A true Warlord knows how to use his shield well.
Strong and versatile, a Warlord's shield was made to protect as well as to press the attack. It is his power, the foundation from which he strikes with his sword and the strength with which he makes his stand, holding the line against those that would cause him harm.
Duty, honor and strength; these are the virtues a man must learn if he is to earn the ancient title of Warlord, and to carry his shield to battle with pride in the service of all.
With duty came a purpose, to fight for and defend the lands of his birth and the glory of his ancestors. With honor came satisfaction, of a life well lived and a saga worthy of remembrance. Strength gives way to courage, to rise above any challenge and become more then you once were.
Herleif Bjornson knew how to use his shield well. It was as familiar a comfort to him as his own family, knowing every nick and dent across its broad surface, the weight of it and how quickly it could move. His shield was a part of him, a protector and a companion through every trial he faced. It was a constant reminder of the virtues he had sworn his life to, earning his place among the noble Warlords of Valkenheim's battle scarred past.
Staring over the rim of his shield, Herleif circled his opponent with practiced ease.
All around them the dead and dying lay scattered in blood-stained snow, and high above the sun shone brightly as the gods looked down upon the battlefield, deciding who among the fallen would be worthy enough to feast at their side in Valhalla by days end. Crows were already circling in the sky, hungry black dots eager to descend upon the fresh corpses of men young and old that had come out to fight in the frozen forest. The ring of clashing weapons was fading away now, the skirmish stretched thin, leaving only the remaining warriors to fight one another not knowing if they would live to see another day or if they would find themselves sitting in the golden hall alongside their ancestors come evening.
Herleif had no such fear. The rewards of the gods would come to him in time, his death already fated just like it was for every man, but for now he was perfectly content to live and see the sun rise again tomorrow.
For now it was just him and his enemy, a savage Raider come to bring battle and death to his lands. There was nothing else that mattered. There was only his sword, his shield, and his enemy's axe.
"I will raise a cup to your memory tonight, Warlord!" called out the imposing Raider, grinning at Herleif from across a white stretch of churned up snow. He was tall and broad shouldered, as most Raiders were, with curved bull horns rising up from his helmet and bore the image of menacing skulls tattooed upon his chest. He stood with an air of utter confidence among so many dead, casually shouldering his great axe and waving across the bloody snow with an outstretched hand.
"You've lasted a good while longer then the rest your kin. I am pleased to know that it is my axe that will usher you into Odin's hall. Tell me your name warrior, and I shall give a toast to you tonight as I feast in hall of my Jarl!"
Herleif rolled his shoulders as he kept his shield up in front of him, sword at the ready, feet braced in the snow. Sunlight was glinting off the shine of white frost and the gleam of polished metal, but the protection of his helm provided enough shade that he could see his enemy clear enough, including that amused grin the Raider wore under his long beard. He was tired from the fight, but mostly he was tired of seeing others wear that same overconfident smirk while so many warriors died needlessly around them.
"How about we put down our weapons and have a drink together instead? Then I shall tell you!" Herleif called back, breath smoking in the cold air, "It seems to me a more fine day for drinking then it is for killing more northmen, and my sword has already had its fill of blood!"
The Raider chuckled, stroking the braid of his blonde beard between his fingers. "You speak nonsense," he called out, his voice mighty and bold, "Giving battle is what we Vikings are born to do! From now until the Great Wolf finally swallows the sun!"
The corners of Herleif's lips twitched as he frowned. "Seems to me that such a cruel day has already arrived! Surely our enemies to the south and east would rejoice to see us spill so much of our own blood in the snow, to cut each other down while they stand strong. What fools we must look like to them!"
Now the grin slipped away from under the Raider's beard, and Herleif could see the amused glint in his eyes turn dark.
"Did you come all this way to talk, Warlord, or to fight?" he roared angrily. Brandishing his deadly axe in both hands, the Raider lowered his head and charged forward at Herleif across the snow. "We are Vikings! We fight and we die, for Valhalla!"
Herleif hunkered down behind his shield, shifting his feet in the slick snow, presenting a strong target as the furious Raider came straight at him across the field. Enemies until the bitter end it seemed, no thought of kinship through shared culture, ancestry or belief. There was only the thirst for blood and the glory of battle that all men felt they were owed when the battle horn was blown. The Raider hunched down as he charged, lowering his shoulder to make a grab as Herleif stood stalwart against his wrath.
Strength before the Raider's fury. With strength a Warlord's shield could not fall.
The long horns set upon the Raider's helmet had nearly crashed into the shield when Herleif slid out of the way. Pivoting on his heel, he watched as the enemy warrior ran passed him, leaning back to avoid the outstretched arm ready to pull him off his feet. Herleif took a breath to steady himself, eyes turning down to the broad back of the Raider now exposed to him. His hand tightened around the grip of his sword, the blade slashing down and opening a sharp red line across his foe's back.
The Raider let out a scream of pain and rage as he stumbled past, but managed to stay on his feet before turning and swinging his axe back at Herleif.
This time he was prepared to use his shield to take the blow, letting its flat surface absorb the strike and give him a chance to take a step back. The Raider gave chase, swinging his axe again and again, roaring like an angry beast as he pressed the attack. There was a terrible rage burning inside the Raider now, hot anger and a powerful desire to cut down the defiant Warlord that dared stand against him in the sight of the gods.
Herleif's teeth rattled in his head as he maneuvered his shield to block each terrible strike. It was made from good solid spruce wood, and the surface was covered with darkly tanned hide to help soften the blow of any oncoming attack. He gripped the shield's handle firmly, hand protected safe behind the round metal boss that was fixed in its center, making the shield easy to rotate and move as needed during a fight. Painted across the shield's face was the many arms of the Vegvisir Compass, a reminder for Herleif to never lose his way as a warrior, or as leader of his clan.
Putting his shoulder behind the last hit of the Raider's axe, Herleif turned his shield away and lunged forward, striking with his metal helm. For a brief moment his vision blurred as he crashed headlong into his enemy, sending the Raider stumbling back. It was an old Warlord technique, known by all who fought under the ancient title. To some it was considered a foolish trick, one that could leave a Warlord vulnerable if he wasn't careful, but Herleif was practiced enough in his skill and timing to make the headbutt land.
Before the Raider could find his footing again Herleif followed up his bash with a quick thrust of his sword. The sharp blade bit into the Raider's arm, making the large warrior retreat back with a hiss of pain as blood flowed freely from two open wounds. Now it was Herleif's turn to press the attack.
Keeping his shield up, he struck swiftly with his sword, aiming for the bare arms and torso that the Raider felt no need to cover, trusting in the gods to protect him rather then armor. Even while wounded though, the Raider was a formidable opponent. Each following strike was blocked or turned away by the long haft of the Raider's axe, and the efforts of Herleif's attack bared little fruit except for making new footprints in untouched snow.
He soon paused, stopping his advance and taking a moment to catch his breath. Some might say it was unwise to give the Raider a chance to recover, but there was no reason for Herleif to push himself so recklessly, not when it would most likely lead him to his death if he made one wrong move. He would trust in his shield, and with any luck a little protection from the gods as well.
Duty, honor and strength. The title of Warlord was earned through the mastery of these lessons, and Herleif had learned them well.
The Raider came at him again, attacking with a powerful strike coming from the right, one that was meant to cut through shield, armor, meat and bone. It was a killing blow, one to put an end to this fight once and for all. Herleif braced himself, planting his feet as firmly as he could in the crunching snow beneath him. Timing was everything. He needed the Raider to commit to the swing, to be so blinded by his rage that he saw nothing else but his axe cleaving Herleif's skull in two. Anger would feed the Raider's actions, and hopefully deliver victory into Herleif's hands.
Metal scraped against metal as Herleif's sword clashed with the Raider's great axe, parrying the attack. For a moment it felt like the strength behind the Raider's swing might overwhelm him, but the sword stalled the axe just enough for him to push the cleaving blade away with his shield, sending it wide and leaving the Raider open.
Herleif reacted quickly, striking with both sword and shield across the Raider's chest and face. His blade cut open flesh, and the rim of his shield struck across the Raider's jaw, sending the brute reeling back.
Hot blood fell upon the snow at the Raider's feet, steaming upon the frozen ground. The once confident warrior now slouched forward, wavering on his feet until he managed to keep himself up with the help of his great axe. He shook his head as he tried to clear his vision, sticky blood and spit drooling from his mouth and into his beard. The tattooed skulls upon his chest had been neatly cut by a long thin line, hiding the dark ink behind a flow of red. The Raider blinked under his metal helm, trying to focus in on Herleif as they stood off against each other, but not quite seeing him clearly.
"Bastard..." he mumbled, a spray of blood flying into the air.
Herleif kept his distance, shield still raised in front of him. No matter how the fight might lull, or how defeated his enemy may appear, he knew that nothing would be truly over until the Raider lay dead and his soul passed on to Valhalla.
Flexing his hand around the grip of his bloody sword, he nodded towards his mighty foe and offered the only words that needed to be said between them. "Finish this then, with honor."
That seemed to make the Raider's eyes finally focus on him. The fingers that had so loosely gripped the haft of his axe tightened and found purpose. With what strength he had left the Raider stood up straight, staring across the sparkling red and white snow as he looked upon the Warlord who met him bravely on the field of battle. Everything between them was quiet. The sounds of the skirmish were soft and faded through the trees, seeming so far away. It was just the two of them now, knowing that one would soon be feasting with the gods while the other would see the sun set on this bloody day. Then he charged.
"Valhalla!" he roared, rushing forward with all speed to meet his fate, axe gripped tightly in his hands. He seemed to draw the last of his strength from the gods themselves, leaping up into the air, axe raised in one last effort to come out as the victor of this duel. The axe was poised to strike, ready to cleave down upon the Herleif with a blow driven by all the fury the Raider had left within him.
Herleif dropped low, legs braced and his stance as strong as stone. He did his best to shrink behind his shield, giving his opponent the smallest target possible as the deadly axe descended upon him.
"Odin!" he cried, invoking the one eyed god to witness him in this moment.
There was a great clash of weapons, and it was as if the thunder god himself had struck with his hammer to bring the fight to an end.
Herleif's shield, the steadfast weapon of his ancient title, held firm. The axe glanced off the sturdy flat surface, knocked away as Herleif lifted the shield up and slashed out with his sword. Red metal flashed, striking swiftly until it was suddenly brought to a halt deep in the Raider's belly; a sideways swing that cut deep into muscle, bone and intestine.
All the fire and fury left them in that moment, and suddenly there was just the stillness of snow as they gazed upon one another, locked in a deadly embrace.
Taking a step back, Herleif pulled his sword free and let the Raider fall to the ground and sprawl out onto his back. The great axe slipped from his hand, sinking into the snow just out of reach. Herleif stood above him, looking down at the warriors broken body.
The Raider's chest jumped and heaved, struggling to fill his lungs with air as blood bubbled up between his lips. The thrill of the fight had left them both in an instant, leaving the Raider to face his own mortality while Herleif wondered if this fight had been worth the warrior's life. Kneeling next to the Raider, he first laid down his sword, having no further use for it, and removed his helmet so that he may face this fallen warrior as a man.
Leaning over the Raider, Herleif lifted his head and removed his horn helmet as well. Strands of blond hair fell back against the snow. The Raider coughed, sputtering dark blood over his lips, but his eyes turned upward towards Herleif and blinked.
"Do you hear the gods calling you home?" Herleif asked, his voice quiet and kind.
That earned him a pained laugh, the Raider's ruined body shaking with the effort. "Yes..." he said weakly, but there was a twinkle in his eye that seemed to remain bright even as his life slowly faded away, "and... and the calls of your b-brothers... who I will call my own... now that," more blood splattered as he coughed, "now that I face my fate... without fear."
Herleif smiled softly, "Tell them that Herleif Bjornson will drink a toast to their memory, and will remember them fondly. As I will now remember you too. Shall you tell me your name, now that I have given mine?"
The Raider swallowed hard, raising his head. "Sitvek... S-Sitvek Stone-Breaker..." he said with as much pride as he could muster.
Nodding, Herleif gripped Sitvek's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I will remember you, Sitvek Stone-Breaker, along with the rest of my fallen kin. Tonight I will speak your name when I make a toast to those deserving to be honored by all men who love the gods."
It pained Herleif to know that he was sending such a strong and powerful Viking on his way to the gods. With the everlasting wars against the Knights of Ashfeld and the Samurai of the Myre, feuds and skirmishes between the clans of Valkenheim were nothing but a waste of lives to his mind. It made them weak, fighting among themselves when they should have been standing strong together against those that would see their way of life brought to ruin. Herleif took no pleasure in raising his sword against other Vikings, but when warriors from another hold had come into his lands looking to raid, he'd had no choice but to meet them in the defense of his people.
That was what being a Warlord meant. Service to all until the end, even when it pained his heart to do so.
Turning his head, Sitvek looked towards his axe. He reached his hand out for the weapon, but it seemed that he did not have the strength left in him to grab hold of the wooden shaft. His hand shook, and his body was quickly turning as pale as the snow around him.
Having no cause to give further insult to a man already dying, and had by all accounts fought bravely against him, Herleif helped the fallen Raider and lifted the heavy axe into his weak hand, laying it across Sitvek's chest. That seemed to put Sitvek at ease, and his labored breathing seemed to come on more smoothly with the feeling of his weapon safe in his grip.
"I am ready..." Sitvek said quietly, eyes turning back up towards the sky as the light slowly faded from their sight, "Honor to you... Herleif... Bjorn... son..." A last breath was released from between Sitvek's lips as he looked up to the gods to receive him, and he was gone.
Herleif sighed, his lips pressed into a tight line as he gave the Raider's shoulder a last squeeze. "Honor to you, Sitvek Stone-Breaker. Be at peace, and feast well until I come join you." Touching his fingers to Sitvek's brow, he pressed the warrior's eyes closed for the final time.
Cleaning his blade of blood with white snow, Herleif rose up to his feet and looked around him.
He had survived to fight another day it seemed. The Warlord's virtues had served him well, along with his shield and his training. Donning his helmet, he tracked through the piled snow and bodies to regroup with his warriors, checking to see who was still alive and tending to the wounded. To be a Warlord meant that he led from the front, and was there to carry the burden of battle alongside all those who followed him.
The crows still circled in the sky over head, slowly descending to pick at the remains of those who lay dead in the snow. Herleif would have his fallen warriors pulled off the battlefield quickly and see that they were given the appropriate rights for their final journey. In other holds perhaps the invading force would have been left to freeze in the night as punishment for their transgressions, but he would not leave the enemy dead to such a dishonorable fate, even if they had attacked him unprovoked. Sitvek's body would not be a feast for the crows if Herleif could help it.
Walking among the dead, Herleif's heart broke for such a terrible loss of life. Winter was upon them, and those that made it through the deathly cold winds of the north would soon be called upon to defend against the invading forces of both the Knights and Samurai once the thaw of spring came, or to go raiding for wealth and supplies.
What strength could they hope to muster if they were too busy killing each other before winter's bite could truly take hold? It was a question that weighed heavily on Herleif's mind the longer he looked after his clan from one season to the next.
Duty, honor and strength. These virtues had served him well in the past, and they would serve him still as he walked along his path to the day he was fated to die. A Warlord was the shield that protected his people at all costs. Herleif would not fail in that endeavor.
This was the path that he had chosen to follow. Like his father before, and his father before him, he would stay true to a Warlord's duty. He had sworn this before the gods. For his family. For his people.
For honor.
The crows circled high above in the bright blue sky, and Herleif Bjornson rejoined with his warriors to see them through to victory. He was glad to serve them well.