Lars pushed through the dense forest, his breath rising in frantic clouds, each one dissipating in the biting air before he could take another. The captain's orders echoed in his mind, a mantra of urgency, but his instincts screamed louder. The hunting party should have returned by now. The silence in the woods was unnatural—heavy, oppressive, as though the trees themselves had paused to listen.
The underbrush clawed at his boots, branches whipping at his face, leaving scratches that burned in the cold. Snow clung to his legs, dragging him down with every step, but he pressed on. The forest seemed endless, the gray light filtering through skeletal branches barely illuminating the path ahead. Then it came, faint at first but unmistakable—the sharp tang of blood, carried on the wind like a warning.
He slowed, his heart pounding in his ears. Each step forward was hesitant now, his hand creeping to the axe at his belt. The forest thinned ahead, the tangled trees giving way to a clearing bathed in an eerie stillness. Lars approached cautiously, his breath catching as the scene unfolded before him.
The snow was red.
What had once been a hunting party was now a battlefield, a slaughterhouse where life had been drained and left to stain the pristine white. Bodies lay sprawled across the ground, their lifeless forms twisted and broken. Blood pooled beneath them, steaming faintly in the icy air. Weapons lay scattered—axes, spears, and shields—each one discarded, useless in death.
But it was the figures moving among the carnage that froze Lars in place.
Warriors, unlike any he had ever seen, strode through the clearing with grim purpose. They were built for war and winter alike, their thick, fur-lined coats layered over chainmail and quilted leather. The pelts of wolves and bears draped their shoulders, the savage trophies lending them an almost mythic presence. Their helms were wrought iron, some etched with intricate patterns, others adorned with crests of horsehair that swayed with their movements.
Their weapons were as fearsome as their appearance—curved sabers glinted in the faint light, their edges darkened with fresh blood. Spiked maces hung from belts, their heads caked with gore. One carried a long spear, its barbed tip stained and deadly. These were not raiders or clansmen. These were men from distant lands, warriors from the icy east—Rus', whispered the stories. Lars's breath hitched as he realized what he was seeing.
The warriors moved with ruthless efficiency, their boots crunching against the frozen ground as they stepped over the bodies of the fallen. Their voices carried through the clearing like the grinding of ice against rock, low and guttural. Lars couldn't understand their words, but the tone was unmistakable—commands barked with sharp authority, curt acknowledgments following in reply.
One of them, a man whose broad shoulders were cloaked in the fur of a black wolf, gestured toward a wounded Viking crawling through the snow. The Viking's shield was cracked, his movements sluggish as he tried to raise it in defense. The warrior with the spear nodded and stepped forward, his approach as casual as it was inevitable.
Lars ducked behind a tree, peering around the rough bark as his heart pounded. He couldn't look away as the spear plunged into the Viking's side. The sound of tearing flesh and the gurgle of a strangled cry filled the clearing. The warrior twisted the spear, yanking it free in a spray of crimson that painted the snow. The Viking collapsed, his body convulsing once before going still.
Another Viking, blood streaming from a gash across his chest, let out a hoarse roar. He surged forward with a broken spear, the jagged tip finding its mark as it drove into the side of one of the Rus'. The man staggered, clutching the shaft as blood seeped through his armor.
But the retaliation was swift. A second warrior stepped in, his saber flashing in a sharp, practiced arc. The blade sliced clean through the Viking's forearm, the severed limb falling to the snow with a dull thud. The Viking dropped to his knees, clutching his bleeding stump, his defiance reduced to ragged gasps. The saber rose again, and the final blow came swiftly—a slash across the throat that ended his struggle.
Lars's breath came in shallow bursts as he pressed himself against the tree, the rough bark biting into his back. The clearing was a vision of hell, the air thick with the stench of blood and the low murmurs of the Rus' as they searched for survivors.
Their words grated against his ears, harsh and unfamiliar.
"Ubiy yego!" one barked, his voice sharp as the steel in his hand. Kill him!
"Da, bratye," another replied, calm yet menacing. Yes, brother.
Lars didn't need to understand the words to grasp their intent. These men weren't leaving anyone alive.
His hand trembled as he reached for the goat horn at his belt. He raised it to his lips, praying the sound would carry far enough to reach the captain and the crew. He drew in a deep breath and blew hard. The horn's deep, resonant cry shattered the stillness, echoing through the forest like the roar of an awakening beast.
The Rus' froze, their heads snapping toward the sound. Their voices rose in angry shouts, the guttural language taking on a furious urgency. One of them pointed toward Lars's position, barking orders.
Lars didn't wait. He turned and ran.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he sprinted away from the clearing, his lungs burning with each desperate breath. He didn't head for the ship. Instead, he veered east, angling away from his crew in a bid to draw the warriors away. Behind him, the sound of pursuit was immediate. Boots thundered through the forest, and the sharp crack of branches breaking underfoot filled the air.
"Za nim!" one shouted. After him!
Lars pushed himself harder, his legs screaming in protest as he tore through the underbrush. His vision blurred with the effort, the cold biting at his exposed skin. He didn't look back, but he could feel them closing in, their presence a shadow that loomed larger with each passing second.
A sharp pain exploded in his shoulder as a arrow struck him with bone-crushing force. He stumbled, his balance faltering, and fell hard into the snow. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs, leaving him gasping and disoriented.
Before he could rise, a heavy boot slammed into his back, pinning him to the ground. He cried out, his voice raw with pain. Another warrior loomed over him, the spiked head of a mace gleaming in the faint light.
The first blow struck his ribs, the sickening crunch of bone shattering loud in the frozen silence. Lars screamed, the sound torn from his throat as white-hot agony seared through his body. The second blow came swiftly, smashing into his leg and snapping the bone like a dry twig.
Blood pooled beneath him, steaming against the snow as his vision blurred. The Rus' loomed over him, their words sharp and mocking, but Lars couldn't hear them anymore. His thoughts drifted to the ship, to the crew, to the captain who had entrusted him with the message.
As one of the warriors knelt beside him, gripping his hair and forcing his head up, Lars's last thought was clear and unwavering.
I hope I gave them enough time.
The blade descended, and Lars knew no more.