Ivar's curses carried on without end, echoing up along the alcove walls and up into the smoke filled sky. Erik seemed to either not notice or simply not care, his eyes fixed only on the dead body before him.
Rising from Kazamir's side, Erik pulled his sword free of the commander's throat and handed it off to one of his warriors to be cleaned of blood. He glanced down at the stricken-faced corpse with curious interest, then took a step back as he waved both hands at the body. Instantly the warriors who had pinned Kazamir down for Erik's moment of glorious victory returned, falling upon the body like vultures picking at bones and scraps of meat.
Erik stood silent as he watched, while the crowded alcove soon became loud with the inquisitive murmur and confused whispers of all who watched. Ivar still hadn't stopped his cursing, but had at least given up the fight of getting up again with Old Wolf standing with one boot planted upon his chest.
"Quickly now. Search him," Erik commanded, growing impatient as his warriors searched through the pouches adorning Kazamir's belt and checking within his armor.
Eventually they began taking pieces off, discarding the dark plates of metal like trash as soon as they were unbuckled from the giant man's form. The amount of metal it took to armor such a warrior must have cost a small fortune alone, but Erik cared nothing for its worth as he watched over the proceeding search like a crow waiting to snatch a morsel or trinket.
Down the steps, Herleif seethed with a burning hatred for what he had just witnessed. After days of maintaining the siege and leading his own warriors into the deadliest of the fighting, all the glory they were due had been stolen away in the blink of an eye. The battle they had fought was worthy for sagas, for legends and for the twilight history of their people, but now it would not be so.
All of it belonged to Erik Golden-Shield now. The King who takes his victory at a word, by a command, so that it was delivered to him like a sheep bound and tied for slaughter.
A shout came from one of the warriors searching the commander's body, and they sprung to their feet with a jolt while holding a dark metal object aloft. Erik stepped forward in a flash, showing an unusual amount of enthusiasm as he snatched the object from the warrior's outstretched hand. He proceeded to gaze upon it as if it was his own beloved child, gazing down with a pleased grin at the beauty such a small object possessed. Magnus watched on in complete awe at his father's elation, nearly forgetting his axe against Ivar's throat as the Warlord continued to spit insults at him.
Stepping out to the crowd, Erik lifted the object for all to see, holding the dark iron key tightly his closed fist like a head taken as a trophy in a duel. "Behold! The key to our ultimate glory!"
His voice echoed out through the packed alcove, rising up towards the rolling sky of dark and golden rays of light, as if Erik already stood basking in the wondrous glow of the treasure he sought. The gathered warriors broke out into a chorus of cheers, calling out their King's name and thrusting their pikes, swords and axes into the air in his honor. Or at least his own warriors did, as they were the ones most likely to benefit from his success, while many from the other two clans still simply glowered and frowned at the man who had claimed their hard won victory for himself.
"Golden-Shield! Golden-Shield! Golden-Shield!"
"The city is ours!" Erik exclaimed, laughing brightly as he held up the key and looked over the gathering of warriors chanting his name, ignoring the ones who did not as if they did not even exist. "Our wretched enemy is defeated! Their broken bodies now scattered across this city that was once holy to them, but is now nothing but a grave! We have spilled their blood and desecrated their homes by the will of the gods, and for our victory they grant us wealth beyond our dreams!"
More cheers erupted at his words, and even those who had not chosen to sing Erik's praises before couldn't help but ponder on the spoils of war they were due and smile. The mood in the alcove seemed to shift from shock and outrage to eager excitement, and Erik knew it.
He smiled, giving the key a flip and snatching it out of the air, his next words earning him the loudest cheer of all. "Time to claim our treasure!"
Herleif saw red as Erik began to descend the stairs, leaving Kazamir's corpse cold and forgotten behind him. "Erik, you arrogant bastard! You had no right! You dishonor us all before the gods with this mockery!"
Erik casually strolled closer, taking a moment to smile and bask in the adulation of his own clan warriors while the rest watched on in tense displeasure. He dipped his, a smirk still lingering in his blonde beard as he spoke softly between them. "I am King. I have every right."
Herleif growled in anger and struggled harder than ever against the warriors holding him back. If he had gotten loose, if he had a chance to get his hands on Erik, he wasn't sure what he would have done. Erik simply chuckled and placed a hand on Herleif's shoulder, a more condescending gesture here before all these people then striking him with the back of his hand.
"It is over my friend. We have won. Our enemies are finally dead, and the treasure...well, I admit that I may have gotten a bit zealous myself in laying claim to the vault so quickly, but the treasure within will soon be ours." He lifted the key and gave it a little wiggle. "Now I have conducted the greatest raid that our people have ever known, greater even than the Warborn, and all for a horde of gold fit for the halls of the gods. That is my legacy...my saga...just be thankful that I allow a man as small as you to be a part of it."
For a tense moment the two Warlords simply stared at each other; Herleif no longer holding onto a veil of begrudging respect to hide the raging hate he felt towards the maddening hubris before him, and Erik making no effort to disguise the contempt he felt for a troublesome Jarl that was clearly beneath him. Now they stood before each other with their true feelings laid bare.
"You did well with your little surprise at the gate, and with breaking these cultists like the sniveling vermin they were. For that you should be proud. You have honored yourself before the gods, and among our people, but now I will have what I came for. Do not forget who's raid this is, and in whose company you serve, Herleif." Erik's eyes narrowed into slits, and even if things between them were to come to blows, he had the sense of a man who knew that he had already won. "Do not forget who it is that you bow to."
Finally, Herleif ripped himself free from the warriors holding him back. He rammed his head against Erik's, their helmets rattling against each other as they both stood their ground. Sea Eagle warriors drew their swords and lowered their spears, while those of Tundra Tusk followed suit, but so long as Erik remained standing no one made a move. The King only laughed though, which made Herleif all the more furious as they stared each other down. His hands squeezed around his sword and shield until his knuckles were white, and for all the love he felt for his family and his wish to return to them soon, all he wanted was to bury his blade in Erik's golden-haired head up to the hilt regardless of whatever army or kingly power he possessed.
The world seemed to tremble and shake all over again with the fury of an erupting volcano, but in truth it was only Herleif's temper about to burst and make him do something very, very foolish. He had not fought through fire and death just to be brought low by Erik once again, to be humiliated a second time before all their kin.
That was exactly what would happen though.
"Truly this day is blessed by the Allfather and all the gods, and most of all say that this man is blessed with fair battle fame!" Erik shouted suddenly, not in Herleif's face but to all the warriors watching them. "A true drengr who charged our enemy with his sight set only on Valhalla! A warrior who I am proud to say fights boldly beneath my banners without fear of death or pain! Let us cheer for Herleif, scourge of Mount Ignis! Let us give a cheer for Herleif the Bold!"
Herleif flinched as the crowd erupted into cheers and shouts around him once again. This time though they chanted his name, the name that Erik had bestowed upon him, with each echoing word forging a new link in the chain that stretched from the collar around his neck to the King's hand.
"Herleif the Bold! Herleif the Bold!"
It was any Viking's wish to have a mighty name that spoke of their deeds to all who heard it. For a long time Herleif had gone without one, content with the honor of carrying his father's name while he saw to the betterment of Bilrost and his people. Now such a name had been bestowed upon him, and there was no denying there was a ring to it. It only came at the cost of admitting the total control that Erik wielded over his lands, his people, and now his very name.
He was beholden to King Golden-Shield now in all things, with no other choice but to bow or have his family's legacy dragged through the mud and destroyed.
"Herleif the Bold! Herleif the Bold! Herleif the Bold!"
"Yes!" Erik laughed as Herleif glowered beside him, but the King gave him a hearty pat on the back, ignoring the animosity growing heavy in the air. "May his bravery benefit us both in the coming years! This will not be our last raid to end in such glory! You have my word, and my word is golden!"
Just like that Erik had turned a hostile situation back in his favor, and just like always the crowd clamored for his favor, his power, and the immeasurable fame that would truly make him one of the greatest Warlords ever to come raiding out of Valkenheim.
As much as he hated to admit it, Herleif could not blame them. How could anyone hate such a generous man after bestowing such glory upon one of his finest warriors. More importantly, how could anyone hate Erik while he held the key to the vault they had all come to claim.
"Now let us go and claim our prize!" Erik exclaimed, holding up the key to even more adoration and praise.
He moved off without another word, or even a glance back over his shoulder as Herleif was left watching him move through the crowd, their altercation already forgotten before he had even slipped out of sight. The air was abuzz with noise the noise of shifting spears and shields as the horde ambled along with the King, first parting for him as he strode confidently along as the conqueror of a broken legion, then converging into a dense formation like a monstrous dragon following after the allure of gold.
Beside him, a few of Herleif's warriors delayed as the rest of the Sea Eagle clan quickly followed after their king. They shifted uneasily on their feet, looking about from him to the entrance of the alcove where Erik had now disappeared with the key, their loyalty torn between the man who had led them bravely in battle and the one who would bestow wealth and treasure beyond their wildest dreams. As angry as he was with Erik and his whole golden cohort, he could not blame his own men and women for wanting the reward that they had most certainly earned at the cost of their sweat and blood.
Who was he to stand in the way of their own battle glory, even when his own had been so unjustly given?
"Go on then," he relented with a nod of his head, granting permission for his warriors to follow without insult or shame. They did not dally, and they did not hide their smiles as they hefted their weapons and followed after the great host of Tua Peak.
As they left, those who were too wounded or worse were left behind, their broken and bloodied bodies revealed on the steps of the platform where the fighting had been the fiercest. While everyone else cheered and celebrated the reward that came with their victory, the true cost lay strewn in the pools of blood, charred rubble and burning hovels of the city that stretched like an open wound from the gate to the keep. Truly Odin would have his pick of the mighty and the heroic to join the ranks of his Einherjar and the final battle of Ragnarok this day as the Valkyries descended upon their eagles wings to judge the souls of the dead.
Looking over the bodies, Herleif was quickly sobered of his own feelings of self pity and ridicule. The dead lay mingled together in heaps too many to count, those of Valkenheim and the Divine Pyre together. So much death to subdue an adversary that should have realized its defeat days ago when the horde had trapped them within this crypt of a city. So much sacrifice, not just for the treasure, but for the vanity of a man who had not stayed long enough to honor them.
So many lost to the glories of the afterlife, their lives ended in the slaughter of a inconsequential legion in an irrelevant war. In the silence of the King's departure, the weight of it all was too much for Herleif to bear. It broke him.
Falling to his knees, he dropped his sword and shield and bit back the sob that threatened to bubble up from his throat. The dishonor, the treachery, the loss. It was all too much. This was not what he had hoped to achieve by bringing his warriors on this raid. It was not the legacy he had hoped to forge in his family's name, a legacy of shame that he wanted no part of. It was not becoming of a man of his status to show weakness, but as he fell before the warriors that he could not see through the battle, the reward of Valhalla did not seem a worthy trade for the loss he felt in his heart. It was not the way of Vikings to lament the dead so openly, but he felt the pain of such failure all the same.
That, it seemed, was destined to be the fate the Norns intended for him all along.
A hand grabbed gently at his shoulder, and Herleif nearly grabbed his sword and struck at them in his grief before he saw who it was. Gunnar stood above him, released or escaped from the clutches of Old Wolf and Magnus, his face grim with a concerned frown. He lifted Herleif to sit up from the ground, then offered a hand to pull him to his feet. Herleif held on tight as he stood up, gripping his brother's hand as he gazed upon the fallen.
"Do you see, brother?" he asked, still holding Gunnar's hand in his own. "Do you see what his generosity and benevolence has gotten us? This is what I was afraid of…this is exactly what I was afraid of."
Gunnar said nothing, only looking away in shame. He clapped Herleif's shoulder and squeezed, his jaw tight and muscles tense as the weight of the guilt fell upon the both of them together. Regardless of blame, they had both decided to join this raid, and now there was nothing left to do but move forward and live with what they had done.
Others began to gather around them. The twins and Helge were unusually quiet, and the Lion Flame had been all but forgotten in the surge back out of the keep. Judith was still staring at the desecrated body of Kazamir, her longsword gripped tightly in her hand as if there was still unfinished business left between her and the city commander. Marcelo had dropped to a knee upon the stairs, his head bowed and sword held in both hands before him, with only the trace of a spoken whisper echoing beneath his helmet. Priscilla skulked behind everyone else and glanced up at the tower stretching up above them, while Coal seemed to remain on guard against everything and nothing all at once. There was no one left for them to fight in their lonely crusade, so long as Erik didn't deem it necessary that old insults be paid in blood.
Skuld stood watching it all, silent as a statue of gold and white. Her storm-filled eyes surveyed the dead, regardless if they were friend or foe, but soon her eyes came to rest on Herleif, the two of them gazing at each other over the corpses of the slain.
"Come," Herleif said, unable to entertain the Valkyrie's silence on whether or not the legacy of Ander Ottarson would be given the honor he deserved, if ever. "If we are to share in our glory, then let us make sure that Erik shares his coveted prize."
"There will be no sharing of anything with that golden swine," growled Ivar as he shouldered his way past the Knights and descended the stairs, looking no less furious than when his own prize of Kazamir's head had been stolen from him. "We'll take what we deserve, and if the king of ass-lickers has a problem with that he can take it up with the edge of my sword."
"There is an army of ass-lickers to get through first if you plan to put that sword to use," Herleif grumbled.
Ivar stopped and turned to look at him, and for once he did not seem to hold the same look of hate and resentment in his gaze. "With Herleif the Bold on my side, what is there to be afraid of?"
Herleif squinted in surprise. Never in his life would he have expected to hear such friendly sentiment from the dread Ivar the Red. "How hard did Old Wolf smack you around?"
"Fuck off, you gelded bitch," Ivar said, then walked off after the rest of his skull-clad kin.
Watching him go, Herleif almost gave a laugh. He wished that he had. The pain in his heart felt like a knife twisting inside him without end. It made his feud with the Jarl of Thurshamrar almost preferable to the loss that surrounded him now. Ivar's blind hate was something familiar, something he could deal with. So much death in the face of victory simply seemed wrong and unjust. He did not feel the gods with him in this place now. He wanted to leave it all behind and go home.
Gunnar shifted on his feet, letting the head of his axe drop down with a metallic thunk against the stone. "Brother...I...none of this is what I-"
"Quiet," Herleif said. "Just...be quiet."
Gunnar said nothing, and shrank away.
The alcove began to empty of northern warriors, save for those who cared more for the dead than their treasure. Herleif held his breath for a moment, steadying himself amid the stillness of those who had already found their glory in Valhǫll. Then he sighed, and thought of them no longer. He strode towards the tunnel out of the keep with shoulders straight and eyes fixed forward. The time to lament for the dead would come, but for now he still had a purpose to fill beyond brooding over all his failures in life and the insignificance of his legacy.
He was still a Warlord, the shield of his people. Regardless of titles, praise or decrees, he knew deep down he was meant to protect those dear to him at any cost. Whether it be from the steel and fire of fanatics, or from a single man with a dragon's appetite for gold and fame.
Duty, honor and strength. These were the virtues any Warlord must master to earn their ancient title. Herleif the Bold would never forget.