The Åströms' Chronicles: An Arrowhead Stained With Blood

The sun slowly dipped into the ocean as the day faded into dusk.

The island prepared for a Friday evening—calm, cozy, with a slight scent of fried fish in the air, sweet mead on the tongue, and warm songs sung by families after dinner.

Well, Ari Kron’s reality couldn’t have been further from that.

“They’re behind the Siste Mjød diner,” a tense female voice chimed through Ari’s earpiece as he rushed through the narrow streets of Sommarøy.

Damn, this tiny island felt like an entire continent now.

He pulled the handle all the way back, causing a loud revving—and even louder screams from locals yelling at him from balconies and windows.

“Well, no shit they’re pissed,” Ari thought as he zoomed through the streets and lanes.

Ari hated loud noises, parties, and big gatherings. 

Let’s be honest – any gatherings.

A calm, quiet evening in his small apartment in Tromsø with Eleanor—preferably not interrupted by schmucks whizzing by on freaking motorcycles right under his window…

“We’re late!” Christine’s voice pulled Ari from his thoughts. “She’s already speaking to them. Kron, tell me you finished your training.”

“Shouldn’t you have thought about that before dragging me out of bed?” Ari snapped back, jerking the handlebars to the left and leaning so low his knee nearly touched the ground as he barely made it through a sharp turn.

“You were the closest one.”

“Well, then stop nagging me and let me do my job,” Ari said, checking his navigator.

Almost there.

He jerked the handlebars once more and burst into a narrow lane behind Siste Mjød.

“Mr. Åström, please, come with me the easy way,” said a young, attractive woman as her voice changed, echoing.

A tall, graying man and his stunning brunette companion stepped back, their eyes widening as they clearly didn’t get what was happening.

“Ari, stop staring—do something!” Christine yelled through his earpiece.

Orsala’s silhouette shimmered and turned translucent, her pupils shrinking into tiny dots.

Ari winced, took off his helmet, and got off the motorcycle, but didn’t rush toward the scene unfolding in front of him.

“Nobody’s killing anyone yet,” Ari said, lighting a cigarette. “I wanna see what I was called here for.”

“If he gets so much as a scratch, I’ll kill you myself,” Christine hissed through his earpiece, making him smirk as he took the first drag.

***

An eagle lunged, its beak clamping onto a young, fat salmon.

Damn, that eagle was good at it.

He flew back and perched on a short building, where he enjoyed his dinner while watching the spectacle unfolding below.

***

Rachel stepped back, looking around and desperately trying to comprehend the situation, while Bjorn frowned and—to her utter horror—stepped toward Orsala.

“Ms. Lundgren, I assure you there’s no need for any confrontation…” Bjorn raised his hands, taking another step toward Orsala, who smirked.

“Of course. As if you had anything to oppose me with, ättling,” her voice echoed, though the mockery in her tone was still prominent enough to make Bjorn frown.

“I have no idea what’s going on, Ms. Lundgren, but I’m sure we can discuss everything as civilized—” Bjorn took another step.

Moving with unnatural speed, Orsala lunged forward and struck Bjorn in the chest.

***

“Ari, if he dies, you can find a little cozy cabin in the middle of nowhere to hide until the end of your life,” Christine snarled.

Ari smoked, watching Orsala hit Bjorn with impossible speed.

Well, for Ari, she moved pretty slowly—his pupils had narrowed so much they were barely visible, his eyes now pure irises.

“Pity you don’t see it,” Ari smirked and took another drag.

***

Orsala Lundgren was a tenth-year apprentice, already the most dangerous in her circle, and even capable of standing against her sage for longer than a minute.

When she saw the opportunity, she grabbed it—a man her brass called ättling turned out to be just a regular American moneybag, completely clueless about what was happening and definitely not capable of confronting Orsala—

What the hell?

***

Rachel took another step back, staring in shock at what was unfolding before her eyes.

Shit, Bjorn owed her a huge chunk of explanation.

***

Bjorn didn’t understand what had happened—one moment, he just realized Orsala was about to strike, and the next, with a speed he never expected from his fairly untrained body, he shifted his weight just before she attacked.

No, his pupils remained normal, his body didn’t turn translucent, and his speed, while impressive, stayed within the limits of a human being—though quite close to the top margin.

But he had started moving before Orsala, precisely guessing her intention, which allowed him to dodge her strike.

Orsala halted, staring at Bjorn. She tilted her head eerily, which, combined with her constant shimmering, made her look fairly terrifying.

Bjorn breathed heavily, feeling as if he had just run a marathon. Nausea churned in his stomach, his entire body ached, his vision blurred, and sweat poured down his face.

“Interesting… Once more?” Orsala lunged again, this time aiming a kick at Bjorn’s throat.

Just as before, Bjorn realized the direction of the attack and moved first, successfully evading the attack, but this time his body gave out—he doubled over and vomited. His vision darkened, and he collapsed, gasping for air and blinking, desperate to see again.

“Bjorn!” Rachel rushed to him, kneeling by his side and turning him over. His breathing had slowed.

Orsala frowned, watching the two of them. This situation had just gone far beyond the briefing she had received.

Kill the woman. Knock out and abduct the man.

Right. That’s what she was going to do–

“Well, that was fun,” a male voice called from the alley entrance.

Orsala turned to see Ari standing there, his silhouette beginning to shimmer, turning translucent.

'Now, please, leave us,' Ari said, his voice echoing just like Orsala’s.

Orsala smiled slowly and drew a long, straight knife from the sheath at her ankle.

“Ari Kron. Your commandment sent the least capable løpar to save their last hope—or whatever the hell they called this clumsy piece of shit.”

“And in turn, yours sent a useless, arrogant bitch,” Ari shrugged. “See? Nobody's taking the situation seriously.”

He snapped his fingers.

The still-burning cigarette butt shot forward like a projectile, striking Orsala just under her left eye.

She howled, clutching her face.

Ari lunged.

***

Bjorn’s vision finally returned—still blurry, but at least he could distinguish the sky from Rachel’s face hovering over him.

Bjorn smiled.

“Why the hell are you smiling again?!” she asked, desperately trying to stop the tears running down her cheeks.

"I’d die just to see you up there," Bjorn said, trying to laugh but wincing and coughing instead. "Which I almost did, I assume… Why does my body ache like hell?"

Bjorn turned over and slowly pushed himself to his feet with Rachel’s help.

“What the heck is going on here?..” Bjorn gasped, staring at the two smudged silhouettes moving around the alley.

***

Shit, this bitch was better than Ari wanted to admit.

They both reached maximum acceleration, burning their kulde at an enormous rate, each attack aiming to kill.

Half the back alley was already shattered.

Ari fought with two short daggers, while Orsala used her long knife and a dull gray steel bracer on her left hand, deflecting most of Ari’s strikes with it.

Ari constantly wove, evading most of Orsala’s attacks and parrying the rest with his daggers, but she gave him no room for a counterattack, pressing on.

Even though Ari had struck first, he quickly found himself playing second fiddle.

Flick.

Orsala suddenly changed direction, letting her blade linger—confusing Ari, which nearly cost him his eye.

Thrust.

Ari struck, aiming for Orsala’s center, but she dodged with ease.

Slash.

Ari barely managed to deflect a massive diagonal strike, which Orsala immediately followed with a lunge aimed at his chest—one that he met with his dagger, when—

Orsala suddenly shifted the attack lower.

Her blade tasted first blood, carving a small yet deep wound on the inner side of Ari’s hip, just an inch from his artery.

“You're even slower than I remember.” Orsala stopped and slowly licked Ari’s blood from her blade. “Look, as much as I’d love to kill you, my brass doesn’t encourage slaughtering løpars—even as inept as yourself.”

Ari also stopped, panting, his usual smirk faded away. Blood quickly soaked his pants—while not fatal, the wound would gradually drain his strength.

And given how good this bitch was… well, plan B then.

Ari jumped back, breaking distance, and threw a small ball to the ground while simultaneously returning to normal speed.

Orsala raised an eyebrow at the ball—then a high-pitched sound erupted from it, sending her to the ground, clutching her ears.

Panting, Ari quickly covered his wound with a hemostatic gauze and looked at Orsala.

“Finally, our engineers did something useful,” he smirked, approaching her. “Don’t try anything, Lundgren. It’ll turn off in ten minutes.”

Orsala tried to return to normal speed, but the sound felt like it shattered her mind into a zillion pieces, preventing her from controlling skunda undir. It seemed the frequency had been calibrated to affect only its active wielders.

Smart assholes.

“Leave her and run to the evacuation point,” Christine said in Ari’s earpiece.

“As if I would kill a helpless, tender woman,” Ari muttered, approaching Bjorn and Rachel.

Bjorn gently put Rachel behind him and stepped forward.

“I’m sure we can make a deal…” Bjorn started, causing Ari to wince.

“Nobody needs your money, Mr. Åström,” he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s not that simple.”

“Then what?”

“Half of us want you dead,” Ari shrugged. “The other half want you to save them.”

Bjorn stared at Ari for several moments, then smiled—before finally bursting into loud laughter.

“Shit, slap him or whatever, the bitch’s friends will be here in several minutes,” loud typing sounds accompanied Christine’s voice. “I got you a whirlybird, one minute.”

A distant, approaching sound of rotating blades filled the air.

Bjorn stopped laughing and looked at Rachel.

“Alright, now I see why you were so pissed at me…” He turned to Ari, still smiling. “I don’t understand a shit and feel like one.”

The chopper sounds grew closer, joined by the zooming of motorcycles.

Ari looked around, frowning.

"Mr. Åström, Ms. Landau," Ari said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "I fully understand your frustration. My name is Ari Kron, and I represent a group of people who want you to live. The only way to make that happen is for you to come with me. Her…”

Ari pointed at Orsala, still helplessly shimmering on the ground.

“...friends are close. We’ll be dead in ten minutes if we don’t leave now.”

Rachel looked at Bjorn, who slowly nodded.

“But before we go, I must ask you, Mr. Åström,” Ari took a tiny Italian notebook from his chest pocket and opened it to a seemingly random page. “What was Varg holding when Fiske found him on the beach?”

“What?..” Rachel’s eyes narrowed, her shock turning to fury. “You just said we don’t have freaking time, and now you’re asking riddles?”

The chopper finally arrived, hovering above them as a rope ladder was thrown down.

Bjorn and Ari locked eyes for what felt like an eternity.

Gradually, all sounds dimmed for Bjorn, even the deafening roar of the chopper blades. Instead, he heard the gentle splashing of water stirred by a light breeze at sunset, shining on a beach a mile away—but centuries ago.

The fingers of Bjorn’s left hand curled as if he were holding a tiny object.

“They’re here. Time’s up,” Christine’s voice crackled in Ari’s earpiece.

Bjorn looked at his empty hand, then back at Ari.

“An arrowhead stained with the blood of his parents’ murderer,” Bjorn said slowly, his lips barely moving, his gaze unfocused.

Ari nodded, quickly tucked the notebook away, and extended his hand to Rachel.

“Please, Ms. Landau. I trust you can make it up,” Ari gestured toward the rope ladder.

Rachel smirked, ignored his hand, and began climbing with enviable dexterity.

She knew the years spent in the mountains hadn’t been wasted.

***

Hours later, the eagle perched on the highest branch of a tree and sighed tiredly—he was twenty-four years old, and his prime had long passed, giving way to the dusk of his life.

In other words, he felt like shit after flying for hours, following that horrific machine that carried those pesky animals away from the island—where so many fish were left uneaten.

However, the events he had witnessed were more intriguing than anything his ancestors had seen for generations. Missing a meal had been worth it to reach this tree, right in front of the windows of a tiny apartment on Tromsø, 2718 Vestregata Street—where the ugly creatures hid from their pursuers.

The eagle smiled smugly—humans never suspected that eagles knew their street systems. They were far too busy killing each other to really know anything about eagles.

Splash.

A remarkably large trout broke the surface of the water a mile away, and the eagle took off, forgetting his fatigue.

Pesky animals wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while anyway.

Boy, was he wrong.