At Erik's command the horde finally began its march from Eitrivatnen.

Such a large deployment of warriors was a feat as arduous as the attack that saw the harbor fall under Viking control, but after days lingering in the city with little to do but drink and plan for the battles still to come it was with much eagerness that the three clans took their leave of the lake's shores. For those citizens of Ashfeld that remained, first crushed beneath the Divine Pyre's boot heel and then confined to their homes by a foreign Jarl's rule, no sense of relief or respite would come; not until the heathen army had taken their fill of stolen plunder and returned to their ships to finally sail home. A small force of Vikings, made up from each of the three clans along with the wounded unfit for travel, would be left behind to maintain control of the city, lest the long absent legions of Ashfeld come seeking to put their docked longships to the flame.

The Sea-Eagle Clan was the first to march east out of the city's gates, watched over by the Golden Jarl and his battle-crazed son from atop their horses, taken from only the finest stables Eitrivatnen had to offer. After them came Ivar's Headhunters, the brutish skull adorned warriors chomping at the bit to be outside the walls and on the move, riled up enough to cause more than one fight with any Sea-Eagle warrior that dared move to slow while taking their leave.

Herleif sat upon the Oldenburg stallion he had taken from the villa, watching the gleaming spears and helmets of so many warriors march past on the eastern road out of the city. The horse snorted and stomped its hooves at the sights and sounds of an army on the move, but for the most part it seemed happy just to be out of its stable. Adjusting his position in the saddle, Herleif leaned forward and gave the beast a reassuring pat on its neck. It had been some time since he had gone riding, and he could already tell that he would be sore in the saddle by the time night fell.

"Whoever thought that marching off to war could be so fucking boring," grumbled Ivar next to him, sitting lazily upon a black charger that seemed just as bored to be standing there as its rider.

Herleif narrowed his eyes, looking sideways at the Red Jarl and wishing that he could just ride off to wait with his own warriors rather than sit here with this dog just to take part in Erik's vanity. "No doubt some hard days lay ahead of us once we reach Mount Ignis. Perhaps you should enjoy this moment of peace while it lasts."

Ivar grinned and gave a short bark of laughter. "Peace? Ha, that is funny. Where do you think we are, you crazy bastard? Think just because it's all clear skies and sunny lake shores that we are at peace?" He laughed again, shaking his head before leaning over and hocking a dark glob of spit at the Oldenburg's hoof. "No. Nothing has changed since we arrived in this damned city, and you fucking know it too. I'm just ready to get to the rest of the killing, is all. None of this 'glorious march' shit means anything until the blood begins to flow. That's when the real glory is earned, not because you've taught your men to march in a straight fucking line like a bunch of clanking tins."

Herleif listened with growing animosity towards his fellow Jarl, his hands squeezing the reins of his horse tighter and tighter. The Oldenburg seemed to sense his agitation, giving another loud snort as it shifted from one hoof to another. It whipped its head, sending its mane flying into the face of Ivar's charger, seemingly picking a side in this little fight and standing up for its rider. "We all have a fate that we are destined to meet, Ivar. Some of us hope to enter Valhalla with pride for having led a noble and memorable life, not just because we died screaming with a sword stuck in the belly."

Ivar turned to look at him, an amused glint in his dark eyes beneath the three horned helm he wore. The mess of teeth he showed was yellow in his black beard as he smiled. "You gelded bitch," he laughed, ignoring the hate-filled glare Herleif shot at him as he looked back to the marching horde. "I swear to all the gods, if the two of us end up in Odin's hall together, I will find you and kill you each day the Einherjar train until the the Gjallahorn finally blows and Ragnarok sunders all of Midgard. Nothing would grant me greater pleasure."

"And nothing would give me greater pleasure than leaving your corpse cold under the open sky, with no weapon in hand so that you would spend all of eternity wandering the wastes of Hel alone in shame," spat Herleif, eyes flashing with hate. His knuckles were bone white from where he gripped the saddle, all to keep himself from taking hold of his sword at his side. It was a harsh threat to give another warrior of Valkenheim, but for the anger and anguish in Herleif's heart he could not hold back his tongue from speaking his mind. "I have not forgotten the insult your men gave me when they invaded my land. Nor have I forgiven the part that you surely played in it for all the lives that were lost."

"Now you are just begging for a sword in the belly," Ivar replied casually, appearing to ignore the threat entirely while watching his warriors pass by in a sea of blood red and bone white. When he looked at Herleif again, his smile was just as amused and mocking as ever. "You want to fight me? Want to know if you have what it takes to go clash steel with a real man? Careful Herleif, I have often heard that the Valkyries pass over dead men who's pants are full of piss and shit."

"Your boasts are as hollow as your skull," Herleif snarled. "A holmgang then. A duel to the death to settle this feud once and for all, once the Walled City is taken. I told you already Ivar, nothing short of your blood will pay for the men I lost to your schemes."

"Why wait?" Ivar asked, drawing his sword with no great urgency. "I would prefer not to sully my saga by fighting alongside a nithing troll shit such as you at the mountain. Much better just to kill you now and get it over with. Hopefully I will be able tell your family that you at least died well when I take your Jarl's seat and throw them from the hall. You can do that much at least, can't you?"

Herleif saw red at Ivar's cold threats towards his family, and was just about to rip his own sword free from its scabbard when the sound of galloping hooves approaching caught his attention. Still snarling, tore his gaze away from Ivar and looked to see Jarl Erik, Magnus and Old Wolf all rushing up at them upon their majestic horses.

"Good day my friends!" shouted Erik enthusiastically in greeting, but from the angry look upon his face he did not seem too pleased to find his two fellow Jarls at each other's throats once again. "What a joyous moment this is, the beginning of our glorious march towards the mountain of rust and fire! How our enemies will tremble at the very sound of our marching feet as we come to tear down their walls and sack their holy volcano of plunder. Would you both agree?"

Herleif said nothing, scowling between the Golden Jarl and the Red, while Ivar leaned back in his saddle looking uninterested. "Oh yes, its fucking poetic," he said, scratching an itch on his cheek with the curved hook of his sword. "If only I had been born a skald to capture this moment of choking dust and body odor in elegant verse."

Erik locked eyes on Ivar, reigning in his horse as it stomped energetically after its fast approach. "Hide your small mind and lack of ambition behind your jests and twisted words, Ivar. This is a moment of triumph, and it will take much more then your foul tongue to ruin it," he spat, earning a raised brow from Ivar. "Nor will I allow either of you to befoul all that we have accomplished so far with a needless feud that was settled long ago."

"Oh come now father, I say let them fight it out again," laughed Magnus, fidgeting in his saddle so much that the horse he rode looked ready to buck him off. "Its been too long since we've had some blood. I want to smell it on the air again, fresh and hot."

All eyes turned together on the young Berserker. Herleif looked at him in confusion, Ivar with mild amusement. Old Wolf just didn't seem surprised, giving a small shake of his head. Erik however showed unmistakable displeasure and growing disgust towards his son.

Magnus' grin fell from his face when he caught his father's eye, the wild warrior quickly fading to give way into a timid and unconfident boy. Erik gave jerk of his horse's reins, moving closer to Magnus with the hammering clomp of hooves on stone. "Was I speaking to you?" he said softly, glowering at his son. "Spare us your bestial perversions. Act like a fucking man." His closed fist shot out to strike hard against Magnus' arm, making the young man flinch where he sat. Erik's hard gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before finally turning his back on him.

Herleif could not imagine ever treating any of his children in such a way, but knew that this was neither the time in place to question the most powerful Jarl in Valkenheim on his role as a parent. "What business I have with this rabid dog is my own," he said, nodding at Ivar. "Though we three might raid together now, I still aim to settle the score between us once we are back one familiar northern ground."

Erik urged his horse closer with a kick to its haunches. "Your business is what I say it is. This is my raid. My city. And if fate should call for it, my army as well. Now I will hear no more talk of feuds and bloodletting among us. Do not forget your oath made in the sight of the gods, or I will see you both cursed to never enter Valhalla!"

Herleif scowled at Erik, jaw tightening beneath his beard. He still had a hand on his sword, and for the briefest moment he actually considered drawing it. Fingers flexing on the grip of his blade, the moment grew tense. He stared unblinking at Erik, searching for any sign that this might be a moment neither of them could come back from. The Golden Jarl stared back, unmistakably searching for the same thing, and perhaps even wanting it too.

"You know, if you two kill each other here I get to keep all of the gold," Ivar said with a small smile. Erik's attention instantly snapped to Ivar with an accusing stare, but Herleif's gaze lingered on, hand still on his sword. "The War Wolf's armor too," Ivar continued. "So please, by all means, spill each other's blood and I will lead my magnificent and glorious army to victory. You'll not hear any complaint from me."

Erik gave a low and angry rumble in his throat, narrowing his eyes as he looked between the two other Jarls. Then without a word he turned his horse around, the beast giving a snort of frustration as the reins were jerked hard yet again. "Get under way with your warriors Ivar," he barked over his shoulder, pushing his mount past Old Wolf and his sulking son. "You will be the body of our march. And Herleif, you the tail. Make sure no wayward legion tries to come up on us from behind." For a moment he appeared to head off down the column of marching warriors and have nothing more to say, but then stopped and turned back, gaving an upward nod of his head with his clenched fist held up in the air. "Our great saga has already begun! Let this be the moment that will see us put into legend until the day Ragnarok comes!"

If Erik had been expecting some sort of reply of agreement, Herleif gave him none. Neither did Ivar, and the two sat silently upon their horses and stared back at the Golden Jarl until he simply rode off down the line, Magnus and Old Wolf following close behind.

"That golden shit bag actually thinks that he's being a hero," Ivar said with a soft, wheezing laugh. Herleif said nothing, knowing that saying anything would only lead them right back to where they were before. Instead he stared straight ahead, watching the unorganized horde of Headhunter warriors march past in a mass of fur, bone and steel. Ivar let out another small chuckle before giving a heavy sigh and sheathing his sword. "You really need to learn how to relax Herleif. No one gets into Valhalla from having a stick shoved up their ass."

Herleif turned to protest with a glare, only to be cut short by Ivar shouting in his face, lips pulled back over discolored teeth, eyes wide and tongue out in a display of mock savagery. Stunned into silence, Herleif could only stare dumbly as Ivar gave a disgruntled sneer and a sharp kick to his horse, shooting off alongside the marching column and shouting angrily to his warriors. "Death to Ashfeld!"

"Death to Ashfeld!" came the unified clamor that echoed into the air, along with the thunderous sound of weapons clattering against shields.

Herleif watched Ivar go until he disappeared out the gate of the city and away to the dusty road beyond, a look of frustration fixed upon his face. Sinking back in his saddle, he let out his own long sigh, watching the red warriors lumber by, knowing that it would be a while yet before it would finally be time for his own warriors to follow. "Gods above," he muttered under his breath, looking about at the tall elegant buildings of Eitrivatnen that he so wished to be rid of. "I hate that fucking man."