The air was still before dawn—a brittle calm that pressed upon the soul like a held breath. Einar Stormrider stood atop the eastern palisade, watching the pale edge of sky bloom into ice-blue light. Below, the settlement stirred: smoke columns coiling from hearths, horses stamping in the courtyard, and riders preparing their mounts for the long journey.
Astrid Sigurdsdottir joined him, her cloak drawn tight against the chill. "They grow restless," she whispered, glancing at the four longhorn steeds harnessed to the envoy's wain. "Few have traveled so far west into Hakon's reach."
Einar nodded, fingers brushing the runic bracer at his wrist. "They carry word of vengeance—and hope. We cannot fail them."
Behind them, Kari the Wanderer approached, staff in hand, eyes shadowed with foreboding. "The runes warn of sea-mist—not merely wind and rain, but enchantment drifting from the west."
Astrid frowned. "The seiðkona again?"
Kari inclined his head. "Her magic lingers on tides. We must guard the riders' minds as fiercely as their bodies."
Einar turned to the assembly of envoys below: Sigurd Flamehair, Jarl Brynjar's burly thane; two seasoned horse-borne outriders; and the youngest rider, Eilif, whose lean face betrayed both excitement and fear. Each man and woman clutched a leather-wrapped scroll—the map to Skeldfjord, marked with red ink—and drank from horned cups of mead.
*(Mead: a fermented beverage made from honey, water, and sometimes herbs or spices.)
Thora stood before them, voice steady as a held helm. "Remember your oaths. Speak truth, honor our jarl, and warn the survivors: Haven's Gael rides with Stormrider clan. Upon their heels come aid, or doom."
Einar strode down the ramparts, Stormreaver's leather scabbard creaking in the quiet. At the foot of the gate, he faced each rider. Placing a hand on Eilif's shoulder, he said, "Your village stands battered, but not broken. Your kin await news—carry courage in your words."
Eilif swallowed. "I will not falter."
Astrid clasped his gauntlet. "I taught you spear dances—now let them lend you steadiness." She smiled, and for a heartbeat, the tension eased.
Kari knelt and drew a circle in the dust, tracing three runes: Raidho (journey), Algiz (protection), Thurisaz (ward against chaos). He cast iron filings into the grooves; the bits glowed faintly. "Ride through this ward. No mind-bending spell may grasp you."
Sigurd Flamehair gave a low grunt of approval. "May our axes taste Hakon's blood by your return."
With a final nod from Jarl Brynjar—towering, his grey beard braided in silver cords—the gate swung open. The four riders cantered through, hooves ringing upon cobblestones, banners snapping like eager tongues. Einar felt the ground tremble beneath their departure, then silence reclaimed the settlement.
Einar, Astrid, and Kari watched until the riders crested the ridge and vanished into pre-dawn mist. Then Einar turned northward, eyes narrowing on the fjord's dark waters. "The midwinter Thing draws near," he said, "and we must prepare. But first… we honor our promise."
Astrid placed a hand on his arm. "We have forged defenses, trained warriors, and readied wards. What more can we do?"
He exhaled, breath steaming. "We journey to the western dale ourselves—to speak with the jarls face to face. Our presence will solidify the alliance before the Thing. And we will test the currents of loyalty."
Kari rose, weighing his staff. "I will guide us through hidden channels. The runes show a secret passage under the low ridge—faster than the coastal road, though perilous."
Astrid's lips curved in a challenging grin. "Perilous is our métier. At least the sea's enchantment won't chase us here."
Einar nodded. "Then let us ride."
They departed at first light: Einar atop a sturdy palomino, Astrid on a sleek roan, and Kari astride a gray mare whose eyes held the calm of twilight. Thora and Sigurd bid them farewell at the gate, offering supplies and blessings. Even Jarl Brynjar dismounted, clasping Einar's forearm in a final grip. "Bring back word by the moon's turn. Fail, and Haven's Gael may not withstand Hakon's wrath."
Einar's heart tightened. "I will not fail."
They set off along the cliff-top road, where wind-sculpted pines clung to the rock and seabirds wheeled in desperately cold air. Below, the fjord's water was a pane of obsidian glass, broken occasionally by a solitary fishing skiff—fishermen braving the tides for cod and herring.
As they passed a small hamlet of clustered huts—the first settlement on the western road—Kari pointed to a leaning signpost. "Here, we turn inland. The hidden trail runs between the two low ridges."
Einar checked the map, matching its landmarks: a split boulder, a stand of silver birch, and a stream whose spring-fed waters rippled with subtle warmth. They left the main road and plunged into the narrowing pass.
*(Pass: a narrow route through mountains or hills.)
The path was rough: loose stones and tangled roots threatened each hoof-step. Kari went first, severing overhanging branches with a swift arc of his cane. Astrid rode close behind, eyes scanning the treeline for ambush. Einar brought up the rear, Stormreaver sheathed but hand resting on its hilt.
Midday came without warning: the sky darkened, and a cold mist crept in, tendrils curling around their mounts' manes. Kari halted. "The ward weakens here," he murmured, voice taut. "Close ranks."
Astrid shifted in her saddle, spear in hand. "Whatever comes, we meet it together."
A shriek cut through the fog—a creature's cry, wild and unearthly. From the thicket, shapes emerged: two gaunt figures, faces pale and hair plastered by moisture. Their eyes glowed with uncanny light. They moved with jerky grace, as if driven by strings.
Kari held up his staff. "Runes of ward!" he chanted. The fog quivered, and the figures recoiled, hissed by unseen flame. Yet one lunged forward, long fingers outstretched. Astrid thrust her spear; the point glowed with Kari's ward—fire of Algiz—and the creature halted, smoke rising where iron met flesh.
Einar drew Stormreaver. The blade's frost-runes shimmered, and he slashed in a wide arc. The creature's form dissolved into motes of mist that scattered like dew in sunlight.
Astrid wiped her spear clean. "Mist-wraiths," she said, voice low. "Servants of the seiðkona."
*(Mist-wraiths: spirits conjured from enchanted fog, half-seen and hungry for life-force.)
Kari knelt, tracing a rune of banishment in the dirt. The fog retreated, coalescing into a swirl that vanished like smoke. "Her magic loiters," he said. "But our wards held—for now."
Einar spurred his horse onward. "No more delay. The western jarls wait, and so does winter's chill."
They emerged from the pass into a rolling valley dotted with firs and heather. A ribbon of river curved through the glen, its waters clear as glass. Ahead, the wooden palisades of a fortified manor rose above a cluster of sod-roofed homes. The banner of Jarl Hlodver—a black raven on argent field—flapped lazily in the breeze.
Astrid frowned. "Hlodver's hall. He was a minor ally of Haven's Gael—until the Great Betrayal."
Einar exhaled. "We must win him back."
They rode through the gate, greeted by a pair of armored guards whose helms bore curved beaks like ravens. One answered Astrid's challenge: "Welcome, riders of Haven's Gael—if you bear tribute."
Einar dismounted and offered his bracer-backed arm. "I am Einar Stormrider, envoy of Jarl Brynjar. We seek an audience with Jarl Hlodver."
The guard nodded and led them into the courtyard. From the hall's open doors spilled warmth and the scent of roasting venison. At the dais, Hlodver's thanes feasted; at its head sat the jarl himself—a tall man with hawk-like nose and charcoal streak across his cheek, eyes cold as flint.
Hlodver stood as they approached. "Stormrider," he greeted, voice echoing in the hall, "I did not expect you so soon." He gestured to a bench. "Sit, and be warmed by fire and wine."
Thora poured mead from a carved dragon's head pitcher. Einar raised his cup. "To old alliances rekindled."
Hlodver's lips curled. "Old alliances cost aid when needed." He drained the cup. "Jarl Brynjar's coffers filled when Skeldfjord went silent. I waited for you to strike, but you came to beg."
Astrid's eyes narrowed. "We come not for coin, but for unity. Hakon's threat returns, stronger than ever. Only united can we stand against his wrath."
Hlodver studied her, then Einar. He drained another cup, his gaze hardening. "Prove it. Tomorrow, ride with me to the Stormshore and battle the fjord-fox raiders who plague my fishermen. Show me your mettle—and mine, that I may trust you."
Einar bowed. "At dawn."
Night fell crisp and star-studded. Einar and Astrid shared a small guest chamber within the hall. A hearth's glow danced upon furs and weapons stacked neatly in a corner.
Astrid sat on the bedroll, loosening her vambraces. "You think Hlodver's test is fair?"
Einar knelt before the hearth, warming his gauntlets. "Fair as the knife's edge. We prove our loyalty with blood and sweat—or lose our cause."
Astrid reached for his hand. "I worry for the riders—and for us."
Einar lifted her hand to his lips. "Fear is a fire that forges steel. We will guide those riders home alive, and we will earn Hlodver's trust."
She studied him, amber eyes reflecting embers. "Then rest now. Tomorrow we ride at first light."
He wrapped her in his cloak. "And I will dream of green fields," he whispered—a promise abandoned once, but perhaps reclaimed anew.
At dawn, the three mounted under a pale pink sky. Hlodver's warband awaited: thirty spearmen and shieldmaidens, their shields painted ravens' wings. Astrid took the left flank, Einar the right, and Hlodver led center, black-iron axe gleaming.
They rode west along the rocky shore—Stormshore, so named for the roar of relentless waves and the sudden squalls that sprang from calm seas. Fishermen plied the shallows in small skiffs, nets heavy with herring. But on the jagged rocks, raiders lurked: fjord-foxes, guerrilla guerrillas* who struck at fishing parties, stealing catch and burning boats.
*(Fjord-foxes: a colloquial term for coastal raiders who strike swiftly like foxes, then vanish into fjord mist.)
Their first ambush came without warning: a dozen raiders sprang from hidden coves, arrows loosed in a black-feathered hail. Einar seized his reins, raising Stormreaver to block a bolt that thundered against its runic guard. Astrid charged, spear overhead, scattering the raiders. Kari sent a pulse of rune-light across the beach, blinding those at the fringes.
Hlodver roared and leapt from his saddle, axe spinning in arc of death. His warband followed, shields locked, forging a wedge that split the raiders' line.
Einar spurred his horse into the fray, steel ringing as he parried and struck. A raider lunged with a curved knife; Einar sidestepped and ended him with a single stroke. He turned to see Astrid battling two opponents—her movements a whirling dance of lethal grace. He charged alongside her, and together they drove the fjord-foxes into retreat.
When the last raider fled into the mist, silence fell broken only by the hiss of retreating hooves and the hiss of waves. Hlodver sheathed his axe, his expression grudging respect.
"You ride like Brynjar's wolves," he conceded. "Haven's Gael would do well to count you as kin."
Einar dismounted and extended a hand. "Then let the midwinter Thing unite us."
Hlodver clasped his arm. "I ride with you—before the jarls, I pledge Raven's Wing to your cause."
As the sun rose higher, burning away the sea-mist, Einar gazed west toward Skeldfjord's distant mountains. The riders he had sent would soon reach their home—warn their kin, rally survivors, and prepare for Hakon's coming storm.
Einar felt the weight of destiny settle like a shield upon his chest. The path ahead was forged in war and bound by oath. But with Astrid at his side, Kari's runes at his back, and the jarls of Haven's Gael at his call, he believed the Stormrider clan could reclaim all they had lost.
And so, with ravens circling overhead—messengers of fate and omen—Einar Stormrider led his small host toward winter's trials, each hoofbeat echoing the vow that had carried him from ash to hope: "We will rise again."