Two men rode upon the frozen lands beyond the Arrim. They had been on the move for two days, ever since it had stopped snowing, silently passing through the woods and plains covered in snow. Around the twilit hours the men found themselves in an open field, and decided to stop to let the horses rest. The first man looked around, seeing nothing, and then crouched on the ground to uncover some of the newly fallen snow, revealing some grass which the horses gladly ate; while the second drank some water.
Throughout this journey they kept their silence, for that was the language of the far North. Ones who broke the silence would die, both were aware. Perhaps that was why the folk living beyond the Ingram, however unimaginable to some, knew when to talk and what to say. Not even the birds made any sound. Only the wind could loudly howl, and it wasn't particularly windy once it had stopped snowing.
The first of the two was the old one, far more experienced than the other, and knew the language of the far North well; whereas the other was still learning it, always observing his superior and watching the treelines.
"I don't understand," he said once he finished his water. "We haven't seen a soul out here in days. Why the fuck are we out here?"
"The Frozenfolk are unruly," the older man said, "We're here to find out why."
"I know that…" The young man started looking around too."But why find out at all?"
"It's always good to know why things is happenin'."
The younger thought of things to ask his elder. There was always something thought provoking about his answers. "They say there's Norsemen out here. You believe that?"
"I don't know what to believe." the elder said, giving it not much thought.
"Alright… Well, do you know why people live out there when they could come south and live in the Northern provinces?"
"They believe the lands here are sacred," the elder responded just as quickly. "That they are duty bound to tend to them. I'd say they hold the lands here to be more sacred than we do Mount Vythis or Johansgrab."
"Why?" the younger asked cynically.
"I've heard they believe their Gods breathed wind onto the land, and they arose from the ground."
"Sounds stupid…" The young man started looking around like his elder did. "What if we don't find anything? What if none of the men Captain Marius sent out find anything?"
The elder didn't reply, instead choosing to focus on the plain ahead of them. Something caught his eye. There, something on the snow, something brown. "Look." He pointed in the direction of the brown object sticking out from the snow and then to the treeline beyond the plain. "Do you see anything near the trees?"
"Nah…" the young watchman said after focusing on the trees.
The older man thought a little. "Tie the horses to a tree, then follow me. If something is to happen, untie them when I raise my hand."
The younger did as commanded while his companion carefully walked out of the treeline. The snow was deep, the air cold. His ears were on full alert. If he heard anything, anything at all, he would run back to the horses and raise his hand. But there was no sound. The uncomfortable silence, the language of the frozen lands persisted. He made it to the object and crouched. The snow was far deeper there, so much so that when he stepped forward, the snow under would seemingly harden as though he stepped on ground. It was something made of leather. He dug a little around it to realise what it was: a hand in a glove.
Meanwhile, the younger man moved across just like his companion had, albeit without the caution he had. He saw what his companion saw on the snow, and he could feel something stir in his stomach. His companion turned to face him. "Dig." he commanded.
So the men dug out the snow, and more and more of the man came up. The corpse's skin had darkened and turned hard, his eyes hollow. His tunic was bloody, and there was a clear cut in his heart.
"How long has he been dead?" the younger whispered.
"I dunno. You see anything? Footprints, perhaps?"
"It's been snowing for four days…"
"I know, but still…"
The younger looked around. "No, nothing. He must have been rotting for a while."
"Let me think. Four days of snowfall… He must've died before that. Nay, we can't know."
The young man couldn't look at the dead man in the snow. He had seen men die, and men buried, but never like this. It made him sick to the core seeing that decay. He knew he would see cruelty and brutality when he joined the watch, but this made his skin crawl. Still, he didn't show what he truly felt, he didn't want to be seen as weak hearted by his companion.
"Look, boy," The elder crouched down and lifted the corpse's arm, "They cut off his hand."
The young man looked. The hand had truly been severed. "Oh God," he said, shivering in the cold. "Why? Why do such a thing?"
"My Pa used to tell me Norsemen eat men they slew."
The thought utterly disgusted him. "Aw hell…"
The elder was looking at the corpse, silently studying the rot, perhaps still trying to figure out when the man had died. "You ever kill a man?" the elder asked.
"Nay, I haven't…"
"Well you might have to with me around. Just to let you know."
"How about we stay here for the night?" the younger asked. "No one seems to be around, whoever killed this fella is probably far away right now."
"No, we cannot." The old watchman dropped the dead man's arm. "Do you see that cut to the heart?" He understood what his companion meant. "That's steel. Nothing the Frozenfolk have cuts through a man's chest like that. We ride."
The men continued on their route in a northwesterly direction and through the woods as night fell. Both were worried, and the younger one even admitted to himself that he was scared. Still they pressed on, eager to find anything, anything that would alleviate these rumours. So in truth, they wished for nothing to happen, that they could simply ride back south to their outpost, to report to Captain Marius that there was nothing to worry about. It was getting very cold, colder than the nights before. It turned their faces red and their eyes dim.
But, once they climbed a barren hill in the midst of the seemingly endless forest, their hopes were crushed. Clouds of smoke and ash rose from the north, they could see houses enveloped by an orange light: fire setting the sky alight. Behind them, five miles away, they could see the tenth outpost of the watch. They looked at eachother, as though they could know what they both thought.
"Those houses are ten miles away at most. We'll be there in an hour or two. After we investigate we head for the tenth."
The young watchman knew better than to argue with his companion, though he didn't like it. He knew watchmen didn't cross the Arrim just to burn the homes of the Frozenfolk.
They rode their horses further north than ever. The wind began howling like it hadn't the days before, ceaselessly blowing into the ears of the watchmen, obscuring their sense of sound. The young man couldn't tell whether it was the wind he heard, some wild animal in the woods or something else watching in the dark, though he feared his imagination made him suffer far more than he actually was.
Finally, after the hour-long, nerve racking ride, the men came out of the woods with their horses, and rode through the plains towards the burning village. They hadn't passed anybody, which they found strange, but that gave them hope that they wouldn't be in danger by investigating the burning hamlet.
"It must have been at least a few hours," the old man explained. "We should be able to ride safely now. We can rest once we've investigated the village." The younger one didn't respond. It was around midnight when they came to a halt by a large boulder just to the south of the first wooden house. "Leave the horses here. C'mon."
The two men crouched on the snow. It would have been very hard to spot them from the village in the cover of darkness, and impossible to hear due to the fire. It was getting very, very hot. The men, so used to the cold around, began sweating in the coats they wore over their tunics as they slowly approached, the old man having already drawn his sword.
The four houses, built around one single square, with a stone well in the middle, had been set aflame one by one, as it would have been impossible for the flames of one house to reach the other. All of their roofs had completely collapsed, their rather crude walls barely standing. Two men lay dead on the snow by the well, stabbed in the back, their hands and heads hanging in it. There was a small pile of tools and poorly made weapons burned right next to them, though their flame had already died down when the two arrived. The old man, upon seeing the scene, put his sword back in its sheath.
"Look for symbols, sigils, anything," he commanded as he approached the dead men, "We must know who did this and why."
The young man stayed away from the flames yet still observed the houses. No, nothing. Everything was burnt, the flames they had seen just an hour earlier had seemed to have died down by the time they arrived. He could only imagine the rest of the folk who used to live here, cowering in the pine forest, slowly freezing to death.
The older man looked at the cuts. Once again, precise and sharp. Steel, without doubt. But whether or not it was Norse steel he couldn't know. He looked down the well, he saw something shining. He whistled for his companion, and once he looked the old man gestured for him to come. "Help me pull the bucket up." he said, and the young man did just that. It was somewhat heavy, so they both pulled on the rope with full strength. When they pulled out the bucket, the older was mortified, while the younger was confused. There was a shortsword in the bucket.
"The fuck? Why would the folk who burned this hamlet leave a sword behind?"
"My God…" said the older man.The younger one picked up the blade. A raven had been carved into the steel at the base of the blade, its cross-guard was quite short. There was great balance to it, and he was sure it was a weapon finer than both of them carried. "Oh, I get it. They didn't know the sword was in the well… They looked for it but couldn't find it, and they couldn't see it." He pointed at the men. "This sword is the reason these men are dead. They stole it! They stole it from…"
He saw something behind his companion, and immediately drew his sword. His companion, sensing the danger, did the same and turned to where he looked. A man stood there, behind the building, slowly approaching. He wore a coat over a leather tunic, like them, and an iron helm covering only his eyes and head. He had a sword similar to the one from the well.
"Who are ye?" the older asked. The man responded in a tongue they didn't understand. "The man is not of the Frozenfolk. Must be a Norseman. Be careful." he whispered, and then turned to the Norseman. "What d'you want?" He lowered his sword, signalling that he wanted no trouble. The Norseman pointed at the sword in the hand of the young watchman, and then back to himself. The old man slowly shook his head up and down. "Give him the sword," he whispered. "We might be surrounded."
The young watchman slowly approached the Norseman. His heart was beating harder than it had in his lifetime. At any moment, he thought, an arrow could come through the dark and kill him and his companion. The droplets of sweat, which had been accumulating since they came to that wretched place, ran down his body, all the way to his shoes. He put the sword on the ground and then backed away, his own sword still in hand. The Norseman sheathed his sword, so confident was he in his superiority at that moment, picked up the sword and then backed away.
"Move." The elder commanded. The men, swords in hand, ran towards their horses, around the way they came so as to not frighten the Norseman, towards their horses. "We must ride straight east and tell them that there are Norsemen in the frozen lands."
A sharp sound carved through the air, and then a thump was heard. The younger watchman recognised the sound and turned around. His companion looked into his eyes with horror and pain. There was an arrow in his back. The old man tried to scream something he wasn't quite sure of, but his breath was gripped away from him. He fell on his knees in pain, sharp pain, looking up to see the Norseman charging at his companion with the sword. But the younger swiftly turned around, and deflected his blow with his own. The Norseman staggered in his step, not having expected such a move. The young watchman screamed and drove his sword into the throat of his enemy. The Norseman fell down onto the ground, gasping for air like he was. The old man smiled, even as he was dying, and looked up at his companion, but his smile was cut short when another arrow pierced his throat.
He fell onto the ground. Now he could only feel pain and fear. Fear, not for himself, but for his companion. "Run, run!" he tried shouting, but his wounds wouldn't let him, instead making a sound reminiscent of choking, the kind beasts would make. He pointed towards where they came from. "The sword, take the sword!" he tried telling him, and frantically pointed at it.
The young man was in whole disarray. He had practically killed a man, he could still feel the flesh around his sword when he struck into the Norseman. His comrade was pointing at something. It took him a few seconds to figure out what he meant. He had to move. Another arrow came through the dark, barely missing him, hitting the wall of the house closest to the horses. The young man grabbed the sword, and the Norseman he had struck down tried to grab him but he already dashed away, not daring looking back onto the burning homestead. He turned behind the rock, mounted his horse as quickly as possible and rode south towards the tenth.
The old watchman smiled with pain. His companion had gotten away, he had done well. It didn't matter what happened to himself anymore. So he laid there, bleeding out, taking in the pain and waiting for it to end as the noises of the Norseman died down. He felt warmth, somewhere deep in the snow.
- - -
They had just eaten supper when a messenger from the watch of the Arrim arrived, and Aibarus was eager to hear what the man had to say. Before that, however, he took the young Bercken to his chambers, as he did every day after supper. Aibarus couldn't say he knew Martin very well before they set out before winter fell; but once he did set out, being his guardian, day by day he could see the similarities between his Lord and his eldest. The boy had a demeanour so similar to his father: always serious, unlike any fifteen-year-old he'd ever seen, which at times almost scared him. Maybe he was so used to his father that he mimicked him blindly, not caring whether or not he was like the other boys. But maybe that was only when he was around adults.
"Is it not strange how men are?" Martin asked the Sir as they were in front of his chamber.
"Are? How so?" Aibarus asked.
They entered the room. "Well, are, as in as we are created. You, a bannerman; I, son of a Lord; that watchman… Why do you think fate allows it? Why are men as they are?"
Aibarus thought a little, closing the door behind them. "Fate deems some to be greater than others. A lowlife should have no right to be Lord, as God wills Emperors to be."
"Am I greater than others, Sir Aibarus?"
Aibarus looked at the boy, his eyes wanting an honest answer. "Perhaps fate will let us see whether or not you are, Martin."
Martin seemed content with the answer, and sat down on his bed. "But would a man be a lowlife if he was born a Lord?"
"If he was born a Lord, he'd be no lowlife at all. No Lord can be a lowlife. A glutton, perhaps, but no lowlife."
Martin laughed. "Like Lord Draafen?"
"If your father heard that…" he laughed with the boy.
"He won't. Will he, Sir?" Martin looked at the Sir, switching his laughing face with that of a threatening one.
Aibarus laughed harder. "Please, sire," he said mockingly, "Forgive me for my ability to hear!"
Martin smiled. "It's a shame you're too fine a man to send to the headsman, Sir."
"Thank you, Martin," Aibarus bowed with his usual charm. "Am I excused?"
"Yes, Sir, you are. Have a good evening."
Aibarus nodded and left the room. He's a good lad, he thought. Even though he was half his age, Aibarus enjoyed the boy's company. The journey north would have felt twice as long had he had Andreas or any other boy by his side.
He walked down to the hall. The smell of supper, a venison broth was still there. He thought of the hall of Bergstadt, as always. Sure, Bergstadt was comfortable and all, but Sarus was exotic, as in, somewhat like an estate Patricians had, homes to get away from their cities to grow grapes or keep horses. While one couldn't call Sarus luxurious or even safe sometimes, the feeling of being away from home, that liberating carelessness, that was what kept Aibarus from going mad. What kept him from missing his home, his wife.
He saw Kolren, sitting at the Lord's seat in the hall, where usually either Andreus or Konrad sat. Beside him were Sir Berten and Sir Keven, master of the infantry. In front of him, two of their soldiers and a watchman from the Arrim. The watchman looked weary and sick, his eyes tired, barely able to stand. Even his shadow seemed frail. His hands were shaking. He opened his mouth, only to close it again, waiting for the steward to say anything and looking him in the eyes.
"Speak," Kolren ordered. "What news do you bear from the Arrim?"
"Please excuse my current state, I've been riding for two days straight." The man looked down as Aibarus took his place, standing away from them by one of the tables. It wasn't his province or town, but he was still curious. "A- all beyond the Eirim is lost." the watchman stuttered. His voice was as weak as he looked at that moment. "There- there's a heathen army out there, milord. I saw them, we all saw them. They killed… They've sacked at least six outposts, and at least half as many villages. All is lost beyond the Eirim."
"The Frozenfolk?" Kolren muttered.
"Norsemen, milord." Kolren burst out in laughter, and looked to his right. Berten and Keven were far less amused. Olm shook his head lightly, and gestured with his eyes for the steward to do something. "Milord, the outposts are in grave danger," the watchman continued. "Captain Marius needs all the help he can get. The Frozenfolk have fled south, they've fled east to us, they all tell the same tale: An army bearing dark blue banners with a crow approaches."
"You believe those tales?" Just the tone of the steward's question made Aibarus irk uncontrollably , though he knew how to conceal well enough.
The watchman looked at the steward and then to Sir Keven, understanding that he'd have more sympathy from the commander. "I was there, beyond the Arrim, milord. Their homesteads have been burned, their sacred sites abandoned. The watch is not strong enough to stop a host that size."
Kolren looked down at the man. He didn't quite know what to make of him. "How strong do you suppose this Norse host is?"
"Twenty thousand strong, milord."
Kolren laughed even harder, in a way Sir Aibarus thought to have been impossible in this situation. He saw a few servants pass, them seeming discomforted by the steward resembling a madman. "Tell me, since when has it been possible for a Norse host to cross the frozen lands in winter?"
The watchman looked down again. "I don't know, milord. I beg you, order the watch back to Sarus, or send the garrison out to aid my comrades. We stand less than a thousand strong, and are stretched thin as is."
Kolren stood up and turned around to think, and he didn't want to look at that wretched man as he did. Aibarus saw Berten trying to look into the steward's face, to understand what the fool was thinking. Before he could, Kolren turned around to face the watchman.
"Seize him and throw him in a cell." The two soldiers grabbed the man, not that he resisted. He was too tired and smart to do so.
"Sir Kolren!" Berten yelled. Aibarus could barely believe it himself.
"The man is a deserter, can't you tell?" Kolren said mockingly.
"A deserter? I've seen deserters, steward, and deserters don't dance into keeps and lie when they are tired and beaten; they rest and run, run to the ends of the world!" Berten looked at Keven, though he barely seemed to care. Or perhaps the man was just thinking.
"Tell me, Sir, when was the last time the Frozenfolk dared invade the Empire? In winter months? The man is clearly lying."
There was a silence before Berten continued, "Will you let me investigate this commotion?" "I shall not." Kolren responded with the same manner as before.
"May I ask why?"
"There is no reason for you to leave Sarus. They are probably just some warbands. The watch will defeat them. So are Konrad's orders."
Berten looked as though he was about to burst in rage. "Konrad's orders… Tell me, was he Lord of the Hinterland when he told you to leave the watch be?"
Kolren and Keven stared at Berten. "It matters not whether he's Lord or not, an order is an order."
"The watch is less than a thousand strong, they claim half of their outposts have been burnt to the ground, how much of them could be left?"
Kolren turned his gaze for a moment to Aibarus, to which the Karlian did not react. Seeing him, the steward turned back to his comrade. "Are you mad?"
"Mad?" Sir Berten repeated, "I wish I had the courage to ask you the same thing. A watchman comes and tells us of peril, you listen and do nothing. That is more a sign of madness than my willingness to perform my duty as bannerman!" Kolren shifted in his seat, and Keven crossed his arms. They won't give ground, Aibarus thought. "I ask you to be sensible," Sir Berten continued, "I have nothing but respect for you, and you Sir Keven. If this truly is just a small threat, as you believe so adamantly, let me take Olm's cavalrymen out for a week or two, round up the watch and defeat these warbands."
"What if they are to attack Sarus?"
He could hear the fear in his voice. He didn't want to acknowledge the threat, he wanted to act as it was not even there. Spineless bastard, Aibarus thought. "They may. And if they do we shall hold the walls until help from the south arrives. Our Lord is away and he has left the land in your hands until he returns."
A great silence took the small hall, the kind none would ever hope to witness in their lifetime. Aibarus took the opportunity to sit down on a bench by the wall.
It was Sir Keven who broke the silence. "Kolren, send a man to Auer and Königsgrab," he said, "have him follow the exact route you and Konrad planned. Have him notify Lord Oldvar Draafen to. Send another man to Imburg to Lord Opfen." Kolren looked up, a semblance of hope visible on his face. Aibarus always thought Sir Keven was the most valiant man in Sarus after Sir Olm, but the master of infantry was a quiet man usually. This was the first time he saw the man take action, and it was exciting. "Sir Berten, you go with the cavalry, see what has become of the watch. Take Sir Meyeren with you. He'll be of aid, no doubt. You'll set off tomorrow at noon."
Berten dashed off to see it done without notice. "Thank you, Sir." he said as he left quickly.
Kolren sighed, placing a hand on his forehead. "What will Konrad think?" he mumbled.
"He'll be glad that his keep is still standing." Keven said and Aibarus laughed.
"What do you say, Sir?" Kolren asked Sir Aibarus, not looking up.
The Karlian looked at the steward, then at Berten walking away. He walked up to where the two were. "It concerns me," he said, "And it concerns me more that it doesn't concern you."
"The watch has always been proficient at dealing with such meagre threats."
"So you tell me a disorganised, lightly armed force barely a thousand strong could beat an army of heathens twenty thousand strong?"
"Surely greatly exaggerated," Sir Kolren added, "It would be best to wait and see. But I suppose I'm outruled."
"Sir Keven," Aibarus turned, not at all interested in what Sir Kolren had to say. "Can you assure me that these warband will pose no threat to Martin Bercken?"
Kolren looked at Aibarus. "Sir Keven, how many can we hold off with our walls?"
"If you ask how many we can take if we are to be put under siege, Sir, I'd say the enemy will need thirty thousand," Sir Keven said, ignoring Aibarus. "Ten thousand on both bridges and ten thousand at the western clearing."
"The man claims the enemy has twenty thousand," Kolren said, "Clearly, we are safe."
"And the people? Are they safe when their homes go up in flames?" Aibarus asked, cynically.
"No." Sir Keven said coldly, looking the Karlian in the eyes. He was older than Aibarus though younger than Olm, with light brown hair and eyes and a scruffy beard. An honest man, the Karlian thought. He respected it, despite the truth cutting deep.
Aibarus looked up at the stairway at the edge of the room, though Sir Berten was gone already. He wondered what would happen once he was gone.
- - -
Captain Marius stood behind the snowy treeline with his two hundred. He could see a few men in the distance, but not much else. The sun was setting. The weather was freezing, yet the heat of the burnt outpost and the campfires of their enemies still made it to them. They were too late. A force he believed to be three hundred strong had crossed the Arrim to the south. And now he received word that another force had crossed the Arrim to the north and burnt the tenth outpost to the ground, scattering the watchmen there, and forcing them to flee south. He wasn't quite sure whether these were Frozenfolk as some claimed or Norse as others, but he was sure the northern force was Norse and that they had set his outposts aflame. In his hands he held the proof, a sword recovered from the lands near the tenth outposts, a sword the Frozenfolk couldn't have bought or made: they were too poor to afford such a weapon and didn't have the materials or skill needed to craft it. He sent a man out to Sarus for assistance, but he wasn't sure whether he should march north to try to save his soldiers or hold the seventh outpost with the watchmen of the south. Alas, he would tend to it after the battle.
The arsonists were unaware that he had rallied the watchmen of the seventh, sixth, fifth and fourth outposts and now stood behind the treelines, waiting to charge forward. But he wasn't sure how many were ahead of him. The outpost was on a hill by the Arrim, surrounded by woods to the south and to the east, and its entrance used to face the north and down the hill. So Marius took with him half of his force to the southern woods, silently moved through the treeline without sparking suspicion. There, Marius could properly see the men sitting there, eating. He had to be fast, so he went back with his men to his original spot, figuring out despite not seeing the enemy, they were closer to them from there.
"There they are," he said to one of his captains, a man named Illen. "Stay here with your fifty archers. We'll charge down from over there, I'll need your supporting arrows."
"Yes, sir," Illen replied. "Same signal?"
"Same signal. For the Emperor."
Marius crept back to his position with the men. And there they were, getting in line. Everyone was nervous, the silence would soon be broken by them. Everyone wore their tunics and helmets, some had already unsheathed their swords, and some had their bows out instead of their swords.
"Ready lads?" Marius whispered, creeping through so more could hear him. The ones who heard nodded, his words relayed by his experienced watchmen to those who didn't. "Alright… up and at them. We go in silently and slowly, don't run at 'em until I yell 'For the Emperor!'." So they crept out of the eastern woods, being silent despite there being two hundred of them. From above, Marius imagined they looked like hunting dogs approaching their prey.
Their prey spotted them after twenty or so seconds. They could discern the arsonists' faces, and men from both sides began shouting.
"For the Emperor!"
Marius charged forward.
As he charged forth he knew exactly that these weren't Frozenfolk. He knew from the helmets laying on the ground, their shouts and their swords. So he ran faster, his sweat turning cold, and readied himself to thrust and screamed. The men in front of him didn't cower, though he could see some further away from the watchmen running to the river. Marius smiled. The men in front of him weren't in their armour laying on the floor, barely organised, screaming amongst themselves. The ones who were armoured were only so lightly. Their faces were worth the trouble of being a watchman at the Arrim.
The watch charged with their commander, killing the Norsemen in front of them. Marius cut down two: one he thrust his sword into his heart, the other who came charging at him as he killed the Norseman; so, he quickly pulled out his sword and stabbed the man in the stomach, evading his blow sweeping in from above. A watchman came to his aid, stabbing him in the throat and they moved onward. Whatever line the Norsemen had disintegrated after the first few seconds, and they turned around to flee, forming new lines every few dozens of yards, repeatedly being broken by their charging foes. Marius realised that there weren't just men there, but women and children too. This was no mere warband. "Kill 'em all!" he yelled frantically, chasing the fleeing Norse. "I want none to escape! Kill 'em all! Bows! Bows!" he screamed. Illen's men who were behind the rest pulled out their issued bows and formed a line, raining down upon the fleeing Norsemen. They were advancing further and faster than they had anticipated, but that just fueled them on more.
He passed their cooking pots, armours and weapons. The watchmen couldn't hear the screams of terror, no, they were far too busy with what was ahead of them, the enemy who had come from the far north to kill them. The chase slowed down as they approached the river. There were at least three hundred Norse in front of them, huddled together, desperately trying to escape. There were too many trying to swim across, and almost none making it. The wooden rafts they had used were on the other side of the Arrim having brought some of their women and children to safety, frantically trying to make it to the other side, yet out of reach of their countrymen. Even when they arrived, the scene was so frantic that the rafts were overfilled, with many women and children falling into the cold and dark river, never coming out again. The Norse who were furthest from the river turned to face their enemy, only to be cut down in terror. The Norse who stood behind the men furthest could not even properly use their sword and short spears as their dead comrades' bodies fell upon them. Marius kept thrusting his sword into this giant blob of people, bloodying it entirely, not caring whom it was he slew. The joy of battle was upon him and his men. And as more and more arrows came upon them and as more bodies fell onto the ground, some were stamped to death, walked over by their families and friends. Even if the Norse managed to slay a watchman or two, their enemies were replaced by other men waiting in the back. They had created a perimeter of slaughter, and they were like butchers. Every watchman there felt the same, all of them cutting through their foes, never deterred by their own losses.
For thirty minutes the watch slew. After a while the slaughter became too much, and Marius had to stop and let one of his men take his place. His arm was tired, his legs were tired and his soul was tired. He sat by a dead child, and prayed as arrows flew above him and he could finally hear the screams. He prayed to the Lord and his prophets, the saints and the damned; he prayed for his comrades and his men who had fallen. The screams had caught up to him.
The final rafts left, dooming the rest of the Norsemen. The last twenty or so formed a line, their women and children safe beyond the river, but they couldn't last under such circumstances. Some sang as they were cut down, some fell onto the ground screaming. It mattered little to the watchmen. Finally, every other watchman took upon them their bows and shot across the river and onto the last raft still crossing the river. But by that point there wasn't much more to be done, and the rest of the Norse had fled into the woods beyond the Arrim. Marius finished praying, and the men began cheering, revelling in their victory. Marius stood up and raised his sword. Marius looked out west, where the sun was disappearing behind the trees, and screamed. He was shaking and smiling. "Oh, lads…" he said, breathing heavily due to this excitement. "God has given us victory!" He sat back down, looking upon the dead on the field and the bloody snow. "Rest. Then we'll bury our dead, and burn the rest," he said. "I don't want 'em coming back to give them their rites or whatever the hell they do with the dead."
The watchmen hailed their commander, singing their songs, eating the food of their enemies, taking their foreign gold coins and their clothes and armour.
Then, before the sun set, the men got to work. They counted a hundred and two men, thirty five women and seventeen children and young boys and girls; whereas they had only lost thirty one men. The watchmen were buried by the slope of the hill, while the Norse bodies were dragged to a pile. Some men chopped some wood to light the bodies on fire; others resting, eating the food the heathens had cooked for themselves; others stacking the armour and swords they left behind, readying them to be taken to the seventh outpost, the Middle. All while Marius watched his men work and the bodies burn, enjoying the emitted warmth. The sun set, as they burned. Surely, the rest will freeze to death, he thought. Olm would be proud. Perhaps he would be able to march north and deal with the threat swiftly.
- - -
"There goes another one," Sir Meyeren said as he dismounted, "Berten, we can't risk going further north!"
Sir Meyeren had greatly aided Berten in the last few days. He was from the Arrimvale, though Berten wasn't quite sure where from exactly. Meyeren was also his senior, five years older. But for as long as Olm was gone, he would be commander of the cavalry, and thus had the say in their mission. And the thought of leaving then didn't sit right with Berten. "We must," he responded, "I want to see this host for myself."
"We'll be dead men once you do see them!"
Berten didn't need to respond. He was the commander, it was his decision.
In front of them was another one, a burnt outpost. The last few days must have been the worst of Berten's life. His excitement had practically died in the first few hours of the way. He had intended to simply ride to the first outpost by the Arrim with his men, then follow the river, rounding the watch, finding these warbands and destroy them. Except they were only greeted by countless waves of fleeing peasants, dozens of burnt houses, and the first three outposts he passed had been burnt to the ground and abandoned too, the watchmen long gone. By the third, they had found a pile of bodies, all burnt. He had little success the further northeast he went, he found an outpost not burnt but abandoned, and by the fifth outpost he found the remains of the watchmen of the first four outposts, little shy of two hundred men. Their commander away and missing, they joined Sir Berten, and warned him. Turn back, they'd say, Captain Marius is probably dead. Take us to safety, take us to Sarus. We can hold the walls. Berten listened to them, but he ultimately wanted to see this force for himself. It was increasingly clear by the time they reached the sixth outpost that they were no match for whatever was out there, not on open field. Another burnt outpost, they were greeted by burnt bodies and ash. Snow began falling lightly again and cold wind kept hitting them.
He ordered the men to look for survivors. They only found three men huddled together, hiding in a hole they had dug in a forest. There was not a single soul other than them within miles.
It was getting rather late. "We will rest here tonight," Berten announced, getting off of his horse, his cavalrymen behind him and the watch in front of him. "We can only hope to march north and join up with your Captain tomorrow."
"Good Sir!" one of the watchmen in the back yelled. He was among the men found in the forest. His voice was frail and tired. "They'll come back! Please, let's make for the Middle… Captain Marius could be there."
The horsemen from Sarus laughed, but Berten approached the man through the crowd. "The next outpost is twelve miles away, lad. Would you truly prefer marching through the night instead of resting here?" He spoke calmly and confidently; not to mock the soldier, but to reason with him in a way both comforting and demanding. That was what Olm taught him.
"No…" the watchman responded sheepishly, not looking away from his commander.
"Then you rest."
Berten never said or showed, but the thought of getting ambushed in the dark hours of the night terrified him more than anything. That was why he had chosen to stay awake for his men. The Hinterland was a treacherous province. Watchmen would go missing on scouting missions, to the point that most of the time scouting missions were conducted on foot because of the horses that disappeared with their riders, or simply got up and deserted their posts. He didn't hate it here as the Davians did, the land was his home, though he had grown paranoid whenever he was outside Sarus' walls, as though the land could simply open up and swallow him whole just like it did the watchmen.
There he sat by the river as his men slept in bedrolls, with some watchmen having to share a bedroll since they couldn't carry too many. It was ice cold and they were surrounded by snow, yet they slept in their bedrolls without complaint. He dwelled upon his fond memories. He looked into the water, though he couldn't see anything. They hadn't set up fires to not alert their enemy and the moonlight couldn't pass through the dark waters. He could imagine what his reflection would look like, thinking of his blonde hair and blue eyes.
"For the Emperor!"
Berten sprung up as he heard that shout from afar. He wasn't afraid, he recognised the voice and ran towards where it came from, passing his sleeping men. He realised what was happening. He ran eastwards, and after a few seconds, could discern men with swords, shields and bows approaching the men he picked to stay guard. He shivered as his sweat turned cold.
"Stop! Stop!" the bannerman yelled. "Marius, stop! It's me! It's us! It's us!"
"Halt! Watchmen!" the men yelled. Berten's men had awoken and saw the ones charging at them stopping and sheathing their swords. The man leading them, a tall man with dark hair and a thick beard, came forth and took off his helm.
"Oh, Berten…" Marius said, breathing heavily. "We thought ye were one of the bastards who torched me outposts…" Berten scoffed, not because he was mad, he just didn't have it in him to laugh, breathing heavily just as he did. "What are ya doin' out 'ere?"
"Answering your call." Finally the bannerman caught his breath. "What is our situation?"
"Oh 's all fucked, that's our situation. They came a week ago, a small group, torched the first three outposts by the river, butchered me men. And that's the small group I'm talkin' about here. We managed to ambush 'em, killed a good bunch, drove them back across the Arrim, but then more and more came. Did you pass the third?"
Berten knew where he was going and smiled lightly. "Aye."
Marius smiled at him. "That was our work…" His smile died down as the situation came back to him. "All outposts north of here have either been deserted or burned."
"Why would the Frozenfolk attack now?"
Marius shook his head. "Nay, not Frozenfolk. These are Norsemen crossing the Arrim. I had my doubts initially too, but I have proof now." He unsheathed his sword and handed it to Berten. "One of my scouts brought it back from the frozen lands."
Berten held the cold steel in his hands. "Norse craftsmanship…" he muttered. He noticed the engraved raven. "My God…"
"We have more of 'em swords and spears and helmets and chainmail being hauled to Sarus by ten men with our mules. Anyway… after all that, I took the rest of me lads and found ya here."
"The rest of you?" Berten asked frantically. "Is this it? All of the watch?"
"Less than four hundred of us. I told ya, everything's fucked. The smart lads will go to Sarus, and the smarter ones will leave this wretched country."
Berten allowed himself to wheeze, though it went silent quickly. "Where do you reckon the enemy is?"
"Right, the main force. After we had our little victory, more and more came to us from the North, so I reckon there's a good distance between us. Still, they're approaching. They could be at Sarus in a week."
"A week?" Berten said in disbelief, though he pulled himself together. "How strong are they?"
"Thirty thousand, at least."
That sentence rang in the ears of the bannerman. Everything he had built upon in his head came crashing down. They couldn't win, not alone. All they could possibly hope for was to hold the walls while Konrad convinced the Emperor to rally the Legions to save them. He pulled himself together again."We must make for Sarus, then."
"I was hopin' you'd say that. But me men are tired, and so am I. I'm sure yours are too. We have to rest, Sir."
"Right… Right…" More and more men came close to the two men, listening in on their conversation. Berten looked around. "We rest." he finally announced and returned to where he sat before, by the river.
Marius followed him there. "What happens now?"
"What do you mean?"
"What happens after Sarus?"
"I have no idea. I'm tired and I can't sleep."
"Well, me neither. Do ya think the men can truly rest when they're like this?"
Berten crossed his arms. "No, not really," he said, "But rest they must. Me and my horsemen will go slowly for the watchmen, I promise. But that means the journey would take us a week too..."
"What if we don't make for Sarus?"
Berten looked at the Captain, intrigued. He studied the man for a few seconds before making response. "What do you propose?"
"I propose…" The Captain leaned closer so that none other than Berten could hear. "I propose we make for Auerburg."
"Auerburg?" Berten whispered.
"Yes, Sir. We can rally the Ninth Legion and resupply Sarus for a siege."
Berten did not expect that. "Five thousand is no match for thirty thousand." he said with doubt.
"On open ground, perhaps, but not above walls. We'll have seven thousand, all in all. If we're fast, that is. Auerburg is safer than Sarus, a thousand men could easily hold it against a hundred thousand. Havin' the Ninth at Sarus would buy us time, I'm sure of it."
"It'll take us four days to get to Auer…" Berten thought aloud. "If the Legion can get to Sarus in a week…"
"Listen, Berten." The watchman's voice became rough all of a sudden. "I've been thinkin' about this for this last week. I've seen first hand what these… Norse animals can do. And nay, I shan't let Sarus share the fate me outposts faced." He paused, gazing over the sleeping men before turning back to Berten. "A war is comin', Sir."
"It's already here…" Berten said, shaking his head. "What you say makes sense, Marius, and I do believe I can easily convince Lord Draafen and General Borren to aid us, but we just don't have the time."
The two sat in silence for a few moments. "The cavalry will be faster at Auer if you go without us."
Berten stared at the man, grasping what he meant. "We can't just leave you lot here against the heathens!"
"We know the Arrimvale, Sir. We've known it for years, we can easily hide out in the hills or even cross the Ingram with boats. You and your men, you… These lands are broken, Sir. The hills, they love swallowin' horses and the men that ride 'em. You'll have the odds against you at every turn. Please, Sir, just make for Auerburg and save Sarus."
As genuine as ever, Berten thought as he sighed. "Very well. We'll leave tomorrow. What will you do?"
"Ah, we'll make for the First. Whatever remains of it, at least. We'll make us the boats we want from the remains of me outpost and then row upstream to Auerburg." Captain Marius paused. "Should take us a week. Will ya send someone to Sarus while we march?"
Berten pointed at the commander of the watch with approval. "Good idea."
The man smiled. "I'm very glad for you to be here, Sir," Marius said, drinking some water from the river. "Truly. Good thing the lad I sent ya arrived well."
Berten scoffed. "Kolren said he was a deserter and wanted to put him in a cell."
"Wha'?" Marius said with distaste. "Is the steward… well?"
"No. The fool… I'm sure he's miserable. I hope he rests well in the keep, I hope he enjoys the wine he buys from Angiria or Lornia or wherever the hell he gets it from and I hope his precious arse is comfortable… Don't worry, your man is free now. Don't know what he's doing now."
"Like I said, if he's smart he'll run."
- - -
Chants filled the air of the Hinterland. Loud, ominous chants none could escape, no matter where they were. Chants in a foreign, barbaric tongue none in Sarus understood. Kolren stood on the battlements as the enemy approached. He saw them coming down from the hills from three sides: two from the North, one on each side of the Eirim, and another from the east following the southern side of the Südarm. Another contingent had come from the hills to the south, threatening to cut the town off from the world completely. Each an army of its own, each with thousands of men and dozens of banners. The peasants living outside the wall were rushing through the gates, wailing amongst themselves. It wasn't a fine sight, not at all.
"How many do you reckon we're facing?" Kolren asked Sir Keven, the man far more experienced than him.
Sir Keven did not respond immediately, instead watching and counting the banners. "At least thirty thousand," he finally said, turning to see Kolren.
Kolren did not respond, he couldn't.
They had received no word from Sir Berten and the watch. They were out there, somewhere, Kolren could sense it. Berten was a smart man, he wouldn't try to save them with a measly five hundred men. That would be a suicide disguised as an attack. No, Berten's force was either decimated or away, by the Arrimvale or even at Auerburg.
The order to abandon the outer wooden wall to the east was issued at dawn. By then, the garrison was awake along with most of the peasants. A few scouting parties, twenty men, all in all, were out that day, further north in the valley. It was very unlikely that they were alive, so the gates were completely shut. The town was, by all means, ready for a siege. And yet Kolren and all of Sarus were doomed. The Hinterland was doomed. Thirty thousand was too much for a garrison of a thousand to bear. He saw a few groups of riders to the west, wondering whether they were their scouts or the enemy, riding further and further south. Olm, Olm, he thought, what kind of fortitude can I have now?
"Bring me Martin Bercken," Kolren said aloud, turning to face the soldiers gathered at the battlements and the streets below. "I'm in need of armour and sword!" His voice was heard by many, some cheering. Kolren couldn't be more terrified. He wasn't trained in swordsmanship and fighting, and even if he was…
"Sire he's…" Sir Keven said, stopping with doubt.
Kolren looked at the man, confused. "What is it?" he said.
"The boy's gone." It was Sir Grasinus, the fat quartermaster who spoke, walking up the stairs leading up to the battlement.
"Gone? What do you mean gone?"
"Gone, Sir, Aibarus too. Martin is not in his chamber, neither is Aibarus. Their horses are missing from the stables too. One of the stableboys said he heard things in the night, though initially thought he was dreaming."
Kolren looked down at the men cheering at him. You too, Martin? he thought. "I'll help myself to the armoury then. Sir Grasinus, send a squire my way." He walked down the steps, past the fat quartermaster.
He walked alone through the familiar streets, passing man after man carrying spears and swords and bows, and woman after woman carrying their children. The chants outside the walls continued getting louder and louder, intruding into his mind and thoughts.
But in truth, he did not think as he walked towards the armoury by the keep. At least, he did not think about Sarus. He thought of Tisia and Sartha, of the green south, the heroes and saints of the Republic and Empire. Of Sarthinus, of Publius Cornellius Pairanus and the thousands of names unsung. And yet, they were all dead, weren't they? Perhaps they'd be watching over the siege, watching him, a steward. Let them watch, he thought.
He entered the armoury. It was a room as large as the hall in the keep, most weaponry and armour would be stored there. The rest would either be by the smithies or in the keep. There were chests full of chainmail waists and leggins, boots, tunics. There were a few dozen men grabbing spears and wearing chainmail. He spotted a boy sitting on the side of some of the men, his back to the stone wall. Sitting and crying. He approached the boy, pointing his finger down.
"You, boy," he said, "You a squire?"
The boy, who seemed no older than twelve, answered. "Yes, Sir."
"Then get up, boy. If you're going to be a squire, act as one."
The boy got up, wiping his tears. "Yes, Sir."
"What's your name, boy?"
"Borin, Sir."
"Are you scared, Borin?" Kolren said as he held the boys shoulder.
"No, Sir."
The boy lied, Kolren knew. "Good. I need you to get me a sword, chainmail to cover me, a tunic and a helm. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Sir." The boy dashed away, as though he was filled by a spirit of courage. Kolren smiled at the sudden change in the boys demeanour. It was just like Olm had told him: A soldier needed an objective, any at all. Even in moments of despair, if there was no objective, a soldier would rather accept despair than fight it. One squire's fighting, Kolren thought, now a thousand more need to fight it.
The boy returned with a sword first, then the chainmail, helping the steward wear it, and then the tunic and helmet. This was the best they could afford to arm their soldiers, and it did not make Kolren feel very safe. His face, hands and neck were completely exposed, his shoes not armoured either. He wondered how he would die, of an arrow to the face, of a cut throat or perhaps a spear to the foot.
Borin then helped the steward by putting on the sword belt. Kolren felt the shortsword dangling on his left side, aching to be pulled out. He unsheathed it once in the armoury, grasping it tightly and then putting it back in. He wasn't made for holding a sword.
The armoury was now empty, in both men and equipment. "Thank you, Borin," Kolren said, almost leaving before turning back to face the boy. "Do you know why our town is called Sarus?"
"No, Sir," the squire said.
"It was named after Emperor Torranius' General, Sarus. It was under him the Hinterland was conquered." The boy nodded slowly, as though he wasn't sure why the steward was telling him this. "Brave men built this town, boy. Brave men fought and died here. I'm no Sarus or Octavian or Sartinus, no Sir Olm or Keven, but now I must be brave too. Do you understand?"
The boy nodded very eagerly. "Yes, Sir."
"Good. Now get out there, see what you can do. There'll be need for boys like you in a siege."
And so, he walked out of the armoury, the boy dashed past him, running downhill.
In less than two hours, they swept down and completely surrounded the town on all three sides. The commander of the garrison, elected that morning by the remaining bannermen, Sir Keven, had given the orders to man the walls. The soldiers had trusted in Sir Keven and their walls, but now as they saw the breadth of the enemy forces, they cowered. He could have done more. Time had proved him wrong.
The chants kept getting louder and louder. They were getting in the heads of the soldiers like they were getting into his, Kolren had no doubt. And as he stood there above the western bridge with Keven by his side, gazing upon the rows of men beneath them, he felt no fear. Even he found it strange. Perhaps the squire Borin wasn't the only one he had inspired.
"What a fine way for it to end, is it not?" Sir Keven said.
"Fine, fine…" Kolren muttered, "There's nothing fine about this. How did this happen? Why did this happen?"
"Sir Meylin will bring the word to Lord Konrad and the realm. I trust him completely."
Kolren ignored the Sir's words. "Martin, Aibarus…" he muttered to himself, turning away. "Do you believe Sir Berten to be safe?"
Keven snorted. "Safe? There's thirty thousand men at Sarus, God knows how many elsewhere. We'll surely run out of arrows before they run out of men. No, Sir, anywhere north of the Ingram is not safe."
"What if he's at Auerburg?"
"Then, I can say, he is a smart bastard." Keven smiled. "Are you afraid, Sir?"
Kolren turned again to look away from the enemy and to the bannerman. He was surrounded by soldiers and would have to choose his words wisely. "No," he said, "For our walls stand. How long can we hold?"
"Sir Grasinus said our granaries can last for three months…"
"Three months…" Kolren repeated. That wouldn't be enough. "Very well, how many men do we have?" he asked, despite knowing fully well how many they had.
"A little more than a thousand. We can arm two hundred more, but they'll be no more than militiamen."
"Arm them," Kolren ordered. "Sarus is under siege, Sir. We'll need every man."
"Very well." Keven said and left to inform the quartermaster Grasinus.
Soldiers passed Kolren from behind. He leaned against the battlements, looking down onto the fields filled with the heathens. Children were crying, their mothers comforted them, and everyone else held a weapon of some kind. Now the Norse seemed to have calmed. He saw a homestead burn to the north west. He couldn't hear himself think, so oppressive and loud the chants were.
So he waited. A captain named Wideus came up to Kolren as they did. "Sir Keven asks if we should open fire or wait for negotiation." the man asked.
That was the dilemma any besieged Lord would face. By no means did Kolren trust the Norse, they'd rape and burn Sarus to the ground even if he surrendered. But if he didn't and instead fought to the last, he couldn't expect mercy from any army, be it Norse or even Germans. "I want to hear their offer." he said reluctantly, "They may grant us passage." His eyes were locked on the bridge.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of cries and terror, there seemed to be movement in the Norse ranks. The men were moving along and out of the way. He saw three men on horseback, slowly but surely approaching the bridge from the west. And at that moment all seemed quiet as everyone watched those men approach. It was a shocking sight, the man in front of the two was monstrously tall, almost twice the size of his horse. He had dark brown hair and a short beard. The men behind him looked similar to him, though were shorter than him, though in fairness still quite tall. Another man, far smaller than them, followed them on foot.
"There they are," Kolren said with little emotion. He looked down at the approaching men. The cries of the children ceased then, or perhaps Kolren stopped hearing them.
The smaller man approached, the other three stopping at the middle. "My master seeks audience with the Lord of Sarus!" he said, looking up at Kolren. He shivered, holding his own hands.
"Our Lord is away," Kolren responded, leaning down. "I am Sir Kolren, steward of Sarus. Who are ye, and for whom do you speak?"
"I speak for Khym Ragnarsson, Jarl of Yoorenhall… He asks for your surrender."
Kolren looked around. That was the question, surrender. "What's your name?"
"Soren, Sir."
"Are you of the Frozenfolk?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Then you've known them more than us. Tell me, are Norsemen merciful?" Kolren looked at the tall man as he asked that question. He couldn't tell from the distance what the man on horseback thought. Kolren had no doubt he was the Jarl Soren spoke of.
"Only if you surrender or fight to the last, Sir. They've shown mercy to villages and homesteads which submitted. They'll show mercy." The man said something to the Jarl in the Norse tongue, and the Jarl replied. "He swears it."
Kolren leaned away from the battlements, looking around for Sir Keven. He spotted the man coming up again on the wooden stairway. "They're asking us to surrender." Kolren said.
Keven snorted. "My men would rather have them fuck their corpses and piss on their graves than surrender now."
"What about the women and children?"
The bannerman didn't answer as he approached Kolren. His face said it all.
Kolren nodded absentmindedly and returned to his last spot. He looked back down to the man expecting an answer. "What would the Jarl seek this deep in the south?"
"They come for Miklagard, Sir," Soren yelled from below, "In their tongue that is Sartha, the Eternal City."
"Sartha?" Kolren yelled in disbelief. Many shared his disbelief. "Is your Jarl a madman? Sartha is hundreds of miles south, he'll face dozens of Imperial Legions on his way there!"
"I cannot speak badly of my master, Sir. I am not the one to make the call, I am a messenger." The man looked as though he was on the verge of tears, his voice shaking.
"Fucking hell," Keven swore.
This had confirmed that what they were facing was a mass migration, the likes not seen in a century. These Norsemen weren't here merely for gold and plunder, no. "If he wants gold, he'll have to wait, for our land is poor."
"Have you misheard me, Sir? He doesn't want gold, he wants land."
That confirmed it. "Can you tell him that it would be…" Kolren thought of a fitting word. "Impossible to invade the Empire?"
"No, Sir, I cannot," Soren said, his voice alone begging them to surrender. "He's… He may not be the smartest or the kindest, but he is valiant. He won't back down. He and his people have travelled too far and suffered too much for it."
Kolren looked down. "Would he accept surrender if he waited for three months?" He could feel the eyes of bannermen and soldiers alike on him. "We would supply his army food and weapons if we were allowed to wait for three months and if the women and children were to leave the town this day."
"Kolren!" Keven said somewhat loudly, "What are you doing?"
"Silence!" Kolren snapped and turned back to the bridge. "This is our best chance at… saving what can be saved."
The Norsemen and Soren were conversing in their language. They won't accept, Kolren thought, they'll want women and slaves.
Soren turned back to them. "My master says you are in no place to make demands. He asks you to surrender, and he says he won't ask again."
"You mentioned your master was merciful. I am giving him the opportunity to be so."
Soren repeated the line in Norse. The Jarl laughed, looking up at them. A shiver went down Kolren's spine at the sight of the huge man laughing. The Jarl said something back and Soren translated. "He says he can show you mercy," he said, "but that he can also show you how the devils in hell are. He says he'll burn any man left alive, flay all the boys, take the women as wives and the girls as slaves. He won't show you mercy if you're not willing to have it right now." He paused. "Sir, I believe-"
"Shut up!" Kolren screamed, "You're the messenger, not the negotiator!" He was angry. Not just angry, no, raging. It felt as though his teeth would shatter into a thousand shards, so forcefully was he grinding them against each other. He could only imagine what he looked like. "He'll fucking die if he doesn't piss off back north! There'll be a hundred thousand Legionnaires marching to see you all dead! Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but you will die! You animals!" Kolren leaned down onto the battlement. He felt someone's hand on his shoulder, he brushed it away roughly before continuing. "You'll die like animals!" he continued yelling with full strength. "Tell him he can lick my corpse's arse once he shoves a sword in me!"
Many, including Sir Keven, cheered.
Soren looked up at the steward with pleading eyes. "Very well…" he said before saying something in Norse. The Jarl spat on the ground, saying something, and riding away, turning his back on the walls.
"My master says he looks forward to the day." Soren said before joining his master.
"Never have I thought I'd see the day where you'll be redder than a bloody blade," Sir Keven said. It had been him holding Kolren from behind. "You did the right thing, steward."
Kolren took deep breaths. He was still too angry to appreciate the compliment. He sat down, leaning his back against the wall. He covered his face with his hand. Keven knelt beside him. "What have I done…" he said, exhausted.
"Ensured our deaths," Keven replied, smiling, "And I must thank you for it."
"You armymen… You were always a pragmatist, weren't you, Keven?"
"Yes, that I was and am. We learn to die when we learn history, my dear Kolren. I suppose you're learning it right now."
"I…" Kolren paused, letting his hands fall down onto the cold, stony battlement ground. Only for him to put them back up to his mouth. His stomach ached and turned within, and he could feel the disgusting fluid in his mouth. He puked, his hands not stopping the foul liquid from leaving his body. He got up quickly, lowered his head over the battlements and let it fall down onto the bridge.
Keven laughed, patting the steward behind. "They'll take it as an insult!"
"Good…" Kolren muttered, breathless. He cleaned his mouth, still able to taste the vomit. He looked back at Keven, smiling sardonically.
"I know the lads, and they know me," he said, "They know I'd rather die with a sword in my hand than a bottle of wine. I know my lads do, don't you lads?"
The commander looked around, many raising their swords into the air, saying "Aye!".
Kolren wondered once again how he would die at that moment. Perhaps the Norsemen would get over the walls with ease, perhaps he'd starve… He felt a relief of sorts, knowing he'd die soon enough. Doing his duty, keeping his oath. He thought of his life, twenty years of servitude. He never married or had children, though he didn't care about it. He never liked that sort of thing. He thought of Konrad, his Lord. How would he remember Kolren? How would Kolren be remembered?
His relief left him after a minute or too, and dread took its place. He couldn't know what every man under him thought, though he felt the immense burden Olm had told him often. Every man would have to do his duty as he was, to protect the land as long as they could.
"Tell the men that they may fire at will," he ordered.