The dawn broke with an uneasy quiet, as though Skeldfjord itself hesitated to breathe. Snowflakes drifted onto the newly repaired docks, settling like fine ash upon dragon-head prows and tar-sealed hulls. Einar Stormrider stood at the edge of the quay, Stormreaver sheathed at his side, watching the sun's pale light glint off iron and ice.
Behind him, the longhouse for the clan council had risen from the rubble, stout timbers bound by iron nails forged in Old Bjorn's workshop. Smoke curled from its central chimney, carrying the scent of burning spruce. Within its walls, the jarls Hlodver and Brynjar debated strategies for winter supply lines, their voices deep and measured.
Astrid Sigurdsdottir approached, her cloak dusted in snow. She carried Kari's rune-warded satchel slung across her back. "They argue over whether to send merchants through the mountain pass or sail around the northern horn," she reported. "Both routes risk frostbite or storm."
Einar nodded. "Both fraught, but one must open. We cannot survive a Yule without trade." He squared his shoulders. "I will ride with Sigurd and test the mountain pass today. If it's impassable, we prepare the northern fleet."
Astrid's eyes narrowed. "Hlodver trusts your judgment. Go swiftly—and return safely." She paused at his side. "Let no shadow deter you."
He smiled, brushing a lock of braid from her brow. "And you, stand watch over the forges. This village depends on every nail and plowshare."
An hour later, Einar and Sigurd Flamehair led a small company toward the mountain pass. Ten shieldmaidens marched in tight formation, iron-tipped pikes pointed forward. Behind them, Kari guided two traders from the Iron Vale, their cart laden with salted fish and foreign grains. They trudged through knee-deep snow, the pass entrance framed by jagged pines bowed beneath winter's weight.
*(Shieldmaidens: women warriors trained in the art of combat and the Viking shield-wall.)
The trail narrowed quickly. Snowdrifts nearly obscured the stones laid by Skeldfjord's founders, their edges carved with runes of Algiz for protection. The runes now lay half-buried, their warding power muffled by deep frost. Kari paused to brush one free. "Hold hands," he instructed the traders. "Let the ward bind us together."
Einar studied the slope ahead. A lean crag cut across the sky—Frostfang Ridge, named for its icicle-draped spires. Beyond it, the pass forked toward high mountain villages. Sigurd, ever eager, tested the snow with his axe's butt. "Footprints," he grunted. "Not fresh—but bear-tracks. Wolves, perhaps."
Einar's jaw set. "Keep close. Wolves hunt in packs."
They pressed on. Soon, a low rumble rolled through the ridge—rocks grinding against ice. A small avalanche thundered down the slope, and each warrior dove for cover. When the dust settled, Einar climbed to the toppled snowbank's crest, scanning for survivors. All had escaped, but the avalanche had blocked the trail.
Astrid's words from the quay echoed: "Let no shadow deter you."
He drew Stormreaver and hacked at the snow until the buried runes re-emerged. "We clear the ward. Then the way opens."
For an hour, they labored: shoveling ice, striking hidden stones with pickaxes, chanting Kari's ward-clearing rune. At last the debris gave way, revealing the narrow path. The runes along the ground glowed faintly, their protection restored.
Sigurd slapped Einar's back. "A footing earned."
Einar wiped sweat—or was it snowmelt?—from his brow. "Onward."
The pass rose steeply. Gale-driven flurries stung cheeks like needle-points. Kari traced runes in the air, forming a circle of warmth that followed the group. Trader Neila, clutching the runed satchel, shivered but pressed on.
By midday, they reached an outcropping that looked down upon a frozen valley. Smoke curled from a cluster of sod huts—Hrafnheim, a small mountain hamlet. Hrafnheim's jarls had long remained neutral, trading furs for Skeldfjord's iron. Now, they clustered around a signal beacon, their banners in tatters.
Einar raised his hand in greeting. He and Sigurd dismounted, boots ringing on ice. A tall jarl in a polished bacinet—helm—approached them. His hair was flecked with frost, and a pale cloak of ermine draped his shoulders. "Einar Stormrider," he called, voice echoing across the plain. "Your arrival is welcomed—and too late. Hrafnheim's stores fail, and the beacon's wood is spent. We fear Hakon's raiders will strike us next."
*(Bacinet: a conical iron helmet used in medieval warfare; here an anachronistic flourish to mark Hrafnheim's wealth.)
Einar bowed. "We bring grain and salted fish, if you open your granaries to our alliance. Skeldfjord stands under Jarl Brynjar's protection now—join us, and your people will not starve."
The jarl's gaze flicked to Neila's cart. "Bring the traders forward." Neila offered barrels of fish, and the jarl's thanes carried them into the wagons. Then he offered a slim vial of dark liquid—a concentrated sealant of seal-blubber oil and fish oil, prized in these harsh heights. "May this oil keep your ships' hulls tight," he said. "Spare it to Skeldfjord's fleet."
Einar accepted the gift. "Your generosity binds us. We ride next to the western fjord's mouth—may your beacons light the way."
The jarl nodded. "And I will send hunters to guide you beyond Frostfang Ridge, past the ice caves where no man dares go."
Together they surveyed the valley. Smoking chimneys betrayed Hrafnheim's hunger; the white snow seemed thin upon their roofs. Neila steeled herself. "My people will not starve if we share," she declared. "I pledge my furs and fish to your cause."
Moved, Einar drew Stormreaver and cut a strand of the jarl's ermine cloak. "I take this cloak as token of our bond. Let hunger unite us as the storm once divided."
That evening, the company returned to Skeldfjord under a sky smeared with violet dusk. The clan's forges glowed along the shore, and the longhouse's windows shone like watch-fires. Astrid met Einar at the quay, breathless.
"Hrafnheim joins us," he announced. "And they send oil for the fleet."
She smiled, eyes bright. "The forge roars anew." She placed her hand on the quivering Stormheart at his belt. "And your heart roars with victory."
But Einar's gaze drifted northward, where dark clouds gathered like crows. He drew a steady breath. "Hakon will not yield. His shadow looms yet."
Astrid nodded. "We build defenses. The mountain allies will light beacons along the fjord. We await your word."
Einar gripped her hand. "Tomorrow, we hold council. We prepare for Hakon's advance—by land and by sea."
In the clan council hall, torches burned high. Jarl Brynjar presided, his staff tapping a steady rhythm. Hlodver sat to his right, and the jarls of Hrafnheim, Iron Vale, and Silver Fjord filled the long benches. Astrid and Sigurd stood guard by the dais; Kari traced runes at the feet of the jarl.
Einar rose, Stormheart's pulse echoing in his chest. "Friends and allies," he began, voice clear. "Hakon's raiders rebuild in secret coves, and his magic courses through the mist. He seeks to drown our union in fear. But we have learned that shadow can neither freeze our courage nor still our hearts."
He gestured to the map woven from runed parchment. The routes from Skeldfjord to Hrafnheim to Haven's Gael formed a web of supply lines. Each pass, each fjord, each beacon was marked. "We will defend these lines. Shieldmaidens patrol each ridge, beacons light each shore, and our longships cut off any who try to slip through the northern horn."
The jarls murmured in approval; Hlodver thumped his fist on the bench. Brynjar raised a hand. "Your plan is wise, Stormrider. We stand ready."
Suddenly, the hall doors swung open. A rider burst in, snow flung in his wake. He knelt before Einar, cloak clasped. "My jarl," he panted, "a fleet of ten longships—black sails, dragon-prow carved in twisted rune—rounds Frostfang's cliff, bearing Hakon's raven banner."
A hush fell, broken only by the crackle of torches. Einar's heart hammered as the vision formed: Hakon's revenge, waves of raiders, the walls tested once more.
Astrid drew her blade. "Then we meet them at Frostfang's cliff."
Einar turned to Brynjar. "I ride at first light. Let all defenders muster there."
Brynjar nodded gravely. "May the old gods fight at your side." He tapped his staff thrice. "Let our hearts burn brighter than winter's night."
Einar bowed. "So it shall be."
Before the first light, Einar and his chosen rode again—this time to Frostfang's cliff, where the sea met sheer granite in a wall of broken waves. There, the beacons burned like watchful eyes: the hrafn-light of Hrafnheim, the blue-frost glow of Skeldfjord, and the crimson flare of Brynjar's fleet behind them.
On the black sea, ten longships glided into view, bows adorned by snarling ravens. Hakon's black sails snapped open, and a horn sounded—deep and mocking.
Einar raised Stormreaver. "Here they come!" he cried. "Hold fast!"
Astrid loosed javelins that arced like meteors into the dark hulls. Kari's wards shimmered along the cliff's edge, sending lances of frost-light into the first longship's rowers. Sigurd led a charge along the cliff-top path, steel ringing as he clove through the enemy vanguard.
Waves of raiders swarmed the rocky shore, their boots testing the frozen earth. But shieldmaidens formed a line of blades, each shield locked in the ancient skjoldborg stance. The hissing sea behind them and the raging fire above met in a wall of defiance.
Einar waded into the fray, Stormreaver blazing with the Stormheart's power. Each swing cleaved ice and flesh, each step was firm as the runed stones beneath. Above the roar of battle, he heard the horn calls—the rallying cry of every ally bound by oath.
And as the first raven-prowed longship struck the rocks, its keel splintered by the combined runes and iron, Einar knew that even Hakon's vengeance could not quell Skeldfjord's spirit.
For here, upon flame-lit snow and frost-bitten stone, the clan stood unbroken—ready to forge their destiny in fire and ice alike.