A Veteran Returns Home: Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Snow capped mountains pierced the sky. Dominating the horizon, never fading from view, from east to west. Would he ever reach those heights? Did he even want to?
No, he thought, the dry ground is good enough for me.
He had crossed over into new territory. The grass was a darker green. The ground damper. Leaves denser on the trees. With mountains bordering it. He was in the north. In the Republic of Thesus. The air tasted different. The walls of cities carved from darker stone with brighter braziers burning along them. The people spoke in tongues he didn’t recognise, tongues he failed to even pick out the distinct words from. All he had was a name, a person or group he didn’t know, a poor sketch of a woman, and a trail. The trail was the most useful.
It was not a trail on the ground of footsteps, nor of blood from an injury, or even of fire pits abandoned. No. Nemo had followed the trail of despair of villagers. The despair that comes not from the death of a loved one but of knowing that only suffering awaits them. The despair of slavers. Languages change but the screaming and crying of a mother left behind or the silent tears of a father staring out to the horizon, those do not change.
Slavers roamed the Republic of Thesus, and the border villagers of Free Cities, kidnapping young and able men and women to sell on the slave markets of Thesus and further. Slavers were hunted by Thesus and the Free Cities alike but for different reasons. Slavers flooded markets, increasing supply and pushing prices down, causing financial losses for the larger, well known, and legitimate, in the eyes of the Republic, Slave Guilds. Slavers traded without care of ancestry, price, or licence and it was the Republic’s task to prevent the Guilds losing out.
The Free Cities hunted down slavers for the fact that the peoples of the Cities were free from that specific dereliction of duty. It was the duty of a monarch to protect the natural born freedoms of their people. To enslave a person and claim to be their defender simply didn’t follow. The republics of the Free Cities followed suit fearing uprising or, worse, people fleeing their status as slaves.
The Republic to the north had no such concern. Sprawling in all directions like an insidious infection swallowing village after village, city after city, kingdom after kingdom, on its quest of “civilising the multitude of people.” Civilised people were granted citizenship and granted immunity to slavery, everyone else was yet to prove themselves.
Nemo journeyed into the so-called “civilised world.” The world of elected officials bickering in a senate, of factions plagued with in-fighting, permanent deadlock over simple issues, and an ever changing Chancellor where the only constant was war and expansion and the erosion of independence.
He had never liked the discussions Thesusian’s had in the inn of Beargarth. These travellers, merchants, or landed peoples, seemed obsessed by the doings of others, the words of others, rather than their own. Lives muddied by events out of their control or by power games they may or may not influence with the casting of a ballot or well written letter. Fools, he thought.
The villages he passed through contained Citizens. Few and often in large abodes with acres of farmland or a small crafting community living on the land of said Citizen. Most were not citizens, unable to vote, or sway the course of their nation, or even village, save through petitions to whoever the highest ranked Citizen was nearby.
Nemo pitied their lack of power. When a problem arose in Beargarth the people gathered and decided on a course of action. If that didn’t work then the Mayor chose. While the nearest city of Tanussi gathered tax and provided protection they did not interfere in local affairs unless expressly asked or in dire situations.
Rumours had it the slavers on the border had even taken Citizens hostage to sell, one way or the other, though Nemo never found a Citizen who could speak Tanussi or who wanted to speak with an “uncivilised person.”
At the town of Regas none spoke Tanussi. A town over a week away from Beargarth it was firmly within Thesus. The same story played out. Men and women cried over lost friends. Children wondered where their parents where. Parents began mourning their children, knowing they would never be seen again. The trail was warm and a man in Regas pointed to the north-east, off the road into wilder lands.
The Western Sea provided lush flora along the coast of the Free Cities. Inland, however, was a different story. The further away from the sea the less grew. The rivers reached deep into the steppe, desert, and The Wastes, but not even they turned the land green. The north, in the Republic, a similar geography played. Green coasts and rivers near to one another provided swelling farmlands and plentiful lumber for hundreds, if not thousands, of miles in every direction. But even that faded to the dry yellow grasses and cracked landscape of The Wastes. The Republic had an extra hundred miles of liveable land but the norm was desert, the Rivers of Life in a losing battle.
Nemo asked how many days since the slavers had raided the town. None answered. He pointed to the sun and to each horizon. A villager held up three fingers.
Three days. Then they are within reach. Unwilling prisoners tended to slow bandits and slavers down alike. Nemo bid the villagers well, not that they understood him, mounted his steed and headed north-east searching for signs of disturbance with every step.
In such a green and well grown landscape of grass plains, flowering plants, and clusters of trees, it did not take long. A patch of yellow flowers trampled. A discarded sand scarf caught on the branch of a budding tree. The discarded core of some fruit.
These slavers are careless. Are they not afraid of the Thesusian hunters, one hundred to a unit? He wondered pulling the rough spun headscarf through his hands. He pulled the fabric tight, the knit showed no gaps. Could be useful, he thought wrapping it once around his neck and letting the tails hang.
He rode until the sun was halved. Then he made camp in a grove. Clusters of trees were common deep into Thesus. Miniature versions of the forests of the far north where snowy trees led up to the mountains at the edge of the world. Much like The Wastes to the east travel through such places was unheard of.
Two days passed.
Nemo followed the trail left behind by the slavers. By mid point on the second day the grooves of wagon wheels had appeared with hoof prints to match. These slavers had a bounty worth far more than most. Too obvious to travel by road. Perhaps the slavers are taking a short cut to some market city, Nemo thought.
By the end of the second day he had spotted the party. Eight men and women with horses and a cage wagon. The likeness he had was of one of them, he hoped. He tracked the slavers from the security of a grove. The green plains stretching between him and them. A copse in the distance. The sun waning, moon rising, the slavers would stop.
If Nemo had been spotted the slavers didn’t show it. They rode on without looking back. Two ahead of the wagon and three either side.
Nemo hitched his horse to a tree and climbed. From a thick branch he surveyed his target. Entering the copse, good, he squinted at the darkening horizon. He looked back, pushed a branch out of the way. Leaves brushed against his skin. The sun was disappearing into the sea at the far edge of the world. Not long, he thought.
He leapt down from the tree. Low to the ground he pursued his bounty. The grass, as high as his knees, parted around him as he ran. After a hundred yards he dropped into the grass, the ground damp against his hands. Soil, a rich brown, that clung to his palms.
He peered above the tips of grass and saw the slavers dismount and hitch their horses to tree branches. One turned and looked out over where they had travelled. Slow and deliberate. Watching for stalkers.
Nemo ducked beneath the blades of grass. He counted a few seconds, thought of stealing a glance. Not yet, he thought and counted a few seconds more. He breathed hard and raised his head. The blades of grass waved across his vision to a breeze he barely noticed. The lookout at retreated into the copse, his comrades pulling the wagon into the trees by hand.
They won’t get that thing very far, he thought watching the wagon clamber over broken branches and dead trees. Realisation dawned on Nemo. He would have to free the slaves. Doubtful he could talk to them, nor care for them, all he could was direct them to the village of Regas. Two days away. Had the slavers fed their prisoners? How long would someone last on the plain in the heat of day or cold of night? Not only where the prisoners a problem but how did he prove the bounty was complete? Sever the heads of all of them? Take jewellery? Bounties were never as simple as first thought.
I’ll think of something, Nemo pressed his fingers against his forehead as he began to move through the grass. The slavers hidden in the tree grove Nemo had to be close enough to know where they were when night came.
The outline of the copse dominated the horizon. The horses grazed on the ample grass all around. Would they startle? He wondered. Could the prisoners ride?Would certainly make it easier. The cage wagon stood jammed between two trees not more than three yards into the copse. One side in the air and the weight of the wagon balanced on a wheel and a tree. The prisoners lay against the bars of the cage, branches and leaves penetrating through the gaps. How do I keep them quiet? He hung his head and sighed. This hunt had taken him far away from home, from family, from friends, from the land he knew, and the language. It had morphed from one slaver to more than a handful and from two kidnappings to who knew how many. Each head is more reward, he said to himself. He would make sure of it.
But those were problems in a weeks time. Now. Now he had to deal with eight warriors. He worked his fingers over the hilt of his sword and felt the five throwing knives at his belt. He imagined the fight. Two down early from knives. Ducking behind trees to avoid arrows, assuming an archer was present. Still five with swords and maces and spears running at him. A stray arrow, a hidden trap, a missed parry, and it was over. Combat was not the answer.
Orders were being barked from the glade. Nemo strained to parse the words from the noise. He couldn’t. Now all he could do was wait. Wait for nightfall. Wait for the slavers, and the captives, to fall asleep. Then he could make his move. He hoped he could come up with something by then.
The night sky shimmered as blacks and blues swirled around their new monarch. Crescents of moonlight flashed over blades of grass shifting in the wind. Leaves rustled undisturbed by speech. From the glade within the grove came an amber glow.
Nemo felt the cold on his skin. His ears so cold he could feel them. He went to stand. His legs refused to obey. His knee had crated the ground. The ground had gripped around his knee where he knelt. Each trapping the other. Cautious of making a sound he decided against purposely falling over and instead waited for his will to overcome the stiffness of his joints.
Within moments he was on his feet. His legs tingling with blood, feeling colder with every pulse. He checked his belt for loose pouches or buckles. None, save his sword. He unbuckled it from his belt and carried it by the scabbard in his left hand, a knife in his right. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. His body was lax to respond but respond it did, with groans. It will be fine in a minute, he told himself. Next time, keep moving, he hoped there wouldn’t be a next time.
The bars of the cage wagon cast long shadows into the night as he edged towards the grove. He headed towards the wagon unsure of how or if it would open. There would be a lock, he knew and one of the slavers would have a key but how would he find it. Just don’t wake them, he told himself.
He leaned his sword against a low branch as he reached the grove. The campfire chewed on a couple of logs still. Each tree a black bar against the orange light. The copse was slim but littered with fallen branches and dead trunks. Nemo searched through the gaps between and found a slaver a few yards away. His, or her, saddlebag wrapped in a cloak for a pillow. A sword on the ground beside them, chainmail too. Poor maintenance, Nemo judged.
He crouched, with knife in his right hand, and entered the grove. He felt the ground ahead with his boot. It stubbed against something. He stepped near to the thing and stepped over it, checking the ground with his left hand. The slithers of vision he was granted by the fickle fire guided him less than he hoped.
Branches creaked and spatted overhead. He reached another tree trunk. To his left lay a second slaver with his sword in his hand across his chest. Do they expect someone or is he so distrustful of his comrades? Nemo wondered, his heart racing.
He continued through the trees, avoiding fallen branches, bushes, and twigs. The wagon stood to his right. He stopped and turned to see two white eyes in the darkness. A boy pressed his face, covered in dirt, against the bars of the cage. Nemo raised a finger to his lips and the boy copied. Behind the boy were others asleep or giving up and laying across the bars of the partially turned over wagon.
Nemo pushed through into the glade near to the head of a passed out slaver. Asleep or drunk it didn’t matter. He hoped drunk. But just incase he reached over to the man’s sword, laying near him, and placed it in the undergrowth of the grove. Only a few yards away but that was enough. The man sleeping on Nemo’s left held his sword in his hand. That would be a fight for later.
Nemo surveyed the clearing in the copse. Patches of grass grew around tree stumps with the slavers all around. No pattern to their sleeping… and no lookout, Nemo thought counting the bodies. Well, that’s good for me, he thought watching the person nearest to him. His chest rose and fell. His mouth hung open. His neck exposed. Could I? Nemo wondered. He had never killed someone in their sleep before. But if anyone wakes up then it’s over, he imagined a fight one on seven in the dark. He didn’t last long even in his own imagination. I’ll last even less in reality.
Nemo moved towards the camp fire. Flames licked around the great bulk of a log. The base charred with cracks beginning to whiten, the opposite side still brown and full of life.
Two shapes covered in black cloaks lay to Nemo’s far left nestled in the bushes of the grove both turned away from the fire. One person, a woman, lay nearest the fire, her face red from heat. Nemo squinted at her and turned his face to the left. He stopped himself making a sound as he recognised her. The woman from the drawing. It’s the right group then. Relief came over him and soon fled as his body realised where he was. And what he had to do. I’ll have to take her head, and the others, as proof. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.
He moved closer to the woman. Is she the leader? Or just the one that was seen? He thought as he relinquished her of any weapons. Holding her sword and knife in his left hand he moved to the edge of the glade and hid her weapons in the hollowed out trunk of a fallen tree.
That might work, he thought as he made another scan of the sleeping bodies. He felt the dead tree and the branches around it, snapped and brittle. Dry like everything else, he guessed. Easier than killing them in their sleep. He walked in a crouch towards the fire, a branch in hand. He held it to the fire and watched the branch spark with delight. It burned fast and eager. Nemo placed it in the fire as the flame licked close to his hand.
He found what other weapons he could and stashed those in the undergrowth of the grove. Then he gathered branches around the width of his arm. Careful not to make a sound he set the pile down by the fire and began to light one of them. The dry wood popped and crackled. The woman from the drawing turned over in her sleep to face away from the fire.
Going to have to do this fast, he thought scurrying with the lit branch to the edge of the glade. He placed the lit branch under a bush and balanced twigs and leaves near the flame.
He lit more branches and placed them around the camp too. Each caught with ease. The first had lit the bush and the flames began to caress the tree above.
Bodies began to toss and turn. Nemo lit the last of the branches and darted towards the wagon tossing the branch into the undergrowth. He passed by the trees and the wagon with luck on his side, avoiding branches and bushes without looking, and retrieved his sword. He stood facing into the copse of trees and waited.
Soon the flames roared, the leaves withered, and the dead wood popped. He watched as slavers woke to fire all around them. The woman nearest the fire leapt to her feet and yelled. Those that could, drew their weapons, others searched and woke others forcing them to their feet. Most were dressed in only their undershirts.
‘Is anyone hurt?’ She shouted.
‘No,’ another replied, ‘where’s my damn sword?’ He yelled flipping over his bedroll.
Those with weapons stood at the ready and backed into the centre of the glade, around the campfire.
The fire in the copse jumped from tree to tree burning the sky above before the damp undergrowth could catch. Nemo watched, clear as day, as the eight slavers panicked. He moved behind the wagon to remain hidden. The prisoners were awake and holding themselves by the bars of the cage away from the tree the top right of the cage wagon rested on. It’s branches burning and drops of fire falling. One had hold of a log and held it outside the bars bashing on the padlock.
I did have time, Nemo regretted as he approached the wagon. Fire licking at its wheels. He buckled his sword to his belt, snatched the log off the man who pulled back into the wagon with fear in his eyes. His face covered in soot and sweat. Nemo held the log with two hands and lined up the padlock. He swung slow and steady and stopped before the padlock. Right, in one, he thought and swung with his body catching the padlock with the tip of the log. The shackle of the padlock tore free of the body and hung, loose, from the cage door. Nemo dropped the log and flung the padlock off. The prisoners pushed over one another to jump out of the cage. The boy cowered in the far corner.
‘What was that?’ A slaver shouted.
‘Look, they’re escaping,’ another said.
The prisoners fled, one after another, running in the opposite direction to the fire. Nemo gestured to the boy to come out aware the slavers could likely see him. The boy shook his head. Nemo sighed and pointed behind the boy. Three of the kidnappers moving towards the wagon. The boy gasped and crawled out of the cage wagon. Nemo pointed in the direction of his horse hoping the boy would wait there. The boy ran and stopped not far. Nemo shooed him in the same direction and he ran some more. He stared at Nemo and then his eyes parted in terror and he fled.
Nemo turned back to the grove to see one of his targets inspecting the wagon. He didn’t have a weapon. Nemo ducked and peered under the wagon to watch the man’s legs at the other end.
‘They’ve all gotten out,’ he said.
‘So should we,’ a woman’s voice answered.
The man inspecting the wagon was the first. He clambered under the airborne wheel of the trapped wagon. The unarmed slaver crawled out from under the wheel. His head peaked passed the end of the wagon and Nemo thrust his knife into the man’s neck. The slaver gurgled and pressed his hand to his neck, collapsing as he did so. Blood gushed through his fingers. He choked as he tried to speak.
Every inch of the copse was alight save for the space around the wagon. Nemo dragged the first body out of the reaches of the fire and waited for the others. He had found four weapons, one of them a bow without arrows. One versus four is doable, he told himself, half believing it, just the other three swinging their fists.
His heart raced and he could no longer feel his ears. Sweat dripped down his back as the fire raged. He drew his arm across his forehead. It came away slick. How hot must it be inside? He wondered.
The slavers were on the other side of the trees.
‘So this is your doing?’ One asked.
Nemo nodded and flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword. The knife in his left dripped with blood. His left hand already sticky with dried blood.
The remaining slavers waited.
What are they waiting for? He thought grinding his teeth. He said, ‘Either you die in there or you die out here. Your choice.’
One snapped his gaze towards Nemo and charged.
Finally, Nemo thought readying himself. He slid one foot back and arched his shoulders.
‘He can’t take all of us,’ another said and clambered through the yet unburnt pathway near the wagon.
The charging slaver was a tall man. He ducked and dived under branches and trailed an axe behind him. He yelled as he burst free of the copse and swung the axe low to high. Nemo sidestepped the swing and planted his knife into the man’s stomach. At the same time he slid his sword across the man’s thigh. His momentum did the work. Impaling himself up to the hilt of Nemo’s dagger and opening a deep gash in his thigh. The slaver toppled unable to stand as blood pulsed over Nemo’s arm.
Nemo focussed on the next man, unarmed, and pulled the dagger free feeling the rush of warm blood over his forearm. He swung at the next man slicing the man diagonally from shoulder to hip.
Another cried as he leapt up from under the wheel of the wagon, sword in hand. Nemo waited for his first swing. Wild and panicked. Nemo flicked his wrist and parried the blow and drove his dagger in the man. The man dodged and recovered his balance. Nemo huffed surprise and swung for the thigh. The man blocked and failed to see the dagger thrust into his upper arm. The man yelped as Nemo retracted the knife and slashed at the man’s thigh. He fell to his knees and Nemo slit his throat.
Nemo fell forward. Something heavy hitting the back of his neck. He rolled as he hit the ground and pushed himself up.
‘Nice stick,’ Nemo said rubbing his neck.
A man crawled out from the copse behind the woman with the stick. He ran.
Nemo cursed and charged at the woman. He feinted high and swung low. The woman predicted and blocked him with the branch while stepping sideways to avoid his knife.
Great saving their best till last, Nemo thought as he watched one of the slavers flee into the night.
She swung. Mistake. Nemo hopped back and the branch sailed in a crescent in front of him. He brought the pommel of his sword down knocking the branch to the ground. She followed. Thrusting his dagger up into her neck as she was caught off balance.
The branch fell to the ground. Her arms hung loose from her shoulders. She licked her lips and tried to speak. The knife jammed through her throat caused a faint bubbling whistle. The death wound squelched as Nemo retracted the dagger and she fell to the ground. Dead.
Nemo strode towards the empty cage wagon. All around was lit and muffled by the deafening roar of the burning copse. The grass of the plain had begun to burn. Patches of black earth appeared here and there. The fire catching and racing onwards only to tire itself out within minutes.
The next slaver had escaped the inferno of the glade and stood defiant with axe in hand. His comrade forced himself around a tree trunk free of fire, leaves crisped from heat.
‘You think you can beat me?’ Nemo said feeling the blood running off his hand and gathering on his knuckles. He spat at the ground and blood from his lips, not his own, mixed with saliva.
The slaver remained silent and swung. The axe split the air between them. Nemo jumped out of its reach. Heavy, cumbersome, weapons better avoided than met with. He had seen axe blades shatter swords. The sheer weight of metal would break the sword or kill a person without even cutting the skin.
Nemo watched the man, taller than he, swing the axe. Not a hint of over balancing in his foot work or lack of strength in his arms. Nemo could not parry the man into defeat. He swung, missing Nemo, twisted his grip and thrust with the blunt head of the weapon into Nemo. Nemo brought his sword and blocked the blow with the hand guard. The hilt slammed into him and he stumbled back.
Another swing of the axe flashed before his face. His body reacting on its own to dodge. This is ridiculous, Nemo chastised himself, start fighting. He grunted and flurried his sword before driving the tip towards his opponents chest. The attack was parried as Nemo wanted. He controlled the blade out to his right and slashed downward towards the thigh. The slaver stepped out of the way of the swipe. Nemo slashed with his knife in hopes of catching his targets arm. He didn’t.
Nemo darted to the left and caught a glimpse of another slaver fleeing. ‘Your friend is getting away,’ he said.
The man grumbled and flicked his eyes to his supposed comrade. Nemo smiled and stabbed with both weapons. His enemies eyes lit up, he gasped, and flailed his axe to block the sword missing the dagger in the other hand. Nemo’s sword struck the axe blade tip first. The steel shuddered and his arm quaked with the force of the blow. He grimaced as he drove the dagger into the man’s right arm. The skin split with ease and blood blossomed.
He roared. Nemo slashed at the man’s thigh and then neck. The body fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings were cut. His life leaked out into the ground. Nemo stared at the body, his chest pounding, rising and falling with each breath. He snorted and gulped down air.
‘You will pay for what you have done,’ a woman yelled with clenched teeth.
Nemo looked up and saw the woman from the drawing waiting at the edge of the copse. Or what was left of it. The fire raged through tree trunks leaving blackened spears in the ground. The cage wagon was aflame the wood holding the cage in place buckling and snapping under the weight of the iron bars.
‘Good, because I can’t let you get away,’ he shook his arms and his wrists and rolled his shoulders.
She waited for Nemo to approach. Her chainmail vest shimmered under her shirt. Her hair tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck and her boots coated in dried mud, her trousers tucked inside. She held her blade in front and bent her knees. Waiting.
Nemo edged his way towards her. She was the last. None hid in the copse, none could hide in that burning grove. Two had ran and were long lost to the horizon. One more. Just one, he thought rationing his breathing and slowing his heart to avoid making any rash movements. Squinting against the brightness of the fire he circled around towards the copse. The heat was unbearable but now, at least, he could see clearly.
‘Are you going to fight or just stand there?’ She taunted him.
He laughed and readied himself. He refused to strike first and allowed the tension to rise. The air was thick with smoke, with the stench of boiling blood and sweat. He waited.
Her eye twitched. She pressed her lips into thin white lines, cursed, and began to swing.
Nemo tapped her blade and stepped back, luring her closer. She bit and made two steps towards him. She swung from high. Blocked. And without a breath swung from low. Blocked. Followed by a sideswipe aimed at his midriff. He blocked that too.
He smiled, unable to help himself, and thought she may be honourable to stick around for her fallen band but she isn’t battle smart. He jabbed at her calf. She deflected the blade upwards and to his left. Wrong move. He let the angle of the blade follow through from the deflection to slice at the inside of her right leg. She stepped back. Nemo lunged. The woman screeched as his sword tasted blood from the inside of her knee. Not much, a nick, but that was enough.
Nemo hopped backwards and defended himself with his dagger. But the attack never came. She had failed to take advantage of his overreach.
‘Where did you learn to fight?’ Nemo asked.
‘I learned on my own. On the streets,’ she answered to his surprise.
‘Huh,’ he said, ‘it shows,’ he lied. He had expected the answer of family or town. Everyone needed to know how to swing a sword in times of necessity.
She barred her teeth and lunged for him. He slid out of the way and blocked the follow up swipe tracking him. He pushed on her sword and swiped at her shoulder with the dagger. She ducked. He swung at her overextended wrist and missed by a hairs breadth as she snatched it away.
Sword in both hands and aimed towards his head she circled him. Her eyes split by the blade. Brow furrowed and stained with smoke. She swung high right to low left to low right to midriff to high left in one movement undisturbed by parries and deflections.
‘Your sword-master would be proud,’ he said.
She roared and swung one handed at his left. He moved to block with his sword failing to see the knife in her left. He blocked her blow and felt a sting in his arm. His grip weakened on his sword and he jumped two steps back. The skin parted as he pulled himself off the knife. His fingers refused to respond as he tried to tighten his grip. Blood poured from the wound. There was nothing he could do. Not yet.
‘I’m sure he would be,’ she smiled back.
Nemo winced and sucked his teeth. The flesh stung as smoke and air mingled with blood and veins. He worked his fingers over his dagger hilt and let his sword arm drop into a low guard. His heart raced. His mind too.
He swore and snarled before striking with his injured arm. The blow was weak and deflected with ease leaving him wide open. She thrust towards his stomach. He struck the tip of her sword with his dagger, dislodging it and sending her overbalance to his right. She stood a swords length from him still.
Nemo allowed the momentum of his deflected sword to carry him around in a spin. For a moment his back was towards his enemy. A risk he disliked. He swung round, keeping his sword moving, and moving his elbow in line with her neck. He closed the gap before she had time to recover and smacked her in the back of the head with his elbow. She crashed to the ground.
Without waiting he pinned her to the ground with his knee and slashed at her wrist. He flung his sword out of reach and pulled her head up from ground by her hair bun.
‘Better luck next time,’ he said as he brought the dagger across her neck.
‘No. Not yet,’ she squealed too late. Her words garbled by blood.
He waited a moment. She ceased to struggle. He fell onto his back and exhaled with exasperation. His head was pounding, heart racing, and his arm screaming in pain. He brought his arm up to his eyes. The wound was not bone deep. Filled with smoke, dirt, and sweat but not bone deep. Good, good, he sighed and pulled himself up with his other hand gripping the dead woman’s belt. He flipped her onto her back and unbuckled her belt.
‘Thanks,’ he said tightening it around his wounded arm.
He retrieved his sword and cleaned it on a shirt of the dead. His knife also. He sheathed both.
Seven bodies lay around him in the light of the burning copse. Smoke filled the air and stung his nostrils. He found the axe from before and returned to the body of the woman from the drawing.
‘Never a time to rest,’ he said raising the axe above his head in both hands. He brought it down towards her neck.
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