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Legends Never Die: Tide of Change (ch. 145)
🕑 Added 2026-01-14 15:56:48 +0000 UTC“He did what?” I stressed, feeling earnestly caught off guard for the first time in years and earning a nervous look from the messenger that delivered the news months too late to do anything about it.
“King Hoffer has taken the Christian priests hostage and refuses ransoms. He… has executed a dozen priests as a warning and… boiled a bishop alive when the warnings were not heeded,” the messenger repeated himself, thinking that it had been an honest question. “I… it is likely that further warnings were not heeded, so it is possible… that there were more executions.”
I had been alarmed when I’d heard that Hoffer had broken from a carefully crafted plan to attack Rome, but not entirely displeased. Hoffer merely sought what was in the best interest of his kingdom, and if things had worked, then those interests would be mine as well. The sack of Rome was a black eye to the resurgent Roman Empire, and with the right pressures, that could have been enough.
Hadi was in Hispania, contesting the Roman lands and the fleet that Charlemagne had amassed to retake the Mediterranean had been severely damaged. Bribing and manipulating a handful of powerful and discontent vassals would have further divided his focus. The smoldering sparks of a widespread rebellion were there, they just needed tinder and room to breath.
Instead, they had been snuffed out entirely.
Hoffer had been too ambitious. Too greedy. In the same breath that people spoke of the sack of Rome, they would speak of Charlemagne's victory over the long odds. The sack was humiliating, certainly, but the sting was taken out of the news by the fact the ‘pagan barbarians’ were defeated by the grace of God, the city reclaimed, with Hoffer rapidly losing all the territory he had gained over his years in lower Italia. Worse, him breaking against the plan had delivered a setback to the Abbasids.
Irene had taken Antioch and the territories around it, along with the island of Cyprus. They were small territorial gains, but important ones. Cyprus was a natural launching point for fleets, extending the Roman reach across the Levant, while Antioch was a natural fortification with which to defend Anatolia.
The loss of territory in Italia would allow another point of connection between the two empires that had stuffed themselves into the same cloak. A victory that would further solidify the idea that they were truly one empire again. It was a concern, but the greatest concern was how Charlemagne was reacting to the capture of the Pope and the execution of priests.
Hoffer's decision to use them as hostages was a prudent move, and I would have shared his belief that it would have stopped the now Roman Emperor in his tracks. Yet, it hadn't.
And that was concerning.
The messenger eyed me with fear at my long silence, as I sat considering the news and what it meant for my empire. “You have traveled far to deliver this news. Be at peace, and rest,” I said, dismissing the man, who barely hid his relief with a bow of his head before being escorted off by a servant. Leaving me to sit heavily upon my throne, a foot tapping impatiently as I reevaluated some of my plans.
It had been five years since the Conquest ended and I became Allvaldr. Nine years since I became King of Denmark. Years that I had hardly spent idle.
A grand fleet had been constructed to facilitate the Great Raid on Britannia. Five hundred ships to ferry thirty thousand men to the island off the coast of what was now Rome. The largest army that I would have ever commanded which would be comprised of my veterans and warriors from across my kingdoms. Already, there were competitions and hefty bribes being paid under the table for warriors to earn a place on one of my new breed of longships.
The Great Raid needed to happen, and it needed to be a success. My treasury was depleting fast with my rate of spending, and in another five years it would be practically empty. All of the ground work had been prepared for the Great Raid. I had my spies and scouts enter the petty kingdoms under the guise of Hollander traders.
They brought me word of the fortifications being built, and the rapid conquest of the southern half of Britannia under the rule of King Ecbert. They told me how Mercia and Northumbria had entered into an alliance to counter Ecbert's unchecked aggression, forcing him to stall further conquests. They told me of the Gaelic and Pictish tribes that squabbled over the northern highlands. They told me of the divided Éire filled with equally squabbling chieftains, half of whom were related and hated each other all the more for it.
They brought me word of those amenable to my future conquest. And those who would need to be removed. The grounds had been scouted for possible battlefields, the temperament of the spirits of the land judged by how much it rained or the fertility of the soil. Maps were drawn to grant an idea of the distance between towns, their fortifications detailed, as well as their estimated defenders or how large an army they could field.
All of the groundwork was done, and now it was time to give the order to set sail, and I found myself… uncertain.
“The kingdom in the Mediterranean was always unstable,” Morrigan offered her advice from behind the throne. Astrid, I knew, would be interrogating the warriors that came with the messenger. Warriors that were sent by Hjalmar and Ulfar. “Astrid's demands to reinforce it are motivated by love rather than any logic.”
The demands hadn't arrived yet, but they would. We both knew Astrid, and she would understand what the defeat at Rome would mean for her brother. A slow but steady decline, perhaps one that could be reversed, but doing so would require investment.
Such as the fifteen thousand warriors that Hjalmar was returning with. Astrid would demand that they return to the Mediterranean, or want the army mustered for the raid to be directed towards helping her brother. Or use diplomacy with Bulgaria or the Abbasids to support him. And they were all valid decisions to make.
Hoffer and his kingdom were a dagger pressed against the belly of the Romans. The power of the Romans of old, how they maintained such a vast empire, had been their domination of the Mediterranean sea. So long as Hoffer controlled the majority of the islands, they would never have that same control. What's more, the Romans could never rest easy as whenever the time for war came, they would have an enemy poised at their flanks.
It was in my interest to support Hoffer. And I imagine that should I abandon him completely, it would sour any future relations.
It was just that the damnable timing couldn't be worse.
“I'm more concerned about Charlemagne,” I admitted, my lips thinning. “I've heard nothing that would explain this behavior from him. Perhaps he intends to rescue the Pope?” He had the means to. His Paladins were a powerful force, and as long as they could get to the Christian priests, I imagined they could escape with them.
“And if he doesn't?” Morrigan prompted, letting me sound out my thoughts, and that was a question that coiled my guts.
Charlemagne was a zealot of the Christian faith. If he had the means, he would make everyone in the world a Christian and murder anyone who refused his faith down to the last man, woman, and child. He would do so without hesitation. Which made this apparent break with the Church alarming, because while it could mean a number of things, above all else it meant that I couldn't predict his next move.
I understood Charlemagne. I understood his ambitions and motivations. That allowed me to anticipate his movements to a degree, and that was a great comfort to me. A comfort I didn't appreciate until it had been ripped from me.
“Then it means that he may intend to subjugate the Church in his lands,” I started, looking across my throne room at the now shut doors. “Sieze their lands, undercut their influence in worldly affairs, and make them answerable to the Roman crown.”
It was possible, but even as I said the words it felt unlikely. It fit his pattern for centralizing power around himself, yet it completely went against his lifelong support of the Church.
Or did it?
I had learned of both the eastern and western branches of Christianity during my time in Francia and Rome, and their differences ran deeper than the issue of icons. From the sound of it, there was a significant portion of Francia's high priests in Rome for some reason. Their removal would destabilize the Church enough to make things… amenable to future mending of the east and west practices. Yet, that felt a bit off for Charlemagne.
Maybe it was only partly true? A side benefit to another goal that was his true aim? Which would be… what?
My lips thinned further, “It is a rallying cry.”
“For who?” Morrigan asked before she clicked her tongue. “How foolish of me. T'is obvious. The Christians.”
It would track with Charlemagne's prior actions. He used my emergent empire as the push against his vassals to speed up the restoration of the Roman Empire. Now, he could ignite a wave of religious fervor. The attack on Rome could serve that goal, but the execution of religious officials? The Pope? All at the hands of pagans? Across the resurgent empire, there would be calls for blood against non-Christians.
I felt a headache forming, “This couldn't have come at a worse time,” I muttered as the implications sank in. That explosion of Christian fervor could present itself in a number of ways. The Jews and Muslims in the Roman Empire would undoubtedly face a widespread and intense purge. But, just like after the massacre at Verdun, there would be an outpouring of support for action against the perpetrator.
That action could be focused on Hoffer and his kingdom, and in that case, any support offered would be for nothing.
Or that outrage could be pointed at a broader enemy. At pagans in general. And there so happened to be a pagan empire on their northern border.
“The Great Raid will certainly inflame tensions,” Morrigan mused, following my training of thought without the need of words. “T'is not enough that we sacked the beating heart of Christianity, now the poor Christians of Britannia find themselves under assault. We are all around them, stalking them like a pack of wolves, and picking off the sheep that stray from the herd.”
She summarized my thoughts quite well. Any action before this storm blew over would only inflame that religious outcry. Which Charlemagne and Irene were well situated to use as mortar to bind the Roman Empire together. Thus, any action that I took would play into their hands.
Yet, I couldn't afford to call off the Great Raid. Politically or financially. The Great Raid was how I would finish the dozens of large scale projects that were necessary for the unity of my empire. If I called it off for the years it would take for the Christian outcry to fade, then my treasury would be empty and it would be a stain on my reputation. Neither of which I could afford.
“Perhaps the Great Raid should become a conquest?” I questioned, feeling uneasy with the idea. I had a plan in place, and I was reluctant to deviate from it.
The Great Raid was the method that I intended to weaken Britannia. We would harvest their wealth like a sea of locusts, taking all of value and destabilizing the islands. All except for a chosen few that we would leave almost untouched. Some would be allies in the future conquest, while others would be enemies that would need to be vanquished so those on the islands never sat too easily. Then, in five or ten years time, just when the islands recovered from the raid, we would return and conquer them.
Changing the plan so significantly in the final hour worried me. All the more so because I was keenly aware of Charlemagne's spies who had told their master enough that he'd undoubtedly deduced my intentions and planned accordingly. Without the Great Raid, the islands wouldn't be weakened, requiring larger investment in their security. And the anger of the conquest would be inflamed by the robbery of their wealth, which would have happened at the same time.
No. No, that wouldn't work. At least not how I would want it to. Meaning that…
“That bastard,” I sighed, realizing that I had been outplayed by Charlemagne. Hoffer serving his own ambitions had been used against me. It was regrettable, but diverting from my plans would cost me more than following Charlemagne's.
“It would be best if we dragged this out,” Morrigan advised from behind the throne. “It would give us time to turn this trap against him. Perhaps they shall elect a new pope? T'would be a most troubling conflict should the previous pope be released and returned to Rome afterwards.” How devious. “Their faith is a strength, but it is a fragile one. Drag out their outrage and spread its course so we will not be its lone target. The more we can fracture the foundation of their faith, the better off we shall be.”
Then I felt Morrigan shift, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “Such as sending the followers of Norse Christianity to their lands to spread the good word of the Prophet Siegfried.”
“Ugh,” I couldn't stop my immediate reaction to the idea. Something that earned a warm chuckle from Morrigan. The… problem of Norse Christianity had been one that had been left to simmer. I was hesitant to denounce some of my most ardent supporters, but I offered them no support either. They were left in peace, for the most part, and I was content to let the offshoot of Christianity strive or falter without my involvement. Yet, I couldn't deny that the idea had merit.
It would confuse the Christian outrage. Fracture the unified denouement and likely see Romans turn their blades inward to purge themselves of this ‘corruption.’ Yet, as Christianity itself had proven, few things made a faith spread faster than oppression. Especially a faith backed by gold.
“Think not as a man,” Morrigan immediately scolded me. “But as the Allvaldr.”
No matter how distasteful I found it, she was right. It was a means to weaken my enemy and to take back the initiative.
I gave the nod and Morrigan hummed, pleased with the decision before she emerged from behind the throne and my eyes immediately drifted towards her swollen stomach, heavy with our third child. She had resisted the call to have another child until Ranni was born, and then she had all but demanded another. She was due any day now, but there was a part of me that ached at the possibility of not being here.
“You have other concerns,” Morrigan scolded, a hand resting on her stomach as she flicked my ear with the other. “Now is not the time to be a father either. Too much is at stake for that. This raid will set the tone for the empire going forward. We have built roads. We standardized coins and weights and trade. But all of it will be meaningless unless we prove to them all that we are a force greater together than we are divided.”
Morrigan had the right of it, I couldn't deny. So, with purpose, I stood up and placed a hand over hers. “The raid will go well,” I assured her, willing it to be so.
“Then prove it.”
…
The preparations for the Great Raid continued as planned. My fleet was amassed in the harbor of Miklagard. Five hundred of the new longships, ready to be filled with warriors and plunder. Hjalmar and Ulfar would already be returning with spoils from Rome, but they would have a chance to further enrich themselves in the raid. I had accounted for the wealth the young hot bloods would return with, though I hadn't expected for their treasures to be so vast.
They were on their way to Britannia, and we would unite there. In the meantime, thirty thousand warriors found themselves in my capital, along with many of their families.
My capital had come a very long way over the course of nearly ten years. As I walked the halls of my palace, I could see the monuments that loomed over the thriving city. The Colosseum had finished, featured prominently in a new district of the capital. One day, it would be joined by a Hippodrome, but the next Great Work was a temple dedicated to the gods. One that would be the Hagia Sophia's equal in another three years. Every street and back alley of my capital had been exhaustingly perfected, and now the spaces between the monuments were rapidly filling.
Miklagard
Happiness: 93%
Quality of Life: 8.5/10
Population: 177,742
Population Growth: +12.5% increase per year
Wealth: 135,211
Security: 85% per pop
Education: 45% per pop
Religion: 94% Norse Paganism, 2% Norse Christianity, 4% Judaism
My capital's population had nearly doubled in the past five years, and we were expanding as fast as people could arrive. Around the monuments were a sea of stone buildings, some as much as four floors high, capped with sharp slanted roofs to deal with the snow.
It was a comfort. I lost count of the times I had caught myself stopping and staring, just admiring the view.
Even if everything collapsed all around me, and this empire didn't even manage to survive to the end of my life, I found comfort in the thought that this city would be a legacy.
Though not my only one.
“Come on! Keep up!” Arne exclaimed, launching into a quick series of jabs and thrusts as he sparred with Ragnar. Both boys had grown so much, and looking at them suddenly made me feel old. Arne was a man grown now, or near enough. Sixteen years old going on seventeen, and he looked so much like Brandr that my heart clenched in my chest at times.
Ragnar was keeping up with his older cousin, now twelve years old. His face was pinched in an expression of absolute determination, using his shield just as I taught him before countering with his own strikes. He was a cautious fighter these days, habits ingrained from countless bouts with his siblings and me; his aggression was kept in reserve until he saw an opening.
Watching the bout were Scáthach, Aífe, and Magnus. Radahn and Bjorn weren’t with them; both boys were sulking because they wouldn’t be part of the raid. My eldest daughters were taking the news well, largely because I'm sure Morrigan tutored them on how to extract a promise from me that when the conquest of Britannia came that they wouldn't be left behind again. But that was a compromise that I was willing to make.
In another five years, they would be sixteen. Bjorn and Radahn would be thirteen. They would be old enough to partake in the war to come and earn their own renown and respect.
The bout intensified as I walked down some steps towards the courtyard, neither boy wanting to lose. So I put an end to it with a sharp clap to my hands with a proud smile, “Save some of that fire for the raid. There will be plenty of fighting to be had.”
“Uncle,” Arne nodded, lowering his shield and practice blade. “Do we depart soon?”
“In the morning,” I answered with the patience I only gained once I became a father. Children, in particular small children and those on the cusp of manhood, had a habit of asking the same questions over and over in the hopes of receiving a different answer. “At first light. So, get plenty of rest, because we'll leave you behind if you sleep in.”
“I'm ready, father!” Ragnar said, puffing his chest out with obvious pride. “I'm ready to fight!”
The twins tsk’d behind them, but said nothing.
I placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it, “I know you are.”
How strange it was to see your children grow up. It didn't feel that long ago that I was of a similar age, leading a war band across Saxony against the Franks. The amount of time only revealed itself with math.
I was nearing thirty years old.
“I know,” I repeated, my gaze going to the twins and Magnus. “Come. Your mothers wish to dote on you one final time before we leave.”
“Father! Aren't you forgetting something?” Magnus spoke up, his tone hopeful as his gaze dipped to what was in my hand. I gave him a grin and Ragnar all but jumped in surprise, looking at my hand with open greed.
Armrings. They were a band of twisted gold with the two ends bearing the likeness of wolves, each with a jewel on their maws. They were fine craftsmanship. Worthy of boy princes that were turning into men.
“I suppose I did. We can hardly have boys going on the Raid,” I remarked, tossing the armrings to them both without pomp or ceremony. They were so eager to put them on that they nearly dropped them, and when they did place the armrings on their wrist, they looked at them with wonder. It was proof that they had crossed the threshold to be considered men by our people, but even then, I looked at them and saw a pair of young boys.
“We can celebrate with our departure feast,” I said, placing a hand on the back of their necks and ushering them forward. I was proud of them in that moment, watching the boy- men excitedly compare their armrings. Yet, even then, there were concerns that lingered in the back of my mind.
Halfdan would take up the regency while we were away, but I expected him to be hands off while my wives continued their duties as they had for years now. Haldur would be joining the raid, as would three other kings while the rest had chosen to send representatives. All were in the feasting hall, making deals and leveraging connections to get the most out of this raid.
It weighed on me as I ushered my children back to the hall, feeling all eyes turn to us as if our arrival was a stone tossed into a lake. I could see Astrid speaking to her father, likely convincing him that her brother needed help and how to best deliver it. Jill was entertaining a half dozen noblewomen, and she pointedly caught my eye with a silent scolding, as if to say that my absence had been noticed.
My hall was full to the brim, important nobles and notable landowners all celebrating and anticipating our departure. My sons went off to their friends, though I did hesitate to call them such, showing off their armrings. I saw it all as I approached my throne, seated at an elevation to let me overlook my great hall.
Even days after receiving the news, making plans and issuing orders, it still felt like I was walking into a trap.
The hall began to quiet as they took notice of me, and from where I stood, I saw my brothers entertaining different groups of nobles. I saw my nephews with their own groups of companions. By the time I arrived at the top step, the hall had gone silent, expecting my speech.
“We have come far these past few years,” I began, my gaze sweeping over the hall as I settled in my throne, knowing the image that it cast to those who looked up at me. “Nine years. It has been nine years since I became King of Denmark. Five since I became Allvaldr. Five years that our people have been unified. Outside, in the harbor, there is the greatest fleet that our people have ever known. In the greatest city that our people have ever known.”
I saw their faces. I had their rapt attention, and none would deny what we had accomplished.
“We have built roads that connect the furthest reaches of the empire. We have built cities and towns and fortresses. The foundations have been laid for an empire that shall never fall. That will endure for a thousand years, and a thousand beyond it,” I continued. “Yet, I am before you now and I give you this simple truth -- we have further to go still.”
The tension of the room spiked as the men and women in it realized the depth of my ambition. They had looked at all I had accomplished and built and thought that would be enough.
“We will go to foreign shores for this Great Raid, and it will serve as a testament to all that we can accomplish, together, unified in mind, body, and spirit. We shall bring back vast riches that will see our people thrive,” I uttered, my gaze flickering across the room and it lingered on a few who most needed to hear my words. “So be hungry, my people. Nurture your ambitions as you would a fire. And know this above all else…”
“This is the beginning. Not the end.”
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Zero1zero1
Thanks for the chapter!
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As I read this I thought of a frankly devious method they could convey to Hoffer to further confuse the Christian fervor. Imagine Hoffer, after the new pope is elected, doesn't just release the old pope. Instead he has the pope personally convert him to Christianity and then releases all Christian prisoners. He also hints that his brother in law Siegfried is leaning towards the faith as well The chaos would be insane. But it entirely relies on Hoffer being flexible in his faith.
