In the deep forests of the Frostmarsh, the ground is never dry and the air never silent. Mist clings to every tree like a curse, and strange calls echo through the woods long after dusk. Travelers avoid it. Soldiers fear it. But for the Black Wolf—Varg of the North—it was home.
And Uthred had to go there.
The death of Hroldan had sent shockwaves through the Viking command. For the first time in years, the name Eldhame sparked real fear. Sigvard, the usurper-king, doubled his patrols. Roads bristled with checkpoints. Spies were planted. Reprisals came fast.
Tarin's village was burned. Two of Maera's scouts were flayed alive and left hanging from a watchtower.
Then a message came.
Not on parchment. Not whispered.
Carved into a dead stag, left outside the Roost:
"Uthred is next."
They all knew who had done it. Varg the Black Wolf.
A war chief and raider who once served Sigvard, but now hunted for sport. He answered to no banner. He commanded a pack of brutal fighters who painted their faces in ash and blood, and vanished into the woods like ghosts.
Jorlan stood silent, jaw tight as he stared at the message.
Eamon, unusually grim, spoke first. "This is no scare tactic. It's an invitation."
Uthred didn't flinch. "Then I'll answer it."
"You'd walk into the Wolf's den?" Maera asked.
"Not walk. Hunt."
They rode out with ten of the best. Branoc. Ysolde. Three scouts. Two trackers. Jorlan, of course. And a healer named Lysa, who insisted they'd need her before it was over.
The trail was marked by terror: a merchant caravan gutted, horses mutilated, children's toys nailed to trees. The Black Wolf didn't just kill. He declared.
Three days in, they lost one of the scouts to a pit trap lined with iron spikes. Another vanished during night watch, his bloodied cloak found strung between two trees.
Still, they pressed on.
Uthred kept his silence, his eyes colder than they had ever been. He didn't speak unless necessary. He moved like a shadow, eating little, sleeping less.
He was hunting.
And he was being hunted.
On the seventh day, they found the camp.
Hidden beneath the ridges of a collapsed ravine, guarded by natural rock and tight forest, it housed maybe forty men. Some armored in iron and fur. Others bare-chested, covered in ritual cuts.
At the center sat Varg himself.
He was massive. Bald, with a jagged scar running down his scalp and across his eye. His black wolf-skin cloak dragged through the mud behind him. Around his neck hung trophies: fingers, ears, and a locket Uthred recognized.
It had belonged to Willa, the nursery matron.
The fire in Uthred's belly flared into a storm.
They observed for a day. Marked routines. Guard rotations. Weak points. Then, on the eighth night, Uthred gathered his team around the embers of a dying campfire.
"We strike at first light," he said. "Fast. Silent. Brutal."
"Even against those odds?" Ysolde asked.
"Yes."
Branoc nodded. "About time."
The battle began in fog.
Arrows from the ridge. Two guards fell before they raised alarm. Then the rebels descended.
Jorlan took the east flank, moving like a reaper with steel in both hands.
Uthred charged the center, cutting down two warriors in rapid succession. Blood sprayed his face. He didn't blink.
Varg emerged from his tent, bellowing like a beast. He wielded a double-headed axe and a sword strapped across his back. Around him, his elite guard rallied.
Uthred fought his way to the center. He wanted one thing.
Varg.
The duel shook the clearing.
Steel rang. Wood shattered. Mud churned beneath them as they traded blow after blow.
Varg was strong, but not fast. Uthred ducked a swing, slashed the Wolf's thigh. But Varg kept coming. His axe clipped Uthred's side—ribs cracked.
They circled.
Varg grinned. "Little prince. Finally come to die?"
"I came to bury you," Uthred spat.
Varg lunged. Uthred rolled, came up behind him, drove his blade into the Wolf's back. Not deep enough. Varg spun, headbutted him. Stars exploded.
Uthred staggered, fell to a knee.
Varg raised the axe.
Then an arrow struck Varg's chest. Not deep—but distracting.
Ysolde.
Uthred surged to his feet and drove his sword through Varg's stomach.
The Black Wolf collapsed, eyes wide.
Uthred knelt beside him.
"This is for Willa."
He slit Varg's throat.
The battle was over.
Few of Varg's men fled. Most died. The rebels took wounds, but no more lives.
Jorlan stitched Uthred's side. Lysa gave him something to dull the pain.
They burned the camp.
Uthred stood watching the flames.
"Sigvard will feel this," Eamon said later, when they returned.
"He should," Uthred said. "And he should know—I'm coming."