The Earl had called a meeting that morning. It was the first meeting he had called in the past few months, so it could only mean one thing: the raiding season was beginning. Brandyr, now fifteen years of age, was allowed to attend the meeting with his father. Usually the raids would not happen for several more weeks, during the warmer summer months when the seas weren’t quiet as cold and dangerous, but it was not entirely unusual for a meeting to be held well beforehand. 

Brandyr had been allowed to go on one raid at the end of the raiding season the previous year, a few months before his fifteenth nameday. It was just a last minute venture to get extra supplies before the winter months hit them hard. Brandyr’s father, Gunnar, had requested from the Earl that Brandyr be allowed to attend that raid, to prepare him for the bigger raids following year, now hat he was of age. The Earl had happily agreed. They had crossed the small sea to the east of their lands until they found a small town a short distance from the coast. The town had not been expecting any raids to happen so late in the season so they had been taken by surprise. They had taken home on their little ships a generous assortment of gold coins, small livestock that would transport easily, warm clothes, and a variety of weapons. The one he had been on before had been like an adventure to the young boy. It was his first time crossing the seas to the lands in the east of them. For a boy who had barely ventured out of his own city, it had felt exciting and dangerous. He was itching to go out on another raid. 

The Great Hall of the Earl was a grand building in the middle of their city, that could hold over a hundred men. There were large wooden tables occupying most of the space, where men were already gathering as various servants placed out large quantities of food to feed the everyone who was called. The feast was magnificent, Brandyr had only ever been to one other in his life. The feasts were there specifically for the men who would go on the raids, men who were honored in their community. Roasted chickens and lambs slathered in herbs, boiled potatoes and various other vegetables, grown in the farms, ale was plentiful and flowing as the men gathered to enjoy the feast before they heard what their Earl had summoned them for. 

Brandyr was thrilled by the meal in front of him. He sat next to his father and looked with wonder about the Great Hall, at all of the large men, muscular and strong, true men, gathered around him. And now he was one of them. He would be allowed to go on the raids for the first time and he could not be more excited. He had heard that others had experienced anxiety at attending their first meeting, at the prospect of their first raid, but he just felt excitement. He would finally be able to fight for his people, to provide for them, to find honor of his own. 

“So little Brandyr is a man now, is he?” One of the men at their table said before taking a large gulp of ale, the liquid wetting his large beard. Brandyr scowled at him, disliking the condescending ‘little’ the man had thrown his way. Even though he was not fully grown, he was tall and strong and definitely not little anymore. He was a man in the eyes of Óslynd’s people, in the eyes of his family, in the eyes of the Earl. The Earl was going to send him on the raids with his father and he would come back with as much gold as the rest of the men. 

Gunnar clapped his son on his back with a thunderous laugh, amused by the murderous scowl that his son was throwing at a man twice his size. “He is indeed.”

“You going to go on the raids with us then?” the man asked, a touch patronizingly. 

“Yes,” Brandyr growled, continuing to scowl. He didn’t like how this man was continuing to treat him like a child. “I went on the raids last season too,” he snapped.

“Quite a little temper on this one, isn’t there?” he laughed. “Well, we’ll be glad to have you, Brandyr. That temper will be valuable to us.”

Gunnar laughed with him and mussed the hair on Brandyr’s head, earning him a scowl as well. He grabbed a pitcher of ale to fill Brandyr’s cup, placating the boy a bit. The men continued to eat, and drink, and laugh together, enjoying the camaraderie that came easily when men ate and drank together, knowing that they were gathered together because they were equals and they would be soon helping their families. 

“The raiding season is nearly upon us,” the Earl explained as everyone gathered in the great hall. “This year, however, I want to do something a little different. We have always raided to the east and we always find success there, but I do believe that it is time for a change. Time to expand. I think it would be worthwhile to explore the seas more, to try and find different lands filled with different treasures. That is why I have decided that I will send a small party to the West.” A quiet, rumbling murmur flitted through the crowd of men. They had never traveled west before. In fact, it had been hundreds of years since anyone had gone west.  The lands east of them were easy to sail to and plentiful in goods and coins. There was no reason that they could see to go west, especially when they did not even know what was out there anymore. 

“Is there even anything out there anymore?” a voice called from the large room. Brandyr couldn’t identify who had said it, but it was a question they were all wanting to ask.

“It’s been hundreds of years since anyone has gone that way. We would have had to leave for a reason,” another voice muttered from just down the table that Brandyr was sitting at.

The talking throughout the hall had grown louder and louder, the Earl patiently waiting for them to quiet down, to voice their concerns, to refocus their attention on him. 

“You have the right to be concerned,” the Earl called out, raising his hands up to call for silence. “But there must still be something out there. The land will be there and even if there are no people, it could be a chance for us to expand, to even see what is beyond those lands, not just beyond our own.”

“And if there are people?” a voice called out.

The Earl stood up tall, and strong. “Then we will defeat them.” Brandyr could hear no quaver or doubt in his voice. They would defeat whoever was in those lands, if there was anything at all. In the hundreds of years since they had been there, anything could have happened. “Where is Gunnar?” The Earl looked around, the large hall. Gunnar rose to his feet at the Earl’s summons, and the Earl’s eyes settled upon him as he did so. “Gunnar. My bravest warrior. Please, come up here.” He beckoned for Gunnar to join him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “I have chosen you to lead this raid west.” Gunnar nodded in acceptance, inclining his head in a small bow. “Take whatever men you would like. This raid will be our primary concern for this season and will take precedence above all else.”

“My usual men will be fine, lord. And I will take my son, Brandyr, with me this year as well.”

The Earl found Brandyr at the table sitting next to where his father had been standing, smiled, and nodded. 

West. Brandyr had never even thought that there could be lands to the west. Ships have been sailing east for his entire life, for Gunnar’s entire life as far as Brandyr was aware, always east. No one had ever dared to venture west, and now Brandyr could not imagine why it had taken so long to decide to sail in that direction. And now he would be among the first men to sail there in centuries. He grinned up at his father, elation on his face, though still with a touch of nervousness. Gunnar smiled down at him in return and patted him on the back in encouragement and excitement.

###

Brandyr’s mother, Freya, was busy roasting a chicken over a small fire in their home when they finally returned from the meeting. His little sister, Dyre, was helping Freya with the cooking, cutting a few vegetables for roasting as well. Though Brandyr and Gunnar had already eaten at the feast they would eat a little bit of the dinner they were preparing. Freya was an excellent cook and it was hard to resist food that smelled so good. “What did the Earl have to say?” Freya asked, pressing a kiss to her husband’s cheek as he poured himself a pint of ale. 

“He was announcing the raids. We set out in two weeks,” Gunnar explained. 

“And Brandyr?”

“He will be coming with us.”

“I am proud of you, son,” she praised, pressing a kiss to his temple. Brandyr grinned; he was so excited to be going on the raids earlier this year, and to be charting out new waters to the west with his father was even more exhilarating.

“The Earl has decided to send us to the West.” 

Freya shot her head up and stared pointedly at her husband. “West?” Gunnar nodded. “Why would the Earl send you west? There is nothing out there.”

“He believes that there is, and I believe in him,” Gunnar explained evenly. 

“Brandyr will not be going with you. He can go with one of the other ships, he can go east.”

“Mother, I want to go west with father,” Brandyr protested.

“No,” she said sternly.

“Brandyr will be coming with me, as we have always planned. The Earl knows he is coming with me and we will not change that just because you are being stubborn,” he asserted.

“We do not know what is out there, Gunnar,” she exclaimed. “What if there are lands as the Earl says there are? What are you going to do once you are there?”

“We will do as the Earl has instructed us to do,” Gunnar said with a finality before he took a large drink of his ale. Brandyr could tell that his father was done with this conversation, that there was nothing Freya could do to change his mind.

“He is too young, Gunnar,” Freya continued to protest. “I do not want him to be thrust into the unknown. I am unhappy enough as it is to have you going out there when no one knows what they’re going to find, but to have my only son go? I will not let that happen.”

“You don’t have a choice. No one will look after him better than I will, so sending him with another party is out of the question. I have been instructed to go West, so he will be coming with me.”

“No one has sailed there in hundreds of years! There must be a reason for that! You cannot take him. He is too young.”

“He is a man now. It is already done, Freya.”

Brandyr’s mother thought he was too young to be partaking in the raids, too worried for his safety, but he was a man now and he would not be denied the chance. Their people found honor in dying in battle, not from dying on a farm in their homeland. His mother would not want such a disgraceful death for him, she wanted him to earn honor for the afterlife. But she was still his mother and he couldn’t fault her for worrying about his safety. She would always want him to come home unharmed. But he was headstrong, stubborn, and would do anything for the chance for honor, to die with honor, though he did hope that it would come later in his life. 

###

Two weeks later, they were packing, gathering food for the week long journey over the seas that would take them to the West. Everyone in their city came down to the docks to see off the men. It was always a celebration, seeing them off, knowing that they would come back with spoils, goods, foods, trinkets, weapons. The Earl, who would go on one of the shorter raids in the East in the next week or so, came down to see them off as well. Gunnar stepped off their ship when the Earl approached to shake hands with him. 

“Safe travels, my friend,” the Earl said with a smile on his face. “I’m sure you will make us all proud.”

“I hope to not see you too soon,” Gunnar grinned. “I’m sure the lands will be rich with spoils. We haven’t been there in so many years, they will never expect us.” 

“Yes, you will take them by surprise and conquer them with no trouble I am sure. And then you can come back home and share the tales of your triumph!” the Earl laughed.

Brandyr walked up behind them across the docks, carrying a bag of supplies over his shoulder. The Earl stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him, “I look forward to hearing all about the lands and what you find there, Brandyr. Make us proud.”

“I will, lord,” Brandyr smiled with a nod of his head. The Earl let him go and Brandyr continued to make his way to the ship to store the supplies. Many men were traveling back and forth to prepare for the long journey, carrying food and weapons and warm blankets for the cold nights they would doubtlessly endure on the seas. 

On his way back up the docks to collect more supplies, Brandyr was stopped by a familiar, mocking voice from behind him. “You know there is nothing to the west.” Brandyr turned and came face to face with Davin. They were the same age and had grown up together in their small town, but they had never gotten along. Brandyr knew it ultimately came down to when they were just young boys and Brandyr’s father had gained favor in the Earl’s eyes and became one of his most prized leaders in raids, while Davin’s father had never been able to achieve as much. It was all just petty jealousy.

“Are you calling the Earl a liar?” Brandyr said rather calmly. He had little patience for the games Davin liked to play.

“Not a liar, but he just does not know. He is delusional to think there is anything out there.”

“There are lands to the west and when we all return you are going to feel foolish for ever doubting the earl.”

“You are going to die out there on the sea.”

“Once again, you are just jealous that you and your father did not get chosen for this task. The Earl cares more about this than any other raid and he trusted my father with it, not yours.”

“Or he’s just trying to get your father out of the way.”

“Don’t be so foolish, Davin. Have fun in the east with your easy raids on weak people. I’m sure there’s plenty of honor to be found in that.”

Davin could do nothing more than glower furiously at him and turn on his heel and storm away. Brandyr smirked as he threw a pack of wool blankets over his shoulder. He was rather excited for when they returned from the west, laden with spoils and riches, to rub it in Davin’s face and prove the stupid boy wrong. He climbed onto the ship and dumped the blankets in a pile along with everything else. The docks were bustling with excitement, various men saying goodbye to their families, promising to fight hard and come home. He spotted his mother and sister in the crowd, looking proudly at him. 

“You take care of yourself,” his mother reminded. “And your father. Keep him out of trouble if you can,” she teased, kissing his forehead.

“I’d like to see him try,” Brandyr heard his father say as he came up behind them from the docks. He scooped up Dyre into his arms and she slung her arms around his neck, holding on as though she didn’t want him to leave. “I fully intend on getting him into trouble, not letting him keep me out of it.” Brandyr grinned up at Gunnar, knowing that he would have the time of his life on this trip with his father. 

“Bring me home something pretty,” Dyre requested as she hugged Gunnar tightly.

“I always do,” Gunnar promised his daughter, setting her back down gently on the ground. 

He leaned over and gave Freya a kiss. “Be strong,” she commanded, looking him fiercely in the eye. He nodded and kissed her again, a promise to do just that. 

Brandyr hugged his mother and his sister one more time and then it was time to leave. With his father’s arm slung around his shoulder, they climbed onto the ship and set off out into the sea. 

They left their camp just after sunset, traveling by cover of darkness. There was a small town an hours walk from their camp, so by the time they arrived, the people should have been settled down for the night, asleep in their homes they thought would be safe. 

There was a guard outside of the walls surrounding the town. Gunnar sent two men to kill him before he could sound a warning. The men traveled swiftly and quietly through the darkness. The land around the town was flat and treeless, designed to make oncoming enemies easy to spot, but they seemed invisible to Brandyr. He had been feeling a little anxiety as they had been walking to the town. It was his first raid so he felt a little nervous. But when he saw how easily the two men flew through the darkness and killed the guard before he could even make a sound helped put his mind at ease. He might not be an expert, but he had very skilled warriors to show him what to do. There was a blinking light in the distance near the walls, a torch light being turned off and on to signal that they could continue forward to the city.

Even knowing that a guard was no longer watching for them, the crept forward slowly, moving as quietly as they could. A group of twenty-five men all carrying weapons ranging from long bladed knives to axes to bows could not move completely silently, but Brandyr was still surprised just how quiet their band of men was. They finally reached the gates, meeting up with the two men. The guard lay dead a little ways away, his throat slit so as to silence the cry for help he doubtlessly tried to let escape him before he was silenced forever. They easily opened the gate to the town, pushing open the heavy wooden door. It creaked a little, but Brandyr hoped it was not loud enough to alert any other guards they had placed throughout the town. They left the gate open so that they could make their escape quickly if necessary, though Gunnar had assured Brandyr that this was going to be an easy raid. The town was small, and not close enough to a large city for them to be alerted immediately to any destruction going on in their land. They would likely burn the town, but it was so far away from any large city that it was likely the smoke would not be seen until morning, when they would be long gone, sailing off in their ships for home. 

Gunnar signaled small groups of two or three men to go in different directions, separating throughout the town to catch them all off guard before they could muster a defense. Brandyr stayed close by his father’s side, watching his every move, making sure that he learned all he could. He hoped that one day he would be as great a leader as his father is, that one day the Earl would choose him to lead such raids. It was an incredibly honorable position to lead raids, a position that only a few men were privileged with each raiding season. Gunnar had been leading raids for the past ten seasons, having proven himself the strongest warrior time and again, having gone on raids since he was Brandyr’s age. His father had taught him well, and now Brandyr was determined to learn just as much from him so that he could have the honor of leading raids when he was grown. 

When Gunnar had finished directing the other men, he, Brandyr, and Tyr, a loyal friend of Gunnar’s, made their way through the town toward a line of houses, settled side by side. There were no lights anywhere in the city. They had all been switched off for the night as people settled in to sleep in their warm beds, thinking that they were safe. Gunnar signaled that Tyr should take the the house next to the one they were standing in front of; the man immediately moved to the other house, unholstering his Peacemaker, and aiming it at the door’s lock, awaiting Gunnar’s signal. Gunnar signaled to Tyr to go to the middle of the road where he could send out the signal to the rest of the men scattered through the town. Tyr pulled his bow out from where it had been slung over his shoulder, removed an arrow and caught the end of it on fire from his torch. When it was lit, he nodded to Gunnar, waiting for the man’s signal to begin the raid. Brandyr peered into one of the windows of the house. It was fairly sparse and didn’t look like it belonged to anyone particularly wealthy, but he supposed that did not matter. They should have something worth taking, even if it was nothing of significance. Hopefully the other men stalking through the town would have better luck, that they would have found a building belonging to someone wealthy. 

Gunnar stood straight in front of the door of the house, and with one last glance at Tyr, braced himself and kicked in the door as hard as he could. The door slammed into the interior wall of the house, the sound a loud banging that thundered through Brandyr’s body. As the door flew open, Tyr’s flaming arrow was launched into the inky night sky, a fiery beacon igniting the darkness, a signal for the rest of the men to begin their raid.

Brandyr heard the door of a building on the other side of the street get kicked open, just as Gunnar had done, just as all of the men, scattered throughout the town would have done the moment they saw Tyr's arrow flying above their heads. Gunnar had disappeared into the house and Brandyr quickly scurried in after him, not wanting to be left on his own for his first raid. He thought it would be best to stick with his father, to learn from him, so that one day he would be just as great a warrior as he is. His father had moved up the stairway right away, knowing that the people who lived there would be upstairs in their beds, now awake and terrified by the loud sound their front door had made, fearful of whoever the source of the sound was. He scrambled up the stairs after his father, knife in his hand. He caught up with Gunnar just as he had reached the bedroom of the house’s owners. They were lying in their bed, trembling with fright as Gunnar kicked in that door as well. They cowered there on the bed, not moving an inch to try and fight them off.

“Please,” the man in the bed pleaded, wrapping his arms around his wife as though to shield her. “Take whatever you want, please, just don’t hurt us, please,” he begged. 

Gunnar did not say a word to them in reply. He walked over to the side of the bed the man was lying on and gripped the man’s chin hard between his fingers, forcing him to look into his eyes. With his other hand, he trailed a short knife over the man’s cheek and throat, letting him know that his life was in Gunnar’s hands. The woman began crying and wailing hysterically, saying ‘please’ over and over again, pleading with Gunnar not to take their lives as she held onto her husband.

“Quiet!” He snapped at the woman, who immediately shut her mouth, though she was still crying quietly, small cries escaping her lips every so often. “Brandyr, come here.” Brandyr immediately moved to his father’s side, waiting for further guidance. “Take your knife and hold it to his throat.” Brandyr did as instructed. The man glared hatefully at Gunnar and then turned his hard stare onto Brandyr. “If he moves, or if his woman moves, kill him.” Brandyr nodded, and then Gunnar moved away to search the room. Gunnar made a mess of the room. He upturned all of the furniture, pulled all the clothes out of the wardrobe and threw them across the room, opened any chests and upturned them, dumping out their contents onto the floor, rifling through everything to find anything of value. While Gunnar was rifling through everything, After finding a few small trinkets and a small bag of coins, Gunnar exited the room to search all of the others in the house, leaving Brandyr to guard the people. Brandyr could hear his father rifling through the rest of the house, upturning everything just as he had in this first room, to reveal anything worth taking. 

As Brandyr began to relax into his position, knife poised at the man’s throat, and the woman’s crying had started to quiet down, now that she thought that they had no true intention of taking their lives, the man suddenly flung his arm up, grasped at Brandyr’s arm that was holding the knife, and twisted it back. Brandyr let out a cry of pain as his hand dropped the knife. The man’s other hand shot out and covered Brandyr’s mouth before the sound could properly escape, however, the cry nothing more than a muffled sound behind it. He forced Brandyr back against the wall and pinned him there. Brandyr thrashed around as best he could, but the man held him fast.

“Grab the knife,” he hissed to his wife. Brandyr thrashed even harder and tried to shout through the man’s hand, still covering his mouth. The wife hastily got out of the bed and shakily scurried over to where the knife had been dropped. Just as she held out the knife to her husband, and he slipped his hand away from Brandyr’s neck where he had been holding him tightly, and reached for the knife. Now that the strong grip was gone, Brandyr tore his head away from the hand at his mouth and bellowed “Father!” Brandyr bellowed as loudly as he could. 

A hand connected hard with his face to silence him, but Brandyr could hear Gunnar’s footsteps thundering towards them, up the stairs, and then through the doorway. He threw himself at the man  The woman screamed when Gunnar had burst into the room thrusting his knife into the man’s chest. The woman screamed as her husband began bleeding from his mouth as the blood welled up in his throat. He coughed, the blood spattering over Gunnar, who was still holding him upright, and then fell as Gunnar released him, sliding off the blade and down onto the floor, where he coughed a few more times, and reached out a weak hand toward his sobbing wife before finally falling limply dead. Gunnar turned his back on the man to check over Brandyr. Once he was no longer giving her attention, the woman flung herself over to her husband and wept, burying her face in his chest. 

“Are you alright?” Gunnar asked.

“I am sorry, father,” Brandyr said dejectedly.

“Do not fret about it,” Gunnar responded easily. “Did he hurt you?” Brandyr shook his head. He still felt humiliated over letting the man overtake him like that, he was better than that, but there was nothing for it but to move on.

A loud noise, louder than anything Brandyr had ever heard before woke him with a jerk. He could tell that he had only been asleep for a couple of hours at the most, his body still struggling to cling onto sleep for just a little longer, unwilling to waken.  “Brandyr!” someone was hissing forcefully, shaking him awake. It was his father. When Brandyr did not react immediately Gunnar dragged Brandyr, still cloudy with sleep, out from his nest of blankets, and out into the hazy night air. There was thick smoke everywhere, stinging Brandyr’s eyes and filling his lungs. He looked around and saw many of their tents and their boats burning, the flames angry and orange, thick black smoke rising quickly, contaminating the air. He coughed, trying to clear his lungs of smoke, and realized that his father had thrust a large knife into his hands, the blade twelve inches long, sharp and deadly. Brandyr, still clouded with sleep, could not understand what was happening. Another raid? No, they were at their camp and he had been sleeping. Gunnar was pushing him along and Brandyr noticed a heavy battle ax in his other hand, the one not clenched tightly on his shoulder, propelling him forward. They were under attack. 

He had known that there were the occasional attacks on their camps after raids, but he did not expect to see one during his first raid, especially in a place that did not even know who they were or where they were. They had raided a small city, one that did not have enough men to muster together a retaliation. A neighboring town must have heard that they were there and had acted quickly. 

There were men everywhere and it was hard for Brandyr to tell who his people were and who were the enemies. He held his knife lamely in his hand, unsure of what his father wanted him to do. Gunnar did not seem intent on pushing Brandyr into the battle, allowing him to defend himself and the rest of the men. 

“Tyr!” he heard Gunnar shout over the battle. His father’s friend, Tyr, was just ahead of them, fighting fiercely with one of their attackers. Tyr jabbed his knife up though the man’s jaw. His opponent froze, a look of shock painting his face, before crumpling to the ground, dead, blood oozing from his mouth. Tyr turned his attention to Gunnar, now that the other man was dead, though he still kept an eye on the battle raging on around them. “Get Brandyr out of here,” Gunnar commanded his friend. 

“What?” Brandyr exclaimed. He did not want to be left out of the fight. He wanted to help to defend his family; he did not want to run away like a coward. “No!” he shouted, enraged that his father would suggest that he run and hide. Gunnar just ignored him, as did Tyr.

“Take him to the woods, make sure he stays there.” Tyr nodded, and grabbed onto Brandyr’s upper arm. Before Tyr could drag him off, Gunnar looked at his son. “Listen to what Tyr tells you to do,” he said firmly. “You keep yourself safe.”

“I want to help!” Brandyr exclaimed. He gripped the blade his father had given him tightly, ready to fight and kill these men who were attacking them.

“No,” Gunnar said fiercely. “I will not see him harmed here, not like this. You need to—“ There was a loud bang that echoed through the bank they were on, just like the one that had woken Brandyr from his sleep. Gunnar had frozen mid sentence and it was not until his father’s gaze fell down to his own chest, Brandyr’s following it, that he saw that his father had been hurt. There had been no knife or ax plunged into his flesh, and yet Brandyr still saw blood seeping out of his father, onto the man’s coat, staining it, wet and hot and red. Brandyr looked around and saw, standing a few yards away from them, was a man holding up an object that Brandyr had never seen before. He did not seem to be holding any other weapons, though there was a knife tucked in his belt. It was clear that this was the man who had somehow hurt his father, though he was unsure how he did it. He did not have a bow and there had been no arrow, and yet his father had been okay one moment and then hurt the next, the only indicator being the large booming that had split through Brandyr’s body. Brandyr assumed that the thing he was holding was his weapon though it did not make sense to him at all that such a small thing could have hurt his father. The man smirked, a cold and fiendish grin, at the horrified look on Brandyr’s face as Tyr leapt forward to keep Gunnar on his feet. Gunnar came back to himself shortly and extracted himself from Tyr’s grip. The shock had worn off and he was able to stand on his own, though Brandyr thought he looked a little unsteady. Gunnar pressed his hand to the hole in his chest, trying to stem the bleeding, to hold it at bay for as long as he could. He gripped Brandyr’s shoulder in encouragement, then looked up and held Tyr’s gaze. Tyr nodded knowingly and pulled Brandyr away from his father. 

Tyr’s grip on his upper arm was strong, keeping the boy moving at all cost, but Brandyr wanted to stay with his father, to make sure he would be alright. He wanted to fight, wanted to kill the men who had dared to attack them. He wanted to slit the throat of the man who had harmed Gunnar. He started pulling away from Tyr, shouting, “Let me go! I want to help!”

Tyr growled a resolute, “No,” and kept pulling Brandyr along, firing off shots every few intervals, the bullets finding their targets more often than not. Brandyr had always liked and respected Tyr, but he was furious with him now. “Let me go! Let me go! Father! Gunnar!” He pulled harder and harder, but Tyr was a much larger man than he was and he had no hope of escape from the iron grip on his arm. He needed to help his father, but Tyr would not let go. 

Tyr abruptly stopped and wheeled around to face Brandyr. His face was splattered with blood, a furious, wild look in his eyes. “You father is dead. Now come with me, I will not see you die as well.” 

“He is not dead!” Brandyr fiercely protested.

“He is,” Tyr pressed, trying to force the information to connect to Brandyr. 

Brandyr was stunned by what Tyr had told him, even though he knew in his heart that it was true. Whatever it was that had pierced through his father’s flesh had indeed killed him. He stopped fighting against Tyr but still could not quite control his own feet, so he instead merely allowed Tyr to continue to drag him along. The smoke was clouding the air so much that Brandyr could barely see where Tyr was dragging him. The fire was being blown by the wind, allowing the flames to leap and to catch fire to each of their tents, everything going up in flames and smoke. 

They had just reached the edge of the encampment, the edge of the battle, when suddenly two men turned their attentions on Tyr and Brandyr. Brandyr could not see anything like the weapon used to kill his father on them, for which he was thankful. Tyr shoved Brandyr away, shouting for him to run for the woods, but Brandyr refused to back down, to leave him and everyone else to fight on their own. Brandyr brandished his long knife.

“Brandyr! Run!” Tyr shouted as they men lunged at him, one of them dragged his knife across Tyr’s throat. Brandyr watched in horror as the blood poured out thickly from the deep wound. Tyr choked on his blood as his eyes rolled back into his head before he fell stiffly to the ground. Brandyr’s gaze slowly turned to focus on the men standing around Tyr’s body and found that they were staring at him in return. In a split second Brandyr turned and ran as fast as he could out of the camp and into the trees, the men closely following at his heels.

Brandyr tore through the woods as quickly as he could. He could hear the men running behind him, shouting at him, yelling that they were going to kill him just like they had killed the rest of his people. He ran until his legs were aching and the air was burning cold in his lungs. The men were still behind him but he could barely keep moving. He had to lose them quickly. He ducked off the path he had been running, a quick sharp turn to the left and continued to run until he was far enough away from them that he felt he could rest and catch his breath, if only for a moment. He ducked behind a tree. He heard them tear past him

“Where did he go?” he heard one of the men ask the other. “He just disappeared.”

“It’s so damn dark out here it’s hard to say.”

“Let’s split up. He can’t have gone far.”

Brandyr heard no more words exchanged, which put him on edge. When they were talking and running, he could judge their approximate location, but now he had no way of knowing which way the men had gone. Had one of them continued forward where Brandyr had been running initially, while the other went off in the complete wrong direction. 

He heard the man approaching the tree where he was hiding. He clamped his hand over his mouth to silence the shuddering breaths he had been breathing in. He could not decide if it was safer to stay where he was, concealed by the shadows, and hope against hope that he would not turn around and see him, or if he should reveal himself now and start running and still be ahead of him, but no longer hiding. The decision was taken away from him when he heard a twig snap beneath the man’s foot a yard away from where he was hiding, pressed up against the trunk of the tree, as hidden in the shadows as he could possibly be. 

The man was soon in his line of vision, creeping forward, trying to remain quiet so that he might be able to sneak up on Brandyr. He had his knife in his hand and was turning his head this way and that, scanning the trees for any movement. When he was just a few paces ahead of him, Brandyr stepped out from the shadows as silently as he could, knife in hand, creeping forward slowly, poised to attack when he got close enough. 

He had just reached him and raised his knife up for the attack, when an animal rushed off over to their left, drawing the man’s attention to the side, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brandyr with his knife raised and about to strike. He swung around and flung himself into Brandyr’s torso, tackling him to the ground. Brandyr forced himself to not let go of his knife, knowing that it was the only thing that could keep him alive. 

The knife connected with the side of the man’s neck, leaving a slice there, not deep enough to kill him, but enough to hurt. He cried out, a hand automatically reaching up to the fresh wound. Brandyr took his moment, knowing this would be his only chance if he did not want to die. Brandyr punched the man’s side as hard as he could. He recoiled in pain, his body automatically contracting away from the source, and he rolled off Brandyr, one hand clutching his side, the other his bleeding neck. Brandyr lunged at him and thrust the blade of his knife into the man’s chest, pushing it in as hard as he could until it pushed out of his back and dug into the ground, pinning him there.