CHAPTER 179: THE HOST OF NORWAY

The sea broke against the shingle in long white arcs as the fleet of Norway came ashore.

More than a hundred keels scraped England’s southern strand, their dragon-prows glaring over the spray like beasts come to devour the land.

The air was thick with salt and smoke; banners whipped hard in the cold wind.

Svein stood at the prow of his flagship, helm beneath his arm, cloak snapping red and gold.

His eyes burned as he raised his sword to the sky.

"This land is ours by right!" he cried, his voice cutting through the roar of waves and gulls.

"The usurper Duncan squats upon my father’s throne, bought with blood and treachery.

The White Wolf has fled, but his stench remains.

By God’s hand we come to cleanse this soil.

By Christ’s cross we come to strike down the heathen and all who shelter him!"

A cheer thundered from the men crowding the ships and the strand, a wall of spears lifted high.

Some shouted prayers, others only bellowed their king’s name.

But all carried the same fire in their eyes.

The young king did not linger in triumph.

Already he turned his words to action.

"Drive the stakes! Raise the palisade! Cut the brush for timber, and bring the cattle down from the hills!"

He leapt to the shingle, boots sinking in the wet sand, and pointed inland.

"Scouts ahead in threes and fives. Find the streams, the farms, the roads. Mark every crossroad and bridge. Report at dusk, whether you find plunder or famine."

Captains shouted, repeating his commands.

Men poured ashore, dragging timbers from the holds, splitting the first logs to raise a palisade against any sudden foe.

Others dug ditches at the tide’s edge, set fire to driftwood for signal and warmth.

Svein walked among them, his sword sheathed, but his eyes never still.

He watched the lines of shield and spear, noting who lagged, who worked with haste, who shirked.

Twice he stopped to correct the spacing of the ditch, once he seized a lazy man by the collar and threw him into the mud.

"This is no raid," he barked.

"No wild feast of wolves. This is war for a crown. Do you think Duncan will meet us drunk and unready? No. He comes with Scots, Saxons, and traitors both. Build me a fort here or build me a grave, the choice is yours."

By dusk a ring of timber palisade rose above the strand, ditch before it, rampart within.

Wagons and sails patched the gaps until proper gates could be fashioned.

Within, fires smoked from a dozen hearths, the smell of roasting oxen already filling the air.

Svein stood upon the rampart, surveying the work, nodding once.

His captains gathered at his side: Harald the Red, grim as stone; Sigurd, broad and loud as a bear; Leif Quickhand, younger than most, his eyes always scanning the horizon.

"They will come soon," Harald muttered. "Scots in the north, Saxons in the west, brigands everywhere between. Already the land is restless."

"Good," Svein answered. "Let them come. Each who stands against us is another enemy revealed. We will break them piece by piece."

Sigurd frowned. "And the people? These villages have no lord. Some are half-starved. Others turn brigand to live. Do we treat them as foe, or friend?"

Svein’s gaze swept the hills, where faint smoke curled from scattered farmsteads.

"If they kneel, they live. If they flee, they are spared. Only those who bear arms against us will know the edge of steel. We are not the wolf. We are the hand of God. And the hand does not strike its own flock."

The captains nodded, reassured.

Orders were given: patrols to range inland, heralds to spread word that the true heir had returned, justice swift for thieves and brigands.

That very night, scouts dragged two such bandits into camp.

Gaunt men, armed with little more than clubs and a rusted axe, they had been waylaying farmers on the old road.

Svein had them bound before the fire where all could see.

"You prey upon your own folk while the land burns?" he thundered. "You rob the weak while your king lies murdered and your crown stolen?"

The men babbled excuses, but Svein’s eyes blazed with righteous fury.

He drew his blade and struck them down where they knelt, the steel flashing once in the firelight.

"Let this be the law of Norway in England!" he cried. "The thief and the brigand die, the farmer and the widow live. God’s peace comes with us, not as words, but as iron."

The camp roared its approval, and in the watching eyes of peasants dragged in with the patrol, Svein saw the first flickers of trust.

Later, in his tent, the captains gathered again over a map scrawled on parchment. Svein traced the coast with his finger.

"We will not rush inland like raiders. First we make this strand unshakable. Timber, stone, wells, stores. Then we move. Scouts tell of a ford upriver, and roads leading north. Duncan will come by those roads, for he must. We will be ready when he does."

Leif Quickhand leaned forward. "And if the Scots march before we are ready?"

Svein’s mouth curved into a grim smile.

"Then we hold the fort until they break upon it. And when they break, we march them down and show Christendom who wears England’s crown."

His men grinned, steel flashing in their teeth. For all his youth, their king had given them more than orders.

He had given them purpose, and the fire of it filled the night.

Outside, the waves beat their endless rhythm against the strand.

But now a palisade stood against them, and a host of warriors sang prayers to God and oaths to Svein, their voices carrying far into the dark.

England had known wolves and lions. Now it would know the fury of Norway.

All the while the Lion of Alba rested in London, aware and waiting for the opportune moment to strike at these new challengers.