Blood Brothers

The thick biting sleet bore into the young warrior’s bright clothes making the cold burry itself into his flesh. Where it missed him, the sleet sunk into the earth making the ground beneath his feet slip away, or worse, grab hold of him.
         He had to force his feet through it and had to keep moving. He had to escape. His pursuers were not far behind him now. As quickly as an archer would loose an arrow from his bow the young warrior shot a glance over his shoulder, saw nothing, but slipped and tumbled down a concealed embankment. The brambles and undergrowth attempted to catch him as he plunged down their banks but they only left gashes in his skin. He cursed the god that gave him such clumsy and weak flesh.
        His enemies heard his fall and quickly found their prey clad in mud and blood. The young fair haired warrior drew his light blade, Swift Biter, and prepared for battle. His teal blue eyes blazed with a dark fury and determination to survive. They laughed at his youth and his feeble attempt to escape from them.
        They jeered as the approached, calling him all manner of things. Then one called him a coward. They taunted him, saying he was more cowardly than his father. Those few words struck the warrior harder than any weapon ever could.  “You filthy old men would not know courage if you saw it!” The young warrior screeched, “Come and fight me, if you can!”
The young warrior’s enemies closed around him, like rabid dogs closing in around a young pup. The warrior readied himself to accept any fate that the Norns had prepared for him. If he had to he would die with his sword in his hand.
The dark haired archer strode through the land, taking little notice of the sleet that attempted to borrow itself into his fading emerald woollen cloak. The sleet was surrendering and soon the clouds dispersed, revealing patches of a silver blue sky. Though the ground was reduced to little more than a treacherous mud puddle underfoot the archer decided it was safe to hunt. After all, there was no sleet or rain that threatened to twist the bow string and the archer was hungry. He skilfully climbed a steep ridge to an embankment shrouded with shrubbery. With his deep brown eyes he waited for some clueless prey to wander pass.
              Suddenly, a crimson ball tumbled down the slope opposite the archer, cursing as it fell. Frowning, the archer watched as the crimson mass shakily took the form of a young bloody mud-covered man. He had been running from something, what was it? Was it still after him? He readied his arrow, aiming it at anything that might follow the boy.
          The young man drew his sword, completely unaware of his hidden protector. His enemies found him, and made their way down the embankment with far more skill than they’re prey had managed. Soon the air was filled with the foul jeers of the enemies. It made the young warrior agitated but it also aggravated the archer. He didn’t know why. This boy was a stranger to him, why should insults to him anger the archer? He forced himself to focus and steady his aim. The arrow twitched at every insult that was dealt to the young warrior, wanting to take revenge.  
               Soon the warrior had enough. He screamed his challenge at his numerous foes. They smirked and gladly accepted. The first one strode forward, he was a tall bald man armed with an axe. He swung, without much thought, at the young warrior. He darted out of reach and landed a powerful strike on his shoulder, digging his blade deep into the flesh. While his foe screamed in agony and surprise, the young warrior wrestled his shield away and claimed it as his own.
                   The archer watched, impressed by the boy’s swiftness.
                  Another enemy hurried forward, to take the place of his comrade. Using just his shield he attempted to knock the young warrior off his balance. Instead the boy, unthinkingly, struck the blade into the top of the shield burying it in the wood. His teal blue eyes shone like glass, ignited with dread and panic. He was stuck and weapon-less against the two remaining foes. He tried to pull his sword free but his opponent wouldn’t let him. His comrade came for the young warrior, from behind. He knew he was there but there was nothing he could do but struggle against the biting shield. Another blade was drawn with the foul intent on butchering the boy.
        The archer watched the struggle unfold. His moment to strike had come. He loosed an arrow; it tore through the air and gorged its way through the bladed warrior’s arm. He hollowed in pain as his comrade and his prey looked on in amazement.
               The young warrior could scarcely believe his luck. Clearly he had a guardian Valkyrie somewhere. With one hand still struggling to remove his sword, he used his free one to pull the arrow from his wounded foe and lodged it as deeply as he was able into the neck of the one who had stolen his sword.
                 He sunk into the muddy ground, the earth soaked up the red treasure that spilt from the dead foe.
                Enraged by the death of his fallen comrade the remaining enemy attacked the young warrior, forcing him to the ground despite his wounded shoulder. Swiftly, the young warrior caught his enemy’s wrist before he could bring his blade down on him, but he was trapped and he did not have the strength in his arms to keep the blade away for long. He struggled but the blade edged its way closer, eager to get a taste of his blood.
              Three thuds and the opponent went limp.
              The only remaining warrior shoved him off to discover three arrows buried in the back of his now deceased opponent. The flights stood proudly out against the dark mud and the grey winter undergrowth; crimson and yellow.
            Cautiously he rose to his feet, briefly glanced around at his surroundings to see if he could see whoever helped him. He saw nothing so turned his attention to retrieving his sword from the embrace of the shield. He tugged but tugged the shield with him, completely oblivious to the dark haired archer who now approached him. While the young warrior struggled the archer, bow still ready to be used to deadly affect, firmly held the shield in place. The boy acknowledged the tanned leather boot upon the shield and quickly worked to remove Swift Biter from it. With a sudden jolt the sword was free and the warrior stumbled a few paces backwards. The archer and the warrior stood facing each other, each trying to distinguish whether the other was a threat. There was no ill intent in the archer’s deep chestnut eyes which had flakes of gold shining through them, the warrior saw this and lowered his weapon. The archer did the same. “I suppose I have you to thank for saving my skin?” the warrior proposed, shattering the silence of the battle field.
The archer nodded.
“What’s your name?” The warrior enquired.
“Halldor.” The archer answered, as he tucked his arrow back into the quiver on his hip.
“Well then Halldor,” the warrior said as he tucked his own weapon away, “I, Soti Styrson, am in your debt.”  
Halldor smiled amused by the sentiment. “Forget it boy, you owe me nothing.” Soti frowned, his teal eyes clouded with confusion.
The archer simply turned to leave. Soti followed him, not being that easy to deter.
“Where are you going?” Soti enquired, keen for his debt to not go unsettled.
“A small trading town on the coast, Véurr Upphiminn, know it?” answered Halldor, hoping that his new companion would.
The warrior smiled, “I do, heading that way myself.  So, errm, I don’t suppose you errr, don’t mind me tagging along?” he asked rather fragilely and awkwardly.
The words hung in the air for a while, unescapable. But Halldor grinned, amazed and glad that the young warrior showed interest in travelling with him. “Of course.” He said, after a few seconds that felt longer to Soti than they actually were. “I’ll be glad for the company.”
Soti beamed, revealing little dimples in his cheeks, and thanked Halldor. He could not have been happier with his reply.
The bald axe man stumbled down a foul mud track, unwilling to reach his destination. Blood had gushed from his shoulder where the filthy boy struck him. He had stopped the bleeding though. His comrades were not as lucky as he. Their bodies had been left for the crows to feast upon.
     He saw firelight and stumbled into his encampment. At first there was a flurry of movement as his remaining comrades tried to tend to the axe man’s injury but they quickly dispersed once they saw he returned without the promised prize.
      Large dark leather boots crushed the ground as they took their owner closer towards the centre of the confusion. The hushed mumble of the camp cut out. Everything was silent. A large man, coated with a bear skin, glared down at the axe man with blazing blue eyes. The look he gave went beyond disgust, it was one of complete disgruntlement; like the look one may give a mangy mutt that was caught stealing food. The axe man shuddered under the venomous gaze.
“Where is the boy’s head?” The larger man growled. The axe man tried to explain what had happened but his leader interrupted him. “You couldn’t butcher a boy? One measly little child! You managed to let him escape?” he roared.
“He had help!” the axe man wailed, trying to sooth the raging temper before him.
The Man grabbed the axe man by the jaw and held him above in the air, making his feet flail like wet linen in a gust of wind.
In a gruff menacing voice he snarled, “From who?”
The axe man gasped, struggling to breathe, “An archer… Red... Yellow flights…”
This did little to calm the Bear Man. He tightened his grip around the axe man’s throat. Pleadingly he looked to his fellow campmates.
“Th-the mercenary group, Ulfhedinn, their colours are red and yellow. An-and their Sturaesman is an archer.” Stuttered a comrade of the axe man, hoping to save his friend.
This did nothing to help; it only added fuel to the Bear Man’s rage. With a single flick of his wrist the axe man’s throat was crushed. He writhed for a moment like a fish desperate to breathe in water. But was soon still. His campmates avoided their master’s eyes, knowing a glance could send him over the edge into the deepest depths of wrath. The Bear Man stormed off, unaware of the terror he had inflicted.
           Had his prey sought help from a mercenary group? That was crafty of the miserable youth. He would pay dearly for his move. Very dearly.
“Send word out; I want this Ulfhedinn group found!” He howled, sending his underlings scattering, “I want this boy dead! Him and everyone he’s contacted!”