Author's Note: Hey everyone! I'm looking to change my upload days to Monday/Friday. I'm open to suggestions tho, so let me know what days you'd prefer (just not Wednesday or Sunday).
The day was warm and cloudless, the sky an endless sweep of deep blue. When the wind stirred, it carried the rich scents of turned earth and trampled grass across the encampment. They had chosen their ground well; a defensible position with the sea at their backs, forests flanking their sides, and room enough for five hundred men to breathe.
Around Bjorn, the clash of steel on wood rang out in steady rhythm. His veterans drilled the inland Huskarls in formation work, teaching them what words in Kattegat could not. Four men had died to untrained men because of old habits and arrogance.
Bjorn had seen the shame carve itself into their faces afterward, deep enough to matter and change their minds. So now they trained. Light drills, rotating shifts. No sense exhausting men who might need to fight at any moment.
Bjorn lay on his back in the grass, hands folded behind his head, watching clouds drift past. Around the camp, men who weren't drilling sprawled in their designated groups, laughing, gambling, making crude jokes about their shares of the treasure. Their eyes kept wandering to the hostages huddled near the center of camp; merchants, monks, scribes. Walking bags of silver.
The thunder of hooves cut through the afternoon calm.
Bjorn was on his feet before the scouts even reined in their mounts. "They are coming" the lead rider said."
"Formation!" Bjorn's voice cracked across the camp.
Four hundred men moved. Shields locked. Spears lowered. The hostages were herded forward, placed prominently where approaching eyes couldn't miss them. A human wall of leverage.
The sound reached them first; the rhythmic tramp of hooves and boots in mud, the creak of leather, the muted jingle of mail. Then they appeared through the tree line: a column of armed men, tense and disciplined. Most wore helmets. All carried weapons of varying quality; some fine blades, others farmer's with spears pressed into service.
They halted fifty paces out.
For a long moment, neither side moved. The silence stretched taut as a drawn bowstring. Bjorn could hear men breathing. Could feel the weight of four hundred heartbeats waiting for orders.
Finally, there was movement. Five men separated from the Frankish formation, advancing on horses. Bjorn recognized one immediately; a face shaped by authority.
"Mount up," Bjorn said quietly. "Monk, with me."
They; Bjorn, Rollo, Ragnar and the monk rode forward, stopping twenty paces from the Frankish delegation. Close enough to talk. Far enough to react.
The silence reformed between them, heavier now. Hands drifted toward weapon hilts. Eyes measured distances, calculated odds.
Bjorn studied the men across from him. A nobleman, that much was obvious from the quality of his armor. A bishop or high priest, robed and severe. Three others who carried themselves like important people.
The nobleman spoke first, his Frankish crisp. "I am Count Odo, in service to King Charles, Ruler of the Kingdom of the Franks." His eyes moved across Bjorn's face, snagging on the silver hair, the youth beneath it. "Who is the leader here?"
Bjorn let the question hang for a three-count. When he answered, it was in broken and crude Frankish. "You can call me Bjorn."
He turned his head slightly to the monk, in Latin Bjorn said. "From now on, you translate what i say."
The monk beside him went pale but nodded frantically.
The older priest across from them stiffened, eyes narrowing. When he spoke, it was in flawless Latin, each word clipped. "How do you speak the tongue of the Church? Were you trained in a monastery?"
"You are?" Bjorn asked, matching his Latin, letting each syllable ring clear.
"This is Alcuin, scholar of Eoforwic from Northumbria, now chief teacher of the Schola Palatina, trusted adviser to the King of the Franks, King Charles." The man beside him supplied the introduction with obvious pride.
Bjorn inclined his head a fraction. The name meant nothing to him, but Eoforwic did and this guy was from there as well. But it seems he didn't recognize Bjorn, even with his Silver Hair. 'Is Eoforwic's events not known to people by now?' Bjorn wondered. 'Curious.'
"Well. Now that we're acquainted, let's address important matters. I have people you want returned. The question is simple: what are they worth to you?"
Count Odo's expression didn't change, but Bjorn caught the micro-adjustment of his stance, the way his eyes flicked past Bjorn's shoulder toward the Norse lines.
"Don't," Bjorn said, voice flat. The monk translated in rapid Latin. "I know what you're calculating, Count Odo. Can you win? Can you take them by force and still call it a victory?" He smiled without warmth. "You're thinking about casualties. About how many men you can afford to lose. About what happens when word spreads that King Charles couldn't protect his subjects without bleeding for them." He paused. "Fighting me is expensive. In blood, in silver and gold, and in reputation."
Odo held his gaze for a long moment, then allowed himself a thin smile. "King Charles's priority is the safe return of his people. Not bloodshed."
"Admirable." Bjorn's tone suggested he meant it. "Truly. It's unfortunate I couldn't meet such a wise ruler in person." He let that settle, then continued. "I hold one hundred merchants. Twenty monks and scribes. For each common merchant, I want forty pounds of silver and gold."
The monk beside him made a strangled sound. Bjorn ignored him.
"However," he continued, "I've learned some of these merchants are rather valuable. Spice traders, they said. Men with connections to the slave markets. For those, one hundred pounds each."
The monk finally found his tongue, stammering through the translation. Before he finished, Alcuin was already speaking rapid Frankish to Count Odo.
Odo's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Do you understand what you're asking? Four thousand pounds of silver and gold for merchants alone?" He shook his head slowly. "I came here to negotiate in good faith, not listen to this madness."
The haggling began in earnest then. Back and forth, thrust and parry, each side probing for weakness. Minutes stretched into an hour. The sun moved across the sky. Men on both sides began to shift, sweat, tense with waiting.
Finally, terms emerged: sixty percent in silver and gold; fifteen hundred pounds. Twenty percent in silk and fine textiles. Twenty percent in wine, iron ingots, and weapons for reforging.
When Bjorn mentioned silk, Odo's face tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Well, do not grimace, Count," Bjorn said, allowing himself a genuine smile. "I understand it's rare even here. Kings and bishops and nobles hoard it like dragon-gold." He leaned forward slightly in his saddle. "I could demand more gold and silver. Or I could take silk, wine, iron; things that won't burden your King too much." His smile sharpened. "I'm being merciful, Count Odo. I hope you can see my goodwill here."
Odo's jaw worked, but he nodded. "One hundred bolts. Ten yards each."
"Agreed."
The tension hadn't broken yet. Both sides knew the shape of the deal now. Only one piece remained.
"The mint master," Bjorn said quietly. The words seemed to cool the air between them. "For his return, I want one craftsman who knows the secrets of glassmaking."
Odo went very still. "That's not—"
"I'm not asking for the impossible," Bjorn interrupted. "Just someone who teach us the craft." He paused. "Glassmaking compared to coin minting is not crucial to the survival of a Kingdom."
"A glassmaker would take time to locate," Odo said carefully. "I can offer you two hundred pounds of silver and gold instead."
"No."
The word landed hard, cutting negotiations.
"Either a glassmaker," Bjorn said, each word measured, "or one thousand pounds of silver. Your choice." He leaned forward again. "And let me offer you something more, Count Odo. A gesture of... potential friendship."
Odo's eyes narrowed.
"I hear King Charles has brothers. That they quarrel over their grandfather's legacy, each trying to eclipse Charlemagne's shadow." Bjorn's smile was pleasant, almost warm.
"If Charles sends me a glassmaker—a good one, mind you—I'll remember this generosity. And who knows? Perhaps my next voyage might find me sailing toward his brothers' shores instead of his. I imagine that would please your King greatly."
He paused, holding Odo's gaze. "If his brothers are weakened, it might even please him enough to look favorably on loyal servants who contributed. The kind who secure valuable alliances. The kind who might merit... elevated positions. Perhaps even marriage alliances with the royal house. When the princess comes of age, naturally."
The temperature between them dropped ten degrees. Odo's face went rigid, his eyes hard as flint. For a long moment, silence was the only sound.
Then Odo spoke, voice tight. "You'll have your glassmaker."
"A competent one," Bjorn pressed. "Someone who actually knows his craft. Not some half-trained apprentice you pull from some backward place."
"You'll have a master glassmaker," Odo said through his teeth.
"Two days," Bjorn said. "Gather everything we've agreed upon. Return here with it all. Two days, Count Odo. If you're late..." He gestured casually toward the hostages. "You'll find bodies. Headless ones. And word will spread, how King Charles couldn't protect his subjects. His brothers and nobles will hear and they'll circle like wolves."
Odo stared at him with naked hatred now, but his voice remained controlled. "Two days. We'll return with everything. In the meantime, you will not raid the King's lands. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
Neither man offered his hand. They simply held each other's gaze for a final moment; a last measurement of will and threat.
Then Bjorn wheeled his horse around and rode back toward his lines. Behind him, he heard the Franks doing the same, voices rising in urgent conversation.
-x-X-x-
Two days felt like two weeks.
When the Franks finally appeared through the morning mist, every Norse hand went to a weapon. Bjorn's men formed up without being told, shields overlapping, spears ready. On the other side, Odo's forces did the same. Two walls of armed men, neither trusting the other worth a damn.
Odo rode forward with an escort pulling carts; heavy ones, judging by how the wheels cut into the mud. Bjorn met him halfway, Ragnar and Floki and Rollo flanking him.
"Your silver," Odo said, gesturing to the carts. No pleasantries this time. "Fifteen hundred pounds as agreed. The silk, wine, and iron are on the other wagons. And your glassmaker." He nodded toward a nervous-looking man in craftsman's clothes, standing like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Bjorn walked to the first cart and lifted a corner of the cloth covering. Silver gleamed underneath, more wealth than most men saw in ten lifetimes. He grabbed a coin, bit it, checked the weight. Nodded.
"Count your people," Bjorn said. "Make sure they're all breathing."
While Odo's men did that, the Count rode closer to Bjorn. Close enough that their men couldn't hear. "About your proposition," he said quietly, coughing.
Bjorn raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
"King Charles has considered your offer. He's willing to extend his true friendship if you turn your attention to his brothers' kingdoms instead of his." Odo's voice dropped lower. "Lothair and Louis. Both would love to see Charles fall. Both are vulnerable to the kind of... pressure you can apply."
Bjorn smiled slowly. "And what's my payment for this service?"
Odo smiled back, and it was calculating, predatory. "Whatever treasure you find there. Charles won't interfere and won't warn them. You'll have free reign."
"How generous." Bjorn scratched his chin like he was thinking hard. "Any suggestions on where to start?"
Odo leaned in, clearly pleased with himself. He rattled off names like he'd been planning this for a long time.
Bjorn listened, nodded at the right moments, let Odo think he was being clever. "I'll consider it," he said finally. "Your king's friendship would be... valuable."
"Then we have an understanding?"
"We have an understanding."
The exchange happened quickly after that. Hostages returned, treasure loaded onto Norse ships, the glassmaker practically shoved aboard before he could change his mind. No fights broke out. No blood spilled. Both sides just wanted it over.
Within the hour, nineteen Norse ships were pushing away from the Frankish coast, oars cutting through gray water. Men whooped and celebrated, passing around wine they'd been paid with, already counting their shares.
Odo watched them go from the shore, satisfaction written across his face.
'Friendship, my ass.' Bjorn thought.
An hour out to sea, Bjorn called for the ships to turn.
"West," he told his steersman. "Hard west."
Rollo frowned. "West? Home's east."
"We're not going home yet." Bjorn grinned.
He made his way across the deck to where they'd stashed the merchant—the one who'd come to him in secret two nights ago. The man looked uncomfortable surrounded by Norse warriors, but he straightened up when Bjorn approached.
"Still sure about this?" Bjorn asked in English, clearly not the first time the spoke.
The merchant nodded quickly. Too quickly. "Rouen is ripe for the taking and wealthy beyond measure. And the defenses are... nothing to you."
Bjorn studied him. The man had ulterior motives written all over him—probably rival merchants he wanted eliminated, or debts he wanted erased in the chaos. Didn't matter. If Rouen was as rich as he claimed, everyone would profit.
"How far?"
"One day sailing. Maybe less with these winds."
Bjorn turned back to the sea, watching the coastline slide past. Odo thought he was so clever, trying to use Bjorn as a weapon against Charles's brothers. The arrogance of it almost made him laugh. Did the Count really think Bjorn was some dumb barbarian who'd do his dirty work for promises of friendship?
His thoughts drifted to his brothers. Ubbe and Halfdan, still young and impressionable. Both still capable of turning into the kind of men who'd tear each other apart over jealousy and pride.
When he got back to Kattegat, he'd need to handle that. Beat some sense into them if necessary, before the rot set in.
The wind picked up, filling the sails. Behind him, men sang raiding songs, already drunk on victory and wine. Ahead, somewhere beyond the horizon, Rouen waited.
Bjorn smiled into the salt spray. This voyage wasn't over yet.
-x-X-x-
In Kattegat, five-year-old Ubbe sat frozen at his writing table.
Something was wrong. He could feel it; a coldness that crept up his body. The kind of cold that had nothing to do with weather. He was smart, they said. So he can tell.
Beside him, Gyda scratched away at her paper, completely absorbed in whatever she was writing. She'd been teaching him letters for days now, patient in that way older sisters were when they took their responsibilities seriously. At nearly fifteen, she taught her friends, and started participating in teaching big adults now. And she was good at it.
But right now, Ubbe wasn't thinking about letters.
The torches on the wall flickered, casting shadows that seemed to move wrong. He watched them from the corner of his eye, afraid to look directly, afraid that if he did they'd come alive. Trolls, Gyda had told him about trolls that lived in the forest, creatures that crept into homes when you weren't looking, that snatched children who misbehaved.
His heart hammered in his chest. Every shadow looked like reaching claws. Every flicker of firelight looked like something stalking closer.
But Ubbe didn't scream or call for Gyda.
He was a big man now. Big men didn't run from shadows. And big men didn't cry when they were scared.
'Like Bjorn and Father,' he thought, hands clenched into fists on the table. 'Be like them. Not afraid of anything.'
He repeated it silently, over and over, like a prayer to the gods. Like if he said it enough times it would make it true. They fought monsters; real ones, not shadow-trolls. They would laugh at these fears.
So Ubbe sat very still, very quiet, watching the shadows dance. Refusing to blink or to look away.
Proving to himself that he was brave.
Even if his hands shook under the table where nobody could see them.
"Ubbe?" Gyda's voice broke through his concentration. "Are you paying attention? You need to practice your letters."
"I am," he said, voice only trembling a little. He picked up his writing tool with fingers that wanted to shake. "I'm practicing."
Gyda smiled at him, proud, and went back to her own work.
The shadows kept moving, but Ubbe kept writing. One letter at a time.
-x-X-x-
The Seine River led them straight to Rouen's heart.
Same strategy as before; overwhelm the defenders, breach or climb the gates while himself and archers kept the walls clear. The palisade fell within minutes, before the sun even rose.
Rouen was bigger than Bjorn expected. An archbishopric, according to the merchant. The Cathedral of Notre-Dame dominated the skyline, its tower visible from the river and Bjorn took some moments to admire it.
Inside, they found what they'd come for; silver relics, gold altar vessels, illuminated manuscripts.
The Abbey of Saint-Ouen yielded even more. Gilded crosses, jeweled chalices, coin hoarded from years of tithes. The monks watched in silence as Bjorn's men stripped their treasury bare.
The port was what impressed him most. A proper trading hub; docks lined with merchant vessels, warehouses stacked with goods, markets still half-open when they'd arrived. This was wealth that moved, not just sat in church vaults gathering dust.
Roman ruins dotted the streets. An old amphitheater, crumbling baths, remnants of empire long dead. The city had grown around their bones; wooden houses mixing with stone buildings, artisan quarters near the cathedral, a central marketplace that probably saw traders from half of Frankia.
The bishop's palace stood behind its own fortifications. Not strong enough to matter though.
The Northmen dragged the Archbishop into the center of the palace. He was a frail figure, his wrists bound tight with rough hempen rope that had chafed his skin raw. He was shaking, yet he kept his chin high, clutching his tattered vestments as if they were armor. Bjorn watched him for a long beat, then spoke in a low, fluent Latin that caught the old man off guard.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. How could they do such a thing to you?" Bjorn stepped forward, his seax flashing briefly as he sliced through the cords. The severed ropes hit the floor like dead snakes. Bjorn leaned back, tilting his head. "Tell me, Priest... do you even know what a friend is?"
The Archbishop swallowed hard, rubbing his reddened wrists. "Are you... are you going to kill me?"
"How can you say such a thing?" Bjorn laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "I would never hurt a man who spends his life collecting gold and silver, polishing it, and keeping it all in one convenient pile for me to find. In my eyes, all priests are my friends. You provide such... effortless gifts. But you haven't answered me. What is a friend?"
"A friend?" The Archbishop's voice cracked. He looked at the frayed rope at his feet, then at the blood on Bjorn's belt. "A friend is someone who shows mercy! Yes... a man who spares a life is a very dear friend indeed."
Bjorn's smile vanished. He pulled his brows together in a heavy, dangerous frown. "And...?"
The Archbishop froze. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple into his silver beard. He searched Bjorn's cold eyes, his mind racing through something. Then, his eyes brightened with a sudden, desperate realization.
"Ah, Ah... A friend," the old man stammered, "is someone who gives gifts. Grand, beautiful gifts. Generosity... that is the mark of a true friend."
Bjorn let out a sharp, single clap of his hands, his grin returning. "Exactly! We have a saying in our home: 'A man should be a friend to his friend, and give gift for gift.' It is a simple law, yet your King seems to have... never heard of it."
Bjorn leaned in close, the scent of brine and iron filling the space between them.
"So, my new friend, I have a task for you. Go to my other new friend, King Charles. Tell him I took my own gift. Tell him friendship costs more than empty words." Bjorn's eyes darkened, turning as hard as the sea.
They let him go.
The final tally was good, if not spectacular. Fourteen hundred pounds of silver; coins and ingots both. Just under two hundred pounds of gold. The real treasure was everything else.
Wine. Barrels and barrels of Seine valley wine, the kind nobles paid premium for. Bolts of wool and cloth. Grain sacks that would feed Kattegat for months. Iron weapons they could reforge. Pottery, glassware, furs from eastern traders; luxury goods that would make Bjorn's people wealthy.
And horses. Thirty-two this time, the best they could find in Rouen's stables. Added to the twenty from the first raid, they now had fifty-two quality warhorses. There were others, but Bjorn only took the ones worth keeping.
The port gave up ten ships. Good vessels, well-maintained, built for cargo. They'd need them; nineteen ships weren't enough for everything they'd taken.
Slaves to row them came next. Men from the docks, some soldiers who'd surrendered. Bjorn divided his huskarls among the new ships to keep watch. Slaves got stupid ideas when they thought nobody was paying attention.
By evening, twenty-nine ships pushed away from Rouen's docks, loaded until they sat low in the water. Behind them, smoke rose from the warehouses they'd burned. Not all of them, no point destroying what others might trade later. Just enough to make the point.
Bjorn let the merchant go and the seine carried them back toward the sea. Behind them, Rouen's bells rang in mourning. Ahead, the open water waited.
Bjorn watched the coastline slide past, thinking about Count Odo's face when he heard the news. Thinking about King Charles receiving the bishop's message.
The ships turned, sails filling with good wind. Four hundred men richer than they'd dreamed, heading back to Kattegat with enough plunder to make them legends, again.