Chapter Fourteen: The Professional

“Set it ablaze!” Sven commanded.

All the pirates drew oil pouches from their waists, dousing the surrounding houses that had yet to catch fire with fuel. Torches were thrown onto the translucent pools, and the air grew thick with the stench of charred wood. With a hiss, the fuel ignited, and bright flames traced lines through the oil. The glowing coals pulsed as if breathing, flickering between dim and bright, then suddenly burst forth with a scorching exhalation.

The surroundings were flooded with light, as if it were midday.

Sven exhaled a cloud of white breath, thrusting his sword into the ground. He removed his helmet and unbuckled the chainmail from his torso. The heavy metal fell, sinking into the soft mud saturated by melted snow.

His sculpted muscles danced in the firelight.

The only marks upon Sven’s body were old wounds. The savage claw marks on his back were left by a battle with a polar bear when he was thirteen. The sword scars on his abdomen and shoulder were inflicted by the disciplinary knights of the Twilight Church.

After the fight with the red-haired man, he bore no new wounds. The skirmish had been nothing more than a warm-up for him.

But now, he was done warming up. His expression was solemn, standing like a colossus amidst the crowd.

No one present was taller than him; even among the Viking and Tanya warriors, whose average height was the greatest in northern Tyia, Sven stood out remarkably.

This distinction had been obvious since childhood. Before he was fully grown, he stood as tall as the adults around him. As he matured, he found that simply standing up allowed him to look down upon nearly everyone he met.

No one was stronger, no one was taller.

He needed little effort to knock others down—little effort to twist off their heads.

When he became a professional warrior, even the snow wolves and polar bears of the icy plains could not withstand him for even a few rounds.

He had once cast aside sword and armor, fighting a polar bear barehanded.

At thirteen, he nearly died beneath the bear’s claws.

He considered it a disgrace. He returned to wash away that shame, relying on nothing but his body, using no combat techniques, only brute strength against a male polar bear weighing a thousand pounds.

It was flesh against flesh, the most primal struggle.

In the end, he prevailed. The bear, strong enough to shatter a longship, had its teeth broken and its chest torn open.

Sven had enough strength left to drag the bear’s carcass back to camp. The pelt he stripped from it still lay beneath his tent, serving as a carpet, trampled by any who passed.

Such was the trajectory of his life. In Sven’s eyes, everything seemed easy, so reverence was rare.

Nothing inspired awe in him. The father who tried to whip him with harsh words and a lash was struck with a single blow, his chest caving in. The guards who tried to capture him were each hewn in half. Priests and nuns alike were forced to surrender to his sword and strength.

He grew up in an environment where he did as he pleased.

For most things in the world—even the so-called “gods”—he held no reverence, for he had never witnessed a god perform a miracle.

But of all things in the world, one stood apart for Sven.

Fire.

Upon the snow-swept icy plains, humans could never do without fire.

Sven could twist off a man’s head, but when snow blanketed the earth, he was compelled to sit beside the bonfire.

It was a singular presence. From the first time he saw fire as a child, Sven felt an indescribable emotion.

That tiny flame banished the darkness, flickering in his eyes, then igniting the wood, bringing warmth and cooking meat.

Fire was exceptional. After shedding his armor, Sven basked in its breath; every inch of exposed skin sensed its heat.

The cold wind, laden with snow, battered his chest, but he stretched out his mighty arms, as if to embrace the roaring blaze.

Standing amidst the fire, nothing in the darkness could hide from him.

Sven extended his arm, seizing something swiftly shot toward him through the wind.

He opened his eyes—brown eyes illuminated by the flames.

In his hand was a wooden arrow.

Sven sneered, crushing the arrow with a crack; the spruce shaft powdered in his palm, wood shavings spilling between his fingers.

“Tanya warriors, you truly don’t understand the difference between silver rank and iron rank,” Sven said coldly. “I’ll make you understand. Don’t think you’ll have the pleasure of losing your head so quickly. Let me teach you something, Tanya warriors—something I learned from the Church’s tin cans.”

“Human fingernails never stop growing.”

“I’ll find someone to drive iron spikes beneath your nails and into your flesh. Your nails will be pried up, like tiles from the floor, one by one. Don’t worry, when you grow no more nails, I’ll send you to join your comrade underground.”

Sven drew his sword from the snow.

He plunged it into the fire, and runes engraved upon the blade began to glow.

Sven exhaled slowly; the sword, though uncoated with oil, caught fire.

Flames clung to his sword, gathering into molten gold. Snowflakes landing on the heated blade sizzled and vanished as steam.

This was not a simple fire enchantment or combat trick. The power of fire converged in Sven’s grasp; the blazing inferno behind him was wholly absorbed by the sword.

The surroundings dimmed, all light focusing on Sven’s sword.

His palm felt the searing heat—even through the asbestos ring he wore, the fire's intensity was palpable.

Scorching, burning, pain—all of it excited Sven.

Fire was his to command!

He stepped forward, and a gust swept through the snow, sending white flakes flying as he shot out like a cannonball.

That giant frame crashed into a house.

A deafening roar—flames licking at the tottering building as it collapsed in ruin.

This was a professional warrior; this was the man who, three years prior, burned the library of Lindisfarne Abbey and slew an entire squad of Church disciplinary knights, escaping unscathed, still wanted by the Twilight Church to this day—a heavyweight criminal:

—The Poet-Burner, Sven Freud.

Every pirate swallowed hard.

But they also cheered, raising their arms high.

With Sven among them, they were invincible.

Panic and anxiety vanished from their faces, replaced by smiles of relief.

They rejoiced in having such a formidable comrade, celebrated their ability to continue pillaging, murdering, and forcing women to kneel before them like swine.

“Sven! Sven! Sven!”

One by one, they shouted Sven’s name, as if it were a spell to grant their deepest wishes.

But none saw, amid the dust and embers, Sven’s figure falter.

He stared at the corpse burning before him, impaled by his sword.

He hesitated.

The blood-soaked face, bleeding from every orifice, reflected in his pupils—a specter from the depths of hell, come to claim his soul.