Dark Powers (Chapter 7) (Patreon)

Güdbrand sat among a sea of corpses, his expression distant. He barely swung his sword in fifteen years, but his skills remained sharp as his blade. In the chaos of blood and steel, everything faded away—he missed the simplicity of it.

A cloth and some clarified oil came out his rucksack, cleaning the longsword. It was the pinnacle of his craft, but without chromium or nickel, it was vulnerable to rust like any other.

There was rustling among the dead, shuffling and thumping as survivors drew close, kneeling with hands and knees on the ground. A man was at the head, familiar to Güdbrand, but worn by time’s passing.

“I had eyes, but did not see. Forgive me, Sword—never again will I be so blind!”

The man grabbed a sharp rock, raising it into the air. With a fierce cry, he shoved it into his own eye.

Güdbrand didn’t stop him, watching indifferently.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised, Sten. I thought you’d fight for leadership, but thinking again, you always avoided conflict— Björn’s influence, I suppose.”

The man, bloodied and groaning in agony, dug out the ruined flesh, flinging it at Güdbrand’s feet. Blood and tears dripped from Sten’s empty socket. He shivered, looking half-mad.

“F-Floki was a fool, a waste. I knew he’d die, but I never thought…”

He glanced at the ex-chieftain’s body, the huskarls, then the rest of the dead. His face was a mix of pain, fear and awe.

“…such strength, such power. Who is greater in the north? The Gods must love you dearly, champion, to grant such irresistible might!”

Güdbrand wanted to laugh, but restrained himself. He had little reverence for Dark Ones, undesiring of their ‘gifts’, but wasn’t foolish enough to scorn them openly.

The duality of their Blessings, liable to bring loss or gain, were preferrable to their Curses. Subjected to the latter, only desolation awaited, certain as the sun rising in the east.

Sven rhythmically banged his head against the ground, as if worshipping.

“Let us serve you, great one. Floki left no sons to inherit, and without leadership, the Iron Wolves are lost! Accept us—it’s your right, and the will of the Gods!”

Güdbrand looked at him curiously. Sven’s devotion to the Four had grown, but his mental faculties seemingly degraded. Did he forget his own dislike for this kind of hero-worship?

It wasn’t out of humility that he refused. Rather, his ‘admirers’ were completely useless, as was the position of Jarl. Güdbrand’s defeat alongside the Blood Eagles was proof of that.

Protecting the weak wasn’t empowering. Instead, it was like fighting with lead weights around one’s wrists and ankles.

Güdbrand stood, turning his face away.

“No.”

The word fell like judgement on the stragglers’ shoulders. With their warriors dead and their old champion’s refusal, the Iron Wolves were doomed.

Sven’s reared his head madly, desperation burning in a single eye.

“You cannot, the Gods compel-…”

Before he could finish, the air whistled, a crimson line dividing him in two. The halves sloughed to the ground, organs and blood spilling onto the soil.

The survivors skittered backward in fear.

“’’The Gods’ this, ‘the Gods’ that. You lot know nothing of the Gods. They care not for your supplications, your worship, your sacrifices. Your only value is in your usefulness, and the amusement you provide.”

Like addressing a group of children, the point of his sword swept from left to right. He seemed about to continue, but realizing the futility, he shook his head.

The remaining woman and children, company to the late warband, stared at Güdbrand’s departing back. This time, nobody tried stopping him.

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With no map, Güdbrand headed west, wanting to follow the coast. However, he hadn’t gone far before suddenly turning, staring piercingly into the woods.

“I know you’re there. Come out.”

His voice rang in the forest, startling birds from trees. Silence followed, but then he spotted movement, a small shadow separating from the woods’ darkness.

Lurching unevenly, it covered the distance before prostrating itself, hands, knees and forehead against the ground. It seemed in pain, its hunched form shivering silently.

Developing some suspicions, Güdbrand gazed intently.

“Why do you follow me?”

The childlike figure bowed even lower, pressing its body into the soil. However, no reply came.

Güdbrand’s sulphurous eyes flickered, hesitating.

“Raise your head and remove your hood, let’s speak face-to-face.”

The stranger shook its head vigorously, scraping the frozen soil and dry gravel.

“…no…ugly…too ugly…”

Its voice was breathless, cracked and hoarse.

The red-haired man sighed, drawing closer. The paltry, shifting Winds surrounding the child, as well as its gnarled fingers and sharp, black nails led him to realization.

During the battle, someone ‘helped’ him from the sidelines, casting cantrips and meagre curses. It was wholly unnecessary, but enough to earn Güdbrand’s mercy.

“You aided me, so I won’t harm you. Speak freely, I’ll fulfil a small request or two.”

His hand blurred, conjuring a gust of wind and pushing back the child’s hood. A screech exited the ‘boy’s’ misshapen mouth, reaching desperately and pulling down the cowl again.

It was only a moment, but enough for Güdbrand to spot a pair of evil eyes, an unnatural, elongated face and slitted, snake-like nostrils. The child was half-human, half something else.

Güdbrand revealed a look of realization. The creature was a turnskin, born human but marked by Chaos. Early in his life, the mutations took hold, facilitating his transformation from man to monster.

Unlike the southerners, Norsii didn’t cast out such ‘Blessed’ children. However, it was human nature to fear the alien, even to hate. They seldom, if ever, received the esteem their ‘status’ demanded.

“Why do you hide yourself? Your changes testify the Gods’ favour, don’t they?”

Güdbrand observed the scurrying figure curiously. He didn’t actually believe his own words, speaking only to calm the child.

It stiffened, halting its retreat.

“…I am…weak…worthless…like the tribe…you said…”

Tugging on its cowl, it spoke stutteringly.

Güdbrand huffed.

“You are alive and they dead. Doesn’t that testify your value?”

The little monster startled, its hunched shoulders straightening minutely. However, it didn’t reply.

The man wasn’t patient, glancing at the westward sun. He wanted to move while daylight remained.

“Speak. What do you want? I won’t loiter here far longer.”

“…”

It shifted from foot to foot, internal struggle visible in its posture. Despite seconds turning into minutes, the young turnskin never spoke.

Güdbrand grunted, turning to leave.

“So be it.”

Before he could take one step, the child threw himself at the man’s feet, trembling and prostrating. Without making a noise, he beseeched silently.

“…you want to follow me? Very well, get up. It will depend on you to keep the pace. If not, I leave you behind.”

Despite its inhuman physique and bowed form, the turnkin’s shock was clear as day. Earlier, its entire tribe was rejected, yet Güdbrand accepted it so easily? The little monster couldn’t believe it.

Still reeling, it stood slowly, clenching its claw-like hands.

“…why…?”

Güdbrand didn’t entertain the question, shouldering his pack and resuming his journey. His steps were directed, heading westward with purpose.

“Don’t tire yourself out with useless speaking.”

The child looked at him, confusion reflected in its black eyes. Snapping out of its stupor, it hurried after him, clawed feet scrabbling the hard earth.

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That night, they sat around a campfire, staring into the flames. The little monster was outside the circle of light, all but hidden if it weren’t for its glinting, slitted eyes.

It never spoke on its own initiative, but was chatty enough when questioned. Asked about its parents, it provided a startling answer—it had no mother, but its father was ‘the first who died’.

Güdbrand struggled to believe it, yet saw no reason for the creature’s lies. Clearly, there was no love lost between himself and Floki. However, he remembered Sven saying the late chieftain had no sons.

True or false, it didn’t matter to Güdbrand, but the situation was somewhat ironic. Tossing a few twigs into the fire, he glanced at the monster.

“Floki once begged to follow me, just as you did.”

A pair of reflective, inhuman eyes met his. A concoction of complex feelings swirled within—admiration, fear, envy and resentment. More than the child’s words, that look persuaded Güdbrand.

As a youth, Floki harboured those exact emotions. However, the volatility wasn’t his reason for rejection. Instead, there was nothing to be gained from taking Björn’s son as a follower.

The child drew its legs close to its chest, not speaking.

Güdbrand wanted to address it, but remembered the ‘boy’ had no name. In its stories, it lived on the outskirts, fed scraps and given hand-me-downs. They addressed the turnskin simply—as ‘it’ or ‘you’.

“I will give you a name, what do you think?”

Under its baggy robe, the creature’s body stiffened, then it nodded slowly.

Güdbrand rubbed his chin, thinking it over. His lips quirked upward, something coming to mind.

“’Grendel’ would be a good name.”

The child raised its head, exposing its misshapen face. Nothing could be gleaned from its expression.

“…what does it mean? Who was he?”

Güdbrand chuckled. If his heart were softer, he might pick a more human name, not something synonymous with ‘monster’. However, it was pointless. The ‘boy’ was marked from birth, corrupted.

A human couldn’t change its nature, nor a turnskin.

“I heard it a long time ago, and even then, the story’s details were debated. I prefer the version where he was the son of king Hrothgar and the ‘aglæcwif’, mother of all monsters.”

The child’s eyes glittered, clearly interested.

“He was a man? Or was he a monster…?”

Güdbrand smiled, starting to tell the story of Beowulf. He touched it up a little, painting the villain in a more favourable light.

In his version, Grendel was powerful and intelligent, the king of monsters. Though the protagonist defeated him, he wasn’t killed, retreating to lick his wounds and swearing revenge.

When the story reached its end, ‘Grendel’ was fast asleep, tired after a long day’s walking. Güdbrand imagined a hint of contentment on its scaled face.

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