Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 132

Chapter 132: The head of the pack (2) Chapter 132: The head of the pack (2) Rolf gripped the thick rope in both hands, feeling the coarse fibers bite into his palms, after that he took the second rope around his waist making sure that it stayed tight .

His muscles tensed as he took a deep breath, eyes locked on the churning, icy waters of the Great Ice Flow.

The river was a beast, its currents raging and roaring with an untamed fury, and yet, it was the only thing standing between his people and their new land With a final glance at the thousands behind him, he threw himself into the freezing river.

The shock of the cold struck him like a hammer, the water immediately sapping the warmth from his body, but Rolf gritted his teeth and kicked with all his might.

The current was stronger than anything he had ever felt, pulling him down, threatening to drag him beneath its surface, but he clung to the rope and fought against the torrent.

His arms burned, muscles straining as he pulled himself forward, stroke after stroke.

The water lashed at him, the cold biting deeper into his flesh with every second, but Rolf’s focus was unshaken.

He kicked hard, pushing himself against the powerful current, his teeth clenched as he fought for each breath in the bitter air.

From the shore, the tribes roared.

Over half a hundred thousand voices rose in unison, echoing across the frozen plains, their cries filling the sky.

“Rolf!

Rolf!

Rolf!” they chanted, the sound like thunder rolling through the air.

The name of their champion carried above the wind, a chorus of desperation and hope .

“Rolf!

Son of Ignor!

Rolf, Spear of the People!” Men, women, and children alike shouted his name, hands raised as if their voices alone could carry him across the river.

The sound of their cheers filled the air, mixing with the howling wind and the roar of the river, pushing Rolf onward.

His breath came in ragged gasps, steam rising from his mouth as he pulled himself forward, each stroke of his arms a battle against the river’s might.

His chest ached, and his limbs felt as though they would give out, but he would not stop.

Not with the hopes of an entire generation resting on his shoulders.

Suddendly a chunk of ice, jagged and sharp, came hurtling down the river, carried by the furious current.

Rolf barely saw it in time, the glint of its frozen surface flashing in the corner of his eye before it slammed into his side with bone-crushing force.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs, pain ripping through his ribs as he was nearly folded in half, his body twisting in the freezing water.

For a moment, he thought the river would claim him.

The freezing cold bit deeper, and his grip on the rope slackened, his muscles screaming in agony.

His body wanted to curl, to surrender to the force of the water, but deep within him, something stronger stirred-something primal.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to straighten, legs kicking weakly at first, then with renewed strength.

He couldn’t let go.

He couldn’t fail.

Not now.

With sheer willpower, Rolf pushed against the icy grip of the river, each stroke a battle of endurance.

Finally, through the pain and exhaustion, his hand found solid ground-the other end of the river.

Rolf’s hand shot out from the freezing water, fingers grasping at the snow-covered earth on the riverbank.

His breath was ragged, each inhalation a struggle against the biting cold.

The wind whipped against his bare skin, tearing at him like an unforgiving predator, and he knew-he had little time left.

The cheers of his people, tens of thousands strong, echoed across the river, a distant roar of hope and desperation.

But there was no time to bask in their cries.

His task was not yet complete.

With trembling limbs, he forced himself to his feet, staggering forward through the snow as his soaked body quaked with exhaustion.

His eyes found the tree-a sturdy trunk that stood defiantly against the wind, its bark rough and ancient.

He trudged toward it, each step a battle against his failing strength.

Reaching the tree, Rolf threw the thick rope around the trunk, his fingers fumbling as he bound it tightly.

His vision blurred from the cold and exhaustion, but his hands moved with a practiced certainty, tying the rope with all the strength he had left.

He knew that if this failed, his people would perish.

As the first rope was secured, he quickly unfastened the secondary rope around his waist.

His body trembled uncontrollably now, but he forced his shaking hands to move, linking the secondary rope to the main one, ensuring a double layer of security.

It was sturdy.

It had to be.

Once the final knot was tied, Rolf paused, his breath shallow, his body nearly spent.

He turned back for a moment, gazing across the river at the sea of his people, their distant figures still cheering him on.

He could no longer hear them clearly-the wind and the cold had numbed his senses-but their hope reached him.

With one final, primal roar, he threw his head back, his voice piercing the storm.His mouth gave in before his body however, and the last he said whispered in the winds were not heard by anybody but the snow.

He had lost his voice Then, knowing his duty was fulfilled,and with his last words unheard he curled himself against the base of the tree, his body finally surrendering to the cold.

His breath slowed, his muscles relaxed, and he knew in his heart that the songs of Rolf Icebreaker would echo through the ages-his people would sing of his bravery, and his son would know his father’s sacrifice.

The cold took him, but it did so gently, releasing him from his task.

His final breath was one of peace, knowing that he had done his part.

For a moment, the entire world seemed to pause.

Half a hundred thousand people stood in absolute silence, their breath held as they watched the still figure of Rolf, now motionless, curled against the far bank’s tree.

The wind howled, whipping snow across the great expanse, but not a soul moved.

Their hero had crossed the Great Ice Flow, had secured the rope, and had given his life to the cold.

The weight of his sacrifice settled over them, a collective understanding passing through the gathered tribes.

Then, from the front of the crowd, a low voice broke the silence.

Gowulf, the Great Knotur, his gaze fixed upon the distant shore, raised a hand.

His voice, powerful and deep, carried over the wind.

“Move,” he commanded, the word an order and a blessing.

Dozens of men, already prepared, stepped forward.

They were rugged and hardened, ropes coiled around their shoulders and makeshift rafts strapped to their backs.

The rafts were simple constructions-wooden planks bound together, each equipped with a single mast.

They moved toward the edge of the river, their eyes set on the rope Rolf had secured.

One by one, they slid into the freezing water.

The first man reached for the taut rope, grasping it with both hands.

He held the mast of the raft between his body and the current, using it to stabilize himself as he pulled forward.

The current was fierce, but the rope was secure, and the man slowly inched his way across the icy river.

Others followed swiftly behind him, each holding tightly to the line as they made the treacherous journey across the rushing waters.

As they reached the other side, they tied off additional ropes, linking them to the first and creating a stronger, more stable network across the river.

With each crossing, the web of ropes grew thicker, and more people began the perilous journey.

More rafts entered the river, each person gripping the line for dear life as they navigated the turbulent waters.

The makeshift mast pressed against their chests, helping them keep their balance as they struggled forward.

The current tried to sweep them away, but they pushed onward, pulling themselves through the cold, their eyes set on the far bank.

The giants, towering figures nearly four times the size of a man, had no choice but to wade through the icy depths of the Great Ice Flow.

Their immense legs plunged into the freezing water, their fur-clad forms sinking until the river reached their necks, yet their feet still touched the base of the riverbed.

Despite the cold biting into their skin, the giants pressed forward, their massive frames undeterred by the swirling current.

Behind them, their enormous furred mounts-great mammoths with long tusks and thick coats-were far more hesitant.

The beasts snorted in protest, their large dark eyes wide with fear as they eyed the treacherous water.

Some stamped their feet, kicking up snow in frustration, their muscles twitching as if to turn away from the crossing.

But when they saw their masters-the giants-steadily walking into the freezing river, the mammoths let out deep, rumbling groans.

Reluctantly, they began to follow, stepping into the water with their long trunks raised high above the surface.

Their trunks, much like the snouts of elephants, stretched toward the sky, allowing them to breathe while they trudged forward, their massive bodies half-submerged in the river.

The water rushed against them, the current strong, but the creatures moved cautiously, following their masters’ lead.

On the far bank, dozens of fires had been lit in preparation.

As the first of the giants emerged from the river, their bodies dripping with freezing water, the tribesmen rushed to them.

They brought dry clothes and blankets to cover the giants’ shivering forms, while the flames burned bright, offering warmth and relief from the bitter cold.