Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 167: King of the Vikings

Rekker's proposal was approved, and the remaining Nobles put forth even more demands: lower taxation, exemption from regular court audiences, and the establishment of a Council of Nobles with the authority to veto the orders of the Duke, Halfdan.

Ragnar nodded. "Very well, everything is negotiable."

Their demands met, the Nobles stepped forward one by one with sullen expressions to pledge allegiance to their new overlord. Neither side looked pleased, their eyes betraying a deep-seated reluctance and veiled threats.

'Just wait until Ragnar leaves. We will show you who is truly in charge!' Such were the thoughts of the Nobles.

'A bunch of country bumpkins. I will bide my time, hoard my coin, and buy enough weapons and armor to make you all pay dearly later!' Such was Halfdan's plan.

The ceremony concluded, and Halfdan secured a rather unstable title as Duke. Ragnar dismissed the crowd, spending the better part of the day alone with his son, as if trying to impart a lifetime of experience all at once.

"...And let me emphasize this one last time. Treat the commoners within your borders well. The more exceptional a talent is, the more pride they harbor in their hearts. You must remember to respect such people. Do not drive them into the arms of your enemies."

"I know, I know. You have already said this twice—no, three times."

Halfdan yawned, wholly convinced of his own ability to win over warriors; otherwise, he never would have founded the Swords of the North. Seeing his son's absentmindedness, Ragnar still had much to say, but his lecture was suddenly cut short by the arrival of Erik and his son.

Stepping out of the gates to welcome them, Ragnar barely recognized his old acquaintance. The man standing before him looked nothing like a King; he resembled an ordinary, unassuming shaman."It has been a long time, old friend. I heard you pacified Denmark and Sweden in one fell swoop, so I came especially to congratulate you."

Erik approached at a steady pace, leaning heavily on an oak walking stick. He wore a coarse, taupe hempen cloak over his still-portly frame. He retained his broad face, large ears, and soft double chin, but his aura was no longer that of a senile, aging man. Instead, he carried a transcendent grace, like one who had weathered countless storms and attained true enlightenment.

The two embraced, though Ragnar's expression was slightly rigid. He had originally planned to conquer Norway along the way, using Erik Jr.'s usurpation as a righteous pretext. But now, with father and son openly visiting his camp together without the slightest hint of enmity between them, any invasion had completely lost its justification.

"Old friend, I heard that recently..."

"False rumors. You should not be so quick to believe the lies of drunks." Erik pulled his eldest son closer, claiming that he had willingly passed the throne down. There was no coup, nor were there any messy conspiracies.

Publicly refuting those malicious, ulterior-motivated rumors, Erik even had his eldest son kiss Ragnar's left hand as a show of respect and submission.

With that, Ragnar was stripped of any lingering excuse to attack Norway. The two kingdoms were tied by alliance and marriage. If he forced a conquest now, the prestige he had accumulated over decades would evaporate in an instant, plunging Norway into prolonged turmoil and breeding deep resentment among the Nobles of Denmark and Sweden.

After a pause of several minutes, Ragnar adjusted his mood and spoke again. "Those who spread such rumors are truly detestable. May the gods strike them down."

Erik and his son echoed, "May the gods strike them down."

With the fear weighing heavily on his heart finally dissipated, Erik Jr. found a quiet patch of shade beneath a tree to rest. Soon, a familiar voice drifted from behind him.

"Do you know why I helped you?" Erik asked.

"Because I am far more suited to inherit the throne than Hrolf or Heath. Hrolf is mediocre. After more than a decade of effort, he still only controls the areas around Schleswig. He always thinks everyone else is a fool, but in truth, the neighboring lords merely indulge him out of fear of drawing your ire. As for Heath, he is too young. With the coming turmoil, it would be utterly impossible for him to hold the throne." Erik acknowledged his eldest son's answer. He sat on the grass beside him, gazing out at the unchanging scenery of the fjord. After a long while, a raven landed on his broad shoulder, treating him as nothing more than an oddly shaped stone.

"Correct. Your foresight is broader than Halfdan's, so dealing with him will not be much of a problem. As for Niels, his ambition burns too fiercely. It is both a strength and a flaw. Ambition fuels drive, pushing a man to unleash unprecedented potential, but its flaw lies in how it occasionally blinds one's reason, brewing unforeseen and disastrous consequences.

"Thinking on it carefully, Ragnar's luck has been truly remarkable. He managed to gather absolute terrors like Ivar the Boneless, Viggo, Gunnar, and Niels under his banner. The trouble is, ordinary men cannot hope to keep them on a leash. Once Ragnar falls ill and dies, a massive upheaval is destined to follow, one that will most likely sweep across the entire Viking world. You must remember to stay patient and lay low. Do not get foolishly dragged into that coming war."

With those words spoken, Erik slowly pushed himself up, leaning on his oak walking stick as he prepared to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"Just walking around. Having cast off this heavy burden, the sights before me seem far more vast and open. Do not come looking for me again."

Ignoring his eldest son's calls, Erik walked alone toward the vast, empty wilderness. He planned to visit the temples scattered across the lands, seeking to forge a brand-new path suitable for the Vikings.

With this, the unrest that had swept across Northern Europe finally came to an end. Before his departure, Ragnar made a special trip to Kalmar, a place he had not seen in over a decade.

Along the way, Viggo observed the neighboring villages and noticed that the population of Northern Europe was dwindling. Sometimes, they could march for over three miles without seeing a single local. Occasionally, they would encounter packs of feral dogs that no longer feared humans. The beasts let out low, guttural growls, foul-smelling saliva dripping from their jaws as their crimson eyes locked intently onto the passing army.

"Bandits comb through, but armies scrape the very earth bare. The Berserkers of the Swords of the North are like both bandits and soldiers. After suffering their ravages, Sweden won't recover its vitality for another twenty years. I wonder how many people will migrate this year."

Five days later, in Kalmar.

Surrounded by hundreds of Nobles and knights, Ragnar returned to his old countryside farmhouse.

Neglected for over a decade, the place had already crumbled into ruins. Weeds grew wild and thick. The turf roof that had once shielded them from the wind and rain had mostly caved in, while the crooked oak beams jutted into the sky like fractured whale bones. The stone foundation had been scoured and scattered by years of rain, and shattered clay pots littered the base of the walls, their jagged cracks blanketed in spiderwebs.

Stepping closer, Ragnar shouted with nostalgic excitement, "Look, Ivar, Bjorn, Halfdan! These are the drawings you made when you were children."

He pointed at a stone near the corner, which bore crude sketches of five small figures—two large and three small. He then hunched over and continued digging through the rubble, uncovering a heavily rusted sickle and a tattered piece of fabric hanging from a broken beam.

Standing on his tiptoes, he pulled down the woolen cloth once woven by Lagertha. He clutched it in his hands, staring at it for a long, quiet moment before silently walking to the back of the house. There, he sat down beside the old ash tree that still stood tall and unyielding.

"I heard from my father that this old ash tree was already here when he built the house. He originally planned to cut it down for timber, but just as the axe was about to fall, he suddenly changed his mind. He figured it wouldn't be so bad to leave a large tree behind the house..."

After a long silence, Ragnar recalled a saying often sung by Bards: when a man spends more and more of his energy reminiscing about the past, it means he has truly grown old.