51- The young man who would be king.

Bjorn left his men to tend the bodies scattered across the muddy ground outside.

The great hall of Tunsberg reeked of sweat, blood, and fear when Bjorn entered. His own blood-soaked byrnie clung to his chest, and gore matted his silver hair. The two huskarls flanking the oak doors barely glanced at him—their spear-points dipped in acknowledgment, nothing more. They had seen enough carnage this day.

Inside, wounded men lay sprawled on wolf pelts and deer hides. Some moaned through clenched teeth, others stared at the smoke-blackened rafters with glassy eyes. Servants and healers moved between them like ghosts, their faces drawn with exhaustion.

The sight that greeted Bjorn made his jaw tighten. These were the men who had retreated when Bjorn's war-band appeared. Instead of standing shield-to-shield with him, they had grabbed their wounded leader and scattered like sheep before wolves.

Their cowardice had cost him ten good warriors. Now those faithful dead lay cooling in the dirt while these idiots groaned on warm furs.

Bjorn watched a gray-haired woman press a filthy rag against a gaping wound. Her hands were caked with dried blood and dirt. Nearby, a younger healer used a bone needle that looked like it had last been cleaned for more than a season.

"Wash your hands first," Bjorn said, his voice carrying across the hall. "Clean your tools with boiling water. Otherwise infection will finish what our enemies axes started."

Every head turned toward him. The woman he had spoken to—barely past twenty five years, with brown hair escaping her headcloth—looked up from the graying warrior she tended. Her eyes flashed with annoyance, but when she saw the dirty silver hair, she still spoke more reservedly, though with sarcasm clearly in her voice.

"Are you saying that you know better than every healer in here?" Her voice dripped scorn. "My mother and her mother were healers, they have been healers before you were even born. So I'm sure they know better. I'm sure what I'm doing is the right way."

"Well that's an interesting way to thank someone who just saved everyone here from a fate worse than death." Bjorn replied evenly

One of Bjorn's huskarls stepped forward with fury in his eyes. "Show respect, woman! This is Earl Bjorn of Kattegat. Without him, you would be screaming under every bastard in Helsing's war-band right now."

The young healer shot to her feet, her voice rising with each word until she was nearly shouting. "I know who he is! I also know he has barely fourteen winters behind him—still a beardless boy playing games of the!"

Tears ran down her cheeks, though whether from rage or fear, Bjorn could not tell. "And don't pretend this was chance! It would take more than half a day's hard riding to reach us from Kattegat. You came because you knew Helsing would strike here!"

The hall fell silent except for the crackle of the central fire and the low moans of the wounded. Every eye was fixed on the trembling girl who had just accused an earl of cowardice and cunning.

Bjorn stepped closer until he could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. "I understand your fear, woman. But whether I knew of Helsing's plans or not, he would have come anyway. Everyone knew he meant to take Tunsberg. You are the only people left resisting him."

Her hands clenched into fists. "My name is Haelir, not 'woman.'"

A hoarse voice broke the tension. "Haelir..."

The woman spun around so quickly she nearly stumbled. "Father!"

The wounded man she had been tending struggled to prop himself on one elbow. An axe had carved a deep furrow across his chest, barely missing his heart. An arrow shaft protruded from his left thigh, broken off short. His breathing came in wet, rattling gasps.

"Peace, daughter," he wheezed, placing a blood-stained hand over hers. "The wound... is shallow. I have taken worse."

This was obviously a lie—Bjorn could tell—but the woman's tears finally stopped flowing.

The wounded man turned his gaze to Bjorn, studying the silver hair and pale eyes that had become legend across the northern fjords, if someone wished to believe them. "So you are Bjorn. You are indeed young, though taller than i expected. The skalds speak truth, then. You do bear the gods' mark."

His breathing was labored, but excitement crept into his voice like a boy hearing his first war-tale. "Is it true about the sword? Does the blade truly flash with lightning?"

"Did the gods speak to you themselves?"

"They say you walked in Valhalla's golden halls. What did you see there?"

Bjorn's mouth twitched with annoyance. "Save your breath for healing. And tell your healers to listen to my men unless you are eager to join the dead."

Haelir's chin lifted defiantly. "You cannot know that will happen."

Bjorn bit back his first response—that he was the only one who knows that— Instead, he simply stared at her until she looked away.

The older warrior studied Bjorn's face for several long heartbeats, as if searching for some sign or portent in those strange pale eyes. Finally, he nodded slowly.

"I am grateful for your aid, Earl Bjorn. Without you...." He didn't continue the sentence, but both knew what would have become of them. "Do as you will."

Bjorn gestured to his men, who immediately began instructing the bewildered healers. They spoke of boiling water, of scraping tools clean, of washing hands until they were red and raw. The local healers muttered among themselves, clearly thinking these Kattegat warriors had been touched by madness.

Heavy footsteps announced another arrival. "Bjorn."

Rollo ducked through the doorway, his massive frame filling the entrance. His bearded axe dripped red, and a sword hung across his broad back. His dark eyes found Haelir immediately and lingered there.

"The work is finished?" Bjorn asked.

Rollo dragged his gaze away from the girl and nodded. "Every last one of Helsing's dogs is dead or bound. What would you have me do with the survivors?"

"Nothing yet. Tell the men to eat from our ships' stores and rest well. Tell them to be ready at the first sign of light. We will be busy"

Rollo's eyes drifted back to Haelir as he replied. "Understood. Did you find the hird-leader? Is he among the dead?"

The wounded man on the furs spoke up with dry humor. "I fear you will be disappointed, big man. I still draw breath."

Rollo studied him appraisingly, noting the severity of his wounds, then nodded with what might have been respect.

Another man entered—Trygve, his byrnie splattered with blood that was not his own. "Earl Bjorn."

"You live. That's good." Bjorn turned to face him. "Is there something of importance?"

"There are men outside who would speak with you, lord. They were taken from Borre when Helsing raided there."

Bjorn raised his eyebrows. "Why did they send you with this message?"

Trygve shifted uncomfortably. "They... they thought I was one of your huskarls, lord."

"Then lead me to them."

Before leaving, Bjorn looked back at the wounded hird-leader. "We will speak when you are stronger."

The older man nodded, then called out with sudden urgency. "How did the bastard die? I hope you killed him yourself."

Bjorn paused in the doorway. "Does it matter? The war is ended. Now we face the consequences of everyone's actions."

The hird leader whom Bjorn did not know his name still, asked in confusion. "Consequences?"

"Outcomes, or results. Whatever you like best."

"Aye, Aye" the war-leader whispered, his voice fading as exhaustion took hold. "Results"

Bjorn followed Trygve into the morning, leaving behind the smell of blood and the sound of weeping. Outside, the ravens had grown bolder, hopping between the corpses with coal-black eyes gleaming. The work of war was done, but Bjorn's job was still not finished.

-x-X-x-

Behind the great hall, near the smoking remnants of a storage shed, eight men knelt in the mud with their hands bound behind them. Standing over them were more than fifteen warriors—not Bjorn's men, but fighters whose faces bore the strain of terrible choices. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard, stepped forward when he saw Bjorn approach.

"Lord Bjorn," the man said respectfully despite the vast difference in their years. "I am Eirik Bone-Breaker, sworn to... was sworn to the Jarl of Borre before Helsing's dogs put him in his grave. These worms on their knees are the Berserker Prince's true oath-men."

Bjorn studied both groups with calculating eyes. The kneeling prisoners bore the look of veterans from their look and cold eyes that held no trace of fear or remorse. They had chosen their path freely and would die on it without regret.

The standing men looked haunted, their shoulders bent under the weight of shame and desperate hope.

"Tell me what happened here," Bjorn commanded.

Eirik's jaw worked as if chewing bitter meat. "When Helsing took our families—wives, children, gray-bearded fathers—he gave us a choice: fight for him or watch them burn after his men had used them like common whores. We chose dishonor to keep our blood alive."

He spat a bloody gob into the churned mud. "But when we heard new war-horns singing , we knew the time of that bastard prince had come. So we took our chance and turned our blades on his true followers when they were coming to help him."

One of the kneeling men—a lean warrior with ritual scars covering his arms that marked him as one of Helsing's berserkers—lifted his head and sneered through broken teeth. "Oath-breakers and sheep-hearted cowards. Helsing should have fed your families to the ravens the moment he took them. At least then you would have died with some honor."

Eirik's hand flew to his seax, murder blazing in his eyes, but Bjorn raised a pale hand to halt him. "Did these men yield when cornered, or fight to the end?"

"Fought like rabid wolves, lord. We had to crack skulls and break bones to take them breathing instead of letting them die on their feet like they wanted."

Bjorn nodded slowly, understanding the deeper truth. True believers were always the most dangerous enemies—they would choose death before dishonor, and that made them unpredictable. "You are huskarls of Borre, then?"

"What remains of us," Eirik replied with bitter grief coloring his words. "Helsing butchered half our war-band when we fought. Cut down good men. Good men died that day. The rest of us... we chose to live with shame rather than die with honor and leave our kin to suffer worse fates."

"And now you bring me these prisoners. Why not simply open their throats yourselves and be done with it?"

Eirik straightened, hope flickering in his weathered features. "Because we pray that you might help us free our families, lord. They are still held in Alfheim as hostages or slaves, and only the All-Father knows what torments they endure in there. We will gladly sail with you against his remaining dogs, spill our blood on foreign shores if need be. We ask only that you take us there in your longships and let us earn back what we have lost."

All fifteen men of Borre looked grim, their eyes holding the desperate fury of fathers separated from their children and husbands torn from their wives.

Bjorn considered the situation logically. These coerced warriors had proven their change of loyalty with blood—they had turned on their former allies, if you can call them so, at the crucial moment when the battle's outcome hung in the balance.

But could such men ever be truly trusted? Those who broke oaths once, even under the direst circumstances, might do so again when death pressed close. Yet they had compelling reasons for their betrayal, and men with families to protect often made the most reliable followers—they had something beyond gold or glory to fight for.

The true oath-sworn men kneeling in the mud, however, were a clear and present danger. They would never accept defeat genuinely, never bend the knee without plotting revenge in the dark corners of their hearts. They would scheme and wait and strike when least expected, and their loyalty to a dead prince might inspire others to foolish acts of vengeance.

Perhaps sensing the doubt that clouded Bjorn's pale eyes, Eirik spoke again. "Lord, we were never Helsing's true oath-men. We never swore to serve him willingly. He held blades to our children's throats and made worse threats to our wives and daughters. Give us the chance to prove our worth in honest battle. Let us earn back our honor through faithful service and wash away our shame with the blood of our enemies."

Bjorn nodded slowly, coming to his decision. "Carry out the executions first. Consider it your first service to your new lord, and let it show all here where your loyalties truly lie."

The coerced warriors exchanged glances. But Eirik nodded grimly, understanding the deeper meaning. This was a test, a chance to prove their commitment through deed rather than mere words.

"It will be done, lord."

Just as the men of Borre moved toward the bound prisoners with drawn seaxes, Bjorn called out sharply. "Wait."

Every man turned in surprise, confusion written across their faces. "Yes, lord?"

A chilling smile spread across Bjorn's young features.

"Free one of them. Give him a weapon. Form a circle around us."

"Lord?" Eirik's confusion was evident in his weathered features.

"Do as I say. You will understand soon enough."

They unbound one of the prisoners; a stocky warrior with a braided red beard who had served as one of Helsing's ship captains, and pressed a battle-axe into his callused hands. The men stepped back reluctantly, forming a rough circle in the muddy ground.

Bjorn drew his sword slowly, the steel singing as it cleared the scabbard. The men looked into his weapon in wonder.

He stepped into the makeshift arena, still wearing that cold smile that never touched his eyes. "If you can kill me in combat, or even draw first blood from my body, you may leave this place freely. No man here will stop you or pursue you."

The freed warrior looked around uncertainly at the ring of grim faces, searching for some sign of deception or mockery. Finding none, he hefted the axe and tested its weight. "Do you swear this before these men and the gods who watch from their halls?"

"I do swear it, by Thor's hammer and Odin's spear."

The man's eyes hardened with desperate hope mixed with the fury of the doomed. He had nothing left to lose and everything to gain. With a berserker's roar that echoed off the hall's timber walls, he charged forward, bringing the heavy axe down in a killing stroke aimed directly at Bjorn's silver-haired skull.

Bjorn sidestepped with fluid grace. His sword flickered out, and steel bit through bone and sinew with a wet crunch. The warrior's axe-hand flew through the air, trailing droplets of blood, and the weapon tumbled uselessly into the mud.

The man staggered backward, staring in shock at the spurting stump of his wrist, his mouth opening to release a scream of agony and disbelief.

Bjorn's blade took his head before the sound could emerge, the steel passing through his neck so cleanly that for a heartbeat the body remained upright before collapsing.

The watchers stood in silence as blood pooled around the twitching corpse. Several of the Borre men shifted uncomfortably. This display felt different, more personal somehow.

Bjorn retrieved the bloodied axe from the severed hand and threw it carelessly at the feet of another bound prisoner. His voice remained calm, almost pleasant. "Free this one too, Eirik."

The grizzled warrior sighed heavily but obeyed, knowing better than to question his new lord's methods.

-x-X-x-

By the time the eighth head rolled into the churned mud, a grotesque pattern of severed hands marked the circle where Bjorn had danced his deadly dance. Each prisoner had been given the same false hope, the same meaningless chance at freedom. Each had died the same way; maimed first to prolong their suffering, then beheaded while writhing in agony on the ground.

The men of Borre stood in silence, their faces pale despite having witnessed countless battles.

"Hang the bodies a little far from the settlement's walls," Bjorn commanded while methodically cleaning his sword on the last corpse's blood-soaked tunic. His voice carried no emotion, as if he had just completed some mundane task rather than butchering eight men with his own hands.

"Let all who approach know that Tunsberg has new protection, and what fate awaits those who dare attack it."

As his grisly orders were carried out by reluctant hands, some of the warriors exchanged troubled glances. They could have simply opened the prisoners' throats and been done with the matter. But none dared question their new lord openly, not after witnessing what those pale hands could do with a blade.

-x-X-x-

With Helsing dead and his war-band either bound, or butchered, all of Vestfold lay open before Bjorn. But seizing territory and holding it were vastly different challenges.

Borre had no clear jarl now, Helsing's systematic raids had killed several landowning families and scattered their surviving kin to the winds. The settlement's grain stores were nearly empty, its defenses broken, its people scattered or dead. It would take months of careful work to restore what had been lost.

Kaupang still had its merchant and trading lords, but they were cautious men who valued stability above all else.

Tunsberg at least retained its hird leader, though the man lay fevered and weak from his wounds. When his strength returned, Bjorn could expect his support in keeping the settlement secure and functioning. The respect of such men was worth more than gold when it came to ruling conquered lands.

Bjorn had not declared himself king—not yet. That title would require more than victory in isolated battles.

He needed to meet with the surviving local leaders, solve the festering problems left by Helsing's reign of terror, and prove that he could bring order and prosperity to replace the fear and chaos.

The common folk and warriors already looked to him with something approaching awe after his swift end to the battle, but the gods' blessing meant little without the support of those who controlled grain stores, trade routes, and the loyalty of lesser lords.

For now, he would be their protector, their sword-arm against the darkness.

By nightfall, order had been imposed throughout Tunsberg through Bjorn's iron will. The dead from both sides were gathered into great pyres beyond the walls and burned to ash.

Fire was seen as a way to release the soul or send the deceased to Valhalla.

The settlement was scoured clean of blood and debris by teams of thralls and freed prisoners working under the watchful eyes of Bjorn's huskarls. The broken sections of the wooden palisade were already being rebuilt under the direction of the local ship-wrights and Floki from time to time would come and piss them off regarding their lacking skills.

Most importantly for Bjorn's larger plans, he had sealed the harbor completely in the morning. His fastest longships patrolled the waters beyond. No vessel could enter or leave Tunsberg's waters without his express permission.

The news of Helsing's death would remain secret for as long as possible, denying his remaining allies and enemies time to prepare their responses or flee to distant shores.

Inside the great hall, the wounded hird leader still drifted between fevered waking and restless sleep, his daughter Haelir maintaining her vigil beside him, Bjorn later heard that he lost her husband in the defense against Helsing.

Bjorn would speak with the man properly when his wits fully returned, but for now, more pressing matters demanded attention.

Guards were posted at key points throughout the settlement. Messages were prepared for dispatch to other holdings once Bjorn decided which news to share and which to conceal.

-x-X-x-

In the night, Bjorn stood on Tunsberg's main dock beside another four longships of King halfdan, alongside his six ships.

Five vessels rode low in the water, full with provisions, weapons, and the hopes of desperate men. Close to hundred warriors were sailing with him—Eighty were Huskarls and some veteran farmers from Kattegat, and fifteen huskarls from Borre, including Eirik Bone-Breaker himself.

"Father," Bjorn called to Ragnar, who stood nearby with his arms crossed over his chest. Ragnar would remain behind with less than a third of their total forces to hold Tunsberg alongside the other local huskarls and the surrounding lands. "Stay safe while I am gone. Don't climb walls or anything, for the sake of your back."

Ragnar nodded with a smile on his face. "You too. And take care of Floki. The mad fool doesn't know how to swim."

From where he sat on a coil of rope near the lead ship, Floki let out his high, distinctive laugh that carried across the quiet harbor. "The gods are with us, Ragnar! Who cares if I know how to swim or not? If Aegir wants me in his hall beneath the waves, no amount of thrashing will save me."

Bjorn shook his head at his friend's careless attitude. "Don't worry about him. I will keep him alive despite himself.

As the six ships pushed away from the wooden dock and their oars began to bite into the waters, Bjorn stood at the prow of the lead vessel like a figure from legend. The wind caught his silver hair and the raven-sword banner snapped proudly above his head.

Behind them, Tunsberg receded into the night mist, smoke still rising from the funeral pyres and the bodies hung of the eight men.

Vestfold was his now in all but the most formal sense.

And Bjorn was not a man satisfied with a single kingdom.

The men of Borre had unwittingly provided him with perfect justification for what he had planned from the moment he burned Uppsala to the ground—families to rescue gave him the moral high ground, enemies to punish provided legal cause for war, and another realm lay ripe for conquest just across the waters.

Alfheimr is strategic frontier zone with access to rivers, fjords, and the Skagerrak strait; ideal for trade in furs, amber, iron, and slaves between the Baltic, North Sea, and inland routes.