Twisted Tales Contest

Tired Viking

Today I fight at Blar a' Bhuailte -- leaping the brown grass, tearing through hillocks of stiff brush that flays bare skin in a careless instant, & over flowers with no names -- a two-hour fast march northeast of the middle of nowhere.

The wyrd is on me…

I have killed 54 men – warriors all – in my time. Almost as many as the years that I have lived. Crushed skulls, severed limbs, broken armor – my battle axe has served me well. I have fought for gold, for land, for a good woman, & always for honor.

I remember each of the men that I have killed. I honor many of them. At different times I would have loved a number of these men as brothers. The rest were less than pigshit, & their deaths were deserved.

Today I am fighting against such pigshit – a band of sorry-assed, raider scum led by the eldest son of a distant lord – whose words about one of my daughters traveled to my ears after a companion’s three-day hard ride. Those words will prove to be his end.

Interesting… Straight swords…

He is dual wielding in the modern fashion.

He is large & heavily armored. I leap at him, swiping at his balls, but he parries easily. I let the momentum of my battle axe spin me in a circle as I swing for his head…

Pain – then nothing for a moment
I stagger. My left arm is… gone. Separated cleanly at the shoulder. I have been injured many times, but never as gravely as this. Motionless, I remain standing.

Everything is clear. This moment stretches into eternity. The water bubbling past the pebbles in the stream mixes with the sound of my own blood falling to the ground. I notice that my left arm has traveled several meters & is now behind my opponent, who is confident – sneering -- preparing to swing his still-clean blade in a flat, horizontal arc at the level of my neck.

I am aware that this is my end.

I am tired of the blood.

My c*** of an opponent is not. He is unaware that I have a hollowed nail in my right boot that is filled with poison enough to kill a herd of men.

As he swings, I roar -- letting myself tip backward, driving the toe of my right boot into his balls with all of my remaining strength. I hear & feel the satisfying crunch of boot on chain. I watch his eyes go wide, & I bless my ancestors, & I bless my wife & children, & his blade finds my neck….


Thomas Porter, Ph.D.
tom@colorlabs.io
https://linktr.ee/colorlabs_io
+1.919.593.1570
Art is art. Everything else is everything else.