33- Bjorn, The Arse-Licker Poet, and Propaganda War

Before you read this chapter, a quick note: In this story, Kattegat is located where modern-day Oslo now stands, along the Oslofjord. Vestfold is ruled by Halfdan the Black, father of Harald Fairhair. Halfdan seeks to annex Kattegat into his kingdom, but so does Gandalf of Alfheim. Since Kattegat lies near the border of both their realms, neither dares to attack it outright, knowing the other would intervene.

For the first hour, there were no stories of battle. There was only the sound of a hall settling into its comfort: the rhythmic scraping of knives on wooden trenchers, the contented grunts of men finally about to taste fresh meat, and the low, rumbling hum of a hundred separate conversations.

The air was warm, thick with the scent of spit-roasted boar glazed with honey and wild herbs, of baking bread and sharp, crumbly cheese. It was the smell of home.

Thralls moved between the tables, filling horn cups with mead and ale, while the women of the hall displayed their finest clothes and jewelry. Children darted between the benches, their eyes bright with excitement at the warriors' return.

Then, the great doors creaked open.

They turned, not all at once, but enough to change the room’s air.

The noise didn’t stop, but it shifted: from comfort to reverence.

Bjorn entered slowly and silently accompanied by Hrafn at his side.

No horn blew. No voice cried his name at first. But when the first man at the bench rose, cup lifted high, others followed, like a wave pulled by the tide.

Then the call began: “Bjorn! Bjorn! Victory!”

It wasn’t a chant, just a rolling thunder of voices, rising with each lifted horn. It filled the rafters and echoed from the walls.

Bjorn raised his own cup. But he didn’t speak immediately.

The hall fell quiet, expectant.

"Men and Women of Kattegat!" his voice boomed across the assembly. "We have returned from the whale-road with honor intact and our ships full with treasure! The Christians have learned to fear the sight of our sails, and their gold will warm our hearths through the dark months to come!"

Another great cheer erupted, and Bjorn drained his horn in one long pull. The mead was sweet and strong, flavored with herbs and honey from their own hives. It burned pleasantly in his throat and warmed his belly like liquid fire.

"But first," he continued, "But before we eat our fill… one name must be spoken.”

The room held still.

“Sigmund.”

He let it sit.

“He fell with his axe in his hand, laughing in the face of death. He went to Odin’s hall with blood in his beard and fury in his eyes. May the skalds remember him.”

“Sigmund!” came the reply from dozens of voices, not quite in unison.

“Sigmund!” again. Louder.

It was Lagertha who stepped forward next, a warm hand resting on her belly, her braids crowned in silver. She didn’t raise her voice, but the hall hushed for her just the same.

“Tonight, we honor the dead. But we drink for the living.”

Murmurs of approval. Nods.

“Tonight we feast. We remember who we are. What we fought for. What we brought back. Let the meat be rich, let the ale be strong, and let our skalds earn their bread!”

This time, when the cheer came, it shook the hall.

Bjorn took his seat without ceremony, flanked by Lagertha on his left and his younger sister Gyda on the right. Lagertha leaned into him gently. Gyda reached for bread without asking.

Down the benches, Ragnar sat with the older men, his voice low but steady, as if he were sharing a lesson. Rollo, by contrast, bellowed laughter as he mimicked a dying monk, eyes wide, fingers twitching in mock prayer. The men around him roared and slammed their cups.

One boy cried, cheeks flushed with excitement. "Tell us of the raid! How did the Christian Priests squeal when they saw our dragon-ships on their shore?"

Laughter rippled through the hall, and Floki immediately stood up. The telling of the raid was a sacred duty, a way to honor the gods who had granted them victory and to teach the young men what it meant to be warriors.

He stood on a bench, swaying slightly from the mead.

"Ah, you want to hear about the raid?" Floki grinned, his voice cutting through the noise. "Listen well, little ones."

Rollo leaned back in his seat, taking a long drink. "Go on then, Floki. Tell them what happened."

"It was our Earl who first spotted their temple with his eagle eyes," Floki began, gesturing toward Bjorn. "It stood there with it's stone walls and big Gate. The Christian monks thought their stone walls would protect them, but they had not reckoned with the fury of Odin's sons."

He paused to drink, letting the anticipation build. Around the hall, faces leaned forward eagerly, and even the children had grown quiet to listen.

Then Floki kept narrating the events of the raid. How they broke the gate open, then they just stood there instead of attacking and banging their shields trying to lower their morales.

And then how a small portion of their forces climbed the east and west walls, burned the scriptorium and divided their forces then outflank the militia and the monks.

Floki waved his hand and looked at Athelstan who was standing leaning against the wall. "The point is, we slaughtered them. Some monks were still in the building when it burned. You could hear them screaming."

Roars of laughter erupted from the warriors. Ale spilled from overturned cups. Feet stomped on the floorboards in approval.

But Athelstan stared at Floki with profound sadness in his eyes, sadness for his brothers, the monks who had died in agony. His gaze then shifted to Bjorn, and he found the Earl already watching him with an unreadable expression.

The contrast was stark, the hall celebrating death while the lone Christian mourned it silently against the wall.

The laughter gradually died down as conversations resumed.

After a long moment, Bjorn rose from his seat at the high table. The scraping of his chair drew attention, but he moved quietly through the hall, stepping around sprawled legs and avoiding the serving thralls.

He approached Athelstan, who remained pressed against the wall like he wished he could disappear into the wood itself.

Bjorn settled down on a low bench near the monk, close enough to speak privately. He held out a simple wooden cup filled with watered ale, not the strong mead the warriors were drinking.

"Would you drink with me?" Bjorn asked quietly, his voice barely audible over the continuing feast.

Athelstan looked at him as if Bjorn had betrayed him, his eyes filled with pain and confusion. "I thought we had a deal," he said, his accent still thick with the sounds of Northumbria despite his weeks in Kattegat. "I tell you the place of the monastery, and you don't kill the monks. They are innocent men, devoted only to prayer and learning."

Bjorn was quiet for a moment, turning the cup in his hands. Around them, the feast continued - Rollo's booming laughter, Floki's wild gestures as he told another story.

"You are right," Bjorn said finally, meeting Athelstan's gaze. "We did have a deal. And the burning of the monks... that was not intentional as i did not know they would be hidding in there. I am sad that it came to this, but I'm not to blame for their decision to stay and fight instead of fleeing."

Then there was silence between them as Athelstan just glanced down at the earth.

Bjorn sighed but he said nothing more.

Bjorn was quiet for a long time. Around them, the feast was reaching its peak, warriors were arm-wrestling, women gossiping.

"Take the drink," Bjorn said finally. "Not as an apology, because I won't apologize for protecting my people. But as... acknowledgment of your loss."

Athelstan looked at the cup again. It was such a small gesture, but in a hall full of men celebrating the death of his brothers, it felt significant.

"If I drink with you," Athelstan said slowly, "what does that make me?"

"Practical," Bjorn replied. "You're alive, they're dead. Honor their memory by staying that way."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you refuse. I won't force it."

Athelstan reached out and took the cup. Their fingers brushed briefly as the vessel changed hands - the rough calluses of a warrior meeting the ink-stained fingers of a scribe.

"To the dead," Athelstan said quietly, raising the cup slightly. "All of them. Yours and mine."

"To the dead," Bjorn agreed.

They drank in silence while around them, the living celebrated their victories and planned their next moves. 

From across the hall, Floki's clever eyes missed nothing.

The feast roared around them. The clang of tankards, bursts of laughter, and children weaving between benches filled the smoky hall with heat and noise. Roasted meat dripped onto trencher bread. Mead spilled. Someone shouted over a game of knucklebones.

Then, from the edge of the firelight, a thin figure cleared his throat. “My great lord... may I speak?”

The sound barely rose above the din, but something about it, timid, cracked, ill-placed, made heads turn. The room didn’t fall silent, not at once. But a ripple spread through the benches. A few chuckles. A few frowns.

Bjorn turned from Athelstan, brow furrowed. His hand still rested on his horn, but his gaze shifted toward the voice sharply.

The man who had spoken stepped forward awkwardly, into the shallow circle of torchlight.

The man who had spoken stood at the far edge of the hearth’s light. He was small. Shorter than most by a head, and narrow besides. Shoulders hunched beneath a fraying grey cloak that hung like wet wool.  His legs were thin, boots mismatched; one fur-lined, the other tied together with rope and hope.

He didn’t look like a warrior. Not even close.

Someone near the back scoffed. “Gods, it’s the half-man.”

That earned a few low laughs of mockery than amusement.

Another voice chimed in. “I Thought he’d frozen to death by now, poor thing.”

The crowd eyed him, some amused, others annoyed. The warriors looked at him like a stain on the tablecloth. But among the thralls and the women, there were flickers of pity.

Bjorn’s eyes didn’t leave the man. He didn’t speak yet, he just watched him. “And you are?”

There was no malice in his tone, but no warmth either. He didn’t know this man. And he didn’t like not knowing.

The stranger cleared his throat, then bowed too deeply with his chin nearly to his chest, as if unsure how low to go or when to stop. When he rose, his voice wavered. “Einar,” he said, voice thin. “Einar, son of no one worth remembering. I—I came from the coast. South of Skiringssal. My lord.”

Bjorn's gaze stayed fixed on him, unreadable.

“Well, Einar. What is it you wish to speak about?” A pause. Then, more dryly: “You’ve already interrupted my hall. Might as well finish the thought.”

Einar swallowed hard and took a nervous half-step forward. His hands stayed close to his sides, as though afraid of drawing too much attention, or maybe not enough. “Not... speaking, exactly, my lord. Not like this. More like… singing.” The last word broke a little. As if even he didn’t believe it fully.

Bjorn tilted his head. “Singing. So, you’re a Poet, then.”

Before Einar could answer, Rollo barked a laugh from across the table. His arm was around a shieldmaiden’s waist, but his voice carried across the hall.

“Poet? He’s not a poet, Bjorn. He’s a damn leech with a lyre.” He leaned forward, grinning.
“That’s Einar, all right. Einar the Arse-Licker. Licks words like he licks boots. Or worse.”

More laughter erupted. Someone clanged a cup against the table.

Bjorn didn’t smile. He glanced at Ragnar, seated not far from him.

Ragnar leaned forward, elbows resting lazily on the wood, voice casual but alert.

“He tried this once before. You were younger so you wouldn't know of course.”
He gestured slightly with his cup. “Sang in Earl Haraldson’s hall. Some dripping mess of flattery. Called him ‘Blood-born,’ ‘King of Iron Shores,’ ‘Father of the North Wind.’ The usual stuff.”

Rollo added with a grin: “He said Haraldson’s sweat could bless crops.”

Even Floki wheezed at that one.

Ragnar chuckled once. “Aye. Haraldson didn’t take kindly to it. Threw a goblet at him, missed by a hair. Banished him that same night.”

Bjorn glanced back at Einar. “Is that true?”

Einar raised both hands as if to show they were empty. “True enough, my lord. I sang what I thought he wanted to hear. Turns out, I was wrong."  A brief, crooked smile. “It happens. Some men want truth. Others want to hear their name wrapped in silk. I wrapped wrong.”

A few more snickers, but the room began to listen now. The tone had shifted.

Bjorn said nothing at first. He studied the man again. This time, with interest.

Something in the man was... off-kilter. Not brave exactly. But not afraid, either. Like he had nothing to lose and knew it.

Finally, he spoke. “And now?"

Einar blinked.

Bjorn continued, "what is it you want to sing now?”

Einar touched the side of the old lyre slung under his cloak. The wood was split in one corner, bound with twine and faith. His fingers trembled slightly, but his voice when it came was steady.

Einar licked his lips.  “If you allow it, my lord... a few verses. About a young man who walks side by side with the gods.”

That earned quiet. Even Rollo stopped smiling.

Even Floki blinked.

Bjorn said only two words, “Then, Sing.”

Einar stepped forward. The light of the hearth caught on his patched cloak, outlining the worn edges of him; thin legs, narrow shoulders, one boot scuffed to the hide.

He didn’t raise his voice at first. He plucked a soft note from the lyre, then another, just enough to hush the last whispers from the benches.

And then he began to sing.

“Who walks beside Thor, yet bears no hammer?
Who fears no wound, no blade, no banner?”

His voice wasn’t strong. It had no force. But it had clarity, a thin ribbon of sound that stretched across the hall and hooked the ears of men too used to shouting to listen. It carried not because it demanded attention, but because it offered none.

At the back of the room, a younger warrior set down his horn. Slowly. Like he wasn’t aware he’d done it.

“Not a god, yet more than man,
Born in snow, forged by flame.
His steps crack ice, his gaze bends fate,
And death forgets to take his name.”

A murmur rolled through the benches now. A few shifted in their seats. One scratched nervously at his beard. Another blinked, just once, and glanced sideways at the high seat.

They remembered.

How Bjorn had taken a blade to the chest. How he’d bled then stood again. How no one could explain it except it's the work of the Gods.

Even the drunk ones were listening now.

“The Allfather watches when he moves.
Freyja weeps when he is struck.
But the sword in his hand, blessed, cursed
Drinks deep and never runs dry.”

Bjorn didn’t move. His face was unreadable. But his gaze never left Einar.

“They say the sea parts for him.
They say no spear can find his heart.
They say he laughs in the face of fire,
And walks through war like it were art.”

The only sound besides Einar’s voice was the faint creak of benches.
Even Floki the half-crazed and ever-smirking was still. His fingers drummed once against his knee, then stopped.

The air in the hall tightened. Everyone waited for the next line.

“So raise your horns, if you’ve seen him stand
The boy who does not die, yet never calls himself immortal.
For he is Bjorn.
And where Bjorn stands...
The world remembers how to tremble.”

The last note faded into the dark beams above.

Einar didn’t bow. Didn’t smirk. He simply stood still, hands resting on the worn lyre, and let the silence hold.

A beat passed. Then another.

From a corner of the room, an old warrior, bent with years, nose long broken, fingers crooked from battle, grunted once and slapped the table with his open palm.

Thud.

Another followed. Then another.

The applause didn’t erupt. It spread like fire.

A few warriors nodded. A woman near the hearth whispered something to the child on her lap. Even the ones who’d laughed earlier weren’t laughing now.

But Bjorn still hadn’t moved.

He rose slowly and the room fell quiet again, more quiet than before. Not because they expected violence, but because no one ever knew what Bjorn would do. Not fully.

He stepped forward. His boots thudded softly against the timber. Einar’s eyes flicked, just once, toward the door.

Bjorn stopped in front of him.

They were close now. Einar had to tilt his chin up just to meet his eyes.

Bjorn calmly said. “Did you come here to flatter me?”

A hush. Not tense. Just... waiting.

Einar opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, softly, “I came to survive, my lord. And your name...”
He paused. “Your name travels faster than any ship. Safer, too.”

Bjorn looked at him for a long moment. Then turned slightly, glancing at the benches. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

He turned back toward the hall. “Give the man a drink. And a place to sit.”

It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order.

A few men stood immediately. Someone fetched a jug. A thrall brought over bread and a strip of smoked fish. The applause did not return, but the room exhaled.

Einar bowed again, shallower this time, but with less tremble. He took the cup when it was offered. His hand still shook a little.

Bjorn had already turned back toward the fire, walking slowly.

Floki watched him pass, eyes sharp.

Ragnar met his gaze once, then nodded slightly.

And the feast continued, but it had changed.

The tale of the raid was no longer the most spoken story that night.

Not in whispers.

Not by the fires.

Not when men remembered how it felt…when the world trembled.

---------------------------------------------

The hall was quiet now.

Ashes whispered in the hearth. A few half-burnt logs cracked, but the fire had lost its hunger. Most of the warriors had either passed out drunk at their tables or dragged themselves to their beds. The smell of spilled ale and cold meat hung in the air, mixing with the smoke that drifted lazily toward the roof-hole.

Only three remained in the great hall: Bjorn, seated alone near the long table, his fingers wrapped around a horn cup that had been empty for the better part of an hour; Hrafn, his most trusted guard, posted near a support beam with his arms crossed and his eyes alert despite the late hour; and Einar, standing awkwardly just inside the heavy oak doors, as if unsure whether he'd been summoned or had wandered in by accident.

His threadbare cloak was still damp from the night air outside. One of his worn leather boots had come untied, the lace trailing on the floor. He clutched the neck of his lyre like a drowning man might cling to driftwood, his knuckles white with tension.

Bjorn didn't look up from his cup. His voice was flat, tired. "Thought you'd be halfway down the hill by now."

Einar's response came too quickly, nervous energy making his words tumble together. "I almost was. Just... the drink and the recognition was good. And you didn't say to leave."

Bjorn's laugh was dry as old wood. "I didn't say to stay either."

Einar gave a nervous laugh that echoed strangely in the empty hall, then fell silent when neither man joined him. The sound seemed to highlight just how alone the three of them were in this vast space that had been full of life just hours before.

"I've overstayed?" Einar asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a man standing on hot coals.

Bjorn shrugged, the gesture somehow conveying both indifference and resignation. "You're here now. Might as well speak."

Einar's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His free hand fidgeted with the edge of his cloak. "I just wanted to say... about the song. If it displeased you, I can change the verses. Tweak the tone. I know some men prefer to be called wolves, not gods. Or the other way around." The words came out in a rush, as if he'd been rehearsing them.

Bjorn finally looked up, his pale eyes unreadable in the dim firelight. There was something calculating in his gaze, the look of a man who was always thinking three moves ahead. "Why did you sing it?"

The directness of the question seemed to catch Einar off guard. He blinked, opened his mouth, closed it. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more honest. "To survive."

"You think flattery keeps you alive?"

Einar's smile was thin and bitter, the expression of a man who had learned hard lessons. "No, my lord. Flattery just buys you time."

Bjorn nodded but said nothing for a long moment. He picked up a small piece of charred wood from the table and turned it in his fingers, studying it as if it held secrets. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional pop from the dying fire and the sound of Einar's nervous breathing.

“Those last lines," Bjorn said finally, still not looking up. "'The young man who does not die, yet never calls himself immortal', that was yours?”

"Mine, aye." Einar's voice grew slightly stronger, as if talking about his craft gave him confidence. "Took me three days to get it to sit right in the verse. Most songs want to make everything glorious. I thought it might be better if yours made people... unsure."

“Why?”

Einar hesitated, clearly weighing his words. "Because men remember what makes them uncomfortable more than what makes them cheer. A song that glorifies is forgotten when the next victory comes. A song that troubles them..."

Bjorn finishes quietly, “…they remember it.”

Bjorn stood slowly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet hall. He walked toward Einar, his boots heavy on the planks, each step deliberate and measured.

Einar instinctively stepped back, his body tensing as if preparing to run. But he didn't bolt. His feet stayed planted, even as every instinct probably screamed at him to flee.

Hrafn, near the wall, watched this interaction with the stillness of a predator. His hand rested casually on his knife hilt, not threatening but ready. He'd been Bjorn's shadow for years, and he read his lord's moods better than most men read weather.

Bjorn stopped close to Einar, close enough that the poet could probably smell the ale on his breath and see the calculation in his eyes. But there was no menace in his posture, just assessment.

"You've got a voice," Bjorn said quietly. "You've got a spine, though it shakes. That's rare enough."

Einar looked down at the floor, unable to meet Bjorn's gaze. His shoulders hunched inward, making him seem even smaller than he already was.

"I want you gone by first light."

Einar's head snapped up, confusion and hurt flickering across his features. "I—did I offend—?"

"You'll take the song with you." Bjorn's voice cut through Einar's stammering like a blade through cloth. "I want you to sing it in Borre. You'll sing it until they know the words better than their own fathers' names."

Einar's mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment, his mind clearly struggling to process this unexpected turn. "My lord, I won't be allowed to sing it in the hall of Halfdan the Black. And even if I managed to sing it while lying to him about what it says, I won't live that much longer."

"Who said anything about singing in the hall?"

The question seemed to genuinely puzzle Einar. He blinked several times, his brow furrowing. "Where would I be singing then that would matter? If not in the halls of power, where—"

"Everywhere except the hall." Bjorn's smile was sharp, predatory. "Markets, taverns, docks, anywhere common people gather. You can do that, right?"

Understanding dawned on Einar's face, followed quickly by something that might have been relief, or even eagerness. "Of course. I can do that. I can—should I add more lines? I was thinking a bit about adding your wisdom at such a young ag—"

"No." The word came out flat and final, cutting off Einar's flattery.

Einar's mouth snapped shut, his eyes wide.

"Sing it as it is," Bjorn continued, his voice soft but carrying absolute authority. "Let it grow in their mouths, not yours. Let them add their own words, their own verses. A song that changes becomes a legend. A legend that spreads becomes the truth."

Einar nodded quickly, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Yes, my lord. Yes. I'll go at once. At first light, I mean."

"I will give you a pouch of silver so you can keep moving without having to stop and work for meals," Bjorn said, glancing toward his guard. "Once you've finished your mission, you'll receive the rest, more than enough to live well for quite some time."

Einar bowed awkwardly, his lyre bumping against his leg. "Understood. Thank you. I—well, thank you."

Bjorn didn't answer. He'd already turned his attention back to the dying fire, as if Einar had ceased to exist.

Einar lingered for another heartbeat, clearly wanting to say something more, then turned toward the door. His footsteps sounded uncertain on the wooden floor, each step a small echo in the vast space.

Just before he reached the threshold, just as his hand touched the iron handle, Bjorn spoke again.

"Don't do anything stupid, Einar." The words were casual, almost conversational, but there was steel underneath them. "I would hate to lose a voice like yours so soon after finding it."

Einar looked back over his shoulder, surprise clear on his weathered face. For a moment, the mask of nervousness fell away, and something almost like gratitude showed through.

"I've learned the cost of stupidity, my lord," he said quietly. "I won't forget that lesson again."

He left then, pulling his damp cloak tighter around his shoulders as he stepped into the cold night air. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, leaving only Björn and Hrafn in the dying light of the fire.

Bjorn didn't move for a long time. Neither did Hrafn. The silence between them was comfortable, the quiet of two men who had worked together long enough to communicate without words.

Finally, Hrafn spoke, his voice barely above a whisper in the empty hall. "Can't trust a man like that."

Bjorn, "Who said anything about trust?"

"If he succeeds, then half of Norway will know the name Bjorn before I ever set foot on their shores. Fear and curiosity will do the rest."

Hrafn nodded slowly, understanding the strategy. "Reputation as a weapon."

"Reputation as a tool," Bjorn corrected. "Fear opens doors that armies can't touch. Curiosity draws enemies into fights they're not prepared for."

Bjorn drained the last drops from his horn cup and set it down on the table with finality. "Come. Let's get some rest. Tomorrow we deal with the real work, dividing treasure, preparing for winter, and planning what comes next."

They walked toward the door together, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. Behind them, the fire continued its slow death, casting dancing shadows on the walls where the night's stories had been told and the seeds of future legends had been planted.

As they reached the threshold, Hrafn asked one final question. "What if Einar changes the song anyway? What if he can't resist improving it?"

Bjorn's smile was cold in the darkness. "Then he's the same man he always was, and he'll die the same death he's always deserved. But I don't think he will. Exile teaches lessons that success never can."

They stepped into the night, leaving the hall to its shadows and silence.

In the morning, Einar would begin his journey south with silver in his pouch and a song on his lips. And Bjorn's name would begin to spread like ripples on water, carried by the voice of a broken poet who had learned the difference between flattery and truth.