Tales of the Vangen: The Dead King of Danic (Book 3)

Chapter 5: Monsters

Life could be tough in the frozen north. What with the constant dreary darkness, the constant stabbing winds, the constant need to look over your shoulder. It was the type of life that could grind a man into dust if he wasn't careful. Even a crumb of weakness would have the jackals set upon you, tearing you limb from limb.

That's why Fenris had to be tough, so that no man could ever doubt his resolve. He would make his heart a block of ice if he had too, with a blazing coldness that would numb all his worries away. Giving him strength. Giving him purpose.

Which is why he kept his face an emotionless stone mask as Corvere ordered the execution of Kairnborg's citizens.

"Decimation," the man began to say, pacing before the villagers. They'd been rounded up to the square by the rest of Corvere's henchmen, forced to stand in single file lines, their eyes never leaving the ground. "Can anyone tell me what that means?"

No one said anything. No one dared to raise their voice to the Butcherman, a title Corvere had procured himself instead of earning it like a real warrior. He was the type of vermin to do such a thing. Tall and slightly stooped, twitchy eyes constantly searching for his meal. Even his laugh held a rat-like edge to it.

"Come now. Tut, tut. Don't start speaking up all at once." There was a sound like crinkling ice as Corvere drew out his black glass blade, tip resting on a young girl's throat. She gasped, wide blue eyes staring, unable or unwilling to step away.

Fenris grit his teeth. She didn't look much older than his little sister, golden locks trembling as she fought back tears. So brave for someone so young. To stand up to such evil. It only made his blood boil that much hotter. He wanted to jump, lash out, sink his teeth into Corvere's throat. It would have been so easy, so fast. But how could he?

When he was the Butcherman's second in command.

"It means to kill one tenth of us as punishment for the whole city." A man stepped out from one of the lines, gray wispy hair floating over a bald pate.

Corvere narrowed his eyes, studying him. "That's correct," he said after a pause. "What's your name?"

The man swallowed, tearing his hat off and clutching it to his chest. "Paytor, my lord."

"Come here, Paytor."

Fenris watched with horrid curiosity as the villager shambled over, making two trenches in the ankle deep snow. He stopped beside the girl, their eyes meeting briefly before turning back to the Butcherman.

"How did you come about such knowledge, Paytor?" Corvere asked, the taunt in his tone returning. "Not every man knows of such things. Were you a soldier?"

"Once, my lord."

"Were you a Jarlsman?"

"Once, my lord."

"So you're used to handing out punishments, then?" There was a glint in Corvere's eye now as he asked the question.

Paytor stood there, wincing at whatever the bastard had planned. He kept his mouth shut this time, probably what he should have done from the start. But if there was one thing Fenris knew was that once you started the action, you had to live with its consequences.

"Give him your sword."

Fenris blinked, realized it was Corvere talking to him this time. "What?"

"I said, give him your sword," the Butcherman snarled. "Do not make me repeat myself again."

With raw fingertips, Fenris slid his black glass sword free, handing it gingerly to Paytor. The man stared at it dumbly.

"Take it," Corvere commanded. The man obeyed, brows lifting as he realized the weight of it, or lack thereof. No doubt he was used to iron, heavier materials of a bygone era. But it was black glass that held the sharper edge now, right under the people's throat.