The Sun’s Embrace and a Hunter’s Ordeal

The sun, radiant and beaming, wore a foolish grin.

Night, her face awash with the sun’s rays, reluctantly lifted her skirt, presenting it for the sun’s admiration.

The sun, its face flushed crimson as it neared its setting, embraced the Valkyrie’s ribbon-woven stockings.

Night, overcome with shame, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, swiftly pulled down her skirt, plunging the forest into immediate darkness.

Only the starlight adorning the maiden’s skirt and the moon held in Fenrir’s jaws guided Tolke on his path back to the village.

Tolke gasped for breath, the wild boar’s weight immense, each step he took accompanied by a ringing in his ears.

Even for a Norseman of his strength, he found himself forced to slow his pace, conserving his dwindling stamina.

In a daze, the ground suddenly slammed into his face.

The scents of earth and fresh grass flooded his nostrils.

After lying stunned for a moment, Tolke pushed the wild boar off himself, sat up, and rubbed his knees to ease the throbbing pain.

“What was that?”

Tolke wanted to stand up and kick whatever had tripped him in a fit of pique, but it seemed to have been a person!

He hoisted the person by their armpits, dragging them to the base of a dead tree, where he propped them against the trunk.

In the moonlight, the man’s face appeared deeply lined; Tolke surmised he might be an escaped s*ave.

This was not the first time he had witnessed such a sight.

Serfs often believed cities were havens, yet, ironically, they still found themselves tilling God’s earth.

Tolke lightly patted the man’s face, and seeing no reaction, he checked for a breath.

‘He’s alive!’

The earlier disturbance must have been caused by this serf; after all, besides hunters, only he and Noren ventured so deep into the forest.

“Hmph…”

Understanding the source of the earlier sound, Tolke’s entire body gradually relaxed, and the aches in his back, waist, and arms began to manifest as the adrenaline subsided.

“I should rest for a while,” the young man murmured to himself.

“Serfs fleeing to Hradec are never heard of being captured; there’s no need to worry about others coming.”

Tolke leaned back against a beech tree, its smooth bark a comforting balm against the back of his head.

During a previous downpour, he and Noren had sought shelter beneath such a tree, believing them blessed by the Thunder God, offering protection from lightning.

After the weariness came a hazy drowsiness, and his consciousness sank into a dream.

He knew not how long passed before a point of light ignited within the dream: a figure with a skirt of red flames and charcoal stockings, tapping their toes, waving their arms, weaving through the branches and leaves.

Sparks flickered from their skirt’s hem as they explored each leaf, finally hovering before Tolke.

By then, their charcoal stockings had burned away, replaced by white stockings woven from ash, which tightly cinched their flesh, leaving marks.

Their crimson eyes stared silently at him.

Tolke met their gaze, and the figure seemed to blush, their shyness reaching a critical point as the fiery glow in their eyes suddenly expanded—

“Boom!”

The dream shattered.

He struggled to open his eyes, finding a scorching flame right before him, its heat baking his cheeks.

“Scarface, this one’s awake!” The clear Slavic words jolted Tolke, instantly chasing away all traces of sleep.

The soldier withdrew the torch, and a man with a scarred face stepped forward, followed closely by three others.

The torchlight illuminated only half of his scarred countenance, making him appear particularly unnerving.

He seized Tolke’s hair, the scars on his face twisting as he asked, “Do you know him?”

“Who?”

His scalp tightened painfully.

“That wretch on the ground.”

“No, I don’t.”

Two sharp slaps followed.

“What about that wild boar?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Scarface released Tolke’s hair, took a spear, and swung its butt end across his face.

Tolke was knocked down, a fresh wound appearing on his cheek.

Scarface waved a hand, motioning for the torch-bearing guard to step forward, and said:

“You interrogate him!”

The guard stepped up, looking at the fallen Tolke, then glancing at the serf whose fate remained unknown beside them.

“Bah! To hell with that! Interrogate him? Our priority is to get back to the castle; time waits for no one.”

Scarface narrowed his eyes and sneered, “Time? Hah! If I hadn’t changed our direction in time, Lambert, do you think we would have found this s*ave?”

Having said his piece, Scarface kicked the serf, rubbing the dirt from his boot onto the man’s face.

Tolke watched as two veins bulged on the young guard’s forehead, his voice spitting through gritted teeth: “If it weren’t for your carelessness, we would have already dragged this damned wretch back! If it weren’t for you, our captain wouldn’t have been ambushed and killed by that s*ave!”

“And now, you dare to boast about these paltry achievements, like those few Magyar Tatars our captain killed?!”

The young guard’s voice grew steadily louder, culminating in a furious roar.

“Oh? Haha!” Scarface suddenly let out two booming laughs, then his face darkened.

“He lost his life because of mercy, I spit on that! He deserved it!”

“As for carelessness… hey! I did it on purpose, but what of it? You want revenge? Honestly, you’d be better off crawling over here and sucking my d*ck.

That way, after I knock your teeth out, you’ll still have a skill to fall back on at the brothel.”

Scarface circled Lambert a few times, making ‘tsk-tsk’ sounds of feigned surprise, as if marveling at his “charms.”

The young guard instantly drew the short axe from his waist and swung it horizontally!

Scarface had already calculated the distance, and with a light step, he retreated, evading the blow.

Seeing his attack fail, the young guard adopted a ready stance, poised for battle.

Scarface smirked disdainfully.

He handed his spear to a subordinate and drew the short sword from the man’s waist.

“Long poles are only needed when a wretch fights another wretch.

A short sword is more than enough for you.”

“But before that…” He pointed the sword at Tolke, who lay on the ground.

“I’ll cut off his hand first.

I presume you’ll grant me that time? Because you, just like that other fool, are a simpleton who loves to waste people’s time.”

Scarface stared at the enraged guard, deliberately provoking his emotions with his words.

Yet, Tolke, lying on the ground, desperately wanted to interject: ‘What the hell does that have to do with me!’

The young man, driven beyond his limits, raised his hand axe high and brought it down towards the taunter’s head.

‘Such a wide swing, hmph—idiot!’ Scarface scoffed inwardly.

He swiftly seized the young man’s wrist with his left hand, then swung his right arm, using the sword’s pommel to strike and instantly knock him unconscious.

A subordinate produced a length of rope, bound the young guard securely, then claimed the short axe, hanging it from his own waist, before dragging the unconscious man next to the tightly bound serf.

“Boss, shall we start a fire?” a subordinate suggested.

Scarface scoffed, “A dead boar won’t run away.

What’s the rush?”

He leaned on his sword, bending down to address Tolke.

“Your name, thief!”

Tolke buried his face against the ground, remaining silent.

Scarface straightened up, pounded his lower back, then proceeded to grind his foot into Tolke’s head.

“Look at that bastard yellow hair of yours, Northerner!

Poaching in the Earl’s private forest is a serious crime.

Svein and Anna won’t be able to save you.

If I’m in a good mood, I might just let you go.

Now tell me, where are your accomplices?”

Tolke remained silent, prompting Scarface to spit and increase the pressure of his foot.

A subordinate quietly reminded him, “Boss, you’re stepping on him; he can’t speak.”

Scarface removed his foot, then kicked Tolke over, placing his right foot on Tolke’s chest, the sword tip aimed at his nose.

The subordinate grumbled discontentedly, “Boss, you’re being too cautious.

He must be exhausted from hunting that boar.

Why don’t we roast it now, eat our fill, and then interrogate him?”

Scarface’s face remained impassive.

“Do you have any more rope?”

“No, only two lengths,” the subordinate replied.

Scarface’s facial muscles twitched slightly, his scars writhing.

“Without ropes to bind him, are you not afraid he’ll recover, escape, or perhaps kill one or two of us?”

Scarface snarled in a low voice, venting the fears of his battle-ridden past: “These Northerners are formidable warriors.

You haven’t seen Svein kill Magyar Tatars.

He alone cut down twenty fully armed warriors on the battlefield!

A two-handed battle axe can cleave a man in half.

The rest are either utterly mad or impervious to pain; one even strangled a Tatar with his own intestines.”

He let out a long breath, calming his turbulent emotions in the ensuing silence.

After a prolonged silence, his piercing gaze returned.

“Very well, Northerner, you have at least three things to say.”

The sword tip, pointed at Tolke’s nose, emanated a chill that tautened the young man’s nerves.