After finishing business at the school, Vig began a tour of the workshops across Tyne Town.
To his surprise, the most promising one wasn't the forge or the tannery—it was the brewery.
On the western fields beyond the town walls, acres of hops now grew tall and fragrant. With the harvest ripening, workers were busy experimenting with large-scale beer production.
Following brewing methods brought from the German lands, they first roasted and crushed malted barley, then simmered it gently in water until the liquid turned sweet and cloudy. The mash was strained through coarse linen, producing the wort.
Next, the wort was boiled with hops for an hour, then cooled and left to ferment with yeast for two weeks.
Because hops contained natural preservatives, the finished beer could keep for half a year—perfect for export to the North, where Vikings loved their drink but lacked the grain to brew it themselves.
"This is the finished batch?"
He took a cup and tasted it. The beer was rough but drinkable—not as sweet as mead or as refined as wine, yet cheap and hearty enough for the masses.
A single barrel, weighing about fifty kilos, required ten kilos of barley plus hops and herbs. Including labor, each barrel cost two pennies to make and could sell for eight—an astonishing profit.
"At last, a new source of income," Vig murmured. "Making money shouldn't be this hard."
He resolved to expand the hop fields and make brewing the second great industry of Tyne Town—after textiles.
Later that day, as he inspected the town's four taverns, he happened upon Burlow, the Welsh chieftain who had sworn allegiance months ago, busily purchasing casks of beer.
"How are your new lands treating you?" Vig asked.
He had resettled the three loyal Welsh clans to the west, northwest, and north, where plains met the rolling hills. Their new farms would feed them well enough—but to prosper, Vig had encouraged them to hunt and train, building the skills of future mountain infantry.
"We are most satisfied, my lord," Burlow replied. "Our homes are nearly finished—we'll be ready before the first snow."
Vig nodded, paid their tavern bill himself, and watched them drive their wagons out of town.
A week later, ten ships from the north arrived laden with pig iron.
With raw material secured, Vig dropped all pretense.
When the merchants sailed home, he gave them a message to spread in every Norse port:
"In the name of the Serpent of the Northlands, let all brave men gather at Tyne Town by next May. There will be glory—and plunder—for all who come."
He also sent envoys south, visiting knightly manors one by one, offering three pounds of silver per man to fight for him—plus a share of the spoils worth five ordinary soldiers.
Before winter's end, word of the coming war had reached the Pictish nobles. Alarmed, the lords of Edinburgh, Glasgow, and elsewhere convened under Arkense of Edinburgh and Hugh of Glasgow, forming a Northern Alliance in late November.
Their first act was to cut off all iron exports to Tyne Town, and to send envoys south to gather intelligence.
Five days later, one such envoy's ship docked at Tyne Town.
Snow fell thick as goose feathers. The wind howled over the frozen wharf, where only five weary militiamen huddled around a brazier in their guardhouse.
"Finally our last day on duty," one muttered. "These shifts are miserable."
"Aye—and no ale while we're on watch. Never heard of such cruelty."
Tyne Town's defense force counted a hundred men in all—forty professional soldiers and sixty townsmen drafted by lottery for two-week rotations. The five unlucky souls on watch tonight had drawn the short straws.
When they heard footsteps crunching through the snow, they grabbed shields and axes and stepped outside.
"Who goes there?"
A tall man in fine wool and fur stepped forward, chin raised.
"I am an envoy of the Northern Alliance. I must speak with your lord."
"Northern… Alliance?"
The guards exchanged confused looks but, noting his expensive clothes, one escorted him through the South Gate and up the road toward the low southwestern hill where Tyne Castle stood.
"What a magnificent sight," the envoy breathed.
Compared to the wooden forts of Edinburgh, Glasgow, or Stirling, this towering stone fortress was a marvel—the grandest building he had ever seen.
How much silver had it cost?
Crossing the drawbridge and eastern gate, he entered the courtyard. Soldiers trained in the open square; barracks lined one side, and storehouses, stables, and kitchens the other.
His earlier arrogance vanished as he waited before the keep's great doors. After five minutes, a servant beckoned him inside.
Warmth washed over him as he stepped past heavy drapes into the hall. Two great stone hearths burned along the walls, filling the air with flickering light and the smell of oak smoke.
At the far end of the room, on the dais beneath a banner of the serpent, sat Vig, the man he had come to see.
"I am Vig," said the lord. "Do you speak Latin?"
The envoy nodded. "I am Morgan, a minor noble… representing the Northern Alliance."
After a string of empty courtesies, he came to his point.
"We hear you are gathering troops to invade the North. Is it true?"
There was no point denying it—word of his preparations had spread across Britain. Vig's tone was even.
"Yes. The campaign begins next year."
Morgan hesitated, taken aback by such bluntness. Accepting a cup of warm ale from a maid, he tried to sound indignant.
"You have no reason to attack us. It violates every code of conduct."
"Code of conduct?" Vig echoed, smiling faintly. "Then here is mine."
He produced a parchment covered in neat Norse runes and Latin script.
"For years, Pictish bandits have crossed the border to raid my lands—thirty-two times by official record, most of them last year alone. The people demand justice. I intend to end the threat at its root."
He handed the list to the envoy. Each line recorded livestock thefts, burnt fields, and murdered peasants.
"These are only the attacks that caused casualties," Vig continued. "The thefts of cattle and grain are too many to count."
Since adopting the three-field system and iron plows, Tyne Town's farms now yielded forty percent more grain than before. Prosperity had drawn envy—and thieves. Left unchecked, he warned, the raiders would grow into warbands of thousands.
Morgan swallowed hard, realizing the "Serpent of the Northlands" already had his justification—and perhaps his war.
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