261 AC
Varg
The battleground stretched before Varg, a sight of corpses and fallen weapons. Smoke curled upward from a towering pyre where his men had piled the dead, flames licking at the heap with a greedy crackle.
He hadn't ordered it out of religion or morality; no, it was for practical reasons.
A plague born from rotting corpses would serve no one, least of all him. The fire burned, consuming his warriors and Crowl bastards.
In his hand, he held Ralf's sword, a fine piece of steel, too fine for a backwater like Skagos.
He swung it once, feeling the balance, the way it cut the air with a soft hiss. This wasn't some crude Skagosi forgery; it bore the mark of a southern smith, perhaps from a lordly house with access to castle-forged steel.
An arming sword, though here they'd call it a longsword for whatever reason, it was a blade for one hand.
He decided then it would replace his old short sword as his secondary weapon, a trophy not just for show but because it was the best weapon here. His lips curled into a faint smirk as he sheathed it at his hip. "Now I just need to find a Valyrian sword," Varg dreamed. He remembered that Valyrian blades were supposedly light, magically sharp, and indestructible; even a half-trained peasant could wield one and kill a trained knight with it!
Nearby, his camp followers bent over Ralf's severed head, their knives flashing as they stripped flesh from bone.
Varg had barked the order earlier, and they'd set to it with grim efficiency.
He didn't watch the process; the wet tearing sounds and occasional grunts of effort were enough.
The skull would be his, a gleaming prize once boiled clean and gilded in gold. A drinking cup, he'd vowed, and he meant it. He would make a tradition of gilding his biggest enemies' skulls. And Ralf was his biggest enemy so far; this man had almost ended his whole career! At least he would have the respect of taking his skull.
Varg strode toward the edge of the field where his men labored, hauling chainmail and dented helms into creaking carts.
The clatter of metal rang out as they stripped the fallen, every scrap of iron a windfall for his battered forces. He paused by a cart, running a calloused hand over a pile of mail, its links cold and slick with blood.
"Torv," he called. His scarred captain limped over.
"Get the huscarls moving to assist the men capturing the bastards; we need to leave soon."
Torv's grin widened, a jagged slash across his face.
He turned, bellowing orders that sent dozens of men and their unicorns marching as they rode off.
Varg watched them go, imagining the terror of those Crowl survivors, their morale shattered, now hunted like rabbits.
Captives meant labor, and perhaps a leak of their keep's secrets if he squeezed them hard enough.
He moved next to the ranks of his surviving men.
The men-at-arms stood in ragged lines, their shields battered, spears chipped but held firm.
He stopped before a grizzled veteran, clapping the man's shoulder with a force that made him stagger.
"That shield wall held like iron. You lot saved us." The man nodded, exhaustion etching his face, but a flicker of pride lit his eyes. A good compliment costs nothing, but for his men, it's everything. His men should know that their lord cares about them, and in the end, they will follow him to hell with him.
Further down, he found Jory, the badass, bow still clutched in trembling hands. Varg gripped the boy's arm, his voice low but fierce.
"That arrow took Ralf clean through the throat. You saved our asses."
Jory blinked up at him, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, and managed a shaky nod.
"Didn't even see it go, m'lord," he mumbled, but Varg's approving grunt seemed to steady him.
"When we're back at Driftwood Hall," Varg continued, his ocean-blue eyes glinting with promise, "you'll go straight to the castellan. Tell him I said to fetch you the finest armor we've got and our sharpest bow. You've earned it. Next raid, you're getting first pick of the concubines, too. Top spoils for the man who saved us."
Varg's lips held a genuine, thankful expression, the kind that promised reward and demanded loyalty in equal measure.
Jory's eyes widened, a flicker of awe cutting through his exhaustion, and he dipped his head, mumbling a hoarse,
"Thank you, m'lord."
The levies were a different story, a pitiful straggle of boys and old men.
They milled about; some stared blankly at the pyre, and others muttered about home. Varg raised his voice, letting it boom across the field.
"You lot fought, and you're alive. Crowl's ruin is yours to plunder. Stick with me, and you'll have loot to carry home."
A few heads lifted, eyes glinting with greed, but others sagged, their will fraying. He signaled his men-at-arms with a sharp gesture, and the crack of whips followed as they herded the reluctant back into line.
Loyalty, even in victory, was fragile after such losses.
"We march back home," he ordered, his gaze sweeping the men.
"Rest, then we move on Deepdown. Crowl's got no warriors left to speak of. We will end them."
His voice carried a hard edge, brooking no dissent. The men shuffled into motion, carts creaking as they rolled toward the original camp where he'd met the old Lord Crowl.
Varg mounted a spare unicorn, its horn chipped but sturdy, and led the way, Torv back at his side.
The original camp where they'd met Lord Crowl came into view, empty and abandoned.
He let his men rest, but only briefly; the march to Driftwood Hall wasn't too far away, and he'd not waste the momentum of this victory.
The march to Driftwood Hall took a bit longer than he'd thought because of his exhausted men, but Varg kept them moving.
Finally, the keep's rough silhouette rose ahead, its walls a grim comfort after the slaughter.
The gates shuddered open, and his weary warband poured into the courtyard, carts creaking, unicorns huffing as stablehands took them.
Varg dismounted and growled for the men to rest, not that they needed to be told.
One day's rest he'd allow. He had a perfect opportunity to finish the Crowls once and for all, and he'd not give them time to rally.
His familiar hall's heat hit him like a fist, the hearth blazing with logs and that familiar smell.
Varg tossed his blood-stiff cloak aside and sank into a driftwood chair.
Servants scurried with bread, soup, and a cup of sour ale, and he feasted until full. Now, sitting and full, he realized how close he'd been to death. Just now, he had time to comprehend it. He wouldn't lie; for a second, he'd truly feared the alternative that most likely would have happened if not for that lucky arrow.
"Fuck! I nearly died!"
His thoughts were cut off when Frelga and Sana stormed into the hall together.
Frelga, his wildling prize and his favorite, led the charge, her eyes gleaming with excitement.
Her dress stretched tight over her swelling belly, the curve of his child rounding her frame into something fuller, softer, yet no less sexy.
Sana followed, a slighter figure, her brown hair sleek and straight, cascading over a slender but fit build.
She had a fox-like grace, her hazel eyes darting with cunning.
Both women stood confidently, as if competing with each other, and Varg reveled in it: their desire for his attention, their rivalry, a fire he stoked with every glance.
For a second, he even forgot about the poison plot. But to be honest, he didn't really want to deal with it. As long as it didn't happen again…
Frelga thrust her chest out, her voice loud and edged with a wildling growl, dripping with perverse zeal.
"Oi, m'lord, you look like death ate you! Bet you loved every bloody second of it, didn't you? What'd you slaughter this time? Something big enough to make me jealous I wasn't there to take the hits?"
She leaned toward him, standing, arms crossed under her heavy breasts, grinning like she'd relish a whipping for asking.
Sana cut in, her tone smoother, sharper, sliding closer to Varg's chair.
"Ignore her bluster, m'lord. You're back, victorious." Her slim fingers brushed his knees, her lithe form contrasting with Frelga's.
Varg barked a laugh, his eyes raking over them both.
"I did 'find' this fine sword." He slapped Ralf's blade at his hip, grinning darkly.
His hands shot out, one clamping Frelga's thickened thigh, the other gripping Sana's narrow waist, pulling them closer.
He savored the difference of Frelga's flesh yielding under his fingers, ripe with his seed, and Sana's fit, slim body.
"Frelga, you're filling out proper," he growled, his palm sliding up to her rounded belly.
"Carrying my brat suits you."
Frelga's eyes flashed, her grin widening with a masochistic thrill.
"Oh, m'lord, you think I'm some sow now?!"
"Right here, I'll birth you a giant of a son!"
She slapped her swollen stomach, laughing too loud, her wild accent thickening.
"Whoever you killed, I bet he screamed pretty. Should've taken me and let me watch, let me feel the shame of missing it!"
She pressed her thigh harder into his grip, daring him to squeeze.
Sana, with jealousy, leaned in, her slender frame brushing his shoulder.
"She'd trip over her own feet to see it, m'lord. I'd rather you be safe, my lord, and have your men kill your enemies. Clever and tidy."
Her fingers trailed his arm, light but possessive, a quiet challenge to Frelga's boisterous nonsense.
Varg's hand on Frelga's thigh dug in until she gasped, his other sliding to Sana's hip, rough enough to make her tense.
His grin was feral, and he yanked them both down, Frelga crashing onto his lap, her weight a warm, chaotic sprawl, Sana perched beside him, her lean form pressed tight. He loved their jostling, their hunger for his favor, a game he'd never tire of.
Then Varg pressed Frelga's mouth with a kiss, then turned to claim Sana's, tasting their differences.
Frelga moaned into it, wild and loud, her nails raking his neck; Sana bit back, sharp and controlled, her grip tightening.
There was something so hot about two women who hated each other yet still wanted to fuck him in a threesome.
He picked them both up as they giggled and hauled them to his chambers, the door banging shut, shedding his tunic to bare his scarred chest.
Frelga's dress fell, revealing her fuller curves, her swollen belly a proud bulge; Sana's followed, her sleek, angular frame showing no sign she'd borne him a son before.
He took them on the furs, a tangle of pleasure. Frelga's wild, untamed bush clashed with Sana's bare, smooth skin as they writhed like beasts in heat.
The chamber echoed with their screams…
Later, they lay sprawled across him, spent and heavy in the firelight. Frelga's hand rested on his chest, nails idly gently scratching his thick skin, while Sana's fingers curled possessively around his arm, her breath slow and steady.
"More battle tomorrow, aye?" Frelga mumbled, her voice thick with glee.
"Smash 'em for me, m'lord!"
The day passed in fantastic rest, but by dusk, Varg stood in the courtyard, the cold gnawing his bones as a hundred and fifty men-at-arms, including his huscarls, and another fresh two hundred levies mustered.
It was all he could spare without baring Driftwood Hall, a razor's edge to end the Crowls. Fortunately, he had that spare iron from the battlefield…
The huscarls, mail-clad and axe-ready, sat astride unicorns; the levies, also armed with mail, spears, and greed, shuffled in line.
Torv walked over, grinning.
"Men are set, m'lord," he said.
"Deepdown will be ours!"
Varg mounted, his new sword gleaming, and shouted,
"We march. Today, the Crowls will be extinguished, their name forgotten! Who's with me?"
"Ura!!"
The roar shook the keep, Deepdown's doom ahead.
If you guys are worrying about the slow pace, don't! When winter comes, time skips will become more common. Especially when Varg becomes more established.