Chapter 16: Planning the Impossible
The war council convened after midnight in Ragnar's hall, when the rest of Kattegat slept and secret conversations could proceed without curious ears. Candles provided dim illumination that turned faces into masks of shadow and flickering light, while the fire's dying embers cast dancing patterns across the timber walls.
I sat propped against wool pillows, still weak from power exhaustion but thinking more clearly than I had in days. Around the central table, Kattegat's most trusted conspirators gathered to discuss the impossible: how to kill an Earl in his own fortress without starting a civil war.
"The problem is legitimacy," Ragnar said, his voice barely above a whisper as he traced patterns on the wooden table with his finger. "If Haraldson dies quietly in his sleep, I'm a murderer who gained power through treachery. If he dies publicly in fair combat, I'm a righteous challenger who proved his worth."
"But fair combat in his hall gives him every advantage," Rollo objected, his scarred face grim in the candlelight. "His warriors, his weapons, his choice of ground. You'd be walking into a trap designed to ensure your death."
"Then we make the trap work for us instead of against us," I said, reaching for parchment and charcoal. "Every fortress has weaknesses. The question is whether we can exploit them without appearing dishonorable."
I began sketching Haraldson's great hall from memory, letting my engineering knowledge analyze structural vulnerabilities while my fingers translated mental blueprints into visible diagrams. The building's layout emerged on parchment—massive timber construction with stone foundations, elevated platform for the Earl's throne, supporting beams that carried the weight of roof and upper galleries.
"Here," I said, pointing to the eastern support beam. "This timber bears significant load from the roof structure. If it were to fail during combat..."
"The roof collapses," Lagertha finished, studying the blueprint with tactical assessment. "Killing everyone inside, including Ragnar."
"Not if he knew where to position himself for safety," I countered, adding details to show load distribution and potential failure patterns. "The collapse would be localized, controllable if you understood the physics involved."
Floki leaned closer, his pale eyes gleaming with manic interest. "You could make it happen? Bring down part of Haraldson's hall during the fighting?"
"With the right preparation, yes. But..."
I paused, considering implications that went far beyond engineering feasibility. This wasn't about building something beneficial for the community—this was about using my knowledge to commit what amounted to murder through structural sabotage.
"But it would make Ragnar look like a sorcerer or assassin," I continued. "Anyone who survived would question how he alone knew to avoid the collapse. It serves tactics but destroys legitimacy."
"Exactly." Ragnar's voice held satisfaction at my understanding. "Clever solutions that appear supernatural defeat the purpose. The community must see me win through strength and skill, not foreign magic."
"Then we focus on equipment advantage," I decided, abandoning the assassination blueprints in favor of something more honorable. "If you insist on trial by combat, I can ensure you have the best possible weapons and armor."
Over the next three days, I threw myself into creating implements of war that would give Ragnar every advantage skill and supernatural craftsmanship could provide. The sword I forged was a masterpiece that pushed my abilities to their current limits—perfectly balanced, with molecular-level stress distribution that made it stronger than any blade should be while maintaining an edge that would hold its sharpness throughout extended combat.
The weapon emerged from my forge like something from legend. When Ragnar tested it against three other swords, the blade cut through them as if they were made of soft wood rather than hardened steel. The balance was so precise that it felt weightless in skilled hands, while the grip was shaped specifically for Ragnar's fighting style.
"This is..." Ragnar began, then stopped, testing the sword's flexibility and finding it perfect. "This is the finest weapon I've ever held."
"It should be," I replied, wiping sweat from my forehead. "I put everything I know into making it."
But the sword was only the beginning. I redesigned his shield using principles that wouldn't be discovered for centuries—lighter construction that provided greater protection, metal reinforcement positioned to deflect rather than absorb impacts, a grip system that distributed shock more efficiently. The result looked like a conventional Norse shield but performed like advanced military equipment.
"Cheating," Rollo muttered, examining the shield's impossible lightness with professional envy. "Foreign magic disguised as honest craftsmanship."
"Using the best available tools is wisdom, not cheating," Ragnar replied, testing the shield's balance. "Would you refuse a sharp sword because your enemy carries a dull one?"
"That's different."
"How?"
Rollo couldn't answer, but his expression remained sour as he watched me make final adjustments to armor that would turn killing blows into grazing wounds through precise engineering rather than supernatural intervention.
The night before the scheduled combat, Ragnar and I walked along the harbor where conversation couldn't be overheard by political enemies or nervous allies. The spring air carried the scent of salt and tar, while distant lights from fishing boats created patterns of gold on the dark water.
"There's something else I can offer," I said quietly, knowing this conversation would define the boundaries of our alliance. "Insurance, in case skill and superior equipment aren't enough."
"What kind of insurance?"
"I examined Haraldson's sword during the Thing meeting. Brief contact, but enough to analyze its structural integrity." I paused, choosing words carefully. "If the combat goes badly, if you're about to die, I can weaken his blade from the crowd. Make it fail at the crucial moment."
Ragnar stopped walking, turning to face me with an expression I couldn't read in the darkness. "Sabotage? During single combat?"
"Nobody would know. The metal failure would look like poor smithing or bad luck. You'd win, and Haraldson would die, and no one could question the outcome."
For a long moment, we stood in silence while waves lapped against the harbor's stone walls and night birds called from the surrounding marshland. When Ragnar finally spoke, his voice carried disappointment that cut deeper than anger would have.
"No."
"Ragnar—"
"No." His tone was final. "I'll win with skill or die with honor, but I won't win through deception I can't claim. If I become Earl through trickery, I'll always be the man who cheated to gain power. That weakness will destroy me eventually."
I respected his decision even while thinking his honor might get him killed, but I couldn't let him face unnecessary risk out of misplaced nobility.
"I understand your position," I said carefully. "And I respect it. But if you're about to die—truly about to die, with no hope of recovery—I'll break his blade whether you ask for it or not."
"Thanos—"
"You can punish me for it afterward if you want. Execute me for interfering, exile me for dishonor, whatever justice demands. But I won't watch you die when I have the power to prevent it."
Ragnar studied my face in the dim starlight, his expression cycling through surprise, anger, and something that might have been affection.
"You'd sacrifice your own honor to preserve mine?"
"I'd sacrifice my honor to preserve your life. The distinction matters to me even if it wouldn't to others."
"And if I forbid it?"
"Then I'll disobey you. Some friendships are worth more than obedience."
For several heartbeats that stretched into eternity, I thought he might strike me or storm away in fury. Instead, he began to laugh—not with humor, but with the sound of a man recognizing truth in unexpected places.
"You're either the most loyal or most insubordinate ally I've ever had," he said finally. "I haven't decided which."
"Can't I be both?"
"Apparently." His smile turned more genuine. "Very well. Use your... insurance... only if death is certain. And if you do, we'll discuss consequences after I'm alive to impose them."
The challenge was officially delivered the next morning, presented before the entire community according to ancient customs that predated Christianity's arrival in the North. Earl Haraldson accepted with cold confidence, his pale eyes holding certainty that experience and home advantage would overcome any weapon superiority his opponent might possess.
"Three days hence," he announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the assembled crowd. "Trial by combat will determine truth and leadership both. Let the gods judge between us."
As the crowd dispersed to spread word throughout the surrounding settlements, I spent my final preparation evening with Bjorn, teaching him about leverage and fulcrums while trying not to think about what would happen if Ragnar lost.
"Why do some men fight when they could negotiate?" the boy asked, working through calculations for a simple pulley system.
"Because some conflicts can't be resolved through words," I replied. "When two people want the same thing and only one can have it, talking becomes worthless."
"But Father could just leave. Find his own land somewhere else."
"He could. But then Haraldson would always be a threat to people your father cares about. Sometimes fighting is the only way to protect what matters most."
Bjorn nodded with the serious expression of a child trying to understand adult complexities. "Will you fight too, if Father loses?"
The question hit like cold water. I'd been so focused on preventing Ragnar's death that I hadn't considered what would happen to his household if my efforts failed.
"I'll do whatever is necessary to protect the people I care about," I said finally. "Even if what's necessary isn't what I'd prefer to do."
"Good." Bjorn's smile was fierce with inherited confidence. "Father won't lose. He has the best weapons, the best teacher, and the gods' favor. Haraldson doesn't stand a chance."
Looking at his absolute faith in his father's victory, I found myself hoping that youth's optimism would prove wiser than adult cynicism.
Because if it didn't, the trial by combat would become the beginning of a much larger and bloodier conflict—one that would require every supernatural ability I possessed just to keep the people I loved alive.
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