An Axe in the Flames

Reunited

The recent snow in the mountains hadn't entirely translated to snow in the valley. Instead, it had brought on soaking, cold rains that oversaturated the ground and made every step a slogging foot march to wherever one might've been going. The once hard-packed dirt that lined the lazy river that separated the hunting grounds of the great mountains had been turned into a sloppy mess where one would be grateful for any solid purchase. Cold and wet rarely met and created anything beautiful in these parts, but such was life when you were born a Northman.

Njal gasped for breath, his lungs burning, as he reached out for the ground before him and came away with a handful of soft mud.

"Fuck...I will not die here..." He mumbled through dry and cracked lips.

Behind him, the Pigmen were throwing themselves into the river and somehow managing to swim without using a swimming technique. Njal's heart felt like it could explode, but his adrenaline kept him scrambling as he fought against the muddy shoreline. The screams of the nightmare behind him fueled his panic-stricken climb. Finally, he found footing and could pull himself through the sludge and onto the brown winter grass just outside his village.

He fell again to his knees, panting and fighting for a deep breath. The splashing behind him hadn't stopped, but the howls and screams were getting closer. He had to reach his village and alert the men guarding the entrance. They would know what to do, and they had the means to fight these creatures. Njal knew he had been lucky to escape the camp and also lucky to survive the drop off the cliff. If only he could reach his village of Harrock...if only he could catch his breath and call for help.

He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came. His throat was so dry, and he had no time to pause for a drink from his water skin. He had to get back on his feet and run. Mustering his strength and relying on his adrenaline to push him forward, Njal started into a run again. As he lifted his back foot, a hand grabbed his ankle and sent him rolling into the grass. Instinct took over as he reached for the axe at his waist and blindly swung behind him. It connected with a dull smack and met resistance, a howl cut short by an axe to the face. Njal turned and wrenched the axe free of the Pigman. A handful were fighting against the mud of the shore with their hate-filled eyes locked on to him.

Gathering himself again, he twisted around and got on his feet. He could barely see the pointy tops of the wooden walls surrounding his village over the next hill. He was so close. So close to help, so close to not running for his life anymore, so close to finally being able to catch his breath. For how long, though? There were so many Pigmen, more than he ever could've imagined.

The sun was hanging just above the spiked wooden poles of the wall encircling Harrock, and Njal could make out the gates were opening. He raised his axe above his head as he ran, trying frantically to get whoever's attention was coming from the gate. He tried to scream but only sucked in the crisp northern air, his lungs ablaze. Pigmen screams assailed his ears, and he knew they were getting closer as his tired legs wore down. If he could just make it a little bit further, he would be saved from this nightmare. Sunlight shone off chainmail from the gate's opening, and Njal felt his first tickle of hope in his guts.

Those were the guards on watch, and surely they could see him. He squinted as he ran and could now see that one of the men, a great burly man with a bald head and billowing black beard, was pointing his way. Njal raised his axe again and waved it as he ran. He drew in a deep breath, and with all of the force he could muster, he screamed.

"Pigmen! Coming!"

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Rikart had woken up on the floor of his cell, and like a rat that had been caught in a trap that was finally freed, he fled. Only wearing a dirty pair of linen trousers and with no shoes, he had run. He left behind the remnants of the dungeon master, his shackles, and his torment. He had also left behind his tongue, the burnt shriveled husk that remained, but at some point in his frantic run from the salt deserts to the Great Northern Mountains, it had grown back. Still blackened and cracking every day, but it would heal quickly. There were so many changes to his body, so many changes to his thinking and his purpose...oh, his purpose. The drawing, needing, and calling that he felt in his gut drove him to just keep running.