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

Chapter 25: Killing For The Sake Of It

All was quiet over the valley save for the crunching of footsteps in snow, and the bitter whispers of the wind. A chilling silence had fallen over Fenris and the other Forsworn as they crept softly through the forest, their once loud, boisterous leader now quietly thoughtful as the grave.

The other bootlickers looked at each other for guidance, but only Fenris knew the truth to Corvere's silence. The man was untangling his lie about the rebels even as they headed towards the valley, looking at every angle, weighing every option, searching for any signs that pointed towards the possibility of treachery.

If only Fenris could tell the truth, to reveal the strange path he'd been put upon by the Witch's son, but that would only give Corvere even more power over him. Better to let the man plot and scheme in the confines of his own mind. There was doubtless little space there for much complexity anyway.

The wind kicked up again as they reached a dip in the land, glittering dust whipping past in a sheet of pale sparkles. Fenris shielded his eyes, saw two figures approaching from the opposite way between his fingers. Corvere's scouts.

The Chosen nodded his head. The universal sign to get on with it. The first man held up three fingers on his left hand and two on his right. Near three dozen rebels. The second gripped an imaginary pole and jabbed at the group. Spearmen. Perfect for pinning people in place and halting their escape.

Corvere nodded again and padded at his belt. At once the group pulled their weapons out. Fenris slid his own sword free, black glass edge practically cutting the air with every gentle movement.

Pointing at his left eye, the Butcherman chose who would follow him into battle. He unsurprisingly picked his most loyal sycophants first, choosing Darendel last much to everyone else's surprise. The man frowned but said nothing as he stepped into formation.

And to Fenris's even greater surprise, he found Corvere choosing him as his right eye, taking leadership over the second speartip. A cold chill ran up his spine as he frantically searched the man for answers, but for once in his life he was unreadable, his eyes glazed over yet hauntingly fixed on him.

Fenris swallowed, knowing full well he could show no fear to the other mongrels now. If he was to ascend, he would need to be tough as stone and cold as ice. He waved for the remaining Forsworn to follow him and together they poured down into the valley.

The loping plains of Middlefort's eastern fringes slowly transformed into towering treelines and rough thickets as Fenris and the rest kept walking. Corvere split off west once the land evened back out, cutting off any potential runners. Like a net, they would trawl the valley for rebels, catching them unawares before they could use their spears. More than likely they would break off and run once they realized the trap, the training of poor peasantry quickly crumbling against the might of the Forsworn.

Fenris smiled. And then the fun part could finally begin.

The chase. The moment when fear overtook logic and men began to panic. The outcome was always the same. They'd either drop their weapons or fall to their knees and beg for mercy.

The latter took longer to kill, but Fenris preferred it this way. It made him feel alive, made his entire body finally move with purpose. The pumping of his legs as he gained speed, the mechanical chopping of his arms as he lunged at the air. Far better than the cold, slow death promised to you in Danic.

A glint of metal caught his attention in the distance. Fenris stopped in his tracks, the other Forsworn following suit.

Time oozed into an uncomfortable slowness as Fenris identified the source, the faintest glint of a spear tip poking out over a tree branch.