The Test

  Utgar bit deep into the leather strap that held his pauldron in place, bracing his teeth against the debilitating pain as he rammed his shoulder into the stone wall. His shoulder gave a satisfying pop as ball and joint reunited. Past the end of the alleyway, his brothers valiantly fought the civilian militia that had risen up against them, ungrateful wretches turning on their guardians as soon as things got hard, shameful.

Rolling his shoulder to ensure the joint was secure, Utgar lifted his sword. Crimson streaks ran like spidered cracks in the polished steel, coating the top half of the blade. A gruesome reminder that, despite his dislocated shoulder, Utgar had emerged the victor of his last fight.

 The blade sang hungrily as he swung it in a swift downward stroke, casting the blood from the blades flat, though streaking remnants remained. Utgar sneered at the crimson lines, he should be out fighting Jotun, not slaughtering rioters in his cities own streets; it was disgraceful. Bodies littered the road, his lip curled in disgust as he scanned them, how did it come to this? What would drive these civilians to throw their lives away? 

Utgar’s gaze, unwillingly, scanned the street. blood ran in small rivers across the filthy cobblestones, refuse caking the mortar lines and coating every surface with a thin, slick sheen. It was a far sight from the paved roads of the Military district and unrecognisable from the spectacular spires of the inner circle.

One of his brothers lay in the street beside a civilian boy, the pair almost posed in their dying throes against one another. Utgar was no stranger to violence or the horrors of war, but those  eyes, those blank, staring eyes, they shook him to his core.

Even in death, smeared with gore, the Son of Tyr’s features were proud and sharp, his porcelain skin in stark contrast to the civilian’s weathered, sunbleached hide. Nevertheless, the eyes were the same, betraying their true age.

A chill ran up Utgar’s neck, he was being watched. A form stood at the far end of the alleyway, cloaked and hooded, clad in a worn suit of dark lamellar plates, an ornate sword hanging at his hip. Utgar could not see his face, but two solid, silver-blue eyes shone like stars in the shadow of his hood.

Instinctually, Utgar tensed, his body shifting to enter a defensive pose. But as he looked into those eyes, he saw no malice. This figure was watching him, judging him, as if there was some great test laid before him that he could not see.

 Utgar’s eyes slowly, reluctantly, returned to the street, as if seeing it anew. He saw his brothers fighting, lost in bloodlust as they cut down helpless civilians, an uprising of crazed Midgardians that pushed against their shields, threw themselves onto their swords. But why? What would drive one to such madness? 

Utgar looked pleadingly to the hooded figure, desperate for an answer, a reason for this chaos. The figure did not speak, but his eyes slowly moved from Utgar to something on the other side of the alleyway.

Across from Utgar, a body lay slumped against the wall, Utgar had thought it just another casualty of the battle, but he now saw it was not bleeding, it was not wounded at all.

The boy couldn’t be older than fourteen, his skin clung desperately to his collarbone, riddled with pockmarks and blemishes, and coated with a layer of dirt. Dried yellow mucus encrusted his lips, the remnants of foam, Utgar was no physician, but he knew enough to recognise this illness, an easily treated virus, if you had the right medicines.

Utgar paused, those last few words lingering in his mind, the right medicine, he looked up once more towards the melee, he saw it now, the desperation in the civilians eyes, what he’d previously seen as savagery, it was desperation, hopeless, starving desperation.

His grip loosened around the handle of his sword, the blood still clinging to the flat. He cleaned it with the length of his robe, a crimson stain across the pristine white fabric, fitting, the blood that now stained the hands of his brotherhood, that stained Tyr’s name, reflected on the cloth of his creed.

The figure was gone, seemingly satisfied with their assessment. Utgar lifted his hand to his mouth, preparing to whistle to signal his squad. No more innocents would die this day, not by their hands.