The Gods are taunting me.

They taunt me by bringing me this close to The Oathbreaker then they plant the evil seeds of doubt.

With Leif returned, if it is indeed true, he will return with intentions to take his place as Jarl of Ormensthrope. With Leif on the throne he would grant me a Holmgang --unlike his father Jorgensen-- My family's honor restored. But on the sliver of a chance, he doesn't approve it and I leave Kivickstead without the head of The Oathbreaker everything I've done within these last two months will be for not.

If I continue with my plan and end Ivan's life tonight and die in the process -- which is likely -- I'd be dooming the lives of many in Ormensthrope.

The people of Ormensthrope need to know what the Bear Clan is planning.

I remain stoic battling out an internal war as the people of Kivickstead continue to indulge in their food and drink.

I want nothing more than to end The Oathbreaker. It is my duty to kill him.

But the people of Ormensthrope are also my duty. They took me in. Raised me as one of their own after my father and village were slaughtered.

All this weighs heavily on whispers of Leif returning. If they are only whispers and he truly has not returned and I go back I won't get this close again. Our borders will be tighter and we will all be preparing for the pending attack from The Bear Clan, from Ivan The Cruel.

No, I mustn't waver.

I mustn't let the fractured sounds of a whisper have an effect on what is my fate. The Oathbreaker is mine.

<><><>

Once the longhouse is filled with good and piss drunk Vikings I take my leave knowing I'd have not only the shadows to work with but also the hazy fog of ale-eyes on my enemies.

Weaving through the crowded longhouse of drunk or sleeping people I slip out, unnoticed. The harsh icy air prompts me to draw my wool hood up over my head and a slam beside me catches my attention. A man and woman, unfazed by the cold are tangled together against the timber wall of the longhouse. Her skirts are drawn up, exposing the pale flesh of her thigh as the man thrusts into her eliciting a sound from her lips felt deep in my gut.

They don't notice me, so I continue onward, stepping over another man face down in the snow beside a discolored pile of vomit.

The elevated lookout points lit by a fire-torch are in the distance. They are manned by an archer each, and these archers won't have ale in their veins clouding their sharp vision.

So, that is my target. The archer in the elevated tower near the north side of the longhouse. It will be my guaranteed escape after I've killed the Oathbreaker.

I reach my first hidden weapons cache. Using the thick foliage of a pine tree as cover from the watchful eyes above I begin to dig, taking a moment to warm my freezing hands with a steady deep breath.

Crouched I pull the leather bag from the snow and dust it off then reach inside withdrawing a seax (knife).

A pleased grin pulls at my lips and before I get lost in my fantasies I remove the cloak and pull off the bulky hangerok (dress) and stuff the material into the bag. Killing takes precision and wearing a ridiculous hangerok will only get in the way.

My thick fur-lined trousers and tunic will keep me warm enough until I take what I need from the archer in the Northside tower. Returning my cloak to my shoulders I draw up the hood and conceal the seax between my arm and body.

The tall wooden structure sits near the back gates of Kivickstead. After a quick look over my shoulder, I begin to climb the ladder up, taking my time to be silent and careful with my weight placement to keep my presence unknown.

The wooden platform comes into view and the archer holds a torch illuminating the area with an orange glow. His back is towards me. His longbow is slung over his shoulder and the full quiver of arrows is hanging from a notch in the wood beam.

Climbing onto the platform I remain crouched and withdraw the seax from the cloak and stalk right behind the man. The wood creaks beneath my weight and the archer begins to turn. I stab the seax through his back and up through his chest.

He gasps through his blood-filled lungs and his knees buckle. Before the torch is dropped I snatch it and place its hollowed holder on the wall of the tower. Crouching to the man he trembles, looking at me like I'm Hel* herself. He gargles and red liquid spews from the corners of his mouth as it overflows then spurts.

I scan the other towers, watching the orange flames in the distance and they remain still in their places. I've succeeded with verifying an exit.

A grunt from beneath the tower then the sound of boots crunching in the piled snow causes my spine to tingle. I glimpse over the railing of the tower to watch a man thick in furs stagger to the tree beside the tower and begin to piss, wobbling back and forth and mumbling something about a pig-woman.

"J-Jakr?" He calls out, and I tense twisting around untangling the longbow from the archer's dead body then pluck an arrow from the hanging quiver. "Have you any more ale up there, friend?" The pissing man calls again, affirming he's speaking to his dead friend at my feet.

I curse under my breath. It'll be my luck to have some drunk bastard thwart my plans.

"Jakr?" This time his voice is coated with concern then the tower creaks and jolts as the man begins to climb the ladder.

A longbow is almost useless in close combat, so I hitch it around to my back and hold tight the arrow in my fist as the man climbs closer.

His hands appear first, then he extends, his heavy bloodshot eyes locking on me the moment he reaches the platform. His mouth opens to yell, but I silence him. Stabbing him like a piece of meat on a skewer. The arrow pierces the side of his throat and comes out the other side. I haul him up quickly as he writhes ripping at the arrow in his throat. Removing the seax from his friend, I end his misery and jam it into his stomach.

I let out a controlled breath of frustration and kneel glaring at the drunk man, "To think, your bladder nearly saved your Jarl's neck?"

Not wasting another minute I undress the drunk man and take his clothes and furs, attempting to wipe the blood off them, but failing. They smell of piss and sweat, but I'll soon forget when my adrenaline picks up again.

Taking the bow and quiver, I descend the tower and scan my surroundings, spotting beneath the tower centered between the four leg posts a pool of blood building larger, contrasting brightly against the snow. Casting my gaze upward I spot where the crimson liquid is seeping between the logs of the platform.

That is what the drunk man had noticed, this would surely cut my time significantly.

I work quickly, using the shadows of the longhouse and the trees to avoid being seen, and dig up another seax and a pack of turnips from another mound. I arrive at the stables where earlier in the day I stashed a saddle and broke the locking device on one of the stalls. Inside, a mare I've grown fond of watches me quizzically.

She's raven black and stubborn. My type of creature. Since the moment I arrived back in Kivickstead I've made it a point to smuggle her several turnips daily to guarantee I win her favor.

I unload the saddle and close the stall as she huffs and stomps her foot, "Shhh, Hefna (Avenge)." I pat her and hold her nose to my face, rubbing the wide flat space between her eyes, "Are you ready for an incredible journey?" My whisper excites her and her black tail flicks her rump.

I smile, and take the saddle from the hay matted floor and place it on her back. She stomps twice, excited and I stifle a laugh, "Now, now. Have patience." The grey horse in the neighboring stall huffs and expels a loud whoosh of air, jealous of the midnight ride Hefna is about to take.

I pat her again, and place the bridle around her head, and insert the bit into her open mouth, "Now, I need you to wait. Just a bit longer." From the slung leather pack I feed her two turnips, the bit in her mouth slowing her down from inhaling them, then dump the rest on the hay near her feet to keep her busy for the time being.

My exit is clear. My horse is ready. And I am about to gain back my family's honor.

<><><>Glossary<><><>

*Hel - in Norse mythology, originally the name of the world of the dead; it later came to mean the goddess of death. Hel was one of the children of the trickster god Loki, and her kingdom was said to lie downward and northward.