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

Chapter 27: Old Wolves and Young Pups

Fenris lay upon his back, right hand searching in the blood speckled snow for his fallen sword. The broken shaft of a spear tip protruded out one side of his body, like some demented horn he couldn't remember growing. Blood oozed from the wound in a steady stream, life slowly trickling out of him.

All of it he witnessed through aching, narrow slits. The angry, leering sun beamed down overhead, its light burning him blind. He'd forgotten its brightness, its intensity, its uncaring, unyielding radiance, and it bore the memory into him with painful clarity. Sweat beaded along his neck, running in fat rivulets down his body. With a shuddering, painful clarity, he realized how warm he felt, the bitter chill of winter melting off his bones.

He didn't have time to enjoy the feeling for long. Boots crunched in the wet snow, the heavy breathing of a man laboring to stay upright. A shadow fell upon Fenris, revealing a face full of snarling teeth. The rebel who'd run him through from earlier, broken polearm replaced with a mean looking sword, the curve of the blade like a dark crescent in the sunlight.

"I've got you now, bastard," the rebel said, his voice dry and thirsty for blood. "Now I'll see to justice done right." He tilted the sword down, intending to skewer Fenris with one, final blow.

"Fark yourself," Fenris spat back, blood dribbling down his chin. He squinted into the brightness, wondering if Loken would appear and save him once again, but the man's words had been clear. He wasn't supposed to die here. The thought alone sent an ironic shiver of pain through him. Only at death's door was he finally starting to heed the words of prophecy.

The rebel said nothing as he lifted the blade up, aiming straight for his heart.

Fenris wanted to squirm away, wanted to fight back, but the pain in his stomach mixed with the pain in his head was simply too much. Life could be tough in the frozen North. Sometimes it was simply better to die.

The light above began to shiver and shudder. The rebel paused, breath catching in his throat as he gawked up.

Fenris felt the burning pain in his eyes subside, gradually at first, before it disappeared in an echoing boom. He peered out, blinking away stars as he took everything in. The wound in the sky was gone, sealing the light away. The rebel loomed over him now like a petrified shadow, wide, wet eyes searching for the meaning of it all.

Luckily for Fenris, he knew exactly what had happened. Aurora was gone, and with it any hope the rebels had left. Ignoring the pain in his guts, he snatched the blade out of the rebel's limp hand, fingers digging into the edge, more blood pooling into the snow. He caught the handle with a flourish, aimed the sword true, and rammed it through the rebel's stomach.

The man let out a sharp hoot as he stared down at the wound, his simple mind unable to realize he was dead and he could do nothing to stop it. He slid off the sword, made to run, only to collapse a second later, blood pooling beneath him. He twitched once and then fell still.

Fenris let his arm drop, taking a few precious seconds to gather his thoughts. He needed to get up, needed to find Loken so he could be healed again. Already the pain in his stomach was spreading further up his body, a terrible omen to consider.

Agony became his new enemy as he fought desperately to stand up. In the end he had to roll onto his good side, propping himself into a kneeling position before finally getting back to his feet. Even then, the skin around the wound stretched and pulled, fresh pain lancing into him.

He tried to walk, hissing as every step felt like his last. Past a drooping willow he could see more rebels scattering in the opposite direction, the other Forsworn merrily chasing after. It appeared the rebel's reinforcements had finally been broken, and the capture of Middlefort could begin in earnest.