Blood Lily Company - Afghanistan, year 1

VIII

The Viking took his t-shirt off, which he slipped into his belt, triggering a chorus of admiring whistles we could hear through his microphone. Well, they were well deserved, right? For fun, he struck a pose, showing off his bodybuilder musculature – even if he isn't one. The guys whistled more and laughed. A few put their Kalash back on their shoulders. The sentries on the wall had turned their back on us, to watch the show. They would be the first to fall.

The giant's antics had been carefully calculated to relax the SRH and make them less vigilant. So far, so good. The leader was coiling and uncoiling a long bullwhip, reminding the Viking of the stakes of the fight.

The SRH had formed a circle around him, as an impromptu arena. It bothered him a little bit, because a wall, a real, hard one, can be a big help in a fight. He would have to do without.

Some ruckus announced the arrival of the SRH champion. He was already shirtless and had nothing to envy the giant for, except maybe 40cm. Same build, only smaller.

Erk took his stance, upright like for boxing, the other one sneered. The Viking's face became very hard, expressionless and his gaze... like two blue laser bolts. His eyes are blue-violet, like the borage flower. Very poetic...

They circled each other, like two pit bulls ready to get at each other's throat. Then the first blow landed and Erk stepped back, stumbling slightly. Damn, the champion was very good!

Erk caught himself, changed his stance, and let fly a perfect savate roundhouse kick. But not in the face, as the other expected. No, he hit the waist and sent the guy flying 4m away. He hit one of his mates, bounced back and ended up crouching, ready to go again. A real cat.

We could tell Erk wanted to end the bout as quickly as possible, but the champion was so good it was likely to take a long time. The giant wasn't holding his blows, even less than with his brother. He was hitting to kill. So was the other one. Erk was mixing all styles of hand to hand combat: boxing, muay thai, krav-maga, savate, karate, fingers in the nose, hand to crotch, anything that would give him an advantage. Even tai chi, for dodging.

That day we discovered the true might of the Viking.

The fight went on a bit but the guys down there seemed to enjoy it.

Then, after a good 15 minutes – the fighters were drenched in sweat – the Viking's fist connected hard with the solar plexus. The guy twisted aside just in time but still flew right in the legs of his pals. He coughed up blood as he stood up and had difficulties standing up straight.

And then he threw himself at Erk, knife in hand, given to him by the guy he had bumped into. Erk stepped aside and doubled over as the champion sliced him.

Kris swore.

The Viking straightened up, a long diagonal slash gracing his right side. He howled in rage, grabbed the other by his hair, broke his wrist to drop the blade from his hand and then, grabbing him by his neck and legs, turned him over and broke his back over his knee.
- Erik! No! Kris, horrified, muffled his scream in his hand.

The SRH were petrified.

The Viking picked the knife up and knelt beside the man on the ground. He said: "May God forgive your sins and welcome you in His paradise", then he stuck the blade into the soft underside of his jaw, up into his brain, killing him. It was, as we would learn later, mercy killing. With his back broken, that man would be nothing more than a vegetable. The death Erk gave him had the merit of being glorious, in his eyes and those of his mates.

The giant stood up, apparently very calm, but Baby Jane saw, through the 720 SR's scope, a single tear slide down the tall blond's cheek.
- Is he crying for the death of that bloke?! she sounded surprised.
- Doesn't surprise me, Kris replied, and there was also a tear down his cheek. He was weeping for the horrible thing his brother had to do after the other's treachery, for he knew the giant would blame himself for losing his temper.