Brahl was a dead man. The greataxe he heaved in his large hands would no longer save him as, across the rickety wooden bridge, his once friends stared at him with burning eyes of rage.
His pockets had been lined with gold when he had first traded in his loyalty for a quick profit. Ale abound to drink to his fill, gardens to spend his waking moments of the day and women to pleasure the nights. His past life of raiding and fierce combat had whetted his appetite, but this new life of relaxation and abundance was one he had happily agreed to. All it had cost him was the entirety of his honour.
In the thick crowd of warriors that stood across from him, their restless hands bristling with unconcealed anger, Brahl spotted the smallest of them forcing their way to the front. Shoving aside the round shields and fur cloaks, they emerged out of the front line and stopped. Her chest heaved beneath the leather jerkin that clung tightly to her skin and the silver links of her chainmail glistened with small water droplets from the mist that plagued this country. The knuckles on her hand were white against the thick wooden shafts of the axes in each clenched fist, trembling slightly in their tightness.
Brahl had no doubt she would be the first to try and behead him. He had doubt that she could. He could hear her insults coursing through his mind, unable to grasp his own thoughts from the mix.
Heaving his axe, he waited for the first movement. Brahl would hold this final bridge as long as he could, but he had always feared the idea of raising a weapon against a sister.