So, it's come to my attention that some of you are still confused about who's from where. Don't worry and check the comments, maps are waiting down there.
Let's start in Vestfold. Three big settlements: Borre, Tunsberg, and Kaupang.Each usually has its own Jarl... except Tunsberg, that's the royal seat. King Halfdan himself ruled from there. Harald and Guthrum were from there too.
Borre: formerly ruled by the Jarl of Borre; formerly, because, well… he's now in Valhalla.
Kaupang: ruled by Jarl Hake or at least, was. No one's seen him lately. Man went full "stealth mode."
Now shifting to Vingulmark, the home turf of our boy, the man, the myth, the absolute legend; Bjorn Irondick!He rules from Kattegat (modern-day Oslo). Unlike Vestfold, Vingulmark's pretty chill; no Jarls, just scattered villages each led by local chieftains. Translation: Bjorn's the big boss around here without being one.
And finally, over in Alfheim, we've got King Gandalf, and no, not the wizard. His heir? The one and only berserker prince, the undefeated, undisputed warrior champion: HELSINGGGGGG!.
-x-X-x-
Somewhere a little distance from the shipyard camp of Borre, two men were patrolling the shoreline, watching the fjord for any signs of approaching ships. The spring air still carried winter's cold, though patches of snow were melting into muddy rivulets that trickled toward the dark waters.
"Another damp night," the first scout muttered, pulling his cloak closer as a cool breeze cut across the fjord. "This spring cold gets into your bones worse than winter sometimes. At least then you know what to expect."
"Stop your whining," his companion replied, stepping carefully around a puddle of melted snow. "You know we can't risk a fire out here. Remember what happened to those two fools from the other watch? Helsing had them flogged for lighting one during patrol." He spat into the muddy ground. "I don't want to lose my head for such stupidity. If we're caught breaking watch rules, there'll be no Valhalla, just shame."
The first man kicked at a clump of wet earth, watching it scatter. "I know, I know. But look at this mess; half-frozen mud everywhere, can barely keep decent footing. And this cursed damp seeps right through your cloak." He gestured at the landscape around them, where winter-dead grass poked through patches of dirty snow. "At least in deep winter everything's solid."
His companion scanned the dark fjord waters where chunks of ice still drifted like pale ghosts. "Could be worse. We could be on one of those ships, trying to navigate around the ice floes that are still breaking up. The water's safe for sailing, but not that safe yet."
He paused, his voice turning bitter. "Though I do envy those lucky bastards back at camp right now. Dry ground under their feet, warm fires, hot ale, and some even have women to share their bed on nights like this. And here I am, slogging through this spring muck with you complaining in my ear."
"My complaining?" the first scout shot back, his boots squelching in the wet earth. "You've been griping since we left camp. The mud, the cold, the poor food, your aching bones from sleeping on damp ground—"
"All right, all right," his companion waved him off, nearly slipping on a patch of wet stone. "We're both miserable in this cursed between-season. But we only have this one night left on outer patrol, then we go back to the inner ring where at least the ground is drier. Those poor bastards who replace us will be slogging through this mess tomorrow night, cursing the gods and the mud just like we are."
They continued their patrol in relative quiet, their footsteps making soft splashing sounds in the mixture of mud and melting snow. The air smelled of wet earth, pine needles, and the salt spray from the fjord. Early spring birds called occasionally from the awakening forest, and somewhere in the distance, they could hear the steady drip of meltwater running off the rocks.
The first scout had just started to settle into the rhythm of their patrol when he suddenly stopped, his head tilted to listen. "Wait... did you hear that?"
His companion paused, water seeping into his boot through a small crack in the leather. "Hear what? Just the meltwater running and maybe some night birds—"
"No, not that. Something else." He pointed toward a cluster of large boulders near the water's edge, where winter had carved strange ice formations that were now slowly melting. "It came from over there. Sounded like... like someone stepping carefully through the mud, trying not to make noise."
The second man squinted toward the rocks, where the moonlight created a confusing pattern of shadows and pale, melting ice. "Probably just more ice breaking off and falling. It's been doing that all week as things warm up. Makes all kinds of strange sounds."
"Ice doesn't step carefully," the first scout insisted, his hand moving toward his seax. "That was someone trying to move quietly. I've heard enough men trying to sneak through mud to know the difference."
The two men stood listening, their breath visible in small puffs in the cool air. Around them, the night was alive with the subtle sounds of spring's arrival—dripping water, settling earth, the distant crack of shifting ice.
After a long moment, the second scout sighed. "Fine. One of us should check it out properly. You go have a look."
"Me? Why should I go wade through that muddy mess by the rocks? You're always bragging about how good your eyes are in low light."
"Because you're the one who heard something, and I'm not about to slip on wet rocks and fall into the fjord because you're hearing things."
"I'm not hearing things, there was definitely movement over there." The first man gestured toward the boulders. "I just don't see why I should be the one stumbling around on slippery stones while you stand here on solid ground."
His companion cursed under his breath, looking at the treacherous footing near the water. "Fine, you stubborn goat. I'll go check your mysterious sounds. But if I slip on wet rock and crack my head open, I'm coming back from Hel's realm to haunt you." He started picking his way carefully toward the boulders, muttering as he went. "Should have listened to my father and stayed home to tend sheep..."
As he approached the cluster of rocks, he had to step carefully around pools of meltwater and patches of slick mud. The shadows seemed deeper here, and the sound of water lapping against stone masked any other noises. His hand rested on his axe handle, more from habit than real concern.
He was just beginning to feel foolish about the whole thing when a loud, unmistakable fart erupted from behind him. He spun around, startled, to see his partner bent over with suppressed laughter, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
"You absolute bastard!" he called out, his voice a mix of relief and annoyance. "Here I am, worried about enemies in the shadows, and you're playing childish games!"
The first scout straightened up, still chuckling. "You should have seen your face! All tense and ready for battle—" He slapped his thigh, grinning widely. "What did you think was hiding there? Some troll risen from the spring thaw? Or maybe the draugr of old kings, come to reclaim their ancient grounds?"
The second man shook his head in disgust, carefully making his way back across the muddy ground. "Hopefully someday you'll grow up and stop acting like a child. We're supposed to be watching for real threats, not playing.... whatever this is."
But as he turned to rejoin his partner, the world suddenly tilted around him. He felt himself falling, though he couldn't understand why. Something warm spread across his throat, mixing with the cold spring air.
The last thing he saw was the moon's reflection shimmering on the dark waters of the fjord, and he thought dimly, 'How beautiful.'
The first scout's laughter died in his throat as he watched his friend's head separate from his shoulders and tumble into the muddy ground with a wet splash. Blood sprayed across the patches of melting snow, steaming in the cool air.
His hand flew to his axe, muscle memory overriding the shock, but just as his fingers closed around the familiar handle, something struck his forehead with tremendous force.
The throwing knife punched through bone and brain, and he collapsed beside his headless companion, their blood mixing with the spring meltwater that continued its steady flow toward the sea.
From the shadows between the boulders, a young figure, in face, not in frame, emerged like death given form. Silver Hair young man retrieved his blade, wiped it clean on the dead man's cloak, and melted back into the darkness between the rocks, leaving only the sound of dripping water and the distant call of night birds.
The outer ring had been breached.
-x-X-x-
Six longships waited in a hiding place in sea, their dragon-carved prows pointing toward the open water. The crews sat in tense silence, gripping their oars as they watched the treeline above the rocky shore.
"They're damn late," muttered Rollo, standing tall at the bow of one vessel. His hands gripped the ship's rail as he scanned the forest edge. "If the sun set and we are not even there, then our surprise attack is lost."
One of the two tall men standing beside him shifted his weight. "Nothing bad is going to happen. Even if there were ten men patrolling, you know Bjorn can still beat them until their mothers won't recognize them."
"It's not about beating them," Rollo replied sharply, his voice edged with concern. "It's about beating them fast enough so they won't send any signal to their people. Otherwise this whole surprise attack won't be useful anymore."
The third man nodded grimly. "The longer we wait, the more chance someone notices missing patrols."
The crews remained silent, but tension radiated from every ship. Warriors checked their weapons repeatedly. Oars were adjusted and re-adjusted. Eyes moved constantly between the darkening forest and their companions.
As they continued speaking and arguing in low voices about the delay, movement finally caught their attention. Groups of three to four men began appearing from the treeline, moving quickly down the rocky slope toward the water. They were all fast on their legs, covering ground efficiently.
Rollo looked at the returning groups, then spotted a familiar figure among them. "Finally. The sun is about to rise." He was wrong.
More groups appeared, but one figure stood out, walking down alone, separate from the others. While the other groups had worked together, this one had clearly chosen a different approach. The lone warrior moved also toward the ships.
The young earl reached the water's edge and waded out to the lead ship. Strong hands pulled him aboard, and he stood before the men.
Bjorn looked at everyone gathered and found them all present. "Let's move. We have some enemies to kill."
The men did not cheer or make loud sounds that might carry. Those who had been waiting on the beaches quickly boarded their ships again, taking up their oars alongside the others. The vessels began to move in unison through the darkening water.
As they cleared the cove and entered the main fjord, the evening wind caught their sails. The canvas filled with a sharp snap, and suddenly they were racing across the water—six longships moving faster than any ships in Scandinavia.
-x-X-x-
When Bjorn's six ships reached within 900 meters of the shipyard, a single horn blast echoed from the forest ahead. The scouts had spotted them.
Within seconds, answering horns sounded in rapid succession of a delay of only seconds, the alarm spreading from scout to scout until the deep, resonant calls from the shipyard camp itself joined the chorus. The element of surprise was gone.
Bjorn stood at the prow, watching the distant figures moving frantically along the shoreline defenses. He made no attempt to silence the scouts hidden in the trees 400 meters from camp.
At this range, with multiple lookouts spread through the forest, eliminating them all without raising further alarm was impossible. Even if he killed one or two, the others would sound their horns, forcing his men to retreat to the ships then taking the time for rowing.
The moment for stealth had passed. Now everything depended on speed.
A typical Viking longship, rowing at maximum sprint, could achieve roughly 9 kilometers per hour. At that pace, covering the final 900 meters would take over six minutes—more than enough time for the defenders to form proper shield walls and expect small reinforcements from men on horses from the main settlement.
But Bjorn's ships were no ordinary vessels. Cutting through the water at 15 kilometers per hour, they closed the distance in exactly 3.6 minutes which is 3 minutes and 36 seconds.
As the shoreline rushed toward them, Bjorn turned to address his men across all six ships, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of oars and rushing water.
"Does everyone remember their objectives?"
The warriors not manning oars raised their weapons skyward—axes, spears, and swords glinting in the fading light. "Aye!" they roared in unison.
Most were members of Bjorn's personal hird, the professional warriors he maintained from his own treasury and taxes. Every jarl and king kept such men—80 had sailed with him from Kattegat, while 20 remained under Hrafn's command to guard his lands alongisde the crossbow men. The remaining 40 were levy, half of them veterans who had raided Lindisfarne alongside Ragnar and Bjorn in 793 A.D.
"Remember," Bjorn continued, "once we achieve our objective and recover any fallen, we return immediately to the ships. There's no point fighting reinforcements from the prince's main camp."
His men nodded, understanding. This was a raid, not a battle of conquest.
At 25 meters from shore, the rowing ceased. Bjorn's command rang out: "Shields up and protect the archers. Arne, ready your men."
The beach ahead showed frantic activity. A shield wall was forming in the sand five meters back from the waterline, but it remained sloppy and incomplete, they just woke up after all. An enemy commander could be heard shouting orders, trying to organize his men faster.
At 20 meters, both sides unleashed their volleys.
Twenty-five archers aboard Bjorn's ships sent arrows arcing toward the beach, while only eight enemy bowmen returned fire from behind the forming shield wall.
Bjorn tracked an arrow's flight directly toward his head and shifted aside with casual ease—at this range, any hit would be shamefully to tell.
In the same fluid motion, he hurled his first spear. It struck with a wet crunch, the iron head punching through the archer's eye socket and out the back of his skull, spraying blood across the men beside him.
The huskarl next to him didn't flinch, only shifted his stance and raised his bow to loose. The second spear was already in the air, burying itself deep in another archer's throat, splitting windpipe and spine.
The man dropped to his knees, clutching the shaft as blood sheeted down his chest. The others stepped over him without hesitation while cursing under their breath, grim-faced and silent, loosing their own arrows in reply.
The two times exchange lasted only moments. Two of Bjorn's men suffered grazing wounds from enemy arrows, while six defenders fell dead, including two archers—killed by Bjorn's spears instead of arrows.
But the enemy line held firm, fallen men quickly replaced by others still rushing from the camp.
The ships ground into the sand 10 meters from the waterline. One hundred and twenty warriors leaped into the shallow surf, shields raised, immediately forming a wedge formation.
Bjorn led the 40-man center, while Rollo commanded the right wing and Ragnar the left—the latter composed of the rowers, still somewhat weakened from their exertions but positioned to prevent flanking maneuvers. Alongside half the archers who were using spears and axes now, the other half were also with Rollo.
By now the defenders had completed their shield wall—not the perfect uniform line they can complete under better conditions, but a functional barrier nonetheless.
Their leader was clearly visible, shouting commands to hold position.
Behind them, barely 10 meters away, sat six ships drawn up on the beach. These vessels represented their lifeline; without them, Helsing's men would be stranded in hostile Vestfold, forced to find passage home-if they wished to retreat, and if they could in the first place- through Bjorn's territory or undertake a dangerous overland journey through foreign lands.
The defensive wall stretched across the beach width, shields locked shoulder to shoulder in single rank. Panic had created gaps where shields didn't quite overlap, though the center remained the tightest formation.
The enemy commander saw these weaknesses and bellowed at his men: "We must hold until the others arrive! They're coming!" Then, turning to a specific group of fighters: "If any of you bastards try to run, think about what happens to your families! Do you understand me?"
These men, Bjorn realized, were survivors from the previous earl's forces—huskarls whose families had been taken as hostages, shipped to Alfheimr to ensure their compliance. They fought not from loyalty but from desperate necessity.
However he didn't show mercy to anyone.
Bjorn led his 40 men forward at a run, shields protecting their vital areas. He kept his shield high to cover neck, and heart, trusting his reflexes to handle what his shield couldn't stop.
The impact was devastating. Bjorn's shield slammed into the center with his full weight and momentum plus the physique of a peak human, sending the man opposite him sprawling. But the defender managed a final spear thrust toward Bjorn's head even as he fell.
The iron spearpoint flashed toward his face. Bjorn twisted aside at the last instant, the blade passing so close he could smell the iron. With a roar, he swept his sword low, the edge shearing through leather boot and flesh, severing the man's leg. The defender screamed and collapsed, blood spraying across the sand.
Bjorn's breakthrough created the breach his men needed. They poured through the gap, shields protecting their bodies while spears and axes found enemy flesh, gutting some and wounding others.
The shield wall buckled under the assault. Wood crashed against wood, iron rang against iron, axes swung wild on both sides. A coerced fighter on the edge hesitated, his spear dipping uncertainly. One of Bjorn's warriors capitalized immediately, hooking the shield down with his axe head and stabbing low into the groin.
-x-X-x-
Rollo had been waiting for this moment. Without need for signals, he led his men in a charge against the right side of the now-divided shield wall, where defenders stood shaky and hesitant between flight and fight.
Spears jabbed under shields, wounding two men in the legs and killing a third outright when he thrust too slowly. One coerced fighter dropped his weapon entirely: "Mercy! My family!"
A loyalist beside him swung his axe, managing to strike a raider's arm and crippling him before Bjorn's men struck back, killing the loyalist and scattering the others.
Ragnar's left flank mirrored this success. Though his forty men weren't at peak condition after rowing, they had enough strength to target the weakest points and shatter the remaining resistance. That's why Bjorn left Ragnar in charge of the rowing men instead of Rollo, because he knows Ragnar would use his head to make them effective.
The center breach spread like a tear in cloth. Bjorn pressed forward another step, his sword flashing to sever a spear shaft thrust at his chest, then biting deep into the wielder's arm. Blood sprayed as the man fell howling.
In under thirty seconds, the shield wall collapsed completely. Twelve defenders lay dead, their blood mixing with the surf. Bjorn's men poured through the breach, though the victory had cost them several grazing wounds and...lives from the levy.
Bjorn turned to Ragnar, "The ships."
Ragnar nodded and signaled his designated men, who advanced with torches and tar. They moved efficiently from vessel to vessel, coating the hulls before setting everything ablaze.
Meanwhile, Bjorn spotted the enemy commander fleeing toward the treeline. Snatching up a fallen spear, he pursued until the man reached optimal throwing range—60 meters. The spear flew true, taking the commander in the leg and sending him sprawling with a cry of pain.
None of the fleeing defenders stopped to help their leader. Bjorn reached him at full sprint and struck him unconscious with the flat of his blade. He removed the wooden spear shaft but left the iron point embedded, then hoisted the unconscious man over his shoulder and returned to his forces.
The killing had never been the primary objective of this raid.
-x-X-x-
Bjorn's men worked efficiently. While the ships burned behind them, some looted the dead while others ransacked the tents for food and supplies. A quick count revealed only three fatalities among their own, with the rest suffering mostly minor spear wounds except one who lost his arm.
Bjorn signaled the horn blower, who sounded the withdrawal. One hundred and seventeen men started boarding the six ships, carrying their fallen comrades, the captured supplies, and their prisoner.
Just as the last warriors were embarking, the thunder of hooves echoed from the direction of Borre's main settlement. Fewer than twenty mounted men appeared—the vanguard of Prince Helsing's response force.
Two minutes and forty-five seconds had passed since Bjorn's ships had struck the beach. The reinforcements had made good time, but they arrived to find the battle already over. When they saw the six longships filled with over a hundred warriors, they wisely kept their distance, studying the scene and trying to assess what had occurred.
Then one of them spotted Bjorn's distinctive silver hair and immediately understood who had conducted this raid.
From the prow of his lead ship, Bjorn raised his hand in a casual salute toward the distant horsemen. The message was clear: "Until next time."
The ships pushed off into deeper water, their dragon heads pointed toward home, leaving behind six burning hulks and a beach stained red with blood.
Bjorn had made his position clear. By crippling Helsing, he wasn't just attacking for plunder, he was declaring himself a friend to Vestfold and an enemy to Helsing.
Helsing, meanwhile, now stood stranded in foreign land. With his ships gone, he had no way to feed or move his men. Survival meant raiding nearby villages for food and supplies, which would only harden further local resistance.
Before long, the locals would learn that his ships were gone and that he was trapped. They would cut off his escape routes, strike from ambush, and bleed him with skirmishes until nothing remained of his force.
For a Viking leader, losing one's ships was ruinous. Morale would falter, loyalty would fray. Men might desert in the night — or kill him outright if they believed he was leading them to certain death.
Helsing's choices were narrowing quickly. He could try to seize another man's ship, strike a bargain with local powers, or fight his way out and die with his warriors.