The trail had been easy to follow. The deep groves in the ground from the overladen travois and the trampling steps of the Softlanders made it so that a child could track these now perished intruders' steps. From the start of their journey to the afterlife. He had been following them for a few turns, more than a day when he could see the camp. It lay between two streams that would turn into a river further down. The Brother's bright light was glittering more handsomely on the river surface than the yellow gold the intruding Softlaners sought.
Sitting on his haunches close to the top of a hill, Bjorn was watching them. He had learned that when people scouted at hills, they mostly looked at the outline of the hills, if far enough away. Six men were walking around in the streams shaking something between their hands from time to time. It was like watching children trying to fish with the baskets for the first time. The sun was still at their back, but soon enough, the Brother would begin his descent into the faraway sea. Making sure the twigs and grass he had placed in his clothes and hair were still there, he slowly put a piece of dried meat in his mouth and waited.
Making his way between the tall grass, he stopped at the edge of where they had made their camp. They set no watchmen. From what he had seen, all the Softlanders were out sifting through the streams bottom with their shovels, pans and brushes. Occasionally one would warble in their twittering tongue and laugh while holding up something between his fingers for the others to see.
The sun was moving down fast. It was not long until the Softlanders packed up and moved their tools and what they had found into one of the three buildings they had put up. Ugly things, square and stumped. They looked ready to fall over at a strong wind. He was not impressed. This was what was expected of the Softlanders. Less than animals, even less than him. Despite what the voices were shouting in his head. “ Son of a thrall! Despised by the Gods! End it, weakling, end it. Worth nothing, you are. The land hates you, the People are shamed by you. Stop their shame. Make it quick, despised one. End it quick with sweet, sharp iron. Weakling!” They screamed at him. Sometimes loud enough to make his head pound. Bjorn knew their ways now. He knew they would scamper back to the deep dark parts of his spirit when they were spent, but until then, he would grit his teeth, bear the assault. He was dead to the People, but his body was still on the land. His spirit may have been shattered by the mark of the deceiver, but he was still Bjorn. He repeated to himself. “I, Bjorn, will heal my broken spirit and return to the People whole one day. I will take my name back by right or by force. I will be worthy.” Again and again, he said the words to himself until the voices became distant and silent. Looking around, he realized it had become dark.
Making his way towards the closest building, he sat down by a corner and listened. There were no shutters he could see on this building. It was the same building they had brought their tools to. Bjorn carefully made his way along the wall, listening for any disturbance. Everything was silent however. Reaching up, he opened the latch, which was, to his surprise, silent.
The Sister's soothing light was all Bjorn needed to see what was inside. Boxes and tools of iron or copper. He saw some pelts folded on a shelf, but not many. There were no pouches they used for the yellow gold. To Bjorn, these tools were more valuable than any of the yellow gold anyway. It would be a good haul for his cove.
Securing the latch, he made his way to the second building. The smallest one. The shutter he could see was closed and barred from the outside by a drawbar? That seemed inconvenient, but Softlanders were strange. A few cracks told him someone had lit a candle from the gentle glow. The latch on the outside looked to be made of iron and not wood like the others, but he found no lock. It was the most backward building he had seen. Shaking his head at Softlander's stupidity, he made his way to the door.
He sat there listening for a moment. Someone was clearly inside. It sounded like the camp cook was pounding dough for the morning bread. It must have been a bad day, for he could occasionally hear the wooden table moving too. It would be better soon, Softlander.
Drawing his good iron knife, he gently opened the door and tried getting a view of the room from its reflection. He only saw a wolly ox hide hanging in front of the door. Making his way behind the hanging hide, while closing the door behind him, Bjorn could hear the grunts and muffled screams of pain from the camp cooks, presumed dough too. Letting the tip of his knife go past the hide, he could see one of the trespasser's naked buttocks as the Softlander was trusting with increased vigor at someone in front of him, making increasingly loud grunts of pleasure.
Bjorn moved the four steps along the floor and had a hand around the Softlanders face as he sliced open his throat to the bone. Blood gushed all over his partner's back as Bjorn pushed the still bleeding corpse to the floor. Then the muffled screaming really started.
They had her tied down on some sort of contraption. Her legs were tied to the contraption's legs, so she was spread wide and gave easy access to her womanhood and puckered hole. They had bent her forward over an animal skin and her arms tied to the contraption's front legs. There was a strap on her head, and her mouth looked to have been stuffed with cloths. Bjorn thought it looked like a painful way to spend any length of time as she clearly had been forced to by the filth between her legs and the floor. The sweat and grime he could see on her back, too, told a story of someone deprived of basic necessities like washing. Then again, by the filthy hair he could see on her head, the small amount of hair on her womanhood and under her arms, one of the white haired Softlanders. Maybe this was her preference. Softlanders were strange and filthy people.
Deciding that the stench was too much, he put out the light and made his way to the door. The muffled screaming increased behind him as he walked out of the dark. He would decide if he should burn the small house with or without her inside when he had dealt with the rest of the intruders. There should only be five left now.
Making his way to the last hut, he was less careful. He could see the shutters were open and clearly see everyone in the building.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Crushing down, he walked silently under the open shutter and stood on the opposite side of the door. From what he had seen, there were three Softlanders sitting around a table playing knuckles. A Softlander was standing over a pot of what Bjorn assumed was food and stirring it while the last one was at the table in the back doing something with the yellow gold and scales. He stood there leaning against the opposite side of the way the door would open, listening to them. Their strange twittering was setting his teeth on edge. Their laughing was loud and like a donkey braying. He could smell the foul stench of their quarters seeping through the door. It smelled of sickness and of neglect. It smelled of someone without pride or honor in themself. It smelled of everything Bjorn feared he was forced to become by that terrible encounter while raiding in the Softlands.
The voices were screeching that he was weak. That he should give his axe and knife to the Softlanders, so they could give him the honorless death he deserved. He should turn back from this hut and go and rut with the filthy white haired one like the dog he was. Did he not want to feel his member bury itself in her silken warmth as he spent himself rutting into her folds. Filth. He was filth and worthless. It would have been better if he would die now and not cause the People more distress.
Bjorn found himself on his hunches. Hands pressed against his temple while there was a strangely panicking twittering above him. Looking up, he could see one of the Softlanders had opened the door and was screeching in their strange tongue. Unlimbering his axe, he brought it up in an underhand chop as he stood up. Splitting the Softlanders face in two. Taking hold of the dead Softlanders left shoulder, he pulled him outside as Bjorn took a step inside. One of the three Softlanders playing knuckles had fallen off his chair scrambling to get up, another had stood up but looked ready to bold, and the third sat there, mouth open, holding a cup of knuckles over the table. He spotted the last one making his way toward where Bjorn stood, hands open and held in front of him, shouting. “Stop! Trade! Honored! Stop!”
Bjorn looked on in mild confusion as the man was making shushing and calming noises at the three men around the table before saying the same things again to Bjorn. “Stop! Trade! Honored! Stop!” The Softlander looked terrified, as he well should, considering Bjorn's mood.
“Speak, Softlander. Why should I not set your spirit free? You are on the land of the People.” The man seemed lost for words for a few moments. When he finally answered, he said, “People.” pointing to the north. “Trade,” he said, pointing to his own chest. That gave Bjorn pause. It meant breaking with the law of the gods and the traditions of the People. What clan would do such a thing? If the other clans found out, there would be a feud between the gods and the Jarl, maybe even the entire clan. Bjorn would not be surprised to learn if it was declared a blood feud by all other clans after that on the one who had set up the trade with the Softlanders.
“What is the trade?” The Softlander seemed to think for a bit. The tree knuckle players were all sitting and watching the exchange with large eyes. Pointing at his chest, he “Girl. Girl. Give.” Then he did a sign around himself with his palm down and flat out while and showed Bjorn a lump of gold the size of a duck egg and pretended to pick it up and put it in his pocket. “Take. Mine.” That was easy enough. Then Bjorn pointed to the south with his axe and asked, “Do you trade with that clan too?” The Softlander looked very confused for a moment but quickly shook his head while he said, “Clan. No. Give.” He was still shaking his head as his eyes glazed over. Bjorn removed his good steel knife from the man's brain as he slumped to the floor. The three players started screeching their strange langued, upending the table and scrambling to get away. One even jumped through the open window,
Walking towards the man who was almost done untangling himself from the chair he had fallen with, Bjorn brought his axe down on his chest and twice more. The crunch of the Soflander's ribs gave him great satisfaction, as did the blood gushing from the dead body. The other Softlander was backing up further into the room with his hands up towards Bjorn. Feeling it was only right to grant the man his wish, Bjorn pounced. Taking the left hand of the man and holding it against one of the beams keeping the floor up, he brought the axe on the Softlanders wrist, removing the hand and much of the lower arm. The Softlander's scream was a balm on Bjorn's spirit. The voices were silent again. Drawing the good iron knife again, he slit the man's throat from ear to ear, reveling in the blood of the Softlander painting his face.
Making his way towards the door again, he felt a grin stretching his features. It was time to hunt.
He could hear the Softalnder's frantic escape coming from the north. Cleaning and retying his war axe and doing the same with his good iron knife. Bjorn stretched. Took a couple of jumps on his toes, standing still, and he was off.
Bjorn had always been a good hunter. He could run down the great deer until their hearts gave out. Tonight something was different. He didn't move like the wind. He was the wind. He hoped the Sister found this night's hunt entertaining, even if it was done by one of the lost, damnd and despised. Far too early, he could hear the Softlander's feet thudding against the ground. The labored breaths the man made had Bjorn worried he would give up already.
Getting closer, the man was wasting time looking around frantically. Good, he should know he was hunted. Bjorn let out a roar when he was merely ten steps behind the man. The Softlander had disappeared in the tall grass. Making a wide circle, he softened his steps as he was about fifty steps away and carefully snuck through the grass toward where the man had fallen. When he was almost back to the same spot, he saw the man's head sticking up from the grass. Looking around. The Softlander looked confused and scared. Good. The Softlander's last moments should be in fright. It was only right for his transgressions.
The light wind hid his soft steps as he moved to the Softlander's back. When Bjorn was two steps away, he asked, “Was it worth it, Softlander?” The man jumped in fright as he scrambled to get back up, but Bjorn kept walking around him, so the man had to look at Bjorn's foot wrappings. Slowly the Soflander raised his head and looked at Bjorn's blood smeared features. He did not know what the Softlander saw in his face in those last few moments, but it was not compassion at his hysterical crying and what Bjorn thought might be begging in the strange sounds they made.
Laying a hand on each side of the man's head, he brought their gaze together. Looking the weeping and blabbering Softlander in the eyes, Bjorn slowly drew his good iron knife and thrust it down through the man's ribs and into his heart. Taking hold of the man's hair, he dragged the corpse back to the trespasser's camp. It was time to raze that abomination to the ground.