Perhaps due to his advancing age, recalling his brother's dying request softened Ragnar's heart.
He had an attendant hand him a horsewhip and gave Niels a vicious lashing. It was as if time had dialed back twenty years to when he used a leather whip to discipline Bjorn and Niels when they were merely children.
"From this day forth, you are no longer the lord of Nottingham. You shall only retain your lands in southern Denmark. Do you understand?"
Ignoring the stinging welts on his back, Niels felt a surge of wild ecstasy. Suppressing his excitement, he nodded frantically. "I obey your command."
Ragnar tossed the leather whip back to the guard, panting heavily. "Your son and daughter will remain in Londinium to receive a royal education until they come of age. Do you have a problem with that?"
Niels replied, "It is their blessing to be raised by you and the two queens."
Losing northern Denmark was a harmless setback, and leaving his son in Londinium did not matter either—he could always sire more children. The crucial point was that he was finally escaping the stifling confines of Nottingham, leaving him with ample room to expand in the future.
Once he accumulated enough strength, he could launch an offensive southeast into Pomerania. The region was dotted with Slavic tribes of varying sizes, making it the perfect target for gradual encroachment.
The onlookers bore varied expressions as they watched the exchange between uncle and nephew.
Theowulf tugged at the black wool cloak draped over his shoulders, lowering his voice to complain,
"Over ten thousand men marched back and forth, throwing Britannia, Frankia, and Northern Europe into absolute chaos, and he is just letting it go?"
Ivar replied, "The old man responds to submission, not defiance. The older he gets, the softer his heart becomes. What can you do about it? Rush over and stick a knife in Niels?"
Viggo let out a yawn, having anticipated this outcome long ago. Had Ragnar executed Niels, the newly enlisted Anglo militia, raiders, and sailors would have undoubtedly fallen into a state of panic, plunging the hard-won stability of Denmark back into turmoil.
Having dealt with his nephew, Ragnar turned his sights on the mutinous Royal Guard soldiers. He dispatched men to hunt them down; anyone who dared to resist was slain on the spot, while the ringleaders were sentenced to hang.
The remaining five hundred and thirty men managed to keep their lives, but Ragnar's punishment for them was exile.
Stripped of their armor and equipment, the soldiers were forced to the ground, waiting for the blacksmiths to brand them.
"No! I have fought in countless battles and even killed a Frankish knight! Why is this my reward?"
A kneeling soldier struggled fiercely, thrashing like a river fish trapped on a chopping block, watching helplessly as the dull red branding iron drew closer and closer.
The instant the iron pressed against his right wrist, his flesh released a sickening sizzle. Plumes of gray smoke rose, carrying the foul stench of burning skin, while a beast-like whimper rumbled deep within the soldier's throat.
Not far away, a scribe furiously penned on parchment: "Soldier of the Royal Guard, First Battalion, First Company, Third Squad. For participating in the mutiny, stripped of military status on April 23, 854, and sentenced to lifelong exile. Forbidden from entering Viking territories; otherwise, any freeman holds the right to strike him down."
Witnessing the tragic fate of their former comrades, Oleg and his remaining five hundred men were struck with terror, quietly rejoicing that they had not been swept up in the mutiny.
To reward the loyalty of Oleg and his followers, Ragnar announced their ennoblement, offering them a choice between lands in northern Denmark or Sweden.
To Ragnar's evident disappointment, the vast majority of the soldiers chose to stay in Denmark, clearly looking down on Halfdan's capabilities as a leader.
In a move to counterbalance Niels, "White Hair" Oleg was granted the fiefdom of Vejle in central Denmark. Ascending to the ranks of the high nobility, Oleg was overcome with wild joy. However, as the ennoblement ceremony concluded, he posed a critically important question:
"Your Majesty, who shall rule the northern and central regions of Denmark? Will it be the Fourth Prince, Ubbe? He is twelve this year, and in three years' time, he will come of age—"
Noticing the king's expression abruptly darken, Oleg froze. He wanted nothing more than to tear his own wretched mouth off. It was a perfectly joyous ennoblement ceremony—why did he have to spout such foolishness? For the longest time, Ragnar had deliberately withheld the identity of his heir, making it an enduring topic of speculation among the populace.
As the Duke of Dyfflin, Ivar possessed a somewhat volatile temper, yet his personal prestige and military prowess fully met the requirements.
Bjorn was the first Viking to explore the Mediterranean Sea and pioneer the settlements of Iceland and Greenland. Hailed as a legendary explorer, his prestige was certainly up to par. While his military capabilities were somewhat lacking, they were still passable.
Halfdan had suffered numerous crushing defeats in Wales and Sweden, severely damaging his reputation. According to the odds in the black market, his chances of succession were close to zero. It was widely anticipated that he would spend the rest of his life huddled in the cold, barren lands of Gothenburg.
Ubbe and Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye had not yet come of age. Their futures largely hinged on the political machinations of the two queens, and their odds on the black market fluctuated wildly.
Ignoring Oleg's slip of the tongue, Ragnar pressed on with the ceremony. Shortly after it concluded, Halfdan arrived, leading a savage band of berserkers clad in animal pelts.
Setting his eyes upon this unprecedented army, Halfdan finally regained his confidence. He immediately petitioned for an expeditionary force to wipe out the nobles scattered across Sweden.
"You spent an entire winter pondering, and this garbage was the best idea you could come up with?"
Ragnar stared at his son in profound disappointment, suspecting the boy had not grown a single bit during this time. "Without the nobles, who will govern the lands? Those five hundred mindless berserkers standing behind you? Fine. If you can pick out twenty men among them who know how to keep a ledger, I will humor you. I will dispatch Ivar, Viggo, Om, and the others to strike from all sides, and I guarantee every settlement will fall within three months."
Halfdan turned around, looking blankly at his men. "Do any of you know how to do math?"
He was met with absolute silence.
Clearly, the chronic consumption of hallucinogenic mushrooms had severely deteriorated the berserkers' cognitive functions, rendering them entirely incapable of such complex mental exercises.
"Pfft!"
Ivar was the first to break character, letting out a snort of amusement. The rest of the nobles soon followed suit, bursting into uproarious laughter, filling the camp with a joyous, mocking atmosphere.
After half a minute of laughter, Viggo suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for Halfdan's plight. When exiled to Gothenburg, Halfdan had been a mere twenty-one years old, burdened with a freezing, desolate fief. His population was constantly bleeding away, he could not find a single valuable mineral deposit, and his future was breathtakingly bleak.
As a result, the only path Halfdan could carve out was to gather berserkers, forming a highly lethal military force at a rock-bottom cost. By letting them pillage the countryside, he hoped to slowly snowball his strength until he could conquer all of Sweden, perhaps even eventually launching an assault on Norway and Denmark.
Unfortunately, Halfdan's limited command capabilities meant his grand ambitions were crushed long before they could truly take root.
Though a bitter sense of reluctance gnawed at his heart, Halfdan had no choice but to obey his father's arrangements. He followed the great Viking host back to Gothenburg, waiting for the regional nobles to arrive one by one.
At the banquet, Ragnar graciously hosted the Swedish nobles. "Gentlemen, my journey here is not for the sake of war, but merely to restore peace across Northern Europe."
Given Halfdan's lackluster prestige and administrative skills, he was wholly incapable of governing the vast expanses of Sweden. Thus, Ragnar opted for the next best thing—as long as these nobles pledged their nominal allegiance to him, everything else was up for negotiation.
Rekker, the lord of Kalmar, was the first to speak up. "You must forbid the Swords of the North from pillaging the lands."
Ragnar nodded in agreement. "If anyone dares to raid your territories, feel free to strike back. That is the most fundamental right of a lord."