Athalf

Athalf Backstory, Chapter 1: First Raid

Black water streamed past the six skeida: foam-furrows fell in their wake. The winds were kind to the children of Nim. This night, no oar was needed. They flew - silent - on taut sails towards the Hruniak Coast.

Athalf, more nervous than he’d ever admit, nestled into the prow and played idly with his seax. He looked over the lads in the ship, huddled under furs, and the best armour their parents could afford.

Athalf sliced open his thumb, and appraised it one-eyed. Shallow.

He’d trained with them under the watchful eye of Valđi the Ungrǫlr since they were around seven. For ten years they’d been hammered into shape, and tonight the young Nimotheans were to be quenched in blood and tempered with fire. Such had been the custom of Nim since before Atlantis had sunk beneath the very waters they rode.

He stared into the wind as it spilled out from the sail and shivered. He’d decided to fight Án-brynja: without armour. Years ago, it was the norm, or so Valđi would say. How the warriors of today paled to those of his generation. How in his day they each were capable of single-handedly slaughtering dozens. Of giants. Athalf grinned at the memory, despite himself, folded his hands behind his head, and lay back on the figurehead. He knew what Valđi meant: the weak and the stupid would never make it back from the first raid. Only those creatures of pure will, those dominant over all law but their own would be remembered.

The blood from his thumb trickled down his forearm, adding its crimson to the swirling wreaths of ink, ash and ochre that wound their way over his arms and shoulders. Serpentine, the markings ran, as if invoking the ancient god of the land. Vile. Scales and fangs, a forked tongue: perhaps uttering vindictive curses upon its killers’ progeny. Athalf looked down across his interlaced arms proudly. It was just a mighty sea serpent to him. If his father's seer had woven darker flickers of the Dust-Eater into it, Athalf was not conscious of it. Behind him, the land loomed slowly closer.

* * * *

Shrouded in the pre-dawn fog, the longships crunched into the gravel coastline. Athalf caught up his greataxe and the mooring rope, leaping into the shallows. A tree, long-bleached by the salt and sun reached, clawlike, from the stones. He fixed the rope to one of its digits. Athalf’s half-brother Veur strode by, flanked by grim and grey-mailed warriors. The keen amber of his eyes, hungry, peered northward. To Struthin.

Valđi, unspeaking, shoved Athalf back into the battle line. Near to the left flank. Dangerous. Was it pride on his face? Contempt? Both probably. Gravel gave way to clay and long grass as the ten-score reavers stole forward. Forward. Barely a whisper, save the swishing of reeds they trampled.

Veur crouched ahead of the party. One tower. No ramparts behind the palisades. He motioned his men forward. It was little enough movement, but it was enough. The nightwatchman saw them.

Frantic clanging from the tower - the silence so well kept was broken. The Nimotheans surged, cascading up from the weeds. Thundering. Four, soot-blackened, madly ran ahead, sending grappling hooks over the walls, climbing, barely slowed by the wall. They fell on the guard behind the gate, who keeled over, screaming. A seax through the eye. The door bar was removed, and soon Veur and his men were inside the walls.

Struthin guardsmen, roused by that damned bell formed battle lines in the square, the outer town was lost already. All they saw: the smoke and flames of burning thatch, and a bristling wall of shields. Nowhere to run. They had to hold their line.

Athalf’s heart pounded - ears ringing - as he pushed his way into the second rank. Glory or doom today. Only those, he told himself. Now a mere hundred yards from their foes, they stopped. Death-silent at Veur’s uplifted fist. A chill coursed down Athalf’s spine as Valđi, in a tone deep and dreadful, began the blood-hymn.

“Fe vældur frænda rogi...”

Slowly the sons of Nim joined the dirge, striding forward with every word. The sound of arrows and javelins striking wood drowned in the rising chorus. Only the thud of two hundred feet falling in unison was heard above the song.

“...Brot og deilur...”

Athalf felt his fury rising as he sang of strife and ruin. Of a black dawn.

“...Helvíti þín, það byrjar
Reykja svartar í morgun…”

The shield wall slowed its advance as the crescendo lept from the lips of the warriors. The final threat

“...Svarta varir þínar
Blóðið.
Þitt.
Er.
OKKAR!”

With a fell roar, they charged. Shields crashed together, spear shafts snapping with the force of the impact. Somehow the Struthen-men held: their own shield wall was by no means weak. Yet, steel sung, and axes whirled. Blows and blood alike, raining down on the men in front. Struthin spears,ever darting out from behind the front row, held the northerners at bay.

Athalf, pressed forward, screaming death to the militia before him. He dodged a thrown javelin, which sank into the shoulder of the man behind him; blood sprayed on his face. Far to his right, one of the militia had his face opened up. There, a Nimothean’s calf was ripped from his leg by a downward thrust. Every time a man fell, the shield hole was plugged. Athalf’s brow darkened, eyes flashing a mad fire.

A spear sailed through the throat of the man in front of him. Before his body hit the earth, Athalf had taken his place. He pulled his foe’s shield down -hooking with his axe-beard. Athalf slammed his axe forward. He drove its point deep into the stumbling man’s throat. Elation. Glory. His first kill sank down.

Athalf was a demon, cleaving shields and spines. The Northerners pushed into the gap he tore, spilling into the Katagian ranks. Everywhere flew viscera. Athalf ripped through his enemies’ ranks, blocking terrified blows, and returning his own. Spilling entrails, sowing limbs like seed.

He liked it.