Svaltha IV: Leave Our Masks
The Twentieth Day of the Seventh Moon, 873 AD.
River Isanar, The Frozen Trails, Scelopyrea.
Krakevasil, but this was hopeless.
She was supposed to be a druid, and indeed in title she was, but druids weren't supposed to act like this. Druids didn't fawn over lovers that were barely kept secret, nor did they swoon at the heroic actions of another. Okay, in fairness to her she'd done less swooning at heroics and more at acts of unspeakable violence and brutality, but the annoyance held all the same.
She was in far too deep with Kætil, and the worst part was that she didn't want it to stop.
She had to admit, however begrudgingly, that the last few moons had been fun. Hell, ever since that ambush along the frozen trails things had been fun. No more stuffy bastards in robes making her recite a whole bunch of old tales for uncaring ears, no more nights spent learning how to scheme as the southerners did. No. She was able to do everything her way now, the northern way, and that way happened to include a whole load of fighting.
It made sense really. She'd been chosen specifically to get close to the son of the Great Jaerl, to become a trusted advisor to the young man. Which she had.
It just so happened that he'd managed to get close to her as well.
If the druids hadn't foreseen this sort of thing happening she'd be very surprised. There were so many layers to their plots and schemes that surely they had to know the two of them would end up desiring one another, especially given their proclivities to fighting and the shared enjoyment that came from knocking each other into the dirt.
There had been markedly less sparring between the two of them as of late, but true to Kætil's word they'd been on the warpath the whole time. She wasn't really meant to be fighting against the forces of the Eyvindottir given that she was a druid and was thus meant to stay out of secular issues, but none of her superiors had yet admonished her or even so much as mentioned it, so she took that to mean she was fine to continue. How could she turn down the prospect of yet another skirmish to fight in, yet another face to savour as it contorted in its last moments. Her god would surely never forgive her for excusing herself from such beauteous combat.
"You ready for the next one, Sval?"
She grinned at Kætil as he walked over to her, helmet under his arm and sword across his back.
"Course I fuckin' am. How's about you chieftain? Reckon you can keep up?"
He snorted at her.
"Can I keep up? Funny, I seem to recall I won last time. And the time before."
She shrugged at him, unwilling to give in to his baiting.
"One time's a fluke, the second is luck. You've got no chance of beating me a third time, since that would take skill."
He rumbled out a low laugh at that.
"Oh, it is fucking on. Careful you don't get yourself hurt now. I hear there's some Shieldmaidens amongst the enemy this time. You don't think you're outmatched, do you?"
She chuckled at his teasing tone.
"I'm many things Kætil, but never outmatched."
Kætil smiled at her, clapping her on the shoulder, but she couldn't miss the concern he tried to keep out of his voice when next he spoke.
"Of course you aren't! Still, be careful out there. Those boar spears are especially lethal to those in light armour."
She nodded at him.
"And their bear spears are designed to pierce the heavy mail and scale of a huscarl. Keep your shield handy, Kætil. We both may end up needing it if there really are Shieldmaidens amongst the foemen this time."
The two of them were silent for a moment, just nodding, before their smiles both came back seemingly of their own accord. The two of them would never be outmatched, not if they stuck together, and especially not if Krai and Syren were around nearby. The four of them together could take on the whole fucking world, or at least that's what it felt like at times.
"Not to change the subject, but have you heard anything since about... well, my uncle?"
She shook her head as she fastened her knife-belt in place.
"Nothing. I'm keeping an ear out on any matters you may find interesting amongst the druids, but that one most of all. The fact that they're saying nothing at all tells me more than it would have if they were discussing it openly. They're either at a complete loss or it's above even initiated druids like myself, for the ears of the elders only."
She stood still for a moment, brow working as she chewed her lip a little in thought. It didn't escape her that Kætil watched her mouth as she did so. Honestly, men.
"Tell a lie, I think I did hear a little something a day or two ago. I can't remember if I mentioned it to you, but the Omen was seen sailing westwards after it was initially sighted. It's only been a few nights, but she's already been sighted off the coast of Hedinskye."
Kætil seemed taken aback by this news, and she wasn't surprised. That was what, eight, nine-hundred miles away? Either way, it was a hell of a distance to cover in so short a time. She'd certainly never heard of a ship sailing fast enough for such a thing to be possible, but then she got the impression that Hreidar Ostæinson and his ship weren't exactly... they weren't exactly 'normal' anymore.
"Well, here's hoping the mongrel northmen kill him on sight. If they don't then the Brythonians certainly will when they get their hands on him. They'll kill any of us on sight if our ships don't fly clear trading colours, and even then it's a bit touch and go. For someone so infamously violent as him... I don't particularly care for ranged combat, but if one of their great longbows can nail him to his fucking mast then I'll send whoever manages it a barrel of the best wine I can plunder myself."
Svaltha nodded her agreement at Kætil's words. Any ranged combat outside of thrown weapons was cowardly and dishonourable, but if it killed that bastard then she felt confident her god would forgive it. She'd practically been raised on stories and faetales of that man's misdeeds, and she had no desire to see what more he'd get up to if left unchecked.
She sighed a little and rolled her shoulders to release some of the tension that was building. She may have enjoyed it immensely, but several moons of combat was enough to tire anyone. The entire north was now embroiled in war, and she knew that the druids were beginning to wonder whether it was worth even bothering to draw the two sides into a single huge battle, for at any given point she knew that there were more than a dozen skirmishes with several hundred fighters on either side fighting all along the river Isanar. And it really was along the whole Isanar as well; the mightiest tributary of the Aenir was now pink with foaming blood, all the way from Isan's Rock in the north down to the ruins of Murkmire where the river met its elder brother, the Aenir. Thousands battled day and night on a front that seemed completely stagnant, neither side being able to do so much as push across the river at fording points without being swiftly and brutally pushed back. Whilst their section of the line had seen a great many victories recently that was mostly because they were letting the enemy come to them as opposed to trying to cross over into the east of Scelopyrea, which would probably go about as well as it had all along the rest of the line.
Men fought, men died, blood was spilled, the river Isanar was choked with bodies at narrower fords, and the cries of dying men and women could be heard by the thousand all across Scelopyrea.
Krakevasil was feasting as he'd not feasted in a thousand years.
"Right then," she said to no-one in particular, "we'd best get ready."
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A few hours later the foe had been upon them once more. Axes were thrown, javelins hurled, and steel met steel in yet another vigorous and frenzied clash. There might have been two-hundred of the bastards this time, and just as had been discussed earlier there were a few bands of Shieldmaidens scattered about amongst the regular chaff of the foe's forces, stiffening their resistance and their resolve.
The Shieldmaidens really were either loved or hated depending on where you were. If you were from the east of the Isanar, in the realm of the Valkyrie-Queen, they were the heralds of a new order and the protectors of her reign. If you were from the west, if you were from the lands that had sworn themselves to the Great Jaerl, then they were the opposite. They were a violent fifth-column, never to be trusted without the most rigorous scrutiny. Every Shieldmaiden, regardless of whether she'd sworn herself to the Eyvindottir or not, was now seen as being in league with her, and as such they were mistrusted throughout the west of Scelopyrea.
Ironically, that mistrust just drove more of them into the open arms of the Valkyrie-Queen of the east.
Still, Shieldmaidens or not, it didn't matter. They would fight her and she would kill them, and a flashy title with a few extra bits of armour wouldn't change that.
As the battle had truly begun in earnest she'd found herself picking up throwing axes from those who had died around her and putting them to good use, one in three finding their mark as foes charged towards her before suddenly dropping like puppets who's strings had been cut. She killed four or five men and women like that, a savage grin on her face all the while as Kætil stood alongside her, hurling javelins with such force that one man who was unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of his throwing was sent flying several feet back, the javelin lodging itself in the damp sod of the earth around them.
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She cursed as another man physically threw himself at them, and quickly made to cut him down as he fell. She never got the chance.
With a speed that was belied by even his usual fast acting, Kætil sent another javelin afly and caught the man square in the chest mid-jump. Once again a man he'd stuck with a javelin went flying backwards, this time landing squarely in the rush of the Isanar around the ford they were fighting over. She watched for half a second as the foaming rush turned pink, then red, then brown. The body, held in place by the javelin which must have gotten caught on some rocks or otherwise managed to impale the riverbed in a shallow, was tugged at both ends causing it to bow.
It would be interesting to see if that one was still there when the day was done.
Svaltha laughed as she lodged the curved tip of her sacrificial blade in the neck joint of a Shieldmaiden's armour, the woman's throat being ripped clean from her neck with a savage pull back as Svaltha immediately readied herself for the next opponent to come and face her. Already she'd drenched herself in gore in this skirmish, as had the young man she'd swore to follow, the two of them covered in blood and guts from head to toe with very little of it being theirs. It was in moments like this, standing back to back with Kætil against a great many foes, that she felt her affections towards him most strongly. She couldn't deny it and nor could he, not that either of them had any plans to speak about the depths of their feelings aloud, but in battle they were as one. None could come between them, and none could rend them asunder.
"Your left, Sval!"
Kætil's voice called out from just behind her, and almost as soon as the words had left his mouth her vision was obstructed by the bottom half of his shield with what looked like a boar spear peeking through the treated wood. She grinned at him and nodded her acknowledgement.
"Cheers, chief!"
He grinned back and, with an underarm swing, bisected the offending Shieldmaiden who'd very nearly brained her. Viscera sprayed in a wide arc as his sword sailed upwards, and almost as soon as she had an opening she darted forwards and tackled a third Shieldmaiden to the floor, the impact jarring her a little as she slammed into the armoured woman but knocking her opponent down nonetheless, leaving her completely defenceless when the sacrificial blade made itself known to the foe once more.
Kætil pulled her up and slapped her on the back whilst grinning, the two of them looking out over the small battlefield. Kætil must have taken his helmet back off at some point, signalling that this battle was soon to draw to a close since he didn't like fighting without it on, and was also set to be yet another victory for their forces, the most recent in a long string, which gave both of them the cause for more than a little celebration. Well, Kætil more than her she supposed, what with him being the commander along this section of the river line and the one who actually had a stake in this war, but she was never opposed to a little celebration from time to time.
Or every night.
Still, whilst the day was not quite done it was clearly wrapping up. Until now most of the forces they'd fought had been the more common Scelopyrene infantry, those being a mix of hunters, raiders, and the occasional band of actual warriors. To see some of the heavier infantry of the enemy in the mix was rather new, and it made her wonder what the two of them might be seeing next. The Shieldmaidens were the Valkyrie-Queen's answer to the more classic huscarls favoured by the Great Jaerl, her last remaining foe, heavy infantry with good mail shirts and skirts, with metal vambraces and greaves along with a series of other small pieces of armour. They weren't quite as heavily armoured as the huscarls, but they were more mobile and just as formidable.
Well, she said that the Great Jaerl and Valkyrie-Queen were foes. Dyfed's words from her meeting with him a few moons ago still rang through her mind on occasion. Something else was happening here, not that she knew what it was. The Great Jaerl might even have been bluffing for all she knew, and things may have still been going according to plan. There were too many unknown factors for her to start trying to piece together the specifics, so instead she'd mostly contented herself with the knowledge that she was doing her part to raise Krakevasil, even if it wasn't what the druids had originally intended. She was spilling blood, and was that not what her god demanded of her?
A voice carried on the rustling of the stalks of grass along the riverbank told her that she was right. Krakevasil wanted blood and he wanted it now, and though the other druids may have been planning a great and terrible sacrifice in the coming moons it was her who was giving him what he wanted at the moment. She'd given him blood, sacrifice, and a champion now adorned with his sigils. Even if her elders failed, she felt confident that she had already won.
That was the important thing. Winning. She didn't want to be on the losing side again.
Thinking back to her original point she wondered a little on whether or not she might see some horsemen soon as well. Kætil and his little band of huscarls were technically supposed to be mounted, but with the terrain being as boggy and uneven as it was they'd all forgone their mounts and elected to fight on foot instead. Maybe some of the foes they'd already fought were supposed to be mounted but had ended up making the same decision? It made sense; the summer rains and snows had turned the ground little more than a lake of mud in some places, thick and deep enough for a man to lose his boots in. Or to drown in for that matter, especially if he were armoured. About the only places that could possibly have worse mud than this at the moment must have been the marshes around the ruins of Murkmire, and whoever had to fight in the gutted shell of that city she did feel sorry for. Not even fighting could be fun in so miserable a place as that.
Luckily for her, and for him, Kætil seemed to have very good footing, so there was little risk of him meeting so unremarkable an ending as that.
If it wasn't horsemen next then maybe it would be a Lesser Jotun? Whilst the big bastards hadn't really had any interest in the spats of the 'little folk' since Jotunheim it would make sense to start seeing them appear on the battlefield about now; they were migrating south towards the southernmost reaches of the northern Archic mountains, and if either of the rulers that controlled Scelopyrea between them offered food and booze in sufficient amounts then it would make sense that a few outliers from some of the tribes might try their luck in battle alongside the northmen. They hadn't much to lose, after all.
Fighting giants was a prospect she had mixed feelings about. Kætil had fought them before whilst she quite deliberately had done nothing to help, as per the instructions she had been given as she'd started this mission, but she knew that even he wasn't keen on facing them down again. He'd already earned the title 'Jotunslayer', but given that he hadn't exactly been flaunting it she suspected he hadn't much intention of putting his skills to use again.
It made sense. He'd confided in her whilst they'd taken the scenic route back to the warcamp that he'd fully expected to lose at least half of his men, and had damn near lost his life in the process when one of the big bastards had clipped his side. He'd been left with some nasty bruises, but no major injuries. Those bruises had all but vanished by the time that they'd all gotten back anyway. He'd avoided being struck down by them once, but if there were more than two, or even if they were supported by a substantial number of humans, they'd be much harder to take down. You'd have to be focused on both the giants and the regular foes at the same time, and splitting one's attention like that wasn't exactly conductive to staying alive in a heated combat zone.
"What you thinking about there?"
She blinked back into the moment, looking up at Kætil with a smile.
"Nothing that important. Just wondering what we'll be fighting next."
He smiled back at her and slunk an arm around her shoulder, squeezing her a little.
"Probably not horsemen, it's too muddy for that. It's bad enough for heavy infantry like myself. What conclusion did you come to?"
She put an arm around his waist and squeezed a little in return as she replied. The two of them weren't exactly being discreet, but no-one had been stupid enough to ask them about it yet. If anyone cared at all that was; they weren't prudes and virgins like the southerners after all.
"The same as you just did. I thought we might end up seeing one or two Jotun mercenaries on our side or amongst the forces of the Eyvindottir in the coming months given their migrations southwards."
"That would make sense. Enough herbivorous food or strong booze and they'd surely come from miles around. That or the promise of purpose-built weapons and armour, fit for giants and yet wrought by human artisanry, just as it was in the old times. That might draw some of them to our side, especially the Smithsons. They'll no doubt be pleased to have some good steel once more, even more so than most since they've only had scraps of old steel or iron to work with. It's a miracle any of them even have steel weapons anymore, given that most surely must have rusted into nothing over the centuries."
Svaltha shrugged, letting her arm drop from Kætil's side as she readied herself to charge back into the fighting. She wasn't a smith, just a druid and a fighter. She heard the sounds of Kætil going through the same motions as her as his arm fell from her shoulders, and she watched as he wiped the worst of the gore off of his blade with a rag he'd probably torn from the shirt of a dead man or woman.
"Come on then, I'm still in the lead by my reckoning, and you don't want to admit that I'm more skilled than you yet, so you need to catch up."
She scoffed at him.
"I'm three behind you, that's all. I'll bridge the gap and then some, just you watch. Besides, we both know that-"
All of a sudden there was a knocking sensation at the walls of her mind, a feeling real enough that she almost thought she'd been struck on the head. She'd known this sensation before, she knew what it meant, but it had never been this strong before. Why was it so strong?
"Sval? Svaltha, are you-"
"He calls to me." She responded swiftly, dropping to her knees and coating her hands in bloodied mud. "He calls, and I need to answer."
She could just about make out Kætil nodding in a mixture of relief and reverence as her senses began to fray once more.
"I'll stand guard. Not that I should need to; no man of the north would strike down a druid in communion."
"Guard me all the same."
She was just about able to garble the words out as she lost control of her vocal chords, eyes rolling back into her skull as the voice of her god commanded her once more.
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"You have done much, child of slaughter."
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, from within her mind and beneath the very soil her physical body knelt upon.
"I wish only to serve you, oh Bloody One."
"Your union with him will bring about more bloodshed than any other northman could hope to hold a candle to, but you face the wrong way."
She swallowed hard. This was by far the clearest she had ever heard her god, hell, she could almost see him. He was a hazy form in the fog of her mind, so very hazy, but he was there nonetheless.
It was Krakevasil. She had seen him. It was a feat few could boast of, fewer still living to tell of it from what the records said, and yet she felt no fear at all for her fate.
"The wrong way, Lord of Carrion?"
"You look east," the voice boomed out in a strangely comforting tone, "but the true foe sails west. Your elders are fools, child. This plan of theirs is folly. But then you've known that for quite some time, haven't you? Take the son of the Lord of Lords, ensure that when his father makes the right decision he acts not against him, and make sure the Jotun stand with you."
"For what end, Mighty God?"
Though his form was so vague and shapeless she swore she could almost make out an animalistic snarl on her god's features, and what looked like gnarled branches protruding up from his head.
"Go south. Follow your Horse-Lord cousins to the east. The lands of the southerners is ripe for plunder, ripe for your taking. The north soon will fall, but the south is bounteous. Kill he who calls himself the 'Chosen', shun the mountains of the north, and tear down the six traitor gods. I will stand with you all once more, but you are the catalyst. Ensure that you and the warrior who stands beside you mate for life, and keep his friends close. The path you walk is narrow, but the reward is salvation. I hope I do not have to repeat myself?"
She shook her head fervently, her very being shaking violently as she fought through the fear and reverence she felt to commit every word he'd spoken to memory.
"Oh, one last warning." Her god called out even as he faded. "The Crow walks amongst the southerners once more, but he is not alone. There is another there, one I do not know. A young godling. Ensure that one never ascends to join the treasonous pantheon."
She nodded almost in desperation, the presence of her god in so clear and raw a form for such an extended period of time clearly taxing her body and mind beyond its limits.
"It will be as you command, mighty Raven-God. I swear it to you."
The god gave her a final, terrible nod of the head, and then everything fell away to blackness.