The longboats push forward, carving their way through the icy waters as the Swedish coastline fades into a backdrop of snow-covered forests and jagged cliffs. The temperature drops even further, the chill biting at the skin despite the layers of furs. Frost clings to the edges of the boats, glittering in the scant.
"Put your backs into it, lads!" Oddvarr bellows from his place at the helm, his booming voice cutting through the roar of the river. "We're not stopping until we break through these damned currents. Row like your lives depend on it—because they do!" The men grunt and groan, their breaths puffing out in clouds as they fight against the tide. Oleksandr's powerful strokes stand out among them, his movements precise and unyielding, as though the oars are an extension of his arms. He sets a steady pace, his sheer strength a stabilizing force amidst the chaos. His jaw is clenched, his muscles taut, but he betrays no sign of strain.
The slave girl, named Elisavet, huddles near him, her wary eyes darting toward the other men on the boat. She keeps close, seeking the safety of his presence. Oleksandr notices her shiver as the icy spray of the river splashes across the boat. Without missing a beat in his rowing, he shifts slightly, positioning himself as a barrier between her and the wind.
"Keep your head down," he mutters, his voice low but firm. "The river's unforgiving enough without you catching your death." She nods, clutching her tattered shawl tighter around herself, and casts him a look of gratitude.
Oddvarr notices their exchange from across the boat, his sharp eyes narrowing. "You rowing for two now, Olek?" He calls out with a sly grin. "Don’t tell me the girl’s given you a second wind!"
Oleksandr doesn’t look up, his voice calm and steady as he replies, "Just making sure we don’t lose more cargo overboard." The men laugh, and Oddvarr shakes his head, but he lets the comment slide. The longboats press onward, the river narrowing as they begin to navigate the winding path northward, the dense forests of Norway creeping ever closer.
The longboats drift into the shallows of the river delta, the oars falling silent as Oddvarr’s booming voice calls for the men to cease rowing. The crew slumps over their oars, groaning in relief as they rub at their sore muscles and catch their breath. The rhythmic creaking of the boat subsides, leaving only the soft lapping of water against the hull. Oleksandr leans back slightly, his broad chest rising and falling as he takes in deep breaths of the frigid northern air. Ivan and Samorix sit beside him, their eyes scanning the vast and alien landscape ahead.
The river’s edge is framed by tundras of pale, frozen grass that stretch into the distance, broken only by jagged outcroppings of frost-covered rock. Steam rises in ghostly tendrils from bubbling hot springs scattered across the land, their waters shimmering faintly in the weak sunlight. The stark beauty of the north is both haunting and breathtaking, the icy stillness of the land almost tangible.
Ivan squints into the distance, his breath puffing out in white clouds. "So, this is the north," he mutters. "It’s... otherworldly."
Samorix pulls his fur cloak tighter around himself, his one good eye narrowing as he surveys the land. "Aye, otherworldly’s the right word for it. Feels like we’ve sailed to the edge of the world. Wouldn’t be surprised if we saw frost giants coming over that ridge."
“This is the end of the map, Sam.” Oleksandr responds. “There’s nothing else beyond this. Reminds me of where I grew up.”
Oddvarr steps forward, his boots crunching against the frosted planks of the longboat. He spreads his arms wide, the pale light of the northern day glinting off the metal of his bracers. His voice carries across the water, rough and commanding. "Welcome," he declares, "to the land without sun! A place where men are forged in frost and shadow, and the weak are swallowed whole." The tundra stretches on endlessly, the oppressive gray sky above seeming to press down on the frozen landscape. Then, in the distance, a thin column of smoke snakes into the air, rising against the monotone backdrop.
"There," Ivan mutters, pointing toward the smoke. "A settlement." Oddvarr’s sharp eyes follow the gesture, and a grin spreads across his face.
"Aye," he says. "Home. Or as close as men like us can claim to such a thing."
Samorix leans on his oar, squinting into the distance. "Looks like a good-sized hearth waiting for us," he says dryly, though his tone holds no warmth. "Or a bigger den of wolves."
Oddvarr claps him on the shoulder with a booming laugh. "A den of wolves indeed, Scot! But you’ll find no better company in all the north. Keep your wits, and you’ll do fine. Lose them, and... well, it won’t be the cold that gets you." The boats begin to steer toward the smoke, the rhythmic splashes of the oars now purposeful as the crew readies themselves for their arrival. Oleksandr keeps his gaze fixed on the distant settlement, his thoughts a swirl of tension and resolve.
Elisavet’s trembling fingers tighten around Oleksandr’s arm as her voice drops to a desperate whisper. “They will return us to the slave pens, east of the village.”
Oleksandr glances down at her, his expression unreadable. “If that is what your master wishes,” he says, his voice steady but cold, “then that is where you must go.” Her grip falters, but she doesn’t let go, her wide, pleading eyes fixed on his face.
“Will you… not help us?” Her voice cracks, the weight of her hopelessness pressing down like the frigid air around them. For a moment, Oleksandr doesn’t answer. His gaze shifts to the smoke in the distance, then back to her. He shakes his head, his heart heavy, but his face a mask of indifference. The longboat glides steadily through the water, each stroke of the oars pushing them closer to the village and the smoke curling ominously into the northern sky. The men’s labored breathing and the rhythmic creak of the oars fill the air, a grim reminder of the inevitability awaiting them.
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Oleksandr leans slightly toward Elisavet, his voice a low murmur that barely carries above the sounds of the boat. “Are you a Christian?”
The question startles her, and her wide eyes dart up to his. For a moment, she hesitates, unsure why he’s asking, before she nods quickly. “Y-yes,” she whispers back, her voice trembling but firm. “I am a Christian. M-my name is Elisavet.” As the boat drifts closer to the shore, Oleksandr’s eyes flicker toward Elisavet, and with a quiet urgency, he reaches into his tunic. His fingers grasp a small, worn piece of leather, a pocket-sized icon of Christ, delicately carved and etched with intricate designs. He passes it to her, the small object warm from the heat of his skin. The image of Christ, rendered in Byzantine style, seems to glow faintly in the dim light of the day, as if it carries a quiet, enduring power. Elisavet takes the icon with trembling hands, her eyes wide as she glances down at the carving. It’s clear she doesn’t fully understand, but something in her expression softens. As she holds it, Oleksandr speaks softly, his voice steady, though filled with a depth of emotion.
"He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners," he murmurs, his gaze steady and unwavering on her. "But I have not come to bring peace, but a sword." His eyes lock with hers, and there is an unspoken weight behind his words. The soft rippling of the water seems to pause for a moment as his voice continues, carrying with it a sense of finality. "Don't fall into despair, Elisavet. Know that even if you are forgotten to the world, there is hope for you, and He has not forsaken you." For a moment, the world around them seems to disappear—just the two of them, in this tiny space of the boat, between the land of despair and the bleakness of what’s to come. Elisavet clutches the icon tightly against her chest, her breath catching in her throat. Her lips tremble as she tries to speak but is overcome with emotion.
"Th-thank you," she whispers, though the words feel too small, too fragile for the weight of what he has just given her.
"Despair is more dangerous than your master's whip." He leads her to the edge of the boat, where men are dropping down to unload cargo. He helps her down. “Go, girl. I cannot help you anymore.” He doesn’t look back as she steps away from the boat, making her way to the shore. He knows that there’s nothing more he can do for her—not yet. The men are focused, their movements efficient and practiced as they unload the cargo, their silence thick with the understanding of what lies ahead.
His broad shoulders and calloused hands are well-suited for the work. His immense strength and stoic nature allow him to blend in seamlessly with the crew. He heaves crates of goods overboard, his motions precise, as if this were another day in another life. The men grunt and mutter as the last of the cargo is unloaded, and the longboats are secured by ropes. Oleksandr takes a step back as the final crates are lowered, his chest heaving with exertion. He wipes the sweat from his brow, preparing for the next task. The land seems cold and unwelcoming, the tundra stretching out before them with its snow-covered expanse and distant mountains.
“Now for the hard part,” one of the men mutters, his voice low and hoarse. The men tie the ropes securely to the boats, readying themselves for the next challenge. They jump into the cold water, the sound of their boots splashing against the ice-choked river breaking the otherwise silent atmosphere.
Without a word, Oleksandr follows suit, stepping into the icy water. The cold bites at his legs, the shock of it almost making his breath catch. But he doesn’t falter. The boat slides easily into the shallows, its weight cutting through the water as the men grunt with the effort. Despite the strain of it, Oleksandr doesn’t slow, each pull steady and deliberate, the water pushing against him like a relentless force. The others work with similar determination, grunting as they shift the longboats further onto the shore. The task is grueling, but the crew is familiar with it.
It’s a struggle to get the longboats onto the shore. The gravel scrapes against the hulls, and every inch of movement is a battle against the weight of the boats and the fierce current of the river. The men grunt with the effort, their hands slick with the icy water, their breath coming out in ragged clouds of steam. Once the boats are secured, the men take a moment to catch their breath. The cold northern air stings their skin, and the land feels oppressive under the rapidly darkening sky. A man arrives on horseback from the village to take the slaves to their barracks.
Oddvarr gestures for Oleksandr and his companions to follow him, signaling that they’re to accompany him to his home. “Welcome to my humble abode. Home of the Skarnjöl.”
They walk into the village, where the landscape is a mixture of rugged beauty and quiet industry. The buildings are a mix of stone and timber, nestled together in the shadow of towering mountains that rise stark and snow-capped against the darkening sky. Thick smoke curls from chimneys, rising into the chill air. The village is a testament to the tribe's resilience, built strong against the cold, with sturdy homes that speak of both wealth and survival. There are men moving through the streets, some tending to livestock, others loading wagons with provisions. The faint smell of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and fresh bread fills the air. Several women are seen working near the hearths, their faces flushed with warmth. The village, though humble in its northern isolation, is prosperous.
The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a pale light over the scene. But in these northern latitudes, the sun stays up for only a handful of hours, and the evening’s darkness is quickly overtaking the fading daylight. A harsh but beautiful twilight stretches across the snow-covered land, the colors of the horizon melting into shades of purple, pink, and deep blue.
Oleksandr takes in the sight of the village, noticing the contrasting peacefulness of the settlement against the harsh, isolated landscape. The people here are tough—surviving in the shadow of winter and the permafrost—but their wealth and security are evident in the bounty of the village. It’s a land where life isn’t given easily, but those who have carved their lives into this cold, unforgiving terrain have earned it.
Oddvarr leads the group deeper into the heart of the village, toward a large wooden hall at the center of it all, the warmth of the light spilling from under the door. The deep scent of mead and roasted meats wafts out as they approach, and the chatter of voices inside carries into the crisp evening air.
"Into the wolf's den," Ivan murmurs to Oleksandr in Russian. Oleksandr nods, his eyes scanning the room as they step inside. His hand is on the hilt of his sword, his fingers tracing over the smooth handle.
"Indeed," he mutters back. "Keep your wits about you."