Chapter 5: The Earl's Summons
The warriors arrived at dawn, their mail hauberks catching the early light like fish scales. Three of them, armed and armored but not overtly threatening. Not quite an arrest, but definitely not a request.
I was splitting firewood when they crested the hill, and the rhythmic thunk of my axe faltered as I recognized the quality of their equipment. These weren't farmer-warriors or local militia. These were professional killers in the service of someone wealthy enough to outfit them properly.
"Thanos!" Ragnar's voice carried across the yard with careful neutrality. "We have visitors."
The lead warrior was a thick-bodied man with scars that told stories of survived violence. When he spoke, his voice held the flat authority of someone accustomed to unquestioned obedience.
"Earl Haraldson requests the presence of the eastern stranger," he announced. "At his convenience."
The polite phrasing couldn't disguise the command underneath. Requests from earls weren't really requests, and his convenience meant now.
Ragnar appeared beside me, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. The gesture looked relaxed, but I caught the tension in his jaw that suggested he'd been expecting this summons and dreading it in equal measure.
"Of course," he said smoothly. "My guest is honored by the Earl's attention."
Twenty minutes later, I found myself walking between armed warriors toward a hall that made Ragnar's prosperous farm look like a peasant's hovel. Earl Haraldson's seat of power dominated the landscape like a fortress—massive timber construction rising from stone foundations, with carved pillars that must have cost a fortune in skilled labor.
The great hall itself was a monument to wealth and intimidation. Tapestries from distant lands covered the walls. Silver arm-rings glinted from display stands. Warriors lounged on benches with the casual confidence of men who knew they were untouchable.
And at the center of it all, elevated on a platform that forced visitors to look up like supplicants, sat Earl Haraldson.
He was younger than I'd expected—maybe forty, with the kind of lean strength that spoke of active leadership rather than pampered nobility. His clothes were rich but practical, his weapons well-maintained rather than ceremonial. This wasn't a man who ruled through birth or luck. This was someone who'd taken power and held it through competence and ruthlessness.
"Approach," he said, his voice carrying easily through the vast space.
I walked forward until I stood at the base of his platform, acutely aware of the armed men watching from every corner. The message was clear: you are surrounded, outnumbered, and completely at my mercy.
"So," Haraldson said, studying me with pale blue eyes that missed nothing. "The eastern stranger who makes broken things whole."
"My lord." I kept my voice respectful but not subservient. "I am honored by your attention."
"Honored." His smile held no warmth. "Tell me, stranger—where exactly in the eastern lands do you come from?"
The interrogation I'd been dreading. Haraldson's questions came with the precision of a man who'd spoken to traders and travelers from across the known world. He probed the gaps in my cover story with surgical skill, testing my knowledge of eastern kingdoms, trade routes, and customs I supposedly should know.
I deflected as best I could, falling back on vague references to lands "beyond the usual trading routes" and the time-honored traveler's excuse that "some knowledge is safer left unspoken." But I could see him cataloging every evasion, building a mental map of what I couldn't or wouldn't reveal.
"Interesting," he said finally. "A man who knows much but claims little. Who appears precisely when Ragnar begins planning ventures that would benefit from... specialized knowledge."
The accusation hung in the air like a drawn blade. He wasn't just questioning my origins—he was suggesting I might be a spy or agent sent specifically to aid Ragnar's ambitions.
"Coincidence serves some men better than others," I replied carefully. "Though I'd hardly call myself specialized. I know a few techniques that might be useful, nothing more."
"Nothing more." Haraldson leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. "Sven tells me you repaired a spear that Orm the Smith declared unfixable. In minutes, not hours. Using methods none of our craftsmen recognize."
My pulse quickened. Word of the repair had spread faster than I'd hoped, and with more detail than I liked. "Eastern metalworking traditions differ from western ones. What seems unusual here might be common knowledge there."
"Perhaps." Haraldson rose from his throne-like chair and descended to stand directly in front of me. "But I find myself curious about these eastern traditions. Especially their practical applications."
He gestured toward a massive support beam that ran the length of the hall's center. "My builders tell me this timber has developed a crack that threatens the entire structure. They claim the only solution is replacement—expensive, disruptive, requiring the hall to be partially dismantled."
I followed his gaze to the beam in question. Even from a distance, my enhanced engineering knowledge began analyzing the situation. The crack was visible as a dark line running perhaps three feet along the timber's surface, but surface appearance could be misleading.
"They may be right," I said cautiously. "Structural damage can be difficult to assess without close examination."
"Then examine it."
The words carried the weight of command. This wasn't a request for professional opinion—this was a test, conducted publicly with his entire household watching.
I approached the beam carefully, running my hands along its surface while letting my abilities provide information no Viking-era craftsman could access. The crack was indeed concerning, but my enhanced senses revealed the truth: it was a stress fracture caused by seasonal expansion and contraction, running only about an inch into the timber's surface. The beam's core remained solid, and the iron reinforcing bands I could sense within the wood were intact and properly positioned.
"The crack is shallow," I announced, turning back to face Haraldson. "Caused by natural movement, not structural failure. The beam itself is sound—the iron reinforcements show no stress damage."
A murmur ran through the assembled warriors. Haraldson's builders had clearly given him a very different assessment.
"You're certain?" Haraldson's voice carried deadly quiet. "My own craftsmen, men I've trusted for years, believe otherwise."
"I'm certain." I met his gaze steadily. "This crack could be sealed with proper wood treatment and monitoring. The beam would be stronger afterward, not weaker."
One of Haraldson's builders stepped forward—a grizzled man whose reputation clearly rested on this professional judgment being upheld.
"Impossible," he declared. "The crack goes deep. I've seen beams like this collapse without warning."
"Then you've seen different beams," I replied calmly. "This one poses no immediate danger, and replacement would be both unnecessary and wasteful."
The silence that followed felt dangerous. I'd just made Haraldson's most trusted craftsmen look incompetent in front of their lord and peers. In a culture where reputation was everything, that kind of humiliation could turn into violent conflict very quickly.
Haraldson studied me for a long moment, then looked up at the disputed beam.
"Prove it," he said finally.
"My lord?"
"If the beam is sound, demonstrate its strength. If your assessment is correct, I'll have no concern about testing it thoroughly."
The challenge was impossible to refuse without losing face, but accepting it meant risking exposure of my abilities. How could I prove the beam's integrity without revealing knowledge that shouldn't exist?
Then inspiration struck. "I'd be happy to, my lord. But the test should be conducted properly, with witnesses who understand what to look for."
I turned to address the hall's assembled occupants. "A beam's strength isn't just in its appearance, but in its response to stress. Watch the crack as I apply pressure to the beam's center."
I walked to a position beneath the beam's midpoint and placed both hands against the timber. To any observer, it would look like I was simply pushing upward to test the structure's flexibility.
What they couldn't see was the way I used my metallic manipulation to sense the iron reinforcements within the wood, feeling the stress patterns as they distributed the artificial load I was creating. The crack was indeed superficial—the metal showed no strain, no deformation that would indicate structural weakness.
"See how the crack behaves," I called out, maintaining my position while the assembled crowd watched. "It's not widening or showing additional stress fractures. A beam on the verge of failure would show movement, additional cracks, signs of imminent collapse. This timber is responding normally to load."
I released the pressure and stepped back. "The crack is a cosmetic issue, not a structural one. Proper treatment will prevent it from worsening, but replacement is unnecessary."
The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably long. Then Haraldson began to laugh—not with humor, but with the sound of a man recognizing an opponent he'd underestimated.
"Remarkable," he said, his pale eyes fixed on my face with newfound respect and calculation. "Truly remarkable. Tell me, stranger—would such skills be better employed in the service of a jarl who could provide... appropriate resources... for their full development?"
The offer hung in the air like bait in a trap. Haraldson was making his play—not through force or intimidation, but through the promise of wealth and status that would dwarf anything Ragnar could provide.
"My lord honors me," I replied carefully. "But I am bound by debt to the man who saved my life. Until that debt is properly discharged, my services are spoken for."
"Debt." Haraldson's smile turned cold. "An honorable burden. Though debts can be transferred, circumstances can change, opportunities can arise that serve everyone's interests."
He was offering to buy me away from Ragnar, potentially through some arrangement that would leave everyone technically satisfied while giving Haraldson what he wanted. The political implications made my head spin—this wasn't just about my skills, but about the balance of power between two ambitious men.
"Perhaps," I said noncommittally. "Though I find that rushing such decisions often leads to regret."
"Wisdom." Haraldson nodded approvingly. "Very well. But remember, stranger—Kattegat's prosperity concerns us all. What benefits one household should benefit the community. Innovations that could improve everyone's lives shouldn't be... hoarded."
The threat was subtle but clear. Haraldson expected access to anything I created, regardless of my formal obligations to Ragnar. If I refused, he had ways of making that refusal costly.
"Of course, my lord. Knowledge shared is knowledge multiplied."
"Exactly." Haraldson's smile returned, warmer but no less predatory. "I'm certain we'll find opportunities for such... sharing... in the future."
The interview was clearly over. I bowed appropriately and made my way toward the hall's entrance, feeling the weight of dozens of watching eyes. But as I reached the great doors, a quiet voice spoke from the shadows beside the threshold.
"A moment."
I turned to find a woman stepping from the dim alcove where she'd been observing the entire exchange. She was perhaps thirty, with the kind of beauty that came from intelligence and strength rather than mere youth. Her clothes marked her as nobility—rich fabrics, quality jewelry—but her eyes held the sharp awareness of someone who survived through wit rather than protection.
"Lady Siggy," I said, recognizing her from the brief glimpse I'd caught during Haraldson's interrogation.
"Walk with me," she said quietly. "There are things that should be said away from listening ears."
We stepped outside the hall, moving toward the smaller buildings that surrounded the main structure. The morning air was crisp with the promise of winter, carrying the scents of wood smoke and distant sea.
"That was skillfully done," she said once we were out of earshot. "You made my husband look wise for questioning his builders while making those builders look foolish for their assessment. A delicate balance."
"I simply told the truth as I saw it."
"Truth." Her laugh held bitter amusement. "Truth is a luxury in this household, stranger. What matters is perception, advantage, the careful management of reputation and fear."
We'd reached a small garden area behind the kitchens, where herbs and vegetables grew in neat rows despite the approaching cold. Siggy stopped beside a wooden bench, but remained standing.
"My husband sees you as an opportunity," she continued quietly. "Valuable knowledge that should serve his ambitions. But I see something different."
"What do you see?"
Instead of answering, she reached into a fold of her dress and withdrew something small and silver. A hairpin, I realized as she pressed it into my palm. But not just any hairpin—one that had been broken, its delicate filigree work snapped in half.
"This was my mother's," she said softly. "The only thing I have left of her. It broke yesterday when my maid was careless with it."
I stared down at the broken piece, understanding beginning to dawn. "Lady Siggy—"
"If you can fix it," she interrupted, her eyes boring into mine with desperate intensity. "If you can fix it right now, without tools or forge or any of the things a normal smith would need... then I'll know what you truly are."
The test was impossible to misunderstand. She'd seen something during my demonstration with the beam, some hint of abilities that went beyond normal craftsmanship. And now she was offering me a choice: reveal the truth of my powers to gain a potential ally in Haraldson's household, or maintain my deception and leave her wondering.
The hairpin was delicate work—silver wire formed into intricate patterns that spoke of master craftsmanship. The break was clean but complex, running through multiple connection points. Repairing it would require precise manipulation of the metal at the molecular level, knitting the silver back together in a way that would be stronger than the original.
It would also require using my powers openly, in broad daylight, with one of the most dangerous people in Kattegat watching.
"If I could do such a thing," I said carefully, "what would that knowledge be worth to you?"
"Everything," she whispered. "And nothing. I want no payment, claim no ownership. I seek only... understanding. There are so few people in this world who are what they appear to be."
The loneliness in her voice decided me. Here was someone trapped in a web of politics and pretense, desperate for something genuine in a world of calculation and threat.
I closed my fingers around the broken hairpin and reached for my metallic manipulation abilities. The silver responded immediately, warming under my touch as I guided its molecular structure back into alignment. The break sealed seamlessly, the delicate filigree flowing together like water finding its course.
When I opened my hand, the hairpin was perfect. Not just repaired—improved, strengthened, more beautiful than it had been before the damage.
Siggy stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at me with eyes that held wonder and fear in equal measure.
"I know what you are not," she said quietly. "I don't know what you are. But I am not your enemy."
She took the restored hairpin and tucked it carefully back into her dress. Then, without another word, she turned and walked back toward the great hall, leaving me alone in the herb garden with the uncomfortable certainty that I'd just gained an ally whose true motivations remained completely unclear.
As I made my way back toward Ragnar's farm, one thought echoed through my mind like a warning bell: in a world where knowledge was power and power was survival, I'd just revealed far too much to far too many people.
The question was whether that revelation would save me or damn me.
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