Before the Dawn
The night before the assault, Bjorn walked among his men. The firelight cast shadows across their painted faces. Warriors sat sharpening axes, testing the weight of their shields, whispering prayers to Odin and Thor. Others remained silent, their gazes fixed on the flames, knowing tomorrow could be their last breath.
Bjorn said nothing at first. He walked slowly, the weight of his presence enough to draw their eyes. His footsteps were measured, like a wolf circling its pack. Then he stopped and raised his voice so all could hear.
"Tomorrow we do not raid. Tomorrow we conquer."
The fire crackled, and the men leaned closer.
"These people worship a god who does not bleed. They kneel to a king who drinks wine while his people starve. They think their walls will save them. But we will show them that no wall, no king, no god can stand against us. Tomorrow, we carve fear into their bones. And when they kneel, they will kneel not to their god—but to me, and through me, to Odin."
The men roared, fists slamming against shields, the thunder rolling into the night. Even the foreign villagers below heard it and shivered in their huts.
Bjorn's concubines stood nearby, veiled and silent. They had done their part: slipping through shadows, whispering into ears, drawing secrets from careless lips. They had told Bjorn of weak gates, of poorly trained militia, of discontent among peasants. Tonight, they were no mere women—they were daggers he had planted inside the enemy.
As the roars died down, Bjorn looked to his closest men:
Eirik, already smeared in blood from a patrol he had slaughtered earlier, his grin manic.
Haldor, calm and sharp-eyed, clutching a map of the village.
Sven Iron-Foot, silent as always, his massive shield resting across his back.
"They are ready," Haldor said quietly. "The villagers pray. The soldiers tremble. They expect you to come like a storm."
Bjorn smiled. "Then let us not disappoint them."
Inside the Enemy's Walls
In the town below, King Alaric paced his hall. His nobles argued—some urged him to parley, others to prepare for battle. Priests muttered prayers, clutching golden crosses, promising divine protection.
But fear ran like rot through the court. Servants whispered of shadows on the hills, of strange women who had walked into their midst and vanished again. Two of Bjorn's concubines were already inside, wearing veils of mourning, pretending to be fleeing villagers. They sowed doubt, speaking in hushed tones of demons from the sea.
"Perhaps," one noble muttered, sweating, "we should send tribute. Buy their passage, as we did with the Franks."
"No!" Alaric snapped, though his voice trembled. "If we give them silver today, they will take our children tomorrow. We must fight. We must believe in God's protection."
But even as he spoke, his courtiers avoided his gaze. The foreign king was already defeated in spirit. Bjorn knew it—and would use it.
The First Breach
At dawn, the Vikings came.
The earth shook as war drums thundered from the cliffs. Horns blared, echoing across the valley. The villagers screamed as ships slid from the cove, their dragon-headed prows cutting the mist. Warriors poured forth, shields locked, axes raised, voices howling with the fury of the north.
The defenders scrambled. Bells rang. Archers lined the walls. But Bjorn had chosen his approach well. The main gate was weak, repaired hastily after a fire years before. He had learned this from the lips of a drunken villager, seduced by one of his women.
The first wave struck like lightning. Arrows darkened the sky, spears clashed, and ladders slammed against the walls. Eirik the Red-Handed was first up, laughing as arrows clattered off his shield. He tore the throat of the first defender and flung the body down, roaring like a mad beast.
Bjorn advanced slowly behind, his steps steady, his presence like a mountain. His shield wall pushed forward, disciplined and unyielding. When the gate finally cracked, Bjorn was there, driving his axe into the splintering wood, each strike echoing like thunder.
With a final crash, the gate fell. The Vikings poured through.
The Massacre
Chaos erupted.
Vikings swarmed the streets, axes flashing, blood spraying across whitewashed walls. Defenders fell one by one, their lines shattered. Women screamed, dragging children into cellars, but the Norsemen followed, dragging them out again.
Bjorn moved like a god of war through the carnage. His axe cut clean, his strength unearthly. Arrows broke against him, men crumpled before him. Every kill was deliberate, every step a declaration: this city is mine.
Eirik raged through the alleys, painting walls with blood. Sven held the shield wall, unmovable, driving the enemy into narrow streets where they were slaughtered like cattle. Haldor led squads to seize granaries and wells, cutting off the town's lifeblood even as the battle raged.
The priests tried to rally the people, holding aloft their crosses. Bjorn cut them down himself, shattering their holy icons beneath his boots.
"This god bleeds," he snarled, lifting a dying priest by the throat before crushing his skull with one hand. The soldiers who saw it broke and fled.
Claiming the Town
By dusk, the town was ash. The streets ran red, bodies piled against broken walls. Fires devoured rooftops, smoke rising into the heavens.
Bjorn stood in the town square, his warriors gathered around him. At his feet knelt captives—nobles, priests, women, children—shaking in terror. His concubines stood behind him, their veils cast aside, eyes gleaming with triumph.
King Alaric was dragged before him, bound and beaten. His crown, bent and bloody, rolled in the dirt.
Bjorn looked down at him with cold eyes. "You ruled by wine and words. I rule by blood and fear. Which do you think the world remembers?"
The king spat, whispering a prayer. Bjorn cut out his heart and held it aloft, crimson dripping onto the stones. His men roared, their voices shaking the earth.
The women captives sobbed, clutching their children. Bjorn turned his gaze upon them. Some would be ransomed. Others would be given as slaves, concubines, or offerings to Odin. None would escape.
"This," Bjorn declared, his voice carrying over the flames, "is only the beginning. Today, a town. Tomorrow, a kingdom. One day—the world."
And as the fires devoured the town behind him, Bjorn Ironside stood unchallenged, a conqueror reborn, the shadow of empire stretching before him.