Post by Mr. C on Jan 4, 2009 23:00:36 GMT -5
II.
"Attack!"
Cross had jumped from atop the ship’s glaring dragon figurehead and landed far out in front of the Viking army that ran behind him. He sailed through the air, his 300 hundred plus pound frame sailing through the air like an albatross, an ungodly sight, something that you would not believe had you seen it. But with his immense leg-strength he garnered the hang time to make it way out in front, and as he hit the ground, he crouched. He bent at the knees and waist so as not to jar his joints and spine, absorbing the blow in his cartilage. In the split second he bent to absorb the blow, Cross twisted the moment forward and burst outward in to a full on sprint.
There’s no order in a Viking army because there is no leader. In their guerrilla warfare, it was customary for the ranks to be divided, to be messy. Every man kept an eye on his own neck. And Cross was going to be the first to reach the masses they came to face, to pillage, and to kill. “The Norse Hammer” of legend ran out in front, the screaming legion behind him, the fierce wooden dragon topping the massively imposing vessel they arrived upon and further back the roaring tide of the infinite sea. To a Viking, the story was as important if not more so than the deed itself. To scare the enemy was half the fun, and they were doing just that.
The village they set upon stood up the side of a hill, packed against the forest. Already had the Norsemen lit a blaze a trail leading to the homes, an inferno path to Hel. And already had the guards begin to pour out, to be the first line of defense to protect the women and children that lived there. But they held what these warriors wanted and the look in their eyes already showed that the Vikings had won. It was the same look England had as the axe nearly split his skull in two.
As Brett Cross ran forward, his feet pounded in to the path. The ground was muddy and his boots stuck with each step, flicking mud that clung to his furred boots about with his fast-paced steps. He ran quickly, on the balls of his feet, each stride bringing him closer to the action. Around him, arrows began to stick in to the mud, falling at his sides on the trail that followed. As a lone fighter he stood a far better chance of dodging the arrows then the masses behind him did; his size ignored the wails behind him proved the theory true. The rain of feathered steel was fierce about him. As he ran, he pumped his arms hard with every step, biceps, deltoids, triceps, every muscle rippled beneath his war-ravaged flesh. The skin twinkled and shone with the fires that raised high on either side of him. Continuing to keep stride through the arrows’ onslaught, one of the spines pierced his shoulder, digging in and then tearing through, dividing tissues of flesh and muscle alike. The blood arrived quickly, trickling down the path of musculature on his arms. But without missing a step Cross reached back and brought the shield behind him ‘round front, raising it high as he was no longer willing to press his luck. And with the next pace he brought his opposite hand down and unsheathed the axe that clung to his side. He was close enough, now.
As Cross drew his arm back, his eyes were filled. They twisted and bulged with emotion. His brow furrowed in concentration, in pain, in anger. His eyes twinkled with desire and delight. His lip was curled upward in a devilishly lusting and bloodthirsty smirk. There was concentration for the deed he was about to do. For killing a man, be it the guards in front of him directly or Sean England, “Mr. Perfect”, come this Monday. There was pain; he had just narrowly survived quite the ordeal. His shoulder was torn, and Besieged was no cake walk either. He narrowly escaped a hellacious match-up that turned sour with each man leaving bloodied and far worse for wear. There was anger, as Cross was not used to any kind of slip-up. Being caught by that arrow was unusual to Cross. Not that he’d never been hurt before, his body would definitely show you otherwise, but it was not like Cross to be caught unprepared as he was the first time he had faced England.
But through all the negativity, through the anger and pain that shown through in his face, there was an angelic side as well. His eyes had a certain twinkle, most likely from the fires of war, which showed off a look of desire and delight. Cross, as reflected by the fire that surrounded him, could not wait to destroy, to maim, to kill. It was in his history, it was in his blood, it was his life. He could not wait for this Monday’s upcoming “Mead Hall Brawl.” This time Brett had dealt the cards. The outcome would be in his hands. There was no x factor to this match; Brett Cross had built the war up in his favor. He had driven the daunting ship, he had driven fear in to the heart of he who he wanted to defeat, and now all that was left was to enjoy the spoils, the victory, the bloodshed. That’s where his lip curled upward, when he knew it was only a matter of time before he could indeed enjoy just that.
Brett Cross did not develop the match-up, develop the scenario at which England was informed and then follow through with the entire thing to ensure the win. No, not in the least. Brett engineered all of that for show, in true Viking fashion. Deep down he knew he didn’t need the gimmicks to win. He bested two opponents last week without fancy gimmicks; it was just a plain and simple beat-down. Brett also knew that some may feel there were fancy gimmicks, and that there could have been a sway to the decision, as former mentor Tom Roberts had officiated the match. Be that as it may, “The Norse Hammer” did not need this match-up to prove anything, for he had beaten both Stephens and Dark one on one in the past, in singles competition, fair and square. Dark had beaten him once, and the second time around Cross was the victor solidly. Dark got lucky and England got lucky. Then Dark was beaten up, just like England will be beaten up come Monday.
No, scratch that. Killed, come Monday.
England should not have won the first time around. That loss was not a result of Cross’ age, not at all. It was luck, plain and simple. Trickery and luck. England is far from perfect, last week proved just that as he was defeated by the complete underdog 415 for a title shot no-less. When the pressure is on, England folds and shows his true colors. But, I’m sure England continues to boast. Yet, unlike a Viking, his boasts are hollow, are deceitful.
Brett Cross is a Viking, he knows how to fight, he knows how to boast, and he knows all about praise, which England deserves none of. He wins with trickery, trickery that does not even deserve to be likened to Loki who is a noble Viking god compared to the scum Sean England. Boast all you want, England, but as you saw at Besieged, the axe is coming down and you will be humbled, you will be humiliated and you will learn your lesson. After this Mead Hall Brawl, there will be nothing left of you than a cold corpse.
“To Hel with ye, English vermin!” Cross belted out with the release of the wooden handle of his axe. The blade twisted and turned, head over heel and heel over head. It spun in the air, a perfect cartwheel, as metal flipped over wood. The target, the Englishman at the other side stood frozen in fear, and his eyes told their own whirlwind of a story. There was fear, there was remembrance, there was prayer, and then each eye was divided.
The blade of the axe drove in, snug between his eyes, finding its’ place snug within the skull cuddled up to the warm pink tissue of the brain. The steel wedged in tight, slashing through skin, destroying his nose and splitting hairs that gently drifted down on either side of the man’s head. He stood tall through the entirety of it, as his brain had not had the opportunity to issue any order to fall. Then, when his brain failed, the metal quickly ending the man’s life, he buckled at each joint and fell forward. There was no dead man’s scream, there was no cinematic display. The man fell forward in to a pile of gore and bone splinters. The axe held tight inside his head, with the handle remaining outside; a gruesome likeness to a unicorn was instantly made in Cross’ mind. As the blood continued to spurt, drip, pour, meander its way out of the skull on to the muddy ground, Cross spun the shield forward, releasing it from his forearm and in to the gut of another soldier at his side, and then unsheathed the broadsword from his back with a metallic screech.
This was not the first man Cross had killed, nor would it be the last.