The night sky was clear, and Sylas lay on his back in the snow, gazing up at the faint, twinkling lights above. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, whether they would burn his hand if he could ever touch them. With one hand tucked behind his head, he remained still on the cold ground at a vantage point not far from his camp, staring at the heavens for as long as he could remember. He no longer recalled why he had started doing it, only that it calmed his mind.
It had been a sennight since he left his settlement with the full strength of his warriors. At last, he had resolved to end Jorund once and for all. He had lost too many of his best men already, and from what his scouts had reported, Jorund had come to the same decision, marching out with all his forces. That alone told Sylas that the coming battle would decide who would stand as the true magnar of the true north.
Sylas let out a heavy sigh. The loss of the warriors he had sent to scout the haunted forest weighed on him. If he had not sent them out, if he had simply committed everything to battle moons ago, perhaps they would still be alive. But regret had no place now. The only thing left was vengeance. He would make sure their deaths were repaid in blood, and that their sacrifices would not be in vain.
"Pa!"
The voice cut through his thoughts.
"What is it?" Sylas replied, pushing himself upright and turning toward the sound.
His son, Sigrun, came to a halt a few paces away, breathing heavily. After catching his breath, he said, "The scouts have returned. They've found Jorund's camp."
Sylas rose to his feet at once after hearing the news. "Let's go."
Without another word, he strode back toward the camp, not even glancing at his son. He had spent days searching for Jorund's position, and this news was too important to waste even a moment.
Sigrun watched him go, irritation flickering across his face. His legs still ached from searching for his father's whereabouts, but he swallowed his complaints and followed after his father in silence. He knew how important this battle was for their future.
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"Ivar! We're back!" Haldor shouted, waving as soon as he caught sight of him.
He could not help but feel a surge of pride. Ivar truly treated him like a brother, bringing him along for this fight. For a time there, he had feared he would be left behind with Ulf to guard the settlement and the sea. Thankfully, it had been Hilde who was chosen to stay behind and he had been given the chance to take part in a battle of this scale.
Just seeing the sheer number of warriors in Jorund's and Sylas's camps during their scouting filled him with both dread and anticipation for the coming battle. Still, not once did he consider the possibility of defeat. They had Ivar, blessed by the Old Gods themselves, and that alone was enough for him to believe that they would come out of this fight in triumph.
Ivar watched as Haldor and Asgeir approached him at a brisk pace. He set aside the bowl of soup he had been about to drink and asked, "Well? Have ye done what I asked?"
"Aye! O' course!" Haldor replied proudly. He dropped into a seat across from Ivar, grabbed a bowl of soup that clearly was not meant for him, and took a large gulp. "Ah! That's good! Maera's cookin's gotten better these days, I think."
Ivar shook his head at Haldor's antics before pressing, "I want ye to tell me what happened and how ye did it, Haldor, not just that it's done."
Haldor lifted the bowl for another gulp but paused, sensing the seriousness in Ivar's tone. He set it down, straightened slightly, cleared his throat, and began, "We led Jorund's scouts straight to Sylas's camp. Left a trail for 'em to follow and guided 'em there without bein' seen. I'd say we handled it just fine. Ye can ask Asgeir if ye doubt me." He then went on to explain the finer details of their movements.
When he finished, he picked up the bowl again and drained the rest of the soup in one go.
Ivar turned his gaze to Asgeir, silently asking for confirmation.
Asgeir met his look and nodded. "Aye. He's tellin' the truth. I was there the whole time."
"See?" Haldor added, wiping the soup from his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned.
Ivar simply shook his head, his thoughts already drifting back to his plan. If Jorund's and Sylas's scouts discovered each other's camps, it would force both sides to act quickly and bring the battle forward sooner than either had intended. That was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to end this farce as soon as possible and focus on strengthening his warriors for a few years before making his move again.
The plan he had arranged with the crows was simple. They would wait for Sylas and Jorund to clash and wear each other down before striking from behind. Ivar and his men would target Jorund's warriors, while the crows would deal with Sylas's. He had insisted on that division deliberately.
Fortunately, he had managed to convince the crows to agree, though not without compromise. He had accepted their condition to station more than a hundred of their brothers near his position, ready to act if he and his men could not handle what remained of Jorund's forces. After all, he had fewer men than them and the crows were not sure if he could actually take on Jorund's forces after the clash with Sylas. So the compromise.
Jorund was his to end. Ivar wanted his warriors to see it clearly, that he intended to finish the man with his own two hands. It would not only strengthen their morale but also solidify his name and prestige among them.
But the plan had stalled. For days, both Jorund and Sylas had been searching blindly, their scouts roaming without finding one another. So Ivar had taken matters into his own hands, sending Haldor and Torren to guide each side's scouts towards the other's camp.
Now, it seemed that his gamble had paid off. All that remained was to wait for the battle he had been anticipating for so long.
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Torren gripped the handle of his axe tightly as he watched Jorund's and Sylas's warriors facing one another, each side bracing for the battle of their lives. The sight of thousands gathered below sent a shiver down his spine, not from fear, of course, but from sheer anticipation. Soon, after both sides had torn into each other, it would be his turn. Today, he vowed to kill more men than Ivar, and he was ready to lead the charge the moment the signal was given.
Beside him, Eirik was sweating despite the cold. Torren noticed and gave his shoulder a firm pat. "Don't worry. Stay by me, and ye'll be fine."
Eirik frowned at him. "Who said I need ye to stay safe? I'll fight my own battles."
Torren only shook his head and returned his gaze to the warriors below, who still had yet to clash. He could not help but curse Jorund and Sylas in his thoughts for dragging things out.
Not far from them, about a hundred meters away, Haldor and Asgeir crouched along a low rise. They watched as the two forces continued to circle and provoke each other, neither willing to make the first move. Haldor could feel the sweat gathering on his palms and feet no matter how often he wiped them on his furs. He worried his axe might slip when the fighting began, and the thought unsettled him. The sight of so many warriors made the hairs on his skin stand on end, and he could not tell any longer whether it was from fear or excitement that stirred in him.
Asgeir noticed Haldor wiping his hands yet again and leaned closer, speaking under his breath. "Yer scared, Haldor. Sweatin' like that… I didn't know ye were a frightened horse."
"Who are ye callin' scared?" Haldor snapped, swatting the back of Asgeir's head. "It's just hot today, that's all. Don't know why."
Asgeir only smirked and said nothing more. He was too focused on the battle ahead, eager to prove himself as a warrior worthy of Ivar's notice.
Farther off, among the trees at the edge of the rise where Torren and Haldor lay hidden, Ivar stood motionless. He kept close to the trunks, his eyes fixed on the two forces about two leagues away from him that still refused to engage. He had already cleared the surrounding forest and was confident no scouts would discover them. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his fingers tightening slightly.
He was eager for the battle to begin, but he forced that excitement down and waited. Both sides were still testing one another, each waiting to see who would make the first move. Everything was already laid out before him, now all he had to do was wait a little longer for the clash to begin.
In another tree not far from him stood Alfyn. Ivar had merged their forces together, including Arvid's, so they would charge as one the moment he gave the signal. Alfyn's hand twitched restlessly on his weapon, his impatience plain as he muttered just loud enough for Ivar to hear, "Why are they still not fightin', Ivar? D' ye think they ever will? What are they waitin' fer?"
Ivar chuckled softly at Alfyn's impatience. "We've been waitin' fer this fer years, Alfyn. What's a little longer? Calm yerself and wait fer my signal. It won't be long now."
Alfyn let out a breath and nodded, but after a moment, he spoke again. "Are ye sure the crows will hold to their end, Ivar? I can't help but think they might turn on us too, finish us off along with Jorund and Sylas."
Ivar shifted his gaze toward him. "Nay. They'll keep their word and make sure Sylas and his men are dealt with. I've seen their numbers, they're not enough to take on all of us at once, even after Jorund and Sylas bleed each other dry. Ye've no need to worry."
He had already counted the crows' strength beforehand, close to a thousand, perhaps eight hundred at least. It was a formidable force on this side of the wall, sure, but not enough to face Jorund, Sylas, and his own warriors together, even in their weakened state. And once his part was done, he would ensure his men kept their distance. The crows might be allies now, but there was no telling what would follow after the battle. He had already taken his precautions and he had made sure that the more than a hundred crows behind them could not move from their position.
"That's a relief then," Alfyn said, nodding. "Make sure we gather our spoils after this. I've half a mind to taste bread again after so long."
"Ye'll get yer fill," Ivar replied, his attention already returning to the battlefield below.
The tension between the two forces was finally breaking. Their shouts grew louder, insults turning into snarls as they edged closer and closer. Then, just as the gap between them shrank to less than fifty meters, Jorund's men surged forward, charging hard to build momentum.
Sylas had been ready. His warriors rushed to meet them almost at once.
Moments later, the two sides collided, and the valley erupted into bloodshed.
From his vantage point among the trees, Ivar watched the battle unfold with a steady, calculating gaze.
At first, the clash between both sides was even. Steel rang against steel, axes bit into swords, and the snow beneath their feet was quickly churned into mud and blood. Neither side gave ground easily. Jorund's warriors met Sylas's charge head-on, and for a time, the two lines held firm, pushing and straining against one another like two beasts locked in a test of strength. Men fell on both sides, some cut down where they stood, others dragged away some warriors they managed to hold onto or trampled those they could as the press tightened.
Ivar narrowed his eyes, studying the flow of the fight. There was no clear advantage yet, but he could already see the difference in discipline and skills. Sylas's line held together tighter, their movements more coordinated, while Jorund's men fought with brute ferocity, breaking formation more often than they should.
It did not take long for that difference to show.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, Sylas's warriors began to gain ground. A step forward here, another there. Then another. Their line pressed harder, driving into Jorund's formation with growing force. The clash grew louder, more desperate, as Jorund's men were forced back, their footing faltering on the blood-slick snow.
Ivar could see it clearly now, the shift in momentum of the fight before him.
Sylas had the advantage while Jorund had the disadvantage.
A shout rose from Sylas's side, and their warriors surged as one. The line bent, then buckled. A gap opened in Jorund's ranks, small at first, but it widened quickly as more men were forced back or cut down trying to hold it.
Then, after a few more minutes, Jorund's line finally broke.
What had once been a solid front dissolved into chaos. Some of Jorund's warriors still fought stubbornly, refusing to yield even as the line at the front collapsed, but that single break proved decisive. Sylas's warriors surged into the gap, cutting through everything in their path with near-berserk ferocity. Men were gutted, beheaded, and stabbed where they stood, their bodies falling one after another in the snow.
The sight alone was enough to shake the rest of Jorund's forces. Hesitation spread through their ranks, and fear followed quickly behind it. Many began to falter, unwilling to step forward, knowing they might be next to fall beneath Sylas's blades.
As Sylas's warriors drove deeper, they split Jorund's formation in two, left and right, while they themselves stood firmly in the center. That was the breaking point. Whatever resolve Jorund's men had left shattered, and the retreat began.
Ivar watched as Jorund shouted desperately, trying to rally his warriors, but it was too late. His voice was drowned out by the chaos. One by one, then in greater numbers, his men turned and fled. Soon, nearly everyone not locked in the front ranks was retreating.
Jorund's face burned red with fury and humiliation as defeat loomed before him. At last, he had no choice. Casting one final, hateful glance at Sylas's warriors, he ordered the horn of retreat to be sounded.
Then he ran.
What began as a slightly organized withdrawal quickly turned into a rout. His warriors abandoned all discipline, fleeing in panic, shoving and trampling one after another in their desperation to escape first.
And Jorund could only watch as it all unfolded before him while running for his life alongside the remnants of his men.
Ivar's lips curled faintly as he observed the rout. Finally, the moment to move had come. He immediately sent runners to alert his forces to be ready. Jorund and his fleeing warriors were heading straight toward them, just as he had planned. One thing Ivar had come to appreciate about fighting on this side of the wall was the lack of caution. Once battle was about to begin, warbands rarely bothered with scouts or vigilance beyond the immediate fight. That carelessness had allowed him to prepare this trap.
It did not take long for the first of Jorund's men to reach the outer edge of the forest. Fifty paces in and the ground gave way beneath them.
"Agh!"
"Ugh!"
Groans and cries echoed through the trees as men fell into concealed pits lined with sharpened stakes. Moments later, more followed, the chaos compounding as those behind pushed forward blindly.
Confused shouts rose from outside the forest as the fleeing warriors tried to make sense of what was happening in front of them. But with Sylas's forces pressing hard behind them, they had little choice but to keep moving. One after another, they plunged into the trees, and into the trap.
Soon, Jorund himself arrived at the forest's edge with his remaining loyal warriors. Without hesitation, and without even pausing to understand the danger ahead, they rushed straight into the woods.
That was exactly what Ivar had been waiting for. He immediately signaled the man beside him to sound the horn of attack, and before long, his warriors, positioned on both sides of the mountain flanking the forest, began their descent.
Ivar surged forward without hesitation, his gaze locked onto Jorund's confused expression.
At the same time, he heard the distant horn of the crows echo across the battlefield, easing any concern that Sylas's warriors might reach them.
It did not take him long to reach the traps. He leapt over them in a single motion, and the moment he landed on the other side, his sword came down with him, cleaving his first victim into two. He did not pause or pose like an anime hero, he moved at once to the next man and beheaded him with effortless precision. Then he pressed on, cutting through another and another as he carved a path toward Jorund, who seemed to be recovering from his shock.
Jorund could not comprehend where these warriors had come from or why they were attacking him. They could not be Sylas's men, of that he was certain, but there was no time to think. He immediately veered to the side with his closest warriors, hoping to find an escape route.
But what he found instead was dread.
More enemies were descending from the mountainside, cutting down his fleeing men. With no other choice, he turned and ran in the opposite direction. Yet after only a few hundred meters, he was met with the same sight, warriors closing in from the slopes, blocking his path.
Only then did he realize that he was thoroughly fucked.
Fear tightened its grip on him, but he forced it down and turned to his warriors. "What are ye doin'? We have to attack and force our way through, or we're dead! Fight!"
His men hesitated, their courage shaken by earlier defeat against Sylas and this sudden ambush.
Seeing their expressions, Jorund cursed under his breath. "Fuck!" He raised his sword high and shouted to all who could hear him. "To me! To me! We force our way through! Don't let fear take ye! To me! Fight!"
His cry stirred his men, though only slightly, and a flicker of resolve returned to their eyes. Seeing it, a spark of hope rose within him. Without hesitation, he charged toward the warriors descending from the mountainside, intending for his men to follow him, and to his relief, they did.
As they rushed forward, he subtly slowed his pace, allowing his warriors to surge past him and take the brunt of the clash. Even as he held back, his eyes searched for any gap he could exploit on his enemies formation, already planning his escape.
Moments later, the sharp clash of steel rang out, accompanied by cries of pain, as his men collided with their enemy.
Torren could not help but thank his luck. The moment he descended from the mountainside with his warriors, he saw Jorund shouting, urging his men to fight. This was the moment he had been waiting for all his life. Truth be told, he had not expected to face Jorund in this battle, he knew Ivar was intent on claiming that prize. But fate, or perhaps the Old Gods, had granted him this chance.
He could still remember the pain of the arrow that had struck him years ago. The humiliation of being carried by Ivar just to survive Jorund's pursuit with his Elk. The shame of fleeing instead of fighting. From that day on, he had pushed himself to master his axe, all for the sake of revenge.
Without hesitation, he quickened his pace, surging ahead of his men as he set his sights on Jorund. Yet he cursed under his breath a moment later when he saw the man slow his run, letting his warriors push past him. Snowfox indeed, he thought bitterly.
Torren did not slow. Instead, he drove forward, determined to carve a bloody path through the enemy ranks and take Jorund's head himself. After another fifty meters, he claimed his first kill, cutting the man down effortlessly as his axe bit deep into the man's shoulder and split through to his chest.
It took him a moment to wrench the weapon free, the blade lodged stubbornly between the man's ribs. Once he pulled it loose, he swept his gaze across the battlefield, searching for Jorund. The man had somehow vanished. Torren cursed under his breath as he felled another enemy. He kept scanning, hoping to catch a sight of him, but no matter how hard he looked, Jorund was nowhere to be found. In the end, he could only refocus on what he could do, kill as many as possible. They were still outnumbered, and every enemy he brought down tipped the balance further in their favor.
Ivar, meanwhile, had long since lost count of how many he had cut down. It had to be in the hundreds by now. In his wake trailed a grisly path, a road of death littered with the bodies of those who had tried and failed to stop him. He had not pursued Jorund when the man veered sideways, choosing instead to cut through as many enemies as he could to even the odds. Still, his eyes had never truly left Jorund.
Jorund was slipping through a gap in Torren's line, moving with a handful of his most trusted warriors. Ivar would have been a fool to let him escape. After a quick sweep of the battlefield, ensuring he had done enough damage for his men to handle the rest, Ivar broke into a run, heading straight for Jorund.
Along the way, he cut down any enemies who tried to stop him or stood in his path. After a time, as he drew near to Jorund, he paused briefly to catch his breath before shouting, "Jorund! Don't ye dare sneak away from me! Come and fight me!"
The clash around them faltered at his voice, just as he had intended. Heads turned toward him, then followed his gaze until they found Jorund. That, too, was his aim, to make them all witness it. He wanted them to see how their great magnar would fall beneath his blade, and for his own men to witness his glory.
Realizing he had been exposed, Jorund had no choice but to turn and face the red-haired brat who had called him out. His eyes narrowed as he asked, "Who are ye?"
Ivar grinned. "I'm the one who will kill ye."
"Ha!" Jorund snarled, anger flaring at the brat's arrogance. He turned to his close warriors and barked, "What are ye lot waitin' for? Kill this brat fer me!"
But before his men could even react, Ivar was already closing the distance. He reached the first of them and beheaded him in a single, fluid strike. He evaded the second man's attack and drove his blade straight into the man's heart. The rest of Jorund's warriors faltered, fear overtaking them as they tried to flee, but Ivar was faster. One by one, he cut them down without effort.
Jorund's legs trembled. He could not comprehend how a mere boy could slaughter his men so quickly and so effortlessly, without giving them even a chance to strike back. He wanted to run, but his body refused to obey. Instead, he tried to speak, to reason with the boy, but his voice shook as badly as his limbs. "Ye… don't..."
Ivar closed the final distance in an instant. Before Jorund could finish his plea, Ivar's blade flashed, and with a single stroke, he severed the man's head from his body.
Ivar exhaled slowly as he watched Jorund's head and body fall to the ground.
That moment became the turning point. As Jorund's body hit the snow, the rest of his men who saw the fight began dropping their weapons one by one, their will to fight shattered as they begged for mercy, while Ivar's warriors erupted into cheers, shouting his name.
"Yeh!"
"Ivar!"
"Yeh!"
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A/N: Please don't forget to rate and review the story after reading. And if you want to read ahead. You know where to look.