9.) Ahren, the current capitol city of the Danes, got raided. As the only self professed intellectual in most likely the entire kingdom, Thorkell the Pretty High Up found this infinitely hilarious.
You seem disturbed, too soon still? Let’s back it up a bit-
Thorkell was a diplomat, of that he was proud of it. He was also proud for his service to his country, his infamous poker-face, and all the gifts he’d won as a foreign dignitary. He was also old and retired. As a former diplomat resigned to the capitol city, after being dismissed from continuing the political fencing match with Poland after the recent declaration of war, he nestled into a quiet but esteemed lifestyle at the ripe old age of 50. Right?
HeHAH!- No.
Thorkell was walking down the stone paved streets of one of the grandest cities in all of Christendom, kicking up riots of swirling colored leaves that swam through the air in glee. Large and immaculate paved streets, wide enough for two wagons going both ways, and room for walkers to boot, was part of the simple but pervasive blessing of the city, with multi-story buildings stacked high and packed tastefully together. This was the richer end of the huge city, with each level typically having shutters of some kind and maybe even a balcony. The rich merchants that lived here lounged happily on their balconies, sipping wine, and even occasionally tossing a coin down to a happy peasant below.
Everyone was pretty freaking happy with themselves you see. The attack on Prague was a declaration of war, and all of the raiders and warriors on the border, begging for a fight with the Holy Roman Empire, suddenly found an enemy they could freely kill. Loosing clout with the Pope by attacking Denmark with no provocation, Venice had no defense with the Pope.
What was more, the anger of the common people at Venice’s cowardly assault unified them. They now had King Charles the Malevolent. Rumor has it King Charles’s mother, King Knud’s wife, gave him such a…Germanic name was in the effort to help promote unity with other Christian people (Knud resisted the Germanic name, but it ended up happening anyway, partially because
she demanded it but also because she had a vice grip on his balls) the King was pleased with her behavior enough that he allowed such a odd name.
The reason he was called the Malevolent? Well, let’s just say it rhymes with: “Leading the fray and slaughtering the whole lot of them”. Coincidentally, that also happened to be a good part of the reason people were celebrating.
Thorkell walked over the wide, white stone bridge that carried him over the sparkling water below, ignoring the people in the gondola’s singing and laughing below. No one saw any bit of irony at all in practically stealing an icon of their new enemy of Venice? It was hard to kick the habit out Denmark’s capitol, though. Travelers, merchants, and otherwise people from all over came to this city, making it a huge blend of cultures and people.
It made him sick.
Out of habit, he faked adjusting his turban- a Gift from the crown prince of Egypt, to check it was there, rotated his signet ring- this one a gift from a foreign dignitary in Poland, and fidgeted with his robe- bought in the Holy City of Rome itself. He’d negotiated and danced the tightrope of the Noble’s Game. He’d been granted weekly audiences to the Pope himself! Kings sweat and Dukes listened intently every word from his mouth.
No matter how much of a fiery ass he could be. Hell, a poker-face was one thing, but setting a enemy off balance with a angry retort could create invaluable openings to be exploited.
He wasn’t adjusting them or some nonsense. He looked magnificent without having to bother. It was the times! With so many types in his city, you had to make sure your things didn’t get stolen right off your body! Not that it didn’t happen before, but at least you could kill the little bugger and send him to Valhalla! Now it was all, Heaven and Hell, and not being a proud warrior race! Bah! He was a diplomat- but the blood of his people ran strong in him!
Clearing the long and wide Bridge of the Jomsvikings, which was over a tributary that fed into the large river that ran into Ahren from the sea, from the bridge he ran into the huge Courtyard of the Wild Horses, which contained the massive white and brown wood building that houses the Thorgrimm family merchant HQ.. Hmp! Nothing but fancy titles and names, and for a place for merchants! It wasn’t a blacksmith or a barracks- but a merchant’s place!
Thorkell stared in disdain for the people they’d become, before snorting and striding up and to the left with swiftness belying his age. Only staying as long as he could stomach it, he moved quickly, but stopped. He looked up, a solemn expression on his face. In the center of the plaza was a great rune stone. On it was an artful depiction of three men together, armed with waves around them. Askeladd and his three sergeants, holding off the wave of enemies at Prague. On the back of the stone, engraved, was the name of every man that died.
It was one of the few things he approved of in this city. It was carved in the old fashion, and it was made from something worthy. It was tall and proud, in the middle of a place for trade and commerce, which became a bigger concern than sustaining your family through raiding the plump European coast. Every single man died in that battle. Not a single person that took up arms in the name of Denmark for that battle came out alive. They could have remained peasants, and been spared the slaughter, but they didn’t. And so they were remembered, and they would be remembered, as it should be.
Hopefully they’ll be remembered for a long time.
He felt a twinge in his hip. Immediately he turned away and continued walking through the courtyard, dodging caravans of goods and wagons with shouting merchants, coming home with their wares. He seemed to head straight for the building, but took a left around the side of the three story tall merchant’s quarters, and went into the alley of the two buildings built upon its back. The Thorgrimm family HQ’s back faced the west, which was where he was headed.
Thorkell was considered a firebrand by most, and as a raging @(_$^@($% by most every else. What was sure to say was he was a spirited fellow, and didn’t feel an inch of his age. And he moved through the streets of Ahren with a fiery, single-minded passion that hated everyone and everything, you could almost see a bushy tail of a hissing cat behind him. His less than gentle demeanor aside, it didn’t stop him from indulging in a good drink and some bad jokes at the local taverns, like a good Dane would.
Screw age, was Thorkell’s line of thought, I got too much crap I want to do!
And such crap that was evident on today’s task: Park his wrinkly bum down onto his chair in his modest estate overlooking the port and get back to writing his book. Hardly worthy of Valhalla but he couldn’t help how his hip twinged.
People were cheering and laughing in the streets, roaming through it and singing merry songs throughout Ahren. The Danes would be giving Venice and Poland the fight it deserved. It was still early in the afternoon, and after taking his daily stroll through parts of the city, he was ready to sit his butt down already, besides, the songs were getting annoying. Already from the elevation of the modest incline where his house happened to be, you could see the broad port and the sparkling blue waters. It was good to see so many ships in the harbor, with the trade from their long standing ally England. A huge percentage of trade by Denmark happened by the sea, with a large armada to protect the trade fleets.
Yet none of those ships were longboats carrying Viking raiders! He opened the door to his estate and closed it loudly shut. Scurrying through his long but narrow wooden hallway he took the spiral staircase in the corner up, stomping up even as that old thing shook and creaked irritably. Without any railing, he should have been concerned, thankfully he wasn’t though.
He kept going up until he was on his second floor, after more rotations than he’d prefer. Coughing dryly into his fist, he cleared his throat as he walked through the doors he left open into his study, with huge, thick books lining the walls in their bookcases that reached from the floor to the ceiling. With a sigh of ease (that he’d deny to his dyeing breath) he sat down into his high back chair and pulled out the drawers in his desk until he found his favorite quill and in pen. Bending over his desk, and the book he left open, he paused. Something didn’t feel right.
Huffing to himself he sat up and pushed the shutters open to let in the light. Nodding to himself, he sat back and down and began writing:
Askeladd of Byalja was a true man of Viking ancestry, and as such displayed certain virtue in the face of death, so frivolous. He oft spoke of the meaning of the knife, and of the sword, and of the axe, to slice away that which is incomplete and make it complete, now that it is finished….
As he wrote, the sun began dipping in the horizon….
Something short but long blurred inches by his face, ripping out the quill from his startled hand.
Thunk!
Thorkell blink-blinked at his quivering hand ripped open from the force of whatever it was that disarmed him his quill. He spluttered and started at his now open hand, stunned and confused. For all of two seconds. He spun around in his chair, gapping at what he saw behind him. Sticking into the wall near the double-doorway, still wobbling, was a arrow. That was on fire.
Cursing to the extent that would make a sailor blush, he leapt to his feet and rushed to where a small fire was already expanding on his wall. With a snarl and vigor few old men had, he yanked the arrow and stomped out the flame, cursing and swearing all the while. He smothered the remaining flame before it could grow with torn off pieces of his robe- one of his best! Unknowingly, his wrinkled old hand contracted into a fist.
Someone…Was going to pay for this.
Suddenly, things he should have heard assailed his ears. He spun around again, racing back to his desk he looked out through the open window and was struck silent. Smoke was beginning to rise from stacked buildings, and packed tightly together they spread at a frightening speed. Small blazes were lit, but they already began growing in strength. He heard terrified wails and agonized screams, and in the dark of night, through the fires light, he saw glints of steel, and heard the murder’s cackle in countless droves. Illuminated in the port, he saw past the burning ships and saw ships bearing a deep dark flag, the Jolly Roger.
The city was burning, Ahren, the un-assailed capitol of Denmark, was burning from invader’s fury. Pirates had come to loot the eternal city of Vikings.
Wrinkled and sagging hands that could tell a story in themselves tightened on his desk, dangerously the wood creaking as old veins bulged visibly from the strain. Thorkell’s face contorted, brows lowering and teeth bared. He snarled at the dark night with smoke in the air, and felt his shoulders quiver from rage. He tore his eyes away, and in the corner of his study, behind a glass case, sat his prize great axes.
Someone was going to pay.
A pirate laughed in ecstasy as his wickedly curved blade delightfully slide through the meat and bone of a shrieking woman’s neck, making her gurgle and crumple to the ground lifelessly. Around him, on both sides of the streets flames rose from the buildings around him as his fellows lit the homes they looted. Fires poured from shutters and doorways like yawning, screaming mouths from hell. And instead of the cackle of demons, there were the shouts and jeers of bloodthirsty pirates.
“Take the women too!” He shouted over the din of noise while laughing, “We’ll all have our fun today! Coin, women, a beautiful city! It’s all ours tonight boys!”
His fellow pirates laughed and raised their swords and spears in jolly cheer, and turned on the fleeing and screaming citizens.
It took a living fish to swim against the stream- And it took a strangely tall old fish to push and shove against the stream of people with one two handed axe in each hand. His teeth grit so much his jaw hurt, not that he noticed. He was too busy being
angry. “What the hell are you people doing!?” he screamed over the noise of panicked citizens as they jostled and bumped past him. “Why are ye running!? We should be running
at them! Where are ye axes and weapons? Remember your blood! COWARDS!” He roared desperately. To his credit, a few people managed to scream at
him then run away from him instead of listen. For many of these people, it’d been the first they’ve seen of death.
The long wooden handles of his axes patiently took the tightening of Thorkell’s hands, shaking with frustration and dare he saw he- Hopelessness in the face of pirates. Pirates! The city that once played host to -Vikings- was being raided! And the citizens didn’t do anything! All they did was run. It was disgusting, the men running like weak women, with no one actively protecting the children.
But worse of all, the one thing he hated most, but was too blinded by disgust and shame to notice, was one simple fact that made this raiding simply so easy. With war only in the south and south east, Ahren, much less the cities and towns to their North, had not seen a attack of this level since in decades.
Enjoying the fruits of peace, far away from the face of the war, Ahren didn’t even have a standing militia.
And he wouldn’t five minutes alone against those pirates. As much as it disgusted him, he was old and far past his prime. So cursing himself, the city, the people in it, the pirates, God (if he exists) and his hip for the twinge it was giving him, he forced himself to turn and run with the crowd. The fires and pirates cackled, and smoke threatened to swallow them all.
In disgrace and disgust, he turned tail and ran.
Captain Redbeard the Pirate, Scourge of the Frozen Seas, was a money hoarding and self absorbed prick. He’d also never lost a single battle, which was why disgruntled native Danes, displeased by the authority he forced upon their nobles. He laughed happily as a dirty Daneish peasant begged for mercy in the name of God and to please spare his belongings it’s all he has- And cut him down with nary a backward glance. Moving his feet to make sure the blood didn’t get to his nice boots, he stood in the docks of Ahren and soaked in the scene before him.
“Hehe, lazy bastards.” grinned him as he watched the fires burn and his men do his job for him. It’s not that he couldn’t go parading around with his boys and having fun, but he- Heh, had to count his hard earned gold coins… But his attention was stolen. He cleaned his sword of the blood with a formally nice napkin and cast it away onto the cooling corpse as Osgjurl and his 50 strong band marched up to him, burdened with fresh loot.
Redbeard cast his head backward and laughed happily, eyes lustfully absorbing the sight of pillaged gold coins. Osgjurl shared his joy. “Dese bastard Danes aren’t nothin’!” he jeered as he men behind him smirked and chuckled darkly, fingering blood splattering weapons and clothes, “I dun’ knuh’ wut the hell the wurld’s afraid of, dese’ folk ain’t nothin’!”
Redbeard sneered, “I agree, they got awfully bloated with their success, hmnnn? Wouldn’t you agree?” Before anyone could so much as draw breath to reply their captain pivoted on his fancy shmancy boots and grinned broadly at the fires that were growing. It hadn’t been an hour since their initial assault, and already fires were blazing out of control. Not that he cared, his men were to take as much gold as their ships could possibly hold, and continue terrorizing the population so they didn’t feel the need to retaliate.
“Osgjurl! My boy be a good man and run an errand for me.” He purred lavishly as he practically fondled the thin mustache above his lip.
His minion winced mildly, being his right hand man he was rather used to his…Eccentric, and let’s face it people- Sissy nature, but it never ceased to irritate him and his men. He had to hand it to him, he was a vicious killer- which made their pillaging easier. They’d stuck to quickly looting docks up North and vanishing into the seas, but with the weakening of the capitol city to reinforce the borders of their nation, Redbeard and his crew grew bold.
Right hand man, though, he wasn’t running no ‘errand’.
“Whut the crap du’ yu’ wunt’?” Grunted Osgjurl, “I’mma doin’ as yur’ tellin’ me and gettin’ rid of the crappy folk’in and gettin’ the money-“
“I want you,” continued Redbeard as if he hadn’t interrupted, much to Osgjurl’s chagrin, “to go to the famous Thorgrimm merchant family HQ. You see goodman,” he pivoted around and grinned at his scallywags, “They practically -own- the silver market in this region, and many others! Their silver coins are better than some gold coins- And they’re sure to have wagonloads of them!”
Osgjurl was stone faced. Loot was one thing, but it was quietly discussed among the men how much Redbeard enjoyed a lavish French lifestyle in between pillages, and was adopting their snooty attitude, and even their clothes with that frilly shirt of his! It was disquieting, but money was money. “Aye aye surah.” He grunted before dumping the money in his arms, and ordered his pirates back into the city.
Redbeard dismissed them from his mind. They were well trained killers, sons of Vikings, but they weren’t important. Money was. Money made the world flat, and spun the sun around the Earth, and would until the end. He grinned, eyes wide with almost a physical lust at the growing pile of coins from formerly wealthy merchants, including fine china from the East, goblets, and so much! In the fire’s light, everything simply glowed.
His eyes were vacant, but they burned with Hell’s fury, and shone with the dull sheen of gold. Redbeard the pirate sunk his hands into the coins and brought them to his eyes. It was all so beautiful, just looking at it made him feel…Happy.
Meanwhile, in the Court of Wild Horses, it was chaos. Thorkell stood, frustrated and hands full of weapons but unable to use them. He tried shouting over the noise, but fueled by the wild fear of death and fire, they couldn’t hear a damn thing, barely even themselves. He tried anyway. “Oy! People!” They kept chattering and crying. A vein bulged in his forhead. “OY!-“ he began trying again before his voice was squashed. Upwards of a hundred ordinary people, people that’d never seen pirates or their city burn were squabbling and crying, huddling close to each other and demanding aloud why they were suddenly being put so cruelly to the sword.
Thorkell’s eye ticked. Looking around, he found a abandoned cart, surrounded by people, surrounded by men and women talking and crying ceaselessly. There was barely enough room to sneeze, but he used his strength and his height to shoulder his way through, and hopped on top. Taking in a breath that swelled his torso, he tried a third time.
”PAY ATTENTION DAMNIT!!!”
Everything suddenly stopped, and nearly the contents of the entire courtyard were looking at him.
If he hadn’t spent his early years fighting under the banner of Prince Thorfinn, and spent the rest of them under the intense scrutiny of foreign courts- which could order his death in a heartbeat in a drop of a hat- he’d have given pause at suddenly having the attention of a few hundred desperate and scared individuals. Thankfully, he was those things, so he wasn’t. Instead, he continued yelling at them.
“What the hell do you think ye people are doing here right now eh!?” He bellowed, “I see a bunch of frightened rabbits, not Danes! Our city- Our. City- is getting pillaged by a bunch of sweaty gapping teeth pirates! Why aren’t all of you taking arms, defending your homes!?”
There was silence for a moment as tongues of flame licked away at the buildings in the distance. Finally there came a voice from somewhere mass of sweating faces and tear-soaked cheeks, “What the hell are you talking about old man?”
Thorkell’s head swiveled and his eyes locked onto the general area the voice shouted from, looking for a youthful face to compare the voice with. “Who’s got the family jewels huh!?” He barked back and the people around him- and a lot of smart ones that weren’t- leaned away without pressing against the solid rings of people around them. Somewhere, a woman was carrying a baby that started wailing.
Thorkell’s eyes rolled to the heavens before letting out a forlorn sigh.
Regardless, maybe it was hopelessness, maybe vindictiveness but the smoke dirtied youth with what was vibrant blond hair earlier that day hounded him as Thorkell’s shoulders dropped. “I don’t get it!” He challenged, fueled by his own fear and his expression twisting into one of hate, “What do you expect us to do!...HUH!? We’re not soldiers- not even militia! We don’t have any weapons with us!”
Thorkell was looking down, gritting his teeth, but his shoulders dropped. He shook his head slowly in response but didn’t look up. His response was weaker than it seemed a moment ago- it didn’t carry across the courtyard with frightening ability like it did a moment ago: “Ye people have axes, pitchforks, hooks- even forks and knives for you richer folk. And even then, ye got your hands don’t ye?”
The thankfully anonymous youth shouted back in exasperation “We are -common people-! These are pirates out there, do you know how many people they’ve killed already! We should just stay right where we are, and see if we can get the women and children into the Merchant’s building-“
Throughout the youth’s speech, many people were beginning to wipe away their tears, nodding along in agreement to his words. Most of these people were blessed to never have seen a single battle threatening their streets or their farms. The worse was maybe some bands of highwaymen, and only then at the worse. No one was prepared for a battle, and furthermore, no one wanted it. What could they do, they asked each other. How could they fight? Their descendants fought, but maybe not them.
“YE’RE ALL PATHETIC!”
Which was why everyone jumped when Thorkell again roared at them, one of them tried to speak up, resigned to their idea, when they were overruled by Thorkell’s voice, like a tidal wave washing over them.
“THIS IS OUR BLOOD NOW!? THIS IS WHAT WE ARE NOW, NOTHING BUT A BUNCH OF MEWLING INFANTS, SQUELLING AT THE THOUGHT OF BLOOD, OR DEATH!?”
A few people looked down in shame, the older ones with longer memories; others winced and looked at each other pleadingly. A woman cradling a crying baby to her chest and gently tried shushing her asleep; some of the younger men tightened their fists.
Meanwhile, Thorkell was practically spitting at them all, a vein bulging in his temple and his eyes bulging and bloodshot with fury.
“YE’RE ALL A DISGRACE! OUR GREATFATHERS HOLD THEIR HEADS IN SHAME IN THE AFTERLIFE! YOU CITY- OUR HOME IS BURNING! AND YE’LL DO NOTHING AGAINST THE PEOPLE DOING THIS!?”
“I SEE NOTHIN’ BUT DOGS AND RABBITS! ARE THERE ANY DANES HERE!?”
The old men looked up again, brows lowered, panting. The young men never looked down, angrily glaring at Thorkell- their chests heaving. The world as they knew it was burning around them and for the first time dead by the sword was looming over them. But there was some magical quality to his words, something in the tilt, the words themselves, ignited a fire in their blood, made them thirst to
prove him wrong.
“ARE YE DANES!?”
Some of the younger men- some of the brasher men, some of those that seen a father or mother or sister or brother cut down in front of them in a cruel act of seething humanity, fueled by greed that ignited their city in flames, grit their teeth. Somewhere in the crowd, a few men screamed back at him.
“We’re Danes!”
Thorkell was unmoved. He howled back at those that shouted and those that didn’t:
“ARE YE DANES!?”
People were looking at each other. Eyes were steeling, others alighting in a sort of battle fury smothered by daily life. Some clasped each other’s hands and other’s smiled grimly. Some more shouted back at him, their collective voices rising.
“We’re DANES!!”
“ARE YE DANES OR NOT!?”
People shot their fists into the air, shouting and roaring, laughing and cackling. The women beside their men or with children bared their teeth and shouted with their menfolk.
“We’re DANES!”
Thorkell slammed the butt of his axe into the cart and screamed at them. “ARE YE DANES OR NOT!?”
The children shouted with them, their voices and hearts carried by the adults, the younglings answered with them. Their voices boomed and shook the courtyard as one voice, furious and blood on fire.
“WE’RE DANES!”
Thorkell’s eyes widened and his lips peeled back into a wide and toothy smile, his chest swelling with pride as the people around him roared and cheered, the hackles on his neck raising, goose flesh erupting on his arms.
“THEN LET’S GO OUT! LET’S GO OUT WITH PRIDE, SINGING THE SONGS OF OUR ANCESTORS! LET’S TEACH THESE WHORESONS THE FURY OF VIKING BLOOD!”
Their eyes bulged and their teeth bared like wild animals, hissing and spitting and moving, arms shivering and adrenaline bleeding through their bodies. Hundreds of fists shot into the air as they answered him:
”RRRRWWWWWWAGH!”
Osgjurl could have sworn he just heard something.
He looked and frowned, directing the men around him that- no, running into the burning house trying to look for more loot was not a good idea- and that no, loot on fire did not make it more desirable. But all he heard was the fires around him, so he dismissed it as nothing. According to Redbeard, whatever served as a militia in this city was probably still organizing at the center of the city where the King was.
“Heya boss?”
Osgjurl turned his head at the query, mostly because he was bored without swinging his sword against something and his arms not being burdened with money, but also because he forced his boys to call him boss when HIS boss wasn’t around. Pride was a wonderful thing. “Whut of it?”
The man with the spear and the bandana around half his voice gave him a confused look before pointing out in front of them. “Ugh,” he grunts sophistically, “Da heck is dat?”
Osgjurl followed his point and squinted through the smoke that was congesting the night all around them, finding it difficult. But he found what he was looking out- down the street, something distant was in sight. It was some heaving mass of black in the distance, moving like a wave- as one, but of many parts.
The second in command raised his eyebrow in confusion and bemusement. “It culdn’t’ be…eh?”
A couple of his fellow pirates echoed the last word with him, staring around and at him confusion. Leather jerkins and maybe the occasional mail jerkin, and a helmet or two was the highlight of their armor. Most wore cloth that could weather a good storm. They were 50 strong, and many had swords, with some spears for the hell of it.
But their curiosity is satisfied as Osgjurl starts chuckling menacingly. “Yu’ see thu’t boys!?” he shouted gamely, pointing in front of them down the road, where the mass was coming closer with each second. “Dem’s the idiot peopul’ of dis place! So con-si-dur-ute comin’ right to us!”
A bunch of the guys laughed. If they didn’t have their swords drawn, they drew them now. But as they marched closer and closer to the peasants and merchants and folks coming at them, a growing concern that had been ignored a moment ago began to egg at them patiently. The worry pretty much amounted to this: “Hey boss,” voiced one with voice notably concerned, “wurn’t dey runnin’ -away- from us a little wile’ ‘go?”
Osgjurl couldn’t fault his logic, and couldn’t find a reply while frowning. That was rather true. Hadn’t they chased off a bunch of them a hour ago? It’s not like they weren’t obvious- with a good fifty of them, they didn’t clog the streets like the solid mass of people coming at them but they were hardly invisible, especially with a few spears still pointing into the air. They must have known who they were
so why were they still coming at them?
Almost on queue most of them came to a halt and looked at each other wearily, other’s sneering. Did they know something they didn’t? Had the fire spread so fast it was forcing them right back at them? Most of them thought this would be easy pickings- and a nice bloodbath for their bloodlust.
Osgjurl was one of them. Smirk on his face he drew the men up until shoulder by shoulder their blocked the street, thinning out the line a bit. But he needn’t worry much, they were only peasants and civilians. “Less’ uld’ ‘em ‘ere’ boys!” He shouted happily as many of them cackled anxiously for a fight, “If ‘dey run- den chase ‘em down!”
“Ugh- boss?” queried one of his minions yet again.
“Whut?” he barked back in irritation. He paused a minute, hearing some strange sound, thinking
Are they-…Is that-…Am I hearin’?-
“Boss are they
singing and laughing?”
They were singing. Osgjurl couldn’t make out the words from here. At that distance, it was some wordless, screaming of singing. Like a crash of the sea, crashing and laughing in some way with some wrath somehow indecipherable to mortal mind. In seconds, when they were yards away, they were now easily distinguishable. It was a rabble of civilians. Nothing at all like the pirates.
And upon seeing them coming for them, all the pirates quietly voided their bowels.
“Whut in Thor’s holy name be tha’?” quietly whispered Osgjurl.
Those couldn’t be people. They were running at them, screaming and snarling and singing and laughing and frothing at the mouth. With eyes wide and lips peeled back they were armed with anything. Plied off planks of wood, pitchforks, clubs, axes and even some swords were waved at them and in the air. And as they ran, screaming at them and thundering the stone beneath them with their charge they sung.
Leading them was some impossibly tall man garbed in some sort of robe with huge great axes for each hand. As tall as two of some men standing on each other shoulders, he sprinted to them, bellowing songs and incomprehensible words.
His eyes…Dear gods his eyes! It was worse than an animal’s. They were eyes that saw nothing but everything. They were eyes that saw death- and promised it. And those eyes were
looking right at him and that huge body was
charging straight for him
For the first time in three years, Osgjurl feared for his life. He grits his teeth, drawing his sword and stepping up to his disquieted and shivering men. “Hold ‘em!” He screamed at them and shaking his sword at them as they started. “Dere’ nothin’ but peasants! Dere’ nothin’! So stand’an take ‘em!”
Thorkell heaved a hissing breath, booming a ancient song as women shrieked and men howled with bloodlust, charging like a force of nature directly at them.
Osgjurl couldn’t look eyes. Those eyes…Dear gods those eyes! He could see his death in them! He couldn’t look away they were staring right at him he was going to die he couldn’t die not here not now not like this in this damn place- He tore his gaze away and screamed at the shivering men
“Don’t ye run! The firs’ one’ tha’ runs’s’ ‘ganna get me sword-“
Even in the darkness, even with the smoke blacker than the night in the air, Osgjurl felt a shadow cast over and absorb him. He looked up…And up, and saw Thorkell.
The world stood still for one moment. Thorkell, with his axes raised high, his mouth opened wide in some inhumane scream. His men breaking around him as pitchforks stabbed through eyes and axes cleaved off quarters of face and beating fists caved in bones. But he was oblivious to all of that. In the battle that felt like three years that lasted for all of seconds, Osgjurl looked up and saw Thorkell.
Looming over him, titanic, axes blurring like liquid death, he saw a mythic Troll of legend. It was something that abandoned all humanity, something that forsook life and love, and instead replaced it with the sword and the axe and of the promise of eternal glory and war in the afterlife. It was Denmark, and it swiftly executed them all.
If just looking at money made Redbeard feel happy, then laying on it felt like riding the tallest wave while slaying the Jörmungandr single handedly while being serviced by Freya herself, and as descriptive as that all was- if such a incident ever occurred, he imagined it would probably be awfully similar. By the gods this was the richest city in almost all of Europe, and not a single army, not even a militia, to raise its hand against him! And what’s more, while he enjoyed himself, forty of his most loyal rabble were around to guard him.
It was so easy, so delicious, it almost gave him a physical thrill. The world burning around him? Who cares, it was just the boys letting out some tension. He had what mattered- their money, their wealth, and their pride. And it was so deliciously easy. Redbeard didn’t fancy himself a king, but at this moment, he was on top of the world- And its money- and he couldn’t be happier.
He was broken out of his revelry when ones of his goons came rushing by, screaming frantically at the top of his lungs.
Redbeard was pretty immersed in himself and his loot, but even he had to pay attention to that. His boys didn’t run
away screaming, they went
to screaming. When several more rushed by, screaming as they ran back to their ships he shimmied down his less than modest pile of loot.
Another tried to run past him before he grabbed him by the neck of his jerkin. He leaned in close to his terrified lackey’s face, growling softly. “Why da flaming afterlife are ya lot
RUNNING!?”
His pirate sweated, eyes darting wildly and mouth moving silently. When Redbeard gave him a shake he snapped out of it, but stared at his captain in almost mute amazement. He was about to get another shake when whispered “Der’ laughin’...”
Redbeard lowered his fist, a incredulous and furious expression on his face. “What did you say?” he asked slowly.
He got a mile long stare in return. The pirate swallowed and closed his eyes, his words coming out in a jumbled shake, “D-Der’ jus’ peasants aye? A-And der’ sin’in’ and laughin’. ‘Wile dey’ where killin’ us.”
“The peasants…Were laughing and singing?” Echoed Redbeard, stupefied by what he heard. He limply let his mate go, and didn’t watch as he renewed his run back to the ships. Redbeard’s hands clenched into fists at his side, a pulsating vein visible in his temple; his men stared uneasily. There were no illusions on loyalty; they weren’t in for it because they were ‘brothers in arms’. They were in it for the loot and for the killing.
Redbeard was Captain because he was the scariest, meanest sonof
out of all of them.
“Line up onto the streets.” Redbeard growled softly.
They all blinked, looking at each other uncertainly. One of them bravely stepped forward to open his mouth, “Captain,” he started, “I dun’-“
Redbeard spun around and stared at snarled at him, the light of the burning city around them brightened his eyes like hellfire. He drew his sword.
“The next lubber that doesn’t draw his weapon and stop any other mate from turning tail like a damned coward gets me sword!” his eyes simmered with the heat of fire as he spat at his cowering troops. “Now get out there and KILL!”
It didn’t take running his sword through one of his mates to get them finally lined up at the principle road that lead up into the Court of Wild Horses, and for that Redbeard was grateful. Not so much that he actually didn’t have to kill any of his men, he was fine with that to be honest if it got him some money, but mostly it was because there appeared to be a fine lot of angry peasants coming their way.
Let them come. No matter how pissed, peasants were still peasants, and even the few of the men he’d sent with Osgjurl stood with the line now, after he forced them. He learned from them that they were the only boys that survived the fight, and only barely. Darn. Osgjurl was competent. Well, at least he could find a new second hand that wasn’t so ambitious. He always wanted his spot.
What disturbed him, however was the tales of demonic and animalistic fury, which admittedly didn’t do wonders for the moral despite his growling to set them straight. Some of them were made of sterner stuff and laughed it off. Peasants were an awful lot like ants you see- Sure they did a lot of work, but they weren’t really worth much in a fight except for the occasional bad bite or two.
Ah. There they are, running down the street at a distance. He had to admit it was quite a sight, even with the buildings now raging infernos, it was still dark out, and the peasants were now armed with lit torches. They ran at them, even from the distance he could hear a distant rumbling sort of sound he couldn’t make out.
He allowed a grim but pleased smirk on his lips. It seemed those idiots really were desperate enough to come after them. He had to admire their-…Whatever. He’d probably say stupidity. Well at best they probably had a merchant that could afford armor or something, but those types could be killed fairly easily, or better yet kept for ransom!
“Alright-y my boys!” Slurred Redbeard with a cocky swagger, waving his sword easily in the air, “I want this done right well! The only thing they have to them is numbers and desperation!”
As he spoke, the mob of people surged ever closer. Armed with the best rags money couldn’t really buy, they waved clubs, pitchforks, chairs, and even some of the pilfered weapons they nabbed from his dead crew. Even that wouldn’t save them. But the sight was unnerving, even to his seasoned killers. Some of them flinched uneasily.
“
So as long as you hold the line…!” He glared as his nervous pirates, “We won’t have to worry about their numbers! Now hold the line!”
His men grit their teeth, and as the peasants ran ever closer, some of them lowered their spears while the rest steeled themselves, the few of them that had valuable shields bringing them in front of them. They tensed together, becoming a solid wall of muscle and murderous grit motivated by greed and plunder.
They could make out the faces of the people coming at them now. Snarling, growling, waving torches and brandishing a few looted swords, chairs and clubs waving overhead. And as they stampeded toward them, Redbeard felt a wave of incredulous disbelief wash over them as his men gaped in surprise.
They were- they were…”They’re singing.” Redbeard gasped softly. “By gods they’re really singing…” It was true, it must have been over a hundred of them, a solid mass of people clogging the streets, but all of them sprinting at them with reckless, single-minded determination. Their screams and howls and their singing was like the buzzing of ants, wordless, formless, and horrifying.
“Cap’in!” Shouted one of his mates over the din of the oncoming torrent, looking back at him “Dis’ be insane, we should jus’ take wut’ we ‘ave an’ go-“
Redbeard slowly moved his head to look at him, tearing his gaze away from the peasants that wanted to steal
his loot and
his plunder, to use as he saw fit! He looked at him and said softly, “What are you saying, matey?”
The pirate gulped, trying to work up the nerve to speak back to him before he was interrupted.
“I know what you’re saying matey.” Redbeard said serenely, his face impeccably calm and composed considering the situation he was in. He continued, “You just want to leave, aren’t I right? And ignore all the treasure this city has? This city…”
Redbeard’s body was trembling, but his face was perfectly composed, he advanced on his shaken pirate, who couldn’t back up against the line of his fellow mates obediently holding the line. He looked back, staring up shakily as Redbeard loomed over him.
“Ahren, capitol of the Danes. This city…Has more gold in it than our ships could carry- twice over! And with almost as many valuables- art, jewelry, weaponry- as Paris, Nottingham, and London! Except this one is for the picking!” Redbeard snarled and drew his weapon, swinging it through the air.
The man yelped and ducked, and the sword hummed the air over his head.
“You lilly-livered sons of dogs!” He spat, eyes wild with brimming psychosis, a hateful smile slashing his face against a searing snarl, reaching the crescendo of his rant right as the stampeding peasants were right about to reach them. They could make the whites of their eyes and the yellow of their bared teeth and the gleam of metal. Redbeard was undaunted.
“Go out there!” The roars and signing of the peasants was like a crashing mountain, but Redbeard was unfazed, he stared them down, flaming hair wild, and sword pointed at the throng.
“Kill those stinking barbarians!” his sword flashed in the fire’s light from the burning buildings, and that same fire illuminated the peasant’s bloodthirsty eyes and the whites of their tense knuckles.
“And get me!” Muscles tensed like steel and teeth grit. A peasant with a broken off chair leg leapt from the front line of the peasants, a look of utter
glee on his face; the pirate immediately opposite of him flinched but beside him his mate took his spear and thrust it out to meet him.
“That!” Another peasant broke away from the pack with an axe, mouth wide open in a gleeful song as his weapon angled downward for a upward stroke, edge gleaming fresh red. A pirate scowled and raised his sword high, yelling as he prepared to swing it down.
“Gooooold!” Redbeard’s howl was washed away by a tsunami of sweat, desperation and song as the two sides collided and churned against each other like clashing waters.
The peasant with the chair leg lurched backward as the spear tipped poked out through his neck, the shaft buried deep into his mouth. His eyes widened and he flailed with his club uselessly into the air as gravity pulled him down. The pirate’s eyes bugged out as the spear tugged him toward the corpse and another singing peasant came from the side, stabbing with a pitchfork at his face.
He tensed and tried to yank out the spear in the gurgling man’s mouth, but grinned when the fellow beside him stepped up and blocked the pitchfork’s stab with his sword. Gritting through the sweat he tried to swing his sword out of the lock with the pitchfork while slashing at the peasant holding it.
The pirate finally yanked his spear out and was about to join his friend when he was forced to step back and block with the shaft of his spear as a peasant with a club and a torch crashed into him. He snarled and shoved against him to draw his sword, but the peasant pushed against him so tightly he was forced to hold onto his spear and block the blows raining down on his head.
Nearby the man with the axe, swathed in dirty soot covered clothes grinned maniacally upward as he twisted the handle so the blade faced upward. The pirate opposite him with the upraised sword snarled and swung it downward at the peasant’s head. In a blur the axe the man held arced upward, and ducking close to the pirate’s body he swung up in a semi-circle. Blood gracefully arced upward and the pirate died gurgling.
The battle was a hissing, spitting, slippery battle where men snarled at each other at opposing lines like loosed animals crazed to a frenzy. This was no longer just a battle- and battle in itself was a hell- no, it was something worse. It had heat, a unnatural, disturbing heat, fueled as if with the very fires of Hell itself. They carried something worse than the desperation of survival, they carried the hate of each others’ lives.
The Danish peasants hated the pirates for showing them the depths they’ve fallen as a warrior people, and forced them to face it head on and forever cast away their old lives, no longer to be simple people again.
The pirates hated the Danes for their stubborn tenacity. The world was growing old, why did they persist in fighting against fate? Decay of kingdoms and leaders was natural- give up the ghost and give us your wealth that we never had!
There was no quarter given and no quarter expected, these were not knights fighting for wealth or prestige nor professional armies fighting for land. They were peasants fighting for their pride, their nation and their God.
The pirates were fighting for their lives.
Those scavenging men began to sweat when the peasants were pushing them back. They didn’t relent, pushing forward ceaselessly until the peasants in front of them were being physically pressed onto them by those behind them. The peasantry, armed with pitchforks and clubs, stabbed and swung like frothing animals, but the pirates had the benefit of shields.
Peasants in front of them fell to blades as their shields protected most of them, absorbing thunderous and desperate blows against them. And as the dead slumped against their shields the pirates prepared to push back as the peasants
kept pushing.
The dead acted as a absorbing buffer between the two as the peasants heaved against them in a storm of sheer mindless momentum. Feet scrapped against shed blood painting the ground and the bodies beneath them, but the slumped bodies were sandwiched by two titanic opposing forces refusing to submit. One of them would have to break, and soon.
Redbeard was in the middle of his boys. While most of them had lowered their shields and weapons and were pushing desperately against their mates’ backs, their only noise low swears and grunts, Redbeard swung his sword in the air and screamed himself hoarse.
“What’re ya doing you worthless sons of goats!?”he screamed, encouraging his men forward the best way he knew.
At the left front of the line someone flew into the air.
Unabated and unaware Redbeard shoved against the back of the mate in front of him, ignoring his irritated look. “You’re fighting peasants!” he cried as he felt a push back against him.
At that same point in the line two more men flew into the air screaming, something black and inexplicable beginning to loom over quickly frightened pirates.
“Go out there and kill them!! What can they do against us- scourge of the waters!?” He shouted as the push backward became a full out shove against him. He jostled against the movement, furious and oblivious in his lust for gold as pirates behind him dropped their shields and ran away.
Three more men flew into the air, sailing over the heads of their astonished brethren. Something huge and screaming now loomed over the soldiers of the front line, claws of steel arcing like liquid silver, shooting blood wherever they curved. The peasants roared at the display and brutally pushed forward, stabbing pitchforks over and around shields and stabbing through bleeding flesh.
Redbeard buffet the temple of a pirate beside him that dropped his sword and ran with his pommel, not even recognizing it as a retreat, of him and the quickly growing number of pirates around him. His eyes saw only gold, so far away, beckoning at him lovingly, cooing at him the same way it did when the chief of his land dragged looted gold behind his armies as he sweat and bled on the fields.
The renewed roar of the peasants and their song crashed over the sound of clattering shields and swords as the cowardly retreat of a few pirates became a full on route as those now on the front line desperately swung with all their might to survive or to push through the other lines to run.
Redbeard couldn’t accept it. He wouldn’t! The gold, it’s all right there!
“Fight!” he screamed.
They ran, headless of him and his threats, and the Danes chased after them, nipping at their heels and stabbing the retreaters in the back as they fled.
Now Redbeard was at the front, and his sword swung up and down up and down up and down. Blood flew in graceful lines around him as singing peasants died by his hand.
“Fight! FIGHT FIGHT FI-“
A blow from the head knocked his senses free and his world rocked. Grunting he stumbled and was shoved brutally to the ground by almost a dozen hands.
Poor clothed boots stomped by his head in a screaming, yipping, joyously shouting stampede.
Redbeard flailed with his sword, then with his arms as his hand was cut off. Over his screams he looked up, his body blindly flailing. He looked up and screamed.
“Nooo!” The cackles of the fires that lit the city burned in his ears and blows rained down on him from a mob of furious peasants. “My gold! My future! They let my mother die- I’ll buy my own futu-“
“Kill him and shut him up!” cried one peasant and a hail of sharp points and blunt ends rained down on the feared pirate of the North Sea, quieting him forever.
Thorkell the Tall stood above the dead of pirates and loyal Danes, his lip peeled back in a pleased grin. Ahren burned around him, and good comrades- husbands, sons, uncles- lie dead, but the pirates were repelled! They were in full retreat, running to their ships! Good luck fleeing into the waters with such small a crew! They’d hunt them down and exterminate them all!
The jewel of the Danish empire burned and good Danes lay dead. But Thorkell rose his two bloody great axes over his mighty head and roared in victorious bloodlust.
Ahren was once again in the rightful hand of Denmark.
The astonishing thing is, contrary to contemporary reports that accost the victory in Ahren from the most daring pirate raid in centuries (ironically as daring as Viking raids in the past) might not be properly attributed to the recruited forces of the city. Indeed further investigation reveals evidence that the attack was repelled by the citizens of the city itself, and that the city guard might not have done anything at all, though some signs seem to suggest they assisted in killing the rest of the pirates at the docks.
What’s truly remarkable though are its circumstances. If held but a century later, such a thing might not have happened. Helped brought low by the Vikings themselves, the European lords constantly focused inward, solidifying their reign with their troops, trade was non-existent. But with the expansion of Knud the Great (Also known by most as Madogens, which roughly means ‘The Great Gift of God’) trade was a forced implication of his expansions into other territories, and the at the time unpopular move by him to circulate his people from the north into their new lands. Knud conquered, and it might be said that because of focusing his power -outward- instead of -inward- contributed to the kingdom’s success in the future. Another controversial move at the time was Knud’s bid to trade with the Middle Eastern people. This was unpopular at the time, and was not implemented until after his death, but it sowed seeds of interest, that would later allow the nation to conduct trade agreements with the Turkish empire, bringing among others back from the Middle East philosophical and scientific writings. Because of his actions, the Middle Class, as it began to be known as, began to show itself and solidify, and many in the rich city of Ahren had more money than many of those like them in other countries.
Once dismissed for fanciful tales, the memoirs of Thorkell the Tall are being to be revisited by experts on early-to-mid Danish history, and the glorious victory over invading pirates. This is also good, as it brings respect to his writing including the account by himself of the city of Prague bearing the Venetian invasion, which also leads credibility to the newly recovered rune stone many are led to believe accounts that very battle.
--- From Chapter 5 of History Under the Streets of Ahren, and the Investigations into Discredited Events by Skantarios Batarios. 
[A. H.] Twenty Untold Stories
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by Sun
