The Council of Seven had ended, but the real work was only beginning.
For the first time in generations, the seven villages began preparing for war as one people. The change was remarkable. Warriors who had once guarded only their own borders now trained beside men and women from neighboring villages. Smiths worked from dawn until midnight, repairing swords, shaping spearheads, and strengthening shields. Farmers loaded wagons with grain. Horse breeders prepared fresh mounts. Scouts disappeared into the forests, watching the northern roads.
Bissula was everywhere.
She traveled from village to village, inspecting defenses and speaking with warriors. She learned every trail, stream, hill, and narrow passage between the seven settlements. She knew that Grimhild would not attack in the same way twice.
The parchment she had discovered beneath the council table remained hidden beneath her cloak.
She had shown it to no one.
Someone had drawn the roads, defenses, and positions of the seven villages. Someone had known enough about their territory to make such a map.
Bissula trusted very few people with the secret.
Her father noticed her concern.
“You have been quiet,” Alaric said one evening.
“I am thinking.”
“That can be dangerous.”
She smiled faintly.
“So can ignoring what is in front of you.”
Alaric studied her.
“You believe there is a traitor?”
“I believe someone has been watching us.”
“Do you know who?”
“No.”
“Then don’t accuse anyone without proof.”
Bissula nodded.
“That is what I intend to do.”
Before they could say more, a horn sounded from the eastern watchtower.
A rider was approaching.
Bissula hurried outside.
The horse was exhausted, its sides heaving. The rider nearly fell from the saddle.
“They are coming,” he gasped.
Bissula grabbed his arm.
“Who?”
“Grimhild.”
The name passed through the village like a winter wind.
“How many?”
The rider shook his head.
“More than before. Far more.”
Bissula climbed the watchtower.
From its wooden platform, she could see smoke rising beyond the northern hills.
Grimhild had returned.
But this was no ordinary raid.
He had assembled a great army.
By midday, scouts confirmed that Grimhild’s forces were advancing in three separate columns. One moved toward Ravensmark. Another approached Eberdorf. The largest force was moving toward the central valleys.
Bissula immediately understood his plan.
“He wants us divided,” she told the commanders.
Rurik of Steinwald frowned.
“Then we defend each village.”
“No.”
Rurik stared at her.
“No?”
“We cannot match his numbers if we scatter our warriors among seven villages.”
“Then what do you propose?”
Bissula spread a map across the table.
“We make him believe we are divided.”
She pointed toward Ravensmark.
“Let Grimhild approach this village.”
Rurik looked confused.
“You want to let him attack?”
“I want him to think he is attacking.”
Bissula turned toward Erik of Ravensmark.
“How many scouts can you put into the northern forest?”
“Thirty.”
“Put fifty there.”
Erik smiled.
“You intend to make him think we have more warriors than we do.”
“No,” Bissula replied. “I intend to make him think our army is exactly where he expects it to be.”
The plan was put into motion.
When Grimhild’s warriors reached Ravensmark, they found the village strangely quiet.
There were no large groups of warriors waiting behind the walls.
No army stood in the open fields.
The attackers believed the villagers had fled.
They entered.
Then the forest came alive.
Arrows fell from the trees.
Ravensmark’s hidden archers attacked from three directions. Warriors rushed from concealed positions and struck the enemy’s supply wagons. Horses panicked. Soldiers scattered.
Within minutes, Grimhild’s first column withdrew.
Bissula watched from a distant ridge.
“He will not make that mistake again,” she said.
She was right.
Grimhild stopped his army in the northern valley.
For several days, he did nothing.
That worried Bissula more than an attack would have.
A reckless enemy could be defeated.
A patient enemy was dangerous.
Then another messenger arrived.
“Eberdorf has been attacked.”
Bissula immediately rode south.
She found the village in confusion. Several horses had been stolen, but the attackers had disappeared before the warriors could catch them.
Bissula examined the tracks.
“They wanted the horses.”
Konrad looked angry.
“Why?”
“To make us think they are preparing a cavalry attack.”
“Are they?”
“Perhaps.”
Bissula stood and looked toward the forest.
“Or perhaps they want us to think they are.”
That evening, another messenger arrived.
This time the news came from Waldheim.
“Enemy warriors have been seen near the grain fields.”
Bissula’s expression hardened.
Grimhild was pulling them in every direction.
She returned to Falkenruh and called the seven chiefs together.
“He is testing us,” she said.
Rurik slammed his fist against the table.
“Then let us attack him.”
“Where?”
“The northern valley.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because that is where he wants us.”
Bissula moved several markers across the map.
“Look carefully.”
The chiefs gathered around her.
“Ravensmark is threatened from the north. Eberdorf has lost horses. Waldheim is threatened from the west.”
She pointed toward Falkenruh.
“And none of those attacks matter.”
Astrid’s eyes narrowed.
“The pass.”
Bissula nodded.
The narrow mountain pass beyond Falkenruh was the key to the entire region. Whoever controlled it controlled access to the central valleys. If Grimhild captured the pass, his army could pour into the heart of the seven villages.
“He wants us to move our warriors away from the pass,” Bissula said. “Then he will attack here.”
The chiefs stared at the map.
For the first time, they understood the scale of Grimhild’s strategy.
“We defend the pass,” Astrid said.
“Yes.”
“And if he attacks elsewhere?”
“We let him.”
Konrad looked shocked.
“You would sacrifice a village?”
“No,” Bissula replied. “We will defend the villages with speed. But our main army stays here.”
Rurik smiled.
“You are gambling.”
“So is Grimhild.”
Within hours, the seven villages began moving their forces.
Falkenruh’s archers climbed the cliffs overlooking the pass.
Steinwald warriors built barricades from stone and timber.
Ravensmark scouts vanished into the forest.
Eberdorf riders waited in a hidden valley.
Flussheim’s warriors guarded the river crossings.
Waldheim’s wagons brought food and water.
Eichenwald’s warriors formed the central force under Bissula’s command.
For the first time, the seven villages truly looked like one army.
But Bissula still worried about the hidden traitor.
That night, she returned to the council hall and studied the parchment again.
The map showed the pass.
Someone had marked it carefully.
Someone knew exactly how important it was.
A sound came from outside.
Bissula immediately extinguished the candle.
She waited.
Footsteps approached.
A shadow passed across the doorway.
Then silence.
Bissula drew her sword and stepped outside.
No one was there.
But in the mud beside the doorway was a fresh footprint.
Bissula crouched beside it.
The person who had been watching her had been close.
Very close.
She looked toward the dark forest.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
A distant wolf howled.
Before dawn, the answer seemed to come.
A horn sounded from the northern ridge.
Then another.
Then another.
Scouts came racing down the mountain.
“Grimhild!”
Bissula climbed the ridge.
Across the valley, the mist began to move.
Thousands of warriors emerged from the gray darkness.
At their center rode a massive figure wearing a black wolf cloak.
Grimhild had arrived.
He raised his sword toward the pass.
Bissula tightened her grip on her own weapon.
The seven villages stood behind her.
For generations, they had fought separately.
Today, they would discover whether seven villages could truly become one people.
Bissula lifted her sword.
“Hold the pass,” she commanded.
The warriors answered with a roar that echoed through the mountains.
Across the valley, Grimhild heard them.
And for the first time, the Wolf King understood that the people he had expected to conquer were no longer divided.
They were waiting for him.