Einar's plan for the future was comprehensive, but he knew very well that the most pressing issue was the one right before his eyes.
Jarl Bernard's summons.
According to the customs of the Vikings, after each plunder, all vassal lords had to present themselves at the Jarl's hall. They were to report on their battle achievements and, most importantly, offer up a portion of their spoils to the Jarl as tribute.
This was a rule that could not be broken.
The next morning, Einar left the administration of the village to his most trusted subordinate, an old warrior who had served his father. He himself took ten of his strongest clansmen, loaded a cart with three sheep and a bag of black bread, and set off for Jarl Bernard's domain.
The Jarl's territory was situated in the most fertile part of the river valley. After traveling for half a day, the landscape before them changed dramatically. The barren, rocky hills gave way to vast, flat plains. A wide river flowed gently through the land, and on its banks stood a large, bustling town.
The town was surrounded by a tall, sturdy wall built of stone and earth, a far cry from Coldwater Village's simple wooden fence. Inside the walls, houses stood in neat rows, and a central market was filled with people coming and going. This was the heart of Jarl Bernard's power.
Einar led his men through the town gate. The guards, recognizing the banner of Coldwater Village, let them pass without obstruction, though their eyes held a clear look of disdain. In this place where strength was everything, the weak received no respect.
Jarl Bernard's hall was located in the center of the town. It was a magnificent longhouse, over fifty meters long, with intricate beast-head carvings on its eaves. Two heavily-armed guards stood by the entrance, their expressions cold as stone.
Einar instructed his men to wait outside with the tribute cart. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his leather tunic, took a deep breath, and strode into the hall alone.
The interior of the hall was vast and dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat, ale, and sweat. A large fire pit burned in the center, its flames illuminating the faces of the Viking warriors seated at long tables on either side. They were feasting, drinking from horns, their boisterous laughter echoing through the hall.
At the head of the hall, upon a high seat carved from oak, sat Jarl Bernard.
He was a man in his forties, with a burly physique and a fiery red beard that was braided into his chest. He wore a bear-pelt cloak and a golden ring on his finger, symbols of his power and wealth. At this moment, he was gnawing on a roasted leg of lamb, his mouth glistening with grease.
Beside him sat the other six vassal lords of the river valley. Einar recognized them. They were all stronger and richer than he was, and they looked at him with expressions ranging from pity to contempt.
Einar walked forward and stood before the high seat. He placed his right fist over his heart and bowed his head. "My Lord Jarl, Einar of Coldwater greets you."
Jarl Bernard did not even look at him. He continued to tear at the meat, speaking in a gruff voice, "Einar, you are late."
"The journey from the mountains is long, my Lord," Einar replied calmly, his head still bowed.
"Excuses," the Jarl grunted, finally tossing the bone aside. He wiped his greasy hands on his tunic and stared down at Einar, his eyes sharp and intimidating. "I heard you raided the Slavic village at the northern border again. What are your spoils this year?"
"Seven cows, thirty-four sheep, three sacks of bread, and half a sack of salt, my Lord," Einar reported truthfully. "We lost five warriors in the battle."
A burst of mocking laughter erupted from the nearby tables.
"Five men for that little loot? Einar, you are even more incompetent than your father!" one of the vassal lords jeered.
Einar clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. He ignored the insult, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor.
Jarl Bernard seemed to find this amusing. A cruel smile played on his lips. "The rules are the rules. One-third of the spoils belong to me. Have you brought the tribute?"
"Yes, my Lord," Einar said. "It is outside."
"Good," the Jarl said, waving a hand dismissively. "Leave the tribute with my steward. You may go."
He had been dismissed, just like that. He wasn't even offered a seat at the feast, a gesture of profound disrespect.
Einar's heart burned with humiliation. This was the fate of the weak. They were tools to be used and discarded, their dignity trampled upon at will. He knew that one day, when his village was too weak to even serve as cannon fodder, the Jarl would not hesitate to annex his land and enslave his people.
He gave a final bow, turned around, and walked towards the exit. The jeers and laughter followed him like a physical blow to his back.
As he stepped out of the hall and into the cold air, his expression was colder than the winter wind. He looked back at the magnificent longhouse, a fortress of power and arrogance.
One day, he swore to himself, a silent vow echoing in the depths of his soul, I will build a hall grander than this. And I will make you all bow before me.