It was a four-day march from Eitrivatnen to the Walled City, all through open country and sloping hills, until the snow-covered peaks of the Black Ridge Mountains rose up to break the horizon. Mount Ignis sat nestled within that rocky spine that separated Ashfeld's dry climate from the Myre's vast marshlands and swamps. Its imposing peak rose high into the sky, smoking like a sleeping dragon, bellowing its deadly breath from far beneath the earth. Even before the sun had set at the end of the first day of marching, the volcano could be seen far off in the hazy distance as if beckoning the horde to finally come and face its fabled might.
The Viking horde wasted little time in their endeavor to meet that challenge. So vast was the barbaric host as it marched forth from the conquered walls of Eitrivatnen that it covered the land for miles like the great World Serpent surrounding Miðgarðr. The horde snaked and coiled its way through green forests and around rising hills, trampling the earth under marching feet until a great cloud of dust heralded it's coming along with the clamor of steel, war songs, and galloping horses.
There was no helping anyone caught in the horde's path, and each lonely farm or homestead that stood between the harbor and the volcano was swallowed up like prey devoured by a voracious beast.
Marcelo frowned as he looked out across the grassy fields to the newest homestead in sight of the march, trying his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut as the mass of riled-up Vikings made their way to the small cluster of homes.
It had been decided back in Eitrivatnen that the Lion Flame would again be divided into three groups for the march, each remaining with the same clan they had sailed with across the lake to the harbor. Surprisingly, he didn't mind staying under Jarl Herleif's command. The northern ruler seemed a fair enough man for a heathen savage, and it was clear that he was well respected by those who followed him. If only those warriors, the wild Berserkers in particular, could show more restraint when dealing with the farmers who had the misfortune of simply being stuck in the middle of their war.
"Do you think there is a chance of convincing them to leave this one alone?" he asked Priscilla as she stood next to him, also looking over the farm as the rest of their party followed just behind.
"You are no fool, Marcelo," she said in a quiet but biting tone. She had been in a foul mood ever since their departure from Eitrivatnen, and the time spent marching had done little to soften her edge. "The Vikings will take what they want from this place, and we will be there to make sure no one plays at being a hero and tries to stop them. Same as the last farm and the one before that."
She had been put back in command of the Knights who marched with Herleif, but there was some talk that she was allowed to remain in such a position purely by Jarl Erik's command, not Commander Judith's. Tension between the Commander and the secretive Peacekeeper had only mounted since Erik had gifted Priscilla a fine ring outside the church in Eitrivatnen, and the rest of the legion was beginning to take notice of how she was being even more reclusive than usual.
"I guess you have given up on heroes now, haven't you?" he said, not bothering to hide his dissatisfaction.
Priscilla's head turned toward him ever so slightly, but whatever spiteful or indifferent look she gave him was hidden behind her helmet. She walked off towards the farmstead without another word, gesturing for the other Knights to follow with Coal quick at her heels. Marcelo stood alone for a moment, wishing he could do more to control the situation at hand.
The once-organized column that had left through the gates of Eitrivatnen had spread into an unruly mass of rambling warriors mere miles outside the city. There was no discipline to their marching, no sense of focus other than to move toward the volcano, but even still, the ambling horde covered a wide enough area to act like a great net over the land, catching any farm that had been left untouched by the Divine Pyre's occupation. Just as they had done before, the Knights fanned out as they approached the current homestead, keeping a wary eye open as they became mingled with the more jovial Vikings eager to strip the farm bare of whatever bounty they could find.
"Keep pace!" Marcelo called over his shoulder to a few soldiers who were lagging behind. It was vital that they were present when the Vikings came into the small farm to try and keep the peace between anyone who might fight back and the savages who would undoubtedly welcome the challenge with steel. Walking across one of the outer fields, he was suddenly hit by a sturdy weight from the side, and his head was yanked downward by a strong arm hooking around his neck to hold him tight.
"Afraid to miss out on the looting, lion boy?" came Ragnar's excited voice, followed quickly by a loud bark of laughter as he rapped his knuckles on the top of Marcelo's helmet.
"Unhand me, sir!" Marcelo grunted, pushing at the wild man until he finally freed himself. He stumbled backward, fumbling with his longsword in its sheath before pointing an accusing finger in Ragnar's face instead. "We are not here to loot, but we will make sure that you and your horde don't cause any unnecessary damage. Mark my words!"
Ragnar leaned back, unperturbed by the threat, as he simply turned and squinted across the field at the homestead ahead of them. There were several Berserkers who fought under Herleif's command. Still, none had proven so wild or bothersome as Ragnar, his vicious sister, and that uncanny Shaman that always seemed to accompany them. He puffed out his cheeks and blew air between his lips, clearly unimpressed with what he saw.
"This place hardly seems worth the trouble. Probably not even a cup's worth of silver in the entire place," he said.
Marcelo looked back to the homestead as well, feeling much the same if he was honest. The few buildings that made up the houses and barns were small but looked well-made. It was likely that the people who lived here were relatively new to the area, having come to work the land after suffering one hardship or another in this war-torn world. They might have some wealth hidden away, built up over a generation or two, but it was to the land itself that Marcelo looked for the farm's true value.
Removing his helmet, he slipped it under his arm and wiped back the blonde hair that fell over his brow, ignoring the feeling of Ragnar's eyes on him. Getting down onto one knee, he dug his fingers into the ground and easily scooped up a clump of dark soil to show the Berserker.
"This is good land," he said, holding the dirt to his nose and taking in the rich, earthy scent. "The volcano makes the ground here very fertile. These people have done well to farm this spot, and I'm sure their fields are always full, and the crops are well grown. Hopefully, they will have more than enough to spare for our march to the volcano." He tossed the clump of dirt up to Ragnar, who snatched it out of the air and took his own deep sniff, leaving specks of dark soil in his beard.
"What would a Knight know about farming?" he asked somewhat suspiciously, "I thought all of you tinmen were rich lords and fancy-dressed nobles? Farming is peasant's work."
Marcelo grinned, a small swell of pride warming his chest. "My father was a farmer," he said softly, looking fondly over at the farmstead, "He had a farm much like this, growing barley and wheat. I helped him for a time when I was young. He taught me much of how to work the land, which fields to plant first, and how to judge when was the best time to start the harvest. It was a quiet life, but a fine one..."
His voice trailed away then, the pride he had felt now slipping to sadness as he recalled those bygone days with his father. After a moment, he realized that Ragnar was still staring at him, waiting for him to finish, and Marcelo was afraid he might cause Ragnar offense by telling him the truth. That thought made his feelings change yet again to anger and shame.
"Until he was killed by a Viking raiding party," he said boldly, holding Ragnar's gaze, "I was only twelve at the time, but I can still remember. He and a few farmhands tried to fight them off, but he was no warrior. He still fought, though, long enough for me to escape. Long enough to make sure that I would live."
Ragnar's face was hard to read, neither apologetic nor cruel behind the metal face plate he wore. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped as his eyes looked behind Marcelo toward someone else approaching. Marcelo turned just in time to see the man's sister, Ragna, before she shoved past him with a hard knock of her shoulder. Along with her came Helge, her eyes fixed on him even as she took the handful of dirt from Ragnar's hands and sniffed.
"What a pathetically heartbreaking tale," Ragna growled, circling around to stand at her brother's side, "Funny though, it reminds me very much of another story that I've heard. Can you think of it, brother?"
Ragnar said nothing, only glowering at his sister as if he was just as displeased to see her as Marcelo was.
"No? Let me think then... Oh yes! It was when our mother was slaughtered during one of Ashfeld's futile crusades," she sneered, spitting the words, "Only, we were still just little babes then, with no fine memories of farming and rolling in the dirt to look back on. Not that either of us give a flying fuck." She took a step closer to Marcelo, baring her teeth at him. "No one cares for your bleeding heart, Knight. It's just one more farm. Such a little, forgotten thing. What does it even matter anymore?"
Marcelo held her gaze, jaw clenched and lips tight. He wanted to tell her that it would always matter to him, that for as long as he could wield a sword, he would always defend those who could not do it themselves. But he knew at the end of the day, this farm would be stripped bare, and the people sent to join the others in Eitrivatnen. Ragna looked at him expectantly, but he said nothing. There was nothing he could say.
She gave a grunt of disgust and turned sharply to snatch Helge's hand before walking off. The small Shaman gave a short laugh as she was pulled along, looking up at Marcelo with wide blue eyes.
"Pretty," purred Helge, looking back at him over her shoulder as she and Ragna walked hand in hand to the farm they would plunder together.
Marcelo was left frowning harder than ever as he watched them go, feeling unsettled and demoralized after their brief exchange. He felt hurt, wounded somehow like Ragna had cut him in a way he hadn't been expecting.
"She's always been angry," came Ragnar's voice, soft and unsure. Marcelo blinked at him, not sure what he was getting at. "My sister, she has trouble with her anger, always has," Ragnar continued, "She is a Berserker, to be sure, but her strength comes from more than just Óðinn's power and spirits of the wild." He stared down, shrugging his shoulders and kicking at the ground where he stood. "I was angry, too, when our mother was killed. But Ragna, she holds onto it. I don't think she knows how to live without it anymore."
Marcelo's discomfort gave way to a cold numbness that washed over him, his heart aching for himself and the heathen beside him. It was as if he understood Ragnar's meaning but felt all the more awful for it. "I suppose we all have some pain in our past. All been hurt in ways that seem impossible to heal. Here in Ashfeld, we call it a casualty of war and pretend there is glory to be found in continuing our feuds when there is only more pain instead."
Ragnar gave a small nod, his eyes flicking up to Marcelo briefly, then back down. "Do we wish to hurt each other now?"
Marcelo sighed, looking toward the homestead. A number of Vikings were just now making it to the collection of houses, along with a few Knights. There were four houses and three barns, most covered with thatched rooftops and whitewashed walls. It looked to be a simple, quiet community, and he could already see some of the farmers stepping out of their homes, some with weapons in hand. This could very well just be another farm pillaged and burned, people's lives destroyed or left ruined. Such was the way of things between the people of Heathmoor. No matter how terrible things became, there was never any change.
"No," he said at last, returning Ragnar's nod with one of his own, "Now is not the time to make new enemies by opening up old wounds." Ragnar managed to give a comforting smile at that, and together, they continued across the field to find whatever wealth or danger awaited them at the farm.
By the time they reached the small group of homes, the commotion of looting and chaos had already filled the air. The warriors of Bilrost swarmed the farm like flies to a corpse, forcing their way into the homes and barns and driving anyone they found inside out into the open. Sharing a look between them, Ragnar broke off to join up with his sister and the other Vikings, while Marcelo went with the other Knights to deal with the farmers who had gathered together in the homestead's defense.
"I care not for how long you have been farming here. Tell everyone to gather what they can carry and prepare to depart for Eitrivatnen," Priscilla said firmly to a tall man of middle years as Marcelo approached the group. The farmer scowled down at her, clearly trying his best to put on a brave face even though he had a sword in hand. No doubt, standing face to face with a Peacekeeper, a Knight more akin to an illusive specter than a noble warrior, was an unnerving experience for a simple farmer.
"What exactly are we supposed to gather, my lady?" he asked her, pointing over toward the houses currently being ransacked by the Vikings.
The sound of their belongings and furniture being upturned and thrown around could clearly be heard coming from within the homes. A few Vikings were already moving in and out of the houses carrying crates full of loot to be taken back to the horde, gathering everything together in a pile to be sorted between what would go back to their ships and what would be needed on the march. There were the usual little treasures to be coveted, bits of jewelry, or any family heirlooms of worth not already taken by the Pyre. But there were also crates of tools, plates, and cutlery, simple goblets and warm blankets piled high, things that would simply be seen as an improvement to the quality of life among the northern barbarians. Nothing seemed to be off limits, and the Vikings seemed to rejoice even at stealing the simplest of items from these hopeless people.
"There will be nothing left to take," accused the man, "Are we to be destitute in a big city that cares not for us the moment we arrive? This is our home, good lady. You can't expect us to give up everything we have and just go?"
Marcelo glanced at the family that cowered behind the man, a wife who clutched a daughter tightly, along with a young son who scowled as if he wished that it was him holding the sword. There were other families as well, and what looked to be a few haggard-looking farmhands who stood alone. Some were armed with weapons that seemed too fine to belong to simple farmers, longswords, and well-crafted knives. Some looked to be injured as well, and the bandages they wore looked fresh.
"It will not be forever," Priscilla told him, refusing to concede, "just until the Divine Pyre is dealt with. Once they are defeated, the Vikings will return to their ships and sail north, and you can return here to live out your lives peacefully once again. You just have to give us time."
The farmer hung his head, running a dirty hand over a balding scalp. "I already told you, miss, we've dealt with the damned fire worshipers ourselves. You coming here and letting a pack of heathens drive us from our homes and steal our possessions hardly makes you our saviors now…"
Marcelo again looked at the sword in the farmer's hands. It appeared to be well made and even had a few small nicks along the edges from recent use. He looked around at the faces of the men and women, seeing the tired and weary look of battle in their eyes. Clearly, they had seen some harsh days, harsher than simply toiling for long hours in the fields, and most still living with dark memories fresh in their mind.
"That is a Warden's sword, is it not?" he asked the farmer, pointing to the weapon in his hand. The man averted his gaze for a moment but then nodded. "Where did you get it?"
The farmer turned back to the men and women behind him, all sharing a look of some hesitation before silently settling on some sort of decision together.
"Over here," the farmer said quietly, gesturing towards a nearby barn before leading the way.
Marcelo, Priscilla, and the other Knights followed after him, watching in silence as the man took hold of the barn door handle and pulled it open. The scene of blood and death that lay inside was something that Marcelo had been expecting, but seeing it tucked away in this quiet little place like a guilty secret still stole his breath nonetheless.
"They came three months before the legions retreated back to Waterstop and Brute's Bend. We've been toiling under their rule ever since. Took almost our whole harvest this past year for themselves to feed their soldiers and followers back at the Walled City," said the farmer, gazing sadly into the barn where the silent corpses of four Pyre Knights lay in a row. They still wore their dark armor, dried blood caked thickly between the plates and mail where the farmers had managed to land their death blows. "Nearly worked us to death, they did. Coming into our lives and calling themselves our masters, demanding that we bow down in worship to their damned mountain. Punishing us if we did not. I admit, I said prayers that I did not believe in and filled my heart with shame. I'm not proud of it, saying those things just to save my own neck from the edge of their swords."
"You killed these men all on your own?" Priscilla asked him coldly, almost as if she didn't quite believe the farmer.
"These cold-hearted bastards got what they deserved," he snapped, his wizened face scrunching up in a rush of rage and hatred, "Two days ago, one of their riders came from the harbor. He spoke not to us but got this lot all riled up into some sort of frenzy. Now I know it was all because of what you did, taking the city with these heathen raiders. They started to round us up, fixing to take us to the Walled City, I think. But something happened before we could be off." The man's rage quickly slipped away, his resolve faltering as he took a shaky breath. "My eldest boy was out in the fields when he came back, covered in blood. He looked scared... so scared, but they didn't care. When they checked the shed out there, they found one of their own dead, stabbed in the neck. I don't know how or why, but they blamed my son, so they came for him. Came for us..." His voice grew quiet and meek, eyes red and brimming with tears. "We had to fight then. They were going to kill us all. Burn us alive, they said, after all we had done for them. I had to fight for my son... oh, my son. My poor boy..."
Marcelo stepped forward just as the farmer began to sway on his feet, catching him by the shoulder before he could fall.
"Steady man. Steady," he urged softly, trying to console the man as he wept, "You have suffered as no man should." He then looked to the bodies in the barn and listened with rising anger as the farmer's sobs mingled with the clamor of the pillaging going on behind them. "This will not be just another farm. I swear it. On my oath as a Warden, I swear that the pain you have suffered will not be cast aside and forgotten."
The farmer looked back at him, some light returning to his eyes, but it was clear that he was just too tired and broken from having to be brave while there had been no one else to depend on. It was the duty of all Knights of Ashfeld to fight for their people, but there had been no one to stand for this man and his family. Now, not just one but two armies were taking what they wished from these people, and Marcelo could hardly bear the shame.
Helping the man down to the ground as gently as possible, Marcelo let him lean against the barn to rest. The farmer's stolen sword lay idly in his hand, but Marcelo bid him to hold it tight once again, squeezing the rough hands around the smooth leather grip and bringing the hilt up to the man's chest.
"This sword is meant to be wielded by a Warden, sworn to defend those who cannot defend themselves," Marcelo said softly, "But for the betrayal that the owner of this blade has committed, choosing tyranny over service, I say that it belongs to you now without question. You have protected your family and your home with honor, good sir. This sword is yours to hold with strength and pride, always."
The farmer's jaw clenched tight, more tears rolling down his wrinkled face. But he held his chin higher, giving a confident nod as he held Marcelo's gaze.
Marcelo smiled and nodded, squeezing the man's shoulder warmly. "Make sure that this man and his family are cared for," he said to the other Knights as he got to his feet, "Once the Vikings are gone, help them back into their homes. No one will be forced to leave here today."
He waited until he was sure there was no objection to his command and was pleased to see how quickly a few soldiers moved to carry out his orders. Then he turned and headed back to the houses, intent on dealing with the injustice that had gripped this place for far too long. However, he only made it a few steps when Priscilla grabbed his arm.
"What are you doing, Marcelo?" she hissed at him, "This is not the plan."
He yanked his arm free and continued on, calling back over his shoulder. "What we should have been doing all along. The right thing."
Leaving Priscilla behind, Marcelo marched on to the cluster of houses currently being ransacked, longsword held at his side. A small part of him feared he was making a mistake, putting himself needlessly in danger and causing more problems than solving them. Their deal with the Vikings had been made out of desperation, and they would have to live with the consequences of those actions when this war was done, but that did not excuse sitting idle while good people suffered one cruelty after another. His oath as a Warden wouldn't allow it, and as far as he was concerned, anyone who believed that the end of this war justified the means by which it was won could rot in hell with the rest of the damned cultists.
Approaching the closest house, Marcelo's determination turned into surprise when he ran into Ragnar yet again, just as the man appeared from within, holding a small polished box in his hands. He smiled to see Marcelo outside the door, proudly showing him what he had found.
"Those Pyre dogs have already stripped this place good and dry of most anything shiny. But look-" Ragnar said, giving a broad smile as he opened the box to show off four shining knives, "I found their eating knives! Good quality, too. Perfect for stabbing little bits of meat or taking out a man's eyes!"
"Put that down. Or better yet, put it right back where you found it," Marcelo said, trying to put some sense of authority in his voice. It scared him to think that Ragnar might actually feel nothing for killing him over a few eating utensils, and the savage power of a Berserker was more than enough reason to just turn and walk away. His hands were shaking, making him hold onto his sword and helmet even tighter to hide it, but he forced himself to stand his ground.
"Why?" Ragnar asked suspiciously, his smile slipping away as he snapped the box closed and held it to him like some sort of spoiled child not wanting to give up a toy, "They're mine. I found them."
"You did not. You stole them, and you know very well that none of these things belong to you," Marcelo retorted with a nod towards the pile of loot that had been gathered together, "These good people have suffered enough and fought hard for what little they have left after the Pyre took control of their lives. It would be wrong to take anything more from them now. Cruel, even."
From the look on Ragnar's face, the wild Northman was clearly having trouble following along. "But this is a raid," he said hesitantly, honestly trying to give it some thought, "We need to return home with loot and treasure to show that we were successful on our raid. Otherwise, how would the gods know how great we are at raiding?"
"I did not come here to see my people suffer." The edge came easier to Marcelo's voice this time, but it was clear from the way that Ragnar's eyes flashed he had taken a step closer to choosing violence. Pressing his lips tight in frustration, he took a breath and tried again. "I gave these people my word, Ragnar. A man has lost his son. They fought the Pyre on their own here and won. We cannot take any more from them after all that has happened here. I refuse to allow it."
"But this is our way," Ragnar said pointedly, "We are Vikings."
"I am not Viking!" Marcelo shouted harshly, unable to control himself as his anger flared.
Ragnar took a step back but gave a warning snarl, his eyes flaring as he bristled with his own growing fury. He still held the small box in his arms, but his fingers clawed sharply at the wooden surface, the muscles in his forearms tight and bulging beneath his skin. Marcelo saw the fight in him, knowing this might be their last moment between peace and blood.
Taking his longsword, he lifted it up and drove the blade's point into the ground before him, leaving it upright in the earth as his hand rose to rest gently on Ragnar's shoulder.
"But I will still fight by your side, no matter what devilry the Pyre throws against us." He looked deep into Ragnar's eyes, opening his soul to a man who would have once been his sworn enemy, whose every belief stood against his own. "I will fight with you as one warrior stands beside another. This I swear. So please… please Ragnar, help me protect my people now."
Ragnar blinked in surprise, his lips parted with silent uncertainty. Glancing at the hand on his shoulder, the rising anger that had threatened to overtake him seemed to fade away, like a growling pet put at ease by a soft and familiar touch.
"You would fight me over this?" he asked, eyes narrowing at Marcelo.
Marcelo felt his face grow hot, his heart gripped by cold resignation that there might be no way past this other than coming to blows. Drawing his hand back, he slowly slipped his fingers around the grip of his sword again and pulled it free from the dirt with a jerk.
"It is not what I want," his voice flat but firm, his gaze hard and unwavering, "but if you stand against me on this, I will fight you."
The silence that lasted between them seemed to stretch on and on. Marcelo's fingers tightened around his sword, the metal plates of his gauntlet clicking faintly as he looked hard into Ragnar's eyes. The Berserker stared right back, gaze unflinching, hands tense around the bucket he clung to. For a man who seemed to twitch with wild agitation all hours of the day, Ragnar stood incredibly still now, putting Marcelo even more on edge for any movement that might spark off a confrontation.
Then, at last, Ragnar suddenly relaxed, the tension slipping from his body like water poured from a bucket. "I do not think I will fight you, lion boy," he sighed, calmly turning to set the box back inside through the doorway. While his back was turned, Marcelo released the breath he had been holding, his whole body feeling relieved of some unseen weight bearing down on him.
When Ragnar turned back, he treated Marcelo with a tight-lipped smile. "It is strange, but I feel in my heart that Óðinn does not wish us to fight. I do not wish for it. I know you do not believe in the Allfather's wisdom, but somehow, that does not seem to matter right now."
"Perhaps not," Marcelo said with a grin, so incredibly relieved that they had come to an understanding that he couldn't help but smile, "But I know how it feels to do the right thing. To stand and fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. To put those who trust in you, rely on you, before yourself. Or at least I try to, in all aspects of my life. That is what being a good Warden, a good man, means to me."
Sticking his sword back into the ground, sure now that he had no need for it, he set his helmet over the pommel and stepped forward to extend an open hand to Ragnar. "Whatever beliefs you hold are yours to have. I do not seek to change them, not after all that has happened. I'm just glad that we can come together now in this moment as good men."
Ragnar let out an amused bark of laughter, ignoring the offered hand entirely as he stepped in close and cupped Marcelo's face in his hands.
"I don't know about any of that, but I know I'm glad to be here with you now. You're a funny little man, Marcelo, but indeed, I think you're a good one. I have never met a Knight whose company I have enjoyed so much before, but for a farmer's son, you aren't so bad. We will kill many other Knights together when we reach the volcano, I am sure."
Marcelo blushed as Ragnar cupped his face, feeling the rough palms and fingers against his skin. "Oh, well, thank you. We will do what we must to put down the cultists, of course," he said. Ragnar laughed again, releasing Marcelo's head and squeezing his shoulders instead. Marcelo laughed with him and felt all the better for it.
Then, the sharp crack of a door being kicked open abruptly caught their attention, their heads turning in unison to a small house across the way. Ragna appeared from within, carrying a small chest and wearing a wolf's grin across her face. Helge followed after her, cradling a number of small pouches in her arms.
"We found their hold!" Ragna shouted with glee, lifting the chest above her head in triumph. The other Vikings all gave a cheer, forgetting their own unimpressive loot for the promise of precious silver and steel instead. "These dirty peasants were hiding their treasure the whole time! They buried it deep beneath the floor to hide it. It seems those volcano worshipers don't know how to raid a farm properly!"
"Too busy with their heads up their own asses and searching for their shitty god to look for anything else," laughed Helge, bouncing her arms to make the pouches full of coin jingle and clink.
The sight of the two women reveling in their plunder made Marcelo's heart drop into his stomach. A cold wave of apprehension washed over him, fearing that the small truce he and Ragnar had settled would all be undone. Habit made him once again reach for his helmet and sword, but before he could shout out a declaration of challenge, Ragnar stepped forward and gave one of his own.
"No!" shouted the wild man, holding up a hand to halt his sister and Helge, "Leave it be! We take nothing this day!" All eyes turned on Ragnar in puzzlement, not that he seemed to notice. Ragna's eyes locked onto her brother, a look of surprised anger gripping her face.
"What are you talking about?" she shouted back, marching straight for her brother with the chest and Helge in tow, "What do you mean we take nothing? It's just lying here! What weak little sheep fucker said so?" Her enraged eyes were already darting toward Marcelo, making him take pause before drawing his sword.
"Marcelo said so," Ragnar smiled, earning a hateful snarl from Ragna, "And me. I say so too. We are being good men today." Ragna's murderous gaze switched over to her brother in an instant, making Ragnar shrink back in retreat. "Uh, and women... Men and women. The point is that we shall all be good. That is what we have decided."
"You'd let this spineless whelp fill your head with this shit?" Ragna groaned, rolling her eyes, "Brother, you do not need to agree with every man that lets you plow his backside like a fertile field. Just forget him and let's do what we came here to do."
"I beg your pardon?" Marcelo piped up, his eyes going wide at the insinuation, but Ragna ignored him.
"You know our traditions, Ragnar. We take what we want and kill anyone who gets in our way."
"It's not like that this time," Ragnar retorted with a small shake of his head. He and Marcelo glanced at each other for a moment, only to quickly look away. "There will be no killing now. We leave the loot and move on to the Walled City, where the true treasure waits."
"It is a lot of heavy things to carry," Helge offered up, her wide eyes darting between the three of them as she jingled the coin pouches in her arms, "To be honest, the Voices don't care much for silver anyway. You can't eat it, can't bleed it. Can't rip its soul into a thousand pieces to suffer for all eternity..."
"That's not the point," Ragna hissed, rounding on the smaller woman.
"The point is, we will leave these people be and focus our efforts against the enemy that truly deserves to be put down," Marcelo said, sensing his moment to cut in and standing a bit straighter beside Ragnar. Ragna slowly turned to face him, a glowering, unamused frown on her face as he spoke, but Marcelo would not be deterred no matter how frightening this she-wolf was. "The suffering of my countrymen ends today. Take what treasure you like from the vault of the Walled City. That is the deal. But these good folk will be thrown in the dirt no longer. We take what food we need for the march, and we go. That is all."
Ragna remained eerily silent for a long moment as she stared at him, making Marcelo worry that the noble ideals and morals he used to bring her brother around would not have the same effect now.
"What did I tell you about your bleeding heart, tinman?" she growled at last, taking a threatening step forward that made Marcelo draw his sword from the earth. But before things could take a turn for the worse, Ragnar put himself in his sister's path, shoving her back and getting right up in her face with wide, manic eyes.
"I said no, Ragna," he grunted sharply, teeth bared beneath his braided mustache and beard. Ragna snarled right back in her brother's face, the chest pressed up tight between them as their metal faceplates clinked together as they butted heads. They growled at each other like feuding beasts, each trying to intimidate the other into backing down. Ragnar refused to cower before his sister's wrath, though, tendons flexing in his hands as he reached down to the twin axes at his side. "I said no."
Marcelo watched in stunned amazement, wondering whether their sibling bond would win out in the end or if he was about to witness some act of terrible violence happen right before his eyes. Helge looked unsure of what to do as well, wearing a strained look of distress as her two lovers appeared ready to start going for each other's throats at any moment. Neither of the twins backed down, and for a moment, Marcelo contemplated letting them keep the chest if they would just settle down and walk away from each other without any harm caused.
In the end, it almost didn't even register with Marcelo that it was Ragna who finally turned away from the standoff, not until she let out her unbridled frustration with a sharp, furious scream of rage that echoed into the sky.
Spinning on her heel, Ragna took the chest full of locked-away treasure and hurled it into the air, sending it straight back at the house she had found it in. The solid box soared through the sky as if weightless, slamming into the small house on the other side of the yard, smashing a chunk of white plaster from its wall before tumbling to the dirt. A heavy silence fell over the homestead as all watched in stunned amazement, threatening to strangle them all in the simmering tension of Ragna's anger.
Following Ragna's example, Helge took the few pouches she held in her arms and tossed them into the air, giving a little jump like a girl throwing flower petals into the sky. She gave a short laugh and watched the purses hang weightless in the air until she had to duck out of the way before they all tumbled back down to knock her on the head. Stepping over the fallen bags, Ragna snatched Helge's hand and began to pull her away, grumbling terrible curses in her native tongue as she went.
Marcelo couldn't say he was sad to see her go, but he was glad they were parting on somewhat peaceful terms, if not good ones. He spared a look of appreciation toward Ragnar for intervening, only to realize that Helge had resisted Ragna's summons and was gazing up at him with a thoughtful grin. He blinked back in surprise, unsure if this was some sort of Shaman's trick to catch him in a spell with her strange and savage beauty before pouncing to bite out his throat like a feral animal.
"You..." said Helge, slowly drawing out the word as she reached a hand up toward his face, causing Marcelo to stiffen and lean away, "...have a pure heart. I like that." Her smile grew wider and more playful, showing more teeth, her fingers lightly caressing his crimson-hued cheek before slipping away. Marcelo stared dumbly back at her, too stunned to say anything, as his lips remained parted with bated breath.
Ragna looked on, too, her displeasure growing with each passing moment. She yanked on Helge's hand again, pulling the Shaman away with a possessive urgency. Helge gave a little stumble but followed her lover away from the forsaken pile of loot, leaving the farm behind to rejoin the rest of the horde still on the move. She looked back over her shoulder as they went, giving that same playful and devious smile before turning away for good. Marcelo watched her go for longer than he might have liked to admit, the heat on his face only growing as he realized how captured he had been over the simple touch of a savage woman.
"What was that?" he asked Ragnar softly, trying his best to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his lips, but felt the awkward twitch they gave as he failed.
Ragnar looked back at him with an amused glint in his eye, his smile much more jovial and free as he let out a long breath. "Could be that she likes you, could be that she wants to rip out your heart and eat it. Could be both, who knows?"
"I want to know," Marcelo said with an exasperated laugh, "I would very much like to know which it is!" The two laughed together then, Ragnar clapping Marcelo on the back. "Thank you, Ragnar," Marcelo said with a smile, his spirits soaring for the first time in what felt like countless months. "This means something to me, and I will not forget it. A savage, though you may be, you are a warrior. I will be proud to fight beside you when the time comes."
Ragnar pressed his lips together and gave a little nod as he watched the rest of the Vikings leaving the homestead as well, the pile of loot they had gathered sitting out in the open and abandoned.
"It is no easy thing to do this, but I understand that we fight together for a greater purpose now. Óðinn will deliver us a great battle for this sacrifice, one that will put our names into sagas that will be remembered for eternity. Mighty warriors will sing of our deeds and raise their drinking horns to the heroes that brought the volcano worshipers to their knees!" Laughing again, Ragnar regarded Marcelo with an amused smirk and reached up to gently pat the same cheek Helge had touched before. "Call me a savage again, though, and I will teach you a whole new meaning of the word, lion boy." He grinned, patting Marcelo's cheek again with a bit more force before walking off to join his clan, chuckling as he went.
Marcelo felt his face tingle with the feeling of Ragnar's calloused hand and touched the warmth left behind on his cheek with his gloved fingers. How strange it was to think that after so long seeing the Viking clans as a terrible enemy to fight and defend his home against, such things couldn't be further from his mind now as he watched Ragnar walk away.
"As you wish, good sir," he said softly to himself, smiling like a fool, "As you wish."
Letting out a rather happy sigh, Marcelo noticed the rest of the Lion Flame Knights approaching with the farmers. The sight of the Northmen leaving their homes and belongings behind must have been a strange sight to them, perhaps even giving them a sense of hope that they had never expected to feel. Did they know how close things had come to having that hope dashed away, or what bonds of fellowship had been made in defense of this small, insignificant little farm? He supposed that it didn't matter in the end, not to these people. All that mattered was that good men had stood up for them when they needed it most, and for Marcelo, that was enough.
Raising his hand in greeting, he and his fellow Knights set about settling the farmers and their belongings back into their homes.