Chapter 11: Ransacked

Erik stared into his lieutenant’s face. As far as he was concerned, his second-in-command had committed an act of minor treason. The two of them held their eye-contact, hardly blinking. These two men stood like unmoving pillars.

Behind Erik, Sten had run to the side of Arne. He cradled the young man’s head in his arms. Blood continued to spurt from his forehead. Sten’s eyes poured out a small stream of tears.

“Arne. Arne.” He kept repeating the man’s name. He had help raise him from a young age. Arne returned to Sten’s life after being patched into Corvus. He wanted to return the favours of his youth to the man who once saved his life.

Tybalt simply observed this vignette of human drama.

“You made a grave error,” Erik said to Njall.

“I disagree. You were about to indulge in cruelty. Violence is one thing. Cruelty is another. You know this.”

Erik kept his mouth shut.

“You risked harm to your soul,” Njall reprimanded. “We have already bloodied our hands enough in the pursuit of these ends. How many more members will need to die in the hopes that your township remains in one piece. How many others will you kill?”

Erik looked to the body of the caravan leader. He felt a glimmer of remorse. This man had committed no crime. He simply operated a small business of moving wares between city centers.

“You are right,” Erik admitted. He wandered away from the group. “You guys take care of this. I need some time alone.” Erik climbed back up the escarpment and went to their motorcycles.

Njall looked at the dead ox.

“Help me, brother.”

Njall lifted the ox, while Tybalt pulled the body of the caravan leader from beneath it. Together, they began to stirp the leader and the guards of their weapons and their clothing. Then, they sorted their loot into neat piles. Sten, having carried Arne’s body to the motorcycles, returned to the men and helped them in their sorting. Luckily, the one ox that remained them stayed docile in the commotion. It had been a creature that had endured much in its tenure as a transport animal. The scars that speckled its body was a testament to it.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“Walkers!” Sten called to Tybalt and Njall. Both men stopped their sorting and looked at a few figures in the distance.

“What do we do?” Tybalt asked.

Njall rolled his shoulders back. “Flip a coin. Chances are we kill them.” He encouraged the men to gather all they could, bring them back to the motorcycles, and then take positions for another ambush. If the travellers stay to pick through the loot of the dead, they would fire a warning shot. If they did not scramble, they would kill them and plunder their bodies.

The group that wandered by had been a woman and two men. One of the men had been an older and battle-worn. He was missing one of his arms.

“What do we do?” the young man asked his elder.

“We ignore it,” he said.

“Ignore it? We should bury the dead,” the woman said.

“This is true, but we cannot stay. This killing is fresh,” the old man said. “We may bury them, but who shall bury us?”

The three of them moved pass the streaks of blood. The woman had accidentally stepped into a puddle of ox-blood. Her feet left wet trails of blood for several steps. Within a few moments, they had disappeared.

“I feared that they would stay,” Sten admitted to Njall.

“I did as well. I do not want any more blood on this day,” the giant said. “Let’s finish our work.”

Within the next half-hour, the men scavenged every bit of loot they could from the dead men and the dead ox. They lined up the dead bodies of the men along the escarpment. Sten ensured that the men had their eyes closed and their arms crossed over their bodies. The ox, however, was too large to move. If they wanted to do something to the creature, they could hack chunks from the creature in order to have a large dinner. As it was, they were already overloaded. Between the four men, they had five motorcycles, an encumbered ox, and mounds of the loots strapped to the front and back of their motorcycles. As much as they would have wanted to feast on steak, they had enough troubles with their logistics for the night.

Plus, the blood they had spilt had not stimulated their appetites. Even Tybalt, who had made a lot of money in the past through slaughter, did not celebrate the death of innocents. These murders befitted the scum of the wastes, not the honour professed by this motorcycle gang, nor the conduct of a mercenary. The mercenary would have no problem with this exact job, but the motive for it would be different. It would not have been a matter of innocents, but a level of intrigue, of human dynamics, that gave colour to the murder. Perhaps this killing had been even worse then the work of raiders. Raiders, at least, wanted the loot they stole. They wanted food and drink to survive. They didn’t. They only wanted a semblance of ware so that they may enter the city. Once they were through the gates, what use would they have for it? None of them had extensive experience in trade. None of them were merchants.

Tybalt rested against a tree and looked into the night sky. He waited for his next order. The freedom of the previous day had faded in and instance. He felt overcommitted to these three men. He would not be able to break the chains of their mutual experience as easily as he hoped.

He watched as a star shot across the sky. It disappeared in a trail of self-destructive fire.

END OF PART I