Blood
----
"Mercy through blood!"
The shouts of armored reavers on fourteen longships roared through the air as they made their quick approach towards the hapless town along the icy shoreline. A warning bell was being rung from within, but Kjartan knew it would make no difference if its inhabitants were aware of their impending demise or not.
Just as it made no difference to the prince of terror who he was, in fact, attacking this day. All souls would retire to the ether in time, and Kjartan's actions merely ensured that some reached it sooner than others.
Kjartan walked confidently towards the bow of his flagship, the
Mercy,
with his two slave wenches in tow. He held heavy chains which were affixed to the thick metallic collars around their necks, the only clothing deemed worthy for them. He wanted to see his troops make landfall from the bow of his massive vessel, the smaller boats of his armada sailing far quicker unto slaughter.
He smiled deviously when he looked out over the bow. The poor inhabitants of the town had created a make-shift palisade of sorts for their protection, anything and everything their town could muster in short notice. Wheelbarrows, boxes, barrels of mead. Thirty or forty men held bows or spears beyond that wall, thirty or forty men who would soon be sent immediately to the ether.
Their women, on the other hand...
He turned to Sigurd, his second-in-command, just beside him. "Are we in range?" The scarred, terrifying reaver nodded once with a crooked smile. His reply showed no emotion.
"Yes, Wanderer."
Kjartan the Wanderer grinned and turned to the ballista to his left, the weapon having already been loaded with shot.
Ballistae were interesting weapons. They were quite large - almost crossbow-like in appearance - and were typically erected at a battle site by well-trained engineers rather than towed with an army. They could fire bolts capable of traveling five-hundred yards, and their massive projectiles could skewer several men of an opposing army if they stood close enough together. Realistically, of course, one would wait to fire their ballistae until the enemy drew closer, to provide a more accurate shot.
But there could be no hopes of such an accurate shot onboard a vessel at sea. The crashing waves against the hull would refuse it, and the rocking deck would be impossible to counteract. But Kjartan's siege weapons weren't firing standard shot today, and they never did. They served a less-accurate purpose, redesigned to instead hurl stones at the far-off fortifications of their enemies.
Or - if there were no fortifications, as was the case today - they flung heads instead. Severed heads from slaves captured in previous raids; putrefied, but not quite decomposed enough that a man unaccustomed to seeing one wouldn't fall into an immediate dread spiral.
"Show them their fate!" Kjartan bellowed, raising his hand which was not holding slave's chains to order the assault. Claws released sinew, and two heads were flung through the air towards the town's defenders. The men on the ballistae immediately started to work the machine's cranks to fire another.
Horns to the fore, port side. The two left-most longboats had already come ashore, the twenty men on each vessel jumping overboard to wade the final thirty feet through ice-cold water. Kjartan heard the reaver's cries as they charged wildly towards the hapless inhabitants of the town.
--
Hilde scrambled to her feet at the sounds of the warning bells. The diminutive sorceress with eighteen years of age was not yet decent, having slept late due to raucous events of the night before. Her friend, Evette, glanced to Hilde with worried eyes.
"Fire?" Evette asked nervously. Hilde shook her head in silent reply, being all too familiar with the smell of flame or smoke, what with being a fire evocation sorceress and all. She heard the cries of men outside, steel clanging against steel.
She quickly gathered her belongings, equipping her green jacket, pulling her black travel cloak over her short blonde hair, then pulling her green travel pants into their proper position with some effort. She slid her boots on, then grabbed her pack on the floor.
"It sounds like combat. I'm going out there," Hilde said, showing more surprise than fear. The young sorceress had not yet seen combat, but she was so very confident in her own abilities, having trained at the magical College of Villjord for the past four years.
"Wait! If it's combat, we need to run!" Evette exclaimed worriedly, she too throwing off whatever clothes were available on the floor. Hilde put a hand on the door, but paused to glance back at her friend.
"
You
need to run. I am a sorceress," Hilde declared emotionally. Evette frowned, but nodded after a moment's hesitation.
"Okay. Go with luck, Hilde."
Hilde nodded. "Thank you," she replied quickly. "Run to the hills, Evette."
Hilde pushed the door of the longhouse open. She quickly rounded corner, eyes widening in shock when she saw what was causing the commotion. A massive, black-flagged vessel was seemingly pointed straight at her, while a dozen smaller ships were coming ashore to its left and right. The big ship had smaller ones on its sides which were being lowered into the water, each packed with men.
"Mercy through blood!"
Hilde noticed a quickly-erected wall had been constructed near the small dock of town, men behind it fighting for their lives against a screaming foe they surely could not defeat. The men at the wall were not defended on their right flank, where twenty-some odd men with horned helms were charging towards them, axes overhead as they screamed.
She decided that's where she was needed most. Hilde bounded towards the screaming men, clutching air betwixt her fingers as she ran at them.
Hilde was furious. How dare Isbryggans attack their own, she thought. A small flame was produced within the palm of her hand, and she outstretched her arm as she neared the first armored man.
Hilde had learned at the College of Villjord that the fire magic she was so naturally attuned to was extremely proficient at dealing with armored foes. Where her foe's steel would normally deflect the blade of a sword or the stray arrow, fire magic would instead cook their bodies alive within the furnace of their clothes. She flung a fireball at the nearest horned target, the man surprised by the sudden threat.
Hilde stepped back, placing a hand on the ground and casting a quick hex before she feigned a methodical retreat. With her powers now known to the reavers, she would likely receive the men's attention, hopefully protecting the citizens of Dystval just long enough.
The first armored man screamed as the flame consumed him, dropping to his knees and clutching his helm in agony. Half a dozen behind him now charged the short, blonde sorceress with axe overhead, screaming of blood. Hilde took another step back, then placed both of her wrists together to blast her next foe with a wide shot of burning fury. She grimaced when her nose picked up the smell of burning flesh and hair, and continued stepping backwards.
One of the reavers bounded over the trap she had laid, a pillar of fire shooting up from the ice beneath him, rending flesh to ash. She had hoped to ensnare more of them with the spell, but continued flinging balls of fire at the ruthless invaders.
