Version:1.0 StartHTML:000000174 EndHTML:000095575 StartFragment:000000431 EndFragment:000095543 StartSelection:000000431 EndSelection:000095543 SourceURL:about:blank
SCENE I
The pain catapulted Stig into consciousness. A boot to the chest jarred him from a slumber into reality. He gasped for air just in time to fill his lungs before the blows came raining down upon his head. In the frenzy, it took him a moment to realize that he could not see. The burlap sack over his head cut him off from his surroundings. Another kick to the chest, another blow to the jaw. The night echoed with agonized screams fueled by equal parts pain and surprise. The air was still cool on his arms, thus indicating that it was still nighttime. But, where was he? Who was he with? Judging from the grunts of exertion he deduced that there were two assailants. More blows rained down. A fear manifested that he would lose his newfound consciousness just as quickly as he’d received it.
A particularly hard kick to the chest sent the boy tumbling backwards. An attempt to reposition himself with his hands revealed that they were bound together behind his back. Rolling along the rocky soil, the burlap sack over his head snagged on a rock and slipped off. He looked up to his assailants and was filled with shock. Isak stood above him, preparing another kick. Isak, the man he’d fought alongside with for years, the man who belonged to the same brotherhood he had was there delivering an mercilessly unrelenting beating.
Stig moaned, “Why?” The answer he was given was a swift kick to the jaw. Blood tickled his chin as it began to seep down out of his mouth. More blows. The barrage of strikes were threatening to become too much for the boy to handle, the pain teetering on the edge of becoming physically unbearable, despite his conditioned tolerance to pain. The other man Stig had seen before, but he knew nothing of him, standing nervously behind Isak as he battered the boy with brutality. He kept looking behind him, as if anxious of someone witnessing the beating.
“The golden child isn’t protected now, is he?” Isak growled.
“Golden child? I was abducted, you fool,” Stig began working his wrists back and forth behind his back. He had to keep the man engaged in conversation until he could free his arms and offer a proper defense.
“Yes, yes. How old were you again? Seven, eight?” Isak pulled a small wooden club from his belt. He stepped over the boy, placing one foot on either side of him, and reared back.
Ever defiant, even facing imminent harm Stig spat, “I was nine!”
“Ah, that’s right, yes, I remember. Not one of you put up a fight. Pathetic worthless cowards, the lot of you! Especially Bengt.” The memory of his guardian dying before his eyes filled Stig’s mind.With one swing Isak knocked the boy back out of reality and into a slumber. Albeit a different kind of slumber than the one he’d been awakened from.
Wind from the mountains swept down into the valley, biting at any exposed skin. The same winds that over eons had carved these great mountains and their peaks. The midday sun was at its apex in the sky and showering the earth with with the full extent of its might. Stig wrapped his cloak around him as he walked along the winding trail with the rest of his companions. Every now and then he would run a finger over his swollen eye and bruised jaw; he would taste blood whenever he disturbed one of the cuts inside of his mouth. There was no hiding his injuries from the others. And, there was no need to either. Nobody would ask about what happened, nobody cared. These people, to Stig, were the vilest manner of men. A marauding group of mercenaries, carving a path of destruction unheeded all throughout Suria. Just like they’d paved his home village over with destruction.
The injuries inflicted upon Stig mattered not to the men around him. Most of them, if not all, probably assumed it was a beating from one of their own. Not a finger would be raised to rectify the situation, not even by Ingvar. The boy was alone. At eighteen-years old he had spent half of his life in the service of these sell-swords. Being forced to train and then forced to murder and fight. He proved to have quite a natural talent for melee combat and with mandatory training he blossomed into a force to be reckoned with.
These men were not easily intimidated and as such, they still viewed him as an outsider, Ingvar’s little pet. They claimed he had preferential treatment from their leader, overlooking the fact that he had been taken by force and turned into a warrior against his will. If he’d had it his way he would’ve spent the last nine years at some academy somewhere, filling his head with all the knowledge he could get his hands on. In his dreams he often found himself sitting at a wooden table; a room lit by the candles of several braziers that hung high above him. Perched on his shoulder was a white raven and on the table was a fortress of books. Tomes and scrolls surrounded him, protecting him from the outside world. Nearly each night he would have this dream, only to wake up into a reality that could not be further from his fantasy.
Tthe Dregs had been traveling for seven days now, up to the northernmost fringes of Surian territory. As always, they had a target locked in their sights. A modest fishing village by the name of Lerwick. Despite its size, the village had a ludicrous fishing industry and supplied a good portion of the kingdom’s fish alone. Industry meant money and in Lerwick there was indeed money, and plenty of it. There was a repository rumored to be bursting at the seams with coin. Ingvar had known about the supposed treasure chest for awhile, but he had never felt confident in the size of his forces to wage an offensive. But now, he was certain the time had come. The mercenary leader claimed he “saw it in his dreams”.
Stig and the procession of warriors were no more than a half-day’s march from the village by now. With each step his heart sunk lower and lower into his chest until he feared it’d sunk so low he may never find it again. Each step he took brought him one moment closer to combat. He didn’t mind combat, he actually quite enjoyed it. What he did mind was the circumstances in which he’d engage in combat. He would descend onto an unsuspecting village full of people who had never done him even a semblance of harm or offense. And, he would murder them. If he didn’t, he would surely be murdered himself. With each swing of his blade, with each limb severed, he would feel slivers of his soul die, never to return. He was doing the very thing that had been done to his own village.
If they should reach Lerwick within the day he would then be fighting on his eighteenth birthday. A horrible way to spend one’s birthday. Even though Ingvar had never once mentioned any sort of terms for Stig’s servitude the boy was inspired with a question, given the day. He quickened his pace and passed several other soldiers before he found Ingvar at the front of the column. The young man tapped him on the shoulder, “Ingvar, may I have a word?”
The short, stocky man with a scarred face turned about, “Ah, Stig, my boy! It is a good day, yes, you may have your word.” He smiled a hideous smile, his teeth black and cracked, what teeth he had left anyways.
“I know this is probably out of place for me to ask this, but today is my eighteenth. That makes me a man grown,” he paused as the words got stuck in his throat. Sweat began to form above his brow, “Does th-” he just couldn’t do it. The words refused to leave his mouth in fear of reprimand.
Ingvar slapped him on the back and chortled, “Dear, boy. You’re a man now, eh? You wanna know if I’ll free you, eh?”
A wave of relief and a glimmer of hope washed over Stig, perhaps Ingvar wasn’t as merciless as he appeared. Maybe there was some sort of basic humanity in him,“Yes, sir.”
A meaty hand shot up quickly and with the back of the hand struck Stig’s already bruised and inflamed jaw, “You were right, boy! You are out of your fucking place! Get back in line and if I hear one more word of it, I will flog you within an inch of your pitiful life.”
Stig’s breathing intensified as he forced his tongue to lie dormant. If he said the things he desired, he would not make it to see the next day. All of the rage, all of the wrath, all of the zealous hatred within him bubbled up. It took every bit of his being to coax the boiling rage back down to a simmer. He spat a mouthful of blood on the ground and made sure Ingvar saw it. Stig would keep his mouth closed, but he would have it known that he would remain defiant until the end.
There was a particularly tall man watching Stig and his exchange with their leader. As tall as Stig, even. He scratched his bald head and a frown momentarily crossed his loose hanging lips for a split-second when Ingvar struck the boy. The man wiped his hands down the front of his tunic over his rotund belly, a nervous habit he’d picked up over the years. When Stig fell back in line he was still a few people ahead of him. The large man began pushing his way through the column to reach Stig.
“You okay, kid?” the man’s voice was every bit as imposing and commanding as his physical presence, yet had a surprising jovial tone to it.
Stig saw him and let out a heavy sigh. This man annoyed him to no end. He barked, “What do you want?”
The man laughed, “Calm down, Stig. You don’t need your aggression here.”
“Kol, what do you want?”
“To check on you, to see how you are doing. I know it’s rough for you, kid.”
“You don’t know anything! What possibly could you know about my situation?” Stig replied. The contempt was blatantly inscribed on his visage.
Kol placed his hand on his shoulder and more or less commandeered his focus, “Listen to me, I know it is hard for you. I lost my parents when I was young, I know how that affects a lad. I know you don’t belong here and that you don’t deserve this life. But, I also know that you are not alone.”
“You lost your parents? I didn’t even get the chance to know mine before they abandoned me!” Emotion colored his voice and even Stig heard it for himself. He knew that he must stifle the sentiments before he lost control and broke down into tears. Tears would only make his situation worse.
SCENE II
Black skies of the night were giving way to orange hued tendrils of light as the sun began its daily ascent into the heavens. The timing did not exactly favorbehoove the Dregs. Ingvar had made it more or less his trademark to strike in the middle of the night, in order to maximize the elements of terror and surprise together to send his prey into hopeless disarrayed frenzy. Even though Lerwick was now well within sight, Ingvar was stewing. Everyone around him kept their distance with vigilance, knowing full well that lives and limbs alike had been lost due to smaller trivialities with an irritable Ingvar. The valley path that the group had journeyed traced the base of the mountains above and culminated in a flat wide open clearing perched atop steep unforgiving gray cliffs. Lerwick overlooked the river Junia, symbolically it overlooked its source of life.
The Junia did not only nourish and sustain just Lerwick, however. It stretched from as far inland as the capital Lison in the south through the midlands, to the north and met its end at the sea. Lerwick was settled right on the mouth of the river where it emptied into the vast open seas. All along its benevolently fertile banks villages and even cities had emerged throughout the years, subsisting on the grace and bounty of the powerful river. Its life-giving essence was such that the natives of Suria considered it to be a holy living deity. Stig had learned quite a bit about the native peoples of his kingdom, considering the Dregs was made up exclusively of these Achyeans. As the initial charge set off to signal the assault on Lerwick he ran towards the village. He couldn’t help but think it a shame that such a divine being would today flow red with blood.
Largely unbeknownst to Stig he actually had someone who looked after him amongst the group, as best as their conditions permitted, at least. The mountain of a man, Kol, had kept a particularly caring watch over the boy throughout the years and effectively watched him grow up into a full-fledged man, despite never being quite able to tend to him. Whereas Stig found him as an annoying nuisance of an oaf who poked his nose where it didn’t belong, Kol genuinely cared for him and wanted to protect him. Long ago, in what felt like another life, he had a son who looked nearly identical to Stig. From his lanky height to his thick dark blond hair that fell in natural wavy loose curls. They even shared the same shade of ice blue eyes; even the manner in which Stig’s hair laid upon his shoulders reminded him of his son. So far, Kol had not been able to penetrate Stig’s defensive outer-shell. A shell that he did not fault the boy for having developed. But, his only wish was that he could crack the boy’s defense for just one moment so he could relate to him that he wasn’t the only one who had lost something due to this life. And thus, he vowed long ago that he would watch over the boy, especially in battle, until Stig finally opened up to him and would listen. He needed the boy to know that he was not alone.
The villagers had a proper alert to the incoming horde, thanks to the visibility of the morning and their earsplitting cries of battle. Ingvar had divided his force into halves; they rushed the village together, but once they entered it proper one group would strike towards the center of the village and the other would control the perimeter of the village to trap any potential fleeing citizens. Stig was at the forefront of the charge, his sword raised uncharacteristically high with enthusiasm, lungs screaming. Just behind him was Kol who noticed the odd demeanor. For a person being forced into combat he seemed rather invested and eager. Ingvar’s slap had lit an unquenchable flame inside him. He knew that he could not lash out against the war-chief, verbally or physically. Yet, all of those wrathful angry emotions were still swirling inside him. He could not dissipate them, only contain them. There was only one way that he knew of to expel the sentiments from his being. Violence. Logic and compassion were evicted from Stig’s mind in the moment. There was a desperate longing within him to see the first villager or guardsman. A profound compulsion urged him to sink his blade deep into one of their skulls. For every single blow he had sustained over the years from Ingvar and others he would exact revenge for it on the innocent. All of the verbal abuses suffered would be reconciled via unbridled violence. And then there was the most recent beating, the one he’d received from Isak. The one that sent him over the edge.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
A farmer holding his rake was the first victim of the Dregs, and it was claimed by a ravenous Stig. The mere sight of the mercenaries charging had frozen the poor man in his tracks, terror prohibiting any movement. Stig reached him first and in a voice unlike his own he screeched, “Hello, sir!” His sword came down overhead at a diagonal angle, cleaving flesh from bone as it shattered the farmer’s collarbone. Before the man could even let out a cry of pain his head was lopped clean off.
Stig no longer existed. His very essence was replaced with a primal wrath. He became the embodiment of pain and violence. Just like his abductors he was indiscriminate in his actions, becoming no different than the ones he’d learned to hate over so many years.
In short time the forces chased the civilians who ran towards the village interior and the horde was met at last by a village guard. Pathetic in comparison to the might and savagery of the Dregs, but a noble resistance nonetheless. If there is nobility to be found in futility. The two sides clashed against one another like an angry tempest upon the rocks. Kol kept Stig in his sight at all times, but it grew increasingly more difficult. The trail of bodies the kid was leaving behind left him astonished. An astonishment founded in surprise and fright. A fearsome warrior in his own right, it took Kol everything he had to keep pace with the boy and make sure he didn’t get surrounded.
Stig had delved too deep into the enemy’s line and was now fighting by himself. Kol whirled his flail and brought the ball down on a guardsman’s helmeted head; with a crunch of both steel and bone the guard fell down lifeless. He picked another one up and threw him all of his strength, sending him well into the air before meeting the ground with his neck. By the time he reached Stig, the boy had indeed become surrounded, on three sides. With a mighty roar and wind up, he swung his flail into the man in front of him and crushed his spine. He kicked him out of the way and now stood side by side with Stig.
“I am with you, boy,” Kol’s usual jolly tone was missing in his voice, he was nothing but serious.
For the first time Stig seemed to truly acknowledge him, “Thank you, Kol,” a sinister smile split his face, “just stay out of my way.”
SCENE III
Being on the northernmost fringes of Surian territory the residents of the modest fishing village always assumed their safety. The thought of danger never even crossed their minds, resulting in an understaffed guard unit. Even during the turbulence of past eras when a paranoid government executed their own constituents with a wanton cruelty the violence of the purges never extended to Lerwick. With not a single occasion of external dangers, or even the threat of, they lived their lives in an idyllic state of peace.
Each morning the majority of the townsmen would convene in the village center. Fathers, sons and brothers all congregated there to pray in hopes of a being blessed with a day of bountiful yields and triumph over the sea. Fleets of fishing boats departed from the port, heading for the open seas. The ships were of all sorts of sizes and design. But, they all shared the same motive. From the beginnings of dawn to the finale of dusk, the men toiled away out on the open water. Only when darkness fully claimed the skies from the daylight would they suspend their work and return to port with their hauls from the day.
Customarily, upon return to the village the fishermen would once more convene in the village center to display the compensation the sea had granted them for their endeavors. Baskets and crates filled with fish were flaunted and compared amongst the men with great pride. Unfortunately, on this day there were no baskets, no crates in the square. The fish were substituted with corpses and the bodies of the dying. Jolly proud men were exchanged for soldiers going from body to body checking for signs of life and then extinguishing it. The village became a shocking manifestation of death itself. Due to Ingvar’s petty dismay from arriving to attack later than planned, not a single villager was spared their life. From home to home the mercenaries systematically checked for villagers, to weed out any survivors, and round them up in the village center for execution; much like a farmer would herd his cattle for market. The same fathers, sons and brothers that had fished together now laid dead together. Along with their wives, sisters and even their babes.
The cliffs overlooking the mouth of the river Junia were majestic, and under any other circumstance breathtakingly awe inspiring. Stig sat perilously on the edge of the cliffs, his feet dangling freely below him. For once, his mind was still, the psyche dormant. There was no peace, however, there was no contemplation, there was simply nothing. A gaping existential void. The icy blue eyes he owned had lost their shimmer and became dull, almost lifeless. With hands and face smeared with blood not of his own he leaned forward, to offer himself to the unforgiving cliffs and sea below. An eruption of mental activity suddenly consumed him, calling to him to throw himself off of his perch. The ultimate acquiescence called him; for his entire life he had surrendered. Abused by the forced sacrifice of his freedom, liberty and desire. Things he had never known. Perhaps it was appropriate then, to offer one last sacrifice. To perform the terminal oblation.
Stig placed his palms on the edge of the cliff and steadied himself. There was nothing in this world he would miss, and there was no one to miss him. A waning flickering light lost amongst the glorious braziers of life. If it died out, the braziers would continue to burn just as bright without it. What’s more, the ending of his chapter would create the opportunity for a new book to be written. A book more meaningful than the boy’s own.
“I am bound for the ultimate freedom,” were his chosen last words, spoken to nobody, except the howling wind. He shoved himself forward, launching from the cliff. A smile formed on his face. Just as quickly as the smile appeared it was superseded by a frown. The tragic descent he so desperately desired was brought to a grinding halt.
“I think not,” the familiar voice came from behind. With one hand Kol was suspending Stig in midair, forbidding his suicide. The massive man casually tossed him backwards away from the cliff’s edge.
With a soul splitting fury Stig screamed, “What is your problem?!”
“My problem is that you’re not taking the coward’s path, boy.”
“What do you care? I am nothing to you, to them, to everyone.”
“Listen to me, you selfish brat! You think your experience is unique and exclusive to you, but you’re damn wrong! Do you think you’re the only one who has lost something to this atrocity they call the Dregs?”
Tears began to well in the boy’s eyes, the only sign of life on display from the entire day, “Look at what I have lost, Kol! I lost my parents as a baby, can’t even remember what my mother looked like. I lost the man who raised me, before my eyes. I lost my entire identity when they destroyed my home. What have you lost to them, old man?”
"My only son.”
SCENE IV
Day and night the foulest of smells permeated throughout Lerwick. The stench of death itself. A smell that was very much the final act of the dead, their last effect upon the world. The men of the Dregs had become immune to it long ago. It was no more a bother to them than an ant crawling over their boots. Even Stig had acclimated to the odor, somewhat. He wasn’t quite unsusceptible to it, rather he was familiar with it. The first time he had smelled the noxious fumes of death he vomited for hours on end, and couldn’t eat for days after. Once a person encounters that unforgettable aroma, they become forever changed by it. The smell, in a sense, truly personified death. Any intimacy with actual death leaves its imprint on a one’s soul.
Stig sat cross-legged next to a small campfire just outside of the village. Whatever could be done to escape or at least dampen the smell was a necessity for him. He also sought isolation. In his crippling shame he could not bear to face anyone, especially those who would sense it and capitalize on his emotions, or exacerbate them. In particular he could not bring himself to face Kol. The very same man he’d long considered an oaf; a glutton who feasted on battle with a simple-mind that was incapable of comprehending anything else. That inept, potentially intellectually impaired boot saved his life. A new light was beginning to dawn on Kol, a light that Stig found to paint him in a radically different picture than his own perception.
After Kol literally yanked the boy away from death’s doorstep and scolded some sense into him, he departed after mentioning his son. The subsequent abrupt egress left Stig profoundly touched in more ways than one. Saving someone’s life, which to most would be considered a statutory exercise in being humane, presented the boy with feelings he had never been confronted with in his life. The way he saw it, the people around him would not be bothered by his suicide, in fact, they’d likely encourage it. Kindness, even in its absolute basic form, dizzied him, leaving him unable to react to being shown to him.
A volley of emotions accosted Stig as he sat by the fire. It effectively rendered him null in the moment. Shame from, as Kol put it, “taking the coward’s path” was met with a deep sense of sorrow to form an amalgam of embarrassment and an understanding of his selfishness. It seemed to him that Kol actually had cared for him the entire time and he felt indebted. The man lost his only son.
Amidst the snapping and crackling of the various glowing campfires that peppered Lerwick the men were unwinding from a day of pillaging. The repository was cleaned out and the plunder divvied up. Each man received their portion in equality, all except for Ingvar, of course. By far the largest entitlement was claimed by him, to the surprise of no one. And, as countless times before, Stig was granted nothing. Not even a meal, left to fend for himself, as always. Luckily he still had some jerky he had acquired before entering the valley leading to Lerwick. But it did not hold a candle to the wafting fragrances wafting through the air. Even alongside the stench of death, the roasting meats perfumed the air. Stig had, more or less, reconciled the smell of death, but he could not do the same with the aromas of food being cooked. It taunted him, demoralized him and pushed him even further away. Further away from being the person he once thought he was.
The night had matured quite a bit by the time Kol found Stig and his fire. With a labored grunt he plopped down on the other side of the fire from the boy. As one may presume from his physical immensity, the man was always able to produce foodstuffs. Without acknowledgement or saying a word he tossed Stig a roasted leg of some type of meat. Yet another display of kindness that disturbed and even shamed the boy, only due to his own psychological incompetence.
“Thank you.” Stig could not remember the last time those words had crossed his lips, if ever. They felt foreign on his tongue as he said them.
Kol nodded, “Eat.”
Instinctually Stig obeyed the command. The two ate in silence; a silence intermittently disturbed by the sound of chewing and smacking lips. Whatever the meat was so delectable to Stig’s neglected palate that it elicited a powerful response. Something so ordinary to most, so mundane and even expected, was unfathomable to the boy. His mouth had evidently forgotten what meat tasted like, fresh meat, at that.
Kol finished his leg and tossed the bone into the flames. When Stig finished his he followed suit; a subconscious effort to at least let his benefactor know he was grateful. How hard it was for the boy to feel thankful without feeling utterly unworthy.
They sat in silence for some time, it wasn’t an awkward lull either. Somehow Stig found it tranquil, therapeutic even. Inevitably his conscience demanded action. He cleared his throat and despite the quivering muscles in his throat he broke the silence, “Kol, I’m sorry. I am sorry for your loss, I had no idea.” His head dropped down in woe and anxiety. There was no way for him to be certain of how Kol would respond.
Much to his relief Kol chuckled, “How could you have possibly known? You can’t have said more than thirty words to me in nine years.”
“I think I finally want to talk,” admitted Stig.
“Swell. What do you want to talk about, then?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how to talk to others.”
SCENE V
the Dregs had at last come to the expiration of their respite. They were now required to proceed onwards, to another unsuspecting village to repeat the same events that befell Lerwick. With all the casualness of a conversation between friends. To them there was nothing extraordinary about the carnage. It was simply just another routine day and now that day ended; naturally they moved on to a new day, wholly unaffected and unchanged.
All except for Stig. The dialogue between himself and Kol had been of great service to the confused boy who lacked any form of validation. The thoughts prompted by their conversation had led him to obtain a better grasp of purpose, although not a complete one. But, for now his purpose was simple. To exact justice.
Back on the path through the valley the Dregs happened upon an apparent survivor, not far from Lerwick. Obviously he was seized and held captive. After a brief interrogation and a scouring of his possessions Ingvar sentenced him to an execution. Either as a test or out of a malevolent boredom, he declared that Stig would serve as the executioner. Fully expecting the boy to outright refuse or proceed with extreme reluctance.
To Ingvar’s surprise the boy agreed and seemed not only willing, but eager to carry out the deed. The captive was led to a tree stump that would be his chopping block. With a head held high Stig approached the execution site. The astounded looks on the faces of the mercenaries around him excited him, gratified him even. They never would have expected the precious “golden child” to behave like this.
Stig slammed the prisoner’s face into the stump and held it in place with his boot. To further shock his audience he attempted to make a personal connection with the doomed man, a practice widely avoided due to propensity of humanization to make the job more difficult. It’s easier to kill a man if you don’t know his name. Surely this would garner him respect from his peers, at the very least. Perhaps it would even produce fear.
In the most stoic voice he could produce Stig barked, “Tell me your name.”
“Syd, sir,” his trembling voice was blurred by his desperate sobs of protest, “p-please, sir, spare me. Haven’t I lost enough already?”
Stig put more pressure on the man’s head, “I’m no sir, sir. A sir is honorable. You’ll find I have no mercy and no honor.”
Kol watched with an unease that was quickly on its way to evolving into terror. Had he driven the boy mad from his intervention and speech?
Ingvar stepped to Stig’s left side and put his hand on his shoulder, as proud as a father watching his son become a good man. As Ingvar’s de facto second in command Isak took Stig’s right side, his good side.
“There, there now. Don’t fret, you will join all of those that you’ve lost shortly. I promise. And, I will even do you the service of a clean cut. My blade is very sharp,” at this point Stig appeared to be indulging his apparent sadism.
The sword left the sheath with that unmistakable sound. Stig ran his finger along the edge of the blade, inflaming the poor man’s agony by drawing the process out. Only after he was satisfied the executioner raised his blade high above his head.
“Have you any last words?” The man began to respond only to be interrupted by Stig, “I wasn’t asking you.”
The blade twirled as it came down until its point wash directed to his right. With the deftness of a philosopher’s mind and the ferocity of a lion cub vying for status in the pride he stuck Isak. Just below the rib cage was the point of entry, tearing into the stomach. He quickly removed the blade, and before the blood could escape through the puncture Isak’s windpipe was separated into two separate parts. Stig gave his sword an extra, likely unnecessary jerk just to make sure the job got done before pushing it through and out the back of his neck.
Isak fell to his knees, gurgling for air, only to choke on his own blood. An eerie laughter erupted from Stig. His laughter turned into outright jovial guffawing.
Before life had abandoned the choking man, Stig bid him farewell with a reference to the beating he had undergone, “My village and I might be worthless. But, I am the one who will live.”
Once the crowd had internalized the spectacle that just took place before their eyes they mobilized for retribution. Most of them wanted nothing more than to kill Stig anyway; how divine that a justifiable opportunity had arisen.
Stig looked toward Kol and saw he had his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes darting all around him trying to gauge the temperament of the others. He was caught between wanting to aid the boy and the guarantee of being executed himself should he go against the horde. The two warriors locked eyes for a split-second and Kol gave an approving nod.
Stig nodded back in silent understanding. With all of the nimbleness and wherewithal taught to him by the Dregs he ducked and rolled away from Ingvar’s retaliatory strike.
As fast as he could, the worthless orphan from an insignificant village ran. He knew not where he was running to. He only knew that he’d spent his entire life running in one sense or another. In that moment, with a smile on his face he swore to himself that this would be the last time he ran. From anything.