Post by Mr. C on Jan 11, 2009 22:31:42 GMT -5
III.
“This was not the first man Cross had killed, nor would it be the last.”
Cross had made it to the edge of the village. There were three guards standing at the gate of it, with two colossal guard towers on either side. The arrows had come from the top of those very towers, but the fire had reached all the way up the path and had licked the wooden supports of them; the arrows would not rain much longer. As for the three guards, Cross had already felled one with his axe, and the second was hunched over, his arm guarding broken ribs from the shield blow. The third quickly shouted in to the village for reinforcements and then charged Cross, halberd in hand. This was when Brett unsheathed the broadsword at back, the steel blade screeching its way out from the metal opening of its holster. The feeling of beating two men from afar was satisfying in its’ own right, but now the true fun began. The thrill of hand-to-hand was what Cross’ heart beat for.
Brett met the guard wielding the halberd mid-way, and as the two crashed together, the clang of their weapons was deafly overshadowed by the giving way of both guard towers and the death shrieks of the archers as they fell through the fires beneath them and straight in to the waiting mouth of Hel. The guard's weapon of choice was a large spear, with an axe blade upon its stabbing end. Cross was familiar with the weapon even if he did not use one himself and regardless, he was a fighter so he could surely find a way to defeat it had he known of it or not. As the two charged one another, Cross caught the enemy's slice by jamming hilt in between the blade and pole of the halberd and then bashed elbow in to his jaw, feeling it shatter beneath the force. The guard fell deadly limp to one side and Cross tugged his sword free and continued onward. Around him the air filled with the crackling of flames, the clang of weapons and sweetest of all to Brett Cross were the shrieks of soldiers falling around them. He inhaled the smoke and smell of gore and closed his eyes tight to fully immerse himself in the heat of battle.
Then, quickly vanquishing his day dream, Cross heard a quivering yell and looked up in to the fright-filled face of a soldier raining down upon him. He was a young man, you could tell by the lines in his face and the wispiness behind his moustache. And in his eyes, there was fear. This was his first kill; he didn’t know what he'd do with himself knowing he'd killed a man. Hell, he did not even want to kill. He had joined the village's militia per his father's request, or more accurately his father’s orders. For you see, the young man had always preferred to write, and he was a great writer. Cross saved him the mental anguish and quickly, painlessly, drove his sword straight through the man. It slid in easy, in one side and out the other, puncturing stomach and splintering spine alike. The young man wilted peacefully over the sword and as he did Cross could almost hear a “thank you” whispered over the tides of war. Cross wasted no time and pressed his foot in to his chest, kicking him off of the cutting edge and examining the battlefield once more, freeing his eyes from the young man.
To Cross, every man here was his brother. They were all born from the blood of Odin the All-Father. The Vikings were all his true family, not all were related by family, but they were a clan and those all felt like family. But, what Cross realized was that he had killed countless blood brothers through the years. Englishmen, Irishmen, The French, he had killed them all the same, even though they were also his family. And at the same moment of that realization, he realized he didn’t care. They worshipped false gods and false ideals, they were out casted sons of Odin, and they were destined to Hel either way. Brett Cross did not care he’d killed some bastard half brothers, he merely wanted more.
But then, Cross was driven from his thoughts once more as he caught out of the corner of his eye an Englishman standing over one of his Odin brothers, ready to drive a metal war-stake through his heart. His brother had a large slash over his left eye, and though his brow was furrowed down, the muscles and tissue had been severed and he had no control over keeping it shut. Blood gushed freely from his dead lids, giving him a gruesome patch of crimson red. It dripped down behind his skull and pooled thick even though it had been a short time. This eye was covered by a gory shield, but the other showed peaceful resignation. The Norseman wanted to shut out the death blow to visualize his family, his life, and his past glory as he entered Valhalla yet the blow of the Englishman would not allow it. With a yell, bloodstained blade drove through flesh and out the other side, and the felled Viking saw sword rammed through Englishman's head, in underneath the back of his helm and out through his own left-eye. Cross then freed his blade by slicing on outward through the side of the man's head, splitting through the guard’s skull and ear. Pink matter spiraled out of the wound and specks of red and white sprayed out with it. The severance felled the enemy quickly and he dropped aside like so many more had before in similar fashion. It was a quick, efficient, deadly strike.
"T’was an eye for an eye, lad. If'n ye can't fight then return to the ship, if'n ye wish to please Odin, draw up your blade and continue."
Cross thrust down his red-stained hand when he finished his booming speech, extending it towards the man he'd just saved. Now that he'd gotten closer, he realized to whom he spoke. Cousin Glaeg, his uncle’s son. Glaeg smiled up at him, and then winced from the movement of his face before accepting the hand and standing, with the felled Englishman’s blade in hand. Thanks were not needed nor was there the time the two men simply turned to take on the rest of the villagers that were scattered about. These soldiers had tried to keep a unified front against the Vikings, but their fear and the Viking warfare kept them from doing that. And now, scattered and afraid, it was only time before they all fell to the Norns. One-on-one, the Vikings would always beat these Englishmen. One-on-one, they were the stronger fighters. And two Vikings, two fighters, two true warriors with their strength combined, one watching the others’ back, there was no chance of victory for the English.
“The Norse Hammer” felt quite comfortable even with a wounded ally at his side. Chance Fusion was family to him. A former member of The Eh-Team and a former tag-team champion like himself. He may not be the current champion but neither is Cross, and that means nothing. Cross knew Fusion had the skills to beat this team, he’d done something right to get to where he was. Perhaps it wasn’t even his fault, for he did win his last match against his former team mate, he had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the greater competitor. Cross felt fine with Chance as his partner, because Chance had the skills to succeed and two Vikings were unstoppable.
But Brett felt comfortable more-so because he knew that even he alone could best these two competitors. He’s a dominant force, a beast of a man, and he had no problems when he’d taken out The Vindicator previously, be it one-on-one or in tag-team action. The Vindicator had never beaten him, and now would be no different. Cross had no fears about this man, James Vincent was not a worry for Cross. Even if the stories of his renewed vigor were grander than the stories seemed, Cross could beat this kid. Sure, he managed to grasp a title. He surely must be a fiercer competitor now. But one-on-one, Cross had proven to be the better fighter, and now that he’s with Sabora doesn’t mean a thing.
Cross also had no fear of taking on Sabora, because when you know nothing of the man, what is there to fear? Sabora may claim that he has all of this experience at tag-teaming, and there would be truth to that. He’s carved his niche in to that aspect of wrestling, he’s got an area of skill there. But hell, is that not what Cross has also done for a far longer career than Sabora? Brett Cross held a belt in tag-team action with Tom Roberts before EUW was even a thought. Brett Cross, standing near seven feet tall feared no man, not for size nay for experience. Brett Cross had both of those, far more than most competitors in that locker room, so he had no apprehensions coming in to this match. Sabora trained many men, thinking himself as some kind of mentor. He brought 415 up to the level of Pure title contender status. So, does that make him a strong competitor or a charismatic blow hard? The jury was still out on that one until Monday came ‘round.
He respected both of these fighters. They were warriors in their own right. But, truth be told, he was just thoroughly confident. Confidence that he and Chance would be the victors with ease. For you see, Cross had all the size, ability and credentials that the team needed, and Chance was the foamy head on the mug of mead. Chance Fusion, not to push his talent aside, was good at what he did. But Brett Cross had proven himself time and again since his EUW debut when he didn’t even have to, for he’d proven so much more beforehand as well and even outside of the ring his list of accomplishments stretched on for eons. Yet, for all that confidence, this was one of those gimmicky matches he’d previously spoken about. It was a match made not for fighting’s sake but for entertainment’s sake. And win or lose, he did not care. He was ready for a fight, for that was what a Viking lived for after all, was it not?
Cross and Glaeg turned in to the fray and began to hack their way in to the village. The small ‘bout of savior had slowed them far behind the rest. Some Norsemen had even entered the village and had begun to bring that to the ground, pillaging all they could. These two warriors, these two children of the damned thrust through flesh and hacked through bone, denying the stragglers and wounded their right to life. Cross walked through the flaming gate of the village and belted out over the babe’s cry, the woman’s plead and the blazes that rose up around them.
“The gold nay be ours, but take’t all the same, lads! Take all ye want and when this village is burnt to the ground and all the men ‘ere are good and dead head back to the ship!”
As Cross said it he tore a very fancy pearled necklace from the blood-stained neck of a maiden at his feet, the pearls spilled off the thread and bounced around through the apocalyptic scene. There wasn’t a hint of remorse in Brett’s eye as he looked over the carnage and chaos. He was pleased and his heart still pounded with excitement. Soon they’d head back home with their new found riches and tell stories of their glorious victory here. Glaeg would tell of how he took on fifteen Englishmen before they cheap-shotted him from behind, and then Cross would interject and tell how he then saved him by thrusting his trusted blade through the eye of the Englishman that stood above the cheap-shotted Norn. Only, Cross’ valor would be true, and Glaeg’s story would be nothing more than that. But to a Viking, did the line between reality and truth matter?
Men cheered about him, raising their gold and jewels high, the spectacle all shining to the reds and oranges about them. Every man here would have a souvenir of the battle and the stories to go with it. Cross was content with just the stories of battle, though. For now, the thrill of the fight was good enough for him. He didn’t lust for gold, nor did he quest for it. Not yet, at least.
And Monday was to be a fight for the ages.
