Chapter Text
The sky was grey. Dull, old and grey. As it always had been and always would be. And from this dull, grey sky floated down melancholic snow, fine to drift with the wind as it grew closer and closer until it dropped t the ground, where it would forever lay, waiting. Until spring came, and it would thaw, rising as water and repeating it all again.
All was white and grey. Boring. Unchanging.
Nearby was something just as white and grey. Its body was covered in white fur over thick muscle, perfect for what it was currently doing. Throwing itself headfirst against a warrior, clad in mail and iron, and launching them through the trees and into a drift of snow. Quickly stumbling out of the pile, patting at their belt, they were just in time to see the beast’s tusks charging before them and dived, slamming right back into the snow as it roared past, unable to stop. They stood shakily, grasping their bearded axe in two hands, their shield shattered on the ground. The beast turned slowly, eyeing them with pure hatred, cuts oozing blood from its hide. All they'd done was piss it off. It gave another below and charged, spraying snow as it careened towards them. Yet the warrior held their ground, staring right back. It smashed through the snow drift-
FWOOM
Fire blasted under the beast's leathery foot, exploding from the bottles the warrior had left within. It screamed, reeling back as its thick pelt was reduced to blackened skin, the flames rushing across its side like a starved dog. And in its panic, it didn't see the warrior rush forward, or the gleam of the axe blade as it swung down.
But it definitely felt its throat open as the axe struck. Its scream became pained gargles as it reared back, falling into the snow with a resounding thud. Snow filled the air, stained with red, as a last choked breath escaped its mouth. Then, it lay still.
The helmed warrior collapsed to the ground, breathing heavily. A cursory look confirmed that, yes, the beast was dead, a shudder running through its corpse as gas began to escape. It'd be a while before that stopped, so they had time to relax. With a hefty sigh, they sat up, removing their helm to reveal a long mane of blonde hair and green eyes. They wiped their brow of sweat, flicking it at the ground. With a grimace, they took another look at their dead foe. Given the distance to the sledge, the beast’s size, the need for evidence…
This was gonna take a while.
~ ~ ~
A thud shook the tavernkeeper's body, turning back from cleaning glasses to a very snow-covered and very smelly warrior, glaring at him from under matte blonde hair whilst leaning on the rotting head of a northern Tremum. Chuckling lightly, he placed the glass down and walked over, setting his arms on the bar.
“Mordred! Good to see you! I see you managed to fell that bloody thing after all.”
“Yeah,” Mordred growled, green eyes still glaring. “No thanks to your shitty directions. You had me miles from where the thing was.”
“Hey, come now. These things have massive ranges; I can’t be fully accurate.”
“Sure. Just gimme my payment.”
“Oh, of course, don't worry. Jus’ lemme get it for you.” With that, he dived down from the countertop, going through a back door. Mordred just sighed and took a seat, poking at the Tremum’s tusk roots. Its tusks were sat back at his cart, and should hopefully fetch a good price at some market down south with the Geats, are even further down south with the Danes in Skåneland. Quickly growing bored, he gazed around the dingy tavern. There were few people, not a surprise this far north, and from the conversations, they seemed to mostly be Swedes. Most seemed to just be travellers.
There were a few, however, who caught his eye. Or more, their clothing did. Mixes of gambeson and leather. Dressing like that meant you expected trouble. Or to cause it.
There were greater concerns to be had, however, as the tavernkeeper returned with a pouch, placing it in front of Mordred. He opened up the rope tie, counting the coins.
…
“The fuck is this?”
“Your money. As agreed-” Mordred smashed his fist against the bar, small wood splinters flying about.
“50. Penning. That was the agreed amount. This is 30. Where’s the other 20.”
“Well, you see, that was for the contract being completed within 2 weeks, which you didn’t do. Now, if you’d just read the writing at the bottom-”
“You fucker!” Mordred grabbed him by the collar pulling him over the counter and to his face. “I wasted all that time because you can’t tell left from right, you slimy bastard. Now give me what I’m owed, or you’ll be losing a lot more than 20 pennings.”
“Hey, hey, know!” The tavernkeeper grabbed his wrists, panicked. “We don’t want trouble, do we. Trouble isn't good round here.” He looked past Mordred, who followed his gaze. Those men in armour he’d seen were now staring him down.
“Fuck,” he hissed between gritted teeth.
“Listen, how about we raise it 5 pennings. 35 pennings! I’m tryin’ to be generous here!” Mordred silently turned back, glaring at the old man, who winced under his stair. But, then, he let the man go.
“Fine. Five pennings more.” The tavernkeeper nodded feverishly, ducking back through the door and returning quickly with 5 more coins, dropping them into the pouch. Though not fully satisfied, Mordred took it all the same. It’d at least cover the costs of the job. He made sure to knock the Tremum’s head off the counter as he left the tavern, though. Just to make a little mess on the floor. Not because he was annoyed, of course
It didn’t take long to get out of the tiny outpost, what with it being three buildings and a well. Hopping on his horse, a stallion he’d managed to purchase from a Norse settlement that could bear the cold, he began to ride off, plodding along with his cart behind him, He’d ride till the day was gone, then sleep in the cart. There was enough firewood for several nights of warmth, at least until he was far enough south to not need it.
Little changed as he rode. The sun slowly began to kiss the horizon, casting the sky in shades of purple and red, orange and pink. Little snow fell, though the wind still bit at his skin, prompting Mordred to pull his cloak around his neck. His mail lay in the carriage, along with his helm, the metal not great for warmth. Instead, he relied on his wolfskin cloak, along with woollen mittens and coif. As he rode further onwards, the twilight only grew colder.
But the cold wasn’t the only thing the wind carried. Faintly, Mordred could hear it. Carried to him by the breeze behind.
Hooves in the snow.
Turning, he could see dots, faintly in the distance, riding towards him. Quickly. You didn't ride with that speed if you wanted to survive here in the endless tundra - or at least, if you wanted your horse to. Not unless you had somewhere to return to nearby.
And that settlement had had stables…
Knowing trying to pretend he hadn't seen them was pointless, Mordred came to a stop, working quickly to fish his gear from the cart, replacing wool for iron. Taking his bearded axe, he positioned himself at the end of his cart, leaning on it, with a bag of chosen potions hidden under furs. It would only take a few minutes for the group to arrive. Mordred’s hunch was right.
The men from the tavern. Some of them, at least, dressed in the same armour and now brandishing various weapons, some cruder than others. One even had a farmer’s scythe. There was a clear outlier, though, a man with a simple mace, extravagant among his kin, and wearing a shirt of mail, smaller than Mordred’s. He rode to their head, eyeing him with contempt from under his nasal helm. Mordred raised his brow under his own helm, an iron skull cap with cheek guards.
“We don’ like strangers ‘round ‘ere. Especially if they make trouble for the tavern keep.”
“I see. Well, that should be okay. Cause I’m heading down south now, so no more making trouble for you, as long as no one looks for it.”
“Yeah? Well, you’ve alrea’y made trouble. So, we gotta deal with ya for tha’.” With those words, the men brandished their weapons, clubs and axes galore. Mordred just shook his head, picking up his axe.
“You lot must be really stupid, or being paid a lot by that tavernkeeper.”
There was a few tense moments of silence, as the horses stamped restlessly, their riders indecisive. Until suddenly, one of them charged, long knife raised as he rode head-on.
That was his first mistake.
Spinning his body to the side, Mordred readied himself, axe to the ground. And, with a speed and strength greater than his stature would give, he swung, the axe tearing clean through the horse's neck before the rider could swing his weapon down, throwing him and the animal’s corpse to the ground. He’d join it quickly, as the blade fell on his head before he could even pull his knife from the snow. With the glint of a wolf on the hunt, Mordred turned back to the men, grinning.
“Well? He take all your courage?”
They idled for a moment, unsure of what to do or what plan to follow. But the uneasiness was quickly broken by their leader, who stepped off his horse, indicating for the others to do so. They formed an arch in front of Mordred, still with his back to the cart, staring him down as he stared back.
Then, they charged as one.
Mordred was ready at first, blocking strike and deflecting swing, bringing his own blade down to bear. But the numbers, even whittled down by a strike to the arm and a swing to the neck, were still overwhelming, and quickly Mordred took a blow from a club to the head, sending him smashing into the cart. He was not done yet, however, blocking the next strike with his axe, splintering the handle, and bringing the now too short head down on the woman’s neck, embedding between her neck and shoulder. Another man fell to the rest of his handle, splintering over his skull with a sickening crunch. Reaching for his waist, Mordred pulled his shortsword and readied himself, looking upon the remaining bandits.
And spotting two more riders in the distance.
There was a time limit now.
Rushing those he could see, Mordred swung, stabbed and parried, taking and giving blows as his mail and skull cap held against the onslaught, barely able to move through the deep snow. He was stuck in the heat of battle and barely registered the plodding hoofs until he felt a pain in his gut. Then, he was in the air, smashing into the nearby snow as his helmet fell nearby, along with his sword. Carefully, he stumbled up, a pain in his side telling his head that at least one rib was definitely broken. He looked up at his attacker, the leader, who’d managed to reach and ride his horse, grinning with blood-specked mace in hand. Morder tried to make some quip but found his breath caught in his throat, unable to give more than a raspy noise.
“Hmph. Looks like the stranger hasn’ got anythin’ else ta say, does he.” Mordred hissed, trying to steady his breathing as the man approached, mace ready. “Welp, think this is the end for ya, ma-” His last words barely registered as words to Mordred, instead sounding like a gargled mess. Asa if he was trying to speak through a glass of wine.
Then he fell into the snow, an arrow jutting from his neck.
Whistles filled the sky, the glints of more arrows like stars as they rained down, the screams of men and women ducking for cover joining the twilight chorus. A chorus that lasted for mere seconds, as the last of them fell, and silence reigned supreme. Until it was met by a new set of hooves against the snow, coming round from the other side of the cart.
The first was an older man, face obscured by a pair of sun goggles and long, dark blonde hair falling all over the place. He also seemed to be the one responsible for the arrows, carrying a large longbow. Behind him rode what appeared to be a woman, though Mordred couldn't fully tell under the layers of mail and iron she wore, wielding a massive war hammer to match her size. Whether truly friend or for, he couldn’t tell.
Nor would he, as the pain and exhaustion finally found him, as did his face find the snow.
…
“Well. That’s annoying.”
The pair dropped to the ground, walking over to Mordred’s unconscious form. The man sighed, and turned to the woman, signing with his hands. She nodded and jogged over to the cart and horse, checking on and soothing the horse, before climbing onto the front, taking the reigns. Meanwhile, the man picked up Mordred, alongside his sword and helm, placing him and his items in the back and covering him with the furs. Leading the horses to the side of the cart, he joined his friend in the front. She’d removed her helm, revealing pink hair and a single horn from her forehead. Removing his own head and scarf, the man’s mane of dark blonde hair and his goatee were clearly visible.
“You sure this kid’s special, Fran.” He signed, to which she nodded. He sighed, leaning back as she struck the reigns, giving a whistle to which the other horses began to follow. Deciding he might as well be doing something, the man inspected his bow - a Shishigou heirloom. As expected, nothing wrong. With his options used up, he leaned back once more, removing his snow goggles as the last light left and closing his eyes, furs wrapped close.
Hopefully, the next settlement would have some better drink.