Then, sometime after dawn, having passed many leagues within his chariot of night, he saw, heard and felt something that thrilled him, the sound of thunderclaps harnessed by a bellows. They came abreast of him on either side as his elder sister streaked the world with the golden radiance of her hair.
What is this?
Warriors, regal sword-food for my hungry blade!
What blade?
Oh my, this is vexing.
How shall I wage proper war in this debased world?
He looked to his left and saw a great bearded chieftain in a noble’s boots, a nomad’s pants and tunic, with a leather vest, and spiked helmet, out from underneath of which flowed an over-worthy scalp! The man was mounted on an iron-horse, a noble machine if Yule ever did see such. He was armed with a knife and glass-fronted brass war-club on his belt and, by the girth of his belly had earned many a victory feast within his hall.
The chief looked through the darkened glass of Yule’s midnight steed and then pulled ahead, apparently not respecting a naked warrior. Little did he know that he shared the road this morning with the patron god of his earthly deeds.
I must do something about this nakedness taboo.
Yes, his henchman shall provide a likely outfit.
Yule looked right and saw the chief’s henchman rumbling along on his horse-like machine. The man was bald like Yule, of the same stature, bearded, fit, armed with a belted hammer and clothed in a similar manner to his master, only without sleeves on his tunic and no spike upon his helmet. His arms were decorated with war-cult symbols that were mostly unreadable by Yule—yes, I must find myself a sorcerer and a soothsayer as well.
The henchman took his master’s lead and pulled away from Yule without so much as a salute. It was then that Yule noticed the winged death’s head emblem on the back of their vests. The words above the emblem proclaimed these men to be the worshippers of the Angels of Hell, the very death riders of his sour-faced crone of an aunt.
Yes, Auntie Hel, when Mother is cruel, distant and aloof—you provide for your savage nephew who has sent so many yummy souls plummeting to your cold cavern door!
Yes, they might also be the enemy of that hanged god.
These riders are proof positive that all of the world has not become a nursery!
But an enemy of my enemy is still my enemy!
So be it then.
Beneath their death’s head emblem the warriors' vests proclaimed their hold, being a place known as New York. Yule sniffed the air suspiciously and caught the remnant of the scent of the sea, back to the east, where his sister rose in her glory to bathe the world of men in her splendor—a daily convention which irked him, and he would seek to darken as he might. Be that as it was, he was on the wrong side of the sea.
Yes, of course, the Viking bands of their forefathers must have struck west across the Worldgird Sea and finally wrested this land from the Skraelings. This world does not, however, need another York. The lords of the original vexed me enough. I think I shall sack this New York myself!
These are crafty warriors, suspicious of you as well. Follow at a distance and use your keen battle-hearing.
The hunt for glory was on as War rumbled along in the wake of His crafty prey.
