Chapter 5: Pirates
The village burned fiercely, flames roaring skyward.
With a thunderous crash, a charred oak beam collapsed into the inferno amid crackling sparks.
The firelight illuminated Egil’s profile as he stomped on a rolling barrel, tilting his head to spit out a bloody wad.
Prying open the cork with his dagger, golden liquor gushed forth like a spring, the sweet-tart aroma of red currants filling his nostrils.
Egil laughed heartily, grabbing the silver-rimmed drinking horn hanging around his neck to catch a draft of the tundra berry liqueur before throwing his head back to drink.
The brew was excellent – just the right hint of bitterness to suit his palate.
After draining the horn in several gulps, he was about to pour another when a gruff shout came from behind.
A towering man wearing a conical iron helmet and gripping a bloodied longsword bellowed: “Quit dawdling! Loot this village clean before dawn!”
That was Egil’s boss – Sven, leader of their Viking pirate crew.
Sven stood taller than any man present – not just by a head, but by half a body’s length.
Egil suspected Sven might have giant blood, his massive frame radiating intimidation.
At Sven’s command, Egil abandoned thoughts of more drink – slacking under Sven’s watchful gaze was unthinkable.
Time for business.
Glancing back at his leader, Egil righted the barrel, sheathed his dagger, and hefted the battleaxe from his back, approaching a cottage to smash through its wooden door.
Just then, a furious roar preceded sudden needle-like stings of paralysis across his body.
“Get out, pirates!”
Egil caught sight of a red-haired man charging from between buildings, spear aimed straight for Sven’s heart.
For one panicked moment, Egil froze – the redhead had emerged without warning, clearly lying in ambush.
This was no ordinary man – his battlecry carried terrifying power.
Egil recognized it instantly: Imbalance Shout, one of the warrior’s most common combat skills.
The redhead was a professional fighter, his unstoppable roar accompanying the lethal thrust toward Sven.
Egil had passed that very building yet sensed nothing.
The redhead couldn’t have slipped past their cordon – he must have concealed himself before the pirates arrived.
Egil admired the man’s courage and decisiveness – what an incredibly risky move.
Being discovered would mean certain death.
He’d likely watched patiently as fellow villagers were slaughtered, biding his time to strike at their leader.
Killing the pirate captain might scatter the frightened crew.
But alas, he’d chosen the wrong target.
Egil felt ashamed of his momentary doubt – how could he have thought Sven might fall to some backwater warrior’s ambush?
The shout didn’t slow Sven in the slightest as his longsword met the spear with a metallic clang, effortlessly deflecting the deadly thrust.
Egil’s spirits soared – this was Sven the Poem-Burner indeed!
What glorious prospects awaited under such leadership!
After all, Sven was a Silver-ranked barbarian warrior wanted by the Twilight Church.
A Silver-rank could hold his own even in major cities, living comfortably through legitimate work – far beyond any rural professional’s league.
The redhead simply couldn’t bridge the gap – against equal opponents, Imbalance Shout would’ve had some effect.
Even residual shockwaves immobilized ordinary men like Egil for two seconds.
Had the redhead matched Sven’s rank, this ambush might have succeeded – if not killing Sven, at least inflicting serious injury.
But between them lay an insurmountable chasm.
The redhead was Iron-rank at best – where skill crumbles before sheer level disparity.
Finding even an Iron-rank warrior in this backwater surprised Egil, reaffirming his choice of leader.
Anticipation grew – following Sven meant more fine liquor and women to plunder.
Wealth held little appeal; liquor and women were his true vices.
This marked their final raid of the year – Egil had profited handsomely already.
Where might they strike next year? Perhaps he’d bed a noblewoman then.
He couldn’t forget Farena either – returning to Bloodanchor Bay, he’d sample that new catgirl orc’s famed skills.
Trained since childhood in the cities, they said her hands alone could send men to heaven.
Compared to weeping, uncooperative village girls, urban pleasures held far greater appeal.
Just imagining Farena’s seductive arts made Egil’s loins stir despite the circumstances.
Firelight flushed his face – the villagers’ unexpectedly strong brew must have gone to his head.
He suddenly needed to piss.
Wait – why were his trousers wet? Had he…?
This was Egil’s final coherent thought.
By the time he realized, a longsword had already pierced clean through his gut – the warmth soaking his pants wasn’t urine, but blood.
Excruciating pain brought clarity as he gasped for air, mouth opening to scream – only for a curved blade to slit his throat, leaving him wheezing silently.
Collapsing onto charred planks, his blood sizzled against glowing embers.
Convulsing, Egil strained to see his killer, having sensed no approach.
Pale bones greeted him – a hooded skeleton dusted with snow meeting his gaze through empty sockets.
Egil shuddered, his crotch dampening with acrid yellow liquid.
Suddenly he recalled an old crone’s prophecy during a raid – how Death’s envoy would ferry his sinful soul across the Styx.
He’d laughed then, cleaving her head with his axe.
“Where’s Death’s envoy now? Come take me across!” he’d mocked.
“Foolish woman – warriors like me feast in Valhalla!”
How he regretted it now – given another chance, he’d spare the seer, convert to the Death Goddess, make offerings before every raid…
But chances had run out beneath the liquor barrel.
His dying eyes beheld only the silent white bones glowing in firelight.
Wade shook blood from the pirate’s stolen sword, warm droplets falling from its tip.
“Seventh,” he counted silently.
The little ghost emerged from his hood, floating flames consuming another soul.
As she returned, Wade glanced toward the red-haired warrior still battling the pirate captain before melting back into the shadows.