"It's the ships of Silver Hair, Lord."
Gunnar turned from where he'd been watching the coastline. His man pointed toward the shallow waters ahead. Eight longships sat there. The dragon heads on their prows proudly faced outward, toward open water.
"I can see that."
Gunnar counted the ships again. Eight. He had four. His fingers drummed once against the ship's rail, then stopped. "We'll approach slowly."
The man beside him scratched his beard uncomfortably. His hand moved to his belt, fingers brushing the handle of his seax. "They have twice our numbers. If this goes badly—"
"I have eyes. I can count ships as well as you can." The Lord cut him off, though his voice wasn't harsh.
The water slapped against their hull.
"Besides," Gunnar said, watching the distant vessels, "if what the skalds sing is true, then he must be a man of honor."
He shrugged, "Young man of honor."
His man said nothing to that.
They rowed closer. The oars dipped and rose, dipped and rose. Water dripped from the blades. No one spoke. The only sounds were wood creaking, water moving, and men breathing.
They sailed toward the shore. Eight ships belonging to Silver Hair rested in the shallow waters some distance away.
He waded through the shallow water. It was cold. His boots filled with sand and pebbles. Behind him, his six men followed. The beach stretched ahead, empty except for footprints and seaweed.
Across the sand, another group was walking toward them. Six men, maybe seven. They moved at the same pace Gunnar did. Not too slow, and certainly not too fast.
Gunnar studied each face as they drew closer. Only one of them looked young, but bald. And none of them had silver hair.
He scanned them again. Still no silver hair.
His chest tightened. However, his face didn't change.
They had sent someone else to meet him. Not their leader. Not the man everyone sang about. Someone else.
Gunnar stopped walking when they were ten paces apart. The other group stopped as well. The wind picked up, pulling at his cloak. He could smell salt and seaweed and wet wood.
"Greetings." His voice carried across the space between them. "I am Jarl Gunnar, serving under King Eirik of Hordaland."
The wind died down while he waited for a response.
The young man stepped forward, then he said simply. "Bjorn." He paused then added. "King Bjorn, if that matters to you."
Gunnar felt irritated by the flat greetings. No wonder King Eirik had grown to dislike the boy.
Last year, King Eirik raids had brought back less plunder than King Bjorn. When news of this reached Silver Hair's court, they said he had laughed. His men had laughed with him and the story had spread.
King Eirik had soured on him after that. He thought the boy was an opportunist: arrogant and boastful.
Every time Silver Hair did anything of note, skalds would suddenly appear in every kingdom singing his praises. It's too convenient. The King was certain the boy paid them to spread his victories.
But Gunnar knew the real reason for the King's anger. The boy now ruled three kingdoms.
King Eirik, who had once been the strongest, who had rejected the marriage proposal between Prince Harald and his daughter Elesif because no one was good enough for his family; that King was no longer the most powerful. His pride couldn't stomach it.
Now King Eirik was planning to expand by attacking weak neighboring kingdoms.
Gunnar himself, as a Jarl under King Eirik, ruling a fjord in Hordaland, had his own reasons for disliking Silver Hair.
It was Gunnar who had led the King's ships west on that second raid.
Which meant when Bjorn laughed at the poor haul, he was laughing at Gunnar. That hurt his pride.
So here he was now, trying to redeem himself. Trying to do something that would make the King forget that failure.
Gunnar's eyes moved over the young man's face. Searching for something. A sign of deception, maybe. Or uncertainty. But he found nothing.
His men wouldn't follow someone who wasn't their king. That would be madness. This had to be him. Silver Hair. But without hair. He himself have never seen him, but here they are.
Gunnar let his mouth curve upward. The smile he used at feasts and gatherings. The one that had smoothed over insults and prevented feuds.
He spread his hands a little, palms open as if he had nothing to hide. His voice was warm when he spoke.
"Greetings, King Bjorn," he said. "Seems the gods had it in mind that our paths should cross."
A tall man stepped forward from beside Bjorn. He moved strangely; his arms swung loose, his head tilted at an angle. With a smile devoid of any warmth, he said. "The gods, you say?" His voice had a lilt to it. "Or maybe just Loki playing another of his tricks?"
He laughed. The sound was high and broken, like something that couldn't decide what it wanted to be.
Gunnar felt his men tense behind him. The air had changed. But this was what Gunnar did best. This was why King Eirik valued him. He could smooth over tensions that would have led other men to bloodshed.
Gunnar's smile didn't change. He let out a short laugh of his own, lighter than the tall man's.
"Well, if it is Loki at work, then he's chosen clever men to play with." He nodded at the tall man, holding his gaze for a moment. "But even mischief serves a purpose. Perhaps the gods simply wanted us to meet peacefully."
He gestured with one hand, not a large movement, just a small opening of his palm. Toward the ships, the men, the water. "Why don't we leave the tricks to the gods and talk about what we can accomplish? Men talking to men."
The tall man's head tilted further. His eyes were very pale. He didn't blink for several heartbeats.
Then he stepped back.
Gunnar turned his attention to King Bjorn. He needed information. Why were they camped here? How did they keep bringing back such wealth whenever they sailed west? And clearly they were waiting for something here.
"I've heard there's a powerful king in these lands." He paused, letting the words settle. "Perhaps we could join forces and attack him together? It would benefit both our parties."
Bjorn's face showed nothing. Neither interest nor offense. Nothing. His eyes stayed on Gunnar's face. "That's a fine speech you gave there."
'Little bastard.' Gunnar thought, but outside there was still a warm smile on his face.
"But I don't need your plans. And I don't need your alliance. We were the first to sail here, so find another shore to make your fortune."
Gunnar could see Bjorn's position shifting, he was getting ready to leave. To just turn around and walk away. Gunnar felt the conversation slipping away from him.
Bjorn spoke again before turning. "Let us take care of our matters here without interference. I believe that... would benefit everyone."
Then he turned. He didn't wait for an answer. He just walked away.
Gunnar kept the smile on his face. But inside, frustration coiled tight. He had always struggled with men like this; men who couldn't be charmed, who didn't care about smooth words or clever offers. Against men like Bjorn, all his skills meant nothing. He felt powerless, and he hated the feeling.
"Very well," he called after Bjorn, keeping his voice at a steady level, as if he was the one making the decision. "Each of us will tend to his own affairs then."
He turned back to his men and walked toward the ships. They needed to find another place to raid.
As they prepared to leave, one of his men leaned close. "We should wait. Watch what they're doing."
"No," Gunnar said. "We're leaving."
"But—"
"He is waiting here for a reason. I can see that much." Gunnar looked back at the eight ships one last time. "But I'm not going to be the one who makes an enemy of their kingdom. That's a decision for King Eirik to make, not me."
He had come here to redeem himself, not to start a war he couldn't finish. There were other shores. Other opportunities. He would find his fortune without stepping on Bjorn's path.
The ships pushed off from the beach. As they rowed away, Gunnar watched the eight vessels grow smaller behind them.
"Where to, Lord?" one of his men asked.
"Somewhere they haven't claimed yet," Gunnar said. "Keep your eyes open for settlements. The temples. We're not here to fight other Vikings. We're here to raid."
The oars dipped into the water, and they sailed on.
-x-X-x-
The first blow landed with a wet thud. Judith flinched. Her hands gripped the rough wool of her dress, bunching the fabric between her fingers.
Around the fighting men, the Northmen roared.
One of them pounded his fist on the table, if you can call it that. An ugly table. Mead sloshed from his cup onto the wooden planks. Another man jumped to his feet, shouting something in their harsh tongue. His face was red. Spit flew from his mouth as he yelled.
The two fighters circled each other. Blood ran from one man's nose. It dripped onto his beard, dark and glistening in the firelight. He grinned. His teeth were stained red.
Judith's stomach turned. She looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were white.
But the Northmen did not care about her, as they cheered again.
She made herself look up.
The bleeding man lunged forward. His fist connected with the other's jaw. The crack was sharp enough to hear over the shouting. The second man stumbled backward, caught himself, then laughed. He laughed while blood filled his mouth.
More cheering came from others watching.
The fighters grappled now, arms locked around each other. They crashed into a bench. It splintered.
But neither man stopped. They rolled across the sand, fists rising and falling.
Judith's brother sat to her left. His face was pale. His hands lay flat on his thighs, fingers spread wide as if holding himself in place. He stared straight ahead, not at the fight. Not at anything.
The Archbishop sat beyond him, his lips moving. Praying, probably. His eyes were closed.
The Northmen saw none of this. They were on their feet now, most of them. Shouting, pointing, some of them mimicking the fighters' movements. An older man with grey in his beard demonstrated a punch to the man beside him, showing how it should be done. The second man nodded enthusiastically.
One of the fighters went down hard. His head hit the floor with a sound that made Judith's teeth ache. He didn't move for a moment. The crowd went quiet.
Then he pushed himself up on one elbow. Blood covered half his face. He spat something red onto the floor and grinned again.
The Northmen erupted. The noise was deafening. They hit their shields, stamped their feet, embraced each other.
The two fighters stood. They swayed, both of them unsteady. Then they clasped forearms. Pulled each other close. Pounded each other's backs with their free hands.
And the crowd exploded again.
Judith watched the blood drip from the first fighter's beard onto the sand. Watched him smile while his friend pressed a cloth to his nose. Watched them drink from the same cup, passing it back and forth.
Her throat was tight. She swallowed, but it didn't help.
At home, when men fought in anger, it was shameful. When they drew blood, it was a sin requiring penance. When they killed, the priests spoke of hellfire and damnation.
But these Northmen treated it like a game. Like entertainment at a feast. They watched men bleed and called it good.
Judith looked away at the sky, the stars. Night had fallen completely.
She tried to focus on her prayers. But the words kept slipping away, replaced by the sound of fists hitting flesh, the wet crack of bone, the roaring approval.
Her eyes moved back to the Northmen despite herself.
They were eating now. Passing food, tearing meat from bones with their hands and teeth. The two fighters sat together, still bleeding, eating from the same platter. One said something and the other laughed, spraying crumbs.
Judith's hands tightened in her lap.
They looked like people now. Like men and women at any feast. Talking, eating, laughing at jokes. The violence had simply... ended. And now they were friends again. Family. Whatever they were to each other.
No one looked haunted. No one sat apart in shame. The fighters weren't shunned or condemned. They were celebrated. Fed. Given the best seats near the fire.
She had seen men return from battle. Had seen the way they sometimes woke screaming. The way they stared at nothing. The way some of them couldn't bear to hold a weapon again. Father Aldric said it was their souls protesting the sin of taking life, even in just war. He said the weight of killing stayed with a man forever, a burden he must carry until God judged him.
But these Northmen carried nothing. They killed, and then they laughed. They hurt each other, and then they embraced. They lived as if actions had no consequences, as if blood spilled was blood forgotten the moment it dried.
Were they born this way? Were they made without whatever piece of the soul felt guilt? Without the part that recoiled from violence?
Or—
The thought came before she could stop it.
Or did they simply not believe it was wrong?
Her chest tightened. She pushed the thought away.
Judith watched them. She couldn't help it. It was like watching a dog walk on its hind legs—something that shouldn't be possible, that violated the natural order. Monsters should look like monsters. They shouldn't share food. Shouldn't pat each other's shoulders with care. Shouldn't tend each other's wounds.
But they did.
Judith's eyes burned. She blinked hard.
They were men. Just men. That was worse somehow. If they were demons, if they were something other than human, it would make sense. Demons acted according to their nature. You couldn't expect more from them.
But men were supposed to know better. Men had souls. Men could choose.
And these men chose violence. Chose blood. Chose to laugh while bones broke.
Why?
Her nurse used to tell her stories about heathens. About people who lived before Christ came. They were lost, she said. They stumbled in darkness because they didn't know the light. They did terrible things because no one had shown them the true path.
These Northmen were heathens. They worshipped false gods. Gods who demanded blood and praised violence. Of course their people reflected that. Of course they saw nothing wrong with what they did. They had never been taught differently.
Judith held onto that thought. Let it settle in her chest like a stone. Yes. That was it. They were lost. Ignorant. It wasn't that they were evil, they simply didn't know any better.
Her father would come. He would pay the ransom. She would go home. Back to churches and priests and people who understood that violence was a necessary evil at best, never something to celebrate. Back to order and rightness and God.
She just had to remember who she was until then. Remember that she belonged to Christ and to Northumbria. Remember her prayers and her duty and her faith. She had to hold herself apart from this chaos, keep herself untainted by it.
The Northmen's laughter rose again.
She watched them. These men who lived without guilt. Who treated sin like sport. Who seemed to carry no weight at all.
She envied them.
The thought came suddenly. She gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth.
No. No, that wasn't true. She didn't—she couldn't—
But even as she denied it, the thought remained. Sitting in her chest like something poisonous. Because what would it feel like to live like that? To act without constantly measuring every word and gesture against what was proper, what was righteous, what God demanded? To simply be, without the endless weight of judgment?
She stood abruptly. The movement was too quick. Her head spun for a moment.
One of the men guarding her, looked at her. He didn't tell her to sit down or anything. They just kept watching.
-x-X-x-
Next day.
The sun was directly overhead when Bjorn saw the dust.
Bjorn stayed at the front, his own shield resting against his leg. He counted the approaching men by the width of their column, the length of the dust cloud, the time it took them to cover ground. His eyes narrowed slightly.
More than his force. But not twice as many. The scouts had been right.
He watched them come. These weren't farmers with pitchforks. These were trained men. He could tell by the the way they moved.
The column slowed as it approached. Then stopped. Fifty paces away, maybe less. The dust continued to drift forward, settling on the ground between the two forces.
A rider came forward from their ranks. The horse was grey, tall. Its rider sat straight in the saddle, his cloak pinned with gold. Even from here, Bjorn could see the quality of the fabric, the way the light caught the embroidery.
King Aella.
The horse stopped. Aella looked at Bjorn's formation, his eyes moving along the line of shields and spears and axes. His face showed nothing.
Bjorn waited. The wind picked up, pulling at his cloak.
"I hope my children and the Archbishop are well." Aella's loud voice carried across the distance. "And without harm."
"They are." Bjorn's answer was just as flat.
A moment of silence followed.
"Is what we agreed upon ready?" Bjorn asked.
Aella didn't respond immediately. His hands rested on his saddle. His fingers didn't move.
"Let me see them first."
Bjorn raised his left hand without looking back. The signal was small, just two fingers extended.
Behind him, footsteps approached. Three figures walked forward between the ranks of shields. Two men flanked them.
The Archbishop came first. His robes were dirty at the hem but otherwise unmarked. His face was pale. He kept his eyes down.
Behind him, the girl. Judith. Her dress was wrinkled but intact. Her hair was braided, though pieces had come loose. She walked with her chin up, her hands folded at her waist.
Last came the boy. Edmund. His face had the same pale quality as the Archbishop's. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled slightly inward.
They stopped beside Bjorn. The huskarls positioned themselves between the hostages and the shield wall.
"Well, as you can see," Bjorn said, "they are in good condition." He paused. "So where's what we agreed upon?"
Aella's eyes moved from his daughter to his son. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then his gaze shifted to his own men. Scanning the ranks. Counting, perhaps.
Bjorn watched him do it. He knew what the man was thinking. Could he win? Were his numbers enough? Was the ransom worth more than a battle?
"However," Aella said slowly, "there's a small problem."
Bjorn's hand tightened on his shield.
"My men told me four Northmen ships were sighted here yesterday." Aella's eyes returned to Bjorn's face. "Are they yours?"
"If they were mine, they'd be camped beside me."
Aella's horse shifted. He controlled it with a slight movement of his knees. "Would they attack my land?"
Bjorn felt the weight of the moment. The hostages stood three paces away. Aella's huskarls waited behind their king. His own men held formation, ready.
"What do you think?" He let the question hang. Then added, "Time for sweet talk is done."
He gestured again. The huskarls moved, guiding the hostages closer to Bjorn. Close enough that Aella could see every detail. The dirt on the Archbishop's robes. The exhaustion in his daughter's eyes. The way his son's hands trembled slightly.
"Come on. Let's be done with this." Bjorn's voice cut through the space between them. "You have other Northmen to take care of. The more you delay, the worse it gets for you."
The words landed. Bjorn saw it in the way Aella's shoulders tightened. In the way his fingers pressed harder against the saddle.
King Aella looked at him for three long heartbeats. His face was stone. Then he turned his head and raised his hand.
Men moved in his ranks. Horses pulled forward, dragging carts. The wheels creaked, the sound carried across the empty ground.
The carts stopped behind Aella. Men began unloading wooden chests. They carried them forward, setting them on the ground. Even from here, Bjorn could hear it—the soft jingle and clink of metal on metal. The sound of silver pennies shifting against each other.
Bjorn's chest loosened slightly. But not much.
"What about the stonemason?" he called.
Aella turned in his saddle. He gestured. A man stepped forward from the ranks. He walked slowly, as if his legs didn't want to carry him forward. His face had the look of someone going to execution.
The man stopped beside the chests. He was neither young nor old. His hands were scarred and calloused. His shoulders had the broadness that came from years of labor.
Bjorn studied him. Then he asked him about his trade.
Bjorn nodded slowly, after the men answered everything correctly. The man knew his trade. This wasn't some farmer Aella had dressed up to trick him.
"Good." He looked at Aella. "Let's start with the Archbishop first. Tell your men to bring his ransom. Then I'll give him to you."
Aella opened his mouth.
"We will do it like this," Bjorn continued before the king could speak. "You send the ransom. We count it. Then if nothing is missing, I send him back."
"How can I trust that you will keep your word?"
"You don't." Bjorn let the words hung. "But I kept my word that the hostages would come to no harm. So that means something in my world." He paused. "What about yours?"
The silence stretched.
Aella's hand moved. A small gesture. Men lifted the chests and carried them forward. They set them down halfway between the two groups, then retreated quickly.
Bjorn gestured to his own men. Ten huskarls moved forward, weapons still in hand. They reached the chest. Some knelt and opened it while the others watched Aella's men.
The lid came up. Even from where Bjorn stood, he could see the glint of silver. Stacked coins, neat and orderly.
One of the kneeling huskarl pulled out a small leather pouch. He began counting. His lips moved silently. His fingers moved quickly, sorting coins into piles. Every so often, he would pull out a coin and bite it, testing the metal.
The counting took time. No one moved. Both armies stood frozen, watching men count silver in the space between them.
Finally, the huskarl stood. He nodded once.
"Six hundred pounds of silver," he called back. "Five pounds of gold. All good."
Bjorn turned to the Archbishop. The old man was staring at the chests as if they contained his own bones.
"Go on then. You are free to go."
The Archbishop didn't move immediately. He looked at Bjorn, and something passed across his face. Not quite gratitude. Not quite hatred. Something else that Bjorn couldn't name.
Then the Archbishop walked forward. His steps were slow. He passed the chest without looking at it. Passed Bjorn's huskarls. Walked across the empty ground toward his king.
When he reached Aella's horse, men rushed forward to help him. They practically carried him back into their ranks.
Bjorn watched until the Archbishop disappeared among the huskarls. Then he turned back to Aella.
"Who do you want next?"
"My son."
The words came quickly. Too quickly.
Bjorn looked at the king. Then at the boy standing with his sister. The boy's face was blank, but his hands had stopped trembling. As if the answer had driven something sharp into him.
Bjorn smiled. It wasn't a kind expression though.
He turned instead to the girl. "Judith."
She startled at her name. Her eyes snapped to his face.
He gestured her forward. "Come here."
She walked slowly, her back very straight. When she was close enough, Bjorn spoke. Loud enough for everyone to hear. Especially Aella.
"It seems your father cares about your brother more than you." He paused, watching her face. "I'm sad for you."
Her jaw tightened. But she said nothing.
Across the distance, Aella's face had gone dark. Red crept up his neck into his cheeks.
"Let's not prolong this any longer." His voice shook slightly. He raised his hand sharply. "Bring the ransom."
Men scrambled. More chests came forward. More than the first. They set them down with a thud that echoed.
Bjorn's huskarls repeated the process. Opening. Counting. Testing. The girl stood beside Bjorn, silent. Her brother was now alone, standing with the remaining huskarls. The boy stared at his sister's back.
"Eight hundred pounds of silver," the huskarl called. "Eight pounds of gold. All good."
Bjorn nodded at Judith. "Go."
She walked, dignified, without looking back across the ground to her father. When she reached him, Aella leaned down from his horse. He said something too quiet to hear. She nodded once.
Now only the boy remained.
"My son." Aella's voice was different now. Harder. "Send him, and I'll give you what we agreed."
Bjorn gestured. Men brought forward the chests. They were heavy enough that the men strained carrying them. Plus the stonemason walked forward with them, his head down.
The huskarls counted this ransom too. It took longer. The piles of silver grew large on the ground beside the chest. The counting man's lips moved constantly.
"One thousand eight hundred pounds of silver," he finally called. "Ten pounds of gold."
Bjorn looked at the prince. The boy's face was white as bone. He was just scared, he didn't understand what his father paid for him.
"Go on."
The boy walked forward. His steps were mechanical. When he passed Bjorn, he didn't look at him. Didn't look at anything. He just walked until his father's men pulled him into their ranks.
Bjorn stood very still for a moment.
He smiled at King Aella. It was genuine this time, full of satisfaction. "Well, it's been great doing business with you, King Aella." He paused, letting the moment settle. "And do not worry. You have my word. I won't attack your lands."
Aella's face twisted. He forced his mouth into something approximating a smile. It looked like he was eating something foul. Something dead.
Bjorn's smile widened. He couldn't help it. He was a rich man now.
Then the smile vanished, his expression turning cold. He spoke softly, almost gently. "That is… unless you wish to fight."
He stepped forward, drawing 'Soft Death'. The steel cracked like lightning as it cleared the scabbard. "If that's what you want," he said, his tone flat. "We'll gladly take you on."
Behind him, his warriors moved as one. They locked their shields and readied their weapons.
The sound was quiet, disciplined, and terrifying.
For a moment, no one moved. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if waiting to see what King Ælla would do next.
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