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((This is some story, a WIP that just came to me a month ago, during a slow day at work. I haven't come back to it yet, as my passion lies in writing for my recent RP character in WoW. But I will come back to it at some point. I drew inspiration for the story, from a few different things. Again, a lack of proof reading can be attributed to not quite enough time, so bear with the mistakes. Enjoy!))
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Chapter 1
A friendly drink
Smoke hung heavy in the air of the small tavern. It was like this most nights. Nights when men had nought better to do than sit and drink with friends and make grabs at the tavern wenches.
The tavern itself was nothing special. It was dirty, unkempt, and full of filthy men without morals. The name of the small, one floor tavern was The Louse, and while the scene of drunken rowdiness was being played out in every tavern in the land…something was about to set this tavern, apart from the rest, this night.
It was getting near the wolfmoon hour, the time when the clock hands both pointed north, or up. The tavern, despite that, was busier than ever. Here a scraggly man with a long face was staring blankly into his stein of watered down ale. There, a weasely little fellow and his companion were making passes at the young tavern wench who was unfortunate enough to be picked for table duty. Off to the far right, three men were brawling over a card game. Business as usual, thought Thoemir. The old man’s tavern was small, and offered very little in the way of luxury, because he had never been rich, so this dive was the best he could afford. An old war wound had left him without a right arm, and that prevented him from finding any decent work, and using what little he had after drowning his sorrows in pints of ale, he bought the tavern. So, he wasn’t expecting to attract the finer customers. In fact, half of the patrons, probably had bounties on their heads. As long as silver kept flowing in, Thoemir could care less.
Just as the hands of the old, worn clock above the counter pointed north, the door to the tavern creaked open, and a gust of frigid midwinter wind rushed in. Some of the men near the door grumbled, and a couple moved to warmer spots. The door closed, and Thoemir could scarcely see the new arrival through the crowd of people. But, as the new patron made it halfway across the room, the barkeep finally got a good look at him. For a man, he didn’t look too unusual at all. He was slightly taller than most, at about six and a half feet. As for how muscled he was, it was hard to tell, since his body was wrapped in a large, silver fur cloak, held to his chest by a large silver brooch in the shape of a bear-head. If that didn’t already catch the eyes of the criminal faction in the tavern, the large, wolf-claw…big enough to widen the eyes of quite a few people…encrusted with jewels and runes did. Supported on a solid neck and set of shoulders, was the man’s head. Framed by pale blond hair that hung straight down to his shoulders, were two of the iciest eyes Thoemir had ever seen. Those were the eyes of a man who’d lost too much, or taken too much…a look Thoemir himself had. Between his eyes sat a straight, slender nose. This was complimented by high cheekbones and a rigid, set jaw with pale, thin lips.
The obvious wealth of the man quieted down a few groups of men, who were no doubt plotting to rob the man when he left. The seedy looks from the patrons in the tavern didn’t seem to bother the man, who looked around once, and sat down at the counter, his expression of complete indifference not changing once. Up close, Thoemir could see just how pale skinned this new arrival was. His skin was the color of fresh snow, and several strange runes were tattooed on his left cheek in black. No scars were evident…though the man was clearly a killer. The skin struck him as odd…most of the men in these lands had darker, more tanned skin. ‘Wendol…’ the barkeep muttered quietly under his breath. ‘Vindir.’ Corrected the new patron in accented Reikspiel, the common language of all races. Thoemir looked up like he’d been caught stealing, to see the man staring at him, though what he was thinking, or if he was mad, he showed no sign of it.
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The Vindir, or Wendol, as those who spoke Reikspiel as a native language commonly pronounced it, were people who hailed from a large island in the northernmost region of Taraheim, the world. The island was named, Ymir, and very few dared to travel there. It was harsh…cold, and things lived there that even men could not dream up in their nightmares. How the Vindir survived in such bleak, harsh conditions…many could only guess. Some said they were demon-worshippers, who cavorted with the evil and malefic, and through such horrid affairs, were given life, even in Ymir’s barren wastes. Such theories as this bred suspicion and dislike of the Vindir by their southern counterparts, and the other races of Taraheim.
Thoemir’s tavern lay in northern Tuatha, the chief continent in Taraheim. While it was cold up there…Ymir made northern Tuatha look like a picnic. It was snowing now, and the many evergreens were taking on a nice blanket of pale snow. Outside, Aethelwulf and Toki, the twin moons were glowing, Aethelwulf a bright red, and Toki a baleful green amidst a sea of brilliant stars. This, was the landscape of northern Taraheim, and it rarely changed, even after winter had passed.
“Mead.” The request shook the old barkeep out of his thoughts, and he turned his head to follow the voice to it’s source. Again, he found those icy blue eyes staring at him, more or less devoid of any ember of emotion. “We don’t serve mead here. Don’t like it, get out and find a fancier place.” Thoemir shot back, wary and hating the Vindir without having shared more than five words with him. The young Vindir mutters something in a language Thoemir doesn’t understand, and then tosses several roughly made silver pieces up on the table…obviously not official currency. “Then give me the horse piss you’re giving the other patrons.” Thoemir glares at the man. Were he a decade or two younger… he thinks, biting his tongue and turning around to fill the stein with watery ale. Turning around to set the drink down before the Vindir, he inspects the roughly cut silver pieces. They obviously had been part of some silver eatery, like a plate, or a silver chalice…probably stolen and hacked up to be easier carried. Each one had a rune carved into it, a mark of ownership maybe. Good enough for me, Thoemir thinks, and he scoops up the silver pieces, placing the stein down in it’s wake. But the man, whose name Thoemir didn’t know, or care to know, seemed distracted. He was facing the door, staring it at almost warily. Almost, meaning Thoemir wasn’t quite sure, because the northman’s face was still set in that blank expression, but he was fingering whatever lay beneath his fur cloak at his waist, almost in anticipation. “Are ye going to drink that horse piss, or should I give it to one of the other patrons on yer tab?” Thoemir grumbled at the man. The Vindir turns his head, silently grabbing the stein and taking a sip of the ale. “What is this…flavored water? There isn’t enough punch in this to get a flea drunk.” Thoemir’s eyes go wide and his expression goes from unfriendly, to insulted. “You little ba—“ That’s when the right wall collapsed in.
Whatever had done it, did it fast, and with a roar so loud, it made Thoemir’s ears bleed and his teeth rattle. A few men were crushed by the falling timber, and more thrown from their chairs and sent flying into things. One skinny little Halfling was impaled on the antlers of a stag’s head that had been hanging on said collapsed wall. The remaining customers that could walk, were busy screaming and running away. Thoemir could only stand, mouth agape as all his money just flushed down the proverbial toilet in front of his eyes. Strangely enough, the Vindir remained, sipping his ale, though a trickle of blood ran from one of his ears. Finally, he sets it down. “At least noone’ll have to drink this horse piss you were serving anymore.” He says simply, and treads out through the gaping hole, and throwing off his fur cloak.
Sure enough, the man was a fighter. Crimson colored chain mail shimmered sanguinely in the firelight, as did the silver trimmings of his leather sword belt. He wore no armor on his legs, save long black leather boots, made of thick enough leather that it could stop a decent sword chop. Tucked inside those were black pants with crimson knotwork embroidered up the sides. The sleeves of his mail shirt ended in long black leather braces with more of the strange knotwork patterns embroidered on his pants. A helm, made of black metal, was strapped to his belt. It was half faced, with metal rims, almost like goggles, around the eyes, and a piece to protect the nose. The rest of the face would be protected by a veil of crimson mail attached to the edges of the helm. The only thing else to accent that helm was a single crimson feather, attached to the side. His right hip held a finely made scabbard, with a sword made from that same crimson metal that his mail shirt was. A saxe hung from his other hip, and an one handed ax was slipped through his belt by the buckle in front. Most assuredly a fighter.
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“Ragnar!” The shout echoes around the buildings of the empty street. The street itself was nought more than a worn mud and dirt path between the rows of buildings. It could be considered a main street by it’s width and the traffic that went through it. But at this time, it was empty. “Ragnar Bloodeagle!” The voice is low, booming, and sounds like rolling thunder. “Show yourself you yellow scum!” “Aye, aye, I’m here, Snorri, so shut up before you wake the gods with your racket.” There was that Vindir again, making his way through the gaping hole in the side of the tavern. “You could have just called me out, Snorri. But a Woodland troll, really?” This Snorri, in question, was a massive musclebound man with the same snow white skin the Vindir had, and was mounted on an equally large black charger to match his bulk. Snorri’s head was shaven, save for a long braid of fiery hair and a large, wild beard of the same color that covered his face. On his back was a massive iron hammer, and a bastard sword hung from his hip.
The Woodland troll, in question was several feet behind Snorri. At a good twenty feet in height, and about 15 feet wide, the troll was a fearsome sight indeed. Covered in emerald green skin, twigs and leaves, and with a face full of fangs and a beard of leaves, it looked almost like a walking tree. It was held captive and somewhat under control by several chains, at the end of which were a number of armored men, obviously Vindir too. That, apparently, was what caved in half of the tavern. Even now, the troll was becoming restless with the scent of blood heavy on the air, and the handlers were having hard time keeping it in it’s place.
“I have to make sure you’re dead, Ragnar, and this troll’ll sure as hell do it for me.” Snorri shifts in his saddle and looks back at the troll warily. The horse itself is somewhat nervous around the beast, and it whinnies. Ragnar, the blonde Vindir who had emerged from the tavern inspects the troll, stroking his chin as he sizes the beast up. When he’s done, he looks at Snorri and shakes his head. “Don’t be so sure, Snorri. Sure you don’t want to do the job yourself? Or are you content to let someone else do it and take the credit for yourself?” Snorri’s face goes red, deep red, and if Ragnar looked hard enough, he could see a vein prominent on his bald head.
“Skogin aeltacht regin tir! Kill the bastard!” Snorri gestures to the handlers to let go of the chains. The handlers, all giant men themselves, look between eachother for a moment, before letting go of the chains and running in the opposite direction. Snorri himself rides his horse around the giant troll and stops farther back behind it to watch Ragnar get slaughtered.
With a mighty bellow, the troll starts forward, smelling the blood from the small cuts on Ragnar’s body with it’s hypersensitive nose. Ragnar pulls the axe from his belt and with a quick pause, throws it. Apparently, it hits it’s mark when the axe sinks deep into the troll’s chest, almost dead center. Whooping with success, Ragnar takes his sword and runs to meet the troll, who doesn’t seem too affected by the war axe in his torso. As the two meet, the troll attempts to smash the warrior into pulp with it’s massive fist. Ragnar rolls out of the way as the immense green fist slams into the earth, creating a large hole. Springing to his feet, Ragnar graps one of the flailing chains bound to the troll, and holds on as the beast begins to rampage.
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Buildings are knocked down in the troll’s path, cowering citizens running from the ruins as the huts and shacks are turned to tinder. About six houses down, Ragnar finally manages to get a footing on the troll’s bony spine. Grabbing the chain hard, he begins to climb up the beast’s back. It roars, stopping in it’s destruction to use it’s stubby arms in an attempt to grab Ragnar and throw the Vindir off it’s back. But it’s no use as Ragnar deftly dodges back and forth, finally reaching it’s monstrous head.
Snorri, at this point, is starting to panic. The troll had been his trump card, and if Ragnar killed it… he would have to do the deed himself, and despite looking like a murdered, Snorri was quite the coward. Instead of directly attacking the troll, Ragnar chooses instead to grab the chain again, and swing down across the troll’s chest, grasping the axe buried in it’s chest as he goes, tearing emerald flesh and spilling strange, foul smelling yellow blood as he goes. His momentum carries him back up onto the troll’s opposite shoulder. Grinning and whooping with battle-joy, he jumps off the trolls back, putting all his weight on the chain. There’s an audible snap, crack, pop! When Ragnar reaches the ground. The troll’s red eyes go wide, and it whimpers loudly, before it’s tongue lolls out of it’s mouth, and it collapses to the ground, completely dead. Just to make sure, Ragnar clambers up onto the troll’s head, and unsheathes Sun-slayer, his sword, and with a lot of effort, and a helpful boot, manages to plunge the entire 5 and a half foot blade into the dead creature’s skull.
“Anything else up your sleeve, Snorri? A fire giant, perhaps? Or, wait, no, what about a dragon?” Ragnar laughs, an undertone of savagery present in his powerful voice. Snorri, currently, was at a loss for words. Halfway between fury and fear, and the troll handlers were even more shocked. With a grunt, Ragnar manages to wrench the blade from the troll’s skull. Snorri, was out of options. “The earl, Ivar, wants your head, Ragnar….so that you will not cause him anymore problems. I cannot go back without your skull, Ragnar.” Snorri manages to spit out. Ragnar’s battle-joy leaves his face and manner suddenly, as his face is as cold as the ice formations of Ymir’s coast. “That son-of-a-whore stole my land…and slaughtered my family in a hall burning. That land, is –mine- Snorri Thunderfist, and I will have it back.” It was cold outside, and despite the layers and layers of fur Snorri had wrapped around himself, he felt a distinct chill down his spine as Ragnar spoke those harsh words. Such was the iciness and frozen fury in his voice. A stare equally as deadly and cold follows suit.
Snorri glances back at the handlers, who were all looking between themselves and fingering the hilts of their weapons. Most had only axes or spears, since swords were considered expensive, a status symbol. “Kill him. Kill him! Go on, dammit! Slaughter him!” Snorri says, waving frantically at the handlers. Instead of obeying, all of them just shake their heads and run away. This leaves Snorri sitting on his horse and staring at Ragnar, who was starting to look bored. “Anything else, Snorri? Or can we finish this?” Seeing no other way out, Snorri steps down off of his horse and unslings the giant warhammer slung across his back. Snorri was a coward, no doubt…but only one when facing an opponent he knew could kill him. Nevertheless, he was experienced, skilled, and his hammer, Corpse-grinder, had crushed many foes underneath it’s nearly inhuman weight. “Very well…it looks like I’ll have to take care of you myself.” Snorri proclaims, trying to cover up his fear…something Ragnar sees straight through. “I’ll make sure to send your head to your children and your balls to your wife if I can find where you dropped them on the voyage here.” That was a barbed taunt if there ever was one, and even that broke through Snorri’s fear.
Roaring in fury, all 270 pounds of muscled flesh, plus 100 pounds of armor and fur bears down on Ragnar like mountain. As he drops the hammer down with blinding speed towards Ragnar’s head, the young Vindir turns it aside with a simple parry, turns outside of Snorri, and slams his saxe home into the giant’s muscled neck. A saxe is a weapon in length between a large dagger and a shortsword. It’s made for killing in extreme close quarters, especially in shield walls, were the blade would snake up under the rim of a shield and catch a man in the groin. It is designed for stabbing, and it does it’s job perfectly on Snorri. A gagged scream emits from his throat, along with a crimson arterial spray. Ragnar twists, and removes the saxe. “Good riddance, coward. Even the troll was stronger than you. Enjoy meeting your cowardly ancestors in the Bone Wastes.” He spits on the ground, and after sheathing the saxe, named Death-sparrow, he takes Snorri’s head as proof of his victory.
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Various people are stumbling around the village, and half of it is destroyed and burning. Ragnar takes a final look around to survey the destruction, then whistles. A spotted horse trots up alongside him. On it’s flank is a large, round shield, with a heavy iron shield boss, the wood of the shield painted in various colors, displaying knotwork composing of a two headed dragon, and bordered by runes. It’s other flank holds a large sack, and some other smaller pouches. Ragnar jumps up into the saddle, and whispers in the horse’s ear. “Come now, Stormwind, we’ve a message to send…”
The night ended well. Ragnar had ridden after the handlers, giving Snorri’s head to one, and instructing him to return to Ymir and hand the head over to Ivar, with his personal regards.” That having been done, Ragnar rides southward until he comes upon another small town, not too much unlike the one he had left destroyed. After arguing with the innkeeper for a room, paying his silver, and downing a pint or two of ale, he trudges upstairs to the smelly little room to lay down and sleep. Soon, he thinks, soon, I will have my lands back.
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Chapter 2
Cruelty
“Aye, milord…he killed him.”
“The troll, too?”
“Aye milord, the troll too.”
“…and you? How come you are not dead.”
“…..”
“Answer me. How come you are not dead too.”
“…I-I ran, milord.”
“Then how, did you get his head?”
“He caught up to me after he killed him.”
“…and told you to bring the head to me.”
“That is the truth, milord.”
“You have a family?”
“….Aye…milord.”
“A wife and two kids, correct?”
“Aye.”
“Kjartan, kill him, burn his home, do what you will with the wife, and sell the children.”
“N-no! Milord! Please! You canno—“
“—I can, and I will! You ran you yellow bastard! You will learn the price of defiance when I send your soul screaming to the Bone Wastes!”
“Please! I beg of you, plea—“
The visceral sound of a heavy blade through flesh and bone echoes through the dimly lit hall. The head rolls away from the body, to rest next to Snorri, who stares uncaringly at the ceiling with dead eyes. Kjartan, a brute of a man with a shaggy mane of blonde hair and a scruffy beard drags the body away, still twitching in it’s death throes. After the door to the hall closes, two men come out of the shadows and take the two heads out after the body.
The body would be given to the ravens, and the heads put on pikes as a reminder to what defiance was met with. The wife would be ravaged and her ultimate fate unknown. The children would be sold to Melachazid slave merchants from the far south for a decent bit of gold. A win-win situation in the end. Though that gold would only go to make up for the loss of that expensive troll, Snorri was still dead, and Ragnar was roaming Tuatha freely.
Despite the prospect of money and the sight of violence, Ivar scowls, casting his angry emerald eyes around the hall. The hall itself was rather large, made of dark wood, almost black. A long, finely made lavender rug ran from the door to the steps that led up to Ivar’s throne. It was embroidered with rich knotwork and runes. On either side were giant stone pillars, each one crafted to perfection, with slithering dragons and knotwork up each side, a torch was mounted on each one, though it still barely lit the large building. Between each pillar hung tapestries depicting great battles, and gods. Farther out still, towards the walls, were feasting tables, which, when used, would be lit with candles, and even more torches. Only then, would the true beauty of the hall be revealed. Ivar’s throne was large, and made of the same wood as the hall. However, it’s seat was covered by a lush pillow, and gems and bones adorned it’s framework as well. A suit of mail armor of a bronze color, with small plates strategically placed was placed on a rack to the left of the throne, while a massive two handed sword, a shield, and a large hand scythe hung to the right. Over head, hung Ivar’s battle standard, a skeletal dragon lording over a mound of corpses.
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“Hilda…clean this mess up. Now.” A small woman with pitch black skin, bright silver hair, and crimson eyes scampers out of the shadows with a rag and bucket of water. “Yes milord.” She squeaks. Hilda, was an imperial elf, and by no means, bad looking. Her short height was attributed to her race, who as a whole, were quite small. Other than that, she had a curvaceous body with many fine…attributes. Hilda was a spoil of war, so to speak. Ivar had taken her captive on a raid in imperial lands, for her…looks. Since, she was a servant, maid, translator…and other things.
Ivar himself, was unmarried. He wasn’t bad looking by any means. He was young, fit, and strong. Tall, at 6’7’’, with raven black hair, a five o’ clock shadow, and a face set permanently in a snarl. Though altogether, he was one of the finer looking men around. The reason for not taking a wife was simple…love didn’t mean a thing to him, and what lusts he had, he had slaves for.
So Snorri had returned, and all the cowardly giant had to show for himself was his distinct lack of a body, a dead underling, and the expense of an annihilated troll. Ragnar was still out there, still plotting. That boy should have died that day. Everyone, had perished…died a brutal death at the end of a spear, or in searing flames. All…except the boy, Ragnar. A simple mistake really, one that, at the time, the younger Ivar didn’t think much of. But now, now it was costing him, a lot, and the lord silently curses himself for overlooking something so simple…
So much frustration, and so many people to deal with. Ivar wasn’t prepared for that when he first stole his lands from Ragnar’s family. When all else failed, he killed people brutally and kept the rest quiet. Unfortunately for the oppressed, that happened all too often, and vast patches of icy land covered up with dirt and snow, which did little cover the stench of death in the eternal winter air, attested to that. While Hilda was cleaning up the rather large pool of crimson life, Ivar summons another of his men to his throne. “Guthrum…volt aus helder korpens. Summon the Ravenmaster. I want Ragnar dead.”
The man bows lowly, and rushes out of the hall. The Ravenmaster…that was a drastic measure…but if Ragnar had almost succeeded the first time… Ivar wasn’t about to take any chances. As he’s pondering, Hilda finishes, and only a faint crimson coloring is left on the carpet. The slave makes to leave, but Ivar stops her. “Not yet. Go to my chambers.” Ivar allows himself a faint smile with thoughts of the evening to come. He wouldn’t have to worry about Ragnar just yet. Ah…a lord’s life was grand indeed…
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Interlude
A childhood lost
“Ragnar Ragnarsson! Come out of the woods this instant! You don’t want the Fimbulwolves after you, do you?!”
The young boy laughs and emerges from the snow covered tree line, a leather vest tied around his thin torso, and a small wooden buckler and matching wooden sword held in his tiny hands. “You’ll never get me alive! I’m Ravn, the mighty skylord!” Thunderous laughter meets the small boy, but it doesn’t deter him. The boy runs on, swinging furiously with his toy sword, only to be met with more of that thunderous laughter. “Gods preserve me! How can a mere man stand up to the mighty Ravn?!”
The boy laughs in delight and keeps fighting, until strong arms wrap around him and lift him off the ground. Powerless now, he drops the sword and shield. “Come now son, enough playing for the day, it’s time for dinner.” “Aye papa!” Ragnar, the senior laughs and kisses his son on the forehead. “You’ll be a strong man in time my boy, and all this—“ he sweeps his arm across the horizon. “—will be yours.” The sun was shining that day, which was rare in Ymir, where it was near constantly overcast and snowing. Their hall wasn’t too far away. The Ragnarsson clan had several, to be exact, and this one was out near one of the few evergreen forests on the large island. Ragnar senior preferred it, because it was near the trees, and he loved the forests. Plus, it was away from the towns, and when he wasn’t needed for war or politics, he stayed there with his wife, Magda, Ragnar jr., his baby boy Sven, and his daughter Sif. Ragnar jr. was looking to be a promising heir, and Ragnar senior loved him dearly. Unlike most of the hard, and cold men of Ymir, Ragnar senior was a rarity. He was jovial, warm, and loving to those who deserved such kind treatment. But he was also fierce, and brutal to those whom he called enemies.
It takes only a few minutes for Ragnar senior and his son to reach the hall. It’s not big compared to their main hall, but it’s spacious and comfortable. At the door waits the rest of the family, cheerfully greeting the father and son as they arrive. “If you let the boy stay out any longer dear and he’ll get frostbite.” “Oh, don’t worry about it woman! He’s a strong, hearty boy! Little Ragnar’s of my blood, and don’t you forget it!” Ragnar’s father booms with laughter and embraces his wife. Inside they head. A meal of roasted frostboar, and imported fruits and vegetables greet them. It was a savory meal, one to make the mouth drool and the eyes glisten with savage hunger. Other men resided inside of the hall. Those being Ragnar the senior’s bodyguard. All brave and fearless warriors. They stayed with the family in case of attacks, because there was always war in Ymir.
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“Halfdan saw black riders on the horizon yesterday.” Ragnar jr. pipes up, interrupting the silence of the feast. Ragnar the senior’s face goes from jolly to serious, and he gives his son a steely look. “There’ll be no talking about the black riders here, boy.” Ragnar jr. protests. “But papa, Halfdan says they’re looking for you!” “Silence boy! None of that talk!” his father suddenly bursts out angrily. The boy quiets, shamed, and the rest of the family glances at him warily. Silence begins to settle over the table again, though most of it is in silence.
Eventually the meal ends, and the family disperses to go about their own chores. It’s late in the evening, and darkness has settled upon the frostbitten climes of Ymir. Magda and Sif had finished the housework and tended the fire, and Sven was fast asleep in his cradle. Ragnar senior and his son sit in front of the fading fire. “I’m sorry papa…” the boy finally says. Ragnar senior gives the boy a somewhat sad look. “It’s alright my boy. But these things should not be mentioned in front of your mother and sister…and Halfdan should not have told you.” The boy nods, more in acceptance than understanding. “The black riders, are from another tribe.” “Like the Grimfang clan?” Ragnar senior nods grimly, his harsh blue eyes fixated on the fire. “Aye, like the Grimfang…only, they are not peaceful.” That was saying something. The Vindir considered peaceful as being no hostility between eachother, but raids and wars on other peoples wasn’t counted.
“Why are they not peaceful?”
“Because, their land is in the farthest north of the world, where nothing grows, and there is only ice. Not even trees, and no animal lives there. The only way they have survived is by killing eachother. After a while…they began to come down here, only they did not ask for help or hospitality, they came for war. Now they have taken land down here, were things can live. But they are always wanting more. Their land borders ours, and they have left us alone so far. Their lord is a man named Ivar the Merciless. He’s young, but he’s smart, and an even better fighter. Perhaps one day, we will have to make war on them, but for now, they are staying inside of their lands, and may the gods keep them there.” Ragnar senior makes a protective sign, then looks down at his son. Ragnar jr. looks terrified, but a reassuring smile from his father makes his face light up again. “Don’t worry my boy! Your old man has killed twice as many men as Ivar, and the only one stronger than him are the gods themselves!” He laughs thunderously, but a scolding from his half sleeping wife quiets him. “Now off to bed little Ragnar, I love you.” With a kiss, the boy is sent off to his cot, where he dreams of epic heroes and titanic gods.
Ragnar jr. is torn from a dream involving Haakon Ravenwind, the hero of a famous Vindir epic, by screams and the smashing of windows. When his eyes shoot open, the room is awash in a furious orange glow. He catches the sight of torches laying on the floor of the hall amidst broken glass. Magda appears with baby Sven in her arms, and Sif at her side, clinging to her mother’s arm. Both are crying, and so is Sven. Ragnar senior bursts into the room, pulling on a mail shirt and his sword belt. Likewise, were his men, who were shouting and screaming in rage and surprise. “The black riders! Ivar is here!” One shouts. “That sneaky piece of filth! Gods damn his treachery!” Ragnar senior shouts.
A hall burning, is more or less, a massacre. The attackers, encircle the hall, without alerting the inhabitants of their presence. Then, when all is set, they torch the hall. Those inside either burn alive, or die as they flee the burning ruins. That is exactly what was happening to Ragnar’s clan. Ragnar senior looks at his family, scared out of their wits, and looking for their father and husband for a way out. The torches had already started the hall on fire, though it wasn’t too bad yet. “Stay in here for three minutes…we are going to make a breech for you to escape out of…I love you all.” No time for dear goodbyes or more words, time was against them, and with a roar, Ragnar senior, lord of much land, and loving father to a loving family, charges out of the hall with his guard in tow. Ragnar jr. runs towards one of the windows, despite his mother’s screaming, and watches. All he sees is death. Men dying, limbs hacked off, arrows flying, impaling, killing. Despite the heroic effort, Ragnar’s guard dies quickly, cut down by the mass of enemies.
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All that remains is his father, who stands defiantly in front of the large group of black-clad men. He’s shouting, though what, Ragnar jr. could not hear over the roaring flames. Then…he saw him. That black hair, that face that was just beginning to lose it’s boyishness, the snarl…Ivar the Merciless. He trots up on his warhorse, and dismounts, only his two handed sword at ready. A duel to the death then? Ragnar senior had no way out of it, so he bangs his sword on his shield in acceptance. It all seemed to go in slow motion for little Ragnar, who watches with eyes wide as the battle begins. Ragnar senior, it was said, had killed armed opponents with only his bare hands. It was said that he had felled giants and hunted boar with nought more than a saxe. But this night, the gods looked upon Ivar with favor. The young man, who couldn’t have been older than seventeen winters, danced around Ragnar senior, wielding his zweihander with the agility of a shortsword. It was all little Ragnar’s father could do to parry powerful blow after blow. It could even be called impressive that he had lasted against Ivar for more than five minutes. But finally, he was out of breath, his shield arm was broken from the constant blows, as was his shield, which had been reduced to splinters. Ragnar senior falls to his knees, and little Ragnar’s heart jumps into his throat. What happened after that was brief. Ivar sneers, says something, and then with a lightning quick motion, decapitates Ragnar senior.
As the little boy screams in anguish, the roof collapses, trapping the rest of his family against the back wall of the burning hall. His mother screams for him to run, but he can’t move, paralyzed by indescribable grief and terror. Then…the floor collapses, the little boy falling into a small underground cave, whose entrance the hall had unknowingly been built upon. Before he loses conciousness, the poor little boy, battered and bruised hears the death-screams of his family as they burn to death.
Ragnar jr., was now Ragnar Ragnarsson, lord of the Bloodeagle clan, and a lord without land. He was eight winters old then.
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Chapter 3
Unrest
The crowd was rather furious. Cries of anger filled the air, and after a few minutes, so did objects of all varieties.
"Take your tax and stuff it up yer fat arse!"
"A tax?! For what?! To build the Emperor a new brothel?!"
"I pay the empire for what?! Where were they when the Vendol raided my village?! Where were they when my neighbors were slaughtered by the orcs?! I'll pay no tax to the empire until they do something for me!"
Such unrest. Aethelwulf sighs to himself, rubbing his forehead to cope with the migraine that was pounding in his forehead. In a way, he felt bad for the poor herald, who was standing on the tall platform in the middle of the square. It had been peaceable at first. The townspeople had gathered at the sound of the horn, and the herald, with several mail-clad men as gaurds, read off the daily news of the empire. That was fine enough, a scene that was played out once a week….until the end. The people were starting to leave, when the herald asked for silence and their ears. Curious, the townspeople turned around and gathered at the platform. What he said next would be something he would regret for the rest of his life.
"People of the empire! As you know, the war in the south goes well! More land will be brought into the fold of our glorious kingdom, and everyone will reap the rewards!"
The people in the square nod, and some roll their eyes, evidently they had heard such speeches before.
"However….the empire's fighting men need food, weapons, and armor. To obtain such necessities, we need money, money that the emperor is certain his subjects wouldn't mind parting with!"
A few people shouted at the herald then, and most clenched their fists and jaws. How many more taxes would be imposed on them? Most were simple farmers, who grew only enough to feed themselves, and sold the little extra they got. Already, they had been taxed for entry into the capital city, which wasn't too far from the little town, which was named Cynuit. They were taxed for clothes, nails, wood, and even farmers had to give up a large portion of their crops, which led to the starvation of a few already.
"What is the tax? How much?!" shouted an angry woman from within the crowd.
The herald hesitated, obviously sensing the growing anger within the crowd. "Well…it will be called the War Tax, obviously. The tax itself is not much, nothing to worry yourselves over. A mere 25 silver a month surely isn't much to part with, aye?"
Wrong. Gasps resounded throughout the crowd, and that's when the shouts started. Most of the people didn't make 25 silver in a month, and the farmers didn't make that in a year. The only ones who could afford such steep prices were nobles and tradesmen of excellent quality. They were being bled dry, and for what? Most of the people in the town, actually, all of them, Aethelwulf would guess…could care less about the lands outside of their town. The imperial conquest was so far away, and had absolutely no impact on their lives, save for the fact that it was draining them of their means to live.
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Even so, it was only shouts, but then the herald's guard, mail-clad and armed with heavy limewood shields, swords, and axes, drew their weapons, falsely assuming that the crowd had intentions of going further. They didn't…but with the prospect of violence, the crowd retaliated. Rocks, rotten vegetables, even small knives.
Aethelwulf was watching everything from an iron cage suspended off of the ground by about fifteen feet, and he sighed, thinking that if everyone died today, he would get no meal. What was he doing in the cage? Well, he was a druid, in the wrong place. Aethelwulf hailed from the southern reaches of Tuatha, from a race of people named the Frae. They looked a lot like humans, except they had a few main differences. Their eyes were crimson, their canines extended to an abnormal length, and their hair was thick and fur-like. There was one more thing…they were shapeshifters. Or so they were called. Wolfen was another term, one that fitted much better. Aethelwulf himself was pretty short compared to humans, five and a half feet at the tallest. However, he was wiry and packed with muscle. A long, shaggy mane of silver fur hung about his feral, rough face. Skin the color worn leather made him look darker and fiercer. At the moment, he bore an expression of boredom and hunger. People around these parts hated his kind, just as they hated the Vendol, and the Halflings, and the Orcs, and anyone who had pointy ears and fancied themselves elves. Basically…anyone not human wasn't welcome.
So, the town cleric had fingered him out of a crowd in the town three days ago, and poor Aethelwulf had been in the cage ever since. He was long past swearing vengeance and death upon the townspeople, and was merely content to wait. These humans were idiots, he supposed, which was further proven by the fact that they were assaulting several heavily armed men. These armed men, who obviously looked more at home on a battlefield then standing in a town square, were in no mood to stand and take the punishment. It only took a few more taunts and a couple more rotten tomatoes to put them into action. Disciplined, the soldiers advanced on the crowd, swords and axes raised high, and shields to the front. The fight seemed to leave the townspeople at the display of martial superiority, and many dropped their improvised throwing weapons, and started to back away. Behind the armed men, the herald shouted his fat jowls off, pleading for peace, and for everyone to go home. It was too little, and much too late. The majority of the crowd found themselves backed against the wall of a large stone building, whose purpose Aethelwulf assumed was for humans to congregate and worship.
And so, the slaughter began. Taking out their frustrations in a bloody massacre, the soldiers fell upon the unarmored and helpless townsfolk. Axes and swords rose and fell in the dying light of the day, gleaming, and casting eerie, grim shadows across the cobblestones. Those not trapped between the building and the armored killers fled for their lives, disappearing into the country side. All the while, Aethelwulf cackles with mad glee, the scent of blood assaulting his nostrils like a shield boss to the face. His exultation dies down when he realizes that he won't get out of the cage, or get a meal…especially with noone around to do either.
After an hour or so, the butchers are finished with their work. The cobblestones run red with blood, entrails, limbs, and cold corpses. It's not long after that the ravens come, which begin to pick chunks of flesh from the carcasses of the townsfolk. The soldiers, done admiring their bloody work, sheath their weapons, and begin to torch the village. Silver, trinkets, gems, anything of value is taken, as payment to the empire, loaded onto an abandoned cart and hauled away. Aethelwulf pleads his case to the soldiers, who mock him by looking concerned, then laugh, spit on the ground beneath him, and walk off.
Darkness falls, and not a soul has entered the town. Aethelwulf guesses the surviving villagers had taken refuge in other towns. Cold, hungry, and desperate, the wolfen feels his sanity slipping. The cage was indeed an effective torture. Vainly, he rattles the cage, trying to free himself, but it was pointless. It merely creaked and rocked back and forth on it's chain.
Another hour passes, and exhausted from his delirious attacks on the cage, he slumps down and resigns himself to his fate. Uneasily, he lapses into sleep, feeling dehydration and starvation setting in…
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Then suddenly, he's shaken out of his sleep by a loud crash, that shook his teeth and bruised his behind. Groaning and clutching his forehead, he opens his eyes. Aethelwulf is surprised to find the cage now laying on the ground, badly bent and distorted by the impact. The large wooden pole it was hanging from had been hacked down, and was laying right next to the cage.
"You live, Fraer?" Came a strong voice in heavily accented Reikspiel. "Aye, aye…I'm well enough. Are you going to let me out?" Aethelwulf replies, getting to his knees and looking around for the source of the voice. "I don't know, are you going to eat me if I do?" came the reply, though the owner of the voice sounded more amused than scared. That drew a low growl from Aethelwulf, who bristled at the suttle jab. "No, I won't. I swear it on the four winds. Just let me out, eh?" The voice laughs again, and Aethelwulf's savior strides into view.
He had the palest blonde hair Aethelwulf had ever seen, almost platinum or snow white like an old man, except his face was youthful and hard. Icy blue eyes stared at him, an ember of amusement glowering there. Whoever he was, he was a warrior, clad in mail and carrying more than one weapon, and a shield. It was his skin that told Aethelwulf where the man hailed from. Ymir. So pale, the color of freshly fallen snow, smooth where it counted, and rough where combat and hard work had taken it's toll. So the man was a Vendol? "What's a Vendol doing so far south?" the Fraer asks out of curiousity.
"Vindir." The man corrects him, hacking the lock that kept the cage shut with the pommel of his sword. "I run, I plan, I kill, and I loot." He says simply, offering a hand to Aethelwulf. He gladly accepts and is hoisted from the cage and set on the ground. Aethelwulf almost falls, his legs atrophied somewhat from a lack of movement. Once he gets his movement back for the most part, he leaps on the nearest corpse and begins to feast, taking sips of water from a nearby trough. All the while, the Vendol watches, halfway amused as he searched through the corpses for valuables. To his dismay, he finds nothing, and he scowls. "My name is Aethelwulf, friend, and I thank you, and so do the four winds." Aethelwulf says, smiling his wolfish smile at the Vendol once he finishes his long awaited feast.
The man turns to him, and Aethelwulf catches the strange look on his face. "Who is your packmaster, Fraer?" the man asks. The packmaster, or alpha, was the chieftan of a Frae tribe. "What? Wulfhere Thun---" "Not anymore." The Vendol says, cutting Aethelwulf off. "What do you mean, not anymore?" the Fraer starts, getting a little irritated with his savior. The Vendol just smiles, his cold, blue eyes glinting with mischief and amusement.
"I am Ragnar Bloodeagle, and I own you."
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