On the cemetary mountain, home to brave warriors spanning generations of a bloodthirsty Viking Clan, Rodmar the Brutal converses with his Father's headstone.

BANG! CRACK! BOOM!

Flashes of light illuminate the sky. The sound of thunder and lightning shock him to his core. Of all his battles, of his many years which have stained his beard and hair white with age, he has never heard sounds like this.

He bolts toward the sounds with his axe in hand. As he rounds the corner, close to home, he spots the first splashes of fresh blood. Bodies of his men, of his brothers and sisters, his friends, lay scattered in the snow.

Then he comes upon her, his wife, his beloved, Svala.

He grabs her limp frame, holds her close and weeps. What was this? What happened? Who... he sees the footprints in the snow leading away. They are panicked, they are wild, they are from the killer of that he is certain.

Then, he hears a whimper, a small cry. His son, Eskil is just an infant, he has been left alive in their tent. He is still alive, and together they must go.

The clan... and Svala... must be avenged.