Chapter 14: The Professional
“Burn it!” Sven commanded.
All the pirates retrieved oil pouches from their waists and splashed fuel onto the surrounding houses that hadn’t yet caught fire. Torches were thrown onto the translucent fuel, thickening the smell of charcoal in the air. With a whoosh, the fuel ignited, bright flames tracing the fuel lines into connected ribbons.
The glowing embers pulsed like breathing, then in the next instant exhaled scorching heat. The surroundings were completely illuminated, bright as daylight.
Sven exhaled a white breath and planted his sword into the ground. He removed his helmet and stripped off the chainmail covering his upper body. The heavy metal creation sank into the soft earth soaked with melted snow.
His sculpted muscles, sharply defined, twitched in the firelight. Sven bore only old scars – the savage claw marks on his back from battling an ice bear at thirteen, the sword wounds on his abdomen and shoulders from Twilight Church’s disciplinary knights. After fighting the red-haired man, he hadn’t gained a single new injury; that skirmish had merely been warm-up exercise.
But now he intended no more warm-ups. Standing solemn as a colossus among the crowd, he towered over everyone present. Both Vikings and Tanians averaged among the tallest in North Tia, yet Sven stood out even among them.
This prominence had been evident since childhood. Before adulthood, he’d matched surrounding men in height. Upon maturing, he found he could look down on nearly every person he met simply by standing. None matched his strength or stature. He could effortlessly knock people down, easily twist off heads with little exertion.
After becoming a professional, even snow wolves and ice bears of the tundra couldn’t last multiple rounds against him. Once he’d discarded sword and armor, fighting an ice bear barehanded and naked. At thirteen, he’d nearly died under its claws. Considering this shame, he’d returned to cleanse that stain – relying on nothing external, not even combat skills, just pure flesh against a thousand-pound male ice bear.
It was meat colliding with meat, primal slaughter. Ultimately he won – the bear that could smash longships had its teeth shattered, chest torn open. Sven still had strength to drag the carcass back to camp. The pelt now served as his tent’s foot-worn rug.
Such was his life’s trajectory. To Sven, everything seemed effortless, leaving him rarely awed. Nothing commanded his reverence – the father who shouted and raised a whip against him received a fist that caved his chest; guards attempting arrest were each cleaved in half. Church priests and nuns alike yielded to his sword and strength. He grew up in such unchecked freedom.
Toward most worldly things, even so-called “gods,” he held no awe, having never witnessed divine miracles. Yet among all existence, one thing remained special to Sven:
Fire.
On snow-blanketed tundras, humans never escape dependence on flame. Sven could twist off heads, yet when ice covered earth, he must sit by bonfires. That singular existence – since first beholding fire in childhood, he’d felt inexpressible emotion. That tiny flame dispelled darkness, flickered in his eyes, then ignited wood, brought warmth, cooked meat.
Fire was that special. Now, armor shed, Sven inhaled its essence, every exposed patch of skin feeling its scorch. Snow-laden wind hammered his chest as he extended burly arms, as if to embrace the inferno. Standing amid flames, darkness hid nothing.
Sven’s arm shot out, catching something speeding toward him through wind. His eyes – brown irises ignited by fire – opened. In his palm rested a wooden arrow.
With contemptuous smile, he crushed it. The fir wood became powder in his grip, sawdust sifting between fingers. “Tanians,” he said coldly, “you don’t comprehend the gap between silver and iron ranks. I’ll enlighten you. Don’t expect clean beheadings. Let me teach you something else, Tanians – knowledge from those iron cans of the Church.”
“Fingernails,” he continued, “keep growing. I’ll have spikes driven beneath yours, prying them up like floor tiles. Rest assured, when they stop regrowing, I’ll reunite you underground with that other fellow.”
Sven wrenched his sword from snow. Plunging it into fire, runes along the blade ignited. His long exhalation preceded the ungreased sword catching flame. Fire adhered to steel, condensing into molten gold. Snowflakes landing on the glowing blade sizzled into steam instantly.
This wasn’t simple “flame enchantment” weapon-dipping. Fire’s power coalesced in Sven’s grasp, the inferno behind him solidifying onto the sword. Surroundings darkened as radiance concentrated on his blade.
Heat seared Sven’s palm through heat-resistant asbestos rings. The scalding, burning pain exhilarated him. Fire – he held it in hand!
He stepped forward, creating a snow wave as he launched like a cannonball. That giant frame smashed directly into a house. The deafening crash toppled the already precarious burning structure.
This was a professional – the same who three years prior burned Lindisfarne Abbey’s library, slaughtered an entire squad of Church disciplinary knights, escaped unscathed, remaining a top-priority Twilight Church fugitive:
The Poem-Burner, Sven Freud.
Every pirate swallowed hard. Yet simultaneously they cheered, arms raised high. With Sven present, they were invincible. Anxiety vanished from their faces, replaced by relieved smiles – gratitude for having such strength on their side, for continuing to pillage, slaughter, and make women grovel like sows.
“Sven! Sven! Sven!”
All chanted his name like some wish-granting incantation. None noticed how amidst dust and embers, Sven’s form suddenly stiffened. Staring at the corpse his sword had pierced and set aflame, he froze. That face – bleeding from seven orifices – reflected in his pupils like a vengeful ghost clawing from hell.