Bjorn's lips curved into a smile as the news of Helsing's attack on Kaupang settled in his mind. The flickering firelight in the great hall cast dancing shadows across his face, highlighting the calculating gleam in his eyes.
"The gods have really abandoned them, haven't they?" Rollo's laughter boomed through the hall, echoing off the wooden beams above. He slapped his knee with amusement, his hands making a crack against his leather-clad thigh.
Bjorn shot him a sideways glance. Ever since that last meeting with his close circle, when Ragnar had wavered—actually wavered—about attacking Vestfold, preferring instead to speak of alliances and maybe offering his fealty to whatever weakling might claim the new throne, Rollo had been insufferably comfortable.
The man practically glowed with satisfaction at being here and not Ragnar for these private war councils.
'Swear allegiance, my ass', Bjorn thought, his fingers drumming against the carved armrest of his chair. 'It's fascinating how a smart man and a potential leader, can live so many years yet have no hunger for real power.'
They said that those who sought power were often unfit to wield it, that the best leaders were those who never asked for the burden.
But Bjorn had seen enough of history; both lived and remembered from his past life, to know that was idealistic nonsense.
The reluctant rulers, the ones who claimed they didn't want power, often proved just as corrupt as any ambitious lord. At least honest ambition was straightforward.
Power wasn't inherently evil. It was a tool, like a sword or a plow. In the right hands, it could build roads, feed the hungry, protect the weak from those who would prey upon them.
In the wrong hands, it brought suffering.
The question wasn't whether someone wanted power; it was what they planned to do with it.
Bjorn wanted power, yes. He wanted the loyalty of strong men, the ability to make decisions that would shape the future, the strength to lead his people to prosperity in new lands. But unlike many who sought rule for its own sake, he had a vision of something better.
He'd seen what civilizations could become when led by those who thought beyond the next raid or the next winter. Trade networks that spanned continents.
Technologies that could transform how people lived. Systems of law and governance that created stability instead of endless feuding.
The truth was simple: he wasn't like the other men around him. He carried memories and knowledge from a different time. That gave him advantages they couldn't even comprehend. If he could do better—and he knew he could—then didn't he have a responsibility to try?
Rollo had been shadowing him constantly since then, basking in his newfound importance. Nothing surprising there, the man had always resented standing in Ragnar's shadow.
Bjorn turned his attention to the scout, a wiry man still breathing hard from his journey. Mud clung to his boots, and his cloak was damp with spring rain. "Do you know where Hake fled?" (Hake = Jarl of Kaupang)
The question hung in the air. Bjorn already had his suspicions, the Earl had precious few options. Tunsberg, the royal seat, was the obvious choice.
Borre, where the second Jarl held court, the man with the most farms under him, and farms also means biggest levy, but it seemed unlikely; political rivals rarely made reliable allies when desperation knocked at their doors, unless Hake was willing to abandon his ambitions.
Agder might have been an option once, but they are most likely facing their own succession crisis and wouldn't move until their own kingdom was in order.
The scout shook his head, water droplets falling from his stringy hair. "After the night attack, my lord, Earl Hake was caught with his breeches down, it seemed. Though I'll give the man credit, he fought like a man possessed alongside his huskarls and whatever levy was there to answer the call."
The scout's voice carried a grudging respect. "But Prince Helsing… that bastard and his berserkers were like wolves among sheep. Still, Hake managed to slip away on a single ship with his family. Vanished into the night like mist."
Berserkers. Bjorn's eyes lit up. His fascination with these warriors had only grown stronger since he'd first saw them fight back in the journey from Uppsala.
'What a nice shock force. I really want them for myself.' Bjorn thought. He had asked merchants about any close Berserker forces, but they had no idea unfortunately.
'I wonder how Helsing got them? Is it because he is a berserker also, so they just joined him?'
"How many ships did Helsing bring?" Bjorn leaned forward.
The scout had clearly been chosen for his memory as much as his speed. "Six longships, my lord. Each crammed with twenty warriors—good men from the look of them, not farmers playing at war."
"And Kaupang's ships? What became of them?"
"Untouched, my lord. Save for the one Hake escaped in, Helsing now commands another four war vessels, plus all the fishing boats and merchant ships. Makes quite a fleet."
Bjorn nodded slowly. 'So he commands ten ships now.'
"Did he plunder the town? Kill the wealthy merchants?" These details mattered, they would tell him much about how can he use these against Helsing later, public perception.
The scout's expression remained the same as this was usual for them. "Aye, my lord. Both. He put the wealthy to the sword and claimed their silver and gold. The families of those who fought against him? Chains for them, and sent back home as slaves to show both his victory and his... frustration at letting Hake slip through his fingers. Though some of Hake's huskarls could not go with him, because they had family in there. Their families are hostages right now in Alfheim, and the prince forced them to fight for him now."
Bjorn's eyes narrowed to slits. "Anything else I should know?"
"Nothing more, my lord."
With a curt nod, Bjorn dismissed the man. The scout bowed quickly and retreated from the hall, his footsteps echoing until the doors swallowed the sound.
Rollo stretched like a great bear awakening from winter sleep, his joints popping audibly. "I can't wait to fight. When winter loosens its grip, there's nothing that warms my blood like good, honest battle."
As if summoned by talk of war, Ragnar strode into the hall. His boots struck the floor with purpose, but Bjorn noticed the slight stoop to his shoulders. Ragnar grabbed a horn of ale from the table, spread his arms wide and asked, "So, what news did our swift-footed friend bring?"
Bjorn recounted the scout's report word for word, watching Ragnar's face, hoping he could show some fire, the same he shows when we raid west.
"So he'll have reinforcements from home soon, once those ships return," Ragnar observed, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
"Indeed," Bjorn agreed. "Though not many, obviously. But still, the timing Gandalf chose for this attack... it's cunning. Wickedly cunning." He stood and began pacing, his mind racing. "The planting season is upon us—summoning the full levy now would be like asking farmers to choose between this year's harvest and this year's battles. It would take a week to gather meaningful numbers."
Rollo frowned, his brows knitting together. "What about whoever's holding Tunsberg right now? I know King Halfdan took some of his hird with him to Uppsala just like every Jarl and King, but not all of them. Won't the remaining huskarls join forces with Borre's men and crush Helsing?"
Bjorn shook his head firmly. "No. The hird leader holds Tunsberg now; a cautious man who knows his duty. And remember, Harald is only missing according to their information, not confirmed dead. Tunsberg is the beating heart of the royal family's power. The hird leader won't abandon it to chase after Helsing, no matter how loudly Borre screams for help. Tunsberg itself needs protection after all."
"Then let's spread word that Harald's feeding the ravens now," Rollo suggested with a wolfish grin. "That might light a fire under their arses, make them fight with proper fury."
Bjorn raised his hand, cutting off that line of thought. "Not yet. The timing must be perfect for such news."
Rollo sighed like a disappointed child. "So when do we finally get to wet our blades? My sword and axe are growing rust from sitting and doing nothing."
"When the moment is right, you'll know it." Bjorn fixed both men with a stern look. "Are our forces ready? Have you chosen your second in command, Rollo? I want no delays when I call for the muster. Organization must be swift and fast."
"Yes, everything's been done exactly as you wanted," Rollo replied.
Bjorn turned to Ragnar, who nodded as well. "All is prepared on my end too."
'This will be my first true war', Bjorn thought, feeling the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders. 'There can be no room for mistakes.'
-x-X-x-
Bjorn had spent every waking hour of the past year preparing for this moment, reshaping their fighting force. As it continued to grow bigger, a lot of problems would obviously start to rise.
So he'd created sub-leaders, trusted veterans who could command groups of twenty to thirty warriors. Each knew his men intimately and could relay orders quickly in the chaos of battle. This organization would give them unprecedented control over flanking maneuvers and coordinated retreats, advantages their enemies wouldn't expect.
More importantly, he'd revolutionized their approach to warfare itself. Gone were the days of relying solely on the traditional shield wall. Now they had light troops trained to throw spears and javelins, softening enemy formations before the main force engaged.
Supply lines had been established, with trusted men responsible for gathering spare shields and spears before each battle.
For the crucial role of logistics coordinator, Bjorn had chosen Athelstan.
True, there were other men in his inner circle who could now read and write; a skill that had taken root over the past two years, but their literacy was still too fresh and uncertain for such vital responsibility.
Logistics would win or lose this war if lasted long, and Helsing would learn that bitter lesson when his strategy of living off plunder inevitably failed.
No army could sustain itself indefinitely on stolen grain and slaughtered cattle, which solidified the though in Bjorn's head that Helsing would be forced to seek a decisive battle with the Earl of Borre before his own forces began to starve.
But perhaps most importantly, Bjorn had focused on farming; the foundation upon which all Norse prosperity rested. The previous year had marked the beginning of his ambitious three-field rotation experiment.
Now, as spring arrived with its promise of new growth, it was time to rotate the fields. If his calculations proved correct, the harvest would increase by thirty percent. Or maybe less.
Such an improvement would be enormous: revolutionary, even. Food shortage was the primary constraint on population growth in these northern lands. More food meant more people, more warriors, more power. The simple mathematics of survival and expansion.
-x-X-x-
Throughout these preparations, Bjorn had maintained an extensive network of scouts, probably like everyone else who is interested in this fighting, always sending them in pairs to critical locations.
While one raced back with urgent news, the other remained to observe, and then they rotated positions. It was a system that ensured to a certain extent he always had current intelligence on his enemies' movements.
The reports that flowed back to Kattegat painted a clear picture of Helsing's strategy. The prince was systematically burning fields and plundering farms, trying desperately to force a decisive confrontation.
It was exactly what Bjorn had predicted—Helsing's only viable path forward. Or Gandalf, most likely the mastermind behind this invasion.
For the defenders, the situation was becoming increasingly desperate with each passing day. They had to fight during planting season, which meant their levy would be smaller than usual.
The numbers would be roughly equal, but that was precisely what made the situation so dangerous for both sides.
Every day Helsing continued his rampage, taking what he can from grain stores and destroying the rest, and livestock, brought the common people closer to starvation when winter returned.
In these harsh northern lands, winter showed no mercy, starvation was a death sentence that entire communities could face.
The second major development had been Earl Hake's political maneuvering. The dispossessed lord had initially sailed to Tunsberg, hat in hand, seeking support to reclaim his trading hub.
When the hird leader refused—wisely, from a strategic standpoint—Hake faced the bitter choice of abandoning his royal ambitions or facing complete irrelevance.
He chose survival over pride. With no significant fighting force remaining and his legitimacy as his only remaining asset, Hake threw his support behind the Earl of Borre's bid to become regent of Vestfold through a rushed formal thing—a gathering of free men to decide leadership.
While Hake could contribute little in terms of warriors, his support carried the weight of legal precedent.
In exchange for backing Borre's claim, he could reasonably expect to reclaim his position once the dust settled.
It was a pragmatic choice, but also a sign of how completely Helsing's night attack had shattered the old order. The game board had been reset, and now it remained to be seen who would emerge victorious when all the pieces finished moving.
-x-X-x-
The news didn't reach Kattegat until mid to late April. Bjorn was walking through his newly rotated fields, when he heard hoofbeats thundering up the path. He turned to see a scout approaching at full gallop, his horse white with lather, sides heaving and nostrils flaring.
"My lord!" the messenger shouted, throwing himself from the saddle while his mount was still moving. The horse stumbled, nearly going down, but the man was already running toward Bjorn. "News from Vestfold! The battle has been fought!"
Bjorn felt his heart start beating faster, though he kept his face stone-still. Only someone watching closely would have noticed the sudden intensity in his eyes. "What happened?"
The scout bent over, hands on his knees, gulping air. When he finally straightened, his words came out in a rush. "The Alfheim prince... he got his pitched battle. Near Borre, my lord. The Hird of Borre and the unified levy threw everything they had at him. Farmers carrying rusty spears, fishermen with their boat axes, every man who could lift a weapon."
The scout wiped sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand. "Helsing, he underestimated how desperate and angry they were. But he didn't underestimate his own men. Those huskarls of his cut through them without breaking formation. And those berserkers..."
The man actually shuddered, his face going pale. "I've heard about how they fight, but seeing them actually fight is an entire matter. They screamed and foamed at the mouth, threw themselves into the enemy lines with no fear of death. The levy just... broke."
The levy weren't warriors, they were tired farmers who'd watched their crops burn for weeks, men who knew their children might starve when winter came. When those mad bastards came howling at them, they finally had enough and run.
"What happened to the Jarls?" Bjorn's voice was sharp.
"The Jarl of Borre died fighting. Took a spear through the chest. Earl Hake escaped again, but barely. Someone saw him running into the woods, bleeding from a wound. His family was in Borre when the fighting started. Don't know if they escaped or not."
The scout's voice became quieter. "Helsing's taken Borre now. His men are building walls, making it into a defense place. He says he's conquered all of Vestfold and the war is over. His men are burning every field that belonged to anyone who fought against him. They're taking children as hostages and using the women however they want. Helsing takes whichever ones he likes first."
Bjorn raised an eyebrow. This was interesting. Usually when you invaded a land and won a major battle, you immediately started trying to win over the people, get them to accept your rule. Helsing was doing exactly the opposite. I don't think he is following his father's orders anymore, or maybe Bjorn still underestimated the cruelty of the people here.
'Either the man had completely lost his head with victory, or he was ignoring his father's orders.' Bjorn thought.
Bjorn turned and walked back toward the hall, his mind already working. "Summon three of our fastest riders."
Within the hour, Bjorn had his plan ready. He looked at the three scouts standing before him, all young men known for their speed and their ability to blend in anywhere.
"Listen carefully," he said. "I want you to spread word throughout Vestfold. Every village, every farmstead, every place where men gather to drink and complain about their troubles. You're going to tell them something very important."
The scouts leaned forward.
"You're going to tell them that Helsing was the one who killed Prince Harald."
Bjorn had been thinking about when to release this information for weeks. Now seemed perfect. Helsing had already made himself hated by every person in Vestfold.
Every mother whose child had been taken, every man whose wife had been violated, every farmer whose fields were burning—they all wanted him dead already.
'They need someone to blame for all this suffering. Someone to focus all that anger on.'
Bjorn continued. "Make sure they understand that everything; all the horror, all the pain, the reason their families might starve next winter, it all comes from one man's greed for power. And if anyone asks for proof, ask them if the invasion and all their suffering isn't proof enough?"
The scouts after taking their orders immediately left.
Floki, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped forward. His eyes were wide with understanding. "Since when were you this scheming? After this, they'll want to hang him from the nearest tree."
"More than that," Bjorn said, his voice becoming lower. "They'll welcome anyone strong enough to actually do it. When we arrive, we won't be invaders. We'll be the men who came to save them."
He didn't need to spell out the rest.
That same night, with only a thin slice of moon showing through the clouds, Bjorn gave the order his men had been waiting months to hear. They'd been training and preparing for so long, drilling and practicing, and now finally they would see real battle.
The men were summoned by their sub leaders. Which made the call very fast, as every sub-leader was responsible for his people.
The oars dipped into the black water and Kattegat began to shrink behind them. As they rowed out into the open sea, Bjorn allowed himself to think ahead to what was coming. Helsing had made his moves. Victory had made him cruel, and that cruelty had made him vulnerable.
Soon enough, the berserker prince would learn there was a big difference between winning one battle and actually ruling people.
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