The dawn light glimmered across the frost-slick cobblestones of Raven's Crossing, a narrow stone bridge spanning the waist-deep river that fed Skeldfjord's harbor. Einar Stormrider's horse snorted steam as he guided his mount forward, Stormreaver sheathed at his hip. Behind him rode Astrid Sigurdsdottir, blade drawn and eyes piercing the morning mist. Kari the Wanderer brought up the rear, staff pulsing with warded runes of Algiz—the rune of protection.
They should not have followed so close behind the supply convoy, Einar thought, surveying the flanks where silver birch lined the banks. The road to Silver Fjord lay ahead—urgent diplomacy required his presence at the Spring Moot. But peace was fragile; Hakon's spite still lurked like a wolf in the shadows.
As the first cart rumbled onto the bridge, its wheels rattling over ancient stones, a distant twang cracked the air. A bolt hissed past Einar's head, splintering wood in the next cart.
"AMBUSH!" Astrid screamed, spear flashing.
Arrows rained from the riverbank thickets—black-fletched bolts tipped with iron barbs. They whistled like tormented spirits, embedding in shields and shields alone. One thudded into a trader's back, pinning him to the wagon wheel. Blood blossomed beneath his leather jerkin.
Einar spurred forward, reins taut. He swung Stormreaver free: a metallic cry rang as blade met bolt, cleaving the shaft. Wood and iron clattered onto the cobblestones. Astrid leapt beside him, spinning to hurl javelins at the unseen archers.
"To arms!" Einar roared. "Form ranks!"
Shieldmaidens scrambled onto the bridge's edge, forming a skjoldborg—a shield-wall—faces set like carved stone. Their shields snapped together in an iron lattice. Behind them, Sigurd Flamehair sheathed his axe, gathering farmers and traders into a second line, makeshift spears at the ready.
Kari stamped his staff, tracing a rune of Raidho in the air. Rune-light leapt to life, forming a dome that deflected incoming arrows into harmless arcs of sparks. One trader cried, "By the gods—protective runes!"
*(Raidho: a rune symbolizing journey and safe passage along paths.)
From the thicket burst a company of mercenaries—clad in mottled leather, faces painted like raven feathers. Their leader, a tall brute with a bear-pelt cloak, raised a horn and bellowed. "Stormrider's guards! Yield the bridge—or die!"
Einar stepped onto the bridge, Stormreaver gleaming. "You dare attack under truce banner!" He charged. The first merc turned, axe raised—steel screeched as blade met shield. Astrid followed, spear slicing through throat-latch of a second attacker. Blood spurted, sluicing onto her gauntlet.
The farmer line behind Sigurd surged. Spears thrust and pulled; one man's ears were split by a razor's edge, the tip piercing between his helm and mail. He dropped, clutching his head as blood streamed into his collar. Another farmer retaliated, driving his hoe through a mercenary's throat, tearing sinew with the shaft's foul edge.
On the bridge's flanks, archers took positions atop low parapets, loosing arrows into the mercenary ranks. Einar pursued the bear-cloaked leader, each step echoing on stone. They passed splintered wheel and falling cart; broken crates spilled grain into the rushing river below.
At the bridge's midpoint, Einar confronted him. Stormreaver whistled overhead, a blade-scream that cleaved the leader's cloak in two. The brute staggered, fury twisting his scarred face. He lunged, axe heaving—a swooping arc aimed at Einar's head. Einar ducked, blade grazing the man's arm, clattering bone beneath mail. The mercenary howled, spinning to gore another shieldmaiden, driving his axe into her side. She pitched forward, shield clanging against stone.
Astrid was upon him in a heartbeat. Her spear's butt shattered his forearm below the elbow, the splintering crack echoing like a bell of doom. Ferocious claw-like grip on the haft, she drove the spearhead through his throat. The war-cry tore from his chest as he collapsed, blood gushing in a dark fountain over the bridge's edge.
Nearby, Kari extended his gauntlet, tracing ward-runes that turned the river's nearby stones slick with protective frost. A panicked mercenary slipped on the runed ice, crashing into the parapet. Einar seized the moment, Stormreaver slicing across the man's belly. Flesh parted, entrails spilling in a crimson cascade across the stone, the man's eyes rolling as life fled.
Behind Einar, Sigurd and the farmers routed the remaining mercenaries. Spears thrust, hammers smashed, and shouts of triumph rose above the clash. The survivors turned tail, plunging into the river's frigid water, grappling with currents as the ferry boats above crashed in the tide.
Einar stood amid splintered shields and broken arrows, chest heaving, blade slick with gore. Astrid knelt to help the wounded shieldmaiden, pressing bandages to the rent mail. Kari chanted a soft rune of Algiz, weaving healing wards around the injured.
"Is everyone accounted for?" Einar called. A murmur of confirmations rose. The trader impaled by the first bolt lay unconscious, but alive.
Astrid turned to him, lips ashen. "They meant to stop your journey to Silver Fjord."
Einar cleaned his blade on a blanket, eyes steely. "Then we make haste. Gather what remains of the convoy—we cross the fjord by boat."
The ferry's longboat rode low in the water, oars dipping into black glass. Traders and shieldmaidens huddled against the gunwales, wounds bound and robes damp. Einar, Astrid, and Kari took the helm, Stormreaver and shield at their backs.
From the ravaged crossing, the mercenary threat vanished beneath the rising sun. Behind them, Raven's Crossing lay stained—broken carts, charred wood from small fires lit by retreating foes, and the scars of blood that would not wash away.
"We must alert Silver Fjord's jarl," Einar said, voice grim. "He must know Hakon's reach spans every road—and every river."
Astrid nodded, eyes on the distant cliffs. "And we make them pay for this treachery."
Kari knelt, tracing a final rune of Raidho on the boat's prow. "The runes ensure safe passage, but do not blind them to betrayal."
By noon, they landed at Silver Fjord's jetty, greeted by heralds and wary guards. Jarl Ulfr awaited them atop a raised dais of carved granite—his cloak rippling like storm clouds. Behind him, merchant guild banners flapped in salute.
Einar disembarked, blade at his side. "Jarl Ulfr," he called, voice strong. "Hakon's mercenaries struck Raven's Crossing at dawn. We barely fended them off."
Ulfr's expression darkened. He raised a gauntlet. "This insolence will not stand. Silver Fjord swears to your cause. Let our longships hunt these murderers across every cove."
Astrid stepped forward, cloak stained with frost and blood. "And let every road be warded—for no alliance endures without trust sealed by vigilance."
Ulfr turned to his stewards. "Send messengers to Hlodver and Brynjar. Summon the moot at Raven's Crossing once more. We ride for retribution—and for the sealing of every path."
Einar sheathed Stormreaver. "Then we bring Hakon's treachery into the light."
That night, Silver Fjord's longhouse glowed with banquet fires. Traders and jarls raised horns of mead in solidarity. Yet under the torchlight, Einar spotted Kari sketching fresh wards along the floor—Naudhiz for need, Thurisaz for defense—reminders that their unity demanded constant vigilance.
Astrid caught Einar's eye across the hall. She lifted her horn to him. "To retribution," she toasted, "and to unbreakable bonds."
He nodded, amber eyes fierce. "Skeldfjord endures."
And as the feast's laughter thundered beneath vaulted beams, Einar Stormrider felt the pulse of alliances growing stronger—tempered by bloodshed, forged in trust, and ready to crush any darkness that dared cross their path.