Brynhild Eiríksdóttir (BRUHN-hilt AY-riks-doh-tir) grinned as her blade bit deep into metal and marrow alike, ripping through the Draugr's throat. The iron soldier's head toppled, glowing eyes flickering out as it crashed into the mud at her feet.
"Next!" she roared, boot kicking the corpse back into the smoke.
The barricade rattled as more of them pressed forward—machines with mock-human shapes, armored carapaces black as char, bearing the seal of Tyrakos. Their jaws grated like teeth grinding together, helm-speakers coughing static-laced commands that sent chills across her spine.
The mountain pass boiled with screams, gunfire, and the metallic clang of steel on steel. Smoke rose from burning wagons, from shattered rifles sparking in the muck. Obsidian Dawn armbands marked the ragged fighters manning the barricade—men and women shoulder to shoulder, blades raised against the advancing tide.
Above the din, a captain's voice bellowed:
"Hold the pass or the civilians die!"
Brynhild risked a glance over her shoulder. Refugees clogged the canyon—long lines of gaunt-faced miners from Eisenreich, their wives, their children. Medics guided stretchers through the dust; grandmothers clutched small bags of bread and roots, eyes wide with terror. Kids hid behind carts, some crying, some too shocked to cry at all.
This wasn't a battlefield. It was a slaughter waiting to happen.
A Draugr staggered forward, its chest sparking where a bolt had half-shattered it. As it fell, its speaker rasped in a metallic bark:
"Directive Seven: Resource Consolidation. Unregistered humans will be processed or reclaimed."
"Processed," Brynhild spat, driving her sword through its chest and twisting until the words cut out. "Over my dead tits."
Beside her, a woman fought like the storm itself.
Freydís Hrafnsdóttir (FRAY-dees HRAHPNS-doh-teer), swung her battle-axe in savage arcs. Every stroke was clean, razor-precise, as if she'd been born for this pass, for this blood. Her braid whipped in the wind.
Brynhild, of course, noticed something else entirely.
Her eyes flicked to the curve of the shieldmaiden's back as she swung her axe—gods, if I survive this, I'm buying her a drink.
A Draugr lunged for her blind side. Brynhild whirled, split its chest wide open, and shoved it into the dirt. "Later, tin man."
Freydís didn't miss a beat. "Eyes up, Bryn!"
Brynhild grinned through blood and grit. "They are."
At the barricade's center, Styrkar Magnússon—broad-shouldered, hammer in hand—pointed down the slope.
"That column is Block C-Seventeen. If the line breaks, they're gone!"
Brynhild followed his gesture: a cart creaked sideways under its load of children and coal sacks. Wheels snapped. The wagon tipped, spilling screaming kids into the mud.
Draugr surged toward them.
"Fuck no!" Brynhild sprinted, ducking shrapnel as a grenade clanged nearby. She barreled through smoke, blade-first, and slammed into the machine bearing down on the children. Her sword carved sparks across its helm, splitting the steel in half just as its claws reached for the smallest boy.
"Run, pup!" she barked, kicking the machine away. Blood streaked her cheek, though she didn't know if it was hers.
Behind her, the column lurched forward again, dragging itself uphill.
But the Draugr did not stop.
Suddenly, the tide of machines halted in unison. Every iron head turned at the same angle, as if listening to some invisible command. Their weapons rose, clicking into identical stances.
Their speakers chorused in a single voice:
"Anomaly detected. Terminate the spearhead."
Brynhild froze. The words weren't just orders. They were focused. Directed. At her.
For a heartbeat, she swore she could feel it—a mind vast as the mountains, cold as the void, watching her through every iron eye. Tyrakos wasn't just sending his hounds. He was thinking through them.
And he had just noticed her.
Her grip tightened. "Come and try, you bastard."
The next push came hard. Draugr slammed into the choke point, shields locking, claws grasping. Freydís and Brynhild stood shoulder to shoulder, cutting down anything that breached. Steel rang; sparks lit the smoke like fireflies.
A child screamed again. Brynhild turned her head just long enough to see a heavy Draugr, massive and iron-armed, tearing through the barricade like paper. It lunged, clamp-limbs reaching—
"Brynhild, move!"
Freydís shoved her aside.
The claws clamped down on her instead.
Brynhild screamed, diving back, but too late. The heavy Draugr lifted Freydís into the air. She hacked once, twice, blade biting sparks—but the grip crushed. Bone cracked, armor splintered. Her cry was cut short as the machine ripped her in half.
Blood spattered Brynhild's face.
She staggered, breath ragged, staring at the ruin of the woman who had just saved her life. Rage, grief, shock—they tangled in her gut. She swallowed them the only way she knew how.
"You couldn't let me take that one?" she snarled at the corpse. "She had a perfect ass."
Her laugh cracked into a sob. She bent, grabbed the raven charm still dangling from the shredded pauldron, and stuffed it into her belt.
"Brynhild!"
Styrkar's voice snapped her back. His hammer swung, pulping a Draugr skull into paste.
"Left flank! Vidar, smoke the ridge! Move C-Seventeen now!"
Obsidian Dawn surged forward at his command. Arrows whistled overhead. Smoke bombs burst on the ridge, cloaking the pass in rolling clouds.
Brynhild roared, charging into the flank, blade hacking with new fury. Every kill was Freydís's vengeance. She carved through three, four, five machines, blood and sparks mixing across her armor.
Behind her, the column lurched forward at last, slipping past the barricade toward safety. Children were pulled back onto carts, medics rushing them uphill. Hope kindled in the smoke.
For a moment, just a moment, Brynhild dared to believe they might hold.
Then the fire shifted.
From the blaze at the ridge, something moved.
A Draugr—taller than the rest, plated in charred steel—stepped through the smoke. Its carapace glowed with strange etchings. Runes. Old symbols, lines of power no machine should ever wear.
The sigils lit one by one, humming with unnatural light. The air itself warped, bending, vibrating.
Brynhild's throat went dry.
"Machines… with magic?"
The Draugr raised its hand. The runes blazed.
Then the blast hit.
Light exploded. The barricade shattered. Bodies lifted like dolls, hurled into the sky. Smoke and steel and bone all tore upward in a single screaming wave.
Brynhild's scream was torn from her lips—
—and then the white swallowed everything.
The light swallowed her scream, and the pass disappeared.