Ivar could not help but curse under his breath as he thought about how the crow commander had swindled him. After returning to his settlement, he had gone back to the Wall with furs, salt, and other goods, expecting to gain more from the trade this time. He had even had Ylva and Freya craft the furs into proper coats, thinking they would fetch a higher price, especially among the black-cloaked brothers of the Crows. Instead, the Crow Commander had barely given the coats more than a passing glance before offering a pitifully low price.
Ivar had seen through it at once. The crow commander clearly wanted the furs but was playing his hand carefully, feigning indifference to drive the price down. What Ivar had not expected, however, was the man's blunt remark when he tried to stand firm and refused to sell at that price. The crow commander had simply asked who else he intended to sell them to, other wildlings?
That was when Ivar realized he had been cornered. With no real alternative, he had little choice but to accept the deal.
The memory still left a bitter taste in his mouth. The crow commander was a miser through and through, more merchant than warrior, and Ivar swore to himself that once his current tasks were complete, he would find a way to bypass the crows and no longer rely on them for trade. Perhaps he could climb the Wall, pass himself off as a northerner, and sell his goods in White Harbor. Or perhaps they would finally seize an opportunity to steal a ship when the slave ships returned. Whatever path he chose or available for him, Ivar was already thinking of how best to profit from it, as he had little desire to deal with the crows again after their last exchange.
Now, crouched on higher ground, he forced those thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand. Below him lay Jorund's settlement, its outer edges dimly visible in the fading light. Around him gathered the warriors who would strike alongside him once the night deepened, each waiting in tense silence for the moment to descend upon the camp.
This time, he had brought another fifty men to reinforce his ranks, along with three more to replace those lost from the original group. In total, he now commanded a hundred warriors for the coming raid. It was a small force compared to the thousands under Jorund's command, but that had never been the point.
He had no intention of clashing head-on with a force that large. Instead, they would strike swiftly at the outer edges of the camp, sow chaos and fear, and withdraw in good order before the enemy could properly respond. It was not a battle he sought, but a calculated blow that would ignite another bloodshed between Jorund and Sylas.
He was pulled from his thoughts when Torren arrived crouched beside him, speaking in a low voice so as not to alert the enemy below. "Ivar, Maera and Hilde sent me. The meal's ready. They're askin' if ye want to eat before the attack… or after."
Ivar considered it for a brief moment before giving a decisive nod. "We eat first. The men will need their strength for what's comin'. No sense sendin' them into a fight on empty stomachs."
"Aye," Torren replied, dipping his head before slipping away to pass along the order.
The message spread quickly among the gathered warriors, and though a few managed faint smiles at the thought of food, the tension in their ranks remained clear. Beneath that brief flicker of relief lingered a quiet unease and nervous anticipation, none of them could fully hide the weight of what awaited in the darkness ahead as they prepared to strike a camp that held more than twenty times their number.
Ivar saw the unease plainly enough, but he found himself at a loss for how to ease it. Perhaps he should say something after they ate, something to stir their fighting spirit and steady their nerves. He considered it seriously, yet when he tried to form the words, nothing came. A wry smile tugged at his lips at the realization.
No matter, he decided. He would think of something after the meal. Perhaps his mind would work better on a full stomach.
They soon reached their camp, set far enough from Jorund's settlement and hidden well enough to shelter the hundred warriors he had brought with him. Ivar made his way straight to Maera, who handed him a portion of food large enough for three men. He accepted it without comment and moved to the side, eating quietly while his thoughts turned once more to the raid ahead. He pictured the attack from different angles, imagining how it might unfold, weighing the risks and the losses. When he finally judged the likely cost acceptable, he forced himself to stop and tried instead to think of the words he would say to his men.
Yet even after finishing the meal Maera had given him, no speech came to mind. He shook his head slightly and took a long drink from the ale Hilde passed to him, letting the bitterness settle his thoughts. Rising to his feet, he began to walk through the camp, both to settle his stomach and to speak with his warriors one by one. Since he could not find the right words for a speech, he would instead talk to them plainly, easing their worries as best he could. If they saw him calm and untroubled, perhaps that alone would steady them.
He spent nearly an hour moving among them, exchanging brief words here and there, offering quiet reassurances or simple conversation. By the time he noticed that most of them had finished eating and were either pacing about or standing in small groups as they let their food settle, he decided it was time.
He had Torren gather the warriors in the wide clearing just beyond their camp, while he himself arrived first and waited. One by one, they assembled before him until all stood in a rough formation, their attention fixed on him.
As Ivar looked over them, he felt the weight of it settle upon him. These were not just warriors, they were lives now tied to his decisions. Whether they lived or died in the coming hours would depend, in no small part, on him.
He steadied himself, pushing the thought aside, and let his gaze sweep across their faces before he finally spoke.
"Ye already know what we're about to do, so I won't waste words repeatin' it," he said, his voice calm but serious. "But if….. when the fighting comes and any of ye feel any fear, any fear at all.... then I want ye lot to look fer me. I'll be at the front, cuttin' down anyone in our path. If that ain't enough to give ye courage, then I know nothin' else that will."
He paused, letting the words settle and let his warriors murmur at each other before continuing, his tone turning firmer. "And hear this well, when the horn sounds for retreat, ye fall back at once. No hesitation. No stragglin'. Me, Torren and Hilde will cover yer retreat. But if I saw anyone still fightin' even after the sound of retreat had been repeated three times. I'll cut ye down meself. Is that understood?"
"Aye!"
"Aye!"
He listened to the shouts of affirmation from his warriors and gave a firm nod, letting his gaze sweep over them one last time before raising his voice with quiet authority. "Move out."
Ivar watched as Torren took the lead, guiding the warriors toward their assigned hiding place near Jorund's settlement. By now, Torren knew the paths well enough that Ivar felt no concern about them losing their way. As for lookouts and scouts, those had already been accounted for, and he trusted Torren to handle such matters without issue.
Hilde stepped up beside him, her eyes following the last of the warriors as they disappeared into the trees. Only when they were gone did Ivar begin walking after them at a measured pace, glancing toward her as he asked, "Ye already sent word to the crows?"
"Aye," Hilde replied with a nod as she fell into step beside him. "Our men just returned. The crows said they'll be watchin' the fight, and they agreed to the payment, grain and some fruits. Enough to fill our wagon, they said."
"That's good," Ivar murmured, nodding in approval. Since there would be no time to collect and separate the heads of their fallen enemies, he had chosen instead to have the crows witness the battle and pay according to their agreement. Business was business, after all, and he intended to wring every bit of value from them in return for the insult he had suffered at the hands of their miserly Crow commander.
After a while, as they drew closer to Jorund's settlement, Ivar spoke again, his tone quieter but more serious. "Be careful later. I may have said we'll cover the retreat, but if ye find yerself at a real disadvantage, pull back first. I won't hold it against ye no matter what happens. Ye're more important than a handful of warriors, at least to me."
Hilde paused for a heartbeat at that, clearly caught off guard. A flicker of something complicated passed through her expression before she steadied herself and gave a firm nod. "I know. I won't throw me life away for a pack o' greenhorns. I've still years ahead o' me, and ye promised we'd see south o' the Wall. I won't be leavin' my bones out here."
Ivar chuckled softly at that, shaking his head as they continued forward, the distant outline of Jorund's settlement slowly coming into view. He said nothing more, his focus sharpening as the night deepened around them and the moment of action drew ever closer.
—--------
The fire crackled inside the tent, though its warmth did little to drown out the low moans and the rhythmic clash of bodies.
"Ah…"
"Ah…"
Jorund moved like a man possessed, driven by raw instinct as he pounded into the woman before him. On either side, two others clung to him, their teeth grazing his ears and sending waves of sensation through his body. The intensity of it all made him growl, his hands roaming freely as he grabbed at the flesh of the woman nearest him.
"Grrr…"
The tension built until it finally broke, and he released himself with a rough exhale. The woman beneath him cried out sharply, her voice rising as she felt him finish.
"Aaaaaaah!"
Moments later, she slumped back against the furs, her body going limp as exhaustion overtook her.
Jorund rose, still breathing heavily, his hands lingering on the women who remained close to him. Reaching for a nearby cup, he took a long gulp of mead before letting out a satisfied breath.
"Ah…"
He glanced down at the two women still pressing against him. "Ye want it too?"
They gave no verbal answer, instead biting lightly into his flesh, which only stirred him again. With a rough motion, he chose one of them and pushed her onto the furs, continuing just like earlier without restraint.
Yet even in the midst of it, his thoughts turned bitter. The losses he had suffered against Sylas gnawed at him, hundreds of men gone in skirmishes that had not even grown into a proper battle. The frustration boiled within him, feeding the aggression in his movements. He had already begun holding his forces back, waiting for a better opportunity, but the thought of Sylas still made his blood run hot.
When the time came, he swore, he would carve the man apart himself.
He shifted again, dragging another woman closer as he continued, his anger bleeding into every motion. At first, the distant noise outside his tent barely registered. It sounded like his men were at their usual rough play, perhaps sparring or drinking away the night. He paid it no mind, intent on finishing what he had started.
But the noise grew louder. Shouts replaced laughter, and the tension outside sharpened into something unmistakably wrong.
"Fuck…"
With an irritated curse, he shoved the woman aside and forced himself to his feet, though his legs felt unsteady beneath him. He pushed aside the fur covering his tent and stepped out into the cold night.
What he saw made him pause. Men were running in all directions, panic spreading through the camp, and flames flickered in the distance where parts of the settlement were already burning. One of his men rushed toward him, breath ragged.
"Jorund! We're under attack!"
"What?!"
Shock gave way to anger in an instant. Who would dare strike his settlement? Sylas again? The memory of the intrusion moons ago flashed in his mind and his jaw tightened.
"Who dares attack my camp?" he snarled. "Gather the men! We'll cut these bastards down!"
"Aye! They're already gatherin'! Some've gone ahead, look, those fires mark where they struck!"
"What are ye waitin' for then? Tell 'em to wait for me!"
Without another word, Jorund turned back into his tent and hastily dressed. When he stepped out again, his body protested, his legs turned jelly from earlier battles he had with his women, but he forced himself onward.
Outside, his trusted men had already gathered. He gave them a sharp nod as he moved past them, his stride heavy but determined.
"Let's go! We'll make 'em pay!"
"Aye!"
"Yah!"
They surged forward, following him toward the outer fringes of their settlement where several tents were set aflames. But as they neared, a horn sounded, sharp and unmistakable. The attackers began to withdraw just as swiftly as they had struck, melting away into the darkness.
Jorund barely spared a glance for the bodies left behind. His attention was drawn instead to a lone figure still fighting, a man cutting through his warriors as though they were nothing but tamed beasts. For a brief moment, Jorund slowed, taken aback by the sight.
Then he heard their enemies' shouts rising above the clash of steel as they retreated.
"For Sylas!"
"For Sylas!"
The cries rang out again and again, leaving no room for doubt who had attacked him. Whoever had struck his settlement had come in Sylas's name. The realization settled heavily in his chest, and his expression darkened as anger flared anew. He swore again then and there that he would not rest until he had cut Sylas down with his own hands.
Rage snapped him back to the present.
"What are ye waitin' for?!" he roared. "Attack! Don't let 'em escape! Cut 'em down! Cut 'em to pieces"
His men rushed past him, shouting as they gave chase to the retreating enemy. Jorund tried to follow, but after only a few steps, his legs gave way beneath him, and he pitched forward, face-first into the snow.
Spitting out the cold powder from his mouth, his face flushed red with fury, he slammed a fist into the ground and bellowed in frustration and anger.
"Fuuuuccck!"
—-------
Ivar ran through the trees, not at his full sprint but fast enough that his pursuers could still catch glimpses of him in the dark. He had already split off from Hilde, Torren, and the rest of his warriors to ensure their escape remained unimpeded, deliberately drawing the bulk of their enemies after him instead.
When he sensed that only three warriors remained close behind him, he came to an abrupt halt and turned on them. They barely had time to process his sudden stop before he closed the distance in a heartbeat. Steel flashed, and in the next instant, their bodies collapsed as their heads fell into the snow, their expressions frozen in shock.
Ivar lingered only briefly, allowing time for more of Jorund's men to catch up. When he heard them drawing near, he took off again, leading them deeper into the trees. He had no intention of fighting the bulk of Jorund's men tonight, but he would at least thin their numbers as much as possible. Opportunities like this were rare, and he intended to make the most of it.
Glancing back, he counted only four more giving chase. He slowed once more, stopping just long enough to draw them in. One of them loosed an arrow, but Ivar twisted aside with ease, the shaft passing harmlessly through the space he had just occupied. In the next breath, he surged forward, closing the gap before they could react. The outcome was no different than before, swift, decisive, and final as he cut through them with ease.
He exhaled slowly, scanning the darkened forest as he waited for more to arrive. When none came, a faint note of disappointment crept into his expression. With no further pursuit, he turned to the fallen enemies before him, gathering their weapons and stripping them of their furs, leaving the bodies behind in the cold.
Once satisfied with what he had taken, Ivar set off again, moving deeper into the forest for several minutes before finally angling back toward their camp, the night swallowing his figure as he disappeared among the trees.
It did not take him long to return. The camp was already alive with movement, men hurrying to and fro, voices overlapping in a low, constant murmur, while now and then a sharper cry rose from those tending to fresh wounds. Ivar had expected as much. Hilde would already be directing the efforts, making sure the injured were seen to.
He gave a few quiet nods as he passed by his warriors, then dropped the weapons and furs he had gathered beside his tent before lowering himself to sit for a while. For a moment, he simply listened to the bustle of men, the crackle of fires, and the occasional groan of pain while letting his body recover from the exertion. When he felt steady enough again, he pushed himself to his feet and began walking through the camp.
He spoke to the survivors of their first real battle, offering a few words here and there, and stopped often among the wounded, praising their efforts and commenting on their strength in the fight. It cost him nothing to bolster their spirits, and he knew that a few well-placed words could do more than any order in steadying their nerves.
In return, the warriors looked at him with something new in their eyes, admiration, and a growing respect. Many of them had been unsure of him before, wary of being led by someone not much older than themselves, but they kept quiet about it as they knew that if they wanted something to eat and shelter to sleep in, they had to obey whatever the elders or Ulf, Torren and the others ordered them to. Yet what they had seen that night had swept those doubts aside. They had watched him stand at the forefront, cutting down enemies as though they were nothing, moving through the chaos with a confidence that made even seasoned fighters bigger than him hesitate. That alone had left its mark, rooting his place firmly in their minds as their leader.
Ivar, however, paid little mind to their thoughts. He continued moving through the camp, speaking where he could, making sure his presence was felt. If nothing else, it would keep them steady. Only when fatigue began to weigh on him once more did he return to his tent, where he found Hilde already waiting.
The timing suited him. He gave her a brief nod as he shrugged off his fur coat, his voice steady as he asked, "How many did we lose?"
Hilde grimaced, raising both hands and spreading her fingers. "Ten. And many more wounded. Some… might not be able to fight again."
Ivar had expected the losses, yet the number still made him wince. He forced the reaction down quickly. This was the cost of what he was trying to build, stronger warriors, hardened by real battle. Without it, there would be no future for them in these lands.
He moved to wash the blood and grime from his hands, body and face before speaking again. "See to the wounded. Let 'em know they won't be cast out. We'll take care of 'em, but they'll still work for the clan whenever they can."
"Aye," Hilde replied, nodding. "Anything else?"
He dried himself off and shook his head. "Nay. Get some rest when ye can, and make sure we've got lookouts through the night."
With another nod, she turned and left the tent.
Ivar sank down onto the lone stool, letting out a slow breath. Sylas's warriors still lay ahead of them, and he could not help but wonder how many of his men would remain fit to fight after that. The thought lingered for a moment before he pushed it aside. There would be time enough to worry about it later.
For now, he needed rest.
He lay down on the furs, and within moments of closing his eyes, sleep claimed him.
—-------
The next day, Ivar met the crows not far away from his camp. The way they watched him had changed; he could feel it in their gaze, wariness, even a hint of fear. It did not take long for him to understand why. His display in the fight the night before must have left a deep impression on them. He would have preferred not to reveal so much of his strength, but holding back would only have cost more of his men their lives, and that was a price he refused to pay. If the crows now looked at him differently, then so be it.
Still, he greeted them with the same easy manner as before. He did not even reach for the blade at his side, instead raising both hands in a casual gesture as he approached.
"Oi! What's with those looks?" he called out with a grin. "I didn't do anythin' wrong, did I? Why are ye starin' at me like I killed yer mothers or somethin'?"
Brandon's expression eased slightly at the familiar tone, and he signaled for his men to relax. After what they had witnessed, none of them could afford to take this red-haired wildling lightly. Charging headlong into a group of enemies and cutting them down as though they were nothing…
If Brandon had not seen it with his own eyes, he would have scoffed at such a tale had it been told to him. Even considering that he had lost to the brat in every spar they had, it still would not compare to facing multiple enemies at once. Yet he had seen it, clearly, undeniably, and there was no dismissing it now.
He could only accept the truth before him, the red-haired brat was dangerous. And, as the thought settled in, Brandon could not help but wonder if the boy had been holding back all this time whenever they sparred.
"We saw how you fought last night," Brandon said, studying him closely. "You stood at the front of your men and cut through your enemies like they were butter. Tell me, brat, where did you learn to fight like that?"
Ivar chuckled lightly. "From my father, o' course. The rest I figured out myself along the way. If ye don't believe me, then there's nothin' I can do about it."
Brandon shook his head faintly. The answer was too simple for what they had seen, yet he knew better than to press further.
"So… when are you plannin' to strike Sylas?" Brandon continued instead. "I'll be watchin' that fight as well, so you'd best inform us beforehand."
Ivar tilted his head slightly. "We just fought last night, so I can't say yet. But that's not why we're here." His grin widened. "We came for our payment. The wagon's ready, when are we headin' back to yer black castle?"
Brandon's face twitched faintly, and a few of the men beside him exchanged looks. The more they dealt with this brat, the harder he was to pin down. One moment he was a fearsome warrior, the next he spoke like a seasoned trader.
Still, an agreement was an agreement. Brandon gave a short nod. "We leave today. But I expect you to move against Sylas soon after we return."
"Aye, don't worry about that," Ivar replied easily. "My men'll be movin' our camp closer to Sylas's settlement while we head to Castle Black, so we'll be ready to strike once we've got our payment for Jorund." He paused, then added with a sly smile, "We'll be gettin' the same price for attackin' Sylas, aye? Might as well pay us in advance so we don't have to make another trip after."
Brandon snorted. "Do you even have another wagon? Last I saw, you only had one. As for payment, aye, it'll be the same, but you'll get it after the job's done."
Ivar's smile faltered slightly. The second wagon had only just been completed back at their settlement, and he had not had the chance to bring it along. Still, the arrangement was acceptable.
"I suppose ye're right," he said with a shrug. After a brief pause, he added, "I'll head back to my camp first to ready my men and supplies. We'll meet here again at noon."
Seeing Brandon nod, Ivar returned the gesture before turning away and making his way back toward his camp.
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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.