At dawn the next morning, a shrill bell rang across the settlement. Four hundred laborers poured out of the barracks. Some were assigned to dig canals, others to the logging camps, while the rest tended wheat and sugarcane fields.
The sugar company had also acquired grapevines and citrus saplings, but none had been planted on a large scale.
In the Middle Ages, grapevines were transplanted by cuttings, and it took at least four years before they produced reliably. Citrus trees required even longer to mature. With limited resources, the company prioritized sugarcane. Grapes and oranges would have to wait until profits improved.
Under the blazing sun, workers in coarse linen shirts toiled endlessly. When overseers weren't watching, they stole brief moments of rest, muttering about how they had ended up in this distant land.
The laborers fell into two broad groups: voluntary poor migrants and transported convicts.
The poor typically signed three-year contracts. Afterward, they could return to Britain—or remain on Sunlight Island and receive twenty acres of farmland free of charge.
The exiles had varying sentences. Some could return after two years; others faced ten. The newest arrivals had been convicted of rebellion and sentenced to lifelong exile. The Canary Islands would be their final home.
"Hey, why did your idiot earl rebel?" one veteran worker jeered. "Did Gunnar trick him?"
The newcomers reacted with mixed anger and shame. Just as the quarrel grew louder, a shout rose from the fields—
A swarm of natives burst from the jungle, short spears raised.
"Damn it—they're back!"
The experienced workers dropped their tools and sprinted toward the camp. Slower newcomers lagged behind. Spears arced through the air. Several fell, pierced clean through, their fate uncertain.
Within five minutes, most workers had scrambled inside the palisade. Barely catching their breath, they were driven by the overseer to the armory.
"Move! If they breach the walls, none of us survives!"
Crossbows were handed out through the crowd. Each loophole along the wall received a shooter. The men issued long spears split into two groups: one hundred guarded the gate, another hundred stood as reserves against climbers.
Soon, hundreds of natives surged forward. Those at the flanks raised wooden shields against crossbow bolts. At the front, warriors wielding stolen iron picks and shovels smashed furiously at the wooden gate.
Peering through a firing slit, the overseer cursed.
"Which fool left the tools outside?!"
The island tribes could not smelt metal. Their weapons were usually wooden spears, stone axes, and slings. But over the past year, they had learned the value of iron—and begun collecting it deliberately.
In less than ten minutes, the reinforced gate splintered. The overseer fired a bolt that struck a man clean through the throat. Instead of breaking the attackers, it enraged them. Ignoring losses, they surged forward and finally broke through.
"Spearmen hold! Crossbowmen fire over them! No retreat!"
The overseer cut down two fleeing men himself, forcing the line to stand firm.
Then a shout rang from the watchtower.
"Cavalry! The earl's cavalry!"
From the eastern hills, twenty horsemen appeared. One carried Helgi's newly designed banner—blue, with three thriving stalks of sugarcane at its center.
They rode powerful Andalusian warhorses, clad in mail and iron helms. Each carried a three-meter lance, boots firm in stirrups.
Before the natives could react, Helgi spurred forward.
The horses thundered downhill like rolling storm clouds. The riders formed a loose line and crashed into more than four hundred enemies.
Stones from slings flew through the air. Most missed. A few struck mail, doing no harm.
At thirty paces, Helgi lowered his lance and drove straight into the scattered ranks.
"Valhalla!"
The charge was devastating.
Lances punched through flesh. Horses smashed bodies aside. Iron-shod hooves trampled the fallen. One native grabbed at a horse's leg—his skull split by a sword. Another turned to flee—only to be speared from behind. Panic spread like wildfire. The formation collapsed instantly.
Moments later, dozens of corpses littered the clearing. Survivors scattered into the jungle.
Helgi reined in amid the blood, calm as if after a hunt. Only two riders bore light wounds.
He entered the camp and accepted sweet bread and sugar water from the overseer.
"What provoked this attack?"
"Nothing. We were working as usual. They rushed out of the forest. Fifteen workers were killed in the fields. Twenty more wounded defending the gate. They destroyed wheat and cane—and smashed the riverside waterwheel. My lord… we can't endure this anymore."
Helgi had long avoided open war. Labor was scarce. He had urged restraint, even gifting wine and linen to improve relations.
Now he had no choice.
"Train every worker. Spread the word: when we take their village, the women and grain are theirs."
The overseer's face lit with grim satisfaction. He had long grown tired of the harassment. A decisive blow would restore order.
Then Helgi asked casually, "Where is Hosa? Send him back to Britain. He's more trouble than help."
The overseer ordered a search. The entire camp was combed—but Hosa was nowhere to be found.
A worker spoke hesitantly.
"He went upriver fishing this morning… He's probably dead."
"Shut up! Find him!"
The overseer's stomach dropped. Hosa was timid and greedy, never respected by Helgi or the knights—but he had one crucial advantage:
His sister was queen.
If harm had come to him, royal fury would follow.
Meanwhile, Hosa was very much alive—though not fortunate.
Slung over a native's shoulder, he was carried swiftly through the jungle.
"Let me go! I'll pay—whatever you want!"
The tribesman ignored him.
This man had already killed two armed guards with a wooden spear. Hosa dared not resist.
Gradually, the forest thinned.
Hosa's heart sank.
He knew—whatever awaited him ahead would not be negotiation.
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