Somehow, things had gone from bad to worse.
The explosion blew outward from the gatehouse like dragon's fire, erupting under the shadow of the volcano in horrific reflection of the mountain's destructive power. Flames ripped through the air while black smoke billowed into the sky, and chunks of the gatehouse itself were launched into the air as if thrown by a giant. The blast stopped the approaching Vikings dead in their tracks as the deafening sound echoed all along the mountainside and the battle plain. Herleif stared wide eyed in surprise, the heat of the flames hitting him like a fist to the face. Dust blew up from the ground in waves, stinging the warriors like daggers as they ducked behind their shields.
If Herleif had thought that attacking the city gates without the Pyre's weapon raining death from above would be easy, now it almost seemed preferable to simply having the entire gatehouse on fire.
"Take cover!" he shouted as he lifted his shield and grabbed hold of Helge to protect her from the falling debris. Skuld ducked behind her own shield, crouching low behind the ram. Around them the horde of northern warriors did what they could to protect themselves from falling stone, not knowing whether to keep advancing or flee.
The sky above still rumbled as Herleif peeked an eye around the rim of his shield, but he could barely see through the smokey haze that remained after the blast. Everything was still for just a few heartbeats, and he managed to catch sight of the gate through the smoke. While the gatehouse above was a ruin of dancing fire and rolling smoke, the gate itself was still somehow intact, remaining closed to their advance. It was only a half victory. The Pyre's weapon had finally been destroyed, but they were still stuck outside the walls. Herleif spat a curse, just as his worst fears were realized with an ominous sound like a flock of fluttering birds was heard above their heads. "Arrows!" he warned with a desperate cry. No sooner had he ducked behind his shield again, an arrow slammed into the flat surface and bounced away. Hundreds more descended over the horde, falling out of the smoke unseen before striking at his warriors. Some were able to get their shields up in time, some did not. Their screams could be heard beneath the roaring chaos of the burning gatehouse, just as more bow strings snapped to unleash another volley over their heads.
Herleif held on tight to Helge and ducked back behind the ram, running into Skuld as she did the same. The Berserkers meant to push the war-machine along had stopped as fire and rock fell around them, stalled by the sudden explosion, but creating enough cover for them to hide from the falling arrows. He pressed up close against both Helge and Skuld shoulder to shoulder, Helge clutching to his chest and shouting over the roar of the flames. "We need to get this ram moving! The gate must be destroyed!"
Skuld simply gave a nod, then ducked beneath the arrow stuck roof protecting the ram. She moved with purpose, flipping her silver spear around and smacking a Berserker square on the ass like a beast of burden to get them moving. The wild warrior jumped and howled with fury, but quickly took hold of the ram and began to push forward again.
"Keep moving!" Herleif roared, following Skuld's lead and moving along the opposite side of the ram, knocking his shield against warriors' backs. "Keep moving! No one enters Valhalla standing still like a lame goat! Move!"
Helge jumped right to the front, finding Ragnar, and yanking on him like he was a lazy field horse to be dragged with the plow. "Come on, you mangy dog! If you ever want me to lay with your hairy hide again than move this ram!" Ragnar, more akin to a wolf now then a man while gripped by Odin's fury, snarled, and snapped his teeth at Helge, who being as much an animal herself angrily snapped in his face right back. Spurring the Berserkers into action again, the ram began to move forward to their howls of rage as they pushed towards the gate.
As the ram rolled along, Herleif moved back until he trailed behind with Skuld, looking up to the burning gatehouse and looking for any sign of movement. Surely the weapon was destroyed, but it was hard to shake off the feeling of walking headlong into danger after everything that had been witnessed. The gatehouse was completely engulfed in flames, with the Pyre's unnatural fire still falling around them. Everywhere it fell, the flames lingered where they should have faded out. No one, nothing could have survived that horrible explosion. Herleif could only hope that Judith and her Knights had gotten away safely in time.
An incessant and worrying thought wiggled its way into his mind then, and with a cold flush of fear he looked around quickly for any sign of Gunnar. He looked around, seeking any sign of his brother among the horde. He was usually easy enough to spot in a battle, towering above other warriors and roaring his insults and challenges at the enemy; but there was no sign of him now. Herleif looked back up towards the burning gatehouse, a sinking suspicion of just where his brother had run off to, and why.
"Damn you, brother. I told you to let her go," he hissed, squeezing his sword and shield tight in his hands. He should have known better than to think that Gunnar would listen.
The frame of the ram gave a loud groan as it finally slowed to a halt before the gate, rolling up against its closed doors. Helge gave a cry, signaling to the Berserkers to begin pulling back on the heavy felled tree that would batter the doors down like a hammer. Gripped by their fury, they snarled and groaned as they worked, muscles straining against the ram's mighty weight as they pulled it higher and higher up into the air away from the fortress doors. Then they drove forward, slamming against the solid doors with a world-shaking boom. It was a noise that could be felt rumbling through the ground, echoing out above the shouts and screams away from the walls. The tall gate gave a visible shudder, but still held firm after the first hit.
"Again!" cried Helge, shaking her hatchet in the air and urging the Berserkers on as they pulled back on the ram again without delay. "Pull, you wolves of Odin! You are beasts! You are vermin and fiends! You will pull! Pull! Pull!" Fire fell around them from the burning gatehouse above, catching on the roof of the ram or slipping through the small holes in its surface to singe the Berserkers beneath. They carried on, lifting the ram as they howled in fury and pushing forward again, lifting, and pushing. The great doors of the Walled City shook and rattled, wood splintering from their broad, flat faces with each hit. Still, the gate held firm.
Without their fire weapon to repel any attack on the gatehouse, the Divine Pyre had brought their smaller devices to bear up on the walls. Their dark silhouettes could be seen high up on the ramparts, unleashing thin bursts of dancing fire over the horde that was already faltering under arrow fire. The glowing flames pierced through the haze of smoke, illuminating the darkness, and showering the oncoming Vikings with burning death. It was not the total devastation of the larger weapons, consuming whole ships, or weapons of war in a single inferno, but it was enough to rip apart the lines and sow chaos among the attacking northmen as they tried to make their way to the walls. Not a single ladder had been lifted so far, and already Bilrost warriors were falling to the Pyre's defenses, stuck with arrows, or flailing madly covered in unearthly fire. The ram was still pounding against the gate, but all through the horde Herleif's warriors were being cut down.
A horn sounded from the rear, back towards the camp, then another and another; the clear, crisp sound echoing through the chaos. For a moment Herleif's heart leapt into his throat, thinking that someone had sounded a retreat without his signal, but was ultimately shocked to see the horde of red painted and skull clad warriors rushing forward alongside his own. They came with their own ladders and pikes, every Thurshamrar warrior who had been sitting idle in their camp, now charging the walls as if their lives depended on scaling their heights and cutting down every Knight that stood against them. The Divine Pyre seemed somewhat surprised to see yet more Vikings joining the attack. They were dealing with the fire from the explosion spreading on top of the walls near the gatehouse and were spread thin with their archers and fire launchers. With Thurshamrar joining the fight, the horde instantly doubled in size, becoming far too great a force to be dealt with by the Pyre Knights on the walls alone.
Herleif watched, dumbfounded, as Ivar the Red ran up on his snorting horse, pulling hard on the reins to bring the beast to a halt. It was a wonder he wasn't struck dead by an arrow in his daze, but a spray of dirt from the horse's hooves quickly got him thinking again. "What are you doing here?" he called over the noise.
Ivar smiled down from on top of his horse, sword in one hand and shield in the other. "You think I'll just sit back and let a sack of shit like you claim all the glory? I assume this is your doing?" He glanced up at the burning gatehouse, and the ram that now hammered against the gate standing before them.
Herleif clenched his teeth and snarled up at him. "If Erik thinks that I would simply lead my warriors to their deaths to soothe his bruised ego, then he is even more a fool than I am for thinking he could ever be a fair man! He can watch gawking like a gull from the rear as we do what he could not, and choke on his damn wine for the trouble!"
"A coward is still a coward, even if he shits gold, eh?" Ivar grinned. "Let him fucking watch. You've gotten us this far, now it's time to finish these bastards and get into this damn city! Today, Thurshamrar and Bilrost stand as one!"
Even with all the chaos raging around them, Herleif was still struck by Ivar's words. He had known the man for many years and had never expected him to be anything less than a conniving and wicked dog. To hear a compliment given, much less a chance to fight together instead of each other, came as quite a shock. For once his response didn't have the same bite that it usually held. "Only the gate stands before us now. We only need to break through," he assured as the ram gave another great boom against the doors.
"Then quit dawdling and get to it," Ivar grinned, wrestling with his horse. "I'll take the walls and swarm these fuckers from above! Make quick work of that gate, or all your warriors will be carried off by the Valkyries before they even know they're dead!" With that, he kicked his heels into the horse's sides and charged off into the horde, barreling his way straight for the front just as the first ladders were finally being placed. For a minute he disappeared into the ranks of warriors as he dropped from his horse, only to reappear again scaling the ladder, leading the assault as the first up the walls. Arrows rained down upon him and those that followed, but the protection of the gods seemed to be on him as he climbed without incident. With a triumphant roar Ivar crested the ramparts, blocking enemy pikes and swords with his shield before bringing his own hooked blade to bear. More ladders were brought up through the ranks, slamming up against the walls under a hail of arrow fire, with brave Berserkers and Raiders perched at their tops ready to start cleaving into the Pyre ranks with their axes. It was the furthest they had come to finally taking the walls, and through it all Ivar shouted his vile curses as he cut down each black armored Knight that got in his way, making way for more of his warriors after him.
A true Warlord leads from the front, and Ivar was a mighty Warlord if nothing else. No matter how much Herleif might not like the man, or loathed to be sworn blood brothers with him, there was no doubting Ivar's resolve as a fighter for his people. It was up to him to do the same, but time was no longer on his side.
Whatever fortune the gods had finally given him in attacking the gate seemed to be fading already as his warriors still struggled to push their own advance forward. The fire from the explosion and from the smaller weapons had all but stopped the Bilrost Vikings from advancing on the walls. Their front line buckled and faltered with nowhere to go against the rising fortress, and their center was falling to chaos among the hail of arrows and spitting flames. Herleif watched on aghast as his warriors succumbed to terror and confusion. It had been a long and hard road from their homes in Bilrost to this point, and though the prospect of war and glory had surely lit a fire in their hearts as hot as any fire jötunn of Muspelheim, in the end it had only led them to be sacrificed to their enemy all for the sake of Erik's ambitions. He had tried to lead them as best he could, but now the years of sitting in his hall instead of raiding with his ships, the fights with Gunnar, the oaths he had sworn to Erik, had finally taken their toll.
There was no fire left in them now, let alone a spark. In the end, it hadn't been Erik who had sent them to their doom. He had done it himself with his own cowardice and lack of conviction. For too long he had looked inward, not just for his lands, but for himself, and now his warriors would pay the price. Dozens of his warriors were falling without ever having the chance to raise their swords against the enemy, and it was all his fault.
A Warlord was the shield of his people, and Herleif was failing them all. It was a shame he would never be able to live with, let alone ever be welcomed among his ancestors in the halls of Valhalla.
"No, this will not be the day where we fall," he said through clenched teeth, looking to the gate just as the ram slammed against the doors again, fire raining down upon it like breath from a dragon's maw. "This will not be our fate."
Setting his jaw, Herleif looked over his warriors until he found what he was seeking. There was no fear of falling arrows or burning flames as he marched straight to a young warrior holding a Bilrost banner in the air, walking with his head held high and shoulders back while others still hid beneath their shields. Perhaps if they had been charging across an open battlefield this warrior might have fought bravely against the enemy, but here stuck before the walls and beneath a hail of arrow fire, courage counted for very little as one simply waited to see if they would live or die. Herleif could not blame him, but instead tried to lead by example as he stood tall and unafraid.
"Stand tall, lad," he urged, gripping the warrior's shoulder then putting a hand on banner waving in the hot wind above their heads. "The gods are with us. We will get through that gate, I promise."
The warrior stared at him wide eyed, still marveling in terror as death fell from the sky around them. His grip on the banner loosened, relinquishing it over to Herleif's hand. No more words were exchanged between them, no oaths of honor sworn to a jarl or hateful curses for being led on a doomed endeavor. There was only the trust between warriors in the shadow of war, where nothing was determined, and every breath could be your last.
Herleif took the banner, the white Vegvisir Compass clear upon a background of blue and silver knots and gave the warrior a reassuring nod. Then he turned, and boldly ran back towards the ram. The banner fluttered in the air, catching the eyes of every warrior nearby like a beacon of hope as Herleif came up behind the ram, only he didn't stop there. Skuld clapped her spear against her shield, beginning the rhythmic beat as Herleif proceeded to climb up just as it gave another loud boom against the gates. The roof shuddered beneath his feet as he tried to stand, the rickety frame rocking from side to side and nearly throwing him off balance, but he fought with all his strength to stay upright. Now he stood before his warriors, beneath the falling flames and cinders of the burning gatehouse with only his shield for protection, but it was the banner that he held high for all to see.
"Bilrost!" he roared, letting his voice carry over the battle din. The air was hot in his lungs, and it was hard to breathe beneath the gatehouse, but he would not stop shouting. At any point he could be consumed by the flames and set ablaze, but he would not move from that spot by man, beast, or all-powerful gods. If this was to be the day that he was fated to die, then he would do so before the sight of all his warriors and the gods, showing them what it meant to be a true drengr worthy of remembrance. "Warriors of Bilrost! Of clan Tundra Tusk! Warriors of Bilrost, hear me!" More and more heads turned to look at them, curious eyes poking out from beneath a sea of shields. "I know there are no cowards among you! I know that the fear of death holds no sway of your hearts! There is only victory, or Valhalla, and both lay behind this gate! It is there trapped! Imprisoned by the very enemy we have come to destroy!" The ram beneath him moved swiftly as it was pushed by the Berserkers, slamming against the closed doors with a wood splintering crash. The gates shuddered more than ever, with the thin space between bowed and bent with the small glimmer of firelight shining through. The gates of the Walled City remained closed, but the unbridled strength of Valkenheim fury was beginning to break through. Herleif lifted the banner high overhead, only to slam it down as the ram gave another resounding boom. "Victory or Valhalla lays beyond this gate! You must only come and claim it, and it will be yours!"
Below, Skuld was still beating her rhythm of spear and shield, but now others were joining her, knocking their swords and axes against their round shields. It was slow at first, a low rumbling chorus to accompany the roar of flames that covered the battle plain, but soon the steady sound grew and grew until it became a mighty clashing of thunder that rivaled the boom of the ram itself. All eyes were on him now, his warriors shouting his name as they began surging forward against the walls instead of shuffling back in retreat. They brought their ladders as well as their steel, no longer fearing the weapons of the enemy and fighting under both arrow and flame to scale the high walls.
Herleif watched as they came, beating his shield against his chest as he held the banner high. "You are the sword of the north, come to conquer! Follow me! Follow me and I will not fall from your side! I will be your shield! A shield of strength, of conviction and purpose! Follow me, my brave, true drengir! Follow me into the fire, into the darkness, and I will be your shield!"
More warriors came for the gate, giving no care that it remained closed before them as they crowded in around the ram, arrows sticking from their shields like the bristles of a boar. They stood shoulder to shoulder with shields interlocked above their heads, surrounding the brave Valkyrie that waved them on with her spear, and chanted the name of their mighty Jarl who stood first among them ready to meet the enemy and death without fear. For in their hearts, he was their Jarl, forever a man who concerned himself with their glory as much as his own. Whatever misgivings they had harbored over his lack of conviction were far and away put to rest, their fears of having a coward for a leader burned away by the very flames under which he stood.
"Herleif! Herleif! Herleif!"
The ram crashed against the gates as the Berserkers pushed it forward with a mad howl, and this time the great doors buckled upon their hinges. Splinters of wood fell to the dirt as the warriors moved in, and without prompt or guidance they joined in with pushing the ram alongside their bestial kin, ignoring any snarls and growls as they worked as one to bring down the gates.
"Again!" Herleif called, still waving the banner as high as he could while still more warriors rushed forward. "Again! Show no fear! Claim what is yours! You ware warriors of Valkenheim, and nothing will stand in your way!"
The calls of 'For Bilrost,' or 'For Valkenheim,' came up from the horde, but above all they still chanted his name, looking to Herleif as the moment of their doom gave way the creation of the greatest saga ever to be told by their people. With a mighty war-cry that rose to chill the hearts of every Pyre Knight manning the ramparts, the Vikings of clan Tundra Tusk drove the ram forward with such strength as to bring about the breaking of the world in a second Cataclysm.
"Herleif! Herleif! Jarl Herleif!"
In that moment, Herleif cared nothing for the worries that had weighed so heavily on his shoulders. There was no thought spared for the ambitions of a golden king. There was no burden of trust with brothers of blood and sworn by blood. There was no struggle to find peace for new allies who had once been bitter enemies. None of it mattered as the war-machine swayed beneath his feet, the great ram rushing forward towards the breaking doors that had stood defiantly against his will for far too long. For now, in this one moment of exhilarating heat and rushing wind, he cared for nothing but total victory.
He was a Viking, seeking only the thrill of battle and the honor of a glorious death. He was a Jarl, a Warlord, the very strength of his people. For as long as he could hold his sword and shield, he would fight for them. That was his true fate, since the moment of his birth, each step taken leading him to this one moment of absolution. For as long as he still had breath in his lungs, he would never fall.
"We will take our victory and we will find Valhalla beyond this gate!" he exclaimed with a mighty roar, stabbing the fluttering banner towards the weakening gate. "We will claim it all!"
The ram flew forward, sounding with the boom of thunder, and the great gates of the Walled City came crashing down. The broken doors sailed backwards through the air, crumbling into halves where they had been buckled by the ram, only to crash against the earth in a shower of dust, splintered wood, and broken stone. A sea of black armor opened behind them, steel glinting orange in the flames. The gate had fallen, but the Divine Pyre still stood strong and ready to defend their tyrannical order to the death. A mighty cry of challenge rose from their endless ranks, a demonic, metal echo sounding from beneath their helmets.
In that moment, Herleif did not know the meaning of hesitation. No amount of armor or sharp steel stopped him from rushing forward across the roof of the ram, the hastily nailed boards nearly buckling beneath his weight. In one hand he gripped his shield, in the other he held the banner of his clan, the banner of his father and his father's father. He reached the end of the ram and leapt out into the air, falling out over the front rank of the fanatical Knights. A Pyre soldier stabbed up at him with a sword, but the banner Herleif wielded was longer as he struck down and broke his fall on the soldier's skewered corpse. Other Knights fell back from the impact, giving him the space to draw his sword and slash at the closest enemy, cutting open their belly before stabbing at another. The Knights recovered quickly, and Herleif just barely got his shield up in time to stop the blow of a Warden's longsword. He parried the next attack but felt the scrape of a blade across his armor. Gritting his teeth, he twisted and struck with his shield in a wide arc, following up with a slash of his sword to keep the attacking Knights at bay. Time seemed to slow down around him, the flames still falling like glowing rain as he glared at a dozen black armored faces and roared his defiance with each strike of his sword.
The glimmer of a silver spear slid past his head, goring a Pyre Knight clean through as Skuld appeared beside him, elegant in her brutality as she was marvelous with her unmatched skill. Her shield took two blows in just as many heartbeats, but it bought her enough time to draw her weapon free and sweep at the feet of her assailants, dispatching them quickly before they could rise again. The way she ducked beneath the swing of a blade or dodged around striking spear seemed as simple to her as breathing, and as she moved Helge came charging forward to bring her hatchet and curved knife into the fray. It was with a gleeful cry that she began her bloodletting, striking at the Knights without fear, unleashing her fury to the point of hurling herself bodily at the enemy and fighting with tooth and nail as well as her blades. Her mad laughter could be heard over the screams of her victims, slicing and hacking with a burning hatred that was frightening to behold in one so young.
Herleif gave out a triumphant shout as he saw them, a sound that was suddenly echoed by a cry so much more powerful than any one man could manage. With a mad fury far beyond the limits of lesser warriors, the Berserkers came charging through the open gates, led by Ragna and Ragnar, leaping over the brandished weapons of the enemy, and cleaving into their dark armored suits with swinging axes and savage howls. Within moments their faces and bodies were splattered with blood that was not their own, axe blades cleaving and hacking apart armor and bone alike while the shield carrying warriors and húskarl moved in around the abandoned ram to engage the Divine Pyre fully. The area surrounding the open gates descended into a bloody melee of clashing weapons and beating fists. Mighty northmen stabbed, slashed, and bludgeoned with their weapons and shields to push their way forward, while the desperate Knights cut, speared, and crushed with sharp blades and metal gauntlets to keep their attackers at bay. Above them the gatehouse continued to burn, casting the growing battle in a hellish orange glow and shower of dazzling cinders, while up and down the ramparts warriors fought for control of the walls. The greatest blow had already been struck though, and there was no coming back from it now that the gates of the city had been smashed from their hinges and entrance left open like a fatal wound.
The Viking horde had made it inside the Walled City. The plan had worked, and the vault holding the wealth of an entire nation was theirs for the taking. An entire army of radical zealots simply needed to be put to the sword before that treasure could be claimed. Luckily Herleif and his warriors were well trained in such bloody work.
"Forward! Cut them all down!" he cried out as he slammed his shield into a soldier's throat and finished them with a swipe of his sword, his warriors answering him with battle cries of their own. His hand and armor were slick with hot blood, but still more black armored enemies stood before him, coming on it steel pointed ranks without end. The gods had granted Herleif with a gift by letting him pass through fire and death while Erik simply had to watch from afar. Glory was his to claim alone, but now the gods wished to challenge him it seemed, to see if he was truly worthy of their attention.
With each enemy he cut down they advanced into the city, testing himself under the watchful eyes of the mighty gods, Herleif just couldn't seem to get rid of the grim smile at his lips. He had made it this far with his warriors at his side, following him just as he had asked. Fighting shoulder to shoulder now in the shield wall as the city opened around them. It had taken a mad plan and a dash of boldness, but together they had triumphed over certain death to break down the gates and finally meet the enemy head on. The joy of it filled Herleif's heart fit to bursting.
The Walled City had finally been breached.