“Sven Halfstead, yer the baron’s body double, correct?” Ivar asked the distraught man, brought under strict guard into the council chambers.

“A-aye, y-yer lordship. T-that I was…” Sven answered meekly, his lips and hands trembling. While clean and well dressed from head-to-toe, the man bore a striking resemblance to baron Halfgaar. The only distinctive differences, outside his manner of speech and accent, were subtle scars on his face where large moles had been forcibly removed to ensure a cleaner resemblance of features.

“Tell me, Sven, about yer time under the baron.” Ivar’s eye’s drilled into the man like a hawk, hunting its prey.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, y-yer lordship?” The njordic man stuttered out nervously. His face was notably pale and sweaty, as he glanced feverishly around the room at the stoic faces of the guard in the room. In the back corner of the room, D lit up a cigar, the glancing light of the flame shone off his glasses and subtly illuminated his stubble-lined face that was otherwise obscured under his wide-brimmed hat.

D looked altogether incredibly displeased, with his clenched teeth cutting into the base of the cigar.

Sven swallowed his spit and quickly looked down, desperate for the only safe place to lock his eyes.

“Let’s try this again.” Ivar resumed, sternly. “Are ye aware why you’re here?” The minister asked, forcefully and authoritatively. His voice echoed throughout the chamber.

“N-no, yer lordship. I-I-I mostly spend me time i-i-in me chambers in the m-manor, until me lord c-calls. D-did me lord d-d-do summit wrong?” The trembling in Sven’s voice was palpable, with a hint of desperation.

Ivar, on the other hand, groaned and massaged his forehead. “In yer time as Halfgaar’s double, when he called on ye, what did he have ye do?”

Sven thought for a moment, his blond hair draped over his face. “Y-yer lordship, a-all me lord a-asked w-was fer me t-to be seen, nuthin’ e-else.” He swallowed again as he finished his sentences.

Ivar nodded, and stroked his chin in thought for a moment. Before he could continue, the side door of the council chamber opened, and a distraught guard hurried toward the chief minister.

After Ivar motioned acknowledgement, the guard leaned quickly towards Ivar’s ear and whispered “Sir, w-we found them. E-exactly where you said they’d be.”

After a lengthy silence, Ivar conjured up only a single word in response. “Fuck.”

He motioned for D to come and push his wheelchair, and then looked back down towards the quivering Sven. “Don’t worry, lad. Yer not in trouble. Come.”

Sven’s eyes opened wide, and he looked pitiably around the room, almost in disbelief.

“If ye don’t hurry yer ass, ye will be in trouble!” Ivar shouted, his njordic accent growing slightly thicker and his face sporting a more notable scowl.

With a shove from the guards behind him, Sven hurried after Ivar, D, and the guard the followed through the hall.

The side corridor was fairly simple, lined with windows and the occasional table with clay-potted plants of differing varieties and other pieces of decor.

Ivar waved for Sven to walk next to him. “Lad, did the baron ever teach ye proper speech?”

The man looked surprised for a moment, and attempted to compose himself with a little dignity. “T-the lord made an e-effort… c-chief minister.”

The old man smirked. “Hmph. Made an effort.” He scoffed. “Did ye have any family or friends, or anyone else outside the baron’s manor who knew ye were his double?”

Sven froze for a moment, as they had reached the door at the far end of the hall. “N-no yer lordship, t’ wasn’t allowed.” He responded firmly, if not dejectedly.

Ivar only nodded, as the guard they were following opened the door. Before they could even enter, they were hit with the sickly stench of rotting and charred flesh, causing Sven to gag and cover his nose.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

It led into a large room, filled with crates, papers and various other stored items mostly relating to ceremonies. Rolled tapestries depicting dragons and various gods we stacked on shelves, with the ones depicting Thor and Odin more prominently displayed.

A large cart sat in the center of the room, unhitched from the horses whinnying outside. It was covered in a thick brown linen canvas. The cart had two more nervous guards standing on either side of it.

“Open it.” Ivar grunted. The guards nodded, and flung back the canvas revealing the pile of demon corpses. Some were mangled and charred into an unrecognizable mess, but others were much more clear.

“Told ya.” D grunted under his breath, before spitting out his cigar and crushing it under his bootheel.

Ivar stared at it quietly for a long moment, while Sven promptly shrieked in horror.

“DEMONS! THEY’RE REALLY DEMONS! HEAVENS HAVE MERCY ON ME S-“ His shrieking was brought to an abrupt halt courtesy of D introducing his fist into the equation, with a particular emphasis on the unfortunate recipients jawline.

“Calm down, they’re already dead.” D growled, as the man looked at the vampire hunter in shock. Blood dripped from his lips, and the skin flushed red. It would undoubtably leave a sizable bruise.

Ivar grabbed his wheels, and with some effort pushed himself down the short ramp and approached the car, fixated on the monsters within.

“Did ye know…” he began slowly, his voice almost wistful. “Once, I captained a longship, over forty years ago. Had over a hundred true njordic warriors. We sailed as part of a fleet, with two karves and a knar.”

Ivar’s eyes moistened as he continued. “We wanted to revive the old ways. To remember our traditions. Something that needed to be done in a big way, that would light a fire in our people. A raid. And if we couldn’t raid the coast here, we put together a plan to cross the sea. And we were damn successful. Too gods-be-damned successful.” A dark scowl crossed Ivar’s face.

“We struck the coast from the south to the north, and we moved fast. Before we knew it, we had damn near filled our knarr with slaves ‘n treasure. And… we found something in some rich noble’s home. A map and papers pointing to a horde of treasure ripe for the taking, horded and hidden by the daemons in the far north.” Ivar’s eyes widened, as he turned to stare at Sven.

The man was still cowering from D’s punch moments ago, and the relentless stare made him cower further.

Ivar voice slowly began to rise, tinged with rage. “It was a god-damned trap! Not even ten minutes after reachin’ shore, and not a moment after we hit the tree line, they swarmed to our ships! If I didn’t think to keep our knar at sea, they’d have taken everything!”

The old man’s hands tightened their grip, spittle flying from his lips as he began to rage. “So many of our warriors died screaming as we raced down the shore! So many died to buy us time to meet up with our knar god’s only knows how far down that cursed beach! But make it we did, and before I could get on… one of… these disgusting shits gutted me straight through my god-damned back!” Ivar howled, as he grasped onto the long claw of the Grendel. With his free hand, he reached back and took the guard’s sword from its sheathe, and furiously hacked the creatures claw off.

The furious minister began to scream. “Damn thing rushed around our collapsing line, but we still managed to kill it! And Krom… young lad he was then, drug me onto the ship. We had to abandon so many men on that beach… and to curse us even further, sahuagins began to leap from the sea onto our ship! All the slaves we captured… we tossed them overboard to chum the waters. Damn beasts couldn’t resist the easy meat, but we still had to kill all the bastards that made it aboard! Four-hundred men, two-hundred warriors we sailed with! And we returned with barely a dozen men, and a single ship.”

Ivar’s voice finally started to lower into a cold, seething rage. “Our dreams died that day. Yea, we had the treasure. Its all that saved our damnable lives. But… that disgusting creature… it left me broken and diseased. It had been too long, and even though the disease could be cured… the damage it left couldn’t be fixed.”

Ivar finally fell into a long silence, glaring at the pile of corpses on the cart.

D finally broke the silence. “They’re coming again now, so… what will you do? You gonna run again?” His voice was sharp and prodding.

“I’ll be damned if you think I’ll let this city go without a fight. I’ll burn it all down with them in it if I have to!” Ivar snarled back, to a cold grin from the hunter.

Ivar then motioned for his guards. “Gather everyone from the baron’s manner. Make sure to tear out their tongues, but keep those traitors alive. Nail them to a pyre with these demon corpses, and call the whole damn city to witness their execution.”

Then, Ivar looked over at Sven, and gave a cruel, calculated smile. “Baron Halfgaar, your family consorted with demons to betray you and attempted to replace you. Of course, you would be willing to do anything and everything to help us defend our city, including giving us all the men you used to command?”

Sven… the new baron, stared pathetically back at Ivar. He nodded quietly.

“Good. D, watch the baron until I can get more men to prepare him for his role. Make sure you’re at the market square by sundown. You, take my chair. I need to prepare the conscription order and to call a war council.”

D sighed, as the chief minister left. His glasses hid it well, but there were deep, dark circles forming under his eyes from nearly two days straight with no sleep.

He ushered the newly minted baron Halfgaar into one of the back rooms of the council building, and traced out a ward on the door.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch here. Take the chair. The moment this door opens, this ward will wake me.” D grunted towards Sven, his voice dripping with exhaustion. Then, his voice turned mercilessly cold. “And if it opens for anything other than Ivar’s men, I swear on the goddess’ name, I WILL BREAK YOU.”