The North Wind blew, and with it carried you to victory. The battle had been sweet and fruitful. Oh, that was before it turned to hell. You had crossed the Three Claw River with your merry band of raiders, cattle thieves, and hall plunderers. A mixture of levies, fresh blooded farm lads, and veteran house guards who'd followed you for nigh twenty years; through the frozen crags of your home, down to the bountiful plunder of the arid southern lands.
Hired by a disgruntled noble of the Kingdom of Inglen, you and your men ravaged the shores. Villages, monasteries, small towns, all fell before your boot. It was laughable, the town militias and their sorry states. They fell to your blades with ease, their wives and daughters to your men, their livelihood to the baggage trains. The monasteries were the easiest, men of holy vow, now in the mud. Holy relics to adorn your hall. Gorbak, the former marshal of this sorry, sleepy country, was to deliver the kingdom to your hands, in exchange for high honors and offices in your hall. Some slight from his brother, you had cared little for the reason then. This triumph should have seen you return home, and by next year crown yourself king of your once fragmented home. Gone would be the days of pillaging and mercenary work, a new era would emerge. That one bloody winter you made war on the many chieftains, cementing your place as high lord over all. So many enemies did fall, made to pay for their sins against you.
That was of course, before. Now, the gods had other plans and the King of Inglen had taken his time marshaling his forces. Whether through fear or prudence, or both you know not. In four days they took the long march, it was impressive really for a bunch of soft bellied dogs at that distance. Earls and lords, and their retainers and levies massing up. The day had been hot, and you'd just been laying your plans to let your men inland. Scouts had been out, foragers and pillagers. It was shaping up to be glorious, nearby lords were to be coming by anytime to pay you tribute. The Kings men hit your baggage train when crossing the Serate Bridge, named after some noble family. You had have suspected Gorbak of treachery had two thirds of his men not been slaughtered, and the man himself wounded in the fighting.
They came from all sides it had seemed, blocking the river crossing ferociously. The bridge not far beyond they had amassed too. Your options were limited, the men you left to hold a small fort town not far had been removed by some trickery, some uprising there. The other lords you'd be sure would exchange their tribute to whatever sorry men they had left in service of their king. You were cut off, craggy cliffsides to one side, and bristling foes on the other. Your ships well down the coast a ways, and your reserves far off. You doubt your runner will get to them in time, if at all.
What's worse, the day is hot. Unbearably so. Even in the south you'd not had hot days like this, and this country was fairly breezy and cool generally. The summer is hot, but today is the hottest. It made your men restless and shifty, many had their armor and heavier weapons lost in the baggage train attack. It was all shields and quilted shirts, that offered little protection against anything but glancing cuts and blows.
Now, your men take formation upon a hill. Not even the best of hills mind you, the slope wasn't great, but it was the best you could find. Your house guard, and chieftains you had gathered around you. One Eye Imog, they say part man, part ogre of the frozen shores. He certainly looked it enough with his sneering, twisted, savage grin. A giant among men, almost seven feet tall, and vicious too. He was the infamed leader of your heavy axemen. Then there was Chief Halerd the Grey, boisterous and scarred, a natural killer. But he also had a way with magics, though those would help you little. Lord Karog and Lord Bort were the high leaders of the various levies and cavalry. Though those were pretty reduced now. Bjorleif the Bronze, your favorite of your house guard, had been killed in the baggage train attack, he would only lead the fallen to their respite, you fear.