Intervention and Pursuit

“I killed the wild boar.”

“Not that sentence.”

“I discarded the broken spear that killed the wild boar.”

“Nor that one.”

“Father Svein is already on his way!”

“Hm?!”

The scar-faced man’s brow twitched, and his sharp blade flashed, tearing through the fabric on Tolke’s chest and leaving a shallow wound on his skin.

“Svein? That lord-knight of Ostrava, the Norse barbarian, the Hradec mayor’s brother-in-law?” The scar-faced man cursed under his breath. This was somewhat unexpected, yet entirely logical. For who, besides Svein, would dare poach on the Earl’s lands?

At this moment, he could no longer bother with Tolke and Lambert. The immediate priority was to quickly send that commoner back to Opava Castle. If those Norsemen caught wind of this and arrived, he and his men would surely not survive, lest their poaching be exposed.

He had initially intended to use this as leverage, demanding a hefty bribe.

Yet, once the man was returned to Opava territory, not a trace of the poaching would remain. What good would a bribe be then?

If he were to report directly to Earl Konrad…

The Earl was not in Opava at present, so how could he report it?

Even if he did report it, the scar-faced man was certain the lord would convict him of false accusation, for he was merely a commoner, while Svein was a noble.

Moreover, Opava Castle’s security was in disarray, and there was hardly any time to concern themselves with poaching or anything else.

‘If it were just an ordinary knight, I could extort a sum of silver, but Svein… tsk! He’s not someone to trifle with!’

‘What about Lambert? We’ve already fallen out. He’ll surely complain to the Earl about my negligence.’ The scar-faced man gazed at Lambert, contemplating how to deal with him.

“Just kill him.” With those words, the scar-faced man picked up a stone and, with three swift, dull thuds, hammered Lambert’s skull open, revealing the mottled red and white of his brains.

After confirming Lambert’s death, the scar-faced man dragged the wild boar next to him and used its tusks to pierce a bloody hole in Lambert’s calf.

Finally, the scar-faced man returned to Tolke’s side, seized Tolke’s arm, and began tracing his war sword back and forth across his forearm.

A chilling light gleamed in the scar-faced man’s eyes, sending shivers down Tolke’s spine. “I hadn’t truly intended to dispose of you, merely to take some money and be done with it. But… who knew it would be Svein? Those Northern folk (TL Note: A somewhat derogatory term for Norsemen or people from the North.) never show mercy. If he learns I know about his poaching, he’ll surely find a way to kill me. To ensure you don’t tell him I know, and so I don’t mysteriously end up dead in a ditch someday, I have no choice but to kill you.”

Hearing this, Tolke struggled with all his might, but pinned down and utterly exhausted, his efforts proved futile.

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill you outright. I’ll just lop off one of your arms. That way, when Svein finds you, he’ll try to save you, and won’t come chasing after us.”

Staring at the scar-faced man’s grotesque grin, Tolke realized he had made a grave mistake. Svein was renowned throughout the Earldom of Opava; many feared him. People’s first reaction to Svein would never be to bribe him into a deal, but rather…

To silence them permanently!

“Heheheh…” The scar-faced man raised his blade, his forearm muscles tensing, veins bulging on the back of his hand.

Tolke stared intently at the blade, clenching his jaw. Unless a miracle occurred, even if he survived, he would forever bear the prefix “One-Armed” before his name.

“No! Wait a…”

Before Tolke could finish, amidst the scar-faced man’s savage grin and Tolke’s terrified face, the war sword, reflecting the torchlight, descended with a heavy chop!

*Thwack!*

Metal bit into flesh.

“Ugh—huh-huh-huh,” the man uttered a strange sound, like a deflating sack.

Tolke opened his eyes, which had been clenched shut in terror, only to see the scar-faced man kneeling, propped on his sword with one hand. His face was contorted in a grimace, blood reddening his teeth and gushing from his mouth.

A short spear had pierced the scar-faced man’s body, its tip embedded in the ground. Blood soaked his chest and flowed down the spear shaft. The scar-faced man quickly fell silent, his eyes half-open, pupils dilated, and the hand that had gripped Tolke’s arm had released its hold at some point.

A surge of electricity coursed through his limbs to his cerebellum, and Tolke reflexively sprang to his feet, as if the adrenaline generated by the crisis had given him renewed energy.

The other two armed soldiers, shaking off their surprise, dropped the s*ave they had just hoisted and, brandishing their weapons, rushed towards Tolke.

Tolke had just recovered from his mind’s temporary shutdown, his brain flooded with a maelstrom of anger, fear, and the sheer relief of surviving. Faced with new danger, he lost all ability to judge.

‘Run? Fight?’

The Norse blood within him grew cold, the adrenaline in his veins vanishing without a trace, leaving his limbs heavy with powerlessness.

Hesitation, still hesitation!

In his moment of indecision, the armed men closed in. They raised their swords (and axes), their blades slicing through the air, poised to carve great new scars onto Tolke.

A sharp pain erupted on Tolke’s skin; his blood felt ready to burst forth.

He instinctively shifted his feet, a sword tip grazing his cheek, an axe blade severing a few strands of golden hair.

In a flash, Tolke envisioned the Valkyries, the shieldmaidens of Valhalla, wearing winged helmets, astride their steeds in the heavens, their calves emerging from white skirts, wielding swords and shields, their eyes filled with disdain.

Tolke dodged another incoming axe (or sword), but a side kick caught him, throwing him off balance as a metallic weapon loomed infinitely large before his eyes.

Seeing this, the Valkyries leaped from the heavens, their bodies glowing with white light, their garments floating weightlessly upwards.

‘An opening?’ Tolke’s thoughts flashed like lightning, and the world seemed to click to a halt.

Undead spilled from the gates of Helheim, accompanied by faint dragon roars. Tolke felt death was terrifyingly close.

Suddenly, amidst the stopped time, another pocket watch clicked, and a flurry of incredibly swift footsteps approached—

“Bang!”

A soldier was struck by a powerful flying kick, sending him crashing into another man, both flung away. The fallen leaves on the ground were violently ploughed aside, and the torch was knocked over and extinguished.

Instantly, the entire forest plunged into darkness.

The Valkyries rolled their eyes and departed with a flourish; the gates of Helheim slammed shut once more, the severed limbs of the undead dissipating like smoke into the air; Nidhogg spat a mouthful of dragon phlegm, muttering ‘How annoying,’ and resumed gnawing at the roots of the world tree.

Meanwhile, our Tolke’s soul returned to his body, his life snatched back from the brink.

“Are you alright, Tolke?” Noren rubbed her leg, her gaze fixed forward as she strained to adjust to the sudden darkness.

Tolke opened his mouth, finding himself speechless. He then pushed off the scar-faced man’s corpse, attempting to pull out the short spear. When that proved fruitless, he wrenched the short sword from the dead man’s hand and offered it to Noren.

Noren swung the blade twice, testing its reach, then asked Tolke, “Can you see them?”

Tolke nodded.

“Chase them!” Noren’s voice was cold. “We must finish them; we cannot let them escape!”

Noren paused, then admonished, “Norsemen never let an enemy go, Tolke. Show no mercy.”

With that, Noren discerned the direction and ran towards the soldiers who had already scrambled to their feet. The night seemed to have poured thick, dark mist into the woods, and Noren could only vaguely make out two figures fleeing in separate directions.

“You chase the other one!” Noren yelled without looking back, not believing the two guards would understand Norse.

Seeing Noren plunge headlong into the darkness, Tolke’s snapped nerves reconnected. He spotted the guards’ dropped spears, picked one up, and set off after the other man.

Tolke possessed heightened senses, seeing more clearly than ordinary people in the dark, but after a few steps, his quarry vanished. The man he was chasing had taken a brutal kick; even with soft armor to dampen the force, he shouldn’t have been able to run so fast.

He tried to listen carefully for movement in the forest, but the ringing in his ears hadn’t subsided, and he couldn’t find any trace of the man. Just as his confusion mounted, a figure lunged out from behind a tree!

A whoosh cut through the air—

Tolke precariously parried the axe handle with his spear shaft, but with a forceful hook, it was wrenched from his grasp!

Tolke used the momentum of his weapon’s loss to retreat and create distance, adopting a combat stance, awaiting his opponent’s attack.

The enemy stood sideways, axe in his right hand, facing Tolke, taking small steps to close the distance. But as the enemy retreated, Tolke advanced; as the enemy advanced, Tolke retreated. Tolke did not initiate an attack, merely controlling the distance to prevent him from getting too close. In this meticulous back-and-forth, Tolke bought time, praying Noren would quickly deal with the other man.

But would the enemy grant him the opportunity to stall?

After several rounds of advancing and retreating, the enemy fell back to where the spear had been dropped. The short axe slipped from his hand, and before Tolke could react, he had already adopted a spear-wielding stance. However, as he bent down, he aggravated his injury, and from his pained gasps, Tolke seemed to scent an opportunity.

The spear lunged forward; Tolke dodged backward. This spear was about one and a half times the height of an ordinary warrior, and as long as it wasn’t swung horizontally, it could still be wielded effectively in the forest.

The enemy followed with another lunge; Tolke dodged again, then evaded two more attacks. Tolke distinctly felt the enemy’s movements growing sluggish. Yet, the man was pushing himself, his Norseman’s physique (TL Note: “Northern folk,” often used in a slightly derogatory sense for people from the North, here referring to the physical resilience of a Norseman.) the source of his enduring strength.

Sweat trickled from the enemy’s forehead, ran down his nose, and seeped into the corners of his eyes, causing him to instinctively blink.

An opening!!

All of Tolke’s remaining strength erupted. He surged forward, darting past the spear tip, instantly breaching the spear’s effective range. The enemy tried to create distance, but Tolke tackled him to the ground.

They grappled and rolled, scattering fallen leaves, amidst gasps and roars.

Tolke, pinned beneath, used one hand to block the enemy’s wrist, preventing the dagger from plunging into his flesh.

This was a contest where the loser went to Valhalla, and the winner barely clung to life. A win-win, indeed. How could even the Middle Ages be so full of “wins”?