Chapter 13: Earl Haraldson's Move
The summons came at dawn again, but this time there was no pretense of courtesy. Four armed warriors surrounded my workshop before I'd even finished banking the forge, their mail hauberks catching the early light and their hands resting casually on sword hilts.
"Earl Haraldson requires your immediate presence," announced the leader, a grizzled veteran with scars that spoke of survived violence. "No delays, no excuses."
I caught sight of Ragnar emerging from his hall, his jaw tight with controlled anger as he watched the Earl's men escort me away like a criminal. The message was clear: Haraldson was done with subtle pressure and polite requests.
This was a demonstration of power, conducted publicly so everyone in Kattegat would understand who truly controlled their lives.
The great hall felt different this time—colder, more oppressive. Armed warriors lined the walls like sentries, their eyes following my movement with predatory attention. Earl Haraldson sat elevated on his platform, but he'd abandoned the casual authority of our previous encounters in favor of something harder and more dangerous.
"Approach," he commanded, his voice carrying across the vast space with ominous weight.
I walked forward until I stood at the base of his platform, acutely aware that every exit was blocked by men who would kill me at a word from their lord.
"You've become quite famous," Haraldson began without preamble. "The foreign builder who works miracles, whose innovations enable impossible successes, whose reputation spreads faster than wildfire across the northern seas."
"I'm honored by such attention, my lord."
"Honored." His smile was cold as winter ice. "But fame brings obligations, stranger. Responsibilities to the community that has sheltered and protected you."
He rose from his throne-like chair and descended to stand directly in front of me, close enough that I could smell the wine on his breath and see the calculation in his pale eyes.
"I'm prepared to offer you everything a craftsman could desire," he continued, his tone shifting to something that might have been generous if it hadn't been delivered by armed men in a locked hall. "A position as my official Master Builder, with a house befitting your status, thralls to serve your needs, gold enough to purchase whatever materials your work requires."
The offer hung in the air like bait in a trap, sweetened with promises that would have tempted any normal craftsman. But I could hear the conditions forming beneath the honeyed words.
"That's... extraordinarily generous, my lord."
"Indeed. In return, you would create only what serves Kattegat's interests as I define them. You would share your knowledge with craftsmen I approve, ensuring that your innovations benefit the entire community rather than just Ragnar's ambitions."
There it was—the cage disguised as paradise. Haraldson wanted to control not just my work but my knowledge, turning me into a tool for his own purposes while cutting my ties to anyone who might challenge his authority.
"And my current obligations?" I asked carefully.
"Would be... transferred. Your debt to Ragnar is a private matter between warriors. As Earl, I have the authority to assume such debts and release you from them." His smile widened. "Freeing you to serve the greater good rather than personal loyalties."
The proposal was brilliant in its simplicity. Haraldson was offering me wealth and status while making it clear that refusing would mark me as selfish and ungrateful. In a society that valued community benefit over individual ambition, his framing made rejection look like betrayal.
"My lord honors me beyond measure," I said, buying time while my mind raced through the implications. "But I must respectfully decline. My oath-debt to Ragnar remains unpaid, and my... eastern customs... require that such obligations be honored fully before new commitments can be considered."
For just a moment, Haraldson's mask slipped. Cold fury flickered across his features before the benevolent smile returned, but that brief glimpse revealed the true depth of his anger.
"Customs," he said slowly, tasting the word like poison. "How fortunate that customs can be... adjusted... when circumstances change. Perhaps you should reconsider before unfortunate accidents befall foreign workers who don't fully understand local dangers."
The threat was subtle but unmistakable. Haraldson wasn't just offering me a choice between service and freedom—he was offering me a choice between compliance and death.
"I understand completely, my lord. And I'm grateful for your patience while I... consider all implications."
"Excellent. Take all the time you need." His smile turned predatory. "Though I hope you won't need much. Opportunities like this don't remain available indefinitely."
The dismissal was clear. I bowed appropriately and made my way toward the hall's entrance, feeling the weight of watching eyes as dozens of armed men cataloged my movement for future reference.
But as I stepped outside into the morning air, relief was short-lived.
"Foreign sorcerer!"
Sven's voice boomed across the courtyard, loud enough to draw attention from everyone within hearing range. Haraldson's enforcer approached with the swaggering confidence of a man who knew he was untouchable.
"Clumsy of me," he continued, shoulder-checking me hard enough to send me stumbling into a muddy puddle. "These northern mornings make a man unsteady on his feet."
I hit the cold water with a splash that soaked my clothes and drew laughter from the assembled warriors. As I struggled to regain my footing, Sven leaned close enough to whisper directly into my ear.
"Earl's patience has limits, foreigner. Men who don't understand their place sometimes... disappear. Would be a shame if something happened to Kattegat's famous builder."
He straightened up, addressing the crowd with mock concern. "Terribly sorry! Let me help you up."
As he hauled me to my feet, his grip tight enough to leave bruises, I felt my metallic manipulation abilities responding to the stress and anger coursing through my system. Every piece of iron within ten meters suddenly became part of my awareness—swords, belt buckles, mail rings, dozens of potential weapons that could respond to unconscious will.
"Breathe," I told myself, fighting down the impulse to send every blade flying from its sheath. "Control. This is exactly what he wants—an excuse to claim you're dangerous."
But the effort of restraining my powers while maintaining composure left my hands shaking and my vision slightly blurred. Sven noticed, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction at the obvious fear his intimidation had produced.
"You're welcome," he said loudly, releasing his grip. "Always happy to help visitors adjust to local conditions."
I managed to thank him for his "assistance" without my voice cracking, then made my way home through streets where every passerby seemed to be watching with newfound interest. Word of my public humiliation would spread quickly, marking me as someone who could be pushed around without consequence.
The message was clear: Earl Haraldson could reach me anywhere, anytime, and there was nothing I could do to stop him.
By the time I reached Ragnar's farm, my clothes were dry but my nerves remained frayed. The encounter with Sven had revealed just how vulnerable I was despite my supernatural abilities. Power without the political backing to use it was worse than useless—it was a liability that could get me killed.
I was splitting firewood behind the grain store, trying to work off nervous energy through physical exertion, when footsteps announced an unexpected visitor.
"You look like a man who's had an interesting morning."
I turned to find Siggy approaching through the shadows between buildings, her movement so quiet I hadn't heard her until she spoke. Earl Haraldson's wife carried herself with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to moving unnoticed when necessary.
"Lady Siggy." I set down the axe, acutely aware that being seen in private conversation with the Earl's wife could be interpreted as further evidence of disloyalty. "I wasn't expecting visitors."
"No one expects visits that never officially happened," she replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I came to commission jewelry. A personal project that requires... discretion."
The pretense was thin but provided cover for what was clearly a clandestine meeting. I gestured toward my workshop, and we walked there in silence that felt heavy with unspoken dangers.
Once inside, with the door closed against observation, Siggy abandoned all pretense.
"My husband is planning something that will force your hand," she said without preamble. "Tomorrow night, Ragnar's farm will be attacked by 'outlaws' seeking easy plunder. The attack will be fierce enough to threaten his family, giving you a choice between revealing your true capabilities or watching innocent people die."
My blood turned to ice water. "You're certain?"
"I helped plan the logistics." Her voice carried self-loathing that spoke of complicity born from necessity rather than choice. "Twelve men disguised as bandits, attacking when most of Ragnar's warriors are away on fishing expeditions. The timing ensures minimal defenders and maximum pressure on you to act."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I'm tired of my husband's games." Siggy's composure cracked slightly, revealing genuine fear beneath the political calculation. "His paranoia has grown worse since Ragnar's western success. He sees threats everywhere, enemies in every shadow. The man I married would never threaten children to achieve political goals."
She moved closer, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper. "Can you make me something to protect myself? A weapon he won't recognize as such?"
The request revealed the depth of her desperation. Here was a woman trapped in marriage to an increasingly dangerous man, asking a foreign stranger to forge her the means of survival.
"I can do that," I said, reaching for my tools.
Working quickly, I shaped a hairpin from high-quality steel, using my abilities to create a blade disguised as decorative jewelry. The weapon was small but lethal—sharp enough to find the gap between ribs, long enough to reach vital organs, designed to look like innocent ornamentation until the moment it was needed.
"Keep it with you always," I advised, handing her the finished piece. "But pray you never need to use it."
Siggy tested the hidden blade's edge against her thumb, drawing a tiny bead of blood that confirmed its lethality. "Thank you. This... alliance... serves us both."
As she prepared to leave, she paused at the workshop door to offer one final warning.
"He asked specifically whether you have family elsewhere. People who could be threatened to ensure your cooperation." Her eyes met mine directly. "I told him you were alone in the world, but he seemed... skeptical. Be careful who you care about, Thanos. My husband has learned that love makes the strongest men vulnerable."
After she disappeared into the gathering dusk, I stood alone in my workshop trying to process the implications of what I'd learned. Haraldson wasn't just planning to pressure me politically—he was orchestrating violence that would force me to choose between exposing my abilities and allowing massacre.
But forewarned was forearmed. If I could get word to Ragnar in time, the trap could be turned against the trappers.
I found him in his hall, sharing an evening meal with his family in the domestic tranquility that would be shattered tomorrow if I failed to act.
"I need to speak with you privately," I said quietly. "It concerns threats to your household."
Ragnar's eyes sharpened immediately. He followed me outside where conversation couldn't be overheard, listening with growing coldness as I relayed Siggy's warning about the planned attack.
"Twelve men," he said when I finished. "Disguised as outlaws but actually Haraldson's warriors. Attacking tomorrow when my best fighters are away fishing."
"That's what she said. I believe her."
Ragnar was quiet for a long moment, staring up at the stars while calculation replaced surprise in his expression. When he finally spoke, his voice carried predatory satisfaction.
"Then perhaps it's time to turn a defense into a trap. Haraldson wants to test whether foreign builders have teeth? Let's show him exactly how sharp those teeth can be."
Looking at the cold smile spreading across his face, I realized that Earl Haraldson had just made a fatal mistake. Instead of isolating me from my allies, his scheming had turned Ragnar from cautious ally into committed partner.
The question was whether that partnership would be enough to survive what was coming.
Judging by the gleam in Ragnar's eyes, I suspected tomorrow night would provide that answer one way or another.
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