- 790 A.E - 17th of Novi -

- About half an hour later and 4 kilometres west of Hoffsfell -

'Betray position. Aaar!' Caracass, the expert on stealth and hit & fly tactics protested. With the darkness of the night enveloping the world, his lightning tendrils and tremors would be easily spotted by Goblin scouting parties.  

Another horn sounded in the night. The warrior looked over his shoulder to see a dark silhouette with shining eyes follow his every movement from the top of a hill and urged his mount to greater speeds. The animal was going as fast as it could, ploughing through the carpet of snow in the lower valley.

'It doesn't matter. They already know now!' Wolrick shouted at the bird sitting on his shoulder. 'We need to get rid of this damn snow. It's slowing the pony down-.'

An arrow swished past, missing Caracass and Wolrick by half a metre. It was a critical hit, however, to breach the bird's stubbornness. Possibly the sudden passing of feelable air pressure had done the trick.

The crow flew up with the rustle of flapping wings. 'Aahhraa!' 

Wolrick witnessed the crackling display in the air in front of him. He was getting used to the sight.

'Kaaahhrr!' The crow echoed a cry in the night. Rippling branches of lightning and thunder sparked around him. His white ringed eyes radiated light and his belly swoll up to worrisome proportions. 

*Kraaattzzz! Bzzzaaarrkkkk!* 

A continuous stream of electricity flowed out of the bird's beak, melting the snow in front of Wolrick's path, creating a clear passage. 

Behind him, the warrior heard the surprised shrieks of his pursuers... way to close. 

How come they are so fast?  

A glance.

Wolfriders! Damn, just my luck!  

The sight and sounds of Caracass's sparkling display, of wolf paws, crunching in the snow a small distance behind the warrior. The battle cries of Goblins driven to bloodlust mingled with the bestial grunting and growling of their wolf mounts.

'Uhghur,' Jurgen groaned half conscious, sitting upright in front of Wolrick. He was clothed in Wolrick's thick fur cloak to keep him warm. The bandage on the boy's head was stained red but withheld more leakage of life.   

'Hold on, lad. We will be there soon,' he encouraged the boy with soothing words.

The soft thumping of his pony's hooves in rapid succession on the snowless ground made the young man's heart leap in relief. His speed increased. 

Come on!

Reaching the edge of a slope going downwards, he overlooked the landscape in front of him briefly.

There... oh, good grief, no!

Hoffsfell. The largest settlement in the Northern Heimr Mountains... was besieged. 

Nestled in the valley near the waters of the Innsheimr Lake it was the largest inland fishing village around. In summer, people would either farm, hunt and gather resources in the valleys, hills and mountains in the area or take to the waters in their fishing boats. For the brave and the bold, there was always the lure and promise of bloodshed, treasure, valuables and slaves. The young men would board their longships, row down the Krekfloss river to the south towards Halbrengr and set sail in the open sea from there. Unleashed to raid and bring death and doom upon the world. Now, however, death and doom seemed to return the favour and came knocking on their door instead.

Galloping down the hillside slope, Wolrick kept his gaze fixed at the settlement to the east until it vanished behind the pine trees covering it from view as he descended. Columns of fire, smoke and ash rose in the air. It lightened up the dark of the night, veiled under the gaze of equal sinister clouds, blocking out the light of the stars and the moon.

The warrior sniffed. He could smell the soot and flames from here. Sounds of fierce battles reached his ears. Screams, both human and monstrous echoed throughout the valley. It made the hairs on the young man's arms rise and his teeth clench in anticipation with the prospect of more bloodshed.

With one hand on the reins and the other on his handaxe -his Scadian Axe being bound to his back- Wolrick advanced.

Snarling and thumping sounds. A war scream in the night. Right behind him.

He turned to see that the wolfriders had gained on him. Their nasty eyes gleamed in the dark, just like those of their mounts. A crude sword flailed wildly at his right leg while at the same time the jaws of the wolf snapped at the pony. The poor animal, already exhausted from the long day's journey, was spurred on to greater efforts. Fear shot a dose of adrenaline into its system as it charged over the path Caracass had carved out ahead for them. 

Time to fight back! Hrogisson decided battle-ready.

Answering the attack with one of his own, the warrior leaned slightly forward and by sheer luck managed to land a crushing blow on the leaping wolf's maw. Yelping, it crashed with rider and all into a pile of snow. Other pursuers dodged out of their fallen comrade's way and continued the hunt with renewed rage and howls.

Noo!  Wolrick pushed Jurgen back into position on the pony as the boy threatened to fall off. 

'Nugh,' Jurgen moaned. Blood seeped through the bandage around his head. 

Grimdamnit! I got to hurry. How far can it still be?  

Wolrick had no time to consider or measure this question by looking ahead. The other two wolfriders had caught up with him~~.

- Hoffsfell -

- thirty minutes earlier -

Raggar stood on the partly moat, partly natural hill upon which the town of Hoffsfell was seated and overlooked the forests to the west with a critical look. Drums sounded in the night. The echoing and howling reached his ears from over a long distance.

'It appears our preparations are not for nothing,' he concluded while turning his gaze to the town's defences. No joy was to be recognized in his tone. Instead, it was filled with the heaviness and density of iron.   

Slaves were reinforcing the uphill snowy slopes with stakes in a forty-five-degree angle under the watchful eye of Carls carrying torches. Down below the foothold of the hill, other enslaved wretches broke open the frozen ditches and deepened them where needed. Others were either sprinkling pine tar into the cold waters from pots of clay or shovelling up the mud and dirt from the diggers onto the earthen walls a small distance in front of the ditch.       

'Who would think that after all these years these vermin dare to attack us so openly again?' A man standing next to the Jarl wondered.

Raggar shrugged and said with sudden bitterness; 'Does it matter? Whatever made them crawl out of their caves, we are going to kick them right back into the shitholes they came from.'

The Jarl of Hoffsfell placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, resting in its sheath and was about to ask another question when a rumbling sound behind him approached. 

'Ah, good. That covers about almost everything,' he said as he watched more slaves unloading boulders from a cart and rolling them towards several piles near the edge of the slope covered in a blanket of snow.

'How are the refugees from Einr's Stette and Gort's Holm holding up?' Raggar asked his húskarl Garrit. 

The man armoured in chainmail and armed with a shield, and a sword answered; 'They are still shaken from recent events and the ordeals on their way here, hunted like pigs as they were. One of the women won't stop talking about her son still being left behind in Gort's Holm.'

Raggar stiffened for a moment upon hearing this. 'I can imagen,' he said as he slowly turned to face Garrit. 

Raggar Bodvarsson was an ageing man but still fit to fight. A veteran of many a raiding party and with the scars and deep wrinkles in his face to prove it. Short brown hair with stripes of white covered his chin, and those on his head were not to be seen under the iron helmet with a spectacles faceguard, protecting his nose bridge and eyes, which were a mixture of grey and brown. Lastly, a moustache decorated his face, and he too wore chainmail armour with a shield ready in hand.

Garrit mentally facepalmed himself and shook his free hand in an apologetical held up gesture. 'I'm sorry, my Jarl, I didn't mean to-'

'No. Indeed, you didn't,' the Jarl said and waved the matter away.

The two men turned their attention again to the outskirts of the forests and the valley just below them. Voices and frantic shouting, along with the jerking movements of burning torches could be seen into the fields from here.

'I see that our Heinrik has finally seen sense,' Garrit sighed with slight relief.

'That stubborn ass should have listened to me when I told him the first time to retreat to the Longhouse,' the Jarl grunted. 

They watched while listening to the rich farmer down below in the distance, barking orders to his servants and slaves to herd his cattle towards the humble gates of Hoffsfell as fast as they could. 

'You could have forced him to do so earlier,' Garrit said. 

A smile appeared on Raggar's face. 'I could have, but where would have been the fun in that? Besides, I entrusted him to be clever enough to change his mind, and it seems he hasn't failed me.'

More drums boomed from somewhere deep within the forests and passes of the mountains. 

Icy shivers ran along the Jarl's spine and memories of decades past flashed in front of his mind's inner eye.

'My Jarl?' The húskarl asked with concern.

'It's nothing,' Raggar said, shaking his head.    

Hurried footsteps neared. 'All able-bodied men and women are about ready and eager for battle, my Chief. They are only awaiting the Gódord's* final blessing before heading out,' Fenris, another of Raggar's household bodyguards reported in.

The Jarl nodded approvingly. 'Good, but let them hurry up! Who knows when-'

*Phooeeeaaaah!*

The echoing of a horn blasted through the air, accompanied by the far distant screams of Goblins... among others.

Turning his head again to the west, to watch a sea of shadowy shapes crawl out of the forests,  Raggar groaned. He shifted his attention back to Fenris. 'Get my wife and everyone else moving. Now!'

The húskarl gave a quick nod and ran off. 

'Seems like Heinrik is right on time too,' Garrit pointed towards the with iron-reinforced wooden gates. They were opened speedily, letting the men and cattle in like water going through a funnel. 

The gates themselves were only about 1,1 metres high, just as the earthen walls surrounding the slopes and the settlement. At the base of these barriers, more stakes rose up out of the ground, ready to hinder and meet any attacking foes. 

Raggar watched the townspeople shout and give directions to the newcomers, detouring them to the right, going parallel with the earthen walls to the south which -eventually- would bring them to the centre of town. This way, the servants and slaves would not run into the warriors going the opposite direction while on their way to the Long House. 

'Garrit, tell Heinrik I expect him and his lot at the bulwarks as soon as possible, or otherwise, I'll have his guts for breakfast by tomorrow,' the Chieftain ordered the húskarl.

The man grinned. 'Immediately,' he said and jogged down the slope towards the group of men and beasts, moving around like a swarm of ants.

Unified howls and screams filled the air coming from out of town. Raggar didn't need to look to imagen the raised arms holding swords, axes and spears stabbing at the sky. 

'For Valia! For Donar! For Grimnir!' Hundreds of voices thundered in a fury. 

The ground at the Chieftain's feet trembled slightly as men and women stormed out of town and took their positions on either the slopes -the archers- or right behind the earthen barricade below, ready for the melee.

The trembling of the earth increased as the opposing forces neared Hoffsfell. Monstrous and bestial shrieks and howls filled the night's sky.

'Let them hear the voices of Donar and Grimnir, my warriors!' Raggar barked as he shook himself out of his trance and drew his sword, pointing it at the approaching enemy. 

Several heads turned as he spoke and cheered to his words. Primal warcries like; 'Aaahhhr!', 'Wwooehhhooeeaa!' and, 'Raaatthhaa!' rose from the depths of many a heart and lungs out into a challenging and taunting bellow. The intimidating effect was increased by the banging of arms against their shields. More and more eager fighters arrived and joined in with the bestial cacophony. 

Slightly smiling in amusement, Chief Bodvarsson looked away at the sound of approaching footsteps.

'We missed you at the battle rite,' Inge, his wife said as she drew near with Fenris and a number of slaves in tow. 

The Jarl remained silent for a moment, staring into nothing. 'I needed some time for myself.'

'I understand, but it is good to see you back in your old self,' Inge replied solemnly. 

A shadow immediately fell over the Chieftain's face. 'Nothing of what will happen tonight will bring Olaf back,' he said grimly. 

The woman sighed and placed a hand on her husband's shoulder as she stepped closer. 'Raggar, it has been years. I know things haven't been the same ever since he left us and that the arrival of first the refugees and now these... monsters are tearing open old wounds but we-'

The glimpse of a figure trying to slip past unnoticed caught the Chieftain's eye, and he sprang out like an arrow shot from its bow.

'What's the meaning of this?! Where do you think you are going?'

'I want to fight, dad! And you are not gonna stop me,' Thorgrima, the Jarl's daughter bit back at her father, her feet already over the edge of the slope. She was outfitted in light padded armour with lamellar plates, just like her mother. Her long brown-red hair was bound in one loose tail.

'I told you to stay back in the Longhouse!' Raggar fumed, grabbing his child by the lower arm in which she held a sax. 

'No, I want to defend my home! Just like everyone else,' the fourteen-year-old said hotly. She turned to her mother for aid, but Inge only looked back and shook her head sadly, radiating: Don't do it, my child. Listen to your father.

Trying to pull her arm free, the teenager resisted Raggar's will. 'I trained in the ways of a shieldmaiden for almost ten years. It is my right to- Aaauww!'

With deft and experienced movements, Raggar forced the short sword out of her hand and twisted her arm behind her back, turning his daughter away from him in the process.

'I am the Jarl and your father,' he hissed in her ear. 'You will do as I sa-'

The sounds of drumming and the blasting of Goblin horns increased in volume and repeated succession. The enemy was almost within firing range. It was only a matter of minutes -seconds even- before the battle would unfold.

With her father distracted for a fraction, Thorgrima tried once more to wriggle free but as soon as she moved the pressure on her arm and shoulder was increased painfully. Receiving a kick in the back, the youngster fell to the ground, into the direction of town.   

'Go home, this isn't the place for you,' Raggar said while drawing his sword and turning towards the enemy forces. 

'Mu-um!' The girl complained, but Inge too gave her a cold look. That was it. Thorgrima got up and ran to the Longhouse in tears, cursing her parents.

The couple paid their rebellious daughter little heed. 'I'll join the warriors in the frontlines at the gates. You take command and overlook the battle from here,' Raggar turned briefly to his wife and took the first steps down the slope.

'Husband. Wait!'

She gained on him in rapid succession.

'Ttzzzccchhhaaaaaaarrrrrrggeeeeh!!' A mounted Goblin in stolen, rusty lamellar armour and iron helm roared from among the vast ranks of humanoid monsters and vermin.   

'Fire at will!' Raggar bellowed towards the archers just below on the slopes. 

The ground trembled under the thundering charge of countless greenskins. Their battle cries competed and mingled with the challenging howls from the Scadians. Like a wave of darkness out for blood, the creatures gradually closed the last remaining distance still separating the two forces.    

The first arrows flew through the air in opposite directions of each other, raining down death and injury to the unlucky ones.

'Incoming!' A warrior at the frontline behind the earthen barrier warned.

Wolfriders sprang -with a variable degree of successes and failures- over the walls, right into the arms of the waiting Scadians. Some dived right into spears. Others had just enough time to make a dent into the defensive line before an axe or sword struck them down. 

'Hurry up, the fighting has already started,' Raggar grumbled impatiently at his wife.

'Don't interrupt me. That's disrespectful to the Gods, and it's your own fault for not being present at the battle rite in town,' Inge said as she held a ceremonial hammer in her hand. With it, she touched her husband's forehead. 

'May Donar and Grimnir bless and guide your sword to victory.'

Lowering her arm, the hammer now touched Raggar's chest.

'And may Walla and Valia be your shield that will protect you from harm,' the Gýdja finished.

The Chieftain bowed his head respectfully, but then stepped away and went down the slope.

'Fenris,' Inge said as she watched the Jarl go.

'Yes, my Frú?**,' he asked respectfully.

'Go and stay at my husband's side. I worry about him.'

The húskarl nodded. 'As you wish.'

He followed into Raggar's steps and drew his sword from its sheath with a metallic sound.

The Battle of Hoffsfell was now!

*Gódord -including Góthi (men) and Gýdja (women) > Order of Pagan devotees, charged with maintaining local shrines and ensuring that the Gods are properly appeased and paid respects during communal feasts and ceremonies. Before Christianity became the main religion in Scandinavia and Iceland, these people were its priests and priestesses.  

**Frú > title for the wife of a Jarl who deserves special respect/acknowledgement. The Norse equivalent of Lady.