Once they reached midstream, Nils's longship came under concentrated fire from Magdeburg's archers. Flaming arrows struck true, igniting the sail and mast. In the chaos, the men rowed desperately toward the eastern bank of the Elbe.
Across the hundred-meter-wide river, Nils saw Ubbe's camp. Soldiers were boarding ships in orderly ranks, withdrawing with suspicious calm—as if everything had been anticipated.
"They colluded with the Franks?"
Shock and fury surged through him. He had never imagined Ubbe would go so far—betraying an ally simply to crush a powerful vassal.
"I must return to southern Denmark—now."
Over the following days, Nils and twenty surviving bodyguards moved through the forest. After losing five men, they seized a small fishing boat from local fishermen and drifted downstream.
Along the way, they encountered scattered Viking raiders. The reverence once shown in their eyes was gone—replaced by naked greed.
"What has Ubbe declared?" Nils demanded.
The raider leader measured their strength before answering reluctantly.
"Ubbe has proclaimed your crimes. First, you failed to attend court and neglected your duties as a vassal. Second, you abused sorcery—using that gilded chair to bewitch men and tarnish Ragnar's name. Third, your reckless ambition nearly destroyed the army.
"Therefore, by royal decree, your title is stripped, and you are banished from Denmark forever. Privately… he's offering a reward for your head."
Nils stood motionless.
At Gnutz, he had won a glorious victory—only to receive slander and betrayal in return.
He left the petty raiders behind.
When he reached the middle Elbe, Halfdan's forces were already gone. The camp lay deserted.
Halfdan had known nothing of Ubbe's scheme beforehand. When he learned the truth, his first reaction was anger—then shame—then resignation.
The feud between Ubbe and Nils had become irreparable. At best, Halfdan could remain neutral. He would not raise his sword against his own brother.
And truthfully, he feared Nils's military brilliance. The man could fight—and made no effort to hide his ambition for a crown. If Ubbe eliminated him now, perhaps the North would be more stable.
Returning to the Dannevirke frontier, Nils saw a new banner flying above the earthwork.
Southern Denmark had a new lord.
He did not stop.
Instead, he turned toward Pomerania.
But the West Slavic tribes no longer acknowledged his rule. Though he had won great victories, the people longed for peace. They would not follow him into further war.
"This is your answer?" he asked.
"Yes," the tribal chiefs replied in unison—including his own father-in-law.
Those Slavs who had followed him loyally had died at Magdeburg. The rest were neutral—or opposed.
When the crowd dispersed, his father-in-law remained behind.
"There's a ship in the harbor. You cannot stay. Leave—and do not return."
The old chief rode into the forest, leaving Nils with nine bodyguards.
From the height of triumph to the depths of ruin.
Despair washed over him. He drew his sword and threw it to the ground.
"Who wants silver? Cut off my head and deliver it to Ubbe. It will buy you comfort for life."
No one moved.
After a long silence, five guards left without a word. Four remained, urging him to sail to Britannia or Normandy.
Nils sheathed his sword and began walking north.
Gunnar's chances of conquering Britannia were slim. If he must serve someone, Vig would be the wiser choice.
A day later, he reached Reric—one of the busiest markets on the coast. Merchants gathered here for furs, amber, and slaves. Wooden palisades enclosed the settlement, and ships anchored in the nearby lagoon.
The docks buzzed with rumor.
"Have you heard? Ubbe's offering a hundred pounds for Nils's head."
"A hundred? I heard fifty—and a knighthood."
Time was short.
Nils boarded a cog preparing to sail and requested passage to Britannia.
"You're late," the captain said, face flushed with drink. "Two Britannian ships left yesterday. That one just arrived—it won't depart for at least two weeks."
Two weeks?
Nils would not linger in this nest of whispers and knives.
"Where are you bound? Normandy? Anywhere west."
The captain shook his head.
"East. The mouth of the Neva."
East.
Sensing the tension thick in the air, Nils had no choice. He emptied his last silver coins into the captain's hand.
"Fine. East it is."
With Nils's departure, the Viking–East Frankish war ended in anticlimax.
Southern Denmark's nobility had suffered devastating losses. Ubbe seized the opportunity to remove his greatest rival and strengthen royal authority.
Rumors and curses spread among the common folk—but Ubbe did not care. The nobles capable of rebellion were gone. No one remained who could threaten his throne.
In East Francia, three princes remained: Carloman, Louis the Younger, and Charles the Fat.
King Louis had vanished. The princes gathered in Magdeburg's church to divide the inheritance.
Louis the Younger objected sharply to Carloman's proposal.
"Equal division among sons—that has always been Frankish tradition. Why should you take the largest share? Bavaria and the eastern frontier are not enough? You want Lotharingia too?"
Carloman regarded his brothers coldly.
"Because I drove back the Vikings. My merit is greatest. Many nobles support my succession."
Louis the Younger turned to the assembled lords and clergy.
"You defeated Nils—nothing more. One would think you slew Ragnar Lodbrok or Vig of Tyne!
"You wish to speak of merit? Very well—let us compare.
"In 848, when Bohemia revolted, Father would not risk his eldest son. He sent me—fourteen years old—to crush the rebellion. I succeeded.
"In 854, Aquitanian nobles plotted against Charles the Bald and invited Father's intervention. To secure their trust, Father sent me as envoy—effectively as a hostage. Had I not been clever, I would not be standing here today."
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