This is the second part of 'The First Tste of Blood' and is set about 1400 years after that story.
“Auöun son of Gisli, grandson of Auöun, step forwards,” boomed the voice of the Keeper of Deeds.
Auöun strode forwards, his bright armour glinting in the sunlight, his sword hanging proudly at his side, his wife Yngvildr standing behind him, bursting with pride. King Óláfr Grimeye stood in all his splendid majesty before Auöun, the symbols of his majesty evident in their grandeur; the great horned helm of King Finnr I; a shining gold amulet studied with the crest of the current dynasty passed down from King Óláfr’s great grandfather King Hrólfr V; the crown made in the time of King Snorri I more than a thousand years ago; and the most potent of all the symbols and the most ancient, the dagger of King Harald I fashioned more than fourteen hundred years ago. Its great age showed little and the blade was reputed to be imbued with great magic. It was that blade, which the bards claimed had won King Harald the Great the battle against the half human, half beast Ulfr, and had created Harald the first King of the Vikings.
Auöun stood before his King and raised his fist in salute before kneeling on the ground. King Óláfr extended his hand to a servant who passed him a small golden bowl. Óláfr dipped his finger into the bowl and raised his hand for the crowd to see, a trickle of red liquid ran down his finger and into his rough palm.
“With this bears blood I grant thee the strength of the Viking peoples to lead our armies in glorious battle,” Óláfr decreed and promptly poured the bowl of blood over Auöun’s head, the blood running through Auöun’s hair and onto his face.
Óláfr said to the watching crowd, “Look to this man for leadership in battle, for he is my champion and destined by the Gods to lead us to victory over the Russians.” The crowds burst into spontaneous applause, whooping and cheering, praising Óláfr and Auöun, calling on Odin and Freyr to bless them.
Auöun sat in the great war room that evening with the King and the Clan Chiefs. The assembled men were discussing the current situation.
“We should spare them, they are weak now after all these centuries, we should show pity,” Bjorn Wolfsclaw said.
“WHAT?!” demanded Jörundr son of Snorri, “We should show those people no mercy! They once raided our lands, looted our villages and enslave dour people.”
“Just as we are doing to them,” retorted Bjorn.
“Yes but we are stronger, they do not deserve to survive if they cannot defend themselves,” Hrafn Longyears added.
“ What about letting them live amongst us?” asked Harald son of Oddr.
“You do not allow your enemies to live amongst you,” Jörundr said.
“Well we must decide something,” Auöun said calmly, “they have but one town left on the World’s Edge, they call it something else, I do not understand their strange tongue.”
“It doesn’t matter what they call it,” Óláfr said, “The fact is they have one remaining town and our forces are besieging it as we speak. The question we must ask is what is to be done with the town?”
“I say we kill them all, and the ones in our mainland cities as well!” Jörundr said.
“No we should show mercy, they could be valuable to our economy if we let them work,” Bjorn said. An argument broke out immediately, both Bjorn and Jörundr screaming at each other and everyone else to make their points of view heard.
“ENOUGH!” Óláfr shouted, banging his ham fists on the table. Everyone fell silent and looked at the King. “I have decided what we will do … a little of each,” Óláfr said.
“What do you mean sire?” Auöun asked.
“We will loot the town as is the right of the warriors there, but the population will be spared, they will remain in the town, but will be slaves. We will transport our own people there to populate the town,” Óláfr said.
One by one the assembled Clan Chiefs raised their fists in salute and agreement, confirming their approval of the King’s decision. Only Jörundr and two other did not raise their fists.
“Jörundr son of Snorri, Hrafn Longyears and Grímr of the South, why do you not vote with your King?” Óláfr asked the three men not raising their fists.
“We cannot agree with such measures in counsel when we do not agree with them in our hearts,” Jörundr said for the three dissenters.
“Very well, that is your right as Clan Chiefs, but you must also respect the decision taken here today and support your King in that decision,” Óláfr reminded them.
“Of course sire, we would have it no other way,” Jörundr replied unconvincingly.
As soon as was polite, Jörundr and his supporters left the hall, they knew in their hearts that they would not be returning here anytime soon, not in friendship anyway. As they left the palace Jörundr said to the other two, “prepare your forces, we will act soon, but remember not until I give the word!”
“Remember I get the lands of Harald son of Oddr,” Grímr of the South said sharply.
“Yes my friend, you shall both be well rewarded, we all shall, but not until the time is right,” Jörundr replied and smiled a most menacing of grins.
“ARCHERS!” the cry went up from Eyvindr son of Harald son of Oddr, he had been put in command of the siege of the Russian town the Vikings had come to call ‘Dryplace’, because of the intense deserts surrounding the town.
Eyvindr called his order once more; archers tumbled forwards with their bows armed and ready. “LET LOOSE!” Eyvindr commanded them.
A torrent of arrows assailed the high stonewalls of the town, many bouncing harmlessly off, the rest finding their way over and into the town. Screams rose up from the defenders, some fell from the walls to the harsh desert below, their bodies implanted with sharp arrowheads. The Russians desperately returned fire, their own arrows screaming across the battlefield and sending many a Viking to his grave. The Viking archers continued their bombardment; hail after hail of arrow was loosed off, providing covering fire as the two great siege engines were brought into place. Two long tunnels with dozens of men inside were sent towards the base of the town’s walls. The Russians soon noticed the oncoming tunnels, made from wood and covered in thick hides, they quickly retrained their arrows on the approaching siege engines, but with little effect. The thick hides soaked up the Russian arrows like a sponge.
“Keep firing your arrows!” Eyvindr instructed his archers. Meanwhile the tunnels had reached the walls and hatches appeared in their roofs, long ladders were pushed up through the hatches and men soon began climbing the walls. The Russians responded with arrows and slings. The first few Vikings were soon hurtling towards the sand below as arrows hit their mark. The Vikings persevered though, wave after wave stormed up the ladders, the Russians brought forward huge vats of oil, the boiling hot liquid came crashing down on the tunnels, screams of agony rang out as skin was stripped away from bone and men writhed in agony with burns and scalds.
The Russians could not keep the Vikings at bay, however, more Vikings charged down the tunnels, mighty warriors clad in chain mail and wielding swords, axes, maces, morning stars, spears, war hammers and flails. The poorly equipped Russians had mismatched bronze armour and some rare scraps of chain mail, their weapons largely being spears and short swords, with the occasional mace.
The battle raged on the walls, the Russians desperately tried to fend off the attack, hand-to-hand struggles dominated the walls, wounds let out torrents of blood, making the walls slippery and many a warrior fell to his death because of the poor footing. The Russians were slowly pressed back, despite their determined resistance, the Viking horde showed no mercy whatsoever. Arms of surrendering Russian soldiers were hacked from their bodies; the order had been given to take no prisoners.
Eyvindr gave the order, “FORWARDS, FORWARDS, TAKE THE TOWN!” and with that he swung his war hammer and charged towards the town’s heavy gates. The gates were of hard oak, imported in better days from the mainland. They soon began buckling as Eyvindr and dozens of warriors smashed at them. With the battle on the walls the Russians had no spare men to offer to hold the gates, the small contingency there found itself smashed to pieces as the Vikings burst inside the town.
The Russian Queen, Catherine took command herself, “fall back to the defence line!” he commanded her men. The Russian defenders quickly retreated, running back towards a barricade line assembled around the inner town.
The Vikings ran on, leaping at the barricade. Russian spears darted out and harpooned the oncoming Vikings, many falling to the ground gurgling and spitting blood as the life ebbed out of them. Still more charged the Russian lines, war hammers impacted skulls, sending bone and brain flying. Swords hacked and slashed, maces pulverised faces and limbs, flails smashed bodies asunder.
Eyvindr and his personal guard made for Catherine and her retinue, hacking their way through several Russian soldiers as they did so. Catherine was dressed in armour, odd for a Russian woman, but she was the Queen. Her bodyguard formed around her. Eyvindr leapt at the first guard, his war hammer smashing through the man’s shield. The Russian stabbed with his spear, cutting Eyvindr’s arm open, blood seeped out, but Eyvindr ignored it. His war hammer swung out and impacted the Russian’s face, teeth flew out and spattered the ground, blood and saliva drooled down the man’s mangled face as his jaw came away from his skull, hanging on by a few threads of flesh. Eyvindr stepped past the man and made for the next in line a tall warrior brandishing a heavy sword.
Both men stared at each other for a few seconds before the Russian made his move, lashing out with his sword. Eyvindr tried to move out of the way, but wasn’t quite quick enough, the sword plunged into his stomach and ripped his intestines apart. Eyvindr screamed in pain and rage, his anger allowing him to swing his hammer out and break the Russian’s shoulder. Eyvindr collapsed to his knees, his stomach and organs spilling out of his body and onto the ground.
Hóskuldr son of Jörundr son of Snorri charges ahead seeing Eyvindr collapse, with Eyvindr’s death it meant he Hóskuldr was now in command. “VENGEANCE FOR EYVINDR!” he cried as he held his axe aloft. The Vikings around him roared their approval, forgetting in the heat of battle that Eyvindr’s clan and Hóskuldr’s clan were enemies. The Vikings smashed their way on through the Russians. Hóskuldr took his axe and smashed it into the face of a nearby Russian; he marched his way towards Catherine’s retinue. Catherine was fighting herself, and with great skill. As Hóskuldr approached she had just gutted a young Viking who had challenged her. Hóskuldr ran towards her and plunged his axe into her back, the axe hit with such force that the shaft broke in two. Catherine staggered forwards, blood running the massive wound, she stumbled on for a few minutes, the battle going quiet as everyone turned to see her lurch through the streets, the Russians feeling their hearts shatter, the Vikings realising the day was theirs at last.
Catherine slumped against a blacksmith’s, her body crumpling to the ground, the thin gold band denoting her rank sliding from her head and onto the street. “VICTORY IS OURS!” Hóskuldr cried aloud. Many of the Russians put down their arms and raised their hands in surrender. Refr of The West Hills spoke with Hóskuldr, “My Lord, the Russians surrender, shall we begin rounding up the populace to enslave them?”
“No!” Hóskuldr answered, “take anything of value and burn this filthy hole to the ground!”
“My Lord we have direct instructions from the King that the populace is to be enslaved and all booty measured for the King’s cut …” Refr tried to say, but was cut off.
“The King did not fight here today, he is to get no share, I am in control here and my clan will have the largest share of the booty,” Hóskuldr interjected.
“I am sorry My Lord, but I must obey the King,” Refr said in return.
“Are you disobeying me?” Hóskuldr asked shocked.
“I am obeying the King,” Refr said.
Hóskuldr took up his dagger in an instant and slit Refr’s throat. The on looking Viking’s looked stunned. The air grew heavy with tension, many gripped their weapons tightly, nobody moved or what seemed like an age. Finally a warrior named Ormr shouted, “Follow the King comrades, follow the King!” and with that cry he charged at Hóskuldr, the two men were soon locked in desperate combat. All around them Vikings chose sides, and battle raged, the remaining Russian soldiers made the best of the opportunity and began fleeing the city along with any civilians who could make it as well.
“What news do you bring from the south?” Óláfr asked the messenger.
“Grave news sire, several clans led by Jörundr son of Snorri have turned out in open rebellion, they gather their forces and seek to march on loyal territories,” the messenger panted out.
“Send for Auöun,” the king called out to a servant, “and call the Clan Chiefs!”
Óláfr waved the courtiers and servants out of the room after that, he slumped back in his throne, a throne carved more four hundred years before he was born. Never in almost fourteen centuries had any Viking declared rebellion and gone against the King. Óláfr closed his eyes and wondered what King Harald would have done, how that great man would have coped with this, he also wondered if he were strong enough to defeat the rebellion and to save his people from the tyranny Jörundr would surely impose …
“Auöun son of Gisli, grandson of Auöun, step forwards,” boomed the voice of the Keeper of Deeds.
Auöun strode forwards, his bright armour glinting in the sunlight, his sword hanging proudly at his side, his wife Yngvildr standing behind him, bursting with pride. King Óláfr Grimeye stood in all his splendid majesty before Auöun, the symbols of his majesty evident in their grandeur; the great horned helm of King Finnr I; a shining gold amulet studied with the crest of the current dynasty passed down from King Óláfr’s great grandfather King Hrólfr V; the crown made in the time of King Snorri I more than a thousand years ago; and the most potent of all the symbols and the most ancient, the dagger of King Harald I fashioned more than fourteen hundred years ago. Its great age showed little and the blade was reputed to be imbued with great magic. It was that blade, which the bards claimed had won King Harald the Great the battle against the half human, half beast Ulfr, and had created Harald the first King of the Vikings.
Auöun stood before his King and raised his fist in salute before kneeling on the ground. King Óláfr extended his hand to a servant who passed him a small golden bowl. Óláfr dipped his finger into the bowl and raised his hand for the crowd to see, a trickle of red liquid ran down his finger and into his rough palm.
“With this bears blood I grant thee the strength of the Viking peoples to lead our armies in glorious battle,” Óláfr decreed and promptly poured the bowl of blood over Auöun’s head, the blood running through Auöun’s hair and onto his face.
Óláfr said to the watching crowd, “Look to this man for leadership in battle, for he is my champion and destined by the Gods to lead us to victory over the Russians.” The crowds burst into spontaneous applause, whooping and cheering, praising Óláfr and Auöun, calling on Odin and Freyr to bless them.
Auöun sat in the great war room that evening with the King and the Clan Chiefs. The assembled men were discussing the current situation.
“We should spare them, they are weak now after all these centuries, we should show pity,” Bjorn Wolfsclaw said.
“WHAT?!” demanded Jörundr son of Snorri, “We should show those people no mercy! They once raided our lands, looted our villages and enslave dour people.”
“Just as we are doing to them,” retorted Bjorn.
“Yes but we are stronger, they do not deserve to survive if they cannot defend themselves,” Hrafn Longyears added.
“ What about letting them live amongst us?” asked Harald son of Oddr.
“You do not allow your enemies to live amongst you,” Jörundr said.
“Well we must decide something,” Auöun said calmly, “they have but one town left on the World’s Edge, they call it something else, I do not understand their strange tongue.”
“It doesn’t matter what they call it,” Óláfr said, “The fact is they have one remaining town and our forces are besieging it as we speak. The question we must ask is what is to be done with the town?”
“I say we kill them all, and the ones in our mainland cities as well!” Jörundr said.
“No we should show mercy, they could be valuable to our economy if we let them work,” Bjorn said. An argument broke out immediately, both Bjorn and Jörundr screaming at each other and everyone else to make their points of view heard.
“ENOUGH!” Óláfr shouted, banging his ham fists on the table. Everyone fell silent and looked at the King. “I have decided what we will do … a little of each,” Óláfr said.
“What do you mean sire?” Auöun asked.
“We will loot the town as is the right of the warriors there, but the population will be spared, they will remain in the town, but will be slaves. We will transport our own people there to populate the town,” Óláfr said.
One by one the assembled Clan Chiefs raised their fists in salute and agreement, confirming their approval of the King’s decision. Only Jörundr and two other did not raise their fists.
“Jörundr son of Snorri, Hrafn Longyears and Grímr of the South, why do you not vote with your King?” Óláfr asked the three men not raising their fists.
“We cannot agree with such measures in counsel when we do not agree with them in our hearts,” Jörundr said for the three dissenters.
“Very well, that is your right as Clan Chiefs, but you must also respect the decision taken here today and support your King in that decision,” Óláfr reminded them.
“Of course sire, we would have it no other way,” Jörundr replied unconvincingly.
As soon as was polite, Jörundr and his supporters left the hall, they knew in their hearts that they would not be returning here anytime soon, not in friendship anyway. As they left the palace Jörundr said to the other two, “prepare your forces, we will act soon, but remember not until I give the word!”
“Remember I get the lands of Harald son of Oddr,” Grímr of the South said sharply.
“Yes my friend, you shall both be well rewarded, we all shall, but not until the time is right,” Jörundr replied and smiled a most menacing of grins.
“ARCHERS!” the cry went up from Eyvindr son of Harald son of Oddr, he had been put in command of the siege of the Russian town the Vikings had come to call ‘Dryplace’, because of the intense deserts surrounding the town.
Eyvindr called his order once more; archers tumbled forwards with their bows armed and ready. “LET LOOSE!” Eyvindr commanded them.
A torrent of arrows assailed the high stonewalls of the town, many bouncing harmlessly off, the rest finding their way over and into the town. Screams rose up from the defenders, some fell from the walls to the harsh desert below, their bodies implanted with sharp arrowheads. The Russians desperately returned fire, their own arrows screaming across the battlefield and sending many a Viking to his grave. The Viking archers continued their bombardment; hail after hail of arrow was loosed off, providing covering fire as the two great siege engines were brought into place. Two long tunnels with dozens of men inside were sent towards the base of the town’s walls. The Russians soon noticed the oncoming tunnels, made from wood and covered in thick hides, they quickly retrained their arrows on the approaching siege engines, but with little effect. The thick hides soaked up the Russian arrows like a sponge.
“Keep firing your arrows!” Eyvindr instructed his archers. Meanwhile the tunnels had reached the walls and hatches appeared in their roofs, long ladders were pushed up through the hatches and men soon began climbing the walls. The Russians responded with arrows and slings. The first few Vikings were soon hurtling towards the sand below as arrows hit their mark. The Vikings persevered though, wave after wave stormed up the ladders, the Russians brought forward huge vats of oil, the boiling hot liquid came crashing down on the tunnels, screams of agony rang out as skin was stripped away from bone and men writhed in agony with burns and scalds.
The Russians could not keep the Vikings at bay, however, more Vikings charged down the tunnels, mighty warriors clad in chain mail and wielding swords, axes, maces, morning stars, spears, war hammers and flails. The poorly equipped Russians had mismatched bronze armour and some rare scraps of chain mail, their weapons largely being spears and short swords, with the occasional mace.
The battle raged on the walls, the Russians desperately tried to fend off the attack, hand-to-hand struggles dominated the walls, wounds let out torrents of blood, making the walls slippery and many a warrior fell to his death because of the poor footing. The Russians were slowly pressed back, despite their determined resistance, the Viking horde showed no mercy whatsoever. Arms of surrendering Russian soldiers were hacked from their bodies; the order had been given to take no prisoners.
Eyvindr gave the order, “FORWARDS, FORWARDS, TAKE THE TOWN!” and with that he swung his war hammer and charged towards the town’s heavy gates. The gates were of hard oak, imported in better days from the mainland. They soon began buckling as Eyvindr and dozens of warriors smashed at them. With the battle on the walls the Russians had no spare men to offer to hold the gates, the small contingency there found itself smashed to pieces as the Vikings burst inside the town.
The Russian Queen, Catherine took command herself, “fall back to the defence line!” he commanded her men. The Russian defenders quickly retreated, running back towards a barricade line assembled around the inner town.
The Vikings ran on, leaping at the barricade. Russian spears darted out and harpooned the oncoming Vikings, many falling to the ground gurgling and spitting blood as the life ebbed out of them. Still more charged the Russian lines, war hammers impacted skulls, sending bone and brain flying. Swords hacked and slashed, maces pulverised faces and limbs, flails smashed bodies asunder.
Eyvindr and his personal guard made for Catherine and her retinue, hacking their way through several Russian soldiers as they did so. Catherine was dressed in armour, odd for a Russian woman, but she was the Queen. Her bodyguard formed around her. Eyvindr leapt at the first guard, his war hammer smashing through the man’s shield. The Russian stabbed with his spear, cutting Eyvindr’s arm open, blood seeped out, but Eyvindr ignored it. His war hammer swung out and impacted the Russian’s face, teeth flew out and spattered the ground, blood and saliva drooled down the man’s mangled face as his jaw came away from his skull, hanging on by a few threads of flesh. Eyvindr stepped past the man and made for the next in line a tall warrior brandishing a heavy sword.
Both men stared at each other for a few seconds before the Russian made his move, lashing out with his sword. Eyvindr tried to move out of the way, but wasn’t quite quick enough, the sword plunged into his stomach and ripped his intestines apart. Eyvindr screamed in pain and rage, his anger allowing him to swing his hammer out and break the Russian’s shoulder. Eyvindr collapsed to his knees, his stomach and organs spilling out of his body and onto the ground.
Hóskuldr son of Jörundr son of Snorri charges ahead seeing Eyvindr collapse, with Eyvindr’s death it meant he Hóskuldr was now in command. “VENGEANCE FOR EYVINDR!” he cried as he held his axe aloft. The Vikings around him roared their approval, forgetting in the heat of battle that Eyvindr’s clan and Hóskuldr’s clan were enemies. The Vikings smashed their way on through the Russians. Hóskuldr took his axe and smashed it into the face of a nearby Russian; he marched his way towards Catherine’s retinue. Catherine was fighting herself, and with great skill. As Hóskuldr approached she had just gutted a young Viking who had challenged her. Hóskuldr ran towards her and plunged his axe into her back, the axe hit with such force that the shaft broke in two. Catherine staggered forwards, blood running the massive wound, she stumbled on for a few minutes, the battle going quiet as everyone turned to see her lurch through the streets, the Russians feeling their hearts shatter, the Vikings realising the day was theirs at last.
Catherine slumped against a blacksmith’s, her body crumpling to the ground, the thin gold band denoting her rank sliding from her head and onto the street. “VICTORY IS OURS!” Hóskuldr cried aloud. Many of the Russians put down their arms and raised their hands in surrender. Refr of The West Hills spoke with Hóskuldr, “My Lord, the Russians surrender, shall we begin rounding up the populace to enslave them?”
“No!” Hóskuldr answered, “take anything of value and burn this filthy hole to the ground!”
“My Lord we have direct instructions from the King that the populace is to be enslaved and all booty measured for the King’s cut …” Refr tried to say, but was cut off.
“The King did not fight here today, he is to get no share, I am in control here and my clan will have the largest share of the booty,” Hóskuldr interjected.
“I am sorry My Lord, but I must obey the King,” Refr said in return.
“Are you disobeying me?” Hóskuldr asked shocked.
“I am obeying the King,” Refr said.
Hóskuldr took up his dagger in an instant and slit Refr’s throat. The on looking Viking’s looked stunned. The air grew heavy with tension, many gripped their weapons tightly, nobody moved or what seemed like an age. Finally a warrior named Ormr shouted, “Follow the King comrades, follow the King!” and with that cry he charged at Hóskuldr, the two men were soon locked in desperate combat. All around them Vikings chose sides, and battle raged, the remaining Russian soldiers made the best of the opportunity and began fleeing the city along with any civilians who could make it as well.
“What news do you bring from the south?” Óláfr asked the messenger.
“Grave news sire, several clans led by Jörundr son of Snorri have turned out in open rebellion, they gather their forces and seek to march on loyal territories,” the messenger panted out.
“Send for Auöun,” the king called out to a servant, “and call the Clan Chiefs!”
Óláfr waved the courtiers and servants out of the room after that, he slumped back in his throne, a throne carved more four hundred years before he was born. Never in almost fourteen centuries had any Viking declared rebellion and gone against the King. Óláfr closed his eyes and wondered what King Harald would have done, how that great man would have coped with this, he also wondered if he were strong enough to defeat the rebellion and to save his people from the tyranny Jörundr would surely impose …
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