The sea stretched vast and gray, its expanse unbroken except for the three ships struggling to outpace their hunters. Bloodcrow cut through the waves like a beast of prey, her patched sails straining against the wind, her oars slicing the water in perfect unison. Behind her, Raven's Cry followed in disciplined formation, but it was the Drakkar that drew Captain Ingvar's sharp gaze. The ship, proud and unyielding after the storm's wrath, now faltered, her movements sluggish and uncertain.
The cold air bit deep, sharper than any blade, but Ingvar didn't flinch.
He stood at the helm of the Bloodcrow, his cloak billowing around him like a shadow. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, tracked every detail: the rhythm of his men, the fluttering sails, the dark smudges on the horizon that signaled the enemy's relentless pursuit. He pierced the scene with the unerring focus of an arrow seeking its mark, every motion deliberate, every thought a calculation born of survival.
"Adjust the sails!" Ingvar's voice cut through the wind, commanding and precise. "Find every breath of wind and use it!"
The crew moved as if the order had pulled a string taut through them, their actions swift and synchronized. Sailors hauled on ropes, their hands red and raw from the cold. Others scrambled to secure the rigging, their breaths clouding the air as they worked. Below deck, the oarsmen rowed with a rhythm that matched the waves, their bodies aching but unwavering.
Above the chaos, the haunting echo of the enemy's war horns drifted across the water—a deep, resonant sound that carried both warning and promise. It chilled the men more than the icy spray that coated the deck, but none dared falter. They had survived the storm. They would survive this.
Ingvar's gaze shifted to Drakkar, her silhouette unsteady against the rolling waves. Even at this distance, he could see her captain, Torbjorn, standing resolute at the helm. Torbjorn raised his arm, signaling that they were still holding. Ingvar nodded in return, though unease gnawed at him. Drakkar had taken the brunt of the storm's fury, her hull hastily patched, her rudder creaking with every turn. She was limping, and it was only a matter of time before she fell behind.
The wind howled, tearing at Ingvar's hair and biting at his face, but he remained still, his mind a storm of calculations. Each decision branched into dozens of possibilities, each one carrying its own risks and rewards. Every wave they crossed, every breath of wind they captured brought them closer to safety—but only if all three ships held.
Eirik approached from the bow, his face pale but determined. The young guard's voice carried a note of cautious optimism. "The gap's widening, Captain. We're pulling ahead."
Ingvar's jaw tightened, his eyes flicking back to Drakkar. "For now," he said, his voice low. "But we're only as fast as our slowest ship."
As if summoned by his words, a cry rang out from the stern. "Captain!—she's faltering!"
Ingvar's head snapped around. Drakkar, once steady in her course, had veered sharply to port. Her movements were jerky, her stern dragging in the water like a wounded beast. Ingvar's gut twisted. He knew the signs all too well: her rudder had given out. Without it, she couldn't steer. She was a crippled vessel, at the mercy of the sea.
"Damn it," Ingvar hissed through gritted teeth. "Bring us alongside her! Now!"
Bloodcrow shifted course, her crew moving with practiced precision to bring her alongside the failing ship. Raven's Cry mirrored the maneuver, her captain understanding the unspoken command. As they drew closer, the damage became evident. Drakkar's rudder hung limp, splintered and useless, her crew scrambling in vain to regain control.
Ingvar cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted to Torbjorn. "Can it be fixed?"
Torbjorn's voice came back, heavy with grim resignation. "Not without dry land! She needs to be hauled ashore!"
Ingvar swore under his breath, his mind racing. Bringing her to shore was impossible. They didn't have the time—not with the enemy closing in. He looked at the other two ships, his jaw tightening as the weight of the decision settled on his shoulders.
"Prepare to transfer the cargo!" he barked. "Everything and everyone! We'll split it between Bloodcrow and Raven's Cry!"
The decks erupted into action, the cold air filled with shouted orders and the thud of boots on wood. Planks were hastily laid between the ships, creating precarious bridges for the transfer of supplies. Barrels of water and crates of food were passed hand to hand, each man moving with the urgency of one who knew his life depended on it.
Below deck, the captives felt the ship lurch as more weight was added. The air was thick with the scent of salt and damp wood, the dim light filtering through the hull slats casting long, jagged shadows. The captives whispered among themselves, their voices low and urgent.
"They're abandoning it," one man muttered, his tone edged with fear. "What happens to us if they can't outrun the others?"
"We'll die," another replied flatly. "Whether it's here or there, it doesn't matter."
The boy sat against the wall, his dark eyes fixed on the flickering light. He didn't join the whispers. He didn't need to. Their pathetic speculations only deepened the storm that churned inside him.
Let them come, he thought bitterly. Let them kill every last one of these bastards. Let them burn this ship to ash.
But even as rage filled him, a part of his mind remained detached and calculating. He noted the movements of the guards, the way they directed the captives, the efficiency with which they secured the supplies. Every detail was a thread in the web he was spinning, a potential strand to pull when the time was right.
Above deck, Ingvar watched the last of the captives being transferred, his voice carrying over the din. "Move faster! We're running out of time!"
Eirik approached again, his face pale but steady. "The supplies are nearly transferred, Captain. The men are working as fast as they can."
"Good," Ingvar replied, though his gaze remained fixed on the horizon. The enemy ships were closer now, their dark silhouettes unmistakable against the pale gray of the sea. The lead ship's oars moved in perfect unison, their pace unrelenting. Ingvar's jaw tightened.
"We're outnumbered," Eirik said quietly. His voice was steady, but the weight of the words hung between them.
Ingvar didn't look at him. "Then we'll outthink them."
As the last of the supplies were loaded, Ingvar gave the order. "Cut her loose."
Drakkar, now stripped of her crew and cargo, drifted slowly away, her once-proud silhouette a ghost of what it had been. Ingvar watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned back to his men.
"Man your stations!" he shouted. "Every oar, every sail—move!"
Bloodcrow and Raven's Cry surged forward, their crews working in perfect unison. Below deck, the oarsmen rowed with the strength of desperation, their muscles straining with every pull. Above, the sailors adjusted the sails, coaxing every ounce of speed from the wind.
Meanwhile, Sigvard crouched behind a crate, loathing the fear that twisted in his gut like a coiled snake, tightening with every passing moment. The chaos above deck—the shouting, the rushing footsteps, the relentless urgency of survival—was a cacophony that frayed his already brittle nerves. He wasn't made for this kind of uncertainty, this teetering balance between life and death. The storm had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and now the looming threat of the Rus pressing closer made his hands tremble at his sides. He despised the feeling, the weakness it exposed in him. His gaze flicked to the captain barking orders with unflinching command, and jealousy burned hot in his chest. Ingvar never faltered, never showed fear. Sigvard clenched his teeth. He needed something—someone—to remind him that he wasn't the lowest creature on this cursed ship. As the crew scrambled to secure the ship's escape, Sigvard slipped away unnoticed, his boots thudding softly on the planks as he descended into the hold. Down there, among the captives, he could find what he needed. They were lesser beings, chained and powerless, their broken spirits his to shatter further. The thought of their fear, their pleading eyes, brought a bitter satisfaction that made his spine straighten. In their misery, he could forget his own..