Cries of surrender echoed across the blood-stained slope as Brandr surveyed the aftermath from the high ground where Gunnar had been surrounded and fought his final moments. Below, the village spread between him and the harbor, its buildings forming narrow lanes down to the water. Warriors moved among the fallen, separating dead from wounded, while smoke rose from thatch roofs where stray arrows had found their mark. Beyond the village, Magnus's rear guard ships were finally anchoring at the harbor, their healers too few for the scattered wounded.

  His attention snapped back to Erik, lying motionless near Gunnar's fallen banner with Astrid pressing desperately against his wound. The sight of his friend's ashen face cut through his commander's focus.

  "Healer!" His voice carried the authority of command even as his worry gnawed at him. Scanning the chaos, he spotted one of the few healers working his way up the steep slope. "We need a healer here!"

  The man hurried over, leather bag clutched in weathered hands. As he knelt to examine Erik, Brandr forced himself to assess the battlefield. Near the cliffside, prisoners huddled under guard. Closer to the village, fires needed containing, weapons lay scattered - but his eyes kept returning to the healer's grim expression as he worked.

  "He needs shelter and proper care," the healer said firmly. "We must move him now."

  Brandr spotted two warriors securing prisoners at the cliff's edge. "You two - here!" They approached quickly, though their steps faltered as they noticed Gunnar's body sprawled in the mud. Their eyes darted between the fallen jarl and the bloodied sword near Astrid before exchanging uncertain glances.

  "Help us move him," Brandr ordered, his tone brooking no delay. They immediately obeyed, carefully lifting Erik onto their interlocked shields. Astrid rose with them, her face drawn as she gripped Erik's limp hand. Brandr squeezed her shoulder. "He's strong. He'll survive this."

  The healer avoided their eyes at the comment, silently gathering his supplies before leading the way down the steep slope. Brandr's heart sank at this silent contradiction. He picked a path through the aftermath of battle. Dropped weapons and discarded shields from Gunnar's surrendered forces littered the ground between the cliff face and the first row of houses. Smoke rose from several buildings where arrows had caught thatch alight, his warriors already working to contain the flames before they could spread through the narrow lanes.

  "Take him to the stone storehouse," Brandr directed the warriors, gesturing toward the squat building at the village edge. "It's sturdy, untouched by the fires. The healers have claimed it." He watched them navigate carefully between the burning buildings, Astrid following close behind as they headed away from the harbor, toward the quieter reaches of the village.

  With Erik in the healers' care, Brandr forced his focus back to command from his position overlooking the village. The most critical task now was securing prisoners - a retreating army was most dangerous when cornered. His warriors were moving through the narrow lanes between houses, gathering weapons and rounding up Gunnar's scattered forces. Some of the enemy still held weapons, watching warily as they were surrounded. Others had already surrendered, kneeling in groups under guard near the cliffs.

  A warrior hurried up the slope. "Three prisoners slipped away during the surrender—"

  "Get two of Torbjorn's men as guides," Brandr ordered. "They know these hills. Take no chances - they'll be desperate now."

  As the warrior hurried away, Brandr's attention turned back to the harbor below. The first of Helga's skeids was threading through the rocky passage that guarded Skogstrand's harbor. Here, ancient cliffs formed a natural barrier against both storms and enemies, leaving only two channels into the protected waters. The four drakkars he'd anchored outside marked the deeper passage, their crews signaling each vessel through the treacherous rocks. Beyond them, the grey northern sea stretched to the horizon where more of Helga's fleet waited, their proud sails barely visible in the distance. The shifting tide made their passage slow, the current forcing each ship to navigate the narrow channel with careful precision.

  One of his hirdmen approached, face grim. "Thirty-eight of our warriors will feast in Valhalla tonight. The enemy dead are nearly triple that."

  "See that our men are laid out with honor," he ordered.

  Footsteps pounded behind him. "Commander! We've captured Gunnar's youngest son among the surrendered."

  Brandr's attention sharpened. A son of Gunnar could provide valuable leverage in negotiations with territories still loyal to their fallen jarl, especially with Einar fled. "Where is he being held?"

  "The smoke house, under guard."

  "Double the guard. No one speaks to him without my father's approval." He turned back to the hirdman. "And the weapons?"

  "Collected. The valuable pieces are secured."

  "Divide the rest among our warriors by their deeds today."

  More warriors approached with urgent questions: burial parties needed direction for separating the dead, guard rotations needed arranging for the hostage, defensive positions required maintaining in case of counter-attack. Brandr dealt with each in turn, establishing order from chaos. The prisoners were secured, weapons were being gathered, and burial parties had begun their grim work.

  Through gaps between the buildings, he caught glimpses of wounded warriors being helped from Beowulf's karve. His eyes strained to follow their movements, searching for Sigrida. When he spotted her being carried by one of Helga's burliest warriors, he studied her carefully, relief washing through him as she appeared alert despite the blood visible on her leg bindings. The tattooed warrior turned away from the harbor, carrying her between the village buildings toward where they opened onto the beach. It seemed an odd direction to take a wounded warrior.

  With the immediate crisis contained, Brandr turned to Ketil, his most experienced hirdman. "Take command here. Have our warriors collect weapons and armor first - I want everything gathered before dark. Double the watch around the smoke house and set burial parties to work. Keep the prisoners under close guard. I'll return shortly."

  The grizzled warrior nodded, immediately beginning to direct the men who had been seeking Brandr's guidance. His eyes followed Brandr's gaze to where the golden-haired shieldmaiden was being carried, his weathered face revealing nothing though he surely understood. Finally free to move, Brandr made his way quickly in their direction, his heart racing with each glimpse of her through the crowd.

  Each step down Beowulf's plank sent waves of pain through Sigrida's leg. The one-eyed warrior from Helga's crew adjusted his grip, steadying her against the jostling descent. Through the haze of smoke, Skogstrand lay transformed. The familiar path where she and Astrid had watched trading ships depart now ran dark with blood, and charred buildings lined the shore.

  Pain shot through her leg as the warrior sidestepped wounded men. A healer hurried past them, ignoring the pleas of spearmen in leather armor to kneel beside a warrior in gleaming mail. Near the village wall, another healer carefully tended a sword-bearer's gilded scabbard wound while three men in rough tunics bled quietly beside him.

  Searching for any sign of Astrid or Erik, Sigrida's gaze swept the smoky streets. Between the buildings where village met beach, she spotted two smaller figures and one large one sitting at the water's edge. Next to them sat the massive, unmistakable forms of the twins' wolfhounds. She looked up at the one-eyed warrior's scarred face. "The shieldmaidens with their hounds," she said, her voice hoarse from smoke and battle cries. He gave a gentle grunt and adjusted his hold, changing direction toward the beach.

  As they approached, the sea breeze cleared away the smoke, bringing the rhythmic sound of waves against rocks. The twins sat slumped on a weathered log, their usual mirror-like grace absent in the defeated curve of their shoulders. Dark spatters of blood marked their armor and even stained the gray fur of their hounds. Lina paced anxiously before her mistress, circling and whining, while Liv licked at Hilde's hand with nervous intensity, but the twins remained unresponsive to their distress.

  Thor sat beside them, one hand gesturing toward the ships. "See there? That's the one we sailed in on..." His deep voice was gentle, trying to draw them back from wherever their minds had wandered. But the beach remained eerily quiet without their usual chatter and laughter.

  The one-eyed warrior set Sigrida carefully on the log beside them. Only then did she see their faces - hollow-eyed and distant, as if still seeing the battle before them rather than the peaceful waves. She understood that vacant stare, that same numbness that had gripped her after the naval battle, when every movement felt distant and unreal.

  "Thank you," she said softly to the warrior. He studied the group for a moment, seeming satisfied that she was safe with her friends, then grunted and gestured toward the harbor. Without a word, he turned and headed back toward the ships.

  Sigrida gazed out at the water. These were the same waves she had watched every day growing up, the same rocky shore where she had gathered shells as a child, yet everything felt strange and distant now. The familiar coastline of Skogstrand seemed to belong to another life, one untouched by the blood and chaos that now surrounded them.

  "Sigrida!"

  She turned at Brandr's voice, watching him emerge between the buildings. His mail was spattered with blood, dark hair plastered to his face with sweat and a purple bruise blooming along his jaw. Relief washed through her at the sight of him alive - in the chaos of battle, everything had seemed so fragile, so uncertain. She waited for others to follow, but he approached alone.

  "Where is Astrid? Erik?"

  "She's with Erik," Brandr said, his voice somber as he nodded briefly to Thor. "He's wounded. The healers are tending to him."

  "How..." She hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. "How badly?"

  "It's serious," he admitted quietly. "But the healer thinks he may live."

  Sigrida looked down at her hands, feeling useless. She should have been there with them, should have...

  "You can pray for him," Brandr said gently. She managed a weak smile.

  Brandr settled beside her, his attention caught by the blood seeping through her bandage. "What happened?"

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  "It's nothing," Sigrida murmured, but at his steady gaze, words spilled out. "A warrior, on Gunnar's drakkar. I thought I'd killed him with my first strike, but he stabbed me as I passed by." Her fingers twisted in her tunic as she fell silent. "The second time... the second time I made sure."

  Behind them, Thor's deep voice continued its gentle coaxing, and Lina's tail gave a tentative wag as Hervor's hand finally found her fur. Brandr frowned at Sigrida's bloodied bandage, where dark stains had spread well beyond the original binding. "This needs proper tending. You need rest now."

  "I'm fine," Sigrida protested, though her pale face betrayed her. Her fingers pressed against the log as she shifted, trying to hide her wince. Through the sound of waves, Hilde's quiet voice answered one of Thor's questions.

  "The wound itself isn't grave, but infection..." Brandr's eyes darkened with worry as he left the thought unfinished.

  "Sigrida, he’s right. You need to rest," Hervor said softly, her hollow stare focusing briefly on the bloodied bandage.

  "The shieldmaiden speaks true," Thor rumbled, pleased at this small sign of awareness from his charge. "I've seen infection take even the strongest warriors."

  "Let me take you to where Astrid and Erik are," Brandr offered. "You can rest together."

  Sigrida met his eyes briefly, then nodded. When Brandr lifted her, she let her head rest against his shoulder.

  "Rest well, Sigrida," Hervor said softly, a hint of their old connection breaking through her vacant stare.

  "We'll come see you tomorrow," Hilde added, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Brandr looked at his kinswomen, concern flickering across his face. "Thor, take care of them?"

  The giant warrior nodded solemnly.

  "Thank you, Thor," Sigrida said softly. The twins' small signs of life gave her a flicker of hope as Brandr carried her back toward the village, leaving the sound of waves behind.

  The peace of the shoreline faded as they moved between the buildings. Smoke thickened the air again, and with it came the sounds of aftermath - the groans of wounded, the clatter of collected weapons, the heavy thud of bodies being moved.

  Warriors sorted through the dead, moving methodically among the fallen. Sigrida's gaze drifted across the battlefield. A nobleman in fine mail and a farmer in simple leather lay near each other, their blood darkening the earth. Death recognized no difference in their stations. The young warrior with downy beard would be missed by his family. The older veteran would leave an empty place at his household table.

  Mothers would grieve for sons, wives for husbands, children for fathers. Each death meant a family changed forever.

  As Brandr carried her past a clearing, Sigrida noticed warriors stacking the dead in separate areas. Magnus's fallen were arranged carefully in ordered rows while Gunnar's men were gathered in less dignified piles near the beach. Even in death, the living maintained the divisions that had divided them in life.

  Near the edge of the village, a fallen shieldmaiden lay where she had died, unseeing eyes staring at the sky and her hand still gripping her spear. Sigrida found herself wondering if this woman had also sought to prove herself worthy among warriors. Now she would never return to tell her story.

  She thought of their battle plans from the day before, how they'd discussed strategy and tactics. Nothing had prepared her for seeing the actual cost - lives ended abruptly, families left to bear the consequences of this day's victory.

  Unable to look anymore, Sigrida turned her face against Brandr's shoulder and closed her eyes. He said nothing, only tightened his hold slightly as he carried her toward the storage hut. The buildings began to thin here, where the battle had moved uphill. The noise of aftermath faded, replaced by the quiet sounds of healers at work and the occasional groan of wounded men.

  Astrid sat beside Erik's still form in the stone storehouse, lightly holding his hand as she watched his chest rise and fall. Though his breathing remained shallow, each steady movement offered a whisper of hope. The healer had assured her the bleeding was stopped, but uncertainty gnawed at her as she watched his pallid face.

  Through the sturdy walls came the muffled sounds of aftermath - warriors calling commands as they secured prisoners, the clatter of collected weapons, the crackle of contained fires. Beneath these harsh reminders of battle, she could hear the gentle lap of waves against the beach rocks, a peaceful rhythm so at odds with the day's violence. Within the storehouse, only quiet groans and the healers' soft footsteps broke the heavy silence as they moved between pallets, checking their charges.

  Her gaze drifted across the ransacked space, taking in the broken jars and trampled herbs scattered across the earthen floor. The thick walls had protected the building from the fires, but not from the raiders' careless destruction. Unable to bear the sight of her village's stores treated with such disrespect, she rose stiffly from her chair. Moving methodically between the broken containers, she began gathering what remained, carefully sorting salvageable items onto the crude shelves that now held the healers' bandages and poultices. The familiar task of organizing supplies brought fleeting comfort, reminding her of Hrothgar's patient lessons at Fjell?rn.

  As Astrid sorted through the scattered herbs, a sweet familiar scent rose from the crushed leaves. Though these had been gathered from Skogstrand's meadows, their fragrance carried her back to sun-drenched afternoons in Honningdal, where she and Sigrida had learned their healing properties at Freya's side. The memory felt distant now, like something from another life.

  The healer appeared with fresh bandages, her weathered face softening at the sight of Astrid's careful work. "Good," she murmured, setting the linens on a cleared shelf. Her eyes moved to Erik's still form. "He's stronger than when they brought him in - see how his color's improved?"

  Astrid looked at Erik but couldn't find the strength to smile. The healer paused in her work, considering the young woman with gentle eyes. "I hear they're sending men to bring the women and children down from the mountains now that the village is secure. Hulda just told me - two days, at most, before your kinfolk returns."

  Astrid's hands stilled on the herbs as she thought of her family huddled in the mountain shelters these past weeks. She worried that Ingrid, so close to her time when they fled, might have given birth up there, far from the comforts of home. "I hope I can see them soon," she murmured, carefully placing dried leaves into a salvaged jar.

  Movement in the doorway caught her attention. She turned from the scattered herbs to see Brandr's tall form silhouetted against the fading light, Sigrida cradled carefully in his arms.

  The jar slipped in Astrid's hands at the sight of blood on Sigrida's leg bindings. She set it hastily on the shelf, rushing forward before catching herself and stepping aside to let Brandr enter. The healer moved swiftly, gesturing toward the space near Erik's pallet where fresh straw lay ready. "Here - lay her next to the other wounded, away from the drafts near the door."

  Tears pricked Astrid's eyes as she gripped Sigrida's hand. After hours not knowing whether her friend had survived the naval battle, the solid pressure of Sigrida's fingers brought more comfort than any words could express. Sigrida squeezed back fiercely, her own relief evident in her damp eyes, though her gaze soon drifted to Erik's still form and her features settled into worried silence.

  "Salt-soaked bandages," the healer clicked her tongue, examining the crude binding with critical eyes. "How long have you been sitting with this? You should have come straight to me." She gathered fresh bindings from her supplies, muttering about warriors who thought themselves invincible as she spread a worn wool blanket over the fresh straw with practiced hands.

  Brandr lowered Sigrida onto the pallet with gentle care, lingering beside her as the healer fussed with the blanket. His hand remained near hers, neither quite willing to break the connection.

  "I need to return to my duties," he said quietly, though he made no move to rise.

  "Thank you," Sigrida murmured, meeting his eyes. For a moment they stayed thus, until finally Brandr stood, his reluctance evident in every movement as he turned toward the door.

  Astrid settled beside Sigrida as Brandr's footsteps faded. Following her friend's gaze to Erik's still form, she knew what Sigrida wanted to ask.

  "We faced Gunnar together," Astrid said quietly. "Erik was..." Her voice caught as the memory of his fall flashed through her mind, too raw to shape into words. She fell silent, her fingers tightening on Erik's blanket.

  Sigrida simply nodded, asking no more questions. She knew better than to press her friend to relive such moments.

  The two friends sat in silence while the healer moved between her charges, checking bandages and mixing poultices, her quiet humming a constant accompaniment to the wounded men's labored breathing. Outside, the sounds of aftermath gradually softened as order returned to the village.

  Shadows lengthened across the earthen floor before quiet footsteps drew their attention to the door. Sigurd entered first, his usual easy manner vanishing as he caught sight of Erik. All color drained from his face as he took in his brother's pallid features and blood-stained bandages.

  "Little brother..." The childhood endearment escaped as barely more than a whisper.

  Harald remained in the doorway, his face set in rigid lines that might have been mistaken for anger if not for the flash of anguish in his eyes. His shoulders were so stiff they nearly trembled with tension as he stared at Erik's still form.

  After a long moment, Sigurd drew a shaky breath, turning to Astrid. "How are you holding up?" His voice was gentle with understanding, though strain still showed in his face.

  Astrid's fingers tightened on Erik's blanket. "I just keep watching him breathe," she whispered. Then, forcing herself to ask, "My father? Asbjorn? Are they alright?"

  "Both live," Sigurd assured her quickly. "The battle at the longhouse was fierce—we were securing prisoners when word came about Erik. We couldn't leave until—"

  "She cannot be in here." Harald's sharp voice cut through their exchange. He remained by the door, his rigid posture now directed at Sigrida. "This space is for—"

  "She belongs here," Astrid interrupted, the authority of the chieftain's daughter clear in her tone. Her eyes met Harald's without wavering, even as she reached for Sigrida's hand.

  Harald blinked at Astrid's tone, his rigid stance faltering slightly before he gathered himself back to stillness.

  "Your father," Sigrida asked, looking between the brothers, completely unaffected by Harald's remark. "Will he not come to see Erik?"

  Astrid felt her chest tighten as she watched Sigurd shift uncomfortably, his gaze returning to Erik's still form. "Our father... he fell in the battle."

  Harald's eyes dropped to the earthen floor, but not before they glimpsed the raw grief that cracked through his controlled expression. His hands clenched at his sides, as if physically fighting to maintain his composure.

  "I am so sorry," Sigrida said quietly. "He was a good man." She paused, watching Erik's shallow breathing. "Erik will be devastated when he wakes."

  Astrid sadly shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "He never got to reconcile with Erik." The weight of that lost opportunity hung in the air.

  Harald stood silent for a moment, his struggle visible in the tight line of his jaw. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.

  "Father watched from the ridge as Brandr's ships appeared in the harbor," he said, eyes fixed on Erik's still face. "I've never seen him so proud. His son - returning to save his people when we had..." He faltered, unable to complete the thought.

  "He knew Erik had mapped those hidden reefs for Helga's fleet," Sigurd added, his hand resting near Erik's shoulder. "'My son remembers every rock I showed him,' he kept saying. He watched Gunnar's ships break apart on those same stones." His voice caught on the final words, the loss of both father and possibly brother too much to bear.

  Astrid felt the hollowness of their grief echo within her own chest as she watched their faces. These fragments, these glimpses of pride that Erik would never witness himself - all that remained of a reconciliation that death had stolen from them.

  Harald's gaze shifted to Sigrida, his rigid posture easing slightly. "The warriors speak of your courage at the reef battle and against Gunnar's drakkar." The words came with effort, but his eyes held new respect.

  He turned to Astrid. "And yours as well. Facing Gunnar as you did." A pause. "You have both brought honor to our clans."

  Sigurd glanced between the two women. "Will you join us at the longhouse tonight? There will be a victory celebration."

  Astrid shook her head slowly, her fingers still resting near Erik's. "I'll stay here with them tonight."

  The brothers exchanged a glance, understanding in their eyes. The same feast would include Torbjorn, who had cast out all three of them. Victory hadn't erased everything.

  "We'll return tomorrow," Harald promised, briefly touching Erik's shoulder. The brothers moved toward the door, their shadows stretching across the earthen floor as they stepped into the fading light.

  The healer approached as their footsteps receded, tucking fresh blankets around Sigrida. "Rest now," she murmured. "Both of you."

  Sigrida settled gratefully onto the straw pallet, her body finally surrendering to exhaustion. Astrid curled up beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched, drawing comfort from her friend's presence. Between them and Erik's pallet, their hands remained loosely linked, a silent promise of protection.

  In the peaceful quiet that followed, Astrid listened to the steady rhythm of Erik's breathing, finding comfort in knowing that at least for tonight, those she trusted most remained beside her. Sigrida's breathing soon deepened into sleep, but Astrid kept her vigil a while longer, guarding the fragile peace they had found amid so much loss.