Ulf's advice aligned perfectly with Paschal's own thoughts. After hearing him out, Paschal pretended he had not considered it before and sincerely thanked his colleague for the help and hospitality.
"It's nothing," Ulf waved it off. "I think of you as a younger brother—no need to mention it."
Unable to hold his liquor, Ulf soon drifted into rambling, illogical chatter, and the dinner finally came to an end.
Leaving Dover, the fleet hugged the continental coastline and sailed toward Denmark. Along the way, they ran into a storm. The knarr's sails and stern rudder were damaged, forcing Paschal to make a temporary stop at Esbjerg on Denmark's west coast.
When news of Ragnar's death spread, local residents surged toward the harbor like a tide, begging to see the coffin in the ship's hold. Paschal refused outright.
To avoid trouble, he ordered his men to take turns standing guard—bows and crossbows in hand—watching the increasingly agitated crowd from the deck.
"Ragnar was just a mortal king who believed in pagan gods. Is this really necessary?" Paschal muttered.
He could not understand such fervor and found the locals unbearably noisy. After several days of repairs, on the eve of departure at dusk, more than a thousand Vikings poured into Esbjerg, surrounding a blue banner emblazoned with three crossed feathered arrows.
"Oh no."
Paschal recognized it instantly—it was Niels's personal standard.
Soon, Niels seized control of the harbor and bluntly demanded,
"Where is my uncle's coffin?"
The fleet consisted of only three knarrs, totaling 140 men. Excluding shamans and clerks, there were barely over a hundred fighters—half royal guards, half Paschal's private retainers. Faced with Niels's overwhelming numbers, Paschal chose not to resist and allowed them aboard.
"My uncle was a hero revered across the Viking world," Niels shouted. "And this is all the ceremony he gets?"
Raising his voice, he displayed his outrage to the onlookers. Paschal shifted the blame to Astrid.
"The treasury is empty. The Dowager Queen only allocated a symbolic sum—enough for three knarrs, no more."
Niels ignored the explanation and launched into a tirade about Londinium's negligence, cursing everyone from the Dowager Queen and the council down to regional lords.
Bathed in the glow of the setting sun, the devoted nephew ranted for a full half hour. Paschal cursed inwardly, wondering whether Niels had lost his mind. It was Niels's reckless invasion of Denmark that had plunged the north into chaos, forcing Ragnar to campaign there and accrue massive debts—yet now he played the part of a loyal son. What was the point?
But Paschal still underestimated this ambitious lord.
That night, Niels and a crowd of shamans kept vigil aboard the ship, burning herbs and chanting strange incantations that kept the sailors awake.
"Damn it—will these lunatics ever stop?"
Unable to sleep, Paschal left the captain's cabin and climbed onto the square sterncastle, staring blankly into the distance. The sea wind was cold and salty. The low-lying land nearby stretched into the dark sea like a crouching beast. Over twenty traditional Viking fishing boats were moored at the pier, bobbing gently with the waves, ropes creaking like the wails of the dead.
Then, without warning, the sky tore open.
No thunder—only light.
A blinding orange-red bolt of lightning ripped through the darkness, spreading wildly across the western horizon, setting the edges of the clouds ablaze like burning embers.
"Look! Ragnar answers our call!"
Niels and the shamans erupted in fervor, and the Vikings of Esbjerg followed suit. They poured out of their homes. The lightning did not return; darkness reclaimed the bay, leaving only the shrill howl of wind threading through the thatched houses.
To sustain the frenzy, Niels ordered torches lit and delivered a frenzied speech, declaring that his uncle had appeared to him in a dream—still watching over the Viking people, choosing to remain in the mortal world to reverse this chaos and decline.
"Ragnar!"
"Ragnar!"
Before Paschal's horrified eyes, Niels ordered the coffin carried onto the dock and held a grand sacrificial ceremony that lasted three days and three nights.
When it ended, riders from Schleswig arrived bearing gold. Niels commanded carpenters to craft a gilded throne, proclaiming that the former king's soul now resided within it. From this day on, he would heed his uncle's will and carry forward his cause.
"This is far from over. Countless battles and glories await us!"
With that, Niels knelt reverently before the gilded throne, and the crowd followed suit. Terrified, Paschal seized the moment, quietly ordered his crew to weigh anchor, and fled to sea, retracing his route back to Dover.
"You lost the coffin?"
After hearing what happened at Esbjerg, Ulf was speechless. He advised Paschal not to return to Londinium.
"Write to the capital. Say Niels seized the coffin by force and wounded your shoulder with an arrow. Dump this mess on the Dowager Queen."
Having botched the mission, Paschal was riddled with anxiety. He wrote a long, carefully worded letter, pushing responsibility away from himself as much as possible.
When the letter reached Londinium, Astrid put on a show of fury—but had no intention of sending troops. Denmark and Sweden contributed almost no taxes anyway. Even if Niels destabilized the region, it would barely hurt her.
Content to muddle through, she sent out several letters.
First, to Niels—ordering him to send the coffin to Gothenburg and report to Londinium for punishment. An empty gesture, meant only to assert royal authority.
Next, to Ivar, Halfdan, Little Erik, Vig, and others—with one goal: inciting them to attack Denmark.
"Let them kill each other," Astrid decided coldly. "Until none are left."
Unexpectedly, however, the lesser nobles of the royal demesne erupted in outrage. Barons and knights demanded the Royal Guard be deployed to crush the lawless Niels.
As more and more minor nobles gathered outside the palace gates, Astrid was forced to relent. She had recently sold off estates to amass a private reserve—money barely warmed in her hands before this disaster loomed. Rage boiled within her.
She summoned Oleg in private.
"I can deploy the Royal Guard—but on two conditions. First, those nobles who clamor for war must also march. Second, Ubbe has fled to northern Denmark. Kill him when you get the chance. If you succeed, northern Denmark will be yours."
To her surprise, Oleg refused outright.
He swore loyalty to Ragnar and declared he would never harm any of Ragnar's sons.
"Stubborn fool," Astrid cursed inwardly.
She resolved to find mid-ranking officers instead. With land dangled as bait, surely someone would bite.
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