Ivar felt alive.
He could smell the blood in the air, taste it on his tongue, feel it hot against his skin. It flowed like spilled wine with each swing of his sword, drawn fresh from his enemy's wounds as he cut, hacked, and stabbed with impunity against each armored foe. None could stand before him, but still, the fools came running, these fire-worshiping cultists coming to claim his life with sharpened steel and hateful curses on their lips. It was laughable to see them try.
He was Ivar the Red- Scourge of Ashfeld, The Cleaver, and The Hated. His fleet of longships was vast and always returned to Thurshamrar laden with steel, silver, and slaves. He was the Savage Jarl and Chief Headhunter. He was vile. He was the wicked, merciless, and bloodthirsty bastard that every story and rumor claimed him to be. A nightmare used to scare children into their beds. He was a god of battle, the ruler of life and death itself. He was a monstrous troll upon the battlefield, killing without remorse, and he would be the first to say so.
"Die!" Ivar yelled as he slammed his shield across a soldier's face and hacked his sword into their neck. He thrust his blade through another, struck one with a brutal hit of his tri-horned helmet, and flipped a man over his shoulder just to let his blood-mad warriors finish them off as he viciously sought out his next victim. "Die! Die! Die, you fucking bastards!"
The ramparts of the Walled City were swarming with Thurshamrar and Bilrost warriors, the two stretches of wall now separated only by the burning gatehouse between them. The Pyre Knights remaining with their bows and fire shooters had tried desperately to turn back the tide of Northmen climbing up ladders to slaughter them, but the Vikings had already found their foothold upon the walls. Ivar saw it as his personal mission to break the fighting spirit of every cultist before he claimed their heads as his prize.
"Kill them all!" he shouted, waving his sword, Yfirmaður, above his head as his warriors surged forth against the remaining defenders around the gatehouse. "Slay the vermin where they stand!"
Screams quickly filled the air as the echo of his voice faded away as the Pyre Knights were either cut down where they stood or thrown from the ramparts to fall to their deaths on the city streets below. Raiders slammed their great axes through helmets to cleave skulls in two, while savage Berserkers hacked apart their enemies in a storm of axe blades and bestial snarls. The Shamen took their time dispatching any of the wounded that had been left behind, all cries for mercy ignored while they took fingers, tongues, eyes, and teeth from slowly dying Knights as payment for ever thinking they could stand against the might of Valkenheim and live.
The flames of the gatehouse burned bright and hot, but to experience such overwhelming heat was to revel in the burning hatred of war itself. Ivar showed his enemies no fear. He showed them nothing but his hate. He showed them the power of the gods.
"Keep pushing! Drive the fuckers from the walls!" Another slash, another stab. A sharp cry cut short, and a gout of hot blood on his skin. This was life and death, dealt out by skill and a little bit of luck from the gods. This was a warrior's dream.
Fire erupted from the strange weapons the Divine Pyre wielded along the ramparts, fired in a desperate panic against friend and foe alike. Soon, the ramparts were engulfed in dancing flames, adding to the overwhelming heat, the choking smoke, the rising screams, the madness, and the majesty of it all. Yet it was not enough to stop the horde from scaling the walls, and soon, the battlements were covered with the wounded and the fallen corpses of the city defenders.
If there was ever such a place as the pits of Hell that these Ashfeld worms so feared, then surely the top of the burning walls was a glimpse into that terrible realm. Ivar found it absolutely exhilarating.
After days of being stuck outside the Walled City, they were finally in the fight. No more suffering through Erik's childish ranting about what he was owed. Now, there was finally blood to be spilled, heads to be taken, and glory to be earned. These mighty walls belonged to him now, him and his blood-mad warriors. As far as he was concerned, the Pyre were trespassers on his territory, and the punishment for their transgressions against him was death. There was no stopping the horde of Northmen from spilling into the city, especially now that the gate had been broken down.
Somehow, that sniveling bastard Herleif had succeeded on his fool's mission. There was no doubt that Erik had ordered Herleif to take the gate as punishment for his fumbling of Chaldeon's capture and the mockery of that Peacekeeper challenging the most powerful jarl in Valkenheim for his title. Why Herleif cared at all for those renegade Knights or that idiot brother of his was a complete mystery to Ivar, but Herleif's desperate plea to stay judgment had certainly put him on Erik's shit list. The idea that they were at all equal on this raid was a bad joke, and Herleif simply had the misfortune of succumbing to his weaker nature while Erik reaped the benefit as he so often did.
Normally, Ivar would give no shit for Herleif's predicament, but there was something to be said about turning a bad situation into a victory. Even now, he could hear the fighting from the streets below, those banners of blue and silver rushing in from the open gate to crash into the purple and gold of the Pyre defenders.
"Go! Go, you worthless shits!" Ivar called to his warriors, beating his shield on their backs as the enemy fell before their advance. "This city is ours! Kill these trolls so we can get onto the real work! The treasure won't loot itself!"
The Headhunter warriors gave a great war cry as they overwhelmed the cultists, cutting down the Pyre Knights who dared stand in their way. The gatehouse still loomed bright against the darkening sky, burning to cinders as the flames acted like a beacon to every Northman who had been camped outside the city walls for days on end. Ivar laughed as he went. He laughed with joy at the slaughter. He laughed at the blood dripping from his sword and at the dead bodies at his feet, not caring about whether they belonged to the enemy or his own kin. Those who fought and died in the name of Óðinn would surely find themselves feasting in Valhǫll, while the volcano-worshiping pigs could suffer in whatever pitiful afterlife they chose to put their pathetic faith in.
There was still too much glory to be earned from killing for Ivar to even think about dying now.
As Herleif led his warriors down on the streets, Ivar turned his attention to the city battlements. The Walled City had been built right into the volcano's side, with domed buildings and rising towers rising on top of each other like a broken staircase decorated by a forest of legion banners and flags blowing in the hot wind and smoke. The spreading metropolis was so different from the low-topped houses and mead halls of Valkenheim villages, but it created a natural network of pathways and intersecting passages that were perfect for traversing the many levels of the city. Ivar's red warriors swarmed the ramparts like blood pumped through the body, leaving plenty of it coating the cobblestones in their wake. Their war cries echoed into the sky, weaving a mighty saga as they made their death song with swords, axes, and spears, rending and hacking apart armor so that the shriek of splitting metal added to the terrible chorus.
The Divine Pyre tried their best to fight back. The ancient city was their chosen stronghold, where their leaders held court and their fiercest believers had gathered to worship. Where one soldier fell, two more came to take their place, but the Viking raiders would not be stopped. The Northmen had come to claim wealth and glory, stepping over the corpses of yet another Ashfeld army, and they would not be denied. With each new level, each new balcony of archers overlooking the streets below, the shield wall was made anew for the steady push over the dead and the dying.
"Hold the line!" Ivar yelled as they stood against a group of Pyre Knights wielding their small fire shooters, the flames licking at their interlocked shields. The heat was immense, but the flames only lasted a few moments before they died out, leaving a line of scorched shields and angry Vikings to deal with afterward. Ivar ground his yellow teeth as he broke from the line and rushed forward with his shield raised and sword ready. To their credit, the Pyre Knights did not simply wait for the Headhunters to come at them, and they quickly brought their own swords and spears to bear before the two sides crashed together in a flurry of clashing metal and spilled blood.
Ivar pushed away a Lawbringer's poleaxe as it was thrust at his face, feeling the blade scrape across the broad surface of his shield as he moved in close. He punished the attacking Lawbringer with a swift strike of his sword, slicing at the man's neck as momentum took him forward before shoving the Knight to the ground. Ivar made sure the Lawbringer wouldn't be getting up again with a second slash before moving to the next, quickly bashing his horned helmet into a soldier's face before stabbing Yfirmaður clean through their gut. As soon as that enemy was gone, another stood before him as the Knights tried desperately to push back the onslaught of Viking warriors storming further into the city. It didn't matter how many they sent to stop him, though. Ivar cut the next one down just like the last. He would kill them all if he must.
A group of Headhunters made a rush for the archers shooting down into the streets when Njáll appeared at Ivar's side. "Herleif has been stopped further up the lane!" shouted the big Raider over the fighting, the hollow sockets of the skull mounted upon his head acting more as a set of eyes than the thin slits in his mailed helmet. "His warriors can go no further!"
Ivar snarled as he stepped back from the line, letting his warriors push down the rampart against the Knights while he turned his attention to the street below. Kicking aside the corpse of an archer, he looked down to where Herleif's warriors were crowded together between the rising buildings, funneling into any side alley or narrow passage they could to spread through the city. The Divine Pyre were everywhere, meeting them at every turn, fighting them in every building, and battling for every inch of ground.
"Can't that blubbering whale carcass kill a few Knights standing in his way? He took down the fucking gates, and now he needs my help again?" Ivar growled, glaring down at Herleif's warriors as they clashed against the black-armored soldiers of the Divine Pyre, choking the street from building to building. There was a scream as someone was hurled through a window into the chaos below, but Ivar paid it no mind, watching the battle from above like a hawk observing the scurrying of frightened mice.
"It's not the Knights crowding the streets that have stopped him," Njáll continued, glancing back over his shoulder down the rampart. "There is another fire weapon on a head, setting the streets ablaze. The Pyre are burning everything below, even their own men."
Looking further into the city, Ivar saw the glow of what was surely dancing flames in the distance, the foreboding light glowing over the tops of the surrounding buildings. If he listened carefully, he could hear the rush of fire and the screams over the fighting around him.
"These cultist fucks," he chuckled to himself, watching the blazing light a little longer before turning away. "They'll do whatever they can to fight us off, like mangy dogs trapped in a corner. And all for what? A fucking mountain in the middle of nowhere? I will enjoy teaching them that it was never their God or their níðing priests they should have feared."
Squeezing the grip of his sword, Ivar rushed back into the fray, Njáll following just behind with his axe. With a mighty cry, Ivar lunged at the nearest Pyre soldier, attacking in such a fury that no sword or spear touched him. He cleaved his way through spear shafts and hacked apart shields, cutting down his enemies with an evil grin. As he slew, so too did his warriors push the attack, overwhelming the Divine Pyre without mercy, howling like a heathen nightmare out of the north that had plagued the minds of Ashfeld children for centuries.
"Kill them all!" Ivar shouted, holding his blood-stained sword high in the air as his warriors rushed past him in a battle frenzy that could not be stopped. "Show them no mercy! Take their heads, and we shall use their skulls as a pyre to burn their mad priests!"
All through the city, shouts of fighting and screams of horror echoed in the air, mingling with the roar of rushing flames as otherworldly fire consumed all in its path. Smoke blocked out the sun, casting the besieged city under a dark and deathly shroud. Just as the Viking horde descended upon the Walled City with cries of death and weapons of steel, so too was the Divine Pyre cut off from the sight of Mount Ignis, the holy volcano that was God on earth in their eyes. The cultist Knights did whatever they could to try and regain the upper hand as the city streets ran red with blood like open wounds cut into the city itself. Somewhere above the dark billowing clouds, the volcano still loomed overhead, smoke rising from its peak in silent fury as God's children were cut down by savage pagans.
The retreating Knights cried out to their Lord, lifting their heads to the dark sky as the city burned. They cried out for salvation. They cried out for mercy and for hope. They cried out for their enemy to be cast down where they stood, that the blood of pure believers would no longer be spilled on holy ground, but no answer ever came from the silent volcano. No answer came from God.
The only answer the cultists received was the distant voice of the high priest, Osric Ead, crying out desperately from his tower beyond the veil of dark smoke.
"Fight! Fight, you worthless fools! Fight as I command you!" The high priest's voice echoed over the battle raging far below his tower, no longer holding the confidence of a pious and devout leader meant to shepherd his flock but rather the frustration of one who saw nothing but the weakness of those far below his station. "You are warriors of the Lord! You dare give up the gates to the heathens and apostates!? I command you not to lose this holy city! Do you hear me!? Fight, damn you!"
Down on the ramparts, Ivar shoved a wounded soldier aside with his shield and quickly struck down another. His sword arm was covered in blood up to the elbow, and each step forward was like wading through a sea of metal corpses. The ground was littered with the dead, those bound for glorious Valhǫll and those surely condemned to burn in Hell, but Ivar still lived. He could still fight, and that was all that mattered to him.
"There it is!" he shouted as the Pyre's fire weapon came into view.
Much like the weapon at the gate, the mouth of the bronze eagle was belching its destructive inferno over the buildings, and corpses nearly burned to ash. A number of Pyre engineers were tirelessly moving about the web of metal tubes, levers, and gauges that made the weapon function, making sure that the horde below was stopped from making it any further into the city with a constant wall of flame.
Ivar let out an excited yell as he looked back to his warriors, striking his sword and shield together to rally for the attack. "Are we going to let these Bilrost bastards claim all the glory of taking out one of these fire breathers?" His warriors responded with a resounding cry for blood, surging forward in a wild craze of fur, bone, and sharpened steel to cut down anyone in their path.
Ivar went with them, charging for one of the Pyre engineers before they could pull the lever to ignite the weapon again when motion from further down the rampart caught his attention. A new contingent of Pyre Knights was charging back at them, rushing past the weapon and coming to a halt before the Headhunters with broad shields and a wall of pikes to halt the Viking attack. The Northmen crashed into them with hacking swords and chopping axes, ignoring their wounds and their losses as they gave themselves over to their blood lust, fighting to break through the Pyre line at any cost.
Their jarl led them in the madness, and that was when Ivar saw him.
He had only glimpsed the man once before on the day he and Erik had first ridden to the city gate and called up to the high priest to demand the Divine Pyre's surrender. The man had looked large even then, standing above the gatehouse next to the much smaller priest, Osric. Now, Ivar saw him for the grim giant that he truly was, towering above anyone else on the ramparts. Kazamir, the city commander. He marched forward among his Pyre underlings without fear, dressed completely in black armor, his helmet adorned with a spiked crown and a gleaming two-handed longsword clutched in his gauntleted fists. The Pyre soldiers quickly stepped out of his way as he advanced, a black cape billowing in his wake until the wall of shields parted like waves before the prow of a great warship.
Kazamir showed no hesitation as he came upon the Headhunter warriors, lifting his longsword high in the air so that it shined brightly in the orange glow of the flames.
"You hapless fools!" he exclaimed as his sword came down in a great arc, cleaving a red-bearded Warlord's shield completely in two, along with the man holding it. Blood sprayed into the air with screams following as Kazamir quickly struck again with his mighty sword, cleaving a warrior's head from their shoulders with a single blow. Wicked laughter echoed from within his crowned helmet, his following attacks rending armor and hewing limbs with brutal ferocity.
Ivar watched on in stunned amazement as a score of his warriors fell to the commander in just a few breathless moments. Then his heart leaped for joy, imagining the grand saga that would be his alone after defeating such a foe. He pointed his hooked sword at Kazamir, shouting the two words that were at the forefront of his savage mind. "He's mine!"
"You think you can win?" Kazamir laughed, staring Ivar down and brandishing his sword in challenge.
Pushing past his warriors, Ivar let everything around him turn into a red haze as he charged at Kazamir. The towering commander quickly struck down at him, but Ivar ducked and rolled, coming up behind Kazamir and cutting at the back of his leg. Kazamir shouted angrily, but his armor stopped Ivar's sword from slicing into his thigh, and he quickly brought his longsword around in a powerful swing to take the Red Jarl off his feet.
Ivar was ready, letting instinct and years of training take over as he thought of nothing but victory. He parried, knocking the commander's sword away, and counter-attacked quickly, striking for where he thought Kazamir's armor would be the weakest, but the black plates and tightly linked chainmail proved impervious to Yfirmaður's blade.
Kazamir laughed, holding his arms open as if to show the futility of Ivar's barbaric fury. "You cannot best me!"
Eyes wide with rage, Ivar did the only thing he could think of to end the metal giant's taunting. With a savage yell, he lunged forward, hitting Kazamir square in the chest with the horns of his helmet, headbutting the bastard and striking again. He hacked with his sword and punched with the rim of his shield, keeping the pressure on Kazamir until he could find an opening in all that armor. Kazamir roared in anger as he was forced back, enduring Ivar's onslaught until he took an upward blow of the shield to his chin, making the great helmet rattle. Ivar let out a triumphant cry, leaping up into the air with all his strength, sword raised high, ready to strike down upon Kazamir's head and secure his fame as the greatest warrior of his clan.
Kazamir's hand was a dark blur as it suddenly rushed up and snatched Ivar right out of the air, metal fingers closing tightly around his throat to make him gasp. "Come on! Impress me!" shouted the commander, then hurled Ivar across the ramparts as if he were a child's doll, sending him crashing into the shields of his own warriors. "You are no challenge!"
The world spun around Ivar's head as he tried to regain his senses, pushing himself up with a snarl and ignoring his fallen warriors, seeking only to take up the fight against the metal giant again. He brought up his shield, expecting Kazamir to be on him with sword raised, but quickly found that the commander's attention was elsewhere.
"Soldiers, protect the Phoenix!" exclaimed Kazamir, ordering his Knights to the weapon as the Headhunters continued to attack.
Ivar didn't care what the Pyre called their little toy; all that mattered was slaying Kazamir. Teeth bared in a vicious snarl, Ivar rushed forward to challenge the city commander once again, only to be stopped by his warriors crowding around him as they fought against the soldiers of the Divine Pyre guarding the ramparts. "Out of my way!" he shouted furiously, pressing his shield against the back of the warrior in front of him to push them aside, but already a number of Headhunter warriors were beginning to strike at Kazamir with every intent of claiming his head for themselves. "No! He's mine! He's mine, you troll fuckers!"
The ramparts descended into chaos as Vikings and Knights clashed together in an undulating line of striking weapons and falling bodies. Kazamir did not hesitate to cut down the Headhunters that came for him, letting their weapons strike uselessly against his heavy armor before striking with his sword, but against the overwhelming numbers of the horde, not even he could stand his ground forever. His black armor became a crisscrossed pattern of white scratches and scattered dents as he was slowly pushed back, the surge of Northmen becoming too much to take. The Pyre line broke, and the Headhunters swarmed the weapon with axes, swords, and spears, striking down the engineers before they even had a chance to draw their weapons in defense.
Ivar watched as Kazamir was forced further back, fending off the encroaching Vikings until the Pyre had no choice but to retreat. "Kazamir!" he shouted as the commander struck down one Headhunter after another, but was still too far away to even catch Ivar's voice over the battle din. "Kazamir! Fight me, you tin bastard!" Ivar seethed with growing rage as he fought desperately to get through the crowd of northern warriors, snarling and barking orders at anyone who got in his way. "Move! Move you worthless swine, or I'll kill you myself!"
"Fuck off, you níðing shit!" said a wide-eyed Berserker, shoving back at Ivar as he tried to move past.
Ivar didn't hesitate to drop the Berserker with a swift headbutt to the face. It didn't matter if it was a member of his clan. No one spoke to him like that and remained standing, his own warriors least of all. However, it seemed that they all needed a lesson in showing respect to their jarl as a few more turned and openly attacked him upon seeing the Berserker drop cold. Ivar roared out in anger, unwilling to cower before such blatant treachery. He struck at one with his shield, then dodged the jab of a spear, knocking the wielder away with his shoulder to be swallowed up by the crowd. The last he let come at him, a big Raider raising his great axe high for an overhead strike. Ivar brought up his sword and shield, parrying the blow, and swiftly slammed the rim of his shield into the Raider's throat, crushing his windpipe.
The Raider fell, choking on blood and spittle, dropping to one knee before rolling over into a puddle of dark blood with a loud splash. Ivar thought nothing of it and was about to turn away when he looked again to the puddle the Raider laid in and the blood now swirling around his boots. No, not blood, he realized. It was more than that, the pool deeper than it should have been even for such a slaughter of men. He sniffed, catching the scents of iron and something acrid mixed in the air, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the icy sting of fear rushed through him. He looked at the Pyre's weapon to find it surrounded by warriors hacking the bronze eagle apart with their axes and swords. Their faces were alight with savage glee as they tore at the weapon like it was some hated enemy, spilling its deadly blood across the rampart, spilling the Wu Lin seiðr until they were standing up to their ankles in the acrid-smelling liquid.
"Stop!" Ivar called out, knowing the fight had taken an extremely dangerous turn even as the Divine Pyre was being pushed back. "Stop, you fools! Are you trying to get us all killed!?"
He waved his arms for their attention, but his warriors were too caught up in tearing apart the leaking weapon to notice. Try as he might, his warriors were beyond his control, utterly oblivious to his cries. Up ahead, the Pyre was mounting another defense, keeping the Headhunters at bay and stuck in the rising fire liquid as they stumbled back from the enemy's pikes and shields. They were like pigs gathered for the slaughter, trapped between the enemy and their own advancing force.
"Listen, you maggots! We must pull back! Listen!" Ivar cried as loudly as he could, beating his shield against the backs of those warriors around him, desperate to regain control of the situation. "Listen to me!"
There was the sharp strike of a spark somewhere behind him, and Ivar's worst fears were made real as he looked up and watched two brightly lit fire-flasks soar through the air toward the Pyre line. The roar of the battle seemed to fall silent as he watched them move gracefully through the air, right up until they struck against the Pyre shields and burst apart in a gout of flame. The blinding fire ignited over the wall of shields, flames clinging to the Knights to roast them alive in their armor, and even bit back at the hapless Viking who stood at the front of the battle line, drawing forth deathly screams terrible enough to turn blood to ice. Yet it only took one glowing cinder to land in the lingering seiðr pool to ignite the entire battlement into an all-consuming inferno.
Ivar stood by helplessly as the fire exploded into life, a trail of flame spreading out and catching the legs of his warriors to devour them whole in the blink of an eye as it rushed across the lingering pool straight for the crippled weapon. The bronze eagle gave out one last mournful groan from its metal beak as it was set upon by his warriors, just before the flames hit the leaking tanks and erupted like the volcano in a fire blast.
Suddenly, his warriors were gone in a flash of blinding light and roaring fire, and Ivar felt himself thrown off his feet, soaring backward against the blast. He was weightless, losing his sword as he flew through the air, turning ass over head until he landed against something hard and unmoving before tumbling over it and falling again. He reached up without thinking, a desperate act of primal self-preservation, feeling his fingers slide against stone until he gripped it tight. His arm gave a sharp jerk as he caught himself, crying out in pain but catching the wall just in time before falling to his death. Another warrior fell past him, burning and screaming to crash upon the street below, but Ivar could only think about how he felt his fingers beginning to slip from the wall's edge.
A few moments ago, he had thought he would claim the greatest victory of the raid, taking the head of the city commander for himself while the other jarls floundered against the enemy. Now, that had all changed. Was this truly how he would meet his end? Flailing through the air like a helpless child as he fell, no sword in hand, no vanquished enemies at his feet? The thought enraged him, even as he felt himself slip another inch. He was just hanging on by his fingertips now and surely wouldn't last much longer. Squeezing his fingers against the wall's edge, he swung up his other arm and tossed the shield back over the wall to free up his other hand. As carefully as he could, he began to reach up, remaining conscious of his hefty weight straining against him. Grinding his teeth, he squinted against the sweat dripping down his face as he focused on getting his other hand up to the wall.
He had been so close. So close to killing Kazamir and taking his place as the strongest jarl of this raid. Erik could keep his gold and jewels, and Herleif could have his precious family. Ivar would have his battle fame with blood on his sword and his enemy's severed head clutched in his hand. He would be known as the greatest of warriors among his people, revered even by the gods. That was all gone now, his hopes for glory and death in battle dashed away by the stupidity of his own warriors.
He tried not to think about how it might truthfully be his own fault that he found himself hanging on for dear life like a fool, knowing he had been helpless to stop anything while his warriors had ignored him. That sort of thinking was worthless. It would do nothing to help save himself now, so he pushed the cold feeling of guilt down inside and buried it deep.
Not a single warrior had listened to him when he had called to halt the attack. He was supposed to be their jarl. They were supposed to follow him, not lead him to his death.
A chill ran down his spine as he felt his grip slipping. He was almost there, his other hand just inches away as he carefully reached up. Just a little further, and he would make it. Silently, he cursed all the worthless gods and all their worthless children. Surely, this was not the end the Norns had in store for him when they had woven his fate. He was Ivar the Red, meant for a far more heroic death than this sorry display. Knowing he was about to fall, he lunged for the wall with his free hand and felt his fingers slip against stone, grabbing hold of nothing before his grip failed completely as he dropped with a quick whoop.
Apparently, the gods couldn't give a pig's watery shit about how Ivar the Red died.
Ivar told himself not to shout. He forced himself not to scream as he fell to the street below, fated to coat the cobblestones as a pulped mess of red meat and shattered bone. He screamed anyway. Keeping his mouth shut just didn't seem like the natural thing to do. Luckily, he didn't need to scream for long as he abruptly stopped not far from the top of the wall, pain lacing up his arm as he was caught by a strong hand. Ivar looked up and found himself staring into the empty eye sockets of a sun-bleached skull peeking over the rampart. He blinked in surprise, thinking perhaps that he was already dead and cast to the frigid wastes of Helheim by some mistake, but he didn't feel at all cold. It took him another moment to realize that he was, in fact, not dead and that even behind the mask of chainmail dangling from his helmet, Njáll didn't seem at all pleased to be holding onto his weight suspended freely in the open air.
"You know, out of all the scum that have a place in my hall, I always did like you the most," Ivar grinned, gripping Njáll's wrist.
Njáll's eyes narrowed behind the already narrow slits of his helmet. "I could still drop you..."
"Do it, you goat fucker," Ivar laughed, but his smile soon faded as Njáll let him hang there just a bit too much for his liking. Eventually, the skull-capped Raider pulled him up, bringing him back over the wall once again and onto solid ground. "About fucking time," he huffed.
Njáll bent down and picked up Ivar's sword and shield from the ground to hand them back. "You owe me a horn full of hack-silver after this."
"I'll tell you where you can shove your horn..." Ivar grumbled, taking his weapons and looking over what was left of the rampart, but there wasn't much to see.
Fire burned brightly where the weapon had once stood, adding to the black smoke that clouded the sky. Ivar coughed, glaring down at the charred bodies of the warriors he had lost. Judging from the position of so many fallen lumps of blackened skin and burning leather in the battle line, the vast majority of them were Headhunters, while he could still see the bulk of the Pyre defenders standing alive and well behind the wall of flames. There, standing at the forefront of black armor and shields, was Kazamir, towering above the rest with longsword in hand. The city commander seemed to spot him as well, taking a step forward and tipping his crowned head in a mocking bow.
Ivar felt his anger rising as hot as the Pyre's magical fire. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to go after that lumbering metal troll and claim his head once and for all. His sword hand itched to swing, to cleave, to cut, and to gouge. He wanted to roar like a bear, to challenge the strongest warrior the enemy could throw at him and rip them apart until there was nothing left. He wanted to taste blood, to feel it hot against his skin. He wanted to kill.
That was what he wanted, but somewhere deep inside, he knew what had to be done.
"Do we pursue?" Njáll asked, hefting his axe. "We can find another path across the city. These fire worshipers need to pay for what they have done."
Ivar glared after Kazamir as the commander turned and slipped away among his minions, black cape swaying behind him until he was simply a blurry shadow behind the orange hue of the flames. "No," he said quietly, forcing himself to say the simple word as if it hurt him. "Secure the ramparts from here. We will regroup with the others and push on to the city's keep together. Herleif needs his soggy hide dragged through the city, it seems."
Njáll said nothing at first, the links of his chainmail helmet sliding together as he turned to look at Ivar. "You're going soft," he said. "That giant Knight tossed you around like a wet bride in front of everyone. Now you will just let him go?"
Ivar snarled as he lunged at Njáll, getting right in the warrior's face so that curved horns knocked against bone, noses pressed right up against each other, and eyes wide with unbridled fury. "Do you think he has anywhere to run!?" he shouted, spittle flying in Njáll's mailed face. "This city is as good as dead, and that bastard has nowhere to go! Give the fucking order, or I'll throw you over this fucking wall myself!"
Njáll stiffened at the outburst, staring back with a foreboding silence until finally, Ivar gave a shove to get him moving. Their dark glares remained locked on one another for a moment longer, then Njáll gave an agitated roll of his shoulders and went to issue his orders to the rest of their clan. Ivar watched him go but ultimately ignored the confused looks of his warriors as they were redirected down off the walls and paid no mind to Njáll's angry shouts and harsh threats of splitting skulls if he caught anyone dallying.
For once, Ivar did not concern himself with the next fight and instead looked back to the charred corpses of those who had been caught in the blast. So many lives lost in an instant, and he had been powerless to stop it from happening. The fire still burned with no sign of stopping as the bodies trapped within the flames nearly turned to ash now and left only their weapons and armor to melt in the oppressive heat. Hopefully, the Allfather's hall would be much more welcoming to them than this wretched realm, but Ivar did not care to dwell on it. They were dead, and he was still alive. He could still fight.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled a conversation with that weakling Herleif high upon the citadel in Eitrivatnen. He had stepped over the dead bodies of his warriors then, too, and told Herleif that he gave no shit for their loss. Herleif had told him that a true jarl led men into battle, not wasted their lives needlessly, and he had thrown it back in the man's face without a care. It was pointless, emotional drivel. Wars needed to be fought, so warriors needed to die. All that mattered was that he was still standing in the end. That was where real glory was found, in surviving when others couldn't. Only the strong deserved to survive, proving themselves to be true warriors. Nothing else mattered beyond that.
So why couldn't he shake the feeling that the whining, pathetic, family-minded bastard might actually be right? Suddenly, it felt as if a massive weight had landed upon his shoulders, and for once, Ivar felt more tired than he did angry. It was not a feeling that suited him in the least.
"Enough of this shit," he muttered to himself and spat into the roaring flames. Then he turned his back on the whole burning mess, thinking no more on what he had lost upon that wall. There were plenty of his warriors left who were in dire need of a swift kick on the ass, and he still had the commander's head to claim.
He pushed his way back into the crowd of red-leather and bone-white warriors as they trudged along, making for a set of stairs leading down to the city streets. Few regarded him with any sort of interest as he passed them by. More simply ignored him completely. Ivar could feel his blood boiling with each step he took, taking their indifference as a personal insult to his honor. Moments ago, his warriors had charged across the ramparts with howls of fury and cries for blood, and now, they marched with eyes downcast and shoulders hunched in dreary silence. It felt far too much like a defeat for Ivar's liking, and there was still too much fighting left for that kind of thinking to be allowed.
Spotting another Warlord who ambled down the stairs with no real urgency, Ivar set his jaw and stepped up behind the man, knocking him across the back of the head with his shield. The Warlord gave an indignant cry as he stumbled forward, whirling around with an angry snarl only to find Ivar staring him down.
"Do you want to fight?" Ivar asked him, baring his yellow teeth. The Warlord looked taken aback by the question, hefting his sword for a moment before lowering it again, his eyes sliding down to Ivar's own weapon questioningly. Ivar simply slapped the flat of his shield against the warrior's chest, asking again with a snarl. "You want to fight?"
He moved over to a trio of warriors with spears and shields, looking at each of them in turn with a grim smile. "And you? You want to fight? You, eh? What about you?" Next was a Berserker, growling low in their throat as he came at them. "I know you want to fight. I see it in your fucking eyes, you beast. You there! Do you wish to fucking fight or go home and cower like a limp gray-beard before you die useless in your bed?" He kept moving down the stairs, asking the question over and over, meeting the eyes of each warrior as he passed. Slowly, he began to receive little nods as he asked, then smiles, and then a roar of approval as a warrior lifted their sword into the air. "You call yourself a Headhunter? Then I know you want to fight!"
He slapped his sword against the metal dome of his shield boss, letting the strike echo over the gathered warband, then heard it repeated back to him from further above. He kept up the rhythm, striking his shield again and again until it was picked up by one warrior, then another, and another until the sound of constant thunder reverberated off the city walls.
"Do you want to fight!?" At last, he came to the bottom of the steps, finding Njáll at the lead and drumming the bottom of his great axe against the ground in perfect rhythm with the rest of the Thurshamrar horde. Ivar stepped right up to him, holding his gaze for a long moment as they drummed out their war song. "Do you want to kill!?" he yelled.
"I want to slay! For glory! For Thurshamrar!" Njáll shouted back, nodding his skull-capped head in approval. "I want blood!"
Ivar gave another shout, mindless and primal, nodding along with the Raider before leaning in and dropping his rough voice, "Then follow me." Another few beats of his sword against his shield before he looked back to his warriors crowding the stairs and cried out loud enough to be heard above the thunderous beat. "Then follow me, you red dogs! Follow me! Follow me to war!"
The drum of weapons on shields grew in sound and rhythm until it became an overwhelming hammer blow punctuated by bestial roars and barbaric war cries. Ivar kept the madness going, kept it building until he lifted his sword and shield into the air and let out his own mighty cry of challenge, his warriors quickly doing the same.
Ivar turned and dashed into the streets, leading his warriors into the fray where Northmen and Pyre Knights already battled for the very fate of the Walled City. He gave one more strike of his sword against his shield, shrugging off the cumbersome weight of guilt he felt on his shoulders without a care, and let a yellow grin split his dark beard.
"Now, bring me someone strong to kill!"