261 AC
Varg
Varg stood amidst the chaos, his boots sinking into the earth.
All around him, it was a slaughterhouse, bodies sprawled in heaps, more joining their dead brethren.
He had thought the battle won, the Magnars broken, fleeing. Ralf's warm grin and firm handshake still lingered in his mind.
He didn't know what he expected. He was arrogant, too arrogant. It seems living in his keep, smelling his own farts, made him forget.
But now that grin twisted into something else as Ralf's sword plunged into another of his men, the blade bursting through the man's chest in a spray of red.
Then, Varg had something like an epiphany, as if he took some drugs and saw light.
Pieces before unanalysed snapped into place, a brutal clarity coming to Varg.
The Magnars weren't massing, or at least not two thousand strong as the Crowls had claimed.
He, what an idiot! He even found out about it later and thought he was lucky! Eight hundred, caught off guard, barely armed for such a massive raid, hardly the threat the Crowls had painted.
This was no alliance or truce; from the very beginning, the Crowls had faked it, luring him here to kill him, to carve away a rival before he grew too strong. Varg's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding as the realisation hit.
Around him, the result of the betrayal unfolded with savage speed. Gurn, the rat-faced son, darted through the chaos, his dagger and axe sinking into a huscarl's throat.
Hegg, the youngest, cackled like a madman, his axe splitting a levy's skull, brains splattering the mud.
And his men?
They were tired from the last battle and now staggered under the 'ally' onslaught, their shields splintering, their cries swallowed by the roar of Crowl warriors.
They fought back, but the tide was merciless. Varg's army collapsed, hundreds starting to whittle down in moments. Surrouned! Nowhere to escape. The levies fell, boys and old men hacked apart, their pitchforks useless against Crowl axes.
Two hundred Stanes remained, then one hundred fifty, further falling into a desperate corner, shields raised in a trembling wall.
One brave huscarl was still holding the banner, the last bannerman! A weirdwood tree on green is still flying proudly!
Varg fought right in the middle, each thrust sending a Crowl to the ground, blood splashing.
His over six-foot frame towered over the smaller men. An advantage! Still, the ring tightened, the Crowls swarming like wolves on a wounded stag. He nearly died multiple times.
One hundred Stanes stood, their breaths ragged, their shields battered, and a sole bannerman.
Varg's muscles burned, his spear arm slick with sweat. He ducked a wild axe swing that still managed to scrape him, but he drove his spear through the attacker's gut and kicked the corpse free, its entrails spilling.
"Hold the line, you bastards!"
Torv, vigorous as ever, shouted, his axe shearing through a Crowl's shoulder, blood arcing as the man crumpled.
"Lord Varg's still kicking! Let's give them hell for him!"
His laugh was wild, a sound that defied the hopeless situation as he spun to face another foe, his beard flecked with red.
Varg's eyes flicked to the rise where Ralf stood, barking orders, his longsword shining in the weak light.
The end was near; if this was his last stand, he'd make it hurt his enemies!
"Jory, loose!" Torv's voice cut through the battle.
Varg glanced left, spotting the young lad from the drills, no older than fifteen, his face full of sweat.
Torv's trainee protégé, the one who'd trembled under a shield's weight, stood at the ring's edge, the bow trembling in his hands.
"Now, boy!" Jory and five other men nocked their arrows.
Varg noticed his eyes squeezed shut, a blind shot. The arrow flew, arcing high over the melee below. It climbed, hung for a second, then plunged straight into its target.
Ralf, still shouting from the rise, never saw it coming.
The arrow punched right through his throat, a clean, freakish strike.
Blood fountained as he clawed at it with his arms, his charming grin twisting into a gurgle, his eyes full of disbelief.
Then he staggered, on his knees, and falling face-first into the mud, his shiny longsword falling beside him.
As a result, the other Crowl brothers froze, their eyes wide with shock. Gurn's rat-like face paled, his dagger slipping from his grip as he stared at his brother's corpse.
Hegg's manic grin faltered, his axe dipping as he gaped. The Crowl men who noticed their leader's dead wavered, their shouts faltering into murmurs; the news of their death was spreading fast.
Then, chaos took them. Gurn, trying to still salvage the morale and rally his line, slipped in the splash, his foot catching on a Stane's fallen shield.
He flailed, arms windmilling, and pitched forward, straight onto some peasant's discarded pitchfork. It went straight through his chest, a pathetic, wet pop as he spasmed, blood bubbling from his lips. He twitched once, then stopped, dead.
Hegg spun to flee, but a Stane man-at-arms held on a spear and threw it. The spear caught Hegg's ankle, tripping him into a shallow ditch. His head cracked against a jagged rock, a dull thud echoing as his skull split, brain matter oozing into the frost.
His axe rolled free, useless, as his body twitched in the muck. All of this happened within the same minute after Ralf had expired!
The Crowl warriors broke, their morale shattering. Men dropping their weapons and routing from the battle.
This gave Varg's remnant a chance to rally as they hacked at stragglers. Spears thrust, axes fell, and the pass grew quiet, save for the groans of the dying.
Silence fell, the red dawn fading to a dull grey.
Varg stood, chest heaving, his spear planted in the earth as he scanned the carnage.
More bodies littered the pass. Out of his army? Only his men-at-arms and huscarls remained, a little over one hundred men, with a handful of levies clinging to life.
His army of four hundred strong at dawn was almost wiped out, the levies shredded beyond counting.
Torv limped over, his axe dripping, and clapped Varg's shoulder with a rough hand.
"We're alive, my lord. Held the day."
His voice was hoarse, but his grin held.
Varg nodded, his throat tight, but his eyes drifted to Ralf's corpse.
The man's fancy longsword lay beside him, its hilt gleaming amidst the filth.
Tricked by this fucker, he thought, fists clenching until his knuckles whitened.
If this grinning bastard could blind me, the southerners will carve me to pieces, he thought, his fists tightening.
The shame in his gut twisted. No more blunders, he told himself. He snatched the sword from the corpse; it would be his trophy, a reminder of his failure.
He'd wield it. The Crowls had gutted half his army, but they hadn't gutted him. Revenge burned in his chest, a fire that wouldn't be quenched until their house was ash.
"Gather the wounded," he yelled.
"Loot everything! Every scrap of armour, every weapon, strip them bare!"
There is one way Varg did benefit. The Magnars and Crowls had left enough weapons and mail behind to equip a thousand men, a fortune in iron for the taking.
His lips curled into a savage grin.
"And then we march to their keep, Deepdown. They've no warriors left to speak of, and only the strongest of us stand. It's time to end House Crowl once and for all!"
While his men started cleaning up, Varg gripped Ralf's sword tighter. Then, with a snarl twisting his lips, he seized a fistful of Ralf's hair and, with a brutal sawing motion, hacked through sinew and bone.
The sword bit deep, blood oozing sluggish and dark as the head came free with a wet, tearing crunch. Varg rose, holding it aloft, and stared into Ralf's dead eyes.
"You smiling motherfucker!" Varg roared. "You lost! How do you like it, eh? I'll boil your head until the skull's all that's left, then gild it in gold! You'll be the first in my enemy skull collection, my drinking 'buddy', my drinking cup!"
Varg is no genius mastermind, being able to read everyone's thoughts. He is pretty vengeful, though.