Chill wind bit into Ragnar Wolfsbane’s knuckles as he gripped his shield and spear. He planted his feet into solid earth, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the shield wall with his brother warriors.
Frost lay in the shadows, throwing blue ripples towards the patches of harsh sunlight.
Ragnar braced himself with gritted teeth as his opponents smashed into him, shields clashing with shields, spears, and swords jutting this way and that.
The berserker cries did little to mask the cold.
A spear point thrust past Ragnar’s guard, jabbing his shoulder. With a cry, he fell backwards, letting an opening develop in the wall.
A man jerked Ragnar’s shield aside, hacking and slashing his sword, felling young men like stems of summer wheat. Each strike sent a bolt of pain along Ragnar’s arms, in spite of the blunted weapons.
Within a few heartbeats, the shield wall collapsed, the young men sprawling to the ground.
“Enough.” Ragnar’s Uncle Olaf drew a hand down his braided beard, his lip curling as he eyed each of them in turn. Leather straps crossed his chest, while fur leggings clad his thighs. Even in the cold, he wore only a light tunic, leaving his arms bare to the shoulders. Dozens of silver kill bands jangled on his forearms, catching the light of the harsh winter sun.
All around Ragnar, fellow warriors in training slumped to the ground, panting, and cursing, and wiping sweat from their brows.
“Useless. Absolutely useless.” Olaf sneered at the trainees as he walked along the line, the gnarled scar down his cheek twisting with his words. “You cannot even hold the wall, let alone attack from behind the shields.” He stopped and glowered at one of the taller lads. “Why are you so pathetic?” His gaze swept along the broken line and lingered on Ragnar. “You are supposed to be warriors, not peasants.” He pointed to the sea. “How will you protect Meerand if the Northern Reachmen return?”
A warm sensation pressed against Ragnar’s mind, a tendril of something like liquid slithering into his thoughts.
Olaf’s words faded into the background, nothing more than a jumble of sounds on the wind.
Ragnar slammed up his mind’s barriers, picturing an impenetrable shield wall, and he cast his gaze to the skies for what he knew must be there.
Three years earlier, during his twelfth summer, Ragnar had felt the same sensation when a wyvern from the north had presented itself to him and his friend Kest. But as he scanned for the creature, he saw nothing but icy clouds and grey skies.
He started at his uncle looming over him. “Am I boring you, boy?” Olaf sneered at him. “Is there something on the walls that demands your attention? Something more important than listening to me?”
“Yes, uncle…”
“Yes, sir!” Olaf delivered a backhanded slap to Ragnar’s cheek, jerking his head to the side and sending him to the ground.
“Yes, sir.” Ragnar rubbed his chin and dipped his gaze. “Sorry, sir. I just—”
“There is nothing more important than listening to me.” Olaf took a moment to glare at all the lads before returning his attention to Ragnar. “Because of your failure, you are all dead. One man cut seven of you down and broke the wall before you even had a chance to attack. Your mothers and sisters are raped. Your fathers are murdered and your lands, taken. The rest of your people are enslaved, and it’s all your fault.” He jabbed a finger at Ragnar. “Get up.”
Ragnar got to his feet.
“What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”
“Sir, there’s a wyvern.”
“A wyvern?” Olaf shielded his eyes and glanced up at the sky. “Can anyone else see a wyvern? I don’t see one.”
“There is a wyvern. I swear it in the eyes of Creation.”
Olaf squared up to Ragnar. “Are you calling me a liar, boy?”
“No, sir. I can feel it inside my thoughts.” He looked for support from the others, but a few of the trainees snickered. “Can’t you feel that?”
“Your thoughts are addled, boy.”
Though Ragnar was the son of Meerand’s Chieftain, Olaf gave him no special treatment. Ragnar bunked with the other lads and took his beatings in the same way. Indeed, some days it seemed Olaf had special torments in mind for him alone.
Ragnar raised his chin and gripped the chalice he wore around his neck—a constant reminder of Creation’s abundance, and a gift from his late mother. “I told you what I felt, sir. My word is stone.”
Olaf spat on the ground. “Your word is nothing, boy.” He glanced up at the sky again. “Where is it? Show me. Show the others.” He leaned back and cupped his hands. “Oh, wyvern! Oh, wyvern! Come out and reveal yourself. Ragnar knows you are hiding.”
A few of the trainees laughed. Others whispered to one another.
The laughter stopped when a dark shadow crossed over the training ground.
Olaf looked up, paling at the sight of the dark-winged creature above them. The wyvern circled the castle twice before heading back out over the Braun Sea.
Olaf grunted but did not meet Ragnar’s gaze. “Pair up. Spar.” He spun on his heels and marched towards the castle.
Ragnar gravitated towards Kest Jorensohn, who grabbed a blunt mace and shield.
Ragnar took up his favourite shortsword and dagger, holding the dagger in his right hand, sword in his left.
Kest gestured to the blades. “You’re not still piddling around with those?”
Ragnar shrugged. “Not afraid, are you?”
“Me? Never.” Kest grinned and slipped into a ready stance. “But if your father catches you, you’ll be in crap again.”
“I don’t care what he says.” Ragnar began to circle his friend. “When I’m a master, he’ll eat his words.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Ragnar shifted forward and struck past Kest’s guard. “You know this is the superior technique.”
Kest gave a quick nod and held up his shield. “If it’s so bloody great, why are you in the shield wall with the rest of us?”
“Just to make you all feel better.” Ragnar gave a half-smile. “I was gracing you with my impressive presence.”
“You’re about as impressive as narwhal crap.”
Ragnar laughed and ducked Kest’s mace.
“Almost got you, there.” Kest pushed Ragnar back with his shield and swung again. “You know it’s true, don’t you?”
“What?”
“That if someone put you next to a steaming pile of narwhal crap, everyone would point at the turd and go, ‘Ooh, look at that.’ They wouldn’t even notice you.”
Ragnar grinned. “Just shut up and fight.” He danced backwards, spun, and pressed his blunted dagger against Kest’s throat. “That’s two.”
“This is supposed to be training, Rag. You nearly took my bloody head off with that.”
“Nearly.” Ragnar stuck his tongue out and slipped back into stance.
Kest roared and charged forward, swinging the mace down in a vertical arc.
Ragnar sidestepped, tripped Kest, sending him to the dirt, and stood over him with his sword point pressed against his friend’s chest.
He helped Kest to stand. “You want to yield?”
Kest shook his head and adjusted his helmet. “I’ll just have to start making an effort.” He circled Ragnar. “Tell me, Rag. How did you know that wyvern was there?”
Ragnar aimed a backhanded cut at him. “It’s like that big red one a few years back.”
“When?”
“Three summers ago up on the bluffs. Back when we had that boys’ tourney.”
Kest looked puzzled.
“You were there.”
Kest shook his head and shoved against Ragnar with his shield. He hooked a foot around Ragnar’s ankle and knocked him to the ground. Standing over him with his mace raised for the killing blow, Kest grinned. “One to me.”
“I let you have that.” Ragnar got to his feet. “It’s only right that I do something to prevent your tears and misery.”
Kest feigned a blow with the edge of his shield, cursing when Ragnar threw himself backwards.
The pair exchanged blows alongside the other trainees until Kest halted and stared out to sea, the sparring seemingly forgotten.
“I’m not falling for your trap.”
Kest shook his head, his mouth dropping open, and gestured to the Braun Sea.
Ragnar followed Kest’s gaze and gaped at the dark ships dotting the horizon—hundreds of them.
—–
Maja stood motionless before the Hammer of Wolfsbane, its deep black surface absorbing the meadhall’s dim light. The artefact’s shifting form filled her vision as the weight of its power pressed against her.
She reached out tentatively, her fingers hovering just inches from the ravenglass. She sensed the hammer was no mere object but a connection to another mind, another place beyond her own, something distant, something ancient, something…other. It was as if the relic were alive, and she could sense a consciousness stirring within.
As she stared, Maja sensed the faint whisper of a consciousness that was not her own. She cleared her thoughts and stilled her breaths, allowing herself to form a connection with the object.
But whenever she felt the hints of connection, it was as if she caught her reflection in water, the solid image turning to ripples.
Creation had gifted her the ability to sense the threads that bound all living things, but this connection ran deeper, eluding her understanding.
Warning bells echoed through Meerand, shaking the ground beneath Maja’s feet. How long had they tolled?
She spun around, her heart racing as she caught sight of her father, Ragnar the Elder, storming into the meadhall. His eyes locked onto hers, and a pang of guilt struck her chest.
“What are you doing in here?”
Maja stumbled back, searching for an excuse. “Nothing.”
“You know not to touch this.”
“I didn’t touch it.” She met her father’s gaze and sensed his fear and anger. She pushed out a wave of love and reassurance, which softened his expression.
He reached out to ruffle her hair. “Come, Maja.” He took the hammer down from the wall and gestured to the door. “The Empire is here.”
—–
Warning bells rang across Meerand Castle as Ragnar made his way up to the top of the keep to join his father and uncle on the battlements.
Sweat from his palms slickened his bow, and he wondered how he could nock an arrow with trembling fingers.
Ragnar tried his best to hide his fear from his father, and gazed across the bay at the black-hulled ships of the Ostreich Empire.
His father looked through a long-sight glass, which he then passed to Olaf, the younger man lifting it to his own eye.
Out of Ragnar’s earshot, they exchanged heated words, whispering harshly to each other as his father’s bodyguard, Brandt, looked on.
“What are they saying?” Ragnar asked.
Brandt gave a helpless shrug. He held a shimmering greatsword, its pommel a carved wolf baring its fangs.
Olaf strode off, leaving the three of them alone.
Screams rose from the town below as the next wave of invaders made land.
Townsfolk streamed towards the castle, fleeing their homes and businesses.
Ragnar the Elder rubbed his brow and watched, his face a stoic mask behind his beard.
Kest and some of the other lads arrived, each with their own bow and quiver, ready to mount a defence.
“If they get me, make sure I’ve got a weapon in my hand,” Kest said, sidling up to Ragnar.
“Creation would never believe you’re a true warrior.”
Kest rolled his eyes. “Swear it, Rag. Please.”
Ragnar had never heard such a serious tone from his friend. “I will.” He gripped Kest’s shoulder. “But it won’t come to that. We’re warriors, proud and true, and we’ll defend our home and send these arseholes back to Ostreich.” Ragnar turned to meet his father’s gaze.
“We cannot win, son.” Ragnar the Elder shook his head. “There are too many of them.”
“But, Father—”
“It’s done, Ragnar.” His father squeezed the bridge of his nose and took in a long breath. “Olaf is sending a bird as we speak.”
Ragnar frowned. “A bird? What kind of bird?”
“To offer our surrender.”
“Surrender?” Ragnar’s eyes bulged. “No. We can’t just give in.”
“Look down there, son.” He pointed to the harbour. “Count the ships. There are nearly two hundred of them, each carrying at least fifty men, armed and ready to fight.”
“But you always said—”
Ragnar the Elder waved a silencing hand. “We have a force of sixty warriors and half that number of young ones in training.” He held his eyes closed for a long moment. “They will slaughter everyone if we don’t give them what they want.”
The Ostreich soldiers stood poised and armoured in long, straight rows, each man wielding a spear and shield, their faces obscured by steel helmets.
Anger rose in Ragnar’s chest—anger at the invaders, anger at his father’s cowardice, and anger at his own fear.
A horn blared, and the soldiers turned as one. They marched towards the castle.
