CHAPTER 178: THE SCARS OF WAR

London had begun to stir again, though the scars were fresh.

Charred beams still jutted from blackened houses; scaffolds still leaned against walls split by axe and fire.

In the squares, merchants tried to peddle what wares remained, their cries hollow and thin.

But banners now flew above the Tower, the red lion snapping in the wind where once Cnut’s standard had hung.

Within the hall, Duncan of Alba sat on the throne he had claimed, the weight of two crowns pressing upon his brow.

Scots and Saxons alike crowded the chamber: aldermen of London, thegns from the shires, Gaelic captains fresh from the north.

It was a court born of necessity, stitched together by fire and ruin.

Every man present knew the wolf had left, but his shadow still stalked the walls.

The door burst open, and a rider staggered in, mud up to his knees, his face pale with exhaustion.

He fell to one knee, voice rasping like gravel.

"My lord, my king. Word from the north. Svein of Norway musters. He swears vengeance for his father. He sails for England."

The chamber broke into mutters at once. Some cursed, some crossed themselves, others spat into the rushes.

Duncan raised his hand, and silence came. His voice was steady, but low with weariness.

"So the son comes for the father’s crown."

An alderman spoke, his beard streaked with soot.

"Sire, we are not ready. The wolf left us broken. Our walls stand, but our coffers are empty. We have neither food nor silver to meet another host."

Another, a Gaelic captain with blood still on his mail, slammed his fist against his chest.

"Then we take what we need. The land is rich yet, if the folk will bend the knee."

The aldermen cried out in protest, one voice rising above the rest:

"These folk are English, my lord! Already they call you usurper. If you strip them bare, you will drive them to Svein’s arms."

Duncan’s jaw tightened. His knuckles whitened against the arm of the throne.

He saw the faces: Scots proud and eager, Saxons wary and broken.

It was a kingdom held by threads, and the Northmen’s sails already darkened the horizon.

At last he rose, his cloak spilling across the steps.

"Listen well," he said, voice cutting through the chamber.

"The wolf has left England scarred, but not dead. Svein believes he can land upon her shores and reap what his father lost. He is wrong."

He stepped down into the hall, meeting the eyes of Saxon and Scot alike.

"I will not strip your fields. I will not burn what little you have left. You are my people now, as much as those of Alba. And I swear to you, by God and by the lion’s crown, I will not abandon you to the Northmen."

The murmur shifted, softer now, uncertain but not hostile.

A Saxon thegn bowed his head, murmuring, "Then we stand with you, lord."

Others nodded, grudging at first, then firmer.

Duncan turned to his captains.

"Send riders to every shire. Muster what men you can. London will be the shield, the red lion its standard. If Svein comes, he will find not a ruin, but a realm ready to meet him."

The rider who had brought the news lingered, his eyes haunted.

"My king... they say he sails with a great host. As many ships as his father once brought. And he has sworn before his court that he will not rest until the wolf and the lion are both flayed from the earth."

The hall stiffened at the words.

But Duncan only set his hand upon his sword, lifting his chin.

"Then let him come. He will find the lion has claws."

He returned to the throne, but in his heart, he knew: claws alone might not be enough.

England was not healed.

It was bleeding still, and if Svein brought the storm, it would take every ounce of strength he had to keep the crown he had claimed.

Outside, the bells of London tolled for Vespers, their sound carrying over broken streets.

The people lifted their heads at the sound, and for the first time since the wolf’s departure, they dared to hope that someone might yet stand between them and the sea.

---

The sea foamed against the dragon-prows as Svein stood at the bow, cloak snapping in the salt wind.

His jaw was set like iron, his hands white upon the railing.

Behind him, the fleet stretched in shadow, hundreds of ships, torches burning along their decks, warriors staring northward with fire in their eyes.

His voice rang out above the hiss of waves.

"Duncan of Alba, Lion, he names himself. King, he names himself. But I name him traitor! Traitor to Christ, traitor to his oath, traitor to the blood of kings!"

The men answered as one:

"Traitor! Thief! Wolf’s brother!"

Svein’s face darkened, his words cutting sharper than the wind.

"My father, Cnut the Great, was butchered like a thrall, his body torn open by pagan knives while Duncan looked on. Rome’s silver was squandered, Christ’s name mocked, and the usurper wears England’s crown while my father lies in dishonor. Tell me, what king remains silent at such shame?"

"None!" the captains roared. "None but a coward!"

Svein thrust his hand toward the horizon, his voice breaking into fury.

"Then we will not be silent! We are the sword of Norway, and we will bring fire upon the usurper’s throne. Duncan will pay for his crimes. His name will be spat upon, his banners burned, his people broken until they curse the day they called him king!"

The warriors struck their shields in rhythm, the thunder rolling down the fleet. Sparks leapt into the night.

Though young, untested, barely a year upon his father’s throne, Svein held their gaze without wavering.

He had been raised in the shadow of a great king, but now the shadow was gone, and the mantle burned upon his shoulders.

A captain stepped forward, scarred and grizzled, his voice hard as stone.

"We swore to your father, and we swear now to you. Lead us, lord. Give the word, and England will drown in fire."

Svein’s eyes gleamed in the torchlight. He raised his sword high, the steel catching the moon.

"Then let the seas carry our wrath! By the Cross and by my father’s blood, I swear Duncan of Alba will fall, and all Christendom will know that Norway avenges its king!"

The fleet thundered with cries, shields clashing, voices rising like storm-winds.

The dragons stirred against the tide, eager for war.

And Svein stood at their head, young no longer, but a king baptized in fury.