The
peaceful night was broken within the tribe’s camp. The
“First my son…and now this,” he growled in anger. Sweat began to bead on his
skin as the flames drew near. Stepping back into his tent, he roused his wife
and children from bed, his two sons. Neither had yet learned of their older
brother’s exile. “Gather your things,” he told them, “the camp is on fire. Be
prepared to fight, it may be an attack.”
Stepping back out of the tent with his axe in hand, Verduul
scanned the area, grunting in disgust as he saw his people beaten by fire.
Suddenly, he noticed something else. On a hill, outside of
the camp. A pillar of flame that looked to reach to
the heavens, spouting cinders and ash all about. His gaze moved down to
its base, where he could make out a man. Nothing more than a shadow before the
flames, he seemed to be approaching, though he stopped after a moment. The
figure’s arms rose into the air, and an ungodly roar shook the earth. Verduul’s heart skipped a beat.
******
Though Menenzuul’s eyes were the darkest shade of
brown, there was now a fire within them. His skin glistening with sweat in the
night, the orange of flames bouncing off of it, he made his way down from the
hill and towards the tribe’s encampment. Chaotic with flames, his kin dying or
franticly trying to escape the deathtrap, a sadistic grin spread across his
face. Only his eyes shone from beneath the purple war paint. His braids were
hanging all about, even before his face, but he paid them no mind.
Veins bulged upon his tattooed body, his muscles swelled with anger. The roar
that had just escaped his lips pleased him. He was one with the earth, the spirits were pulsating within him and giving him
strength. The power of fury outweighed all else. Weaponless, having only his
kilt and boots, along with the blood of his dead wife upon him, he charged the
camp with another quaking yell.
All within the village had heard him, despite the roar of fire and the screams
of their kin being burned alive. They all turned their heads, faces stricken
white with fear. A few of the warriors left alive that still had their wits met
him at the entrance. Menenzuul stopped before them,
his eyes white with madness, and his teeth grit in a crazed grin.
“Be gone with you, Menenzuul! You are not welcomed
here!” they shouted to him, brandishing their axes.
He did not speak, he only stepped forward.
“You have been warned! Another step and your life ends,
just like your elven bitch’s did!”
The grin faded all at once. Menenzuul’s eyes locked
onto the one that said that. He was completely still, and he looked to have
come to his wits.
“Now turn around, and leave.”
There was another roar, and the man that had spoke was take
to the ground. The others had not even seen Menenzuul
leap, it seemed as though he moved faster than his shout. Atop the man, Menenzuul locked his fists together and brought them behind
his head, his mouth wide open as he screamed and smashed through the man’s
skull like a hammer. The crack sent chills down the spines of the three
remaining. But they managed to keep their cool enough to act, charging Menenzuul all at once.
The first caught an axe to the gut, doubling over before a kick to the face
sent him to the ground. The second nearly managed to get in a hit, but was met
with a shoulder to the jaw a moment before the third had his skull cleaved in
two with a massive chop. Turning back to the second, Menenzuul
licked blood from around his mouth. The blood of his
tribesman. The blood of his enemies. The final
blow sliced through the last man’s shoulder, nearly through to the other side,
destroying his ribcage. Menenzuul crouched and picked
up two more axes from his fallen foes, one in each hand. He noted the last man
was a close cousin of his, one he had grown up with. No wonder his death was so
satisfying.
He pressed on through the fire, his teeth showing as the grin had stretched
across his face once again. He passed a woman cradling her dying child. Menenzuul did not have a chance to father a child. But he
could imagine the pain of watching a child die. He had seen his wife die. With
a swing of an axe, he made it okay. The mother would not have to watch her
daughter die.
He roared again as he was met by two more warriors, both of them bringing down
axes towards him. He raised those in his hands and blocked the oncoming
attacks, sending his opponents off balance. The split second was long enough to
hit each with an uppercut to the jaw, the blades of his weapons slicing through
their skin. He let out another shout as they hit the ground, their blood mixing
with the sweat upon him. Then, with a leap into the air, he brought his feet
down upon their skulls, the crunching beneath him fueling his lust for blood.
Verduul stepped back as Menenzuul
stepped into the small open area just in front of the chief’s tent. He raised
his axe in defense as his son approached. At that moment, their family emerged
from the tent, Menenzuul’s mother and his two younger
brothers. His siblings looked to him with confusion. His mother had a look of
fear.
“Did you not learn your lesson earlier, boy?” his father asked. He was unable
to mask the fear in his voice, the quivering of his speech.
“Yes father, I did,” he replied, taking a step forward. “You taught me how to
kill. Am I not doing it well enough for your approval?”
His father did not reply, but he shuddered slightly, and adjusted the grip on
his axe. Menenzuul tilted his head, narrowing his
eyes and studying his father quietly. Then he turned his gaze to the rest of
his family. His brothers, one of fifteen and the other of
ten. He took a step towards them, and his mother took a step back,
pulling them along. He arched a brow before looking back to his father. “You
turned my own family against me?” he asked, his lip curled in disgust. “Did
loving an elven bitch warrant your turning my family
against me?” Menenzuul’s voice grew louder and more
powerful. His father did not answer. “I suppose that I have learned to kill
well enough to justify your talking to me. Well then, tell me father, is this
enough?!”
Menenzuul spun, his teeth grit, and with fury behind
him released the axes from his grasp, sending them whirring through the thick
night air. His brothers dropped to the ground as his mother screamed. The axes
had found their homes in the skulls of his siblings. “Not good enough yet?” he
shouted to his father. He stomped to his mother, who was on her knees stroking
her fallen children, and grabbed her by the hair. Verduul
looked on in horror as Menenzuul brought her to her
feet with a massive tug.
“What else was it you showed me how to do?” he asked, looking at his father.
His mother pounded on his chest, struggling to get free. But he felt nothing.
Pain was something that could be ignored, something insignificant. “Oh yes, I
remember now!” He smashed the back of his hand into his mother’s face,
shattering the bridge of her nose and taking away her consciousness in a gush
of blood. Pulling her along by her hair, her legs dragging along the ground, he
made his way closer to his father. With a free hand, he grabbed his mother’s
clothing and tore it off, exposing her tanned skin. He held her up higher,
displaying her to his father.
“Would you like me to do it, or perhaps you, with more experience, would like
to do the honors?” He tossed her limp body onto the ground before Verduul. Without a word, he pulled an axe from the head of
his brother, placing a foot on his face to get it out, and slammed it into the
back of his mother’s neck. He looked up to his father, who was still in shock. Menenzuul’s eyes were wide with fury. “You took too long
father! Afraid she had to die, too bad, you shouldn’t
have married a filthy human anyway. All their good for is rape and killing
after all.”
Suddenly, the fear on his father’s face melded into anger. His father roared
and raised his axes, charging Menenzuul and bringing
it down upon him. But Menenzuul grabbed the long
handle of the axe, with both hands, stopping it before it could hit him. His
father growled and poured all his strength into it, but Menenzuul
would not give in. His fury was too great, his strength was inhuman. He looked
into his father’s eyes, leaning forward and whispering to him. “You’d kill your
own son? Your own flesh and blood?” he asked. “Look father!” Menenzuul pulled his head back, and then leaned his cheek
upon the blade of the axe, cutting himself. Crimson trickled down, glistening
moistly in the light of the burning tents. “I am your blood…but do you smell
something else in there? Elven blood.”
Menenzuul wrenched the axe from his father’s grip,
sending Verduul to the ground. He held up his hand,
the cloth wrapped around it dark with blood. “Her blood coarses
in my veins.”
Verduul growled and leapt to his feet, rushing at his
son once more. One swoop of the axe, and his leg had been taken off, sending
him to the ground once again as he let out a scream of pain. Menenzuul stepped forward, crouching over his fallen
father. “Your rage is nothing…because you never loved. Perhaps I will show
you.” Verduul spat in Menenzuul’s face. His son
growled in reply, smacking the flat of the axe against his father’s face and
sending him into a dazed state. Verduul rolled over
onto his belly, the blood pouring from his leg, and slowly began to crawl away,
blood trickling down the side of his mouth.
Menenzuul made his way over to his father’s tent,
disappearing inside. He emerged a moment later with a spear, the steel head
shining in the orange flames. He stepped back over to his father, tossing the
axe aside. “I’ll show you how my wife must have felt,” he said. He grabbed his
father’s kilt and tossed it up, the hairy buttocks staring him in the face. Menenzuul gripped the spear in both hands, and thrust it
in. His father screamed horribly, and Menenzuul
released the spear and grabbed him by the hair. He didn’t see his father take
out the knife, but he felt it enter his arm. This did not cause Menenzuul to release his grasp. He simply looked down to
the knife, and then to his father. “That wasn’t very nice.”
Menenzuul grabbed the knife and pulled it out without
even a grimace, blood oozing down his arm. “She was teaching me to write
father. The first word she showed me was ‘love’. Let me show you how to write
it.” He pulled back his father’s head and began to carve in elven
runes the word love upon his father’s forehead. The blood ran down Verduul’s face, getting into his eyes and blinding him.
“Now you too can share my fury, for you know of love.”
Menenzuul’s face suddenly became grave as he took the
knife and slid the point into the base of his father’s skull, just enough to
get under the skin. His father let out a weakened groan in pain as he slid the
knife upwards, cutting the scalp. His father was alive during most of the
process, and by the end the skin was removed from his skull. His hands covered
in wet blood, Menenzuul grabbed the axe again, the
next swing taking off his father’s head, and began picking at the skull with
the knife, cleaning off the muscle and tissue still attached to it.
He started off out of the camp as he did so, the sun just beginning to peek
over the horizon in the distance, the first golden rays hitting the sky. When
he was satisfied, he slipped a piece of rope through one of the eye sockets and
out the base of it, putting the skull on his belt. Resting the axe on his
shoulder, off he went into the sunrise, a shadow of a man, hanging his head
solemnly as he walked.
“Where are you going?” asked a voice within him.
He was silent for a moment. “To fight the gods,” he replied. “To fight the
gods…”