At Erik's command, the horde finally began its march from Eitrivatnen to Mount Ignis.
Moving such a large host of warriors was a feat as arduous as the attack that brought the harbor under Viking control, but after days lingering in the city with little to do but drink and plan for the battles still to come, it was with much eagerness that the three clans took their leave of the lake's shores. For those citizens of Ashfeld that remained- first crushed beneath the Divine Pyre's tyranny and then confined to their homes by a foreign Jarl's rule -no sense of relief or respite would come, not until the heathen army had taken their fill of stolen plunder and returned to their ships to finally sail home.
A small force of Vikings, made up from each of the three clans along with the wounded unfit for travel, would be left behind to maintain control of the city, lest the long absent legions of Ashfeld came seeking to put their docked longships to flame.
The Sea Eagle Clan was the first to march east out of the city gates, watched over by the Golden Jarl and his battle-crazed son from atop their horses, which had been taken from only the finest stables Eitrivatnen had to offer. After them came Ivar's Headhunters, the brutish, skull-adorned warriors chomping at the bit to be outside the walls and on the move again, riled up enough to cause more than one fight with any Sea Eagle warrior that dared move too slowly while taking their leave.
Herleif sat upon the stallion he had taken from the villa, watching the gleaming spears and helmets of so many warriors march past on the eastern road out of the city. The horse snorted and stomped its hooves at the sights and sounds of an army on the move, but for the most part, it seemed happy just to be out of its stable. Adjusting his position in the saddle, Herleif leaned forward and gave the beast a reassuring pat on its neck. It had been some time since he had gone riding, and he could already tell he would be sore in the saddle by the time night fell.
"Whoever thought that marching off to war could be so fucking boring," grumbled Ivar next to him, sitting lazily upon a black charger that seemed just as bored as he was to remain unmoving.
Herleif narrowed his eyes and looked sideways at the Red Jarl, wishing he could just ride off to wait with his warriors rather than sit there with this black-bearded dog. "No doubt there are some hard days ahead of us on our way to Mount Ignis. Perhaps you should enjoy this moment of peace while it lasts."
Ivar gave a short bark of laughter and grinned. "Peace? Now there is a jest. Where do you think we are, you crazy bastard? Think just because it's all clear skies and sunny shores that this is peace?" He laughed again, shaking his head before leaning over and hocking a dark glob of spit at the stallion's hoof. "No. Nothing has changed since we arrived in this accursed city, and you fucking know it, too. I'm just ready to get to the rest of the killing, is all. None of this 'glorious march' shit means anything until the blood begins to flow. That's when the real glory is earned, not because you've taught some men to march in a straight line like a bunch of clanking tins."
Herleif listened with growing animosity toward his fellow Jarl, his hands squeezing the reins of his horse tighter and tighter. The horse seemed to sense his agitation, giving another loud snort as it shifted from one hoof to another. It whipped its head, sending its mane flying into the face of Ivar's charger, seemingly picking a side in this little fight and standing up for its rider.
"We all have a fate we are destined to meet, Ivar. Some of us hope to enter Valhǫll with pride for having led a noble and memorable life, not simply because we died screaming with a sword stuck in the belly."
Ivar turned to look at him, an amused glint in his dark eyes beneath the three-horned helm he wore. The mess of teeth he showed was yellow in his black beard as he smiled.
"You gelded bitch," Ivar laughed, ignoring the hate-filled glare Herleif shot at him as he looked back at the marching horde, "I swear to all the gods, if the two of us end up in Óðinn's hall together, I will make it my mission to find you and kill you each and every day the Einherjar train until the Gjallahorn finally blows. Nothing would grant me greater pleasure."
"And nothing would please me more than leaving your corpse cold and lifeless under the open sky, with no weapon in hand so you would spend all eternity wandering the wastes of Hel alone in shame," spat Herleif, eyes flashing with hate. His knuckles were bone white from where he gripped the saddle, all to keep himself from taking hold of his sword at his side. It was a harsh threat to give another warrior of Valkenheim, but he could not hold back his tongue for the anger building in his heart. "I have not forgotten the insult your men gave me when they invaded my land. Nor have I forgiven the part that you surely played in it for the lives that were lost."
"Now you are just begging for a sword in the belly," Ivar replied casually, content to ignore the threat entirely while watching his warriors pass by in a sea of blood-red and bone-white. When he looked at Herleif again, his smile was just as amused and mocking as ever. "You want to fight me? Want to know if you have what it takes to go clash swords with a real man? Careful, Herleif, I have often heard that the Valkyries pass over dead men whose pants are full of piss and shit."
"Your boasts are as hollow as your skull," Herleif snarled. "A holmganga, then. A duel to the death to settle this feud once and for all, once the Walled City is taken. I told you already, Ivar, nothing short of your blood will pay for the men I lost to your schemes."
"Why wait?" Ivar asked, drawing his sword with no great urgency, "I would prefer not to sully my saga by fighting alongside a níðing troll-shit such as you. Much better just to kill you now and get it over with. Hopefully, I will be able to tell your family that you at least died well when I take your Jarl's seat and throw them from the hall. You can do that much, at least, can't you? Do it for them, at the very least."
Herleif saw red at Ivar's cold threats toward his family and was just about to rip his own sword free from its scabbard when the sound of galloping hooves caught his attention. Still snarling, he tore his gaze away from Ivar and looked to see Jarl Erik, Magnús, and Old Wolf all rushing up at them in a glimmering display of gold upon their majestic steeds.
"Good day, my friends!" shouted Erik enthusiastically in greeting, but from the angry look on his face, he did not seem too pleased to find his fellow Jarls at each other's throats once again. "What a joyous moment this is, the beginning of our glorious march toward the mountain of rust and fire! How our enemies will tremble in fear at our coming to tear down their walls and sack their holy mountain of plunder and riches. Would you both agree?"
Herleif said nothing, scowling between the Golden Jarl and the Red, while Ivar leaned back in his saddle, looking uninterested.
"Oh yes, it's fucking poetic," Ivar said, scratching an itch on his cheek with the curved hook of his sword, "If only I had been born a skald to capture this moment of choking dust and sweat in elegant verse."
Erik locked eyes on Ivar, reigning in his horse as it stomped energetically after its fast approach. "Hide your small mind and lack of ambition behind your twisted words, Ivar. This is a moment of triumph, and it will take much more than your foul tongue to ruin it," he spat, earning a raised brow from Ivar, "Nor will I allow either of you to befoul all that we have accomplished so far with a needless feud that was settled long ago."
"Oh, come now, father, I say let them fight it out again," laughed Magnús, fidgeting in his saddle so much that the horse he rode looked ready to buck him off, "It's been too long since we've had some blood. I want to smell it on the air again, fresh and hot..."
All eyes turned on the young Berserker. Herleif looked at him in confusion, Ivar with mild amusement. Old Wolf seemed unsurprised, giving a small shake of his head. Erik, however, showed unmistakable displeasure and a growing disgust towards his son. Magnús' grin fell from his face when he caught his father's eye, his excited blood-lust quickly fading to give way to the timidness of an unconfident boy. Erik jerked at his horse's reins, moving closer to Magnús with the hammering clack of hooves on stone.
"Was I speaking to you, boy?" asked Erik, glowering at his son, "Spare us your bestial perversions and act like a man who knows his station!" His closed fist shot out to strike hard against Magnús' arm, making the young man flinch where he sat. Erik's stern gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before finally turning his back on him.
Herleif could not imagine ever treating any of his children in such a way but knew that this was neither the time in place to question the most powerful Jarl in Valkenheim on his role as a parent. "What business I have with this rabid dog is my own," he said, nodding at Ivar, "Though we three might raid together now, I still aim to settle the score between us once we return north."
Erik urged his horse closer with a kick to its haunches. "Your business is what I say it is. This is my raid! My city! And if fate should call for it, my army as well. Now, I will hear no more talk of feuds and bloodletting among us. Do not forget that your oath was made in the sight of the gods, or I will see you both cursed to never enter Valhǫll!"
Herleif scowled at Erik, jaw tightening beneath his beard. He still had a hand on his sword, and for the briefest moment, he considered drawing it. Fingers flexing on the grip of his blade, the moment grew tense. He stared unblinking at Erik, searching for any sign that this might be a moment neither of them could come back from. The Golden Jarl stared back, unmistakably searching for the same thing and perhaps even wanting it too.
"You know, if you two kill each other here, I get to keep all of the gold," Ivar said with a small smile. Erik's attention instantly snapped to Ivar with an accusing stare, but Herleif's gaze lingered on, hand still on his sword. "The War-Wolf's armor, too," Ivar continued, dark brows rising beneath the rim of his helmet, "So please, by all means, spill each other's blood, and I will lead my magnificent and glorious army to victory alone. You'll not hear any complaint from me."
Erik gave a low and angry rumble in his throat, narrowing his eyes as he looked between the two other Jarls. Then, without a word, he turned his horse around, the beast snorting frustration as the reins were jerked hard yet again.
"Get underway with your warriors, Ivar," he barked over his shoulder, pushing his mount past Old Wolf and his sulking son, "Your warband will be the body of our column. And Herleif, you the tail. Make sure no wayward legion comes upon us from behind." For a moment, he appeared to head off down the column of marching warriors with nothing more to say but then stopped and turned back, giving an upward nod of his head with his clenched fist held up in the air. "Our great saga has already begun! Let this be the moment to put us into legend until the day Ragnarǫk is upon us!"
If Erik had been expecting some sort of reply of agreement, Herleif gave him none. Neither did Ivar, and the two sat silently upon their horses and stared back at the Golden Jarl until he simply rode off down the line, Magnús and Old Wolf following close behind.
"That golden shit-bag actually thinks he's being a hero," Ivar said with a soft, wheezing laugh.
Herleif said nothing, knowing it would only lead them right back to arguing again. Instead, he stared straight ahead, watching the unorganized horde of Headhunter warriors march past in a mass of fur, bone, and steel.
Ivar let out another small chuckle before giving a heavy sigh and sheathing his sword. "You really need to learn how to relax, Herleif. No one gets into Valhǫll from having a stick shoved up their ass."
Herleif turned to protest with a glare, but he was cut short by Ivar giving a sudden shout in his face, lips pulled back over discolored teeth, eyes wide and tongue out in a display of mock savagery. Stunned into silence, Herleif whirled back in his saddle as Ivar gave a disgruntled sneer and a sharp kick to his horse, shooting off alongside the column and shouting angrily to his warriors.
"Death to Ashfeld!"
"Death to Ashfeld!" came the unified clamor that echoed into the air, along with the thunderous sound of weapons clattering against shields.
Herleif watched Ivar go until he disappeared out the city gate and away to the dusty road beyond. Sinking back in his saddle, he let out a long and frustrated sigh, watching the red warriors lumber by, knowing that it would be a while yet before he and his warriors would follow.
"Gods above," he muttered under his breath, looking about at the tall, elegant buildings of Eitrivatnen that he so wished to be rid of, "I hate that fucking man."