The Road That Chooses You
They did not leave Thorkell's camp at dawn.
The decision came without words, heavy and shared. The land beyond the fires felt watched now. Askeladd's retreat had not been defeat. It had been calculation. Thorfinn felt it in his bones, the same way one feels a blade before it cuts.
Thorkell knew it too.
He stood at the edge of camp as the men gathered what remained of their order. Bodies were burned without ceremony. The dead were too many to bury. Smoke rose again, darker than before, curling into a sky that did not care.
"They will come back," Thorkell said, not to anyone in particular.
Freydis leaned against a spear stuck in the ground. "They always do."
Riqua watched the flames eat away at armor and flesh. He did not turn away this time. His face was drawn, eyes deeper set than they had been days ago.
Einar joined him. "First time you stop looking away," he said quietly.
Riqua shrugged. "Didn't help before."
Thorfinn approached Thorkell.
"You're staying," Thorfinn said.
Thorkell grinned. "Of course. I am owed another fight."
"And we're leaving," Thorfinn replied.
Thorkell's grin widened. "I know."
He crouched slightly to bring his face closer to Thorfinn's level. "Your road bends away from mine. For now."
Thorfinn met his gaze. "This isn't over."
Thorkell laughed. "Nothing ever is."
They parted without ceremony.
By midday, Thorfinn and the others were moving east, away from the ruined field. The land grew rougher, hills rising like broken teeth. Wind cut harder here. Clouds gathered low, heavy with snow.
Freydis took point again. She moved like she trusted the ground under her feet, even when it shifted.
"Why east," Einar asked after a while.
Thorfinn did not answer immediately. "Askeladd won't expect it."
"That's a terrible reason," Freydis said.
"It's the right one," Thorfinn replied.
They traveled hard. No fire that night. No talking beyond what was needed. The silence between them was not empty. It was working.
They found the village the next day by accident.
It lay in a shallow basin, half hidden by trees and rock. Smoke rose in thin lines, controlled, careful. No guards visible. Too quiet for comfort.
Freydis crouched. "Something's wrong."
Thorfinn nodded. "We go around."
A scream cut through the air.
High. Young.
Riqua was already moving.
Thorfinn swore and followed.
They reached the village edge to find chaos breaking loose. Men in mismatched armor moved through the streets, dragging people from homes. Fires burned low, deliberate. This was not a raid. It was a purge.
One of the attackers shoved a woman to the ground and raised his axe.
Riqua threw his knife.
It struck the man in the neck. Not clean. He gurgled, dropped, clawing at the wound as blood poured between his fingers.
Thorfinn was among them before the rest could react.
He killed without mercy. Without sound. Blade to spine. Throat. Eye. Each movement ended a life and carried him forward.
Freydis cut a man down from behind and spun into another, her sword biting deep into the thigh before she finished him with a clean thrust to the chest.
Einar's arrows came from above, each one finding flesh with a dull thud.
The attackers regrouped fast.
Too fast.
"These aren't bandits," Freydis shouted.
"No," Thorfinn replied. "They're hunting."
The leader stepped forward then.
He wore a clean cloak, unburned, unmarked. His sword was plain, well kept. His face calm.
"You should not interfere," he said.
Thorfinn did not slow.
The man met him head on.
Steel rang. Sparks flew.
The leader was skilled. He parried Thorfinn's first strike and countered with a cut that nearly took Thorfinn's arm. Thorfinn twisted, felt the blade graze skin, opened the man's side in return.
They circled.
"You fight like a beast," the man said. "No discipline."
Thorfinn drove a knife into his thigh.
"Discipline is for armies," Thorfinn said. "I'm alone."
He finished it fast.
The remaining attackers broke.
They ran into the hills, abandoning the village.
Silence returned in pieces.
The villagers stared at them like ghosts.
An old man approached, shaking. "Why."
Thorfinn wiped his blade clean. "Because they were killing you."
The old man nodded slowly. "That is reason enough."
They stayed.
Not out of kindness. Out of necessity.
The village was called Hjorvik. Small. Poor. But stubborn. The people moved like they had learned to survive without hope.
They fed the group what little they could spare. Bread thin as paper. Stew heavy with water and roots.
Riqua sat with a boy his age who stared at him like he was something unreal.
"You killed three men," the boy said.
Riqua swallowed. "So did you, if you're still alive."
That shut him up.
That night, Thorfinn stood watch alone.
Freydis joined him eventually.
"You keep stepping into fires," she said.
"They keep burning people," Thorfinn replied.
She nodded. "You don't pretend you're good."
"No."
She smiled faintly. "That helps."
Below them, Riqua slept poorly, tossing, murmuring words that made no sense. Einar sat nearby, arrow across his knees, eyes open.
The world pressed in.
Far away, Askeladd moved his pieces.
Closer still, something else stirred.
The road had chosen them again.
And it would not let go.
The night did not stay quiet.
It never did after blood had been spilled openly. The land remembered. Men remembered. Violence drew its echo the way fire drew wind.
Thorfinn sensed it before the sound reached him. A pressure in the air. A wrongness that made his spine tighten. He rose from his crouch on the roof of the longhouse and scanned the dark slopes beyond the village. Snow had begun to fall again, light but steady, softening shapes, swallowing distance.
Movement.
Low. Careful. Too disciplined to be villagers.
He dropped from the roof without sound and crossed the ground in long, silent strides. Freydis was already awake, eyes open, hand on her sword. Einar sat up slowly, bow in hand. Riqua stirred last, breath hitching as pain dragged him back into the world.
"They're coming," Thorfinn said.
"How many," Freydis asked.
"Enough."
That was all it took.
They moved the villagers first. Quiet hands. Sharp whispers. Children lifted and carried. Fires smothered. Doors barred from the inside. The village shrank into itself, breath held tight.
The attackers entered like hunters.
They came from three sides, spreading out, boots crunching softly over frost. Their weapons were wrapped in cloth to dull sound. Their faces were bare, calm, expectant.
Thorfinn waited until the first man passed him.
Then he struck.
He took the man from behind, one arm locked around the neck, knife sliding in under the jaw. He held him upright as the body went slack, easing him to the ground without a sound. Blood soaked into the snow, black and quick.
Freydis moved at the same time, slipping between shadows, blade flashing once, twice. She cut tendons first, dropped men silently, finished them only when she had to.
Einar climbed the slope behind the village and sent arrows down into exposed backs. Each shot was chosen. Each one killed.
Riqua stayed close to Thorfinn, not hiding, not charging. He watched, learned, waited for openings. When a man rushed Thorfinn from the side, Riqua stepped in and drove his knife up under the ribs, face set, jaw locked. The man sagged against him, heavy and dying.
Riqua pushed him away and swallowed hard.
The attackers realized too late that they were being bled.
Shouts rose. Orders snapped. Discipline kicked in. They formed up fast, shields locking, blades raised.
Fire arrows streaked into the village.
Thorfinn cursed and broke cover.
He ran straight into them.
Steel crashed against steel. He ducked under a swing and slashed deep into a thigh, spun, took another man's throat. A shield slammed into his chest and knocked the breath from him. He rolled, came up low, cut the man behind the shield across the back of the knee.
Freydis leapt into the opening and finished him.
They fought as a unit now, without planning it. Movement flowing. Cover taken and given. Einar's arrows drove men where Thorfinn wanted them. Freydis closed gaps with brutal efficiency. Riqua stayed alive by inches, blood on his hands and eyes clear.
The enemy leader pushed forward, barking commands, rallying what was left.
Thorfinn saw him and went for the kill.
They met hard. The man was strong, skilled, older. His blade rang against Thorfinn's knives again and again, sparks flying. He fought like someone who believed in something. That made him dangerous.
"You don't belong here," the man growled.
Thorfinn drove a knife into his shoulder and twisted. "Neither do you."
The man roared and headbutted him. Stars burst behind Thorfinn's eyes. He staggered back, tasted blood.
Riqua moved without thinking.
He struck from the side, blade sinking into the man's neck. Not deep enough at first. The man screamed and turned on him.
Thorfinn finished it.
When the last attacker fell, the snow around the village was red and trampled. Smoke rose from two burned houses. Screaming echoed from one end of the village.
They ran.
A roof had collapsed, trapping a family inside. Thorfinn and Freydis tore at the beams with bare hands, splinters biting deep. Einar dragged children free. Riqua pulled a woman out as the fire licked at the doorway.
They stood in the aftermath, breathing hard, bodies shaking with spent violence.
The villagers looked at them differently now.
Not like ghosts.
Like weapons.
An elder approached Thorfinn slowly, head bowed. "You brought this to us."
Thorfinn did not deny it. "Yes."
The man nodded. "Then you paid for it."
That was enough.
They did not stay long after.
Before dawn, they gathered their things. The villagers offered food, blankets, thanks. None of it sat easily.
As they walked away, Riqua lagged behind.
Thorfinn slowed to match him.
"You stepped in," Thorfinn said.
Riqua nodded. "I didn't think. I just knew he was going to kill you."
"That instinct," Thorfinn said. "Keep it. Don't let it rot."
Riqua looked down at his hands. "I'm scared of how easy it's getting."
Thorfinn was quiet for a long moment. "So am I."
They walked on.
Behind them, Hjorvik smoldered and endured.
Ahead of them, the world waited, sharp and unkind.
And somewhere beyond the hills, Askeladd smiled at the way the pieces were falling.