Kategatt, 794 A.D, End Of Winter.
The air in Vingulmark was changing. The stubborn ice that had choked the fjords for months began to fracture.
With the thaw came not the expected relief, but a palpable tension. The uneasy peace of winter was dissolving, and the ambitions of Halfdan and Gandalf were starting to boil over. Their initial conflicts were cautious; a stolen herd here, a burned storehouse there, but they were just probes and tests of strength. Bjorn knew these were merely the opening moves in a much deadlier game.
Soon, warbands would march in earnest, led by their jarls and eventually the kings themselves, and their chosen battlefield would inevitably be the fertile lands of Vingulmark.
Kattegat, however, had used the winter's enclosure to its advantage. It had not been a season of hibernation, but of preparation.
The first sign of Kattegat's transformation was the influx of new faces. Word of the western raids had spread already spread through the small villages of Vingulmark, and with it, Bjorn's reputation. Restless young men, with hands calloused from farming but hearts hungry for glory, began the trek to his settlement.
They saw in him what their own villages lacked: a leader with the vision to seek wealth beyond familiar shores. They came for a chance at silver, but also for the immortality of the sagas.
Soon, this informal migration gained a political dimension. The chieftains of two nearby villages, recognizing the shift in power, arrived to formally pledge their allegiance. They swore oaths to Bjorn not only as a leader favored by the gods, but as a Jarl who could offer their people protection and a share in future prosperity.
Bjorn gladly welcomed all of this even if he couldn't tell how many joined him, he could tell they were less than 300. Now Kategatt had a population of no more than 1300.
But Bjorn's primary focus had been on military superiority, starting with the very steel in his warriors' hands. He summoned his five blacksmiths.
This time, he held nothing back. He laid out the principles of metallurgy, explaining the precise methods for creating steel that was harder, yet less brittle, than anything their rivals could produce.
He mandated that each smith take on two apprentices to satisfy Kategatt's future expansion.
However Kategatt remained peaceful this winter, and developped in many things.
As the ice retreated, the skeletal frames of new longships on the shore were once again swarmed by shipwrights. The existing fleet of five was a respectable number, but Bjorn envisioned a naval force that could dominate all the coasts, projecting power far beyond their own fjord.
Alongside this offensive capability, he ordered the construction of a defensive palisade, a formidable ring of sharpened logs to protect them from attacks by land or sea. But a wall is only as good as the men who defend it. For this, he needed a new kind of weapon. He imagined defenders on the ramparts, raining death upon an approaching enemy. This led him to the concept of the crossbow.
He only ever saw a crossbow in his past life, he had never examined its construction, but the fundamental principle seemed clear enough. On one of the last precious sheets of parchment from Lindisfarne, he began to sketch. His charcoal lines depicted a sturdy bow, mounted horizontally onto a wooden stock. He designed a simple trigger mechanism, a rotating nut to hold the immense tension of the drawn string, and a lever to release it. Over the next days, his craftsmen shaped wood, twisted linen, and bent iron under his watchful eye.
The first attempt was pitiful. The bolt slipped the string mid-draw; the rawhide lashings frayed under tension. Bjorn frowned as he noted each flaw and learned from his mistake.
They tried again. Different wood for the bow, thicker lashings, a heavier stock. The nut and lever creaked, then snapped. Bolts flew crooked or fell short.
Still, Bjorn learned more from each failure.
Finally, after days of testing and adjustment, a single prototype emerged.
----------------------------------------------------
"He's coming," Hrafn said quietly, and he nodded toward the path leading from the settlement.
Arne approached across the field, his bow slung over his shoulder and a leather quiver at his hip. Even at this distance, his movements carried the fluid confidence of a master archer.
"Bjorn," Arne greeted him as he drew near. His single sharp eye, immediately locked onto the device Bjorn was holding. "I came as fast as I could."
Bjorn nodded, then stood up and hefted the crossbow in his hand. "The reason i called you here is to see this new weapon of mine. And see if it lives to it's promise."
"New weapon?" Arne's gaze swept over the wooden stock and iron fittings. "Looks more like a carpenter's tool than a weapon of war."
"The best weapons often do," Hrafn commented dryly. "A sword is just a long knife, after all."
Arne stroked his braided beard, conceding the point. "When you put it that way... I suppose it makes sense. Well then, what does it do?"
"It's like a bow," Bjorn stated simply, "but way easier to use."
Confusion returned to Arne's face. "You can outshoot any man in Kattegat with your longbow. What need have you for... this?"
Bjorn shifted the crossbow in his hands, anticipating the archer's skepticism. "This isn't for me, Arne. It's for the farmer's son who has never held a bow. It's for the blacksmith's apprentice whose arms are strong from the hammer but clumsy with a bowstring. It's for every man we need to defend these walls who hasn't spent years mastering the archer's craft."
A flicker of understanding crossed Arne's features. He nodded slowly. "What do you call it?"
"A crossbow," Bjorn replied.
Arne mouthed the unfamiliar word, testing its weight.
Bjorn gestured towards the field, where Hrafn had placed wooden posts and hide-covered practice shields at measured intervals. "Let me show you how it works."
"Hrafn helped me set the targets while we waited," Bjorn explained. "Ten, twenty, thirty, and forty paces. They are the standard engagement distances."
Arne walked to the nearest target and back, counting his steps. "Ten paces is close work. At this range, you could put three arrows through a man's heart before he blinks."
"But could a fisherman, after a week of training, do the same?" Bjorn countered.
"Not without the years of dedication you and I have given," Arne said, his tone shifting from dismissive to curious. "You truly believe this weapon can bridge that gap?"
"Only one way to find out." Bjorn placed his foot in the iron stirrup and drew the string back until it caught. "Watch this."
He loaded a bolt, raised the crossbow to his shoulder, and fired. The bolt struck the ten-pace target with a solid thunk, burying itself deep in the wood.
"Hm." Arne walked forward to examine the impact. "Clean penetration. And good power." He tested the bolt with his fingers. "It went in straight, there was no wobble in flight."
"How's that compare to your shooting?" Hrafn asked.
Arne unslung his bow and nocked an arrow. "At this range? Similar impact." He loosed the arrow in one fluid motion, striking barely an inch from the crossbow bolt.
"Which is exactly why we need this weapon," Bjorn said, already reloading the crossbow. "We can't wait decades to train enough master archers to defend our lands."
Bjorn was already reloading. "Now time me."
Arne counted aloud as Bjorn worked through the loading process. "Draw, load, aim, shoot... fifteen heartbeats."
"It's slow," Arne observed.
"But consistent," Bjorn said, firing his second shot. It struck within a finger's width of the first. "Every shot has the same power, the same trajectory. No variation based on the shooter's strength or technique."
Bjorn's next four shots clustered in a tight group to prove his point. Arne examined each impact carefully, measuring distances with his fingers.
"That's... very consistent," he admitted. "With my bow, I can group tighter, but it takes years of practice to achieve that kind of repeatability."
"And how long do you think it takes to train someone to do what I just did?" Bjorn asked.
"With the crossbow? no less than a week." Arne paused. "With a longbow? Years."
"There's your answer," Bjorn said. "Also this is not about replacing master archers like you, Arne. It's about making everyone else dangerous at range."
They moved to the twenty-pace target. Bjorn's first shot hit low.
Bjorn's second shot punched through the practice shield with a satisfying crack. Arne walked forward to inspect the damage.
"Right through," he said, working the bolt back and forth. "That would kill a man, with shield or no shield."
"What's your effective range?" Hrafn asked Arne.
"Reliable kills out to sixty paces for me. Eighty if conditions are perfect." Arne examined the crossbow bolt's fletching.
At thirty paces, the crossbow still performed well, though Bjorn had to arc his shots higher to account for the bolt's trajectory.
"Still lethal," Arne said after examining several impacts. "Might not drop the kings in their good mail, but it'll certainly ruin their day."
"And at forty paces?" Bjorn asked, already knowing the answer from his practice sessions.
"Let's see."
The long-range shots were less impressive. Several bolts missed the target entirely, and those that connected barely penetrated the wooden shields.
"There's your limit," Arne said bluntly. "Thirty paces for reliable kills, maybe thirty-five in perfect conditions."
"May I try it?"
Bjorn handed over the weapon. Arne examined it with the careful attention of a man who had spent his life with projectile weapons.
"Heavier than my bow, but the weight's distributed well." He tested the trigger mechanism. "Strange, not having to worry about draw strength or holding the string."
His first shot at ten paces struck high and right, well away from Bjorn's cluster.
"Different sight picture," he muttered, loading another bolt. "The aiming point is..." His second shot corrected perfectly, striking near the center of the target.
"You adapt quickly," Bjorn observed.
"It's still about distance judgment and compensation for wind," Arne said, working through several more shots. "But it takes all the muscle memory out of shooting. That's... significant."
"How long to train a group of men?" Bjorn asked.
"Competent enough for battle? A week of daily practice. Truly effective?" Arne paused to examine a recovered bolt. "A month, maybe less. Still infinitely faster than mastering the longbow."
As Arne continued testing at different ranges, his assessment became increasingly positive, though he remained analytical about the weapon's limitations.
"Rate of shooting is much slower than a bow," he said during a break. "I can loose ten arrows while you reload once."
"But in formation warfare?" Bjorn pressed.
"Ah, that changes everything." Arne's eyes took on a tactical gleam. "Massed volleys, coordinated timing... yes, this could work beautifully for that. Especially from defensive positions."
"Twenty crossbowmen behind a wall," Arne said, gesturing at the field. "All shooting together on command. The slow reload doesn't matter if they're shooting in sequence - first rank shoots, second rank shoots while first reloads, third rank shoots while second reloads..."
"The bolts will be expensive," Bjorn noted. "Heavier than arrows, more iron required."
"But you need fewer of them," Arne countered. "Better accuracy means less waste. And recovered bolts can be reused more often than arrows."
They spent another hour testing various scenarios - shooting from different positions, rapid loading techniques, performance in confined spaces.
"Overall assessment?" Bjorn asked as they gathered the scattered bolts.
Arne was quiet for a long moment, methodically checking each recovered bolt for damage. "It's not a hero's weapon," he said finally.
"A bow is for men who spend half their life learning it," Arne continued. He lifted the crossbow. "This? Any man can use it in a day. With this, even a farmer can kill from far away."
As they walked back toward the settlement. "Tomorrow we begin production," Bjorn decided. "Arne, I want you to select 20 young candidates with good eyes and good hands for the first training group."
"Aye," Arne agreed. "I will choose them myself."
They reached the edge of the settlement. Arne headed off to begin his selection, while Bjorn made for the longhouse. Just as his hand touched the heavy wooden door, a scream tore through the air from within.
It was Lagertha.
Bjorn's blood ran cold for a different reason. He cursed under his breath as he rushed inside. 'Damn it all. Is it time already?'
The longhouse had been transformed into organized chaos. Women moved about with purpose, carrying steaming bowls and clean linens.
And there, in the center of it all, was Lagertha; magnificent, terrifying, and currently glaring at him with the fury of a storm goddess.
"BJORN!" she roared, her voice cutting through the activity. "Where, in the name of all the gods, have you been?"
"I was... testing a new weapon with Arne," he said.
"Sorry Mother, I didn't know it was time—"
"IT'S BEEN TIME FOR THE PAST—" Another contraction seized her, and she gripped the arms of the birthing chair with a force that turned her knuckles bone-white. She finished the thought in a pained hiss. "WHERE IS YOUR FATHER?"
Bjorn looked around at the midwives and Siggy, who were all suddenly very interested in their tasks and avoiding eye contact. "Father is... I'm sure he's coming."
"Don't worry Mother, I'm here now—"
"Don't 'Mother' me!" she snarled. "Go find your father before I change the name of this child to the first weapon I can reach!""
Bjorn backed toward the door, but Siggy caught his arm. "Don't you leave now," she said. "She needs family here."
"But she just told me to—"
"She's in labor! She doesn't mean half of what she's saying!"
For the next hour, Bjorn discovered that all his skills meant absolutely nothing in the face of childbirth. He held bowls, fetched linens, and mostly tried to stay out of the way while Lagertha continued her running commentary on the inadequacies of men in general and her family in particular.
Just then, the door burst open and Ragnar stumbled in, his hair wild and his clothes disheveled. He looked around the chaotic scene with the expression of a man who had just walked into a dragon's den.
"Lagertha! I came as soon as I heard—"
"AS SOON AS YOU HEARD?" Lagertha's voice could have shattered stone.
Ragnar approached her cautiously, as one might approach a wounded she-bear. Another wave of pain washed over her, and she seized his hand, her grip making him wince.
"This is YOUR fault!" she yelled.
"Mine?" Ragnar squeaked, his voice an octave higher than usual.
"Both of you! Father and son, equally useless when it truly matters!" She glared from one to the other, her eyes burning with equal venom.
Bjorn and Ragnar exchanged a look of mutual sympathy.
They were so thoroughly unhelpful that a midwife kindly, suggested they wait outside.
Standing in the chill evening air, Ragnar turned to his son. "Where were you?"
Bjorn gave him an incredulous look. "You are the father. You are the one who should have been here. Where were you?"
"You vanished without a word," Ragnar retorted. "And your merchant friends brought news."
Bjorn's expression hardened, sensing the shift in tone. He waited.
Ragnar's voice dropped. "It seems Olver Spake, the foster-father of King Halfdan the Black, is dead."
The political landscape had just violently shifted. The skirmishes were over. The real war was about to begin.
Just as the gravity of the news settled, a new sound cut through the evening from inside the longhouse. It was the piercing cry of a newborn baby.
Ubbe Ragnarsson.