The walk back from the church was made in silence. Herleif kept his eyes on the path before him, only seeing his brother as some amorphous shape at the very edge of his vision rather than actually acknowledging his presence. For his part, Gunnar never turned back over his shoulder to look at him, making it seem that they were both walking in the same direction but not walking together. If there was anything worth saying now that the chasm of resentment and pride had opened between them, it had been lost along with the head of that decapitated statue back in the square.
Soon though, the noise of the occupied city began to fill their ears as they began to walk among their kinsmen again, once more making their way back into the parts of the city now held under Viking rule. When they had finally reached the fortress in which the vault was kept, Gunnar began to ascend the stairs to the heavily guarded entrance, still looking none-too-pleased at being summoned like a dog by Erik and having to leave his lady Knight behind. Herleif followed after him, equally displeased for all the same reasons and more besides.
"Not that way," called out a smooth voice, catching Herleif and Gunnar both off guard as they looked around. A Shaman was sitting on the steps nearby, sharpening their curved knife with slow strokes of a whetstone, calling out again without looking up from the silver gleam of the blade's edge. "The King is not within the fortress, but he is not far."
Herleif gave Gunnar a questioning glance out of habit but quickly looked away just when their eyes met and frowned at the woman instead. "And you are?"
"I am called Thyra," smiled the Shaman, still not looking away from her knife to greet him, "and I will take you to the King."
She was a well-dressed woman, as far as Shaman went. Her scalp was shaved down to stubble except for a patch of copper-brown hair that was braided at the top of her head, and she wore a golden battle crown decorated with feathers that seemed to give her the appearance of royalty, which was only made all the more convincing by the orange fox fur set about her shoulders. Her face and arms were all decorated with crisscrossing patterns of brown paint lined in white, and she had a mature look about her that was not unpleasant to behold, with none of the frantic twitching or devious enthusiasm of youth like that of Helge. Indeed, Thyra seemed content to remain seated upon the steps like she was a permanent fixture to the fortress, giving her curved knife another long and slow stroke, drawing out the sharp hiss of metal with the stone. "Just allow me one moment. I must make sure that the blade is sharp. It will need to be sharp if I am to do my work."
"Intend to use it soon, do you?" asked Herleif.
"A great battle has been won, Jarl Herleif," Thyra said with all the slow ease of her swiping hand. "You know as well as I a proper gift must be given to the gods for indulging in such a bounty of blood." Herleif could not recall dealing with any of Erik's Shaman personally before, and he was not sure he was entirely comfortable with how familiar she was speaking to him now. For a moment, he wondered just what sort of gift Erik might be willing to present to the gods for their favor in battle and whether it had anything to do with why he and Gunnar had been summoned. From the narrow-eyed look Gunnar gave him, it seemed he was thinking about a similar question. Before either of them could voice their concerns, though, Thyra slid her knife into its sheath at her hip and slapped her hands down on both legs as she stood with a groan. "Very well then, no need to just stand there. The King is waiting. Follow me."
Herleif could only let out a heavy sigh as the Shaman stepped down the stairs and began to walk off. Gunnar raised his brows but said nothing. It seemed that even Erik's servants felt that they now ranked higher than a Jarl as far as he was concerned, or perhaps it was just Thyra's own odd way after serving such a powerful Warlord for so long. One could never really tell with Shamans, but even when they seemed to be at their most sensible, they could still surprise you with a frightening glimpse into whatever terrible powers they served in the realms beyond Midgard. Herleif shook his head and begrudgingly followed after.
Gunnar did not go so quietly as he descended the stairs to follow after the Shaman and his brother. "So Erik has finally pried himself away from his precious vault? I did not think there was anything in all the nine realms that would ever see him away from those metal doors." Herleif let out a small snort of laughter but did not bother to give voice to a quip or a joke of his own like he might have done under better circumstances. Right now, even the thought of laughing with Gunnar felt like it might inflict the same sort of pain in him as a stab to the gut from a Warden's longsword.
Thyra let out a chuckle of her own, but it sounded almost rehearsed rather than a genuine reaction like she knew this was a moment to laugh even if she couldn't bring herself to actually care. "The King seeks a great hoard taken in battle to impress the Allfather, but there is more to claim in this city than just gold and fine armor."
She led them away from the fortress and through the city, navigating the maze of burned-out buildings and overcrowded apartments as Vikings went about their business, passing the time by drinking away the day, trying to find some sense of comfort in the aftermath of the battle, or searching the city in shifts for the missing vault key. Thyra didn't seem to notice any of it, walking through the bustling streets with her chin held high, parting the crowds through sheer force of will alone, and more than a few Sea-Eagle warriors passed her with their eyes fixed to the ground rather than look at her. Herleif may not have been familiar with Erik's own Shaman before now, but there was no denying, from her fine clothes and baubles of gold and bone to the space given to her by the warriors, that this was indeed a woman of high renown among her people.
Herleif and Gunnar walked in continued silence behind her and with what felt like more brooding as well. Luckily though, wherever it was, Thyra was leading them did not take long to reach. A few more turns and they came upon an inner wall with a single entryway, a number of Sea-Eagle warriors standing guard outside its raised metal gate. Thyra passed by them without a word, and Herleif did his best to ignore the scowling looks from the King's warriors as he followed. The guard's suspicious glares watched after them beneath their bright metal caps, their spears clutched tight in their hands and at the ready as if to say that he and Gunnar were as much a threat as the cultists they had taken the city from.
Herleif ignored the unspoken insult with a low grumble and distracted himself by looking about the courtyard Thyra had led them into. The wide open space within the wall appeared empty except for two lines of tall poles for holding torches to either side of the path they walked, enough to make sure the entire area was well-lit at night. A much more imposing sight rose up before them in the form of a massive outcropping of rock rising like the prow of a mighty drakkar, a sliver of the mountainside spearing its way into this corner of the man-made city. Upon it, a looming skull had been carved into the rock, with flaming braziers set into the hollow eye-sockets so that they glowed like the hateful gaze of a demon, while below, a set of large iron-studded doors stood open to reveal a hallway stretching off into the darkness like a cavernous maw just waiting to swallow them up. Herleif couldn't shake the feeling that the whole thing was meant to resemble a giant skull to frighten anyone about to enter through its maw into the mountain within.
It all seemed a bit dramatic to him, but then the Divine Pyre had seemed to have an affinity for shock-and-awe tactics when dealing with both their enemies and their own people. Too bad for them, the Vikings were neither shocked nor awed enough to keep their swords and axes from ending them.
More Sea-Eagle warriors stood guard in front of the skull's waiting mouth; two broad-chested Raiders with rams horns and horse-hair plumes upon their golden helmets, along with four more spearmen. Clearly, whatever was being kept inside this mountain fortress had caught Erik's attention, something that the King now intended to claim for himself along with Apollyon's armor once the vault was finally open, and now intended to show it off like a child boasting about their favorite toy.
Stepping within the skull entrance, a chill ran down Herleif's spine as the warmth of the sun was replaced by the chill of solid rock all around him as Thyra took them down a narrow passage deeper into the mountain. Only a few torches were burning in their sconces to light their path, casting long shadows and giving Herleif the feeling that they were indeed making their way down into the belly of some dormant beast. Worse than the confining stone, though, was the oppressive quiet that was broken only by the sound of their footfalls while Thyra led the way without hesitation. Before long, Herleif became aware of a growing stench that stung at his nose, musty and dank, the bitter smell of unwashed bodies and putrid stench of soiled clothes and corpses left in the darkness to rot in the cold, wet, and deep places of the earth. He began to fear just what Erik had found here, kept hidden in the darkness, and whatever it was he was about to be shown.
Iron bars appeared on either side of them, set into the walls with great open spaces behind them. Between the bars, Herleif thought he saw eyes peering back at him, little glints of shining light in a sea of inky black.
"Wait," he muttered, his voice echoing down the hall as he grabbed a torch from the wall to get a better look.
Holding up the torch, his eyes widened in shock as a cell full of dirty, hunched, grime-smeared people shrank back from the firelight like rats caught in the winter stores. Men and women dressed in rags, their hair wild and greasy about gaunt faces, wallowing in filth as they cowered together like pigs packed into a muddy pen. Herleif felt ill to look at them, and as much of a shock as it was, somehow, he was not surprised with what he saw.
"Who are these people?" he asked Thyra, his failing voice wrought with pity and disgust, "Surely these are not our prisoners? They look to have been here far too long to have been captured in the attack."
"No," Thyra said smoothly, not having moved from where she stood further down the hall. She only gave the poor wretches an indifferent look over her shoulder as if they were so far beneath her attention they may as well not have been there at all. "These we found already here when we took the city. Prisoners of the Pyre, no doubt. Those who refused to kneel and worship the volcano as the tyrants demanded."
Gunnar stepped up behind Herleif, looking at the cowering people in their dozens all crammed into the cell. He stared slack-jawed in awful amazement, then glanced over to the other side of the hall where yet another cell was filled with more pitiful-looking prisoners. Those who met his eye did so, shivering in fright at the large bare-chested Northman now looming above them with axe in hand, but most kept their eyes downcast in broken submission.
"Why keep them locked up?" Gunnar asked, kneeling down to try to meet the eye of some dirty old man holding a woman in his arms. Her eyes were half-lidded, eyelashes fluttering, and parched lips quivering in silent words. There was no doubt the woman was gripped by sickness, sweat shining upon her brow as she shivered, but the man held her tight even still. "Shouldn't we help them? Let them go or something? These people are not our enemy..."
"Help them?" Thyra echoed with a mirthless laugh, "Why? They may not be our prisoners, but they are useless to us as they are, not even as thralls."
"We cannot just leave them like this," said Gunnar, unable to take his eyes away from the people suffering behind the bars. "There is room enough in the city. We can get them out of here, into a better shelter, clean and feed them."
Thyra narrowed her eyes at him in the flickering light of the torch, reaching up to idly stroke her fingers at the soft fox fur around her shoulders. "Feed them with what? Your own provisions? Will your brother ask his warriors to give up their food while they go without, just as you asked them to take such vermin as the Lion Flame into their ranks? I know the King would not waste his stores on such worthless creatures such as these. Their fates were woven long before we took this city, and not even their own God would lift his hand to help them. They are nothing and belong to no one now. Just eyes in the darkness, watching the world pass them by. Come," she turned down the corridor, paying the prisoners no more mind as she walked on into the darkness before the next torch along the wall lit her again, "there are greater treasures to be found further on. You will see."
Herleif tore his gaze away from the cell and looked at his brother, who gave him a worrying glance back. Gunnar bared his teeth and whispered, "I will tell Judith of this place. She will do something to free these people."
"You will pit her against Erik again if you do," Herleif said grimly. "The edge of his sword has been on her neck too many times already. If she does not refuse you outright, the Knight's intervention will only undo all the work we have done to see them spared of his wrath, despite all we have lost already." He could see in Gunnar's bright eyes that he wished to argue further, but Herleif took a step after Thyra and moved on down the hall before his brother could say another word, forcing himself not to look back into the cages again. Gunnar gave a curse but soon followed after. Herleif could hear the prisoners shuffling to the bars to watch them depart with the light, imaging dirty hands and desperate faces pressed tight to the rough metal as they were left in all-consuming darkness once again. The image would haunt him, he knew, hating himself for his own weakness to act as he walked the hall in blind obedience at Erik's whims, but as the Shaman had said, these people belonged to no one now. There was too much at stake and nothing to gain by helping them now, so he walked on.
More cells appeared out of the dark as they went, spaces small and large sequestered behind metal bars and heavy locked doors. Some were occupied, while others had been left empty. There were a few filled with corpses alongside those starving and sick who would soon be counted among the dead. The stench was vile and oppressive in the way it hung in the stale air. Herleif did what he could to keep his eyes fixed forward, but he began to think he might be sick if Thyra did not lead them out of this vile pit of suffering soon.
The Shaman appeared unconcerned with his and Gunnar's apparent discomfort or the suffering of those unlucky enough to end up in the cells that they passed by. In fact, she seemed right at home in such a horrible place as this. Despite her fine features and fair manner of dress, the heart of a monster no doubt beat within her chest. Knowing the reputations of Shamans among their people, Herleif would not have been surprised to learn that Thyra had risen to power at Erik's side through an appetite for blood that was as covetous as the King's lust for gold. To her, suffering was strength, and blood was power. She was the beast lurking in the darkness, with a hatchet and a curved knife in hand to make seiðr art of her victim's blood, and would not heed the pain of mortals that might coax about the weakness called mercy. Somehow Herleif felt that he would rather be locked in a room with Helge during one of her fits rather than spend any longer than necessary in this dungeon with Thyra's quiet malevolence.
His dislike of Thyra was put no more at ease when she stopped before one prison cell and smiled. "Ah, now these are prisoners of worth," she said, looking back at Herleif with a grin that flashed hungrily in the light. "Bring your torch closer, Jarl Herleif. See how they shiver and squirm like worms in the dirt now that fate has been ripped free from their grasp."
He came closer as she bid, holding up his torch to reveal the cowering faces of a dozen or so men just as dirty and reeking of filth as the rest they had seen. Unlike the other prisoners, though, it was clear that these men were much better fed, or at least had been before they had ended up consumed within the dark halls of this prison. They had all been stripped naked, an unsightly collection of pale fat, flabby skin, crisscrossing wrinkles, and balding heads. One was huddled in a corner crying without end, while others merely sat about in a stunned daze or crawled about in the refuse built up over the floor. The cell was filled with the rattle of chains, and Herleif saw the dark metal links and shackles clasped about their ankles and wrists, along with a horrifying amount of dark bruises, red scrapes, and a few bleeding cuts that would surely prove a danger in such putrid squalor. Thyra chuckled softly as she watched with open delight.
A single prisoner crawled forward on their hands and knees, shuffling over to the bars and rattling his chains as he reached up to grab them. "Please..." he said, whimpering pitifully as tears streamed down from red-rimmed eyes and over grimy cheeks. He took a shuddering breath, but when he spoke again, all he could say was, "Please..."
Thyra crouched down before him. "Shh... Quiet now. Your suffering is not to last; you have my word." She reached out a hand to him, of which the man instantly tried to back away, but she caught hold of his wrist through the bars and pulled him close enough to get her other hand around the back of his head. She wretched him close, slamming his forehead against the metal with a dull thud, smiling wider as he squirmed and began to bawl in her grasp. "Look at me," she said softly, and the man just squeezed his eyes tighter as he cried. Thyra grasped the man's skull and slammed him against the bars yet again and opened up a cut of dark blood that trickled down his brow as she bared her teeth and shouted in his face. "Look at me, worm!" His wet eyes shot open as her terrible voice echoed down the halls, but her wrath was no less diminished as she let loose a low, bestial growl from deep in her throat. "Soon, our work will begin. You have my word."
Herleif watched along with Gunnar in helpless silence until he could no longer stand the men's pathetic cries and his own growing dread that he might never escape this prison and see the light of day again. "You said you would take us to Erik, so fucking take us already," he hissed angrily, "I have better things to do than stand here and watch you play with your food."
Thyra slowly turned her wicked gaze up to look at him, no longer wearing a smile across her lips. She stared at him for a long moment, the discomfort in the air growing more visceral all the while. Then, finally, she let the man go to shrink back among the rest, but the others only seemed to shirk his presence as if he had become diseased by her touch alone. The Shaman stood, lips pressed tight and taking in a breath as Herleif remained the sole object of her contempt. Then she sighed it all away, her shoulders relaxing as she wiped her hands together to clean them of the prisoner's filth. "Prisoners from the tower," she said casually as ever, turning to continue down the hall without another glance at the cell. "All that is left of the Pyre's priests. They could not grant their God victory in battle, and so now they will slake our god's thirst for blood in defeat. Soon."
Shortly after they left the priests to wallow in their misery, they came to a set of stairs that led upward to a second level in the prison. Herleif was relieved to find that the air smelled less foul as they ascended and even found a few small windows carved into the walls to let in the light. The halls Thyra led them through were still oppressively narrow, but after a few turns they came upon more Sea-Eagle Raiders standing guard with their bright axes in hand, and just beyond that, the King.
"As you requested, my King. The Bilrost Jarl and his brother," Thyra said, offering a small bow of her head to Erik as she brought Herleif and Gunnar into an open chamber where the rest were gathered. Erik merely gave their arrival a passing glance, evidently finding the cell before him far more interesting, while his champion Old Wolf stood at his side with claymore in hand and his son Magnus crouched before the bars much the same as Thyra had done while tormenting the priest. Along with a few more guards, the only other person in attendance was Ivar, whose hard frown and petrifying scowl had been even darker than usual ever since his man Njal had been found dead in the high tower. It was no easy thing to lose a second, especially after victory had just been claimed, and Herleif could scarcely imagine how broken he would be if Gunnar had met a similar fate. For now, though, he had not found the right time to offer Ivar his condolences and was not entirely sure if he ever would.
When Erik did not give voice to why they had been summoned, Herleif pushed his way past Thyra and approached the King with no sense of kindness if the way Old Wolf tensed and lifted his claymore over one shoulder was any indication. Herleif ignored him but stopped his approach short rather than get too close as Old Wolf stood over his master like a guard dog showing its teeth.
"Well, here we are," he said, crossing his arms impatiently over his chest, "What is so important we needed to be dragged through the bowels of this accursed mountain to see?"
Erik gave him a side-eyed look and grinned, gesturing to the cell before him. "Take a look for yourself."
Herleif could hardly say that answer amused him, but he took a much more cautious step next to Erik and looked around the chamber. The cell was not the only one before them, as it stood with two others on either side. Those were crowded with people sitting about, chained to each other or to the stone walls. Fit, dark-haired figures of all sizes, some were pale, others with skin bronzed by the sun, and all were staring right back at him with none of the hollow-eyed fear of those suffering in the prison below. These eyes were sharp, cunning, and fierce, and Herleif knew right away that these were not the eyes of broken peasants and hopeless priests but of warriors. He frowned back at them, but not a one averted their gaze. At a glance, there looked to be about forty bodies packed between the two cells, perhaps more, but that was what made the middle one all the more unique. Behind this set of bars, only three figures appeared.
Of all the many cages they had passed to get here, this was the only one with a window. A small hole was set high in the rock, but enough to let in light and illuminate the open room while the rest wallowed in shadow. Near the window stood a woman, tall and lean, her black hair loose about her shoulders and her wrists shackled together by a chain fixed to the wall. She leaned casually against the roughly hewn stone, looking back at Herleif for a few slow blinks before returning her attention to the window where wisps of smoke could be seen against the bright sky as if watching them waft by was far more interesting than the room full of Vikings outside her cage. Sitting in the opposite corner, what Herleif had first mistaken for a pile of rock left un-carved from the mountain's interior, was actually the biggest man he had ever set eyes on. Wrapped in dirty gray robes, only the top of his head and a narrow pair of dark eyes, the same as the woman's, could be seen peering back at him from his shadowed corner. His equally dark hair was shaved along the sides and tied into a messy knot behind his head, and a chain nearly as wide as Herleif's arm was fixed to a collar bound around his thick neck.
Somehow, in spite of these two oddities, the small woman kneeling in the middle of the cell remained the most intriguing figure to observe of the three. Dressed in dark rags, she was small and slight, forced to remain down on her knees by the manacles around her wrists that were chained to the floor. Her hair was tied behind her head, but loose strands of black hung about her face like wild grass, and within the open collar of her rags, the colorful lines of swirling tattoos could be seen clearly against pale skin; the round eyes and dog-like snout of a blue maned dragon crept into view over one shoulder, while swirling clouds framed either side of her collarbones. No one in the cells spoke, but unlike everyone else, this woman was the only one to keep their eyes fixed firmly upon the ground.
For some reason, Herleif could not shake the feeling that this woman looked away from them, not because she was afraid or ashamed to be captured but because they were the ones not worthy of looking at her. She was prideful, this woman, even while chained and locked behind the bars of her prison.
Gunnar stepped up beside him, shaking his head and chewing on his lip before finally giving voice to the unexpected sight set before them. "Samurai?"
"They must have been sitting in this dank shit-pit through the entire battle, poor bastards," chuckled Erik, also shaking his head, but more for seeing the whole thing as a silly prank set up by a child. "No idea what was going on, just stuck here, wondering if the mountain was coming down on top of them or if the whole world had gone mad, and wondering if their doom might finally be at hand."
"It might still be," grinned Magnus, rattling one of his axes against a few of the iron bars to make them ring while the three captives continued to ignore him.
"But where did they come from?" Herleif asked. "And how did they get locked up in here? I was not aware that the Pyre had any skermisheswith the Samurai."
"Clearly, this would suggest otherwise," said Erik, turning over his shoulder to nod at Thyra. The Shaman stepped up to a door she had been lurking near and kicked it open. Herleif and Gunnar turned and crossed the room to take a look at what was inside and stared in amazement at what they found. Row upon row of stacked Samurai armor, helmets, rectangular shields, spears, thin curved swords, and bows. There was even a giant orange and gold club fixed with wicked-looking spikes along its length, laying over a pile of armor fit for a giant and a mask like a snarling ogre. Herleif had no trouble guessing who such weapons and armor belonged to, and the rest was plentiful enough to outfit a small army, far more than the handful of warriors locked up behind them.
"It seems that we were not the first to launch an attack against the city," Herleif said, blinking at so many sharp blades so carelessly tossed about like junk forgotten in the corner of a closet. "The question is, why? I thought the legions of Beaufort were busy fighting off the houses of the Samurai to the south. What was this one doing here on its own?" He watched as Gunnar stepped inside the room and picked up a black shield with the symbol of a white circle with four interlocking squares within, clearly the sigil of whatever house these warriors belonged to.
Thyra appeared next to him, leaning against the door frame and tapping her fingernails impatiently against the stone. "The Myre is a vast swamp. Who is to say what the birds might be doing at the top of the tree while the rats are busy fleeing from the hunting snakes among its roots."
"Is it a compulsion for women such as you to speak so ridiculously, or do you do it just for your own amusement?" Herleif grumbled, turning away from the room of weapons and walking back toward the cells. "The Samurai are too few in number to fight on multiple fronts at once. Their way has always been to attack in force or retreat into the swamps and wait for an opportunity to strike. If the Emperor and the Lord-Warden are fighting each other in the south, then why were these warriors left behind?"
Erik grimaced and shrugged his shoulders. "Does it matter? Whatever reason the fire worshipers and the Myre rats came to blows, the Pyre is finished. Now, just like with the vault, we can take what they have collected here for ourselves." He smiled then, stepping closer to the bars and staring down at the woman on her knees as if he could not imagine a more natural and fitting state for an enemy to appear in his presence. "So, Herleif, which one would you like? We can divide the rest up among ourselves but of these three? I will take this one, I think. I enjoy her sense of... subtle resilience. I think with a bit of time and a little bit of effort, it will be a true joy to watch her break."
The man in the corner shifted with the rattle of his great chain to fix his eyes on Erik, catching everyone by surprise as he looked at the Golden King with unabashed hatred. Then he spoke in a voice so low it was like the slow rumble of a massive avalanche rolling down a mountain. "You will address the Lady Takayama with respect, barbarian."
Silence fell over the chamber as all the Northmen present stared at the shrouded giant in stunned amazement. Of all the introductions to be made, being told off by a prisoner chained in the corner of a dank prison cell was certainly an interesting way to start things. If the captured man felt at all awkward to have so many eyes on him, he did not show it. He simply sat and stared Erik down while the woman he had spoken up to defend remained as silent as the grave, her eyes still fixed upon the ground like the Vikings were not even there. Then, starting with a low chuckle, Erik began to laugh. An inglorious sound that soon grew into a roar or amusement, head tipped back and shoulders shaking. His warriors took this as a sign to laugh as well until the entire chamber echoed with their mockery, with Magnus cackling loudest of all. Only Herleif and Gunnar stayed silent, remaining as stoic observers toward the Samurai offered up on display.
"You dare to command me?" Erik laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Oh yes, that is rich indeed... Ha! The balls on this fucking troll! I will speak to whom I please, how I please, so long as I remain out here and you in there, you rock-brained fool." He chuckled again, then looked to the bound woman in the center of the cell. "He likes you, your jǫtunn. That is good to know. It will make taking you as my bed-thrall all the sweeter."
Herleif curled his lip and stared side-eyed at his gracious King. "Takayama? Where have I heard that name before?"
Old Wolf gave a gruff bark of laughter and shrugged his shoulders. "Ya heard one Myre-shite's clan name, ya heard'em all."
"No," interjected Gunnar, shaking his head without taking his eyes from the woman kneeling before them all, "the Daimyo of Rustbog is Takayama. Takayama Miyamoto, the Black Dragon of the Myre. Long has he fought against our raids in the east, with more than a few victories to his name. Hard-won victories against the Warborn and more besides."
A new silence fell over the Vikings, only this time they eyed the prisoners warily, looking at them as if they were a treasure now befouled by some unseen poison, too afraid to touch. Magnus scratched at his blonde beard with one axe, chin jutted out as he frowned. "So, this is what...? The Daimyo's daughter?" The woman looking out the small window gave a sharp click of her tongue as if admonishing an idiot child for not solving an easy riddle as quickly as everyone else.
Erik raised his brows and tilted his head at his new prize. "All the better then," he said at last, a greedy smile slowly creeping across his lips, "How many of us can boast of having a Samurai princess among their thralls, eh?"
"Erik, are you sure that is a wise decision?" asked Herleif, knowing what a poor choice it was even to suggest that the King give up something so easily taken, but felt the need to try anyway for the sake of what harm it could cause in the future. "Taking a woman like this could make a dangerous enemy out of the Dawn Empire, which is the last thing we need right now. Perhaps it might be best to make a gift of her and these warriors back to her father. Maybe try to."
"A gift to the Samurai?" Erik cut in, looking at Herleif as if he had just grown a second head. "I must make a gift to some swamp rat because you think it is a good idea? The only gift to be made here is the gift of the other vault key from you to my fucking hand!" He held out his open palm as if expecting the key to be deposited into his hand right then and there. Herleif winced, knowing it had not been a good idea, but he had tried at least. "If the Daimyo wanted his daughter back, he could have sent his own army to come and reclaim her, but here she sits! Far be it from me to leave her here to rot if I can offer her a much more comfortable home within my hall." The smile he offered then was not only greedy but leering as well.
Herleif frowned, running a hand over his hair and speaking quietly to himself, "That is assuming her father knows she is alive..."
Erik waved his hand dismissively, clearly having no interest in what had actually been said. "If it is gifts you want, then allow me to be generous with my bounty now. Herleif, you can have the one blissfully wishing she could fly away with the birds." The woman at the window finally turned to look at Erik, fixing the Golden King with a look so full of utter contempt it might have been considered an admirable try at the assassination of a monarch. "And Ivar, you can take the jǫtunn. I am sure he will make good sport for your hounds." The prisoner chained in the corner, let out a long sigh, settled back against the wall, then closed his dark eyes as if he meant to fall asleep.
"Oh good," grumbled Ivar in his grating voice, the first words that the man had said since he had arrived, Herleif noted, "just what I came all this way to claim. A fat man heavier than a fucking rune stone."
Through all of this, the woman on her knees had not moved an inch. She had not said a word, not looked up from the ground as Erik dealt out her fate and the fate of her fellow warriors. She had not even shifted her weight upon her knees after remaining still for so long. In fact, the young woman appeared to be so much like a statue before them that Herleif almost wanted to check to see that she was still breathing. Living in the heart of western Valkenheim, he had few dealings with the Samurai and their eastern villages over the years but was able to draw up a particular lesson he had learned about their culture long ago from the depths of his mind. According to their code of honor, the Samurai preferred death over capture, and to be taken prisoner in battle was the ultimate humiliation in the eyes of their warriors. It struck him then that this daughter of Takayama Miyamoto, this Black Dragon of the Myre and revered Daimyo of Rustbog, might have already resigned themselves to death after defeat at the hands of Divine Pyre and considered her life to be forfeit already.
It made him sad to think so, surprisingly enough. Much like the Lion Flame, this woman and her warriors should have been his enemy in their own way, but he had been questioning what it meant to see someone as his enemy lately. Regardless, he simply thought she looked far too young to resign herself to whatever afterlife her people believed in while she still drew breath. It seemed like such a waste, and as a father himself, like a wound, no man could hope to recover from.
He continued to watch her, brooding over what pain the Daimyo might feel over her loss, over not knowing if she might still live or be long dead with no chance of laying her body to rest. He did not even know the man, or this woman before him for that matter, but still, the bitter feeling of loss ate away at him. What if he were in the same position with any of his own children? What if he had no idea whether his own daughter had been killed or taken prisoner in some pointless battle leagues away from the safety of his hall? He watched the woman and felt his frown grow deeper. He watched until he finally saw her fidget, his heart skipping a beat, thinking he saw her dark eyes begin to slowly roll up to look at him...
"Herleif? Did you fucking hear me?" Erik asked loudly, causing Herleif to jump and break from his trance. "There is yet another key to look for, remember? We will not find it here gawking at these thralls. Thyra will watch after them and the rest of the prisoners until we can finally leave this wretched city with our treasure."
"All the prisoners who matter," Thyra said pointedly from the back of the chamber, sparing a vindictive glance at Gunnar as he turned to glare at her.
Herleif's mind was still dwelling on why there were any Samurai here, to begin with, and what that meant for them if the Daimyo ever got word that his daughter was alive and being held as a Viking thrall. This journey through the prison had shaken him, even as the harrowing events of the siege remained so fresh in his mind. He did not feel like arguing, so he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, nodding slowly before backing away towards the stairs they had climbed to get there. "As you wish, my King. My warriors will not rest until the entire city has been searched and the key can be delivered into your waiting hand."
"Very good. You as well, Ivar," Erik grumbled, eyeing the Headhunter Jarl as he walked off, frowning without a word while glowering like a hunting dog finally let off his master's leash. Erik shook his head, then lightly knocked the back of his hand against Old Wolf's chest. "Let us be away from here then. I feel as if a dour mood has befallen the day. This place has more dark shadows than the entire realm of Hel."
That suited Herleif just fine. Despite everything that had happened earlier, he put a reassuring hand on Gunnar's shoulder as they took their leave, if only for his own comfort. He only spared one last glance over his shoulder at the Samurai before they were left to dwell in the silence of their prison. Even as the Northmen began to file out of the chamber to once again return to the light of day, the daughter of Takayama Miyamoto still had not raised her gaze from the floor.