261 AC
Varg
Dawn broke with a fierce red glow spilling over the eastern pass. Is this a hint of what's to come?
Varg rode at the head of the combined army, his unicorn's hooves crunching through frost and mud.
Beside him rode the three sons of Lord Crowl. Ralf, the eldest, sat tall and broad, his thick frame swathed in black furs, a beautiful longsword slapping against his thigh.
His face bore an arrogant look as if the world owed him something, yet his eyes twinkled with charm.
Next came Gurn, rat-faced and sharp-eyed, fingers twitching near a dagger hilt, thin lips pressed tight. Varg thought he had such a punchable face.
Last rode Hegg, barely twenty, restless energy simmering in him as if eager to prove himself, his axe bouncing against his saddle while he scanned the horizon. Their lord father, too frail to ride, had stayed behind, leaving these three to lead the Crowl forces.
The pass loomed ahead as they marched. Varg's army stretched behind him, four hundred strong: disciplined men-at-arms in tight ranks, shields on backs, spears gripped firm, and a rabble of levies, old men and boys with pitchforks and crude spears.
His lieutenants rode close, Torv to his right, Vilk and Fark just behind, broad-shouldered huscarls and his lieutenants of the army, with taut bearded faces.
Vilk's keen eyes swept the cliffs, his voice low as he muttered, "Archers up there, mark my words, lord."
The Crowls numbered six hundred, similarly equipped but less disciplined, their red and black banners flapping soggy in the wind.
Varg noted they lacked anything like his huscarls, the twenty elite riders circling out at his sides. Together, a thousand men marched to battle!
Varg glanced at Ralf, whose dark eyes roamed the Stane forces with a cool appraisal.
"Thought a thrall-born would muster naught but cripples," Ralf said, his voice gruff yet warm, "but you've got proper spine, Stane. I reckon I like you already."
He leaned in, a broad grin splitting his face, all teeth and charm.
"We're mates in this now, aye? Two rival houses smashing the Magnars to bits. They'll sing of us round the fires for years!"
Varg's jaw tightened at the thrall-born slight, but Ralf's easy warmth dulled the sting.
"They'll hold," he replied, voice steady as stone.
"Better than your raiders, when I crushed them." He smirked, testing the man's mettle.
Ralf barked a laugh, rich and booming, clapping Varg's shoulder with a meaty hand.
"That lot? Led by our twat of a cousin. You did us a bloody favour, mate! Still, let's see if you've got the guts when the Magnars come swinging."
His grin held, unshakeable.
"They ruled all Skagos once, you know, overlords of this cursed rock. They won't fight fair now they're cornered. We've got to hit 'em hard, no pissing about."
Gurn cut in, his voice a low hiss.
"We will strike quick, or we're fucked when they regroup into a proper army." His fingers drummed his dagger hilt, eyes darting like a hawk's.
Varg weighed them silently. Ralf was a fun, charismatic guy, strong, but no doubt he had brains.
He noticed Gurn was cautious of him, always watching. He had that spies look; Varg already hated him. Pansy ass fucker he thought. What kind of clowns bring daggers to a fight? Losers, that's who.
Then there was Hegg, silent, so Varg has no idea about him.
"To recap, here's the plan," Varg said, locking eyes with Ralf.
"You lot charge the centre first, draw their eyes. We flank them from the sides and smash them to pieces. Agreed?"
Ralf nodded, his smile warm and sure.
"Aye, mate. Just don't bollocks it up, Stane. I'd hate to lose a good drinking buddy before we've cracked a cask together."
His tone was light, but his gaze held steel, a promise of brotherhood if Varg proved his worth.
The pass narrowed as they neared the rise, revealing the Magnar camp below: eight hundred men, caught unready. Their scouts probably noticed us not long ago, barely prepared for a fight.
Thought they were lucky. They didn't have a thousand, luck might be with Varg yet.
Varg's heart started beating fast, his grip tightening on his spear. Victory burned close; he could almost taste it. He loved the thrill of a proper, manly battle. Unlike when guns and bombs existed, there is no honour; any random soldier can get one shot by some cowardly sniper. At least in a melee, a lot of it is dependent on your skill.
He raised a fist, and bannerman raised the flags, his men-at-arms snapped into formation, shields locking with a dull clatter, spears bristling outward.
Vilk shouted, "Archers, nock and hold!" his voice cutting through the din, while Fark roared, "Shields up, you lazy sods!" urging the front line tight.
The Crowls followed, Ralf bellowing orders as their line tightened. Varg rode his unicorn forward, Torv at his side, huscarls fanning out.
"Ura!" Torv roared, a guttural bellow that shook the ranks, his scarred face turning into a feral grin.
The army repeated, "Ura!", a thunderous wave rolling down the pass.
The levies shuffled behind, also copying the odd battle roar, clutching crude weapons, their shouts thinner.
The Magnars scrambled, shouts bursting as they snatched axes and formed a ragged line. Arrows flew wild from the cliffs, a panicked volley.
Vilk cursed, "Told you, lord, bloody archers!" as he loosed an arrow, pinning a Magnar through the eye.
Then another, a levy boy, barely fourteen, staggered as a shaft tore through his neck, blood frothing on his lips as he crumpled.
An old man with a pitchfork fell, an arrow in his thigh, his scream lost in the chaos of the battle.
Varg's men-at-arms pressed on, shields up, arrows splintering against wood. The Crowls charged the centre, Ralf leading a unicorn rush, his spear plunging into a Magnar's chest, blood spraying as the man toppled.
Varg's unicorn surged down the slope, hooves thumping, horn lowered.
He aimed for a knot of Magnars, their furs sodden with mud. The beast smashed into one, horn ripping through his belly, guts spilling in a wet arc as the man screamed.
Varg's spear stabbed another, bursting through his chest in a gout of red. The warrior gasped, eyes bulging, then slumped as Varg wrenched the weapon free.
Beside him, Torv swung his axe, cleaving a Magnar from shoulder to ribs, bone snapping like dry twigs.
"Come on, you whoresons!" Torv bellowed, voice hoarse with glee.
"I've killed three already, keep up, lads!" His laugh was a jagged thing, wild and raw, as he spun to hack another foe, blood flecking his grizzled beard.
Fark waded in nearby, his heavy axe smashing a Magnar's shield to splinters, growling,
"Stand or die, you filth!"
The Magnars buckled, their line sagging as tents collapsed under the onslaught. Varg's men-at-arms stabbed in rhythm, spears darting through shield gaps, dropping warriors in pairs and trios.
A Magnar lunged at Varg, hefting a massive Danish axe. The blade flashed, and Varg's unicorn's head came off in a clean sweep, blood fountaining as the beast collapsed.
At the same time, Varg hit the ground hard, pain searing his spine. The Magnar swung again to finish him, but Varg rolled left, the axe missing by a hair.
Luck struck as the headless unicorns crashed into the warrior, crushing him into the mud with a wet crunch.
Varg hauled himself up, no time for fear, and joined his infantry line. He thrust his spear, catching a Magnar in the throat, blood gushing as the body fell.
"Hold the line, you bastards!" Torv shouted nearby, his axe shearing through a Magnar's arm.
"Lord Varg's still kicking, let's give 'em hell for him!"
Varg's hulking frame loomed over the smaller men, Varg revelling in the slaughter, his every swing promising one ticket to hell.
Vilk's voice rose sharp,
"Eyes up, more on the ridge!" as he felled another archer with a well-aimed shot.
The Crowls pressed the centre, Gurn's axe slicing a throat, Hegg cackling as his blade split a skull. The pass became a slaughterhouse, screams and blood thick in the air.
The cost mounted. Levies fell by dozens, boys pierced, old men hacked, their blood pooling on the frost.
A man-at-arms grunted as an axe shattered his shield, steel biting his arm, red soaking his gambeson.
Another dropped, a spear through his gut, writhing as comrades stepped over him.
Varg's breath scorched his lungs, his tally of the dead rising, dozens of men-at-arms gone, their shields broken, bodies trampled.
The levies suffered worse, a hundred down, perhaps a hundred fifty, their ragged line shredded by arrows and axes.
Yet the Magnars faltered, their camp a wreck, warriors breaking south.
Varg scanned the carnage: tents flattened, bodies strewn like broken dolls, the frost stained red.
Somehow, his flank had become the main line, while the Crowls circled like scavengers. The Magnars fled, a ragged mob sprinting for the cliffs, their shouts fading.
Ralf rode up, his sword dripping, chest heaving.
"They're done for!" he growled, wiping blood from his cheek with a grin.
"We've bloody well done it, mate."
Varg nodded, his spear slick with blood that dripped onto the ground.
"A win," he rasped, throat raw as gravel, "but we need to chase the stragglers. If the rest of the Magnars rally, they'll hit us with numbers."
His huscarls gathered, Torv wiping his axe on a Magnar's cloak, his grin fierce and wide.
"Fucking beautiful, that was," Torv said, spitting a gob of red onto the ground.
"Reckon I took dozens. You still breathing, lord?"
Vilk joined them, bow still in hand, muttering, "Lost count at six, but those cliff bastards won't forget me."
Fark lumbered over, his axe dripping, voice a low rumble, "Ten for me, lord. Heavy buggers, these Magnars."
The Crowl sons dismounted, Gurn kicking a corpse aside, Hegg chuckling as he cleaned his blade. Varg's mind churned, half his force gone, mostly levies. The cost bit deep, but the Magnars were broken.
Ralf approached, his voice low and warm.
"You're a proper lord, Varg," he said, clapping his shoulder.
"Fought like a demon out there. We'll raise a cup to this, you and me, brothers in blood now."
He offered his hand, grip firm as Varg clasped it, a spark of trust flaring. Gurn and Hegg lingered back, their eyes glinting with something dark, envy perhaps?
Then it struck. A sharp whistle pierced the air. Crowl horns blared, and their hundreds surged, not at the fleeing Magnars but at Varg's battered remnant.
Ralf's grin twisted, his sword flashing as he drove it into a Stane man-at-arms, the blade bursting through his chest.
"Sorry, mate," Ralf said, voice still soft, almost sad.
"You're a good bloke, could've been proper friends. But father's word you see...
Can't let you rise too high."
Varg roared, spinning as Crowl warriors swarmed his line. Gurn's dagger sank into a huscarl's throat, Hegg's axe splitting another's skull.
Torv shouted, "Defend your lord, you dogs!" and swung, lopping a Crowl's arm off, blood arcing as he roared, "I'll gut you all for this!"
Vilk snarled, "Treacherous shits!" nocking an arrow that took a Crowl in the neck, while Fark charged, roaring and smashed his axe into a Crowl's chest.
But the tide turned fast against Varg. His men, spent and stunned, bent under the betrayal.
Ralf charged him, sword raised, that damned charm still in his eyes.
"Nothing personal, Stane," he called, swinging hard.
Varg parried with his spear, the clash ringing out, his mind ablaze.
The truce, Ralf's warmth, all a bloody lie. The Crowls had played him for a fool!
Already 20k words, guys! What did you guys think of the battle? This battle should further give you an idea of his battle capabilities, he is no superhuman! Nor is he a mind-reading genius. Merely a young lord who needs experience.
YOU! Drop a quick review. Thousands of you roam my ranks, but I'm calling NINE bold huscarls to step up and claim the honor! Who's with me? Agh, I forgot one thing: each of you will get the third-best pick of some next raid wildlings. ;)