The air was heavy with the scent of pine and salt, the rhythmic pounding of hammers against wood echoing through the camp. The crew worked tirelessly, their sweat mingling with the chill of the wind, as they drove the final nails into the ship's mast. Bloodcrow stood proudly at the water's edge, her battered hull now patched, her broken mast replaced. The other two ships rested nearby, their once-proud forms marred by the storm's fury but now seaworthy again.
Captain Ingvar moved among his men like a wolf among its pack, sharp-eyed and commanding. He barked orders with precision, his voice cutting through the din of labor. The men responded without hesitation, their movements disciplined, their loyalty unshaken.
"Get those ropes tightened!" Ingvar growled, pointing toward a crewman struggling with the rigging. "If that mast doesn't hold, you'll be swimming before nightfall."
Nearby, a team of men hauled timber from the forest, their shoulders straining under the weight. Others worked on sealing the last of the hull damage, the pungent smell of pitch thick in the air as they coated the repairs. Every hand was at work, their movements a testament to the unyielding will that had kept them alive.
The faint murmur of the forest beyond the camp seemed distant, muffled by the urgency of their tasks. The storm had thrown them far from familiar waters, and though the land offered a brief respite, it was a fragile sanctuary at best. Ingvar knew they couldn't linger. Time was a luxury they no longer had.
Then it came.
A horn's cry pierced the stillness, low and mournful, carrying across the forest like the howl of a wounded beast. The sound cut through the camp like a blade, freezing every man in place. Tools dropped to the ground, and the rhythmic hammering ceased as all eyes turned toward the treeline.
The horn was one of their own. It came from deeper within the forest, and its tone was unmistakable—a warning and a call to arms. Ingvar's sharp gaze narrowed, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword.
For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the pines. The men exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale with the unspoken question: Was it Lars?
"Move!" Ingvar's voice cracked like a whip, snapping the crew out of their paralysis. "That was Lars's horn. If he's calling for war, it means someone—something—has found him. And if they've found him, they'll find us soon enough."
The camp erupted into a flurry of activity. Men dropped what they were doing, grabbing shields, axes, and spears. Ingvar strode to the center of the camp, his presence a beacon of authority. "We hold this ground!" he roared, his voice rising above the chaos. "Form ranks! Shield wall at the ready!"
The crew sprang into action, their years of training evident in the swift precision of their movements. The shield-bearers formed a semicircle at the camp's edge, their round shields locking together in a solid wall of oak and iron. The front line crouched low, digging their heels into the earth for stability, while the second line raised their shields overhead, creating a protective canopy against arrows.
The air vibrated with tension, the collective breath of the crew hanging in the cold. Ingvar strode to the front of the line, his sword gleaming in the pale light as he surveyed the forest. His men watched him closely, their resolve hardening at the sight of their unshakable captain.
A faint rustle broke the silence, followed by the crunch of snow underfoot. Then they appeared.
The figures emerging from the forest were not of their kin. They moved with a deadly grace, their fur-lined cloaks and quilted armor marking them as warriors of the far east. Their weapons—curved sabers, spiked maces, and long spears—gleamed with fresh blood. The etched patterns on their helms and the silver crosses at their necks glinted in the light, speaking of a culture both foreign and fearsome.
Ingvar's sharp eyes took in every detail: their numbers, their formation, the hesitation in their steps. They had lost the element of surprise, and it showed. The warriors slowed as they approached the Viking line, their voices low and guttural as they exchanged words in their native tongue.
"Govoryat li oni gotovy srazhatsya?" one of the warriors said, his tone sharp with curiosity.
"Da, oni sil'nyye," another replied, his gaze fixed on the interlocked shields. "No my voz'myom ikh."
Ingvar didn't understand the words, but he didn't need to. The body language, the glances exchanged among the warriors, told him everything he needed to know. They were calculating, weighing their options.
The captain's lips curled into a wolfish grin. He could see the doubt in their eyes, the way their steps faltered just enough to betray their hesitation. "What's the matter?" he called out, his voice carrying with the weight of mockery. "Lost your nerve already? Come closer, and I'll send you back to your gods myself!"
The warriors didn't respond to his taunt, but their leader raised a hand, signaling for his men to halt. They spoke again, their voices hushed but tense.
"Eto ne nayemniki. Oni vikingi," one murmured.
"Zdes' ne nashe vremya," the leader said, his tone final. He gestured toward the forest, and the warriors began to pull back.
Ingvar's grin faded as realization dawned. "Rus'," he muttered under his breath, the word laced with disdain. He had heard of these warriors—men from the icy lands of the east, whose legends were whispered among the northern clans. They were brutal and cunning, their tactics honed over centuries of conflict. And now they were here.
The retreat was not a victory. It was a warning.
From deep within the forest, another horn sounded. This one was harsher, sharper, and its meaning was unmistakable. Reinforcements were coming.
Ingvar turned to his men, his expression hard as stone. "You hear that?" he barked. "They're calling for more. We don't have time to waste. Get to the ships! Double time!"
The crew sprang into action, abandoning the defensive line to focus on the task at hand. Supplies were hastily packed, and the remaining repairs were rushed with frantic precision. Men hauled barrels of fresh water and crates of provisions aboard, their movements driven by the urgency of survival.
Ingvar moved among them, his commands sharp and clear. "Secure the rigging! Load the weapons! I want every ship ready to sail within the hour!"
Eirik, the young guard, approached with a report. "Captain, the repairs on Raven's Cry are nearly complete, but Drakkar's rudder remains unstable. She might not hold if we push her too hard."
Ingvar nodded grimly. "Do what you can. We don't need perfection—we need to get out of here."
The crew worked with the desperation of men who knew the stakes. The sound of hammers and the creak of ropes filled the air, mingling with the distant echoes of the enemy's horn.
As the last crate was secured aboard Bloodcrow, Ingvar climbed onto the deck and scanned the horizon. His sharp eyes caught a flicker of movement to the west—ships, dark and ominous, their sails unfurling against the pale light.
"They're coming," he muttered, his voice low but steady. "East. We go east."
The order spread quickly through the crew, and the ships began to pull away from the shore. The cold wind bit at their faces, but the sight of the enemy on the horizon drove them forward. The sea opened before them, vast and uncertain, but it was a refuge compared to the threat closing in behind.
Ingvar stood at the helm, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The weight of the moment pressed on him, but he didn't falter. He had survived the storm. He would survive this, too.
"We're not done yet," he murmured, gripping the wheel. "Not by a damn sight."