"After all these years of fighting, the defenses back home in the North are still the weakest."
Having taken Randers, Niels repeated the same routine—stripping supplies, conscripting able-bodied men, leaving behind a small detachment to hold the fort—then marched south after a night's rest.
One by one, the wooden forts and small settlements along the way fell.
A week later, he arrived at the final target of the campaign—Schleswig.
The local lord was Horst, brother to King Erik of Norway.
His vision surpassed that of ordinary Danish chieftains; he had borrowed craftsmen from Erik to strengthen his defenses. The walls stood nearly five meters high, with deep trenches outside and tall arrow towers spaced along the perimeter. At first glance, Niels felt as if he had returned to Britain.
"Chief, what now?"
Niels's eyes twisted with a gambler's desperation—one who had staked everything he owned.
"Keep going. Break the walls. When we feast after victory, I'll grant you all your own lands."
By now, his army had swollen to 3,500 men, half of them forcefully conscripted Danes.
Resentment simmered among them, but with families behind them in the villages he had conquered, they could only grit their teeth and march.
On Niels's command, the auxiliary troops began cutting timber, preparing to build large siege engines.
Watching the auxiliaries fumble awkwardly, one of Niels's household guards muttered:
"Chief, are you sure these bumpkins can really build trebuchets and siege towers?"
"No. I'm not that stupid. It's just for show—to keep Horst fixated on the wrong threat."
Siegecraft was Wigger's specialty; Niels had never mastered it.
He had a different plan.
The guard noticed the meaningful smirk creeping onto the young lord's face.
"And then?"
"Not your concern. Focus on your work—your reward after the campaign is guaranteed."
Sending the guard away, Niels sat cross-legged on the grass, contemplating silently.
Behind the battlements, Horst stared at the army covering the open ground outside the walls. The banner of Ragnar—Thunderbolt on blue—snapped in the wind.
He cursed aloud:
"Damn you. Your son gets beaten by Swedish nobles, and you come cause trouble for us Danes!?"
The only consolation was the location—Schleswig sat at the southern tip of Jutland.
He had enjoyed more time to raise village militia, and seven minor nobles had already arrived seeking refuge.
His garrison now numbered 1,500.
After cursing long enough, Horst turned to one of the nobles on his right. Tears welled in his eyes as he grabbed the man's shoulders:
"Favel… you're the loyal one. You rushed here the moment you heard the news.
Ah—I must've been possessed back then… all for a damn farm, I even struck you. I truly wronged you."
"It's nothing. I've long forgotten."
That afternoon, the besiegers launched a symbolic attack, only to be repelled before reaching the walls.
Morale inside the fortress soared.
That night, Horst held a feast for the nobles who had come to his aid.
"Hold on a little longer. We'll wear them out, then counterattack.
They say the lords of Aalborg and the others are dead—choose whichever lands you like."
In his vision, once he defeated this invasion, he would distribute the conquered territories to these minor nobles, build his prestige, and proclaim himself king.
Then he would unite with Norway and Sweden against Ragnar's growing influence.
"When my brother dies, I'll seize the throne, then take Sweden—and become king of all Vikings!"
Cup after cup of sweet mead sent his mind drifting into a pleasant haze.
The six other minor nobles were soon drunk senseless.
Even the steadfast Favel staggered outside to vomit.
When no one was watching, Favel slipped into a dark hut, gathered ten armed retainers, and in the cover of night approached the northern wall.
They silently killed the watchman on duty.
Favel then lowered dozens of hemp ropes down the outer face of the battlements.
He raised a lantern and waved it toward the enemy camp.
Soon, figures in black cloaks climbed up the ropes.
Favel whispered:
"Where is Niels? Are the promises still valid?"
A short, stern-faced man removed his cloak.
"Don't worry. Just as Prince Erik said—you'll have your reward.
Tell me… how do you feel about Zealand?"
(the island where modern Copenhagen lies)
"Zealand…?"
Favel's expression wavered.
As more armored men climbed onto the wall, he finally gritted his teeth and nodded.
All of this had been arranged by Prince Erik .
Years ago, when Niels courted Princess Eve, he spent many nights drinking with her brother, Prince Erik, and the two had grown close.
At the start of this year, as Sweden plunged into chaos, Prince Erik predicted Ragnar would send troops east.
He secretly contacted Niels and advised him to take the mission—then "incidentally" seize Schleswig on the way, removing Horst, who coveted the Norwegian crown.
To ensure success, Erik provided a detailed map of Denmark and enlisted Favel as an inside man.
The only thing he didn't expect was that Niels would burn every bridge—expending his fortune and future—to turn a "raid" into full-blown conquest.
More than a hundred armored soldiers now stood atop the walls.
Niels prepared to move on the gate.
As he stepped forward, the forty-something Favel grabbed the unremarkable-looking young lord.
"You… you plan to be King of Denmark?"
"Why else?"
Niels grinned.
"If not for that ending, how could everything I've endured be worth it?"
He strode off toward the gate.
The guards were dispatched quickly.
When the heavy doors swung open, thousands of men hidden in the darkness surged forward with a thunderous roar.
At that moment—whether Nottingham's Anglo-Saxon militiamen or the conscripted Danish youths—every heart overflowed with greed.
Night blinded commanders.
If one dared enough, a single night could earn more wealth than a lifetime of toil.
Without any urging from their officers, over three thousand men poured through the gate like a flood.
Unprepared, Horst could not rally a defense.
Shielded by his bodyguards, he fought his way through the chaos and barely escaped.
"These madmen… they dare seize my capital!?"
Fires erupted everywhere.
Niels was furious, but with the chaos so total, he could only ignore the looting.
He stormed into Horst's manor with his guards, demanding of the trembling maidservants:
"Where is the treasury?"
They led him into a dim cellar.
Niels lit the candles on both sides.
Before him lay five wooden chests of varying sizes.
One held a small heap of silver pennies.
One was filled with amber.
One held silverware.
Another fine garments.
The last chest was strangely light.
Niels lifted the lid—and froze.
"Is this… the gods' reward for me?"
Inside lay nothing but a golden crown.
Hands trembling, he lifted it, breathed on it, wiped it clean, and placed it on his head.
It was slightly large—yet it filled him with a tranquil, indescribable peace, as though all earthly worries had dissolved.
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