With the treaty settled, Ulf did not immediately return to Londinium to report. Instead, he took the chance to visit Konser—his old home.
Riding a packhorse and accompanied by ten shield-guards, Ulf traveled east. The scenery along the way was desolate: oat fields with thinning heads, choked and bent under creeping weeds; a nearby farmhouse with half its wall collapsed, thistles taller than a man sprouting through the cracks; and within the rubble, faint glimpses of scattered human bones.
"Only two days from Oslo, and it's already fallen to this?"
At noon they stopped at a farmhouse to rest and ask for water. A wolfskin hung drying beneath the eaves. According to the owner, stray wolves had attacked livestock as recently as three months ago—but now, with the population draining away, even the wolves had starved and left.
Ulf scratched his hair, said nothing more, and followed the dirt road for five straight days until he reached his long-abandoned hometown.
Konser was no better—just as withered and bleak. The boundary stone beside the road lay crooked and moss-covered. A shepherd boy in the distance was driving a few sheep; upon seeing Ulf's ten armored guards behind him, the boy panicked, abandoned the flock, and bolted.
Realizing his own people no longer recognized him, Ulf felt deeply offended. He spurred his horse over two low hills and entered the settlement.
"Milord?"
His barefoot steward rushed out to greet him, and the remaining residents soon gathered around—only about a hundred and fifty people left, and hardly a young face among them.
"Milord, ever since Ragnar conquered Britain, the young folk have all been inspired to leave and seek their fortune. Our numbers shrink every year—we can't even spare enough men to repair the palisade."
Ulf listened to the stream of complaints without changing expression. Then he announced that taxes would be halved for the next five years. Now that he was earning handsomely through trade, Konser's annual taxes—merely a few hundred silver pennies—barely mattered even if entirely waived.
Entering the longhouse, Ulf walked toward the tall chair draped with bear hide.
Up close, he saw the hide was full of moth-eaten holes. Sitting on it was no longer soft or comfortable; the wooden frame creaked under pressure.
"Good thing I'm thin. If it were King Erik—or the increasingly plump Lennard—this thing would've collapsed long ago."
To welcome their long-absent lord, the steward butchered a scrawny sheep and had someone catch a few river fish. A humble feast was prepared.
This time, Ulf actually ate with appetite—gulping the coarse ale, gnawing on bony ribs, occasionally recalling old names with the steward until his mind blurred.
After resting a week, Ulf left Konser amid the villagers' blessings, taking with him fifteen young men and women planning to journey to Britain for a better life—including the steward's second son.
Traveling southwest, he reached Örebro, domain of his old neighbor Lennard—similarly ruined, its population dwindled to a husk.
"Think back—our two families once quarreled endlessly over tiny border plots. Now even the fields around the settlement have gone wild… all those quarrels vanished on their own."
Four days later, Ulf and his entourage arrived in Gothenburg, planning to catch a ship back to Britain. The region was now under the authority of Halfdan.
Ulf remembered Halfdan as an idle, useless palace brat—far inferior to his two elder brothers. But now, he had transformed into a shaggy, thick-bearded brute.
"Long time no see, Your Highness."
"Long time no see, Jarl."
Halfdan greeted Ulf with traditional ceremony and dragged him into the longhouse by the arm. The interior reeked of sweat and musk; dozens of warriors draped in bear and wolf pelts were drinking and boasting loudly.
Berserkers.
A word flashed through Ulf's mind—"bear-shirts," the frenzied fighters.
Instantly, his guard went up.
Damn it. Where did Halfdan gather so many lunatics? What is he planning?
In past battles, Ulf had seen a few berserkers—warriors who consumed hallucinogenic mushrooms before battle, entering an indescribable frenzy. They ignored pain and exhaustion, charging with twin axes that smashed enemy lines apart.
They not only slaughtered foes—they raised friendly morale and crushed enemy will.
But their tempers were unpredictable and hard to control. Across all Britain, only Ragnar and Ivar each commanded a small squad of berserkers.
Soon the feast began. Berserkers tore at pork and mutton ribs, grease running down their tangled beards like half-starved beggars. Ulf felt faintly nauseated.
After several rounds of drink, the berserkers loosened up and began chatting, filled with contemptuous remarks about Vig, Gunnar, and other nobles—accusing them of betraying Viking traditions.
"Hic—Vig's name echoes across the North, yet he abandoned strong, battle-proven shieldmaidens to marry the daughter of an Anglo squire. I heard her ancestors were entangled with Northumbrian royalty!"
"True! Gunnar is worse—he converted to the Roman Church for a ducal title, married a Frankish princess, and slaughters Viking raiders without mercy. A traitor among traitors!"
"And Lennard, Niels, Orm…"
After listening for a while, Ulf grasped the underlying danger.
In every past war, Ragnar, Ivar, Vig, and Gunnar had gained the most—one High King, three dukes.
Ragnar was Halfdan's father; Ivar his elder brother. So Halfdan could not insult them. Instead, he directed all the scorn toward Vig and Gunnar.
Trouble. They're not just insulting Vig and Gunnar—they're venting their resentment at Ragnar for abandoning tradition and embracing Frankish feudalism.
Ulf sipped his weak ale quietly, listening, trying to guess Halfdan's intentions.
Throughout the feast, he never argued back. Even when someone insulted him directly, he pretended not to hear—last thing he wanted was to provoke these lunatics.
The next day, Ulf prepared to set sail—but Halfdan intercepted him at the docks.
"Jarl, tell me—are you a true Viking warrior? Or some soft-bellied weakling corrupted by foreign religion?"
Staring at the berserkers' flashing axes, Ulf answered immediately:
"I am a Viking. My wife is a Viking. My bloodline is Viking."
"Good."
Halfdan threw an arm around his shoulders.
"Since you're a Viking, you'll follow Viking tradition.
And as it happens—we're short of men for a raid. Interested?"
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