Blood on the Frost

The wind carried the scent of burning wood and roasting meat. Hakon crouched on a ridge overlooking the valley below, his cloak blending into the frost-covered brush. In the clearing beyond, a dozen men lounged around a fire, their stolen armor mismatched, their laughter sharp and cruel.

Mercenaries. The same ones who had burned the farmstead.

Their horses were tethered nearby, drinking from an icy stream. Beyond them, a wooden cage sat near the fire, its bars rough-hewn and splintered. Inside, huddled together for warmth, were four figures—villagers. Two men, a boy barely past his twelfth year, and a woman.

Prisoners.

Hakon exhaled slowly, watching. The mercenaries were at ease, unaware of the predator lurking in the cold. They had stripped off their helmets, their weapons leaned lazily against tree stumps and saddles. They thought themselves safe.

They were wrong.

Hakon slid down the ridge, keeping low. His boots crunched softly in the frost, but the wind howling through the trees masked his approach. He moved from shadow to shadow, closing the distance.

One of the mercenaries—a thick-bellied man with a notched axe—wandered from the fire, fumbling with his belt as he made for the trees. Hakon moved in behind him, silent as death.

The man barely had time to grunt before Hakon's blade slid between his ribs. He stiffened, eyes wide, then slumped. Hakon caught his body, lowering him gently to the ground. He wiped his blade clean on the man's cloak and continued forward.

The second fell just as easily. A sentry perched on a rock, half-dozing. Hakon's dagger found his throat before he could shout.

Two down.

He reached the edge of the camp. The fire crackled, casting long shadows. The mercenaries were deep in their cups, laughing over some crude jest. One tore a chunk of meat from a spit, grease dripping down his beard.

Hakon drew a deep breath. Then he stepped into the light.

Steel flashed. His sword cleaved through the nearest mercenary before the man could rise. Blood sprayed across the fire. The others shouted, scrambling for their weapons.

Hakon did not let them.

He moved like a wolf among sheep, his blade carving through armor and flesh. A man lunged with a spear—Hakon sidestepped, severing his wrist in a spray of red. Another swung a sword—Hakon ducked, driving his shoulder into the man's gut before burying his dagger in his throat.

The remaining mercenaries fell back, fear flashing in their eyes. One turned to flee—Hakon threw his axe, burying it in the back of the man's skull. He crumpled.

The last two dropped their weapons, hands raised.

"Mercy!" one stammered, his face pale.

Hakon stared at them. Mercy. The same mercy they had shown the farmers they hanged, the families they burned.

He drove his sword through the man's heart. The last mercenary barely had time to scream before Hakon's blade silenced him.

The camp fell quiet, save for the crackling of the fire. Hakon turned, breathing heavily. The prisoners in the cage stared at him, eyes wide with fear and hope.

He stepped forward, wiping blood from his sword. "You're free," he said simply.

One of the men stumbled forward, clutching the bars. "Who… who are you?"

Hakon met his gaze, then knelt, breaking the lock with a swift strike of his dagger.

"A dead man come back," he muttered.

The hunt continued.