The Warlord's Last Oath

The captured soldiers knelt in the snow, their faces pale, breaths coming in shallow puffs of steam. They had seen how Hakon fought, how his warriors carved through their ranks like a winter storm. Now, stripped of their weapons and armor, they waited for their fate.

Hakon stood before them, his sword resting easily against his shoulder. The night's battle had been swift, decisive—exactly as planned. Behind him, Rorik and Torstein moved through the wreckage of the supply wagons, taking stock of the spoils. Eirik wiped the blood from his axes with a torn piece of cloth, while Vigdis stood watch from the ridge above, her keen eyes scanning for movement.

"Listen well," Hakon said, his voice carrying over the howling wind. "I don't waste good steel. You have two choices." He stepped forward, his boots crunching in the bloodstained snow. "Swear your blades to me and fight against the men who sent you to die in this pass…" He let the words hang for a moment before continuing. "Or walk away, unarmed, into the frozen wilds."

The prisoners exchanged uneasy glances. They knew what the second option meant—death by cold, by hunger, or by the wolves that roamed these mountains.

One man, older than the rest, spat at the ground. "I won't fight for a damned traitor."

Hakon gave a slow nod, then drove his sword into the man's chest without hesitation. The others flinched as the body crumpled.

"I don't need cowards, either," Hakon said, yanking the blade free. "The rest of you—speak now."

A younger soldier, barely more than a boy, swallowed hard. "I'll fight," he said quickly. "King Ulrich doesn't care about us. You fight to kill him? I'll fight with you."

One by one, the rest murmured their agreement.

Rorik stepped forward, looking them over with a hard stare. "Then you're ours now," he said gruffly. "You follow the Blackwolf, or you die forgotten."

Hakon sheathed his sword and turned to Eirik. "Get them food. They march with us at first light."

Eirik gave a sharp nod and moved toward the supply wagons. The prisoners—no, the recruits—stood, their backs a little straighter. They had chosen survival, but they had also chosen war.

As the camp settled into uneasy rest, Hakon looked out over the pass. Snow fell in slow drifts, covering the blood that had been spilled.

This was only the beginning.