With the commander having mutinied at the last moment, Oleg assumed control of the Royal Guard in his capacity as deputy and ordered the fleet to cross the sea toward Gothenburg.
Unexpectedly, even a portion of the Royal Guard—and several sailors—had a change of heart.
"My lord, Halfdan's command ability is abysmal. He couldn't beat a handful of Welsh hill-bandits even with superior numbers. Conquering Sweden? Impossible.
Compared to that, the General (Niels) has a better chance. We might as well gamble boldly in Denmark."
"Aye. You've fought for years and you're still just a baron with a mere two thousand acres. Your prospects are bleak.
Help the General seize Denmark and at least you might end up an earl!"
Oleg ignored their chatter and silenced them with one sentence:
"You take the king's pay and wear the king's iron.
If you openly defy orders, do you not fear the punishment that awaits?"
At the thought of Ragnar's face, the Royal Guardsmen shut their mouths.
But some sailors still insisted on leaving.
"Me? What do I have to do with the king? I only work for the captain. Here—take your filthy wages back. I'm done!"
One sailor dug ten stinking silver pennies out from under his shoe-sole and shoved them at the captain before jumping into the shallows and striding straight toward Niels's men.
Under his lead, more than two hundred sailors returned their pay. Some had spent everything before setting sail and simply stripped naked, tossing their clothes at the captain before jogging over to Niels bare-skinned.
Seeing the sailors coming to him, Niels wiped at the corner of his eye and said with a choked voice:
"Brothers… thank you for your faith.
Before the gods I swear—never will I mistreat you.
If I break this oath, may the gods take me."
He now commanded fifty household guards, 1,500 militiamen, 500 raiders, and over 200 sailors.
As for equipment—Niels had accumulated a store of 100 suits of iron armor over the years. Before departure, he mortgaged five estates in northern Nottingham to Lennard, borrowing another 50 suits.
He possessed a total of 150 suits of armor.
He weighed his remaining chips:
"Denmark has no unified kingdom.
Each settlement varies in strength.
On the Jutland Peninsula, Aalborg, Aarhus, and Schleswig are the strongest.
If I strike fast enough—north to south—before they can react…
Let's hope young Erik didn't lie to me."
After lunch, Niels led his men upriver.
Just before sunset, they reached the first target—Aalborg.
Fields of oats stretched across the surroundings, their healthy growth revealing fertile land.
A wooden fort stood on the south bank. Its walls were only four meters high, with no ditch, no watchtowers. Years of rain had carved dark grooves into the planks; moss clung to the gaps.
As the army approached, two ravens burst from a grass nest atop the wall, shedding black feathers as they fled.
"Attack!"
Judging from the fort's footprint, there were at most two hundred households. With overwhelming numbers, Niels saw no need for tricks.
He advanced straight toward the eastern wall.
At a distance of a hundred meters, defenders loosed arrows.
Niels curled his lip and led his fifty armored bowmen forward to contest the barrage.
Since youth, Niels had known he was not tall or muscular like Ivar or Bjorn—among Vikings, he was on the shorter side.
So he pursued a different path: archery.
Blessed with sharp eyesight and long arms, he developed a rare mastery.
"Let's show these bumpkins what real shooting looks like."
He whistled sharply, drew his bow, and fixed his gaze on a battlement.
The moment a defender leaned out, the bowstring thrummed—an arrow punched through the man's throat, steel head bursting from the back of his neck as the white goose-feather fletching quivered.
"As expected of my lord—dead on."
"Keep it up, save a few heads for us!"
Ignoring their flattery, Niels pulled two more arrows from his deerskin quiver.
The first nailed another peeking defender in the throat;
the second struck a replacement archer squarely in the chest.
Both toppled back, blood spraying across the mossy wood.
Within a minute, Niels and his guards fired six volleys, pinning the defenders down.
The rest of the army surged forward, twenty men hoisting a battering log to smash the eastern gate.
A dozen impacts later, the inner bar splintered with a crack and the gate burst inward.
Niels's men immediately hurled a wave of throwing axes and charged into the shield wall behind the entrance.
"Anglo-Saxons!?"
One defender, who had raided Britain before, recognized the attackers' accents.
"What in Hel's name—Anglos raiding Vikings!?"
Moments later, more than two thousand attackers flooded the settlement, cut down the local lord and his retainers, and were about to plunder the houses—
when Niels roared:
"Idiots! This will be your fief. Who plunders his own land!?"
Hearing that the general intended to grant Aalborg as a fief, Niels's officers exchanged glances, each calculating his own chances.
Inside the longhouse, Niels tore a linen tunic off a corpse, wiped the greasy table clean, then spread out a chaotic sheepskin map.
"Look closely.
Here, at the top, is Skagen.
Here is Aalborg, where we stand.
March south—Randers, Aarhus—
all the way to the peninsula's southern tip: Schleswig.
I want only Schleswig.
Everything else will be yours—
if you follow my orders, kill no one without cause, and never break formation."
Dangling land before them, he won their loyalty.
He then ordered his trusted men to inventory the storehouses, seize draft horses and oxen, and cobble together a supply caravan.
The next morning, he left fifty men to hold Aalborg and tend to the wounded.
To prevent rebellion, he forcibly conscripted over a hundred surviving adult men as auxiliary troops.
After a full day's march, Niels passed through three villages.
Facing two thousand armed men, none dared resist; all surrendered.
To establish authority, Niels forbade his soldiers to plunder, taking only food and livestock.
He pushed the village chiefs and their able-bodied men along with him.
By noon of the third day, they reached Randers.
"Attack!"
Once again, the same familiar sequence unfolded:
Niels and his bowmen suppressed the defenders; the others raised ladders and battering logs.
Compared to Britain, Denmark was even more backward.
There were no Roman-era stone structures—only cramped, low wooden forts with pitiful defenses.
Within half an hour, Randers fell.
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