After two days of snowfall, the skies cleared. Beneath the rising sun, the snow lay thick and soft like a vast woolen blanket, evenly covering the Frankish camp beyond the walls, the plains, and the rolling hills in the distance.
During this time, the Vikings repaired their damaged defenses and refitted captured Frankish armor, determined to hold their ground.
Halfdan stood atop the palisade, gazing at the enemy's tents and crude wooden huts. He whistled lightly, sipping mead from time to time. After many setbacks, he had learned to restrain his impatience. As long as they endured until the Franks withdrew, the war would be won.
As for the villages plundered across central and southern Denmark, he did not care—they were not his lands.
Ubbe, irritated by his brother's whistling, asked suddenly, "Aren't you worried the Franks might march through Funen or Zealand into Sweden?"
"Let them," Halfdan replied. "The southern Swedish nobles are unruly—perfect for wearing the enemy down. Even if Lund and Helsingborg fall, it would take at least a week for the Franks to reach my core territories. By then I'd already be on my way back. And Sweden's winter will thin their ranks faster than any sword."
Time passed. King Louis sustained his army with grain, furs, and cloth seized from the countryside, ordering his men to fell trees and build trebuchets. But his accompanying craftsmen lacked skill and experience; progress was painfully slow.
"Ha! They're ridiculous," Ubbe laughed for once, watching one massive engine collapse in a heap while Frankish soldiers scattered in panic.
His brief joy lasted only three days.
Then came terrible news from the north: Frankish cavalry had launched a lightning raid, riding through the night to capture Aalborg—where vast stores of grain had been gathered. The queen and two of Ubbe's children were missing.
"Impossible. It must be rumor!"
For two agonizing days Ubbe waited, until the Franks displayed captured royal garments outside the walls—along with the black raven totem from Aalborg's temple.
Halfdan handed him a jug of mead.
"The cavalry rode straight to Aalborg with precision. That means betrayal from within. Most likely Edmund."
His reasoning was simple. Edmund had shifted loyalties four times—first to Ragnar, then nominally to Gunnar, then to Vig, and finally to Ubbe. An Anglo noble devoted to the Roman Church, sharing the Franks' faith—if Louis offered him the right terms, why would he refuse?
Draining his mead, Ubbe rose abruptly.
"No. I must return north and stabilize the situation."
"Have you lost your mind?" Halfdan seized his shoulder. "Win this war and secure your throne—women and heirs can be replaced. As for supplies, I'll write to Erik for grain and reinforcements."
Halfdan had seen enough of Frankish conduct to know this was more than vengeance or plunder. They aimed to erase Viking faith itself. If they were not driven back now, worse would follow.
But by dawn, Ubbe's anxiety for his missing family overwhelmed him. He proposed abandoning Vejle.
"Their siege engines will soon be ready. Let's withdraw by sea. The main force can hold Aarhus. I'll take my guard north to gather survivors near Aalborg."
With the Danish king determined to retreat, Norwegian and Swedish contingents lost confidence. They boarded ships and sailed north along the coast to Aarhus—a small eastern port town defended by two hundred local militia.
The allied army occupied the harbor. Ubbe and two hundred household guards did not stop, continuing northward. From a watchtower, Halfdan watched in silence.
Lead-gray clouds hung low over the sea. Wind whipped fine snow against his face. He rubbed his hands, staring at the receding sails until mist swallowed them.
"My foolish brother."
As he muttered the words, he suddenly remembered the looks Ivar and Bjorn once gave him—perhaps with the same mixture of frustration and pity.
His unease deepened.
When he founded the Sword of the North, he had nearly alienated every Swedish noble—only their father's authority had preserved him. Now their father, their eldest brother, and their youngest were dead. Bjorn had exiled himself. The family's name still carried weight, but its strength was fading. If Ubbe faltered, Halfdan doubted he could preserve his brother's throne.
"In just a few years, have we truly fallen so far? Was it my fault?"
Instinctively, he shook his head, forcing the despairing thought away.
The cold intensified. The Frankish main force remained at Vejle, focusing on gathering provisions for the next campaign.
Meanwhile, Halfdan's call for aid spread through Norway and Sweden. Invoking his lineage as Ragnar's son, he attracted restless Viking warriors eager for battle. Their numbers steadily grew.
Observing the shift in momentum, Nils—who had fled to Pomerania—changed his stance. He recalled his scattered forces and selected four hundred skilled archers.
After brief training, scouts brought word of a vulnerable supply convoy. His authority had suffered when he abandoned Schleswig; without action, he would never recover his standing.
"Move out. Drive the Franks away and reclaim what is ours!"
The men responded in silence. After losing Schleswig more than once, they were used to retreat. They fastened the white cloaks their lord had issued and marched from camp.
For his first strike, Nils targeted a supply train.
They concealed themselves along the edge of a pine forest, watching the snow-dusted road.
Soon came the muffled crunch of wheels over snow.
The convoy emerged through the haze—draft horses snorting clouds of vapor, moving sluggishly. Frankish guards, wrapped in heavy wool, helmets pulled low, showed only reddened noses and exhausted eyes. They rubbed their hands for warmth as they trudged beside the wagons.
"Ready."
Nils whispered the order, slowly drawing his yew longbow to full tension.
He fixed his aim on a mounted officer wrapped in a black cloak.
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