Life could be tough in the frozen north. What with the constant dreary darkness, the constant stabbing winds, the constant need to look over your shoulder. It was the type of life that could grind a man into dust if he wasn't careful. Even a crumb of weakness would have the jackals set upon you, tearing you limb from limb.
That's why Fenris had to be tough, so that no man could ever doubt his resolve. He would make his heart a block of ice if he had too, with a blazing coldness that would numb all his worries away. Giving him strength. Giving him purpose.
Which is why he kept his face an emotionless stone mask as Corvere ordered the execution of Kairnborg's citizens.
"Decimation," the man began to say, pacing before the villagers. They'd been rounded up to the square by the rest of Corvere's henchmen, forced to stand in single file lines, their eyes never leaving the ground. "Can anyone tell me what that means?"
No one said anything. No one dared to raise their voice to the Butcherman, a title Corvere had procured himself instead of earning it like a real warrior. He was the type of vermin to do such a thing. Tall and slightly stooped, twitchy eyes constantly searching for his meal. Even his laugh held a rat-like edge to it.
"Come now. Tut, tut. Don't start speaking up all at once." There was a sound like crinkling ice as Corvere drew out his black glass blade, tip resting on a young girl's throat. She gasped, wide blue eyes staring, unable or unwilling to step away.
Fenris grit his teeth. She didn't look much older than his little sister, golden locks trembling as she fought back tears. So brave for someone so young. To stand up to such evil. It only made his blood boil that much hotter. He wanted to jump, lash out, sink his teeth into Corvere's throat. It would have been so easy, so fast. But how could he?
When he was the Butcherman's second in command.
"It means to kill one tenth of us as punishment for the whole city." A man stepped out from one of the lines, gray wispy hair floating over a bald pate.
Corvere narrowed his eyes, studying him. "That's correct," he said after a pause. "What's your name?"
The man swallowed, tearing his hat off and clutching it to his chest. "Paytor, my lord."
"Come here, Paytor."
Fenris watched with horrid curiosity as the villager shambled over, making two trenches in the ankle deep snow. He stopped beside the girl, their eyes meeting briefly before turning back to the Butcherman.
"How did you come about such knowledge, Paytor?" Corvere asked, the taunt in his tone returning. "Not every man knows of such things. Were you a soldier?"
"Once, my lord."
"Were you a Jarlsman?"
"Once, my lord."
"So you're used to handing out punishments, then?" There was a glint in Corvere's eye now as he asked the question.
Paytor stood there, wincing at whatever the bastard had planned. He kept his mouth shut this time, probably what he should have done from the start. But if there was one thing Fenris knew was that once you started the action, you had to live with its consequences.
"Give him your sword."
Fenris blinked, realized it was Corvere talking to him this time. "What?"
"I said, give him your sword," the Butcherman snarled. "Do not make me repeat myself again."
With raw fingertips, Fenris slid his black glass sword free, handing it gingerly to Paytor. The man stared at it dumbly.
"Take it," Corvere commanded. The man obeyed, brows lifting as he realized the weight of it, or lack thereof. No doubt he was used to iron, heavier materials of a bygone era. But it was black glass that held the sharper edge now, right under the people's throat.
"Hear me, people of Kairnsborg," the Butcherman continued, voice carrying over the horrified crowd. "The High King of Danic has heard rumor of rebellion being whispered in this town. Such treacheries cannot be abided." He paused, letting the horror of his words sink in.
"You will all be spared, but only if those responsible surrender themselves to me and my associate here immediately." It took an effort for Fenris to hold back a snarl. Being associated with a man like Corvere was like being associated with a turd. It made everyone else think you smelled of shit as well. But what could he do? The High King had ordered them both to go, and so they went.
Life was tough in the frozen north, so you had to be tough yourself. Even if you wanted nothing more than to stab a turd to death.
"If you don't, " Corvere added dryly. "I will have Paytor here kill one tenth of you."
"What?" Fenris wondered if he was the one who'd spoken out, but luckily it had been Paytor who'd raised his voice first. "My lord. Please, this is madness. There's no talk of rebellion here. No one would dare raise arms against King Erik. Please, I beg of you."
The man's voice had fallen to a croaky whisper by the time he was done, the corners of his eyes glittering in the half dark. It made the ice in Fenris' heart crack a little, made him look away. He stared out over the square, wondering why the people weren't doing anything. There were a good hundred to the dozen of them. A simple uprising, a pulse of courage and they could have overpowered them all easily. But there was nothing left in their hollow, downtrodden eyes. Any bravery they had left had long since snuffed out. They were beaten. Defeated. Finished.
Except for one. A young woman, barely reaching his shoulder, stood near the back, hair the color of bile and looking just as choleric. Her eyes blazed with unguarded hatred as she stared straight at him, sharp cheekbones jutting with an equally dagger like chin. Fenris could only stand there impressed. Here was someone tough enough to survive the North. Perhaps one day he would test such mettle.
"Then what's that in your hand?" Corvere asked, pulling Fenris away from the girl. The Butcherman gestured lazily at the sword in Paytor's possession. The villager could only stare in mute shock at the trap he'd landed in, too late to twist free.
"My lord. Please."
"You have ten seconds to come forth and reveal yourselves!" Corvere roared, ignoring Paytor's plea. "Ten seconds, or the girl dies first!" he pointed down at the child he'd threatened earlier, gasps rippling through the townsfolk as they finally realized what was at stake. Dead eyes flickered with fear as they turned towards one another, looking, searching, hunting for the so-called rebels.
Would they turn on each other, Fenris wondered. Would they tear each other apart just to escape their fate? It was the kind of thing Corvere was known for as the High King's Jarlsman. He preferred to let people kill themselves then by his hand, as if it justified him in some way.
"Ten!" Corvere started to count. "Nine!"
Fenris swallowed. He stared at Paytor, the sword in his grip trembling ever so slightly. It would have been easy to kill Corvere then. He was staring out over the crowd, unaware.
Paytor could have run him through and Fenris would not have stopped him. But they both did nothing as Corvere's countdown came to an end.
"One!" The Butcherman dropped his last finger, eyes narrowing as a hard silence fell over the town square. No one said anything. No one did anything. Even the young woman who'd glared at Fenris was still there, tight lipped and burning with wroth.
"Fine, then. Have it your way." Corvere eyed Paytor, pointing down at the little girl. "Kill her."
The man turned, both eyes wide and shimmering as they came to the same horrifying conclusion. He stood there dumbly, neck muscles bobbing as he swallowed. "No," he muttered, blade dropping from his limp hands. "I won't. There's no need for—,"
Corvere's sword snapped from its scabbard, cutting Paytor's head clean off his shoulders. The man didn't even have a chance to scream as his body tumbled into the snow.
Somewhere in the city, a woman screamed.
*
"Do you think me a monster, Fenris?" Corvere asked as they rode out of Kairnborg. Flames licked at the sky as thatch roofs sizzled and popped behind them, shadows dancing in the tree line.
Fenris took his time to answer. He had to choose his words well. Corvere was not a man to easily slight, but not a man to show weakness to either. If he wanted to come out on top, he would need to do so with the attention of the others. "Why? Feeling thoughtful all of a sudden?"
The man eyed him. "Of wine and women most days, but do not be coy with me. Answer my simple question."
"Why," he repeated, feeling braver now. "It's not as if you've done something monstrous. I'm sure the remaining villagers in Kairnsborg appreciate the warmth you've given them tonight. All it cost was their homes." Metal clicked as the other riders slowly began to turn their heads, as if conspiring on a secret conversation. "You're not feeling any regrets are you, Corvere?"
"I did what was necessary!" Corvere turned on him, his unnaturally gaunt face a constant reminder of who he was, of what he was. "That's why the High King made me your farking Jarlsman." He turned his gaze to the other riders and they quickly looked away. "The rest of you better fall in line if you know what's good for you!" I'll suffer neither doubt nor treachery from the likes of any of you, lest I turn your guts into farking tree ornaments!
"And as for you," he continued, rounding on Fenris this time. "You're lucky you're the High King's favorite, or I'd be making an example of you through this entire farking forest."
He was good and angry now, Fenris reckoned, acid burning at the back of his throat as he fought to stay calm. Get a man riled up and he's bound to make mistakes. "What's wrong Corvere? You're not going to hit me are you? It'd be a real shame if you did. Then I'd have to thrash you in front of all of your men."
The Butcherman's eyes went wide, fists clenched tight about the reins, when his face unnaturally softened. An amused smile curled up one side of his lips as he leaned in close to whisper. "We'll see who does the thrashing when I tell them what you and Darendel were doing in the sleeping hall this morning."
Fenris felt the victorious ember in his chest go cold. He looked around, wondering if the other riders had heard, but they were focused ahead, unaware. He stared back, teeth gritted as he fought to keep the mask on, but he knew. He knew Corvere had seen his weakness.
The man's smile grew. "That's what I thought. You can flap your lips all you want, princeling, but I'm sure they're better suited for Darendel's cock instead. Keep them shut for now, lest I spill your secret like he spilled his seed down your chin."
And with that, Corvere rode off, leaving Fenris to sit there stunned in his saddle. Truly, Life was tough in the frozen north. Having any sort of weakness only made things worse.
***