Ivarr ducked from the Celtic's sword thrust in front of him, preparing to counterattack

"He wasn't very good" thought the Dane, "he shouted too much and spun in very wide arcs"

The Irishman's next blows were no more effective than the previous ones, always deflected or parried by the Danish captain's shield, all in one game to keep pace and tire the crazed opponent. And that's what happened, just after a few seconds of fighting, the Irishman was clearly tired, Ivar noticed this and went on the attack.

Unlike his paltry opponent, he calculated what it takes to take down his opponent, no more, no less than necessary. His opportunity came in too wide a blow from his opponent, putting the oak shield between his elbow and forearm, Ivarr parried the clumsy blow, and in a split-second move, which only someone accustomed to sbaeria combat can do, brought down his sword between the joints, severing the Irishman's forearm, who tensed, howling in pain. Without pausing, Ivarr landed another blow, this time a horizontal cut, taking advantage of the momentum the Irishman made as he tried to charge the Dane, in a vain attempt to try to change the inevitable. All this desperate maneuver did for him was to have his insides exposed, and the air taken from his lungs.

Such exposure to pain finally caused the inconsequential Irishman to fall to the ground, to his knees, unable to choose between trying to stop the bleeding from his arm, or getting his bowels into his body.

Ivarr, wanting to make sure of the kill, approached the enemy, still bleeding and stunned by the opponent's savage performance. He faced the Irishman, and pointed his sword at his throat, somewhat covered by the Celt's thick red beard.

"Why?" was what the Irishman managed to mutter.

Ivarr paused for a second, could have responded from a myriad of options. "Why didn't you give me the information I wanted, or "why did you attack us while we were turning our backs" or even "why don't you deserve so much gems if you're going to waste your lives in combat against your superiors"

But Ivarr did not say either of these options, he only approached the face of the defeated and fainting combatant, reached with his lips close to his ear, covered by red hair, and said:

"Because I can."

The look of disbelief and awe on the Irishman's face was almost more satisfying as the moment Ivarr plunged his own blade into the Celt's jugular, who exploded in bloody spasms, trying to fight for air but only drowning in your own blood. The Dane withdrew the sword from the slashed neck, letting gravity do the rest, bringing the body to the ground, his gaze still fixed on the horizon, but with an expression of dread etched across his face.

"One more for Helheim", he thought victoriously.

As he breathed from exertion, he sat down on a moss-covered boulder beside him and enjoyed the work of his marauders, for all around him, the village his adversary desperately wanted to protect burned in flames. Ivarr's men killed men, raped women, and burned what they could not carry in their drakes, but that was life in Ireland and the rest of the British Isles, ever since the arrival of their countrymen. That was life, because they could do it, and they did it with gusto.

He got up and quickly stripped the dead Irishman of his possessions, he looked like he had been a chief, at least according to the golden bracelets and decorations on his sword, which seconds before had nearly cut off the Viking's head.

"I'm sure you won't need it anymore," he grinned with gusto as he took his spoils of victory.

However, while the bracelets were easy to remove, the sword was considerably more difficult. The fist connected to the forearm, now severed from the ground, remained rigid, almost as if the dead warrior's spirit still clung to its weapon. Ivarr tried and tried to open the deceased's hand, until he lost patience and broke the fingers that separated him from what was his by right of combat.

After delighting in his new treasure, especially the sword with its jeweled hilt, Ivarr turned to his men, who had finished looting and burning the village, killing all who tried to stop them.

"Guthrum!", he shouted, "come here man!" His first mate quickly responded to his captain's call, grudgingly putting aside the pursuit of a young woman.

"Yes my captain, what do you need?"

"I need you to gather the village elders, I have questions to ask."

"Yes sir," Guthrum replied under his graying beard, "it will be done!"

"And Guthrum," Ivarr shouted as his friend left".

"Yes?"

"Don't get carried away, this is just one stop, our mission is another."

"Yes, captain"

The captain could hear the resentment in his voice, "well I didn't care, I'm the captain, he simply needs to obey me" was what he thought, but it was a real pity leaving so many spoils behind, “at least I got the decorated sword”. Such thought filled the Viking with pride as he admired the blade and hilt decorated with precious jewels.

After a while, with the fight continuing all around, Guthrum gathered the elders, three in all. Apparently, those who did not die in the rampant attack were in tatters and deprived of any valuables. "Not that they needed it that much", thought Ivarr as he smiled to himself

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Captain!, Said Guthrum as he and a few other men arrived, "the elders are here." Ivarr ignored the first mate and went straight to the old men

"Which one of you runs this shitty village?"

Nobody answered

"Silence may seem like a struggle, but it's actually a death sentence" Ivarr unsheathed his newly won sword, pointing it at the old men in front of him. "I just won this beauty", he couldn't avoid cracking a smile, "Who wants to be the first to test her?"

"A stolen weapon carries resentment from the former owner", that came from a female voice, "You carry a cursed sword"

Arising from among the elders was a lady, with braids in her long hair and tattoos on her face, and on her dress hung various bones and wooden paraphernalia with runes in Gaelic, clearly a shaman. Ivarr found who he was looking for.

"I heard, witch, that you sighted a ship like ours, and that you gave them information." The old woman, not answering immediately, looked down and tried to pretend she didn't hear. But Ivarr raised her chin with the sword, which glowed in the firelight that ran through the houses.

"What did you tell him?" "I merely indicated where to find what he was looking for", the old woman finally took the courage to answer, "And that that would be his downfall."

Unimpressed by the paltry attempt to frighten him, Ivarr pressed the blade to the woman's neck. "What I want," he said, approaching the witch's face, "Is it to know where you sent Ragnar and his men?"

One of the old men tried to intervene but one of the guards hit him in the stomach before he could get to his feet. Which made Ivarr bring the sword to the intruder's neck.

"You answer, and we leave" He pressed the stolen blade on the poor old man, causing a trickle of blood to flow. "You don't answer, and we kill everyone else until you speak"

For a few seconds, but what felt like an eternity, there was a stony silence, with the old man held hostage and the witch not responding. It was a contest, a battle of wills over who would break first and give in. But Ivarr was not a patient man, and when he threatened to decapitate the old man, the witch relented.

"All right," she cried out as Ivarr raised the blade. "I will speak!"

"See?, It wasn't so difficult". Ivarr returned the sword to the woman's neck, now grinning devilishly "Now, Where. Did. You. Send. Ragnar?"

"The man you call Ragnar, was looking for the secrets of the Gods, and that's where I told him to go"

"What gods, witch, stop speaking in riddles!"

Ivarr was losing patience with this woman, witch or not. He didn't want to know about gods or fairies, but facts. He lifted her off the ground with just one of his arms, her feet flailing in the air, trying to reach the ground. "I want to know where Ragnar is!" The old woman tried for air, but the Dane's strong fist held her back. Guthrum placed a hand on his captain's arm, indicating that he should ease his pulse. It took Ivarr a few seconds to notice his first mate, but when he did, he loosed the iron fist a little under the shaman's throat. She found herself coughing, struggling for air, but after a few seconds she replied.

"Follow the river, look for the star of the big bear, it will guide you to your destination, follow it to the stones of the ancients."

Simple, and understandable, even the biggest fool in Scandinavia would know how to follow the stars as a guide. "Too easy" was what Ivarr thought But he had what he came looking for, and he had a mission to fulfill. He released the woman, who dropped to her knees, coughing, gasping for air.

“I'm a man of my word,” Ivarr told her. “We're leaving Guthrum!" The first officer quickly left to transmit the orders to the rest of the crew. Ivarr holstered his sword and turned to return to the ship. But he felt something tugging at his sleeve, turning around and realizing that the old woman was holding him.

"I hope you find what you're looking for, because I know this will be your downfall"

"I am not afraid of your cheap tricks, witch!", shouted the Viking, in response, "The gods protect me!"

The witch, still on her knees began to laugh, a sneer and ridicule. An almost uncontrollable laugh, but as quickly as it started, it just stopped. What was left were the old woman's deep eyes, which seemed to penetrate deep into Ivarr's soul. "You will find that YOUR gods have no power wherever you go, bandit."

"There you will only find death, for the TRUE gods reign wherever you go, and they do not suffer invaders." With that, she went back to her uncontrollable crazy laughter. Ivarr wanted punch the witch, to teach her a lesson for trying to instill fear in him, wanted to cut off her head and put her in the bow of his Drakkar. He wanted…. But he didn't, he just freed himself from the witch's weak hands and walked away, heading towards the ship. In a hurried step, almost as if he knew something bad would happen to him if he stayed, wanting to get out of here before it did.

"There you will find death Dane!", the old woman was shouting as he walked away, "And that sword will be the one that will bring it to you." Her laughter continued, even as Ivarr walked away, he continued to hear her, no matter how far away he was. He turned back only to see the old witch engulfed in flames, still laughing.

Ivarr had never before thought about how safe he felt, how his ship gave him a sense of home, of protection. At least that's what he thought as his drake followed the river, leaving the charred village behind.

"Do we have orders, captain?" It was Guthrum who asked him, which brought Ivarr out of his own thoughts.

"We follow Ursa Majoris, just like the old woman informed us, we will follow it until we reach some sacred place."

"Pff, sacred", mocked the first mate, "I've heard this word many times, and all of them have proven vulnerable to fire and steel." Guthrum, cheerful as ever, especially after a good raid, began to laugh. A laugh that brought to Ivarr memories of the village witch.

"Just do what I say!"

The captain replied, without looking back. Guthrum stopped the banter, not responding, not commenting on the superiority of the Aesir over the Christian God or the Celtic gods, as he used to. Something in his captain's voice made him just obey.

“Strange” was what went through Ivarr's mind when King Thorgest had assigned him in Dublin the mission of finding his father. And it was the same thought that crossed his mind now, because something was bothering him, he was never afraid of anyone before: Be it the Celts, Saxons or even their countrymen. But something in the old woman's voice had left him with a feeling he'd never felt, something that begged him, no, begged him to come back by the river and go away. He touched, almost by instinct, the pommel of the sword, the stolen sword, which he now carried in its scabbard. the cursed sword It was what the woman had called it, something cursed, that would seek revenge.

"No, it's just a madwoman's bullshit trying to scare me" was what he thought, trying to push the feeling away, trying to forget the old woman and her crazy flame-covered laugh that still resonated in his mind. Ivarr just looked forward, resolute, for it would be clear, he thought, that the gods would protect him from whatever demons he was destined to face.

And Ivarr Ragnarrsson, looked on at the horizon, from the opening river ahead, to the stars above which would guide him to his destination. Departing for his last voyage.