Calm winds blew as a lover caresses their partner’s ear. It was a night where the capital would be filled with flowing drinks, close encounters of the scandalous kind, and even the sensual necessity to stare up into the night sky and express your joy with life. But on that hill, far away from the protected walls of the city, the young man of sixteen felt the cool air lift the warmth from the ground. Blood shined like black tar poured over the bodies in the pale moonlight. Howls of some distant creature, the scattered limbs of allies, and the sensation that he wasn’t alone…

Christoph jammed his hand into his satchel and pulled out a scroll. As the boy moved, a figure sprinted out of the tall grass. It was difficult to see, and the youthful troop had little time to react. Before any prepared their blades, the sound of splitting flesh and pained groans deafened the atmosphere.

“No!” Malin shouted and swung around his teammate. Paratiff Nentle, the boy who’d hunted his entire life, had been run through by a predator he’d never seen coming. The assailant dug his short blade down to the hilt; the weapon driving between the ribs and into the heart. Paratiff didn’t suffer long, but it was long enough for him to see the dirtied man in furs smile down at him… and then darkness.

Malin’s sword carved horizontally toward the man. For being a forward scout for the enemy, you’d expect a bit more than a forward dive and lack of close combat skills.

The shoulder, just beneath a patch of animal fur used as pauldrons, split open as the boy’s blade severed lays of skin and muscle. It sunk into the bone with a satisfying crack that made the murdering barbarian howl in pain. He struggled to pull away, leaving the dead boy to fall to the grass at the edge of the hill and dragged the blade further through his skin. It was a bad, downhill position he had, and every movement opened the wound further.

Malin screamed like a barbarian woman, tearing into the flesh. He moved a few steps away from the broken circle to continue separating layers from the man’s skeleton.

“Malin!” The scroll was up in front of him, but Christoph tried reaching out for his brother. We have to make sure they know! Reaching out for his brother, in an attempt to pull him back to the defendable hilltop, made him lose his balance. That angle of descent and the misstep into the shoulder of Paratiff’s body sent Christoph tumbling. The scroll uncurled and was caught by the wind. Christoph flew past Abo Reversect and into his brother.

This caused the brothers and the first barbarian to begin rolling down the hill—the blade now tearing free as they bounced along. As this was happening, a second figure lunged from the grass. His target, from the way his axe was aimed, had been pushed out of his range. The larger of the two men swung heavily but only contacted grass with a mighty swing meant to lop heads from shoulders.

Abo Reversect had the opportunity opened before him. A man whose swing contacted nothing and his open chest, exposed right arm, and his legs spread because of the incline he attacked on. Abo stabbed out with one arm as the swing finished. The barbarian man, rugged and muscular, shouted in rage at the tip piercing the lower side of his arm and partially penetrating his chest.

Abo’s force carried him over his dead companion and into the attacker. The weight and pain forced the barbarian off his footing. Both of the warriors fell over the edge and began to follow the rest down the hill.

Christoph was finally able to slow himself and look up toward the fight. A scrawny, shifty man dressed in furs held a second dagger. He was grinning, but his left arm was barely moving at his side. The blood that poured from it was the same black tar that covered the boys on the hill. Moonlight danced across it like pools of water surrounded by oil.

Malin wasted no time. Young as he was, the adrenaline of combat had taken hold. His mind was no longer that of a boy of fourteen but that of a crazed animal. His fang was that of manipulated metal, and it too reflected the moonlight with black dripping from the edge. Malin kept a low stance and rushed forward. Christoph scrambled across the uneven ground to close the gap and assist. Drawing his blade with one hand and reaching into his pack with another, the boys began their battle with the injured barbarian as another two were halfway down the hill.

Malin’s sword rang out against the small dagger of his opponent. Wielding it so the blade ran along his arm, the man brushed off the attack and spun to toss his weapon. Pointed straight for Christoph, the blade managed to slice a chunk of leather from the shoulder just beside the neck. Christoph ducked after the affect. Running forward, his hands both rose up.

One flare of bright red puffed into the sky. The magical item cast the only spell within, and the sky filled with the harsh, flickering brilliance. This action did make his brother’s enemy recoil. A sudden explosion and blast of light threw him off balance.

As he reached for his third dagger, Malin had closed the distance. Trying to defend himself and correct his vision, the barbarian stalker attempted to dodge too late. A dulled short sword split ribs and jammed into the open cavity between the lung and the spine. It looked all too fluid to Christoph, but Malin felt the resistance of flesh and bone in his hands.

Experiencing it, moment by moment, slows time to the point that every second is filled with more detail than the most sumptuous painting. The boy of fourteen knew the feeling of breaking bones, of tearing flesh, and of looking into a man’s eyes, the red flare’s light morphing his expression, as he died. Unexpectedly for him, though it seems completely reasonable, Malin let go of the blade’s grip and watched the man struggle to stand. Falling to his knees, the barbarian gave a low growl, spit blood on Malin’s leather armor, and collapsed.

Malin stood motionless over the corpse of his first kill. Christoph ran to his side shouting, but what was said was not important. What was important was what Christoph saw in his brother’s eyes. The hope of fortune and glory had vanished. In the light of night, there was nothing but a broken soul screaming. Fractured in the darkness, the boy had found what he’d searched for… it was nothing as he’d expected.

“Focus!” Christoph tried to shake his brother with his free hand. Turning around, he saw Abo and the second attacker engaged. A quick check of the field showed no signs of reinforcements in the immediate area. Both sides were as they were at this time. One down on both teams. Christoph ran to the aid of his companion.

“Ah!” The barbarian’s axe fell with the fury of a seasoned warrior. Abo’s sword rose to defend instead of dodging. The blade shattered. Metal bits scattered over the grass. The handle flew through the air as the boy couldn’t withstand the vibrations.

Cristoph ran with all his mindless might. This is impressive. Do you not agree? A boy unaware of the nightmare that exists in life charges head-on toward it to protect one of his own. In the moment, he held no anxieties of death or injury. Was it victory that drove him? Was it the sense of duty or honor? Was it simply to try to protect the boy from his village?

It could have been any number of those aspects. His mind was a blur as he sped toward the conflict. His speed was astounding, but it was still that of any average human. As his sword came into reach, the axe had already swung around again to catch the surprised boy in the neck. Though it didn’t reach entirely to the back, the axe’s blade never slowed as it sliced through the throat. The barbarian roared as he claimed another soul, but he hadn’t seen the other youth coming up on his right.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

As blood sprayed over the grass, black droplets of the damned, a jagged and chipped blade continued to fly over the tips of the flora. Christoph ducked beneath the deadly weapon. The blade in his hands was ready, and his lack of thoughts kept him moving forward.

Christoph swung upward, as he had with Sir Nodure. The barbarian’s weapon was heavier, his muscles far more tensed, and his strength had become a preferred option to the foreign skills the soldiers of this empire studied. Left open after his kill, the eyes of the invader spread wide at the approaching threat.

That mighty axe, poorly forged and cared for, began to swing faster again in the same circle. Killing one young man wasn’t enough. It was his chance to take another life and save his own. That is the duality. This lack of understanding led two strangers to that forsaken hillside. Blood flowed because of the stresses created between two parties. One, the native conscripted by his sovereign powers to march into the horrors unprepared. The other, a man seeking something for his people though the law and opposition track him as an animal.

We will not know his story. It ends here. Christoph lifted the sword and carved flesh up the torso of his enemy. Blood spilled and the unknown man’s leather strap, holding the fur over his shoulders, split. Painful shouts erupted from the barbarian; fueling the rage that his strength feeds on.

The axe continued to turn and come around for another strike. Christoph tried to drop his arm to counter. His mind was prepared for the moment, and his heart told him it was time. For days he’d trained. Long days of wielding a blade and learning how to use it—punished when he could not. He’d almost believed that was enough for a normal man to best a seasoned warrior.

As the barbarian shouted a skill in an unknown tongue, the weapon fell as a tree toward the snared vermin.

“Combat: Parry!” Though the determination was there, a burning force that the barbarian couldn’t have understood, the blade shifted with only a flicker of a reddish hue. Metal contacted metal, and Christoph’s blade was stripped from his hand. A short sword flipping through the air landed just a few feet from Christoph—the edge buried into the grass deep enough only the end of the pummel could be seen.

That crushing axe began another swing around. That unknown man wielded it with such ease. Even though his arm was cut and he bled slowly into the fields of shadowed grass, his muscles carried the weapon around for another strike. Christoph’s hands shook from the force. Such power! He hadn’t learned the skills to survive. He’d merely been given the means by which he could attempt to draw out the fight.

But his hands still moved. They grabbed at the bag at his side and flipped open the pouch. By the time the axe had made it behind the barbarian, he’d already reached inside. As the axe came around the man’s left side, Christoph threw open a scroll from the bag.

“Magic scroll!” He knew all he had to do to activate it was say “Activate Scroll: Message.” Instead, he threw out a bluff. It was impulsive, and he didn’t really sell the bluff. He ducked to the side as he did so, but just seeing the scroll uncurl and hearing the words, his opponent twisted the axe to shield himself. That close of range could have meant even a lower-tier spell could do some serious damage. This barbarian knew little of magic, but he’d heard enough to take caution in situations like this.

Christoph continued his movements. Rolling to his left, he slid through the grass and grabbed he blade again; now using his left hand. His right hand swung to his side and plunged back into the bag. Once the scroll floated gently to the ground and the invader realized he’d been tricked, the rage burned brighter.

In a broken tongue, he cried, “Damn you!” The assailant took a heavy step forward and twisted with a full swing. This attack would have separated a man’s torso from his waist—even with full armor on. The fury behind the attack made Christoph imagine himself standing before a lumbering giant ready to step on him.

I never wanted to see a giant, Christoph’s mind wanted to travel down memories of nightmares. Being picked up and eaten by massive humanoids… but this wasn’t the right time for it.

Christoph leapt up with backward momentum. Just as the edge of the axe whooshed by him, carving grass as easily as he’d expected flesh to sever, he pulled back his left hand while reaching forward with his right.

This spell needed only the will of the wielder. It was imperative that one be cautious while holding it. The wrong thoughts or intentions could set it off prematurely.

PUFF!

A loud exhale of energy popped from his hand as a bright yellow ball shot out of the small device. The Barbarian wasn’t fast enough, due to the weight of his moving weapon, to dodge to either side. A thick beard, brown eyes, and weathered skin was illuminated as the ball sped forward and contacted flesh. It’s heat, as a magic orb, burned into the skin. It rolled up the side of his face and set the hair connecting his head and beard alight.

“AHHH!” The barbarian cried out in agony that had conquered the fury. His axe fell to the ground with only one hand barely holding onto the wooden handle. One free hand lifted up to grab the blinding ball. Tearing it from his face, the flesh warped from the heat, he threw it to the ground. He finished patting his hair to extinguish the flames just in time to see movement from the one undamaged eye.

Christoph hadn’t wasted the time. Bruised and a bit bloodied, he’d carried himself into range for his blade. A few wounds had already left the barbarian considerably injured, but a path toward a fatal wound was available.

Thrusting forward with all his might, the youth pushed past the initial resistance of the muscular flesh. Through the already opened gash across the chest, the sword penetrated the sternum. It didn’t go all the way to the hilt, but it was all the deeper the boy’s rushing weight could manage against the massive enemy.

A gurgle sound escaped the man’s throat. His right hand released the axe to join the left in hopes of removing the blade. Christoph took a step back and pulled the blade free. Another pained noise escaped the man as the metallic ringing of the sword vibrated in his chest.

Our young conscripted soldier stood in the open field and watched as the first man he’d ever purposefully injured stumbled and fell. The mass of the man parted the ocean of grass. Lying motionless in the fields beneath the hill, the man’s chest lifted and fell only a few more times before it came to rest—the blackened blood pooling in the canals of his muscles. Moonlight danced off the liquid in celebration of Christoph’s victory.

Two brothers stood quiet. Stilled in the vast fields of the northern regions of their glorious empire’s expanse, they watched the black pools fall to stain the souls of such a pristine sea of dancing grass. Though the wind blew, they heard nothing but the bumps of their own hearts. Pulsing in their ears like the cadence of drums signaling the charge.

And there was a charge. From the tree lines some distance away, just around the edges of a few smaller hills, came the rushing horde of men from beyond the borders. They moved quickly like a pack of wild animals just wily enough to coordinate their strikes. The boys were out in the open staring down at their kills. Death often destroys more than the life lost.

Christoph felt the pain in his heart, but his eyes caught the glimpse of bouncing torches. The instinct to survive overthrew the desire to mourn the dead. With wide eyes, he spun toward his brother.

“Malin!” He was pointing behind himself to reveal the encroaching danger. Malin’s eyes were slow to rise but quickly shot open at the sight. “Run!”

They both set off; leaving behind the dead of both sides. Two for two. Black blood draining into the once nourishing soil for the sea of grass. The brothers carved a new path, a freshly stomped trail, back toward the basecamp. The career soldiers were already on the move. From the distance, torches had been lit and figures were moving atop the shadowed hill.