Two hundred longships went out from the bay of the Hallowed Bastion, their sails dotting the horizon as far as the eye could see. Above those ships flew a myriad of flags from three different clans and dozens of smaller warbands, all of whom had answered their Jarl's call to battle. It was a war host unlike any other, not seen since the days of the Great Raid of the mighty Warborn.
For many, it would be a chance to claim honor and glory for themselves and their families, along with glimmering riches beyond count. For others, it would see them ushered to the halls of Valhǫll, where they would drink and fight until the Gjallahorn sounded and the Fenris Wolf swallowed the sun. And for the renegade Knights who now sailed under Viking flags, this was more than just a quest for gold and glory, but a fight for retribution from which there would be no running.
Altogether, it was a force assembled for one purpose: to sack the Walled City and see the Divine Pyre put to the sword.
A strong north wind carried the fleet of longships south across the Austramar Sea, bringing them swiftly to the mouth of the great river Cherith between the contested territories of Ice Coast and Sow Mesa. As the lands of Ashfeld appeared on the horizon, the Vikings prepared to mark the beginning of their raid with battle and blood, but much to their surprise, they saw no sign of resistance anywhere along the open coast. Not a single opposing ship patrolled anywhere along the shore before their advance.
Two great towers stood on either side of the river mouth, but if any great chain or metal net was meant to rise between them to halt the approaching fleet, none came forth. The fortified towers remained silent and empty as the first longships began to sail past. Once, the battlements would have been manned by the Lion Flame, who now sailed upon the invader's ships. The towers had been one of their great fortresses against their northern enemy, but now they only stood as a monument to their lost duty.
Of the Knights that sailed on northern longships to liberate their homeland, none uttered a single word as they passed beneath the shadows of their old post, but for the Vikings, the silent welcome could only be seen as a good sign. The path into Ashfeld was open, and the eager Northmen gladly sailed into the river without pause. Drawing up their sails, the longships extended their oars to navigate the gently rolling waters of the Cherith, easing their way down the wide river and deeper into enemy territory.
Everything about the river was eerily quiet. Those who had been expecting to fight tooth and nail through countless enemies soon found themselves disappointed. There was no sign of the Divine Pyre for miles, but the evidence of their cruelty against those who opposed them had been left like a scar on the land, barely healed. Ruined villages, burned churches, and motionless caravans abandoned along riverside roads told the story of refugees hopelessly trying to escape their encroaching tormentors.
Looking off to the northern shore, Herleif frowned as he surveyed yet another abandoned village while his drakkar passed by. There was little of the village left to see: a few black charred buildings and the stone husk of what had been a church, much like the others he had seen since the fleet had begun sailing downriver. Whatever had happened here, it was clear that the villagers had been helpless to stop it.
"Odd, isn't it?" said Gunnar as he stepped up next to Herleif and gazed over the destruction.
"What is odd?" Herleif asked, not taking his eyes away from the shore.
"Finding a place like this already burned and pillaged. Normally, we would be sailing away from this kind of thing with ships full of thralls and plunder. Now it is already here waiting for us."
Herleif glanced sideways at his brother. "Admiring their work?"
"No," Gunnar said with a shake of his head, "just find it strange, is all. Leaving death behind you is one thing... but coming upon it like this is just downright unsettling."
Looking back to the shoreline, Herleif watched as the village square came into view. His eyes widened, learning then that the village had not been abandoned as he first thought. In fact, the village inhabitants all seemed to be present there in the square. Or at least he believed them to be the village's inhabitants. It was hard to tell with all of their burned bodies piled together in a heap of corpses.
"Yes. Very unsettling." Herleif growled, fists clenching as his anger grew.
"Poor bastards," Gunnar sighed. "Life of a peasant isn't easy, sure, but they'd have fared better by our hands than that. Just take their stuff, burn a few buildings, and be done with it. Well, except for Ivar, maybe. Still, guess we owe these volcano bastards our thanks for leaving the path open for us. Probably already cowering behind their city walls, just waiting for us to come knocking."
Herleif didn't answer. He wasn't in the mood for jokes. Whatever bad blood might have existed between Valkenheim and Ashfeld didn't make this kind of massacre any easier to witness. In a raid, you killed those who stood against you, then put a bit of fear into those left so you could take what you wanted without any trouble. Slaughter such as this, done in the name of some ridiculous mountain, seemed downright godless.
The pile of burned bodies passed out of view, forgotten by all, including what seemed to be the village's own God, but Herleif's blood was still hot. Whoever these Divine Pyre cultists were, he would gladly see them put to the sword and axe once they finally met. It was always easier to fight a battle when you could truly hate your enemy without reservation, and he would find it easy to kill these zealots indeed.
The Viking's first chance to face the elusive cultists did not come until late into the day.
A wooden palisade, sitting upon the river's southern shore, rose stark against the setting sun and shimmering waters. From their battlements flew purple banners stitched with the image of a golden phoenix wreathed in flame. It was the first sign of the Divine Pyre actively defending a fort they had seen, but it was clear from how the black armored Knights scurried about that they had not been expecting such a large invading force to appear upon the winding river.
Horns sounded clear in the air and called for the rise to battle, and all at once, a cheer went up from the Viking ships for the chance to finally let their blades fly free. At the head of the great fleet, both Herleif and Ivar sailed their flagships ahead for the chance to lead the attack and mark the true beginning of the raid. On the ramparts, Pyre archers readied themselves to rain death upon their enemy, and armor-clad soldiers manned the battlements to repress any who would try to scale the walls.
Upon the churning waters of the Cherith, the sound of drums beat out the rhythm of the oars as Vikings rowed hard for their first chance of spilling Ashfeld blood.
"Row! Row! Row!"
Ivar the Red stood at the prow of his dragon ship as it pulled ahead of the rest, his sword, Yfirmaður, in hand and skull-painted shield slung over his shoulder. His gaze was turned toward the small fort, but then he looked over at Herleif's ship and grinned wickedly.
"Save your strength and rest easy, Herleif! First blood will belong to the Headhunters this day!" he laughed as the swinging oars brought his ship ahead, and Herleif cursed under his breath. It was clear that Ivar would reach the shore first, soon followed by even more of his warrior-filled ships.
The Divine Pyre had a good position upon the sloping riverbank, but it was clear that they were hopelessly outnumbered. What longships could be seen from the palisade walls was only a glimpse of what followed further behind. The river fort was already doomed even as the first arrows began to fall upon raised shields. In time, Ivar and his warriors would overwhelm the Knights, so Herleif begrudgingly gave the order for his ships to sail on.
The first of Ivar's ships soon reached the shore, and his warriors spilled out like a swarm of wasps from their nest to attack the river fort. Arrows rained down on them from above, striking shields and Vikings alike, but Ivar's archers fired back from passing ships, providing the cover their fellow warriors needed to approach the palisade walls with hooks and ropes. More Headhunter ships slid upon the riverbank to provide support, and soon, the fort was surrounded. Vikings were scaling the walls with ropes like insects upon a carcass, making it up to the ramparts and bringing steel to bear against the opposing Pyre Knights. There was no chance of escape for the cultists now.
Herleif kept his warriors rowing, leading the fleet further downriver toward whatever came next. The roar of battle could be heard clearly for miles beyond the fort's position. Not long after the attack began, smoke rose above the trees, marking the inevitable end to the Pyre's resistance.
"What a bunch of greedy bastards!" Ragnar roared, glaring at the rising smoke before spitting into the river. He balled his fist and pummeled it against the Salt Boar's railing. "Taking all the fun for themselves! Don't they know they're supposed to share?"
"Quit your yowling and get back to rowing!" Ragna growled next to him on the bench as she worked the oar, "I swear, Mother wasted her time birthing you. She should have just squeezed her legs shut after me and saved us all the trouble of your whining... Look where we are, fool. More fighting will come, you can be sure of that."
Later that evening, Herleif stood at the back of the Salt Boar with Skuld, bent over a makeshift table and looking over a map to chart their course along the river. The sun was getting low in the sky, making him wary of pressing any further. There was no telling what kind of surprises they might encounter at night, but bringing such a large fleet to a halt upon the water was no easy thing. Tracing his finger along the map, he followed the line of the Cherith to the lake where it ended.
"Eitrivatnen," he said in a low voice, tapping his finger against the name written on the map. "We will be there soon. A few days at most, depending on how well the river is guarded." Skuld said nothing as she leaned against her spear and gazed down at the map. She was useless in a conversation, but Herleif found her to be an excellent listener at the very least, and he thought that kind of stoicism to be a virtue in its own way. He turned and looked at his Shaman, who was curled up among some of the cargo at the ship's stern. "What do you think, Helge? What sort of fate might await us upon that accursed lake?"
Helge gave him a disinterested glance before she slid down from her seat like a spider gliding across its web. Looking over the map, her eyes narrowed as they settled on the lake's name.
"Jafnhar's Bane," she said softly as she withdrew something from a pouch on her belt and cupped her hands over the map.
Closing her eyes, she muttered strange words under her breath, shaking her hands before opening them over the table. Rune-carved finger bones flew through the air and clattered over the map, landing in a chaotic jumble. Helge waved a hand over them, taking in the formation in which they had landed. It just looked like an unorganized mess to Herleif, but then he wasn't the one twitching as voices whispered in his ear. Suddenly, Helge's gaze flicked up to the sky, now colored red like dripping blood by the setting sun.
"Blood marks the dying day. Hati's starless shroud falls but it will not last. The Voices whisper. Fire rises, a lake of Múspell before the mountain of rust. Be swift upon your salt steed, and Jafnar's Bane shall be avenged. Sail on, my Jarl."
Herleif blew air into his cheeks as he mulled Helge's words over in his head. "That does not sound altogether terrible, I suppose."
Helge straightened up and scowled. "Don't mock what is written in the bones. If you do not like what they have to say, then you should not ask in the first place."
"I mean no disrespect to... whoever these Voices might be. We shall sail on, as they say," Herleif said, then looked down the length of the boat to where the river disappeared behind an approaching bend. "What better time is there to trust the gods for guidance than when sailing through the land of our enemy?"
Helge let out a short laugh as she picked up her finger bones one by one and slipped them back into her pouch. "Yes, trust in the gods, but you should learn to trust in more than what they have to say. Remember what has been foretold. Three eagles upon the mountain, Herleif. Are you prepared?"
She laughed again, then turned and crawled back into her perch as the sun slipped away behind the trees.
Over the next three days, the fleet sailed past a dozen more burned villages. Some were abandoned entirely, while others were littered with the charred remains of their inhabitants. No one was there to give any warning for the Viking ships sailing unopposed downriver. Only on a few occasions did they see any settlements with actual living people still present.
From what Herleif could see, there were usually few men among them, mostly just women, children, and the old. They were dirty, clothed in ragged garments, and hiding within the charred rubble of their homes, clearly struggling to survive. Children cried as they clung to their mother's skirts, and many survivors sat around hopeless as if they wished to join the dead after the horrors they had endured rather than remain among the living.
Not even the sight of a Viking fleet seemed to send them into a panic; they were so broken. At one such village, an old woman even had the nerve to approach the shore and call out to them, shaking her bony fists in the air as the ships passed by.
"You are too late! Come and feast upon naught but ash and the dead, you wicked dogs!" she cried, her old voice shaking between something of a cackling laugh and a chilling wail. "We have no more to give! What more can the devils of the north do to us? Hell already resides here!"
Seeing this, Herleif did not have the heart to raise arms against the old woman and her wretched people, and he gave the order to sail on. Small villages were not the prize they had come for, and from the look of things, it seemed that the Divine Pyre had already taken or burned anything of value worth plundering. These people had suffered enough.
Things began to change the further the ships sailed downriver. For as much territory as this rebel legion possessed, it seemed they preferred to keep their forces close to their precious volcano, leading to more and more resistance from the Divine Pyre as the fleet sailed deeper into Ashfeld. Three more times, they came upon fortifications along the river, each with more Pyre Knights standing guard than the last as word of the invading fleet seemed to spread. With such a large fleet cutting through enemy territory, going undetected for very long would have been impossible.
Herleif and his warriors were the ones to lead the attacks on the first two forts, and they learned just how hard the fanatics could fight to hold onto the land that they had taken. With each attack, every Pyre Knight fought to the very end, refusing to surrender as they shouted out cries of death and retribution in the name of their holy volcano. The Northmen ensured that their enemy's zealous voices were quickly snuffed out, swarming over the Knights like locusts devouring a field of wheat. No matter how passionately the warriors of the Divine Pyre invoked the name of Mount Ignis for salvation, none ever came. However, Óðinn seemed glad to give Herleif two quick and decisive victories to add to his saga.
At each fort, they recovered small crates or wagons of the treasure taken from the surrounding villages and hamlets. It was a meager reward in truth, a few sacks of coins, half-full crates of steel, and a handful of gems, but it was enough to show the Vikings that the tales of the Divine Pyre hoarding treasure were true. It would all be waiting for them within the vault of the Walled City, along with the greater prize of Apollyon's armor. All they had to do was cut down every Knight that stood in their way to claim it.
It was at the third and largest fort yet that the fighting was fiercest. Well into the vast plains of The Fold, the fleet was finally within sight of the dreaded volcano rising off in the far distance as a small blur upon the horizon. It was perhaps why the Divine Pyre gave their most incredible show of strength since the Viking's arrival in Ashfeld, wishing to fight with all they had before their God.
Herleif was glad for the challenge and was eager to wet his sword with more cultist blood. Ordering his ships brought ashore further up the river before the fort. He led his warriors over land to surround the Knights while Ivar's ships assaulted the fort from the river itself.
While Ivar distracted the enemy, Herleif's warriors moved into position through the surrounding forest, felling a good-sized tree along the way to fashion into a battering ram. Though the fort was well-defended, numbers were still not on the Divine Pyre's side. As Herleif laid siege to the gate, reinforcements from Erik's ships soon came ashore to aid him and Ivar. The gate did not hold out for long, and as it broke open, Herleif was there to lead the charge with sword and shield raised and a horde of howling drengir at his back. The Divine Pyre had offered no mercy to those villages they had torn through and burned, so Herleif offered none now in return. As their forces clashed in the fort's courtyard, pitched fighting soon gave way to a bloody slaughter.
Ivar led his warriors over the walls, and soon, the fort was overrun with Vikings clamoring for blood. The battle was over then, even if the Pyre Knights failed to realize it. They fought with all the fire of their misplaced faith, but there was no hope for them in the end. Attacked from all sides, each Knight was cut down by pagan blades in a haze of red fury and battle lust. None were spared.
Gunnar took the head of the fort commander himself, a Lawbringer with black armor and a purple cape. A crowd had even formed around the two as Gunnar challenged the Pyre Lawbringer to a duel. He had struck furiously at the armored man until he fell to his knees and, with a great swing of his axe, parted the commander's head from his shoulders with a spray of red gore. In the end, the head was placed on a pike overlooking the river for all to see, a tribute to the gods for granting them such an overwhelming victory.
As the sun set on the day, Erik's golden eagle banner was hoisted above the fort, with Ivar and Herleif's banners flying beneath. The fleet would remain there for the night to tend to the wounded and lay plans for the next step in the raid. Soon, they would reach Eitrivatnen and the infamous harbor that guarded the path to Mount Ignis.
"A fine job, my friends. The gods are surely pleased with the battle glory you have shown them," Erik smiled as he finally walked through the open gates of the fort. The bodies of three Pyre Knights had been strung up and left to hang above the gate's entrance as he walked beneath them, but he paid them no more mind than the crying crows circling in the sky above. The Golden Jarl looked pleased with himself as he surveyed the corpses being gathered for burning outside the fort's walls as if their deaths were his to claim alone. He and his hirðmen stood out among those warriors who had taken the fort, as their golden armor and shining weapons were uniquely clean and unblemished by blood.
Erik stopped by a cart laden with treasure found within the fort's main hall, ready to be wheeled out to the river and loaded onto the boats. Even as the bodies of dead Northmen were being carried past him, all brave warriors cut down in the heat of battle, Erik's attention was captured entirely by the glint of gold shining in the light of the torches. Opening a small chest, he dipped his hand into a horde of gold and silver coins, letting the precious metals slip through his fingers as if their touch alone could give him any real joy in the world. Ivar and Herleif stood together, cleaning their weapons as Erik fawned over the cart, each splattered in red gore in contrast to their fellow Jarl, who glimmered like a dazzling star in the falling darkness.
"Fine as pig's shit, Erik. Fine to see that you didn't get any blood on all that shiny gold you wear," Ivar said, eyeing the Golden Jarl wearily. He could do so with both eyes now since the swelling of his face had gone down.
For once, Herleif agreed with Ivar, though he preferred to think of it as just seeing sense than actually sharing the same sentiment with the bastard. They might have been sworn blood brothers now, but to him, it was only a symbolic gesture for the benefit of this raid rather than anything meaningful.
To Erik's credit, he seemed to simply shrug off Ivar's remark, his eyes lingering on the captured treasure before he waved a hand back to the Knights who followed him. "I was just keeping an eye on our dear guests. I would be a poor host if I were to let them get lonely while we slaughtered their kin. Besides, it looked like you two had things well handled."
Herleif watched as the Lion Flame Knights shuffled into the fort, looking about at the carnage of their misguided countrymen laid bare. Dozens of cold and malevolent eyes stared back at them as bloodied Vikings cleaned their weapons dressed their wounds, or said quiet goodbyes to dear friends cut down during the fight. The Northmen watched these so-called new allies with simmering resentment and distrust, holding back their anger like a pack of growling wolves stalking their prey.
Commander Judith paid the Vikings no mind as she walked closer to one of the piles of bodies made up of Pyre Knights. Looking down, she worked her boot beneath the shoulder of some dead Warden lying on his back and slowly shoved the body over until he rolled face down in the mud.
"These fools are no kin of mine," she said grimly.
"No one gives a shit what you think, wench," Ivar replied instantly, barely glancing at Judith before turning back to Erik. "So what happens next, eh? Are we settling for these little piss-bucket forts, or shall we discuss how to hit these ergi cock suckers where it really hurts?" That brought about a murmur of agreement from the surrounding warriors, some of whom Herleif noticed were his own. Despite the bloody history between their clans, Ragnar, Ragna, and Gunnar shook their heads in approval of Ivar's words. Even Skuld was pacing around like an angry mountain cat, still eager for another fight.
"Hold your tongue, you hateful bastard," groaned Erik. "Surely this place must have a war chamber or a hall to hold council in. Let us go there and have cups of mead and some hot food to fill our bellies. Then we will discuss what our plans for tomorrow might be."
The warriors of lesser renown present grumbled and hung their heads in disappointment, knowing they would be left out of such a war meeting among their Jarls and only be informed of any decisions much later. Herleif would ensure that Gunnar was present and turned to fetch him as the group drifted further into the newly claimed fort. As he did so, he stopped and addressed Skuld on the more personal matter of her mission.
"Is it done?" he asked, glancing down at the seax on her belt.
The Valkyrie pulled the knife from its sheath, revealing the shining, clean, and unblooded blade. Herleif sighed and gave her a slight nod, leaving things at that. There was still much more fighting to come, and if the gods were willing, Skuld would find a warrior worthy enough to send Audhilda's father through the gates of Valhǫll as he deserved.
Soon, the conquered fort was alive and thriving again as the Vikings made it their own. A small portion of the fleet's warriors would be left behind to guard the river, meaning any damage done during the attack would have to be repaired and refortified. The threat of the Divine Pyre lay to the east at the foot of Mount Ignis, but there were still the remaining legions of Ashfeld to guard against. Holding the fort was essential to keeping the river defended and clear for their return to Valkenheim. Fires were lit, songs of victory and farewell were beginning to fill the air, and the hammering of weapons being repaired echoed into the night as the Jarls and a few Knights retreated into the fort's main hall to discuss plans of what would come next.
Once inside, the group gathered around a large table in what had been an officer's hall for the Pyre, and horns of mead were poured for all present, even Judith and Priscilla. Erik raised his horn to give a toast to victory but was interrupted by his son Magnús storming into the hall, followed closely by Old Wolf.
"Lord father!" Magnús exclaimed, his bright smile shining through a beard caked in dark blood, and he held up his twin axes to show off the gore that still clung to the blades. "Behold! My axes are made red with Ashfeld blood! It has been such a day, and I have slain many great warriors in your name as I promised!"
"Wonderful, my boy! Now you are truly one of the Óðinn's chosen. A true Berserker of my great house! Ah- not too close," Erik said, holding out his hand to keep Magnús from approaching and embracing him while in such a dirty state.
Magnús came up short from wrapping his blood-covered arms around his father, and Erik quickly looked over his many golden ornaments to ensure they all remained clean and bright. For a brief moment, it seemed that the young Berserker didn't know what to say but then quickly came up with something to keep his spirits up as he turned and scowled angrily at Old Wolf beside him and frowned. "I might have slain many more, Father, if this one hadn't kept holding me back. As if he had nothing better to do than steal my kills and glory from me."
Old Wolf rolled his eyes and let out a disgruntled sigh. "Your Da gave clear instruction ta keep a close eye on the young warrior. No one was to touch you, and I made damn sure'o that. I do my job well, laddie, as my Jarl commands." The old Highlander's voice was like rolling thunder, marred by that strange accent forever marking him as an outsider.
"As well you should," Erik replied, pointing a stern finger at his chosen champion, then he turned and gave a weary look at his gore-splattered son. "Go and clean yourself up, then come back and join us."
Magnús frowned but did as his father commanded and left with Old Wolf to clean the blood from their armor and weapons. Their bickering over who had the most kills during the battle was heard long after they were out of sight down the hall.
Ivar didn't bother to wait for Erik to continue with his toast before he downed his mead and threw the empty horn onto the table. "Right then, to fucking business."
With a snap of his fingers, a map of northern Ashfeld was brought forward and set out before them, clearly depicting the Cherith they sailed upon. Ivar leaned over the map and tapped his finger on the fort's location at the southern corner of The Fold. "We are here. It's only a few miles downriver until we reach Lake Eitrivatnen." His finger slid down the line of the river to where it opened up into a blue oval on the map.
"Now we all know what happened there years ago with Jarl Jafnhar's fucking disastrous raid on the harbor, and I'm sure there are a few here with weaker bones than the rest of us that would rather give the place a wide berth. The fact is though, the harbor at Eitrivatnen is the best place to stage an advance on the volcano and the Walled City. It will take too long to march around the lake, and by the time we do, our enemy will be well prepared to meet us on open ground, so this is where we need to hit these tin fuckers, and we need to hit them hard," he said and slammed his fist down on the map with a hard thump to make his point clear.
Erik ran his fingers through the end of his blonde beard, shaking his head. "It will be no easy task taking the harbor. Jarl Jafnhar was a powerful warrior, yet his defeat is remembered as one of the worst in our people's history. We must not allow ourselves to suffer the same fate when we arrive upon the lake's eastern shore."
"Jafnhar was a fucking Highlander fool that had no business being a Jarl," Ivar retorted as he stood up from the table. "No offense to your guard dog, Erik, but outsiders should remember their place and keep to the oaths they have sworn." His dark eyes slid over to Judith and Priscilla as he spoke, the only two Knights present at the table for the meeting. They stood with backs stiff and shoulders straight, but their faces remained calm to the Red Jarl's taunt. From how Judith's eye twitched as she frowned, though, it was clear she was having a harder time remaining calm than Priscilla.
Herleif stepped forward, cautiously waving one hand in the air to try and ease the growing tension around the table. "I somehow doubt that Jafnhar's defeat was due to his out-lander heritage. We all know who is truly to blame for the harbor's dark reputation." He turned and looked at the Warden and Peacekeeper standing beside him, hesitating before speaking, "Vortiger. Does the dark warrior still keep the harbor as his domain?"
Everyone in the room seemed to tense at the mention of the infamous Black Prior, the wicked foe that had single-handedly defended Eitrivatnen from both Viking and Samurai invaders. Even his fellow Knights had not been safe from his vicious blade and shield as the story went. The bloody carnage that Vortiger had left behind had gone down in legend, revealing to the world that the order of the Black Priors was not as dead and forgotten as had once been believed.
"No," answered Judith, giving the room a chance to collectively let out a sigh of relief. "A life reveling in the slaughter of others is usually a life not enjoyed for long. Vortiger disappeared again a year or so back, most likely cut down by fighting Samurai encroaching from the east. I am not sure of the details, but rumor is the Samurai made the pain last for what he had done to them at the battle of Westhold. Few mourned his passing, and many saw it as a blessing, even among the legions."
Priscilla came forward and rested both hands on the table as she addressed the Jarls. "Just because Vortiger is missing does not mean that the Black Priors are gone from Eitrivatnen. Another of their order now holds command of the harbor, a woman by the name of Morgana. Like so many other Knights with a desire for power, she was seduced by the doctrine of the Divine Pyre, but her methods are no less bloody than that of her predecessor. It was reported that when she purged the harbor of non-believers, she took their heads and hung them above the doors of the citizens who remained there to remind them never to falter in their faith to Ignis."
"Then I'll take her head in turn," Ivar said casually, earning a soft chuckle from Erik, but Judith and Priscilla remained silent. "Best way to deal with a crazy witch like that. And don't any of you other fuckers think about stealing that chance away from me."
"What of the harbor defenses? Has much changed since Jarl Jafnhar's raid?" asked Gunnar.
Judith shook her head. "Not much. There are three separate army barracks spread out along the harbor's edge. One on either end and the last in the center. These barracks act as guard posts along the harbor's walls and into the city proper. If the harbor is garrisoned well, they should be able to mobilize quickly, but with a fleet as large as yours, it should not be much of a problem to cover that distance and pin them down."
"As long as we move swiftly and without restraint, we should be able to overwhelm them before they can get many of their own ships out to meet us on the water," Priscilla added.
Erik grinned and nodded approvingly. "Mm, hit them hard and hit them fast. Good old-fashioned Viking tactics." He leaned over the map and pointed to three spots on the lake. "Herleif, you take the southern barracks, and Ivar, the north. I will sail my ships up the center and push for the citadel on the hill that overlooks the city until you can join me. We will pin the enemy in and slaughter them like sheep."
Ivar nodded in agreement. "You pin them down, and Herleif and I will do the slaughtering for you. Or maybe we'll just sic that crazy boy of yours on them, watch as he hacks them all into bits. No reason to get that pretty gold all bloody when there's no need."
Erik gave Ivar a dirty look, his grin fading away. "Worry not, my dear Ivar. I shall show these bastards what happens once Fáfnir's Scale is drawn, make no mistake."
Again, Herleif felt the need to jump in and change the subject from the growing tension among themselves and back to focusing on their fight with the Divine Pyre. "How many ships might they be able to sail out against us? Should we expect much resistance upon the lake itself?" he asked the Knights.
Judith looked at Priscilla as if expecting the Peacekeeper to talk numbers and tactics as she usually did. For once, though, Priscilla remained silent, her face turned down to study the map and ignoring the question entirely. Judith looked back to Herleif and shrugged. "From what reports I saw before the fall, the Eitrivatnen fleet had around twenty triremes ready to sail in defense of the harbor. Who knows if that has changed though, either from the Pyre building more or destroying what they had during their takeover."
Herleif nodded in understanding but looked around Judith to eye the still-silent Peacekeeper for a moment. Twenty ships seemed hardly anything to worry about against a fleet of their size, so why had she been so adamant that they needed to overwhelm the harbor before the Pyre could put their ships to sail? Before he could ask, Erik interrupted with further plans for the assault.
"Lady Judith, you and your warriors will sail with me to the central barracks," Erik began, "Now is the time to show those living under the Pyre's boot heel that not all Knights submit to the volcano's rule. With any luck, it should cause some problems for the enemy's hold on the territory, or at least at the harbor itself while we take it from them."
"Cause problems for us, more like," Ivar interjected. "People see a few Knights fighting by our side, and they might join with the crazy fire fuckers all the more. Hard not to see how the common folk might think of this lot as anything more than a bunch of filthy traitors. The Pyre will use them as a reason to rally the people to their side, I promise you that."
Judith slammed her gauntlet on the table and leaned towards Ivar. "How many times do I have to tell you? We are not the traitors here! I would have never dreamed of raising my blade against a fellow Knight, not before these cultists burned everything I hold dear!"
"Aye, but you still dream of putting a blade in me, is that it?" Ivar asked, remaining as calm as ever against Judith's fiery temper. "That's fine by me, just so long as we have a fucking understanding. No need to start thinking we're friends or kin just because we're all killing the same bunch of níðing bastards."
"May I offer up an alternative?" Priscilla interrupted, speaking up again at last. "The warehouses and markets of the harbor can be a bit of a maze to navigate, especially with the harbor occupied by an enemy force. They will most likely set up barricades once we land, block off the wider streets, and set up a few traps. I suggest each attacking group take a contingent of Knights with them to help lead the way to the meeting point at the city's center. That way, we might limit our exposure while helping sow dissent among the citizens where we can."
"So be it, but just make sure to keep any unruly townsfolk out of our way," Erik said. "I won't have any of my warriors stabbed in the back with a pitchfork by some dirty peasant. Judith will still go with me along with those Knights she chooses. Decide how to divide the rest between Herleif and Ivar's ships among yourselves."
"I will go with Herleif and select a few of our number to accompany me. The rest will go with Ivar," Priscilla said, looking up at Judith for approval. The Warden nodded in agreement, and then Priscilla glanced over at Herleif. "As long as that is alright with you, of course, Jarl Bjǫrnsson?"
Herleif gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. "Fine, so long as you do not get us lost."
Gunnar crossed his arms over his broad chest and gave a disgruntled laugh, eyeing the smaller Peacekeeper with an arrogant grin. "And try not to get in anyone's way while you're at it. Just keep your little needles sheathed and do as you're told. Leave the fighting to the real warriors."
Priscilla didn't so much as flinch under Gunnar's gaze. "So long as you can keep up and follow directions, then all will be well. It would be a shame if you were to get turned around and hurt on your first trip to the market."
Gunnar scowled at her, not entirely sure if her comment was some sort of threat or a jest made at his expense. Regardless, Erik interjected himself into the conversation before Gunnar could retort. "Very well. We all have our targets. However many ships they have will count for nothing against our numbers. We will deal with any that sail out against us and then overwhelm the Pyre Knights at each landing zone. Once we have those secure, we can push into the city and take the citadel, crushing all in our path."
"What about Morgana? She is bound to be lurking around somewhere within the harbor," said Herleif. "The Black Priors were zealots even before all this volcano madness. She will fight until the bitter end and bid the warriors under her command to do the same."
"So be it. They will all meet the same fate," Erik said with grim satisfaction. "Make no mistake, my friends, the gods are watching us. These fights along the river have been tough, but they will be nothing compared to what is still to come. I would have us show the gods nothing less than our enemy's complete and utter destruction in the coming days." Pressing his hands onto the table, he leaned in close and gave each person surrounding him a hard stare. "And as for this Morgana... Find her. Kill her. Let it be known that any warrior who brings me her head will earn their due reward from the Walled City's treasure."
Everyone around the table nodded in understanding, including Judith and Priscilla, who seemed just as eager as the rest to see this Black Prior put to the sword. They were in this fight now, not just for treasure and glory but for their homes and the freedom of their countrymen. For the disgruntled Knights of the Lion Flame Legion, there was no path back up the river toward home, only the path that led to victory or death.
"Right then," Erik continued. "Herleif, Ivar, see to your warriors. Make sure they are prepared and that they know what to do. Ships, weapons, arrows, and fire flasks. I want them all ready to go as soon as possible. Judith, see that your Knights know which ships they will be sailing aboard and find a way to make sure you stand out among the fighting. You might wear different colors than the Divine Pyre, but once the killing starts, most of us will hardly stop to check whose side the Knight they are hacking at is on." With a wave of his hand, Erik dismissed those present to go and prepare for the coming attack. "We sail for Eitrivatnen the day after tomorrow. I expect everyone to be ready by then."
Again, all present nodded in agreement, and when they parted ways, not a word was shared between them in aggravation or friendship. Too many things to do for anyone to care about others, too many preparations to make. Herleif walked with his brother to go and prepare his ships and warriors, while Ivar and Erik went to do the same. Judith and Priscilla followed after their northern leaders, then made themselves scarce to go and find where the rest of their legion was camped for the night.
Not long after all had left, Magnús and Old Wolf walked into the empty officer's hall, freshly cleaned and armor glinting.
"My friends, we have returned! What plans have we for bringing more death and pain upon these puny volcano Knights?" Magnús exclaimed with a wide grin as he entered the hall. His face quickly fell, though, as he found everyone already gone, the battle map taken, and not even a cup of mead left waiting for either of them. Looking around, Magnús threw his hands into the air and let them drop limply at his sides. "Where'd everyone go?"
Old Wolf just shook his head as he stepped up next to his master's son, clapping his hand on the young man's shoulder and squeezing it. "Away, laddie. Meetin's over, looks like. They've all gone away."
Magnús looked at Old Wolf in disbelief and then back at the empty table. His mouth opened and closed for a moment before he could finally speak. "But what about the plans? The battle for the harbor? They can't have made them all without me!"
Old Wolf chuckled, patting the Berserker's shoulder sadly. "Now that's where you'd be wrong, laddie. See, no one really ever needs a young prince such as you till the old Jarl has gone and kicked the bucket. So for now, I'm afraid your presence at this meet'n ain't worth two handfuls of steaming sheep shite on a hot summer's morning, as it were." He smiled brightly then, slapping his other hand on Magnús' chest, "But hey, look on the bright side! That just leaves more time for drinking! No need ta worry about all that political and planning shite. An I tell ya, laddie, nothing helps heal a hurt soul better than me own Nan's special brew. Passed down through the family line for generations, it has, an its a secret I plan on take'n to me own grave. Come on. I have a flask of it in my pack we can share. Burn the little whiskers right off your lips, it will, but it'll warm you up good an right without a doubt."
Magnús gave one last longing look towards the empty table before he was finally directed out of the hall by the old Highlander. "Yeah, alright," he said quietly and then, after a moment, spoke up again. "Old Wolf?"
"Aye, laddie?"
"Do you think the gods are pleased with how many Knights I killed today?"
Old Wolf grinned. "Oh aye, the gods are proud of ya, alright. We all are."
Priscilla gave her orders to those who would join her on Herleif's ships and made sure that her Knights knew to rip off a piece of their tabards or capes to wear as scarves around their neck. Hopefully, the red and white colors would be enough to set them apart among the purples and blacks of the Pyre Knights they would be fighting against once they landed at the harbor docks.
Once she was sure that everyone knew their duty and knew to do nothing that might aggravate the Vikings they would be sailing with, and she excused herself to a tent that had been set up for her along the fort's walls and headed off to get some rest. Walking alone in silence, it didn't take her skills as a spymaster to catch the footsteps of someone following her as she went.
Ducking into a nearby storeroom, she drew out her dagger and hid behind some crates in the darkness to watch for anyone else who entered. Soon, a figure stepped in through the door, tall with broad shoulders and a capped helmet upon their head. Priscilla didn't hesitate, moving out from her hiding place and sliding the tip of her dagger up under the helmet's rim to poke at the soft jugular beneath. The Conqueror stiffened, instinctively raising his shield against her strike, but they both knew it would have done nothing now if she wanted him dead.
"What do you want, Coal?" Priscilla hissed.
Coal turned his head the best he could to look at her while the point of her blade was still against his neck.
"Are you sure about the report from Beaufort?" he asked. His voice was surprisingly soft for such a big man, especially one with a Conqueror's grim reputation.
Priscilla narrowed her eyes at him in the gloom. "Did you follow me just to ask stupid questions, or do you just miss the feeling of a shiv against your skin?"
"I followed you to ask if this plan is really such a good idea," Coal bit back, shield pressing against Priscilla's side with a bit more force. "By the sound of things, we could be walking straight into a firestorm. Literally."
"We have our orders. Infiltrate the harbor, eliminate the Pilgrim, and secure his work for Beaufort. Then we move to the Walled City, and after, home. Simple, especially with a Viking horde clearing the way for us."
"Sure, with these odds against the Divine Pyre alone, it would be simple, but against this weapon they're making? We could all be burned alive during this attack," retorted Coal.
Priscilla gently put her hand on Coal's shield and pushed it away but kept the point of her dagger just where it was. "The word from Beaufort is that the weapon is still in development and not ready for deployment yet. Not enough people are working on it since they burned most of the academics as heretics. Right now, the only people they have is the Pilgrim heading things and a couple of brainless grunts doing as they are told. The last report stated that the majority of their ships are still in dry dock waiting to be fitted with ordnance. With any luck, none of their ships will even be ready to sail against us."
She changed the angle of the blade in her hand, moving it from a point under Coal's jaw to sliding the sharp edge across his vulnerable throat. "I hope you are not having any second thoughts? Questioning my channels of intelligence? I would very much hate for that to be the case. It would not do to have a liability on my mission. That would not do at all."
Coal was silent for a moment, fists clenched tight and shoulders tense as he weighed the options laid out before him, but the sharp blade against his neck was undoubtedly a driving factor in his decision-making. He swallowed hard and felt the bump in his throat slide uncomfortably against the dagger's edge.
"No," he said at last, voice soft and low as he relinquished control of his fate to her.
"Good," Priscilla said, pulling her dagger away with a quick twirl before sliding it back into its sheath on her belt. "Glad we could sort that out. Be ready and stick with me at the harbor. Once the fighting starts, we will slip away. Herleif and his oaf of a brother will be too busy putting out fires to notice we have gone." Stepping towards the door, she paused momentarily and glanced at Coal over her shoulder. "Wait here for ten minutes, then go. We should not be seen alone together before the attack." Then she was gone.
Coal was left alone in the dark; his concerns over the coming battle put him no less at ease. There was a sharp, stinging sensation against his neck where the blade had been, and he could feel the line of blood rolling down along his skin. He wiped it away, cursing himself for even bothering to try and make Priscilla see reason. Clearly, she was just like the rest of the Knights here, too caught up in what she thought she had to do and perfectly blind to the collar fixed around her neck directing her every move. He could see it, though, just as he could see the collar around his own neck as well. He'd known it was there ever since they'd put him away years ago.
Prison was supposed to be where the worst of the worst were locked away and left to rot until they were forgotten. Coal had gone to prison for trying to make a living with the cards he had been dealt, yet somehow, these volcano cultists had been left to run free and spread their madness without punishment. He'd spent years being put to work in forced labor, then given a weapon and sent to the front line of Ashfeld's wars to lay down his life for those who considered themselves his superiors.
He hadn't died like he was meant to, though. He had fought and won, proved himself a strong warrior capable of defending those who had cast him away and not shown him an ounce of kindness. He had been made a Conqueror, a title that he had thought meant something at the time. Now, here he was, being used as a pawn in a desperate scheme to fix other people's mistakes, a scheme most likely doomed to fail in one horrible way or another.
Things like this made him realize just how unfair and unkind this crazy world really was. He sat down on a crate and started counting the minutes as they ticked by, sighing to himself as he wiped more blood from his neck.
"I should've just stayed in prison."