CHAPTER 4: RAID PREPARATIONS

The air was crisp as Bjorn led a small group of villagers beyond Frostholm’s gates, their fur-lined cloaks billowing against the cold wind. The group carried weapons and provisions, their task clear: find survivors, offer sanctuary, and bolster Frostholm’s numbers.

Back in the village, John stood near the training grounds, watching as Magnus drilled the skeletal warriors with a mix of precision and impatience. Freya was beside him, overseeing a group of villagers practicing shield formations. Her voice cut through the morning air, sharp and commanding.

“Keep your shields up! If I see another gap, you’ll be the first ones to get skewered when Varrosk comes knocking!”

John chuckled softly. “Motivational speeches aren’t your thing, huh?”

Freya smirked. “I don’t motivate with words, Bone Caller. I motivate with the promise of survival.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the village gates. The guards called out, and John and Freya moved to investigate.

A group of figures emerged from the snow-dappled forest, their silhouettes hulking and unfamiliar. As they drew closer, John’s eyes widened. Orcs.

There were five of them, each towering and battle-worn. Their green skin was marred with scars, and their armor was a patchwork of leather, chainmail, and scraps of metal. One of them stepped forward—a burly male with a missing tusk and a heavy axe slung across his back.

“We seek refuge,” the orc said, his deep voice resonating. “Varrosk destroyed our camp. We have nowhere else to go.”

John blinked, his mind racing. He hadn’t even known other races existed in this world, let alone that they might seek his help.

Freya stepped forward, her tone cautious but firm. “You’ll find no easy refuge here. We fight for survival, and anyone who stays pulls their weight.”

The orc nodded solemnly. “We are warriors. We will fight. But if your people won’t have us—”

“They’ll have you,” John interrupted, his voice steady. “Frostholm isn’t just a village. It’s a place where anyone willing to fight for their future has a home. That includes you.”

The orc studied John, his gaze sharp. “And if your people think otherwise?”

John glanced back at the growing crowd of villagers, some of whom were murmuring uneasily. He stepped forward, his wings spreading slightly in a subtle show of authority.

“Then they’ll need to get over it,” John said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned to the villagers, raising his voice. “Listen up! These orcs are here because they’ve suffered just like we have. If we can’t stand together against Varrosk, then we’ll all fall apart. Frostholm will tolerate no prejudice—against anyone. Understood?”

The villagers exchanged uneasy glances but eventually nodded. Freya smirked, clearly impressed by John’s handling of the situation.

“Good,” John said, turning back to the orcs. “Welcome to Frostholm. Let’s get you settled.”

Later, as the orcs were integrated into the village, John and Freya discussed the day’s developments.

“You handled that well,” Freya said, her tone lighter than usual. “Didn’t think you had a speech like that in you.”

John shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes leadership is just pretending you know what you’re doing.”

Freya chuckled. “If that’s the case, you’re doing a damn good job of pretending.”

She slung her axe over her shoulder and gave John a nod. “I’ll head out in the morning to find Astrid. She’s not exactly subtle, so she shouldn’t be too hard to track down.”

“Good luck,” John said, his expression softening. “And bring her back in one piece. I have a feeling we’re going to need her.”

Freya grinned, her confidence infectious. “Don’t worry, Bone Caller. You’re about to meet the best damn sailor this river’s ever seen.”

As Freya strode off toward the longhouse, John remained at the gates, watching the orcs integrate into the village. The road ahead was far from clear, but Frostholm was growing stronger. Slowly but surely, they were becoming more than a village—they were becoming a force to be reckoned with.

The Frostholm docks were bustling with activity. Skeletons hauled supplies to the newly constructed longship, while villagers reinforced the docks under Bjorn’s watchful eye. Despite the hard work, the air was heavy with anticipation. Word had spread that Freya was returning with a new recruit—a sea raider to help lead Frostholm’s first raid.

John stood near the edge of the dock, his wings folded tightly against his back, scanning the horizon. The morning sun was just beginning to rise, casting a golden glow over the river. The faint sound of oars breaking the water reached his ears, and soon after, a small boat came into view.

Freya sat at the bow, her sharp eyes fixed on the approaching dock. Beside her, a towering figure loomed, the sheer size of the woman drawing murmurs from the gathered crowd. As the boat neared, John could make out the details: wild, unkempt hair streaked with silver, a face crisscrossed with battle scars, and shoulders broad enough to carry a small tree.

The boat bumped against the dock, and Freya leapt out with practiced ease, followed closely by the massive woman. The stranger grinned, her teeth slightly crooked but gleaming with confidence. She clapped Freya on the back hard enough to make the smaller woman stagger.

“Well, this is Frostholm, eh?” the stranger said, her voice booming and cheerful. “Not bad. Though I’ve seen fish shacks that looked sturdier.”

Freya shot her a warning glance but didn’t bother correcting her. Instead, she turned to John. “John, meet Astrid. She’s the best damn sailor on the river—when she’s not busy offending half the people she meets.”

Astrid barked a laugh, her scarred face splitting into a grin. “Gotta make an impression, right? And you must be the Bone Caller. I’ve heard things about you.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Good things, I hope.”

Astrid sized him up, her grin widening. “Mostly. Though I didn’t believe half of it. But now, seeing that ship...” She trailed off, striding past him to the longship.

She whistled low as she approached the undead vessel, her calloused hand brushing against the runes carved into its hull. “Well, I’ll be damned. It looks like it could chew through a warband and spit out their bones.”

Freya smirked. “Told you it was impressive.”

Astrid turned back to John, her hands on her hips. “Impressive, sure. But I’ve got questions. Who’s running this thing? Skeletons? Because let me tell you, dead men aren’t known for their sea legs.”

John crossed his arms, fighting to keep his tone steady. “The skeletons are just part of the crew. The ship’s design, the runes, everything—it's built for efficiency. You’ll see that once we take it out.”

Astrid’s grin returned, this time edged with challenge. “I like your confidence, Bone Caller. But I don’t follow orders just because someone waves a magic book around. If I’m going to be your first mate, I need to know you’ve got more than fancy tricks up your sleeve.”

John met her gaze evenly. “Stick around, and you’ll see.”

Freya stepped between them before the tension could escalate. “Alright, enough posturing. Astrid, you’re here because we need your expertise. And John, you need someone who knows the river like the back of their hand. Work together, or Varrosk will eat us alive.”

Astrid chuckled, extending a massive hand toward John. “Fair enough. Let’s see if you can keep up, Bone Caller.”

John shook her hand, her grip firm enough to make his knuckles ache. “Welcome to Frostholm.”

As the villagers dispersed, Astrid stayed behind to inspect the longship more thoroughly, her brusque commentary drawing laughter and the occasional glare from Magnus, who muttered something about “no respect for craftsmanship.”

Freya joined John at the edge of the dock, her expression thoughtful. “She’s rough around the edges, but Astrid’s the real deal. She’ll make sure this ship and its crew are ready.”

John nodded, watching as Astrid barked orders at a group of skeletons, her booming laugh echoing across the river. “I can see that. She’s... a lot, but I think we’ll need that kind of energy.”

Freya smirked. “Just don’t let her steamroll you. She respects strength, not words. Prove you’re worth following, and she’ll have your back.”

John exhaled slowly, the weight of leadership settling on his shoulders once again. “I’ll figure it out. We don’t have a choice.”

As the sun climbed higher, Frostholm felt a little stronger. With Astrid aboard, the longship had a first mate who could help guide it—and Frostholm—through the battles to come.

The training yard bustled with activity, a cacophony of clashing weapons, barking orders, and the rhythmic stomp of marching feet. Frostholm was a village in motion, its people galvanized by the looming threat of Varrosk. At the center of it all stood John and Freya, overseeing drills and coordinating preparations for their first offensive strike.

Magnus stood at one end of the yard, his skeletal frame cutting an imposing figure as he barked commands at the undead soldiers. The skeletons moved with precision, practicing shield walls and flanking maneuvers under Magnus’s sharp, sarcastic guidance.

“Keep that formation tighter!” Magnus bellowed. “If I can fit a femur through your lines, the enemy will walk through you like butter.”

Freya, on the opposite side of the yard, led the villagers in spear and shield techniques. Her movements were sharp and deliberate, each strike and block a masterclass in efficiency. The villagers, though inexperienced, followed her example with determination. Among them, the recently arrived orcs stood out—not just for their size, but for their sheer discipline and ferocity.

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“Orc squad, show them how it’s done!” Freya shouted.

The orcs snapped into formation, their shields locking together as they advanced with an intimidating precision. Their mock charge sent the villagers scrambling, but Freya’s laughter rang out. “That’s what I’m talking about! Watch and learn, people.”

John stood between the two groups, observing the progress. He couldn’t help but marvel at the orcs’ skill. For all the initial hesitation, they were quickly proving their worth. Still, not everyone was convinced.

“This isn’t right,” a voice muttered nearby.

John turned to see a group of villagers clustered together, their faces tight with unease. One of them, a wiry man named Erik, stepped forward. “We’re fighting alongside monsters now? First the undead, now orcs? What’s next, trolls?”

Before John could respond, Freya’s voice cut through the growing tension like a blade. “Enough!”

She strode over, her gaze fierce as she addressed the group. “You don’t trust the orcs? Fine. But they’ve fought battles you can’t imagine. They’ve lost homes, families—just like us. And you think you’re better than them because you don’t have tusks? Grow up.”

Erik opened his mouth to argue, but Freya raised a hand, silencing him. “We’re fighting Varrosk, not each other. And if you can’t see the value in standing together, then maybe you shouldn’t be standing at all.”

The villagers fell silent, chastened. Freya turned to John, her voice softer but no less firm. “You have something to add, Bone Caller?”

John stepped forward, his wings spreading slightly as he addressed the crowd. “Freya’s right. This isn’t about what makes us different—it’s about what makes us stronger together. If you’re willing to fight for Frostholm, I don’t care what you look like or where you came from. We’re all in this fight, and we’re going to win it—together.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, and the tension began to dissipate. Freya gave John a nod, her approval evident.

Over at the smithy, Bjorn and his apprentices worked tirelessly, the clang of hammers on metal echoing through the village. Swords were sharpened, shields reinforced, and armor fitted to accommodate both human and orc frames.

Astrid leaned against the forge’s doorway, her arms crossed as she watched the activity. “Not bad,” she said to Bjorn, her voice carrying just enough sarcasm to keep things interesting. “But can you make something that won’t shatter when it hits Varrosk steel?”

Bjorn shot her a look, his hands never stopping. “You bring me steel that doesn’t shatter, and I’ll make you a weapon that sings.”

Astrid laughed, her booming voice drawing stares. “I like you, blacksmith. Don’t screw it up.

By mid-afternoon, the training yard had settled into a rhythm. Magnus had the skeletons performing synchronized shield drills, while Freya led the villagers in forming cohesive battle lines. Meanwhile, Astrid took charge of the longship crew, her voice cutting through the air as she barked orders.

“Row in time, you sorry lot! If you can’t move together, you’re going to drown together!” She clapped a skeleton on the shoulder hard enough to send its head rolling. “Whoops. Someone pick that up.”

John watched the scene unfold, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Despite the chaos, there was progress. Frostholm was becoming something more than a village—it was becoming a force.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the yard, Freya approached him, wiping sweat from her brow. “We’ve got a long way to go,” she admitted, her voice low enough that only he could hear.

John nodded. “Yeah. But we’re getting there.”

Freya glanced at the villagers and skeletons working side by side, her expression softening. “You’re doing good, Bone Caller. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

John chuckled. “Thanks, Freya. Coming from you, that means a lot.”

They stood together in the fading light, watching as Frostholm prepared for the battles ahead.

The training grounds were alive with the energy of Frostholm. Skeletons drilled under Magnus’s sharp command while villagers honed their spear and shield formations under Freya’s watchful eye. Orcs practiced in the far corner, their movements fierce and efficient, drawing both admiration and apprehension from the human recruits. The steady hum of preparation filled the air, but Freya had something else in mind.

“Alright, Bone Caller,” Freya called out, her voice cutting through the din like an axe. She rested her weapon casually on her shoulder as she strode toward John. “You’ve been spending too much time behind books and skeletons. Let’s see if you can still handle yourself.”

John, who had been overseeing Magnus’s squad formations, raised an eyebrow. “You want to spar? Now?”

Freya smirked, her sharp eyes gleaming. “What better time? The villagers could use a reminder that their Bone Caller is more than just glowing runes and spooky powers.”

The villagers and orcs began to gather, their curiosity piqued. Even Magnus paused his drills, turning to watch with a bemused tilt of his skeletal head. “This ought to be entertaining,” he muttered.

John sighed, stepping forward. “Fine. But don’t blame me if you regret this.”

Freya laughed, tossing him a practice spear. “Regret? Oh, Bone Caller, I live for this.”

The crowd formed a loose circle around the two combatants, the atmosphere electric with anticipation. Freya twirled her practice axe with practiced ease, her grin as sharp as the real blade she’d left by the training post. John held the spear loosely, his posture relaxed but his mind already racing with strategies.

“First to yield?” Freya asked.

John nodded. “Fair enough. Don’t hold back.”

Freya’s grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The match began with Freya charging forward, her movements swift and powerful. John barely sidestepped in time, using the spear to deflect her swing. The crowd gasped as Freya’s strike hit the ground, kicking up a spray of dirt and snow.

“You’re quicker than you look,” Freya said, circling him. “I’ll give you that.”

“And you’re stronger than you look,” John shot back, his tone light. “Oh wait, no, you look exactly as strong as you are.”

The villagers chuckled, and even Freya smirked before launching another attack. This time, John met her head-on, using the spear to block her strikes and create distance. He wasn’t as strong as Freya, but his quick reflexes and strategic footwork kept him just out of reach.

For several minutes, the two traded blows. Freya’s raw power and aggressive technique clashed with John’s precision and adaptability. The crowd cheered and jeered, their excitement building with every exchange.

But Freya wasn’t one to be outdone. She feinted a strike to John’s left before spinning and sweeping his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the spear skittering from his grasp.

Freya planted her foot on his chest, her grin triumphant. “Yield?”

John groaned but managed a laugh. “Fine, I yield. But only because I’m saving my best moves for Varrosk.”

The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers, the tension of the day momentarily forgotten. Freya offered John a hand, pulling him to his feet with a firm grip.

“You did good,” she said, her tone genuine. “For a necromancer.”

John rolled his eyes but smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As the crowd dispersed, the villagers and orcs were buzzing with newfound energy. The match had been more than entertainment—it was a reminder of the strength and camaraderie that bound Frostholm together.

Magnus approached, his tone as dry as ever. “Not bad, Bone Caller. But next time, try not to end up flat on your back. It’s bad for morale.”

John chuckled, brushing dirt from his clothes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Freya clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve earned their respect today. Mine too. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never,” John said with a smirk. “Though I’ll admit, it’s nice to see everyone smiling for a change.”

Freya nodded, her expression softening. “We’ll need that in the days ahead.”

As they left the training grounds, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the village. The first raid loomed closer, but for now, Frostholm stood united, its leaders at the heart of it all.

The longhouse was tense, the air heavy with the weight of what Alrik had just shared. The scout, his face gaunt from days in the field, leaned over the map he’d unfurled on the table. Freya, John, Astrid, and the other key leaders gathered around him, their expressions grim.

Alrik pointed to a spot along the river marked with a rough “X.” “Here,” he said, his voice low but firm. “A lightly guarded outpost. It’s a small supply depot—mostly food, weapons, and river charts. They’re using it to resupply troops moving downstream.”

Freya’s brow furrowed. “What kind of resistance are we talking about?”

“Two dozen soldiers at most,” Alrik replied. “Maybe a few archers on watch. No sign of heavy reinforcements nearby. If we hit them hard and fast, we can be in and out before they sound the alarm.”

Astrid grinned, her scarred face lighting up with anticipation. “That’s our target, then. A clean raid to disrupt their supply chain and get a look at those charts.”

John studied the map, his wings flexing unconsciously as his mind raced. “We’ll need to move quickly and quietly. If they spot us coming, we’ll lose our chance to keep this small.”

Magnus stepped forward, his armor clinking faintly. “As much as I’d love to join the fun, I can’t leave Frostholm. My connection to the garrison won’t stretch beyond a mile.”

John nodded. “We’ll need you here to keep things running while we’re gone. Astrid, Freya, and I will lead the raid. Skeletons will take the brunt of the assault.”

Astrid smirked. “Good thing they don’t need to eat or complain. We can cram all 75 of them into the longship and still have room for the orcs and humans.”

John turned back to Alrik. “What’s the terrain around the outpost like? Any high ground?”

Alrik tapped another spot on the map near the outpost. “A ridge here overlooks the supply depot. It’s narrow but high enough to give you a clear view. Perfect for a sneak attack from above, if you can get up there without being spotted.”

John’s wings shifted, and a plan began to form. “I can handle that. While the ship approaches, I’ll take out their sentries from above. If we can eliminate their eyes, the rest won’t see us coming.”

Freya’s gaze flicked to John’s wings, her expression sharp. “It’s risky, Bone Caller. If they spot you, you’ll be a sitting duck up there.”

John met her gaze, his tone steady. “It’s a risk we’ll have to take. If we can hit them fast and blind, we’ll have the advantage.”

The longship at the docks was a flurry of activity. Skeletons moved with eerie precision, loading weapons, rations, and reinforced equipment. Astrid barked orders, her booming voice carrying across the river.

“Get those supplies secured! And you—stop staring at the figurehead like it’s going to bite you!”

Freya worked with Bjorn to outfit the human fighters. Each villager received a sword or spear, shield, and basic armor freshly forged or repaired in the smithy. The orcs stood nearby, inspecting their weapons and practicing drills. Their brutal efficiency impressed even Freya, who muttered, “At least someone knows what they’re doing.”

John stood near the longship, double-checking his supplies. The tome of necromantic runes was safely tucked away, and his armor had been reinforced with subtle runes to provide extra durability. Magnus approached, his bony frame imposing despite his inability to join the raid.

“Don’t get yourself killed out there,” Magnus said, his tone dry. “I’d hate to have to explain to the villagers why their Bone Caller is now a pile of ash.”

John smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

In the longhouse, John convened a last-minute meeting with Freya, Astrid, and Alrik. The plan was clear:

1. John would fly ahead under the cover of darkness, taking out the sentries silently from above.

2. The longship, carrying 75 skeletons, 5 orcs, and 20 human fighters, would approach under the cover of the river’s natural bends.

3. Once John signaled, the undead would launch the first wave, overwhelming the outpost before the humans and orcs moved in to secure it.

4. Freya and Astrid would lead the ground forces, ensuring no supplies were left behind.

Freya leaned over the map, her finger tracing the path. “If this works, we’ll cripple their ability to move troops downstream for weeks. If it doesn’t...”

“We’ll make it work,” John interrupted, his voice firm. “We don’t have another option.”

As night fell, John stood on the docks, staring at the longship as it floated silently in the moonlight. Its glowing runes pulsed faintly, a promise of the power it held. The skeletal dragon prow loomed over him, its empty eyes locked on the dark horizon.

Freya joined him, her presence steady and grounding. She looked at the ship, then at John. “You ready for this?”

John exhaled, the weight of responsibility pressing on him. “Not really. But that hasn’t stopped me before.”

Freya chuckled, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll do fine. Just don’t get cocky up there, alright?”

John smiled faintly. “No promises.”

The longship slipped silently into the river, its crew prepared for the battle ahead. The raid was their first step in taking the fight to Varrosk—a test of their unity, strength, and resolve.