Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 375: A New Trade Paradigm

As the allegiance ceremony concluded, one of the chieftains brought up the situation in Moravia and inquired about the Empire's stance.

The Raven Speaker, wary of loose lips leaking information, refrained from stating a direct position. He merely mentioned that the Emperor was monitoring the matter and that a formal response would follow.

"Gentlemen, Pomerania has long been coveted by East Francia and Moravia, and occasionally suffers raids along the coast by Viking pirates. From this moment on, under the witness of Perun—the chief deity of Slavic polytheism—you are officially brought under the protection of the Empire. Any attack against you is equivalent to an attack on the Empire itself!"

Securing the asylum of a mighty power was the most immediate and tangible benefit Pomerania had gained. The chieftains were in exceptionally high spirits, and the meeting concluded in an atmosphere of perfect harmony and mutual satisfaction.

On March 28th, the Raven Speaker boarded a ship to return home. Encountering a storm midway, their three-masted sailing ship was forced to make a brief stop on the west coast of Denmark, waiting for the torn sails to be repaired.

With nothing else to do, the Raven Speaker strolled around the vicinity. In his memory, the area outside the settlement walls should have been vast expanses of freshly plowed, dark brown earth, with farmers busy sowing spring wheat.

Yet now, there were no furrowed crop fields beyond the walls. Instead, there was only an endless expanse of grassland. The fresh green blades of grass rippled like waves in the gentle breeze, dotted with moving white specks—easily over a thousand sheep. Their bleating drifted over on the wind, leaving the Raven Speaker rooted to the spot in astonishment.

"What happened to the farmlands here?" he asked.

The local lord of the port explained, "There was constant warfare over the past few years. Most of the people either died or fled. The farmlands were abandoned, so now they can only be used for grazing."

Following the Second Denmark-East Francia War, Wigg and the participating nobles had carved up the Danish territories. The ruling domain of the Danish Royal Family was now restricted strictly to the vicinity of Aalborg, effectively reducing them to the status of an ordinary Earl.Not long after, in the year 867, East Francia launched yet another invasion of Denmark, sparking a decisive battle between the Vikings and the Franks.

This time, East Francia easily occupied the entire Jutland Peninsula. Taking advantage of the frozen Great and Little Belt straits, they plundered Funen Island and Zealand Island. This caused Denmark's population to plummet once more, leaving a total of fewer than fifty thousand inhabitants.

When the war ended, the textile companies in Britain discovered a brilliant business opportunity. Denmark was not far from Britain, and it possessed vast tracts of flat, abandoned farmland—perfectly suited for grazing sheep.

The heads of various merchant guilds approached the nobles of Northern Europe, leasing their land at rock-bottom prices to begin large-scale sheep farming. The harvested wool was then regularly shipped back to Britain as raw material for the textile industry.

The Raven Speaker pressed further, "Who did you lease your land to?"

The minor lord gazed out at the sheep blanketing the hills. His eyes were utterly desolate, like an old farmer who had just sold off his ancestral land for pennies.

"It is all the same. The Ponteland Chamber of Commerce, Harry's Merchant Guild, and eight other textile merchant guilds all approached me, demanding long-term leases. The annual rent they offered was virtually identical.

"Our territories are severely lacking in labor, so we had no choice but to agree to their demands, signing leases for twenty or even forty years. Sigh, times have truly changed. In the past, merchants used to grovel before us. Now, we are the ones who have to patiently swallow our pride and speak politely to them."

The Raven Speaker felt a heavy weight in his heart. This place was not far from his own hometown. When he was a child, the able-bodied youth in the village would usually set sail during this season—to trade, fish, or plunder. Now, the merchants, fishermen, and raiders had all vanished, replaced by a single, uniform identity: employees of the textile companies.

The lord was right; the times had indeed changed.

In April, the Raven Speaker returned to Londinium. The docks were crowded with over two hundred ships of various kinds.

They brought in raw materials from all over—primarily wool—to be processed into different types of goods in Londinium, before being sold back across Continental Europe. The docks were a cacophony of bustling noise, and thirty treadwheel cranes operated tirelessly. The entire city was swept up in an unprecedented wave of prosperity.

As the Raven Speaker stepped off the pier, a sharp, appetizing aroma drifted over from a nearby barbecue stall. The vendor was sprinkling an unseen red powder over roasted fish. He fished out some coins to buy a portion, but after taking just two bites, he hastily handed the rest over to an equally curious crew member.

"What a bizarre spice. Where did this come from?" he asked.

The vendor pointed toward a sailing ship on the right. "The New World. I hear it is called chili. Aside from this, the sailors brought back another novelty. Look over there!"

Not far away, an old sailor sat on a wooden crate. He pulled out a small pinch of dry, crumbled brown leaves and stuffed them into a peculiarly shaped clay pipe.

Once lit, the leaves did not burst into fierce flames but rather smoldered, emitting a wisp of strange, acrid blue smoke. Under the curious gaze of the surrounding locals, the old sailor took a deep drag.

At that moment, time seemed to stand still. The man inhaled the smoke deep into his chest, closed his eyes for a moment, and then let the vapor drift out through his nostrils. Amidst the murmuring of the onlookers, the old sailor exhaled clouds of smoke with a look of pure intoxication. A few of the bolder residents asked for a try. Without exception, they ended up choking until tears streamed down their faces, cursing as they handed the "burning leaves" back to the sailor, drawing roars of laughter from the crowd.

"What is this stuff?" the Raven Speaker walked over and asked.

The old sailor looked completely relaxed as he softly replied, "Tobacco. It is a crop grown by the indigenous people of the Americas. Over the last two years, the settlements in Puerto Rico have also started cultivating it on a small scale. Whether they are Frankish immigrants or Viking immigrants, they have all gradually fallen in love with this novel pastime."

According to the old sailor's explanation, the towns in the New World had received a massive influx of Frankish exiles and were developing at a rapid pace. The three main towns had even deliberately absorbed natives from the surrounding areas, bringing their populations to well over two thousand each.

"That many?"

The Raven Speaker tugged at his chin beard, thinking it was necessary to ramp up missionary efforts in the New World and dispatch more shamans.

That afternoon, the Raven Speaker headed to the royal palace to report back, only to find Wigg absent from his office. Following an attendant into the rear garden, he spotted a barbecue grill set up on the lawn. Wigg was leisurely roasting mutton and chicken wings, occasionally tossing on a pinch of spices—including that same pungent red powder.

"Is the matter in Pomerania settled?" Wigg asked.

The Raven Speaker handed the treaty of allegiance to a nearby attendant. "Everything went smoothly. The chieftains merely asked for a guarantee of their hereditary rights; they did not demand any monetary compensation."

Wigg had prepared a reward of ten thousand pounds in advance. Being able to save this sum put him in an excellent mood. He casually offered a skewer of grilled chicken wings to the Raven Speaker. "Care for a taste?"

"I tried some at the docks. I cannot stand the taste," the Raven Speaker hurriedly declined, smoothly shifting the topic to the three temples in the New World.

"There is no rush," Wigg replied. "The Royal Navy controls the shipping routes to the New World. The Moors and the Visigoths lack the necessary navigational technology; even in another twenty years, they will not be able to build a brigantine capable of such long-distance voyages.

"Our current priority is Moravia. The local situation there is highly turbulent. I need you to draft a group of bold and resolute shamans to head to the border regions and win the support of the lower and middle-class populace."