Until that day, Herleif had never met or fought against one of the dreaded Black Priors of legendary renown.
Once, the Priors had been a noble order of Knights from all walks of life and many different creeds, but as the wars of Heathmoor raged on, they grew cynical, and each pledged themselves to the Blackstone warlord, Apollyon, as her sworn wolves. Their reputation for violence and extreme cruelty upon the battlefield brought them the contempt and fear of all their foes and even some of their own allies, who grew to think of their order as nothing but a nest of demons set loose upon the world. But for some time after Apollyon's defeat, it was said that the Black Priors had fallen with her and vanished into the mists of history, better left forgotten like the remnants of some terrible nightmare.
The world had seemed a better place without the presence of their dark order, but when the bold Highlander, Jarl Jafnhar, led his horde against the harbor of Eitrivatnen seeking plunder and glory, there came a grim reminder that not all nightmares remained forgotten. Just when victory seemed within Jafnhar's grasp after days of fighting, the Black Prior called Vortiger stepped out from the shadows and single-handedly ended the Highlander Jarl's life and laid waste to his Viking fleet.
Or so the legend went.
It was also said that the Knights who survived the Jarl's attack witnessed a scene of such slaughter and death brought about by Vortiger's hand that even they felt their own souls tremble in fear. Not even they wanted to welcome the Black Priors back into their ranks, not after all the needless suffering their order had brought about under Apollyon's rule. But it seemed fate had determined that Vortiger would once again mark his place in Ashfeld's history, and he would mark it in blood.
With the Vikings defeated, a second invasion of Samurai warriors clashed against what few Knights remained in defense of the harbor. Allowing these Knights to sacrifice their lives against the invaders simply to buy time, Vortiger gathered his dark order to him. At his command, he unleashed death from on high with ballistas and trebuchets against the enemy and the crumbling Knight forces as well. None were spared from Vortiger's wrath, and those who prayed to a higher power for mercy soon found themselves abandoned to the Black Prior's sword.
Vortiger's victory against the Vikings and Samurai was complete. Eitrivatnen was safe, and the harbor returned to the forces of Beaufort once they had come to relieve the city. Only, they arrived to find the bodies of the slain, both friend and foe alike, hanging from the city walls and their heads stuck upon pikes over the gates. The legions were horrified with what they saw, but the strength of the Black Prior order was too great to deny, and were swiftly allowed back into Ashfeld's fold.
The Black Priors had returned, and the world once again trembled under their long shadow of violence and fear. Soon, their soldiers were spread across raging battlefields, bringing a gruesome death to any who dared stand against them. Vortiger's terrible deeds at the harbor of Lake Eitrivatnen became legend, and any who dared listen to the tale felt in their soul the chilling terror of true darkness.
Herleif never learned whether the legend of Vortiger's cruelty was true. Sometime after Apollyon's fall, a Highlander called Jafnhar had led a raid against Eitrivatnen and met a terrible end. Within the same month, a Samurai Daimyo named Daimon had also attacked the harbor, only to have his army completely destroyed. The fate of the harbor had looked grim, facing down both Vikings and Samurai alike, but somehow, the Knights had been able to hold off each invading force long enough for reinforcements to save them. The dark strength of the Black Priors certainly played their part in the defense leading up to that rescue, but whether or not a single warrior really committed such terrible acts against his enemies all on his own seemed a bit far-fetched to his mind.
However, as he climbed the steps of the citadel tower up to the terrace and stepped over the slashed and bloody bodies of Ivar's men who lay dead on the stairs, a sliver of doubt wormed its way into his mind. Two more bodies lay on the steps as they made their way up, not counting the one that had surprised them earlier, but still, the sound of clashing steel echoed on ahead. Most likely, Ivar had caught Morgana on her way down to the battle and forced her back up again at a great cost to his own men. Herleif gritted his teeth as he bounded upward, determined to put an end to the battle once and for all.
Why a member of the Black Priors would join with these volcano cultists was a mystery. It seemed to Herleif that one cult member would stick to their mad ideology over another, but when a person's beliefs only seemed to center around the death and destruction of innocents, then perhaps madness is all relative in the end. He would have to go without an answer to that question, though, as he had no intention of asking Morgana her reasons before he cut off her head.
Daylight shone on the walls of the stairwell now as they approached the top. Herleif could hear the battle going on down below now, the clash of weapons and the screams of the fallen carried clear on the wind. He could smell the smoke of the fires that still burned at the gates, but he put all thoughts of his brother and his warriors fighting for the keep out of his mind as he charged up onto the terrace and looked around for the Pyre commander he had come to kill.
There was a pained grunt and the sound of metal cutting through a shield, and Herleif turned just as a Headhunter warrior fell to the floor. The black-robed Morgana stood above him, slamming the angular point of her tall shield down on the warrior's body and ripping her sword free from his chest.
Morgana was alone. All alone. Not a single Pyre Knight stood with her upon the terrace, and yet another Viking lay dead at her feet, while Ivar and three others stood bloodied and grim with their shields raised around her. Her robes and armor were splattered with blood, and red gore dripped from the end of her blade and the sharp edges of her tall kite shield, enough to leave a trail across the terrace floor as the fight escalated. A dark leather hood shrouded Morgana's face, but just as before, Herleif saw a wicked smile spread across her lips.
For the first time that day, Herleif felt the true grip of fear squeeze tightly around his heart. Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew he faced a practiced killer, a wolf strengthened by the teachings of a madwoman and now unleashed upon the world by the corrupt leaders of another wicked cult. Morgana lived for the kill, and now he could feel her dark, shrouded eyes turn to rest on him as a wolf stalks its prey.
"What is this?" came the Prior's smooth voice in the common tongue, which sounded like the hiss of a snake tasting blood with its forked tongue, "More wretched heathens come to play?"
The four warriors that had followed Herleif came up the stairs behind him, adding to the force that stood against Morgana and outnumbering her now eight to one. The smile on the dark warrior's lips never faltered, nor did she seem to shrink away against the Northmen surrounding her. In fact, she only seemed to smile wider.
It was either an act of incredible bravery or utter foolishness that Morgana would fight so many alone. Surely, she knew that this was to be her end, that the harbor was lost to the Pyre, but perhaps that was what filled her with such excitement in the first place. Only someone truly evil could find such pleasure in so much death. The thought chilled Herleif to the bone, and he gripped his sword a bit tighter as he began to circle the woman while his men spread out around her.
"What are you doing here, Herleif?" asked Ivar in a rough, gravelly tone.
Herleif looked to see Ivar standing opposite him behind Morgana. His round shield was marked with a dozen slashes from her sword, cutting through the red skulls painted on its broad surface. A thin trickle of blood ran down his cheek from an open cut, but it hardly seemed to lessen any of the fire in the Warlord's eyes as he glared over at Herleif like he'd just found an unwanted guest in his hall.
"This bitch is mine. I want her head, so don't even think about getting in my way."
Morgana turned to stare at the Red Jarl, shifting her sword to her shield hand despite being entirely surrounded by armed Vikings coming to kill her. That hardly seemed to concern her, though, as she reached for her hood and tugged it down behind her head. Her hair was shaved down to a dark stubble, and her eyes were shadowed with black paint, but even beyond that, they seemed marred by burns that withered and darkened the skin of her cheeks. What was most striking of all, though, was the wicked symbol of her order cut into her forehead, a red circular scar slashed with mirroring lines that mimicked the sun's image. Herleif was immediately reminded of the legend of Vortiger, where it was said that the sun turned red as he slaughtered the Viking invaders upon Eitrivatnen's docks.
"Come and take it then, you wicked beast," she spat, standing tall before the warriors who cowered behind their shields, "Four of your men are dead, and yet here I stand, still breathing. How weak you must look before the eyes of the pathetic gods you are enslaved to."
"You know nothing of our gods, witch," Ivar growled, but he did not break his defensive stance behind his shield.
Morgana laughed, taking up her sword and sliding it against the metal edge of her shield so that sparks showered around her feet. The shield's rim had been sharpened to a lethal edge, making it just as much a deadly weapon as her blade in a fight. "I know that they are false! There is only the darkness that we all must return to. Until then, I will see to it that this world burns in the fires of war! Mount Ignis will consume us all, and you will wither and die before its might like the worms you are!"
"Enough of this!" Ivar spat, finally stepping up from behind his shield and pointing at the Black Prior with his sword, "Take her!"
Herleif watched with wide eyes as the three Headhunter warriors flanking Ivar charged Morgana together. Even then, the woman didn't fall back, remaining perfectly still as each warrior raised their sword and cried out to end her life.
"Wait!" he called, but it was already too late.
With incredible speed, Morgana dropped to one knee, ducking behind her kite shield just as the swords came down to take off her head, letting the warrior's momentum carry them off balance and up over her shield.
"Ad profundis!" she shouted, pushing upward with her shield and flipping all three warriors over her at once.
The warriors tumbled head over heels, shouting in surprise as they flew through the air. Before they even fell to the ground, Morgana whipped her sword around and slashed at their throats, a bright flash of metal across skin, one after the other. Blood splattered across the floor as the warriors tumbled onto their backs, clutching at their sliced necks as they died.
Ivar let loose an angry curse and lunged in with a headbutt to knock Morgana off balance, but she was ready and dodged out of the way. Her sword slashed at Ivar's face, forcing him to step back and bring his shield up to block the attack in time. The force of the blow still sent him tumbling backward, and Morgana spun on her heel to strike next at Herleif and his men to keep them at bay before they could close in.
Herleif dodged, then knocked her sword clear with his shield, lunging with Sólareldur to catch her in the side. He only hit her shield as she brought it up before her, the edge of his sword glancing off the metal boss and cutting across the wooden surface. Morgana never stopped moving, never paused. Her larger shield kept Herleif at bay while she swiped at another of his warriors, taking the man in the leg with a vicious cut that sent blood soaking through their trousers. The warrior howled in pain but remained standing as he desperately tried to step back out of the Black Prior's reach. She came at him again, striking with lightning speed, smashing the warrior in the face with the edge of her sturdy shield and slashing her sword at him from above. The man stopped screaming then, gurgling on dark blood as he fell to the floor.
Morgana was truly a fiend, a demon of war in human form. Her face was completely calm as she stabbed at another warrior's shield, her shadowed eyes cool as a predator's as she forced him back towards the edge of the terrace. Herleif tried to come to the man's aid, striking with both his sword and shield across Morgana's back, but the cunning woman turned and slammed her shield up to deflect the attack, slicing quickly with her sword across Herleif's belly. Thankfully, the broad belt around his waist and his armor kept the blade from cutting into his guts, but the fright made his heart leap into his throat as he jumped away.
While Morgana was seemingly distracted, the Bilrost warrior pressed up against the terrace railing and tried to duck away to a better position, but there was no escape from the Black Prior's wrath now. She turned and caught him as he tried to dodge, slamming her kite shield against him and pinning him up against the stone railing that wrapped around the tower's edge.
Herleif heard the man grunt in pain as she bore down on him, and in the blink of an eye, she slammed her shield one last time, sending the warrior tumbling over the railing and screaming as he plummeted through the air to the crowded streets below. His scream faded away as he fell until it could no longer be heard above the battle din that rose up around them.
As Morgana turned to face her remaining foes, so too did that wicked grin return to her lips. "Mala ultro adsunt," she hissed, a menacing whisper that promised death.
The meaning of her words was not lost on Herleif, for he knew the language of his enemy well enough. 'Misfortune comes uninvited,' she had said. A simple threat, one that Morgana fully intended to carry out against those who had invaded her stronghold.
She stepped forward, the smile on her lips brighter now, more gleeful as she spread her arms wide and held her chin high. "Fools… Come at me then, if you dare."
There was a blur of movement and a rush of red passing by Herleif as Ivar ran headlong at Morgana, his gleaming sword raised as he flew at her.
"You are dead!" he roared, cleaving his sword through the air as he rushed in. Morgana ducked behind her shield again, but Ivar's skill as a Warlord kept him from falling into her trap. He stopped suddenly, feinting his attack just as she raised her shield and failed to flip him up over her head and over the railing like the last warrior.
Morgana tried to bring her sword up to slash at him, but Ivar blocked the attack and knocked the blade wide, giving him the room he needed to bring his round shield up to slam its edge into her face. Morgana shrieked as she reeled back, her eyes squeezed shut from the pain. Ivar didn't waste any time, slashing at Morgana's exposed torso, cutting through her dark robes and the chainmail coat underneath. However, the cut was not deep enough to claim her life, and she remained uninjured and still on her feet, protected from the blow by her armor with barely a scratch on her.
Snarling in a fury, Morgana charged at them again, throwing her shield wide in a circular arc to keep Herleif, Ivar, and the remaining warriors at bay. She went after one Bilrost warrior without hesitation, attacking him with two quick cuts of her sword and forcing him to duck behind his shield. Once he had retreated, she rounded on Herleif next, striking with her shield first with a bone-shaking blow.
Herleif quickly dodged out of the way as she came at him. He could feel the force of the wind against his face as the kite shield rushed by, clearing him by mere inches. Stepping in, he slammed his helmet into Morgana's shoulder, the sea demon ornament and curved horns acting as a solid weight to knock her off balance, and followed up with a quick thrust of his sword. He felt the blade meet resistance and then cut through, stabbing into her flank through cloth, metal, and flesh. Morgana gave a sharp scream of pain, flinching away and stumbling back against the tower railing.
When Herleif's blade pulled away, Sólareldur's tip was slick with blood. He lifted his shield and had his sword at the ready behind it, glaring at the wounded Black Prior over the rim. He should have pressed the attack while she was dazed, but his own sense of honor bid him to give her a chance to surrender before he took her life. "You cannot hope to win this fight. Even if you kill us, the city has already fallen. Your followers are all dead or dying down below as we speak. Better to surrender now and save what few are left while you can."
Morgana pressed her shield arm against her bleeding side as she caught her breath, but her dark eyes had lost none of their wickedness. They narrowed into angry slits as she stared back at him, then pulled herself up to her feet against the railing just so she could throw out her head and spit at his shield. Morgana sneered at them all with a look of pure contempt, her fingers squeezing tightly around the grip of her sword as she pointed it at each Viking in turn.
"Well, I guess that settles things," Ivar growled as he stepped closer to the woman, sword and shield raised, "I won't pretend that I don't prefer it this way."
Herleif glanced over at his so-called blood brother and spoke to him in their northern tongue. "Easy now. We do this right. A wolf is always more dangerous when it is wounded and cornered." Morgana smirked, and for a moment, Herleif wondered if she had understood him after all.
Ivar's face screwed up in anger at that smile, his sword coming up as he took another step. "She is no wolf. She's just a dead woman!"
With a roar, he charged in, raising his sword up high for a single powerful cut to end her life once and for all. But Morgana was ready for him. Even as dark blood stained the side of her robe, she was neither weak nor ready to fall. As Ivar's sword came down to split her head in two, she met him with her own weapons, parrying the blow with surprising strength as she rose up against her attackers yet again. Ivar's sword was knocked wide, leaving him in the same position Morgana had been in just moments ago, with his defense broken and his body open to her blade.
"Tace cor tuum!" Morgana yelled, drawing upon all her strength to slash at Ivar's belly.
Ivar reacted as quickly as he could, his eyes going wide as he sucked in his gut to avoid the sword's edge. The sharp steel cut through his hide armor, but somehow, he made it away in time with only a red line stretched across his belly. A lucky miss, one to surely thank the gods for later if he managed to outlive the Black Prior's fury.
Herleif moved in with a strike of his own, only for it to be parried as well and forced away. Morgana moved with all the power of a hurricane, slashing both her sword and shield with frightening speed to keep Herleif and his warriors at bay. She was gripped by blood lust now, her cool terror giving way to a fiery rage. How Herleif managed to block each bone-shaking blow of her sword was a blessing of the gods, but he could give no thought to them now as he weathered the steel storm behind his shield.
One of his warriors ducked low to try and cut at her legs, but she knocked his blade away with her shield and cleaved his own in two with one mighty blow that slashed through his arm. The man fell back, clutching his bleeding wound to his chest, and Morgana snarled as she lifted her sword to finish him off.
"No!" Herleif shouted, throwing himself at Morgana before another of his warriors was lost to her blade. He slammed into her, giving his man time to retreat, but she shoved right back against him, pushing him back with such force that he nearly tripped over his feet.
Then she whirled back around, focusing on Ivar again to finish what she had started. The Red Jarl tried to draw back, but she came at him with her shield, slamming its broad surface into him before slashing at him from above.
"Tenebris!" she shouted at him with a terrible cry. 'For darkness,' a promise to claim Ivar's life just as she had done with the rest of his warriors. Her blade struck across his battered shield, but from the way he nearly buckled beneath the power of her attack, it appeared that he would not last much longer alone.
Herleif knew that he had to do something. Ivar was trying to keep his shield up before him, trying to stab at her with his sword, but she was coming at him too hard and too fast. Her bloody blade was a blur of quick and vicious attacks, wearing down his defense until his strength was nearly spent. Ivar couldn't find an opening, couldn't get around her shield to strike and bring her down before it was too late.
Ivar was losing to this wicked foe, and it was up to Herleif to save him. For as much as he might dislike the man or blame him for past transgressions, he had become his sworn blood brother. He had a duty to protect and fight for the man at any cost, or else his honor would forever be marred by shame and failure. Herleif was a shield of his people, destined to serve them all, Ivar included. Failure was something he could not allow.
"Morgana!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, hunkering down behind his round shield and glaring at her over the rim. "Look at me!"
He planted his feet firmly, bracing for whatever attack came his way next. If she slashed at him, he would be ready, but if she came at him with her shield to knock him off balance, then his luck would be in the hands of the gods.
It was a mad, ridiculous gamble, offering himself up as a solid and unmoving target. Luckily, the gods seemed to have found the trick amusing because it worked. Morgana was so caught up in her desperate need to cut them all to pieces that she didn't stop to think before she swiped her sword at Herleif and crashed the blade across the broad surface of his shield.
Herleif was ready for the blow and knocked her sword aside as soon as it connected. Morgana's guard was forced open, and with practiced skill, Herleif thrust forward with Sólareldur, piercing straight through her armor and driving the blade deep into her belly with all his strength. Morgana let out a pained gasp, her dark eyes going wide as what little color she had to her face drained away in an instant. Just as quickly as he attacked, Herleif pulled his sword free again, swiftly followed by a gush of dark blood from her wounded gut.
Immediately, Morgana fell to one knee, only keeping herself upright by slamming her kite shield down and bracing herself against it. Her sword arm fell limp at her side, and her breath came in deep, ragged gasps. The wicked look in her eye faded away, her face going blank as if she couldn't comprehend that her life might end while her enemies still drew breath around her. Slowly, her gaze turned up toward Herleif, a thin line of blood trickling down from the corner of her lips and her eyelids fluttering beneath that wicked symbol carved into her forehead.
She took a few more shaky breaths, then spoke in a soft and blood-choked voice."Even... fine linen... decays..."
Herleif stared back at her, also panting hard from the rush that still gripped him after the attack. Those seemed like strange words for them to be her last, but in a way, he felt that he understood her meaning. Despite the wicked reputation of her order, he had only known Morgana to be deceptively cunning in her battle craft and an absolute terror with a blade. The dead bodies of four shieldbearers marked her as a worthy opponent for any warrior that stood against her, and not even two Warlords fighting together could bring her to a swift end. But in the end, she had fallen. Fate had made its final decree, and no amount of dark power or sword skill would save her from death now.
Despite how well Morgana fought, Herleif could not look past her wickedness to offer any words of respect or kindness. He glared down at her, watching as she bled out from her stomach and the cut on her side.
"Go on then," he said in a spiteful and uncaring voice. "Go on to your wretched darkness. It is all that you brought about in life, surely it is all that awaits you in death."
The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Morgana's lips. "And... what... What have you brought, Viking? '' she asked in barely more than a whisper. Her lips twitched even after she finished speaking, and her eyes seemed to look on into nothing, her scared face relaxed and calm. "The darkness... we all deserve it... in the end..." Her eyes snapped up at Herleif then, focusing on him with stunning clarity, and her serene expression twisted into a demonic snarl. "Let us go there together, you and I… Embraced by darkness forevermore!"
Moving with incredible speed, Morgana sprang up from the ground with a blood-chilling howl. She hefted up her shield with the very last of her strength, scything its sharpened edge through the air in an arc toward Herleif's neck. He barely had any time to react, his eyes going wide in surprise as he desperately tried to lean clear of the shield's deadly edge.
Suddenly, Ivar appeared behind Morgana, his sword already raised and cleaving the hooked blade into the woman's shoulder. Snarling like a beast, he cut into her deep, hacking the sword through Morgana's mail and into her chest. The Black Prior gave a hoarse gasp of shock, blood splattering against her pale face as her eyes went wide. Her shield dropped like a stone, falling harmlessly at her side away from Herleif's neck.
Kicking at the back of Morgana's knee, Ivar dropped the woman to the floor and ripped his blade free with a jerk of his arm. All Morgana could do was stare blankly into nothing, blood dribbling from her lips as Ivar whipped his sword and shield against her pale neck. He sliced both weapons forward with monstrous strength, roaring angrily as he cleaved Morgana's head from her shoulders in a spray of hot gore.
Morgana's body fell to the ground, one foot twitching for a moment before finally going still. Her bloody head smacked wetly against the stone floor, rolling away as if still trying to escape her assailant until it finally came to rest against one of the fallen warriors she had cut down during the fight. Blood gushed forth from the bloody stump of her neck, forming a dark pool around her that stretched further and further outward towards Herleif's boots.
"Fucking wench," Ivar growled, glaring down at the body at his feet. "To Hel with her darkness! Now she is nothing but food for the crows!" He was breathing hard, his broad shoulders heaving with the need to fight and kill still gripping him. Working his jaw, he spat on the bloody corpse, leaving a yellowish glob of spit splattered over her black cape.
Herleif was still gripped in the moment he thought would be his last, standing frozen like a stunned statue. He blinked, switching his sword to his shield hand and rubbing at the phantom wound he felt across his neck.
"Gods, that was too close," he said softly. Watching the pool of blood stretch out for him, he backed away from the body, not entirely sure that Morgana's evil spirit couldn't strike him down from the world beyond.
Unable to bear looking at her any longer, he drew his eyes up towards Ivar, staring at him in a new light. Whether or not Ivar would truly fight beside him when it mattered most had been a constant source of doubt in Herleif's mind. But for now, at least, it seemed that Ivar was willing to come to his aid, and in war, nothing could be more important than knowing that the man next to you would stand shoulder to shoulder against any threat.
"Ivar, thank you."
Ivar's eyes snapped up to Herleif as if he had forgotten he'd been standing there. "What?" he snapped, teeth still snarling beneath his black beard.
Herleif grimaced slightly, taken aback by the bite in Ivar's voice. "You saved my life. Thank you, brother." Stepping around Morgana's still body, he held out his hand in solidarity with his fellow Warlord, but Ivar did not grip his arm in return as one warrior might embrace another. Instead, he just looked down at the open hand as if expecting some kind of trick or deception.
Finally, Ivar turned away, showing Herleif his back and shrugging his shoulders. "It was nothing. She needed killing. Not like saving your hide had anything to do with it. You're a grown man. Watch your own back next time, and fight better," and he waved his sword around, gesturing at the bodies of those warriors who had lost their lives fighting alongside them against Morgana, "or die like the rest of them."
That struck a poor cord in Herleif's heart, and he glanced up at the two warriors who still stood with him. They looked haggard and lost after the fight, one with a wounded arm and the other kneeling down next to the bodies of their fallen brothers. All of them had fought bravely against Morgana, and he had no doubt that those who had fallen were already feasting with the gods and their ancestors in Valhǫll. They were beyond his help now, but those who lived would still look to him for strength and hope in the battles to come. That was his duty as not only a Warlord but also a Jarl.
Glancing down, he stooped to pick up Morgana's severed head from where it lay. He cradled it in his arm, looking down into the blank eyes that shone white within the dark shadows that ringed them.
"Take this," he said, offering the head over to the warrior who had come through the fight in one piece. The battle could still be heard raging far below in the courtyard, and they had already tarried too long in breaking the Divine Pyre's morale. "Find Gunnar. Make sure he shows this to every cultist who still stands against us. Let them all know that the Black Prior's hold on Eitrivatnen is broken. The harbor belongs to us now. Go!"
The Bilrost warrior looked up at him as he took the head, accepting it like a cherished gift offered to him by his Jarl. Nodding quickly, he gave a jerk of his head to the wounded warrior, and together, they disappeared down the tower's stairs to carry out his orders. Herleif watched them go until only he and Ivar were left upon the terrace, and the corpses left after the fight. Ivar was walking among them now, watching his steps and frowning down at the bodies of those men who bore his colors.
"This could have been much worse," Herleif said, feeling a tinge of anger build up in him now as he glared over at Ivar. "The reputation of the Black Priors is known throughout all of Heathmoor. You should have waited for me to go after her. We should have attacked together, as one. We could have planned and used our heads instead of fighting like an angry mob."
Ivar gave him little more than a sideways glance, his jaw clenching tight before he spoke. "What does it matter how we fought? The bitch is dead now. This battle is over."
Herleif's shoulders slumped at the carelessness with which Ivar spoke. "We could have saved lives, you blood-hungry dog!" he bellowed.
Just a moment ago, he had been willing to see Ivar as someone he could count on and trust, but now he could feel all his fears and doubts over Ivar remaining loyal to their oath bubbling back to the surface. The memory of Sitvek Stone-Breaker dying by his blade in a meaningless skirmish came back to him in a rush of heated emotion, and all he wanted to do was grab Ivar by his collar and smack him about until he saw sense.
"Why do you throw the lives of your men away so needlessly? Do they mean nothing to you at all? You are a Jarl! A Warlord! You should be better than that!"
Now, it was Ivar who seethed in anger, rounding on Herleif and stomping toward him over the corpse-strewn floor.
"Do not speak to me on what it means to be a Jarl!" Ivar barked, spittle flying from between his teeth. He narrowed his eyes, leaning in close now that the curved horns of their helmets nearly touched. "Warriors die! That is war! That is our way of life! Don't act like you are somehow better than the rest of us for trying to change that fact! You prance around and puff yourself up as if you were one of the Æsir, trying to act like some grand voice of reason that we all must listen to. This is nothing but another fucking raid! Not some grand quest to right the wrongs of the world, not a chance to prove that you're somehow a better man than any other warrior with a blade. You want to make it home to see your precious wife and brats again? Then fucking fight, you níðing shit! Kill! At any cost!"
Herleif gritted his teeth and slammed his head forward, ramming his helmet against Ivar's face and shoving him back before holding out his bloody sword. "If it were not for me, you would be dead right now! Cut down with the rest of them! An utter waste of a wretched life… You are nothing but a rabid dog that cannot even stop to think before it bites a friendly hand!"
Ivar reeled back from the hit but quickly found his footing and stepped right back towards Herleif, ignoring the sword's sharp point as it pressed into his chest. "As if I would ever ask for your worthless help. I never wanted your fucking help!" he snarled through clenched teeth. "Would you prefer it if I fell to my knees, then? Shall I give my thanks three times over until you and all the gods are satisfied?" He spread his arms wide, shield and sword outstretched with Herleif's blade still pressed against him. "Thanks! Thanks! Thanks! By all the gods and creatures of the world, I give my utmost thanks to this mighty hero! A true brother, even to those who give no shit for him or his pathetic kin."
Herleif glared at Ivar, his body burning with anger as he tightened the grip on his sword. It would be so easy to just run him through right then and there, to silence Ivar forever and put an end to their pathetic feud once and for all. It would feel good, too, he knew. Deep down, he would have been glad to get rid of the savage Jarl, this thorn forever stuck in his side, and his life would be all the better for it.
For some reason, though, something was holding him back. In the very back of his mind, there was a voice telling him that he was still honor bound to this man, sworn by their blood oath to be his brother until the bitter end. It made Herleif even angrier to think he must hold true to such a promise. Surely, the gods knew that even a blood oath to this sort of wretched man was one not worth keeping. There was no one else around, no one to witness the ultimate betrayal and say that Herleif was any less of a man for going through with it. It would be so easy.
Ivar's dark eyes glinted menacingly at him, and somehow, Herleif felt that the man knew what he was thinking. The savage Warlord kept his arms wide, inviting Herleif to do it, daring him to drive the blade into his chest and prove that he was just as much a dog as he was. Herleif bared his teeth, feeling the resistance of Ivar's armor against the tip of his sword as he pressed it forward just a bit more.
"You are no brother of mine," Herleif said at last, letting his sword drop between them, releasing the threat he held on Ivar's life.
Ivar didn't move, didn't so much as flinch. He only smiled and continued to hold Herleif's gaze. "When did I ever say I was?" he asked, cool and calm, the fire suddenly gone from his raspy voice. "You're no fool on that matter, Herleif, I'll give you that. Erik can think whatever the fuck he wants, so long as you and I know exactly where we stand."
A feeling of cold dread welled inside of Herleif's chest, and he wondered if he hadn't just made a mistake branding Ivar as his rival instead of a friend. Or worse, as his own enemy. "You should know to stay out of my way from here on out, and I shall give you the courtesy of doing the same."
Ivar gave a short grunt of laughter as he let his arms drop back down to his sides. "At last, something we can both agree on. Maybe we can get along after all, eh?" With that, he turned and made straight for the stairs, giving no more thought to the bodies he left behind. "Allow me to do you the courtesy of going down first. You seem a bit twitchy after the fight, and I wouldn't want you to slip and fall from the worry of catching something sharp in your back. Somehow I don't feel so troubled by such baseless and discourteous fears."
Herleif scowled as he watched Ivar descend the stairs, soon slipping out of sight and leaving him alone on the terrace with the dead. He felt angry and hollow like the effort spent here against Morgana had been a complete waste, given the outcome. He and Ivar were meant to be in this fight together, brothers in blood, sworn to fight side by side against any foe. But instead, they had only ended up at each other's throats like always. It was sad, in a way, knowing that two Jarls couldn't set aside their rivalry in the middle of a battle in a foreign land. The cold feeling almost made Herleif want to gather his men and just sail home again, to wash his hands of both Erik and Ivar and leave them to deal with these mad volcano cultists all on their own.
Ivar's words still echoed in his head, though, the voice of that savage bastard calling him a coward clinging to his heart like the talons of a falcon gripping its prey. He wanted to see his family again; that much was true. But how could he face them as a Viking, as a man, if he abandoned the battle he had sworn to fight all because he was afraid of what he might lose? It seemed like the more he thought about it, the more he felt that the person he must prove himself to was not Ivar, or Erik, or even Gunnar and his family, but himself.
In a way, Ivar was right. War was a way of life, not only for the Vikings of Valkenheim but for all of Heathmoor. Over a millennium of near-constant war and still no one had yet to change their ways. It pained Herleif to his core to think that this was all that life had to offer him, offer his children once they were grown, but how could he hope to change things now when all roads lead to war? He was a father and a husband but also a Jarl and a Warlord. Right now, that mattered more than whatever waited for him back at his hall in Bilrost, and he would not shame himself by abandoning his people's traditions now.
A horn blew somewhere down below, then another, and another, echoing throughout the city all the way back toward the lake. The pattern they blew told of victory, that the city was theirs and the enemy had fallen. Already, cheers were beginning to echo into the air, reaching even the great heights of the tower for him to hear. Hopefully, Gunnar and the rest came through the fighting in one piece. And if not, they surely were in Valhǫll as was their rightful reward.
Looking back at Morgana's headless body, Herleif wondered what her reward was for holding such dark and wicked beliefs for so long and if the world was better off being ruled by wolves to hunt and slaughter the sheep. Had she thought it all worth it in the end, or perhaps just as her life began to slip away, she questioned what it was that she had been fighting for? She would give him no answers now, and just like everyone else who had fallen in the battle of Eitrivatnen before her, she meant nothing to those who still marched on. Just another body to be left behind on the path to riches and glory.
He would send men to gather the bodies of the warriors who lay dead on the tower, but for now, Herleif was done with this fight. It gave him no satisfaction, no sense of victory. He would continue to live and to fight, to march to the very foot of Mount Ignis and challenge the Divine Pyre on their own ground, but the uncertainty of whether he was fighting for the right reasons would remain with him.
Turning his back on the fallen Black Prior, he headed for the steps and descended into darkness, his head hung low and shoulders heavy with uncertainty. The sun still shone through the thick fire smoke surrounding the tower, but it would soon begin to set. For now, the Black Priors were gone from Eitrivatnen, but for those who remained, their darkness was sure to come again like the falling of night upon the world.