A bitter dusk wrapped Skeldfjord's newly tilled fields in blue shadow, the daggers of frost glinting on each furrow's edge. Einar Stormrider rode the ridge above, Stormreaver sheathed but hand curled around its hilt, surveying the rows of barley shoots sprouting through the snow-thawed soil. Beside him, Astrid Sigurdsdottir scanned the dark horizon—her amber braid whipped like a war banner.
"They come," Kari the Wanderer breathed, voice tight. He pointed to a cloud of dust rising beyond the ridge's curve. "Hakon's raiders."
Below, the shieldmaidens formed ranks at the field's border, pikes bristling, shields locked in the skjoldborg stance. Farmers—axe-hilted tools in trembling hands—huddled behind barricades of stacked crates and heavy wagons.
"Hold steady," Einar ordered, voice carrying. "Let them break on our walls."
The raiders charged like wolves unleashed, cavalry thundering down the slope. Their leader—a black-armored warlord with tusked helm—rode at the front, axe swung wide. Behind him, footsoldiers spilled from longships: faces painted in ash stripes, bare bristles of hair pinned by bone clasps.
As they reached the barricade, Einar dashed forward, Stormreaver drawn. The warlord's axe met his blade in a shower of sparks that lit their faces with hellfire. Steel rang against steel, each ring echoing across the fields.
Astrid swept her spear in a deadly arc, severing a raider's shoulder. The man's scream cut through the dusk, blood geysering onto the pike-shaft. She spun, deflecting a slash that split her gauntlet, metal spraying like hail.
Blood coated the snow, crimson ribbons tracing the attacker's retreating form.
On the flank, Sigurd Flamehair roared and charged, axe high. He cleaved through two raiders in a single swipe—bones snapping—before the third sank a dagger into his thigh. He howled, stooped to wrench it free, and drove the blade through the man's throat, spray painting the wagon wheel behind him.
Nearby, Kari chanted, drawing runes in the air. Rune-light lanced forth, striking a raider clutching a stolen sack of grain. The man convulsed, his eyes rolling back as the ward's energy seared through his bones. He collapsed, leaving the grain sack to spill onto the frost.
"We cannot hold them!" one farmer cried, dropping his makeshift axe.
Einar vaulted onto a crate, raising Stormreaver. "Then we break their line!" He leaped down, charging at the warlord. Their weapons clashed with a thunderous crash, sending a spray of blood and splintered wood amid the wailing clash.
The warlord sneered, axe swinging in a deadly windmill. Einar blocked with the flat of his blade, jaw clenched, then countered with a thrust aimed at the man's ribs. The point bit into flesh—a spray of darkness—and the warlord staggered. He brought axe down in a cleaver arc, shearing Einar's vambrace off, slitting his forearm.
Einar's vision flared red. Pain sharpened his focus. He slashed across the warlord's chest, ripping open mail. Blood arced onto the crates behind them. With a savage roar, he drove Stormreaver upward into the man's jaw, teeth crunching beneath iron. The warlord collapsed, armor ringing hollow.
The raiders faltered at their leader's fall. Einar seized the moment, swinging Stormreaver in a wide arc that scythed through two attackers before he waded back toward his people. Behind him, shieldmaidens surged, frontlines pressing the advantage.
Astrid dispatched a raider tangled in a pike fence—her dagger flashing before plunging into his throat. He tumbled, eyes glazed, blood pooling beneath him. She kicked him aside, gaze never leaving the fray.
On the field's edge, Kari summoned wards of frost—crystalline barriers—that snapped shut around fleeing enemies, halting them in place. Icy shards erupted from the ground, impaling horses and men alike. A mount's rear leg buckled; the horse screamed, hooves flailing, and brought a rider down in a tangle of limbs and hoarfrost.
The ground shook as they advanced, each step a tremor of determination.
Einar reined in freezing breath, scanning for survivors. A dozen raiders lay broken or bleeding, their war banners trampled in the churned earth. The cavalry collapsed in disarray, retreating toward the fjord's shore.
He strode to the field's edge, blade dripping, and planted the warlord's tusked helm atop a pike. "Skeldfjord stands!" he roared, voice echoing like thunder.
The shieldmaidens answered with a cheer that shook the air, pike-butts raised high. Farmers emerged, eyes wide, but relief softened their terror as they joined the chant. The stolen grain sacks lay scattered, still intact.
Astrid slid to his side, hand pressed to her wound. Blood seeped between her fingers. She met his gaze and managed a fierce grin. "We did it," she gasped.
Einar wrapped her arm around his shoulders. "We stand together—always."
By moonrise, the fields lay quiet beneath pale lantern light. Sigurd and Kari tended the wounded: severed limbs bound, slashed throats stitched, and frostbitten hands thawed with heated oil. The farmers helped reclaim their grain, stacking sacks in iron-bound crates.
Old Bjorn stood at Einar's side, cleaning his hammer in a bowl of oil. He spat. "They'll think twice before raiding our lands again."
Einar nodded, sheathing Stormreaver. "Skeldfjord's heart is forged in blood and snow. Let every foe hear its roar."
Kari approached, staff tapping a fresh rune in the earth—Thurisaz for defense. "I'll strengthen the wards for the fields," he offered.
Astrid leaned on Einar's shoulder, cloak torn but spirit unbroken. "I'll see to the barricades."
Einar kissed her brow. "And I'll build watchtowers along the ridge."
That night, in the longhouse, the feast was quieter—somber to honor the fallen. A central table bore platters of roasted venison and bowls of grain porridge. Torchlight flickered on drawn faces, each scar telling a tale of survival.
Einar rose in the hall's center. His armor bore dents and splashes of dried blood; his gauntlets bore fresh stains. "Tonight, we honor courage," he said, voice soft but firm. "To the shieldmaidens who held the line, to the farmers who took up arms, and to every life shed defending our home—your sacrifice is the seed of our future."
He raised a chalice of mead. "Skeldfjord endures!"
Voices echoed. "Skeldfjord endures!"
Astrid met his gaze, tears glinting. She returned his toast: "To our fallen—may your spirits guard these fields."
In the quiet that followed, Einar slipped from the hall and climbed to the ridge. The fields lay silver beneath stars, the pikes and runes still glowing faintly. A cold wind whispered through the barley, carrying the echoes of steel and song.
He drew Stormreaver, its frost-runes pulsing softly. "We stand unbroken," he whispered to the night. "By blood and by oath, we guard our home."
Below, the wards settled like watchful eyes, and the ridge's watchtowers loomed—silent guardians against the coming dawn.
And as Einar Stormrider gazed across the crimson fields—painted in the sacrifice of war—he vowed that no force, mortal or magical, would ever claim Skeldfjord's heart again.