The foreign coast stretched before them, dotted with strange towers that gleamed under the morning sun. The air carried the scent of herbs and spices unknown to the men of Kattegat, drifting from the hills beyond. It was a soft land, full of wheat fields swaying in the wind, villages clustered like flocks of sheep around their lord's stone keep.
To Bjorn, it was not beauty—it was weakness.
The Enemy Kingdom
Scouts returned after days of observation. The kingdom was wealthy in grain and trade, its harbors full of fat merchant ships. But its warriors were few, more accustomed to guarding trade roads than defending against warbands. Their king, a man named Alaric, was said to be shrewd in politics but soft in body, a ruler who preferred wine and diplomacy to steel.
Bjorn listened in silence as his men described the king's court. The women adorned themselves in silks, the men in jewels, their priests walking proudly beneath holy symbols of a foreign god.
"They kneel to one god only," one scout muttered. "A god who forbids blood sacrifice."
Floki hissed laughter at the thought, eyes wild. "A god without blood is a god without teeth. Their prayers will not stop us."
But Bjorn raised a hand for silence. His gaze swept across his gathered warriors, his concubines seated quietly at the edge, listening.
"This land will not fall to the axe alone," Bjorn said. "It will fall to fear, to hunger, and to shadow. We will break their spirit before we break their walls."
Spies and Seduction
That night, under the cover of fog, small boats carried selected men and women ashore. Among them were two of Bjorn's concubines—trained in tongues and seduction. They would infiltrate villages, weaving themselves into the lives of foreign men, listening for whispers of weakness in court and garrison.
Bjorn himself oversaw their departure. He touched each woman's face, his eyes burning with command. "You are my daggers in the dark. Your beauty is a weapon sharper than steel. Bring me their secrets, and you will be remembered as queens of conquest."
The concubines bowed, their expressions a mix of fear and devotion. One kissed his hand before stepping into the boat, her veil drifting in the night wind like a ghost.
The soldiers watched with a mixture of awe and discomfort. For them, the thought of women used as tools of war was strange, yet under Bjorn's rule it seemed inevitable. He turned even love and lust into weapons.
Life Among the Warriors
On the ships, the men grew restless. They sharpened weapons, played dice games with bones, and sang crude songs of war. Yet their discipline held—for Bjorn's shadow was heavy upon them.
Among his closest friends were men forged in fire:
Eirik the Red-Handed, a berserker whose fury was unmatched.
Haldor the Watchful, a scout with eyes keener than an eagle.
Sven Iron-Foot, a shield-bearer whose endurance inspired the younger warriors.
These were more than companions—they were the pillars upon which Bjorn's legend rested.
At night, by the fire, they spoke of home. Of Kattegat's markets, of wives left behind, of children growing in their absence. Some whispered of jealousy—Bjorn had wives, concubines, children, while they had only hunger. But none dared speak it too loud. His strength was proof enough of Odin's blessing.
Bjorn's Vision
On the seventh night ashore, Bjorn gathered them all by the cliffs overlooking the foreign town. The fires of the settlement flickered below, peasants laughing, unaware of the wolf at their gates.
Bjorn's voice carried like thunder.
"We are not raiders. We are not thieves who take and run. This land is the first stone of our empire. When our children speak of us, they will not speak of plunder. They will speak of kings broken, gods silenced, and nations chained. We will be remembered as more than Vikings—we will be remembered as conquerors."
The men roared, their howls echoing into the night sky. Even the sea seemed to tremble beneath their voices.
The First Clash
But fate never waits long.
On the eighth morning, patrols of the foreign king spotted signs of Bjorn's fleet hidden in the cove. Riders galloped back to their lord, and within hours the sound of horns rang through the valleys. The kingdom stirred, preparing defenses, their king roused from feasting to command.
Bjorn's spies had warned of this moment. He was ready.
The first clash came not with armies, but with steel in the shadows. Scouts met patrols in the forest, blades flashing, blood staining leaves. Haldor slit throats before a cry could escape. Eirik tore men apart with bare hands, his fury unmatched.
The foreign soldiers fled, terror on their faces, speaking of demons from the sea. Bjorn let them go. Fear was worth more than corpses.
Closing Tension
By dusk, the town below was bracing itself. Walls were manned, villagers huddled in fear, priests crying out to their god for deliverance.
From the cliffs above, Bjorn watched, silent. His warriors stood behind him, their shields gleaming in firelight. His concubines, returned with whispers of weakness, knelt at his side.
"This is the beginning," Bjorn murmured, more to himself than to them. "Not of war alone, but of empire. Tomorrow, we break them."
And as the moon rose, painting the foreign fields silver, the storm of the north waited, teeth bared, ready to fall upon the soft flesh of a new world.