Chapter Five: Pirates

Within the village, flames roared fiercely. With a thunderous crash, a charred oak beam splintered and tumbled into the fire. The blaze lit up Egil’s profile as he braced one foot atop a rolling barrel, tilting his head to spit blood and phlegm to the side.

He pried open the wooden stopper with his dagger; pale golden liquor gushed forth like spring water, the tart sweetness of red currants wafting to his nose. Egil laughed heartily, lifted the silver-inlaid goblet hanging from his neck, caught a cupful of the tundra berry liqueur, and drank deeply, head thrown back.

It was a fine brew, with only the faintest bitterness—a taste well suited to him. He drained the cup in a few gulps, intending to pour himself another, when a rough shout rang out behind him.

A towering man, bloody sword in hand and an iron cone-helm on his head, barked, "Stop dawdling! Strip the village bare before dawn!"

That was Egil’s chief—the leader of their band of Viking raiders—Sweyn.

Sweyn stood taller than any among them—not merely by a head, but by half a man’s height. Egil sometimes wondered if Sweyn had giant blood in his veins; his imposing stature radiated an unmistakable pressure.

At Sweyn’s command, Egil abandoned his indulgence. He had no wish to be caught slacking under the chief’s very nose. It was time to get to work.

He glanced back at the leader, righted the barrel, sheathed his dagger, and pulled the battle-axe from his back. Approaching a nearby house, he prepared to hack down the wooden door.

But then he heard a furious roar, and a shudder of needle-like numbness shot through his body.

"Get out, pirates!"

From the shadow between the houses burst a red-haired man. He charged straight at the chief, a spear gripped in his hands, the point leveled at Sweyn’s heart.

For a heartbeat, panic seized Egil. The red-haired man had appeared without warning, as if he’d lain in wait in the darkness for ages, biding his time for the perfect moment.

This was no ordinary man—his bellow carried a force that chilled the soul. Egil recognized it: one of the most fundamental martial techniques, the Disrupting War Cry.

The red-haired man was a professional—a warrior—unleashing an unstoppable assault upon Sweyn.

Egil had passed by that very house himself, not sensing a thing. Clearly, the man hadn’t snuck into that shadow after being surrounded by the pirates; he’d hidden himself there long before their encirclement, masking his presence.

Egil admired the man’s daring and resolve—what a reckless gamble! Had anyone discovered him, he’d have faced a brutal onslaught. The man must have watched for some time, enduring the slaughter of his fellow villagers with stoic patience, all for the chance to strike at the pirates’ leader.

If he could kill the chief, the headless pirates might lose their nerve, perhaps abandon their plunder and flee in panic.

But, regrettably, he had chosen the wrong opponent.

Egil felt a flush of shame at his earlier panic. For a moment, however brief, he had doubted the chief, thinking Sweyn might fall to some backwater fighter’s ambush.

Yet the war cry had not slowed Sweyn in the slightest. He swung his sword; steel clashed with iron, a ringing hum filled the air, and he easily knocked aside the red-haired man’s lethal strike.

Egil’s spirits soared—of course, Sweyn the Skald-Burner! Following him surely promised glory and fortune.

After all, Sweyn was a silver-ranked barbarian, wanted by the Twilight Church. Even in the great cities, a silver-ranked warrior could claim a place of honor, earning a good living by honest means—nothing a rural fighter could compare to.

In raw strength, the red-haired man could not match the chief. Against an equal, the Disrupting War Cry would at least have some effect; even someone like Egil, an ordinary man, would be paralyzed for two full seconds by the aftershock alone. If the red-haired man had also been silver-ranked, this ambush might well have succeeded—if not killing Sweyn outright, at least gravely wounding him.

But between them yawned an unbridgeable gulf. The red-haired man was, at best, iron-ranked, and against such a disparity, martial techniques lost their edge.

Who would have thought to find an iron-ranked warrior in a place like this? Egil felt lucky to have chosen the right leader—his chief was even more formidable. Excitement welled up in him; he believed that following Sweyn would bring him ever more fine wine and women.

He cared little for money—good drink and women were his true vices.

This was their last raid of the year, and Egil had made a handsome haul. He looked forward to next year, imagining the places they would plunder, the fortunes to be made, and perhaps, just perhaps, sharing a bed with a noble lady.

He mustn’t forget Falina, either. When they returned to Blood Anchor Bay, he was determined to sample Falina’s charms—the new feline beastkin girl had been on his mind. He’d heard she was skilled, trained from youth in the great cities, able to send a man to paradise with just her hands.

Compared to the tearful, uncooperative country girls, Egil yearned to try the sophisticated pleasures of the city.

The more he dwelled on Falina’s many wiles, the more he felt a stirring in his loins, even in this moment.

The firelight painted his face flush; perhaps he was a little drunk—these country brews were unexpectedly potent.

He felt a sudden urge to relieve himself.

What’s this? Why are my trousers wet? Did I wet myself?

That was Egil’s last coherent thought. By the time he realized, a sword had run him through the gut—the wetness was not urine, but his own blood.

Agonizing pain snapped him alert; he gasped for air, mouth open to scream for help, but a sharp scimitar slashed across his throat. His windpipe was severed. No sound escaped.

He collapsed, blood pooling across the blackened planks, hissing as it met glowing embers.

Egil convulsed, eyes wide, desperate to see who had killed him—he had sensed nothing, no one’s approach.

What he saw was a pale skeleton. Beneath a hooded cloak, dusted with white snow, empty sockets met his gaze.

A shiver ran through Egil; a sour, yellowish liquid seeped from his groin.

Suddenly, he remembered the image of the Goddess of Death. Once, during a raid, an old woman had warned he would be taken across the River of the Dead by the goddess’s messenger to pay for his sins. He’d only laughed, lopping off her head with a single blow.

"Where’s your messenger now, old woman? Why hasn’t he come to take me to the river?"

"Foolish crone! A warrior as valiant as I will be taken to Valhalla by the god of war, to enjoy eternal honor!"

How he regretted it now. If only he had another chance, he would have spared the old woman, converted to the faith of the death goddess, and made offerings to her at every raid.

But there was no second chance. He died beneath the barrel.

In his final moments, all he saw was the silent, bone-white skeleton in the firelight.

Veyd shook the pirate’s stolen sword; warm blood dripped from its point.

"Seventh," Veyd counted silently.

The little ghost slipped from beneath the cloak, and another wisp of flame floated forth—the soul devoured.

As the ghost returned to his side, Veyd glanced at the red-haired man and the pirate chief across the way, then silently melted into the shadows.