A dull grey sky loomed overhead as the wind whistled down the fjord, making waves that splashed against the small longboat. Aboard were twenty-three men, almost all of them rowing to push the boat against the wind towards the open sea. Out there a looming rain squall was closing in like a black curtain. Their destination: a small coastal island controlled by the Liefajr Clan. A measly family with nothing much to their name who had only survived by miracles and paying tithe to the Úlfrung.
But now they had decided to stop, and Lord Ari, the third chef of the Úlfrung, was going to use this opportunity as a lesson, both to the pathetic Liefajr and to his second son.
Whilst he had passed his 17th name day and had fought in defence of his home with the skills learned over long months, the man had yet to fight in a true raid. To bring the fight to the enemies of the Clan. To gain riches from those who had been too weak to defend them. To taste blood from a new thrall he had forcefully taken… Only once he had done that could he be proven to be a true son of his father.
He could already see one of the fires at their lookout islands burning, a small longship scrambled its way towards its master’s port as fast as its feeble rowers could. Alas, it would be nothing but a feeble attempt at resistance, their clan was weak and poor. Any warriors worth any respect would be fighting with nothing with allies that would rather run than fight.
A broad, fanged smile spread across his face as he turned to his men. “Be ready! The mewling dogs over there are going to bark and howl, but when it comes to bite they’ll cower back, fearing our power! Do not let any of them put fear into your heart for you have nothing to fear from them! Now come! Row faster! We’ll take them! We’ll march onto their beaches, cut their warriors down, burn their houses, tear open their guts, and enslave all that remains! For glory! For blood!”
His warriors roared, all except his son… The man could use a lot more bloodlust, especially for a vampire like himself. There was always a moment of sniffing and inspecting before he drank and he shied always from the thrill of taking from those still alive and thrashing, instead slashing their throats first. He’d have to make sure that was corrected…
Maybe today would be that day, however.
The island proper was drawing closer and closer by the second and they’d be sure to be landed before the squall arrived. The Liefajr were nothing but dead men walking. The minutes were slowly draining away till the hourglass finally emptied.
They were there, the scrappy defenders lined up in a disorganised shield wall just off the beach. Most of the people in it were wearing gambeson without any mail apart from a few lucky exceptions. Their shields looked sturdy though, and would be if the the shield wall had been better organised and was manned by iron-blooded men rather than quivering cowards.
A sudden jolt and the ship was on the beach, everyone charging out into a shield wall of their own, all without Ari needing to give orders. The line made by his troops was organised well, with each shield interlocking with its brethren to form a wooden wall backed by axes, spears, and swords. His son fell in with them as they organised, standing beside a bannerman carrying his standard — a bloodied boar intertwined in knots flailing wildly in the winds with the sound of flapping cloth.
Ari however was not as fast to get out of the boat. He didn’t have to be. The enemy was wavering at the mere sight of him and his men, and taking his time would let that fear fester. Lazily he hopped out of the boat, long axe held in one hand, resting on his shoulder, and walked in front of his line.
A woman on the other side did the same, dressed in fine garbs, flowing brown hair falling down their shoulders, long seax in hand and with a confidence not possessed by any of her men. Jarl Hlif. “You know, I should have expected you to come.” She called voice firm yet almost on the verge of laughter at the same time. “You vampire shits spill blood even when there’s nothing to gain.”
Ari shrugged, “That isn’t true. You have a few things that are of worth to us. Your food, your trinkets, the blood I will spill and drink, and the experience that slaughtering you can give to one of my sons.”
She spat. “Oh well I’m glad for that!”
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“You’re the one who stopped paying tribute to us.”
“That tithe was barely anything, I’m surprised you noticed us missing it for one season. And now that you’re set on sending us to your father the last you’ll get from us is what we claw from our dead hands and none more they will give! You’ll have nothing in a year’s time, yet if you’d deign to consider leaving, you’ll find our fish on your plate.”
He played with his axe, shifting the haft in the coarse sand beneath his feet to trace lines in the sand. The squall and storm were getting closer, any longer and it’d be above them. He laughed, a gentle soft, laugh, “So why did you stop paying then? Why did you need to skip a season if it was barely anything?”
The Jarl bit her lip. “We have been struggling somewhat.” She said in a strained voice, indignity boiling over. “But I am not too proud to place my pride above the lives of my clan and I will return to paying the tithe when we can.”
Ari hefted his axe, holding it at the ready in one hand like it was nothing as he traced the edge of the blade with a finger. “I don’t take well to having the stench of weakness so close to me, nor do I want anyone else to think I tolerate it. No… What I can get from you now is well worth it. So the question remains, will you all stand till the last, or will you crumble and cower like the dogs you are?”
She gave her answer. “To me! Shields up and ready! For your families! For your lives! Fight!”
It took a second for her troops to respond, but they did, albeit with that scraggly fear fear-bitten way he expected. The wall would fall.
He smirked. “Men of the Úlfrung! Don’t let them stop us! We will bloody our tusks on their bodies as they fall before us! I repeat, what will we do!?”
The chorus of his men answered in a harmonious roar. “Kill them! Gore them! Run them down!”
“Who’s land is this!?”
“Ours!”
“Will they stop us!?”
“No!”
“Then we will…”
“Kill them! Gore them! Run them down!”
“With me men! Advance!”
“Yes war chief!”
All at once, they started to march, their feet pounding the sand beneath them as the rain started to pour down. Staring at Hlif, he moved to the right of his flank, what would be his enemies’ left, the side where the men wouldn’t be able to bring their sword hands to bear. At the same time, he signalled to his right for his son to take the opposing flank. It’d be good for him to have a little more of a challenge, not that it would stop a vampire.
Hlif in turn barked at her men to retreat, slowly moving backwards to a short ridge where the beach met the land. A good piece of terrain for the defender.
“Double time!” He barked, the sound of shifting mail, clattering arms, and rain hitting helms joining the cacophony. Hlif wouldn’t be able to get back in time without breaking formation, and by that time they’d get there it’d be too late for them to re-form.
He knew she knew it. He could smell her fear and that of her men even with the wet storm, and he could see her eyes widening with the fear, the realisation that she should have taken that position in the first place rather than trying to meet them at the beach.
Faster and faster they went, growing in speed and momentum as the whites of their eyes came into view and-
Contact.
With a cacophonous smash, the two side’s shields met and his axe met the head of a man. They fell instantly, their head perfectly split by his axe that went straight through his helm. Across the Liefajr’s line men fell, either pushed over by his men’s charge as their strength failed and their lack of organisation proved to be their death, or by axes and spears meeting flesh with blood following.
Their shield wall was defeated in that moment.
More men fell, the few remaining falling swiftly.
The rage, the thirst, it boiled up turning the world into a glorious bloodied dream, half-conscious, half-possessed, and he surrendered himself to it. Throats and guts were torn open around him as his axe, nails, and teeth dug into his prey, screaming and gargling in their final moments.
By the time he had arisen from his bloodlust, he was sitting in a pool of blood, slowly soaking into the ground and diluting with the downpour of rain, the rich taste of blood and flesh still on his lips.
Beside him knelt his son arising from his own blood thirst with the scraps of a man’s windpipe. Hreysti stiffened, his eyes meeting his as he tried to keep the meal down.
And that was why he couldn’t ever let the boy lead. He was too weak, lacking in the bloodlust that was natural for their kind. He could fight, he could hunt, he could fish, and that kept him in his hold, but Hreysti was undeserving of his full respect and his attention until he could harden himself.
By the ground beside them, he spotted her, Hlif, barely alive and caked in blood and wet sand, arm snapped, chest crushed, seax still at her belt.
Ari got up slowly, not breaking eye contact with Hreysti and took the seax from her.
“Don’t-“ She gasped as her hand tried to reach for it, yet barely moved.
“Take her blood.”
His command was short and simple.
Hreysti rose, creeping towards her, his throat still holding back bile.
She turned to look at him, fear yet again filling her eyes, but then something else replaced it… A single, coarse, choking laugh escaped her lips before she was wracked by a series of splutters and groans.
“There will be no hesitation.” Ari said, “Or else.”
Hreysti looked at the hand on the seax, then knelt before the jarl, taking one look in her eyes before biting her neck. A strangled scream echoing before ceasing, replaced by the rain, distant sounds of battle, and the re-emerging blood rage.