A Shield of Strength - A Warlords Saga

by Barbarian2020

Warlord and Jarl, Herleif Bjornson, receives an invitation to raid deep into Ashfeld, but the fires of war obscure the path before him with death and treachery. Upon the war-torn slopes of Mount Ignis, he will make his stand and fight for all that he believes in, and everyone he holds dear. A Warlord is the shield of his people, and he will not fall.

54. Finally, We Feast

Erik Golden-Shield stood before the watching crowd as the sacrifices still dripped with fresh blood. All eyes were upon him, and with a poetic pause, he stopped to savor the moment of great anticipation as he held them all in the palm of his outstretched hand.

"Finally, we feast!" he declared, and the horde answered him with cheers.

Horns of mead were brought forth to the three clan leaders by their Shaman. Thyra offered a long golden horn that tapered into a glimmering eagle for the King, while Helge carried a gray horn with silver knot-work inlaid around the rim for Herleif, and a simple black horn was borne by Brynhild and given to Ivar. Together, the Warlords lifted the offered cups to their gathered warriors, and Erik's broad smile beamed like the sun to brighten the night.

"We have taken this city, and soon, we shall take the treasure we have earned back to Valkenheim!" This declaration earned him more cheers, but a disgruntled murmur worked its way through the crowd as well. It was not lost on anyone why the horde had stayed within the Walled City longer than what was good for them. "Fear not, for we will find the key!" Erik assured, being no fool to the crowd's sentiments as they hung on his every word. "Soon, the treasure will be ours, and we shall return to our ships. Then we will sail home as mighty heroes! The gods are with us and are pleased with the chaos of battle we have wrought upon our defeated enemies! Now, we are all legends! Now, we are all living songs in a saga that will be told throughout the ages! Now we are all gods ourselves!"

Shouts of approval and the thunder of stomping feet erupted from the sea of faces. Many held up bronze cups and horns of their own, sloshing with sweet mead or frothing ale. Calls of 'Hail King Golden-Shield!' or 'Honor to the King!' filled the air, but a few shouts of 'Hail Herleif the Bold!' and 'To the Red Jarl!' echoed throughout the square. In the midst of it all, raised upon a blood-soaked platform, the last priests of the Divine Pyre that hung flayed from their posts were all but forgotten now as everyone's attention turned to the Golden King in celebration of the victory he had brought them.

The power he held over them was not lost on Erik. He watched the crowd with a satisfied smirk as if inspecting a batch of thralls newly purchased to serve in his great hall.

He lifted his shining horn high into the air and threw out his open palm in glorious exaltation to his own vanity. "Skál!"

"Skál!" shouted Herleif beside the King, raising his horn in salute to his warriors. Then, only after the King did so first, he tipped back his horn, took a long drink of the sweet honey that was the nectar of gods and skalds, and silently cursed Erik for being the type of bastard that everybody loved to adore.

The warriors were served next, with mead being given first to those known to be the bravest fighters from the battle, and they cheered louder than ever now that the celebration of their victory could finally begin. The drums that had beat out the slow rhythm of the sacrifice now picked up again loud and quick, starting a festive beat that rolled over the crowd. Horns and flutes joined them, and soon, the whole square was filled with music that mingled with the boasts and raucous laughter of every Viking who had fought against the Pyre's magical fire and lived. It was a moment that should have happened sooner and came with the shine of gold, silver, and steel in the hands of every warrior who had risked their lives for glory and fortune, but for a chance to simply celebrate a campaign of hard-fought battles won by their own sweat and blood, it was enough.

The wooden idols watched silently from the platform with the bloodied priests, the embodiment of the High One, of hammer-wielding Thor, and of Týr, the battle god, bringing them in among the warriors who worshiped them. They were each given a trencher of food and a goblet of mead, set out before their carved images so that the gods might feast among them and take part in the celebration enjoyed by all. It was a night to revel in glory, live to excess with food and drink, and dream of the riches that would soon be theirs if only they could get inside the city vault.

Yet more food was soon brought out from the cook fires that had been burning all day long. The stores and livestock stolen from the city had more than replenished what the Vikings had brought with them, and now it was time to relish these succulent and savory spoils of war. The smells of roast pig and goat filled the air, and trenchers of pheasant, chicken, and goose were laid out on the tables to be ripped apart by greedy hands and eating knives. There was sweet honey and fresh bread to replace the stale loaves they had survived during the march. Colorful berries filled bowls and cups like gems. Erik even had a few horses slaughtered for the occasion, dishing out their meat to be enjoyed by all.

Through all the feasting and gluttony, barrels of ale were broken open and guzzled by laughing warriors, and mead flowed like water from a bursting dam. Full cups and drinking horns were raised from one side of the square to the other, with every warrior celebrating their shared experience under the night sky.

They had survived the war, and they had won. Yet still, the vault remained closed, and so far, no treasure had been shared with those warriors who had given their all to earn it.

Herleif laughed and knocked cups with a few men he recognized as the festivities began. It was good to see his warriors so pleased with themselves after all they had endured on the long march from Eitrivatnen. He clapped each warrior he met on the shoulder but then became distracted by something going on at the top of the stairs.

There before the entrance to the vault, Erik was deep in conversation with his son, Magnús, and from the angry frown on his face, whatever he was being told was not good news. Making his excuses to the warriors, Herleif moved back up the stairs to his seat, moving slowly so as not to attract too much notice. He stood by the seat set out for him during the sacrifice, one hand resting on the back as he sipped at his mead and listened.

"How long?" whispered Erik angrily, his head down and brows furrowed.

"We sent them out two days ago, but they have not reported back," Magnús said. He seemed to hang on to his father's every word, wanting to put up a brave front but also desperate for any relief that might absolve him of this problem. Erik offered him none.

"Send out another scouting party to search for them, and double the guard at the gate. Make sure no one else leaves the city without my permission," Erik ordered. "No one, do you understand me?"

"Yes, my King." Magnús bowed his head and gave the raucous feast an envious glance before rushing off to carry out his father's will.

Herleif took a moment to down the rest of his mead, gathered his courage, and finally announced himself to the King's notice. "Trouble?"

Erik snapped up from glaring after his son to look at him, and his blue eyes betrayed a hint of worry for just a second before they went hard again. "Nothing. Just keeping track of our scouts is all."

"Keeping track? Is it not the scouts that are supposed to do the tracking?"

"You leave this to me, Herleif," Erik said dismissively. He held out his golden horn, and a thrall dutifully stepped forward to fill it to the brim with more mead. "Keep your attention on more important matters, like finding me that second key. We have been here for days, and still, you have brought me nothing. It is a wonder that I allow your warriors to take part in this revelry at all when there is still so much work to do."

Herleif frowned and held out his horn to be refilled as well, but Erik casually waved the thrall away instead. "We are searching everywhere, but there is still no sign of it." He stepped in close and lowered his voice as he continued, knowing that what he was about to say could spark the wrath of the Golden King to cast a dark cloud over the whole affair. "Perhaps we should start considering that the vault will remain closed forever, and that we must simply take what treasure we have already plundered on this raid and return home soon."

Erik's golden horn froze just before his lips as he stared icy daggers at Herleif. "What did you just say to me?"

Herleif set his jaw and willed himself to continue into the bear's den. "We cannot stay here forever, Erik. We took advantage of Beaufort's negligence to take this city, but they will not remain gone forever. Sooner or later they will take notice of what we have done here, and when they do they will come in force."

"And what if they do, Herleif? Shall we fight Ashfeld's legions as they come for us, just as we fought and destroyed the Divine Pyre? Does the thought of that scare you, my friend?"

"Does the thought of fighting off everything the Knights have to throw at us in a half burned fortress with no gate scare me?" retorted Herleif, staring defiantly in the face of Erik's mockery, "Only a fool would say otherwise."

Erik's anger faded into a mask of cold indifference, the sad look of a disappointed father whose son had fallen short of the mark yet again. He seemed to wear the look with practiced ease.

"Aye, and you are no fool, are you? Look at them, Herleif," he said and gestured at the horde of warriors who feasted before them, "This feast is all I could do to keep them content. To keep them from ripping this city apart along with each other, to keep order. We have won the fight, but I have no rings to give them in return, no golden rings, no silver, no steel to measure out their worth. If you are no fool, then how do you think they will react to leaving behind a treasure hoard they have shed blood to claim? And that armor..."

A shade of Erik's familiar anger returned to him then, and he held a finger in the air as if he were waiting to let his impatience boil over into wrath, "That armor will be mine, and then all of Valkenhiem will know who is the greatest Warlord in the north. We cannot leave, not until we claim what we are owed. No matter what trials the gods send us, we must stay and fight, and I will not hear otherwise."

Herleif squeezed his fists hard enough to turn his knuckles white as he listened and willed himself not to shrink away. "And would you sacrifice us all to a poor death just to flaunt your vanity before the gods to see it done?"

Erik stared hard at him for a long, terrible moment until, at last, his grim frown gave way to an equally harsh laugh. "I have your measure, my friend. I have your measure... Herleif the Bold, I named you. I can take that name away, too, if I wish. Never forget that." He gave Herleif one last withering glance, "Now find me that fucking key." With that, he made his way down the stairs to be welcomed by his adoring crowd, leaving Herleif silent and discouraged in his wake.

For once, Herleif's temper did not seem to flare and threaten to burst forth. Instead, he felt only a cold helplessness at what he could not hope to achieve. Looking down at his empty horn, he sighed and threw it onto his seat. Then he set his jaw and silently cursed himself for ever allowing such weakness to creep inside his heart.

He was far from home, and he would sooner lay with a troll before he ever allowed an arrogant king to keep him from seeing his family again. If Herleif the Bold was the name that had been given to him, now he would earn the title for himself and do what he must to bear it with pride. He left his false high seat and the vault behind him and descended the stairs to search for his brother.

Moving through the wild crowd, he did his best to avoid getting stopped by every Bilrost warrior who wanted to share a drink or a song with him. He made his pleasantries and gave his heartfelt congratulations to those who had earned it but otherwise kept moving until, at last, he saw the hulking shape of his brother in the crowd. He could see the dark bloodstain left on Gunnar's brow and was reminded of his own mark from the sacrifice. In a way, it made him glad they had both shared in this act of loyalty to the gods. For all of their arguing these past days, it was good to know that there were some things that would never come between them.

"Gunnar!" he exclaimed, raising his hand and shouting over the crowd for his brother's attention. He smiled when Gunnar looked up and saw him, but it slipped away just as quickly when he saw who was with him.

Sitting at a table laden with food and drink, Gunnar watched Herleif warily as he approached. There, sitting on the end of the table with her legs stretched out over Gunnar's lap, was Priscilla.

Herleif could not say he was pleased to find them together, even if the war seemed far from everyone's minds now that they celebrated. One of Gunnar's hands was resting on Priscilla's leg while the other held a curved horn, and the Peacekeeper held her own cup of what looked to be a deep red wine. It was clear from their smiles that they had been laughing and joking together before he arrived, and even now, they looked at him as if they knew something he did not. The openness with which they flaunted their growing affection for each other filled Herleif with more dread than anything he had seen from them before, but a warning look from him saw Gunnar moving his hand away, much to Priscilla's chagrin.

"We need to talk," he said, making sure his tone carried that it was a command and not a request.

Gunnar, however, didn't seem to get the message or simply chose to ignore it completely. He shared a glance with Priscilla, then waved his drinking horn as if granting Herleif permission. "Speak then."

Herleif had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting and instead growled, "Alone."

Silence fell between them as they stared each other down, neither wanting to be the first to break. Herleif was determined not to lose, not in front of the Knight who had driven such a wedge between him and his brother. Gunnar seemed to be of the same mind but for different reasons. Soon, Herleif was beginning to think he would have to lay hands on his brother and pull him away from the table, but in the end, it was Priscilla who relented first as tensions between them reached their height. She swung her legs off his lap, allowing Gunnar to stand and heed Herleif's summons. He would have preferred that Gunnar submitted without needing a fight, but time was growing short.

As Gunnar rose, Herleif turned his back on the Peacekeeper and stepped away from the table to a less crowded part of the square. He could hear Gunnar following behind, but with no quick hurry, and in a moment of boiling aggravation, he turned to grab his brother's arm and pulled him along. This invoked immediate retaliation from Gunnar, and they shoved at each other until, at last, Herleif felt they were far enough away from too many interested ears.

"Listen!" Herleif hissed, making one last grab for his brother and pulling him close. "Erik's scouts have gone missing in the scrublands. He is closing the city, not letting anyone in our out."

"What do you mean gone missing?" Gunnar asked, "The Pyre held this territory for months, and now there is no one left here besides us..."

"No one that we have seen," Herleif said pointedly, "We were not expecting to find any Samurai around these parts, and yet they still sit in the city prison. Sitting here waiting to find a way into the vault does not leave us in a position of strength. We are not prepared to winter here, and sooner or later Ashfeld is going to come back to claim what was once theirs, and when they do we should be far from here and sailing home."

Gunnar went quiet, his face becoming serious as he stopped fighting against Herleif's grasp. "So what should we do?"

"We need to find out if we are as safe as we think! Whatever Erik learns, there is a chance he will keep such knowledge to himself to ensure we stay for the treasure. I want you to gather a few of our scouts and make your way outside the city before Erik's warriors secure the gate. Do what you must to see it done and make sure that we are truly alone. The longer we remain blind within these walls, the greater danger we may face before we can leave." Gunnar frowned, his face tensing hard in thought, but then he looked back to the table where Priscilla sat, eyes full of longing. Herleif squeezed his arm and pulled Gunnar's attention back to him. "Will you do this for me, brother? For all of us?"

Gunnar's mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out at first. For a moment, Herleif worried that his brother might actually deny his request, and then he did not know what he would do with him next, but then Gunnar sighed and nodded. "Aye, I will see it done."

"Good," Herleif said with relief, patting his brother on the shoulder, "Report back to me when you return. And Gunnar..." his brother stopped just as he was about to make his departure, looking back at Herleif curiously, "Thank you."

A simple nod was all Gunnar gave in return, that and a small grin that put a familiar twinkle in his eye that Herleif was happy to see. Then his brother was gone, off to gather whoever he thought was best to take on this mission of scouting the surrounding hills. It put Herleif at ease that some progress might be made to safeguarding the horde as a whole, and he thought about finding another drink to enjoy while he waited for his brother to return. He only made it a few steps before an accusing voice called out to him out of the crowd.

"Did you just ruin my evening?"

He turned to see Priscilla looking at him from the table, swirling her cup of wine in her hand and idly swinging her feet beneath her. He frowned at her and jutted his chin forward as if to recognize her challenge. "Perhaps. Depends on what you had planned?"

Priscilla blushed and looked away from him, and he had to admit the sight filled him with some satisfaction. Still, he found himself alone with the woman that his brother clearly cared for and would come to blows with him for, and it seemed like a waste to let a chance for some sort of connection slip away out of spite. Surely, if Gunnar was still willing to grant him favors when he asked, he could do the same.

"You know, I once promised my wife a Peacekeeper's dagger as a prize. Never actually found one though, not before you."

She looked down at the dagger on her hip and then up at him, her brows furrowed with curious amusement. "You should give thanks to your gods then. If you had, maybe you would not have lived as long as you have."

"Oh yes, I give thanks to the gods for many things these days. Least of all that I may get the chance to bring a whole live Peacekeeper home to my wife now instead of just a dagger." He watched as she seemed to grimace at that prospect. Stepping closer, he perused the feast laid out next to her along the table, taking his time in making his selection of berries, cheeses, and grapes that all came from the plunder of the city's less material riches.

"Does the idea of finding a new home in the north with the rest of your legion not please you?" he asked her. He picked a few grapes off the stem and began to eat them one by one as she watched him. "A new home with Gunnar? He has spent his time wandering the wilds of our homeland these past few years, moving from battle to battle. I have long told him that he should find a good woman to settle down with and look to his future. I never thought he would ever go so far as to settle on a woman from Ashfeld, but then he has always done things his own way."

She looked at him like he had suddenly grown a second head, the curiosity gone from her eyes to only leave apparent confusion and resentment staring back at him. Herleif blinked at her, wondering if she had not caught his meaning. It had not been the most tactful approach, in truth, but it was genuine deep down.

"I only want what is best for my brother, and if you are what he desires then I will fight him on this matter no longer," he continued, hoping that she might understand even if everything from her tense posture to her bemused frown said otherwise. He shook his head and grabbed up a cup from the table, thinking it was filled with wine from the color, and raised it to her in a friendly toast. "To a new home, for all of us. Skál!"

Priscilla did not raise her cup in return. Instead, she slipped off the table to stand before him and took a step closer in a way that seemed less than friendly between warriors.

"The last time you and I spoke," she began, staring up at him with a halfway amused grin on her lips, "you came uninvited into my tent, put your sword to my throat, and told me to end whatever spell you thought I had cast over your brother like a superstitious fool."

Herleif opened his mouth to retort, but his throat went tight, and no words came forth. He remembered the moment clearly enough now that it was being hurled back at him, and he could find no suitable excuse to give.

"I... Well, that was..." he sputtered, unable to say anything now that might justify his past actions. "Things were different then, and I..."

Of all the ways he had thought this would go, being caught wrong-footed by the Peacekeeper who had caused him so much trouble and strife was far from what he had hoped. In the end, silence was his only answer.

Priscilla cocked her head and smiled at him with devious satisfaction. "You and I have nothing to say to each other. Least of all without your brother present."

Bringing the cup to her lips, she took a long sip, all without ever breaking her gaze away from his, until finally she released him from his awkward torment and turned away, leaving him stunned with his untouched cup in hand. She had almost slipped away entirely when she stopped and turned back. The look she gave him was almost sympathetic as she raised her cup and said, "And good luck finding a dagger for your wife. It sounds as if she has been waiting for an awfully long time."

She turned away and relished the broad smile that spread across her lips. The look of shock on his face as she delivered that last verbal blow was almost worth all the grief and aggravation he had caused her through this whole ordeal. Seeing Gunnar walk off after speaking with the Jarl had dampened her mood for the evening more than she wanted to admit, but having the last word against Herleif had restored some of her good mood.

Making her way through the crowd, she wasn't even bothered to be caught out alone among so many Vikings. She could feel their curious and resentful stares on her, but none of it mattered now. In fact, she actually smiled back at a few of them she caught trying to stare her down. There was a tense thrill in the air, and it made her want to fight. She wanted to dance. It had been so long since she had last danced, but she did not wish to do it alone, and Gunnar was off somewhere unknown. Hopefully, he would be back soon. It might be foolish for her to hope, considering he had not been gone for long, but on a night like this, with music and laughter filling the air, she found herself not wanting to be alone.

Being alone only made her think about all the nights she had spent without anyone to call her own.

There was no particular direction she was heading, lost from her legion and not knowing any of the other Bilrost Vikings particularly well besides Gunnar, but the sound of laughter and loud cheers caught her attention as she neared a brightly lit tavern that was packed full of warriors. Curiosity got the better of her, and she worked her way through the crowd to see what had caught everybody's attention.

In the middle of the tavern, sitting at a small square table surrounded by rowdy, roaring, curse-shouting, and boast-hurling Vikings, was Coal. He was shouting, too, urging the crowd into even more of a frenzy, all while he clasped hands with a Northman sitting across from him in a struggle to see who could slam the other's fist to the table first. He waved the crowd on with his free hand, appearing to pay no attention to the warrior before him, and even took a long drink from a mug sitting beside him while the Northman struggled against him. Coal tipped back the mug, held it away from his lips, and let the last drops of ale fall onto his outstretched tongue, then tossed it away and gave a mighty roar louder than the whole of the crowd as he suddenly slammed his opponent's hand down upon the table.

Priscilla found herself laughing at the sight and clapped along with everyone else as Coal reveled in their cheers. He smiled at his opponent and offered his hand in good sportsmanship, but the warrior simply shot up from the table and muttered some northern curse before dropping a few pieces of hack silver on the table.

"Better luck next time then, you hairy bastard," Coal laughed, scooping up his winnings and putting them into a small but heavy-looking sack that jingled full of what he had already taken from the Northmen so far. "Alright, who's next?"

The Vikings around him cheered again, none seeming angry that this Ashfeld Knight had just bested one of their own. A few warriors patted Coal on the shoulder for his victory, and one grabbed up his mug and refilled it for him before setting it back on the table.

Pushing her way closer, Priscilla caught Coal's eye, moved around him, and leaned in close so he could hear her over the noise. "I would never dare challenge such an esteemed champion, but I would sit with one if you would allow it."

He regarded her silently for a moment, suddenly much more subdued while waiting for another opponent to join him. Then he nodded, and Priscilla felt a weight fall from her shoulders as she grabbed a nearby chair and sat beside him.

A new challenger stepped forward just as she got comfortable, putting his bet on the table and sitting down. He paid Priscilla no mind as he focused solely on Coal, setting his elbow down on the table and holding up his hand as Coal did the same. Their palms came together, each grasping tight so the muscles in their forearms bulged and tensed.

"He looks fierce," Priscilla said, grinning at the grizzled-looking Viking as he and Coal prepared to wage their little battle of strength for the crowd's amusement.

"They all do," muttered Coal.

Someone shouted in northern to begin, and in an instant, both men were baring their teeth and grunting like beasts as each tried to overpower the other. Coal's dark hair was already damp with sweat from his past battles, but still, he looked as if he could take on every person in the tavern and not grow tired. The Viking, however, grimaced as he struggled against Coal's overwhelming power, clearly outmatched but still trying to last as long as possible to save face in front of the cheering crowd. Priscilla watched it all with happy delight, amused to see the outcome of this contest so far out from its completion. From what she could see, it was hardly a contest at all, and so she thought this was as good a time as ever to settle things with her friend, if only for her own amusement.

"You have never told me your real name," she said, causing Coal's arm to nearly give out from shock. The Viking grinned and gave a harsh laugh, sensing a change in Coal's demeanor and a chance at turning the tide of their little battle.

"What?" Coal hissed, gripping his opponent's hand and showing his teeth as he fought back, not yet giving up despite his lapse of concentration. "So? What of it?"

"I will admit, when you first came to the Lion Flame I thought very little of you," Priscilla continued, as if she and Coal were having a polite conversation over tea, "But as I have said before, you have gone above and beyond what you were tasked to do, and I simply feel it is a shame that I do not know the given name of someone I have grown so fond of."

"You want to do this now...?"

"What I want is to apologize for what I said to you today," she said earnestly, though her eyes drifted towards a drunk Viking that stumbled far too close to the table in all the excitement, "I overstepped, and you did not deserve it. I only wish I could apologize to you properly, with your true name, as a friend should."

Coal huffed as the fight began to turn against him, his mind now torn between winning the Viking's silver and what she was saying to him. "Doesn't matter..." he grunted, the muscles in his forearm bulging with all his strength to keep his winning streak going. "Not the name..." The Northman's eyes glinted with the chance to come out on top. Laughing to himself, he redoubled his efforts, determined to take down this Ashfeld tin that had bested so many of his kinsmen and earn some renown for his name. "Not the apology... Nngh... We're good, Pris... Always have been."

Priscilla gave a solemn nod of her head. "That is very kind of you to say, but still..."

Beneath the table, she swiftly kicked out the foot of the drunken Viking she had been watching. The drunkard fell right onto the man wrestling with Coal, spilling their ale and, more importantly, throwing off the warrior's momentum. Without a moment's hesitation, Coal slammed his opponent's hand down onto the table just before the warrior and drunkard both tumbled to the floor in a mess of flailing limbs and splashing ale.

"...I just want you to know that I will always have your back."

Coal thumped his fist against the table, perhaps from the thrill of another victory or out of annoyance for having the contest tampered with. Regardless of which, though, he soon settled back in his chair and ran a hand through his dark hair before sighing and looking at Priscilla with a grin. "Always getting me into trouble, but at least you care enough to get me out of it too. Guess that's about as good a friend as I've had in a long time."

"Well," Priscilla grinned back, "until you find someone more suitable, you can count on me."

Nodding, Coal smacked his hand on the table three times for attention. "Someone get my friend a drink! Her cup is empty!"

It seemed that whatever he said was enough to evoke more shouts of adoration from the crowd, and even as the two men brawled with each other on the floor over who had ruined the match, Priscilla's cup was filled to the brim as the revelry continued unimpeded into the night.

Coal scooped the silver the last challenger had left on the table into his bag, then shouted, "Next!"

A new figure stepped out of the crowd and slammed a small lockbox onto the table. If the noise had failed to capture everyone's attention, the sight of the lid being lifted to reveal the two neat rows of gold coins brought the room to near silence. Everyone was watching now, their attention captured by such a gleaming sight, save for the two still wrestling on the ground.

Priscilla blinked dumbly at the small fortune, and Coal did much the same before he looked at his new opponent. "Shiny."

A tall, blonde, broad-shouldered woman stared down at him with a prideful grin on her lips. She was undoubtedly a Raider by the look of her; well muscled, scarred as a glacier, and as beautiful to look upon as she was surely terrifying to witness in battle. Easily standing a head above every man in the room, she took a seat at the table and still managed to strike the imposing figure of a giantess carved from solid rock. Priscilla wasn't sure what she was more jealous of as she openly stared- the gold or how easily this woman could undoubtedly reach the top of high shelves.

Drumming her fingers on the open chest, the woman began speaking in the common tongue with a thick northern accent. "I took this chest from a Warden in Eitrivatnen. He challenged me to a duel and promised that his soldiers would not interfere until we were done. After I cut off his head with my axe, I killed them too and took this treasure as my prize. Now, I will bet it against you to see who is the stronger. I have been watching you fight tonight, Conqueror, and I like what I see."

Even Priscilla felt her cheeks go hot at that last statement, and she leaned over to whisper in Coal's ear before he could answer. "She really does looks fierce."

"They all do. I got this," Coal whispered back and then put his sack of hard-won silver on the table against her lock box, but the woman only shook her head.

"I have no need for your silver," she said.

Coal's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "So what will we play for?"

The Raider's smirk grew just a touch more satisfied at his question. "If you win, the gold is yours. If I win, I get you, little man. For the night."

The laughter returned to the tavern, and the merriment was rejuvenated with more hands clapping Coal on the shoulders as the challenge was made. For his part, Coal didn't so much as flinch in the face of this woman's deal but, after a moment, leaned back to Priscilla and whispered, "I'll handle this one on my own, thanks."

"You think you can win?" Priscilla asked with an amused grin.

"I know I can't lose," he said, and then set his elbow on the table and offered up his hand, "Deal."

"Do not lose without a fight, tin," the Raider said as she leaned forward and clasped her giant hand with his, "If you do, I promise the night will not be as pleasurable as you hope..."

"Oh, don't worry. This dog still has some bite left in him."

At the signal from another warrior, the fight began. Instantly, the woman's arm bulged with iron muscle, and her face became a scowl of dark determination as if she meant to wipe Coal off the face of the earth, let alone beat him in a friendly contest. Coal did what he could to fight against her; his arm gripped in the thews of the war they raged over that small table. He gritted his teeth and snarled, a sharp glint of determination in his dark eyes like a vicious hound let off the leash. The table wobbled and shook beneath their might, threatening to burst into a thousand pieces before either of them would relent.

Around them, the crowd burst into raucous fanfare, urging these two heroes on with their shouts and jeers. Frothy ale splashed from raised horns as they were thrown in the air at the spectacle, and all through the tavern, people clapped as if they were banging weapons upon their shields on the field of battle. Even Priscilla allowed herself to be caught up in the madness for once, whooping and shouting at Coal to fight as hard as he could.

"Come on! Come on! You are a Knight of Ashfeld! You will not lose to this northern goat!" Priscilla shouted, sitting forward in her chair and watching in wide-eyed amazement as Coal struggled against his aggressive would-be suitor. But even as she cheered for him, Coal's strength began to fade against the onslaught of the Raider's fury. The Vikings shouted louder and louder in support of their ferocious war maiden while Priscilla could only groan. "Come on, Coal! Are you even trying!?"

"I am!" shouted the Conqueror, and then, in a moment of desperation or hysteric glee, he laughed as his arm began to shake. "Dammit, I really am! God... this bitch is strong!"

"You will say so again tonight..." grunted the Raider, "...and then thank me for it after!"

Letting out a mighty roar, and with the force of the thunder god's falling hammer, she squeezed Coal's hand and slammed his arm down to the table with a thud to shake the foundations of the earth. In the blink of an eye, she had shot up from her seat; arms held up in victory as she shouted something in northern that drove the watching crowd into a frenzy.

Coal slumped back in his chair, groaning with exhaustion and shaking out his arm. Priscilla sat next to him, calm and composed once again, gently swirling the drink in her hand. "I hope you are happy, soldier. You have just brought dishonor upon your name and your legion with that shameful display."

"Yeah?" panted Coal, grinning at her and then up at the giant Northwoman still celebrating with her kin. "Well, I can tell you... It's only going to get worse from here." He began to laugh, full and loud, from his belly. Try as she might, Priscilla couldn't suppress her own grin, then gave herself over to the merriment as they fell in together shoulder to shoulder and knocked their cups together before sharing a drink.

That was when the Raider slammed her chest of gold closed, scooped it up under one arm, and with the other, grabbed Coal by the collar to haul him bodily up from his chair. "Come with me, little man. I will do to you all the wonderful things your cowardly priests warned you of."

Coal's eyes flashed excitedly, and he thumped a fist against his chest in salute as the woman held him. "You will find me ready, willing, and eager, my lady," he said, then grabbed his bag of silver from the table and tied it to his belt just before the Raider dragged him away.

The crowd cheered to see him off, and still sitting back in her chair, Priscilla raised her cup to her friend, "I will send a rescue party come morning!"

"Don't bother!" Coal shouted back, his arm around the tall woman's hip and hers draped over his shoulders, "I gladly do this in honor of all conscripted soldiers everywhere!"

Priscilla shook her head and laughed as she watched him go until finally Coal disappeared from sight, resigned to his fate and not knowing what state she would find him in tomorrow. She tingled with excitement after such a thrilling display but thought it might have been the ale and wine she had enjoyed so far that night. It was hard to deny, though, that after so much toil and pain, it was nice to let it all go and finally enjoy a drink. More than that, it was nice to enjoy life.

Only now, she was alone again, and there was naught but Northmen surrounding her to celebrate with. People who might welcome her now but in time would remember her for the armor-clad Knight she was, and ancient blood feuds and old hatreds would be remembered again. It was inevitable, she knew, but for tonight at least, she wanted to live in the moment and not concern herself with fears of the future or dwell in the horrors of the past.

Taking a look around, most of the Vikings that had crowded around to watch Coal beat challenger after challenger had dissipated into their own little groups to enjoy their drinks. A few still seemed to acknowledge her presence among them, either giving her reassuring nods that she was welcome to stay and drink or icy glares to tell her that she was not. She decided to err on the side of caution, perhaps the first use of her training that night, and swiftly rose from her seat to make her departure from the tavern.

As she left, she found the drunkard and the earlier challenger still wrestling outside in the street, now having gathered a crowd of on-lookers who watched on in amusement. She tried to go around them respectfully, but they quarreled so wildly like animals that she had no choice but to jump over them.

"A good evening to you, gentle sirs," she said politely before going on her way.

The feast was still well underway within the confines of the Walled City, and the streets were crowded with Northmen celebrating their war prowess. The air stank with the sting of ale and the resulting piss as the Vikings defiled the city in their barbaric way, leaving Priscilla to avoid any puddles as she made her way through the crowds, especially since it had yet to rain since their arrival. Again, she wandered with no particular direction in mind, greeting those friendly enough to raise their cups to her first and avoiding those who did not. She briefly considered seeking out the spot where her legion had bedded down for the night but did not feel especially drawn to their company just then.

In truth, now that Coal had found his company for the night, her thoughts kept returning to Gunnar and wishing he had not left on whatever task Herleif had set him to. As she walked through the streets, she had caught sight of a few couples, or more, that had paired off to enjoy the evening together. Seeing them embrace and kiss so openly on the streets was scandalous to behold, but still, she found herself thinking about where the night might have gone if Gunnar had not left her. Suddenly, her good mood seemed to fizzle away on the foul-smelling wind, and cold memories of her first days alone in the Sisterhood crept into her mind with bitter resentment.

After a while, she realized that she had circled back to where the sacrifices had taken place, and as she entered the square, she was stopped in surprise at who she spotted through the crowd

- Gunnar, tall and proud, speaking with someone heatedly on the far side of the square.

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, and perhaps once she might have been ashamed by her excitement, now she struck out with only one thing in mind: one want. She smiled like a stupid girl seeing her first love at a summer fair, but as she grew closer, her joy slowly began to slip away.

The person Gunnar was talking to was Herleif, and neither looked very happy as they gestured and pointed accusingly at each other, clearly in the midst of an argument. As much as she wanted to go to him, her training told her to hold back, to linger in the crowd and listen, to seek information that would benefit her goals rather than give in to selfish impulses.

The mission came first. Everything else was an afterthought.

She fell in with a group of Northmen picking a roasted pig clean on a long table, taking small bites to show she had a reason for being there, and focused on Gunnar as he growled angrily at his brother.

"...couldn't get out. The gate was too heavily guarded."

"I told you to be quick!" hissed Herleif.

"I was as quick as I could be! The city is crawling with Erik's guards."

Herleif groaned and pinched at the bridge of his nose. "I trusted you to get this done, Gunnar. We are blind without scouts in the field. Did you even try to make your way out? Really try?"

There was a moment of silence before Gunnar finally continued, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, did you try within the best of your narrow-minded ability to complete the task given to you by your Jarl, or did you dawdle simply so you could stay in the city with her?"

"Herleif," Gunnar said with a violent bite that couldn't be ignored, "the next time you command me as a Jarl and not speak to me as your brother will be the last time I see you as either..."

Priscilla could hear them descending into further squabbles after that, but her mind was racing too fast with what she had heard to pay further attention. If what Herleif had said was true, then there were no scouts in the scrubland surrounding the city, but not for lack of effort. Erik was closing the city in, and now no one had any idea what was happening outside the walls. No one among the Vikings, at least, but she knew. Only she knew what was coming while Erik kept his army stuck within the city while he fruitlessly tried to open the vault, and it would come soon.

Somehow, though, none of that mattered as much to her as what else had been said. Hearing how Herleif so freely threw her mere existence in Gunnar's face filled her with an anger she had not known since her days at court. Now Gunnar was fighting for his own self-respect against the man who commanded him, and despite all of her training and all of her discipline through years of being taught to put everything before herself, she could not allow him to fight alone.

Rising from the table, she acted without thought of the consequences, something that would have gotten her beaten by her teachers in the Sisterhood. Somehow, that thought didn't shame her as much as it should have, and moving quickly, she came up on Herleif and Gunnar before either of them even realized she was there.

"Pardon me," she muttered, snatching Gunnar's wrist and pulling him away to make a quick escape. She almost thought they had made it, but then Gunnar stumbled behind her, and she looked to see Herleif grabbing his brother's other arm.

"What do you think you are doing?" Herleif exclaimed. Gunnar gave a grunt of pain between them as he was tugged one way, then another, but Priscilla wasn't about to let go for anything. For a brief moment, she thought about giving Herleif her dagger, but not in any sort of way that it would make a good gift for his wife.

"Staking my claim!" she snarled, and with one shared look between her and Gunnar, it became clear what needed to be done. Giving his arm a hard shake, Gunnar threw off Herleif and shoved him away. Then they fled hand in hand into the crowd, fleeing his brother like two young lovers caught together in a farmer's barn.

"Gunnar!" shouted Herleif. He tried to give chase, but he stumbled after Gunnar pushed him, giving them just enough of a head start to slip away. The last he saw of his brother, he and that infernal woman were slipping down a side street just as a group of thralls came by carrying a whole new roast pig to lay out on the now empty table, getting in his way.

Cursing, his anger got the better of him, and he struck one of the thralls to the ground with the back of his hand. The others jumped back from him in fear, startled that they should be attacked just for carrying out their duties, but he could not bring himself to care. That Peacekeeper had such a way of getting under his skin just as she sank her claws deeper and deeper into his brother. This whole ordeal was getting out of hand. He would have words with Judith on how she commanded her soldiers, or he would deal with Priscilla personally, regardless of his brother's threats. He would have order in his warband, and no hooded sneak thief was going to ruin what little legacy he had left to pass onto his children.

"Get me a fucking drink!" he shouted at the thralls, though he hardly felt any better for it. One came forward with a goblet of wine, their hands shaking to make the liquid slosh, but Herleif spilled even more as he snatched it from the slave and guzzled it down to try and calm his nerves. It didn't work, and he threw the cup away in disgust before stalking his way down the street, his foul mood and dark glare clearing the way of anyone who stood before him.

The night seemed to be dragging on now, and where there had once been celebration and merriment, Herleif could only worry about what the morning might bring. If they remained within the city for much longer, there was no telling what trouble would pursue them back to their ships and upriver. The decision to stay or go was becoming perilous to ignore, but to act alone would mean he would be breaking his oath to Erik as his sworn man. He had sworn too many oaths on this raid, and none of them for his own benefit. Just as he was trapped within the city, he was chained to whatever decision Erik made as King.

For a moment, he thought about casting aside his oath and taking his chances on a return voyage home. To do so would surely bring the wrath of the gods upon him, and what was left of his reputation would turn to slander and deceit among his people. It would be a great risk, but at least he and his warriors would be free of danger- if he could lead them away from the vault at all without first setting their eyes on its beautiful treasure, that is. Such a thing could be an even worse outcome than finding himself besieged by a returning Knight legion. He had starved his warriors of battle fame and glory for far too long already, and now that they had again tasted the sweet exaltation of victory, there was no doubt in his mind they would only want more. Drunk and rowdy as they were, he knew for certain that whatever course of action he hoped to take, none of it would do him any good until morning.

So, he wandered on, ignoring everyone around him as he tried not to glower over thoughts of his brother abandoning him in favor of that Ashfeld witch.

Music filled the air, growing louder, but it did nothing to improve his mood. Still, he sought out the musicians that filled the night with dance and sweet sounds, if only because it would help drown his mind of woeful thoughts he did not wish to dwell on. Perhaps a few more cups of mead would help as well.

He found a group serving ale from an open barrel instead, and as he approached, they graciously gave him a horn to drink from. The warriors seemed happy enough to drink in the company of a Jarl, and while the horn they offered was a simple thing compared to his own silver-lined treasure, he was happy to be among men and women who were not scheming against him in some way or another. Thanking them for the drink, he turned towards the musicians striking up a tune nearby and was stopped dead in his tracks by a sight he was not prepared for.

Ivar was sitting on the edge of a glittering fountain, fingers nimbly plucking away at the strings of an elegant harp. The instrument he held looked like a small shield, with a rim of twisted iron and two silver dragon heads that stretched upward to hold the tightly wound strings as they sang. Indeed, the music that Ivar so effortlessly played was magnificent to behold, and it filled the night air with beauty and magic that bid everyone who heard it to move and dance under its spell. Even Ivar himself looked to be caught up in the moment, his eyes closed, but his head bobbing along to the beat of the tune. He seemed entranced, never striking a wrong note or falling behind in rhythm with those who played with him.

Three other Headhunter warriors joined their Jarl with instruments of their own, playing as if they had all tasted the mead of skalds. Together, the sounds of harp, lute, horn, flute, and drum joined to bring joy to the men and women who danced before them. The whole square was alive with their music, with people dancing in pairs or groups, or even by themselves, as they enjoyed the moment for what it was and lived without care as their fates allowed them.

For all his bad mood made him want to forget this night, Herleif couldn't help but smile as he watched so many warriors come together and greet each other beyond the boundaries of their clans. It amazed him and filled his bitter heart with joy. To think that it was none other than Ivar the Red who had brought everyone together in this moment of bliss made him believe he had died and entered the hall of Gimlé, where the worthy lived on in glory after the end of days.

Ivar's dark brows knotted as he plucked the last few notes on his strings with increased fervor, focusing on his task with all the dedication of a proud skald, and brought the song to an end with an exuberant display. Those around continued their dance until the very last beat and then applauded the Jarl and his fellows as Ivar remained caught in the moment a little while longer. Then, at last, he lowered his harp and gave a satisfied grin and a nod to those who played with him.

As much as Herleif had tried to avoid his blood brother whenever possible, even he could not resist walking up and commenting on what a wonder it was to hear such beautiful music from such a wretched man. "You play that harp wonderfully."

Ivar looked over to him and, for once, did not instantly glower or curse. "I do, don't I."

Herleif stepped up to the fountain and offered Ivar his horn of ale, thinking the man deserved a drink after playing so earnestly. "It is an elegant instrument for one such as you. I did not know you were a man of Óðinn's Gift?"

Ivar eyed the horn suspiciously at first but then took it and raised it in thanks before taking a long drink. "Aah... My mother taught me when I was a boy. She thought I needed to be practiced at something other than fucking slave girls and breaking bones in wrestling. My father thought it was a waste of fucking time, and I agreed, but I was so tired of him beating me about the training circle every day I was just happy for the distraction."

"Did the harp belong to your mother, then?"

"This one?" Ivar asked, looking down at the beautiful instrument in his hand, "No. A village boy made fun of me for playing a girl's instrument, so I broke the one she gave me over his head and smashed out all his teeth. Stopped practicing with her after that, but I picked it up again after she died."

"She gave you a lasting gift. That is something to be proud of."

"Aye, that it is," said Ivar, then he finished the rest of his ale and said no more.

Taking a seat on the fountain, Herleif stared at the crowd, enjoying the feast as Ivar contented himself to play a few light notes beside him. It seemed that it was to be a night of awkward meetings and thin attempts at friendship, but for the life of him, Herleif was too tired to pretend that the bad blood that had existed between him and Ivar was in any way worse than the hurdles he was struggling to endure now. If anything, Ivar had become his only supporter since the siege began, while those he had once counted on the most had become distant and unreliable.

So it was for that reason alone he leaned in and, perhaps with some measure of lingering resentment, made his first attempt at bridging the gap between himself and his old rival. "Honor to you, Ivar, for coming to my aid during the siege."

The harp strings echoed their last note as Ivar stopped playing, and he looked sideways at Herleif and grinned. "Fuck off."

By this point, Herleif was well practiced in enduring Ivar's gruff rebukes and carried on unphased. "I only speak to what you are owed. The battle against the Pyre was turning against me, and if you had not arrived with your warriors... For a moment I thought I had lost the Allfather's favor, but he spared me the humiliation of defeat. Now I must live to endure songs of the day I was saved from death by my most bitter rival."

Ivar gave a grunt of laughter. "Is that what you think of me? Strange. I hardly think of you at all."

"Spit your thoughtless drivel if you like, you old troll, but it is the truth. We have not had cause to fight as shield-brothers in all the years we have suffered each other's resentment, but when I needed aide you did not falter in the task. For that, you have my gratitude."

"We are at war," Ivar shrugged, idly picking at the strings of his harp once again, "whatever battles still lay between us can wait until we return home."

It was perhaps the closest thing to a real truce they would ever have, but it came with the promise of further violence if they could not come away from this raid without finding a common cause between them. At this point, Herleif knew of only one thing that might do just that. It could very well be seen as going against his oath to Erik, but then he had made a blood oath to Ivar first, so to his mind, keeping the peace between them was more important.

"Erik is taking control of the city," he said, "He has put the gate under guard, and worse, his scouts patrolling the surrounding plain have gone missing."

A sour note rang from the harp strings for the first time as Ivar tensed. "Fuck."

"The man is obsessed with the vault. No matter how long it takes, be it months, or even years, he will not depart until he has that accursed Blackstone armor. I know it is the prize we have all fought for, but if for once we are of the same mind, you know we cannot linger here much longer for one the vanity of one man."

"A very powerful man. A King," grunted Ivar.

"Aye," said Herleif, holding his blood-brother's gaze, "but still just a man."

"You are a man who walks with Loki to speak in such a way," Ivar chuckled, "Maybe you do have some balls after all, Herleif. You sure had me fooled for a long while."

Herleif shrugged his shoulders and frowned. "I thought I proved as much when I took down the gate with fire and sharp cunning. A feat that not even Erik can boast of, I might add."

Ivar only laughed and nodded, playing his harp loudly now as the crowded square began to call for more music. Herleif surmised that he had overstayed his welcome with the Jarl of Thurshamrar long enough and stood up from the fountain with a click of his old knees. "Just be prepared for anything. We do not know what surprises the Allfather may yet have in store for us." With that, he gave a respectful nod of his head and went on his way.

"Herleif," Ivar called after him before he got too far. Herleif stopped and looked over his shoulder, surprised to see that the defiant look that normally resided in Ivar's dark eyes was replaced with a somberness that could almost be mistaken for shame. "Back at the Hallowed Bastion, you asked me if the name Sitvek Stone-Breaker meant anything to me, and I told you no."

It seemed an age ago now that Herleif had fought and killed Sitvek in single combat on a cold winter's day, but he still remembered the proud warrior with the resigned bitterness of knowing every man has his fated death day. "Yes, I remember."

Ivar averted his gaze, looking anywhere but at Herleif. He plucked at the strings for another moment before he put down the instrument altogether with a huff. "I have lost too many men needlessly in my time as Jarl. Warriors like Njáll... like Sitvek. Good men who have lived and died under my rule. I would not lose any more to this fool's errand that Erik has set us on. I have always thought you were a weak man for how you bared your heart so openly, and though I doubt that will ever change, I know now it is not without merit. My time fighting the world to stand alone among its ashes is over. When the skalds sing of our battles here in the seasons to come, they will sing of how we fought together, not of our feuds."

Herleif didn't know what to say. He was so stunned to hear that Ivar would ever own up to his faults, not only as a leader but as a man, which was something he thought he would never witness in all of his days. It seemed an odd thing that their long-held differences might be burned away in the fires of war, but fighting shoulder to shoulder in the shield wall had a way of bringing forth a warrior's true character when it mattered.

"Honor to you, Jarl Ivar," he said again. He gave Ivar one more nod, then finally turned and departed.

Singing picked up behind him as the music resumed. Songs of days long past, heroic deeds, beautiful women, and mighty battles. It did Herleif's heart good to hear them as he walked alone into the night.

He did not know where he was going. Perhaps to reclaim his silver drinking horn back at his seat, or maybe to see if he could find a way outside the walls himself to lead some scouts across the plain. Or he could pass the time searching for the elusive second vault key. Regardless of which, he doubted there was a single person in the entire city sober enough to help him, and so anything productive he wished to do would have to wait until morning.

As he rounded the corner into a set of intersecting streets, he thought he caught a glimpse of his brother coming from the opposite direction. He started after Gunnar, not entirely sure what he would say once he got to him, but the crowd proved too difficult to pass through, and before he knew it, he'd lost sight of Gunnar among so many people. There was no sign of him by the time he made it across or that little Ashfeld witch he had run off with, only a tavern with an open cook-fire where more meat was being prepared over an open hearth.

"Gunnar?" he shouted, glancing around to hopefully catch sight of his brother's shaggy head above the crowd again, "Gunnar!?"

There was no response, nothing apart from the odd looks of those passing by. Herleif gritted his teeth and shook his head. His last utterance heard before he left was of a dark oath followed by his brother's name, and soon, he was once again swallowed up by the crowd to pass angrily into the night. With a slow breath, Priscilla checked over her shoulder from where she had been slowly cutting up some cabbage to throw in a pot. When it was clear, she took off the greasy head wrap and shawl she had taken from one of the slaves and handed it back to them, along with a few pieces of silver from her coin purse.

"Pardon for the intrusion," she said, but the slave looked more than delighted for having actually been paid for the abrupt interference to their duties. "Come, Gunnar. The coast is clear."

Gunnar looked up at her from where he stooped nearby over a boiling cauldron of some stew or soup, also with a cloth tied hastily around his head. He tore it from his scalp as he frowned at her, shoving it and the large spoon he had been using to stir the cauldron back into the arms of the slave they had been taken from. "This is ridiculous. Hiding from my own brother like a child..."

"Would you have rather rejoined him and continued your conversation from earlier?" she asked as he came to her, and they left the kitchen and the thralls behind to their work.

"No, but I do not enjoy sneaking around like this either. It is not the way for warriors such as me or Herleif to act. I would sooner have things come to blows between us than hide if we should cross paths again."

"Well, hiding in a kitchen is just a small taste of my duties before the war. The city is large, and it is crowded with plenty of other drunkards and brawlers to keep your brother distracted for the night. With a bit of luck and a sharp eye, we should be able to avoid him."

Gunnar let out a gruff laugh as they walked together, the Raider and the Peacekeeper, alone among a sea of revelers in the night. "Is that so? And how do you plan to keep me from becoming one of those drunkards or brawlers, eh?"

She couldn't help but smile at his teasing and felt how her cheeks grew hot from how he looked at her. As they walked on, she noticed plenty of others who had paired off as the celebration continued, slipping together into dark alleys or quiet corners to enjoy each other's company. It was no secret what they were up to. Whether they had tried to find some semblance of privacy or were content to enjoy each other right out on the street, every tender kiss, lustful touch, tender moan, and more was on display for all to see.

Embarrassing as it was to witness such a crude and barbaric spectacle, Priscilla couldn't help but feel her heart begin to race at the notion that such things were permitted among the Northmen. Even more so, considering that Gunnar seemed to remain completely unphased by any of it. She seemed to walk in a dream for a ways and felt as if the night had become incredibly hot, but then her ears were filled with music, and she looked to see a group of minstrels playing before a large fountain.

"I would never have taken Ivar the Red to be a harp player," she said in surprise when she saw who was playing. Still, Gunnar appeared utterly dumbfounded to see the black-bearded Jarl sitting before the fountain and strumming at his instrument as skillfully as he cleaved heads from his enemy's shoulders.

"Neither did I," he said with a laugh, "And here I thought he was just as shallow as a stinking bog."

His laughter was a joy to hear, and at that moment, Priscilla suddenly had a plan to keep him from wandering off and getting into more trouble than what was good for him. Taking him by the hand, she began to lead him toward the crowd rather than away from it, toward the music and the dancing, the laughter and singing that filled the air.

"Dance with me," she said.

"Are you sure?" Gunnar smiled, letting himself be pulled along, "Do not take offense, but you do not seem like the dancing type."

"Oh, you might be surprised. We were taught to dance in the Sisterhood as courtly lessons if we were deemed suitable for such a station, or simply for physical exercise. But, sometimes at night in our dorms, those with a talent for instruments would play, and we would dance as we wished until the sun rose." She grinned at the memories, recalling when she and a dozen other girls like her would shake off the rules of their order and live free of boundaries and expectations. "We would treat it like a game, seeing how long we could go without waking any of our teachers. Any dorm that was caught ended up working kitchen duty for a month, but that just made it their job to steal the wine for the next time."

"Well, no more sneaking now," Gunnar said, leaning down to speak softly in her ear. Squeezing her hand, he took a step ahead and began to pull her along into the dancing crowd after him. "Tonight, you and I dance freely, and I pity any fool who would try to stop us."

Priscilla couldn't stop herself from smiling even if she had been surrounded by a hostile enemy bent on her destruction, which, in a way, she was. Following eagerly, she and Gunnar came into the midst of the dancers just as the music took a more energetic beat. The beat of the drums began to race, carrying with it the crisp notes of the flute, strings, and horn. They joined a group holding hands in a circle and took their place among them.

She grasped Gunnar's hand tightly and looked up at him, "I do not know any northern dances."

"It's easy," he replied, "just follow along with me."

They began to move, the whole group acting as one. Two steps to the left, then back to the right, going faster or slower depending on the tempo of the music. Some sang as they went, and every so often, someone would jump into the middle of the circle and begin to dance on their own, jumping about and kicking up their heels. They moved quickly, dashing about inside the circle as if to challenge those clasping hands to a fight. It all seemed very barbaric to Priscilla compared to the more choreographed routines of court, but she recognized that old sense of excitement she used to get in the dorms when she and her friends would dance as they pleased, and it would have been a lie to say she was not happy to be a part of it again here among the Northmen.

She could not remember the last time she had felt so happy or so free, and then, to her amazement, Gunnar jumped into the middle of the circle and began to dance a jig. He held one hand up in the air as he bounced from foot to foot, his shaggy mane flying about him as he moved to the music without a care. Priscilla laughed out loud to see it, not because she thought he was a fool or at all ridiculous, but because she felt his excitement and happiness as if it were her own. Watching him now, so mighty yet so at ease, she knew there was nowhere else in the entire city, or even the entire world, she would rather be.

Their eyes met in a brief flash of joy as he twirled around, and before she knew it, she was with him again in the circle. The music grew faster, but she did not tarry or falter as she skipped to the beat. They had eyes only for each other, moving closer and closer, their smiles never leaving their lips. The flute drew out a long note, and without thinking, she swayed her hips to the sound, far too close to him and far too suggestive than what would have been accepted at court. However, she and Gunnar were not at court, and the Lords and Ladies who had once scandalized and judged her could jump into the volcano for all she cared. So when the lute began a string of clear, fast, dazzling notes, she did not worry about what had been or what should be - she simply was.

She twirled on her feet and threw her arms into the air as she moved her hips, swaying to the beat, living in the here and now. She danced with the same poise and grace with which she had been taught to fight, giving her all and flaunting her skill. All eyes were on her, the exact sort of thing she had been trained to avoid. She reveled in it, the attention, the heat, and every move her body made and every touch shared as she and Gunnar drew closer.

Closing her eyes, she felt him slip his arm around her waist. She would have struck a man for ever being so familiar with her at court, but now she gave herself up to him without a fight. Their bodies pressed tightly together as they moved, and the dancers whooped and hollered, teasing them just as they urged them on. All of it made Priscilla feel as light as a feather, her chest swelling with a desire for more, a sweet desire that was unbecoming of a lady of her noble teachings, carefully crafted as they once were.

None of that mattered to her now. She did not care where he came from, which god he prayed to, or whether her desire for him put her on the side of good or wrong. Right now, they were one. She did not want this moment to end, only to embrace it, only wanted more. Perhaps for the first time in her entire God-forsaken life, she had finally found what she was looking for.

The music played out the last feverish notes of that wonderful song, and as if they had danced with each other for ages beyond count, Priscilla slipped from Gunnar's arms and twirled in a breathless blur to the crowd's delight. Then he had her again, crushing her to him just as the notes came to an abrupt and ringing end. She stood there panting in his embrace, pressed against his heaving chest, and felt his excitement grow with each hot breath. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and when she met his magnificent gaze, she knew that nothing about her world would ever be the same.

"Take me," she whispered to him, letting the words slip forth before she could stop herself.

His eyes sparkled with excitement, with a burning need, and his hand squeezed ever tighter around her hip. "Where?"

"Anywhere... Just take me, now."

He needed no more encouragement than that. Taking her by the hand again, he led her out of the circle at a quick pace, ignoring the laughter and the cheers that followed them. A few shouted Gunnar's name and raised their cups to him as if he had just made some mighty conquest, but she knew that wasn't the case. She wanted this just as much as he did, needed it just as much. It had been a long time since she had been with a man, longer than she might have cared for, but whatever experience had come before no longer mattered. There was only tonight, and she would take it for all it was worth, if only to keep the future at bay for a little while longer.

She did not know where he was leading her as they moved with all the urgency of a rushing stampede, and in truth, she did not care until suddenly they ducked into a narrow alley, and he abruptly stopped to push her up against the wall. It may not have been her first choice, so open and with the sound of revelry still loud in her ears, but the moment his lips met hers, she could no longer bring herself to complain. His kisses were hot and fierce, and she welcomed them completely, welcomed him with clutching arms as he pinned her to the stone at her back.

She moaned into his mouth, and a shudder slipped down her back when she realized his hands were already working at the belt around her waist. She did nothing to stop him, biting his lip and pulling him closer instead, working her fingers into his long hair. A gasp slipped from her mouth as her belt fell to the ground around her feet, and with a guilty sense of pleasure, he tugged at the laces of her breeks and slipped a hand inside, down between her legs.

"Gunnar..." she gasped, her breath escaping her as she trembled at his touch. She felt him smile against her cheek and kiss his way to bite at her ear, just as she felt his hard arousal rubbing against her thigh.

She gritted her teeth and moved against his wet fingers, growling with long-held pleasure as she took his face in her hands and held him for more desperate kisses. She could not remember ever wanting a man so badly, but with Gunnar she could not sate her need fast enough without feeling desperate for more. Suddenly, the thought of doing this out in the open did not seem such a great concern, and she was working on getting his own belt open when she happened to open her eyes and look over his shoulder.

The dirty and dour faces of a man and a woman stared vacantly back at her. They sat around a small fire in a dirty hovel just a bit further down the alley, clutching three sleeping children in their arms. Their clothes might have been fine garments once but were now mud-smeared and frayed, their hair wild and greasy in the days they had spent simply trying to survive since the siege.

Priscilla's heart leaped into her throat at the sight of them, not knowing who they were but feeling wholly ashamed to be embracing a Viking in their presence. She had given little thought to the cultists who had survived the battle, but this was hardly what she had imagined if and when she would ever have to face them again.

"Gunnar..." she muttered, her tone altogether changed as she grabbed for his wrist to stop him. Surprised, he looked up at her and then turned to see what had caught her attention. When he saw the man and woman watching, he only sneered in contempt and gave a slight shrug.

"What of it? They are defeated," he said, dipping his head to begin kissing her neck again, "Think nothing of them..."

Pleasure turned to revulsion as his fingers began to stroke her again, and she squeezed his wrist all the harder as she twisted her body to slip from his grasp.

"No," she hissed, craning her neck away from his lips and pushing at his chest. "Not here. Not like this..." This time, he did stop, looking up at her questioning, wanting her to tell him what to do next. "Please... Anywhere but here. Take me someplace else."

He nodded and released her from the wall. Her cheeks burned with shame as she quickly retied the laces of her breeks, hating to be caught by anyone in such a state, whether they be friends or foes. For his part, Gunnar stood before her to block any watching eyes, and once he had re-buckled his belt, he bent down to grab hers off the ground. She took it from him with a sheepish smile; then he slipped his hand in hers as he led her back out of the alley.

"My room is not far," he said, and they were off again through the crowd, still pining for a secluded spot to make their own.

The building he had set up in must have been the home of some well-to-do merchant, a cut above the average house in a crowded city but not extravagant. The building's facade was decorated with the statues of patron saints meant to bless anyone who passed by, none of which Priscilla had the nerve to look at as she followed Gunnar inside. The interior was spacious with a small inner courtyard in the fashion of homes from the Old Empire, and he led her to the master bedroom where his pack and war gear were kept but stopped just before entering.

"Is this alright?" he asked, stroking her hair as she stood staring at the bed. "Tell me if it is not, and we will go back."

She appreciated him saying so, but he had already done what she had asked, and there were no prying eyes here.

"You should have brought me here first, oaf," she said with a teasing smile, reaching up to tug lightly at his beard before stepping into the room.

Tossing her belt down onto a nearby chair, she stepped up to the bed and tried not to think about who it might have belonged to before and where they were now. There was no one to bother them now, no more judgment, and all she wanted to think about was how she and Gunnar would pass the time together until the sun rose. She heard him moving into the room behind her, and she began to undress with her back still turned to him. One by one, she removed her garments: her leather vest, surcoat, tall boots, and breeks, until, at last, she stood only in a simple white shift.

The sound of Gunnar kicking off his boots and unbuckling his belt filled her ears and stole her breath. Slowly, she turned to face him, her eyes falling over his powerful body, tattooed and scarred in such a way as to make him nothing like any man she had ever known before.

"You are... so beautiful," he said in a daze as he approached.

She stood small and slender before him, absent her dagger and sword, her armor, or anything else that would make her formidable against his raw strength. When he reached out for her, though, it was with a slow hesitation as if she might break at his slightest touch. So, she reached for him instead, taking him by the hand and pulling him up onto the bed after her.

"I am yours," she said softly, bringing him back among the sheets and pillows. Putting his hand on her breast, she sighed softly as he gently squeezed. "Come to me..."

They fell to the bed together, him on top of her, his hands and lips exploring her body with want and desire equal to his passion for battle. He kissed her lips, bit at her pale neck, pressed his rough hands to her body like he would be lost without her touch, and she clung to him fiercely to welcome it all. For everything he gave her, she gave it all back, took from him just as greedily as he took from her. He yanked roughly at her shift, pulling it up over her naked body and kissing his way up her fluttering belly to take his fill of her breasts. She curled her fingers into his hair and moaned as he bit and sucked at her nipples, guiding his lips where she wanted, reveling in his need for her.

He growled with satisfaction, and she sighed with her want for more and knew for certain that she would never be alone again.

"I am yours..." she said again, moving against his fingers, her lips pressed to his broad chest as she helped him to work his pants down over his hips. He kicked them off his legs and away, and she grabbed him as soon as he was free, making him groan at her touch. "I am yours, Gunnar..."

She wanted him more than ever, the need burning like an undying flame inside her. Her fingers dug into his hard muscles and urged him to come closer, to move on top of her, reaching down between his legs to grab hold and bring him inside her.

"Priscilla..." he groaned, whispering her name against her lips as he began to buck his hips slowly, began to move, and made her shudder. She smiled as she moaned, clinging to him tightly with her arms and legs, and refused to let go.

"I am yours..." she gasped in his ear, never wanting to let him go again, "and you are mine... I want you always to be mine..."