Something Stolen (Paused)

Prologue

He ran for the beach, the sounds of those who chased him rapidly drawing near. Ivor ducked under branches that tried to behead him and leaped over uneven terrain that attempted to trip him, even though he knew his efforts were in vain. He knew for a fact that his brethren had already boarded the warship and departed, yet he spurred himself onward with little hope of this not being the case. Cross bolts made their marks upon the bodies of trees which he expertly weaved through, the smell of the sea intensifying with every inhale, the forest's density thinning.

Just as Ivor thought he would be captured before he was able to see the shimmering blue of the ocean a final time, his feet found white sand, the grains shifting from under his feet with each propelled stride. The waves of the sea curled, beckoning him to the edge of the water to confirm his fear. The warship was far beyond the shallows, sails shrinking in the distance. They hadn't left a single raft on the beach. Surely his brethren would have noticed his empty place on the bench, his well-used oar left unclaimed.

He slowed to a staggering halt, barely noticing that he now stood shin-deep in the water, it's chilled presence rushing past him with white clusters of foam while the tide came in.

His enemies, some of which were mere farmers, finally caught up to the panting seamen, forming a semi-circle around him. They used the endless waters he stood in as a way of pinning their enemy in place, knowing that he wouldn't have the time nor the strength to swim against the tide. However, they were sure to keep their distance from him, providing Ivor with a wide berth. He took in an even breath, eyeing each man in turn. The bitter cold air chilled the depths of his fiery lungs, turning into wisps of vapor when he exhaled. He sneered. It was foolish of the men to surround a desperate beast with a wall of flesh.

The men eyed him wearily, clutching pitchforks and other variances of farm tools. Their postures spoke louder about them than their choice of weapons. Many were hunched over, perhaps an attempt to appear smaller and less of a target. Others stood with one foot in the ring, the other strategically placed in preparation to flee. They knew that the command of attack they dutifully waited for would seal their doom upon this beach.

The longer these men quaked in his presence, the more the warrior's heart went out to them. They knew that they would die here, and yet they stayed. Killing them would be almost too easy. But the one thing that concerned him was the lack of a leader's presence. They were just men, chasing him out of their territory, now waiting awkwardly with lack of authority to command.

Ivor claimed his sword from the scabbard at his hips, rolling his shoulder to loosen the bands of his shield until it slid into place on his arm to guard his side. The countrymen shifted stiffly the moment their opponent took on his ready stance. Although their unease shone as clearly as the morning sun, they refused to give an inch. Ivor didn't want to kill them, but to hand his life over to such a ragged bunch with no battle experience would mock him all the way to Valhalla. His hand tightened upon the hilt of his weapon as he prepared to send his enemies to their makers when there was a sudden shift in their tangible fear.

A man who was instantly recognizable as a leader stepped through the wall of the men, entering the designated territory of the cornered seamen. This man's station could easily be defined by the armor he wore, it being so heavily dented that one couldn't make out the red crest upon his chest. But Ivor knew a captain when he saw one. Standing tall, posture loose, poised to attack within a split second. And the way he assessed Ivor with such sharp eyes made it clear that he had dealt with his kind before. Several other men dressed mostly similar to him melted out of the tree line, moving forward to not only join their commanding officer on the beach but to actually take the place of the relieved farmers in the circle.

"Drop your weapon, and we may let you live." The man called out as the farmers hastily departed, retreating to the safety of the forest.

Ivor instantly recognized that the farmers had been sent to merely hold him in place until the real fighters caught up with them. He cursed as the knights tightened the circle, holding their shields to form a wall, closing up the spaces he could have broken threw. The man who had joined him in the circle drew his own sword, brandishing it with a clear warning.

"Do you have water in your ears or must I repeat myself, Norwegian?" he growled the title like it was venom on his tongue. His silver eyes calculated the stance of the man who stood taller than all of his men, waiting for him to take action.

Gritting his teeth in irritation, Ivor contemplated his options, which he knew were fleeting as the soldiers took another step inward to steal another foot of his space. He knew very well that he had been beaten, not needing to swing his sword to know. The only thing he could do now was to ensure he lived long enough to make them regret this. With a frustrated scream, he thrust his blade deep into the earth, the knights flinching back visibly, some having drawn their weapons at the initial instinct to defend themselves.

The commander smirked, "Take him down."

A brave knight dashed forward, tearing the seamen's shield from his arm, tossing it aside hastily, running back to his position before the bear-like enemy could latch onto him. Others, seeing the warrior thrown off guard didn't spare a moment, advancing with adrenaline spurred speed, tossing readied lassoes over his body, pulling the rough ropes tight, pinning his arms to his sides. As they securely tied him, not a single one of them noticed the Norwegian's smug smile.