This is a fictional story. The characters and events described herein are fictitious. The story and it's contents are the sole property of the author. It has been posted on the Nifty Story Archives page with the permission of the author. If you are offended by sex or sexual acts between two consenting males, or by a relationship between an older man and a significantly younger one please do not read any further. For the rest of you who don't need this read on and enjoy. Let me know what you think. Copyright 2006
This chapter contains depictions of graphic violence, if you are offended by such displays please do not read further. You have been warned.
Chapter V
Kreshtar's eyes snapped open, his surroundings coming into sharp, almost painful clarity immediately. He was still laying atop the fur covered bed in the room in the tavern on the second floor. The room was dark, the candles that had been burning when they fell asleep had sputtered and died long ago. Through the open window on the far wall came a soft but cold early morning breeze. A pale shroud of starlight and moonlight fell across the floor and, from the look of the eastern edge of the sky, dawn was still some hours off.
Tristan lay slumbering in front of Kreshtar, his breathing soft, slow and steady, Kreshtar's arms still firmly wrapped around the boy's body and his sex still wedged inside Tristan. Everything seemed to be fine. Why, then, had he awakened?
A noise came to his ears, soft and low. He had to listen for it a second time. There, again, a rattling sound coming from the other side of the door.
Kreshtar's mind raced, but this face was cool, calculating. He put one hand over Tristan's mouth and gently shook the boy awake. Tristan was about to make a complaint when he realized he had a hand over his mouth. He looked up in panic for a moment, then saw Kreshtar motioning for quiet. He relaxed but only by a few degrees, picking up on Kreshtar's tension.
Kreshtar removed himself from Tristan, a much simpler and painless task than the first time, Tristan had indeed been right about the olive oil. He stood up, retrieving his discarded loincloth and replaced it hastily. He retreved his sword from where it lay against the wall and bared the blade.
The rattling, which had persisted the entire time, was finally replaced by the scraping noise of the bolt being slid back. Kreshtar motioned for Tristan to lay back on the bed so that the intruder would not be scared off immediately.
The door slowly and silently swung open just a crack. Not enough to see the whole room but enough to see the bed. Kreshtar stepped out of the line of sight, waiting of the moment to make his move. After a few moments the door opened farther and a shadowed figure began to creep stealthily into their room. Kreshtar had to hand it to whoever it was, the person moved without making a sound. If there had not been a bolted door barring the way this thief would have succeeded.
The figure stepped clear of the door and Kreshtar slammed it shut. The figure whirled around, to escape of take some other action it no longer mattered.
Kreshtar seized the man by his neck, applying just enough pressure to make certain the fellow was not comfortable. He put the tip of this sword to the man's belly to emphasize the situation.
"Tristan," Kreshtar called over, "would you be ever so kind enough to open the door for me, I believe this fellow has the wrong room. I'm going to see him out."
Tristan sprang up , already having grabbed his loincloth and put it in place and opened the door, standing out of the way to make sure Kreshtar's path was clear.
Kreshtar stepped through the door way, holding the man's neck at arm's length still and his sword tip hovering just over the man's abdomen, forcing the fellow to walk backwards.
"Marcus!" Kreshtar bellowed as he reached the top of the stairs and forced the man's backward descent. Other patrons disturbed from their slumber began opening their doors to investigate the commotion.
"Mar-----cus!!!" Kreshtar roared again as he reached the tavern floor. After a moment Marcus came running out of his own room, throwing a shirt of over his stout frame while holding a lit candle.
"See here now," the innkeeper started in a fluster, "what's all this commotion? My patrons are trying to sleep, you've no right to disturb their rest. What's this?" his attention turning to the man Kreshtar had by his sword tip.
"That is what I would like to know," Kreshtar growled irritably. He shoved the man down hard to one of the benches running the length of one of the tables in the common room.
Marcus brought the candle over, shedding light on the intruder's face. The man, using the term loosely, could not have been more than four or five years older than Tristan. His face was gaunt and his eyes darted about in a panic. Tristan was acutely reminded of his first encounter with Kreshtar and imagined how hi must have looked. He did not, however, feel even the slightest sympathy for this man who had tried to rob them.
Marcus conversed harshly with the man in Latin, trying to find out why a seemingly random stranger would want to rob them.
The man spoke rapidly, too fast for Tristan to make out much of anything. Something about overhearing a conversation, about an easy mark. This man had thought to beat another group of men to the punch.
Marcus was frowning, his brow making deep furrows. At length he turned back to Tristan and Kreshtar, a look of grave concern on his face.
"This does not bode well my good masters," Marcus said sadly, heaving a great sigh. "It would seem that this man overheard a group of men plotting to rob an 'easy mark' from my inn in your room. He thought to get here ahead of them and reap the benefits all for himself.
"On top of that," Marcus continued, "one of the men he describes looks like Brutus"
"Brutus?" Kreshtar gave the innkeeper a questioning look.
"The man who grabbed your nephew earlier this evening," Marcus clarified.
Kreshtar's face darkened, his eyes smoldering with fury. His body quivered and tensed with barely restrained violence, as though the object of his fury might present itself right then and there.
"If this man speaks true," Kreshtar bemused in wicked humor, "then that means that this Brutus and his companions will be coming here," Kreshtar turned and stalked towards the stairs, his back and shoulders rigid with unexpressed violence.
"Master Ateanis," Marcus called after him, concern coloring the innkeeper's voice, "where are you going?"
Kreshtar stopped and turned to face Marcus, letting the man feel the full weight of his fury. Marcus flinched, but turned back to meet Kreshtar's gaze as evenly as he could. A stray thought in the back of Kreshtar's mind commended the innkeeper, he had seen much harder men cover in fear and turn and flee from the look he was giving the man.
"If this man came ahead of them," Kreshtar responded in cold, dispassioned tones, "then that means they will be coming here. I wish to be ready for them when they arrive."
"No, please, I beg of you," Marcus pleaded, "do not shed blood under my roof."
Kreshtar gave the man a whithering stare, but Marcus held firm.
"I am sorry for the trouble one of my patrons is causing you," Marcus began, "I wish even now that I had thrown him out sooner. I realize that this may seem callus to you, but once an inn gains a reputation for bloodshed and murder it takes a long time for it to go away. And from the look on your face, what you would do to these men, I don't think the stories would ever go away. My business would be destroyed. Please," Marcus begged fervently.
In the midsts of his raging fury the innkeeper's words actually found their way in. There was sense in what the man was saying, this tavern, as good as it was, would probably never recover. Kreshtar had no wish to visit such hardship on this man who had treated two 'savage' strangers with kindness and good humor.
"What then, would you have me do?" Kreshtar replied, a small edge taken off his anger.
"You," Marcus fidgeted for a moment, obviously liking the reaction he anticipated from Kreshtar to what he was about to say, "you could leave.
"Hear me out," Marcus hurried to explain. "If you're gone then Brutus and his friends have nothing to gain. The only reason Brutus would be pulling a stunt like this is because the man is arrogant and vainglory. He does not like to be humiliated or have his pride wounded or insulted. You did just that. Now, mind you, I agree with what you did, the man deserves that and more. But now we are left to deal with his foolishness.
"Now, you two leave," Marcus bowled over Kreshtar when he was about to interrupt, "and there is nothing here for him. What's more, I'm going to send one of my men to fetch some soldiers. I need to take care of this one," he gestured to the man still cowering on the bench, "and that way there will be soldiers here to arrest Brutus and whoever is fool enough to follow his lead. Now, will that be satisfactory?"
Kreshtar thought a moment. The innkeeper's idea seemed sound enough, there was only one thing he wanted to make sure of though.
"When the soldiers arrest these men," Kreshtar asked quietly, "what will be their punishment?"
"Crucifixion," Marcus pronounced with all the grim flair of the executioner himself. "It's either that or they will be made slaves. Such is the punishment amongst our society for all their ilk."
The man at the table gave a howl of disspare and made as though to run. One of Marcus' surlier employees stopped the man in his tracks. Marcus barked something at one of his men and another man ducked into a room for a length of rope.
"Fair enough," Kreshtar conceded, "I will do as you ask then. Have someone prepare our horses while we go and gather our things."
"Thank you," Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. He turned to another employee and started talking rapidly in Latin. When he was finished with the instructions he turned and began going around to his guests individually, explaining the situation and that if they so desired they would be duly compensated for that night's payment. Most, being regular patrons, recognized the situation as being out of Marcus' control, there were some though who stubbornly demanded recompense for the disturbance.
Kreshtar and Tristan gathered their things in a bundle, little passing between them as they hurried to get their things together. Kreshtar ran saddle bags and other packs downstairs while Tristan was hurriedly trying to to stuff various odds and ends into the couple of pouches and baskets they had purchased for packing things on the horse. One of Marcus' employees fetched the different parcels from the long table where Kreshtar was piling them up and began loading their horses.
When Kreshtar was bringing the last bundle down the stairs Tristan followed him. Awaiting them on the table as they made their last trip downward were two bowls of gruel, a loaf of bread left from the night prior, a small bowl of dried fruits and a pitcher full of fresh milk. Marcus sat opposite the setting looking lost in his own thoughts. Upon Kreshtar's and Tristan's arrival Marcus looked up, snapping out of his reverie.
"Ah, good masters," he stood greeting them warmly, as though this were an easy departure, rather than a hastened and somewhat forced retreat, "one cannot start a hard day's travel without a hearty meal first," he gestured to the spread before them. Kreshtar started to protest but Marcus cut him off with a curt motion and a resolved look. There were even fewer men would pull that off.
"I realize that I am forcing your departure," the innkeeper said sadly, "I am sorry for the trouble that has come down on you and at the same time greatful that you have agreed to leave without bringing ruin down on my head. Yet I also feel partially responsible for the trouble this man is causing you. If I had thrown him out earlier then maybe you wouldn't be in this mess.
"Your horses will not be ready for a few minutes yet and the least I can do for you is send you on your way with a full belly. Now, I'll brook no more arguments or discussions on the matter. Eat," he finished with the command.
Tristan and Kreshtar ate the food quietly. Under normal circumstances Tristan thought that the food might even taste delicious. But the entirety of his being was numb. So he ate more out of habit and the hanging command Marcus had given them.
Marcus sat with them throughout the meal, saying nothing, lost in his own thoughts.
As they finished another man in Marcus' employ approached them to inform them that their horses were ready and that the guards were on their way. Marcus thanked the man and dismissed him, allowing the fellow to retire for the evening. They all stood, Marcus seeing them on their way to the stables. When they got there Kreshtar turned and regarded Marcus. Marcus shook his head.
"You needn't say anything Master Ateanis," he said, his voice had an echo of his normal jovial tone, "this was a no win situation no matter what choices were made. When things have settled down you will always find room under my roof, you will always be welcome. You and you, ah, nephew." Even in the light of stars and moon Kreshtar could see the man grinning.
"What do you mean?" Kreshtar asked wearily.
"Oh come now my good man," Marcus berated with a roll of his eyes, "do you think everyone in the inn deaf? It has been some time indeed since my roof was graced with a performance such as that. Why the entire tavern cheered and applauded at the conclusion of your, ahem, act. If he hadn't been duly impressed with your performance I would think that Mathias would have pounded on your door to keep it down, you interrupted him in the middle of one of his stories. There is no more unforgivable act in his opinion. However he clapped and cheered with the rest of my patrons, if not louder than the rest." Marcus was grinning at the slightly stunned and horrified look on Kreshtar's face while Tristan hid a grin behind his hand. Although there was a sound that suspiciously resembled a suppressed giggle issuing from behind it. Kreshtar felt his face flush, a sensation that was decidedly unfamiliar to him, and was greatful neither could see it.
"I hope that one day," Marcus went on, "you will feel that you can trust me enough to give my your real names as well." The man was still smiling brightly. Tristan and Kreshtar shared a look, Kreshtar giving a slight shrug of his shoulder.
"My name is actually Tristan," the boy smiled up at Marcus, "but you are right about me not being his nephew. So may I present to you, not Ateanis, but rather you storyteller's tales made flesh. Before you now stands Kreshtar the Beast," and Tristan made a flourish that would have pleased any showman.
Marcus looked nonplussed. But after the gleam in Kreshtar's eye did not go away the innkeeper's smile wilted just a little around the edges.
"It's true?" Marcus breathed in simultaneous disbelief and awe. "The boy names you truly, doesn't he? By all the gods on Olympus..."
"I am, indeed, he," Kreshtar nodded grimly. "I hope this does not have any baring on your former sentiments?" Kreshtar arched an eyebrow and stared evenly at the man.
"No," Marcus shook his head, "I meant every word of what I said. Travel safely and in good health." Marcus extended his hand. Kreshtar took it and they clasped forearms.
"Stay well," Kreshtar said back, "my friend," smiling at the man. Marcus relaxed by visible degrees.
Kreshtar mounted the strapping stallion as Tristan walked up to Marcus. Their eyes were almost level, but Tristan still had some growing left before that happened. Tristan unapologetically embraced the portly innkeeper. After getting over the initial shock Marcus returned it, then held the boy at arms length.
"Make sure he doesn't do some foolhardy thing and get himself killed. I fully expect to see you both back here."
"Don't worry," Tristan assured the man, "I'm not intending for him to die on me any time soon."
With that Kreshtar reached down and gave a hand up to Tristan, settling the boy right in front of him. And without so much as a second look Kreshtar kicked the horse to a start, and they were gone.
Marcus stood there for a moment longer, still awestruck. Kreshtar the Beast had stayed at his very own inn, he had even stared down the man. That thought did send a small chill up and down his spine, but it passed quickly. Kreshtar had named him a friend, and Marcus guessed that this was not the type of man to do that easily or casually.
He turned from the site of where they had departed, the barbarian and the boy, and walked heavily inside. The night was not yet over, there was going to be yet more ruckus disturbing his guests, but it was necessary.
He heaved a great sigh and shook his head. Kreshtar the Beast, now, he thought, he had truly seen everything.
The frigid night air whistled in Tristan's ears as Kreshtar gave the stallion his head and the might animal surged forward through the darkness. The matching mare that they had purchased kept pace with the stallion, being light of hoof and quick of step.
The shadows seemed to undulate to Tristan. Everyone of them held a thief or a cut purse, or worse yet, a soldier, waiting to jump out at them and finish what began in his village.
They had been fortunate enough when leaving the city that they had not come across any patrols. But to Tristan it seemed as though they should have been swarmed. Every clomp of the horses' hooves on the cobbled streets seemed painfully loud.
Once they had reached the city limits Kreshtar had given the horse nearly free reign. That had been some time past. They continued to follow the river, the trade road conveniently running along side it at this point.
The pale moon and silent, glimmering stars shone in their spheres, cold and impassive. There warmthless light made Kreshtar, Tristan and their two horses cast their own indistinct shadows. Nearly formless figures that followed them and kept pace over the ground.
The river was black, save for the reflections of moon and stars upon it's surface. One of the men that had come to his mother for healing had shown Tristan a small figure carved out of some dark glittering rock. The man had called it obsidian, that is what the river reminded him of, obsidian.
More time passed and soon the eastern sky began to slowly get lighter. Dawn was like a pale promise on the horizon and with it Tristan's spirits lifted just a little.
Kreshtar slowed the stallion down. The animal was breathing heavily, but there was almost a satisfied quality to it, as though the horse could not think o f a better way to spend an early morning than running all out with a rider, or two, atop his back.
Kreshtar ambled the along at an easy pace letting it and the mare recover. The silence hung in the pre-dawn air. Tristan broke it first.
"Thank you, by the way," he said, keeping his eyes forward.
"What for?" Kreshtar asked a little confused.
"For going along with Marcus' request," Tristan explained.
"I had no desire to bring trouble to the man's roof. Especially when he had gone so far out of his way to make us feel welcomed. He is a good man and i avoid bringing trouble to good men if I can."
They rode on for some time more in the peace and quiet of early morning. The quiet, though, was suddenly shattered as the stallion screamed and reared back. If not for Kreshtar's handling of the animal Tristan would have been thrown.
A figure had stepped out of the brush into the middle of the road. A dawning realization came upon Kreshtar as the figure was joined by another, and another and yet more. The men formed a semi-circle, pinning Kreshtar and Tristan against the river.
Tristan began shaking in fear and Kreshtar laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, partially protective and partially to calm the boy. He glanced over their attackers, who had yet to approach he noted, and his face was impassive, cool, calculating. At least one of these thirteen men was a walking corpse, the poor fellow just lacked the good sense to realize it yet.
There was a derisive laugh from the one at the forefront, this was Brutus, the man from before.
"Well, well, well then, my fine wild northern men," Brutus chuckled in his crude and barely passable rendition of Norse. "It seems the poor young fool did his work quite well. Though if he had actually known what he was really doing then things would not have turned out quite so perfectly." Tristan could almost see the man's sneer in the not-quite-light of pre-dawn. He could swear that the very air he was breathing had a sour, sharp tang to it of too much bad mead.
There was harsh laughter from the res of the men surrounding them. They began to draw their circle tighter, all of them bearing knives and clubs in hand.
"Tristan," Kreshtar whispered, "translate for me." Tristan nodded silently in front of Kreshtar. The big man paused for a moment as the other figures closed ranks even more.
"Turn away now," Kreshtar's voice boomed out across the empty morning, "and all of you may leave unscathed. You have this chance now to go before anything else happens." Tristan's voice came after, significantly quieter but still carrying and echoing what Kreshtar had said as best he could in Latin.
This illicited more derisive laughter from all the men closing ranks.
"My," Brutus barked through his laughter, "aren't you confident of yourself. Last time I checked we outnumbered you, significantly. If anyone should be making offers, it should be your sweet, young companion, offering himself up to us in exchange for both your lives. But no matter, we'll each have our turn with him, and you'll watch. Just before we gut you."
"You mistake my offer, vermin," Kreshtar spat vehemently, "my offer was to your companions, not to you. I warned you if you came near me or mine again that I would kill you. I don't make idle threats. You die this morning before the sun finishes rising!"
With that Kreshtar dismounted, the men stepping back and hesitating for a moment. He stepped in front of the horse, in front of Tristan. At that moment the sun broke the horizon and light streaked across the landscape almost instantly. It threw Kreshtar's features and body into bold, stark, and fearsome relief. The sun painted the sky red and the horizon appeared as though aflame. Kreshtar drew his sword, the metal whispering against the leather scabbard as it slid free easily. As he leveled his blade the light of the red dawn danced and gleamed down the length of the blade, making it appear as though it was already bathed in blood.
He held the hilt in one hand ran the tips of his fingers on the other along the cold steel, caressing the blade as though it were a lover, as he would and had caressed Tristan. He closed his eyes a moment, not seeing, feeling or hearing anything. Everything fell away and all that existed were him and the sword. He opened his eyes and looked at the man who threatened the only thing that Kreshtar had ever truly cherished, his face devoid of rage, devoid of hate, devoid of emotion. The only thing that gleamed in Kreshtar's eyes was the cold, impassive certainty of this man's death.
"My Lady Steel and my mistress Death," Kreshtar spoke as though to everyone present and yet to no one at all, laying a kiss upon the flat of the blade, "I think they wish to dance in this Red Dawn. Who am I that I should deny them their wish? Come then filth, come and dance with my wife and my lover, see if you can satisfy either of them so well as I, see if you can't steal one or both of them from me, for that is your only prayer this morning."
The other men surrounding them stood fixed to where they stood, trepidation showing itself in their faces. Kreshtar looked at them with disdain, these were not warriors, these were drunken brawlers. Men with no more courage or bravado than that they discovered in their tankards and mugs of ale. He would not bother sullying his blade with such as these, cowards and spineless dogs all of them.
Their leader, Brutus, screamed his rage and furry and charged in to close the distance and win the fight decisively. The other men bellowed and follow suit only but a moment after. Kreshtar almost laughed aloud, they moved sluggish and slow, hoping to win with all out strength. The first of the men reached him and the dance truly began.
The man threw a punch, predictable and sloppy, bringing his arm around in a wide arc. Kreshtar dropped to the ground, dodging the blow effortlessly. Wasting no time he gripped the hilt of his sword in both hands and driving as much momentum into the blow as he could he brought the pommel of his sword to bare into the middle of the man's face. There was a dull, sickening thud and the man's face just at the bridge of his nose erupted in a bloody ruin. The man screamed in agony and fell to the ground cradling his broken face, his blood splattering on the ground.
Three more men were almost to Kreshtar, approaching from behind him and from either side. Two had knives drawn and the third brandished a crude club with harsh spikes driven through the end of it. At the last moment of their charge Kreshtar dropped to one knee and swung his blade in a wide arc, rotating the blade just before the point of impact so that the man to his right was hit with the flat rather that the edge. The sword came up into the man's ribs, another dull thud and a crunch of bones, though this man didn't scream in pain, it seemed that he didn't have the breath to properly express his agony.
Before the other two could begin their swings, Kreshtar wheeled his blade without pausing to see the result of the impact. He brought the flat down on the man now behind him and caught his attacker just between the neck and shoulder, the man grunted in pain and fell on his hands and knees. Kreshtar swung his left fist in a blindingly fast arc, the next would be attacker catching the full force of a back handed blow to his jaw. The man spun half a rotation and fell to the ground without moving again. The third man was trying to regain his feet, but before he could stand himself up Kreshtar gave the man a swift kick in the face, sending the man flying backwards, two of his fellows tripping over their comrade.
Five more men ran to subdue the barbarian, Kreshtar might as well have been a ghost among them. The men tried to strike him simultaneously, hoping to overwhelm him. Kreshtar danced blithely back out of their reach closer to the river bank and all they hit was air. Kreshtar stomped his foot into the shine of the man closest to him at a sharp angle. The man shrieked and crumbled to the ground, his leg now having three distinct joints, white splinters of bone jutting grotesquely from the newly made brake.
The other four men turned to face Kreshtar as he swung his sword, again turning the blade and striking with the flat, catching one attacker squarely in the back. The fellow reeled forward into another man, taking them both to the ground. The other two swung, Kreshtar deflected both their blows with his blade without so much as braking a stride. He planted his boot into squarely into the chest of one man, who grunted as he flew back and landed hard on the road. Kreshtar grabbed the other man by the back of his head and drove him down to the ground, striking it against a small riverside bolder just in the right spot, there was a sickening crack and another cry of pain and agony.
The other three men who had been knocked down had regained their footing and were regrouping with their fellows. The seven men left looked to be reevaluating the situation, though Kreshtar noticed that Brutus hung back just so, not so much that it could be construed that he was going to run, but just enough that if things turned bad he would be able to make good his escape.
Kreshtar didn't give them an opportunity to rethink their plan of attack, they had been given due chance to walk away, they were now at his mercy. And with the thought of Brutus' last threat still ringing in his ears Kreshtar found that mercy was not what he desired.
He charged forward bellowing as the a howling wind announces the imminent arrival of a great storm. The first man was too surprised by the change in tactics that he didn't even get a chance to defend himself. Kreshtar swung his sword at a downward angle, striking the man's knee directly, the man screamed as his leg folded the wrong direction and fell to the ground. Kreshtar moved to the next man who was trying to back up and defend himself. Kreshtar caught the fellow's club in one hand and, wrenching it from his grip, struck the man across the temple, promptly discarding the unneeded weapon after. The man dropped and did not get up again.
Another man tried to come up from behind Kreshtar. Kreshtar kicked back behind him, catching the man in the gut. The man doubled over with the wind knocked out of him. Turning, Kreshtar brought the pommel of his sword down directly between the man's shoulder blades with another loud crunch. The former attacker cried out and fell to the ground where he continued to give voice to his pain, yet seemed unable to move anything else.
Yet another man tried to follow suit and take a downward swing at Kreshtar's exposed back. Kreshtar reacted just in time, righting himself and stepping back out from under the arc. Kreshtar caught the man's wrist deftly with one hand and using the pommel once more brought it down on the man's elbow. The man yelled, dropping his knife, cradling his arm which bent a grotesque angle and stumbling back.
The other two men who were left turned to where they thought their leader was and saw him running down the road back towards the city. They turned and looked at each other, looked at Kreshtar who was breathing heavily but hardly winded, and both ran in separate directions. Kreshtar cared little for the other two, let them flee. He still had business with Brutus
Kreshtar turned, sheathing his sword, to where Tristan still sat atop the stallion. Quickly and deftly he undid the guide holster connecting the mare to the stallion and lept atop the stallion's back behind Tristan. He kicked the horse into motion, which screamed in protest, but surged forward. The stallion had no trouble bearing down on Brutus
As they caught up with him Kreshtar struck the man in the back of his head. Brutus tumbled forward to the ground, rolling over to his back, stunned. Kreshtar pulled back hard on the reins and the stallion pulled up short. Kreshtar jumped off and strode purposely over to the man on the ground. Kreshtar grabbed Brutus by the hair and yanked him up to a sitting position.
"I warned you," Kreshtar growled so low in his chest that it was barely audible, "to trouble neither myself or my nephew or I would give you a slow death. One that The Beast himself would shy away with revulsion. Now, swine, I shall render you your reward, a slow, agonizing death that will turn even my stomach. For as surely as you heeded not my warning know now, too late, that I am Kreshtar The Beast, The Untamed, Herald of War and Bringer of Death!
"And with that knowledgeable, pig, face your fate!"
Brutus yelled as Kreshtar drew out his hunting knife. He beat about Kreshtar's arm and shoulder, anything he could strike in desperation, he may as well have been beating against an ancient oak for all the good it did him. Kreshtar plunged his knife into Brutus' gut, burying it to the hilt, and dragged it across the length of the man's stomach. Blood started to flow freely from the deep wound and Brutus was screaming in pain. Kreshtar stood, not letting go of the man's hair and walked down the road a few paces. Directly overhead a tree branch stretched over the middle of the path of the road. Kreshtar hauled the sack of meat to his feet, Brutus whimpering and wailing with every motion.
Without warning Kreshtar dove his hand into the wound he had inflicted. Brutus screamed in agony as Kreshtar searched for what he wanted of the man's innards. Finding what he desired Kreshtar wrapped his hand around it and began pulling, coming up against only moderate resistance. Kreshtar removed his hand from Brutus' stomach and began pulling out what looked like rope. Kreshtar kept pulling more and more of Brutus' guts out of the wound till he had what he considered to be a sufficient length. With a measured toss Kreshtar threw the loop of intestine over the branch outstretched above the road.
Taking hold of Brutus' hair again Kreshtar looped the intestine around Brutus' neck several times, making sure that the make shift noose would not come undone. Brutus stood, but with great difficulty, the true horror of his situation now dawning in his eyes. For as he became weaker from blood loss the intestine would stretch and begin to choke him. He was a dead man, it was only a question of whether he would bleed to death, or choke first on his own innards.
Kreshtar turned with only a look of disgust showing on his face. He walked over to the stallion and mounted again behind Tristan, leaving the man to his ghastly fate. They rode back to where Kreshtar had untied the mare, who was still there. One or two of the bodies were gone, but Kreshtar was no longer concerned about attackers. Retying the mare's tether Kreshtar pointed the stallion farther down the road and let the horse have his head again.
Not a word passed between Kreshtar and Tristan, the boy had not spoken since translating what Kreshtar had wanted said to the thieves. It was then that Kreshtar had the first inkling that he may have taken things too far. They rode till the sun began sinking in the sky. But the endless silence felt like an eternity.