All was quiet over the valley save for the crunching of footsteps in snow, and the bitter whispers of the wind. A chilling silence had fallen over Fenris and the other Forsworn as they crept softly through the forest, their once loud, boisterous leader now quietly thoughtful as the grave.
The other bootlickers looked at each other for guidance, but only Fenris knew the truth to Corvere's silence. The man was untangling his lie about the rebels even as they headed towards the valley, looking at every angle, weighing every option, searching for any signs that pointed towards the possibility of treachery.
If only Fenris could tell the truth, to reveal the strange path he'd been put upon by the Witch's son, but that would only give Corvere even more power over him. Better to let the man plot and scheme in the confines of his own mind. There was doubtless little space there for much complexity anyway.
The wind kicked up again as they reached a dip in the land, glittering dust whipping past in a sheet of pale sparkles. Fenris shielded his eyes, saw two figures approaching from the opposite way between his fingers. Corvere's scouts.
The Chosen nodded his head. The universal sign to get on with it. The first man held up three fingers on his left hand and two on his right. Near three dozen rebels. The second gripped an imaginary pole and jabbed at the group. Spearmen. Perfect for pinning people in place and halting their escape.
Corvere nodded again and padded at his belt. At once the group pulled their weapons out. Fenris slid his own sword free, black glass edge practically cutting the air with every gentle movement.
Pointing at his left eye, the Butcherman chose who would follow him into battle. He unsurprisingly picked his most loyal sycophants first, choosing Darendel last much to everyone else's surprise. The man frowned but said nothing as he stepped into formation.
And to Fenris's even greater surprise, he found Corvere choosing him as his right eye, taking leadership over the second speartip. A cold chill ran up his spine as he frantically searched the man for answers, but for once in his life he was unreadable, his eyes glazed over yet hauntingly fixed on him.
Fenris swallowed, knowing full well he could show no fear to the other mongrels now. If he was to ascend, he would need to be tough as stone and cold as ice. He waved for the remaining Forsworn to follow him and together they poured down into the valley.
The loping plains of Middlefort's eastern fringes slowly transformed into towering treelines and rough thickets as Fenris and the rest kept walking. Corvere split off west once the land evened back out, cutting off any potential runners. Like a net, they would trawl the valley for rebels, catching them unawares before they could use their spears. More than likely they would break off and run once they realized the trap, the training of poor peasantry quickly crumbling against the might of the Forsworn.
Fenris smiled. And then the fun part could finally begin.
The chase. The moment when fear overtook logic and men began to panic. The outcome was always the same. They'd either drop their weapons or fall to their knees and beg for mercy.
The latter took longer to kill, but Fenris preferred it this way. It made him feel alive, made his entire body finally move with purpose. The pumping of his legs as he gained speed, the mechanical chopping of his arms as he lunged at the air. Far better than the cold, slow death promised to you in Danic.
A glint of metal caught his attention in the distance. Fenris stopped in his tracks, the other Forsworn following suit.
Time oozed into an uncomfortable slowness as Fenris identified the source, the faintest glint of a spear tip poking out over a tree branch.
Rebels.
Fenris nodded over to the rocks and trees beside him and the others slowly melted into the gaps, hiding away as he stood there frozen in place. If he was spotted, hopefully the rebels would think he came alone. Good enough to still spring the trap if need be.
The speartip shifted and Fenris held his breath as two men appeared into view, walking down a muddy path. Their backs were luckily facing him as they continued on, weapons loose in their hands.
No doubt they were waiting for something. A signal maybe, but what that signal was Fenris couldn't guess. A bonfire on top of the tower maybe, or the blasting of a great horn? It was hard to say. Jarl Kriggith was keeping everyone on their toes tonight.
Fenris gripped his weapon tight as he turned towards one of the Forsworn and gave the command. The woman pulled out her bow without hesitation and knocked an arrow. She sank the first one through a rebel's throat, the second taking out the survivor right between the eyes. Both bodies dropped with a hollow clank, their spears thudding into the dirt.
Fenris plodded gently over, the other Forsworn following after. He peered over one of the bodies, nudging it over with his boot, eyeing the surrounding tree line. The path ahead looked recent, wagon wheel tracks crisscrossing the mud churned ground. Enough to haul three dozen spears by the looks of it.
His hypothesis proved correct as the treeline quickly opened up into a grove, the open expanse filled to the brim with clueless prey. Two carts lay scattered on one side, the gear within now held in the hands of nearly thirty Lightbringers. They faced towards the city, no doubt waiting for the signal to charge.
Once again Fenris had them at their backs, their focus entirely set upon Middlefort. He motioned with one hand as the other Forsworn began to fan out, slowly cutting off any chance of escape.
Corvere was strangely absent for this, Fenris noticed. No matter how much he hated the man's guts, the man had a keen sense for tracking prey, but this time he was nowhere to be found. Not that it bothered Fenris any. An ambush with half the normal soldiers was just as strong as a full frontal assault. Once the fear kicked in, tactics would quickly outshine the numbers.
Damn Corvere then. He could eat the leftovers for all Fenris cared. Now was the time to do what he did best.
With a roar Fenris burst from cover and charged straight towards the rebel line. The other Forsworn were quick to follow him, adding their own war cries into the mix until it turned into a crashing wave of sound. Some of the rebels turned to face them, bravery or stupidity rooting them in place. The rest, however, quickly broke and ran, throwing their weapons down for extra speed. All would see their demise that night.
Fenris pivoted at the last moment of impact, the tip of a spear streaking past his golden curls as he lunged, chopping into his attacker's flank. The man squawked as he went down, the crash and boom of battle swallowing them whole as the rest of the Forsworn smashed into the rebel line.
Fenris kept his momentum, throwing the man aside as he ran towards the next, batting away a pathetic attempt of a strike before burying his blade in the man's torso. Black blood sprayed out as he tore his sword free, not caring if he killed the rebel or not before turning to the next one. The other Forsworn could take the runners if they wanted, this time he wanted the fighters, he wanted the courageous ones. He wanted to break the strongest first.
Someone screamed, tearing Fenris from his frenzy. A rebel charged at him, spear leveled to take him in the stomach. The brave fool.
Fenris dug his heels in and sprang forward, matching the rebel's speed, charging straight for him, heartbeat thudding in his ears. He wanted to see who would yield first, to see if the man had any semblance of courage to meet his death face on. Would he stay? Would he run?
The rebel's eyes went wide as he and Fenris crossed the line between bravery and sanity, speartip glinting in the half light.
Fenris smiled, knowing he could sidestep at any moment, turning the man's single act of heroism into sheer failure, but he was too busy enjoying himself.
A failure on his part then as without warning the clouds above ripped themselves apart, the light of Aurora pouring down upon him. Fenris screamed as the indomitable, unyielding rays raked across his flesh, his sight snatched away as he stumbled to stay upright. His breath came out a guttural wheeze as bright, burning pain lanced through him, carrying him off his feet. The last thing he saw was a spear punching through his stomach.
*
"No." Regis stood there in stark horror as the eye in the sky slammed shut. The last few god rays winked out of existence as the miasma above swirled over the wound, sealing shut once more.
Olaf's arm dropped meekly to his side, staring up as if unsure what had occured. Vausk had fallen into incoherent babbling, face buried in the snow as he beat the ground with his fists.
"But how?" Regis asked, his breath coming out in cold, desperate shudders. "How is this possible?"
Olaf shook his head, tiny tendrils of silver hair swaying in the breeze. "Something is wrong. The second stanza of the prophecy has been enacted, but the outcome is...different. The Omen was supposed to bring hope." He paused to look down at Vausk's weeping. "But I fear that Omen brought something else instead."
He turned his eyes back towards the clouds, the wound in the sky completely healed now. "Why, Aurora?" The old man's question rang out in the still air. "What did I do wrong?" His voice reverberated out over the land despite his frail appearance, words echoing over the distant plains, begging the goddess again and again.
What did I do wrong..wrong....wrong...
"We have to go down there," Regis said, hefting up his hammer. "We have to stop this. We have to do something."
"The Prophecy cannot be stopped, Harold," Olaf said. "We cannot interfere. The massacre of Middlefort must be allowed to happen, no matter the outcome."
"Massacre? Listen to yourself! You're talking about men's lives! The lives of my people! Our people! All for the sake of some prophecy your mad mind created as a product of your grief and hatred!" Regis wanted to grab Olaf by the collar, to shake some damn sense into him, but even as he ranted and raved he could see the old man's mind had been made up long ago. The same look Dux gave when he'd given the final order to run. The conviction of a man with nowhere to run.
"You have not seen the things I've seen, Harold," Olaf said, placing a hand on Vausk's shoulder. "You have not done the things I've done. When High King Erik came into power, he took more than just the crown. He took Danic's very soul. If ten thousand people have to die so a million may yet live, then so be it." His grip on Vausk tightened. "I am willing to make that sacrifice."
"What has become of you, Olaf?" Regis shook his head, the man he once knew now a complete stranger to him. No longer was he Olaf the Aulderman. That man died in Copperhaven. Only Olaf the Bright Eyed stood before him now.
A scream tore through the air, chilling Regis to the core.
Vausk tore his face away from the tear spattered snow, eyes wide and red rimmed. "The spearmen! The other Chosen must have discovered them! The traps been found out! It's all falling apart!"
"Not if I have any say in it!" Regis tore down the hill before Olaf could stop him, heaving the hammer in both hands as he charged.
"Harold! Wait! We have to go north! Only there will the prophecy be fulfilled! This is foolishness!"
"Fark your prophecy!" Regis said. He'd eaten a belly full of Olaf's bullshit already, and could stomach no more. Now was the time for action. Now was the time to do what he did best.
Killing for the sake of it.
***