The sounds of the battle boomed outside the torch-lit chamber like distant thunder, but such things were of no concern to Erik. Others would do the fighting at his behest just as it had always been done, and when the dust cleared, and the last drop of blood had been shed, he would share with them a small prize from his horde if they were deserving of it. But, as the leader of this great raid, the ruler of this conquered city- as the king -there was only one thing of importance to his mind.

The vast treasure of the vault and the armor of Apollyon was destined to be his.

For days, the great iron doors had remained closed before him. The two Knights depicted upon the doors mid-joust seemed to mock him with their noble ornaments and plumes, on guard against any foe who would dare come to steal what they had been charged to protect. They stood against Erik, an offense he could never forgive. If only they had been real Knights, men of flesh and blood so that he might be able to squeeze the life from their throats and plunge his sword into their hearts. He would burn them on stakes and make offerings of their smoking carcasses to the gods. He would have them trampled by his horses and their entrails fed to his dogs. If only they were real men so he could smite them with his wrath until, at last, the treasure was his.

"It will be mine," he whispered to himself.

After wasting so much time searching for a key that might not exist, Erik once again found himself standing before the sealed doors of the vault, glaring up at those two lifeless Knights and cursing the incompetence of everyone around him. Now, a new enemy stood at his gates. His rule was in danger before it even had a chance to take root in his homeland. Herleif had been the first jarl to bend the knee, but he was not meant to be the last. Erik would not stop until all of Valkenheim bent the knee, but first, he would lay claim to what was his by right.

He would not wait another day. The world would burn before he let another man put their hands on his treasure.

"Nothing will stand in my way... The armor is mine... It will all be mine..."

"My king!" Old Wolf stepped into the round chamber, claymore resting on one shoulder and his usual scowl worn on his aging face. "The legions have brought siege towers against the city. Some already burn, but the walls are being swarmed by the enemy. The other clans are doing everything they can t'hold them, fighting shoulder t'shoulder in pools of blood."

Erik ground his teeth and gave one last spiteful look at the magnificent relief upon the doors before he turned. The room was crowded with golden-clad warriors standing guard over the vault - standing guard over him - and the chamber stank of sweat and ale as they passed the time, waiting for something to happen. Fighting one's enemy head-on was a fool's errand, better left to lesser men with short-lived ambitions. Warriors were merely a means to an end, bought for cheap and used freely, and Erik would save his investments to guard what was important while others looked to the city defenses.

"May the Allfather curse them to Nástrǫnd if they should lose the wall," he growled.

Nearby, Thyra knelt over a pile of finger bones carved with runes, reading the signs before tossing them again and again. Magnús sat beside her, sharpening his axes, a dark bruise peeking out from beneath his beard, courtesy of Herleif's shield earlier that day. He flinched at his father's anger, looking up hesitantly like a child afraid of being noticed.

Erik paid his son no mind as he strode up to Old Wolf and stood nose-to-nose with his champion. "See to it that our spear-men patrol the streets and make sure that no one flees the walls. I will not stand to have deserters give up our greatest defense while the treasure remains beyond our reach."

Old Wolf was a practiced hand at weathering his master's spite and fury, but now his gaze faltered, and his white mustache twitched over the top of his lip. "My king, perhaps we should commit our warriors t'the fight t'better defend the wall? If either Jarl Ivar or Jarl Herleif fall in battle, their men will surely lose hope-"

"Hope!?" Erik roared in the Highlander's face. "When have our people ever fought for hope!? In all these centuries of chaos, when have the gods ever offered us a reprieve from this miserable world of pain and death? It is for gold that these dogs can be whipped into a frenzy and fight as wolves at my command! Gold!" He grabbed Old Wolf by the collar of his leather cuirass and pointed over at the iron vault. "The riches that remain locked behind that fucking door! That is what men fight for! Or do you still cling to a child's dream of honor since you were bought and paid for long before you could grow hairs on your chin and call yourself a man!?"

Spit flecked across Old Wolf's wincing face, and Erik shoved the man away before throwing his hands into the air. "If either of those useless cretins fall in battle, then their warriors become my warriors! Who else will they have to depend on? Who else will give them rings for the blood they shed?" His voice echoed into nothing just as no answer was given in return. "It will be as it always should have been... My raid! My warriors! All of it, beholden to me as king!"

He felt like he was speaking to stone. Everywhere he looked, blank and worried eyes stared back at him, a mindless rabble more concerned with the enemy outside the walls rather than the treasure held within. None of them understood. If they could only claim this grand prize once and for all, then nothing would stop them from breaking free of the city. They would fight like the Einherjar, unafraid of death, cutting down all who stood against them as they took flight to their ships.

If only he could glimpse the shine of gold laid in horde behind those doors, he would be invincible.

Thyra's bones rattled across the floor, and she hovered her hand over the runes. "Who are you to declare yourself king if your greatest chieftain rebels against you like an unbroken steed?"

Erik glared at the Shaman, eyes wide with anger. "What did you say?"

"How do you expect a jarl as prideful as Ivar to submit if you cannot even bring the soft family man to heel?" Picking up one of her runes, Thyra carefully examined the marks cut into bone. "Who do you think will bend the knee so long as the insult Herleif has paid you remains unanswered with blood?"

"Cut that name from your tongue! I will not hear it spoken in my presence!" Erik yelled. His rage boiled as he thought of the man who had opposed him, the man who should have been groveling beneath his boot heel for all he had. If an invitation to raid had not been extended in the first place, Herleif and his oaf of a brother would both be back in their meager hold, raising children alongside the women. Herleif owed him everything, his legacy, and his name. Erik did not grant gifts to the memories of dead men, and that was all Herleif was now for throwing such generosity back in his face- simply a corpse that could still breathe. "Do not taunt me, Thyra. I need no Shaman to tell me what that son of a whore has done."

"I speak only the truth, so listen well, oh king," Thyra said, standing to face Erik. "Your sacrifice has been stolen from you out of fear. Knights still fester within the city just as they lay siege to its walls, and your hand remains bitten by a hound, bleeding for the whole world to see..."

"Get to the point of it, witch."

"Further desertion of your men will be the least of your worries if you do not balance the scales soon. The gods demand blood, the sacrifice they were owed. Pay them what they desire or see your fortunes wither outside this vault and doom us all to never leave this city."

"And who's blood would the gods have now?" Erik asked. "Surely they might slake their thirst upon the offering that pours over the walls as we speak."

Thyra narrowed her cruel eyes. "Once a dog bites the hand of its master, the beast can no longer be trusted. It must be put down as an example, teaching all others what it means to lose your favor."

Erik would have liked nothing more than to see Herleif's head put on a spike, but the vault remained closed, and he could not bring himself away from its familiar doors. He turned to face them, needing to know that the mounted Knights had not parted to give away their magnificent bounty while he had been distracted. "He will be dead by an Ashfeld blade soon enough, and Níðhǫggr can feast on his bones. He is of no concern to me now..."

"The Coward Jarl no longer sits in his hall fearing the path to Valhǫll," Thyra urged. "He fights because he must, and Sigtýr will rejoice to claim him for his war host while casting you in the shadow of his hollow eye, sure to take victory with him."

Erik squeezed his hands into fists as he tore himself away from the vault again. "You overstep, Thyra..."

"She's right, Father!" exclaimed Magnús. He shot up from his seat in fury, then looked just as surprised by his outburst as Erik. "That is... We have put up with this lesser Warlord for too long. We should put a blade to his back and carve the eagle in him. Then the gods will surely grant us both victory and the treasure in return for his blood."

"And who should be the one to do it?" asked Erik. "You? Ha! As if you still hold any luck after the last time you tried to silence him. Why should I take council from a boy who jumps at the chance of blood like an untrained hound?"

Magnús' eyes flared angrily again behind his golden face plate. "I am no dog, but still I follow your commands! Give me this chance, Father, and I will bring you Herleif's bloody heart still beating in my hand!"

"Behold my son!" Erik scoffed in dismay. "My boy! My one and only heir! A reckless beast who would see my house brought to ruin if I did not keep him fettered and chained! I have sired naught but the kin of Fenrir with the price of his mother's life! If only the gods had sent me a child of worth, then I might not stand alone as schemers and cowards seek to betray me!"

Magnús quickly deflated and shrank away under his father's rant, but Thyra only scowled and took the young Berserker's place as Erik again turned his attention to the vault. "This battle has been given to you by the Allfather to test your worth and show the world that you are indeed fit to rule. What answer will you give them, my king? Miðgarðr watches to see what you will do now, waiting to be brought into your great horde."

"I will do what I must," Erik said softly. The vault doors remained firmly closed against him, but he refused to cower before their iron strength. His resolve would not be broken so easily.

It was then, while all eyes were on the Golden King as he stood before his greatest foe, the sound of footsteps nearly went unnoticed as a swell of warriors entered the chamber. Erik noticed, and a smile graced his lips as he turned to greet the men carrying his newest gift with them. The heavy barrels carried between the men were quickly brought into the chamber and placed before the king, who chuckled as he came to inspect the growing collection.

"Herleif believed that his secret bounty would remain safe after it was revealed," he said, placing his hand on top of one of the barrels and examining the Wu Lin symbols painted on the side, "but he is a fool."

Thyra began to circle the barrels as more were brought in, a constant stream of liquid death simply waiting for a spark to end them all in fire. She wrinkled her nose at the smell and eyed the torches on the walls warily. "But what of the gate?" she asked. "Surely more fuel will be needed to keep it burning?"

"That frightful plan keeps us trapped within the city just as it keeps the enemy out," said Erik. "We cannot stay here forever, and soon, we will have much treasure to carry back to our ships. All fires must end eventually, lest they herald our doom..."

"Treasure alone will not stop the tide of war that rises against us. Whether here or in our homeland, northern steel will spill northern blood so long as the Bilrost Jarl remains alive to oppose you."

"Enough of your deceitful talk, boireannach," Old Wolf spoke sharply. Shouldering his claymore, he stepped closer to Thyra, looming above her. "Real men are fighting on the walls t'hold this city, dying with honor. Who're you t'speak of future battles while we remain trapped in one now?"

"One who has far greater sight than you, old mutt," Thyra spat.

"Enough," warned Erik. "I do not tolerate your presence just to have my ears filled with your squabbling." Again, he put his hand on the barrel and looked upon the vault. "I grow tired of this senseless conflict. Victory is mine to claim, just like the treasure I am owed. No worthless jarl or spiteful legions will stand in my way now. I will have what is mine..."

For a moment, the king brooded as the chamber fell into silence. His warriors watched him with bated breath, touching silver hammer amulets around their necks and rubbing at the golden rings upon their arms and fingers, precious gifts awarded to them by their Warlord. Then Erik lifted his head and puffed out his chest as he spoke. "I have decided... Herleif will not survive the battle."

Magnús quickly grew excited again at his father's words, and Thyra happily grinned. Many of the warriors in the chamber nodded their approval, but Old Wolf only frowned, his countenance darkening with uncertainty and guilt. Others still looked uncertain of the treachery taking shape before them.

"If the gods seek the blood of cowards in return for their favor, then it is not my place to deny them," Erik continued. "Old Wolf, Magnús... You will see this done. A sword death is a far greater fate than this níðing jarl deserves, but I am a generous king. Take a host of my warriors with you. See that it is done in the chaos of war, and we will finally rid ourselves of unworthy men."

"It will be done, my king!" exclaimed Magnús. He gave a wolf's grin full of teeth and drew both his axes before beating one to his chest. "By my hand and blades, I swear to you, the Bilrost Jarl will die!"

"But my king," frowned Old Wolf, "surely the gods will look poorly upon this underhanded trick?"

"And what authority is yours to deny the orders of your king?" Erik demanded.

Old Wolf flinched, acting on instinct after years of servitude, and bowed his head. "I beg your pardon, King Erik. I only fear that such a course will only bring dishonor upon a man of such a reputation as yours..."

"Reputation and honor are my domain to care for, while yours is merely lifted up or cast aside only by how well you heed my word!" Erik's harsh voice echoed through the chamber like rolling thunder, but as Old Wolf fell to one knee before the king, he stepped forward to place a hand upon his champion's shoulder. "But, I am a generous king. Let it not be said that I overlook those who serve with loyalty. For such a deed as this, I would see you elevated far beyond the years of service you have already given, placed within the hall of Brosmegard in Bilrost, to rule in my name after this traitor has been dealt with."

Old Wolf looked up in amazement, his mouth hanging open without speaking before he found words again. "You... You would make me jarl?"

"I would, my old friend. Along with a proper name, worthy of a new linage to prosper under my family's banner."

"A name..." Old Wolf's eyes grew distant, his voice a hoarse whisper barely heard. Then, his white brows furrowed in determination before he bowed his head again, holding his great sword with a steady hand. "It will be done, my king."

"Good," smiled Erik. "Do this for me and rid us all of this leech that has troubled us for too long." Squeezing Old Wolf's shoulder, he released his champion and bid his warriors off with a wave of his hand. "Go! Take to the walls and bring the warriors of Tundra Tusk to heel once their jarl is dead! Slaughter those who resist along with the Knights, and bathe this city in the blood of our enemies until the gods are pleased!"

The karls and mercenaries of clan Sea Eagle took up the call with weapons in hand and rushed to leave the chamber, Magnús howling loudest among them. Stepping into their midst, Old Wolf moved with purpose to claim what the king had offered him and was soon gone from the chamber, leaving only Erik's guard and Thyra behind, laughing in their wake.

The king did not dwell on their leaving for long. His thoughts turned to other matters, the only thing that truly mattered. Great and terrible deeds were about to be carried out in his name by those of baser needs and limited ambition, but his mind was focused on the course set before him. With another wave of his hands, the barrels were finally put to a better use than keeping them prisoner within the city before the iron doors.

One day, the world would end in the fire and mayhem of Ragnarǫk, but until then, Erik would use whatever was at his disposal to claim what was rightfully his.

"Like gold for the taking," he muttered to himself as the barrels were stacked one on top of the other in front of the vault. "It will all be mine."