Ivar felt alive.
He could smell the blood in the air, taste it on his tongue, feel it hot against his skin. It flowed like spilt wine with each swing of his sword, drawn fresh from his enemy's wounds as he cut, hacked and stabbed with impunity against each dark-armored foe. There were none who could stand before him, but still they came, these fire-worshiping cultists coming to claim his life with sharpened steel. It was laughable to see them try.
He was Ivar the Red. Scourge of Ashfeld, The Cleaver and The Hated. His fleet of longships was vast and always they returned to Thurshamrar laden with gold, silver, and slaves. He was the Savage Jarl and Chief Headhunter. He was the vile, he was the wicked and merciless, bloodthirsty bastard that every story and rumor claimed he was. A nightmare used to scare children into their beds. He was a god of battle, the ruler of life and death itself.
He was a monster upon the battlefield, killing without remorse, and he would be the first to say so.
"Die!" he yelled as he slammed his shield across a Pyre soldier's face and hacked his sword into their neck. Another he stabbed through with his sword, struck one with a hard hit of his tri-horned helmet, flipped another over his shoulder just to let his blood-mad warriors finish them off as he viciously sought out his next victim. "Die! Die! Die you fucking bastards!"
The ramparts of the Walled City were swarming with Thurshamrar and Bilrost warriors, the two stretches of wall now separated only by the burning gatehouse between them. The Pyre Knights remaining with their bows and fire shooters had tried desperately to turn back the tide of northmen climbing up ladders to kill them, but the Vikings had already found their foothold upon the walls. Ivar saw it as his personal mission to break their fighting spirit before he claimed their heads as his prize.
"Kill them all!" he shouted, waving his sword above his head as his warriors surged forth against the last remaining defenders around the gatehouse. The screams quickly filled the air as the echo of his voice faded away, the Pyre Knights either cut down where they stood or thrown from the ramparts to fall to their deaths in the city streets below. Raiders slammed their great axes through helmets to cleave skulls in two, while savage Berserkers hacked apart their enemies in a storm of axe blades and bestial snarls. The Shaman took their time dispatching any of the wounded that had been left behind, the cries for mercy ignored as they took fingers, tongues, eyes, and teeth from slowly dying Knights as payment for ever thinking they could ever stand against the might of Valkenheim and live.
The flames of the gatehouse burned bright and hot, but to suffer in that overwhelming heat was to revel in the burning hatred of war itself. Ivar showed his enemies no fear. He showed them nothing but his hate. He showed them the power of the gods.
"Keep pushing! Drive the fuckers from the walls!" Another slash, another stab. A sharp cry cut short and a gout of hot blood on his skin. This was life and death, dealt out by skill and a little bit of luck from the gods. This was a warrior's dream.
Fire erupted from the strange weapons the Divine Pyre wielded along the ramparts, fired in a desperate panic against friend and foe alike. Soon the very ramparts were engulfed in dancing flames, adding to the overwhelming heat, the choking smoke, the rising screams. Yet it was not enough to stop the rising ladders or the horde of northern warriors scaling the walls, and soon the battlements were choked with the wounded and fallen corpses.
If there was ever such a place as the pits of Hell that these Ashfeld worms so feared to be cast into, surely the top of these burning walls was a glimpse into that terrible realm. Ivar found it absolutely exhilarating.
After days of being stuck outside the walls they were finally in the fight. No more suffering through Erik's childish ranting and raving about what he was owed. Now there was finally blood to be spilled, heads to be taken and glory to be earned. These mighty walls belonged to him now, him and his blood-mad warriors. As far as he was concerned the Pyre were trespassers on his territory, and the punishment for their transgressions against him was death. There was no stopping the horde of northmen from spilling into the city, especially now that the gates had been broken down.
Somehow, that sniveling bastard Herleif had succeeded on his fool mission. There was no doubt that Erik had ordered Herleif to take the gate as punishment for his fumbling of Chaldeon's capture, and the following mockery of that Peacekeeper challenging the most powerful Jarl in Valkenheim for his title. Why Herleif cared at all about these renegade Knights they had been saddled with, or that idiot brother of his, was a complete mystery, but his desperate plea to stay judgment had certainly put him on Erik's shit list. The idea that they were at all equal on this raid was a bad joke, and Herleif simply had the misfortune of succumbing to his weaker nature while Erik reaped the benefit as he so often did.
Normally Ivar would give no shit for Herleif's predicament, but there was something to be said about turning a bad situation into a victory. Even now he could hear the fighting in the streets below, those banners of blue and silver rushing in from the open gate to crash into the purple and gold of the Pyre defenders.
"Go! Go, you worthless shits!" Ivar called to his warriors, beating his shield on their backs as their enemies fell before their advance along the ramparts overlooking the battle below. "This city is ours! Kill these trolls so we can get onto the real work! The treasure won't loot itself!"
The Headhunter warriors gave out a great war cry as they overwhelmed the cultists, cutting down the Pyre Knights who dared stand in their way. The gatehouse still loomed, burning to cinders, the flames acting like a beacon to every northman who had been camped outside the city walls for days on end. Ivar laughed as he went. He laughed at the joy of it all. He laughed at the blood dripping from his sword, and at the dead bodies at his feet, not caring for whether they belonged to the enemy or his own kin. Those who fought and died in the name of Odin would surely find themselves feasting in the halls of Valhalla, while these volcano worshiping fools could suffer in whatever sorrowful afterlife they chose to put their pathetic faith in.
There was still too much glory to be earned by killing for Ivar to even think about dying now.
As Herleif led his own warriors against the Pyre down in the streets, Ivar turned his attention to the fortress battlements. The Walled City had been built right into the volcano's side, with domed buildings and rising towers built right on top of each other, with a forest of legion banners and flags blowing in the hot wind and smoke. The spreading metropolis was something so different from the low-topped houses and mead halls of Valkenheim villages, but it created a natural network of pathways and intersecting passages perfect for traversing the many levels of the city. Ivar's red warriors swarmed the ramparts like blood pumped through the body, and leaving plenty of it coating the cobblestones in their wake. Their war cries echoed up into the sky, weaving a mighty saga as they made their death song with swords, axes and spears, rending and hacking apart armor so that the metal shriek added to the terrible chorus. The Divine Pyre tried their best to put up a strong defense. This city was where their numbers were the greatest, their followers the most devout. Where one soldier fell two more came to take their place, but the Viking raiders would not be stopped. They had come to claim wealth and glory, stepping over the corpses of yet another Ashfeld city, and they would not be denied. With each new level, each new balcony of archers overlooking the streets below, the shield wall was made new for the steady push over the dead and the dying.
"Hold the line!" Ivar yelled as they stood against a group of Pyre Knights wielding their small fire tubes, the flames licking at the shield wall. The heat was immense, but the flames only lasted for a few moments before they died out, leaving a line of scorched shields and angry Vikings to deal with afterwards. Ivar ground his yellow teeth together as he broke the line and rushed forward with his shield up and sword ready. "Attack!" To their credit, the Pyre Knights did not simply wait for the Headhunters to come at them with their smoking shields, and quickly brought their own swords and spears to bear before the two sides crashed together in a flurry of clashing metal and spilled blood.
Ivar pushed away a poleaxe as it was thrust at his face, feeling the blade scrape across the broad surface of his shield. He punished the attacking Lawbringer with a swift strike of his sword, slicing at the Knight's neck as their momentum took them forward. Ivar made sure the armored man wouldn't be getting up again with a second slash before moving onto the next, quickly bashing his head into a soldier's face before stabbing his blade clean through their gut. As soon as that enemy was gone another stood before him, the Pyre Knights trying desperately to push back the onslaught of Viking warriors storming further into the city.
A group of Headhunters made a rush for the archers shooting down into the streets when Njal appeared at Ivar's side. "Herleif has been stopped further up the lane!" the big Raider shouted over the fighting, the hollow sockets of the mounted skull acting more as a set of eyes then the thin slits in his mailed helmet. "His warriors can go no further!"
Ivar snarled as he stepped back from the line, letting his warriors push down the rampart against the Knights while he turned his attention to the street. Kicking aside the corpse of an archer, he looked down below to where Herleif's warriors were crowded together between the rising buildings, funneling into any side street or narrow passage they could to spread through the city. The Divine Pyre were everywhere, meeting them at every turn, fighting them in every building, battling for every inch of ground.
"Can't that blubbering whale carcass kill a few Knights standing in his way? He took down the fucking gates, now he needs my help again," Ivar growled, glaring down at Herleif's warriors as they clashed against the black armored soldiers of the Divine Pyre, choking the street from building to building. There was a scream as someone was hurled through a window into the chaos below, but Ivar paid it no mind, watching the battle from above like a hawk observing the scurrying of frightened mice.
"Its not the Knights crowding the streets that have stopped him," Njal continued, glancing back over his shoulder down the rampart. "There is another fire weapon on a head, setting the streets ablaze. The Pyre are burning everything below, even their own men."
Looking out further into the city, Ivar saw the glow of what was surely dancing flames in the distance, the foreboding light glowing over the tops of the surrounding buildings. If he listened carefully, he could hear the rush of fire and the screams of those caught within it over the fighting around him. "These cultist fucks," he chuckled to himself, watching the blazing light a little longer before turning away. "They'll do whatever they can to fight us off, like mangy dogs trapped in the corner. And all for what? A fucking mountain in the middle of nowhere? I will enjoy teaching them that it was never their God or their nithing priests they should fear."
Squeezing the grip of his sword, Ivar rushed back into the fray, Njal following just behind with his axe. With a mighty cry Ivar lunged at the nearest Pyre soldier, attacking with a blind fury that saw no sword or spear strike him. He cleaved his way through spear hafts and hacked apart shields, cutting down his enemies with an evil grin. As he slew, so too did his warriors push the attack, overwhelming the Divine Pyre without mercy, howling like the heathen nightmare come out of the north that had plagued the minds of Ashfeld children for centuries.
"Kill them all!" Ivar shouted, holding his blood stained sword high in the air as his warriors rushed past him in a battle-frenzy that could not be stopped. "Show them no mercy! Take their heads, and we shall use their skulls as an pyre to burn their mad priests!"
All through the city, shouts of fighting and screams of horror rose up into the air, mingling with the roar of rushing flames as otherworldly fire consumed all in its path. Smoke blocked out the sun, casting the besieged city under a dark and deathly shroud. Just as the Viking horde descended upon the Walled City with cries of death and weapons of iron, so too was the Divine Pyre cut off from the the sight of Mount Ignis, the holy volcano that was God on earth in their eyes. In the crowded streets that ran red like open wounds in the city itself, the cultist Knights did whatever they could to try and regain the upper hand. This city was their stronghold, their place of power, but now it's defenses had been breached and there was no holding back the northern army that now rushed forward to seal their doom. Somewhere above the dark smoke they knew that the volcano loomed over head, smoke rising from it's peak in a boiling silent fury as God's children were surely cut down by savages and pagans.
The retreating Knights cried out to their lord then, lifting their heads to the dark sky as the city burned. They cried out for salvation, for mercy and hope. They cried out that their enemy would be cast down where they stood, that the blood of pure believers would no longer be spilled on holy ground, but no answer ever came from the silent volcano. No answer came from God.
The only answer they received was the distant voice of the high priest, Osric Ead, crying out desperately from his tower beyond the veil of dark smoke.
"Fight! Fight you worthless fools! Fight as I command you!" The high priest's voice echoed over the battle raging far below his tower, no longer holding the confidence of a pious and the devout leader meant to shepherd his wayward flock, but rather the frustration of one who saw nothing but weakness in those below his station. Far below his station, it seemed, as his followers cried out in desperation and fear before they were silenced by Viking blades. "You are warriors of the Lord! You dare give up the gates to the heathens and apostates!? I command you not to lose this holy city! Do you hear me!? Fight, damn you!"
Down on the ramparts, Ivar shoved a wounded soldier aside with his shield and quickly struck down another. His arm was covered in blood to the elbow, and each step forward was like wading through a sea of metal corpses. The ground was littered with the dead, those bound for the glorious halls of Valhalla, and those surely condemned to burn in Hell, but Ivar still lived. He could still fight, and that was all that mattered to him.
"There it is!" he shouted as the Pyre's fire weapon came into view. Much like the weapon at the gate, the open mouth of the bronze eagle was fixed upon the rampart over looking the streets below, belching it's destructive inferno among buildings and corpses already nearly burned to ash. A number of Pyre soldiers were tirelessly moving about the web of metal tubes, levers and gauges that made the weapon function, making sure that the horde below was stopped from making it any further into the city with a constant wall of flame. Ivar let out an excited yell as he looked back to his warriors, striking his sword and shield together to rally for the attack. "Are we going to let these Bilrost bastards have all the glory of taking out one of these fire breathers?" His warriors responded with a resounding cry for blood, surging forward in a wild craze of fur, bone and iron, cutting down all in their path.
Ivar went with them, charging for one of the Pyre engineers before they could pull the lever to ignite the weapon again, when motion from further across the rampart caught his attention. A new contingent of Pyre Knights were charging back at them from the other side of the weapon, come to defend their position on the walls against the Viking advance. They got to the weapon first, rushing past and stopping before the Headhunters with broad shields and a wall of pikes to halt their attack. The northmen crashed into them with hacking swords and chopping axes, ignoring their wounds as they gave themselves over to their blood lust, fighting to break through the Pyre line at any cost.
That was when Ivar saw him.
He had only glimpsed the man once before, on the day he and Erik had first ridden to the city gates and called up to the high priest, demanding the Pyre's surrender. The man had looked large even then, standing above the gatehouse next to the small priest Osric. Now Ivar saw him for the grim giant that he truly was, towering above anyone else on the walls. Kazamir, the city commander. He marched forward among his Pyre underlings without fear, dressed completely in black armor, his helmet adorned with a spiked crown and a gleaming two-handed longsword clutched in his gauntleted fists. The Pyre soldiers quickly stepped out of his way as he advanced, a black cape billowing in his wake, until the wall of shields parted like waves before the prow of a ship.
Kazamir showed no hesitation as he came upon the Headhunter warriors, lifting his longsword high into the air so that it shined brightly in the orange glow of the flames. "You hapless fools!" His sword struck down in a great arc, cleaving a red-bearded Warlord's shield completely in two, and him with it. Blood sprayed into the air, screams following as Kazamir quickly struck again with his sword, striking a warrior's head from their shoulders with a single blow. The sound of wicked laughter echoed from within his crowned helmet, his following attacks rending armor and hewing limbs with brutal ferocity.
Ivar watched on in stunned amazement as a score of his warriors fell to the commander in just a few breathless moments. Then his heart leapt for joy, imagining the grand saga that would come from defeating such a foe. He pointed his hooked sword at Kazamir, shouting out the two words that were at the forefront of his savage mind. "He's mine!"
"You think you can win?" Kazamir laughed, staring Ivar down and brandishing his sword in challenge.
Pushing past his own warriors, Ivar let everything around him turn into a red haze as he charged at Kazamir. The towering commander quickly struck down at him, but Ivar ducked and rolled, coming up behind Kazamir and cutting at the back of his leg. Kazamir let out an angry shout, but his armor stopped Ivar's sword from slicing into his thigh, and he quickly brought his longsword around in a powerful swing to take Ivar off of his feet.
Ivar was ready, letting instinct and years of training take over as he thought of nothing but victory. He parried, knocking the commander's sword away. He attacked quickly, striking for where he thought Kazamir's armor would be the weakest, but the black plate and linked chainmail proved impervious to his blade.
Kazamir laughed, holding his arms open as if to show the futility of Ivar's barbaric fury. "You cannot best me!"
Eyes wide with rage, Ivar did the only thing he could think of to end the metal giant's taunting. With a yell he lunged forward, hitting Kazamir square in the chest with the horns of his helmet, headbutting the bastard and striking again. He hacked with his sword and punched with the rim of his shield, keeping up the pressure on Kazamir until he could find an opening in that armor. Kazamir roared with anger as he was forced back, enduring Ivar's onslaught until he took an upwards blow of the shield to his chin, making the great helmet rattle. Ivar let out a triumphant cry, leaping up into the air with all of his strength, sword raised high, ready to strike down upon Kazamir's head and secure his fame as the greatest warrior in the saga of this doomed city.
Kazamir's hand was a dark blur as it suddenly rushed up and snatched Ivar right out of the air, metal fingers closing tightly around his throat to make him gasp. "Come on! Impress me!" he shouted, then hurled Ivar across the ramparts as if he were a child's doll, sending him crashing into the shields of his own warriors. "You are no challenge!"
The world spun around Ivar's head as he tried to regain his senses, pushing himself up with a snarl, ignoring his fallen warriors and seeking nothing but to take up the fight against the giant again. He brought up his shield, expecting Kazamir to be on him with sword raised, but quickly found that the commander's attention was elsewhere.
"Soldiers, protect the Phoenix!" exclaimed Kazamir, ordering his Knights to the weapon as the Headhunters continued to attack.
Ivar didn't care what the Pyre called their little toy, all that mattered was slaying Kazamir. Teeth bared in a vicious snarl, Ivar rushed forward to challenge the city commander again, only to be stopped by his own warriors crowded in around him as they fought against the soldiers of the Divine Pyre. "Out of my way!" he shouted furiously, pressing his shield against the back of the warrior in front of him to push them aside, but already a number of Headhunter warriors were beginning to strike at Kazamir as they if they had every right to claim his head themselves. "No! He's mine! He's mine, you troll fuckers!"
The ramparts descended into chaos as Vikings and Knights clashed together in an undulating line of striking weapons and falling bodies. Kazamir did what he could to kill the Headhunters that came for him, letting their weapons strike uselessly against his heavy armor before cutting them down, but against the overwhelming numbers of the horde not even he could stand his ground forever. His black armor became a crisscrossed pattern of white scratches and scattered dents as he was slowly pushed back across the rampart, the surge of northern warriors becoming too much to take. The Pyre line broke, and the Headhunters swarmed the weapon with axes, swords and spears, striking down the engineers before they even had a chance to draw their own weapons in defense.
Ivar watched on as Kazamir was forced farther and farther back, fending off the encroaching Vikings until the Pyre had no choice but to retreat. "Kazamir!" he shouted as the commander struck down one Headhunter after another, but was still too far away to even catch Ivar's voice over the battle din. "Kazamir! Fight me, you tin bastard!" Ivar seethed with growing rage as he fought desperately to get through the crowd of northern warriors, snarling and barking orders at anyone who got in his way. "Move! Move you worthless swine, or I'll kill you myself!"
"Fuck off, you nithing shit!" said a wide-eyed Berserker, shoving back at Ivar as he tried to move past.
Ivar didn't hesitate to drop the Berserker with a swift headbutt to the face. It didn't matter if it was his own warrior, no one spoke to him like that and remained standing; his own warriors least of all. However, it seemed that they all needed a lesson in showing respect to their Jarl, as a few more turned and openly attacked him upon seeing the Berserker drop cold. Ivar roared out in anger, unwilling to cower before this blatant treachery. He struck at one with his shield then dodged the jab of a spear, knocking the wielder away with his shoulder to be swallowed up by the crowd. The last he let come at him, a big Raider raising his great axe high for an overhead strike. Ivar brought up his sword and shield, parrying the blow, and swiftly slammed the rim of his shield into the Raider's throat, crushing his windpipe.
The Raider fell choking on blood and spittle, dropping to one knee before rolling over into a puddle of dark blood with a loud splash. Ivar thought nothing of it, and was about to turn away when he looked again to the puddle the Raider laid in, the same blood now swirling around his own boots. No, not blood, it was more than that, deeper than it should have been even for a slaughter like this. He sniffed, catching how the scents of iron and something acrid mixed in the air, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the icy sting of fear rushed through him. He looked to the Pyre's weapon, realization gripping him as he saw the Raiders, Berserkers and Warlords all hacking the bronze eagle apart with their axes and swords. Their faces were alight with savage glee as they tore at the weapon like it was some hated enemy, spilling its deadly blood across the rampart, spilling the Wu Lin seiðr until they were standing up to their ankles in acrid smelling liquid.
"Stop!" he called out, knowing that the fight had taken an extremely dangerous turn even as the Divine Pyre were being pushed back. "Stop, you fools! Are you trying to get us all killed?" He waved his arms for their attention, but his warriors were too caught up in tearing apart the leaking weapon to notice. Try as he might his warriors were acting beyond his control, completely oblivious to his cries. Up ahead the Pyre was mounting another defense, keeping the Headhunters at bay and penned in around the weapon, splashing in the rising fire liquid as they stumbled back against the pikes and shields. They were like pigs gathered for the slaughter, trapped between the enemy and their own advancing force. "Listen, you maggots! We must pull back! Listen!" he cried out as loudly as he could, beating his shield against the backs of those warriors around him, desperate to regain control of the situation. "Listen to me!"
There was the sharp strike of a spark somewhere behind him, and Ivar's worst fears were made real as he looked up and watched two brightly lit fire-flasks soar through the air towards the Pyre line. The roar of the battle seemed to fall silent as he watched them, right up until they struck against the Pyre shields and burst apart in a gout of flame. The blinding fire ignited over the wall of shields, flames clinging to the Knights to roast them alive in their armor, and even bit back at the hapless Viking warriors right at the front of the battle line, drawing forth deathly screams terrible enough to turn blood to ice. Yet it only took one glowing cinder though to land in the lingering seiðr pool and ignite the entire battlement into a all consuming inferno.
Ivar stood by helplessly as the fire burst into life, a trail of flame spreading out from the burning battle line, catching the legs of his warriors to devour them whole in the blink of an eye, and rushing across the lingering pool straight for the crippled weapon. The bronze eagle, or Phoenix as it had been called, gave out one last mournful groan from it's metal beak as it was set upon by his warriors, just before the flames hit the leaking tanks and erupted like the volcano itself. Suddenly his warriors were gone in a flash of blinding light and spreading heat, and Ivar felt himself thrown off of his feet, soaring backwards against the blast. He was weightless, losing his sword as he flew, turned ass over head until he landed against something hard and unmoving, tumbling over it before he was falling again. He reached up without thinking, a desperate act of primal self preservation feeling his fingers slide against stone until he gripped tight. His arm gave a sharp jerk as he caught himself, crying out in pain, catching the wall just in time before falling to his death. Another warrior fell past him, burning and screaming, but Ivar could only think about how he felt his fingers beginning to slip against the wall's edge.
A few moments ago he had thought he would claim the greatest victory of the raid, taking the head of the city commander for himself while the other Jarls floundered against the enemy. Now that had all changed. Was this truly how he would meet his end? Flailing through the air like a helpless child as he fell, no sword in hand, no vanquished enemies at his feet? The thought enraged him, even as he felt himself slip another inch. He was just hanging on by his fingertips now, and surely wouldn't last much longer. Gripping his shield, he squeezed his fingers against the wall's edge as he swung up his other arm and tossed the shield back over the wall, freeing up his hand. As carefully as he could he began to reach up, remaining conscious of his hefty weight straining against his grip on the wall. Grinding his teeth, he squinted against the sweat dripping down his face as he focused on getting his other hand up to the wall.
He had been so close. So close to killing Kazamir and taking his place as the strongest Jarls of this raid. Erik could keep his gold and jewels, and Herleif could have his precious family. Ivar would have his battle fame with blood on his sword and his enemy's severed head clutched in his hand. He would be a true warrior, revered even by the gods. That was all gone now, his hope for glory and death in battle dashed away by the stupidity of his own warriors.
He tried not to think about how it might truthfully be his own fault he found himself hanging on for dear life like a fool, knowing he had been helpless to stop anything while his own warriors had ignored him. That sort of thinking was worthless, and it would do nothing to help save himself now, and so he pushed the cold feeling of guilt down inside and buried it deep.
Not a single warrior had listened to him when he had called. He was supposed to be their Jarl. They were supposed to follow to him, not lead him to his death.
A chill ran down his spine as he felt his grip slipping. He was almost there, his other hand just inches away as he carefully reached up. Just a little further and he would make it. Silently he cursed all the worthless gods and all their worthless children. Surely this was not end the Norns had in store for him when they had woven his fate. He was Ivar the Red, meant for a far more heroic death than this sorry display. Desperately, he lunged for the wall with his free hand, felt his fingers slip against stone, grabbing hold of nothing, feeling his grip fail completely as he dropped with a quick whoop.
Apparently the gods couldn't give a pig's watery shit about how Ivar the Red died.
Ivar told himself not to shout. He forced himself not to scream as he fell to the streets below, fated to coat the cobblestones as a pulped mess of red meat and shattered bone. He screamed anyway. It just seemed like the natural thing to do. Luckily he didn't need to scream for long as he abruptly stopped not far from the top of the wall, pain lacing up his arm as he was caught by a strong hand. Ivar looked up and found himself staring into the empty eye sockets of a sun bleached skull peaking out over the rampart. He blinked in surprise, thinking perhaps that he was already dead and cast to the frigid wastes Hel by some mistake, but he didn't feel at all cold. It took him another moment to realize that he was in fact not dead, and that even behind the mask of chainmail dangling from his helmet, Njal didn't seem at all too pleased to be holding onto his weight suspended freely in the open air.
"You know, out of all the scum I allow to live in my hall, I always did like you the most," Ivar grinned, gripping onto Njal's wrist.
Njal's eyes narrowed behind the already narrow slits in his helmet. "I could still drop you..."
"Do it, you goat fucker," Ivar laughed, but his smile soon faded as Njal let him hang there just a bit too much for his liking. Eventually though the skull-capped Raider pulled him up, bringing him back over the wall once again and onto solid ground. "About damn time," he huffed.
Njal bent down and picked up Ivar's sword and shield from the ground, handing them back. "You owe me a horn full of hack silver after this."
"I'll tell you where you can shove your horn..." Ivar grumbled, taking his weapons and looking over what was left of the rampart, but there wasn't much to see. Fire burned bright where the weapon had once been, adding to the black smoke that clouded the sky. Ivar coughed, glaring down at the charred bodies of the warriors he had lost. Judging from their position in the battle line, the vast majority of them were Headhunters, so many fallen lumps of blackened skin and burning leather, while he could still see the bulk of the Pyre defenders standing alive and well behind the wall of flames. There standing at the forefront of black armor was Kazamir, towering above the rest with longsword in hand. The city commander seemed to spot him as well, taking a step forward and tipped his crowned head, giving a mocking bow.
Ivar felt the anger rising in him as hot as the Pyre's magical fire. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment then to go after that lumbering metal troll and claim his head once and for all. His sword hand itched to swing, to cleave, to cut, and to gouge. He wanted to roar like a bear, to challenge the strongest warrior the enemy could through at him and rip them apart until there was nothing left. He wanted to taste blood, to feel it hot against his skin. He wanted to kill.
That was what he wanted, but somewhere deep inside he knew had to be done.
"Do we pursue?" Njal asked, hefting his axe. "We can find another path across the city. These fire worshipers need to pay for what they have done."
Ivar glared after Kazamir as he turned and slipped away among his minions, until he was simply a blurry dark shadow behind the orange hue of the flames. "No," he said quietly, forcing himself to say the simple word as if it hurt him. "Secure the ramparts from here. We will regroup with the others and push on to the city keep together. Herleif needs his soggy hide dragged through the city, it seems."
Njal said nothing, the links of his chainmail helmet sliding as he turned to look at Ivar. "You're going soft," he said. "That giant Knight tossed you around like a wet bride in front of everyone. Now you will just let him go?"
Ivar snarled as he lunged at Njal, getting right in the warriors face so that curved horns knocked against bone, noses pressed right up against each other, eyes wide with unbridled fury. "Do you think he has anywhere to run!?" he shouted, spittle flying in Njal's mailed face. "This city is as good as dead! That bastard has no where to go! Give the fucking order, or I'll throw you over this fucking wall myself!"
Njal stared at him with a foreboding silence as the tension grew between them, until finally Ivar shoved the man away to get him moving. Their dark glares remained locked on one another for a moment longer, until Njal gave an agitated roll of his shoulders and went to issue his orders to the rest of the kin. Ivar watched him go, but ultimately ignored the confused looks of his warriors as they were redirected down off the walls, and paid no mind to Njal's angry shouts and harsh threats to start splitting skulls if he caught anyone dallying.
For once Ivar was not concerned with the next fight, the next battle. He looked back to the charred corpses of those who had been caught in the blast. So many lives lost in an instant, and he had been powerless to stop it from happening. The fire still burned with no sign of stopping, the bodies trapped within the flames nearly turned to ash now, leaving only their weapons and armor to melt in the oppressive heat. Hopefully the Allfather's hall would be much more welcoming to them than this wretched realm upon their arrival, but Ivar did not care to dwell on it. They were dead and he was still alive. He could still fight.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled a conversation with that weakling Herleif high upon the citadel tower, overlooking the lake of fire and darkness. He had stepped over the dead bodies of his warriors then too, and told Herleif that he gave no shit for their loss. Herleif had told him a true Jarl was one who led men into battle, not wasted their lives needlessly, and he had thrown it back in the man's face. It was pointless, emotional drivel. Wars needed to be fought, so warriors needed to die. All that mattered was that you were left standing in the end. That was where real glory was found, in surviving where others couldn't. Only the strong deserved to survive, proving themselves to be true warriors. Nothing else mattered beyond that.
So, why couldn't he shake the feeling that that whining, pathetic, family-minded bastard might actually be right? Suddenly it felt as if a massive weight had landed upon his shoulders, and for once he felt more tired than he did angry. It was not a feeling that suited him in the least.
"Enough of this shit," he muttered to himself, spitting into the roaring flames. Then he turned his back on the whole burning mess, thinking no more on what he had lost upon that wall. There were plenty of his warriors left who were in dire need of a swift kick on the ass, and he still had a commander's head to claim.
He pushed his way back into the crowd of red leather and bone-white warriors as they trudged along, making for a set of stairs leading down to the city streets. Few regarded him with any sort of interest as he passed them by. More simply ignored him completely. Ivar could feel his blood boiling with each step he took, taking their indifference as a personal insult to his honor. Where before his warriors had charged across the ramparts with howls of fury and cries for blood, now they marched with eyes downcast and shoulders hunched in dreary silence. It felt far too much like defeat for his liking, and there was still too much fighting left for that kind of thinking to be allowed.
Spotting another Warlord who ambled down the stairs with no real urgency, Ivar set his jaw and stepped up behind the man, knocking him across the back the head with his shield. The Warlord gave an indignant cry as he stumbled forward, whirling around with an angry snarl only to find Ivar staring him down. "Do you want to fight?" Ivar asked him, baring his yellow teeth. The Warlord looked taken aback by the question, hefting his sword for a moment before lowering it again, his eyes sliding down to Ivar's own weapon questioningly. Ivar simply slapped the flat of his shield against the warrior's chest, asking again with a louder tone. "You want to fight?"
He moved over to a trio of warriors with spears and shields, looking at each of them in turn with a grim smile. "And you? You want to fight? You, eh? What about you?" Next was a Berserker, growling low in their throat as he came at them. "I know you want to fight. I see it in your fucking eyes, you beast. You there! Do you wish to fucking fight, or go home and cower like a limp gray-beard before you die useless in your bed?" he asked another. He kept moving down the stairs, asking the question over and over, meeting the eyes of each warrior as he passed. Slowly he began to receive little nods as he asked, then smiles, and then a roar of approval as a warrior lifted their sword into the air. "You call yourself a Headhunter? Then I know you want to fight!" He slapped his sword against the metal dome of his shield boss, letting the strike echo over the gathered horde, then heard it repeated back to him from further above. He kept up the rhythm, striking his shield again and again until it was picked up by one warrior, then another, and another, until the sound of constant thunder reverberated against the city walls. "Do you want to fight!?"
At last he came to the bottom of the steps, finding Njal at the lead, tapping the bottom of his great axe against the stones in perfect rhythm with the rest of the Thurshamrar horde. Ivar stepped right up to him, holding his gaze for a long moment as they drummed out their war-song. "Do you want to kill!?" he yelled.
"I want to slay! For glory! For Thurshamrar!" Njal shouted back, nodding his skull-capped head in approval.
Ivar gave another shout, mindless and primal, nodding along with the Raider before leaning in and dropping his rough voice. "Then follow me." Another few beats of his sword against his shield, then he looked back to his warriors crowding the stairs and cried out loud enough to be heard above the thunderous beat. "Then follow me, you red dogs! Follow me! Follow me to war!" The beat of weapons on shields grew in sound and rhythm until it became an overwhelming hammer blow punctuated by bestial roars and barbaric war cries. Ivar kept the madness going, kept it building, until he lifted his sword and shield into the air and let out his own mighty cry of challenge, his warriors quickly doing the same.
Ivar turned and dashed into the streets, leading his warriors into the fray where northmen and black armored Knights already battled for dominance, fought and killed for the very fate of the Walled City. He gave one more strike of his sword against his shield, shrugging off the cumbersome weight he felt on his shoulders without a care, and let a yellow grin split his dark beard. "Now bring me someone strong to kill!"