Dark Powers (Chapter 6) (Patreon)

Inside a longhouse, a hulking warrior sat on an iron throne. He was six-and-a-half feet tall, and muscles bulged under his skin like rocks.

His facial ridges were pronounced, some of them ending in sharp protrusions, like flesh-covered chitin. Most extraordinarily, his eyes were an unnatural crimson, the sclera saturated as if something burst in his brain.

A cloak figure knelt in front of him, not daring to raise his head.

“None returned, not one man?”

The monstrous chief spoke slowly, rubbing his bare chin. Suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, an axe shot out of his hand, smashing into the messenger’s head and killing him instantly.

The iron chair groaned as he stood, walking over and prying his weapon out of the dead man’s cranium. After spitting on the corpse, he glanced over his shoulder.

“A bunch of trash, can’t even catch one man.”

There was a moment of silence before someone emerged from behind the throne. He was a norseman, appearing in his late forties. Aside from his fine clothing and carefully trimmed hair, he seemed entirely average.

“I told you it wouldn’t work, Floki. Güdbrand single-handedly slaughtered countless warbands, and that was fifteen years ago.”

The mutated Floki growled, seeming ready to lash out.

“Just look at yourself, already approaching fifty summers. You lost the strength of your prime, Güdbrand also.”

The man shook his head.

“He is younger than me. Besides, like you, the Gods favor-…”

Before he could finish, the air suddenly turned dangerous. Realizing Floki wasn’t far from violence, the man went silent, his lips thinning.

Though fifteen years passed, the Iron Wolves’ young chieftain only grew more impetuous. Comparisons between Güdbrand and himself especially enraged him.

Floki growled low and animalistic.

“Muster the huscarls, we head north! I’ll kill the traitor myself!”

----------------------

Cloistered in his private forge, Güdbrand knew nothing of the world’s stirrings, but even if he did, he wouldn’t have cared. Nothing was more important than his craft.

Another year passed, spent in obsession. Knowing nothing of this world’s runes, Güdbrand built his own system from bottom-up, basing it on circuit-theory from his past life.

It needed to be said, Aethyr was not electricity, operating via entirely different laws. However, the art of runes-on-metal somewhat resembled electronics. Still, progress was slow, and he accomplished little more than strengthening.

Toward the end of his isolation, he had a longsword, shortsword and set of armor. The latter was form-fitting scale-mail, wrapping his body like a second skin. It looked extraordinary, every small plate covered in esoteric, wriggling lines.

He wore it over a tight-fitting, dark leather suit, sheathing the two blades—one near his waist and the other on his back. Essentials were stuffed in a knapsack, what little he could carry.

It was a shame, leaving it all behind. He planned to stay longer, but progress was glacial. There was simply no way he could single-handedly re-discover ten thousand years’ magical knowledge.

Already forty-one this year, he felt it was time to head west, toward elven lands.

---------------------

Stepping out the door of his mountainside log-cabin, Güdbrand immediately saw countless Iron Wolves, emerging from the forest like an upended anthill.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. A day later, and they would find nothing—perhaps their timely arrival was a coincidence, but he doubted it. Most likely, someone or something wanted to see a show.

After hesitating for a moment, he stepped forward. The conflict wasn’t exactly unwelcome, serving as a good opportunity for testing his armaments. His martial arts needed refining too, though referring to them as such was perhaps inappropriate.

A common trope in his past life was the ‘pure killing technique’, a utilitarian style devoid of flashy moves. However, his own fighting style was even simpler, centered around the concept of ‘threat’.

Life and death didn’t determine victory, but the ability to fight. Instead of killing, eliminating the opponent’s ‘threat’ was easiest. Maiming arms or hands was a good example, effective versus warriors and sorcerers.

The gathered Norsii fanned out, cutting off routes of retreat. A handful separated from the warband, slowly approaching Güdbrand. Compared to the average norseman, they were exceedingly well-equipped, and unusually big.

The monstrous Floki was at the head, raising a clenched fist when only a few yards remained. His bodyguard stopped as one man.

Horned and bloody-eyed, he stared at Güdbrand, looking no different from the man in FLoki’s memories. No, he seemed even younger, more beautiful than before.

The chieftain narrowed his crimson eyes.

“Running from your fate, Oathbreaker? It’s useless—those you betrayed have all gathered, they won’t let you escape.”

Güdbrand looked at him like he was an idiot.

“What are you talking about?”

Floki sneered.

“You think I don’t know the promise you made to father? When he died, you went back on your word, abandoning your duties to the Iron Wolves!”

A flurry of whispers erupted among the gathered warriors, their expressions extremely unkind. Life in the north was harsh, and after fifteen years, there were almost no familiar faces.

Güdbrand remained indifferent. He didn’t know how Floki learned of the deal, but it didn’t matter. He would do what he wanted, and the boy-turned-man wasn’t capable of stopping him. Not in the past, nor the present.

He shook his head.

“You’re unworthy of my sword.”

Floki didn’t take the words well, his face growing ugly. However, he ignored the remark, pointing a finger at Güdbrand’s chest.

“You do not deny it, proving I speak the truth!”

Taking a deep breath, a full-chested shout exited his throat. It rang loudly in the air, causing the throng to grow even more agitated.

Güdbrand shrugged.

“So what?”

Floki stilled, looking like he’d just been slapped. Since childhood, everyone showed him respect—even more so when he became chief. This level of disregard was unprecedented, enraging him completely!

It took every bit of self-control not to lash out. Gritting his teeth and exhaling slowly, he gripped the axe hanging from his belt.

“Oathbreaker! I, Floki Björnson, jarl of the Iron Wolves, challenge you! Victory will earn you freedom, and defeat, servitude. The rest of your unworthy life will be spent in repentance, making amends to the tribe!”

His bellow was so loud, it reverberated against the sheer cliff.

The crowd exploded, whooping and hollering excitedly, banging their weapons together. Bloodlust hung thick in the air.

Güdbrand’s eyes went from Floki and his huskarls to the gathered barbarians. His expression changed for the first time, revealing contempt.

“You don’t have the ability to take, nor offer my freedom. I’ll except your duel, but when I win, your lives are all forfeit.”

Though he didn’t shout, everyone could hear him, his voice clear like a plucked string.

There was a moment of silence before the crowd burst into laughter, jeering and mocking. Floki snorted, glancing at the Iron Wolves behind him.

“Finally, you see. The pretender’s head grew swollen after years of-…!”

Before his posturing could continue, a feeling of mortal danger blanketed Floki’s senses.

Receiving the Blood Father’s blessing at a young age, few could challenge him in combat, and even fewer were capable of threatening his life. Yet, in that moment, all Floki’s confidence was overturned, washed away by unstoppable, advancing doom!

A veteran of a thousand battles, his body moved without conscious input. A sword expanded in his vision, the blade glowing-red with fiery lines!

A deep unwillingness welled in the chieftain’s chest. He, Floki Björnson was the mighty conqueror of the north! In the all-powerful name of Crimson-Kharneth, the greatest warriors were laid low, felled by his axe or bound as war-slaves!

In the moment between life and death, a white-hot rage consumed him, his God-Blessed body gathering every last drop of strength before pouring it into a mighty blow! A roar tore from his throat, a wave of force and physical heat shunting from him.

However, the blurred shadow in front suddenly vanished, Floki’s herculean strike hitting nothing but empty air. The only sign of Güdbrand’s passing was a streak of crackling energy.

Feeling a phantom sting on the back of his neck, the monstrous chieftain whirled, shattering the frozen earth under his feet. His heavy, black-steel axe – once pried from a slain champion’s cold, dead fingers – descended like an iron mountain.

In the heat of battle, two words reached his ears, spoken in a dull tone.

“You’re fast.”

A sword accompanied them, appearing as if out of thin air. By the time Floki noticed its presence, it was too late. It punched through his hauberk from behind, slipping under his clavicle before bursting out of his chest.

A tremendous surge of magic accompanied it, the blood-stained blade glowing violet.

“NOOO…!”

Floki felt death fast approaching, the rampaging energy obliterating him from inside. Determined to drag his enemy down with him, he threw himself at Güdbrand with a vengeance, the ground exploding under him like a detonated landmine.

The pale, delicate hand holding the shortsword let go, electricity still arcing from the tips of Güdbrand’s fingers to the blade’s hilt. Like storm-water currents battering against an overfilled dam, magic ruptured the blade, violet cracks splitting its length.

A flash of searing light blinded Floki, the weapon imploding into fragments of steel and wild, uncontrollable energy. In an instant, his torso turned to minced meat, his right arm blown clean off.

His axe hurtling uselessly into the distance, the chieftain took one, two steps before falling forward, hitting the ground hard, a sack filled with broken bones and ruined meat.

His vision rapidly growing dim, he turned his eyes upwards, seeing Güdbrand fall on the huskarls’ heads in a whirlwind of steel. They were reaped like wheat under a sickle blade, all their training and battle-experience reduced to nothing.

As large quantities of his mutated blood watered the rocky, arid soil, Floki prayed desperately, beseeching the Brass Lord, begging for strength, for one more chance.

However, he received no mercy, only scorn. In the short few moments before his death, he could only watch as the Sword of the Gods made a mockery of him and the Iron Wolves, slaughtering them to the last man.

-------------------------------