Chapter 10: Friendship

Mia flew above the corpse. Killing the pirate was not enough; she had to consume the pirate’s soul as well.

Wade stopped her and called for her to hide.

Someone came out of the warehouse—two people. The commotion caused by the sheep stampede was loud, and before that guy died, he had shouted out. No matter how dull the people inside were, they should have sensed something was wrong.

If Mia stayed there extracting the soul, she would definitely be discovered. That flame was quite obvious.

Wade sensed Mia’s dissatisfaction. As a newly born phantom, her consciousness was still naive, and her emotions were simple and direct. She couldn’t understand many things and mostly acted on instinct. Still, she obeyed Wade’s command, flew to the top of the shed, and hid in the shadows.

Seconds after she hid, hurried footsteps approached.

—Tap tap tap.

Two pirates burst out from the warehouse door. They heard the cries from the sheepfold and raised their swords, looking around.

There was no one in sight. They came to the chaotic sheepfold and finally saw the corpse, trampled by the sheep, a horrifying sight.

For a moment, the two men’s minds stalled.

It wasn’t the gruesome state of the corpse that scared them. They were pirates, not noble sons who had never even killed a chicken. Corpses and death were common to them.

Their daze was not from fear but because they realized how Mite had died. His body was covered in sheep trampling marks, the collapsed wooden frame crushed him, and sheep dung mixed with blood was smeared everywhere.

They couldn’t believe it—that he was trampled to death by sheep. It seemed like the dumbest accident imaginable.

While the two observed, a sheep urinated right on Mite’s face.

The pale yellow stream of sheep urine dripped down, emitting steam and a foul smell. They had no choice but to pinch their noses.

They had seen people smashed into meat paste by trolls, but dying in a pile of sheep dung was a first.

Especially since this person was their teammate.

The two exchanged looks, scratching their noses and foreheads in confusion.

“Are you sure this guy really got trampled to death by sheep?”

“Let’s check again.”

They held their torches and circled the sheepfold. There were no other footprints in the snow.

Another pirate squad carrying barrels passed by, transporting loot. The baskets were filled with stolen rye, and they were about to carry the goods to the sled.

“Rudes, how’s the haul?”

A passing pirate greeted them.

“Average. This village is as poor as the one we raided last time on the Millie River.”

“Yeah, that dwarf sure knew how to brag. He tricked Sven into buying his intel for twenty silver coins. If that guy dares to come again, I bet Sven will roast him on a spit like a suckling pig.”

“Better brush it with honey water for a crispy skin!”

“Hahaha.”

The pirate squad laughed heartily, filling the air with joy.

In contrast, the two standing by the sheepfold looked a little embarrassed.

“Did you see any movement nearby?”

“It’s just a poor village with no guards. What movement could there be?”

The two asked indirectly, receiving confirmation that no suspicious people had been seen around.

This strengthened their guess that Mite was indeed trampled to death by sheep.

They casually gave a few words and declined offers from others to lend a hand.

They just wanted this group to leave quickly before anyone found out that Mite, their teammate, had stupidly died in a sheepfold.

A warrior dying not on the battlefield but in a sheepfold—that was just terrible. Even the lowest serfs wouldn’t make such a mistake!

If others found out, they would be ridiculed every day thereafter.

Imagine, at a feast, while others were devouring meat and drinking heartily, bragging about their heroic deeds, when it was their turn, all they could do was stammer that someone in their squad had been trampled to death by sheep, dying with both urine and feces in hand.

One could almost imagine the blush-inducing laughter that would follow.

“Look, Rudes, I bet the sheep that trampled Mite was as strong as a troll. No wonder you lost a brave warrior.”

“Don’t lose heart, Rudes. Let me cut down this troll-blooded sheep and avenge Mite!”

This disgrace would haunt them for life, even after death. Someone would keep nagging, saying, “I once saw someone die in a sheepfold. With just a cup of honey wine, I’ll tell you how he died. Oh, and he ran with Rudes.”

Mite was at peace now—he only had to die in a dung-filled sheepfold. But the others in the squad had much to worry about.

Wherever they went, someone might suddenly whisper in their ear: “I heard someone in your squad was trampled to death by sheep.”

By Tyr, that was humiliating!

Vikings could die on the battlefield but never in a sheepfold.

The two worked hard to cover up the truth and finally sent the other group on their way.

They turned back to the sheepfold.

“Shall we collect his body?”

“Throw it in a crate, so no one sees it.”

“Fine.”

In a few words, they decided their comrade’s final fate.

There was no real friendship among pirates.

Birds of a feather flock together.

They gathered for profit and were villains. Don’t expect them to bring their comrade’s corpse home like knights.

Only those with integrity and kindness, united by a common goal, were true comrades through thick and thin. They, at best, were just “coworkers.” When things went well, they charged forward wielding swords. When situations turned sour, they turned with the wind, always putting their own interests first.

Their friendship with Mite was limited to throwing his corpse into a crate to rot.

The two opened the sheepfold and pinched their noses, approaching Mite’s corpse.

They needed to act quickly; in the cellar below, several villagers awaited slaughter. They were waiting for the door to open so they could rush in to kill and loot. The private income that could fit in their pockets was often the main haul.

If they weren’t worried about losing face, to be honest, they wouldn’t bother dealing with the corpse.

According to tradition, Viking pirates only buried warriors who died in battle. Dying by the sword was the destiny of a war god’s believer. Previously, when someone died in battle, they cremated the bodies uniformly. If the death was heroic, they would offer respect by throwing in one or two prisoners to be sacrificed alongside.

But Mite was clearly not considered a “heroic death.” He died stupidly, so the two had no intention of respecting the corpse.

They violently removed the pitchfork and rake, frowned, and kicked dry grass over Mite’s body to barely cover it.

They saw silver coins mixed in blood and dung but didn’t pay much attention, assuming it was Mite’s own money.

Still, no matter how dirty the money, it was money.

A single silver coin could buy a quart of Nideland Manor wine at the Nightingale Tavern, and they could pick a beautiful woman skilled in countless arts to share the night.

Why risk your neck as a pirate if not for money?

They took the coins from the pile of corpses. A little sheep dung was nothing. After washing, it was still a good silver coin that jingled on the ground.

Having collected Mite’s body, they were entitled to share the deceased’s property.

“How should we explain to Ral? Just say Mite was trampled to death by sheep?”

“We’ll find a chance to tell Ral at the feast. Better not let Angru and Titus know—they go crazy when drunk.”

The two drove away the sheep and put away their swords. Through the hay, one grabbed the neck, the other grabbed the feet, and they lifted Mite’s corpse.

They didn’t notice a cloaked skeleton quietly creeping to the edge of the sheepfold, raising a longbow in its hand.