Bjorn led his eighty huskarls deeper into Tunsberg's winding streets. The settlement had grown organically over decades, with longhouses and workshops squeezed wherever space allowed. Alleys barely fit ten men side by side, maybe even less.
Every corner could hide an ambush. Every doorway might conceal archers. Bjorn's men moved with caution, shields half-raised and eyes constantly scanning. They were Bjorn's veterans.
The sounds of fighting grew louder. Steel ringing against steel. Men shouting orders or screaming in pain. The wet sounds of blades finding flesh. Smoke drifted between buildings, carrying the stench of blood and shit that always accompanied serious battle.
"Tighten up," Bjorn called back to his men. "These streets will break any charge into pieces. Keep your shields ready and watch the sides."
His huskarls adjusted their formation without need for detailed orders.
-x-X-x-
As they rounded the final bend, the southeast yard opened before them.
Bodies covered the muddy ground of the southeast yard. Some still moved, wounded men trying to crawl to safety or dying slowly from their injuries. Others lay still in pools of blood that mixed with the churned earth.
Smoke drifted across the space from several small fires. A storage shed had caught flame and was burning steadily. Scattered equipment - broken shields, snapped spear shafts, fallen weapons - told the story of desperate fighting.
But the real battle was still happening.
Two groups of warriors faced each other across the corpse-strewn ground. One side held a tight formation near the center of the yard. The other pressed them hard, their line more ragged but clearly winning through superior numbers and coordination.
Bjorn watched for long seconds, his mind cataloging what he saw.
The attackers numbered at least twice as many. They moved with confidence as they knew victory was close. Their shield wall advanced step by step, pushing the defenders back toward the burning buildings.
As they watched everything unfold in merely less than three seconds, cracks began showing in the defenders' formation. A spear thrust found its mark, dropping one of their warriors. Another stumbled backward with an axe wound to his shoulder. The tight shield wall that had been holding them together started to come apart.
Then it happened all at once.
A warrior on the left flank threw down his shield and turned to run. The man next to him hesitated, looking between his fleeing comrade and his remaining brothers. That moment of doubt was enough. An enemy spear took him in the chest.
More men began breaking. What had been an organized defense became a rout in the space of heartbeats.
"Run! Get out!" someone screamed.
Warriors scattered in all directions, seeking any escape route they could find.
The victorious side gave chase immediately. War cries filled the air as they pursued the fleeing men. Axes and swords cut down runners from behind. Spears found their marks in unprotected backs.
It wasn't combat anymore. It was turning into a slaughter.
Through the smoke and chaos of the one-sided hunt, Bjorn finally got a clear look at the leader of the winning force. A tall man with his axe still bloody from recent use. He stood near the center of the yard, pointing with his weapon and shouting orders to his men.
"Don't let any escape! Cut them all down!"
Even at this distance, even with blood spattering his face, Bjorn recognized him immediately.
Helsing.
"Fuck," Bjorn muttered. The bastard was winning and was killing his future people, and his future veterans.
Unforgivable.
-x-X-x-
Without hesitation, Bjorn filled his lungs and roared across the battlefield. "Helsing!"
His voice cut through the noise of dying and celebration. The tall warrior turned toward the sound, his eyes searching through the smoke. When his gaze found Bjorn and his silver hair, recognition flashed across his features. Then came rage—pure, burning hatred.
"You," Helsing snarled, loud enough to carry across the yard.
The two men stared at each other across fifty paces of corpse-strewn ground. Around them, the sounds of fighting began to die as warriors on both sides realized something significant was happening.
Helsing raised his sword high. "Hold!" he shouted to his men. "Don't follow the runners!"
His warriors, still drunk on their recent victory, reluctantly obeyed. Some had been halfway through stripping valuables from the dead. Others had been chasing fleeing enemies into the settlement's side streets. All turned back toward their leader.
"Shield wall!" Helsing commanded.
The response came immediately. These weren't his best men—Bjorn could tell from how they moved. Some coordinated easily, the others took time. Shields came up to protect torsos and faces. Spear points lowered to present a bristling wall of iron. They began advancing toward Bjorn's position with measured steps.
"Shield wall," Bjorn called to his own men, his voice calm.
Then Bjorn also shouted orders to the running defenders. "Stay and fight." But someone being carried by the defenders, clearly he was hurt, simply shouted orders as he could to his for retreat.
Bjorn looked at this reaction and cursed under his breath, 'The fuck is wrong with him?'
However no one answered Bjorn's thoughts as his men already finished their formation. Where Helsing's warriors had needed shouted orders and repetition, Bjorn's huskarls moved like parts of a single weapon. Shields locked into perfect overlapping formation.
Spears and axes found their proper positions. They began their own advance with the precision of men who'd done this together countless times.
As both sides marched forward, they began the rhythmic chant of warriors preparing for death. Deep voices calling out in unison. Weapon hilts and ax handles beating against shield rims in perfect time. The sound echoed off the surrounding buildings.
This was psychological warfare as much as physical preparation. The message was clear: we are not afraid. We welcome this fight. We have done this before and survived.
-x-X-x-
The two shield walls closed the distance at walking pace. Neither side rushed—experience taught that charging into a prepared spear wall was suicide. Better to advance steadily, maintain formation, and look for gaps to exploit.
Thirty paces between them. Twenty. Fifteen.
From such a distance, you see individual faces now among Helsing's men. Some showed the fierce joy of recent victory. Others revealed growing uncertainty as they recognized the quality of their opponents. A few displayed the thousand-yard stare of men who'd seen too much death and expected to see more.
Ten paces. Close enough to see the nicks in sword blades, the dents in shield bosses, the spatters of blood on mail rings.
Helsing himself held the center of his line, as tradition demanded. His shield bore fresh cuts from the recent fighting. His sword—a good blade but nothing exceptional—showed stains along its fuller. His eyes never left Bjorn's face.
Bjorn matched his position in his own formation's center. His shield, reinforced with iron bands, remained unmarked. The sword at his side seemed to drink in what little sunlight filtered through the smoke.
Five paces. The final distance before contact.
-x-X-x-
The shield walls met with a sound like thunder. Wood crashed against wood. Iron scraped against iron. Men grunted with effort as they pushed forward, seeking advantage through sheer strength.
This was the grinding phase of shield wall combat. No dramatic sword fights or heroic charges. Just brutal and hard work. Spear points jabbed through gaps between shields, seeking flesh. Axes hooked over shield rims to drag them down. Warriors in the second rank thrust forward while those in front tried to create openings.
Bjorn's men held their ground better than their opponents. Their shields, reinforced with quality iron bands, didn't splinter under the impact of axes and spear thrusts. Their weapons, forged by skilled smiths and well-maintained, kept their edges where cheaper blades might chip or bend.
Small advantages, but they mattered. A spear that bent instead of penetrating meant a missed opportunity to wound. A shield that cracked meant vulnerability in the next exchange. Over time, these tiny margins accumulated.
As the grinding combat continued, the disparity in equipment became more apparent. One of Helsing's men thrust his spear hard at a gap in the opposing line. The iron point struck the rim of a huskarl's shield and snapped clean off, leaving him holding a useless wooden shaft.
An axe blade shattered. The wielder stared in disbelief at the broken weapon in his hands before a huskarl's spear took him in the throat.
Bjorn himself moved through the fight like a force of nature. His sword, sharper and stronger than anything his opponents carried, carved through shields as if they were made of bark. When he struck at shield or weapons, inferior metal gave way before his blade.
A warrior pushed forward, trying to hook Bjorn's shield with his axe. Bjorn's counterattack sheared through the axe handle and continued into the man's chest. The warrior fell backward into his comrades, dead before he hit the ground.
As casualties and tiredness mounted on Helsing's side, gaps began to appear in their shield wall. Men stepped back unconsciously from the brutal efficiency of Bjorn's huskarls. The tight formation that had served them well against the settlement's defenders started to waver.
Bjorn sensed the moment approaching. Shield walls were psychological as much as physical. Once men began to doubt their chances, once they started thinking about escape rather than victory, the formation would collapse quickly.
He caught the eye of his closest huskarls. A slight nod, a shift in stance, and they understood. Time to finish this.
"Forward!" Bjorn roared, his voice cutting through the battle noise.
Instead of the grinding advance they'd maintained, the huskarls surged forward as one. Not a wild charge, but a coordinated push led by their most experienced warriors. Bjorn himself spearheaded the wedge, his superior sword carving a path through the enemy formation.
A spear thrust at his face. His blade caught it and turned it aside, the motion flowing seamlessly into a cut that opened the spearman's throat. Another warrior tried to bring his axe down on Bjorn's head. The attack met empty air as Bjorn sidestepped, his return stroke taking the man's arm off at the elbow.
Behind him, his huskarls pressed the advantage. Where Bjorn created gaps, they widened them. Where enemies tried to close ranks, superior weapons told. The psychological effect was devastating—Helsing's men found themselves facing opponents who seemed unstoppable.
The first man to break was a warrior on Helsing's left flank. Seeing his comrades falling around him, watching Bjorn cut through their formation like a farmer harvesting grain, he took a step backward. Then another.
Fear was contagious in battle. One man's retreat became two, then five, then a dozen. The carefully maintained shield wall began to dissolve as men sought individual safety rather than collective strength.
Helsing's voice rose above the chaos, trying to rally his men. "Hold the line! Stand your ground, you bastards!"
But the collapse had begun, and once started, it was almost impossible to stop. Warriors who had fought bravely minutes before now looked for escape routes. The tide of battle had turned decisively against them.
"Put your weapons down and we won't kill you!" Bjorn shouted over the clash of steel and screaming wounded. "I swear it on my arm ring!"
Several of Helsing's warriors heard it and hesitated mid-swing, spears half-raised, axes frozen in the air.
But hesitation in active combat was death.
A warrior near the burning shed held his spear halfway down, clearly thinking about surrender but not committed either way. One of Bjorn's huskarls read the indecision correctly and put an axe through his skull before he could decide.
Another man took a half-step back from the fighting but kept his sword raised. Ragnar's blade opened his throat in a single cut. Blood sprayed across the muddy ground as he fell.
"Choose quickly," Bjorn called out. "Drop your weapons completely or die with them in your hands."
The battle continued around them, but more of Helsing's men were hearing the offer. Some were already looking for ways out of the killing.
A young warrior on Helsing's left flank made the first move. He'd been pressed into service to protect his farm and family. His spear clattered to the ground as he raised both hands above his head.
"I yield," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear.
Bjorn nodded to his men, and they held back from killing the surrendering warrior. Seeing this, another coerced fighter dropped his notched sword. Then two more let their shields fall.
The chain reaction spread quickly through Helsing's ranks. These weren't all loyal huskarls who'd followed their lord for years. Many were huskarls from Kaupang and Borre forced to fight.
One became two. Two became four. Soon weapons were hitting the ground all across the yard as men chose life over a hopeless fight.
Within minutes, perhaps more than thirty warriors had surrendered. They stood with empty hands raised, watching nervously as Bjorn's huskarls surrounded them but held back from striking.
But not everyone gave up.
Around Helsing, a core group of twenty men remained armed and ready. These were his most loyal followers - men who'd sailed with him for years, who'd sworn personal oaths to him, who had nowhere else to go.
His berserkers stood closest to their leader. Only half their original number remained, but those who survived showed no intention of surrender. Their eyes held the wild look of men who preferred death in battle to life in shame.
Several huskarls who'd served Helsing since his youth formed a protective circle around him. Their faces showed grim determination. They would stand with their lord to the end.
Helsing himself stood in the center of this shrinking band, breathing hard from the recent fighting.
Looking around at the weapons scattered on the ground, at the men who'd abandoned him, at the overwhelming numbers of fresh enemies surrounding his handful of loyal followers, Helsing's face twisted with pure fury.
"Look what you've done!" he screamed, his voice cracking with rage. "Turned warriors into cowards! Made oath-breakers of honest men!"
His chest heaved as the full weight of his defeat crashed down on him. Everything he'd planned, all the men he'd lost taking this settlement, the victory that had been in his grasp - all of it was crumbling around him.
"You bastards!" he roared at some of the surrendered warriors. "You swore oaths to me! You ate at my table!"
The men looked ashamed. Others kept their eyes fixed on the ground. None picked up their weapons again.
Helsing turned his rage on Bjorn, his eyes burning with hatred. "This is your doing, you scheming little bastard!"
"Challenge me, you damn coward!" Helsing shouted across the battlefield. "Right here, right now! Let the gods decide who deserves victory! Or are you going to ran in fear again, just like after you ran when you burned my ships."
The words rang across the blood-soaked yard. Every man present understood what was being offered - single combat between leaders, with the winner taking everything.
Bjorn studied his opponent for a moment.
"Gladly," Bjorn replied calmly.
A murmur ran through both groups of warriors. This was how such things should be settled - leader against leader, blade against blade, with the gods watching.
Helsing immediately unbuckled his shield and let it crash to the ground. The wooden disc, scarred from the day's fighting, rolled slightly in the mud before coming to rest.
He stood waiting with an axe in his hand. His remaining followers stepped back to give their leader room to fight.
Bjorn nodded and dropped his own shield beside Helsing's. Unlike his opponent's battered war gear, Bjorn's shield showed only minor damage from the recent fighting.
The two men faced each other across ten paces of corpse-strewn ground. Around them, warriors from both sides formed a loose circle, giving the combatants space while ensuring no one could interfere.
"Any last words?" Bjorn asked quietly.
"I'll open you up from balls to brains," Helsing snarled.
Helsing didn't wait for ceremony or formal declarations. He gripped his axe and began walking toward Bjorn, building momentum.
When he got within striking range, he suddenly broke into a run. The axe came up high above his head as he closed the final distance.
With all his strength behind it, Helsing brought the axe down in a killing blow aimed directly at Bjorn's skull.
Bjorn had been watching Helsing's approach carefully, reading the man's intentions. As the axe reached the top of its arc, he moved.
Stepping smoothly to his right, Bjorn dropped into a low crouch that carried him under the axe's path and Helsing as his momentum carried him forward past the missed strike. The heavy blade whistled through empty air where his head had been a heartbeat before.
Still in the crouching motion, Bjorn drove his sword straight down into the muddy ground, freeing both hands.
Bjorn rose up behind Helsing and the latter spun around with impressive speed. His face was twisted with rage as he brought the axe around in another overhead strike, again aiming to split Bjorn's head open, again.
Again Bjorn ducked under the blow, but this time he moved differently. Instead of just avoiding the attack, he stepped inside Helsing's guard and grabbed his opponent's wrists as the axe came down.
Using Helsing's own strength and momentum against him, Bjorn twisted and pulled. The bigger man's forward motion, combined with Bjorn's leverage, wrenched the weapon from his grip.
Before Helsing could react to losing his axe, Bjorn had it in his own hands. Without hesitation, he brought the blade across his opponent's throat in a horizontal cut.
The axe edge bit deep enough to open a serious gash. Blood immediately began flowing down Helsing's neck, soaking into his leather armor.
Helsing staggered backward, both hands flying to his throat as he felt the warm blood flowing between his fingers. His eyes went wide with shock and growing panic as he realized what had happened.
"You..." he tried to speak, but the words came out as wet gurgles. The cut had damaged his windpipe.
He pressed his hands harder against the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. But blood continued seeping through his fingers, and he could feel his strength starting to ebb.
Bjorn stepped forward and grabbed Helsing's throat with his bare hands, his fingers finding the wound the axe had made. Helsing tried to pull away, but he was already weakening from blood loss.
Brutally, Bjorn drove his fingers into the gash and began tearing. Flesh and cartilage separated under his grip as he literally ripped Helsing's throat apart.
Helsing's scream died in his ruined throat as Bjorn pulled away a mass of torn flesh, windpipe, and blood vessels. For a moment, Bjorn held the bloody mess in his hands, looking at what remained of his enemy's throat.
Then he contemptuously threw the torn tissue onto the muddy ground beside Helsing's feet.
Helsing swayed for a few more seconds, making horrible choking sounds as blood poured from the gaping hole in his neck. His hands clawed weakly at the massive wound, but there was nothing left to hold together.
Finally, he pitched forward face-first into the mud, his blood mixing with that of all the other men who had died in this cursed yard.
The duel was over. Helsing lay dead with his throat ripped out, his own axe beside him in the bloody mud.
The surviving berserkers and loyal huskarls stared at their leader's mutilated corpse. One by one, they began dropping their weapons as well. Without Helsing to lead them, they had no cause left worth dying for.
Bjorn stood over his fallen enemy, breathing calmly despite the violence he'd just unleashed. Blood covered his hands and forearms, but none of it was his own.
Bjorn sighed, took Helsing's axe, and pressed it into the man's arm, closing his fingers tightly around the haft.