Weapon Quality: +10% Damage, +10% Durability

  Morale: +30

  Healing Rate: +15%

  Warrior Stamina: +10% base increase

  Training Grounds Operational: Spear Drill (+5% Melee Crit), Archery Range (+5% Bow Accuracy)

  Rune-Forged Arsenal Unlocked: Fully functional—glows ominously at night.

  Wealth (+110): 7,428 Gold

  Glory (+200): 1,770

  Level: 33 (240/340)

  Side Effects:

  Tavern Income: –10 Gold per day (Apparently, “morale maintenance” means mead fountains are now mandatory.)

  Daily Food Consumption: +15% (Three Jarls means three times the appetite, zero sense of restraint.)

  As painful as it was to see his income drop, the benefits to his military barracks gave Karl a renewed sense of confidence should Viktor attempt an invasion. Still, a quiet fear lingered—one that imagined Viktor wiping out all his men in an instant. But some protection was better than none, or so Karl told himself as he studied the upgraded barracks and noted that his settlement had reached Level 6.

  Military (Stamina)

  Progression: Train new recruits, forge runed armaments, strengthen command structure.

  Current:

  Barracks Capacity: 300/300

  Training Speed: +30%

  Casualty Rate: –15%

  Healing Rate: +15%

  Warrior Stamina: +10%

  Spear Drill: +5% Melee Crit

  Archery Range: +5% Bow Accuracy

  Rune-Forged Arsenal: +10% Weapon Damage, +10% Durability

  Penalty: –10 Gold/day, +15% Food Consumption

  New Upgrade Path:

  War Hall (Tier III) — unlocks Command Tree, Formation Tactics, and Jarl Command bonuses.

  With the town now in better standing, Karl led the procession of Viking warriors outside the gates, waving to the families, elders, and guards watching over Visby as they departed.

  The other two companies of Jarls had already gone ahead, leaving Karl with only a small host of thirty Vikings, plus his friends. They didn’t want to arrive all at once—nearly a hundred warriors moving together would have been too suspicious and might have scared Signe off.

  Karl decided to send out each Jarl and their men separately, one group at a time. He would travel last with the third Jarl, Einarr, to make their approach appear more natural.

  In addition, Karl had sent one of the Jarls, Óláfr, ahead early to make sure his town was completely ready to shower Kara with praise.

  They needed to make sure Signe completely believed the prearranged praise of Kara—especially since Kara wasn’t the most natural at receiving it. After Egil had rehearsed the poem for what felt like the fiftieth time on their way there the next morning, Kara looked almost as uncomfortable as a criminal in a lie detector test.

  “Thank you, Egil,” she said flatly.

  Egil nodded politely, his red hair whipping in the winter wind.

  “You’re not going to repeat that, are you?” Ratatoskr asked as he hung off Glær’s glowing white antlers.

  “Just get him drunk,” Thorstein said with a chuckle, running beside them on all fours.

  “Very funny,” Egil muttered back at the Werebear.

  By the time they reached the town, which sat between the coast and the forest, the villagers were already deep into the festival.

  The townsfolk crowded around a large central square surrounded by turf-roofed longhouses. They had turned the ruins of a collapsed stone church into the main stage for the festivities. Wreaths of evergreen and flowers hung all around the old stonework and along the longhouses.

  Beer was already flowing freely among the villagers, many of whom Karl could tell were miners, their skin faintly blackened from coal dust. Oddly—and perhaps blasphemously—there were fertility stones etched with runes inside the church ruins. Each one was draped in garlands, surrounded by half-dressed women dancing among the men.

  Karl hadn’t ordered his Vikings to get drunk, but they certainly looked the part. Per Björn’s advice, he’d told them to pretend to be drunk, though it was hard to tell if they were faking or not. He could only hope they were—he’d need every man sober if things went wrong with Signe.

  As his warriors blended into the crowd of hundreds, Karl and Kara kept their hoods up to avoid notice. The others did the same, except for Glær, whose glowing antlers were too distinct to hide. Karl grabbed an alehorn and acted jovial, trying to blend in. His heart was pounding with anxious energy, but he forced a smile, doing his best to appear normal.

  As planned, a handful of rather stunning women showcased their beauty. Three older men sat as judges before the “runway” and were writing scores down, though it was preplanned who would win.

  Kara strode before the judges last, her hair braided by Mýra with flowers woven through the locks. She looked radiant—so much so that even Karl found it hard to look away. After showing her beauty, she returned to stand in line with the other women.

  The judges briefly “debated” who was the most beautiful, and unsurprisingly, they gave the intended decision to Egil, who climbed onto one of the tables in the half-collapsed church and cleared his throat to announce the winner.

  “May I now present to you,” Egil shouted, “the most beautiful woman in all of Gotland: Kara!”

  The Vikings roared in approval, raising their alehorns and splashing one another as they cheered. Even the other contestants shouted with approval.

  “She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Björn said beside Karl as Egil began his recitation of the poem meant to further glorify her.

  “She sure is,” Karl replied, torn between pride and the growing sense of danger building in his chest.

  With each line of the poem, the tension thickened. Out of the corner of his eye, Karl saw Thorstein—his massive frame hidden under an oversized hood—sniffing the air. Their eyes met. The Werebear gave him a look that screamed danger.

  Karl lifted his ale to his lips, sniffing subtly. His werewolf senses caught a faint, cherry-like scent.

  Signe.

  He nodded to Björn, and the two began to spread out through the crowd. And as previously planned, each of Karl’s friends quickly downed their Draughts of Chaste Resolve, just in case Signe tried to take over them with her lust-enhanced Charisma.

  “Kara is ever so fine,” Egil was saying, having not drunk his potion yet since he was mid-recital, but Karl barely heard him. His attention was on the crowd, searching. Yet he couldn’t see her. None of the Vikings under his command seemed to have spotted her either.

  Her scent was everywhere—sweet, intoxicating—but impossible to trace.

  “Her beauty supreme,” Egil continued. “Which is why I bow to Signe, my beloved queen.”

  Karl froze. His bow was in his hand before he’d even realized it. He stared at Egil in disbelief. The poet, too, looked confused as he checked his parchment.

  “Signe,” Egil read aloud again, his voice faltering, “is the fairest of them all. Kara, the pretender, only shall fall.”

  Kara ripped back her hood and drew her blade, her potion empty and fallen to the snow, ready to strike Egil. But a soft, airy laugh filled the festival square.

  “What a wonderful performance,” Signe said as she leapt gracefully onto the table beside Egil. She didn’t even glance at him. Instead, she admired her reflection in a small mirror, brushing a silver strand of hair from her face.

  Her hair shimmered like moonlight, and her lips gleamed cherry-red with color.

  Karl raised his bow, notching an arrow that glowed with frost. Kara drew her Baldr blade, ready to charge.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Signe chimed, laughing as Egil suddenly moved to shield her. “You might upset your little friends.”

  Karl’s heart sank as a hundred Vikings—all those he had brought—turned on them in unison.

  30

  JUST A HINT OF LUST

  “Does this mean we start killing all our friends?” the Trickster asked as he leapt onto Karl’s shoulder, a giant cinnamon roll clenched in his jaws. It seemed he had already drunk his potion, thankfully.

  Kara didn’t wait for Karl’s command. She growled in frustration, her sword igniting with fire as she lunged toward Signe—but Egil intercepted the blow with his spear, smashing the shaft across Kara’s face and catching her off guard.

  “Egil!” Kara cried out, blood rushing from her nose.

  There was confusion in Egil’s eyes. Around his neck, the potion Karl had brewed hung in a small vial—only a few centimeters from his lips. If only he had drunk it.

  “Execute them,” Signe said, admiring her reflection in her mirror. She didn’t even glance at Karl or his companions as she pampered herself, running her fingers through her hair.

  Well, it seemed the option of sparing her was out of the window.

  All at once, the hundred Vikings who had been their allies mere moments ago turned in rage to defend their new goddess. Almost all bore divine blessings.

  Thankfully, many were blessed by Thor and lacked the strength to summon lightning, as there was no storm. Some bore Odin’s mark, their eyes glowing dark as they read Karl and his friends’ weaknesses. Others carried Týr’s blessing, their shields unbreakable.

  A few wielded flaming weapons like Kara, while others vanished entirely under Hodr’s blessing. Around twenty unleashed Heimdall’s power at once, releasing a deafening blast that stunned Karl and his friends.

  A glowing mark appeared over each of them, outlining their silhouettes and reducing their defense and damage by 15%. Karl fell to his knees, ears ringing from the explosion. He had only moments before the horde overwhelmed him.

  Rotting fingers burst from the ground—necromancers bearing Hel’s blessing. Karl was too stunned to hear whatever Ratatoskr was shouting. He grabbed a handful of snow and hurled it toward a nearby table piled high with food to Elf Leap.

  The world blinked. In an instant, he and Ratatoskr reappeared at another part of the battlefield—and the sight before them showed just how doomed they were.

  Thorstein was shredding men apart with his massive Werebear claws, showing no mercy as rune-lit swords and spells struck from every side.

  Glær fought beside Björn and Mýra, the three standing their ground within the crowd. The Vikings were momentarily shielded by a shimmering Bifrost Shield that funneled enemy attacks into a narrow corridor.

  Mýra’s roots whipped and tangled the enemy’s legs, giving Glær time to impale them with his glowing white antlers. Yet even their defense faltered as a dozen Vikings—those blessed by Freyja—leapt over the barrier with feline speed and agility.

  Karl made it his mission to stop them. He fired two arrows, each piercing a spine and dropping its target.

  Strength (+20): lvl 11 (80/120)

  Wealth (+13): 7,441 Gold

  Glory (+40): 1,810

  Level: 33 (280/340)

  The Viking Jarl Einarr, standing beside Karl with a tankard of mead in hand, hurled it into Karl’s face, splashing the glowing drink across his skin.

  “Don’t dishonor my goddess!” he roared, swinging his sword at Karl’s legs.

  Karl leapt high, barely dodging the strike—only to find himself surrounded by dozens of enraged Vikings.

  “Karl, look out!” Ratatoskr shouted from Karl’s shoulder. Three arrows whistled past his face, but two buried themselves in his ribs, dropping his Health by 40 points. It wasn’t enough to kill him—but it wouldn’t be long before those blessed by Ullr finished the job.

  Karl cursed and kicked Jarl Einarr in the face, then shoved his smoked herring dish into his mouth.

  He didn’t need the extra boost of Health or Stamina, but the meal granted Raven’s Reflex, increasing Dexterity by 18%, Stamina Regeneration by 30%, and Group Damage by 5% for an hour and a half. It also provided resistance to lightning and fire—useful, since many of the Vikings’ weapons burned with those very elements.

  As Einarr lunged again, sword aimed at Karl’s gut, the magical dish’s effect allowed Karl to dodge with System-level speed.

  He had no hope of slashing through the swarm of Vikings pressing in from every side. The few arrows he loosed struck true—three straight through the face—but he couldn’t outshoot them all. Nor did he want to. These were his men, the very ones who would help him fight Viktor. He had to kill Signe if any of them were to be saved.

  Strength (+30): lvl 11 (110/120)

  Wealth (+17): 7,458 Gold

  Glory (+60): 1,870

  Level (+1): 34 (0/350)

  Skill Points (+1): 2

  “Can we get out of here?” the Trickster screamed as five Vikings vaulted onto the table to attack Karl at once.

  “I’m trying!” Karl shouted, shoving one of the moon-gilded hooves into his mouth. “Hold on tight!” he yelled before leaping off the table in a majestic arc of glory. Midair, he double jumped, soaring high above the crowd.

  Below, Signe still wasn’t taking the fight seriously. She was gazing into her mirror while Egil fought Kara before her. Kara, through their Pack Link, showed that her Health was nearly depleted. She was seconds from transforming.

  Karl drew his bow midair, aiming at Signe. She set her mirror down and glared up at him. Before he could fire, she hurled a throwing dagger.

  Though the dagger missed, the flash of silver startled him. His arrow veered off, slicing only a sliver of her silver hair before he crashed onto the top of the ruined church.

  “You ruined my hair!” Signe shrieked, staring in horror. “I’m going to murder you for this!”

  “I thought that’s what you were already doing,” Karl said, double-jumping again as a storm of arrows shattered the stone platform beneath him. He fell hard, landing on the church floor beside her.

  Signe lunged, ramming her black, pulsing knife toward Karl. By pure instinct, he rolled to the side.

  “Stay still!” she shouted, her words dripping like honey. Karl felt his movements slow as five Vikings charged from behind, swinging broadswords that crackled with lightning.

  In desperation, Karl swept his foot backward, forming a thick sheet of ice, and leapt away—still aided by the unicorn buff. The Vikings slipped on the ice, giving him a moment to breathe.

  “You’re doing great, Karl!” Ratatoskr shouted, clinging to his shoulder as Karl spun and fired a dual-shot arrow at the fallen Vikings. Both arrows struck true, piercing the base of their necks.

  Strength (+20): lvl 12 (10/130)

  Wealth (+9): 7,467 Gold

  Glory (+60): 1,930

  Karl didn’t ask for the Trickster’s help—he was too angry that the squirrel was acting like a cheerleader instead of a fighter.

  Moonlight Meter: 70/100.

  His anger wouldn’t take much more to push him into full berserk mode. He needed to avoid that if he wanted to spare the men under Signe’s control. “Go mess up her hair,” he said, grabbing Ratatoskr by the tail and hurling him toward Signe.

  “Not cool!” the Trickster shouted, landing claw-first in her silver locks, only to start thrashing wildly. Signe screamed, swiping at him as he tore through her hair like a child shredding wrapping paper.

  Karl used the distraction to leap away from the three Vikings recovering from his ice trap. He jumped onto a nearby table and loosed two arrows at Signe. Both found their mark, burying deep into her loosely plated thighs. Good thing she wasn’t really covered. So much for fashion.

  She screamed in fury. “Enough!”

  Karl froze, her voice laced with supernatural power. “Kneel,” she commanded. Even weakened by the potion, her charisma hit him like a wave. He forced himself upright, wading through invisible pressure.

  Around him, dozens more Vikings converged, joining those already recovered. The rest were occupied—Björn and Mýra with one group, Kara and Thorstein battling Egil, though Kara did her best not to blast Egil’s face with her Baldr Lightbeam, instead just using her light shield to defend against him.

  Egil fought like a man possessed, tears streaking his face. “Will you not let me have my devotion to her?” he shouted, slicing the back tendon of Thorstein’s leg, making the Werebear roar in pain.

  Kara struck Egil with the flat of her flaming blade, blinding him. “I just want love!” he screamed, tackling her to the ground.

  “Karl!” Ratatoskr cried. Signe had finally seized him, her black dagger hovering a breath from his chest.

  “Hold your aim,” Signe hissed, glaring murderously at the squirrel. “I’m going to shave you and sacrifice you to Hnoss. The gods know I can use a new scarf!”

  “Why can’t you just be ugly?” Ratatoskr said, straining as she forced the dagger toward his ribs.

  Karl trembled, struggling to draw his Glacial Arrow. But the pressure of her command was too strong. Twenty Vikings were closing in fast.

  Give in, Fenrir growled inside his mind.

  No, Karl snarled back.

  Then, doing something incredibly stupid, he activated his Rune of Overpressure Leap MK II.

  Glory (-190): 1,740

  Karl erupted in a blast of volcanic steam, launching himself straight at Signe with his antlered helm lowered. She barely had time to shout before his antlers pierced her chest, missing the squirrel by inches.

  The three of them blasted forward eighty meters, leaving a molten trail that blinded the Vikings behind them—until they slammed headfirst into a tree thirty meters away.

  The impact was so violent that Karl blacked out, his body going limp against the shattered trunk as his spine vibrated.