Köln Castrum, Westphalia
Lotharingia, Middle Francia
September 876
"A boy-king from the plains of Northern Thrudheim . . . the mad emperor Caligula . . . even Caesar himself," Sigurd mused to himself, his fingers tracing over ancient carvings and archival parchments. "These Hidden Ones have cut history itself into their raven-tallies. All that power . . . and yet, even these men, these great men, could not save themselves from the blades of their enemies. Blades in the dark. In the crowds. In their wine."
The scent of smoke hung heavily in the air of the silent Bureau. "But I am no mere man. I know myself. There is no greater power than that."
Maps and charts, betraying a world vaster than most minds of this fallen era could comprehend, tickled the edges of the god's memories with recollections of international travel and fired the man's sense of wanderlust, a craving that had never quite gone away over the past few years. And yet, he had the strangest sensation that the maps were incomplete in some way. Unusually good, for what their creators had to work with, but incomplete nonetheless.
Upon these maps were sigils, located in each of the world's great cities. Some were struck through, others circled and marked with dates. Sigurd tore it from the wall with his one remaining hand, rolled it up as tightly as he could, and stowed it away in his belt. He considered the other scrolls laid out before him. Knowledge was valuable. More so than gold. But he had precious little room to work with and the journey ahead would be a difficult one for such fragile goods to weather.
The entry of his oldest friend, Dag Nithisson, answered his dilemma for him. "My king," the latter man hailed. "Our forces have completed their sack of Köln Castrum. We've taken all we can carry and are awaiting your command."
"Yes, yes, very well. And what of the bacraut Basim? Have these shadowy crow-feeders finally chosen to give up one of their own to save the rest?"
Dag smirked despite himself. "Many of them did not speak at first, save for some empty words about compromising their Brotherhood. That changed . . . eventually . . . once our axes hewed several pounds' worth of flesh from bone. When that proved ineffective, we showed them the Blood Eagle."
"You made Eagles out of the crows. How appropriate. Well done, loyal Dag."
"Oh, many thanks, Jarl. The men believed you would appreciate that. Something about 'singing a blood-hymn for the Lawgiver.' I don't know about that one way or the other. I was only doing what was expected of me, as ever."
"I'm sure you were. Now get to the point, my friend! Where is Basim?"
"Southeast!" Dag relented, cringing away from Sigurd. "One of the Hidden Ones, just a young bairn of a lad, he mentioned seeing Basim flee on horseback as we conquered the island. He mentioned Miklagard as the snake's likely destination."
"Miklagard?" Sigurd mused, stroking his once-handsome goatee. "I suppose it is possible. That rich port is the gateway to many lands. Well, one in particular, in his case."
"What would that be, sire? I do not follow your reasoning."
"Do not bother yourself, Dag, for my reasoning is beyond your feeble comprehension. Now let me think a moment . . ."
He turned back to the table, consulting more specific charts and doing some quick math in his head. He considered distance, manpower, the assets he had at his disposal. He balanced his ultimate goal with the needs and desires of the armies at his disposal.
"It will take him at least three months to get there overland, assuming he does not attempt to hide in some peasant's village or another along the way. Good. I want them to know we're coming."
But what if he flees? he thought to himself. He has fallen out of favor with his brothers-in-arms. What reason does he have for going to warn them?
"I have known Lokan to run off, hide, lick his wounds when his schemes fall through. But these are not the times of old. These lands are hostile to mysterious foreigners travelling alone. He is damaged. He has nothing to protect any longer, no one to target but I. He will seek to raise an army before facing us in battle - and he has nothing to fall back on but his former Brotherhood."
It will take time, manpower, and resources to sail around Europe, gather enough food to keep the men satiated. Time we do not have.
"We have all the time in the world. When the men become hungry, we will raid coastal settlements for all they have. Live off the land. I will chase the killer to the ends of the Earth if need be."
The men will become impatient and demand a return to their homes.
"I will offer them wealth and power beyond their wildest dreams. Following gods in human form on one brief crusade to restore balance to the scales is a much higher calling than family ties."
Family ties are the very reason why you have come this far. Family ties are why you pursue Basim.
Sigurd snatched up the remaining papers on the Mentor's table and swept them into the nearest brazier. Orange flames rose to greet them, and in an instant, they were consumed. "Very well! I am done here. I would hope that the vikingr are as well. Come! We sail at dusk."
With that, the two men descended the staircase from the Mentor's office into the scene of a massacre. Hooded bodies lay strewn over the floor, raiders looting their remains for anything that may have been valuable. The signature Hidden Blades were particularly intriguing to the Norsemen, as many of their number had been cut down by the delicate blades in the initial assault. Against the Western wall, the gruesome remains of the Blood Eagles that Dag had mentioned were strung up by chains for all to see. A column of perhaps twelve or thirteen Hidden Ones were hog-tied and guarded by towering Viking Warlords. As Sigurd passed by, they began to curse him out in some foreign language he didn't understand and didn't care to.
"Sire, what should we do about these-"
"Slavery. Put them all in irons and ship them off to Ireland. If they keep their heads down and toil well for their masters, they may even earn their freedom in time. Their kind treasures liberty so much, they would willingly die for it? Then they will have no problem working for it instead."
Outside he strode without waiting for an answer. The Colonia Agrippina Bureau of the Hidden Ones was situated in the ruins of what was once a Roman-era foundry. Its crucibles had been cold for centuries and its forge last burned generations prior. In an old city like this, the Roman ruin blended in with newer Frankish buildings, the ancient and the contemporary melding together in service of a whole. It was very much unlike the Roman colonies of Britannia that he had become so familiar with. These were not places like Lundenwic, ruined, haunted hulks with Saxon squatters. In a warmer, more populated climate than that of Britain, the Franks had begun experimenting with what the Romans had left behind. In this way, the Bureau's entrance blended with the rest of the buildings surrounding Köln Castrum - from ground level, at least.
Sigurd and Dag began a decisive course towards the Rhine docks. "This city!" Sigurd proclaimed. "Even when its buildings are afire, the air smells like a Flemish noblewoman's bedroom."
"That would be the perfumes and scented oils of the Western districts," Dag confirmed. "A popular industry, I'm told. Köln's oil is prized throughout Europe for its fragrances."
"Lucrative it may be, but barrels of flower-water are inconvenient and costly for us to transport. If I see anyone attempting to bring one aboard, I want two raiders to lay into it immediately with axes held high. You cannot pay the jomsvikingr with pretty smells."
"It will be done, my lord."
"Speaking of, what of the jomsvikingr, Dag? How do the men fare?"
Dag grinned. "The sack of Köln Castrum will undoubtedly leave us ludicrously wealthy. This was a well-chosen target, sire, especially with all the settlements we sacked up the Rhine. The jomsvikingr will gladly follow you anywhere."
"I expect nothing less, my friend. Nothing less. Do you recall the people of Château Ferriéres? How they came down to the banks of the River to offer us their valuables? Imagine the fear spreading throughout these Frankish lands as we conquer the Continent! Soon, the whole of Midgard will know the cry of the Raven Clan."
"Well . . . we shall see. Our warriors' mood may change if they are not allowed to return home to spend their riches, if I may be so bold to say. For example, my own alliances have proven to be stalwart allies! But they are men of fortune first and foremost and they have their own interests and motivations."
"Yours is an army of brigands and cutthroats, Dag. Their interests do not stray far from that. It is human nature! They will gladly follow the Aesir themselves to Miklagard, or at the least Thrudheim. After that, their strength will not be much of a problem."
In the North, a great rumbling sound resonated over the city. A distant watchtower collapsed into rubble, and the Jarl of the Raven Clan chuckled to see it. "If they will not, Caladfwich will surely teach them a lesson."
". . . Indeed, Sigurd Jarl. I do not think you will have too much difficulty in convincing some of our host."
They arrived in the Marsplatz, just outside the Kölsch Rathaus. A staging ground in the center of the city, it was littered with the bodies of the honorably slain, Frank and Dane alike. The Castrum itself rose in the Southwest and a cathedral finished in the style of the Romans loomed over it all, twin towers accommodating twin crosses. Something exploded in the North again and the wind carried the characteristic report of Harald Fairhair's Sword of Eden.
"It would seem the king of Lotharingia has seen fit to send reinforcements," Sigurd proclaimed. "You there! Norse! Sound the horn. We must prepare for departure at once."
Dag readied his axe. "I will go to the riverbank and secure the last of our plunder. Where are we to sail for next?"
"You will set a course for Paris, Dag," the other said nonchalantly. "Ragnar Lothbrok himself failed to break the jewel of Europe. Succeeding in this raid - the greatest raid in Norse history! - will banish any further doubts among the men that my goals are nothing less than prophecy itself."
Dag looked as if he'd been slapped across the face with an Atlantic salmon. "Sigurd! That's suicide! We don't have the time or the manpower to take Paris!"
"I do not have the TIME nor the PATIENCE to weather your complaints, Nithisson!" Sigurd roared, his commanding baritone granted even more power by the gjallarhorn sounding from the Rhine and the arrogance of a dead god burning in his breast. "Know your place! Go prepare the ships! My word is law among the Raven Clan, and I will NOT be denied!"
"I - yes, sire, yes, forgive me, I-" Dag stammered as he broke away and fled, tail tucked between his legs.
His long stream of apologies was still stinging Sigurd's ears when the King of Lotharingia arrived with his host. Down the high street they came, columns of horses and heavily armored men flanking a rider dressed in resplendent robes. They were unhurried, comfortable atop their mounts, standards flying proudly, emblazoned with the crimson bend dexter and triple eagles of their kingdom.
"Halt!" Sigurd barked. "You stand before Sigurd Hammer-Hand, Jarl of the Raven Clan of Mercia. The Law-Giver, the Saxon-Slayer, the God Reborn. Identify yourself so I may properly carve your name into my saga!"
The Franks bristled. Their horses reared up on their hind legs, halberds were levied at Sigurd's unmoving form. Banners snapped in the wind. But the central rider raised a hand for quiet and calm. He urged his horse forward, coming a few steps closer upon the Marsplatz.
"Northman, I am called Charles le Chauve Carolingus II, King of Lotharingia," he announced in a firm, heavily accented voice. "And I see no god before me. I see a disheveled raider terrorizing the people of Köln. You have no right to be here and no empire with which to conquer my own. You will die here, on the banks of the Rhine, and your blood will revitalize my nation's scorched fields. Pray to whichever pagan gods in which you believe, for you have seen your last sunrise."
"Very well!" Sigurd shouted. "Then remove your helm, so I may see the face of my destiny."
King Charles did not dismount his horse, clearly eyeing up his opponent. He did, however, acquiesce to Sigurd's request. His hands rose to the base of his neck and gently slid the ornate helm he'd donned from his head.
Sigurd whistled. "Charles the Bald, eh? Truly, Carolingus King, you are aptly named. Yours is the shiniest skullcap I've laid eyes on in either of my lifetimes."
The Frankish king's dark eyes flashed with defiance and pride. "Gaze upon it well, for it is the last sight you will see! Many have tried to break Köln Castrum, Sigurd whore-son. Some have even succeeded in making away with our relics, for a time. But we Franks always get back what is ours." He chuckled. "You are merely the latest of many failed treasure-seekers, and your bones will lie forgotten in the sewers when we are done here. Men, tue-le."
"WAIT!" Sigurd bellowed. "Bone-scalp, a man of such wealth and status as yourself must have considerable connections throughout the courts of Europe, yes?"
"I fail to see how this is-"
"You would not be the one some know as 'The Whetstone,' would you?"
King Charles blanched. He knew exactly what was coming next. "Diable du Nord!"
A smirk spread over Sigurd's haggard face as he unlimbered his newly liberated greatsword. He'd read all about this one in the Hidden Ones' Bureau. For the blood-crows of Köln, Charles had been their most hated target for a long time, a high-ranking Knight of the Order of Ancients.
Many of the courtiers over in West Francia had been made targets as well. But, ensconced in his palace in Aachen, heavily protected by Francia's greatest warriors, the Hidden Ones had never had the opportunity - or the nerve - to take him down.
Sigurd had no such constraints.
He would swat this petty mortal man like a fly.
It would be good practice for his march on Constantinople.
Mjolnir crackled with electricity from its rightful place affixed to his left wrist, and he leapt into action.