In April, Oleg assembled a punitive force of roughly three thousand men: one thousand Royal Guards, fifteen hundred troops cobbled together from minor nobles of the royal demesne, and five hundred civilian volunteers.
After landing on Denmark's western coast, he headed to his own fief at Vejle, where he stored his supplies and conscripted local peasants. The force expanded to three thousand five hundred men.
During this time, Niels sent several envoys, all of whom were detained by Oleg. By late April, preparations were complete, and Oleg marched straight south toward Schleswig.
From scouts' reports detailing enemy numbers and equipment, Niels knew he could not face Oleg head-on. He possessed only three hundred suits of mail—utterly insufficient.
To bolster his strength, Niels had tried everything, including purchasing pig iron, weapons, and armor from Vig. But Vig showed no sentimentality whatsoever, insisting on cash payment and refusing credit.
Left with no choice, Niels borrowed money from his father-in-law. Together with his wife's dowry, he scraped together five hundred pounds of silver and placed an order with Tynemouth for one hundred suits of mail and assorted weapons. Since Ragnar's death, the shadow of war had loomed over the entire Viking world, driving military prices sky-high—a plain suit of mail now cost over three pounds of silver and was nearly impossible to acquire.
"The Royal Guards are fully armored, and even the minor nobles have over four hundred suits of mail. This war can't be fought."
Inside the lord's longhouse, Niels paced irritably, then turned to his newly wed Slavic wife.
"I'm abandoning Schleswig. Pack your things and return to Pomerania for a while."
Schleswig had once been far more prosperous than any other settlement in Denmark. But four years earlier, after Niels seized it, his troops looted the town mercilessly. The population fled, dropping to fewer than a thousand, and the settlement had been half-dead ever since. There was little left to squeeze—it wasn't worth dying for.
With the enemy stronger, Niels sought allies.
First was Ubbe in northern Denmark. Nominally Duke of Denmark, Ubbe directly governed northern Jutland. His weaknesses were his youth and Astrid's hostility. If nothing unexpected happened, the Royal Guard's mission likely included killing him—leaving Ubbe no choice but to accept Niels's alliance.
Second was Halfdan. As Duke of Sweden, he flatly rejected the half-true will and had ordered craftsmen to make a crown. Not long ago, he had proclaimed himself king.
"Halfdan lacks prestige—he won't pass up the chance to preside over Ragnar's funeral. I'll leave the coffin for the Royal Guard. When they head to Gothenburg, the two sides are bound to clash."
Before the enemy could arrive, Niels sent his wife back to her homeland, boarded ships with eight hundred soldiers, and fled. Before leaving, he deliberately opened the granaries and let residents take whatever supplies couldn't be carried away.
Three days later, Oleg arrived at Schleswig.
The town gates stood wide open. No soldiers manned the wooden palisade, no banner of the Feathered Arrows flew above it. Only flocks of birds pecked at scattered oats in the grass beyond the walls.
"An ambush?" Oleg wondered.
He sent scouts inside. From the residents, he learned that Niels had fled long ago—taking the symbolically charged gilded throne with him.
"I don't care about that damned chair," Oleg said coldly. "Where is His Majesty's coffin?"
He gathered the townspeople and followed their guidance to a low burial mound south of town. Ragnar's coffin lay there, backed by a hillside, facing east toward the sea. Weeds choked the ground, ravens circled overhead—it was desolate and lonely.
Once Niels possessed the gilded throne, he lost all interest in the increasingly foul-smelling coffin. Ragnar had been hastily buried with the rites of an ordinary noble. A rough, uncarved stone stood before the grave, still uninscribed.
"Your Majesty… I arrived too late."
Whether from genuine grief or sheer performance, Oleg dropped to his knees, clutching the stone and weeping uncontrollably. Behind him, Royal Guards, barons, and knights knelt en masse, faces heavy with sorrow.
Across the Viking world, these royal-affiliated barons and knights were the most loyal to Ragnar—veterans who had followed him through countless campaigns. In contrast, great lords like Vig, Orm, Lennard, and Ulf ruled independently, their loyalty inevitably diluted.
After nearly ten minutes of mourning, Oleg rose, leaning on the stone, and began contemplating his next move.
"Rumors say Halfdan crowned himself king. If we carry the coffin to Gothenburg, won't we be forced to fight him?"
For a time, Oleg remained stationed in Schleswig, dispatching envoys to Gothenburg for intelligence.
The worst case came to pass.
Halfdan had indeed crowned himself. Facing the envoys, he spoke as king, ordering the Royal Guard to hand over the coffin and swear personal allegiance to him—an ultimatum far beyond what the Guard could tolerate.
Soon after, another blow arrived: fearing assassination by the Royal Guard, Ubbe had fled by ship to Oslo in Norway, seeking protection from his cousin, Little Erik.
If the Royal Guard fought Halfdan, Little Erik would inevitably support him. There was no helping it—Astrid's execution of Sola without evidence had pushed Norway squarely into opposition.
"Niels, Halfdan, Ubbe, Little Erik—four of them together. What now?"
By June, a steady stream of Nordic news reached Stirling. Vig showed no reaction.
During this period, he focused on organizing years' worth of notes—on military theory, finance, and the geography of every region he had visited.
Afterward, he selectively taught portions to Leif and Horsa: the former studied warfare, the latter commerce. His own children were still young; they were prioritized to complete basic schooling first—mastering Norse and Anglo-Saxon before moving on to advanced studies and Latin.
Vig also ordered Tynemouth to compile records and selected one hundred experienced junior officers or soldiers. He personally taught them literacy and basic tactical principles.
"The chaos in the north is only the opening act," Vig said calmly. "The real war hasn't begun yet. Let them struggle among themselves."
After that, Vig remained at the northern training camps, instructing company-level officers, and continued to ignore letters from Londinium.
Their contents were all much the same—demands that Vig present himself before the new king and pay various absurd taxes. Vig paid them no mind, having Herligev reply with polite evasions.
As time passed, the great nobles of Britannia neither came to court nor openly rebelled. Instead, they watched silently as the Dowager Queen ran Londinium into the ground—until the kingdom's collapse became inevitable.
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