Chapter 44: Baldur

The Baron's roar tore through the field, leaving goosebumps on the looters as his cavalry rived through their ranks. The cry of men going down, the spray of blood filling the atmosphere.

Ragnar had long since allowed his men to break ranks as he started to route the losing raiders, now heavily outnumbered. His falcata was a blur as he stabbed through the mail and hacked across leather armor, his enemies lasting no more than a brief encounter.

The thrum of blood once again surged into Ragnar's ears, the shouts of his Viking brethren around him as they slammed into the oncoming enemy. Man after man, breaking their swords against his pure steel, allowing him to kill with increasing speed.

He soon lost count of how many men he'd slain, his falcata now painted red in blood, as he stood panting among an open field full of dead bodies.

Ragnar huffed as his breath curled against the cold Norman air. Eventually gathering his breath, he noticed silence all around him. "Right, that about does it." He nodded at his work like an artist gazing upon their finished piece before he flicked his blade to rid it of the blood as he sheathed it.

Slowly he turned around and realized that a couple of the men were staring at him with their eyes wide as they whispered amongst themselves.

The burly warrior scoffed as he ignored all the talk, walking around the field to see if anyone was near or faking death. He stabbed into the occasional body, receiving a cry once in a while as he gave relief unto dying men.

Ragnar eventually found a man with a broken leg, trampled under the first charge and left to die underneath a pile of bodies. "How have you managed to survive, young lad?" He looked on half in amazement and half with respect.

The manchild shivered as he felt the effects of a fever taking hold of him, "It is fate, end my life, my friend. It will be a worthy death to die from one as great as you. Though I must say that it was a frightening sight, seeing you reap the life of Strogar's men." He said in between the clenched teeth.

Ragnar shook his head softly, "They weren't very good fighters, plus I'm glad that you find honor in me taking your death. What is your name, and where is your camp?"

The manchild's eyes steeled with pride, "I'm Roland of Maine." as he ignored the second part of the question.

Ragnar snorted, "Roland of Maine? Haven't I heard of you? You must be one of the count's bastards. What a coincidence that it is you that fell at the start of the war yet still live to tell us of your origins." He said as he dragged Roland out of the pile of bodies, trapping him.

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"Now, how can you call yourself 'of Maine' when Count Hugh does not officially recognize you? Ragnar raised his eyebrows as he took account of his bloodied self.

Roland looked down at the ground, "I was to be legitimized if I succeeded in this task," as he gulped in fear. "I have failed." His innocent blue eyes looked up at Ragnar with a sense of forlorn.

Ragnar realized what was going on as he replied, "Your father would have never legitimized you, Roland. You were to be used as a pawn in a much larger political situation. What task did he give you?"

The young bastard twiddled his thumbs, unsure of what he should say, "I was to shadow Strogar and his men for three years, learn the ways of fighting while also directing them to disrupt business in the duchy."

It clicked in Ragnar's head as the pieces came together. The various information that his father had mentioned about why the Baron would take bribes from a bunch of looters and mercenaries when the real connection behind the lot of them was the count of Maine.

"Were you given any formal battle training?" Ragnar interjected.

"None, I was to have learnt on the fly, to show how adaptable I am." Roland glanced down once again.

Ragnar tutted, "Your father was a useless cunt. I'm proud of you, Roland. Most men wouldn't have lasted this long without proper training. Either you have the lady luck on your side, or it's a god-given talent you have."

"And I'm guessing it's the former." He said with a chuckle before coming in close. His jovial expression turned blank as he put on a poker face to scare the crap out of the child, "Now where is the camp boy? Or would you like me to cut it out of you?" He said as he flicked his knife into his fingers, twirling it rapidly.

Ragnar had spent the last minute building rapport with the kid so that it would be easier to pry the information out. He'd hate to have to spend time torturing a young lad. As such, his tactic created the desired effect. The young boy's face quickly grew pale as he gaped at the rapid movements of the knife with a gulp. "... I yield, Please. My leg hurts, and I'm weary of life. The camp is past the treeline on that side, by the river. You'll have to walk for about 5 minutes before you reach it," as he pointed in said direction.

With the information he required procured, Ragnar quickly handed off the young Roland to one of his men, ignoring the manchild's begging to be killed before walking over to Marquise with a smile. "Seems like my little trick produces the desired effect," as he sniggered, spinning the knife to show his point.

"Oh yes, that does look mighty frightening." The Frenchman said with a pause. "Ragnar, people are talking about the battle," Marquise said as he placed a palm on the burly Norman's shoulder.

"What is it, Marquise? The men performed excellently, and I hope they have nothing bad to say." Ragnar raised his eyebrows in question.

"It's not that milord. Many hadn't witnessed you fight; the speed at which you wield your blade is truly terrifying when first witnessed. And this new blade of yours adds to the visage that you create. An aura of invincibility." Marquise said with a smile. "They say you are Baldur himself."

Ragnar scoffed at the thought of being called a god, "These men need to stop fantasizing. I'm just a man with an exceptional father." He sighed as he gazed back onto the field strewn with bodies.

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Time for Treasure! Who's interested to see what kind of loot they've gained in the next one?

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