Chapter 19: Drums of Dread

The crisp morning air in Skjoldheim carried an unnatural weight as if the wind itself had ceased to breathe. The villagers moved about with haste, sharpening weapons, inspecting barricades, and exchanging nervous glances. Overhead, a gray sky stretched like an unbroken sheet, the clouds heavy with unshed snow. Though the horizon appeared still, a faint, rhythmic sound began to creep into the edges of their awareness.

It was the low, distant rumble of drums.

Chief Eirik Stoneheart stood at the eastern wall of the village, his weathered face lined with tension as he stared into the distance. The sound was faint but unmistakable, each beat rolling like thunder across the frozen land. His grip tightened on the hilt of his axe.

"They're not here yet," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Behind him, the scout commander Kjeld, a wiry man with sharp features, tilted his head as if listening. "They want us to hear it, Chief," Kjeld said. "They're making sure we know they're coming."

Eirik grunted. "Arrogant bastards."

From her place nearby, Elder Haldor Greymane, leaning heavily on his oak staff, spoke in a low voice. "It's not arrogance, Chief. It's a message. They're saying they've already won."

Eirik's sharp green eyes flicked toward the elder. "We'll see about that."

The drums continued, their ominous beat growing stronger as if the land itself were amplifying the sound. Every villager could hear it now. Mothers ushered their children into the safety of the longhouse, while warriors lined up to receive their final instructions. The tension hung so thick in the air that it seemed to smother every whispered word.

A shout broke the uneasy quiet. "The scout has returned!"

All heads turned as a lone rider approached the gates, his horse galloping through the snow. The scout, a young man barely into his twenties, slid from the saddle, his face pale and sweat-slick despite the cold. He rushed toward Eirik and Kjeld, clutching his side as he struggled to catch his breath.

"They're close," the scout gasped. "A few hours out—no more."

The warriors standing nearby stiffened, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. Eirik stepped forward, his towering figure blocking the scout from the others.

"How many?" Eirik demanded, his tone sharp.

The scout swallowed hard, glancing around as if the enemy might materialize at any moment. "Too many to count, Chief. Thousands upon thousands. They march in tight formations, and their leaders are… unlike anything I've seen before."

Eirik's jaw tightened. "The leaders. What about them?"

The scout hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper. "There's one in particular—a giant of a man. He doesn't walk like the others. It's like the earth bends to him. And his eyes… they burn red."

Haldor's voice cut through the silence. "The beast of legend. Ragnar Bloodshade."

Eirik turned to the elder, his expression unreadable. "You've heard of him?"

Haldor nodded slowly. "Stories. Tales from the wandering merchants. They say he's not entirely human—that he wields powers no mortal should possess."

Eirik turned back to the scout, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You've done well. Get some rest."

The young man nodded, his relief evident as he hurried off toward the safety of the longhouse. Eirik turned to Kjeld and Haldor, his green eyes hard as steel. "We don't have time for stories. We focus on what we can control."

Haldor frowned but said nothing, his grip tightening on his staff.

"Kjeld," Eirik barked, his voice snapping the scout commander to attention. "Get the warriors to the wall. Double the watch. I want every spear and arrow ready before they're in sight."

"Yes, Chief," Kjeld replied, already moving to relay the orders.

Eirik turned to Haldor, his tone softening slightly. "Elder, gather the villagers who can't fight. Get them to the longhouse and keep them calm. Tell them we've faced worse."

Haldor hesitated for a moment before nodding. "The people trust you, Eirik. Don't give them a reason to doubt now."

Eirik didn't respond, his focus already shifting back to the wall. He climbed the wooden steps to the top, his boots crunching against the frost. From there, he scanned the horizon, the distant sound of drums growing louder with each passing moment. Somewhere out there, beyond the trees and rolling hills, the barbarian horde was on the march.

Below the wall, the villagers moved with frantic precision. Men and women worked side by side, reinforcing barricades, carrying bundles of arrows, and preparing vats of boiling water and oil. The older children helped where they could, their faces pale but determined as they passed weapons to the warriors. Every movement was a testament to their will to survive.

Near the center of the village, a young warrior named Leif adjusted the straps on his leather armor. His hands shook slightly, betraying the fear he tried so hard to hide. His friend Bjarke, a hulking man with a thick black beard, clapped him on the back.

"Steady, Leif," Bjarke said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You'll do fine. Just stick close to me."

Leif managed a weak smile. "I'm not afraid."

Bjarke chuckled, the sound rough and dry. "Sure you're not. But if you piss yourself, don't blame me if I laugh."

Nearby, Inga, one of the village's best archers, stood atop a platform overlooking the barricades. She tested the tension of her bowstring, her keen eyes scanning the distance. "Stop teasing the boy, Bjarke," she called down. "If he's nervous, it means he's paying attention."

Bjarke snorted. "And what about you, Inga? Are you nervous?"

Inga smirked, her sharp features highlighted by the pale sunlight. "I'm always nervous. Keeps me sharp."

As the hours passed, the sound of the drums grew louder, their rhythm steady and unrelenting. Each beat seemed to echo through the bones of the villagers, a reminder of the storm about to crash upon them. The warriors on the walls squinted into the distance, their breaths clouding the air as they waited.

Haldor stood at the base of the wall, his gaze distant. "This land remembers," he murmured, almost to himself. "The drums. The blood. It has seen this before."

Eirik, overhearing him, frowned. "Enough riddles, Haldor. If you've got something useful to say, say it."

The elder looked up at him, his expression grave. "The land favors those who defend it. Remember that when the time comes."

Eirik shook his head, turning his attention back to the horizon. The first faint glimmers of movement began to appear—shadows shifting in the tree line, just far enough away to remain indistinct. The sight sent a ripple of tension through the warriors, their hands tightening on their weapons.

"They're close," Inga muttered from her perch. "Too close."

Eirik took a deep breath, his voice ringing out over the village. "Hold steady! No one fires until I give the order."

The warriors nodded, their spirit hardening. The villagers who remained behind the walls whispered prayers to gods both old and new, their voices barely audible over the relentless pounding of the drums.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the village, Eirik stood tall on the wall, his axe gleaming in the fading light. He could feel the weight of every life in Skjoldheim pressing on his shoulders, but he refused to falter.

"They think they've already won," he muttered to himself, his green eyes narrowing. "Let's show them otherwise."

The battle hadn't begun, but the village was ready. Every man, woman, and child knew what was at stake. As the first faint cheers of the barbarian horde echoed through the air, the defenders of Skjoldheim gripped their weapons tighter, their hearts beating in rhythm with the drums.

The storm was about to break.