Chapter 1: The Last Shore
The cold was a familiar bite, one that had gnawed at his bones for as long as he could remember. It clung to him now, seeping through the rents in his worn leather and wool, chilling the blood that slicked his skin and the mud that caked his boots. His lungs burned, each ragged breath a testament to a battle that had raged for hours, perhaps days. Time had blurred into a maelstrom of swinging axes, guttural war cries, and the sickening crunch of bone.
He was Thorfin, son of Thors, and this was Vinland – the dream. Or what was left of it.
His axe, a scarred and trusted companion, felt heavier than it ever had. His movements, once the lightning dance of a boy fueled by vengeance, then the pragmatic efficiency of a seasoned warrior, were now leaden. Age, countless wounds, and a soul-deep weariness had taken their toll. But still, he fought.
Around him, the settlement he and his people had bled to build was a ruin of fire and slaughter. The hope of a land free from war, a place for peace, had shattered against the relentless tide of human greed and violence. Raiders, driven by stories of a new, fertile land, had come. And they had brought the old world's suffering with them.
"Gudrid! Karli!" His voice was a harsh rasp, lost in the din. He'd sent them towards the hidden longship, a desperate gamble for their escape. He could only pray to whatever uncaring gods might listen that Leif's old craft still had the sea-legs for one last voyage.
A shadow lunged from his left, a wild-eyed man with a bloody hand-axe. Thorfin met the charge, his own axe swinging in a low, brutal arc that bit deep into the attacker's thigh. The man screamed, collapsing, but another took his place, and another. They were like ants, endless and driven.
He remembered Askeladd's words, so long ago: "A true warrior needs no sword." He'd learned that lesson, the hard way. He'd learned to build, to farm, to live for something more than the next kill. He'd sought a world without slaves, without the tyranny of chieftains and kings.
And for a while, he'd found it.
A searing pain lanced through his side. He grunted, stumbling, but his axe found its mark again, cleaving a raider's shield and biting into the shoulder beneath. He could feel his strength ebbing, his vision greying at the edges. His shield arm, thrice broken over the years, screamed in protest with every parry.
Thors... Father... did you feel this weary at the end?
He saw her then – Gudrid, not at the longship, but fighting. Fighting with a desperation that mirrored his own, a small axe in her hand, Karli clutched behind her by one of the older women of the settlement. His heart clenched. Foolish, brave woman.
He roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury, and surged forward, a berserker's last blaze. He had to buy them time. Just a little more time. His axe became a whirlwind of death, each blow a prayer for their survival. He felt impacts, cuts, the dull thud of a mace against his ribs, but he barely registered them.
Then, the spear shaft. He didn't see it coming. It punched through his leather jerkin, just below his collarbone, a blinding, searing agony that stole his breath and buckled his knees. He fell, his axe clattering on the blood-soaked earth.
The sounds of battle receded, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He lay on his back, staring up at a sky choked with smoke and the first flurries of an early snow. It was cold. So very cold.
So this is it, he thought, a strange calm settling over him. Vinland... I tried.
He thought of his father's gentle strength, Askeladd's cunning cruelty, Canute's cold ambition. He thought of Ylva's teasing, Leif's unwavering belief, and Gudrid's fierce love. Had he done enough? Had he earned his peace?
The world was fading. The cold was less a bite now, more a comforting numbness. A darkness crept in from the edges of his sight, soft and inviting.
No more blades, a distant part of his mind whispered. No more blood. Just... rest.
He closed his eyes, a final, shuddering breath escaping his lips. The last warrior of a failed dream.
The darkness consumed him.
Then… warmth.
Not the blistering heat of a forge, nor the fleeting warmth of a campfire, but a gentle, pervasive warmth that seemed to soak into his very essence. It was… soft.
And a woman's voice, unfamiliar, yet filled with a strange tenderness, murmured words he didn't understand.