Deep within a small stone church situated on the outskirts of Dublin... Inside this humble sanctuary, dozens of weary Irish monks and local villagers knelt on the hard wooden benches, their heads bowed in silent prayer.
At the front of the altar, the parish priest was completely lost in his sermon.
The peaceful atmosphere of the Irish church ant nothing to the man standing half-hidden in the shadows at the back of the room. Leaning against a stone pillar near the doors, he completely ignored the Latin prayers.
To any observer, he seed like just another tired traveler wrapped in a cloak. But beneath the hood lay a young Scandinavian rogue with sharp eyes, a ssy mop of wind-swept blond hair, and a lithe, athletic build.
This stranger... whose na was Hakon, possessed a charming smile that easily concealed his complete lack of morals, and fingers that were far faster than the blink of an eye.
At this very mont, his eyes were locked onto one specific target... the offering plate made of pure gold, resting near the back of the altar.
He slipped through the dark shadows of the stone pillars. Then, he reached out and grabbed the gold. It was incredibly heavy, almost slipping from his fingers, but he managed to keep his grip.
He shoved the plate into his leather pouch, followed by a handful of the donated silver coins.
Creeeak... A wooden floorboard groaned loudly in agony beneath his boot.
An old monk kneeling in the back row slowly turned his head, his eyes widening as he saw the thief clutching the treasury pouch.
Hakon rely flashed a charming smile, winked playfully at the old man, pressed a finger to his lips, and dashed entirely out the side door before the monk could even catch his breath to scream.
He burst outside into the bright sunlight, laughing maniacally. He then effortlessly vaulted over a low stone wall surrounding the churchyard and landed in a massive, endless field of golden wheat.
Today was harvest day in the Irish countryside.
Hundreds of local farrs, strong won, and even children were out in the mud, swinging their sharp scythes to cut down the tall wheat before the winter froze the ground.
"A beautiful day for the harvest, my friends!" Hakon shouted loudly, running right past a group of sweating farrs.
He offered them his smile, acting like a normal, friendly traveler. "Keep up the good work! May the Gods bless your crops!"
"Thank you, traveler!" an old farr waved back happily, wiping the sweat from his brow, completely unaware that the polite and cheerful young man was carrying ten pounds of stolen church gold in his bouncing leather pouch.
Hakon even paused for a brief second to steal a fresh green apple from a resting cart, taking a crisp bite before continuing his lighthearted sprint toward the city.
After running for a few miles, Hakon finally reached the bustling outer edges of the Dublin market district.
He expertly dodged stray dogs, shouting rchants, and massive puddles of freezing mud until he arrived at a large two-story building near the center of the city.
It was a highly popular local bakery. The aroma of warm, freshly baked bread, sweet honey, and lting butter wafting from the open windows was absolutely incredible.
A line of hungry custors stretched entirely out the front door.
However, Hakon was not here to buy a soft loaf of bread or a sweet pastry.
He walked right through the front door, ignoring the angry shouts of the people waiting in line. He then offered a polite nod to the busy baker, who was covered in white flour and sweating near the hot stone oven.
Hakon tossed a small silver coin onto the counter as a tip to keep the man silent, and slipped into the back storage room. He then climbed a hidden staircase leading up to the second floor.
The mont he reached the top of the stairs, the delicious scent of fresh bread vanished completely.
The windows were entirely boarded up with wood to prevent the neighbors from peering inside.
Sitting directly in the middle of this chaos was Ubba. He was wearing his wolf furs, using a small dagger to clean the black dirt from beneath his fingernails.
Surrounding Ubba on all sides were piles of empty clay pots, and dozens of heavy cloth sacks filled to the brim with the stolen magic of the Iron King.
"I brought you more gold, Ubba!" Hakon laughed, walking toward the main table and emptying his pouch. The golden offering plate and dozens of silver coins spilled out, ringing loudly against the wood.
"Good work, Hakon," Ubba grumbled in a rough voice. He reached out and picked up the golden plate, weighing it carefully in his hand. "This will do perfectly. We need every piece of silver and gold we can steal to bribe the High King’s outer gate guards, pay off the bakers downstairs to keep their mouths shut, and buy more clay from the local potters."
"Those greedy Irish guards would open the city gates for a half-eaten apple," Hakon chuckled, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "But Ubba, why the hell are we hiding in a bakery? If one of those hot ovens downstairs shoots a stray spark through these dry wooden boards, we’ll blow a hole straight down to the Underworld."
"Because the sll of bread yeast masks the sour stench of the black powder, you fool," Ubba explained, tossing the golden plate back onto the table.
Despite that, Hakon looked nervously at the hundreds of clay pots stacked around the room. So were large enough to hold water, while others were as small as a lon.
It was an insane amount of explosives... enough firepower to level a small mountain to the ground, let alone a wooden castle.
"So... what’s the actual plan?" Hakon asked, leaning forward. "Are we really going to carry all these heavy sacks and clay pots to the High King’s fortress in the dead of night? The guards are corrupt, sure, but they aren’t blind."
"No, we don’t have to carry them," Ubba smirked, reaching into a nearby sack and pulling out a handful of the deadly black dirt.
He let it slip slowly through his fingers. "I walked through the market earlier today... stopped at a tavern for so ale, and spoke with a friend. An old, highly placed friend who knows what we are planning to do with these clay pots."
"You told soone the plan?!" Hakon whisper-shouted harshly. "Damn it, Ubba! Did you slit his throat? If he runs to the guards and tells them about the bombs, we are all entirely dead n!"
"Relax, Hakon," Ubba grinned broadly. "He’s with us. He was passed over for a promotion by the King last year, and he’s greedy enough to sell his own mother for a pouch of silver. He wants to see that old bastard burn."
"Who is he?" Hakon asked.
"He’s the man who runs the royal wine cellars at the castle," Ubba whispered, leaning forward. "He is going to smuggle these clay pots inside empty wine barrels directly into the deep tunnels beneath the High King’s Great Hall. He will stack them right against the main stone foundation."
"However, we do not have the luxury of ti. We must pack every single one of these pots and seal them with wax at least before the week is over."
Hakon frowned, "Why the rush and risk making a fatal mistake with the fuses?"
Ubba rose from his chair, his head nearly brushing the bakery’s ceiling. "Because in exactly one week, the High King will host a royal fighting tournant. Every wealthy lord, every corrupt Irish nobleman, and the High King himself will be sitting together in the sa colosseum."
Hakon stared at the warlord. "But Ubba... if the explosion is this big, and we are going to place a hundred of these pots beneath the stands... how are we supposed to light the fuses and escape the tunnels before the castle collapses on our heads?"
Ubba paused his turning of the clay pot.
"...And who said anything about escaping, Hakon?"
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