Dragons and Princes - [COMPLETE]

2. Eirik

Eirik

In the Winter’s Pines wolves larger than horses battled alongside his men, who were adorned in black armor. Gold swords struck their black swords, and the Freyja drove his people back, fighting like mechanical, emotionless organisms, their precision swift, their agility unmatched but by their great white and golden frey cats. Only the vicious, raw power of his people and their beasts made the wolfmen an even match for the fair Freyja, for pure blood rage drove the wolfmen to tear down foe after foe.

The battle raged on and on, victory swaying closer and closer to either side like the tide as it rose and fell, like waves rippling back and forth. The battle would end only when his enemy's prince was killed--or if he was.

Arrows shot through the rain in the dark, frey cats and wolves roared and howled, and the song of metal on metal courted the cries of pain and the howls of the killing frenzy that set upon the soldiers.  The air itself tasted metallic, and it was heavy with ash and smoke from the flames.

In the trees, golden cats stalked the Fenrir who were being preyed upon below, and all through the woods, the rivers of rainwater were being made red. Lightning blinded him, and thunder deafened him, and the battle raged on through the night. Even when the storm began to abate, turning to a drizzle, the battle raged on.  Eirik's body was fatigued, but he would not give in. Any man who fell from exhaustion was slain, and others who fought to break through the lines to the enemy prince were slain. Everywhere he turned, another fell when slain, and the trees of the Winter’s Pines watched it all, as the burned forest had watched so many other battles before.

Prince Eirik Morganthe rode his midnight horse beside his black wolf, rising from the saddle and abandoning the horse when a lucky frey cat drove through the Fenrir to get at him. The golden claws of the armored war cat had opened the horse’s side, and Eirik had just barely leapt from the screaming horse when the frey cat had lurched upward and taken the horse’s neck with its dagger-like teeth.

He hit the ground and rolled, avoiding the fire that still burned. The impact bruised his side, but he grunted as he scrambled for his sword and rose to his feet. He preferred fighting from the ground anyway, but now he’d have to be much more cautious.

The Morganthe prince snarled when he saw the enemy he intended to kill. He hated this war, and the sooner it was over, the better. Three Dagurs left. Three Morganthes, now that his father and his oldest brother were dead. His wolf was busy fighting another frey cat, one of the younger cats among the Freyja army.  He loved the younger cats--they made for the easiest kills.

Eirik saw Jöra Dagur murder ten Fenrir and a wolf in fluid succession, his stony exterior ever so calculating. The Freyja prince was as young as Eirik was himself, if not younger.  He grimaced, hoping his own blood-eyes would capture Jöra Dagur's blue ones so that he could slay him without ever a need of reaching him, but the blue-eyed killer was too intelligent to let himself gaze into the murderous eyes of a Morganthe.

Eirik was pleased when the Dagur prince's war cat left him in order to drive back the wolves.  It was a dire mistake, sending the cat away.  Freyja who were separated from their armored cats were the easiest to pick off.

Eirik's vision hazed with red, and he hissed through his teeth as his wolf fought off another armored cat before lurching forward for another enemy.  He hadn't much time.  Jöra’s sister, the vicious Princess Faeana, was on her way to double the Freyja’s numbers with her army. If she got here now, he would have to issue a retreat.  This battle had to end now, before more good Fenrir men died to these emotionless abominations who were soulless, and empty, and cold.