An Angel Called Eternity

To Bet on Losing Dogs - Svaltha VI: The Greatest Battle that Never Was

Svaltha VI: The Greatest Battle that Never Was

The Eleventh Day of the Ninth Moon, 873 AD.
Dyfed's Army, The Isanford, Scelopyrea.

Last night had been tense. More than tense, in honesty. For a week proceeding this day there had been feasts every night, both in the Great Jaerls tent and amongst the common soldiery below, but last night's had been... subdued. It had felt less like a feast and more like a funeral. In a way she supposed it had been; by the end of today she had no doubt that a great many of these men and women would be dead.

Or would they?

The Great Jaerl had been bellicose and loud, but not about the battle. He was adamant that he was going to duel the Valkyrie Queen, duel her and best her. If there was any man that could best such a fearsome woman then it was surely Dyfed, but likewise if there was any woman who could best the Great Jaerl then it would surely be the Eyvindottir.

His proud and belligerent demands for a duel had been answered in kind by the woman who commanded the other army across the field, but Svaltha did find it all a little... strange. Given the commands of the Raven-God that still rattled through her head she hoped that what she believed was about to happen was true, that the Great Jaerl's half-mocking comments made towards her about him not being a puppet for the druids were made with true intentions and not a false confidence.

There couldn't be a battle today, no matter how many might have wished otherwise. Krakevasil wished it not.

Strangely enough even her friends had been rather subdued last night. She and Kætil had still maintained their customary ardour, and of course when his mind was on her his thoughts were singular and pleasing, but almost as soon as they were finished he'd retracted in on himself a little. Kætil was a fine warrior, a great one that she doubted she would be able to defeat in a true fight to the death when armour and weaponry were considered, but any man could be laid low at an inopportune moment. It only took one mistake, one bit of bad luck, and everything could come to an end.

She got the feeling, however, that he wasn't actually thinking about that. She got the feeling he was more worried about her, and of course his brothers by his side. Krai and Syren were good men, honest and true to their word, but they weren't Kætil. Again, they were excellent fighters and were likely to have each other's back till the bitter end, but there was no telling when exactly that bitter end might come. Would it be from an axe-stroke or the swing of a sword in the brutal melee, in which case they would be able to protect each other and watch their backs? Or was it more likely that their end would come as a hailstorm of javelins, stopped only by quick reactions and good luck? She didn't know, but she did know that it must have been weighing heavily on the spirits of the three boys she had become so fond of.

It had been easy enough to read Syren, for the man wore his heart on his sleeve, but Krai was... Krai was different. She doubted anyone outside of their little circle would have known something was up with him, since he still seemed as jovial and happy as ever, but the three of them knew better. His words came out too forced, his mannerisms too exaggerated and false. He was trying his best to put their minds at ease, to show them he was fine, but none of them were falling for it. The four of them were scared, and there was no shame in admitting that. Anyone who claimed that it was shameful to admit fear was a fucking idiot, because though they may have all been afraid they were still here on the frontlines of a fucking war. They were afraid but they were still here, because with Krakevasil as their witness, none of them wanted to let down their friends. That wasn't who they were.