Art reeled forward, sending his rough blankets flying. Something had woken him from his sleep, but he failed to recall what it was. He listened closely, to the groaning hovel, the cold draft stroking his body, some arguing downstairs, the smack of a door. What’s going on at this time of night?

He waited, upright and undressed. The wind howled and was joined by a bloodcurdling scream. Shit.

He jumped off the bed, grabbing the clothing which had been scattered on the floor. He had taken it all of in a hurry after eating his fill, and now regretted it. Art peered through the candle-lit shimmers to where his stuff laid. He had gorged too much as well, had slumbered too deeply. Something that could have been a fatal mistake. Could still be. Might already be too late. Who knows, maybe those soldiers had friends, and now an army has surrounded this friendly town.

He fastened his belt, fitted his riveted mail and banded armor – all in terrible need of maintenance. As he swung his cloak around him, there was a crashing below, yelling, metal scraping, more screaming. Not good.

He grabbed his blade, resting against the nightstand, and rushed downstairs. His boots trudged swiftly down the wooden steps. He turned the corner and greeted a scene of chaos.

The priest was locked in close combat, feverishly waving his blade around, keeping a bearded brute at bay. Not doing a very convincing job at it. The fiddler had already claimed a victim, as his opponent was bleeding badly from a wound in his right side. Clean in the liver. Pretty good.

But there was another attacker who jumped in, and now they were grappling and rolling across the boards. Kicking and biting, the Fiddler got in a stab or two here, got a few teeth knocked out.

The Keep was still clutching his rag, holding it between himself and the assailants as if it were a ward against evil. Art doubted it would be an effective one. And the Teller sat peacefully in his chair, fingers intertwined and resting on his stomach, looking upon it all as if it had no bearing on him. Fucking Tellers.

Art didn’t need to look twice at the attackers to know they were Northman, though. And that was still better than an army, but worse than a regular band of raiders. Art had some unpleasant exchanges in the past with those madmen. Choosing a side remained easy enough, with the raiders blocking his escape.

Art lurched forward, little more than a shimmer in the dim light. His sword whistled sharply, and in the next moment had an arm twirl round and round in the air, red blood trailing after it.

The Northman had a look of confusion on him. Surprise. But before he could feel the pain, his head was sent after his limb, and hit the wall with a sickening thud. But Art was years past nausea. Before the priest could say something, the Slayer was already moving onto his next target.

Two quick steps, and he was on top of the Fiddler’s opponent. Art spun his blade around, and shoved the point into the man’s back, stopping short of piercing the Fiddler too.

Another raider came for him, axe held at the ready. Reeling his arm back for a downwards strike. Art let his blade stick into the corpse and jumped forwards.

The man swung –

“Argh!” His axe hooked onto the low rafters. He panicked and went for his knife, but it was far too late for that. Art’s palm shot upwards and drove the raider’s nose bone deep inside his brain. There was no yelp or scream. Just a throb, and done. The man fell backwards, dead as can be. Another corpse to stack the pile.

Art turned to the gathering inside, all looking at him as if the plague was standing in their midst. Horrible, putrid, unstoppable. Art had dispatched the men who would have otherwise killed them in mere moments. Just as in every story that told of Slayers.

He peered at the Teller, who seemed like he was enjoying a good show. No doubt memorizing it all to tell later. No doubt. Fucking –

Wait. Art looked around, but didn’t see the children from before. Not the protective boy nor the curious girl.

“Where are those kids at?” He asked the gathering.

“Went outside a moment ago,” the priest breathed, holding his hand on his stomach, a red stain spreading on his white garb, “searching for their parents and entourage, they said.” Fuck.

He didn’t have time for this. Why did he care about them anyway? No point in doing so.

The image of the young girl’s eyes flashed inside his mind again. Eyes, green as the wildest forests. Art spotted the Teller smirking, but –. Hair, black as the darkest nights. Fuck.

He abandoned the others, and ran outside. The blizzard welcomed him in its icy embrace, robbing him of most his senses. There was little time, he knew that much for certain. When the Northman tire of their bloodshed, fire will be raging it all to ashes. Such is their way. Where?

He looked for tracks to follow, but there were many of them, most already covered by a layer of fresh snow. Fuck!

But two pair led away, to somewhere, Art had no idea. It wasn’t heading for the stables, that he did know. Fucking clueless kids.

Hesitation. He could still leave, forsake them all. It’s what he used to do. What he should do, really. But he had a gnawing feeling, a tiny voice that whispered he would regret it. Art found he already regretted enough as is.

He made his decision and trudged forward, his cloak clacking in the vehement sighing, eyes strained against the cluttering ice. He heard a cry, high pitched, from the way he was heading. Right on.

There were voices all the sudden, too. And light casting five dark shapes against a barn, blown almost to ruin. The men headed inside, cursing and yelling to each other.

“Hold her fast! I’ll carve the bloody cross in this cunt!” The voice sounded like it had swallowed gravel.

Art followed the group inside, silent under the roaring storm. He panned around, at the room cast in orange light. There were two corpses, one sprawled and carved open – a raider’s, the other was the boy. Shit.

The four Northmen were homing in on the girl, who didn’t even look their way. She was just hugging the boy’s dead body. No fight left in her. The raiders already had something in mind, it seemed.

“I’ll flay the skin from your back and suck the marrow from your spine, bitch!” One of the men went to grab her –

“You better stop right there.” Art warned flatly, and the men turned in surprise.

“Oh?” The Red one snarled at him, “and what will you do ‘bout it, maggot.”

They started fanning out, left and right, as a team. These men were dangerous, experienced in combat. But that didn’t matter to Art. Not to a Slayer.

“Rethink what your doing,” Art said, voice hollow and flat. His eyes reflected nothing – they held no more pity then the winter. Less even. “I’m a Tyran, and a good one, at that.” Depends on the word’s meaning.

“A Tyran, hey? Don’t know what that’s s’posed to be. Dead is what you’ll be after I’m done with ya!” The Red one spat, brandishing his weapons. There was only one way to go now. Art pressed down on his left pinky, felt it bend and creak and give way, snapping with the sound of shattered glass. And the Kaude went to work. It’s nasty, horrible work.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Kill me?” Art growled, the scars squirming along his jagged face, “I’m the one who does the killing, fool!” And the talk was done.

The long haired one came at him with axe in hand, but Art’s silver was there first. Wrists were severed from arms, still gripping the weapon. The raider screamed as blood sprayed about, dousing Art in red. A swift thrust to his throat had him bubbling up his last gurgling breaths.

He heard a shuffle to his left, turned and blocked a short blade, jumped back to evade another. The bastard was duel wielding, and did it well. Quick strikes, missing by an inch, deflected on the last instant. Fast and tricky clever. But not clever enough.

Art gave a bellowing roar, and his sword blew the blades aside, spun and flowed, weaving glinting trails of light through the darkness, and shaved the man’s head half off on the follow through, showering the wall with blood and brain and shards of skull.

But the next one was on him already, and he brought a friend. Art bobbed his head, felt the spear kiss his cheek. Jumped aside, felt the club’s blow against his ribs. He set his jaw and snarled, bits of drool and slobber leaking out.

The spear went for him again, and art weaved around it, closing the distance. So close, their faces almost touched. Art roared again, and shoved his blade through the man’s bowels, felt his hand push through the breaking skin. Felt slimy entrails wriggle around his hands. He grabbed onto them and tore them free, flinging it at the one with rings in his ear.

The man shrieked, waving his arms around, trying to untangle himself. Failing. Art’s blade came down on him like a falling boulder and split his head open like a vegetable, kept going and slicing until it struck inside the lower ribs. Intestines slobbered onto the soil in a warm steaming pile.

He jerked his sword loose with a roll of his shoulder, massive and swollen. His entire body overflowing with the carnage of a thousand monsters. And he knew himself to be one, too.

The Red one looked different at him, now. Warily, doubt reflecting in his eyes. But anger present none the less. And the hatred fueled the fire of rage.

He came for Art with axe in one hand and mace in the other, great heavy weapons, though he used them quick enough. The mace swung across, tore a chunk of wood from a beam. The axe came down, clattering into Art’s blade, made it sing and dance. But art’s grip didn’t relent.

The silver spun and had the axe drift away with a metal scraping. The mace reached for him, but Art twitched away, biding his time. The Red one missed his shoulder by a hair as Art jumped aside.

The weapons swung around, fueled by burning hatred and the screaming that accompanies it. Holes were blown into walls, beams crumbled apart in a rain of splinters, bustles of hay were send flying with every strike.

The axe stuck fast in the wood for a moment and Art’s silver flashed over, broke the haft into splintering halves, leaving the raider with a broken stick in his paw. He flung it away and hefted the mace, came on even harder than before, swinging it round with furious bellows.

It sailed over, and Art caught it just below the head, ripping it out of the big hand. It twisted through the air and clattered into the corner, but the Northman pressed on, spreading his thick hands out wide. Too close for art to use his silver, now.

The raider smiled as his mighty arms closed round Art, tight, holding him fast.

“Got yer!” he shouted, squeezing Art in a great big hug. An awful mistake. Better to embrace the burning fire. And by the Seven was the Slayer’s skin ablaze. Sent Hawk’s hands sizzling. Burning red hot.

Crack!

Art’s forehead smashed into his mouth. He swung his head back far as it would go. The second charge cracked Red’s nose open, felt his grip slacken some more.

Crunch!

His broad jaw was hanging sideways, and it was Art who was holding him up now. He coiled his arm around the man’s neck, and his other round that one.

Squeezing, squeezing, felt his muscles swell and wriggle beneath his steaming flesh. Heard Red’s skin hiss as they touched. Kept building up pressure, more and more as drool leaked from his brandished teeth. Snarling madly.

Pop!

And there it was. Eyes sprung from sockets, teeth fell from gum, blood spilled from wherever it could. Art released Red and let him fall. He sagged sideways and crumpled onto the soil, fluids oozing from his deformed face.

Art hissed, sending long drips of spit and blood slithering between his gritting teeth. The world was a greasy smear, and everything was hurting. His head, his arms, his legs.

Ligaments were torn, tendons had snapped, muscles were shred into sausage meat. He screamed, clenching his head, nails digging into his skin, drawing boiling blood. Had it sizzle down the side of his wriggling face. Horrible scars brought to life again as the Kaude pulsed and celebrated.

He looked down at his blade, lying on the soiled dirt – disgusting, gleaming, savage, thirsting metal. It made him sick. He wretched and out came nothing but blood and sour acid to claw his throat raw.

Never liked using the Kaude, Art did. But you aren’t always given a choice, right?

Art looked upon the carnage he had created only moments ago, now viewing it as an outsider. He didn’t like the stories, but they told of the truth. He didn’t like them because they told of the truth.

The hero defeats. The Tyran butchers.

The ugly truth.

Art looked at the girl through the blur, still clinging to the deceased boy. Probably hadn’t even seen the fight. Perhaps for the better.

He took a step, had the world lurch away, stumbled, slipped in some intestines strewn about, cursed and rose again. One wonky step at a time. Left foot, right foot. The world spinning through the hurt.

“Hey,” Art heaved, still clutching his head with one hand, “Hey, we need to get going.”

But the girl didn’t react. Kept her face buried in the drenched clothing. Art grimaced, he didn’t have time for this, and neither did she. Who knows how many more are outside. All too eager for taking revenge.

“Let’s go.” And he grabbed her by the arm, pulling her away. She offered no resistance. Kept staring at the corpse with empty eyes as Art guided her to the barn’s exit.

Once outside, Art was relieved to find the blizzard having calmed some. But that came with a prize, too. They were red smears on a white canvas. Easily spotted by the blindest of foes.

So, he kept to the shadows, crawling from one to another, dragging the girl along as dead weight. Was there even a point in taking her? Chances of recovery were very low. Art had seen this before, time after time.

When you kill a man, you don’t just take from him, you rob from all those who hold him dear. A soldier you cut down could be a son, a brother, a father. Art glanced at the girl, and her green eyes, now so terribly empty. He had seen it time and time again – people suffering through his hand, grasping blood-stained gold. Fuck…

He saw two shapes outlined in the snow. One tall, the other massive. Seemed more like a mountain than an actual human.

“Who are you?” The giant asked, an axe of inhuman size held with a hand that could have gone for a spade. Art pondered his odds. Whatever could get him out of this alive. He didn’t feel like fighting another two Northmen, never mind the ogre…

“A traveler,” Art answered carefully, “Just passing through with my daughter.”

The long haired one’s eyes narrowed, shifted his weight. An arming sword swaying with the movement. “He’s lying.”

Art grimaced, his frown growing deeper. No time for this, and by the Gods was he hurting.

“A traveler, huh?” Boomed the giant, “No ordinary one, that much’s certain. Never met a man as foul smelling as ye. You carry the stench of a hundred corpses, looks like ye bathed in them, too.”

“And that face of yours,” The other added, “looks more like a butcher’s block. I know of Red Hawk, how he enjoys killing, and pillaging, and raping, but you look twice as savage still. So, why don’t you tell us who you really are, and how you got covered in all that gore?” He was well spoken for a Northman, and what he said dug deep. Art ran through his options, none really working out, being honest.

“I’m a Tyran,” Art grunted vehemently, “And as for the goop, you can ask your friends, or what’s left ‘o them. In the barn, you’ll find them scattered about. You’re welcome to join them, too, if you’d like.”

The giant looked into his eyes, and Art held his gaze. His friend shuffled somewhat, lowering his blade.

“It’s best not to fight him, Crag,” The man warned quietly, but Art heard it clear enough, “I’ve seen Tyran at work before, outside the Green, and they aren’t something you want to involve yourself in.”

The giant exhaled through his nose, scowling. Not dropping his enormous blade even an inch.

“So, just let him go? After all the men he killed?” He asked angrily, voice low as thunder and just as threatening.

“Getting ourselves killed won’t even out the balance. Not yet, at least. Remember the village, Chief.”

A moment of tension weighed on them, seemed as if violence would erupt at any given moment. Then Crag spoke, his great axe thumping the soil.

“We’ll let you go, but you better not stop us from taking what we’ve earned.” There was no room for argument in his tone. Art felt the girl grip his cloak, quickly peeked at her from over his shoulder.

“All I need is my horse, and I’m gone.” Some men would sacrifice one life to save many.

He’d forsake the many, to save the few. He was no hero after all.

“Then be off with ye. May we never cross paths again.” Art couldn’t agree more.

He pulled the axe from the earth and walked past Art, almost touching. The other one kept staring at Art for a moment, before following his Chief.

Art didn’t lose any time, and quickly headed for the stables. The building hadn’t been touched by the raiders yet, and his horse stood at the ready. Art quickly saddled him, and placed the girl on top before leading the mare away from the village by it’s reigns. He wanted to find a somewhat decent road before riding off.

A tingling sensation. It made his stomach churn. Something felt unnaturally sick and awfully disgusting. Tasted like rotting fish. Not good…

Art guided the horse towards it, his frown etching deeper as recognition dawned on him. He found four corpses, hacked and slashed, posing as corpses do. Three of them a bit further from the first to die. Art walked to it, tasted barf at the back of his mouth.

The corpse had almost been chopped in half, blue veins crawling along the ashen skin, like snakes. He kicked the body with his boot, made it roll over. And it stared at him, at the sky, at nothing at all with eyes blue as lightning.

The heinous work of a hex.

Seems like my work here isn’t over yet.

It’s never over.

Only heroes get their endings.