“Through the rock and stone we push, flesh and blood we give, these mountains will know our strength.”

 

Bjorn recalled a song from his homeland. The dwarf had little to no memory of the place, his only recollection being the songs he heard from his little hovel in the mountains. The song he was recalling was one his father had sung to him when he was but a child.

 

“No god will govern our fate and no man will take our freedom. Through flesh and blood we sacrifice, rock and stone we strike. These mountains are our home.”

 

It was a mining song, one that the dwarves back home had hollered whenever they dug deeper into Azura’s crust. Bjorn hung onto the faint memory of those mountains as he defended the bridge.

 

The dwarf could feel his strength slipping. Yet he kept pushing. His shield still held on strongly, despite being malformed beyond recognition. His ax was getting duller with every strike, every swing threatening to take his arm off. His body was growing tiresome. Even with the vitality potion he had just drank, his overall stamina was shit.

 

Despite it all, the dwarf was having the time of his life.

 

“Come on! Give me all you got!” He shouted to the last remaining marauders. They were struggling to get past him, to get through the bridge he was on. Bjorn wouldn’t let them, his ax swinging at whoever got too close. The bodies of previous marauders were stacked all around him, forming a makeshift wall of corpses on the bridge. It made it all the harder for these marauding bastards to get through.

 

One marauder rushed forward with a spear, aiming at Bjorn’s helmet visor. The dwarf used his shield, barely deflecting the attack. Still, the spearhead pierced his left shoulder, missing the steel plate completely. Bjorn gritted his teeth in pain, his anger flaring. Using his remaining strength, he swung his ax on the wooden spear shaft, cutting it in two. The marauder stumbled forward as a result, leaving himself open.

 

Bjorn wasted no time, his muscles screaming as he swung at the bastard in front of him. His ax buried itself into the marauder’s leg, bringing him down to the dwarf’s level. Bjorn quickly pulled back as soon as he did this, avoiding the other marauder’s strike. For a moment, he had neglected the others and nearly left himself open.

 

The rest of the marauders struck down on the dwarf, attempting to cut through his armor and shield with their shoddy swords and spears. Bjorn did his best to dodge and block the attacks, using his ax and restricted left arm to fend them off. He could feel cold sharp steel enter his body and graze his vitals, every attack threatening to bleed him out.

 

He wouldn’t die. Not here.

 

“Through the rock and stone we push, flesh and blood we give, these mountains will know our strength!” Bjorn sang as he swung his ax. The bewildered marauders stepped back at the sudden burst of strength from the dwarf, avoiding his wild strikes.

 

“No god will govern our fate and no man will take our freedom!” Bjorn grinned as he managed to hit one of their legs. He pulled at the ax, tripping the marauder over. The other raiders moved in to intervene, but Bjorn was quicker. The dwarf jumped on the fallen marauder, using him as a stepping stool.

 

“Through flesh and blood we sacrifice, rock and stone we strike, these mountains are our home!” Bjorn shouted as he buried his ax into the unarmored head of one marauder. This left him open to the other raider, prompting the bastard to stab through the dwarf’s left side. Bjorn winced but did not hesitate. He grabbed the sword that had impaled him, holding the weapon in place as he pulled his ax from the dead man.

 

“Power Strike!” Bjorn shouted. His body flared with magical heat, his arm burning with exertion as it swung the ax into the marauder’s jaw. There was a loud wet crack and Bjorn was met with the sight of a marauder with his jaw half gone, an ax stuck in his skull. The dying man only took a step back before he fell onto the platform.

 

The dwarf fell to the ground with the corpse, his legs giving out almost immediately. The marauder he had used for a stepping stool was still alive, his hands reaching for a weapon. Bjorn quickly intervened, his hand grabbing a nearby dagger. He sluggishly tackled the marauder, forcing him to the ground. Using his weight, the dwarf forced the dagger into the man’s throat, killing him off finally.

 

That was the last marauder at the bridge. That power strike he did earlier was out of pure desperation, as he had no more remaining strength inside him. As for the marauder underneath him, he was lucky he got a weapon quick. As battle-happy as the dwarf was, he was thankful it was over. He had no more remaining strength in him, all of it going to defending his position and making sure no marauder made it past him.

 

Bjorn looked all around him. Bodies littered the bridge and platform ahead, but none ever made it past the bridge. The dwarf couldn’t help but chuckle. He had kept his promise to Dahlia.

 

“What do we have here?”

 

Bjorn felt his heart drop at the sound of a sinister voice. He forced himself to look up at the direction of the voice. While he couldn’t see clearly, he could still make out the silhouette of an armored man. He was tall, well over two meters. He wore heavy steel armor and his helmet sported two horns. Bjorn focused on the red handprint on the man’s chest. It was a marauder, one who wasn’t like the rabble the dwarf had taken care of. Bjorn looked at the marauder’s helmet, looking past the man’s Y visor.

 

This was a man he had never seen before, yet he had heard enough stories to know exactly who he was looking at.

 

Deimos of the North was smiling, despite the wounds and visible dents in his armor. He dragged along a bloody ax and longsword, both of which were covered in nicks and scratches. It was clear that the Red Death had his fair share of scuffles getting here.

 

Bjorn forced himself to stand, his shaking right hand grabbing at a dagger. His left arm was useless, the spear from before restricting his movement.

 

“Impressive work,” Deimos called out as he stepped forth.

 

“They were nothing,” Bjorn breathed out.

 

“I see,” Deimos muttered. The Red Death rubbed at his chin, his eyes surveying the damage. “I commend your strength, dwarf. For that, I’ll give you a luxury I do not easily grant my enemies. I’ll let you live if you allow me to pass,” he bargained.

 

Bjorn grinned and chuckled. “Nah,” he coughed.

 

Deimos tilted his head in confusion, a small frown appearing on his face. A moment of silence passed, the only sound being the pattering rain and distant sound of thunder and fighting.

 

“Your way it is then,” Deimos muttered finally, his frown turning into a soft smile.

 

Bjorn raised his dagger, readying for the upcoming attack. He could only watch as Deimos rushed forward, faster than the dwarf could react. Before Bjorn knew it, the marauder’s steel boot had crushed his chest in. He flew back onto the bridge, his ribs on fire as his lungs filled with viscous blood.

 

Bjorn coughed as he tried to stand up, every breath he took causing fiery pain in his chest. The pressure was overwhelming; the injury threatening to suffocate the dwarf.

 

“Still alive?” Deimos asked as he walked up the bridge.

 

“As long as my heart beats, I will not allow you to pass!” Bjorn managed out. He stood up finally, his dagger brandished in front of him. “Do your fucken wor—”

 

Another kick, this time to his stomach. Bjorn felt his body rise, gaining airtime before he landed back on the bridge. He tried to speak, but only vomited. Dark crimson and bits of food stained the wooden bridge, the rainwater slowly washing it away.

 

“Give up,” Deimos called out. “This is pathetic.”

 

Bjorn clenched his jaw as he forced himself to look up at the marauder.

 

‘You can’t allow yourself to give up. Not here. You have to hold out. This is the Red Death himself. If he gets to that center…’

 

Every second counted. Even if it was for a few moments, Bjorn needed to hold Deimos off. He needed to buy as much time as possible.

 

The dwarf stood up, his body shuddering with pain. Yet he was grinning. He gave the marauder one last boisterous laugh.

 

“I am Bjorn Farkas! Sword of the raven and son of the mountains! You shall not—”

 

Bjorn’s vision went white. The dwarf felt his body tumble and roll on the ground for a few meters. Deimos had kicked his head, the strike enough to immobilize the dwarf and concuss him.

 

The dwarf couldn’t move nor speak as he stared at the rainy sky. He could only watch as Deimos approached him. The marauder stopped short of Bjorn, his bored gaze watching upon the injured dwarf.

 

“A shame I couldn’t be here earlier. Would’ve been an interesting fight,” Deimos sighed. Without another word, he left the dwarf there. Bjorn tried to move, to do anything. Yet his body was shutting down. He couldn’t even breathe as blood filled his lungs.

 

Bjorn forced himself to smile as the pain of dying grew overwhelming. He did not wish to go out without a grin. That was something that was stuck to him for these past decades. The dwarves back home wouldn’t face death without a smile, so why shouldn’t Bjorn? He did not want his friends to think he suffered in his last moments.

 

‘Damn shame I couldn’t stick around to see James kill that bastard. End of the line, I suppose…’

 

Bjorn felt as his body slowly succumbed to the cold and numbness. In the end, he embraced the unending dark that came for him.

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

Rain poured heavily in the alleyway. Daven Larsson hurried through with fear in his heart. His legs shook and his teeth were chattering. The sounds of battle were everywhere, with both Lumen soldier and marauder raider fighting and dying to each other. Rarely did the emissary find any allies. His clansmen had left him and most of the city guard was killed off. Daven was alone, cowering in the shadows being his only way of survival. Still, his hiding spots never did last long.

 

The serpent clansman could hear the shouts of the raiders, their laughs chilling to him. They were hunting him, possibly hoping to score an easy kill. The gold district was cursed in the way that there was little to no cover in alleys and streets. Daven hoped to reach the silver district, or at least the slums.

 

‘If only I could see in this damned darkness!’

 

The rain wasn’t helping either, since the constant downpour made it harder to see and even more dangerous to run through.

 

He kept running still, hoping to at least reach some sort of hiding spot or allies. Even some lumen soldiers would be enough to ease him. Daven would soon leave the alleyway, his feet hurrying to keep him running through the street. However, he would make one fatal mistake. He was not careful enough to keep himself from slipping. The serpent clansman fell onto the street, splashing water everywhere. Daven tried to stand, but his shaking legs and arms made it impossible.

 

“There he is! Quite the runner, eh?” one marauder called out. Daven turned to the savage who had already had his ax out. The emissary quickly fiddled with his belt, trying to unsheathe his sword. The lead marauder watched with clear amusement, his grin growing. Once Daven finally got his sword out, the marauder simply kicked it out of his hands.

 

“I’ll admit. Fighters usually get my blood going,” the raider spoke as he stepped closer. “But the weaklings? Oh, they’re so much more fun to play with.” He laughed.

 

“Please… I can give you gold! Riches! Beer! Anything please!” Daven pleaded.

 

The marauder simply shook his head. “Nah. I’d rather have you.” His voice dripped with malice. Daven could only watch as the savage raised his ax. Right when he swung, the clansman closed his eyes. He flinched at the feeling of his own blood spraying onto his face, its warmth sickening him. Yet there was no pain. Daven furrowed his brow, his eyes slowly opening.

 

The marauder’s throat was faceting dark matter. His eyes widened and his hands reaching for the arrow in his neck. Daven stared in horror, his body seizing up at the sight.

 

“It’s him!” One of the other marauders called. They all turned to focus on the new threat, their shields and weapons rising.

 

“Night Spray!” Before they could prepare to attack or defend, a flurry of purple fireflies flew at them. The stench of flesh burning accompanied the sounds of screaming.

 

Suddenly, a man dressed in steel and fur came at them, his boot kicking one of their shields down. The man raised his sword, its edge glowing red.

 

“Power Strike!” His blade struck the bigger marauder’s torso, slicing through gambeson and gutting the belly underneath. The armored man turned and dodged a wild strike, his reflexes near perfect. Daven watched with morbid fascination as his savior gutted and killed every marauder. Every time one tried to sneak on him, they were struck with either a spell or arrow from afar.

 

Now that Daven looked on, he realized that there were more marauders than he initially realized. They were all occupied with hulking figures in the distance, which the clansman realized were orcs. Daven witnessed as orc and specters gathered up, striking down every marauder in the way. By the time every raider was dead, Daven was looking eye to eye with the man who saved him.

 

The stranger wore steel plate armor mixed with gambeson, his collar and shoulders lined with black fur. A white raven was painted upon his chest. At least, it was once white. Still, Daven couldn’t help but stare at the man’s face. While most of it was covered by the steel helm, Daven recognized him.

 

It was the Draugr himself, James Holter. His eyes glowed a bright blue, to the point where it looked like they flickered and flared like flames. James stared at Daven for a moment before he turned to the street. Daven watched as the draugr walked up the street, which led off even deeper into the city.

 

“Wait! You’re going to the center of the city!” Daven shouted. “There are even more marauders and lumen soldiers there!” He had heard stories of the Draugr’s feats, but he knew better than to believe that this man and his small clan could even stand a chance against so many. Yet James kept walking, ignoring Daven’s warning. Orcs and soldiers with ravens on their chests passed by Daven, their weapons slick with blood. Even a necromancer joined them, his hands beckoning specters to follow.

 

Daven only watched on in disbelief. How could Holter fight like this? When everything was so desperately lost? He didn’t even have a stake in this city. Daven gritted his teeth. The warrior in him told him to join, to fight with the Draugr. Vindis was his city. His home. Yet the man couldn’t force himself to budge. He could only retreat into the shadows, cowering from the threat of death.