After chopping off his enemies’ heads, burying them in separate graves and sending a prayer to Worga, Brod went on his way again.

As he strode between gravestones and the occasional tree or bush leaning over the myriad of winding pathways, he found nothing of genuine interest. Oh, there were spider things and little chittering fleas, but they avoided him for good reason. He was still in a somewhat bad mood.

“Brod? What’re you doing, they’re getting away!” said the frog perched atop his shoulder.

“Mhm.” Said Brod.

“C’mon! I knew they’re not worth much, but if you just focused and squished each and every one you got your hands on, you’d have your bright light already, I’m sure of it.”

But Brod wasn’t so sure he cared much. He was also not really interested in stepping on these pests for much the same reason. They weren’t a challenge and if all the other humans – dregs, the frog called them, for whatever reason – hadn’t failed to surrender, he wouldn’t have taken their lives either. Brod despised fighting the continental humans, but if they didn’t throw in the towel when any sane person would have, they only had themselves to blame.

Then again, he had attacked them first. Not out of fear or anger, but because even as pissants, he counted them a threat.

Still, Brod was looking for a real challenge. A way to prove to… whoever that he was great, great, greater yet. And slaughtering mute dregs fresh from the grave (which he assumed was where they came from, as they seemed to just pop out of the ground) didn’t seem like it would accomplish that nor that it was necessary in the slightest, no matter how much the frog egged him on to continue. Judging by the way they couldn’t talk, could barely walk and fight, they most likely couldn’t think straight either. Or at all.

He sighed and wandered on. Brod knew that the next fights against them wouldn’t turn out much different. They didn’t think, they didn’t plan, they didn’t change much and just shuffled around, simply… being like they were before until the world (or Brod) hit them in the face.

Maybe that was why the frog called them ’Dregs’. They were the leftovers of a world which was long gone. Or they were not. He wasn’t really sure; he didn’t have enough information and wasn’t going to risk drowning in his own blood over a simple question. The frog itself wasn’t very proactive in answering questions that weren’t somehow related to ‘kill things, get more souls, rinse, repeat’.

Brod decided not to dwell on it. He would find others that could be talked to and that would show him what he was missing. Or not. It really didn’t matter much in the moment. Currently, the only thing he paid any attention to was the path forward.

“Ooh. Take a left here. I think I saw something.”

He did as asked and as he slid down a steep slope of dirt, crunchy leaves and rocks, he found himself face to face with a bald man. Or at least, Brod thought he was a man, but going by the man’s slim build, the sharp face with the pointy nose, and the general grainy view the dim light provided him with, he could have just as easily been a woman. Though, Brod knew that outside of Morgenthal, fewer women than men shore their hair.

“Oh.” Said the man, now evident by the voice. “Hello there. Didn’t see you sliding on in.”

Brod looked down at him, the man sitting somewhat casually on the floor, leaning against a tree and holding a gloved hand to his stomach. He had a spear and a large, tall shield lying to his side, though he didn’t look to be in any condition to wield either.

“Big fellah, aren’t ‘cha? You wouldn’t happen to have a smidgen of wyckwax or maybe some burnsalve you’d like to share with little ol’ Stitches?” the man asked.

Brod didn’t know what either of those were and, as lacking as he was in pockets, there was no way he did have what the man was asking for even if he did know what it was supposed to be. Though, and this was a surprise, the man didn’t seem to have any light of his own and yet still had his wits about him. That was new.

“Or are you here to rob me, too? Oh, that’d be just right and tragic now.”

Brod shook his head. He wasn’t a thief. Stealing was shameful because it showed that you couldn’t earn it yourself the right way: through right of victory, conquest, contest, and labor. Or by simply buying it. That always remained the the easiest option.

“Well, bugger me, if you’re not here for my purse I guess I can count my lucky stars then. Though, and I’m somewhat ashamed to have to ask you this when we’ve just barely met, would you mind helping out a fellow man in need?” Asked the man known as Stitches.

Brod gave him a nod to continue on. Maybe there was something in it for him. Like that shield. Actually, that would cause more problems than it would solve, as his hands were still bound together by chain.

“I don’t think you should trust this guy. He’s giving me some real wormy vibes.” Froggy whispered into Brod’s ear.

Brod was himself starting to get an unclean feeling from his froggy companion as well. The way it egged him on to kill and slaughter with a bit too much enthusiasm was unnerving and suggested to him that it had some ulterior motive besides helping him on his first steps in this strange new world. Either way, he wasn’t going to let himself be bossed around by a mere frog.

Brod ignored the frog and motioned for the man to continue on. The man, or Stitches, as he called himself, stood up with a pained and tense smile, still leaning on the crooked tree behind him.

“Y’see, this boneyard is packed to the brim with all sorts o’ shady folk. The last one like you took my satchel, fell right down that ditch and broke his neck. A bit o’ poetic justice, though the bugger stuck me good, that he did.”

The man called Snitches pointed to his left.

“If you can climb down there somehow and throw it back up, I’d be in your debt, I would.”

The man didn’t look like he was expecting a miracle. Though how Brod would climb down with his hands in chains was another problem altogether.

Help this man get his purse and risk falling down and breaking his neck? It didn’t seem worth it.

“There’s some treasure on the thief’s corpse as well. He was loaded, I tell you! Y–you can keep it all if you want. Though, I’d ask you not to take my Symbol of ah… Worga. It’s my lucky charm.”

Treasure? Now that was an entirely different matter. What treasure did people even collect at the end of the world? Brod was curious and thus, he had to accept.

Brod nodded, then stepped towards the place he was pointing at. The slope quickly turned rather steep there, though beyond his light he saw the twinkle of something metal a dozen or so feet below. He wagered he could climb it if he was careful. He’d need to be, with bound hands a fall from this height would be–

A strong foot kicked him from behind and he stumbled forward, twirling his body around on one leg. But it was already too late. The ground gave way and he fell, the wide cackling grin of the bald man named Stitches, having dropped the façade of the wounded, helpless man, followed him as he fell down, down, down.

Thunk

The world hit him in the head and everything around Brod slowly went darker than before.

“Greedy, greedy giant. People like you ought to be locked up forever. Greet ol’ eyeless for me would’ya? He’s a regular ol’ chum, that he is.”

----------------------------------------

A jolt tore open Brod’s eyes, and he vaguely felt like he had been dreaming again, though he didn’t remember about what.

He rolled over on his side, feeling the broken rib once more. He was lucky that it hadn’t pierced his lung during the fall or at all. The laughter of the one who kicked him down into this pit echoed from far above. When it disappeared, then only was the world quiet again.

Brod’s head hurt. And his right shoulder. And the rest of his body, too.

He wiggled a finger. Then a hand, then his arms and legs. He could still move. No broken back or bones. Good.

Time to break someone else’s.

Brod was mad, oh yes, very. He would never forget the sound of that laughter.

Brod dragged his body up until he was standing again and let out a primal roar of frustration. He picked up a rock and threw it where the man used to be, and it cracked against the stone cliff face. He took another and threw it high, then threw another, then another, then another.

The man called Stitches was long gone. Sprays of stone shards fell down every time he hit something solid and after a while he stopped. Not because his anger had subsided, but out of exhaustion.

Panting and sweating, Brod knew he had to calm himself. He tried to steady his breathing and put his mind onto other things. His gaze swerved around, and he noticed only then that he was standing next to the corpse of what was most likely the latest of Stitches unfortunate victims.

It was a man in full plate armor, something Brod recognized as somewhat rare in these lands. He knew that he was not buried at home and while the continental people really liked to encase themselves in varied forms of armored plates, the armor didn’t help much against the beasts the giants of Morgenthal normally hunted.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

While he knew that he had fought many such beasts, he couldn’t place their names and when he tried to imagine their shapes, they were blurred and washed into each other. He just… couldn’t remember, but the fact that he knew that giants like him hunted monsters was of itself already helpful.

It implied that the people of Morgenthal were hunters of a sort, maybe for profit, maybe for sport. And the vague memory of that being fact matched what knew from that flash-like memory before, that he was on a hunter’s pilgrimage, whatever that meant.

Brod himself did feel quite accustomed to battle, even with his body still being in a less than optimal state after coming back from the dead. Though that begged the question: What beasts were there that required hunting by giants?

Eh, he’d probably find out eventually. More importantly, getting his mind on a different track was working, calming his body down. The violence didn’t demand to be unleashed anymore and he could feel his heartrate steady. Good.

Looking closer at the corpse, the man didn’t even seem to have a purse or anything to carry stuff with on him. He was also lacking in the weapon department, not a shield, spear, sword or dagger on him.

Stitches probably took all the good things off of the corpse already. The mere thought of the man was threatening to undo Brod’s hard work as he felt his blood pump and his limbs grow hot again.

At least the traitor was kind enough to leave this man his boots.

Brod took them off the corpse before realizing that, well, they were a dozen sizes too small. So, he threw them away and took one glance at the corpse before looking around for his froggy friend.

The frog was absent, yet within the darkness, he saw two tiny motes of light. They were green and flitted about in a container of sorts. He approached the light source and saw that they were glowing bugs stuck in a lantern. And they were not alone.

Cradling the lantern as if it were their child, a person clad in chainmail and cloth with faded heraldry sat on the floor, around them a scattering of corpses. Brod couldn’t see their face, covered by a wreathe of chainmail and tucked under a high, coned helmet.

As he got within ten feet, the person perked up, as if just noticing his presence. They gently put down the lantern and slowly stood up, still staring a bit off into the darkness.

“Uh.” Brod said, still trying to get his body to calm down. “Are. Y–“

The person moved with one swift jerking motion and Brod stumbled back as a long, bloody gash formed along the side of his arm. He fell on his back as another was swiftly aimed at his ankles and, between falling down and losing a foot, he chose the former. The short sword in his opponent’s hands was frighteningly sharp.

Brod wasn’t used to being on the backfoot. Nor was he used to being toppled over. While the still stewing anger burbled again within, he knew he couldn’t afford any more mistakes with a foe as swift as this. He couldn’t let it steer him and he couldn’t treat this as a casual beat-down. Not if he still wanted to have his toes intact by the end of it.

The cone-headed person immediately took advantage as they thrust their sword towards his chest.

Quick on his feet, this bugger!

Brod batted it aside with his axe, but his opponent was steady on their feet as they simply moved with the motion and stepped to his side before delivering a blow aimed at his heart.

Brod rolled over and kicked the cone–head in the side. They were lifted off the ground a bit but came to a skidding stop all too soon, still on their feet and already turning their body to bound towards Brod again.

Brod got to his knees and barely deflected another thrust upwards. A slash came at his side, and he let it come, knowing that his chainmail would protect him. Though, he forgot that one of his ribs on that side was broken and the pain that followed the otherwise harmless impact almost staggered him enough for the enemy to wind up for another strong stab.

He endured, and got on his feet, before launching an assault of his own. He hacked from top to the bottom left, then from there along to the other side, then two short chops at the legs.

Dodge this!

None of them hit. The person was aware of his range and the moment he looked to be back on steady footing, they changed their stance and took a step to the back, left and another back again. Then, after parrying the last chop, they stepped into his range and aimed another strike at his arm.

Brod knew that he wasn’t going to last much longer, from exhaustion rather than lack of strength or skill. He had been fighting all day, he hadn’t eaten because he was picky, and he was just recovering from having fallen over twelve feet and hurled a drake’s worth of rocks to vent his frustration. He knew he had to take a risk to finish it now.

He stepped into the strike, receiving it along his chainmail and ribs as it tore through the former and scratched across the latter. It stung but would hopefully prove to be worth it.

He shifted his weight and shoved the person aside with his body. The cone-head didn’t have the time or space to dodge, instead trying to mitigate the damage by going with the motion. But Brod had already achieved what he wanted.

He swung his axe around at the finally unbalanced assailant and caught them right in the neck. The sound of metal clanging on metal echoed through the air as to his unending disbelief, they parried that strike without flinching at all.

Sadly for them, and luckily for Brod, the parry was imperfect and while Brod hadn’t been swinging with wild abandon before, he did put considerable strength behind this strike he knew would connect in some way.

The sword, sharp yet old, shattered, and the tip of his axe cut through the chainmail and ripped a chunk out of his opponent’s neck. The person staggered away, one hand held to their neck, the other still pointing the sword stump in his direction.

Futile.

It was over. Brod watched as the person tried to reposition themselves in a way that put Brod’s back to the cliff face, but they soon fell to a knee, then toppled over on to their side as blood continued to stain the chainmail around their neck.

Brod walked over and squatted in front of the dying person. They had long black hair and their mouth twitched and gaped like that of a stranded fish. The chainmail around their face had fallen to the side, revealing a slim mouth leaking a steady stream of blood.

It was a very young continental man, barely not a boy and just under six feet tall who had pressed him this hard. Him, a giant of Morgenthal, a trained and experienced warrior standing at six and a half feet and the boy had done it with but a sharp and awfully short sword.

“You. Fought. Well.” Brod said.

He didn’t tell him that where giants were concerned, he was considered on the smallest end. The young man had fought more than well and while he would die, he should do so with pride. Why he had fought Brod didn’t matter, just that he held his own. If he hadn’t overextended slightly allowing Brod to exploit his greater weight and size and if the sword hadn’t shattered, he could have possibly turned Brod’s gamble into a fatal mistake and pushed him further into a corner.

The boy murmured something below his breath and Brod leaned in to listen to his last words. They weren’t coherent, but combined with him pointing at the glowing bug lantern with shaking hands he understood what he desired.

“P…pl…ease…”

He took the lantern and gave it to the young dying man. He took it in his arms and curled around its metal frame. He possessed no light, Brod realized, and this was most likely the only source he could rely on. Which struck him as particularly odd. The man had a blindfold on, after all, why would he need to see anything?

Brod then realized that he had held his own against him without the aid of sight. The feeling of anger was back again, though this time it was directed inward. Indignation. Brod had a handicap as well in his chains but that couldn’t compare to not seeing your opponent at all. So how? How did the boy do it?

Brod found nothing that hinted at foul play. It was a good fight. And more than that, it was a good victory. A victory he proudly presented to Ubrus, for while the boy hadn’t won against overwhelming odds, he had done well beyond belief.

“Not. A. Pissant.” He said as he looked at the boy and the bugs zipping about in the lantern. It was as good a compliment as he was able to give.

Suddenly, the boy began to sing. It was in a high, croaky voice that he rasped a song of sadness, like a lullaby for his final rest. Brod didn’t understand the words, the language, but he understood the message. It was a song of goodbyes, of lament and promises that would forever go unfulfilled.

It was a beautiful voice.

He felt considerably less happy about his victory then. Like he had taken something he had no right to. Some remorse, maybe, though that conflicted with the foremost precept of Worga, that conquest was a privilege for the victor. And the thing most commonly taken first through conquest was so often a life.

But Brod didn’t feel as if he had conquered anything. He had overcome a more challenging foe than any other in this place, true. But if anything, it was the boy who would have been hailed a hero if he had managed to fell a giant singlehandedly.

But he didn’t and now he was dying. And his defeat would probably not please Ubrus either.

Brod felt… well, he didn’t feel sad. Much like anger or fear, sadness was not an emotion giants knew. They were not supposed to feel that way, not allowed to. But, as the quiet song grew quieter and was eventually muffled by the darkness stretching out for eternity, he couldn’t help but admit that he was taken with an air of melancholy.

The bugs responded to the sound of the young man’s voice, growing more energetic before settling down again. The boy curled closer around the lamp and as Brod pondered on, the smell of charred earth, of fresh sweat and wet pebbles filled the air. It wasn’t a rich smell, but it was definitely there, and only after a long while did it finally subside.

“The best soul I’ve had to date” was a thought that came to him as the area around him grew brighter, and he hated it. Had it always been like this, mortal against mortal, death and a reward for only the victor? And if it wasn’t, then what exactly did the world come to that it would give someone with a voice like that a sword and say “fight or die”?

That was the fate of soldiers, of hunters, of giants and warriors, not of, of…

“Brod! Brod! Holy wow, that was, well, WOW!” A froggy voice croaked from behind.

Brod breathed in the last of soul and immediately, the unreasonable rush of happiness tried to wrest his mind away from the tragedy. But he had had enough. Of a lack of explanations, of backstabbing and doubletalk and having this glowing soulstuff – if it really was part of a soul at all – pull his heart this way and that. Brod was not going to let himself be controlled. He was the master of his body, his mind, his heart and his soul.

He turned around and crouched down to face the frog.

“Hello Froggy.” He said with a much cleaner voice.

“W– oh. H-hello Brod? You’ve got your bright light I see. And your voice back. Good for you.”

“Froggy. Have you been hiding something from me?”

“Hiding something? Wha–, I’d never!”

The frog looked him square in the eyes. Brod couldn’t read a frogs emotions, no matter how hard he tried. But this was also not a normal frog.

“Then explain to me exactly why you wanted me to slaughter everything in sight.”

“Why? Well, that’s easy. To get more soul. So you can talk. And get better.”

“I can talk. I am better. Now tell me: What is it you really want from me.”

He leaned in until the frog was almost touching his nose. It audibly gulped.

“…or I will eat you whole.”

“Uhm. Funny you should say that.” The frog said as it avoided his gaze. “ ‘cause I’d… actually like that very much.”

The frog’s pristine wide molars reflected in the shine of Brod’s bright light, and he knew for sure that this frog was not a normal one. And it was not a creature of the mortal world, though it did not occur to him why that was a thought he had.

“Well, now that you’ve got your light, it’s time to celebrate. Yay!”

Brod just kept staring at the frog until it looked uncomfortable, even for an amphibian.

“W-well, I guess an explanation is in order. Now that you have bright light, you have proven that you have what it takes to rise above the other mortals. Now that you have bright light, you can do many things, but above all else you can barter with your soul for great things and greater. Isn’t that neat?”

Brod was confused. Was that all there was to it? Light as the new currency in an age of darkness?

“And?” he asked, sounding not very convinced.

“And, well, about that… I’d like to bargain for a part of your soul. A pact, a contract, a sacrifice, whatever you want to call it, it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is what you get out of it. You, my mortal friend, can bargain with me for the rarest of all things, something every other mortal can only dream of: Boons!”

The silence that followed looked to almost crush the tiny amphibian.

“Uhm.” It finally said. “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me. D-did I say something wrong?”