Next Chapter of Nerd In the North (Patreon)

Here's the first 500 words or so.Question: Is this too dramatic?

I haven't written Nerd In the North in about a month and I can't say if the fighting style is as grounded as I usually keep for Greg and Guts.

I only do more dramatic shit for the overly magical parts with Stannis and Jon and Viserys and Daenarys so... I'm not really sure here.

Tell me what you think.

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– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The first dying scream was a wet, choked-off thing, cut short before it could properly curdle the air.

Greg didn’t need to see who it belonged to; the sound already too familiar. The gold-cloaked guards hit their whole group like a breaking wave, an ugly snarling tsunami of steel and leather that slammed into the market square with the sole purpose of drowning them. “For the King! Kill the traitors!” 

Fuck no. A pale fist snapped out and struck a charging chest. A vendor’s cart, laden with clay pots, exploded into a thousand dusty shards as Greg’s blow launched a guard clean through it, his body crumpling before the pottery even finished shattering.

“Guts! Clear us a path!” Not waiting for an answer, the blond lord was already moving, as he dodged a spear-tip aimed for his gut. 

The sixteen-year-old pivoted on his heel, the movement fluid as he let the spear’s momentum carry the man past him. With a grunt, he slammed his pommel hard on the back of the guard’s un-helmed head. The thump of steel on skull was sickening, a crack sounding out with it, and the man dropped like a sack of grain without another sound.

Beside him, Guts’s answering grin was a terrifying slash of white in the gloom of the street. 

“Been a while since I stretched my legs!” he roared, the sound more beast than man. He drew the Dragonslayer from his back as he unhunched, standing proud at his full height of 6 feet and at least five inches.

The second wave of gold-cloaked guards hesitated at the sight of him, their professional bravado cracking. It was a fatal mistake. Guts stepped forward, and the Dragonslayer descended. 

The first two guards in its path simply ceased to be whole, their bodies separating at the waist in a grotesque spray of red. Their screams were swallowed by the sound of the greatsword cleaving through the air.

The square devolved into a meat grinder. Steel rang against steel, a frantic, discordant symphony punctuated by the wet, messy beats of blades finding flesh. Men screamed, their voices sharp with agony before being abruptly silenced.

Greg cut through two guards with a single, sweeping arc of his sword, the white blade he’d been forced to listen to nonstop songs about carving through mail and leather both. He felt the give of flesh and bone, the warm spray of blood against his armor, blue eyes unflinching as he pushed his way forward.

“There’s too many of them!” A voice cracked beside him, Lobb panicked as he cut an arm free in a spray of blood. The boy’s enchanted sword, a gift from Greg, glowed with a faint silver light, each parry and riposte unnaturally fast. It was the only thing keeping him alive. “M’lord, we can’t hold them!”

He didn’t want to admit his squire had a point but Greg was already knee-deep in shit and smelling it too. If that wasn’t bad enough, for every single guy he and Guts put down, more seemed to pour in from the surrounding streets, their gold cloaks a suffocating tide. 

It was like the whole City Watch was pouring down on them.

All of it.