If the people of Cinder Mill were at all thankful for their liberation from the Divine Pyre or the food that they had been given to sustain them during such trying times, Herleif did not bother to notice. He busied himself with seeing his warriors march forth from the small village and leave the Great Forge ruined and empty in their wake, paying the villagers no more mind as one does a boring guest.
Come evening, the weather had cleared, marking the violent day with warm colors of fire and blood in the sky as the sun set over the horizon. Sat upon his horse at the outskirts of town, with Judith by his side upon her own steed and Skuld lingering nearby, Herleif watched with a sullen frown as his warriors marched by, trampling the muddy ground beneath their feet heading north toward the distant mountains where the volcano stood tall against the vibrant sky.
He told himself that this was a victory, a battle that he might add to his saga and increase his fame once he returned home, but in truth, he felt no joy in his heart at this outcome. He had lost the one prize he had come to claim, and now he would return to Erik and Ivar empty-handed to be humiliated by their jeers and judgment at his failure to capture a single Knight.
What was worse, his temper had gotten the better of him again, and he had lashed out at his brother, who had only done what any man could against an adversary in pitched combat. As much as he hated to admit it, Priscilla was right. There were no guarantees in war, and it was a rare plan that survived the first clash of swords with the enemy, no matter how important the plan was.
Watching the warriors go by, Herleif caught sight of Gunnar walking among their ranks. His brother stood tall over the rest, but his eyes were downcast and shoulders tense. He noticed how Gunnar wouldn't look up at him as he went by, not even a glance as he walked on and passed out of sight.
Herleif felt guilt rip at his heart, but he clenched his jaw tighter and tried not to show it. They had often butted heads throughout their lives, but always they had come together again over horns of mead and laughed together again as brothers. This time felt different, though. He had never torn into his brother so openly in front of his warriors before, much less in front of people who had once been their enemy. He regretted it; down in the depths of his heart, he did, but he just couldn't forgive Gunnar for the part he had played in Chaldeon's death- not yet.
He remembered that look his brother had given him when asked about Apollyon's armor. That strange look of unease, guilt, and fear. What was the truth behind that look, that brief moment where his brother had shown something more in his eyes? Something he didn't want to share?
That question did not sit well with Herleif, not at all, for he did not know his brother to be a man of secrets. Regardless of what might have been said in a moment of anger between them, something much deeper than Chaldeon's death was at work here, and he needed to know what.
The line of warriors moved on, bearing the blue and silver colors of their clan and carrying his banners proudly above their heads. He saw the twins and Helge in their midst, leading a pack of Berserkers decorated with wolf tails and animal bones hanging from their belts and armor. They were an integral part of his warband for quick and devastating attacks. Wild and vicious, they were a terror to anyone they met upon the battlefield, but they could be temperamental and hard to control as well, almost impossibly so once the blood began to flow and Óðinn's fury coursed through their veins.
Without a doubt, Ragna was the strongest among them. Ragnar might disagree, but never within earshot of his sister. Herleif was glad to have them as some of his most prized and trusted warriors whenever he went raiding, but recently, Ragna's criticism of his leadership had begun to weigh on his mind.
He was well aware of the doubts some people had about his leadership, and the whispers shared when they thought he was not listening had not been missed.
This was the first raid he had embarked on in five seasons, having instead looked to his hold, a spear point of land where the Strait of Andlàngr gave passage to ships through the heart of Valkenheim. Holding such a position had made his clan powerful among the western territories of their homeland, and he had sought to grow that power by turning his efforts inward to cultivate what land was suited toward farming and collecting tribute from the ships that wished to use his ports for trade. In addition to that, he was overseeing the defense of his borders and repelling any raids from jealous jarls, such as that dog, Ivar the Red, who wished to lay claim to his growing bounty.
So far, his efforts to build upon what his father had left him had worked, and Bilrost had become a prominent territory in the west. Even more so than when his father had reigned, he dared imagine. But for some, the fruits of his labor were not enough to satisfy their desires and ambitions, such as his warriors. While the farmers tended to their fields and karvi ships belonging to sea merchants replaced drakkar at the docks, the fighting men and women of his villages remained bored and without purpose, their weapons tucked away and unused as the raiding seasons began to pass them by.
Soon, talk had begun to spread that he was a Jarl who was content to dwell in past glories instead of creating new ones. It had left him in a precarious position. He had strengthened his hold, putting his every effort into making the lives of his people better, but in the end, he had left his rule vulnerable to threats beyond his borders as well as within.
Training and the occasional skirmish were all that kept his fighters occupied these past seasons, while other jarls made rich heroes of their warriors through raiding and war. Even with all he had done to leave something worthwhile for his children to inherit after he was gone, he knew that in the end, he had been sitting still in his hall for far too long while the world at large moved on without him.
Herleif needed this. Despite his misgivings, this raid could not have come at a better time. The call to war sounded like a blow of the Gjallarhorn, and he had at long last taken up his sword and shield in answer.
Not that he believed there was much of a choice to deny it. Gunnar had been right when they had talked together over horns of mead in his hall; this was an opportunity he could not let slip through his fingers. If he had, he might have never lived down the cowardly reputation his disgruntled warriors would most certainly have saddled him with. Or, more concerning, had no chance of resisting Ivar and Erik once they had returned from these lands with gold and glory to bolster their strength with every kind of warrior from all over Valkenheim and beyond, turning their lust for power into a war of conquest against their neighbors.
How long would he be able to resist them then? A few months? A year at most? All he would have worked for would be lost, his family ruined, and cast out into the wilderness while a newly proclaimed King Golden-Shield gave his hall to someone of his choosing.
No, there hadn't been a choice to refuse Erik's offer. The time of looking inward was over, and this was a season to raid again. He had never forgotten the ways of the gods, the ways of battle. They had been engraved into his very being since the days of his youth, practicing with sword and shield against his father, against his brother's axe, fighting as a warrior in the skjaldborg, shoulder to shoulder with his people, then leading them as a Warlord on raids into Ashfeld to return with ships full of silver and steel. Now he was a Jarl, a title bestowed upon him from his ancestors, trusted by those he ruled and sworn to see his warriors given the chance at glory and a valiant death worthy of Valhǫll.
He would not fall short of the mark in his duty any longer. He refused.
Now, though, he faced the new obstacle of bringing the Knights of the Lion Flame into their ranks, fighting side by side with them as if they were kin. So far, the Knights were tolerated by his warriors for the most part, welcomed by some or ignored by others, but there was still the ever-present fear that this strange union would only lead to more bloodshed in the end. It was important that he kept a sharp eye on things and made sure everyone stayed in line. He was here to raid and take plunder, and he would see any sword at his disposal put to the task of filling his ships to the brim with treasure and thralls. He was in command, and any who questioned him would be brought to their knees and see that he was Jarl.
His mood darkened the longer he watched the column march on. Soon, only the Knights were left to mount up and make their departure, but Herleif had no intention of waiting for them. He felt agitated by simply sitting there and doing nothing while the world seemed to go crazy around him, and felt the need to move.
"I have seen enough," he grumbled, breaking the heavy silence over them. "See to it that your Knights do not outpace us. It is a kindness that I let you keep your horses at all," he said over his shoulder to Judith as he gave his horse a kick and turned it about.
Judith shifted uncomfortably in her saddle, metal clinking over the soft sound of creaking leather. "Herleif, let us stay. One day, at least. Let us do right by these people before we move on."
Clenching his jaw, Herleif pulled his mount up short, tugging on the reins to move closer to Judith.
"If it means so much to you, then stay," he said as he leaned in toward her, "but I did not come here to wait on your people and their meager troubles. Stay as long as you would like, I give no shit, but we will not be waiting for you." He gave his horse another kick and continued on, nodding at Skuld as they began to follow after his warriors together while Judith lingered. "Remember that you have no friends in these lands, Commander. Come with us or stay. Choose what you will, but as of now, this village is no longer my concern."
He did not look back to see how Judith reacted, and he did not wait to listen for any reply. Digging his heels into the horse's flanks, he spurred the beast on, moving from a brisk canter to a gallop with Skuld just behind, riding toward the distant volcano as they left the group of wayward Knights behind.
It was a three-day march from Cinder Mill to the foot of Mount Ignis, where the Walled City lay waiting to be conquered. After two days of slow riding to keep pace with the Vikings on foot, Coal was sore and stiff in ways he had never thought possible.
"God in Heaven," he groaned as he dropped from the saddle and onto solid ground for the first time in hours, reaching back to rub at his aching ass and not caring who was around to watch.
They had stopped to make camp for the night in a large field before finally regrouping with the rest of the horde the next day, but few made an effort to pitch tents or fully unload their packs. In these eastern lands, so close to the jungles and swampland of the Myre, the days had become hot and the nights cool and pleasant, and there were many who saw no issue with simply sleeping under the stars before being roused in the early hours of dawn to march again.
Coal knew from experience that any moment of leisure while on the move was meant to be cherished, no matter how brief. They hadn't seen a soul for miles, not counting the poor bastards still strung up along the road from Cinder Mill. Anyone left living in this territory was keeping well clear of the Viking army marching north to the volcano, so Coal figured he could take the chance of leaving his flail and helmet with his horse for the time being. He kept his shield with him, finding the familiar weight a comfort as he slung it over one shoulder, whether he found himself in need of it or not.
Priscilla fell in beside him after getting off her horse, hood down and hair loose about her face without her helmet. After the first day of marching, he had wondered if they should keep some distance between them after all that had happened back at the forge, but she always sought him out anytime the warband came to a halt, so he told himself not to worry. Maybe they had just drawn too much attention to themselves now to bother pretending otherwise, or perhaps she just couldn't find a reason to care.
"Let's find some food," he said, grabbing a wooden bowl from his pack. Priscilla simply nodded, somehow even less talkative than usual.
He knew she was the quiet sort to begin with, and so was he, but this was different. No doubt everything that had happened at the Great Forge was still lingering on her mind, but if she didn't want to talk then he wasn't going to press her. No one paid them any mind as they moved along in no great hurry, heading in no particular direction, walking steadily side by side. Silence existed between them, and for now, at least, that was perfectly fine.
They followed a few other warriors who seemed to know where they were going, eventually coming to a line where someone was serving stew out of a big pot. The mood around them was generally peaceful, and it took Coal a moment to realize that it wasn't just Vikings waiting to be served but Knights as well. They had all mingled together in relative silence, with no one barking curses or threats like they might have if standing opposite each other on a battlefield. Every so often, he spied a Knight and a Northman speaking to each other in a polite tone and even heard laughter traded once or twice at a joke.
"Maybe things are looking up," he remarked to Priscilla as they slowly moved up the line.
"What things?" she asked him with little interest.
Coal looked down at her in surprise. Usually, she was rather observant of those around them, so sharp and alert. Whatever was going on in her mind really was getting her down. "Nothing. Quiet is all. Guess everyone is just tired of fighting for once." He glanced about again, locking eyes with a Berserker walking by with a bowl of stew in hand. When the wild man saw him, he stopped and gave a hateful glare that spoke of having a side of fresh blood along with his meal, and Coal quickly looked away. "Well, almost everyone."
The gathered warriors were served quickly, with everyone receiving a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread, which had likely been baked before the march or taken from some village along the way. That suited Coal just fine, so long as he got to fill his belly with something halfway edible. The other Knights received their food without issue and thanked the two friendly Northmen giving out the food for sharing their bounty as if they had all grown up together in the same village.
Then Coal stepped forward and politely extended his hand for a piece of bread, only for the Viking standing with the basket to carelessly toss it at him. It hit Coal square in the chest with a smattering of crumbs and fell into the dirt at his feet, and he looked down at the stale white bread lying in the short grass and brown earth. When he looked up at the Viking again, the man scowled back. No smiles, no friendly parting words, only silence and disdain.
Coal bent down to pick up the piece of bread and smiled tightly before stepping away. Priscilla, at least, knew what was coming and silently snatched her piece of bread out of the air as the Viking tossed it at her next.
When it came to the stew, Coal could only hold out his bowl and hope for the best. He feared that he might end up wearing the hot food instead of eating it, but surprisingly, the Viking took his bowl and filled it, although there was still no smile. Coal regarded the stew suspiciously when the bowl was handed back to him, knowing that there had to be a catch. This scenario was not unfamiliar to him, and the chance for violence was becoming a very real possibility, depending on how the next few moments played out. He could feel the tension in the air like a flame being held too close to the skin.
Knowing that nothing would happen unless he made the next move, he gave the Viking a small smile and reached out to take the bowl, but the man drew it back before he could grab it and spit into the stew. Coal stared down at the bowl, the glob of spit on top of the stew all bubbling and white. Now was the time for violence if he wished.
His fingers gripped tightly around the bowl as he took it, tense with the urge to throw the hot food back in the man's face as a start. From there, he would lunge over the pot, spilling its contents as they fell together, scalding themselves as they wrestled dirt, punching, kicking, and beating each other until someone finally began to lose. Eventually, they would be pulled apart by a few of the bastard's friends, who would then take it upon themselves to beat him senseless as an act of revenge. He had his shield and could no doubt break a few noses at the very least, but it would hardly do him any good in the long run. Priscilla would get involved sooner or later, taking no chances and drawing a knife right from the start rather than using her fists like the rest of them, so there was no doubt that blood would be spilled.
Someone would die, probably, and the fight would expand until the brawl became a battle and then a massacre. The legion was outnumbered, after all, only a shadow of their former strength, and Herleif would probably say that he had no choice when all was said and done. And really, who would blame him? The damn Conqueror just went mad, and the rest was out of his hands- only a sad story of Ashfeld treachery and wasted stew.
Now the Viking wore a smug smile, clearly seeing the same outcome should a single drop of stew stain his shirt. Sometimes, you just knew who the winner was even before the fight could begin. For a moment, Coal pondered if the sacrifice would actually be worth seeing this piece of shit's face smashed in.
"Thank you, friend," he said happily, flashing a bright smile and lifting up the bowl in gratitude before walking away.
The Northman replied in his native tongue, which Coal didn't understand, but from the man's tone, he guessed it was far from polite. Priscilla received her stew and spit next, frowning down at the extra ingredient she had not asked for. Coal looked back just to make sure that she didn't try to gut the man after he had managed to ignore the insult. "It smells delicious! Give my components to the cook!"
Now, both Vikings shouted after them and made rude gestures before returning to their serving. Whatever they said must have been amusing as the rest of the Northmen waiting for food burst into a fit of laughter.
Coal waved back at them with his hunk of bread. "God bless!" he smiled, then turned his back to the men and grumbled under his breath. "Whoreson swine. What did they say?"
Priscilla walked beside him, still frowning down at her bowl. "Oh, something about riding beneath our horses and being flayed alive by Golden-Shield. You should have hit him."
"I wanted to," he sighed, feeling the tightness in his hands linger as he thought about slamming his knuckles into the Viking's grinning face.
"You hit that Raider in Eitrivatnen."
"I was drunk, and that started a much bigger fight. One you barely got me out of, remember? Something tells me that causing another scene is the last thing we need right now." He glanced at her just in time to catch her giving him a questioning look, which did nothing to improve his mood. "Believe it or not, I do know how to keep my head down when necessary. Unless that sort of thing is no longer a priority to you," he said with a curl of his lip.
"And what would you say my priority should be?" she asked.
"With the way things are going, I'd say it better be getting us out of this mess alive."
"What makes you think any of that is up to me?"
Coal stopped and put a hand on Priscilla's shoulder, sending bread crumbs tumbling down her front as he glared down at her. "Because this was all your fucking idea. You're the one who thought up this mad scheme with the Silent Blade. You're the one with the plan. I'm just the poor bastard who carried your messages and was ordered to follow you into Hell. Now that we're here, I'd like to know that our chances of walking out again are as good as they can be."
Priscilla met his stern gaze with one of his own, opening her mouth as if to say something before shutting it again and walking past him to find a place to sit. For a moment, Coal thought about stopping her and demanding some sort of answer, but as his stomach growled for food, he only shook his head and followed after.
Together, they crested a small grassy hill rising before a line of trees far enough away from the rest of the warband to have some peace of their own and sat down, leaning back to back for support. Coal dropped his shield beside him once he was settled, making sure it was front side down so he could grab the straps in a pinch if needed, something he had learned to do moving from battle to battle over the years.
He was struck by how familiar everything felt, given the strange beginnings of this particular war. Another meal sitting on the hard ground under the open sun, soldiers enjoying a break from marching while they had a chance. Just another camp in another war, nothing new to him, really.
The Vikings were spread out in groups, no doubt warriors with close ties to one another through years of fighting or common ancestry, but even the smaller gatherings were not spaced far from each other as the sun slowly lowered in the west. These people were all from the northern lands of Bilrost, he knew. Sworn to Herleif as brave and loyal warriors and were familiar with each other as if they were all kin. They laughed and joked together as they shared food and drink without a care. The pleasant melody of harps, flutes, and drums soon filled the air, and all around, there was a calming sense of good humor and cheer, as if they were all back home under a northern sky rather than making camp in a hostile land.
Coal loathed to admit it, but he was jealous. Priscilla was a fine enough woman to be around when she wasn't wielding her tongue as sharply as her dagger, but it was hardly as if he had chosen to have his fate tied to hers. Circumstances had made it so that he knew her best while most of the Lion Flame were still nearly strangers to him. Even in the past, through years of being thrown around from one legion to another, he had always been on his own. He had a family once, a gang to rely on and call his own, but nothing of his old life remained since his time in prison.
Settling in, he leaned back against Priscilla and took a moment to enjoy the warm sun on his face, happy not to be sweating beneath his helmet in the midst of some hellish battle. Lifting his bowl, he took a bit of bread and used it to scoop out the spit still lingering in his stew and flicked it away before happily digging in.
"Are you truly that hungry?" asked Priscilla, and he glanced back over his shoulder to see that her bowl was sitting neglected at her side.
"I've eaten worse," he said, scooping up more stew onto the rest of his bread and taking a bite. It was warm and rather flavorful for food made on the march. His expectations had not been high to begin with, but it would fill his belly, and for that, he was grateful. "At least this time, I can just flick away the filth."
"You mean in prison?"
Coal gave a quick snort of laughter before taking another bite. "No, at the Lord-Warden's table. Terrible shit there, and such tiny portions."
"The filth found at court is not so easy to ignore either."
"That so?" he said, though he didn't really care for an answer in return. She seemed to pick up on that and asked another question instead.
"Why were you sent here to help me, Coal?" she asked. He stopped eating as he felt Priscilla shift against his back. "You carried my orders from Beaufort before we sailed north, but there was no reason to send a Conqueror to do that. There is nothing about this mission that I am not trained to handle on my own."
"We've been at this for months," he said, finally stuffing the rest of the bread into his mouth and chewing as he spoke, "and now you ask?"
"I am asking."
Coal gave a little grunt and shook his head. "You seem to be under the delusion that there is some greater purpose to me being here." Lifting the bowl, he drank down the rest of his stew, smacking his lips with a satisfied sigh. "I'm telling you, there is none. You might be the one with a cunning plan, but for me, I just go where I'm told when I'm told. There is no choice for me in this, just orders."
"Surely there is more to it than that? No one chooses to be dubbed the title of Conqueror, just as you did not choose to join this legion. So why tie your fate to it?"
Grabbing his shield, Coal flipped it front side up. It was a simple piece of weaponry, made of thick wood and metal-rimmed, with dark iron studs breaking up the image of a sword crossed with two flags painted in black.
"You see this?" he asked, tapping his fingers on the symbol. "The Martial Flags of us good and loyal conscripted soldiers fighting for the glory of Ashfeld. The symbol of our duty, of our penance owed to Ashfeld for our crimes. For my horrendous crimes of trying my best to survive the only way I knew how." He laughed then, staring at the shield he had carried with him for years now, so long that he couldn't imagine not having it at his side anymore. "It's not even really mine. It's just one out of a hundred taken from the armory. Something that won't be a loss to anyone if left on the battlefield. Just like me."
"You are more than a shield or a suit of armor issued by a quartermaster," Priscilla said. "Your worth as a soldier is not determined by a painted symbol."
"Are you sure?" he smirked, flipping the shield over again. "At the very least, I think it's a reminder that there's still a leash around my neck. It's always there, no matter what legion I find myself attached to. Just because you don't presume to command me doesn't mean I'm free."
Priscilla just sat there for a moment, then shifted awkwardly against his back. "Why not just run?"
"I suggested that, remember? You shot that idea down pretty quick."
She slumped back and sagged against him. "I made my last real choice when I told the Silent Blade of Judith's plan. Now my hands are tied, and I need to see this through to the end or die trying. Or die with the rest of the legion and be branded a traitor after the fact. But I see no reason why it needs to be that way for you. There is a lot of open ground between here and the volcano. Easy for one man to just disappear out here."
Coal glanced down into his empty bowl, then at the warriors around them. Men and women sat together in groups as brothers and sisters in arms. They were all comrades, a fellowship born through war and faith. Everything he had gone without while in service to Ashfeld's valiant defense.
"Still mulling that option over, I guess," he muttered, chewing on the corner of his lip. He felt the old scar across his face stretch, the lingering tightness of the skin reminding him of battles long past. "But, wouldn't you know it, I already tried running to save my own skin once. Only thing it got me was being brought back in shackles."
Priscilla was quiet for a long moment, simply resting her head against his back. Coal felt her take in a breath and hold it before letting out a sigh, and he braced himself for whatever was coming next. "Coal, I-"
"Are you going to eat your stew?" he interrupted, deciding that he would rather end the conversation than go on. Priscilla's head lifted off his back briefly but then rested against him again.
"No," she said softly, pushing the bowl over to him, "enjoy."
"Don't mind if I do," Coal said, picking up her bowl and using the bread to scoop out the tainted bits. He had a nice bit of meat and took a bite, pleased to find it was still warm. Silence fell between them again, and he was glad for it. Knowing where one stood in the world was all well and good, but sometimes, it was nice just to sit quietly and enjoy a simple bowl of stew. Even one that had spit in it.
Taking another bite, Coal relaxed and enjoyed the warmth filling his belly, chewing the savory meat slowly while he surveyed the field. Then he stopped chewing.
"Uh-oh," he muttered. "Here comes your beau."
Priscilla perked up behind him and looked over his shoulder. "Oh…" and she dropped back, slouching against him again, "...fucking hell."
Gunnar strode across the field toward them, free of his helmet and holding his own steaming bowl of stew and hunk of bread in hand. He strolled leisurely, as if he had found friends across a crowded tavern and gave a small smile when he got closer, casting them both in the shadow of his hulking form before he turned and sat right down against them. Coal balanced his bowl as he was jostled by Gunnar's shoulder, but the big man paid little mind to the glare he received before settling back.
"Not hungry?" Gunnar asked, glancing at Priscilla as he dipped his bread into the stew.
"The special seasoning was not to my liking," she grumbled.
Gunnar frowned at her, then took a bite of his food, brows rising on his head. "Tastes fine to me," he said. He took another bite then offered her his bowl. She declined by bringing her knees up to her chin and looking away. Gunnar's gaze lingered on her before focusing on his food.
Coal watched Gunnar out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he could feel how tense Priscilla was against their backs or if he was clueless. It was just his luck that they would finally slip free of one unpleasant moment only to land in another. Such was his life.
"What're you doing here, big man?" he finally asked as he scooped up the last of his stew with his bread and popped it into his mouth.
"Sitting. Eating," Gunnar grunted in reply.
Priscilla's retort was as quick as a viper's strike. "He means, what are you doing here with us?"
Gunnar slowly turned his head; one eyebrow cocked high. "Am I not able to sit where I wish? I am the son of a Jarl, you know."
"Well, I guess being high-born doesn't make you any less of a fool," Coal said wryly, wiping white bread crumbs down his front and setting the empty bowl down into the first. "Don't you think it would be better if we spent a little time apart? Your brother doesn't seem to approve of our budding friendship anymore."
"He is not the only one," Priscilla muttered under her breath.
Gunnar looked between the both of them, giving a disgruntled grunt. "My brother may command me, but he does not rule me, if that makes sense. I know Herleif to be a good man, but he has always had a temper, and it can get the better of him when the weight of the world becomes a burden. But he can blow and bluster as he likes. It changes nothing." He glanced over at Priscilla, giving her a nudge with his elbow that sent her rocking. "We fought together, and you did what you had to do. We all did."
"And what of Erik Golden-Shield's temper? Will he see it that way?" Priscilla asked him. "If he will, then by all means, put my worried mind to rest because, as far as I am aware, Erik cares little for excuses and only about getting what he wants. I have a feeling that in Vincent's absence, he will gladly take our heads as compensation."
Gunnar's concern turned into a dark scowl as he clutched tightly at the wooden bowl in his hand. "I give no shit for what Erik wants, not now. If he wishes to have your heads, then he will have to go through me to get them. There was a time when I wintered in his hall and gladly called him friend, but on this raid, I have seen a side of him I do not like, and if he will not listen to reason, then he will listen to my axe instead. Him, his champion, and his dog-brained son as well."
Coal shook his head at how ridiculous it all sounded. "You think challenging a man with an army behind him will solve any of our problems? Or better yet, asking him nicely because you shared a few drinks together? I don't know what sort of dream world you live in, Gunnar, but I think that it's time you woke up. In my experience, people in power lose no sleep over destroying the lives of those beneath them. So trust me when I say that the path ahead leads only through shit and piss for the two of us."
"No," Gunnar said defiantly. "We have not come so far only to lose heart now. This is not a dream I will one day wake from, but life uncertain and untamed. Now more than ever, we must trust those who stand willingly at our sides, and right now, from where I am sitting, that is the two of you."
As if to drive home his point, he leaned back against them with his shoulders, stirring his bread in his stew but not taking a bite. When he spoke again, it was with a quiet uncertainty and a sudden shame that was somewhat unfamiliar to his nature. "In another life, in another dream perhaps, we would have met upon the battlefield as enemies, and there would have been nothing between us but blood. But that is not where fate has led us. Our lives are altogether something different now, something strange from what I thought we were meant to be. For in my heart, I now know, you are both true drengr."
Coal was quiet for a moment at that. He felt like he had been following along with what Gunnar was getting at, but that last word stumped him. "We're what now?"
"Drengr," Gunnar repeated with a confident grin. "A word of honor among my people. It means you are a brave, reckless, and tough sort of warrior. A true son of Valkenheim. Or a daughter," he added, glancing at Priscilla.
She looked back at him through narrowed eyes, face grimacing as if the title Gunnar bestowed upon them brought her nothing but grief rather than pride. Coal could only wonder how Gunnar's next words might have felt like a knife twisting between her ribs as he went on.
"But most importantly, it means that I am glad to have you both fighting by my side. As my brother would say, there is no one more important on the battlefield than the warrior standing next to you in the shield wall. And as drengr, I swear I shall always be there to fight by yours. No matter what happens when we reach the Walled City, and whatever punishment my brother, or Erik, or that hateful bastard Ivar has in store, we will all face it together. The three of us standing strong, Valkenheim and Ashfeld, fighting together against the world and the gods. Ha! Now that," and he smiled brightly now, looking out across the hills at the camp of Vikings and Knights spread out before him, "is a saga worth being told."
Those words hung over them as they all sat quietly together. Coal didn't know what to say. He mulled the word over in his mind, the meaning of it, the weight it seemed to hold for this unlikely northern ally.
"Drengr," Coal said softly, feeling the word out for himself. It seemed strange that a foreign word might mean anything to him at all, but when the title he wore now was as hollow to him as his ill-gotten past, he could feel it growing on him. "Never been part of a saga before," he found himself saying a bit louder.
"It is a grand thing to have one," Gunnar nodded. "Whether a warrior dies by the sword or old in their bed, they will go on to whatever realm awaits them after this, but it is through their stories that we remember them so that they continue to live with us."
Coal pressed his lips into an awkward frown and swallowed hard. "Now that is a bit too much to believe. Can't think of anyone who will remember me with any fondness once I'm gone. Sometimes, things just don't meet with a grand end like you want them to. I made peace with that a long time ago." He sighed, wondering how he had let himself slip into such melancholy sitting on some unnamed hill in another terrible war he had no stake in. "You know, it's talks like these that make me wish I had just been left to die in prison."
Gunnar's head whipped around, his eyes bright and wide as he stared at Coal with complete seriousness.
"I am glad that you were not," he said earnestly, holding Coal's gaze. "There is no sense in wondering what might have been. We might have been enemies once. We might not have killed Chaldeon and gone on to the fight at Mount Ignis without a care. I might not have lied to my brother about the vault." Gunnar's gaze wavered then along with his voice, and Coal felt Priscilla stiffen against his back. "But that is not what happened. Our deeds are behind us, and we must now live with them until we finally meet our fates, whatever they may be. What is important is that we face that fate bravely and that we face it together, as drengr." He gave a curt nod and elbowed Coal in the arm. "I am very glad to have met you, Coal. And you, Priscilla Arentii. Very glad indeed." Then he lifted his stew-covered bread and began to eat.
Now Coal really did have nothing to say.
In all of the time since his imprisonment years ago, ripped from a gang on the streets of Beaufort and thrown into the horrors of the city's dungeon, no one had treated him as anything more than another body to throw at the enemy. For so long now, his worth had been determined by how many lives he could take before finally losing his own. Living like that, existing only to die for the benefit of others, he had become resentful of the idea that there was anything worthwhile in life at all. In the end, they were all just sacks of meat, slaughtered by the rich and powerful, like butchers who wished to devour everything around them. And so he had fought, and killed, and clung onto what sliver of worth he could put to his life, as pointless as it seemed.
It was a life. It was his life, wretched and alone. Being of worth to anyone outside of a battlefield was never something he had given much consideration before. Not until now.
"You are a fool," Priscilla said, breaking the heavy silence, and Coal couldn't miss that crack in her voice as she spoke. He felt her shifting behind him, and there was a wet sniff before she let out a sigh. It seemed that Gunnar's words dug at her in a no less personal way. "Truly you are if you think that anything remarkable can come out of our meeting like this. You are in a dream, and when you wake up, you will see there is no great story for the likes of us. The lives we have led are not the ones woven into great tales and legends. They get written over by people with a better voice for dictating what history should be."
Gunnar frowned down into his bowl; the lines of his brow creased as the wind lightly stirred his beard and hair about his face. "I would not presume to argue with you on whether or not that is true," he said slowly and reached over to gently take Priscilla's small hand in his, "but perhaps it is never too late to begin a new story. One with a better ending than what we thought fate had in store."
Priscilla said nothing. Silence fell over them again, and from what Coal could tell, neither she nor Gunnar broke their small embrace.
The wind picked up and rustled through the nearby trees. Coal gazed out over the field as the sun glinted over a sea of shining weapons and armor, and the low sound of men and women enjoying the fading day was all around them. Vikings and Knights, all gathered in this one place. Not exactly friends, but not enemies either. It was almost sickening how idyllic this one quiet moment was then.
Too sickening for Coal to stomach.
"Well, shit," he began, blowing out his cheeks and running a hand through his dark hair. "If we're getting to make our own stories now, then I think I'll make myself the long-lost heir of the Old Empire. And once I am crowned as Emperor and bring Ashfeld under my rightful rule, a hundred and one beautiful princesses and noble women will come from all across the land just for a chance of being my bride. But I'm going to turn all of them down. Every last one." He smiled and held out his hands as if he could see the masses of beautiful ladies lining up before him. "Instead, I'll go north and marry the biggest bitch I can find in all of Valkenheim, just so I know she'll keep me nice and warm on a cold winter's night. How's that for a new fucking story?"
"I think Ivar will take issue with you trying to steal his wife," Gunnar said with a big grin breaking out through his beard before losing himself to his laughter.
Coal could only answer with a snort of his own, until he was shaking right alongside Gunnar with raucous laughter. Priscilla kept her composure enough not to succumb to their base sense of humor, but instead offered up a groan of mild amusement that could only be given in the company of likable, but ultimately hopeless, fools. Coal didn't mind. It just felt good to laugh. It felt damn good.
Finally, they could relax, even with the threat of punishment still hanging over their heads. Coal leaned back to feel Priscilla pressing against him, and Gunnar shifted to better sit against them as well. As he did, Coal was somewhat surprised to feel Priscilla sliding up a bit closer to the big Raider in return.
"I will speak to my brother," Gunnar said gently, saying it more toward Priscilla from the way his voice carried, "I'll get him to understand what happened and that we had no choice. There is still time before we reach Mount Ignis. Enough time to convince him not to bring you before Erik when we arrive."
"Is that so?" rang out a harsh voice that cut into their jovial reprieve.
Coal quickly tensed and sat up straight, craning his neck around to see Herleif coming up the hill toward them just as Gunnar and Priscilla slid away from each other as if their touching shoulders had been hot as coals. Herleif held his ornamented helmet under one arm as he approached so Coal could see well and clear the sour look on his face at finding his brother sitting with the Peacekeeper who had caused him so much trouble at the forge. Behind the Jarl walked the Berserker twins, who each wore scowls just as harsh and angry beneath their gleaming face plates.
"Is there no other place you could be right now other than here?" asked Herleif, waving a hand about the spacious field.
Gunnar grinned back at his brother as Herleif came to cast them all beneath his great shadow. For his part, he took his brother's question with an effortless grace that no doubt came from years of experience of being a younger sibling. "Seems as good a place as any," he said with a shrug. "I like the view from up here. Get to see how well everyone is getting along after we earned our victory."
"A victory?" Herleif bit back, teeth showing beneath the bristles of his brown beard. "Do you think Erik will see it that way once we return? He wanted Chaldeon alive, and now I must return to him empty-handed because of this..." He waved a lazy hand at Priscilla rather than finish whatever insult had been on the tip of his tongue. He bit down on his bottom lip and surveyed the trees beyond the hill before giving Gunnar's foot a kick. "You wished to talk, then let us talk. Have your chance at convincing me to change my mind, though I doubt you can," and he stepped around Coal to head off towards the tree line, not bothering to look back to see whether or not his brother would follow.
Coal watched the Jarl go, squinting after him in the sunlight. Gunnar gave an aggravated sigh before pushing himself onto his feet, leaving his unfinished bowl of stew on the matted grass where he had been sitting, then took his time to wipe his hands together and give each of the Berserkers a not-so-convincing smile. Ragnar returned it, along with an innocent shrug, while Ragna simply gave her usual scowl like she hated him no more or no less than anyone who wasn't her brother or that crazy little Shaman. Gunnar turned and looked down, offering Coal and Priscilla a wink before heading off after his brother.
Coal couldn't help but notice how Gunnar's gaze had held on Priscilla a bit longer just before he left and how hers lingered on him until he disappeared into the trees.
When Gunnar was finally gone, she slumped against Coal's back again, drawing her knees up against her chest and holding them tight as she fell quiet. Coal didn't mind. He could respect when a person didn't want to talk and was happy to oblige her after what had already been said. He did reach down to pick up the bowl of stew Gunnar had left behind, though, giving it a stir with what bread was left.
"Did you hear?" he asked the two Berserkers who stood next to them, evidently suffering from a lack of anything better to do while they waited for their Jarl to return. Coal took a bite and dipped the bread back into the bowl for more, smiling at the twins as he chewed. "We're drengr now. How about that?"
Ragna sneered in disgust down at them both before giving them her back; while Ragnar seemed to blink thoughtfully at this development, his face turned upward as he scratched at his chin with one of his sharpened axe blades. Coal simply chuckled to himself, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face and the pleasure of a full belly.
"Drengr," he said softly to himself, digging into the stew again. "A brave, tough, reckless kind of bastard. I like that. I like that very much."