As one of the first orphans taken in by the school, Sebert's impression of his Nordic homeland was wretched—a barren, inhospitable land unfit for human life.
Sailing along the winding coastline only confirmed his view.
Watching those filthy, rag-clothed peasants shuffle about, a chill crept up his spine.
Odin above… I must never fall to such a fate.
Nor will my future children. They deserve a better world.
By mid-April, the longship reached Kalmar on Sweden's eastern coast.
The harbor was tightly guarded—two tall arrow towers flanked the docks, and workers were still building wooden palisades to guard against surprise raids from across the sea.
The moment they landed, a fully armed patrol marched up to question them.
Though Prince Little Erik's guide produced his token, the soldiers insisted on a search.
"According to the new rules, we must confiscate your weapons. You may reclaim them when you depart."
Sebert did not protest. He calmly handed over his hand-axe and belt knife, then walked toward the lord's longhouse.
Along the streets, armored warriors patrolled constantly, stopping citizens for questioning—every man wore the look of someone expecting disaster.
"Are they afraid of Halfdan's Swords of the North?"
After a moment's thought, Sebert understood.
Kalmar had no durable fortifications and could not afford a large standing army.
If the Swords of the North struck, the settlement could fall in a single night.
Inside the longhouse, he stated his identity and request through the guide, seeking to discuss trade with Lord Leksa.
"Of course. We will gladly import the pig iron from Northern Britain, as well as wheat, ale, woolen cloth…"
Leksa listed several goods—then his tone darkened.
"But due to those berserkers of the Swords of the North ravaging the countryside, our tradeables have shrunk drastically. We cannot afford much. Unless…"
Knowing exactly where this was going, Sebert quickly cut him off.
"No. After the trouble with Bergen's former lord, my master insists—payment on delivery, no credit."
"Then there is nothing to be done."
Leksa reported his remaining stock: pelts, amber, resin—altogether worth barely forty pounds.
That little?
Sebert once more felt the sting of Nordic poverty.
He was about to say something when a panting warrior burst into the hall.
"My lord—those damned beasts in furs are extorting taxes from the villages again!"
Leksa shot to his feet, demanding their numbers.
Hearing there were only eighty, he ordered his armor brought out and summoned his shieldguards and levies.
Leaving a portion of peasants behind to guard the settlement, the lord marched out with three hundred men.
Unexpectedly, Sebert followed them out of the palisade.
"You are the envoy of the Serpent of the North—has your master already broken with Halfdan?"
Sebert shook his head. "My lord, I will not join the fighting. I only wish to learn more about the Swords of the North."
Leksa's face darkened. He said no more.
The column pressed southwest toward the afflicted village.
On the way, warriors explained the situation—and Sebert realized the collapse was far worse than the Duke had expected.
In recent years, 10,000–20,000 Norse emigrants had poured into Britain annually, most of them young and strong.
Now, with the Swords of the North recruiting aggressively, the agricultural labor force had dwindled even further.
Farms were abandoned; fields reverted to uncultivated grass.
Lord Leksa spat,
"The Swords of the North are like locusts—they eat free food in every home, then lure the young into becoming trainee warriors, then move on to ruin the next village."
Seeing the weed-choked fields on both sides of the road, Sebert remembered his Duke's definition of the Swords of the North:
a vagrant army, unproductive, expanding ceaselessly as they roamed, eroding the old order.
By afternoon, they reached their destination.
Smoke drifted faintly over the village. Leksa ordered everyone to rest, eat, and form ranks.
Five hundred meters out, berserkers emerged from the huts and formed up on the open ground.
They knew they were unwelcome—if the fight took place inside the village, the peasants would surely aid their lord.
Better to take the field and try to break the enemy in one fierce charge.
Led by five warriors clad in bear pelts, the berserkers consumed a special mushroom.
Within minutes, their faces flushed crimson, heat surged through their bodies, and they felt inexhaustible strength.
"Slaughter these weakling sheep! Valhalla!"
Wrapped in pelts of various beasts, the berserkers charged.
At over a hundred meters, Leksa roared an order—sixty bowmen pulled out bows hidden beneath the wagons and loosed a volley.
Leksa grinned at Sebert.
"Berserkers traditionally wear no armor. So I hid plenty of bows on the wagons—to give them a surprise."
The first volley dropped five deer-pelt berserkers.
The bear-pelt warriors in front were untouched, roaring forward with terrifying speed.
The archers steadied themselves and fired a second and third volley—ten men fell.
But of the bear-pelt warriors, only one went down.
By now, even a fool could see—under those bear pelts, they wore iron armor.
"Aim for their legs—hurry!"
The berserkers were only moments away.
In panic, Leksa shouted for a final volley.
A heartbeat later, the remaining fifty berserkers crashed into the formation.
Discarding shields bristling with arrows, they swung their double-handed axes in wild arcs, instantly rupturing the levy line.
Sebert, a non-combatant, instinctively backed away.
These berserkers fought like maddened beasts—feeling no pain, only hunger for blood.
Against three hundred hastily gathered levies, such tactics were devastating.
The peasants dared not trade blow for blow; they broke, recoiled, and finally routed.
In a short but savage clash, the outnumbered berserkers shattered the force opposing them.
The survivors fled in panic.
Hearing screams behind him, Sebert sprinted back along the road.
Cold air burned his lungs; a faint metallic sweetness filled his nose.
"Hah… hah… Two years after graduation—and I never thought I'd be reliving my childhood training."
At the school, the children not only studied—they trained twice a day.
Morning runs; evening drills with close-quarters weapons and bow practice.
Thanks to solid nutrition and years of exercise, Sebert outpaced both foes and allies alike, reaching Kalmar's palisade far ahead of everyone else.
Without time for explanations, he grabbed the guide and a dozen sailors and raced toward the eastern docks—ready to flee at a moment's notice.
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