Understanding that it was my time to leave, I took a few steps back. "Well, good talk, Nitton. I should be on my way."
"Yes, drengr. Go with Odin."
I pulled my cloak tighter around me and walked toward the gates, I was ready to leave the city behind. The further I went, the more of Ernest's destruction I saw. The wounded lay scattered, makeshift beds hastily arranged on market stalls. Healers moved between them, pleading with merchants for space, their hands red with blood.
As I scanned the scene, my eyes fell upon John. He had his back turned, kneeling beside a wounded man. Slowing my pace, I approached, placing a hand on his shoulder before stepping in front of him. I shifted my cloak just enough to conceal my axes—too many guards were nearby.
"Priest," I said calmly. "This man… one of Ernest's victims?"
John glanced up, his face weary. "Oh, it's you." He grabbed a mortar and pestle from the ground, dropping a few crushed herbs inside. "You guessed right."
"I—I saw you," the injured man rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're that Dane. You helped protect the village."
"Norse," I corrected, voice low. "And I'd like it if you kept that to yourself, hmm?"
The man gave a weak nod. "Y-yes. Of course, hero."
Before I could respond, a panicked voice cut through the air.
"John!"
I turned to see Freydis rushing toward us, her breath ragged, her face slick with sweat despite the cold weather. Her hands trembled as she came to a halt, fear tightening her features. Whatever she had to say, it wasn't good.
"My Ela!" she gasped. "She took five of my best warriors and left! She went to rescue her father and the others!"
John's face darkened as he placed the mortar aside. "Oh, good Lord. No, no, no. Ragnar and his men will carve her apart. How could you let her go, Freydis?"
"She ran off in the night while I was asleep!" she cried. "Please—we have to find her."
John shook his head. "I can't leave the wounded, Freydis." Then, his gaze landed on me. "But you can, Dane."
I exhaled, shaking my head. "I told you before, friend—I don't want anything to do with Ragnar and his men. I don't want any drama or—"
"Please…" Freydis grasped both my hands, her grip desperate. "Please, drengr. You have to help her. I'll reward you. I'll do anything. Just… please."
I froze. A memory surfaced—a time when I had been the one pleading for help, begging the people I trusted. But they were too afraid. No one came. I had gone alone, carrying my father's name on my back, revenge the only thing driving me. Not even my mother had stopped me.
I shut my eyes, then took a step back, exhaling slowly. I couldn't let a child die. And maybe, just maybe, Odin would see this act and let me into his hall despite the dishonor I carried from that cursed raid.
"Fine," I muttered. "But I go alone. Where is Ragnar keeping the prisoners? Ela went there, didn't she?"
"Yes!" Freydis fumbled in her pocket, pulling out a worn map. Her hands shook as she unfolded it. "Here—it's marked. Please, Valrik, save her. She's all I have left. She's not ready for Odin's hall yet."
"I took the map, studied it, and then nodded. "I will, Freydis. You'll be with your daughter. Don't worry."
ᚹᚨᛚᚺᚨᛚᛚᚨ-ᚺᛟᚾᛟᚱ-ᚱᛖᚲᛚᛁᛅᛗ
I hopped off my horse, gripping both axes as I crouched low behind a fallen tree. Below me, Ragnar's men had turned a ruined village into a temporary prison camp. The stench of smoke and rot still clung to the air. Scorched beams jutted from the earth like broken ribs, the skeletal remains of houses that had been set ablaze. A well stood in the center of the camp, its stone rim cracked, the bucket discarded nearby. A collapsed barn leaned on its side, the roof caved in. Scattered among the ruins were overturned carts, shattered doors, and remnants of belongings—torn cloaks, broken pottery, rusting tools. Even the church at the far end of the village had not been spared, its wooden doors hacked apart, a crude banner with Ragnar's sigil nailed across its entrance.
On the far right, I spotted a large cage fashioned from thick wooden beams, bound together with iron bands. Inside, huddled figures sat or stood, their faces hollow with exhaustion. Twenty, maybe thirty people—captives waiting for their fate. Opposite that, another, even larger cage held more prisoners, packed so tightly that some were forced to stand. My eyes scanned both, searching. The girl wasn't among them. That meant she was still alive—either hiding or second-guessing her reckless charge into the camp.
"Okay…" I muttered. "The guards…"
Ragnar's men milled about, comfortable in their victory. One stood near the well, relieving himself against the crumbling stone. Another sat on a barrel, swigging ale from a clay jug, his beard slick with drink. Near the cages, two more entertained themselves with cruelty—one grinning as he smashed a prisoner's face into the dirt with his boot, the other pressing a red-hot knife against a man's arm, delighting in the pained howls. A fifth guard sat on a broken cart, sharpening his sword, humming to himself as sparks danced from the whetstone. Another group, four or five men, stood around a fire pit, roasting meat and laughing at some crude joke. They had grown careless. Overconfident.
"Can't see the kid anywhere…"
I dropped from the hill's lower ridge, landing softly in the dirt. Then, keeping low, I leaped again, reaching the campgrounds. I tucked myself behind an overturned cart, scanning the area. There were at least ten of them—too many for a direct assault. I had to be smart, or they'd cut me down before I could even find the girl.
Crouching low, I crept through the underbrush near the cages. My first target stood by the well, relieving himself, unaware of the death creeping toward him. Silent as a shadow, I emerged from the bushes, wrapped an arm around his neck, and yanked him back into the foliage. His body thrashed, but I clamped down hard. With my free hand, I set my axe on the ground, its blade angled upward. Then, with a brutal shove, I drove his throat onto the steel. A wet, gurgling noise escaped him as blood gushed down his chest, his hands instinctively clawing at the fatal wound. He twitched, spasmed—then went still.
A little further from the well, another man sat slumped on a barrel, nursing a clay jug of ale. He was half-drunk, but still dangerous if given a chance to react. The two guards tormenting the prisoners were facing away, distracted by their cruelty. Taking the opportunity, I slipped from my cover and crept behind the well. I peered out, watching the drinker fumble with his jug. When he reached behind him for another, his foggy eyes met mine.
No time to hesitate. I lunged.
We crashed to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs. The jug shattered, spilling ale across the dirt as we grappled. I scrambled on top of him and slammed my fist into his face, knocking the air from his lungs. Before he could yell for help, I hooked my hands under his arms and dragged him into the husk of a burned house. He struggled, kicking against the charred debris, but I kept my grip firm. I threw him against the blackened wall.
Before he could recover, my axe found his skull. His body slumped, blood dripping down the scorched wood.
I wiped my brow, heart pounding. "Okay… Keep going, Val. Keep going."