843 A.D. Eastern England:

The birds had arrived.

Vultures, they were, and crows, and others. It was a fact of life--therefore, a fact of war--that they would be there before, and certainly after, any conflict. From the pits of the Romans to the Fjords, they circled above, watching for the point of a sword to do their bloody work.

Let them come, decided Arngier. Less of a mess to gaze upon, and less a smell to break camp by tomorrow. The hangover would be bad enough. The numerous scars on his weathered face stretched as he smiled, recalling the old saying: “Mead is Thor’s gift; the morning after is Loki’s.”. The confidence was not lost on him.

Arngier Ormrson was the jarl’s name. Eagle’s spear, son of the dragon was the literal translation, and friends and allies alike raised no disagreement. His series of raids--conquest, as some were calling it-- was finally underway, as the last of his forces had recently arrived at his main encampment, on the eastern shores of Britannia. They were half a day behind him, but the leader was confident he could take this day with the men he had.

He kicked his mount, a coal-black courser, into a light gait, making for the cheval de frise and palisade erected at the front of the camp. He smiled at the salutes and cheers that his soldiers gave as he passed by. Arngier knew that a soldier’s loyalty was a valuable to a commander as the steel in his hand during extended conquests and sieges, and he was pleased to see he had it in surplus.

Arngier pulled on the reins, slowing his horse to a stop to examine the fortification. It was at the crest of the hill, a sprawling setup of hastily-constructed wall, reinforced with the vicious spikes of the cheval de frise.

“Sir!” he heard Falkor, his advisor and longtime friend of his father, call to him from further down the palisade. Arngier raised his hand in acknowledgement, trotting towards him. The man, despite easily ten years seniority, gave a deep bow.

“How goes the defense?” he asked, examining the closest stake. Sharpened to an edge, with a slight barb before the point. He smiled. “As good as your craftsmanship, I trust?”

Falkor nodded. “Keep it up. I expect the Britons may be in sight within the hour.” With that, the leader turned and set a gait for his command tent and quarters.

A young boy, no more than fifteen years of age, met him outside. Wordlessly he accepted the reins, in awe of the great warrior standing before him. Arngier could not deny the pleasure he got out of the respect he commanded, musing on this as he strode into the tent.

The room was bare, containing a bed, a few chests, and a table with a weathered map pinned to it by daggers. He stooped to one of the chests and opened it, relishing for a moment in the beauty of the pieces within.

It was no golden armor like the riders far to the east, nor was it particularly ornamented, as was popular in the empires of the south. Nevertheless, there was a certain magnificent quality to finely forged armor, and there was few better than this. He began fastening it, securing the treated leather straps as he had done so many times in the past. He felt complete as he slid the helm--one of the only decorated pieces, a half-helm covering the top portion of his face, with spiraling ram horns coming off of the top--onto his head, then peered into the chest for his final necessity.

The hilt of the massive flambard, named Inferno, always caught the eye first, forged of shimmering obsidian. Two lapis lazuli tipped the ends of the cross-guard, reflecting light fully. He drew it from the scabbard, marveling in the waving, razor sharp edge. It was German forged, a beauty he had pulled from a dead enemy commander’s cold hands. He had used two to hold it, but Arngier found he only needed one. All the better to command from horseback.

He stepped from his tent a massive, formidable figure, triggering cheers from all around. He waved to his men, mounted the courser, and headed off to the frontline. Many of his men were already there, into formation beyond the palisade, when he galloped up from behind. The noise was deafening, between the shouts and the clanging of swords or spears upon shields.

He pulled into a spin as he reached the front of the force, turning to face his men. In every eye he saw a savage lust for blood, matched only by fierce loyalty to him. He smiled.

“My brothers!” he shouted, and instantly the field became quiet. Even the birds above, cawing in anticipation, seemed to grow silent, until nothing but the swirling wind and the echo of Arngier’s words remained.

“This is a day of glory, for me, for you, and for our names. Weaker men have come in search of the spoils of these lands, and their bones bedeck the grounds below you. But we are no weaker men!” This aroused another cheer. “We are warriors! Sons of the dragon, each of you!”

Two horns, to either side of him, and many more along the palisade, heralded the arrival of the enemy. Arngier didn’t need to look to know they were far behind him, forming up in columns not unlike his own; he could see it reflected in the eyes of his troops. Not a man was shaken.

“We ride to two places today. Some of us shall stake the land beyond these barbarians with our own standard, the ground it pierces thick with the blood of our enemies. But others--the luckier ones!--will find themselves walking beneath a golden threshold, old friends to your left and right, and a great feast before you. Fear not, for you have arrived in Valhalla. Take heart, brothers…” He spun in place, drawing his sword and raising it high above his head. “The day is ours!”

He led the charge of 800 raging Norsemen, kicking up the ground beneath them as the hordes of barbarians surged up the hill. With fury in his heart and fire in his eyes, he swung Inferno viciously at the first foe he came upon, wresting his head from his body.

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It was the kind of fight he’d hoped for, and more.

Inferno wore the blood of foes uncounted; Arngier had stopped counting after his courser had been killed beneath him. He’d barely survived that one, as his sword had flown from his grasp during the fall and landed, embedded in the ground. Barehanded, he’d ripped through a dozen barbarians to reach it, and fought on his feet from then out.

He plowed through the chest of another, feeling the sword rend the heart. He couldn’t say who was winning, but if every one of his men fought as he did, then the battle would be one to sing of.

The combat seemed to lull for a moment, one of the points where every foe finds somebody different to pursue. It was then that Arngier saw him.

He wore the clothes of a noble, a Spaniard, maybe, or Roman. Either way, he was very out of place. His long, braided hair, clothes, and skin remained untouched by the grime, sweat, and blood that seemed unavoidable on the battlefield. He wielded a razor-thin rapier and, to Arngier’s surprise, wielded it very well. He plunged it in and out of warriors with ease, making it look almost like a dance. Then, without warning, the noble turned and stabbed straight towards Arngier’s heart. He brought up Inferno, parrying the sword into the ground. Surprisingly, it did not break.

A flash of surprise registered on the noble’s face, to be quickly replaced with a small smile of calm control. “How unusual.” He stated, relaxing his stance, unlike Arngier.

“Who are you?” the warrior demanded hesitantly. There was something strikingly familiar about him. “And why are you here?”

“Call me a Keeper.” He eschewed the second question, instead beckoning to Arngier. Keeping his wits and sword about him, he followed.

“This is all your doing.” The Keeper declared, gesturing about to the battle around them--which, Arngier noted with some surprise, didn’t touch them.

“If it is?” he returned, guarded.

“That was not a question, Arngier.” The man said, amusement on his tone. He had not sounded accusing when he made that declaration, yet something in his tone made Arngier’s blood rise.

They walked in silence for some time. “Did you stop to consider what you’ve been doing when you decided to conquer this section of Britannia?” he finally asked. They now walked amidst the main conflict, Arngier’s men to one side, the Britons to the other. Still, no steel touched them.

“I’ve sought land and prosperity for my home.” The warrior responded immediately. “To wrest it from these timorous savages, who’ve done naught but prey on the weak for all I’ve known them.”

The Keeper sighed, shaking his head. “So you tell yourself.” Stooping, he addressed the body of a fallen Briton warrior. He was a beast, at least a head taller than Arngier, with seven arrows sticking from his chest. Arngier watched as The Keeper felt within the folds of his tunic, found what he’d searched for, and rose.

“This man‘s village lies a mere few miles east of here. In a small thatched hut, his wife sits praying with tears in her eyes, while his son wonders why they’re not allowed to leave the house. His son made him this.”

Arngier examined the small object. It was a tiny figure of the man lying before him, with a big smile carved across its clay face. Along its torso read a message written in a language Arngier could not decipher, but he could imagine its meaning.

“Are they so heartless now?” The Keeper said quietly.

“But…” The warrior stammered, caught between guilt and confusion. “Who are you, really?”

The Keeper frowned. “You know damn well who I am, Arngier. I’m the shadow behind you as you stumble back to your bed after every conquest. I’m the fire that burns away the cold, just as it burns the skin. I’m an old friend, and it’s time.” He stepped back, leveling the rapier.

Calmer than he could have expected himself to be, the warrior instead examined the figurine once more. At last, he shook his head. Looking up, he pocketed the figurine, and hefted Inferno. With a vicious cry, he charged forward and attacked his destiny.

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The birds were here in force, picking at the dead in strange silence. There were massive casualties to either side, well over half of either. A fog had settled over the afternoon, and it was out of this veil he trudged.

“Sir!” one of the men shouted, but he paid the soldier no heed. Wordlessly, he continued to his command tent, where he found the remainder of his lieutenants seated around the map. Another dagger protruded from the wood.

“By Thor!” one of them exclaimed, as they all turned to see him step in through the threshold. “We thought you were dead!”

The warrior laughed, a bitter grunt, before removing his helm. “We’re going home.” He announced, to their surprise. “We’ve enough land as it is.”

He put down his lieutenants protests, and ordered them to leave him in peace. They all obeyed, except for one. Just as he expected.

“I thank you.” He spoke to Falkor. The old man nodded, drawing his sword.

“You knew who I was?” he asked, walking slowly towards the warrior.

Arngier drew Inferno, but made no moves to defend himself. “An old friend of my fathers? It makes perfect sense.”

“I take many forms.” Falkor sighed. “I truly am sorry. It’s not often you humans realize the error of their ways, but it makes no difference.”

Arngier thought at that last statement. “Does anything we do make a difference?”

Falkor seemed amused at the thought. He considered his response, as he raised the blade above his head. “Only if you allow it to.”

To his surprise, the warrior’s last thought was one of serene peace.