The tribes had always warred, from when the gods created them so long ago to now. For most Vulfan this was simply the way it was, and none of the men in the tribe questioned the traditions. Though, this year's wartime was different, it was not the tribes fighting tribes, it was all the tribes fighting the humans. Freja did not trust the humans, they were odd, they lived in forts, and unlike the tribes only the men fought. Her sentiments are shared across most of her kin. Freja held one more conviction towards humans, she found their appearance odd, no fur, and while she had never seen an unarmored human, she found their metal shells unnerving.
Today was the eve of the raid. Everyone in the pack-horde's hair was on end, the males were silent, the females were drinking. Freja walked between the different tribes trying to find a friend to converse with. She stared out over towards the mountains where she knew the metal men were, but what she didn't know is who was staring back.
Her spear needed sharpening, her shield repairing, and her wardress needed hemming. She resigned herself to her quarters to catch up on these needed actions, but while she did so she wondered. She pondered the men on the mountain and swore she would see one humans staring down back at her.
For Hans, the army was a required service to be honored, he was clad in steel plate blessed by the forge maidens. He too was unnerved, but not from the horde-pack, but from his people's “cousins". These men only wore cloth or a cuirass, and a helmet, they didn't wield axes, bows, or swords, rather “rifles", pikes, and “halberds". They spoke the same tongue that all men do, but unlike his people's women who had hair like summer wheat, theirs were red like rust in water. Something about it put him off, but he didn't know what. Though women were far from Hans's mind and had been for many years, ever since his birth-betrothed fell to consumption, not to mention it was the eve of battle.
Hans had found a good conversation with some of the Sea folk that had come to aid his fellow mountain Norse, some spoke of their peoples wars long over, with blood crazed beasts that bore the shape of goats, black birds that were as cunning as they were creative called ravens, and of elusive tribes of nomads who never fought and simply ran called lynx.
In all honesty, Hans did not care for war stories and myths, he was really only there for their “Bleak Beer" which they gave out freely. He had polished his axe, buffed his shield and washed his banner and was now going to get drunk. Though after some time Hans heard something from the Sea people that caught his attention
“Funny, my wife loves to watch me bed the servants!" Such a statement caused Hans to do a double take. He had to ensure that he had heard right. As he continued to eavesdrop on the conversations, he heard some other alien, and “intriguing" from the men of the sea “My father brought home a rammite “housemaid" of sixteen years for my eighteenth birthday. I tell you old friend that I and no one in the village rested that night!" “Four women, one ranch, and a hundred head of cattle, life is good back home!"
Hans could hardly believe what he was hearing that these men of the sea took multiple women. Before he got worked up, he reached into his pocket, counted winnings from a game of cards, and went to buy something stronger than free beer. The church would always claim that the Man-God only permitted one woman to every man. He decides thoughts of faith are not worth his time, buys a bottle of mead, drinks half, and goes to sleep.
Freja cannot sleep, she finds herself eerily nervous, the clerics say that they have the blessings of the pantheons but she struggles to believe that knowing that the vanguard's head was delivered in a bag. She hears the men howling, some snarl after, she knows sleep tonight will be scarce. All of a sudden, her eyes shoot open and fur stands on end. Screams come before the sound of a thousand thunder strikes.
She leaves the female quarters to find a line torn through the main road of the camp. A dozen men are little more than twisted parts, her eyes are wide, her legs are shaking, she knew that the Norse-Humans had powerful mages but this, this was something else. The entire pack-horde seems to be on edge now, and a cub calls out saying she found something. Lodged a hand's depth into the rear wall is a metal ball roughly as large as a child's head.
Engraved on the ball, or at least the diplomat claims, is “You hath killed ours on the eve of battle, we shall respond in kind." Followed by the serpent of the Norse-humans and the cross of the sea humans. One of the younger males demands to know if this was the work of one of those “vile" mages. One of the freemales claims it is not magic at all but new human “technology" he claims is far worse. Some people gasp, but the grey-ears simply shake their heads and mumble about the changing of times.
The people around the metal ball dissipate, this time they do not go back to pre-battle festivities, rather they bury the twisted dead, and retreat for the night. Laying on her cot with a sheepskin blanket and bag of hay pillow Freja mind runs wild, of home where she and her tribe hunted in the woods undisturbed, of who she would choose as a mate after this, and of what color tent she wants to live in. Such things are important to the wolf-folk of her tribe because tonight was her last night as a child in the eyes of the Vulfan pack-hordes. Taking solace in the inevitable marching of time and one last prayer to the gods for protection, she sleeps.
Hans was torn from his sleep by the noise of cannons, he was drunk enough to sleep last night through the first shot, but the liquor had worn off. He had slept in his armor bar the helm the blessed steel shining plainly, he felt odd about today, something was off he could feel it in the air around him. Resolving himself to the reality of his potential with a deep breath the weight on his heart lifted with the exhale of equal measure. Before leaving his quarters, he stared at the sallet helm, the engravings of five generations of Woedan men were etched into it. Runes from before man left their mountain holds, before the words man and Norse meant different things seemed to flow across the steel. He looked over his axe one last time, its handle, blade, and loop still immaculate. He was ready.
He left his quarters to report to his regimental commander almost hoping to bear the banner today rather than his shield. Hans is the first of the regiment to arrive, his commander is smiling as if gleeful to see him arrive.
“Well Hans you're the first awake, and therefore you get the honor of being part of the lord's guard." Says the Colonel, euphoric that one of his men, particularly, and unknowingly to Hans, one of his favorites and best in the fray.
“Why would he want me of all people? Look at me! I am little more than a skeleton wearing metal clothing!" Hans protests.
“Well, the lord of this hold demands the first to rise of every regiment. So, you are now part of his retinue for the day." The Colonel states still smiling.
“Well, where do I go to join his rank?" Hans asks, accepting his new role.
“Just towards the gate, the guards will let you in. Take this you'll need it Hans." The colonel says handing him a violet cloth with an orange trim.
Hans begins to walk towards the monstrous gates of the mountain-hold he calls home, a weight and foreboding hanging over the ornate arches. The guards bearing sashes of violet identical to the cloth, they loom in ornate, blessed, and custom armors, all are beyond dangerous in the fray, and if not for their sheer martial prowess, then from the fact that they are all powerful mages. As Hans approaches the gate the royal guard begins to fall in behind him, one unsheathing his blade, the other bringing a polearm to bear.
“Where do you think you're going coward?" Demands one of the guards
“State your business or fall in line now" The other commands.
Hans is almost paralyzed, but he manages to remain cool as he retrieves the cloth from his pocket, presenting it to the guards.
“Oh. You're a candidate. Carry on then." The guard holding the polearm says dropping the murderous, cold, aggression in favor of a neutral, calm tone.
With that, the guards return to their posts, still as the statues they will one day have made in their armored likeness. Hans pushes open one of the two titanic doors and all but scampers inside. It had been three years since he had been in the hold, the lines of defenses, the unscarred boys standing behind stone holding bows and the “firearm" gifts of the Albionic Sea Men. He walks through the ancient maze knowing it all by memory. He comes to the largest arched door, guarded by stone sentinels and living guards.
The guards stare at Hans as if he were an assassin or traitor, the tension broken by simply showing the violet cloth. He walks to the door, before the obvious leader of the guards speaks just as Hans reaches for the handle.
“Knock first candidate. And Kneel." He says icy and cold.
He follows those instructions. Soon the door opens with the prince standing over him, clad in an armor that seems to radiate power, might, and royalty. Hans stares up at the prince with awe despite his emotionless face.
“Good morning my lord. How may I be of service?" Hans asks, keeping his composure.
“You are the first of the retinue to arrive. You will bear our lord's banner." The prince says plainly.
He offhandedly continues “And if you survive you may become a guard yourself."
Hans remains on his knee until the prince fully closes the door. As the latch closes the Guard-Captain addresses him.
“What is your name soldier" He asks
“Hans Woeda" Hans responds formally.
“Follow me Hans." He says turning to walk.
The captain leads Hans through another winding maze of stone passageways, one where he never was allowed as a child, when he still lived under the stone roof of the mountain. The guards travel through the maze of corridors and passages as if he saw some road or map before him. The ceilings got lower and lower, the light stones fewer and fewer, and the stone in which they were carved grew darker and more ornate. At the end of the tunnel the two are on there lies a vault, golden runes dance around its oval door, bands of silver and bronze form a net over the obsidian door. Hans stares into the black of the rock. There is something more than the craftsmanship on this door, something much more powerful and much more valuable. The pair approach the door, Hans's knees going weaker with every step. Hans could feel the coldness of isolation begin to once again grip his heart and hands, he was no stranger to it but this was different, this was almost sinister in a cruel, unique way. Hans could tell the Guard-Captain felt similar sensing a single crack in his resolve, the Guard-Captain approach the door as he would a rival on the battlefield, muttering incomprehensibly, on absolute edge, and with only one goal in mind, triumph.
The two's progress towards the door grinding to an inch, and while the Captain's unyielding resolve kept moving him forward there was something in Hans that allowed him to overtake him. In Hans's mind this door was akin to an enemy officer in the sense that only one of the two would survive the encounter. Exhausted and worn he was the first to place his hands on the door's handles, with a line of sweat on his brow he turned to the paralyzed Guard-Captain. The black and gold armored face of the captain's death mask seemed to look on silently impressed. A minute or so later a pair of greaves slams heavily onto the blackstone of the door.
“You did much better than I expected. Hans right?" Says the Captain
“Thanks, and yes." Hans says his normal stone-like composure restored to normal, at least forwardly.
“Well help me open this door, first we twist the handle then push in and finally pull." The captain says nonchalantly.
The two push against the metal handles, and both lose their footing when the bolt breaks, the two then push inward until a click can be heard, finally the door is opened. Inside the room lies pristine rows of the typical obsidian and gold armors of the guard, racks of weapons of every kind, shape, and enchantment, though the thing that commands the most attention is the violet, black, and gold banner, the holy blade placed front and center, and placed in front is a white shield.
“Take it Hans" the captain says.
Knowing exactly what he means Hans approaches the banner, he takes the pole bearing it, enchanted gold cool to the touch, light as a feather. The captain looks on, almost impressed once more for some reason.
“Not many survive the curse of that banner, but it seems to have not affected you at all." The captain says with a chuckle. “Now belt your axe and grab a weapon befitting of the royal retinue.
“Is the axe not good enough?" Hans protests.
“Absolutely not." The captain says still cheerful.
Hans decides it is best not to question the captain's judgement and belts his axe and begins to prowl through the racks of weapons, sabers from far off lands, axes from this very keep, swords from the lands of the Horselords and Zealot knights, though one weapon and one alone catches his eyes, it appears to be a cross between a sickle, axe, and sword. He grabs the weapon resting it in his hand, the gold seems to glow, but it weighs more like steel, he feels something in its core, something sleeping. He tightly grips the handle, feeling the green stone handle resist any compression.
Hans emerges from the rows of weapons seeing the captain toying with his mace. Without stopping the captain looks up and while his face is totally invisible behind his deathmask.
“The Kopis? Fine choice." The captain says.
“Oh, yeah, it's from the continent of the shelled ones, a gift from the war of the gods. Old and true." He explains. “Yeah, just use it, it'll fix itself eventually, somehow it always does."
With a look of concern and disbelief behind his closed helm. The captain shrugs his shoulders and leaves the vault, Hans shakes his head, thinking about how terrible of an idea this is, and leaves.
“Are we closing the vault Captain?" Hans asks
Hans follows back through the blackstone halls and passageways running his hand along the carved runes and patterns. The captain rounds the final turn and proclaims “We have our standard bearer!" before resuming his statue-like silence and stance. Hans makes the quick decision to join the fifty or so guard's statue-esc position, resting the banner's pole on the floor and letting his blade arm rest at his side.
“Oh, no Hans, you go and eat, we'll greet the coming aspirants." Says the Captain before pointing him towards the canteen. “And eat lightly, a full belly makes for faulty fighting." He calls.
Freja had risen at her normal hour, the smells of the morning meal being the first to hit her. The smells of honey-meat and mushrooms are almost overpowering. She leaps from her cot and rushes to put on her war-cloth, setting the leather breast of it over hers ensuring easy movement. Her helm's face-cloth hooks into the rings on her vest before she leaves, her snout, naturally, passes the cloth which is mainly for hiding identities from more vengeful enemies. Freja wondered if the humans even cared about individual Vulfan, much less enough to hunt down one. She pushed the thought of a hate-driven human hunting her down from her mind. She leaves the sleeping quarters astonished about how bright it is already. It is feeding time for the females, evident by the lack of males around the fires. She sniffs at the air alert to the anxiety of the pack-horde. The ears of everyone are locked straight up, tails unmoving and straight down. Freja moves towards the feed-fires to be greeted by a silver elder, who hands her a plate of food.
“Eat quickly Freja, the battle starts when the females are done eating." She says sweetly.
“Thank you elder." Freja says bowing her head.
Freja eats in silence, which is hardly of not given her normal circumstance. She watches the males strap on their thicker armors, sharpen their spears and swords, and stretch before battle. She finishes and returns the plate and silently heads towards the weapon-hut.
Once she arrives, she is handed a bow without word for it is not a female's place to fight with strength, a practice she had always questioned but accepted. A speckled snout shouts her to a position in the battle line, her breathing is getting less and less confident. The moment the battle-howl begins she can feel the wolf next to her become little more than red mist. A tear falls from her eye as she watches the first line fall limp in a series of cracks.
The charge is stopped dead in its tracks, not a single wolf is moving forward.
“CHAAAARRGGGEEEE" rings out across the field of battle followed by a horn bellowing. The silver tide of human warriors moves in from both flanks to be met by the flanks of the Vulfan in melee. Freja's arm begins to quiver from how many times she has fired her arrows. As she reaches for the final arrow in her quiver, she can see them approach the center of their defense. A banner the color of plums, adorned in gold, bearing the symbol of their god and people. Holding is just another faceless human wielding an unplaceable weapon.
Hans' only job is to protect the standard, at any cost, the handful of wolves that have slipped by the guards are often enormous and have been hard fought duels alone. His body is slowly failing him, the armor, the lack of a shield and being the obvious target have all culminated in a very dangerous situation. The royal guards are like whirlwinds of death, delivering it swiftly to the savages. Mustering some of little remaining strength Hans charges into the madness bringing his Kopis into the neck of a sizable wolf, and as the first falls the second his slashed. One of the other aspirants is dragged into the mass of wolves and is torn apart in a series of blood curdling screams. Another has his neck slashed through by a bladed spear, but before he fell, he brought his axe into the leg of his killer, allowing Hans to avenge him with ease.
The one hundred or so aspirants fell one by one, with Hans being the last standing. He is charged by the largest wolf yet, the colossal man-beast throwing back. Rising to his feet Hans can see the beast but three body lengths away claws fully extended, as he prepares to parry the claws he feels the jaws of the beast punch through his broken plate and sink into his shoulder. Letting out an unholy scream he sinks his blade deep in the beast's gut. It staggers back before tearing through Han's faceplate tearing three jagged lines but an inch from his face. Hans retrieves his blade from the bleeding wound in the wolf. The wolf punches him in the gut, forcing Hans to his knees.
“You carry cloth on a stick human. What does it mean? That your women, land, and loot are ours to keep." It mocks.
Hans says nothing, barely able to rise to his feet dripping with sweat and now blood. He raises his blade to the beast in silent defiance, only for the wolf to grin a godless grin.
“For a human you are strong, like a twig to a leaf." It again mocks.
Hans looks on as it charges at him once again, forcing his aching body to move he manages to sidestep the monster. With a desperate thrust and an enraged roar Hans plunges his blade into the spine of the wolf. Its legs go limp mid sprint it turns to face Hans with a look of hate and fear. It watches silently as Hans approaches its neck, only grunting when its jugular is split open.
Freja does her best not to yelp as she watched the banner-human cut down her chieftain. She looks to her left to where the fellow archer was killed to find a full quiver, she squats down and takes the leather tube of arrows. One arrow, two arrows, three. All land themselves squarely in the human's shoulder, despite that he still holds the banner. He turns to face Freja, the coldness of fear washing over her. He points and raises his blade to his neck as if to cut it.
The human's compatriots he had followed are mostly dead, only the black and gold ones remain, and even so they too are falling slowly. She fires a few arrows at the nearest humans. She sees four lines of humans approach the flanks, a series of cracks and a wave falls. The mountain roars and the left flank has well over a dozen lines cut through it. The army seems to stand still for a second and then turns towards the new lines. Freja had stopped firing to stare at the turning of the pack in awe. She hadn't even noticed the flag-human approaching until he was upon her.
“ARRRRRRRRAGH!" Shouted the human, his blue eyes visible through the tears in his mask as he charged towards Freja.
“I will not be slain by a human." She responded trying to muster the courage to countercharge, but only drawing her dagger.
He slammed into her bringing his blade near to her face before she could try to keep herself from oblivion. Their blades locked, Freja smiled for a moment before she saw the golden rod in the human's other hand be brought to her helmet. Freja howled in pain only to see it brought down again, and with that her world went black.
Hans brings his blade to the fallen wolf's neck. His hand tremors more and more violently. He winces as he tries to resolve himself to killing it. This one had fired arrows into him, right? Why give it mercy? Opens his eyes once more remembering the last words of his brother; “To slay a bested foe bears no honor only shame for every reward." He instead looks over the fallen wolf.
Hans grunts in pain as he drags his almost dead self towards the remaining guards. One or two small wolves lunge at him before meeting their maker with a single cleave each. He turns to the female he beat down with the banner, there's something scratching in the back of his head.
“What better weapon to demoralize a male than a defeated female?" His conscious whispers over and over.
His resistance to those whispers breaks before he can get out of sight of the unconscious wolf woman. He shakes his head downwards and moves back towards the female he knocked unconscious. He wonders what made him think it was a female. He looks it over scrutinizing over the details. It curves like a maiden is the first thing he notes, followed soon by the breasts he ignored, again too small to be a mother and too large to be a girl. He decides that the wolf is a female and she has brown fur with some white speckles throughout.
He throws her over his shoulder and restarts his walk back towards where the guards are fighting. His knees feel like they're constantly two steps from buckling, his face now has such a grimace of murder that most wolves turn tail and run the moment he stares them in the eye. He rejoins the thinned number of the guard. The whirlwinds of death seem to slow upon seeing Hans return.
“FORWARD UNTO DEATH, UNTO HONOR, UNTO VICTORY! FOR THE HOLD FOR THE NORSE FOR MAN!" Hans bellows raising the banner higher.
The prince looks up towards Hans before raising his blade to him and bringing it down into the shoulder of a wolf. Hans can feel his strength bleeding from where the bite and arrows connected, from the wetness coming from the back of his head. His vision blurs, he slams the pole into the dirt. His muscles cramp so quickly he thinks he's seizing, his head and arms twitch, unable to move at all except his fingers. His vision blurs more and he goes lightheaded, his mind racing as to why this is happening. His mind is put to rest when his vision goes dark, the sensation of falling being the last thing he feels.
The prince, captain, and a half dozen or so guards would look near terrified if their faces weren't fully concealed behind blood-drenched metal. A scream of NOOO can be heard from the farther lines. Four men from outside the guard are ordered to drag his body, and what they think is his trophy back to the hold. The banner still sways on the hill overlooking the battle from its center.
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