Blood of the Wolf

Jarl Halfdan, who had survived thirty years of war, was drinking as if he’d never see another battlefield.

He sat beneath the carved wolf's head that hung above the high seat of Gutagard, a horn of ale in one hand, a roasted boar's leg in the other. Warriors packed the long tables around him, their shouts rising with the crackle of the great hearths. Weapons hung from sash hooks. Chests of ale stood stacked along the stone walls. The heavy scents of roasted meat, woodsmoke, and spilled mead filled the hall.

It was a fine night for warriors. It was a strange night for Halfdan. Erik had sensed it before the first horn was drained.

His father laughed when the others laughed, drank when they drank, and even joined in for a verse of the saga-singing. But his gaze kept drifting toward the heavy oak doors.

Toward the sea.

Erik took a slow breath and leaned back against the wooden wall beside Hilda.

"You've been watching him all night," she said quietly.

"Aye."

Hilda smiled into her ale. "Watch the doors or watch your father, Erik. Watching both makes you look like a frightened pup."

He shot her a sidelong glance, but she only grinned back. "You have a sharp tongue tonight."

"I've always had one."

"You've always had a shield to hide behind, too."

Hilda bumped her shoulder against his, and for the first time that evening, Erik allowed himself a faint smile.

Across the hall, Bo was halfway through a tale already too ridiculous to be true. Áki sat beside him, shaking his head in mock disbelief. Near the fire stood Thora and Fridda. While the rest of the hall cheered at Bo’s tall tale, Thora’s eyes were fixed entirely on him.

Erik caught it. So did Hilda.

"Your sister has poor taste," Hilda murmured.

Erik sighed. "She's eighteen."

"And?"

"Bo's an idiot."

Hilda laughed. "That is the wisest thing you've said all night."

At the far end of the board, Olaf sat alone, his broad arms folded over his chest. Halfdan's eldest son had returned to Gutagard only days ago after years fighting alongside the sellswords of Jómsborg. He was broader than Erik, weathered, and carried himself like a man accustomed to burying his friends.

Across the crowded room, their eyes met. Olaf raised his horn. Erik raised his own.

Nothing more needed to be said.

Then Halfdan stood.

The hush that fell over the great hall was sudden and absolute—even the flames seemed to shrink. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. He simply looked over the men gathered beneath his roof.

"Eat," the Jarl said. "Drink. The sea will claim some of you tomorrow."

A few grizzled warriors chuckled. Halfdan lifted his horn high. "To those who return."

"And to those who don't!" a voice roared from the back.

Halfdan smirked. "Skull!"

The hall erupted into thunderous cheers. Erik watched his father drink, and for a fleeting second, Halfdan’s eyes locked onto his. Something heavy and unspoken passed between them. Then the Jarl turned away, and the feast roared back to life.

When Erik finally stepped outside, the firepits behind him had burned down to glowing embers. The night air was sharp, and the sea stretched out below, black and vast beneath a pale moon.

Halfdan stood near the cliff’s edge, his cloak pulled tight against the wind.

Erik walked up beside him. Below them, white surf crashed violently against the rocks.

"Three days," Halfdan said without turning.

Erik looked at him. "For what?"

"We sail."

Erik frowned. "You said we’d wait until winter."

"I changed my mind."

"Why?"

Halfdan stared out toward the dark horizon. "Kiev."

The name hung in the night air like drawn steel. Erik crossed his arms. "How do you know that?"

"Because I smell it."

"That's not an answer."

Halfdan turned, stepping closer. "You've fought beside me since you were old enough to hold a shield. You've seen what war does to men."

"I have."

"Then don't mistake courage for leadership."

"I don't."

"Good." Halfdan’s voice dropped to a low rumble. "Then remember this: a man doesn't just inherit power. He inherits the enemies of the man before him."

Erik went still. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because Kiev will test us when I'm gone. Not just them—every Jarl in the North will test Gutagard." Halfdan placed a heavy hand on the back of Erik's neck. "If I fall, you protect this family. You protect this land."

Erik drew back slightly. "Olaf is older. He has more experience."

"I know."

"Then why me?"

Halfdan fixed him with a long, searching look. "Because you see things others miss. A loud man thinks everyone should hear him. A quiet man listens." He pulled his hand away and turned back toward the hall. "Never forget that. And know that I trust you to make the right choice when the time comes."

He walked away into the dark before Erik could press further. Erik remained on the cliff edge, the cold wind biting at his face. It wasn't his father's words that unsettled him—it was the finality in his voice. As if Halfdan was already speaking from beyond the grave.

By morning, Halfdan was dead.

Erik woke to the sounds of the men outside. He was on his feet in an instant, gripping the sword beside his bed as he burst into the wooden corridor.

Warriors were heading toward the main hall. Hilda appeared from the opposite passage, fully dressed, her hand resting on her pommel. They entered the hall and silence met them.

Halfdan lay motionless on the stone floor near the high seat. Fridda knelt beside him, her hands pressed against his chest, her face pale. There was no blood.

Olaf stood a few paces back, rigid as stone. Thora was weeping into her hands, Bo looked ashen, and Áki stared at the floor in stunned silence.

Erik dropped his sword and fell to his knees beside his father, touching Halfdan’s cold shoulder. He looked up at Fridda. "What happened?"

She shook her head, tears streaking her face. "He didn't wake up."

Erik turned to his brother. His expression was set in stone. Erik looked back at his father. There was no wound, no blood, nothing that would explain how the strongest man in Gutagard could fall.

Thora gasped loudly.

Everyone turned. She stood frozen behind Fridda, her eyes wide, staring past her father's corpse directly at Erik.

"Thora?" Erik said softly.

"I saw you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Erik stood up slowly. "Saw me where?"

"Snow."

Silence filled the great hall. "You were standing in the snow." Erik slowly rose to his feet. "What else?"

Thora swallowed. "There were bodies all around."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Father was there."

Erik's chest tightened. "Dead?"

"No." Thora wiped at her cheeks. "He was watching you."

Before anyone could speak, a warning horn blasted outside the gates.

BWAAA-AH.

The long sound echoed through the hall. Then a second blast followed.

Warriors instantly drew steel. Moments later, a sentry burst through the doors, breathless and wild-eyed.

"Ships!" he shouted.

Erik stepped away from his father's body, his hand instinctively falling to his hilt. "How many? Whose?"

The sentry struggling to catch his breath. "Southern sails! Five of them!"

Erik looked down one last time at the still face of his father. The war Halfdan had foreseen was already at their shores.