Bloodshed at the Jarls' Council
Simple greetings were exchanged at the alliance meeting as Erik and eight nobles took their seats. Erik called himself a king, but he couldn't exactly be called the leader of the nobles. There were no strict lord-vassal relationships among them, and perhaps because of that, Erik's demeanor was quite mild. Just like his appearance. Nine chairs arranged in a circle in the open clearing. Including the soldiers of each lord standing behind them, a massive crowd densely filled the front yard of Oslo's longhouse. I stood right behind Ragnar's chair, quietly observing the situation.
"Everyone. Ahem..." Erik let out a thick cough to clear his throat and opened his mouth. "Since we opened new routes to the west, countless warriors have crossed to Britain and West Francia, bringing back unimaginable wealth."
The soldiers' gazes focused on Erik all at once. "But all that has been mere small-scale expeditions. With small numbers, it's impossible to capture the enemy's major strongholds." He paused for a beat. The air around us felt taut, pulled tight. "Therefore, I propose forming a large allied army to directly attack the enemy kingdom's capital. If we seize it, we can all plunder the spoils to our heart's content!"
In the end, it's just saying let's all go plunder together. What's the difference from pirates then?
As soon as his shout ended, the entire clearing exploded. "Ooooh!!!" "Ah... that startled me." A massive wave of sound battered my eardrums. The pressure crushed my whole body, suffocating.
The nobles' reactions varied. Some had mad fervor gleaming in their eyes as they clenched their fists, while others furrowed their brows with deep wrinkles on their foreheads. They were probably worried their own soldiers from their domains might be swayed by Erik's honeyed words and desert.
As the cheers slowly died down, Erik gave an order to one of his men. What the man brought out was a large leather map. The outline of Britain, with a specific southeastern region painted black. I widened my eyes and peered closely... Essex, maybe?
"Londinium." Erik tapped the black-painted area with his finger and spoke. "The target of this expedition is this city."
Londinium. The city that would later be called London. Erik went on endlessly about how prosperous Londinium was. A rare flourishing city in the world, overflowing with gold and silver, seize this one city and we'd have wealth to last generations.
Yawn... I swallowed a yawn while listening, stifling it inside. From what I vaguely remembered digging around on the internet, Londinium's current state was far from Erik's rosy propaganda. After the last Roman legions withdrew from Britain in the early 5th century, the city had entered a path of decline. It wouldn't flourish again until much later, in the 11th century, after the Frankish Duke of Normandy fully conquered England and his successors designated Londinium as the capital.
"At this point in time, it's probably a half-empty ruin of a city." I muttered softly enough that no one around could hear.
If we marched an army there to plunder what turned out to be an empty wasteland, that would be the real comedy. We'd cleave through waves across the sea, only to end up with hollow disappointment. But I couldn't voice such things carelessly. Speaking words that might offend Viking sensibilities could get my head split by an axe.
Erik's speech dragged on for a good while. Confirming no one directly opposed the plundering plan itself, he suddenly sprang from his seat. His throat must have been parched; he gripped a large horn cup decorated with gold in both hands, gulped down the mead, and belched thunderously.
"Buuuurp!"
Then he slowly walked toward Ragnar. "Now, Ragnar Lothbrok." Erik placed one hand on Ragnar's shoulder, surveying the nobles. "Some of you may have met him in person, others only by reputation, but no one here doesn't know Ragnar's name. He sets sail west every year for raids and knows the coasts of Britain and West Francia like the back of his hand."
Erik continued. "I propose he lead the allied fleet for this expedition. What say you all?"
Ragnar commanding the fleet. Well, that was only natural. He was a heroic figure among the Vikings. The lords fell silent for a moment. Only the cold wind whistled between the chairs.
Right then, one noble sitting directly across snorted and spoke up. "I acknowledge Ragnar as an excellent mercenary. He's perfect to use as a hunting dog, but whether he's qualified to stand on equal footing with us and command the fleet is an entirely different matter."
The atmosphere turned icy in an instant. "What did you say?!" "How dare you!" Ragnar's shield-bearers, myself included, unleashed a barrage of rough curses. Amid the warriors' furious shouts, the most intense reaction came from Ivar, as expected. Ivar roughly tore off his fur cloak and flung it aside. He drew his sword, raised it high, then pointed the tip straight at the noble.
"Boneless Ivar, son of Ragnar and Lagertha, challenges you to a duel for insulting the jarl!"
Ivar's voice, enunciating each word deliberately, echoed across the clearing. A duel. In Viking society, issuing a challenge to a duel was as sacred as any ritual. In a place that prized courage above all, refusing one was no different from branding yourself a coward.
"Woooah!!!" Ecstatic cheers erupted from all sides. "A duel!" "Fight! Fight!" The onlookers egged them on without exception.
Erik, apparently unwilling to buck the crowd's mood, said nothing and returned to his seat, merely sipping his horn cup. The noble's name was Borg. Borg hardened his expression and glared coldly up at Ivar. "You're too lowborn to even cross swords with me."
With a mere nod of his chin, Borg sent out one of his soldiers. A man about Ivar's height, with sharp eyes and a sturdy build that exuded intimidation. Ivar scoffed. "Hmph."
Ivar crooked a single finger, beckoning his opponent. "Come on. I'll end this quick."
I was standing behind Ivar's back, so I couldn't see his precise movements in detail. But...
"Gaaah!!"
After just three or four clashes of weapons, the opponent was already rolling on the ground. Crimson blood gushed from a gaping wound in his throat. But Ivar didn't stop there. He repeatedly slammed his round shield down on the dying man's body, savagely crushing him. As if determined to pulverize every bone to dust.
Thud! Thunk! Crack! "Oof..." The sound of bones crunching echoed like a haunting refrain across the clearing.
That's when it hit me. The origin of his nickname, Boneless. It came from his fighting style that shattered enemies' bones to pieces.
Only after the man breathed his last did Ivar slowly rise. He set aside the blood-dripping shield and stared straight at Borg. His eyes were killer... "Next!"
One word, and the entire clearing fell silent. Borg sent out more of his soldiers in succession. But the results were all the same. Miserable, gruesome deaths. Just dog meat.
"All of you, come at once!" Ivar was in a frenzy, as if he'd slaughter every last one of Borg's men this way.
As the situation threatened to spiral out of control, Erik finally sprang from his seat. "Enough!!! Your blood belongs on the battlefield. I won't allow more kin-slaying on my territory. This ends here!"
Under Erik's forceful intervention, the meeting continued, but all eyes remained fixed on Ivar. The duel was still fresh in their minds, hard to shake. Ivar, racking up victories before nine nobles and countless soldiers. In the most brutal way, thoroughly crushing his foes... His fame was sure to skyrocket from this day. The bards of the northern lands would compete to sing of this feat.
What kind of lunatic kills an ally mid-meeting? Is this Viking thinking? Their mindset is just different from ours. And here I was, learning combat from him. For some reason, I felt a twinge of fear.
As the meeting wrapped up, Erik invited the nobles and their retinues to a feast. Probably to mend the rift caused by the duel with mead and good food. The banquet hall was inside Erik's longhouse. The standout main dish was a whole roast pig. Coated evenly with honey and sprinkled with a tiny amount of pepper—which was an exceedingly rare spice—so it signaled Erik's attempt at lavish hospitality. Beside it were rows of stockfish, salted beef, and mutton. And even blood sausage made from entrails.
Looks delicious!
Also, per custom, a plate of fermented shark meat.
"Ugh! What is that smell!"
As I approached, a nose-assaulting stench hit me hard. It felt more rotten than fermented. Better skip that one.
There was only one vegetable dish: a stew of various veggies boiled in broth made from animal bones. A bit of beans mixed in; the taste was... edible, I guess. Bland seasoning, but I should be grateful just to have veggies.
There was rock-hard bread too, and aged cheese for dessert. These two, plus the mead, were unlimited refills!
After Erik's toast, the feast kicked off in earnest. I wasn't a famed warrior with exploits to boast of; as a newbie, I had no place inserting myself into the Vikings' self-congratulatory contest around me. Amid men exaggerating over drinks about how many foes they'd slain or how many big ships they'd captured, I sat quietly, steadily shoveling food into my mouth.
"....."
The expedition loomed close. Once on the battlefield, who knew if I'd get proper meals. Stocking up on nutrients now was the best way to boost my survival odds, however slightly.
The irony? In my past life, I'd despised fatty meats. Too greasy, fattening, bad for health—I'd avoided lard. Now I was wolfing it down greedily. A profound realization after this harsh transmigrated life: a chunk of lard was priceless.
During the meal, snippets of nearby conversations caught my ear. Talk about Borg, who'd just gotten schooled. Turns out he was a longtime comrade who'd stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Yetebori's former lord, Olgrafsson. He'd even publicly declared he'd protect Olgrafsson's surviving family in his own domain.
So that's why he picked a fight with Ragnar. Pieces falling into place.
Borg's put-down of Ragnar was likely fueled by vengeance for the dead. This could be a headache. If it were just status issues, we could shut it down, but personal grudges might keep causing trouble.
Across the way, Ivar—face flushed with drink—was boastfully shouting before his soldiers. "I'll personally lop off the King of Essex's head! I'll seize his crown as spoils and burn his manor to ashes! Haha!!!"
Ashes, huh. I couldn't help smirking inwardly. Londinium was a Roman-built city. Most buildings were brick and stone, worlds apart from the wooden longhouses of Northern Europe in durability. The very idea of burning it to ash showed ignorance of reality.
If we failed to breach the walls on the first assault, it'd likely drag into a long, grueling siege. I respected Ivar's bravery, but he had zero understanding of Londinium's defenses.
"Gotta find a moment alone with Ragnar later. If I can suggest strategies based on what I know..."
Nom nom. I soaked a piece of bread in mead and ate it.
Of course, I had no intention of foolishly contradicting Ivar's drunken rant. A drunk Viking was about the most dangerous thing on earth. I'd pass on losing my head to some ignorant axe.