Back in his office in Stirling, Viper dictated the details of the latest operation while his secretary drafted a formal report for Tyne Town.
Just as the secretary prepared to seal it, Viper abruptly stopped him.
"Wait. A few scouts I sent into the northern mountains should've returned by now. Call them in. Attach their findings to the end of the report."
"Yes, my lord."
One by one, five scouts filed into the office. None provided anything useful. Their vague half-truths made Viper suspect they'd simply wandered around aimlessly and fabricated stories afterward.
"Your bonuses this month are canceled. Get out and reflect on your incompetence!"
Four left. Only one remained—the Anglo-Saxon scout nicknamed "The Latecomer."
His real name was Conor, second son of a minor landed family. During last year's war, he had served as a mounted courier, but one day his horse simply refused to move, delaying a critical mission. His comrades had teased him endlessly—"The Latecomer"—and the name had stuck.
After the war, Conor managed to secure a position with the Stirling County Constabulary thanks to his mixed Pictish blood and rudimentary grasp of the Pictish tongue.
Viper looked at him coldly.
"Well? What's your issue?"
Conor repeated his account: disguised as a wool-buyer, he had traveled through three mountain villages. One evening, he overheard locals whispering about rebel activity—but the moment they noticed him, they fell silent.
The sun was already sinking. Viper was eager to go to the county governor's dinner and grew impatient.
"Get to the point."
"My lord," Conor said carefully, "the more isolated a region, the more hostile it is to outsiders. People like us simply cannot gain their trust. That's why I propose a change of strategy—send undercover agents to infiltrate the rebels themselves. That's the only way to obtain actionable intelligence."
As he listened, Viper's frown gradually relaxed. He gave Conor a long, appraising look.
"There might be something to that. Secretary—add his proposal to the end of the report. The duke may find it interesting."
He grabbed his cloak and left whistling, heading toward the governor's manor, while the secretary and Conor were forced to stay behind and finish the paperwork.
One week later
A reply arrived from the ducal estate. After the secretary finished reading the letter aloud, Viper could hardly believe his ears.
"The duke wants Conor to report to Tyne Town? Are you sure you read that right?"
He snatched the letter—only to remember he was illiterate—and shoved it back angrily.
"Fetch The Latecomer here!"
Moments later Conor arrived, breathless.
"You're lucky, boy," Viper grunted. "The duke summoned you to Tyne Town. Pack up and don't keep him waiting."
The news hit Conor like too much wine. Dizzy, staggering, he made his way to his quarters.
Falling back on his straw mattress, he stared at the wooden ceiling.
"At last… I can finally get out of this cursed place…"
April 10
Conor arrived at Tyne Town on a longship carrying pig iron from Stirling.
When the vessel docked, he didn't rush to the fortress. Instead, he went first to a public bathhouse—haircut, bath, and lunch—spending a quarter of a silver penny. (Across the realm, pennies were commonly cut into halves and quarters for convenience.)
Feeling clean and refreshed, Conor stared into a polished copper mirror and muttered:
"The duke was a simple Norse farmer—how did he end up with such extreme cleanliness? Ordering the whole town to bathe once a week… he's as obsessive as those Romans from the old tales."
But then he thought about the preferences of other lords—murder, plunder, hunting, lust, drunkenness, gluttony—compared to those, the Duke of Tyne Town's eccentric sanitation habits were harmless.
Still grumbling inwardly, he climbed the low southwestern hill to the fortress, presented the summons to the guards, and was shown into a side chamber where seven other visitors waited.
"Wait here. The duke may call you at any moment," a guard said before returning to his post.
Conor surveyed the room: a mail-clad knight, an Anglo landowner, a Flemish wool merchant, and a burly, alcohol-reeking Norse sea captain. Likely the master of some merchant vessel.
One by one they were called—a knight, the landowner, the merchant, the captain. By the time Conor's turn came, he had fallen asleep with his head on the table.
A maid woke him, and he entered the great hall nervously.
"My lord duke, I am Conor of Stirling County."
"You?"
Vig straightened in his chair, dismissed every guard and servant, and asked about Conor's undercover idea. After listening, he added:
"When sending reports, use single-line communication. If someone betrays you, the damage stays contained."
Drawing on countless crime dramas from his past life, Vig rattled off precautions until he realized Conor was completely overwhelmed.
He changed the subject.
"Can you read?"
"I've learned about two hundred Norse words since last year. After you and the Raven-Speaker simplified the grammar, it's easier to learn."
"Good."
Vig gave his new instructions.
"For the next few months, attend literacy classes at the school. After that, return to Stirling County as chief of intelligence. Recruit reliable infiltrators and send them into rebel groups. Before you depart, come see me again—I'll teach you additional precautions."
Conor departed in a daze.
Later that afternoon
The Raven-Speaker entered the hall carrying a stack of scrolls—six months of work: draft legal codes.
With the establishment of the four northern counties, each now had its own judge, but judgments varied depending on local custom. To bring consistency, Vig wanted a written code: form modeled after Roman law; content drawn from Norse, Anglo-Saxon, and Pictish traditions.
It was a massive undertaking—progress was slow. Completion was expected around the year 852.
Vig skimmed pages for ten minutes before calling for Herligev and Micham to study specific articles with him.
Eventually his eyes blurred, and he tossed the scroll aside, turning the conversation elsewhere.
In recent months, the spread of simplified runes and reforms across the North had drawn attention from religious centers like Uppsala and Tissø. Gradually, more and more people began referring to the Raven-Speaker's circle of shamans as the Tyne Town Order.
The Raven-Speaker embraced the title. Two months earlier, he publicly declared that he had already broken from the conservative Uppsala priesthood.
His position attracted many reformists—and plenty of trouble.
Vig asked,
"Have shamans been causing trouble at the temples lately?"
"Yes. Frequently."
"Then I'll assign soldiers to guard all five county temples, especially the main one here. Some people, once they lose a debate, may resort to more… physical methods."
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