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8: Dragonborn Conqueror, First Strike pt.2
🕑 Added 2024-12-28 16:07:02 +0000 UTCRedoing my Life...Next.
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“Shit, there are only three left,” Harald muttered as they rode closer to the scene. The Ironborn had cornered a group of riders, men whom Leobald had identified as sworn to Lord Hickory.
“Four,” Leobald corrected, pointing to a boy clutching one of the lead riders. The horse they rode tumbled to the ground, throwing them both off.
“Fuck,” Harald hissed.
He pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted in one fluid motion. His sharp gaze swept over the scene as he quickly assessed the situation. The Ironborn had surrounded the men and the boy. Their leader appeared to be speaking, perhaps negotiating—or more likely issuing threats.
“Harald,” Leobald said, his voice trembling. “I think that’s Robard Hickory—the lord’s son and heir.”
Harald’s jaw tightened as he focused on the group. The Ironborn hadn’t noticed them yet. Their leader seemed willing to talk, suggesting he had orders to take the boy alive.
‘Good,’ Harald thought grimly. ‘That gives me time.’
He strode back to his horse and yanked his massive battleaxe free from its harness. The dark weapon gleamed ominously in the light, its etched runes pulsing faintly as though thirsting for blood.
“Quickly, Harald!” Leobald urged, his voice cracking as the Ironborn leader’s tone shifted, signaling the talking was about to end.
“Hope it still works,” Harald muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
In one swift motion, he raised the battleaxe, his muscles coiling like a spring. Then, with practiced precision, he hurled the weapon through the air. The axe spun rapidly, its edges catching the sunlight as it whirled toward its target.
The Ironborn leader barely had time to react. The axe struck him squarely in the chest with a sickening crunch, the force of the impact staggering him backward. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc as the man collapsed in a lifeless heap.
The suddenness of the attack froze everyone. The Ironborn stood rooted in place, their faces contorted in shock. The Hickory men, cornered and battered, stared in disbelief. Even Leobald, seated on his horse behind Harald, seemed stunned into silence.
Leobald blinked. “You threw that… that far?”
Harald shot him a dry glance. “Magic, Leobald… magic.”
“Oh,” Leobald muttered sheepishly, as though he’d momentarily forgotten just whom he was dealing with.
Harald smirked beneath his helm. “Now watch this,” he said, stretching out his hand.
The runes on the battleaxe began to glow brighter, their faint pulse intensifying with a low, resonant hum. The weapon twitched where it lay, embedded in the Ironborn leader’s corpse. Then, with a sharp, violent movement, it tore itself free, ripping through flesh and bone. It spun through the air, hurtling back toward Harald’s outstretched hand.
The Ironborn and the Hickory men alike watched wide-eyed as it came to a halt in Harald’s grip, the force of its return doing nothing to stagger him.
He hefted it onto his shoulder, the dark blade gleaming in the light. A faint smile crossed his face as a memory stirred. ‘All those months with Brelyna enchanting this beauty—worth every second,’ he thought, a rare moment of fondness flickering through him for his time at the College of Winterhold.
“I suggest you leave those fine gentlemen alone,” Harald called out.
The Ironborn hesitated, their eyes darting between Harald and one another, disbelief etched into their faces.
Harald tilted his head slightly, his voice taking on a faint note of mockery. “No? You’re just going to stand there? That’s fine…” He rolled his shoulders, the runes on his axe flaring brighter. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Wuld!”
In an instant, Harald was gone, a blur of motion too fast for the Ironborn to track. He reappeared beside the nearest raider, his battleaxe already in motion. The weapon sliced through the air in a deadly arc, cleaving effortlessly through the Ironborn’s neck. Blood sprayed in a gruesome fountain, and the man’s head tumbled to the ground as his body crumpled lifelessly.
Three of the Ironborn screamed in terror, their composure shattered as they dropped their weapons and ran.
“Krii… Lun.. Aus!” Harald’s voice rang out as he unleashed Marked for Death. The escaping raiders stumbled as the Shout hit them, their bodies contorting in agony. They collapsed to the ground, writhing and screaming, their mouths forced open so wide that blood began to pour from their gums and throats.
“Warlock!” one of the Ironborn shouted, his voice cracking as he swung a mace at Harald’s head. The blow glanced harmlessly off Harald’s helm, the ebony metal and its enchantments absorbing the impact as though it were nothing more than a breeze.
Harald retaliated with brutal precision. His axe came down in a deadly arc, the blade biting deep into the raider’s shoulder. It cleaved through bone and muscle, lodging itself in the man’s chest. With a fierce tug, Harald yanked the weapon free, blood spraying in a wide arc and painting the ground around him.
Another Ironborn lunged from the side, a spear aimed for Harald’s unprotected flank. Harald twisted, catching the spear’s shaft with his free hand. With a grunt, he snapped it in half as though it were a twig, then drove the jagged, splintered end into the raider’s throat. The man gurgled, blood bubbling from his neck as he fell to his knees and then collapsed forward.
The remaining Ironborn hesitated, their faces pale with fear. But their terror was soon replaced by desperate courage. With a collective cry, they charged Harald en masse, hoping to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.
Harald met them head-on. One raider swung clumsily, and Harald sidestepped the attack with ease, his axe carving a brutal gash across the man’s torso. The Ironborn’s entrails spilled from the wound, and he collapsed with a choking cry, his lifeblood pooling at Harald’s feet.
Another raider raised his sword high, but Harald was faster. He buried his axe in the man’s chest, and the runes along the blade flared to life. Flames erupted from the weapon, engulfing the raider in a fiery inferno. His screams were short-lived as his body was consumed by fire, collapsing into a smoldering heap.
Two more attackers came at Harald from either side, their weapons poised to strike. Harald ducked beneath their swings, his axe whirling in a wide, deadly arc. The blade caught one raider at the waist, cutting him cleanly in half. The other raider screamed as his leg was severed at the thigh, a geyser of blood erupting from the stump. The man fell to the ground, clutching at his ruined leg, his cries filled with agony. Harald ended his suffering with a swift downward strike, the blade cleaving through his skull.
As he lifted his axe, Harald saw from the corner of his eye the knights scrambling to their feet, taking young Robard Hickory with them as they fled into the woods, with Leobald chasing after them.
Harald’s attention snapped back to the remaining Ironborn as a burly raider lunged at him, a massive axe aimed directly at Harald’s chest. The blow landed with a deafening clang, but the enchanted ebony armor absorbed the impact effortlessly, the runes flickering faintly as if mocking the attempt.
Harald countered with a vicious uppercut, his gauntleted fist connecting with the raider’s jaw. The man staggered backward, dazed, just as Harald brought his battleaxe down. The weapon tore through the raider’s chest, nearly splitting him in two.
Only one Ironborn remained. Seeing the carnage around him, he turned and fled.
“Not so fast,” Harald muttered, hefting his axe. He hurled it, and the weapon spun through the air in a blur of black and silver. It struck the fleeing raider square in the back, the force sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt, lifeless.
Harald called the axe back and then glanced toward where he’d left Leobald, recalling that the knights had run into the woods and that his friend had followed.
“Oh, right,” he muttered, hefting his axe onto his shoulder. Without further hesitation, he broke into a run, following the path they had taken into the woods.
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It did not take long for Harald to find them. His pace slowed when he heard voices—both Leobald’s and the knights’.
“Please, listen to me! Harald’s no a danger to us…”
A gruff voice, trembling with fear, replied, “You’re with that demon…”
Another voice, steadier but no less urgent, cut in. “Ser Whiteflame, we need to go. Now. We can’t trust him.”
Following the voices, Harald emerged into a small clearing and spotted the group. Leobald stood in front of the knights, who had their swords drawn, while young Robard Hickory stood behind them.
“I am telling you,” Leobald insisted, his voice rising in desperation, “he is not a demon! He is a divine warrior, sent to protect us!”
Harald stepped forward, and the knights turned toward him, swords trembling at the sight of his imposing figure.
‘Always looked terrifying in this armor,’ Harald thought with a faint smirk behind his helm.
Leobald immediately placed himself between Harald and the knights, his back to Harald. “Please, listen!” he begged. “Put your weapons away!”
Harald lowered his axe to signal that he meant no harm. But the knights held their ground, their fear evident in their expressions.
Leobald turned to the knight who seemed to be the leader, his voice softer now. “Ser Whiteflame… you know me. I’ve been to Honeytree a hundred times or more. Believe me when I say this—Harald means no harm.”
The knight’s grip on his sword faltered, his gaze darting between Harald and Leobald. Finally, with slow deliberation, he lowered his weapon. He then motioned for the other two knights to do the same.
“Thank you,” Leobald said, relief flooding his voice.
Harald’s eyes flicked to Robard, who peeked out from behind the knights, his small frame trembling. Harald inclined his head slightly toward the boy before turning to Leobald.
“I’ll give you time,” Harald said flatly. Without waiting for a response, he walked off into the trees.
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Harald found a fallen log and sat on it, staring into the increasing number of trees in the distance. The soft rustle of leaves in the wind mingled with the distant calls of birds, filling his ears. His thoughts turned to what the future held.
‘After Maise and the villagers are safe, what then’ he wondered. Returning to the life he’d tried to build here seemed impossible now. His presence had already begun to ripple outward, and soon enough, those ripples would become waves.
From the way Leobald was explaining his presence to people, it wouldn’t be long before at least half of them treated him like a god—venerated and feared. The other half could revile him, calling Leobald’s words heretical.
Harald grimaced. ‘Not exactly looking forward to either of those.’
And yet… another part of him stirred with anticipation. The thought of domination and conquest flared briefly in his mind.
He sighed. ‘One thing at a time,’ he told himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps from behind him, and he turned sharply, his hand instinctively brushing the haft of his battleaxe. But he relaxed when he saw Leobald emerging from the trees, smiling. Beside him was the knight—Ser Whiteflame—his helm now removed.
Harald stood, his gaze locking onto the knight. Ser Whiteflame’s appearance was striking—his pale, almost albino complexion, silver hair, and piercing violet eyes made him look strange in Harald’s eyes. The knight’s face was stern but betrayed hints of uncertainty as he studied Harald.
“The Septon… he tells me you are…” Ser Whiteflame began, his voice hesitant.
Harald decided to cut through the pleasantries, having little patience for drawn-out conversations. “I want to free the villagers taken by the Ironborn,” he said bluntly. “Leobald tells me they’re being taken to Honeytree. Is that correct?”
Ser Whiteflame exchanged a glance with Leobald before nodding. “Yes. Rodrik Greyjoy came to Honeytree. He demanded that Lord Hickory assist him in taking thralls. When my lord refused, he murdered him and his lady… and took his daughter…” His voice wavered, anger and despair etched deeply into his pale features.
“You escaped with his son,” Harald said, filling in the gaps.
The knight nodded again. “Barely.”
Harald’s sharp eyes met Ser Whiteflame’s once more. The knight opened his mouth to speak, but Harald cut him off. “Tell me. How would you like to take your castle back—in less than a day or so?”
Ser Whiteflame froze, his mouth hanging open in shock.
The silence stretched for a moment.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” Harald said with a faint smirk. He stepped forward, clapping the knight on the back. “Now, come. Draw me the layout of the castle—let’s see what we’re up against.”
Ser Whiteflame blinked. “What?”
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Finally back
