I left the cave and made my way down, inhaling the crisp forest air. The rain still fell, steady and unchanging.
Mielda was awake, nibbling at a patch of grass. I walked over, reaching into my small satchel and pulling out an apple. Biting into it, I let the taste settle on my tongue before shifting my attention to my waist. My hands moved instinctively to my sheaths—empty. I needed to retrieve my axes from the blacksmith.
Leaning against Mielda, I chewed my apple and patted her side. The rain, the scent of damp earth—it was calming in a way I hadn't felt in a long time. I could have stood there for another winter if the world allowed it. But there was no time for that.
"No time at all…"
The cold wind stirred memories of home—Norway, the snow crunching beneath my boots each morning. I could almost hear my brother's laughter as we dared each other to dive into freezing waters. We'd always end up sick, scolded by our parents, but we never learned. Those days had hardened me, made me accustomed to bitter weather.
"No sense in waiting… time to get my axes." I tossed away the apple core and turned to Mielda. "Stay here, don't wander off, alright?"
She gave a small nod, almost as if she understood me.
I smiled. "Good girl."
I walked into the forest, listening to the birds chirping on the branches as rain pattered against my hood. The last few days had been strange. If I had never gone on that raid in the first place, maybe I'd still have a clan, a roof over my head. Maybe I wouldn't be waking up from nightmares in a damp, cold cave, far from everything.
After emerging from the trees, I spotted the city's entrance—and a line stretching as long as a longhouse from the front gate to the road. The guards were checking everyone who entered, likely tightening security after yesterday's attack.
"Hmm. Looks like I need to sneak in."
The crowd was restless.
"How much longer?" a merchant with a donkey called out, yanking the reins impatiently. "We've been standing here all morning!"
"This is ridiculous!" a woman yelled. "I should've opened my stall by now!"
"Let us through!"
As I made my way toward the crowd, a familiar voice called out. "Heathen. You came."
I turned and saw the woman who had been reading to the children the other day. She was helping a wounded guard walk, supporting him as they moved toward the gates.
"You," the guard muttered, looking at me. "You were in the village."
"I was."
"Thank you." His words were unexpected. "Ernest's men have been causing trouble for a long time."
Over his shoulder, I noticed two figures watching me from beneath a tree. I focused on them for a moment before realizing who they were—the father and son I had seen hunting a rabbit in the forest. The older man nudged his son, then the two turned and walked away from the city, taking the road in the opposite direction.
I returned my attention to the guard. His arm hung limp, broken. His face was battered, his upper lip cut, and his armor was in tatters. Parts of his tunic were burned.
"Do you know John, the priest?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah," he muttered. "I know him. Tough old bastard."
"I didn't think a man of God would wield a sword like that," I said. "Was he a warrior?"
"Aye," the guard replied. "But after his son died, he turned to God for solace and peace."
"Come," the woman urged. "They take the wounded first. I can get you both inside the city quicker."
"But I'm not wounded."
"Then act like it," she said. "At least I can do that for you."
"Lying in front of your own guard?" I raised an eyebrow.
"You're about to make me change my mind, heathen…"
"Fine," I muttered. "Let's go."
Hunching forward, I clutched my arm as if it were injured. Together, we moved past the line and approached the entrance. The guard at the gate studied us for a moment before giving a small nod, letting us through. We passed without issue, leaving the crowd behind.
The woman wiped her forehead, then spoke briefly with a nearby healer about the wounded guard's condition. When she turned to leave again, I frowned.
"Where are you going?"
"There are more people to help," she said, striding toward the gate. "I can't leave them behind. You wouldn't understand."
She disappeared into the crowd, and I exhaled, adjusting my cloak as I moved forward.
York felt especially grim today. A few people sobbed in the streets. Guards carried bodies through the city—victims from the village, no doubt. They hadn't been able to save everyone.
The rain only made the scene heavier. Keeping my head down, I walked toward the blacksmith, hoping my weapons were ready.
"Ernest…" I muttered. "Troublesome bastard."
Rounding the corner, I spotted the blacksmith at his forge, hammering away at a blade. Beside him stood a boy—his son, most likely—watching closely as he worked. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal filled the air, blending with the distant murmur of the marketplace. As I approached, the blacksmith glanced up, said something to the boy, and sent him hurrying inside.
I stopped a few steps away, crossing my arms as I nodded in greeting.
"Nitton."
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Drengr. You look pale. Like you've seen a troll."
"Or a nightmare," I muttered. "The kind that vanishes the moment you wake up."
"Ah," Nitton exhaled through his nose, tossing his hammer into the air and catching it with ease. "Those are the worst."
The door to the shop creaked open, and the boy emerged, carrying my axes. His small hands gripped the weapons tightly, and as he stepped closer, he hesitated, glancing up at his father for reassurance. Nitton gave him a nod, and the boy extended the axes toward me.
I lowered myself to one knee, meeting him at eye level. A warm smile found its way onto my face.
"Thank you," I said as I took them from his hands. I tested the weight, swinging them lightly. The balance was perfect. "Feels like new."
"Better than ever," Nitton said. "I reforged the hilts, sharpened both blades."
"And all for free." I got up and slid the axes into their sheaths. "The deal of the century."
"Heh," he scoffed, shaking his head before turning back to his work. "I heard Freydis offered you a job. But you didn't take it?"
"She wanted me to save the rest of her clan," I said. "But I don't like getting tangled in drama. Crossing paths with Ragnar again is the last thing I want."
Nitton grunted, his hammer striking metal in steady rhythm.
I watched him for a moment before speaking again. "I know Ragnar is unhinged, that his way of thinking is… different. But I don't think he'd slaughter an entire clan just because they refused to help him."
The hammer paused mid-swing. Nitton's grip tightened around the handle. He let out a long breath before setting the tool down beside a barrel. Without a word, he placed a hand on his son's shoulder and motioned for him to go inside. The boy obeyed without question, disappearing into the shop.
Nitton dusted off his hands and finally met my gaze.
"Freydis stole from him," he said.
I raised an eyebrow. "Stole what?"
"Medicine." His voice was quieter now, edged with something heavier than frustration—regret, maybe. "The last raid we did went bad. We didn't expect fifteen guards to be there."
"So you stole to treat the wounded?"
He nodded. "Freydis tried to trade with Ragnar first. He agreed—but he wanted men in return. We refused. So… she took it."
I frowned. "I thought she had coin. Why didn't she just buy it?"
"We did," Nitton said, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Bought yarrow and willow bark from the market. But Ernest stole it."
At the mention of that name, I felt my jaw clench. "I keep hearing about this Ernest. Who is he, really?"
Nitton let out a harsh laugh, though there was no humor in it. "A rat. A backstabbing, lying son of a bitch." His fingers curled around the hammer again, and with each word, he brought it down onto the blade with more force. "Because of him, we had to steal from Ragnar. Because of him, we were punished!"
I watched him in silence, letting the weight of his anger settle.
"Your Jarl," I said after a moment. "Freydis—"
"It was her husband, Thrainr. He was our Jarl."
"Right." I nodded, recalling what Freydis had told me. "She said most of the men were captured, not killed. That true?"
Nitton exhaled sharply, his grip loosening on the hammer. "It is." His voice had softened. "Ragnar was… merciful. He only killed those who raised an axe against him. The rest—" His expression darkened. "The rest couldn't even lift a finger, they were sick. Wounded."
"A shame," I muttered.
He didn't respond, just stared at the blade in front of him, the firelight reflecting off the metal like dying embers.