Walkure was sitting within the garden. She watched Hagalaz leave with the children towards the woolmarket. This woman sat amidst the sprouting beanstalks and onions, but she was not tending to them. Rather she was sharpening the varying harvesting tools and also most importantly of all her sword. Yes a sword she had, it's adornments now long chipped away by it's continued use and the black blade being honed from the coming of the day till now halfway to the midst of it. The blade reflected her in a sense, for it was once beautiful and in need for a true test. Now though, it was simply practical and to the point. If one would see her, one would take swift note of how her left eye was bloodshot forever, while on her left hand her ringfinger had been halfway gone. Her narrow straight nose now had a bump in it, where as the bone hadn't healed properly from a small fracture. Some elders remembered her as a fair beautiful child that would likely become a singer or a dancer to everyone's merit. Yet, she didn't. She was a warrior foremost, taken for a shieldmaiden, a woman that would assist the flank of a battleline when the men did the heaviest work. She was good at it, outlived many believed to be fiercer and bulkier. Luck had it's ways to do that. She had met her husband thusly aswell and they had fought more than once. She missed him deeply, her golden hair now held in a thick knotted braid that ran along her back, just like him.. or rather him like her she reminded herself... Or most fair a claim, them both donning their hair like eachother, yes that was it, she knew as her heart skipped and a slight ache settled in her throat.
She didn't shrug the thoughts of him away, instead she used them. As wood was fuel to a fire, so these memories gave purpose to the lean muscles within her body. She would maybe need them. Earlier that morning Widufern, one of the youths she was raising as a warrior had come rushing to the farm. He was out of breathe when he interrupted the meal of everyone with a story of perhaps twenty armed men coming from the northern hills. Rough faces covered in tattooed knotworks, their march steady and full of purpose. Walkure knew what that may mean. She stood up, whipped her blade through the air with a few practice swings and then sheathed it on her belt. "Right on time.", she thought when she shot a glance at the band of men at the border of the field. Already those tending the growths had been running away, yelling out at others to hasten off. Walkure's breathing deepened as she stepped right towards these men, they were too nicely dressed and equiped to be from her people, distant cousins though they might be.
"Who enters the land of the chieftain's son with weapon in hand?! Who dares to?", her voice rang out over the now empty field. The authority she bore was mirrored by the one man who's voice broke from the wall of round shields. "My name is Harbrok Wargbiter!!", the man stepped forward. He was grinning as Walkure stepped closer and she spoke, "What are you here for?", she demanded. The man bent forward to her, his voice lowered alike. His eyes were bright with amused malice, she estimated him perhaps nineteen circles of the seasons, "Food, warmth,..... wealth. And we WILL have it." "Who do you think you are that you can make such claims?", she continued, not leaving him out of sight for but a moment. "We heard that many of the men here have left on to wage wars, only the weak in their wake. Do not try to make believe me that it is not so. Or would you believe that you can take us on by yourself hag?" She rose her chin up, defiant and with authority in her voice, "If you come here as guests and leave your weapons at the edge of the farm I will invite you to drink and eat. If however you come here as enemies..", her hand settled on the grip of her sword.. Harbrok stepped well out of reach, "Men!! Forward! We are taking these farms and see to the walls later!" Without much expression they came jogging forward to absorb their leader in their lines, trampling on the produce in the ground. A javelin shot forth from the formation and bounced from the boss of her shield. She whipped her sword out, "Go no further!", she yelled aloud! Thinking her mad for standing there by herself they advanced with grim chuckles.
She let out a sharp whistle and before any well knew what happened lean bodies jumped up from the moist ground. Without any command or cohesion arrows and javelins were aimed at the raiders from all around them. Several fell without ever knowing what had sent them to the eternal hunting fields. Harbrok then roared out, "Get after them!! Quickly!" The warriors dispersed in all directions, hastening for whomever they could!
Walkure whistled once again and several less lean figures rose up behind her, covered head to toe in muck, armed with triangular headed clubs of simple wood with rectangular shields for their defense. When she cried the men charged in wildly and she came in behind them. Harbrok and a few of him reunited shoulder to shoulder and held their ground as the clubmen crashed into them! A single warrior of Harbrok was rushed to the slick earth on his back and with a fell swing a hideous crack resounded from his skull announcing his death. The others held firm, impaling shield and man in front of them with spears. All around the youngsters were dancing with the heavily armored men who's feet got stuck or slipped and in the center of this melee Walkure felt most at home! She shrieked when she stabbed a man in the side and one of her men broke his club on his helmet. The unknown raider fell down limp as a sack and she urged her own onwards, heartened by the fight! The raiders were hardy men and several had fallen to them, but they were surrounded and from behind came more and more youngsters, throwing what they could up until it was only handfuls of muck aimed at their faces.
The battle had lasted perhaps as long as it would take for a man to visit the privy and return, the youths hollered proudly as Harbrok Wargbiter fell to his knees. Thin javelins stuck in the back of his body. He looked up into Walkure's eyes, "Good fight.", he said with his eyes fixed on her. She gave him a nod and then ended his life. "Well done boys and girls, get the wounded to the farmhouse. Also theirs."
She cleaned her blade on the rich clothing of one of the dead. Then her eyes went westward, "Get back already you fool.", she thought. The farm and most of the produce had been saved.
