North men are wild.
Welsh -men are savage.
Avoid the folk of the isles
And oh how the Irish rage
No hope for the heathen
But in hell's own burning fires
Or in Je-su returned from the grave.
Biar had heard a drunken man at a market in Hedeby repeating this rhyme. Grenden said the man was from Burgundi. He was dressed in a woolen tunic with bits of armour on his shoulders and large silver cross on a chain around his neck. Biar thought it was silly display so much silver like that, but Grenden pointed out that the man looked ready for a fight and the rough men around him were dressed in a similar fashion.
Biar did not see his people as savage what did Romans know any way? They didn't believe in things like giants, or trolls, dismissing them as myth and story, fit to scare children in to behaving, their own heathen gods had lost lost there sway, and when a man with a bit of giant blood presented himself in one of their own stories they put him off as an evil godless anomaly. In battle warriors could be savage especially when the berserk took them, and all men could act like beasts when blood lust was upon them. He had heard stories from many places of the battle rage and the terrible things that desperation could drive a person to. Gundred said it was important not to let anger be a dominant factor when one was in the grip of the war god. Biar had killed a few men in his thirteen year old span. His first one in defense, and another in anger as revenge was sought on the neighboring tribe both were terrible and had made him sick. Once he had helped to slay a troll that had wandered down from the far far north and had eaten some ponies and badly injured a child.
The men that were swarming over the hill now, they were barbaric or so it seemed to Biar though not as savage as the troll had been. "The Cymru" Gundred quickly explained as he snatched up his shield and spear, motioning for Grenden to follow. These warriors were clothed in rough boiled leather painted green and blue and hung about with fur. Some had stag antlers on there helm or heads and mottled war paint covered any exposed skin. Biar had been told to stay with the supply along with a hand full of the rough men who sailed the merchant knorr. He had mixed feelings about this. The goods he would guard could keep one hundred and eighty sailors alive for as long as it would take to build a long house with a burg. But his adrenaline was high and his stomach turned as Jarl Voromund rumbled by on his great war horse a brown stallion that was trained to bite you, a horse from somewhere in Iberia, Biar knew. In truth Biar did not like the ax-dance, it was always a few moments of terror desperately trying to avoid being chopped down or hacked apart. The insides of a man when exposed to air smelled most vile, and the pain that followed any fight was terrible to him, but his friends and companions were in danger and here he was with an important job but a dull one. They would win this fight. Biar could plainly see, the opposing force now numbered around fifty or so, and Voromund had three ships worth of seasoned men from all over the north.
Two shield walls were forming now. Grumm the Dane stood in the small space between them. His dull yellow shield almost six feet across and his axe nine feet tall, giant blood there was no mistaking it. Grenden scrambled up behind him with a sack of throwing axes that he would hand to the huge blond man until they were gone or the frey surged around him. Biar saw him glance around making sure that Gundred was there with his long spear and solid iron hammer. Voromund and the other members of the noble party drew there horses up in the small space between the walls along with Ovarson who was flying the Earls banner, a helm of power painted pale blue on foreign silk waving above his own eagle talon a jagged black rune that took the form of an upside down protective tree on a field of costly red. Biar climbed up on one of the carts to get a better view of the initial clash. It came with a brutal clash and screaming war cries. the two sides came together, the Cymru leaping high as if they would fly over the stout lines of round shields. Grumm let fly two axes, one of them hurting a fierce tribes man and stopping his forward charge. Most of the Cymru were flung back into there brothers behind them, a few stuck to the wall for an instant before the northern spears were yanked back and they twitched to the ground gouting bright blood. Their intial charge checked the Cymru paused to reasses the stout lines of shield men. They formed into a ragged line of their own, clashing spears and bronze swords against a few shields of their own. Vorumund rode forward and issued a challenge, the Skald hurrying forward as well to offer translation.
"We have no fight with you. We are not here to savage your land. We but seek council with the Lady of this isle. We also offer iron and silver, I have fur and oil that burns. If we fight, hardy men will die and your'e Oak-King will weep tonight." He tried to keep it short and too a point. Invoking the Oak-king was a bold move, yet Voromund was not afraid to call upon the local deities and often did so in order to avoid blood shed. In truth Voromund did not like war and raiding as much as legends said. It was the exploring that was in his blood. Of necessity he had learned to fight, to gain the respect of his men, to earn gold for adventures, to keep his name upon the lips of as many folk as he could and most important to secure the well being of his people and aide his brother in preserving the clan and country they were charged with keeping safe.
An old man used a gnarled staff to make his way forward. A druid priest and by the gold circle about his crown "Who are you to invoke the ancient one?"
The old mans eye were sharp and his speach clear and full of rich power but his nose was clearly Roman and he seemed to be short like the men of Italia. Strange for a priest of the oak king, but all knew the legions had been here for along time. Grenden had spotted a broken down watch tower on a small island to the west called Caer Y Twr that was clearly marked on Gundred's map. The old magician spoke Norse with a strange accent and his staff bore a golden sun burst like the one beneath the Roman Eagle. Biar and Grenden had seen a likeness of one hanging in the hall of Se-ax lord. He shuffled forward approaching Voromund with an open palm. "I see you are not Irish raiders which is what our warriors thought you were. Though North Folk have a fierce reputation and more than one has played mercenary to the Irish." His sharp eyes flitted to Ovarson and the banners then beyond to Biar and the few men of the knorr. "You say you are unwilling to fight? That is strange, you seem well equipped for it, and I see the evidence before me." He swept his golden staff in an arc over the three dead Cymru his sharp eyes sad. "Men are ever quick to the blade and ever to their sorrow."
Vorumund, seeing no immediate threat from the native defenders threw down his spear. All along the shield walls of the north spears clattered to the verdant forest floor. Though axes and swords were kept ready.
The aged speaker for the Cymru turned to the ragged line and spoke them in their local dialect. Voromunds Skald only knew Latin, Briton, and a common German tongue which they used for trading along the Rhine and conversing with the hoards of Sax Lords along the coast of the
Welsh -men are savage.
Avoid the folk of the isles
And oh how the Irish rage
No hope for the heathen
But in hell's own burning fires
Or in Je-su returned from the grave.
Biar had heard a drunken man at a market in Hedeby repeating this rhyme. Grenden said the man was from Burgundi. He was dressed in a woolen tunic with bits of armour on his shoulders and large silver cross on a chain around his neck. Biar thought it was silly display so much silver like that, but Grenden pointed out that the man looked ready for a fight and the rough men around him were dressed in a similar fashion.
Biar did not see his people as savage what did Romans know any way? They didn't believe in things like giants, or trolls, dismissing them as myth and story, fit to scare children in to behaving, their own heathen gods had lost lost there sway, and when a man with a bit of giant blood presented himself in one of their own stories they put him off as an evil godless anomaly. In battle warriors could be savage especially when the berserk took them, and all men could act like beasts when blood lust was upon them. He had heard stories from many places of the battle rage and the terrible things that desperation could drive a person to. Gundred said it was important not to let anger be a dominant factor when one was in the grip of the war god. Biar had killed a few men in his thirteen year old span. His first one in defense, and another in anger as revenge was sought on the neighboring tribe both were terrible and had made him sick. Once he had helped to slay a troll that had wandered down from the far far north and had eaten some ponies and badly injured a child.
The men that were swarming over the hill now, they were barbaric or so it seemed to Biar though not as savage as the troll had been. "The Cymru" Gundred quickly explained as he snatched up his shield and spear, motioning for Grenden to follow. These warriors were clothed in rough boiled leather painted green and blue and hung about with fur. Some had stag antlers on there helm or heads and mottled war paint covered any exposed skin. Biar had been told to stay with the supply along with a hand full of the rough men who sailed the merchant knorr. He had mixed feelings about this. The goods he would guard could keep one hundred and eighty sailors alive for as long as it would take to build a long house with a burg. But his adrenaline was high and his stomach turned as Jarl Voromund rumbled by on his great war horse a brown stallion that was trained to bite you, a horse from somewhere in Iberia, Biar knew. In truth Biar did not like the ax-dance, it was always a few moments of terror desperately trying to avoid being chopped down or hacked apart. The insides of a man when exposed to air smelled most vile, and the pain that followed any fight was terrible to him, but his friends and companions were in danger and here he was with an important job but a dull one. They would win this fight. Biar could plainly see, the opposing force now numbered around fifty or so, and Voromund had three ships worth of seasoned men from all over the north.
Two shield walls were forming now. Grumm the Dane stood in the small space between them. His dull yellow shield almost six feet across and his axe nine feet tall, giant blood there was no mistaking it. Grenden scrambled up behind him with a sack of throwing axes that he would hand to the huge blond man until they were gone or the frey surged around him. Biar saw him glance around making sure that Gundred was there with his long spear and solid iron hammer. Voromund and the other members of the noble party drew there horses up in the small space between the walls along with Ovarson who was flying the Earls banner, a helm of power painted pale blue on foreign silk waving above his own eagle talon a jagged black rune that took the form of an upside down protective tree on a field of costly red. Biar climbed up on one of the carts to get a better view of the initial clash. It came with a brutal clash and screaming war cries. the two sides came together, the Cymru leaping high as if they would fly over the stout lines of round shields. Grumm let fly two axes, one of them hurting a fierce tribes man and stopping his forward charge. Most of the Cymru were flung back into there brothers behind them, a few stuck to the wall for an instant before the northern spears were yanked back and they twitched to the ground gouting bright blood. Their intial charge checked the Cymru paused to reasses the stout lines of shield men. They formed into a ragged line of their own, clashing spears and bronze swords against a few shields of their own. Vorumund rode forward and issued a challenge, the Skald hurrying forward as well to offer translation.
"We have no fight with you. We are not here to savage your land. We but seek council with the Lady of this isle. We also offer iron and silver, I have fur and oil that burns. If we fight, hardy men will die and your'e Oak-King will weep tonight." He tried to keep it short and too a point. Invoking the Oak-king was a bold move, yet Voromund was not afraid to call upon the local deities and often did so in order to avoid blood shed. In truth Voromund did not like war and raiding as much as legends said. It was the exploring that was in his blood. Of necessity he had learned to fight, to gain the respect of his men, to earn gold for adventures, to keep his name upon the lips of as many folk as he could and most important to secure the well being of his people and aide his brother in preserving the clan and country they were charged with keeping safe.
An old man used a gnarled staff to make his way forward. A druid priest and by the gold circle about his crown "Who are you to invoke the ancient one?"
The old mans eye were sharp and his speach clear and full of rich power but his nose was clearly Roman and he seemed to be short like the men of Italia. Strange for a priest of the oak king, but all knew the legions had been here for along time. Grenden had spotted a broken down watch tower on a small island to the west called Caer Y Twr that was clearly marked on Gundred's map. The old magician spoke Norse with a strange accent and his staff bore a golden sun burst like the one beneath the Roman Eagle. Biar and Grenden had seen a likeness of one hanging in the hall of Se-ax lord. He shuffled forward approaching Voromund with an open palm. "I see you are not Irish raiders which is what our warriors thought you were. Though North Folk have a fierce reputation and more than one has played mercenary to the Irish." His sharp eyes flitted to Ovarson and the banners then beyond to Biar and the few men of the knorr. "You say you are unwilling to fight? That is strange, you seem well equipped for it, and I see the evidence before me." He swept his golden staff in an arc over the three dead Cymru his sharp eyes sad. "Men are ever quick to the blade and ever to their sorrow."
Vorumund, seeing no immediate threat from the native defenders threw down his spear. All along the shield walls of the north spears clattered to the verdant forest floor. Though axes and swords were kept ready.
The aged speaker for the Cymru turned to the ragged line and spoke them in their local dialect. Voromunds Skald only knew Latin, Briton, and a common German tongue which they used for trading along the Rhine and conversing with the hoards of Sax Lords along the coast of the
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