22nd trial, Vhalar, 719
Continued from here
Picts. Of all men consumed by cruelty and evil, precious few anger the Cimmerian more than the damned Picts. Especially when they were trying to kill him.
He thought he'd been sly. He'd kept to the Black River, winding down from the mounts, bordering the Wilderness of the Picts and Aquilonia. There were forts and patrols enough that he wagered the raiding parties would not venture so close, other than in a force he could easily see coming and thus avoid. He'd traveled by night and kept to the low ground. He'd presented no silhouette, cast no fire, eating raw meat and black bread and water straight from the river. The mounts had loomed larger and larger to the south, and by the fourth day, he was sure he'd made it.
Then he heard the drums. A distant beat into human hide stretched across wood and bone. Drums that could make a regiment quail and strong men break, for they spoke of nightmares they'd been weaned on for generations. Yet all the Cimmerian felt was a scowling, burning anger. He knew what the drums meant. They were talking. Spreading the word.
You are found, fool. Time to run.
This was the morning of the sixth day, and his second without sleep. They knew he was close to the mountains, the crevices, the winding, narrow passes, and their numbers would count for naught. More to the point, he'd be running straight towards borders guards, Zingaran knights, and unfamiliar lands their people did not know. So their leisurely pursuit had turned into a grueling, hateful, relentless slog across the plains.
They were running him down like they would a deer, or one of the great skulking leopards of the Wilderness. Force them to run and run and run and run while they kept the pace. Never tiring, never pausing, never letting their prey sleep or even slow. Until it slumped, exhausted, or turned to face them with maddened, suicidal fury. They were hoping for the former, and yet-
-the Cimmerian cleaved another of the hide-and-bone-cluttered beasts in two like he was a side of mutton hanging from a hook. The savage shrieks until blood was spewing from his mouth along with everywhere else, tumbling back down the hill... or at least half of him. Still clinging to his sword and flailing, his torso and arms went down, and the bottom half stayed upright for a moment. Then it topped over, and his fellows were already trampling both halves into the ground as they came onward-
-and the Cimmerian was already running again. Blood seeped and oozed for a dozen wounds. Mostly minor. But not all. The javelin through his bicep - a lucky throw, no more - had rendered one of his arms almost useless. Yet he could wield his longsword with just the one, and had been proving such for most of the sun-lit hours. The warband had been whittled down in lives just as they'd whittled him in strength... yet he knew they could afford the losses more than he.
Every step was torture, now. Every stride was another jolt of agony. The arrow through his leg had been broken off at the shaft. Arrow head still poking through the meat of his thigh... but the damage was done. He left blood in every print on the ground. His breath was coming in spurts, angry and animal. He looked up-
Mountains. Get to the snow, and they'll turn away.
-then back over his shoulder-
Still a dozen of them, at least. Tired as me, but not as wounded. Killing rage in their eyes, now. Crom. They might not stop. I wouldn't. Not after this-
He let out a curse as a whistling rain told his body to hit the ground before his mind was fully aware of it. Arrows juddered and whacked into the dirt, clanged off rocks. The Cimmerian rolled behind the nearest, largest one. The Picts behind him crouched, but did not hide. He dared hope for a moment that it was Zingaran border guards. Come down to forage or patrol, make a show of keeping the slopes clear of bandits. But then he saw the arrows. The heads crafted from stolen steel, polished walrus tusk, and covered where wood met steel or bone by a crow's skull.
Bastards. Bastards!
The Picts in cover began to laugh. Their comrades above answered them. An ugly, hooting sounds, like the man-faced apes the Cimmerian had fought against in distant Punt. The handful of archers had moved fast enough, traveled light enough, to somehow head him off. Fool, a fool he was! For thinking he knew a people's lands better than they. Now he looked up and four nocked arrows greeted him, archers still hidden, not taking any chances. A dozen grisly, fetish-strewn weapons of more intimate murder were held by those below him.
The Cimmerian held up his sword. He did not pray, nor ask for divine aid. Crom would not answer mortal words. He asked only that he look upon him, now. To know he died in the way of a true Cimmerian: in battle, bathed in the blood of his killers. He opened his mouth and-
-there was a flash from above, hidden by the rocks. Picts and Cimmerian alike stopped for a moment and turned their heads up towards the blue sky, the white snow, and the grey rocks. The sounds of death struck him. Ugly, meaty ways to die, too. Crunching bone and knuckles pounding into flesh. Snaps and gargles. Cracks and pleas cut of or drowned in blood.
The Picts tensed, and their leader - large as the Cimmerian and wielding a mace capped by a skull cast in iron - started forwards. He'd lost kin and friends to this intruder. He'd not allow him to live any longer, no matter what the interference. At their alpha's movement, the rest followed suite, and-
"Fuckin' mess yuhv got yerself into, eh?"
The Cimmerian looked up and found a small, bearded man with a dagger and a hatchet in his bloody hands. He was leaning against one of the rocks and scratched under his chin with the dagger.
"Need'nee help?"
The Pictcs screamed and charged. The Cimmerian bellowed and swung. The Etzori sighed and rolled his eyes.
"Take that as a 'yes'."
