An Angel Called Eternity

To Bet on Losing Dogs - Kætil V: The Meadows Afire

Kætil V: The Meadows Afire

The Eighth Day of the Eighth Moon, 873 AD.
Dyfed's Warcamp, The Isanford, Scelopyrea.

"Getting slower, boss!"

Syren grinned at him from across the little patch at the camp that he'd claimed as his own. Currently it was being used as a sparring ground, for the skirmishes of the last few weeks had subsided and he'd grown bored of waiting around to fight again. Sparring wasn't quite the same as a proper fight, but using south-coast rules it was about as close as you could get.

"He's getting rusty."

The cocky yet completely exhausted voice of Krai called out from Kætil's side in response to Syren's needling, his two friends wearing equally smarmy grins on their faces.

"Very funny boys. I don't see you volunteering to fight out resident invincible man, Syren?"

Krai snorted to his left and Syren rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner.

"That's cause Krai never runs out of fucking energy or luck. He might look like he's about to keel over and die next to you, but I guarantee that if you ready yourself for another round he'll somehow be as ready as ever. The man's a fucking animal I tell you."

"You're damn fucking right I am! Nothing on this planet 'll kill me, just you wait and see. I'm gonna live for fucking ever!"

Syren and Kætil locked eyes with each other, conveying 'this fucking guy' in a silent message. Krai was fucking great to be around, especially when nerves were as high as they were at the moment. Even Kætil wasn't ashamed to admit to being anxious for the coming weeks. The skirmishes along the river had mostly died down and warriors from both armies were making their way to this one point; it was the longest ford in the river, no to mention one of the shallowest. Most of the year the flatlands surrounding it would be flooded, rendering the passage untenable, but for a few short months every year the Isanford was a godsend for the inland traders and military forces of the northern folk.

Any amount of heavy rain could turn this field into a watery mass-grave, but for now it would suffice as the field of battle for the greatest confrontation the north had seen since the southern folk invaded under their warrior-king Godwyn a thousand years ago. The Great Jaerl, his father, was finally going to face off against the Valkyrie-Queen of the eastern Scelopyrene. The clash that everyone in the north had been waiting nearly a decade to see was finally coming to pass. The Isanar, having spent the last few moons choked with the dead and the dying, would finally see one last effort by the men and women of the north to see who truly deserved to rule this land.

Kætil had little doubts that it would be his father who won the day.

Yes, the forces were relatively even in composition and size. Yes, father and the Eyvindottir were each other's equal. Yes, the terrain was flat and empty and not at all conductive to innovative tactics or finely-planned ambushes. None of that mattered. The Great Jaerl was his father, and his father was the greatest man the north had ever seen. His father would carry the day here, he had to, and Kætil would do anything he could to help make such a thing happen. Kætil himself was blessed by Krakevasil a thousandfold more than any man in the forces that opposed his father, the runes that now littered his chest in a thousand small strokes and scars could attest to that. He still had his little amber talisman as well, for it couldn't hurt to keep a hold of any blessing that his god saw fit to bestow upon him, could it?

The warcamp was truly huge. His father had not only called all his forces down to this field some twenty miles north of the ruined city of Murkmire, but had also uprooted his warcamp and brought the non-combatants here as well. There were more fighters than Kætil had ever seen in one place here, with thousands of animal-hide tents and dug-outs before the flats by the river. Further back by the treeline he knew that a makeshift stable had gone up in a number of hollows in large trees and small caves where steeds could be tethered and kept safe from the elements, and a few small pens had been erected in which war-dogs could be housed. They weren't as well-bred as the Brythonian wildhounds from Aurinsay, mostly being mongrels with a few drops of either wildhound or wolf blood running through their veins, but they were about as good as Scelopyrea could offer.