The rain bounced off helmets and shields as the two groups of men faced eachother across the field. Voices rose, and insults were flung between them as they readied themselves.
The Vanskerries were still jubilant after their string of plundering, and were urging eachother into combat, while the Fierdsvain troops were steadfast and ready to do their duty to their thegns.
TAKE THESE RAPING SONS OF CATTLE DOWN! came the cry from the huscarls, and they streamed forwards in a close group, shields raised, axes flashing in their hands and on their hips. Projectiles flew back and forth, and a few dropped on either side as the distance rapidly closed.
The warriors met in the middle of the plain, and the fight quickly became a slippery brawl in the blood-soaked mud, as the men struggled to keep their footing whilst blocking and swinging with ruthless efficiency. Those who momentarily triumphed were quickly cut down from behind, as all semblance of discipline broke apart. One Vanskerry was dragged frothing to the ground, where he was hacked at by the Fierdsvain troops, and another disemboweled his opponent, only to have his head cleaved in two by a mighty blow.
After what seemed like an age, four huscarls remained standing over a clutch of ruined corpses. One of them reached down and removed the helmet of the Vanskerry leader.
He looks about twelve! cried the huscarl. This is no Jarl!
An axe crashed into his back, thrown with inhuman force, and his companions whirled to see a group of Vanskerry Jarls charging towards them. JAAAAAAAARL! cried a Fierdsvain, his arms raised to the sky. Then they ran. The end.
Because screw huscarls.