The Wolf and the Raven: Saga of the Fjordlands
Steel rings and ravens scream in the blood-soaked Fjordlands! When ancient rivalries flare and a supernatural foe threatens their very existence, chieftain Kerr the Wolf must unite warring Viking clans before the land drowns in fire and ash. Betrayal, love, and prophecy set the stage for an epic saga where only the bold—or the lost—will survive.
Feast of Shadows
The Feast was called, as much to drown lingering dread as to affirm Kerr’s reclamation of leadership. By dusk, the battered moot hall was riotous with torchlight and shadow, the air thick with roasted mutton and the tang of sour mead. Smoke clung to the beams, swirling round banners both rent and re-stitched—a blur of wolf, boar, and broken spear.
At four long tables, the clans mingled unwillingly, violence barely leashed beneath threadbare courtesy. Warriors hid bruises beneath tunics and traded mutters over trenchered bread; elders glowered at their rivals across splintered boards. Yet it was tradition: even in defeat, the north remembered how to feast, if only to count its wounded and size up the hunger in its neighbors’ eyes.
At the high table sat Kerr, half-obliged to wear a wolfskin too stiff with old blood, his wounded hand fresh-bandaged and in plain view. To his right, Eirik forced easy laughter, though the scars beneath his tunic itched with every joke. Inga was seated further down, as was proper—Skjald pride did not allow a direct tie to Valskar, no matter the truce. Hrawg, washed pale and unsteady, leaned on his daughter’s shoulder from a seat of grudging honor. The eldest Sundr wise-woman, face crow-lined and sharp, nursed a cup, her archers ever at her flanks.
Each cup was poured, every joint of meat passed, with the wariness of households awaiting cruel news. Jotunstag men watched the doors. The Fjorn’s new captain—a boy with dark circles under defiant eyes—sat flanked by his father’s battered shield.
“To fallen kin!” Kerr called, his words trailed by tired assent. Horns clinked. Some drank deep, others sipped, their eyes ever vigilant, hearts bristled with the memory of betrayal.
The feast soon grew thick with smoke and speculation. Chieftains wandered as custom permitted, offering toasts, knotted words, and icy praise. The Skjald sang, fierce voices bruising the air with old ballads. Hrawg’s hand shook on his cup—whether from pain or suspense, none could say. When the Sundr crone stood and recited a prophecy of night, even the hardiest warriors crossed themselves, spines prickling with dread.
From the shadows, Seeress Freyja moved silent, binding the feast with runes carved onto scraps of birch. Few met her gaze. Those that caught her chill eyes glimpsed omens—the flicker of red on bone, the shadow of carrion wings on roasted meat.
It was Eirik who noticed the slip first: a serving-girl, heavy skirts caked with soot, arms trembling as she bore a cup to Kerr. She hesitated at the high table, eyes flicking toward the Skjald, then set the cup before Kerr with practiced, careful deference. Inga’s glance caught Eirik’s from across the meat-laden board, and in it he read a warning—something was amiss.
Kerr paused, his battered hand closing over the horn, nostrils flaring at the wine’s sharp edge. The song and stamp of feet masked all save Inga’s low voice: “No, not that cup.”
Eirik shifted instantly, standing between Kerr and the assembled crowd with a half-smile. “Allow me, lord,” he said, raising the horn and, before protest, downed a draught. His throat closed spasm-tight—an instant of burning, then bitter numbness.
A hush bled out from the high table. Eirik’s eyes watered, his grip tightened. For a moment the world span. But then, heartbeat by heartbeat, the poison’s bite receded, leaving only a burning in the tongue and the taste of crushed herbs. Some concoction meant to sicken, not to slay outright. Eirik let out a forced laugh, passing his hand over his mouth, feigning nothing amiss.
Seeress Freyja materialized, clutching the empty horn. She sniffed it, grimaced, and knelt beside the girl, voice cold as hoarfrost. “Who gave you this cup?”
The girl shook, eyes welled with terror. “From the Sundr tent, mistress. A crone said it was for the Wolf—’for the pain in his hand.’” Her voice was small as spilled milk.
Freyja’s gaze flicked to the Sundr crone, who returned a look of shrewd, icy calculation. No accusation was leveled, not yet; the old woman’s meaning, perhaps, was to see how strong Kerr truly was, or to put suspicion upon another. The moot, taut with inchoate violence, waited for the Wolf’s rage, and found only his contempt. Kerr tossed the horn aside.
"Let this be the last trick played at our table," Kerr growled, voice low and laced with threat. "If any would test me, come with knife and steel, not with coward’s herbs."
The tension broke—not in brawl or shrieks, but in muttered curses and the measured scraping of plates. Eirik’s chest ached, but he kept smiling, though sweat bathed his brow.
In the stew of politics, alliances shifted in the space between mouthfuls and glances. The Fjorn captain and his weary lieutenants traded nods with Inga, seeking favor; Sundr wise-women whispered in half-heard riddles at Kerr’s passing. Hrawg, half-drowned in mead, badgered his daughter about the course of the Skjald. "You must not trust the Wolf, no matter what flowers Eirik promises you. We are alone, girl. Alone or dead."
Inga’s eyes flashed, anger and sorrow mingled. "If we are alone, father, then we are already dead."
Beneath the long tables, daggers shifted. Eirik drifted between Valskar and Skjald, passing out bravado, before slipping to a side alcove where Inga awaited him, cheeks pinched with chill. Hrawg was lost in a fog of drunken oratory. The murmur of feasting muffled their voices.
They met beside a supply cask, hands grazing. Eirik’s voice trembled, anger blending with desire.
“Someone tried again for Kerr—through me this time. If you hadn’t seen—”
Inga’s hand closed over his, trembling. “If I hadn’t seen, perhaps you would be dying now. There are too many knives, too many poisons. We should run. There is nothing for us here but sorrow.”
“Where would you have us run, Inga? While the ravens circle? While our fathers damn us in the name of kin?”
She stood on her toes, eyes searing. “Anywhere not here. Or—” she hesitated, swallowing, “or we could forge our own oath. Not for pride or blood or banners, but for us. Even in the dark.”
He pressed his brow to hers. “If it falls, then let the last thing that makes us human be more than hate.”
Their kiss—small and swift—was less a promise than a plea: for a moment of peace amid sharp steel. When they parted, the world returned in a rush—clamor, torchlight, the scrape of feet approaching.
Eirik straightened; Inga drifted back into the shadow of her clan. No one, it seemed, had seen. But in the hush behind their retreat, the quick eyes of Seeress Freyja lingered in the half-dark, watching with a sadness born of too many broken futures.
By midnight, the feast thinned to sour jests and muttered oaths. Kerr glowered from his high seat, head pounding, hand throbbing past all comfort. Outside, the wind keened like the dead.
As the last warriors stumbled off to icy beds, alliances remained strung like frozen sinew—stretched, on the cusp of breaking, but holding for one more desperate day. Eirik retreated to his tent, heart fast with secret hope and dread, the taste of poison and Inga’s lips both lingering upon his tongue.
The last thing heard was the caw of a raven perched in the rafters—a mocking benediction and a warning, poised above the embers of unity and the feast’s fading warmth.