Somehow, things had gone from bad to worse.
The gatehouse exploded like a burst of dragon's fire, erupting under the volcano's shadow in a horrific reflection of the mountain's destructive power. Flames ripped through the air while black smoke billowed into the sky, and chunks of the gatehouse were launched high into the air as if thrown by a giant. The blast stopped the approaching Vikings dead in their tracks as the deafening sound echoed all along the mountainside and across the battle plain. Herleif stared wide-eyed in surprise, the heat of the flames hitting him like a fist to the face. Dust blew up from the ground in waves, stinging the warriors like daggers as they ducked behind their shields.
If Herleif had thought attacking the city gates without the Pyre's weapon raining death from above would be easy, now it almost seemed preferable to the entire fortress go up in flames.
"Take cover!" Herleif shouted as he lifted his shield and grabbed hold of Helge to protect her from the falling debris. Skuld ducked beneath her own shield, crouching low next to the ram while the horde of northern warriors did what they could to protect themselves from falling stones, not knowing whether to keep advancing or flee.
The sky above still rumbled as Herleif peeked an eye around the rim of his shield, but he could barely see through the smoky haze that remained after the blast. Everything went still for just a few heartbeats, and he caught sight of the gate through the smoke. While the gatehouse above was a ruin of dancing fire and rolling smoke, the gate itself was still somehow intact, remaining firmly closed to their advance. It was only a half victory. The Pyre's weapon had finally been destroyed, but they were still stuck outside the walls.
Herleif spat a curse just as his worst fears were realized with the ominous sound of whistling streaks above their heads. "Arrows!" he warned with a desperate cry. No sooner had he ducked behind his shield did an arrow slam against the sturdy boards and bounced away. Hundreds more descended over the horde, falling out of the smoke before striking at his warriors. Some were able to get their shields up in time; others did not. Their screams could be heard beneath the roaring chaos of the burning gatehouse as more bow strings snapped to unleash another volley over their heads.
Herleif held on tight to Helge and ducked back behind the ram, running into Skuld as she did the same. The Berserkers meant to push the war machine along had stopped as fire and rock fell around them, stalled by the sudden explosion. Herleif pressed himself shoulder to shoulder next to Skuld, with Helge clutching his chest, and shouted over the roar of the flames. "We need to get the ram moving! The gate still stands!"
Skuld simply gave a nod, then ducked beneath the arrow-stuck roof of the ram. She moved with purpose, flipping her silver spear around and smacking a Berserker square on the ass to get them moving. The feral warrior jumped and howled with fury but quickly took hold of the ram and began to push forward again.
"Keep moving!" Herleif roared, following Skuld's example along the opposite side of the ram and knocking his shield against the warriors' backs. "No one enters Valhǫll standing still like a lame goat! Move!"
Helge jumped right to the front, finding Ragnar and yanking on him like he was a lazy field horse to be dragged before the plow. "Come on, you mangy dog! If you ever want me to lay with your ugly hide again, then move this ram!" Ragnar, more akin to a wolf now than a man, snarled and snapped his teeth at Helge, who, being as much an animal herself, angrily hissed and snapped her teeth right back in his face. Spurring the Berserkers into action again, the ram began to move through the black smoke toward the gate, filling the air with the creak of turning wheels and mad howls of fury.
As the ram rolled along, Herleif moved back until he trailed behind with Skuld and watched the burning gatehouse for any sign of movement. Surely the weapon was destroyed, but it was hard to shake the feeling that they were still walking headlong into danger after everything he had witnessed. The gatehouse was completely engulfed in flames as the Pyre's unnatural fire still fell around them. Everywhere it touched, the flames lingered where they should have faded out, creating a barrier that slowed and threatened the Viking advance. Nothing could have survived such a horrible explosion, and Herleif could only hope that Judith and her Knights had escaped safely in time.
Then, another incessant and worrying thought wiggled its way into his mind, and with a cold flush of fear, he looked around quickly for any sign of Gunnar, seeking any sign of his brother among their warband. He was usually so easy to spot even in a battle, towering above other warriors and roaring his insults and challenges at the enemy, but Gunnar was nowhere to be found. Herleif looked back up to the burning gatehouse with a sinking suspicion of where his brother had run off to and why.
"Curse you, brother. I told you to let her go," he whispered, squeezing his sword and shield tightly. He should have known better than to think that Gunnar would listen.
The makeshift ram gave a loud groan as it finally slowed to a halt before the gate, rolling up against its closed doors through fire and mayhem. Helge gave a cry, signaling to the Berserkers to begin pulling back on the heavy tree that would batter the doors down like a hammer. Gripped by their fury, the Berserkers snarled and groaned as they worked, muscles straining to move the ram's mighty weight as they pulled it away from the fortress doors. Then, together, they drove forward, slamming the felled tree against the city gate with a world-shaking boom. It was a noise that could be felt rumbling through the ground, echoing against the walls, booming in the chests of warriors as they shouted and screamed. The tall doors gave a visible shudder but still held firm.
"Again!" cried Helge, shaking her hatchet in the air as the Berserkers pulled back on the ram without delay. "Strike, you wolves of Óðinn! You are beasts! You are vermin! You are howling fiends! Now you will strike! Strike! Strike!"
Fire fell around them from above, catching on the roof of the ram or slipping through the small holes in its surface to singe the Berserkers beneath. They carried on, lifting the ram as they cried out in fury and pushed forward again- lifting and pushing, lifting and pushing. The great doors of the Walled City shook and rattled, wood splintering with each hit. Still, the gate remained closed.
Without their fire weapon to repel the attack on the gatehouse, the Divine Pyre had brought their smaller devices to bear upon the walls. Their dark silhouettes could be seen high above on the ramparts, unleashing thin bursts of fire over the faltering warband. The glowing flames pierced through the haze of smoke, illuminating the darkness and showering the oncoming Vikings with burning death. It was not the total devastation of the larger weapons, consuming whole ships or weapons of war in a blazing inferno, but it was enough to rip apart the formations of warriors and sow chaos among the attacking Northmen as they tried to make their way to the walls. Not a single ladder had been lifted so far, and already Bilrost warriors were falling to the Pyre's defense, pierced by arrows or flailing madly covered in unearthly fire. The ram was still pounding against the gate, but trapped as they were before the walls, Herleif's warriors were being struck down.
A horn sounded from the rear, back toward the camp, then another, the clear, crisp sound echoing through the chaos. For a moment, Herleif's heart leaped into his throat, thinking that someone had sounded a retreat without his signal. Instead, much to his surprise, he found the skull-clad warriors of Thurshamrar rushing forward to join his own. They came with their own ladders and pikes to charge the walls as if their lives depended on scaling their heights to cut down every Knight that stood against them. The officers of the Divine Pyre cried out their orders for the archers to loose their arrows at will as yet more Vikings joined the attack. Many of their number were dealing with the explosion, spreading their forces thin as fire spread across the ramparts. With Thurshamrar joining the fight, the attacking warband instantly doubled in size, becoming far too great a force for the Pyre Knights on the walls to deal with alone.
In the midst of it all, Herleif watched dumbfounded as Ivar the Red rushed forward upon his snorting horse, pulling hard on the reins to bring the beast to a halt. It was a wonder Herleif wasn't struck dead by an arrow in his daze, but a spray of dirt from the horse's hooves quickly got him thinking again. "What are you doing here?" he called over the noise.
Ivar smiled down from on top of his horse, sword in one hand and shield in the other. "You think I'll just sit back and let a sack of shit like you claim all the glory?" he shouted, then glanced up and pointed at the burning gatehouse with his hooked sword. "I assume this is your doing?"
"If Erik thinks I would simply sacrifice my warriors to soothe his bruised ego, then he is a greater fool than I am for ever thinking he was a fair man! He can sit gawking like a gull as we do what he could not and choke on his wine for the trouble!"
"A coward is still a coward even if he shits gold, eh?" Ivar grinned. "Let him fucking watch. You've gotten us this far. Now it's time to finish these bastards and get into this fucking city! Today, Thurshamrar and Bilrost stand as one!"
Even with chaos raging all around them, Herleif was struck by Ivar's words. He had known the man for many years and had never expected him to be anything less than a conniving and treacherous bastard. To hear a compliment given, much less a chance to fight together instead of calling for each other's blood, came as quite a shock. For once, Herleif's response didn't have the same bite for the rival jarl that it usually held. "Only the gate stands before us now. We only need to break through, then we can break these cultists once and for all," he assured as the ram gave another great boom against the doors.
"Then quit dawdling and get to it," Ivar shouted, wrestling to control his frantic horse. "I'll take the walls and swarm these fuckers from above! Make quick work of that gate or all your warriors will be carried off by the Valkyries before they even know they're dead!" With that, he kicked his heels into the horse's sides and charged off into the horde, barreling his way straight for the front just as the first ladders were finally being raised against the wall.
For a moment, Ivar disappeared into the ranks of warriors as he dropped from his mount, only to reappear again, scaling a ladder to lead the assault as the first warrior on the walls. Arrows rained down around him and those that followed, but the protection of the gods seemed to be on him as he climbed. With a triumphant roar, Ivar crested the ramparts, blocking enemy pikes and swords with his shield before bringing his own hooked blade to bear. More ladders were lifted throughout the ranks of the horde, slamming against the walls under a hail of arrow fire, with brave Berserkers and Raiders perched at their tops, ready to start cleaving into the Pyre ranks with their axes. It was the furthest they had come to finally taking the walls, and through it all, Ivar shouted his vile curses as he cut down each black-armored cultist that dared stand before him, making way for more of his warriors to follow.
A true Warlord leads from the front, and Ivar was a mighty Warlord, if nothing else. No matter how much Herleif despised the man or loathed to have him as a sworn blood brother, there was no doubting Ivar's resolve as a fighter. Now, it was up to Herleif to do the same, but time was no longer on his side.
Whatever fortune the gods had finally granted him already seemed to be fading as his warriors struggled to overcome the gate. The spreading fire had all but stopped the Bilrost Vikings from advancing. Their front line buckled and faltered with nowhere to go, trapped against the rising fortress, and their center was falling to chaos under a hail of arrows and spitting flames. Herleif watched in horror as his warriors succumbed to terror and confusion. The prospect of war and glory had once lit a fire in their hearts as hot as any jǫtunn of Múspell, but it seemed their fate was to be sacrificed to their enemy all for the sake of Erik's ambitions. He had tried to lead them as best he could, but now the years of sitting in his hall instead of raiding with his ships, the fights with Gunnar, and the oath he had sworn to Erik had finally taken their toll.
There was no fire left in his warriors now, let alone a spark. In the end, it hadn't been Erik who had sent them to their doom. He had done it himself with his own cowardice and lack of conviction. For too long, he had looked inward, not just for his lands, but for himself, and now his warriors would pay the price. Dozens of his warriors were falling without ever having the chance to raise their swords against the enemy, and it was all his fault.
A Warlord was the shield of his people, and Herleif was failing them all. It was a shame he would never be able to live with, let alone ever be welcomed among his ancestors in the halls of the gods.
"No, this will not be the day we fall," he said through clenched teeth, looking to the gate just as the ram slammed against the doors again, fire raining down upon it like breath from a dragon's maw. "This will not be our fate."
Setting his jaw, Herleif looked over his warriors until he found what he was seeking through the haze of smoke. He had no fear of falling arrows or burning flames as he marched straight to a young warrior holding a Bilrost banner in the air, walking with his head held high and shoulders back while others still hid beneath their shields. Perhaps if they had been charging across an open battlefield, this warrior might have fought bravely against the enemy, but here, stuck before the burning walls, courage counted for very little as one simply waited to see if they would live or die. Herleif could not blame him but instead tried to lead by example as he stood tall and unafraid.
"Stand tall, lad," Herleif urged, putting a hand on the young warrior's shoulder before taking the banner that waved in the hot wind above their heads. "The gods are with us. We will get through that gate, I promise."
The warrior stared at him wide-eyed as death fell from the sky around them. His grip on the banner loosened, relinquishing it over to Herleif's hand. No more words were exchanged between them, no oaths of honor sworn or hateful curses uttered for being led on a doomed endeavor. There was only the trust between warriors in the shadow of war, where nothing was determined, and every breath could be their last.
Herleif took the banner, the white Vegvisir Compass clear upon a background of blue and silver knots, and gave the warrior a reassuring nod. Then he turned and boldly ran back toward the ram. The banner fluttered in the air, catching the eyes of every warrior nearby like a beacon of hope as Herleif ran past. Skuld clapped her spear against her shield, striking a rhythmic beat as Herleif climbed up the ram just as it gave another loud boom against the gates. The roof shuddered beneath his feet as he tried to stand, the rickety frame rocking from side to side and nearly throwing him off balance, but he fought with all his strength to stay upright as the banner waved above his head. Now, he stood before his warriors, beneath the falling flames and glowing cinders of the burning gatehouse with only his shield for protection, but it was the banner that he lifted high above his head for all to see.
"Bilrost!" he roared, letting his voice carry over the battle din. The air was hot in his lungs, and it was hard to breathe so close to the gatehouse, but he would not stop shouting. At any point, he could be consumed by the flames and set ablaze, but he would not move by man, beast, or all-powerful gods. If this was to be the day he was fated to die, then he would do so with honor, showing his warriors what it meant to be a true drengr worthy of remembrance. "Warriors of Bilrost! Of clan Tundra Tusk! Warriors of Bilrost, hear me!" More heads turned to look at him, desperate eyes poking out from beneath a sea of shields in search of guidance and hope. "I know there are no cowards among you! I know that the fear of death holds no sway in your hearts! There is only victory or Valhǫll, and both lay behind this gate! It is trapped there, imprisoned by the very enemy we have come to destroy!"
The ram beneath him moved swiftly as it was pushed by the Berserkers, slamming against the closed doors with a wood-splintering crash. The gates shuddered more than ever as the thin space between the large doors bowed and bent with the small glimmer of firelight shining through. The gates of the Walled City remained closed, but the unbridled strength of Valkenheim's fury was beginning to break through.
Herleif lifted the banner high overhead as the ram gave another resounding boom. "Victory or Valhǫll lays beyond this gate! You must only come and claim it, and it will be yours!"
Below, Skuld was still beating her rhythm of spear and shield, but now others were joining, knocking swords and axes against their round shields. It was slow at first, a low, rumbling chorus rising against the roar of flames, but soon, the steady sound grew and grew until it became a mighty clashing of thunder that rivaled the hammering of the ram itself. All eyes were on Herleif now, his warriors shouting his name as they began surging forward against the walls instead of shuffling back in retreat. They brought their ladders as well as their steel, no longer fearing the weapons of the enemy to scale the high walls.
Herleif watched as they came, beating his shield against his chest as he held the banner aloft. "You are the swords of the north come to conquer! Follow me! Follow me, and I will not fall from your side! I will be your shield! A shield of strength! A shield of conviction and purpose! Follow me, my brave drengir! Follow me into the fire, into the darkness, and I will be your shield!"
More warriors rushed to the gate, giving no care that it remained closed before them as they crowded in around the ram, arrows sticking from their shields like the bristles of a boar. They stood shoulder to shoulder with shields interlocked above their heads, surrounding the brave Valkyrie that waved them on with her spear and chanted the name of their mighty jarl, who stood first among them to meet the enemy without fear. For in their hearts, he was still their true jarl. Whatever misgivings they had once harbored over his lack of conviction were far and away put to rest and their fears of having a coward for a leader burned away by the very flames under which he stood.
"Herleif! Herleif! Herleif!"
The ram crashed against the gates as the Berserkers pushed it forward with a monstrous roar, and this time, the great doors buckled upon their hinges, opening a large crack to reveal a glimpse of the city sheltered within. Splinters of wood fell to the dirt as the Northmen closed in, and without prompt or guidance, they took hold of the ram and began to hammer alongside their bestial kin, ignoring any snarls and growls as they worked as one to break down the gates.
"Again!" Herleif called, still waving the Tundra Tusk banner in the air. "Again! Show no fear! Claim what is yours! You are warriors of Valkenheim, and nothing will stand in your way!"
Calls of 'For Bilrost' or 'For Valkenheim' rang out from the horde, but above all, they still chanted his name, looking to Herleif as the moment of their doom gave way to the greatest saga ever to be told by their people. Giving a mighty war cry to chill the hearts of every Pyre Knight upon the ramparts, the Vikings of Bilrost drove the ram forward with such strength as to bring about the breaking of the world in a second Cataclysm.
"Herleif! Herleif! Jarl Herleif!"
At that moment, Herleif cared nothing for the worries that had weighed so heavily on his shoulders before the battle. He cared nothing for the ambitions of a golden king. He spared no thought for untrustworthy brothers by blood and sworn in blood. He had no time to find peace for new allies who had once been bitter enemies. None of it mattered as the war machine swayed beneath his feet, and the great ram slammed against the breaking doors that had stood defiantly for far too long. For one moment of exhilarating heat and rushing wind, he thought only of total victory.
He was a Viking, seeking only the thrill of battle and the honor of a glorious death. He was Jarl, a Warlord, the very strength of his people. For as long as he could hold his sword and shield, he would fight for them. That was his true fate, since the moment of his birth, his every step leading to his absolution. For as long as he still had breath in his lungs, he would stand tall before the gods.
"We will take our victory, or we will find Valhǫll beyond this gate!" Herleif exclaimed with a mighty roar, stabbing the fluttering banner at the weakening gate. "We will claim it all!"
The ram flew forward, sounding with the boom of thunder, and the gates of the Walled City came crashing down. The broken doors sailed backward through the air, crumbling into halves where the ram had buckled them to crash against the earth in a shower of dust, splinters, and broken stone. A sea of black armor stretched out behind them, dark steel glinting orange in the flames. The gate had fallen, but the Divine Pyre still stood strong and ready to defend their tyrannical order to the death against the barbaric horde. A mighty cry of challenge rose from their endless ranks, a demonic, metal echo sounding beneath their helmets.
Herleif did not know the meaning of hesitation. No amount of armor or sharp steel stopped him from rushing across the roof of the ram to the open gate, the hastily nailed boards nearly buckling beneath his weight. In one hand, he gripped his shield, and in the other, he held the banner of his clan, the banner of his father and his father's father before him. He reached the end of the ram and leaped out into the air, jumping over the front rank of the fanatical Knights. A Pyre soldier stabbed up at him with a sword, but the banner Herleif wielded was longer as he struck down and broke his fall on the cultist's skewered corpse.
The Knights around him fell back from the impact, giving Herleif the space to draw Sólareldur and slash at the closest enemy, cutting open their belly before stabbing at another. The Knights recovered quickly, and Herleif just barely got his shield up in time to stop the blow of a Warden's longsword. He parried the next attack but felt the scrape of a blade across his armor. Gritting his teeth, he twisted and struck with his shield in a wide arc, following up with a slash of his sword to keep the attacking Knights at bay. Time seemed to slow around him, the flames still falling like glowing rain as he glared at a dozen black-armored faces and roared his defiance with each strike of his sword.
Then the glimmer of a silver spear slid past Herleif's head, goring a Pyre Knight clean through the chest as Skuld appeared beside him, as elegant in her brutality as she was marvelous with her unmatched skill. Her shield took three blows in just as many heartbeats, but it bought her enough time to draw her weapon free and sweep at the feet of her assailants, dispatching them quickly before they could rise again. The way Skuld ducked beneath the swing of a blade or dodged around a striking spear seemed as simple to her as breathing, and as she fought her way further into the press, Helge came charging after to bring her hatchet and curved knife into the fray.
It was with a gleeful cry that the Shaman began her bloodletting, striking at the Knights without fear, unleashing seiðr madness to the point of hurling herself bodily at the enemy and fighting tooth and nail along with her blades. Helge's mad laughter could be heard over the screams of her victims, slicing and hacking with a burning hatred that was frightening to behold in one so young.
Herleif gave a triumphant shout as he saw them, a sound that was suddenly echoed by a cry so much more powerful than any one man could manage.
With a burning rage far beyond the limits of lesser warriors, the Berserkers came charging through the open gate, led by Ragna and Ragnar, and leaping over the brandished weapons of the enemy to cleave into their dark armor with swinging axes and savage howls. Within moments, their faces and bodies were splattered with blood that was not their own, axe blades cleaving and hacking apart armor and bone while tall Raiders, shield-carrying Warlords, and proud spearmen charged in around the ram to engage the Divine Pyre in full combat.
The road behind the gate descended into a bloody melee of clashing weapons and beating fists. Mighty Northmen stabbed, slashed, and bludgeoned with their weapons and shields to push their way into the city, while the desperate Knights cut, speared, and crushed with sharp blades and metal gauntlets to keep their attackers at bay. Above them, the gatehouse continued to burn, casting the growing battle in a hellish glow and a shower of dazzling cinders, while all along the ramparts, warriors fought for control of the walls. But the greatest blow had already been struck, and there was no going back now that the gate had been smashed from its hinges, leaving an open gap in the city's defenses like a fatal wound.
The Viking horde forced its way inside the Walled City with blood dripping from their blades. The plan had worked, and the vault holding the wealth of an entire nation was theirs for the taking. Only an army of radical zealots needed to be put to the sword for the treasure to be claimed. Luckily, Herleif and his warriors were prepared for such bloody work.
"Forward! Cut them all down!" Herleif cried as he slammed his shield into a soldier's throat and finished them with a thrust of his sword, his warriors answering with their own harsh battle cries. His hands and armor were slick with hot blood, but more black-armored enemies stood before him, coming on in endless ranks of sharp steel. The Æsir had granted Herleif a gift by letting him pass through fire and death unharmed, while Erik simply had to watch from afar. Glory was his to claim alone, but now the gods wished to challenge him further and see if he was truly worthy of their attention as a hero of sagas.
With each enemy he cut down, Herleif led his warriors another step into the city. As he tested himself under the watchful eyes of the gods, he couldn't seem to get rid of the grim smile on his lips. The warriors of his clan had followed him just as he asked, fighting shoulder to shoulder now in the shield wall as the city opened around them. It had taken a mad plan and a dash of boldness, but together they had triumphed over certain death to break down the gates and finally meet the enemy head-on. The joy of it filled Herleif's heart to bursting.
The Walled City had finally been breached.