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The sight of the ogre and the wails of pain brought back bad memorys from his youth.
The Northlands were beautiful, but they were also home to more than their fair share of dangers. Ragnar's clan, the Hellsons, were spread from the mountains to the frozen shoreline. From his earliest memories the images of the funeral fires for kin lost to the monsters and beasts of the land came to him clear and crisp like morning light on ice covered snow.
As Ragnar grew to be a warrior he saw more and more of both the beauty and horror that the north possessed. The savagery of gnolls, the cruelty of ogres and the horror of giants.
He remembered the day he carried his first spear into a battle. It had been a blood hunt, Vatun's own vengeance brought down upon the enemies of their clan.
It was years and years ago. A sudden winter storm had come down from the mountains and swept across the hills. Small steadings and the northernmost halls had been cut off. It was a month before word trickled out. A few ragged survivors half-frozen and numbed with cold and horror. A tribe of ogres had descended upon the area. They came with the storm, they fought with desperation, the spectre of starvation was among them. The battle cost them dear, many ogres set upon the defenders with tooth and nail, disdaining weapons. Their hunger was so great that when a warrior fell to them they stopped to feed before pressing the attack. The screams of the wounded were terrible but nothing compared to the horror of the weeks of captivity many endured. The survivors were merely cattle to the ogres and they had developed a taste for human flesh.
They'd found no survivors among the ruined Halls, Ragnar and his kin, only the ogres. The clan revenged itself upon the tribe. Their massive heads were set in ice that the skalds had spelled never to melt. They placed the blocks upon dolmen stones spread out along the northern hills. Ragnar would never forget or forgive what he saw upon that first blood hunt. His own blood began to boil at the mere thought that it was being enacted again upon this southern realm.
Emiel gripped his shoulder with a painful strength. Ragnar was surprised, the little fellow did not look to be that strong. It calmed him for a moment, but as he watched the cruel mirth of the brutish ogre, his calm was washed away in a tide of red. A fire burned inside him. It called to a spark set deep in his soul. He was upon his feet before he could tell himself to move, and the rage took hold.
Ragnar screamed, a throat rending curse of anger and glee.
Ahead, the ogre appeared to freeze in place, bet then began his swing as if to spike the gnoll into the ground with the heavy mace.
The calm returned to Ragnar, but splashed with crimson at the edges. Behind, there was a cry, he heard his name, but heeded it not.
The ogre's arm came down like a leaf falling from a tree or so it appeared through Ragnar's red rimmed eyes. Before it had descended upon the helpless gnoll, Ragnar had closed the distance between the ogre and himself by half. He could not save the gnoll, though he flew across the ground, sure footed and as fast as a hare.
As the mace came down with horrendous force, the sound of the impact seemed hollow and far-away to Ragnar. The gnoll was driven to its knees, its head, an explosion of flesh and bone, was simply gone.
* * *
The axe was weightless in his hand. Ragnar almost forgot he was holding it in his rush across the open yard. Ahead of him the body of the gnoll was just hitting the ground, the spray of blood from its neck painting a macabre picture across the ogre's legs.
With a disdainful glance the ogre eyed his onrushing foe. No mere man, armed, armored or mounted, could cause it to fear. It had spent many years now lording it over these weak and puny humans, some in their desperation had fought back. The ogre had brushed them aside and broken them like a child might break fresh green stalks with a wooden stick.
The warm splash of blood on the cold night was a distraction. Pulling back its huge and grotesque foot it kicked the body of the gnoll, striking it squarely and launching the corpse several feet through the air.
Ragnar passed through a shower of blood. The gnoll's body barely missed him as he charged toward the ogre. He was upon it before its outstretched leg was firmly settled back upon the solid ground. Hurtling forward Ragnar collided with it like a catapult stone against the wall of a castle. The wall gave way.
The ogre, still off-balance from its kick, fell backward. It landed on its broad and padded ass with a thud and a look of shock.
The force of the collision made Ragnar stumble back a few feet. Something inside him had given way with a dull crack at the contact. Broken ribs he had no doubt, but he felt no pain, not yet. He remembered the axe unused in his right hand.
Sitting, the ogre was still a head taller than Ragnar. In its own right hand it held the iron headed club that had slain the gnoll. The momentary shock of falling was replaced by a sense of wrongness, no man could do this, the world was upside down.
Both attacked, the ogre sitting, Ragnar leaping forward. Both swung. Axe met club, the sharp edge of the blade caught a corner of the iron bands, clipping them with a clang and spark. The blade bit deep into the club and stuck firm. Ragnar's blow directed the club's course down. The strength of the ogre tore the axe from Ragnar's fingers and spun him halfway round.
Club and axe gouged the oerth. The half-severed shaft of the ogre's weapon split with a crack, shearing away the metal wrapped head. The axe, freed from the wooden grasp, bounced once, twice, then slid several feet, well out of reach.
Ragnar howled, then with arms outstretched threw himself upon the ogre. His hands gripped its throat. His fingers dug into the thick hide. With manic strength he still could not strangle the beast. Blood ran down his fingers from the gouges he'd cut in the monster's flesh, but the ogre only growled in pain and surprise. Then using only a single arm it flung Ragnar aside.
The rage was upon the northman then in full. When he landed, he rolled, and regained his feet in one smooth motion. The ogre pushed itself to its feet angrily and prepared to crush its foe. The hilt of a dagger appeared in its chest. It glanced down with a start. The blade had sprung up as if by magic.
Emiel was running towards them, a short double edged sword in his left hand and another, almost hiltless throwing knife, in his right.
* * *
(To Be Continued)