Embers of fire help us get through the cold winter

Hearing Greer's call, Torkel walked over from the doorway of his longhouse. He was seventy years old, his legs were unsteady, but he walked quite quickly. Several men gathered around him—Hamond, old Rodin, and a few young men.

Seven or eight people stood in the open space in front of Greer's house, all looking towards the dock. The silhouettes of ships in the fog became clearer; three ships were slowing down.

"The Blood Eagle's ship," Torkel said, squinting. "The snake ship."

Hammond frowned. "What are they doing here?"

"I don't know," Torkel said. "But at this time of year, bringing three warships into someone else's bay is certainly not a gift."

There was a few seconds of silence.

Old Rodin said in a low voice, "I heard that Broken Bay has a new chieftain... that Sigurd, young and ambitious."

Greer stared at the three ships. They were almost at the dock; the oarsmen had put down their oars, and the ships were gliding along with the momentum. The decks were full of men, holding shields and weapons.

Greer suddenly spoke up: "We can't just let them come over like that."

He glanced around at the people—Torkel was old, Hammond was still alright, old Rodin had harpooned in his youth, and those young men had never even seen blood. In total, there were fewer than ten capable fighters.

But no one objected.

Greer said, "Grab the tools and head to the docks."

The men turned and ran back to their respective longhouses.

Torkel rushed into the house and grabbed a harpoon from the wall. His wife chased after him, shouting, "Where are you going?"

He didn't turn around.

Hammond pulled a rusty old axe from the house and tucked it into his belt as he ran.

Old Rodin and several young men also ran out of their longhouses, carrying harpoons, hunting knives, and wooden sticks. Some were fastening their trousers, while others were barefoot.

There were about ten people in total, gathering at the dock from various parts of the slope.

They ran very fast, but the ranks were loose, without formation, shields, or leather armor.

Greer was in the lead. He gripped the harpoon, panting, his eyes fixed on the three ships.

The nearest ship was still thirty or forty meters from the dock, gliding along. He could make out the raven carving on the bow, the fully armed men on the deck, and the shields, leather armor, and battle axes in their hands.

Torkel caught up, panting, and said, "There are quite a few people."

Greer didn't reply.

They rushed to the edge of the dock. Greer stood at the very front of the pier, behind him were Torkel, Hammond, old Rodin, and seven or eight other young men.

A dozen or so people were crammed onto the pier, holding fishing spears and hunting knives, without a single shield.

The three ships are approaching the shore. The first one is less than ten meters from the dock.

Greer took a deep breath and shouted towards the ship, "Bloodhawks! What are you doing in Herring Bay?"

No one on the ship answered.

The only sound was the gentle sloshing of the oars as the boat continued to glide.

Greer gripped the harpoon tightly, his palms sweaty.

The bow of the ship struck the dock with a dull thud.

The grappling hook was swung out from the side of the ship and snagged on the edge of the pier.

The soldiers on the ship jumped off.

Greer roared, "Stop them—!"

Greer and Torkel charged forward at the same time.

Greer's harpoon pierced the first warrior who jumped down—the man raised his shield to parry, the harpoon struck the shield, and slid away. The second warrior charged from the side, his axe slashing at Greer, who dodged to the side, staggering a step.

Old Torkel's harpoon pierced a warrior's thigh, and the man screamed and fell. But two other warriors pounced on him at the same time. Torkel didn't have time to retract his harpoon and was struck on the head by the handle of an axe. He knelt down, took another blow, and fell.

Hammond charged forward, his old axe striking a warrior in the shoulder; the blade became lodged in the bone and couldn't be pulled out. The warrior turned and swung his blade, sending Hammond clutching his chest as he fell backward.

Old Rodin, along with a few young men, stood in front of the shield wall. They tried to hold off the enemy, but the Bloodhawk warriors had already formed a formation—the front row holding shields, the rear row wielding axes, steadily advancing.

At that moment, a young man in the back row threw the harpoon in his hand.

It drew a short arc, passed through the gap between the two rows of shields, and accurately pierced a warrior's face.

The man didn't even have time to scream. The iron tip of the harpoon pierced through his eye socket and through his skull. He fell backward, his shield slipping from his hand, and he collapsed straight onto the dock.

Blood Eagles' formation paused for a moment. Some looked down at the corpse, while others instinctively took a half-step back.

But it was only for a moment.

The warriors behind immediately filled the gap, and the shields closed again. Three Bloodhawk warriors pounced on the young man simultaneously. Before he could draw his second harpoon, he was knocked to the ground, his axe falling, and he never rose again.

The formation at Herring Bay was quickly broken. Some were cut down, some turned and ran, and some jumped into the sea.

Greer tried to save Torkel, but a warrior kicked him from behind. Greer fell forward, his face hitting the wooden plank, and the harpoon slipped from his grasp.

He struggled to get up, but someone stepped on his back and pressed him to the ground.

Greer lay face down on the dock, his face pressed against the wooden planks. His mouth was full of blood, and his tongue licked a loose tooth.

The foot on his back was pressing down so hard that he could hardly breathe.

He turned his head to the side and could see the edge of the dock—his son, Jon, was being held down by two soldiers against the side of the ship, a rope being put around his neck. Jon was struggling, his face flushed red, and he was shouting something, but it was unintelligible.

He could see nothing—someone stepped over him, their boots landing on his hands, splashing mud onto his face.

Screams, banging on doors, and a woman's cries came from afar. He couldn't tell whose voices they were; he only knew that the sounds kept going and going and going.

I don't know how much time has passed.

The foot on his back suddenly moved away.

Greer lay there, motionless. He dared not move.

Someone walked by, their footsteps heavy, and stopped beside him.

The person stood next to him for two seconds, then continued walking forward.

Greer slowly raised his head and looked in that direction—

Golden hair. Even in the fog, the hair shone dazzlingly bright.

Sigurd.

He was walking up the slope.

Two Bloodhawk warriors kicked open the door and rushed into the room.

Greer's wife stood by the stove, her hand pressed against her stomach, her face deathly pale. Behind her, the cellar planks had been put up—her daughter and youngest son were hiding underneath.

A soldier glanced at her, shoved her aside, and began ransacking the place. Pickled fish barrels were kicked over, ration bags were torn open, and dried herbs were scattered all over the ground.

Another person opened a wooden box containing children's old clothes. He rummaged through it but found nothing of value, so he kicked the box over.

The wife stood in the doorway, trembling. She watched them rummage through things, watched them smash things, and couldn't utter a single word.

After rummaging through the cabinet, Warrior A turned to leave. As he passed her, she suddenly reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Please...don't take everything...we still have children..."

Warrior A flung her hand away and slapped her across the face. She fell backward, her stomach hitting the corner of the wooden table, before she crashed to the ground.

She clutched her stomach, curled up in a ball, her face deathly pale. Blood began to seep from beneath her.

The two soldiers didn't even look at her before stepping out the door.

Sigurd walked up the slope. The fog was dissipating, and sunlight was filtering through the clouds, shining on the scattered longhouses.

He saw a soldier drag a young woman—Hamond's wife—out of the longhouse. She struggled desperately, her fingernails scratching the man's face until it bled, and her clothes were torn in half. The soldier cursed, slapped her to the ground, and continued dragging her away.

Sigurd frowned.

He saw another soldier emerge from the nearby longhouse, carrying a baby in his arms. The baby was crying, crying heart-wrenchingly. The soldier glanced down, then impatiently tossed the baby to the ground. The baby rolled twice, its cries growing even more pitiful.

Sigurd's brow furrowed.

He strode over and said, "That's enough."

The soldier who was dragging the woman stopped and looked back at him. The other soldier also stopped.

Sigurd walked up to them, his gaze sweeping over the woman before settling on the baby. The baby was lying on the ground, still crying, its face covered in mud.

"Put it back," Sigurd said.

The warrior hesitated for a moment: "Chieftain, this..."

"I said, put it back."

The soldier released his grip, and the woman collapsed to the ground, trembling. Another soldier bent down, picked up the baby, and placed it back at the entrance of the longhouse.

Sigurd didn't look at them again. He turned and walked down the slope.

Halfway there, he saw a pregnant woman lying in front of Greer's house. He paused for a moment, then continued walking.

Greer, holding onto the edge of the dock, slowly got up. His legs were too weak to stand, so he leaned on a wooden post and panted for a long time.

He looked up, glancing towards his family's main house—

His wife lay motionless at the doorway, a pool of blood beneath her.

Greer paused for a second.

Then he started running.

His legs were still weak, and he stumbled after running a few steps. He fell, got up, and kept running. His face was covered in blood, and his mouth was full of blood, but he didn't bother to wipe it away.

Halfway there, a Blood Eagle Warrior blocked his way.

Greer didn't stop. He rushed forward and punched the man in the face. Caught off guard, the man staggered back a step. Another soldier rushed up and smashed an axe handle into the back of Greer's head.

Greer fell down again.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he seemed to regain a little consciousness. He opened his eyes and looked towards the dock—

Three snake boats were leaving the shore. The boats were crowded with people, and piles of fishing nets, barrels of salted fish, and furs. Jorn was pressed against the side of the boat, head down, motionless.

Sigurd stood at the stern, looking back at Herring Bay. The image of the pregnant woman who had collapsed in front of her house flashed through his mind.

A warrior walked over and asked, "Chief, what should we do with that kid?"

He pointed to the cabin—Yon was curled up in a corner, his leg stabbed and still bleeding.

Sigurd glanced at him.

"Throw it back."

The soldier was stunned for a moment: "What?"

"I said, throw it back," Sigurd said. "What's the use of taking a half-grown child back?"

The soldier nodded, walked to the side of the ship, and pushed Jon overboard.

Jon fell into the sea, splashing a small spray. No one looked back at him.

The boat continued outwards. Sigurd suddenly raised his hand, signaling the oarsmen to stop.

"People of Herring Bay, listen up!" His voice echoed across the sea. "Today I'm not letting them go too far; I'm giving you a way out. From now on, every year after the spring fishing season, send 50% of your catch to Broken Bay—remember, 50%. If you do, all will be well. If you don't…"

He paused, then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'll get it myself."

He waved, and the oarsman resumed rowing. The boat sailed into the distant fog and disappeared.