Chapter 20: March to Defend

In Varhold, the tension was palpable. The steady rhythm of drums, faint but unmistakable, rolled over the valley like an approaching storm. The sound crept into the bones of every villager, a reminder of the coming threat. It wasn't as loud as in Skjoldheim, but it carried the same dread—a declaration of war that needed no translation.

Chief Thrain Wolfsblood stood on the rocky outcrop overlooking his village, his piercing green eyes scanning the horizon. The jagged cliffs surrounding Varhold offered natural protection, but today, they felt more like a cage.

The sound of galloping hooves broke the uneasy quiet, drawing the attention of the villagers. A lone scout rode into the village, his horse covered in sweat and frost. As the man dismounted, his legs nearly buckled, but he pushed forward with grim determination.

"Chief Thrain!" the scout called, approaching the outcrop where Thrain and his lieutenants stood.

Thrain turned, his fur cloak rippling in the cold wind. "Speak," he commanded, his deep voice cutting through the murmurs of the gathered villagers.

The scout saluted briefly before delivering his report. "The barbarian horde is advancing, my lord. They will reach Skjoldheim in a matter of hours."

The gathered warriors exchanged uneasy glances. Elder Ylva Shadowsong, who stood at Thrain's side, narrowed her sharp eyes. "How many?" she asked.

"Too many to count," the scout replied, his breath visible in the icy air. "Tens of thousands, maybe more. Their numbers are endless."

Thrain's expression darkened. "And their route? Are they coming here?"

The scout shook his head. "No, Chief. They march straight for Skjoldheim. Their leaders must see it as the weaker target."

Ylva stepped forward, her staff clinking softly against the stone. "If Skjoldheim falls, Varhold will be next. They'll use its resources to fuel their advance."

The scout hesitated, glancing at Thrain before speaking again. "There's something else, my lord. Their leader… he's not like the others."

Thrain's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"He's enormous," the scout said, his voice dropping as if afraid the leader might hear him from afar. "Larger than any man I've seen. And he doesn't… move like the rest of them. There's something unnatural about him."

Elder Ylva's expression darkened, her sharp features pulling into a frown. "Ragnar," she whispered, almost to herself.

Thrain turned to her, his gaze hard. "You know of him?"

Ylva nodded slowly. "Stories, Chief. They call him Ragnar Bloodshade. Some say he's part beast, others claim he's a demon given flesh. But the one thing all the stories agree on is his power."

Thrain clenched his fists. "And the rest of us? What do we know?"

"Nothing," Ylva said grimly. "The stories are few and scattered. If he truly leads this horde, we face more than just warriors—we face something far worse."

Thrain's jaw tightened as he turned back to the scout. "You've done well. Rest now. We'll take it from here."

Thrain turned to his lieutenants, his voice firm and commanding. "Gather the warriors. Two thousand of our best will march to Skjoldheim. Leave five hundred here to guard the village."

One of the lieutenants, Ulfrik Ironhide, stepped forward. His massive frame and weathered face marked him as one of Varhold's most seasoned warriors. "Two thousand might not be enough, Chief," he said, his tone cautious. "If the horde truly numbers in the tens of thousands…"

"It's not about numbers, Ulfrik," Thrain interrupted, his eyes blazing. "It's about holding the line. If we fight together, we can stop them before they gain momentum. If we wait here, we'll face them alone."

Ylva nodded in agreement. "We must act now. Skjoldheim cannot stand alone."

Another lieutenant, Hilda Frostbane, crossed her arms. "What of an ambush? The barbarians are cunning. They could strike us before we reach the village."

Thrain's lips curled into a faint smirk. "That's why we'll send scouts ahead. Every step of our route will be watched."

The village erupted into action. Warriors donned their armor, fastening leather straps and sharpening blades. The clang of steel and the hum of preparation filled the air as the chosen two thousand prepared to march. Their families stood nearby, offering quiet words of encouragement or watching in solemn silence.

Thrain moved among them, his presence a steadying force. He paused near a group of younger warriors, their faces a mix of determination and fear.

"Remember this," he said, his voice steady. "We fight for more than our lives. We fight for our homes, our families, and everything we hold dear. Fear has no place in your heart. Only strength."

The young warriors nodded, gripping their weapons tighter. Thrain's words carried weight, and though fear still lingered, it no longer threatened to overwhelm them.

As the column of two thousand warriors left Varhold at dawn, scouts spread out ahead of the force. Freja and Ivar, two of Thrain's best scouts, rode ahead on their swift horses.

Freja turned to Ivar as their horses trotted along a narrow path. "If there's an ambush, it'll be along one of these ridges."

"Do you think they'll risk splitting their forces?" Ivar asked.

Freja shook her head. "Not with numbers like theirs. Ragnar will want his entire horde to strike at Skjoldheim. Ambushes take time, and time isn't on their side."

The two scouts pressed on, their sharp eyes scanning the terrain. By mid-morning, they returned with their report: the path to Skjoldheim was clear.

Thrain nodded when he received the news, his jaw tightening. "Good. No surprises then.

By noon, the column of warriors crested the final hill, Skjoldheim coming into view below. The village was fortified, its wooden walls bristling with sharpened stakes and reinforced barricades. On the walls stood warriors, their weapons ready, their eyes scanning the horizon.

Eirik Stoneheart stood at the gates, flanked by his lieutenants and Elder Haldor Greymane. When the Varhold warriors came into view, a shout went up, and the gates were opened. Thrain led his warriors inside, his green eyes meeting Eirik's as the two chiefs approached each other.

"Thrain," Eirik said, extending a hand. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

"And you're still standing," Thrain replied, gripping Eirik's forearm in a warrior's handshake. "Let's make sure it stays that way."

The two chiefs exchanged brief smiles before turning their attention to their warriors. Eirik gestured toward the village square, where his men had already begun gathering. "We've prepared defenses, but we need to organize our forces. Your men will bolster our flanks."

Thrain nodded. "Done. Ulfrik, take the left flank. Hilda, the right."

The lieutenants saluted and moved to relay their orders. Meanwhile, Eirik led Thrain and Ylva toward the longhouse, where a rough map of the region was spread across a table.

Inside the longhouse, the two chiefs stood over the map, their expressions grim. Ylva and Haldor exchanged wary glances as they listened to the plans.

"The horde will come from the east," Eirik said, tracing a line on the map with his finger. "They'll try to breach the walls here and here."

Thrain frowned. "Your eastern wall is strong, but if they bring siege engines…"

"They will," Haldor interjected, his tone heavy. "We've seen them before. Crude but effective."

Thrain nodded. "We'll place archers along the upper platforms. My warriors will man the flanks and push back any breaches."

Eirik clapped him on the shoulder. "We fight together then."

"We always have," Thrain replied.

As the sun climbed higher, the two villages stood united, their warriors ready for battle. Whatever came next, they would face it together.