The Valley of the Fallen

Chapter 3: The Valley of the Fallen

The cold wind bit at their exposed skin as Leif and Bjorn made their way toward the camp, their movements deliberate and silent. The Valley of the Fallen lived up to its name, the jagged rocks and scattered boulders resembling tombstones. A sense of foreboding filled the air, as though death itself had claimed this place long ago. The ground was hard with frost, and every step felt like an intrusion upon the resting spirits of those who had come before them.

Leif's grip on his sword tightened, his eyes scanning every shadow. His heart pounded in his chest as he neared the camp. His mind, once filled with questions and doubts, had now been narrowed to one singular goal: Sigvar. The man who had taken everything from him, the man he had sworn to kill, was close. Just beyond these rocks, beyond the ridge.

Bjorn's calm voice broke through Leif's thoughts. "Steady, Leif. We're not there yet."

Leif nodded, though the fire in his chest was impossible to ignore. "I know. Let's just get this over with."

The man who had led them here was nowhere to be seen, slipping away into the shadows as promised. Leif had no intention of trusting him fully, but for now, the stranger had given them the information they needed. The camp was heavily guarded, but there was an opening—a narrow pass hidden between two large boulders that led directly toward the heart of Sigvar's forces.

They crouched low behind a rock as the sounds of the camp reached their ears—the crackling of fires, the low murmur of voices, the clanging of weapons. Leif's breath came out in shallow gasps as his eyes narrowed at the scene before him. There were at least two dozen men in the camp, and it was clear from their stance and equipment that these were no ordinary soldiers. They were battle-hardened warriors, each with a grim expression as they prepared for the raid.

Leif looked at Bjorn, his face set in determination. "This is it. We move fast."

Bjorn met his gaze, his features unreadable. "Stick to the plan. We get in, we get out."

The brothers moved swiftly through the shadows, avoiding the patrols as they navigated the rocky terrain. The cold wind helped mask their movements, and the sound of the wind helped drown out the noise of their footsteps. With each passing moment, Leif felt a growing tension. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to strike. The closer they got to Sigvar, the more his blood boiled with hatred. Every flicker of movement in the corner of his eye made him jump, convinced that Sigvar's men would descend upon them at any moment.

When they reached the narrow pass, they paused for a moment. The sounds of the camp were muffled now, and the two brothers exchanged a glance before slipping through the gap between the boulders. It was a tight fit, and they had to move slowly, careful not to make a sound that would alert the enemy.

The pass led them into a small, enclosed space behind the main camp, where the majority of the warriors were gathered. Through the cracks in the rocks, Leif could see the campfires flickering, casting long shadows against the walls of the valley. Sigvar's men were sharpening their weapons, preparing their armor, talking amongst themselves.

But it wasn't just the men that caught Leif's attention. No, it was the large tent in the center of the camp. A single figure stood near the entrance—a hulking man clad in dark armor. His broad shoulders and heavy steps were unmistakable.

Sigvar.

Leif's breath caught in his throat. The man was larger than he remembered, his frame thick with muscle, his face marked by years of brutality. The long scar running down his left cheek seemed to gleam in the firelight, as if mocking Leif's very existence.

"Sigvar..." Leif whispered under his breath, his grip tightening on his sword.

Bjorn, standing beside him, placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, his voice low. "We don't fight him yet. We need to wait for the right moment."

But Leif could barely hear him. His mind had already shifted into battle mode. All he could think about was the blood that needed to be spilled, the life that had to be taken. He wanted to charge in right then and there, but he knew that doing so would be foolish.

Bjorn's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Leif, listen to me. If we go in now, we'll be overwhelmed. You need to stay focused."

The older brother's words hit Leif like a slap. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a slow, steady breath. The rage inside him burned, but there was something else, too. The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in. They were outnumbered, and rushing into battle without a plan could mean death.

Leif opened his eyes again, the fire still burning in his gaze, but now tempered by a growing sense of purpose. "You're right. We need to wait."

They crouched behind the rocks, watching as Sigvar's men continued their preparations. Time seemed to stretch, each second feeling like an eternity. The brothers waited, their muscles stiff with anticipation, their minds sharp and focused.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the moment came. One of Sigvar's men—the guard standing by the large tent—turned his back, distracted by the movement of a nearby patrol. Leif's eyes locked onto the opportunity. It was now or never.

"Now," Leif hissed.

Without another word, they sprang into action.

Leif moved with deadly precision, his footsteps silent on the cold ground as he rushed toward the guard. He closed the distance in mere seconds, drawing his dagger from his belt as he did. The guard turned, his eyes wide in surprise, but it was too late. With a swift movement, Leif drove the dagger deep into the man's throat, silencing him instantly.

Bjorn was already on the move, his massive sword drawn and ready. He cleared a nearby guard with one clean swipe, the blade cutting through armor and flesh with a sickening sound. The warrior fell, his life snuffed out in an instant.

The camp erupted into chaos.

Leif's heart raced as he and Bjorn tore through the camp. Leif's blade slashed through the air, cutting down any man who dared to get too close. He moved with the fluidity of a beast, his every strike fueled by the burning desire for vengeance. Blood splattered across the snow, and the sound of steel meeting flesh filled the air.

Bjorn was a whirlwind of destruction. His sword crashed down with the force of a hammer, splitting shields and breaking bones. He was a tower of raw power, each swing sending enemies flying. He fought not with the speed of a young man, but with the experience of a seasoned warrior, his strikes calculated and ruthless.

But amidst the carnage, Leif's eyes never left Sigvar's tent. The hulking figure of their enemy still loomed in the distance, and with every passing moment, the urge to face him grew stronger.

"Bjorn!" Leif shouted over the chaos. "We have to finish this!"

Bjorn caught his brother's gaze and nodded. The two brothers made their way through the fighting, cutting down anyone who stood in their path, their eyes locked on their goal.

At last, they reached the tent, their weapons dripping with blood. Sigvar stood at the entrance, his eyes locked onto them with an expression of cold amusement.

"Well, well," Sigvar said, his voice dripping with mockery. "The sons of Thorvald. I've been waiting for this."

Leif's grip tightened on his sword as he stepped forward, his eyes filled with fury. This was it. The moment he had been waiting for. The moment of reckoning.

Sigvar chuckled, raising his weapon. "Let's see if you've got what it takes to kill a king."

With that, the battle for revenge began.