The Devouring Knight

As the last of the memories settled, clarity sharpened in his gaze. A fragment of an ancient blessing now flowed in his blood. Yet unlike the Vikings, who bore an unbroken bond to their gods, he felt no divine presence, only the echo of it.

"My Lord."

Skitz's voice cut through the haze, pulling him back to the now.

Lumberling blinked once, the last image of a burning longship fading from his mind. "Let's return immediately. These enemies… they're dangerous, and they're heading for the city."

Without another word, they broke into a sprint, shadows streaking through the dark forest until the city's walls loomed ahead.

Torches burned along the walls, their light flickering across steel and determined faces. The captains and his soldiers stood ready. Beside them, the Baron waited with his captain, Derrek, and Uncle Eldric.

Aren stepped forward the moment Lumberling appeared. "My Lord, did the Sengolio return?"

Lumberling shook his head. "No. What's coming is worse." He paused, letting the weight of his next word sink in. "Vikings."

Derrek's brow furrowed deeply. "Those pirates?"

"You know them?" Lumberling asked.

Derrek nodded grimly. "A new force in the war. They don't follow the same rules as Sengolio or the Empire. Even those two avoid crossing them."

"Then get ready," Lumberling said flatly. "We face them tonight."

Derrek's jaw slackened, the color draining from his face. "Tonight?" he echoed, as if hoping he'd misheard.

Eldric's brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in a mix of concern and calculation. "You're certain about this, Lumberling?" he asked, voice low, already gauging the weight of the risk.

Derrek stared toward the torchlit ridge. "This doesn't make sense," he muttered. "Vikings don't come this far inland. They raid the coasts, burn the border towns, then vanish. But if they've reached here…"

Eldric's expression darkened.

"It means the border's already fallen, or worse, there's nothing left to guard it. I've seen them take a city before… nothing but blackened stone and corpses when they're done."

Lumberling turned sharply, pointing as he spoke. "Krivex, archer units on the walls. Takkar, Vakk, Skarn, you'll be up front with the boar cavalry. The city gate's still under repair, so we meet them outside."

His gaze shifted. "Aren, Skitz, you take the western flank. Gobo One, Gobo Two, help Uncle Eldric hold the southern approach."

Eldric gave a firm nod.

"And for the eastern side, it'll be me and Captain Derrek."

Derrek blinked. "Just the two of us? I'll call more soldiers…"

Lumberling cut him off with a shake of his head. "No. Keep the soldiers inside. Protect the people. Some of these Vikings might slip through, we need them as the last net."

Derrek hesitated. "You're saying we'll fight them alone?"

"That will be enough," Lumberling replied simply, already turning away. Even as he spoke with measured calm, a sliver of unease gnawed at him. These were no ordinary raiders, their war-god's blessing clung to them like a second skin, promising strength beyond mortal measure.

Derrek opened his mouth to argue, but Eldric rested a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry too much. Even alone… he's more than enough."

Derrek's frown deepened. From what he sensed, Lumberling was still in the Quasi-Knight stage. But before he could ask, the group was already moving into position, and he had no choice but to follow.

The Baron watched silently from the wall, noting how quickly and decisively Lumberling had given his orders. Every man and monster seemed to know their place within seconds.

…..

The night air was heavy with tension, the only sounds the faint creak of leather straps and the low snorts of restless boars. Torches burned along the city's outer defense, casting wavering light over the assembled fighters. Beyond the reach of the flames, the forest edge lay in oppressive darkness.

No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Then movement. Shapes emerged from the treeline, their silhouettes bristling with spears and axes, shields catching glints of torchlight.

The Vikings had come.

Lumberling's forces stood ready. The boar cavalry shifted forward, their mounts stamping the earth in anticipation.

As soon as the first Viking stepped into the open, a voice roared through the night.

"BOARS, CHARGE!"

The three captains surged ahead, leading the massive beasts in a thunderous rush. The impact was instant and brutal, shields splintered, men crumpled under tusks and iron-shod hooves. The first line of Vikings was thrown into chaos.

"@#&%**##*!" the enemy leader barked, his voice sharp with command. His warriors quickly tightened ranks, shields locking in a wall of painted wood and steel. The formation blunted the next wave of charges, holding their ground against the onslaught.

But Skarn had already fixed his eyes on the leader. Without hesitation, he yanked the reins, guiding his boar in a direct line toward him.

The collision was bone-rattling, leader and shield-bearers alike were hurled back, shields cracking under the boar's raw force.

Skarn didn't pause. He leapt from the saddle, hitting the ground with a heavy thud, and closed the gap in two strides. His twin axes flashed in the torchlight as he brought them down in a vicious arc.

The Viking leader barely caught one with his shield, but the other bit deep into his shoulder, drawing a sharp cry of pain.

Snarling, the leader swung his own axe in a brutal counter. Skarn twisted aside, the blade whistling past his ribs, close enough to feel the wind of its swing.

They circled each other, breath misting in the frigid air. The Viking leader's eyes burned with the glow of his spirit, his broad chest rising and falling in measured rhythm.

"Not bad," the man growled, voice deep like a rumbling storm. "But I am Spirit-Bound." (Speaking in Viking language)

Skarn tightened his grip on his weapon, shoulders rolling.

The Viking moved first, his steps heavy, deliberate. Then he lunged, low and fast, like a bear swiping at prey. The sheer weight behind the blow forced Skarn to block with both arms braced, boots sliding back over the ice.

'Totem Strike.' The leader's aura surged, his arms swelling with raw power. Another blow crashed down, rattling through Skarn's bones.

Skarn shoved back, slipping sideways to avoid being crushed, his own axe whipping around in a quick riposte. The edge grazed the man's arm, drawing a line of blood, but the Viking only roared, eyes flashing like molten amber.

The clash became a blur of steel and muscle, Skarn's strikes sharp and calculated, the Viking's movements brutal yet strangely fluid, shifting between the lumbering force of a bear and the sudden, snapping reflex of a wolf.