Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 168: Good News

For more than half a month afterward, Ragnar built a simple shack near the farmhouse. He shed his magnificent, gold-embroidered robes to fish and cook with his own hands, wielding a sickle to clear the surrounding weeds like an elderly country farmer.

During his stay, nearly all the nobles of Northern Europe flocked to visit the most famous Viking ruler in history. Annoyed by the constant pestering of the crowds, Ragnar decided to bid farewell to the farmhouse where he had lived for many years.

Before leaving, he erected a runic stone on a nearby cliff. Facing the grayish-blue waters of the east, he held a small, solitary sacrificial ritual. Amidst the swirling, pungent smoke, Ragnar suddenly turned around. Looking at the endless expanse of soldiers and banners behind him, and the nobles standing at the forefront of the formation, a profound sense of desolation welled up from the bottom of his heart, and tears slipped uncontrollably from the corners of his eyes.

Ignoring the many astonished gazes, he softly chanted an unknown poem.

The fortress crumbles, frost and snow cover the throne, The chalice-bearing lord has turned to dust.

Only the mournful cries of the seabirds, Answer the feasts of my memory.

Touched by the scene, Gunnar also shed a few hot tears. He had joined this expedition with one part homesickness and nine parts intent to observe the physical condition of his old superior and old brother.

Witnessing the older man's frailty, his heart grew heavy with conflicting emotions. He should have felt relieved, yet his tears fell uncontrollably, and a faint, almost imperceptible trace of regret sprouted within him.

It was not long before Gunnar wiped away his tears, erasing the weakness in his heart along with them. Their great enterprise was not yet complete; there was no room for even a sliver of complacency.

After the ritual concluded, the group headed to the port of Kalmar. The day before their departure, a certain lord arrived unhurriedly with dozens of attendants in tow.Looking at the tall, robust red-haired man, Viggo asked tentatively, "Rurik?"

"It is truly an honor to have the renowned North's Serpent remember my name."

Rurik gave him a passionate embrace, and under Viggo's guidance, went to pay his respects to Ragnar.

That night, Rurik invited Ivar, Bjorn, Viggo, Gunnar, Niels, and Om to gather and drink. It had been twelve years since the Hunting Party disbanded. He studied his six former companions, recounting their deeds and titles one by one.

By comparison, Rurik's reputation was confined to Eastern Europe. In recent years, he had become the lord of Novgorod, maintaining good relations with the Rus Tribes along the Middle and Lower Dnieper River and securing the trade route to Constantinople.

As cup after cup of mead flowed into his stomach, his speech gradually grew slurred. "To think we would all find our rightful places. Going from a group of low-born commoners to where we are today... none of this has been easy."

The following day, Rurik saw off his old acquaintances. Gazing at the endless expanse of sails on the sea, he could not help but let out a long sigh. "Leading a massive army to conquer Northern Europe, with lords from all corners bowing in submission. There is no greater satisfaction in this world. I wonder if I will ever possess such power in my lifetime."

After letting the sea breeze blow over him on the cliff for half the day, Rurik set to work on his primary business. Having heard that Ragnar had exiled a large number of the Royal Guard, he had made the special trip from Novgorod, planning to recruit one or two experienced officers to help train his own army.

"Word has it that the situation along the Middle and Lower Dnieper River is rather unstable. It is best to prepare in advance. Over the past decade or more, Ragnar has weathered countless brutal wars. Those exiled members of the Royal Guard are rich in experience and likely possess knowledge of new military tactics."

With the expedition concluded, Viggo returned to his own territory. Of the one thousand men he had taken with him, not a single one had died in battle. One man had fallen into the water on the journey, and twenty-three had passed away from various illnesses. Rather than calling it an expedition, it was more like an armed parade—a mere sightseeing tour around Northern Europe.

After listening to her husband recount his experiences from the recent months, Heregyth yawned repeatedly. "How is the situation in your homeland?"

"Completely deserted," Viggo replied. "The houses have rotted and collapsed, the former wheat fields are overgrown with dense weeds, and not a single one of the local townsfolk remains." Heregyth then asked, "Did the King not give you any spoils of war for your expedition to Northern Europe?"

"There was no fighting. The local lords scrambled to surrender before we even met them, so where would the spoils come from? On the return journey, the Prime Minister scrounged up enough coin from here and there to pay the wages for our extended service, and then sent us on our way."

"Is that so?" Heregyth harbored some slight grievances regarding the King's behavior. He had dragged her husband away for the better part of a year, and she complained about why he had not offered more compensation.

After muttering softly for a long while, she curled up in Viggo's arms and fell into a deep sleep.

Perhaps the gods had heard Heregyth's prayers and decided to fulfill the noblewoman's small wish. Sometime later, a royal messenger braved the wind and snow to arrive from Londinium, dropping a massive piece of good news that left Viggo completely dazed.

Early January, 855 AD.

The period from the end of the annual council until the beginning of spring was the most relaxing time of the year for Viggo.

The previous year's yields had been excellent. The number of immigrants exceeded seven thousand, bringing the population of Tain County to fifty-three thousand. The immigrants that exceeded the local carrying capacity were sent to the five counties of the Northern Marches. Looking across his entire domain, the number of residents under his jurisdiction had reached two hundred and seventy thousand, with the Viking population exceeding fifty thousand.

With population and revenue growing steadily, he had been living an exceptionally comfortable life lately, sometimes spending time with his family, sometimes reading alone. One afternoon, while flipping through a biography of the Roman Emperor Aurelian, he was suddenly informed of a royal messenger's visit.

Setting his book aside, he quickly made his way to the main hall on the first floor and accepted a royal decree from the messenger's hands.

Tearing open the red wax seal, Viggo's eyes swept over the first few lines, and he instantly slumped back into his seat.

"Pascal passed away?"

Ever since Ragnar had conquered Northumbria, he had kept Pascal by his side, entrusting him with all manner of clerical work. As time went on, Pascal's talent in administrative affairs gradually shone through, leading to his appointment as Prime Minister, a position he had held for over eleven years.

As an Angle noble who had surrendered, Pascal dedicated himself to bridging the divide between the Viking conquerors and the Angles. He worked tirelessly to persuade the King to protect the monasteries within the realm, doing everything in his power to maintain this fragile balance.

In recent years, pirate activity had almost completely vanished, and crop yields had seen a massive increase, allowing the common folk to enjoy a rare period of peace and stability. Coupled with Pascal's frugal nature and diligent work ethic, his reputation among the people skyrocketed, far surpassing that of Theowulf and other surrendered nobles.

"To have painstakingly managed everything for over a decade... it must have been tough on him. I wonder which poor bastard is going to take over this absolute mess?"

Viggo lamented Pascal's passing, his mood sinking accordingly. He slowly read to the end of the letter, only to discover that the candidate Pascal had recommended on his deathbed was none other than the North's Serpent himself, Viggo of Teyne.

'Fuck!'

Seeing the Duke tightly clutching the letter, the messenger assumed he was overjoyed and eagerly sought to claim credit. "Your Grace, in order to deliver this good news to your ears as quickly as possible, this humble servant rushed tirelessly along the journey, barely even stopping to rest..."

Unable to endure the messenger's incessant babbling, Viggo tossed him a tip for delivering the news and had a maid arrange for him to step down and rest. He then read through the decree several more times, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh:

"This truly is an unexpected turn of events."