The Treaty Before the Great Winter. Viking Saga Chapter 3

Hunting that tastes like iron – Chapter 3

They set out before dawn, when darkness is most sincere and one can hear one’s own thoughts most clearly. Frostfjall rose above them like the back of a frozen monster, wrinkled, black, and studded with trees that looked as if they had once tried to escape but had been chained to the spot by their roots. The joint expedition was not a procession of friends; it was a group of people walking side by side only because there was a wall of winter ahead of them and an abyss of hunger behind them. The Raven Shields kept pace with difficulty, their shoulders firm as beams, while the Deer Spears moved more quietly, almost dancing, as if they were walking across the landscape and at the same time across something invisible, a map that only they could read. Eirik walked between them, like a knot in a rope trying to hold two ends together. He felt their eyes on him, not hostile, but hungry for a mistake; everyone was waiting for the moment when the connection would prove to be only a weak patch. Flocks of crows flew overhead, black arrows in the gray sky, and their cries had a strange rhythm—like someone reciting names that had not yet been spoken.

Brynja Runeblood (Hjorthegn)

chief wise woman, mother of Sigrún. Her voice is quiet, but people bow to it as if to a flame. She believes that dreams are maps and blood is ink. She knows the old agreements about sharing husbands and wives, understanding them as the glue that holds the clan together – but also as a test that can break even the strongest bonds.

The tracks appeared like runes written with hooves. First a few prints, deep, with sharp edges, then a whole trail of trampled earth where the snow had been crushed and mixed with pine needles and frozen clay. The animals were enormous—not the common reindeer that could be hunted down and defeated by numbers, but the Great Reindeer Hrimkron, with antlers as wide as tree crowns, with eyes dark and sharp, as if an ancient fire burned within them. Hunting them was not just work; it was a struggle for the right to call oneself alive. The expedition divided, silently, with gestures that hurt in their simplicity: here, they learn this before they learn to write. Eirik felt his hands sweating even in the cold. It wasn’t fear of the animal—it was fear of a mistake that would kill someone from the other clan and turn the treaty into a bloody joke. As they took their positions, their breath came in short clouds, and those clouds mingled, as if even the air was trying to be shared.

Then it came. Not like a crash, more like a heavy silence before the blow. The first Hrimkron emerged from the thicket, step by step, slowly, surely, with the majesty of something that does not realize it can die. Pieces of ice hung from his antlers like silver jewelry, and when he turned his head, they jingled. Haldor raised his hand, Jorund crouched, spears were drawn, bows were strung. Eirik held a spear in his hand and suddenly realized that his whole life had shrunk to that one point in space: the place where the weapon must strike so that the animal would not suffer and the people would survive. They gave the signal, and the world exploded into motion. Arrows whistled, spears flew, snow splattered under hooves. The animal lunged forward, the power of its neck like a hammer, and one of the Deer spears barely dodged; its antlers tore the fur on his shoulder, the blood immediately turning into a dark sheen on the white surface. Eirik ran, hearing only his own breath and the beating of his heart, and when he stabbed, he felt the resistance of flesh and tendons, he felt the spear go deep, the wood tremble, his frozen fingers slip on the shaft, because everything is slippery when life is mixed in.

Hrimkron roared, a deep, almost human sound, and threw himself down the slope. They ran after him, because a wounded animal is the most dangerous prayer—a prayer that does not want to be heard. Sigrún appeared at Eirik’s side, too precisely, as if she knew where he would be. She didn’t just have a knife in her hand; she had a short spear with runes carved into it that flashed as it moved, as if they didn’t want to stay in one place. Eirik saw that her calmness was different from his: his calmness was hard-won, hers was read from dreams. The animal turned, its eyes wide with pain and rage, and charged straight at them. For a moment, it was just two people against the mountain’s power. Eirik saw the antlers, saw the points, saw how they could tear his stomach open like a sack of barley. He made his decision without time to think: he jumped aside, grabbed the animal by the antlers, felt the rough surface under his glove, and the force almost tore his shoulder from its socket. Meanwhile, Sigrún thrust her spear into the soft spot under its neck, precisely, without hesitation. Warm blood spurted out and immediately rose in steam, as if the body were bidding farewell to the world with one last hot breath.

When Hrimkron fell, the earth shook. And in that tremor, something stirred within the people. Victory should taste like satisfaction, but this victory had a bitter taste of iron and foreboding. Brynja stepped forward and placed her hand on the forehead of the dead animal, whispering words that were not spoken aloud, lest they attract attention. Jorund and Haldor exchanged glances—a brief, reluctant agreement between two men who would rather fight than give thanks. Eirik looked at Sigrún, at the blood on her fingers, at the runes on her spear, and realized that something unnameable had developed between them: not romance, not trust, but rather a shared secret of a moment when decisions must be made quickly and correctly. But then he noticed something else. In the snow, a short distance from where the animal had fallen, there was a footprint. Not a reindeer’s. Not a human’s. Something like a footprint, but long, with claws, and in its center was an imprinted symbol—three arcs like three moons. A chill ran down Eirik’s spine, much colder than the air. This was not a sign from an animal. It was a sign from someone who was watching.

He didn’t say it right away. In their world, some things are swallowed first to see if they will kill you from the inside. The hunters began to cut up the meat, quickly and expertly, because heat escapes from the body just as opportunity does. Axes slid, knives cut, tendons snapped, and the smell of fresh blood mingled with resin and smoke from the small fire they had lit to warm their hands. But Eirik sensed someone standing at the edge of their circle, even though no one was there. The feeling was like looking between shoulder blades. Sigrún leaned toward him, almost imperceptibly, and her eyes slid to the trail as if she had seen it long ago. “This is no coincidence,” she said so quietly that her words were swallowed by the wind. “In my dream, I saw blood on the snow. Not just animal blood. Human blood. And around it… something that walks, even though it should be sleeping.” Eirik gripped the knife handle so tightly that his knuckles hurt. The alliance was just learning to breathe, and already someone was holding a knife to its throat.

As they returned with meat and skins, the sky broke strangely again. Although the sun had not been visible for three months, the light had a strange color, as if someone had filtered it through an old bone. The shadows were too long. And Skjaldra down in the valley, distant and shiny, looked like a snake that pretends to be calm because it knows it can bite at any moment. Eirik knew that the hunting chapter was over, but the story of the pact was just beginning to get dangerous. Winter wasn’t the only one coming for what was hers. Someone else had awakened—or returned—drawn by shared blood, shared sweat, shared fear. And in moments like these, the worst enemy is not outside. The worst is the one who finds the door within you.

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