Fires at the Fjordgate

A Drengr Kids Story
By Ron Helwig

Foreword

This story was written for, and partially by, the young players of my Viking Age educational adventures. It draws from their creativity and sense of drengr — the Norse ideals of courage, dignity, fairness, industriousness, hospitality, self-reliance, discipline, and honesty.

Amazingly, there are about 50 such players, although many have moved on. As I write this, 6 more are joining the ongoing adventures! This short book is meant to help them all inhabit a shared virtual world, creating new tales together. Their character names are in bold, to highlight the inventiveness and imagination their players have brought to this story.

Though this story is fictional, many of its moments and ideas were created by students gathered around tables, applying their imaginations to scenarios based (roughly) on real history and real places. The best of these ideas are often followed by, “Oh no, you just gave the Dungeon Master a terrible new idea!” — to my delight, and hopefully now yours.

And while the locations mentioned are based on actual places, we do play a little loose with the details. For example, Niðaróss wasnt settled until a little later in history, and the other places likely weren’t until even later than that. But this is a world of magic and myth, so we must assume there would have been changes.

May this work inspire others to brave fjords, face giants, and stand with their shieldmates.

— Ron Helwig

A Note on Eth (Ð/ð) and Thorn (Þ/þ)

Old Norse and Old English used two letters that look unusual to modern readers: Eth (Ð, ð) and Thorn (Þ, þ).
Both letters represent the “th” sound in English.

Thorn (Þ/þ) usually represents the harder “th” as in “thing.”

Eth (Ð/ð) usually represents the softer “th” as in “this.”

The two were often used interchangeably in manuscripts, so you may see them swap places in names and words. In this story, simply pronounce them as the English “th,” unless a guide is given.

This is a draft and is not intended for distribution.

Chapter 1: The Thing Before the Storm

Ásgeir Axelson looked out at the crowd gathered for the Thing. It was twice the size of any group he had ever seen before. In his heart he believed the gods had shaped him for this day. His voice would need to be like Gjallarhorn—the horn of Heimdall himself—loud enough to wake courage and rattle fear.

The setting sun was just touching the mountaintops, lighting the western fjord waters in hues of gold and blood-red. The wind carried smoke and salt through the streets. The very air trembled with tension.

He stood atop the speaking stone in the center of Niðaróss, boots braced against the wind coming off the fjord. Longhouses lined the square, decorated with red cloths tied near their doors—a sign of welcome for the weary and wounded, and there were plenty of refugees here these days enjoying that hospitality. Around him stood warriors and farmers, sea traders and smiths, children who had learned to carry buckets, and elders who remembered the old ways. Some bore the deep tan of the southlands, others the pale hair of the Hjaltland isles. Many had lived in Þýdal. All now stood together.

He raised his arms, and the crowd fell silent.

“People of Niðaróss!” he called. “You are no longer farmers. No longer fishermen. No longer smiths or skalds or traders. Today—”
“Today you are the shieldwall.”
“You are the last stone between these beasts and the sea, you are guardians of the fjordgate.”

A murmur rolled through the gathered crowd like a drumbeat—low, uncertain, but growing.

“They took Þýdal. They took Gressli. They took Mebonden. And now they come for us.”

He pointed east, toward the forests beyond the farmlands and hills, where scouts had seen smoke only days before.

“But they will not take Niðaróss.”
“They will break on our palisade like waves on rock. They will find spears in their bellies and fire in their eyes.”
“And when they scream in their ugly tongues and fall, it will be our names they curse!”

A roar rose from the crowd—half war cry, half prayer. Children stamped their feet. Warriors slammed shield to shield. Someone lit a torch, and the flame passed hand to hand until the whole square glowed like dawn.

He pointed towards the rooftop of a nearby longhouse, where a tall dragonman with dark red scales sat atop a light blue winged dog-like dragon.

“We do not fight alone. Among our warriors are Thordak Faerdhal, who slew a giant at Þýdal, and now he flies through the skies like Thor himself, riding a blue beast that spits lightning.”

Skythor, the blue dragon gave a low rumble, crackling with sky-born fury.

Ásgeir pointed to the front of the crowd.

“And we have visitors from afar. The colorful calico furred Sanura Sefu came from Egypt, her mighty meteor spear strikes fear into the hearts of beasts, even as she challenges them in their own form. The ash and iron mage MechaKirby brings new magics from distant Constantinople. And from parts we know not we have been blessed with Buggy Uwu, the towering, shaggy marksman whose bow lets fly the deadliest of arrows.”

“We also have seen mighty deeds from even the smallest of heroes. Melody Marigold, the golden-haired fairy whose gossamer wings shimmer in the sun, has lifted weary hearts and turned fear to fire with her songs. Beside her, Kol Gulkin, a sharp-toothed kobold as fierce as he is small, has shown that even a creature scarcely taller than a shield can stand firm against foes many times his size. They and their friends have proven that courage knows no shape or size.”

Ásgeir’s voice dropped to a growl.

“The monsters rushing here think we are the last town before the sea. But they are wrong.”
“We are the sea. And we will drown them.”

Final Preparations

As the crowd dispersed with new fire in their blood, a quiet hum settled over the town—the sound of readiness.

Down by the forgeyard, Bjorn Vigrasson hunched over a workbench, dark brown hair tousled and brow furrowed in concentration. A seasoned warrior who once served in the Varangian Guard of Constantinople, he now worked alongside the ash and iron ally he met there. MechaKirby adjusted a crystalline lens over one eye as he fine-tuned a hand crossbow—their joint creation—designed to draw its bolts from the reservoir of magic stored within the weapon.

Nearby stood Netheril Faerdhal, a sharp-eyed black dragonborn with a quiet intensity. Younger sister to the famed Thordak, she bore her own ambitions, studying an orb inscribed with draconic runes that pulsed with inner light. She and MechaKirby exchanged a brief nod as they examined a scroll of blueprints none of the younger assistants were permitted to glimpse too closely.

“Just in case everything else fails,” Netheril murmured.
“This won’t,” MechaKirby finished her sentence.

A few curious children tried to peek at their tools, but Netheril gently waved them off.

In the town square, Caleb Gandalfson flicked his wand at a stack of firewood. A flash of violet lightning sparked—and instead of burning, the wood turned to smoke in the shape of a rooster, which crowed once and vanished.

Caleb blinked. “Definitely not that rune combination.”

He jotted something in a notebook beside a heavy, rune-stamped tome titled Atlantean Arcanist’s Guide to Wandcraft. He glanced over at Fireetta Fjordmist, who had her familiar Smoky—a rabbit with wings—perched on her shoulder. She was tweaking a fire spell, frowning deeply.

“Too hot,” she muttered as a test blast turned a dummy to ash.
“No, perfect,” she corrected herself.

Not far off, Kol Gulkin grinned as he leaned on his chaos staff, watching the sparks with approval.

“They say fire and chaos dance well together,” he smirked.

Shield and Stone

The eastern palisade creaked under weight as fresh hides soaked in seawater were hauled up and lashed across the timbers. Townsfolk passed wet ropes hand-to-hand, working without complaint.

Einar Leafwalker, an elven fighter known for his calm presence and unshakable defense, walked the ramparts, inspecting the joinery and standing stones. His fingers traced a carved rune as he nodded to a nearby elven child.“This’ll hold,” he said, “So long as we do.”

Elijah, a lean human rogue with brown hair and an easy smirk, lounged lazily against a post, twirling a silver ring carved with ravens.

“Or,” he said with a sly grin, “we just make sure they never reach the wall.”

Below, Risar Stormborn, a bronze-scaled dragonborn paladin, clasped the shoulder of a younger dragonborn warrior—one of his former trainees—and whispered a quiet blessing before sending him off to his post.

On a high rafter of a longhouse, Screech Hawthorne, the owlin druid, blinked silently. With a flick of his clawed fingers, tiny enchanted stones floated into the air, spiraling outward—silent scouts seeking signs of motion in the hills beyond.

In the training yard, Sanura Sefu moved with graceful precision through spear drills. Across from her, Sally Swift, a small centaur warlock no taller than a human, matched her rhythm for rhythm. Her dark brown fur gleamed with sweat, and the pink jewel on her ring caught the morning light.

Nearby, Melody Marigold hummed softly, wings flickering as her magic took hold—the tempo of her tune infusing each strike with greater speed and force.

Atop one of the newly built longhouses outside the protection of the palisade walls, Shadow Animus, a tabaxi rogue cloaked in midnight fur, crouched with one yellow eye visible beneath his hood. He studied the distant hill paths, tail still, muscles coiled. The wind tugged gently at his cloak.

Without turning, he murmured: “They’ll be here soon, long before sunrise.”

Back at the eastern gatehouse, Kris, a blue-scaled dragonborn with narrowed eyes and psychic blades ever ready, picked up the signal in his mind. The telepathic bond between them flared like a torch in fog.

“Then it begins,” he whispered in his mind.

A Warning on the Wind

By moonrise, torches lined the ramparts. The scent of wet leather, hot iron, and sea salt filled the air.

Then—
A single horn blast from the northeastern watchtower.

Everyone froze.

From the ramparts, dark figures could be seen moving through the trees.
Giants. Orcs. Goblins.
Siege beasts creaked on wooden wheels, dragging their crude engines.

They had come.

Ásgeir raised his voice once more, not as a speech, but as a command.

“To your posts.”
“Let them come.”

Chapter 2: The War Horn Sounds

Outside the palisade, east of the town along the river to the south, the cluster of newly built longhouses stood where the flat farmland stretched toward the hilly forest edge. These buildings, barely finished homes for refugees, had been turned into traps and hiding places. Within them, crouched behind barrels and shutters, were warriors waiting for a signal—some of them young and untested, others seasoned survivors from Þýdal.

Shadow Animus moved with feline grace across the rooftops, pausing only to signal down with flicks of his tail or a soft clatter of pebble against wood. When he caught sight of movement on the farmland—a hulking silhouette—he pressed two fingers to his temple and whispered through the telepathic bond. “They’re here.”

Kris received the message, already moving like a phantom along the inside wall, knives ready. He relayed the signal to Kol Gulkin, who chanted softly into his staff. A thread of arcane messages spiraled into the air, reaching the others.

Torvald Grimstein stood tall at the northeast tower, eyes bright as glacier light. “Giants approaching. More than a dozen.”

Isar Geirson stood beside him. “I am ready.”

From the Bait to the Gate

Outside the eastern wall, the bait had worked. Goblins and orcs surged toward the outer longhouses, hoping for loot and unaware they were walking into a trap. When the first goblin kicked in a door, Luna Cyrusdottir launched from the rafters, striking with a spinning kick and slashing claws before disappearing into shadow.

From beneath the floor, Kori Tabo launched upward in a blur, wakizashi in hand, flanking the same foe. Zane Wilson barreled through the door with his battleaxe, laughing like he was born for it.

Steve, standing in the next house over, cast a shielding spell over the alleyway as javelins rained in from behind. “Shields up! They’re pressing hard!”

And pressing they were. Orcs carrying torches started burning the longhouses. The ones topped with thatch went up quickly. The defenders knew this fight was only a delaying tactic, meant to harrass and weaken the horde while the town readies itself.

After battling among the burning longhouses for a good half hour, Knut Ásgeirson signalled the retreat. Just like they had planned, the defenders quickly ran to the eastern gate, with Steve sendling bolts of fire back at the longhouses to ensure that even the smallest goblins found no safety in the burning ruins.

Defending the Wall

On the wall, Buggy Uwu squinted down the shaft of a thick war arrow as he pulled back his longbow. His lengthy bugbear arms and massive back strength allowed him to fire arrows with more force and speed than anyone in Niðaróss. He waited. Waited…

There.

A bellowing hill giant broke ahead of the ranks, charging toward the eastern gate. Buggy inhaled, loosed, and whispered: “Banish.”

The arrow struck true—and with a sudden snap of air and shimmering distortion, the giant vanished.

The goblins near it faltered. Some screamed and turned. Others looked to the spot, then back, confused.

Buggy didn’t waste time.
“Focus fire here,” he shouted. “It’ll be back in ten heartbeats!”
He grinned grimly as he nocked another arrow.

The warriors near him readied their bows. Fróð Erikson, the ancient elven mage that had recently been rescued, spoke something no one near him understood. Flinging his arm out towards where the giant had been, his long slender fingers all aligned as from each one a small fiery spark emerged. When the giant reappeared—dazed, roaring, and blinking in fury—it was met with a dozen steel-tipped arrows and five glowing balls of fire that exploded on contact. The first giant had fallen!

In the Thick of It

On the eastern wall south of the gate, Melody Marigold darted between fighters, calling out encouragement and jabbing her rapier at exposed knees and ankles of orcs trying to climb over the pointed wooden logs.
“Behind you!” she sang, before sending a goblin stumbling back into a spear.

Sally Swift thundered by, skewering an orc with her spear before dragging a wounded dwarf out of the fray. Vigr Steinthor spun in beside her, his spear piercing a goblin. He leaned over the wall, opening his muzzle wide and spewing acid all over the attackers below.
“You get the left,” he grinned. “I’ll get the right.”

Sparks of Chaos

Kol Gulkin stood at the center of a defensive ring of spellcasters near the northeastern tower, his Staff of Arcane Chaos gleaming with runes.
“Now,” he said, tapping it once.

A surge of power shot through Fireetta, Caleb, and Isar, who launched their spells in perfect timing.
- A wall of flame.
- A bolt of force.
- A burst of ice shards.
The battlefield boiled and goblins screamed their last curses.

Thunder in the Sky

Skythor, the shaggy-blue Skýherðir Stormur, soared into view pulling the flying craft designed by Thordak, his sister Netheril, and their close friend Kara Stormtongue. The boat drifted low across the battlefield, and for a moment, all eyes turned skyward.

Thordak raised his warhammer, lightning crackling from its head.
“By Odin’s beard—”

The sky exploded with thunder.

Kara, clinging to the prow, fired bursts of eldritch power down into the orc lines. Thorin Steinson, expression tight with concentration, tossed his specially crafted explosive darts over the side. Goblins scattered like startled birds.

Beside them flew Slate Skarnson, riding his axolotl-like Frostfluff Fiskdraki he named Fluffy. Aiming his purple beams of eldritch force down upon the attackers, he shouted “These dragons are certainly earning their smoked salmon tonight.”

But glory draws attention.

A rock—hurled by a distant giant—grazed Skythor’s wing.

More arrows followed. One nicked the sail. Another embedded in the hull.

Thordak cursed. “We land. Now.”

Skythor banked hard and brought the craft down just outside the northeastern tower. The three disembarked and melted into the chaos of ground battle while Slate flew Fluffy back into the safety of the town square.

Rising Tide

The battle would not end that night. But Niðaróss had not fallen. The horde retreated back to the woods to rest while the bright sun would hurt their eyes.

As night bled into dawn, the torches lighting the ramparts were put out. Bodies were counted. Wounds were bound. The defenders were bloodied, but not broken.

Above the fjord, stars blinked out of view one by one. The first night of the siege was done.

And the war was far from over.

Chapter 3: The Tempest Builds

The sky in the morning was dark with low clouds—not from storm, but from smoke.

Fires burned in the woods beyond the farmland, casting a red haze over the hills. The attackers had pulled back at dawn, but not far. From the ramparts of Niðaróss, watchmen reported movement at all hours—shadows behind trees, giants pacing, war machines being rebuilt.

People took turns getting sleep, or at least trying to. Near the forgeyard MechaKirby and Netheril completed final checks on their massive project. Sparks arced between glowing aetherstone crystals.

The defenders knew the second wave would come.

The Night Raid

It started an hour after the moon should have risen. Smoke obscured the stars as well, and gave cover to movement.

A shriek pierced the dark, followed by crashing wood and alarm bells. A group of orcs had crept forward in the darkness and broke through a section of the palisade that had been weakened by fire. Goblins poured through the gap, slashing and howling.

They were met by Chad Darrelson. The goliath was already awake, meditating under a tree when the bells rang. He grabbed his mace, green fire already licking its edges, and charged.

“Back, beasts!” he shouted, smashing through the first three goblins like they were kindling.

Beside him came Crag Torson, an even taller goliath, sword flashing, shield raised.

From the trees to the north, another war cry rose—Tor, Crag’s father, leading a squad of mountain goliaths who had slipped through the enemy lines.

“To the son of the stone!” he roared.

The goliaths surged forward, closing the breach. The goblins scattered. Chad stood panting, fire fading from his weapon, but his eyes were bright with chaos and pride. Crag embraced his father, welcoming the tall mountain folk to the battle as they fortified the broken walls.

Behind Enemy Lines

As the defenders regrouped, a swirl of black feathers swept across the battlefield.

Elijah, now fully awake and grinning wickedly, activated the Ring of the Ravens. His form broke into a swarm of cawing birds that streaked over the palisade, slicing through orcs and goblins like wind-driven razors. He reformed behind enemy lines, daggers flashing.

“Boo,” he whispered, cutting down a surprised banner bearer.

Panic rippled through the rear ranks. By the time Elijah flew back in raven-form, the goblins were fighting each other in confusion.

Druids of the Storm

From the northeastern watchtower, Elding Boltakin, in the form of a wolf, sprang down into the chaos.

He tore through a goblin scout team, then reverted to kobold form just long enough to cast Thunderwave—the blast knocked back several charging orcs, buying time for a squad of defenders to regroup.

He shifted again, now a wolf with streaks of frost across his back, and bounded off.

On the northern wall, Screech Hawthorne, wings tucked tightly, stood bleeding from a cut to his side. Below him, a group of townsfolk were trapped behind a broken cart as goblins closed in.

Screech whispered something in Druidic, and his shape blurred—becoming a giant badger.

He leapt from the rampart and landed with a thud that cracked the earth. The goblins paused just long enough for him to barrel into them, sending bodies flying. He stood protectively over the villagers, snarling.

From above, a voice called, “Go, go!” as arrows and spells rained down to support him. Screech and the villagers scrambled through the northern gate before more enemies could stop them.

A Halfling’s Fire

Near the western wall, a giant had slipped through the lines, its feet pounding earth like war drums as it charged toward the docks.

The defenders had fallen back. Too far. Too slow.

But one figure ran toward the thunder.

Amelia—no taller than a troll’s shin—held her new spear low, the blade of enchanted fire casting flickers on her face.

She had once warned Þýdal of the army’s coming. She had since guarded settlers in the Hjaltland Isles. Now she had returned to finish what had started years before.

As the giant raised its club, Amelia lunged—the flame-tongue spear pierced through its calf, sending it bellowing to its knees. She ducked under the swing, climbed its leg like a ladder, and jammed the burning tip into its shoulder.

The crowd watching gasped.
Someone shouted, “That halfling’s mad!”
Another, louder, “That halfling’s brave!”

The giant fell backward—roaring in pain, then silence.

Amelia stood atop the beast’s chest, catching her breath.
“Told you I traded up,” she muttered, tapping the smoking spearhead.

Attack on the North Side

At the north wall close to the northeast tower, two giants lifted a ram the size of a longship’s keel and brought it crashing against the wall. Each strike rattled the bones of the defenders.

“Hold steady!” shouted Risar, bracing the inside with a team of dragonborn and humans. Knut was among them, sweat dripping down his temple, shield raised. Vigr stood to his right, parrying a thrown javelin with his spear shaft. Bjorn was eagerly testing his new hand crossbow, firing glowing bolts from atop the palisade.

And then came the crack.

The north wall splintered inward. Two hill giants forced their way through, swinging tree-trunk clubs.

“Fall back!” Risar roared. Knut stumbled back just in time as one of the clubs smashed the ground where he had been.

Thordak and Skythor dove from the sky, lightning trailing from their wings. His warhammer glowed as he bellowed a prayer to the storm. He brought the hammer down on a giant’s shoulder, sending it crashing sideways into the burning ruins of a wagon.

A goblin scout fired a poisoned arrow toward Thordak’s unguarded flank.

Grimacing in pain, Thordak fell. Surrounded by goblins, things looked dire as he lost consciousness.

Risar crashed into the goblins, swinging his sword which was glowing with divine light. He reached down, placing a hand on Thordak’s chest, which heaved as the healing energy flowed into him. Risar grabbed his arm and helped him back up, saying “We need you, big guy!”

From the forgeyard came a sound like a ship unmooring.

Floating now above the town square, held aloft by shimmering energy and woven with aetherstone lattice, a gleaming shield wall emerged. Projected by MechaKirby and Netheril’s secret device, it began to sweep forward—intercepting thrown boulders, arrows, and bolts of foul magic.

Deftly maneuvering it, they guided it into place, bolstering the north wall and closing the hole the giants had made. The enemy forces now trapped inside were quickly cut down.

From the Sea

A shout went up from the western wall.

Figures were emerging from the waves—elves in silver-and-blue armor, riding sleek seahorses and drawing blades etched with coral script. Behind them, gliding silently into the fjord, came long sleek boats of elven make, their sails gleaming with enchantment. The first wave had ridden in ahead, clearing the landing for their reinforcements.

At their head marched a tall elven woman in a glimmering cloak. Fireetta and Wavesia Fjordmist stared from the battlements, eyes wide.

“Mother,” they shouted in unison.

The sea elves swept into the goblins attempting to flank the town from the north. Wavesia jumped down to meet them, her Sea Ember dragon trailing steam as it leapt beside her.

“This is Tsunami, my Sjórödd Eldur dragon,” she said, her voice proud. “He’s with us.”

Their mother raised one eyebrow. “He’d better be.”

Wavesia reached out towards the water, directing a huge wave towards the goblins that were rushing in. Tsunami scrambled over the fallen goblins, burning every one it touched.

Together, the sea elves and the dragon carved a path through the enemy flank.

Dawn of Flames

As the dawning sun began illuminating the fjord, the enemy began to falter.

Their giants were bleeding. Their siege weapons burned. Their goblins hesitated.

And Niðaróss still stood.

The defenders gathered once more, tired but defiant.

And from the hills beyond the battlefield, no one noticed a few small shapes creeping closer. A faint sound—was that… bagpipes?

But the wind changed, and the sound vanished… for now.

Chapter 4: Turning the Tide

The fires had burned low, but the battle still raged.

Smoke curled into the morning sky, painting the air with streaks of ash and flame. Arrows whistled overhead. The ground was dark with churned soil and darker blood.

Atop the walls of Niðaróss, the morning sun showed determined faces.

The Druid’s Giant

In the central square, a thundering crash drew every eye—another giant had breached the outer line. It roared and lifted a massive log above its head, aiming to bring it down on a squad of young fighters too slow to run.

But Sanura Sefu stepped forward.

Her calico fur gleamed in the light of the fires. Her spear—the meteor-forged weapon they now called Starspike—glowed with power.

“You want a challenge?” she growled. “Try me.”

The giant bellowed and charged. Sanura planted her feet, held her ground, and then struck.

First: Lightning, arcing up the giant’s arm.

Second: Flame, scorching its chest.

Third: Frost, exploding across its face and blinding it.

Then she leapt and drove the spear into the giant’s heart. It collapsed with a crash that shook the cobblestones. Around her, defenders paused—then let out a cheer.

Sparks of Strategy

On the ramparts, Kol Gulkin was everywhere.

His staff pulsed with energy as he passed behind casters, touching shoulders and redirecting power. Fireballs became meteors. Ice bolts doubled mid-air. Shield spells grew twice as wide.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered with every improvement, grinning ear to ear.

He reached Caleb Gandalfson, who was fiddling with a strange wand of his own design.

“Try now,” Kol said, tapping the wand with the staff.

Caleb pointed it at a group of goblins attempting to climb a siege tower. A burst of shimmering blue light shot out—and they turned into a pile of bleating goats.

“That’s… not what I expected,” Caleb said, then shrugged. “But it works.”

Torch and Blade

At the eastern wall, a fresh wave of goblins surged through a breach.

Torvald Grimstein, the town’s longtime instructor, stood firm with his trainees beside him—many too young for battle, some still learning to hold a shield straight.

But Torvald wasn’t teaching now. He was buying time.

His blade flashed in wide arcs, cutting down attackers two at a time. A goblin spear pierced his thigh, but he didn’t falter. Another slashed his side—he snarled and pressed forward.

“Hold the line!” he roared. “No one breaks until I fall.”

But fall he did. With one last cry, Torvald shoved a final enemy from the breach before dropping to his knees, bleeding and grinning.

At that moment, Kori Tabo leapt from the shadows, his wakizashi slicing like wind through the stunned goblins. He knelt beside Torvald, but the older man pushed him away.

“You’ve got this now,” Torvald said. “Lead them. Teach them to fight like you do.”

Kori nodded once, then stood tall—eyes sharp, movements fluid, the legacy already taking root.

From that day forward, the defenders of Niðaróss would fight not just with northern steel…
But with eastern speed and discipine.

Stone and Song

By the northern wall, Crag Torson and his father Tor fought side by side, back to back.

The goliaths had become legends already—one tall and fresh-faced, the other battle-scarred and roaring.

“You’ve earned it,” Tor growled. “You’ll lead them when I’m gone.”

Crag didn’t answer. He was too busy smashing orc skulls with silent precision.

Elsewhere, Melody Marigold’s voice rang out over the clash of steel, bolstering the spirits of exhausted fighters. Her birdpipes sang a lilting tune that seemed to sharpen swords and steady hands.

Nearby, Sally Swift and Zane Wilson had formed a duo of pure efficiency—Sally blasting enemies away with her spear and magic, Zane finishing them with clean, brutal swings of his deadly axe.

Strike at the Heart

Atop the rampart Kara Stormtongue carefully selected targets for her spells. As she was casting one, she felt her ring, the one handed down generation after generation and supposedly crafted by her devilish ancestor, burn with pain.

She looked down at it, and then raised her head. As she did so, she spotted something. The whole army consisted of goblins, orcs, and giants, and yet towards the back she could clearly see a hobgoblin barking out orders.

Realizing who it was she sprinted to find Kol or Kris. Finding Shadow first she pointed out the hobgoblin to him.

Shadow mumbled out the position of the hobgoblin commander, adding “that’s our key.”

Hearing Shadows’s mumbling as clear as if he were right there, Kris ran up to Ásgeir and passed on the info, using his telepathic bond to also inform Kol.

Ásgeir quickly hatched a plan. “Get me Elijah, Buggy, as many wizards as possible, and you too Kris.”

Within a few minutes the assembled group climbed atop the rampart directly in front of the hobgoblin. Kris vanished, and Ásgeir started counting out loud. When he got to twenty he simply said “go.”

Buggy carefully aimed his bow as Elijah twisted his ring. Once again transforming into a flock of ravens, he tore through all the defenders between the wall and the hobgoblin just as Buggy loosed his arrow, whispering “Banish”.

The hobgoblin disappeared just as Elijah reformed where he had stood. A few seconds later the hobgoblin reappeared in front of Elijah who slashed at him. At the same time, Kris reappeared next to Elijah and he used his psychic blades to slash the hobgoblin’s throat.

Elijah grabbed Kris, twisted his ring, and they both transformed and flew back to the safety of the wall. Just as they did, a barrage of spells and arrows hit the commander, creating a massive explosion that tore him asunder.

From Ashes, a Roar

Now leaderless, the attacking horde faltered. Large groups broke and ran. Steve, Fireetta, and Caleb cut down as many as their spells could reach. But there were too many to get them all - some would escape over the hills to the north.

Just then a familiar howl rose from beyond the hills.

A goblin captain near the back began to shout an order—then stopped.

Over the crest of the hill came the sound of bagpipes.

And then—badgers. Dozens of them. Charging like a tidal wave.

At their head, riding astride the enormous, growling form of Bitey Boy Brock, was a tiny figure in leather armor.

“SKRAPPE FRAPPE!” someone shouted, and the cheer rolled across the battlefield like thunder.

The badgers surged through the retreating goblins, biting, clawing, and scattering them like dry leaves.

Skrappe stood atop her mount, rapier in one hand, bagpipe in the other, leading her wild charge with triumphant laughter.

Thunder Reborn

In the skies above, a shape emerged through the clouds—Skythor, wings wide and shimmering with storm energy.

Thordak Faerdhal, now fully recovered, raised his warhammer and pointed skyward.

“To me!” he called.

Dragonborn, elves, and humans followed his rally, surging forward.

The enemy—tired, leaderless, and afraid—was defeated.

The Tide Turns

By the time the moon rose again over the fjord, the battlefield was quiet.

Goblins fled into the woods. Orcs dropped weapons and ran. Giants—what few remained—lumbered away into the dark.

The town of Niðaróss stood, battered but unbroken.

Near its gates shimmered a wall of light, humming with Atlantean power. Behind it, drengr young and old leaned on spears and shields, watching the night in silence.

They had won the day.

But they knew the story was not yet finished.

Chapter 5: Light Over Niðaróss

The next day’s dawn came slowly, stretching pale gold across the fjord.

Where once smoke had choked the horizon, now only a few plumes curled skyward. The sounds of war—clashing steel, screaming beasts, thunder and flame—had faded. In their place came silence. Not the silence of dread, but of awe.

Niðaróss had held.

Aftermath

The fields beyond the palisade were littered with broken siege engines, twisted iron, and bodies. Scouts moved quietly among the fallen, collecting weapons, checking for movement, and aiding the wounded.

Inside the town, longhouses bustled with activity—bandages passed, soup ladled, and stories whispered.

Thordak Faerdhal, leaning on Skythor’s flank, surveyed the ruined battleground. His armor was cracked, his warhammer scorched, but his eyes burned bright.

At his side stood Risar Stormborn, quiet but proud.
“You saved more than me,” Thordak said. “You saved the line.”

Risar nodded once. “That’s what we’re here for.”

Behind them, Kara Stormtongue watched the rising sun with narrowed eyes. “I suppose this place isn’t so terrible after all,” she said dryly.

Netheril Faerdhal, hair tangled and cloak singed, smiled faintly. “Don’t get sentimental on us, Kara.”

A New Apprentice

Far to the northeast, nestled in an overgrown valley, the ruins of the old tower still stood—broken, hidden, and long reclaimed by moss and vines. It had been Fróð’s home once, before the amber prison took three centuries from him.

But he would not return there.

Now, in the town square of Niðaróss, Fróð and Isar Geirson stood over a patch of cleared land.

“We’ll build it here,” Fróð said, tapping his staff on the ground. “A new tower. Open to the people. Rooted in the present, not lost in the past.”

Isar’s eyes lit up. “With classrooms? And a proper lab?”

“And maybe,” Fróð said with a wry smile, “a door that only locks when you want it to.”

Isar nodded. “I’m in.”

Departures and Honors

Near the forgeyard, MechaKirby and Netheril stood beside the remnants of their floating shield wall. The Aetherstone pulses were fading, but the structural rings remained intact.

“It worked,” Netheril said simply.

“We can do better,” MechaKirby replied.

They nodded. The next project was already forming in their minds.

Nearby, Crag Torson stood with his father Tor, surrounded by the remaining mountain goliaths.

“They’ll follow you now,” Tor said, placing a hand on Crag’s shoulder. “You came here to learn how to lead from Ásgeir. I think you’ve learned enough to begin.”

Crag looked out across the fjord, then turned toward the mountains in the distance.

“I’m ready.”

Farewells and Flights

Down by the docks, Wavesia Fjordmist helped Sea Elf warriors onto their boats. Her Sea Ember curled beside her like a sleepy cat, steam hissing from its nostrils.

Their mother hugged both Wavesia and Fireetta, whispering something only they could hear. Then she boarded her ship and sailed into the morning mist.

Fireetta turned to her sister. “Think we’re staying?”

Wavesia grinned. “Think we have to.”

Behind them, Smoky fluttered to a perch and blinked his smoky eyes.

The Last Watch

As the sun rose higher, the people of Niðaróss gathered again in the square.

Ásgeir Axelson stood on the same speaking stone where he had called the first Thing. This time, his beard was singed, his tunic slashed—but he stood tall.

“We stood together,” he said. “From Hjaltland to Þýdal. From mountain to sea.”

“We stood, and we held.”

A cheer rang out—not wild, but proud. The sound of people who knew what they had risked… and what they had earned.

Among them stood: - Amelia, grinning wildly with soot still on her cheek. - Knut Ásgierson, who caught his father’s eye from across the square. - Melody, Sally, and Zane, side by side and smiling. - Screech, bandaged but upright. - Buggy Uwu, quiet and steady, eyes scanning the horizon. - Shadow Animus, perched on a rafter, already plotting something. - Dozens more—each with scars and stories.

The shield wall had not broken.

Epilogue: The Songs They Sing

That night,the people of the town gathered.

Lanterns flickered in windows. Songs rose on the air. Melody Marigold and Skrappe Frappe stood on crates in the square, trading verses of a wildly embellished retelling of the battle.

Bitey Boy Brock added a grunting beat.

Children danced. The wounded rested.

Their town. Their stand. Their song.

Epilogue: The Path Ahead

Though the giants had fled and the shield wall stood quiet, the spirit of drengr endured. Not just in the tales sung by Melody and Skrappe. But in the work to rebuild, in the courage to explore, and in the promise that wherever courage, honesty, and kinship gather— The drengr of Niðaróss will answer.

Rebuilding and Remembering

Some families spoke of returning home to repair what was broken. But they knew the roads were not yet safe. The defenders—heroes now, though many were still young—would be asked to guide them, guard them, and see if the old towns could be made whole again.

Others talked of new homes and new futures. Dwarven stonecutters began to dream aloud of building a wizard’s tower in the heart of Niðaróss—one not hidden in valleys or lost to time, but standing tall among the people. Fróð Erikson and Isar Geirson were often seen walking the ridgeline, arguing over measurements and laughing about “foundation spells.”

Echoes in the Earth

News spread that the caves to the east—where the horde had first emerged—had once been home to a proud dwarf clan, long since driven out. Their carved halls might still remain deep below. If the threat was gone, perhaps the dwarves could return. Perhaps the mines could open once more.

And if the threat was not gone… someone would need to find out.

Secrets of the Deep North

Netheril Faerdhal, ever curious, pored over her copy of the Atlantean map—marks glimmering where ruins might yet lie. Her mechanical assistant clicked and buzzed with every discovery. There was more to learn. More to reclaim.

The islands in the far north still called to many. Home to the ridable dragons of sea and fire, the islands were rumored to hold not only forgotten Atlantean secrets, but more dragons… perhaps even allies.

Thordak Faerdhal, his ship drifting gently above the clouds, kept their location close. The dragons there ate Aetherstone, and it was only from those islands that it could be mined. With Skythor pulling his sky-ship and Netheril and a few trusted others in the know, the skies were theirs… for now.

Toward the Horizon

Others looked even farther west, toward a land newly named: Ísland. Wild and strange, it promised new settlements, new farms, and new threats. The brave—or the bored—would no doubt be asked to scout its lava fields and icy shores.

And every day, trade ships arrived from farther ports. Traders from the south, east, and west asked for routes, maps, protection. The fjord that had once been a final stand… now stood as a new beginning.

What Comes Next

The shield wall may be quiet. The giants may be gone. But the world remains wide, wild, and full of wonder.

And wherever brave hearts gather,
where dragons fly,
and where badgers charge down hillsides with tiny bagpipe-riding skalds—
there will always be new stories.

And the drengr of Niðaróss will be ready.

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