The longship shuddered as its dragon-head prow crashed through the floating ice floes, shards likemeteors splintering into the cold dawn. Einar Stormrider stood at the bow, Stormreaver in hand, watching the walls of Skjoldfell Fortress rise from the fjord like a tyrant's crown. Behind him, Astrid Sigurdsdottir gripped her spear's haft, eyes blazing with anticipation.
"Steady," Einar commanded, voice hushed against the crunch of ice. "Brace for the breach!"
*(Ice floes: broken sheets of ice drifting on water, treacherous to ships unprepared.)
At his nod, the helmsman drove the oar-ram—an iron-tipped prow extension—into the thickest floe. The ram groaned, then crumpled metal against ice. Splinters flew, carving scarlet ruts as seawater sprayed. With a final roar, the ice gave way, and the longship lurched forward, the dragon's maw flicking shards like blood.
The fleet thundered in behind, planks groaning under weight and speed. Einar leapt to the deck's edge, eyes locked on the fortress gate—an iron portcullis barred by chains. Shieldmaidens sprang forward, oars swinging clear, and the war-horns blared.
"To arms!" Einar shouted.
Astrid vaulted ashore, blades flashing. She caught a shield-thug's throat between spear and shin, the snap of cartilage tearing echoing in the narrow beach. He collapsed in a heap of mail and blood, frost forming on his broken neck.
Behind her, Sigurd Flamehair hammered the gate's chains with an iron maul. Each strike rang like a war-drum—spark showers against stone. A dozen raiders—Hakon's last defenders—rallied under the walls, flinging arrows that whistled past and struck shields with splintering clangs.
Einar charged up the beach with his vanguard. Steel met steel in a savage crescendo. He brought Stormreaver down upon a mercenary's helm: the blade sheared through iron, the ring of metal slicing into bone. The man's head snapped back, brains splattering across the sand.
On the left flank, Astrid rallied a circle of shieldmaidens. They formed a moving bulwark, shields locked, spears thrusting in deadly patterns. Each spear-tip spat gore as it pierced leather and sinew. One raider cried out as his jaw was cleaved, teeth spattering into the frozen soil.
Kari the Wanderer stood atop a driftwood platform, chanting a ward of Jera—the rune of harvest and continuity—his staff tracing arcs of golden light. Rune-light wreathed the advancing allies, searing through enemy mail, leaving sizzling wounds that steamed in the cold air.
At the gate, Sigurd's final blow snapped the last chain. The portcullis crashed down with a thunderous roar, stones trembling. Einar sprinted forward, shoulder against the iron. It yielded, grinding upward on rusted wheels.
Inside the courtyard, fury erupted. Hakon's men fled in disarray; some leapt into the icy moat, splashing like wounded beasts. The courtyard's cobblestones were slick with blood and ice, hazardous even for the sure-footed.
*(Moat: a deep, water-filled ditch surrounding a fortress for defense.)
Einar stalked through the press, Stormreaver carving arcs of frost-white light. A raider lunged with a flail; Einar caught the chain with his gauntlet, the spikes gnashing as they struck. He tugged free, bones crunching, and blood sprayed the adjacent walls like a macabre fresco.
Astrid vaulted the low ramparts, landing blade-first into a crouching assassin. She drove her sword through his ribs, rending cloth and flesh. He collapsed, gurgling, hands clawing at her leg before going still.
Below her, shieldmaidens formed at the inner gate. Kari summoned wards of Algiz, the rune of protection, sealing the breach behind them. Iron barriers materialized—ethereal but solid—blocking counterattacks.
Einar reached the fortress keep's door—a massive oaken slab bound with iron. He placed a blood-runed gauntlet against its heart-sigil. Blood-rune wards flared, burning the wood's grain. With a tremor, the door split, cracks spitting embers as Kari's ward-light illuminated the opening.
Inside, torchlit corridors twisted upward. The stench of smoke and death clung to the air. Raiders—huddled in pockets—sprang at the intruders, daggers flashing in the gloom. Einar met them in deadly embrace: clash, splinter, cry.
He spun, catching a dagger under his arm. Steel grated against flesh; he gashed the attacker's side, blood pulsing between ribs, then ripped the blade free and snapped neck with a twist. The man crumpled, life pooling beneath him.
At the top of the spiral ramp, they burst into the great hall. Hakon stood at a raised dais, cloak trailing in the blood-soaked carpet. His tusked helm lay cracked at his feet. He raised a two-handed axe, ornate and cruel, and charged.
Astrid intercepted, speartip burring through mail with a metallic shriek. She drove him back, but his raw strength snapped her shaft, splintering wood across the dais. She slid clear, blade drawn.
Einar closed in as Kari's wards blurred along the walls—schematic runes of Thurisaz for defense. Walls shimmered, halting Hakon's magical recoil.
"This ends now!" Einar roared, charging.
Hakon swung his axe in a brutal arc. Stormreaver met it, sparks flying like molten drops. The impact rattled Einar's bones, but he parried and stabbed upward. The blade thrust through Hakon's shoulder, rending muscle in a hot gush.
The warlord staggered, roar twisting into a gurgle. He raised the axe for a final blow, but Einar pivoted, felling him with a horizontal slash that cleaved through collarbone and lung. Hakon's body crashed against the dais, blood spraying the tapestry of a burning Skeldfjord.
Silence reigned. The great hall's torches flickered, illuminating the carnage: severed limbs, horses' bodies thrown from shattered stables, fallen shields embedded in walls. Viscera glistened on the steps, the ring of steel finally stilled.
Einar stood over Hakon's corpse, chest heaving. He sheathed Stormreaver, each rune along its fuller dimming to a somber glow. Astrid approached, eyes wide with shock and sorrow. "He is… dead."
Einar knelt, pressing a rune of Gebō—gift and partnership—into the blood-soaked dais. Tablet of stone glowed as the rune seared into marble. "So ends his tyranny," Einar whispered, voice cracking.
Kari stepped forward, staff glinting. "Now we reclaim Skjoldfell—restore it as a fortress of peace, not oppression."
They stood as dawn's first light pierced the narrow windows, illuminating the triumph and the cost. Blood ran into the floor's cracks, the final sacrifice for Skeldfjord's freedom.
Einar rose, voice steady: "Skjoldfell falls to the free Northlands. Let its walls stand as a beacon of our unity."
A cheer rose—hoarse, ragged, but true. Bound by blade and ward, the allied host claimed the fortress. Outside, the fjord's waters glinted calm, as if welcoming peace at last.
And as they gathered on the battlements—Stormreaver at Einar's side, Astrid's braid flowing like a banner, Kari's runes glowing—the dawn of a new era broke across Skeldfjord, tempered in ice, forged in iron, and sealed by unbreakable oath.