Chapter Ten: Friendship

Mia hovered above the corpse. Killing the pirate was not enough; she wanted to devour his soul. Wade stopped her, calling for her to hide. Someone was emerging from the warehouse—two men. The commotion from the sheep pen had been significant, and the dying pirate had cried out in alarm; no matter how dull, those inside should have noticed something was amiss.

If Mia lingered to extract the soul, she would certainly be discovered—the fire she produced was too conspicuous. Wade sensed her displeasure. Mia’s existence as a wraith was newly born; wraiths and humans were fundamentally different creatures. Her consciousness was hazy, her emotions simple and direct. Many things she could not understand, acting mostly on instinct, but she obeyed Wade’s command, soaring to the roof of the shed and lurking in the shadows.

A few seconds after she hid, hurried footsteps echoed through the night. Two pirates burst from the warehouse doors, swords raised, scanning their surroundings. Seeing no one, they approached the chaotic sheep pen, where they finally discovered the battered corpse, trampled beyond recognition by the flock.

For a moment, their minds stalled. It was not the gruesomeness of the body that shocked them—they were pirates, not pampered noble sons who had never killed a chicken. Corpses and death were daily fare. Their confusion was not born of fear; they saw clearly how Mit had died: crushed by the herd, with the collapsed wooden rack pinning him, sheep droppings mingled with blood smeared everywhere.

They found it hard to believe—this looked like death by sheep, a foolish accident beyond imagination. As they examined the scene, a sheep urinated on Mit’s face. Pale yellow urine formed a stream, steam and pungency rising together, forcing the men to pinch their noses.

They had seen men hammered to pulp by trolls, but never someone dead in a heap of sheep dung. Especially since this man was their teammate.

The two exchanged bewildered glances, scratching at their noses and foreheads.

“Did the sheep really trample him to death?”

“Let’s check again.”

Carrying torches, they circled the pen. There were no other footprints in the snow.

Another pirate squad passed by, hauling barrels of wine, baskets of stolen rye, headed for the sleds.

“Rudes, how’s the haul?” one called out.

“Meh, just as poor as the last village we hit on the Mili River.”

“Yeah, that gnome talks big—tricked Sweyn into paying twenty silver for his intel. Next time he tries that, I bet Sweyn will spit him on the grill and roast him into a crispy piglet.”

“Don’t forget the honey glaze for extra crunch!”

Laughter burst from the passing pirates, the air thick with merriment. In contrast, the two men by the sheep pen looked awkward.

“Did you spot anything unusual nearby?”

“It’s a pauper’s village, no guards, nothing happens here.”

Their subtle inquiries yielded nothing—no one had seen anything suspicious.

This only strengthened their belief: Mit had truly been killed by sheep.

They replied carelessly, brushed off offers of help, and wished the squad would leave quickly, lest anyone discover Mit’s embarrassing demise.

A warrior should die on the battlefield, not in a sheep pen.

What a disgrace—even the lowest serf wouldn’t make such a mistake! If word got out, every day henceforth they’d be the butt of every joke.

Imagine, at a feast, everyone boasts of heroic deeds as they eat and drink, but when their turn comes, they can only stammer that a comrade was gored to death by sheep, drowned in piss and dung.

They could almost hear the mortifying laughter already.

“Look, Rudes, I’ll wager the sheep that killed Mit was as strong as a troll—no wonder you lost a brave warrior.”

“Don’t lose heart, Rudes! Let me slay this sheep of troll heritage to avenge Mit!”

Such shame would follow them for life—even after death, people would reminisce: “I once saw someone die in a sheep pen. Buy me a cup of honey wine and I’ll tell you how; oh, and he used to run with Rudes.”

Mit had it easy, dying in a dung-strewn sheep pen. The rest of the squad had much to consider.

Wherever they went, someone might whisper, “I heard someone in your team was killed by sheep.”

By Tiw, what humiliation!

A Viking may die on the battlefield, but never in a sheep pen.

The two concealed the truth as best they could, finally sending the other squad away.

They turned to the sheep pen.

“Should we give him a proper burial?”

“Just toss him in a crate, out of sight.”

“Fine.”

A few words settled their comrade’s fate.

Among pirates, there was no true camaraderie.

Like attracts like, and evil gathers for profit.

They were villains united by self-interest; one should not expect them to return a companion’s body to his homeland for burial as a knight might.

Only those possessed of integrity and kindness, gathering for a common cause, are true comrades-in-arms. These men were mere “colleagues.” When fortune favors, they charge ahead; when it turns, they adapt, always putting their own interests first.

Their friendship with Mit extended only as far as tossing his corpse to rot in a box.

They opened the sheep pen, pinched their noses, and approached Mit’s corpse.

They had to hurry—the cellar still held villagers awaiting slaughter. As soon as the door opened, they’d storm in to kill and loot; personal gains often made up the bulk of the plunder.

Honestly, had it not been for the fear of infamy, they wouldn’t bother with the body.

Traditionally, Viking pirates only buried those who fell in battle. To die by the sword was the true end for a disciple of the war god. Whenever someone died heroically, they’d cremate the body and, if the fallen was particularly valiant, honor him by throwing a prisoner or two into the flames as companions.

But Mit could not be counted among the “heroic dead”; he died by his own stupidity, so the two showed no respect for his remains.

They violently retrieved the pitchfork and rake, scowling as they kicked hay over Mit’s body to cover it.

They noticed silver coins dropped amid the blood and dung, but thought nothing of it—probably Mit’s own money.

Still, dirty money is money. A single silver coin could buy a quart of Niederland estate wine at the Nightingale Tavern, and a night with a woman skilled in every trick.

Why risk your life as a pirate if not for money?

They had no qualms about pocketing coins from a corpse, a bit of sheep dung easily washed off—a coin that rings true when dropped.

Having handled Mit’s remains, they felt entitled to his possessions.

“How do we tell Larr? Just say Mit was gored by sheep?”

“Wait for the feast, then mention it to Larr. Best not let Angru and Titus hear—they go wild when drunk.”

They chased off the sheep, sheathed their swords, and, through the hay, one grabbed Mit by the neck, the other by the feet, lifting the corpse.

They failed to notice the skeleton in a cloak, stealthily approaching the sheep pen, raising a longbow.