Herleif stared down the open street as it stretched before him, his jaw clenched, sword and shield gripped knuckle-white in his hands. It was the only street so far that had remained open to him and the horde of warriors at his back. The only road that a barricade hadn't blocked off, was crowded with rubble or been consumed in flames by one of the devastating fire weapons. It was the only path open to him now on this journey of chaos and war, and for the first time since leaving the shores of his homeland, Herleif was confident of where it led.
"A trap," came Skuld's muffled whisper at his side. Even in a raging battle, she seemed to remain so calm and collected, always with a sense of the divine about her, though her white cloak and silver spear were stained red with blood.
Herleif glanced at her and gave a small smile. "Is it? How could you tell?"
Her stormy blue eyes narrowed at him from beneath her golden helmet, small lines wrinkling at the corners of her eyelashes in either humor or judgment at his jest, but which he did not know. He was just glad that something could make him smile during such a hopeless situation.
The fight for the city gate had been a victory unto itself. There was no doubt in Herleif's mind that Erik had expected him to die in the attempt or, at the very least, humiliate himself beyond saving while trying to achieve what his new King had already failed to do. In the end, he had succeeded in storming the gate and leaving the Walled City open to the Viking horde waiting outside its high walls. He had done so with the help of the very Knights that Erik saw as no more than a nuisance, an entertaining distraction that had long since lived past its usefulness. In one daring act, Herleif had proven Erik wrong twice over and won the glory of being the first to strike into the city's heart for himself in the process.
Undoubtedly, Erik was less than pleased with the result, even if Herleif had given him just what he wanted. His good fortune would be seen as an insult hidden behind a veil of gratitude, if not directly to Erik's face. What had started as mere concern over positions of power and influence between himself and Erik could very well be on its way to becoming an open blood feud, one that Herleif might find himself hopelessly outmatched in, assuming that Erik was not too preoccupied with claiming the city vault as his prize, that is. The absence of the golden glow of Golden King's enormous ego among the battle-ridden streets likely meant he was busy seeking his prize elsewhere in the city. Erik Golden-Shield was not a hard man to read at the best of times, but his wealth and influence over the many holds of his new kingdom made it so that he had the luxury of acting without thought and without fear of the consequences of his actions. There would always be people lower down the ladder willing to catch his shit as if it fell from his coin purse and not out of his ass.
Herleif gave a small chuckle at the crude thought while glancing about at the other streets blocked off with burning debris. The Divine Pyre hadn't even tried to hide what they were up to. Once the gate had fallen, they attempted to mount a lasting defense that ultimately did nothing to keep the horde from rushing into the city like blood through a gaping wound. It had not taken long for his warriors to overwhelm the Pyre's counterattack, and soon he was chasing them through winding streets and fighting in city squares as they slowly gained ground.
Eventually, the Pyre's resistance gave way to a full-on retreat until he began to find more and more streets either blocked off by barricades and rubble or simply empty, rather than meeting the enemy head-on. The fire weapons perched on the towers and battlements above had proven the most significant danger so far. Still, even they had been used to herd Herleif and his warriors through the maze rising up around them, adding the challenge of navigating the winding streets with scorching flames and billowing black smoke as they went.
From where he stood now, Herleif could look up and see the city's keep rising behind the many towers and domed rooftops surrounding him, its battlements built into the mountainside as if it was made naturally of the very volcano these mad cultists worshiped. From the top of the keep, the city's tallest tower stood stark against the smoke-filled sky, and from it, the desperate curses of the high priest, Osric Ead, echoed over the burning wreck of a city that was all but conquered.
"Stop them! Stop them, I command you! This is not how things are meant to end!"
The high priest's once mighty and boastful declarations now sounded no better than a small squeak on the wind. There was no illusion of control left to maintain. The curtain had been torn down and set aflame, and now the threat of northern barbarity was closing in like the dark, snuffing out what remained of the light. "The volcano will not fall! Just wait… Wait and see! To doubt me is to doubt God himself! You must protect me at all costs! Do you hear me? The volcano wills it! I fucking will it! For the love of God, keep fighting!"
Herleif listened for a moment longer, then shook his head and laughed. "Do you hear that?" he asked, turning back to face his warriors. "Do you hear how he cries? Scared and trapped atop his tower?" He smiled as his warriors stared back at him, the firelight flickering in their eyes, off their helmets, swords, and spears. Then his smile fell, replaced with a wrathful snarl as he shook his sword towards the keep. "Do you hear how that fucking coward cries now that we have come for him!?"
A loud roar rose from the gathered horde, spears knocking against shields, Berserkers throwing back their heads to howl into the air. Herleif scanned the crowd, face grim, meeting the eyes of each warrior who stood before him; Ragnar, Helge, and Ragna, and every sworn drengr who had followed him this far into the fray, followed him to victory, or Valhǫll, trusting him to lead the way, which made his heart swell to bursting with pride. Try as he might, though, he still could not spot the one face he wished to see the most.
Gunnar remained lost to him.
His gaze settled on another instead, staring back at him from the crowd, a dark glare and savage snarl showing beneath their polished face plate. Herleif looked at Ragna, who had never shied away from vocalizing her displeasure with how he had ruled over his hold these past years or conducted this raid. She had not been alone, of course. Her brother Ragnar and lover Helge had their own disgruntled opinions of him, and there were more besides. They had called him the Coward Jarl, and not without reason, but it had been a long and bloody path he had walked since he last sat idle back in his hall. "Ragna!" he called out, squinting at the woman through the haze of fire smoke that filled the air. "Come and stand with me."
Ragna went from looking like she was ready to start tearing down stone buildings with her teeth to glancing around as if she had been singled out by some mistake. She slowly shuffled forward, giving Ragnar and Helge a forlorn look as she left them behind. In the end, she decided to swallow her fear and bounded the rest of the way up to stand at Herleif's side. "A good speech," she said softly, though her shoulders hunched like the raised hackles of a hound, unsure if it was about to receive praise or punishment from its master.
Herleif looked down at her with all the sober judgment of a concerned father disappointed in their child's shortcomings, and the weight of Skuld's stare beside him surely didn't help. Then he smiled. "Do you know what waits for us down that road?" he asked, pointing down the street with his sword.
Ragna looked as if there would be something new to look at on the path ahead of them, then shrugged, seeming to shrink before she answered. "The tins?"
"Valhǫll," Herleif said. "That is what awaits us down that road, and we have no choice now but to follow it." Setting his jaw, he looked down the street with new eyes, seeing it now for what it truly was. The road of fate lay bare before him between the walls of tyranny and flame. "Perhaps this was always the only road open to us, for that is who we Vikings are. We live, and we die, for Valhǫll." Glancing down again, Ragna still looked uncomfortable to be called out after so much bad blood between them up to this point. Herleif couldn't blame her, but now was the time to remember who your friends were and which allies would stand with you when the wolves were at your door. Sometimes you needed a few wolves inside to guard your home as well.
"We have fought hard this day, you and me. Erik is nowhere to be found. Ivar is most likely drunk on blood in some corner of this city or another, and my brother…" He sucked on his teeth as he looked about again, only giving himself false hope for what he was quickly beginning to learn was a lost cause. "I have fought hard for my people and still lost so much. I almost lost everything just by sitting on my ass back in Bilrost, but now we at least have this chance. All we have now is this road, and I, for one, will not be returning the way we came, not without that priest's head." He hefted his shield and gave Ragna a light knock on the arm. "What do you say? I may be the biggest coward ever to sail across the sea, but do you still think me a coward worth following?"
Ragna scratched the back of her head awkwardly, cheeks flushed red. "I never thought you were a true coward, Herleif," she muttered under her breath, then looked at him with an apologetic grin. "I was just bored out of my fucking skull sitting on that mountain all day. Helge has my heart, but the girl drives me up a wall some days. You have no idea."
Herleif threw back his head and laughed at that. It felt like he hadn't laughed so much in a long time, and it felt good. Perhaps there never had been a boat ride back to Bilrost for him, a chance to feel the frigid bite of the north again, to be welcomed home by his family and to hold them in his embrace like the joy of warm mead filling his belly. It had been this one road he was always meant to walk, this one road to meet his fate.
"I am glad you are here, Ragna. You and all the rest." He gave her a wink, smiled at how she blushed and then walked on. He knocked his sword against his shield boss as he went, the metallic smack echoing off the buildings to either side of the street. Without hesitation, the sound was repeated by the entire horde behind him, a single thunderclap that echoed out over the whole city, signaling that the Vikings were on the march. The clap of weapons on shields continued to grow, the entire horde becoming a unified entity of Valkenheim's resolve, strength, and power.
Herleif led from the front, as any true Warlord should, beating a steady rhythm on his shield that was repeated down the long column crowding the street. As he led the way, he thought about what lay behind them after they had come so far. The meeting at the Hallowed Bastion and swearing a blood oath with Ivar the Red. The assault on Eitrivatnen, where the lake had burned under the Divine Pyre's mighty power. Laying siege to the Great Forge, failing to capture Vincent Chaldeon alive, and losing his family's legacy due to others' actions outside his control.
Each thunderous clap was like the very beating of his heart, stirring his anger, stoking the fires of his battle fury with each step. The fortress keep loomed ever closer over them now, just a few more turns, a few more buildings over, and they would be at the gate. Herleif took each step with the thunder god's hammer pounding in the air. It was a relentless, unyielding sound of fury and might, loud enough to drown out the roaring flames burning through the city around them, echoing a promise to crush the broken bodies of the Divine Pyre beneath their heels. With Ragna, Skuld, Ragnar, and Helge marching at his side, Herleif strode ever forward down that road. He did not look back. He did not falter in his purpose. He did not think of family and home.
Only the fight lay ahead, and the beating of Valkyrie's wings distant in the air.
"Halt!"
The horde stopped behind him with a clatter of spears and stomping boots. Where once there had been the thunderous advance of the Northmen, now there was only silence. The street had opened into a broader square just before the keep, the largest yet in the city, a vast space of cobbled stone that stretched longer than the breadth of a great drakkar. Storefronts and market stalls bordered the square, ornate temples desecrated by the cultists, and offices that may have been busy with activity if the city had been thriving, creating a seemingly natural arena before the gates of the keep. A tall stone cross, intricately carved with crisscrossing knotwork, stood in the middle of the square. It was large enough that even from his side of the square, Herleif could see how old it was, perhaps as ancient as the city itself. From it hung the banner of the Divine Pyre, a tremendous golden phoenix wreathed in flame upon a purple banner, and around it stood the stalwart Knights of the corrupt and depraved legion.
Herleif looked over the gathered force before him, a wall of black armor broken only by splashes of red, gold, and purple on their tabards. Wardens, Lawbringers, Peacekeepers, and Conquerors all stood at the ready, with a small army of foot soldiers prepared with their pikes lowered in opposition, crowding half the square from one side to the other. He could even see a few dark-looking Gladiators and Centurions among their ranks, with horned demons anointing their grimly fashioned helmets
in the fashion of the Old Empire.
From the center of their formation, a feather-crowned Lawbringer stepped out before the banner that covered the cross, lifting his poleaxe into the air and shouting his wrathful adulation for all to hear. "Glory be to God! Death to the invaders! The Volcano wills it!"
A chorus echoed the chant behind him, the unified voices echoing to the heavens above. "The Volcano wills it! The Volcano wills it! The Volcano wills it!"
From his position at the front, Herleif could see that this would not be an easy fight. The gathered force was the greatest the Pyre had shown since the city gate fell, and there was no doubt in his mind that they meant this to be their glorious last stand. To them, this was a fight for the power of a mad god, and there would be no surrender now. Herleif found that suitable. There would be no surrender for him either.
"Shield wall!" he shouted, bringing his sturdy shield before him. To either side, the warrior next to him brought up their shields, round rims snapping together down the line to make a solid defensive wall from one end of the square to the other. Each shield face was painted with the symbol of clan Tundra Tusk, the arms of the Vegvisir compass meant to lead each warrior to honor and victory in battle. Herleif gritted his teeth, looking over the rim of his shield at the sea of dark armor and purple banners before him, eyes narrowing on the Lawbringer standing out ahead of the rest.
"Drengir!" he called out, voice echoing mightily even over the clamor of the Pyre Knights' unceasing chant. Each heartbeat sounded in his chest like a war drum, blood rushing hot through his veins to bring about the battle fury in him before chaos and death were unleashed at his next word. He shouted it joyfully, for it was a call for Valhǫll, the greatest reward on the battlefield. "Charge!"
The square exploded with movement and noise as the entire host of Viking warriors charged toward the enemy. Skilled in their war-craft, those in the lead kept time with their steps, holding the line of shields strong as they rushed across the square. So mighty was their war cry that the sky above them seemed to tremble at their wrath. The distance between the charging Vikings and defending Knights closed in moments, and the pikes of the Divine Pyre came forward to meet their northern attackers with deadly intent.
Herleif focused on the Lawbringer, rushing towards the giant Knight with each heavy footfall of his boots. At first, he had held his breath after giving the order to charge, but now as the Pyre Lawbringer grew larger and larger before him, he shouted all of his rage and all of his hate into the air, and when their bodies slammed into each other he could not even hear the crash of shield and armor over the sound of his fury. The Lawbringer, to his credit, had tried to stand his ground, bringing up his poleaxe to gore through Herleif's shield as he came. The hit made Herleif's teeth rattle in his skull, but in the end, his shield held. The gods were with him, and his shield held.
Putting his full weight behind the hit, Herleif rammed into the Lawbringer until they fell backward and stumbled over their own feet. He let out another roar as he pushed on, driving his foe right up against the base of the cross in the middle of the square. They crashed together against the stone, the shield slamming into the Lawbringer and Herleif slamming in behind it, trapping the Knight against the banner of the Divine Pyre. For the briefest moment, Herleif felt the Lawbringer try to push back against him and get free, saw the sharp tip of the poleaxe come up to try and drive a wedge between them, but he would not allow it. Eyes wide with the battle-frenzy, he brought his sword up and over the shield rim, pushing with all his strength to keep the man trapped against the banner, angling the sword tip down at the Lawbringer's neck. The point of the blade bit against chainmail as he thrust, metal grating against metal as the Lawbringer frantically struggled against him. For a moment, the Knight's armor held, just for a moment, but Herleif would not relent. He snarled and shouted in the Lawbringer's face over the shield, and at that moment, he felt the chainmail links split and give beneath the sword's edge.
"Wait!" cried the Lawbringer, a shout of hollow panic within their helmet.
Herleif shoved down with his sword, feeling the armor fail and give way to the layers of padding, skin, and muscle beneath. "Odin wills it!" he snarled, thrusting his sword deep into the Lawbringer's neck. The blade seemed to become sheathed in the Knight's armor while hot blood bubbled and gushed from the fatal wound. The Lawbringer only gave a gurgling whimper as Herleif pulled the blade free again, the once polished metal dripping with the Knight's lifeblood, and the man fell limp behind the shield.
Stepping back with a gasp, Herleif stared down at the dead man while he panted for breath, then gazed up at the Divine Pyre banner waving in the hot wind before him. The golden phoenix with its spread wings wreathed in flame, beak open with a cry of stark defiance to all the ruination that Herleif and the others had brought to this land. In the end, though, for all their might, blustering, and pious vanity, the Divine Pyre had crumbled beneath the strength of the Valkenheim horde, and it was here beneath the shadow of their holy volcano that they would finally meet their end.
Reaching up for the banner, Herleif took hold of the heavy fabric and pulled hard, snarling with the effort. On either side of the cross, Viking warriors slammed into the line of Pyre Knights with all the force of a tumbling avalanche, shields crashing against pikes, swords and spears skewering into bodies, screeching off armor. The noise of hateful shouts and striking weapons was deafening as the fight exploded across the square, but high up on the cross, Herleif could see the banner begin to rip away from the stone. With another hard tug, it came free, the golden phoenix tumbling to the ground, the entire banner falling over the dead Lawbringer like a shroud. Herleif looked down upon the banner with a burning hatred in his eyes, the battle fury hot in his veins and the need to rip and tear at his enemy willing him to move. He spat on the banner just as the Lawbringer's blood began to soak through the fabric, staining the golden phoenix red, then rushed back into the fray.
Now the stone cross stood bare and visible to the world, rising unencumbered above the pitched fighting that filled the square, a symbol once hidden by false worship now revealed again. The hold of the Divine Pyre was failing in Ashfeld once and for all. In this land of woe and war, there was only room enough for one God, beset by their many enemies in the realms beyond.
Across the width of the square, Viking warriors and Pyre Knights clashed together in an unrelenting melee of shields and steel. The air was filled with pained screams and furious shouts, much like the choking black smoke from the fires, and the stones beneath their feet became treacherous with slick blood and fallen bodies as each line tried to break the other. Neither side was a stranger to war, for it was the tradition of their ancestors before them. The Vikings had come to raid, to claim glory and plunder their enemy's lands, and they would not relent until every one of their foes lay dead at their feet, or they stepped through the gates of Valhǫll to feast in the great hall of the Allfather. The Divine Pyre was desperate to keep their hold on the city lest they lose everything they had taken in the name of a corrupt mockery of their rightful God, and the judgment they faced in death might be far worse than suffering against the northern scourge in life.
In the midst of the battle, Skuld blocked an incoming spear with her shield and quickly thrust with her own. There was a sharp scream and gout of blood, but the same gruesome image was reflected down the Viking battle line as the warrior beside her was run through on the end of a pike. Swiping with her shield, Skuld knocked away the incoming sword thrusting through the gap left by the fallen Northman, giving enough time for the Vikings to close the line and keep their defense strong. The Valkyrie moved with ethereal grace, even in the shield wall, dipping and deflecting any attack, so no blade touched her. Not a scratch marred her skin or armor, though her shield and spear were colored with red gore from each enemy she sent to the realm beyond this mortal plain.
From over Skuld's shoulder, Helge sprung up and grabbed a hapless Pyre soldier's arm as they thrust with their pike. Despite her small stature, the young Shaman bodily hauled the soldier up over shields and behind the Viking line, a gleeful howl escaping her lips as she hacked and slashed her victim to pieces. All down the line, she appeared, striking like a demon out of the smoke, snatching Pyre Knights from their allies and dragging them to their deaths behind a solid wall of Viking shields. Those that caught a glimpse of her through the haze of blood only saw her wicked smile and the hungry gleam in her eye just before the flash of her red hatchet and curved knife sealed their fate.
Through all of the chaos and feats of courage, cruelty, and brutality, none were more astounding, or perhaps ludicrous, than the Odin-touched Berserkers.
With no regard for their own lives, Ragnar and Ragna led their bestial kin in a mad attack against the Divine Pyre flank, leaping over the shield wall and into the enemy ranks without fear. Their shining axes swung before their feet touched the ground, cleaving into foot soldiers and Knights alike. Spears and swords came up to meet them, but the twins simply roared their fury and treated each cut or stab to their flesh as if it was the mere annoyance of fleas. Even among the battle din, their howls of blood lust carried above the noise like violent prayers to the gods, their axes swinging with the power of ferocious beasts to hack apart armor and mail, chopping deep into red meat, never ceasing, never tiring for the taste of more blood. They were not invincible, their light armor inadequate against the enemy's heavy weapons, but a dozen Pyre soldiers were cut down without mercy for each of their number that fell. Ragnar and Ragna fought as one, savage and senseless, lost to their blood craze, their twin axes becoming a storm of sharp steel, slaying double the number of opponents, leaving twice as much carnage littering the square.
Together they carved a single path into the forces of the Divine Pyre that fought to push back the northern horde, leaving a gaping wound within the metal ranks that the Vikings quickly moved to take advantage of. A cluster of painted shields barreled their way into the Pyre line after their feral brothers and sisters, but the strength of the cultists was not to be outmatched so easily. The black armored Knights fought back with the resolve and blind fury of a dying animal cornered at the end of a long hunt. The rush of Vikings soon slowed and then halted, forced to stop against the shields and pikes of the Knights standing against them.
"Push them! Push them back!" Herleif shouted, putting all his weight behind his shield to keep the enemy at bay. The shield wall still held, but all forward movement had stopped as the Divine Pyre stood their ground and began to chisel away at the northern invader's assault. Herleif spit out a curse as he felt the hard knock of an axe beating against his shield and narrowly avoided the stab of a sword over the rim. He struck back with his sword, striking from above or below at anything his sharp steal might bite into. "Hold the line! Keep those shields strong!"
Trumpets suddenly rang through the air, sounding off a rhythm of quick notes that Herleif almost missed. The musical notes sent a jolt of fear through him, knowing that it could only signal the enemy to engage in some new formation against the shield wall. He braced for a change from the Pyre Knights, some new trick that might emerge from their ranks, but the onslaught of black armor kept up their attack without relenting. Taking a chance on life, Herleif looked away from the wall of shields and striking steel, quickly looking around for any sign of danger brought on by the blast of those trumpets. He found it not in the tight ranks of the Knights before him but up above the square itself. His heart fell into his stomach like a stone as he looked up to see dozens of figures lining the rooftops surrounding them, figures in dark armor and purple tabards, with bows in hand and full quivers at their hips. Among them were the strange fire tubes, the smaller handheld invention of the Pyre's fire weapon that had devastated their forces with near unbeatable firepower. The trumpets echoed again over the battle, and Herleif watched in horror as the Pyre archers knocked their arrows, drew their bows above them, and unleashed death into the crowded square.
"Take cover!" Herleif called out just as the hiss of arrows descended upon his warriors. It was only a moment's distraction as he looked up to the darkening sky, but it nearly cost him his life in the end. In the blink of an eye, a pike slid forward over the rims of the locked shields, and Herleif just barely had the sense to dodge out of the way. The pike's sharp edge still caught him as it passed, slicing against his jaw just beneath his helmet and coating his beard in dark blood. He gave a shout more in anger than pain, and he quickly struck at the pike and shoved forward with his shield, knocking it into the face of the Knight in front of him and stabbing his sword into their gut. The soldier who fell before him was not the pike wielder that had cut his jaw, but he felt better for having struck someone down as the fight turned against him. As if to further drive the point, the warrior next to him in the shield wall fell suddenly, dropping with an arrow sticking from their neck, and the Divine Pyre quickly pushed against the broken link in the chain as their advantage grew.
"Shields!" Herleif roared, hacking at a Warden that tried to jump in through the gap, blinking through the haze of blood that filled the air. "Fill the breach! Do not let them advance!" The Viking horde rushed forward to stop the flow of Knights pushing into their ranks, but the rain of falling arrows made it nearly impossible to focus between attacking and defending all at once.
As more Vikings added their shields to the wall, Herleif stepped back away from the fighting, making his way through the horde to the stone cross for a better vantage of the square. Keeping his shield held overhead and with the added help of a few warriors crowded protectively around him, Herleif looked about at the Pyre archers surrounding the square. "We need to send our forces from the rear around to take those rooftops! If we try to push like this, the tins will just pick us apart until they can simply walk over our corpses!"
One of the warriors at his side nodded and blew their curved horn as banners waved to signal the change in attack. An arrow knocked against Herleif's shield and fell away as he watched his warriors begin to maneuver towards the buildings and market stalls, lifting their shields as one to block the hail of arrows that fell from the sky. For a moment, it seemed like they might be able to reach the archers and turn the tide of the skirmish back in their favor, but it was not the arrows that they needed to fear as the Divine Pyre began to claim the square.
Fire erupted from the rooftops, stopping the Vikings in their tracks. The jets of flame from the small tubes was a far cry from the hellish infernos brought about by the Pyre's terrible weapons of war, but it was enough to keep the Northmen at bay so that the archers could loose their arrows with impunity. Dozens of Vikings fell stuck full of arrow shafts before they could even make it close to the archers, stopped short from the square's edge by bursts of flame. At the same time, anyone who might have been lucky enough to find cover among the stalls only became trapped and consumed by the ravenous fires set from above. The dancing flames crawled along the edges of the square and soon began to work their way inward, carried into the body of the Viking formation by burning warriors as they ran screaming in a mindless panic, rushing headlong into their kinsmen in a vain search for help.
Herleif could only watch on helplessly as his orders caused more death and chaos. The screams of the dying soon became louder than the shouts of those still fighting, but it was not until a great clamor rose from the middle of the square itself that Herleif's blood truly went cold. He looked aghast at the battle line drawn between his warriors and the Divine Pyre, eyes wide with horror to see the shield wall break and the cultists now rushing in to cut down the Northmen as they fled.
"No!" he cried, jumping down from the cross and back to his warriors. He could not just stand by and watch the fight turn to ruin and his warriors cut down in retreat. Not when they were on the very cusp of victory in this wretched war.
As soon as his feet hit the ground, one of the warriors next to him was already falling beneath a Pyre Warden's blade. The Warden sheared his sword through armor and bone, sending an arc of blood splatter through the air, then flew full force at Herleif with his shoulder. They crashed together, Herleif getting his shield up just in time, but the Warden managed to shove it down again as they slammed against the base of the cross and punched with the guard of his sword over the rim. The taste of metal filled Herleif's mouth from the strike, and he spat blood as he fell to one knee. Standing above him, the Warden lifted their longsword high for a killing blow, intending to take Herleif's head in one swing. Herleif's vision still swam from the pain of the hit, but his body acted on instinct, lifting his shield as quickly as he could, arm shaking from the force of the sword blow striking against sturdy wood. His shield still held, and Herleif thrust his own sword outwards. Sharp metal pierced through the Warden's armor and into the soft flesh beneath, and he pushed with all of his strength until the hilt was pressed tight against the Warden's body, the fight over in an instant.
Herleif emerged from under his shield, drawing his sword free from its bloody sheath, but as the Warden fell, the sharp blade of a Lawbringer's axe descended on him from above, striking down to cleave apart his head. Skuld's spear appeared before him, parrying the incoming axe and sparing him a painful death. She punched with her shield at the Lawbringer's head, knocking him back into the line of Knights.
Herleif did not waste time gawking at Skuld's indomitable splendor, jumping back into the fray to fight at her side. It was only a moment before the Lawbringer was back at them again, holding his poleaxe high overhead to stab down at them in the crowd. Herleif blocked with his shield and slashed with his sword, the blade striking harmlessly off of plate armor, but it was enough to keep the Lawbringer distracted as Skuld struck low, thrusting her spear into the Knight's less protected leg. She twisted the spear in the man's thigh, eliciting a cry of pain echoing from beneath the full helm, seemingly the only trace of humanity in an otherwise soulless metallic form. As one, Herleif and Skuld beat at the Lawbringer with their shields, breaking him down, denting his helmet, and crushing the skull until blood spattered from within as yolk spilled from a cracked egg. Pulling her spear free, Skuld let the Lawbringer fall back dead, only for the armored body to be swallowed up by the line of Pyre forces advancing up the square.
"Said it was a trap," Skuld muttered coolly. Her keen eyes flicked between the soldiers before them, and she blocked expertly at the first pike to strike from the Pyre line, thrusting back with her spear in quick succession, her form effortlessly perfect as she slowly moved back and fought to keep the Divine Pyre at bay.
Herleif was too busy to answer with any cunning retort. He blocked, stabbed, punched, and cut with his weapons but steadily gave ground one backward step at a time. The air was hot and filled with smoke. Sweat dripped from beneath his helmet as well as blood, and the press of bodies was almost painful around him. He quickly looked around at the wavering line, cursing at what he saw.
The pikes and swords of the Divine Pyre were striking at their line like lightning bolts against the faltering shield wall, and there was always the hiss of arrows or the sudden rush of flames falling from above to thin out their ranks. All down the line, northern warriors and cultist soldiers stabbed at each other with their pikes and spears while the great fighters of both sides struggled to force the flow of battle to turn in their favor. Raiders hacked at shields with their great axes, cutting away at limbs and heads like lumber, and Warlords did what they could to defend each warrior at their shoulder behind their sturdy shields. Standing against them, Pyre Wardens and Conquerors laid waste to the Viking line with their deadly longswords and flails, boldly stepping over the bodies of foes and companions alike to take the square and break the fighting spirit of their attackers. There was always the chance of a volley of arrows striking down any number of Northmen at once, a sad way to enter Valhǫll for any warrior still trying to join the fight.
"Hel take us all," Herleif cursed, blocking another attack and stabbing over the rim of his shield only to have what looked like a dozen pikes and swords stab back at him in retaliation. "Fall back. Sound the call! Fall back to the streets!" There was no helping it. He could see the flames licking up towards the sky on either side of the horde, and it was impossible to tell if the shadows moving overhead were wisps of black smoke or arrows shooting through the air to find any gap in their shields and armor. "Keep your shields up! Retreat!"
It was a desperate call to make, made all the worse as the warriors fleeing the square ran into the ones still trying to get in, bringing the retreat to a crashing halt just as soon as it had begun. The Divine Pyre took full advantage, attacking the shield wall with increased fervor to cut down the Vikings before they could escape. The painted shields held for now, but cracks were beginning to show. The strength of the Northmen could only last so long, and the Pyre sensed their chance to strike back and reclaim the city was at hand.
There was a flash of movement and a sudden cry as two shields burst apart like doors broken by a battering ram. A dark figure rushed through the gap, staying low, cutting with sword and dagger at whoever was in reach, leaving a trail of wounded warriors to be picked off by the Pyre in their wake. The Peacekeeper pivoted on their heel to avoid the blow of an axe and seemed to make straight for Herleif, selecting him as her newest target to bring down. Whether she knew that he was the leader of the Vikings in this fight or merely sought him out as the next Northman unfortunate enough to be in her path did not truly matter. All that concerned him was the short sword thrusting forward with lethal intent, a strike which he skillfully turned away against the flat of his shield and countered with his strike. Herleif's sword sliced through the air and continued into nothing, the Peacekeeper already ducking beneath his blade to come up against his shield, slamming her shoulder against it to pin his arm and jump up over the rim with her sharp dagger raised. It all happened so quickly that he didn't even have a moment to feel surprised.
All he thought as time seemed to slow down was that he had once promised his wife the prize of a Peacekeeper's dagger for her affections. In the end, she had given her love to him for nothing but his love in return, an equal trade that had filled their lives with happiness and devotion for years, but he had always lamented that he had never been able to deliver on that promise. Now it seemed he might only receive such a dagger by getting stabbed in the face and was hardly how he would have preferred to make good on his word.
Bloody hands suddenly grabbed the Peacekeeper's shoulders, hurling the woman to the ground. Helge appeared before him, throwing herself on top of the Knight as they wrestled for control like rabid wolves. As was always common around the maniacal Shaman, screams soon filled the air as she began to stab mercilessly into the Peacekeeper with her curved knife, spilling so much blood that her own fur and leather garments seemed to be dyed red instead of blue, spilling guts and slicing open flesh in equal measure. Sitting up, Helge lifted her hatchet and slammed it into her victim's throat, hacking apart what armor protected the Peacekeeper to expose her pale throat, and then finished the bloody job with her teeth. A chunk of dripping red flesh flew into the air as Helge threw back her head and spat, jumping up off the still Peacekeeper and glaring about like a predator on the hunt.
"We're retreating!?" she screamed angrily, slapping away a sword with her hatchet and slicing with her knife as more Pyre soldiers pressed the attack. "What about Ragnar and Ragna? Where are they?"
"Gone!" was Skuld's answer, her voice an intense boom as the fighting grew more intense, perhaps the only sign of unease she had shown since the battle turned against them.
Helge spat a curse and gave an angry roar, snapping her hatchet down into a soldier's shoulder and cutting open their face with her knife. "No! I won't leave them! No one can have them but me!"
Herleif gasped as he fended off yet more attacks, his mind still addled after yet another close brush with death, but the anger in Helge's harsh cry, or perhaps it was desperation, snapped him back from his reprieve. Again he clamored up against the stone cross, the symbol of this land's God, and clung to it as if it were his only salvation against the storm of arrows and fire. The irony was not lost on him as he silently prayed to his own gods while sheltering beneath such an idol, praying he might spot the twin Berserkers somewhere alive among all the fighting. He held his breath, squinted through the veil of black smoke and over the expanse of writhing bodies, and found that his prayers were answered.
"There!" he called, laughing and pointing with his sword to where he spotted Ragnar and Ragna still fighting within a sea of black armor alongside his other Berserkers, bloodied from head to toe but still very much alive.
He honestly didn't know which gods he should be thanking for this small stroke of good fortune. The benevolent God of Ashfeld on whose idol he clung, or maybe the corrupt visage of this splinter cult that claimed the very mountain in whose shadow they fought. Or perhaps his own mighty gods, who seemed to delight in tormenting him with little victories only to turn their backs on him in defeat when he needed their favor most. In truth, he didn't feel like thanking any of them. There were far too many gods involved in this war for his liking.
Jumping down from the cross, he gave no more thought to the notion of divine intervention. Only brave hearts and steel would save his warriors now, and the odds were certainly against them. He met Helge's wide-eyed and hopeful gaze, knowing he only had ill news to give her. "They are alive, but for how long I cannot tell," he said, panting, the battle fury still up in him as the fight raged on behind a wall of shields. "The Pyre has them surrounded. They fight with all the fury of beasts, but to try and get to them… Helge, it would be certain death."
The conflict in Helge was clear from the pain in her eyes. Her hate of the truth was like a physical pain that tore at her from how she snarled and ground her teeth. For a moment, Herleif thought she might lunge at him and bite at his own throat as she had done with the Peacekeeper, but instead, she turned away from him and clutched at her shaved head with weapons in hand, wiping bloody streaks across her face as she shook and writhed in lonely agony among the horde of retreating Vikings.
"No," she hissed through clenched, bloody teeth. "No, you cannot have them… You can't!" She slammed her balled-up fist upon her head, the knife she held almost slicing open her scalp in the act, but she only did so repeatedly as she wailed. "Shut up! Shut up! You cannot have their blood! Not them!"
"Helge!" snapped Herleif, grabbing the Shaman's shoulder. Her blue eyes shot open, somehow looking through him for a moment before she blinked and squinted through the smoky haze as if she had forgotten where she was. At that moment, she looked so much more like the scared young woman she most certainly was beneath the torment of hungry gods and faceless spirits. It made Herleif believe that his following words were all the more necessary, as crazy and stupid as they might be. "I will go to them. I will fight to bring them back. You tell those fiendish voices to cease their chatter. Ragnar and Ragna are my warriors and have stood with me through feast and famine. I will not abandon them now when they need us most."
Helge blinked at him in surprise. "Us?"
Herleif nodded, squeezing Helge's shoulder tightly. "Are you with me? Will you fight with me now to save our friends?"
Helge only seemed to gawk at him all the more, her eyes bright with wonder within rings of dark paint, and her mouth opened and closed a few times before any sound came out. "Aye!" she gaped at last, voice squeaking with the joy that welled inside her. "Aye, I am with you, my Jarl!"
After everything that had happened with his hold and yielding to Erik's authority, hearing Helge proclaim her loyalty filled Herleif's heart with pride. Despite the chaos around them, he smiled at Helge, then turned and caught Skuld's eye as they stood behind the shield wall. The tall Valkyrie nodded at him, and he knew that when he braved pain and death to reach his warriors, she would most certainly be fighting by his side.
"Warriors! The path to Valhǫll lies before us, not behind!" he shouted loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Many warriors looked at him as he stood tall before them, hefting their shields and returning to the fight instead of away. They locked shield rims and lifted them over their heads to block the falling arrows while those closer to the front crowded around him along with Helge and Skuld, ready to add their weapons to the mad dash through the Pyre ranks and regroup with their lost brothers and sisters. He readied his shield, glaring over the rim at the dark silhouettes clamoring over the shield wall before him. "On my order, we claim victory, or we claim the Spear Hall for us all!"
A mighty cheer rang up around him as all thoughts of the retreat were forgotten. The Vikings had come too far and fought too hard to be turned back now, and this day had always been promised to end in blood. Now it was only a matter of whose blood that might be: the Northmen or their enemy's. With one last thought spared for his family, Herleif pictured their faces in his mind and held the names of his wife and children, their smiles and laughter, close to his heart. He would see them again one day if the gods were kind, here in the realm of Midgard or in the glorious hall of the Allfather, where they would sing of their glories together until the final battle at the end of time.
He smiled, clutching his sword tightly, and thought of nothing else but the taste of Audhilda's lips on his own. It was a comforting thought to keep if it was to be his last.
"Warriors of Bilrost! We charge on my order!" he called out, answered by a roar from his warriors and the clamor of swords and axes beating against shields as they readied themselves for the charge. Helge struck her knife and hatchet together beside him, snarling with all the fury of an angry wolf, while Skuld set her shimmering spear over her shield and prepared to fight as if she had been sent by the Allfather himself to fight by their side. Herleif took in a breath and prepared to give the order.
Then northern horns began to blow, and the square erupted into movement and mayhem.
"What!?" Herleif roared indignantly, looking down either side of the line where several warriors had jumped into the fight without his command. "I said on my order!" He feared that the gathered forces of the Divine Pyre would be strong enough to hold and push back any attack if they did not all strike at once, but the warriors that had rushed forward at the sound of horns seemed to be doing so with such strength of numbers to overwhelm the Pyre line without fail. The blast of horns cut through the air for a second time, and the amount of Valkenheim warriors now filling the square seemed to swell out of nowhere.
"Are we going?" demanded Helge, already a few steps ahead of Herleif now before she realized that no one else was following.
"Yes!" answered Skuld, and with that simple utterance, she sprang forward between the shields and thrust her spear into a soldier's chest. Then everyone else followed suit.
Herleif barely had time to blink before his warriors were charging forward, and he with them. The Divine Pyre was caught totally off guard by the suddenness of their attack, breaking beneath a wave of shields like wheat for the harvest, their soldiers falling to either be trampled or cut to pieces while the invaders barreled over them. The Vikings pushed as far as they could until the Pyre ranks became too dense to go any further with ease, but now the tide of Northmen pouring into the square seemed to be an unending flow, more than enough to overwhelm their enemy no matter how strong their defense was. Once again, the two opposing forces crashed together in a violent melee of sharp steel and bashing shields, but now it was the Vikings who were advancing across the square towards the city keep.
Putting his shield into line with the others, Herleif slammed into the Knights before him and stabbed with his sword at any sign of body or limb. He heaved with all his might, fighting to keep his enemy pinned against their ranks of soldiers while Viking spears gored and skewered over the shield wall, but the enemy was constantly pushing back at him.
"Push!" Herleif roared to his warriors, meeting the eyes of the person next to him as they both ducked their heads behind their shields and gave each other matching grins. "Push them back! Show these clanking trolls no mercy!"
All at once the constant force fighting against his shield disappeared, and Herleif stumbled forward alongside the warriors next to him. He quickly looked up, searching for any sign of another trap or a Pyre counterattack rushing back at them. Instead, all he saw were the Knights scrambling over themselves to get away, their line completely breaking now as the Northmen pressed their attack across the entire square. Their will to fight had finally broken. The Divine Pyre was running away.
Herleif cried with amazement as he hefted his shield and gave chase. He only made it a few steps before an arrow whipped past his head. Panic laced through him like ice in his veins, fearing the archers that he had nearly forgotten, imagining the next volley that would come to decimate his warriors in droves. But when he looked to the rooftops, he could only stare in amazement at what he saw.
Vikings were already up on the rooftops, swarming over the archers, hacking them to pieces with their axes and swords, and dropping their bodies like boulders onto the square below. There was a quick flash of light as one of the small fire tubes ignited in the hands of the Knight holding it, engulfing them in flames and adding to the madness and smoke enveloping the fight. Through the dark haze, Herleif spotted a giant Raider he most certainly recognized. A Raider dressed in red leather and fur, with a human skull fastened on top of their helmet. They cleaved their way through the archers with each swing of their axe and then dashed from the roof's edge to leap out into the open air, weapon raised and letting loose a furious cry. He dropped onto an unsuspecting Knight below, crushing them flat beneath his weight and cutting a path of carnage into the Pyre soldiers surrounding him without a moment's pause.
"I do not believe it," Herleif gasped, his shoulders sagging as a wave of fatigue suddenly hit him before he shrugged it away.
The arrows ceased to fall, and the Knights continued to retreat to the keep. The fighting was almost over now, but the savagery of war still held the square in its unforgiving grip. Looking about, Herleif had lost sight of Skuld and only caught a glimpse of Helge as she ripped and tore her way in the direction of the Berserkers, but it was the flash of red that caught his attention in the end. He rushed towards it, pushing his way through painted shields and striking down any black armored figure that stood in his way. He hacked, slashed, headbutted, stabbed, and struck some poor Warden so hard in the throat with the rim of his shield that they immediately fell, clutching at their neck before being trampled by the advancing horde. He fought with all the madness of a blood-crazed barbarian rather than a proud jarl. He knew the gods could only smile at the amount of blood he spilled until, finally, he tore his way into the crowd of black and red that clawed at each other like feral animals, spotting the last person he would have ever expected to see come to his aid.
"Ivar, you black-blooded troll fucker!" he roared, almost too stunned to spot the pikeman stabbing for his side before he parried and cut the soldier down where he stood. "I was meant to find Valhǫll in this accursed square, not your mange-ridden hide!"
Ivar the Red, Herleif's longtime rival and now brother by a blood oath, ripped his sword free from a Conqueror's neck and calmly gave a sly smile as the bloody feud carried on around them. "You best not be dying on my watch, you nithing shit-licker," he laughed, letting his Headhunter warriors surge around them to push back the faltering Pyre line, and squared up to Herleif with a thump of his shield against his chest. "If you do, just know that I will be the one going back home and consoling that pretty wife of yours. Console her good and hard like she's never known."
For once in his life, Herleif didn't feel the need to immediately wipe that smile off of Ivar's lips along with the rest of his head and even laughed as he stared down the black-bearded Warlord. "Ha! Try it, and Odin and I will laugh together as she sends you to Hel without your balls!" They laughed together at that.
"You can always turn tail and run if my presence here offends you," Ivar said, cocking his head and lifting one dark brow beneath his horned helmet. "But I have a feeling this fight might be over a lot quicker if we stick together and see it through. Unless you insist on continuing to make stupid fucking decisions on your own?"
Herleif tightened his jaw, looking suspiciously at Ivar for a moment. "I could ask the same of you," he grumbled but gave a small snort as Ivar just grinned back at him. "You want to make yourself useful in a fight for once? Then come with me!"
He didn't wait to give Ivar a chance to argue, but to his amazement, the man didn't say a word. He followed as Herleif led the way back across the square, stepping over the bodies of the dead as if they were trekking over a rocky shoreline. The fighting had thinned as the remainder of the Divine Pyre was forced back to the keep by their warriors, but there was still enough that it took an effort to make their way over to where the last group of Berserkers was still howling like wolves against the strength of their foes.
Herleif could glimpse Ragnar and Ragna now through the crowd of shields and black armor, and he forced his way to them with Ivar and his Headhunters following behind. With a mighty roar, he jumped into the fight, careful not to get too close to any of the Berserkers for fear of catching a wild swing of an axe in his back.
Helge was already there, showing no such caution as she appeared stuck to the hips of Ragnar and Ragna both, fighting between them, around them, always in harmonious violence with the savage twins. The ground was slick with mashed gore and crowded with trampled bodies, but it seemed as if the Berserker wore more blood on their battle-scarred armor than anywhere else in the square.
Cutting down a pikeman who seemed to be on their last legs from the intense fighting, Herleif turned and headbutted a Pyre Warden, ending their battle cry with his bash before Ivar silenced them forever with his sword. They each nodded at the other, and suddenly the surrounding area seemed to grow quiet as Ivar's warriors slaughtered the remaining Knights that tried to stand their ground. Herleif's Berserkers finally ceased their howling with no one left within reach to kill, falling with exhaustion after remaining gripped by their maddening berserkergang for so long. It was a small moment of peace at the end of a climactic battle, and the warriors who now stood in silence looked at each other in amazement for their fortune to come out alive, but the war was still not over, and there was no guarantee they would ever feel such peace again.
Ragnar fell to his knees, twin axes falling from his hands as he hit the ground, back swelling with each deep breath he took like a panting dog. Helge and Ragna rushed to his side, the violence in them replaced with worried looks in their eyes and fretting words on their lips. Herleif strode over as they lifted Ragnar to his feet, supporting his weight under each arm, and stooped down to pick up the warrior's axes from the pool of blood at their feet. He looked Ragnar over, searching for any wound that might mark him for the Valkyries to usher him up to Odin's hall, but for all the many cuts and bruises strewn about the mad warrior's skin and wrecking his armor, he found none that looked to be fatal.
So great had Ragnar's fury been that it had lifted him to such heights as to be welcomed among the Æsir as an equal for waging war, and now with the fighting over, his strength had left him with such quickness it was like an avalanche of fatigue rushing down a mountainside. Giving Ragnar a nod, Herleif lifted the axes and pushed them against the Berserker's chest. "Need a rest?"
Ragnar looked back at him, eyes dark and brooding, but his lips quivered as he took a few more shuddering gasps. Then he grinned, letting go of his sister's support and clutching both axes like gifts. "Fuck no…"
"Good," Herleif grinned, "because we are far from done, my friend." He nodded at the three of them together, then turned to make for the keep before Ragna caught his attention.
"Herleif," she said, her voice low and strangely cautious, and her eyes were held low in embarrassment. He fixed her with a questioning stare before she licked her lips and said, "You are a great Jarl. One worth following. The skalds will tell of how you led us in this battle and fought for us. They will sing of this day forever. I know they will."
"Thank you, Herleif," Helge said, panting hard, her big eyes wet as she clung to Ragnar's side. "Thank you."
Herleif felt as if his heart had just been gripped in Ragna's fist and squeezed to a pulp, but somehow it felt good. He smiled, setting a comforting hand on Ragna's shoulders and squeezing firmly. "We are far from getting old and fat back in our hall now, eh? Today though, we live for the fight." Ragna smiled back at him, then, along with Helge, she helped Ragnar and the other Berserkers still standing move towards the keep, towards the fight, while the wounded were taken back across the square.
Herleif looked to see Ivar staring at him sideways, shaking his head. "What?" he asked, laughing at Ivar's disapproval. "It may not be the way to claim a place in Valhǫll, but getting old and fat in a warm hall is not so bad. Perhaps you should try it sometime."
They moved together towards the keep, Herleif trying not to dwell on how many warriors he had lost to get this far. There was still more fighting to be done, a city commander to slay and a high priest to capture. There was much more work to do before they could think about going home. At that thought, he turned his gaze towards the high towers above their heads and peered through the fire smoke, listening for a moment before nudging Ivar with his shield. "Do you hear that?"
Ivar shot him a dirty look but then sighed and listened as well. "Not a fucking thing."
"Exactly," Herleif grinned, watching as Ivar soon caught onto his meaning and gave a dark snort of laughter as they pushed their way through the crowd.
They were met with a pile of armored corpses, and a massive pair of doors shut tight in their faces once they reached the keep. Several Raiders and Berserkers were already grunting and heaving while they hacked at the gates with their axes, but they appeared to be getting nowhere quickly. Njal stepped forward, shouldering against painted shields to get to his Jarl, while Herleif caught sight of Skuld standing among his warriors, her silver spear and white-gold garments stained red with blood. He nodded at her, and she nodded back, but he noted how the seax at her belt remained sheathed, just as it had been since the battle had begun.
"Door's been barred from the other side," said Njal, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as the door rattled beneath the assaulting axes.
"Oh, well fuck me! I thought we had an invitation?" bellowed Ivar, looking with wide-eyed surprise between Njal and Herleif. "Must have fucking forgotten it back on the ship! Get your head out of your fucking ass, you lumbering sheep herder. Go break something down to use as a ram and get this fucking door open before these tin bastards can regroup." No sooner had he spoken than a multitude of covered windows all along the keep snapped open, and arrows began to once again hiss above their heads.
"Shields!" Herleif cried, feeling the cold adrenaline rush pick up in him again. Warriors whipped up shields above their heads or the heads next to them, blocking the rain of arrows that clattered off the broad surfaces like water splashing against a ship's keel. Only the warriors chopping at the door were left with no chance to flee, struck down in moments as they were stuck full of arrow shafts from all sides.
The well-protected archers were not the only threat that loomed above their heads. Just above the barred door, another set of windows opened, sending a chilling reminder through the Viking horde of the weapon that had protected the first gate outside the city walls. Herleif felt his heart give way to dread, but rather than spotting one of the Divine Pyre's monstrous fire weapons emerge from the darkness, a simple cauldron extended out of the keep instead. It was not the terrible inferno that would threaten to engulf the horde in wicked fire seiðr in one fell swoop, but the cauldron still appeared no less menacing, with bright molten metal bubbling over its rim as it slid out on its harness over the gathered Northmen.
"Get back! Get away from the doors!" called Ivar, already beating his shield against the backs of his warriors to get them away.
Herleif was almost too stunned that Ivar hadn't demanded more men take up their axes at the door instead and nearly forgot to give the same warning to his warriors as the chain to dump the cauldron began to rattle and click above them. To the horror of everyone close to the keep, the crowded square made it nearly impossible to escape. They were trapped against a wall of their own shields, a wall of their own people as they were squeezed together from one end of the square to the other; everyone far away trying to get closer to the keep, and everyone close trying to get as far away from the cauldron as they could.
Herleif gritted his teeth as he looked up at the tipping cauldron, trying not to imagine the unearthly pain of melting flesh that was sure to come, the hot air already filled with the cries of the desperate and afraid that echoed through the crowd.
The cauldron continued to tip, the red molten glow pouring forth in just a drizzle of hot death, dripping down into the one space where the Vikings had pushed far enough back to keep clear, sizzling on the cobblestones and cracking them with its immense heat. Everyone around collectively held their breath, staring up at the cauldron as if it might take pity on them if they would plead for mercy.
Then it stopped, the metal bowl wobbling in its harness momentarily, spilling one more gout of molten liquid before it went still.
"Are we dead?" Helge asked, who had squeezed her eyes shut before the end, and was just now cracking one open to peer at the stricken faces around her.
"No, not yet," Herleif said in disbelief, just before he noticed a strange noise coming from somewhere within the keep's open windows. The same windows from which arrows had been shooting out just moments ago were now empty.
Skuld stepped forward, her boots coming right up to the molten puddle that still glowed hot on the ground, and cocked her head towards the keep. "Listen."
"The fuck is that?" questioned Ivar, eyes squinting at the high towers and dark windows.
Ragnar stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it about as if it would help. "Is that…?"
"Fighting," grinned Ragna, showing all her teeth in her gleeful wolf's smile.
Sure enough, the clash of weapons and the shouts of opposing forces fighting each other echoed from within the lower keep, faint at first but growing louder. There was a scream, the shriek of metal on metal, and even more desperate cries as the unseen fight continued within the wall of the fortress. Then a figure appeared in the window from which the cauldron hung, although they did not seem to move of their own volition. Then the figure fell, suddenly thrown from the window, arms and legs flailing as they flew through the air, punctuated by a sharp scream before they landed bodily in the bowl of molten metal. The horde of Vikings collectively gasped as the Knight's scream suddenly cut out under the bubble and sizzle of the body beginning to burn.
"Well, someone's having fun without us," Ragnar grumbled just before the groan of the bar sliding from its hinges echoed out from behind the closed doors, sending the horde into a flurry of movement.
Herleif brought up his shield, Skuld falling in beside him on one side and Ivar on the other, a new shield wall forming around the doors. "Get ready," he said, eyes focused ahead, but his mind reeled that he might be standing shoulder to shoulder with Ivar the Red in the shield wall rather than against him. He spared Ivar a sideways glance, caught the man doing the same, and they both locked their eyes forward over their shield rims just as the gate began to open.
The great doors creaked upon their hinges, moving slowly at first but then swinging open to reveal the dark expanse of a tunnel leading inside to the keep. "Were you planning on just sitting outside all day long?" came a cocky voice from within the tunnel, soon followed by a hulking figure with a cocky gait to their walk as they strode into the light. "Or are you going to come in and earn some glory for yourselves?"
Herleif felt a rush of relief followed quickly by hot fury overtake him as he looked upon his brother standing in the doorway of the keep, and Gunnar grinned back with his axe slung over one shoulder, blood dripping from the blade. "Where in Hel's frozen abyss have you been!?" he snapped, forgetting himself so entirely that he burst forth from the shield wall and nearly charged his brother in front of everyone.
Gunnar at least had the decency to look guilty as he shuffled back within the tunnel. Herleif almost demanded an answer from him right then and there, but more figures appeared out of the darkness around Gunnar. The Lion Flame Legion, rough-looking and bereft of their former glories, but all with their heads held high as they emerged from the open keep. Among them were Priscilla and Coal, and Herleif could only laugh at the apparent truth standing before him. "Nevermind. The fault is mine for ever thinking you might have a good reason for abandoning your people."
Gunnar frowned at him but walked out from among the Lion Flame Knights to rejoin the horde. Not without first sparing one last glance at Priscilla before he went. Herleif stopped him before he came across, knocking into his brother with his shield. "You go too far with this, brother. You forget who she is. What she is."
They locked eyes, staring each other down like snarling wolves. The day had been full of death and pain, but the anger felt between them at that moment was felt by everyone watching, a tense silence falling over the horde until anyone could hear only the crackle of flames burning in the square. Finally, Gunnar relented, pushing past Herleif to stalk back into the Viking ranks. He found a place with the twins and Helge, with Ragnar putting a possessive hand on Gunnar's shoulder as they all glared back at the gathered Knights.
Herleif scoffed, then fixed his eyes on Judith as she stepped forward to meet him. "What is all this then?" he asked her. "How did you make it into the keep?"
"Just made it past the door," Judith said, pulling a rag from her belt to wipe her sword clean of blood. "We followed the Pyre as they tried to escape into the mountains rising around the city. They must be riddled with tunnels and alcoves, and we followed them here. What remains of their forces have retreated further back into the keep, but we did not have a chance to get a closer look. We just barely made it here before they could bathe you heathens in the fire that surely awaits you all in Hell." Herleif scowled his displeasure at her, but Judith simply stepped closer and lowered her voice so that only he could hear her. "All of our many differences aside, I pray that this issue with your brother will not become an issue between us?"
Herleif glared over her shoulder to where Judith's Peacekeeper stood. "That depends on whether or not any of your Knights continue to be an issue that I must deal with."
Judith glanced back at Priscilla, and from how the Peacekeeper looked away, it was almost sure that she had noticed. A sigh echoed from within Judith's helmet as she looked back. "You know what it is I seek here, Herleif. Justice. No more, and no less. Whatever problem is going on here, I want no part of it. You took us under your charge, so deal with things how you must, but know that my Knights stand with me. Any of them who do not are just in my way."
Herleif's eyes narrowed into slits as he loomed over Judith, but she did not back away. Had she really admitted that she was willing to cut Priscilla loose if it meant keeping the peace between her legion and the Viking clans? Back in Erik's tent, Judith had been ready to fight for Priscilla and Coal's lives when they were at stake. Now she seemed to regard the Peacekeeper with the same annoyed notion as he did. Perhaps Priscilla had finally reached the limits of Judith's patience with her secrets and guile and had vastly misjudged the potential consequences of her actions.
"She twists my brother's mind," he growled at her. "Makes him weak and far more stupid than usual."
"Gunnar fought well today. I can attest to that. I was honestly glad to have him with us," Judith continued. "I do not need him though, just as I do not need anyone in my legion questioning my orders. I will send him away if I see him getting too close again, and perhaps you will let me know if you happen to spot any of my Knights acting out of form."
That proposal did not have the sense of finality that Herleif would have hoped for, but given the circumstances, it was something to work with. He gave Judith a silent nod in agreement, not a moment too soon as Ivar stepped up and shoved himself into their conversation.
"Is there a fucking reason you two are standing here gossiping like hens when we have some tins to kill?" Ivar snarled between them, showing all his yellow teeth.
"The Pyre will have dug in by now," came Priscilla's voice from among the Knights, all eyes turning to her as she insisted on getting a word in the conversation whether it was welcome or not. "They will have the advantage now. For the last time perhaps, but an advantage nonetheless."
Herleif sneered in reply. "Scared, Peacekeeper?"
"Scared of angry men rushing to make dumb decisions?" Priscilla said for all to hear. "Always."
"The only decision we have to make is how slowly we want to kill that bastard Kazamir and how thinly we'll slice up that jabbering priest Osric," Ivar grumbled. "They're both in there, and before this day is done, I intend to carve the blood eagle into their backs and take both of their heads as offerings to the gods."
"What about Erik?" asked Judith. "This is his raid. Would he not wish to be here to see it come to an end?"
"Erik's raid," spat Herleif, the words foul on his tongue. He glanced up at Ivar, and from the dour expression on the Warlord's face, he knew they were of the same mind. "If anyone here wishes to go and inform the Golden Jarl, our gracious King, of what is going on here, then by all means, flee the battlefield with your tail tucked between your legs and go fetch him," he called out, letting his voice carry up along the keep and out over the square. "But know that I make no promise there will be any glory left for you upon your return." He stepped up to Judith, looking down at her and then at Priscilla, still in the shadow of the tunnel. "Our moment is now, and I will wait for no man, king, or god to claim it."
Ivar gave a shout of agreement and quickly began to knock his sword against his shield, all his warriors soon joining with the thunderous clamor of their weapons. Herleif did the same, bidding his warriors to join in the deafening drum of the war beat that rolled down the tunnel to the keep within. He could only imagine the last remnants of the Divine Pyre listening, shaking in their armor, nearly pissing themselves with fear to know their day of judgment was at hand.
"What do these fire-worshiping tins deserve?" shouted Ivar, a yellow smile clear in his dark beard.
"Death!" was the answer from the horde.
"What do Vikings welcome?" Herleif asked next, looking back at his brother as the echo of his voice carried over the crowd. Gunnar raised his chin in proud defiance back at him but said nothing.
"Valhǫll!"
Herleif turned back to the tunnel, marching right up to the legion of renegade Knights, stopping right in front of Priscilla and Coal, staring at the hooded woman with a burning fury in his eyes. A fury that demanded to be released upon those who dared stand against him. "What do we all welcome?" he shouted again, taking great pleasure in how Priscilla just barely jumped at the sound.
"Valhǫll! Valhǫll! Victory or Valhǫll!"
Whether by design, fate, good fortune, divine blessings, or just sheer dumb luck, somehow, true victory was finally within their grasp. It could perhaps even be called a miracle if the ways of the Ashfeld God were to be believed. Herleif did not care what it might be called. He only cared about ending the fight. Erik Golden-Shield be damned; he would finish this fight alone if he had to. Then he would take his share of the prize and leave this wretched land behind him, taking his brother far from that wicked woman and her schemes and returning home where they belonged.
That thought alone spurred him on, pushing his way past Priscilla and all the rest to rush down the tunnel and into the keep, darkness enveloping him and the rush of wind in his beard. Behind him was only the roar of the Viking horde following at his back, the trample of their boots sounding like thunder rising through the mountains around them. Ivar, Gunnar, Ragnar and Ragna, Helge and Skuld, with warriors from too many clans and tribes to count, enough to make the gods envious of their growing battle fame as they watched from their mighty halls.
"For honor! For glory!" he shouted, letting the echo carry back to the rush of warriors as daylight shone in the tunnel just ahead. The end of this whole wretched war lay just ahead. Only victory remained.
"To the death!"