The Poisoned Feast
How much time had passed since the poisoning? The cheers and laughter that had filled the feast hall gradually faded, leaving only those slumped over the tables, snoring away. The embers in the hearth were dying out, crackling faintly like their final breaths, the only sound echoing through the hall.
"Drink... drink more..." I heard Ragnar's low, drunken mutter beside me as I cracked my eyes open. A pale light seeped through the crack in the door.
Already morning?
A couple of crows squawked atop the roof, fighting over scraps of pork.
"Ughhh..." I stretched out my crumpled body from under the table, unkinking my limbs. Every muscle ached. The price of sleeping on the hard wooden floor hit me right in the lower back.
That's when I spotted her—a woman standing stock-still in one corner of the hall. A face I'd never seen before. One of Erik's maids?
Ragnar noticed her too, waving her over in a voice still thick with hangover. "You there, woman. Bring me a cup of mead."
"Yes..." Moments later, the maid returned with a goblet brimming with thick, golden liquid.
Ragnar took it, squinting one eye and clucking his tongue. "Is this the best King Erik's stores have left? Bottom-shelf swill. Tsk tsk."
He grumbled but lifted it to his lips—only for Lagertha, freshly awakened, to stride up and snatch it from his hand, downing it in one gulp.
"Why do you never save any for me? You're always like this."
Ragnar sighed and muttered something under his breath, then began rummaging along the long table. Amid the scattered cups and plates, he finally unearthed a half-full jug of mead.
He hoisted it triumphantly, grinning at Lagertha. "This is the good stuff from last night's feast. Want a sip?"
He dangled it before her like a victory trophy. He's gonna get smacked.Real smooth move with your own wife...
Just as Lagertha opened her mouth—
"Cough! Gah...!" Her body lurched forward, blood spewing from her lips. It splashed vividly across the sunken stone floor.
Splat. Her slender, sturdy frame crumpled limply to the side.
"Lagertha?!" Ragnar hurled the jug aside and rushed to her. It shattered against the floor with a crash, startling a few sleeping warriors awake.
I scrambled over too, checking her condition. Her face was draining to a ashen gray, blood trickling relentlessly from the corner of her mouth.
This is... poison.
The goblet the maid had brought. The one Lagertha drank in Ragnar's stead.
A quick scan—the maid was nowhere in sight.
"Ragnar! It was that maid! She poisoned the mead!!!"
My shout turned Ragnar's face to stone. Moments later, Ivar burst in at the commotion, his gaze falling on his mother's prone form. His face went ghost-white.
"M-Mother...?"
A beat of silence. Then Ivar unleashed a roar that shook the entire hall.
"I'll... KILL THEM! I'll grind every bone in their body to dust while they're still alive!!!"
..........
Word of the poisoning spread like wildfire through Oslo. King Erik immediately mobilized troops to seal the harbor and begin searches. By Nord tradition, the host of a feast was duty-bound to guarantee their guests' safety. With a guest collapsing in the king's longhouse, Erik had to act fast—or no jarl would ever attend another Oslo gathering.
The search parties returned with grim news. The suspected maid had vanished. Worse, Borg and his men had bolted from Oslo right after she fled.
Borg. The noble who'd been Olgrafsson's longtime ally, the former jarl of Yetebori. He'd been seething since his duel loss to Ivar.
To strike from behind like this...
"Borg... that bastard!!!" Ivar snarled, gripping his sword hilt like he meant to snap it.
Ragnar never left Lagertha's side. Luckily, it wasn't a lethal dose; she was unconscious but breathing faintly.
Erik sprang into action, skipping excuses and summonsing every soldier and guest still in Oslo.
"We march full speed on Borg's lands!"
I pondered Erik's motives as he declared it. Probably something like this:
First, placate Ragnar's rage to secure his commitment to the alliance raid.
Second, after marching troops over mountains and rivers, he couldn't return empty-handed. Something from Borg's lands would salvage his pride.
Truth mattered less than profit.
Politics are the same everywhere.
Borg's domain was Tusby, deep inland, a full half-day's ride northeast of Oslo. The Viking host snaking through narrow mountain paths was a sight to behold—but in truth, grueling.
Rocks and roots snagged our ankles constantly; armor crushed our shoulders, slowing us with every step.
..........
Two full days later, we arrived.
"Huff... huff... Marches are hell..."
Tusby village came into view. First thing that struck me: the pathetically flimsy wooden palisade. Villagers scrambled to hammer stakes and lash crossbeams, but it was laughably shoddy. No arrow slits, no moat. Barely enough to fend off wild beasts—hardly a proper wall.
Too late to scramble now.
I muttered to myself, keeping pace with the column.
Tusby erupted into chaos at the sight of hundreds of warriors. Serfs dropped tools and fled the fields; masters herded them inside in panic.
The wooden gates creaked shut. Minutes later, a cart rolled out.
Four corpses atop it: two adults, two children. Beside them, five neatly rolled parchments.
Parchments?... Ah!
The land maps from Yetebori that Olgrafsson's family took when they fled!
But wait—looking closer at the bodies, the kids weren't dressed like peasants. Finely woven wool, silver brooches.
Olgrafsson's children? Then one adult's his widow, and the other... the poisoner?
Borg's voice boomed from beyond the fence.
"The poisoning was Olgrafsson's widow hiring an assassin for revenge! I had no part in it! These bodies on the cart are the assassin and her family's. Here's your proof—check for yourselves! I swear on Odin's name, every word is true!"
Utterly shameless. He'd vowed to protect her, then slaughtered her and the kids to save his own skin when the heat came.
Sacrificing children for his life. Disgusting.
But by now, truth was irrelevant. Erik's eyes made that clear.
After marching eight hundred men two days, burning food and coin—he couldn't slink home empty-handed, or his royal dignity would crumble.
"Attack!!!"
Bwooo~! The horn blast reverberated everywhere, its bovine wail rumbling deep in our chests.
Archers formed ranks, nocking arrows. Shhh... Thwip!
Hundreds blackened the sky in arcs, raining beyond the fence. Second volley before the first landed, then third, fourth—relentless.
My sword hilt slicked with sweat.
"Charge!"
"Waaaaah!!!"
Two dozen warriors surged with round shields forward. Villagers fired through gaps, but their aim was abysmal. Only one grazed a calf.
Warriors hooked grapnels over the palisade. Heavy iron claws bit into stakes, ropes tied to packhorses.
"Hya! Hya!"
Whips cracked mercilessly on haunches. Smack! Neigh!
Horses reared and yanked back. Crack! Boom!
A whole section tore free, gaping a breach.
"Into the village!!!"
Before Erik could order, impatient warriors flooded in. Ragnar, Ivar, Bjorn at the fore. The hasty shield wall shredded apart.
Why rush everyone in? No reserves?
Pushed inside, I realized the peril. If enemies ambushed from the woods, blocked the exit, and torched it—we'd all burn.
Like with Olgrafsson, this era's wars lacked cunning. No tactics—just brute clashes. One day it'll cost them dearly.
What to do...
As I racked my brain for order amid chaos, a black shadow lunged from the left.
Body reacted first—Ivar's drilled mantra: If suspicious, raise your shield!
Thud! Heavy impact on the shield face rippled through leather armor, up my arm to shoulder. An axe blade had embedded in the surface.
The foe yanked it free. "You little—!"
I slashed low, severing his ankle. Slash!
"Arghhh!"
Not honorable. But in a life-or-death melee, honor's a luxury.
As he crumpled in agony, I withdrew half a step and thrust through his throat. Squish!
The feel of flesh parting transmitted through the hilt. Light faded from his eyes as he fell.
"Huff... huff..."
No time to catch breath—
"Nooo!!!"
A woman charged, shield raised, screaming. Wife? Sister? Of the man I killed.
I met her head-on; she flew back. "Kyaa!"
Hatred and terror mixed in her eyes as she hit the ground.
"...Sorry."
The words slipped out sincere. Yet my sword didn't stop. Slash.
"....."
Innocent blood again... Different from caving Olgrafsson's skull. Nausea surged, but I swallowed it. No room for vomiting on the battlefield.
Soon after, we reached the jarl's longhouse in the village center.
Blood-soaked Ivar blocked my path. "Seen Borg?"
Dried blood flecked his face like black spots; his eyes burned like a predator mid-hunt. One wrong word, and I'd be next.
"N-No... Just cut down two grunts. No iron-armored knights."
Ivar's jaw clenched. Got to get him moving.
"Maybe he swapped clothes and slipped out? Right when the fight started?"
He gnashed his teeth, spun, and bolted for the stables, clutching his dulled blade. His silhouette cut sharp as frost.
"Whew... Close call..."
Only a trembling serf in the stables. "M-Mercy!"
Terrified at Ivar's sight, he spilled: Borg changed to commoner's rags and fled to the rear woods at battle's start.
"That cowardly rat...!"
Ivar's eyes flashed. From a safe distance, I gazed beyond the broken palisade.
Smoke rose from village spots. Captured villagers sat lined up; warriors looted valuables.
Tusby's day waned.
Borg escaped, but his seeds of hate lingered. With Lagertha alive, Ivar's rage wouldn't cool—watching her suffer would only stoke it.
"Viking shield-maiden..."
I muttered, wiping my bloody sword on my pants.
My reflection in the blade: ghastly. Blood and dirt caked my face; hair matted with gore.
Good thing it's the same red.A bit sticky, though.
"...Long road ahead."
Crows wheeled over the ruins. Battlefield crows—folk here called them Odin's eyes, picking souls for Valhalla.
"Odin or whoever, just skip me."
I tossed the words skyward, then dragged my weary steps toward the longhouse.