Royal Court, January 4th 1069
It was now as it should have been all these past years, and I, Thrugut, would relish in the war. How this state between Sweden and Denmark came to be still boggles my mind...but what is a warrior to do? I will raise my huskarls in defense of my lord and for the joy of battle.
“About damned time! These levies still take far too long …just like before…” Thrugut muttered to Knud Svendsson. Reflecting on past clashes of arms that raged many years ago he realizes that he still hungers for this sort of battle again. Already he carried the scars of many battles, the prestige of his clan, but the wrinkles of many years as well.
Behind him, the troops, beginning the feel the onset of the oh-so delicious bloodlust coming over themselves, cheered, but were quickly hushed by the elder troops, who knew the ways of the world and war better. Many of the host were of a younger generation, bred within the safer confines of father Denmark, or the few lingering outposts in far away England, or on the few islands not claimed by the thrice-damned Norwegians.
The king had insisted on keeping the clans separate, as had been the old ways, each given its own area from which to put forth ideas in the war ting, which had replaced the king's council's gluing aspects, though it was all up the King in the end anyway. His politicking had mis-handled them for too long, though Thrugut trusted Sevend would soon return them to the glory of the old days.
“How strong are their forces?” One of the King's marshal's spoke up, voice rough with the strain of old battles long past.
“Many thousands at least commander! A ripe target I do say!” another marshal replied, face twisting into a eager grin. "I say we take only the best huskarls of each lord, and cut a wide bloody swath through Sweden!"
Beside him the new count of Bornholm , Olaf Svendson, moved forward, “Let us meet them head on, and with our strength grind through their bones with our swords!”
With that bold and brave statement, the appointed war leader Skjalm Tokesson Hvide brust forth with a great bellowing laugh. "Have you seen a man die, let alone have their bones "grinded with swords"?" he asked, nearly falling over from mirth.
Olaf's face reddened, but he said not a word to Skjalm.
"I believe we should gather our numbers, and wait for the Norse under Olaf to invade Sweden before committing ourselves to battle."
Turning to the King, he continued with his audacious plan...
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Outside Swedish capital...
Typical.
Johan Brahe thought to himself. “Yes my lord, we shall fight the Danes! But first, we should stick to the coast as it is good defensive country, and we shouldn't waste good men just to attack the enemy head on."
“Defensive!” The King Erik of the Swedes seemed to be taken aback “We should make Svend and Olaf rue the day they raised their arms against us!” the king's eyes seethed. "I am not going to bow to a boy king and a half-german!"
Rasing his hands to stem any more of the royal onslaught, Johan continued, “Battle will come soon enough my king, but first we must crush your cousin's rebellion in the east. Then, and only then will we have ability to bring the strength needed to attack both Denmark and Norway” he said, in an overly enthusiastic voice.
Svend seemed to relish the thought of being victorious over both the Danes and the Norse, as never before had all his people been in days past. Yet, Svend knew they still wouldn’t be strong enough to defeat the germans to the south.
Appeasing the Holy Roman Emperor would have to do for now. Pacing furiously Erik came upon a new course of action...as he knew he was on the defensive, at least until he could crush the scattered pockets of resistance around Uppland.
"I have an idea, Johan..." began the king, turning to a map of the H.R.E...
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January 20th, 1069
Somewhere in Viken...
It was freezing cold and the sun had risen barely an hour ago, but already seemed to dip below the horizion in a vain effort to aviod the Nordic Winter.
Every breath taken hurt, and only moving seemed to keep the feet from freezing solid. Ice clung to his eyes, stubbornly, and his armor - the darn clanky, heavy, GOD-BLASTED armor - seemed to grow more and more solid.
No, King Olaf of Norway was far from happy.
Still he trudged on, hearing the swearing and the muttering of the other men around him. Good men, from the farms of Viken, all of them walking as fast as they could to keep from turning into human icicles. Scouts reported the way was clear, and had estimated perhaps two hours travel before they were in sight of sweedish land.
"You're sure it's there..." he mumbled
"Hey, don't start doubting things. You might get them." a voice announced wearily. Olaf turned to it and found himself looked on by the eyes of Ugfried Bearson, a greying, leathery-faced soldier who'd been involved in his share of conflicts since the death of the danish King Canute.
The man also walked in full armor - chain mail with metal shoulders and breastplates, a open-faced helm from which stuck out the red plume - now frozen solid. Added to it was the ever present buckler of wood and steel attached to one arm, and the sturdy axe in his other hand. Even with the backpacks back safely at the base camp, walking with all this was a nightmare here, and Harold burned with envy when he saw the older man barely breaking a sweat for all of it.
'What madness ever got you in on this trip?" he said, not for the first time. "I think this place be invented to test humans, it's too blasted uncomfortable."
A shrug. "That place is nothing. It's the army in front of us which worries me." the tone with which the soldier had spoken held something in it, and Olaf, for the first time since he had woken, forgot his discomfort in the sudden interest. He wasn't the only one - more than one head turned intently, picking up the note in the veteran man's voice.
"What's your meaning?" he asked gruffly and kingly. He was barely out of boyhood, speaking that way to a veteran warrior was laughable. The man answered, seemingly ignoring the ridiculous way he had been questioned.
"An army two hours before us today, an army a few hours before us yesterday. We hear of it but never seem to catch up. It smells bad, very bad, much like...a trap."
Other footmen from Viken, some of whom he knew had suffered from Swedish tricks before, chuckled at that, or groaned in agreement. Ugfried , for his part, smile slightly, but the worry stayed in his eyes.
His mirth ebbing away, Olaf started to feel a knot forming deep in his belly. When old soldiers got that look, it meant things were bad. Even a green warrior like he knew that much. His step slowed imperceptibly, and he stepped quietly near the other man.
"You're be answerin' me....What's be happening soon?"
"Hopefully, nothing my lord." Giving the king another chilling look he continued, "But there's something about it. It seems like we're being pulled inside-."
"-A trap?" the icy knot grew colder than the air around him.
"That’s my fear. I know the marshals don't believe it, but those men have been fighting all their lives...I've heard from some people-" He looked to his right, where their line ended. "Did you hear that, my lord?"
"Hear what?" Olaf was definitely getting scared now. "What have you - " and then it came, from the treeline not even a mile off, a grounding roar, bestial, growing in power, second after second.
Ugfried's axe came up. "That's what! ALERT! THE ENEMY AT THE RIGHT FLANK! ALERT! PREPARE FOR DEFENSE!"
As his bellow came, they came up the ridge, shapes. Man like. Huge men with axes, screaming death, promising to drench themselves in our blood. Ever coming, a growing blackness coming towards the startled Norse on their unprotected flank...