Rise of Wales

Ethan hovered above Brynach's headless corpse, "It worked!" He thought. "A symbiotic relationship would have been... inconvenient." His nanobots buzzed with efficiency, storing and processing every fragment of neural data extracted from Brynach's mind. Though incomplete, the information painted enough of a picture: he was in 892 AD.

Previously Ethan's nanobot swarm surged through Brynach's body, infiltrating the druid's neural pathways with surgical precision. Each microscopic machine probed and disrupted key regions of the brain, targeting centers responsible for motor function and perception Brynach stumbled, clutching his head as a searing pain overtook him, his vision fracturing into a kaleidoscope of distorted images. Ethan, operating from within the swarm, probed deeper, attempting to assert dominance over the druid's consciousness. Yet, Brynach's mind resisted, his willpower a storm of defiance even in the face of this unnatural invasion. The struggle left him vulnerable, his focus and reflexes shattered as if his very soul was being unraveled thread by thread.

Kjartan seized the opportunity, his warrior's instincts sensing the sudden weakness in his foe. The druid, once a terrifying figure commanding the respect and fear of his enemies, swayed and was killed.

Below, Finnr stood over Brynach's lifeless, headless body. The other Vikings, initially frozen in terror, began to murmur among themselves.

"You slayed the draugr?" Finnr asked, his voice half disbelief, half admiration. He looked at Kjartan, his tone rising. "Kjartan!"

The tension broke like a wave. The warriors, who had moments before feared Brynach's otherworldly presence, now cheered, their voices raw with relief and bloodlust.

But Sven, his eyes narrowed, stepped forward, pointing at the corpse with his axe. "He renounced the gods. We all saw it! This dishonor cannot go unpunished."

Kjartan, still wiping his blade on a strip of cloth, turned slowly to Sven. His voice was low and sharp as the steel in his hand. "Hold your tongue, Sven, or I'll part your head from your neck as swiftly as I did his."

Sven hesitated, the weight of Kjartan's glare enough to silence him. He swallowed hard and stepped back, muttering something under his breath.

Finnr sighed, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "You ungrateful bastard," he thought. "He just saved our lives, and you dare question him?"

Kjartan sheathed his sword and took a step toward the barn. His shadow loom large over the other warriors. He turned back, raising his arms. "Well, who's hungry?"

The tension dissolved as quickly as it had formed. The men barked laughter, hefted their weapons, and followed Kjartan toward the barn, their grim work of the night still unfinished.

Ethan drifted closer, a single mechanical bug floating silently behind the group as they approached the barn. The men crouched behind a stack of hay and barley, their breaths visible in the cool night air.

"We're only twelve," Kjartan whispered, looking at Finnr. "How many men do they have that can fight?"

Finnr thought for a moment, his expression tightening. "Less than twenty, I think."

"Are you sure?" Kjartan's eyes were hard, calculating.

Finnr nodded, though not with full confidence. Kjartan scanned the men around him. "You've all seen how these Welsh bastards fight. Ferocious. Clever. We can't rush this." He gestured toward the barn. "We split into teams of three. Set fires, hit them where they're weak, and take them down while they're scattered."

Sven scoffed, drawing the eyes of the others. "They're just farmers. Let's slaughter them and be done with it."

Finnr glared at him. "Do you have a better idea, Sven? Or do you just enjoy hearing your own voice?"

Kjartan raised a hand to silence them. "Enough. We stick to the plan." His tone left no room for argument. He sighed internally Sven is right, have i become a coward like those bastards who fled...

As they moved, a figure approached the barn, humming a low tune. It was a man in his late forties, his brown hair streaked with gray, a rough cloak draped over his shoulders. He paused near the haystack, fumbling with his trousers to relieve himself.

Kjartan signaled to Finnr, who crept behind the man with the silent precision of a hunter. He sliced the man's throat from behind, a muffled gasp, and the man crumpled to the ground, his lifeblood pooling in the dirt.

Inside the barn, the Welsh farmers were singing and dancing, their voices raised in drunken celebration. A bard played a lively tune on his harp, children darted between the adults, and the smell of ale and roasted meat filled the air.

Dafydd, paused mid-drink. "What's that smell?"

A man with a belly as round as a barrel laughed. "Huh what smell? That's your arse!" The room erupted in laughter.

But Dafydd didn't laugh. He stood, sniffing the air, his brow furrowed. Then he saw it—the faint glow of fire through the cracks in the barn wall.

"Fire!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

The barn erupted into chaos. Men and women scrambled to put out the flames, they rushed outside to quell the fires, but the Vikings fell upon them like wolves. Blades flashed, screams pierced the night, and the ground turned slick with blood.

Dafydd, had managed to slay two Vikings despite his injuries. The man's breath came in ragged gasps as he leaned against the wall, clutching his bleeding side.

Kjartan stepped over the body of a fallen farmer, his blade dripping. He looked at Sven, who had cornered Dafydd's wife and was dragging her by the hair. "Sven," Kjartan called, his tone almost amused. "This one can fight."

Sven sneered. "Then let us see if he can face me."

Dafydd screamed his wife's name as he lunged at Sven, their swords clashing. The Viking toyed with him, laughing as he easily parried Dafydd's blows.

Finnr watched, his arms crossed. "Finish it, He's wounded. He won't make a good slave."

Sven grinned, kicking Dafydd to the ground. He raised his sword, but Dafydd's gaze shifted to the cart where his son hid, trembling beneath its wooden frame. His heart sank.

In a trembling loud voice, Dafydd called out:

"Hush now, my young dragon! your breath must be still. Finnr dramatically raised his hands up in the air, "Ahh the farmer says his last prayer, or is it a curse!?"

Dafydd countinued, "The world may rage, but bend to your will. For hidden strength shall rise in fire, When shadows flee and foes retire."

The boy stifled his sobs, pressing his hands to his mouth as his father's words echoed in his mind.

Sven drove his blade into Dafydd's chest. The man gasped, his final breath escaping in a shudder. His wife screamed as Sven turned to her, smirking.

Ethan watched from above, "Brynach....these poor innocent souls will die because of you." he sighed internally. "Now let me find a suitable host, a dead one." He moved, unseen, searching for his next host.