Vanheim 1: Salt and Blood
When we row we cease to be individual marines but become one. Each stroke of the oar is perfectly timed with every other one. The longboat slides through the quiet dawn shallows with hardly a sound. The men are fresh and we breathe easily. The drummer does not bother with a beat- for now all we need is our heartbeats. There is only the gentle ‘drip-drop’ of water falling from our oars as they lift quietly from the water, turn, and skim along the sea top only to descend quietly back into the waters. When the sea is quiet like it is today, there is a peacefulness unlike any other- a peace that comes not only from the silence but also from the perfect unity we feel. None of us speak or sing. We enjoy the morning. From the shores we can hear the birds speaking to one-another. We see a few ravens and know that they will report our sighting to the Desir. Our oars rise and slide and fall- in unison. If one of us is off, even by a tiny bit, we all immediately feel it. A slight tug in our momentum- a faltering in our perfect rhythm. But we have been rowing for much of our lives- we are Vanir and for the Vanir the sea is a way of life. We know not to compensate for the missed beat, the off-rhythm stroke. If we do, we will lose our unity as we all try to compensate in one way or another. No- we trust that the marine who has lost the stroke will return to the unity we feel. Trust forms the basis for our unity and our unity is our strength. The fishermen and the farmers, they are often astounded at how we can move so silently, how even in the heat of battle we can strike with such coordination without screaming orders at one another. The reason they are astounded is because they have not rowed with us. If they had they would know what it meant to be united with ones brothers.
We are led by Jarl Hjálmarr Jaerbyn. He sits at the prow of the ship. Because his noble blood is tightly linked to that of the royal bloodline his glamour is particularly strong and we can barely perceive his form through the illusion. From time to time I see movement, like snowflakes catching the sun as they fall lazily from the sky and occasionally I hear his voice as he speaks to the coxswain or works a spell to extend our natural glamour to the ship and our wake. Looking around me I can see the shifting shadows of my fellow marines. We are elite soldiers, freemen or high-ranking serfs and while our glamour is weaker than Jarl Jaerbyn, it is strong enough that most peering into the ship would see only sparkling shadows.
Today we are tracking along the coast, searching for a bay where we suspect one of the lesser human tribes has established a small fishing village. In the past week we have seen evidence of their activity, burnt-out campfires and discarded nets too worn and tangled to bother repairing, fish bones and fragments of broken clay jugs strewn around campsites days to weeks old. We will find these humans and make them slaves. The Jarl’s magicks ensure that we will see them before they know we are here. I know that if a human were to be peering out to sea right now and even should they look directly at our ship, they would see only the grey sea, a few bare islands barely cresting the high tide, perhaps a few birds, and the distant horizon. Jarl Jaerbyn has woven our individual glamour into something greater and cloaked us from the eyes of men and beast alike.
Finally late in the afternoon we spot smoke rising lazily into the windless sky. We stop and rest, chew on some dried herring and take our time sharpening our axes and double-checking one another’s armor. As we do the sky begins to rain very softly. I have not completely broken from my morning’s introspection and I watch the ripples the raindrops make as they fall upon the sea with a detached calmness.
Jarl Jaerbyn gives a quiet order and we slip back behind our oars. Less than a hundreds strokes later we arrive at a sandy shore less than five-hundred paces from the human’s fishing villages. We passed three small skiffs as we approached and one fisherman spent some time peering at us before shaking his head and going back to his work but no one saw through our glamour. We arrive undetected.
We are careful not to splash too loudly as we disembark and race along the sand and rock-strewn shore. The rain begins to come down a bit more heavily and the humans pull their cowls closer over their faces to keep them dry. It will also cut their vision and I smile inwardly, maintaining my calm.
There is no battlecry as suddenly we are upon them. Jarl Jaerbyn drops his glamour magic and spins a wind-charm; suddenly a freezing northern wind is whipping about the camp, striking those who would dare raise a cudgel or spear to us and knocking them flat, leaving them shivering and frost-covered. We race amongst them, striking with the flat of our axes where we can and keeping a close eye on the perimeter to ensure none flee.
Soon the village has been overrun. There were precious few real warriors amongst the village and those who stood against us barely knew what they faced; they saw only shifting glints of light and shadow before an axe would chop their spear in half. We take no causalities.
We sack their huts and tie up their strong and able in ropes. Some will return here but most will be split up from their tribes and will work as slaves in mines, quarries, and farms throughout Vanheim.
As we pack up the slaves and loot, the rain begins to stop. My heart slows and calm returns; I am happy. I am with my brothers, united in
salt and blood.
