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Vandal felt the heat rush from the pit of his stomach, up through his chest, then out his mouth. A torrent of flame, robbing his mouth of all sensation as though it burned out the nerves from his flesh, shot up into the air like a burst from a hotspring fountain. Later, the first thing he tasted was the salty tang on his tongue, left there from the flames that escaped his mouth. The knight doubled over with his hands tightly clutching his belly, still feeling warm and a little sick from the outburst.
"My liege, are you alright?" Craven Boshly asked as he helped his master to his feet.
"I am." Vandal groaned in reply, uttering shakily afterwards. "I mean...I will be."
The other knights stared, gaping in shock at what they just saw. Some of them, like Weyland, made religious signs with their hands at the sight of Vandal's flames. Many of them had seen magic before, and made no secret of their shared outlook concerning the matter- fear. Though mankind sought to harness magic for their own since the Continent's early days, the very nature of sorcery was still considered for the most part an abomination. Cintra had its progressive views true enough, but if the minds of the folk were anything, they were stubborn.
"What the hell was that?!" Sir Kane gasped.
"I think I understand now where you got your powers from." Enris observed, "Glad to see you're still in one piece."
Vandal looked up the sky and saw the crows gathering in their masses, sensing the feast that awaited them in the ruined town. The black birds swooped down and started tearing after the corpses, cawing happily as their beaks nipped and ripped through decaying flesh. "Might we continue this elsewhere? Somewhere far from this carnage?"
The survivors of the battle agreed on it, finding the idea to their liking as the murder of crows grew in number. The storm of caws was unnerving, even though they've had their share of it in the aftermath of past battles.
They took their time in gathering the remains of their dead comrades, unwilling to deny them that right to a proper funeral as befitting of knights. Every piece, every single one, was gathered and placed respectfully atop their piles of timber and straw. Geralt helped them set the pyres alight, and the Champion of Cintra himself offered a prayer from his own gods, while the others just whispered to their own.
"Lady of the Light, guide these noble warriors to the warmth of your side." He said, "On to the white gates of eternal gladness, the land of plenty where night shall never fall."
Having finished with the last rites, they mounted up on their horses and rode onward, further into the badlands and into the deadwood that stretched for miles and miles of undiscovered country. This part of Southeast Cintra was largely kept as kingswood, where the royal family could safely hunt game from the reservation of its forest creatures. Lately, the population of monsters started to grow faster than the deer that roamed the forests, prompting their hunters to abandon it completely.
This did not stop the villagers from setting up their settlement close to the former kingswood, as it provided an adequate supply of timber and meat from the occasional passing fauna. However, when the world shard landed somewhere at the heart of the kingswood, the blight settled in and killed the trees. It turned it into the dead forest that it was today, a cesspool teeming with monsters and covered by thick mists. The village was soon abandoned, though it became rather clear that the few who remained were later claimed by the curse that gripped the woods.
The survivors knew that they were trading in a slaughter-field for a veritable den of abominations, but their courage did not fail them yet. 15 men and one craven, perhaps not enough to face an army. But they had a purpose set before them, and they would not back down. The source of the undead incursions must be found and destroyed.
"Tell me of this Lady of the Light you prayed to." Craven Boshly said, desperate for something to comfort his troubled mind. "She sounds...nice."
"The sacred texts seem to say thusly." Vandal replied with a nod, "Although sadly, I have a feeling my gods died with Saggrel, when my world froze over along with its people. I'll never know if that was ever true."
"And yet..." The man observed, "...you still pray to them?"
Vandal was never the religious one among his friends back when he was still with Anres and the others. But nevertheless, he held to the faith of Androstine, The Lady of the Light and Guardian of Souls, though lightly if not at all. "Sometimes, when you're in your darkest hour, you fall back on whatever you believe in the most." He looked at his servant and asked the same, "And you, what do you believe in?"
Suddenly, the witcher yelled as he sensed an incoming attack. "Arm up! Something's coming our way!" The company did not stop riding, but they drew their weapons as asked. And just in time too, for even there in the deadwoods there would be no respite for the traveling warriors. The cursed land wished for their deaths as they trespassed into its forests, then sent its pursuers to deal with the invaders.
Centaurs, half-men and half-horse, adorned in faded black cast-iron armor, rode after them with breakneck speed. Their hands brandished curved swords, shotels that were quite effective at dispatching a mounted warrior from his horse, and others had longbows with arrows nocked, ready to fire. Their eyes, much like those whom Vandal faced, glowed bright blue like the frozen wastelands of Saggrel. Though cold they stared, there was still a certain hating flame within them.
"Out of all of them, I believe in Lady Luck the most!" Craven Boshly whimpered at the sight of them, "Though I'm sure she does not hold me in similar regard!"
"Don't lose your spine so soon." Vandal said, feeling Alfie gallop even faster beneath him. "Ride on!"
Enris laughed as he swung his maul, smashing one of the centaurs' heads into a pulp as he rode too close to the towering warrior atop his horse. The other knights fared better in this battle, having mastered mounted combat better than they had on the ground, as Cintran knights were first and foremost cavalrymen. Against opposing horse-mounted foes, they were rather good enough to hold their own, especially against this type of monster.
Shotels hooked against shields, only to have their wielders struck upside their heads with a warhammer or sword. All the while, the riders rode through the woods and weaved in between the dead trees. Then, as they seemed to ride through a clearing, one of the mercenaries from Enris' company found himself dragged from behind and sent tumbling into the dirt.
Orville rolled around in the dust, coming to a stop in the middle of the clearing. Enris yanked on the reins and tried to double back, only to see his companion get crushed under the hooves of the centaurs who trampled him underfoot. The man bellowed in frustration and nudged his mount back on the path once more, keeping up with the others so he would not share the same fate as his friend.
Suddenly, the riders pulled to a halt as they narrowly avoided jumping off a cliff, a ledge that loomed over the even larger deadwood forest below.
"Dead end, damn it." Geralt said.
"I suggest we turn heel and fight them." Vandal said, "For we surely cannot outrun them."
"I concur." Sir Kane agreed, steadying himself atop the saddle. "About face, friends. We shall strike back hard against the foe. For Cintra!"
The knights echoed the cry and spurred their mounts forward, meeting the centaurs head on. The clash was deafening as beastman met man and horse, the air soon filled with the warcries of both parties. Not a single knight took on a centaur alone, a tactic that proved to work well to diminish their enemies' numbers till the last.
Vandal found good use for his new ability, literally breathing fire upon his foes as every wound dealt upon him, which were quite many, served to fan the flames of his ire and thus was given form. He bellowed breath and struck with flaming sword, all the while mounting injuries that would've killed any lesser man. By the time he was finished, they proved too severe to stand, and the knight fell to his knees.
His companions stared after him with a mixture of horror, dismay, and amazement.
Arrow shafts stuck out of his back like the quills on a porcupine, a shotel was hooked onto his left calf and the bloody spire of a spear jutted out from his middle. His lifeblood, the glowing ichor that flowed in rivers, poured down his armor and seeped through the chainmail. Vandal was gasping for air, feeling the pain of a dozen arrowheads piercing his lungs and robbing him of breath.
"Help..." He wheezed, "...the arrows...can't breathe."
Geralt sheathed his weapons and approached the suffering knight. One by one, he removed the arrows from his back, allowing him to draw breath without difficulty as his wounds closed. First the arrows, then the shotel, then lastly the spear. More of his burning blood soaked the soil, feeding the dead ground and dead grass with life.
"Thanks..." Vandal rasped, doubling over as he kept himself from crying out.
"Well, aren't ya just full o' surprises?" Enris remarked.
"We ought to take a minute, just a minute to catch our breath." Sir Weyland said to the others, "But we cannot stay here. We have to keep moving."
The warriors took their minute, with the mercenaries looting the centaurs of anything of value and the knights seeing to their wounds and burning the dead. Geralt got out his bag of potions, mixed oils to smear his weapons with, then drank a few to prepare his body for the upcoming battles that were sure to come soon. Then, when all was said and done, they got back on their horses and went in deeper into the deadwoods.
And they didn't even notice the life springing out of the dead ground where Vandal's blood had spilled upon. The warmth of vitality within his blood, now twice as strong, coaxed life out of the cursed ground. Grass, green and vibrant, sprouted from the cracked and once-lifeless soil. Flowers, holding the light of the sun in their petals, bloomed and glowed brightly amidst the shadows of the dark deadwood like little candlelights in the night.
Freja stared curiously at the other young men and women of Clan Tuirseach who rode the longboat alongside her. They were all young, like her, brought on the trip to one of the isles on An Skellig to take part in the rite of passage. Every islander worth their salt, if deemed possessing the potential to become warriors of their respected clans, would undergo such a rite. For now, they would be known as unblooded. If they were successful, they would receive the honor of being called a warrior or shieldmaiden of Skellige, followed by gifts in the form of armor and weapons of their choice- all forged in fine Skellige bluesteel. If they failed, the clan would have other uses for them, for the people of Skellige wasted nothing. There were many important roles besides just warriors in the island; like cooks, fishermen, dockworkers, stablemasters and the like.
But if they died, their names would be carved on the Lander's Rock.
She sat in the middle with Bran and young Eist, her protector's younger brother. He too would undergo the rite, which the far more experienced Bran Tuirseach would oversee personally. Like most of the unblooded young ones, he wore a padded gambeson with small chainmail cape draped over his shoulders. The clan was not too careless as to toss them into the fire unprepared, having seen to their training in basic combat in the past week. The unblooded would face a number of Cidarian castaways, soldiers who were shipwrecked and washed ashore. Cidaris, their home kingdom, was their most commonly faced foe among the many others that threatened their shores.
Like most international conflicts, no one knew what started the war between them, but it was rather clear that the bad blood was not keen on disappearing any time soon.
The unblooded were to slay them to the last, so that the island would be free from the Cidarian threat. The boat was pulled to shore and tied to a nearby dead tree. Just a few feet away from their landing stood the Lander's Rock, an ancient stone towering several feet high above the stones of the rocky shore, that was covered with the crudely carved names of the unblooded in the past that failed their rite and perished. There were hundreds of them, stretching from top to bottom, leaving only but a footlong square of free space to carve at the bottom.
One day, another Lander's Rock would be erected next to that old stone, should the names reach their limit. However, as much as the thought of their names adding to the many that were etched there served to unnerve many of the unblooded, many more were determined not to add to the tally of the dead. For if anyone, as far as they were concerned, would die that day- it would be the Cidarian outsiders.
"Take up your arms." Bran said to the unblooded as he walked to shore. The young ones did as he asked and bore the provisional weapons they were given. There were swords, spears and waraxes that were old but sturdy and well sharpened. Some had bows, opting to support their friends while they fought in the melee. They would suffice in the coming battles.
"I will lead you against the invaders, help you if things get a little hairy." He told them, "This is my task, but yours is to each kill at least one Cidarian dog. Don't worry, there will be plenty enough for all of you."
"That's...comforting." Eist muttered, prompting everyone to give out a nervous laugh.
Freja had been given a large battleaxe that seemed two sizes too large for her, but when she hefted it across her shoulders it became clear that she had more than enough strength to wield such an otherwise cumbersome weapon. The woman swept her braided locks over to her rear and trotted excitedly after Bran, eager to feel her first taste of battle.
"My, look how the lass sprints." One of the boys snickered, staring longingly at her backside as it made those subtle sways with every step.
Bran frowned, catching ear of the remark. "Go on, get an eyeful. It may very well be your last."
"Sorry Bran." The lad stifled a laugh.
The islanders marched out of the shore and into the woods, letting the trees cover their advance as they neared the spot that the scouts back home said the Cidarians would be. Soon, they came upon the shore where the washed up wreck of a sloop was resting at an odd angle against the rocks. The waves beat against the wreck, tearing out its planks bit by bit as it grinded against the stone spires.
The Cidarians sat around a fire on the beach, surrounded by crates and makeshift barriers while they cooked up something they hunted from the underbrush. Every one of them were dressed in cloth armor, as their breastplates wore them down on the swim to shore. They ended up in the bottom of the sea, along with those who failed to wrest themselves free when the depths claimed them. The sweet smell of roasting boar reached the nostrils of the encroaching warband, and the unblooded readied their weapons as they looked to Bran for guidance.
"Archers first." Bran told those among the unblooded who brought their bows and arrows with them. He pointed to the soldiers who were like so armed with the bow. "Pick your targets. Send the first volley, then hold fire when we attack. Afterwards, if there's any left that we missed, you may fire again. Understood?"
"Yes, Bran." The lads and lasses replied.
"Good, don't get me killed now." He told the others who would join him in the melee. "Nock, at the ready...Now, loose." The arrows whistled as they tore through the air, sailing neatly in some nice arcs before hitting true on Cidarian flesh. The sentries, and the archers, were the first to die. Bran thrust his sword forward at the sight and yelled for the others to commence the assault, "Attack!"
The warband burst through the woods and into the sandy shore, filling the air with their blood-curdling warcries just as the Cidarian castaways scrambled to get their weapons free.
The warband fell upon them with earthshattering force, but surprisingly met a good match in the castaways as they proved to be more than mere footmen. These Cidarians were experienced soldiers of the Royal Navy, although the element of surprise dealt them a heavy blow as the islanders seized and made good use of it. Still, they put up a good fight, making the unblooded ones pay dearly with each man felled.
Eist swung left and right, dodging and rolling away from the larger men all the while. He fought in similar fashion as his older brother, fighting where the fight was the thickest and thinning down the herd until few remained to oppose him. And yet, he was not alone in this regard.
Freja swung her axe with the strength of ten men, easily cutting down man after man as she moved from one fight to the next. Cidarin soldiers were left limbless or cleaved in half where they lay, their blood coating the eager woman from head to toe. The fire in her veins burned hot, and soon the young unblooded was wading ankle deep in the reddening surf as she pursued the fleeing soldiers making a desperate run for the wreck. There was almost no skill needed in using her axe, for she wielded it as a woodcutter would chop down a sapling.
And that was what they were to her- saplings in need of a good cutdown.
Freja, having slain the last man, uttered a loud triumphant roar to the heavens.
The others, all heaving from exertion, looked up in surprise at what they heard. The voice that came thundering from her throat was not a woman's roar, it couldn't have been. It was something primal, something more beast than woman. Bran heard it too and was unnerved, to say the least.
He'd spent so much time with her and had nearly forgotten what she was.
Freja, all bloody from the fight, turned around and walked back to shore. She looked up expectantly at Bran, wearing a proud smile on her face as she did so. "Have I done well, Bran?"
Bran didn't answer her immediately, as he gazed about in astonishment. They had struck the enemy so hard and so fast that not a single unblooded whelp had been lost. No name would be carved upon the Lander's Rock that day, and he took this as something to rejoice in.
He put an arm around his charge's shoulders and gave her a goodhearted shake, "You did right damn well, you did. Good work, Freja." He looked at all of them, "Good work, all of you. Let us return to An Skellig, no doubt your parents would be well pleased with your victory this day."
The lads and lasses nodded, passing smiles all around. Their blood pounded in their ears as the adrenaline was still pumping freely into their veins, but they were happy. They would return to the island home, where glory and honor awaited them. No comely lass would turn the newly blooded warriors away now from attaining manhood, no self-righteous prick would spit upon the shieldmaidens or laugh at their dreams of conquest.
Freya herself, and all the Gods of the Seas, smiled upon them.
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