said they were alive!”

Björn wagged his finger reprimandingly.

“There were survivors, but I never said we had ‘em. So, you interested or not?”

Radomír grit is teeth, dread mixing with the rage in his chest. For a second, he didn’t know what to do.

Thinking it over, he decided to follow Björn. He couldn’t beat a dozen men, but he didn’t have to. If things went south, he’d run—this time, there wasn’t anyone to protect.

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The two emerged from Björn’s tent, Radomír’s concealed sword pressed to the steely-haired man’s back.

A few northerners approached immediately, clutching their weapons.

“Chief, what happened? We heard Halfdan screaming.”

They glanced suspiciously between Radomír and Björn.

Their chieftain waved his hand dismissively.

“He’s dead, have an initiate bury the corpse.”

The three barbarians were stunned.

“Fuck, dead? How-…?”

One of them started talking, but Björn interrupted him impatiently.

“Who cares? Just get rid of the body before I come back.”

The man shut his mouth, looked at his friends, then nodded slowly.

“Alright. Where you taking the pretty boy? You won’t have fun without us, right?”

The three’s expressions turned filthy, staring at Radomír’s long hair and clean, boyish face.

Björn ignored them, leaving without another word. A shorter figure clung to his back, directing an ice-cold gaze toward the three northerners.

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