There was no warband to come save them, just isolation and faith, and neither was worth shit against good Norse iron.
Some of the abbey's servants tried to resist; a handful of armed men, probably guards or retainers of the abbot. Looking at them now, Runi felt a strange little spark of pride in himself.
He'd actually learned something useful on these raids, by drinking and feasting with Bjorn's men during long nights when there was nothing else to do but talk and drink. They were prideful, maybe more prideful than Runi liked. But it was worth it.
Knowledge was like a good weapon, he'd discovered, the more you had, the more effective you could be.
He knew now that an abbey like this one was often rich enough to be self-sufficient. A little kingdom unto itself, really. They had farms stretching golden across the valley, workshops where skilled craftsmen made everything from shoes to iron tools, and of course the church—always the church, the beating heart of their weird religion.
The leader was called an abbot if it was a man, or an abbess if it was a woman.
Then there were bishops, who were in charge of many churches in what they called a diocese. Think of it like a jarl overseeing multiple settlements, except with more praying and less useful fighting.
Above them were the archbishops, who oversaw even larger territories called archdioceses. More important, more powerful, probably swimming in even more silver. They supervised other bishops in nearby dioceses, like a high king over lesser kings, except again with the praying and the celibacy and all that nonsense that seemed like a waste of a perfectly good life.
The abbots and abbesses, though—those were interesting. They ran their monasteries independently of the bishop hierarchy, or so he'd been told. Little independent power centers, answerable to their god and their rules but not to the local church authority.
It explained why some abbeys were so wealthy while others were dirt poor. Politics, even among priests. Runi appreciated that. At least it proved they were human under all those robes, with human desires for power and prestige.
Anyway, the abbey's defenders formed up near the main church entrance, shields locked, spears forward, using the narrow passage to their advantage, looking almost like a real warband of tested warriors. Almost. They had the stance right, the positioning wasn't terrible, and a few of them even held their weapons like they'd used them before.
They lasted about as long as a good orgasm. Which was to say, not nearly long enough for anyone involved, but they probably enjoyed the rush while it lasted.
Bjorn's young silent warriors hit them like ravens descending on a corpse; Swift and merciless. The young huskarls and the old huskarls of Bjorn still didn't shout or make battle cries like the rest of the raiders.
Runi had heard this was their first real battle. They were being tested right now, blooded for the first time. He'd expected at least some nervousness, some hesitation. That's what happened with young warriors in their first fight—they froze, or charged recklessly, or pissed themselves, or all three at once.
But these boys showed only small reactions at first, then nothing. They just moved like they'd rehearsed it a many times, which they probably had.
Then again, who would be nervous fighting these weaklings? It was like being worried about wrestling with children. The abbey's defenders might have had the right equipment and the right positions, but they lacked the experience, the hardness, the absolute conviction that you were going to survive and the other man was going to die.
Within moments the defensive line collapsed into individual men fighting desperately for their lives.
Fighting badly, it had to be said. Dying badly too.
Runi's own men poured through the breaches in the pathetic wooden wall, spreading through the abbey grounds like water through a cracked dam, or like his seed through a willing woman; quick, thorough, and getting into every available space.
Doors were kicked in with enthusiastic violence. Windows were smashed because men liked breaking things. Monks were dragged from their hiding places, screaming prayers in their incomprehensible Latin tongue that their god apparently wasn't interested in answering. Or maybe their god just didn't speak Latin. Who could say?
"Check the church first!" Runi bellowed to his huskarls, his voice cutting through the chaos. "That's where they keep the good shit! The silver, the gold, the pretty things that make our cocks hard!"
Orm and a dozen others headed for the main building, the white stone church with its blood-red roof gleaming in the morning sun. Runi followed close behind, because if there was silver to be found, he wanted to be there when they found it.
The treasure would be divided later by the King according to shares and contributions—that was the rule, the agreement they'd all made before sailing.
But simply finding the treasure first? That felt like a victory in itself, a small personal triumph.
So he and his men focused entirely on just that, pushing past scattered resistance, ignoring the smaller buildings, and making their way directly into the white stone church.
The interior was even more impressive than the exterior, and Runi had to pause just inside the entrance, his breath catching slightly. High ceilings soared above them, so high they made a man feel small, insignificant, like the builders had wanted to remind everyone who entered that they were nothing compared to their god.
Carved pillars rose like ancient trees, covered in intricate designs that must have taken years to complete. Paintings decorated the walls, depicting their nailed god in various stages of suffering and triumph, and various saints—he'd learned that word too—doing saintly things like healing the sick, feeding the poor, and generally being more virtuous than any person Runi had ever met.
The artwork was beautiful, he had to admit. Whoever had painted these scenes had real skill. The colors were vibrant even in the dim interior light, the figures looked almost alive, and there was a craftsmanship to it that spoke of dedication and talent.
Candles were everywhere, dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Expensive wax candles that burned clean and bright, not the tallow shit that most folks used and that stank like burning fat. These candles probably cost more than most peasants earned in a year. Just the candles alone represented wealth that made Runi's fingers itch.
And at the altar, kneeling in prayer as if he had all the time in the world, was an old man in elaborate robes.
The abbot, presumably. Head of the abbey, keeper of the treasure, shepherd of this flock of terrified monks.
He didn't look up as they entered, didn't acknowledge the armed men tracking dirt and blood across his clean floor. He just continued his prayers, his lips moving silently, his weathered hands clasped before him. Either he was incredibly brave, incredibly stupid, or had simply given up on the idea of survival and was making peace with his god before the end.
Runi respected the first option, pitied the second, and understood the third. He'd seen men face death in all three ways, and there was a dignity to acceptance that he couldn't quite mock, even though mocking things came naturally to him.
He started whistling a cheerful tune as his men headed for the altar, something bawdy about a farmer's daughter and a traveling merchant. The echo in the high-ceilinged church made it sound almost musical, almost profane in this holy space. Which was exactly the point.
His men knew what to do without being told. They'd raided enough churches by now to know the patterns, the hiding places, the tricks these Christians used. They began prying up the stones around the altar, searching for the entrance to the crypt beneath.
Every church seemed to have one; a hidden space where they stored their most valuable treasures, along with the bones of dead holy men, because apparently keeping corpses in your basement was a sign of devotion.
It didn't take long. The panel was cunningly concealed, fitted so well into the stone floor that you'd never notice it if you weren't looking. But they were looking, and they knew what to look for. With a grinding sound of stone on stone, the hidden panel swung open to reveal stone steps leading down into darkness.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Orm crowed, peering down into the black opening. "I can practically smell the silver from here!"
"That's probably just old bones and mold," Runi said, but he was grinning too. "But let's hope there's silver mixed in with—"
He was interrupted by the sound of more men entering the church. Heavy boots, the clink of weapons, voices he recognized. Some of the King's personal huskarls, along with warriors from other jarls' retinues. Among them stood Rollo. Uncle of the King. And a very dangerous fighter. Now that he thought about it, there was really something he couldn't grasp about this family.
They'd finished securing the outer buildings and had come to where the real treasure was.
Rollo and the others looked at Runi and his warriors with immediate suspicion, their hands moving toward their weapons, their eyes narrowing. As if Runi and his boys were about to stuff silver up their asses and run off into the forest. As if they were thieves instead of honest raiders who'd simply gotten here first.
The tension in the air was thick as fog, and Runi could feel his own men bristling, ready to defend their claim to being first at the treasure.
But nobody started anything. They were all on the same side. They were all here for the same purpose. And more importantly, Silverhair would personally gut anyone who started a fight among the raiders before the treasure was even divided. The King had very clear rules about that sort of thing, and his punishments were creative.
So instead of fighting, they simply got to work. The King's men positioned themselves strategically around the crypt entrance, making it clear they'd be watching everything that came up from below. Other warriors spread out through the church, checking for other hiding places, prying at loose stones, looking behind altar cloths and inside reliquaries.
It was efficient, and thoroughly annoying for a man who'd been first on the scene.
Runi walked over to Orm and leaned in close, his voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. "Try not to steal anything before we divide it properly, or I'll have your balls for dice. And I'm not joking, I've been looking for a good set of dice."
Orm's eyes widened slightly, then he grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it, Jarl," he said quietly, though his tone suggested he absolutely would dream of it and had probably already started planning which pieces were small enough to hide.
"I mean it," Runi added, gripping Orm's shoulder just hard enough to make his point. "Bjorn's watching, his men are watching, and I'm watching. Anyone caught pocketing treasure before the division ends up decorating the King's ship as a figurehead. Understood?"
"Understood," Orm said, more seriously now. "Share and share alike. After we count everything."
"Good man."
Outside, the sounds of looting continued unabated. Shouts of discovery and triumph, crashes as doors and chests were broken open, the occasional scream cut short. The usual sound of a successful raid, a tune Runi had heard so many times it was almost comforting. Like coming home, in a way.
The warriors began hauling treasure up from the crypt, and Runi felt his heart beat faster with each new piece. Silver chalices, ornate and heavy. Golden candlesticks that must have weighed as much as a small child.
Jeweled reliquaries containing—presumably—bits of dead saints that these people worshipped for some inexplicable reason. Coins in three different currencies, Frankish obviously, and the rest he didn't even recognize.
Bolts of fine cloth, including—yes—silk. Books with illuminated pages and covers decorated with precious metals and gems.
It was a fortune. An absolute fortune.
And this was just one abbey. There was still Malmedy to hit, and who knew what else Bjorn had planned.
Runi caught Orm's eye again and saw his own excitement reflected there. They were going to be rich again. The kind of wealth that made men respect you and women spread their legs without you even having to ask nicely.
It was a good day to be a raider on Silver Hair's ships.
-x-X-x-
Bjorn picked up the giant ledger, its leather binding cracked with age and use. He opened it carefully, treating the book with the respect it deserved, not as a holy object, but as a tool of power.
Inside, he found exactly what he'd hoped for: a comprehensive record of everything the abbey owned for hundreds of kilometers in every direction. Every farm listed with its yield and value.
Every vineyard catalogued with its production capacity. Every Thrall. They called them serfs.
It was a complete economic map of the region.
Bjorn studied the entries with focus. He could see patterns in the data: which areas were most productive, which estates were struggling, where the wealth concentrated, where the supply lines ran. Knowledge was power, and this ledger was concentrated power in written form.
He organized the ledger into his mental category of "to be taken material." Because its disappearance would create massive administrative chaos for his enemies.
The monks who'd compiled this over decades would be dead, the records would be gone, and the Frankish lords would spend years trying to reconstruct what they'd lost, wasting manpower and resources on paperwork instead of defense.
Even if Bjorn was the one starting this enmity, even if he was the aggressor in this conflict, he would gladly create that chaos. Power favored those who struck first and struck decisively. Mercy was for men who could afford it, and Bjorn's people couldn't afford mercy from their enemies, so why should they offer it?
He set the ledger aside and turned his attention to the largest book in the scriptorium, still lying open on a heavy wooden desk. The book was so massive he guessed it probably stayed on this desk permanently, since moving it would probably require two strong men and careful handling.
Bjorn opened to the first page, his eyes scanning the Latin text. The title page revealed the work's identity: Etymologiae, by Isidore of Seville.
He began leafing through it rapidly, his mind cataloguing and absorbing information at a pace that would have surprised anyone. The structure became clear quickly: this massive tome was actually twenty separate books bound together into one comprehensive encyclopedia.
Book I – Grammar. The foundation of language itself, how words worked and were constructed.
Book II – Rhetoric and Dialectic. How to argue, persuade, and reason. How to win debates and influence minds.
Book III – Mathematics. Numbers, geometry, music, astronomy.
Book IV – Medicine. The human body, diseases, remedies, basic anatomy. Practical knowledge that could save lives.
Book V – Laws and Times. Legal systems, judges, terminology, calendars, seasons. How societies organized themselves.
Book VI – Books and Offices of the Church. Bible structure, roles of clergy, religious duties. Know your enemy's organization.
Book VII – God, Angels, and the Church. Theology, celestial hierarchies, heaven, the nature of the soul. What they believed and why.
Book VIII – The Church and Sects. Heretics, Jews, different beliefs, biblical history. How they defined orthodoxy and punished deviation.
Book IX – Languages, Peoples, and Kingdoms. Origins of nations, what different peoples were called. Ethnography and geography combined.
Book X – Vocabulary. A massive dictionary of difficult Latin words and their etymologies. Language as power.
Book XI – Human Beings. The human body in detail, stages of life, the senses, human existence. Know thyself.
Book XII – Animals. Beasts, birds, fish, insects—including mythical creatures they believed were real. Natural history mixed with folklore.
Book XIII – The World and Its Parts. Earth, oceans, rivers, islands, winds, geography. How the world was structured.
Book XIV – The Earth. Mountains, regions, provinces, cities, place-names. Political geography.
Book XV – Buildings and Fields. Houses, fortifications, fields, roads, agriculture. How civilization was built.
Book XVI – Stones and Metals. Jewels, minerals, metals, and their applications. Material wealth and its sources.
Book XVII – Agriculture. Farming techniques, plants, herbs, tools, vineyards. How to feed an army or a kingdom.
Book XVIII – War and Games. Soldiers, weapons, shields, armor, siege engines, games.
Book XIX – Ships, Clothing, Tools. Maritime technology, textile crafts, everyday implements. The mechanics of daily life.
Book XX – Food and Household Items. Bread, wine, cooking, storage, domestic objects. The foundation of comfort and survival.
Bjorn felt something close to awe as he processed the scope of this work. This was more than just a book; it was an attempt to contain all human knowledge in a single volume. The Google of the early middle ages, a search engine made of vellum and ink.
This was definitely coming with him as well.
He continued his methodical search through the scriptorium, moving like a man who knew exactly what he was looking for even if he didn't know its specific form. His hands moved carefully among the manuscripts, treating them with more respect than he'd shown the monks who'd created them.
He found a manuscript containing the complete works of Virgil, the Roman poet these Latins revered almost as much as their Christian saints. Three major works bound together:
The Aeneid – Rome's national epic, the story of Aeneas and the founding of Roman civilization.
The Georgics – Agricultural poems, but also philosophical meditations on work, nature, and human purpose.
The Eclogues – Pastoral poems about shepherds and rural life, though Bjorn suspected they were actually about politics disguised as simplicity.
Poetry. All of it was poetry. Vikings reciting Latin verses sounded absurd even to Bjorn, incongruous as a wolf trying to sing. But culture was power too, in its own way. The ability to quote Virgil opened doors that swords couldn't.
This would go into his future library, that collection of knowledge and culture he was building in his mind before he could build it in reality.
Then he found another manuscript, this one with colored drawings throughout. Medical illustrations: herbs rendered in careful detail, surgical tools depicted with technical precision, anatomical diagrams that showed where to cut and where not to cut. Practical knowledge, that could save lives and help his healers understand their craft better.
Bjorn made a decision in that moment: he was taking everything from this Abbey of Prüm. Every manuscript, every book, every scrap of accumulated knowledge. Let the Franks rebuild their libraries from memor. Let them weep over lost wisdom. Their loss was his gain, and he felt no guilt about it whatsoever.
This was the third location they'd raided on this expedition. The second abbey complex, or third if you counted the twin abbeys of Stavelot and Malmedy separately. Those two had netted them approximately 1,400 to 1,600 pounds of silver—an enormous sum accumulated over years of donations, tithes, and careful hoarding.
Bjorn knew the amount of silver they were taking was ridiculous by any historical standard. This level of plunder was unprecedented, unsustainable. But he also knew with certainty that this was a unique opportunity, a moment in time that would never come again.
The Carolingian Empire was fragmenting. The grandsons of Charlemagne were fighting among themselves. The church was wealthy but undefended. The local lords were unprepared for the speed and ferocity of Viking raids. It was a perfect storm of circumstances, and Bjorn intended to exploit it completely before the situation changed.
Because it would change. They would adapt, build better defenses, maintain standing armies, fortify their churches and monasteries. The easy raids would end, probably within a generation. So this was the time to strike, to take everything possible while the taking was good.
But this Abbey of Prüm was on another level entirely from the previous targets.
The guides—the merchants and monks he'd captured from earlier raids—had told him it was wealthy, but Bjorn was always skeptical of captive testimony. People lied, especially when they thought lying might save their lives or the lives of others.
So he always questioned many people separately, compare their answers, look for contradictions and consistencies. Lies were rarely perfect, even when coordinated. One person's fabrication would differ in detail from another's, revealing the deception through inconsistency. If multiple sources, questioned independently, gave the same information, then it was probably true.
Only after that verification process did Bjorn act boldly, raiding places he'd never seen before, places most chieftains would never dare approach without extensive reconnaissance.
The reason Prüm was so extraordinarily wealthy became clear through those interrogations: it had been favored by Charlemagne himself and by his father Pepin the Short before him.
Bjorn had wondered briefly about that epithet; how short did you have to be to earn "the Short" as your permanent title? Short enough that everyone noticed, apparently. Short enough that it became more defining than any of his actual achievements.
'Ha. Short King,' Bjorn thought with genuine amusement. Being remembered forever for his height. There was something darkly funny about that.
The abbey had continued receiving favor under Charlemagne's son Louis the Pious, and even now under the current king Lothar—the fourth generation of royal backing. Compound interest applied to political favor the same way it did to silver: a little support, accumulated over time, became enormous wealth.
The guides had also mentioned, with trembling voices and fearful eyes, that the famous "Sandals of Christ" reliquary was kept here. One of the most sacred relics in all of Christendom, supposedly the actual sandals worn by Jesus.
'I wonder if they found it,' Bjorn thought.
The relic's financial value was substantial. But its real value wasn't financial. It was a political weapon, a spiritual guarantee, a symbol of imperial legitimacy for whoever possessed it.
Bjorn could ransom it back to them for an insane price. Kings bankrupted treasuries for relics like this.
Or—and this idea pleased him more—he could give it to Charles the Bald, the king of West Francia, in exchange for something valuable. The possibilities were numerous.
And that gift would absolutely infuriate Charles's brother Lothar, in whose territory this abbey stood. It would be an insult, a theft not just of wealth but of legitimacy. The brothers would fight more aggressively, weaken themselves further, waste manpower and resources on fraternal conflict instead of defending against external threats.
That would be satisfying to watch from a safe distance.
As Bjorn stood alone in the scriptorium, surrounded by the accumulated knowledge of centuries, he heard footsteps approaching. Multiple people, boots on stone, the familiar sounds of his warriors.
Rollo entered first, followed by Jarl Runi and several other men. They looked pleased with themselves, which was usually either very good news or very expensive news.
Bjorn glanced at them, his expression neutral. "Did you find it?"
Rollo's face split into a grin. "If by 'it' you mean something fragile, dry, cracked in places, edges worn thin and the stitching partly lost? Then yes, we found it. Hidden in a small chest made of gold, locked with a tiny iron clasp, lined with silk, concealed inside a hollow space beneath the altar alongside the treasure."
"That's it then." Bjorn felt a cold satisfaction settle into his chest. The Sandals of Christ, in his possession. A relic that kings fought wars over, now just another piece of plunder.
"So it was really worn by the nailed god?" Runi asked, amusement clear on his face and in his voice. "No wonder they went brave all of a sudden and threw themselves at us when we first took the chest. They tried to stop us, but, well... you know how it ended. Pity there weren't any women here, though. Makes the whole heroic last stand seem less worthwhile for them."
Bjorn nodded, acknowledging Runi's observation but not engaging with the man's constant fixation. He respected Runi—the man was smart, capable in combat, good with his warriors.
But his obsession with women was a weakness, It made men predictable and exploitable. A man who thought with his cock instead of his head was a man who could be manipulated by anyone with pretty thralls and low morals.
Still, Runi was useful, and Bjorn knew how to work with useful men even when they had flaws. Everyone had flaws. The key was making sure their strengths outweighed their weaknesses.
He asked the important question: "Did they catch them?"
The 'them' in question was the mounted retinue that had been present when they'd first attacked. Thirty riders, all of them elite fighters based on their equipment and the way they'd fought before retreating. They'd been protecting someone important, and Bjorn wanted to know who.
Rollo's expression soured slightly. "No. Their horses were better than what our men had available, and they knew the terrain intimately. They galloped away and left everyone eating dust. We couldn't catch them."
"That's unfortunate." Bjorn's mind was already calculating the implications. "Did the monks say who they were protecting?"
"Ragnar got one of the monks to talk," Rollo said. "It was the niece of King Lothar himself. Noble blood, high value, she was here visiting the abbey it seems. For whatever reason."
A niece. Bjorn felt a flicker of genuine regret. A king's niece would have been worth an enormous ransom. But she was gone, fled with her elite guards, and pursuit would be pointless now.
'Really a pity', he thought.
But dwelling on missed opportunities was a waste of energy. What was done was done. They'd taken everything else of value, and that would have to be enough.
"Tell the men to hurry," Bjorn ordered, his voice carrying command effortlessly. "We must be gone soon. We've lingered on land long enough by now. Who knows, we might even get a real battle on the road back to the ships. So let's load the carriages, ready the horses, organize everything, and move out."
The men dispersed to carry out his orders, leaving Bjorn alone briefly to finish cataloguing the manuscripts he wanted. His hands moved efficiently, stacking books and scrolls in order of importance, creating a mental inventory that he'd verify against the physical count later.
Eventually, they were moving across the land, a column of warriors and wealth that stretched impressively along the forest roads. Carriages creaked under their loads of treasure and books. Close to a hundred horses; captured from Prüm and brought up from the twin abbeys by the men who'd secured that earlier plunder—made the return journey faster despite the heavy loads.
The logistics had worked beautifully. The horses from Stavelot and Malmedy had been used to transport that initial haul to the ships, then those same men and horses had followed guides to Prüm, arriving just in time to help with this much larger acquisition.
As they marched, Bjorn finally had time to calculate the full scope of what they'd taken.
Conservative estimate: at least 3,000 pounds of silver. Possibly more, but he'd know precisely once everything was weighed at home.
Gold: no less than 170 pounds. Substantial, though gold was so valuable that even small amounts represented enormous wealth.
Thousands of gems—sapphires, rubies, emeralds, garnets. Cameos carved with astonishing skill. Rock-crystal reliquaries that caught and fractured light like captured stars.
Manuscripts: close to three hundred, since Bjorn had decided to take every book and scroll in the entire scriptorium. Some had solid gold covers worked with jewels. Others featured silver ink on purple-dyed vellum, luxury items that cost more than most men earned in their lifetimes.
Silk vestments: hundreds of pieces, many of them old though. Enough silk to supply every jarl in the north with status symbols for years.
Wine : He found four hundred tuns of the finest Moselle in existence. He couldn't take even a fraction of it; only a handful of smaller barrels, and a few men filled their own casks as if the thought of leaving such wine behind pained them.
The Abbey of Prüm truly deserved its reputation as the wealthiest monastery in Lotharingia.
Bjorn had made one significant decision: no slaves.
Not because he had moral objections—slavery was simply how the world worked, spoils belonged to victors, and he felt no guilt about that anymore. But practically speaking, they still needed to march back to the ships, and captives unused to long marches would slow them catastrophically.
He needed speed now, not additional burdens.
They'd been on land for close to three days since leaving the ships.
The local authorities would need to learn they'd been attacked, process that information, determine the threat level, mobilize a response force, and march to intercept. All of that took time too, more time than people realized. News traveled slowly when you relied on messengers on horseback. Armies moved even slower.
By the time any substantial Frankish force assembled and marched to where the raiders had been, Bjorn's forces would already be gone, already back to their ships, already sailing for home.
Additionally—and this was the brilliance of the timing—Bjorn had attacked during harvest season. The levies that local counts and dukes relied on for military strength were currently in the fields, bringing in crops before winter. Every free man is in the fields cutting grain. Horses and oxen are pulling wagons, not ready for a fight.
The nobles couldn't call them up without risking starvation, and they knew it.
They did have household troops—housecarls, professional warriors—but those forces were limited. Not enough to challenge four hundred Viking warriors.
The timing was perfect, and Bjorn had planned it that way.
He had, however, taken hostages. High-status individuals who'd been living at the abbey; the abbot, a few minor clergy from important families. These would be valuable later, when he came back.
Because he would come back.
On the second day of their return journey; five days total since they'd left the ships, Bjorn's scouts reported enemy contact.
A small mounted force was following them, staying just beyond visual range, tracking their movement and waiting for an opportunity.
Bjorn had expected this. It was why he'd invested in proper scouting: frontline scouts to detect threats ahead, flank scouts to prevent ambushes from the sides, rear guard scouts to watch for pursuit.
Without those scouts, he'd be in a catastrophically vulnerable position. The enemy scouts would harry them constantly, ambush from forests and narrow passages, slow them down until a larger force could arrive to finish them. The raiders would be slaughtered or captured, and all this wealth would be reclaimed.
But Bjorn had scouts, good ones, and they were currently engaged in a running tactical battle with the Frankish scouts.
Hit-and-run tactics between the two groups. Quick skirmishes, probing attacks, neither side wanting to commit to full combat but both trying to gain advantage. The Franks wanted to slow the raiders and gather intelligence about their strength and composition. Bjorn's men wanted to maintain mobility and prevent the enemy from learning too much.
Bjorn let this continue for several hours, watching the pattern develop, studying how both groups operated. He wanted his scouts to understand their opponents' strengths and weaknesses, and vice versa before he intervened personally.
Finally, he saw his opportunity.
One group of Frankish scouts were pressing closer, but still a wise distance, trying to get a better count of the raiding force. They were skilled riders, well-armed, clearly professional soldiers rather than hastily assembled militia.
Bjorn led his horse in an interception alongside the his scouts.
They moved through the forest, using terrain and vegetation to mask their approach. Bjorn carried two throwing spears.
They faced the Frankish scouts across what should have been a safe distance. A few arrows were loosed, but neither side truly meant to commit to anything. They believed the space between them protected them. It didn't.
Bjorn rose, eyes fixed, and sent both his weapons flying; far beyond what any man should have been capable of.
The first spear took a rider in the chest, punching through leather armor and driving him backward out of his saddle, down to the ground. The man was dead before he hit it.
Bjorn's second throw came immediately after, smooth and practiced, the motion as natural as breathing. The spear caught another rider in the side, just below the ribs, angled upward toward vital organs. That man screamed and fell, his horse bolting in panic.
The surviving Frankish scouts reacted with admirable speed, wheeling their horses and retreating at a gallop. They'd seen two of their number killed in a heartbeat. Staying to fight would be suicidal.
Bjorn let them go. The message had been delivered: pursuing this raiding force came with real risk.
That should make them more cautious.
They finally reached the hidden location where they'd left their ships, and Bjorn felt a satisfaction he rarely allowed himself to show. The vessels were intact, the guard force was alert and ready.
Embarkation was efficient. The treasure was loaded first, carefully distributed among the ships to maintain proper balance, the majority was loaded on the Long serpent, Bjorn's ship.
The manuscripts Bjorn had taken were treated with special care, wrapped in oiled leather to protect them from spray and humidity. He personally supervised their loading, ensuring they were stored in the driest, most protected sections of his flagship.
The hostages were brought aboard, bound but not brutalized.
Warriors took their positions at the oars. Shields were mounted along the gunwales. Weapons were secured but kept accessible.
Bjorn stood at the prow of his ship, looking back at the Frankish coastline they were leaving behind and the thundering of hooves and manes streaming in the wind, the horses bolted across the fields, vanishing into the forest like a living river of motion. It was a small mercy amid the chaos of the raid.
He didn't have a knarr to carry them.
Somewhere in those forests and fields, local lords were gathering their forces, planning retribution, swearing oaths of vengeance.
The ships pushed off from shore, oars biting into water, sails rising to catch the wind.
To where? Home? no.
Only Bjorn knows.