The last sliver of the moon faded below the western treeline, and an inky darkness shrouded the woods. It wouldn't be long before the false dawn painted the eastern horizon in steely gray hues. Raiders stirred up their meager cookfires, the bright orange flames cast long shadows between the low thatched hovels that dotted the hollow. Two men prowled the undulating darkness, one tall and brooding, the other hobbling to keep up. A lone spearman walked a respectful distance behind.
"Soon, m'Lord," the shorter one fawned. "Soon your blades will drink deeply of the blood of Romans and traitors."
"Not soon enough, Calder."
"Aye, m'Lord," the old man's head bobbed sagely on his spindly neck. "Patience is a loathsome burden when honor demands action."
They moved about the camp, ignoring the men who went about their morning duties. The hovels had a look of permanence, occupied by sour-faced men who felt the press of the turning seasons. It was past time to be on the open water, sailing home.
"M'Lord!" A lanky Raider stumbled up to Harak, shaking with poorly-contained fear. "M'Lord, they- they're g-gone!"
"Gone? Who's gone?"
"The sentries!" the tall Raider gasped.
Harak's gaze swept the lip of the hollow and saw nothing but shadows. "Deserters?!"
"No, m'Lord, th-they're just gone! No noise, no bodies, nothing! It's like the wisps carried them away, or trolls took them for their bones-"
Harak slapped his man hard across the jaw. "Get a hold of yourself!" The blow drove the raider to his knees. "Are you one of my Væringjar, or a cowering hrafnasueltir!?"
"m'Lord!" Harak's honor guard tugged on the arm of his tunic.
"Sentries don't just disappear, man," Harak grabbed the raider by his grimy tunic, ignoring both his guardsman and the bevy of raiders who gathered to watch the commotion. "Where are they?!"
"m'Lord!" the terror-stricken guard pointed to the ridge, where the shadows coalesced into a hulking form made more sinister by how human it looked.
A panicked hush raced through the hollow, crackling like the air just before a lightning strike. "Dökkálfar!" the cowering raider whimpered. "Svartálfar come to swallow our souls!"
"Fool," Harak growled, tossing the man to the ground. "Who are you? Where are my sentries?!"
The ghostly figure pulled his hood back, his sandy hair stained red from the fires below. "Dead, for your pride," Kristoff glared murder down into Harak's hollow, his voice echoing oddly through the encampment.
Harak ignored his men's growing terror. "You lie!" he bellowed.
"Do I?" Kristoff crossed his arms. One by one, Suqi's hunters stepped forward, eyes glinting in the firelight, floating disembodied above their cloaked shoulders. They stood where Harak's men once stood, arrows nocked and ready, and kicked the corpses of the dead sentries down into the hollow.
One corpse rolled to a stop next to the cowering raider at Harak's feet, its lifeless eyes wide and mouth gaping above the bloody smile that was its throat slit ear to ear.
"Killed by what they couldn't see," Sven pulled his arrow to his ear.
"The gods have abandoned us!" the cowering raider gibbered. "The gods have abandoned us!" Harak backhanded him, and he fell limp atop the body of his former comrade.
"You see we've returned your dead to you. You see we have you surrounded," Suqi called out, her higher voice casting dissonant echoes through the hollow. "But ask yourselves, what do you not see?"
It was a bluff; every hunter stood on the rim, ethereal in the smoky firelight. But with the paling of the eastern sky, there was no longer time for subtlety. And judging by the harried looks of the Raiders as they looked back and forth between the living and their dead, they fell for it.
"I warned you, Harak," Pabbie grumbled, his thick voice echoing coldly. "Throw down your weapons and release our kinswomen."
"And if I don't?" Harak sneered.
The hunters drew their arrows tighter, the limbs of their yew bows creaking under the strain.
"And if we do?!" another Raider screeched. Harak glared murder, eyes scanning for the traitorous voice.
"We let you live," Pabbie replied. "We let you go. You owe us your lives, the debt repaid by never darkening our shores again."
Harak snorted, "Pathetic."
"You could take your chances, I suppose," Pabbie drawled. "Attacking a superior force while surrounded and trapped on the low ground. Perhaps the gods will favor you, as they've obviously favored you so far with riches beyond your wildest dreams that you've so easily gleaned from our lands."
The raiders edged back towards the center of the hollow, away from the arrows trained on their hearts, eyes wide like cornered rabbits. Pabbie pressed his advantage. "There is no cowardice in surrendering to a superior force. There is no reason to fight and die over a pittance. Live to fight another day. Lay down your weapons and depart in peace."
The one Harak called Calder whispered in his master's ear, and the big Raider's face flushed with anger. "My Væringjar aren't cowards, you old fool! We won't tuck tail and flee, and we won't rest until the Roman is dead for her crimes!"
"Maybe they're right, m'Lord," the scrawny raider spoke up again.
"What did you say, Borg?!"
"I said maybe they're right!" The one named Borg stood his ground, though his voice wavered. Several raiders backed away from him, but several more stepped up to his side. "The Væringjar and I followed you here, fought for you and your promise of plunder. We even stayed on to find the Roman at your command, even when most of us wanted to sail on to better hunting. But we're dying and have little to show for it. This land is cursed, I say."
The raiders at his back gave voice to their grievances.
"We've lost half our number to this backwater, and the plunder's so poor it's hardly worth our sweat."
"There's no profit in killing the ghosts of old feuds."
"If I wanted to work this hard with so little to show for it, I'd've stayed on my farm!"
"I've no interest dying in this gods-forsaken piss hole so you can keep chasing wisps!"
More and more Raiders grumbled their agreement.
Borg drew a breath, emboldened by the apparent support. "This land is cursed, m'Lord, and they're offering us a way out. I say we take it and find fatter lands to raid."
Calder tugged at his master's sleeve, whispered into his ear, stoking his righteous rage.
"We are not going anywhere!" Harak roared. The men at his back slapped their seaxes against their shields in agreement. "Not until honor is satisfied. Not until we've purged the vermin who slaughtered our kin, and not until the Roman wench is dead at my feet!"
"You want the Roman?" Kristoff shouted. "I'll give you the Roman!"
The air went out of the hollow, the only sound the crackling of the unattended cookfires.
"Ha!" Harak's voice shattered the silence like glass. "I knew it! And you claimed you had no Roman!"
"Aye, that's true," Kristoff crossed his arms. "The only Roman I see stands among you and yours."
A sour grumble rippled through the hollow. Harak scoffed, "There are no filthy Romans amongst my Væringjar."
"Care to make a wager on that?" Sven leered.
Raiders eyed each other with suspicion, weapons poised. All except Harak, whose murderous gaze never left Kristoff. And the old man who was doing his best to surreptitiously scuttle away from his master.
"Going somewhere, Cassius?!" Kristoff shouted. The little man froze mid-step, near the edge of the main clearing. "Why do you abandon your master when he stands on the verge of his greatest victory? Surely he'd like to hear how a Roman Senator made it all possible."
Calder turned around, his face a careful mask of confusion that did little to hide the murderous hatred in his eyes. "Do you speak to me, young one?"
"I know you, Cassius Westerguard," Kristoff was relentless. "You are a traitor and a murderer, a coward and a liar, and a disgraced former Senator of the Roman Empire."
Harak glared at his scrawny advisor, eyes narrowed.
"I am not … what you say," the old man sputtered. "You confuse me with someone else, young fool."
"Not bloody likely," Kristoff all but growled. "I saw your face when your brother Marius brought me and the other captured children to your villa in Rome in chains. I saw your face many times as I was forced to fight for your pleasure in the Arena. And I certainly saw your face in the royal box while your brother Gaius Hansel was plotted to murder the emperor and his daughters."
Calder stood his ground as more and more eyes turned to him, his face a study of senile curiosity. "What interesting tales you tell, Northman."
"Not nearly as interesting as the one where you squealed and begged liked a beaten slave when the Roman Empress herself stripped you of your Senator's seat and seized what was left of your wealth and power."
"I did no such thing!" Caldar screeched. "That landīca and her cunna of a sister had no right to take what is mine! What I worked decades to amass!"
Cassius stood at his full height, quivering with rage, but shrank down in horror once he realized what he had done.
"I'm not staying for this," Borg muttered, throwing down his seax "I won't let these Romans fool me again."
"He isn't the one we want. The Roman wench still draws breath," Harak spat. "and you'd run to spare your miserable lives?!"
"Miserable because of you!" "a large raider stepped up beside Borg and sneered at their leader. "How many of us died, m'Lord, because of you?!"
"Shut your fool mouth, kuensami!" Harak cursed.
"Not until you answer!" the raider yelled, drawing his war axe. The slithery rasp of steel on leather hissed around the hollow as raider after raider on both sides drew their weapons. "How many died hunting your Roman meyla when that gaugbrojotr stood by your side the whole bloody time?!"
"Careful where you tread, hrafnasueltir." Harak sneered. "That Roman wench is daughter to the Jarl who sent the murdering Legions into our lands, and I will take her head for their sins!"
"He told you that, did he? And how would he know who this ghost woman is if he wasn't Roman himself?" the big man shot back, as more raiders edged over to his side. "And now we know your man is the brother of the commander of those Legions! Blood kin to their leader! Take his head for your honor and let us leave this gods-cursed well of bones with what little we've managed to scrape-"
The big man's words died in a fountain of bloody foam. Harak pulled his seax from where it pierced the dead man's bearded throat.
The hollow erupted like Vesuvius of old, the two factions tearing into each other. "Get the Roman!" "Traitors!" "Get the gold!" "Don't let them escape!" "Protect our Jarl!"
Cassius Westerguard was no warrior. He cared nothing for swords or sweat. Let those who carried their brains in their biceps do the heavy lifting and leave the why to their betters. Cassius wasn't a warrior, but his hands were far from bloodless. He fought his battles in counting houses and meeting rooms, in secluded halls and on the open the floor of the Senate. He was patient, meticulous, and he played the game with a long eye. He spent decades plotting, maneuvering, scheming with and against the other Roman Houses, and his own brothers, to gain the upper hand. There was little in this world or the next that topped watching your plans bear fruit, seeing your enemies brought low at your whim.
And there was little in this or any world more painful than watching your perfect plans ripped to shreds before your eyes.
He was so close. So bloody close! He'd spent years, years!, living in this frozen backwater, sculpting that subhuman fĭmus Harak into the perfect weapon for his revenge, and all of his efforts were ruined. Ruined yet again by that foul little red-headed futatrix of an Imperial Princess!
He wanted her writhing in agony. He wanted her dead. He needed to see her corpse splayed at his feet.
But Cassius Westerguard hadn't survived for as long as he had by making foolish mistakes. He might rage at the delay, but once a plan failed there was no logic in clinging to it. He was no coward, but he knew the value of a strategic retreat.
So when the mentulas put their own filthy kennels to the torch, Cassius used the smoke and confusion to abandon his 'Lord' and melt into the night.
Kristoff glared, fists clenched, as noise poured out of the hollow: the screams of the Raiders competing with the crackle of the flames engulfing their hovels. Suqi's hunters stood poised and ready, their bows drawn, though they leaned back from the carnage erupting at their feet. But Kristoff leaned forward, eyes searching, the overlapping plates of his old manica stained the color of dried blood in the firelight.
"We'll have to go down there eventually," Pabbie frowned. "Our kinswomen are still in there."
"Let them thin themselves out first," Suqi advised. "No need to join the battle if the fools are content to kill themselves."
"Those fires worry me," Sven frowned. "We don't know where our people are."
"Fan out," Suqi commanded. "Search for signs of our people, but do not go down there." Her hunters spread themselves along the lip of the hollow, their senses searching where they could not yet go.
"Not yet, anyway," Suqi growled, testing her seax on her fingertip.
The hollow boiled like a kettle left too long on the fire. Raider fought raider with little skill, only the madness of trapped vermin. The few sane ones who let their fear goad them instead of their rage tried to run. Tried, but they fell with arrows blooming from their vitals. Suqi's hunters used their bows to herd them back to the center of the hollow, where their fellows left them no choice but to kill or be killed.
They could afford to be patient for a little while longer. All they had to do was wait until the raiders killed enough of their own to make it a fair fight. They knew how to bide their time. They were hunters, after all, moreso than warriors. A hunter knew to wait for his prey, and that an ill-timed move could send it fleeing. The stood still, patient as stones.
Until the spindly man hobbled across a clearing. Until one of their own couldn't take it anymore.
"No!" Kristoff roared. "No, Aeris, stop!"
"Calder!" Harak roared. Around him his men tore each other to shreds, but Harak paid them no mind other than to kick them out of his way. The weak would fall, as they should. As they always did. As they did all those years ago, when his people died on Roman blades while he survived to avenge them. "Why do you run, my loyal advisor? If you are not Roman, you have nothing to fear! And if you are…" Harak slashed a traitor's back from neck to waist and stepped over his writhing body as others fell on it with short knives. "If you are, I'll let you watch me burn her before I impale you on a traitor's spike!"
"Aeris!" Kristoff grabbed Anna's hand before she could dive down into the hollow.
"Cassius is getting away!" she shrieked. "Let me go!"
"Aeris, you promised…" She fought against his grip, and he fought his own rising terror. Dammit, he was losing her!
"He'll just keep coming if we don't stop him," she screamed. She twisted and glared up at him, eyes wild and pleading "He'll just keep killing us if we don't stop him. You know he will, and he's getting away!"
"Anna, No! Please!"
Anna clenched her eyes shut. She tried to contain her rage, tried to remember her promises. But he's getting away! her mind screamed. She opened her eyes, and her husband drew his gladius.
He captured her eyes and held them. "Together," he murmured. And he dropped her hand.
Anna gazed into his eyes, and she remembered. She remembered. She wasn't alone in this. She never was, and she was a fool to think she ever was. Kristoff was there at her side, guarding her back, and stopping this madness was just as important to him as it was to her.
Anna drew her gladius and gave her husband a tight smile. "Together."
His answering smile was just as feral.
Together, they leapt into the hollow.
"Kristoff?!" Sven bellowed as he watched his two closest friends leap down into the madness.
"There!" Suqi screamed, pointing to a cluster of low huts on the far side of the hollow, where they could now hear high voices crying out for aid. "Our kin are in there! Let's go!" Several hunters drew their blades and leapt into the hollow behind her, followed by a grim-faced Pabbie wielding a long-handled hammer that could crush a skull like an egg. Sven cursed, and followed his wife into the fray.
It wasn't a battle. The Raiders, pushed beyond reason, lashed out at everything that moved. A few with some sense gathered what little plunder they could grab, only to be torn to pieces by their former brethren. It was a melee, like the arena of old, with every man for himself, and Kristoff and Anna knew exactly how to survive in such chaos. They moved as one, Kristoff carving a path with his long-bladed spathea while Anna's gladius slashed and stabbed anyone lucky enough to be spared the former gladiator's blade yet foolish enough to linger too close. It'd been more than a decade since they last stood in the Arena, but the years had done nothing to diminish their deadly dance.
Suqi's hunters followed in their wake, arrows nocked, picking off the raiders at their flanks. Together they tore through the camp like an axe through rotted wood.
"Can you see them?" Sven shouted over the din.
"Aye!" Suqi shouted, pointing to a cluster of huts where faint voices cried out for help.
Kristoff angled towards the huts, the Raiders in his path too far gone in their frenzied madness to recognize death descending on them. But then over the heads of the writhing melee he saw a hulking shape stalking around the bonfire in the center of camp. It was Harak, towering over a trembling pile of homespun cloak.
He stopped. Harak, and Cassius. Kristoff looked down at his spathea, clenched in a white-knuckled grip spattered in bright blood, heedless of his people rushing around him. His blood thundered in his ears, so much so he didn't notice Pabbie taking his place, leading the charge to free their kinswomen. Those two men were the source of so much pain for so many, not just here but in Rome. They had murdered his family when he was a child. They had made his life a living hell in the Ludus. They had destroyed his home and killed so many of his people, including his unborn child. What was to stop them from continuing their decades-long bloodbath? How many more had to die for their pride?
Anna was right. They would just keep going. Keep killing. Keep ruining countless lives of good people who just want to live in peace.
What was to stop them? Who was to stop them?
Kristoff sheathed his spathea on his back. He grabbed his round shield, painted with a stylized flame and eagle, and drew his shorter-bladed gladius. He felt more than saw his Anna wrench a shield from a fallen raider and fall in at his side.
They stalked their prey together.
It was past time for this blood feud to end.