CHAPTER 180: THE EMPIRE AWAKENS

Snow fell soft over Aachen, blanketing the palace roofs and muffling the clatter of hooves in the courtyards below.

Inside the great hall, however, there was no hush, only the murmur of counts, bishops, and captains pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath banners of the Empire.

Conrad II sat at the high seat, the Reichs Crown of Charlemagne heavy upon his brow, though his gaze was colder still than the steel it bore.

A table stretched before him, upon which maps of the North Sea lay pinned by daggers and cups of wine.

The chamber quieted as he raised his hand.

"Cnut is dead," he said, his voice carrying with the weight of finality.

"His son Svein drags Norway’s fleet into England, chasing ghosts and crowns. His armies are divided, his lands stripped bare of men. Denmark lies empty."

A ripple passed through the assembly, whispers, nods, even a few smirks.

The news had spread like fire across the courts of the Empire: the mighty North Sea king, bled white by wolves and Scots, his legacy crumbling in weeks.

Conrad leaned forward, placing a mailed finger on the parchment map. "Here. Jutland. Exposed.

No wall, no host, no king to hold it." His eyes flicked to his generals. "You all know what that means."

One of the counts, a florid man with a belly like a cask, laughed harshly.

"It means the Danes will squeal like pigs the moment Imperial boots touch their soil."

Another, a bishop with narrow eyes, raised his hand.

"Majesty, forgive me, but will Rome not demand our arms against the wolf? Surely the Church will insist the Empire strike at the pagans, not our neighbors."

Conrad’s lips thinned into a ghost of a smile.

"Rome demanded much of Cnut too. Gold. Allegiance. War in the north. Where did it leave him? Split open like a hog in London, his entrails steaming in the air. The new Pope is a boy bought with Tusculan coin. Let him bark about wolves and ravens. It is not his voice that holds the swords of the Reich."

The hall murmured at the bluntness, but none dared contradict him.

Conrad struck the table with his fist.

"While Christendom gnashes its teeth over England, we will act. We will seize Denmark before Svein can crawl back from his folly. We will anchor the Empire upon the North Sea, as it was in the days of Charlemagne."

Marshal Otto of Swabia stepped forward, his beard rimed with frost.

"The Danes are not without pride, Majesty. Even stripped of men, they will resist. What force shall we send?"

Conrad did not hesitate.

"Thirty thousand. Knights, infantry, and the Rhine fleet. Enough to crush whatever rabble remains, enough to cow every village from Hedeby to Roskilde. Leave nothing in doubt. Denmark will be an Imperial march before midsummer."

Otto bowed, though unease flickered in his eyes. "And if Svein returns from England?"

"Then he returns to ashes," Conrad said flatly. "And he will find that his throne has no legs left to stand on."

The bishop spoke again, nervously. "Majesty... will not such a move invite suspicion? Some may say we exploit the fall of a Christian king rather than avenge him."

Conrad’s gaze snapped to him like a blade.

"Suspicion?" He rose from his seat, the Reichs Crown catching the torchlight.

"Cnut’s fall was not of our making. It was his own folly, trusting wolves and Scots. If we do not strike now, we invite worse, Norwegians tightening their grip, or pagans creeping further south. I will not wait for the wolf to bring his storm to Saxony’s door."

The hall rang with approval then, counts striking sword-hilts against shields, captains nodding grimly. Even the bishop bowed, lips pressed thin.

Conrad lowered his voice, but the words carried all the more for their quiet.

"Understand this. England is chaos. Norway is spent. Rome is weak. Only the Empire remains steady. And steady hands do not waste time mourning. They take."

He turned to Otto once more.

"Send word to Bremen and Hamburg. Raise the levies, ready the fleet. I want sails on the Elbe within a fortnight. Denmark must feel the weight of the Empire before spring thaw."

Otto saluted with a fist to his chest. "It shall be done, Majesty."

As the assembly broke into smaller councils, maps gathered, and orders drafted, Conrad remained by the fire, staring into the flames.

He saw not Denmark’s villages or halls, but the greater shape that conquest would draw:

The Empire’s banner stretched over the North Sea, its ports flowing with trade, its shores locked against both pagan raids and Norwegian ambition.

And in that vision, the chaos of Christendom ceased to matter.

England, Scotland, Norway, all would bleed each other dry.

Rome could wheeze about wolves and heathens until its incense choked the air.

The Reich would endure. The Reich would grow.

Conrad lifted a cup of wine, his expression unreadable as he drank. "Cnut is gone," he murmured, almost to himself.

"Now let Denmark remember what it means to face an emperor."

---

The hall at Ullrsfjǫrðr was hushed save for the scratch of quill on parchment.

Vetrúlfr sealed the letter with wax and pressed Gramr’s pommel into it, the wolf’s head leaving its mark. He handed it to a Jomsviking envoy with a nod.

"Take this to Jomsborg. Give it into the hands of the Wendish King, and no other. Tell him the wolf calls him to council."

The envoy bowed, slipping the letter into his cloak before striding out into the winter night.

Gunnarr lingered, his scarred face troubled. "Another war already? We have not yet buried all our dead from England."

Vetrúlfr leaned back, the firelight catching in his pale eyes. "This is not war, Gunnarr. Not yet. It is memory."

The old jarl frowned. "Memory?"

Vetrúlfr’s smile was grim. "The reason the Northmen failed, the reason even mighty kings like Cnut bowed to the cross, was not for lack of courage. They had that in plenty. It was Rome’s legacy of industry, their stone, their roads, their order. Alone, no tribe could match it. And so one by one, we were broken."

He rose, cloak brushing the rushes.

"But if we fail now, if this realm I build falters... the Wends will follow us into the grave. And the Balts after that. The Christians will not rest until every man who draws breath submits before their god, and their yoke. That is of course unless we stop them together."

Gunnarr said nothing. The fire cracked, and outside the wind carried the cry of ravens toward the sea.