[quote=@Odin]
After the night, the harem girl had disappeared, taking her leave long before Ketill had even woken up himself. It was a lucky thing he supposed – he had not longed for a woman’s company, nor had he hoped for more vulgar things – she was merely a distraction. It was meant well, Ketill presumed, but Sawarim did not understand that the slaves did not think like them and did not value the same things as they did. For Ketill, what he really wanted was something he would not get until much later. But it could not be given to him too soon – he desired it with all his body, every fibre inside of him demanded blood and retribution. But what he got instead was perhaps equally as good – though the feeling of enjoyment lasted much shorter than Ketill expected he’d receive from his true purpose.

Over the course of the next weeks, he was allowed to continue training. Although he was rusty, as time went on he began feeling better. To the Sawarim, it didn’t make a difference – even when he was rusty he could beat them, though when he got back into the swing of things, they noticed that whatever they did, it seemed like they couldn’t even touch him. Bar perhaps Harith, who could offer a decent fight, though his presence was whimsical at best as his other duties commanded his time, few as these duties were. But he seemed to have learned his lesson, and did not engage Ketill further beyond a simple spar from time to time. No blood would be shed, and the hits would be light. 

One uneventful day, Ketill was brought out to spar again. The guards had knocked on his door and, contrary to how he was treated before, he was not removed by force. Rather, he was allowed to open the door. His dress had changed too – though it wasn’t a large change. He still went bare chested, though that was more out of concern for the heat than for fashion. It was liberating, at least, to realize that a slave could afford to be unfashionable. Some days, Ketill felt the annoyance Harith had with his more extravagant garb. The heat was a cruel mistress – the ladies enjoyed it, whenever they came out to watch, but for those crawling through the sand, swinging swords and axes, or being tossed around by Harith and Ketill alike, for them it was not a pleasure, but a cruel time to be sparring. 

As he walked towards the fighting grounds in the courtyard, escorted by two guards, Ketill noticed a few familiar faces on the benches – Basim, Najla, but further away standing closeby but not close to the royalties, there were several harem girls. One face in particular was memorisable, and instantly recalled by Ketill. It was the girl Harith had sent to his chambers after their first meeting, the one with the freckled face. If it hadn’t been for those features, he would not have even realized it was her, given she was wearing a dark blue cloth wrapped around her head, revealing only her eyes and the bridge of her nose. The reason for the harem girls’ presence was not explained – though Ketill knew too well that he had earned their favour, even if he was disliked by most of the Sultan’s court. He was a tool – and a tool was only useful as long as it did its’ job.

When Ketill stepped into the ring, he shot a brief glance at Basim, however. The harem girls weren’t so interesting, and his air of disinterest was visible to all the harem girls – though it only made him more desired. Instead, he looked at Basim curiously, wondering why the boy had shown up, though Najla’s presence made the reason slightly more obvious. Whatever it was that she desired of Basim, it was not of interest to Ketill. 

The first opponent stepped forwards, and the interaction between the guards and Ketill was still somewhat awkward. There was no mutual respect. Ketill had destroyed every single opponent so far, after all, and the guards were still trying to see how they could show this Monarchist that he was not invincible. The Bear of Broacien remained unharmed so far, though, apart from some minor scratches and cuts. A few times Harith and some other daring guards and captains had attempted to pry from him the secrets of the Servants and their warfare. Although Ketill was a convert now, he did not wish to betray his former order so quickly. After all, the Monarchists were not his friends any longer, but neither were the Sawarim. Ketill was handed a weapon at random, and the two men approached each other, both immediately attacking. The Sawarim had learned early on that Ketill was a master at destroying shields, as he had gone through the training supply of shields rather quickly. They had brought in new wooden shields at first – but these too deteriorated over time. After some argument, Harith instead decided to just call on a small supply of metal shields. At least these would not break so easily.

But the truth behind why Ketill was being trained remained hidden. He assumed he was going to be a fighter against these ‘tribals’ as Najla had called them – a slave warrior to be killed by a Sawarim, to show how mighty the Sawarim god was. It was better than being a house slave, and Ketill knew he could survive. It would be easy if the fighters were anything like the guards and soldiers he was fighting now. But, why did she need a slave, a Servant no less, to fight tribals? It seemed redundant, and it was, so he only guessed at the political motives for bringing him.

[hr]

Of course, as things went with Najla, there was never a gift without a demand in exchange. It was not like Ketill had much chance – but he would have liked to have been informed about the travelling. He’d been given a day notice, and was told to pack up whatever he wanted to bring. That wasn’t a useful order, as Ketill had nothing of value to bring. The very next day they left already, to an unknown destination, except for the name of the tribe they were visiting. As a slave, Ketill walked near the back. The pace was harrowing – and he would be given no respite. Although Najla had to keep up appearances by not resting, Ketill had wished for a horse, or at the very least a small break. Instead, he was made to keep walking. Despite the protection his favoured position gave him, the guards that were overlooking the slaves were less than courteous. The sand and dust had weathered them down too, and the pace was not giving them any quarter. 

When Ketill stopped for a moment to drink from his leather waterbag, the coarse and rough hands of a guard pushed in his back. The push made him spill some of the valuable water, but there was no time to argue, and certainly no energy for it either. He kept going, continuing to gulp down on the water, before putting the cork back in place and continuing the walk. The road was long and arduous, and there would be no rest for a while, Ketill could feel that much in his bones. 

And most certainly the walk was long. They arrived at a village, though with the amount of tents set up, it seemed more like a camp. Ketill didn’t know what to do specifically, or why he’d been brought here, so he just followed suit, doing as the other slaves did. As the caravan of people continued moving, the slaves and servants made a left, and proceeded to the place where they’d make camp. Ketill tried to turn left as well, to follow them and set up a tent and help with preparations. But once again, a coarse hand stopped him, and another hand pointed him forwards. Following the hand, Ketill saw Najla atop a horse, with Basim and a woman he did not know. They exchanged greetings with someone, which Ketill could only presume to be a villager. At the very least he would’ve been important, given the strange woman’s greeting towards him. Ketill looked at the guard again, who nodded, and pushed him forwards. Ketill’s lack of understanding of Sawarimic meant that this kind of non-verbal communication had become the norm.

Ketill followed the directions and continued on the way, shooting a longing glance at a few of the tents that were being put up as he walked past. As they walked through the village, however, his attention was grabbed by the passer-by’s that were all very interested in Najla and Basim, and when Ketill himself passed, him too. It almost felt like the first time he entered the Golden City, though these people seemed less civilized, and definitely more like the raiders that they had encountered that faithful night when they were captured. Ketill still remembered their faces – specifically the dark skinned man. A snake, he was. It made sense Najla had took to him – people that are alike tend to band together. 

He was brought to stand still outside of a house, which Najla and Basim had entered. He wondered what was inside that was so secretive that he was not allowed to see it – but given the intrigues of the Sultanate, that could be a great many things, ranging from holy relics, to the banner of St. Friedrich itself, to merely a piece of furniture that their contact in the village had wanted to show them. There would be no answer, so Ketill opted to not pre-occupy himself with the question to begin with. Instead, he focused on the eyes that were boring into the back of his head. He could feel their presence almost, the burning sensation on his back, it was the feeling of a man that felt hatred. For once, that man was not Ketill. When Ketill turned around, he found that the man staring at him was a villager – at least, so Ketill thought. 
He was dressed in leather, wearing some type of armour. On his belt rested an axe – unlike the somewhat graceful weaponry in the capital of the sultanate, this axe spoke more to actual efficiency and capability in battle. There were some notches on the wooden hilt – which Ketill could only assume to be a kill count. When Ketill looked at the man, the man did not look away, and continued to stare at him, his eyes fixated on the three dots on Ketill’s face, slowly dropping to his eyes.

[i]“What is it?”[/i] Ketill asked boldly, the royal guards that Najla had brought looking at Ketill and then to the man. Their eyes spoke of their feelings about the situation, and they weren’t happy, but they did not interfere. The man didn’t answer, regardless, merely looking at Ketill. A man would have been unnerved, perhaps, by the bulging eyes trying to stare him into submission. For Ketill, it reminded him of the recruits and guards at the castle that had tried to do the same before a spar. This lasted a few more moments before a guard stepped in between the man and Ketill, grabbing Ketill’s arm and guiding him onwards. Only then did Ketill realize that Najla and Basim had left the house – the visit was brief, but seemingly required. 

From the house he was guided – almost paraded – through the rest of the village, towards a canopy that had been raised within a fraction of the time it’d take a slave to do it. What these men lacked in extravagance and showboating, they made up for by working spirit. Of course, this was merely to the untrained eye of Ketill. Najla might have, and likely would have, seen something entirely different. Ketill was naturally not allowed under the canopy, and was guided to an empty spot, closer to the fire. He sat there among the other slaves that were part of the entourage of Najla. Though under the canopy there were merry times, the slaves were soberer, talking among themselves. Ketill was excluded from that – the slaves had no interest in him, some despised him for his supposed religion, some despised him for his position as favoured slave, and some despised him simply because they didn’t like him.

In truth, Ketill did not feel favoured. In fact, his position was considerably worse than those of the other slaves. They might not have the same level of protection, but most of them failed to realize that unlike them, Ketill was not complacent with his position – he desired something else entirely, something that laid within grasp at any moment but could never quite be taken. 

[center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nn7nsIv38no[/youtube][/center]

So, he just sat, his legs folded, looking at the people under the canopy, studying them carefully. His eyes went along, studying the warriors at first – they were strong, stronger than the guards, but obviously less disciplined. They were skirmishers and a flanking force. He remembered their kind from his time at Coedwin – these men were thrown into battle first, sent out ahead of the main lines to harass the enemy with their ranged weapons. Bows, javelins, jarids. Once the Servants advanced, they retreated, running like cowards – but it was a ploy. They would repeat this over and over, taking a few lives each and every time. And then the main battle commenced, when the Servants’ lines had been shattered and were in disarray. It was like a ritual. 

A ritual of battle. 

Ketills eyes rolled up slightly, as he began remembering one of the first times he went into a large battle outside of Coedwin. The skirmishers just went and came, shooting down his companions from the dunes, or from the small amount of shrubbery that was ahead of them. The commanders would order to attack, but the skirmishers would be long gone. The thuds of his footsteps echoed in his mind, molding themselves from a repetitive stomping noise to a mind dulling, deafening sound much alike the beating of drums.

The thuds of his own footsteps slowly made way for louder thuds. Ahead of them, as they moved forwards, a trail of dust arose, not of one man, thin and slick, but of a hundred, a thousand, if not more – it stretched from left to right, and came over the hill like a wall of dust, coming to swallow the Servants whole. 

He looked down again, and found himself suddenly on a horse, galloping towards the wall of dust that came to destroy them. In his left hand he held the reins, his shield firmly attached to his forearm. In his right, his sword, prepared to take Sawarim blood. But they were not fighting Sawarim, they were fighting the Pretender himself. Ketill looked right, to seek out his companion, but only found a steed – skeletal, his skin and flesh gone, only the bones remaining, galloping besides him. Atop the steed sat a warrior clad in the armour of the Servants, though he had no hands – only bones – and he had no face – only a skull. Ketill’s eyes widened then, and he looked left, only to find more skeleton warriors on skeleton horses, galloping towards their death. These men had perished. 

Ketill would follow. 

As they approached the wall of dust, it swallowed them, like a mouth ajar eating whatever found its’ way inside. When the air cleared ever so slightly, Ketill found himself on the ground, as sudden as he had found himself on a horse earlier. His horse was dead, laying atop of him, a spear stuck in its chest. The beast writhed under its’ own weight, trying desperately to avoid what was inevitable. Humans and animals were alike, in that aspect, struggling against the unknown, even if it was certain. Ketill himself was far from dead, and felt no fear of the unknown now, and struggled against the animal, slowly crawling out from underneath it, finding that with luck his legs had not been crushed. He coughed, the dust almost suffocating him, as he looked around. Bespectacled and confused, his mind pounding like the war drums when they marched. This was war. This was real.

With his left hand he covered his mouth now, trying to ensure that he would not die of suffocation before he even cut down a Sawarim. As he swivelled around, trying to find out where he was, or where his opponent was, he saw a man approaching. Slowly, walking with a hand at his side, holding on to a wound of some sorts. In his other hand his sword dragged, in the sand, leaving behind a trail that was swiftly bloodied by a mixture of the blood dripping off the sword, and his own blood. He wore neither armour of the Sawarim, nor armour of the Servants. Instead, he was dressed a thick cloak of fur, which resembled clothing of the North. As the man approached, he slowly walked up to Ketill, his eyes flashing left and right, before he collapsed in front of Ketill. 

Ketill barely managed to catch the man, holding him upright. [i]“I don’t understand,”[/i] he uttered, his voice cracked with confusion. This was not how that battle went – not at all, not even close. [i]“Who… are you…?”[/i] Ketill finally asked, though he would not receive a response.

Instead, the figure merely answered in a cryptic manner. [i]“The Gods want blood,”[/i] he said, slowly slipping from Ketill’s grasp, [i]“The fire. There will be fire. The ravens – you will know.”[/i] As the figure spoke, his face began fading too, the skin slowly disintegrating into the same dust that surrounded them, until Ketill was no longer holding anything resembling a man, merely a skeleton representing a husk. Ketill let go of the man in shock, the body falling onto the ground then – instead of laying there, it sank into the desert ground, and slowly the sand turned black from where it had sunk, spreading all around, even corrupting the dust that was in the air, casting a darkness on the entire area, even more than there had been before. 

A soft thud was heard, Ketill’s sword falling to the ground as he grabbed his head with two hands, spinning around where he stood, trying to seek for answers or a way out. This was madness – he was going insane. It had to be. He fell to his knees then, facing down at the black ground, simply opting to wait out this spiral of madness. If he did not act, he would contain it, he would stay sane. Slowly, ever so slowly, the approach of footsteps could be heard, faintly, through the sand. Ketill did not look, his eyes squinted shut, his hands on his ears, trying to ignore it. The steps got louder, and louder, sounding like this damned drums again, drumming inside his head, trying to drive him insane. 

Then the drums stopped, the footsteps stopped, and Ketill slowly opened his eyes. He looked up, finding shoes in front of him, then legs, then a figure, clad in extravagant black clothes. He did not dare look further, but something inside of him demanded it, [i]forced[/i] it. With twitches in his movements he looked further, finding a face covered in black cloth, the eyes visible. Ketill would recognize those eyes everywhere. Slowly the figure kneeled down, remaining in a calm composure. Ketill’s confused look faded – he understood now. Instead, he began grinning like a maniac, moving spontaneously, though lacking the control to move away. That soft voice spoke to him now, again, like it had before. [i]“You’ve been granted your life, Servant. Make me regret this and I’ll make you regret it more.”[/i] The words were remarkably close to him, despite the woman seemingly not even moving her lips to speak them. The eyes peered into his eyes, but reached deeper, finding his very soul, trying to reach out, touch it, pretend to care for it with kind hearted but empty empathy. The tongue of a snake had more soul than these words that the voice dared utter to him. [i]“I’ve never met a man like you.”[/i] At these words the figures hands reached out for his face, grasping his cheeks, holding them to ensure that he looked at her. With fake touch and fake words, they had hoped to greet Ketill and ensure his cooperation and lasting loyalty. Ketill tried to pull back from her touch, but could not move, for her eyes had made him into stone, his muscles refusing to move. [i]“You never wanted anything from me. You still don’t, not even now. I could offer you the world, but all you want is blood. Perhaps they were right to call you Daab.”[/i] 

[i]“AGK!”[/i] 


The figure retracted their hand, which held a silver dagger, curved like a Sawarim’s blade. It had been planted in his heart, with deadly accuracy. When she pulled back the blade, the crimson of his blood stained the sterile silver, marking it eternally. As the figure pulled back, it retreated in whole, stepping back into the black dust, fading away. Ketill tried to speak to the figure, to speak its’ name but couldn’t, grasping at his heart, slowly slumping forwards until he collapsed into the black sand. 

[hr]

With a loud gasp, Ketill returned to the world, finding himself in the same position, watching the people under the canopy. He found that none had taken notice of him fading away, and why should they? They were preoccupied with drinking and talking. He caught his breath, his eyes moving side to side, twitchy from the strange flashback he had, which had begun resembling something more akin to a vision rather quickly. The words that the figure had spoken to him, those were easy to tell apart. He had heard them before, and they had solicited the same feelings then as they had now. The fire burning inside of him was fanned, expanding and heating his body more than the nearby fire could. But the words of the stranger that had spoken to him, these were much more unknown. But somehow he felt at ease with them – he was not scared of the unknown. Whether this vision would prove truthful or not, the ravens had been seen before, and they had marked a bad omen for someone then. But they would appear again, it seemed. 

Though his thoughts were deep, the touch of a slave would bring him back to the world. His body shook when she touched him, but he quickly relaxed when he noticed it was merely some slave girl. These visions had put him on edge, something that was new to him, and that made him feel energized. The long trek to this village had been brutal, but somehow, he no longer felt tired. He only felt… a calming sense of anger in his head. Before this feeling had only ever been in his heart. It was a strange feeling, this, and Ketill tried to ignore it as he slowly got up from his seated position and walked towards the canopy. It was nearly emptied now, with the men mostly dancing around the fire. When he stepped into the sight of all those that held eyes for him only in this moment, someone stepped forwards. Seeing her eyes as she stepped forwards and tried to reach for him, his instincts kicked in. His muscles tensed up, preparing to strike. But something inside of Najla stopped her reaching for him. For a moment, Ketill considered grabbing Najla’s throat, and tearing it up, choking her in seconds, breaking her neck like a twig. As he fingers began to twitch at these thoughts, someone spoke up.

The voice from the vision? It couldn’t be. She was standing here, in front of him, so why did the voice come from amidst the group of women? As Ketill looked into the group now, he saw the same woman that was standing in front of him – lacking a tattoo. None had ever explained to Ketill what they meant, but he knew that Najla did not bear one. His eyes flashed back to the woman in front of him, and he realized that this wasn’t Najla. With that realization his muscles relaxed again, when this new woman clutched her hands around his biceps. Although it annoyed Ketill, being a parading horse of the royal family, he knew that it was to be endured. A tool was only a tool, after all. When she grasped at his arm, Ketill’s eyes remained upon Najla, who spoke to him like he was dense. 

[i]“Yes, it would be strange for these women to suddenly start beating me. Strange as that would be, I do not hold you above letting them do it.”[/i]

While the women looked on, a familiar presence entered the area under the canopy again – though Ketill knew not his name. And though Ketill did not understand his words, he could hear the intonation with which the man spoke. Najla’s reply betrayed that the man had made a joke – though Najla’s laughter was not always a sign of something being funny. She was a snake, after all. Suddenly, a cheer erupted behind the man, and some raised their hands and fists into the air, as did some with cups of alcohol.

Ketill merely stood there as the woman that had grabbed his arm earlier slowly backed off. Perhaps this was Najla’s great plan, as the mood suddenly seemed to have shifted. Despite the cheerful nature of the inebriated men, Ketill could sense that there was more going on. The women did not seem as happy as the men did, after all. 

Then Najla spoke, first to the Sawarim, then to Ketill. Her words, no doubt well meant, were little more than a confirmation at that point. A grin once more toiled around Ketill’s lips, before he spoke. [i]“If this is where Osman comes from, I think I’ll be okay.”[/i] He looked at the men once more, these raiders and skirmishers, but found no reason to be concerned. 

Najla moved to her brother then, and Ketill was lead to the centre where all could see him, close to the fire. As he waited for the man that he presumed to be the village leader, he pulled off his tunic – as luxurious as it might’ve been for a slave. He let it fall onto the ground, showing off his bare chest now, littered with scars. It was how he had trained with Harith and the other guards, so it would be how he fought now. Not too soon after that, the man that was to fight him stepped forward. The face was one he had seen before – that man that had watched him so intently when he waited outside the house that Najla and Basim had entered. The same hatred he had felt then he could feel now, but this time it was met by a similar anger. Whatever fire that his vision had started in his head, it remained there, and slowly he could feel his vision going red. It didn’t feel pleasant – but at the same time, so comfortable, like the warmth of a skin at night. Ketill had to actually try and not fall too deep into this red mist inside of his head. It felt dangerous, somehow.

The tribals then started a confusing ritual, which Ketill had no meaning for. The drums began, once again reminding Ketill of the drums of war, but this time, there was no flashback, nor a vision – it was reality now. Every single person sat on their knees now – all but Ketill. He did not bow for a god, not even his own. The flatter of wings called Ketill to attention, looking to his left, atop a rooftop of one of the houses. A bird with black wings, obviously a raven, sat there, and was then promptly joined by another. They were silent, did not caw, did not flatter their wings unnecessarily. They just watched Ketill, their heads twisting sideways, curiously, as if they were waiting for him to act. 

An omen, surely, but for who? He glanced back at Najla. Everyone had their heads bowed. If he moved quickly, he could be upon her in seconds, and take her world. Though the luxury of the palace would be hard to tear down – it would be easy to tear down one woman, no matter how high the throne she sat upon was. He could feel his hands twitch now, a quick glance back at the ravens, and then at Najla. Slowly he put his foot forwards to walk, but then stopped. Instead, he put his foot back. It was something he could not explain, something he had no thoughts for. It would’ve been easy. But it wasn’t what he wanted. He had only asked for a sword – not her world – that, he would take.

Before the Sawarim finished their prayers, Ketill glanced at the ravens, but they were nowhere to be found, not even in the sky. Though it was dark, and they blended with the night sky well, Ketill was sure he would’ve been able to see them. But he couldn’t. Had he… imagined it?

Then his eyes found Najla again, and watched carefully as she sliced her forehead. The offering of blood was familiar to him. The meaning the Sawarim gave it was not – but that mattered little. When it was all said and done, she lifted her face to him, and spoke to him – sternly, as were her eyes. 

[i]“I don’t need your blood,”[/i] Ketill spoke back as the guard walked towards him with the axe. [i]“They watch over me. If I die, I will fight forever.”[/i] With that cryptic message said, he grabbed the axe from the guard, and turned to face his opponent. The man did not seem nervous, seemed to have made his peace with whatever was going to happen now. Ketill was at peace too, though not because he was at ease with whatever happened, but because the red fog in his head slowly crept over him further. His breaths began getting deeper, his entire body moving with them, up and down, as he stared down his opponent. Although the man was not meagre or frail at all, there was a clear size difference – though, that usually went for Sawarim and Broacieniens. At that point, Najla’s request to make it a good show did not even reach him anymore.

[center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gY4Yvbm6Tw4[/youtube][/center]

The two men were now no longer Sawarim and Broacienien, no longer Sawarimic and Servant, but purely man and beast. A pact had been made in Ketill’s mind, to fight to the death, not as enemies, but as warriors. To earn the forgiveness of the Allfather. It was not the end – it was merely a beginning. 

There were a good few meters between the men, clearly meant for them to size each other up. But rather than wait for the man to reveal his movements, Ketill stepped forwards. He moved slowly, walking at a leisurely pace, then faster, jogging, then running at the man. The sand kicked up beneath his feet as he ran towards him, and to Najla and Zahira, who had seen him fight before, this would be neither familiar nor unfamiliar. He had moved quickly before, with a threateningly aggressive nature, but this was more. It was different, somehow, though it would be hard to see how or why.

Once Ketill got in swinging reach, he began swinging his axe at the man wildly, releasing a breath of air with each swing, softly at first, as the man merely sidestepped his attacks, or deflected them best he could. With each swing, Ketill’s breaths got louder, indicating he was putting more and more force behind the attacks, and at some point, it would’ve become audible for the audience. 

Even then, what was more concerning, was that the volunteer did not get a single chance to attack, and was pushed onto the defensive. He was sidestepping left and right, and forced to step back and around Ketill to avoid his many strikes. If he had hoped to wait until Ketill was tired out, he would’ve fought all night, as Ketill showed no signs of slowing down, only growing more aggressive in his many swings. While he could deflect the attacks earlier, doing so now only resulted in an uncomfortable loss of grip on the weapon as Ketill pushed through. 

Ketill had not hit him – yet – but continued his assault until the red fog in his head had taken over more or less entirely. His axe moved with impunity, and Ketill’s movements no longer felt like his own, even if they were. He had control, but at the same time did not. He never felt this way before, and it was uncomfortable like before, but at the same time perhaps the most comfortable he had ever been. His axe swung overhead, but before connecting with the man’s axe, which he had shifted to block the strike, he suddenly changed the direction of the axe. Instead, Ketill moved it left and downwards, catching the man in the side. The axe cleaved into the man’s armor and cut underneath, not reaching deep enough to disable him entirely, but deep enough for blood to flow. 

Ketill’s axe got pulled back and before the man could even cry in pain, the axe was sent down once again, this time cleaving into his hip. Once again he cut through the armour, and when the axe was pulled back, he bled even more. His otherwise white tunic under the armour was now staining red from the blood. Momentarily, Ketill ceased his assault, and he found himself watching the man stumble backwards as he tried to prepare for the next attack despite being wounded. His eyes then glanced over the crowd, to measure their reactions, before he stepped forwards again. 

As he approached, the man tried to swing at him now, desperate to at least [i]hit[/i] the accursed infidel that Ketill presented himself as before he would die. Instead, Ketill moved his free hand up and caught the man’s hand mid-swing. Using his grip on the man’s wrist as leverage, he forced the man downwards to the ground, before turning to the right and swinging the man in that direction, sending him tumbling down. He landed right before the crowd, who moved back to offer the fighters space. They were getting dangerously close to the canopy now, however, and even as the fighter scrambled to his feet, one hand on his wounds, the other preparing to strike against Ketill, he made no effort to move away from the canopy. 

When Ketill drew closer once more, chasing the man for his blood, to show the Sawarim how this Daab offered blood, the tribal warrior instead moved forwards, engaging with Ketill much how Ketill engaged him earlier. He lacked the speed or tenacity, but Ketill made no real effort to block the strike. It was aimed at his shoulder, and would likely have cleaved into him. But a small movement meant that he only got nicked by the edge of the axe, cutting him slightly, too shallow to do real damage, but deep enough to bleed. It seeped from there quickly, streaming down his torso, but Ketill did not feel it – or at least, it seemed that way to the audience. 

While the man tried to get his axe in position again, Ketill grabbed him by the neck with his free hand and lifted him up – a feat of strength that not many could have mimicked – and threw him, through the canopy, landing on the back half under the canopy, and rolling through the sand until he was slightly behind it. Again he stumbled to his feet, and imagined that Ketill would have to move around the canopy to reach him, buying him valuable time to prepare. 

Instead, he and the others would find that Ketill had no such manners. He walked through the area covered by the canopy, stepping over the pillows carelessly as his eyes remained fixated on the man in front of him, even as he passed Najla and Thamud. His axe dripped of blood, as it did on his shoulder, but this seemed of no concern to him. 

Once more Ketill approached, seemingly hounding the man like a bear, which he had been described to be after all. Now the real duel would begin. They had both had a taste of the others’ fighting style and had a taste of blood. When the Sawarim swung his axe at him, Ketill blocked it with his, and would retort with a strike of his own, which the man would block. The battle continued for a minute or so, each giving out a blow and then blocking one, sometimes daringly trying to strike twice before having to block. In their exchange of blows, they slowly moved around in a half circle around the canopy, back towards the fire. The two were both evidently experienced warriors, but only a fool would’ve bet on the Sawarim at that point. The clanking of metal against metal, the wood of the shafts clattering against each other, it would last for some time, until Ketill finally had a chance to disarm him. 

When the shafts collided, Ketill swiftly moved his axe downwards, the metal axe-head hooking around that of his opponent, who was caught by surprised and lost his grip. With a swift movement the axe was pulled out of his hand and flung back towards the canopy, landing in the sand somewhere. Rather than use this chance to kill the man immediately, Ketill stepped back, and with a single motion threw his axe to the side, letting it land in the sand. They would continue unarmed, he tried to say with that gesture, though he knew better than to trust a Sawarim. 

The raiders’ eyes were dim, even as he approached to fight Ketill again. Once they got close enough, they began exchanging blows – this time, neither of them blocked or moved out of the way, but just took the hits of the others’ fist. The raider struck first, striking Ketill in the face, who retorted by punching the man on the eye, before he received one in the jaw again. This, too, went on for a minute or so, until Ketill grabbed the man’s clothes and lifted him in the sky, and then throwing him into the sad not much further. It was clear that, despite the reputation of being a bear, even Ketill could run out of energy. It seemed the fighter himself was also out of energy however, as both of them were breathing heavily.

Ketill jumped onto him immediately, and began punching him with his right fist, while holding him down with the left. It was a brutal display of combat. Whereas most fights would be settled in a few minutes, with a single lucky strike of the axe or sword, this one seemed to have lasted quite some time yet. The punches continued, and the man did not have the energy to fight back. His hands desperately reached through the sand, looking for anything – a dry stick, a stone, anything – he could use to kill Ketill. In sight of the audience, his fingers reached for the axe that Ketill had discarded earlier, and cheers would erupt from the warriors as they cheered the man on. 

But despite his luck, the pain he was feeling as well as the continuing blows in his face would not help him. He tried to strike at Ketill’s neck to end the fight, but missed entirely, instead having the axe rake across his back, slicing it open somewhat. Ketill’s eyes widened then, as he felt the pain of the man’s axe opening him up. The man capitalized on this then and pushed his free arm underneath Ketill’s chin. With his other arm, he promptly swung at Ketill, hitting him in the jaw with his elbow. 

The blow pushed Ketill off of the man, giving him some hard earned time to breathe and recover from the many blows to the face he got – at this point, his face was already starting to swell from the punches. His wounds were bleeding still, as were Ketill’s, who seemed to be covered in blood more than the fighter was, though it was uncertain if it was his own or the mans’ blood. 

The man crawled away – or at least tried to – but found himself quickly struggling against Ketill, who had gotten up and grabbed the man’s leg, pulling him back, and then shifted his hands to the man’s back. With a single pull, he pulled the man upright again, and grabbed him by the hair. Rather than head-butt him like some would have expected, he turned to the fire, and pushed the man’s face closer to the fire. He struggled heavily, as many would when faced with the heat, and the audience was sure to see the trembling of Ketill’s arms as he pushed him closer, closer… ever so closer. 

Ketill finally managed to push the man’s face into the fire itself, as he felt the lick of the flames burning the top of his fingers inside the man’s hair, as the man’s face was scorched rapidly, blisters appearing within a few seconds. Once the man’s body went more limb from pain and he started losing the energy to fight back, Ketill pushed even harder, throwing the man into the fire entirely now. The agonizing screams were blood curdling, forcing even Ketill to think about what he had done. But even then, the screams didn’t stop. The pile of logs that were burning slowly crumbled, having been destabilized by the man’s forced entry into the fire, crashing on top of him. 

Ketill turned around to face the crowd, but looked back at the fire once more once he heard the pained movements of the man he had thrown in there. Although he was still half ablaze, the man tried to crawl out of the fire, somewhat successfully, although his lack of grip in the sand made him slow. Rather than force him to burn to death, Ketill walked towards the nearby axe that the man had dropped, and took it up again. Then he stepped closer to the man, and raised the axe high – even in the dark of night, the moonlight shimmered off of the axe when he raised it.

Then the axe met with flesh. Ketill began chopping at the man, even when he stopped crawling, even when the screams stopped, even when the wheezing breaths stopped, even then did he continue to chop at him. The body shook with every thud of the axe, hitting his body in random places, blood seeping from every place on his body where he could’ve been hit. During this, he yelled loudly, [i]“RAAAAAGHK!”[/i] as the axe kept hitting the man’s lifeless body as it continued to burn.

Once he was done, he stood up straight and walked closer to the audience, standing there, his body heaving under his laboured heavy breaths. Again he threw the axe down in front of him, before lifting his hands to the sky. [i]“AUDRUN! AUDRUUUUN!”[/i] As he stood there, his hands raised to the sky, shouting the name of the all-father, it must have been a strange sight to the Sawarim. He was breezing, and if he had truly been a bear, he might have actually breezed with visible mist coming from his nose.

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