The oars dove beneath the slate gray waves, latticed with white foam, and emerged again - and again. The swells, driven by the frigid late autumn winds to heights of ten and twelve feet, rose and fell into troughs just as deep, crashing now and then against the prow and drenching the men with salted spray as they rowed through driving rains toward the dark shape of the merchant ship whose sails had been hauled in as it encountered the fierce northern storm after rounding Mount Elesharr. The men flew no flag, and bore no emblems. They wore grim faces that belied their excitement.
This... THIS is our blood, Gunnir thought to himself as he watched the lanterns on the horizon sway to and fro, rocked by the tumultuous sea. He lifted his face to the heavens and let the icy rains wash down his pale face and through the sandy blonde hair of his braided beard. Too long had these men played lap dog to the soft men of the river valley. Lightning flashed across the swirling sky followed shortly by the thunderous crash of thunder. To the left and right three other pairs of oars cut through the surf in near perfect synchrony to the beating of Gunnir's heart.
An insatiable lust gripped the beating heart in his chest and squeezed adrenaline to his very fingertips as the silhouette of the merchant ship drew closer. From his perch on the curved prow of the longship he looked back to Reki with wide eyes and bared teeth. Reki, with swelling chest, lifted the curled ram's horn to his lips and let loose the blare that had once struck terror in the hearts of his ancestors' foes. The blast cut through the air, challenging the fury of the storm, and was quickly joined by the sister ships of Gunnir's own Wicked Serpent.
The drums' tanned hides were struck once, twice, three times. Each boom was answered by a barrage from the others. The fourth strike was matched in near perfect synchrony by the sister ships and commenced a clangor from all four. The thunderous beating of the drums accelerated and reverberated from the soles of Gunnir's feet through his chest. The oars dipped and rose, dipped and rose - faster and faster - keeping time with the drums.
The rowers chanted in the old tongue to match the drums as the boarders readied their equipment,
Gunr Hildur - Gudhur Herdjoetur - Grimgrdh Hjoerthrimul Visna
As the archers readied their bows,
Hloek Gerhildur - Hefna Geirskougutl - Hjalmvingur Goendul Kaura
And as the merchant vessel came to life with movement atop ship,
Geirahoed Hrist - Geirdriful Hervoer - Geiravoer Hroshvita Nipt
Four volleys of arrows cut through the night air from four long ships that encircled the hapless merchants. Sixteen grapples clambored to the decks of the ship, Soul of Magdeburg, bearing luxury goods to foreign markets. One hundred men took to the ropes and scaled her hull.
Gunnir swung his legs across the railing of the galleon and landed upon her heaving deck, hand axe held aloft. The mariners aboard the merchant ship, dressed ornately for seamen in the style of Magdeburg, ran hither and thither in disarray paying little heed to the towering figure of the true northman as he surveyed them, half ammused. His pause was momentary and soon, the lust awoke in him once more and found its way to his right hand. His axe buried itself in the nearest deckhand, cleaving his skull. Gunnir grinned as the axe bled the man, and tugged to retrieve it only to find its blade wedged and pulled down and away by the weight of the sailor's collapse. He grunted with a frown and let loose the axe drawing his short sword in it's stead, quickly running through a charging Riverlander.
Others of Gunnir's kind emerged over the ship's sides and unleashed a fury long tamed on the hapless crew. The sea churned, unaffected by the carnage, the swash bearing it away in the storm. The bloodletting lasted mere minutes before those still alive aboard the Soul of Magdeburg were coralled and bound about the mast of the vessel. Gunnir, flecks of viscera covering his already frightening visage, strode through the hold below decks admiring the bounty just liberated.
He looked to Reki, teeth exposed by a wide grin, and gestured magnanimously at the crates of ornate silver, polished gems, finished jewlery, and luxurioius fabrics packed from bow to stern. "A hard days labor!" he cackled as Reki clapped him on the shoulder and, returning his grin replied, "Where wolf’s ears are, wolf’s teeth are near." Gunnir laughed again and began to reply, but stopped short - holding a finger up in front of Reki's face. He cocked his head at the sound of the horn blaring outside. It sounded again. And again.
Gunnir climbed through the hatch to the top deck of the Soul of Magdeburg and hastened through the former captain's cabin to the quarter deck where peered out at the roiling seas. Pale ships, a dozen or more, cut the waves from the West: horns blaring, drums pounding, and strange chants in some foreign tongue resonating across the white capped swells. Gunnir furrowed his brow, his mind unsure how to interpret the sight before him. His men reacted similarly: staring at the fleet of pale white ships, eighteen now by Gunnir's count, in confusion. The lust, however, was not unsure. Gunnir felt it grip his heart once more and grinned as the first volley of arrows buried themselves in the deck, the captives, and his men alike.
