By noon the next day, the warriors of Bilrost had finally arrived at the foot of Mount Ignis.
Accompanied by the remnants of the Lion Flame Legion and escorted by a contingent of mounted Sea Eagle spearmen, the long column of armored bodies, glinting steel, and shifting shields slowed their march as the volcano loomed large and imposing before them. The mountain itself seemed to stand like a monolith raised to the god said to inhabit it as a thin trail of smoke rose toward the heavens from its peak, but its real power was told of only in the tales of when Heathmoor tore itself apart with earth-shattering quakes and fire was spewed up into the sky.
For now, though, it lay silent, still, and serene. Except for the rebel legion of cultists that had made the mountain fortress their home, it was as desolate and lonesome as any other stony peak. Now, though, the volcano held an altogether different legacy to those who looked upon its mighty slopes, not one of fire and calamity, but a reputation steeped in no less blood or terror than ages now long passed.
Dust choked the air as the warriors marched down the road, nearly blotting out the sun as it beat down upon their heads. The day was hot, the terrain arid and barren as their boots trampled over the dirt and dry patches of grass. The mountains that separated the lands of Ashfeld from the swamps of the Myre to the east and the barren lands of Valkenheim to the north lay before them, stretching on in either direction like the jagged spine of some great serpent slumbering beneath the earth. All that lay behind now was a long trail of footprints and corpses.
As the marching column crested a sloping ridge, the lumbering warriors slowed to a crawl when, at long last, their destination came into view. After hundreds of leagues traveled by ship and by foot, through trials of combat and blood, victory and loss, they could finally look upon the home of their enemy nestled against the mountainside and the Viking encampment that already surrounded it.
Marcelo stepped onto a rise overlooking the open plain before him and removed his helmet to better take in the fortress city nestled at the foot of the volcano. Lofty towers capped with waving flags and adorned with great banners bearing a golden phoenix protruding upward along the volcano's side, built into the very rock they rose from as if formed by nature. The city was vast, its districts and many keeps spreading out to encompass nearly the entire slope of the mountain, but there was only one road leading to a single gate at the center of its great outer wall. A high stone wall, acting as a last defense for madness and tyranny against a savage force that came not to see justice done for the wrongs committed upon this land but to sate the lust of their own barbaric greed that could never be quelled.
Clutching his helmet beneath one arm, Marcelo sighed and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, already dreading what cruelty and pain would be brought about by these two opposing forces and what part he would have to play in it. It was his duty to see justice done and the taint of the Divine Pyre wiped clean from the face of Heathmoor forever, but he could not help but wish that none of this had ever come to pass to begin with. But had things been as he wished, he would never have learned that not all monsters dwell only in the north.
"We've finally made it," he said softly, knowing that he could trust in his faith and those fighting by his side to do what needed to be done, "The Walled City."
Ragnar stepped up beside him on his left, followed by Ragna and Helge appearing at his right. He looked between them and frowned, suddenly feeling very much surrounded, just like the city itself.
"Aye, the Walled City," Ragnar echoed, squinting through the haze of dust and heat at the gathered forces of Ivar's Headhunters and Erik's overwhelming number of Sea Eagle warriors camped between them and the city beyond. "Rather a stupid sort of name, isn't it?"
"What?" piped up Marcelo, surprised by the question.
Ragnar looked at him and shrugged. "Don't you think? Not very creative, as far as names go. I mean every city has walls. What makes this one so special?"
"Are they the biggest walls in all of Ashfeld?" asked Helge.
"They don't look so big," Ragna sneered, looking less than impressed with what she saw. "Men often exaggerate over what they like to call big, but you would do better not to believe it."
Helge seemed to contemplate that for a moment while Marcelo sighed again and said, "No, surely Beaufort Stronghold boasts the largest walls in all of Ashfeld, but-"
"Are you exaggerating?" Helge cut in.
Marcelo blinked at her in confusion. "What? No, I-"
"Were these walls made by dwarves?" Ragnar pondered.
"Dwarves? No my friend, I am afraid that dwarves don't actually-"
"They don't have dwarves in Ashfeld, idiot," Ragna growled, "Why would they ever want to live in such a horribly hot place like this?"
"Now, I'll have you know Ashfeld is full of wonderful locations and beautiful sights. It is not all just one inhospitable desert as you northerners tend to believe," Marcelo said quickly, feeling an odd but overwhelming sense to defend his homeland against barbaric slander, let alone a cult uprising, even as Ragnar slowly nodded in understanding at his sister's words.
"Are they magic walls?" asked Helge next.
"Not that I am aware of. I hardly see how-"
"Are they cursed?" Ragna asked.
"How could stone walls possibly be-"
"Did a jǫtunn build these walls?" Ragnar questioned again.
"If I just said dwarves didn't build them, why would you think that-" Marcelo cut himself off this time, squeezing his helmet tight as he took a deep breath and sighed again. "Look, if you would just listen, I will gladly tell you all why we call it the Walled City."
Silence fell upon the trio as marching boots filled the air, and Ragnar, Ragna, and Helge stared at Marcelo with furrowed brows and expectant frowns.
"Well, don't keep us waiting," Helge snapped.
Marcelo fought down the urge to try and toss the three of them over the ridge all at once and continued. "Just like your own people after the Cataclysm, we here in Ashfeld needed to start anew. New settlements, new towns, new cities. The remnants of the Old Empire were gone, swallowed up by the earth as it shook and cracked. Or, in this case, was buried under a sea of ash and mud as the volcano erupted, leaving it forgotten for centuries."
He gestured out at the distant city, seeing all the flags waving upon the towers and the banners hanging from the balconies and walls. He could see the little glinting dots of armored figures moving about upon the ramparts and could feel the tension in the air as the Vikings closed in to cut off any chance of escape from the mountain. It was like the city was a living, breathing creature, awoken from a long hibernation only to awaken and find itself cornered by a snarling predator before it was finally killed once and for all.
"As we reclaimed these lands and began to form our new society upon the wreckage of the old, a single tower was discovered here on the slope of Mount Ignis, rising up alone out of the ashen ground. It took years, and an army of academics and excavators all working together to unearth the city that lay underneath, but eventually it was freed from it's natural grave. A city frozen in time as the world seemingly ended around it. Preserved perfectly in death, with the bones of those who had inhabited it still trapped inside."
Ragnar squinted at the ancient city through the sun and dust. "I didn't know that there was anything that existed from before the Cataclysm. Our lands were ravaged by fire and ice, driving us even further north, and there was certainly very little that survived from before when we finally returned. Very little besides the sagas of our ancestors to give us guidance."
"We had even less than that here," Marcelo said. "We dug it from the earth, cleared it of the dead and gave them proper burials before bringing the city back with new life. It was made to be just like any other city in Ashfeld, a stronghold against our enemies. Even still we knew next to nothing of who had dwelled here before us. Any record of the city seemed to have been lost in the Cataclysm, and for years there were only rumors of its existence before it was finally rediscovered. No name, no history. It was as if it had been wiped not only from the face of Heathmoor, but from time itself. And so for that reason, to honor the memory of all those who had lost their lives here, the city was given no true name after it was unearthed. Its memory is lost to the abyss, and now only the Walled City remains."
He looked up towards the volcano's peak, gazing at the smoke that billowed from the fiery pit within. "And now it is the home of an enemy risen from within our ranks. Taken without permission and given a new purpose to fulfill their twisted ideology. Yet after everything that has happened here, seeing a buried city brought back from the dead under the shadow of the very thing that killed it, is it any wonder that these fools actually believe there is more to this place than just stone and dirt? Perhaps there is power here. A touch of the divine, such as we could not possibly know..."
They all stood frowning down at the Walled City, silently contemplating what horrors it had endured in the past and what violence it would soon witness. Then Ragna leaned forward and spat onto the ground.
"It's still a stupid pig-shit name," she growled, wiping her lips with the back of her hand while Ragnar and Helge nodded in agreement.
Marcelo took a long breath and held it for even longer before he sighed, but no one else seemed to notice. Unbothered by the dour history lesson, Ragnar looked about and smiled as he spotted Gunnar walking by with the column of warriors.
"Hail, Gunnar!" he shouted over the tramp of marching feet and clattering weapons, waving a hand in the air for his comrade's attention. "Take a moment and guess why this city has such a stupid name? I'll give you a hint... The walls were not made by dwarves or jötnar!"
Gunnar barely gave a glance over in their direction as he passed, giving a sour sneer before shouldering his axe and walking on without a word. Ragnar frowned as he watched Gunnar go, the wind dropping from his sails at being so blatantly ignored. "What's his problem?"
"I would never dare claim to know the mind of a Northman," Marcelo said, taking care not to use the word 'savage' in present company. "Yours is a brooding and bleak lot, as harsh as the cold mountains you hail from."
"We are not all so cold as you say," Helge said with a grin, reaching out to give Marcelo's rear a pinch beneath his tabard, making him drop his helmet and jump right into Ragnar while she laughed. "Some of us know how to stay good and warm together on a frigid night, of that I promise."
Marcelo blushed hotly as he stared back at the smaller woman, both from the horribly inappropriate touch he had received and the feeling of Ragnar's arm wrapped around his middle from catching him. He gave the grinning Berserker a sideways glance and tried not to think about how strong those hands felt keeping him balanced and close.
"I- I will just have to take your word for it then, my good lady," he sputtered, and Helge's dark brows rose high on her head.
"Good lady? If anyone else had called me anything so fucking ridiculous, I would split them open from groin to chin," she said, drawing out her curved knife and thrusting it between Marcelo's legs, making him tense up and press tighter into Ragnar's embrace. Then, just as quickly as she had come at him, her motion slowed to that of a lover's soft touch, and she lightly traced the edge of the glimmering blade up from the inside of his thigh to his chest, stopping just above his heart. "But coming from you, I don't really mind. In fact..." and she leaned in close, keeping the point of her knife pressed against him as she gazed into his wide eyes with her lips parted ever so slightly, "...I think I would like to hear more of your fancy talk, good sir knight."
"More?" Marcelo squeaked, feeling a shiver run from the tip of her blade and through his whole body.
Ragna came up behind Helge and wrapped a possessive arm around the Shaman's shoulders, her wild gaze somewhat less threatening than usual, but also held a hungry glint in her eyes beneath that horned face plate she wore. "As if he would ever be so lucky," she purred, her teasing voice a long stretch from the harsh, biting tone she usually spoke to him with.
The hands around his middle suddenly tightened, making Marcelo jump. "I don't know," said Ragnar softly, his breath hot against the back of Marcelo's neck, "I think he could be, if he shows us good manners and asks nicely..."
Marcelo felt his face grow hot, and it was not only because of the bright and sunny day. He stared over his shoulder at Ragnar for a moment longer, then back to the two devilish women before him.
"I..." he began, then felt such a shameful tingle over his skin that he could not bear to stand still a moment longer. Wiggling his way out of Ragnar's comforting embrace and Helge's threatening but somehow teasing knife, he stumbled free with a desperate breath.
"You heathens know nothing of proper manners..." he said as he kicked up dust, wiping away at his tabard where Ragnar's hands had been even as it continued to get dirty. "Why I spend any time with the three of you at all is beyond me, lest my soul be damned to the fiery pit."
"Stay longer, and we will give you some reasons to play with fire," Helge smiled, running her tongue along her teeth as she twisted the point of her knife into her finger. Behind her, Ragnar and Ragna looked him over with their own mischievous grins, and Helge leaned back against them with comforting ease.
Marcelo looked between the three barbarians, feeling his mouth go dry. He licked his lips, then instantly regretted it as their eyes all seemed to light up at once.
"Stop it," he said quickly, bending down to snatch up his helmet before taking another step back. "Cease this heathen witchery you seek to cast and leave me be."
"Witchery?" Helge said, her smile turning into a childish pout. "You make it sound so wicked. But I'm sure deep down good little Knights like you love a little wickedness every now and then. Enjoy a little savagery. Just a small taste of what you know you shouldn't want..." Her smile returned, and she lifted her knife to her lips and sensually ran her tongue along the blunt edge while she held her eyes on him.
Marcelo swallowed hard, his eyes going wide. "I..." he began, but he wasn't even sure what he was trying to say as his voice died in his throat. In one quick motion, he gripped his helmet and slid it onto his head, if only to hide his blushing face from his three relentless tormentors. "I must go and... and pray..."
He felt all the more foolish once the words had left his mouth, especially with how Ragnar snickered and Ragna rolled her eyes. Helge stared at him with that same intense look of longing and desire, and he stared back, totally entranced by her wicked spell.
"Y-yes... I must go and pray. We are at war, remember? Best not take any chances." He shifted in the direction that the column was marching to the Viking encampment, then realized that his legion was following behind in the other direction, and so he was forced to turn back and face down three hungry wolf grins once again. "I think we could all do for a good prayer."
"No, I think not," Ragna said instantly, shaking her head even as she smiled.
"Right. Of course not." Marcelo spun around on his heel and marched back down the line to the safety of his legion as fast as he could.
Helge let her blade drop as she rested against her lovers and sighed. "I like him," she said, looking up at the twins.
"I do too," Ragnar smiled back with a wink.
"Eh, he's alright." Ragna shrugged. Then she reached down and snatched Helge's knife from her hand, waving it at her like a child in need of a scolding. "Stop licking sharp things! It's not as arousing as you think, and the last time you did it your tongue was useless for days."