261 AC
Varg
The weather was pretty shit today Varg thought as he rode to the most eastern parts of his realm. His unicorn trudged through the muck, its hooves sinking into the dirt.
His captain Torv rode beside him, hood up against the rain. Then followed his twenty huscarls in tight formation behind him.
Their unicorns snorted and tossed heads against the weather while his three hundred men-at-arms marched in Roman-style tight formation with their shields slung over their backs. The shield's metal parts caught faint glints of light.
Finally, hundreds of levies trailed behind them, marching without proper form or discipline. Older men and boys with spears and pitchforks in their fists and barely any armour to speak off followed.
His lands were wild and unmarked with no damn boundary to show where his house rule faded and Crowl's began. Varg mostly only directly ruled his keep and the villages surrounding it. Everything else was only nominally under his control.
'I don't even have bloody ravens for fuck's sake! Down south, those nobles lords over their with their sprawling fiefs and raven messengers. Me? I'm stuck sending riders! That's why my grip's tight around the keep and the piss poor villages nearby. Beyond that?' Varg passionately thought out loud.
Varg tilted his head toward Torv to distract him from his annoyance. His only conversation buddy.
"No ravens, no sense of who's who out here. I bet these mud huts still think my grandfather is the lord."
Torv laughed out loud.
"I'd wager half these sods don't even care. Give me a week though, I could…" Torv stopped for a second, clearly half-joking.
"I could have my boys carve your sigil into their doors, lord," he said in an obviously joking voice, half serious.
Varg's lips twitched.
"Hmm, good idea! Why not? What's your trick, ah first beat 'em 'til they cheer my name?"
Torv leaned closer. His grin widened as he prepared to reveal his plan. Torv's grin stretched so wide it threatened to split his scarred face. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned in, his voice low like he was sharing his biggest secret.
"Nah m'lord, thumping's too much work. I'd round up my lads, sneak into their villages at midnight, and nab every last granny, wife, even the goats if they're picky. Lock 'em in a barn and quiz 'em on your name, rank, and favourite ale."
Varg's laugh roared throughout the march.
It took some time, but they topped a low rise, and the Crowl camp sprawled into view below. It was a ragged knot of tents hugging a fire. Their banners flew in the sky. Varg thought its design quite ugly. Three red jagged shapes on a black field, as if some half-drunk raider had scratched it out with a stick.
Then Varg's gaze slid to his own standard, held high by his bannerman at his side. It, on the other hand, was a weirwood tree on a green background, simple but sleek. It reminded him of the Kingdom of Gondor banner. And what is cooler than Numenoreans? Nothing! That's what.
"Mine's got dignity, theirs looks like shit," he muttered, dismounting into mud that sucked at his boots, thick and cold up to his shins.
Crowl men watched him from the camp's edge with their axes. Their eyes narrowed and wary, no softer or sharper than his own lot. He jerked his chin at Torv.
"Keep our boys sharp. No tricks."
Torv's grin flashed as he barked an order, and the huscarls spread out. Their hands rested on huge axes, with rain dripping from their helms.
Once, Varg's warband camped out near the Crowl camp, and after some communication between camps, a neutral place was arranged for the meet-up. Varg strode through the mud toward a tent with Torv and two lieutenants. They were broad-shouldered huscarls with taut bearded faces. Vilk and Fark were their names.
Once they got inside, Varg saw Lord Crowl slouched against a gnarled cane. He was a hunched relic with a beard and a hacking cough that annoyed Varg. What Varg assumed were his three sons stood behind him. Unlike their father, they were lean and strong, with sword hilts on them. Their eyes flicked over Varg with cold appraisal as if judging Varg.
Unlike in the North and the Southern realms. Skagos doesn't have minor nobility, landless nobles, or knights. It's all very tribal in that sense. If there is anyone here, it would be his kin who were nobles.
The greybeard Crowl's gaze locked on him first, bright and piercing. It reminded Varg of how his father used to look at him.
"You're the Grul's thrall born whelp, eh? Your old man smashed my nose flat once back when we were young and fit. Where's your father now, boy?"
Varg straightened his back. His six-foot-three frame towered. Varg was furious with the disrespect. This old fossil dared to insult his equal!
"Did you invite me here to insult me?"
Crowl's cough broke into laughter. His cane tapped the packed earth as he leaned forward.
"Hah! Easy lad, I ain't here to poke your pride 'til it bleeds. Just marvelin' how personally how far my old rival sank, leavin' a thrall born whelp to pick up his scraps. No offence meant mind you, I've shat bigger grudges than that." He waved a gnarled hand, smirking through yellowed teeth.
"Two thousand Magnars squat south of the pass, ready to carve us both into stew. We might despise each other's stench but I'm not so blind I can't see we're fucked without a truce. Got my boys here…" He jerked his head toward his sons, lingering on the eldest, a tall, thick prick. "…whisperin' sense into my deaf ears. They reckon we team up or we're goat food."
The eldest son met his father's glance. His lips twitched into a smug half-smirk. A map unrolled across a wobbly table, its edges curling. Skagos's southern reaches were scratched in rough lines. The greybeard's son's finger stabbed a narrow valley. His touch was firm, leaving a faint dent in the damp parchment.
"While they're still mustering here. We hit fast, my six hundred, your four hundred, before they bulk up to two thousand. You flank 'em, we crush 'em flat."
Crowl's eldest son, a wiry bastard with a sneer twisting his thin lips, leaned in. His voice was sharp as a whipcrack. Both parties further discussed the battle plan before reaching a favourable agreement.
"Done then. Done." Their hands clasped, Crowl's grip bony but stubborn.
Torv shifted at his back. His scarred hand brushed his axe haft. A low grunt escaped him as he eyed the Crowl sons.
"Slippery lot m'lord," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Varg to catch. "I'd trust 'em as far as I'd trust my Helga with a full cask of mead."
Varg didn't comment but kept his gaze on Crowl, stepping back into the rain as the tent flap slapped shut behind them. Outside, the camp buzzed with a sense of tension. Crowl's men sharpened their axes and spears while his own troops stood ready, rain streaking their faces.
He went back onto his unicorn. Mud splattered his cloak as he glanced at Torv.
"Double the watch tonight. If they feel slippery, we'll be ready."
Torv's grin stretched wide, a gleam of relish in his eyes.
"Just in case, my lord, I'll sleep with one eye open."
The ride back to their own camp wasn't far away. His mind churned, replaying tomorrow's battle plans and the Crowls. They had an alliance of convenience, not something guaranteed to hold after the battle. His spies did confirm a sizeable force assembling, so that was no lie.
Then again, Skagos thrived on betrayal as much as the South. He'd need to be careful for any suspicious activities and keep one hand on his spear.
Hail, Vikings! Late update today. Classes held me back, argh! Now I'm free, and I need YOU! Drop a quick review. Thousands of you roam my ranks, but I'm calling TEN bold huscarls to step up and claim the honor! Who's with me? Agh, I forgot one thing: each of you will get the third-best pick of some next raid wildlings. ;)