I sprinted through the gates and retrieved Mielda, mounting her swiftly before galloping after John. The road ahead stretched into the countryside, the sky darkening as heavy clouds loomed. The rain, which had been gentle before, began to fall harder, as if the storm had been waiting for this moment.
Further down the road, we spotted people coming toward us—battered, wounded, their faces twisted in pain. Among them were a few guards, limping and bloodied, barely able to stand. They had fought and lost.
I clenched my jaw. A village this small likely had few defenders. Ernest had planned this well—knew the festival would bring silver and gold, knew the guards would be spread thin.
And now, he was reaping the spoils… can't say I wasn't jealous, the little bastard.
"How many enemies are there?" I asked. "Do we know?"
"What, Norse?" John called over his shoulder while galloping. "You scared?"
"I'm not, friend," I replied, raising my voice over the wind. "Just wondering how many sacrifices I'll be giving to Odin."
"Probably ten or more," he answered. "Those dung heaps aren't stronger than us, and they don't have the numbers. They're just… clever."
"And wicked?"
"Yes. Wicked."
A sharp scream tore through the air—then another, and another. The clash of metal rang out, the crackling of burning wood followed, and the scent of blood thickened.
We were close.
From the shadows, a man lunged, sword flashing. Mielda reared up, sensing the danger, but before I could react, an arrow whistled past my head. I threw myself from the saddle, landing hard on the ground before slapping Mielda's flank to send her away. As I rose, I pulled both my axes free.
"Come!" I roared, throwing off my cloak. "I'll paint the village crimson with your blood, cowards!"
John clashed swords with an attacker emerging from the bushes. "Heathens! God will judge you! You will burn in hell!"
The swordsman nearest me swung, but I caught his blade with one axe and carved upward with the other, slicing his cheek open. He stumbled, cursing, but I gave him no time to recover. Sliding forward on my knees, I drove my blade across his midsection. His gut split open, intestines spilling onto the earth.
He was still alive.
Grinning, I grabbed his throat, yanked his entrails free, and coiled them around my fist. Then, using them as makeshift knuckles, I slammed his own guts into his face. Once. Twice. Again and again, until his forehead caved in, his nose shattered, and his gurgling stopped.
"For Odin!"
I severed his head and strapped it to my Höggskjold, then turned.
John had already finished his fight. He stood over his fallen enemy, sword raised high before plunging it straight into the man's chest. The blade struck the heart, killing him instantly. This priest was no ordinary holy man. That much was certain.
He exhaled deeply, wiping the sweat from his brow. We met in the middle of the battlefield and looked toward the village.
It wasn't large—just two guesthouses, big enough to shelter at least twenty people. At the center stood a statue: a tree with outstretched branches, a small child reaching for an apple on his toes.
Blood stained the carving. The boy's face, the tree, all of it drenched in crimson. And at the base of the statue, in cruel mockery of the sculpted scene, lay a real child. Lifeless. His glassy eyes frozen open in terror.
There were five or six guards, all locked in combat with the bandits. But they weren't faring well—most were wounded, struggling to keep up with the bandits' superior skill.
John's rage erupted. "Bastards!" he bellowed. "Come, Norse! We'll make them pay!"
"Yes!" I shouted. "Kill them all!"
As a man rushed at me, I ducked under his swing and slammed my shoulder into his gut, knocking him to the ground. Before he could react, I dragged my axe across his throat, spilling his life onto the dirt. The momentum nearly pulled me forward, but I caught myself with one hand on the ground and turned back.
Kneeling over his corpse, I set to work severing his head roughly, then strapped it tightly onto my Höggskjold. With each head I claimed, I could feel Thor's strength coursing through me.
John, a few paces away, struck a man square in the jaw. As the enemy staggered backward, the priest drew his dagger in one swift motion and buried it deep into the man's heart.
Then, a scream.
A brute of a warrior, wielding a massive axe, brought his weapon down on a mother who had been shielding her child. The blade cleaved her back, ending her life instantly. She collapsed over her son, her body shielding him even in death. The boy screamed, sobbing as he shook her limp form, calling her name in vain.
An unnecessary kill.
"No!" John roared. "You fucking trash!"
"Priest, stop!" I barked, but it was too late.
Blinded by rage, John charged the brute, only to be caught mid-lunge. The warrior seized him by the throat and hurled him like a ragdoll into the carcass of a dead horse. John rebounded off, his back slamming into the burning walls of a house. He crumpled to the ground, unmoving—except for the rise and fall of his chest. Good. He wasn't dead yet. I still had a reward to claim.
I turned my focus to the axeman.
Rushing forward, I brought both axes up to lock against his great axe, straining against his strength. But he was stronger. With a grunt, he shoved me back and swung. I barely jumped out of range, but not fast enough—the blade kissed my stomach, slicing a thin line across my skin. A fresh wound, but nothing I couldn't endure.
"Where is Ernest?" I demanded. "Take me to your leader. We'll settle this with a holmgang."
"We don't care about your fucking gods or your backwater customs, piss-colored shit," he spat. "I'll kill you and send you to your puny god myself."
I rushed him again, rolling beneath his wide swing and aiming for his exposed back. But he was faster than he looked. He spun, catching the hilt of my axe in his grip. His strength was greater than mine—I had no chance of ripping the weapon free—so I let it go and stepped back.
The brute tossed my axe to the dirt and stalked toward me. Then—I heard it. The sharp whistle of a blade slicing the air behind me.
Instinct took over. I twisted just in time, raising my arm. A sword slammed into my gauntlet, shattering the light metal and scraping my forearm beneath.
"Take this, Dane!" the attacker sneered.
I didn't give him the chance to swing again.
I trapped his weapon arm, yanked him close, and smashed my forehead into his face. He reeled, dazed, and that was all I needed. My remaining axe found his neck, burying itself deep. I punched him twice, dislodging the blade—and with the final strike, his head came free.
Another trophy for my Höggskjold.