Embers of fire help us get through the cold winter

Harald did not jump onto the enemy ship.

He stood at the stern of the Raven, his hand on the helm, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic decks and landing on the flagship that had not yet been touched. Sigurd was still there, his blond hair fluttering slightly in the sea breeze, neither fighting nor retreating, nor even looking at his men being slaughtered.

He was looking at Harald.

The warriors of Fjørdla surged aboard the Blood Eagle's ship along the grappling hooks, the deafening clang of shields clashing, the sharp sound of axes cleaving helmets, and the choked sobs of the dying echoing across the bay.

The second heavy crossbow was cocked.

Harald stared intently at him. He watched the Bloodhawk warrior maneuvering the crossbow into the string groove, pressing his entire weight down, dragging the taut line of death backward inch by inch. He saw the tip of the bolt—forged iron, triangular, with a blood groove—aimed at Eric, the bow of the Seawolf, his back to the enemy ship.

He didn't shout.

He bent down, picked up a throwing axe that someone had left behind from his feet, twirled it in his palm to gauge its weight, and then threw it.

The axe flies from the hand, the crossbow bolt leaves the bowstring.

The crossbow bolt pierced the breastbone of the corpse in front of Eric, then pierced a second one, like a skewer for lamb. Eric turned around and saw the still-trembling fletching of the arrow, and then he saw the axe blade embedded in the forehead of the Bloodhawk crossbowman a few dozen paces away.

He grinned, blood trickling down his brow bone and obscuring his left eye.

He wiped his face with his sleeve and turned to pounce on the next enemy.

-----------------

Olaf glanced down as the baby's head emerged.

She saw a wrinkled little face beneath the thin, almost transparent amniotic sac. The eyes were closed, and the brow bone was still droopy, making it impossible to tell who it resembled. But the fists were clenched tightly—tighter than any newborn she had ever seen, as if it had been holding onto something it refused to let go of while still in the womb.

Elsa cradled the tiny head in a warm linen cloth. With her other hand, she gently and steadily helped the curled-up little body slide out of the womb.

The umbilical cord was still pulsating. Grayish-white and moist, like a piece of living seaweed, it connected the mother and daughter through the last internal passage.

The bone knife had been prepared beforehand. Its blade was very thin, gleaming a cold white in the firelight. Elsa didn't hesitate; she swiftly brought the knife down.

The umbilical cord broke.

In that instant, the baby opened its eyes.

Not all newborns open their eyes at the moment of birth. But she did. Her eyes were deep blue, like her mother's, and like the fjord sky at the end of the polar night. She gazed at the roof beam above her, covered in over eighty years of soot, at the flickering orange-red glow in the hearth, and at her mother's sweat-drenched face.

Then she cried.

The first cry was short, as if testing whether its throat could produce a sound. Then came the second, longer cry, like a newly hatched seabird attempting its first call on the edge of a cliff.

Ragnar stood by the curtain. He didn't know when he had stood up. The pebble was still clutched in his palm, its edges warm from his body heat, like a tiny heart.

Tora stood beside him, tiptoeing to peek through the narrow gap. She saw her mother's pale face, and the tiny, still-pulsating body in Elsa's arms, stained with blood and vernix caseosa.

Very small. Smaller than she imagined. Smaller than Ragnar was at birth.

"Tora." Her mother's voice was weak, but she heard it. "Come in."

As Tora lifted the curtain and went in, the corner brushed against his face. Ragnar followed behind his sister; no one chased him out, nor did anyone even think of chasing him out.

He stood at the edge of the straw mat, three steps away from his mother and the swaddled baby.

Tora had already stood on tiptoe and looked down at her sister's face. Her fingers touched the clenched fist very lightly, then withdrew.

"She's so small."

"You'll grow up," Olaf said. "And so will she."

Ragnar didn't look at Tora, nor at his mother. He looked at the half-face peeking out from the swaddling clothes—the skin was thin and red, the eyes were closed, and the brow bone was still droopy.

He took a step forward.

Olaf looked down at him. He didn't speak, but simply handed over what he was holding.

That pebble—he had been holding it in his hand for many days, warming it up, letting it cool down, and then warming it up again.

He placed it at the edge of the swaddling clothes, gently tucking it into the thin woolen fabric, and nestled it beside his sister's lower abdomen, just as his father had done in his hazy memory.

As his fingers withdrew, they touched her clenched fist. It was very light, like touching a damp flower bud that had not yet fully bloomed.

The baby didn't wake up. Her fingers twitched slightly as she clutched the stone.

Ragnar stepped back and stood beside Tora.

Olaf stared at the pebble tucked into the edge of the swaddling clothes for a long time. She didn't ask what it was, nor did she take it out.

Tora lowered her head and asked softly, "What did you give her?"

Ragnar did not answer immediately.

He looked at his sister's wrinkled little face, at the grayish-white stone she was hugging, and at its gentle rise and fall with her breath.

"Stone," he said.

He paused for a moment.

"For my younger sister."

-----------------

Blood Eagle's lines began to retreat.

They began to retreat in an orderly fashion, tightening their formation, dragging their fallen comrades back into the cabin, and piling the broken shields on the ship's side as temporary cover.

Sigurd never participated in the war.

He stood at the bow of his flagship, looking at Harald. Dusk was creeping in from the horizon, turning the bay waters a dark red. His blond hair, no longer a fiery red in the wind, resembled a faded, tattered flag.

Harald finally spoke: "You've lost over thirty people today."

Sigurd didn't look at the corpses. He looked at Harald, as if waiting for something.

Is that enough?

Sigurd did not answer.

He turned and gave the order to the helmsman:

"withdraw troops."

Bloodhawk's wrecked ship slowly turned and retreated into the depths of the fjord. Their speed was slow, and the oarsmen's movements were no longer synchronized. The broken shields hanging from the hull swayed gently in the sea breeze, producing a hollow, wood-on-wood sound.

Harald did not pursue.

His boat had three holes, and the cabin was flooded up to ankle-deep. Twenty-eight men were wounded, six were seriously injured, and one would never open his eyes again. A hasty pursuit in enemy waters would only put the young men in greater danger; this was merely retaliation for the previous attack—the fjord people never let their grudges linger.

Eric sat in the hold, leaning against the corpse of a Bloodhawk warrior, stuffing oil-soaked hemp fibers into cracks in the ship's planks. He did it slowly, his shoulder twitching with each stroke. Blood still seeped from the fresh wound on his forehead, mingling with seawater and dripping into the puddle beside him, spreading into a pale pink hue.

"That blondie," he said, his voice hoarse, "won't only bring eight boats next time."

Harald stood at the stern. He looked back, where the entrance to Broken Oar Bay had shrunk to a narrow slit, and twilight was squeezing out the last vestiges of daylight through the gap.

"Next time," he said, "we'll bring more."

The return voyage was against the wind. The oarsmen took turns paddling, the injured leaning against the gunwale, pressing their wounds with their unbroken hands. No one spoke. There was only the sound of oars cutting through the water, and the hollow splashing of water against the corpses as the boat rocked.

Eric reached for his waist and pulled out his flat flask. He took a swig and handed it to the silent young oarsman beside him. The man took it, took a swig, and handed it back.

The wine was passed among the men, like some kind of ancient communion.

After finishing his first feeding, the baby fell into a deep sleep.

Olaf leaned against the grass mat, her face as pale as a seal's belly fur, but her eyes were open. She looked down at the quiet little body in her arms for a long time, then looked up.

Harald is not here.

No one in the longhouse responded.

Brody stood by the fire pit. Blood seeped through the burlap on his forehead again—the wound had reopened when he had exerted too much force to get up by supporting himself on the wooden post.

He looked at the baby in his sister's arms, at that wrinkled little face that didn't yet resemble anyone.

"I'll do it," he said.

Olaf stared at him for a long time, then nodded.

Brody walked over and knelt down beside the grass mat.

He had never held something so tiny. He was at sea when his descendants were born, and by the time he returned, they had been fattened up by their mothers and were big enough to put his fingers in their mouths. He missed that moment—the moment when the baby was born, covered in blood and vernix, and opened its eyes for the first time.

Now he kneels here, awkwardly stretching out his arms, unsure of where to place his hands.

He froze when Elsa placed the baby in his arms.

The little body was very light, lighter than the throwing axe he used in battle. But as he held her, it was like holding a longship full of warriors, and he even held his breath.

The baby woke up.

She opened her deep blue eyes and looked at the man with a full beard, a dirty burlap sack wrapped around his forehead, and bloodshot eyes.

Brody looked down at her.

He hadn't decided what to say. Before giving birth, his sister Olaf had suggested a few names—if it was a girl, Ingrid, Sigourney, or Idlund. All were old, good names.

But when he opened his mouth, that wasn't what he said.

He didn't know why. It was just that the word suddenly popped into his head when he was holding this little bundle of joy.

Ástríðr. One whom God loves.

"Your name is Astrid."

His voice was very soft, very soft.

This is composed of two words from an ancient language: áss, god; fríðr, beautiful.

The baby stared at him. His deep gray eyes remained unblinking, as if trying to discern whether the man's voice was trustworthy.

Brody didn't say anything more.

He returned the baby to Olaf's arms, propped himself up on his knees, and turned around.

The women in the longhouse saw his shoulders and back trembling slightly.

It might be the wound on my forehead that's hurting.

Ragnar sat in the corner. He heard the name. Astrid. He murmured it, pressing the tip of his tongue against his palate, uttering a soft syllable.

My sister's name is Astrid.

He didn't know how many times he would silently recite this name in the years to come, when he sat by the fire during the polar night, when preparing for war, and when he thought of his hometown in a foreign land.

But he has already memorized it.

"I will protect her," he thought.

The days in early spring are still short, and the sun has already set in the west.

The Blood Eagles retreated in haste, unable to drag away everything. Three snake ships, hooked by grappling hooks, were dragged along the stern of the Fjørdla fleet like captured sea monsters still struggling. The bottom of the holds was filled with half a palm's depth of blood, mixed with spilled tar, wood chips, and a leather boot left behind by someone.

Eric stepped over the gunwale, his boots making a sticky, squelching sound. He looked down and rummaged around, pulling two bundles of things from under the oarsman's seat.

"Good stuff."

The first bundle contained axes. These weren't the flimsy, disposable throwing axes; they were proper Northern long-handled axes, two-handed. The blades were broad and curved like a rising crescent moon, and the handles were tightly bound with tanned cowhide, still warm from their original owners when held in the palm of the hand. There were seventeen axes in total.

The second bundle contained swords. Five in total, three of which were double-edged with blood grooves along their spines, and one had a silver-plated pommel. These were items reserved for the leader, not something an ordinary oarsman could carry.

If Brody were here, he would definitely whistle—but unfortunately he isn't.

A sailor on the Seawolf pulled another bundle from under the oarsman's seat.

This bundle, wrapped in oilcloth and tied carefully, revealed several slender, curved lines when untied—six longbows. They were made of yew wood, the bow arms still bearing the marks of their former owner's touch, the strings were made of twisted flax, one of which had broken in half and had been carefully mended with leather straps.

Eric held a bow up into the twilight, squinting at the bow's surface polished smooth by his palms, and then tested the string's tension with his thumb.

"Good stuff," he said.

A toothless smile flashed in the twilight.

"Although the Foyoldelas don't like using this—throwing an axe is more fun than drawing a bowstring." He rested the bow on his lap, paused, "but spoils are always good."

Harald didn't look at the weapons. He stood at the bow of the Seawolf, bent down, and pulled a crossbow bolt embedded in the bulkhead. The bolt was made of ironwood and was twice as thick as a regular arrow, with a triangular tip and a blood groove.

He handed the crossbow bolt to the young soldier behind him.

"Keep it; it might come in handy later."

Quite a few shields were also collected. When Bloodhawk abandoned ship, they piled the broken round shields on the side of the ship as cover, but there were still more than twenty intact ones. Fjordela's own shields had been shattered in the naval battle, so they were used to replace them. Eric ran his thumb across the iron cap of one of the shields; the rust was very shallow.

"He's in decent shape," he said. "At least Sigurd's blondie knows how to clean his thing."

As the three snakeboats were towed into the fjord, seawater rushed in and out through holes in their hulls with a ravenous, swallowing sound. Much lighter and lower than the longboats of Fjördra, Eric watched them from the stern of his own vessel.

"Tomorrow," he said, "we'll drag it ashore and fix it properly."

He paused, grinned, and the white stubble of his missing teeth flashed in the twilight.

"Selling it would be worth more than a dozen good cows."

The soldiers silently unloaded the spoils from the ship, piling shields into small mountains and bundling weapons into bundles, before carrying them into the warehouse. The body of their comrade who would never wake up again in the cabin had been carried to the back eaves of the longhouse, waiting for his mother or wife to close his eyes in his place.

The sun sank deeper and deeper into the west.

The light gradually changed from pale gold to copper red, and then faded to grayish purple. The seawater in the fjord was soaked by twilight, shimmering with a leaden gray, soft, somber satin sheen.

Five minutes ago, Tora was sitting on the doorstep.

She didn't run back to the dock; she simply sat there, her wooden sword resting across her lap, gazing towards the fjord's mouth. The bleeding from her knee had stopped; a thin, dark red scab had formed on the broken skin, its edges flaked with tiny pieces of skin. Ragnar sat half a step behind her, watching the southern horizon where the sea and sky were being swallowed by twilight.

The three black dots in the distance have turned into three ships.

He recognized the first ship. The Raven. Its high-arched bow was recognizable even across the entire bay. Then came the Seawolf, its gunwales low, the wolf's head at the bow a blurry, greyish-white outline in the twilight. Finally, the Sleepless, its stern slightly higher than its bow, like a weary bird returning to its nest.

All three ships have returned.

However, most of the shields hanging on the ship's side were gone.

Ragnar counted. The Raven had three empty shields, the Seawolf was missing five, and the Sleepless only had its stern shield still hanging in place.

He recalled how, when he set off this morning, the shields stood in a neat row in the morning mist, their yellow, black, and red colors intertwined, like a row of silent teeth.

Now many of those teeth are broken.

Brody was standing on the doorstep at some point.

He didn't speak, but just stared at the three ships slowly approaching, the empty spaces on their sides, and the three unfamiliar gray-brown snake boats towing behind them—those were spoils of war, captured.

three.

Not much, but enough.

When the Raven docked, dusk had already fallen over the mountain ridges on the east side of the fjord.

There were no torches on the dock. Olaf had said that tonight the longhouse would be lit, not to guide returning travelers—but to light the way for newborns coming into the world.

Harald jumped off the boat, his boots slamming heavily on the dock planks. His hand still gripped the helm, his knuckles stiffened into a half-clenched fist. He walked past Eric and patted him on the shoulder. Eric leaned against the gunwale, his forehead bandage soaked with blood, but he smiled again, revealing his missing front tooth.

"That blondie," he said, "I'll cut off his braid myself next time."

Harald walked toward the longhouse. The heavy wooden door was tightly shut, with a sliver of dim, flickering light seeping through the crack. He pushed the door open.

The fire was burning brightly. Olaf sat back on the straw mat, her forehead damp with sweat, a few strands of hair plastered to her temples, her face pale. In her arms she held a small, soft swaddled baby, as soft as unformed clay.

Tora stood guard beside her mother, holding the wooden sword; the scrapes on her knees had already scabbed over. When she saw her father, she straightened her back even more.

Ragnar sat on the floor beside Tora. He looked up at the doorway and saw the dark brown, dried stains on his father's body.

Brody leaned against a wooden post by the fire pit. The linen bandage on his forehead had been changed, and pale yellow tissue fluid was still seeping through the edges.

Olaf looked up and calmly gazed at her husband.

"Astrid," she said, "the name Brody gave you on your behalf."

Haral walked over.

He took his daughter; the baby was very light. Her eyes were closed, her little face was wrinkled, and her skin still had that almost transparent pinkish hue typical of newborns.

Harald looked down at his daughter.

His fingers, still stained with the dried blood of the Blood Eagle Warrior, gently and slowly stroked the baby's brow.

"Astrid," he said.

He repeated the name.

Outside the window, the fjord's tide was rising, repeatedly pounding against the wooden piles of the dock, washing away the bloodstains that had dripped from the ship's side.

The newborn baby, with its eyes closed, nestled peacefully in its father's arms, which were stained with seawater and blood.

She had no idea what had happened that day.

But she will know.

Many years later, when the bard sings of this naval battle where three fought against eight, of the blond enemy and the crossbow bolt that pierced two men, she will be the first to ask that question:

"Father, how many people did you bring back?"

Harald would remain silent for a long time, and then say,

"One is missing... but I remember him."

……

"His name is Tolmod."