Sachihiro

'The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak'. I have never really understood that piece of wisdom until these 'fae' came to our lands. To know these are the fabled fae we wanted to ally with does nothing to stem our determination to slaughtering them.

On the contrary.

It's been to days of fighting them for two days and nights of steel and blood. Two days we fight, we lose limbs, we die. For two days there is nothing but gruelling slaughter.

For the first time in recent history, the Barbarian spirit loses its taste for battle. We have gorged and glutted ourselves on so much blood, death and battle that it leaves a bad taste in our mouths. Will these creatures never retreat?

If we had been the ones to raid them I would say we have bitten more than we can chew. I'm not sure who was the first to identity our attackers as fae, but everyone knows by now and we are bitter with that knowledge.

Bitter that such stalwart creatures exist, bitter they know true struggle better than us, bitter because we are considering opening paths for them to retreat 'hoping' they take them, bitter that we are not the almighty warrior people we thought we were. The world is much bigger than our beautiful vast tundra with green hills, wild forests and tall mountains. The world houses true monsters in human guide and they've shown us the ugliness of their true face.

I watch a fight infront of me for a while, it's a stalemate of 12 warriors interchanging themselves continuously against three of the invaders in an continuous clash of steel. I'd be no good there.

I find another fight, 6 exhausted warriors covered in gapping wounds eyes red with the Rage through which they flow like water. I watch the pattern as they take on the far and maneuver it about, I analyse.

There!

I hack into a gap,

[TSWEE...]

I see stars, blink to consciousness finding the fight has moved elsewhere. My hand slaps onto my face with an explosion of pain on my wrist, shit I'm bleeding badly.

Wrip out belt, make tourniquet. Tighten with teeth.

These fae are truly formidable foes. But even still, we've killed nearly 80 of them by my last count with all the ones that used magic already dead.

It seems they're unable to maintain a 200 hour protracted battle after resorting to their elemental powers, which gave us advantage. But even in the face of this bitterness and weariness for battle by the gods it’s a glorious death to die at their hands, every single warrior that falls today will be honoured in song and stories even as their soul continues its journey in the ever-after.

We take advantage of every perceived weakness, relegating the ones that used magic to tribesmen wielding spears and shields. Using hit and retreat tactics to wear them down. For whatever reason the magic drains their stamina after a few hours, even sparingly used it seems to add up and we pounce.

Ava with her poleaxe is part of such a group. A team of six harassing an opponent the lightning mage forced into using its power of light and colours for nearly an hour.

I watch Ava's group from afar. They switch out constantly for whoever has the best weapon and position that can take advantage of an opening.

We've learnt a lot from our enemy and we've paid for those lessons in bodies. Mounds of tribesmen and women lie dead and cold everywhere, the boneless way the body alays itself in death is perverse. The non-combatants finding ways to pull some injured and dead out of the fights and dress them for the pyre lest they get in the way.

The camp is not recognisable. The stench of the place is morbid with silent effeciency now, every move done for survival. The children and older people have already been whisked away from this place of our scattered dead.

Never in all my life have I been so tired, even though I slept a few hours I'm tired to the bone.

I nearly lost a hand last I went into a fight, left wrist bandaged and tied in a sling. My hand is practically hanging on by a tread of skin and tendons. I drink with my right hand from a water skin. Lying against a tree that has been pissed on by dozens of tribesmen, I'm just to tired and sore to care.

I saw Dee fighting among a large group of spear users harassing a fae male duel wielding their beautiful signature short swords. That boy is terrifying. Always thinking and planning, and even more so in his cold Rage that would be expected.

You can hardly tell by looking at him he's in the Rage. But you can definitely feel it if you’re close enough, or it’s directed at you. I shake my head. Daewon no longer needs me to worry about him. The boy will surpass me in time, no question about it.

I take another swing as a body crashes loudly seemingly from the sky with a heavy thump. Bouncing once and flopping to stillness.

A fae's body.

I look up to see what looks like three people flying on the roof of the long house. I shake my head too tired to be amazed. Nothing surprises me about the bald man anymore. I watch as he dispatches another opponent using magic.

I think it's magic. He does some hand gestures and releases some sort of energy that makes his shadow almost solid and hold down his opponent for a moment as he slashes with a dagger and stabs at the chest.

Another body falls as he follows through with a kick, followed closely by a retreating fae. As soon as its feet touch the ground it goes back on the offensive.

The bald man looks haggard. His torso exposed and full of cuts and blood, a part of his chest is sheared off. But the man has been fighting two or three fae at a time for two days straight. Killing at least 6 himself, maybe even 7 now.

His double shadow trick faded long ago, he to be at his limit. We're all gonna die here.

Through it all I'm proud, proud to live in these times. Proud to be part of something this big. Never in all the ages in all our stories, has a battle lasted this long. Especially against so few opponents.

I've seen even famous warriors like Chief Bjork of the Savage Tribe, and Kaapo the Brave resting. Chief Stomm's left arm is completely gone at the elbow.

The wind is brisk in my fave taking away the tears from my tired eyes, I find that I'm smiling.

Dusk is turning fully into night to complete the second day of battle, to bring us into a start of a third day with no end to this battle in sight. At least a hundred fae remain standing still and ten thousand angry Barbarians wait their next turn to fight.

Most of us are going to die here but I think we'll take them with us.

Angry, but weary I close my eyes to rest a moment, just a moment; after all I've had four engagements.

I wake to a wind buffeting my face and a beautiful melodic voice speaking. I'm groggy and weak still but I push myself to my feet.

The fighting has stopped, night has set in. I blink to adjust my eyes and stumble towards tribesmen.

"What's happening?" I ask. Standing in a group of tired, dirty, injured men and women. I fit right in.

"Another group of fae has arrived. They don't seem to be with the raiders," a voice says. I follow the somewhat familiar voice to find Asger, Caden, the Jotnar girl and a few other Jotnar men. Freya is amongst them thankfully.

I nod. "So is the fighting over?"

"Looks like it. By the heavens I hope so," a tired Caden says. Barely on his feet.

"Where's Freydìs?"

"Dead." Freyá says after a moment. Then looking away.

That is a response I did not expect for some reason even in this carnage. My mouth hangs open for a moment trying to understand... What don't I understand anyways?

I swallow. "Are you sure?" I whisper, and get a nod in response as blood starts pumping through my head. Blocking my hearing by how loud it is.

I don't know how I feel. Why is it so hot all of a sudden? I swallow some more saliva then bring up my water skin. A trickle falls onto my dry tongue. Freya moves towards me saying something inaudible.

I'm really warm. So Freydìs is dead huh? I exhale through my mouth. Blowing air out. Why am I so bloody warm? I think I'm getting red. I try taking of my tunic. It's in tatters anyways, but it’s constricting.

Freyá sees my plight as my left hand barely moves. She helps me remove it. I haft my spiritual axe from my belt as I feel my awareness spread to it. It becomes me. My axe. I know this axe intimately.

I heft it in my right hand with ease and flip it in my hand a few times. Not needing to look at it as it spins and drops handle first back in my hand. The whole time I'm walking, not exactly sure where my legs are taking me.

So Freydìs is dead huh? She was a good lay. A really good lay. After bedding Sema a few times Freydìs took me into her capable hands. Taught me how to please her, thought me how to better please Sema even.

Let me do things to her I thought unnatural, but felt good. Did unnatural things to me, some hurt, some I liked to my embarrassment. Then she left me. I resented her for that for a while. But we talked it through; she claims she was letting me grow she was also just growing.

But now she's dead. I find myself a few yards from the speaker reading to throw the axe I know knows where to go. How to turn, how many revolutions are needed to embed itself perfectly between the beautiful creature’s eyes.

I look at it closely as it speaks. Humanoid shape, as tall as any Barbarian. Pale sparkling skin, even in the night, probably because its night. Beautiful plumb pink lips, white twisting horns on its forehead that curve backwards. Something dainty about those curving horns pale continence.

An alien creature, other.

Its appearance doesn't surprise me as much as it should. Though the ones we've been fighting look more human than this one with its black eyes.

It looks at me as it speaks. Seeing its death in my soul. It smiles.

Darkness overtakes me.