Too soon did the spring colours leave, the summer winds pass, the rug of fallen leaves fade, and the snows were upon them again. The tents and longhouses of the Barlrstead were slumped with snow, their tips caving slightly. The wooden palisade shone with a light blue glint from its iced-over trunks, their sharpened stakes caked in white. Icicles protruded from the eaves of the longhouse with cracks reminiscent of pumping veins. An extinguished campfire sulked in its wet ashes behind the chief’s house, feeble streaks of smoke rising from the deadland. It soon faded as Dros snuffed it out with his boot.
The snow crunched as he stepped up to the stump, the axe handle digging into his right shoulder, the sack of logs pulling him earthbound on the other. He’d drawn the shortest stick. It was fair. There was nothing to complain about. Nothing at all. Bjern had chopped the firewood yesterday, and today it was his turn. Inevitable as a wolf’s hunt. Somebody had to do it. He’d get first pick of the stew later in the evening.
He rested the axe on a nearby fence. He loosened the knot of the sack and grabbed a small log and placed it in the middle of the stump. The axe felt heavy in his grip, at first, but it was much easier now that he’d regained his strength. He brought it down, and with a heavy thud, split a log in half, clean, the lumber toppling over the edge. He did it just as his father had taught him. Vervs know if the Lion took him and Mother, too.
It was needed for the hearth. The fire would soon wane, otherwise. With the entire steading rammed into the longhouse, he needed to chop the wood. But with all the food the Barlr inhaled every night, Dros worried there wasn’t enough wood in the entire forest to keep everyone else fed.
It was cold, though. So very cold. Twenty fur layers may still not have been enough. Chopping the wood was the only way he knew to get him warm. He quickly found a rhythm. Log, raise, chop, repeat.Sweat oozed from his forehead. His muscles stung more with every swing of the axe, breaths smoking from his mouth. He imagined the logs to be the Lion’s head, and with every swing he practiced how he would slice off the pale head of the baldpate when the time came. Perspiration crawled beneath his furs, the rough pelts sticking to his arms. Lumber began to pile around the stump, as if the snowflakes had turned to wood. He went clawing inside the sack, but there wasn’t a log left. He wrapped the firewood in a net and tied it closed. Dros headed toward the longhouse until he heard voices from the gates.
“Off with you, then. We are not a house of dregs,” shouted Jonn, one of the guards, from the watchtower. A muffled voice replied, but Dros was too far away to discern its words.
“Take your sorrows elsewhere, we have only so much for the winter!” added the other guard, Col, yelling loud as a war horn.
“Jonn, Col, who’s at the gate?” Dros stepped up to the watchtower, head cocked, inquisitive. “What do they want?”
“Some dreg.” Jonn prodded downward from the watchtower with a long pole. “Away, I said!”
“Please…you must let me speak with your chief!” croaked the man from outside. “Bjorr! Ready your men; the Black Army took Storgard.”
“One more word and the only thing black will be your blood on the snow.” Col armed himself with his axe and looked eager to climb down and make lumber of the man.
The Black Army. He was taken back to the house he and his brother defended, how they cut down half a dozen spearmen, all dressed in black, and how much he yearned to do it again. “Let me speak to him, Col. He may be of use to the chief.”
“He’s a starving thrall, that’s what he is,” said Jonn, spitting over the gate.
“Let him in, Jonn,” said Col. “One wrong move and I’ll split his jaw.”
Jonn rolled his eyes and slid down the ladder and threw over the plank-latch to the other side. The gates roared as Jonn pulled them apart, and the man stumbled forward, losing his balance from resting his weight on the gate. His furs sat heavy on his limbs and torso, but the tattered tunic revealed his drying rack ribs. It was obvious he was a man of stature in better circumstances, but the trudge through the forest had sapped whatever muscle and fat he’d carried before. Dros was too familiar with that feeling. The man had a scar running from his ear to his mouth, and a whitened eyeball on the right side of his face. His furs were of a kind Dros had seen before only once or twice. They were that of a fox’s, with a tail dangling from a hood as if it were a braid. They were bloodied, though. Drying stains, but they still carried a fresh hue.
“Bjorr!” The man tried to shout, but it soon devolved into a fit of coughs as he staggered through the gate.
Dros didn’t like the look of him one bit.
“I…must speak…to Bjorr.” He paused to recover his breath. “You must take me to your chief.” It was still strange to call the Barlr his chief. The Feimr had been his chief all his life, for better or for worse. He was beginning to like it, though.
“My chief is about to sit down and eat. He won’t take lightly to strangers in the winter—”
The man launched at Dros and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Listen to me! You are not safe here! The Black Conquerors will soon be at your gates!”
“Hey!” shouted Jonn.
“Release him!” said Col, aiming an arrow at his head.
Dros was about to push him off, but the man collapsed in his arms. “Do not fire! He’s unconscious.” The weight caught Dros off guard, and he dropped him on the snow.
“Good,” said Jonn.
“We’ll throw him out, then. The wolves will appreciate the free meal. Even if it’s mostly skin and bones.” Col returned the arrow to his quiver.
“No, the chief needs to know about this. You can see it on him; he’s crossed paths with the southern invaders.”
“I don’t know, boy. It don’t seem like he’ll wake up any time soon. Wasting the wives’ resources on him won’t sit well with the chief.” Jonn shook his head in agreement with his buddy.
“They could be marching up the mountain right now. They’ll do here what they did to us in Yorm.” Dros clenched his fists at the mere thought.
“The Yormr are as soft as their marshlands,” said Jonn. “Besides, we’d see them coming from a league a way. There’s a lot more mountain in the way.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dros stared hard at the bad-mouthed guard. Jonn seemed startled by the shocked look on his face. “I’m taking him to the chief. He can decide if he’s to be wolfsfood or not.”
“Fair enough, boy, but you better tell the old man we did our duty. He’s in your hands now.”
“Yes, Col. I promise.” Col nodded, but Jonn directed his gaze elsewhere, still seeming ticked off. Dros heeded no mind to it and proceeded to shoulder the man. He braced forcibly, considering how much he’d weighed when he fell into his arms earlier. It was shaky, at first, but he soon got moving, and it felt no heavier than a sack of logs. The longhouse was just up ahead.
“Open the door!” he shouted, hoping somebody would hear him from the hall. “It’s Dros. I need help!” It felt like an eternity before anyone let him in. Dros barged past them, not even paying attention to who opened the door for him. The hall was bursting with people, but it quickly fell to silence as he lumbered in. “Call the wives. We have an injured man!” Yet nobody moved an inch.
“You heard him, get the wives!” That was Bjern.
“Wait!” said Bjorr in a commanding voice. “Put him down. Now.”
Dros stopped dead in his tracks but hesitated to drop the man. “He needs…help!” He said between heavy breaths.
“Where did you find that man?” Bjorr stood up from his chair and approached him with his usual limping gait. Dros finally gave in and put him down on the floor.
“He came knocking on the gates. Calling for you.” He paused to catch his breath. “By name.”
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Bjorr leaned over, inspecting the man. The expression on his face soon changed to a confident pout. “Throw him out. His furs are as yellow as my piss, my boy. Feed him to his crows if you’d like. Vervs know, I don’t care.” Dros had never seen him act so stern. There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
“Chief, look at him. He’ll die if we toss him out in the woods,” said Dros.
“He’s a TRAITOR!” His voice reverberated in the hall thrice over, tankards toppling on the floor. His wife and children jerked in their seats; surprise layered in their faces. Silence engulfed the hall, save for the crackling of the hearth. Bjorr glared at Dros from atop the dais. “Get him out of my sight. I’d rather not draw blood in my own hall.”
Dros drew quick, nervous breaths. “But chief, he says he’s been in contact with the invaders. Look at him, he’s all beat and bloodied. He called them the Black Conquerors.”
“Have you lost your ears, boy? I said throw him out. You can join him if you’d like.” Bjorr was red as a freshly slaughtered pig, and the blood vessel on his forehead had never looked so robust. “We already spoke about this, Dros. The answer is still no. Chuck him out, or feed him to the hounds, for all I care. I’m hungry and this stew is getting cold.” Bjorr returned to his seat and ripped a piece of bread for himself. He took a swig from his tankard and jammed a spoonful of stew in his mouth.
“When you stumbled into me,” Dros began. “You didn’t know who I was, or whether I was a traitor, a murderer. You might know this man to be a dreg, but to me he needs my help.”
Bjorr stared at him, silent, as he finished his last bite. “I should’ve thrown you out when I had the chance.” He seemed half enraged half withholding a grin. “I’ll give him a chance on you, Dros. I will hold council with my thanes the moment he’s strong enough to stand, and we’ll hear him out. I will throw him outside, after. Not a moment later. Bjern, go with him. Get the wives!”
He’d convinced Bjorr. Dros still struggled to believe it. He was waiting for him to say it was all a rouse and order two of his thanes to hoist him and throw him over the palisade.
“Come on Dros, take his shoulders,” said Bjern, grabbing the man’s legs.
Dros snapped out of his trance and wrapped his elbows under his armpits.
They carried him out the hall and thudded through the snow to the apothecary tent. “You need to stop challenging my father like that, especially in front of his thanes,” said Bjern.
“The man is dying,” Dros replied.
“Just don’t do it again, or I won’t come to your aid next time. My father seems to like you. Don’t pull your string too hard or he’ll let go. You’re undermining your chief every time you do it. The thanes will not take that lightly, and neither will I.”
Dros glanced at Bjern; he would’ve sworn he had something to say back to him, but he couldn’t find the words.
One of the wives immediately whisked through the flap as they reached the tent and signalled them to hurry. They placed him down gently on a stack of hay, and a younger wife placed a hot blanket on his forehead.
“Can he be saved?” asked Dros.
“He’s still breathing,” the younger wife said, rubbing the back of her hand on the man’s cheek. “But he’s got a cold fever and seems not to have eaten for days. The next few hours are critical.”
“Do everything you can. I will stay here until he’s stable,” said Dros.
“Are you not going to eat?” asked Bjern. “He’s not going anywhere.”
“I have to stay. I need to know about the Black Conquerors.” Gondyr’s face brushed past him in his mind’s eye.
“Whatever suits you, Dros. But if you keep missing your meals, I’m going to topple you next time we wrestle.” A playful smirk cracked from Bjern’s lips.
“Not now, Bjern,” Dros replied, looking away from Bjern and towards the man. Bjern scoffed and fizzed through the tent flap.
Ages passed since they brought him to the wives. Warm cloth after warm cloth, he gave no signs of waking up. The wives washed the dried blood from his body and patched the open wounds. They undressed him and changed him into clean clothes. He hadn’t realised how much they reeked until they put them outside to soak in the snow.
Whatever sunlight that had been peeking through the tent flap had now faded, and the only thing aiding their sight was the three lit candles in the tent. Dros’ stomach rumbled, but he hit himself on the back of his neck and quickly forgot about his hunger. He picked at the mat of hay he had lain on in the spring, watching as the man breathed slowly.
A convulsion. The man groaned, his leg shuffling. Dros lit up as he saw the man come to his senses.
“Don’t force it. You were badly beat,” said one of the wives.
“Not my first time waking up in one of these,” said the man, followed by a cough. “You’re not Bjorr,” he said, pointing to Dros.
“Aye, doubt you would have woken up at all if he was here. Rest for a while longer, and I will take you to him. I’ll let him know that you’re awake.”
The man nodded and reclined onto the hay.
Dros shot through the flap and spotted Bjern sitting on a chopped log just outside the tent. He was sharpening his dirk.
“Has our slumbering valkyrie awoken?” said Bjern, chuckling.
“Yes, tell your father. I’ll bring him to the hall.” Dros went to lift the flap, but he felt Bjern’s hand grasp his forearm.
“Dros, we’ve talked about this before. My father values you. Vervs, I value you, but don’t go giving me orders.” Dros saw Bjern’s stern expression and chuckled.
“All you chiefsblood are the same. You think a family name makes you better than everyone else? I wasn’t giving you orders. You can do as you like, but your father will want to know that his guest, whom he’d rather give to the wolves than spend another resource on, is awake and wants to talk.” They held sparking eye contact for a moment, and Dros slapped his shoulder with a laugh. Bjern couldn’t help but smile back.
“You’re such a prick.” Bjern laughed and hurried over to the longhouse.
Dros nipped back inside, and, with the help of the wives, stood the man on his feet. They dressed him in spare white furs, of deerhide. He was unstable at first, but with his arm slinged around Dros’ shoulder, they nudged through the tent flap.
He lurched alongside the man up to the longhouse. The other members of the Barlrstead shot scorning glances at the man, but he heeded them no concern. They climbed the wooden steps of the foyer, and Dros shoved the door open with his free hand. The warmth of the longhouse greeted them with stuffiness and the scent of smoke. Bjorr sat in the same place, but beside him now sat Bjern and his council of thanes, though there was one seat vacant.
“I can stand on my own,” said the man, shrugging Dros’ arm off from his shoulder.
Bjorr stared at him intently, scratching his beard and twiddling his dirk between his thickset fingers. “In normal circumstances,” he began, his voice booming down the hall. “I would honour your thanage, titles, and your father’s name. But, Ragnar of the Pissfields, you lost that privilege a long time ago. I see you are looking ripe and healthy, though.” The thanes met their chief’s words with rampant laughter. “Every time I dreamt of our reunion, I stood over you, my prick hung tall over your corpse, pissing, your head rolling beside my feet.” The council cheered to that. “Just so all are aware, I will retell the story of your betrayal, as an example to my new thanes, and a good reminder to those who know it.”
“There is no need, Bjorr.”
“The Barlr to you. You do not have the right.” Ragnar sighed, and Bjorr continued: “This man before you, Ragnar Son of Harald, is one of the most gifted minds I’ve come across in my years as a warring man. He is a tactician unmatched, and decent with an axe in hand, too. But, on a day much like today, he decided that a bag of hammrs and a piece of land was worth more than the loyalty he owed to me and I to him—as my thane.” A rippling silence sent through the hall. Dros’ skin laced in gooseprickles. “The Mydir sent for him. Even I was aware. I encouraged him to meet him. Word between Warchiefs is sparse. It would have served us well to know of their status or potential moves. However, he offered him the lands of one of his late thanes—the Crowlands. Like a daft pig, he took the carrot and fled, without a word. Craven and treacherous.” Bjorr spit at Ragnar, but Ragnar stood firm as a splodge of saliva drooped from his cheek. The other thanes continued to scold him with unintelligible insults; the hall erupted into a battle of yells. “Alright!” Bjorr shouted, demanding silence. “We are all now acquainted with this pissfurs. Let us hear what he so desperately must tell me. And it better be good, or you’ll be wolfsfood before you can count your fingers.”
“Not how I would’ve told it, but this is your hall, after all.” He wiped the spittle from his face with his sleeve. “This is not the time to make an enemy of a fellow Rocr.”
“Tell your story, or leave,” said Bjorr, pointing to the door, stone-faced.
“They took Storgard, Barlr. Those savages. They razed it to the ground, killed all who opposed them. They stacked the dead like logs, children, and all—their heads still smoking—and made slaves of the rest…”
Dros’ mind launched him under the rain of hurling fireballs again, men, women and children alike screaming and running for their lives. The man who burned alive in front of them.
“I ran,” Ragnar continued. “They pursued me through the woods, but I managed to shake them where the paths scattered.” Ragnar paused briefly, his hands cradling his head. “I left all my people in their hands, but I had no choice! That Feimr, he led them to us, past the Raskelva. I don’t know what type of deal he waged with their leader, but he rode alongside the spearmen and swung his axe as if he was one of them.” Bjorr and his thanes made not a sound. “He’s a traitor to his blood. A lesser man than even I, Barlr.” Bjorr rolled his eyes but kept quiet. “I overheard him say they were taking us to Yorm. To some stone keep they raised where his steading had once stood. The Yormfort, they called it. Barlr, they are at your door. But a day’s ride away. There are no other Warchiefs left to fight them. Your lands are the only piece of the Roc left unconquered. You must act now, or they will make of your steading as they did with the others before you can take another sip of your moord.”
Bjorr replied in slow applaud. The thanes glanced at each other in confusion but followed his chief’s actions and clapped. “A call to arms worthy of song, Pisslands! Ygor, Tarfal, throw him out, I’ve heard enough bull crap for today.” Ygor and Tarfal half stood up from their chairs, looking at each other.
“You must be joking,” Dros intervened. Suddenly, he felt the pressure of every watchful eye of the thanes.
“Shut up, boy,” said Ygor, Thane of Lochmond, banging the table with his fist.
“Give the word and I’ll slit his throat, chief!” yelled Tarfal, the One-Eyed Thane, jumping from his chair.
“You’ll do no such thing!” Bjorr shouted, directing his piercing gaze at Tarfal. The hall froze; nobody budged or spoke.
Until Ragnar, with piercing words, said: “Barlr. Bjorr, your palisade may keep the wolves away, or even dregs, but the Black Conquerors will burn them down, rape your women, and laugh as they make slaves of you all! You have the knowledge from us survivors. A luxury we did not have when they arrived at our gates.”
Bjorr set his dirk down flat on the table, jaw clenched, his complexion pensive. He swept his hand over his beard, gripping the full length and letting it slide through his fingers. “Dros,” Bjorr said; his voice travelled with a thud. Dros returned his gaze with a shaking nervousness. “You’re as relentless as a dreg in a whorehouse. I’ll give you that.” He showed his teeth through his greying beard and drummed his belly as he started laughing. “This is what you wanted, lad,” he said between guffaws. “To take up arms against these…Black Conquerors. What would you have me do?” Bjern looked at his father, shook. The thanes’ confused murmurs ebbed in the hall like frizzing spume.
Dros dug his nails into his palms, a thick wetness clumping up on his fingertips. “I want to kill every, last, one of them.” The pale face of the Lion stark in his mind.
“Aye, my boy. I’m well aware. But we must not act rashly. You already know what fighting them head on leads to.” Bjorr set his tankard down.
“Then I say we hunt them,” Dros declared, a wave of confidence ushering through his limbs.
“That may work,” said Bjorr, returning his gaze to Dros.
“Nobody knows these forests better than us, chief,” Dros replied, inside trembling, but standing proud, nonetheless.
The hall stilled for a moment. Naught but the blowing wind outside uttered a sound.
Ygor broke the silence with a loud snort. “The Barlr doesn’t take orders from a runt.”
“The Barlr listens to whoever he pleases.” Bjorr glanced at Ygor with frightful intensity, his words resolute.
Ygor scoffed again. “Chief, he’s a child. He knows nothing about war. If you listen to him, you might as well let him sit in your chair and lord this hall as his own. I can’t be the only one thinking of this. Clerc, Tarfal?”
Tarfal cocked his head back with a heavy sigh and scratched his empty eye socket with his maimed hand. The rest of the thanes made not a sound.
Bjorr had a look of calm about him that was uncanny. “I’m going to allow you the chance to apologise to me for the words you have chosen to speak aloud in my hall.”
He did not scoff at that. There was a choke in Ygor’s throat that chopped through the stillness of the hall as Dros’ axe had the logs, but then his fist hit the table with a limp thud. “I stand by what I said,” he replied, half shouting half whispering.
“And I will respect your choice.” Bjorr’s words seemed final when he grabbed his tankard and sipped his moord yet again. When his lips detached from the wooden rim, however, he drew a breath that held Ygor’s fate. “Treasure your last day with the gift of speech. Your tongue will be mine come the morning.”
Ygor closed his eyes for a moment and reclined onto the backrest of his chair. He nodded in acceptance, but his hand which he rested on the table trembled ever so slightly.
Dros pressed his tongue to his bottom teeth. It was full of vitality, yet he tasted a bitter hint of iron.
Bjorr nodded. “Are any other of my thanes of the same mind? Speak your truth or none at all.”
“My axe is hungry, chief,” cried Clerc, Thane of the Marches, all the way from the edge of the table.
“Aye, too long since her last feast,” added Tarfal, caressing the side of his edge. A grunt of agreement emanated from the other thanes.
“My swift mares have been restless for months. They’re not meant for pushing carts. They’ll carry us through shadow and storm alike,” said Jarl, the Greenthane, his cloak of leaves rustling as he nodded his skin-shaven head.
Ygor swayed his head from one end of the table to the other, disdain perched on his brow. Even the thanes that remained silent evaded his stare like the chills.
“I see.” Bjorr’s eyes flicked to the pale wood of the table, then to the scarred faces of his thanes. For a long, terrible heartbeat he said nothing. Then he raised his dirk, and stabbed down at the table with brutish force, thrusting the blade into the wood. “Then it is settled. Southern blood will fill our mudbaths, I tell you. We will learn the steps of these Black Conquerors. Where they sleep, where they drink, where they shit. We will get to know them better than we know ourselves. And when we strike it will be with a fist that remembers!”
“Aye!” His thanes roared.
Swords, axes, and knives alike slashed upwards through the air. Dros quickly raised his dirk and joined in their cheers.
“From today, until the Roc is free, you will treat all Rocr as your brothers and sisters, as you would your own blood. We will drive these southern bastards back to their dry lands and claim our birthright from their sullied hands! For no matter how far apart or long ago, all Rocr stem from the same boulder, and right now, that boulder is crumbling.”
Every soul in that hall raised their blades ever higher and cheered ever louder. A shiver of ecstasy trickled down Dros’ spine. Whether it was of triumph or terror, he could not tell.
© Jaime Abad 2025