At the moment, Bjorn was tirelessly pacing along the freshly turned earth of the new defensive trench, barking harsh commands to the exhausted villagers and the disciplined Grenadiers who hauled heavy timber logs into place.
Since the sun had dipped below the jagged peaks of the fjord, the looming threat of the Gore-King's retaliation hung over Kattegat like a suffocating shroud, driving the men to work with desperate, feverish energy.
Seeing his men shivering in the biting, coastal wind, Bjorn struck his massive, fur-clad chest, his voice booming effortlessly.
"Keep those pikes angled outward toward the trees!" the giant general roared, kicking a loose clod of frozen dirt into the ditch. "If those cannibals charge blindly in the dark, I want them skewered through their bellies before they can even smell the smoke of our campfires!"
