Chapter 101: The Banner of Blood
Just before crossing the outer perimeter of the settlement, Kellar ordered the group to stop at the edge of the treeline. The golden twilight had fully given way to the deep purple of dusk, and the torches along the village palisade were already flickering against the falling snow.
Kellar looked at the captured bearded leader, who lay bound and wheezing on the ground, his body still broken from Grok’s brutal strike.
"Brak, cut down a pine branch," said Kellar, gesturing toward the timber near the path. "We are not dragging this dog inside like a secret. We are going to show the tribe that the monsters who once made them bleed are nothing more than meat for our spears."
Brak let out a feral grin, unsheathing his hunting blade. In a matter of minutes, the hunters sharpened the thick timber into a crude, jagged stake. Working together under Kellar’s cold gaze, Grok and Brak hoisted the groaning commander and drove the sharp wooden pole firmly between his bound arms and back, binding him tightly with leather cords until he hung elevated like a macabre, bloody war banner.
"Lift it up," said Kellar, turning toward the village gates. "Let them see who rules this valley now."
Grok slammed the end of the timber against his shoulder, raising the living trophy high into the night air.
As the group stepped out of the shadow of the forest, the sentry stationed atop the watchpost sounded the horn to announce their return. Dozens of villagers, including the workers under Mentz and the hunters patrolling the perimeter, turned toward the main path expecting to welcome their leader back from a quiet scouting trip.
Instead, a suffocating silence fell across the central plaza.
The villagers froze in their tracks, their eyes wide with terror as they took in the sight. Raised high above Grok’s massive form was a man dressed in reinforced black hides, his face covered in dried blood and his mouth open in silent agony as he dangled from the wooden stake.
"Clear the way!" shouted Grok, his voice booming across the settlement.
Heavy footsteps pounded against the packed snow as Krag, Marty, and the rest of the hunting squad rushed into the plaza with their weapons drawn, believing an attack was underway. Krag pushed his way through the gathering crowd with his giant mallet resting on his shoulder, his face contorted in alarm.
"Shaman, what happened out—" said Krag, cutting his own words short as his eyes locked onto the face of the captured barbarian.
The captain of the hunters went pale. His grip on the handle of his mallet loosened, his jaw dropping in sheer disbelief as he recognized the rotten teeth, the ragged beard, and the cruel iron sword still sheathed at the prisoner’s waist.
"It’s... it’s him..." said Krag, his voice trembling with a mixture of raw horror and deep-seated trauma. "The butcher of the Black Skull... the one who led the ambush on our men at the pass last winter..."
Mutterings of panic and shock rippled through the crowd like wildfire. The older villagers, who had lost sons and brothers during that bloody attack, stumbled back in terror, while the younger hunters clenched their fists, staring at the elevated banner with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Is that really him?" shouted a villager from the back.
"He caught the monster alive!" cried another.
Kellar stepped into the center of the illuminated plaza, standing directly beneath the hanging commander. He swept his cold green eyes over the trembling crowd, his voice echoing with authority.
"Look at him!" said Kellar, pointing up at the captive barbarian. "This is the dog that made your families weep! This is the threat you feared so much that you hide like cattle waiting for the butcher!"
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink deep into their hearts.
"They thought we were weak," said Kellar, his voice rising above the howling winter wind. "They thought they could march into our lands, burn our homes, and chain our people like beasts! But I tell you today: the Overlord Tribe bows to no one!"
Grok slammed the bottom of the wooden stake violently into the frozen dirt right beside the central altar, causing the captured commander to let out a guttural groan that echoed across the quiet plaza.
"He will speak every secret of their camp before dawn," said Kellar, his eyes flashing with a ruthless spark. "And once we know where they sleep... we will bring steel and fire directly to their doorstep until not a single one of them is left standing!"
For a second, silence hung in the freezing air; then, the central plaza erupted into a deafening, bloodthirsty roar.
"GLORY TO SHAMAN KELLAR!" roared Krag, raising his giant mallet into the night sky as tears of relief and rage welled in his eyes.
"DEATH TO THE BLACK SKULL!" screamed the hunters in unison, raising their spears and axes as the entire village burst into wild, euphoric cheers.
Mentz, Lennis, and even the common workers joined the roar, their fear washed away by the thirst for vengeance and the certainty of victory under their shaman’s command.
Kellar gestured for Mentz and Lennis to step forward, taking in the newly erected structures around the settlement.
"You have done an excellent job while we were away," said Kellar, looking toward the imposing timber structure at the edge of the palisade. "Lennis, I commend you for completing the watchtower; your work in the workshop and on the defenses is exceeding my expectations."
"It is an honor to serve the tribe, Shaman!" said Lennis, bowing his head with pride.
"And you, Mentz," said Kellar, turning toward the master builder with a spark of anticipation in his eyes, "get ready. Tomorrow I will show you the future. What we will craft is going to change warfare forever."
Kellar turned on his heel toward the stake where the prisoner hung, fixing his gaze upon Krag.
"Bring him to the main hall," said Kellar, his tone icy enough to cut through the night wind. "It is time to make him understand his true place."