After some time, the lord, having discarded his heavy armor, was escorted back to Kalmar by five shield-bearers. Upon arrival, he frantically rallied the townsfolk to organize their defenses.
Fortunately, the berserkers' numbers had dwindled to a mere thirty. Unable to breach the wooden palisade and sack the settlement, they hurled a barrage of curses from outside before finally storming off in frustration.
"It is finally over."
Still shaken by the lingering dread, Rekker ordered his men to search the surrounding area for the envoy of the Duke of Tainburg.
"My lord, that fellow named Sebert bolted faster than anyone. He is already holed up on a ship in the harbor, ready to set sail and flee at a moment's notice."
'He ran faster than a frightened hare. Does a coward like that truly deserve to serve the North's Serpent?'
Filled with silent contempt, Rekker hurried down to the harbor to meet Sebert. Forcing a polite smile, he picked up the threads of their earlier trade discussions.
"Your Excellency, we have been severely ravaged by the Swords of the North. Our situation is on the brink of collapse. We urgently request to purchase a large quantity of raw iron ingots, along with various weapons and armor..."
Sebert remained silent. Having just witnessed that disastrous defeat, he strongly suspected that the lord's grip over the Kalmar region would weaken even further, rendering him completely incapable of affording such a massive expense.
After mulling it over for a long while, he decided to take a different approach. Since the lord could not provide silver or trade goods, perhaps he could facilitate an immigration agreement to funnel people into the Northern Marches.
"If your trade fleets were to sail to Teyne Town, and should you find yourselves with spare room aboard, you might consider bringing along some migrants. The Duke will gladly pay a corresponding bounty in silver based on the numbers you deliver..."
Having hammered out the details of this new arrangement with Rekker, Sebert sailed north along the coastline to visit the four remaining settlements.
The trouble was that these regions, Stockholm included, were all suffering from the relentless raids of the Swords of the North. Their economic strength was a shadow of its former self, drastically reducing the volume of goods available for trade.
Ultimately, Sebert managed to strike similar immigration agreements with the four ruling nobles. Yet, even with these deals in place, they simply lacked the capital to purchase a sufficient quantity of his goods.
"It is far too little," he muttered to himself. "These results are barely acceptable. It is certainly not enough to elevate my standing in the Duke's eyes."
Driven by the desire to secure a truly impressive achievement, Sebert decided to take a gamble and sail east, venturing into the territories of the Finns.
Historically, the Finns spoke a tongue belonging to the Uralic languages, sharing closer linguistic ties with Hungarian. In contrast, the Vikings hailing from Norway, Sweden, and Denmark spoke the Norse language, marking them as a northern branch of the Germanic people. Thus, the Vikings and the Finns were distinctly separate ethnic groups.
Bound by entirely different languages and customs, Halfdan Whiteshirt's Swords of the North had failed to penetrate Finland. As a result, the agricultural production of the various local tribes remained entirely unaffected, leaving them with an abundance of rich furs and amber to trade for raw iron ingots and beer.
When his ship finally docked and Sebert introduced himself, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that the local Suomi Tribe was already well-acquainted with the legendary moniker of the North's Serpent. Tales of his glorious triumph, completely annihilating the main Frankish army along the banks of the River Seine, had already spread this far east.
Out of profound respect for the North's Serpent, the chieftain of the Suomi Tribe offered the envoy an exceptionally warm reception, inviting Sebert to join him in a traditional sauna.
"A what?"
Following the chieftain into a sturdy wooden cabin insulated with layers of birch bark, Sebert was caught completely off guard. Before he could even process what was happening, two slaves expertly stripped him of his clothing.
The interior walls were thoroughly blackened by years of thick, oily woodsmoke. In the center of the room lay a sunken fire pit completely filled with large rocks. Every so often, a slave would poke at the crackling flames with a pair of iron tongs, tossing in a fresh piece of firewood. Tucked away in the corner sat a large wooden bucket filled to the brim with clear water, its purpose remaining a mystery to the bewildered envoy.
At the chieftain's gesturing invitation, Sebert awkwardly took a seat on a smooth wooden bench. As time ticked by, the roaring fire heated the rocks in the pit until their surfaces glowed with a furious, cherry-red heat. Once the stones reached this blistering temperature, the slaves carefully sealed the heavy wooden door, stuffing the cracks with damp moss before scooping large ladles of water from the bucket and splashing it directly onto the searing rocks.
Hiss! The flames were instantly snuffed out, plunging the stifling cabin into dim, murky shadows. Thick, billowing clouds of scalding white steam rapidly rose from the pit, filling the room and transforming it into an eerie, unpredictable dreamscape.
Through the suffocating, blistering haze, the chieftain repeatedly swatted his own bare back with a bundled sheaf of leafy birch branches. Meanwhile, he had an interpreter translate his words: "The quality of Tainburg's raw iron ingots is exceptional, and your beer possesses a fine taste. We are more than willing to purchase them..."
Politely waving off a bundle of branches offered by an eager slave, Sebert fought through the dizzying waves of oppressive heat to negotiate the exact pricing of every single commodity with the chieftain.
Noting that this particular tribe boasted a sizable population of over two hundred households, Sebert cunningly suggested they buy in massive bulk. They could easily resell the surplus goods to isolated inland tribes for a hefty profit, and naturally, the more they purchased from him, the steeper the discount he could provide.
"Excellent. I gladly accept the terms offered by the North's Serpent."
Having successfully cracked open an entirely new and lucrative market in the Finnish territories, Sebert felt a surge of pride, confident that he had vastly exceeded his original mandate. He finally returned to Teyne Town in mid-May.
Reviewing the array of agreements his subordinate had secured, Viggo found only one specific term he was unwilling to fulfill. "The nobles of Kalmar and the surrounding territories wish to purchase weapons and armor specifically to wage war against Halfdan Whiteshirt. Since I am completely in the dark regarding King Ragnar's true stance on this internal conflict, it would be highly inappropriate for us to sell them weapons directly."
Viggo rose from his seat, pacing thoughtfully back and forth across the grand hall of the main keep. He simply refused to shoulder such an unpredictable political risk.
"We will not restrict civilian supplies. We can sell the raw iron ingots to Erik Jr. and let him forge the necessary weapons himself. He can then act as the middleman, reselling the finished armaments to Kalmar and Stockholm. That way, if Halfdan ever tries to complain to King Ragnar about the situation, we will at least have some political breathing room to maneuver."
Thus far, Ragnar had maintained a stony silence regarding the Swords of the North. He offered neither open support nor explicit condemnation, seemingly perfectly content to let Halfdan run rampant throughout the Swedish territories. A scattered handful of these unpredictable berserkers had even begun roaming across Britain, sparking widespread resentment among the various Viking nobles.
"Ah, the privileges of an untouchable lineage," Viggo sighed, shaking his head. "No matter how much chaos he stirs up, someone is always waiting in the wings to clean up the mess and catch him if he falls. If any ordinary lord dared to employ such reckless methods, they would instantly trigger a massive, unified crusade from every faction on the map. They would never have survived this long."
After venting his frustrations, Viggo refocused his mind entirely on his own territory. With massive upheavals looming on the horizon, he needed to permanently crush any internal unrest as swiftly as possible—especially the stubbornly resilient rebel remnants still active in the Scottish Northern Highlands.
In modern measurements, the total landmass of the untamed Scottish region spanned approximately seventy-eight thousand square kilometers. The treacherous Northern Highlands alone accounted for thirty thousand of that total. It was a chaotic, labyrinthine landscape of jagged glacial valleys, plunging, icy lochs, and brutally rugged mountain peaks.
During the late summer of the year 849, Viggo had systematically conquered the relatively densely populated Central Lowlands. Immediately following that victory, he had prioritized pacifying the southern ranges. Because that terrain consisted primarily of rolling, forested hills and fertile river valleys, the brutal suppression campaign there had proven far less challenging.
With the Central Lowlands and the southern ranges finally brought to heel, only the vast, labyrinthine expanse of the Northern Highlands remained outside his iron grip. The cowardly rebel remnants had chosen this brutal terrain as their sanctuary. They would frequently launch small-scale, irritating raids onto the plains, only to immediately scatter and scurry back into the mountains the very second they met any resistance. Their hit-and-run tactics infuriated local officials beyond measure. Several eager sheriffs had repeatedly petitioned Viggo for permission to lead armed expeditions deep into the mountains, but every single request had been flatly denied.
Now, however, the tide was turning. Detective Chief Connor of Stirling County had dispatched a total of seven highly trained undercover agents, all carefully selected from a pool of newly freed slaves. Three of these brave men had successfully managed to infiltrate the rebel ranks.
According to the vital intelligence relayed back by these undercover agents, the entire rebel force had dwindled to barely a thousand souls—a number that heavily included around four hundred non-combatant family members. To sustain themselves, they had scattered across three hidden mountain valleys to graze livestock and scrape a meager harvest from the earth. They only ever ventured out to pillage during the slack agricultural seasons, stubbornly digging in for a protracted, generational resistance.
Exactly five days ago, Viggo had finally received the precise, confirmed coordinates of these hidden valleys. Refusing to waste a single precious second, he had hastily conscripted the local militia surrounding Teyne Town. The very instant he had managed to rally a solid force of a thousand men, he ordered the immediate march, terrified that the rebels might catch wind and relocate.
"My elite armored guards, a thousand conscripted militiamen, and two fully equipped Mountain Infantry Battalions," Viggo muttered confidently. "That should be more than enough to crush them once and for all."