Chapter Thirteen: Universal Gestures

"The nineteenth one."

Counting silently in his mind, Wade watched as the pirate before him fell. With his longsword, he lifted the pirate’s tunic, and as expected, discovered an identical oil pouch. These pirates adhered to some unspoken rule—each carried a bag of oil at all times.

Wade glanced at the burning houses, a thoughtful look in his eyes. He picked up the pirate’s iron helmet and donned it, covering his skull, then slid on thick gloves. He moved with even greater caution now, assassinating pirates with meticulous care, ensuring not a trace of oil stained his body.

He harvested pirate lives like death itself, and finally the pirates sensed something was wrong. Their numbers had been halved, yet no one knew who was responsible.

Wade could see, once the bodies were discovered, that the remaining pirates gathered together, no longer moving in small groups. Each man drifted toward the center.

There, in the heart of the village, flames blazed brightest. The dancing tongues of fire melted the snow into water. A scorched building, unable to bear the weight, collapsed. Glowing embers scattered through the air, smoke rising in the night.

After dispatching four more pirates, Wade climbed onto a rooftop, standing atop a thatched shelter nearly two meters high. From afar, he saw two figures locked in combat, illuminated by firelight.

Mia perched on Wade’s shoulder. He had slain twenty-three pirates now; Mia had devoured the souls of all twenty-three. Despite her feast, she had yet to "grow legs," merely clinging to Wade’s neck.

Snow still fell in thick, swirling flakes. Even in winter, snow was a rarity in the Netherlands where Wade had once lived, and on the stony wastelands he’d wandered, snow was unheard of. Since awakening on that desolate plain, the only thing to change in the sky was the pale moon.

This was Wade’s first true experience of such a heavy snow. The howling wind lifted the hooded cloak he wore. In this northernmost land, it seemed the snow would never cease, determined to bury all things beneath a world of pure white.

Though a skeleton could feel neither cold nor heat, Wade habitually pulled his hood tighter.

He was surprised; he hadn’t expected the red-haired man wielding a spear to hold out so long.

It had been about twenty minutes since Wade first saw him. Without a clockwork watch, he couldn’t time it precisely, but the error wouldn’t be more than three minutes either way.

He had assumed the man would already have fallen to the pirate leader’s sword, yet there he was, singlehandedly holding off the pirate chief.

But his situation was dire. Suddenly, an arrow flew toward him from the pirates. Wade watched as a wooden shaft embedded itself in the man’s back.

Wade quickly understood—the man endured so long only because the onlookers were treating the fight as entertainment. The pirate leader was toying with him.

When the pirates first arrived in the village, they may have been tense. But after a few kills, they had relaxed, never expecting to lose half their number.

That was why, just moments ago, they watched their chief duel the man as if it were a spectacle.

But now, with twenty-three dead, Wade’s victims scattered all over the village, the surviving pirates could no longer treat the raid as a game. Every nerve was taut; instinctively, they clustered around the strongest among them—their leader—seeking comfort in his presence.

Wade was certain he hadn’t been exposed. The pirates could not sense his presence. Undead such as skeletons were born for the darkness.

So many had died, and yet the murderer’s face remained unknown.

A terror of the unknown began to spread among the pirates.

The unknown—nothing in this world is more terrifying. Humans are born fearing the dark, for they cannot see what lurks within it.

The pirates’ order was superficial; in truth, their morale was on the verge of collapse.

If the pillar supporting their courage—their "invincible leader"—were to fall, they would lose all will to fight and scatter in panic.

That was the swiftest way to end this massacre.

Wade knew he could not continue thinning their numbers as before.

The Vikings had formed a tight group, shields raised, each man nervously vigilant for any movement in his field of vision.

If Wade loosed an arrow or two from above and killed a few more, he would be discovered immediately.

A skeleton had no wings; he could not soar into the sky. In the shadows, he was a master assassin, but exposed among a crowd, he was merely a somewhat sturdier skeleton.

Five or six pirates with axes and swords could chop him to pieces as easily as splitting firewood.

He was not capable of facing the rest alone.

Thus, the best tactic was decapitation—kill the pirate chief, and the carnage would end.

He had only one chance; he climbed down from the eaves, determined to move closer before acting.

He was still too far away. His hunting bow’s range was only fifty meters, and the wind was strong—distance would ruin his accuracy.

As he crept closer, the pirate chief, Swain, finally received a belated report from his men.

"Chief, Egil, Rast, and Oum—they’re all dead..."

Swain’s chief oarsman, Joseph Parker, reported to him.

Swain’s expression darkened. He could not recall the names of all forty-three of his men, but he knew Oum. That was his oarsman. He owned only two longships, each with a chief oarsman—Joseph and Oum.

These two had been with Swain for years. For a Viking pirate, an experienced oarsman was invaluable.

Swordsmen and archers could be found anywhere; the world would never lack for them. But a man who could read nautical charts, steer by the stars, and—using only his eyes—determine the constellations and thus the four directions, was a rare talent indeed.

Oarsmen could not be replaced by mere brutes. Swain could not accept losing one of his only two oarsmen in a small village like this. It was like losing an arm. Just moments ago, he had been entertained by the fight, but now a fire raged in his chest.

It was as if, setting out on a mere picnic, you tripped and lost your prized, expensive sword over a cliff.

"How did Oum die?" Swain asked in a low voice.

"His heart was pierced and his throat slit," Joseph replied quietly. "There were no signs of a struggle. He was assassinated. Almost all the bodies we’ve found are the same. A few were shot with arrows."

"How many dead?" Swain suppressed his anger.

"Perhaps a dozen," Joseph said. "Chief, what should we do next?"

Swain glanced at the fallen red-haired man. The man was covered in wounds, melting snow soaking his trousers. He panted heavily, five arrows protruding from his back.

Even so, he had not fallen, though he could barely stand, supported only by his spear.

As Swain’s gaze fell upon him, pirates immediately raised bows and crossbows, aiming at the man. At a word, they would turn him into a pin-cushion.

Swain raised a hand, signaling them to lower their weapons.

"Let me guess," he sneered. "You have a companion—also a professional. Is he a hunter or a rogue? Were you adventurers once, or mercenaries?"

The man gave no reply, only raising his hand to show Swain his middle finger.

"Tanian, you have courage. I like that," Swain said with a cold smile. "Let’s hope you can remain so brave."