Hjalmar saw the island of Mann spring up from the heavy fog that clung to the lazy sea. They approached at half speed, him and fifteen thousand warriors spread across around a hundred and fifty ships. The men were eager to get solid ground under their feet again, and he shared their eagerness. He let out a whistle to signal a lad with a strong pair of lungs, prompting him to blow a horn to signal their arrival and that they were on the same side to the town that had sprung up on the barren looking island.
“The man can't help himself,” Hjalmar mused with some amusement. “It's as if he's compelled to build cities.”
A growing town welcomed them at a natural harbor along the coast. He, alongside several of his commanders and their ships, sailed straight towards the docks that seemed busy while the rest of the men would disembark outside of the town. They were greeted with a large man that vaguely resembled King Hoffer, though that was mostly in how large the man was, at the end of the dock. His legs wobbled just a bit, but he didn't make a fool of himself walking down the deep dock towards the welcome party.
“Hjalmar the Bold,” the man greeted him with a wide smile. “I am Hoffer the Short. I rule this town in the name of the Allvaldr. Well met.”
“If you are the shortest of your family, then you have the blood of giants in you,” Hjalmar greeted the man. The Bold, he called him. It took everything he had not to laugh at that. It made him sound so much grander than he really was. It also put expectations on him that he didn't care for. Why not Hjalmar the Exceedingly Pragmatic? Sure, it was bit of a mouthful but so were half the titles people insisted on being called.
Hoffer laughed a little too sharply for his amusement to be entirely genuine. “We likely do, but I'm the shortest of my brothers. They called me such as a boy, and now everyone calls me so as a man.” Ah. Well, now he felt bad. “Welcome to Geymsla. A few moons ago, it wasn't even a fishing village. Now it boasts eight thousand people, be they warriors or thralls.”
“The Allvaldr really does work fast,” Hjalmar mused as Hoffer welcomed him to follow. He had been a much younger man when he joined the army on the eve of the Conquest. There, over three years, he saw countless plain and unremarkable villages. Then, older and a little more seasoned, he saw towns and cities in the Mediterranean. That experience made the Allvaldr's touch obvious when it came to the layout of the town.
The shapes of the buildings and roads, how they were laid out for easy navigation and mobilization if needed. Where there were clearly defined places for markets that didn't impact the flow of those coming and going… there was a clean organization to the town that often felt lacking in others towns. But, when he considered the population and the number of houses he had seen…
“Aye,” Hoffer nodded, sensing his realization as they walked through the streets. Hjalmar saw what he meant about most of the people being thralls, as he saw work crews turning the muddy roads into one's covered in cobblestone. “Most of the buildings are storage. Hence the name.” Which did admittedly explain the name -- Geymsla meant storage in Norse.
Hoffer was giving him the tour it seemed and Hjalmar appreciated it. The town had a natural flow to the work that he quickly took notice of. Men brought spoils from the ships, and depending on what they were decided which of the storehouses they were brought to. From there, they would be dumped, organized, and then categorized with appropriate dues being marked down.
From there, Hjalmar saw men carrying barrels and crates full of artifacts made of precious metals. He recognized their type immediately -- crosses, bibles, candlesticks, utensils, and adornments. Laborers tore out the precious jewels in them if they had any, organizing them in piles, before separating the metals that were then melted down into ingots of silver and gold. Once cooled and weighed, they would be stacked up into crates and hauled off to another storeroom. This one under guard by two hundred men, all Ironclads.
“It's a shame to smelt them down,” Hoffer admitted while they watched the process unfold. “But we wouldn't be able to carry back half of the spoils if we didn't. We just wouldn't have the room.”
“There are worse problems to have,” Hjalmar replied. He had encountered a similar issue before his departure from the Mediterranean. Which had him following in the Allvaldr's footsteps -- while most of his forces sailed around the coast of the Roman Empire, a large contingent marched up the Dnieper River with a vast amount of their wealth. It was necessary as even with more than a hundred ships, they just didn’t have the room. “I take it that the raid has been a success so far?”
“Enough so that I feel bad for his boys,” Hoffer said with a grin. “How do you surpass a man like that?”
‘You don't,’ Hjalmar figured. ‘You just get really good at pretending that it doesn't bother you.’ However, he couldn't say that. Especially with unknown ears listening in. “His eldest are part of the raid, aren't they?”
Hoffer nodded, “His eldest boys. Ragnar and Magnus. Eh, well, they might never step out of their father's shadow, but the blood shows. Ragnar snagged the heart of a Pict princess! You lot arrived just in time for the wedding.”
Well, that was something of a relief. He had never seen a royal wedding before and he was probably important enough to merit an invitation. Though, he wasn't sure if he wanted to go exactly. Going to the wedding meant meeting the Allvaldr and that would likely involve an explanation about what he was thinking withdrawing from the battle outside of Rome, and taking thousands of Norsemen from King Hoffer as they collectively realized that their unchecked rampage was over.
That was a conversation that felt like it could go really well or extremely poorly for him.
“I suppose I should find a gift for the lad, then,” Hjalmar mused. Luckily, he had several boat fulls to choose from. “When and where is the wedding?”
“Glasgow. It's not too far from here, a day’s sailing up the coast with the wind at your back,” Hoffer answered. “You should have enough time to rest and water your men before you depart my fair city.” Meaning he had about three days to prepare himself to meet the Allvaldr once again?
That felt like entirely too much time and not enough.
…
Geymsla really was a warehouse rather than a town, and he saw it in action for the two days the men got to unload the cargo and enjoy themselves after many long weeks at sea.
The Allvaldr had swept through Mercia and then Northumbria like a farmer harvesting a crop, making sure that every last grain was accounted for. The massive army he brought was splintered into hundreds of raiding parties, some larger while others were as small as a band of five. They dispersed across the petty kingdoms, looting everything of value down to farming tools. All of that loot was brought to what were now two forts that had been built on the coast, where a similar process of cataloging the spoils occurred to ensure that those that brought it in were credited with their due.
It was then packed off, sent to Geymsla, where it was categorized again, sorted, smelted, or sold at the market that had sprung up. Pretty women or strong backed men were sold at thrall markets, fine goods were hawked by merchants -- things on the mainland, be it the Eyrie or Britannia, for which Irish and Britons were venturing out to the Isle of Mann to buy back what was essentially stolen from them. The Allvaldr even took their charcoal to feed the ever burning furnaces that even still couldn't keep up with demand.
His own wares were similarly categorized, evaluated, and sorted with individual warriors being credited their due. It was a clever little system to push against fraud, either from anyone overevaluating their due or the harbor master undervaluing it to cheat them. Most of their spoils were packed off, some of the men buying and selling at the market.
However, it was hardly as if the Irish or Britons were opening a door, inviting them in and letting them ransack their homes. There were constant skirmishes across the islands. Raids going wrong, ambushes, sheer dumb bad luck -- there were no grand defeats, but there were no grand victories either. Just little by little, the natives of these lands were picking away at their strength. Especially in the bottom half of Northumbria, where their raiding parties were being hunted by King Ecbert.
But any progress that they had made was immediately undone with the arrival of fifteen thousand warriors. And after a brief recovery, they were eager to go back to sea if it meant arriving in time for the royal wedding. Or, rather, the festivities that would follow the wedding.
A guide led a portion of their fleet up the coast to prevent them from getting lost, as Britannia had hundreds of rivers that would lead them down winding paths. The one that they wanted had a large mouth that started to steadily narrow before Hjalmar saw any signs of the city beyond a fishing village located upstream.
Glasgow had been a small town. He saw the traces of it that lingered after the Allvaldr got his hands on the city -- a wall had been quickly erected, grounds were cleared l, while a sea of tents could be found outside of the walls from the Picts and the army that was attending the royal wedding.
His own army would be funneling up the river in batches to avoid overwhelming the small dockyard. However, Hjalmar along with his peers arrived first. And it was there, they were greeted with a familiar face.
“Isulf,” Hjalmar greeted his old squadmate back during the Conquest with some warmth. “You look well.” While Hjalmar and Ulfar had been chosen by the Allvaldr to go to the Mediterranean, Lokar and Isulf had chosen to remain in Scandinavia to serve there. Trym, however, was a bit like moss that had grown on Hjalmar as the man followed him all the way down to the Mediterranean and back again.
“Same to you, Hjalmar. Ulfar,” he returned evenly. Hjalmar didn't take it personally. Isulf was a standoffish man by nature, but he never failed to have his back when it counted. “The Allvaldr welcomes you both and invites you to the palace.”
Nothing unexpected there, so Hjalmar offered a small nod before following Isulf. They didn't have to go far. The town wasn’t exactly big to begin with, though Hjalmar did see that it was full to the point of bursting. As they walked through the dirt streets, he saw a similar reaction to what they got in Geymsla -- word quickly spread about their arrival with people crowding the streets to get a look at them as they passed, cheering them on as victorious conquerors.
It was a good feeling. And he hoped a good indication of how the Allvaldr felt about what transpired in the Mediterranean.
The palace was more of an estate, and an unimpressive one in comparison to what he saw in the Mediterranean or back home. Still, it served as the lodging for the Allvaldr with walls, a courtyard, and a large building that sat in the heart of it. They didn't enter the estate itself but walked around it, taking them to the gardens.
There, for the first time in five years, he saw the Allvaldr, and he was exactly as he remembered. Unreasonably large with a barrel chest and thick arms, his blood red hair was pulled back out of his face and cut short so that it only brushed his shoulders. His beard was also cut short so as to not hide the scar on his neck. He wore what Hjalmar now recognized as an Arab inspired style of dress with knee high boots, trousers, and elaborately embroidered folded tunic that came down to his knees and was held in place with a blood red silk sash.
“Allvaldr,” Hjalmar greeted him alongside his peers, all of them dropping to a knee in his presence.
“Rise,” the Allvaldr commanded easily, turning to face them. Then he gestured to two short men that stood nearby, and upon looking at them, Hjalmar realized that they weren't short men but very tall boys. “These are my sons, Prince Ragnar and Prince Magnus. They were eager to meet the heroes of the Mediterranean.”
A knot of tension around his heart came undone at his tone, but he was still reeling from the revelation that the two boys were the eldest princes. Both favored their father in looks, including the blood red hair, but they seemed to have inherited their mother's eyes as Ragnar's were a different shade of blue while Magnus had green eyes. They’d also clearly inherited their father's size because if they kept growing as they were, by the time they could grow a beard they'd be a head taller than most.
“We are honored,” Hjalmar spoke first. “And we express our congratulations on your marriage, Prince Ragnar.”
“I am glad to see that you arrived in time to attend,” Prince Ragnar replied in a warm if practiced tone. “My marriage is one cause to celebrate, as are your victories in the Mediterranean.”
The interaction was brief. Barely an exchange of pleasantries, but Hjalmar didn't last this long without being able to read people and his immediate impression of Ragnar was that he was cut from the same cloth as his father. They carried themselves in the same way, but Ragnar didn't carry himself as a boy his age should. He carried himself as… well, a prince.
“Victories tempered by a defeat, alas,” Ulfar spoke up at Hjalmar's side, both of them standing.
Prince Ragnar inclined his head. “That is true, I suppose. Tell me, how is my Uncle?” He questioned lightly, gently probing at the topic that Hjalmar wanted to avoid. Then, Ulfar, the bastard, glanced at Hjalmar to answer since he was the one who spoke to King Hoffer last before their departure.
Hjalmar thought back on the meeting. How listless King Hoffer had been, slouching in a chair with dark bags under his eyes.
“He seemed…” The temptation was there to lie, but it was hardly as if the royal family couldn't find out. And if he wasn't in trouble now, he would be then. “Defeated, I'm sorry to say. He took the loss outside of Rome quite hard.”
Prince Ragnar nodded sadly, but Hjalmar was looking at his father, who wore an even expression that didn't hint at his thoughts.
At least until he spoke, “I'm afraid that was unavoidable.” The Allvaldr spoke up with a sigh in his voice. “Hoffer's plan was sound enough, but he misjudged the timing.”
“Like I did?” Prince Ragnar questioned, earning a thin smile from the Allvaldr, who rubbed the top of his head affectionately.
“Aye. At least a little bit,” The Allvaldr replied, and that felt like a private conversation they were referencing that he didn't have the context for. “Hoffer was right that the kingdom required significant territorial gains to avoid his islands being eventually swallowed up one by one. And Italia was the perfect location to expand to. He also sought to fracture the restored Roman Empire before the foundations had time to settle, which was wise. However, his mistake was thinking that he needed to accomplish both goals at once.”
“What should he have done?” Prince Magnus asked, his brow furrowing.
However, the Allvaldr gestured to Hjalmar to answer, making him still for a moment. But, after swallowing the lump in his throat, he voiced the answer to that very question that he had been asking himself since the battle.
“Raiding the north of Italia and Rome would have been enough. We shouldn't have fought at all,” Hjalmar voiced his thoughts. “The North was devastated after the raids. The people and lords there would have seen Charlemagne as weak and as a sovereign who couldn't fulfill his obligations to protect them. The whole area would have become a hotbed of sedition, forcing Charlemagne to expend resources to keep the area pacified. And if he couldn't, then Charlemagne would have lost Italia all the same and with it, the symbol of Rome.”
It would have taken longer that way. Years. Maybe even a decade. But the Allvaldr would undoubtedly have ways to poke the resulting beehive to make sure that Charlemagne suffered more for it. Maybe by supporting others to revolt in the Roman Empire, who would be emboldened by Charlemagne's distraction. Maybe by way of Hadi of the Abbasids launching his invasion to reclaim all of Hispania and possibly even beyond it.
The point being, it would have taken time, but if King Hoffer had focused on fracturing the Roman Empire, he would have gotten what he wanted eventually.
“Essentially correct,” The Allvaldr replied with a nod of his head. “Of course, Hoffer’s motivation for rushing is valid. Charlemagne is rather adept at turning rebellions into means of strengthening himself, so it was possible that anything other than a decisive defeat on the battlefield would be recoverable for him. There is also the consideration that while he was king, the kingdom was new and his authority untested.”
Hjalmar thought of the mercenaries that had made up the army. Most of them hadn’t cared that Hoffer was king or of the fate of the kingdom. They bent the knee and fought under his banner because it was their way of getting rich. Even before the defeat, there had been plenty who decided that they were rich enough and simply vanished in the night with their wealth.
King Hoffer had likely felt the pressure of his army vanishing underneath him as time went on. Or feared that influential mercenary captains would eventually challenge him for his crown. He’d likely thought that he had to do it then or never.
“Though now we do find ourselves in a similar situation,” The Allvaldr continued, his gaze taking the measure of him, just as he had before he sent them off to the Mediterranean. “In the coming years, my son will become King of Alba, and that has changed the nature of the plans that we discussed five years ago. Rather than vanishing for another five years, it is my intention to maintain a strong presence on Britannia until we return to finish the conquest as planned.”
Not entirely unexpected. The Allvaldr had made it clear that he expected things to change when Charlemagne began to react. And he had been fairly confident the events in the Mediterranean would have an effect on things.
With a gesture, the Allvaldr instructed them to follow alongside his sons, and he led them into a study that looked like it had been repurposed for his use. It might have been a store room since it had a big enough door that the Allvaldr didn’t need to duck his head to pass through. There, he brought out a map that seemed impossibly detailed.
He had seen Roman depictions of Britannia, and it looked like a misshapen mass floating in the North Sea. The one before him was marked not just with villages and towns, but rivers, forests, and farmland. It almost felt like too much information.
“Until my son assumes the Alba throne, we must safeguard our interests on Britannia. To this end, I have amended my initial plans for the partition of Britannia,” he said, gesturing to a border marked with a thicker line of ink. “Alba will be expanded down to the Hadrian’s Wall, while Northumbria and Mercia will be cleaved in two to form a single kingdom.”
The partition would make Alba, this new kingdom, and what was currently Wessex roughly equal. In size, at least. He didn’t know what the divide would be in population, farm land, and such things. Though he did expect Wessex to be the richer of the kingdoms on account that they bordered the channel between the Roman coast and Britannia.
“Meanwhile,” The Allvaldr continued, “All of the Eyrie will be unified under a single banner.” Which was the smaller, but still considerable island to the west. “The groundwork for these two kingdoms will be staged from the Island of Mann and Alba over the next five years before we conquer the islands outright. And, when that time comes… those that have safe guarded my son’s and my empire’s interest will be entitled to a suitable reward.”
Crowns.
The Allvaldr was talking about making him a king. A King of a land full of people that the Allvaldr had robbed to the point he took their firewood.
Hjalmar found his mouth as dry as the deserts of Egypt while Ulfar leaned forward with a hungry gleam in his eye, but he found his voice first. “I… don’t suppose I could refuse such an honor?” Especially as one of the things that he had heard about this damned island was that its kings had a habit of dropping like flies.
There was a twinkle in the Allvaldr’s eyes before he reached out and rested a hand on Hjalmar’s shoulder, before delivering his answer in the form of a single word.
“No.”
Yeah… he should have figured.