"Let's stop here." Bjorn said to his twenty huskarls, dismounting from his horse. His mount was compact, but powerful, barely reaching his chest, with a thick neck and a dun coat streaked with darker dorsal stripes. Its mane, cut short in the warrior style, stood erect, showing off the animal's strong, muscular frame.
The men spread out behind him, some tending to the horses while others began unpacking supplies from the pack animals.
Bjorn walked to the edge of the ridge and pulled out a parchment from his leather satchel. He preferred parchments over the paper he had started producing in Kattegat. The parchment was smoother, cleaner. Paper was good for common use, but for something like this, he wanted precision and clarity.
He knelt down, using a flat rock as a makeshift table, and began sketching the landscape before him. His charcoal stick moved across the surface in careful strokes. First, he drew the outline of the valley, then the lake that sat at its center like a dark mirror. He added the tree line, the slopes of the surrounding hills, and the narrow passes that led into the valley from the south and east.
The work took time. He had to keep looking up, comparing what he saw with what he drew, adjusting lines, adding details. One of his huskarls brought him water, which he drank without looking away from his work.
When he finished the basic outline, he labeled it. He wrote "Vígundalr"; Valley of Practice. ( It's a real Valley, you can check it on google maps; "Maridalen") in neat letters across the top of the water, then added smaller notes about the terrain, the water source, and the approaches.
He sat back on his heels and studied the place again. The valley stretched before him, green and quiet. A stream fed into the lake from the western hills. Trees covered the lower slopes, thick enough to provide timber. The valley floor was relatively flat, wide enough for buildings and training grounds.
'It's perfect,' he thought.
Ragnar had been standing a few paces away, watching the valley with his arms crossed. Now he walked over and looked down at what Bjorn was working on.
"So this is the place, I believe?" Ragnar said. His voice was curious, not questioning. He crouched beside Bjorn and studied the parchment.
He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes moving between the map and the real valley in front of them. Then, without warning, he reached out and took the parchment from Bjorn's hands. He was grinning.
"Hey—" Bjorn started, but Ragnar was already standing, holding the map up against the horizon.
Ragnar turned slowly, comparing the drawing to the landscape. He looked at the lake, then at the map. He looked at the eastern ridge, then at the map. He did this several times, walking a few steps in different directions, holding the parchment at arm's length like a merchant examining fabric.
Finally, he lowered it and looked at Bjorn. His grin had faded into something more thoughtful.
"You made the world smaller with this," Ragnar said. He tapped the parchment with his finger. "We could plan many things with this. Raiding routes. Escape paths if your enemies chase you. Where to hide men before an ambush." He paused, then shook his head slowly. "It's so simple. And yet... How did no one think of this before?"
Bjorn stood and brushed dirt from his knees. "I don't understand why you're surprised. It's not the first time you've seen a map from me."
"That one was different," Ragnar said. He rolled the parchment carefully and handed it back. "That map showed only the big lands. Northumbria, Mercia and East-Anglia and the other kigdoms and our lands. This one here is different and shows exactly where things are, how far apart they are, what the land looks like. Anyone could use this and he would never get lost."
Bjorn took the parchment and tucked it back into his satchel. He understood what Ragnar meant.
Ragnar was still looking at him. "So you will make the camp here?"
Bjorn nodded. "Yes."
He walked toward the edge of the ridge where the land sloped down into the valley. Ragnar followed.
"What do you think of it?" Bjorn asked Ragnar for his take. He made his decision already, but it won't hurt to hear another opinion.
Ragnar pointed as he spoke.
"The valley is naturally enclosed on multiple sides," He said. "See those ridges to the north and west? Anyone trying to attack from those directions would have to come down steep slopes. That's difficult to do."
He moved his hand to indicate the southern and eastern approaches. "There are only two practical entry points. Here and here. Invaders would have limited choices. You can funnel them into choke points, set up defenses. Even a small force could hold those passes if they had to."
Bjorn nodded slowly, following Ragnar's explanation.
"The elevated terrain here," Ragnar continued, gesturing to where they stood, "allows scouts to see far in every direction. Anyone approaching would be spotted long before they reached the camp. That gives time to prepare, to arm the boys, to get them into position."
"We will build watchtowers." Bjorn added, then stood silent, letting Ragnar continue.
The latter nodded then turned back toward the valley. "Then there's the freshwater. They won't need to haul water from elsewhere. Timber is plentiful on the slopes. We can cut what we need for buildings and firewood without stripping the forest bare."
Ragnar stood silent. Bjorn could see him thinking, but eventually gave up.
"That's it?" Bjorn asked, smile forming on his face.
"It has what it needs." He said, his tone almost dismissive. But there was a spark in his gaze, as if he could see the thoughts Bjorn hadn't yet voiced. "Or perhaps you're waiting for me to point out what's not so easy to see."
Bjorn smiled in triumph, then began walking down the slope, and Ragnar sighed while raising his hands in exasperation. As they descended, Bjorn spoke.
"The terrain is varied enough for training," he said. "The valley floor is good for formation drills and open combat practice. The slopes are good for endurance runs and teaching the boys how to fight on uneven ground. The forest can be used for tracking exercises and ambush training."
They reached the valley floor. The grass here was thick and green, still wet with morning dew. The lake stretched out to their left, its surface calm.
"It's secluded," Bjorn added. "Far enough from Kattegat that the boys won't be distracted by home, but close enough that I can travel here regularly to oversee the training. No villages nearby means no interruptions, and no one curious will wander during drills."
He stopped walking and looked around at the open sky, the quiet water, the trees. "And a place like this can help morale during long training sessions. Something they will surely need."
Ragnar was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, "Is the training that hard?"
Bjorn turned to face him. "Not at first, no. Once they get used to the small training. Then yes, it's very hard. And it's as much mental as it is physical."
He began walking again, more slowly this time, and Ragnar walked beside him. Bjorn's voice was measured as he explained.
"The first three months are for building the basics. Endurance. Physical resilience. Discipline. The boys will wake at dawn, every day. They'll do warm-up exercises to get their blood moving and prevent injuries. Then marching drills. For they need to learn how to move together, how to keep pace, how to maintain formation even when they're tired."
Bjorn picked up a stick from the ground and used it to draw lines in the dirt as they walked, illustrating his points.
"After marching, physical conditioning. Running. Climbing. Lifting. Carrying heavy loads over distance. Their bodies need to be strong before they can fight effectively. Then weapon basics. How to hold an axe properly. How to thrust with a spear without overextending. How to keep their shield up even when their arm is burning. Just the fundamentals, but repeated over and over until they can do them without thinking."
He tossed the stick aside. "They'll also learn survival skills. How to start a fire in the rain. How to find food in the forest. How to treat minor wounds. Basic things, yes, but important."
"They'll end their day before sunset," Bjorn continued. "After that, they're free to do as they wish as long as they remain inside the camp. But I'll arrange some kind of entertainment for them. I don't know what kind yet. Games, maybe. Stories. Music, if I can find someone good to play. They're still boys, after all. They need something to look forward to, something to keep their morales up. Otherwise, they'll break."
Ragnar was listening carefully, his expression serious. "Six days per week then?"
"Six days per week," Bjorn confirmed. "The seventh day is for rest and recovery. Their bodies will need time to heal, and their minds time to relax. If we push too them too hard without rest, we'll just end up destroying them."
They walked in silence for a while, circling the lake. The water lapped gently at the shore.
"The next stage will be another three months," Bjorn said eventually. "By then, their bodies will be stronger, their endurance better. That's when I'll introduce tactics. How to fight in a shield wall. How to respond to commands in the chaos of battle. How to recognize enemy formations and adapt. How to work together as a unit instead of individual warriors."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "And then the last stage is six months. Less physical training by that point, but more focus on mock battles. Complex scenarios. I'll split them into groups and have them fight each other, using wooden weapons. They'll learn from their mistakes without dying from them."
Ragnar frowned. He stopped walking and turned to face Bjorn directly, accusation clear on his face . "They won't be ready for the raids in just a year."
Bjorn stopped as well. He looked at Ragnar, frowning. "I never said anything about them being ready for the raids after one year."
Ragnar's frown deepened. "Then what—"
"They will continue to do drills every day, even after the initial training is complete," Bjorn interrupted. "And I will bring them on small raids from time to time, once they're old enough, so they can see blood. So they can understand what real combat feels like. But they won't be frontline fighters."
He crossed his arms. "They will serve as defenders of the settlements when we're away on raids. At least the ones above sixteen years old. They'll guard Kattegat, protect the farms, watch the coast. That's practical experience without throwing them into the teeth of a real battle before they're ready."
Bjorn's voice was firm. "Becoming the best of the best is not something that happens in a year, Ragnar. It's a long life of dedication and training. These boys will train for years. And even when they're men, they'll keep training. That's what makes them elite."
Ragnar was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, slowly, "And this generation will train the next generation, and so forth."
"Exactly," Bjorn said.
Ragnar looked away, across the valley. His jaw worked like he was chewing over something difficult. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more distant.
"When I first began thinking of sailing west. I wasn't satisfied with what we had. And i thought, no, i believed I could change everything." He didn't look at Bjorn as he spoke. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, or maybe on something further away, something only he could see.
"I was eager." Ragnar continued. "Too eager to see what lay beyond the sea. I wanted to know what was out there, in the west. I wanted to find new lands, rich lands. I thought that was surely the answer to everything."
He paused. "But I was too blind to see the land under my feet."
He turned his eyes briefly toward Bjorn, a glint of something like a sad admiration in them. "And yet, you… you see possibilities no one can. You look at everything differently. It's… a gift, the way you think. Or maybe the gods whisper to you in your sleep, i don't know." He chuckled while waving his hand, as if it the motion shoved the thought away.
Ragnar studied Bjorn for a long moment, his eyes sharp but thoughtful. "I watch you, and I see… things I cannot. Plans, ideas, solutions… things my mind cannot hold. And I wonder sometimes—am I missing something because I cannot think as you do?"
Ragnar's tone darkened, his warning now unmistakable. "Be careful. Men will follow what they understand. If your mind races too far ahead, some will fear it… or envy it. And not all will forgive what they cannot see."
Bjorn could feel his heart beating fast now. But he didn't speak, seeing that Ragnar had more to say.
His expression was complicated now. Pride, definitely. But also something like regret.
"You've done what I only dreamed of," Ragnar said quietly. "You're building something that will last beyond your lifetime." He paused. "And, perhaps, every son must outdream his father eventually."
Bjorn was quiet for a moment, at loss to how he can respond. Then he said, "Then I suppose I should start worrying. One day, my children will dream of things that terrify me."
Ragnar laughed at that. It was a genuine laugh, sudden and loud in the quiet valley. But Bjorn wasn't joking. His face was serious.
He could already imagine it. The next generation, his own children, looking at everything he had built and thinking it wasn't enough. Wanting more. Wanting bigger. Chasing the shadow of what he had accomplished, trying to outdo him.
Unchecked ambition. Endless hunger disguised as legacy.
That's what it would be. That's what it always was.
Ragnar's laugh faded. He gave Bjorn a long look, studying his face. Then he smiled, but it was a different smile now. Knowing.
"And yet," Ragnar said, "you say that while building all of this." He gestured around them, at the valley, at everything being built at Kattegat.
Bjorn exhaled slowly. He didn't deny it. "I'm self-aware of the cycle. I know the danger of ambition, because it lives in me just like it lives in you."
He looked directly at Ragnar. "I'm aware, but I can't stop. And it surely won't stop with us."
Ragnar didn't respond to that. There was nothing to say. They both understood.
Bjorn wondered if this was how those legendary men in history had felt. Did they see the edge of their own destruction? Did they understand where their ambition was leading them? And did they keep walking toward it anyway, because the ambition itself was the only thing that made them feel alive?
He supposed he would find out.
'No point in sulking over it,' Bjorn thought.
He shook his head slightly, clearing away the heavy thoughts, and went back to analyzing the site. He walked the valley one more time, looking at it with fresh eyes, imagining where the buildings would go, where the training grounds would be laid out, where the boys would sleep and eat and learn to become warriors.
This was where he would build the camp. This was where he would train orphans aged between twelve and fifteen years old. They wouldn't be the best warriors in the world after completing their training, of course.
But all the warbands in his world lacked formal training. They were brave, yes. Experienced, yes. But they fought as individuals, not as units. These boys would be different. They would be better.
And through the years, they would continue to hone their skills. They would grow into men, and those men would be the core of his future army.
All he needed to do now was make more money. Build more camps. Train more young men.
The veterans who would train them were already chosen in his mind. Men from Bjorn's huskarls who had lost an arm, or a leg. Men who could no longer fight in the shield wall but still had all their knowledge and experience. They would teach. They would pass on what they knew.
But for this first group of recruits, Bjorn would train them himself. He would make sure their training was the best it could possibly be, because they were the foundation. They were the backbone of everything that would come after.
The camp wasn't far from Kattegat. Close enough that Bjorn could travel here regularly, or even live here during the early months of training. He might do that. Live with the boys, eat with them, train alongside them. Lead by example.
That was important.
Once Bjorn returned to Kattegat, he went straight to the great hall. He was hungry and tired from the day's journey. A servant had already prepared food and left it on his table. He sat down heavily in his chair and began to eat.
As he ate, his mind was already working on the next problem. He looked down at the spoon and fork he was using. They were made of iron, simple and functional.
He paused mid-bite, an idea forming.
He should make pure silver forks and spoons and knives. Silver changed color when it came into contact with certain poisons. It wasn't foolproof, but it was better than nothing. If someone tried to poison his food, the silver would turn dark or discolored. He would know then.
It was a small precaution, but small precautions added up. And as he gained more power, more people would have reasons to want him dead.
He made a mental note.
After finishing his meal, Bjorn pulled out several pieces of paper from his satchel and spread them across the table. These were his lists, his plans, his calculations. He had been working on them for weeks, refining the numbers, making sure everything added up.
He reviewed the costs. Construction for the drinking hall, the hall of crafts, and the training camp. Wages for the workers at the first two halls, at least for the first year until they became profitable.
Weapons for the training camp, because the boys would need to train with all kinds of weapons: axes, spears, swords. And in the future, he would need to prepare armor for them as well, so they could train in full gear and get used to the weight.
The numbers were large. He was already down three hundred pounds of silver. That was a significant portion of the treasure he had brought back from the west, but it was an investment. Everything he was building now would pay dividends later.
The rest will be stocked to eventually mint coins with.
It was time to focus on agriculture again.
Bjorn had already made several improvements over the years. He had introduced the three-field system, which rotated crops and left one field fallow each year to restore the soil. That alone had increased yields significantly, in his farms at least.
He had also upgraded the plows. The old ards were shallow and inefficient. He had designed "moldboard" plows that turned the soil more deeply and thoroughly. And he had added an irrigation system, bringing water to crops during dry periods so the harvest didn't depend entirely on rainfall.
But there was more to do.
He pulled out a fresh piece of paper and began sketching a drainage system. This would be the opposite of irrigation. Instead of bringing water to the fields, it would remove excess water. Too much water caused flooding, rotted the roots, and ruined the crops. A proper drainage system would prevent that.
He drew channels and ditches, calculating the slope needed for water to flow naturally away from the fields and into nearby streams or ponds. It would take labor to dig them, but once they were in place, the fields would be more productive year after year.
He set that paper aside and picked up another.
Cavalry.
He would need cavalry in the future. That much was clear. But cavalry was complicated.
The terrain in Norway was not ideal for horses. Mountains, fjords, thick forests. Most battles here were fought on foot, or from ships. Horses were used for travel and for pulling carts, but not for warfare.
Still, Bjorn knew that in open terrain, cavalry was devastating. And if he ever expanded beyond Norway, into flatter lands, he would need horsemen.
The problem was that the horses in his world were of very low quality. They were small, weak, and poorly bred. He needed better horses. Larger, stronger, faster. Warhorses.
He didn't know where to find the best horses in the World. But surely Frankia would have them, since Charlemagne's time. He would simply need to steal them.
For now, though, he would work with what he had.
Currently, oxen were used for plowing. They were strong, yes, but they were also slow. Very slow. A man could walk faster than an ox pulling a plow. And because oxen were used for plowing, they tied up labor. Men who could be doing other work were stuck in the fields, following the oxen.
Horses could plow faster. Much faster. But there was a problem.
The collars used for horses were poorly designed. They pressed against the horse's throat, choking the animal and limiting how much weight it could pull. That's why oxen were preferred despite their slowness.
Bjorn had an idea, though.
He began sketching a new kind of collar. Padded, made from leather and wool. The padding would distribute the force across the horse's shoulders and chest instead of pressing against its throat. He knew about force distribution from his hydraulic work. The principles were the same.
He added notes about iron horseshoes as well. Horseshoes would give the animals better traction on wet or muddy soil, allowing them to pull more effectively.
If he could solve the collar problem, horses could replace oxen for plowing. That would free up the oxen for other tasks, or they could be slaughtered for meat. And the increased plowing speed would mean fields could be prepared faster, which meant more land could be cultivated.
He set down his charcoal and leaned back in his chair, thinking.
If everything he had done for agriculture was implemented properly—the three-field system, the moldboard plows, the irrigation, the drainage, and now horse plowing—the harvest would increase dramatically. He estimated it would double, maybe even triple, over the next few years.
That would create a surplus. People would have more food than they needed for themselves. They could trade the excess. That would increase trade, which meant more taxes on trade, which meant more revenue for him.
And with more food, the population would grow. More people meant more farmers, more craftsmen, more soldiers. A stronger kingdom.
But there was still more he could do.
Currently, people ground grain into flour using hand querns. It was slow, tedious work. A person could spend hours grinding enough flour for a family's daily bread.
Bjorn began sketching again. This time, a windmill.
He had seen windmills before, in his previous life. He understood the basic principle. Wind turned blades. The blades turned a shaft. The shaft turned millstones. The millstones ground grain into flour.
It was simple, really. At least in concept.
He drew large blades mounted on a frame. The wind would blow against the blades, causing them to spin. The spinning blades would turn a vertical shaft, and that shaft would be connected to a horizontal shaft inside the mill through a series of gears. The horizontal shaft would turn the upper millstone, which would grind against the stationary lower millstone.
Grain would be poured between the stones through a hole in the center of the upper stone, and flour would come out around the edges.
One windmill could grind as much grain in a day as ten people with hand querns. Maybe more.
That would free up even more labor. People could spend their time doing other things instead of grinding grain. And the flour would be more consistent in quality.
He made notes about the materials he would need. Wood for the frame and the blades. Iron for the shaft and the gears. Stone for the millstones, though those would have to be carefully shaped.
Several days later, Bjorn held one of his regular assemblies in the great hall. People came to him with their problems, and he solved their disputes. It was tedious work, but necessary. A ruler needed to be accessible, needed to listen, or the people would stop trusting him.
On this particular day, a group of fishermen approached him. There were seven of them, all weathered men with calloused hands and the smell of the sea on their clothes.
"Lord Bjorn," one fisherman said, voice rough from wind and salt, "we come with a concern. You care for the farmers, aye… but what of us? The sea feeds us as the land feeds them, yet you give little thought to those who earn their keep from the sea. We feel… left aside."
The other fishermen shifted behind him, murmuring in agreement.
Bjorn didn't take offense. He had focused heavily on agriculture—it was the foundation of everything—but the sea was just as vital.
"You are right," Bjorn said, his voice calm but firm. "The work of the sea is as vital as the work of the land. Help me understand what would make life better for you and your families."
The men exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, one mumbled, "We… we don't know."
Bjorn nodded slowly, studying them. Of course. How could they know? If they did, they would have done it a long time ago. "I will see to it that this is fixed. You will have what you need."
They bowed low. "Thank you, Lord."
After the assembly ended, Bjorn returned to his table and began working on fishing reforms.
Enhancing fishing would increase food security. More fish meant more food, which supported population growth. And fish could be preserved with salt and traded. Salted fish was valuable, especially in regions far from the sea. That meant trade goods, export revenue, more taxes.
It aligned perfectly with his goals.
He started with boat design.
The current fishing boats were small, maybe six or seven meters long. They were functional for coastal fishing, but they couldn't go far from shore and they couldn't carry much cargo.
Bjorn began sketching a new design. Ten to fifteen meters long, with wider hulls for stability and storage. A boat that size could handle rougher seas and carry a much larger catch.
He added a stern-mounted rudder to his design. Rudders were better than steering oars for larger boats. They provided more control and required less effort. Local carpenters could build them; the design wasn't complicated.
He also sketched lateen sails. Triangular sails, rigged at an angle. They were more efficient than square sails, especially when sailing against the wind.
The boats would still have oars as backup, of course. And small cranes made of wood and iron could be mounted on the deck for handling nets. That would make it easier to bring in heavy catches without straining the men's backs.
Next, he moved on to nets.
The current nets were small and fragile. They broke easily and didn't catch much. Bjorn designed larger, stronger nets with hanging weights along the bottom edge and floats along the top. This would create a wall of netting that could be dragged through the water, trapping everything in its path.
He also sketched fish traps and weirs for use in rivers and fjords. These were wooden structures with netted funnels. Fish would swim into the trap following the current or searching for food, but once inside, they couldn't find their way out. The fishermen could simply come by once or twice a day and collect whatever had been caught.
Traps required less labor than active fishing and could operate day and night.
Finally, he thought about organization.
Currently, fishing was chaotic. Every man went out whenever he felt like it, fished wherever he wanted, and came back whenever his boat was full or he got tired. There was no coordination.
Bjorn began drafting a system. Fishing fleets would be organized by region. Each fleet would have a designated area to fish, preventing overcrowding and overfishing. And there would be seasonal schedules based on fish migrations and spawning patterns. During spawning season, certain areas would be off-limits to allow the fish populations to recover.
It was simple resource management, but it would make a huge difference over time.
Salt production was already underway in Kattegat. That meant the increased fish catch could be preserved and stored for winter or for trade.
He estimated that these reforms, once fully implemented, could increase the fishing catch by two times. It wouldn't happen immediately. People were often uncomfortable with changing their habits too quickly. But within five years, maybe less, the fishermen would be bringing in far more than they ever had before.
This was the third year since Bjorn had started teaching his huskarls to read and write. It was slow going. Many of them were older men, set in their ways, and learning to read felt unnatural to them. But they persisted, mostly out of loyalty to Bjorn.
He was also teaching the healers. That was more important, in his opinion.
He had already introduced them to several new practices. Wound cleaning with alcohol. Stitching with boiled thread. Washing their hands with soap before performing any procedure.
The healers were skeptical at first, but the results spoke for themselves. Fewer infections. Faster recovery. Lives saved that would have been lost before.
His people, and in Scandinavia in general, were already cleaner than most of the world. They bathed once a week, on Saturday, which they called Laugardagr—Washing Day. That was far more frequent than people in Francia or England, where bathing was rare and considered strange.
The only people who washed more regularly were the Muslims, who cleaned their bodies multiple times a day for their prayers.
Now Bjorn was asking the healers to record their knowledge on paper. He wanted everything written down, preserved for future generations. Knowledge that was only passed orally could be lost. A healer could die before teaching an apprentice, and everything he knew would die with him.
Written knowledge was permanent.
He had also taught them about CPR, though he wasn't sure how effective it would be without modern equipment. Still, it was worth trying. And he encouraged them to study the anatomy of the body. To understand how it worked, how the organs functioned, where the major blood vessels were.
That was all Bjorn knew, unfortunately. He wasn't a doctor. He had basic knowledge from his previous life, things everyone learned in school or from television, but nothing detailed. The healers would have to figure out the rest on their own.
And then there was the Thing.
The democratic assembly. The gathering where free men came together to settle disputes, make laws, and elect leaders.
Bjorn hated it.
Not because he opposed democracy in principle, but because it limited his power. And more importantly, because it gave too much power to the lögsögumaðr—the law speaker.
The law speaker was a man who had memorized all the laws. He recited them at assemblies, interpreted them during disputes, and advised chieftains on legal matters. He essentially controlled the legal narrative, and there were no written checks on his power. If the law speaker was corrupt, or biased, or simply wrong, there was no way to challenge him. His word was law, literally.
Bjorn had a plan to change that.
He started by codifying the laws on stone. He had a large stone erected in the central square of Kattegat, and he had the core laws inscribed on it: theft penalties, inheritance rules, dispute resolution procedures.
He didn't add any modern laws yet. That would be too sudden, too strange. But having the laws written down, visible for everyone to see, was a first step.
It meant the law speaker could no longer claim whatever he wanted. The laws were there, in stone, permanent. Anyone who could read in the future could check them.
Of course, most people couldn't read yet.
That was the next part of his plan.
He had the alphabet written on large sheets of paper and hung them on doors throughout Kattegat. People passed by them every day. They would see the letters, get used to them, start to recognize them.
And he was training twenty slaves, young men aged sixteen to twenty, to read and write. Once they were proficient, they would begin teaching people in the market. Free lessons, available to anyone who wanted to learn.
It would take time. Years, probably. But eventually, literacy would spread. And once people could read, the law speaker's power would diminish.
Bjorn had promised these twenty slaves that after ten years of service, he would set them free. At that point, they could work as clerks in the halls he would build in the future. Administrative positions. Honorable work for freed men.
It was a good incentive. They worked hard.
Bjorn now had many friends, if you could call them that, in Alfheim.
His return from the west with an astonishing amount of treasure had changed everything. People who saw him as opportunist before now sought his attention. They wanted to be chosen for the next raid, because raiding with Bjorn meant coming home rich.
And Bjorn controlled the ships. All of them. That gave him leverage.
He was using that leverage carefully. In conversations, in feasts, in private meetings, he was slowly pushing the idea that he should be king of Alfheim, instead of just it's protector.
And he was gaining some support.
It was slow work. People didn't like change, and they especially didn't like giving up power. But when you controlled the ships, people either rebel or they started to listen.
He didn't bother speaking with the jarl in Alfheim. The jarl was an obstacle, not an ally. And Bjorn didn't like jarls in the first place. They held too much power over their regions. They were basically kings in their own lands, just without the title.
That needed to change.
But for now, Bjorn was patient. He had time. And he had a plan.
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