Savage Flame

Chapter 12

The battle was vicious, filled with the screams of the slain and avengers. Blood seeped into the soils of the Einarsson Kingdom as souls ascended to Valhalla, and to Hel beneath. Mongolian barbarians swept like death through their opponents, raining hellfire down from the thunderous heavens, the sound snarling through the Einarsson Valley. The newly returned King, flanked by his knights, fought their invaders without pause, even as their limbs soon began to tire. They were immensely outnumbered, surrounded by their own dying soldiers and the expanding plague of savages.

Leoric found himself failing to block every advance against him, his knights taking the weight for him again and again but they too were tired. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Baard knocked to his knees by an enemy invader, their wild eyes gleaming with murder as they raised their blades to strike the knight down. With a cry, Leoric, heart surging with fear and anguish, sprang upon the man and severed his head from his body, the King panting as he stood guard over his fallen friend, Baard's body unmoving on the ground.

Suddenly, a lone horn blew, sweeping through the battlefield like an earthquake. The Einarsson soldiers paused their fighting and looked towards the cliff-sides that overlooked the Valley, the tone oddly familiar. Leoric and his knights too squinted towards the bellow of the sound. A piercing beam of sunlight broke through the thunderclouds, blue sky in its wake, burning the darkness that had stained the Einarsson Kingdom. More and more horns echoed until it was a myriad of octaves announcing the heavenly rays of Valhalla shining from above. At the crest of the Valley stood a character of red-blonde hair atop a white horse, golden armor blinding each and every onlooker from below. The wind pulled at the figure's hair free of its cord, and the curtain of red-blonde warrior braids whipped in the Valley's gusts. A flicker of metal was unsheathed from their side, a familiar looking blade pointing maliciously at the intruders; instantaneously, a loud tremor shook the air and horsemen of similar garb and weaponry surrounded the battle from every angle. A vicious war cry roar echoed from the red-blonde warrior and with their heavenly army, they charged into battle, cleaving the darkness with each blade.

Leoric was stunned by the sudden rescue of unfamiliar warriors, but their assistance fueled his heart with courage and newly found strength, and he launched himself back into the fight, his knights inspired by their saviors and their King as well. The rightful Einarsson heir to the throne split his enemies down the middle with the ire of his sword, his Viking training aiding him through the swarm of Mongolians. His eyes found the Witchling savagely slicing through his soldiers with her scythe blades, and his blood roiled, a war cry alerting her militants to his presence. They launched themselves at him, but were soon cut down by his wicked maneuvers. However, the path to the Witchling became further and further out of reach, and soon, Leoric found himself alone and surrounded.

A powerful neigh sounded beside him and the assailants around him were annihilated by the lead warrior that had come to his rescue. The figure vaulted from the horse and slew any who flung themselves in their direction. When the Witchling was again in sight, the figure wrenched off their helmet, and Leoric nearly fell to his knees. "Sigrid," his voice trembled, tears tracing down his dirt-caked, blood-speckled cheeks.

"Brother." Her voice was tender and strong, the fierce woman standing with the pride of her Viking heritage singing through her blood. The sunlight that reflected off her golden armor hued the blonde of her red hair as striking as a queen in all her glory.

"But- but how?" Leoric felt lost, his heart clenching with the memory of watching his sister be taken away by the despicable English King's men to establish an alliance through marriage. He'd never forgotten the look of helplessness in her eyes as the English ship pulled out of the Fjord and he never saw her again. Until now.

Her mouth opened, but her widening eyes and cry of anguish was too late as a sharp pain stabbed through his side and a savage blade penetrated his chest. The King collapsed, blood erupting from his fatal wound and his sister scrambling to cushion his fall. Alaz-Vahşi stood above the fallen king, his blood oozing off her deadly sabre, and a look of triumph in her eyes. "This is my kingdom!" she savagely snarled, cackling as the foreign warrior rose to attack her with death in her frozen glare, metal clashing together and ringing through the air. The scream of the foreign warrior had alerted the King's knights to his side, looks of utter defeat and sorrow filling their eyes at the sight of their befallen king.

The two women fought in a blur of power and malice, one with Viking blood and the other with savage flame. Alaz-Vahşi sneered at the Viking woman, "Your attempt of rescue has come down to nothing! You will soon bow to my blade, just like your-" A strange gurgle spurred from the Witchling's throat, blood bubbling from a sword prodding from her leather attire. The Mongolian woman fell to her knees, eyes wide as she beheld her assassin.

Enkh-Amgalan stood over his sister, panting as his blade lowered to his side. Sir Amund whirled honorably behind him, protecting his back. The Knight and Ally, brethren at last. The Mongolian held eye contact with his sister before he slit her throat, the Witchling doomed to suffer, choking on her own blood. The Viking woman admired the treason that sang through the Mongolian's spirit, noting the protective nature of the man's heart as he took his place fighting at the knight's back.

At his side, Sigrid cradled her brother's head in her lap, her tears dissolving into his blood-soaked chest. The war around them was dull to their senses, their knights joining together to form a protective ring around the pair.

Suddenly, a wave of black power swept every soldier off their feet, Mongolian and Viking alike. A singular man towered over the fallen, his shadow stretching to block the sun of its light, enveloping the Kingdom in darkness. His aura was terrifying, his stature wide with menacing muscle and eyes blacker than the earthen abyss beneath the castle. As he stepped, the earth shook, as if in fear of his gait. Two figures stood to greet him, his twin children bowing low before him. In an abrupt turn of events, the man sliced down their bodies and retrieved their transparent chi, his body pulled into the thunderous clouds that flashed threateningly. An eerie power pulsed from beneath his clothes, a heavy chain with a dark red gemstone revealing itself to the world that trembled below. Chinggis Alkan beckoned the chi of his willing children to him, the Ratnaraj seeking and absorbing their awaiting power. The Mongolian leader's eyes hued red like the power encircling him, and he descended with deadly intent, aiming for the fallen king.