We cut to the funeral scene. That’s all very sad and emotional. Erasmus lays a hand on Bran’s shoulder, before he lays something sentimental on Conn’s still chest. Ruadh can hardly watch, as the mass graves are filled in.

The band starts playing the funeral dirges. We see all our friends watch the proceedings solemnly. Erasmus stands with his remaining Paladins as they farewell their fallen brothers. The Rangers weep bitter tears. They must now suffer the burden of living, while others had to pay the ultimate sacrifice. None feels this more so than Ruadh. This is called Survivor’s Guilt, by the way.

The Dwarves sing sad hymns. The troll-men chant ancient rhymes to guide the dead to the spirit-lands. Even a few goblin-men and mercenaries are present , wounded and left for dead by their fleeing companions. They now hold each other close and weep, cursing the evil fate that brought them to this war.

Many broken and discarded weapons have been heaped into a great pile. Spears and axes, broken bow staves and musket barrels. The honour is given to Erda, she carries the flaming brand and thrusts it into the heap. The pile ignites, the flames spreading slowly and surely until the whole mound is burning. The light of the great fire casts an atmospheric orange glow upon the watchers.

Included is a scene where Erda gifts the troll-lord Wasan the Black Sword. It is the weapon that slew Wudu, and it shall be the weregild paid to Wasan, the girl’s father. This is an important detail, trust me.

Moving on, a week passes. Open on the party scene. General merriment in the grand hall of the ranger-home. People are laughing and waving foaming tankards in the air. The floor by now is horrendously sticky. Bawdy songs and cries of “Victory!” fill the tunnels all around.

Erasmus is given the seat of highest honour, amongst the illustrious company of Erda and the lords of the newly forged alliance. With all in witness, Erda, Wasan and Husdrapa have sworn lifelong friendship for their peoples. And there was much rejoicing.

Throughout the night, Wasan and Ruadh struck up a close friendship, the two alternating between sharing dirty jokes and crying uncontrollably. The paladins made the biggest ruckus, singing rhymes so raunchy they even made the trolls blush. Erda was dismayed to see Bran trying to outdo them. Rangers who had been with Erasmus’ surprise attack were sharing their exploits with those who had arrived with the allied army. Of all the stories shared, Erasmus was at the centre of most of them. He was the hero of the hour. Erasmus, his face red all the while, tried his best to give his attention to every man and woman who jostled each other to give him praise. Also Myra was there.

But Pike, he remained alone in a dark chamber, bedridden. A single candle was all that gave him company. Many bones in his body were broken, and the extraordinary powers of healing the rangers possessed were mending him rapidly, even without the miracle potions. But most importantly of all, Pike’s will to live had been rekindled.

Even if it wasn’t meant to be for long.

Pike heard the distant rumbles of laughter and song. He allowed himself to smile softly. After all this, the fool paladin and all the others had snatched victory from the jaws of certain defeat. And it warmed his heart to hear them. Though they had suffered much, and lost friends along the way, they were now together, in joy and laughter. Pike was happy for them, even though he must remain apart. He knew that another doom was waiting for him.

Thus, he scarcely had to open his eyes, to know when the One Eyed Man had entered the room.

(Author’s note: the one eyed man has been retconned a little. He is definitely a mysterious bounty hunter. He always wears a full set of plate armour and heavy tattered cloak. But most importantly of all he has the power to become intangible. He’s practically a ghost, so now his name is the Ghost, or the Ghost Man, or something like that).

The Ghost stepped forward, his armoured feet sounding like tolling bells.

“You knew I was coming…” the hollow voice hissed from behind the closed visor.

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“You said you would,” muttered Pike. “Only I thought I’d be dead by now. I did not have the black sword on me when I used the Rage Mode…”

The Ghost seemed to hesitate. He gripped his spear tighter in his gauntleted fist. “To use such a dark power is to invite a terrible destiny… no matter for what purpose.”

“Whatever. I told you, I was ready to die. And still am. I wanted to save them. And you want the bounty on my head. At least now we can both be satisfied.”

The Ghost turned his back on Pike. “I’ll not butcher a man in his bed.” He strode towards the door, then turned back. “Settle your business here, and then we can settle ours.”

“A hopeless duel then? Or perhaps I could choose between the gallows or a life in the mines. I’d rather wish you’d just lop off my head in my sleep and get it over with.”

The Ghost laughed. “I am not so lenient. Until then… head hunter…” With that, the armoured man walked into the darkness, and was gone.

A week passed. Cut to montage of the farewells given to the Trolls and Dwarves. Important details, but I’m getting impatient here. The point is, at some point, on the road path through the forest of giant trees, the chiefs of the trolls and the dwarves sat down to sup together around a fire. It wasn’t long before the talk went to the gifts given to them by Erda and the rangers. The strangest of all, was the black sword, given to Lord Wasan.

“Oh, that thing?” Wasan the hulking giant said. “That was in weregild, for the life of my own daughter. The very weapon that took her life.” The big man’s voice began to break a little at the thought.

“And what of the slayer?” asked the lord of the mountain dwarves. “I’d only heard rumours…”

“A berserker warrior, I am told… I’d rather not speak his name.”

“I’d heard that it was a single man responsible for the great slaughter of goblins at the gate. Perhaps this is the man?”

“I’ll say more later. The wound is… too fresh. But the matter is settled. The man can be hardly more than a cripple now, and my Wudu is with the ancestors. I must be content with justice, and the sword is no mean gift. It’s enchanted, y’know. Here, I’ll have it fetched.”

But when Wasan called for one of his sons to retrieve the sword, the young troll-man loped back with empty hands.

“What’s the matter lad?”

“Pa, the sword. I couldn’t find it. It’s not in the luggage!”

“Not in the… well come on boys. Go find it! I saw it me-self this morning!”

“Boss!” came another troll. “There’s something else…”

“What is it?”

“It’s Yaga. She’s missing! None of the other women have seen all day.”

At this, Wasan went silent. He remembered the chapter that I wrote actual years ago at this point. In summery, Pike had stumbled into an ambush of trolls, killed one, and had to be bailed out by Erasmus. Wasan remembered the troll-man who had been slain in the scuffle, the son of the old woman Yaga. Of course, he didn’t know that she had already set that monster on Pike’s trail in chapter 17. That was a whole thing. Anyway…

Miles away, a dark shape raced through the roots of the primordial forest. Yaga, that twisted troll-witch, cackled in glee. The black sword was slung across her back. The gloom grew deeper, and she entered into a scene were everything was covered in dark green moss and it was all spooky. She entered deep into a great swamp. She padded up to the yawning mouth of deep cave at the base of one of the titan-trees that sprang out of the mire. She whistled and crept closer, taking the sword in her hands.

“Come out, young wolf!” she wheezed. “Hurry! I have brought the blade! It is time!”

Eyes flashed from the darkness of the cave. A man stepped forward.

“It is time!” Yaga repeated. “I have risked my own neck to obtain this blade! I should have refused. You should be mine to command. You would be dead if not for me!”

“And I am grateful, wise mother,” Talon smiled as he approached, clad in tattered wolf-furs. “But I told you already. I cannot do as you ask without that sword.”

“You are a wicked thing,” Yaga hissed. “You would wreak great evil with this…”

Talon stepped forward and laid his hands on her shoulders. “Yes. And I will fulfil your desire.”

Yaga scowled. “You will kill the grey haired one. My son’s slayer…”

“He is guarded by the rangers,” Talon said, smooth as a serpent. “Many of them must die too.”

Yaga held forth the sword. “I must… I will… have my vengeance.”

Talon reached for the blade with shaky hands, remembering the feeling of ecstasy it gave him those brief moments he had held it. How that bloodlust had given him power as it had cut through flesh and waded in blood. He remembered the power, and the promises of more. He raised it to stare into the steel, reverently, lovingly. “Yes. Death must be repaid in death. Life must pay for life.”

“Now go!” snarled Yaga. “Go and give me my vengeance.”

Talon nodded. “As you wish.”

Yaga smiled maliciously and closed her eyes in satisfaction. She knew what her fate was to be. She didn’t have to see the sword to know it was aiming for her neck.

As the troll-witch’s headless body fell into the mire and began to sink, Talon cackled and howled, feeling the power that the sword had ripped from Yaga’s blood flow into his own veins. He leapt and pranced with barbaric glee. All around the swamp, heads emerged from their hiding places, mud stained faces peering at Talon.

More and more of them rose up, mud stained and half starved. Goblin-men and mercenaries, dregs of the army that had gotten lost amidst the chaotic rout. All of them had lurked in the woods, waiting to starve or be hunted down by rangers. Until Talon had found them, gathered them in the swamp, to hide, and to wait.

Talon looked around and his bedraggled band. “It is time…”