A true Warlord knows how to use his shield well.
Strong and versatile, a Warlord's shield was made to both protect and press the attack. It is his power, the foundation from which he strikes with his sword, and the strength with which he makes his stand, holding the line against those that would cause him harm.
Duty, honor, and strength; these are the virtues a man must learn if he is to earn the ancient title of Warlord and carry his shield into battle with pride, fighting in the service of all.
With duty came a purpose. A purpose to fight and defend the lands of his birth and for the glory of his ancestors. With honor came the satisfaction of a well-lived life and a saga worthy of remembrance. Strength gives way to courage, to rise above any challenge and become more than you once were.
Herleif Bjǫrnsson knew how to use his shield well. It was as familiar a comfort to him as his own family, knowing every nick and dent across its broad surface, the weight of it in his hand, and how quickly it could move. His shield was a part of him, a protector and a companion through every trial he faced. It was a constant reminder of the virtues he had sworn to, earning his place among the noble Warlords of Valkenheim's battle-scarred past.
Now Herleif stared over the rim of his trusty shield, circling his opponent with practiced ease.
All around them, the dead and dying lay scattered in blood-stained snow, and high above, the sun shone brightly as the gods looked down upon the battlefield, deciding who among the fallen would be worthy enough to feast at their side in Valhǫll by day's end. Ravens were already circling in the sky as hungry black dots eager to descend upon the fresh corpses of men, young and old, that had come out to fight in the frozen forest. The ring of clashing weapons was fading away now, the skirmish stretched thin, leaving only the remaining warriors to fight one another, not yet knowing if they would live to see another sunrise or if they would find themselves sitting in the golden hall alongside their ancestors come evening.
Herleif had no such fear. The reward of the battle hall would come to him in time. His death was already fated, just as it was for every man, but for now, he was perfectly content to live and see the sun rise again tomorrow. Now, it was just him and his enemy, a savage Raider who had come to bring battle and death to his lands. There was nothing else that mattered. Now, there was only his sword, his shield, and his enemy's axe.
"I will raise a cup to your memory tonight, Warlord!" called out the imposing Raider, grinning at Herleif from across a white stretch of churned-up snow. "You have lasted a good while longer than the rest of your kin. I am pleased to know that my axe will usher you into Óðinn's hall. Tell me your name, warrior, and I shall give a toast to you tonight as I feast in the hall of my Jarl!"
As most Raiders were, he was tall and broad-shouldered, with curved bull horns rising from his helmet, and upon his chest was tattooed a pattern of menacing skulls with bright red eyes. He stood with utter confidence among so many dead, casually shouldering his great axe and waving across the field of red and white with an outstretched hand, taunting Herleif with his success in battle so far.
Herleif rolled his shoulders as he kept his shield before him, sword at the ready, feet braced in the snow. Sunlight was glinting off the shine of white frost and the gleam of polished metal, but the protection of his helmet provided enough shade to see his enemy clearly enough, including that amused grin the Raider wore under his long beard. He was tired from the fight, but mostly, he was tired of seeing others wear that same overconfident smirk while so many warriors died needlessly around them.
"What say you we put down our weapons and drink together instead? Then I shall tell you!" Herleif called back, breath smoking in the cold air, "It seems to me a more fine day for drinking than it is for killing more Northmen, and my sword has already had its fill of blood!"
The Raider chuckled, stroking the braid of his blonde beard between his fingers. "You speak nonsense," he called out, his voice mighty and bold. "Giving battle is what we Vikings are born to do! From now until the great wolves finally swallow the sun and moon!"
The corners of Herleif's lips twitched as he frowned. "Seems to me that such a cruel day is already at hand! Surely our enemies to the south and east would rejoice to see us spill so much of our own blood in the snow. To cut each other down while they stand strong. What fools we must look like to them!"
Now, the grin slipped away from under the Raider's beard, and Herleif could see the amused glint in his eyes turn dark. "Did you come all this way to talk, Warlord, or to fight? We are Vikings! We fight, and we die, for Valhǫll!" he roared angrily. Brandishing his deadly axe in both hands, the Raider lowered his head and charged forward at Herleif across the snow.
Herleif hunkered down behind his shield, shifting his feet in the slick snow, presenting a solid target as the furious Raider came straight at him across the field. Enemies until the bitter end, it seemed, with no thought of kinship through shared culture, ancestry, or belief. There was only the thirst for blood and the glory of battle that all men felt they were owed when the battle horn was blown. The Raider hunched down as he charged, lowering his shoulder to grab Herleif as he stood stalwart against his wrath.
Strength before the Raider's fury. With strength, a Warlord's shield could not fall.
The long horns set upon the Raider's helmet had nearly crashed into his shield when Herleif slid out of the way. Pivoting on his heel, he watched the enemy warrior run past him, leaning back to avoid the outstretched arm ready to pull him off his feet. Herleif took a breath to steady himself, eyes turning down to the broad back of the Raider now exposed to him. His hand tightened around the grip of his sword, the blade slashing down and opening a sharp red line across his foe's back.
The Raider screamed pain and rage as he stumbled past but managed to stay on his feet before turning and swinging his axe back at Herleif.
This time, he was prepared to use his shield to take the blow, letting its flat surface absorb the strike and give him a chance to take a step back. The Raider gave chase, swinging his axe again and again, roaring like an angry beast as he pressed the attack. There was a terrible rage burning inside the Raider now, hot anger, and a powerful desire to cut down the defiant Warlord that dared stand against him in the sight of the gods.
Herleif's teeth rattled in his head as he maneuvered his shield to block each terrible strike. It was made from solid spruce wood, and the surface was covered with darkly tanned hide to help soften the blow of any oncoming attack. He gripped the shield's handle firmly, his hand protected safely behind the round metal boss fixed in its center, making it easy to rotate and move as needed during a fight. Painted across the shield's face were the many arms of the Vegvisir Compass, a reminder for Herleif to never lose his way as a warrior or leader of his clan.
Putting his shoulder behind the last hit of the Raider's weapon, Herleif turned the axe blade away with his shield and lunged forward, striking with his metal helm. For a brief moment, his vision blurred as he crashed headlong into his enemy, sending the Raider stumbling back. It was an old Warlord technique known by all who fought under the ancient title. To some, it was considered a foolish trick that could leave a Warlord vulnerable if he wasn't careful, but Herleif was practiced enough in his skill and timing to make the headbutt land.
Before the Raider could find his footing again, Herleif followed up his bash with a quick thrust of his sword. The sharp blade bit into the Raider's arm, making the large warrior retreat with a hiss of pain as blood flowed freely from two open wounds. Now, it was Herleif's turn to press the attack.
Keeping his shield up, he struck swiftly with his sword, aiming for the bare arms and torso that the Raider felt no need to cover, trusting in the gods to protect him rather than armor. Perhaps it was a foolish belief, but the Raider was still a formidable opponent even while wounded. Each following strike was blocked or turned away by the long haft of the Raider's axe, and all of Herleif's effort to break his opponent's defense bore little fruit except for making new footprints in untouched snow.
He soon paused, stopping his advance and taking a moment to catch his breath. Some might say it was unwise to give the Raider a chance to recover, but there was no reason for Herleif to push himself so recklessly, not when it would most likely lead him to his death if he made one wrong move. He would trust in his shield and, with any luck, a little protection from the gods as well.
Duty, honor, and strength. The title of Warlord was earned through mastering these lessons, and Herleif had learned them well.
The Raider came at him again, angrier than ever, attacking with a powerful strike from the right, one meant to cut through shield, armor, meat, and bone. A killing blow to end this fight once and for all. Herleif braced himself, planting his feet as firmly as possible in the crunching snow beneath him. The timing was everything. He needed the Raider to commit to the swing, to be so blinded by his own rage that he saw nothing else but his axe cleaving Herleif's skull in two. Anger would feed the Raider's actions and, in doing so, deliver victory into Herleif's hands.
Metal scraped against metal as sword met axe as Herleif parried the attack. For a moment, it felt like the strength behind the Raider's swing might overwhelm him, but the sword stalled the axe just enough for him to push the cleaving blade away with his shield, sending it wide and leaving the Raider open. Herleif reacted quickly, striking with sword and shield across the Raider's chest and face. His blade cut open flesh in a spray of red, and the rim of his shield struck across the Raider's jaw, sending the brute reeling backward.
Hot blood fell upon the snow at the Raider's feet as it dripped down his chest, steaming on the frozen ground. The once confident warrior now slouched forward, wavering on his feet in a daze, just managing to keep himself up with the help of his great axe. He shook his head as he tried to clear his vision, sticky blood and spit drooling from his mouth and into his beard. The tattooed skulls upon his chest had been neatly cut by a long, thin line, hiding the dark ink behind a flow of red splatter. The Raider blinked under his metal helm, trying to focus in on Herleif as they stood off against each other, but not quite seeing him clearly against the glittering white of day.
"Bastard..." he mumbled, a spray of bloody mist flying from his split lips.
Herleif kept his distance, shield still raised in front of him. No matter how the fight might lull or how defeated his enemy may appear, he knew that nothing would be truly over until the Raider lay dead and his soul passed on to Valhǫll.
Flexing his hand around the grip of his bloody sword, he nodded toward his mighty foe and offered the only words that needed to be said between them. "Finish this then, with honor."
That made the Raider's eyes finally focus on him. The fingers that had so loosely gripped the haft of his axe tightened and found purpose. With what strength he had left, the Raider stood up straight, staring across the sparkling red and white snow as he looked upon the Warlord who met him bravely on the field of battle. Everything between them was quiet. The skirmish sounds were soft and faded through the trees, seeming so far away. It was just the two of them now, knowing that one would soon be feasting with the gods while the other would see the sunset on this bloody day.
Then the Raider charged again.
"For Valhǫll!" he roared, rushing forward with all speed to meet his fate, axe gripped tightly in his hands. He seemed to draw the last of his strength from the gods, leaping up into the air, axe raised in one last effort to emerge as the victor of this duel. The axe was poised to strike, ready to cleave down upon the Herleif with a blow driven by all the fury the Raider had left within him.
Herleif dropped low, legs braced, and his stance as strong as stone. He did his best to shrink behind his shield, giving his opponent the smallest target possible as the deadly axe descended upon him.
"Óðinn!" he cried, invoking the one-eyed god to witness him now. There was a great clash of weapons, and it was as if the frenzy god himself had struck with his mighty spear to bring the fight to an end.
Herleif's shield, the steadfast weapon of his ancient title, held firm. The axe glanced off the sturdy, flat surface, knocked away as Herleif lifted the shield and slashed out with his sword. Red metal flashed, striking swiftly until it was brought to a sudden halt deep in the Raider's belly, a sideways swing that cut deep into muscle, bone, and intestine.
All the fire and fury left them at that moment, and suddenly, there was just the stillness of snow as they gazed upon one another, locked in a deadly embrace.
Taking a step back, Herleif freed his bloodied sword and let the Raider fall to the ground to sprawl out onto his back. The great axe slipped from his hand, sinking into the snow just out of reach. Herleif stood above him, looking down at the warrior's broken body.
The Raider's chest jumped and heaved, struggling to fill his lungs with air as blood bubbled between his lips. The thrill of the fight had left them both in an instant, leaving the Raider to face his cold mortality while Herleif wondered if this fight had been worth the warrior's life. Kneeling next to the Raider, he laid down his sword, having no further use for it, and removed his helmet to face this fallen warrior as a man.
Leaning over the Raider, Herleif lifted his head and removed the man's horn helmet to set aside in the snow. Strands of blond hair fell around a pale and sweaty face. The Raider coughed, sputtering dark blood over his lips, but his eyes turned upward towards Herleif and blinked as if not yet realizing that this was truly the end.
"Do you hear the Valkyries calling you home?" Herleif asked.
That earned a pained laugh from the Raider, his ruined body shaking with the effort. "Yes..." he said weakly, but there was a twinkle in his eye that seemed to remain bright even as his life slowly faded away, "and... and the calls of your b-brothers... who I will call my own... now that-" more blood splattered as he coughed, "now that I face my fate... without fear."
Herleif smiled softly down at the dying man. "Tell them that Herleif Bjǫrnsson will drink to their memory and will remember them fondly as I will now remember you too. Now that I have given mine, shall you tell me your name?"
The Raider swallowed hard, raising his head. "Sitvek... S-Sitvek Stone-Breaker..." he said with as much pride as he could muster.
Nodding, Herleif gripped Sitvek's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "I will remember you, Sitvek Stone-Breaker, along with the rest of my fallen kin. I will speak your name tonight when I make a toast to those deserving to be honored by all men who love and worship the gods."
It pained Herleif to know that he was sending such a strong Viking on his way to the gods. With the endless wars against the Knights of Ashfeld and the Samurai of the Myre, feuds, and skirmishes between the clans of Valkenheim were nothing but a waste of lives to his mind. It made them weak, fighting among themselves when they should have stood firm against those who would see their way of life brought to a violent end. He took no pleasure in raising his sword against other Vikings, but when warriors from another hold had come into his lands looking to raid, he had been left with no choice but to meet them to defend his people.
That was what being a Warlord meant. Service to all until the end, even when it pained his heart to do so.
Turning his head, Sitvek looked towards his axe. He reached out for the weapon, but it seemed that he did not have the strength to grab hold of the wooden shaft. His hand shook, and his body quickly turned as pale as the snow around him.
Having no cause to give further insult to a man already dying and had by all accounts fought bravely against him, Herleif helped the fallen Raider lift the heavy axe into his weak hand and gently brought his arm up to lay it across Sitvek's chest. That put Sitvek at ease, and his labored breathing came on more smoothly with the feeling of his weapon safe in his grip.
"I am ready..." Sitvek said quietly, eyes turning back towards the sky as the light slowly faded from their sight, "Honor to you... Herleif... Bjǫrns... son..." A last breath was released between Sitvek's lips as he looked up to the gods to receive him, and he was gone.
Herleif sighed, his lips pressed into a tight line as he gave the Raider's shoulder a last squeeze. "Honor to you, Sitvek Stone-Breaker. Be at peace, and feast well until I come to join you." Touching his fingers to Sitvek's brow, he pressed the warrior's eyes closed for the final time.
Cleaning his blade of blood with white snow, Herleif rose to his feet and looked around him. He had survived to fight another day, it seemed. The Warlord's virtues had served him well in this battle, along with his shield and his training. Donning his helmet again, he tracked through the piled snow and bodies to regroup with his warriors, checking to see who was still alive and who needed wounds tended to. To be a Warlord meant that he led from the front and was there to carry the burden of battle alongside all those who followed him.
The ravens still circled in the sky overhead, slowly descending to pick at the remains of those who lay dead in the snow. Herleif would have his fallen warriors taken from the battlefield quickly and make sure they were given the appropriate rites for their final journey. In other holds, the invading force would perhaps be left to freeze in the night as punishment for their transgressions, but he would not leave the enemy dead to such a dishonorable fate, even if they had attacked him unprovoked. Sitvek's body would not be a feast for the ravens if Herleif could help it.
His heart broke for such a terrible loss of life as he began to walk among the dead. Winter was upon them, and those who would make it through the deathly cold winds of the north would soon be called upon to defend their lands against the invading forces of both the Knights and Samurai once the thaw of spring came or to go raiding across the sea for wealth and supplies.
What strength could they hope to muster if they were too busy killing each other before winter's bite could even take hold? It was a question that weighed heavily on Herleif's mind the longer he looked after his clan from one season to the next.
Duty, honor, and strength. These virtues had served him well in the past and would serve him still as he walked along his fated path until the day of his death. A Warlord was the shield that protected his people at all costs. Herleif would not fail in that endeavor.
This was the path that he had chosen to follow. Like his father before, and his father before him, he would stay true to a Warlord's duty. He had sworn this before the gods. For his family. For his people.
For honor.
The ravens circled high above in the bright blue sky, and Herleif rejoined with his warriors to see them through to victory. He was glad to serve them.