Chapter 5: The Gathering Storm

The dawn of the second day arrived without warmth. The same grey sky stretched over a village that had transformed into an impromptu military camp. From the highest point near the old longhouse, the view was a canvas of desperate toil. The trench that yesterday was merely a shallow scratch in the earth had now become a deeper, longer wound, snaking along the eastern side of the settlement. Beside it, piles of crudely sharpened wooden stakes rose like newly grown dragon teeth.

Thick, black smoke billowed ceaselessly from the roof of the Smithy, carrying with it the scent of burning steel and the tireless clang of hammers. CLANG... CLANG... CLANG... That sound had become the new heartbeat of their village, a constant rhythm urging everyone to keep moving. The air was filled with the smell of freshly dug wet earth, sour sweat, and fear that had hardened into resolve.

Inside the longhouse, Loki had transformed the large dining table into a command center. On a wide piece of deerskin, he had drawn a detailed battle map using charcoal. Every hut, every large tree, every planned barricade, was marked with precision. Small wooden pieces served as markers for enemy forces and his own warriors. The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by flickering torches, making Loki's shadow dance on the walls like a giant general contemplating the fate of the world.

The wooden door creaked open. Freya entered, bringing with her the cold morning air. Her face was smudged with dirt and sweat, several strands of her blonde hair loose from her braid and clinging to her temples. She looked utterly exhausted, but her eyes still burned with the same spirit as on the battlefield.

"The eastern trench will be finished before noon," she reported, her voice hoarse with fatigue. She pointed to a spot on Loki's map. "The main barricade is also almost halfway done. The 'Wolf's Fangs' are working tirelessly." She paused, her gaze becoming serious. "But we have a problem, Loki."

Loki raised his head from the map, his sharp eyes fixed on Freya. "What problem?"

"Manpower. We don't have enough people," Freya stated bluntly. "We can build all these defenses. We can sharpen every axe. But when Harald's army comes, we won't have enough warriors to guard every inch of the walls and trenches. We can hold them on one side, but they will easily break through on the other, empty side. We're just delaying the slaughter."

Freya was right. Loki looked down at his map, dozens of battle scenarios flashing through his mind like a sped-up RTS game. Static defense with fewer numbers was a recipe for disaster. They would be surrounded and crushed. He needed something else. An element of surprise. Ranged units. Archers needed complex bows and years of training. Time and resources they didn't have. He needed something more primitive. Cheaper. Something anyone could use.

An idea flashed in his mind. So simple, so ancient, it was almost forgotten.

He rose without a word and walked out of the longhouse, past Freya who stared at him in confusion. He walked towards a pile of leftover hides and ropes near the smithy. He picked up an oblong piece of leather the size of his palm and two long leather thongs. With a few swift movements of his knife, he made a small pouch in the center of the leather and tied the two thongs at the ends. A sling.

He walked towards Harek's group. "Harek! Stop gathering wood. I want everyone who isn't digging or forging, children strong enough, women, everyone, to gather river stones. This size," Loki showed his fist. "Bring them here. Thousands."

The villagers stared at him in confusion, but they obeyed. Soon, piles of round stones began to form. Loki stood in the middle of the open area, placing one of the stones into the pouch of his sling.

"Watch closely," he said.

He began to swing the sling over his head. Slowly at first, then faster, creating a terrifying whistling sound in the air. SWOOSH... SWOOSH... SWOOSH... With one sudden movement, he released one of the thongs.

CRACK!

The stone shot out like an invisible projectile, too fast for the eye to follow. It hit a large pine tree fifty paces away with a deafening "THUD!", tearing through the bark and leaving a deep dent.

Total silence fell over the village. Everyone, even the blacksmiths in the smithy, stopped working to stare at the tree, then back at Loki with expressions of awe. The shepherd boy's toy weapon, in the right hands, possessed deadly power.

"This," Loki said, raising his sling. "Is our arrow. This is our rain of stones. Every stone you throw might not kill, but it can break a nose, blind an eye, or shatter the enemy's morale before they reach our trenches."

The villagers' faces changed. The fear in their eyes was replaced by a fierce glimmer of hope. They no longer felt helpless. Loki had given them new fangs.

"Everyone not holding an axe or a hammer," Loki commanded, his voice echoing. "From today, you are 'Loki's Stone Rain'. Practice. Don't stop until you can hit that tree from here. Now, work!"

The village came alive again with vibrant new energy.

However, not everyone shared the same enthusiasm.

As dusk began to fall, shrouding the village in long shadows, Gorm saw his opportunity. Exhaustion was the best poison to cultivate doubt. He approached one of Harek's group, a thin man named Leif who was drinking water with hands trembling from fatigue.

"Hard work," Gorm said, his voice low and full of false sympathy.

Leif merely nodded, too tired to speak.

"That boy makes us work like slaves," Gorm continued, his eyes glancing towards the smithy where Loki was inspecting sword blades. "Do you really believe all this will work? Trenches? Wooden stakes? Stones? Harald's army will laugh at us as they trample our corpses." He leaned closer. "This isn't resistance, Leif. This is organized suicide. A pointless death designed by a mad foreigner."

The seed of doubt was planted. Leif looked at his blistered hands and the trench that seemed so shallow, and for the first time, his spirit wavered.

A few steps away, behind a pile of barricades, Freya heard it. She didn't mean to. Every poisonous word of Gorm's entered her ears. Her jaw tightened until her muscles ached. Her instincts screamed to draw her axe and cleave Gorm's head open on the spot. But she held back. Discipline. She was no longer a wild warrior; she was Loki's commander. She turned silently and returned to her post, her eyes now two blades of ice.

Night finally arrived. The second day had ended.

Inside the quiet longhouse, Loki sat alone in front of his battle map. The flickering torchlight highlighted the dark circles under his eyes. He was too tired to eat, too tense to sleep. He moved the small wooden pieces, simulating attacks, looking for weaknesses in his plan.

The door creaked open. Freya entered, carrying a bowl of thin stew and a wooden cup of water. She placed them on the table without a word.

"You have to eat," she said softly.

Loki didn't raise his head. "Later."

Freya didn't leave. She stood there, observing Loki's tense shoulders. "Gorm is poisoning their spirits," she said, her tone flat. "He whispers to the weak, saying your plan is madness. He's like a rotten disease spreading within the barracks before a battle."

Loki finally stopped moving. He leaned back, massaging his temples. Exhaustion made his defenses crumble for a moment. "Are you really sure we can win?" Freya asked, her voice barely a whisper. For the first time, there was a hint of doubt there.

Loki looked into his shieldmaiden's eyes. He could lie. He could give an inspiring speech. But he knew Freya didn't need that. She needed the truth.

"I don't know," Loki answered honestly, his voice hoarse with fatigue. "Logically, we should already be dead. But I'd rather die trying than die waiting for Harald to come knocking at our door."

That answer, with its brutal honesty, seemed to strengthen Freya more than any promise of victory. She nodded slowly. "Me too." Their partnership, born in the wolf cave and forged in ambush, was now deepened by exhaustion and honesty. She was not just his subordinate. She was his ally.

After Freya left, leaving Loki in heavy solitude, Loki's expression hardened. He looked at his map, then towards the dark corner where Gorm might be sleeping. A wolf inside the sheepfold was more dangerous than a hundred wolves outside.

He took a small knife from the table. Not to attack. But to make a decision. He bent over his map. With the tip of the knife, he carved a small cross at the location of their longhouse. Then, he drew another cross, directly above it, marking an internal meeting point.

A pest must be removed before it ruins the entire harvest, he thought, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. Tomorrow, on the last day, before Harald arrives... we will clean our house.

Dawn on the third and final day arrived like a death sentence. The same grey, colorless sky overshadowed a village that was almost unrecognizable. Deep, dark trenches now gaped like wounds in the earth, their bottoms filled with hundreds of cruelly sharpened wooden stakes, waiting to swallow their prey. Crude barricades of wood, stone, and broken furniture blocked all entry paths, transforming the settlement into an ugly but stubbornly defiant makeshift fortress. At several strategic points, large piles of river stones were neatly arranged, cold ammunition for the nascent sling army.

On a hastily constructed makeshift watchtower, Loki stood alone, his thin cloak fluttering in the biting morning wind. He hadn't slept. His red, sunken eyes stared unblinkingly at the empty horizon, searching for the first signs of the coming storm. Immense exhaustion gnawed at his bones, a dull ache that could only be held at bay by adrenaline and the pure, burning resolve in his soul. Below him, his clan moved like ghosts in the pale light, their faces dirty, their bodies aching, but their hands never stopped working. They were a reflection of their leader: on the verge of collapse, yet refusing to fall.

A few hours after dawn, Loki descended from the tower. It was time to set the final trap. He found Leif, the thin man Gorm had approached yesterday, stacking stones with trembling hands. Fear still clung to the man's eyes.

Loki approached, not from the front, but from the side, his voice low as if sharing a secret. Freya stood a few steps behind, her presence a silent emphasis of Loki's authority.

"Leif," Loki whispered. The man flinched. "I need your help. A task I can only entrust to someone who knows how to keep their mouth shut."

Leif swallowed hard, nodding nervously.

Loki guided him to the battle map inside the longhouse. "Look at this," Loki pointed to an area on the southwest side of the map, where several old huts stood. "This is our weakest point. I placed the 'Stone Rain' here, but they are the least experienced. The trench is shallowest in this section. If Harald is smart enough to attack here, they will be crushed first."

Every word was a carefully crafted lie. That area was actually their kill zone, a funnel of death flanked by hidden traps and cross-positions for their best slingers.

"I want you to spread this news," Loki continued, staring intently into Leif's eyes. "Tell a few people you trust, people who also feel doubtful like yourself. Tell them that if the battle goes badly, the southwest side is our escape route. Tell them to prepare to retreat in that direction. Understand?"

Leif, thinking this was a sign of mercy, an opportunity to survive, nodded eagerly. He was unaware that he had just become a pawn in a much deadlier game.

Midday arrived. The sun hung at its zenith, its rays weak and without warmth. A few hours remained. Loki ordered work to stop. He gathered all the warriors and villagers in the open area in front of the longhouse. It was time for the final briefing.

He stood before his large map, explaining the defense plan in a calm, clear voice. He detailed Freya and her "Wolf's Fangs'" task of holding the first wave. He explained how the "Stone Rain" would unleash hell from above. Everyone listened in silence, absorbing every word as if it were their last prayer.

Then, Loki paused. He pointed to the "weak spot" on the southwest side with a feigned hesitant expression. "This area... this worries me the most," he said, his voice now sounding uncertain. "I'm not sure how best to defend it. Our forces are too spread out. Does anyone have a suggestion?"

A tense silence fell over the crowd. No one dared to speak.

Then, a hoarse voice broke it. "That's because your entire plan is foolishness."

Gorm stepped forward from the crowd, his face full of confident scorn. He thought his moment had arrived. He pointed to the map with his thick finger. "Putting those slinger brats there? They'll run at the first sight of blood! Move them! Strengthen the defenses near the river, where Harald's cavalry might cross. Leave that southwest side empty. We can use it as a retreat path if things go bad!"

The suggestion sounded reasonable to those who knew nothing. But to Freya and a few shrewd old warriors, those words sounded like a death knell. Gorm wasn't just suggesting a bad strategy; he was suggesting a strategy that would open a hole precisely in the heart of their defenses, creating a clear path for the enemy directly into the deadliest trap they had prepared.

Loki let the silence hang for a moment, letting everyone process the betrayal that had just been spoken aloud. Then, a thin, cold smile played on his lips.

"A retreat path?" Loki said softly. "I don't plan to retreat, Gorm." He raised his head, his eyes sharp as ice staring straight into the burly man's soul. "And I also don't plan to let a traitor live to see the battle."

Gorm's face changed from confident to bewildered, then to ashen white as he realized he had stepped into a perfectly crafted trap. He had exposed himself in front of the entire clan. Cornered, humiliated, and consumed by rage, he reverted to the only thing he knew. Violence.

"DAMN YOU, YOU FILTHY BRAT!" he roared, drawing his worn Frankish axe. Its scarred blade looked pathetic under the sunlight. "You've brought a curse upon us! I CHALLENGE YOU TO HOLMGANG! FOR THE LEADERSHIP OF THIS CLAN! TO THE DEATH!"

The villagers recoiled, instinctively forming a large, uneven circle. This was an ancient ritual. A blood oath. No one could interfere.

URRRRRRRAAAAGGGHHH!

Gorm charged first, like a wounded bull. His axe spun in a wide, brutal horizontal swing, designed to cleave his opponent in two. SWISH! The air hissed as the blade passed. But Loki wasn't there. His body, now stronger and faster than it appeared, had slid beneath the swing.

Loki held a newly re-forged short sword, its blade dark and deadly. He didn't try to match Gorm's strength. This was a bull against a matador.

Gorm roared in frustration and attacked again, his swings wild and full of rage. Loki moved like a shadow dancer, dodging, parrying with clever angles to deflect the momentum of Gorm's axe, his movements efficient and deadly. Each time Gorm missed, he left an opening. Each opening, Loki exploited with a quick slash. Arm. Thigh. Cheek. Small wounds designed to infuriate and exhaust his opponent.

"STOP RUNNING AND FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN!" Gorm yelled, his face now red with anger and exertion.

"I am fighting you," Loki replied calmly. "You're just too slow to realize it."

The provocation worked. Gorm lost his remaining composure. He saw the first blood he had managed to draw on Loki's arm. Seeing it, he grinned triumphantly. With a final deafening roar, he raised his axe high with both hands, preparing one crushing vertical swing, exerting all his remaining strength to end this dance.

This was the moment Loki waited for.

As Gorm's heavy axe began to descend, creating an arc of death, Loki didn't dodge to the side. He did the unexpected. He lunged forward.

Time seemed to slow. He could see the large axe blade descending, mere inches from his head. He could see the triumphant expression in Gorm's eyes. He could feel the wind from the swing in his hair.

As he entered Gorm's swing range, his body ducked low. He let the unstoppable momentum of Gorm's axe carry it past over his head. At the same time, his sword thrust straight forward. A simple, fast, and merciless movement.

THUNK.

The sound wasn't loud. Just the sound of a sword piercing leather armor, muscle, and organs.

Loki's sword plunged deep beneath Gorm's ribs, directly into his heart.

Gorm froze. His axe swing stopped midway. His wide eyes stared at Loki in disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a gurgle of blood came out. The Frankish axe fell from his grasp, thudding to the ground with a pathetic sound. Gorm stared at the sword embedded in his chest, then collapsed forward, dead before his body hit the ground.

Total silence fell over the circle, broken only by Loki's ragged breaths. He stood over the body of his first enemy in this world, his chest heaving, Gorm's warm blood dripping from his sword blade onto the thirsty ground. He felt no triumph. Only a cold, empty relief. His house had been cleaned.

He pulled his sword from the corpse and raised it high, the traitor's blood gleaming under the sky.

"Now," he said, his voice hoarse but audible to everyone. "No more doubt. No more betrayal. There is only us... and our enemies!"

Just as the words left his mouth.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!

A long, loud, arrogant war horn blast echoed from the distance. Not from a dream. This was real.

All heads simultaneously turned towards the watchtower. The guard pointed with a trembling arm towards the horizon across the river.

There, on the hill, the first silhouettes appeared. Then another, and another. Like ants crawling out of their nest, lines of Jarl Harald's warriors began to fill the hilltop. Dozens. Hundreds. Their black wolf banners fluttered proudly in the wind.

Their war drums began to pound. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

A steady rhythm of death, drawing closer.

They had arrived.