Blood of the Wolf

The Red-Haired Woman

Back in Gutagard. Thora woke up before dawn with her heart pounding.

For a long time, she remained motionless beneath the heavy wool furs, staring up at the smoke-blackened rafters of her chamber. The fire had gone low during the night, leaving only a faint red glow among the ashes.

She could still see the river from her dream.

It was wide, black, and choked with mist. On the muddy bank stood a woman with her back turned. Her hair was a fierce, striking red—and dark blood dripped steadily from the steel blade in her right hand.

Thora had never seen her before. Yet the woman's face had felt strangely familiar.

She threw back the furs, dressed quickly in her leather tunic, and hurried down the timber staircase.

Hilda was in the lower hall when Thora found her, sitting near the fire while two women prepared food for the household. The shield maiden looked up as Thora approached.

"You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Thora sat on the wooden bench beside her, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. "I saw something."

Hilda's expression changed. "Another vision?"

Thora nodded, lowering her voice. "There was a river in the South. And a woman standing beside it. Her hair was like flame, and there was fresh blood on her blade.

"Did she speak to you?"

"No."

"Did you recognize her face?"

Thora shook her head slowly. "No. But I felt it, Hilda. I think I will meet her."

"Whatever you saw, it hasn't come to pass yet," Hilda said, her voice softening into a low, steady murmur. "Remember what your father used to say: visions are warnings, not commands. You choose what to do with them."

Thora nodded, though the image remained burned into her mind—the red hair, the dripping steel, and the cold river mist.

By midmorning, the tide along the southern beach had turned.

Erik stood on the gravel shore beside Jarl Solvi, Bo, and Áki. A scout from the northern patrols had ridden hard into camp before sunrise with heavy news: Prince Aleksandr and the Western Army had arrived at Borislav, locking down the ridge with fifteen hundred fresh men.

The news had rippled through the Viking camp. Expecting Erik to order an immediate march on the fortress before the prince could organize his lines. 

He didn't. Instead Erik crouched by the waterline, completely still.

Jarl Solvi looked down at him, "How many?"

"More than Egor had," Erik replied calmly. 

Solvi grunted, leaning on his spear. "Then we should strike their camp now before they finish digging trenches on the ridge."

Áki slammed his palm against the haft of his broad axe. "Let them line up on the plain again! We broke Egor's center, we can break the Prince’s."

Erik looked up at Áki. "That is precisely what Aleksandr wants us to do. He brought cavalry and heavy spearmen. If we charge up that ridge, he'll envelop our flanks and pin us against the sea."

Áki frowned, pacing back and forth in the wet sand. "Then what do we do? Sit here until they starve us out?"

Erik reached down and dragged his finger through the damp sand, drawing a crude map. He marked Borislav, the gravel coastline, and the narrow dirt road winding inland toward Slovia.

"An army of fifteen hundred men cannot survive on stone walls and victory speeches," Erik said. "They need grain, arrows, iron, and horse feed. Everything they need to keep a host in the field comes down a single road."

Bo’s eyes lit up. "The supply train."

"The supply train," Erik confirmed. "If we march up that hill, Aleksandr hides behind his stone walls and uses his archers to bleed us dry. But if we destroy his supply line..."

Solvi gave a low, appreciative chuckle. "He can't stay at Borislav. He either marches his army back to Slovia, or he comes down into the open valley to hunt us."

Áki looked toward the fortress road, a toothy grin breaking through his beard. "So we cut their throats from behind."

"Not all of us," Erik said, standing up and wiping the sand from his fingers. He looked at Solvi. "I need a hundred of your best woodsmen."

Solvi raised an eyebrow. "Only a hundred? You're taking them inland yourself?"

"Yes. The rest of the fleet stays here with you, Solvi."

Áki stepped forward, his eyes blazing. "I'm coming with you, Erik."

"No," Erik said firmly.

Áki’s expression hardened. "I'm your shield-brother. My axe belongs at your back."

"Your axe belongs here," Erik corrected, resting a hand on Áki’s heavy shoulder. "Aleksandr's scouts are watching this beach from the watchtowers. If they see Solvi, you, and the main body of our men moving around, keeping fires lit, and maintaining the longships, they'll assume our whole force is sitting here preparing for an assault."

Áki looked at Solvi, then back at Erik. He didn't like it, but the logic was airtight. He spat into the surf and gave a curt nod. "Fine. 

Erik turned to Bo. "You're with me."

Bo adjusted the leather strap of his round shield over his shoulder. 

Within an hour, one hundred elite warriors were quietly assembled at the edge of the treeline. The rest of the Viking army remained on the shore, keeping war-fires burning brightly, dragging timber along the beach, and making a show of preparing siege ladders.

Anyone watching from the high towers of Borislav would see a northern fleet preparing for a frontal assault on the gates.

Under the cover of the dense coastal forest, Erik led his hundred men away from the sea.

They moved like wolves through the pine woods, keeping low whenever the canopy thinned. The roar of the surf faded behind them, replaced by the quiet rustle of wind.

After an hour of silent marching, they reached a steep, timbered ridge overlooking the southern king’s road. Erik raised his hand, and they halted instantly.

Below them, a massive supply column was winding its way through the valley toward Borislav. Dozens of heavy wooden wagons groaned under the weight of grain sacks, salted meat barrels, bundles of iron-tipped spears, and crates of fletched arrows.

Riding alongside the wagons were fifty Kievan horsemen and twice as many foot guards.

Bo crouched in the brush next to Erik, scanning the line. "That's a lot of grain. And a lot of steel."

"They think they're is safe because Aleksandr's army is ahead of them," Erik murmured, counting the guards.

"When do we jump them?" Bo asked, slipping his hand toward the hilt of his short sword.

Erik watched the column's progress, measuring the terrain ahead. "Not here. The valley is too wide. If we strike now, their cavalry can maneuver and form a defensive ring around the wagons."

He pointed farther down the road where the valley narrowed dramatically between two steep, heavily wooded bluffs.

"There," Erik said. "The pass of the Gray Ravine. The road shrinks to two wagons wide. The horses won't have room to wheel, and the foot soldiers will be choked between the timber walls."

Erik stood, making a quick signal. "Move the men. The warriors disappeared into the forest like shadows.

Ten minutes later, Erik and Bo reached the crest of the pass overlooking the narrowest choke point. Down on the dirt road, the lead wagon entered the shadows of the ravine, its iron-rimmed wheels creaking under the heavy load.

Erik slid one of his twin swords an inch from its scabbard, the cold iron whispering in the quiet forest.

"Here," Erik murmured.

Bo looked down at the trapped column. "No room to turn. No room to run."

"And nowhere to hide," Erik added softly.

He raised his hand high above his head. Along the wooded ridge, one hundred Viking warriors drew their steel in dead silence, waiting for the signal to strike.