“There he is,” said Gondyr Son of Kjorn, “by the pink lake.” Dros Son of Kjorn peered through the bushes and saw a deer, with fur as white as snow and a pair of silver horns, emerge, strutting from the shadows of trees. It approached the lake, trampling over patches of melting snow that were littered all over the lake’s shore and surrounding grass. It appeared that the Spring colours had finally begun to break through the thick white layer of winter. Where for months only snow had lain with grass, now lavender, daisies, bluebells, and more of the like were beginning to peer into the open air. Snow also melted atop the yellow crowns of trees, water droplets dripping from the tips of leaves as if weeping at the thought that winter was coming to an end.
The deer reached the pink waters, dipped its snout into the lake, and ladled small amounts into its mouth with its tongue. Once finished, it lifted its head. Dros’ jaw dropped as its horns lit up with a fluorescent blue that shone brightly through hidden cracks in the silver. The light reflected as a dark lilac on the lake. Dros could not steer his eyes away from the deer.
For years, he had begged his older brother to let him join one of his hunts. “When you’ve lived through more winters than I can count in my hands,” was always his reply. Yet, while staring at the majestic creature standing before him, Dros began to realise that he wasn’t so eager to hunt anymore.
“Now, draw your bow,” Gondyr commanded, snapping Dros out of his trance. He did as his brother said, but dropped the bow on the ground as he slung it from his shoulder.
“Careful.” Gondyr dipped instantly to grab the bow. “Act too rash and you’ll spook it.” Gondyr looked flustered, and Dros took it to mean he was disappointed with him. It burdened him with a guilt heavier than any log he’d ever lifted. He’s finally let me join him, it hasn’t even started and I’ve already ruined it! Dros thought.
“It’s no matter,” his brother said, placing the bow back into Dros’ hands. “Luckily, we’re far enough that it wasn’t startled. Let this be a lesson to always guard your distance. Always maintain focus, more importantly. As long as you respect the prey, silly mistakes won’t ruin your hunt. Too close, and you’ll scare it. Too far, and you’ll miss.” He punctuated the lesson with a comforting smile, infectious as last winter’s shivers. A shy smile broke through Dros’ lips. “Let’s close the gap.”
They stalked through trunks, bushes, and shrubs, mindful of any lying sticks or stones that could startle their prey. Gondyr directed them to a dead log with flaky bark on the ground around it.
“Here.” He retrieved an arrow from a quiver hanging from his belt and put it in Dros’ hands. “Now, as we practiced. Draw it back.” Dros nocked the arrow on the string. He balanced the arrow on the tip of his index finger and began to tense the string, pulling it back. “Right up to the ear.” The bow exerted heavy resistance, the string pressing into his fingers. He had a clear view of the deer, broadside, as it went for another drink. “Focus. Aim just behind its front shoulder.” His shoulder and back were starting to cramp, but he wasn’t going to let that ruin this hunt. It continued to suck up the lake’s water, gulp after gulp.
Ruffles came from the same direction from which the deer had emerged. A doe and fawn trotted toward the buck.
“Shoot, Dros! It’s distracted.”
But the mother and the child…Dros hesitated. He glanced at his brother, returned his gaze to the prey, and loosed the arrow. It cut through the air and thrummed into the grass, clear from the deer and its family. The deer all leaped, distraught. The buck’s horns turned a deep red, and the three bolted into the woods.
“You missed!” Gondyr shouted, without restraint. “You had the perfect shot,” he continued. “Not only did you bump the buck, and the other two, but now they’ll alert other deer in the vicinity.”
“I’m sorry,” Dros muttered, his tone laced with soft whimpers “I couldn’t do it!”.
“No, Dros. You won’t cry. You’re better than that. You’re a man-giant of the Roc. Unconquerable. Act like one.” Dros stared at Gondyr, sobbing.
“We would’ve taken their dad away. What would you do to a man if they took father’s life?”
Gondyr looked at him fixedly, and said: “Those boyish wits would get any grown man killed! It’s either their life, or we starve. We are not the beasts we hunt. Men seldom kill other men with the flesh as their objective.”
“Boyish? I’ve lived through twelve winters now!” Dros cried in response.
“And yet we stand here without our dinner. Or need you miss enough for me to not be able to count it with both hands?”
His brother’s words dug deep like an axe to the skull.
Gondyr paused and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Dros. I’m being too harsh. I was no huntsman with so few winters behind me. We’ll hunt another day.” Would that wounds be patched so easily. “Now, grab a stick. The longest one you can find. That, you can do. We can’t return empty-handed. Winter’s only just passed. Our food stores are emptier than a beggar’s stomach.”
Dros did as his brother bade, though reluctantly. He scanned the forest floor, but all he found were twigs and broken branches. “Still haven’t found one?” Gondyr asked.
Gondyr, the Perfect, the singers would call him, intruded a sudden thought. Would that I was the singer. Look at my stick, just the perfect size!
“Have this one,” his brother offered. “I’ll find another.” For that, Dros thanked the Vervs he had not spoken those words aloud.
Gondyr gave Dros some spare bowstring. “Tie your carving knife to the end of the branch. Like this.” He picked a long broken-off branch from the ground and attached his knife to one of the ends. “Not even in Kunningrfish they make them like this.”
They set their sights on the lake, leaving behind the quieter method of traversal, as there was no game to spook anymore, and plundered its shores for hours.
“Look at this one!” Dros called, holding a large trout from its tail.
“A Spring boy’s catch.” Gondyr pulled the harpoon from the water, and at its tip was a fish the size of his thigh. They laughed and cheered as they competed to see who could catch the biggest fish. Gondyr won. The sack was near overfilled, the tailfins of a captor poking out of the hole.
Dros dropped to one of the boulders, his arms and legs aching. “I’m tired, Gon.”
“We’ve to hike back. No room for tiredness,” Gon said, a smile on his face. “Say, we take a dip in the lake? The cold will wake you up.”
“It’s freezing!” He said, feeling his feet with his hand, still numb and icy to the touch.
“It’s the finest pleasure nature has to offer,” Gondyr responded, ditching his furs as he plunged into the lake.
Dros followed his brother, also going bare. The pink waters struck him with brisk shock, sending jolts all through his skin. He gritted his teeth as the water enveloped him, his heartbeat a raging drum to the beat of the biting chill. “How c-can you enj-joy this?” he said, trembling. Gondyr just laughed.
“Breathe. Slow and deep. Calm your body.” Dros drew long breaths, his body acclimatising to the cold. Once accustomed, he saw that Gondyr was right. For once, the forest seemed blissful, time freezing in place as if all lifestrings revolved around the pink waters. Truly nature’s greatest joy.
“We better start home,” Gondyr proposed, staring at the mountains. “The woods are not so welcoming in the dark.” Dros, agreed, seeing how the sun had near fully sneaked away behind the range, its warm light waning behind the snowy peaks. The moon, just arriving, shone faintly in the sky.
The brothers gathered their belongings. Gondyr slung the bow around his shoulder, and the rest of the hunting supplies in his satchel, amongst other things. Dros, in turn, had only a single thing to carry: the sack of fish, standing as tall as his hips.
“Come on, Dros,” his brother said, already ahead. “Grab it and let’s go. We’ve a long journey ahead.”
Dros drew a deep breath. He gripped the closed hem with his fingers, squatted low, and loaded it onto his shoulders. “Two, three…up!” He strained with all his might. His muscles stretched to their limits, feeling as though they would rip from the bone. He stumbled slightly as he stood, but quickly regained his footing.
“Let’s go,” Dros said, through the huffs and puffs. Gondyr started laughing as Dros marched off in the direction of…he wasn’t sure.
“If only the world was round, maybe you’d find Yorm in a year or two. We’re going the other way.” Dros tried to turn around without stopping, but the weight of the sack toppled over his shoulder and pulled him down with it. Gondyr’s laughter only intensified.
“That’s enough entertainment for one day,” he said, chuckling. “Let me take it. Have the bow and the satchel.”
“No!” Dros protested, scrambling to his feet, his knees muddied. “I failed today. I want to make up for it.”
“Watching you lift that was more than enough compensation,” Gondyr replied, chuckling. “Now, we must hurry home.” His tone suddenly shifted. “Unless you wish to sleep with the wolves.”
Reluctantly, Dros handed over the sack. He slung the bow around one shoulder and the satchel around the other, and they set off down the long and winding path that descended into the Valley of Yorm.
The night seemed eternal, and the road longer, still. They had been hiking for what seemed like hours, and the forest only continued winding further down the hills. Any colour that had existed in the day was long forgotten now that the sun set. Dros knew the trees to be yellow, their trunks white, the floor brown, but in the dark, they were one in the same. The animals of the forest also blended into the shadows. Scarcely, if ever, did an animal show its face, or so much as make a sound. The birds that would so heartily whistle their tune in the light were deathly quiet now. Even the trees and bushes were silent, safe for when the wind decided to sing its melody by rustling the shrubs or blowing on the leaves…but was it only the wind that sang in the night?
The cool night air was fast approaching. Shivers slithered down his spine. His arms tingled as gooseprickles crawled across his skin, and his nipples, hard as pebbles, rubbed coarsely against his fur vest. He tried to rub his exposed arms with his hands so perhaps he would feel some warmth, but his fingers were stiff, and flexing them caused pain. His legs began to ache, and every stride he took felt heavier than the last. Dros began to grow restless, wanting nothing other than his warm bed. “How much further?” he gasped, his chest heaving.
“Half a league,” Gondyr managed to squeeze through his heavy breaths, “or thereabouts.”
Just half a league, he repeated to himself with every few strides. He tried to ignore his surroundings, ignore the pain. He placed his mind elsewhere, picturing himself sitting around the hearth with his family later that night, telling stories of their day. He was sure that Father would chortle until the fire gave out upon hearing Gondyr recount Dros’ first hunt—or lack thereof—his beard and belly caked with moord.
A susurration from the shrubs interrupted his imagination. Dros’ entire body froze, his limbs flexed, his breathing halted. He stared in the direction of the noise, and a set of yellow piercing eyes shot at him from within the shrubs, but only for a moment. They vanished as quickly as they had appeared.
“Gon,” he uttered with worry in his voice. “I want to go home.”
“We’re going home, Dros.” He paused to take a breath. “Just a little further.” Gondyr’s words did little to soothe him. Frankly, though, Dros wasn’t sure anything his brother could have said would have calmed his fears.
The moon reigned meekly over the night sky; its army of stars overshadowed by gloomy clouds. The trees gradually became a sparse sight, leaving only dark fields stretching before them. With the forest gone, the wind roared loudly through the valley, hissing and sighing past Dros’ ears. In the distance, Dros spotted Yorm’s palisade, a mere dot hundreds of yards away where pillars of smoke rose to meet the skies.
“The Bloom bonfires!” Dros shouted in excitement. The stake wall grew taller and stretched wider as they approached their home, casting an orange glow that lingered amongst the blackness of the night. We are home, he said to himself, nothing to worry about now.
“Men on foot!” shouted a man from atop the northern gate’s watchtower.
“Open the gates!” cried Gondyr in response.
“Who’s there?”
“Dros and Gondyr, Sons of Kjorn.”
An eyehole flicked open, too high for Dros to see the face behind it, but Gondyr stared into it intently. Whoever was behind the gate grunted and pulled the eyehole shut. The gate lumbered open, the wooden stakes groaning.
“Kjorn’s boys!” cheered the man coming through the gap, Hugr Son of Thronn.
Hugr, a man of brawn and belly—his father’s words. He had a frizzy, unkempt beard, and a long braid that flowed from his bald head to the middle of his back.He embraced Gondyr with such force that one would have thought he meant to tackle him. Then did the same to Dros, wrapping him in his arms, sweaty and hairy. His shaggy beard itched Dros forehead, and his odour was strong and pungent. “I’d figured you’d be in some wolf’s belly, by now,” he chuckled. “You had your mother so worried she nearly tore down these gates to go searching for you.”
“Is she alright? What about Father?” Dros asked, his shoulders tensing.
“Your father got her to gather her strings in the end. They’ll be around some bonfire singing, and your father head-deep in a horn of moord!”
“Thank you, Hugr.” Gondyr shook his hand, both smiling with their hands interlocked. “Next time, it’s a horn on me,” he said as they passed through into Yorm.
The streets of Yorm were buzzing with townsfolk singing, each with a horn in their hand. Most houses were empty, for the town was celebrating the coming of Spring, safe for a few that still breathed a faint orange glow. The bending beam that ran across the roof of the longhouses reminded Dros of his mother smiling, and one soon found its way onto his own face. He knew he was home through this alone.
Each house had different protection runes etched onto their doorframes. He recognised some, like those asking for the Vervs’ favour, or the ones seeking to repel evil daemons and wyrdwitches; others, he’d yet to ask about.
Dros followed Gondyr to the nearest bonfire. He briefly strayed, scanning the crowd for his parents, but it was akin to finding a nail in a pile of logs.
“Stay close to me, Dros,” his brother commanded, yanking his arm.
“Hey, my arm’s not a rope!”
“We need to find Mother and Father. We can’t get separated.”
“Where are they?”
“They’ll be here, somewhere. Yorm’s not very big…”
BawooOOOO! A horn blasted through the air. BawoOOOOOoo! “Horses!” screamed a man from the watchtower—likely Hugr. “Horses and men on foot to the east!”
His words barely pierced the singing and laughter; most people did not even pause.
BawooOOOO! “Attackers!” he shouted again. Yorm’s jubilation quickly dimmed, though a few still dulled by moord continued in their drunken cheers until they realised they were the only ones doing it.
What’s happening? thought Dros, confused.
“Arm yourselves! Attackers to the east!”
In mere moments, Yorm’s lively celebration turned into disarray. Men rallied, “Get me my axe!” and threw down their horns. Some women also readied themselves for battle, clutching knives or axes of their own. Others cried out in panic—men and women alike.
“Dros, we need to go.” Dros felt Gondyr’s hand brush his forearm, but a hysteric mob ensued, splitting the brothers apart.
“Gon!” cried Dros as the mob tossed him from side to side. Just as he was flung apart, a giant man barged into him, but a push from another direction threw him back toward Gondyr. He grabbed his brother’s forearm, and Gondyr pulled him close.
“We need to stay together, Dros. You hear me?” Dros nodded, trembling.
Gondyr pushed through the bodies, his grip taut around Dros’ arm.
“What about Mother and Father?” yelled Dros, his voice muffled by the incessant roaring of the mob.
“There’s no time. We need to leave. The gate’s just behind the longhall—”
A loud bang shook the palisade.
“Brace yourselves!” shouted the voices of the mob.
Another bang followed, the stakes splintering open and bursting from the wall. A swarm of darkly dressed spearmen swarmed through the gap in the wall. Chaos erupted almost instantly as man-giants rushed to greet them.
Dros suddenly felt his legs leave the ground, clinging to his bow as Gondyr hoisted him onto his shoulders. Gondyr broke into a sprint, away from the fighting.
“I don’t want to die!” Dros cried, tears filling his eyes.
“Nobody’s going to die, Dros! We just need to reach the western gate.”
Just as they turned into an empty street, a hurling ball of flame punched through the roof of a longhouse next to them. Gondyr jumped at the crash, and Dros bounced with him. The blaze spread uncontrollably, with a pillar of flames spearing through the hole the ball had made.
Yorm’s sounds of battle faded behind them as they raced to the gates, but only briefly. A man on fire staggered into their path from an alley, screaming, his arms flailing in the air. His agony soon conquered him and he collapsed in their path, silencing his screams. Gondyr swerved past the scorching corpse. Dros turned around to look at him, but to his right, a door blasted open. A woman exploded through it with a babe in her arms. Before she made it far, a gloved hand jerked her back from her hair, and she crashed onto the doorsteps with a sickening crack. The babe flung from her arms and smashed into the dirt road. A muscled soldier, garbed in black from boot to helm, tore at the mother’s gown. Dros froze in horror. How is this happening? We are the man-giants of the Roc! The soldier glanced over, his bloodshot eyes meeting Dros’. A crooked smile broke from his lips as he ditched his spear and followed to unsheathe the dagger from within his breeches. Dros could bear it no longer.
“Unconquerable. Gon, you said so!”
“Shut up, Dros!”
“We have to save her, Gon!” Dros shouted with a hint of sniffling, tapping his brother’s head, repeatedly.
“Shut up, Dros! Shut up! Forget her, forget the burning man! Forget it all! There is only brother and brother.” By the time Dros turned to look upon the horror again, he was too far to tell what was occurring.
“Vervs save us,” Gondyr muttered.
Dros rattled as his brother stopped dead in his tracks.
“The gate…” Dros said, his voice wavering at the sight of their supposed exit. The wall was a mounding mess, stakes splintered and aflame. “…where to, now?”
Dros had hoped to hear the word home. They were but a few hundred yards from it, Dros was sure of it. Their nearest gate had always been the western one. But Gondyr said not a word. Dros swayed on his brother’s shoulders as Gondyr scanned their surroundings.
“We need to hide,” he said, finally. “In there.” Gondyr faced in the direction of a longhouse that had yet to be touched by the fire. “Get down and give me the bow.” Gondyr crouched. Dros hopped from his shoulders, the dirt cushioning his landing. “Hurry!”
Dros slapped his shoulder, unsure whether it was still there. His palm smacked a wooden shaft. Never had a bow given him so much relief.
Gondyr took the bow and broke for the door, Dros running behind, trying to keep up with him. As they reached the landing, Dros heard the racking of hooves crashing against and lifting off the ground. A horseman galloped towards them, jabbing at the air with his spear. The soldier blurted words in a foreign tongue, his accent deep and sharp. Before he was finished, his jaw split with a sharp thrum, and an arrow shaft now protruded from his gullet. The man rolled from his saddle but a moment later, while the horse reared and whinnied uncontrollably.
Gondyr ran inside, shutting the door behind him.
“Help me move that table,” said Gondyr, tossing the bow on the floor.
The arrow…how…when? It had happened so fast. There was no way Gondyr had drawn the bow, nocked the arrow, and fired it, all in such little time. His thoughts flashed back to the morning, to the strain of pulling back the bowstring—no one should be able to pull such weight so fast.
“Dros.” Spittle stung his eye. “Dros, they’re coming for us!” Gondyr’s face was but a hair’s width from his own. He shook Dros’ shoulders all over. “Sooner or later, soldiers are going to barge through that door with a spear aimed at your heart. We need to stay alert!” Dros nodded, breathing in rapid bursts.
Dim light leaked through the cracks in the bedroom window, faintly illuminating the main hall. Using the touch of light they had, Dros navigated to the table, grabbed it, and heaved with all the strength the Vervs had granted him that day—but it did not budge. Not until Gondyr gripped it beside him. Together, they flipped it, creating a rough barricade against the door.
“Go into the kitchen,” started Gondyr, a little out of breath, “Grab as many knives as you can from the kitchen. We’re going fishing.”
“Fishing?”
“Quick!”
Dros darted into the kitchen, his eyes catching a glimmer on the knife rack nailed to the wall. Dozens of sharp, serrated, deadly blades lined the wall. Dros grabbed about ten of them and held on tightly with his small hands and rushed back.
Gondyr was already dismantling furniture when he returned, casting aside splintered wood and keeping anything that resembled a pole. Dros looked at him confused.
“Bring them here and start tying them,” Gondyr said, handing him a piece of rope from his satchel.
“We’re making fishing pikes?”
“Yes. We’re fishing, remember?”
Shouting from outside made Dros flinch. Rough, guttural, like the tongue the horseman had yelled in.
“You hear that?” Gondyr said, grinning darkly. “They’re the fish.” His face grew serious. “Listen to me We’ll stand behind the door. Stay behind me, and hand me pike after pike they walk through. All’s clear?” Dros nodded with steadfast conviction. “Then start tying the knives. Tight as you can make them.”
Dros felt a surge of purpose rush through his blood. He produced pikes the likes of Morgot the Whaler must have used. Each knot tied thrice over. The blades would not budge, and neither would they.
“Quick!” whispered Gondyr, signalling to move to the door.
Dros gathered the pikes, hands shaking, and positioned himself where his brother had told him to be.
The yelling closed in, with footsteps accompanying their cacophony. His hands tensed. His breaths staggered. His heart; eager to jump from his chest. Then the footsteps turned to stomps. The door rattled with a thunderous bang, the table shuddering, but the barricade held true. Another bang. And another. The door burst open on the next bang with a grunt. The shoulder of a spearman peaked through the entrance, and shortly a pike drove through the rivet in his armour.
“Argh!” cried the soldier, spearhead through the throat. Another pike exchanged hands, and soon dove into the neck of the next man. And another, another, again, until three pikes remained. Twelve bodies piled at the entrance. Not a body more could fit through that door.
“Did we—are they all dead?” asked Dros.
“Shhh!” Gondyr put a finger to his lips, listening. He motioned to his ear, then towards the bedroom. “Grab one,” he whispered, pointing to the pikes.
Brusque thuds from the bedroom shook the pike in his hand. He could hear their heavy breaths, murmurs in their foreign tongue.
“Stay behind me, Dros.” Dros nodded.
The crash of wood made Dros jump. He was so close to his brother that he nearly grazed him with the tip of his pike. Luckily, Gondyr moved quickly to the bedroom. Dros stayed on his tail.
They were inside. Dros could tell the soldiers tried to conceal their steps, but the clinking of mail revealed them like a singing snitch. He tried to discern how many there were. Two, three? The rhythm of their steps was too hectic for him to tell. He soon realised that mattered little. Two burly figures barged through the doorway. Gondyr jabbed a pike into the leg of the first, and rivers of red ensued immediately—but the second soldier drove his spear through Gondyr’s gut.
With naught a thought, Dros leaped forward and thrust his pike through the soldier’s throat, warm blood spattering his face. It tasted sweet on his lips. He fell, screaming, beside his bleeding comrade, also crying out in agony. A surge of pride rushed through his veins.
“Dros!” cried Gondyr.
Suddenly, another pair of hands grabbed him by the vest, and fear rushed through him once more. “Gon!” he shouted as his feet left the floor.
Almost as quickly as he had been lifted, Dros dropped to the wooden planks. He turned to his back only to see his brother holding a half-broken spear clubbing the soldier’s skull with the other half of the shaft, splintering all over his face. Gondyr turned to his hunting knife and stabbed him over and over, bones cracking, brains spattering, blood spewing, and shortly the soldier had no face to recognise.
With a sigh, Gondyr rolled over and hit the wood, his knife clanking on the wooden boards. Dros stared at him, unsure whether to fear him, respect him, or both.
“Your first kill,” Gondyr said, breath rasping, trying to push himself up. Pressing his own weight was no more than a tickle to his muscles normally, Dros knew, but the strain on his face… He groaned as he sat up, blood seeping from his wound.
“Don’t move,” said Dros.
Gondyr ignored Dros’ worry and reached for his knife, He put it back in his sheathe. “You hunted your first prey. Well done. Are you hurt?”
“You’re the one bleeding!”
“Forget that, Dro—” A coughing fit overcame him, interlaced with grunts of pain. “We have to move,” Gondyr struggled up, clutching his side, forcing himself to stand with Dros’ support. They headed for the exit, but the mound of soldiers blocked the door.
“The window!” Dros said, grinning, as he hoisted Gondyr’s arm over his shoulder. Together, they stumbled to the window. “We should’ve stayed in that lake…” Dros began, a thin smile breaking across his lips, “…and ate all the fish. I’d kill for some of Mother’s fish stew right now…”
Gondyr’s stopped abruptly and bent over. His words soon turned to coughs, and the blood dripping from his lips quickly washed off Dros’ smile.
“Easy, Gon! We’re getting out, remember? We’re going home.”
“I’ve not forgotten, Dros.” He cleared his throat, his body shaking all over. “You jump first,” he said as they reached the window. “I’ll follow.”
Dros hauled himself through the window and landed with a hard thud. Gondyr did not follow as he said. “Gon, are you coming?”
At last, he peered his bloodied face through the window. Gondyr lurched over the hole with a grunt and plummeted to the ground with a grunt.
“Come, Gon, we need to find the exit,” said Dros, trying to help his brother up.
“If you surrender, boys,” spoke a stately voice in fluent Rocr, accompanied by a steady trot. “You may yet live.” Dros noticed he rolled his rs too much, though.
Dros snapped his head up. A group of soldiers stood before him, their leader sitting tall atop an enormous horse, his lance catching the raging flames of nearby blazing homes. His helm was forged in the shape of a lion’s head, of a deep black iron accented in gold. A crimson mane billowed from its crest. His armour was an amalgam of black mail, and basalt-grey plate, except for the sigil cast in gold on his breastplate—a tiger wielding a black scimitar on a field of gold—a sigil he did not recognise. His horse was armoured in gold, and flowed a long ginger mane from its nape, nothing like what Dros had seen on a horse of the Roc.
“This is quite the display,” the Lion-man said, his words crisp yet muffled through the metal helm. His red mane fluffed and flicked as he shook his head. “The Khah will be delighted to have such strong brandaka in his possession.” He gestured to one of his men, handing off his massive lance before dismounting.
Dros watched in terror. This was a new kind of fear, seizing him, cold and sharp, clawing from within. Gondyr said nothing.
“You two have killed a lot of my men—Well, more than many of your fellow Rocr anyway. That can mean only one thing, which is that you owe me a great debt. But how will you repay it?” Dros was thrown by some of the words; his mother had not taught them to him yet. “No reply from either, I see…Figure this—Is that right? ‘Figure this’? Sorry, forgive my Rocr, I haven’t spoken it in quite some time. We’ll take both of you as prisoners, and you’ll repay me your debt through labour. Seems fair, boy?”
“Gon…” Dros muttered, but his brother would not budge.
“You continue to ignore me.” Then he spoke sharp words in the foreign tongue. In a blink, an arrow thrummed through Gondyr’s foot. He screamed.
“It was not a choice, boy. You two will serve me and my camp.”
“We will not kneel!” Dros asserted with newfound bravery. “We are freemen of the Roc!”
The Lion soldier looked to his men and erupted into gross laughter, rendered metallic by his helm. “Your brother seems halfway there already. And free? Pah. None are free but the Wind, my boy.” He continued to laugh.
Dros sensed sudden rage surge through his veins, and in wild fury, he grabbed Gondyr’s knife from its sheathe and charged at the Lion-man.
“No, Dros!” His brother shouted.
The Lion-man swatted him aside with a clang, sending Dros sprawling. “You should’ve listened to your brother, boy,” said the Lion-man, gripping the bottom rims of his helm. As Dros staggered to his feet, the Lion-Man lifted his helm, unveiling a pale, sickly face, marked by burns and scars, his lip curled into a drooping sneer. He unfastened his right gauntlet and discarded it aside with a crash, revealing a smooth stump where a hand should have been. “Perhaps, we can come to a different kind of agreement.” From it, a stone spike sprouted as if a blade stabbed him from within his forearm.
“To strike an injured foe is a warrior’s shame,” Gondyr said, spitting blood.
“Ah, so you will speak to me now, and you are not ashamed by that? Save honour for times of peace, young man. There is no shame in war.” And he thrust his spike into Gondyr’s chest, drilling and twisting until blood spewed from the gash.
“No!” Dros screamed, rushing to rise, only for the burning Yorm to spin, forcing him on his butt again.
“I believe this debt is paid, boy.” The Lion-man wiped his stone edge on his elbow and retrieved his gauntlet from the ground. He strode past Dros, chuckling, his greaves clicking to his every step. “Not every life,” he muttered, “is worth the chip on the blade.”
© Jaime Abad 2024