Forged in War

The waves from Loch Druinne lap against the rough rocky cliffs surrounding it, somewhere high above the waves a seagull screeching before it swoops down while hunting for food, plunging into the murky water. A figure stands on a craggy rock, observing this skilful plunging dive to catch a wriggling, writhing fish from the secluded lake, watching on while chaos erupts behind him. The screams of men join those of the seagulls while the town of Druiloch becomes painted in blood. The figure slowly turns, reaching up to tug his thick woollen cloak tighter around himself while he takes in the slaughter of battle.

“Chief!” A voice calls up to him, a runner from the bloodbath approaching. “The men of Encaester approach from the south!”

“How many are they?” the man asks, stepping off the crag and walking slowly down towards the runner.

“Hundreds. Enough to overrun us even if we had our full numbers.”

“And you are certain that they are marching here?”

“Yes, Chief. They will be on the southern hill any moment.”

The chieftain heaves a deep sigh and looks out towards the rolling hills of the south, then the mountains looming in the north, before finally facing the battle for his home. His men are fighting bravely at the palisades and the makeshift barricade that isolated the invader into a small corner of the village. For now. The enemy is fierce now that they have battered through the palisade and entered the city. They pile up in the gaps between the low-built stone homes, lashing out with their heavy axes, swords, and spears, brutally cutting their way in deeper and deeper.

While it was clear that the enemy would be bloodied before the day was done, it would not make a difference to the outcome. Were the so-called King of Encaester a loyal ally, perhaps the day might be won yet, but that was not the case. If these brutal enemies hailing from Stærlinc did not finish the fight in their favour, then the men approaching from the south certainly would.

All this because of him. All this because he was fighting to unify the clans of Ballagan into something that might fight off the increasingly common excursions of southerners further and further north. Once there had been several clans as a buffer between Druiloch and the southerners. Now he was at the very border with these beasts.

“Run to the north hills and tell the men there to head for the mountains. The battle is lost and I will not force any more men into this slaughter. Have them take the women and children to the old clanlands,” the chieftain says and walks past the young runner, patting his large hand on his shoulder as he passes. “Take heed, run quickly now.”

“What of you, Chief?”

“I shall see this fight through. Druiloch will only fall once I have fallen. No sooner.”

There are no words of comfort exchanged. Only a simple exchange of solemn looks while the chieftain walks down the hill and enters the heart of this palisaded town, it's ground running crimson with rivers of blood. The defence is vigorous despite it's futility.

Yet eventually the bloodshed must come to an end.

The defenders of Druiloch are cut down to the man, with the sole exception of the chieftain. He is surrounded, then tackled before he can either throw himself into certain death or cut himself down. No, his death will not take place with the honour of defending his lands and people. As the men of  Stærlinc pile up on top of his ragged and aching body, a voice cries out above all others for them to bind the chieftain so he might be dragged before the Jarl. So it is done. With hands bound together by harsh hempen rope, the chieftain is dragged and mocked through the town that he once lorded over until the stands at the opened gates through the breached palisade.

“Kneel, cur,” a shaky elderly voice calls out as firmly as it can.

There is little in the way of authority left in that voice, but what authority there is left is reverberated through the shifting mass of the blood-soaked warriors who have just succeeded in assaulting Druiloch. The chieftain looks upon the imposing grey-maned man standing at the gates and stands firm before him. A moment passes before an escorting warrior kicks the chieftain's knee, instantly snapping it out of it's socket, bringing about a sudden cry of pain from the defiant clan leader. The gathered warriors all laugh as the chieftain stumbles down onto his knees, panting and stifling his cries of pain. His cheeks clench as he bites down on his tongue just hard enough to get a taste of blood in his mouth.

The grey-maned man stumbles in his weary shuffling steps as he approaches, a younger fire-headed man standing beside him the entire way. Once they come to a halt the younger man steps to the side and offers his liege a sword, a name welded into the patterned blade. With a strain visible in the man's body the blade is hefted up in his hand, the flat of it landing with a thud against the chieftain's shoulder.

“You will yield your town.” The grey-maned man growls in a thick accent.

“Only over my corpse,” the chieftain says, wincing as the blade is suddenly tugged, the edge biting into the groove of his neck. “My people will defy you to the end.”

“Truly?” the older man questions and chuckles, his voice triggering the entire army to laugh in unison at the defiance. “Well, then it is only right that we remind them of their fall.”

The older man steps back and lets the sword fall from the chieftain's shoulder before he offers the blade back to the younger man. The blade exchanges hands and then returns to the chieftain's shoulder, this time pressing down much more firmly than it had before. This younger warrior exudes the will and need to kill the clan leader, to claim this land for Stærlinc, an ever-growing little realm.

The short-cut crimson hair on this warrior glistens with the sweat from the fight, his solemn and powerful features marked with smears and droplets of blood that mix in with a stream of sweat trickling down to his jaw. The chieftain's eyes move from this steely-eyed ambitious youth to the older man before he closes his eyes. Of all the things he would face defeat before an exiled ætheling and his bastard grandson. He had hoped to die on the field of battle, uniting the Ballagain people under a single banner, not biting down on his tongue with one dislocated leg and an army gathered around to laugh at his demise.

The sword leaves the chieftain's shoulder and is hoisted up, then heaved back down. As the blade sinks in the proud chieftain gasps, gurgling while blood fills his throat. He can hear the blade get stuck in his spine, grind against bone, then get pulled back for another swing. This one is more powerful. For a mere moment everything goes dark, but then the chieftain's eyes flutter back open. It is a strange sensation, looking up at one's own body, hearing the loud cheers confirming your own death.

The red-haired man standing above him heaves his chest with steady breaths, calming himself down from the execution. His hands grip down on the leather-wrapped hilt, his palms still feeling the tremors from the singing of the shining blade. It had cut through flesh and bashed past bone to sever this larger man's head from his shoulder like a dutiful blade and the metal still felt like it was ringing against his palms.

The blood rushing through his ears thumps with a steady beat, muffling out the noise of the cheering crowd until a wrinkled hand grasps his shoulder and firmly shakes the entire warrior with great pride and joy. The calming effect is instant. The thumping withdraws, making space for the cheers that are dying down as well by the time that the wrinkled hand pulls and shakes the young executioner in joy and excitement.

The young man turns as the look in the chieftain's eyes as they finally become cloudy and unfocused, blood pooling beneath the open neck as the head drains of fluids. The young warrior opens one hand and removes it from the hilt to touch his face, wiping away a drop of something that he felt squirt on his face during the chieftain's death. His thumb brushes his cheek and smears part of a thick line of blood that reaches from his chest to his forehead in a single spray. As his thumb flicks off the edge of his jaw, there is a thick stroke of blood that now has spread from the neat spray and across his face.

“Jomar,” the older man says with a proud chuckle while pulling the young warrior into a close embrace. “Now we are truly of the same blood, my son – killers of those who would be Kings. Build upon this land as if it were yours, find those who hide in the hills, treat them all as yours, as from this day onward, we shall call you Jomar af Druiloch.”

The older man pushes the red-headed warrior back and looks around to the crowd as it begins to cheer. It has been a long road for many of them. They have fought many great battles to bring the lands of Stærlinc to the very shores of Loch Druinne and now finally they see one of their promising young leaders take his place as a master of these lands.

The adulations stop as quickly as they began when the sound of hooves against the ground are heard echoing through the hillside. Druiloch falls silent and all turn to see through the open gates of the breached palisade around the town. Three figures emerge in the distance, riding up across the crest of a hill, each wearing a different colour cloth over a maille shirt with round shields at their side. Jomar, the new conqueror of Druiloch, pushes past his grey-haired father and walks with careful intent towards the riders. The gathered warriors all watch on as the young warrior stops a fair distance away from the town and raises his bloodied sword, then throws his other arm wide to open himself up to a challenge such as them.

A roar echoes through the hills as the freshly bloodied warrior offers himself towards the riders, waiting for a worthy challenge to come his way. The blood of the Ballagain chieftain drips off the tip of the shining sword as it points towards the riders, daring them to come forth, daring them to seek the same destruction that had met the defenders of Druiloch.

All three riders glance at one another, each taking a moment to consider their reasons for being here, the challenge of this foreign invader who has staked a fresh claim to these lands. Two of them then slowly turn and disappear as they ride back towards whence they came.

Only one of the riders remains. The rider is smaller than stature than the others, but no less confident. A narrow silver coronet is attached to the high egg-shaped helm and a golden chain with a large badge is wrapped around the figure's neck. For a moment the two simply stare at one another. Jomar stands there, staring and still challenging this rider with his posture, but also taking a good long look at the emblem painted on the rider's round shield, the mock coronet on the helm, as well as the carved details of the badge hanging off the large golden chain, all indicators of great loyal and proud alliance with the presumptive King of Encaester. From these the young warrior can easily guess who this might be.

The loyalty of this figure has reached the ears of all in Stærlinc. In all the talks and plans to invade south, it has always been a matter of worry that Encaester itself is so well protected, mostly thanks to the King's loyal guard and adviser – a woman called Aswinne, who hails from a small tribe living far south along the Humber.

Finally the rider simply gives the young warrior a sly smile and a nod, then tugs at the reins to turn the small horse around. The final rider disappears behind the hill and the sound of hooves become more and more distant.

The army of Stærlinc all roars in laughter as the fiery youth then turns back and points his sword at the retreating riders. The grey-haired man slowly walks up to his son, chuckling at the brave spirit shown. A brave spirit that reminds him of a certain young ætheling that he himself once was, especially upon his arrival to these green and lush Selonian Isles.

A horn blows far in the south, turning the army of Encaester around so it may return south. A battle so thoroughly won here on the shores of Loch Druinne has averted the need for another battle, it seems. Another wave of cheering runs through the crowd in celebration.

Jomar meanwhile swings back the sword and lowers it so it is cradled atop both his bloody hands. Slowly he looks at it, takes in the details of the name welded on to the wavy blade, then finally looks back up to the proud face of his elderly father. The young warrior kneels and offers the fine sword up to his father, deferring himself to the exiled ætheling.

“Call me what you will, but I shall always be the proud son of Guðbrandr and a loyal warrior in your armies. This I swear to you father, even were you not Jarl of Stærlinc, even were you not the Dragon from the Dawning Sea.”