Stringed Up

Prologue

The mood on the ship was sour, Ivarr could tell simply by looking at his raiders' faces.
They had all taken quite a beating without much to show for it and while his own body ached from their misadventure on the Western Isle he knew that if he wished to keep his crew satisfied they'd have to find some plunder on their way home.

They were sailing along the coast when Ivarr spotted a good place for landing just a little further ahead.

The promise of blood and silver lightened his own sultry mood a little and when he raised his axe, commanding his crew to make land, cheers filled the cold winter air.

They were just dragging the ships ashore when a cry sounded from atop one of the hills.
Ivarr squinted, trying to make out who it was coming from but with the thick fog surrounding them it was hard to tell.
Only once it had cleared a little, Ivarr could make out the line of Britons on the hill opposite them.
"I am Rhodri, king of this land.", the biggest of them called out, his voice carrying on the wind.
A smirk pulled at Ivarr's lips.
"That means shit to me", he screamed back, drawing a laugh from some of his men.
He gave them a small nod and together they raised their axes, ready for battle.

They attacked before the Britons had a chance to react.
They had the numbers and the skills
But all that mattered little when the bog encased their boots, slowing them down until they were trapped, easy prey for this king Rhodri and his men.

Ivarr watched as most of his drengir died a swift but honarable death and standing there on this unnamed field in this unimportant place Ivarr was readying to join them on their way to Valhalla.
It was not the glorious death that he had hoped for and it had come earlier than he had anticipated but none of that mattered given where he would go after.
When he closed his eyes and focused he could almost hear the Valkiries. They had come for him and his warriors.
In his mind he was already there, looking upon the red and gold leaves of Glasir, he could see Eikthyrnir and Heidrun but when he opened his eyes again all he found was corpses and mud.
He was trapped, facing a dozen men all on his own but he still fought and won against every single one of them. He was lighter and faster than them but on this muddy ground he found himself growing tired quickly and when more warriors stepped through the fog he knew that he wouldn't last.
He had no regrets. If this was how he was meant to die then he would face the end bravely, axe in hand.

But his weapons were taken from him as two men forced him onto his knees in the dirt.
He cursed them, screamed and fought against them with all his remaining strength but it was useless and eventually he was forced into submission.

Rhodri approached him then, a smirk on his ugly face as he grabbed a handful of Ivarr's hair, forcing his head back in a painful angle so as to make the warrior look up at him.

The Ragnarsson smirked, even spat at Rhodri. He would not show any fear.
The king wiped his face and in a fit of rage he dragged his dagger across Ivarr's face, leaving behind a long and painful cut, reaching from his scalp all the way to his cheek.
Ivarr didn't scream, didn't cry, didn't even whimper.
He didn't make a single sound because this was his last chance to see Odin's hall and Rhodri would surely send him there now.

But the king did nothing of the sort. He pulled at Ivarr's hair, watching as the viking's face contorted into a grimace of pain.
Warm red blood dripped from the cut, Ivarr's whole face feeling as though it were on fire but if he held on a little longer he would feast in Valhalla soon. That was all that was on his mind when he spat at Rhodri again, growling.

Rhodri watched him intently for a while, not saying a word.
"I should send you back. Make an example of you so that your people won't make the same mistake as you but no... I do not think I will do that.", he paused, letting go of Ivarr's face to grab his chin.
"He would make a fine slave, don't you think?", this question was directed at his men and earned quite a few affirming nods.
Ivarr found himself wishing for death.
He could not hide his shock this time and Rhodri smiled when he saw.

Slavery was the worst fate. He was a Ragnarsson, he was distined to live a glorious life and die an honerable death. Now he would have none of that.

"Tie him up", Rhodri ordered, smirking as Ivarr tried desperately to get free to no avail, "tightly."