Macrendil-Ysmir

Let's do some home-sitting for a while. Erik needs to put some things into order.

The Frost Wolf ship had sailed once more, leaving Erik at the settlement to keep watch and guard the tribesmen. But those Marauders that believed they could now enjoy a period of leisure were sorely mistaken.

Immediately after the last ship past over the horizon, Erik began a rigorous training regime. Mock battles, hunting expeditions and regular training exercises like running and weight lifting ensured half the Warband was utterly exhausted.

Meanwhile, the other half would either stand guard and police around the settlement or follow Erik out into the Norscan heartland.

There, Erik began earnestly recruiting ever more members for his personal forces. The world was ever in turmoil and where the strong clashed, the weak perished.

Jarl Ingolf’s words rang through Erik’s mind again and again, teasing a memory he couldn’t grasp. Something, a hint, a dread feeling of foreboding, told him he would need both great prowess and a strong army.

Today too Erik left the warm embrace of his lovers early in the morning and mounted the giant mare now called Al-Gheist, Fire Demon in Saxon, one of the roots of the English language.

Before the sun had fully cleared the horizon, Erik led his band of mounted warriors out of the settlement into the untamed wilderness. Searching for where some of the scouts had spotted a small tribe of Norscans.

These small groups are not affiliated to any of the large Tribal Confederacies and live even harsher lives. After all, without access to the sea and the safety brought by thousands of fellow tribesmen these groups of 30 to 100 people were locked to Norsca’s deadly interior.

If fighting is the tribes’ way of life, then fighting is sheer survival for these wanderers. And the constant adversity made them both strong and ferocious.

Excellent targets for Erik to draft into his Warband and slowly shape into perfect Norscan warriors.

Sometime around noon the mounted party reached the wanderers, making no secret of their approach.

“Why don’t you send a messenger first again?” – Sven asked as he cautiously eyed the sharp, jagged harpoons carried by some of the panicked Wildmen.

“To show them resistance is useless, that we can easily wipe them out if we so desire and that I, as their future leader, respect them and am not a coward.” – Erik patiently explained for the umpteenth time.

This was far from the first time Erik did this. A dozen or so other groups just like this one had been successfully absorbed into the Warband, but only after the first couple of attempts resulted in either outright failures or subpar results.

What good would it do when all the capable fighting men recklessly threw themselves at the well-trained professionals of Erik’s Warband and got killed? Or if half of them were killed and the other half thus held a deep seated grudge?

“No, I need to show them I am truly the best option for them to follow. If their current leader is smart, he’ll bend to me. If he isn’t and he challenges me, I will break him for all to see. And if he does neither, I’ll call him out myself. A direct challenge cannot be left unanswered, honour will demand him to fight me.

Regardless, even without their best fighter I will still gain the rest of them.”

“Be that as it may, Chief, but the newcomers have nothing in the way of proper training. All they know is to be ferocious and attack. They rival Aesling Berserkers like that, but without the frighteningly honed skill and battle-sense!” – Captain Gunnar, leader of one of the scout units, shared his concerns.

“Which is why we’re feeding them well and then run them ragged. We won’t instil disciplined training into them from the get go, it will take some time. By my best estimate, they should be ready come Spring. Just in time to test them during the First Raid.”

Thinking some more, Erik shared a sudden thought that popped up in his head.

“Remember the large, shielded plaza we built during the Winter Hunt almost a year ago? I think we should build a similar thing in the settlement.

Not covering the entire main square, that would be ludicrous, but a couple places for a unit of 50 men to train in when a blizzard passes overhead. We’d rotate between blizzards and hold a competition between those units in-between storms?”

Their conversation wasn’t done in a low voice, mostly because Erik was considerably higher up in the air than the rest, so the surrounding Marauders overheard the suggestion and an approving murmur rose up. Competition is everyday life to Norscans and as a consequence of Erik’s methods, they were no longer adverse to long, arduous training.

As they calmly rode their horses, there was no sign they were about to begin a potentially lethal encounter. Something that wasn’t lost on the greying leader of this group of wanderers.

‘These warriors don’t even see us as a potential threat. I am tempted to call it arrogance, but their stance and atmosphere tells me otherwise… These are true warriors and the one on that monstrously sized horse especially seems to demand any Marauder’s respect and attention…’

As he looked on, nervously thumbing the flint-tipped spear in his hand, Birke saw the approaching party’s leader raise his hand and signal a halt. Which the mounted warriors responded to with a truly un-Norscan-like obedience. Then the man mounted on his large beast came forward alone.

When Birke deemed it close enough, he addressed the rider.

“That is close enough. We can talk comfortably like this, no? Now then, why do you approach?”

Unperturbed, Erik stopped Al-Gheist with a light tug on the reins and answered amicably.

“I am Erik, a Thane of the Frost Wolves. You are trespassing in my tribe’s lands and, given the opportunity, would like to make you an offer.”

The subtle threat of the Wanderers having committed a crime wasn’t lost on Birke, who swiftly took the bait Erik laid out for him.

“I am Birke, leader of these people. We have no knowledge of who these lands belong to, except for the Gods. What offer do you bring?”

Smiling, knowing he pretty much had him, Erik dramatically raised his arms above his head in an inviting gesture and continued.

“I offer you your life! Better yet, I offer you the chance to change your lives! Join me in my Warband, men, women and children all, or else…”

Erik then used his Inventory for a fun trick, magically materialising his Glaive and Axe into the outstretched hands in a clear threat.

“Or else be vanquished to become fodder for the beasts and nourish the land!”

Erik’s men had no reaction, having seen it at least  a dozen times already, but the vagrants visibly recoiled.

“So, dear trespassers, what will it be?” –Erik concluded the negotiations.

Birke looked behind him, seeing the restlessness in his people’s eyes mixed with a hint of worry and fear. The entire group only had 30 capable fighting men and double that in women and children, no infirm or incapable elderly were taken along as useless baggage. Even if all 90 of them were suddenly turned into fighters, the Frost Wolf party still outnumbered them two to one, not to mention their mounted advantage.

Sighing deeply, wondering whether his forbears would be happy their descendants joined a tribe or disdainful for leaving their old ways behind them.

“There is no choice to make… We are at your disposal, Thane Erik.”

Birke dropped his spear to the ground and motioned his followers to do the same. Most followed his example, but a small group refused.

“Headstrong, arrogant and blind younglings…” –Birke cursed under his breath as the main troublemaker disdainfully came forward.

“By the Hound, who do you think you are, stranger?! Telling us to give up and follow you, *phut, I spit on you!

And you, Birke, age finally did you in? D’you go senile, old man? Sure, lots more of them but they’ll lose a lot of their number if they actually went for us! Besides…” – The young warrior elatedly turned to Erik. “Their leader is right in front of us, like a piece of rich, fatty meat left on an unattended fire!”

Erik watched on in amusement, letting the brash vagrant grab one of his crude javelins and take careful aim. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the javelin came wheezing over.

‘Did those things always fly this slowly?’ – A leisurely thought came up as Erik blinked his eyes, watching the approaching weapon before swatting it aside with the Glaive while making a swift motion with the other hand.

Birke, who witnessed the same scene as all the rest, only saw three things.

The javelin was thrown hard and fast.
The mounted Thane swiped at it faster than his eyes could see.
And the idiot who challenged their new leader exploded in an eruption of crimson gore, splattering everything around him, as a large, bright red & brass axe now stood embedded in the ground.

 “Champion” – He softly whispered as he fell to his knees in worship.

Taking in the sudden reverence directed at him, Erik pondered over it. Pretty much every group of wanderers, vagrants and Wildmen he had encountered thus far fell to their knees and even began outright worshipping him when they learned of his Champion-status.

‘I know I’m just doing this to gather an army but… am I simultaneously creating a Cult?’