Page 43 of A Light So Blinding
Cages that were as tall as him, but thin and narrow. They held crouched figures within them.
Trolls, he realized. Trolls that looked a lot like him. Trolls with jewelry in their ears, decorating their fingers and wrists, and clothing that was far finer than the humans wore.
These weren’t warriors. These were civilians. Men, women, and a little girl who was hiding her face against her mother’s belly because she was so terrified. These mercenaries had hunted his people down on the other side of the mountain. They had taken these people from their homes and were now carting them over the mountain in cages for what reason?
A group of mercenaries had gathered together, bottles in their hands lifted to the skies for a moment before drinking from them. One of them shouted, “Drink up! The king will be pleased with us in a week’s time. You’ll see more riches than you ever dreamed of!”
Someone smacked him upside the head, hushing him. There were more words then, but they flowed through Bjorn’s ears without any real recognition. Words that warned of trolls in the mountains. Hunting grounds. Warriors who would rip and tear with their claws.
His own claws sank into the stones that he gripped, and then all he could see was red.
These mercenaries had come to his home. They’d stolen his people. They took and broke and bit until there was nothing left but blood and pain. He was so tired of humans thinking they could claim whatever they stood on and suddenly, his body moved without him.
Bjorn recognized what was happening. This was his father’s blood. It was anger and rage that had been passed down to him through generations of trolls. Dag the Destroyer himself had once told Bjorn that the rage was a gift. Berserkers were the ones to hold the rage for all the other trolls, so others could go about their lives without this red mist overtaking them as well.
But to him, it was a curse. A curse where he did not remember or even know what he was doing until it was too late.
His anger passed in fleeting moments of clarity that only provided him with the ability to see what was happening. Briefly. Only a flash of what he had done.
A mercenary raised his sword, rushing forward with a yell that Bjorn knew he would catch on his claws. He plunged the sharp tips underneath the man’s jaw, feeling his tongue move against his fingers before he threw him to the side.
Again, another break in his madness to see a young man on his hands and knees, frantically trying to grab his sword that was somehow on the ground. Bjorn was no kinder to him. He stomped hard on the man’s back, hearing the snap of his spine before he did the same thing to the base of his neck.
Then screaming. So many screams.
He hated it when they screamed. The sound scratched the back of his skull, and he clutched his head to get the sound out of it. He heard the shrieks of those who had died before, who would die soon, the calls of his people begging him to save them, but he didn’t know how.
Bjorn had just been a child. The screams had been echoing then too. The sound of his father rampaging through the humans who had attacked them was hard to forget. He had seen the blood splatters, the way it had coated his father nearly from his head to his toe. What had once been his dad was now Dag the Destroyer. That monstrous creature had once held Bjorn’s hands when he was scared of the dark. That beast had once promised his son that he would fear nothing because Dag would always be there to chase away the nightmares.
Then he had become one.
Bjorn fought through the sound of the screams, killing anyone and everything that stood in his way. In some sense, he knew he was as coated as his father had been. He could feel the warm liquid dripping down his chest in rivers of unending pain. There were more though. More people to kill, because there always were.
Except those who were still standing were behind barriers. Bjorn could still hear them screaming, and he wanted it to stop. He couldn’t handle the screams. He remembered being terrified underneath that cart, begging for his father to stop killing people because Dag had turned toward his own kind. The rage that burned through Dag the Destroyer was renowned. But he had always targeted humans. He’d never hurt trolls.
Until he did. And then no one could stop him. Not the warriors. Not the people who begged for mercy. No one.
All Bjorn could remember was the screams. Just like the people screaming right now.He needed them to stop.
A cool breeze played along his back. Rage still pushed through him, and he knew that he was pounding on something metallic, trying to get through whatever it was. But then that breeze caught his attention again, and he slowed.
He hadn’t felt a wind like that in such a long time. He’d been stuck underground, where he knew most trolls enjoyedtheir time. But he had never liked it underground. He’d always wanted to feel the wind in his hair, feel it cooling the sweat of his brow, easing the torment of heat in his body.
Finally, he felt the rage in him ease. Like a candle flame blown out by a breath. It was peace. It was hope. It was...
Her.
He knew that hand on his back, and the soft feeling of it tracing down his skin. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling. Her hand was dry and cool. His skin was slick with sweat and so overheated. But her touch and that breeze cooled his blood.
“Are you with us?” she asked, her voice quiet even as she stood so close to a berserker.
What bravery it took for her to stand where she did, without quaking in fear. She must’ve known he could turn at any point and kill her. Some part of him was still screaming at him to do so. But he didn’t. Bjorn held on to that cool breeze and soft touch, clutching it against his soul like the lifeline he knew it was.
He let the rage go. When he opened his eyes next, he could see that he had been standing in front of one of the troll cages. The inhabitants were terrified, all watching him with mistrustful eyes that stared deep into his soul. They were the picture of who he had been as a young boy, hoping that his father would return to himself before the monster found him underneath that cart.
Bjorn turned away from them, unable to look into those gazes that were so like his own. Instead, he turned toher. To his bright one. To the woman who gleamed in the moonlight like a fallen star.
She stood there with her hand still raised, her palm bright red with blood. And yet, she did not quiver as she met his gaze. “Are you with us?” she asked again.
