Once again tis Thursday and time for my weekly serial. Join Ragnar Grimfang and his band of misfits as they defend the streets of Myrrhn!
Want to start at the beginning? link here.
Missed last week’s post? try this link.
Also, there is this useful guide.
One moment I was charging, ready to pounce on Lord Torvul, the next I felt like a bull had rammed me, as a wave of mystic force flung me through the air like a child’s toy, smashing me through the reinforced wooden wall of Madame Glorianna’s office. I could feel glass and wood in my bare skin. My vision dimmed. I heard a woman sobbing.
I pushed myself up just in time to be flattened again as something heavy and sharp slammed into my back. Most of the blow was deflected by my chainmail. I was not so luck on the second hit. I growled, reaching for the man’s leg, receiving an steel boot to the face for my efforts. I held on though, like a stubborn dog with a bone, toppling my assailant. I pulled myself onto him, raising my axe.
Before I could bring it down, Lord Torvul’s voice sounded again. This time I braced for the impact, which sent me tumbling into another wall.
“Leave him,” I heard Torvul say as I began to pick myself up. “I don’t have time to kill a Twiceborn right now.”
“Let me take his head,” said another voice.
“I am leaving now,” said Lord Torvul. “You will be rewarded if you bring the head to me, Kitirix. But be quick about it, his friends are nearly here and one of them has killed Varm.”
“I will not fail you Lord,” said Kitirix, sounding uncertain.
“Only the strong,” said Lord Torvul. My vision was now clear enough to see Lord Torvul leaving along with Madame Glorianna and another Devout. A pair of boots and the end of a sword suddenly filled my vision.
“Look at me, dog, while I kill you,” said Kitirix. Time seemed to slow. Kitirix took another step forward, raising his sword. I could feel blood on my back and broken ribs. I drew a breath, closing my eyes and summoning strength. I waited for the sound, that unmistakable intake of breath that would come as he struck. When I heard it, I sprang, growling.
The Devout, despite his master’s warning, did not expect me to have any fight left. I saw his eyes widen in shock well enough, as I stood, ramming a hunting blade up and under his chin, through the small gap between Heaume and mail. I drove it home. His swing was spoiled but Kitirix did not die easy, bashing my head with the pommel of his blade, once, twice, before we both toppled to the ground. I went black again.
I was in a forest. Not the kind of forest that people from Myrrhn would picture when I said forest. Big trees, uneven ground littered with broken trunks, and uneven patches of scrub. Moss, fungus, and shadow everywhere. It looked like the forests of my clan. I was running through them again in my dream.
I became aware of others running with me. Most people would call them wolves. I knew better.
“It is good to run with you again, brother,” said one. I felt the pack echo the sentiment.
“I cannot run with you in exile, great wolf,” I said.
“You are exiled from the land, not the pack, brother,” said the alpha, a big black beast with fur like the midnight sky.
“Ragnar!” said Murith, standing over me.
“Wuuuuh?” I said, nearly retching as Git applied some foul smelling salve to my wounds. I looked around. I did not see any wolves, but Kitirix the Devout lay dead in a pool of his own blood. Of the rest there was no sign.
“Renoit?” I asked, looking up at Murith.