The wind howled, a savage force ripping through the night, its voice raw and unrelenting like the wail of a wounded god, tugging at Captain Ingvar's cloak as he stood resolute at the helm. His sharp eyes scanned the horizon, every line of his face etched with focus. Raven's Cry held steady in formation behind them, her oars rising and falling in disciplined unison. But the enemy was closing in, their dark sails swelling with the same wind that carried Ingvar's ships forward.
"Shields to the rails!" he barked, his voice slicing through the cacophony of crashing waves and creaking timbers. "Archers, stand ready! Oarsmen, keep the rhythm tight—we'll need every stroke!"
The crew responded instantly, moving with the practiced precision of men hardened by sea and battle. Shieldmen scrambled to the ship's edges, forming a protective line, their rough-hewn wooden shields braced for the storm to come. Archers crouched behind them, their bows already strung, shafts clutched tightly in calloused hands. Below deck, the oarsmen pulled against the relentless drag of the sea, their muscles straining with every stroke.
From the enemy's lead ship came the low, guttural bellow of a war horn, the sound reverberated over the waves like the ominous toll of a distant funeral bell, each note a harbinger of death. Ingvar's stomach tightened, but he didn't flinch. Fear had no place here.
They're baiting us. Let them. I'll lead them straight to their doom.
The first volley of arrows arced high into the air, their dark silhouettes spreading across the sky like a murder of crows erupting from the canopy, blotting out the faint light of the overcast sun. For a moment, they seemed to hover, a menacing cloud poised to strike, before plunging earthward in a deadly, hissing storm.
"Shields!" Ingvar roared.
The crash of impact was deafening. Arrows slammed into the wooden shields with a force that rattled the bones of the men holding them. Splinters flew in all directions, some embedding themselves in the faces and arms of those too slow to duck. One shieldman stumbled back, his shield vibrating in his grip as an arrowhead punched through the wood, stopping mere inches from his face. He stared at it, breathless and wide-eyed, before snarling and throwing his weight back into position.
Another man wasn't so lucky. A shaft found the narrow gap between his shield and arm, burying itself deep in his shoulder. His scream cut through the air as he fell, clutching at the shaft with bloodied hands.
The second volley came before the first had even finished falling. This time, the arrows were faster, harder to track. Another shieldman was struck high in the chest, the force of the impact sending him stumbling backward over the rail. He vanished into the frothing waves with a single, strangled cry, the icy sea swallowing him whole.
Ingvar ducked instinctively as an arrow shattered against the helm beside him, the splintering wood spraying his cheek with stinging shards. He wiped at the blood with a quick, dismissive motion, his eyes scanning the deck.
"Return fire!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Archers—find their decklines! Make it count!"
The archers rose, their movements swift and disciplined. A volley of their own arced into the air, the shafts slicing through the wind with deadly precision. Ingvar watched as several arrows struck true. On the lead enemy ship, an archer crumpled forward, clutching at the shaft embedded in his chest. Another toppled backward with an arrow buried deep in his eye socket, his body tumbling into the sea.
But the Rus' pressed on. Their oars drove them forward with relentless power, their war cries carrying over the waves. The next volley from the enemy rained down like hail, arrows slamming into shields, sails, and flesh. One struck an archer in the thigh, piercing through to the bone. He fell with a cry, his bow slipping from his grasp as blood poured from the wound.
They have the numbers. They'll trade bodies until there's no one left on my deck to fight.
Ingvar's thoughts churned with the cold logic of survival. For every Rus' archer they felled, two more seemed to rise in his place. This was not a battle they could win by sheer strength—it would take cunning, precision, and risk.
His gaze shifted to the horizon, searching for an answer. The sea was vast and unyielding, offering little solace. But there—far to the south—he saw it: a cluster of jagged rocks jutting from the waves like the teeth of some great beast.
That's it. Dangerous, but not impossible. If I time this perfectly…
"Helmsman!" Ingvar shouted, his voice carrying over the din. "Bring us south—toward the rocks! Quickly!"
The helmsman's eyes widened, but he obeyed without question, angling the ship toward the treacherous outcroppings. Ingvar raised his arm, signaling to Raven's Cry.
"Trust me!" he called out to their captain. "Follow our lead!"
The Rus' ships adjusted their course almost instantly, their captains quick to mimic the maneuver. The war horns sounded again, a low, menacing rumble.
As the jagged rocks loomed closer, the sea grew treacherous, the waves breaking against hidden shoals and swirling eddies. Ingvar's jaw tightened as he guided the vessel forward.
"Hold steady!" he commanded, his voice like steel. "Oarsmen, give me everything you've got!"
The ship surged forward, the hull groaning under the strain as the waves battered against her sides. Ingvar's eyes darted between the rocks, his mind calculating distances, angles, and speeds with ruthless precision.
"Hard to starboard!" he shouted. "Oarsmen—pull!"
Bloodcrow veered sharply, slipping through a narrow gap between the rocks. The timbers groaned as the ship scraped against stone, but she held. Behind them, Raven's Cry mirrored the maneuver, her crew following Ingvar's lead with practiced skill.
The Rus' ships were not so fortunate. The lead ship, moving too fast to adjust, slammed into the rocks with a deafening crunch. The impact splintered its hull, sending men tumbling into the sea as the ship ground to a halt. Shouts of panic and confusion rose from its crew as they scrambled to keep the ship from breaking apart.
The second Rus' ship slowed, its captain wary of the treacherous waters.
Ingvar allowed himself a grim smile as Bloodcrow and Raven's Cry emerged from the rocky passage unscathed, the open sea stretching out before them. For the moment, they were out of arrow range, their pursuers delayed by the very terrain Ingvar had used to his advantage.
"Don't let up!" he called to his men, his voice sharp with command. "We've bought time, not safety. Every man to his station—we'll need every ounce of speed!"
The crew responded with renewed determination, their movements swift despite the ache in their limbs.
Ingvar cast one last glance at the rocky passage. The enemy would regroup, and they would come again. But for now, his men had a chance.
And Ingvar intended to make the most of it.
He stood at the helm, his sharp eyes scanning the deck with the same precision he used to gauge the sea's treachery. Every man was a cog in the ship's fragile machinery, and one misplaced piece could bring the whole structure crashing down. He couldn't allow that—not now, not with the enemy so close.
The oarsmen below deck were reaching their limits, sweat dripping from their brows as they pulled in rhythmic unison. Above deck, the sailors moved frantically to adjust the sails and secure the rigging, their movements swift but uneven. The chaos of survival had a way of exposing weaknesses, and Ingvar's sharp gaze caught them all.
Hroald, a hulking man with hands like iron, was stationed near the mast, helping to repair the rigging. A waste of his strength. Ingvar's jaw tightened. He needed every man in his most effective position.
"Hroald!" Ingvar barked. "To the oars—you'll push us faster."
Hroald nodded, wiping sweat from his brow before heading below. Ingvar's gaze shifted to a wiry oarsman straining at his bench. "Leif!" he called. "Take Hroald's place at the mast. Those ropes won't repair themselves."
Leif looked up, his face pale and slick with sweat, but he nodded without hesitation. He handed off his oar to Hroald, who was already stepping into position, and scrambled topside, his wiry frame better suited to the delicate work than Hroald's broad-shouldered bulk.
Ingvar watched as the changes took effect, the rhythm of the crew smoothing out almost instantly. But even as he worked to tighten the ship's efficiency, his eyes caught on Sigvard, leaning lazily against a crate near the center mast. Arms folded and a scowl etched on his face, Sigvard radiated indifference, a stain on an otherwise disciplined crew.
Ingvar's lip curled in frustration. Sigvard had proven himself useless at nearly every task Ingvar had assigned him—oarsman, deckhand, even the rigging crew. The man was a liability. The only role he performed with any competence was overseeing the captives below deck, and even then, his methods were cruel enough to make Ingvar's teeth clench.
Damn him, Ingvar thought bitterly. He's a loose plank on a storm-tossed ship. But even a loose plank has its use.
He considered his options. Asgrim, currently overseeing the prisoners, was far more valuable on deck. But placing Sigvard below again felt like throwing a snake into a den of rats. Still, the choice was clear—he needed Asgrim topside.
"Sigvard!" Ingvar snapped, his voice cutting through the noise of the crew.
Sigvard straightened slowly, his expression flickering with a mix of irritation and feigned obedience as he trudged toward the helm.
"Yes, Captain?" he said, his tone bordering on insolence.
"You'll relieve Asgrim in the hold," Ingvar said coldly. "Send him topside to assist with sail repairs. You will take his place and guard the prisoners." He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper. "But hear me, Sigvard. If I hear so much as one dead prisoner, or a single whisper of unrest below, I'll make you regret the day you ever set foot on my ship. Mutiny below and war above are a weight I won't bear. Do you understand me?"
Sigvard's jaw tightened, his lips curling into something between a sneer and a grimace. "Aye, Captain," he muttered. "I understand."
Ingvar's gaze bore into him, unyielding and sharp as a blade. After a tense moment, he waved Sigvard off with a curt motion. "Go. Don't make me regret this."
Sigvard turned and stalked toward the hatch leading below deck. His steps were slow, deliberate, his head low. But as he descended, a smile crept across his face—a sinister twist that curled his lips.
Back where I belong, he thought, his mind already swirling with dark possibilities. Let's see if the rats remember their master.
He chuckled softly under his breath as he disappeared into the dim, shadowed depths of the hold.