The Warlord's Last Oath

The campfire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the snow-laden ground. Hakon sat on a fallen log, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. Around him, his warriors rested, some eating, others tending to their weapons. The newly recruited men kept their distance, their eyes darting between each other, still uncertain of their place among the Blackwolf's pack.

Rorik crouched beside him, tossing a stripped bone into the flames. "You think they'll hold when the real fighting starts?" He nodded toward the fresh recruits, who huddled together, their faces still carrying the weight of the day's slaughter.

"They will," Hakon said without looking up. "Or they'll die. Either way, they won't be a problem for long."

Torstein chuckled from where he was mending a tear in his armor. "That's one way to look at it." He leaned back against a supply crate. "We need to move before dawn. Ulrich's men will realize something is wrong soon, and I'd rather not be here when they send a scouting party."

Hakon nodded. "Agreed. We take what we need and burn the rest."

Vigdis approached, her bow slung over one shoulder, a fresh kill—a hare—hanging from her belt. "Scouted ahead. There's movement in the valley, a small group. Could be scouts, could be deserters."

Hakon frowned. "How many?"

"Five, maybe six. Moving carefully, not like they're on patrol."

Rorik grunted. "Might be survivors from the attack. Could be looking for shelter."

"Or they could be looking for revenge," Torstein added.

Hakon stood, tucking his whetstone away. "We'll find out soon enough. Vigdis, take Eirik and circle around. If they're a threat, put them down. If they're useful, bring them in."

Vigdis nodded, already moving toward Eirik, who stood sharpening his axes.

The rest of the camp moved with practiced efficiency. Supplies were packed, weapons checked. The remains of the enemy wagons were doused in oil, torches readied.

Minutes later, a distant cry cut through the silence, followed by the wet sound of steel meeting flesh.

Torstein smirked. "Sounds like they weren't friendly."

Hakon merely watched as Vigdis and Eirik returned, blood on their blades. "Three dead," Vigdis reported. "Two ran. One surrendered. He's coming with us."

She motioned, and a man was pushed forward—young, lean, with fear in his eyes. His hands were bound, but he didn't resist.

Hakon stepped forward, looking him over. "Who are you?"

The man swallowed. "A soldier of King Ulrich," he admitted. "Or… I was." He hesitated before adding, "I don't want to die for him."

Hakon studied him for a long moment, then cut the bindings from his wrists.

"Then fight for something else."

The man hesitated, then slowly nodded.

The firelight flickered as Hakon turned back to his men. "We march before dawn. Be ready."

Behind him, the flames rose higher as the supply wagons burned. The Blackwolf's war was just beginning.