When the uproar finally subsided, Gunnar spoke at last, his tone calm and heavy.
"This isn't personal vengeance. It's duty."
He quickly explained the situation: he had been granted the title Duke of Normandy, charged with governing the northern coast of West Francia—including the Channel Islands. Given that, the captured raiders had only two choices.
"First," he said, "you can leave these islands. But if you return to raid again, I'll kill you without mercy."
"Second, you can come ashore and settle. Each of you will receive a piece of land fit for farming."
Realizing he had no intention of slaughtering them or selling them into slavery, the prisoners began to relax. One of them noticed the silver cross hanging from his neck and asked cautiously:
"Do we have to convert to the Roman faith to stay?"
"No," Gunnar replied. "Normandy is my domain. Any Norseman who obeys my law will have my protection."
At that, the two hundred men of Jersey Island swore allegiance and followed his men ashore to begin their new lives.
With Jersey pacified, Gunnar turned northwest toward the smaller island of Guernsey. The morning fog had lifted, and the sun blazed over the sea as his fleet approached. This time, the raiders were ready.
On the cliffs above, some thirty women and youths stood with bows in hand, while at the foot of the slope, a hundred adult men had formed a solid shield wall.
Surrounded by his guards, Gunnar advanced to within fifty paces and called out for parley.
A man in a worn scale cuirass stepped forward from the line—gray streaks showing in his hair.
"What do you want?"
Gunnar repeated what he had told the Jersey men. But the pirate leader spat into the sand.
"Ragnar has taken Britain. Now you claim the coast as yours as well. You hoard all the profit and leave nothing for the rest of us. How are we supposed to live?"
For decades, Viking raiders had struck first at the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, and second at West Francia.
If they gave up both targets, they would have to sail far—to Iberia or the Baltic coast—where the danger was greater and the reward small.
As a former raider himself, Gunnar understood their plight. But times had changed; he now served as a sworn duke of the Frankish crown. He could only answer as a lord, not as a freebooter.
"Then stop raiding," he said. "The lands of West Francia are rich. Work the soil; it's time you earned peace after a lifetime of blood."
The pirate leader laughed bitterly.
"Farmers? You, Ragnar, Ivar, Vig, Orm—you were all farmers once. Why didn't you stay in the fields? You've all become kings, dukes, and earls—betraying the old ways, turning your swords against your own kin. You don't deserve to call yourselves Vikings."
The argument went nowhere. Finally, there was only one way to settle it—duel.
Before the gathered warriors, they drew their swords. The salt wind whipped at their hair as they circled. With a shout, the pirate leader swung down in a heavy overhead strike.
Gunnar sidestepped, bringing Dawnbringer up to catch the blow on the back half of the blade, twisting his wrist to deflect it.
In a blink, he trapped the man's weapon against his crossguard, shifted his weight, and pressed forward. The tip of Dawnbringer came to rest against the man's throat. A thin line of blood welled where steel kissed skin.
"You've lost," Gunnar said quietly.
And then he saw the man's face clearly—and recognized him.
More than ten years ago, they had fought side by side under Ragnar, raiding East Anglia. Back then, they had been poor and desperate, with nothing but round shields and single-bladed axes. They'd nearly died under a mob of Anglo-Saxon farmers, barely escaping to the north—only to be cursed by their chieftain for bringing back too little loot.
Now, after all those years, they met again like this.
Seeing the flicker in Gunnar's eyes, the man gave a faint, crooked smile.
"You remember now, don't you, Duke? A small man like me is easy to forget. Don't hesitate. Valhalla's calling."
"Are you sure?"
"Aye. I'm nearly fifty. Look at me—a failed raider, too ashamed to farm. End it, brother. Let me die a Viking's death."
"Then go in peace, my friend."
Gunnar's sword flashed. The man fell silently to the sand.
Half the pirates threw down their weapons and surrendered on the spot. Gunnar spared them, sending the rest back to Norway and Britain to spread the news.
"Tell everyone," he said. "Any Norseman may come to Normandy to trade or to settle. But any who come to plunder will die by my hand."
Meanwhile, in Tyne Town.
After more than half a year on campaign, Vig returned home with his wagons and horses. Led by Herligev, he went to see his new residence—the completed Tyne Castle.
The fortress had taken two years to build, rising atop a low hill twenty meters high in the southwest of town.
A moat four meters deep encircled the base, and beyond it stood a six-meter stone wall, meaning any attacker would have to climb nearly ten meters from water to battlement.
The wall was 2.5 meters thick, lined with crenellations and arrow slits. At each corner rose a round tower, each topped with a small catapult.
The main gate faced east, secured by a double iron portcullis and a wooden drawbridge spanning the moat. Each night the bridge was raised and barred.
Crossing the bridge with his guards, Vig found the castle's plan exactly as he'd designed—a square, two hundred meters on each side.
At its heart stood the keep, a rectangular hall 24 by 18 meters, walls 2.5 meters thick, fifteen meters high, and four stories tall.
The ground floor was the great hall—for feasts and councils.
The second and third floors served as guest chambers.
The top floor held Vig's private quarters and the treasury, where silver, gold, and scrolls were kept.
During the Mercia–Wessex War the previous year, Vig and Pascas had divided the captured books. Together with those collected over the years, the library now filled ten shelves.
Below the keep lay a cellar—storage for food, weapons, and supplies. If the outer walls ever fell, the keep itself could hold out for weeks.
Climbing to the roof, Vig surveyed the grounds: courtyard, deep well at the center, storehouses, kitchen, stables, barracks, and latrines.
The barracks extended underground for two levels—the lower cells serving as dungeons for prisoners.
"How much did it cost altogether?" he asked.
Herligev nestled against him, murmuring lazily,
"A little over budget—about two hundred pounds of silver. Fortunately, we used stone from the nearby Hadrian's Wall. Without that, it would've cost at least twice as much."
~~--------------------------
Patreon Advanced Chapters:
patreon.com/YonkoSlayer