Through the Flames

I ran down different roads, some stone and others of dirt, releasing arrows until there were none left in my quiver. There weren't many skelmar where I was now.

The ones here had been left to pillage while others took the fight further away, so running into me was a surprise which played greatly in my favor.

Tossing my quiver aside, I slipped my bow over my shoulder and looked around before the glint of a weapon in a skelmar's hand caught my attention.

A skeggøx.

Ripping the axe from his hand, I examined the weapon.

The blade had a distinctive, curved edge with a slight beard that ended in a point. The back was flattened, almost like a hammer and the axe-head itself was mounted on a wooden haft that was wrapped in leather ties.

Hmm. This will suffice.

I turned and ran once more until I rounded the corner of a burning building to see Triaa dangling in the air by her neck, her attacker's broad back to me.

Snowball stood there, hunkered low to the ground, ears flat, growling at the scene but didn't move. A single unwarranted movement could be the demise of his mate.

Gods, where are the other two when you need them?

"Hey!"

Nothing.

"Oi! Bacraut," I shouted louder.

This caught the man's attention as he turned.

Looking at Triaa again, her head bobbed as she fought to stay conscious.

"Fight me," I say, taking a stance.

The brute didn't say anything as he tilted his head with raised brow.

"Are you deaf? Berjast við mig!"

There we go. Now I have his full attention.

Looking down at my sister, he tossed her aside. Snowball jumped, cushioning her fall then looked at me.

"Don't worry about me. Go. Make sure Triaa is alright and for the love of the Gods, please regroup."

Snowball whined for a moment but said nothing as he nodded before shifting, scooping Triaa into his arms.

I thought I heard him say, "we'll be back," as he took off but his voice was silenced as a burning beam crashed to the ground where he once stood.

Focusing back on the man, I couldn't help feel uneasy yet feel a sense of familiarity about him as parts of the village burned in a sea of red, yellow and orange.

I watched as the flames ripped their way through the buildings surrounding us, tendrils of smoke reaching desperately into the sky, as if trying to escape the blazing inferno below.

"Bjarke Renouf."

Dumbfounded, I blinked.

"What?"

"My name, it's Bjarke," he said, drawing his sword and a wooden shield.

"I care, why?"

"You should know the name of the man who is going to kill you."

"Right," I snipped, dragging the word out as far as it would go.

We stood there a moment more before he lunged, shield up and sword pointed.

My axe hit his sword, blocking his attack before I spun and used all my strength to bring my weapon down on his shield. It splintered and split the wood down its side; still usable but also very useless in the same go.

"Ho, ho," Bjarke laughed. "You do have a fight in you. Here I thought you had slacked on training and would be done after a single blow."

I cringed at his words and the double meaning that followed them.

I wasn't trained to fight with this kind of weapon. It's a lot harder to do this than I'm willing to admit.

"Shut u—," I didn't get to finish as he charged again, his sword cleaving through the air and down onto my axe, causing me to stagger back. His next draw back, I managed to pivot and swing the axe fast enough to land three blows before jumping back.

I'm already winded. This isn't good.

Bjarke must have noticed it too because he tossed his shield aside and swung again.

One hit. Blocked.

The second hit, I caught his sword with the beard of my axe, locking us in place.

Being this close to him was frightening. Realistically speaking, the man could easily overpower me.

So the hundred sovereign question is, why wasn't he?

"He's toying with you," River said.

"No. He is testing her ability— her strength, temperament, movements... all around skill. He doesn't look like the rest of the skelmar and he doesn't hold Moon Rock colors. Also, he isn't bloodied or even remotely wounded. He came here with a single purpose," Faelen retorted, her ears perked at the man as if she knows something.

I didn't even have time to process what they were saying as Bjarke jerked back, pulling me with him and slammed his head into mine. I stumbled, unable to regain my senses and balance quick enough as he swiped his sword out, the tip cutting my thigh.

That burning pain jolted me back as I swung my axe.

This continued for a minute— block, parry, block, hit, pivot, duck, jump, hit, block— before I spun, my axe cutting across Bjarke's shoulder and in a swift move, I moved just enough to kicked him back.

It didn't seem to phase Bjarke as much as it intrigued him. He landed a blow across my face sending me to the ground, my axe sliding across the heated stone.

Shit! That hurt.

"Get up," Faelen snapped.

I tried pushing myself up as Bjarke circled me. When he got in front of me, he kicked my weapon further from my grasp before bringing up his sword.

Before he could strike the final blow, a surge of adrenaline and strength ripped through me, forcing me to get up enough to tackle him.

His head hit the ground as I straddled him; one hand on the leather strap while the other collided with his face, each strike more powerful than the last.

I got in several more hits before he jerked me up and threw me into the side a stone platform.

Standing, we each turned on each other, both 'weaponless' and instinct kicked in, forcing a partial shift.

I sped in towards Bjarke, his position exposed. He lashed out with a clawed hand but I ducked and kicked out a leg, taking the man's balance from him as he crashed to the earth again.

I reached down to my thigh and ripped dagger from its belt. In a single movement, I impaled Bjarke's hand with such force, the weapon itself embedded into the cobblestone.

Straddling him again, I retrieved another cutlass and put it against his throat.

"Are you a skelmar," I questioned.

Bjarke laughed through bloodied teeth.

"I would never take part with the likes of such animals," he spat.

"Then why are you here," I asked, confused.

"To retrieve you."

What? Why in Helheim is everyone after me lately?

Bjarke must of noticed my confusion until my eyes landed on a burn on his neck.

That branding. It isn't like any I've seen before.

"Ah. I see a flame flickered in that pretty little head of yours, Noir."

Without hesitation, I stood, still low enough to slit the man's throat but stopped when he used his free hand to grab mine.

"Wait, hear me out," he said.

I didn't say anything as I watched his eyes bleed from a bright silver to cyan, his irises glowing against his flesh.

"I'm from Crest Valley. First born of Alpha Haaken Renouf. He is a lycan leader. Our pack is strictly lycans. No wolves. No halfbreeds."

"What does that have anything to do with me," I growled, pushing the blade further to his throat.

"Because, you're my systir. I was told to bring you to our pack after we caught word of Calder's intentions and the plan for the skelmar attack," Bjarke said, keeping my blade from going further.

"What did you say?"

"You're my systir, Noir. Our mother, Desha, was originally betrothed to our father. They had me and in the mist of the early stages baring you, a war broke out and she was sold to Moon Rock. Our father didn't retrieve her due to her finding her mate. He left you with our mother until you became of age."

I stared at Bjarke for what felt like an eternity before I dropped my blade and stood straight, backing away.

Ripping the dagger from his hand without so much as flinching, Bjarke sat up, watching me.

"If this is of truth, then why am I of both and not pureblood," I asked, searching for any kind of lie.

"Because our mother was werewolf."

So many questions swirled unrequited through my head but was cut short as a sharp pain wracked through my body, bringing me to my knees and a hand to my chest.

Alistair.

Looking up at Bjarke, I heaved, trying to steady my breathing.

"We will discuss this in depth later but right now, against my better judgment, I need your help."

Furrowing his brow, Bjarke stood, pulling me to an upright position and placing a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

"What is it?"

"Where is the fight now," I asked, trying to push back the pain.

"They're South of the village... but by the time we get there, it would be too late..."

I looked at him as I gripped his shoulder.

"If what you say is true— if you are my bróðir, then please help me get to that fight."

Bjarke watched me for a moment and nodded.

He shifted into a lycan so black that if it wasn't for the flames around us, I would have never seen him.

In a swift movement, I found myself launched into the air then on his back, knocking the wind from my lungs.

I didn't even have time to position properly before we were off.

Hold on guys, I'm on my way.

Bacraut - Asshole

Berjast við mig - "Fight with me"