In the late afternoon the sun lumbered lazily high up in the sky, its blinding rays of light and permeating warmth left barren in a cloudless sky. Tall strands of grass wafted back and forth in the salty breeze that drifted from the ocean just over the tall hills before Björn. The open prairie was cluttered by the tall strands, as well as colorful and fragrant flowers of varying colors. Boulders, both large and small were scattered over the landscape, and to the east he could see the open sea just past the crest of the hill.
The grassy plain ended at its peak, leading to a rocky shoreline and cool water that was calm and gentle despite the events about to erupt. Behind him was more field, slowly being trampled by the men who approached him. Organized rows of men marched across the field, emerging from the heavily wooded tree line perhaps one hundred yards or so from him.
Björn stood at the top of the hill, surrounded by legions of mortal warriors as the rest followed. Many on horseback, others on foot, yet all were armed with heavy weapons and shields. These men peered down the hill at the stony shoreline where fifty or more boats skidded onto the land, and from these ships emerged twenty to sixty men each.
These men were dressed like the Norseman of Björn's homeland, weighed down in heavy leather clothing and chainmail armor. Broadswords hung on their hips, axes strung over their backs, and shields strapped to their forearm.
Their similarity was uncanny, yet they were no friends of this land. The warriors on the ships were enemies, warriors from distant lands out to plunder their distant cousins. They were here for war.
However, those who threatened the homeland of the dragons, must answer to their fiery breath.
"Lord Björn," a young man gasped, winded from running up the steep hill to his side. "They are from the isles to the north of here, from Breck!"
Many of the men around him grumbled, they all knew the tales of the warriors from Breck. They plundered and pillaged, simply for the joy of it. They would destroy towns, steal valuables, and rape women. An individual would be considered lucky to die during their raid, for the survivors faced much worse. Their cruelty knew no bounds.
However, these warriors had obviously ignored the tales of Roldheim. That, or they failed to hear of them. Roldheim was well known for its numerous strength, and with the union of man and dragon: their power could not be matched. No one dared to attack the mainland.
Except for these ignorant fools.
"We should wait for those men to all reach the shore." Björn said, turning his horse around to walk at a leisure pace down the opposite side of the hill.
"Lord Björn! We must stay and fight!" the young man shouted, chasing after him. He was stunned to see the massive army turn with its commander, walking away from the soon to be battlefield.
"Lord Björn, we cannot leave! They will think we fled!"
One of the soldiers patted the young man's shoulder. "Precisely."
"What? Precisely? They will take us for cowards!"
Another soldier passed the boy, following Björn down to the foot of the hill. "Let them. It will make it so much more fun when they see why they should fear the lands of Roldheim."
The teenager was still puzzled and another soldier spoke. "Boy, we have the dragons on our side."
The soldier was right, Roldheim had the dragons on their side. More importantly, they had Björn. Son of Eskil and the next in line to be prince, or in the mortals eyes, king. He was their ultimate weapon.
Björn had joined the ranks of man's army when he was just eighteen, just a boy in human years. Even younger in a dragons lifetime. Edinburgh had been good to him, teaching him how to fight like a man. How to use a sword, an axe, a bow: like a Nord warrior. A much more barbaric style than what he'd learned from his mother. Her stance was elegant and refined, she waited for the most opportunistic time to strike. She calculated her enemy's moves, and only needed a single blow to defeat them.
Edinburgh warriors were harsh and used their strength to overpower their enemies. Their attacks were not intended to be particularly skillful, but powerful. They would bash through an enemies shield before they would take the time to find an opening and strike for their heart. Perhaps that is why he was promoted through their ranks so swiftly. For he was able to combine his knowledge of refined power to topple his enemies.
At the age of twenty four, Björn led his own troops and was called Merkismathr, or Merkis, a general of the Norse forces. Which was why he was here now. Preparing for a bloody battle, one tasked to him by the kings and queens of the main lands. A slave to a mortal army.
Many of his kin found his position among men… pathetic.
Bjorn dismounted his horse and began shedding his armor, with only a large hill between his men and his foes. He felt excited. It had been so long since he had fought in a battle like the one that was to come. He could shed blood, he could bathe in it. His men could feel that excitement as well, because norsemen thrived on the battlefield. It was like they were born to fight.
Björn handed his heavy armor to the young man that still followed him, nodding his head at the six others who repeated his action. The young warrior watched them, still with wide eyes at what he did not understand; but continued his attempt to gather their armor.
Six of Bjorn's kinsman followed his decision in joining the ranks of the mortal army. They did not find his decision pathetic, they found it valuable. To maintain peace between their races, lending man their strength was just a simple task. One that kept their kin from being slaughtered as it had once happened in the past.
They joined the Norse army, however they refused to prove their strength to the eyes of man. They were dragons. Their power was legendary. They had accepted the blessing from Libelle to take mortal forms, yet that didn't mean they became mortals themselves. They followed Björn's footsteps, they aided him. That was all.
Averting his eyes forward, Björn listened to the roaring chant that the Brecks bellowed out on the opposite side of the hill. Those men were in for a world of pain.
"Archers ready!" Björn shouted.
Knut, his second in command dismounted his horse and stood by his side, bellowing out the command once more. The rallying war cry on the opposite side of the hill grew louder, the warrior's most likely running up the steep rocky path now.
"Weapons draw!" Björn yelled, feeling his skin ripple with his draconic power.
The first Breck warrior reached the top of the hill, raising his axe in the air and shouting something unintelligible. After him came a rush of bearded men, stopping at the top of the hill and rallying with one another. They lacked the intelligence to know when they were outmatched.
Björn felt his body tense up, he was trying hard to not shift forms yet. He wanted these men to know, that within his army was not just the men they saw. "Archers, loose!"