"So that's the ship, huh." Runi let out a low whistle, the kind he usually reserved for particularly shapely thrall girls at the market.
"It's... magnificent. A ship like that could make a man's fortune rise, and I don't just mean his silver, if you catch my meaning." He grinned at his own jest, though Styrkar's stone face gave nothing back.
"Just look at her. She's really built to turn heads, curves in all the right places. You sail a beauty like that, people will kneel or envy you. Either way, she'll bring trouble… the pleasant kind. The kind I prefer."
Jarl Runi stood close to Styrkar, both men; Jarl and High Jarl, admiring the longship floating on the black water of the harbor. The vessel stretched out like a serpent, sleek and deadly, but with a grace that reminded Runi of a woman's spine arching in pleasure. He'd bedded enough women to know beauty when he saw it, whether in flesh or timber.
"It is," Styrkar the Long said, his voice flat.
'Really, that's all you can say?' Runi thought, suppressing a sigh. 'By Thor's hammer, talking to you is like bedding a corpse. Not that I'd know about that, mind you.'
He glanced sideways at Styrkar's perpetually grim expression. The man had the personality of a wet sheepskin and probably the same appeal to women. Runi had seen thralls show more enthusiasm scrubbing floors.
He turned his attention back to the long serpent; that's what the shipwrights were calling her now. A vessel built for seventy-eight person, each oar requiring a strong back and stronger will. Runi wanted one for himself, gods how he wanted one.
A ship like that would have women dropping their dresses faster than you could say "silver arm-ring." But he knew it wyas neither the time nor the place, and more importantly, he had nothing to offer that would earn him such a prize.
The best he could hope for was to ride aboard one, since no man owned these ships outright except King Bjorn Silverhair himself. Not even the old landholding families of Kattegat could claim such vessels, or so the whispers went.
The king kept his claws tight around anything that could threaten his power or reveal his secrets, and a fleet of warships? That was power incarnate.
Runi was growing bored with the silence that followed Styrkar like a curse.
'No wonder he sleeps alone,' Runi thought wickedly. 'Even his own thralls probably draw lots to see who has to serve him supper.'
He decided to abandon his grim companion before the curse of silence spread to him like ship-rot. Instead, he made his way toward his own men, who were already boarding their assigned vessel.
Their voices carried across the water; boisterous, laughing, bragging about their last raid or the woman they'd bedded before leaving, or in some cases, the woman they planned to bed when they returned. Runi grinned. These were his kind of men.
"Jarl Runi!" called out Orm, one of his huskarls. "We saved you a spot near the prettiest shield-maiden on board!" He gestured to his own painted shield mounted on the ship's side.
"You flatter yourself, Orm," Runi called back, vaulting onto the deck with practiced ease. "Though I appreciate a man who loves his own shield so dearly. Reminds me of some men I know who can't get a woman to look at them twice." The men roared with laughter, and Orm raised his drinking horn in mock salute.
They were all waiting for Silverhair to board his flagship so they could sail to Frankia again, as the southerners called those rich, ripe lands across the sea. Lands that practically begged to be plundered.
Runi couldn't wait for this raid's results, not after the last one's spectacular success. They'd come back drowning in silver and gold and everything else worth taking; including a few Frank women who'd adjusted quite nicely to their new circumstances, thank you very much. His bed hadn't been cold for a while now.
With their newfound wealth, they'd bought new weapons from Kattegat's smiths; better swords, finer spear-points, helmets that didn't rattle like cook pots. Chainmail was still beyond most men's purses, but they'd invested in other necessities. Sheep, cattle, oxen for breeding.
Their kingdoms here in the north weren't like the soft southern lands with their endless fields of grain. Here, a man's wealth walked on four legs and gave wool or milk or meat.
Each warrior had bought stock for his family holdings. Runi himself had purchased twelve sheep, six cows, and two oxen. He'd given the animals to his brother to manage while he was away.
But the weather was turning. The wind had teeth now, and the nights were growing longer. Winter would soon be upon them, that bitch of a season that made even the warmest bed feel like a grave.
They needed this raid to succeed before the seas became too dangerous to cross, before ice formed in the harbors and men huddled around fires instead of seeking glory.
After a while, Silverhair appeared on the dock.
Bjorn Silverhair cut an impressive figure as always, his prematurely silver hair catching the morning light like polished metal. He wore a fine wool cloak, deep blue like the summer sky, and around its edges ran a border of silk. That damned silk.
Runi remembered his first encounter with the strange southern fabric. He'd been suspicious as a cat near water. All his life he'd known wool, linen, fur, and leather; honest materials that kept a man warm and decent.
But silk? When he'd first touched it with his calloused hands, he couldn't believe cloth could feel like that. Like touching water that somehow stayed in place.
He and every other warrior had rubbed it between their fingers again and again, convinced it was some kind of Frank trickery or magic. Maybe those southern weaklings had enchanted worms, or priests who could weave spells into thread.
The men couldn't stop asking questions at the time:
"Is it safe to wear? Will it curse us?"
"Does it tear easily? What use is it in battle?"
Some of the warriors, particularly those from the inland kingdoms like him, who'd never seen anything beyond pine trees and fjords; unlike him, had viewed the softness with outright suspicion. They'd muttered among themselves, loud enough for others to hear but quiet enough to maintain deniability:
"This is not cloth for fighting."
"This is the clothing of priests and cowards and women who've never lifted an axe."
Not surprisingly, these objections came almost entirely from men who'd never been on a successful raid, who'd never had silver enough to buy anything finer than they were born with.
Runi had watched them with amusement. Pride was fine, but pride that kept you in scratchy wool when you could afford better? That was just stupidity.
Now, though, the complaints had died like winter flies since Bjorn himself is wearing one. Runi did get one from the last raid, yet he decided to keep silk in his home.
But as Runi looked at Bjorn wearing his silk-trimmed cloak, surrounded by his increasingly wealthy huskarls, a darker thought crept into his mind.
Silk was becoming more than just cloth. It was becoming a boundary, a line drawn in sand that showed who had and who hadn't. Who had sailed with the king and who had stayed home. Who had filled their coffers and who didn't.
The successful raiders—Bjorn's inner circle especially—weren't just warriors anymore. They were becoming something else, something new. Landholding elites with property, cattle, silver, reputation, and most dangerous of all, the king's favor. They had everything a man could want except age and wisdom, and those would come with time.
And when they grew older, when their weapon-arms weakened and their beards grew long? They wouldn't fade away like warriors were supposed to. They'd shift into new roles—advisors, merchants, landholders, power brokers.
They'd marry into the old families, the merchant clans, the established order. They'd have beautiful wives from good families, legitimate heirs, respect.
Runi felt a flutter of something uncomfortable in his chest. Not quite jealousy—he'd done well enough for himself—but a kind of vertigo, like standing at a cliff's edge and realizing the ground had shifted beneath your feet while you weren't paying attention.
These men would slowly replace the old order. The families who'd held land since their grandfathers' time would find themselves connected by marriage to men who'd started with nothing but a spear and a shield and ambition. The power structure was changing, had already changed, and most people hadn't even noticed yet.
But there was something even more dangerous lurking in this new reality, something Runi was certain Bjorn himself must have considered. These huskarls, these newly wealthy warriors, could become threats.
To Bjorn and to his heirs.
They had the wealth, the weapons, the loyalty of their own men. What happened when one of them decided they wanted more? What happened when Bjorn was old or weak?
'I wonder what his plan is,' Runi thought, studying Bjorn's face as the young king made his way toward the ships. 'Surely he sees it. He's too clever not to. But what can a man do? You can't keep warriors poor and loyal at the same time. You can't give them wealth and expect them not to want power. It's like lying with a woman and expecting her not to want affection; some things just follow naturally.'
He couldn't think of a solution, not even if he were in Bjorn's position. Maybe there wasn't one. Maybe this was just the way of things, the way the old world ended and a new one began. Maybe Bjorn was counting on it, planning to ride the change like a ship rides a wave.
Or maybe, Runi thought with dark humor, maybe we're all just cursed and don't know it yet.
While absorbed in these cheerful thoughts, a unusual noise brought him sharply back to the present.
The synchronized strike of boots on packed earth, dozens of them, all hitting at the exact same moment. Like a single massive heartbeat made of leather.
Runi turned, along with every other man on the dock.
A large group of young men was approaching the ships. None looked older than eighteen winters, their faces still smooth, their beards barely worth the name. But there was nothing boyish about them.
They wore identical clothing—dark wool tunics, leather belts, leg wrappings bound the same way. Identical weapons—spears of the same length, seaxes at the same angle on their hips. Identical helmets, simple but well-forged, catching the light in unison. Even their shields were painted the same dark red, no personal decorations, no individual flair.
And they moved in perfect rhythm, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, like a single creature with many legs.
But worst of all was the silence.
Complete, absolute and unnatural silence.
There was one truth every man and woman in the northlands understood, a truth as clear as the rising sun: it was nearly impossible to keep five men together without arguing or bragging.
Men bickered like children and boasted like drunk skalds. They couldn't help themselves. It was their nature, their right, their gods-given purpose to compete and proclaim their superiority at every opportunity.
Runi himself could barely walk twenty paces with his friends without someone starting an argument about whose weapon was better, whose woman was more beautiful, whose father had killed the bigger bear. It was what men did. It was how they established rank, built bonds and passed the time.
But this silence was wrong.
He'd seen Bjorn's huskarls before, fought beside them in the last raid. They'd been good; very good, in fact. They fought in formation, maintained discipline under pressure, responded to commands with impressive speed. They were organized into smaller groups, which made communication easier and tactics more flexible.
Runi had been so impressed that he'd started implementing similar structures with his own warriors, though his warband was smaller.
But this? This was something else entirely.
These young men moved like they shared one mind, one will, one purpose. They looked like warriors, but they moved like something that had never been seen before in these lands.
"Are they..." Orm whispered beside him, his usual bravado gone. "Are those with us? Warriors?"
"I don't know," Runi admitted quietly, his eyes never leaving the formation.
The crowd of well-wishers who'd gathered to see the fleet off had fallen silent as well. The mothers who'd been weeping, the wives who'd been shouting last-minute reminders, the children who'd been running and playing all stood frozen, watching this uncanny procession.
The young warriors reached the ships and split into three groups with precision, each group moving to a different vessel. They boarded without a word, without a stumble, without a single moment of confusion.
Each man went to an oar as if he'd rehearsed it a hundred times. Their shields were hung on the sides of the ships in perfect alignment, like teeth in a wolf's jaw.
No one gave orders.
Runi felt his skin prickle. He'd been in battle, faced death, killed men, watched friends die. But this display unsettled him in a way that combat never had.
"Well," he said finally, forcing his voice to sound light and unconcerned, though his heart was beating faster than usual. "I suppose Silverhair has been busy while we've been spending our silver on sheep and warm cunts."
A few nervous laughs rippled through his men, breaking the spell somewhat.
Orm leaned in close. "Jarl, that's... that's not natural. I don't think men should move like that. Do you think he used magic again?"
"No, don't be stupid." Runi responded, watching as the silent warriors settled into position. "But, it looks like boys can be trained to."
He thought about what he'd been considering earlier—the danger of wealthy huskarls, the problem of warriors who became too powerful. Was this Bjorn's answer? Train them young, train them hard, make them something other than traditional warriors? Create loyalty that went deeper than silver, deeper than land, deeper than family?
But...It's still the same problem, no?
The ships began to cast off. Runi's vessel lurched as the rowers found their rhythm, the familiar pull and surge of a longship getting underway. The crowd on shore finally found their voices again, shouting blessings and farewells that seemed almost desperate after the eerie silence of those young warriors.
He caught Bjorn's eye across the water. The king stood at the prow of his flagship, silver hair streaming in the wind, and for just a moment, Runi thought he saw something in that young face. Pride, yes, but also something else.
"Well," Runi said to no one in particular, settling into his position near the stern, "this raid just got a lot more interesting."
"You think they'll fight as good as they row? I feel like challenging them to a drink then to a fight." asked Orm.
Runi considered that, watching the three ships full of silent young warriors cutting through the waves ahead of them. "I think," he said slowly, "that the Franks are going to shit themselves when they see what's coming."
His men laughed at that, the tension breaking, and soon they were back to their normal selves—joking, boasting, making crude observations about which French noblewomen they planned to bed after they'd killed their husbands.
The wind filled their sails as they left the harbor behind, heading south toward the rich lands of the Franks. Toward gold and glory and all the things men craved.
-x-X-x-
After days on the sea, and these days felt like weeks when you couldn't properly bed anyone because the damn ships were too crowded by men and the weather too cold on the sea, they finally approached the lands of the Franks.
They'd passed through Danish waters first, hugging the coast. It wasn't that the weather was particularly bad, but Bjorn had decided caution was the better part of not drowning like an idiot, especially with winter's frigid breath already starting to nip at their balls.
The sea was getting moody and none of them wanted to test it too far.
What made this raid different—easier, if Runi was being honest—were the gifts they'd taken from their last adventure. Specifically, the monks and merchants they'd captured from the Frankish kingdom. Runi had initially thought them useless, just more mouths to feed and bodies to guard, but he was proved wrong.
The king was ruled by someone called Charles, or Karl, or something else. Frankish names all sounded like a man clearing something from his throat.
But these trembling men and coin-counters knew the land intimately, knew every river and road, every town and stronghold. They called this particular region Lotharingia, or something equally tongue-twisting.
From what Runi had managed to understand from Bjorn, and through their broken attempts at Norse and his non-existent attempts at their language, these Frankish lands had once been united under one ruler.
Their grandfather, Charlemagne, who these Christians spoke of like he was one of their saints, though from what Runi gathered, the old bastard had been more warlord than holy man. The kind of king Runi could respect.
But now? Now the grandsons had carved up the old man's kingdom like they were dividing a roasted pig at a feast. Three separate kingdoms where there had been one, and of course, they were all weaker for it. Divided lands meant divided strength, and divided strength meant easy pickings for men with sharp weapons and sharper ambitions.
Runi grinned at the thought. It was like three brothers inheriting their father's warband and immediately splitting it into thirds to avoid sharing.
They hugged the coast to avoid the worst of the autumn storms, then found the broad estuary their captive guides had promised.
They entered the river at night, with fog rolling thick as wool across the water. Perfect conditions for men who didn't want to be seen. The longships slid through the mist like serpents through grass, silent except for the whisper of oars cutting water.
They sailed and rowed, sailed and rowed, the rhythm becoming as natural as breathing. Past small encampments of fishermen who never saw them, past villages that slept peacefully in their ignorance.
The guides directed them unerringly upstream, probably hoping that cooperation might earn them their miserable lives. Runi doubted it, but he wasn't the one making those decisions.
Finally, they reached a place the monks called Liège.
A village, the guides said, though it was barely worth the name. Certainly nothing compared to the rich town they'd plundered last raid, where the churches had been fat with gold and the nobility had worn enough jewelry to sink a small boat. This place was poorer, quieter, more modest in its aspirations.
The settlement clustered around a basilica—their word for a fancy church—and hugged the river. Clergy wandered about in their dark robes, looking important and useless. Peasants worked the fields, bent-backed and dull-eyed.
Artisans plied their trades in small workshops. Serfs tied to church estates, who apparently belonged to God but somehow still had to work like slaves. The whole arrangement seemed absurd to Runi, but then again, these Christians had always been peculiar about ownership and obligation.
The defense was laughable. Close to a hundred men, perhaps, but most of them looked like they'd picked up weapons for the first time that morning. Farmers with pitchforks, craftsmen with hammers, a handful of actual soldiers who at least knew which end of a weapon to hold.
They were divided, disorganized, and when they came howling out of the dawn light, fear took hold of the defenders.
It was a slaughter. Not a battle, not even really a fight. Just a quick butchery.
Runi's men and everyone else cut through them easily. Anyone who resisted died quickly. Some ran screaming, their voices shrill and undignified. Others ran in silence, which Runi found almost more pathetic. At least the screamers had the courage to voice their terror.
No heaven for them, i guess.
There was a hilltop structure—they were calling it a castle, though Runi had seen sturdier pig pens. Stone and wood construction, nothing impressive, but defensible enough if you had competent defenders.
A local lord or wealthy man had holed up inside with some armed retainers. These, at least, looked like they'd seen combat before. Seasoned warriors, Runi could tell by the way they moved and the way they held their weapons without trembling.
Still, experience only went so far when you were outnumbered and surrounded.
They killed and burned everything worth killing and burning. The bishop—their head priest, apparently more important than the regular holy men—kept resisting even when it was clearly hopeless, and he kept shouting either prayers or curses in his incomprehensible tongue, rallying his men even as they fell around him.
Floki had put an arrow through his throat.
Then another through his chest.
Then a third through his eye, just to make sure, or maybe just because Floki enjoyed it.
The mad bastard hated Christians with a passion Runi usually reserved for men who cheated at dice or women who faked their pleasure.
Floki would mutter darkly about their "nailed god" and their "weak prayers" and how they'd destroyed the old ways in lands they'd conquered.
Runi didn't particularly care about any of that—a god was a god, and as long as they left good plunder behind, their worshippers could believe whatever foolishness they wanted.
But he had to admit, watching Floki work was entertaining.
After the fighting ended and the screaming died down to whimpers and moans, they restocked their supplies from the village. Food, water, ale, anything useful.
They took what little silver the church had managed to accumulate. They took the weapons from the dead soldiers. They even took some of the women right then and there, enjoying themselves.
Then they boarded their ships and continued rowing up the Ourthe, following the river deeper into Frankish territory.
The river gradually narrowed, the water growing shallower with each mile. Eventually, it became too shallow even for their draft-light longships. They found a hidden spot, sheltered by overhanging trees and concealed from any road or path, and beached all the ships together.
They pulled the vessels up onto the bank, securing them properly. Twenty men were left behind to guard the ships and maintain a fallback position.
The rest of them—over four hundred warriors, including Bjorn's unsettling silent boys—were here now.
Staring at the walls of their target.
If you could even call them walls.
"A stick fence for sheep," Runi muttered, loud enough for the men around him to hear. Several chuckled darkly.
It was true. The defensive wall was made of wooden stakes driven into the earth. Not even proper timber, just sharpened sticks lashed together with rope and hope. A determined pig could probably break through it if it had the right motivation.
The stupidity of these priests never failed to surprise him. They built enormous churches with stone, decorated them with gold and jewels, filled them with silver candlesticks and silk. But walls? Proper fortifications? Why bother! Surely their god would protect them.
Runi had news for them about how effective prayer was against their weapons, but they'd find out soon enough. Just like the men before them.
They began their approach after the King's signal, descending from the high ground where they'd gathered. The position gave them a perfect view of what lay below, and Runi had to admit, even through his anticipation of violence and plunder, that it was beautiful in its way.
The morning sun cast its golden glow across the valley, turning everything warm and rich. The fields surrounding the abbey were absolutely breathtaking, in the sheer abundance of it all.
Gold. Everything was gold.
Ripe wheat and barley stretched out in great squares, already partially harvested. Cut patches showed where the peasants had been working, with stooks of grain standing in neat rows like little thatched huts. The remaining unharvested sections swayed gently in the breeze, waves of gold under a blue sky.
Men in brown tunics were already out in the fields with their sickles, backs bent to their endless labor. From this distance they looked like dots of black and brown moving slowly across the landscape, insects crawling across a vast golden cloth. They hadn't noticed the armed men on the hillside yet, too absorbed in their work to look up.
Cattle grazed lazily on the stubble of already-harvested fields, their fat bodies proof of good pasture and careful husbandry. Pigs rooted under the oak trees at the field edges, searching for fallen acorns, their grunts carrying faintly on the wind.
It was peaceful.
And in the middle of all this pastoral wealth stood their target: Stavelot Abbey.
The building was magnificent, Runi had to admit. Bright white stone that seemed to glow in the morning light. The roof was covered in red tiles that caught the sun and gleamed like fresh blood; an appropriately ominous color, considering what was about to happen.
A tall square tower rose from one corner, topped with a large cross that proclaimed the building's holy purpose to anyone who couldn't figure it out from the architecture. The cross was probably bronze or copper, maybe even gold if they were very lucky and very stupid.
Runi's fingers itched just looking at it.
Beyond the main abbey, farther down the valley to the right, stood a second religious complex. Malmedy Abbey, the guides had called it. Smaller than Stavelot, less impressive, but still worth looting. He could see its church tower rising above the trees, and a huddle of pale roofs clustered around it like chicks around a hen.
The same open fields surrounded it. The same lazy, shallow river curved past it, probably the same one they'd followed upstream, just a different branch. More gold waiting to be harvested, more wealth waiting to be taken.
And the beauty of it all? The sheer, delicious stupidity of it all?
Both abbeys were isolated. Steep, thick forest surrounded them on every side—dark pine and beech, dense enough to hide a warband. There were no clearings beyond what had been laboriously cut for farming. No watch-fires on the hills. No patrol routes through the woods. No scouts posted on the high ground.
These monks had built their holy houses in the middle of nowhere, surrounded themselves with wealth and food and comfort, and apparently never considered that someone might want to take it all away from them.
It was like a woman walking naked through a tavern full of drunk warriors and acting surprised when someone grabbed her ass. Some situations just invited certain outcomes.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Orm said beside him, his voice thick with anticipation. "Like a bride on her bedding night. All dressed up, waiting to be claimed."
Runi grinned. "Let's hope she fights more this time. I'm getting too bored to chase screaming monks."
The men chuckled, checking their weapons one last time.
The King's huskarls and the silent young warriors were already moving into position, dividing into their pre-arranged groups without a single spoken word. It was still unnerving to watch, but Runi had to admit they were effective. They'd hit the abbey from multiple angles simultaneously while the rest of the force provided support and secured the area.
Floki was near the front, naturally. The man was probably already imagining which priest he'd kill first. He caught Runi's eye and grinned, the expression making him look even more deranged than usual.
"Try to leave some of them alive for questioning," Runi called to him. "At least until we find where they've hidden the good silver."
"I don't take orders from a Bed-hopper." Floki called back, which was about what Runi expected.
Bjorn raised his hand, the signal for advance. The warriors began moving down the hillside, spreading out into a loose formation that would tighten as they approached the walls.
The sheep in the fields continued grazing. The farmers continued their harvesting. The monks in the abbey continued their prayers, completely unaware that their peaceful day was about to become decidedly less peaceful.
Runi drew his axe, feeling its familiar weight in his hand. The blade caught the sunlight, gleaming.
They descended upon the abbey like wolves upon sheep.
And as always, the sheep couldn't defend themselves.
The wooden fence proved even more useless than it looked. Bjorn's silent warriors hit it first, working in coordinated groups to simply tear sections down with ropes and brute strength. The stakes snapped like dry kindling. Within moments, the wall was breached in four places.
The monks finally realized what was happening. Runi heard the shouts of alarm, saw figures in dark robes running between buildings, heard the desperate clanging of a bell as someone tried to raise the alarm to... who? The cows? The wheat?
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