Excerpt: Ragnavald: The Hand of Tyr

His feet crunched against the glistening layer of hard diamonds on soft shavings. It was no wonder his feet were cut, bloody, frozen. It didn't matter much. It drove him on.

Nor was he alone. Their ranks stretched on for miles, sluggishly trudging, half-frozen, through a part of Varanger that not even Ragnavald, their leader, had traversed. Even after twenty years of growing up in this god-forsaken tundra.

Anders reconsidered his words. He would have laughed, had his lips been movable. No longer--they were chapped, stuck together by bloody ice. Much like the rest of his uniform, which clung to him by a layer of frozen sweat.

One would have though Evanheim's army to be considerably well equipped, given the immense wealth of their nation. But nothing could have prepared them for such a winter.

I hope Ragnavald knows what he's doing, he thought, or he'll lose to the Gods in this icy hell.

The deafening snowfall masked the sound of hooves until they were almost upon him. The soldier turned to look behind him just in time to dodge the galloping steed.

What the blazes--

The trumpeter blew. He knew that haunting sound for what it was: an attack from the rear.

Ripping his mouth at the edges, Anders yelled as loud as he could above the blizzard, "At arms, men, ready your weapons! Valdis' troops are coming at us!"

Men around him fumbled for their muskets in slow-motion. They faced backwards, searching for the enemy that could not be seen. Likely masked by the veil of sleet.

Artillery shells cracked from the left. Not ours--not enough time for they to be ours. Would the powder even light under such conditions? It had to.

"Steady!" he called. Not that he had to tell them--his troops were all but frozen in place. What was left of boots would sink deep into the snow. Mobility? Hmph. The cavalry would fare little better, he knew.

A flash lit up the sky's torrent; another thunderous blast rang out. No way to survey the land around them. If the enemy forces had an elevated position, they would never know. Their generals might have a map, but, how could they place themselves, with no visible landmarks or stars?

They could have been out on the frozen sea, for all Anders knew. He prayed not; if they were, the barrage would doom them all to drowning.

Taking his position with the supply-wagon at his back, the Captain signaled to his men to aim. Pointless, though, with such an insignificant chance of spotting any forces until they were atop them.

The howling wind somehow paused. The icicle-daggers dropped, no longer coming at them horizontally. Like a curtain falling, their sight was restored.

Only to unveil a stage beseiged by Varangian forces.

"Hold your fire!" he called, to his youngest privates in particular. As much as the extra manpower was a blessing, such inexperienced soldiers added a level of danger. Should they erupt into chaos out of fear, they would undermine any show discipline of the veterans. This they could not afford.

"Stick together, men. They'll be trying to divide and conquer." Singled out, a man was counted for dead. No longer did mortals live in an age of individual heroes. Ragnavald was a relic of times past, for all the power he had to command.

The specks grew into a semi-distinguishable, writing mass of bodies. Heading straight at them.

Looking to his left and right, he heaved a sigh of relief. Ragnavald's brutality assured obedience, at least. Stretching out as far as he could see, his fellow captains and their troops had assembled in ranks of three.

Another sound of the trumpet. Anders knew it was time.

"Make ready," he raised his sword, pointing at the charging forces, "present."

All breath ceased.

"Fire!"