Day 7 - Writing Sprint Bonus Challenge

Aksel drew in the cold winds of the highlands. Winter had come, and the hardships ahead were only just beginning. The Tarkan Wars had taken a turn for the worst. Much of his lands of Hjalgaard had been lost to Ingvarr’s forces.

The chilling gale ripped through his gray hair, and the stinging snowfall stuck in his beard. He stared down from the great hill at his town below. Hjalgaard was the last of the cities that stood against the Tarkans. The inhabitants had been preparing for the coming winter for weeks, but the constant Tarkan raids had slowed their progress. They had little in the way of food. He knew they would starve if they could not beat them back.

King Hjalmar, offered him no assistance against the warlord’s armies. The king honored the old ways, and as such, could not step between the quarrels of the warring clans. Only a miracle could save them.

Howling torrents blasted his eyes as he looked on in solemn remembrance. Many had been lost in the wars. There were none to send them to the halls of Valhalla. They lay buried under the snow, when winter broke, they would be food for the crows. It was a tragic conflict. He knew that the gods would not forgive their neglect, but there was little he could do.

The clattering and clanging of steel rang through the winter wind. He was honored to stand beside his men, for they were untouched by fear or sorrow. Below, in the frozen streets of the walled city, men and women scattered in every direction, carrying swords, bows, shields, and muskets. Calls echoed through the howling winds as they shouted orders at one another.

Several of them huddled near small fires, or enjoyed a horn of mead inside the many huts that dotted the snowy landscape. All of this, would soon be his last sight. The Tarkans were coming, and with them, they brought his doom. They were far too strong, and there was far too many of them.

“Warlord Aksel.” The voice cried through the whistling gale.

He turned to see his son standing ever defiant in the piercing winds.

“Ragnar. What news from the east?”

“The scouts have returned. They tell me that Ingvarr marches. He will be here by nightfall.”

He sighed as his head hung low. “Prepare the men. Let them eat their fill. If this is to be our end, we shall do it with a full stomach.”

His son nodded and ran down the hill.

He was proud of his son. He had grown into a fine man. He was young but strong. Fear was something unknown to the young man. It was a shame that soon his lands would be gone, his line would end. He’d have been honored for his son to rule after he was gone.
He strode down the hill, carrying his great sword in his hand. His boots crunched as they imprinted the cold ground. Fighting in this weather was madness. He felt the eyes of his men tracking him as he made his way to the large building in the center of the town. He knew they did not judge him or hate him. They admired him.

He had always felt that he was a compassionate ruler. He was never strict with the applications of King Hjalmar’s laws. Perhaps this was his punishment for delivering such leniency on his people. The gods had chosen the king, and as such, were forsaking him for having stepped beyond the King’s word. Had fallen out of his favor? Had he ventured beyond his place? His own brother, not willing to send aid of any kind was disturbing. Though he knew, he was only enforcing the laws which he created. Acting against edicts as a King, would bring about an uprising if it were discovered. With such a great conflict it had been, it would only be a matter of time for the people of Xalimfal to hear of such things. Still, food would have sufficed.

He pushed aside the wolf fur that separated the outside from the shelter of his hovel. The small lantern burned inside, sending dancing rays of golden light stabbing through the dim room. His wife, Freya, sat on a deer hide in the center of the ground. She way praying, and he did not interrupt her.

He collapsed in his chair and placed a hand on his brow. The end was coming.

“What plays with your mind husband?” Her voice was soft and melodic. She was a gentle but fierce woman. Like the many women of Xalimfal, she was equally skilled in the arts of war as the men. They were as willing to take up arms as any soldier he knew, for that is what they were taught. Women were weaker than men, but that would not protect them from the tip of a sword.

“Ingvarr marches.”

She nodded. “Do the men know?”

“Our son is sending word through the ranks. He will be here by nightfall.”

“Are we ready?”

“I have commanded that they eat their fill. This is our last day on Arlia, and it’s a long journey to Valhalla. I will not have them make such a trip on an empty stomach.”

“What of the defenses?”

He shook his head. “The palisades will only hold for so long. Eventually they will break through. We have enough black powder to hold them for a while, but it will only be a matter of time.”

Freya nodded. “Forgive me Aksel, but I’ve had the men prepare a defense without your knowledge.”

His eyes raised from behind his hands. “What defense?”

“They have poured oil around the town. When the Tarkans come, we will burn them.”

She was a wise woman, and a brilliant strategist. It would keep them out for some time, but that too, would not hold them off forever.

“If this is to be our end, we shall make it worthy of remembrance,” she said, rising from her seat. “Ingvarr will never forget this day.”

***************

The cold pale light of the moon bathed the snow covered earth in a dim violet glow. The echoes of men and women carried over the frozen hills and stabbed into his ears. The Tarkans were coming. Around him, men and women stood looking out to the distant horizon in defiance.

Muskets clicked, as hammers were pulled back, and the ringing of steel lingered in the silence as they drew swords. Bowstrings creaked, and crossbows clicked as their bolts locked in place.

The smell of stewed deer and wolf still hung in the frozen air. The men had did as he instructed, and not one grumbling stomach could be heard. This was it. This was their end. Aksel’s wife and son stand on either side of him, each holding muskets of their own. They did not blink as they stared at the advancing army. It would not be long before they were upon them.

War cries shot through the air and were answered by fierce shouts of the men and women that had fallen upon their defense. The howling of war horns and the booming of drums thumped in his chest. His men and women did not flinch. Fear was not a part of their lives, and if they were to die this day, they would do so with pride and fire. Freya stared blankly at the oil covered snow. This would be a glorious defense.

The great army stopped a far distance from the palisades. The shadow of a tall man pierced through the white of the snow. Aksel clamped his sword in his hand and began marching to meet the man. He could feel the eyes of both armies upon him. Though this was his end, he would not show them fear. He would not show them cowardice. He would make his ancestors proud.

“Hello Aksel,” the grizzled man said with a deep throaty voice.

Aksel said nothing.

“It does not have to end this way warlord. You can still save your people.”

Aksel’s muscles tightened. “We will not be your slaves Ingvarr. No son of Hjalgaard shall ever bow to you.”

Ingvar smiled at him. He removed the bear headdress that hid his face from him. His fiery red hair whipped at in the wind, and his scar covered face scowled at him.

“You would condemn them to death?”

Aksel shook his head. “I condemn them to a life in the halls of Valhalla, a place that even your armies cannot conquer.”

He turned to face his army. “You are a proud man Aksel. Your brother would not do such a thing to his people.”

“My brother would have defeated you before it came to this.”

A mocking chuckle rumbled in the man’s voice. “My army cannot be defeated. Your brother will learn that soon enough. He is a weakling. He is too interested in upholding his old laws to see that his lands decay.”

“How dare you insult our king!”

“Your king, warlord. The sons of Tarkan bow to no man.”

The shouts of men from both sides startled the two men. Their eyes darted about watching the men and women point to the skies. Had the gods come? Had they come to save them from their end?

Aksel turned his sights to the cold night sky and he saw something he had never seen before. The shadow of a great behemoth float across the light of the moon. There were many of them. Great pouches, twice the size of the greatest halls of Xalimfal, floated in the air. Beneath them, he could see the shadows of what he thought were longboats. What were these things?

He turned to see Ingvarr as equally awed as he. His eyes were wide as he looked up at the heavens. In the cold light of the moon, the shadows of the gods hovered high above them.

The gods had come. Valhalla’s might spilled forth from the heavens. They had not forsaken him.