Loaded with large quantities of pig iron ingots, the cog's draft increased sharply. Driven by a southerly wind, it slowly sailed toward Aberdeen.
Aberdeen was a newly developed region. With unclaid wasteland in Tynedale growing scarce, Nordic immigrants were uniformly resettled here by the duke. It was said that five thousand new inhabitants had arrived just last year.
Sir Hack wandered around the docks. The area was dominated by agriculture and animal husbandry, supplying grain and wool to Tyne Town. There were no high-value goods worth paying attention to.
Farther north lay Orkney, encompassing the northernmost town of Wick and the Orkney Islands. The sparse population there stirred unease among the clerks.
"If Orkney is already like this," soone muttered, "won't the Shetland Islands be even more barren?"
Their fears were soon confird.
Shetland's geography closely resembled that of Scandinavia. The first thing that ca into view was a rugged, intricate coastline—towering cliffs plunging straight into the sea. A thin layer of grass clung tightly to the cliff tops, pressed flat by relentless winds. Waves crashed endlessly against the base of the cliffs, throwing up white spray.
Looking inland, rolling hills stretched across the islands, while the lowlands were dominated by vast peat bogs. These could provide cheap fuel, though in recent years honeycomb briquettes had beco popular in Londinium, and Sir Hack had almost forgotten what it felt like to burn peat.
At the captain's shouted orders, the cog lowered its sails. The crew took to the oars and cautiously entered a harbor called Lerwick.
"We're here, milord."
"That's it?" Hack stared wide-eyed. "Before departure you promised to take us to the largest settlent in Shetland. A man should keep his word!"
The captain sighed. "Go ask anyone on the dock. If there's a larger settlent anywhere on these islands, I'll eat this leather cap on the spot."
Climbing onto the square sterncastle, Hack surveyed the village. Crude Viking longhouses were scattered about—low, narrow buildings with thin smoke rising from their chimneys. There were roughly one hundred and fifty houses, with fewer than a thousand residents in total.
Urged on by the captain, Sir Hack slung his pack over his shoulder, disembarked, and sought out the local village head to announce his identity.
The headman eyed the delegation suspiciously and demanded to see royal and ducal writs. Upon opening them, he saw seals from both the Ragnarsson family and House Tynemouth. The duke's writ, however, contained little beyond identifying their status.
"So, lords from Londinium," the headman said slowly.
Unable to discern the duke's intentions, he housed the group in a cleared stone warehouse, which reeked persistently of salted fish.
Although it was sumr, Shetland's climate remained cool. Strong sea winds drove clouds across the sky at great speed, bringing sudden rain or thick fog at any mont. That very night, two clerks caught colds. Hack had no choice but to throw peat that had been drying outside into the hearth for warmth.
Enduring the acrid smoke of burning peat, Hack felt a wave of despair. After struggling his whole life, he had ended up in a place where even honeycomb briquettes were unavailable.
The next day, Hack and his n sought out the village head again. By then, the man had already received a letter from the Earl of Orkney, and he preemptively demanded paynt for food and lodging.
Pay for a few scraps of bread?
Hack suppressed his anger. "We are royal civil officials."
The headman sneered. "And so what? For nearly ten years, the duke hasn't cared about us at all. Every three months we deliver salted fish and wool—everything else we handle ourselves. We don't recognize any idiot queen regent. Pay up, or get out!"
Left with no choice, Sir Hack paid out of his own pocket and ordered his subordinates to begin collecting taxes at the harbor.
Having grasped the harsh reality, they dared not stop cogs—there were too many sailors, and they couldn't win a fight. Instead, they targeted smaller Viking longships, barely scraping together enough each day to survive.
After enduring hardship for so ti, a few n quietly fled. Hack led the remaining, nowhere-to-go clerks in continued misery, praying that the Royal Guard would soon crush the rebellion and return to Britannia to intimidate the vassals.
At the sa ti, Northern Europe—the Royal Guard was in the midst of celebration.
After Niels and Ubbe fled, Oleg took control of several dium and large settlents. The seized supplies, livestock, and slaves amounted to three thousand pounds in value.
The spoils were divided into four portions: one for rank-and-file soldiers, one for officers, one for collective military funds, and one sent back to Londinium. This careful distribution satisfied all parties and allowed Oleg to consolidate morale.
In early August, he ordered his troops to embark by sea, planning to eliminate the rebels and return ho before winter.
Gothenburg
Ignoring the stares of berserkers and locals alike, Niels led his followers in kneeling before the gilded throne at the center of the clearing. This had beco his new habit—prostrating himself morning and night, even more fervently than when Ragnar had been alive, as if worshipping a god.
After the ritual, Niels excitedly announced:
"Ragnar has sent guidance! He commands us to hold Gothenburg and defeat the lackeys of Queen Regent Aslaug!"
His eight hundred soldiers roared in response. Gradually, so simple-minded berserkers and civilians were swept up as well. A restless, feverish atmosphere hung over Gothenburg.
Had it been Vig, Ivar, or Gunnar, such manipulation of the masses would never have been tolerated. But Halfdan, hot-tempered and impulsive, went along with the crowd's demands and swore to fight the Royal Guard to the death.
On August 3, Oleg's forces landed on the southern coast of Gothenburg. After surrender negotiations failed, the Royal Guard began felling trees and constructing a siege camp. The process was orderly and competent—had Vig been present, he might have given them a passing grade of sixty.
That night, seizing the mont before the enemy had fully settled in, Halfdan and Niels led a nightti sortie.
The camp lay four hundred ters east of Gothenburg on open grassland. The western side facing the town was heavily fortified, while the northeastern side—farther from the settlent—was poorly defended. The palisade there was incomplete, with gaps blocked only by chevaux-de-frise.
Under Niels' command, six hundred n silently crossed the damp adow, creeping toward the northern palisade.
The darkness was so thick it seed solid. They could only track one another by the faint clinks of armor and weapons, and by restrained breathing. Ahead, the blurred outline of the camp lood in the fog—fragile, seemingly unguarded.
"First wave—move!"
A small group of elite warriors rushed the gap, trying to clear away the obstacles.
Whoosh—thud!
An arrow scread through the dark and buried itself in a man's neck. A gurgling sound escaped his throat like air leaking from a bellows. His body stiffened, then collapsed heavily.
More arrows followed, streaking from the darkness like hail, hamring against round shields with dull, relentless thuds.
"Ambush! Push through!"
Halfdan's roar exploded through the night. He raised his shield and charged straight into the arrow storm. Niels and his bodyguards returned fire, briefly suppressing the defenders' archers.
After emptying two quivers, the assault still made no progress. Niels grabbed a warrior in deerskin armor.
"Tell your leader to pull back! The archers are nearly spent!"
Before long, the raiding force retreated to Gothenburg, cursing bitterly. Over the next two weeks, Niels launched several more attacks, all repelled. Oleg seed to anticipate every move, leaving Niels increasingly frustrated.
After the fifth failure, Niels sought out Halfdan.
"I've followed Ragnar with those Royal Guards for years—we know each other's thods inside out. They have too much armor. Field battles are hopeless now. Our only option is to rely on the walls and hold out."
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