Doran the Butcher stood in front of the Wyrm raiders as they walked up from the beach. Behind him the Clan McHaddish packed in a fervor. Some of the plague-ravaged menfolk stood with their spears and broadswords, but Doran knew they would not be able to hold off the northmen.
Doran was old; somewhere in his sixties, but his shoulders were still as broad as an ox. His face bore the signs of many battles, the most prominent scar among them was an acid burn on the left side of his face. His hair was white but his beard remained a deep black. His plate armour was black as midnight and a crimson tunic was over it. The tunic had a black symbol on the chest of a sword and double bit axe crossed over a morningstar; the symbol of Garm, the war god. A heavy bastard sword was at his side. In fact he had a weapon corresponding to each of those shown in the war symbol. A large kite shield painted in red with the symbol of the war god adorned the boss. A great helm was under his arm and surmounted by a large dragon.
The raiders stopped short of Doran. Their bearded axes, spears, and swords held at the ready. The 'Foringi', or Captain, stopped. He was just as old as Doran and bore a bearded axe. He was as war scarred if not more than Doran and just as muscular. He also had a long gray beard kept in a braid. Even though both men wore different armor and were of different cultures. To each other it was like gazing into a mirror. Both were men of war.
"Hail southman. This quarrel is not with you. It is against me and clan McHaddish."
The warpaldin shrugged his shoulders. "These people took me in, nursed me back to health. Their problems are my problems. And I'm telling you the plague will not allow them to be the adversaries your men deserve."
"I know that southman." The Foringi said with a snarl, dragging up his mustache laden lip. "But their raid killed mine daughter and if I don't respond in kind the other Wyrm clans will see us as weak and I can't have that. My daughter deserves more than a massacre to commemorate her by. My name is Ragnar Split-tooth. What is yours."
"Doran the Butcher men call me." Said the old warrior. "Paladin of Garm, slayer of the hillmen, destroyer of the great red Kilgrith, deathbringer to the demon Celrenth, vanquisher of the lich Gelhen."
"You didn't say that mouthful of titles with enough guffaw to want all of 'em, so that was a half-hearted attempt at intimidating me."
"It was worth a try." Doran said.
"No, it really wasn't." Ragnar replied with a wan smile. "Paladins are holy men aren't they?"
Doran nodded an affirmative.
Ragnar looked at him tilting his head in curiosity. "If you're a holy man where is your church?"
"My church?" The Butcher scoffed. "I am a warpaladin of Garm! The battlefield is my church. The lines of men my pews. The clamor of swords, the grinding of shields, and the screams of the dying my choir. The swinging of my blade be my sermons and the taste of blood and sweat on my tongue are the only prayers accepted by my god."
The Foringi nodded with respect etched on his weathered face. "Any foe should feel honored to die on your blade."
"I know of you Northmen." Doran replied. "Dying on one of your weapons would be a death to be proud of as well."
"I will make you a wager warpaladin. We fight just the two of us. If I lose and greet my ancestors, me boys will head home to wait and fight the Clan McHaddish when they can fight back. If you die the Clan will be wiped out by me and mine."
"It is a deal, Foringi." Doran said and drew his bastard sword. "For honor."
"For glory." Ragnar said and shouldered his axe bringing his great round shield up in a more defensive position.
"For riches." The raiders finished in unison. One rushed forward and removed the Foringi's cloak.
Doran took his great helm out from under his arm and put it on. Sliding the visor down. Ragnar put on a simple rounded helm with a nose guard.
They strode toward each other like two demigods among mere mortals. Bulging muscles tensed at the ready.
Ragnar struck first thrusting with the axe head taking Doran by surprise as it had no spike. It made contact with Doran's shoulder right at the joint. Doran felt his sword arm go numb and he brought his shield up to defend against the savage side swing Ragnar had already sent whistling at Doran's exposed side. The axe thudded heavily on to the wood of the kite shield. Doran put his shoulder against it and shoved hard. The northman jumped back to avoid losing the axe.
Doran shook his arm as the numbness left it. He chuckled. "Your good old timer."
"So are you, ya great stale fart." Ragnar roared back amused.
Doran went on the offensive this time bullrushing with the shield. The sword held out at chest height; the point towards Ragnar.
Ragnar brought his shield up as if to meet shield to shield but rolled to Doran's unarmed side at the last moment. Doran expected it because it was what he would have done. So, Doran pirouetted himself swinging the sword low at Ragnar's legs going down on a knee to do so, but he was greeted only by air.
Ragnar had seen the start of the spin in his peripheral. He nimbly leapt over the sword and rolled to safety. Turning to meet the paladin. Doran leapt forward and lunged with the sword tip. It struck Ragnar low beneath the shield in the hip. With a roar Ragnar swung his axe and it shrieked off Doran's pauldrons and thudded against his helmet. Doran saw stars for a moment and staggered. Instinctively, he brought the kite shield up and felt the axe bounce off the reinforced rim.
Doran swung the sword low again. This time he felt the long blade make contact with his leg. Though he paid for the small victory with a blow to the back side of his right pauldron, which sheared through the straps keeping the piece of metal in place and bit into the shoulder. He howled in pain and shoved blindly, pushing the barbarian. Ragnar stumbled back and collapsed on his injured leg.
Doran stood up and saw that his shield arm was useless. So he unbuckled the strap and let the heavy oak and steel shield thud to the ground. Blood wasn't squirting from his arm which meant no artery was severed but the cut went at least four inches down. He would be lucky to ever use the arm again. He felt the blood seeping down it's length and saw some rolling down his vambrace.
Ragnar got up on a shaky left leg. Testing his weight against it. Blood was beading off the seal skin wraps on his legs. He looked up and Doran saw the battle rage the northmen were so famed for taking hold of the old barbarian's mind.
With an inarticulate cry of rage Ragnar charged. Swinging the axe and the shield wildly. Doran did his best to stop the onslaught of blows to no avail. He felt his armor being bent and rent by the ferocity of the attacks but none made it through the thick plate. He gave up trying to block and started stabbing at Ragnar's exposed chest. The sword plunged in again and again. Finally he swung it laterally and bit deep into the raging man's belly. When he withdrew the weapon intestines spilled out like badly coiled rope.
Ragnar had one last blow in him and Doran felt it cut deep into his bullneck. It stopped right above his collar bone and both fighters collapsed in a pile.
Doran tried to laugh but only spat blood. "S-s-someone beat me. About damn t-time!"
Ragnar felt the rage leave him. "Well shit. Looks like we did each other in." He gurgled.
"If I'm granted an audience with Garm I'm asking him to give us a r-rematch!" Doran spat.
"I will do the same of Tovald you elderly bastard!"
Warriors rushed forward. Both clansmen and raiders alike. When they pulled the two giant men apart they found them locked in an embrace much like old friends, smiles on their lips. As Doran's neck stopped sputtering blood.
The first mate of the ship looked at the Clan leader. "Well, they both be dead. So… Peace?" and he thrust his huge hand forward.
"Aye, peace." The clansman wheezed and clasped the hand.