Chapter 8: The First Villages Prepare

The Viking lands were vast, a network of villages nestled within forests, along rivers, and near mountain ranges. Each village was independent, led by its own chief, yet they shared a fragile alliance against external threats. This alliance was often tested by harsh winters, rivalries, and the ever-looming shadow of barbarian invasions.

While Bjorn's village enjoyed a rare moment of peace, two other villages lay directly in the path of the approaching barbarians. Their leaders, seasoned by years of battle, had called urgent meetings to prepare for the storm that now loomed on the horizon.

Skjoldheim, located near a dense pine forest and bordered by a rushing river, was known for its warriors and craftsmen. The name itself meant "Shield Home," a tribute to the village's skilled blacksmiths and the impenetrable shields they forged. The village was fortified with wooden palisades and watchtowers, giving it the appearance of a well-defended bastion.

Inside the largest longhouse, the village leaders gathered. The air was thick with the scent of burning pinewood, and the glow of the central hearth cast flickering shadows across the room. Chief Eirik Stoneheart sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding and unyielding.

Eirik was a man in his late fifties, with a thick mane of silver-streaked black hair and a beard that flowed to his chest. His broad shoulders and weathered face spoke of decades spent on the battlefield. He was known for his strategic mind and unshakable resolve, earning him the moniker "Stoneheart" among his people.

Beside him sat the village's elder, Haldor Greymane, a frail yet sharp-eyed man draped in thick furs. Haldor's hair and beard were entirely white, his face etched with the lines of age and wisdom. Though he rarely spoke, his words carried weight when he did.

"Scouts have returned," Eirik began, his deep voice resonating through the hall. "They bring news of barbarians gathering in the north. Their numbers are great, and they march with purpose. We must prepare."

Haldor nodded slowly, his gnarled hands gripping a wooden staff. "Barbarians know no honor," he rasped. "They will burn, steal, and kill without hesitation. We have faced them before, and we will again. But this time…" He paused, his gaze flickering to the flames. "Their strength is greater than ever."

A younger warrior leaned forward, his fists clenched. "Then we meet them with steel and fire! Let them taste Viking courage!"

Eirik raised a hand, silencing the murmurs that followed. "We will fight," he said firmly, "but courage alone won't save us. We must fortify our walls, sharpen our blades, and call upon our allies. The river gives us an advantage—they'll be forced to cross it, and we can strike while they're exposed."

Haldor's lips thinned. "And what of our neighbors? If the barbarians march through, they won't stop with Skjoldheim."

Eirik's expression darkened. "If we fall, they will devour every village in their path. We hold the line here—for all our people."

The Village of Varhold

Further south, nestled in a valley surrounded by jagged cliffs, lay the village of Varhold. Known for its hunters and scouts, Varhold thrived in isolation, its people masters of the wilderness. The cliffs provided natural protection, but the village's location also made it a prime target for invaders seeking resources.

The longhouse of Varhold was smaller than Skjoldheim's but no less imposing. Its interior was filled with trophies from hunts and battles: wolf pelts, antlers, and shields adorned the walls. At the center of the room sat Chief Thrain Wolfsblood, a tall, wiry man with piercing green eyes and an untamed mane of auburn hair. His namesake came from a legendary encounter in his youth, where he had slain a wolf pack alone, earning the respect of his people.

Thrain leaned forward on the table, his fingers drumming against the wood as he listened to his scouts' reports. "They march through the forest," a scout said breathlessly. "Hundreds of them. Maybe more."

Beside Thrain sat the village elder, Ylva Shadowsong, a stoic woman with gray hair pulled into a single long braid. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, missed nothing. Though her face was lined with age, her posture was straight, and her presence carried an air of authority.

"They come for blood," Ylva said calmly. "And they will find it. But it is ours they seek to spill."

Thrain growled low in his throat, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the table. "Not if we spill theirs first. This valley will become their grave."

A hunter seated nearby shook his head. "Their numbers are too great. Even with our advantage, we cannot hold forever."

Ylva tilted her head, her gaze cutting through the room. "Then we make it costly. Every barbarian who enters this valley must know pain. Let the cliffs echo with their screams."

Thrain's lips curled into a grim smile. "You always had a way with words, Ylva." He stood abruptly, his voice rising. "Send word to Skjoldheim and Bjorn's village. If we are to fight, we fight together."

By midday, scouts from both Skjoldheim and Varhold had arrived at their respective villages, relaying messages of impending war. Though the chiefs and elders knew their villages were the first in the barbarians' path, they also understood the importance of unity. Messengers were dispatched, urging neighboring villages to prepare for battle.

In Skjoldheim, Eirik and Haldor met with their warriors, outlining defensive strategies. The river would serve as a choke point, and every able-bodied villager was tasked with reinforcing barricades and preparing weapons. Women and children were moved to safer areas, though many refused to flee entirely, choosing instead to stand alongside their kin.

In Varhold, Thrain and Ylva oversaw the setting of traps along the valley. Hunters camouflaged themselves among the cliffs, their bows at the ready. The people of Varhold had always been resourceful, and they intended to make every arrow and blade count.

Though both villages were fierce and determined, an undercurrent of unease rippled through their ranks. The barbarians' numbers were vast, and their brutality was unmatched. For every plan made and trap set, a single question lingered: Would it be enough?

Back in Bjorn's village, the feast's aftermath had left the villagers in high spirits. Gabriel sat quietly near the hearth, watching as the people worked to tidy the hall. Despite the warmth of the fire and the cheerful chatter around him, his mind was elsewhere.

Astrid, passing by with a bundle of furs, paused when she noticed his distant expression. "Gabriel?" she asked softly. "Are you all right?"

Gabriel didn't answer immediately. His piercing gaze was fixed on the horizon, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. "Something stirs in the north."

Astrid frowned, following his gaze, though she saw nothing unusual. "What do you mean?"

Gabriel turned to her, his serene demeanor tinged with something darker. "I can feel it. A shadow moves in that direction. It carries violence, destruction… hatred."

Astrid's brow furrowed. "The barbarians?"

Gabriel nodded. "They march toward the villages beyond your borders. The people there will need strength to face what's coming."

Astrid set the furs down, her jaw tightening. "Then we should send help."

Gabriel's expression softened slightly. "Not yet. They are strong and prepared, but they will face a trial unlike any before. If the time comes, we will act."

Astrid's gaze lingered on him, her unease growing. "You speak as if you've seen this before."

Gabriel offered her a faint smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps I have. Or perhaps… I just know."

As the second day of Gabriel's arrival unfolded, the first villages braced themselves for the storm ahead. Warriors sharpened their blades, hunters prepared their traps, and villagers prayed to their gods for strength.

Far to the north, the barbarian horde marched ever closer, their advance relentless and filled with malice. In Bjorn's village, Gabriel stood by the edge of the settlement, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Though calm on the surface, his piercing eyes seemed to hold the weight of foreknowledge, a silent readiness to act when the moment demanded.