"Thank you for your protection."
The Raven-Speaker did not reject the duke's offer. After living more than ten years in Uppsala, he knew all too well how his former colleagues behaved. A little caution never hurt.
For the next few days, Vig remained occupied reviewing the legal drafts. Whenever he had a spare moment, he sent suggestions to Stirling County about their new rail-cart system. By late April, however, a letter from the Earl of Orkney arrived.
"Shetland refuses to submit? They dare?!"
From Scandinavia to Britain, the northern sea route was the safest: departing from Bergen on Norway's west coast, then west to the Shetland Islands, then south to Orkney, and from there on toward Scotland.
Shetland lay roughly 200 kilometers from Scotland—prime fishing waters in the North Sea.
Under last year's trade agreement, Vig was obligated to supply Gunnar with pig iron, salted fish, tin, and furs in exchange for high-quality Frankish warhorses.
Of those goods, salted fish made up nearly forty percent.
In the medieval Church's classification, fish were "cold-blooded creatures" and did not count as "meat." During fasting seasons, fish was often the only permissible animal protein. Western Europe's demand for salted fish was enormous.
Considering Shetland's fish tax revenue and future shipbuilding orders, Vig wrote back instructing the Orkney earl to settle the matter quickly.
Early May
Bad news arrived: the envoy sent from Orkney to Shetland had been killed.
"They killed my man? Outrageous!"
Sensing her husband's fury, Herligev leaned in to read the letter.
"Shetland is sparsely populated. For their chieftain to act this boldly… I'm worried someone else is pulling the strings."
Vig unfolded a map. Northwest of Shetland lay Iceland; to the east, Bergen.
Bjorn of Iceland depended on Tyne Town for food, iron tools, timber, and drink. For reasons both practical and personal, there was no world where Bjorn sabotaged him.
His gaze shifted to the black dot representing Bergen.
"I'm ninety percent certain Auh—the Lord of Bergen—is behind this. Fine. He and I have an old account left unsettled."
The grudge dated back four years (A.D. 846).
When King Erik, misled by ambitious merchants, tried to imitate the great Charlemagne by launching "glorious campaigns," he went around attacking settlements along the Norwegian coast. Vig seized the opportunity to sell arms—Bergen purchased the most.
But after receiving the weapons, they never paid the balance. Vig sent emissaries repeatedly to demand payment, only to hear excuses like "money is tight" or "next time, for sure."
When the war ended, the Lord of Bergen simply refused to pay, claiming the equipment was defective—purple-yew bows with insufficient range, poor arrow fletching, shields too weak to withstand battle-axes.
In the end, he even blamed his defeat on Vig and demanded compensation.
Later, Vig became consumed with larger wars, and the matter faded into the background—until now. The memory resurfaced, stoking his anger.
Herligev saw the murderous look in her husband's eyes.
"Technically, the Lord of Bergen is Erik's vassal. Before acting, perhaps write to Erik first?"
"No." Vig paced the study.
"Erik is greedy and timid. If I let him arbitrate, he'll simply seize Shetland for himself. Better to strike first—kill the island chieftain and the Lord of Bergen both—and see if Erik dares start a war with me."
Her husband's mind was made up. Herligev, pregnant again and lacking the strength to argue, yawned and headed toward their bedroom.
"I'm exhausted. Tonight you sleep with our son—and please, don't whisper nonsense to him again."
"Not happening. I'm not sleeping tonight. I'm assembling troops. We sail at dawn."
Most nobles had no standing army—only a few dozen retainers for show. Vig intended a lightning assault on Bergen, before its lord had time to muster reinforcements.
Conveniently, Tyne Town's first cog had just completed sea trials, carrying salted fish to Frankia and back without issue. She was perfect as Vig's flagship.
After a sleepless night, Vig boarded the cog Mackerel, taking fifty shield-guards with him.
While the crew loaded supplies, he inspected the vessel. She matched the Göteborg's dimensions: twenty-five meters long, six wide, with a fifteen-meter mast and a massive square wool sail. Swift when running before the wind, but needing twenty-four oarsmen—twelve aside—when sailing against it.
Down in the hold, rows of barrels filled the air with an overpowering mix of brine and cured herring. Sleeping bags lined both sides; space was so tight many men would have to sleep on deck.
Naturally, Vig claimed the captain's cabin at the stern—a small room with a swaying hammock that would be his bed for the coming days.
Back topside, the stern deck held the long wooden tiller controlling the rudder below. In later centuries, ships would use a wheel—if Vig remembered the details, the Mackerel's handling could have been even better.
A small wooden sterncastle stood above, enough to position four archers during battle.
Half an hour later, loading completed, the captain asked permission to depart. Vig nodded.
"Raise anchor!"
Two sailors cranked the winch, lifting the heavy iron anchor from the seabed. Oars dipped into the water, pushing the Mackerel away from the pier.
Once she reached the river's center, the crew unfurled the sail, and the ship slipped out of sight of those left ashore.
Two days later
The Mackerel and several dozen longships reached Edinburgh. Vig collected six hundred mountain infantry from Edinburgh and Stirling counties, then another hundred from Orkney. Counting sailors, his force totaled one thousand.
Following a north-by-east course, the fleet arrived at the main island of the Shetlands—a land of jagged fjords, barren soil, sparse trees, and thin flocks of sheep scattered across the hills.
"Gather the locals. I have a question for them."
Soldiers herded more than four hundred people to the docks. At the sight of the infamous Black Serpent banner, the islanders instantly understood who had come—and dared not resist.
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