Just Another Day.

The wind howls like a shrieking wælcyrge, a corpse-hag, across the bleak moors, blowing my cloak about me as I stand on the jagged hillside, staring down at the filthy settlement below. In the valley, the mist clings to the splintered trunks of the stunted oaks and hawthorns like a shroud, the dawn, a reluctant sliver of rose pink, pushes through the tangled branches and weak sunlight warms the mist-drenched village of Oestceorl, which nestles in this damp valley like a babe in a mother's arms.

My name is Aeldred. I rule here. I am just, I am hard. Some say I rule with an iron grip, but this is a harsh land and there are plenty who would take what I have if they could. NordHymbra has many who would be kings over all of these lands. I am one, and my enemy today would be another.

I turn my gaze away from the village's smoky hovels. From the stinking middens, the few scrawny livestock, the hopeless ceorlas, the peasants who toil in the sodden, rocky fields, to the enemy camp in the field between here and the village, My village, which they seek to take from me. Those men and their followers in the camp have no idea I am here. They are in for a surprise.

My warriors gather around me, their eyes filled with expectation and the hope of glory and spoils. A gold arm ring taken from some other warrior’s arm, finer armour, perhaps a better sword. They know exactly what today will bring: carnage. It's a familiar habit, as natural to us as breathing in the fresh, chilly northern air. Those weeping, prating fools of the new nailed god try to tell us this isn’t the way to please their god; we care nothing for that. This is power; this is what a ruler must do; this is how to hold the land and hold my warriors bound to me.

"Who is going to die today?" The question lingers in the air. My speech holds the weight of inevitability; they all know that there will be bloodshed to come. That’s one reason why they’re here. Some of the younger men move uncomfortably, their hands tightening on their swords' hilts. They know better than to speak out of turn and better than to question their lord's decisions. They know the cost of weakness. None of them want to be theowas, slaves to some other fool. Fight and hold. Take with might and blood.

I turn to face them. I look at each man directly in the eye. "In this red morning, blood will flow like rivers, and our swords will claim lives. But we’ll have no weeping for the fallen. No, it is our duty, by all the gods, to relish the thundering clash of war, to hold what is ours by birthright, to carve our names into the annals of legend, to gain the favour of all the gods and to win all with each powerful stroke of our blades.

A murmur spreads throughout the ranks, a mix of fervour and expectation. They know what’s to come, as do I. Death is a permanent companion in this cold place, haunting us like a shadow in the night. Better someone else should die rather than us. We are not afeared.

As the sun rises higher in the sky, spreading shadows across the moors, we approach the enemy camp like wolves on sheep. And we are upon them. The cries of battle roar, the clang of steel on steel, and the thump of weapons against shields fills the air. They have no time to build a shield wall; we are among them, slashing blades right and left as they fall. Blood flows and tears rain. We do not care. Amidst the chaos of the fight, faces meld into a whirlwind of motion, and blood drenches the earth in vibrant scarlet black beneath our feet. I wage my fight with cold, clear intent. Although I am lost in that great warrior’s place that the bards tell of, the place where the poetry of the fight takes over all, my weapon is an extension of my savage, ferocious will, rending flesh and shattering bone with ruthless precision. Each strike, a thunderous, murderous, joyous proclamation of my dominance upon this tiny field.

We kill them all, every adult man. We take their women and their bleating children as slaves to our folk and their wailing blends with the moans of the dying and the shouts and yells of my warriors. As the dust settles and the final clash of weapons fades into stillness, I stand amidst the carnage, triumphant. The dead litter the ground like fallen leaves, their lifeblood seeping into the soil. I see the faces of the slain, reduced to soulless husks. And I feel is the chilly, hollow embrace of mortality. My men rob the dead for their wealth and finery; my fyrdmen lead the slaves away.

 "Wyrd bið āræd, Fate is inexorable,” I murmur, resting on the pommel of my sword. I look over to the great cliff at Bebbenburg which appears suddenly through the distant mist. I grin.