A gray mist clung to the shattered hulls dotting Frostfang's shore as Einar Stormrider stood atop the cliff's edge, Stormreaver still warm with victory's frost. Below, shieldmaidens and thanes searched the wrecks—kubbings of broken planks and scattered oars—seeking survivors or supplies they could reclaim. The tide slipped in and out, hushed by debris.
Astrid Sigurdsdottir joined him, her face streaked with soot and determination. "No sign of Hakon's own vessel," she reported, scanning the swirling surf. "He must have fled before we closed in."
Einar frowned, eyes tracing the raven-sailed longships dwindling toward open water. "He would not abandon his command craft unless..." He let the thought trail into the wind.
Kari the Wanderer emerged from the beach, staff draped in seaweed. "His warhorn cut signal for retreat as soon as our firebeacons lit the night. Yet I felt something… a stirring beyond mere flight."
Einar turned. "A trap?"
Kari nodded, voice low. "The seiðkona did not perish beneath the ice wards. Her magic lingers in the fjord's undercurrents. She bides her time."
Astrid set a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. "Tonight, we drink ale in celebration. Tomorrow, we hunt shadows."
He managed a tired smile. "First—salvage what we can. These longships will bolster our fleet."
By sundown, fires crackled across Frostfang's sands, and recovered oars and shields leaned against the cliff's wooden palisade. Einar and Astrid sat before a steaming stew of root vegetables and salted salmon, sharing a horn between them.
"Your toast," Astrid prompted, amber eyes glowing.
He raised the horn. "To Skeldfjord's defenders—by blade, by ward, by unbreakable will." He drank deeply; the mead soothed the ache in his chest.
She touched his arm. "I feared this fight would cost you more than steel."
Einar set the horn aside. "Every victory demands its price. But tomorrow we ride—pursue Hakon to the Raven's Reach and cut off his path home."
Astrid's lips curved. "A hunt beneath the northern lights. I wouldn't miss it."
Before dawn, Einar assembled his vanguard: Sigurd Flamehair, shieldmaidens led by Ingrid of the Iron Vale, two dozen Hrafnheim hunters skilled in mountain paths, and the traders Neila and her brother Arvid, each sworn to protect the clan's interests. Kari traced runes on a tanned hide: a map of the fjord's winding arm and the rugged peninsula called the Raven's Reach.
"Here," Kari said, pointing to a narrow isthmus, "Hakon's raiders will gather survivors and spoils before sailing north. They cannot linger—our ships block the main channel. But this path…" He tapped the slender neck of land. "It offers sanctuary for those who know its hidden coves."
Sigurd spat into the snow. "Then we block it."
Einar nodded. "We strike at first light. Ride silent, strike swift, and bring no quarter."
They mounted on frost-horned horses—their breaths pluming like spirits. Einar led the column down a switchback trail, boots crunching on ice-gripped stones. Below, the fjord glimmered, and distant fires on enemy longships flickered like dying stars.
The Raven's Reach rose before them: crags topped with pines, and beneath them a tangle of caves sifted by waves. The trail narrowed to a goat path, forcing the vanguard into single file. Astrid brought up the rear, keen eyes probing every shadow.
Midway, Kari halted. He knelt and brushed away snow from a circle of blackened stones—blood-runings, weaponized wards that had not been here days before.
"Fresh," he muttered. "She marks our path with curse-magic."
Ingrid knelt, drawing her own blade to etch a protective rune over the circle. (A protective rune must be carved in iron to hold against blood-ward.) Sparks flickered as steel bit stone. The blood-runings hissed, then dissolved in frost.
Einar rose. "Keep your eyes sharp."
They pressed on until the trail spilled onto a rocky beach—white stones under pale sky. Two enemy longships lay beached, prows half-embedded in sand. Raiders—armed and weary—milled among crates of loot: furs, salted fish, and barrels stamped with Skeldfjord's crest (a twin wolf's head).
Einar signaled a halt. He slipped a finger to his lips. The vanguard stilled.
At his nod, Sigurd crested the dune, spear raised. "No one moves!" he bellowed. The raiders spun, blades drawn, eyes wide with surprise.
Astrid thundered down beside him, shield forward. "Stormrider claims his own!"
A dozen warriors charged—horrid shapes smeared with seaweed and ash. The vanguard met them in a crash of steel. Einar rode into the fray, Stormreaver's runes ablaze with the crystal's pulse. Each swing cleared space: a raider went down, then another, until survivors fled into the caves' mouths.
Sigurd roared, pressing the assault. Ingrid's shieldmaidens formed a line to block reinforcements rising from hidden coves. Horses' hooves stamped dust and spray as the cave mouths spat forth more foes—hooded figures armed with barbed nets and curved knives.
Einar spurred his horse toward a cave chandelier—a stalactite cluster crowned by kelp. He reined hard, vaulted down, and landed amid the cave's opening. Light slanted in, casting jagged shadows.
Inside, he found the seiðkona's war-chief—a tall woman with eyes like burnished steel, brandishing a curved scimitar. She sneered, voice echoing off stone.
"Your wards cannot hold us," she hissed. "You fight shadows, but we are flesh and bone."
Einar slid to a fighting stance. "Then flesh and bone I will break."
They clashed—Stormreaver against scimitar—each strike ringing through the cavern. She ducked under his guard and slashed his side. Heat flared along his ribs. He gasped, vision graying.
Astrid's voice called from the mouth: "Einar!"
She leapt in, spear spinning. The blade's haft smashed the raider's scimitar aside. Einar seized the moment, drove Stormreaver upward, and felled the war-chief. Her body collapsed in a spray of kelp and dust.
Outside, Sigurd's horn blew three times. The raiders broke, abandoning loot and wounded. Ingrid's shieldmaidens pursued them across the beach, driving them into the water where Hrafnheim hunters closed their nets.
Einar leaned on Stormreaver's hilt. Astrid knelt beside him, pressing a cloth to his wound. It burned but held. He took her hand. "I owe you more than steel."
She smiled, breathing relief. "We owe each other our lives."
With the caves secure and raiders routed, Einar ordered a roll-call. Neila and Arvid brought recovered furs and fish crates forward; Sigurd oversaw the loading of fallen longship's oars onto Hrafnheim carts. Kari burned residual wards at the caves' entrances to seal out lingering sorcery.
Einar surveyed the scene: horses hobbled to driftwood rails, warriors tending wounds by fires, the fjord's pale steel in the morning sun. A surge of pride warmed his chest.
Behind him, a distant horn blast echoed. He turned to see longships rounding the peninsula—Hlodver's fleet, come to support the vanguard. Among their sails, Brynjar's silver wolves glinted.
Einar mounted. "To Skeldfjord! We ride home!"
Astrid climbed after him, spear strapped to saddle. Kari climbed too, staff in hand. Sigurd raised his axe in salute. Ingrid's shieldmaidens raised pikes.
They cantered up the beach, cutting across frosted sand. The fjord's waves lapped at their boots, then receded as if bowing. The longships slipped behind them in silent formation.
By dusk, they reached the rebuilt quay of Skeldfjord. Villagers pressed forward to greet them: cheering, weeping, offering bread and cheese. Fires burned atop beacons, casting dancing light on new palisades and smokehouse chimneys.
Einar dismounted amid the crowd. He staggered slightly at the wagon of furs bearing Hrafnheim's trade gift. Neila rushed forward, arms full of salted fish. Arvid offered her hand. The villagers gathered to unload cargo—heaps of sustenance for coming weeks.
Astrid returned Einar's cloak, soaked in blood-dark. He brushed her fingers with his thumb. "We survived the Raven's Reach."
She studied his wound. "And you've given us more than victory. You've given us hope."
Kari emerged, staff glowing faintly. "The fjord's currents are clear. No more blood-runings."
Einar faced the assembled kin: shieldmaidens, hunters, smiths, and traders. "Tonight, we feast again—this time in earnest. Our raid has returned both spoils and safety. But tomorrow, we begin the next task: rebuilding mines and smithies, restoring the iron veins beneath the hills."
A roar of approval rose. Children raced to hug their warriors; fires blazed, torches lighting the night like stars.
Einar lifted Stormreaver, its runes pulsing softly. "Skeldfjord was born of flame and ice. We have forged its destiny with both. No darkness can claim us—so long as we stand together."
The crowd howled its assent, filling the fjord with a promise that even the deepest shadow could not swallow: Skeldfjord endures, unbroken and unbowed.
And as the feast fires crackled into the night, Einar Stormrider felt the twin currents of flame and frost settle in his soul—ready to guide his clan through the trials still to come.