On the way to the tower, Priscilla thought she might be bothered to return to a place where she had spilled so much blood. When they arrived, though, she felt strangely calm while ascending the now quiet floors of the High Priest's residence.
She recognized the spot where the Pyre Lawbringer had lamented the falsehood of his divine volcano. All that remained was a ransacked room; the once orderly desks and benches set out for writing beautiful manuscripts were left scattered and wrecked in the wake of the Viking's victory. A floor above, she had confronted the desperate priests of the Divine Pyre as they awaited God's judgment at the hand of heathens. Their barricade had been pushed aside, and their stack of tomes and ornate books turned cumbersome projectiles was now strewn about and forgotten in the struggle. It had all occurred not so long ago but appeared in her mind as a blur, a frantic rush of emotion when the heat of battle still gripped her heart and pushed her to what needed to be done.
The people were gone now, and the tower left silent, but the signs of Pyre's last struggle to cling onto any semblance of power remained in the dark bloodstains soaked into the floor. Priscilla only glanced at the scene as she passed through one floor after the next, remembering the days when the Divine Pyre had risen to power in Ashfeld through cunning deceit and violent ambition. It seemed only fitting that such a legacy should have come to such an equally violent end.
As she and Gunnar made their way up toward the High Priest's abandoned apartment, they passed by a tapestry of armored cavalry charging the field of battle hanging upon the wall. Priscilla was almost offended that the Vikings hadn't torn it down when they had ransacked the tower and reached up to do it herself. When she did, she found herself staring at a door that had been hidden behind the tapestry's long length. Trying the handle, she found it locked. Curiosity got the better of her, considering that this room might have escaped notice from the Northmen. She bent down to peer through the keyhole and was surprised yet again when she glimpsed the shine of gold from inside.
"Gunnar," she called, getting the Raider's attention as he stood further up the stairs. He turned back to look at her, then the door, and his interest was immediately piqued simply by the fact that there was a door that needed breaking, and he returned to bring his axe to bear against the heavy wood without needing to be asked.
The stairwell was narrow, so Priscilla had to walk back down the steps to give him room. He controlled his swings and gave the door a few more chops with the blade of his great axe. Watching him swing in the gloom of the stairwell, Priscilla couldn't help but relive the moments of fighting Njal just a few floors above, knowing firsthand what it felt like to go up against the furious power of a Viking Raider, even a wounded one.
Knowing that Gunnar so obviously possessed that same terrible strength, she couldn't help but wonder what might happen if his incredible power was ever turned against her. A cold shiver ran down her spine, and her hands moved for her sword and dagger on impulse before she forced them to her side again. How many lies would she have to tell before Gunnar might actually turn on her? Or perhaps the better question was, how long until he found out the truth, and what would he think of her then?
Another sharp crack of metal chopping wood, then Gunnar planted his boot against the door to send it swinging open. Together they peered inside and found an open space totally empty save for a large banner along the far wall of a phoenix wreathed in flame and four large books set upon pedestals set in the middle of the room. At a glance, the entire scene might appear trivial and insignificant, but for the glimmer of golden book covers shining in the daylight, it was clear this was a holy place, one last remnant of Pyre worship left untouched by Viking hands.
"Think the key is in here?" Gunnar asked. Priscilla sighed, already knowing the answer to that question, and strode in to get a closer look at the books set out on display.
She approached the book on the left, sliding a hand over the gilded cover and marveling at the skill and craft that went into making such a cover. Like the banner, a phoenix adorned the front of the book as well; only the flames that encircled it were made from dozens of sparkling rubies, making the cover alone worth more than any sum Priscilla had ever known. The light from the narrow windows made the jeweled cover sparkle like a living flame, and there was no doubt in her mind that this was a sacred tome to the usurpers who had controlled the city with their heretical faith. There was no iconography of the cross as was typical for books made in a scriptorium such as this, but each of the tomes boasted the same phoenix and ruby fire design. The spines were inlaid with yet more gemstones: shining sapphires, dazzling emeralds, and polished white pearls. Production such as this came at no small cost, and it was a wonder that these books were not kept within the city vault for the wealth they displayed, and that was all before she even opened the cover.
The book was heavy because of this small fortune, and the paper was coarse but brightly painted as she began to turn through its pages. Neat lines of black ink stretched across white pages, bordered by intricate drawings of sprawling golden vines and red flames. In the upper left corner of the first page was an image of Mount Ignis erupting into the heavens, with a dozen figures bowed in worship to its godly power. Turning through the pages of neatly written lines, Priscilla could not say she was surprised by what she read.
"This is their doctrine," she said, flipping through page after page of lies and propaganda as Gunnar picked up another book to admire its alluring surface. "A new book for their version of the Bible. This scripture is no better than the bile Osric was spewing to his followers while he was alive. Listen to this... 'And so the Second Cataclysm was brought spewing from the mouth of the Holy Mountain, and so did cleanse the land with holy fire, and from this retribution of sinners, the Lord lift up the faithful to paradise. For in fire, the fiends of the north are punished. For in fire, the demons of the east are punished. The righteous will have their reward, for they do not fear to kneel before the might of our Lord, God in the Highest.' The book of Osric, chapter two, verses five through six."
"The book of Osric?" Gunnar asked her.
Priscilla flipped through more pages to the end, shaking her head at what she read. "Like the books of the Bible, only this one is a most unwanted addition. One that will thankfully never see the light of day."
"Aye. Who needs books anyway? If you have something important to say, then just say it or have it carved onto a stone to last through the ages. This paper your people use is just so... weak."
Priscilla couldn't help but grin. "You jest, but-"
"I do not jest," he said.
"But books are an important asset to our societies and our minds. There is much they can teach you if you have the patience to learn from them. Many of the lessons taught in the Sisterhood are kept in books such as these. Swordcraft, fighting technique, the study of poisons and healing medicines, philosophy and psychology... "
"You can learn to fight from a book?" Gunnar asked her skeptically.
"Yes. Believe it or not, a person can learn quite a bit from the teachings of others when they are willing to humble themselves and stop pretending they know everything about how the world works or how best to live in it."
"Bah, no one ever entered Valhǫll by impressing the Allfather with books. His hall is a place for warriors, not scholars."
Priscilla closed the ill-begotten tome before her and took in the marvelous cover once more. "But does he not send out his ravens, thought and memory, each day for knowledge of the world? If you ask me, Odin Allfather seems much the scholar himself as he is a god of war."
Now it was Gunnar's turn to grin. "What does an Ashfeld woman know of Huginn and Muninn?"
"I learned of them when I was a young apprentice in the Sisterhood," she shrugged, then fixed him with a pointed look, "from a book."
Gunnar chuckled and shook his head. "No books, woman. Just a waste of time. Book covers made of gold and studded with jewels, however... those are things worthy of our attention." He drew a knife from his belt and opened the book to cut out the pages, steal away the cover, and be a far wealthier Northman for it. He lifted the book and opened it, then paused. "Well, that is surprising..."
Priscilla stepped in closer beside him to take a look. There on the page, written in the same neat lines of ink, was not the familiar script of Latin verses but Viking runes. Her brows knitted together in confusion as she stared down at their hard angles and bold lines, recognizing a few from her studies, but was too surprised by their appearance to read anything clearly.
"Why would they write their bible in your language?" she asked quietly, glancing over at the book written in Latin and trying to fit the pieces together in her head.
"This speaks of fire," Gunnar said, pointing to a line of runes, "and death. Great death, like that of Ragnarǫk itself. It is not Ragnarǫk, though... there is no dreaded Fenrir, no great Jǫrmungandr to fight the thunder god. It just speaks of the fire, as if the fire jǫtunn, Surtr, is the only foe of the gods."
"Does it?" Priscilla muttered mostly to herself. "How strange..."
She returned to the first book and opened it again, flipping through the pages until she was reasonably sure she was on the same one Gunnar was open to. They looked nearly the same, at least, the art and decoration, with only the writing itself being different between the two. Feeling her breath catch in her throat, she looked to the next book in the line and quickly stepped over to open it. The pages fell open, and her eyes went wide with shock. Upon the artfully decorated pages, the intricate kanji of the Samurai was written out plain as day. Suddenly the purpose of these books clicked into place within her mind with horrifying clarity, and she didn't know if she was impressed or angry that the Divine Pyre had ever thought themselves so powerful as to spread their wicked beliefs across all of Heathmoor without consequence.
"Those bastards..." she whispered, running her fingers along the lines of neatly written Samurai script. "Those pompous, evil bastards."
"What's this one then?" Gunnar asked, nodding at the last book in the row still closed on its pedestal, "Wu Lin, you think?"
"That seems like the logical conclusion," she said, knowing that out of all the other factions in Heathmoor, the only outside agent that the Pyre had ever cooperated with had come from the Wu Lin. She still had Li Qiang's charred notes in her belt pocket, never leaving them unattended lest they be lost or-
Her heart leaped within her chest as her eyes snapped to the last book. Stepping around Gunnar, she reached out a hand to open it but hesitated before lifting the cover. It seemed crazy to think that she might be this lucky, that she might ever come across such a fortunate opportunity just by chance. Never in her life had she known this kind of blessing before. God did not love her enough to bestow this sort of gift upon her without wanting something in return; she knew it. Still, this might just be a chance to make sure she was not totally at the mercy of the Legion Council when they came to collect on her promises. If anything went wrong, like it almost certainly would, this could be a way to stay ahead of the damage.
Her hand gave a little shake as she reached out and opened the book quickly, followed by a strange feeling of relief that washed over her like a crashing wave. There on the pages of the false bible, written out for the entire population of the Celestial Dynasty to understand, were neat lines of hanzi characters.
Clean, undamaged, legible Wu Lin script.
It seemed too good to be true, but here it was, just set out safe and untouched for the taking. Maybe she did have some sort of luck after all. She would have to tell Coal. There was no way he would believe her when she told him. If he still cared about anything, she had to say...
"Priscilla?" Gunnar spoke, troubled by her sudden silence.
She jumped with a start but recovered her senses and put on a reassuring smile to comfort him. "I need a torch."
"What for?"
"These books are nothing more than blasphemy and propaganda and should not be allowed to remain as they are. Would you go and fetch me a torch, please?"
Gunnar glanced down at the fine golden covers all lined up in a row, looking as if he wanted to argue but ultimately relented to her request. "Very well. But cut the pages from the bindings so we can take the gold and jewels. Even if that vault remains closed forever, we will have something from this accursed city."
"Cut out the pages. Got it," Priscilla assured him as he stepped out of the room to search for a lit flame, then drew the small knife from behind her back and held it to the book.
She supposed it didn't matter which pages she took. So long as someone only gave the hanzi a passing look at first, it might just be enough to help her. If the leaders of the Legion Council were as arrogant and power-hungry as she believed, and all evidence suggested that they were, they would only care that the Wu Lin formulae were in their possession. Any indifference toward whether the formulae were delivered as charred, barely readable notes stolen from a laboratory or ornately drawn and decorated pages once exalted by their enemy might be all the difference between life and death for her and the Lion Flame when the time came.
Picking out ten pages, she cut them neatly from the spine and then, giving the hanzi one last glance, folded them up and hid them in her belt pouch. She was becoming quite the scholar herself for the amount of illicit notary she was now carrying on her person and would have to be even more careful keeping the pages hidden. Still, if her luck held out, she would finally have a bit of leverage when dealing with the Lord-Warden when he once again commanded her to kneel.
"I had to go down three floors to find this," Gunnar grumbled when he returned, holding the torch, the flames dancing as they left a thin trail of smoke through the air.
"Truly the efforts of a great and noble hero," Priscilla said, just cutting the pages from the last bible and tossing them onto the banner she had pulled down from the wall. Then she wrapped the pile of mixed languages up within the fabric and set the book covers aside to be retrieved later once they were done disposing of their contents. "Come with me. We will come back for the gold on our way back down," she said, taking Gunnar by the hand to ensure he followed without a fuss.
Again they made their way up the tower, and honestly, she did not mind the feeling of his hand in hers. She gave it a squeeze when they passed the spot on the stairs where she had killed Njal and appreciated how he squeezed back more than he could have known. When at last they came to the magnificent room at the very top of the tower, she pushed open the door and looked to the hearth near the broken bed.
Gunnar gave a whistle as he entered behind her, still holding her hand like a horse being led by its rider as he gazed about at what was left of the High Priest's grand abode. "This nithing goat fucker. To think he ruled a city from a place like this but was not enough of a man to face us in the end. He was a coward bound for Hel, make no mistake."
"I could not agree more," Priscilla muttered, remembering how Osric had cried and pleaded for mercy before the end as she tossed the stuffed banner into the hearth. "Do you have any flint?"
"I have the torch," he said, handing it over to her with a questioning look.
"Oh, yes. Thank you..." She blushed, taking the torch from him and throwing it on top of the banner, then took a slow breath to try and steady herself. Things were moving quickly, so she had to be equally quick to act, but that was no excuse for losing track of the web she was weaving. She had to remain sharp. A fact easier said than done, sometimes. Apply enough pressure, and even a strong blade can crack and break under stress.
"There," she said quietly, letting her shoulders slump as if a great weight had been lifted from her, "The world is a hard enough place without such hate being preached as gospel."
The fire began to take hold of the banner, and soon the crackle of burning paper began to fill the room. Priscilla watched as everything in the hearth started to blacken and burn away, the hate-filled pages of the Divine Pyre's beliefs turning to ash. Much like those pages, so thin and frail, Priscilla felt herself straining beneath the weight of her lies and the demands of her mission. She stepped back and sat down on the end of the bed, feeling no less tormented by her demons than the last time she was in this room. Then Gunnar's hand slipped behind her shoulder, and her tired eyes shot up to him in an instant. It only took that one look between them for her to know that it was time to make her choice and what she would decide.
They sat on the mattress together, his arm around her, her shoulder pressed against his side. It was without regret or shame that she let her head rest against his broad chest, and she let out a sigh of longing just to feel his warmth against her cheek. The wicked pages of the Divine Pyre's heresy burned in the hearth before them, and the only evidence left was tucked away in her pouch. She sat there and watched it all burn, feeling Gunnar's strong hand squeeze and rub at her shoulder, and she wondered how long they could stay there like that before their duties forced them back to reality once again.
Then Gunnar spoke, breaking the blissful silence of her reprieve, "What aren't you telling me, Priscilla?"
She stiffened in his embrace, wishing he hadn't just asked her such a question but knowing he was perfectly entitled to do so. She could have forced him away and refused his attention long ago when she had known better. There were a dozen different ways she could have prevented this very moment from ever happening, ways both bloody and crippling, but she had chosen not to. Instead, she was here resting in his arms, and it was a moment that she honestly did not wish to see the end of. Sitting here with Gunnar in this horrible place was much more preferable to facing the secret promises and looming treachery waiting for her out in the world.
Gunnar still needed an answer, though, and despite the deeply ingrained lessons of the Sisterhood to protect her mission at all costs, she decided to tell him the truth. A truth, at least. She supposed he was owed that much after walking down three floors to find her a torch. Her hand settled gently on his thigh as she lifted her head to look at him. She licked her lips, finding the words difficult at first but never questioning that they were the right ones to say.
"I was not prepared for you," she began, looking at him from his lips to his storm-filled eyes. "You were never part of my plan. And now? I... I do not know what this is that blooms between us, but I would wish to know if it is real. If we were ever to be away from this city, I would have us leave together. Ever since we met, you have walked beside me no matter where I led, even when I thought of you as nothing more than a northern brute, and you see me as an insufferable Ashfeld coward, I am sure."
"I always knew you had strength from the moment we met," he smiled down at her, stroking a lock of hair behind her ear and down her cheek. "I saw it as a challenge."
"Too much of a challenge, I think," she grinned back, but it quickly faded as she held his gaze. "We have been fighting for my home, Gunnar. Always we have been fighting for it, and when your brother and Erik are done here, I intend to see it prosper and heal. I want to see my homeland return to what it was before all this madness."
His brows furrowed together as he looked at her, a growing sense of uncertainty falling across his handsome face. "What do you mean? The Lion Flame will return north with us once we have the treasure. That is what Judith intended..."
Priscilla reached up and cupped his cheek, intent on making him understand. "I want you to come with me. When the time comes, I want us to leave here together. I want this to be real."
Gunnar's confusion turned into clear shock, his face falling even as he reached up to put his hand over her own. "But... how? When? I don't understand... What do you mean to leave the city? We can't... The... the key... Erik can't get into the vault, and if he finds a way, he will find out about the missing armor. Herleif will be blamed, I know it."
"Herleif is the King's vassal. He cannot be blamed for something he had no control over," she urged, trying to calm him. "Erik is not getting into that vault without a key. There is no way."
"No, Erik is mad with power. He will blame Herleif just to spite him. I cannot abandon my brother... I have already lied to him against my oath, and that is bad enough. On my honor, I could never make that choice."
"There will come a time when you will have to choose, for I tell you now I will leave this place, but not for the north," Priscilla said but could not bring herself to say more. She was far too scared to find out where such a confession might lead. "I want you to come with me. Please, Gunnar? I would not ask if I did not think there was a chance of sharing a life together far beyond this terrible war."
His eyes snapped to her with a start, his lips parted for the words he could not bear to say as he stared at her with all the passionate longing of his heart. She smiled at him warmly and gently stroked his beard. "I was not prepared for you," she sighed, knowing this to be a truth worth sharing, "but now that I have you, I do not wish to let you go."
From the light dazzling in his blue eyes, she knew he felt the same. A smile crept across her lips just before she lifted her head up and kissed him. He was hesitant at first, his reaction so much different than the last kiss they had shared in her tent, but then she had not been entirely genuine with him at that point either. Now, nothing could be more real.
She kissed him again, and this time he eagerly returned her affection. His beard tickled, but his lips were so warm. The feeling of his rough fingers moving softly against her chin sent shivers running down her back, then he cupped her cheek in his large palm. His strong arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her close, and she did not resist. Her fingers curled in his beard, tangled into his long hair, pulling him closer to her as she breathed in his scent.
Their lips moved together in the silence of the room. He kissed her harder, and she moaned softly into his mouth. The world could move on without them for a little while. For now, she was content to feel his body against hers and simply let her worries burn away in the hearth.
A Berserker hacked away at the metal lock with his axe until it fell away, then pulled open one of the large doors to the warehouse and stepped aside. Together, Herleif, Ivar, and Lady Judith took a hesitant step forward to look within. If the acrid smell had been noticeable when the doors were closed, it hit Herleif like a shield bash to the face as he peered into the dark interior. There was nothing to see from where he stood in the shadow of the building's entrance, but from the unpleasant tickle in his nose and the stinging wetness of his eyes, he knew what it was that lay within.
"I'll give you a horns worth of silver to go in there and light the way with a torch," said Ivar next to him, rubbing at his black-bearded chin as he squinted into the darkness.
Herleif rolled his eyes. "Fuck off."
"Two horns of silver. My final offer."
There was no way Herleif would get within a hundred paces of this place with a lit flame, and he had given express orders to his warriors guarding the block of warehouses to do the same. It had been a stroke of luck that one of his people had stumbled upon the building, drawn by the sharp smell that permeated the air in this section of the city, and notified him when they had made their discovery. If something like this had been left unattended, perhaps only to be found later when the Northmen had become only more bored, more drunk, and more stupid as the days waiting on the vault dragged on, there was no telling what sort of disaster may have occurred here.
Setting his shoulders, Herleif strode inside, most decidedly without any torch or lantern to help light his way. As much as the air stank, it was cool inside, like a cave burrowing deep into the earth. The floor creaked softly beneath his feet, and from what light shone through the door, he could see short wooden shelves lined up on either side of him. On those shelves sat barrels. Dozens upon dozens of barrels stretched onward until they disappeared from sight in the dark.
Judith followed behind him, holding a cloth to her nose as she took in the deathly hoard with horrified wonder. "How many do you think there are?"
Herleif shook his head, hardly wanting to know the answer himself. "Hundreds? Maybe more?"
"And how many warehouses are in this district?"
"Six that we know of. Our warriors are still searching the area for more."
"So many," Judith lamented. "They must have been preparing for an attack on the rest of Ashfeld, and then God only knows where."
"Everywhere," Herleif said and did not doubt it for a moment.
"So we become the heroes of Ashfeld and save their pathetic kingdom from annihilation? Isn't that a fucking Loki's trick," Ivar said as he stepped up to one of the barrels and wiped away a layer of dust to reveal the hanzi symbol branded into the wood. "Wu Lin sorcery, eh? And why the fuck would those easterners be helping out the Pyre?"
Herleif shrugged. "We have no idea, but Erik has been searching for whoever makes this accursed potion since Eitrivatnen."
Ivar's eyes grew dark with surprise. "He has? Why wasn't I told?"
"Oh, did Erik forget to mention it to you?" Herleif asked with a sardonic drone. "I thought you were still on equal terms with the King, seeing as you are not yet in thrall to his service like I am. Does he not share everything with you as friends on this raid?"
A violent gleam flashed in the Red Jarl's eyes. He had received enough ill news since learning of Njal's death in the tower, and his sour temper had been reported to be even worse than usual among his warriors. A day before, two Headhunter spearmen had been found dozing off when they were supposed to be looking for the missing vault key. Erik had berated Ivar in front of a dozen onlookers for the pathetic and undisciplined way he governed his warband. When it was over, Ivar had beheaded the two men and hung their heads from his standard, all without seeking the judgment of a lawgiver.
If Ivar had ever thought that remaining a free Jarl somehow exempted him from Erik's rule over the city, he was quickly becoming disillusioned of such a notion.
"What does it matter?" Ivar growled, showing his yellow teeth. "The Pyre are dead, and we are here for the vault treasure, not some strange fire potion that smells worse than troll piss."
"It only matters if he finds a way to recreate this power himself," said Herleif. "How long will Thurshamrar remain independent then? Or the rest of Valkenheim, the rest of Heathmoor, if Erik is able to conjure the power of Muspelheim as he wishes?" Ivar said nothing to this. He only scowled and looked at Herleif as if ripping off his head might be the simplest solution to solving all of his problems just then. Herleif simply laughed at his rival's annoyance. "Face it, my friend, Erik would be just as bad as the Divine Pyre with a power such as this. It was lucky that we found this place first. I would not be surprised if his warriors were searching for more of this fire potion here in the city just as much as the second key."
"Therein lies the question," Judith interjected. "What do we do with all of these barrels now? We cannot just leave them here to be found by whatever force comes to occupy the city after us."
"I say we light them once we have the treasure and leave," said Ivar. "Burn the whole fucking city to the ground. Leave nothing for the Ashfeld pigs but ash and rock. Teach them to never dwell beneath the volcano again."
Judith's eyes glistened with the sting of the formula as she narrowed them at Ivar. "The city will again belong to Ashfeld once we depart from the mountain. It can be rebuilt and repopulated, brought back to life, and given a pure purpose as it had before. We should destroy the barrels. Bury them, or burn them where they will cause no harm, whatever it takes. I, for one, would never be able to live with myself knowing that these barrels were left behind to cause others harm in the future."
Ivar rubbed at his scarred face and groaned. "Herleif, remind me why you keep this fucking lap dog around with you?"
Herleif straightened his shoulders and jutted his bearded chin toward Judith. "She is drengr. Whatever happens in this city from now on, I will make sure she has a hand in it. She and her legion have earned my respect."
Ivar huffed out a dark laugh and turned away, but Judith held Herleif's gaze. For a moment, they looked at each other in silent understanding, then she gave him a slight nod of thanks. He nodded back, and that was the end of it.
"I think we should keep the barrels," he said next, reclaiming Ivar's attention. Judith opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand and continued, "For now, at least. For as long as we remain in the city."
"Expecting trouble?" Ivar asked suspiciously.
"We should be prepared for anything. We may have defeated our enemy, but we are still in hostile land. We sit here like a shipwrecked drakkar while Erik searches for the missing key. How long will he keep us here before we finally return to our ships? When we absolutely must? When all of our food is gone, and sickness begins to swell, the number of our dead? Or," he looked to Judith, whose own face had turned paler than usual at the prospect of spending weeks, if not months, trapped within the Walled City at Erik's command, "what should happen if the Legion Council finally decides to come and reclaim their lost city while we are still here?"
"The Knights are on campaign against the Samurai far to the south," Ivar said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "We have not seen hide nor hair of those cowards ever since we arrived in this wretched land."
"Like the Samurai imprisoned within this very city?" Herleif asked him, then eyed Judith with a raised brow. "Can you be sure that the legions did indeed march on the Myre after the north fell?"
"It was the part of the last dispatches we had with Beaufort before fleeing Sow Mesa, yes," Judith said. "But that was a long time ago now, and our efforts against the Pyre have surely not gone without notice."
Herleif could only nod in agreement. He had sailed his warriors headlong into danger for the promise of treasure and glory and so far had come through unscathed, but there was a limit to how long playing the odds became utter foolishness. "The Norns have crafted a strange fate for us in this city. After the Allfather has seen fit to grant us victory after victory, now we are still. He is a god who loves chaos, but there is no one left here for us to fight."
"Except each other," grinned Ivar.
"Aye. Unless he sends us someone to fight."
For the first time in days, Ivar's eyes were bright with excitement. "Would you be ready for that, Herleif?" he asked, a wide yellow grin splitting his black beard, "Another fight to please old One Eye? Just you and me, spilling a sea of Ashfeld blood to get you back home to that precious little family of yours while Erik broods like a troll in front of his vault. That'll be a saga worthy of Valhǫll, won't it?"
"I say," Herleif frowned, refusing to turn away from his blood-brother's sharp gaze, "we keep the barrels."
Judith let out a soft sigh, then touched the cloth she held to her forehead and both shoulders before using it again to cover her mouth and nose. "Then I will pray to God that we will never need them."
Ivar laughed loudly and clapped his hands together, the sound echoing above them in the dark rafters of the warehouse. "Oh, we are sure to have a fight on our hands in that case! If there is one thing I have learned about your worthless god, it's that he couldn't give a cow's runny shit what you pray for!"