The gods could be fickle beings if they so wished.
They enjoyed playing with the lives of mortals, granting favor in heroic deeds before taking it away just as quickly. A warrior might pray to Odin, Týr, or Thor for success in battle or a good death worthy of a saga, and the gods might look kindly upon their request. Or they might only draw the attention of the trickster Loki and find their fate surmounted to nothing but doom for the gods' amusement.
Herleif did not know whose gaze might be watching him from Glaðsheimr, where the gods dwelled upon their high seats, but he did not have time to care whether they would grant him good fortune or doom. He would face his enemy with bravery in his heart regardless.
The tunnel opened up into daylight within the keep, revealing a large courtyard sitting against the slope of Mount Ignis, where the Divine Pyre would make their last stand. The sun shone brightly in the sky through a thin layer of smoke on the wind, bathing the courtyard in light that glanced off the dull black armor of the cultist Knights. They crowded the yard in a tight formation, with archers positioned upon a balcony extending along the alcove's left side and a large ballista swiveled on its perch within a short tower to the right. With an echoing shout, the Pyre foot soldiers locked their shields together and lowered their pikes, creating a wall of sharp metal strong enough to keep one foolish Viking at bay as Herleif rushed out of the tunnel towards them.
One Viking, perhaps, but not a horde.
The Valkenheim warriors burst forth from the tunnel like a flood behind him, their war cries filling the courtyard with bone-shaking force. Herleif ran forward under a shower of arrows, keeping his shield high, but he charged the Pyre line with wild abandon, all sense lost as he let the battle-frenzy take him in this one last fight for total victory. He would be the first to lead the attack; a Warlord always led from the front.
Duty, honor, and strength. Herleif held his shield strong.
The crash against the line of pikes rattled his teeth in his skull, the sharp points scraping along the flat of his shield and round boss, and he quickly stabbed around the rim, striking like a feral animal through the storm of sharpened metal. Soldiers closed in around him, the cacophony of the mounting fight ringing in Herleif's head like a bell, but no blade touched him as he hacked and slashed at his foes; for he did not fight alone.
Ivar crashed into the Pyre line beside him, slamming a dent into their formation with his shield. He snarled and cursed as he split armor and helmets with his sword, slamming his horned helmet against any soldier who dared to get too close and cutting them down as they screamed. His Headhunter warriors stood with him, as savage and fierce as their red Jarl. They attacked the Divine Pyre with a blood-lust that the cultists shuddered to witness, and their front line soon turned to corpses against the ferocity of the Viking attack. Herleif parried a strike and countered, splitting a foot soldier's shield in two when suddenly a great swath of the enemy line was cut down like a field reaped for harvest.
Gunnar roared as he whipped his great axe around and cleaved deeper into the Pyre formation, muscles bulging with each mighty swing of his weapon. His entire being was like that of a powerful bear, as was his byname, standing untouched and unafraid before his enemies, each swing of his axe like the swipe of bear claws cutting them down. "The gods are with us, brother!" Gunnar shouted, turning away a Warden's sword and splitting them open from shoulder to hip.
Herleif did not call back to him, still feeling too much hurt and anger towards his brother to return the hopeful sentiment. He hoped Gunnar fought hard and fought well but kept his focus on the enemy in front of him. He would deal with the enemies at his back once the battle was won.
Something like a sharp, mechanical snap sounded through the air, followed swiftly by a gale whistling overhead. A gaping hole appeared suddenly in the advancing horde as three warriors were struck dead by the single bolt of the ballista fired into the crowd.
Stepping away from the line of shields, Herleif looked up towards the tower where Pyre soldiers were working quickly to load the next bolt and pull the arms of the ballista back with a winch. He was just about to call out orders to make an attack on the tower when he spotted Judith, her one-winged eagle marking her out among the throng of northern warriors pouring into the keep. "We have it!" she shouted, waving her sword at him before turning to lead her Knights toward the tower.
Herleif watched them go, confident that they wouldn't fail, but the archers on the other side of the courtyard were another danger that could not go unchecked. He turned to call out more orders as the arrows fell over the horde but found Helge staring back at him with her red smile spread wide from ear to ear while Ragnar and Ragna were already fighting their way up to the balcony.
"I can already hear their screams!" Helge cackled before she ran after the twins, taking the battle to the balcony above while the Divine Pyre and Viking warriors fought for supremacy down in the courtyard.
The archers fired their volleys for as long as they could, but their position was soon overrun by the raging Berserkers that had come to claim their lives. One archer was thrown over the balcony's edge, a spray of blood filling the air after them as another was hacked to pieces. Pyre soldiers rushed to their aid with pikes and shields, but the surge of Northmen could not be stopped. Ragnar gave a primal yell as he slammed both of his axes into one archer's head before spinning to dodge the thrust of another's pike. He slashed at the soldier's face while Ragna took out their leg, finishing them with an axe in their back as they fell. Ragna continued with her own bestial cry, spinning in a whirlwind with her axes to break down the Pyre's shield wall, charging right into their midst without fear and striking at heads, necks, shoulders, and guts until blood showered her from all sides, sparking her frenzy like kindling for the fire.
The balcony fell to chaos and ruin as the Vikings pushed their assault. Among them, Helge leaped to her hands and knees like a crouching mountain cat and pounced on an archer who noticed her far too late to escape. She crashed into him with her shoulder as she sprung, slamming him into the balcony's railing and slashing up at him with her knife as he stumbled. A thin red line was sliced across the archer's face, flesh splitting from chin to brow, drawing forth a sharp scream that Helge relished with all the joy of a child receiving a gift for the jól festival. She silenced him with the wet crunch of her hatchet slamming into his skull and ripped it free again in a spray of blood. Bringing the red blade to her lips, the wild Shaman licked ravenously along its edge, coating her tongue and lips in hot lifeblood as the voices demanded more of her, hearing them clamor for more and more slaughter. She did not hold herself back in pleasing them, jumping quickly for her next victim as the bodies mounted upon the balcony, her laughter mingling with their screams.
Just like out in the square before the keep, the fight in the courtyard became a struggle of shield pushing against shield, spears and pikes stabbing into armor and flesh from one line to the other. Herleif grunted from the slam of an axe against his shield and stabbed forward to try and kill whoever was on the other side. All he felt was the scrape of his sword against armor and the pounding of the axe coming again and again, wearing down the strength of his arm until he thought it might break. Then Gunnar appeared next to him, giving a mighty roar as he hacked down with his axe around Herleif's shield, and suddenly the force fighting against him was gone. Herleif pushed forward, seeing nothing but the shine of blood-coated armor at his feet as he fought for each step.
Then he found actual steps. Stone steps, rising before him to a large platform that opened up before a great temple built into the rock. Pyre soldiers and Knights crowded before him, pushing back desperately to stop the Viking advance. Behind them, in the middle of the platform, stood a huge, nightmarish figure of towering black plate armor who called out orders in a deep booming voice.
"Soldiers, drive them back!" shouted Kazamir, commander of the Divine Pyre within the Walled City.
He would soon be the commander of crows and ashes, as the Viking horde only seemed to fight harder as Kazamir ordered his forces to hold the line.
"Come on, you useless sacks of bones! A horn full of silver to whoever can collect the most heads by day's end!" Ivar bellowed, urging his warriors on as he punched his shield into a Conqueror's face and sliced at their neck, while Njal felled soldier after soldier with his crude-looking axe as if they were saplings to be cleared away.
Herleif fought off the feeling of exhaustion just as he fought the Pyre Knights in front of him, cursing as his thrust against a Lawbringer was parried, and he was forced to lift his shield to block their counter
attack quickly. A spear flew past him, far too close to comfort, and slammed straight through the Lawbringer's helmet. Skuld rushed by and jumped into the air, drop-kicking the Knight back against the stairs and landing on top of him with the crunch of armor on stone. She pulled her spear free and whipped it low in a swift arc around her, taking the feet out from a dozen soldiers at once, creating space for the rest of the Vikings to rush in and press their advantage. Her spear came down into a soldier's chest, all without a single word spoken from her lips, before she struck at a new target and continued the fight.
Herleif could only watch her in amazement; her otherworldly grace that seemed to flourish naturally on the battlefield was mesmerizing. He couldn't help but feel that the gods were watching their battle keenly, waiting to take in the souls of the glorious dead into Valhǫll and Fólkvangr, just as Gunnar had said. "Odin Allfather has blessed this day! Fight, true drengir of Valkenheim! Fight for victory, and it shall be yours!" he shouted, knocking his sword against his shield boss before moving up the stairs.
"Stand your ground!" shouted Kazamir from behind his line of soldiers, ordering them to keep up the attack. "Bring the fight to them!"
The battle picked up with feverish ferocity, Vikings and Knights each trying to break down or leap over the other's shield wall to cause the most carnage. Each time the Vikings seemed that they might be pushed back from the stairs, they would only find new vigor and surge forward once again, the horde ever-growing as more and more warriors poured through the tunnel and into the keep. The gods were watching, but this battle was presided over by more than just the Æsir. This land had its own watchful God, one their enemy believed lived within the very rock of the volcano under siege.
A God that had remained silent for far too long.
The noise was low at first, almost missed beneath the chaos of the fighting within the alcove, but the growing rumble soon made itself known as the ground beneath the warriors' feet began to shake. Rubble and dust rolled down the mountainside as if Mount Ignis was a slumbering giant about to awake, shaking off a century's worth of rock built up like a shell. The thin column of smoke rising from the volcano's peak suddenly belched and bellowed dark ash plumes into the air, and the ground gave another great rumble like the building roar of a dragon. At any moment, it seemed that fire might begin to erupt from the volcano's mouth, spouting death and destruction into the air as it had done an age ago with the upheaval of the Cataclysm.
Far below the shuddering mountain, the fight in the courtyard slowed to a standstill as everyone succumbed to the shaking ground in an attempt to keep their footing. Herleif had just crossed swords with a Pyre Warden upon the stairs, but now they both stumbled back from each other, blades and shield fumbling harmlessly away as their duel was brought to a surprising halt. Herleif bumped right into his brother's shoulder as he stepped back, the two of them looking up together at the torrent of black smoke rising from the volcano's summit.
"It can't be," Gunnar gasped, grabbing hold of the hammer amulet around his neck as he gawked in fear and amazement at the earth-shaking power of Mount Ignis. "This can't be happening… It's not true…"
Herleif didn't want to believe it either, but watching the volcano begin to erupt and shake the ground beneath his feet, he could scarcely deny it. Mount Ignis had awoken just when the fate of the Divine Pyre seemed the direst and had come to crush the Viking warriors as their victory seemed assured. The power of a mad God had finally revealed itself to the world, with each deafening boom and blast of smoke breaking the Viking's resolve to fight. And the cultists knew it.
"The volcano wills it!" Kazamir shouted, lifting his longsword high as the sun blotted out beneath the rising ash plume, casting the courtyard into darkness.
A loud cheer rang out from the Pyre Knights, their fists and weapons shaking in the air as their God appeared to deliver them from an unjust end. They had prayed and shown their devotion to the volcano by subjecting their fellow man to pain and torture, punishing the non-believers with righteous prejudice so that only their faith held sway in this land. Indeed the heathen gods of their enemies were too weak and too far removed from this world to do anything against such cataclysmic power. Death would come to all who did not fall in worship to the volcano's majesty, and though they might perish in God's ultimate judgment themselves, they would be welcomed into his kingdom as true believers, taking their rightful place in paradise while the rest of the world suffered in misery and burning torment for their un-godly sins.
Kazamir held up his sword with both hands above his head, shaking it as some kingly scepter given to him to wield total domain over the Walled City by divine right. "Our victory is assured! Our God has come to cleanse these lands of heathen filth and the stain of apostates and traitors! We welcome you o'Lord! We welcome your holy fire to make the world anew!"
The rumble of the volcano grew louder, the smoke billowing into such a dark cloud that the entire sky seemed to become hidden behind a veil of doom. Herleif looked up, stricken with despair, his sword and shield falling loose at his side. "No… No, this is not the end…" he whispered, but there was only the roar of the God worshiped by cultists and tyrants in answer, while his own gods remained utterly silent and hidden behind the smoke.
Molten fire leaped and bubbled from the summit, and the Divine Pyre cheered even louder at the sight, welcoming their divine destruction alongside their foes. There was another loud boom, and the greatest plume of smoke bellowed out into the sky as the belch of a demon escaped from the most bottomless pit of Hell. It was the mighty cry of a single God, all-powerful, all-knowing, and entirely unforgiving for the enemies of those who waged a holy war in their name. The ground shook and trembled so hard the very earth seemed as if it might split beneath the warrior's feet, and a new cataclysm would soon remake the world in ruin and desolation. Screams of despair and shouts of joy rang across the courtyard together; all drowned out by the apocalyptic cacophony as the ancient Mount Ignis prepared to blow its top and cleanse the wicked world with holy fire.
Then, miraculously, the world and the mountain fell silent once again.
The rumbling subsided as quickly as it began, fading away to nothing until the Walled city lay still once more. The smoke choking the air remained, but the bellowing beast that was the volcano summit quieted and ceased its black deluge of ash. The molten fire slipped away back inside the mountain peak, and all signs of a fiery explosion followed swiftly by burning death faded into nothing. Mount Ignis sat quietly, just another mountain in a long range of rocky spine jutting from the earth.
It had failed to snuff out the enemies of God's chosen people with fire and ash. Here at the very end of their rule, the lie of the Divine Pyre was brought into stark truth beneath a dark cloud of damnation and misery. A false promise. A story meant to subjugate the weak. A cruel trick that had cost the lives of half a nation. It was the silence before the fall, the crushing defeat before the final end.
Far below, the courtyard fell into a heavy, mirroring silence as the volcano went still. A few Pyre Knights carried on cheering awkwardly, but even they went quiet as it became clear that no holy retribution would befall their enemies and strike down the heathens who had invaded their lands. Kazamir looked up to where the column of gentle smoke began to waft harmlessly from the volcano's peak once again, his armored figure quiet and still like a statue carved from dark granite, with no more taunts or orders to give. The Pyre Warden who stood at the top of the stairs lowered the sword that he had been shaking in adulation for the coming of his Lord, the cause for celebration slipping away like the ash on the wind. He looked about cautiously, almost unsure of what this sudden change meant for their dwindling force, and the Viking horde left most definitely alive and unharmed from any divine punishment. Slowly his gaze shifted to rest on Herleif, gauntleted fingers clinking as they squeezed around the grip of his longsword.
Herleif looked back at the Warden, almost as dazed and confused as the Knight was. Then he decided that no god, his own or his enemy's, would determine how he would ultimately meet his fate. Only he would choose that, and he would be damned if held back now that the volcano's power counted for nothing, shouting so loud that his voice boomed within the courtyard like the
blast of Gjallarhorn sounding in brutal defiance of his enemy's faith. "Kill them all!"
The Vikings leaped to take up the fight again with all the fury of the Einherjar, rushing the platform where the last remnants of the Divine Pyre stood, war cries on their lips and bloodlust glinting in their eyes. The Pyre Knights scrambled to get away, only a few of them still having the will to fight at all after their God seemed to abandon them to the northern scourge. Those that tried to stand their ground were quickly overwhelmed, while those that turned and fled back to the temple were swiftly run down and slaughtered as the Vikings showed their broken enemy no mercy.
Herleif charged at the Warden, who stood dumbly at the top of the stairs, running into him with his shield. The Warden barely got in a strike of his sword before they fell, their last gasp of breath a pitiful sound of lament, and Herleif hadn't even run him through yet. It was a sad end to a wretched life, but not sorry enough for Herleif to spare them as he thrust the point of his sword into the visor of the Warden's helmet. It was no longer a battle now, hardly even a skirmish. The siege of the Walled City was nearly at an end, the final conflict descending into a rout as the remaining Pyre Knights found themselves with nowhere, trapped between the Viking attack and the silent mountain they had worshiped in vain.
Soon there were barely enough Knights and foot soldiers left to fill the platform alongside Kazamir, while the giant commander hefted his longsword to finally join the fight. "You helpless fools!" he snarled, striking at the Vikings with great swipes of his sword. Each strike was more like a hammer blow as he knocked back droves of warriors at a time, shearing clean through shields and spear shafts to cut down the Valkenheim warriors in bloody heaps. He moved like a monstrous shadow of what the Divine Pyre had once been, an unrelenting force that could only kill, only destroy whatever it touched. Kazamir roared his anger as he kept up the attack, refusing to stop even as his soldiers fell dead around him. "Soldiers, protect the flanks!"
An explosion rang out from the rear of the courtyard, the sudden bang causing everyone to cringe in fear that the volcano might genuinely begin to erupt again. Herleif turned back to look as a shower of light debris fell over the horde, but much to his relief, it was only the ballista in the tower, blown apart by one of the Lion Flame's bombs. The weapon smoked from its perch in the tower, left broken and useless now as the Vikings finally closed in around their floundering prey, free from the threat of any quick bolts skewering them from behind. Now only Kazamir remained, and then the city would be theirs, along with all the treasure hoarded in the vault. The armor of Apollyon was theirs to claim, and then they could finally sail for home.
"Kill this metal troll!" Herleif roared, pushing his way forward alongside his warriors to reach Kazamir. "The gods are with us! The day is ours! Earn your glory by claiming this bastard's head!"
"That's my fucking head!" shouted Ivar from the crowd, earning a cheer from his skull-adorned Headhunters. "Touch it, and I'll kick you between the legs so hard you'll be pissing out your ass!"
Herleif laughed, finding joy within the freedom of the battle din, but it was short-lived as he finally fought his way up to the platform and came face to face with the armored commander himself. Kazamir moved on him with astounding speed, striking down with his longsword to crush bone and split flesh. Herleif just ducked out of the way just in time, striking with a cut of his own sword across Kazamir's back, but all he managed to cut was the commander's black cape, the heavy breastplate holding against the sword's edge.
Kazamir turned to come at him again, but Gunnar burst forth from the crowd and slammed his axe into the commander's gut, doubling the giant over but still not cutting through his armor. Gunnar roared and swung again, but Kazamir recovered quickly from the first blow, knocking away Gunnar's axe and backhanding him with a metal fist. Skuld appeared to carry on the fight as Gunnar fell, leaping over the raider and stabbing at Kazamir with her spear, forcing the commander back before he could strike Gunnar down with a flurry of silver light as her spear stabbed with an otherworldly speed.
Kazamir weathered the blows with a shout of anger, eventually dodging out of the way and swiping at Skuld with a powerful underhand swing of his sword. Skuld ducked back, her blonde braids flying about her head from the rush of wind as the longsword just narrowly slid by. Planting her feet, the elegant Valkyrie punched the rim of her shield into Kazamir's leg, bringing him crashing down to one knee so that his great stature meant nothing in the fight. In the blink of an eye, she thrust again with her spear, goring the Pyre commander in the shoulder and twisting the blade to draw forth a cry of pain that echoed from within Kazamir's helmet, his shoulder stuck with Skuld's spear point. He tried to swipe at her sideways with his other arm. She moved too quickly for him, stepping beyond his reach and yanking her spear free with a gush of red from between black metal plates and mail.
Herleif stepped in and slammed his helmet into Kazamir as they stood face to face, knocking the commander's head back with a crack. At first he intended to try and stab at any weak points in the commander's armor while he was dazed, but the thought of the seax belonging to his wife's father jumped into his mind as it hung from Skuld's belt. If there were ever an opponent whose death was worthy of carrying Ander Ottarsson's spirit to the halls of Valhǫll, surely the commander of an entire enemy force would do the trick. He moved behind Kazamir before he could recover, pressing the rim of his shield against his neck and the edge of his sword beneath the man's jaw, exposing Kazamir's throat for cutting. "Now? For Ander!" he asked Skuld, panting hard as he struggled to keep a hold on Kazamir long enough for her to land a fatal blow with the seax.
Skuld simply looked back at him and shook her head no.
"What?" Herleif gasped, face falling in anger and disappointment. "If not him, then who-?" He didn't get to finish that, though, as Kazamir reached back and painfully grabbed hold of him by the back of the neck. Herleif gave a shout, and the world suddenly tumbled ass over head as he was bodily tossed away like a child to crash into his own warriors. It took him longer to get up than he would willingly admit, and once he had finally caught his breath again, he saw that Kazamir was already on his feet and striking back against Ivar and his warriors.
Ivar, to his credit, seemed to be wise enough to pick his moment in this fight, dodging and staying clear of Kazamir's sword and hitting back when the opportunity presented itself. Herleif had never seen Ivar fight with such restraint before, and in fact, his other warriors seemed to be fighting in perfect rhythm with Herleif's own, rather than the savage, undisciplined rabble he had always known them to be. Gunnar and Skuld kept at the commander as well, seemingly in competition with Ivar and Njal for Kazamir's head, but there were more Pyre Knights still standing against the Viking horde upon the platform.
A cry rang out as a group of cultists charged the platform, intent on freeing their commander from his attackers, but the flash of white and red burst into the fray as the Lion Flame engaged their sworn enemy with merciless animosity. Coal threw himself right at another Conqueror, slamming them to the ground with his shield and beating them to a pulp with his flail. At the same time, Priscilla quickly began her work of weaving in between Pyre Knights and soldiers, stabbing and slicing until there was nothing left in her wake but corpses. The rest of their legion followed suit, but Judith headed straight for the melee with Kazamir, seemingly determined not to be left out of the final confrontation with the commander of the most hated legion in Ashfeld. Most hated besides her own, perhaps.
On the other side of the platform, Ragnar, Ragna, and Helge had descended from the balcony and were pressing in against what remained the Pyre, cutting them down with hacks and slashes of their axes and knives, clamoring over the bodies as they fell to get at those who still had the audacity to remain standing. They had the Divine Pyre completely surrounded before the last temple of a now-conquered city. There was nowhere for the cultists to run. It was almost over.
Herleif felt that there was no need to help with the last of the slaughter, surprisingly enough. He gave a laugh and simply watched, a number of the warriors filling the courtyard doing the same as it became clear that the fight was done. Kazamir stood outnumbered and alone, the strength of his armor and the sharpness of his sword counting for nothing against so many foes.
With a valiant cry, Judith struck the edge of her longsword against the back of Kazamir's knee and sliced along the tendon to bring the metal giant down for good with a pathetic scream of pain. Herleif immediately cheered as he watched Kazamir fall and drop his sword. The horde cheered with him as all Vikings celebrated the defeat of this last remnant of the Divine Pyre's military force. Their enemy had been conquered, totally and completely. Left broken beneath the volcano that they had worshiped as a savior for their tyrannical reign.
Now only the killing blow remained.
"He's mine!" shouted Ivar, stepping past Skuld and Gunnar to place his shield and sword across the commander's neck. Kazamir tried to push him away, but Njal and Judith quickly grabbed his arms, yanking them behind his back to hold him still. Ivar laughed darkly, putting the edge of his sword to Kazamir again. "You pathetic fleck of pig shit. I told you I would take your head."
The horde grew quiet as they all watched, those further back down the stairs craning their necks to see. Herleif's gaze was locked on Ivar and Kazamir, just waiting for the moment to end. It did not bother him that he was not the one to give the killing strike. He had fought hard and gotten them this far and was more than content to simply watch. There was glory enough to be shared by everyone in this victory. After this raid, they would all be put into great sagas and legends for what they had accomplished here, their names spoken with pride forever. But some coveted fame and glory for themselves more than they coveted even gold.
A pair of hands reached up and grabbed Herleif's shoulders from behind, yanking him backward before he could react.
He had been so focused on Kazamir's defeat that he hadn't even noticed anyone moving behind him and gave a sharp cry as he flailed to escape. He only just caught sight of someone grabbing hold of Ivar, Gunnar, Skuld, Njal, Judith, and all the rest. There was a flash of gold shining on metal helmets and in brightly threaded shirts and mail, and suddenly he was being pushed back into the crowd as if he were any ordinary warrior to be brushed aside for his betters. "What is the meaning of this!?" he exclaimed, trying to shove back against his captors.
There was more shouting from up on the platform, Ivar and Gunnar both cursing up a storm as they wrestled against a dozen warriors each. They seemed to come out of nowhere, but now they crowded through every space of the courtyard, forcing the others away as they laid claim to the temple as if they had paid for its capture with their blood.
"Get off of me, you ass-licking lap dog!" Gunnar shouted, sounding more furious now than when he had been fighting against the Divine Pyre.
"I'll tell ya the same as before, laddie!" exclaimed Old Wolf, his strange accent recognizable even in a crowd. "Stay down before I put ya down!"
A group of Sea Eagle warriors rushed for Kazamir where he knelt, chasing away Njal and Judith with their spears and then dragging him to the ground. Kazamir was powerless to stop them, though he roared in anger as if his defeat was an insult to his authority and station. None of that mattered in the end as the Sea Eagle warriors kept him pinned down, one of them stepping around to unbuckle and slip off the commander's dark helmet, revealing the face of a pale, gaunt looking man within.
The whole thing was an insult to behold, but not to Kazamir.
Herleif seethed as he watched his warriors being forced back from the platform by the Sea Eagle clan, Ivar's too. Every warrior who had bled and sacrificed to reach this point was turned away, the golden-clad warriors still outnumbering the rest beyond any hope of standing their ground against them. Through the middle of the courtyard, a path was opened by marching spearmen, golden eagles painted upon their shields, and Herleif's eyes flashed with unbridled hate to see Magnus making his way to the platform, armor shining like he was the prince of the city.
"Make way for the King!" Magnus shouted, smiling proudly as he held his hands out to the crowd, as if he alone held them back rather than the literal army of golden warriors belonging to his father. "Make way for the King! Make way!"
"Magnus, you worthless swine!" cried Judith from the platform, but she was rudely shoved back and corralled with the rest of her Knights far away from Kazamir like uninvited guests thrown from a feasting hall.
Ivar threw off the warriors holding him back, smacking one upside the head with his shield hard enough to send teeth flying into the air. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you all for this, you troll-humping curs! You nithing, gutless, spits of human shit! Get out of my way before I rip your spines out your backs!" He moved to cut down one of the Sea Eagle warriors, not caring for the consequences, but failed to spot Old Wolf stepping up from behind to take him down with the kick of one big boot to the back.
"We'll be have'n none o'that now, ya hateful git!" The gray-haired Highlander slammed his claymore down across Ivar's shield as he tried to lift it, stomping a foot down against the painted surface to pin the Warlord to the ground. "Now stay!"
Ivar spat a string of curses terrible enough to make Thor blush, snarling and spitting as he stared up at Old Wolf with dark eyes burning like coals of hate. "Your master is no king of mine, you old fuck! Get off me so I can skin your useless hide!"
He began to struggle again, but Magnus bounded up the stairs to stand over him alongside Old Wolf, flipping an ornate golden axe into his hand and swinging it down at Ivar's snarling face. It stopped just a hair's breadth away from carving a new and very permanent scar across the Jarl's grizzled face. "All good things in time," he said, smiling down in remark to who or who not Ivar bent the knee to. "Now, keep that wicked tongue of yours silent behind those nasty teeth. My father is coming."
Sure enough, horns sounded long and clear, echoing up along the alcove walls to herald the coming of the King. It looked more like the coming of the gods with the way Erik Golden-Shield seemed to proudly saunter his way through the crowd to the platform, glinting shield and shining crown still somehow bright beneath the smoke-hidden sun. The warriors filling the courtyard scowled and frowned as the Golden Jarl, or rather, the Golden King, passed by, but he kept his eyes forward, walking through them without a care in the world. With his blonde-bearded chin held high, Erik gave not a look or care for the horde of kinsman who had fought, bled, and lost dear friends in the shield wall to claim this city. He cared not a bit, walking silently up the stone steps to the platform and to the subdued commander of the Divine Pyre, who was not only wounded but also held down by no less than seven warriors as the King approached.
Kazamir squinted upward as Erik's shadow fell over him. He lay still and broken, puddles of dark blood pooling beneath his pierced shoulder and cut leg. There was no more fight left in him. No more righteous spirit of burning faith. All he had left were the last pitiless words he spat at the Golden King's feet. "Pagan scum…" Kazamir hissed, but his voice had no more bite to it now than a sick, flea-ridden dog on death's doorstep.
Erik looked down at the defeated commander and smiled. "You made a good go of it. For that, I commend you." Kazamir sneered up at him, but Erik hardly noticed as he turned back to the crowd that had fallen silent at his arrival, lifting his clean, ornate sword high into the air, and bellowed for all to hear. "I claim this city, this mountain, and all its people in the name of clan Sea Eagle! And I, Erik Golden-Shield, King of Tua Peak, from the lands of Ishamar to Bilrost, claim the life of this fallen enemy for the glory of my reign!" His voice echoed over complete silence, every set of eyes in the courtyard fixed upon him, watching on in surprise, anger, and absolute awe. Herleif ground his jaw so tight as he seethed, he thought his teeth might break into pieces.
"For honor, for you all, and for all the gods who grant us absolute victory on this day!" Erik spoke with all the zeal and charisma to ready the entire horde for battle, but only his own warriors cheered him on once he was finished. None cheered louder than his son, Magnus, who howled like a crazed wolf until Erik silenced him with a scornful look.
Then Erik turned and looked down at Kazamir again. The warriors holding him down cleared away for the sake of propriety, but there was nothing more the fallen commander could do. Lifting his sword, Erik didn't even allow Kazamir the dignity to sit up off the ground as he met his end. The blade came down straight and true, piercing the commander's throat, a stream of blood rolling down pale flesh as Kazamir took his last breath in this mortal realm.
Slowly, Erik knelt beside the dead man, reaching out with a gentle touch to close his eyes, and then pressed his hand to Kazamir's shoulder in solemn respect. He bowed his head as if he had known his foe well enough to respect him truly, as if he had been the one to fight Kazamir alone to the bitter end.
A Loki's trick, if there ever was one, and the entire horde watched on in utter silence. All except for Ivar, who simply had the balls to say what everyone else was thinking.
"What the fuck!?"