Mid May. 797 A.D
Bjorn organized the papers like a book, each sheet stacked precisely in order. He took another clean sheet, his fingers stained with ink, and paused. The title mattered as it would be the first thing every warrior saw, from the greenest farmer's son to the most grizzled huskarl.
He hummed an old tune his brother once sang, the melody helping him think. Finally, he dipped his quill and wrote in bold strokes: "On War."
His first book and his legacy. Written in ink that could be copied endlessly. Strategies and battle tactics. Discipline and logistics. And most importantly, his philosophical understanding of war itself—not as glorious saga material, but as a brutal and necessary tool.
Bjorn rose from his chair, picked up his sword resting on the wall and began leaving the empty hall, his footsteps echoing against the timber walls.
His mind wandered to the inland kingdoms as he walked. Only four existed in Norway, clinging to their mountain valleys like men clutching driftwood in a storm.
They were poor. Poorer than any coastal kingdom. Compared to his Kattegat, still unfinished with its development, they were more than a century behind.
Two paths lay before him when expansion became necessary.
The first: ready his men, march inland, attack the kingdoms one by one. Lose precious weeks marching through dozens—hundreds—of kilometers of mountains and muddy ground. Feed and supply more than a hundred warriors through terrain that swallowed resources like a hungry beast. A logistical nightmare that made his stomach turn just thinking about it.
Then, even after conquest, he'd need to bring them west. Whether through sword or sweet words, they'd need to join him. His ships needed filling. His raids required more men.
He'd offer them benefits, of course. New agricultural methods. Lower taxes on their trades compared to outsiders. The promise of wealth from western raids.
Some would agree. The pragmatic ones, the hungry ones.
But others would refuse. Too proud and too attached to their rocky independence. He knew it, expected it even.
But Bjorn had a plan for them too.
His goals would be met regardless: expand his influence northward, secure alliances, arrange marriages that would bind kingdoms together stronger than any treaty.
He reached the shipyard where eight ships were being prepared. The planting season had just ended faster than any season in living memory, thanks to his new methods. The soil had barely dried on the farmers' hands before they could turn to other work.
On the road to the shipyard, Bjorn passed through his people, creating ripples of respect. Craftsmen paused in their work. Farmers straightened their backs. Children ran alongside him, laughing.
Some bowed their heads instinctively. Women offered fresh bread for his voyage, their faces flushed with pride. Children shouted questions:
"Will you bring treasure again, Lord?"
"When can I be old enough to sail with you?"
One boy, no more than eight or nine years old, ran directly in front of him and stopped, panting. "Lord Bjorn! I want to raid with you!"
Bjorn smiled slightly. "Sure, we'll need a fearless warrior like you, but you are still young. Go tell your father to teach you to farm or something else before you dream of raiding."
"But farming is boring!"
"Farming is what feeds our people, not the excitement." He ruffled the boy's hair and kept walking.
Hrafn followed behind him like always—his shadow, his shield. But the man was aging, and it pained Bjorn to watch. Hrafn had been in his forties when he'd sworn his oath four years ago. Now the grey in his beard had spread, the lines around his eyes had deepened, and his movements carried the weight of accumulated battles before Bjorn's time.
Bjorn had chosen him for his experience and honor, not his sword arm. But he wondered if Hrafn saw himself the same way—as a leader rather than a warrior. He hoped their thoughts aligned.
At the shipyard, his raiders prepared themselves in organized chaos. All wore tunics and cloaks in various states of repair. Each man carried a locked chest; their mobile home for the voyage.
Bjorn's own equipment was different. While his men had standardized helmets and soon acquire chainmail. Bjorn needed something that commanded immediate respect.
Something that said king.
He'd drawn the design himself, laboring over it for weeks, then handed it to his best craftsmen. Their helmets, costing less than a pound of silver was the norm now, though he didn't expect the same for chainmails, costing about two pounds of silver.
Bjorn's armor was different:
Cuirass: Twelve thin iron hoops, leather-hinged, protecting only his chest. The design mimicked the ancient Corbridge lorica segmentata—overlapping bands that distributed impact while allowing movement.
Shoulder guards: Two flat iron plates mounted on leather. Simple, functional, based on Kalkriese-type plates.
Pteruges: Red rawhide strips hanging from his waist and shoulders like a warrior's skirt. The color of blood, impossible to ignore.
Belt: Wide leather studded with iron, reminiscent of Roman military belts, supporting the weight of sword and equipment.
Undersuit: Thick quilted wool tunic that absorbed shock and prevented the armor from chafing skin raw.
Helmet: The piece he was most proud of—reinforced with boar's tusk elements and topped with a dramatic red crest. When he wore it, he'd stand even taller, visible across any battlefield.
When he'd first shown the craftsman his design, the man's eyes had widened. "A glorious armor, Lord!" He'd grasped Bjorn's arm with trembling enthusiasm. "This design, it's surely a gift from the gods themselves! You are truly their chosen—"
He'd stopped mid-sentence when he saw Bjorn's expression. Dead eyes and unimpressed.
The craftsman had smiled nervously, not embarrassed in the slightest, just recalibrating his approach.
Bjorn had chosen every color deliberately.
"Bjorn"
Bjorn turned to see Rollo approaching, his massive frame cutting through the crowd of workers. The man moved like a bear, but there was grace in his movements now.
Bjorn initiated before Rollo could speak. "How is marriage life treating you uncle? I forgot to ask."
Rollo had married last year. A political arrangement, not a love match. His bride was the daughter of Tunsberg's huskarl leader. Haelir, her name. Bjorn still remembered their first meeting, more like a clash of ideas.
He had spoken with the man when Bjorn was declared King, and since Haelir had only recently lost her husband, he allowed her a time of mourning.
But the time for grief had passed, and duty called, for both her and Rollo. Rollo hadn't objected much; he found her pleasing to the eye, and the marriage bound them as family rather than merely lord and subordinate.
Family ties made better bonds than oaths. A king and his subordinate could drift apart.
Rollo's expression shifted to suspicion. "Why?" His eyes narrowed. "Are you preparing to marry yourself?"
Bjorn shrugged, keeping his face neutral. "Maybe. Any advice?"
Rollo stopped walking and turned to face him fully, a rare seriousness settling over his features. "Ah, marriage." He crossed his arms. "What can I say? It's like a battle. The important thing is knowing when to raise the shield..." He paused for effect. "...and when to surrender."
He thought for another moment, then added: "It's the only fight you can never win, but must never lose, nephew." He placed a heavy hand on Bjorn's shoulder, the weight both literal and metaphorical.
Bjorn looked at him with genuine surprise. "Well look at you. I never took you for a stoic person."
"What's a stoic person?" Rollo's brow furrowed. "Where do you even get these words from?"
Bjorn ignored the second question. "A stoic is someone who doesn't let emotions control them. They accept hardship without complaint. Stay level-headed in victory and defeat alike."
"Hmm." Rollo nodded slowly, considering. "Then the gods made no stoics among us."
Bjorn smirked. "Well... I am something of a stoic myself."
Rollo snorted, the serious moment breaking. "Once you marry, you won't be anymore. Trust me."
They resumed walking. Bjorn shifted topics. "How is Haelir doing with her studies?"
Rollo's expression softened slightly; the closest thing to fondness Bjorn had seen from him regarding his wife. "She's curious. Like a child asking 'why' about everything. I guess that's important for learning, as you said." He scratched his beard. "She's doing well. Better than I did, honestly. Faster. And she likes this idea of yours; putting knowledge on paper so nothing is lost to time."
Bjorn nodded, satisfied. Literacy was spreading. Slowly, like roots through soil, but spreading. "Good. Any problems with your neighbors?"
Rollo grinned. "No. They're silent as usual. Maybe they'd talk more if their wives weren't keeping them busy."
Bjorn simply nodded, saying nothing. And despite the noise of preparation around them—hammering, shouting, the creak of wood and rope—silence seemed to fall between the two men.
Bjorn finally said in a serious tone. "Do not underestimate anyone."
Rollo's expression shifted. "Do you think they are up to something?"
"Well silence often is the beginning of storms." Bjorn simply said.
Rollo shifted his weight. "Maybe they're just afraid."
"Yes, but don't worry about them. Just keep teaching your men formations and writing and reading." Bjorn said with finality in his tone.
Rollo cleared his throat, deliberately changing the subject. "Congratulations on the drinking hall, by the way. I visited it. Very full and very warm. And good taste on picking the female servers. They are very pleasant to the eyes."
"Thank you. It's working better than I hoped."
"Think you could build one in Borre?"
"Not now." Bjorn shook his head. "Resources are stretched. But in time, yes. Eventually every large settlement will have one. The size will depend on the population, obviously."
"The men like having a place to gather that isn't just someone's hall."
"That's the point. Neutral ground. No politics. Just men and women enjoying themselves." Bjorn smiled slightly. "And it keeps them out of trouble. I hate small troubles, they make me sit and listen to talks, and never-ending talks, about marriage problems."
Rollo barked a laugh. "Truth."
The loading continued around them. Men shouted to each other, testing ropes, checking supplies.
The final preparations took another hour. Bjorn walked among his men, checking equipment, offering words of encouragement or correction as needed.
They boarded the lead ship. Bjorn stood at the prow as the men took their positions at the oars. The familiar routine settled over them; the creak of wood, the splash of oars entering water, the rhythmic grunting as the ships began to move.
Behind them, Kattegat slowly shrank.
-x-X-x-
Smoke hung thick in the air, turning the morning sun into a pale disc of orange. The smell was worse—burning thatch mixed with blood and loosened bowels. Death had its own stench, unmistakable and permanent once you'd learned it.
Bjorn stepped over a dead monk, the man's tonsured head split open, his fingers still clutching a wooden club. He'd probably never held a weapon before this morning. Now he'd never hold anything again.
The courtyard was a slaughterhouse. Bodies lay sprawled in the positions death had found them—monks in their robes, villagers who'd run here seeking sanctuary, each with whatever weapon they'd managed to grab. A bow here. A spear there. Axes. Hammers. Farm tools turned to war.
All useless.
In the center of it all stood one man. Blood spattered the brown fabric, though Bjorn couldn't tell if it was the man's own or someone else's.
"Put down your weapon and surrender, abbot." Bjorn's voice carried across the courtyard, cutting through the sounds of his men ransacking the monastery buildings. "Or is the death around you not enough?"
The abbot kept his pitchfork leveled at Bjorn. Not shaking in the slightest.
Bjorn studied him. Forty years, perhaps older. Grey threading through his hair. Deep lines around his eyes that came probably from squinting at manuscripts by candlelight. A scholar forced into the role of warrior. His back remained straight despite everything, despite the bodies of his brothers littering the ground like fallen leaves.
The man's calmness was remarkable. Unnatural, even. Around him lay carnage. Villagers and monks rushed to defend this place and each one thought God would protect them.
The abbot stood among them like a stone in a river, unmoved by the current of violence that had swept through this place.
"Damn you, heathen." The abbot's voice was controlled. Not the hysteria Bjorn usually heard in these moments. "One day we will burn your ships. With God's help, we will drive you back into the sea."
Bjorn almost smiled. Almost. "Yes, yes. I'm sure you will." He took a step closer, his boots squelching in blood-soaked earth. "Now come on. Playtime is over."
The abbot didn't lower his weapon and didn't move at all.
Bjorn sighed. "Let's hope your king finally gives in. Stubborn one, your King. I wonder who he takes after."
The new King of Mercia, barely a year on the throne after his father Offa's death. Young and prideful. Stupid in the way that only men who've never truly lost can be.
Bjorn had attacked dozens of villages across Mercia over the past three weeks. Taken their supplies—grain, livestock, ale. Taken their treasures when they had any, which wasn't often in these poor coastal settlements. Killed anyone who resisted. Left the rest alive to spread the message.
All of it designed to force King Kenelm to the negotiating table. To pay a simple ransom. Gold and silver in exchange for peace. A transaction.
But Kenelm refused.
They'd met twice on the shore, at a place where Bjorn had established a defensive camp. Both times, the young king had arrived with a retinue of armored warriors, his chin held high, his voice full of righteous fury.
"God will grant us victory," Kenelm had proclaimed during their last meeting, his hand on the cross at his neck. "If you continue these attacks, divine justice will fall upon you like thunder. The Lord protects his faithful, always."
Bjorn had stood there, arms crossed, watching the young fool posture and preach. He was sick hearing the same speech by now.
'You need stone walls,' Bjorn had thought, studying the king's inadequate forces. 'You need a standing army, trained and ready. You need ships—lots of ships—to patrol your coasts and meet us on the water before we can land.'
'You need everything you don't have.'
But he'd said none of it. Why give advice to an enemy?
Instead, Bjorn had simply nodded, retreated with his men, and continued the carnage.
Every monastery they encountered, they hit. Burned the buildings. Killed everyone who fought. Those who ran—and there were always some who ran—Bjorn let go. Survivors spread fear better than corpses.
This monastery in Repton, under Royal patronage as the defenders said before they died, was the seventh. Or eighth. Bjorn had stopped counting.
"You know what I find interesting?" Bjorn said conversationally, taking another step forward. "You Christians always talk about your God protecting you and granting victory and delivering justice." He gestured at the bodies. "Yet here we are, again."
"God tests us," the abbot said with conviction. "to strengthen our faith through suffering."
"Very convenient. When you win, God blessed you. When you lose, God was testing you. Heads you win, tails you don't lose."
"Mock all you want, heathen. Your soul is already damned."
"So I've been told. Many times." Bjorn's hand moved to his sword hilt in a casual way. "Usually right before i kill the person saying it."
The abbot's eyes narrowed. Bjorn saw the decision made; saw the moment the old scholar accepted his death and chose to meet it on his feet.
"God save me!" The abbot charged.
But he was neither fast nor skilled. Just a man running toward his end with a pitchfork and a prayer.
Bjorn almost felt bad about what came next. Almost.
The pitchfork thrust was slow, painfully slow to his eyes.
Bjorn sidestepped the thrust easily, like avoiding a falling branch. The pitchfork passed harmlessly through the space where he'd been standing.
Then he slapped the abbot, the sound echoing despite the noise around them.
The abbot's head snapped to the side. His legs buckled. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, pitchfork clattering beside him.
Laughter erupted from Bjorn's men. Crude, harsh laughter that echoed off the monastery walls.
He turned to survey his men's work. The systematic pillaging was nearly complete. They moved through the monastery, checking every room, every hiding spot, every place something valuable might be concealed.
Some of his warriors were hauling supplies toward the ships moored in the nearby river. Sacks of grain. Barrels of ale. A few pieces of silver plate from the chapel.
But Bjorn's eyes fixed on another group—the ones carrying women over their shoulders.
Nuns. Six of them, discovered when they'd breached the wooden palisade that surrounded the monastery and this village of two hundred or three hundred men at most. Though most ran to the woods.
The assault on the walls had been easy, almost embarrassing. Bjorn's archers—himself included—had simply shot down every defender who showed themselves.
If this had been another Viking chieftain leading the raid, they probably would have taken losses. Men would have died climbing the walls, or fighting through the gate.
But Bjorn had many advantages.
Once inside, he'd immediately sensed the shift in his men's demeanor when they saw the nuns. The way their eyes changed and their hands twitched. The way voices got quieter and more urgent.
He'd known exactly what they were thinking.
Rape was common in raids. Expected, even. Most Viking leaders didn't just allow it—they encouraged it as part of the plunder. Another kind of treasure to take from the conquered.
But Bjorn needed these women undamaged. Virgins consecrated to the Christian God were valuable hostages. The Church would pay handsomely for their safe return. Violated nuns were worth considerably less.
So he'd given clear orders. Loud enough for every man to hear. Simple enough that there could be no misunderstanding:
The men had grumbled. Some shot him dark looks. And a few had muttered under their breath.
But none had disobeyed.
Bjorn was truthfully waiting for someone to test him. Hoping for it, almost. He'd execute the man immediately—not out of compassion for the nuns or some moral principle, but because they'd refused a direct order.
Orders were absolute. Break one, and discipline collapsed. Let one man rape a hostage, and suddenly everyone thought the rules didn't apply to them. Let that happen, and you didn't have an army anymore, you had a mob.
So far, his men understood. The nuns were being carried roughly, without gentleness, but without violation. Property to be protected, not pleasure to be taken.
Bjorn bent down and grabbed the unconscious abbot, hoisting the old man over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
Around them, buildings burned. The chapel, the dormitory, the scriptorium where monks had spent decades copying manuscripts. All of it consumed by flames that reached toward the grey sky.
Bjorn didn't look back.
They moved in formation down the path toward the river—over two hundred men in organized columns, carrying supplies and hostages. Behind them, the monastery became a pillar of smoke, visible for miles.
Another message for King Kenelm.
Pay, or watch your kingdom burn piece by piece.