A week later, the Red Falcon rode the gentle swells toward the northeastern harbor of Puerto Rico.
Although it was winter, Puerto Rico remained oppressively hot. Dockworkers, dressed in short linen tunics with their trouser legs rolled up, hurried back and forth carrying cargo.
As soon as the ship was secured, Captain Enrique and his first mate eagerly stepped onto the pier. Behind them, two sailors carried a wooden crate as the group headed toward the governor's residence under the curious gazes of passersby.
Passing a roadside stall, Enrique tossed over two silver pennies and bought four mugs of light beer and a large platter of fried fish.
The native vendor asked curiously,
"What's in the box?"
"Guano rock. Makes excellent fertilizer."
With that, the captain opened the crate, revealing several pale yellow stones. A crowd immediately gathered—Vikings, Franks, Lombards, and Puerto Rico's native inhabitants alike.
After hastily finishing lunch, Enrique left the docks, passed through the town's low defensive wall, and climbed toward a stone fortress overlooking the settlement, where four rather lazy-looking guards stood watch.
"I'm the captain of the Red Falcon! We've discovered an island with massive guano deposits!"
The excited shouting reached inside the governor's residence.
Baron Lake abandoned his meal and hurried to the entrance.
"You've verified it?"
"Yes. We refined it into saltpeter—it burns."
The baron let out a long sigh of relief, finally releasing months of pent-up anxiety.
Half a year earlier, word had reached him from Londinium that the cabinet was considering replacing him as governor with a naval officer from the Old World.
If this guano discovery proved genuine, he would share in the credit. Even if irregularities were uncovered during the transition, the achievement would likely spare him from severe punishment.
Soon afterward, Baron Lake summoned Puerto Rico's judge, auditor, and temple shaman to jointly examine the precious samples.
Once they confirmed that high-quality saltpeter could indeed be extracted, the colonial administration dispatched another two-masted sailing ship to follow Enrique's recorded route and coordinates.
If everything checked out, everyone involved would earn a share of the rewards.
The governor warmly invited Enrique into the dining hall.
"Congratulations, Captain Enrique. Before long, I'll probably have to address you as Sir Enrique."
"Have you given any thought to where you'd like your future estate?"
The New World was vast and sparsely populated.
Noble estates there dwarfed those in the Old World.
Baron Lake himself owned the western half of Puerto Rico—roughly 4,500 square kilometers, larger than some earldoms back in Britain.
"Not yet."
This was the foundation of his family's future. Enrique wasn't about to make such a decision lightly.
Over the following two weeks, with little else to occupy him, Enrique immersed himself in maps and reports covering the Caribbean.
After eliminating the territories already granted to twenty different nobles, plenty of islands remained available.
"Hmm..."
"If I'm only knighted, I'll pick one of these."
"But if I'm made a baron..."
While he waited, the second survey vessel returned with even more guano, fully confirming his discovery.
In January 875, the Red Falcon departed for home.
Its hold carried sugar, tobacco, cocoa, guano, and a bundle of jointly signed letters from the governor and colonial officials.
More than a week later, the ship approached North America, passing through an archipelago—the Bahamas.
In Enrique's opinion, nowhere else in the Caribbean compared.
The sea shimmered sapphire blue.
In the shallows, the water faded into crystal-clear turquoise, revealing sprawling coral reefs beneath the surface, where brilliantly colored schools of fish darted freely.
Along the islands stretched endless white beaches.
Beyond them swayed dense coconut groves in the gentle sea breeze, occasionally dropping ripe coconuts onto the sand.
For a brief moment, Enrique experienced a strange certainty.
He had found the estate he truly wanted.
The Red Falcon continued north along the eastern coast of North America.
More than twenty ports dotted the shoreline, each belonging to various barons and knights.
Their principal exports were furs, tobacco, and wheat.
Over the past two years, tobacco had exploded in popularity throughout the Old World.
Its profits were excellent.
Its drawback was equally obvious.
Tobacco exhausted soil fertility so quickly that fields remained productive for only two years.
Once depleted, landlords simply scattered clover seeds across the exhausted fields, turning them into temporary pasture, while exiles were organized to clear fresh forests for new tobacco plantations.
Land in the New World was effectively worthless.
Even the lowest-ranking knight could possess an estate of 200 to 300 square kilometers.
Compared to intensive farming, simply cutting down more forest proved far more profitable.
After serving their required years of labor, exiles received several dozen acres of farmland and settled into ordinary farming lives.
Others joined hunting expeditions, risking clashes with native tribes while collecting valuable furs.
In early February, the Red Falcon arrived at Boston by following the ocean currents.
The crew planned to rest there for two weeks before riding the North Atlantic Drift home.
After years of development, Boston had grown to roughly 2,000 townspeople, surrounded by twelve villages.
Its total population exceeded 5,000.
Much of that growth was thanks to an exceptionally gifted temple shaman who had persuaded large numbers of indigenous people to swear loyalty to the empire.
Unfortunately, his remarkable achievements earned him a promotion to headquarters.
His successor lacked anything close to the same talent.
After docking, Enrique headed toward the lord's manor near the town center.
Passing the temple, he noticed a young man addressing a crowd.
The speech seemed connected to Bjorn.
Moments later, Enrique heard astonishing news.
Bjorn was dead.
Curiosity got the better of him.
He spent two silver coins gathering further details.
Bjorn hadn't died in battle.
Instead, he'd been killed during a hunting accident.
Afterward, his many children had begun fighting over the inheritance.
His youngest son had escaped to Boston carrying Bjorn's will, hoping to sail to Londinium.
So...
This was how the legendary explorer's story ended.
Enrique felt unexpectedly conflicted.
He decided to help the young man.
March, 875 — The Imperial Palace
After hearing the report, Vig remained silent for quite some time before asking to see Bjorn's will.
The parchment was straightforward.
Bjorn had many children.
He divided Quebec, Greenland, and Iceland among his three favorite sons.
His shares in the West Sea Fur Company were divided among all of his wives, concubines, and children.
Over the past two years, the company's market value had stabilized around 40,000 pounds—an enormous fortune.
No wonder they were tearing each other apart.
Vig asked,
"Who inherited Bjorn's Damascus steel sword, Raging Tide?"
The young man answered,
"He believed I was his finest son."
"He left Quebec and the sword to me."
"But my brothers used my Greenland bloodline as an excuse to deny my inheritance."
After a moment's thought, Vig replied,
"I'll have the Royal Navy escort you back to Quebec."
"If the investigation confirms your account, we'll divide the estate according to Bjorn's wishes."
"If the will proves invalid..."
"...then we'll settle the inheritance according to Viking custom."
After the young man departed, Vig sat alone, lost in memories.
Only when an attendant delivered a report from the Imperial Arsenal did he finally return to the present.
Finishing his sweetened hot cocoa, he began reading carefully.
The arsenal had processed the guano brought back by the Red Falcon.
The resulting saltpeter possessed remarkably high purity.
It vastly outperformed the nitrate extracted from stable walls in the directly administered territories.
The recommendation was clear:
The Ministry of Overseas Affairs should begin large-scale mining immediately.
"If we start mining now..."
"...we'll have large quantities next year."
"So this year's supply is already fixed."
Beginning in February, tens of thousands of nomads had flooded into the Carpathian Basin.
Initially, their targets were merely local villages or southern regions such as Serbia and Croatia.
The cabinet paid little attention.
No one expected the nomads to attack imperial territory.
Neither the emperor nor the cabinet desired another war.
But if enemies chose to provoke the empire...
Retaliation became unavoidable.
The empire had to make an example of them—for the sake of Iberia, Italy, and Eastern Europe alike.
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer