CHAPTER 1
Ra’çen hid under the roots of the biggest tree he had ever seen, and he’d seen some pretty damned big trees in his life. As he lay in the mud, covered in the blood and guts of his family’s killers, his breath iced in the morning air—up here, in the mountains, you would not say one found warmth nor comfort. Ra’çen had stayed awake, chasing the men that had left his daughter in the middle of town, strung up on a pole, bare and bleeding; the men that had cut his sons cock off and fed it to him; the men that had raped the love of his life, sharing her between them, laughing all the while.
They weren’t laughing no more, he hoped.
But Ra’çen hadn’t gotten all of them. There were more, ten more. There had been fifteen but Ra’çen had picked five of them off—three with his bow that he’d lost, and two with his knife, hiding and surprising them. But by now, they knew he was out there, knew he was following them. What they didn’t know was how many were with him—was it one person, or several? The best strategy is surprise. Take the route that isn’t obvious, that is a surprise. You’ll live longer for it.
He’d chased them up into the hills; they thought they could loose them there—they were wrong. Now he was in front of them, under a thick root of the biggest mother fucking tree he’d ever seen in his damned life, ready, waiting.
Ra’çen hadn’t slept the night before, but waiting under this root, he’d been sleeping, a light sleep to rest your eyes but keep aware of your surroundings—a technique learnt because of the many battles he’d had throughout his life—and it was because of that that he was able to hear the branch snap. One, he counted. Crunch, and two. He heard no more apart from the breathing of the two men coming his way.
Ra’çen gripped his Dayneaxe tighter, his hand gripping the leather-over-wood tighter. His hear beat rapidly, but somehow he was still calm—a good skill for a warrior in Vikaynus. I vital skill. He was ready for the fuckers to get there. Both were moving in on his location at the same time—they’d kill him if they knew he was there, but they didn’t, he hoped.
One stepped so Ra’çen saw his foot beneath the root. He heard the other one coming closer and closer; his bet would be that the one nearest to him was the weaker of the two, sent in as cannon fodder. Didn’t matter though. He sprung up, grabbing a fistful of dirt as he did and through it into the eyes of the closest of the two—a weak, skinny bloke that wasn’t worth shit in a real fight. He through his Dayneaxe at the man that was further away; a big bloke and probably dumb—the stereotypical tough-guy, big muscles, slow mind and body. The axe got him in the shoulder but sent him flipping over and into mud. Ra’çen didn’t have any time to check on the man; he slid over the roots of the tree and in front of the lean, green boy. He slithered his knife from the arch of his back and into the boy’s heart. The boy stared wide-eyed into Ra’çen’s own eyes. The boy started to tremble, tears streaming down his cheeks. He tried to make a cry but he couldn’t even do that, the end result a wheeze barely audible to anyone.
Ra’çen must have been staring into the dead boy’s eyes longer than he thought because he was rammed into by the brute—obviously, he hadn’t been knocked out or injured to the point of uselessness. They were on the ground, rolling in mud and filth. Ra’çen suddenly felt tired beyond his years. His strength was sapping, faster than it ever had in his entire shit of a life, but he still managed to grip the brute’s manhood and squeeze. He punched his manhood twice, quick jabs in the groin, before the brute rolled over onto the mud next to Ra’çen, breathless. He was wheezing as well, gasping for air. Ra’çen couldn’t bring himself to get up either, though, and he soon realised that he was gasping for breath as well. He forced himself to get up, the images of his family floating back into his fucked of a mind. He scrabbled onto his hands and knees and crawled to the green boy to retrieve the knife.
Ra’çen had his hand around the grip when he felt the brute’s hand grasp around his ankle, and tight too. “Shit,” he grumbled under his breath, tired of this life. He was pulled towards the ugly fuck but was able to slip the knife from the dead boy’s chest. When he was close enough, he shoved the knife into the man’s eyes and then stabbed his throat as he was lying holding his eye, trying to block the blood from gushing all out, trying to calm the searing pain. And then the brute was dead, and Ra’çen breathed in and out, heavily.
He lay there, next to the big man, chest raising up and down, gasping. “Fuck me, mate,” he said, patting the man on the chest. “First one of you to get me. Oh? You want a prize? I think I’ll give you…death.”
Ra’çen was counting. He’d picked off three with his bow that was now lost to him, he’d taken another two by surprise, and then another two. There had been fifteen of the mother fuckers’; seven take off of fifteen would be eight. Eight more, he thought to himself. Not that many.
Ra’çen limped and stopped at a rock, leaning against it. He lifted his leather tunic and saw the wound—an old wound, come back to haunt him again. “Shit,” he moaned. He pulled his tunic back down and pushed off from the rock he was leaning on. He’d knew he would need to settle his business quickly if he had any chance of surviving.
He was now higher up in the mountains so the winds were wilder and colder. His oily, brown hair flapped in the wind, getting in his eyes, the oil stinging. But whilst that was bad, the wind was nice against his hot, sweaty skin. It was a cool-off, and for that, he was grateful.
He was now ahead of the men, his goal. They were running from him. He’d picked off a number of their men and he knew they were pissing themselves—and why wouldn’t you? You’re up against a man who has taken more than half of your numbers and on top of that, this man’s a ghost, takes you by surprise, you simply have no idea whom you’re up against. A smart man runs at someone like this.
And that’s why Ra’çen needed to get in front. They thought he’d be tracking them, taking his time and picking them off instead of strolling into their camp. They thought all he was going to do was wait until he had dwindled them down.
Wrong. They were going at a pace; they didn’t know the area all too well, but Ra’çen did. He was in front, he would block them off, attack them, and get vengeance for his family.
He found a nice hole in the ground and levered himself into it. It would be a few hours before nightfall now; they’d light a fire soon, and they’d be close. It was cold, so he was fairly certain they would light a fire—as stupid as it was, they wouldn’t be able to resist it. He’d been there, in the cold, in snow, where all you wanted to do was light a fire. All you had was a double up of leather tunics and wool coats and even then it didn’t matter, you’d chill to the bone and you couldn’t help asking, “How ‘bout we light ourselves a fire?” and always you’d get a sure, but if your leader was good, the final say would be “No.” So yeah, he was comfortable gambling they’d make a fire, after all, they were amateurs.
Ra’çen closed his eyes, resting them again, waiting.
There’s always a smell that comes with a fire, especially if you’re cooking the night’s hunt on it. The smell gave Ra’çen the ability to locate his prey, but this changed everything. He thought they were stupid but this was beyond that. Now, most people would have let this slip and would’ve rushed in with the same plan; Ra’çen knew better. Always treat your enemy like they’re the smartest mother fuckers’ in the world. He’d forgotten that a bit in his blind rage but now it had come back to him.
“Fuck,” he swore, “they’re trying to draw me in.” He was hiding behind a bush now, watching the men that were strangely still, like they were asleep. Most likely, they weren’t. They were probably waiting for him. Putting on a façade just for him.
He weighed his Dayneaxe in his left hand, then threw it into his right and weighed it again. He was feeling awkward though he couldn’t have said why. Must’ve been that something was off was the only conclusion he could reach.
The camp was small. No tents. A fire in the middle. A doe on the spit. Seven men. On the way up, bleeding, he’d caught the eighth. Lucky though. The man had come around the corner of a tree, but his right arm was blocked by another tree. Ra’çen had been free and sunk his own axe into the man’s forehead.
He checked how many knives he had—not many. Two. Not good, not good at all. He thought of his family and remembered, he wouldn’t stop until the job was done—that’s what a good warrior does, a good soldier.
He slipped out a knife from his waist, bent his arm and, holding the blade, let the knife fly into the biggest and toughest of them. Hardly a sound—they didn’t move. Six.
He lifted himself, careful no to rise above the brush and not to make a sound as to alarm his enemies. He slid the other knife out and stepped around the bush. His steps were light to minimize the sounds his steps made. He slid around to the side of the man closest to him. He put the knife to the mans neck. The man moved, his eyes opening, but the knife slipped in before he made a sound.
“Fuck you,” Ra’çen whispered in the dead man’s ear as he lay him down carefully. Five.
He kept his breath levelled. He focused on not panicking. Five more, one sitting before the fire, back straight. Four more set around the fire, like a ring, leaning on trees like the two he’d killed had been. He’d eliminated the closest to him; tick. And he’d eliminated the biggest and toughest of them; another tick.
He moved around, circling the fire. He planned to kill the outer most ones first—he wouldn’t let them trap him in their own cage. He moved to the nearest and right-most man. He took his knife under his chin and slid it home, but this time the man gurgled and made some sound—enough to wake the others or alert them of his presence. Four, but now they know I’m here.
“Shit.”
The one closest to him jumped up and charged. Ra’çen had the time to see the one nearest the campfire push up off the ground, but he couldn’t see the other two.
The man who’d made the noise was dead. Ra’çen stole his broadsword and lopped off the head of the man charging him, and side-stepped out of the way of the lifeless body before it hit him. The man from the campfire was behind him, punched him in the ribs. Brought his own axe up to bring it down on Ra’çen’s head.
Ra’çen charged the man, lifting him up and dropping him on his arse. He thrust the broadsword through the man but didn’t have enough time before he heard a roar from behind. Three
He danced out of the way, away from the danger, but still got a knick from the sword on his cheek. They circled but not for long for Ra’çen knew that given time, the last two would join with this third man, and that wouldn’t be too good.
Ra’çen charged. Swung his axe horizontally. The man jumped backwards the jabbed with his sword. Ra’çen managed to put his axe behind the crossguard and pull the sword flying from the man’s grip. He twirled in a circle and decapitated the man with his now crimson Dayneaxe. Two.
He was pushed in the back so he fell to the ground. He sprawled around but was kicked in the gut. He looked up at the arsehole. A scrawny bloke but with some muscle, scars too. He had experience.
The man went to kick but Ra’çen rolled and stood. He turned as he heard another bloke behind him. The bloke came running, charging like a bull. He wasn’t the biggest of the group, Ra’çen had seen to that, but he was still of size enough.
Ra’çen began sprinting forward. He stopped, took a step, and flipped his axe in the air. He slapped his palms together and caught the axe with both, then he flund the axe forward into the man’s skull. The man flipped back whilst his legs flipped forward. For a time, the arsehole was in the air, until he landed back down with a great crunch.
He ran for the axe; he heard the man behind him, running after him. He slid along the ground, his legs burning. He gripped his axe and pulled it free before he had been bulled into. His head hit the ground and his vision went white then red. He scrambled back up and almost fell. He was punched in the face and he felt a tooth fly out, one of the back ones.
He concentrated and got his vision to stop swimming. He finally saw more than blurs. He stood. Then they were in a lock of swing, parry a punch, swing, avoid, punch, avoid, and so on. He couldn’t remember when he’d lost his axe but he had, and all he could use were his fists and his legs, but he never liked using his legs. He punched the last fucker remaining in the face.
They were then on top of each other, rolling, punching, fighting to be the one on top. The rolled in mud. Ra’çen punched and punched and punched but to not effect. He swore, screamed, and punched, but he was helpless. He felt tears well in his eyes, his anger flaring. He found his axe. He slipped it in to the man’s ribcage and then flung him in the fire. The man lit easily and burned. The screams turning into chaos.
Ra’çen couldn’t do anything apart from lay there and die. He’d taken too many punches. His head ached. He just wanted to rest and join his family.
He felt hands around him, he felt the ground disappear. Ra’çen didn’t know what was happening to him but he knew that when he woke, he would find out.
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