Kætil V: The Meadows Afire
The Eighth Day of the Eighth Moon, 873 AD.
Dyfed's Warcamp, The Isanford, Scelopyrea.
"Getting slower, boss!"
Syren grinned at him from across the little patch at the camp that he'd claimed as his own. Currently it was being used as a sparring ground, for the skirmishes of the last few weeks had subsided and he'd grown bored of waiting around to fight again. Sparring wasn't quite the same as a proper fight, but using south-coast rules it was about as close as you could get.
"He's getting rusty."
The cocky yet completely exhausted voice of Krai called out from Kætil's side in response to Syren's needling, his two friends wearing equally smarmy grins on their faces.
"Very funny boys. I don't see you volunteering to fight out resident invincible man, Syren?"
Krai snorted to his left and Syren rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner.
"That's cause Krai never runs out of fucking energy or luck. He might look like he's about to keel over and die next to you, but I guarantee that if you ready yourself for another round he'll somehow be as ready as ever. The man's a fucking animal I tell you."
"You're damn fucking right I am! Nothing on this planet 'll kill me, just you wait and see. I'm gonna live for fucking ever!"
Syren and Kætil locked eyes with each other, conveying 'this fucking guy' in a silent message. Krai was fucking great to be around, especially when nerves were as high as they were at the moment. Even Kætil wasn't ashamed to admit to being anxious for the coming weeks. The skirmishes along the river had mostly died down and warriors from both armies were making their way to this one point; it was the longest ford in the river, no to mention one of the shallowest. Most of the year the flatlands surrounding it would be flooded, rendering the passage untenable, but for a few short months every year the Isanford was a godsend for the inland traders and military forces of the northern folk.
Any amount of heavy rain could turn this field into a watery mass-grave, but for now it would suffice as the field of battle for the greatest confrontation the north had seen since the southern folk invaded under their warrior-king Godwyn a thousand years ago. The Great Jaerl, his father, was finally going to face off against the Valkyrie-Queen of the eastern Scelopyrene. The clash that everyone in the north had been waiting nearly a decade to see was finally coming to pass. The Isanar, having spent the last few moons choked with the dead and the dying, would finally see one last effort by the men and women of the north to see who truly deserved to rule this land.
Kætil had little doubts that it would be his father who won the day.
Yes, the forces were relatively even in composition and size. Yes, father and the Eyvindottir were each other's equal. Yes, the terrain was flat and empty and not at all conductive to innovative tactics or finely-planned ambushes. None of that mattered. The Great Jaerl was his father, and his father was the greatest man the north had ever seen. His father would carry the day here, he had to, and Kætil would do anything he could to help make such a thing happen. Kætil himself was blessed by Krakevasil a thousandfold more than any man in the forces that opposed his father, the runes that now littered his chest in a thousand small strokes and scars could attest to that. He still had his little amber talisman as well, for it couldn't hurt to keep a hold of any blessing that his god saw fit to bestow upon him, could it?
The warcamp was truly huge. His father had not only called all his forces down to this field some twenty miles north of the ruined city of Murkmire, but had also uprooted his warcamp and brought the non-combatants here as well. There were more fighters than Kætil had ever seen in one place here, with thousands of animal-hide tents and dug-outs before the flats by the river. Further back by the treeline he knew that a makeshift stable had gone up in a number of hollows in large trees and small caves where steeds could be tethered and kept safe from the elements, and a few small pens had been erected in which war-dogs could be housed. They weren't as well-bred as the Brythonian wildhounds from Aurinsay, mostly being mongrels with a few drops of either wildhound or wolf blood running through their veins, but they were about as good as Scelopyrea could offer.
Looking over all of this Kætil couldn't help but liken the warcamp to a mobile city. It might not have looked it, but there was an order to how everything had been placed, for it wasn't just a giant sprawl. There were cooks and blacksmiths amongst the tens of thousands of men out there, as well as thralls, wives, children, families, animal herds, healers, brewers; if it existed in the north, it could be found in this camp. At the centre was what father had called his 'administrative centre'. It was a collection of tents that had been obviously made to a higher quality than most, not to mention the fact that they were a hell of a lot bigger. His father's feasting tent took centre place, but around it were a great many other important lodes; war-rooms, personal tents for father himself and his inner circle, tents for druidic liaisons, etcetera. It was there that the business of war and strategy was discussed, but also matters of statecraft and other southern concepts that had crept their way north in the reign of father's father. He'd never had the chance to meet Ostæin, but by all accounts the man should have been the one to unify Scelopyrea. It had been tragic that he had died like he had, more so that he'd left father to pick up the pieces and unify the region himself, but Kætil couldn't really complain; if father hadn't been the one to start unifying the north then Kætil wouldn't have had the chance to go and search for glory in battle up here.
It was strange to think that so much of Scelopyrea was concentrated on this field at the moment. It was even stranger to think that just across the ford a second warcamp of a similar, perhaps even larger, size existed. There were bloody totems and grim effigies scattered around the camp, some with druids sacrificing thralls or unlucky prisoners to Krakevasil so that he might bless them in battle. Bloody fools, Kætil thought to himself. Why would the Raven-God care for the blood of a half-dozen slaves when maybe a score of thousands will fall in the coming nights?
More and more of their forces came in daily from along the river. There was still fighting going on in some places, mainly in the ruins of Murkmire, but even there it had mostly died down. This was to be the calm before the storm, the waters receding before the tidal wave hit, and all knew it. People mustered their strength and trained till they dropped hoping for an edge in the coming fighting, others took this time to relax and enjoy themselves given that they might be dead soon, and others still tended to the wounded so that they might be well enough to stand in line with spear in hand come the dawn of the battle. Not that anyone knew exactly when the battle would be, save his father and the Eyvindottir of course, but it had to be soon. It just had to be. No-one wanted to fight a battle when autumn rolled around with its storms and winds. More men would die to the elements than to fighting, especially when supplies started to run thin. So many men could only be mustered together for so long up here, after all. The men of the south might be able to keep huge armies mustered together for years at a time if needs be, but even they with their fertile and verdant land would find themselves short on food after a few missed harvests. Up here? This many men could stand together in one group for maybe six moons before food grew scarce, maybe eight moons if the men could be stopped from wasting any and twelve if the dogs and horses were used as extra supplies.
His point was that, just from a logistical standpoint, the battle had to be soon.
"Kætil? Earth to Kætil, you there?"
He blinked a few times, realising that his mind had run away from him, and smiled sheepishly.
"Sorry, I got lost in thought for a moment. I've never seen a warcamp as big as this before."
Syren smiled wryly, nodding his agreement.
"I know. Can you believe that the southerners have cities of brick and stone ten times the size of this? It beggars belief."
"We'll have them soon enough," Krai cut in, "ain't that right boss? First the Eyvindottir, then the south. We'll have them for our own."
Something passed over Syren's face at Krai's words, but before Kætil could comment on it the look was gone. Probably just a trick of the light.
"We will. It's our due, after all."
Syren stopped and sniffed the air, prompting Kætil to do the same. Smoke. His stomach gurgled a little, causing him to look at his companions with an amused smile.
"Ah, the time must have slipped away from us. Must be about time for an evening meal, I think."
"Sounds good to me, boss. What we fancying?"
That was a good question. A by-product of the warcamp being more like a mobile city was that there was just about every sort of food he could imagine within its confines. There was of course a variety of stews made from root vegetables and once-cooked meat, steaks and cuts of venison and goat, and for the more well-to-do parts of Scelopyrene society like himself there were even pies containing half a dozen types of game in a rich gravy. To go with it there were cheeses in a variety of colours and from a variety of different milks; there was cheese made from cow's milk, goat's milk, and even mare's milk amongst the camp. There was fish, vegetables, fowl, mutton, game, and even a few types of food from the south that Kætil had never even heard of before the camp had convened.
"What about that orange and honey fish? That was fucking good last time."
Syren bobbed his head a little as if to say 'maybe' before adding in his own opinion.
"There's a woman up in the north section of the camp that does good root mash with boar and apple sausages and a beef gravy. That's gotta be worth a try, surely?"
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Kætil snorted. The three of them were stood here after having spent probably six hours sparring, they were all exhausted, their anxieties were still building in anticipation for the battle to come, and here they were discussing food. Moments of calm like this were nice, but by the Raven-God did it feel odd at the moment.
"I've got an idea. There's a huscarl by the east of the camp, a little area near the river. He's got a couple of thralls from Tildan, you know, the southern peninsula. They make a thin bread with a white sauce made from garlic and cream, as well as a few other things, then put cow or goat's cheese on it and bake it over a fire on a flat iron. You can have whatever you want on it, for a price of course. If neither of you have had one of them before you've gotta try one; it's the food of all the gods I tell you."
Syren raised an eyebrow and Krai nodded.
"I know exactly the place you're on about, boss-man. Syren, if you've not had one we need to go there tonight. Trust me, you'll fucking love it."
Syren, outvoted, shrugged while smiling.
"Well, if you two say so then I've gotta see what the fuss is about. Sure, lets get that for an evening meal. I could eat something a little different to normal I guess."
"Then it's settled. Come on, I know the way."
The three of them made sure they had a couple of coppers each and began walking down the hill which housed the more privileged sections of the camp and made to head towards the riverbank. After a few minutes of silence Krai, seemingly bored, poked him in the side.
"So, how long till that girl of yours gets back? She took off almost as soon as she got here, something about being summoned by her elders, wasn't it?"
Kætil cuffed Krai round the back of the head as Syren tried and failed to mask a snort of laughter behind a cough.
"Don't call her that so loud, you little shit. And yes, Druid Svaltha is meeting with her elders. She'll be back soon."
Krai rolled his eyes, focusing far more on the first part of his words rather than the second.
"Come on boss, the two of you ain't exactly discreet. Here, Syren, you were in a different skirmishing camp than us, weren't you?"
"Yeah," began the reply from his alleged friend, "I was about eight miles south of you."
"More's the pity for you then; you could probably still hear the two of them rutting like dogs from your station."
Syren let out an exaggerated noise of understanding.
"Oh, so that's what I was hearing most nights! I thought there was a dying Boarsow the next valley over."
Kætil turned away, running a hand over his face with the vain hope that it might hide some of the red on his cheeks.
"A pair of bellends, the both of you."
Krai clapped him on the shoulder while Syren grinned.
"Nah, we're glad for you, honest! She's good for you."
Syren snorted again.
"Yeah, and she's certainly good at putting you in your place when it's needed. It's been a nice change, watching you get knocked down just as often as the rest of us."
"Syren, I cannot stress this enough, you're a twat sometimes. You do get that, right?"
His friend turned around and grinned at him while walking backwards.
"You fucking know- oh, shit-"
Kætil burst out laughing as his friend, still walking backwards, tripped on what looked like a dead tree root and tumbled down the hill. It wasn't too steep unfortunately, but Kætil would take what he could get.
"Come on you little shit, get up."
Walking down to his friend Kætil held out an arm, Krai doing the same on the opposite side, and Syren used them to pull himself back up. Kætil and Krai dusted him off a little, but the fall seemed to have done little more than dirty his hands.
"That's what you get for arrogance."
Syren rolled his eyes, still smiling.
"Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the lift up."
Kætil smiled.
"No problem. You'll probably wanna wash your hands off in the river before eating, unless you want the shits tomorrow. No idea what's been going round here."
Krai grunted what was probably supposed to be a noise of agreement, but otherwise stayed quiet. Now that they'd collected Syren from off the floor they got back onto the actual path, which was little more than a muddy trail with regular wooden planks laid over the top of the ground to provide a solid surface to walk on. Some of the areas of the camp had taken to laying wood shavings and chippings over the ground for the same affect, if a little more time consuming in terms of preparation. Kætil didn't really care for the ground being solid or not, but not having mud suck off his boots every few steps was admittedly quite nice. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad after all if this calm lasted a little while longer?
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"What do you think will happen?"
Kætil looked over at Syren. The three of them had gotten their food and washed it down with some small beer, and were now sat around a smouldering firepit in a tentative silence.
Well, they had been anyway.
"What do you mean?"
"He means do you think we'll all survive. Do you think we'll come out of the other side in one piece?"
Kætil did his best to give an easy grin to his friends. He'd been worrying about the same thing recently, to be honest.
"You'll be fine, Krai. Like you said, there's nothing in the north that can kill you."
His friend slowly dragged his eyes from the embers in the firepit and turned to face him with a wry smile on his face.
"Everyone runs out of luck one day, boss. Even me. This'll be the largest battle in... maybe ever in Scelopyrea. If ever my luck was to run out, it would surely be here."
"Of all the times to die, Krai, there could be none greater for a warrior. If you cannot escape thoughts of your death, at least take some solace in that. The three of us will be alongside one another on the field; I've specifically requested it of my father. We'll watch each-other's backs and come out alive."
Or at least we'll die together. He didn't voice those words, but he knew that his friends had thought them as well. They were men grown, and had been for some years now, but this was something beyond any of them. This was beyond any man of the north full-stop.
Krai nodded slowly, as if genuinely considering what had been said.
"I guess that's not too bad. Yeah; there's plenty fights worse to die in than the greatest battle the north has known. Thanks, boss."
"Don't sweat it. We're friends, that's what we're supposed to do for each other."
Syren smiled a little at him.
"And ain't that the truth. I hope I make it out with you both, but if I don't please know that serving in your huscarl band, Kætil, and alongside you as well Krai, is all I could have asked for. Here, a toast to us! To the best fucking warband the north has ever seen, and to surviving this fucking great battle!"
Kætil and Krai roared out a cheer, lifting their own tankards high before drinking deeply. The three of them were still young, true, but they were all damn good at what they did. Kætil felt confident that, out of everyone who stepped out onto the battlefield whenever it commenced, they would all come out alive. They had to. He wasn't going to let them die and get away from him that easily, after all.
"Here, you two 'll be made huscarl chieftains by the end of it. That'll be a fucking sight, and no mistake."
"If it's all the same to you boss, I'd rather just stick as a huscarl. Leading ain't my strong suit."
Kætil raised an eyebrow at his friend.
"You sure, Krai?"
The man nodded, smiling widely.
"All that thinking stuff is for you two. You know, tactics and strategies and the like. I'd rather stay at your backs and keep to the killing, if it's all the same to you."
Syren snorted.
"Well I'm certainly not going to turn down a step-up, though I'd be lying if I said I didn't agree with you a just little bit, Krai. Fighting's the most fun part about being a warrior, not planning and scouting and making sure your men dig latrine pits far enough away from wherever you're getting your water from. That's all boring."
Kætil nodded in mock consideration.
"Ah well Syren, if you don't want the promotion either-"
"Oi, I never said that, back off! I've earned this promotion!"
Kætil snorted.
"You haven't got it yet, Syren."
"Well, I've had to put up with you for this long, so I'd say that's already earned me a new title in advance."
Krai broke in.
"What about 'Arse-Kisser'?"
Syren turned to the third member of their little band, mock fury across his face.
"Shut your fucking mouth, you invincible coil of shit."
The three of them all but broke down laughing after that, just happy to be enjoying each other's company for a little while. Below them, down on the flats below the hill they were atop, the warcamp bustled with the noises of slowly winding-down evening life. In a few hours the only people awake would be the sentries and those thralls given menial tasks that would carry them through the night, and for the most part the north would be silent. It was a strange feeling, staying in a place like this. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. He loved staying out in the wilderness, being close to nature, to the wild, but he'd be lying if he said that the convenience of having any service he could want within walking distance wasn't appealing. In one afternoon he could get his sword repaired at a weaponsmith, see an armourer about checking his mail over, and visit a war-carpenter to inquire about a new shield. All of that wouldn't even take him an hour, meaning he'd still be able to go and look through the rest of the ramshackle marketplace and see if there was anything else that took his fancy; jewellery, trinkets, talismans, there was everything down there. Small wonder the southerners liked their cities of stone so much.
Soon enough more men and women would arrive at this camp, swelling it to even greater proportions. Such a thing would have seemed impossible to him only a few short years ago, and yet now he was certain that this sort of thing had its place in the world. It wasn't that the cities of the southerners had made them soft, it was their godless societies that had led them astray. He'd heard some of the warriors up and down the camp saying something about tearing the cities of the south down and camping in the ruins, but now that seemed a rather foolish idea. Why not just kill the leaders of the southerners and take their people in thrall, allowing true warriors to live in the cities and palaces of that rich and verdant land without opposition? There would be none of the petty intrigues and squabbles that proliferated the world of the southern fools, only good men with good, stout hearts, who knew their places in life and were content to support the northern way of things. It was, after all, the right way of things.
Maybe it would be good to start looking into the way the southerners ran things. If the rest of their ideas had as much merit as their cities then there surely had to be some worth in looking into them at least? Father probably knows a lot about this sort of thing, Kætil thought to himself. He's always had an interest in foreign ways, in the ideas they live by. The only foreign ways Kætil had ever bothered to look into were those of the Skonisnomas to the east, since he'd spent a few springs and summers with some distant cousins across the northern Archic mountains in those verdant, ruin-dotted plains. That was where he'd learned a few of their fighting techniques; he couldn't stomach archery, for it was a coward's profession, but he could certainly see some merit in their lightly-armoured, lightening-fast raiders. Their heavy lancers as well, for that matter. Still, they weren't southerners. They had no cities, no real unifying force or written law. Their civilisation, much like the Scelopyrene, revolved around raiding whoever you could and keeping honour in the deals you made.
Still, off all the things the Scelopyrene needed to be taught, companionship and comradery was not amongst their number. The brothers he had by his side were living proof of that. Krai was as stalwart and enduring as any mountain, and equally unmovable; Kætil knew that if any man saw fit to try and kill him Krai would be the first man to stand in the way of the falling blow. He was a warrior, as enduring as any from legend. Then there was Syren, and what more needed to be said on that front? Syren was quick, both with his mind and on his feet, with a sense of genuine loyalty so rare in those Kætil had been forced to interact with alongside his father that it still sometimes took him aback. If Krai was the mountain then Syren was the personification of the trailing wagons that followed in the wake of marching boots on campaign; he seemed odd at a glance, almost superfluous and unnecessary, but Krakevasil save the man who ignored the grinding cogs of planning and supply that kept an army moving. He may have seemed odd or out of place, but he was fucking vital to all that Kætil did.
It was good to have friends such as these, and though anxious the future may have made them Kætil knew that not one of them would ever flinch from their destiny. They were northmen, straight and true, and when the Rook came for them they would spit in his face and walk backwards towards the Raven, just as their ancestors had so long ago. Death would not hold their spirits, only war would ever bear that privilege, and with that knowledge he was content that these were the friends besides which he cared not if he died, only that they lived, for he knew that they would think the same.