Adelaine stood among the few townsfolk atop the hill, watching the group of men approach from a distance in the dropping light. There were only a few of them that had come out to meet the bandits — the baron and some of his men, a thin scattering of common folk here and there, Vanteus, and Adelaine herself. Most others had stayed in their homes, behind closed windows, hiding from what was to come. But Adelaine had promised to face her fears. To not look away when grim fate came knocking.
She was afraid, she realized. Adelaine had not felt that for a long time — not since she had learned the ways of the Pattern’s magic. When she had started down that path, her mind and her drive had become a shield and sword against the dangers of the world. Not just the danger of others, but those of poverty, sickness, and injury as well. She had thought those fears from her early years conquered. But there was fear in her now, watching the warriors approach. Fear, and a kind of morbid excitement. She had never met one who was blessed by the remnant powers of the Shapeless God — and that thought inspired both feelings in equal measure.
At first, it had looked like the traveling group was a band of children, led by one adult towering over them. But as they drew closer, Adelaine saw the truth of it — the whole of the group was grown men, big men even, all covered in furs and padded armor and leather, carrying weapons on their shoulders and at their hips. And at the front of them was a giant. The biggest man she had ever seen by a long way, wearing a massive cloak of dark fur that must have come from some beast of mythical proportions, with a great length of beard and braided hair on his head that only made him look even more like a giant ripped right from the storybooks.
Adelaine stared in fear and wonder at him. Her mind raced with questions.
Did the Shapeless magic give him that incredible size? Or was he always that big? Did he use that size and strength to earn his blessing? Are the blessings even truly still earned, with the Shapeless God dead and broken like the Pattern? How did he discover this blessing? Did he contact the remnant of the Shapeless?
They were questions she would have asked him, would have talked about for days on end, were he not a madman and a killer come to raze her town. So she kept her mouth shut in a tight line, and watched the giant approach, stifling her fear.
Hadrir and his band stopped on the hilltop, before the baron and other townsfolk. He towered over them, wide and tall as a town gate. His pale brown eyes were wild and wide, reveling in the moment as he looked into the faces of each of the townspeople. Adelaine could feel them averting their gaze in fear, could feel the shudders running down their spines. With each look, Hadrir’s wild joy grew until he was grinning through his huge, thick beard.
It set a fire in Adelaine’s chest, and her anger mounted. This man was relishing in the fear that he inspired. And she would not let him have the satisfaction of seeing it in her.
Finally, Hadrir opened his mouth to speak. His voice was deep, grating, resonant. Like the ring of a harsh war horn.
“I see fear in your eyes,” he said. “But I am not your doom. I am your salvation. I bring about an age of change. Freedom from the chains of the old Empyre.” His smile grew wide, yellowed teeth showing through the matted beard hair. “With my help, the strong will be revealed. And the weak…will be made strong. Or they will be freed of their suffering.”
Adelaine looked over the Shapeless warriors that came with him. Their eyes were hungry. Sickeningly hungry with anticipation. Whatever Hadrir said, it could not cover up those looks, and what they meant. They made Adelaine feel sick, and gave her the strong urge to spit in their faces. Or do much worse.
Baron Prout cleared his throat, trying to raise his chin and meet Hadrir’s gaze, but Adelaine could see him shaking. When he spoke, his voice wavered.
“Hadrir, we…ahem, that is, we welcome you to our town. We welcome…welcome your salvation and what you—”
Hadrir moved toward the baron, great cloak shifting like a towering tree in the wind, and within the first massive step, Prout cut his blubbering speech off with a soft yelp and winced. But Hadrir walked right past him, not even seeming to notice. His eyes were fixed on the townspeople.
“Such a pitiful lot…you need me more than I thought possible.” He looked over them. People dropped their eyes to the ground, or stared wide-eyed and full of fear. “Strength has gone from this place. It left long ago.” He shook his massive head, then his eyes shot open wider and his voice was filled with renewed vigor.
“Your eyes are full of fear, Haverren! You fear following your hearts! If you do not want this, then speak it! Speak your desires and live freely, if for even a moment.” He flashed his yellow grin again. “Oppose me, if that is what you wish. I will grant you that wish, and let you die on your own terms, more free than you have ever been.”
Nobody spoke. Hadrir’s men were quiet, watching with anticipation, and the giant ran his eyes over the crowd. They fell on Adelaine.
“There is but one fire here, girl, and I see it in your eyes.” He tilted his head at her. “Are you the last lingering bit of strength left in this place? Do you wish to oppose me, to strike me down? Speak the truth in your heart, girl. Be free.”
Adelaine’s heart began to race, as did her mind. She met Hadrir’s mad gaze. Fear and anger grew in equal parts within her.
Vanteus had never taught her combative Pattern magic. It had never even been in any of the books he’d carried. But she could use what she knew against another person. The wizards of old — the other wizards of today — did it frequently. They felled entire armies and foul devils and even demigods themselves with their magic.
Baron Prout looked over his shoulder and shot Adelaine a venomous look, a mixture of pleading and attempted fury which begged her not to ruin this for him.
Adelaine ignored it. Her mind went over all the Patterns she knew and had practiced over the years. She had always been good at manipulating earth and stone. Could she use those as a weapon? Perhaps she could trap this giant, swallow him up as the earth sometimes did here in the Shattered Heights. She knew about manipulating the human flesh — could she command his bones to break, or his heart to stop? Would that even work on someone imbued with Shapeless magic, or would he be immune?
Her fists tightened, and a thousand fragments of Patterns flew through her mind as she searched for an answer. Despite the chill, a bead of sweat ran down her temple. She eyed the sword on Hadrir’s back — a massive, ugly looking thing with a hilt wrapped in stained cloth.
Could she even do anything before he was upon her, with that great sword slung across his back, or—
“If you’re looking for an opponent,” a voice called from afar, “I’ll gladly provide you one, Hadrir.”
In unison, the townsfolk and the Shapeless bandits turned to face the voice. Atop a piece of high, weathered stone, the last knight of Callia stood. Dallen’s cloak and hair fluttered in the breeze, like paintings of old heroes, and the setting sun bathed him in gold and orange.
She knew that he would have hated just how heroic he looked in this moment. But it brought Adelaine joy. Not because he would try and save them, but because he had come back. She could feel the hope rising in the townspeople, rising against the setting sun and the Shapeless warriors that had come to stamp it out. The bandits shifted, uncertain of how to feel.
But Hadrir knew how to feel. He let out a joyous, grating laugh that echoed across the shattered cliffs.
He could have been happier.
----------------------------------------
Dallen felt every pair of eyes on him. Pressing heavy like river stones. With the absence of wind, the madman’s laugh seemed to be the only sound in the world. Dallen waited patiently on the outside, but a fury began to boil within him.
Finally, Hadrir finished his mad laugh, and bellowed a call up to Dallen.
“There he is!” Hadrir turned, arms still at his side so that his huge body remained hidden under his fur cloak. “Finally, someone in this place with some stones! I was worried you’d left before seeing the salvation I bring.”
Dallen remained silent this time, anger building within him. As well as some amount of trepidation. Devils, this bastard was huge. He’d seen some big fellows during his time at war, but this man might have had all of them beat.
Hadrir only waited a moment before continuing.
“Come witness the strength of the Unruled! The strength of the Shapeless God and all its blessings!” Finally, he parted his cloak and spread his arms wide. He was bare-chested, huge and muscular, somehow even bigger than he’d appeared with the giant fur on. “The way of strength shall persevere on this day!”
Dallen stared at him, stone faced and displeased.
“You lot really do love listening to yourselves talk, don’t you?” Dallen finally said.
Hadrir only grinned wider.
“There is one thing I love more.”
“Naturally.” Dallen started down the hill.
The bandits and warriors surrounding Hadrir began murmuring excitedly, drawing their weapons but not looking ready to use them. Some had northern shields and axes, some had weapons from Melirr and Glunderal, others swords and spears from the old Empyre’s many lands. They were men — and a few women, now that he saw them closer — from all places and walks of life. All come together for a singular purpose. It was almost touching.
As Dallen drew near to Hadrir, the bandits formed a circle. They spread out, surrounding the two fighters, some ending up behind Dallen. The thought of enemies behind him made his instincts kick in, and he nearly drew his sword, before remembering what was happening. This was a tradition from the old northern lands — Osdram or the Frosts, nobody was sure which.
The circle. An honorable way of fighting, supposedly. But usually, half the men making the circle would be on Dallen’s side. As it stood, he wasn’t sure how much he could trust the men around him to keep to their honor.
Dallen stopped a few paces from Hadrir. Just enough that he didn’t have to strain his neck too much, like a toddler looking up at his father. From this distance, he could look Hadrir in the face and still stand tall. Hopefully.
“I’m surprised your men are holding back,” Dallen said, looking around at the bandits surrounding him. Some certainly looked like they wanted to jump him. Some of the baron’s men did too. But most seemed too invested in seeing this fight play out.
“They wish to see a proper fight,” Hadrir said. “I hope you will be able to give them one.”
Dallen gritted his teeth. He could see the townspeople watching from a distance, squeezed to the back as Hadrir’s men formed the circle. They peered over, some standing upon rocks to get a vantage point. He could see the baron, red in his face and looking somewhere between furious and queasy. Bant, looking only queasy, but with a strange hope in his eyes. Adelaine, standing beside Vanteus, watching with nervous excitement. She seemed to be mouthing something to him, but he could not read her lips.
“If I defeat you, will your men stand down?”
The question brought a few laughs from the surrounding crowd. Hadrir shrugged.
“My men will do as they please. That is the Way of the Unruled.”
This time, Dallen audibly groaned.
“Bloody fucking devils then, let’s get on with it.”
He drew his sword. The Duke’s sword, longer than most would find practical. More ornamental than functional. Maybe he should have gotten a better weapon for this.
But this one had a sentimental value. And it had killed something stronger and far worse than Hadrir.
I’ll kill this bastard, then maybe I’ll cut off the baron’s head for giving into this lunatic.
The thought was not as reassuring as he’d hoped it would be. But he needed to think that way if he hoped to win.
Hadrir reached behind his head and pulled free his huge blade. It was dull, grey steel, almost as chipped as Dallen’s own weapon. But it had a thick, heavy edge made for bludgeoning as much as cleaving. One swing of it was probably enough to cut a horse straight down the middle. Its tip was squared off, like an executioner’s sword.
Despite the flat end of the blade, Hadrir slammed the weapon into the earth, burrowing it a few inches deep. Then he shrugged off his cloak, throwing it to the side. The huge thing caught a gust of wind and looked like some horrible beast of legend as it flew into the air, landing somewhere just outside of the circle. Hadrir remained, bare chested with only a pair of fur trousers. Dallen looked closely at the huge man’s chest and arms. There were no scars there.
All around the circle, the warriors began beating their weapons. Against the hard earth, or their shields, or against one another, or even their own chests. Then, they began humming. A low, throaty hum, pulsing rhythmically with the slamming sounds of their weapons.
There were words somewhere deep in there. Words from some ancient part of history — words of Old Northern that Dallen could not understand. He wondered how many of those singing them understood. But regardless, he felt them deep in his bones. Sending shivers and surges through his skin. Something in him urged for the fight to begin.
“The strongest shall win,” Hadrir said. And he plucked his sword from the earth. He seemed to tower even taller than before.
What in the deep hell have you gotten yourself into? But it was too late now. The two men circled each other, the chants from all around them growing with intensity.
Hadrir did not have his guard up. He circled casually, his sword down at his side, scraping on the earth.
Dallen would have to act quickly. He would be faster than his opponent, and could use that to his advantage. And frankly, there was no sense in waiting. Waiting only prolonged the inevitable.
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Dallen lunged in, feinting one direction, then swinging hard around the other. He closed the distance in two quick strides, and brought the Duke’s sword down with enough force to cut right into bone. It would be a decisive strike in any fight, if it landed.
Hadrir did not move to block it. Dallen’s sword whisked through the air and came down hard right below Hadrir’s shoulder. An injury there would put that arm out for the rest of the fight.
The sword slapped against skin and bounced. It left no mark. Like a practice sword against hard leather.
Instinctively, Dallen drew the sword hard against the skin as he retreated, a move that would cut deeper and wider into flesh than the initial blow. It slid against the bare skin with a soft hissing sound. Hadrir still did not move, except to laugh.
“The blessings of the Shapeless God are strong within me. No sword can harm me, nor any other weapon.”
So that was what the stories meant when he said he was unbreakable. A pit opened in Dallen’s stomach. How in the wide, broken world was he supposed to fight someone practically made of stone?
Hadrir started towards him at a slow, casual walk. Dallen tried to lean into anger, going on the offensive once more. He danced about Hadrir, delivering a series of blows to different spots. Lower leg. Abdomen. Hand. Neck, damn it all. All landed, and nothing stuck. He felt a growing anger, and a growing panic threatening to overpower it.
Finally, Hadrir swung. It was lazy, but still strong. And it was all Dallen could do to block the huge sword with his own, sending him stumbling backwards.
Two more swings, and Dallen jumped to avoid them. Despite their slowness, they were hard to counter. In a normal fight, you had to be careful with every attack, as each one might open you up to a counterattack from the enemy.
But Hadrir had no such worries. He could perform moves that were downright stupid — risky attacks that would more than likely end up with both parties dead. But if Hadrir couldn’t be hurt, those moves were just as good as any others. If not better.
Dallen’s back slammed into a shield as he reached the circle’s edge, and a moment of panic seized him. He tensed, expecting a knife in his ribs, or hands around his throat, but received only a shove instead, sending him back into the circle and right towards Hadrir.
One more swing from Hadrir, and uppercut. Dallen could not move the Duke’s sword fast enough. He raised his right arm instead.
The huge sword slammed against his arm and tore through the cloak and shirt beneath. Pain shot through his shoulder. Blue sparks flew as the sword scraped upwards, sending Dallen reeling back. He just barely recovered, bringing his sword back to the ready. But Hadrir was not advancing.
“This,” the warrior said, raising his arms to the circle, to his men, to the rhythmic chants that were now rising nearly to shouts. “This is what I was born to do. What I was made to do.” He started walking. “This is why I was blessed by the Shapeless God.”
Dallen tensed his muscles and charged in, if only to shut the man up. Hadrir almost looked like he was spreading his arms in a welcoming hug, savoring each moment.
Metal clashed violently as they traded blows. Dallen’s sword slapped against steel and skin to equal effect. Hadrir’s great weapon clobbered into Dallen or sent him dodging out of the way. The entire time, Dallen had the distinct impression that Hadrir was like a cat toying with its prey.
Dallen’s breath was heavy now, and his body ached all over. He cursed himself for not keeping up with his training. All those nights spent drinking and feeling sorry for himself had made him soft, and now he was going to die for it.
Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that why you drank?
He roared, shutting out the voice, and the crowd of men roared with him. They bellowed the words of Old Northern, they cheered and yelled and slammed their weapons in time, seeming to grow faster. Dallen tried to unleash everything he had, despite knowing all the difference it would make. But in this moment, he would rather die raging and fighting than placid and resigned.
More attacks, dodges, counters, blocks. They seemed to pass in a moment, and Dallen’s vision began to grow fuzzy. He didn’t have much more in him.
But did it look like Hadrir was moving slower as well? The man was certainly breathing heavier, wasn’t he? The fight had to have some sort of effect on him. Was Dallen just imagining that, or was he really—
There was a snap as Dallen blocked an overhead swing. Panic flashed, and the world seemed to slow. Some terrible force slammed against his shoulder. Then everything stopped for a brief breath of time.
The Duke’s sword was reduced to only a foot of steel, snapped at a sharp angle. Hadrir’s sword rested against Dallen’s arm, where it had saved his life by sheer luck. Otherwise that sword would have cut clean through steel and not stopped at the flesh and bone below it.
A meaty fist clobbered Dallen in the side, knocking a wheezing, spit-filled breath out of him. He flew and tumbled, crashing against the ground. Dirt and rocks kicked up and scratched against his skin, leaving him a pile on the far edge of the circle. The bandits around him cheered.
Well, it was a good fight. Maybe I can just lay here and die now.
He heard Hadrir’s voice call above the din of chants.
“Shame. It was such a pretty sword. But I’ll tell you what, knight: we’ll keep this an even fight.” There was the sound of heavy steel dropping to the earth.
Fucking bastard doesn’t have the decency to just kill me when I’m beat. Anger flared up within, for the moment overpowering his resignation. Well then I won’t have the decency to die when he wants me to.
He slammed his fist into the ground, rising slowly. It felt like lifting a cart full of rocks.
It took only a moment for him to wish he hadn’t gotten up at all. Hadrir’s fists were nearly as bad as his sword. He had so much weight behind each throw that Dallen felt like a castle gate trying to withstand a battering ram.
Dallen tried to throw punches back. A few landed. Hadrir seemed to wince a little at some of them, but that was all that Dallen got. In return, he received a flurry of hefty punches that sent the world reeling around him. He was not sure how he stayed on his feet. Or how many of his bones hadn’t broken yet.
Dallen blocked an attack with the Maker’s arm once more. It sent such a shock through his arm that he thought it might rip straight out of the flesh. He fell to one knee, surprised he did not collapse entirely.
This thing is stronger than Uthric steel. Stronger than anything else I’ve seen. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t still hurt like hell whenever I use it.
Hadrir took one step back, lightly panting, and the thought of his own arm gave Dallen an idea. Hadrir’s flesh could not be broken, or even scratched. It was stronger than any steel. But what of what lay underneath? Perhaps a sword had been exactly the wrong type of weapon to use. Something blunter, swung with a little more force, might do the trick.
Please let this kill me, if it doesn’t work.
Dallen mustered all the strength he could, staying low in his crouched position. He breathed deep, focusing on not passing out or falling over. Hadrir was going on about some horseshit, but the words sounded muffled to Dallen’s ears. He just waited for the huge man to approach.
Dallen sprung forward as fast as his legs would allow him, and came in low, using the giant’s height to his own advantage. He planted himself wide as he could right beside Hadrir’s leg, and mustered as much force as he could into a mighty blow with the Maker’s arm.
The hard fist found purchase right in the crook of Hadrir’s knee. And Dallen felt it buckle. The huge man actually fell to one knee, and howled with pain.
There was a chance. Hadir was not unkillable. He could be hurt. He could—
Giant arms wrapped around Dallen. They crushed him, squeezed the air out in an instant. He felt his face turning blue, felt cracks within his arms and chest. He tried desperately to breathe, managing only a choked gurgle of spit and blood. The Maker’s arm flexed against Hadrir’s flesh, pushing outwards only slightly.
Hadrir’s howl of pain went to a roar of joy. He lifted Dallen off his feet, holding him high in the air as he squeezed death into him. Dallen kicked uselessly without thinking, feeling like a child.
“Yesssss,” the big man roared. “A worthy fight! I haven’t felt pain like that in years!”
The chanting and pounding was a cacophony now, splitting Dallen’s ears even as all other senses seemed to fade away. Hadrir bellowed a laugh, throwing his head back. Then be brought it forward hard, slamming his forehead into Dallen’s face.
Stars flashed in Dallen’s vision as his head snapped backwards. His body went limp, unsure of where it even was. He vaguely felt the world twist and shift, suddenly sent spinning around him, then he crashed into a rock before crumpling to the ground.
He drooled blood against the hard earth. It felt like every bone in his body was broken. They had to be. Was this what death felt like?
In a daze, Dallen reached for a stone. He fumbled at it with his right hand, trying to find a good grip. But what would it do him? Would he suddenly find the strength to bash Hadrir’s skull in? This was no melee at the contest, not even a battle in the Hills of Tammerach. Hadrir was unlike anything he’d ever faced.
Except for once…
“That arm of yours is impressive!” Hadrir called. “As are you, little knight. But for all your strength, you cannot hurt me in a way that matters. Nobody can. The Shapeless God made it so — I am unbreakable.”
The last word sent a strange jolt through Dallen’s numb body. A wave of old fury, awoken like a slumbering dragon. The feeling grew, overtaking his screaming muscles. He tightened his right fist around the stone.
Hadrir was clueless. He was a blundering fool — a liar. Hadrir and his tough skin had no idea of what unbreakable meant.
The chanting was a cacophonous roar. Hadrir bellowed his foolish arrogance along with them. The words vibrated through Dallen’s bones.
Dallen would show him what unbreakable meant. He would show Hadrir how wrong he truly was.
The stone in his right hand cracked, then crushed to a powder.
Dallen’s vision went white, yet he could see more clearly than ever before. And he was surrounded by flames that roared with the voices of a hundred men.
He would break every one of them.
A sound emerged from deep in Dallen’s throat, clawing through the hoarse blood and strained flesh within. Something that resembled a laugh, to mirror Hadrir’s.
Dallen was on his feet, stumbling towards Hadrir. He let out something else, a sound between a laugh and a yell, and Hadrir’s eyes flickered with the slightest bit of recognition. But the big man still welcomed the fight, like a fool. Like a child welcoming a wolf into his home.
Hadrir swung a meaty fist at Dallen. Slow. Pathetic. Weighed down with all that muscle.
Dallen ducked under, going for the knee he’d attacked earlier. The one that was already weak, even weaker than the rest of him.
This time, Dallen drove his fist upward, planting himself into the ground. Pain ripped at his shoulder, but he welcomed it. It was weakness fleeing him.
Heavy bone cracked. Muscles and tendons crunched and tore under the fist of the Maker. Hadrir let out a yell of pain, choked off halfway through. There was no bruising or cut on the skin, but the knee now bent at an unnatural angle.
He breaks. And so he must be broken.
Hadrir made a desperate grab for him again, but was too slow. Dallen felt the hands wrap around him, and managed to keep his right arm free. He could not help but laugh at Hadrir, spitting blood into his face. This man had thought himself invincible for so many years, and had no idea how to deal with pain and broken bones.
He had no chance.
Dallen grabbed the fingers on Hadrir’s right hand. He twisted, ripping apart the small, weak bones inside. He twisted further and further, Hadrir howling with desperate pain as he tried to crush Dallen. Dallen would have ripped the fingers clean off the hand, but Hadrir’s unbreakable skin held everything together, letting Dallen pull until the wrist snapped free.
Furious tears of pain fell from Hadrir’s eyes now, and his grasp on Dallen faltered for but a moment. It was all he needed.
He shifted, then planted his fist into Hadrir’s ribs. Hadrir’s own grip gave Dallen all the leverage he needed, and bones cracked within the big man’s torso.
Hadrir let go and fell backwards, unable to retreat on his broken knee. Dallen would not allow him a moment of rest. He needed to be taught. Needed to be broken.
Dallen jumped atop Hadrir, grabbing hold of him with his left hand, fingernails digging into unyielding flesh. Hadrir’s own undisciplined nature worked against him as he panicked from the rising pain and fear.
Dallen broke more. He snapped the other ankle. He broke more ribs. He shattered a shoulder and collar bone. He slammed fists into Hadrir’s stomach, to rupture the organs within. He broke Hadrir one piece at a time, and the giant man wailed with fury and pain.
The huge northerner threw his whole body and head against Dallen, tossing him back once more. But Dallen laughed as he fell to the earth. Hadrir had already lost, why couldn’t he accept it?
“You call yourself unkillable?” Dallen shouted as he rose, swaying, to his feet once more. “Call yourself unbreakable? I was given a purpose, Hadrir. All those years ago as my home burned, and I was born again from the ashes and blood! I was given the purpose to break men like you!”
The voice did not sound like his own. But he didn’t care. All he cared about was the weakness before him, waiting to be shattered.
Hadrir rose as best as he could, body crumpled and broken, tear-filled eyes shining and bulging with rage. The chants around them had melted into screams and yells of hatred. Hadrir screamed spittle at Dallen in a roar that shook the earth. Dallen bellowed back in a grating voice.
“WHAT FUCKING GOOD WILL THAT DO YOU?”
He shot his hand forward, shoving it into Hadrir’s mouth. The giant’s eyes went wide with fear as he realized his mistake. He screamed a rattling scream, muffled around Dallen’s fist. He tried to fight back with his ruined arms, but they were useless and broken, as he would soon be.
“The strong shall win, isn’t that what you said Hadrir?”
The man spat muffled, incomprehensible curses back. The crowd shouted with him.
“What was that?” Dallen yelled. He grabbed hold of the back of Hadrir’s tongue, squishing the soft muscles between his cold fingers. “I couldn’t quite hear you!”
Hadrir screamed until his voice was ragged and his lungs were empty. He bit down, desperate and panicked. His own teeth shattered against the Maker’s arm.
Dallen let out a laugh that turned into a scream. He pressed his free thumb into the bulging eye of his opponent. He didn’t even care if it did anything. He just wanted to break him a little more.
“Die!” Dallen commanded, voice now just a ragged hiss. He ripped his hand backward, tearing free Hadrir’s tongue. A chunk of flesh came with it, dangling behind.
Hadrir coughed and choked, and stopped screaming. The crowd went silent. There was no sound, but a rising bubbling.
Hadrir tried to raise his arms to his throat, but they could not quite make it. Blood spat up from his ruined mouth, and he convulsed. One good eye went wide with panic, then pitiful fear. It filled Dallen with sick joy.
The giant fell, choking and sputtering. Dallen kicked him onto his back and let him choke.
That was one man broken. But there were more to go, weren’t there? A whole great host of men to be killed. That baron too, and all his guards. The whole bloody world for all he cared, until he was the only one left standing!
Dallen’s eyes found a man with messy blond hair and pale blue eyes. Olad. Yes, he would do fine. Dallen started towards him.
Fear flashed on Olad’s eyes, but he remained calm otherwise. Muttering had taken over the crowd, and the bandits looked towards Olad in a confused panic.
Olad raised one hand, as if to bring in attention. Dallen kept coming, shambling. Each step, he had to pause and keep his balance. Useless legs, they were weak. They were failing him. But he would force them to reach Olad, then every bastard after him.
“Come on lads,” Olad said. His voice was level, despite the fear deep in his eyes. “Plan’s changed.” He began backing away from Dallen.
Where the hell were they going? Were they running? The damned cowards couldn’t run, he wasn’t done with them yet. He shuffled towards Olad, but the world was growing dark. The townspeople were shouting now, the guards too. Some of the bandits. Someone rushed towards Dallen, but he only vaguely sensed it. His tunnel of vision was focused all on Olad now. Blood stung one eye, forcing it shut.
Don’t you fucking run. I’m not done with you. I still have to…you’re not…
Dallen hit the earth with a hard thud that brought swift darkness. Darkness, and that strange, familiar voice.
There will be more to come. More that we will break together.