The Awakening of Courage

Caw! A caw shattered the morning quiet, jolting Henry awake from his sheepskin blanket. He pressed a hand to his throbbing head, a familiar ache from the dream that had plagued his sleep once more. His sleep had been anything but restful the previous night. The warming weather had brought with it a torment of outdoor insects, making true slumber an elusive luxury. The abysmal quality of his rest left his eyes gritty and sore, his eyelids stubbornly glued together by crusty sleep. Henry licked his parched lips. He struggled to sit up. Using the dew collected on his lashes, he painstakingly rubbed his eyes open, forcing them to reluctantly part. Three figures materialized in his blurred vision. The first rays of dawn bled from the outlines of these shadowy forms, gradually filling their grey emptiness with color. They were two bursts of crimson interwoven with gold. Henry snapped fully awake, transfixed by the sight before him. Noren held a brigand in each hand, their throats clutched in an unyielding grip as she hoisted them into the air. Fresh, crimson blood gushed ceaselessly from their mouths and nostrils.

“Awake now, are we? Did you sleep soundly?” Her gentle tone was laced with an unnerving chill. Henry shivered involuntarily, a jolt of terror coursing through him.

“Thud.” With a soft thud, both bodies dropped, crushing a patch of nascent green grass beneath them. Henry’s gaze drifted downward, settling on the two faces, bloated and purplish from lack of oxygen. The brigands’ bloodshot eyes stared blankly up at him. A sudden lurch in his stomach sent Henry sprawling to the ground.

“Careful! Don’t vomit on the blankets!” The blonde girl cautioned him. Fortunately, having just woken and eaten nothing, Henry only dry-heaved, expelling a few drops of acrid stomach acid. With the bitter gastric fluid clinging to his mouth, he casually wiped it onto a nearby blade of tender grass.

“Alright, time for breakfast.” Having dealt with the two unwelcome guests, the girl conjured a clean, pale yellow linen cloth from seemingly nowhere. She meticulously wiped the blood from her hands, then folded the linen inward, ensuring the stained side was concealed within. Next, she spread a blanket beside the deep-bottomed iron pot that rested over the fire. She settled into a formal kneeling posture, stirring the oat porridge with an iron spoon. Around the pot, she arranged four wooden bowls and utensils. Her actions were so composed, it was as if the recent killings had merely been an appetizer before her meal. Henry licked his lips, still burning from the acrid stomach acid. He moved to sit by the iron pot and picked up a wooden bowl brimming with oat porridge. Meanwhile, two other Norse youths, still deep in slumber, began to stir awake. The enticing aroma wafting from the pot seemed to hook their nostrils. As if sleepwalking, they crawled over, grabbing bowls and shoveling porridge into their mouths before their eyelids had even fully parted. Henry had just scooped a spoonful of porridge to his lips. Then, as if a thought had struck him, his gaze fixed on the four sets of utensils. “The mercenary is missing,” he noted.

“Oh, him?” The girl, still kneeling formally, lifted her wooden bowl, her red lips lightly pursed as she blew on the steaming porridge. “He’s dead.”

“D-d-dead…” Henry’s hand trembled, his grip loosening in fright, and the porridge sloshed over the rim.

The girl frowned. “Hey! Don’t waste food!”

“He… how did he die?” Henry asked after a moment of stunned silence.

The girl brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “Tsk— He took an arrow to the throat, just an accident. I hadn’t expected a band of mountain bandits to be ambushing us on the way back to the village. They must have only recently drifted into the area, perhaps in the last day or two.” Noticing Henry’s furtive, fearful glances, she couldn’t help but smile. “What, are you scared? If you are, then quit now! Once my caravan sets off, there’ll be no room for cowards.”

Henry fell silent, lowering his head and clenching his fists. “I…”

Caw! Caw! Caw! The black gentleman on the branch descended to the ground, hopping over to the corpses. It began to tear at the flesh on their faces, revealing the evenly textured muscle beneath, delineated by white connective tissue.

“Ugh—” A wave of nausea washed over him again, like an ox regurgitating its cud. After he finished retching up a large puddle of colorless acid, he looked up to find the other three had moved several yards away, even taking the iron pot with them. Only the small fire pit, built from half-burnt grey logs, remained smoldering. The two Norsemen were cackling, “Guh-guh-guh!” They were likely choked by the chunks of meat in their porridge, yet they still managed to mock him heartily. Henry knew he had made a fool of himself; a flush of heat spread across his face, burning with embarrassment and shame.

“I think you’d be better off as a laborer. You’re strong and sturdy; as long as you’re willing to work, you’ll never go hungry.” The girl’s lips touched the rim of her bowl as she took a small sip of porridge. ‘Hmm… not enough salt,’ she murmured. As she spoke, she pulled a small chunk of salt from a tiny burlap sack. With a squeeze of her fist and a twist of her fingers, shimmering salt crystals cascaded into the iron pot.

“Noren’s right, you should go back!” Hafdan continued, echoing the girl’s sentiment. “The plague has claimed many lives in Hradec, and the wealthy landowners in the countryside are desperate for workers. With your physique, you’d be snapped up quickly. If you’re quick with your hands and sharp with your wits, you might even become a steward on some knight’s estate!” He believed that those without courage were better off not associating with them, as they would only prove to be a hindrance. Through their brief acquaintance over the past day or two, he had come to understand Henry as a good-hearted, if unfortunate, fellow. Despite the short time they’d spent together, Hafdan offered Henry a clear path forward: to return to a rural estate, where he might eventually find his footing. Caught between their concerted efforts, Henry found himself wavering. His decision to join Noren’s caravan as a guard stemmed from his recent lack of work and dire circumstances. Compounded by his blind confidence in his own physical prowess and a negligent underestimation of the dangers inherent to caravan guarding, he had joined without a second thought. Yet, he had never anticipated that the caravan would encounter a brigand ambush even before its official departure, merely on the path to their starting point. An experienced mercenary had died so silently, so suddenly. What if it hadn’t been the mercenary, but him?

At this moment, Hafdan’s younger brother, Wiz, unexpectedly spoke up in Henry’s defense. “If he can strangle a wild wolf with his bare hands, then he certainly possesses some courage. We should let him stay!” Wiz then looked up at the indecisive Henry. “Do you truly wish to return to those days of being bullied by officials and exploited by landowners? Or have you forgotten how your sister died?” Wiz’s words pried open the festering wound in Henry’s heart. Indeed, his sister had been carried off by wolves. What horrors had she endured? Would the wolves have first torn open her throat? Or ripped open her abdomen with their sharp claws? Perhaps they started by tearing at the tenderest flesh of her chest? Would they have left behind a single thigh bone, meticulously licked clean, after devouring her entirely? The gruesome image of his sister’s demise was a barb lodged deep in Henry’s heart, subjecting him to relentless nightmares. In countless recurring dreams, he heard his sister’s voice, brimming with bitter accusation. ‘If only he hadn’t injured the village chief’s son,’ she’d lament. ‘If only the chief hadn’t driven them away… If only… if only…’ The accumulated pressure, festering within Henry for so long, erupted violently in his mind. It was as if he witnessed a scene of wondrous splendor: God’s finger, withered and skeletal, slowly and majestically extended towards a singularity of immense mass, declaring, “Let there be light.” Boom—! An explosion of countless particles of matter burst forth from that infinitesimal point. Though no sound could be heard, an unparalleled, surging power resonated from its eruption. He understood! In that instant, a profound realization dawned upon him. Why did noble lords, who never toiled, enjoy the tribute of countless commoners? Why had his family been forced to flee before the village chief like stray dogs? It was because he lacked power. If he possessed a sword in his hand and stout armor on his body, the village chief would never dare to drive him away. He would be revered as the village guardian. Nor would any wolf snatch his sister; instead, it would gaze at him with fearful deference, whimpering in appeasement. Henry abruptly lifted his head, and the three onlookers could discern a focused, resolute glint in his eyes. He pounded his developed chest, as broad as a gorilla’s, making a hollow thud. He swore with unwavering conviction, “By God above, please allow me to remain with your company! I shall no longer fear the dead! I will fight bravely, I swear it!”

[Henry – Stress -50]

[Personality: Dutiful & Law-abiding → Cynical & Disillusioned]

“Oh, really? Then go clear the battlefield. Strip the weapons and clothes; they’re all spoils of war, you know.” Noren knelt on the felt blanket, flexing her waist to sit properly on her feet. Her boots were, of course, removed, and she wore white cashmere socks, not bare feet. “Ah, this!” Henry’s face stiffened. He had never stripped anything from a dead man before. Though reluctant at heart, the memory of his recent fervent vow prompted him to steel himself and begin stripping the gear. He yelled, scattering the flock of crows, then began to peel the spoils of war from the brigands’ bodies: fur coats, linen undergarments, waist belts, hooded cloaks, pure black hoods, two pairs of foul-smelling leather boots, and two pointed short daggers. He used the brigands’ chest hair to wipe the blood from his hands, then closed their eyes. He simply stacked the clothing, placed the boots and daggers on top, then approached Noren. “Miss, they’re all stripped clean.”

“Good, leave them here. Walk a bit further that way; there should be five more people, no, six. Strip the mercenary’s gear for me too, but make sure to dig a grave for him and bury him.” The girl gestured in a direction with a delicate, raised arm, then continued to eat her porridge serenely. Her long legs, three feet four inches in length, were tucked beneath her, resting on her small, millstone-sized bottom. Indeed, sitting like this, it was easy to overlook that she was a towering six feet tall. Henry gazed at the blonde girl’s soft profile, lost in thought, but quickly snapped back to reality. “S-six more?”

“Otherwise, how do you think Leif, that seasoned mercenary, died? They had a master archer. Just like that, ‘whoosh, whoosh,’ and Leif was gone.” As she spoke, the girl mimicked the trajectory of an arrow with her finger, lightly tapping her own throat. Henry’s Adam’s apple bobbed. The girl’s seemingly lighthearted and humorous tone did nothing to alleviate his tension; instead, a cold sweat broke out on his back. Yet, his recent awakening and solemn vow had, after all, granted him some courage. He walked out of the makeshift camp with stiff steps, feigning bravery as he strode purposefully through the woods. Suddenly, a whooshing sound cut through the air. Henry flinched, instinctively retracting his neck, fearing a sharp arrow might dart from the forest’s gloom. But there was no arrow, only a black crow flapping its wings past him, landing on a branch, and letting out a cackle. “Damn bird!” He picked up a stone and threw it at the crow. The avian boss easily dodged with a light hop, cocking its head and observing the bipedal creature with its beady eyes. Henry muttered a curse under his breath and continued deeper into the woods. Gradually, the scent of blood permeated the air, and several fallen figures came into his view. Henry first saw the mercenary, whose pants had been pulled down to his knees, lying face down. The arrow shaft was broken, its head protruding from the back of his neck; clearly, he had been ambushed while relieving himself. The mercenary’s death was the most ‘normal’; the brigands’ deaths were bizarre in the extreme. The archer’s forehead was deeply embedded with a stone, as if it had grown there naturally. Two shield-axemen had their shields split in two and their cervical vertebrae shattered. The bearded brigand, clad in leather armor and an iron helmet, suffered the most gruesome fate: his helmet had been flattened from both sides, one eyeball had popped out of its socket, his mouth was agape, his jaw dislocated, and his mandible likely fractured in two.

[Henry – Stress +50]

He vomited yet again, until there was nothing left, even the acid in his stomach was expelled. ‘She… doesn’t need any caravan guards at all.’ Henry now had a clear and visceral understanding of the Norse girl’s combat prowess. Even a knight atop a magnificent warhorse would likely be no match for her. He gingerly stepped over and around the pile of corpses, stripping them of their armor and clothing. Apart from the bearded brigand’s helmet, he found a bent, gleaming silver coin on the big-bearded brigand. The bent coin’s reverse side, originally a cross, was now split into two ‘T’ shapes. Biting the coin, he straightened it. He glanced around furtively, then removed the shoe that wasn’t torn, gripped the coin with his big toe, and put the shoe back on. “How do I get this iron helmet off?” Henry gripped the helmet and stepped on the bearded brigand’s shoulder, attempting to yank the iron helmet free. However, the helmet’s surface was smooth, made even more so by the blood adhering to it. His gaze involuntarily drifted to a nearby single-handed axe, chipped and rusted. Henry clutched the rough axe, his fingers nervously rubbing the handle. He stared at the bearded brigand’s neck, thick with dirty hair, and prayed to God in his heart: “Lord, forgive me!” Mustering his courage, he raised the axe high, a fierce glint flashing in his eyes.

“CRACK!”