So far, Herleif had survived the fighting on the walls with only a few cuts and scrapes staining his armor with blood, but that did not mean the battle was going well.
While some of the great siege towers burned, set alight with fire-flasks and the weapons left by the Divine Pyre, others stood whole and undamaged to let wave after wave of Ashfeld soldiers scale the walls. Ladders were lifted just as quickly as they were pushed away, and all along the ramparts, Knights were tossed screaming to their doom while Viking warriors were hewed in showers of blood all along the ramparts. Legion banners flew from towers captured from the grasp of the Northmen by axe and sword, and locked shields held back the southern invaders until they were cut down.
Breathless and weary, Herleif put his shoulder behind his shield and stabbed over the rim with his sword at anyone who dared get close. Bodies pressed against him to either side, his fellow warriors fighting just as desperately against the Knights and soldiers pouring from yet another looming siege tower. Arrows flew overhead, knocking against shields or striking down the unprepared as they screamed in pain. Herleif had lost count of the hours that had passed, assuming they were as numerous as the scars on his trusty shield. Smoke filled the sky, hiding the sun behind an ocean of black waves that reflected the glowing flames of the burning gatehouse.
The beginning of the day seemed like a distant memory, awoken from a pleasant dream and thrust into nightmarish reality, with no sign of when it would end or if the coming night would ever bring peace again. Now, there was only war, the promise of death brought about by the hands of men mindless of their actions. Survival had no need of duty or honor, only instinct.
With a mighty roar, Herleif thrust Sólareldur over the shield wall and felt it pierce deep into a nameless foe. It took an effort to pull the blade free again, its gleaming edge dripping red with blood and gore, but the assault against his shield did not stop. His arm trembled as he braced his shield, and his fingers felt numb around the grip of his sword. His luck had held throughout the raid, even if some might have thought him undeserving of it, but now exhaustion seeped into his limbs like a slowly rising flood. Still, he fought on, determined to lead his warriors from the front until victory or Óðinn's hall was theirs to claim. The allure of Valhǫll would have been at the forefront of his mind in his younger days, but now, memories of home filled his mind, and the promise he made to return to his wife weighed heavy upon his heart. But as the steel storm raged on with its wrathful cry of swords and spears, he would not abandon his warriors to a disastrous fate brought about by schemers and would-be tyrants. He would do what was expected of him and fight on, even if it meant his death.
Such thoughts came to an abrupt end when a hand him from behind and pulled him away from the shield wall. "You've had enough of fighting, old man!"
Herleif gave an angry snarl as he turned to find Helge staring up at him without fear. "Who are you to command me!?" he demanded, but was quickly shoved away by Ragnar and Ragna as they rushed through the gap in the shield wall with a dozen other howling Berserkers. They ran into the Knights with axes raised, hacking, slashing, and biting at all before them with vicious intent. The shield wall closed around them, and a great cry arose from the Vikings as the desperate Knights were pushed back to the mouth of the siege tower.
"You need rest," Helge said as the battle raged before them. She grabbed Herleif by the arm and led him back toward the stairs where other tired and wounded Northmen were being treated and fed. "You're no good to us dead. If you intend to lead, you'll need strength in your sword hand and food in your belly."
Herleif looked longingly back at the shield wall, but his limbs felt as heavy as boulders now that he was away from the fighting. Screams of rage and death filled his ears, echoing in his head and twisting his stomach into knots, but he knew that Helge was right. He would be of better use to his warriors by recouping his strength before going back to aid them again, and so he did not resist the young Shaman as she led him to a stool and sat him down next to the wounded.
Pulling off his helmet, Helge examined a bleeding cut on his cheek- one to match the scar he had received while first taking the city -but he waved her hand away. "Just a scratch. Tend to those in more dire need first." Helge nodded and knelt to a man whose eye had been cut from his head, pulling a needle and thin thread from a pouch on her belt to sew the wound closed. The man was given a generous cup of ale before her needlework began.
Skuld appeared with a bowl of hot stew to offer Herleif. Her hands and spear were bloodstained, but that did not dissuade Herleif from taking the food and relishing its heat. He took a few quick bites to sate his hunger as Skuld stood watch over him, then passed what remained to an exhausted warrior at his side.
"Erik's men still stand absent from battle," he mused while taking stock of the fighting on the walls. Skuld shook her head as she observed the battle with her hawk-eyed gaze, but Herleif couldn't help eye the seax on her belt that had still gone unused during the fight. He coughed his displeasure, which made him feel tired even as he took the chance to rest. Shaking off his fatigue, he intended to rejoin the shield wall whether he felt ready for it or not, then spotted a group of warriors bringing a crate of fire-flasks up onto the wall to hand out.
"Take it down!" he called, rising from his stool and pointing at the siege tower with his sword. "Burn it to ash! We cannot hold the wall so long as it stands!"
Warriors jumped to his command, emptying the crate of flasks and dispersing them along the wall. Three men struck the firing line with their knives and threw their flasks at the tower. Herleif watched the glowing lights soar over the shield wall to explode against the siege tower in a burst of flames, and his heart sank at the memory of what he had done to seal off the city gate, killing so many Knights and Vikings together in the blink of an eye. Now, the valiant soldiers of Ashfeld fell burning from the tower as the fire ate through the timber with a voracious appetite, like the stories of Útgarða-Loki's hall. The archers atop the tower loosed their arrows as quickly as they could, determined to empty their quivers before their position burned away beneath them, but the Vikings lifted their shields and weathered the storm while the enemy floundered with nowhere to go.
Herleif donned his helmet and tried to ignore the smell of fire and blood on the wind. The whole city would burn if he did not stand with his warriors as a Warlord should, so he hefted his shield and nudged Skuld's shoulder for her attention. "Send word to the hersir that any towers fallen to the enemy must be retaken. The Knights must not be allowed to have a foothold in the city come nightfall." Skuld looked at him impassively, and Herleif couldn't help but grin. "Should I have you repeat that, to make sure the message is committed to memory?"
The corners of Skuld's blue eyes crinkled ever-so-slightly with amusement, then she was away.
Burning timber cracked and groaned before it broke, the hot flames spewing a column of black smoke to block out the sun as the siege tower fell before the walls. No more Ashfeld banners flew over the rampart here, but there was still much more sword work to be done.
"Lady Judith!" Herleif called as he went through the fighting to search for the Lion Flame commander. Soon, he saw the group of Knights in mismatched armor, black and silver metal matched with red tabards, and he called louder for the commander's attention. "Judith! Take your soldiers further down the wall!" he cried, pointing at another siege tower that still allowed their enemy a way into the city. "Give them no quarter!"
Judith deflected an oncoming sword and struck down the one wielding it, then lifted her red blade in recognition of Herleif's request. She grabbed Marcelo, who was fighting beside her, and pulled him off a soldier he was beating to death with his metal fist. With just a few quick orders, the Lion Flame was moving to their next task.
Corpses littered the ramparts in their wake; soldiers of Ashfeld and warriors of Valkenheim strewn together in mangled heaps, their coveted weapons discarded as useless metal until the battle was done. Herleif could hardly breathe as he took in the sight, his throat tight not just from the smoke filling the air. He ordered the wounded to be pulled off the walls and gathered those warriors still fresh enough to press on around him. More ladders were already rising to assail the walls, the battle songs and blasting trumpets of the legions rising with them from the army below. The siege towers burned, but with each wave that was pushed back, another seemed ready to test the city defenses again.
Horns called for shields and spears to be brought against the attackers. Those with the strength to continue fighting joined together and threw themselves at the legion soldiers ascending the ramparts, howling their mad war cries and swearing dark oaths to spill blood or die themselves. Among them, a lone Warlord stood at the center of the fray, cutting a bloody swath through the enemy to the edge of the wall. His white hair and beard blew in the hot wind beneath an iron helmet, and he fought stained with blood up to the elbows and waved his gore-covered sword aloft in the air.
"Come to me, you southern dogs!" the Warlord cried gleefully. "Come to me! My sword thirsts for your blood! My shield yearns for the scars of another battle! We do not fear weak, pathetic vermin such as you! I have fought beside Herleif the Bold! I have feasted with Gunnar the Bear! Raided with Ragnar and Ragna Wolf-Kin and tasted blood with Helge, touched by the gods! I have looked upon the silver spears of the Valkyries, and I know that I am awaited in Valhǫll to fight in glory! The High One welcomes me! Find your courage and bring me a beautiful death if you can!"
Herleif felt new life in him to hear the old warrior's words, pleased to know that after all that had been said and done between his reluctance to raid and his growing feud with Erik, that true drengir still fought proudly beneath his banner. He rushed forward with his warriors and leaped into the fray of steel and blood with a mighty cry. His sword clashed and sliced, hacking limbs and stabbing at faces as they appeared over the ramparts, and soon, the stones beneath his feet turned more and more treacherous as they became slick with blood.
Northmen with pikes pushed at the ladders to throw them from the walls or stabbed at those brave enough to scale them as they were lifted, but the vast legions of Ashfeld had brought all their strength against the Valkenheim menace and sought to overwhelm them with superior numbers while the weary Vikings floundered after weeks of battle. Like the many heads of an enraged hydra, ladders appeared all along the wall just as quickly as they were pushed away again. Even as the siege towers burned and men fell screaming to the sea of steel below, the Knights would not relent. Spear points and shields clashed together, and the press of bodies quickly became insufferable upon the crowded walls. The dead lay where they fell, their mangled bodies trampled beneath those still fighting above them.
Out of the black smoke, a Conqueror in a green and yellow tabard climbed over a ladder with a mob of spearmen following behind. The Knight bashed away the first Northman to rush him, then quickly gained space by whipping his spiked flail in a wide arc, knocking away spears and scarring shields as the legion soldiers spread out to assault the rampart. Herleif and the old Warlord moved together to stop the enemy's advance, locking their shields and weathering each blow of the Conqueror's flail. Sweat blinded Herleif's eyes beneath his helmet, and his shoulder ached with each strike that rattled his bones, but he stood firm and roared his defiance as he pressed the Conqueror back toward the ladder. The Conqueror cursed, shouted something that Herleif could not hear over the battle-din, and then cried in pain as the old Warlord ran him through with his sword, but there was no time to celebrate the kill.
A Lawbringer suddenly appeared over the ladder next, poleaxe raised in one hand to thrust the sharp pike into the Warlord's neck. Blood sprayed from the drengr's mouth, staining his white beard crimson, but there was a red grin on his lips as he died. He fell limp, slumping against Herleif's side as all strength left him.
"No!" Herleif roared, shrugging off the dead weight and striking at the Lawbringer as they ascended the wall, bashing the Knight with his shield. He did not have time to honor the old warrior's oath or the service of their blade as the Lawbringer took each blow without falling. Pushing Herleif away, the Knight shoved him against the wall with a quick bash of his poleaxe. Herleif grunted as he fell back against stone, the world whirling around him before he saw the Lawbringer lifting his axe to strike. He just managed to dodge away before the long axe fell crashing against the wall next to him, and he struck out with his sword, but to no avail, leaving nothing but white scratches along the Lawbringer's heavy armor. Spears jabbed at him as he tried to escape, driving him back against the parapet, and by the time his warriors attempted to aid him with swords and axes in hand, the Lawbringer was on him again.
Together, they wrestled against the parapet. The Lawbringer's poleaxe was too long to use in such a tight press of bodies, but the man's metal fist did the job as he punched at Herleif's face at every opportunity. Herleif tried desperately to get his shield up, to push the metal giant away, or slice his sword against the man's thigh or knee, but his luck and strength seemed to leave him. Blood filled his mouth, and all he could do was keep his shield pressed between them to try and protect his face, an effort that was becoming more difficult by the moment as the Lawbringer attacked him.
Suddenly, the curved edge of an axe blade hooked around the Lawbringer's neck and pulled him away with a jolt. Herleif gasped with relief and stumbled forward, exhausted, and he barely had the sense to keep his shield lifted against the flurry of blades around him. The Lawbringer was thrown to the ground, a large figure standing above him, and Herleif stared in amazement to see Gunnar lift his great axe high overhead and, with the roar of a mighty bear, brought it cleaving down onto the Knight's head. Metal split metal as the axe blade cut the man's helmet in two, and blood gushed like a geyser as, with one last involuntary twitch, the Lawbringer went still.
Gunnar ripped his axe free of the Knight's corpse and in that same moment, swiped at the gathering of legion soldiers to reap them like grain for the harvest. The soldiers fell, squealing like pigs, and the Northmen rushed forward to finish off those that remained and dispatch the ladders before more could take their place. Gunnar grabbed a soldier by the throat and tossed him clear over the wall, billowing smoke swallowing them whole as they cried out in terror. Herleif glared at his brother as he slumped against the rampart and caught his breath, noting the bruises left on his skin beneath the helmet and war gear that had been taken from him. The reasons for Gunnar's escape from the city's prison plagued Herleif's thoughts with worry, but a glance at the corpses that littered the wall pushed such things from his mind.
"Help me," he growled. He spat blood and took a weary step toward the old Warlord who had fought beside him. Gunnar hesitated for only a moment, then they each grabbed the dead warrior under an arm. Herleif grabbed the man's sword as well, and together, they hauled the body away as the fighting continued further along the wall.
They took the body to where the rest of the dead and wounded were being gathered near the stairs, a place that stank of blood and soiled clothes. It hardly seemed a worthy spot for such brave warriors to lay, but it would have to do until the ramparts could be completely cleared of the dead. Setting the body down carefully, Herleif knelt to put the bloody sword in the warrior's hand and laid it over his chest.
"You have my gratitude, brave drengr," he said. He put a hand on the dead man's shoulder and bowed his head. "Feast well, and sing of our coming in Valhǫll. We will look for you there, upon a day."
Beside him, Gunnar stood with hands resting atop his red axe and a grim frown in his beard. "I saw him fall as I approached. He died well."
"No one dies well. Not here," Herleif muttered. "That is a matter for the skalds to embellish."
He could not bring himself to look at the other pale corpses around him, their bodies hacked and mangled by steel and fire, their death wounds still fresh and clotted with dark blood. Pushing himself up with a groan, he removed his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. "What are you doing here?"
"Saving your neck from a tinman's axe, it seems."
Herleif threw down his helmet and grabbed Gunnar by his war gear, hauling him away from the dead, who had no more concern for the toil of the living. Gunnar dropped his axe, and they stumbled together over the gathered corpses until they hit the far end of the rampart.
"I should kill you now!" Herleif snarled. "Look what you and that witch have allowed to happen! Because of you, we remained blind to her schemes! All because I loved you as my brother, you became my weakness!"
"My eyes are clear now," Gunnar said quickly. "I would not see our bond cast aside just yet, though I know I do not deserve it... Please, Herleif... She had me fooled, just as you said! I gave her everything, and it was all for a lie! I loved her, and she betrayed me just as she betrayed us all..."
"All the better to have your glorious war! Here we stand trapped by their legions, and you rejoice for the chance to see our brothers and sisters slaughtered like sheep! I will call no death here glorious so long as it comes from following foolish and greedy men such as you!"
Struggling against Herleif's grip, Gunnar lifted his chin to show the small hammer amulet tied around his neck. "I am here to fight, but no longer just for myself... I would fight for you, brother. A new oath, to fight for you with all I have, to see you returned home to Audhilda and your children..."
Herleif's eyes widened at the mention of his family, but he did not loosen his grip as he kept Gunnar pinned. His brother gritted his teeth and squirmed against the hard stone at his back, but soon, he relented, head lolling on slumped shoulders.
"Kill me now if you wish," Gunnar lamented, "or let me fight beside you again. I leave my fate entirely in your hands, Herleif. I swear to you, on our father's name, my life is yours to do with as you please..."
An oath broken was one that could never be repaired, but Herleif could hardly stand and call his brother an oathbreaker without bearing the same title himself. However, his decision to forsake his oath to Erik had not come out of vanity and personal desire, a boast that Gunnar could hardly share. He had every right to strike Gunnar down for what he had done, to cast him aside and outlaw him from their home at the very least. No one, not Viking, not Knight, or Samurai, would think less of him for doing so.
Yet, he did not reach for his sword. Looking down at the iron hammer resting upon Gunnar's chest, Herleif could not help but remember when they had grasped hands and swore an oath to fight together, for each other, before their people and the gods. An oath between brothers, a bond not easily forgotten.
"Father always did hate it when we fought. Our mother even more so," Herleif said. The hot sting of tears blurred his eyes, but he set his jaw and blinked them away rather than let any fall. "But you always made it so fucking hard..."
"A talent that came easy, growing up with a pig-headed brother like you," Gunnar said softly.
No laughter was shared between them. Herleif held onto his brother and bared his teeth as duty and desire waged relentless war in his heart. Gunnar frowned back at him with shame and regret shining in his tear-filled eyes. The boom and clamor of battle sounded nearby but muffled and distant behind a shroud of smoke and dust, as if it were some small concern now so very far away. A decision had to be made, and Herleif knew which path the gods would have him choose. Honor must be upheld, but he had never cared much for choosing honor over family.
"You are an ass," Herleif whispered. He cupped his brother's face and felt his heart nearly break as Gunnar could no longer hold back his tears, reminding Herleif of the small bear cub his brother had once been long ago, desperate for his approval and attention. Instead, he hardened his heart for what he hoped was the last time before putting the matter to bed. "Do not ever give cause to doubt you again."
Leaving Gunnar slumped against the wall, Herleif turned away to retrieve his helmet where it lay. Horns sounded the warning of another wave of Knights charging the walls, and warriors rushed forward despite their wounds and exhaustion to meet them. Herleif slipped on his helmet and drew his sword once more.
"Pick up your axe, brother," he said to Gunnar. "This battle is far from over."
Gunnar stepped away from the wall, wiping away shameful tears beneath his helmet before stooping for his axe. Herleif could not stand to give Gunnar pity, not after all he had done. He turned his back on him but did not walk off in frustration and leave Gunnar behind as he might have done before. Waiting patiently for Gunnar to collect himself, they stood tall among the many dead until, at last, Gunnar gave a small nod in thanks.
Together, they walked off toward the fight, speaking no more of the troubles that weighed heavily on their shoulders or of oaths that would no longer matter if the enemy won the day.