Markus 1.4

Argyle looked over to the sea. “Shouldn’t the duo have come back by now?”

“No worries,” His partner lazily said. “It’s probably just the storm.”

“Didn’t Barden say that there were omens?”

He scoffed. “Just a few birds flying around. And can you trust that sort of person? He’s ill. You know it, I know it, we all know it. He just keeps spouting nonsense every other day.”

“He’s not that bad.”

His partner shrugged, muttering, “a bard who cannot even sing properly…”

Argyle continued to stare at the sea. He does this every day. It was his duty, after all. Today was different. Even after his friend’s reassurance, he still felt very uneasy. A murder of crows had been gathering at the old oak tree for the whole day, through the rain, through the night. Their unblinking, tiny eyes watched over the village. He murmured a prayer to Taranis.

Honestly, though, even a war fleet wouldn’t make it here with this storm.

Not even an hour later, a ship emerged from the screen of rain and greeted them with a shower of arrows.

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Markus jumped overboard, dropping onto the wet sand below. He was unsteady from the days on the high seas. Still, he charged at the village, as arrows decorated his and his crewmates’ shields. It was a feeble attempt, however. He doubted there were many militiamen, and on top of that they were... unskilled, to say the least. In the face of these pirates, it was too hopeful to assume they’d go out victorious. Not to mention, they were in rain. One side had blessings from a storm mage, the other didn’t. Kind of unfortunate, isn't it?

He dodged an incoming arrow; then jumped forward to duel a young swordsman. He hit him once, twice, three times, pure strength prevailed, and the man’s sword flung from his grip. He didn't even manage to turn before the axe found his chest. Blood splattered over the blade.

How… young.

He blocked a metal staff. His eyes darted to the left. A staff-wielding man of his stature.

The two traded blows. Right. Left. Right. Left.

An opening! He lunged to the right. The man calmly dodged. A bait. Fuck. His axe flew away, followed by a punch to the face. His nose was bloodied. His eyes turned red.

Markus drew out his sword. He smashed his shield at his opponent. He used the staff to keep his distance. They entered a stalemate.

He threw his shield, and the man knocked it away, staggering just a bit. He immediately lunged forward, grabbing onto the staff. The two struggled. He released it. His opponent lost his balance. In all the mud and rain, he fell. Markus followed up with a throwing axe. The man tried squirming away, but it still caught his leg. Then another took his arm. It was over.

Markus sneered. He took the axe out of the man’s leg. He then sliced and diced his chest. Fleshy tendons, shattered ribs, and fresh blood were all in his view.

“Heh.”

He gathered his weapons and turned to look for new prey. The guards seemed to be all dead. Did they try to buy time? Hearing the screams and the shrieks, he chuckled. It seemed to not have worked.

He headed over to another part of the village. Oh, a group of three trying to run. He followed them.

“Where are you going?” He shouted in a friendly tone. “Why not stay? Don’t you see the party going on here?”

Even the rain couldn't cover up the shouts, the cries, the screams. It was a chorus, honestly. Very charming to the ear.

They ran even faster. One slipped. They struggled to help each other.

“Oh boy, you cannot fall here. It’s not gonna be good for you.”

He was just a few meters away now. They were weaker, slower, and weren’t in the best state of mind.

Casually, he flung an axe. They scrambled to dodge it, and all fell.

He had caught up now. His sword pierced through the back of one. A woman, it seemed. The other two roared in anguish.

“Your companion cannot stand up. Want to come back to help her?”

They ignored him and continued to run. He could hear the tears falling. Probably just a figment of his imagination, since it was raining so heavily. Or maybe they were genuinely crying so hard that it could be heard through the downpour.

“Don’t be like that.”

He threw another axe. They both fell again, desperately and successfully getting out of the way. It was a funny sight, to be completely honest. Though, he did not know why it was funny.

One picked up the axe. The other also took out an axe - the one he’d thrown earlier.

“Oh?”

They roared as they charged at him, screaming in an unintelligible tongue.

He admired their courage. He really did. He’d never do something like that. Probably. But still, it’s not going to help them, is it? A second later, they were both down, their blood colouring the earth.

One was already dead, his head rolling on the ground. The girl was still alive, although her body was lacking an arm. He crouched next to her.

“Poor girl. Any last words.”

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She only cried, glaring at him through her tears. He tasted her tears. Salty. Salty enough to get through the blood on his fingers.

He shrugged. “None? That’s a bit sad. Not that I’d understand, but still. It’s just customary. Probably.”

He stabbed her in the neck.

As he stood up, thunder boomed in his ears. He glanced to the left. A pillar of lightning flashed through the air. He decided to head over.

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Markus walked toward the centre of the village. On his way, he caught quite a few living individuals. That was quickly fixed, however.

An ancient oak tree burned bright at the town centre, through the wind and the rain. It was split in the middle, its body groaning as it slowly tore itself apart.

Below, his fellow crewmates were gathered around, surrounding a group of townspeople. The latter did not look particularly well. On the ground were dozens of their people, injured or dead. This group only had one fighting member left. A young man, with crimson hair and emerald eyes, wielded two swords with such grace and skill. Alone, he fought back three opponents. The Vikings looked at him with admiration.

Then, the vice-captain stepped in, replacing the three combatants. Perhaps, if he was at his peak condition, it would have been an intense duel of epic proportions. But even from here, Markus could tell that his body had been overexerted to the extreme.

“Very unfortunate,” Rafn said. “The boy had potential. Oh well.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“He should fetch a good price, at least. Rarely do we get high-quality peeps that are, well, alive.”

Glancing at the lines of people in ropes huddled up on the side, he asked. “How many did we actually capture? I’m a bit curious.”

“Around fifty, I believe. The men are mostly dead, as usual. At least we got a blacksmith this time, which is always nice. Oh yeah, nearly forgot. You should go help with those. Keep them in line, will you? And cut down on the number a little. We won’t need every one of them. Twenty-five is a good number. Our ship can only handle so many without intruding upon ourselves.”

“That’s a lie, haha.” One crewmate chimed in. Rafn ignored the comment, and Markus followed his example.

“Got it. Any tips?”

“Meh. It’s pretty simple, so no.” At that, Rafn pointed at one of the captives. “Actually, beat some sense into that one. Priests are always a pain. Too stubborn. They do fetch a good price, so there’s that. I’m a bit surprised the man didn’t end himself with the shrine and the tree.”

He glanced over at the burning wood. “The oak tree?”

“What other tree is in sight? It’s the local god’s symbol. See the lightning from earlier? He’s throwing a tantrum. Jokes aside, his name is Taranis, the Celtic cosplay of the God of Thunder.”

“Huh.”

“Uh-huh, now get to work. Quick.”

“Wait, weren’t you supposed to show me your skills?”

“When did I say that? And it’s your fault that you detached from me. A bit too hot-blooded, I must say. But hey, a good showing for your first foray. Now get to work and leave me in peace!”

Thus, Markus left Rafn with his flask and went over to the gathering of the soon-to-be slaves. It felt wrong seeing people in shackles, but it’s just what the world’s like here. And who’s he to speak? When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Dealing with savages meant acting like savages.

They were all crying, glaring, or murmuring to each other. He didn’t understand their gibberish, but that’s probably Celtic. Or Gaelic. Or something else entirely. Who knows, and who cares. He clapped his hands twice. They all shut up. Except one. That priest whom Rafn had singled out. The man was still reciting his prayers.

Markus promptly took out a stick and whacked him in the head. “Can you stay silent for a sec? I’m about to decide your fates right now. Might want to pay attention, but I won’t insist.”

The holy man (can his lot even be considered that) glared at him, saying in accented Norse. “You pillagers will get your due soon. The Lord has given his sign. Be happy to know that your end is near.”

“You mean that lightning strike? I thought that was him giving up on your lot. I suppose I’m wrong? But yeah, I’m quite happy. You shouldn’t be though. Wonder how much people would pay for you. A man’s happiness is another man’s misery, they say. Unfortunate that you belong to the latter group. But look on the bright side. You will be better off than some of the others in your group. You can compete in the misery department; I’ll be the judge.”

“What do you mean?”

He scratched his head. “Like, old people don’t serve much of a use, do they? So there’s that.”

A dawning realisation came over the man. “Don’t you dare!”

“I do dare.”

“You’d pay for this.”

“I’d pay with the blood money I make off this village. You make the same statements I’d imagined you would make. It’s quite sad. Please kindly shut up.”

Markus gagged the priest before he could say another word. “Now, people, let’s get to the fun part.”

He walked toward them, in his hand an axe. He dragged the old, the maimed, to the side. He looked thoughtfully at the children. He supposed people would take some of them. They can be trained well, after all. The youngest must go, however. It’d take too long for them to be of any use. Unlucky bunch.

He pulled two infants from their screaming mothers, looked at them for a second, and then threw them to the ground. That stopped their crying, but then their mothers started to sob and cry. The people surrounding them tried to comfort them, it seemed. Good for them. Such great communal spirit is rarely seen in modern times. Or so the narrative goes.

He looked at the other supervisor. “So should we just off them right here?”

“Do what you want. We can throw them into the sea if that’s what you prefer. It’s a lot less messy that way.”

He thought about it for a bit. “I think we should just send them to their gods. As a gift. The tree’s still burning bright. Isn’t it a holy tree or something?”

“It is. I like you. You have a pretty bright future ahead of yourself.”

Markus smiled. “Neat. Let’s get started.”

After bringing the excess villagers to the tree, Markus and his fellow partner began chucking them into the flame. Their shrieks were rather irritating, but they didn’t last that long, anyway. After a dozen minutes, they were done. The smell of burnt flesh hung in the air. It made him a bit hungry. Wonder what's on the menu tonight.

As he went back to the captives, he noticed the red-headed man from before had now joined the group. He looked quite pathetic. Not so heroic now.

The priest was speaking to the young man, despair and pain evident in his tone. Even without knowing the language, he could judge that much.

“You did quite a good job for a first-timer, I’ve got to admit.” Rafn said, “It looks like we weren’t wrong in bringing you on board. You were meant for this job.”

“Thanks.” He muttered. Now that the adrenaline and the rage were gone, he felt a little bit out of sorts. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing, though.”

“Eh, you play with the cards you were given. Don’t feel bad. That’s what most people struggle with.”

“I’ll take your word for it, I guess. By the way, you know what they’re talking about.”

“Those two? Why’d you think I know their barbaric tongue?”

“I don’t know. I’m just asking here.”

The older man smiled wryly. “You asked the right person, I do know. They aren’t saying anything too interesting though. ‘Argyle, you should’ve just left. You were our hope.’ That sort of thing. They planned to have most of the men fight so that the others could escape. It might’ve worked better with another group. But in this rain, and with our strength, they were hard-pressed to succeed. Probably a quarter of the village escaped. One half is dead, and the remaining are with us. Not great for them, but it was a good enough harvest for us.”

“Wow. We did quite a good job, didn’t we?”

He laughed. “Yes, we did. Not the best, mind you, but it’s certainly great. Anyway, let’s get dinner. The village had quite some good stuff around, so we’re having a feast.”

“That’s what I like to hear!”

“I’ll tell you some stories about the city of slaves. It’s our next destination. We need to drop them off to make a quick buck. And I suppose if you want to, there are some exotic whores there. Good stress reliever, or so they say. I am too old for that stuff, with my junior being shrivelled like some sort of dead tree trunk.”

Markus just stared.

“Too much information?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I am always open to sharing more.” And with a hearty laugh and a swig of his flask, the old man was gone.