Vig ordered his shieldguards to search the nearby shoreline to confirm no berserker had survived. He then declared the operation over, rested for the night in a nearby village, and hurried back to Tyne Town the next morning.
After changing into a coarse linen robe like that of any commoner, he headed to a tavern by the docks. Sailors from every corner of the world gathered here—perfect for collecting rumors.
"One mug of small beer, one plate of fried mutton."
He placed five silver pennies on the greasy counter—too much, judging by the server's startled look. One of Vig's shieldguards, also dressed as a civilian, quickly stepped forward, tossed down half a penny to settle the bill, and discreetly slipped the server a silver coin to buy silence.
"Hah… I've grown too used to noble prices," Vig sighed, and chose a quiet corner where he could eavesdrop on the drinkers' chatter.
"You hear? Gunnar of Normandy is holding a grand tourney to celebrate his eldest son's birth. May tenth!"
"Of course I know. I'm hauling ale and a few barrels of mead over—hoping to make a killing."
"But Gunnar converted to the Roman faith. Will he allow Viking knights to enter?"
"Most likely. He's been doing business with the nobles in Britain; he's not squeamish about such things."
Vig sat for a long time, chin propped on his hand, listening, but none of it was what he wanted. He was nodding off when a shieldguard quietly nudged him awake.
A new group of ragged Viking sailors had pushed into the tavern—pent-up after weeks at sea, shouting as they ordered meat and drink, loudly bragging about all manner of trivialities.
This time, Vig finally heard what he had come for.
Halfdan's new warrior order was called the Sword of the Norse. Inside the order, martial prowess was revered above all else. Trainees wore deerskins, and after passing trials became full members wearing wolveskins.
The highest rank wore bearskins—the Berserks. Promotion was brutally simple: hunt a bear alone, kill it, and skin it as a token of one's valor.
To learn more, Vig paid for a round of ale.
One gray-bearded sailor exhaled a wave of alcohol. "Hic—you looking to join the Sword of the Norse?"
Vig lied with ease. "No. I'm a merchant. Planning to pool money with partners to buy a ship for the Tyne Town–Gothenburg route. But I need to know if this warrior order will cause trouble."
"A mug won't cut it. Brothers want more meat and drink—the fuller we are, the more we remember."
With enough ale in them, the sailors' caution melted away. What they offered afterward was a mixture of truth and nonsense.
From what Vig pieced together, the Sword of the Norse numbered between one and five hundred, and was expanding rapidly.
To feed these blood-hungry, full-time fighters, Halfdan had split them into squads of thirty to forty, sending them to various settlements to eat—then recruit.
Since Lennard, Ulf, and many other lords had moved to Britain, their old lands lay hollow. Local folk dared not refuse these fierce guests and were forced to hand over food.
"Clever. Vicious."
Vig realized he had underestimated Halfdan.
As a new order, the Sword of the Norse lacked strength for open war; instead they used these borderline tactics—gradually infiltrating villages, coercing households into "sponsoring" food, lest the warriors simply stay and devour an entire settlement's stores.
"Besides Lennard and the other seven earls, plenty of Norse nobles joined Ivar in Ireland—fifteen fiefs in total. With their tribute plus occasional raiding, they can support about eight hundred full-time warriors."
Without doubt, this was only step one.
Once he gathered enough men, Vig suspected Halfdan would target minor lords with no backing, expanding one bite at a time. Even if King Erik sensed danger, he wouldn't dare declare war outright—Halfdan's father was High King of Britain, stronger than all of Norway combined.
"From an exiled prince to this… was this Halfdan's idea, or is someone advising him?"
After repeated questioning, the sailors' useful information was exhausted, and they began inventing wild rumors just to earn another drink.
"Farewell, gentlemen."
Vig rose to leave, but the drunken sailors latched onto him, trying to coax more alcohol from this "soft-hearted rich man."
In an instant, ten plain-clothed shieldguards rushed to Vig's side, tossing off their cloaks to reveal the chainmail beneath.
Startled by the sudden flash of steel links, the sailors froze. Vig didn't bother with the drunks and returned directly to Tyne Town.
Two days later, a Raven-Speaker came to report news from Edinburgh.
"Milord, the shamans there say men in beast-skins have been recruiting—calling themselves the Sword of the Norse. Seems Halfdan is behind it."
"What? They dare meddle on my land?"
Suppressing his anger, Vig chose a middle path.
"Send a letter to the county sheriff. Tell him to find an excuse to detain these berserkers. Then wait—see if other nobles' lands show similar activity."
Four days after that, a mounted courier arrived. Vig opened the letter to learn that three berserkers had been captured. According to their confession, this action was spontaneous—they had not consulted Halfdan beforehand.
At the end of the letter, the sheriff reported that these men had already seduced thirteen Viking youths into joining them and asked for instructions.
For such hot-blooded young fools, Vig had no better solution and ordered their release. Soon after, a Raven-Speaker hurried into the hall.
"Milord, this can't go on. Young men are impulsive—they're easily lured by this nonsense of 'warrior glory.' Instead of reacting passively, why don't we create our own warrior order?"
It sounded reasonable at first glance—but Vig rejected it immediately.
"No. The temple's duties are threefold: calm the people, relay public sentiment, and provide healing. They must not control a warrior order."
He left no room for argument.
After sending the Raven-Speaker away, Vig thought up another approach—"bread and circuses."
These were the Roman Empire's tools for keeping the masses docile.
In essence: feed the urban poor, give them spectacles, and keep their minds occupied.
But instead of bloody gladiatorial combat, Vig preferred sports and theatre, using them to subtly spread his own ideas.
"Football… In later centuries it sweeps the world—especially Western Europe. Why not copy the rules? Let these idle young men burn their energy on the field—and improve their bodies in the process."
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer