Man Among Myrmidons

By Richard T. Schrader

In a Norse viking age of axes, sorcery, giants, and dragons - world history and cultural mythology are both equally real and taking place. The globe trekking saga of Fastillion Lemonde begins at his childhood home on the Isle of Vinland during the Norse colonization of the Americas in the 11th Century. Fastillion, of mixed race and the adopted orphan son of his village's Christian priest, he is a young man that can move among the diverse cultures both Norse and native, pagan and Christian. Trained in woodcraft by his native mentor and with refined education from his book-learned father, Fastillion has both the mind and skill that can allow him to survive. When an ancient tribal enemy of all returns from nearly disbelieved legend, they come armed with black magics and the cannibalism-fueled immortality of the Windigo shamans. The viking Norsemen and their native Micmac allies must shake off generations of lazy peaceful living to once again take up their warrior ways. From the author of the ten books of the Gravewalkers survival horror series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard T. Schrader
• Release date: Dec 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310100253

Richard T. Schrader

Suicide Squad 2 and Peacemaker are adaptions of characters from Gravewalkers.The helmets from before are stolen from here. If you liked the show you will love this.Audiobook versions with subtitles are available on Youtube. I will eventually have all 12.For those of you who felt something for my characters, especially my beloved and misunderstood autistic sidekick, that means a lot to me. I wish I could have gotten out of this permanent shadowban through some way other than plagiarism.It's ok that you were only curious. This is a video world now.@RichardTSchrad1 Twitter

Book preview

Chapter 1: Race Against Eagles

Fastillion mercilessly slashed at his imperishable enemy for the umpteenth thousandth time. The pine resin he had smeared onto the leather-bound hilts of his swords gave him a sure grip despite generous sweating and growing exhaustion.

His adversary was a massive log he had planted into the earth like an uncarved totem pole. The countless blows from his daily weapons practice had stripped off great patches of the bark and splintered the hardwood timber.

His swords were not the polished Arabian scimitars of wootz steel his stepfather had gifted to him. Those flawless swords were too precious for mere exercise. Wootz steel could flex like the limbs of a bow and still hold an edge sharp enough to cleave through iron mail without dulling.

Fastillion practiced with crude wrought-iron replicas that he had forged to be similar to the originals in both weight and balance. Each time one of his dull blades impacted into the pole it made a sound like he beat upon a drum.

Twisted-feathers’ Micmac village had already accepted Fastillion as a member of their tribe so they stoically endured his long daily periods of exercise with all its accompanying drumming. As annoying as the sound could be, no one ever complained. His raucous noise served as a fitting reminder that they should also prepare for war against their ancient enemy, the red-painted Beothuk.

The day neared noon, but there was no excess of heat. Fastillion sweat purely from the strenuousness of his training. Two months had passed since his wedding to Raining-sunshine and so the coolness of fall was already in the air.

The encroachment of winter was no reason for the Micmac people to hope that the Beothuk would delay their attack until spring. The Beothuk were a nomadic northern people who were no strangers to harsh winter conditions. Ice and snow would not make the Beothuk postpone their campaign of war.

Fastillion had learned his ritual of daily martial exercise from the visions he had during his ceremony of manhood. His mother’s people had lived as an armed camp where they continuously sought to attain perfection in the arts of war. By imitating and improvising on their exercises, Fastillion sought to reap those same benefits.

The Micmac had never before seen anyone rehearsing combat skills so methodically. Fastillion relentlessly beat upon a log. It lacked any of the familiar aspects of religion, sport, or function that was natural for Micmac sensibilities.

The Micmac used hunting and games to teach the use of spears and archery. Their boys wrestled to learn how to fight. They made a sport of throwing their knives and tomahawks.

Fastillion took training for war to a new level of unembellished dedication. The Micmac men paid attention because they wanted to see what else they could learn from his example.

The Micmac villagers had immediately discerned a change in Fastillion after his ceremony of manhood. His boyhood shiftlessness had died with his adolescence.

The next morning he had begun his new rigorous regiment of conditioning. When he was not running, swimming, or practicing with his weapons, he carried huge timbers, barrels of water, or performed other strenuous chores that could tax the limits of his growing strength and endurance.

Fastillion’s marriage to Raining-sunshine had done nothing to change his single-minded pursuit of war craft. They lived with Raining-sunshine’s father in his home along with their Beothuk bondservant Silver-tree.

Hunting with his bow was Fastillion’s only pretense of working as a provider for his new wife. Between himself and Twisted-feathers, they harvested enough game that their home always had a charitable excess of food.

They contributed even more meat to the communal smokehouses, which added to the village’s winter stores. Fastillion showed no intention of building his own home. When his family needed anything, he always had enough iron or silver to just pay for it outright.

More than just the Micmac villagers had a surreptitious interest in watching Fastillion exercise that day. Three young Iroquois braves hid in the bushes at the edge of the forest and they too paid attention to his peculiar behavior. The fledgling warriors concealed themselves because the Micmac did not appreciate deceptive visitors who skulked about in the vicinity of their village.

The Iroquois were a people of the north. Their Algonquin name meant rattlesnakes and the Micmac hadn’t given it to them out of love.

The Iroquois called themselves, The People of the Longhouse and Those Who Smoke. The names referred to their style of homes and the tobacco they cultivated.

They were not a single tribe or even a single people. A diverse host of tribes spoke the Iroquoian tongue.

Relations between the Algonkin speaking Micmac and the Iroquois had not been openly hostile for many years, but violence was always a potential danger. Both nations had a tradition of torturing captured warriors to death to make lasting examples of what could happen to those who did not show proper respect.

The three Iroquois warriors were from the Mohawk Nation. In their own tongue they called themselves the People of the Flint.

Even for their nation of legendarily fierce warriors, they demonstrated great courage by getting so close to the strongest Algonquin village in the whole region. Even more audacious was the fact that they only had one weapon among them.

It was a feather-adorned stick that was not even heavy enough to serve as an effective bludgeon. The feathers were not the large eagle feathers that all the tribes used as honor medals. They were smaller decorative feathers like boys used when they played warrior.

Two of the youths were ready to move on. They had spied a wigwam at the edge of the forest that they wanted to raid. The birch bark shelter had many shamanistic symbols upon it. They took it as a sure sign that something valuable was inside.

The third Mohawk was not enthusiastic about their plan. Stealing wasn’t the kind of minor coup he had come for.

He snatched the stick away from one of the others. I’ll wait for you two to get in and out, he promised. Then I’ll show them what the Mohawk consider real courage.

The two braves bent on pilfering crept off toward the wigwam. No one came or went from the shelter nor did any sounds come from within. Using their flint knives, they swiftly cut through the birch bark at the back of the wigwam and then forced their way inside.

The smoky interior was nearly barren. The only contents were two medicine pouches that dangled from opposite ends of a pole that crossed through the center of the room.

Beneath each pouch were sand drawings of wheels that contained geometric patterns and unrecognizable symbols. At the center of each wheel was a clay incense burner that held smoldering hardwoods, tobacco, and herbs.

The streams of rising smoke seemed to outline invisible spheres that radiated from the pouches. It was as though the smoke imprisoned them or was trying to penetrate some intangible barrier. It was obvious to the two braves that some sort of magic was at work. They had no idea whether the rituals were supposed to empower the pouches or restrain their existing potency.

The young men brazenly stepped into the sand paintings then each of them seized a pouch. The medicine bags were undoubtedly of significant value to the Micmac; thus they made for a suitable trophy to gain the young men some respect as men of action among their own people.

None of the Micmac were the wiser as the two braves exited the wigwam then returned to where their third companion still waited and watched the village. They proudly displayed the pouches they had stolen and then slipped away into the forest.

The brave with the stick watched his two companions disappear into the trees before he then advanced toward the village.

While he waited, he had selected a Micmac warrior worthy of his attention. The man wore three golden eagle feathers in his hair. Each plume had the dots and slashes of paint that indicated they were badges for his numerous acts of valor.

The Micmac warrior also had a steel tomahawk in a sheath at the small of his back. In total, his accouterments were sure signs that the man was of considerable esteem and fighting expertise.

As the Mohawk crept forward, he stayed behind cover for as long as he could. Once he stepped out into the sunshine, he rushed toward the unsuspecting warrior he had chosen as his victim.

One of the village’s dogs began to bark, but it was already too late to make any difference.

The young Mohawk could run as swiftly as any man in the land. That proficiency was but one of the things he was out to prove.

The chosen Micmac had his arms full of firewood. He was slow to turn around and see what the dog barked about. When he did glance back, he saw the young Mohawk coming for him. The Micmac warrior flung his entire load of firewood into the youth’s face and then reached back to draw his tomahawk.

The agile Mohawk dove under the flying logs, tucked, then tumbled over the ground. As he rolled back onto his feet, he was close enough to make a slash with his stick. A whistling swipe broke the quills off the Micmac’s headdress. The blow knocked the feathers right off the man’s head.

The Micmac warrior was aghast at the severity of his injury. A blow from a counting-coup stick did not rend human flesh. It cut deep into a warrior’s honor instead.

The Micmac could not redress the affront to his dignity in just any way. As much as he would have liked to strike the Mohawk dead with a blow from his tomahawk, tradition demanded that he redeem himself by capturing the counting-coup stick that had successfully marked him.

An even better outcome would be for him to also apprehend the man who had used the coup stick against him. To fail at both reprisals would mean for him to become the object of a scornful tale that would last for all of his days.

The daring Iroquois was fully aware of all the relevant traditions. He taunted the Micmac warrior by waving the stick in his face and dancing about comically. It was all meant to make sure that the Micmac knew he was not enough of a threat to prompt the need for a hasty retreat.

Just to intensify the situation, the brave added a high-pitched whooping call so that everyone in the village would know that a Mohawk warrior was among them.

The Micmac warrior lunged to grab the counting-coup stick as his Mohawk adversary nimbly dodged away.

Another whooping call ended in mocking laughter as the youth sprinted away with the easy athletic grace of a distinguished runner.

The disgraced Micmac warrior chased after him, but he was not nearly young or swift enough to run down his quarry.

The younger man casually outdistanced his pursuer. When they ask, he taunted, tell them that Black-eagle of the Bear Clan was the one who shamed you.

He could have easily plunged into the forest before anyone could come close to catching him, except that he did not want to go that way. Running directly into the woods would lead his pursuers toward where his two companions had departed from.

To avoid exposing their trail, the Mohawk brave skirted along the edge of the forest instead. It was a direction that took him toward Twisted-feathers’ roundhouse.

Black-eagle’s battle cries caught Fastillion’s attention and interrupted his training. Fastillion forgot his exercises then headed in the proper direction to investigate the commotion. Worries of war were in the hearts of all so no one was in the mood to take any mayhem in the village casually.

Raining-sunshine was in her father’s roundhouse at that moment. As an adult, she followed in the footsteps of her mother by studying with the village’s matrons to become a midwife.

Several old women were visiting at that time to give her lessons.

Silver-tree was close by her mistress to attend to all the daily chores that might otherwise be a distraction to her lady.

When Raining-sunshine heard the first shout of Black-eagle, her response was to hastily grab Fastillion’s weapon belt that bore his two Arabian scimitars in their scabbards. She rushed the swords outside to give them to her husband.

Silver-tree was right behind her mistress as she came out through the door flap then ran up the few stone steps to ground level.

To their right, Fastillion fast approached them.

The Mohawk also ran toward them from the opposite direction.

The fleet footed Black-eagle reached the women first. He recognized that Raining-sunshine carried a pair of Norsemen’s steel blades. They were a priceless treasure in a land where the people barely understood metallurgy at all.

Stealing the prized weapons of a rival warrior would be a fine addition to his coup of touching a powerful enemy with a counting coup stick and then escaping unharmed. It was too good an opportunity for Black-eagle to pass up.

Raining-sunshine faced toward her husband so she failed to realize that the Mohawk intruder was right behind her.

Black-eagle came up then seized the weapon belt to pull the whole thing away from her. Raining-sunshine refused to let go, which made Black-eagle pull her along after him. Black-eagle did not have time to quarrel over the weapons so he swung his counting-coup stick to rap her over the head and make her let go.

Silver-tree still wore the iron shackles on her ankles. It was a mandate from the Micmac elders that ensured she could not run away with in-depth knowledge of their affairs. While so restrained, she was incapable of running, but she could still leap. Silver-tree sprang to the defense of her mistress by interposing herself between Raining-sunshine and Black-eagle.

Unlike a man, she cared nothing for rituals of warrior’s honor. She had her small steel knife in hand and used it to slash at the Mohawk’s face to kill him if she was able.

The feathered stick missed Raining-sunshine to strike Silver-tree instead, hitting her arm, which deflected the knife away.

With Fastillion nearly upon him, Black-eagle had no choice other than to abandon the swords as a lost cause. He let go of the belt and at the same time gave Silver-tree a solid kick in the abdomen to curtail her aggression.

The blow knocked Silver-tree back into Raining-sunshine then the two fell into the stairwell to tumble down through the door flap into the roundhouse.

Fastillion still had his blunt iron scimitars in his hands and was about to use one of them to remove the Mohawk’s head.

When he saw the counting-coup stick in Black-eagle’s hand, he had to restrain himself. Because the brave had come to count coup and was otherwise unarmed, Fastillion couldn’t remain an honorable man if he struck him down with a weapon.

The Micmac warrior who chased Black-eagle ran up fast and furious, Grab him, Fastillion! He shouted, That little smoker has a hard lesson coming to him!

Black-eagle was about Fastillion’s age, but that was where their similarities ended. The Mohawk was three-hands shorter and gave up a great deal in weight besides. His smaller build gave him an advantage when it came to being spry.

Fastillion let his iron swords fall from his grasp to immediately free his hands and then be able to grab the cocky interloper.

Black-eagle tried to slip away only Fastillion caught him by the shoulder. The Mohawk had oiled his skin as a defensive measure common to Markland wrestlers. Not even the resin on Fastillion’s hands was enough to let him maintain his grip.

Fastillion’s other hand managed to seize the counting-coup stick and that hold proved sure.

Black-eagle dashed away hoping to use his momentum to pull the stick free.

Fastillion was no less determined to keep the stick so he yanked back with all his might. When Black-eagle hit the limit of their mutual reach, Fastillion jerked the Mohawk right off his feet.

Black-eagle came down to crash in the dirt like a running dog that had run out of tether.

The hot-tempered Micmac warrior saw his opportunity so he dove at Black-eagle to pin him to the ground, Now I have you, boy! He cried in excitement, You’ve earned yourself a thrashing!

Black-eagle twisted on the ground like an infuriated snake. From flat on his back, he shot up his foot to stomp a moccasin into the Micmac warrior’s snarling face.

Keep trying, old man, Black-eagle jeered as he scrambled to his feet. No one can move as fast as the Black-eagle.

The kick to his face was enough to send the twice-humbled Micmac warrior careening into Fastillion. Their collision was enough of a distraction that it let Black-eagle wrench away the counting coup stick then run off toward the woods. As he loped away, he laughed and waved the stick over his head in a taunting victory celebration against them both.

Another dozen Micmac warriors came up in time to see Black-eagle getting away. They promptly set off in pursuit. Fastillion and the first Micmac warrior joined them in the chase.

Even after spending all morning strenuously training, Fastillion was still stalwart enough to race. He felt determined to make Black-eagle pay for attacking his wife if nothing else. It was unlikely that what happened had seriously injured either of the women. Fastillion was going to make sure the Mohawk suffered for his insolence all the same.

All the Micmac who came late to join the fight had brought their weapons. They soon realized that the fleeing Mohawk was more of a prankster than a homicidal adversary. They kept their arms since they still had concerns that a Mohawk ambush awaited them somewhere ahead in the forest.

Black-eagle swiftly pulled away from his pursuers.

Most of the Micmac had to discard their weapons just so they could run fast enough to keep up. Those few who kept their armaments promptly fell behind.

Black-eagle had thoroughly planned his raid. He had taken his time approaching the village so he would be fresh for his run back out. The walk had given him the time to properly scout the route of his escape. From the onset, Black-eagle set a brutal pace.

Not even the fastest Micmac warrior could overtake him. The race wove along forest paths for an entire league before the Micmac warriors began succumbing to inevitable exhaustion. One by one they trailed off then Black-eagle left them far behind.

The disgraced Micmac veteran continued to run until he literally collapsed to the ground dry heaving. His failure left only Fastillion to carry on the pursuit.

Give up already, Black-eagle called back to Fastillion in a passable trade-speak of Toltec and Algonkin.

The Mohawk still had full use of his voice and it proved he was not even feeling significantly winded. I can run till sundown if I need to, only I won’t have to because my friends are waiting for me up ahead in a glade. We’ll both receive a warm welcome.

Fastillion had a momentary pang of self-doubt. He wondered how much longer he could keep running and whether or not he could put up a fight if they did encounter a war party of Iroquois.

His reservations vanished when he thought of his biological father’s legendary determination and the extraordinary gifts of his mother’s people. The blood of heroes flowed in his veins. If anyone in the world could persevere it was the son of Bjorn and Kitzan.

Run to the Huron Lakes if you must, Fastillion replied with breath that came even easier than Black-eagle’s had. If you thought you were man enough to fight me, you would stop right now since we are already alone. You struck my woman back in the village, so I’ll have my retribution.

Black-eagle ran on, You’ll have to catch me first.

The two Mohawk braves that had stolen the medicine pouches from the wigwam in the Micmac village were already on their way back to the north when Black-eagle began his counting coup.

The three young warriors had made a prior agreement to rendezvous in a certain glade deep in the forest. They could not run as fast as Black-eagle, but his other business and indirect route would give them time enough to reach the glade before him.

The two braves arrived at the forest clearing feeling winded and elated with pride. When they got home and showed the proof of their bravery, the elders of their Mohawk nation would heap respect upon them.

The younger of the two men rested bent over with his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

His companion did not feel quite so winded. He stood tall as he admired his captured pouch, which he held before his eyes for examination as though it was a precious jewel.

The medicine bag was old brain-tanned caribou scrotum. Stout stitches of sinew that kept the pouch’s mysterious contents securely contained appeared quite new. The pouch enthralled the Mohawk deeply. It had a sinister power within it that so fascinated the young man that it poisoned his vulnerable mind.

It seems warm to me, the warrior mentioned absently. Surely the medicine of some legendary shaman is in this bag.

He untied the binding then poured a stream of purple and red maize kernels from the pouch into the palm of his hand. His initial disappointment changed to delight when he discovered a cruciform figurine that was a fang-headed man.

Without the enchanted medicine pouch and its ceremonial kernels to restrain the talisman’s dark power, the figurine immediately seized the young warrior with its influence.

The eager Mohawk strung the leather thong through the head of the talisman then hung it around his neck. As soon as the evil object fell against his chest, the Mohawk’s eyes rolled back into his head and then he fainted over backward.

The young warrior’s sudden collapse startled the winded brave. His first instinct was to throw down his own captured medicine pouch because he feared that its companion had just struck his friend dead.

The alarmed Mohawk rushed to his partner to determine if he was still breathing. As he reached down to tear the talisman from around the stricken brave’s neck, the unconscious youth came back to life then seized his rescuer’s wrist to stop him.

Leave it be, the youth said in a strong healthy voice. I’m fine now, he sat up then surveyed the glade as though he saw it for the first time. I must have run harder than I realized.

The second Mohawk accepted the explanation since it mollified his embarrassment over their hasty journey taxing his own strength so heavily, I hope Black-eagle gets here soon so we can start for home. He faced south then listened for any sign of their tardy comrade’s approach, I’m hungry.

While the impatient brave listened, the other Mohawk got to his feet then picked up a heavy branch that lay on the ground beside him.

I know exactly what you mean, he said in complete agreement about being hungry. The young warrior stepped up behind his friend then bashed in the back of his head.

Black-eagle sprang over hedges like a buck to enter the designated clearing in the forest.

A lightning strike had burned the area the year before. The clearing was large enough that the center of it was always open to the sky. New growth made the glade lush with flowering plants and tall grasses.

Black-eagle dashed through the grass on his way to the center of the open ground, but then he just stopped frozen in alarm when he came to where fresh blood stained all the grass in a broad circle.

Counting coup was not about death. His game against Fastillion would have to wait because something more serious had become the primary concern.

Fastillion immediately overtook Black-eagle. Instead of attacking him, he just drew up beside him. In a shared glance they expressed the same silent message. They had come upon a potentially deadly foe that superseded their contest of honor.

Fastillion sniffed the air and smelled a butchered man. He remembered the scent from the battle at the Beothuk shrine. The victim’s intestines remained unbroken though. It was not the horrible stench of perforated gut. It was one of a much milder sort that was still unmistakable.

Black-eagle laid two spread fingers on his palm as the hand sign for a dead man. It was his explanation for the source of all the blood. Fastillion silently agreed with the assessment.

As they stalked forward together, they kept their breath quiet even after their run. After a few strides, they came upon a butchered human body.

The man’s face was intact and Black-eagle recognized it instantly. This is Red-fox, he growled wanting revenge. The Iroquois had a serviceable grasp of Algonkin. Even while filled with rage, he kept his voice low not to draw attention to them since the murderer was probably still close by, He was my brother.

The body had its chest split open and the major organs removed. Each of the fleshy parts remained intact and carefully arranged beside the body. The only thing missing was the genitals.

Fastillion had seen such mutilations before. The Beothuk’s twisted Windigo Shamans performed such horrors. Then he recalled that the Micmac did as well. So did Norsemen and Iroquois. Mutilation and torture was a part of all their cultures.

It was the Marklanders who believed that taking the genitals of a foe would rob him of their use in his afterlife. Fastillion trusted that no Micmac or Norseman had committed the murder. That meant that the killer had to be Beothuk.

The blood stained grass covered a wide radius around the body. Fastillion used the tracking skills that Twisted-feathers had taught him to see if he could find any clues. It didn’t take him long to discover the discarded medicine pouch and the scattering of maize kernels that must have been related to the mystery.

Fastillion glanced up at Black-eagle to see if he had any prior knowledge of the items, which he did not to any degree worthy of relating.

Further examination located a trail of crushed grass that led away from the corpse. The blood had not yet congealed so the killer could not have gotten far and his moccasins left a trail of blood from having walked in it. Fastillion pointed the way then they headed that direction in pursuit.

As to joining forces with Black-eagle, Fastillion was already at war with the Beothuk. He and the Mohawk shared a common hatred that fueled their mutual purpose. The redskins were the sworn enemies of his Norse people and his Micmac tribe.

Even the warlord spirits from Fastillion’s visions had told him to never hesitate to take action against the Beothuk. The Beothuk had a destiny to wound him deeper than he could ever avenge.

More simply, he had an obligation to kill any Beothuk who dared to come so close to the village. The redskins could begin or postpone an invasion by the omen that came from the outcome of any such intrusion.

They didn’t go far before they found the malefactor that had slain Red-fox. Black-eagle came up short totally aghast at what he saw.

It was his friend, the third member of his counting coup party that had slain his brother. The young warrior had painted his body with the fresh blood. In his bloody hands was the missing bit of Red-fox’s flesh. The deranged Mohawk warrior was busily wolfing it down.

Storm-owl, Black-eagle raged. You have slain my brother!

I don’t know you, Storm-owl answered Black-eagle disinterestedly. He swallowed the last bite of his gory feast and then stared hard on Fastillion, I do know you, little woman.

Fastillion didn’t recognize the man, but he did know the words and he readily recognized the talisman that hung around the Mohawk’s neck. Both belonged to the Beothuk shaman with the buffalo headdress that Fastillion had killed at the battle of Table Rock Shrine.

The black shaman’s immortal spirit had come back by taking possession of a new body.

I killed you once, Fastillion boasted. I’m going to do it again.

This body is not as robust as my last one, Buffalo-man complained. The flesh that I have devoured will be enough to ensure that I escape you. In good time we will meet again, only on my terms.

He raised a hand to show that he held the second Beothuk medicine pouch that contained Antler-man’s talisman, I will not be the only one seeking revenge.

We must remove his talisman if we are to kill him, Fastillion advised Black-eagle. There is no other way.

Black-eagle charged with a battle cry and Fastillion joined him so that together they went forward to slay the cannibalistic shaman that possessed the body of Storm-owl.

Buffalo-man stood his ground unconcerned. When Black-eagle reached him first, the body stealing shaman casually scooped up Black-eagle, lifted him high over his head, and then slammed him down hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

For Fastillion’s part, he drop kicked both feet into the shaman’s chest. The impact knocked Buffalo-man back several paces to land prone in the grass.

Black-eagle scrambled back to his feet then leaped onto Buffalo-man to hold him down. Fastillion jumped on him too so that their combined body weight might pin the shaman to the earth for long enough that they could remove the talisman.

Buffalo-man exerted his superhuman strength as he threw them both off. He laughed genuinely amused, You cannot defeat me without weapons. He chortled, I can easily kill you both with my bare hands and then feast on your tender bits.

Fastillion found a fist-sized stone as he rolled up to his feet.

Black-eagle went at Buffalo-man again and kicked the shaman in the abdomen to no effect.

Buffalo-man snatched Black-eagle by the neck then began strangling him with both hands.

That was when Fastillion jumped in to smash the shaman in his jaw with the stone. The blow knocked out teeth and sent Buffalo-man reeling.

Black-eagle fell to the ground gagging. The choking he endured left him unable to fight.

Fastillion rapped Buffalo-man again using the stone. The shaman staggered back from the hit then promptly recovered.

As Fastillion came at him, the shaman kicked him in the stomach and then back handed him in the jaw. Such was the shaman’s