Chapter Twelve: Taking Up Arms

In the end, only three pirates remained. Wade no longer bothered with subterfuge; he stood openly at the top of the cellar stairs. His quest for silent kills had merely been to avoid alerting other pirates, but now, with no more enemies around, there was no need for concealment.

From his elevated vantage, he raised his longbow. A skilled archer who claimed the high ground could face his foes with confidence as long as arrows remained in his quiver. The three pirates at the cellar entrance, facing him, were as helpless as targets at a range—like small beasts trapped in a cage, weak and defenseless, incapable of resistance.

Though they screamed in terror before death claimed them, it changed nothing; death came all the same. Wade let fly three arrows in quick succession, ending it with ease—annihilating the pirate band and sending them to their final reunion.

Mia, as before, devoured each pirate’s soul, not leaving a single one behind. With sixteen fresh souls consumed, a more evident transformation took place. Previously, only her upper body had form, her lower half trailing off into indistinct mist. Now, the tangible part of her body extended—a mere fraction, perhaps the length of two fingernails, but a change nonetheless. Sixteen souls, it seemed, barely satisfied her. How many would it take to restore her body fully?

Perhaps she shared too much with Wade; every time she absorbed a soul, a portion was passed to him. A skeleton like Wade could not draw soul energy directly, but through Mia, he received a measure of nourishment—a kind of growth through feeding, as it were, for the undead.

Wade flexed his hand. Compared to Mia’s visible transformation, his own change was subtle, yet it was better than nothing. He cast a final glance at the cellar door and left the warehouse behind. As a skeleton, he had no need to interact with the villagers. Humans were fragile, yet resilient. Now that the pirates lay dead, Wade trusted the villagers to handle what came next.

After his departure, stillness returned to the surroundings. Within the cellar, Avery’s family held their breath, not daring to make a sound. They had been awakened by Bruce, their hunting dog. Normally gentle and quiet at night, Bruce had burst into Avery’s bedroom, behaving most unusually. On rising, Avery saw the glow of flames as the house burned. He instantly guessed it was a Viking raid; every person in Tania had heard tales of the Vikings, and Avery was no exception. Though he had never seen those devilish pirates himself, the threat was clear enough. He roused his family and they hid in the cellar.

In such bitter cold, escape with his loved ones was impossible. The nearest town, Alvado, was a three-day journey even in the milder seasons when ice and snow had melted. Fleeing unprepared would be certain death. Avery reasoned their only hope was to hide and pray the pirates would not find them. Vikings never lingered long in one place. If luck favored them, they would only need to remain hidden for a while until the pirates moved on.

He did his best to erase all traces of their presence, covering the cellar entrance with straw and leaving his savings in plain sight, hoping the pirates would be satisfied with loot and not search further. But fortune did not smile on Avery’s family; the pirates found the entrance all the same.

They heard the battering of the door, Bruce barking furiously, Avery’s daughter crying. Together with his father, Avery dragged barrels of tundra berry wine—brewed over a whole year and meant for sale in Alvado come spring—to block the door. They piled anything they could against it, but the flimsy wooden door still splintered and cracked under the blows.

Never had Avery felt so powerless. He brewed his own wine, married the woman he loved, fathered a beautiful daughter, and supported his family through honest toil. Before sunset, he had dined with his family, celebrating the coming new year, with his wife roasting lamb ribs and slicing smoked sausages from the previous winter to make sandwiches. There had been laughter and joy, and then everything changed in an instant.

The pirates had come, burning homes, stealing treasure, and now they would smash down the cellar door with their axes. How Avery wished he had the power to slay those pirates, even at the cost of his soul—anything to keep his father from turning the knife on his wife and child in desperate madness.

“Listen to me, Avery, you’ve never seen it—you have no idea how cruel Vikings can be!”

“You don’t want to see what they’d do to your wife and daughter!”

“You don’t want your family to suffer that fate—never!”

“I’m not mad—I love my family just like you do!”

Avery had never known this wild side of his father. In his memory, his father had always been a silent, gentle man who raised Avery alone without complaint or many words. Avery pleaded with him through tears to calm down, and, looking at his wife and daughter, hated his own helplessness for the first time.

God, if I am guilty, then send me alone to the stake.

Avery prayed inwardly, not knowing what to do. His limbs felt weak, his heart pounding as if it would burst from his chest. Each crash against the door echoed in his heart, each blow a fresh agony. He felt as though an axe had split his ribs and was cleaving him open.

And then, the battering suddenly ceased. His deranged father lowered the knife, and Bruce, strangely cowed, hid in a corner whining. Before the quiet settled, Avery heard screams outside.

What was happening beyond the door? Avery pressed his ear to the wood, listening for any sign. It was so silent—frighteningly so, yet strangely calming.

“Father…” Avery looked at the bearded, bloodshot-eyed man.

“Stand aside, Avery.”

His father approached the door, lifting a wine barrel and peering through the cracks. Avery, anxious and uncertain, stood behind him, feeling once more like a small child, reliant on the man before him.

“What do you see, Father?” Avery asked, patting his father’s shoulder. The old man stood motionless, unresponsive. Desperate, Avery squeezed forward and peered through the gap—his pupils contracted.

There lay the distinctive helm of a Viking. An arrow jutted from the dead man's eye socket, while a fallen torch cast flickering light upon the bloodstained ground. The pirates outside—were dead.

After watching for a while, Avery saw no further movement.

“Listen, Avery, we have to go out and see.”

His father’s voice, though hoarse, was once again steady.

“But, Father…”

Avery wanted to protest, but, meeting his father’s gaze, he faltered.

“I understand, Father. We’ll go.”

They moved the barrels aside and stepped outside. His father stooped to examine the corpses, pulling the arrow from the pirate’s eye and inspecting it closely. He faced the bodies with a composure utterly different from his earlier frenzy.

“Incredible marksmanship… as if someone pressed the arrow in by hand…”

A look of awe came over his father’s face. He stood, picking up a pirate’s axe.

“Avery, take this.”

It was a heavy axe, but Avery was strong from years of labor and could wield it. With his father leading, courage returned. He gathered his wife, daughter, and their dog, and emerged from the cellar. Two more pirate corpses lay in the warehouse. Avery’s weathered father took a longbow and slung a quiver over his shoulder, gazing at the bow like an old friend. His hands trembled at first, but after glancing at the bodies, he gripped the bow steady.

“Father, who killed these pirates?” Avery’s question was urgent.

“A worthy hunter,” his father replied. “He saved all our lives.”

“What should we do? Flee?”

“No, son.” His father shook his head, raising the bow with practiced ease. “We must take up arms and defend our home.”

“Wait here. I’ll check the neighboring house—Lisa and her daughter may yet live. If you hear me call your name, pay no heed to me; just take Emily and Aya and run where there is no firelight.”

Avery glanced at his wife and daughters, nodded, and tightened his grip on the axe.

“I understand, Father.”

His father took a torch and walked out into the snowy night. Avery watched him disappear. Though the shadows of fear lingered, there was a new-found calm and strength within him. One thought alone filled his mind: if a pirate appeared, he would strike him down with this axe.

No further danger came. Soon, a torch flared in Avery’s view; his father returned, leading a group—neighbors, two mothers with children, men and boys he knew well.

“Lisa, I’m glad to see you again.”

Avery’s wife embraced their neighbor, tears glimmering in Lisa’s eyes.

“It must have been the hunter—he saved me and my child. He’s a hero.” Lisa shared what had happened: her husband killed by pirates, she herself nearly violated, but the hunter had rescued them both.

“He wore our village’s hunter’s garb,” Lisa said. “There, in the alley, he slew the pirates. I saw the longbow on his back—it was him, he saved you too, Avery.”

She added that the hunter had broken the lock, found her and her child a warm room.

“May the goddess bless our hero.” With heartfelt reverence, Lisa crossed herself.

Just then, Avery’s father raised his voice.

“Listen, young men—the disaster is not yet over!”

“The people of Tania are no cowards! If anyone invades our home, we must take up arms and drive them out—show them our strength!”

All eyes turned to Avery’s father. The men exchanged glances, wordlessly arming themselves. Those with hunting experience took the pirates’ bows and crossbows, the boys hefted pitchforks and rakes. Even the women were undaunted, tying up their hair, tearing away skirts that might hinder movement. The wounded were tended, the rest united in purpose.

Together, they stood—no longer afraid of the howling winter night.