Chương 5: Brave Dead Men

Asgar's head pounded. The rhythm—that sick, pulsing song—played faster and faster through his mind. It was running away from him, spiralling out of his grip. He had to catch it. He had to keep in time with the bloodsong before it left him behind, but his limbs were heavy and he was so Goddamned tired. He slumped against a tree, letting the rhythm pass him by as he gasped in air like a drowning man. From his appearance, you'd think he'd slipped and fallen into a lake of blood.

Guts and worse caked his greaves and cuisses, his helm was covered in blood, and the less said about his gauntlets the better. He could still hear the goblins scurrying back and forth through the trees around him. Canny fuckers, they were—one had hidden up a tree in ambush and leapt on his back as he'd run past below. He'd wheeled about as the bugger had tried to slip his dagger through Asgar's chainmail beneath his helm, and eventually Asgar had resorted to a reverse body slam.

The tree he'd launched himself into likely still bore the bloody outline of a goblin on its trunk, and he knew his back was equally stained. Still standing though. He'd caught glimpses through the trees of the soldiers beginning to organise themselves and stride out of the quagmire of mud and blood that the valley had become. He'd done his job, just had to hold on now. Avarron approves of your slaughter. You have gained a level. Level 8 achieved. Avarron approves of your slaughter. You have gained a level.

Level 9 achieved. He'd accomplished his goals, and more besides. Not far from level ten now. New skill just 'round the corner. Just have to hold on. His eyes were drooping, but he fought against it. The exhaustion was bone-deep. Aching. Like a weighted blanket lowered over his head, slowly pulled down until he found himself bowing, slipping down the trunk and falling to a heap near the roots. So tired. So— He jerked from whatever rest he'd been seeking as a soldier screamed and fell nearby.

The man gurgled around a shaft sticking from his throat, hands scrabbling to pull it from his neck but shying back whenever they got too close. Then a green blur jumped onto him, short knife rising and falling as the goblin stabbed at his face and hands with wild abandon. The soldier shrieked and groaned, but each stab drew less from him than the last, until he was barely twitching each time the blade plunged into his face. The sight sickened Asgar, and he pulled himself to his feet with a groan of protest.

The goblin looked up, skittering away in fear. When he didn't pursue, it stopped, cocking its little demonic head like a bird and hopping to the side. Asgar tracked the move, but his head was filled with cotton and his eyes moved slowly. The goblin hopped back again, after-images burning into Asgar's vision of the little beast. He stumbled, caught himself against the tree. The little bastard was before him now, reaching out to smack his armoured shin. He tried to kick out but the diminutive creature dodged.

It laughed, shrill and gleeful, then lunged at him. Asgar grunted at the flash of pain from his knee, then he was falling, the goblin straddling his chest. Needle-sharp teeth, sickeningly white, occluded his vision. A knife slammed down towards his face and he leaned back, the move turning a slashed throat into only a heavy gash across his cheek. He felt so helpless. So pathetic. He'd killed scores of the creatures over the last ten minutes of frantic combat.

He'd stalked the woods like the Vengeance of Avarron reborn, a demon that the little goblins would fear for the rest of their lives. And now he could barely slap one away. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Was this how he would die? His arms trembled as he caught the creature's wrists, dagger aimed at his eye.

Drool dripped onto his face from the demonic green imp above him, its wide eyes shining with cruel mirth, its pointed ears flicking out in excitement. He was so weak. Was this how children felt when wrestling their older siblings? Was this how they felt when adults… when adults… He remembered the laughter. Remembered the fear on the tavern-keeper's face. Remembered kicking open that door and seeing— Heat exploded in his chest, rushing out from his soul, burning up his heart, enlivening his limbs.

He roared, suddenly standing. Bones cracked in his grip, the goblin screaming as its arms were crushed to powder. It wriggled in panic, but there was no escape. Asgar was awake now, and the blood rage was back stronger than ever. He threw the creature against a tree some ten yards away, splattering it, skull and spine shattering. The tree would drink deep tonight. Heat flowed through his veins, chasing away the lethargy and replacing it with energy. Hot energy, blinding power. God, he was strong. Where were they?

Where were the bastards? His mace was hungry.

"Asgar?" He whirled at the voice. The soldier that appeared behind him flinched, recoiling from the rage painted across his face. That, or the goblin blood that sheathed him. Her back leg buckled, deep gashes in her thigh seeping blood, and she grabbed onto a tree to steady herself. Asgar struggled against the instinct to dismiss her from his thoughts entirely in favour of hunting more of his enemies. But she was wounded, and he knew her. She'd played knucklebones with him yesterday. Talia, was it?

No, Tansel, perhaps? Hard to recall through the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. He kept turning. Something was here, something that set his senses alight. He sniffed, deep and heavy. Tangy. Like medicine. A twig snapped and he whipped around, weapon leaving his hand. He watched the soldier's eyes go wide, saw her mouth form a perfect 'O' as his mace flew end over end towards her unprotected head. But she was mistaken—consumed in his God-given blood rage, Asgar's aim was too great to miss.

The goblin unveiling itself in the tree behind her screeched, knife falling to the ground as it tried to scrabble from the path of Asgar's mace. Futile. It died like the others.

"I…" Tansel recovered quickly, wiping a hand over her face and pulling her shield tight to her forearm once more.

"Thank you. Asgar, are you…?" He tried to dispel the pulsing behind his eyelids. It didn't work.

"No, but I'll manage. How's the leg?" he asked as he shuffled over to her.

"Fucked," she said with a choked laugh.

"I can barely stand." Asgar winced, looking around. He couldn't see the battle, but there was a steady chanting now as soldiers pushed in unison. That meant Asgar and his small team had succeeded in their mission to stop the archers and take the pressure off. It also heralded a problem.

"The orcs will be fleeing this way soon."

"I'm not making it out of here, am I?" she asked. Asgar looked down into hazel eyes, pleading with him. He didn't know what she was asking him for—likely she didn't either—but it was clear she was afraid to die here. He floundered. Don't care, don't care, don't care. But despite his pleas to himself, despite the uncompromising totality of his mission, he couldn't just turn off two decades of humanity in an instant. He was no hardened soldier, barely even a fighter in truth.

He'd killed more than most, but that was on account of his class more than anything. He hadn't spent years in battle learning how to comfort the fallen, to soothe their fears about the afterlife, to take word to their loved ones. And most importantly, he hadn't yet learned how to leave them behind.

"My sister. Tell my sister… tell her that I chose this, okay? I want her to know I died on my own terms. She'll be free now. This was my choice, and she should feel no guilt for my passing." She started reaching for something—a medallion or memento or some such—but Asgar whipped around. He'd nearly missed the noise, but orcs were not known for their stealth, and he heard the crashing and grunting before it was too late. Tansel's hazel eyes went wide, but Asgar was already moving.

He grabbed her by the hips and threw her upwards, straining with all his exhausted might. She reached the branch above and instincts saved her, grabbing on and scrabbling her way up into the branches. Asgar had time to turn, to draw the rondel dagger from the small of his back, but then the first orc was on him. He was sent spinning back against the tree, wrapped in an emerald embrace of stinking hides and cold-hammered metal plates.

Stars exploded in his vision as something blunt smacked him in the cheek even as hot, wet blood gushed around his fist. He hoped it wasn't his own. God he hoped, but he couldn't know for sure. His head rung, the world spinning as he toppled to the ground. A great weight settled across his body. Bellows and bestial cries of alarm rebounded all around, the thudding of uncounted feet disorientating as the remains of the orc warband rushed past.

The last thing he saw before the world went black was a yawning maw, white fangs the size of his fingers stretched wide to crush his face.