A Shield of Strength - A Warlord's Saga

by Barbarian2020

Warlord and Jarl, Herleif Bjornson, receives an invitation to raid deep into Ashfeld, but the fires of war obscure the path before him with death and treachery. Upon the war-torn slopes of Mount Ignis, he will make his stand and fight for all that he believes in, and everyone he holds dear. A Warlord is the shield of his people, and he will not fall.

12. True Darkness

Until today Herleif had never met or fought against one of the dreaded Black Priors of legendary renown. Once they had been noble Knights from all walks of life and many different creeds, but as the wars of Heathmoor raged on they each pledged themselves to Apollyon as her sworn wolves. Their reputation for violence and extreme cruelty upon the battlefield brought on the contempt and fear of all their foes, and even some of their own allies who grew to think of them as nothing but demons set loose upon the world. But for some time after the War Wolf's defeat it was said that the Black Prior order had fallen with her, vanished into the mists of history, better left forgotten like the remnants of some terrible nightmare.

The world had seemed a better place without their dark order, but on the day when the Highlander, Jarl Jafnhar, led his horde against the harbor of Eitrivatnen there came a grim reminder that not all nightmares remained forgotten and lost. Just when victory seemed within Jarl Jafnhar's grasp after days of fighting, the Black Prior called Vortiger stepped out from the shadows, and single handedly killed the Highlander Jarl and laid waste to his Viking fleet. Or so the legend goes.

It was also said that the Knights who survived the Jarl's attack witnessed a scene of such slaughter and death brought about by Vortiger's hand that even they felt their own souls tremble in fear. Not even they wanted to welcome the Black Prior back into their ranks, not after all the needless suffering their order had brought about under Apollyon's rule. Fate, it seemed, had determined that Vortiger would once again take his place in Ashfeld's history, and he would take it in blood. With the Vikings defeated, a second invasion of Samurai warriors clashed against what little Knights remained in defense of the harbor. Allowing these Knights to give their lives just to buy time, Vortiger gathered his dark order to him. At his command he unleashed death from on high with ballistae and trebuchets against the enemy, and the Knights as well. None were spared from Vortiger's wrath, and those that prayed to a higher power for mercy soon found themselves abandoned to the Black Prior's sword.

Vortiger's victory against the Vikings and Samurai was complete. Eitrivatnen was safe, the harbor returned to the forces of Beaufort once they had come to relieve the city. Only they arrived to find the bodies of the slain, both friend and foe alike, hanging from the city walls and their heads stuck upon pikes over the city gates. The Knights were horrified with what they saw, but the strength of the Black Prior order was too great to deny and were allowed back into Ashfeld's fold.

The Black Priors had returned, and the world once again trembled under their long shadow of violence and fear. Soon their order was spread across the battle lines, bringing a gruesome death to any that stood against them. Vortiger's terrible deeds at the harbor of Lake Eitrivatnen became legend, and any who dared listen to the tale felt in their soul the chilling terror of true darkness.

Herleif never really knew if the legend of Vortiger's cruelty was true or not. Shortly after Apollyon's fall a Jarl called Jafnhar had led a raid against Eitrivatnen and met a terrible end, and within the same month a Samurai Daimyo named Daimon had attacked the harbor as well only to have his army completely destroyed. The fate of the harbor had looked grim, facing down both Vikings and Samurai alike, but somehow the Knights had been able to hold off each invading force long enough for reinforcements to save them. The dark strength of the Black Priors certainly played their part in the defense leading up to that rescue, but whether or not a single warrior really committed such terrible acts against his enemies all on his own seemed a bit far fetched to his mind.

However, as he climbed the steps of the citadel tower to the veranda, and stepped over the slashed and bloody bodies of Ivar's men who lay dead on the stairs, a sliver of doubt wormed its way into his mind. He had passed three dead bodies already, not counting the one that had rolled down the steps further down, but still the sound of clashing steel echoed on up ahead. Most likely Ivar had caught the Black Prior on her way down to the battle, and forced her back up again at a great cost to his own men. Herleif gritted his teeth as he bounded upwards, determined to put an end to the battle once and for all.

Why a member of the Black Priors would join with these volcano cultists was a mystery. It seemed to Herleif that one cult member would stick to their mad ideology over picking another, but when your beliefs only seemed to center around the death and destruction of innocents then perhaps madness is all relative in the end. He would have to go without an answer to that question though, as he had no intention of asking Erzebet about her reasons before he cut off her head.

Daylight shone on the walls of the stairwell now as they approached the top. Herleif could hear the battle going on down below now, the clash of weapons and the screams of the fallen carried clear on the wind. He could smell the smoke of the fires that still burned at the gates, but he put all thoughts of his brother and his warriors fighting for the keep out of his mind as he charged up onto the veranda and looked for the Pyre Commander that he had come to kill. There was a pained grunt and the sound of metal cutting through a shield, and Herleif turned to his left just as a Headhunter warrior fell to the floor. Erzebet stood above him, slamming the angular point of her tall shield down on the warriors body and ripping her sword free from his chest.

Erzebet was alone. All alone. Not a single Pyre Knight stood with her upon the veranda, and yet another three dead Vikings lay at her feet, another two looking bloodied and grim as they stood with their shields raised around her. Her black robe and armor was splattered with red blood, and even more dripped from the end of her blade and the sharpened edges of her tall kite shield. The dark leather hood shrouded her face, but just as before Herleif caught a glimpse of a wicked smile spread across her lips.

For the first time that day Herleif felt the true grip of fear squeeze tightly around his heart. Without a shadow of a doubt he knew he faced a practiced killer now, a wolf strengthened by the teachings of a mad warlord, and now unleashed upon the world by the corrupt leaders of another wicked cult. Erzebet lived for the kill, and now he could feel her dark shrouded eyes turn to rest on him.

"What is this?" came the Prior's smooth voice in the common tongue, which sounded like the hiss of a snake slipping forth from a forked tongue. "More wretched heathens come to play?"

The four warriors that had come with Herleif came up behind him, adding to the force that stood against Erzebet and outnumbering her eight to one. The smile on the dark warrior's lips never faltered, nor did she seem to shrink away against the men surrounding her. In fact she only seemed to smile wider.

It was either by incredible bravery or utter foolishness that Erzebet would fight so many alone, Herleif thought. Surely she knew now that this was to be her end, but perhaps that was what filled her with such excitement in the first place. Only someone truly wicked could find such pleasure in so much death. The thought chilled Herleif to the bone, and he gripped his sword a bit tighter as he began to circle the woman, his men spreading out around her.

"What are you doing here, Herleif?" said another voice in a rough gravely tone. Herleif looked to see Ivar standing opposite him behind Erzebet. His round shield was marked with a dozen slashes from her sword, cutting through the red skulls painted on it's broad surface. A thin trickle of blood ran down his cheek from an open cut, but it hardly seemed to lessen any of the fight burning in the Warlord's eyes as he glared over at Herleif like he'd just found an unwanted guest in his hall. "This bitch is mine. I want her head, so don't even think about getting in my way."

Erzebet turned to stare at the Red Jarl, shifting her sword to her shield hand despite being completely surrounded by armed Vikings come to kill her. That hardly seemed to concern her though, as she reached for her hood and tugged it down behind her head. Her hair was shaved down to a dark stubble covering her scalp, and her eyes were shadowed with black paint, but even beyond that they seemed marred by burns that withered and darkened the skin of her cheeks. What was most striking of all though was the wicked symbol of her order cut into her forehead, a red circular scar slashed with mirroring lines that mimicked the image of the sun. Herleif was immediately reminded of the legend of Vortiger, where it was said that the sun turned red as he slaughtered the Viking invaders upon Eitrivatnen's docks.

"Come and take it then, bastard," she spat, standing tall before the warriors who cowered behind their shields. "Eight of your men are dead, and yet here I stand, still breathing. How weak you must look before the eyes of the pathetic gods you are enslaved to."

"You know nothing of our gods, witch," Ivar growled, but he did not break his defensive stance behind his shield.

Erzebet laughed, taking her sword into her hand again and sliding it against the metal edge of her shield so that sparks showered around her feet. The shield's rim had been sharpened to a lethal edge, making it more dangerous when used for bashing during a fight. "I know that they are false. There is only the darkness that we all must return to. Until then, I will see to it that we all burn in the fires of war! The volcano will consume us all, and you will wither and die before its might like the worms you are!"

"Enough of this!" Ivar spat, stepping up from behind his shield and pointing at the Black Prior with his sword. "Take her!"

Herleif watched on with wide eyed as the two Headhunter warriors flanking Ivar both charged Erzebet together. Even then the woman didn't fall back, remaining perfectly still as both warriors raised their swords and cried out to end her life. "Wait!" he called, but it was already too late.

With incredible speed Erzebet dropped down to one knee, ducking behind her kite shield just as the swords came down to take off her head, and let the warrior's momentum carry them off balance and up over her shield. "Ad profundis!" she shouted, pushing upward with her shield and flipping both warriors over her at once. They tumbled head over heels, shouting in surprise as they flew through the air. Before they even fell to the ground Erzebet whipped her sword around and slashed at their throats, a bright flash of metal across skin, one after the other. Blood splattered across the floor as the warriors tumbled onto their backs, clutching at their sliced open necks as they died.

Ivar let loose an angry curse and lunged in with a headbutt to knock Erzebet off balance. She was ready, and dodged out of the way. Her sword slashed at Ivar's face, but he was able to bring his shield up to block the attack in time. The force of the blow still sent him tumbling backwards and Erzebet spun on her heel to strike next at Herleif and his men to keep them at bay before they could close her in.

Herleif dodged, then knocked her sword clear with his shield, stabbing at her with his own blade. He hit her shield though as she brought it up before her, the edge of his blade glancing off the metal boss and cutting across the wooden surface. Erzebet never stopped moving, never paused. Her shield kept Herleif at bay while she swiped at another of his warriors, taking the man in the leg with a vicious cut. The warrior howled in pain, but was able to remain standing as he desperately tried to step back out of the Black Prior's reach. She came at him again though, striking with lightning speed, smashing the warrior in the face with the edge of her sturdy shield and slashing her sword down on him from above. The man stopped his screaming then, gurgling on dark blood as he fell to the floor.

The woman was truly a fiend, a demon of war in human form. Her face was completely calm as she stabbed at another warrior's shield, her shadowed eyes cool as a predator's as she forced him back towards the veranda's edge. Herleif tried to come to his men's aid, striking both his sword and shield across Erzebet's back, but the dark woman turned and slammed her shield up to deflect the attack, slicing quickly with her sword across Herleif's belly. Thankfully the broad belt around his waist and the armor he wore kept the blade from cutting into his guts, but the fright made his heart leap into his throat as he jumped away.

While Erzebet was seemingly distracted, the Bilrost warrior pressed up against the veranda's railing tried to duck away to a better position, but there was no escape from the Black Prior's wrath now. She caught him as he tried to dodge, slamming against him with her kite shield and pinning him up against the stone railing that wrapped around the tower's edge. Herleif heard the man grunt in pain as she bore down on him, and for one fleeting moment their eyes met in a helpless sense of despair. Herleif could see the utter fear in the warriors eyes, but he knew that there was nothing he could do now. Erzebet slammed her shield into the warrior one last time, and the man tumbled backwards over the railing, screaming as he plummeted through the air to the crowded streets below. His scream faded away as he fell, until it could no longer be heard above the battle din that rose up around them.

As Erzebet turned to face her remaining foes, so too did that wicked grin return to her lips. "Mala ultro adsunt," she hissed, a menacing whisper that promised death. The meaning of her words were not lost on Herleif, for he knew the language of his enemy well. 'Misfortune come uninvited,' she had said. A simple threat, one that Erzebet fully intended to carry out against those who had invaded her stronghold. She stepped forward, the smile on her lips brighter now, more gleeful as she spread her arms wide and held her chin high. "Fools. Come at me then, if you dare."

There was a blur of movement, and a rush of red color passing by Herleif. Ivar ran headlong at Erzebet and leapt up into the air, sword raised as he flew at her. "You are dead!" he roared, cleaving his sword through the air as he came down on her. Erzebet ducked behind her shield again, but Ivar's skill as a Warlord kept him from falling into her trap. He angled himself just to the side of her, his feet landing upon the ground as she thrust at him with her shield, deflecting his oncoming blade but failing to flip him up over her head and over the railing like Herleif's warrior.

Erzebet tried to bring her sword up to slash at him, but Ivar blocked and slammed the blade wide, giving him the room he needed to bring his round shield up and slam it's edge into Erzebet's face. She shrieked in rage as she reeled back, eyes squeezed shut from the pain. Ivar didn't waste any time. He slashed at Erzebet's exposed torso, cutting through her dark robe and the coat of chainmail she wore underneath. However the cut was not deep enough to claim her life and she remained uninjured and still on her feet, protected by her armor from the lethal blow with barely a scratch on her.

Snarling in fury, Erzebet charged at them again, throwing her shield wide in a circular arc to keep Herleif, Ivar and the remaining two warriors spread apart and separated. She went after one Bilrost warrior right away, attacking him with two quick cuts of her sword and forcing him to duck back behind his shield. Once he had retreated further back she rounded on Herleif next, attacking with her shield first with a bone shaking blow.

Herleif quickly slid clear out of the way as she came at him. He could feel the force of the wind against his face as the kite shield went rushing by, clearing him by mere inches. Stepping in he slammed the demon ornament and curved horns of his helmet into Erzebet's shoulder, knocking her off balance and followed up with a quick thrust of his sword. He felt the blade meet resistance then push through, stabbing into her flank through cloth, metal and flesh. Erzebet gave a sharp scream of pain, flinching away and stumbling back against the veranda's railing.

When Herleif's blade pulled away from her the tip was slick with red blood. He pulled up his shield and had his sword at the ready behind it, glaring at the wounded Black Prior over the circular rim. He should have pressed the attack while she was dazed, but his own sense of honor bid him to give her a chance at surrender before he took her life. "You can not hope to win this fight. Even if you kill us the city has already fallen. Your followers are all dead or dying. Better to just surrender now and save what few are left while you can."

Erzebet pressed her shield arm into her bleeding side as she caught her breath, but her dark eyes had lost none of their wickedness. They narrowed into angry slits as she stared back at him, then pulled herself up to her feet against the railing just so she could throw out her head and spit at his shiled. Erzebet sneered at them all with a look of pure contempt, her fingers squeezing tightly around the grip of her sword as she pointed it at each Viking in turn.

"Well I guess that settles things then," Ivar growled as he stepped up closer to the woman, sword and shield raised. "I won't pretend that I don't prefer it this way."

Herleif glanced over at his so called blood brother, and spoke to him in their northern tongue. "Easy now. We do this right. A wolf is always more dangerous when it is wounded and cornered."

Erzebet smirked, and for a moment Herleif wondered if she had understood him after all. Ivar's face screwed up in anger at that smile, his sword coming up as he took another step. "She is no wolf, she is just a dead woman!" With a roar he charged in, raising his sword up high for a single powerful cut to end her life once and for all.

But Erzebet was ready for him. Even as dark blood stained the side of her robe, she was neither weak nor ready to fall. As Ivar's sword came down to split her head in two, she met him with her own weapons, parrying the blow with surprising strength as she rose up against her attackers. Ivar's sword was knocked wide, leaving him in the same position Erzebet had just been in before with his defense broken and his body open to her blade.

"Tace cor tuum!" Erzebet yelled, drawing upon all her strength to slash at Ivar's belly. The dark bearded Warlord reacted as quickly as he could, his eyes going wide as he sucked in his gut to avoid the sword's edge. The sharp steel cut through his hide armor, but somehow Ivar made it away in time with only a red line stretched across his belly. A lucky miss, one to surly thank the gods for later if he managed to out last the Black Prior's fury.

Herleif moved in with a strike of his own, only to be parried as well and forced away. Erzebet moved with the power of a hurricane, slashing her sword and shield with frightening speed to keep Herleif and his warriors at bay. She was gripped by blood lust now, her cool terror giving way to a fiery rage. How Herleif managed to block each bone shaking blow of her sword was a blessing of the gods, but he could give no thought to them now as he weathered the storm of steel behind his shield. One of his warriors ducked low to try and cut at her legs, but she knocked his blade away with the lower end of her shield, and cleaved his own in two with one mighty blow and slashed through his arm. The man fell back clutching his bleeding wound to his chest, and Erzebet snarled as she lifted her sword to finish him off.

"No!" Herleif shouted, throwing himself at Erzebet before another of his warriors was lost to her blade. He slammed his sturdy shield into her, giving his man time to retreat, but she shoved right back against him, pushing him back with such force that he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Then she whirled back around, focusing on Ivar again to finish what she had started. The Red Jarl tried to draw back, but she came at him with her shield, slamming its broad surface into him before slashing at him from above. "Tenebris!" she shouted at him with a terrible cry. 'For darkness,' a promise to claim Ivar's life just as she had done with the rest of his warriors. Her blade struck across his upturned shield, but from the way that he nearly buckled beneath the power of her attack it appeared that he would not last much longer alone.

Herleif knew that he had to do something. Ivar was trying to keep his shield up, trying to stab at her with his sword, but she was coming at him too hard and too fast. Her bloody blade was a blur of quick and vicious attacks. He couldn't find an opening, couldn't get around her shield to strike and bring her down before it was too late.

Ivar was losing to this wicked foe, and it was up to Herleif to save him. For as much as he might dislike the man or blame him for past transgressions, he had become his sworn blood brother. He had a duty to protect and fight for the man at any cost, or else his honor would forever be marred by shame and failure. Herleif was a shield of his people, destined to serve them all, Ivar included. Failure was something he could not allow.

"Erzebet!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, hunkering down behind his round shield and glaring at her over the rim. "Look at me!" He planted his feet firmly, bracing for whatever attack came his way next. If she slashed at him he would be ready, but if she came at him with her shield to knock him off balance then his soul would be in the hands of the gods.

It was a mad, ridiculous gamble, offering himself up as a solid unmoving target. Luckily the gods seemed to have found the trick amusing, because it worked. Erzebet was so caught up in her desperate need to cut them all to pieces that she didn't stop to think before she swiped her sword at Herleif and crashed the blade across the broad surface of his shield.

Herleif was ready for the blow, and knocked her sword aside as soon as it connected. Erzebet's guard was forced open, and with practiced skill Herleif thrust forward with his own deadly blade, piercing straight through her armor and driving it deep into her belly with all his strength. Erzebet let out a pained gasp, her dark eyes going wide as what little color she had to her face drained away in an instant. Just as quickly as he attacked, Herleif pulled his sword free again, followed quickly by a gout of dark blood from her wounded gut.

Immediately Erzebet fell to one knee, only keeping herself upright by slamming her kite shield on the ground and bracing herself against it. Her sword arm fell limp at her side, and her was breath was coming on in deep, ragged gasps. The wicked look in her eye faded away, her face going blank as if she couldn't comprehend that her life might end while her enemies still drew breath around her. Slowly her gaze turned up towards Herleif, a thin line of blood trickling down from the corner of her lips, her eyelids fluttering beneath that wicked symbol carved into her forehead. She took a few more shaky breaths, and then spoke in a soft and blood choked voice, "Even... fine linen... decays..."

Herleif stared back down at her, also panting hard from the rush that still gripped him after the attack. Those seemed like strange words for them to be her last, but in a way he felt that he understood her meaning. Despite the wicked reputation of her order, Herleif had only known Erzebet to be deceptively cunning in her battle craft, and an absolute terror with a blade. The dead bodies of a dozen Vikings marked her as worthy opponent for any warrior that stood against her, and not even two Warlords fighting together could bring her to a swift end. But in the end she had fallen. Fate had not been on her side, and no amount of dark power or skill would save her from death now.

Despite how well Erzebet fought, Herleif could not look past her wickedness to offer up any words of respect or kindness in the end. He glared down at her, watching as she bled out from her stomach and the cut on her side. "Go on then," he said in a spiteful, uncaring voice. "Go on to your wretched darkness. It is all that you brought about in life, surely it is all that awaits you in death."

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Erzebet's lips. "And... what... what have you b-brought Viking? " she asked in barely more then a whisper. Her lips twitched even after she finished speaking, and her eyes seemed to look on into nothing, her scared face relaxed and calm. "The darkness... we all deserve it... in the end..." Her eyes snapped up at Herleif then, focusing in on him with stunning clarity, and the serene expression on her face twisted up into a demonic snarl. "Let us go there together! You and I, embraced by the darkness forevermore!"

Moving with incredible speed, Erzebet sprang up from the ground with a blood chilling howl. She hefted up her shield with the very last of her strength, scything it's sharpened edge through the air in an arc towards Herleif's neck. He barely had any time to react, his eyes going wide with surprise as he desperately tried to lean back and get clear of the shield's deadly edge.

Suddenly Ivar appeared behind Erzebet, sword held high just before he swung it down and cleaved the hooked blade into the woman's shoulder. Snarling like a savage beast, he cut into her deep, hacking the sword through Erzebet's mail and into her chest. The Black Prior gave a hoarse gasp of shock, blood splattering against her pale face as her eyes went wide. Her shield dropped like a stone, falling harmlessly at her side away from Herleif's neck.

Kicking at the back of Erzebet's knee, Ivar dropped the woman to the floor and ripped his blade free with a jerk of his arm. All Erzebet could do was stare blankly off into nothing, blood dribbling from her lips as Ivar whipped his sword around and pressed it to the back of her neck. Doing the same with the rim of his shield, he sliced both weapons forward with monstrous strength, roaring in anger as he cleaved Erzebet's head from her shoulders in a spray of hot gore.

Erzebet's body fell to the ground, one foot twitching for a moment before finally going still. Her bloody head smacked wetly against the stone floor, rolling away as if still trying to escape her assailant, until it finally came to rest against one of the fallen warriors she had cut down during the fight. Blood gushed forth from the bloody stump of her neck, forming a dark pool around her that stretched further and further outward towards Herleif's boots.

"Fucking wench," Ivar growled, glaring down at the body at his feet. "Fuck her darkness. Now she is nothing but food for the crows." He was breathing hard, his broad shoulders heaving as the need to fight and kill still gripped him. Working his jaw, he gathered a glob of phlegm and hocked it onto Erzebet's back, white spit splattering over her black cape.

Herleif was still held by the moment where he thought it would be him who would lose his head. He blinked, switching his sword to his shield hand so that he could reach up and rub at the phantom wound he felt across his neck. "Gods, that was too close," he said softly. Watching the pool of blood stretch out for him, he took a step back away from the body, as if not entirely sure that Erzebet couldn't still strike him down from the world beyond.

Unable to bear looking at her any longer, he drew his eyes up towards Ivar, staring at him in a new light. Whether or not Ivar would truly fight beside him when it mattered most had been a constant source of doubt in Herleif's mind. But for now at least it seemed that Ivar was willing to come to his aid, and in war nothing could be more important then knowing that the man next to you will stand shoulder to shoulder against any threat. "Ivar, thank you."

Ivar's eyes snapped up to Herleif as if he had forgotten he'd been standing there at all. "What?" he snapped, teeth still snarling beneath his black beard.

Herleif grimaced slightly, taken a back by the bite in Ivar's voice. "You saved my life. Thank you, brother." Stepping around Erzebet's still body, he held out his hand in solidarity to his fellow Warlord. But Ivar did not grip his arm in return as one warrior embraces another. Instead he just looked down at the open hand as if expecting some kind of trick or deception.

Finally Ivar turned away, showing Herleif his back and shrugging his shoulders. "Think nothing of it. She needed killing. Not like saving your hide had anything to do with it. You're a grown man. Watch your own back next time, and fight better." He waved his sword around, gesturing at the bodies of those warriors who had lost their lives fighting alongside them against Erzebet. "Or die with the rest of them."

That struck a poor cord in Herleif's heart, and he glanced up at the two warriors who still stood with him. They looked haggard and lost after the fight, one with a wounded arm and the other kneeling down next to the bodies of their fallen brothers. All of his men had fought bravely against Erzebet, and he had no doubt that those that had fallen were already feasting with the gods and their ancestors in the halls of Valhalla. They were beyond his help now, but those who lived would still look to him for strength and hope in the battles to come. That was his duty as not only a Warlord, but also a Jarl.

Glancing down, he spotted Erzebet's severed head and stooped down to pick it up. He cradled it in his arm, looking down into the blank eyes that shone white within the dark shadows that ringed them. "Take this," he said, offering the head over to the warrior who had come through the fight in one piece. The battle could still be heard raging on far below the veranda, and they had already tarried too long to break the Divine Pyre's morale. "Find Gunnar. Make sure he shows this to every Pyre fanatic who still stands against us. Let them all know that the Black Prior's hold on Eitrivatnen is broken. The harbor belongs to us now. Go!"

The Bilrost warrior looked up at him as he took the head, accepting it like a cherished gift offered to him by his Jarl. Nodding quickly, he gave a jerk of his head to the other wounded warrior to follow, and together they disappeared back down the stairs of the tower to carry out his orders. Herleif watched them go, and now it was only him and Ivar left up on the veranda, them and the bodies of their enemy and those warriors that had been their kin. Ivar was walking among them now, watching his steps and frowning down at the bodies of those men who bore his colors.

"This could have been much worse," Herleif said, feeling a tinge of anger build up in him now as he glared over at Ivar. "The reputation of the Black Priors is known throughout all of Heathmoor. You should have waited for me to go after her. We should have attacked together, as one. We could have planned, used our heads instead of fighting like an angry mob."

Ivar gave him little more then a sideways glance, his jaw clenching tight before he spoke. "What does it matter how we fought? The bitch is dead now. This battle is over."

Herleif's shoulders slumped at the carelessness with which Ivar saw the situation. "We could have saved lives, you blood hungry fuck!" he bellowed. Just a moment ago he had been willing to see Ivar as someone he could count on, someone he could trust. But now he could feel all his fears and doubts over Ivar fighting against him bubbling back to the surface. The memory of Sitvek Stone-Breaker dying by his blade in a meaningless skirmish came back to him in a rush of heated emotion, and all he wanted to do was grab Ivar by his collar and smack him about until he saw sense. "Why do you throw the lives of your men away so needlessly? Do they mean nothing to you at all? You are a fucking Jarl! A Warlord! You should be better than that!"

Now it was Ivar who seethed in anger, rounding on Herleif and stomping towards him. "Do not speak to me on what it means to be a Jarl!" he barked back, spit flying from between his teeth. He narrowed his eyes, leaning in close now that the curved horns of their helmets nearly touched. "Warriors die. That is war. That is our way of life! Don't act like you are somehow better then the rest of us for trying to change that fact. You prance around and puff yourself up, trying to act like some grand voice of reason that we all must listen to. This is nothing but another fucking raid! Not some grand quest to right the wrongs of the world, not a chance to prove that you're somehow a better man than any other warrior with a blade. You want to make it home to see your precious wife and brats again? Then fucking kill, you nithing shit! At any cost!"

Herleif gritted his teeth and slammed his head forward, ramming his helmet against Ivar's face and shoving him back. "Fuck you!" he spat, bringing up his shield in front of him and raising his bloody sword. "If it were not for me you would be dead right now. Cut down with the rest of them! A fucking waste! You are nothing but a rabid dog that can not even stop to think before it bites a friendly hand!"

Ivar reeled back from the hit, but quickly found his footing and stepped right back up towards Herleif, ignoring the sharp point of the sword all together and let it press into his chest. "As if I would ever ask for your damned help. I never wanted your fucking help!" he snarled through clenched teeth. "Would you prefer it if I fell to my knees then? Shall I give my thanks three times over, until you and all the gods are satisfied?" He spread his arms open wide, shield and sword outstretched with Herleif's blade still pressed against him. "Thanks! Thanks! Thanks! By all the gods and creatures of the world, I give my utmost thanks to this mighty hero! A true brother, even to those who give no shit for him or his pathetic kin."

Herleif glared at Ivar, his body burning up with anger as he tightened the grip on his sword. It would be so easy to just run him through right then, to silence Ivar forever and put an end to this pathetic feud once and for all. It would feel good too, he knew. Deep down he would have been glad to get rid of this savage Jarl, this thorn in his side, and his life would be all the better for it. For some reason though there was something holding him back. In the very back of his mind there was a voice telling him that he was still honor bound to this man, sworn by their blood oath to be his brother until the bitter end. It made Herleif even angrier to think that he must hold true to such promises. Surely the gods knew that even a blood oath to this sort of wretched man was one not worth keeping. There was no one else around, no one to witness the ultimate betrayal and say that Herleif was any less of a man for going through with it. It would be so easy.

Ivar's dark eyes glinted menacingly at him, and somehow Herleif felt that the Red Jarl knew what he was thinking. The savage Warlord kept his arms spread wide, as if inviting Herleif to do it, daring him to drive the sword into his chest and prove that he was just as much a dog of war as he was. Herleif bared his teeth, feeling the resistance of Ivar's armor against the tip of his blade as he pressed it forward just a bit more. "You are no brother of mine," he said at last, letting his sword drop between them, releasing the threat he held on Ivar's life.

Ivar didn't move, didn't so much as flinch. He only smiled and held Herleif's gaze. "When did I ever say I was?" he asked, cool and calm, the fire suddenly gone from his raspy voice. "You're no fool on that front, Herleif, I'll give you that. Erik can think whatever the fuck he wants, so long as you and I know exactly where we stand."

A feeling of cold dread welled up inside of Herleif's chest, and he wondered if he hadn't just made a mistake branding Ivar as his rival instead of friend. Or worse, as his own enemy. "You should know to stay out of my way from here on out, and I shall give you the fucking courtesy of doing the same."

Ivar gave a short grunt of laughter as he let his arms drop back down to his sides. "At last, something we can both agree on. Maybe we can get along after all, eh?" With that he turned and made straight for the stairs, giving no more thought to the bodies around them. "Allow me to do you the courtesy of going down first. You seem a bit twitchy after that fight, and I wouldn't want you to slip and fall from the worry of catching something sharp in your back. Somehow I don't feel so troubled by such baseless and discourteous fears."

Herleif scowled as he watched Ivar descend down the stairs, soon slipping out of sight and leaving him alone on the veranda among the dead. He felt angry, and hollow, like the effort spent here against Erzebet had been a complete waste given the outcome. He and Ivar were meant to be in this fight together, brothers in blood, sworn to fight side by side against any foe. But instead they had only ended up at each other's throats like always. It was sad in a way, knowing that two Jarls couldn't set aside their own rivalry in the middle of a battle in a foreign land. The cold feeling almost made Herleif want to gather his men and just sail home again, to wash his hands of Erik and Ivar both, leaving them to deal with these mad volcano cultists all on their own.

Ivar's words still echoed in his head though, the voice of that savage bastard calling him a coward clinging to his heart like the talons of a falcon gripping its prey. He wanted to see his family again, that much was true. But how could he face them as a Viking, as a man, if he abandoned the battle he had sworn to fight all because he was afraid over what he might lose? It seemed like the more he thought about it the more he felt that the person that he had to prove himself to was not Ivar, or Erik, or even Gunnar and his family, but himself.

In a way Ivar was right. War was a way of life. Not only for the Vikings of Valkenheim, but for all of Heathmoor. Over a millennium of near constant war and still no one had yet to change their ways. It pained Herleif to his core to think that this was all that life had to offer him, offer his children once they were grown, but how could he hope to change things now when all roads led to war? He was a father, and a husband, but he was also a Viking, a Jarl and a Warlord. Right now that mattered more than what waited for him back at his hall in Bilrost, and he would not shame himself now by abandoning the traditions of his people, his way of life.

A horn blew somewhere down below, then another, and another, echoing on throughout the city all the way back towards the lake. The pattern they blew told of victory, that the city was theirs and the enemy had fallen. Already cheers were beginning to echo up into the air, reaching even the heights of the tower for him to hear. Hopefully Gunnar and the rest came through the fighting alright and in one piece. And if not, then surely they were in Valhalla as was their due reward.

Looking back down at Erzebet's headless body, Herleif wondered what her reward was for holding onto such dark and wicked beliefs, that the world was better off ruled by wolves to hunt and slaughter the sheep. Had she thought it all worth it in the end, or perhaps just as her life began to slip away she questioned what it was that she had been fighting for? She would give him no answers now, and just like everyone else who had fallen in the battle of Eitrivatnen before her, she meant nothing to those who still marched on. Just another body to be left behind on the path to riches and glory.

He would send men to gather the bodies of the warriors who lay dead on the veranda, but for now Herleif was done with this fight. It gave him no satisfaction, no sense of victory. He would continue to live, and to fight, to march to the very foot of Mount Ignis and challenge the Divine Pyre on their own ground, but the uncertainty of whether he was fighting for the right reasons would remain with him.

Turning his back on the fallen Black Prior, he headed for the steps, and descended down into darkness with his head hung low and shoulders heavy with uncertainty. The sun still shone through the thick fire smoke that surrounded the tower, but soon it would begin to set. For now the Black Priors were gone from Eitrivatnen, but for those who remained their darkness was sure to come again, like the falling of night upon the world.