2025-03-31
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Olaf and Harald crashed into the enemy line like a storm ripping into a forest.
Men were falling on every side, shards and splinters and splatters of blood flying into their faces.
But soon the Norwegians were pressing back,
using their numbers to hem Olaf's men in, squeezing them, crushing them together.
More missiles rained down.
Spears, arrows and throwing axes.
The ground was slippery with blood.
For a moment, Harold lost his footing, but then a hand was dragging him back up.
Andalf the Icelander flashed him a grim smile.
Olaf raised his voice again, rallying his men for another charge,
the sea serpent waving proudly overhead.
Yet in the corner of his eye.
Harald could see the terrifying figure of.
Thorir the Hound, his teeth bared with savage laughter,
his black spear dripping with blood, cutting through the crowd towards his brother.
And it was now, as the battle hung in the balance, that the heavens proclaimed their verdict.