"Man the walls!" Herleif roared as the city was awoken by the sound of blasting horns.
They blasted from within and beyond the walls, echoing far in the distance but getting closer. The horde moved through the streets, driven by the call to battle, but their sluggish steps and groggy groans revealed what a toll their drinking had taken on their senses during the night.
"To arms! To arms!" shouted Judith behind him as they ran together toward the gatehouse. Archers were already making their way up to the ramparts, but their quivers seemed dangerously thin of arrows since there had been no need to replenish after the siege.
They needed to make it to the gate. The sound of marching feet was growing louder beyond the wall, and the gate still remained open and barely defended since it had been broken down during their attack. If they had any hope of living through the evening, let alone the afternoon, they needed to secure the gate before the city was lost.
"To the gates! All shields to the gates!" Herleif shouted as he made it to the steps.
"I must get my armor and gather my legion," Judith gasped as she followed him down, the two of them fighting against the flow of warriors moving in the opposite direction.
"Bring your Knights to the gate! We must hold it at all costs!" Herleif called over his shoulder.
Judith nodded and was off in the direction of the inn as soon as they hit the street while Herleif headed to retrieve his war-gear. There was no time for parting words of encouragement. Each was set to their task and knew the time for words could wait until survival was assured. If the gods willed it so, that is.
More warriors rushed to the gate in a panic, bringing their shields and spears to fill the gap in the gatehouse. The makeshift battering ram still sat upon the path into the city, acting as a poor excuse for a blockade, but it was soon reinforced with whatever the Northmen could get their hands on, piling up crates, barrels, and chests emptied of their loot, discarded shields, and pikes whose wielders had already perished during the first fight for the city. Angry shouts and desperate cries filled the air as the horns continued to blow. Mad citizens abandoned in the wake of the cult's defeat ran to make their escape while the Vikings beat them back to maintain order, and warriors too drunk to stand, let alone lift their weapons, wept and soiled themselves in fright as the sound of mighty trumpets in their hundreds were carried on the wind.
Herleif pushed his way through the rushing crowd, snapping at the warriors he passed to hurry toward the gate. He needed his sword, shield, and helmet, then to rush back to the walls to take control of the situation. The entire city had fallen to chaos in the blink of an eye, and he was already dreading the task of bringing his warriors to order to defend the city. The drunken revelers from the night before would have to become staunch fighters without time to recover if they ever hoped to survive, and from what he had witnessed from the walls, their enemy was most certainly ready for a fight. It almost seemed like too great a task to his mind, and as he came into view of the villa where he had stored his war-gear and quartered his warriors, he slowed to a stop.
What would one more shield do against an enemy that held every advantage? How long could he hope to defend the city with his sword before it was overcome by a wave of spears? Would his death mean anything if he died in vain and left his people to be slaughtered? All these questions and more rushed through his head as he panted for breath, knowing that he had to come up with a better solution.
He was a Warlord. A jarl. His duty was to serve as well as lead. He had to do better.
"The fire..." he hissed, turning back toward the gatehouse and walls where the haze of dust continued to advance. "We need their fire." Suddenly, he knew what had to be done. Steeling his nerves, he called out to any passing warrior who could hear him, whether they belonged to his clan or not. "With me! Follow me now! We must harness a far greater weapon than steel to fortify the gate!"
He took off toward the warehouses he had inspected just the day before. The Vikings filling the street looked upon the jarl rushing with such determination and could only think to follow. With their shields bobbing and spears resting heavily upon their shoulders, every warrior pushed themselves against the drunken sluggishness of their limbs and sleep-deprived minds to follow where Herleif led. Just as the warehouses came into view, Herleif was stopped again by the arrival of Ragnar, Ragna, and Helge, who led a troop of Berserkers to the walls.
"This way!," Herleif called to them, "I need you with me!"
"But what about the horns? Are we under attack?" snarled Ragnar. He and the rest were red-eyed and bristling for a fight after their sudden awakening by the blast of horns, but they seemed to still have their wits about them. They were already dressed in their war-gear, with both Ragnar and Ragna already having their axes in hand as if they expected to find an enemy to fight right around the next corner.
"We are, and the gate stands open in welcome! I think I have a way to shut it, but we must act quickly!" Herleif shouted back before taking off again.
The gathered Berserkers all looked as if they would rather throw themselves at the gate in a glorious last stand, but a few sharp words from Helge got them moving toward the warehouses like a dog herding frantic sheep. Behind them, the sounds of marching feet and panicked shouting were soon cut by the clash of weapons. Whatever was happening at the gate was happening quickly, and the frightful warriors ran all the faster to the nearest warehouse as they came into the district.
"Open them up!" Herleif shouted at the guards who had dutifully remained on watch while the rest of the city fell to madness. They quickly sprang to action, hauling open the large doors to the old warehouse to reveal the barrels full of Wu Lin sorcery stored within. Herleif braced himself against the acrid smell that filled the whole space from floor to rafters and stepped inside. "Bring carts and wagons! Whatever we can use to get these barrels to the gate!"
Warriors rushed to carry out his orders while he led the rest to carry the barrels outside. They were heavy, their contents sloshing within as each barrel was carried with the utmost care. No one knew how the fire concoction was made, but all were perfectly aware of the devastation a single barrel could cause. Their quick action was soon reduced to slow consideration as the barrels were carefully taken to the wagons arriving outside.
"Watch out!" Ragna snapped at a young warrior who got in her way as she and Ragnar carried a barrel between them. "If you set this thing off, I swear you'll feel my boot up your ass before the fire ever burns you!"
"Don't we need the Pyre's weapon to make this stuff work?" Ragnar asked. They carried the barrel out to a wagon and lifted it up to Helge, who was helping load. "Their phoenix or whatever they called it?"
"I thought it was an eagle?" Ragna grunted.
"These barrels are the weapon," Helge grinned as she shifted the barrel into the wagon with the rest. "They carry death, and that is good enough for us."
Nearby, Herleif was helping to load a barrel onto another wagon. "That is enough! Go!" he shouted, knowing there was no time to fill each wagon completely. The gate had to be secured, or they would be overrun, and he could still hear the trumpets blasting outside the walls, filling the air while their own horns had stopped their desperate calls long ago. "Bring up another cart! Hurry! Get it loaded and off to the gate quick as you can!" All around him, his Berserkers went at their task with rising fury. It was always a risk to set their madness to labor rather than battle, but the benefits of Berserkergang were undeniable as they carried barrel after barrel without any fatigue. Taking a quick look about, Herleif checked to see that everyone was working diligently before he climbed up onto the next wagon ready to depart. "Ragna! Ragnar! Keep bringing out the rest! Do not stop until you hear from me!"
The twins nodded together at this order, and Herleif trusted them to see it done. He ordered the wagon driver to move, and with the crack of a whip, the horse driving the cart took off with speed toward the defenseless gate. Together, he and the driver shouted for the crowded streets to get clear, but the path was slow going. By the time that the gatehouse came into view, there was such a cacophony about him that Herleif feared the city had already fallen.
"Stop here!" Herleif shouted, and the driver brought the wagon to a halt across from the gatehouse, where the crowd was too thick to pass through. The square was packed with every warrior roused by the alarm, creating a forest of spears, gleaming helmets, and sharp metal between the wagons and the gatehouse. Cursing under his breath, Herleif jumped from the wagon to snatch the bridle of the skittish horse and began to loose the harnesses. "Get the beasts free!"
"Herleif, you cowardly bastard!" came a shout through the crowd. Herleif looked to see Ivar shouldering his way closer and looking as if he had awoken that morning to find that someone had shit in his boots. "Where have you been!? These warriors stand ready to feed the raven and you're off taking wagon rides?"
"No, finding a solution that will work," Herleif retorted, slapping his hand against one of the barrels.
Ivar looked at the Wu Lin symbols stamped upon the barrels on the wagons and cursed. "Are you sure that is a good idea?"
"Do you have a better one?" Herleif scowled, silently hoping that Ivar might actually have something else in mind, but the Red Jarl remained bitterly silent, grinding his teeth and looking toward the gate as it stood black against the sky.
Shouts and war horns filled the air like the sounding of Ragnarǫk, making the warriors at the gate fight more desperately to keep their hold on the city while the tightly packed square shifted and pulsed with the throng of Northmen trying to keep their new enemy at bay. The desperate Vikings fought with all their might under the shadow of the gatehouse, but the exuberant feast offered to them by their king was taking its toll. Where once there had been hard Viking warriors raging against the walls, now only drunkards and red-eyed revelers stood to defend the city. Courage had given way to gluttony, which now gave way to fear as warriors covered in blood and sweating like pigs, crying out their terror and fighting to escape the gate while more rushed toward the steel-storm.
"We need to get the barrels to the gate!" Herleif snapped, bringing the attention of those near him back to the task at hand. The crowd was tightly pressed, making it impossible to get the wagons through, but it had to be done.
Without delay, Ivar gave a harsh snarl and began to beat his shield against the warriors before them, followed by many of his warriors doing the same until space was made.
"Make way! Clear a path, you swine!" cried Ivar, his dark eyes flashing madly as spittle flew from his lips with each shout. "Make way before I bash in your skulls!"
At the barest hint of a path made before them, Herleif ordered the wagons to be pushed toward the gate. His warriors fell in to help, and with them, he led the way through the crowd with the other wagon following close behind. Ivar and his warriors did their best to clear a path through the square, but there was no order to the madness the warning horns had wrought, and the wagons were pressed on all sides by more Northmen.
More than once, Herleif winced as someone's foot was caught beneath the wheels and screamed in pain or was knocked aside by the rolling wagon and fell into the forest of sharp steel held by their comrades. Angry shouts and curses flew up around them as they forced the wagons through the crowd, but Herleif shut them out until they finally made it to the gate.
"Push! Push!" he yelled, closing himself off to the cries of those run down by the wagon. It tore at him to do it, but there was no other choice. "Keep moving!"
Soon, enough of the surrounding warriors had seen what was going on to keep clear and get back. It became easier to move, and at long last the wagon was pushed into the tunnel of the gatehouse, but the fighting still raged on. The ram lay ahead blocking the majority of the tunnel, and beyond were those warriors who still clashed steel with the enemy trying to force their way in. Those behind had the chance to get clear, but if those at the front gave up the fight now, there would be no city to save.
Herleif pushed until the wagon picked up enough momentum to move on its own. With one last cry, they shoved the wagon forward and jumped clear as the second followed. Whoever was caught in front of the barrel-laden cart was doomed to be run over as the heavy wagons rolled forward over their screams straight for the gate, but there was no stopping them now. Herleif's breath caught in his throat as he watched, and just as the first wagon crashed into the derelict ram, he caught a glimpse of the enemy fighting to force their way into the city.
Flashes of bright armor and royal-blue tabards clashed against the Viking warriors defending the gate. They came on like locusts devouring a field, and against them, the tired Northmen fell to swinging blades stained crimson with blood. Then, they were hidden behind a wash of spilled sorcery as the barrels burst and the wagons broke apart.
"Get away!" Herleif called as he and those who had pushed the wagons retreated out of the tunnel to the square. He shouted as loud as he could, hoping to stop the flow of warriors rushing for the gate. "Get back! As far back as you can! Go!"
Someone put a fire-flask in Herleif's hand, and he looked down at it in stunned amazement at what had to happen next. The clamor within the gatehouse roared loud in his ears as yet more warriors pushed forward to take part in the fight even while the cracked barrels poured their Pyre magic around their feet as they rushed past. There was surely no way to warn them all, no way to make them get clear of what would undoubtedly be their doom, but the city's defense was faltering before the enemy and once breached, there would be no stopping the flow of steel and river of blood that followed.
"It's now or never," growled Ivar beside him.
Herleif looked from the fire-flask to the gate. "But what of our warriors? One spark and they will all die!"
Ivar set his jaw and grabbed the fire-flask out of Herleif's hand. "Is it a villain you need, you gutless worm?" He reached into a pouch and pulled out flint to strike the flask. "It's us or them, and a good death never meant a pretty one."
"Wait!" Herleif lunged for the flask, wrestling it from Ivar's hand even as sparks fell about their feet. Once he finally had the small fire bomb again, he held it aloft so Ivar could not retrieve it. Panting hard, he felt cold sweat trickling down his neck as he held out his other hand for the flint. "It was my idea... I should see it done."
Narrowing his dark eyes, Ivar ground his teeth before slapping the flint into Herleif's hand as the battle raged before them. "Get on with it, then."
Herleif felt his stomach clench as he gripped the fire-flask like a treasure he didn't wish to part with. Small as it was, it felt heavier than any weapon he had ever held before in his life. "May Valhǫll welcome them," he grimaced, "and the Ásagrimmr grant them glory..."
He struck the flint and set flame to the flask, watching the sparks glow bright like the first breaths of Surtr awakening before Ragnarǫk. The hiss of the burning wick filled his ears, loud enough to drown out the din of warriors screaming and dying to defend the city. It was not fair, and it was far from a worthy death for such brave heroes, but there was nothing to be done. His choice to join this war had been made long ago from the safety of his hall, and now, to return home to his family, he would have to make the world burn. He stepped forward and tossed the fire-flask into the air, sending it soaring toward the wagons.
For a moment, the fire-flask existed as a small orange glow over a sea of swords, axes, and spears. Herleif could look at nothing else as he held his breath and waited for the inevitable. Then, the fire-flask crashed among the broken barrels, and the narrow passage through the gatehouse became one with the realm of Múspell.
Fire and heat exploded out from the contested gate with a roar so loud that not a cry could be heard over the flames. Everything was light and fury that none present could dare behold the blaze with their eyes lest they become swept up in its deathly embrace. Herleif was nearly thrown onto his back from the explosion, and it was a wonder that anyone in the square survived as the world was consumed in fire. Stumbling to his feet, Herleif cursed as he lifted his arms against the hot blaze. A blinding flash of light forced him to squeeze his eyes shut, and just when he thought the blast had blinded him, he slowly opened them again to the devastation he had wrought.
The gatehouse was gone, blocked by a wall of flame that flew up around the charred-black tower. There were no screams, not from the gate where the fighting had been fierce. Warriors caught at the fringes of the blast howled and begged as scorching flames caught their limbs and garments to send them running for help, but of the rest, there was no sign of friend or foe. Flames consumed the whole of the city entrance, ravaging the ram, the stone archway, and the bodies left within to be turned to ash. On the wind, shouts and southern curses could be heard over the blaze, but no one was making it through the gate now.
Herleif could only watch in silence as the Pyre weapon burned hot beyond imagining. His plan had worked perfectly, sealing off the city and keeping the enemy at bay. It only took the lives of heroic warriors obliterated by fire and pain to make it so.
Warriors die! That is war! That is our way of life!
The words rang in Herleif's ears, words shouted in Ivar's harsh voice, who now stared in horror at what had been done. So many dead in an instant, but at least they were still alive. Those who remained could still fight on. Such a sacrifice would surely earn them the favor of the gods now. At that moment, though, Herleif could not fully convince himself it had been a sacrifice worth making.
"When my saga is told in the days ahead..." Herleif panted, "...let what I did here today never be forgotten."
Ivar steadied himself on shaky legs after the blast, glaring darkly at the dancing flames and then at Herleif. "What now?"
Herleif tried to think of an answer, but the sound of creaking wagons coming down the street behind them caught his attention. He looked to find Ragnar and Ragna leading the Berserkers with more wagons in toe. Helge rode atop one of the loaded barrels, staring in shock at the blazing tower reflected in her eyes. None of the wild warriors, all of them as familiar with death as the company of their own kin, looked to the fire with celebration or glee. Even Ragna looked shaken as she gripped her brother's shoulder, her axes slack in her hand.
"We keep the fire burning," Herleif said at last. He gestured for the wagons to come forward, knowing that even more barrels were still waiting back at the warehouses. "We keep it burning for as long as we can until we can find a way to get help. For now we are safeguarded against a direct attack."
"And trapped inside the city," Ivar growled.
Herleif opened his mouth to argue, to curse the Red Jarl for his narrow-mindedness as he usually did, but a glance at the raging inferno made the guilt grip his throat tight. He said nothing, and took a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. "Keep the fire burning day and night," he said to everyone and no one, to anyone that would still listen to him after the unimaginable evil committed by his own hand, "and pray that we are never found so weak and unaware again."
He could not stand to be there any longer. The heat of the fire was like death on his skin, burning his armor away to strike at his distraught heart. Forcing down the guilt and pain, he set his jaw and refused to let any emotion show for as long as he stood before his warriors. Without another word, he shouldered his way past and left them behind to their work, and it was only then that he ducked down a narrow alley and allowed himself to fall to his knees to weep.
