I'm publishing this as a chunk b/c I can't control my own release schedule here.
Note that Ch. 4 has a reference to SA and graphic violence.
***
Chapter Four: Caravan Guard, and a Very Bad Memory
The caravan consisted of three large covered wagons, pulled by oxen. Jorgen and three other guards were expected to walk alongside the caravan, taking turns to ride next to the driver of the first wagon, which was filled with provisions, including barrels of water and beer. The second and third wagons contained goods to be sold. He had no idea what was in them.
Drawing the first shift in the wagon, the big barbarian kept his sword at his feet. He wore his auxiliary armor, which was so lightweight that he barely noticed it.
Jorgen had had enough marching for one lifetime, so it was a treat to just ride and let his mind wander.
He thought about Aleisa and what she had planned for him. Jorgen wasn't a particularly religious man. He offered occasional thanks to the gods, like any northerner, but he wasn't knowledgeable. He knew little about Freia, and even less about Aleisa. Were they truly the same being?
In any case, Aleisa or Aleisa/Freia were apparently at odds with the empress. Maybe. Maybe not. He didn't know anything about the empress either.
The situation with Westhaven was clearly complex. And two thousand years with little change, that was hard for the barbarian to fathom. He got the sense that Aleisa planned to shake things up.
As the afternoon turned to evening and the caravan stopped for the night, Jorgen helped set up camp and sat down for a meal of stew and crusty bread. It was not bad at all. He didn't say much to the other three guards. They appeared to be old friends and he felt like an outsider. That was fine.
**
Jorgen drew the first watch that night, and as he stared out into rolling plains of eastern Athea, lit by moonlight, his mind turned to his wife and son. Memories that always led him to a dark place.
It still burned at his soul. He'd loved Ania, and he'd been so proud to be her husband. And he'd failed her, in the worst possible way. His fists clenched as he tried not to experience it again. He failed.
[REMOVED FOR SA]
This scene was not overly graphic or smutty, but it was explicit. Jorgen was knocked out and captured, then forced to watch as Ania was Multiple-SA'd over the course of hours, and killed, and their son was killed. It was important to MC's character development, but you can probably use your imagination.
[/REMOVED]
Jorgen still relished the revenge he'd taken on that piece of shit. Its shock as the berserk barbarian tore through its rape gang like a tornado of steel and red mist. The look in its eyes as it was forced to swallow its own monstrous green cock, severed at the root and shoved through the orc's broken face into its throat. The disgusting beast's legs and arms in a pile beside it, makeshift tourniquets keeping it alive. To suffer for as long as possible.
A grim smile crossed the barbarian's face. A hint of the berserk madness that had gripped him for years, often for days at a time, after his family was destroyed.
That fucking orc had unintentionally turned the tide of war. Jorgen the Berserker had joined the Areisian empire's army and killed almost two thousand orcs with his own hand over the next four years. The squad of berserkers he led had killed three thousand more. Thanks to that evil, rapist, sadistic, child-eating fucking beast, the advance was stalled, and then crushed.
But Jorgen's father was dead - his mother had not survived childbirth - his wife was dead, his child was dead, almost his entire squad was dead, and the war was over, this time.
The barbarian's anger rose again. "How could it ever be over while there is a single fucking orc alive!?"
**
Jorgen found himself in a familiar marble circle. A profound sense of calm washed over him.
"I've topped off your pool of willpower, Jorgen."
"Thanks, Aleisa, I think? Do you have something to do with my willpower? I don't know how I learned to lock things away. Do you know?"
"I just provided a bump. Get some sleep."
**
The big barbarian came back to awareness slowly. Looking down at a sharp pain, he saw that he'd gripped his sword's hilt so tightly that his fingers were locked around it. Like a corpse. He peeled them off one by one, examining his bruised hand. He thought about what had happened.
The pain and anger on nights like this welled up in waves, feeling fresh and raw once again. It was probably because he'd connected with Astra, let his guard down a little. He refused to regret that.
The big man felt calm now, but the memories were still close to the surface. He hoped tomorrow that they'd have faded to a dull ache.
He managed to push all of this out of his mind most nights, before it got to this point. He'd built a fortress of pure willpower, though he didn't know how. Aleisa had something to do with it?
It didn't matter, he decided. As long as it worked.
This was Jorgen's afterlife. Westhaven was perhaps his Valhalla, or his Elysium. Or not. Jorgen would follow his fate, whatever it was, and take one day at a time.
The brooding barbarian was finally pulled from his thoughts when the second shift came. He'd managed to lock up his fortress, at least.. It allowed him to catch a couple hours of sleep. But, he woke in the pre-dawn feeling guilty about that. Why should he be able to sleep?
The caravan set off with the dawn, heading west into the empire's heartland.
**
The plains where a mix of green grasses, scrub oaks, and akaesha trees, as Berrin named them. It was all gentle hills that sometimes flattened into a true plain.
Small rocky outcrops often marked a spring or a watering hole. Berrin said that there was a massive underground lake beneath a good portion of Athea's plainlands. Water was forced up through these "kopies." These springs were the headwaters to many of the streams that eventually flowed east and west to the seas.
Early in the journey, those streams had emerged out of the eastern plains, flowing into the Sestea river. The central plains were drier. Berrin said that, as they went further west, they would see streams forming again, this time flowing west.
The big northern man watched the alien landscape roll by. One one particular rise, he felt like he could see all the way to the edge of the world in every direction. The grassy plains interrupted only by small hills and copses of those hardy trees.
The early summer sun was hot, but not scorching. Grazing beasts and stalking predators were a common sight.
The biggest excitement had been when a large male lion, which seemed to have been following the road eastward, approached to investigate, stalking towards them with the graceful confidence of a killer.
It was nearly as big as the oxen. Much larger than the barbarian had imagined when he'd listened to descriptions of lions. It was rare that he faced something larger and heavier than him. Even the largest orcs were roughly equal to Jorgen's height and weight. This lion probably weighed 350 pounds.
Jorgen was tense, ready. The lion, not slowing from its heavy, yet still graceful stride, glanced his way before seeming to dismiss him entirely. It just chuffed and casually passed the caravan by, staying on the road the whole way. The oxen did not appreciate that.
