The sudden arrival of a hostile army threw Stockholm into panic.
Citizens swarmed onto the ramparts, preparing to fight.
With Norwegian aid, the Swedish coalition had received not only arms and grain, but also a group of skilled craftsmen. Under their guidance, towns across the region improved their defenses: tall palisades, deep trenches, wooden towers—everything a fortified town should have.
"Look closely," Niels mused. "Stockholm and Kalmar have identical wall designs and trench widths.
Someone's been meddling behind the scenes."
Setting his suspicions aside, he ordered the army to construct a full siege camp, making it look as though he intended a major assault.
Word spread quickly across Sweden. Nobles rushed to send reinforcements, eager to crush the expeditionary force.
The Coalition Gathers
By early September, militias from every direction converged on Stockholm.
The Swedish nobles intended to end this war in one stroke—capture Prince Halfdan, seize the royal household guard's armor, and use Halfdan as a bargaining chip to force King Ragnar into concessions.
Outnumbered several times over, Niels decided on a strategy of "besieging the city while defeating reinforcements."
He left 1,500 men under Oleg to maintain the siege façade, while he led 1,000 troops to prowl the surrounding countryside.
In just five days, he defeated seven separate reinforcement forces, killing five nobles in the process.
"Your Highness," Niels remarked dryly, "it seems you've offended the locals so deeply that they'd rather miss harvest season than let you live."
Halfdan didn't respond.
He just wiped his sword in silence.
After so many jabs and insults, he had grown more withdrawn and finally began studying Niels's methods: how to deploy scouts, how to choose ambush sites, how to judge terrain before forming ranks.
The more he learned, the more uneasy he felt.
After one victorious skirmish, while Niels was in high spirits, Halfdan offered him two jars of captured mead and flattered him, hoping to pry out more insights.
Niels drank heavily and rambled:
"Ah, it's nothing special. Fight long enough and you start figuring things out. Vig, Ivar, Gunnar—they're the same. They're just better at it, that's all. They comprehend more than I do. I'm a bit worse… but good enough to handle these country bumpkins."
Then, half drunk, he turned to Halfdan's flaws:
"You haven't fought enough.
You skipped the Northumbria war.
During the Mercia–Wessex war, you stayed by Ragnar's side—drinking and boasting with attendants, wasting the whole campaign.
Then the Frankish war erupted—you missed that too.
You went scavenging in the Welsh mountains instead, and look where that got you.
Smashed to pieces.
Hah, you didn't witness the battle on the Seine. I still get chills remembering it."
The setting sun cast everything in gold; ravens circled overhead. Wheat fields rustled in the wind.
Niels stretched out both arms as if embracing the world.
"Everywhere—people.
Frankish ranks to the east, ours to the west.
Seventeen thousand men.
Standing in the center… all you see is a sea of bodies. No end in sight."
Halfdan had heard countless versions of that battle since childhood—but this was the first time he'd heard it from someone who was truly there, stripped of all embellishment.
His face went pale.
If I were placed in Vig's, Ivar's, or Gunnar's shoes…
What would've happened?
His voice cracked.
"If you fought Vig… what are your odds?"
"Forty–sixty. I'm weaker.
But it's not hopeless."
"And… if I assisted you? Would your odds improve?"
Niels burst into drunken laughter.
"If I'm honest—berserkers are terrible soldiers. Undisciplined. Good for terrorizing peasants and bullying women. Not good for real war. With you and that pack of fur-clad idiots helping me… my chances drop to thirty–seventy."
So that's how low you think of me?
Whatever goodwill Halfdan had just developed evaporated instantly.
He forced a smile and kept quiet.
But inside, he swore:
I'll study war. One day, I'll surpass Vig, Gunnar, Niels… all of them.
I will rule the entire Viking world.
The Coalition Falters
Despite their numbers, the coalition forces couldn't coordinate.
Niels kept hammering isolated contingents—capturing five nobles and a thousand prisoners.
Terrified by the royal guard's sheer combat power, the coalition leaders met in Uppsala and decided to seek a temporary truce.
Five days later, envoys entered the siege camp south of Stockholm.
"General, winter approaches.
Let us cease hostilities for now.
Return home to harvest grain and mend roofs.
In exchange for our nobles and captured militiamen, we will withdraw from Gothenburg, hand over ten knarrs (cog ships) anchored there, and return the seized sailors."
Niels asked:
"And the remaining longships?"
"Sold. Used the payment to buy grain and weapons.
As for the ten cogs—they're valuable, and all are registered in London. Merchants fear buying them, lest they offend Ragnar, so they remain unsold."
Niels was tempted.
He dismissed the envoys and held council.
"We've wasted too much time.
Any true conquest will have to wait until next year."
To persuade Halfdan, he elaborated:
"My conquest of Denmark worked only because the local nobles were unprepared—they hadn't even summoned their militias before I smashed them flat.
Sweden is different.
Your 'Norse Sword' has angered everyone for years.
You dragged things out so long that they're fully prepared for war—and Norway is backing them.
Their fortifications are far stronger.
We've run out of options.
We have to write to London and await the king's decision."
Signing the Truce
The next day, Oleg traveled to Uppsala and signed the truce inside the great wooden temple—the old holy site of the Norse gods, its black-painted tower rising as tall as seven men.
Compared to the stone temples of Britain, it felt crude and outdated.
After completing the ritual, Oleg returned with the freed prisoners and the agreed supplies.
The royal guard marched back into the long-abandoned Gothenburg.
After releasing the Swedish captives, Halfdan took possession of the desolate town once more.
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