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

Chapter 28: Follow the Path

It was over. Fenris was going to die No matter how much he struggled, no matter how much he wished otherwise, this was it. His feet kicked uselessly in the snow as Darendel stalked closer towards him, sword dripping with his blood.

"You've grown soft," His once and only lover said. "A single cut across the thigh and you went down mewling like a wounded puppy. It really is quite sad."

"Fark yourself," Fenris snarled back as he desperately fought back tears. ""Quit prattling on and kill me already!" He gasped as a jolt of pain ran up his body, the taste of blood pooling in his mouth.

"And miss watching the King's pet die in pathetic agony? I wouldn't miss that for the world." Darendel stepped playfully around Fenris, carving a perfect circle in the ground with the tip of his sword. "I never understood his fascination in you. You've barely ascended in the ranks, and yet he personally summons you to the throne room to meet him? None of it makes any sense!"

"I never saw you as the jealous type," Fenris said, happily paying the price to see Darendel squirm one final time as the pain in his side flared into near blinding agony.

Darendel's eyes went wide. He lifted his boot up, and for a moment Fenris feared he would stomp down on the spear tip and end his life for good. Then he relaxed and stood back up, a look of superiority growing on his face again.

"Corvere was right about you," Darendel said. "Your mouth does have a nasty habit of getting you into trouble. I mean, just look at where you are now. Bleeding out in the cold like a wild animal. You really are a dog."

Fenris forced out a grin. "Guess that makes you a dog farker then, considering my mouth was the last thing around your fruits, far as I recall."

Darendel did kick Fenris this time, and even had the courtesy to aim for his own fruits instead of the spear tip. Despite the kindly gesture, however, it was still very much a hard kick in the fruits.

The air whooshed out of Fenris in an instant as unfathomable pain erupted from his groin. He howled as it roiled in his side and up into his twisted guts. Sour spit burned in the back of his throat as he turned, wretched, green bile spattering the powder dusted ground.

"You've no respect for the dead," Fenris coughed out.

"The only thing I care from the dead is that they stay silent." Darendel lifted up his sword, hovering it over Fenris' throat. "But it looks like I'll have to cut yours out if I want any peace and quiet around here."

Fenris smiled, pink teeth reflecting off the glassy surface of the blade. "Stubborn till the bitter end." He closed his eyes and sank his head into the soft, downy snow. His entire body was one giant pain now, the tips of his extremities already numb with blood loss. It seemed Loken's prediction had been wrong after all. He was going to die. His farking prophecy hadn't been worth a damn.

The air thrummed over Fenris before a loud crack snapped his eyes open. Darendel was gone, his scream cut short as he smashed into a nearby tree. There was a single, ear grating crunch and then silence once more.

Fenris tried to breathe, tried to look up, but his body was so weak now. He felt liquid sloshing in his lungs, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. The corners of his vision were starting to go fuzzy, his eyes unable to focus on anything.

"Loken," he wheezed. "Loken, help me."

A figure loomed over him. A man bigger and broader than anyone Fenris had ever seen before. He was old, well past his prime, dressed in strange metal armor darker than the clouded sky and flecked with bits of white shaped like candle flames. His hair was tarnished gold, his beard a silver wheat field running clear past his neckline. He held a massive warhammer in one hand, forged of the same material as his armor.