The streets surrounding the vault were choked with smoke, forcing Herleif to move slowly as he led Gunnar and his small group of warriors to the steps of the great tower. The rain fell black through the gloom, mixing with the dust and soot to make the path sticky with mud. Rubble clattered underfoot as he ascended the stairs, and the ruined vestibule was crowded with men and women who stumbled about in a daze or called out for missing comrades. Stepping over a pile of crumbled brick, Herleif slipped on something soft and looked down to see a corpse laid out at his feet with its skull crushed in from the blast.

"What a waste," Herleif seethed. Everywhere he looked, death and destruction filled the streets, all because Erik could not stand to let the treasure slip through his fingers. "This madness must end."

"He must have taken the fuel from the gate," Gunnar said as he followed, still leaning on his axe for support. His face was pale, and sweat beaded his brow, but he kept pace with his brother and refused to be left behind. "That's why the rain was able to douse the flames... Stole it and doomed the whole city, the bastard..."

Herleif looked to the south and saw plumes of smoke rising from the gate, knowing that his brother spoke the truth. "Then he will pay the full cost of the bloodshed tonight. Come, he must be somewhere in all this chaos." Hefting his shield, Herleif led the way to the tower, stepping around the holes blasted into the stone. Then, just as he was cresting the stairs, he saw the glint of golden helmets and spears through the gloom. "Be on guard," he said to his warriors.

Appearing out of the smoke, King Erik's shieldbearers stumbled forward, covered in dust and dark blood. One walked forward in a daze, his spear held loose in his hand, while others limped or even crawled across the ground with wounds too grievous to stand. When he saw Herleif and the host he led, the warrior's eyes went wide, and he tried to lift his spear but fumbled the weight and nearly fell. "H-halt! Declare yourself!"

Herleif gripped his sword tight, and his own warriors leveled their spears, but it quickly became clear that none of Erik's men were fit to fight after what had happened. Only two other warriors had enough sense to support the first, while the rest helplessly stumbled about in search of aid. "Where is Golden-Shield?" Herleif asked.

The Sea Eagle warrior looked frightened but did not move. "Declare yourself, I said!"

Relaxing his shoulders, Herleif stepped closer to the man's trembling spear, looking him up and down. "You are in a sorry state, friend," he said gently. "It is truly sad to see how the king treats his warriors. Is this worth the scraps he gives you from his great table? To be used like dogs to guard his treasure while others do the hard fighting. Where is the glory in that?"

Erik's warrior licked his lips nervously and glanced at the men with him. Herleif took a step closer, and he gave a start, but his spear slowly lowered at his side. "If I kill you here," Herleif said, "perhaps you will have a place in Valhǫll, but I have my doubts. Though, there may yet still be a chance in the battles to come. Stand aside now, and we may yet stand together against the real enemy tomorrow and fight as true Vikings."

Herleif could see the turmoil behind their eyes, torn between their oath to the king and the chance to earn something worthwhile for themselves, free from the whims of a stingy ruler. The man before him looked to the destruction about the vault tower to see so many of his comrades lying dead among the rubble. Setting his jaw, the Sea Eagle warrior stepped aside. The others with him did the same, and Herleif nodded his thanks. Then, he led Gunnar and his warriors into the smokey antechamber of the vault with no further impediment from Erik's men. If they could still be called Erik's men at all.

Moving into the main chamber where the doors of the vault had remained firmly closed to them, Herleif squinted at the shadowy figures appearing out of the gloom. The blast had utterly ruined the great room; the ancient stone reliefs were erased from the walls, and the floor left a broken crater before the vault itself. As for the solid metal doors that had kept the coveted treasure out of Viking's grasp, they were now gone, simply gone. They had been blasted apart by the very weapon the Divine Pyre had used to secure wealth and power for themselves while laying waste to the people of Ashfeld, and the wide chamber stank of the same acrid scent Herleif smelled whenever the flammable liquid had been used. Torn shards of metal were bent inward before the open vault while burning hunks of wood lay about the broken doors where the barrels of seiðr had been stacked high. It was a wonder that the entire tower hadn't fallen, but judging from the dust that fell from the fractured ceiling above, the possibility of a cave-in couldn't be ruled out.

More of the wounded were being dragged away to safety, blood coating their armor as they cried out in pain, which left Herleif and his warriors the only ones standing tall within the ruined chamber. Gunnar was the only exception among them as he shuffled his way forward, leaning heavily upon his axe and panting like a tired dog. The quickness of their journey and the thick smoke had done him no favors, and even through a layer of stone dust covering his skin, Herleif could see how pale his brother was after enduring an axe wound from the king's son.

"You should not be on your feet. Help him," Herleif said. He gestured for his warriors to help his brother and two of them came to help Gunnar find a place to sit among the rubble.

"I'm fine," Gunnar said in protest as he feebly tried to push away the help.

"Sit!"

With an annoyed huff, Gunnar allowed himself to be set down upon a chunk of broken stone, one of the columns carved into the chamber entrance that had been destroyed by the blast and frowned like a grumpy child to be scolded so openly, but Herleif was satisfied with him off his feet. Looking about the chamber again, Herleif had no idea where the king was lurking within the wreckage and was in no mood to go searching.

"Erik!" he called loudly, his voice booming in the dim chamber. "Golden-Shield! Show yourself, dog! We have a blood-debt to settle, you and I!"

A figure stood at the sound of his voice nearby, and Herleif lifted his sword and shield to meet them, but they did not come any closer. As his eyes adjusted to the hazy light, he soon realized that it was not Erik but Magnús who stared back at him in shock. At his feet was the Shaman, Thyra, who sat trembling like a frightened cat, her face covered in white dust broken only by lines of dark blood that dripped from a cut across her brow. She slowly looked up to glare at Herleif even as she winced, and from her belt, she drew her curved knife, trying and failing to stand after the explosion had shaken her to the core.

Magnús, however, promptly turned and ran to the open vault, shouting in fright at Herleif's sudden arrival. "Father! Enemies have come!"

Herleif curled his lip at Magnús' cries but knew it was the truth. He and Erik were enemies now, if they had ever truly been friends to begin with. He had sworn an oath of fealty to the Golden King, but whether he would be vindicated or cursed for breaking it would be determined by what happened between him and Erik in that vault. "Erik!" he cried. "Come out and face me!"

Following after Magnús, Herleif drew close to get a better look inside the open vault, where a bright glow seemed to spread throughout the chamber. At first, he thought it was just the firelight clinging to the wreckage after the blast, but to his amazement, he realized it was coming from within the great chamber behind the torn doors. Something crunched beneath his boot, shifting across the ground, but it wasn't rubble. Looking down, Herleif stared at a sea of gold coins covering the floor, their shapes mangled and ripped apart by the explosion that had cracked the vault open like a shattered treasure chest. Everywhere he looked, there were ruined coins strewn about, but that was nothing compared to what lay within the vault itself.

Inside, the bright treasure room opened up into a vast space, with stairs leading up to platforms and more stairs on through the tower above. On those platforms, and indeed the stairs themselves, filling every space from wall to wall, was the treasure that the Divine Pyre had pillaged from northern Ashfeld all throughout their tyrannical but short-lived rule.

Gold and silver bullion was piled high like shining mountains in the form of coins minted with Latin inscriptions, crosses, and noble faces of bygone rulers. Solid ingots were stacked waist high, while twisted copper and bronze coils and shining trinkets were set aside next to scales and weights to measure their worth. Such treasures poured forth like molten flows from chests of polished mahogany, alabaster jars, and bowls of cut crystal, along with scattered piles of glass beads, Roman denarii, and silver dirhams- coins acquired through trade with other civilizations far beyond Heathmoor's borders.

Unsurprisingly, the vault was full of religious iconography stolen from the ruined churches that had been ransacked and burned by the Divine Pyre. Ornate triptychs, reliquaries of revered saints, and gilded crucifixes depicting every facet and story of the Ashfeld faith were tucked away among material riches. Sacred items confiscated from the 'heretic' priests burned at the stake, only to be secretly coveted by the usurpers who ruled over the impoverished citizens they had duped. Whatever could be taken during the cultist's conquest of northern Ashfeld had been brought here to add to the hoard. The vault was cluttered with marvelous portraits of noble families, marble sculptures, silver cups inlaid with gold, and other household goods that had once decorated villas and estates, while woven tapestries that displayed ancient battles and grand victories were hung upon the walls, and thick rugs of dazzling shapes and colors were rolled up and left in stacks like lumber, just waiting to decorate the homes of the new elite once again.

There were more gems and jewels than Herleif could ever count: shining diamonds, blood-red rubies, gleaming emeralds, polished opals, pearls, lapis lazuli, red garnets from the east, dazzling sapphires and brilliant moonstones, with so many more fitted into golden rings, brooches, bracelets, and necklaces of astounding design. Regal circlets and diadems fit for royalty were piled high like meaningless junk and left as forgotten family heirlooms ripped from the hands of those who cherished them. Suites of polished armor stood at attention like soldiers on guard over the vast horde, and there were enough fine weapons cast about to arm a small army, and that was just from what Herleif could see.

But there was more treasure than just what was stolen from Ashfeld's noble families. Jade figures of serpent-like dragons and carved tusks of ivory from the Myre and further east were cast about haphazardly, there were bronze idols polished bright standing tall and proud among the gathered hoard; the gods and heroes of the Romans and other cultures that Herleif could not possibly recognize. Masked Samurai helmets with horn-like ornaments were set on pedestals beside painted round shields and drakkar prow beasts as trophies taken from past conquests, now left to collect dust behind locked iron doors.

It was everything they had been promised and more. Herleif had never beheld such wealth in all his life, and it was all sitting there for the taking. What sagas of great treasure hordes he knew didn't even compare to the sight of that golden glow. It was enough to make a king out of every warrior in the city, along with each generation after them besides. And there was no telling how far the treasure went up into the tower or how long it would take to get out and back to their ships. If they could get it back to their ships.

And yet, for some, no matter how much wealth there was to gain, it could never be enough. From out of the vault came a great crash and shower of coins as a golden plate was tossed into a mound of treasure, followed by the echo of an angry roar.

"Where is it!?" cried Erik as he stumbled knee-deep through the horde. His bright eyes shined like blue fire, shifting back and forth with a frantic need. Rather than stand as a proud conqueror or a king, he snarled like a rabid animal, and even the golden crown he wore upon his helmet now seemed a paltry thing among such splendor. "Where is it!? Where is Apollyon's armor!?" He fell to his knees, the first time Herleif had seen him do so and began clawing through piles of treasure as if his coveted prize might be buried beneath like a corpse hidden in a grave mound. "I want what was promised to me! I must have it! Stríðsúlfur's armor is mine by right!"

"Come out of there, Erik!" Herleif called loudly. "Come out and face me!"

Rising to thrash his way through the sea of coins, Erik stepped out of the vault with eyes full of madness. "Herleif, you swine!" he cried. "Gather your men! I want this entire tower searched from top to bottom! The armor must be here!"

"No, Erik. I no longer heed your commands like a broken steed. Now come and draw your sword. It is time that we finally draw blood in this feud between us."

"But the armor..."

"There is no armor!" Herleif shouted so that his voice echoed through the smoke-clouded chamber like a thunderbolt. "It was never here! Apollyon's armor was nothing more than a lie to lure us here to the city. One that we all fell for."

Erik's grim face fell as he was overcome with momentary fear that Herleif's words were true. "Impossible..." he whispered in disbelief. "It was promised to us. It was promised by... by those traitors. The Lion Flame..." Like a raging storm, his anger quickly returned. He snarled and turned back to face the vault, throwing his arms wide at the splendor that did nothing to satisfy his greed. "I told you they could not be trusted! They stole it! Somehow, they took it for themselves and left us with nothing! I told you, Herleif! We should have killed them all when we had the chance!"

"Again, nothing but shit spills from your lips! The Lion Flame are not to blame, Erik. It is the army sitting outside the city walls that has laid this trap for us, not Judith and her Knights! The armor was nothing but a maddening dream, one to conjure death and war, just like the woman who wore it."

Lifting his sword, Herleif pointed his blade at the Golden King, the man he had so foolishly given his oath to, and gave voice to the turmoil that had been building inside him ever since he had accepted Erik's invitation to join this doomed raid. "And now here we are, trapped like fools with no hope of escape, all because you could not relinquish what was never here in the first place! I say, it is a just reward for your ignorance. For your inaction. Outside this tower, we are fighting for our very survival, but here you stand, far removed from the battle. A coward surrounded by treasure and a sword that remains as clean and unblooded as the day it was forged!"

All sense of regal decorum fled Erik as he whipped around and let spit fly from his screaming lips. "I will not stand for this insolence! For too long you have been a thorn in my side! You, who is nothing more than an insignificant jarl gone to fat like the pigs you lord over! All you have achieved on this raid is because of my doing! Without me, you would have nothing but your hold of sea-blasted rock while playing nursemaid to your sniveling brats! Herleif the Bold... That is a name of no consequence. You are no drengr! You are nothing without me, and you will be less still when I raze Brosmegard to the ground and sell your family as thralls!"

Then, he stiffened. A cold, deadly look darkened Erik's eyes, and his lip curled with a sneer. "Perhaps you had a hand in all of this," he said. "You have grown so close to these Ashfeld vermin, after all. Your treachery is as clear to me as their wicked deceit. Maybe you have planned to take the armor yourself this whole time? Anything to save your floundering reputation as a hall-dwelling coward jarl, unfit for glory or leadership." With a snap of his fingers, he gestured for his warriors to advance on the Bilrost spearmen. "He has stolen Apollyon's armor for himself! Take him, and kill the rest!"

A score of spears was leveled at Herleif and his warriors at that moment, along with the gleam of unsheathed swords and sharp axes that shone in the dim light. Herleif dropped behind his shield and raised Sólareldur in answer, just as his own men raised their weapons and stood back-to-back against their aggressors.

"Stay yourselves!" he called. "Even now, the walls of this city are crowded with the valiant dead, but you here will never be counted among them! These with me stand as the slayers of many foes! True drengir to the man! Who among you dares hold themselves equal? You have all been bought and traded like chattel. Come at us if this man's word is greater to you than your honor, but I swear, none of you will step one foot in Valhǫll if you are to die by our blades!"

The Sea Eagle warriors hesitated in their advance, and Herleif saw how they glanced at each other in question. A wave of uncertainty spread through their ranks as they looked upon the Bilrost drengir, who would not cower before their many shields and weapons. If they had been weaker men left to decide for themselves, Herleif's warning might have stopped the two sides from clashing, but Erik quickly stepped forward to once again force his will upon the world.

"He is only one man, you fools!" Erik roared. "The treasure is ours for the taking, and they have not the strength to stop us! I will give any man who kills this troll his weight in gold. Just bring me his head!"

Spears and shields shifted together as the Sea Eagle warriors considered the king's offer, but the steel-eyed looks from their outnumbered foes did not encourage any of them to make the first move. Then, having risen from his throne of rubble, Gunnar pushed his way through the crowd to stand panting next to his brother. He leaned heavily upon his axe but wore a frown of grim determination as he stood resilient against Erik and his minions.

"He may just be one man," Gunnar said with a tired gasp. He looked at Herleif, who took a step closer to support Gunnar as his strength waned, and together, they glared up at the Golden King. "But... even among so many, even with your own son," he grinned, "you are the one who stands alone."

Erik blinked at this seemingly indisputable accusation, then frantically looked around as his warriors remained idle against his command. "Old Wolf...? Where is my champion? Show yourself, you wretched dog! Come forth and fight for your king!"

"Old Wolf is gone, Father," Magnús croaked, his beard caked with dried blood from the earlier beating he had received on the ramparts. "He came with me to the wall... and has not returned."

"He has dealings with the gods tonight," Herleif said. "With any luck, a Valkyrie's blade will deliver him to greater rewards than you have ever offered such oath-sworn men."

Anger and resentment flashed across Erik's face as he seethed, but there was no sign of grief. His heart was filled with nothing but rage, and his warriors could feel how the brewing conflict was slipping out of his control. They looked between the wrathful king and the valuable treasure, weighing the reward for loyalty against the cost of honor. From the way they hesitated, it was clear they were having trouble making up their minds.

"It seems that table scraps do not ensure a hound to bite for its master on command."

Erik's bright eyes snapped to Herleif, and he stalked forward from the vault to slap a hand on Magnús' shoulder. "My son will fight for me! He at least knows what it means to serve a great lineage with pride!"

Magnús flinched at his father's grasping hand, and he looked between Erik and Thyra before giving a curt nod. "It would be an honor, my king," he said as he drew both of his golden axes, but he licked at his lips like a cowardly dog, first glancing at Herleif and then the shield that had nearly broken his face out on the wall.

Erik took no notice of his son's unease. "Then it is settled. Send forth your champion, jarl of pigs. Surely, your brother can still wield an axe. I would gladly give a Viking such as him a chance to die by noble blades and take his place in the Spear Hall, if only for the friendship we once shared."

"Your honeyed words hold no sway over us now, Erik," said Herleif. "My champion stands wounded for all to see. Though my brother's heart still beats with more pride than any here bought for gold dust and false promises. He will not stand alone in my name. Take up your sword and find your courage! That you were ever called a king from slaughtering a fettered lamb is the greatest trick we have suffered here!"

Erik lowered his head and glowered at such an open challenge. He glanced about at all his warriors who looked to him for courage and guidance, and he saw their distrust toward Magnús, a grim reflection of the king's lack of faith in his own son. "Then allow me to ease your grievance by delivering your death with a king's blade," he growled. "Bring my sword and shield!"

"What sort of drengr finds himself parted from his weapons so that they must be summoned like a straying wife?" Gunnar called, and laughter broke out among the Bilrost warriors. The noise echoed throughout the chamber, and Erik flushed with anger to hear a few of his men chuckling at the jest.

His sword, Fáfnir's Scale, was quickly brought forward, along with his golden-plated shield. "So be it," Erik snapped as he snatched his weapons and pushed past his son. "Your poor luck ends here, once and for all. The last, feeble stand of Bilrost's quarrelsome jarl."

"I would have much rather done this on a battlefield, but I know now that is a place you are too afraid to tread," Herleif replied with a grin.

Fiery hatred flashed brightly in Erik's eyes, and with a mighty roar, he charged across the chamber. Herleif ducked behind his shield while Gunnar took up his axe, and the Bilrost spearmen braced themselves to fight. But only Magnús and a handful of the king's men took up the charge while the rest still remained unsure whether betting a fortune against their honor was truly worth the risk. Shields crashed together as spears and swords traded blows, and Herleif put his shoulder behind his shield just as Erik slammed against it.

Herleif saw the flash of Erik's sword stabbing over his shield rim, and he ducked to let the blade slide against his helmet before pushing with all his might against Erik's weight. The Golden King stumbled backward with a cry, and Herleif saw Magnús giving battle to Gunnar out of the corner of his eye, who struggled to defend himself against the Berserker's twin axes with just one good arm. Herleif switched targets and slashed his sword and shield together at Magnús while he was distracted, and any thought of an honorable duel was forgotten as the fire-blasted chamber descended into an all-out brawl.

Magnús dashed away from Herleif's sword, giving Gunnar the chance to press the attack again, swinging his great axe one-handed even though his strength was much diminished. He grimaced as the wound Magnús had already given him wracked his body with pain, but he was committed to the fight, and Herleif did what he could to protect his brother's flank as spearmen from both clans came together with sparking steel and splintered shields. Just as Herleif and Gunnar began to fight in unison, Erik came again, overcome with madness, as he attacked with heavy swings of his sword. Herleif just got his shield up in time to defend, and as Erik exhausted himself by over-committing to his attacks, Herleif dashed forward and struck Erik with a sharp headbutt to send the king tumbling back again. This time, Herleif followed through with a thrust of his sword, but it only slashed against Erik's armor to leave a bloodless line across his cuirass.

Knocking aside Herleif's sword, Erik swung violently to claim his foe's head. His strength was great, but so was his recklessness. No doubt, he had wet his blade with the blood of cultists as the Walled City was sacked, but he was used to having the upper hand at the start of any fight. Filling the pockets of mercenaries with silver and gold was as much a trusted tactic to him as drawing his own sword, and he was not the sort to enter into conflict without possessing insurmountable odds to back him. The sheer frustration at having to fight his own duel to enact his will was enough to make Erik fight like a crazed bear rather than a noble king.

Herleif weathered each blow behind his shield while staying conscious of Magnús' axes as they flew about like a storm of gold and steel. Gunnar was bleeding from a slew of new cuts as the young Berserker hacked at him, but his blood was up, and he had something to prove since Magnús had surprised him out on the wall. Gritting his teeth, Herleif parried Erik's next wild swing and pivoted to headbutt Magnús in the side. Gunnar saw his opportunity as Magnús stumbled mid-swing and swept his great axe at the prince's legs. Magnús fell with a cry, but as Gunnar lifted his axe again, a Sea Eagle warrior thrust a spear at him, forcing him to defend himself while Magnús scrambled back to his feet.

The entire chamber fell to noise and chaos, with spears and swords stabbing into shields and bodies as warriors of the two clans fought. Erik's men held the greater number, but Herleif's warriors were fresh from the fight on the wall and were eager to prove their battle prowess to those who had been absent as the Knights attacked the city. Gold coins were kicked underfoot, the treasure momentarily forgotten until all necessary blood was spilled, but the glow of the open vault lit the chamber like the fields outside Valhǫll where the einherjar fought each day.

The spearman thrust again at Gunnar, hoping to make a name for himself and claim a good portion of the treasure from his king, but Gunnar batted the spear away with his axe and threw his shoulder into the warrior to knock them down, gasping from the pain and exertion. With a harsh bellow, he raised his great axe with his good hand and slammed the blade into the warrior's chest, showering the coin-cluttered floor with hot blood. Gunnar wrenched the axe free and continued stalking through the press, smacking away shieldbearers too afraid to fight for the king's gold as he followed after Magnús to claim his revenge.

Herleif made to follow after his brother, but Erik swiped at him with his shimmering blade and blocked his path. "Think you can turn your back on me, do you?" Erik growled with contempt. "Stand and face me, you miserable cur!"

Herleif knocked away the next strike with his shield and slashed at Erik's sword arm before he could lift his own golden shield to defend himself. Erik gave a cry as the blade cut at his arm, but the sleeve of metal rings he wore kept his limb from being severed. Herleif followed up with a swift headbutt, throwing Erik off balance and driving him back. Erik snarled and gave ground. As he was pushed back among his own spearmen, he knocked them out of his path, sometimes shoving them right into the spears of the Bilrost warriors to render their superior numbers moot. Other Sea Eagle warriors saw this and drew back from the fight, frowning and muttering curses as their king did all he could to preserve his own life over theirs. Herleif gave chase as Erik tried to retreat toward the vault. Then, out of the smoke and throng of bodies, Magnús stumbled blindly into Erik, nearly taking them both to the ground.

"You stupid boy!" Erik roared. He shoved his son away and glanced over his shoulder to see Gunnar and Herleif following, while behind them, the chamber was alive with violence as the Bilrost shieldbearers held their own against the few Sea Eagle spearmen who were still willing to fight for their king. "Can you not bring down one wounded man on your own?"

"I have cut him a hundred times over, but he refuses to fall," Magnús whined. Standing shoulder to shoulder beside his father, the Berserker prince panted like a dog and cowered before Gunnar, who wore his bloody wounds like badges of honor decorating his broad form. "I'll... I'll just keep cutting him... I'll cut until there is nothing left to bury!"

"If only you could cut away what makes him so fearless and keep it for yourself," Erik growled before glaring at Herleif. "I have had enough of this mockery! It is an insult that I should cross blades with a níðing oath-breaker! You should all be kneeling before me... I am your king! Lay down your weapons, and I may yet be merciful with your miserable lives!"

"Champions, kings, jarls. We all die the same," Herleif said. "But I have done my share of the killing since we first set sail from home. You may look at me and see nothing but a lesser jarl who puts family before his own glory, but my sword has drunk well of our enemy's blood all along the path of carnage we have left to this vault. I have played my part in the slaughter you have started, but I tell you this- I have never sought my gold and glory from riches such as this! I will do what I must to rid myself of your tyranny, and when I am done, I will take my warriors and return home to a life worth living!"

Erik looked at him as if he couldn't understand the words being spoken. "You fool... Do you even hear yourself? We are Vikings! A life without glory is no life at all!"

Herleif shot a look at his brother, who stood beside him, and Gunnar met his gaze. In a moment of silent clarity between them, they nodded at each other. "We all have our fate," he said from behind his sturdy shield. "But, telling me how to live is why I have yet to put down my sword and shield."

Suddenly, before he could continue the fight, Herleif was knocked from behind, and he fell to the floor as strong, pale arms wrapped around his neck. He cried out as the arms squeezed his throat tight, and he dropped his sword to try and pull free of their grasp, but a set of teeth pressed against his neck and bit hard, threatening to rip open his throat entirely as he felt the sharp tug of closed jaws.

Gunnar sprang into action, jumping over Herleif and pulling at whoever was on top of him. That was when Erik and Magnús struck next, leaping at Gunnar with weapons raised. Desperate to defend against them both, Gunnar pulled his injured arm out of his sling and gave a great cry of pain as he lifted his axe against his foes with both hands. Gunnar's face went pale as their weapons clashed together, but he held strong and refused to yield, letting loose a tremendous bear-like roar as he overcame the combined assault of Erik and Magnús. The stitching in his shoulder snapped apart as his steely thews tightened and bulged, and no one was more stunned than the king himself as he and Magnús were tossed away like mere children fighting against a beast.

Gunnar's lip trembled as he seethed and spit dribbled into his beard. He swayed on his feet, his face wracked with pain as he turned and swiped the barbed end of his axe at Thyra, who still clung to Herleif like a leech eager to suck out his blood. It was his last heroic act before his eyes rolled, and he fell sprawled out and bleeding over the ground. His shoulder wound was open again, and the toll of a dozen cuts freshly given was too much for him to bear, but the strike to Thyra's head was enough to daze the feral woman and let Herleif rise to his knees and punch at her over his shoulder with his shield.

At once, the pain of biting teeth was released, and Herleif took up Sólareldur and threw himself over Gunnar, just as his brother had done for him. Bleeding from the neck, Herleif whipped around like a cornered wolf, growling and baring his teeth as he swung out with his weapons at any who drew near. "Come then, you feckless trolls!" he roared, his anger mounting to uncontrollable fury. "Send us to Valhǫll if you dare! We will be waiting there with blades drawn and kin at our backs to give you the red welcome you deserve!"

"Nothing but spiteful words and meaningless drivel," Erik muttered. Pushing Magnús and Thyra aside, he came forward and raised his sword to strike. "At least this way I need not give you a share of the treasure before taking it back along with your entire hold..."

Herleif stood and blocked Erik's sword as it fell. He knocked the blade away and roared as he attacked in turn, but Magnús and Thyra flew at him together, crashing against Herleif's shield as he defended himself and Gunnar. Then, a loud voice echoed through the chamber above the fighting, demanding the attention of warriors and heroes alike with its echoing boom.

"What insult is this!?" Ivar cried, standing before a host of Headhunter warriors that crowded through the entrance of the ruined chamber. His sword arm was bloody up to the elbow, and his red shield was marred with fresh scars from his fight on the walls, but he held his chin high and squared his shoulders like he was eager for more. "Finally, blades are drawn, and you two act like real men, but you dare leave me out? You wretched dogs! We started this raid together, the least we could do is end it just the same."

He stalked forward into the press, stepping over the dead without a care as he approached where Herleif and Erik did battle in front of the vault. His warriors followed but stopped in line with the Bilrost shieldbearers, who still raised their own weapons against the Sea Eagle spearmen. Just like that, the number standing against the king swelled, and Erik's warriors looked at each other in fear and confusion to see so many draw weapons against them after raiding together for so long. The warriors of Bilrost and Thurshamrar, their red and blue shields locked together in a strong defense, showed no such uncertainty.

Ivar walked abreast of where the king stood against Herleif, not giving them so much as a glance as he regarded the glow of the vault with sincere wonder shining in his dark eyes. "Ooh, now that is something to behold," he said quietly before finally looking at the others. "And Apollyon's armor?"

"Stolen," snarled Erik.

"It was never here," Herleif said next. "It was just a lie. A gamble to entice us into attacking the city."

Ivar's eyes narrowed. He looked back to the open vault to behold the immeasurable wealth, the gleam of jewels, silver, and gold bullion lighting up the chamber like Bifrost's magnificent glow. Then, he hung his head and spat at the ground. "Well," he grumbled, "guess one Knight's armor is as good as another. The walls are full of them now, all dented and bloody, so take your pick."

"Take my fucking pick!?" exclaimed Erik with malice. "No treasure would have been as great as possessing the armor of Apollyon! It is a symbol of dread and power, and mine for the taking! Only fools would be blind to its significance. Now the tinmen have made fools of us all, and it is all because of this one's longing for that Ashfeld bitch!"

Ivar glanced at Herleif, whose gaze did not falter as he stood panting over his fallen brother. "Been telling people about his soft nature for years. Still, others are always surprised somehow. Can't say I blame him for all of this, though," he said, gesturing at the blasted vault with his bloody sword. "The way I see it, you were the one who was so bent on getting your hands on all this booty along with the armor. I was only here for the fight. And Herleif? Well, Herleif always knew this whole thing was a mistake from the beginning. Maybe it was his womanly intuition, but fuck me if I should have thought like him for once before ever setting sail with you."

Erik visibly paled to be spoken down to so openly, and his weapons began to tremble as his hands shook with anger. "You worthless, little-"

"And who will you fight with now, Jarl Ivar?" came Thyra's smooth voice to cut off the king. She put a hand on Magnús' shoulder for support, half her face caked in blood from the open wounds upon her head. "Lines have been drawn in the sand, and the treasure here is not the only reward for victory..." Glancing at Erik, who seemed to reign in his anger just enough for her to speak, Thyra took a few shaky steps toward Ivar, took hold of his shield, and looked up at him. "Glory and fame may also be yours, oh jarl. It can be yours if you stand with us now against our enemies."

Then, she turned and pointed an accusing finger at Herleif. "Kill this upstart! Show your fealty and fight with us, and you may be rewarded justly by our king!"

Ivar set his jaw and frowned at the smaller woman. Then, he looked again at Herleif, weighing his options and leaving Herleif to wonder which way his ill fate might turn. "Mmm," Ivar hummed.

When Ivar did not move, Thyra turned to him again with eyes full of suspicion. "Do not hold your thoughts to yourself," she said in a warning tone. "Think wisely, Ivar. Ours is a power you would do well not to cross."

"Is that so?"

Giving a thoughtful nod, Ivar took his sword and shield in one hand and gently put the other on Thyra's shoulder. She looked at him curiously, but before she could speak, Ivar threw his head back and slammed his tri-horned helmet into her painted face. Blood spluttered from Thyra's lips and broken nose, but Ivar held fast and landed a second headbutt that saw her neck snap backward like a twig. With both of their faces left bloody, Ivar slammed into her again and again before finally letting Thyra drop dead at his feet. Red gore dripped from his brow and horned helmet, but he seemed no less concerned with the choice he had made than when he had entered the chamber a moment ago.

Magnús gave a cry of shock to see a member of his father's hirð murdered so openly, but Erik could only resign himself to stare coldly as Ivar wiped his eyes clean and flicked the blood from his fingers.

"How does that answer sound?" Ivar asked. He stepped over Thyra's body to stand over Gunnar with Herleif, sword in hand again. "Never did like Shaman. Can't stand listening to my own, always going on about her little voices and trollish mischief."

"It is all about giving space and finding common ground, in my experience," Herleif muttered as he glanced at the dead Shaman and back to Ivar, who only shrugged in response.

"Traitorous dogs," spat Erik. "Faithless worms belong in the dirt, not standing beside kings in victory. You chose this, Ivar! Remember that as I burn your hall and raid your lands until they are as ruined as your women. You could have had your share of the treasure and half of Herleif's hold for the taking! You could have stood with me!"

"Aye, I could have," Ivar said honestly. "But, even a black-hearted bastard like me can't be swayed into breaking a blood-oath to a brother."

Confusion clouded Erik's face before it suddenly fell, and he looked between Herleif and Ivar with clear eyes. Herleif could scarcely believe it himself, looking at Ivar in wonder to see him standing ready to fight together of his own free will. Ivar caught him staring and rolled his eyes. "Don't start crying about it. Your hibernating bear seems rather useless, and I've been waiting to stick this golden pig full of steel since Eitrivatnen. I'll still gladly kill you when all this is done. Maybe... I'm still deciding."

"Then allow me to share with you the burden of facing my enemies until then, brother," Herleif said.

"Finally, a gift worthy of my attention."

"Stand, you savages!" Erik exclaimed, and the chamber erupted again into battle as the two sides came together with steel. Magnús gave a cry like a howling wolf as he leaped forward beside his father, axes raised, while Herleif and Ivar lifted their shields together to defend themselves. Herleif's main concern was protecting Gunnar, and he did all he could to push Erik away from his brother's prone form, forcing the king back toward the vault as their swords clashed against shields and filled the air with sparks.

Ivar showed not a hint of fear as he took on the Berserker prince's flying axes, and he blocked each of Magnús' swings with practiced ease. He sidestepped a quick slash of an axe, and rather than trying to counter, he waited patiently to parry the next swing and punished Magnús by slamming the rim of his shield into the prince's face.

The screams of the wounded began to fill the chamber to mix with the sound of clashing weapons as the Sea Eagle warriors began to fall beneath the combined might of Bilrost and Thurshamrar. Before the vault, Herleif ducked beneath a swing of Erik's blade and stabbed with his own sword, taking Erik in the side. The king howled in pain and anger, stumbling as crimson blood began to darken his bright armor. Pressing his advantage, Herleif struck his sword against the golden shield lifted against him again and again until, with a furious bellow, he struck the shield so hard that the shining metal was split asunder by his blade. Erik cried out in dismay as Herleif's sword nearly cleaved his shield down to the boss, the runes of protection etched upon its surface proven useless in the fight, and he gave a wild swing of his blade to repay the insult in kind.

Fáfnir's Scale struck hard against Herleif's shield in a shower of sparks, but the worn shield held.

Herleif bared his teeth and kicked hard at Erik's chest, sending the king back into the treasure he so coveted. Erik's shield did not fall with him; rather, it remained wedged on the edge of Herleif's sword. He quickly batted it away so that the ruined disk of gold clattered uselessly to the floor, and a moment later, Magnús stumbled back to trip over his father and fell beside the king in a shower of coins. Together, father and son scrambled back to their feet- Magnús with his gold-hilted axes and Erik with only his gleaming sword.

"All bluster and no fucking bite!" roared Ivar, his blade dripping from the red cuts he had left in Magnús' garments and on his arms. "I am not accustomed to making such pathetic offerings to the Allfather! Show us some true skill, or throw down your weapons and beg for a quick death!"

Erik glared dubiously between Herleif and Ivar, but Magnús could not contain himself as more insults were hurled at his wounded pride. "For the king!" he cried and then snarled until foam spilled from his lips while swinging his axes at Ivar and Herleif with such ferocity that they were forced to duck behind their shields. His attacks were so wild and so maddening that one of his axes nearly took Erik in the head, swiping past his helmet and taking off a corner of the golden wings he wore as a crown.

Erik snarled in renewed anger as his golden ornament was cleaved apart. "Get away, you worthless beast!" he roared, then shoved Magnús hard from behind.

Magnús gave a whoop as he suddenly lost his footing. He fell forward to tumble right into Ivar's shield, only for the Red Jarl to quickly toss Magnús up and over his shoulder and lay him out on the ground like a sack of wheat. Turning on his heel, Ivar raised his sword and thrust it into the Berserker's chest, stabbing clear through his armor to pierce his heart.

Magnús gave a weak howl of pain as his eyes bulged. For a moment, he seemed to look around the dark chamber in terror as his fingers numbly fumbled with his ornate axes, but they proved too heavy to lift as his life's blood began to bubble and seep over his chest. Whatever he was searching for, or whoever, it seemed he could not find it. Ivar yanked his bloody sword free, leaving the Berserker prince to shudder and choke on his last breaths.

Erik looked on in stunned horror as the light left his son's eyes. He had been too trapped in his anger to act, and now his only heir lay dead. Gripping his sword, his shallow grief quickly gave way to impotent rage, and he gave a terrible cry before he rushed at Herleif and Ivar together, attacking with heavy swings through the air, even without a shield to protect himself. He chased after Ivar with wild abandon, stepping right over where Magnús lay dead without so much as a tear shed at his passing.

The brazen arrogance of his attack was almost insulting. Even in the face of his only son's demise, it seemed that Erik believed revenge was something he was owed rather than earned. It was easy for Herleif to step clear and block the wild swings of Erik's sword, and while Ivar held the wrathful king's attention, he saw an opening and struck.

Moving under the next bright slash of steel, Herleif stepped in close beside Erik and swiped Sólareldur across the king's belly. Erik gave a cry as the straps of his armor were cut apart, but as he went to strike back, Herleif knocked the sword away with his shield and slashed again, cutting a new red line across the back of Erik's shoulders. Floundering desperately, Erik attempted to fight back once more, only for his closed fist to slam against Herleif's sturdy shield with a crunch. Before Erik could even open his mouth to scream, Herleif punched his shield rim into the Golden King's throat with all his strength, slamming Erik back with a choking wheeze as dark blood bubbled between his lips. Fáfnir's Scale slipped from Erik's hand to clang on the ground, only for the king himself to follow.

Dropping to his knees, Erik clutched at his mangled neck, the skin already bruised purple and swelling beneath his fingers. Herleif shook off the shudder that ran up his arm from the hit and glared down at the broken man who had first sought to rule him and then sought to bring about his end. Erik's eyes bulged like they might pop, but any cry he might wish to give only came out as a blubbering spill of blood down his chin.

"Silence," Herleif muttered, "at long last."

Rolling onto his belly, Erik began to claw his way back toward the light of the vault, still clutching his throat. The vast treasure of the Walled City lay open before him, beckoning with the glint of marvelous jewels and the endless gleam of gold. It shone brightly in Erik's watery eyes as he stared, and as Herleif slowly began to follow, the once great and powerful king crawled over the body of his own son to pull himself closer to the treasure he so wished to claim.

"C-cr-curse you..." Erik sputtered after he finally managed to suck in a wet, guttural breath. "C-curse... you, Her-lief..." Never taking his wet eyes off the treasure, Erik fell limp over Magnús and reached out for the vault, vainly seeking the armor of a more accomplished warlord that was never there to begin with. "M-may your joy... turn t-to ash... when at last y-y-you hold i-it dear..."

Herleif scowled and felt a chill run down his spine. Vengeful curses uttered by kings were no trifling matter, especially before death. He quickly stepped forward and raised his sword one last time to strike, but before his sword could fall, Erik ceased to move. His pale eyes stared blankly at the treasure, but his will to claim it had left him along with the last beat of his wicked heart. The Golden King was dead.

Herleif lowered Sólareldur with a sigh. "It is done. But I fear the cost of this debt has been too high." Turning his back on the dead king and the treasure horde, Herleif went quickly to his brother and knelt beside him. In the chamber before them, the warriors of Bilrost and Thurshamrar made quick work of Erik's remaining followers. Many of the Sea Eagle warriors and mercenaries fled the tower when they saw their gold-giver fall, and those who chose to stay and fight soon fell, while others threw down their weapons along with any oath they had to their dead ruler so that they might live another day.

Ivar knelt down next to the bodies of Erik and Magnús and ran his fingers through a trail of warm blood that coated the dusty floor, spreading it over his fingers as his warriors began to claim trophies from the fallen. "For what it's worth," he said thoughtfully, "I do hope we will see the boy in Valhǫll upon a day. He was an idiot, but so are most young warriors who end up dead. Can't fault him for that."

Checking to see that Gunnar was still breathing, Herleif gave a curse for allowing the fight to go on as long as it did. "We need to get him to a healer," he said. Tossing aside his weapons, Herleif pulled Gunnar up from the floor and slung one arm over his shoulder, but it was hard to bear his brother's weight alone as he tried to stand. He felt old and tired. The night had been long, and there was no telling what horrors awaited once he stepped outside. He was just about to call his shieldbearers for aid when he caught sight of Ivar examining a few gold coins in his hand.

"Ivar," he grunted. "Are you still with me?"

The Red Jarl looked up at him with a frown. "Perhaps. That's a whole lot of treasure to split between us, even without the armor. Might be too much."

"Take what you will, I care not," Herleif said quickly. "But if the oath between us means anything to you at all, help me get my brother away from here."

Ivar narrowed his dark eyes in suspicion. He looked to the golden crown upon the front of Erik's helm, then at the cleaved shield left discarded nearby. Then, he tossed aside the coins he held and rose to his feet. "So be it, Herleif Strong-Shield." Stepping around the fallen king and his son, Ivar slipped his shield over his shoulder and grabbed up Gunnar's feet.

Herleif quickly moved Gunnar's injured arm over his chest as they lifted him, and together, the two jarls brought the fallen Raider through the chamber, leaving behind the treasure that so many had died to claim. The rest of Herleif's warriors tended to their wounded and followed after their jarl while Ivar's Headhunters set to work clearing the chamber of bodies and setting up a guard around the vault. Many looked upon the plunder with hungry eyes, but dividing up such vast wealth was a matter for another time. Perhaps when they could be sure they wouldn't be trapped inside the city to meet the same fate as its would-be king.

"What do you feed this ugly brute? Actual bears?" Ivar grunted as he walked backward out of the tower with Gunnar between them.

"Just shut up and move, you red bastard," Herleif muttered.