Bjorn's boots hit the dock with a wet thud, seawater splashing up from the warped planks. The wood groaned under the weight of more than six hundred men disembarking, shields scraping against the longship's hull. Salt spray clung to his face.
The palisade wall loomed ahead—vertical logs driven into the earth, gaps sealed with pitch that oozed black in the heat. His own walls back home tilted outward, just enough that a man's weight worked against him.
"Let's hope the Gods smile upon you this time, Bjorn." Floki scratched at his beard. "Maybe we find this King in his hall, rather than finding it empty because he ran off like the others."
"Things are not going as you like for the first time, eh, nephew?" Rollo added from his side.
Bjorn's mouth twitched with annoyance at their constant attempts to bait him. "The gods have nothing to do with it, Floki. One group thought they were doing the right thing and fucked everything. The others did what any sensible person would do against a superior force."
"If you say so," Ragnar said, with that annoying smirk on his face.
"If you say so." And Floki's shoulders lifted in that infuriating way of his.
Bjorn shook his head and started walking, boots crunching on the rocky beach. Behind him came the rhythmic stamp of his men falling into step, the clink of iron rings on leather armor.
Faces appeared on the raised platform behind the palisade—pale circles against the dark wood. Bjorn counted them. Twenty visible. Maybe more hiding below.
One man stood taller than the rest, his beard catching the light like hammered gold. Harald Golden Beard. Old as they'd said, face weathered, but he stood straight with no fear in his eyes.
"Bjorn glanced at Floki, Rollo, and Ragnar, as if to say, 'Here stands a king who did not flee.'"
Bjorn halted his men with a raised hand. The stamp of boots stopped. Just within spear range now—close enough that he could hear the wind whistling through gaps in the palisade, carrying the smell of cook fires and unwashed bodies and fear-sweat.
"King Harald!" His voice cracked across the space between them. "Your men are dead. Your Jarls are dead. All of them—except this one."
Two of his warriors dragged Jarl Alti forward. The man's knees hit the dirt with a crunch, rocks biting into his skin. Half grey beard crusted with dried blood, leather tunic torn at the shoulder.
No response came from the wall. Just the wind and the distant cry of gulls.
"Do you not want to save your man?" Bjorn called out. "The husband of your sister?"
Golden Beard leaned forward, hands gripping the rough wood of the palisade. "Nah. So go on. Kill him."
Alti started laughing barks that soon turned into wheezing coughs. "I told you, boy. Just kill me and be done with it. There is no such thing as surrender in our world. We live by the axe and we die by it."
"I'm glad you're in a great mood." Bjorn turned to Floki. "Get the ram ready."
Floki made some gesture to the sky—thumb and two fingers, probably asking Thor to watch over him—and jogged back toward the ships. His men followed, boots pounding the beach, shouting orders over the crash of waves.
It took maybe five minutes. The sound of axes biting into wood, rope being wound and knotted, someone cursing as a splinter went through their palm. Then they came back carrying a tree trunk thick as a man's torso, rope handles lashed to the sides.
"Shieldwall!"
The response came like thunder. Shields slammed together, the crack of wood on wood echoing off the palisade. Front rank locked edge to edge, standing with their feet planted wide. Second rank raised their shields overhead at an angle, the iron bosses catching the light. Third rank filled the gaps with overlapping coverage.
It looked like a moving fortress. It sounded like one too—the creak of leather straps, the rasp of heavy breathing, the scrape of boot soles finding purchase on loose rocks.
"Bring my spears."
Someone pressed one into his hand. The shaft was smooth from use, balanced perfectly. Bjorn rolled his shoulder, feeling the muscles stretch, and sighted on a man peering over the wall. Leather cap, scraggly beard, shield held at half-mast.
The spear left his hand with a whistle. It punched through the shield with a sound like breaking pottery and kept going. The man's scream cut off mid-breath as he toppled backward.
Bjorn already had another spear.
Another man dropped.
"Forward!" His voice cut through the noise. "Slow march!"
The shieldwall moved like a single beast, boots hitting the ground in unison—thud, thud, thud. Behind them, his archers loosed their first volley. Arrows hissed through the air like angry hornets, most thudding into wood, some finding flesh with wet thuds followed by screaming.
Bjorn kept throwing. His fourth spear took a man in the chest, punching through his leather armor, sending him flying.
The defenders stopped showing their heads. Smart. But it meant they weren't throwing anything back either.
Husabø wasn't Hedeby with its thousands. This was a trading hub barely holding eight hundred souls. Maybe eighty defenders on that wall if he was generous.
Simple math and ugly results.
The ram hit the gate with a boom.
Wood cracked and someone on the wall shouted high pitched orders.
Second hit came and the crossbar groaned.
Third hit and splinters flew.
Fourth hit and the gates exploded inward, one side torn completely off its leather hinges and crashing down.
His men poured through the gap like water through a broken dam. War cries mixing with screams, the clash of steel on steel, shields splintering, someone's death rattle cutting off in a gurgle.
Bjorn followed them in.
A knot of defenders tried to hold the street—maybe ten men, shields locked, spears out, eyes white with terror but standing their ground.
His warriors hit them and the shield line collapsed in seconds.
Metal scraped on bone and blood sprayed hot across Bjorn's face, copper-sweet on his tongue and the bodies hit the ground with wet thumps.
The Great Hall doors stood open. Bjorn pushed through, his eyes adjusting to the gloom after the bright sunlight.
Smoke hung thick from the central hearth.
Harald Golden Beard sat in his high seat, drinking from a horn. An axe lay across his lap, the blade nicked from use.
No guards at sight. Or a last stand. Just an old man and his drink in an empty hall.
Golden Beard tilted his head back and drained the horn, throat working. He set it down with a hollow clunk and stood, lifting the axe in his right hand. He wore only a leather tunic; no mail, no helmet.
The blade trembled slightly in his hand, but Bjorn knew it wasn't from fear.
"You killed him, didn't you?" Golden Beard's voice was rough. "Halfdan the Black, I mean."
Bjorn stopped maybe three paces away. Close enough to smell the mead on the old man's breath. "Not the welcome I expected. Gone mad in your old age?"
Golden Beard laughed with no further response.
"If I killed him, I'd have killed the other eight Kings too," Bjorn said, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "and burned Uppsala as well. A place of the Gods. Same Gods who gave me this silver hair and Soft Death." He patted the pommel. "Doesn't make sense, does it?"
"Is that so?" Golden Beard's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I liked him. My daughter was his first wife. They had a son together, Harald. Called him Harald the Young." He swallowed hard. "Though he didn't live long. Then Halfdan married again after my daughter died. He had another son, another Harald. That one didn't make it either. Gandalf killed him, they said."
The old man's knuckles went white around the axe handle, the wood creaking.
"And then someone came along and brought justice. Some great savior the Gods blessed with long life and silver hair and a magic sword. If you did it, I don't think you're man enough to admit it." His lips pulled back from missing teeth in something that might've been a smile. "So how about you show this old man that blessed sword before I die?"
Bjorn didn't draw. He walked forward instead, boots echoing on the packed earth floor.
Golden Beard swung the axe. Good swing for an old man, the blade cutting air with a whistle aimed right at Bjorn's skull.
Bjorn directly caught the handle mid-swing, and snatched the axe away.
The axe clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the empty hall.
"Chain him," Bjorn said, his breath coming hard. "We're holding a Thing."
Appearances mattered a lot. So word went out that same day through sea to every jarl and karl within three days' ride. Come to Husabø for a Thing.
Same as he'd done more than a month ago in Agder, Telemark, Rogaland and Hordaland. Except this time the king would actually be there to face judgment instead of running or already slain in the battle of Kaupang.
Less than a week and the settlement was packed. Rich karls in their finest wool, landholding families wearing silver arm rings that caught the light, important men with oiled beards and hungry eyes all come to witness a new age.
-x-X-x-
"I heard he has silver hair so beautiful that women weep just seeing it."
"They say he's tall as an oak and never lost a battle."
"If I married someone like that, I'd have that new thing they call silk and not this scratchy wool."
Gunnhild suddenly felt tired. She was standing with five other girls near the mead hall's entrance, all daughters of jarls and landholding families from Trøndelag. They'd been talking about Bjorn Silver Hair for a time now. Bjorn this, Bjorn that.
Like he was some treasure they could claim if they smiled pretty enough.
"Gunnhild?" One nudged her with an elbow. "Are you even listening?"
"I'm listening."
"You're thinking about fighting again, aren't you?" Brynhild's lips curved into a knowing smile. She was seventeen, a year older than Gunnhild, with blonde hair so pale it looked white in sunlight.
"Maybe."
"See? I told you." Brynhild turned to the others. "She's always thinking about shields and spears."
The other girls giggled. Gunnhild's hand flexed like she was gripping an axe handle that wasn't there.
"Don't start judging us already, Gunnhild. Every woman needs a man," said Hilde, the youngest at fifteen. Round-faced, soft-voiced, already promised to some karl's son back home. "Unless you want to die alone."
More giggles. "You're so strange, Gunnhild. Why do you care about weapons? Let the men do the fighting."
"Because men aren't always there when you need them. And because i'm good at it." Gunnhild's voice came out harder than she meant. "And because why not?"
"Good at getting bruises, you mean," Brynhild said, but there was no real bite to it. They'd known each other since they were children. "Your father lets you train with his warriors. Mine would've married me off by now if I asked for a sword."
"Shieldmaiden Lagertha trained him. Bjorn, I mean. That's why he fights so well." Brynhild added from the side.
Gunnhild's attention snapped back to the conversation when Lagertha was mentionned. She'd heard the stories since she was old enough to hold a wooden stick.
A woman who fought like the valkyries, who led men into battle and came back covered in glory instead of shame. She even met her past summer. One of the happiest moments of her life.
"And she's his mother." Brynhild said with a knowing smile.
If Lagertha had trained him...
"If he's what the skalds say, if he's really trained by her, then—" Gunnhild said.
"Then what? You'll challenge him to a duel?" one of the other girls laughed. "He'll kill you."
"I don't want to fight him. I want to see if it's true. If the skalds are just singing for silver or if he's actually worthy."
Today her father had dressed her in deep red wool—a ceremonial dress, heavy and layered, with long sleeves that nearly covered her hands. The fabric was good, probably cost more than most families earned in a season. Gold chains hung from her neck, clinking softly when she moved. Her hair was braided tight and pinned up, making her scalp ache.
She hated it. Hated the weight, the restriction, the way the dress caught around her ankles when she walked. But this was a Thing, and appearances mattered. Even for a girl who'd rather be holding a shield.
They'd arrived at Husabø just after dawn, stepping off their ships into a settlement transformed. Gunnhild had been here once before. It had been quiet then. Now it swarmed with people. Karls in their finest clothes, warriors in leather armor marked with a raven and sword, children running through the streets singing.
The song had made her pause:
Silver hair, silver shine,
Bjorn walks where gods align.
Once he died, then stood again,
Stronger than all other men.
Shiny sword, don't you dare,
Touch the blade—burn your hand there.
Eighteen years, young yet tall,
Bjorn the brave will rule us all.
"They're singing about him like he's already a god," Gunnhild had muttered.
"Maybe he is," Brynhild had said, not joking.
Now they stood in the Thing-field, a cleared space near the center of Husabø where the ground had been trampled flat by generations of feet. Banners snapped in the wind—raven and sword, raven and sword, everywhere she looked. Men and women filled the space, hundreds of them, all come to witness judgment on their own King Harald Golden Beard.
"There's so many people," one of the girls whispered, pressing closer to another girl. "I don't like crowds."
"Stay close then," the girl said. "Don't want you getting stepped on."
Gunnhild's eyes swept the gathering. Men and women both, but no weapons except shields. That was the law—the old law, from their forefathers. You came to a Thing unarmed, carrying only your shield as a symbol of your oath to defend your lord.
But she counted forty ships in the harbor. Hundreds of warriors in leather armor, spears and axes waiting just out of sight. This wasn't just a Thing. This was a show of force wrapped in tradition.
"There!" her friend grabbed her arm. "There he is!"
Gunnhild followed her gaze.
Bjorn Silverhair walked into the center of the Thing-field. Silver hair caught the light like molten metal. Tall—taller than most men, but not the tallest. Broad-shouldered, moving with the easy confidence of someone who'd never doubted his right to be anywhere.
And he wore a sword.
"Why does he have a sword?" Gunnhild's voice came out sharp. "That's against the law."
"Shhh!" Brynhild hissed, trying to cover Gunnhild's mouth. "Don't say that so loud!"
"It's true though," Gunnhild said, pulling away. "Everyone else left their weapons. Why does he get to—"
"Because it's not just a sword, silly," one of her friends said, her voice dreamy. "That's Soft Death. It's from the gods. Where else would he keep it?"
"So it's above the law of our fathers and their fathers?" Gunnhild wondered.
"Oh, don't be like that," her friend said. "He can bring whatever he wants. He's Silver Hair. He could bring a hundred swords if he wanted."
"And yet, Gunnhild, you complain when they don't let you hold a shield. When they tell you fighting isn't for women. So who cares about laws of our fathers and their fathers." One of the girls said.
"That's different." Gunnhild responded.
"How?"
Gunnhild opened her mouth to argue, but her friend grabbed her arm again. "Look, they're bringing out the king."
All eyes turned to the center of the Thing.
Harald Golden Beard was dragged forward by two warriors. Ropes bound his wrists, his ankles. His golden beard was clean, his fine clothes as well. They forced him to his knees in front of Bjorn.
The sight made Gunnhild's stomach twist. She'd seen Golden Beard before when her father had brought her to Sogn for trade negotiations. He'd been proud then, sitting tall in his high seat, his beard oiled and gleaming.
Now he looked like an outlaw waiting for execution.
"Such a humiliation," Brynhild whispered. "Even if Bjorn lets him live, no one will follow him after this."
She was right. In their world, honor meant everything. A king brought low in front of his people might as well be dead.
The crowd fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. No one stepped forward to defend their king. All their warriors had died at the battle of Kaupang, as she now knew.
And now, seeing that Silver Hair could not be challenged, their eyes turned on Golden Beard instead.
Bjorn stood over Golden Beard for a long moment, saying nothing. Then he lifted his head and looked at the crowd. His eyes swept across them.
He pointed at someone in the crowd. "Who are your gods?"
The man looked startled. "Odin, the Allfather. And the other gods."
Bjorn turned to another person. "What about you? Who do you worship?"
"Odin and Thor and Frey," the man said, his voice uncertain.
"What's he doing?" her friend whispered.
Gunnhild didn't answer. She was watching Bjorn's face, trying to read his intentions.
"The anger of the gods descended upon us in Uppsala four years ago," Bjorn's voice carried across the Thing-field, strong and clear. "Since then, kings and jarls have been dying. But who can say why? They are surely angry—but at what exactly?"
He pointed at someone in the crowd. "You. If you knew, what would you say?"
The man shrugged nervously. "If I knew, I would've told people surely."
A few people laughed, but the sound died quickly.
"Here is what I know," Bjorn continued. "If the gods favored your king and jarls, the sea would be filled with my men—not theirs. The Norns have spun a dark thread for them. For their arrogance. For standing against the words of Odin, the Allfather. For stealing what was not bestowed upon them."
His voice dropped, but somehow it carried further. "Their time is dead. It died at the battle of Kaupang. But not yours. Yours is just starting. Your thread is golden one."
Gunnhild felt goosebumps rise on her arms.
"A new age is beginning," Bjorn said. "It doesn't matter who you are or where you're from. If you serve your gods and their chosen one, then I promise—your children will be fed. Not one among you will go hungry."
He paused, let the silence stretch. Then he drew his sword.
The blade caught the light—pale, almost white, with runes running down its length. It didn't look like normal steel. It looked like something forged in a god's hall.
"And if you say, 'How do we know you are their chosen? How do we know your voice is the voice of the gods?'" Bjorn raised the sword high, then plunged it into the ground. It sank into the hard-packed earth like a knife through butter. "Then step forward, freemen. For the love of the gods, come and take it."
The sword stood there, vibrating slightly, runes glowing faintly in the sunlight.
'Voice of the gods?' Gunnhild thought. 'How do you know you were chosen? Did they speak to you?''
They'd never spoken to her. She'd prayed to Odin, to Thor, to Freya. Offered sacrifices, made oaths. Nothing. Just silence and her own thoughts echoing back.
But maybe...
Maybe if she could hold that sword, she'd know. She'd understand what it meant to be chosen.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up.
"Gunnhild!" Brynhild grabbed for her arm. "What are you doing?"
"Let go."
"You can't—you're not from Sogn—"
"It doesn't matter." Gunnhild pulled free, walking faster. "He said step forward. He didn't say it had to be one of them."
Behind her, she heard the other girls calling her name. She ignored them.
The crowd parted as she walked. Some people stared. Others whispered. A man near the front—older, scarred, probably a warrior—shook his head at her like she was a fool.
Maybe she was.
She was halfway to the sword when someone else moved. A man, thick-shouldered, maybe thirty years old. He circled the sword like a wolf circling prey, studying it from every angle.
Then he reached for the handle.
His scream cut through the air. He collapsed and his eyes rolled back.
People scrambled away from him and someone shouted for a healer.
Gunnhild stopped walking. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
'It's a trick, she thought. Has to be. Some kind of trick or—'
No. She didn't believe in tricks. She believed in skill, in training, in blood and sweat and steel.
She started walking again. Faster this time.
The crowd murmured. A woman near the front tried to block her path. "Girl, don't. You saw what happened—"
"I saw." Gunnhild stepped around her.
Another man was moving toward the sword too, coming from the opposite side. Older, greying beard, limping slightly. He'd reach it first if she didn't hurry.
She broke into a run—or as close as she could manage in this cursed dress. The fabric tangled around her legs. The gold chains bounced against her chest.
The crowd opened before her like water.
And then she was there, standing very close from the sword.
Bjorn stood beside it, arms crossed, watching her. His eyes were silver blue, the color of steel in winter light. They fixed on her face and his expression changed.
His brow furrowed and his head tilted slightly.
He looked at her like he knew her. Like he'd seen her before, in a dream or a memory.
It made her skin prickle.
"What—" she started to say.
Movement. Fast.
The older man—the one who'd been limping—wasn't limping anymore. His hand flashed out, metal glinting in the sunlight. A small blade, barely longer than an open hand, aimed straight at Bjorn's .
She felt everything around her slow down.
Gunnhild saw it all with terrible clarity: the man's face twisting into a snarl, the blade's point catching the light, Bjorn still looking at her instead of the threat.
'He's going to die.'
The thought hit her like cold water. If that blade found its mark, if it slipped between his ribs into his heart or—
'I would die,' she realized. 'If I were in his place.'
Her mouth opened to scream a warning.