I remember...

The war host of Adharca Cathair lined the walls, awaiting the command of the Chieftain. Warriors, hunters, shaman of all ages, of all experience, eagerly awaited battle. The sounds of the Hyperboreans, they were close. Too close. They were getting closer to Adharca Cathair, and getting closer to their goal. Everyone in the clan had been alerted to the presence of the tomb underneath what was the Great Hall. Everyone knew the stakes now. Either the Hyperboreans lived, or the Elkhorn lived. Either way, blood would be spilled, a battle would be fought, and people would die. The silent intensity the Cimmerians were known for reigned supreme, even as the shapes of the Chieftain, the Lawgiver, the Trialmaster, and several other hunters and warriors emerged from the barracks. It was time no doubt.

...the spirits. They spoke to me in the journey. They told us what must be done. Yet have we failed? I remember. Our journey was made. The trek into the sacred Fields of the Dead. The dead, carried on litters. An uncertainty had been in the air that night. Did they support me? Or would I have daggers at my back, knowing that my own Lawgiver did not trust me? I remember that evening. A dreadful evening. A horrible one.

I remember...

Fearghus, skirmish leader of the clan, nodded once and pounded his fist against his chest at the sight of the Chieftain and the Elders. Several other warriors did the same. The Warchief, others as well, offered grim smiles and salutes to the leaders of the clan, and the main fighting force of the warhost. The plan had been simple. The majority of the clan, would move onwards to the Hyperborean war party. They would fight, clash steel. The main war band of the Elkhorn, led by the Chieftain, would move to the center, where the old abandoned Hyperborean camp stood. They would draw the attention of the warriors – and hopefully Kogris himself... Kogris the Wicked. Kogris, who should be dead. The skirmish leader did not like the plan, but he went along with it.

“Elkhorn,” Ahearn said, his voice firm, rising in volume. “Today, is an important day. Today we meet the Hyperboreans on the field of battle. Today we slay our foes. We crush them. We destroy them. Today, some of us may meet the lonely gray mists of Crom's realm, but know this! I am proud to lead, to have led, to continue to lead! I will drink to those who fall this day, and those who survive will do the same. Know this, my Clan, when this is over, we will be ever stronger for it.”

... we had approached our burial mound. The Vanir, the dogs. They had dared to surround it, to try and defile it. I grabbed my war maul, and shattered it on the skull of one of those Ymirish bastards. The brains had splattered all over my armor. A grim tiding to battle on one's own burial mound. I remember the looks. Confusion... disgust. At me? No... at the Vanir, aye. But then the looks when I knelt at the graves we dug....

...and the call of the spirits came to me. I learned the truth.

I remember...

The gates opened. The warriors moved forward. The war party led by Ahearn and the leaders of the clan moved out, and the mass of the Elkhorn soon followed. Only infants, children, and the most crippled of the elderly stayed behind, gathered in the Sage's Tower, where the elderly could watch the battle. Fearghus nodded once to Kullen, then Wolfskin in training. The skirmish force swiftly moved to a flanking position, so that when the battle started, they could get an element of surprise in. And indeed, the battle began to rage on, and they had their work cut out for them. Swords, shields, and spears met Hyperborean war swords, axes, mauls, and shields of their own. Thralls, of Cimmerian, Vanir, and Aesir blood, as well as several Picts were thrown in the way of the warriors, to be cut down, and bled out swiftly.

The skirmish leader drew not his traditional two blades, but rather, the bastard sword strapped to his back. He held it in a defense position, as he watched the battle... as he timed it. When their force was finally in the battle, there would be no going back. He glanced at several of the warriors, crouched and holding onto the rock and stone so that they would not slip down the hill they had climbed, overlooking the battle. Fearghus waited. He would not attack prematurely. The clan was outnumbered, and it would be about tactics, intensity, and the will to live that would ensure victory. The skirmish leader was not about to get killed for nothing.

“....now!” Fearghus shouted. As soon as he noted the Chieftain and his force doing battle with several Gurnahki warriors, the Skirmish Band swiftly moved in from a flanking position colliding with various Hyperboreans – including the ferocious Gurnahki slaves, and several Witchmen, assassins, and warriors. Sword connected with flesh – for the Gurnahki were slaves, and wore little to no armor. Blood spilled on the ground as Fearghus drew deep cuts on his foes, timing his bastard sword as best as he could. His skill was with dual blades, but the recklessness of two blades was not welcomed on this battlefield. No, he needed to be focused. He grinned as Kullen butchered several Witchmen with his great axe, and nodded as several others did the same. War cries from both sides echoed as the battle waged on.

...the truth had been revealed. Kogris alive. He had not been slain, and had merely been an illusion. I dare not tell the clan they had been fooled, but only that he yet lived. Weakened, that I do not know, powerful, I do not know. He lived, and that was what mattered. A dreadful truth, one revealed to me as the spirits warned me.

I remember...

The battle was endless. From the corner of his eye, the skirmish leader spotted Ahearn, wheezing, the Trialmaster and Lawgiver slapping several wounded members of their band, getting them to stay standing. And yet the Gurnahki were overpowering them. Kullen noted it too, and yelled a terrifying battlecry. Fearghus nodded in approval, and followed suit. Fearghus drove his blade into one of the slave's, twisting it into his heart, thrusting it out the other side. He pulled the blade out violently, covered in the black, sorcery tainted blood of the beasts. He glanced as Kullen sliced once Gurnahki in half, and beheaded another.

“Back to position!” Ahearn ordered, his voice hoarse. Fearghus nodded and the two skirmish band members quickly made their way to the flanking side. Their force had been pressed, and so the blades were swift, rapid, and desperate. More thralls began to throw themselves their way, distracting other warriors. Arrows flew as Lakiabelen made her way to the battle, joining Ahearn's force, though clearing her way through the Hyperborean force first. He watched them from the corner of the eye, as Ahearn's hammer crunched against one Gurnahki, as Alether's broadsword pierced the heart of another. He watched several Unproven fight alongside Kin, Elders, and Chieftain alike.

Station did not matter. This battle, it was win or lose. As more Gurnahki, Witchmen, and Thralls threw themselves at the Cimmerian force, more died. Elkhorn died. Hyperboreans died. The blood was thick. The sky was red. Sorcery was wielded by several White Hand sorcerers, to which he heard several loud barking calls for arrows, arrows that were sent up in a volley, slaying the finger wagging gaunt bastards. Fearghus felt the pain in his leg as one Hyperborean feinted him, cutting a long gash in his thigh and ankle. He felt the pain of his left arm giving out as he swung fiercely in return, cutting the head off of the Gurnahki slave. Before he knew it, a maul cracked against his left shoulder, and the skirmish leader fell. Strong hands lifted him up, and he spit blood to the grounds. Kullen was bloody as well, as were the rest.

Then he spotted the sight. Ahearn was shoved to the ground as were others. Yet one Gurnahki put his foot on the tough Chieftain's throat, choking him. Fearghus limped forward, shouting angrily as blade pierced the Chieftain's gut, a sickening blow that surely was mortal. A fierce battlecry followed Kullen, Fearghus, and a swarm of Cimmerians collided with the Gurnahki slaves. More butchering. More battlecries. Fearghus knealt over the Chieftain, barely breathing. Blood oozed out of the wound, and nothing could be done. Nothing except...

“Someone GET HIM OUT OF HERE!” Fearghus bellowed. Several warriors swiftly brought over a makeshift litter, gingerly placing the fallen Chieftain onto it, flat, prone. They moved him towards the village as anger boiled over in the skirmish leader's heart. The Hyperboreans may not have won the battle yet, but if the mass of Cimmerians knew their Chieftain had been defeated, hope would dwindle...

...I remember the words spoken to me. Crisp as ever. That I would see the grey mists of Crom before this was over. My blood had run cold. Was I to die in a battle? Would I be betrayed and overthrown. Or would I be challenged? Would I die, would the clan die? Now I know what the spirits told me, of seeing the grey mists. The cold, lonely mists that await, were awaiting me. Yet, I knew I had to fight... somehow.

I remember...

...a traitor.

The battle was near its end. While Fearghus, Kullen and the skirmish force moved on to the main part of the battle after the rage carried itself to butcher dozens of Hyperboreans, a familiar figure stepped before the main party, minus the Chieftain. Kogris the Wicked smile cruely, the pale skinned, gaunt figure standing before the Elkhorn. His hand balled into a fist, he watched them. Yet before he could even speak, or act, Alether and Sienna both attacked, and yet the Witchman was not worried. Sorcery ruled over all, did it not?

“I wonder if your Chieftain will survive...” were his goading words. And those words spurred on Carnella, and Lakiabelen, as one took his knees out with her hammer, and the other pierced his shoulder with an arrow. And yet Kogris smiled, the pain nonexistent as he pointed to the corpse of one of the fallen Cimmerians. A fallen Cimmerian that would rise, a decrepit undead corpse, shambling to the defense of the Sorcerer, stopping the attacks of others. Kogris would savor these lands moments, this much was true. But toying with his foes... that was almost as sweet. Almost as... enjoyable.

And yet... as he went to raise another Cimmerian from his death throes, he did not expect the daring of one warrior. Kahul they called him, brought down a knotted club, and Kogris widened his eyes as he collapsed, brains spilling onto the dirt. He knew his death was here... he did not expect it this soon. He did not expect some random warrior to take him out. No... he had expected more. Kogris the Wicked had underestimated the clan's daring. And with that, he knew darkness, even as his brains turned to maggots, his body lit aflame, and all that remained was his heart, beating, until an arrow pierced it.

Yet not before his fist unclenched, revealing the very pendant of the Skald who had died weeks earlier... the traitor perhaps, a question for another time. Sienna took the pendant, and Alether took the heart. A theory she had... but would it work? The heart was sliced into six pieces and yet.... the earth shook. With Kogris gone, the war host broke and ran. Warriors chased them down, slaughtered them. The Cimmerians had won, yet the earth shook. It was surely not Crom cheering on his grim children, for Crom would not care. Then what was it, if not a rumbling that came from the ruins of the Great Hall?

Fearghus joined the Lawgiver, Trialmaster, and the rest to bring them urgent news... yet not before following them to where the noise had come from. The hole in the ground. Victory had been obtained and yet... the sarcoughogus that had held Tholgrim the Black Heart was empty. Tholgrim had been raised. Alether swiftly blamed herself, despite the clan's insistence not to. If Tholgrim had been raised... the truth of the matter was unknown. Fearghus frowned in concern, not of the Lawgiver's own feelings, but the simple fact. If an Elder was not fit to lead....

“I bring news,” the skirmish leader said, as they finally rose from the emptied out tomb underneath the ruins. “Ahearn lives. And according to the sages...”

“Aye?” asked one of the warriors.

“...he was persistent, and left for Ben Morgh to undergo his gaesa.”

And yet even with such a statement, the Skirmish Leader had to wonder. With a worn out, battered, bleeding clan, and Elders in much of the shape, how could they handle a leader now who doubted herself? Fearghus would have words... weakness, especially in the face of a harrowing victory, could not be tolerated.

The battle... the war was won, even if Tholgrim's body had moved. Yet they were Cimmerians. There would be another battle. That was the truth of the matter. There would always be another battle, because it was Cimmeria.

Land of Darkness and Deep Night.

And so I go, to the face of Crom, for seven days. For seven nights. A week's time, to reflect. To commune. With a hole in my gut or not, I will remain there, to make peace with myself, and to make peace with all that has happened. I saw the gray mists, and now I know what awaits in the afterlife. Is it anything but, that I do not know. But what I do know is that my Clan has risen. The Elkhorn is stronger then I ever dreamed it would be.

Adharca Cathair still stands, and we will take our next foes. I will return to the village, stronger for it. Our Hall will rise again, our injured will fight again. Our banner, our symbol, our swords will ride, and our foes will be destroyed.

...I remember.


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