The frozen sky cracked open with the blast of war-horns. Einar Stormrider's heart pounded as he stood atop the quay at Raven's Crossing, Frostfang's sentinel fires burning bright behind him. Before him spread a hundred longships—Stormrider's, Raven's Wing, Silver Fjord's banners flapping in the gale. On the opposite bank, Hlodver of the Raven's Wing and Jarl Brynjar rode among their armies, spears glinting like a forest of ice.
"They've come," Astrid Sigurdsdottir breathed, voice tight with urgency.
Across the water, Hakon's raiders—wary after their cowardly ambush—mustered in makeshift encampments, wolves' pelts spattered in crimson drying on sharpened stakes. Their warlords paced behind lines of shields adorned with shattered dragons, eyes glittering at the gathering tide of steel.
Kari the Wanderer raised his staff, runes of Algiz glowing in the mist. "The wards hold, but the enemy numbers swell. This will be a bloody dawn."
Einar gripped Stormreaver's hilt. "At my signal," he called, voice rolling like thunder. "We drive them into the fjord!"
He sounded the call—three low blasts that trembled across the water. In response, shields crashed against shields as warriors surged to oars. The river churned beneath a hundred blades of wood, the tide of iron rising to crash upon Hakon's shore.
"For Skeldfjord!" Einar roared.
He led the vanguard aboard the Northward. Astrid leapt to the prow of the next drakkar, spear drawn. The metallic cry of steel meeting sail cleats echoed across the fjord.
"Row!" Einar bellowed. "Row like thunder!"
Longships smashed into the frozen shore in a spray of ice and seawater. Wood splintered under the weight of iron-bound prows. Warriors spilled onto the beach, boots crunching on frost-hardened sand, swords whipped free.
Hakon's raiders formed a ragged shield-wall, axemen snarling as they braced for the impact. Einar crashed into them, Stormreaver cleaving shield bosses and sending wood flying like splinters of light. Blood spattered, mixing with salt spray as blows rang—the ring of steel a furious symphony.
Astrid darted between foes, spear slicing throats with a shuddering snicker. Gored men fell, wrists severed, hands twitching in their final grasp. A blow she deflected rebounded, shearing a raider's cheek, flesh torn in a bright arc.
Beside her, Sigurd Flamehair let loose a bestial roar, axe swinging in a brutal dance. Limbs flew, cartwheeling through the air—one raider's arm: a red comet that struck a shieldmaid's knee, splattering it with hot gore.
Brynjar's war-band came next, charging down the dunes. Storm dogs—brewed from Kari's wards—sprang from the line, shaping into spectral hounds that ripped at enemy ankles, their frost-furred limbs shredding mail. Raiders screamed as teeth bit deep, blood spurting onto boots and ice.
On the flank, fleet archers loosed barrages of arrows. Quivers rattled, shafts thudding into shields and skulls alike. One man fell backward, spear impaled through his helm, brains splattering in a cold mist.
Einar's eyes locked on a dark figure at Hakon's command post—their black-cloaked herald, raising a horn. He hurled Stormreaver like lightning; the blade whistled then buried itself in the man's shoulder. The horn fell, spitting blood as the herald stumbled, eyes wild.
"Shatter them!" Einar roared, retrieving his blade.
On the ramparts, Hlodver and his shieldmaidens hauled down a raven banner. From its pole, sharp steel hooks ripped free, raining iron scraps onto raiders below. Each scrap gnawed through flesh, tearing warriors off their feet—a shower of ligaments and gristle.
Below, Hakon himself emerged—a towering brute in black plate, axe draped over his shoulder. He strode through bodies, the crash of his boots like thunderclaps. Raiders parted before him like frightened sheep.
Einar's chest tightened. "Face me!" he challenged.
Hakon whirled, axe arching in a deadly crescent. Einar blocked with Stormreaver, the impact buckling his forearm. He staggered, pain lancing through bone. Astrid lunged, spear thrust, but Hakon caught the shaft, wrenched it away, and drove it through her shoulder. She cried out, dropping to one knee as warm blood pooled.
Einar howled, anger eclipsing pain. He plunged his blade under Hakon's arm, tearing into flesh, muscle rebelling under the cut. Hakon roared, swinging axe-hilt at Einar's head—the blow crackling through helm and mail.
With a last heave, Stormreaver carved across Hakon's torso, splitting steel and bone. The warlord's knees buckled, gouges spilling entrails that steamed in the cold air. He collapsed, chest heaving, eyes unfocused as life drained.
Einar stood over him, blade dripping, fists shaking. "It ends here!" he cried.
The raiders' line broke, turning to flee across the freezing sand. Sigurd and the cavalry pursued, boots crunching on snow-dusted steel. Warriors who stayed to surrender found Kari's wards crumpling armor, binding hands with iron frost.
By midday, the shore lay littered with bodies—raider and mercenary alike. Ravens circled overhead, their cries echoing. The fjord's water ran red at the beach's edge, staining the ice.
Einar sank to his knees beside Astrid, who gasped, trembling. He pressed a healing rune—Perthro—against her wound, warm light searing the flesh back together. The gash knitted, but her shoulder remained immobilized.
She met his gaze, whispering through pain: "You… you saved me."
He helped her up, voice rough. "We save each other."
That night, under a sky of bruised purple, the allied forces gathered at the crossing. Fires burned in iron braziers; shields and axes were cleaned and laid in neat rows. The riverside glowed with torchlight, reflecting off runed wards painted on every gate and beam.
Jarl Brynjar stood beside Einar. "Your blade sang true," he said, voice echoing. "Hakon's tyranny wanes."
Hlodver clasped Einar's shoulder. "Raven's Wing stands with Stormrider. Together, we'll seal every path against such evil."
Merchants from Silver Fjord brought salted fish and spiced mead. A hush fell as Einar raised a bloodied helm—the tusked helm of Hakon's second-in-command. "Let this stand as a warning," he declared. "No darkness may cross our land."
Astrid leaned on him, eyes fierce but soft. "Skeldfjord endures."
As the fires guttered, Kari inscribed final wards on the bridge's stones—Eihwaz for resilience, Sowilo for victory—ensuring that Raven's Crossing would never again be a gateway for betrayal.
Einar sheathed Stormreaver, its frost-runes dimming to a steady glow. He gazed down the river's mouth, where moonlight danced on still waters. "We hold this crossing," he whispered, "and every road home."
Beneath the rising stars, the iron tide had turned—and Skeldfjord's heartbeat rang strong in every blade, every ward, and every soul sworn to defend its shores.