Ivar reached behind his shoulder and drew an arrow from his quiver. He set it against the string of his bow and raised it slowly, steadying his stance as he fixed his gaze on the stoat feeding ahead of them.
He inhaled slowly.
Then he loosed the arrow together with his breath.
The string snapped forward with a sharp twang. The arrow struck the stoat cleanly in the head. The small creature jerked violently, twitching as if seized, then went still against the snow.
"Ye did it," Haldor whispered, though no matter how hard he tried, his voice still came out louder than it should have.
Ivar shook his head. He had told Haldor countless times to keep quiet during a hunt, but the lesson never seemed to stick. With a quiet sigh, he lowered his bow.
"Go on," he said. "Fetch it."
Haldor broke into a wide grin. "Aye. We finally have meat. I'm sick of fish."
He pushed himself up from his crouch and trudged through the snow toward the fallen stoat, boots crunching softly with each step.
It had been more than a moon since his father and the others had left to raid south of the Wall. Since summer arrived, this would be their third raid, but this time was different.
Bjorn had taken every warrior who could still stand and fight, his own Ma included. Even the old and the injured who could climb and hold a weapon had gone with him. That left only the women, the children, and those too frail to make the journey behind in the settlement.
Ivar had thought it a foolish decision.
The camp now stood without true defenders, and that thought had made him restless every single day. He did not know what kind of bargain his father had struck with the surrounding clans to keep them from raiding or harassing them. Perhaps promises of shared loot. Perhaps threats. Perhaps nothing at all. But it would not hold forever. Bjorn and the warriors had been gone for more than a moon now, the longest absence yet. Even the elders, including Freya and Ylva, had begun to whisper what none wished to say aloud: that the warriors might already be dead.
Freya and Ylva had begun to grow restless. Without someone to lead them, they seemed like headless chickens, pacing, arguing, and worrying without end. Every day brought the same murmured fears, the same sharp exchanges. Ivar had tried to calm them more than once, speaking reason where he could, but it did little good.
Eventually, he stopped trying. Instead, he left the hut each day, seeking distance from the constant rumbling of their unease. Strangely, the thought of his pa and ma being dead did not shake him as deeply as it perhaps should have. He had only lived here for a few years. Affection had taken root, aye, but not so deep that it ruled him.
His time in the cultivation world had shaped him more than he liked to admit. The elders of the sect, even his senior brother who later betrayed him, had always spoken of shedding his mortal attachments. Of cutting away his desires. Of severing emotional bonds so that one might climb higher in their cultivation, unburdened.
And he had listened. He had done exactly that.
Now it seemed that same mindset had followed him across worlds. He hadn't truly thought about their possible deaths in an emotional sense, only in terms of the problems that would arise if they were indeed dead. Problems he had been turning over in his mind for several days now.
Could he protect his half-siblings and their mas?
Would he even try?
If the worst came to pass, he would save himself first. That much was certain. He had no intention of dying yet again.
Bjorn and the warriors had not left the weak of the settlement entirely unarmed. Weapons had been distributed among the wives and older children. This bow, for instance, had been left for Freya.
And now it rested in his hands.
Freya had not objected when he asked to borrow it for hunting. Instead, she had crossed her arms and told him he could use it, if he made arrows in return. He had agreed at once. Though Freya had to teach him how to make arrows in which he had learned in no time.
The bow itself had not felt foreign in his grip. From the moment he first drew the string, something about it felt familiar. He only needed to adjust to the limitations of his current body, shorter arms, lighter frame, and less strength.
And he adapted, gradually. Now, his arrows struck true, so long as nothing interfered while he drew, aimed, and fired.
Haldor returned with the stoat in hand, grinning from ear to ear. "What're ye thinkin'? Come on, let's find Ulf and Torren. Bet those two still haven't found anythin' again."
Ivar glanced at the stoat dangling from Haldor's grip. It was the first game they had brought down since they began hunting together, aside from birds, occasionally, in which he hadn't considered game as the meat was so little it barely filled their stomach. The forest near their settlement felt strangely empty, and he had long since wondered if this was truly summer at all.
Summer should have meant movement, animals roaming in search of food, tracks fresh in the mud, signs of life everywhere. Instead, it felt like winter's shadow still lingered. The woods were quiet. Too quiet. As though the beasts had chosen to hide rather than wander.
Still, they had found this one. A small creature, but meat all the same. He studied it for a moment, weighing it with his eyes. For a moment, he wondered if it would be enough for the four of them. He shook his head at that thought, it would have to do, at least they could taste something other than fish and birds.
He slung the bow across his back and secured it in place. Then he nodded once. "Let's go."
—-
The fire crackled as the stoat roasted over the flames.
Haldor was already drooling just from the smell of it. The others were barely holding themselves back, eyes fixed on the meat as it sizzled and dripped fat into the fire. Ivar couldn't help but chuckle at the sight.
"It's not even cooked yet," he said dryly. "Wipe yer mouth, Haldor."
The others immediately turned to look at Haldor.
Haldor hurriedly wiped his lips and jaw with the back of his sleeve, then shot them an embarrassed glare. Ulf and Torren instinctively checked their own mouths, hands brushing across their chins to make sure they weren't drooling as well.
Finding nothing, they straightened, though Ivar could still see the way their throats bobbed as they swallowed, over and over, eyes never leaving the meat turning over the fire.
He shook his head, amused.
Then he leaned forward slightly, adjusting the spit to keep the meat from burning.
Their situation was dire, but his foolish companions seemed to forget it from time to time, especially when distracted by something like the food in front of them. They were old enough to understand what was happening. Old enough to notice how long their Pas had been gone. Sometimes they would ask him about it, about the whispers they had heard, about whether the warriors might truly be dead.
He always deflected their questions. As he himself did not know whether the rumors were true, and there was no use feeding them fear with guesses. They did not seem too troubled by it either, not so long as their Mas were still around. Which suited him well enough. He had little patience for needless fuss, especially now.
It was Ulf who finally tore his gaze away from the meat. He turned to Ivar and asked, "What're we doin' after this?"
Ivar didn't answer right away. He turned the meat over the fire first, making sure it cooked evenly before looking at Ulf.
"We head back once the smell of meat and smoke's gone from us," he said. "I don't want the others thinkin' we're hidin' out here and eatin' for ourselves."
Ulf grinned at that and nodded. "Aye."
Ivar smiled faintly before checking the meat again. He had just turned it over when Haldor's loud voice burst beside him.
"Is it cooked yet? What's takin' so long? I'm starvin'."
Torren, emboldened by Haldor's complaint, chimed in. "Aye. I've never seen my Ma cook meat this long. Looks done to me."
They were about to complain further when they saw Ivar glare at them. He already had a small stone in his hand.
Both of them shut their mouths at once. They muttered under their breath instead.
Seeing that, Ivar relaxed slightly and let the stone fall from his hand.
"I'm cookin' the meat I hunted," he said, voice firm, a touch louder than before. "My way. No complaints. If ye want it done different, then hunt yer own. Understand?"
Torren and Haldor lowered their heads immediately.
"Aye," they muttered almost at the same time. "'M sorry."
Ulf chuckled quietly at the side.
They all knew how scarce game had become. They had been hunting for nearly a moon now and had found nothing worth the effort aside from a few birds and this single stoat. It seemed if they wanted a taste of meat tonight, they had to keep their tongues still.
Satisfied, Ivar returned his attention to the fire.
He turned the stoat once more, watching the skin tighten and brown, listening to the faint hiss of fat dripping into the flames. He waited until the meat looked right, not raw at the bone, and not blackened on the outside.
Only when he was satisfied did he pull it from the fire.
The others leaned forward at once, eyes bright, and hunger barely restrained.
Ivar chuckled at their expressions and shook his head. "Wait a little longer."
He drew the sword from his side and used it to cut the meat. First, he measured out his own portion, the hind leg and part of the back, then divided the rest into three fairly even pieces for his companions.
He took his share before saying, "Now. Take what ye want."
They didn't waste a heartbeat. Each grabbed a portion quickly, but thankfully no one fought over the same piece.
Haldor stared at his share, then glanced at Ivar's and muttered, "Not fair. Yours is bigger."
Ivar heard him clearly and narrowed his eyes. "What was that?"
Haldor immediately dropped his gaze. "Nothin'," he said quickly, then began eating in a hurry.
Torren and Ulf paid him no mind, too busy tearing into their own portions.
Ivar took a bite of his meat before speaking again. "When ye hunt it yerself, it's only right yer share's bigger, Haldor."
Haldor looked up at the sound of his name, then nodded silently.
Ivar left it at that and turned his focus back to his meal. Even without salt, the meat tasted satisfying, as though he had finally eased a craving he hadn't realized had grown so strong. He could only hope this marked the start of better hunting days. Perhaps tomorrow they would bring down another stoat. Or something larger.
He savored each bite and ate slowly.
Even when he noticed the other three had already finished and were now staring at him, eyes fixed on the remaining meat in his hand as though they might snatch it, he ignored them and continued at the same unhurried pace.
Only when he swallowed the last bite did Ulf finally speak.
"Why d'ye eat so slow?" Ulf asked, tilting his head. "And what's with that look on yer face? D'ye really need to close yer eyes while eatin'?"
Torren and Haldor chuckled at that, but quickly shut their mouths when Ivar shot them a sharp look.
A faint blush crept across Ivar's face. He turned to Ulf and replied, "What d'ye know? It was good. Tasty and satisfyin'."
He looked away at once, pretending sudden interest in the dying embers of the fire to hide his embarrassment. He must have looked ridiculous, like those exaggerated food adverts from his first life, where some man would close his eyes and savor every bite as though he'd tasted heaven itself. It might have been amusing on a screen. Out here, in the middle of the woods, with three boys staring at him? It must have looked strange. Almost foolish. He clicked his tongue inwardly. Careless. He had forgotten himself for a moment, and worse, his image.
To steer the talk away from the awkwardness, Ivar said after a moment, "Help me put out the fire. Then we'll move away from it."
The other three, not noticing his embarrassment, nodded at once. "Aye."
They stamped out the flames and scattered the embers, covering the spot with snow and dirt until no smoke rose. Only then did they move a short distance away and sit down, waiting for the smell of roasted meat and smoke to fade from their furs.
They had barely settled when Haldor rubbed his stomach and frowned. "Feels like my belly didn't even notice I ate."
Torren touched his own stomach in agreement. "Aye. We should go deeper into the forest if we want real game. Don't know why we keep huntin' near the edge when there's barely anythin' left."
"Fools," Ulf muttered. He scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it at Haldor and Torren. Both of them dodged quickly, the snow breaking apart where it struck the ground.
"We're stayin' near the edge so we don't run into other clans," Ulf went on. "If ye want to get yerself killed, then go on. Just don't drag us with ye."
"No one's stoppin' ye from goin'," Ivar said lazily as he leaned back against the tree.
"On the morrow, when we come back, ye can head deeper into the woods if ye like. We'll wait here for ye."
Ivar would have liked to go deeper into the forest himself, but he knew how dangerous it was. Several clans were scattered throughout those woods, his pa and ma had told him as much when he asked. The deeper one went, the greater the chance of crossing paths with men who would not hesitate to kill.
He had no desire to test himself there. Not yet. Even after advancing to the second level of body cultivation, his strength had only just begun to approach that of an average grown man. It was an improvement, yes, but not enough to face multiple opponents in sword fight at once. Maybe, one on one he stood a chance if he gave it all.
He went still suddenly when he heard something in the woods. His head tilted slightly as he listened. Then he raised a finger to his lips and shot his companions a sharp look, daring them to make a sound. He turned slowly toward where the noise had come from, sharpening his senses to their limit. Every shift of wind, every brush of branch against branch, every faint crunch beneath the snow, he listened for it all.
Behind him, Ulf, Haldor, and Torren exchanged puzzled looks but obeyed. They fell quiet and followed his gaze into the trees, where they saw nothing out of the ordinary aside from the occasional swaying of branches in the wind.
Ivar heard people whispering, faint at first. But as he focused his hearing in that direction, he became convinced that someone was hiding in the trees not far from them. From what he could gather, there were more than two people. He could also hear faint boots crunching in the snow, seemingly moving to surround them.
He looked at his companions and gestured for them to get their belongings.
Haldor and Torren didn't understand at first, but when they saw what Ulf was doing, they followed suit. By now, they had an inkling that Ivar had heard or seen something they hadn't, and that they were preparing to run.
Seeing that they understood the situation, Ivar fastened his bow and quiver and checked the crude sword at his side. His companions did the same.
He gave one last look toward where the people were hiding, and his eyes widened as he finally saw them, bows raised and aimed directly at them.
He didn't waste any time.
"Run!" he shouted.
They all bolted at once, and the moment they cleared the spot where they had been just seconds before, arrows began striking the ground where they had been lying.
"F*ck! These brats move fast. Go! get 'em" They heard someone shout behind them.
Haldor glanced back and saw the arrows embed at where they had been just seconds ago and couldn't help but shit his pants at how close they had been. He ran faster this time. At first, he had been the last among them, but it didn't take long before he overtook Torren and ran alongside Ulf, breath ragged and boots pounding against the snow. He looked ahead and saw that Ivar was already far ahead of them. He cursed under his breath and pushed himself harder, but no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't seem to overtake Ulf beside him. Arrows rained down near them again, but thankfully, they missed.
Ivar glanced back and saw Torren beginning to fall behind Ulf and Haldor. He also saw the culprits, men running after his companions. They stopped briefly, raised their bows, and loosed another volley. Arrows rained down again, but thankfully none of them were struck.
For a fleeting moment, Ivar considered leaving them behind. He had long since learned not to place too much trust in others. Most people, to him, were little more than companions to pass the time with, someone to speak to in a world that would otherwise be unbearably dull.
But he could not leave them. Not like this. His conscience would not allow it. He would try to save them, but not at the cost of his own life. If things turned dire enough that his survival was truly at risk, he would leave. Without hesitation.
At least he had tried.
He looked ahead and pushed himself to run faster, widening the distance between himself and the others. He glanced back from time to time, measuring the gap carefully. When he judged the distance sufficient enough to loose at least two arrows before they could close in, he stopped. He turned swiftly, already reaching for his bow. An arrow was nocked in one smooth motion. He drew the string back, gathering his qi to reinforce his arms and pull the bow to its limit. He aimed at the one closest to Torren. Then he released. The arrow cut cleanly through the air and struck true toward the pursuing brute who looked like a gremlin with a lot of hair.
"Aaagh….!" The man cried out and collapsed into the snow. For a brief moment, the rest of the attackers stopped. They stared. Shock flickered across their faces, stunned that a mere brat could fire an arrow with such force and precision. Their eyes shifted toward Ivar. One of them, a taller man with a scar running across his cheek, pointed directly at him. From the way the others looked toward that man, Ivar guessed he was their leader.
A barked of order followed. And then they resumed their pursuit at once. Ivar had already drawn his second arrow. But he did not aim at the men directly behind his companions. Instead, he shifted his focus to the side. One of the attackers was running parallel to them, trying to flank them, but he already noticed the man earlier. Ivar had already calculated it and decided that that one had to fall next. He gathered his qi again, steadying his breathing despite the adrenaline rushing through his brain. He drew, aimed, and released.
A second later, the sneaking man jerked violently as the arrow buried itself deep into his neck. He staggered, dropping to his knees. His hands flew to the wound, trying desperately to stem the blood pouring between his fingers. It was useless. He collapsed into the snow.
Ivar did not spare him another glance. He turned back toward his still running companions and shouted, voice cutting through the chaos. "Run faster!"
And when he saw they did so, he turned and ran again with all his might.
—---
Jorund cursed under his breath as he chased the brats. He had thought them easy prey. Instead, they had proven to be slippery and faster than he expected. And now another of his warriors lay dead in the snow, brought down by a red-haired brat who ran like a wild horse loosed from its tether. He spat and swore again as the boys seemed to run even faster after the shout from the red-haired one.
He had been eyeing Bjorn "Bloodhands" clan for a sennight now, ever since he noticed Bjorn and his warriors hadn't returned from their raid south. A clan without its fighters was meat left out in the open. He wanted their women. Their stores. Their furs. Whatever scraps of strength remained. Then fate smiled upon him. They had chanced upon smoke rising near the forest's edge. When they went to check, one of his warriors recognized the brats as belonging to Bjorn's clan. Jorund had decided then to kill the useless youngs first, to thin the clan quietly before striking a sennight later, when he was certain Bjorn would not be coming back. But instead, it was his own men who were falling.
Jorund slowed abruptly and barked at the warrior beside him, "Gi' me yer bow."
The man didn't hesitate. He thrust the bow and an arrow into Jorund's hand at once.
Jorund raised the bow at once and took aim. He judged the distance, measured their pace, and tracked the line of their run before loosing the arrow. He held his breath as he watched it fly. When he saw it strike the leg of the brat running at the very back, a savage grin split his face. He let out his breath in a sharp bark of triumph. "Yeh!"
His warriors echoed him. "Yeh!"
He laughed, loud and full, but only for a moment. Then his expression hardened. "What're ye all standin' fer?" he roared. "Go! Run! Fetch 'em!"
The men snapped out of their celebration at once and surged forward again. Jorund followed, boots tearing through the snow as the chase resumed. They had just run a few paces when he saw one of the men in front of him drop down as an arrow embedded itself in his warrior's eyes.
Jorund cursed under his breath when he looked up and saw the red-haired brat raising his bow again.
"Go! Go! Don't stop, ye fools!" he roared.
He didn't care who got hit next, as long as it wasn't him. Ahead, he saw the two brats drag their injured companion up and force him to run.
Jorund spat into the snow. "Get 'em! Fast!"
The words had barely left his mouth when one of his warriors, only a few strides from him, jerked violently. An arrow had buried itself deep into the man's cheek. The warrior dropped dead without a sound.
"Ahhh!" Jorund let out a furious roar and charged after the brats with his warriors, like a madman unleashed. But even in his rage, he was not careless. He maneuvered himself behind one of his men as they ran, using his warrior's body as a shield against the arrows.
—--
Ivar slung his bow across his back and sprinted toward his companions. When he reached them, he barked, "Gi' me Torren. I can run faster with him on me back."
When Ivar saw them hesitated, he shouted. "Now!"
They passed Torren to him at once. Ivar hoisted him onto his back and secured his grip. "Run!"
He didn't wait for a reply. The moment the words left his mouth, he bolted forward. He gathered what little qi remained within him and drove it into his legs. The surge was faint, but enough. His strides lengthened, boots pounding hard against the snow as he pushed himself faster. He glanced back briefly. Haldor and Ulf were close behind, running with everything they had. Even so, they couldn't overtake him, not even with Torren slung across his back.
Arrows still rained toward them from time to time, thudding into snow, striking tree trunks, slicing past with vicious whistles. Yet their luck held, as none of them were hit.
Ivar didn't concern himself with the arrows. Torren's weight against his back served as a shield. A faint chuckle escaped him despite the danger. At least he helped.
They crossed a narrow river, and the icy water slowed them for a moment. Snowmelt soaked their boots, numbing their feet, but once they reached the other side, they ran with everything they had left. Ivar's breathing had turned ragged, each inhale burning his lungs, but he forced his legs to keep moving. He glanced back and saw that Haldor and Ulf were no better, faces pale, breaths harsh and uneven.
Their pursuers were no longer in sight. It seemed the chase had been abandoned. But Ivar did not trust it. He refused to test their luck, so he kept running. When they crossed a small rise and the settlement finally came into view, relief surged through them. The sight alone seemed to breathe strength back into their bodies as they ran even faster.
"Ma! Ma!" Ulf and Haldor shouted as they stumbled into the settlement. The cries seemed to drain the last of their strength. After crossing a few tents, they collapsed onto the snow, gasping for breath.
Clansmen and women rushed toward them at once.
"What happened?" Runa cried as she hurried forward. Her eyes widened when she saw her son, Torren, slung across Ivar's back, wounded and limp.
"What happened?" she repeated harshly. She dropped to her knees beside Torren and pulled him gently from Ivar's back. Her hands moved quickly, pressing against the wound, searching, and assessing. The moment she saw that it would not kill her son, she relaxed.
Ivar's body sank on the snow after laying Torren on the ground, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Snow clung to his body and soaked into his clothes, but he barely felt it. He said nothing.
It was Ulf who answered, voice shaking despite his effort to steady it.
"Jorund… Jorund 'Snow-Fox' attacked us."
That statement brought the settlement in a heavy and solemn atmosphere at once.