# "A BLESSING FROM THE DAMNED" (3,700 words, Fantasy, Sexual Content, Violence)



## MizzouRam (Feb 7, 2015)

*Hello all.
The following Chapter is excerpt from a Novelette I am currently trying to sell to the short form market. Its an attempt to cross the Dark Fantasy genre with the the blood and guts story telling of a Quentin Taurentino film. Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated. Here is a brief summation of the story: *

_*Markum Davies has blood on his hands. So when four thugs walk into inn on the far side of the world, he assumes the worst. Now he doesn't plan on letting them leave. Despite his worst intents, all the man holds dear rests at the feet of of a fifth stranger, one who has his own demons chasing him.*_ 

*
A Blessing from the Damned
Chapter I
Markum of the Flatlands

*​
“No vacancy” he said loud enough for the orc to hear him.  

Markum never had a problem with the green-folk. But that doesn’t mean he wanted them under his roof. Not in the least.

“My love, but-“

“No” he said sternly. “Look at him. That bastard brings ill with him if I ever saw it.” 

     Dreama looked at him serenely. “Markum, he is just a boy. He’s alone and cold. We need all we can get this time of year.  I’ll tell him we are out of ale and take him up to his room right now if you want.”

     Markum looked at his visitor suspiciously. He was a thick lad, but not fat; sturdy as is the orcish build, with broad shoulders you could lay a tree trunk across and arms like thick braided ropes. One short tusk peaked out broken from the right side of his mouth. The boy’s face was dark and brooding, as if he walked into the inn at the conclusion of the worst day of his life. But he looked as if he barely had the energy to make it to his room much less cause him any trouble.    
“Very well. But put him in the Brown Chamber and tell him he must leave any weapons at the door. I won’t have this bastard sneaking out with any of my rugs under his arm.”​Dreama walked over to the orc and said something to him quietly. He gave Markum a sullen, annoyed look and produced two black steel knives out of his coat, handing them over to her hilt first.    
       She led the orc down the hall into his room, Markum never taking his eyes of the lad’s broad back. “And make sure Colletta knows we have a visitor.” _I won’t have my only daughter be caught unawares by this bastard._

Dreama looked back at him lovingly. _One day I am going to have to learn how to say no to that woman._ When or how that was going to happen, he did not know.​​The fire was murmuring shyly in the hearth, orange flames crackling from under ashy husks of wood. A plume of smoke and cinder mushroomed into the air when he threw another log on it, collapsing the timber into a mound of gray dust.

Just above the hearth, the previous owner carved a verse into the panel._“When under thine roof,_
_o weary traveler_
_to lay thy wind worn head,_
_count one more night_
_without a fright_
_and far from cherished dead.”_​ Markum always done his best to live up to those standards, but he often wondered what it meant when the traveler and the “fright” where the same thing.​ 
        Unfortunately, worry was not something that he had much time for now, as much work needed to be done if they were to survive the coming winter. Patronage had gone down and the price of bread had gone up. Outlaws roamed the flatlands like blood thirsty wolves and strange rumors flew out of the west like winds over an uneasy sea.
​
     Rumors of one outlaw band in particular, Irsa’s Whelps, were especially disturbing. Rumor had declared that their leader, a ruthless former legion general gone rogue, is responsible for atrocities beyond description.

     His elbow popped as he reached into the bucket to collect the rag out of the water. When he scrubbed the wooden bar, a sharp tingle simmered there; a feeling he knew would grow into pain before the day’s chores were done, just as it always did.

     Without complaint, the inman swept the floors, emptied the chamber pots, stillaged the ale casks, and swept the porch. By the time his chores were complete, his elbow was burning and his lower back felt swollen and sour. He set the broom aside and propped himself up against the bar, the stiffness in his bodying fading slightly. 

     The large oak door at the front of the main hall creaked open. Through the threshold walked Markum’s only child, Colletta, her own bucket in hand.

“Done with the stables?”  

“Paw! Riders! Four of them?” she said, the smell of horse shit seeping off her clothes. There was a twinge of anxiety in her voice that was not normally there.

“A party at this time of year? Perhaps Golinder has heard our prayers after all. Are they armed?” 

“Aye, and armored.” 

“Are they marble men?”

“I think so paw-“

“Calm yourself, girl. A man would have to be daft to visit these parts without a blade. They are probably just some detail on their way back to Pyke Point. I wish we were always so lucky have a party to entertain this time- ”  

“But paw. These men, they….they don’t look savory.”

“Why are you so scared…”

He heard a commotion outside as Dreama walked back into the hall, drunken words and laughs, coming from just beyond the door.

 “At ease, girl. I am sure these men are just wayfarers.” 

     But as soon the as they filed in through the threshold he realized he was wrong. The first one had a beaten beard on his face, deep lines slicing through it on each cheek betraying the scars underneath, his face stuck in a scowl. Armor was that of a Valorian legionnaire but dented and rusted, in dire need of repair.

     The second one gave Markum a sarcastic smirk on a well shorn jaw. This one was the younger sort, but still no stranger to a fight by the look of him. He was barrel chested, with broad shoulders, and strong arms. His armor was the shiniest of the three, lobstered steel with a menacing horsehead engraved on the breastplate. The innkeeper didn’t like the smirk on his face, a look that said he knew something that Markum didn’t.
_
Time to play the part._

“Welcome to the Bull’s Head Arms, gentlemen.”

The next one had to duck under the threshold to get into the main hall. He was a massive, hairy, brute of a man. Steel tipped boots thudded on the wooden floor with his every step. His face was a carpet of black stubble, lined with thin scarring that spread as he grinned a cheap, broad smile, showing a mouth full of black teeth. 

“Well met, friend.” A massive glove extended toward Markum. When they shook, the big man’s hand engulfed the innkeeper’s fist within its grip.

“How can I help you fine gentlemen.” 

“You gots any ale?” something squeaked out from behind the tall man. 

“And maybe some thick bacon, hehe?” A scrawny figure walked out from under the big man’s shadow. His blonde hair was short and matted and beads of sweat formed just over his brow. His eyes seemed to bulge out from his face, looking everywhere around the room except at Markum.   

“Fuck the bacon. Our time won’t be long here” boomed the tall one. ”We’ll take four mugs of your best ale, though.” 

     Markum nodded to Colletta, and she dispersed to the casks to prepare the drinks. Without invitation, the four men found a table in the center of the hall to sit. 

     All of these men were armed, Markum noticed, the big one especially with a mean looking black iron morning star hanging off his belt. The man with the extravagant armor laid a menacing axe on the table in from of him as sat. The workmanship on it was poorly done and the wood on its hilt looked weak, but the head was as shiny as the morning sun with a finely sharpened edge.            

“What brings you to this part of Phira? Trying to make the last trek to Cressex before winter?”

The miserable looking one bristled. “Look like pilgrims, do we old man?”
_
Not the way we wanted to start this off._

     The large one shot him a stern look from across the table. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to forgive my brother, Thrall. He’s a bit of a cunt.” Little brother sunk resentfully into his seat.   “We are headed to Stirinborogh for trade.”     

“Merchants?”

“Aye…mercers.”

“Is there a market for cloth in Stirinborough? Last I was there, there seemed to be more starving dogs in the streets than people.”  

“I am afraid you are right. Much has happened to these small towns in the Flatlands as of late. Not much gold flows through here, and that which does gets taken at sword point or worse. But 
I am sure I need not have to tell you of that now do I, master innkeeper?”

“It’s not so bad. There is a garrison not two days to the east at Harva’s Crossing. General Kren sends a patrol around every other week. ” _A patrol I have not seen in months._ “Should be coming’ round any day now.”

Just then a sick smile cracked slowly across the miserable one’s face.

“Hehe” squeaked the runt. ”A little bird told me you won’t be hearing from Lord Kren any time soon.”

Something cold and afraid raced down Markum’s back.

“What’s the matter, innkeeper? We don’t look the money grubbing type to you?”       

“No offense meant, just I have never seen merchants so well armed, or armored.”

“Aye, merchants we is. Real worldly. Hehe” The runt chimed in. “We’ve traveled the world from Heathen’s Landing to the Golden Mountain. From Irsaline to the Great Northern Blacklands. Hehe. Usually we travel on silken pillows in horse drawn carriages, but we seemed to have misplaced them at this time. Hehe.”

The big one didn’t even bother to stifle the lie. He kicked the fifth chair at the table out and beckoned Markum to sit, which he hesitantly obliged.   
Dreama, set four frothy mugs in front of the guests. Markum stopped her before she walked off, placing a hand on her slender wrist.

 “My love, please ready the Red room, in case our guests need a bed for the night.”
Dreama’s eyes widened. 

“I assure you that will not be necessary. Our business here will be over soon.”

Markum squeezed her hand firmly. “Colletta can tend to us. I will call for you if I need you.”

“I…I will not be far, my love.”

When Dreama left the room, Markum noticed the clean shaven one was staring at his daughter like a starving man would stare at a steak and making no effort to hide it. 

“Your father will have a drink too, sweet thing.”

“No, that won’t be necessary, I-”

“I am sorry, but I must insist, friend. Believe it or not, my comrades here are not the most astute lot. It has been so long since I have spoken with someone who looks like they can hold half a conversation. Besides, something tells me you are going to need one.”

“Hehe” squeaked the runt.

 “Been here long, have you? These roots look like they run rather deep.”

“Not as deep as one might think.” He said as Colletta as he put the mug down in front of him. Markum crossed his arms. “But I have been here more than a few winters, aye.”

“Business is brisk, I can see. How many rooms do you have available should we decide to take up your hospitality?”

Markum sat and stared at the big man for a long second before responding, all the while the words of his favorite poem danced in his head.
_
Count one more night, without a fright…_

 “We have all rooms available at your request. Just let me know and I can have them prepared.”

“Your lack of business might not be a bad thing, given the unsavory reputation of the Heathen’s Road at this time of year. I have heard dozens of evils falling upon anyone with a half full coin purse and no swords to protect it. By Valen, I’ve seen atrocities fall on even the most heavily blooded men in these parts.”

“Aye, we have had our troubles in the past, but nothing that we couldn’t handle ourselves, thank Breena.” 

“Forgive me, my friend, but you and your family do not look the fighting type.”

“Some would say you are mistaken. Some would say they’ve made that same mistake in the past, and paid for it.”

“Is that so? So you were a fighting man in your youth.”

The big one looked at Markum’s right hand, and more specifically the faded blue “VI” tattooed on the back of it. 

“The Sixth Legion? The ‘Bane of Barbaria! So you are most familiar with the business of war” the big man grinned broadly. “See, I knew when I first saw you that there were shades of fire and blood in those old eyes. What ya know boys? We have ourselves a true member of Valorum’s blooded nobility in our midst!”    

“I am many things, sir, but a blooded nobleman is not one of them. My path after the war was very different. We achieved many things in the Sixth, but I would never use the word legendary to describe any of them. I suppose that is why we should thank the Gods no war is on these lands.”

“That is where you are wrong, old man!” The brusque one chimed in. “War is on this land and every land. You don’t think so because you don’t see the bodies that come with it, but those will 
be here soon, don’t you worry.”

Markum shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m afraid my curt brother here is right. Recent events are accelerating us toward our main objective, so forgive my dispensing of our pleasantries. As you know, innkeeper, a warring man has his appetites, and every good commander knows when to let a soldier eat. You were a fighting man, with a fighting man’s honor, so I will give the chance to make this go easy for you. All you have to do is tell me where you keep your winter stores and gold?”

The words were like a war hammer cracking against an oak shield, one that you could see coming but couldn’t stop from landing. Markum remained quiet, his teeth grinding in the back of his 
mouth. The silence went on for what seemed like hours. 

Finally, the big one leaned in tight. “Let me put it another way for you, old boy. Do you see my beardless friend over there? He is going to fuck your little girl’s twat until it’s good and bloody. Then, depending on how willing that old bitch is, I am going to fuck her too, right before I bleed them both out on these floors.”

“Yea, hehe, that is where I come in.” the runt cackled from across the table.

“Now, most of that can be avoided, but only if you do what your family needs you to do.” He said tilting his head back to drown the last dregs out of his mug. 

Markum clenched the edge of the table, fingernails biting into the wood.

”I suggest you start telling me what I need to know.” 

     Markum surveyed the room, the runt twitching his leg nervously under his chair, the brusque one staring daggers through him, as if attempting to strangle him  with his eyes, beardless with his perverse gaze set on his daughter. He looked up at the poem above the hearth.

“_and far from thy cherished dead_”

     Straining to keep his emotions under control, he turned his head to see his daughter. Slowly, he nodded to her. He could tell how scared she was, even as she slowly moved behind the bar.
_
That a girl. She remembered.     _

     The big man reached for the mug in front of the inman, but it was snatched up before he got to it. The ale greeted Markum’s tongue like an old friend, sweet and sour, that feeling washing over him the way it used to, numbing his fear, sharpening his nerve.

“You and your brother there, you look like fighting men, too. That plate was forged in an Imperial smithy, I can tell, I wore the same for many a year. What legion?”

“I fought in the 21[SUP]th,[/SUP] he in the 24th.”

The boorish one was visibly annoyed. “What the fuck does it matter to-”

“Barbarian legions. I can tell because neither of you have your numbers. So you are not naturel born Valoran? What part of the Rock Lands?”

The big one paused a second. “Kargile.”

“Kargile…now that was a siege. One wave of flesh after another crashing up upon my shield. They were a fierce lot, war like. Even the women ran against the phalanx when things got truly 
dire for them. Little boys ran behind their fathers, only to pick up their cudgel when they got cut down in front of them. They were fierce.”

The brusque one smiled and pounded the table. “Aye!”

“To Kargile.” Markum said raising his mug.

“To Kargile.” Each of the brigands answered before drinking.

“But they all fell before our phalanx just like the rest. That is when you get to see the real beast in a man come out, an animal that is unleashed only when he can take with impunity, and we took everything that could be taken, the gold, the jewels, the women. There are at least a dozen bastards running around Barberia who look an awful lot like yours truly, I reckon. When we were done, all that was left was renamed. Villages that had been there a thousand years, passed down through a hundred generations burned before me. Family lines that had been preserved through centuries of care and toil and struggle fell beneath my blade in on a whim. We took everything, not just land, lives and riches, we took cultures. We wiped the very memory of entire races from the histories of the world and named it all Valorum. But then a strange thing happened, something I never thought gods would allow to happen, not for all the prayers in the blue heavens, and I have been here ever since.”

“What was that?” the big one asked as Markum took another long drink. 

“I lived.” He looked back at his daughter. “Do you have children barbarian?”

“Five”

“You love them?”

“Aye.”

“What do you tell them when you lay them to bed at night? What do you tell them they ask you about the monsters lurking in the shadows of the earth? How do you tell them there _are_ 
monsters? How do you explain to them that the reason you know is because you, yourself, are a monster?”

     Markum let the question hang in the air for a few seconds. When none of them so much as blink, their eyes frozen in the thick air, he knew he had their attention.
“You know what I tell her? I tell her not to fear, because no one knows how to deal with a monster more than that of his own kind. That is what we are, barbarian, two monsters, and here you come, lurking out of the shadows. And I know precisely how to deal with you.”

“Bastard!” his little brother snarled, pounding an armored fist on the table. He shot up out of his chair. “Fuck it all! Lutt, if you won’t cut this old-”

Something sang out of the corner of Markum’s eye and smacked the angry outlaw in the breastplate, sending him right back into the chair.

The entire crowd sat there for a long second and looked in silent shock as blood sprang forth from the bolt sticking out of the dirty steel, the bright red running like a scarlet teardrop. 
_
Good shot girl._

In that second, the silence was deafening, and Markum knew now was the time. Before they could react. Before they could think.

That was where the world ended and hell began. 

“DREAMA!”

The door behind them exploded open. The foul mouthed outlaw screamed a short, wet cry. Just under his chin, a short black blade poked out of his throat and began to saw a red path across 

his neck. Bloody bubbles seeped out of his mouth each with each thrust. Dreama stood behind him screaming.     
_
No! Not him. The big one!_

“Fucking bitch!” screamed Lutt, standing up out of his chair. He slammed a backhanded fist across Dreama’s mouth, sending her crashing to the ground.

Markum lunged for the mace hooked on the big soldier’s belt, grasping the handle, but when it got there, a massive hand caught him at the wrist.

The inman struggled to get free. Someone was crying in the distance. When realized it was Coletta, his heart sank.

“Run girl. RUN!”

 Something slammed into the table in front of him and suddenly he was free of the big man’s grip. He flew backwards, his own momentum sending him crashing into the table. Warm, wet 

streamers flew about him in red ribbons. Things were breaking know, loud crashes on the floor, screams and laughs harmonizing together in a hazy symphony of horror. A song the likes of 

which Markum was strangely reminiscent of. 

“I’ll take that.”

Screams of “No!” and “Stop” and “Please”, ended with the unmistakable sound of flesh meeting flesh with violent impact.
_
Colletta. That’s the voice of my baby girl. _

“Won’t be stopping anytime soon, I reckon. Hehe.”

Markum stared down at the mace he took off the big brigand’s belt.
_
“That’s not right” _he said to himself, wondering hazily where it had disappeared to, along with his fingers, his hand, and bulk of his forearm. He stared into the stump on the end of his elbow, 
spitting bloody squirts out of its mouth every other moment.

“Coletta, run!” he managed with a low, broken voice.

“It’s a little late to run old boy”. The big barbarian stood over him, his shadow covering Markum like a black blanket.

“I think _I am_ going to start with your wife.”

“COLLETTA, RUN!” Markum screamed except this time the words didn’t come out the way he wanted. Something knocked hard on the door of his brain, cracking white lightning bolts behind 
his eyes and ringing all the bells in Valorum between his ears. 
_
And far from thy cherished dead._

“COLLETTA R…” This time the door shattered inward and all the bells in Valorum fell silent, but the lightning stayed.


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## Lone Wanderer (Feb 8, 2015)

Okay, read the whole thing and its pretty goddamn good. Some of the elements of your world seemed a little cliche at first, I cringed a little when I read about the innkeep being racist to an Orc but the world at large peaked my curiosity, especially when it got to  the war stories. The dialogue was very well done and each character was described vividly and believably. 

That about sums up my feelings bout' that ahahah!

edit: apparently videos are a no no


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## Plasticweld (Feb 8, 2015)

I think you did a great job with the story and the dialog, it flowed well and keep my attention the whole way through.  The descriptions of the characters was excellent, I had no trouble visualizing each one.  I struggled a little with the inner voice of the main character, I know you used italics to show the thoughts but it caught me off guard and it was one of the few places I went back to see if I missed something interrupting the flow of the story...Bob


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## tlchap (Feb 8, 2015)

This was a really great read. I found myself looking at the last couple lines and thinking " I know I wont get the good parts. There's not enough lines left. Not fair. " Very easy flow. The extended dialogue became confusing with out narrative breaking. All in all it was a great first chapter.


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## Lone Wanderer (Feb 9, 2015)

I really do want to see more of this, you mentioned Tarantino which makes me think a good revenge story is in order.

Good luck writing and may the Force be with you (might start using this to sign-off on critiques, depends on how obnoxious most others find it).


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## MizzouRam (Mar 15, 2015)

Lone Wanderer said:


> I really do want to see more of this, you mentioned Tarantino which makes me think a good revenge story is in order.
> 
> Good luck writing and may the Force be with you (might start using this to sign-off on critiques, depends on how obnoxious most others find it).



Ask and you shall receive, but it's going to cost you....BECAUSE I SOLD IT!!:nevreness: The entire story is in the February edition of New Realm Magazine, available now on Amazon and kindle!


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## kaminoshiyo (Mar 17, 2015)

Pretty dark, but I liked it alot. 

I found it ironic how racist and overtly nasty he was being to the Orc, but how amiable and respectful he was being to people who presented a more definite danger. I thought it was going to be the little Orc that somehow came to rescue the man in the end, but I suppose the world isn't so nice. 

I also liked that pretty interesting buildup where the Innkeeper said he was a monster. I thought he was going to be awakened and kill them all, and yet the seemingly empty boast was more enriching then the cheap kill them all cliche. The whole thing, I suppse, can be called a cliche, but I enjoyed it all the same, so I guess you got real talent immersing the person into the story. 

Oh, and I was also impressed how much of the story and back story was expressed through dialogue. It flowed well and nothing stuck out as exposition. I think the backstory was the most interesting part. 

Well done. I wouldn't mind reading a continuation.


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## Silence (May 13, 2015)

I enjoyed the story. Felt ripe off by the sudden ending. Got kind of confuse as to who went to get the drinks and who brought them. And when they were talking at the table, I lost tracked of who was talking.

I'm guessing that the Orc is going to at least save the daughter and help her get revenge for the death of her family.


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## Brian A Seals (May 17, 2015)

MizzouRam said:


> “Your father will have a drink too, sweet thing.”
> 
> “No, that won’t be necessary, I-”
> 
> ...



After reading this line specifically, I got a little confused. : [ “No, that won’t be necessary, I-”]

I wasn't immediately sure if that was Markum talking, or his daughter. You might want to check, to see if you need to clarify the speaker there. Otherwise, I had no other issues with the piece. It reads just fine.

-Seals.


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## NathanBrazil (May 30, 2015)

This is a wonderfully dark fantasy piece.  Since it's already been sold, I'll focus on what worked for me.



> Markum never had a problem with the green-folk.


Referring to the orcs as green-folk is a simple way of letting us know of Markum's underlying feelings for the orcs.



> One short tusk peaked out broken from the right side of his mouth.


Along with typical descriptions of an orc, we have a flaw that sticks out and adds flavor to this character.



> _I won’t have my only daughter be caught unawares by this bastard._





> _One day I am going to have to learn how to say no to that woman._


Again very simply, in a few words, we know that he cares for these two women.  Obviously laying the groundwork for what is coming.



> The fire was murmuring shyly in the hearth, orange flames crackling from under ashy husks of wood. A plume of smoke and cinder mushroomed into the air when he threw another log on it, collapsing the timber into a mound of gray dust.


Wonderful prose.  



> His elbow popped as he reached into the bucket to collect the rag out of the water. When he scrubbed the wooden bar, a sharp tingle simmered there; a feeling he knew would grow into pain before the day’s chores were done, just as it always did.


Here simple chores with a little bit of flavor.  We're not just given a laundry list of chores.  We know that this back-breaking work is taking it's toll on the MC's body.



> His armor was the shiniest of the three, lobstered steel with a menacing horsehead engraved on the breastplate.


Not only is each character very distinct but the armor for each is distinctive.  Here we have the "lobstered steel".



> His face was a carpet of black stubble...


Probably my favorite description.



> The workmanship on it was poorly done and the wood on its hilt looked weak, but the head was as shiny as the morning sun with a finely sharpened edge.


We haven't really been told that Markum has spent time on the battlefields, but he's able to pick out weaknesses in the armor and weapons.


One of the key elements for me in this story is the economy of words.  You've masterfully painted this grim picture.
 Even though this family is clearly over matched, you manage to weave conflict into this short fight.  
Well done and congratulations.


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## MizzouRam (Jul 11, 2016)

*
Hello Everyone,
Here is the continuation per your requests. WARNING: If you thought the first chapter was dark, you might not want to read on. The next two chapters are extremely violent and deal with some heavy subject matter.

ENJOY*:icon_cheesygrin:
*
Part 2
Bringa of the Orcwood*​
“Broka!” she said again and again. “Minka! Dressik!” 

Badraka cried silently in his embrace, small murmuring sobs, barely above the whispers. Bringa’s forearms were slick with salt tears.

He clutched his arms firmly around his little brother’s head, making sure that he couldn’t see anything and, perhaps more importantly, couldn’t hear anything, either.
“Broka. Minka. Dressik.”

They were burned into Bringa’s mind like glowing hot steel burns into flesh. Behind the sounds of her pleads, red violence shook the forest air. What was once an opus of screams, clashing metals, and cracking flames regressed into intermittent moans, distant pleads for mercy, and the smells of black ash. Someone was breathing heavy close by, as the words rung out in terrible rhythm.       

“Broka. Minka. Dressik.”

“I want my mommy.” Badraka murmured in between sobs. Bringa shushed him, squeezing his arms titer around his ears. 

“Remember what father told us.” He whispered. “Remember our duty.”

“Keep your brother safe, Bringa. Protect him, at least until he can protect himself. Then it will be his duty to look after you. That is the charge of every brother.”
And so Bringa protected him, from the fires that raged through the village, from the spears and axes that surely were collecting valuables off the dead right now, but most importantly from the words. 

“No! Stop! Please!”

Bringa’s eyes popped open in the blackness. The room was pitch dark. He brought a hand up to wipe his worn eyes.

The nightmares were always at their worst when he hadn’t’ had anything to drink. _Of all the wine sinks in the flatlands, I had to walk into the one that was out of ale._ He thought to himself bitterly.

“No. Stop. Please.” squeaked a voice in the next room, sending a white shutter through Bringa’s body. He shot up from under his cloak, chest heaving, a sick panic setting in. 
_
If this is a dream…_
_
”_No. Stop. Please” he heard again, this time a faint knocking noise coming in behind it.

“Shut up, bitch.” A man’s voice replied.

Bringa, got to his feet and felt for the exit in the darkness. The door across the hall was slightly cracked open, the knocking sounds coming from within. Ever so gently, he pushed the door inwards, and walked in with quiet steps.  

The bed in the far corner of the room rocked, a hairy, white ass heaving and thrusting violently in between a pair of slender legs. From under his weight the sobs continued in short squeaks.         
Various articles of armor and clothing lay strewn about the floor. Two muddy boots, a dirty black cloak,  and a short handled ax. 
Bringa picked the ax up off the ground. Blood smeared across its broad single beard, its wetness betraying its recent use.  

“No. Please. Stop.”

“Bloody bitch!” The man yelled before raising a fist high in the air and bringing it down with hard grunt. ”I told you to shut your bloody fucking mouth!”. The pleads for mercy stopped but thrusting became more and more violent.

Bringa’s green fingers ran white around the hilt of the axe in hand. His broken tusk screamed for relief as his jaw clenched tighter in his mouth. The white shutter that he felt was getting redder, harder, and meaner. Things stirred in him. The fires of regret, emptiness, embarrassment, and rage were all sparked in him now, and when they grew into an inferno, the result was rarely a pretty site. 

He had no idea what any of it meant, only that he was walking closer to the gray slab were the two lay. His shadow crawled up the man’s mailed back like the night crawls across the black earth, all the while he remembered them, the words that had robbed him of countless nights.

“Broka. Minka. Dressik.”
“Broka. Minka. Dressik.”
“Broka. Minka. Dressik.”

A set of crystal blue eyes peaked out from over the man’s shoulder. Two blackened puffy orbs with a broken nose in between, dripping crusty red from each nostril.

“HELP!” she screamed.

When the man turned, the blade of the ax bit deep into the side of his cheek. The impact sent him sprawling off the girl and crashing into a dark wood chest on the far side of the room, his trousers twisted 
around his ankles, his manhood pointing into the air like a bobbing lance spiked in to the ground. 

The man brought a hand up to stop the gushing wound in the side of his face, looking up just in time to see the second blow coming in a downward vertical arc. The axe shaved the left side of his forehead off. 

Black brain oozed forth from place where his skull once was. The ax trembled in Bringa’s hand as if it was eager for another bite. He raised it up again over his head, keen to let it eat once more. The third chop split the crown of his skull down to the eyes. The life was well gone from the them now, but the life of the ax in Bringa’s hand was exhilarated with blood thirsty fervor. 
_Whack!_ A chunk of hair fell off the man’s head into his steel collar. Whack, whack. Half of his head flew off in two gory pieces. 

Over and over and over again Bringa brought the ax down with every sinew in his body tense, summoning all the force he could into each brutal, bloody chop. Warm red sprayed lavishly across his chest. Somewhere off in the distance, a girl was crying in the corner, but Bringa could barely hear her amongst the horrid voice ringing in his ears, forever whispering the words.                
_
“Broka. Minka. Dressik.”_

“Bastard.” he grunted behind clenched teeth. 

He chopped at the bloody pulp at the top on the man’s torso until the blade knocked against something hard in the background. Again he raised the ax above his head, and again Bringa brought it down to the gory reckoning below. The handle snapped this time, leaving the axes head lodged the wooden chest that propped up the man’s fresh corpse.
He stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving for air, sweat mixing in with the red splatterings on his skin. The thing he had been hitting scarcely looked like a man anymore. A slimy “V” shape 
marked the spot where his head used to be. The corpse’s pants were still tied around his ankles. Blood was everywhere. 

He turned and looked at the girl with a distant stare. She was a fair girl, even with the battered face, and she was perhaps even more scared than she was before. 

A shadow moved in the candle light out of the corner of Bringa’s eye. A big one. 

The girl’s eyes widened and voice shrieked. “BEHIND YOU!”

Bringa whipped his head around on instinct, but before he saw who was behind him, a cold, hard reckoning exploded into his shoulder. A lightning bolt shot down through his arm, past his elbow, and into his hand. He turned around and saw one of the biggest, hairiest bastards he had ever seen, a marble purebred, one hand raised high above his head, mace clenched inside waiting to deliver the killing blow.

Without thinking, Bringa ignored his screaming shoulder and tackled the armored giant, grasping him with both arms, driving him up against the wall. Something crashed to the floor off of a nearby table and a high pitch scream vibrated through the air. He grunted as he pulled the man off the wall and slammed him to the ground, the metal of his chainmail knocking hard on the floor. He postured up, and delivered two stiff punches to the side of the man’s head. But, when he thought he had the him were he wanted him, something hard and cold and hard cracked into the side his face, and the world went reeling. 

Bringa fumbled to get to his feet, but whenever he did, the world came crashing up to him again and again. He found himself propped himself up against the wooden chest, right next to the fresh corpse he just made, his hand leaving red handprints on whatever it touched.    

The spiked mace came hurling out of the corner of his eye. This time, Bringa got a hand up and caught the wrist that wielded it, but then another hand grabbed him by the throat, sealing the air off in his body, and dragging him up the wall and onto his feet. Bringa’s fingers scrambled for anything. He found the axe head the he had used to kill the rapist still lodged into the chest behind him. He pried it out of the wood and clubbed it over the big man’s face like a sharp edged rock. His growls turned to angry yelps, as the blood flowed lavishly from a deep gash in his temple.

“Fucking green bastard” he said behind gritted teeth. Bringa tried to club him again but the massive hand let go of Bringa’s throat and pinned the his other wrist against the wall.
Time seemed to stop there for a moment amidst the sounds of two men struggling for their lives. Their eyes were locked in a trance. Most didn’t like to look their victims in the face before some killing needed to be done, Bringa found it oddly fascinating though. Ultimate truth was always in the eyes a few seconds prior to death. Right now, in the hairy, scared effigy that was this man’s face, he saw desperate fear under a thin coat of determination. He had always wondered what people saw in his eyes in moments like these, but he never had the chance to ask.

The man’s forehead smashed into Bringa’s face and world began to spin again. Then he did it again and again. Through the welled up tears in his eyes, Bringa could see blood trickling down the man’s forehead, not his own. Bringa’s shoulder was badly injured and both arms burned with fatigue under the weight of the big man’s strength. When his skull smashed into his face again, they went limp.     
Bringa’s cheek banged against the bloody, wood flooring. He rolled over drunkenly, with not a clue as to how he had gotten there. A shadow raised high above him, a black mace held high, ready to strike. 
_
It’s her. It’s the Valkyrie. The demons of hell await me. This is long pasted due. _A queer feeling of relief began to take hold of him.

Something silvery came out of nowhere and smacked the shadow in the side of the head with a shout. _A woman’s voice._

Bringa’s mind cleared like the clouds parting on an overcast day and he was on his feet. The man was crumpled over, punch drunk, and struggling mightily to get to stand. A few paces away the girl stood, a spiked war-hammer resting cock-eyed in one hand. A few lonely strands of long hair clung to its head. 

Bringa held out his hand, and she offered the hammer handle first. 

The big man’s skull made a deep knocking sound the first two times Bringa hit him, and then a sickening crunch on the third. He stopped moving.

The hammer fell carelessly to the ground. He was out of breath, his body was awash in sweat and blood, his shoulder screamed in agony, and his nose bubbled red streams from each nostril. Hands on knees, doing his best not to vomit, he peered one eye through his blood stained hair, at the girl who had saved his life. She began to sob again.

The main hall looked a ghastly afterbirth of hell the likes of which he had rarely seen. Most of the furniture had been destroyed, tables flipped over on their tops, the chairs smashed into pieces. The owner’s corpse lay strewn clumsily amongst them, his arm taken off at the elbow and the crown of his skull caved in.

Across from him another dead man slouched in his chair, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest.

Wet smacking sounds echoed from the bar area.

“Heeded, heeeeeeee” smack, smack, smack.
Bringa noticed a faint red trail that lead there, as if something bleeding had been bragged into that corner. He walked over on padded feet, doing his best not to make a sound.

“Heeeeeee, heeeeeeeee” a voice squeaked breathlessly.

When Bringa looked over the bar, his face contorted in disgust. The corpse was lying face down, her throat cut almost to the ear, her eyes vacantly staring off to the side. Lying on top of her was a boney man, his trousers bunched around his ankles and making disgusting sounds every other thrust.

Stomach turning, Bringa looked around the room for an instrument to end the repulsive noises. Over at the table where the dead man sit slouched in his chair, he noticed five mugs.
_
I knew she was lying. _He forgot everything else and made for the drinks, shoving chairs to the side on his way. The bitter ale streamed down the corners of his mouth as he drank.

When he was done with that one, he grabbed the one in front of the dead man, casually nudging it off the chair to take it for his own. As he was drinking he noticed a black blade sticking out of the dead man’s throat.

“Now if I can just find my other one” he thought as he ripped it free and jabbed it down on the table in front of him.  

A horrid scream sounded from across the room and the wet, squeaky noises stopped. 

“What? What the fuck are you doing out here?” squealed the skinny man.
_
I haven’t spoken a word to this bastard, and already I can’t wait to kill him._

The girl had a horrified look on her face. “What are you doing to my…” her voice breaking into uncontrollable crying.

“What? Bugger you! Where’s Lutt? Where’s Gamin? What the…”

Bringa cast one mug aside and grabbed another.

When the mug shattered on the ground, the skinny man looked over and locked eyes with Bringa, his face turning a pale white. 

“Lutt! Gamin! LUTT!” the man screamed, desperation creeping into his voice with each syllable. 
_
Even amidst all the screams and grunts and gods know what braking in there, this halfwit never thought to check on them._

Bringa raised the mug to his lips, the brain and blood still caked darkly onto his fingers. The air was tense and quite as he tipped the bottom of the mug toward the ceiling, gulping down it remaining content. He flipped the mug over his shoulder and onto the ground were it lay amongst the rubble. He looked into the next one and noticed it was had a slightly darker tint to it and little red speckles decorated its inner rim. He sniffed its contents. Some blood had gotten into this one. 
_
Fuck it._ Bringa thought, taking the ale back in three big gulps. 

His shoulder was racked with pain now, every movement greeted with a harsh reminder of the big hairy bastard’s mace. 

Corpse-fucker was still staring at him with terrified eyes, the crude little dagger in hand beginning to tremble slightly. 

“What now? Wha-what are you going to do?” he asked Bringa.

The orc man waited a long moment before he replied. “Don’t know. Your friends didn’t fare so well, how goes your luck?” 

“Not as bad as yours, greenback. Those men you just killed were bad men and they pledge fealty to worse. They will come sniffing round these parts, and when they do, they have that green skin on a tanning rack hee,hee.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye, for you murdered Guymon and Lutt of Irsa’s Whelps. Lutt being a chief captain, answerable only to the Dog Faced Man himself.”

Bringa silently studied his face to try to find the lie in it. He took another swig of ale and tongued the empty space where his tusk once was.  

“Bullshit. You’re friends maybe, but what use would a band of killers have for someone the likes of you?”

“It’s not about uses. It be about family. The Dog Faced Man is mine own cousin. And you know what else, greenback, the rumors about him be true, hehe. He is crazed, drinks from 
the skulls of his enemies, he does, and feeds their infant babes to starved hounds, hehe. What do you think he will do to you?”

Bringa, looked around, and sighed. “I have no appetite for another fight. Your brothers in arms accosted me and got what for but I have no quarrel with you, so I see no need to end this in more death.” Bringa stretched his burning shoulder, licked the crusty blood from his upper lip. “So this is what it will be. Your buggery is over. Pull up your britches and scour this place for as many gold sovereigns as you can find.”

“What?” the girl interrupted in a trembling voice.

“I will even split it with you. In an hours’ time, we are done here, bound in different directions.”

The brigand’s shoulders sagged and he exhaled a heavy sigh. 

“When you get back to your General, you will tell him everything. You will tell him how your friends were jumped and killed by a lone traveler. But most important, you will also tell them about my fair complexion, sandy brown hair, and slender build. Catch my meaning?”

The scrawny man gave a slight nod.  “And the girl?”

Bringa stared over at her, still sitting frightened in the corner of the room. “Leave her to me.”
*
Part III*
*Taking What was His*​Looting things off the dead was something Bringa had grown used to by now. It was rather easy when the corpse was fresh and workable, but the longer the body lay dead, the harder it went for the looter. Dealing with the stiffness was always a choir. When the body became rank or withered, that was when even Bringa had to take inventory over whether or not he truly needed what it had.

After some thought, he reckon that everything that he owned had been taken off a corpse at one time or another. He had gotten the cloak from a soldier he found dead on the side of the road. He was an old man, out in the middle of nowhere for Gods know what, going to Gods know where. His tunic used to be a farm hand’s, that was until he caught Brings stealing a pig off his master’s land one night a season ago. He was a big lad, but, lucky for Bringa, he was slow and craven. He had always preferred looting to burglary because sometimes the later included murder and he didn’t enjoy that as much as some people seemed to. That night, however, Bringa needed to eat and the boy found him, and so Bringa needed to murder. At least that was what he told himself. 

The one named Gaymon seemed to have a great deal better taste in clothing than the serf boy had. His breastplate was a beautiful matte silver inlaid with the golden carving of a wild horse on its front. Once Bringa got most of the blood and brain matter off, it shined like a diamond in the firelight. The plate fit him perfectly, as did the chainmail, and the hardened leather greaves, all of which still had pieces of Gaymon stained into them. 

Bringa was cautious not to get to greedy however. There was a lot of stuff here that a merchant would pay a pretty price for, but more loot meant more burden on him. _More burdens mean a slower horse and by dawn I will be a hunted man in the Flatlands. A slower horse might mean a slower death._

Some dried bread, dried beef, a black pot, a short Valenese issued spade, an empty, oversized leather coin purse, and both of his black blades were just about all he and his mount could carry at a quick pace. 

The scrawny man had scurried throughout the inn a half a hundred times, looking for every last spot of gold there was in the place. 

“I know you have more, bitch!” he would scream at the mourning girl, who seemed to be crying without tears now. “Where!”

“I don’t know” she would always reply, holding her father’s broken head in her hands.

The moon was dark and ominous in the sky. It wouldn’t be long before dawn was here, and with it all the threats of a new day. 

Something shuffled through the stable behind Bringa. He turned around and met the scrawny man’s gaze dead on, without hesitancy. 

“Think I have it all, if you want to come and split the spoils.”

Bringa tongued the vacant place were his tusk once was. 

“And I bin thinking…” the men continued in a shrill voice…”I don’t know, what you plan on doing to that girl. She is a rare, thing, a virtual maiden, just de-flowered in the prime of her years. I don’t care what you do with her, but, I would like to know, so maybe I could do something with her after. Heeeheeee. Catch my meaning’? Hehe.”

The question of what to do with the girl had been sitting in the back of his mind like a black shadow. It wasn’t really a question at all. Either open her throat and leave no testimonies as to his person or let her live, only to be raped a half dozen more times, beaten, until she gives whomever the information they want, right before they open her throat anyway.

He wondered what his brother would do. His brother always seemed to have all the answers and a strict certainty of each. _Where is Badraka’s arrogance when I need it? _
One thing he was sure of, though.

Bringa extended his hand to the scrawny man. “I want to thank you.” His face showed genuine surprise then morphed into a self-satisfied smirk, the likes of which the orcman had been seeing on white faces his entire life. _That’s the problem with the marble men; they think the green folk a race of halfwits._

“For what?” the man asked, Bringa’s hand closing firmly around his clammy fingers. When Bringa pulled him close, his eyes widened.

“For getting that gold for me.” The man tried to scream, but when Bringa twisted the blade in his gut, his jaw went slack, a string of drool dangling off the lip. He slid the blade horizontal across his naval. 

Bringa stared deep into his victim’s eyes and watched the terror wash over them. The Valkyrie was at hand, and he was not in the mood to allow this one the mercy the other two had gotten; the mercy of a quick death. Bringa wanted to know what was coming, wanted him to see his end. He wanted him to see all the regret and terror and sorrow that came with it. Bringa wanted to see the truth in his eyes.     

The runt collapsed to the ground, folded over on his side, clutching his stomach, coughs of blood sprinkling the ground in front of him. He sobbed quietly. Bringa snatched the blade out of the man’s gut, wiped the gore off on the forearm of his newly acquired greaves.

He relieved him of the gold, both what he had in his satchel and the sum he was hiding in his boot. He normally didn’t enjoy a murdering, but he found some satisfaction in this one. 

He saw the truth in the man eyes and it was nothing but fear, black, raw fear.
_
Fucking coward. They are all afraid in the end though, some contain it better than others, but they are all scared, every one of them._

His morbid curiosity sated, the orc returned to his horse, making sure his wares were packed tight for what was sure to a be a hard ride. The runt whimpered pathetically for help in 
the background. 

Everything was packed and ready when the orc put one foot in the stirrup when something snapped loudly and the scrawny man screamed.

“Nooo. Please..I…UH.” Something else cracked.

When he walked about from behind the palfrey, he saw the girl, the bloody hammer in hand, held high to bring it down on scrawny man’s ribs. 

She squealed in anger the 3[SUP]rd[/SUP] time she brought it down. And the 4th and the 5th and the 6th until Bringa had lost count. Soon the squeals became petty sobs, then wretched wails. 

Then the skinny man’s wails had went silent. 

Exhausted, she let the hammer fall to the ground. 

Bringa looked at her crying for a moment, reminded of what needed to be done, knowing what he had to do. He had tucked it so far in the back of his mind that he hoped to forget it, but he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

She looked up at him, helplessly. “Help me, please?” she murmured through tear flooded eyes. I don’t know what to do. I don’t… I don’t…. Please help me.”
Bringa pulled the knife out of his belt.
_
I’m sorry._

Her body cowered in fear when he took the first step toward her. 

“No!” she squealed staggering backward.
_
She must die._

“No!”
_
MUST DIE!_

“No! Stop! Please!”

He stopped, his blood turning cold as the worst winter. Bringa tongued the place where his tusk once was.
_
Broka. Minka. Dressik._

For a reason he did not know, his knife was sheaved again. Wordless, Bringa turned and walked back to his palfrey.
_
WHAT ARE YOU DOING? KILL HER. SHE HAS TO DIE! IT IS THE ONLY WAY!_

“Wait” the girl yelled in background.

Ignoring his own thoughts, Bringa mounted on the horse and wheeled it eastward. 

“You can’t just leave! What will I do? Please tell me what to do!” 

Bringa wheeled the palfrey back around. He reached behind him and dug the flat black spade out of his collection of loot. Flinging it end over end in the air, it landed at the girl’s bare feet with a clang.

“Bury your parents proper, if that’s what your kinfolk do.” He said, his breath misting in the cold night air. “Burn the rest.”

*THE END*​


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## Gold Bearer (Apr 21, 2017)

Good read.

Chapter 1:
'the stiffness in his bodying fading slightly' Body.
“Should be coming’ round any day now.” A stray '.
'Dreama, set four frothy mugs in front of the guests.' Why the comma?
'He said as Colletta as he put the mug down in front of him.'
'So you are not naturel born Valoran' Natural.
And quite a few instances of starting a new line, sometimes two:
'But
I am sure I need not have to tell you of that now do I, master innkeeper?”'
', but those will
be here soon, don’t you worry.”'
', his teeth grinding in the back of his
mouth.'
'Even the women ran against the phalanx when things got truly
dire for them.'
'How do you tell them there are
monsters?'
'Just under his chin, a short black blade poked out of his throat and began to saw a red path across

his neck.'
'Warm, wet

streamers flew about him in red ribbons.'
'A song the likes of

which Markum was strangely reminiscent of. '
'cracking white lightning bolts behind
his eyes and ringing all the bells in Valorum between his ears.'

Chapter 2:
', his trousers twisted
around his ankles,'
'A slimy “V” shape
marked the spot where his head used to be.'
', drinks from
the skulls of his enemies,'
'But, when he thought he had the him were he wanted him,'
'“Now if I can just find my other one” he thought...' I think thoughts have 's, not "s.
', gulping down it remaining content.' Its.
', they have that green skin on a tanning rack hee,hee.”' Need a space after hee,.
'In an hours’ time, we are done here,' Hour's I think.

Chapter 3:
'The runt whimpered pathetically for help in
the background.'
'“And I bin thinking…” the men continued in a shrill voice…”I don’t know, what you plan on doing to that girl.' Needs a space after the second....
'She is a rare, thing, a virtual maiden, just de-flowered in the prime of her years.' Why the first comma?
'Catch my meaning’?' A stray '.
'One thing he was sure of, though.' Again, why the comma?
'Bringa wanted to know what was coming,' Wanted him to know...
3rd is shown as a date. Maybe third fourth, etc anyway.
'Then the skinny man’s wails had went silent.'


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