Bjorn gathered the saliva in his mouth and spat.
The thick glob struck the snow near his feet, dark against the white before it began to freeze. He ground his boot over it without a second thought and lifted his gaze toward the horizon, eyes narrowing against the pale glare.
They hadn't brought down any big game for weeks now.
Hares, a few scrawny birds, nothing more. Enough to quiet hunger for a night, perhaps, but never enough to truly fill the bellies of him and his warriors, let alone those left behind in the camp. Children. Elderly. Women who could no longer hunt. Summer was supposed to be the season of plenty, when the beasts ventured out in search of food and the land offered itself more freely.
Instead, the forests and lands felt picked clean and Bjorn knew why.
Every clan worth its name was out hunting now. Some were raiding. Others were doing both. The good game, the elk, the deer, the great beasts that could feed a settlement for days, were taken quickly by those who reached them first. Summer did not mean abundance; it meant competition.
If you are slow, you starve.
He had watched larger clans returning to their settlements, howling their victories into the cold air. Antlers were lashed to sleds, bloody hides dragged behind them, voices raised in triumph that echoed across the snowfields. Each howl was a warning as much as it was a celebration: This land is taken. This kill is ours.
He could only watch from a distance. To challenge them would have been suicide. They outnumbered him, outmatched him, and would not hesitate to spill blood to protect their food. And he knew he would do the same if the situation was reversed.
His clan had survived as long as it had because he understood that truth. Because he knew when to strike and, more importantly, when not to. His Pa had taught him that lesson early, pick your prey carefully, whether it walks on four legs or two.
Still, as he watched those clans disappear into the whitening distance, a bitter knot tightened in his chest. Luck, it seemed, had turned its face from him this time. The land felt emptier with every passing day and he could do naught about it.
Bjorn hardened his resolve as he decided. They would go south to raid again, and he would take as many as he could with him, those still strong enough to walk, to climb the Wall, to swing a weapon. Fewer mouths would remain behind, and those who stayed would have a better chance of surviving what lay ahead.
"What now, Bjorn?" Astrid asked as she came to his side, her eyes following the empty horizon.
"We go back," Bjorn replied. "There's nothin' fer us here."
The words tasted bitter, but they were true.
He turned and strode toward the warriors resting nearby, men and women wrapped in furs, weapons laid across their knees, faces worn by cold and hunger alike.
"Fish again, then?" Astrid said lightly as she followed him, a crooked smile tugging at her lips.
"Aye."
Bjorn chuckled despite himself, his breath fogging in the cold as an image of his youngling, Ivar, crept unbidden into his thoughts. The boy had a gift for fishing, quick hands, sharp eyes, and was patient as stone. He could pull trout from half-frozen streams where others came back empty-handed.
Bjorn was proud of him for it.
The boy could feed himself if left alone for a sennight, maybe even a fortnight. Not like some of the others in the clan who waited to be fed, mouths open, hands idle. Bjorn could do little about that now. Those men had once been his warriors, strong ones at that, but age and old wounds had taken their due. When the time came to fight, they could no longer lift a blade or even their bodies.
At least two years ago, Astrid had given him the excuse he needed.
The chance to thin the clan.
Bjorn's expression hardened as the memory surfaced. Those south of the wall he heard might call it cruelty. He called it survival, as it always had been. And the reason had been grave enough to cast them out of his clan without regret.
He shook the thought away as he stepped in front of his warriors.
Bjorn looked at them for a long moment, then growled, "Up."
The men around the low fire looked to him at once. They were tired and hungry, he saw it in the way they moved, the way hands lingered on knees before pushing off, but they listened all the same.
"We've chased ghosts long enough," Bjorn said, his voice rough as gravel. "There's no blood today. No meat either."
A few mutters passed through his warriors, more of frustration than protest.
Bjorn spat and jerked his chin toward the trail back. "We go home. Our bellies stay light tonight. On the morrow, we head south, climb th' ice wall and take what we need th' most, food."
That earned a few grim smiles from his warriors but he didn't bother with it.
"Move," he added. "Let's go."
He set off at once, Astrid falling in beside him, just a step behind. After a short while, Bjorn glanced back and saw his warriors following without complaint. He gave a short nod, then turned his gaze to his wife.
She was frowning.
"What?" he asked.
Astrid looked ahead, then said quietly, "Will ye take me with ye this time?"
Bjorn considered her for a heartbeat. "Ye want to go?"
"Aye," she answered at once.
He glanced at her again, then back to the path. "Then ye go with me. Ivar can mind himself now. Freya and Ylva'll stay back with the brats."
That drew a small smile from Astrid. "Aye. He can take care of himself well 'nough." After a pause, she asked, "Who are ye taking? Those left behind won't have much to eat while we're gone."
Bjorn sighed, frost spilling from his mouth in a thick cloud. "Everyone who can still fight goes. Every last one." His jaw tightened. "We move the clan somewhere safer first, then we raid."
Astrid fell silent.
She knew what that meant. It was the last thing any clan did when hunger pressed too hard. And she wondered, not for the first time, when her turn would come.
Bjorn kept walking, boots crunching through the snow, already thinking where he would leave the clan before they set off.
He needed a place they could hold while the fighters were gone. Somewhere with water close at hand and ground that wouldn't turn against them the moment his back was turned. Caves were death traps, cave-dwellers could pour out of the dark at any moment. Open plains were worse, like laying his women and brats into a pot for raiders and cannibals alike.
Forests…
Bjorn thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. Direwolves and shadowcats would pick the clan apart bone by bone. No, worse. They wouldn't leave bones.
He was pulled from his thoughts by Astrid's voice.
"What ye thinkin'?" she asked.
Bjorn didn't slow his stride. He only glanced at her before turning his eyes back to the path ahead. "Where to leave the clan while we're out raidin' south."
Astrid was quiet for a few steps, boots crunching in time with his. Then she spoke.
"We don't need to move," she said simply.
Bjorn shot her a look, sharp and questioning, but she went on before he could cut in.
"That place is safe enough," Astrid said. "River's close. High ground around us. And ye know as well as I do, yer son pulls food from that water when th' woods give us nothin'." She paused, then added, "The others who are left behind can fish too. They've learned enough watchin' him."
Bjorn grunted but didn't argue.
Astrid pressed on. "Th' others are usin' th' river now as well. Traps, spears, lines. Game's scarce, aye, but th' water's kept us fed. If we move, we leave that behind. And who knows what they eat instead when we leave?"
She looked ahead, toward the distant rise. "Sometimes stayin' put is the wiser path."
Bjorn chewed on that as they walked.
She wasn't wrong.
The river had become more than just water to his clan. Once, they barely caught anything from it and treated it as nothing more than a place to drink and wash blood from their hands. Fish were there, aye, but few knew how to take them, and fewer still had the patience to try.
That had changed since his son, Ivar learned the ways of the river, and showed others what he knew, it had become a source of food. Spears struck truer. Traps were made anew and set smarter. Even those who once scoffed at fishing now stood knee-deep in the cold, hoping to pull something from the current.
It kept bellies from gnawing themselves hollow. But it wasn't enough.
Fish could carry a clan for a time, but not forever. They needed meat. Fat. Hides. Bones. Things a river could not give.
"What of the clans near us? Won't they come sniffin' 'round once they learn we're takin' most of our fighters south?"
Astrid scoffed softly. "Same reason we ain't raidin' them now. They've got no food other than fish like we do." She glanced at him sidelong. "We promise 'em a share of what we bring back. That'll keep their hands off our people."
Bjorn mulled it over as they walked. He crouched briefly to duck under a low branch blocking the path, then straightened on the other side. After a long moment, he grunted.
"I'll decide when we arrive," he said, and kept walking.
Astrid nodded, satisfied enough to leave it there.
They continued walking after that.
They climbed steadily uphill, the path narrowing as the ground rose. The wind picked up, cold fingers tugging at their furs as they crested the slope. From there, the land dipped into a stretch of forest, old pines standing tall and silent.
They moved through the trees without speaking.
Past the forest, they crossed a shallow stretch of river, water biting at their boots as they waded through. Bjorn barely noticed the cold. Astrid hissed softly but followed without complaint. On the far bank, they climbed again, legs burning as the ground rose once more.
Then came the descent. Downhill, the land opening up, the familiar shapes of huts coming into view at last, low and squat against the endless white, smoke curling lazily into the sky.
Home.
Bjorn slowed, eyes sweeping the settlement out of habit, counting shapes, movement, and signs of trouble.
Astrid walked past him and said, "Why ye slowin'? Come on. I'm hungry."
Bjorn ignored her at first, continuing to scan the huts and the paths between them. Only when he was satisfied that nothing was amiss did he turn toward his warriors.
"We see each other on the morrow," he said. "At first light, we leave for the Wall."
They nodded, one by one.
With that settled, Bjorn turned and followed Astrid toward their home, the smell of smoke and cooked fish already pulling at his own empty belly.
—--
Ivar scooped a handful of river water and brought it to his mouth. He sipped, then gargled, making sure the water reached every corner before spitting it back onto the stones. He repeated the motion again and again until his mouth felt clean enough, clean enough for this world.
He hadn't found anything like mint among the plants here, and salt was guarded jealously by Freya. What little they had came only from raids south of the Wall. Ivar knew how to make salt well enough, but they were far from the sea, with no brine or flats to work from.
So he had to wait. Wait for his body to grow strong enough for him to go and make it himself.
"What were ye doin' back there?" Ulf asked as he came up beside him, glancing from Ivar to the river. "I saw ye spittin' water again and again."
Ivar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Ulf.
"I'm cleansing my mouth."
He straightened and glanced toward the others splashing about in the river. They had already caught enough fish for the day, and swimming had turned into a pastime. The cold water didn't bother them much while they were in it, but the moment they climbed out, the chill sank straight into the bones. Nevertheless, they were used to it now as their bodies adapted.
"Why d'ye need to clean yer mouth?" Ulf asked, following Ivar's gaze toward the river before looking back at him.
"I don't want yellow teeth or rot in my mouth," Ivar replied, eyes still on Haldor and Torren as their splashing predictably turned into a brawl. It always did when those two were left alone together.
Ulf frowned. "What? Ye talk strange sometimes, Ivar. Half them words don't make sense."
He ignored the brawling boys and kept staring at him. When Ivar didn't answer right away, Ulf added, "Ye mean th' food stuck in our fangs after eatin'? Why pull it out? I leave it there. Every time I get hungry later, I pick it with my hand and chew on it."
Ivar finally turned to him and couldn't help but laugh.
"Aye, I figured," he said, shaking his head. "But I don't like it stuck there. I take it out right away. You should do the same."
Ulf's face twisted in thought. "Then what 'bout my food later? If I take it out now, I won't have it when I'm hungry."
Ivar laughed again, softer this time. "Just do as I say, aye? No more questions."
Ulf stared at him a moment longer, then nodded slowly, still unconvinced but willing enough to follow.
Seeing that Ulf's curiosity had finally been sated, Ivar turned his attention back to the river.
Haldor and Torren were still at it, splashing and shoving, their laughter slowly giving way to sharper movements and clenched jaws. What had begun as play was edging toward something more serious.
Ivar cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, "You two. Enough. We're goin' home."
The words fell on deaf ears.
Haldor lunged, Torren answered with a shove, and water sprayed high into the air. Ivar sighed, rubbing his forehead.
He turned to Ulf, who was watching the scuffle with a faint, amused smile. "Break them up, will you? We need to head back. Night's coming on."
Ulf waited a heartbeat longer, just long enough for Torren to catch a fist to the face and sputter in outrage, then laughed softly.
"Aye," he said, nodding. "Watch my fish."
He pointed toward his crude basket on the shore, then waded back into the river.
It didn't take long.
Ulf planted himself between the two brawlers and grabbed Haldor by the shoulder, shoving him back with surprising strength. When Torren tried to swing around him, Ulf caught his arm and twisted just enough to make his point.
"Enough," Ulf said calmly. "Ye want to freeze to death out here?"
Grumbling and breathing hard, the two finally relented.
They slogged out of the water and onto the shore, teeth chattering almost at once as the wind bit into their soaked skin. The cold that had barely touched them in the river now clawed deep, straight into muscle and bone.
"Gods, it's cold," Haldor muttered, scrambling for his clothes.
Torren swore under his breath as he hurried to dress, fingers stiff and clumsy.
Once bundled back into their furs, the three of them made their way toward Ivar, still shivering, shoulders hunched.
Ivar took in the sight, wet hair, flushed faces, lingering scowls, and shook his head.
"Next time," he said dryly, "save the fight for after you're dry."
None of them argued. They went to fetch their baskets, gathering their catch for the day. Ivar and Ulf waited while Torren and Haldor finished drying off, stamping their feet and tugging at stiff furs before they were ready to move.
When they finally set off, they passed clansmen along the way, women and children heading toward the river, spears and crude traps in hand, hoping to try their luck before the light faded. Ivar had taught them just enough to fish with some measure of success, and no more.
He knew he couldn't feed all of them on his own and he wasn't planning to. They need to get their own food if they want to survive even if they were clansmen. It wasn't his job to provide for them, it was the clan's head and that is his Pa.
They had just passed beyond the trees when they saw the warriors returning from the hunt. Ivar's steps slowed, hope flickering in his chest. He smiled despite himself, wishing they had brought down real game this time. It had been a long while since he'd eaten anything but fish, and even that comfort had begun to wear thin.
They picked up their pace and that hope quickly faded
Ivar counted the haul as the hunters drew closer, only three hares. His shoulders sank. It wasn't nothing, but it was far from enough. He wondered who would get it between the warriors, his Pa would surely take one for himself, and the others would have to be divided. But it wasn't his concern.
Ulf, Haldor, and Torren didn't seem to notice the grim faces of the warriors. They broke into grins and rushed ahead, calling out as they ran toward their Pas, laughter cutting through the cold air. For them, it was enough that their fathers had come back alive.
Ivar walked more slowly with his basket, weaving toward where his pa and ma stood.
He looked at the meager haul, then up at Bjorn. "No big catch again today?"
Astrid reached out and pinched his ear.
"Ow…"
"Don't jinx it," she said sharply.
"What's there to jinx?" Ivar shot back, rubbing his ear. "You already did the hunting."
Bjorn smiled faintly and glanced at the basket on Ivar's back. "Looks like we'll be eatin' your catch again tonight."
He turned and started toward their hut. "Come. I've somethin' to tell all of ye."
Ivar looked at his Ma as she followed his Pa without a word. He sighed, adjusted the basket on his shoulder, and trailed after them.