Lovable Viking's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Three days after Franklin dropped the chain, the grumbling changed. It was no longer about the rule. It was about gold. The men had spared two villages and taken little. Now they muttered over thin plunder and thinner mead. Benjamin spoke for them at the fire one night. "We follow your law," he said, rubbing his blond beard. "But mercy fills no chests. Give us richer prey, or the men will drift back to easy targets." Marcus knew he was right. A rule with no reward would not hold. So Marcus found them richer prey. He had heard of a warlord's stronghold up the coast. Dark stone, iron gates, banners on every tower. Inside sat a hoard built from years of taking. No women there. No children. Only fighting men who had grown fat and slow behind their walls. Marcus called the crew together and pointed north. "There," he said. "A hard raid. A fair one. And gold enough to end your griping." Franklin laughed, but not against him this time. "You'd throw us at a fortress to keep your pretty name?" "I'd throw us at men who can fight back," Marcus said. "Not farmers. Not mothers. Are you afraid, Franklin?" Franklin spat over the rail and grinned. "No." They landed at dusk and climbed the rocks below the walls. Benjamin found a low gate near the sea, half-rotted and lightly watched. Marcus sent Franklin and six men over the wall to open it from within. He waited in the dark, listening. A shout. Steel. Then the gate groaned wide, and Marcus led the rest through. The fight was short and ugly. The warlord's men were slow, as Marcus had guessed. His crew took the courtyard, then the hall. They broke open the strongrooms and hauled out chests heavy with silver and coin. No woman crossed their path. No child cried in a doorway. The rule held because Marcus had chosen a place where it cost nothing. They rowed out before dawn, the longship low in the water with plunder. The men laughed and counted coins by lantern light. Benjamin dropped a fistful of silver into Marcus's hands. "This," he said, "is a rule worth keeping." The grumbling was gone, drowned in gold taken clean. But Marcus watched the fortress shrink behind them, and his jaw tightened. The warlord had not been in his hall. His banners still flew, but his seat was empty. A raiding lord did not sit still under a stolen hoard without answering it. Marcus had fed his crew and saved his name. He had also robbed a man who commanded far more swords than eight benches of oars. The men slept content. Marcus stayed awake, watching the dark water for sails.