The drumbeat had become incessant.

  Zeke heard it every second of every day. It didn’t matter if he’d just awoken after a brutal death or he was deeply embedded in the celebratory feast. They just never stopped pounding in his head, regardless of whether the sound was audible or not. It was absolutely maddening, and it had been going on for longer than he could really remember.

  After he’d pulled himself free of the delusional commitment to battle, Zeke had experienced hundreds of cycles. Most only lasted a single day, so he didn’t think that much time had passed. However, he’d long since lost count of how long he had been mired in the Circle of Violence.

  Years, maybe.

  Probably less than a decade.

  Whatever the case, the drumbeat had thundered in his head for longer than he cared to remember. It was so distracting that he often found it difficult to think, much less act on what he’d discovered.

  Which wasn’t much. That one discovery seemed to exhaust Zeke’s investigatory abilities, and he’d since hit a brick wall concerning the nature of the circle. He’d won dozens of battles, but every time, he’d ended up right back where he had started – on that slab of stone and waiting for the next cycle.

  But Zeke was determined to break the cycle. Not only was he tired of playing along, but he knew just how easily he could lose himself in the violence. Of all the challenges he’d faced along the way, the one associated with the Circle of Violence was the most insidious. It played right into his instincts, making it that much more difficult to resist. He couldn’t hold out forever, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before he succumbed to the call of battle.

  Especially when he had no choice but to participate.

  The last thing he wanted was to end up like the nameless coward who’d been ruthlessly targeted until, after one battle, he just didn’t show up anymore. That was the unspoken understanding they all shared. If they performed poorly – or refused to battle – they would disappear.

  Where those people ended up was a mystery, but none of them wanted to find out.

  Not that it was a conscious choice. Maybe for a few, it was, but for the most part, the warriors participated enthusiastically because it was precisely the sort of thing that appealed to them. They were all fighters. They’d all spent their lives – and the after-life – moving from one battle to another. So, Valhalla was as much a reward as it was a cage. Only Zeke and a few others saw it differently, though no one would ever admit to being among the ones who saw the truth.

  To call it frustrating would be an understatement, but Zeke was well aware that if he wanted to escape the cycle, he needed to figure it out himself.

  But for now, he needed to survive, because he and the others had finally arrived at the scene of another battle. The three armies faced off against one another until the increasing pace of the drumbeat signaled the beginning. They all charged as one, and Zeke was no different. Still armed with his axe, he let out a rousing battlecry as he sprinted toward the other warriors. Then, when the two lines crashed, everything devolved into chaos.

  Or that was how it had originally seemed. Frantic men swinging swords and axes, stabbing with spears and daggers – it was anarchy incarnate. However, over the course of hundreds of battles, Zeke had learned to recognize a certain flow. Most of the time, he didn’t consciously recognize it, but he followed it nonetheless. It was almost as if the whole thing was choreographed, though he knew that wasn’t the case.

  But after so long, he could almost see the attacks coming before the enemy even committed to them. Such was the case when a greatsword came at him from the side. Zeke had already ducked beneath it, and he came up with his axe swinging. The man’s arm was separated from his shoulder only an instant later.

  Blood sprayed onto Zeke’s face, but he paid it no mind. Instead, he rammed his axe in the man’s sternum, ending him completely. Then, he rushed past him, using his momentum to rip the blade free in another shower of blood. His shoulder connected with another warrior, knocking the man off-balance. It was just enough for Zeke to get his hand on the fighter’s throat. He squeezed, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. And then he ripped.

  Out came the fellow’s esophagus, which Zeke threw at another man. The dislodged organ smacked the warrior in the face, distracting him just enough to allow Zeke to decapitate him.

  On and on it went, with Zeke as a combination of wrecking ball and whirlwind. He could read the battle before it unfolded, so he was always in the right spot at the right time. The others felt like they were moving in slow motion while Zeke erupted with full-speed violence at every opportunity.

  And then, suddenly, he was all alone, save for one other person.

  Ragnar stood across from him, echoing the ending of so many other battles. How often had it come down to just the two of them? Dozens, at the very least. Maybe more.

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  The large, blonde warrior raised his sword in salute. “So we meet again, brother,” he said. “Your battle frenzy is a sight to behold.”

  “As is yours,” Zeke said, and he meant it. Ragnar was one of the few who moved like Zeke. He could read the fight as well as anyone else, and he used that ensure his own survival. Rare was the battle that didn’t see Ragnar as one of the last two or three. Sometimes, others got lucky and took him out earlier, but it happened so infrequently that Zeke often discounted it as a possibility.

  There was a part of him that fully expected to see Ragnar at the end of every cycle. He was counting on it. And in a way, he looked forward to it. Because if they were both uninjured, it was bound to be an epic showdown.

  More than one fight had ended with them both so wounded that the only deciding factor was who lost more blood. Zeke lost more often than he won, but the record was close enough that he could confidently say they were evenly matched.

  Without another word, they charged one another. Ragnar’s greatsword was a devastatingly huge weapon, but he wielded it with speed and precision. More importantly, he had plenty of skill to back it up. By comparison, Zeke was an untrained brute. There were only two reasons he managed to hold his own.

  The first was that he was faster than Ragnar, and not by a small degree. Because their strength was evenly matched, Zeke had a physical advantage over the hulking warrior. Not a large one, to be sure, but an advantage nonetheless.

  Second, using an axe wasn’t really all that different from using his hammer. A little, certainly, but it was close enough that much of his training translated. Ragnar still had an advantage, but it wasn’t so large that he could overwhelm Zeke with sheer skill.

  So, when they clashed, they exchanged blows evenly. Zeke was the first one wounded, but he quickly returned the favor by stomping on Ragnar’s foot. They went back and forth until they were both covered in their own blood and heaving from exhaustion.

  The break came when Ragnar made an apparent mistake. He came in a little wide, which gave Zeke the opening he needed. It was a trap, though, and Zeke ended up taking a fist to his chin before Ragnar disarmed him.

  Panicking, Zeke latched onto Ragnar’s arm with both hands, twisting and wresting his weapon away. Before long, they were both disarmed and grappling.

  Zeke was no expert wrestler, but he knew enough to hold his own. Ragnar was his inferior, both in terms of grappling technique and physical aptitude. So, it wasn’t long before Zeke had the man in a chokehold. He squeezed with every ounce of power he could muster, and Ragnar scratched and clawed, bucked and twisted – nothing worked, though.

  Inevitably, the larger warrior succumbed.

  Zeke soon found himself lying back and gasping for breath while he basked in his victory. He knew what was coming, so he closed his eyes and waited to be whisked away back to the longhouse so he could start anew. In fact, he looked forward to it. He was no stranger to pain, but he didn’t want to endure it if he didn’t have to. As such, he would welcome his body returning to pristine condition.

  However, after a few moments, nothing happened.

  So, he kicked Ragnar free and opened his eyes. Even as he watched, three bodies disappeared. That wasn’t the surprising part. He knew the corpses had to go somewhere because, after all, they fought each battle in the same spot. No – what surprised him was that he felt a sudden surge of divine energy before the bodies disappeared.

  Then he saw the old crone standing on a nearby hill. She practically glowed with divine energy, and when she looked upon him and waved her hand, he felt it infuse his body like nothing ever had.

  Suddenly, he was back on the slab.

  Over the course of the next few cycles, he experienced much the same thing. It did represent a tipping point, though, and after that cycle, he ended up winning far more often than he lost.

  That broke Ragnar.

  The man was clearly frustrated, and after a couple dozen losses, he started to fall off until he went through each battle with an uncharacteristic listlessness. Eventually, he became the first to die. That started a new pattern where he just walked into battle and never even tried to defend himself.

  Then, one cycle, he was simply gone.

  And Zeke felt like he’d lost something important. Something vital to his continued struggle. Not a friend, per se, but Ragnar hadn’t been a stranger, either. He’d fought the man more times than he could count. They’d broken bread together. They had drunk the same ale. They had an understanding.

  And now he was gone.

  That ignited a new fire within Zeke. He went on a tear, and over the next few dozen battles, he was entirely unstoppable. Anyone who stood before him died. No amount of struggle could stop him. Nothing could even slow him down. He cut them down like so much wheat.

  Yet, no matter how many times he won the battle, nothing changed. Others continued to struggle as well. Some rose and fell. Many disappeared, only to be replaced by some hapless idiot that suddenly appeared between the armies. They quickly adjusted, joining the battles as fervently as anyone else.

  It was maddeningly mundane, masked only by the fury of war.

  And Zeke grew to hate it. His resentment blossomed in the shadow of the drums of war and fed by the blood of his fallen brothers. It festered within him, igniting an infection of apathy. He still went through the motions, and without Ragnar to oppose him, he won far more often than he lost.

  But it was hollow.

  It was useless.

  It was Hell.

  That realization came as, once again, Zeke found himself lying on that stone slab. He’d just defeated every challenger, and without much difficulty. Yet, there was no elation to it. No sense of accomplishment. He barely even heard the drums of war anymore.

  It was at that moment that, like Ragnar, he gave up.

  The next battle, he didn’t even bring a weapon. Instead, he simply walked to his death, not bothering to raise a hand to defend himself. His demise was blessedly swift, and a second later, he awoke on the slab. His quick death gave him time to consider the situation fully.

  Zeke knew he couldn’t keep going down his current route. If he did, he’d end up just like Ragnar. But oddly enough, that didn’t seem like such a bad thing. At least if he disappeared – presumably ceasing to exist – the endless cycle of battle would be finished.

  But something in him wouldn’t let that happen. He refused to give in. So, he started to plan. If he wanted to figure out how the cycles worked, he needed to experiment. Only then could he break free.

  So, as he lay there, he considered all his options. Eventually, he settled on a plan of action. He only hoped it would be enough to break free. Because if it wasn’t, he feared he would lack the willpower to keep going.