"Shield wall!" Herleif roared as another volley of arrows hissed through the air and fell upon the Vikings like deathly rain.
He raised his shield along with those next to him, laying one over the other as they stood shoulder to shoulder to create a protective barrier of wood, metal, and stretched hide. The air was filled with the sound of whistling arrows dropping down from above just before sharp arrowheads began to strike against shields, clatter off walls, or sink into anyone too slow in bringing up their arm.
It had been many winters since the last time Herleif had been in a fight as bad as this, and he could scarcely remember a raid that had been so bloody. Even the skirmish that past winter against Ivar's raiders had been a drop of blood in the sacrificial bowl compared to this.
The Divine Pyre had dug into the streets and alleyways that led deeper into Eitrivatnen from the docks, making the Viking advance slow-going and brutal.
Now, he and his warriors had been stopped at a crossroads where the Pyre had built a barricade on the street, blocking their path to the rendezvous point with Erik and Ivar. It had been an ambush, with the Pyre luring in Herleif and his warriors only to rain death down upon them from above. The cultists remained huddled behind their makeshift wall of heavy planks, discarded shields, and sharp spears while their archers had taken up positions in the buildings above, shooting out windows into the streets below. Dozens of Bilrost warriors had run at the barricade without thought, their blood lust still hot after the victory at the docks. With axes and swords ready to hack down the wall that stood in their way, they were quickly struck down in the open street, peppered with arrows, or torn apart by small bombs thrown into their ranks by the Pyre Knights.
Herleif shouted another order for the shield wall to be made opposite the enemy, filling the lane from wall to wall in the shade of the surrounding buildings. The horde behind him slowed to a halt, and warriors began to find cover behind market stalls or within sheltered doorways or otherwise stood out in the street with a shield over their heads and a prayer to the gods on their lips that no arrow would find its way into their neck. What archers Herleif had with him began to loose their own arrows at the enemy, hoping to thin their ranks as much as possible or land a shot into one of the windows and eliminate some of the threat from above.
More bombs flew from the Pyre's position, but most fell short of reaching the other side of the street, instead landing in the middle of the crossroad and mutilating the dead bodies that already lay there as they exploded. Those bombs that did stretch the distance had Herleif shouting for his warriors to move back out of range, packing in against those behind them and leaving behind the wounded and the dying where they lay.
Herleif spat a curse as he eyed the enemy's position over the rim of his shield and then slid out of the line to let another shield-bearer take his place. He pushed his way back through the crowd until he spotted the Lion Flame Warden he had been forced to rely on as a guide in Priscilla's absence.
"Are you sure this is the quickest road to the citadel? There must be another path around!" he exclaimed, having to nearly shout over the blasting of bombs and the roar of challenges shouted at the Knights by his own warriors.
The Warden, whose name Herleif had learned was Marcelo, craned his head up to look out between the cover of the buildings and into the noonday sun. "Yes, this is the way we must go," he shouted back, but his confidence faltered when he caught the icy look Herleif was giving him, "I... I think."
"You think?" Herleif roared, his eyes flashing angrily as he rushed at Marcelo to slam the man up against the wall with his shield. "Arrows fall down on our heads like hail while my warriors lay dead in the street, and you think that we are heading the right way? You know what I think, Marcelo? I think that I should let my Shaman gut you, and see if the gods can give us better directions among your entrails!"
Marcelo shrank beneath the shield pressed against him, pulling at the rim as Herleif began pushing it under his jaw. "I do not know this city, my lord!" he choked out, "I have only been here once… before, long ago! My station was to the west… in Sow Mesa!"
Growling in frustration, Herleif pulled his shield away and let Marcelo go, not bothering to watch how the Knight slumped back against the wall in fear.
"Useless," he muttered under his breath and then called out for Skuld over the battle din. The tall Valkyrie shouldered her way to him, golden helmet giving her the look of a war goddess among the men around her. "Take Ragnar, Ragna, and as many warriors as you need, and find us away around this barricade," he said, pointing a finger at her as if he was giving orders to his overzealous brother instead. But he had fought alongside Skuld enough now to know that she kept a level head during a battle, so he respectfully dropped his hand and nodded toward the open street. "Or better yet, find a way to get into those buildings, get in close, and slaughter every one of those arrow-shooting bastards that you can."
Skuld gave only a nod in understanding and was about to go on her way when she stopped and pointed with her spear back down the street that was crowded with Bilrost warriors. Herleif turned to look at what she had seen and felt his blood boil as he spotted Priscilla and Coal making their way to him, with Gunnar following behind.
"Where in Helheim's frozen pits have you been?" he spat angrily, watching as the small Peacekeeper got up onto a crate and surveyed the standstill up ahead without even a hint of a greeting.
"If we double back to the last cross street, we can find stairs that lead up to a balcony and a hanging garden. That will give us access to the rooftops and we can attack those archers from above," Priscilla said, ignoring Herleif's question entirely.
Herleif squeezed the grip of his sword and pointed it up at Priscilla, certainly in no mood to be ignored or played for a fool. "You answer me when I address you, Knight. I have had enough of your legion's incompetence. Nothing but gibbering swine with no backbone to speak of," he said, pointing his sword back toward Marcelo, who stiffened to have an angry Warlord's attention on him again. "We have gained little ground without you here, and I will see that you are held accountable when this fight is over!"
Priscilla jumped down from her perch and cocked her head at him questioningly. "I am here now, and the longer we stand here talking the longer it takes us to regroup with the other Jarls. Now shall we get to work, or would you rather open up some of these market stalls and start selling the armor off your backs?"
Herleif fumed at Priscilla's blatant disrespect, and even Skuld took a step away from him as he struggled to contain his anger. He looked to Gunnar for support, but his brother just frowned and shrugged his broad shoulders. Whatever Priscilla and Coal had been up to, it would have to wait until the problem at hand was dealt with.
"Fenrir take us all! Go! See that it is done," he snarled at last. He looked at Skuld again, giving a jerk of his head in the direction of the barricade. "Go with her, and take the twins with you. We will attack on your signal. And make sure this one does not run off again," he said, glaring at Priscilla.
Skuld nodded and headed off into the horde to find Ragna and Ragnar and inform them of the plan. Priscilla and Coal moved to go with her, but Herleif thrust out his sword and blocked their path to issue one last warning before they left.
"Do not cross me, Peacekeeper. There will be no safe haven for you in these lands if you do," he growled at her. Priscilla said nothing but touched two fingers to her hood in a quick salute before slipping off into the crowd with Coal following closely behind.
Once they were out of sight, Herleif hung his head and sighed in frustration, then looked back up at Gunnar. "What was all that about?" he asked.
"Family business. The bloody kind," Gunnar said with a frown, though that answer was hardly worth anything, not among all this fighting and chaos.
"Family business? And what exactly does that mean?" Herleif groaned, but his attention was quickly stolen away by the sight of Marcelo trying to sneak off after Priscilla and Coal. No doubt, after hearing the threats about communing with the gods through his insides, the Warden was eager to be back under the command of a fellow Knight of his own legion rather than that of a bloody savage.
"Whoa there, Marcelo! Just where do you think you are running off to?" he called out, causing the man to flinch and stop short, "We still have a barricade to take down and more of these cultist bastards to kill. You will miss out on all the fun!"
Marcelo looked back between Herleif and Gunnar, who both had him frozen under their gaze, his body still half-turned in the hope that he might be able to somehow escape down the street. "I... I was going to rally the other Lion Flame Knights and join with Priscilla, my lord. Surely she will need our support for the attack?" he said meekly, his voice barely heard over the commotion echoing off the building walls.
Gunnar grinned as he stepped up beside Marcelo and threw one big arm around his shoulders, squeezing him tight and causing his armor to clink and rattle. "Ha! You want to join those sneaks and shadows to attack from the rear? That kind of thinking will get you in trouble with Ragnar, my friend. No, best you stay here and help us take these níðingr shits head on. Like true warriors worthy of the Allfather's hall!"
Herleif couldn't help but grin a little as he saw Marcelo shrink at Gunnar's jest, and the Knight looked like he would rather take on a hundred Pyre warriors alone than spend any more time in the Raider's clutches. "Come on then, back to the line. We must be ready for Skuld's signal."
"But my lord, I don't have a shield for the wall," Marcelo said quickly in a last-ditch effort to see himself spared from the charge.
"We can share mine then, and the skalds will sing forevermore about the day a Viking and a Knight stood side by side in the shield wall and charged at their hated enemy together under a hail of deadly arrows!" Herleif snarled, his patience having finally run dry. Gunnar gave another laugh and hauled Marcelo along so that the three pushed their way through the crowd and back to the shield wall that was keeping death at bay.
"Your wives will be glad once we have killed you all, for they will see that real men have finally come to warm their beds where you have been nothing but bitter disappointments!" Gunnar shouted over the wall of shields, earning a chorus of laughter from the Bilrost Vikings surrounding him.
He had been going on for a while now, shouting obscenities and curses at the Pyre Knights while Skuld, Priscilla, and the others had left to scale the buildings and dash over rooftops. They needed time, though, and Gunnar's creative imagination provided the perfect distraction to keep the enemy focused on their shield wall.
Looking to further drive home the insult, Gunnar shouldered his way through the shield wall and out into the open, standing in plain view of the Pyre Knights without fear. "I'll enjoy listening to your screams today, but the cries of pleasure your women make as I rut them this evening will please me even more!" Then he held out his axe in front of him and thrust his hips forward, repeating the motion again and again as he grunted like a beast.
The twang of bow strings loosing their arrows was heard from within the dark windows across the street, and Gunnar quickly dove back through the gap made for him in the shield wall just before those arrows struck the exact spot where he had been standing. More laughter erupted from the Viking ranks, and Herleif glared at his brother where he had landed on the ground.
"Are you done having your fun, you mad goat?" he muttered, feeling Marcelo press up against him as they were both squeezed within the tight line of shields.
"What? Just had to let them know what was at stake here. It is only fair," Gunnar grinned, getting back up and dusting himself off.
Herleif shook his head, trying his best not to grin at his brother's antics. "Hurry and get back into line. We go as soon as Skuld gives the signal."
"Look, my lord. There, up on the rooftops," Marcelo hissed, his voice low as if he was afraid of giving their plan away to the enemy across the street.
Herleif glanced over the rim of his shield to where Marcelo was pointing and spotted Skuld and Priscilla moving low from one rooftop to the other, with the rest following behind them. The city buildings were so close together that, except for the main street, it was easy to jump over the narrow alleyways and stairwells to move above the enemy out of sight. He watched as the group reached the first building full of archers, the one to his right. Skuld jumped down onto a balcony and then ducked through the swaying curtains of an open doorway, leading the surprise attack with Priscilla in toe. Coal and the Berserkers followed after, along with a group of ten shield-bearers bringing up the rear.
"Finally… Get ready," Herleif hissed just as he heard the first signs of fighting inside the building. He could also see some of the Pyre Knights behind the barricade looking up, alerted to the commotion going on just above their heads. "Gunnar, keep their attention. We need to give them as much time as possible," he ordered quickly.
Gunnar leaned on top of the tightly packed line of warriors in front of him, ignoring their groans and glares of annoyance and waving his axe over their shields as he shouted. "If you are waiting for a time to surrender, now would be it! I promise that any of you who lay down your weapons now will have the honor of living the rest of their pathetic days as our cupbearers and will share the warmest kennels with our hounds!"
"Come over here and take them, you filthy sons of whores and swine!" came a voice from behind the Pyre barricade.
"I see you there, you cock sucking Conqueror! You níðing, shit-eating, son of a she-troll!" Gunnar roared, pointing with his axe across the street at the Pyre Knight he presumed had called out to return his challenge. "I am coming for you! Know that this day your head will be taken by none other than Gunnar the Bear, son of Bjǫrn Steel-Hide!"
Herleif's heart swelled with pride to hear his father's name invoked just before a fight, but his eyes were still fixed firmly on the building where Skuld and Priscilla were making quick work of the archers. Occasionally, he saw them in one of the windows, skewering a helpless archer or taking one by surprise as they moved through the building.
"Steady men," he urged, feeling the warriors around him tense up in anticipation of the charge against the barricade.
Gunnar was gripped by the battle lust now and was practically climbing over the backs of his fellow warriors for a chance to hurl more insults at the enemy. "That's it! You've all had your chance! I swear in Óðinn's great name that all of you will die this day!"
At that exact moment, three brightly lit fire-flasks soared through the air above the Pyre Knights from one building to the other, straight into the opposite windows across the street. They exploded with a thunderous boom, causing the structure's interior to burst into flames, engulfing the archers inside without hope of rescue. The Knights down below glanced upward at the smoking inferno, hearing the screams of their comrades as the explosion sent fiery debris falling down on their heads.
"Charge!" Herleif shouted, springing forward with Marcelo and those around him.
They moved as one, the shield wall rushing like a rolling wave toward the shore, and ran howling across the open street like rabid dogs. No arrows rained down upon them now, and no bombs exploded at their feet as they charged over the fallen bodies that had gone before them. With a primal cry of rage, the Bilrost Vikings ran at the barricade with all speed, Herleif leading them and Gunnar roaring behind as they charged with a mad fury.
Somewhere along the way, Marcelo disappeared from Herleif's side, having dropped back out of sight and into the advancing horde of raging Northmen. Herleif would have to trust that the Warden could look after himself and that the gods would look kindly upon him for at least standing in the shield wall as the battle raged on.
He didn't stop once the barricade had been reached but instead clambered up and over its side, gripping hold of the outstretched spears meant to keep the invaders at bay to haul himself up. A Warlord's duty was to command from the front, to lead the charge, and not to hide among his warriors to let others do the fighting for him. Pride and honor demanded that he be the first to jump over the barricade, and he did so without fear, for he knew that the Norns had already determined whether or not he would die that day.
Thankfully, the sudden explosion in the building above had been enough of a distraction that there was no sea of sharp blades waiting to cut him to pieces once he made it to the other side. He gave a roar of challenge as he pushed himself up and over the barricade to drop in among his enemies and start the fight. His feet hit solid ground just as a Lawbringer's poleaxe slammed down on his shield, and the Divine Pyre began to rally against the horde of Bilrost warriors that came surging at them in a wave of weapons and shields. Blocking the attack, Herleif kept his enemy's weapon held up high and thrust his sword forward, piercing through the weak points in the Knight's armor and into the body underneath. The Lawbringer dropped to his knees, but before Herleif could even see if they were dead, another foe was already stepping in to take their place. He slammed the rim of his shield into another Knight's face and pushed forward, feeling the surge of bodies pressing against him from behind as more and more Vikings spilled over the barricade and into the fight.
Somewhere, Gunnar was shouting over the sound of clashing weapons and screaming warriors, no doubt hacking his way through the Pyre Knights as he called out to the gods and leaving a bloody path in his wake.
"Óðinn! Thor! Týr! See me! Revel in this slaughter I give you today!" Gunnar shouted above the battle din.
Herleif could not see his brother through the crowd of bodies pressed together, but he spotted the shining helmet of a Pyre Conqueror soaring freely through the air with blood dribbling from within and heard the unmistakable sound of Gunnar raucous laughter not far off.
The Divine Pyre tried to push back, to counterattack and trap the Vikings that stood before them between their weapons and the barricade. Those with spears and poleaxes stabbed up at the northern warriors as they tried to drop over the tall barrier, killing or wounding them before they could join the fight. With cries of pain and anguish, the warriors of Bilrost began to fall, spilling their life's blood upon the cobblestones along with those of the Knights, who were already dead and gone. Those Vikings that came over the wall after did so by jumping onto the bodies of their comrades without care, growling like mad beasts, and hacking with their weapons against the Knights who remained, sparing no thought for the dead while the enemy remained before them.
Off to the right of the street, there was a loud bang as a door was kicked open, and out of the building rushed Skuld, Priscilla, and all the rest to jump into the fray and start cutting down the black armored Knights that stood in their way.
Skuld speared a Warden through the back before swiping the legs out from under another, and Priscilla began slicing at legs and weapon hands as she weaved through the Pyre Knights like an elegant dancer moving to a tune only she could hear. Coal and the Berserkers had formed a tight group together, each protecting the other's back as their weapons flew. Pyre soldiers fell dead at their feet, while back at the barricade, Helge was cutting a bloody line through the enemy, cleaving her way with hatchet and knife to rejoin her lovers and revel in the blood fray at their side.
Soon, more and more Pyre corpses began to cover the street, allowing the Vikings to push the Knights further back and give room for others to move in and dismantle the barricade with their axes. The Divine Pyre had lost their foothold protecting the heart of the city, but not all of them were dead yet, and so far, no cultist had ever laid down their weapons in surrender, even against hopeless odds.
Herleif was busy trading blows with a Peacekeeper who wore armor of finely crafted studded leather and dark mail. He blocked with his shield as she spun around him, but each time he attempted to counter with his own attack, she was already gone, moving about him like a cat toying with a mouse as he tried to cut her down.
Seeing her dodge to his right, he brought his shield over to block the thrust of her dagger, only to realize too late that the move was a feint, and she had brought up her sword to slash at his face. The attack was so quick that his gut instinct to recoil out of the way caused his feet to slip upon the bloody cobblestones beneath him. Suddenly, he was falling, crashing upon his back among the dead bodies and discarded weapons. His head smacked against something hard, a suite of armor or perhaps the street itself, and his head rang like a bell within his helmet while he lay defenseless and exposed. The flash of striking steel that came next was so bright that he thought he would surely lose an eye for this ill-fated tumble to the ground or perhaps his life.
The gods could be fickle with their protection during battle, and just as a man thought he was invincible against the blades of his enemy, he could be cut down in a shower of blood before a scream ever passed his lips.
Herleif shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the sharp blade to bite him, but the pain he expected never came. He flinched at the scream that cut through the air, but to his surprise, the cry was not his own. Sparing one more look, he opened his eyes to see that the Peacekeeper now had a bleeding stump where her sword hand had been and realized that it was she who screamed and fell to her knees. There was another flash of steel, this time the blade of a longsword, as it swiped through the Peacekeeper's neck and parted her head from her shoulders. The body fell, and before Herleif knew what was happening, he was being hauled back onto his feet by none other than Marcelo.
"On your feet, my lord. Now is not the time to be lying about," the Lion Flame Knight said, holding firm to Herleif's cuirass until he could stand on his own. The Warden's armor was splattered with so much blood that the patterns of white stitched into his tabard could hardly be seen, and he looked altogether like a red demon crawled up from the depths of Hell to strike fear into the enemy.
Herleif blinked a few times to clear his head, having found himself in a daze after thinking it was finally his time to meet his ancestors in Valhǫll. It was the sort of fate any warrior of Valkenheim should expect to meet on the battlefield, but to be saved by someone who, by all accounts, should have been his enemy was a surprising outcome, to say the least.
Then he grinned and took his sword and shield into one hand so that he could clasp Marcelo's forearm with the other. "Worthy of the Allfather's hall indeed! You have my thanks, Marcelo, truly..."
Marcelo gripped Herleif's forearm in the warrior's fashion and gave an appreciative nod before looking down the street. "The way to the citadel is clear, but there are still many more of these Pyre dogs that need to be put to the sword," he growled, the fury up in him now that the blood had begun to flow.
Herleif smiled to hear the bite in Marcelo's voice, no longer thinking so little of him now that he had been saved by the Knights' bravery. "Well, I suppose it is up to us to see it done. The other Jarls wait for us at the citadel, and we must join them with all haste," he said, glancing up at the large domed building rising up above the rooftops before them. Then he looked back at Marcelo and gave an approving nod. "Lead the way, Warden. Show these níðingr what sort of retribution they have unleashed by breaking their oaths."
Marcelo jumped to attention and held his head a bit higher at the order to carry on the attack, "It would be an honor, my lord," he said proudly and brought his sword up across his chest in salute before turning to join the other Bilrost Vikings and Lion Flame Knights in their advance down the street.
Herleif watched him go, a slight grin on his face and a strange sense of pride in his heart as Marcelo was swallowed up by the horde. Somehow, he was reminded of his son, Bjǫrn, and suddenly, he longed to hold all his children in his arms again.
"Making friends, are we?" came Gunnar's voice from behind him, and Herleif looked over his shoulder to see his brother walking towards him, covered in the blood and gore of his fallen enemies. "You best be careful. If you put the wrong idea into that lad's head, he might start thinking we will all get along just fine after this. Then it will hurt all the more when you have to come back and kill him next raiding season," he said, planting the end of his blood-covered axe on top of the fallen Peacekeeper's severed head.
Herleif just shrugged his shoulders. "I prefer to see it as boosting morale. He did share a shield with me, after all, and you always want to make sure that the man who falls to fear and panic is not the one standing by your side. If he just so happens to be some Ashfeld whelp, well, we work with what the gods give us."
"You're beginning to sound like old Jarl Stigandr, hoping for peace between the clans and the legions. Perhaps we should send word to the Samurai as well? Get them involved in this whole mess," Gunnar grinned.
Herleif chuckled and shook his head. "And shall we have the Wu Lin side with the Pyre to make things even? I think we have enough cooks at the fire as is. As for the hope of peace..." his voice trailed away, and he thought about the kind warriors his sons would become one day, along with all the risks that came along with such a life.
His eyes turned downward, looking over the many bodies of not only Pyre Knights but the Vikings who had fallen in the fight and were now drinking golden mead in Óðinn's hall. How long did he have until the Norns determined that he should join them? A warrior's death was the hope of anyone who held a weapon in their hand, but when he thought of dying upon the slopes of some desolate volcano in a foreign land as opposed to his own home surrounded by the ones he loved, he began to have doubts about the sort of fate he had once hoped to meet as a younger man.
With a shake of his head, he gave a short chuckle and shoved Gunnar's shoulder. "Enough of this talk. We have killed too many men to think of peace now, and somehow I doubt the Pyre will find the idea very appealing," he said, hoping to put an end to this subject before the gods looked poorly on him and his concerns. "Come, the Spear-god's work is not done yet. There is still a Black Prior lurking somewhere in this city, and I am not eager to have her spring upon us unaware."
Gunnar laughed and rolled his shoulders, taking up his axe again, and followed his brother along with the crowd surrounding them. Smoke from the fires still burned from the docks and the building above, billowing into the sky and filling the air with a gloomy haze that was beginning to block the sun. Eitrivatnen was bleeding, dying slowly as the Viking horde cut into the city from all sides. Only the commander of the Divine Pyre stood in their way now, but darkness followed the Black Priors wherever they walked, just as surely as darkness would soon lay claim to the world with the falling of the sun.
Bodies of the dead and wounded lined the street as Herleif led his warriors towards the citadel that rose up above the rest of Eitrivatnen harbor. Pyre Knights in their black armor and purple robes, Viking warriors dressed in the reds and blacks of the Headhunter clan, all hacked armor and mutilated bodies, cast aside on the road to make way for those fleeing in retreat or advancing to the fight. But not all among the slain wore armor or bore a crest that showed their allegiance to one side or another. Some of the dead were wearing simple peasant garb or were elegantly dressed merchants lying still alongside those who had come to bring havoc and destruction upon their homes. Many of them were face down in pools of blood, cut down from behind as they had tried to flee, or shoved aside into the corners of buildings and doorways as Pyre Knights barreled over them to reach the citadel.
"Bastards," Marcelo spat as he stooped down to lift the corpse of a young woman up from the road. Adorned in a servant's dress, her throat had been slit from ear to ear before being tossed away and left to bleed out a slow and painful death. There was nothing to be done for her now, but Marcelo still set her sitting up against a building rather than leave her to be trampled by the coming Bilrost horde. "Even the Divine Pyre would not have been so heartless as to just start killing citizens during a retreat. This has to be the work of Vikings," he hissed, looking up at his northern companions as they walked by.
Gunnar stepped up and gave Marcelo a pitying frown, his great axe resting across his shoulders as he gripped the haft. "I wouldn't be surprised by anything these volcano worshipers did after what we saw traveling upriver. But this is war, my friend. People die. No use crying about it now."
"Then when? When shall we say that things have gone too far?" Marcelo snapped back, rising up to his feet to face Gunnar. He stood nearly a head shorter than the savage Raider, but he squared his shoulders and held his chin up high all the same. "She had no weapon. She was an innocent, just a woman running for her life! Surely she deserved better than this, not to die in terror trapped between tyrants and savages alike?"
Ragnar slid up behind Marcelo and hooked the Warden's neck with his arm to pull him close. "You're in the wrong kind of company for that kind of talk. Best if you just keep such soft thoughts to yourself from now on. At least until the battle is over and the red work is done," he whispered, then pushed Marcelo backward so the Knight stumbled right into Priscilla's arms.
Marcelo made to stand and shove the Berserker back, but she kept a firm grip on his wrist and kept him still. "Leave it," she hissed at him, pulling him back into rank with Coal and the rest of the Knights that followed, "Now is not the time to worry about honoring the dead."
Herleif remained silent as he walked on, keeping his eyes forward and refusing to look at Marcelo or the dead woman. The death of an innocent was always a pity in war, but now was not the time to stop and mourn the dead, regardless of whether they had taken up arms against them or not. A Warlord was the shield of his people, and so Herleif was focused on seeing as many of his own warriors through this fight as possible and nothing else.
Further up the street, they began to catch up to the rest of the horde that had come in slaughter before them. The warriors of the Headhunter Clan had fought their way to the center of the city before Herleif and Erik could reach them and now had the city's citadel surrounded. The large building was well fortified, though, and the Divine Pyre was putting up a good defense atop its high walls and towers. Arrows rained down on the surrounding Northmen, but the Headhunter warriors would not back down. They took cover behind buildings or the barricades that the Pyre had left behind in their retreat, firing their own arrows up at the enemy and surging through the maze of streets toward the citadel's main gate.
Herleif threw himself into the sea of Valkenheim men and women, pushing and shouting his way through with his own warriors following behind. Those who looked over their shoulders and saw a Jarl coming their way moved quickly to let him pass, and those who did not received a face full of his shield as he pushed them aside.
"Ivar!" Herleif called out once he had traveled far enough up the street to come to a host of Vikings from Thurshmrar, the large hold belonging to Ivar the Red, which boarded Herleif's own to the south. No one appeared to have an answer for him or seemed to care at the very least. "Where is Jarl Ivar?"
"The mad fuck has rushed forward too quickly," Gunnar growled as he followed after his brother, glancing at a fallen Headhunter Raider that had died trying to keep his guts inside the gaping wound to his belly and now lay slumped against a broken market stall. More bodies lay piled off to the sides, Pyre and Viking together, the bloody cost for just a few streets that served little purpose beyond marching toward more battle and death. Gunnar pushed past some of Ivar's men without apology and paid them no mind as they gave him evil looks and grumbled curses under their breath. "He has lost many men getting this far. Better that he would have waited for us to attack the citadel together."
"Waiting was never one of Ivar's strengths," Herleif said as he craned his head to see if he could catch sight of the three-horned helmet that Ivar wore somewhere in the crowd, but a loud crash from one of the nearby buildings drew his attention instead.
At a smashed-in door, Ivar's warriors quickly ran in and out of the building as if burning flames licked at their heels. Herleif's eyes flashed angrily, for within the arms of those men were small treasures left behind by the Pyre: bronze goblets, locked chests that might hold great riches or mundane belongings, and coin purses so small they could not have but a few pittances of coins. All of it was worth taking to the Thurshamrar savages, though, and a quick look around told Herleif that many others were getting up to the same mischief, with warriors of the Headhunter clan plundering abandoned market stalls or breaking down doors of storehouses with their shields like cracking a bone apart for the marrow inside.
Two red-clad warriors came out of the building carrying a large ornate chest between them and wearing gleeful smiles under their beards at the unknown bounty they had pilfered for themselves. Growling under his breath, Herleif stepped into their path and backhanded one of the men across the face with his shield. Blood flew from the warrior's mouth as he was thrown flat on his ass, dropping the chest and causing the second warrior to tumble forward with its weight.
"What is the meaning of this!?" Herleif roared, "Your shield brothers fight and die not ten paces away, and you already seek to plunder and steal behind their backs? How dare you line your pockets while the enemy still breathes!"
Everyone's attention was on him now, most of all those trying to sneak off with pilfered treasure clutched to their chests. Plundering a city was the way that many of these warriors made their fortunes and provided for their families back home, and it was very well their right to do so in return for fighting for their Jarl. But there was a certain way to go about these things, and seeing these warriors taking riches for themselves while others still fought filled Herleif with a rage that he could barely keep a grip on. "Useless cowards, the lot of you. Get back into the fight before the Æsir curse us all for this pathetic display!"
The man Herleif had backhanded to the ground still lay there, eyes fluttering as he groaned and spat blood between his cracked lips. The other one just stood there fuming next to the stolen chest, glaring at Herleif as if the insults had been directed at him personally.
"Who are you to be telling us when we can and can't take our plunder?" he grunted angrily. "Those dark Knights are held up there tighter than a tick on a Berserker's ass cheek, and you expect us to just stand here with all this bounty waiting to be claimed? This is ours by right, so you can just piss off for not finding it first!"
Ragna stepped right up to the warrior, eyeing him dangerously before tossing one of her bearded axes up into the air. Ivar's man watched dumbly at the spinning axe as it soared upward, and as he did, Ragna struck him across the face with the haft of the axe's twin. In an instant, he was dashed to the ground next to his companion, and Ragna snatched her falling axe out of the air before she spat on him and grinned. "You mind your tongue when you speak to our Jarl, or I'll cut it out of your filthy mouth."
Herleif gave Ragna a reassuring nod, and then Gunnar stepped up along with Ragnar to start ushering the rest of Ivar's warriors away from the building and back down the street.
"Alright, drop it. Get back to the fight, you red goat-fuckers. Show me you have a spine before I cut you open to look for myself!" Gunnar shouted, giving one warrior a shove with the long half of his axe while Ragnar chased after some others with a wolfish snarl and snap of his teeth.
One of Ivar's warriors must have gone to fetch a hersir once the confrontation had begun because a red-painted Raider with curved tusks and the top half of a human skull fixed upon his helmet was shouldering his way through the street to where Herleif and the others were standing.
"Jarl Herleif," he called out, recognizing the Bilrost Warlord for who he was, unlike the two bloodied upstarts now laid out on the ground for their foolishness. "My Jarl Ivar waits for you at the main gate. He lays siege to the doors, and we will be through soon."
Satisfied that he had put the fear of the gods into Ivar's warriors enough to keep them focused on the fight at hand, Herleif gave a nod and departed with the Headhunter Raider. His warriors fell into rank among those from Thurshmrar, nearly doubling the horde surrounding the citadel. If the Pyre Knights inside had been holding onto any hope of fighting their way out, it surely vanished at the sight of so many Northmen clamoring for their blood like the fire smoke carried away on a breeze.
The skull-capped Raider led Herleif and the others through the streets around the citadel and toward the main gate. They moved with the flow of the crowd, passing by archers who fired arrows up at the Knights upon the walls or the men holding their shields up high to protect those rushing behind them. Once they made it to the gate, they came upon a small fortification of overturned carts, broken market stalls, and whatever amount of crates the Headhunters could get their hands on to make a wall a fair distance from the front citadel. Archers crouched behind that makeshift shelter, firing at any Pyre Knight that might show their head through a window or over the citadel ramparts.
Ivar stood among them, neither crouching behind cover nor looking very much alarmed at the number of arrows that hissed through the air to bounce off the shields of the warriors at his side. Across from his position, separated by a large open courtyard decorated with two lines of tall palm trees, were the large ornate doors of the citadel, closed and locked tight to deny the Vikings entrance to the interior. A group of Ivar's warriors were already there, huddled together beneath a roof of raised shields as others hammered the gates with one of the palm trees chopped down from the courtyard and ran through with wooden stakes for handholds. They beat at the gates in a steady rhythm, making the large doors shudder under the force of each blow.
Ivar silently watched his warriors with a serene calm, like a farmer looking over a golden field just before the harvest. As if sensing Herleif's approach, Ivar's dark eyes shifted to look at him, though his demeanor did not change in the slightest.
"Herleif. About time you got here," he said in that same tight-lipped, gravelly tone as usual. Again, there was no excitement, no sense of urgency to his voice. He simply looked back towards the gates and scratched at his black beard like he was stuck attending a boring feast with lousy entertainment. "I was beginning to think I would have to do all the hard work myself. What happened? That little Peacekeeper of yours get you lost?"
"Something like that," Herleif frowned, sparing a glance over at Priscilla, who walked with him among his warriors. She gave no notice, though, or at least appeared not to. It surprised Herleif to see her lingering so close to him, considering what had happened and the threats he had made. But for now, at least, it seemed that she could be depended on to stay and fight, which was all that mattered at a time like this.
Walking up to Ivar, Herleif stood beside his fellow Jarl and looked across the courtyard toward the gate and ram. "We are here now, though. How long until you think that gate is smashed open and we can get on with this?"
"Soon," Ivar said quietly, squinting over towards the large doors that rattled and shook with each hit of the tropical ram. "Just relax, Herleif. Enjoy the sunshine, the nice breeze coming off the lake. If you'd like, I can have a few of my men whip up some refreshments. A jug of wine, perhaps? Maybe some cheese? I am sure there is something we could scrounge up from this husk of a city to please you."
Herleif rolled his eyes. "I will relax when the citadel is ours and our enemies are good and dead. Where is Erik?" he asked, not seeing any sign of the Golden Jarl or his great host of warriors and mercenaries.
Ivar shrugged his shoulders, not bothering to look around. "Fuck if I know. Taking his time to get to the fight, as usual. Probably has his warriors stopping at every building and hovel, combing it top to bottom, looking for anything that shines and isn't nailed down while we sit here like idiot children fighting his war for him. No doubt we'll be lucky to get a single painted pearl for ourselves when this is all over."
"That is very rich, coming from you," Herleif growled, earning a sideways scowl from Ivar. "I arrived here only to find your warriors were already pilfering the surrounding buildings. Running off back to your ships with arms full of battle goods while the rest of us carry on with the fight. It is a foul thing to accuse another of the crimes you are guilty of committing as well. A foul thing, even for you."
Ivar's narrow eyes became even smaller as he glared at Herleif until they were just dark slits under the rim of his horned helmet. "I gave no permission to begin such things," he said in a low growl.
Now, it was Herleif who shrugged, looking away from Ivar and back towards the citadel. "I suspected as much. But then, you were never very good at controlling your men, were you? Just like the ones who attacked my hold last winter when you insisted that you had no idea what they were up to," he said, glancing sideways at the other Jarl.
Ivar's jaw tightened under his dark beard at that remark, and for a moment, Herleif wondered if the man was going to challenge him to a duel right then and there. But Ivar held his tongue, which was a surprise, and instead waved his hand for the skull-capped Raider to approach.
The Raider came forward, ducking his head a bit as Ivar spoke quietly in his ear. Herleif could barely hear him over the sound of the battle around them, but he caught something about cracking skulls and a dozen lashes for any warrior caught acting out of line. The Raider nodded, then headed off in the direction they had come.
"The matter will be dealt with," Ivar said, not giving Herleif another look.
Herleif was pleased by this but also a bit surprised. A part of him had expected Ivar to just ignore the news and let his men run wild while the battle raged on, but it seemed that he did have some sense of honor after all, even if it was just a sliver. Their relationship as Jarls had always been rocky at best, with small skirmishes and feuds existing between their holds even before the time of their fathers. But things were different now; with Jarl Erik making them swear to each other as blood brothers, they promised to fight for and support one another in their endeavors. Herleif had not trusted the oath to ever amount to anything when it had been made, but Ivar had been surprisingly less hostile towards him since the raid had started.
"Well, that's good to know. No reason to let your warriors snatch all that wine and cheese before we can get any," he said, the frustration seeping out of him now.
That actually earned a grin from Ivar, but it quickly slipped away from his lips as something high above the citadel walls caught his attention. His eyes narrowed, looking through the hazy smoke toward the high tower rising into the sky next to the large domed roof.
"There she is," Ivar growled, gesturing with a nod of his bearded chin, "That dark witch…"
Herleif turned his gaze upward, spotting a lone figure that had appeared standing on the tower's open terrace, a hooded silhouette outlined by the sun. Morgana, the dreaded Black Prior of Eitrivatnen, inheritor of the legacy that was Jafnhar's Bane.
A chill fell over the surrounding horde at her appearance, her dark figure looming over the city like a bird of prey looking to swoop down upon them on wings of death. A moment ago, victory seemed all but certain for the warriors of Valkenheim, but now the legend of Vortiger's mad slaughter years ago gripped their hearts and filled their minds with the first notions of doubt.
Ivar uttered a curse, sensing the shifting mood among his warriors as he turned back towards the gates and shouted at those battering against it with their makeshift ram. "Break down that fucking door!" he roared, taking his hooked sword and shield into his hands. Then he looked up at the tower again, jumped onto the barricade to point his blade at the Pyre commander, and shouted over the battle-din for her to hear. "I'm coming for you, Ashfeld whore! I'll cut your black heart from your chest and burn it for the gods!"
For a while, Morgana seemed to just be observing the battle from her tower, but as the echo of Ivar's voice faded into the sky, she turned toward the barricade. Herleif could only make out her dark figure and weapons through the smoke and haze, but as a chill ran down his spine, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was smiling. Moving further out onto the terrace, Morgana revealed herself under shining rays of light through the smoke. She was dressed all in black, a dark tunic and belt covering her body, with her arms adorned in mail and heavy steel plate. A hood shrouded the upper half of her face, but just as Herleif had known, her lips were curled up into a wicked grin as she looked down at the barbarians attacking her gates. Her bright blade gleamed as she held it out into the air, pointing at Ivar in challenge and marking him for death among all the rest.
Ivar grinned in return. "Yes…" he muttered under his breath, eagerly awaiting the moment he could meet Morgana face to face. They only needed to get through the citadel's gates first, and he looked back to the men across the courtyard with growing annoyance. "Hammer! Hammer hard, you sniveling swine!"
High above their heads, Morgana looked down at her Knights holding the walls against the Viking invaders. Herleif watched her closely, noticing how she seemed to be focused on something going on inside the citadel's courtyard, behind the high walls and out of sight. He saw her raise her large shield, holding it there for a long while without letting it fall. Then, a groan filled the air as the large doors of the citadel were slowly pulled back upon their hinges.
Those warriors battering at the doors nearly flew forward off their feet as they swung the tree and hit nothing but open air. They stumbled in surprise, staring wide-eyed through the open gateway and into the courtyard beyond. If they had been expecting a surge of armored enemies rushing at them, they were shocked to find none. All they found was the open beaks of three bronze eagles as they heard the rising hiss heralding their doom.
Morgana dropped her shield, and the open gates of the citadel erupted into flames.
Herleif had to cover his face with his shield from the brightness and the heat as he ducked, feeling the fire from clear across the courtyard as it consumed everything in its path. He had barely heard the screams of Ivar's warriors before they were drowned out by the roar of the flames. The eagle's deathly breath reached nearly all the way to the barricade, setting fire to the trees and any warrior unfortunate enough to be caught out in the open.
They should have known that the Pyre would utilize their new weapon in more ways than just arming their ships. This was the cultist's last stand, and a wolf is always the most dangerous when backed into a corner. As the jets of fire began to fade and the screams of burning warriors filled the air, Herleif cursed himself as he realized just how badly they had underestimated their enemy.
"Attack! Attack, you worthless dogs!"
The voice was muffled through the ringing in Herleif's ears after the blast. He looked up, squinting through a layer of smoke and flickering lights, only to see Ivar jumping over the burning barricade and leading his warriors to the gates right through the dancing flames. Herleif tried to stand and follow after but stumbled, his legs shaking as he forced himself to get to his feet. He still had his weapons, though, his hands squeezing tightly around the leather-bound grip of Sólareldur and the smooth handle of his shield, and he quickly looked around as his eyes adjusted to the hazy orange glow that surrounded him.
Gunnar was pushing himself up with the haft of his axe, snarling in anger as the flames of the burning barricade whipped up around him. Skuld was there helping warriors up to their feet while the Berserker twins kicked and hacked at charred debris to clear a path to the courtyard. Helge was nothing more than a dark silhouette before the flames, her head thrown back and arms outstretched as she let out a savage howl that barely sounded human, letting the roaring fire fuel the rage of those voices that tormented her mind and drove her to such a blood lust that no man would be able to stand before her and live.
The head of their fighting force had nearly been torn apart by fire and chaos, and through it, all warriors burned alive in the strange fire. No one called for water to try and douse the flames; there was no point. Those that burned brightly in their pain were left to fall and die, while the living ran toward the citadel gates that now hung open like a portal to fiery Múspell. The gaping maw welcomed the Viking invaders, swallowing them all into smoke and roaring fire as they ran in with war cries on their lips and deadly weapons held high.
To charge that gate was to surely welcome one's own death, but Herleif had survived Morgana's trap, so he would fight on. There was no other choice, no chance to stand still and think while the world burned around him. All he could do was take the fight to the enemy that now welcomed their oblivion, and so he bared his teeth and pointed his sword at the looming citadel, and ran.
"Forward, warriors of Bilrost!" he called out, letting the heat of the flames burn away his fear into courage.
Leading his warriors across the blazing courtyard, he ran past the scorched palm trees that cracked and groaned as their trunks burned in a bright gulfs of flame and charged headlong through the citadel gates to the carnage that waited within. Immediately upon crossing the threshold, he was met with a line of Pyre Knights coming to stop the Vikings in their tracks now that the bronze eagles had gone silent. They were like a rocky barrier that rose against the waves of a stormy sea as more and more Vikings poured in through the gates. Herleif threw himself at a foot soldier with his shield raised, knocking the man down and stabbing another through the chest as he moved on.
The sound of battle was all around him, echoing off the courtyard walls and rising up over the domed roof of the citadel to the sky above. Clashing weapons, screams of pain, and curses howled in anger filled the air. There was no order, no plan. There was barely even a line between the Knights and the Vikings, instead just an undulating mass of warriors hacking at each other, the dead falling to be trampled as the living came to take their place in the fight.
It was utter chaos, and Herleif allowed himself to be taken up in the battle frenzy as he hacked and slashed with his sword, blocking and hammering with his shield. A Pyre Warden slammed into him with his armored shoulder and sliced quickly with his sword, but Herleif brought his shield around to block and drove his own blade into the Knight's belly to drop him. Already, there was a Lawbringer ready to strike down with his poleaxe from above, but Herleif slammed his head into the man's chest to throw him off balance and slashed a bloody wound into his groin where his armor was weakest. A foot soldier came at him with a spear once the Lawbringer clattered to the ground, deadly point thrusting quick and low, but a flash of movement and a flurry of blades sent the man falling with his guts spilling out around his legs. Herleif looked and saw Priscilla jump over the dead body she had just made and weave her way through the enemy with Coal smashing a path of death and destruction after her with his flail.
Time seemed to stand still, the fight dragging on with no clear indication of who was gaining ground and who was losing it. Herleif slashed at a Conqueror's arm, then slammed the rim of his shield into the Pyre Knight's neck and watched him drop. More Vikings surged around him, filling the courtyard just inside the citadel's gates and charging forward toward the domed keep in a constant howl of madness and fury.
To their credit, the Divine Pyre never stopped fighting, never begged, or fell to their knees in surrender. They killed as many Valkenheim warriors as possible, but for every Viking that fell, two appeared to take their place. The Pyre were outnumbered, and with the citadel's entrance lost in their mad gamble, it was only a matter of time until they were overrun and defeated. But still, they fought on, and Herleif knew that Morgana had surely worked her fanatics into a frenzy to fight to the last man, perhaps under the threat that her warriors should have more to fear of her than any savage from the north.
He needed to find her, to put her down just as Erik had said. Perhaps that would help take the fight out of the volcano worshipers and bring the battle to a swift end. Over to the left side of the courtyard was a set of steps to the tower where he had spotted Morgana standing watch above the battle. The Raider with the skull-capped helmet was there, single-handedly holding back a group of Pyre Knights desperately trying to make it up those stairs. Herleif shouted to gather a few of his own warriors and led them in a charge to the base of the tower, rushing to the Raider's aide as they hacked and cut at the enemy from behind.
Herleif ran his bloody sword through a Knight's back and tossed him aside, shouldering past the rest as they were cut down and got to the Raider just as he threw a Pyre foot soldier off the rising steps to fall screaming into the melee below.
"Where is Ivar?" he shouted to the Raider over the clash of weapons and shields.
"Up the stairs with some men! Gone to claim the Prior's head before she can rally her forces," answered the Raider. The large man bled from a dozen different nicks and cuts across his chest and arms, but the battle fury helped him ignore the pain for now. Herleif could see in the Raider's eyes that he still wanted more blood and was happy to give him the chance to do it.
"Hold these stairs! Make sure no one comes up behind us," he commanded, and the Raider nodded as he took up his long axe and jumped down to the base of the steps to start hacking at any Knight that dared get close. Herleif took a moment before scaling the tower to look out over the chaos of the courtyard. He spotted Gunnar in the thick of the fighting, Skuld at his side striking with her spear, and Priscilla close at hand guarding his other flank. Gunnar cleaved with his great axe, taking heads from shoulders and splitting men open from shoulder to belly.
"Gunnar!" Herleif called out, getting his brother's attention and then pointing to the citadel with his sword, "Push the keep! Push hard!"
Gunnar gave a nod, lifted his axe high into the air, and let out such a battle cry as to conjure the gods to come and fight by their side. Warriors picked up the call across the Viking line, pushing harder, fighting more ferociously than a cave bear, and striking at the enemy without fear of death or pain.
"Victory or Valhǫll!" Gunnar shouted, slamming the blade of his axe into a Warden's belly and flinging him up into the air to crash into the enemy ranks.
Herleif gestured for his men to follow as he entered the tower and bounded up the stairs two at a time. The passage led up in a spiral, rising higher and higher as he saw more of the harbor laid out around him through the small windows he passed by. When he was about halfway up, he began to hear the sounds of clashing steel and angry shouts echoing off the passage walls from above. He pressed on quicker, desperate to get to the fight and help Ivar in any way he could.
The body of a Headhunter shield-bearer came rolling down the steps, nearly tripping him and sending him falling against the stones as it splattered blood in its wake. The body had been stabbed through the chest, the head bouncing off each step until it was finally stopped by one of the men bringing up the rear. Further above, the sound of pitched fighting echoed on, only now accompanied by the screams of wounded and dying men. Morgana was indeed steeped in her dark work now, slaying warriors with ease up on the terrace standing high above Eitrivatnen. If she killed many more, it may bolster the morale of her forces and shift the tide against those Vikings fighting their way into the citadel's keep.
Gritting his teeth, Herleif let out a snarl as he turned down the steps to stare into the eyes of each warrior who followed him. "Not scared of one little witch, are you?" he sneered.
The warriors all bristled and seemed to stand a bit taller at that. They hadn't come all this way to look like cowards before the eyes of their Jarl or the gods now. They gripped their swords tightly and beat their blades against shield bosses to prepare themselves for the climb.
"Show me your spirit, lads," Herleif grinned and started back up the stairs again, taking them two at a time. "Death holds no sway over us. If she is truly the darkness, then we are Thor's lightning come to split apart the night! We are Thor's hammer, and we will strike her down!"