In the suffocating hold of the ship, darkness reigned like an unseen tide, flooding every corner with its cold, unyielding weight. It wasn't simply the absence of light—it was a presence, heavy and smothering, seeping into his skin and stealing the air from his lungs.
The damp air clung to the captives like a second skin, chilling them to their very marrow. Every creak of the ship's timbers was a haunting reminder of their fragile reality, the sound reverberating through the hold like the groan of a dying beast.
The storm had passed, but its ghost lingered. A biting cold had seeped into the wood, spreading like a disease. Frost had begun to form on the edges of the iron cuffs that bound their wrists, the metal biting deeper into raw flesh with every shiver. The captives huddled together, their thin blankets offering little more than the illusion of warmth. The floor beneath them was wet, a mix of seawater and sweat, and the air carried the acrid tang of fear and despair.
Above them, muffled shouts and the heavy tread of boots echoed through the planks. The voices were urgent, commands cutting through the air like blades. The captives stirred at the sound, their whispered conversations rising like smoke in the dim light.
"What are they shouting about now?" a gaunt man asked, his voice rasping as he pulled his thin blanket tighter around his shoulders. His breath rose in pale clouds, dissipating quickly in the frigid air.
"Maybe it's another storm," a woman whispered, her words trembling with dread. "Maybe the gods are punishing them."
"Or us," muttered another, his voice heavy with resignation.
"No," another man interjected, shaking his head. "It's something else. That horn we heard earlier—that wasn't theirs."
The mention of the horn sent a ripple through the captives. They exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting a flicker of hope—or something dangerously close to it.
"It could be salvation," one whispered, his voice trembling with desperate optimism. "Maybe whoever is out there will crush these raiders and set us free."
"Free us?" The fisherman scoffed softly, leaning back against the damp wood. His thin frame shivered beneath his blanket, his breath wheezing as he spoke. "You think anyone out there cares about the likes of us? We're cargo. Dead weight. We're nothing."
The conversation splintered into hushed arguments. Some clung to fragile hopes, imagining liberation in the form of unseen warriors. Others dismissed the idea as a cruel delusion, pointing out that whoever was pursuing their captors would likely see the captives as little more than an inconvenience to be discarded.
In the corner, the boy sat silent, his back pressed against the cold, damp planks. He listened, his dark eyes fixed on the flickering light that seeped through the cracks in the hull. The whispers around him swirled like smoke, filling the air with fragile dreams and desperate fears. But he remained unmoving, his expression carved from stone.
Fools, he thought, his fingers curling into fists. You think salvation's coming? You think the gods care about you? They left us the day those ships came.
His gaze drifted to the chains around his wrists, the iron biting into his skin like the sharp teeth of a predator. The whispers of his fellow captives faded into the background as his thoughts turned inward, spiraling into darker places. He didn't care if the warriors pursuing the raiders were saviors or killers. He didn't care if they came and slaughtered every soul aboard all three ships.
Let them come, he thought. Let them take this ship. I'll gladly die if it means watching these bastards burn.
He imagined the raiders' bodies falling one by one to the ground, their lifeblood staining the snow. The thought brought a flicker of warmth to his cold chest.
But the gods had other plans. They always did.
The air in the hold grew colder with every passing moment. The captives shivered violently, their breaths rising in rhythmic clouds. The damp wood beneath them seemed to leech the heat from their bodies, and frost began to gather on the edges of the chains that bound them. The fisherman coughed weakly, his breath wheezing in his chest.
"This isn't natural," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "This cold… we shouldn't be this far north."
The boy turned his gaze toward the old man, his expression unreadable. The fisherman met his eyes and shook his head, his lips trembling as he spoke. "The storm must've thrown us off course. The sea doesn't freeze like this—not where they meant to go."
The boy said nothing, but the words lingered in his mind. The thought of their captors being lost, scrambling to regain control, brought a grim satisfaction. Let them panic, he thought. Let them lose their way.
But even as he reveled in the idea, his mind remained calculating. If the raiders were lost, so were their captives. And if the Rus' caught up, he doubted salvation would come in their wake. The fisherman's earlier words echoed in his mind: We're cargo. Dead weight. Nothing.
Above deck, the captain stood tall at the helm, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The sea stretched vast and empty before them, its surface a pale gray that mirrored the sky. The other two ships followed close behind, their patched sails straining against the wind. Behind them, the enemy ships were distant shadows, faint but persistent.
"Adjust the sails!" Ingvar barked, his voice carrying over the deck. "Keep them taut—we can't afford to lose an inch of speed!"
The crew moved with precision, their movements honed by years of practice. Some hauled on ropes, their muscles straining as they secured the rigging. Others worked on patching the hull, their hands moving deftly despite the cold that bit at their fingers. The oarsmen below deck rowed in perfect rhythm, their strokes driving the ship forward with relentless determination.
Ingvar's gaze flicked toward the horizon again. He could see the enemy ships more clearly now, their dark shapes etched against the pale sky. They were still distant, but they were closing the gap.
"The gods mock us," he muttered under his breath, his hands tightening on the wheel. He had no intention of heading further east, past the lands of the Rus'. His plan had been to circle back west after the storm, to return to the familiar waters of home. But the storm had shattered that plan, and the enemy behind them ensured there was no turning back.
"East it is," he said quietly, his voice a bitter growl.
In the hold, the boy shifted against the cold planks, his chains rattling faintly. The murmurs around him had quieted, replaced by the steady creak of the ship and the faint sound of boots above deck. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure the faces of his family—his mother, his father, his sister. But the images came to him blurred and indistinct, like reflections in dark water.
Above him, the captain's voice rang out again, sharp and commanding. The boy's eyes snapped open, his jaw tightening. He didn't need to see Ingvar to picture him standing at the helm, issuing orders with the same precision and authority he had wielded on the day of the raid.
Competent, the boy thought bitterly, his lips twisting into a grim smile. Too competent.
But even the most competent men couldn't outrun the will of the gods. The boy's gaze drifted to the light filtering through the cracks in the hull, his dark eyes burning with quiet fury. For now, he waited, still and silent. But inside, the storm raged on.