Author's note: A short chapter this time.
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The air at dawn carried the damp scent of the Rhine River, mingled with woodsmoke from hearth fires and the faint tang of fermenting wine drifting from nearby vineyards. Mist lingered low over the river, curling around the hulls of moored ships and reeds along the banks.
Somewhere in the suburbs, a dog yelped and was silenced; either by fear or by a boot striking stone.
The raid had begun minutes before. Screams, shouted commands, and the clatter of frightened villagers filled the streets. Knarrs and longships rocked lightly in the current as men shoved barrels, sacks, and crates aboard.
Others dragged people through narrow alleys, elbows sharp, boots slapping, hands gripping shoulders. One girl struggled, twisting free, but a man with a leather glove caught her hair and yanked her down a gangplank.
A boy, barefoot, tried to run toward a ruined fence; he was caught mid-step, dragged under a strong arm like a bundle of linen.
Bjorn, Ragnar, and Rollo had slowed their pace, standing a short distance away atop a gentle rise. From here they could see the entire stretch of suburbs already engulfed in chaos, yet they kept their eyes fixed on the massive city walls beyond.
"So the Romans, huh," Ragnar said in an impressed tone. He gestured with his chin toward the towers. "These walls are taller than four of you and thicker than your height Bjorn, that's for certain." He squinted, noting the precision of the masonry. Moss had only taken root in hair-thin seams. Iron clamps still held some sections, rusted but unyielding.
Arrow slits dotted the towers like watching eyes.
"Built to last five hundred years," Bjorn murmured, almost to himself. "And look, they have."
Rollo leaned closer, voice carrying over the noise of the raid. "These Franks are smarter than Northumbria and Mercia and the others, who never bothered to rebuild their walls." His eyes were glinting with both respect and contempt.
Bjorn shook his head, still scanning the parapets. "It's not that the others didn't try. They couldn't. After the Romans fell, nothing remained. No officials, no legions, no taxes, no urban life. The Franks absorbed the Roman system, but others rebuilt from scratch. One side had the foundation. The other… nothing."
He glanced at Ragnar and Rollo, suppressing a grin. He had told them this before, of course—probably more times than they liked—but it had to be said.
'They needed to think about the Romans at least once a day', he thought, dragging them, whether they liked it or not, into his personal "club of Roman obsession." A man must be thinking about Rome every day, no matter what.
'Well, Ragnar and Rollo would be thinking about it now.'
Rollo studied him for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the fortifications. "You think we'll ever take a city like this? Properly, I mean. Not just raid the outskirts and run." He paused, his voice dropping lower. "These walls are not like our wooden walls. By the gods, I think they're impregnable."
"I think Jarl Runi would love to impregnate her, don't you think?" Bjorn answered in an indirect way.
Rollo sighed in exhaustion, his shoulders sagging. "Yeah, he would probably say that. And it's for the best he isn't here now. I don't want to hear another story of him with a woman, ever again. I heard enough." He shook his head as if trying to dislodge unwanted memories. "Last time it was a widow, and before that the merchant's daughter in some... place. The man cannot go three days without—"
Bjorn and Ragnar's gazes met each other, and they both laughed, the sound cutting through the distant chaos below.
Their laughter faded, and the weight of the walls before them seemed to press back in. Below, a woman's shriek was cut short. The crackling of flames grew louder as another roof caught fire.
"Are you afraid, uncle?" Bjorn asked, calm but piercing, eyes scanning the wall and the defenders above.
Rollo's jaw tightened, pride pricked. He turned to face Bjorn fully, his eyes hard. "Afraid? No. Realistic, yes." He gestured toward the walls with a broad sweep of his arm. "I know the difference between courage and stupidity. Charging those walls with ladders and ropes, even with more man would be the latter."
Bjorn did not look at him. "Do you know what fear does to men? it stops them before they even see the road ahead. But nothing is impossible to a man who dares to reach for it. Death will come for all of us, eventually. And when you are dead, the only thing that would matter is what you have achieved—whether you cowered before a wall, or the wall cowered before you."
'And let's not even mention Constantinople.' Bjorn thought.
Rollo's jaw tightened, a shadow crossing his face. His voice trembled slightly, though he tried to keep it steady. "Not everyone is like you, Bjorn," he said.
"When most men see these walls, they fear for a reason. They are not touched or protected by the gods like you. By the gods… you didn't even die when that sword pierced you in your heart. No one else could have survived that. And all this talk about cowering walls, it's... but don't forget there are men behind them, and they fight not because they lack courage, but because they have no choice."
Bjorn stayed silent as the words hung between them. The wind tugged at his silver hair, the early mist curling around the walls.
He let Rollo speak, let the awe and worry fill the space, because it was not his burden to explain.
Five years had passed since then; how time flies. They say time heals all wounds, yet this one never did, even with his enhanced body. Its mark was still etched across his chest, a quiet scar that bore witness to the death he had faced by his own hands and survived.
Finally, his gaze swept across the wall, tracing how the dawn mist clung to the stones, softening their edges and making the towers seem taller than they were.
Koln, the locals called it, at least according to the merchants. The monks, on the other hand, insisted it had once been Colonia Agrippina, supposedly—a name etched in Roman memory long after the empire had vanished. Bjorn figured the latter must have been what the Romans had called the city, a place that had once held thousands of people, bustling and alive, long before the Franks had taken over.
Above, movement stirred along the parapets. Shapes emerged: defenders raising shields, clutching spears with white-knuckled hands, some helmets still unbuckled. One bearded man in chainmail leaned forward, squinting, trying to count the raiders below.
Bjorn met his eyes for a moment. The man froze, lips parting, whispering to the soldier beside him. Bjorn could not hear the words, but he read the fear in the man's eyes, tempered with a flash of desperation.
He could hear faint shouts of command, but panic undermined every syllable. The man's rage flared as he waved at those still unready, fingers trembling, gesturing, shouting again.
Bjorn studied him, calculating—how many men were truly on the walls? How many could sort themselves quickly enough to respond? He could see the cracks in their discipline and the hesitation.
They had no standing Army.
Meanwhile, the men in the suburbs continued their work. Screams rose as villagers were dragged from hovels; tools, wine barrels, and sacks of grain were shoved aboard waiting knarrs.
Oars clinked against the river as longships formed semicircles around the loading ships. A barrel tipped into the water, sending a splash over a screaming man; another raider cursed as he tripped over a plank, steadying himself with a sharp boot. Every moment was chaotic, but organized.
Bjorn ordered the bodies of those who resisted hauled to rough gallows driven into the muddy banks. Their necks hung at crooked angles, heads lolling, with dark, dried blood streaked along their ankles.
The dawn wind turned the corpses slowly, one by one, exposing swollen faces to the defenders on the walls. Flies already clung to the corners of mouths. No voice was needed, the dead bodies spoke.
A group of tall men were pushed toward the ships. They were broad through the back, red in the face, shoulders rounded, wrists tied. Most had pale, straw-colored hair and wore plain tunics dyed with plants. One had an amber bead knotted into his braid.
Bjorn recognized them immediately as Slavs, traders and occasional raiders in their own right.
He had seen them in Kattegat before, bringing amber, furs, wax, and timber, trading for weapons, beads, salted fish, and jewelry. These men would provide both labor and knowledge.
Even as the raid continued, Bjorn's mind wandered briefly to the political landscape. Middle Frankia, governed by Emperor Lothar, remained fragile.
It's multicultural and hard to fully defend because of the unruly nobles. It's always vulnerable to both both east Frankia and west Frankia. If he weakened it too far than necessary, then it will be swallowed by both the brothers, hence strengthening them.
East Frankia, ruled by King Louis, was under constant pressure from both Slavs and Danes and the nobles themselves. Bjorn could not afford to weaken it too much—at least, not for now. If he struck too hard, it would gain him nothing.
He needed the kingdom to remain a thorn in the Danes' side, to keep them occupied, maybe even to strike back and bleed them. That way, their missteps and struggles would create openings for him; opportunities he could exploit when the time was right.
On the docks, more chaos unfolded. Men shoved captured villagers across makeshift gangplanks, the wood groaning under their weight.
Wine barrels and grain sacks were stacked hurriedly, ropes coiled and tossed with expert precision.
Bjorn observed the defenders again. The bearded man still counted his own, whispering rapidly, gesturing and shouting. Panic painted the face of another who rushed from a tower to the gatehouse, only to freeze when he saw how far the raiders had spread through the suburbs. Rage flashed across his features, untempered. He slammed his fist against stone, shouting, but the words fell on unready ears.
He certainly did not want to attack the city itself, not now. Bjorn was confident he could take it if he tried, but the cost would be far too high. More than fifty men would die just to breach the walls.
This was no minor settlement; the defenders had countless advantages: archers and spearmen fighting from elevated positions, the stones themselves forming a deadly barrier. The only thing they lacked were the blocking chains across the river that could have trapped his ships.
Bjorn wasn't reckless. Already, he had more than four thousand pounds of silver; just silver, not counting the other spoils they had taken. It was more than enough for this raid.
What he had come for were the cargo ships. Koln was a trading hub, strategically positioned along the Rhine, and the vessels could be pressed into service for his trading fleet.
They weren't the finest ships, but they were sturdy and useful, and he could take them without risking his men unnecessarily.
And there were the slaves. More hands for his home and to grow his settlements and strengthen his position. His population was expanding slowly; like a turtle, sluggish but steady, and every man, woman, or child he brought back added to the labor, the knowledge, the manpower he could call on. That, for now, mattered more than taking the city and spilling blood for glory and silver.
By now, eight cargo ships were loaded with grain, wine, tools, and slaves. Eleven horses of good quality had been seized from suburban stables. Men shouted, ran, shoved, dragged, all with deadly efficiency.
As the last lines were cast off, a bell rang somewhere deep inside the city, slow and uneven. A few arrows arced uselessly into the river, splashing harmlessly. No defenders dared step beyond the gate.
The suburbs had been raided, the ships looted, the terror spread—and Bjorn stood apart, silver hair loose in the wind, watching the chaos he had unleashed.
He was no hero.
He had brought men to burn, to kill, to take slaves, to strip the suburbs bare; and he watched it all unfold.
Every scream, every struggle, every fleeing figure was a tool, a lesson in fear, and he savored it without remorse.
End of 798 A.D.
Unification of Norway… loading.