Viking Invasion-Chapter 85 — The Mountain Stronghold

The bandit chief, crouched behind a jut of rock, watched the enemy with narrowing eyes. After a spell of wary observation, he realized what kind of foe they faced. These men, who at first glance looked like a ragged mob clothed in filthy tatters, were in truth encased in iron beneath their grime-streaked cloaks.

"Cease fire! Fall back—quickly!"

Outnumbered and outmatched in both arms and armor, the chief gave the only order that made sense. They withdrew in a scramble up the narrow mountain path toward their stockade. When the roll was called, his heart sank—the ambush had cost them sixty men.

"Cursed, treacherous Norse devils!" he spat. "Four hundred mailed warriors to storm a bandit’s lair—may the gods rot them for their cowardice!"

He drank deep from a gourd of cold water, trying to steady his nerves, then shouted for the men to pack what they could carry. Yet before they could flee, more than twenty Vikings appeared at the gate, their iron helms glinting through the dust.

The chief’s eyes blazed. "Cut through them!" he bellowed, charging at the head of eighty mountain raiders. Steel clashed on steel in the narrow pass, the air thick with the sound of grunting men and ringing shields. The Pictish bandits, armed with their people’s short swords and round bucklers, struck again and again—but their blades glanced uselessly off Norse mail.

"Chief! Their armor’s too thick—we can’t bite through it!" someone shouted amid the melee.

Time bled away. The defenders at the gate held fast, their shield-wall unbroken. And now, in the distance, the thunder of running boots—more Vikings, coming at a trot. Rurik himself arrived among them, bent double and gasping for breath, his hands braced on his knees. Seeing the fight still raging, he barked orders for several men to circle along the palisade and seal the rear escape.

"Let none of them slip away!"

The Picts saw the encirclement tightening. Panic rippled through their ranks. Men dropped their gear, leapt for the wall—a timber barricade five meters high—and began clawing upward like rats from a sinking ship.

But their hope was short-lived. As one man reached the top, a cluster of crossbow bolts whistled from the outer dark, slicing past his scalp. The shock sent him tumbling backward with a scream, crashing hard into the dirt below.

By the time the fighting ceased, only a handful had escaped into the deep hills. The rest—one hundred and twenty in all—threw down their weapons and sat on the trampled clearing, awaiting whatever fate the Norsemen decreed.

Rurik entered the captured stronghold under guard of his shieldmen, eyes roving with curiosity. It was his first close look at a Pictish settlement.

In the center stood a great stone monolith, carved with spirals and curling beasts—a serpent twined upon itself, a wolf mid-snarl, and a bear rising in anger. Their meaning was lost to him, yet they spoke of an older age, of a people rooted deep in the mist.

He moved on to the storehouse, where heaps of grain and bundled furs filled the dim interior. After a thorough search of every hut and lean-to, nothing suspicious was found.

Rurik then chose a small cabin and turned it into a makeshift interrogation chamber. Through an interpreter, he questioned the captives—ten, fifteen, more—until their stories began to agree.

They were a remnant of a single Pictish clan, they said, driven from their homeland in a feud and forced ever southward in search of safety. No lord or noble had sent them; they fought for survival, not politics.

Satisfied that no hidden hand plotted against him, Rurik leaned back and stretched, feeling for once a measure of ease. But that comfort evaporated when one captive, speaking without guile, uttered a phrase that made his blood run cold.

"What was that?" Rurik demanded. "You say the Picts mean to form an alliance—with the Gaels?"

The man hesitated, but nodded.

Rurik frowned deeply. In the north, two chief settlements anchored the land: Edinburgh to the east, held by the Picts, and Glasgow to the west, ruled by the Gaels. Barely sixty kilometers apart—if those two were to bind themselves together, the northern frontier could become a single, united wall.

"And why," Rurik pressed, "would they seek such a union?"

The prisoner swallowed. "Because the raids have grown worse, lord. In the past two years the sea-kings have struck often. The Gaels were first to propose it—an alliance for the coming war."

Rurik cursed aloud.

Of course—the pirates of the western isles, the petty jarls of the Hebrides. Those sea-scavengers plundered the coasts of Scotland without cease, burning farms and dragging off slaves. Their ceaseless depredations had roused the Gaels to action—and by extension, drawn the Picts into cautious fellowship.

"A pack of fools," Rurik growled, "who ruin more than they win. If any of those island curs cross my path, I’ll hang them from their own masts."

He ordered the stronghold torched. The fire caught swiftly, licking up the dry palisades, black smoke roiling into the sky. Then he set his men in motion, driving the captives ahead on the road back to Tyne.

Two days later, word of his victory spread across the countryside. Farmers and villagers poured into the town to gawk, shouting for justice upon the captured bandits.

Portly Harry, the local squire, waddled forward with a knot of minor landowners at his side. "My lord," they chorused, "were all the mountain thieves destroyed?"

"Thirty fled," Rurik answered, "the rest lie dead or yielded."

Harry’s smile faltered. "Do you mean to finish the job, then—drive into the hills and cleanse them out?"

Rurik gave him a sharp look. "Do you take me for a madman? I’ve a dozen matters waiting, and you’d have me lead four hundred men clanking through the highlands in iron?"

In truth, he thought, this campaign had already been charity enough. Every cost had fallen upon his own treasury; not a penny had been levied from the peasantry. No village had been harassed, no hearth robbed. Whatever gossip might say, he had done his duty to the fullest.

Taking a long draught from his waterskin, he said at last, "If you fear future raids, raise a militia. Forty men will suffice. Draw them from nearby villages—each to send a few hands and stores. I’ll provide weapons and bows from the spoils. With regular patrols, you can handle any rabble that dares return."

He gestured to the pile of captured gear—a jumble of dented helms, battered shields, and notched swords—and told his men to toss it all on the ground. "Take what you need. No charge."

Then a voice piped up from the crowd: "Could we have some of your iron mail as well, my lord?"

Rurik’s gaze snapped toward the speaker, cold as drawn steel. The villagers fell instantly silent, each suddenly remembering the virtue of modest requests.

When the mob dispersed, Rurik rode out alone, letting the cool air clear his head. He already had plans for the prisoners: the Picts would be split among his construction crews, while sixty captured Vikings would form the core of a new charcoal works along the forest’s edge.

Tyne’s expansion demanded ever more fuel—especially the blacksmiths’ forges, whose roaring mouths devoured charcoal daily. Until now, most of it came from farmers who burned wood in their idle seasons, yielding poor quality and scant supply.

Rurik’s vision was different. The new charcoal workshop would be divided by trade: cutters, kiln-builders, fire-keepers, and haulers, each man trained for his task. Order and specialization would breed quality.

He mused aloud, "Better than the peat of the northern marshes, by far. Charcoal burns hotter and cleaner. But its need will only grow. Unless we conquer the northern lands and find a coal seam near the surface, we’ll forever be at its mercy."

Having decided, he dismissed most of the levied troops, keeping only fifteen men as camp guards. The prisoners, watched by armed sentries, began felling timber and shaping the first clay kilns.

Rurik lingered five days, overseeing each step until the work ran smoothly. Then he summoned the guard captain.

"Do not chase production too soon," he told him. "Better to build steady than to risk revolt. If the captives rise or flee in numbers, call the local militia for aid."

Only when these words were spoken did he turn homeward, leaving the forest humming with the sound of axes and shovels.

By the time Rurik returned to Tyne, his realm was stirring with life. The population now stood at eighteen thousand souls, and the granaries brimmed full. Confident in their prosperity, he eased the laws of settlement, welcoming craftsmen and artisans from afar.

In all the surrounding lands—from Tees to Derwent—there was no other town yet ruled by industry. Tyne grew unchallenged, its forges clanging day and night, its workshops swelling with new trade.

If the pace held, Rurik reckoned, within a few short years the town’s population would surpass three thousand, and Tyne would stand as the beating heart of the north.