The Warlord's Last Oath

The scent of burning wood and scorched flesh lingered in the crisp morning air as Hakon led his warriors away from the smoldering remains of the enemy camp. Their breath misted in the cold, their boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. Behind them, the last of the supply wagons collapsed into embers, ensuring nothing of value remained for Ulrich's forces.

The newly recruited deserter, still adjusting to his sudden change in allegiance, kept close to Rorik. He moved stiffly, the weight of fear still evident in his eyes.

"What's your name?" Rorik asked, breaking the silence.

The young man hesitated. "Leif."

"Leif," Rorik repeated, as if testing the sound. "You ever killed a man before?"

Leif shook his head. "Not like that. Not up close."

Rorik smirked. "You'll learn."

Hakon, walking ahead of the group, raised a hand, signaling them to halt. Vigdis, scouting ahead, had returned, her expression grim.

"Ulrich's men are on the move," she reported, keeping her voice low. "They found the bodies from last night. There's a group trailing us—maybe twenty men, moving fast."

Torstein cursed under his breath. "They're not wasting time."

Hakon considered their options. They were outnumbered, but the terrain favored them. Dense forests stretched along the hills, offering places to disappear—or to lay an ambush.

"We won't run," he decided. "We'll make them bleed."

His warriors exchanged knowing glances. They had followed him long enough to understand his mind. Running was not an option.

Hakon gestured toward a narrow pass ahead. "We set the trap there. Vigdis, take to the trees with the archers. Rorik, Torstein, you'll take the left flank. I'll hold the center."

Leif, standing at the edge of the group, swallowed hard. "What do you want me to do?"

Hakon turned to him, eyes cold. "Prove you belong."

The deserter paled but nodded.

As the Blackwolf's warriors moved into position, the forest fell into an eerie silence. Hakon crouched low behind a fallen tree, his blade resting across his knee. The wait was not long.

The sound of approaching footsteps, the clinking of armor, the murmurs of men unaware they were being watched—it all reached his ears before the first figure came into view.

Ulrich's soldiers entered the pass cautiously, their leader scanning the area. "Stay alert," he warned. "Blackwolf's men might still be near."

Hakon smirked.

The first arrow flew.

A soldier dropped, an arrow buried in his throat.

Chaos erupted.

Hakon surged forward, his sword cleaving through the first man in reach. Rorik and Torstein struck from the flanks, hacking down enemies before they could react.

Leif, gripping a stolen sword, hesitated for only a heartbeat before he lunged at a distracted soldier, driving his blade into the man's ribs. His hands trembled as blood spattered his face, but he did not falter.

The ambush lasted mere moments. When the last of Ulrich's men fell, gasping and bleeding into the dirt, Hakon wiped his blade clean and turned to his warriors.

"No survivors," he ordered. "Ulrich must not know what happened here."

Vigdis nodded, already moving to finish the wounded.

Hakon approached Leif, who was still staring at the man he had killed.

"Do you regret it?" Hakon asked.

Leif swallowed hard, then shook his head. "No."

Hakon nodded. "Good. You're one of us now."

The Blackwolf's war would leave no room for hesitation.