Chapter 15: Aftermath and Allies
Consciousness returned in fragments—the taste of copper in my mouth, the weight of wool blankets against my skin, the distant sound of voices arguing in urgent whispers. My head felt like someone had split it open with an axe, and every muscle in my body ached as if I'd been trampled by horses.
Two days. That's how long I'd been unconscious, according to the light slanting through the shutters and the hollow feeling in my stomach. Two days while my supernatural abilities slowly regenerated and the political landscape of Kattegat transformed around my unconscious form.
"The dead don't lie," Ragnar's voice carried from the main hall, sharp with controlled fury. "Twelve bodies, eight of them bearing scars and tattoos that mark them as your sworn men. Will you claim that's coincidence?"
I struggled to sit up, fighting through waves of nausea as blood rushed to my head. Through the partially open door, I could see the Thing assembly in session—the entire community gathered to witness what might be the most important political confrontation in Kattegat's recent history.
Earl Haraldson stood in the center of the circle, his pale eyes surveying the crowd with the calculation of a man measuring support against opposition. The twelve bodies from our farm defense lay arranged before him like an accusation made flesh.
"Rogues act in service of many masters," Haraldson replied, his voice carrying the authority of decades in power. "These men may have served me once, but they died as outlaws seeking easy plunder. Their actions reflect their character, not my commands."
"Convenient." Ragnar's tone could have frozen the fjord. "How fortunate that your former warriors chose to become bandits at the exact moment my household possessed treasure worth stealing."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled crowd. I could see the community dividing before my eyes—some nodding at Haraldson's explanation, others shifting uncomfortably as implications became clear. The Earl's power had always rested on respect and fear in equal measure, but fear without respect was just tyranny waiting for its opportunity to fall.
"Careful, Ragnar." Haraldson's smile turned predatory. "Accusations without proof are dangerous things. A wise man considers whether his suspicions serve truth or ambition."
"A wise leader protects his people from threats both foreign and domestic," Ragnar replied. "Tell me, Earl—if you cannot control your own men, or if you claim ignorance of their actions, what does that say about your fitness to lead?"
The challenge was subtle but unmistakable. Ragnar wasn't just questioning Haraldson's honesty—he was questioning his competence, his authority, his right to rule. In a culture where strength and wisdom were the foundations of leadership, such challenges could topple earls who'd seemed untouchable.
I watched older warriors in the crowd exchanging meaningful glances. These were men who remembered when leadership was earned rather than inherited, when jarls ruled through demonstrated capability rather than political maneuvering. Ragnar's words were finding fertile ground in minds already questioning whether Haraldson's increasingly paranoid control served Kattegat's interests.
"My fitness to lead," Haraldson said slowly, his voice dropping to dangerous quiet, "has never been questioned by anyone still breathing."
The threat was clear, but its very obviousness revealed weakness. A truly secure ruler didn't need to remind people of his power to kill them—that power was simply understood. Haraldson's naked intimidation suggested he felt his authority slipping.
Before the confrontation could escalate further, I heard footsteps approaching the alcove where I was recovering. Lagertha appeared in the doorway, carrying a bowl of something that smelled like herbal medicine and disappointment.
"You're awake," she observed, settling onto the stool beside my bed. "Good. I was beginning to wonder if you'd pushed yourself beyond recovery."
"How bad is it? The political situation, I mean."
"Bad enough." She held out the bowl, and I dutifully sipped what tasted like tree bark steeped in regret. "Ragnar's playing the most dangerous game of his life. If he wins, Haraldson's authority crumbles and leadership changes hands. If he loses..."
She didn't need to finish. Failed challenges to established authority usually ended with heads on spikes and families sold into slavery.
"What I saw during the battle," she continued quietly, watching my face for reaction. "The way metal moved without your touch, how weapons failed at precisely the right moments. I need to understand what you are."
My stomach clenched with more than medicinal herbs. "Lagertha—"
"I don't need explanations," she interrupted. "I need to know if you're under threat because of what you can do. Because if you are, that threat extends to anyone who protects you."
The practical concern in her voice hit harder than fear or accusation would have. Here was someone calculating risks not to herself, but to her family and community.
"Athelstan," I said finally. "Ask Athelstan what he thinks. He's... observed things. His perspective might help."
Lagertha nodded and disappeared for several minutes, returning with the young monk in tow. Athelstan looked nervous but determined, clearly having been briefed on the conversation's purpose.
"She wants to know about your abilities," he said without preamble, settling against the wall where he could watch both of us. "I told her what I witnessed at the shipyard. The anchor that floated without rope or pulley."
"And you believe this is sorcery?" Lagertha asked directly.
Athelstan considered his words carefully. "I believe it's a gift. The application matters more than the source—he used these abilities to protect children from men who would have killed them without thought. Saints are known by their fruits, not their origins."
"A gift." Lagertha tasted the word like fine wine. "From what source?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "Perhaps God, perhaps the Norse gods, perhaps forces beyond either tradition's understanding. What I know is that I have them, they cost me greatly to use, and I've tried to employ them for protection rather than conquest."
Lagertha was quiet for a long moment, studying my face with those intelligent green eyes that seemed to catalog every detail for future reference.
"The source doesn't matter," she said finally. "The intent does. You could have used these abilities to claim wealth and power for yourself, but instead you've shared knowledge, protected the innocent, and bled to defend children who aren't even yours."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to the tone she used for important oaths. "Whatever you are, you're under my protection now. Anyone who threatens you for using gifts to defend this household will answer to me personally."
The simple declaration hit me like a physical blow. Here was one of the North's most fearsome shield-maidens offering her protection to someone whose supernatural abilities could be seen as a threat to everything she believed in.
"Thank you," I managed, my voice rougher than intended.
"Thank me by being more careful," she replied. "Next time, don't try to save everyone at once. Focus on what matters most and let others handle their own battles."
Our conversation was interrupted by new footsteps and the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Floki appeared in the doorway, his wild hair even more disheveled than usual and his pale eyes bright with manic energy.
"The strange thread wakes!" he announced, setting down an intricately carved wooden box. "Good. The gods demanded I bring gifts, and gifts should be received by the living rather than the dead."
He opened the box with ceremonial flourish, revealing a collection of tools that took my breath away. Hammers, tongs, measuring devices, delicate instruments for precision work—each one a masterpiece of functional artistry that spoke of hundreds of hours of careful craftsmanship.
"These are incredible," I breathed, lifting one of the hammers to test its perfect balance. The weight distribution was exactly optimized for the kind of precision metalwork my abilities made possible.
"Tools for the tool-maker," Floki said with satisfaction. "The gods whispered specifications in dreams, and my hands followed their guidance. Each one shaped for your particular... needs."
The gesture was overwhelming in its implications. These tools represented not just countless hours of skilled labor, but a commitment that went far beyond professional courtesy. Floki was declaring his allegiance in the most meaningful way a craftsman could.
"Why?" I asked, still struggling to process the gift's significance.
"Because craftsman recognizes craftsman, regardless of the strange sources of their skill." Floki's expression grew serious. "Because the gods weave patterns mortals can't understand, and fighting their design brings only suffering. Because..."
He paused, his manic energy shifting to something more vulnerable.
"Because you're the first person in years who's looked at my work and seen possibility rather than madness. Gift recognizes gift, and gifts should not be wasted through fear or ignorance."
Before I could respond, his characteristic grin returned. "Also because Haraldson will probably try to kill you soon, and dead craftsmen produce no more innovations. Learn to fight properly, or stay near warriors who can fight for you."
"Noted," I said, still overwhelmed by the practical artistry of his tools. "Thank you, Floki. This means more than I can express."
"Express it by surviving long enough to use them," he cackled, heading for the door. "The gods invested considerable effort in getting you here. Disappointing them through carelessness would be... unwise."
After he left, I spent several minutes examining each tool with the appreciation of someone who understood exactly how impossible their precision should be. Like my own work, they represented capability that shouldn't exist in this era, created through skill that bordered on the supernatural.
"You collect interesting allies," Lagertha observed, watching me test the tools' balance and craftsmanship.
"Or they collect me," I replied. "I'm still not sure which."
As evening approached, the Thing assembly concluded with no definitive resolution—Haraldson maintained his innocence while Ragnar's accusations planted seeds of doubt throughout the community. But the political stalemate was clearly temporary. Forces had been set in motion that would demand resolution sooner rather than later.
Ragnar appeared as darkness settled over Kattegat, settling onto Lagertha's abandoned stool with the easy grace of a man accustomed to making difficult decisions.
"Haraldson will need to be killed," he said without preamble. "Soon. He won't stop with failed schemes and political pressure. The next attempt will be more direct, more deadly."
"You're certain?"
"I'm certain that paranoid men become more dangerous when their paranoia is justified." Ragnar's smile held dark humor. "He knows we know he ordered the attack, and he knows we can't prove it. That knowledge will eat at him until he decides the only solution is our deaths."
The casual way he discussed assassination made my modern sensibilities recoil, but I was beginning to understand that Viking politics operated by rules that didn't include peaceful resolution of fundamental conflicts.
"What do you need from me?"
"Wisdom. Eastern knowledge about defeating entrenched enemies." His pale eyes glinted with predatory interest. "You understand structures, weaknesses, how things break under pressure. Haraldson's hall is his fortress, but every fortress has vulnerabilities."
I felt the weight of expectation settling on my shoulders like a lead cloak. Ragnar wasn't just asking for advice—he was asking me to help plan what amounted to regicide. The engineering knowledge that had helped build boats and heal wounds was about to be turned toward violence and political upheaval.
"There are approaches," I said carefully. "But they depend on what kind of victory you're seeking. Do you want Haraldson dead quietly, or do you need the community to accept his replacement?"
"Both." Ragnar's expression grew thoughtful. "I need him gone, but I also need legitimacy. Assassination makes me look like a murderer. Open challenge risks failure against a skilled opponent in his own hall."
"Then we'll need to be creative about creating opportunities that serve both needs."
As we began discussing possibilities—tactical vulnerabilities, political requirements, the delicate balance between effective action and acceptable methods—I realized that my role in Kattegat's future had just expanded far beyond craftsmanship and innovation.
I was becoming a kingmaker, using impossible knowledge to reshape the political landscape of the Viking world.
The question was whether that transformation would create the better future I hoped for, or simply replace one form of tyranny with another.
Looking at Ragnar's calculating expression in the firelight, I suspected the answer would depend entirely on choices I hadn't even realized I'd need to make.
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