The camp sprawled before Vigdis like a grotesque parody of civilization. Makeshift tents stitched together from tattered tarps and scavenged fabric jutted out at odd angles, forming an uneven sprawl across the clearing. Smoke curled from scattered fires, the scent of charred meat mingling with the metallic tang of spilled blood and sweat-soaked grime. Voices, a cacophony of guttural laughter and barking orders, filled the air.
Vigdis scanned the crowd as she walked, noting their diversity—or rather, the unity of scum from every corner of this twisted land. There were hulking brutes with faces scarred beyond recognition, wiry men with eyes like predators, and women who looked just as cruel. Many were armored in piecemeal scraps of metal and leather, but others wore black suits with faded remnants of elegance. These were no ordinary raiders. They carried themselves differently—arrogant, polished in their brutality, a grim testament to the rich and powerful who had once lorded over the old world.
Her guide led her toward the center, where the camp's chaos seemed to solidify into something more structured. A throne—crudely assembled from rusted pipes and scavenged car parts—stood elevated on a platform of scavenged wood. Perched upon it was the self-proclaimed king, lounging with the air of someone who believed his position unshakable.
Vigdis’s stomach tightened as she took in the scene. A woman knelt before the throne, her movements mechanical and resigned. The raider king’s hand gripped her hair, forcing her head forward in a way that made Vigdis’s jaw clench involuntarily. The act was as much for dominance as it was for show. He barely acknowledged her beyond using her, his attention shifting lazily to the crowd as though daring anyone to question his authority.
When he was done, he shoved the woman back with casual brutality, her body tumbling awkwardly down the platform. She landed in a heap but didn’t cry out or protest. Instead, she crawled silently to a pen where others like her sat, hollow-eyed and passive. The sight made Vigdis’s hand twitch toward her axe, but she forced herself to remain still. Picking a fight here would be suicide.
The king’s gaze finally fell on her, and a sly grin spread across his face. He looked like he belonged on the throne—not by right, but by sheer force of personality. His bare chest glistened with sweat, and his hair was wild, framing a face that might have been handsome if not for the malice in his eyes. He made no move to cover himself, the display another assertion of dominance.
The burly escort stepped ahead, clearing his throat with a theatrical flourish. “Kneel before King Warren Ashlock, ruler of Wormwood and master of the Blackbloods!” His voice rang out with exaggerated reverence, a performance as much for the raiders as for Vigdis.
Ashlock remained on his makeshift throne, one hand lazily resting on the armrest, the other brushing his jawline as though he were contemplating something of monumental importance. The introduction seemed to amuse him, a slow smirk curving his lips as his gaze lingered on Vigdis.
“Enough with the kneeling nonsense, Dirk,” Ashlock said, waving a dismissive hand. “Let’s see what this one has to say.”
The declaration was met with scattered jeers and laughter from the surrounding crowd, but the attention of the camp remained on Vigdis as Ashlock gestured for her to step forward.
“So,” he drawled, his voice carrying effortlessly over the din. “This is the one you brought me? Looks like she didn’t give you too much trouble.” His eyes roved over Vigdis appraisingly, lingering on her scars and the powerful set of her shoulders. “Not bad. You’ve got my attention.”
Her guide shifted uncomfortably at her side, his earlier confidence nowhere to be found. “She came with the cloth, unchained. Wants to talk.”
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The king leaned back in his seat, his grin widening. “Talk? That’s a funny word, coming from someone like her.” His tone dripped with mockery, but there was a dangerous edge to it.
Vigdis met his gaze without flinching. “I’m not here to play your games,” she said evenly. “You’ve built yourself something impressive here, but you and I both know it’s only a matter of time before someone bigger or meaner comes along to knock you off your throne.”
The king barked a laugh, his teeth flashing. “Bigger or meaner, huh? And what does that make you?”
“Efficient,” Vigdis replied coldly.
The king’s laughter faded, his eyes narrowing. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he studied her more closely. The air between them grew taut, the surrounding raiders watching with bated breath. Finally, he gestured toward her guide. “Get her a drink. If she’s here to talk, let’s hear what she has to say.”
Vigdis didn’t relax. She’d seen enough men like him to know that this was far from over. As the guide moved to fetch whatever passed for hospitality in this hellhole, she forced herself to stay calm, every muscle ready for whatever came next.
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Warren Ashlock gestured for Vigdis to follow him toward a shaded area to the side of the platform. It wasn’t quite a tent—just a canopy of scavenged fabric stretched over rusted poles—but it served as a meeting spot, a place where the self-proclaimed king could discuss business without the full roar of his followers’ attention.
As they walked, Vigdis’s eyes wandered back to the pen where the slave women huddled. The flickering light from the campfires danced across their battered forms, highlighting the bruises and scars that marred their skin. One of the women glanced her way briefly, her hollow eyes sparking a pang of something Vigdis rarely allowed herself to feel—pity. There was no life there, no spark of rebellion. Only resignation. They didn’t try to escape, not even when the guards’ backs were turned. They didn’t flinch, didn’t whisper. Whatever hope they’d once clung to had been ground into the dirt long ago.
Vigdis clenched her fists but kept her expression neutral. Not now, she thought. But later.
Ashlock dropped himself into a sagging chair beneath the canopy, his smirk as fixed as the gleam in his predatory eyes. He gestured lazily for her to sit on an overturned crate across from him. She didn’t.
“So,” he said, leaning back and spreading his arms, his confidence almost palpable. “What’s a big, dangerous thing like you doing in my little patch of paradise? And why shouldn’t I just keep you here?”
“I need safe passage through your land,” Vigdis replied curtly. “I’ll pay for it.”
Ashlock’s grin widened. “Pay, huh? With those shiny shards everyone’s so fond of?” He waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve got plenty of those already. But you? You’re something else.”
Vigdis didn’t respond, her eyes narrowing as she let him continue.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Forget the shards. Stay here, with me. I could use someone like you. Big, strong, dangerous.” His gaze raked over her, his intent far from subtle. “You’d be an... asset.”
Her jaw tightened, but her voice remained calm. “Not my kind of arrangement.”
“Shame,” Ashlock replied, though there wasn’t an ounce of disappointment in his tone. He studied her for a moment, his grin still in place but his eyes cold and calculating. “Alright, then. Another option.”
He stood and spread his arms as if announcing to an audience. “Fight in the arena.”
Vigdis tilted her head slightly. “And what do you get out of that?”
“Amusement,” Ashlock said bluntly. “And a little quality control. If you kill them, they weren’t worth keeping. If they kill you... well, I’ll have a good show and one less problem. Either way, I win.”
Vigdis crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. Her gaze flicked back toward the slave pen, lingering on the silent, motionless women. The sight fueled a slow, simmering anger deep in her chest, but she kept it buried beneath a veneer of calm. She needed to play this smart.
“And if I agree?” she asked, her tone carefully measured.
“You fight,” Ashlock said, his smirk never faltering. “You win, you get your passage. Clean and simple.”
Vigdis took a long, deliberate moment to respond, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that made even him falter for half a second. “Fine. But I’ll choose the weapons.”
Ashlock laughed, the sound echoing through the camp. “Now that’s the spirit! I knew I liked you.”
As he turned to bark orders to his men, Vigdis allowed herself one more glance at the pen. A woman inside shifted slightly, her gaunt frame moving with a stiffness that spoke of more than physical abuse. Vigdis’s grip on her axe tightened. Later, she promised herself silently. Later, I’ll come back for them.
For now, she let Ashlock enjoy his game, her mind already working on how to survive—and how to make him regret ever crossing her path.