Chapter 5 The Draugr's Revenge

As the Norsemen trudged cautiously through the dense woods, a chilling silence enveloped them. The wind stirred the leaves above, casting dancing shadows across their wary faces. Striggr, walking near the back of the group, suddenly halted. His head snapped toward a rustle in the trees. A twig cracked, sharp as thunder in the silence.

"Who's there?" Striggr barked, his hand gripping the hilt of his axe tightly.

Halvadan, just ahead, turned with a scowl. "What's wrong now?"

Striggr's gaze remained fixed on the dark woods. "I heard something," he muttered, his tone uncertain but tense.

Finnr scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "A rabbit?"

Kjartan stopped as well, his piercing eyes scanning the surroundings. "It's nothing. Let's keep moving."

Striggr hesitated, his unease still evident, but he shrugged and rejoined the group. As the warriors pressed forward, the woods seemed to grow darker. But then, before Striggr could take another step, a shadow darted from the trees with impossible speed.

A cold blade sliced across his throat. His eyes widened in shock, his hands clawing at the wound as he crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud.

The group froze.

The choking sound of Striggr gurgling on his own blood broke the silence. Finnr turned sharply, his face pale as he saw the warrior's body twitching on the ground.

"Striggr!" Finnr shouted. His voice was frantic as he drew his sword, his eyes darting into the shadows. "Who did this? Show yourself!"

From the darkness emerged a figure, stepping into the scene. Clad in a robe that fluttered in the night breeze, his long hair framed a face etched with purpose. A thick, long beard glistened with bones hung from his neck like macabre trophies, and his eyes burned with intensity.

Halvadan's breath caught in his throat. His voice trembled as he pointed, "You! I killed you! How are you still alive?"

The group recoiled, their weapons trembling in their hands. Finnr took an involuntary step back, his voice barely a whisper. "It's him... it's the priest."

Kjartan's expression darkened, his lips tightening into a grim line. His voice cold and resolute. "He's no man. He has become a Draugr. Here for revenge."

The warriors exchanged uneasy glances. Draugr—the undead of Norse legend. Creatures of unstoppable strength and supernatural fury.

One of the younger warriors stammered, "W-we're finished! Unless we... we decapitate him..."

Brynach said nothing. Instead, he crouched beside Striggr's body, wrenching the man's sword from his lifeless fingers. He examined it for a moment, then gave a small, satisfied nod. The sword was better than the rusty one he carried.

Turning back to the group, Brynach pointed the bloodied blade at them and spoke in a low, commanding voice. "Come."

The challenge sent a ripple of fear through the warriors. Halvadan, a towering man with a grey beard and a shield as wide as his chest, grunted in disgust. He shoved his comrades aside.

"Cowards!" he spat, stepping forward with his axe raised. His voice boomed with false confidence. "I'll take him on myself!"

Halvadan advanced with thunderous steps, his heavy shield raised before him and his axe glinting in the faint moonlight. His breath fogged the cold air as he snarled, "Fight me, Draugr! Show me the strength of the dead!"

Brynach stood still, his eyes locked onto Halvadan's movements. His grip tightened on the sword, the blood still dripping from its blade. To him, the big man moved like a lumbering ox, every swing telegraphed, every movement slow. The nanobots in his system heightened his senses to an unnatural degree. He could see the flex of Halvadan's muscles, the trembling of his grip, and hear the uneven thrum of his heartbeat.

The first swing came fast and heavy, but Brynach leaned back, letting the blade whistle harmlessly past his chest. Halvadan bellowed in frustration, swinging again and again, each strike carving through the air but never meeting its mark.

"Fight me!" Halvadan roared, his voice hoarse and desperate.

Brynach's movements were measured, almost lazy. He sidestepped a downward strike and Halvadan grunted, yanking it free, only for Brynach to step inside his guard with a swiftness that made the other warriors gasp.

Enough, in the next moment the druid's sword drove deep into Halvadan's stomach. The warrior's eyes bulged as he staggered back, clutching the hilt embedded in his gut. He sank to his knees, blood pouring from the wound and staining the ground.

Halvadan's hand reached for his axe, but Brynach kicked it away effortlessly. The dying man crumpled to the ground, his body twitching as life ebbed from him. He stepped closer, his voice calm but cold. "I told you. You won't see Valhalla."

The other Norsemen stood frozen, their faces pale with terror. Finnr's sword wavered in his hand, his knuckles white as he gripped it.

The silence shattered as one warrior turned and ran, his footsteps echoing through the woods. Another followed, then another. Panic spread like wildfire.

"Run!" one of them shouted, their voices breaking with fear.

As Brynach stood, his heightened senses allowed him to perceive every subtle movement around him. His eyes flicked from one warrior to the next, noting their fear, the way their bodies trembled, the tightness in their grip on their weapons. Panic was setting in like a disease, spreading through the remaining Norsemen.

Brynach's gaze lingered on a particular Viking, whose face remained eerily calm. Unlike the others, Kjartan's breathing was even, his posture unyielding. His hands did not shake as he gripped his sword and tapped on the hilt with his finger, nor did he fumble for any other weapon in a futile attempt to defend himself.

He could hear the rhythm of Kjartan's heartbeat, steady and slow, unperturbed by the death surrounding him.

The two archers remained, their bows drawn, arrows trained on Brynach.

"Loose!" Kjartan ordered.

The first arrow shot through the air. Brynach tilted his head slightly, the arrow barely grazing his cheek before embedding into the ground. The second arrow came a moment later, but Brynach raised his sword with supernatural precision, deflecting it into the trees.

The archers exchanged wide-eyed glances, their hands trembling as they fumbled to notch another arrow.

Kjartan let out a frustrated growl. "Enough!" He dropped his sword and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Kjartan took a step forward, his voice lowering into something calm and measured. "You've proven your strength. I can see that you're not a Draugr....You're something far greater."

The remaining warriors stared at their leader, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear.

"I have traveled far," Kjartan continued, his tone almost reverent. "I've seen men offer themselves to gods, to spirits. My own father gave his life as a sacrifice to Odin...you've defied death itself. Tell me, what god do you serve? Perhaps..." "I will renounce mine and follow yours." He said in a pleading tone.

Brynach's gaze narrowed. He noticed the subtle tapping of Kjartan's fingers again this tim against his thigh—a nervous tic, the druid tilted his head slightly, amused. "Is that so?"

Finnr, still holding his sword, spat at the ground. "Traitor! Thor will strike you down!"

Another warrior growled, his voice trembling with suppressed fear. "You bring shame to the Gods."

But Kjartan ignored them, his eyes fixed on Brynach. "Tell me, who has granted you such power? If it is a god, I will swear my loyalty to them and to you."

Brynach's lips twisted into a dark smile as he walked to Kjartan. "Oh, Arawn," he murmured, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "See what you've done? Even these filthy savages feel your power."

He studied Kjartan for a moment, his gaze sharp. "You're different. Tell me, Kjartan would you renounce your gods for the power of Arawn?"

Kjartan's silence was answer enough.

Brynach's expression darkened, and he raised his sword. "All of you renounce your false gods, kneel before me, and I may spare you."

In the next moment it was silent except for the sound of Brynach's ragged breaths.

A sharp pain tore through Brynach's head, sudden and overwhelming. He stumbled back, his vision swimming in and out of focus. The distant sounds of the forest blurred into a dull roar as he raised a trembling hand to his face. Blood dripped from his nose, warm and sticky.

"What… is this?" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His other hand clutched his head as the pain intensified, his knees buckling beneath him.

Kjartan, who had been slumped in defeat moments ago, watched intently. His sharp eyes caught every moment. A chance! he thought, his mind racing.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his body to rise. His desperation gave him strength. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he took an unsteady step forward.

Brynach, lost in his haze of pain, didn't react. Blood smeared across his robe as he wiped his face again, dazed.

Kjartan's resolve hardened. He lunged forward, his movements quick. The blade gleamed in the moonlight as it arced through the air, aimed for Brynach's neck.

The druid's eyes widened, it was too late. The sword sliced clean through, and his head fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

Brynach's body stood motionless for a moment, as though unaware of what had just happened. Then it collapsed, blood pooling around it.

From the severed neck, a faint glimmer emerged—a tiny, metallic bug, hovered in the air, its movements precise and deliberate, as though observing the scene.