Agnar surveyed the land before him. Only hours earlier, those hills had worn a gentle green glow of grass; now they sprawled with armored corpses, crimson-soaked blades, and arrows jutting from earth and flesh—friend and foe alike.
The samurai moved forward, leaning on his katana, its edge dripping with blood. Along the way he caught sight of those who had once fought at his side—men he had called friends.
Holger knelt frozen in place, several spears buried in his back.
Sigurd had fallen the same way, though he slumped against his twin chokutō, as if he’d tried to rise one last time despite the many cuts that had bled him dry.
Arvid had plummeted from one of the archer’s ridges after an enemy ambush; a katana pinned his heart, and whatever breath he’d carried had left him there.
Farther ahead sat Hajime, weeping over the woman who had once been his wife. Hjørdis had been sliced by everything from katanas to naginatas, but it was the two arrows lodged in her chest that had ended her life. Her husband could only hold her still body and scream his grief, asking why death had spared him instead.
Rune had never reached the battlefield. He and several others had been poisoned during a strategy meeting the night before. The tea they drank claimed them swiftly, making him the first of Agnar’s friends to fall.
Karl had fought with a fury that defied reason and somehow survived the carnage. A deep slash had stolen his left eye; a spear pinned one foot to the ground; countless cuts along his arms and abdomen bled freely—yet the man still breathed.
Agnar hurried to him and hauled his captain upright. Moments later, the rumble of advancing troops reached them. Despite their heavy losses, the enemy was in retreat. Victory leaned their way.
Hours passed as the wounded were tended. Agnar learned that Karl would live—though the man kept complaining about the cold gnawing through him, even though he hadn’t lost much blood and lay properly bandaged.
Only the two of them had escaped death from their group. The strange mixture of regret and relief that filled Agnar left him unsteady; at least he would see his family again.
Among those who attended was Hajime, Hjørdis’s husband. His wounds were minor. He glanced at Agnar for a brief, brittle moment, and Agnar could only lower his eyes in silent remorse.
When the dust settled, Tokugawa forces stood victorious. Their sacrifices had carved the path to triumph.
All the fallen received proper burials—cremations marked by the chants of Buddhist monks, not unlike the final honors granted in Iceland centuries past. A few days later, word of the Tokugawa victory over the Toyotomi swept across the country.
Agnar was finally allowed to return to his wife and son. She sobbed when she saw him—not only from joy at his survival but also from the pain of losing those who had fought beside him. Hjørdis’s death struck her hardest; she had known her as Akemi.
Not long after, Agnar learned of Karl’s desertion. Search parties scoured the region, but the man had vanished shortly after the funeral rites. Agnar himself was questioned, but no evidence tied him to Karl’s disappearance, and suspicion eventually drifted elsewhere.
The years unfolded quietly after that. Agnar lived beside his wife, watched his son grow, and served the Tokugawa clan with steady loyalty. Yet the loss of his comrades—and the unsolved absence of his captain—never left him.
And so things remained… until that day.
