Svaltha VI: The Greatest Battle that Never Was
The Eleventh Day of the Ninth Moon, 873 AD.
Dyfed's Army, The Isanford, Scelopyrea.
Last night had been tense. More than tense, in honesty. For a week proceeding this day there had been feasts every night, both in the Great Jaerls tent and amongst the common soldiery below, but last night's had been... subdued. It had felt less like a feast and more like a funeral. In a way she supposed it had been; by the end of today she had no doubt that a great many of these men and women would be dead.
Or would they?
The Great Jaerl had been bellicose and loud, but not about the battle. He was adamant that he was going to duel the Valkyrie Queen, duel her and best her. If there was any man that could best such a fearsome woman then it was surely Dyfed, but likewise if there was any woman who could best the Great Jaerl then it would surely be the Eyvindottir.
His proud and belligerent demands for a duel had been answered in kind by the woman who commanded the other army across the field, but Svaltha did find it all a little... strange. Given the commands of the Raven-God that still rattled through her head she hoped that what she believed was about to happen was true, that the Great Jaerl's half-mocking comments made towards her about him not being a puppet for the druids were made with true intentions and not a false confidence.
There couldn't be a battle today, no matter how many might have wished otherwise. Krakevasil wished it not.
Strangely enough even her friends had been rather subdued last night. She and Kætil had still maintained their customary ardour, and of course when his mind was on her his thoughts were singular and pleasing, but almost as soon as they were finished he'd retracted in on himself a little. Kætil was a fine warrior, a great one that she doubted she would be able to defeat in a true fight to the death when armour and weaponry were considered, but any man could be laid low at an inopportune moment. It only took one mistake, one bit of bad luck, and everything could come to an end.
She got the feeling, however, that he wasn't actually thinking about that. She got the feeling he was more worried about her, and of course his brothers by his side. Krai and Syren were good men, honest and true to their word, but they weren't Kætil. Again, they were excellent fighters and were likely to have each other's back till the bitter end, but there was no telling when exactly that bitter end might come. Would it be from an axe-stroke or the swing of a sword in the brutal melee, in which case they would be able to protect each other and watch their backs? Or was it more likely that their end would come as a hailstorm of javelins, stopped only by quick reactions and good luck? She didn't know, but she did know that it must have been weighing heavily on the spirits of the three boys she had become so fond of.
It had been easy enough to read Syren, for the man wore his heart on his sleeve, but Krai was... Krai was different. She doubted anyone outside of their little circle would have known something was up with him, since he still seemed as jovial and happy as ever, but the three of them knew better. His words came out too forced, his mannerisms too exaggerated and false. He was trying his best to put their minds at ease, to show them he was fine, but none of them were falling for it. The four of them were scared, and there was no shame in admitting that. Anyone who claimed that it was shameful to admit fear was a fucking idiot, because though they may have all been afraid they were still here on the frontlines of a fucking war. They were afraid but they were still here, because with Krakevasil as their witness, none of them wanted to let down their friends. That wasn't who they were.
Svaltha dearly hoped that the Great Jaerl's gambit was going to pay off here. If what she suspected was going to happen succeeded, if battle was avoided, then the plans that she had once supported wholeheartedly and even helped put into motion could be stopped dead. If his gambit failed and the battle was allowed to continue...
The north would be bereft of warriors for generations with nothing to show for it.
"Sval, you alright?"
She turned to Krai and nodded stiffly, a motion which he repeated.
"About as fine as I can be right now. How about you boys, what are we feeling like?"
"Like I'm about to shit my guts out." Came Syren's deadpan tone, resulting in a small bout of chuckling from the rest of them.
"Yeah, that makes sense to me. It's not exactly a stress-free situation, is it?"
Kætil snorted next to her.
"That's one way of putting it. Father's going to duel her before the battle, and even though I know he'll win I can't help but feel anxious. Fucking nerves. He'll still win though, I know he will."
Svaltha nodded, keeping her thoughts on that matter to herself. Kætil hadn't shied away from telling people that he 'knew' his father would win, but that was just a whole lot of bias. Ostæinson and Eyvindottir were evenly matched, and almost everyone knew it.
"Whatever happens, this'll be a fight to remember. People have been wanting the two of them to fight for Krakevasil knows how long, and now it's going to happen. What do you think will happen when the battle itself begins though?"
She looked over to Kætil, trying to judge his mood as the man rubbed his chin in thought, helmet held in his free hand.
"The most obvious thing would seem to be a frontal heavy cavalry charge; the ground is flat and has mostly dried these last few days thanks to that sunny spell we just had, so the conditions should be perfect for heavy horse. Of course the enemy would likely be doing the same, and if they met in the middle then they'd do little more than form the centre of the melee. If they were to strike without meeting each other however... well, the infantry would be fucked."
"That wouldn't include us, I take it? You know, since we're removed from the main body of the horsemen."
Krai's voice was added to the mix, and his question prompted one of her own.
"Yeah, that's a good point. Well fearless Warchief, would we be charging with the rest of the cavalry?"
Syren snickered off to the side, because he was childish like that whenever she called Kætil by his title.
"Yeah, what we doing boss? Why are we right in the middle, so far from the other horsemen on the flanks?"
"In case she pulls some shit." Her companion spat off to the side. "In case she tries to pull some fucking trick on father. If she does then we ride in as fast as these fucking steeds will take us and we stop him from getting killed, or at least avenge him if we can't stop it from happening. That's why we're here."
She exchanged a worried look with Syren. The last thing that any of them needed was for Kætil to try and intervene in the coming duel. That was something no-one, no matter which side they were on or how much admiration they may have had for him, would stomach.
"If she pulls any trickery," Syren started slowly, "then we'll intervene. That's only if she calls on her soldiers to intervene on her behalf. We don't move in otherwise."
Kætil turned to look at Syren, and though his face was angry it did seem as though he had softened a little, since his voice had lost the worst of its edges.
"Of course. If she calls in her own soldiers. I'm just... worried for him."
Krai nodded in understanding.
"Your father is to fight a duel which will herald a battle to decide the fate of our homeland. I'd be more surprised to find that you weren't worried."
That earned a snort from Kætil, and she shot the one-eyed young man a grateful look. She was worried as well, not that anyone could know why. Her god had... she'd seen things beyond simply his commands. Whether it was intentional on his part she knew not, for it was just as likely to have been detritus from the unravelling mind of a god seeping into her senses as it was a deliberate choice to show her what was to come.
The visions had been blurred, her mind's eye half-obscured and the shadows dark, but she'd seen... something. Something dark. It wasn't ready, not yet, but within their lifetimes it would be. A war was coming that was far greater than this, and just as he had before in the earliest sagas of her people Krakevasil wished to see his people to safety, south of the Aenir. To call it 'safety' would be folly, for when the great enemy came there would be nowhere that remained safe, but it would be far safer than remaining up here. No, Krakevasil was too fractured to aid them in battle as he once had, but at the very least he could guide them to safer lands in which to weather the coming storm.
Of course he couldn't guide them to these lands if all the warriors were dead, could he? That's why the plan of the Druids had been folly. Warriors would be needed in numbers unparalleled though the long history of their people, and so it was better to conserve their strength and rampage through the south before settling into their new lands. The Skraelings had been conquered more than a millennia ago, and had grown soft and weak under their Klironomean overlords. The Scelopyrene would remind them of their roots. Of the gods they had abandoned. Yes, the other gods of the Corvid Pantheon were traitors who left them all to die, but the Skraelings had betrayed the betrayers. How could their remnants be trusted in their current state?
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They couldn't. That was the plain and simple truth.
"Hey, do you think that-"
"Oi, quiet up you three. It's starting."
Svaltha looked up, and it seemed that Krai was right. The flatlands meant that pretty much everyone in the front lines would be able to see this duel, from the lowliest foot soldier to the greatest commanders in both armies. Svaltha watched as the Great Jaerl, flanked by the two guards that seemed to shadow him at all times, strode to the centre of the field. As they did so, the Eyvindottir approached as well. She was tall, perhaps as tall as the Great Jaerl, and the great raven-spear she held in her hands looked like it would be able to skewer half a dozen men in one go. The two fighters wore heavy-chain, though the suits looked like they fit tighter than normal, and they forwent coifs or helmets. They wanted their armies to see them, to know it was truly them, and so were willing to even give themselves a disadvantage, or at least that was how it seemed.
The Eyvindottir herself was flanked by a pair of shieldmaidens, who seemed to be of a similar disposition as the huscarls behind Dyfed. The two sets of guards stopped seven paces each from the centre point, allowing the two leaders to meet in the centre and converse in person.
"No hidden weapons." Dyfed's voice boomed out as he rolled up his chain sleeves.
The Eyvindottir nodded, mirroring the motions.
"No hidden weapons."
With that they reaffixed their mail sleeves and clasped forearms, a mark of respect they both felt they owed the other, and talked. She closed her eyes, opened up her senses almost without thinking as though prompted by outside force, and heard their subdued conversation with almost perfect clarity.
"So, here we are at last."
"Indeed. Here we are."
The Eyvindottir sniffed the air a little, as though a hound searching for something.
"The Jotun were right, I see. I do smell magic on you, or rather from your blood. How is your boy?"
"He's mighty fine, I can assure you of that. We both know what has drawn us here, do we not?"
The woman smiled at Dyfed, seeming almost excited.
"Well, I see you're just as excited as I am for this. I've been duelling both of these fine shieldmaidens at my back at the same time these last few moons, but even that sees me winning far more often than not. I'm looking forwards to finally meeting my equal on the field."
Despite the distance Svaltha was certain she could hear the low rumble of the Great Jaerl's laugh, and when he next spoke she was almost sure he was grinning widely.
"I can say much the same. These two boys at my back are some of the best fighters I've known, but knocking the two of them down at the same time has gotten tiring. You, though? You're the one person I can think of who'll be able to match me. As much as I know the Druids will hate what is to come, so to do I know it's the right move to make. Are you ready to begin?"
The Eyvindottir visibly smiled and nodded, a feral grin slipping over her face as she hefted her raven-spear with both hands. Dyfed too readied himself, his huge greatsword slipping free of its sheath and into his right hand whilst his smaller arming sword moved into his left. The two greatest combatants the north had seen in so very long were ready to fight, and almost forty-thousand men and women waited on the field with bated breath to see who amongst their leaders would carry the day. Svaltha knew that most of the soldiers in both camps would have had arguments or placed bets on who of these two figures was the greater, but she very much doubted that money was on the minds of anyone at the moment. The soldiers would want their leader to win, since the loss of their leader would be such a blow to morale that a great many of their lesser comrades would surely turn tail and flee. Of course the two figures were great commanders as well, and so not only would their loss be a blow to morale but also to the tactical acumen of their respective armies.
Despite the bravado and lust for glory that had brought many to the field on this day there couldn't have been many who were hoping to die.
Then, in a single swift motion, the Valkyrie Queen surged forwards. Her raven-spear was aimed squarely at the Great Jaerl's neck-guard, and though the blow was forceful it was turned aside by the hulking man's greatsword. His arming sword made to stab at her side as the Queen's blow was turned aside, but in a single fluid motion she was able to turn the momentum of the Great Jaerl's parry against him by using it to swiftly crack the haft of her raven-spear against the hand holding the arming sword, turning that blow aside in turn.
Already she found herself in awe of their capabilities, their reactions speeds and mindfulness of the other's moves, how quickly they were able to turn their opponent's own moves against them. Oh, they were certainly evenly matched.
The Great Jaerl tried for a great overhead swing, but in the half-second it took him to lift his greatsword the Valkyrie-Queen struck forwards once again at his exposed front. Though the man's arming sword was as quick to the parry as ever she was able to bring the haft of her spear around to block the overhead strike in less than a moment. Lesser men and women would have been felled at every single step of this duel, but these two were not lesser men and women. They were Great Jaerl Dyfed Ostæinson and Valkyrie-Queen Thjodhild Eyvindottir, and none could possibly come close to their prowess in all the northern world.
With what seemed to be lightning fast speed from both combatants a flurry of blows was exchanged, each movement seeming so fluid and powerful that it almost seemed like a dance. Every fraction of a second their movements seemed as though they could have been weaved into the tapestry of fate itself, because by Krakevasil did the two of them manage to turn combat into an art form. She'd seen amazing things in her life, not least of which being her god, but somehow this duel seemed to be the only thing that could possibly hold her attention in this moment.
She'd seen giants fight over the ruins of her convoy, she'd seen them slain by a true warrior, had carved the runes of her god into the flesh of her lover, and had been blessed with the actual visage of the Lord of Slaughter, but this moment was something special. This was... this was blessed. Blessed in a way that most of the north had forgotten, blessed in a way that had been abandoned for so long that most could no longer remember when exactly it had fallen by the wayside. This was not blessed by Krakevasil in his guise as the Lord of Slaughter. This was blessed by Krakevasil in the guise of the Hero-Maker. This was a duel of honour, true honour, not honour for blood's sake. This was what Scelopyrea had forgotten, but now it would be relearned.
As the Valkyrie-Queen's spear lashed out once more and the Great Jaerl caught it on his pauldron she felt a strange sense of elation from the back of her mind. This was what her god had wanted this whole time; the Raven-God hadn't wished for an army of howling zealots and mindless savages, he'd wanted heroes as in days of yore. An army united in purpose and deed, but also in the pursuit of becoming the perfect warrior. Krakevasil wanted this, and the relief that her deity felt flooded through her mind and body as if it were her own. The two combatants were not just the greatest fighters Scelopyrea had seen in generations, nor were they simply the leaders of two vast hosts poised to unite the region.
They were the heralds of a new age. A better age. An age soaked in blood and war, yes, but not mindless war. They heralded war with purpose, war with intent, war with the goal of improving their people's lot. It was to be war for the noblest and purest of reasons, and in that moment she felt as though her elation might never truly subside. Whichever one of them died out there, it was to be a new age nonetheless, and that was all that mattered.
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For hours she stood there, a single woman amidst some forty-thousand rapt faces just stone-still, unable to look away. She doubted she'd have been able to if she wanted to, not that she wished to miss even a fraction of a second of the legendary bout before her. Twice now the Great Jaerl and the Valkyrie-Queen had called a break on their duel to rehydrate before continuing, but apart from that they'd not stopped this whole time. Strangely enough it had been crystal clear water that the two of them had drunk from, the same waterskin as well, which differed from the customary ale. She supposed that neither of them wanted to risk alcohol clouding their senses at the moment, not even an extremely weak small beer. Well, she had no real way of knowing that, but that was what the runner had been asked to fetch and the two combatants hadn't shouted him down, so she was pretty sure that her assumption was right.
Parries, thrusts, counterattacks, guards, ripostes, the two of them were a flurry of movement that could hardly be kept up with when watching, let alone what it would have been like to get involved.
Despite the two of them being locked in combat for everything they wanted, despite everything that was at stake, Svaltha got the curious feeling that neither combatant much cared for the outside world right now. The two of them had spent so long as the best fighters in the north that there hadn't been any real excitement in fighting anyone anymore, but here on this field, they'd found excitement once again. She got the feeling that, at this moment, the potential battle didn't interest them in the slightest. Not the armies, not the fact that the winner promised to unite all of Scelopyrea, and not even the hollow words of the Druids that had driven them to war.
Right now, they only had minds for their duel.
A pair of particularly savage blows met between them, and they both pushed on their weapons to try and gain some ground. When they realised they were just too evenly matched, they stopped and stepped back. The two of them circled each other a little longer, weapons readied, and then something peculiar happened.
With a single nod being exchanged, the Great Jaerl and Valkyrie-Queen tossed their weapons to each other, swapping them in one swift motion. After this they smiled, then laughed, then clasped forearms in a warrior's greeting once more and hugged as though they were old friends.
"People of Scelopyrea!" The Valkyrie-Queen belted her voice across the battlefield. "We are divided no longer!"
"We are as one, here and now!" The Great-Jaerl continued. "With our marriage this land is made whole! Let the south tremble at our coming, for we will be undefeatable!"
Svaltha let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding in. Battle had been avoided. The Druids had been outplayed by Dyfed and the Eyvindottir, and whatever schemes the Druidic Orders may have made were sure to melt away like autumn ice. The northern world was spared a bloodbath, and yet Svaltha was certain that war would not be far away. With Scelopyrea united there were a multitude of directions to spread, to expand and seize. They were mighty and united, and none would be able to stand against them.
Still, she hadn't expected them to fucking marry. That was certain to result in some... complications, where Kætil was concerned. Looking to her right she could see the barely concealed anger on her man's face, anger at a stolen chance for glory and at his father for taking it from him. Well, it would pass. Kætil's anger always did. She would just need to convince him that this was a good thing, that it was both what Krakevasil wanted and that he would now be able to seek glory against the kings of the south. He could lord over their cities of stone and burn their villages of thatch to ashes as he so pleased, and take tens of thousands in thrall. He would come around, and probably only in a few days once she worked her ways on him, but she'd need to make sure he was placated for the moment until the anger passed. He was a good man, but could be rash at times with his lust for combat.
She knew that feeling all too well.
Still, his anger clearly wasn't shared by most. Both armies were letting loose with raucous cheers across the field, many of them probably glad that they wouldn't be fighting their family members who had picked the other side this day. Svaltha just remained silent. Whether she had done enough to prevent the ruin of Scelopyrea or not, she didn't know. She hoped so, even if what she had actually managed was very little. It was out of her hands now.
Swords were sheathed and shields slung across backs. Ale was procured, and in quantities she'd never seen before for that matter. People from both of the armies met in the middle of the field as comrades, despite the fact that mere days ago they'd have tried to kill each other on sight. Shieldmaidens engaged in drinking games with huscarls, brothers and sisters who'd been apart the better half of a decade thanks to choosing different sides in this war met once more and made amends, and the sounds of merriment must have been able to be heard from the island of Hedyn. Yes, old certainties were melting away, but she knew that one thing for certain:
The northern world would never be the same again.