Chương 9: Warlord

Three more barbarians — all at least High Journeymen — surrounded him. Alcyr raised his sword and assumed a stance.

"I recognise you," one of them snarled in the common tongue.

"Ragna's killer."

"This is one the southerner calls their Butcher?" another laughed.

"He is a mere pup."

"A pup with fangs. See how he looks at us? There is no fear."

"I don't need his fear. I only need his corpse to avenge the warlord's son!" The first came after him with blinding speed, howling with an ululating war cry as he slashed his axe. Guided by Combat Sense, Alcyr immediately leapt back, raising his shield to block the strike from the second marauder as he landed. [Movement has improved to 26] The blow struck dreadfully hard. A mere month ago, before the Battle of the Red Rime, the strength behind that attack would have shattered his arm instantly.

Alcyr thrusted with his sword. It nicked the barbarian in the neck, but failed to open an artery. Seeing an opportunity, the marauder used the hooked beard of his axe to catch the sword just above the guard. With a sharp twist and a violent yank, he tore the blade from Alcyr's grip. A Disarm skill, he noted idly. These barbarians weren't just mindless berserkers, but disciplined warriors. All the better to kill, then. Seeing him weaponless, the three marauders closed in once more, assured of their victory.

That overconfidence would prove to be their downfall. Rather than flee or attempt to retrieve his sword, Alcyr suicidally chose to advance. He spun away from the first axe swing and batted the swinging blade away with the back of his fist. Using his shield, he rammed aside the marauder, throwing the overbalanced brute off his feet. He then ducked below the swing of the second barbarian — the blade missing him by a hairbreadth — before pistoning the flat of his palm towards the third barbarian charging at him.

Had any normal person struck such a blow, the attack would have barely registered. But Alcyr's Unarmed Discipline and Physical Conditioning skills were far above the realm of mundane strength. As such, when the powerful blow hammered into the barbarian's upper chest, the foe was sent flying back with a cracked collarbone. Seeing their comrade wounded, the two other barbarians howled as they advanced, axes slashing in complex arcs as they moved with preternatural speed.

Alcyr sidestepped a decapitating sweep and rammed his elbow in the attacker's side. The barbarian's ribs were shattered by the attack, and the brute was sent crashing to the frosted ground. Without pausing for breath, Alcyr then drew his dagger and threw it at the downed opponent. To the barbarian's credit, he raised his hand just in time to block, but the supernaturally sharp blade simply sliced through his fingers before lodging itself straight between his eyes.

[Throwing Discipline has improved to 19] Alcyr ignored the brute's dying wheeze as he spun to face his next opponent. The last unwounded barbarian slashed at him, his axe moving too fast for Alcyr to block. The blade tore down into his chest, caving in the iron chestplate he wore before claiming its sheath of flesh. Alcyr grimaced in pain, but did not fall. Mortal Defiance kicked in and granted him a monstrous burst of strength.

He reared his shield back and thundered it into the barbarian's face, breaking his nose. Before the brute could recover, Alcyr channelled all of his strength into his right fist and punched into the side of his opponent's chin. The barbarian's lower jaw was ripped off in a shower of blood and splintered bone. The stricken warrior dropped his axe and clutched at his ruined face. Blood jutted unevenly from the mangled wound.

The horrific wet scream gurgling forth from the barbarian's throat was silenced as Alcyr unstrapped his shield and rammed it straight down his torn-opened mouth. There was a sickening crack, and then the brute fell back with the splintered wooden guard lodged in his broken neck. [Shield Discipline has improved to 25] Footsteps approached behind him. With a speed bolstered by Mortal Defiance, Alcyr swept up his previously disarmed sword and slashed instinctively.

The blade met the torso of the first barbarian Alcyr had hammered back earlier, cleaving through his chest cavity and burying deep into the northman's heart. Unfortunately, that fatal wound didn't stop the northman's final act of bringing down his axe and slashing it into Alcyr's chest. The soldier stumbled back, blood pouring from his wound even as the last of the three barbarians fell over dead.

[Physical Conditioning has improved to 30] [Mortal Defiance has improved to 12] [Combat Sense has improved to 19] That battle had gained him an impressive deluge of levels, likely the overflow of his experience buildup while training over the last month. Alcyr dismissed the notifications and tiredly looked up. As he'd expected, the convoy was losing badly. Five, maybe six, of the soldiers were still on their feet. The barbarians had taken losses too, but not enough.

The ones still standing outnumber the soldiers twice over. The majority of the foes were in the High Journeyman tier. Their initial numbers seemed to have matched theirs as well. However, the barbarians' surprise strike was too devastating for the soldiers to reorganise themselves and counterattack. All hope appeared lost. Then he spotted Vormas. The lieutenant had done well. As expected of a Regular, the man could fight.

His Elite-tier strength was evident as his sword cut down two charging barbarians in the span of seconds. He'd gathered two other soldiers around him and been working steadily toward the left edge of the encirclement. Vormas noticed him.

"Alcyr!" he roared.

"Get here! Regroup!" Alcyr made it two steps before the pain in his side forced him to his knees. He coughed, rich blood spilling from his lips. He could barely breathe. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Punctured lung, probably, Alcyr thought. He was already a dead man. Even so, he fought to stand, to strike down just one more barbarian. But the agony was too much. Movement was impossible. Even just staying on one knee nearly drove him to unconsciousness.

Not more than ten seconds had passed since Vormos called for him. Only four other soldiers were now left, including Vormas. All of the Irregulars were regrouped around the lieutenant. They were close to breaking out. The last barbarian in their way was cut down. For a moment, it looked like they were going to escape. Then the archer arrived. He was enormous. A full head taller than any northerner Alcyr had ever seen, even the warchief Ragna.

Where the rest of the barbarians wore hides and leather, he was bare-chested despite the cold, his bronze skin inked with swirling patterns. The northman had his warbow slung over his back. In his hands, he carried a breaded battle axe with a carved haft, its head faintly luminous with the cold shimmer of an enchantment.

"A Silverite weapon," Alcyr murmured. That meant one thing. This northman wasn't just a powerful warchief leading his warband. This was a warlord — the chieftain of an entire barbarian tribe. Even from a distance, his Combat Sense could detect the northman's overwhelming strength. A High Elite. The lieutenant saw the giant coming. To the Regular's credit, he didn't flinch — he raised his blade and said something to the men around him in a low voice. All four of them attacked as one.

The warchief parried the first sword with his bare fist and took the man apart with a single swing of his axe. He stepped casually back from the second strike, let the blade pass, and brought his elbow down on the second soldier's spine hard enough to fold him in half. Vormas and the last soldier struck together from both sides, but the warlord was too fast. In a blink, his enchanted weapon decapitated the final remaining Irregular.

Having underestimated the warlord's speed, the Regular lieutenant was forced to bring his blade up to block the follow-up strike. The Silverite axe easily sheared through the sword and continued into Vormas's shoulder. The lieutenant went down on his knees hard, his right arm hanging wrong. He managed to spit out one last curse before the warlord raised his boot and drove it into his chest. The earth shook from the force of his stomp.

Blood and flesh spewed from the Regular's body like an erupting geyser as Vormas's torso was pulverised. Then, silence. There was only the sound of the wind and the soft crunch of the warlord's boots as he lifted his feet from the mangled corpse. Licking the blood that splattered on his lips, he surveyed what remained of the field. His eyes found Alcyr. The warlord briefly glanced at the four barbarian corpses at his side before smiling.

"The Butcher of the Red Rime," the giant laughed.

"My son's killer. Pretentious and immature as your title is, it appears your strength was not a lie. Barely older than a pup, yet I see your fangs have grown sharp, and your eyes vicious." Alcyr pushed his sword against the ground and forced himself to stand.

"If it helps… I wasn't the one to spread that stupid moniker." The warlord smiled in approval.

"The strong are praised, regardless of whether they desire it or not. It pleases me that Ragna did not die at the hands of a mere weakling southerner." The warlord raised his axe.

"I am Bjorn, chieftain of the Frostcoil Tribe. I am blessed by the Path of Violence, the holy journey carved by the Twelfth Saint on his ascension to the Godless Heavens. I hold his ancestral blood in my vein. Raise your blade and stand proud, young warrior. I'll kill you myself." Alcyr scoffed. He raised his blade, forced himself to take a step forth— — and staggered back, his throat spraying blood. He hadn't even saw the warlord's axe move. The chieftain watched Alcyr choke to death.

He saw how the soldier's eyes never lost their fury. How, even now, he still tried to stand, to lash out with the sword held in his right hand. Bjorn nodded with respect.

"Return to the earth, struggler." Alcyr's lifeblood stained the snow as he fell. He tried to remain conscious. He raged for his body to move, to live. He could do neither. His vision was fading. The world was growing darker and quieter with each passing second. Not yet. This is not the end! He howled in his head, shouting his demands to whatever power was watching him now. Do not let this be the end! Everything went dark. He fell beneath the void once more, past hell's roaring waters and winds.

Within that stygian storm, a lone woman on a boat — haloed in gold and robed in white — called to him once more. [Again. Until you get it right.] Darkness swallowed him. The passage of time grew meaningless. Until Alcyr jolted awake once more, back again to the morning of his death.

Walking up after dying was always unpleasant. The phantom pains that assailed him forced his body into violent spasms and convulsions — the false agonies of a fading death, unwilling to release its rightful claim on him. But eventually, they subsided, as they always did. Alcyr took a moment to gasp for breath as he lay on his bunk and collected his thoughts. Back again, he thought to himself. So the loops weren't an isolated occurrence, exclusive to that battle a month ago alone. Am I fated to live forever, then?

Unable and unwilling to return to sleep, Alcyr returned to the training grounds again, swinging his blade at straw targets. Pushing himself to exhaustion through his swordplay helped settle his thoughts. He reviewed the ambush over in his head. At the end, the entire convoy was wiped out. Perhaps only a quarter of the barbarian force was slain. The foe had bloodied them badly with their surprise attack, and their chieftain's overwhelming strength was the final nail in their coffins. If he had another try…

What could he do differently? Killing a High Elite is beyond my current capability. But if I had the time to train… His musing was interrupted when he heard a commotion from the front of the camp. Alcyr checked the position of the moon. Roughly an hour since he'd woke — the timing matched. A supply convoy was making its way past the encampment gate, just as it had 'yesterday'. How does the time loop work? He thought. Why am I always the only one who remembers?

Or do others receive varying degrees of false memories as well? That theory felt weak. Surely he would have seen signs of it by now, were that the case. However, there was no harm in verifying his assumption. He sheathed his sword and walked over to the gate. He gave a nod in return to the sentry's greeting and asked, "I thought the convoy had already left yesterday. Why has it returned?" The sentry looked at him blankly.

"Left? Alcyr, what are you talking about? We haven't had a supply run in weeks." There was no sense of falsehood in his tone or expression, only confusion. Alcyr shifted his gaze to the convoy.

"I see. In that case, I need to speak to the lieutenant." Despite already expecting it, it was still a shock to see Lieutenant Vormas entirely hale and healthy. The last time Alcyr had seen him, the Regular had been little more than a bloody smear in the snow.

"Lieutenant Vormas," Alcyr greeted cautiously.

"I'm glad to see you are well." Vormas paused his conversation with the gate sergeant and glanced over with a slight frown.

"Thank you, soldier. Is there something urgent?"

"Do you not remember me, sir?" Vormas's frown deepened, more puzzled than offended.

"I'm afraid I don't. Have we met?" Alcyr held his gaze for a moment. Once again, he could detect no sign of falsehood.

"No," he said.

"It's nothing. I apologise for interrupting. Your men look weary. Allow me to assist in unloading the cargo." Alcyr left the baffled lieutenant behind, lifting crates without another word and carrying them straight to the quartermaster's stores. That was the last proof he needed. Vormas was alive and had no memory of him. The convoy, which was supposed to have left the camp already, was instead here, loaded with cargo that should have already been deposited into the quartermaster's stores.

Additionally, the stores themselves were empty, despite him filling them up 'yesterday'. Once again, an unknown power had reset him back to the morning of his death, and he was the only one who remembered the previous loop. Now, only one question remained, and it brought a smile to his face.

"How am I going to abuse this to get stronger?"