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Skyrim Spartan
Chapter Twelve
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The dark shape of the broken body fell into an odd position in the snow, joining five others who were increasingly staining the snow red around them. Kratos looked down on them from atop one of the highest boulders in the area, one that the now deceased bandit archers had positioned themselves at. They had made the fatal mistake of attacking him almost immediately after he stepped back out into the open, but he did not fault them for it. They could not have known who they faced. And all who engaged in battle ought to be prepared to die.
He set his gaze in the direction of the Rorikstead camp. Even from such an elevated position, he could not see it directly due to all the other boulders in the way. But because of the light of the moons, he could see the dark plumes from their campfires clear against the glowing night sky.
The fact that there wasn't more smoke, and thus more fires, was a good sign that perhaps the bandits had not yet attacked the camp. Perhaps they even had no plans to, considering their losses—though Kratos was unsure of their total numbers—but it would be best if Kratos returned to help in their defense in case the remaining bandits decided to turn their attention to the camp.
He made to walk to the edge of the boulder but stopped as his foot brushed against something and the thing slid along the surface of the rock, drawing his attention. A quick glance confirmed it was one of the bows that the archers had been using. Kratos picked up it up and held it in one hand. A single piece of sturdy wood had been crafted with some modicum of skill into a bow. By no means was it a masterpiece, and it was too light to be of much use against armored targets, but it was a decent enough ranged weapon for hunting and picking off lightly armored targets. Kratos already had a new owner in mind now that the bandits had no need of it.
He launched himself off the rock, landing in the snow with a thudding crunch that would have probably broken some bones in an ordinary man with his bulk. He searched the bodies for a quiver and collected enough arrows to fill it. Returning to the spot where he had earlier instructed Anske to take cover, he was pleased to see that the girl was still there.
She was sitting with her back against the large rock she was using for cover, looking contemplative. She glanced up at Kratos as he approached, his boots crunching in the snow announcing his return. She tensed momentarily before she recognized him, and a look of relief crossed her face.
"Come, girl. We must find the others," Kratos said after quickly giving her a once-over to make sure she was unharmed.
"Kratos?" Anske said with slight hesitation. "Can I… ask you a question?" She looked down at her hands as she anxiously played with her fingers.
"What is it?"
Anske opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it slowly. She shook her head, then blew air loudly out of her mouth. "Nevermind."
"Be patient, girl," Kratos said, understanding, as he extended a hand to help her up. "Your time will come."
Anske sighed but said nothing as she got to her feet. She gave a nod of thanks to Kratos as she dusted off some snow from her clothes. It was only then that she noticed the bow that Kratos had slung across his back.
"What's with the bow?" she asked.
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"We lost more people than we should have," growled the orc with obvious displeasure. A deep male voice, coarse and far more guttural than Kratos's, Rorik thought somewhat randomly. Where was that man anyway? They could really use his help right about now.
The Nord warrior woman shrugged. "They were obviously weak," she said, sounding not the least bit bothered. "Besides, that means more loot for each of us. And less mouths to feed too."
Had she not been speaking so callously about the lives of her men Rorik might have praised her for her seemingly positive outlook.
The giant orc let out a long growl of displeasure but did not argue with her logic. Torchlight reflected dully off the dark metal of his armor. Despite the ugly full helm hiding much of the orc's face, Rorik could imagine well enough that it was currently twisted into a scowl.
"So, Durgak. Since you seem so upset about it, shall we punish these fools for being responsible for the deaths of so many of our people?" the woman gestured towards Rorik and Vors, a glint in her eye.
"Do what you will, Ilfyha. They aren't worth my attention," the orc said dismissively, adjusting the massive greatsword that he held with one hand as it rested on its flat against his equally massive shoulder armor. Rorik was sure it could easily cleave him in two with one swing. "There was a giant of a man among them. Pale almost as the snow. Have you seen him?"
The question was directed at the two surviving bandits of the initial attack. They both shook their heads immediately. One stammered an actual response, clearly terrified.
"N-No, Boss. We haven't s-seen such a man anywhere."
"Pity." The orc sounded disappointed. He turned to the woman. "I will check on Dal and the loot. Don't take too long. I want to leave as soon as we can. I have an uneasy feeling about tonight, and my instincts are not usually wrong."
The woman who was apparently named Ilfyha grinned, the mishmash of scars on her face stretching terribly. "Wow. I don't think I've ever seen you scared, Durgak."
The orc had already turned to walk away but stopped to glance back at her. "Watch your tongue, Ilfyha. Or I will rip it out one of these days."
"You're more than welcome to try." There was no fear in the woman, at least none that Rorik could see. Either she was that skilled, or she was crazy. Most likely a little bit of both, he realized.
This time, the orc said nothing. He simply shook his massive head before stomping off with the other bandits in tow. His bodyguards, from the looks of things. Though why such a big, heavily armored warrior like that orc would need bodyguards was a mystery.
Soon, only the Nord warrior woman and the two injured bandits from earlier remained. The two bandits, holding torches and weapons, kept glancing in Ilfyha's direction as if they were anticipating orders. But none came as she continued to watch the departure of the orc and his entourage. Almost as if she were weighing trying to fight the orc as well.
She's definitely a little crazy if she's contemplating that, Rorik thought. He certainly did not wish to fight the orc himself if he could manage it.
The whole time the two bandit leaders were talking, Rorik had slowly been moving closer to Vors. The veteran guard sergeant was barely keeping himself upright, and Rorik wanted to check on him. Having made it close enough to be only an arm's length away from the sergeant, Rorik could clearly hear his labored breathing. Wheezing, more like. Blood trickled from one nostril, and more covered the sergeant's face from various cuts. Though some of the blood on him was clearly not his. Rorik wondered if he looked just as bad. He certainly felt like it.
"Was gonna… take tha big one… but he ran away… tha coward…" Vors managed to joke. He attempted to smile, but it looked more like a grimace.
The edges of Rorik's mouth twitched. "Aye. That he did. Couldn't stand to face the mighty Vors, heroic sergeant of the Whiterun Guard and the Defender of Rorikstead."
Vors laughed. Or tried to. He hacked up more blood and his body convulsed as he doubled over, spreading more dark splotches onto the snowy ground.
Rorik frowned. "Sorry. I forgot. No more jokes."
"S'alright…" Vors managed to get a hold of himself. Barely. "I… started it."
"I think you should take it easy, Vors," Rorik said seriously. "I'll take care of this one, don't you worry." He tried to sound confident, but he wasn't sure if it showed. Vors was on the verge of collapse and was definitely not fit to fight. Despite that, the orc had left and taken some of the other bandits with him. The odds of them surviving were certainly better now, bleak though the improved odds still were.
Vors took a moment to respond, as if thinking it over. But in truth the man was simply struggling to stay conscious. "Maybe… you're right…" No sooner had the words left the sergeant's lips that he dropped his sword and crumpled to the ground faster than Rorik could react.
"Vors!" he cried, forgetting the nearby bandits for a moment as he rushed over to his fallen friend. Worry was replaced with relief when he confirmed that Vors was still alive. If only barely. His wheezing breaths were shorter and fainter, but at least he was still breathing.
Looking through half-lidded, unfocused eyes, Vors said, "Promise… me… you won't… die… here."
"I should be saying that to you," Rorik said as he carefully adjusted Vors into what looked like a more comfortable position on the blood-stained snowy ground. The man grimaced and hissed in pain from being moved.
"Promise me…" Vors whispered before slumping and losing consciousness.
Rorik's grip tightened on the man's tattered cloak as he whispered, "I'll do my best, old friend."
"Have you finished saying your goodbyes?" asked Ilfyha. The Nord bandit leader hefted her war axe, taking a few practice swings at the air in front of her. The eagerness in her voice was unmistakable.
Rorik sighed. Hot-blooded and crazy. He got to his feet, trying to summon the strength to fight one more time.
"Not so much goodbye as see you later," Rorik countered. He kept his eyes on Vors as he took a few deep breaths of the crisp, cold air.
The woman laughed, and Rorik finally looked at her with hardened eyes as he felt some strength return to his body.
"You've got balls," she said approvingly. "And you've clearly got skill." She swept her off-hand around at all the bodies on the ground. "I meant what I said earlier. I'll have to pay you back for what you did to our men. It'll be fun."
"You call attacking a refugee convoy fun? Slaughtering innocents just to steal a few coins and trinkets?" Rorik openly glared at her now. For a moment, his anger washed away all the aches and pains in his body.
"Refugees?" The woman looked confused. She glanced at the two other bandits, who looked just as clueless.
"The Forsworn," Rorik answered angrily, as if she should have known. "They attacked us. They attacked Rorikstead. Our village… we are all that's left. And you have taken even more from us when we barely have anything left!"
"Rorikstead?" Ilfyha repeated with surprise, unfazed by his anger. "Those crazy fuckers actually attacked a whole village? Here in Whiterun?" She started laughing, and the sound of it made Rorik even angrier. "That's some horseshit you're telling."
"It's the truth," Rorik spat. His grip on his sword tightened.
Ilfyha was still not convinced. "Even if the Forsworn actually attacked, which I doubt, how could so many have you survived long enough to run away? The Forsworn would not have attacked a settlement in small numbers. And a big enough host of them wouldn't have let survivors get away. Horseshit, I tell you."
"So many of us survived? We lost more than half our number in the attack!" Rorik growled, jabbing the point of his sword in the air at her accusingly. "And now, more have died needlessly because of you scum."
"We're bandits," she said with a shrug and aimed a feral grin at Rorik. "This is what we do."
Rorik grit his teeth. "Bastards."
"Enough talk!" the woman yelled, slashing her axe through the air again, the metal flashing in the moonlight. "I can see you're all riled up, and now I am too. Let's settle this."
Rorik got into a fighting stance. "Yes. Let's."
She glared at the two other bandits. "You two, stay back. This one's mine. If you interfere, I will kill you myself." They nodded and quickly backed away to what they deemed a safe enough distance.
Rorik felt a surge of energy and warmth coursing through him. He did not know how long this new strength would last, or where it came from, but he knew he had to take advantage of this fortuitous second wind. And quickly.
"I am Rorik of Rorikstead," he announced as he readied himself for what could possibly be his final fight, "And I swear to the divines and all my ancestors that you will all answer for what you've done to my people tonight."
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Fifteen. Tarknir counted the bandits that were crawling all over the wagons. And counted once again to be sure.
Their torches bathed everything in orange-yellow light. Some of them were looking over the Rorikstead horses that were picketed beside the long line of wagons. The animals were probably the most valuable loot to be stolen from the convoy, truth be told. Not that Tarknir knew what any of the others had taken with them from the village. Rorik, for instance, might have things far more valuable than horses among his belongings. Perhaps even Jouane. Tarknir certainly didn't.
Regardless, the bandits were combing through everything in each wagon, assessing what was worth taking. They tossed anything they deemed worthless out into the snow. It wouldn't do to bring back junk that they would only throw away once they got back to whatever hole they crawled out of. For it was surely some dark hole that the scum were living in, Tarknir thought with no small amount of anger.
He frowned after counting their number a third time, as if in doing so it might have somehow reduced. Fifteen was too many for him to fight through. And those were only the ones he could see clearly at the moment. There were possibly more out there, hidden among the rocks. Far too many.
His fingers brushed the leather hilt of the sword attached to his left hip. It was a good weapon, forged with quality steel by a skilled blacksmith. Tarknir had taken it from one of the fallen guards back at Rorikstead, vowing to make good use of it to protect his family and friends.
Before the Forsworn attack, it had been many years since Tarknir had last swung a sword in earnest, and that had only been for practice. Most of his days since then were spent swinging farming tools instead. He was grateful that when the Forsworn swept over Rorikstead, he remembered how to use a sword again quickly enough, spurred by the urgent need to protect his family. To protect his neighbors. To protect his home. Tarknir was certainly no warrior, but what little skill he had combined with a lot of luck had delivered him and those he loved safely from harm.
Now though? Now he was in over his head, and he knew it.
He was single-handedly attempting to rescue a girl from an armed and hostile force in the middle of the night. If he was forced to draw his sword here, he would most likely die. Though him being alone was really his own fault. There were others who had volunteered to go with him, but he shot them down by arguing that it would be easier for one man to sneak around quietly. Not to mention it would further endanger everyone else if some of those who could fight left the camp. More people might die, and there were already so few of them left.
Honestly, he was not sure why any of them listened to him. It was not as if he had some leadership role in the village or anything. Nor did he have a battle-hardened past or something like that to give him some measure of authority in this matter. Even Jouane seemed to accept his words, and he was as close to a second-in-command as Rorik had. But ever since the Forsworn attack, the others seemed to give Tarknir more deference and respect than before, and it was baffling.
Turning his attention back to the bandits, he wondered if all the able-bodied men and women left in the Rorikstead camp fought together, perhaps they could take on all the bandits here. But at what cost? They had lost more than enough as it was.
Tarknir shifted his weight, finally unable to ignore the sharp edges of the boulder beneath him that were digging into his flesh. The climb up had been slow, but easier than he expected in the relative darkness of night. There were plenty of places to grab and find his footing. Even though he could barely see, he was able to feel them out, moving deliberately to minimize the chances of falling. And the years of hard labor on top of his Nord blood meant he had strength enough to hold onto the rocks and pull himself up. Now, he was laying on his belly atop one of the tallest boulders in the immediate vicinity, giving him a great view of the road and the wagons.
He scanned the area again, searching for any sign of the young girl he was supposed to rescue. For a brief moment, the thought that she might already be dead surfaced in his mind, but he swiftly quashed it. He refused to believe that the girl had been killed. Despite resorting to violent banditry, these people were unlikely to slay a harmless child in cold blood. More likely, they would capture her and find some way to profit off of her.
Though, now that Tarknir thought about it some more, he wondered if that might actually be a worse fate than death. Who knew what the bandits would think to do to her? All the more reason for him to find her and bring her back to safety.
But where could she be? Tarknir frowned, still not seeing any sign of the girl. If she had been captured, she would likely be bound and set aside somewhere while the bandits secured the loot. He figured there would be at most one guard tasked to watch her. Or they could have bound her feet and left her unguarded. That would be ideal.
Movement on the far end of the column of wagons drew Tarknir's attention. It was a little too far for him to see clearly, but from the looks of things more bandits had arrived, bringing along horses from elsewhere. The bandits' horses.
Suddenly, he perked up. From which direction had the bandits and their horses come from?
They likely had a camp, or at least a staging area, nearby. And that was the most likely place that the girl could have been taken to since she appeared not to be anywhere near the wagons. Tarknir struggled to contain his sudden surge of excitement.
With a clearer path to accomplishing his mission, he carefully crawled towards the edge that he had climbed up from. The challenge now was getting there quickly while remaining undetected. If he could pull this off without having to draw his sword, all the better. Sonji would never forgive him if he died here.
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Rorik gritted his teeth as Ilfyha's axe hammered into his sword as he blocked her strike. He could feel the blow reverberate through his body, the sound of steel-on-steel ringing in the night. There was a fierce grin on the woman's scarred face, visible through the forward opening of her horned helm. She was clearly enjoying this. Rorik, on the other hand, was not.
He was losing. No, worse than that. She had gone from testing him to toying with him. The resurgence of energy he had earlier was all spent in the first few blows that they exchanged. In the opening moments, he had surprised her with how much strength he had left, and his skill was nothing to laugh at either, but she was even stronger and better than she looked. Those scars on her face were not simply for show.
He had somehow managed to score a hit on her. A gash across her left forearm. Blood streamed from the wound, droplets of it staining the snow beneath them. If anything, she seemed even more eager to fight after that. Three times, Rorik had managed to avoid serious injury by a hairsbreadth, feeling her axe slicing the air over his skin, thirsty for his blood.
Rorik was strong and battle-hardened from his time in the Legion. By all rights, he should have been able to at least fight on even terms with the woman, and he was confident he could have beaten her at his best, but the past few days had certainly taken a toll on him. There was the fight with the Forsworn, and then the lack of sleep since the attack. The journey east had also been taxing. Not to mention he had already fought other bandits earlier.
Now, his movements grew slower and more sluggish as the fight wore on. With grim realization, he knew it was only a matter of time before her axe chopped him up into bloody pieces.
"Not bad, for someone already half dead," Ilfyha said as she stepped back and began to pace around him, just out of reach of his sword. Her breaths came loud and hard. She was winded, but Rorik was certain she was not yet tired. "But I think I've played with you enough."
"I'm not done yet." Rorik did his best to control his runaway breathing. He dropped into a guard stance, ready to counter. That was his only chance now. To somehow parry her next strike and counter as quickly as he could. Hopefully, and it was a slim hope, he would be able to catch her by surprise and score a serious wound. With great effort, he focused his entire being on watching her movements. Anticipating what was to come.
"Then show me," she said with another grin as she suddenly leaped at him with axe raised.
Rorik swung his sword up, his body acting on its own from years of battle experience, and barely managed to deflect the blow even with all the focus he could bring to bear. His mind already envisioned the counterblow that he would deliver, but the strength behind her strike was greater than he anticipated, and his exhausted fingers, already numb and barely able to hold onto his sword, finally gave up and his steel went flying from his aching hands. It fell somewhere in the snow with a thud, and all Rorik could do was let out a tired sigh as he fell heavily to his knees in defeat.
I'm sorry, Vors. I'm sorry everyone. I couldn't protect you all… I couldn't accomplish my dream. A legacy I had hoped to leave behind when I finally passed on. Rorik let out a long breath. At least I should have fought well enough to reach Sovngarde. He took comfort in that thought as he shut his eyes and waited for the end.
When no death blow came, Rorik looked up at Ilfyha, wondering why she hadn't yet finished him off, and realized that she wasn't even paying attention to him anymore. Instead, her eyes were staring somewhere over his head at something behind him.
The way she was tensing, she clearly felt threatened by whatever it was. Perhaps even worried. Her smile was still there though, but he could tell it was not as amused as it had been only moments before. Even the other two bandits seemed suddenly wary.
Risking a glance behind him, Rorik immediately caught sight of the impressive figure of Kratos, pale skin seemingly glowing beneath the twin moons. There was evidence of blood all over him based on the sloppy dark splotches and streaks that marred his otherwise pale moonlit skin. As usual, he was stone-faced with an intense gaze that had the weight of mountains behind them. Next to him was Anske, who was looking at Rorik with growing concern.
"And who might you be?" Ilfyha finally asked, pointing her axe at the newcomers menacingly. Or at least as menacingly as she could towards a giant musclebound warrior who appeared to tower over even Durgak, had the orc been present.
Kratos responded by rolling his shoulders and saying, "That is a nice axe."
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
Tarknir pressed himself close to the boulder, doing his best to remain hidden as he peered around the corner to get a good look at the bandit camp.
Truthfully, it was barely more than a patch of ground that had been somewhat cleared of snow. Surrounding it in a rough ring were more of the strange stones that gave these hills their name. Dozens of travel packs had been set down haphazardly all over the place. A handful of torches provided some light, casting long shadows and illuminating tracks that crisscrossed every which way and impressions in the snow from where people had been sitting.
Tarknir was no expert scout or tracker, but even he could tell that the bandits hadn't been here long. If he had to guess, they arrived only a few hours ahead of the convoy. Long enough to set up an ambush. They must have spotted the convoy from afar.
Like Tarknir had suspected, most of the bandits were busy looting the wagons. They probably thought they were in no danger of being defeated, nor attacked here in their camp, so there was no security around the perimeter either. Only two of the bandits remained, along with a few horses that hadn't been brought over to the convoy yet.
One of the bandits was tending to the horses, carrying a torch around with him as he went about his business. The other bandit was leaning up against a pillar of rock on the other side of the camp, a small fire flickering on the ground in front of them. Their hood was up, and head down, looking as if they were dozing off. More importantly, next to the bandit, sitting with her legs bent and arms hugging her knees, was the unmistakable form of a little girl.
Britte.
"She's alive," Tarknir whispered to himself. He didn't believe she had been killed, but it was a relief to confirm it nonetheless. Though it was impossible to tell what condition she was in from this distance. They better not have harmed her.
The horses were kept far enough away from where Britte was being held that Tarknir thought, with a little bit of luck, he could take down the bandit watching over her without alerting the other. Of course, that was easier said than done.
The wind had picked up steadily through the night, the sound of it helping to mask some of the noise he would inevitably make from his approach. It was near impossible to be silent walking through snow this deep, but he should be able to get much closer before he ran the risk of being detected.
Tarknir circled the camp clockwise, approaching the column of rock from behind. He went as close as he dared before stopping to assess. He needed to be careful here. One wrong move could end in disaster. For both him and Britte.
On this side, the face of the rock looked smooth and sheer, which meant climbing on top of it from this direction was out of the question. A shame, really. Dropping down on the unsuspecting bandit would have probably been the easiest way to take out the guard without putting Britte in harm's way.
That meant he could either try his luck in sneaking right up to the guard or attempt to distract the guard somehow and draw them away from the girl. Yes, that sounded like a better plan. But how to accomplish that? He searched around, thinking for a minute, then a plan started to formulate in his mind. A simple one at that.
Soon, he was on the move. He crept closer to the rock column, moving almost painfully slow to minimize the noise. He kept a constant watch on his surroundings in case someone came along and spotted him. Even though it was night, he stood out as a dark humanoid shadow against the moonlit snow, and the snow itself reflected enough of the moonlight that it was not so dark to begin with. But by the grace of the divines, he arrived at the rock column without incident.
He was about to enact the first part of his plan, which involved some small rocks he had gathered and throwing them against the nearest boulder as hard as he could to make as much noise as possible and draw the guard away, when he heard footsteps in the snow close by. Practically next to him, actually.
Tarknir tensed, dropping the rocks and holding his breath while gripping the hilt of his sword tight, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. Had the guard heard him? Or was there someone else coming? Either scenario was bad news, though if it was a one-on-one fight he felt better about his chances.
He heard the muttering first as the guard trudged through the snow.
"… watch the girl, they said. Don't fuck up, they said. It's important, they said. Important my bloody ass. All this little brat does is whine and cry, and I'm not even allowed to hit her because Boss Dal says I ain't supposed to damage the bloody goods…"
The crunching of footsteps through the snow stopped. Then suddenly, there was the telltale sound of liquid splattering onto stone, accompanied by a long sigh. The guard was taking a piss!
Not hesitating to seize this chance, Tarknir drew his sword and rushed around the corner.
"What the—?" The bandit panicked at Tarknir's sudden appearance and stumbled backwards, reaching for his weapon with one hand even as he reflexively tried to put away his privates. All the while, he kept on pissing, the stream of it going wild and spraying everywhere. Tarknir cut him down before the bandit could even get his sword out, ensuring the kill by plunging his sword into the bandit's heart even as he lay dying and gurgling in his own blood and urine.
Then, trying his best to ignore the warm liquid that had splashed across his own legs and boots, Tarknir wiped the blood off of his blade with the man's clothes and remained crouched as he peered around. He kept still and quiet, straining to hear any sound that wasn't the wind. But there was nothing. After a minute, he let out a long breath. Nobody was coming.
His blood was pounding in his ears and his fingers were tingling with the rush of the attack, quick as it was. It was a strange feeling that washed over him then. Something akin to… pleasure. The realization frightened him. Had he actually enjoyed that? Sneaking around and surprising someone with their guard down and killing them? It was a troubling thought, one that he decided would be best not to dwell on.
Getting back to his feet, he kept his blade out and walked cautiously around the column, keeping his eyes peeled on the other side of the camp where the remaining bandit was. The light of the bandit's torch was still moving around the horses, though for how long they would be there he wasn't sure. He was not about to wait and find out.
Britte didn't seem to have noticed the commotion. She was still hugging her knees to her chest and staring down at her feet, oblivious to the world. She barely stirred when Tarknir approached.
"Britte," he said hesitantly.
She flinched at the sound of his voice and hugged herself tighter. Her eyes remained downcast, however, so she could not see that he was actually a friend.
"Britte, look at me," Tarknir said soothingly as he sheathed his sword and crouched next to her. "It's Tarknir. From Rorikstead. Remember? It's okay now. It'll all be okay. I'm here to rescue you."
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
"Pick up a weapon. Go on. I'll wait." The woman twirled her axe. She was paying little heed to Rorik now, who was still on his knees next to her, looking like he barely had the strength to keep himself from falling over.
"There is no need," Kratos said. "I'll be taking yours." He took a few steps towards her and then stopped. He widened his stance a little but did nothing else as he continue to stare down the eager battle-hungry warrior woman.
Behind him, Anske took a few steps back and to the side in anticipation of the fight to come. Then, spotting Vors lying in the snow, she slowly made her way towards him, making sure to keep a wide berth of the two fighters.
"You've got balls. You think to best me, Ilfyha, one of the captains of the Shadowblood Bandits, without a weapon?" the warrior woman asked with mild surprise. Then she laughed, her eyes taking on a dangerous glint. "Very well. You may be large and strong, but you clearly aren't very smart. I'll enjoy cutting you down. They shall call me Ilfyha the Giantkiller after today. Half giant though you may be."
"Kratos, wait!" Rorik's cry surprised them both. "Don't kill her. We may have use of her."
Ilfyha snarled, giving Rorik a withering glare. "Be quiet! You should be glad I let you live this long."
Rorik scoffed, then grimaced, clearly in pain. "And you should be glad that I've now saved your life."
Kratos frowned slightly. Of course, he did not like taking orders like that, but he let it slide for now. He did not pretend to know what Rorik had in mind for the woman, but he hoped it really would be worth the trouble. Fighting to incapacitate was always much harder than simply fighting to kill.
Without warning, Ilfyha let loose a war cry as she charged at Kratos head-on, brandishing her axe menacingly. Seemingly taking a page out of Kratos's battle manual, she leaped up in the air to cover the remaining distance between them while raising her axe high and behind her, ready to swing down to split Kratos's head in two.
Without fear or hesitation, Kratos raised his hands faster than one would think he could move and clapped them together right as the axe was closing in on his face, catching the steel head of the axe in between his palms and completely stopping the woman's attack.
To her credit, Ilfyha was only briefly stunned by the ease with which Kratos stopped her powerful attack and quickly used the momentum as she swung from the axe handle and slammed the bottoms of her boots straight into Kratos' face, kicking off with as much strength as she could muster in an effort to disengage.
Kratos reflexively closed his eyes and felt his head jerk back as he let go of the woman's axe from the unexpected kick. He rubbed his face with some annoyance as the woman dropped to the ground in front of him. She immediately twisted and swung upwards, Kratos calmly dodging her axe by leaning his head to one side as the blade sliced through the air next to his cheek.
Although she missed, Ilfyha used the move to get herself back on her feet, and from there she flowed into a series of swings and strikes that Kratos managed to deftly avoid, further frustrating the woman. After all, how was it that she was unable to land a hit with her axe on such a massive target?
Attempting to surprise him, she feinted a high attack but then dropped down, aiming to strike at his ankle instead.
Kratos reacted quickly by lifting his leg right before the axe hit and then dropping his foot down on it, pinning it in place. He was careful not to apply too much pressure lest he break the axe—he thought it might be a worthwhile weapon to keep—and then made his first attack by kicking the woman with his other leg.
Ilfyha let go of her axe and tried to stumble backwards away from the incoming kick while bracing herself for it. There was no room nor time for her to dodge the attack completely, so she was trying to soften the blow instead. Unfortunately for her, the kick was still far more powerful than she expected, despite Kratos taking care to hold back and her efforts to dampen the impact.
"Oof!" Ilfyha was struck in the midsection by Kratos' shin, and the impact knocked all the wind out of her as she was sent tumbling painfully through the snow, coming to a stop almost thirty feet away. She was still conscious, if only barely, evidenced by the fact that she was moving. Slow though the movements were.
Kratos reached down for the axe, turning it over in his hands to inspect it. The moonlight reflecting off of it when he had first seen it earlier had given the weapon an almost ethereal glow from afar. The weapon had piqued his interest then. He thought that it might have been magical, but now that he was taking a closer look, he realized there was nothing particularly special about it other than that it was a fine weapon. There was no trace of magical energy within it.
Sure, the steel was of excellent quality, and the intricate patterns etched into the metal was clearly done by an expert smith, but it was merely an ordinary weapon. Of course, in the right hands, an ordinary weapon could be used to devastating effect. But he knew it would likely not last for too long in his hands.
With the warrior woman temporarily out of commission, at least for another few minutes as she caught her breath, Kratos turned to the two remaining bandits. Rorik had said nothing about keeping them alive.
The two seemed to realize as much as they shared a terrified look between each other before making a break for it. Their movements were slowed by the deep snow as they scrambled to get away, and Kratos easily caught up to them. His new axe made quick work of the bandits, the keen edge now dripping with fresh blood. It would do for now. At least until he could find a better one.
Ilfyha was still barely moving, clutching at her abdomen as she lay on her side in the snow. Kratos kept an eye on her as he went to check on Rorik and the others.
He found Rorik still kneeling with his hands on his knees, hunched over and out of breath. He was obviously hurting, but there were no serious wounds that Kratos could see.
"Can you stand?" Kratos asked as he drew closer.
Rorik nodded slowly. "I think I need a few more minutes," he said in between labored breaths and wincing from the pain. "But I should be able to move on my own. Fighting, on the other hand… I don't think I can manage."
"Leave that to me."
Rorik stared straight at him. "Thank you, Kratos. It seems our debt to you increases with each passing day."
Kratos frowned. "I would prefer if it didn't."
"So would I." Rorik gave him a weak smile. "But I'm sorry to say, until we get to safety, we will need to rely on you some more in the days ahead."
Kratos gave a noncommittal grunt. He had some concerns about that. He was really starting to think that he was actually the cause of all their misfortune, and the best way to verify that theory was to part ways with the people of Rorikstead. But he could not in good conscience leave them now, or even after the bandits had been dealt with. No, he would see them through to their destination safely. And then he would go his own way.
"Umm… Kratos?" Anske's voice interrupted his brooding and he turned to face her.
She was kneeling next to a body that Kratos realized was the man named Vors. He appeared dead at first, but a closer look showed that he was still breathing. If only barely.
"He's not going to last much longer," Anske said with worry etched on her face. Her hands were covered in blood as she tried to staunch some of the bleeding from the downed man.
"We must get him back to camp." Rorik groaned as he slowly pushed himself onto his feet. "Jouane should be there."
"And if he is not?"
Rorik frowned. "He'll be there," the man said pointedly, before adding in a softer voice, "And we have healing potions."
"How are we going to get him there?" Anske asked.
Rorik winced, though whether from the pain or from the question, it was hard to tell. He glanced at Kratos. "Could you…?"
Kratos grunted. He didn't like it, but there really was no other choice. "What of the woman?"
Rorik sighed. "We'll need to bring her too."
Without another word, Kratos moved. Best to get it over with quickly. First, he went to Ilfyha. He picked her up and she put up a weak struggle, giving the Spartan a vicious glare before Kratos knocked her out with a quick, controlled backhand across her cheek. Her body went limp, and he threw her over his shoulder. Then he carefully picked up Vors, carrying him with both arms to keep him relatively flat on his back.
Anske watched by his side, the bow and quiver full of arrows he had given her now strapped across her back.
"Thank you, Kratos," said Rorik, limping over to him.
Kratos inclined his head a fraction. "Time to go," he said, and then led the way.
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
To their relief, the camp was indeed untouched by the bandits. What few remaining villagers who could wield weapons were stationed along the paths between the rocks leading into the camp. The camp itself was quiet, in stark contrast to the revelry earlier in the evening. Most of the survivors were huddled together for warmth and comfort by the fires.
Their return to camp was met with muted celebration. While the people were certainly glad to see them, they were also saddened to hear of those who had fallen trying to defend them. Not to mention the bandit threat was still very much present, though having Kratos and Rorik back definitely bolstered the people's mood overall.
Ilfyha, who was still unconscious, was bound and placed under guard—Reldith volunteered to watch over her—after being searched and stripped of any potential weapons.
Jouane went to work on Vors, his hands lighting up with magic as he worked to heal the damage on the old sergeant's body. Anske stayed nearby, paying close attention. Knowing healing magic would be incredibly useful.
Rorik had plenty of bruises and aches, and several shallow cuts, but otherwise he was fine. Exhausted, but fine. Sonji still fussed over him though and treated his minor injuries. As she did so, she told them of how her husband was out to rescue the young girl Britte from the bandits.
Kratos was seated on a stone across from them. He was offered some rags to wipe himself down with, for all the blood on him was not his. Otherwise, he was unscathed and required no healing. Though he did accept a jug of water from Leesa, as well as a roasted lamb leg. Hunger or thirst would not kill him, but he could still feel such things.
"Tarknir went alone?" asked Rorik, hissing slightly as Sonji cleaned one of the deeper cuts on his left arm.
"He said it would be better if he went alone. Both for him, and for us." She did not sound overly worried, but they all knew better.
Rorik was quiet for a moment, then said, "Aye, he did the right thing. I would have done the same."
Sonji nodded in agreement. "I know he did the right thing. I just wish it didn't have to be this way. He is not a warrior. Not like you, Vors, and Kratos."
"I don't think anyone is a warrior like Kratos," Rorik said with a small smile, glancing over at the quiet Spartan. "But I'm sure your husband will be fine. Tarknir's got a good head on his shoulders. And he's a Nord. He won't let himself be killed so easily."
Sonji gave a sharp nod. "He better not die. Or I'll kill him myself."
Rorik chuckled then turned serious again. "How are the others?"
"Not good. We're barely holding together here, Rorik. Especially since them bandits are still around. They're searching through all our things, you know. One of the others took a peek and came running back right before you returned. There are at least another dozen of them. They've even got one bandit who is almost as big as Kratos."
"We'll deal with the rest of the bandits soon enough," Rorik assured her, eyes flicking over to Kratos. "She is right, though. The bandit leader is a tough bastard. A big orc with an equally big greatsword and wearing heavy armor. You shouldn't underestimate him. He was actually looking for you, you know. Before you showed up earlier, he was there with that woman."
Kratos tossed the lamb leg he had chewed down to the bone into the fire. "How big is this sword?"
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
Durgak glared at Dal. The dark elf was doing his best to annoy him, he was sure. The elf usually did. Durgak often found himself wanting to wring the little elf's neck to teach him a lesson. Or better yet, tear his limbs off and beat him to death with them. Yes, that would be nice. But the elf was annoyingly good at his responsibilities and had the absolute loyalty of some of the men. Durgak needed him, and Dal knew that well enough.
"Ah, but they're only harmless villagers, Durgak. And most of their belongings are here." The dark elf gestured with one of his daggers in hand towards the line of wagons. "I figured sorting through the loot first would be a better idea. After all, that is the whole point of this, right? Getting loot and supplies? And we wouldn't want to be at this all night."
"But I ordered you to attack the camp!" Durgak growled in frustration.
"Yes, yes. And I was going to! After sorting through all the loot." Dal smiled. His dark red eyes were full of gleeful mischief. "Don't worry, I didn't disobey you, or plan to. You didn't tell me when to attack the camp, you just said to attack the camp. I mean, it's not like the villagers can go anywhere. Even if they did try to run, they wouldn't get very far without their horses, yes?"
Durgak ground his teeth together as he swung his greatsword around, slamming it point first into the snow-covered dirt in front of him. "You listen here, elf—" he started to say, but before he could finish, he was interrupted by the sounds of screaming. The sounds of the dying, more precisely. Then suddenly something flew over his head, causing him to reflexively duck as he gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. Whatever it was smacked hard against the boulder behind him, and then thudded heavily into the snow.
Both orc and dark elf turned to see what it was: the body of one of their men, very clearly dead. The sounds of more pained screams came from the other side of the convoy from where they were standing.
Durgak and Dal shared a look as the big orc extricated his sword from where he had stuck it into the ground. With a snarl, for he had not forgotten the elf's antics, the orc spoke.
"Do what you do best, Dal. And I'll do mine. But don't think we're finished here. We will have words after this."
Dal inclined his head deferentially, though still with a hint of mockery. "If you say so, Durgak." The thin dark elf pulled his hood up over his head and dashed as low as he could to the ground off to the side to try and stay out of sight. He was going to attempt to go around and attack the enemy from behind while Durgak kept them occupied from the front. A tactic they had used many times before.
Durgak lumbered around the closest wagon and finally sighted the cause of the commotion. The giant of a man that the scouts had spotted earlier in the day was finally here, and he was even bigger than Durgak expected. Taller, more muscular, and with ashen skin covered in multitudes of scars.
A veteran of a hundred battles, Durgak thought uneasily. At least that's what he looked like.
Surprisingly, the man was not wearing any armor, and not much clothing for that matter. It was troubling to think that the man didn't think he needed to wear much in the way of protection. Then Durgak's eyes drifted down to look at the man's weapon: a well-made steel axe dripping with blood.
Durgak thought the weapon seemed too small for the man. It was not made for someone of his size. Narrowing his eyes, he realized with some trepidation that it was actually Ilfyha's axe. To have bested one of his top fighters without even a scratch? This was definitely not an opponent he could take lightly.
The pale warrior stood tall. Unbowed. Unafraid. With good reason, for around the man was the scattered carnage of at least six bodies. Including the one that was sent flying and what looked like another motionless body slumped against one of the wagons, it appeared that the man had already killed eight men in the span of a couple of minutes or so since his arrival. And those were the ones that Durgak could see.
For the first time in a very long time, the big orc felt uneasy before a fight. Partly because he was more often than not the biggest fighter in the field, but also partly because it was obvious the half-giant was an experienced warrior the likes of which the orc had never faced before.
Three more of Durgak's men arrived, along with his four personal guards, bringing their total number to eight with Durgak included. Nine, if he counted Dal sneaking around out there somewhere. That should have been more than enough to guarantee victory and ensure confidence, but the way the ashen warrior was staring straight at Durgak without even flinching or showing any signs of concern for his situation was somehow unnerving.
Without being told, Durgak's men fanned out into a wide circle to surround their lone opponent. The pale warrior continued to stand as still as stone, and as quiet as the calm before a storm.
Still, despite the uneasiness in his gut, Durgak had his pride as a warrior. He would not back down from this fight. He could not. Especially not against one man, even if that man was a giant-kin of seemingly great skill.
Lifting his massive sword, Durgak pointed it at the pale warrior. "It's been a long time since I've faced someone worth my time to kill."
"Then you have waited all of this time just to die," replied the man coolly with a deep voice that resonated with strength.
Durgak bared his teeth with a slight growl as he swung his sword around, the blade slicing through the air loudly, then brought it up and to the side slightly in a ready position. He could feel his nervousness fading as the flare of anger at being insulted ignited his battle lust.
"I'll stain the snow with your blood, paleface!" roared the orc as he charged, letting loose with a wide diagonal slash of his greatsword. The way Durgak saw it, he had the advantage in weapon reach—his greatsword compared to the man's axe—and he was going to make full use of it.
The pale warrior stepped back to avoid the swing, and right after the blade passed, stepped forward to close in for the attack. Durgak had been expecting such a move, and skillfully turned his blade around and thrust forward with surprising speed. Normally, such a move would have scored him a hit, or at least forced his opponent back into the defensive. But the man, eyes widening slightly, simply slapped his sword aside with the palm of his hand against the wide flat of Durgak's blade. He hit the blade with such force that it pushed the blade far to the side and caused the orc to stumble.
The man's axe blurred and Durgak felt the blow against his chest armor, knocking the breath out of him as he grunted loudly in pain. The impact jarred his entire body and forced him backwards, but he managed to stay on his feet and keep a grip on his sword. He staggered a few more steps backwards, giving him a little more space, and then quickly glanced down, reaching up with his off hand to feel the damage to his armor.
His armor was dented and cracked where the axe had bit into it, but it had done its job of protecting him from serious injury. Still, the blow had rattled him to the bones, and he could already feel the massive bruise forming painfully from where he had been hit. This human was starting to piss him off.
Durgak took a deep breath and then roared in defiance. A wild, animalistic roar that boosted his confidence and his physical abilities as his blood began to run hot. He felt a little stronger now. A little faster. He growled again as he noticed the man simply standing there, waiting for him, looking not the least bit worried. That angered Durgak even more.
"Raghhh!" he roared again as he rushed forward, his sword strokes coming fast, one after the other.
His opponent dodged and parried with equal speed and strength. Their weapons clashed in the night, sparks flying whenever they met with force. Durgak turned a parried attack into an overhead strike and the man used both hands on his axe as he raised it up high to block the blow.
Then Durgak's sword glowed a bluish-white as he tapped into the magical energies within it. His sword bit into the edge of his opponent's steel axe, breaking off a piece and causing fractures along the metal. Then frost began to appear as the metal began to freeze from the ice magic imbued within the orc's sword.
His opponent frowned as Durgak pressed on his sword with all his might, pushing the man's own arms down a fraction, and then making him slide a little across the ground from the pressure as they remained locked together.
The man suddenly jerked his weapon to the side, and with Durgak's sword still wedged into the axe head, the orc once again stumbled after his weapon. Letting go of the broken axe, the man grabbed Durgak with both hands and then proceeded to lift him in one smooth motion, the only indication of any exertion on his opponent's part was a quick exhalation of air as he lifted the big orc up, heavy armor and all.
Durgak was so surprised he barely had time to react, let alone process, as he was thrown through the air. Though not before he vainly tried to swipe with his sword at his opponent. He thought he managed a hit, but he could not be sure. He sailed through the air with impressive velocity, and then roared in pain as he slammed hard into a boulder with his back. Once again, the air was forced out of his lungs from the impact. He found himself gasping face first in the snow as pieces of rock fell all around him. How had he gotten to the ground? He somehow did not remember falling.
"Boss!" cried one of his personal guards. The fellow orc, much smaller than Durgak, but still strong in his own right, rushed to his side. The sound of his voice seemed muffled, like the orc was underwater.
Durgak tried to push himself up. His ears were ringing, and he felt dizzy. He barely registered that the snow was now all inside his helmet, having come through the slits in his helm. His blood was still running hot, but his face now felt cold. But that wasn't what he was focusing on. His whole body was in pain. It felt as if he had been placed upon an anvil and each part of him hammered into shape by a blacksmith.
He vaguely heard the screams through the fog that momentarily filled his brain. Until at last there was silence. Even the ringing in his ears dissipated. Then he remembered that he was fighting someone. That he was losing. Anger filled him again, the battle fury momentarily forgotten.
He could taste blood in his mouth, and he was sure he had broken a bone or two somewhere. He had also lost his sword, he realized. How infuriating. With renewed vigor, he pushed himself up onto one knee. Before he could get back to his feet, however, he felt a hand roughly grab onto his armor and lift him up with force. He was pushed against the rock, pinned between his opponent and the stone.
The ashen warrior cocked an arm back, about to deal a final blow. Or so he thought. Durgak, in a final burst of berserker rage, with eyes suddenly glowing red, roared in defiance as he broke free of the man's grip and then him hard in the gut. The man bent over slightly, grunting. The blow dealt some damage to Durgak as well, given how tough his opponent was, but he did not feel it as he proceeded to rain successive blows onto his opponent with his gauntleted fists. The orc even landed a sweeping hook to the man's face, causing the man to step to the side from the force of the blow. But after perhaps six consecutive punches, the man had apparently had enough.
The seventh punch was suddenly met with the palm of the man's hand, and when Durgak tried to use his other fist, that too was enveloped by the man's other hand. And try as the orc might, he could not break free. He did manage to knee his opponent in the abdomen, eliciting another grunt, but that small victory was short-lived for the man began to crush Durgak's hands and the pain broke through his berserker rage, causing him to fall to his knees.
Durgak howled in agony as his fingers first broke and then shattered, and his flesh exploded and liquified as the armor encasing them collapsed from the sheer pressure of the man's grip. Blood gushed from the seams of his armored gauntlets as the man glared down at him with hard, terrifying dark eyes.
Eyes wide and breathing ragged, Durgak knew he was about to die.
"Where is your hideout?" asked the pale warrior with menacing calm, letting go of the orc's mangled hands and instead grabbing at the collar of his armor to hold him up.
Somehow, through the horrific agony and the mental daze, Durgak was able to notice the wound on the man's pale shoulder. Shallow though it was, and no more than a hand length, the slight frosting around the cut was all the orc needed to see to know that it had been his sword that had inflicted that wound. There was even a small trail of blood from the wound that had frozen over.
"You're… bleeding…" Durgak managed to somehow say through the pain. There was a hint of satisfaction in his voice, as if he had actually won the fight by managing to wound his opponent, even if only superficially. The orc thought he felt himself smiling, but it was hard to tell anymore.
The man turned his head slowly to look down at his shoulder like he had not realized he was injured himself. Then he stared right back into Durgak's eyes. There was a coldness in the man's eyes, the hardened stare of someone who had been to Oblivion and back too many times.
"Where?" said the pale warrior again, his voice taking on a more dangerous tone.
In one more act of defiance, Durgak tried to headbutt the man with as much strength as he could yet muster. He succeeded in hitting the man in the face, but somehow did not manage to break the man's nose. All he succeeded in doing was briefly pushing the man's head back with a loud thwack. The strength left the orc's body then. He could do no more. The headbutt actually left him a little dazed, or maybe it was the pain.
"Very well," said the man, before violently slamming his own forehead straight into the orc's face, helmet and all.
Then all Durgak knew was pain before darkness consumed him, and he knew no more.
Ω=o=Ω=o=Ω
Dal watched the fight from the shadows of a nearby boulder, daggers twirling in both hands. He had actually been planning to help Durgak out—rough and unimaginative though the orc might have been, he was an excellent fighter and a strong figure who was able to keep such a large group of violent criminals together—but when he saw just how much stronger the pale warrior was than the orc, the elf immediately had second thoughts.
Dal had a feeling he would also be bleeding out in the snow, or worse, if he tried to engage the pale warrior now. Even if he tried to do a sneak attack, he wasn't sure if he could take down the brute with that one strike. Even Durgak, in a straight-on fight, could only manage a mere scratch. Plus the massive orc had been tossed around like he was nothing. No thank you. Dal decided to stay where he was.
He had always thought he would lead his own gang of thieves one day, or perhaps even succeed Durgak after he had an 'accident.' Now was as good a time as any to start. While the loss of so many men and so much loot was unpleasant, it was far more important to get out of this predicament alive. And if there was anything Dal was exceptionally good at, it was surviving. With a flourish, his daggers disappeared into his cloak, and he melded back into the shadows.
Perhaps if he was lucky, he would never have to see the pale warrior again.
Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω=o=o=o=o=Ω
AN: Personally, not the happiest with this chapter but... the show must go on. If necessary, I'll rewrite (again) later. I've rewritten several parts of this chapter so many times it's driving me insane and has had me lose interest a few times. Just can't seem to get it quite right, but maybe I'm being dumb. Hope you all are doing well. I've been struggling a bit, both creatively and just personally, but I'm alive. Thank you for your patience, and sorry for the wait.