Dark Powers (Chapter 5) (Patreon)

Secluding himself in the northern wastelands, Güdbrand didn’t notice time passing.

The greater his sorceries grew, the closer he drew to his path’s end. Already, his strength stagnated, his body nearing perfection.

He could exceed the limits of human flesh once, twice, but no further. Güdbrand needed another way.

Mutations were his first option, but quickly discarded. Forty years’ biomancy taught him much, including the risks. It was too soon—more knowledge, more experience was required.

The second was using magical armor, weaponry or trinkets. He disliked depending on such things, but it was the best choice.

However, no northman smith could forge his armaments. Elves or dwarves could, but they would never assist someone marked by the Daemon Gods.

Left with no choice, he would learn the relevant crafts himself.

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Ten years after his disappearance, Güdbrand re-emerged in the north. Searching for skilled artisans, he went from tribe to tribe, learning what he could.

His appearance, a by-product of flesh-crafting, immediately caused a stir—fiery, red hair and inhumanly handsome, he was too striking to go unnoticed.

Güdbrand never cared for reputation, finding the attention annoying. However, it was proving useful for securing the Norsii’s assistance.

For two years, he lived a wanderer’s life, never staying long. The tribal smiths were primitive, and with his sharpened mind, mastering their skills was child’s play.

However, rumors milled and word spread, and soon people came looking for him.

It was a band of warriors, blue-tattooed and savage looking. Though Güdbrand recognized none of them, they carried a familiar name on their lips.

“Are you that oathbreaker, the one calling himself ‘Sword of the Gods’?”

A hairy, bare-chested barbarian stood behind the red-haired man, watching as Güdbrand buffed a dull-grey, scale hauberk.

Time passed, yet no reply came. Growing angry, the northman snorted, reaching for Güdbrand’s neck.

One moment, the champion was sitting there. The next, he stood, the hauberk laying on a nearby bench. A shortsword was in his hand, its wide blade already covered in blood.

The warrior’s pupils dilated, looking in shock at his own severed hand, laying on the ground. Suddenly, the pain hit, almost bringing him to his knees.

Clutching the stump white-knuckled, he hunched over, a long groan forcing itself from between his teeth. His companions immediately drew their weapons, circling Güdbrand.

“Fuck, it’s just as Floki said. He’s a dogshit, arrogant bastard!”

The maimed barbarian stumbled backwards, spurting blood and dripping saliva. He stared hatefully at him.

“He can’t take all of us! Chop off his arms and legs, but don’t kill him! The chief wants him alive!”

Like one man, the warband surged forward. A torrent of spears and axes fell on Güdbrand’s head—a disciplined, coordinated attack.

The red-haired man watched dispassionately, the storm of steel slowing until it was barely moving. His body and mind worked like a finely-tuned machine, powered by surging magical currents.

Energy thrumming under his skin, Güdbrand sung his sword. His movements felt unbearably slow, like a turtle. However, the crowding warband couldn’t even be called snails.

The first one didn’t know how he died, a bloody line dividing his head, exposing pink flesh and white fat. The second’s neck was severed, spraying blood in the air. The third lost his arm mid-swing.

One after another, the warriors were maimed or killed. Before ten breaths, it was over, bodies, streaks of blood and scattered limbs littering the earth. The survivors fled in all directions—those capable of moving.

The leader was among the first to run, but a flash of steel severed his hamstrings. Bleeding out on the dirt, he stared up at Güdbrand, his expression a mix of fear and hate.

“Chosen! Y-You’re chosen, like Floki!”

The red-haired man looked back at him, his amber eyes faintly interested.

“Oh, which God favors him?”

The barbarian started laughed tremblingly, paling from pain and blood loss.

“He’ll definitely k-kill you, anyone who t-touches what’s his. The North belongs to F-Floki!”

Pulling a dagger from somewhere, he stabbed toward his own eye, but his wrist was suddenly severed. His expression turning deranged, the barbarian’s jaw clenched, trying to bite his tongue.

However, a blade was shoved in his mouth.

“I ask, you answer. Which God favors Floki?”

The man yelled in defiance, trying to kill himself on the blade, but a steel-tipped boot suddenly took its place. His head was flung backward, spittle, blood and tooth-fragments flying into the air.

Güdbrand wanted to pull him up, but the warrior screamed madly, smashing his forehead against a sharp rock. Once, twice, three times—crimson pooled under his ruined head, twitching and growing still.

The champion could have stopped him, but it wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, figuring out Floki’s patron wasn’t difficult. The kid had as much magical talent as a block of wood, with a brutish disposition to boot.

Sighing, Güdbrand realized his peace wouldn’t last long. However, building this small forge was troublesome, and he was unwilling to give it up.

If Floki or his lackeys disturbed him again, he’d give them the same treatment.

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Another year passed, Güdbrand immersing himself in his craft. Aside from metallurgy and runecrafting, nothing else was on his mind.

Having mastered Norsii smithing techniques, only practice and experimentation remained. Most materials he sourced himself, but now and then, he bartered for metals.

His abilities grew, soon completing his first runeblade, powered by the user’s Aethyr to strengthen and sharpen. It cut wrought iron like butter.

However, it couldn’t support Güdbrand’s full output. An improved model was already in the works.

Unfortunately, he was disturbed before its completion. One morning, fifty axemen showed up on his doorstep, clad in mail and carrying iron shields.

Güdbrand sat on his log-cabin’s porch, staring at the clouds. His far-away thoughts returned to the present, the echoes of last night’s research fading from his mind.

A well-armored warrior stepped forward, thumping his chest in a gesture of respect.

“Champion Güdbrand, I come on behalf of the Silver Wolves’ chieftain, Floki Björnson.”

The red-haired man didn’t reply, regarding the warband evenly. His pale fingers absentmindedly traced the sheathed sword on his lap.

Despite being ignored, the leader didn’t outwardly grow angry.

“He has an offer for you. Return to the tribe and swear your loyalty to him, and your previous transgressions will be forgiven. If you refuse-…”

He trailed off, his tone unchanging. However, a palpable treat hung in the air.

“What will happen if I refuse?”

Güdbrand finally spoke, his voice containing a hint of curiosity.

The warrior adjusted his cloak, exposing the axe hanging from his belt.

“Us fifty axe-brothers will bring you to him, regardless of your answer. The method is up to you—please choose wisely.”

The red-haired man looked from the assembled Norsii to the woods, his lips quirking upward.

“It seems Floki finally learned to use his head. Björn would be proud.”

The leader grunted.

“So you noticed? It seems your reputation isn’t for nothing. Never mind, this way, you know to make the right decision.”

He grinned fiercely, showing sharp teeth.

“Though, it’s a shame. I hoped to see ‘the Gods’ sword’ in action.”

There was a moment of silence before Güdbrand stood slowly, his blade emerging from its oiled leather sheath.

“There’s no need for regret. You’ll get your wish.”

Before his last words reached the warband’s ears, he disappeared like a flashing shadow. As if prepared for this, bowstrings twanged in the forest, a hail of arrows landing where the champion once stood.

Sensing mortal danger, a battle-roar tore from the leader’s throat, raising his shield defensively. Güdbrand was so fast, he barely registered his movements!

There was a loud tearing sound as the runeblade sheared northman’s shield like paper. His gleaming chainmail was next, the rings splintering like steel rusted to uselessness.

A halfmoon blade severed his shoulder, carving him like a slab of meat. It exited near his hip, the entire section sloughing off, exposing meat, bone and organs.

Güdbrand’s attention went to the rest, seeing their axes barely left their belts. A thought flashed through his mind.

‘So slow.’

His sword fell, rose and fell again. The fifty warriors died as one, butchered to the last man. Their showing was pathetic, unworthy of blood-baptized berserkers, veterans of a hundred battles.

The men were still dying when Güdbrand emerged from their midst, faster than a swooping falcon. Bowstrings twanged again, a hail of arrows raining down on his head.

They flew over him, under him, their whistles ringing in his ears. However, their flint tips didn’t even scrape the edges of his clothes.

He flitted from tree to tree, an archer dying with his sword’s every twitch. It didn’t take long for their morale to break, scattering in all directions like a stone tossed into a flock of birds.

However, unlike last time, Güdbrand spared not a single man.

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