The Last Ice Hunter

[lum]

It was early summer, the sun hung high in the sky but its light was pale and its rays felt rather cool. There was a silvery glow to its reflection on the fairly calm surface of the bay. The air he inhaled was crisp, and carried the mingled scents of salt, fish, and the faint sweetness of blooming tundra flowers. Crouching on the pebbled beach, his calloused hands worked with quiet efficiency, their movements as steady and rhythmic as the tide.

Leif Heimvar then hefted the heavy net onto the shore, his boots -made of calf and cattle skin- sinking slightly into the damp gravel. The haul was good, very good actually. Silver-scaled cod writhed within the coarse mesh, their flanks glinting in the light. A young little boy ran forward, laughing as he pointed at the fish. Leif grinned and raised his arm to greet the small lad.

“Big as my arm, uncle!” The child exclaimed, his voice ringing clear against the soft crash of the tiny waves.

“Bigger than that, Kjel, bigger than that.” Leif said with a soft chuckle, crouching to free the largest fish of them all. “But if you think this is big, wait until the end of the summer. You’ll be hauling ones twice your size cause they’ll be fed like whales. Here, careful now as it’s slippery as soap. Strong too.”

The boy’s eyes widened with excitement as Leif handed him the fish. Kjel struggled under the weight but beamed with pride, toddling back toward the smoking sheds where a few women worked to preserve the catch.

Leif straightened, his gaze drifting across the bay. Icebergs and debris, remnants of an icesheet that lasted here for seven months, faded lazily into the distance, their blue-white forms a stark contrast against the steel-gray sea. Walruses lounged about the ice and headland, their grunts echoing faintly. Beyond them, the mist hung like a curtain, obscuring the horizon.


The tranquility of the scene was broken by the sound of oars cutting through water. Leif’s brow furrowed as he turned. A longship approached from the south, its prow carved in the shape of a serpent. Its sails bore a red-and-black design, what that was unfamiliar to him. Were these the first traders? Already?

One of the elders named Vyrsa approached from behind, her sharp eyes narrowing as she followed his gaze. “Merchants?” Her tone lacked conviction.

“Hrm… perhaps,” Leif replied, though a knot of unease formed in his chest. “But it’s early in the season for trading. And their sails… I just don’t know.”

He trailed off, watching as the ship glided closer. The figures aboard were still indistinct, faces shadowed beneath horned helms.

“Keep the boy near, warn the other men.” He murmured to Vyrsa, his hand unconsciously resting on the hilt of a small handaxe. Something he hadn’t really used as a weapon in years.

The elder nodded and turned away, her weathered hands steady despite the tension.

Their community had been at peace for a few years. But as Leif stood on the beach, watching how the longship cut through that final layer of mist, he couldn’t shake the feeling that said peace was a fragile thing, no more permanent than the summer ice.

[lum]

As the serpent-prowed ship docked, its crew disembarked with deliberate calm. Leather boots crunched against the pebble-strewn shore as the longship's timbers groaned under its own weight.

In spite of the unease curling in his gut, Leif raised his hand to greet them only to be met by a stoic expression of their leader. “Faring well, stranger?” Leif asked.

A dark cloak hung from the leader’s shoulders, the fur lining thick and well-maintained. The man was a subtly menacing figure, and gray eyes sharply locked onto Leif as he cleared his throat. “Not so well. We barely escaped with our lives. Our homes reduced to ash. And we’re seeking shelter.”

Leif arched a brow and nodded once. “Of course, after you’ve spoken with the elders we’ll see what we can do. But may I ask who attacked you and where you’re from?” He inquired while noticing details that didn’t sat right. The leader’s beard was braided with silver and golden clasps, a symbol of wealth or perhaps conquest. The stranger’s weapons were too well-maintained for a refuge, and he seemed less desperate than one would expect after such tragedy. Then again, Northmen were known for their resilience. And appearances could be deceiving.

The leader’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Southward clans.”

Leif’s head tilted curiously. “Welcome. Perhaps in the meantime I could provide you with some small supplies, I’m not asking any in return for those. We can share a meal at my place as well if you like. It has a fire and enough comfort for…” Leif quickly counted about twenty heads. “Well, for most of your men.”

The leader briefly glanced over his shoulder at this men. They were a hard-looking lot, broad-shouldered and scarred, several faces weathered by years at sea. He then offered a single nod. His crew began to unload their own supplies. “We managed to salvage some intact ale. If that’s good enough for ya.”

Leif noticed they carried weapons with casual familiarity, and their eyes held the kind of focus he had seen only in those who fought for a living. He offered a smile and invited their leader to follow. “My house sits right there between the rocks. The barn on the right is at your disposal as well.” He glanced over his shoulder as some of the men began to follow, their expressions as unreadable and as stoic as their leader. “Your men look strong, were they able to fend off the attackers at all?”

The leader sidestepped the question, his speech carrying undertones of warning. “It’s a harsh world. If we can’t stand our own we wouldn’t last long… would we?”

Meanwhile other villagers had arrived from the center of the settlement, clearly with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Some belonged to Leif’s inner circle of friends, and although armed they maintained a non-threatening posture. Among them was Svend, a wiry fisherman with a sharp tongue, and Ingritt, a stout woman with arms like iron from years of hauling nets.

Leif gestured for the leader to follow him and guided him to his hearth. As he fetched some ale from a nearby keg he wondered. “Ashes you said. What fire could consume an entire hold in these damp, cold lands?” It was another attempt to learn if these newcomers hailed from the region as he handed him a stein.

The leader squinted at the ale and accepted. After downing it in a single pull he wiped off his beardy lips with the back of a muscled arm. Once more ignoring Leif’s question he said, “Your village is well-kept. Strong positions between those rocks. Don’t you get many raiders out here?”

“Raiders?” Leif echoed. “Very rare. Orcs sometimes. Or others, from across the ocean. However, for a large part of the year the ice keeps us isolated. We don’t go out that much, and I suppose it lowers the chance for an attack as well. And to what end. It’s not like we have a lot of resources.” Leif said as he observed the man carefully.

“Still. Impressive. If managed wisely.” The stranger remarked.

Leif caught the flicker of something behind the man’s eyes. Calculation perhaps? His own jaw tightened. “We do what we must to survive,” he said evenly.


The fire peacefully crackled between the two men, casting flickering shadows across the walls of Leif’s modest home. Outside, the low murmur of voices from the villagers mingled with the occasional clang of steel as the strangers unloaded supplies. Leif shifted his weight, keenly aware of every sound and movement.

“Your kindness is noted,” the leader finally said, his gray eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward towards the flames, resting his elbows on his knees as he held his hands out. The light from the fire danced across the golden clasps in his beard. “These lands… they breed a certain resilience in its people. It’s rare to find generosity without expectation.”

Leif regarded him steadily. “Generosity isn’t rare here. It's how we’ve endured. And it has become our way of living.”

The leader’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though it never touched his eyes. “Endured?” he echoed, as if tasting the word. “A noble trait. Though some might say it’s only a virtue for those who lack the strength to claim what they need.”

Leif’s fingers tightened around the stein in his hand, though his expression remained neutral. “Strength without honor however can be a dangerous thing. It can leave a man with nothing but… ashes.”

[lum]

The leader chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that filled the small place. “Spoken like a true… what is it they call you people again? Oh right, Ice Hunters.” His tone laced with a hint of mockery. He leaned back, his eyes roaming the room before settling once again on Leif. “Tell me, how long has your village stood? How many winters have you weathered here, hidden between the rocks?”

“Long enough to know that survival isn’t about hiding,” Leif replied evenly. “It’s about knowing when and how to rely on each other. Endurance is one of the most difficult disciplines you see.”

The leader’s smile faded, his expression becoming unreadable. For a moment, the only sound was a single pop of the fire and the distant cry of gulls outside. Then he stood abruptly, the movement so fluid it seemed almost unnatural. “I’ll speak with your elders in the morning,” he said, his tone dismissive. “For now, I’ll see to my men. Just the barn will be fine.”

“Of course,” Leif said, forcing a polite nod. “The barn should have enough space for all of you. If you need anything else, let me know.”

The leader paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame. “What was your name?”

“It’s Leif. Leif Heimvar."

The other man turned slightly, his gray eyes catching the firelight. “I appreciate your hospitality, Leif Heimvar. It’s… rare to find a man so willing to help strangers. Let’s hope it doesn’t go unrewarded.”

With that, the visitor strode out into the light, his cloak billowing behind him. Leif watched him go, his jaw tightening. Something about the man’s words…

...

Leif stepped outside, the chill air biting at his skin. The villagers had gathered in small clusters, their murmurs filling the makeshift port. Svend approached, his thin frame silhouetted against the faint glow of torchlight.

“Odd lot, aren’t they?” Svend said, his voice low. “Never seen men look so well-fed after losing their homes.”

Leif glanced toward the barn, where the strangers were settling in. Their movements were precise -almost military-, as they stacked crates and sharpened weapons. “Keep an eye on them,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And tell the others to be ready for anything.”

Svend frowned. “You think they’re lying?”

“I don’t know,” Leif replied grimly. “Some things aren’t adding up indeed. How long till the Elders arrive?”

Svend scratched the back of his head, his expression slightly uneasy. “Vyrsa sent word as soon as they spotted the ship. They’ll be here by sunrise. Not sure if that’s soon enough, though.” His sharp eyes flicked toward the barn, where the strangers’ shadows moved against the wooden walls like restless spirits.

Leif nodded. “Until then, we’ll keep watch. I’ll be taking the first shift.”

Svend hesitated, then slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got a gut for this sort of thing, Leif. I’ll trust it. I’ll rouse a few of the others, keep ‘em discreet.”

As Svend moved off into the gathering darkness, Leif let his gaze wander over his surroundings. The soft glow of torches illuminated the rocky paths between homes, their warm light flickering in the brisk wind. Beyond the settlement, the bay reflected the pale crescent moon, its waters rippling gently against the shore. It was a scene of peace and stillness, one he had taken for granted far too often.

Leif turned his attention back to his barn. The strangers moved with the same quiet efficiency they’d shown upon disembarking. Two men stood at the entrance, their weapons casually resting against their shoulders, but their eyes were alert, scanning the settlement like wolves sizing up prey. The night air carried faint sounds from within the building: a few low murmurs, the scrape of steel against whetstone, and the occasional grunt of laughter. Such however were not the sounds of men mourning their lost homes.

He sighed. At least he had them all in one place.

A faint crunch of gravel behind him had Leif startled. He turned quickly, only to see Ingritt approaching with her bow slung over one shoulder. Her broad face was set in a grim line. “All fine?” She asked.

“For now. Just sticking to watching. Which they seem to do as well.” He motioned vaguely, offering the guards at the barn a wave. Of course they did not return it.

Ingritt nodded, her keen eyes narrowing as she had followed his gaze to the barn and the guards. “Something’s off about their leader. He reminds me more of a jarl than a refugee.”

“That’s what has been nagging me,” Leif admitted. “They feel too calm, too well prepared. And if the Elders only arrive by tomorrow, I just can’t help shake the feeling that time is working against us.”

“The longer these guys stay, the more dangerous things become?” Ingritt wondered.

Leif sighed. “I don’t know. Yeah, maybe.”

[lum]

The hours of the night dragged on. The barn, with its makeshift quarters for the strangers, loomed against the starlit sky like a brooding sentinel. Leif crouched near the edge of the settlement, perched on a rocky outcrop that overlooked the bay. His breath curled in the frigid air as he scanned the dark horizon. Beneath him the sea stretched out… vast, seemingly abandoned. But it was not empty. Tiny shapes danced on the edge of perception, rippling in the faint moonlight.

Behind him, the village sat in an uneasy hush. Torches flickered here and there, casting shifting shadows as Svend, Ingritt, and a couple of others patrolled the perimeters. The usual sounds of distant waves and crackling embers seemed swallowed by a heavier silence, as though the land itself held its breath for something that was about to come.

Leif shifted his focus to the barn once more. Inside, the strangers continued their quiet occupation. Some fire burned low in a brazier near the entrance, illuminating the sharp edge of weaponry, and briefly there was also the glint of polished leather. One of their sentries—a man with a thick scar cutting across his jaw—leaned over to warm his hands, his stance disciplined yet unrelaxed. It was the posture of someone used to danger, not fleeing from it.

Footsteps approached softly from behind. Leif turned to see Svend, carrying a spear loosely in his right hand. His face looked drawn in the dim light. “I don’t like it, Leif,” he muttered. “They act like they’re expecting something.”

“As should we,” Leif replied. He gestured toward the horizon. “There’s movement out there. Could be seals… could something else.”

Svend frowned, stepping closer to peer in the same direction. “You think they’re being followed?”

Leif exhaled slowly. “It’s quite possible. If their story holds any truth, whoever burned their homes might not be far behind.”


The sharp twang of a bowstring cut through the quiet and had both men startled. Leif’s head snapped toward the sound. Ingritt stood near the southern edge of the settlement, her bow drawn and eyes fixed on the dark expanse beyond the rocks. “Something’s out there,” she hissed, motioning for the others to approach.

Leif and Svend rushed over, their boots crunching against the frost-tipped grass. Ingritt pointed to a cluster of shadows moving just beyond the rock line. The faint glow of torchlight flickered intermittently among the figures, like fireflies in the night.

“Not villagers,” Ingritt said, her voice tight. “Too many. Too organized.”

Leif’s stomach churned. “Wake the rest of the guards, and our visitors.” he ordered. “Like we practiced. We can’t afford to panic the village.”

Svend nodded and darted off, his frame disappearing into the darkness. Leif crouched beside Ingritt, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe. “How many do you see?”

“Hard to tell,” she muttered. “But they’re coming this way.”

As they watched, the shadows grew more distinct. Figures clad in mismatched armor, some carrying torches, others holding the glint of steel. Their movements were too deliberate, too methodical and their numbers too much for a band of raiders that was out for some quick plundering.

Leif’s pulse quickened. “They’re hunting,” he murmured. “And this is their carefully handpicked hunting ground.”

Ingritt shot him a sharp look. “They’re after those strangers?”

Leif nodded grimly. “Think so. Their story was half a truth at best. They may have lost something, but it wasn’t desperation that brought them here. It was…”

A low horn sounded from the direction of the barn, echoing eerily in the still air. The strangers and their leader emerged from the barn’s entrance, cloaks billowing as he barked orders to his men. They moved swiftly, taking positions near the edge of the settlement, ready to assist and defend.

Leif rose to his feet, his axe gleaming in the moonlight. “We got no choice now on which side is the right one,” he said to Ingritt as he glanced at the leader. “There is an enemy here threatening our village. Right now it’s not just their fight. It’s ours as well.”

Ingritt’s face hardened as she drew an arrow from her quiver. “Then we make them earn every step.”

Leif shouted as he turned over towards the arriving warriors, his voice ringing out low but firm. “To arms! Defend your home!”

And it’s then he saw them. Dark shapes entering the bay, cutting through the water with grim purpose. Longships, with unmistakable serpent-prowed silhouettes, gliding toward their shore. Oars rose and fell in swift, rapid unison, the sound of their rhythm faint yet menacing. Pretty much like a heartbeat growing louder and louder.

It seemed they were under attack from two sides.

“Gods preserve us,” Leif muttered under his breath, his knuckles tightening around the haft of his axe.

[lum]

As the longships neared the shore, the invaders over land pressed closer. It was nearly a perfect timing, yet still it was the attack over land that was about to lead to the first clash of steel with steel. Leif’s orders rang out over the rising noise of metal and footsteps. Warriors of his village, hastily armed with axes, spears and bows, formed a makeshift line of defense to protect their home. The southern edge was secured for the moment, but the night air was heavy with the promise of bloodshed. As more men arrived they were ordered to raise a shield wall while archers from behind -even with the few of them- started raining death upon the advancing raiders. It seemed almost too easy to hold them off.

When a second wave of enemies surged from the darkness below, Leif’s band braced for impact. More brutal weapons slammed into their line like a tidal wave. Leif’s axe rose and fell, each strike a desperate bid to hold the invaders at bay. Svend was right next to him, his spear darting out like a serpent from between the shields, trying to take down attackers before they could secure a closer range. Ingritt stood right behind them, shooting arrow after arrow from her higher vantage point, the projectiles hitting their mark with grim precision. They kept coming though, and Leif’s line slowly but gradually began to waver under the relentless assault.

At the same time as that happened, the longships reached shallow waters. Raiders leapt from their decks into cold knee-deep sea water. They splashed forward with their shields raised and weapons gleaming ominously. The town’s visitors had already surged from the barn and fought as a single cohesive unit, meeting the raiders with an equally brutal resolve. They used the same tactic as Leif’s group, and their arrows thinned the first enemy wave rapidly. Their scarred leader fought at the front, sword and axe flashing as he barked orders. Yet the sheer number of enemies soon began taking their toll.

Minutes later the shoreline turned into a more chaotic melee, water and stone darkened further with blood and became littered with broken metal.

Leif sensed the tide turning against them, especially with the attackers doubling their effort to push further. What had these men so eager? Or desperate? Both his group and the visitors started to struggle, he could tell that from here. Then it struck him, a decision he made rapidly.

“Hold them off as much as you can! Half of the men, with me!” Splitting the defense on one side was a huge risk. But if they were quick enough, they might have a chance.

“But, but… the village will be defenseless!” Ingritt shouted.

Leif clenched his jaw. Every instinct screamed against leaving the path to the village with fewer defenders. But on the other end a blood-soaked tide near the longships threatened to overwhelm them completely. His grip tightened on his axe, hoping the gods would forgive him for this gamble.

He nodded. “Just for a few. But if the shoreline breaks, we’ll have bigger problems. Give the village the signal to brace themselves!” He motioned to a burning arrow and then ordered the others to follow him, quickly over the rock towards their visitors. As Ingritt shot the loose fiery arrow in the sky, Leif hurried towards the water. The strangers were nearly surrounded by the raiders.

Leif ignored the pain cries of the fallen and together with his men charged down the slope. They struck the raiders in their flank like a hammer, throwing their ranks into complete disorder. His axe cut through the first raider’s shoulder, the force of the blow splattering blood across his face. With a brutal kick he sent another sprawling into the surf. He swung again, this time catching a shield and shattering it into splinters. The cries of the dying mingled with the roar of the water.

The unexpected arrival of Leif and his group invigorated the visitors whom rallied behind their scarred leader and joined Leif’s men. The first nodded once to the latter. Leif swung his axe in a wide arc before he lashed out and said to the scarred man. “Just stay alive long enough to thank me later.”

Even as the defenders began to push the raiders back, another horn sounded from the longships. Reinforcements spilled from an approaching vessel, with fresh warriors eager to join the fray. The defenders’ temporary advantage threatened to evaporate.

Leif shouted to his men, “Break their advance before they regroup! Push them into the water!”

The warriors surged forward, their axes and spears cutting through the enemy. Svend, fighting with reckless abandon, leapt onto a rock to drive his spear down into an enemy, toppling him into the water. Ingritt, having joined the frontline, fired arrows with deadly passion, felling key attackers and slowing the enemy’s advance.

Still, the sheer number of raiders once more threatened to overwhelm them. One of the longships, its oars now still, became a rallying point for the enemy, who began to form a new line of defense, albeit deeper in the water.

The scarred leader growled next to Leif. “Aim for that commander over there, and I’m sure they’ll fall back.” He motioned to a large muscled man, slicing heads with a wickedly curved blade.

What kind of weapon was that? Leif had seen such before. But he nodded and motioned two others to assist. The three of them surged toward the raider like wolves descending upon a stag, hacking down anyone in their path. With a roar, Leif brought his axe down on the stupified enemy commander, splitting the man’s helm and driving him to his knees. The man started to stagger back, nodding his head as if to say thanks before he fell down.

Before either warrior could speak, a wave of arrows rained down from one of the ships, striking friend and foe alike. Leif dove for cover, dragging the nearest ally with him. Then, a new sound cut through the night, the tolling of a heavy bell which seemed to freeze the world for a heartbeat.

Reinforcements from the village -armed fishermen, young maidens and even children wielding slings- were descending toward the shore. At their head was an elderly man carrying a great horn. He blew it with all his strength, the mournful note echoing across the battleground.

The sound seemed to rally the defenders and shake the raiders’ resolve. The sight of fresh fighters pouring down from the village caused hesitation in the enemy ranks. Leif’s heart swelled, and he seized the moment. “Push them into the sea! Drive them back!”

With renewed vigor, the defenders pressed forward. The line of raiders at the water’s edge broke under the assault, and panic spread among their ranks. Those who didn’t fell fled toward the longships, shouting for retreat. Leif couldn’t believe this eyes as even the villagers, some wielding nothing more than hunting spears and fishing knives, surged forward with a primal determination.

He watched until the last of the raiders had disappeared into the surf, and oars churned the water in a desperate bid to escape. But around him… the shore was a graveyard of broken bodies and shattered weapons. He scanned the faces of companions, searching for his friends. Svend was slumped on a rock, blood streaming from a cut on his arm, but alive. Ingritt knelt beside one of the fallen, her hands trembling as she closed lifeless eyes.

A cheer rose from the villagers, but Leif’s focus shifted to the other frontline where he noticed the attackers had retreated as well. But not without having taken a heavy toll. He waded through the water and briefly met the eyes of the elder holding the horn. The weight of their shared loss hung heavy between them, but there was something else too.

“Leif…” the man started.

Leif froze in his tracks. “Yes…?”

The elder shook his head at him. “Better not to head there now.”

Leif looked from the elder to the southern frontline and back. “Huh? Why not?”

The elder put a hand on his shoulder. “Please, come with me.”

Leif blinked and stepped back, pushing the hand off of his shoulder. “No, not until you tell me what’s going on!”

The older man sighed. “It’s Kjel…”

“What?! Where is the boy!?” Leif’s voice cracked as he started to shake his head.”… No… don’t tell me he… don’t you dare say they…” The rest of his words sat caught in his throat as he looked back towards the other frontline.

[lum]

The silence that followed after the attack was deafening. A silence that was only now and then broken by the crashing of waves and the distant cries of seagulls. Leif stared as if in a trance, while the air -still heavy with the scent of blood mingled with salt- seemed to hang motionless about his shoulders, weighing.

The rest of the night they had gathered the wounded and counted their losses, and as the faces surfaced in his mind, he squeezed the haft of the axe he was holding more firmly. Slowly, he scanned the destruction around him once more. Smashed fences, smoking cabins, broken wood, and blooded weapons and other equipment sprawled across the rocky shore. But above all, his eyes kept darting back to the southern edge of the village.

It was there he found Ingritt, her face streaked with dirt and tears. She knelt beside a small form, her hands trembling as she cradled the boy’s cold, lifeless head. She did what he simply couldn’t, preparing Kjel for his transition. He learned the boy had died fighting, the small wooden sword with its edge splintered now across his chest.

Kjel wanted to protect us, it wasn’t your fault, the elder had told him. But those words and the arm around him all felt distant. Leif’s world had narrowed to that boy right now, a life snuffed out too soon. And for what? As if things couldn’t grow more disheartening, the clouds above him thickened, and soft snowflakes began to drift.

The irony wasn’t lost on Leif. Summer was supposed to be near, yet here was the bitter cold again, as if the gods themselves mourned with them. It was snow that wouldn’t last very long, a brief flurry which hopefully soon would fade into the predawn gray. But it was enough to deepen the chill that had settled in Leif’s chest.



As morning finally broke, the surviving villagers worked tirelessly to tend to the wounded and lay the dead to rest. Fires were stoked to burn the bodies of the raiders, while still some of their own fallen were carried to the village center for proper rites. When the elders arrived from the island’s interior, he greeted them with a heavy nod.

The oldest among them, a weathered man with a beard like frost, surveyed the destruction with grim determination. “It seems they’ve tested us. They’ll be back.”

“We need a plan,” another elder added. “And we need to prepare for when they return. The village cannot face another attack like this.”

“Perhaps we can ask our visitors more about these raiders, and…,” Leif hesitated, the image of Kjel’s lifeless body flashing in his mind. His voice wavered, but the resolve was there. “If we want to survive, we need to do more than just wait for the enemy. We need to take the fight to where we can actually win it. But this here?” He motioned towards the village. “We simply can’t defend any longer. Not against the numbers they threw at us.”

The elders exchanged uncertain glances, but the weight of his words couldn’t be ignored. As the sun rose over the bloodied shore, the village faced its grim new reality.



“I want answers and I want them now!” Leif’s fist slammed the driftwood table. The air within the longhouse was heavy with smoke from its central fire. Light flickered ominously against the worn wooden interior.

Leif, the elders and the scarred leader of the visitors stood in a half-circle, their expressions ranging from weathered to grim and resolute.

The scarred leader’s eyes, dark and guarded, met Leif’s gaze. He took a measured breath before speaking. “Aye, we’ve crossed paths with raiders like this. Luskan dogs, more often than not. Bold, ruthless, and well-organized. But they weren’t always this bold.” The stranger’s voice carried a rough edge, as if shaped by years of salt air and battle cries. “We are a mercenary group hired to fend them off. The raiders been active in the region of Ruathym but also Gundarlun, and even at Ice Peak Island.”

Leif tilted his head. “You were the one who called us Ice Hunters before, but the natives you speak of live at Ice Peak. What made you think we…”

“Because I know someone you know.” The leader turned to Leif. “And I know you are his kin.”

One of the elders looked at Leif and saw how the young man slightly winced.

The scarred leader briefly dipped his head before he cleared his throat. “I assume the boy was kin as well. My condolences. But aye, I have met your farfar, one of the Eternal Men of the North, Harrvid Heimvar. It was him who sent us this direction.” The leader hesitated when he noticed Leif’s expression, his scar pulling tight as his jaw clenched.

Leif glanced at the elders a bit confused before pressing further. “So these raiders were already headed here. But, why here? Why now? Gundarlun and these surrounding islands have been peaceful for years. What’s changed?”

The scarred stranger shook his head. “Something’s stirred them up. Rumors of power plays, of alliances shifting in Luskan’s shadow. Maybe they’re testing their reach, targeting smaller settlements like this one to see how far they can push before someone pushes back? I also overheard Waterdeep is involved although I have my doubts about that.”

One of the elders leaned forward, his face grim. “And what about you? Just a clanless mercenary, wandering our waters with a battered crew and no banner to speak of? Taking jobs for coin?”

The leader’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before meeting theirs again. “We’re exiles,” he admitted. “And our origins are no longer important as they no longer exist. In that regard I told you the truth.” His eyes briefly met Leif’s. “We have no home to return to.”

Leif’s grip tightened on the edge of the table. “And now you’re here, seeking fortune -and- refuge while bringing enemies to our shores.”

The leader bristled but held his ground. “I gonna say this again. We didn’t bring them here, boy. They were coming, with or without us. If anything, we gave you a warning. Thank your farfar for his logic.”

The eldest among the council raised his hand to silence the brewing tension. “Enough. If they’ve seen the enemy and survived, we’ll need their knowledge. But trust is earned, not freely given.” He turned to the scarred man. “If you wish to stay, you’ll fight alongside us when they return. And we’ll also need your name, clanless or not.”

The scarred man nodded, his tone firm. “You’ll have my sword and my crew. Whatever is left of them.” He straightened himself up. “And it’s Raelen,... Raelen Wildwolf.”

Leif studied him for a long moment before speaking again. “Wildwolf, that sounds like a hunter’s name as well, but I won’t probe any further. Just tell us everything you know about our new enemy. Numbers, tactics, anything that can give us an edge. If we’re to stand a chance, we need every scrap of information. I highly doubt they’ll allow us to inform the King. Any ship leaving this bay will be sunk before it clears the horizon.”

As the fire crackled behind him, Leif couldn’t shake the feeling that the impending information and this uneasy alliance was only the beginning of a much larger storm.

[lum]

Contrary to what he had expected, snow fell relentless, blanketing the island’s interior in a deceptive silence. Currently visibility was rather poor, and a bitter wind did everything to top that, by whipping through the open terrain and carrying flurries of white. And yet, they were coming, more eager than he had anticipated. Which… could be an advantage.

The raiders -now clad in heavy furs- pressed forward, their breath visible in the freezing air even from where he was standing. They moved cautiously, following the faint tracks left by Leif’s group, still unaware of their exact location. Earlier that night the raiders had disembarked, only to find the village deserted. So they came looking for them.

Leif had been waiting for them, for now standing hidden on a rocky ridge above, his silhouette nearly perfectly blending into the jagged landscape.

The raiders reached the base of the ridge, their leather boots crunching over dots of frostbitten grass and loose rocks. They paused, carefully scanning the unfamiliar terrain. Their leader -a burly man with a braided beard and a scar slicing through his left eye- raised a hand to halt his men. He squinted around and then upward, his expression hardening as he noticed movement on the ridge above.

And indeed… a single figure had emerged from the swirling snow, silhouetted against the pale gray sky. Leif stood tall, his fur-lined cloak snapping in the wind, his axe resting loosely in his hands.

His voice, sharp and unyielding, carried over the howling gusts. “You’ve come far from your ships in this to you foreign land! But allow me to be your well-intentioned native guide!” He motioned to a path. “Make a left here, and you might live long enough to see another sunrise!” Then, using his axe he pointed to an opposing path. “Go right, and find yourself a cold shallow grave!”

The raiders exchanged uncertain glances, their leader growling low in his throat. "Brave words from a pup hiding behind a ridge. If you had the guts to face us, you wouldn’t be skulking in the snowy shadows."

Leif smirked, though the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. "Do you think this snow is your enemy? It’s nothing compared to what waits for you ahead." He raised his arm and pointed to their right, where the terrain grew more treacherous, its pitfalls hidden beneath the drifts. "Take that path, and you’ll find out just how cruel this island can be!"

The raiders’ leader barked a laugh, but it faltered when he noticed the stillness and hesitation of his men. The harsh landscape, the snow, and the unknown enemy above affected their minds.

Leif noticed it and pressed his hopefully advantage, his voice growing harder. “Final warning! Spirits of the Eternal Men watch over this place!”

The leader turned to his men in disbelief. “What?! Are you warriors, or are you winter lambs?! We are for certain much stronger than some island whelps hiding between the rocks!”

A few of his men grunted in agreement, tightening their grips on their weapons. But there were others now shifting uncomfortably, glancing at the ridge and then toward the distant shoreline where safety and warmth waited. The snowfall thickened, blurring the path back. One of the raiders, a younger and clearly less seasoned guy, spoke up hesitantly. "That snow’s getting worse. And we’re not equipped for this kind of fight…”

The leader rounded on the young fellow, his face twisted in fury. "Look! If you’re scared… -boy-, you can crawl back to the ships! But don’t think we’ll wait for cowards when the real spoils are ahead!"

Leif, watching from above, seized the moment. He raised his axe and drove it into the ridge’s icy surface with a loud thunk. "Did you know cowards live to see their families again?! Play hero out here and die for nothing! So! What’s it going to be… Luskan dogs?" His voice carried a mocking edge, designed to further erode their unity.

The young raider but also a few others exchanged nervous looks before stepping back. "I didn’t sign up to freeze to death for a fight we don’t need right now." He muttered, yet his words loud enough to carry.

The leader lunged forward, grabbing the young man by the collar. "You stay, or I cut you down myself!"

But another voice rose, gravelly and defiant. "Let him go, Torvald. He’s right. This storm’s not worth it." An older raider, his face weathered and lined, stepped between them. He stared down the leader, unflinching.

Leif watched with a cold smile how tension within the group snapped like a brittle twig. More than a handful of men broke away, trudging back toward the ships, their forms quickly swallowed by the swirling snow.

Torvald watched them go, his jaw clenched tight, then turned his fury back toward Leif. "You think this is a victory, boy? We don’t need them. The rest of us will make you beg for mercy, and and…!"

But the ridge was empty now, the figure that was Leif seemed swallowed by the whirling snow, as if the land itself had claimed him. Perhaps even turning him into one of those spirits.

The remaining raiders hesitated, their group even more fractured by doubt as well as the storm’s relentless fury. Torvald -barely able containing his anger- barked orders to those who remained. "Spread out! We won’t go left or right! We move forward! This damn ridge is ours!"

But as they began their climb, the snow blanket seemed to shift and stir in an unnatural fashion. From the ridge above, shapes emerged. Figures -seemingly cloaked in furs and ice- moved like predators closing in on their prey.

The first blow came swift and sudden. A heavy stone hurled from above struck one of the raiders square in the chest, sending him sprawling back towards the frostbitten earth below. A cry of alarm echoed, but it was quickly swallowed by the wind right before arrows rained down on the raiders. More iron tips gleamed wickedly as they were aimed.

Leif’s voice cut through the chaos. “See the difference between raiders and hunters now?! You are nothing but prey!”

The raiders scrambled for cover, but the barren landscape offered little to no shelter. Panic began to spread as another man fell, clutching at an arrow embedded in his shoulder. Torvald roared, his fury driving him forward. "Up that ridge! Fight them, climb and fight, you goddamn cowards!"

Leif stepped forward, his figure once again visible atop the ridge. This time, he wasn’t alone. Some of the remaining defenders flanked him, each and every one armed and ready, their faces set with grim determination. "Torvald!" Leif called, his tone mocking. "You wanted me to face you? Here I am!"

Torvald had gotten sort of on the ridge. Like a dog in heat he charged, foaming, his axe raising high. But his bravado quickly turned to desperation as he realized the climb towards Leif was steeper than it appeared. Loose snow slipped underfoot, dragging him down like an invisible hand.

Leif didn’t hesitate and leapt down from his vantage point, his axe swinging in a wide arc. The clash of steel against steel rang out, and the two squared off amidst the storm. Around them, the ambush unfolded further in brutal efficiency. The raiders, disoriented and divided, struggled to get on the ridge. Even those who managed failed to regroup under the relentless assault.

More than once a man fell down, often a foe but sometimes a friend. Leif couldn’t tell as he had his hands full with Torval. His axe connected with Torvald’s weapon again, sparks flying from the force of the clash. The man was stronger but also heavier, and it was exactly Leif’s speed and precision that kept him one step ahead. With a sudden feint, Leif sidestepped a heavy swing, his axe cutting into Torvald’s unprotected side.

The leader staggered, blood staining the snow at his feet. He raised his weapon for another strike, but the tide of the battle had already turned against him. Leif didn’t wait for a second chance. He surged forward, driving Torvald back until the man stumbled off of the ridge and fell down towards the icy and unforgiving ground.

The raiders looked from their fallen leader to Leif and his men.

"You had your chance," Leif said coldly as he stepped towards the remaining raiders, his voice barely audible above the wind. "This island doesn’t welcome thieves."


Less than a few minutes after, the fight was over. Leif turned to look at the horizon as Svend and an elder joined him. “I hope Raelen and his group got those who retreated. But there is no way of telling how many more they have in our village or on their ships.”

The elder nodded. “We’ll have to stay here. Finding food and other supplies gonna be tricky though as we used up most of the stock.”

Leif glanced at the elder. “You mean at the Sacred Rise and the Spirit Cave?”

“Yes, we didn’t expect to be attacked, otherwise me and the other elders would have been more economical with our supplies.”

Leif looked back at the horizon. “We’ll have to do what we are best at then.”

[lum]

Under the cover of the worse start of the summer ever, Leif and two of his companions set out to investigate their home. They approached the small settlement cautiously, using snow and the jagged terrain both as shelter and cover. By the time they arrived there, the wind died down until only white flakes fell from the sky.

That didn’t make things easier. First of, his breath clouded the freezing air, and every sound -weather it were creaking boots or the clink of weapons- felt like amplified in the silent landscape. They paused, concealed among the rocks, but even at this fair distance they could see the enemy was still entrenched.

It was clear their numbers were reduced, but so were Leif’s people. Moreover, the enemy camp seemed rather organized and well-fed, and they had sentries patrolling the perimeter. Two of their ships anchored in the bay loomed like dark shadows against the icy waters. Leif and his companions sat in cold and silence, trying to count the raiders and noting their rotations and movements.

His stomach churned once he realized the odds. For every one of his warriors, there were at least three or four raiders, and that didn’t account for reinforcements that could still be aboard those ships. Leif clenched his fists, his gloved fingers numb. The sight of his village, now overrun, twisted something deep in his chest. Memories of laughter, shared meals, and quiet moments with his people resurfaced, clashing with the stark reality before him.

He felt the weight of every life lost, every choice they made. He exchanged a glance with Svend, who looked equally grim.

"Now what?" Svend whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind.

Leif didn’t respond immediately. His gaze shifted to a ship, and a spark of an idea formed. It was reckless, desperate even, but at this very moment their survival hinged on bold decisions.


A few hours later, back at the others’ makeshift refuge, the elders awaited his report. One nodded to him. “Lay out your thoughts.”

“We can’t retake the village,” Leif started, his voice steady but tinged with regret. “And we can’t hold out here much longer. Our only chance is to leave. By taking one of their ships.”

There was a murmur of disbelief among the group. Some elders narrowed their eyes, the oldest speaking. “A raid on the bay? With our numbers? And with children? They’ll see us coming.”

“Not… if we use the weather,” Leif countered. He motioned to the snow. “Visibility is still low. If we move under the cover of night, using the camouflage we use to hunt seals… we may be able to strike fast and quiet, and we can avoid a full confrontation.”

“Can. And then what?” Another elder wondered, his tone wary. “Where do we go? Gundarlun?”

“That’s indeed our next decision,” A third elder said, glancing at both Leif and Raelen Wildwolf. “The obvious choice would be Gundarlun, to warn the king. But sailing on a raider ship could get us killed before we’re even close. The king’s men won’t hesitate to sink a vessel they see as a threat.”

Raelen spoke up, his voice thoughtful. “There’s another option: Ice Peak. Leif’s kin is there, and they might take you as well as my men in. It’s a risk, it’s much further way, but it’s safer than attempting to head for Gundarlun.”

Leif frowned a bit but said nothing save for a vague nod.

The elders then motioned to leave them alone. Outside his jaw tightened as he overheard the elders’ voices overlapping. Every choice they would pick carried weight, and he knew a decision ultimately would fall. All of them involved danger. But the thought of a safer haven with his own kin was tempting, especially given the circumstances. It could buy them time to regroup and plan, but it also delayed warning Gundarlun’s king.


Eventually, after an period of debating they were called back in the cave. One of the elders moved to stand. “Our heart tells us to warn Gundarlun; but our instincts urge caution and survival. We… can’t decide, although right now our first concern is to leave this island.” He looked at Leif and Raelen. “Make a plan so all of us can get on a ship. Last I checked I counted a little over thirty heads without the children. That means we need to have sufficient supplies as well.”


With the elders’ reluctant approval, Leif and the others began their planning.

“The key to make this work is gonna be speed.” Leif said as he traced some lines in the dirt. “Moving unseen means moving in smaller groups, as the cover proves to be meager.” He applied a few dots with a gloved finger. “The first group needs to secure the ship, while a second will draw attention and create a diversion where and when needed. The third group will consist of the children and older people. They will also have to carry the supplies.”

Svend nodded like the others but then frowned. “How do we distract them without exposing ourselves?”

“Hah! Fire!” Raelen spoke up. If we set the storehouse on fire where they stored their supplies… that’ll have their undivided attention. Can’t believe they are making it that easy for us.”

A few of the gathered grinned. Leif motioned. “That’s really good thinking. It’ll only have to be timed perfectly. Not to mention that the fire will hold their attention only for so long.”

A young woman named Frida leaned over. “What if we wait until the wind picks up again? It may make the fire harder to control.”

Ingritt looked thoughtful. “It may snuf it out as well.”

Leif glanced from one to another. “That… is a risk we’ll have to take. Pray to the Gods that they’ll be on our side this time. But for now, this will be the plan.”

[lum]

The next few days they spent in silent, determined preparation. Some hunters of the group ventured out to gather what food they could, avoiding the villageside of the isle and where the enemy patrolled with painstaking focus. Not that they were able to bring in a lot. Their side was rough on the terrain, and these days dangerously slippery too. So a single seal, some fish and a few birds would have to suffice. Others worked to fashion weapons and tools from whatever they managed to salvage. Like spears from broken blades, and ropes from animal hides.

Raelen oversaw the preparation of the tar and animal oil for the distraction. He ensured they had enough to ignite the stuff quickly, and above all to make it burn brightly. Near him the couple of kids were kept busy with bundling furs and packing dry fish, their young hands working tirelessly under the watchful eyes of the elders. Some understood the gravity of their situation all too well, especially those who lost a father, a mother,... or both.

Leif spent as much time as he could with those who’d join him in the raid on the ship, going over the plan again and again until every detail was engrained…


On the night before their attempt to escape, they gathered for a somber meal around a low and rather cool fire inside the cave. Looking around at the faces -some hardened by years of hunting and survival, others young and filled with quiet determination, Leif decided they would succeed. They simply had to.

Almost as if Raelen had read his mind, the man broke the silence. “This isn’t the first time I fought against impossible odds.” He glanced at a few of his own men who solemnly nodded. Raelen’s voice turned low yet steady. “And this won’t be my last time.” He motioned. “You, and you, and all of you… we are all Northlanders. And what do we do to survive all our lives?” He smashed his fist on his knee. “Right, we face storms, we fight hunger, and we eat snow when we have to.” He lifted a single finger. “But above all, we endure because we fight for each other.”

Leif sensed how the man’s words steadied the group, and even he watched the flicker of hope in several eyes. Something began to stir within the gathered.

“Tomorrow… we take our first step toward reclaiming our lives and our future.” Raelen glanced at the children. “Not only for ourselves, but also for those you and we have lost… and for those who still depend on us.” He winked at a boy before looking at the circle of faces again. “We’ll move swiftly and silently. Trust each other, and trust the plan we have. We all rely on each other.”

A fist thudded against a fur-covered knee, another on the stone floor, and murmurs of assent passed between them. Someone slapped the haft of his spear against his palm, the muffled thump echoing in the cold air. One female hunter grinned, teeth flashing in the dim light as she slapped her companion on the shoulder.

Leif found himself staring out into the snow-covered landscape outside. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade, the weight of the coming dawn pressing heavy on his shoulders. Raelen was right.

There would be no second chances.

The biting cold wrapped around him like a grave shroud as they prepared to move out. Unbelievable this was considered nearly summer. There wasn’t much other noise than the wind, save for the faint rustle of fur-lined cloaks being adjusted and muted clinks of weapons being carefully secured. As he waited by the entrance of the cave, Leif gazed at the very faint glow in the night sky, barely perceptible in between moving clouds and brief small showers of snow.

This type of weather would be a blessing as well as a curse, perfect for concealment but unforgiving for anyone not prepared to face its chill.

Svend nodded, his jaw tight, and Raelen gave him a sharp, approving grin. “Let’s make them regret the day they came here,” the older warrior muttered. “I’ll try do something extra today.”

Svend frowned. “What you mean?”

Raelen motioned vaguely. “You’ll see. Better to have it be a surprise than a letdown when it fails.”


Leif’s eyes scanned the faces of the gathered. Some hardened hunters, weary elders, few of what’s left from Raelen’s group, and even the young ones stood ready, their expressions resolute. He raised his hand, signaling for silence. “Remember, speed and silence are everything. And trust on each other.”

None spoke, but slight nods and firm grips on weapons said enough.

One by one the first group slipped out of the cave and disappeared into the snow-covered terrain, their light camouflaged silhouettes blending perfectly with their surroundings. Leif was leading them, his movements deliberate and measured as he guided them along the jagged rocks. He sensed that every step was a test of balance for everyone out here, the snow crunching faintly beneath their boots.

Not far behind them, the second group moved into position. They were the people carrying tar-filled skins and bundles of oil-soaked kindling. Raelen’s grizzled form was unmistakable as he hefted a large torch, unlit for now, and muttered instructions to his companions.

The third group lagged even further behind, the older men and women keeping the children close. Frida, who carried her little brother on her back, whispered soothing words to him whenever he stirred. During preparations the faint creak of sleds carrying supplies had seemed deafening to Leif’s ears, though he knew the snow and wind would likely muffle most sounds. And without these sleds there wouldn’t be enough for the journey.


As they neared the edge of the village, Leif signaled for everyone to halt. He dropped into a crouch behind a low outcrop of rocks and peered down at the bay. The ships loomed like dark serpents against the water, their hulls reflecting faintly in the icy waves.

The raiders’ camp was quiet but not entirely still. Just a few sentries patrolled with torches, their footsteps crunching against frost-covered ground. They never seemed to leave the perimeter of the village.

The wind carried the faint scent of roasted meat to Leif and his group. Which felt like a bitter reminder of the spoils taken from his people. Leif’s heart hammered in his chest the moment he motioned for his group to advance. They moved like shadows, keeping low and using the uneven terrain and rocks for cover.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw that behind him Raelen and his group began to spread out, taking positions not far from the storehouse that held the raiders’ supplies. The tar and oil were ready, the bundles could be carefully placed to ignite in seconds when the time came. Leif adjusted his grip on his axe, his gloved fingers numb against the wood. He turned to Svend, who crouched beside him, bow in hand and arrow nocked.

“All ready?” Leif asked.

Svend smirked. “Always.”

Leif took one final glance at the bay, the ships, and the camp before meeting Svend’s gaze. “Then… let’s begin.”

[lum]

The first group was nearly at the ship they targetted when one of the sentries on the other side of the jetty paused mid-step. Leif froze in his stealthy tracks, his breath caught in his throat. He watched how the guard tilted his head, his torchlight flickering across the snow. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to have come to a stop. But then, with a shrug, the man resumed his patrol.

Leif exhaled silently, motioning for the others to continue. They reached the edge of the ship's gangplank by water, its heavy wooden frame dusted with frost. Leif glanced back at his group, catching their tense expressions in the dim light. With a final nod, he climbed aboard, the others following close behind. It was clear these intruders never expected them to target one of their ships.


Back near the village, Raelen watched Leif disappear and thus lit the torch with a swift strike of flint. A flame immediately roared to life, its glow reflecting in Raelen’s steely eyes. “Let’s give them something to stay occupied,” he muttered, thrusting the torch into the nearest tar-soaked bundle. From it fire erupted, a plume of smoke and flame climbing rapidly into the sky. Thanks to the other bundles the storehouse was ablaze within moments.

Only by the time flames were licking hungrily at the wooden structure, shouts erupted from the raiders’ camp. Men scrambled from tents and occupied homes, their disarray clear in the chaos. At first they grabbed weapons, only to notice how useless these were to fight an inferno. So they started shouting orders, -and- curses, wasting valuable time due the fact no one was sure what to hold first. Swords, or buckets.


With faces directed towards the fire, Leif seized the moment and signaled his group to strike. They emerged from between equipment and the shadows on deck and killed the few raiders aboard. No one ever saw. Not even on the other ship. One of the raiders appeared still alive and attempted to stab Leif with a clumsy strike. But Svend killed him off with ruthless efficiency. Quickly he put his gloved hand over the man’s mouth to mute the sound of a death rattle.

Leif motioned. The ship was theirs, but the confusion on shore would be short-lived. Soon that fire would be under control, and these raiders would regroup.

“Our window is closing, cut the anchor, we need to move now and pick up the others at the rock protrusion. Anyone of you got sight on Raelen and his group? Are they on the move already?”

Svend moved to the prow and peered over the railing while others readied the ship. As soon as they would raise the sail, all hell would break lose. Svend returned and shook his head. “I don’t see them moving towards the gathering point.”

Leif frowned. “Hm, Raelen said he might have something up his sleeve, but I’m not sure what h..” Leif caught the arm movement of one of the others and quickly beneath the railing moved towards him. “What is it?”

Leif peeked over the railing, only to see how Raelen tossed a bag of oil on the second ship and lit it up.

Leif’s heart jumped in his chest as he watched flames bloom instantly on the second ship. The fire caught quickly, climbing the rigging like a hungry beast. A burst of shouting came from the shore as the raiders scrambled to comprehend what was happening.

“By all the gods, what’s he doing?” Svend hissed, ducking down as looks swept toward the ships.

Leif clenched his jaw. “Creating an even bigger distraction and cutting them off I hope,” he muttered, half in frustration, half in admiration. “But it’s a risk. If they figure out it’s us, we won’t have time to get away.”

“Too late for doubts now,” Svend replied, tightening his grip on his bow.

“Cut the anchor right now!” Leif barked, snapping out of his momentary hesitation. The others sprang into action, hacking at the thick rope securing the ship to the jetty. Leif turned to guy who’d the helmsman. “Get us to that gathering point as soon as that sail’s up. We have to make it there…” he glanced to where Raelen disappeared. “... with or without them.”

The sharp crack of the anchor rope snapping free coincided with another burst of flames as the second ship’s sails ignited. Raelen had outdone himself this time, but Leif couldn’t help but wonder at what cost.

The ship began to drift, its hull groaning softly against the icy current. The crew worked feverishly to unfurl the sail, their movements practiced but tense.

“The raiders will be here in less than…” A bolt struck the mast with a firm thud, right next to Svend’s head. He fired two arrows back. “... in a few moments!”

Leif glanced over his shoulder only to see how a cluster of raiders charged toward their ship. A few others had already begun sprinting toward the remaining vessels, two fishing boats. Those wouldn’t stand a chance against the speed of this ship, but they still had to pick up the others. He growled. “Grab a pole and get us clear from the jetty!!”

The main sail snapped to life as the wind caught it, propelling the ship forward. Leif gripped the railing tightly, his eyes scanning the shoreline for Raelen or any of his group. Then he saw them, a small cluster of figures darting through the terrain, heading for the rock protrusion as planned. Raelen was at the head, his torch abandoned but his blade gleaming in the first light of dawn. On the protrusion itself he saw the elders and the kids waiting by the sleds with supplies.

“They’ll all be there!” Leif called to the helmsman. “Hold steady. We’ll swing close enough to bring them all aboard!”

The ship picked up more speed, cutting through the icy water with a surprising grace. Behind them at the village, chaos reigned. The second ship was engulfed in flames and slowly began to sink. The raiders on shore were torn between containing the inferno, organizing a pursuit, and defending themselves from unseen attackers.

As they approached the rock protrusion, Leif moved to the side, rope in hand. “Get ready!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the sound of the wind and waves crashing into rock.

Raelen’s group reached the protrusion just as the ship came alongside. Without hesitation, Raelen leapt onto the rope together with the youngest child, scaling it with a strength that belied his age. The others quickly followed one by one with in between bags with supplies. Some scrambled up with assistance, others had to be hoisted aboard by waiting hands.

“Everyone accounted for?” Leif demanded as the last of his people landed on the deck.

“Just about,” Raelen panted as he threw another bag aside, a grin splitting his soot-streaked face. “Hope you didn’t mind the little addition to the plan.”

Leif snorted, clapping the older man on the shoulder. “I’ll be sure to thank you if we survive this.”

“Still hold on to that gratitude,” Raelen quipped. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Just as he motioned behind Leif, a volley of arrows arced through the air, clattering against the deck and slicing through the rigging. A few of his people got hit but no one serious. The raiders had regrouped faster than anticipated, and they weren’t going to let their stolen ship slip away without a fight. Another volley was launched from the rocks.

“They must have followed us.” Raelen grumbled. “Shields up!” He then shouted, barely in time himself deflecting another projectile.

“Push! Push us from the rock! Turn that sail and this ship, or we be blown towards them!” Leif ordered.

The young helmsman nodded, his face pale but determined as he tried to turn and get more speed from the vessel.

And that’s when it happened. Leif stood on the railing, holding his shield protectively before the helmsman. But an arrow from another angle struck him and he lost his balance.

Ingritt saw it. “LEIF !!! NOOO!!”

Leif fell overboard and disappeared in the icy waves closing over him.

"No!! Leif!" Ingritt's voice cut through the din, sharp with panic. She rushed to the side of the ship, leaning over the railing as her eyes frantically searched the water. "We have to turn back! Leif fell—he's down there!"

Before anyone else could react, Ingritt reached for a rope, her intention clear. But one of the elders, an aged but steady man named Ulfric rushed forward and grabbed her arm with surprising strength.

"No," Ulfric said firmly, his voice heavy with the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "We cannot go back."

"What…? What are you saying?" Ingritt struggled against his grip, her voice breaking. "Leif's still out there! We can't just leave him!"

Ulfric met her tear-filled gaze, his own eyes clouded with sorrow but resolute. "If we turn back now, we'll all die. This ship was our only chance to escape, and Leif knew that."

Ingritt froze, her breath hitching. The reality of the elder's words sank in like a sharp blade.

With the ship groaning as it began to pick up speed, the icy wind snapping the sail into place, Ingritt glanced back toward the waves, hoping for any sign of Leif. An arm breaking the surface… or his head bobbing above the water. But there was nothing.


Only the cold, unforgiving sea.

[lum]

Below the surface the sea had been silent for what felt like an eternity. But it was not death that greeted Leif.

It was sunlight.

The warmth of it kissed his cheek, poking his skin gentle as a memory, breaking through the film of unconsciousness.

His breath caught. A shallow, rattling gasp. Water lapped softly at his legs. He blinked slow, eyes stung by salt and sun alike.

He lay half-submerged in the shallows of a sheltered cove, his arms tangled in seaweed and silt. Cold still clung to his skin and his soul, but it was no longer the numbing lethal chill of the open sea. The tide had been kind to his body. Yet, no whispers from the gods.


Coughing violently, Leif turned onto his side and spat out seawater. His limbs trembled as he slowly dragged himself onto firmer ground. Rock bit into his palms. Somewhere nearby, gulls called out, indifferent to his return from what has felt like an abyss. Maybe he hadn’t gone that deep at all?

When he finally stood, he saw the familiar cliffs and slopes that framed the isle. His home. Or what had once been.

But it wasn’t silent.

Far off, faint sounds other than natural echoed through the wind. With shaky steps he moved up and out of the cove. Then he overheard a foreign cadence. The raiders. Still here. Still in control of the place.

One fact now settled in with chilling clarity: he was alone. His ship, the only ship his people had been able to snatch, sailed. His people, everyone from children to elders, gone, scattered to fate or safe, but above all beyond his reach. He had no way of knowing. No way to help or ask for help. Not a single sail cut the horizon. No friendly signals calling from elsewhere. The only sign of life was the one he didn’t want.

The invaders had not left. And the situation wasn’t going to get any better.


In the days after Leif noticed the enemy multiplied. New ships had come, drawn by the fires and chaos, by the opportunity of conquest perhaps. They’d taken the village fully now. Fortified parts. Changed patterns. Spread out.

In between hunting small animals, Leif stayed hidden among the rocks for days, silent, watching. Learning. Spying. He watched the new arrivals disembark. Different faces, even different dialects. Yet several Luskan. More and more men. Too many to fight. Too many to even count.

Escaping from the isle was impossible. A ship needed hands, ropes, knowledge, wind.

So he thought. He reasoned. He endured.

And slowly, a different path began to take shape in his mind. Unthinkable at first. Until it no longer wasn’t.

If he could not leave… he would become one of them. Crazy plan, but if a man was willing and eager enough, the gods might join in to aid his cause.


So he observed their habits. Their clothing. Their rituals and routines. He learned which leaders barked orders and which ones swaggered carelessly. He saw the newcomers, -the ones who arrived late- unaware of who had fought here or what faces had once resisted.

A stranger could be overlooked. A survivor mistaken for a fresh recruit. A raider lost in the fog of war.

Leif’s face might be known to some, yes—but not to all. And the newer they came, the less they’d care. Especially when he altered his looks a little.

All he had to do was wait. Find the moment. Find a newcomer he could replace, or some role he could slip into like a shadow.

He buried his name deep. Let the man called Leif vanish with the waves.

And a someone else would rise in his place.


His chance came sooner than he had anticipated.

The first thing Leif heard was the faint creak of hulls and the barking of orders carried by the sea breeze.

He crouched low behind a boulder, eyes fixed on the bay below. Three new ships had just docked. Long, lean vessels flying the same colors as the ones already anchored there. Dozens of raiders spilled onto the shore, laughing, shouting, shoving one another like brothers returning home. His gaze shifted to the other side of the bay. At the same time, a smaller vessel, laden with barrels and wounded men, was being readied to depart.

Perfect.

From his vantage point, Leif could oversee everything. The guards had shifted their focus to assisting or shouting down the newcomers, while others carried goods to the departing ship. It was clear they weren’t expecting too many trouble.

Faces blurred in the bustle. It was the first time the invaders had shown signs of operating like some kind of campaign force. And that gave him the only chance he might ever get.

He slipped from his cover and moved downslope, his step careful but confident. Wary enough not to look like he was sneaking, but also not foolishly bold.

First it was time to change. His clothes were ragged, soaked in salt and mud, his hood low over his brow. From his pack he fetched the outfit he had stolen a couple of days before from an unattended warehouse. He had already stripped himself of any obvious local markings and now slung his old seal-hide pack across one shoulder. Inside: flint, fishing line, a few spare rations... and a single bone-tipped hunting spear, slung loosely in his grip like he’d just come from the interior from a nearby shelter not far from the ships.

As he passed the first knot of raiders, one turned and squinted at him. “Oy! Where’d you come from?”

Leif didn’t break stride. He slowed just enough to toss over his shoulder in a thick, northern-accented growl, “Tracking party dropped off by one of the ships. I came up from the northern slopes. Not a single soul left on this isle. Well, save for us.”

Another raider chuckled as he passed. “You look half-drowned.”

“I was,” Leif answered dryly, holding the man’s gaze for half a second before turning away. “The weather wasn’t as kind as it used to be back home.”

And no one else stopped him.

[lum]

Without hesitation Leif joined the edge of the activity near a stack of crates, crouching beside another pair of men who were adjusting bowstrings. He kept his expression calm, eyes alert, and his hands as steady as possible while he pretended to fuss with his spear’s binding. His hood he carried low.

These raiders, they were a territorial bunch. If he’d display too much eagerness, they’d peg him as green. If he’d look too relaxed, they might suspect arrogance.

A burly man with a beard at half length and a voice which resembled something like a breaking mast pointed at him. “Torvald’s crew, or Yurgen’s?”

Leif barely paused. “Neither. I used to be under Gear’s banner. But the last time I saw him he was bleeding out over a dead snowcat.”

The beardy man grunted. “Well, you ain’t the first stray to crawl in today. Plenty of room left under Malken’s flag. He lost four people the night these savages put the damn storehouse on fire and fled.”

Leif offered a slight nod. “Then I’ll make sure to pull my weight under him…”

And that was it.

No questioning, no tests, not the suspicion his own people would have had against a stranger. At least not yet. Within minutes, he had been handed a bow with a cracked limb and told to report for watch duty the next morning. He pretended to curse under his breath, as any true raider might.

But inside, Leif knew. He’d made it in.

He was home and not home at the same time. Safe and not safe.

But, inside.

And now he just had to survive long enough to learn what they were planning. And wait for the day he could take revenge. Or escape.



He had been assigned to guard duty. He couldn’t have picked it better himself. Guard duty would have been his natural choice, perfect for quiet observation. It offered him relatively free movement, any necessary proximity or distance, and a cover for a sharp mind to absorb any important details.

The morning sun bled slowly across the last ice, still a little pale and cold, still casting long shadows across the land.

Leif stood near the edge of the perimeter, bow in hand, hood pulled up. A very thin patch of frost clung to the metal of his bracer. Not long anymore now until spring set in completely.

He hadn’t spoken a single word since reporting in. The raiders seemed to respect silence as long as one did his job.

He was posted at the north watch, halfway up a rocky slope overlooking the camp and the bay beyond. From up here, he could see the damaged ship, the scorched frame of the one Raelen had set ablaze. To the other side he had a view on the charred husk of the old storehouse, still in the morning breeze, like a ghost refusing to leave.

To the others, this duty was likely dull. Nothing to gain but cool wind and an occasional shout from below. But for Leif, it was perfect.

He watched how the camp came to life. From up close he saw who obeyed who without hesitation. He could see how the crew of this Malken occupied the higher ground towards an old shrine. While newcomers pitched their tents near the shore, one particular group traded quietly among themselves. It was hard to discern from up here, but their accents were pretty foreign. Not from the isles, and most certainly not Luskan either.

As his shift continued, names drifted up from below. Branik, Olg, Sevras…, and he repeated them silently, fixing them to faces and habits.

The man stationed beside him was young too, and broad-shouldered. The face with the crooked nose turned to him as he spat into the snow and grunted. “You’re with Malken, right?”

Leif nodded without looking away from the camp. “Aye, since last night. Gear’s lot got cut on another isle. I took the first ship I could find and sailed here.”

Crooked Nose grunted. “Ah, bad luck then. But Malken’s alright. Better than Yurgen’s pack of mad dogs. You just keep your mouth shut and your blade ready, and you’ll do fine”.

Leif didn’t answer, just shifted his weight and let the silence settle again. The less he talked, the less chance he’d get exposed.



He maintained a certain rhythm in the following days.
As hours crept by, he noted who took meals first. Who carried messages. Which direction patrols walked, how often they rotated, and how many there were.

He also started to notice the gaps.

There was this moment just after the midday bell when the southern trail went unwatched. Then there was a spot between two tents near the stream where guards always passed but never lingered. And a half-collapsed storage tent by the rear bluff that no one seemed to bother with anymore.

He filed all of it away. For now.

By the time he had ended a couple of shifts, Leif didn’t just knew the shape of the camp. He knew its heartbeat. Its blind spots. Its flow.

And more importantly, he had learned that these raiders weren’t just looting. They were building something here. They reinforced the longhall, and they expanded the perimeter. And they dug out what looked like storage pits behind the southern ridge.

They weren’t leaving.

They were preparing for something.

Perhaps even an invasion bigger than this one?


All these thoughts led to a conclusion that offered him purpose. His survival wasn’t just about staying hidden. It was also about striking back. Especially if also Gundarlun was being threatened.

He’d have to start small though. Misplaced supplies. Food expiring due exposure to the wrong circumstances. Perhaps misdirecting patrols, and have little accidents happen. Sabotage from within.

[lum]

It was late in the day when the wind shifted. It was warmer, but it also carried the scent of faded memories and old blood. Leif sat alone on a higher ridge after his shift, where no one had bothered to assign coverage. From here he could see the edges of what used to be his home. The old meeting hall once warm with fire and song was one of the few structures built from mostly wood. The simple houses with walls often of stone, daub and wattle stood out hollow against the wind. The fishing hut near the water's edge to facilitate fishing activities had collapsed inward. And then there was the faint black mark where the communal storehouse once stood, now charred and empty.

And these men, -these raiders- trotted through without ever knowning the people that lived there. Without once grasping what this community had been about, the culture, its views, its peaks and its valleys.

Only Leif did. They had been a rather peaceful community which although remote was friendly and welcoming to outsiders. A quiet strength had bound them together, and though they didn’t seek violence, they never turned away from it when it came for them.

Well, at least until now…

He watched a gull circle over the bay before diving toward something in the water. As his fingers dug unconsciously into the frost-dusted earth he mentally disengaged from the present moment and his mind became preoccupied with memories.

Good memories.

The village’s soul was gone. No one had returned, and he doubted they ever would. Unless they found a way of bringing an army.

He'd searched the coastline at night, each hidden inlet and broken stone looking for signs. He’d watched the few boats that returned and left again. There were no captured Northmen. No secret prisoners. Not even ghosts. Only the heavy quiet of absence.

And his own memory filling the gaps with faces he would never see again…

Of all who hadn’t escaped, Leif alone remained.

Alone.

He felt pain. Not the kind that burned, but the kind that settled deep, cold and still beneath his ribs, breathing with him.

And meanwhile…

Below, in the camp, the raiders moved like they belonged here. They hauled crates and lumber like settlers, not plunderers. More tents had gone up this morning. More stone was dragged toward the old longhall. Some of the men, foreigners by their tongue, had begun measuring out wooden stakes and markers along the southern bluff.

They were building.

Planning.

Planting the seed of something new and larger.

Leif's gaze dropped to the haft of the cracked spear he still carried. It had belonged to Svend. One of the only things he had left of him now.

He turned it slowly in his gloved hands, thinking.

Then, he made a decision.

Something small. Nothing heroic. Not yet.



The next morning, he helped unload barrels of pitch. Likely intended for ship repairs or burning. One of them had rolled toward the wrong tent and was sitting there still, half-forgotten.

He'd move it tonight. Just far enough beyond the rocks. Pitch spoiled fast if left exposed. With some luck, no one would check it until it was too late.

It was something rather quiet. Untraceable.

But it would be a start.

He stood, wiping dust from his hands.



The sun dipped behind a veil of cloud, and the bay turned iron-grey. A gull cried out again, and this time he looked up.

“You can have the sky,” he muttered to it, voice hoarse.

“I’ll take the ground.”

Then, after he did what needed to be done, he turned back toward the camp.

And disappeared into it like he’d always belonged there.

[lum]

There was blood on the wind.

The party came back dragging a couple of wounded people to the camp at the bottom. One on a makeshift sled, descending from one of the island’s narrow ridges with a leg twisted in the wrong direction. Another limped beside them, clutching his side, face gone pale and waxy. Word spread quickly: the third man wasn’t coming back at all.

A sharp silence fell over the camp as the group and their saviors arrived. The wet cough of the man with a splintered thigh echoed between the few tents and stone, a hiss of blood still dripping from a mangled boot.

One rescuer, one of the newer recruits, couldn’t stop shaking. His hands were raw, trembling with cold and panic as he helped carry the dead man’s gear. There had been no warhorns, no skirmishers. Just a sudden, awful snap of wood and steel in the underground, and the land had taken them.

Again.

Two men stood a little ways off, one of them arms folded and hood drawn low, slightly shaking his head as he watched the little ‘parade’. Neither of them stepped forward to assist.

“You already knew what happened. Or what was to happen,” one of them said to the other.

The younger guy nodded. “Told you it weren’t fox tracks,” he said, voice even, his tone as blunt as the handle of an axe.

No one answered right away. But before them a tall guy overheard them talk. The one-eyed brute called Skerv gave the young guy a sour look and muttered, “You say that every time.”

“And one of you gets torn up every time,” the young guy replied, eyes unmoving. “Pattern’s starting to show.”

Skerv turned and looked aggressive.

Behind the brute, one of the injured men let out a moan. Another raider, older, scarred, eyes red from lack of sleep, finally snarled, “Enough of this. We need Malken.”

Someone went running to find him.

The young guy and his companion stayed still, gaze shifting past the others toward the treeline where the others had been hit. The wind blew from that direction, carrying the faint scent of pine, mud… and blood iron.

He could feel the ground watching again.


Half an hour later, Malken and his bodyguards emerged from further below, armored halfway and furious. His dark hair was tied back hastily, and a half-eaten heel of bread hung from one hand.

“What in the hells happened?” he barked, sweeping his gaze over the blood, the broken sled, and the too-silent men standing about and looking useless.

“The traps again,” said Skerv. “Same as last tenday. Nasty things, teeth like a damn bearjaw.”

Malken stared down at the wounded man on the sled. “But this is impossible. We combed this bloody isle. We found nothing.”

The companion of the younger guy stepped forward now, slow and quiet. “Because you were looking for people. But people don’t always leave a trail.”

Malken’s brow twitched. “You saying it’s ghosts, now?”

“I’m saying it’s traps.” He pointed toward the ridge. “Half-sunk. Camouflaged. Set in places only someone from here would think to check. Someone is still out there. Maybe one. Maybe more. Maybe a druid able to shift into an animal.”

The camp murmured at that.

Malken turned his full attention to this man. “And you think all of this, why?”

The man shrugged. “Because I listened to someone who actually displays some competence in this story.” He motioned at his younger companion.

Malken looked over. “What!? Him again!? He’s been making noise about stuff since the first snapped leg! Keep wasting my time here, Owen, and I’ll…”

Owen didn’t look intimidated in the least. “And I’ve been patient myself. We all have. But now we’ve got a man dead and two others pissing blood in the snow. You want to prove yourself, Malken?”

Malken blinked and read the faces of people surrounding him. They were with Owen on this. He had to do something.

“Alright then, Owen. We’ll listen to… to…” he snapped his fingers. “What was your name again?” He asked as he addressed Owen’s younger companion.

“Jotta,” the young guy said.

“Fine, fine, whatever. So, Jotta, you go take Skerv, Drek and Owen, and you’ll find where they’re nesting.”

“No.” Jotta’s answer came fast. “Too many boots spoils the trail. Just Owen. If I’m wrong, I’ll come back empty-handed. If I’m right… I’ll come back with signs. Or maybe even heads.”

Malken narrowed his eyes, but nodded once. “You’ve got two days. Then I send others. Loud ones.”

Jotta gave a short nod and turned without another word.

The hunt has begun.

[lum]

All the snow was gone save on the higher flanks, and streaks here and there clinging to the gullies and the north-facing rocks of the land. The wind hadn’t softened entirely yet, especially during mornings. It scraped through the trees like searching victims on purpose.

Owen muttered under his breath while Jotta moved through it like he belonged there. Being younger helped of course.

He and Owen left the camp before first light, their footsteps silent beneath thin pine, weaving through faint animail trails and stone.

Owen carried a war axe across his back, but it was the smaller man ahead of him who truly led the way.

No one had said it out loud, but Owen hadn’t taken Malken’s offer to go with Jotta out of generosity. He would in fact have insisted on it. Someone had to keep an eye on this tracker, cause if anything ever happened to the skilled young man, no one would know. And they’d be in a lot of trouble since they were kinda short on decent trackers.

“You sure this is the spot? Cause if we have to go back one more time…” Owen muttered.

Jotta crouched beside a rock shelf and ran a gloved hand across the soil. He rubbed something between his fingers. “Hmm. Same dirt from the sled’s runners. Same broken fern as the survivor described. Same scent of sap and old rust. This is where the land bit them.”

Owen gazed around. “But where is the trap?”

Jotta spoke quietly. “You’re not supposed to, and it’s impressive that this is a trap which resets itself.”

The younger man brushed some snowmelt away from something half-buried. “But I wager if you step here… and your leg might be gone to the knee.”

Owen stared horrified at what was presumably the mechanism. “That…thing… it looks like it was fashioned from cart metal.” He tilted his head at Jotta. “Our cart metal? As in the missing cart pieces?”

Jotta nodded. “This was definitely our wheel once.” He pointed at the faint curve. “See that etching?”

Owen leaned in. A faint symbol—barely visible. His jaw tightened. “One of the old trade signs. Yep. Ours.”

Jotta didn’t respond. He rose slowly and started circling wider.

“Careful, man.” Owen said as he rose slowly as well.

The silence between them stretched just like the distance, filled only by the whisper of wind and the slow trickle of thawed water down the stones.

Then Jotta stopped again. Held up a hand.

Owen froze. Followed his gaze.

There… just beyond a narrow drop, half-hidden beneath dried pine needles, was another shape too regular to be natural.

“And that is a tripwire,” Jotta said. “Nicked copper. Would’ve triggered that.” He pointed further ahead, where a chunk of rock had been wedged loose into a makeshift deadfall.

Owen hissed. “Gods. I was just thinking to head over there. That would’ve cracked my skull like an egg.”

“You would have stepped into one like that when I first found you,” Jotta murmured, still crouching.

Owen nodded. “And I’ll never forget that. Seems I owe you my life, twice now.”

Jotta didn’t answer right away. He simply shifted the tripwire slightly, disarming the trap with deft hands.

Owen scratched his beard and gave a low whistle. “I’ve seen men who claim to be scouts. Hunters too. But I’ve never seen anyone read the land like you.”

Jotta stood. “The land speaks. Even when it’s strange. Most just don’t want to hear it.”

“Still. These traps…” Owen looked back toward the ridge. “They’re not placed random. They guard… what, something? Or someone? Both?”

Jotta nodded once. “A line of them. Half-moon pattern. Defensive. Not offensive. Whoever set these is protecting a route, or a place.”

Owen gave a low grunt. “Could be a cave. Or one of the old signal shrines.”

“I’ll know more by dusk,” Jotta said.

“You?” Owen lifted a brow. “You mean we.”

Jotta looked at him. Not hostile. But not smiling either. “You’re heavy on your feet.”

“Hey. I didn’t step on anything this time.”

“Yet.”

Owen grunted again. But he didn’t argue further. He followed in silence up to the point where Jotta left him for an hour.

When he came back the young man shook his head to Owen. “It’s simply too dangerous up there. I found two more traps and they just keep coming. And if any of them are out there watching… I’d be dead before I saw them..”

Owen gave one last glance back toward the ridge, at the scattered brush, the dark gaps between stones, the silence pressing in like a held breath. “Yeah,” he said, voice lower now. “We’ll tell him. Whether he listens… that’s his mess.”

“He ain’t gonna like what we have to say.” Jotta mumbled next to him.