Brynjar

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: The Imaginarium
A short story inspired by the Imaginarium Picture Prompt 2.

Submitted: April 06, 2017

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Submitted: April 06, 2017

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Brynjar.

 

He could still hear his father’s cry as he was brought from his horse with an axe. He could still hear the swish of the sword as it took Brandt to his death. And he could still smell the pyre, hear the crackle of the fire as it took his father to a better place.

 

Brynjar had sworn to take revenge. Those that had brought Brandt to his death would be dealt with brutally. They would be shown no mercy at all. He owed it to his father and Brynjar always paid his debts.

 

He watched as Eric and Destin rode towards him. They looked well-prepared; armed and ready to go. He finished checking his own horse over then turned to Helga, his wife of just two moons. He embraced her, held her for just one moment, then expertly mounted his horse.

 

Helga solemnly passed him the helmet that had been Brandt’s. It was heavy on his head, the weight serving as a reminder of his task of exacting revenge. His eyes peered coldly through the slits in the mask, and all but the tip of his nose was covered. The leather of his armour would offer some protection once the fighting began. Brynjar was counting on stealth and surprise to sway the combat in his favour. He wanted to destroy his enemies with as little loss and suffering being meted out to his own men as possible.

 

Brynjar was heavily armed. He had his ever-present sword strapped in place. It rested reassuringly against his thigh. Two axes, sharpened and honed to lethal perfection, were sheathed on his back. They were easy for him to grasp, one for each hand, once close combat began. They were also perfectly balanced for accurate throwing should the need arise.

 

Both Eric and Destin were similarly armed, although neither wore a helmet. Their leather armour had seen better days but would provide more protection than the normal clothing the other members of the raiding party wore. The thirty-five men all carried either a spear or a sword, some having additional axes to wield too.

 

Brynjar looked at each man in turn, measuring their resolve. Once satisfied, he nodded his head, cleared his throat and spoke in a loud clear voice so all around could hear.

 

Today we ride out to avenge the death of Brandt, my father. Show no one mercy. Fight as if your life depends on your victory, as indeed it does. This battle will not end until none of them are left standing. Let us be swift. Let us be thorough. Victory will be ours.”

 

Brynjar wheeled his horse around and led his soldiers into war. Some would return, others would not, but his father’s life would be avenged. And he, Brynjar, son of Brandt, would have carried out his duty.

 

 

 

 

(470 words + title)

 

 


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