That night Erik spent in the warm embrace of his harem. Not in a contest of lustful frenzy, but basking in warmth, closeness and contentment.

Placing his ear on Kitten or Tykira’s stomachs to listen to the activity of the unborn children within had fast become one of Erik’s favourite things. To know that beneath the spherical bulge was new life, created by Erik himself no less, gave him a marvellous feeling. A combination of pride and anticipation as well as a sense of dread.

It was wonderful to know it was his children growing inside and the sense of future responsibility combined with the undoubtedly challenging task of raising them only truly struck home now, when Erik heard and felt the energetic kicks.

Still, fear also took hold of him. The fear that when the time came for the births, it would truly be a battle. If a man’s battlefield was with weapons in hand, a woman’s battlefield was childbirth.

Especially in these mediaevalesque times a lot could go wrong. Caesarean sections were a rarity at best and if one is necessary, no doctor or midwife with the necessary skills or knowledge was guaranteed to be on hand. In that case, losing the mother or the child would be a best-case scenario and the chance of losing both was very realistic.

Thus Erik decided he desperately needed the means to guarantee his women a safe birth. Whether by saving up Favour to exchange for expensive healing potions or by obtaining skilful physicians or doctors as thralls to be on standby did not matter, he would strive to simply do both.

To everyone’s best estimate, Kitten would give birth in another month or two so Erik still had time to prepare as best he could. Which worked out perfectly, since Erik would have to stay in the tribe during the Third Raid of the year. Then Winter would start and Erik didn’t expect to leave home again until the next year’s Raids.

But all this was of a later worry as Erik indulged in the familial atmosphere. Of course, he did take Sigrun and Isabeau to a side room to have some fun. A bit of tension was present between the two and since ‘friendship is fostered by intimacy’ had worked for Skadi & Isabeau, Erik didn’t see a reason not to try the same with his wife.

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The soggy ground had been gouged out and upturned in all directions, clear signs of a great struggle having taken place here. Pools of dark blood added yet more to the wetness and filled the air with a sickening, metallic tang.

A pack of Sabretusks, enormous feline pack hunters reminiscent of sabre-toothed tigers but about two to three times larger and the tusks protruding from the lower rather than upper jaws, lay slain on the red-stained plains.

And resting against the largest of the cats, a truly enormous male with tusks the size of longswords and coloured a pitch-black with dark-blue spots, a lone man silently honed his sword.

Wulfrik had held true to his promise to Erik. Rather than joining the Sarls on the First Raid for resources, he had taken some promising Marauders and marched into the area known as Troll-Country.

This vast stretch of land formed the border between the Norscan peninsula and the Tsardom of Kislev. And, as its name implied, this area was infested with monsters and other horrors.

Norscans and Kislevites alike built hunting camps to obtain the coveted monstrous materials, but took great risks in doing so. No permanent settlements stood in these lands, for it would inevitably be attacked and destroyed by continuous monster attacks.

Wulfrik too had established a small camp but his purpose wasn’t to gather riches or materials, but to hone his skill with blade, mind and body. And his efforts had borne fruit, as attested by the pack of monstrous cats he had slain single-handedly.

‘I wonder, how much progress has Erik made in this time? Have I surpassed him or has he left me far behind?’

Wulfrik often found his thoughts wander to this over the past months since the great Feast. But then another, more recent memory entered his mind and pressured him to make a decision.

A messenger from the Sarl King had arrived, summoning him back home. The initial phases of the Sarl/Aesling conflict were finally over and done with, the real war about to begin.

As it has always been when Norscan tribes went to war, the conflict would start with a series of raids and counter-raids into each other’s lands. The aim being to scout the land for massed invasions, map the locations of much needed resources and inflict as much damage to the enemy tribe’s morale and manpower reserves as possible.

This status quo could continue for a long time. It all depended on how successful the scouting was, each tribes’ supplies of food and resources to keep up the conflict and how pro-active their allies were.

But since this wasn’t just two tribes going at it over some dispute but two of Norsca’s most powerful confederacies waging a full-blown war on each other, this stage of the conflict could drag on for a very long time yet.

The Sarl King (and Helles’s full-blooded brother) Viglundr had taken an interest in Wulfrik. Born with Champion’s Marks carved into his flesh, excelling among the youth as a great warrior, losing and regaining his honour during the Winter Hunt and forging a close bond to the Frost Wolf tribe’s latest rising star had all added to the King’s interest.

The Sarl King had two true-born adult daughters, Yara and Hjordis, but no son to carry on his line. It was a well-known story that the eldest, Yara, had once slain a man in self-defence, thus awakening the warrior blood coursing through every Norscan’s veins.

She was thus no longer beholden to the rules and expectations Norscan society placed on women and soon left the tribe. Leaving behind her claim to her father’s throne in search of a Warband of other Shieldmaidens in order to sate the fire burning in their blood.

Sometimes rumours of her feats and whereabouts made their way to the Sarls. In these stories, Yara led her Warband into battle for anyone willing and able to afford their martial prowess.

But this was of no concern to Wulfrik, since the king’s message pertained to the other daughter and defacto heir to the Sarl throne, Hjordis.

The Sarls and Aeslings may both be major Confederacies, but the Aeslings were more brutal and ferocious, zealous in their worship of Khorne and interested in little more than offering ‘Blood for the Blood God, Skulls for the Skull Throne’.

This put the Sarls at a disadvantage and Viglundr was unwilling to let go of such a promising and well-connected Champion like Wulfrik. So he made Wulfrik an offer: Hjordis’s hand in marriage, basically confirming Wulfrik as the next King of the Sarls, in exchange for Wulfrik leading the Sarls to victory and calling upon the Frost Wolves (and hopefully the larger Skaeling Confederacy) to aid them in their war.

And Wulfrik was tempted. Very tempted. For Hjordis was in fact a famous beauty and the near assuredness of becoming the next Sarl King was nigh irresistible.

Done pondering his thoughts and sharpening his sword, Wulfrik stood up when he was joined by his trusted Warband. All the survivors that fought the Beastmen together had joined, but numerous other young Marauders from the other Sarl Winter Hunt-groups had joined up too.

Wulfrik’s Warband now reached around 200 men and while this was lower than Erik’s current band of 500, it would be hard to tell which side would win in a direct confrontation. For Wulfrik’s men were all incredibly hardened by their long time in the Troll-Country. Minor wounds no longer fazed them and the force of their blows would rattle even the seasoned veterans of major tribes.

This was another card in Wulfrik’s favour, and one Viglundr desired to play too.

Turning to face his men, Wulfrik announced his decision:

“We will return to the tribe. AFTER we slay the Frost Wyrm that plagued and attacked us for the last three weeks. If we lose, then we die. But if we win, its skull will prove and further elevate our worth to the tribe. We will use it as our standard as we charge into battle and shake the very souls of those Aesling madmen!”

And as the men cheered, Wulfrik led them back to their well-hidden camp to rest and prepare. Hunting the Frost Wyrm would take everything they had and make for a fine finale to Wulfrik’s journey of self-improvement.

‘I’m looking forward to it!’

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Back at the Frost Wolf tribe, preparations were in full swing. The feast wouldn’t be as grand as the one for the annual Winter Hunt, but it would still take two nights and two days of constant feasting to celebrate the success of the resource raid.

Makeshift tables and benches were setup, bonfires prepared, cooking fires heated the giant cauldrons and spit roasts as enormous kegs and barrels of ale and mead were rolled out of dark cellars.

Erik too was busy. Checking the values noted in his System’s Management Overview with the records kept by Sigrun to see whether people had had sticky hands or not, moving his share of the loot into the warehouses and making time to play with the near-fullgrown Ice Wolves all took a considerable amount of time.

“For the next trip, I’ll definitely take the doggies with me!” – Erik boldly asserted as he happily gave Geri and Freki their belly-rubs. Lupa too demanded attention, so Erik softly stroked her head and ears as she wagged her tail.

The other three ‘pups’ looked on enviously and only after Erik spread out his arms to them as well did they charge over and threw Erik to the ground, burying him under a mountain of beautiful blue-white fur.

It was already past noon and the feast would begin in a couple more hours. Erik already knew he would be receiving his Thane title and private command of a Wolfship to sail during the Second Raid and that the ceremony would be held at the start of the feast.

But before that, Erik was asked by Sigrun to pay a visit to Helles regarding Sigrun’s situation.

Looking at the sun, Erik decided it was about time he headed to the Big Hall to meet his mother-in-law and hear from her what ailed his wife.