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29- Björn Fixes Society, One Raid at a Time
🕑 Added 2025-07-19 17:34:31 +0000 UTC'My name is Björn, and this week has been one of the most demanding I can remember.'
I spent an entire day teaching sixty warriors how to move backward in formation without breaking ranks or injuring each other. The exercise proved more challenging than expected, as maintaining unit cohesion while retreating requires discipline that many of these men still lack.
The shield wall drills that followed revealed another persistent problem. Despite repeated instruction, many warriors continue to focus on protecting themselves rather than understanding that their shield must defend the man beside them. I had to constantly remind grown fighters that individual survival depends on collective protection.
My greatest challenge came when leading svínfylking. The wedge or triangle formation as the point man. The sharp end. The tip of the spear. The nose of the pig.
As the point warrior, I am responsible for spearheading the charge while the others follow in tight formation behind me.
Legendary and fearsome. Also glorious in the sagas. Sounds impressive, right?
It would be, if the rest of the pig actually knew where it was going.
The concept is straightforward: I advance, they maintain formation, and we pierce enemy lines as a unified force.
The reality?
Five seconds in, I'm halfway across the field, while the rest of the formation is still arguing about who gets to stand directly behind me.
Half of them thought 'boar's snout' meant "just gather vaguely near the pointy end and scream."
Someone muttered, "I don't want to be next to this one, he sweats like a dying horse."
Another man tripped and brought down three others.
And Thorstein, of course it was Thorstein. He made the situation worse by shouting battle cries and making animal noises, claiming it would boost morale.
I had to threaten severe consequences to stop this disruptive behavior. I had to. Otherwise the future historians will laugh at me.
The spacing problems persisted as everyone wanted to position themselves closer to the front, apparently seeking glory.
At one point, I turned around and found five overeager lunatics practically breathing down my neck, arguing about who had the best view of my back.
I stopped the drill entirely and explained that we must move as one unit or face death as scattered individuals.
I'm leading these men into battle tomorrow. A wall of seasoned raiders. I am the tip of the boar. And right now, the only thing I fear… is my own army.
During this same week, I developed a food preservation system for our upcoming raids. Working with the village potters, I designed fifty clay jars with thick walls and narrow necks, each holding half a liter. We used local clay and fired them in the village kilns, carefully inspecting each one for cracks that could compromise their watertight integrity.
I supervised the preparation of fish and barley stew, filling each jar to three-quarters capacity. I trained the villagers to seal the jars using beeswax and clay lids, explaining the process by comparing it to sealing ship hulls.
To prevent spoilage, I implemented a heat treatment process, boiling the filled jars in large cauldrons for thirty minutes. I simplified this concept for the villagers by describing it as eliminating the spirits that cause rot.
On the sixth day, we packed the jars in straw-lined wooden crates suitable for longship storage. I tested one jar to confirm the food remained unspoiled. The entire project was completed within seven days. The villagers began calling this innovation a gift from Odin, claiming the god had whispered knowledge directly to me.
Oh, Lagertha is pregnant again, which is... great. Wonderful.
Nothing says "clarity of mind" like becoming a big brother again, especially to a boy, while planning a coastal invasion. And they already chose a name for the boy.
Yep, you guessed right, Ubbe Ragnarsson.
Rollo still laughs like a drunken walrus, and sulks every time Ragnar shows up in the drills, especially since the men always seem to choose him to lead during drills. It's a problem i need to deal with really.
Ragnar's idea of a leadership speech? "Try not to die stupidly." While practical, this minimal guidance leaves much of the detailed instruction to others.
Meanwhile, the Seer keeps looking at me like I'm about to start Ragnarok, he just kept muttering to whoever visited him, "The king's blood stained the sacred pyre, yet the gods remained apart; neither angered nor pleased, only eternal witnesses."
'Whatever that even means.' But his attention suggests he sees something significant in the future.
At least Floki gets me. He inspected the longships, and the moment I mentioned optimizing oar placement for balance and rhythm, he nodded with his unique laugh as if saying, 'Finally, someone speaks my language.'
Floki's brain when it comes to ship design: 'Hold my mead, I've got this.'
Together we planned several modifications to enhance our vessels' performance. For the sails, we decided to use finer wool or linen obtained through trade, creating denser fabric that captures wind more effectively while reducing drag.
Although Vikings traditionally use square sails, I proposed a slightly tapered design for improved aerodynamics. The village weavers could complete this work in two to three days.
We also addressed hull efficiency by polishing the planks with sand and stones to reduce water resistance. While our clinker-built construction uses overlapping planks, smoothing these surfaces decreases drag significantly. This task would require two days with three to five carpenters working together.
For rigging improvements, we planned to replace standard flax ropes with stronger twisted hemp or horsehair versions, providing better sail control in high winds. We also decided to add iron reinforcement bands to the mast base, improving stability and preventing cracks under strain. The rope-making and metalwork could be completed in one to two days, though our iron supplies are limited and must be used strategically.
Everything's moving forward.
And tomorrow we sail to the west again.
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The first light of dawn spread across the fjord, touching the water with silver where mist still clung low and thick. The tide was calm and quiet, its movement barely perceptible. In the silence, the village of Kattegat stirred.
But not with the usual rhythm of a fishing day or market day. The sounds were few. No shouting. No laughter. Only low voices, muffled footsteps, and the careful shifting of weight. The entire village seemed to hold its breath.
Inside the longhouse, the hearth had burned down to quiet coals.
Björn sat on a low stool near the embers, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed with his hands pressed against his temples. He stared into the glowing coals that had once been a roaring fire. He had woken early today, not because of the raid, well, partially, but not entirely.
He had experienced a dream. Or was it a vision? Björn didn't know. After all, how can you tell the difference?
In his dream, fires had spread across cities. Not one city, but many cities.
He had stood on a hill overlooking a vast landscape. Below him, flames consumed everything in their path. Smoke rose skyward, marking the death of each settlement. Villages burned in the distance, their roofs collapsing in showers of sparks. The acrid smell of destruction had filled his nostrils.
Warriors had moved through the chaos, their blades gleaming red in the firelight. Men, women, and children had run screaming through the streets, their cries echoing across the burning lands.
But louder than all the screams had been the voices of the fanatics. They had shouted his name: "Björn! Björn! Björn!" with religious fervor, holding high banners bearing a sword and raven. His banner.
They had sung songs about battles he had never fought, praising victories that existed only in their twisted imaginations. They had killed in the name of things he never believed, spilling blood for causes he had never championed.
And then he had seen the worst part of all.
He had seen himself older, his hair completely silver, at the head of this destruction. Not reluctantly, not with the sorrow of a man forced into violence. But with purpose burning in his eyes and his sword raised high in his hand.
He had led them with conviction, with the certainty of a man who believed completely in his cause. And in that moment of ultimate triumph, as the world burned beneath his feet and all knelt before him, he had felt nothing but satisfaction. Cold and absolute satisfaction.
Björn lifted his head, his face pale in the dying firelight.
The vision terrified him because he had become exactly what he hated. Because in that moment of ultimate destruction and death and power, he had felt complete.
He wasn't a conqueror by heart. No, he was a builder. He spent most of his time studying and working on how to build ships. He was a builder, not a destroyer. But that version of him in the vision had found his purpose, and it was conquest without end.
His eyes moved to the table before him.
On the table lay a sword in a plain black scabbard, unadorned but unmistakably well made. Its handle bore no jewels, no ornament, but the grip was wrapped in dark leather. His sword was the only weapon he carried now, along with a shield.
All he wore was a thick wool tunic beneath a layered cloak of fur and linen. His only protection would be his quick reflexes before any weapon blade could reach him.
Björn reached for the sword and lifted it with his left hand. It rose easily, lmost too easily. There was no strain, no resistance. It felt light in his grip, as if the weight it carried wasn't in steel, but in meaning instead.
He hesitated.
He didn't want to name it. Naming was more than tradition. Naming was declaration. Naming was power.
Name a thing, and you give it life.
Name a blade, and you give it purpose. And in that purpose, a future begins to take shape.
That's what haunted him.
Because in the dream, vision, prophecy, or whatever it was, the sword already had a name.
Farsoth. A Scourge.
A thing that spreads destruction. A blade that leaves cities in ruin and children screaming, all under his name.
It wasn't just a weapon. It was a symbol of what he might become. Of what others would make of him. He had seen it praised, worshipped, feared.
But he would not accept that future. He refused to be a shadow walking into someone else's prophecy.
He would name it, but not with dread. He would give it a name that fought back. A name that whispered of mercy in a world that demanded violence. A name that defied fate.
Björn looked at the sword.
Then, with his right hand, he drew it from the scabbard. The sound was sharp. The blade shimmered in the firelight. Flecks of silver-blue danced along the fuller and down to the ricasso, pulsing with an inner light. Runic shapes were etched into the metal, seeming to pulse as if they were alive.
Björn stared at it for a long moment. He didn't feel fear now. He felt responsibility.
Then he spoke, not loudly, but clearly, as if the blade itself needed to hear and understand:
"From this day forward, you are Mjúkbané, 'Soft Death.' Not a harbinger of ruin, but a warning to those who choose cruelty. You will strike only when mercy has failed."
He held it there, steady, naming it as if that could shape what came next.
But somewhere, deep in the sword's silence, the old name still stirred. Farsoth. Neither gone, nor erased.
Just waiting.
He let the silence stretch, then exhaled slowly. With his left hand, he reached inward, searching for the pulse of something once part of him.
The nanomachines. He tried to will them to activate. To move.
But nothing.
Just like before. Ever since he had woken from the blackout.
They were there, he could feel the echo of them in his blood, but no longer separate. No longer a tool he could call upon. They had fused with him at the cellular level. DNA, tissue and instinct.
'They used to answer me.' A flash of bitterness crossed his face, but only briefly. 'Now they've become me. Or I've become them. Hard to say.'
Either way, the active enhancement was gone. No more instant armor beneath the skin.
He glanced down at the sword in his hand. 'But at least I have this.'
He slid the blade back into the leather sheath at his hip, slow and firm until it rested at his side. The motion was deliberate.
He stood without a word. The fire behind him cracked once, then fell quiet.
Björn turned toward the door.
Measured footsteps approached, and light footsteps. Not a warrior's step. He could tell from the rhythm, the weight. Warriors had a certain way of walking, their shoulders forward, boots heavy, as if always expecting a fight.
This wasn't that.
He stared at the threshold, waiting.
Then a hand pressed on the door and it creaked open. Athelstan stepped inside.
"Björn," he said quietly.
Björn's eyes flicked to him. He gave a small nod, subtle but clear. No surprise. No questions. He understood instantly.
"I guess everyone's ready," Björn said.
Athelstan smiled faintly. "Yes. They are ready. You are the only one left," he replied.
He glanced around the room briefly, then added, "I will pray to... the gods for your safe return."
Björn didn't answer at first. He just looked at him, really looked at him. Not long, just a few seconds, but long enough that the air shifted. Long enough for pretense to crumble.
Athelstan's smile faded slightly. He adjusted the sleeves of his robes, a nervous gesture that betrayed his discomfort. His eyes glanced at the floor, then looked back up, meeting Björn's steady gaze with visible effort.
Björn's voice was low when he finally spoke. "You don't need to lie about who you worship, Athelstan. I can see right through you."
The words weren't harsh, but they were direct. Athelstan didn't move, didn't flinch, but something in his posture shifted. The careful mask he'd been wearing slipped just enough to reveal the man beneath.
"Neither I nor my father care which god you pray to. I thought you would have understood that by now," Björn continued, his voice steady but not unkind. "Just don't pretend it's for my sake."
There was a strange gentleness in the brutal honesty, an acceptance that cut deeper than any accusation might have. Athelstan took in a slow breath, like a man preparing to surface from deep water.
Then he nodded once. "Alright."
The single word carried more weight than any elaborate explanation could have. It was surrender, acknowledgment, and perhaps even relief all wrapped together.
Björn studied him for another moment, then his expression softened almost imperceptibly. "Also," he added, his tone shifting to something more practical, "keep teaching my mother and Gyda how to write. Once we come back from the raid, we should find a way to start spreading literacy for the people."
Athelstan's eyebrows rose slightly at the unexpected turn. Here was Björn, on the eve of departure for a dangerous raid, thinking not of glory or plunder but of knowledge and its spread among his people. It was so characteristically him, the warrior who thought beyond the next battle.
"Don't worry," Athelstan replied, and this time his smile was genuine. "Your mother is a fast learner. Gyda is doing very well also." He paused, then added with a trace of warmth, "They both have curiosity and a hunger for understanding."
Björn simply nodded. "Good," he said, checking the leather straps on his pack one final time. Then he looked up and added, his words directed at Athelstan's background, "Knowledge should not be kept only for kings and priests. The people deserve to read and write their own stories."
Athelstan smiled knowingly. In his own Christian world, literacy was indeed the province of the clergy and nobility.
"It will not be easy," Athelstan said thoughtfully.
Björn glanced at him, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "When has anything worthwhile ever been easy?"
Athelstan laughed quietly, then added, "As you said before, the people here value oral storytelling, skaldic poetry, and memory-based transmission of history and law. Writing is associated with 'magic' through runes."
Athelstan paused for a moment, thinking, then continued, "But I suppose if you tied the alphabet to power, like using it to record laws and track tribute, they might adopt it faster."
Björn gave him a look of approval. "Not bad." Then Björn patted him on the shoulder as he stepped past him toward the door. "Try not to wander alone, Athelstan. I don't want my only open minded literate Christian to be killed. Don't leave mother's side."
Athelstan chuckled. "Trust me, I'll do just that."
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Men had gathered at the docks, some already tying down their bags or adjusting their oar positions. Others leaned over their shields, heads low, lips moving in quiet prayers—to Thor for strength, to Njord for calm seas, to Odin for glory.
There was no ceremony. No speeches. Only ritual through action, ritual through readiness.
Björn stepped into the open air. His boots met packed earth, and the seagulls above turned circles in the grey sky.
Rollo was near the water, cinching his belt tighter, his bare arms streaked with soot from the morning fires. His shield lay beside him, freshly oiled and ready. He carried a sword on his back and an axe at his hip. Nearby, Arne tested the draw of his bow, nodding to himself in satisfaction. Thorstein stood beside them, and occasional laughter came from their group.
Björn said nothing as he passed them. He didn't need to. His presence was enough, and when he moved, they followed.
Four longships waited at the dock, but only three were being readied to sail. Three were enough for around sixty men.
Dragon heads carved at the prows faced the morning, eyes painted red, fangs bared in wooden snarls. Their hulls were black with pitch, the wood beneath sea-tested and strong. Shields lined the rails in overlapping rows, ready to be lifted at the first sign of danger.
Björn approached Ragnar, who stood supervising the final loading with Lagertha and Gyda at his side. "How are the men?" Björn asked, glancing toward the vessels.
"Restless and eager," Ragnar replied. "They're ready for action. Some are nervous, but that's normal before the last raid of the season."
"The supplies?"
"All loaded. Food jars secured, weapons distributed, extra arrows for the archers. Floki's modifications are complete."
"Good." Björn's gaze found Torstig standing apart from the others. The big old warrior hadn't moved, still staring out at the horizon where grey water met grey sky.
Björn walked over to him. "Second thoughts?" he asked, coming to stand beside the forsaken warrior.
Torstig shook his head slowly. "No. Just thinking about whether the gods will finally allow me to enter Valhalla."
Björn studied his profile. "Then maybe you can fight by my side at the front."
Torstig's eyes lit up with something approaching hope. "You would allow that, my lord?"
"If you're ready to die well, then die beside me. At least that way, we'll both know the gods are watching."
Torstig nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer. He picked up his shield and hefted his axe. "A great idea, my lord. Right then. Valhalla's calling, let's not keep it waiting."
Björn made his way to the ships, where Floki was making final adjustments to the rigging. The shipwright's hands moved with practiced efficiency, checking knots and testing the tension of ropes.
"How is the greatest shipbuilder in the world doing?" Björn called out.
Floki didn't look up right away. His fingers were busy tugging on a line, his lips pressed together in concentration. But at Björn's words, his head snapped up, eyes wide, his voice quick and sharp.
"The greatest? Ha!" He grinned wildly. "Greater than the shipbuilder who has Odin whispering secrets in his ears?"
Björn pretended to consider this seriously. "Hmm, let me think. I guess not."
"Crazy bastard," Floki laughed, then his eyes darted to where Athelstan stood with Ragnar, Lagertha, and Gyda. Lagertha had her hand resting on her growing belly.
Floki made a subtle gesture, drawing the back of his hand across his throat while looking at Athelstan. The meaning was clear.
Björn saw this but said nothing. Saying something would only make things worse. Floki's contempt of Christians was well above the norm, but for now, it was contained.
"The ships are ready?" Björn asked, redirecting the conversation.
"Ready and eager. The new sail design will catch every breath of wind." Floki's eyes gleamed with pride. "Your modifications worked perfectly."
"Then let's see how they perform."
The loading continued methodically. Men passed weapons up to their assigned positions on the ships, checking that axes and swords if they have them, were secure but accessible. Shields were arranged along the rails, each warrior knowing exactly where his belonged. The oars were distributed evenly, with the strongest rowers taking positions amidships where their power would be most effective.
One by one, the men began boarding the ships. They moved with practiced efficiency, each knowing his role. These were experienced raiders, not untested boys seeking adventure.
Torgil stepped into the first ship, settling his massive frame onto the rowing bench near the bow. He tested his oar, making sure it moved smoothly in its housing. "This feels balanced," he said to no one in particular. "Well-made."
Björn made one final check of the lead ship, walking along its length to ensure everything was properly secured. The food stores were lashed down tight. Weapons were distributed but ready. The sail was furled but prepared for quick deployment.
"Has everyone made their farewells and peace with their families?" he called out.
A chorus of acknowledgments came back. They had shared meals and final moments with their kin. Wives, children, and parents had given tokens; woven bands, amulets, Thor's hammer pendants for luck and protection.
"Then let's be off."
Björn took his position at the steering oar of the lead ship. The wood felt solid and familiar in his hands. Around him, his crew prepared for departure, each man focused on his task.
"Push off!" Björn commanded.
On the Dock came a Horn, signaling their departure.
Men with poles pushed the ships away from the dock. The hulls slid into deeper water with barely a sound. Immediately, the oars dipped into the dark water of the fjord.
"Row!"
Sixty oars struck the water in perfect unison. The sound was like controlled thunder, purposeful and rhythmic. The three ships moved as one, cutting through the calm water of the fjord with smooth, powerful strokes.
The rhythm was steady; pull, lift, reach, pull. The oarsmen had rowed together many times before. They knew each other's pace, each other's strength. The ships picked up speed quickly, their modified hulls slicing through the water with minimal resistance.
Behind them, Kattegat grew smaller. Smoke still rose from the morning fires, but already the village looked distant. Ahead lay the open sea, grey and endless under the cloudy sky.
Björn felt the familiar surge of anticipation that came with every departure. But this time, it was different. The responsibility of every man's life rested on his shoulders. These weren't just warriors following him to battle, they were fathers, sons, brothers, trusting him to bring them glory, and to bring them home.
The wind picked up as they cleared the protection of the fjord. Björn nodded to the crew. "Raise the sail!"
The sail unfurled with a sharp snap, catching the breeze immediately. The modified weave Floki had created held the wind perfectly, and the ships surged forward with new speed. The oars continued their steady rhythm, adding their power to what the wind provided.
"Look at her go," Floki called out, his voice filled with pride. "She flies over the water."
And indeed, the ship seemed to move with unusual grace and speed. The other two ships kept pace easily, their own sails full and drawing well.
As the coast of Norway fell away behind them, Björn allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Everything had gone smoothly. The preparations had paid off. His men were ready, his ships were prepared, and the weather was cooperating.
Then he looked up at the sail billowing above them. Embroidered on the cloth was his banner, a sword and a raven. A replica of his own blade and a black raven in flight.
The sight of it reminded him of his vision. In that dream of destruction and conquest, the fanatics had carried banners bearing this same symbol. His symbol. They had killed in his name, burned cities in his honor, and proclaimed his glory while committing atrocities he would never condone.
But that was a possible future, not an inevitable one. He had named his sword Mjúkbané for a reason. He would choose mercy where others chose cruelty. He would build where others would destroy.
The banner flapped in the wind above him, but it would not become what he had seen in his vision. He would make sure of that.
The raid had begun, but more importantly, so had his test. Could he be the leader his men needed without becoming the monster from his dreams?
Only time would tell.
Comments
JL
God I really hope he grows a spine and realizes the era he’s in like Jesus Christians would genocide every last Pagan if they could at this time
JL
Every lord of this era is a monster by modern standards, you need to conquer to improve their lives. Giving mercy to those who don’t deserve it is suffering for yourself and your people
