Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters.

The following is fiction with the exception of the already well-known Vikings. Dates, towns and some history are purely from my imagination. Please don't get caught up on historical accuracy like I did when I started brainstorming this thing. IT'S FOR FUN.

This is my first fanfiction in about a decade and for this story I've included visual aids and acknowledgements in my profile. This first chapter might be a bit on the short side but I wanted to kick start it and get going into the plot and the other NEW characters to come.

Thank you for reading. S.K.

Chapter I – Escocia

The warm taste of copper slid past Lagertha's lips and onto her tongue as she freed her sword from her attacker's rib cage. Through sweat-blurred vision an all too familiar sight found her as she raised her head, wiping the blood from her mouth. Behind them the drums boomed and muttered. What a tale they would have to tell of this day. The smell of salt mixing with the bodies turned her stomach but there was no time for sympathies.

A great arm drew back and then forward with a ripple of mighty muscle, a long spear leaped at Lagertha's chest. Only a spry woman such as Lagertha could have avoided such a thrust. Her instinctive action saved her life. The great blade grazed her ribs as she swayed aside and returned the blow with a flashing thrust that killed the warrior.

Bounding in assault, Floki appeared to sail across the sand as he severed a man's calf with his ax. Kneeling, Floki brought his ax down over and over in small spasms without remorse. If it were not for the spray of sand from behind as a warning, a stream of steel would have made its home firmly in Floki's neck. Rolling free, Floki readied the grip on his axes. The men were now within reach of each other.

"Tricky, tricky, tricky," he said aloud, rising to his full height. Floki in the midst of his sentence suddenly plunged forward with the speed of light, thrusting viciously. A slower man might have died there but the warrior parried and sent his own blade in a silver streak that slit Floki's tunic as the rogue bounded backward. Floki admitted the failure of his trick with a wild laugh and came in with the breath-taking speed and fury of a wolf, his blade making a white fan of steel about him.

Press on, press on. Athelstan wouldn't let his mind focus on anything else. His opponent obviously had the advantage of size. Thrust, slash, a swirl of clamor- their naked blades were long gleams of silver in the sunlight. Blood now ran from a cut on Athelstan's cheek and it was as if the sight drove his large attacker further into a fury. Athelstan was forced back before the blood-lusting onslaught but the monk's expression did not alter. A sudden unexpected attack too wild and swift for the eye to follow, a dynamic burst of speed and fury no man could have withstood. Athelstan for the first time that day felt his cold blade push through soft flesh.

The heat was rising, drying the wet grit at the base of Ragnar's neck. The full sun of noon was high, no shadows and no wind; just the overwhelming realization that the militia of Escocia were prepared for the Vikings' incursion. The Vikings' casualties were too great; counting the bodies was like counting the gated sheep waiting for slaughter. Suddenly a horror arose in front of Ragnar.

This is Garm, the watchdog of hel. thought Ragnar, the height of this man nearly doubled that of his own. Before he had time to lift his sword one long arm slid under Ragnar's shoulders, the other gripped his hair. The Viking felt his head being forced back irresistibly. He clutched at the other's wrist with both hands but the flesh under his frantic fingers was as hard as wood. Ragnar's mind was reeling; his neck seemed ready to break with a little more pressure. He threw his body backward with one volcanic effort breaking the deathly hold.

What sort of man is this? Ragnar thought.From behind, Ragnar saw Erik rise through the air and onto the giant's back. His steely arms seeking and finding a deadly wrestling hold; as they went to the earth together Erik broke the monster's neck. A look of gratitude swept Ragnar's face.

"We can only have the upper hand for so long, brother," Rollo called to Ragnar, almost taking amusement in the dance he and his assailant were tangled in. His long sword had been thrown in the scuffle, though Rollo never minded a little hand-to-hand combat. Rollo pivoted his position dropping his knee to the sand while simultaneously securing the man's arm. Through one fluid reversed motion came a snap followed by a tormented howl. Rollo stood with shoulders thrown back, an old, defiant smile on his face as he brought his blade down on the warrior.

Before Rollo had time to brush off his knee the sound of encroachment drew in from behind. Spinning on toe, he raised his dagger from his side over head in instinctive defense. Their dagger blades crossed with a sharp clash of vicious steel; blue sparks showered. Across those blades hot eyes burned into each other- hard green ones into black volcanic rock. Breath hissed between closed locked teeth, feet scuffed the sand, advancing, retreating. Rollo came on in a relentless surge; he was ever the aggressor in any battle. He thrust like lightning for face and body. This could not last; a knife fight is necessarily short and deadly. The nature of the weapon is to prevent any long drawn play of swordsmanship.

Before the man could throw all his strength into his wrists and his powerfully balanced legs, Rollo reared his strong neck back and with immense speed, smashed his head into his aggressor's. The feel of soft skull crumbling beneath ones own was a guilty pleasure of any Vikings'.

The minutes flew by, the clang and clash of steel did not diminish around them. Ragnar's men were falling and quickly. Lagertha spared one swift, tortured glance over her shoulder; the second fleet of Escocian men could be seen on the ledge in the distance. The sweat and salt ran into her eyes in a sweep of hideous red faces. Those who lay prostrated were horrible to see now, for their skulls were shattered, their faces smashed in and their limbs broken.

The Monk was striving to restrain the warriors arm but his clenching fingers missed and the rock of a fist crashed sickeningly against his bare head; again it fell as a fire-shot mist clouded Athelstan's vision, but his instinctive jerk avoided it though it half numbed his shoulder, ripping the skin so that his blood started in streams.

Maddened, Athelstan lunged fiercely against the firm body of the iron fisted man and one blindly grasping hand closed on the dagger hilt at the warriors girdle – ripped it forth and stabbed blindly and savagely. Close locked the fighters staggered backward, the one stabbing in venomous silence the other striving to tear his arm free so that he might crash home one destroying blow. Hindered blows glanced from Athelstan's head and shoulder ripping the skin and bringing blood in streams, sending red lances of agony across the monk's clouding brain. Blinded, dazed, fighting on instinct alone as a wounded wolf fights, Athelstan's teeth snapped fang- like into the great bull's throat of his foe tearing the flesh horrifyingly and bringing a burst of flooding blood and an agonizing roar from his victim.

"Odin, far wander, grant me wisdom, courage and victory," Rollo began to pray aloud, spotting the approaching fleet on the hill.

"Friend Thor, grant me your strength and both be with us," Ragnar finished, stepping backward closer to his brother as they watched the last of the Escocian men fall under the hand of their priest.

"Your order's Ragnar?" Erik called. Watching the armada advance ever closer down the hill, Ragnar said nothing. In making an attack there can be no hesitancy or indecision, any uncertainty will result in greater casualties, loss of victory and general discouragement of the whole force.

"Ragnar we can not even progress up the beach," Floki murmured just loud enough for Ragnar to hear. "Your men and women are falling."

"We were not prepared for this, my love." Lagertha said breathless.

Ragnar surveyed the fallen at his feet, the fallen from both sides. Death in combat is not the end of a fight but its peak and since combat is part, and at times the sum total of life, death-which is the peak of combat, is not the destruction of life but its fullest most powerful expression. It will be readily understood that warriors who have once begun to retreat, lose heart, discipline slackens and it is hard to say when or how they will stop or what the conditions will be when they do. The soldier who has been forced to retreat through no fault of his own loses confidence in the higher command because he has withdrawn already from several positions in succession. Retreating would mean disgrace… but these people were his family.

"Honorable withdrawals are no way inferior to brave charges, as having less fortune, more of discipline and as much valor." Erik reassured his friend.

"Retreat!" Rollo laughed. "We have only just arrived."

"To retract is not a sign of weakness... It is a sign that a man knows the limits of his capabilities and the most probable outcome of the future. One who retreats to fight another day isn't running away, but looking for another road towards the same destination," Lagertha said, the ocean lapping at her feet.

Ragnar lowered his sword in silence and viewed his remaining company. What a wretched, miserable sight. His wife's eyes were pleading with him to save their people from this slaughter. Still he said nothing.

"Ragnar," Athelstan said, almost in a whisper. The Viking for the first time took a look at his priest. Blood was streaked along his chin and jaw, his shirt torn to tatters.

What has become of this? What has desperation turned my people into? Ragnar was almost in wonderment. The Escocian cavalry was drawing nearer though none of the Vikings moved.

"Firmness in retreat is more honorable than passion in victory. Courage alone is needed to attack a position, while it requires heroism to make a difficult retreat before a victorious enemy. A fine retreat should meet with a reward equal to that given for a great victory. Ours shall come from Odin himself." Though the words came boldly from Ragnar's lips, he was the only one amongst them who did not believe them. Another long moment swept over the company, the sound of hooves on sand could now be heard as the Escocians drew nearer. Ragnar turned to his brother, then back to his people.

"To the boats."

Wow, now wasn't that fun! Love me some action. At this point in my mind Athelstan has broken miles back and who wouldn't be desperate if their life was being threatened. Reviews are appreciated. Thanks again.